by Jaycee Clark
The phone rang.
"Mom," Quinlan said.
He hoped not. Brayden strode to the phone, and answered on the second ring, "Hello?"
"Did you find her?"
How the hell had Quinlan known? Brayden sighed and thought about what to say, what not to say.
He scratched his head. "Yeah, Mom, we-uh-yeah, we found her."
"Oh, thank God. Your father and I are worried sick. Becky said a Lieutenant Morris called here looking for you. Tori and Ryan were asking questions, and Gavin and Taylor are trying to keep us all calm. But I know," his mother’s voiced trailed off. "I know something happened. Tell me she’s okay."
Lie or truth? Closing his eyes, he did something he’d rarely done to his mother. He lied.
"She uh, she will be. There was a bit of an-an accident and...."
"Oh my God! What happened?"
Brayden bit down, ran his bottom lip between his teeth. Quickly he said, "We’re not really sure, Mom."
"We’ll be there...."
"No!" he all but yelled. Then more calmly, "No, we’ll be home later, she wants to come home," he said, not knowing if she did or not. "The police are still asking a few questions."
"The police?"
"Mom, please just stay there. We’re coming home as soon as this is all wrapped up."
She sighed on the other end and he knew she was trying to read what he’d said and what he hadn’t.
"Let me talk to Christian," she said.
He rolled his neck. "She’s in the shower. She had a few scrapes and bruises. When she gets out, there are some questions that need clearing up and then.... Then we’ll head out there."
"What kind of accident?" she carefully asked.
Hell.
"I-It... Oh, Mom, there’s someone at the door." He needed to get off.
Both Aiden and Quinlan knocked. One on a wall, the other on the bar. And a slight smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"I’ll call you back in a bit. Bye, Mom."
With that, he hung up and puffed out a sigh.
"Grown men lying to their mother. Do you boys do this a lot?" Laurence asked.
"No," Aiden answered for them. "But for now, it served its purpose. Mother would worry and descend."
Silence settled again.
Brayden’s gaze landed on the bag from the downstairs boutique. Quinlan had run down and grabbed something. Brayden hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment. He walked to the bag and picked it up.
Maybe she was done and needed her clothes.
He looked back at the door. Was she all right? Well, no, but he was worried about her. At her door, he knocked. No one, nothing.
Again he knocked. "Christian?"
Still nothing, and his feeling that something was wrong grew.
This time he knocked harder.
"I could go in and check on her, if you want me to," Laurence volunteered, standing behind him.
He almost handed her the bag and agreed. But he didn’t. He needed to see Christian, see that she was all right.
Shaking his head, he turned back to the door and drew his master key out of his pocket. The family suites were designed so that the front door key could open any door in that apartment.
On a deep sigh, he slid the key across the lock and opened the door.
The bedroom was dim and silent. Carefully, he shut the door and set the bag on the bed.
"Christian?"
Silence greeted him, or almost silence. He could hear the hum of the built in heater in the bathroom and the spray of water.
He raised his fist to knock on the bathroom door then lowered it, shoving his hand into his pocket.
Perhaps she needed the time alone. But he’d left her alone before, stepped back, and look what he’d allowed to happen.
The water sprayed in a constant uninterrupted stream.
He frowned at the door, ran a hand through his hair.
If she were in the shower, wouldn’t he hear the change in the water?
Pausing, he raised his hand, then took a deep breath and knocked. "Christian?"
Nothing.
He tried the knob, it was locked.
"Baby, are you...." He trailed off. Of course she wasn’t okay. "Do you need anything?" he asked against the door.
Not a muted sound drifted from within.
He didn’t want to invade her privacy. One last time he tried knocking. "Your clothes are out here."
Still not a single sound.
He stared at the door, then turned to go, but stopped. She might hate him, but be damned, he had to know she was all right in there.
He pulled his key out again, unlocked the bathroom door, and pushed it open. "Chris..."
Thick hot steam rolled out, engulfing him. It was hotter than a sauna in here. The room was a muted wall of heated mist, most of it escaped out the open door.
"Christian?"
Still no answer. His heart slammed in his chest. The water ran ceaselessly. The bathroom was empty.
"Christian?" he asked louder, striding to the shower stall.
She wasn’t in there. Fear shot through him and he jerked the door open. Hot stinging spray splattered out on him.
She was curled on the bottom of the tiled floor. Mumbling a curse, he reached in through the scalding water and shut it off.
Her skin was bright pink and heated as he touched her.
She didn’t even flinch as he stepped into the shower and scooped her up against him.
"Oh, baby. Come on. It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now."
The heat and water from her soaked through his shirt. She slumped in his arms, boneless. Holding her close to him, he reached out and grabbed her robe hanging by the shower.
For a moment he looked around, then sat on the toilet, with Christian on his lap.
He leaned her head back, her eyes were closed. Fear slammed through him. Didn’t she have a concussion?
"Christian?" Reaching to the side, he grabbed a washcloth and soaked it with cold water. Gently, he feathered it over her face, careful of the bump on her head, her swollen, already blackening eye. He bit down at the sight of her abused face.
