Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
A my
My bladder pushes me up out of the black. Blinking a few times to clear sleep so I can pick my way over the questionable patches on the motel carpet floor, I’m wondering where the ugly ceiling light went. Huh?
Wrapping my hands around the sheet and comforter, I’m startled to find it’s not the thin hotel sheet and abrasive bedspread. My bladder sends me out of bed at a run to the open bathroom door.
My eyes won’t take the overhead light, but it’s not needed as I can see easily to move around the large bathroom. A nightlight plugged in near the vanity is given more strength from the mirror near it.
As I make my way on unsteady legs to the vanity to wash my hands, brief flashes come back to me. The doctor, Matteo Castillo, with the soft golden eyes. Golden eyes that felt like they saw into my soul and recognized me—even though I’ve never seen him before. At least, I don’t think I have. Or maybe I had. I don’t remember how I made it from the motel to the room.
The recognition scared me. Did he know Danny? Was Danny looking for me after all? Only it couldn’t be. He’s a doctor. I came to the clinic because of the pain in my throat. He wasn’t going to hurt me—I knew it instinctively. Then, his gentle touch and concern confirmed it. I felt safe with him, so safe I longed to touch him to find out if he was real. He urged me to think of Layla…
Oh my god, Layla.
I’m back in the room looking for her. “Layla!” Damn it, it’s a croak.
A croak that brings him running. The overhead light is flicked on, burning my eyes. “It’s okay. Layla is right across the hall. She’s sleeping. Come see for yourself.”
He’s only wearing silky black pajama bottoms. His wide, muscled chest covered in dark hair is on full display. There’s a tattoo of a castle peeking through the hair. The oddest desire to trace the lines of the tattoo hits me—what?
I’m pulled out of the odd thought when he opens the bedroom door to the room directly across the hall from mine. The door was open already, only a few inches—enough for her cries to be heard.
When he notices I hesitate to go into the room, he opens the door wider and steps further back. Between the light in the hallway and a nightlight in the bedroom, it’s easy to see the white crib with the sides up against the wall. Standing over the crib, I see Layla on her back with her arms spread out.
My sigh of relief is almost painful. The lingering pain from the…he said it was strep throat. Him, Dr. Castillo. I turn to find him watching me closely from the hallway.
“Do you want to get back to bed, or are you ready for something to eat?” He isn’t whispering, but his voice is low enough not to disturb Layla.
I shake my head. I want to stay with Layla, but the only other thing in the room is a changing table and an empty bookcase. There’s no bed or even a rocking chair.
Beneath the bright light in the hallway, he’s somehow bigger, with muscles bulging. After the last year of Danny’s abuse, fear is a reflex. I edge into the hall and step back from him. Yet I don’t go back into the room I was sleeping in.
He notices my fear. “I’m not going to hurt you or Layla. You need a place to recover and help with Layla while you’re doing it—that’s all.”
“Why?” I push the word out.
In the harsh light of day, all I can do is trust what is before me. Going on feel could end in a painful lesson. I never thought Danny would hurt me.
I don’t trust the way he hesitates before shrugging. “You needed help, and I’m here.”
“Why?” I press him.
His head goes down for a heartbeat. “I think I needed to take care of someone the way I wish someone took care of me.” My chest hurts from the raw honesty in his words. “And Layla,” he chuckles. “How could anyone look at her and not want to give her everything she needs?”
Something eases in me. He cared about Layla. It’s coming back to me, him saying he took other patients home with him before. That had to be why I felt safe with him—especially with how large and muscle-bound he is.
Oh my god, he did carry me. As if I were nothing, and I felt so safe in his arms. It’s enough for me to go back into the room I was sleeping in. I have no idea why, despite sleeping for what my body tells me is a long time, all I want is to sleep again.
“Rest. You let yourself get run down. It’s going to take a few days of sleep before you feel better.” Did he read my mind?
I’m climbing into bed with a yawn when he turns the light off. I don’t even have to tell him to leave the door ajar.
This is an amazing dream. A man as stunning as Matteo Castillo could only be made in dreams. He wasn’t perfect. His broad forehead had deep furrows that matched the wrinkles around his golden eyes and wide mouth. While his nose is big, it fits his face. I don’t trust his jawline and cheekbones are real. They had to be taken from those comic books I read when I was a kid. All of those hard and sharp features weren’t anything I dreamed of before…so is he real?
My last thought is wondering how I’m going to go back to the motel after sleeping in a bed that feels like a cloud beneath silky soft sheets and a comforter. As I fall asleep, it’s to the memory of the doctor carrying me. His strong arms were gentle and made me feel so protected and safe…the last thing I thought a man could make me feel after Danny.
