“I’m so sorry,” she says. “She’s in our prayers.”
Prayers. I’ve been relying on hopes and prayers my whole life. If ever there were a time for them to come through, now is it.
I left my sister a message. She’s still not taking my calls. Annette said she’ll be by to see him once he’s out of surgery. He’s been in the back for nearly four hours. I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I’ve worn a path in the cold, porcelain tile from this chair, through the double doors, and down the hall to the nurse’s station. It’s cold. So cold it hurts. I feel the chill all the way to my bones. I can’t stop trembling. I can’t sit still.
“Can I get you anything?” Deacon asks.
He’s been here the whole time. We haven’t talked about Fiona. Or whatever this is or isn’t between us. We haven’t talked about my father. We haven’t talked much at all. He just sits there. Watching me as I stare at the pale, yellow walls and think about all the things I haven’t said to my father. They say yellow is calming, that it’s meant to remind you of the warm summer sun, of time spent smiling and being happy. I don’t see any of that in these walls.
I’ve played this scenario over in my mind a hundred times from the moment he reached stage four. I remember my mom, and what her last days were like. And I tell myself I should have been prepared. That I should have seen this coming. But the truth is, you’re never really prepared. Death isn’t a test you study for. It’s a stray bullet, shot through the woods. You don’t see it coming. You just feel it. Piercing your heart, scattering the pieces across the floor until there’s nothing left. Leaving you helpless and empty.
The leather chair creaks under my weight. “No, thank you.”
“You have to eat something.”
“I will. Just not right now.”
Five hours.
Then six.
A doctor comes to speak with the couple across the room, letting them know the woman they were waiting on is in recovery and they can see her soon. They got here after us.
My chest tightens. Something’s wrong. It’s been six hours. It shouldn’t take six hours. The doctor said four. At the most. They won’t answer my questions, even though I know I’m asking all the right ones.
“Take me,” I bargain with God. “Make him healthy, and take me.”
My eyes are heavy, but I’m wide awake. Deacon brings me a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, not giving me a choice to decline.
“You know you don’t have to stay here,” I tell him, as he pulls back the peel of a banana and sits back down.
“I know.”
I look at him, in his gray button up dress shirt and black slacks. His hair falls perfectly to the side, and the shadow of a three-day stubble covers his jaw. He hasn’t as much as groaned or let out an uncomfortable sigh since we’ve been here. He hasn’t slept in who knows how long. He spent the night in his car, and so far, most of the day in a hospital waiting room. And I wonder why. Why did he stay?
He traveled across the world to see you, Grace. Of course, he’s going to stay.
Seven hours.
His body can’t stay under for this long. Something isn’t right. His organs will start to shut down soon.
The doctor walks in, and the walls close in around me. Deacon stands at the same moment I do.
He knows.
I know.
It’s right there, all over the doctor’s face. He takes my hand and brings it to his chest. The tears start to fall before the doctor ever speaks a word. I close my eyes, not even trying to stop them. Deacon squeezes my hand. The ground gives out beneath my feet, and I feel as though I’m falling into a deep, black hole. I can’t find my breath, so I squeeze his hand back.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor says, and the hole closes up around me. Suffocating me, leaving me trapped inside.
I open my eyes to find a pair of sad, blue ones looking back at me.
And I shatter. Into a million broken pieces. Time. Hope. Love. My world. It all disappears. The one thing I had left to hold onto is gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Deacon
I never meant to say Fiona’s name. I never meant to use the word love. Or say things that might hurt Grace. I’m not even sure why I even brought any of it up. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe I felt I owed it to her after she opened herself up to me. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Everything with her is new to me, and I’m not sure how to respond to any of it.
She stands here, in the waiting room, so lost, so defeated. Her pain brings back memories I’d kept hidden for nearly twenty years. Memories of my father’s eyes, the weight of his limp body as I carried him from the living room.
“Let me take you home,” I offer, once the doctor has gone and the paperwork has been signed.
She nods. Her eyes glassy and swollen from crying. And empty. The hope I’ve gotten so used to seeing there washed away with her tears. We’d gotten so far. She shared things with me. She let me in. And now I can’t help but feel like there’s a brick wall between us.
I never asked why her mother never showed up. Or where the rest of her family might have been. I know she made a couple of phone calls. But no one ever came. Not a single person in the seven hours we waited. I didn’t ask because none of it mattered. I just knew I wasn’t leaving her alone.
I place my hand on the small of her back and lead her to my truck. She doesn’t fight my touch. Not then. And not when I hold her knee on the ride to her house. Not even when I stroke the curve of her jaw after I pull into the drive. I’m about to do something I never do. But I’m grasping for lifelines here. I have to tear down the wall. I lean forward, letting my hand on her jaw cup her cheek. She leans into my touch. Right now, she’s just acting on instinct, on feeling. Her mind is a hundred miles away.
“Deacon,” she says, her protest breathy and meek.
“I’m going to make you forget every set of lips ever placed on yours.”
