Lucky for me, Thanksgiving is still a few weeks away because they sell out early anytime there’s a holiday.
But I made it fifteen minutes before they closed. I had my choice of lemon meringue, apple, and bumbleberry—the sweetest mixed berry pie around—so I got all three, hoping to please every palate in the house. That is, I got three pies and the only sandwich Lea’s has on the menu, baked spiced ham with mayo, lettuce, tomato, and pickle.
Since I’d only eaten a couple of protein bars since this morning, I inhaled my ham sandwich on the drive back home in about four bites.
But just now, as I make a right onto Willow Street, that ham sandwich might as well be a cinder block in my stomach.
I want to be in Stella’s house. I want to see her. But I also have no idea what to say.
I’m sorry is unforgivably lame.
I love you, as far as Stella is concerned, would be unbelievable.
I brought pie might be the best I can do. Considering that it’s Lea’s, it’s better than the average apology, and Stella may doubt me, but she can’t doubt pie.
I almost laugh at myself. Until I make the left onto University Avenue and I’m that much closer to her.
My mouth is as dry as a salt mine when I turn onto Convent Street and tuck into the alley behind her house.
But my self-centered worries incinerate as soon as I spot the dark vehicle parked on the alley, hidden from view from Stella’s back yard by the thick ligustrums. I stop. Kill the engine. Open the door and shut it behind me soundlessly.
I don’t feel the ground beneath my feet as I close the distance. I might as well be flying. As soon as I clock that it’s the matte black Camaro, I’m tearing up the alley.
The motion light is on behind Stella’s house. The back gate hangs open. I register it’s been pried open.
Motherfucker.
I want to tear out of my skin when I see Stella’s French doors. They gape open, too, the deadbolt mangled.
I’m about to charge through the door, roaring her name when I see them. I freeze.
Just inside her room, Stella—my love, my heart—stands in her robe—in nothing but her robe—blocking his path. He’s a head taller than she is, and she’s glaring up at him as though daring him to come for her.
Fearless. Flawless. Beautiful. Irreplaceable. My Stella.
And that monster? That cretin has his fists balled at his side and a fucking crowbar in his right hand.
“Tell me where she is.” He raises the brute weapon, taking aim at the woman I love. “Or I’ll hurt you.”
I. Explode.
My brain maps out what to do as I leap over the porch steps. I’ll launch myself through the French doors and knock him on his face. He’ll drop the crowbar. I’ll pick it up, and I’ll pound him until there’s nothing left.
I get a foot away from the doors when my approach catches Stella’s eyes. They widen. Doucet wheels.
And he drives his left shoulder into my sternum before we go down.
Air rips from my lungs, my diaphragm spasming, the pain unreal. I’m both enraged and immobile. Worst of all? Beneath me, Doucet still has the crowbar. I register that fact less than a second before he brings it down on my hip. Stella screams.
I’d grunt, but I have no breath. My dead weight on top of him is my only advantage. I want to tell Stella to run, to get Maisy and run, but I can’t inhale.
“Are you fucking her? Are you touching my Nina?”
Thwack! This time it lands high on my leg. I see stars and then spots.
“No!” Stella shrieks, and when I expect another blow—this one to land on my spine or take out my knee—it doesn’t come.
Fucking breathe! I curse myself.
Doucet thrashes beneath me. “Fucking bitch!”
And then I see. The crowbar hasn’t struck me again because Stella is gripping its crooked end with both hands, trying to yank it from him.
I wheeze in a sip of air. My hands find purchase on his shirt before his left fist comes between our bodies and slams my chin.
The clack of my jaw guarantees a chipped tooth. My skull rattles, but I’m lucky. If he had more range of motion, I’d be out.
I get a full breath the same instant Doucet rips the bar from Stella’s grip. He rears back, aiming the forked end at her bare foot, but I catch the bar mid-swing and wrench it back. In the next instant I have both hands on the bar. So does he.
I dig a knee into his quad and yank back, trying to disarm him, and it’s only when his hips come off the ground I realize my mistake.
