CHAPTER 116

I FEEL A push on my shoulder. Soft, like a gentle sway from an ocean wave, rocking me back and then returning me to my upright state. Another push. Back and forth. Then the wave gets rude and I get poked, my eyes popping open.

“Deanna,” SunshinePusher coos. “It’s time to wake up. We can go in now.”

It’s time to wake up. Like I am six years old and she is my mother. I blink at her, willing the sleep from my eyes. I can’t believe I fell asleep.

“It’s the sedatives,” she says gently. “You’ll be groggy for a few hours.”

“I’m not groggy.” The room sways before me, her face turning blurry before refocusing. I smile, through the blur, and hope that it passes muster. My vision clears and she rolls me forward.

I watch the door open and pray for strength. Pray that when I see him, that I will be cool. Smile. Isn’t that what normal women do? Smile. I watch the door open and strain forward, wishing this infuriating woman would roll me faster.

I can see little of the man I love, but he is made no less handsome by the breathing tube through his nose, bandages on his face, the IV in his arm, and blankets covering his body. Sunshine pushes me to the side of his bed, my hand stealing out and under the blankets, grabbing his carefully, unsure of his level of injuries. His eyes open, green finding me, and his mouth tugs into a smile. “Deanna.”

His voice is scratchy, weak. But his hand squeezes mine, and it is strong. I stand, pushing the wheelchair back, and send Sunshine a pointed look. “Could we have some privacy?”

She smiles brightly. “Of course. I’ll be in the lobby. The receptionist asks that you limit this visit to thirty minutes.” I watch her, wait for the door to close behind her cupcake-covered scrubs, and turn back to him. My hand moves, shaky in its path, up his arm and down his side. “What’s hurt?”

He reaches over, pushing a button on the side of the bed that raises him slightly, his face tightening, a white flush of pain passing briefly through it. My heart seizes at the look. I caused that. I am the reason he is here.

“Nothing major.”

“You’re all bandaged up. Something major.”

He barely shrugs, the reduced movement my second clue that he is in pain. “Some internal injuries. I was caught—when the house collapsed—under part of it. I have a lot of bruising, some small burns.”

I frown. “And internal bleeding.”

“I don’t even know if I have that anymore. They took me straight into surgery. I haven’t talked to the doctor since.” He smiles. “Nothing for you to worry about.” His eyes sharpen, move to the chair. “Are you hurt?” He pushes himself up, worry making his movements too quick.

I shake my head quickly, push on his shoulders. “Lie back. Relax. I’m fine. The wheelchair is some stupid hospital policy thing.”

His eyes travel over my face. “But your face. The cuts…”

“Superficial,” I brush off. “Neosporin-worthy, nothing else.” I move closer to him, reach out and bend down. Hug his chest as gently as I can. Breathe in the scent that is not Jeremy. It is medicinal and sickly, yet I inhale as much of it as I can gather. I relax, rest my head on his chest. “Does this hurt?”

His hand comes up, brushes gently over my back. “Not in the least.”

We stay there, for long moment, and then I straighten. “Tell me what happened. I saw the house explode—you couldn’t have…”

His eyes study me. I don’t like how they look at me. As if they are fighting a war beneath the green. “First, what happened to your face?” His eyes drop down. “Your hands.” He pulls back the sleeve of my gown, flipping over my hands to reveal my shredded palms. “Jesus, Dee.”

I push his hands away. “It’s nothing. I pulled up to your house right before the explosion. Got scratched up from the blast. Tell me what happened.” I keep my eyes on his, my face so tight I feel as if my skin will rip.

He looks away. “I don’t really know. I came home from work. Walked in the house, don’t remember anything happening, but woke up and was tied up.”

“Tied up?” My voice is harsh. Harsher than I meant it to be, the anger pushing and pulling my vocal cords without my permission. His eyes return to mine, a bit of wariness in their depths.

“Yeah. My hands behind my back, with zip ties. Feet tied. I had some kind of tape—probably duct tape—across my mouth and eyes.”

“For how long?” Fuck. Any compassion, any guilt that may have stuck around, lingered in some traitorous vein in my body, disappears. It’s a waste of a question. I know when Marcus arrived at my house. I know the time I spent with him, the time I spent dumping his body. Taking my sweet fucking time while Jeremy lay alone.

He shrugs. “Not sure.”

“How’d you escape?”

“I kicked my feet instead of yanking them. Broke half the kitchen before I hit the pipe I was tied to. Rolled my way to the side of the house. Really heroic, manly stuff.” He smiles and I try to but I can’t.

“So you never saw the guy.”

“Nope. Why? You know who he was?” The question changes the dynamic of the room. I try to read his eyes. Try to understand the vibe between us. Not anger, but wariness. Hesitation mixed with curiosity.

“Yes. A client.” I don’t give him anything more. Wait to see what pawn he slides forward. I don’t want to tell him what I did. There is no short way to tell this story, a Pandora’s box of outcomes to revealing my soul. Plus, he’s got to be tired. Medicated. The responsible thing would be to let him rest. “That was why I was so rude yesterday afternoon. I thought he was coming to my apartment—didn’t want you to be in danger.”

It is a horribly brief explanation, one that should be followed up with a flurry of questions, but Jeremy stays silent. “Do you want to know more?”

A long silence, then he shakes his head. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”

I shake my head. “He’s not going to.”

“I don’t want you going back to the apartment. If he came to me he could have gone to you next. He could be waiting there, like he did with me.”

I raise my chin, look into his eyes with enough resolve that he stops talking. “He’s not going to hurt me. I’m not saying that to reassure you, I’m telling you it as fact.”

He says nothing. We hold a long look, then he nods.

I am scared of the question but ask it anyway. “Do you want to know more?”

His head slowly moves. Shakes. “Not right now. The, uh, the nurses said that the police came by. Want to talk to me. Are investigating the explosion. I want to be as truthful as I can when I speak to them. As ignorant as I can.” He lowers his voice, as if he has suddenly remembered where we are. “If you want to talk later, once I get out of here, we can talk then.” He rests his head against the pillow, turns it to look into my face. “Do you want to tell me?”

I laugh through an exhale of breath and shake my head slightly. “No.” I look back at him. “But I think I should. There are things about me that you should know.”

His eyes squint a bit as he focuses on me. “Just because we are in love doesn’t mean you have to share all your secrets.”

“You might not love me if you knew all of them.” I smile sadly.

He pulls at my hand, tugs my mouth to his. “I will always love you,” he whispers.

I lower my head to his chest to avoid a response. No, I think. You won’t.

I can’t do it. I can’t ruin this beautiful loyal man’s impression of me. I can’t destroy the only person in this world who looks at me as if I am not broken. Who knows about my dark desires, yet still loves me. Who might not be able to handle the fact that I have acted on those desires.

I can’t do it. My weakness, my lack of courage is dismaying, my own subconscious stepping away with an offended look. But my heart is too strong. It beats too loud and too rebelliously, drowning common sense as it sets up roadblocks and dams, keeping out anything, including morality, in a quest to protect its claim.

I love him.

He loves me.

I can’t destroy everything. Not when he doesn’t even want, isn’t even asking, for my secrets.

I try to think, try to fill our silence with something, some response to his words, some delay tactic that will get me out of this thorn bush and back to safe, non-relationship-ending conversation. I straighten, realizing, as my gaze finds his face, that he, beautiful man, claimant of my heart, is asleep.