My tongue parts the seam of her lips, and the world falls away. I pull her closer, her lips like silk against mine. The kiss is soft and slow, comforting her in ways words never could. Her fingers gather the hair at the nape of my neck as she offers me more of her mouth. Everything neither one of us could say is right here.
I.
am.
addicted.
I don’t make a habit of kissing, but I know the moment I move my mouth from hers, I’ll count the seconds until I can taste her again.
She pulls away, resting her forehead against mine. Her breath is shaky as it whispers across my face.
“I need to go.”
My fingertips dig deeper into her hair, my grip on her cheek growing tighter, holding her in place without hurting her.
“Then I’ll come with you.”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, and my heart drops. Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.
“I need to be alone.” Her hand moves to the side of my face. She cradles my chin in her hand and looks into my eyes. ‘Thank you, Deacon. For everything.” She clutches the necklace I gave her.
“This sounds a lot like goodbye.” Don’t you fucking do this, Grace. Her eyes water as she smiles a weak smile.
“Goodnight, Deacon.”
She pulls the handle and opens the door. I should grab her. I should follow her. I should tell her why I should stay. But, I’m not programmed that way. I can’t force her to do things she isn’t ready to do. Or feel things she isn’t ready to feel. All I can do is wait. Wait for her to change her mind.
“Goodnight, Grace.”
***
It’s been five days since I watched her walk away from me. Five days of remembering her lips against mine. Five days of seeing her face when I made her fall apart in my hands that night in South Africa.
I followed the obituaries and attended her father’s funeral. Hundreds of faces I’ve never seen flooded through the doors. All of them offering their condolences, hugging her, holding her, comforting her. Her strength is remarkable as sh
e smiles and thanks them all.
I never approached her, but I know she knew I was there. For a split second, across the crowded room, her eyes caught mine. But she never spoke. Even in her grief, she was breathtaking.
I left my number with a note in her mailbox. She never called.
She invited me into her world. She let me touch her. And she kissed me back. Those aren’t things you turn off with a switch. So, before I go home, back to life before Grace, I decide to give it one more try. The thick wooden door seems like a fortress, keeping her safe, warning me away. I press the button, and the doorbell chimes. Grace opens the door, her baggy sweatpants hang loosely on her hips, while the black tank top hugs her body tight. Her nipples tease me through the fabric, but I focus on her face, on the way her bright brown eyes light up when she sees me. On her plump red lips and dark brown hair.
“Hi,” she says, her tone an even mixture of surprise and relief.
“Hello.”
“Come in. Have a seat.” She pulls the door open then leads me to the living room. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No. Thank you.” She waits for me to sit, but I don’t. We’ve wasted enough time tip-toeing around whatever this is. “I’m leaving. There’s a gallery spotlighting some of David’s photos in a few days. I’ll be going home after that.”
“David?”
Right. The only thing she knows about me is the trash she’s seen from the media. She has no idea about the kidnapping or what was happening in my world while I was busy falling for her smile.
“One of my photographers. I run a photojournalism business.”
“Wow.” She seems taken aback. “And here I thought you were just into…”
“Rich girls and supermodels?” I finish for her, arching an amused brow.
She chuckles and bites her bottom lip as pink heat flushes her cheeks.
“Something like that,” she admits with an embarrassed grin. The soft amber glow of a single corner lamp illuminates her beautiful features. I take a step forward. She takes a step back. Don’t run from me. Please. “Thank you for the plant. It’s beautiful.” She’s changing the subject. My past isn’t something I like to talk about either, so I don’t argue. I never answered her question about how I still feel about Fiona. I guess in some ways, I still love her. If you stop loving someone, you never truly loved them to begin with. But she doesn’t occupy space in my heart anymore.
“You’re welcome.”
I take another step forward. She takes another step back. Please, stop.
“I have something for you,” she says, moving toward the out of place room down the hall.
I follow her as she goes inside and reaches for a box on the dresser. She turns around, and I’m standing right in front of her, our bodies separated by mere inches. She gasps as she hands me the gift. I never move my eyes from hers.
“This is your room?”
“Yes. Why?”
I try to piece the clues together, but something is missing.
“It’s different. From the rest of the house.”
“Oh.” Her voice cracks as she clears her throat then toys with a lock of hair that hangs over her shoulder. “When my mom died, my dad wouldn’t change a single thing. Not even the way her pajama bottoms were folded on the chair at her bathroom vanity.” She smiles at the memory. “Then, when he got sick, and I had to move in… I just made this space my own. It helps me remember who I am. Sometimes I think it’s the only piece of me I have left.”
That’s why no one ever came to the hospital. She lost her mother. And now her father is gone too. She’s alone. And broken. That’s why she spends all her time trying to forget. She’s lost so much in such a short time. I want to pick up all her broken pieces and put them back together. To make her feel whole again. I tear the colorful paper from the package and set it to the side.
“A first aid kit?”
She answers with a proud smile. “Because there might not always be a doctor next door.”
I place the white plastic box on top of the bright yellow paper on the dresser and move closer to her.
“I was hoping to change that.”
My hand cradles her face, my thumb grazing her cheek.
“Deacon…” She closes her eyes and sighs. “I can’t afford to care about anyone else. There’s not enough of my heart left to be broken.”