Still she didn’t stir.
"Christian, baby, talk to me." He placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "You’re scaring me here. Come on."
She was hot, too hot. He kept up his nonsensical words. "I bet you just got overheated."
A moan drifted passed her lips and her eyelids fluttered, though only one rose. He rubbed the cool cloth over her neck.
Her eye stared at him, but she didn’t stiffen as he expected her too.
He sat the cloth on the counter and gathered her robe up. "Can you stand, just for a second? I want to put this on you."
That gray stare was blank. As easily as possible, he shifted her so that they were both standing. He held her up with one arm and tried to put the robe on with the other.
His gaze ran over her, that body that haunted his dreams, a body he loved. One that should be cherished, cared for ... protected.
Now, bruises darkly contrasted against her pale skin. Some part of him catalogued the damage someone had inflicted on her, but a red haze threatened the edge of his vision, blacked the border of his sanity and temper.
Christian didn’t need his rage.
Taking a long breath through his nose, he studied her. The entire right side of her ribcage was shadowed, one large bruise covering several ribs. He gently reached out and ran a hand over them, her stomach muscles tightened under his fingers.
"Sorry." He took his hand away, but looked at her. "Are they broken?"
Her eyes looked away and she shook her head.
Round purple marks marred her upper arm, just above a cut. He’d seen the cuts on her thigh, the blackened stitches obscene against her pale skin.
Biting down, he shoved the air out of his lungs. As carefully as possible, he helped her put the robe on.
He tied it gently, mindful of her bruised ribs. Then he noticed t
he marks at the collar of the robe. He traced the violet contusions along her jaw and neck, the reddened cuts on both sides, heavier at the back. What the hell was that from?
She didn’t move, didn’t look at him. With every new mark, bruise and laceration he discovered, fury roiled his blood.
Finally, he dropped his hands away from her and turned so that she sat on the toilet. She swayed for a moment, but then leaned back. He stood there, staring at her.
What the hell did he do to help her? How could he.... What was there... Did she even...
On a silent curse, he flicked the water back on and filled a glass. He held it up to her lips. "You need some liquids in you."
She drank the entire glass down.
When she lowered her hands, a hiss escaped her. Brayden knelt beside her.
"What? What is it?" he asked quietly.
Christian shook her head, but mumbled, "My wrists. The robe hurts my...." She trailed off.
Brayden reached out and took her fine boned hand. Carefully, he pushed the cuff of her terry robe up.
The abraded and peeling skin was scabbed in places, purples mixing with blues, reds and molted yellows. A glance down showed him her ankles with the same violent marks.
"Christ." All he could see when he looked at those wounds was her tethered and struggling, trying to escape.
On another curse he rose, all but ripped a drawer out of the vanity.
He shoved things out of the way and tried the next drawer. There was a box of bandages and a tube of antibacterial ointment.
Again he knelt in front of her.
His hands shook as he applied the clear cream to the bandage. Then, he wrapped the white gauze around her wrists. When they were taped, he stared at her hands.
Ankles. He reached for one ankle, but she pulled it back.
"I can do it," she whispered.
The control on his emotions almost snapped. "Let me--" Biting down, he held his hands palms out to her and slowly rose. Looking at her bent head, he said, "I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or anything like that."
Damn it all to hell. What did he do? How did he help her?
She nodded, though she still didn’t raise her eyes to his. "I know that. Thank-thank you for...."
"Don’t," he said through his teeth.
This time her face rose to his and though he knew what he’d see, his breath still caught in his chest, his blood still froze in his veins. He’d kill the bastard.
Her one good eye looked at him, confusion clear in its gray depth.
"Do not thank me. For God’s sake, Christian." He paced away from her toward the door, fisted his hands and shoved them in his pockets to keep from ripping something apart. "Do not thank me. I didn’t do shit. I didn’t...."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Christian sat there looking at him. Her face hurt. Hell, her entire body ached, pulled and jerked.
Brayden stood before her, hands balled in his pockets. Such a tall man, proud and strong. The lines on his face were hard and unforgiving.
When his eyes opened, her breath caught again at the storming rage lighting his eyes from within.
"I should have.... I wasn’t.... Damn it all to hell," he finished on a sigh. "Tell me what to do. How can I help you?"
A muscle jumped in his jaw, the corners of his mouth tight, and then she saw the shine in his eyes and something inside her squeezed.
"I want to fix this and I’m afraid to get too close to you."
Her heart dropped. She had told him she was dirty. Shame came in a hard, fast wave.
"I’m afraid I’ll scare you. I don’t want to scare you," he said softly. "I just want to ... to ... to..."
"To what?" she asked.
She saw him swallow, his jaw moved back and forth. "I want to hold you and tell you everything’s going to be okay. I want to take all your pain away. I want to go back to this morning and...." He stopped and shook his head. "I don’t want to frighten you. I never want to frighten you. I don’t want you to hurt anymore, in any way."