I pulled when I should have pushed. Pushed the crowbar down across his windpipe. But with the strength of a man fighting for his life—and I’m pretty sure Kaleb Doucet gets I’m not above killing him—he barrels up. I go over. My back hits the floor and he’s pinning me.
“WHERE’S NINA?” he shouts, spit flying. His face is twisted in rage, purple with fury. From over our shoulders, an ankle boot smacks the side of his head before bouncing off my eye.
“Ah! Sorry!” Stella cries.
Doucet roars, ignoring the hurled boot. He’s driving his weight into the bar, and the laws of physics are against me. No matter how much I can chest press. His two hundred pounds is exerting eight hundred pounds of pressure.
It might be how diamonds are born, but it’s how I’ll die as soon as my arms give out. And this is bad. Really bad.
But things get worse.
“Mama?”
Doucet doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give any ground, but his eyes dart up, telling me a terrified Maisy stands in the doorway.
“Stella. Run.” My words are guttural. Feral. I am the Archaic man, protecting my mate and her babe. Three hundred thousand years vanish in a blink.
I will die for them.
Gladly.
All that matters is their safety.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stella take off toward Maisy. Thank God.
Thank you, God.
Because every muscle in my body is locked in this struggle, and dammit if Doucet isn’t as strong as I am. And he knows how to fight. Each surge of my hips, each kick, each drive to throw him off me, he counters to keep himself on top. Keep his weight and his strength over mine.
My biceps and triceps are on fire. The blaze spreads to my shoulders. My chest. I’m practically grinding my molars to dust.
Each inhale is a risk. A chance he’ll overpower me and pin the bar across my neck. As it is, I have a few inches between me and unconsciousness.
But they’re safe.
And a moment of crystal clarity descends. Tyler must not be here. Which means Nina is not here. Maybe no one is here. Because my roommates—my friends—would be in here by now. Helping to fight him off.
Helping to save me.
But I’ve done the most important thing. I’ve saved Stella and Maisy. So if I die here, I’ll die with only one regret.
I never should have left her bed.
I should have held her in my arms until morning. Gone into the kitchen with her to make breakfast for the whole household. Then told our roommates, my family, the church, the mailman—anyone and everyone—to leave us be and let us find our own way.
And then spend every day showing Stella how I love her.
Time slows. And it feels like it takes eons for my muscles to fail and for the crowbar to meet my skin, to press into the soft flesh above my collarbone.
And I fight. Hell, yes, I fight.
I fight for that Sunday morning I let slip through my fingers. For the pancakes and French toast. For the movie nights with Maisy on my lap and Stella tucked under my arm. For an afternoon when I can take them home to New Iberia, introduce them to Mom and Dad. To Bear and Fawn and Pony and Kit and Drake and Starling. And help them into one of the jon boats to explore Bayou Teche. I’ll point out all the spots were Bear and I raised hell.
I can almost feel the rocking of the boat with the Teche’s gentle current. The Golden Hour light turning everything a hazy pink. The rippling of
sunset on the water makes me dizzy.
I’m gripping onto the dock until they’re settled, but now I can let go...
Finally, I can let—
A sound like a jet of air rouses me but before my eyes can focus the whole world goes powdery white.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Stella’s scream surrounds me, coming from everywhere and nowhere inside this cloud.
THUNK!
I wheeze in a breath and immediately cough out an exhale, but another breath miraculously follows.
THUNK!
“Fuck!”
Kaleb Doucet’s weight jerks off me, and I think I see him crouched, clutching his head. Another blast of white blinds me.
“GET OUT!”
Crack.
“Aargh!” The cry is sharp, and limbs scramble over my legs, jerky and hurried.
Footsteps slow at first and then faster fade into the night.
A thud shakes the house before Stella emerges from this mist surrounding me.
“Lark?” Coughing, she drops to her knees beside me and something metallic clanks against the floor. “Lark?”
Her hair is dusted white, making her look ghostly. I inhale to speak and cough instead.