I bring my forehead to hers.
“Open your eyes, Grace. Look at me.” She obeys. “Open your depths. Let me in. Give me your pain. It’s who I am. It’s what I do. Trust me to be your safe haven.” I let my hand rest on the curve of her hip, pulling her closer. She doesn’t resist. So, I keep going. “Take off your shirt.” Without hesitation, she steps back, away from my touch, and lifts her tank top over her head. No bra. Perfect breasts. Round, pink nipples hard and ready to be sucked. I twist one of them between my fingers, drawing another gasp from her lips. She throws her head back, and I bring my mouth to her ear. “There’s something you need to know.” She grabs my shoulders, and I take her hands, pulling them behind her back. “I like things a certain way.” There’s a black, silk robe draped across the foot of her bed. I slide the belt from its loops and move behind her, bending her arms behind her back. “Grab your forearms.” She holds onto her arms, near the crease of her elbows. I wrap the silk around her wrists twice, holding them in place. I slip her pants from her hips and let them fall to the floor. “And I think you like them that way too.” I reach around her body and run a finger along the seam of her panties. Soaking wet. Just like I knew she’d be. Leaning forward, I whisper against her neck. “When we’re like this.” I slip my finger inside her panties. My other hand cups her breast. She moans. “When I’m touching you. Tasting you. Fucking you.” Her head falls back as I slide the finger inside her. “I own you.” She’s so hot. So wet. “All this, your silky black hair, your beautiful brown eyes. These perfect tits.” I roll her nipple between my finger. She cries out, her body quivering against mine. “And this delicious pussy. All of it. Every last inch. Belongs to me.” I brush her clit with my thumb while my finger fucks her. “Do you want that, Grace? Do you want to belong to me?” She moans her answer, her hips grinding against my hand. “When I ask you a question, you speak. Understood?”
“Yes,” she breathes then quickly corrects herself. “Yes, sir.”
“Oh, beautiful girl, I have so much to show you.”
Chapter Twenty
Grace
I want to touch him. I want to cry out. I want to beg him to fuck me. And I don’t want to say a word. Because the look on his face when he turns me around is one of sheer pleasure. And my heart flutters with excitement knowing I’m the one who put it there.
His voice hypnotizes me. Soothes me. In that moment, I trust him. I give him control because I know he can handle it. And I know that, that unapologetic control is exactly what I’d been waiting for. He bends me over the edge of my bed, his hand flat on my spine. A rustle of fabric and the metallic growl of his zipper and he’s entering me. So hard. So full. Flesh against flesh. Hungry and possessive. Devouring my body with pleasure. He fucks me. No mercy. The pleasure borders on pain, and it’s threatening to eat me alive. The pressure of his fingers against my throat. The thrust of his cock. Sweaty flesh and breathless whispers. Time stands still. The cloud of grief blows away. All my fears vanish with every drive of his hips. The only thing that matters is him. This. Us.
With a fist in my hair, he turns my head to face him. His tongue blazes a trail of heat along the seam of my lips. Then he kisses me. Claiming me. Taking what’s his.
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.” The word is a plea. A prayer. Please. I’m about to come undone.
“Ask me.”
“May I?”
“Come. Give me everything. Let me have you.”
His permission releases the hold I have on my senses. Pulsing, clenching, covering his cock in my arousal, I come. Hard.
I lie there, breathless, face agai
nst the soft down of my comforter. The air around us full of sex. I can still taste the peppermint on his tongue. Deacon gently slips the silk belt from my wrists then rolls me over onto my back. The skin on my breasts glistens with sweat as I fight to catch my breath. He leans over me, deep blue eyes full of satisfied pride.
“You haven’t even begun to enjoy what I can do to you.”
***
I’ve never felt so pampered, so cherished as I did after I gave myself to Deacon. He spent the night stroking my hair and tracing his fingertips across my bare skin. Making me feel precious and safe.
He left this morning with the promise that I would see him again before the gallery showing. He had things to do, and I needed to try to make it a full shift at the hospital. I don’t want to think about him leaving. Or what happens after that. Or the fact that he’s just started putting me back together, and losing him will only tear me apart. My heart can’t manage any more pain right now. So, I do what I do best. I block it out. I focus on saving people. Because in its own funny way, that’s how I save myself.
I park next to the emergency entrance, no more than fifty feet from the door, right under the parking lot lights. I manage to make it a full six hours before the grief threatens to swallow me whole. I thought going back to work would take my mind off the fact that I’m completely lost without my father. But I was wrong. I’ve tried for the past two days to get back into some sort of routine, but nothing helps. Every sound, every smell, every thought leads to my dad. Until last night. Until Deacon showed up at my door knowing exactly what I need without me ever saying a word.
When I get home, Natalie’s car is parked in the driveway. She has a key. Why didn’t she just go inside?
“You could’ve just gone in,” I tell her once she rolls down her window.
“I lost my key. And I wasn’t sure when you’d be going back to work.”
Her eyes are bloodshot, and I’m ashamed to admit I can’t tell if it’s from drinking or crying.
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