Three.
There had been three.
God, it was a miracle she’d been able to get away.
Then, my stomach burning with a despair so deep I wondered how I could move, fury so great I wondered how I didn’t combust, all of it I felt for a pretty, spirited, sixteen-year-old girl who didn’t really like me, I helped her to the shower. While she was showering, I shoved her clothes in a plastic grocery bag and hid them in Buck’s closet.
Once she got out, I helped her into her pjs, sat her on the toilet and combed her hair for her.
I then followed her to bed, got in it with her and rocked her, speaking softly to her until she fell asleep.
Now Buck was home.
“Get your ass to bed,” he ordered quietly to me, but it wasn’t a gentle order, it was a command.
Tatiana’s head came back, and she looked up at her dad.
“Can she stay?” Tatiana whispered, and Buck looked down at her.
“No,” he answered his daughter then his eyes came up to pierce me.
I bit my lip and gathered enough courage to slide Tatiana’s hair off her neck and give her a squeeze.
After I did that, I slid out of her bed and went to Buck’s.
I pulled the covers up high and stared at the pillow.
It didn’t take long before I twisted so my face was in the pillow, and forcing myself to be silent, I burst into tears.
19
You Were Standing in My Way
I never got to sleep.
And when the sun was high enough in the sky, I got up, went to the bathroom and did my bathroom business.
That done, I pulled up the courage to lift my arms, and I stared at them in the mirror.
Four, livid purple bruises had formed on my inner biceps.
On each arm.
Four imprints of the pads of an angry man’s fingers.
Slowly, I turned and looked over my shoulder.
A deep purple bruise had risen in stark relief against the white of my skin on my shoulder blade.
I closed my eyes.
He’d marked me.
Buck.
My protector.
He’d marked me.
I forced the bruises from my mind, put my robe on over my nightgown and went to the kitchen.
I made coffee and avoided the Pop-Tarts.
I wasn’t certain Buck would be in the mood to cook breakfast, but first, if he was, I wasn’t fired up to upset him in any way, and second, I was far from hungry.
When the coffee was brewed, I poured myself a cup, and was standing at the window, looking out and considering putting on socks and a pair of sweatpants and going out there. We were in the foothills and it was late September. The heat was still on in the Valley. Up here, the days were warm, the nights and mornings chill.
Even so, if any time was deck time, that time was deck time.
Since I was staring out the window, I saw the sleek, shiny, British racing green Jaguar gliding up the drive.
Two questions sprang immediately to mind.
Who on earth?
And…
What now?
The house was silent, and the clock over the microwave (one of only two in the house, the other one on the DVD player, both had been flashing twelve until I set them a week ago), said it was going seven thirty. I figured the house would be quiet for a while and I figured its inhabitants needed their rest.
So my coffee cup and I went to the door.
I pulled it open and stood in it, watching a man of average height, built like a golfer, wearing a long-sleeved polo neck shirt and chinos, with black hair shot with silver, stomping to the door.
Oh dear.
I stood with a shoulder against the doorframe, pulling the door to closing me on the inside, but I could see him.
And he could see me.
“Can I help you?” I asked when he got close.
“This West Hardy’s place?” he asked back, coming to a halt outside the door, eyes narrowed, the entire line of his body communicating fury.
“May I ask who you are?”
“I’m the man who’s going to be pressing charges in about ten minutes when the sheriff gets here.”
Oh dear.
“Sorry?” I asked, buying time.
“If West Hardy and that hoodlum he calls a son are in there, you better wake their asses up. They’ll probably want to be dressed when they’re cuffed and taken to the station.”
My back went straight, and it did this because he’d called Gear a hoodlum.
Gear was not a hoodlum.
“Sorry?” I whispered, but it was so I wouldn’t shout and wake anyone.
“I’m telling you, you better get their asses up,” he advised, leaning in, nasty sliding in to keep the angry company on his face.
“Why would the police arrest West and Locke?”
“Interesting,” he muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back. “He doesn’t come home and brag to his bitch when he goes out and beats the shit out of a bunch of kids.”