Stella’s stricken face hovers closer. “L-Lark? Are you okay?” Her hands grip my face. She’s shaking. Violently.
I raise a hand and make a grab for her wrist, but I’m shaking too. My grip is anything but firm.
“I—” I swallow and try to clear the thickness in my throat. “I’m okay,” I rasp.
She blinks at me and her stricken look gives way to almost heartrending relief. “Oh, thank God,” she pants. Her forehead presses to mine, locks of powdered hair curtaining me, her breath ragged and hot on my face.
It’s entirely the wrong time to think this, but I regret the inch or two that separates our lips.
I clear my throat again. It’s raw. Painful. But this time, when I raise my trembling hands to her face, the heat of her cheeks seems to charge me.
“I’m okay,” I say again, this time more clearly. And then a jolt runs through me. “Where’s Maisy?”
“Safe,” she answers, but she’s nodding, pressing away. “Help is on the way. Stay right there.”
And then she clambers up, and all at once I see just how disheveled she is. Hair falls around her face, but half of it is still twisted in a wrecked bun. The curls at the base of her neck are wet.
The top of her white robe gapes open, her breasts nearly spilling out. But the fabric clings to her hips, almost transparent in places where her body is still damp.
I press up to my elbows, fresh adrenaline coursing through my veins. Stella was taking a bath when that fiend—
I grip her bare shin. “Are you all right?” My gruff voice is a collision of panic and murder.
Stella’s eyes soften on me. She tucks a lock behind her ear and pulls her robe closer, covering her exposed skin. “I’m okay,” she says, and I hear it for the admission it is. She’s unharmed. She’s safe. But she’s far from good.
I move to rise. To help her. To hold her. But she presses a hand to my shoulder to stay me, and it’s unnerving how heavy it feels. I’m weaker than I ever remember feeling. “Don’t get up. I’ll be right back.”
I listen. Not because I want to but because I don’t think I have a choice.
I watch her go, running from the room, and it’s only then I see it. The kitchen fire extinguisher abandoned on its side a few feet from me.
I stare at it, the blast of air, the blinding fog, and the bone-rattling thunks that preceded Kaleb Doucet’s departure.
My Stella attacked that piece of shit with a fire extinguisher.
The woman saved my life. With a fire extinguisher.
I cough a disbelieving laugh, but the whine of approaching sirens drowns it out.
She returns, holding a crying, wild-eyed Maisy on her hip. Stella’s rushing, but not running. Trying to seem composed in this moment of chaos.
“Here,” she says, setting Maisy down beside me. “Sit with Lark. Mama has to get dressed.”
Maisy looks up at me, her thick glasses askew and her wide eyes go even wider. “He’s bleeding, Mama.”
Stella’s already at her closet, yanking down a pair of yoga pants from a hanger that then clatters to the ground. “I know, baby. We’re gonna help him as soon as I’m dressed.”
I’m bleeding?
I run an unsteady hand over my face. My fingers brush something wet when I swipe beneath my chin. Yep, I’m bleeding.
I remember the teeth-rattling punch and run a tongue over my left upper bicuspid. Its surface is rough and raw like quartz.
Damn.
I press myself up to sitting and lean against the foot of Stella’s bed. Maisy scrambles closer, her little knees tangling in the length of her nightgown.
“Did the bad man hurt you, Bark?”
In spite of the fact that I just escaped death at the hands of a psychopath, I splutter a laugh. Because Maisy’s okay. She wouldn’t be calling me Bark if she weren’t okay.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice gruff. Wrapping an arm around her little body, I snuggle her into me. The smile she sends up to me is better than any painkiller I’ll surely need later. She wraps both arms around me and squeezes with all her might.
“I saw him hurting you.” Her voice wobbles a little and her eyes shine. I hug her tighter, and she breaks down again.
I know this is a good sign. That she feels safe enough to show emotion. But it still tears my heart out of my chest. I drag her fully onto my lap and wrap her tight.
