Hell Without You

by Ranae Rose

  His voice had gone low, gravelly. Main Street was behind them now, the small town fading fast as he steered toward the road that would take them into the rural area beyond. They passed Shady Side, but it was barely a blur in the dark, and he seemed to take no notice.

  “Will you go back on the pill?” he asked when he pulled the truck into his driveway.

  “What?” His question snapped her out of thoughts of Trevor. It was a welcome distraction.

  “I want to fuck you bare. I don’t like the thought of anything being between us if it doesn’t have to be.”

  God. Another one of those bolts hit her core, causing her pussy to draw up tight. “There’s no reason why I can’t start taking it again. I’ll have to see a doctor to get a prescription though, and even then it’ll take a little while to start working.”

  All in all, it’d probably be at least a couple weeks before she’d be safe to have sex without a condom. And what then? Would she still be in Willow Heights? Running into Trevor had her re-thinking the wisdom of returning to her home town despite the economic advantage that had drawn her back.

  “Yeah, I realize that.” He killed the engine, cracking his door. “But you’ll do it?”

  “Yes.” Her heart jumped when he breathed a sigh of apparent satisfaction, filling the cab with the sound.

  “For now, though…” He laid a hand on her thigh and squeezed. “I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

  She looked down at his hand, large bones and tough sinews beneath suntanned skin. It was clean, though its powerful shape combined with knowledge of his past made it seem built for stains. Grease or blood – his hands could build, could repair … or they could destroy.

  Her heart kept jumping, kept racing. What was Trevor doing in town? Surely he hadn’t moved back, not after an expensive education at an Ivy League university. He wasn’t the type to savor small town life, anyway. He was probably only visiting his father – and Clementine’s mother – but even that seemed dangerous.

  With a population of only 12,000, Willow Heights was small enough that he and Donovan might end up in the same building again … might come face-to-face.

  “You all right?” Donovan leaned across the seat, close enough that his breath warmed her cheek.

  “Yeah.” She did her best to distance herself from her inner turmoil. “Ready for dinner? I skipped lunch and I’m starving. I picked up some pasta – it won’t take long to make.” Without waiting for his reply, she slipped out of the truck.

  “Guess I’m pretty hungry too,” he said, gathering up the grocery bags and turning toward the house, gravel crunching beneath his boots, “though I haven’t given it much thought until now. Been too distracted.”

  Inside, she flipped on the light, flooding the kitchen with brightness. She’d spent enough time in the house to know where Donovan kept the few pots and pans he owned. She pulled out the largest one while he rummaged through the bags, putting away the milk as she filled the pot with water and set it on the stove.

  “These for anything in particular?” he asked, holding the bag of apples aloft.

  “Thought I’d make a pie.”

  He set them on the counter. “Sounds good.”

  Was he remembering the way she’d used to wait for him at the end of her driveway with a backpack, then hop onto the back of his bike? They’d go somewhere – the quarry, or maybe a movie at the old drive-in theater, and she’d pull a package of brownies or cookies from her backpack. As she dumped pasta into a boiling pot, she tried to focus on the good memories instead of remembering when they’d been brought to a screeching halt, when everything had changed.

  “Let me help.” He stood behind her and reached around, his hand closing around hers as he took the spoon from her.

  “There’s no need.”

  “I can handle stirring a pot,” he said. “And I can tell that something’s bothering you. Sit down – I’ve got this.”

  She eyed the table and its four empty chairs. “I’ll make the salad.”

  “So what is it?” he asked as she washed a head of lettuce. “Is it that I asked you to go back on the pill? I thought—”

  “No.” She began tearing the leaves, tossing handfuls of bite-sized pieces into a bowl. “I’m fine with going back on the pill.”

  “Then why do you keep staring off into space like you think you’re looking somewhere else – thinking of something?”

  “I saw Trevor when we were at Studebaker’s.” Done shredding lettuce, she wiped her damp hands on her jeans.

  “What?” His voice was like steel now, all traces of patience and concern gone.

  “He was there, shopping. I got worried – I was afraid you’d see him, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say something?” His voice went a little lower, tension clipping each syllable short.

  “Why do you think? I didn’t want you to see him. I was afraid you’d smash his face in again!”

  “Damn right I would’ve.”

  “Damn it, Donovan – see? This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

  “You’re telling me now.”

  “So you know to avoid him.”

  “Like hell I will. If I see that piece of—”

  “You won’t do anything!” She spun around, facing the other side of the kitchen, where Donovan stood at the stove, his back to her. “You won’t touch him! God, do you really want to get in trouble and go to prison over something that happened seven years ago?”

  “What happened seven years ago matters just as much as what’s happening now.” His voice had evened out, calmed. The sound of it sent an uneasy frisson creeping down Clementine’s spine. “If you don’t believe that, I don’t know why you’re even here.”

  “Donovan?” Her wariness intensified as she eyed his back, the span of his shoulders beneath the thermal shirt he’d pulled back on when they’d finished in bed. His muscles were rigid, straining against the cotton as he stirred the pot with his left hand. And his right… His right hand was against the side of the pot. The pot full of boiling water. “What are you doing?”

