14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Lucy

T he nightmare is usually the same.

Beck comes home from a trip, usually smelling like cheap whores who wear even cheaper perfume. I'm in the kitchen with the requested smile on my face and pretending not to notice my husband got laid while he was away. He'd always say, "Lucy, I don't want to see your hangdog face. I want pleasant. No man wants to see a woman's problems. You're my wife and exist for my pleasure. Fucking smile." Then, he'd pinch my cheeks and force me to smile until I got it right. Many times, he'd force me to smile while he beat me and wouldn't stop until he was satisfied with the look on my face.

I purposely frowned for days after he was gone. Funny movie? I frowned through it. A child telling a joke in line at the grocery store? The kid probably thought I was an asshole. My mouth felt free for the first time in years. I could frown, zone out, or even scowl without caring about getting a swift kick to the ribs.

Over and over, I dream about that asshole, and I pray for the day it'll stop.

One night sticks out in my mind the most, and my subconscious always toys with me. It was after a work party. I knew he and Ellen Quarry were in the coat room fucking around, and I had nothing to do but drink while they did it. I must have had too much to drink because I asked him about it on the ride home. I never would have done that sober.

He smiled like he did when he was dangerous, but I was emboldened that night. Maybe I was mad about being cheated on. Maybe it was because it was so…public. I never hit him unless it was in self-defense. Even then, it was usually me raising my arms to protect myself and accidentally clipping him in the process. But I slapped him that night. He was driving, and I slapped him as hard as I slapped Aaron last week.

That was the night he pulled the car over, dragged me out of the car by my hair so hard that a large clump came out, and beat me until I was unconscious at the side of the road. After he beat me, he sodomized me. When I woke up, hurting in my most intimate places, he was sitting in the car like nothing had happened. He'd gone to get tacos, and he came back to watch for when I woke up. I often wonder what he thought he was going to do if I hadn't regained consciousness. Bury me right there?

When I came to, my ass was sore like I had been torn. I remember blood streaks dried in rivulets down my legs. He must have had a hard go at me. The blood was either from the brutal sexual assault or the blood from my broken nose ran all the way down to my legs.

I was in the middle of nowhere, so I had no other choice but to hobble to the car, get in, and let him move the hair back from my face. "There, there," he said. "That's a good wife. And you'll be a better wife now, won't you?"

Silence.

A slap hard across the face. So hard that my head hit the passenger window. I remember nodding in agreement. He just wadded up his taco wrapper, started the car, and drove home.

I didn't sleep the rest of that night, mostly because of the pain, but I didn't dare make a sound as he slept like a baby next to me. Not a whimper. Not a moan. I knew he'd be angry if I woke him. When he left for work the next day, I went to urgent care and told them I had a terrible fall at home. Was my husband home? They asked the question, and I told them he wasn't, the lie dripping easily off my tongue. It was the only time I could lie with a straight face. Mostly because I knew what would happen to me if I didn't. He was at work when I fell, of course. I always made him out to be a good husband when I went to the doctor. I was just clumsy.

A cracked rib, a nose that had to be reset, two black eyes from either the beating or the broken nose, a sprained wrist, and two chipped teeth on my left side, to say nothing of the bruises all over my body. Surely, they knew. If the beatings weren't a sign, the small bald spot at the back of my head should have been a clue.

But nobody helped me.

Not one fucking person.

When the nightmares come about that night, my subconscious shows me what my conscious missed while I was out. Beck calling me every name in the book as he pushed into me, my dress up to my waist and ruined in the ditch water. I was bent over, my mouth full of grass clippings, weeds, and dirt, and barely able to breathe.

Sometimes, while I was getting the worst of a beating, I fantasized about a hero coming to save me. Most of the time, it was Aaron who drove up in my fantasy, tapped Beck on the shoulder, and punched him out cold.

But that didn't happen. As much as I wanted Aaron to come almost every time I was getting beat on and as much as I tried to fix my eyes to silently ask him for help at the class reunion, I knew he wouldn't. He couldn't. His eyes barely met mine that night. Cynthia was his date. I ran into her in the bathroom, and she was nice to me with the few words she said. Of course, she was. She was nice and quick with a smile for everyone, even her husband's ex-girlfriend. She complimented my dress. Aaron deserved her. Out of respect for his wife, he didn't dawdle while politely speaking to me at the bar.

If he would have looked harder – closer – I know he would have seen my plea for help.

I needed a hero. My heart ached for one, but I was alone to solve my problem. I've always been so alone. Powerless.