Matteo
I linger outside the room in case Amy needs me for anything else. Once I hear her soft snores, I exhale.
Closing my eyes, I swear long and low. The bastard hurt her. I make it to the office. Pulling up my email, I search for a response from the security contracting company. A report is already waiting.
I glance at my watch. It’s a little after six in the morning, and the report hit my email twenty minutes ago. Opening it, I begin reading and almost wish I hadn’t. I knew from the way she reacted to me someone abused her—that doesn’t make it any easier to read.
Her husband. The word stops me. She hasn’t divorced him. My jaw clenches. She will. Soon .
The fucker, Daniel Richards, tried to file a police report for her stealing his truck. Except she was the owner of record on it. He got belligerent when a neighbor told the police he heard Richards beating on Amy again . Were the cops finally going to do something about it?
He’d gotten pissed at the neighbor and took a swing at him in front of the police. What a fucking moron. When the cops stepped in, he took a swing at an officer. His award for the biggest dumbass in Waco was a night in jail and further charges he wasn’t going to be able to get off on, considering he had previous convictions of assault.
Fuck. His family has money, if not a very good reputation. It’s not as much as I have, but it’s enough to hire a good lawyer. They also throw their weight around the small town of Temple. While they didn’t think highly of their third son. He’s back in Temple and listing their address as his current one. So, they could still be a factor.
I wince at Amy’s childhood, or lack thereof. I’m telling myself to stop reading. The report was only to find out about him. This is what I want Amy to share willingly. Except I can’t. And once again, I wish I hadn’t. To go from such an awful childhood to that fucker. My heart aches for her.
There isn’t much more to the file. I reply to the email thanking them for their quick turnaround and inform them that I have more work for them.
Amy
My bladder kicks me out of bed again. The moment I throw the covers off me, my stomach begins growling. Ugh, my throat hurts badly enough I’m not looking forward to food. It’s not as bad as it was when I went to the clinic, but it still aches to swallow.
Holy crap with this bathroom. There’s a soaking tub with jets and a separate shower large enough for four people. Everything is white marble, porcelain, and gleaming silver.
Out of the bathroom, I see another door open to a walk-in closet—filled with clothes. I wonder whose room I’m in. There’s a note on the island.
My dear Amy,
I hope you approve of the clothes I selected for you. If anything is not to your liking, have no concern. It can be returned despite being dry cleaned for your immediate wear. We can exchange it for something else that would better suit you.
Bitsy
I blink several times as I wonder if I’m still dreaming. The closet is full. This closet isn’t small. Take everything out of it, and it could be a bedroom large enough to fit at least a queen bed with plenty of space to spare. Although hangers are carefully spaced from each other like something in a store, it’s freaking full. There’s a map of where things are in the drawers of the island. Panties are in one drawer, bras in another, and leggings. Holy freaking crap.
All of this is for me?
Freaked out, I go in search of the man who can answer my questions.
Out of the room, I look to the left to see only one door at the end of the hall. I turn right toward the sound of him talking to Layla. It’s an open kitchen, dining, and living room area. There is a large flat-screen television. The furniture is brown leather, with a long roll-arm couch and matching oversized chairs on each side. The area is anchored by a silk rug on the dark, wide-plank hardwood floor.
The table separating the living area from the kitchen seats eight and looks like it’s made of one long piece of driftwood. Dark wood floors run throughout the space as far as I can see. I’m surprised the cabinets are a shiny slick red with bronze handles when everything else is in white and brown. Marble countertops add to the white color scheme. The appliances are stainless steel and massive. A double refrigerator large enough for a family of ten matches the six-burner stove with a side-by-side double oven.
I’m fighting not to be overwhelmed by the clear luxury of everything when my eyes finally fall on him, Matteo—Dr. Castillo. He’s feeding Layla, who is in a brand new highchair with a bright yellow bib covering a pretty sky-blue dress. They both turn to look at me. Their smiles are oddly the same.
“Mama.” Layla gives me a little wave before returning her attention to the spoon covered in baby food.
Matteo’s eyes remain on me. “How are you feeling?”
I have no idea why I’m suddenly warm. My stomach twists in anxiety watching it happen. “Oh, Layla, no baby.”
She was impatient and managed to grab the spoon and smear her face with the bright purple baby food she was trying to get into her mouth. Too late Matteo doesn’t manage to grab her hand before she gets it on the pretty dress.