  She raced across the kitchen, eliminating the space between them in three frantic steps. Wrapping her hands around his upper right arm, she pulled as hard as she could.

  His balance wavered, but he didn’t move backward, not even a step. His hand came away from the side of the pot though, the palm a furious shade of red.

  “What the hell?” She jerked again, determined to pull him away from the stove. “Forget about the pasta!” Anger and exasperation sliced through her, blade-sharp, as he continued to methodically stir the boiling noodles.

  He dropped the spoon into the bubbling water, finally turning as she clung to his arm, using her weight against him.

  “Are you going to tell me what the hell you just did to your hand?” she demanded, her pulse ringing in her ears as she met his eyes.

  He stared down at her like he was explaining something to a child. “You ever get so mad you know you’re going to snap – do something you’ll regret – if you don’t find a way to distract yourself?”

  “No. Not like that, anyway. You burnt your own hand because you were mad? Je—”

  “Forget about it,” he snapped. “And forget about that worthless shit, Trevor. And keep him the hell away from me, because if—”

  “I don’t have any control over whether he crosses your path or not. And in a town as small as this, he might. If you can’t handle that without murdering him, why did you move back?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t say anything – just moved his burnt fingers slowly, his lips thinning into a hard line as his flesh puffed up before her eyes, pink and shiny.

  “You could’ve moved anywhere in the country, but you chose to come back here, where you knew my family would still be. Why?”

  “There was no reason for me to come back,” he said. “So if I did anyway, that meant it was possible you could, too, even if it didn’t
make any sense. And I knew if you came back, you’d come here.” He motioned with his unhurt hand, indicating the house.

  “So you moved back to a town you hate and tied yourself down to this old house on the off chance that I’d stop by?” Her exasperation rose like water at high tide. “And then what – you’d keep me here forever?”

  He gave the slightest shrug, more a stretching of his broad shoulders than anything. “Basically, that was the plan.”

  “Well, I’m not going to live the rest of my life in Willow Heights. I can’t. I wouldn’t want to even if I could – I don’t want to run into Trevor, or my mom, or Robert or anybody – anybody except you. You’re the only person in this town who means anything to me. And I have to leave. So how does that figure into your brilliant plan?”

  It hurt to say it – acknowledging the fact that she couldn’t stay forever was like pushing a knife into her own solar plexus, twisting it a little further with each word. After she finished speaking, silence reigned, a self-inflicted wound not unlike the burn that reddened the palm of his hand.

  “I never said it was brilliant, but it was all I had. What was the alternative – throw a dart at a map, pick someplace else to carry out the rest of my existence? I don’t want that – I don’t want a life without you. Fuck staying away from Willow Heights if it means never seeing you again. I … it was hell without you.”

  “You’ll never see me again if you murder Trevor. At least, not without being behind bars or glass or whatever it is they keep killers locked up behind.”

  “I know that. But I can’t think of him and not want to hurt him. Not after what he did to you … and to us.”

  “I’m over it,” she lied. “You should get over it too.”

  Now, Donovan stood in front of her, eyes flashing, fists clenched – even the burnt one. “There’s no such thing as getting over something like that – and don’t give me any bullshit about forgiveness, or people changing. There’s only controlling yourself enough to keep from giving what’s due, because you don’t want to hurt someone you love.” He held up his burnt hand, his gaze never wavering from Clementine’s. “I won’t touch him … unless he bothers you again. God help him then.”

  Relief trickled into her veins, tainted by horror at what he’d done to himself and how he justified it. “He’s not going to touch me again. Ever.” She was a grown woman now and had no intentions of being cornered by a piece of shit like Trevor. “But just so you know, I think you paid him back in full. You beat the hell out of him, Donovan … it was horrible.” She’d felt vindicated, at the time – and scared, so scared, for Donovan.

  “He deserved it.”

  She didn’t argue, and tried not to wonder how many other girls Trevor had assaulted – ones who hadn’t had a dark knight to come charging to the rescue, to strike fear into the heart of the over-privileged college brat Trevor had been.

  The stove timer went off, its high-pitched beep cutting through the seconds of silence that had followed Donovan’s declaration.

  Shutting it off with the press of a button, she removed the pan from the stove and dumped it into a colander that waited in the sink. The spoon tumbled out, sinking into the noodles, and her stomach clenched at the thought of Donovan stirring the pot, his movements measured as he purposely held his hand against the hot surface. “You need to see a doctor.”

  He said nothing.

  “For your hand.” She turned to face him. “It looks bad. How long did you hold it on the side of that pot?”

  “Long enough. You can be my doctor – just like with my foot.”

  “This isn’t just some cut, Donovan. I don’t know how to treat that – you need a professional. God, how are you going to work? Even your fingers are blistering!”

  “Tomorrow’s my day off.”

  “It’s going to take a lot longer than a day for that to heal.” She marched over to the sink and turned the cold water on. “Come here.”

  She guided his hand under the stream, holding him by the wrist as the water gushed over his damaged skin. It looked ugly, painful – her own free hand clenched shut as phantom pain sparked in her nerve endings. “Don’t move,” she said, letting go of his arm. “I’m going to look up what to do on my phone.”