I wake up in a cold sweat, the blurry memory of Beck on top of me still in my mind, and I grasp at my throat. I swear I can still feel his hands there, and I can still smell him. His laughter echoes through my ears, and I reach for my bedside lamp, quickly turning it on to chase the shadows away.

He's not here. He can't hurt me.

I need to talk to someone. Something. Why don't I have a cat or a goldfish? I wish for something I can talk to just to hear a sound beside Beck's maniacal laughter rolling through my brain.

Picking up my phone, my fingers dance over the screen. Who would I even call to talk me through this? Who understands enough to talk me down and tell me everything is OK? Peter? He'd listen, but it's awfully personal. He knows Beck beat me, but he doesn't know the details, and he doesn't know I have nightmares. I need comfort.

There's only one person I could call. I could message him through Facebook or call through there, but he gave me his number on a club napkin after I moved back to town. I remember stuffing it into my bra, thinking I'd only message him through social media if I wanted to say hello.

But I entered his number into my phone as soon as I retrieved it backstage.

Thoughts of the last time I saw him nearly make me pause the process of entering his number. Him pulling his pants up. Jason with a mouthful of Aaron's cum. We haven't spoken. What makes me think he'll take my call in the middle of the night? Will he yell at me for waking his girls? Tell me off for putting him in the position of fucking a man's ass now that he's had time to really think about it?

"Dwyer," he says, answering in a professional tone. He sounds like he hasn't gone to bed. I look at the clock and notice it's three in the morning. Is he working? "Hello?" he asks again.

"Aaron?"

He sighs on the other end of the line, but it's not a sigh of annoyance. It's…relief. "Lucy?"

"You know my voice that well?" I chuckle.

"I'd know your voice anywhere. We talked until midnight every night as teens. Are you safe?"

I scowl at the phone. "Why wouldn't I be safe?"

He ignores the question. "I'm actually glad you called because I need you to open your door."

"My door?" I ask, moving to my window and parting the blinds just as a car swings onto my street and kills the headlights. "I just called you twenty seconds ago. Is that you pulling into my driveway?"

"I was on my way over as soon as I got done sorting some work stuff and taking my daughters to Cynthia's mom's house. Open your door for me."

I don't cover myself. Aaron's seen everything. I head down the stairs in the dark, fumbling for the railing as I walk toward the door in a pair of purple granny panties and a country concert shirt from five years ago. I fling open the door, and he's on me.

I'm in his arms before I can focus on his face. Normally, I'd push back against him, but I don't this time. Maybe it was the bad dream, but something tells me he needs just as much comfort right now.

He kicks my door closed and turns the deadbolt on the door before picking me up, pulling my legs around his waist, and slinking to the floor right there on my entryway tile. He grips me tight like I was a girl who was lost in the store and was finally found by her parent, his hand firm at my back.

I have no idea what got into him, but I'm here for it. He's warm. He's like a weighted blanket during a thunderstorm. We sit like that in my entryway for minutes, my face buried in his neck as he strokes my hair and my back, whispering words I never thought I'd hear again.

"I love you, Lucy," he whispers.

I'm safe, and I'm loved. With him, I don't have to worry about being abused. Aaron would never hurt me the way Beck did. He's my hero, and he always will be.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

I pull away from his neck and move my forehead to his jaw. The heat of his skin on mine is like coming home from college and your mom having a grilled cheese sandwich ready for you.

Home.

"Sorry for what?" I ask.

"What happened at the club. That wasn't me. It wasn't…us. I was angry at you because I don't understand why you push me away all the time. I wanted to be with you any way that I could be with you. I lost my mind in that moment, and I'm so ashamed of how I treated you. How I've treated you since you moved back. You don't owe me anything, and you sure don't owe me any part of your body. I'm ashamed I didn't knock Beck out when I had the chance. I'm ashamed that I didn't go to Chicago and help you. Even if you pushed me away and we hadn't talked for almost a decade, I should have seen. Even if my wife had never died, I should have checked on you after I saw the bruise on your back at the reunion. I should have helped you. I've always loved you, and I want you safe."

I move my face an inch up his jaw, and he cups my cheek. We sit nose-to-nose for a moment, our breathing heavy, until he moves his lips to mine.

And I let him. For the first time in over a decade, I kiss Aaron Dwyer.