From her closet door, Stella gives me a pained look over her shoulder, but she doesn’t slow. Her movements are jerky, still adrenalized. She sheds the robe and pulls on a sweatshirt as the sirens draw closer.
And then she’s on her knees at my side, her eyes locked with mine. “You’re r-really okay?” The tremble in her voice and the way her hand runs over my face, my head, my neck, stirs my already stirred emotions. As if her fussing over me is a reason for hope. As if this means that the thought of losing me is as gut-wrenching as the thought of me losing her.
“Is anything broken?” She gently touches my left hip where Doucet struck me. I wince, but I don’t think anything’s broken.
“I’m gonna have some ugly bruises, but I think that’s—“
Banging on the front door interrupts me.
“That’s the police.” Stella touches both Maisy and me on our cheeks. “Stay here, you two.”
Outside of the night after the mine collapse, it’s the longest night of my life.
Shortly after the police arrive, a TV crew that picked up a report of a home invasion shows up. Stella doesn’t let them in, but it must be a slow news night because they set up a camera in front of the house and film the flashing police car lights, crime scene tape, and looky-loo neighbors.
Even though we let the others know what happened, the scene is still enough to make Nina’s knees give when she sees the ruined doors in Stella’s room. The knick in my chin has stopped bleeding by the time she arrives, but the sight of it and the bruising that’s already marking my throat drain every drop of color from her face. Tyler practically carries her to the chair in Stella’s room before she can collapse.
“I can’t stay here,” she mutters over and over. “I can’t stay.”
To which, we all respond repeatedly with variations like:
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“This is your home.”
“If you run, that bastard wins.”
“I...ll…ki…ll…hi…m.”
Luckily, Tyler vows this after the police leave, but when I add, “I’ll help,” he and I lock eyes, and something passes between us.
I don’t know if it’s accurate to say that he’s forgiven me for Sunday morning and hurting his sister. But I sense that he might be ready to put it behind him.
Maybe forgiveness will come when we bury the body.
“No one’s killing anyone,”
Stella declares, and at this, Bear grunts skeptically. My brother showed up about two minutes after I called him to ask for plywood and help boarding up Stella’s door.
The fact that he went all out Older Brother and got here without any supplies just to check on me first is one hundred percent Bear. When I refused for the third time to go to the ER, he finally got back in his truck and went home for his stash of hurricane plywood, and he and Tyler nailed the biggest piece outside Stella’s door.
No one’s getting through there without a wrecking ball.
Stella arches a brow at my brother, but I can tell there’s already affection between them. When I retold the story of her fire extinguisher rescue, Bear regarded Stella with unmasked respect. “Ingenious,” he’d muttered, and Stella blushed.
“I think it’s time we called it a night,” she says, addressing everyone. All of us are in her room. No one’s been able to leave for more than a few minutes—to go to the restroom, to grab bottles of water, to get paper plates for the pies I brought home. (Note: An impromptu pie buffet is a legit response to stress hormones.) But no one has left the room for long. We’ve all come right back to this knot of people. This spontaneous clan.
“I think we’re all exhausted,” Stella adds gently. A sweep of the room proves her right. Tyler lists in Stella’s upholstered armchair with Nina in his lap. They’re both awake, but they haven’t moved in at least an hour.
Maisy’s conked out in the middle of Stella’s bed, flanked on either side by Pen and Livy who served the child two pieces of pie—apple and bumbleberry. Her sugar high only lasted about fifteen minutes, when she reenacted the whole drama—or what she knew of it—before practically face-planting in the bed around midnight.
On Maisy’s right side, Livy is out. Asleep with her mouth open. Pen’s awake but blinking sleepily, watching Stella, I know, for any sign of emotional collapse. I’m watching out for that too, but, so far, she’s shown no sign of it.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Stella is as strong as they come.
Bear is sitting on the floor, leaning against the barricaded door as if taking absurd pride in his handy work. But he looks worn out, and I know he has work tomorrow.
Dream House Page 33