  Researching burns and appropriate treatment via the weak 3G coverage was a slow and painful process. After some time, she determined that the blisters on Donovan’s hand and fingers meant it was a second degree burn. Thank God. If it had gone any deeper … according to several sites, third degree burns could possibly require surgical treatment. If she hadn’t noticed what he’d been doing, if she hadn’t pulled his hand away, how badly would he have hurt himself?

  The thought was like a knife between her ribs, making it hard to breathe. “I think your burn is a second degree one, but it’s on your hand, so you need to see a doctor.”

  He’d been looking pissed ever since she’d mentioned Trevor, and now his frown deepened, along with the line between his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yes it is, and I know you have to be in a world of pain. Come on – I’ll drive.” As if she had a choice.

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “Donovan! Damn it, stop with the stubbornness. You made your own bed, now you’re going to lie in it. And I’m coming with you.”

  “Seems like a waste of time and money,” he mumbled, but his gaze strayed toward the door.

  “A few hours at the hospital and a co-pay aren’t that bad compared to the possibility of your hand getting infected and rotting off. You have health insurance, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Had to buy it independently. It sucks. Emergency room trip’ll cost a small fortune.”

  “You can’t buy a new hand. Come on.”

  She drove her car, and he seemed larger than ever in the passenger seat of her compact coupe – she was used to seeing him in his truck, a vehicle built big, all hard angles, just like him.

  The ER waiting area at Willow Heights Community Hospital was nearly empty. Still, they had to wait half an hour before Donovan was seen.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked when his name was called.

  He nodded.

  She eyed the angry red underside of his palm as they followed a nurse down the harshly-lit hallway, into an exam room. From what she’d read online, it would take weeks for the burn to heal. And he’d inflicted it on himself as calmly as he’d stirred the pasta, would have made it even worse if she hadn’t intervened…

  Under the care of the hospital staff, his wound was cleaned, disinfected and expertly bandaged. A nurse showed Clementine how to apply clean dressings, which she’d obviously need to help him with, since he only had one good hand. That brought up another unpleasant thought – what if he’d hurt himself like this when no one else had been around, and there’d been no one to help? He’d made it clear he wouldn’t have gone to the hospital on his own.

  “Wanna head to Ann’s?” Donovan asked later as he walked through the emergency room exit, a hefty bill clutched in his unhurt hand.

  She turned to face him in the dimness, her gaze drawn to the harsh shadows the parking lot lights cast on his face.

  “We never ate dinner,” he added. “Figured we can get some of that pie you like.”

  “You’re in the mood for pie?” Was he trying to pacify her – French silk pie in exchange for his damaged hand? What the hell…

  “Might as well get pie if we’re going to eat there.”

  And if they were going out, they had little in the way of alternatives – Ann’s was the only 24-hour eatery in town, besides a drive-through or two. Still, a drive-through would’ve provided anonymity, would’ve allowed them to hurry home. “Ann’s is fine with me.”

  Going to Ann’s seemed like such an ordinary thing to do. After a day fraught with the unexpected and the frightening, maybe it was a good idea, for that reason.

  “Don’t keep looking at me like that,” Donovan said when they were seated in their booth
, coffee cups steaming and untouched on the table. “Like you’re waiting for me to do something stupid.”

  She wasn’t doing that, exactly, but she was remembering the stupid thing he’d done and wondering if it would happen again. Not now, but … ever. Once had been one time too many. He’d always had a temper, but she couldn’t stand to see him turn it on himself. “Don’t do stupid things, and I won’t have to worry about it.”

  “Can’t promise you that.” He raised his coffee cup with his unhurt hand, his bandaged one lying on the table. “Mostly, my life has been a long stretch of stupid things strung together.”

  “Don’t say that.” What had happened in the kitchen had been a rarity. He was controlled, deliberate with his plans and actions – except when he wasn’t. Then all hell was guaranteed to break loose. She knew his personality, had seen it before.

  “You’ve done plenty that’s not stupid,” she said, shifting her thoughts back to the present. “You own your own business, your own house… That’s a hell of a lot more than I can claim. I don’t even have a job.”

  He shrugged. “Those things don’t matter much. They were just all I could control, so I did. Had to take something into my own hands while I was waiting.”

  “Waiting for…?”

  “You.” He said it calmly, eyes meeting hers over the rim of his coffee mug.

  “Well, don’t go throwing it all away now.” She tried to make her voice light, tried to joke, because God, the past few hours had wound her tight and she was sick of it. “You can’t go getting all stupid just because I’m here.”

  “The kind of love that waits for seven years without changing is the kind of love that makes you stupid, sometimes.”

  She nearly choked on her first sip of coffee. Truer words had never been spoken.

  CHAPTER 10

  9 Years Ago

  A breeze carried the sound of metal striking metal to Clementine. The hard, rhythmic pounding wasn’t the usual sort of noise that came from under the maple tree, Donovan’s makeshift garage. In fact, he usually worked in silence. Today, something was different, and though she didn’t know what, a prickling sensation swept down her spine as she toed the line between the road’s paved shoulder and the tall grass at its edge, the stalks rustling against the sides of her shoes.