Relief crested and rolled in her. She shook her head. "I could never be scared of you, Bray. Never."
The muscle bunched in his jaw, once, twice and again. Slowly, he walked to her. He stood in front of her, but she didn’t look up, instead stared at the silver buckle of his belt. His knees popped when he squatted back down so that he was eye level with her. Gently, he reached up and cupped her face, his thumb caressing her cheek with the softest touch. Carefully, he leaned forward and kissed her hair. When he straightened, his gaze locked with hers.
His eyes said it all. Determined fury mixed with the promise of retribution. His voice roughened over the words, "What can I do? What do you need?"
Christian took a deep trembling breath. "Clothes. I need some clothes."
"They’re out on the bed." Quickly, he rose, turned and in seconds he was back holding out a bag from downstairs.
She held the bag on her lap.
"Do you need some help?" he asked.
Christian shook her head.
Still he stood there a few feet a way. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Morris and his partner are still here."
A beat passed. "They want to talk to you. But if you’d rather wait till tomorrow or another time, that’s fine and we’ll just go home."
Home. She closed her eyes. What to do? She still had no answers.
"No, that’s fine. I’ll-I’ll talk to them," she said softly. Oh God, please help her.
"Okay. Why don’t I wait out here in the bedroom while you get ready. I don’t want you falling over and hitting your head or something."
"No, I need some things out of the bedroom. You go on ahead."
"What do you need, I’ll get them?"
She told him and listened as he rummaged in a drawer and brought back her underwear. The sounds reminded her of earlier and she jumped when he came back in.
Instead of bringing them to her, he said, "I’ll put them here on the counter."
She could only nod as she waited. Finally, the door clicked shut.
Slowly, she rose. Without looking in the mirror, she dressed in the charcoal, chenille sweater and black pants from the bag. She’d have to forgo the bra he’d gotten from her armoire. It hurt to put it on. The sweater was a turtleneck and covered her from just below her ears to her thighs. Soft and warm. Though the sweater was thick, it did little to warm her as the cold started to seep back into her bones.
She pulled on the boots Bray had brought from her closet. For a moment she sat and stared at the black shoes and wondered when she’d purchased them. The thought seemed so stupidly important. On a sigh, she shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Closing her eyes, she said aloud, but quietly, "I survived before and I’ll survive again."
A shiver danced down her spine. It could have been worse. Richard could have finished what he started.
He could have actually raped her. The calls and photos were bad enough. But the whispers, the helplessness of it all, on top of all the buried memories...
The trembling started again.
"I am strong. I am strong. I-I-I am strong." She nodded, wiped the tear from her eye, then stood and faced the mirror. The sight made her tremble.
"I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay," she repeated, hoping she would believe the mantra.
But the woman staring back at her reminded her too much of a girl she’d tried to leave behind.
Richard may have tried to break her, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. She might crack and tremble, shake and fear, but she would-not-break.
* * * *
He sat in the terminal at Chicago O’Hare waiting for his next flight. It wouldn’t be too much longer.
Carefully, he ran down the list of numbers he’d copied from her little black book he’d taken from her kitchen. Lists organized things, and hers was so unorganized.
People worried about ‘valuable’ possession
s when there was a break in, or credit cards when wallets and purses were stolen. They should be more worried about the personal items one could learn from such simple things as an address book or a calendar.
He now had every number, every place he could find her. He’d already known her schedule, though he would gamble that timetable would no longer hold.
He knew who her doctor was and when she had her period. Women thought no one could figure out what the little ‘x’s meant for a week across the calendar.
Richard chuckled. At least this way he knew when not to pay her a visit.
So where would his angel be?
Again he ran down the list of numbers.
His finger tapped on the hotel. Glancing at his watch, he decided to wait a few minutes.
Then he’d give her a call, just to let her know how much he enjoyed tonight.
He grinned widely, and nodded to the woman across the way, who apparently thought he was smiling at her.
The black book shut with a snap and he tossed it into the briefcase.
He thought about the call, and knew just what he would say.
* * * *
The cup of coffee warmed her palms. The boys had tried to get her to drink some tea, but she’d wanted coffee. She shifted on the couch again, the pull in her ribs catching her breath.
Quinlan and Aiden stood off to the side somewhere. Brayden’s body next to hers was a warm comfort and the arm across the back of the couch. Though at times, she stiffened at his touch. And she hated that, even as she couldn’t seem to help it.
Gabe cleared his throat. "Christian, would you rather do this alone?"
The black coffee jiggled when she jerked.
"We’ll be in the kitchen," Aiden said. She heard his steps mix with Quinlan’s across the hardwood floor.
Brayden shifted, but she reached one hand out and laid it on top of his on his thigh. She looked at him.
"Stay. Please." Then she realized how he might not want to, so she added, "If you want to. If you don’t that’s..."
"I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere." He turned his hand over and laced his fingers with hers.
She didn’t know if she was more relieved or nervous. Taking a deep breath, she nodded, though she didn’t look at any of them.