“I’m sorry.” I apologize as I rush to grab Layla’s hand before she can spread the purple goo anywhere else. Afraid he’ll be angry at her and me for not raising her better. “I hope it doesn’t stain.”
He chuckles as he runs a wet washcloth he already had waiting over her hand. His large hands are gentle with her small one. “It’s okay. She’s a baby, messes are going to happen. Right, sweetie?”
Layla grins up at him. Her grin is so wide I can’t help smiling too. He isn’t angry or yelling at her for making a mess.
Relief allows me to exhale air from the bottom of my tight lungs. When he sees me staring, trying to figure out if it’s only a hallway or another room past the living room, he nods his head toward it. “How are you feeling? Want to take a tour?”
Suddenly, I’m shy, and why is it so hot in here? Maybe I still have a fever. Since I’m actually able to speak without pain, it’s definitely better. “Better, I think. Yes, please.”
“Good. I’ll show you the place.” He unstraps Layla from the highchair and picks her up.
There is another living room on the other side of the wall. This one is more formal in boring beiges. A white couch is in a stiff fabric with two matching chairs on each side of the couch. Another ottoman is used in place of a coffee table in beige, the same color as the plush large carpet in the middle of the room. The only splash of color in the room is a Christmas tree decorated in reds and greens with clear white lights. It’s topped by a regal Santa Claus in bright red velvet. Oddly, though, it’s missing a tree skirt.
He's moving down the hallway. There are more rooms down this hallway than the other one. A large full bath with a combined shower and garden tub, an enormous library with a shiny black baby grand piano, an office in the corner with light filling the room, and a game room filled with a pool table, arcade games, and a white screen with a projector pointed toward it.
“This place is huge,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “It’s not mine. This is my brother’s place he built for himself. I needed somewhere while I figured out where I wanted to live. Did you find the clothes?”
“About that…” I follow him into the dining area where he puts Layla back into the highchair. He picks right back up, feeding her as though he’s been doing it forever.
“You hate them? I’m sorry. We can go shopping?—”
“No, I like them.” I rush to reassure him. Actually, I hadn’t looked closely. But I hate thinking of him so disappointed. “I’m, um, I mean…why? Why did Bitsy buy me all those clothes? And who is Bitsy?”
“Because you need them.” He rolls his eyes. “Bitsy is my mother, and her given name, and what she will also answer to is Elizabeth. I’m not good at buying women’s clothing, so I asked for her help. She also got Ms. Layla here all kitted out. Didn’t she? Yeah, you liked the pretty dresses.”
Layla laughs, kicking her little feet out the way she does when she’s happiest. I’m stunned at the way Layla is so comfortable with him. She was afraid of Danny the few times he paid her any attention. Since he only did it to yell at her to shut up—it’s no surprise.
“All done. Good girl, eating your food.” He cleans her easily and efficiently.
“But there are so many clothes, too many clothes.” I’m embarrassed when my stomach growls.
“I can get you something to eat. The fridge is full. You need clothes, so you got what you needed.” He gets up, shaking out baby puff cereal onto the tray of the highchair for Layla. She scoops up one and gums it enthusiastically.
“No. I need to take a shower and get out of these clothes.” I back away from him. Unbelieving of him getting up to make me something to eat.
“Okay. While you’re taking a shower, I’ll make you something. What sounds good?”
I’m so freaking hungry. “Everything.” Flies out of my mouth. Oh god, kill me now.
His chuckle shimmers up my tummy. “Then it’s a good thing my mother filled the refrigerator to its maximum capacity. She went heavy on soups for your throat. There’s some I’ve never even heard of?—”
“Soup. Yes, soup, please.” All the soup sounds good. A dimple appears. This man is truly stunning. I turn to flee but am stopped before I make it back to the room.
“Amy?” He doesn’t need to raise his voice to stop me in my tracks.
“Um, yes?” My eyes find him at the refrigerator.
“What kind of soup would you like?” The question is soft.
“Chicken noodle?”
“Okay, and would you like a grilled cheese with it or some other sandwich? I can make a grilled cheese without burning it. There’s chicken, turkey, and two kinds of ham lunch meat.”
“I would love a grilled cheese. But I don’t think my throat could take the crispy bread. A turkey sandwich sounds good, thank you.” I edge back down the hallway.
“Mayo, mustard?” He asks as he opens the refrigerator.
“Mayo only, thanks.”
“All right. It will be ready for you. Take your time.” He urges me before turning his attention back to the inside of the refrigerator.