His lips are familiar but also new. Stronger. More in control. I kissed this guy most of my high school existence, and I fall into the kiss like we didn't miss a day. There was no Beck. There was no Cynthia, even though she was actually a good human who loved Aaron. There was no breakup in college that left me devastated and floundering enough to be easy prey for an abusive dickhead. It's like we never parted. He still tastes the same, and he still moves his head at the same angle when he kisses. He still seeks with his tongue, never forcing. Only testing and tasting.

I wrap my arms around him, and my hand runs through his hair. It's soft and comforting as I slide my fingers through it. His hands don't roam my body, but they stay at my cheeks. This isn't a kiss that'll end in fucking. It's not urgent or disrespectful. This is a kiss that says I'm here now, and I'll be here as long as you let me.

When we break apart, he inhales. "Baby, I need you to pack a bag and come with me."

I scowl and pull away. Well, I move as far as you can pull away when you're straddling a man in your entryway. "What? Why?"

"Another man was killed today. When we searched the house, I found your address on his kitchen counter. You need to pack a bag and come home with me. You're not safe here."

I shake my head, and my stomach roils with nerves. "That's ridiculous. Why would my address be on his counter?" I think hard, but the nightmare from before and Aaron being here and kissing me…it all has my brain on overdrive and like I have too many tabs open. Was the guy planning on hurting me before he died?

"His name was Todd Daniels. Did you know him?"

I shake my head.

He pulls his phone out of his pants. "I have to show you another picture of a dead person. Are you ready?"

I look at the picture on the screen, not averting my eyes this time. The guy's dead, and he can't hurt me. This one isn't so messy, and he's not as decomposed. It's the decomposition I can't handle. "He's one of the guys that threatened me with the other mafia thugs."

That's all of them except for Geoffrey from the gala. George Cannon and two of the men in my living room are dead. Relief floods through me as I realize Aaron is here, and Aaron will make sure Geoffrey doesn't hurt me.

I rest my head on Aaron's shoulder and then lift it immediately. "What about the girls? If someone is after me, you can't have me at home with the girls."

"The girls are at Cynthia's mother's house. They'll stay there for a few days to make sure nobody is desperate to hurt you. It'll give me a few days to sniff around. You need to pack a few bags, Lucy."

I get up from his lap, and my legs shake a little as I stand. Aaron reaches out and catches me while pulling himself up. Once I'm steady, we head up to my room in silence, and Aaron watches as I pack two rolling suitcases, throwing everything in without thought to season or practicality. Packing at three in the morning isn't exactly well thought out.

Aaron helps by finding a small cosmetics case and going into my attached bathroom and packing my toothbrush, toothpaste, basic makeup, and moisturizer. While he does that, I go down to my small desk and grab my important documents. May as well take those so nobody steals them.

Once we're all packed, we silently load the car. It's only when we're safe in Aaron's police cruiser and the sun is rising over the horizon that we speak, but it's only small talk until we reach his house.

I've never been to Aaron's house, but tears sting my eyes when I see it. It rises up from the perfect yard, a fortress of safety and normalcy in the middle of my life tornado. It's a two-story, modest colonial with a picket fence around the backyard. When I walk through the door, a golden retriever mix greets me at the door, wagging its tail and barking at Aaron to bend down and pet him. "This is Mickey," he says. "He's extra, but you'll learn to love him. You OK with dogs?"

I smile at the friendly animal. "I love dogs. My parents didn't allow pets, and Beck hated them." I look at the ceiling and think. "Probably because dogs could sense he was a shitty human."

"Dogs are good that way. Mickey seems to like you, though." The dog rolls over, begging for me to rub his belly, and I happily oblige. "You must be a good person."

Aaron leads me upstairs to a guest room as Mickey tags along behind us, his head never far from Aaron's palm. Aaron sets my things in a corner and looks around the room like he's seeing it for the first time as Mickey jumps on the bed, making himself at home. I feel safer already.

I eye the bed and admire that Aaron's guest bed looks more comfortable than my actual mattress at home. "Will you stay with me tonight?" I ask.

Aaron checks his watch. "Do you mean this morning?"

"You haven't slept. Do you have to be at work soon?"

"Nine."

I walk to the bed and pull down the sweatpants I hastily threw on before we left. Kicking them aside, I crawl into the cool sheets and rest my head on a pillow. "Just be here with me for a few minutes."

Aaron silently kicks his shoes off and climbs under the covers. I curl into his chest as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him.

Maybe we're just exhausted. Maybe we've missed this. Maybe the rhythm of Aaron's heartbeat lulls me into a relaxed state. Whatever the reason, I fall asleep in Aaron Dwyer's arms as he softly breathes against my hair in his own sleep.