My feet won’t move at the chance to study him while he’s unaware. Wow, he’s so freaking stunning. Bent over, his ass is hard and perfectly round. I’m no better than a man. I tell myself to move, but I’m frozen—until he turns back to find me ogling him. Now, I’m practically running away, too embarrassed to say a word.
I fight not to slam the bedroom door. Leaning against it, I’m annoyed that I’m breathing heavily after exerting such a small amount of energy. Truly awake now, I study the large room.
It’s twice the size of the motel room I’d been in for too long. There’s a small seating area with an oversized chair and a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. In the corner is a small white desk with an upholstered blue velvet chair.
I hear Layla banging on her highchair. The noise gets me moving to take the shower I’m longing for. I’m grateful as hell to take off my clothes with the promise of new ones to wear. It takes a few minutes to figure out the hot and cold in the shower.
Standing beneath the waterfall showerhead, after weeks of water pressure so weak it felt like being spit on—I fight not to sob with relief. For a long time, I simply close my eyes and enjoy the hot water running over me. When I’m worried I’ll use all the hot water I open my eyes and hope to find shampoo in here.
A large cubbyhole is filled with not only white, fluffy washcloths but also body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. It’s all brand new. Bitsy again.
The woman has expensive taste. I don’t want to even guess what she spent on my clothes. Then I remember designers don’t have fat women’s sizes—that meant it couldn’t be as bad as I fear.
Rinsing off the conditioner, my hair feels like freaking silk. Considering the cheap shampoo and conditioner I’ve been using left my hair feeling like straw, the expensive stuff is worth it.
I take my time drying off using one of the enormous towels on a heated rack and use a hand towel to dry my hair. There’s a plush toweling robe on the back of the bathroom door. Wrapping myself in it, I sigh at how good it feels against my skin. On the vanity is an electric toothbrush with the head of the toothbrush covered in plastic packaging beside a bottle of body lotion. They weren’t there last night.
I’m embarrassed at sleeping through her putting all this stuff away and the clothes in the walk-in closet. The bedside clock tells me it’s almost two in the afternoon. I can’t believe how much I slept. And if I slept that much, why do I still feel like I could sleep another ten hours?
In the walk-in closet, I’m once again stunned by the amount of clothes. My hand catches a long-sleeved, cotton candy pink shirt dress that would probably go down to my shin. It’s so freaking soft. Is it silk? Curiosity has me pulling it down. Holy fucking shit, it’s not only silk it’s totally my size. How did she know?
It’s beautiful. I long to wear it, but I’m too worried I'll ruin it or something.
I open the drawer Bitsy labeled as my panties. The drawer is filled with an enormous selection of silky panties. There are so many styles, some I’ve never seen before. Silk, they aren’t silky. These gorgeous panties are all silk. It isn’t until I get to the very bottom that I find three lone pairs of cotton briefs.
Opening the bras, they can’t be… Oh my god, these are my size. I’m a 42D—a size I only became in the last few weeks. I was on the tightest of the three rungs on my tired nursing bras. Nursing bras because I couldn’t afford to buy new bras even though I dried up months ago. How the heck could Bitsy know that?
The question spins in my mind as I go through the bras. They are so freaking beautiful—silk, gorgeous tulle, and chiffon. I don’t want to guess how expensive these are. Oh, okay. Beneath the more than two dozen bras in 42D are another dozen in 44D bras. I’m not sure if this is better or not. Bitsy spent money on things that wouldn’t be worn.
There are even multiple pairs of shoes. Casual slip-on sneakers, one in black and another in white, a pair of tan leather sandals with a chunky heel, basic black leather ballet flats, black and tan flip-flops made of leather, and even a pair of comfy pink slippers for around the house. Everything is in my size.
Why did Bitsy spend all this money on me and Layla? Thinking of the dress Layla was wearing and the gleaming new highchair, something tells me there are as many new things for Layla as there are for me. What was the point in spending all this money on me and Layla when we won’t be here for longer than a few days?
A dozen more questions are tumbling around my mind. I’m urged into moving by the gust of hot air hitting me from the vent for the central air above me. I grab the first bra my hand finds and melt a little at how disgustingly pretty it is. It doesn’t go with my plain white cotton briefs, but I shrug it off. It’s not like my bra and panties usually match.
In the drawer for leggings, I’m once again astonished. There is no way these smooth, well-made leggings are something I could ever afford. It’s not any better when I focus on the t-shirts hanging up. Even though all of them are plain and basic, they’re all made of fine cotton so soft they almost feel like silk.
Dressed, my hand is pressing against my stomach in an attempt to still rioting butterflies. There’s only one way to find out what the hell is going on.