Chapter 33 - Kate #2
“Okay.” I listen and drink. Repeat. Mint and honey steam my face, and I inhale the sweet smell for comfort.
“Third.” He throws a thumb up. “We assume the Romans retaliate with a smear and pre-build our counter-argument with HR complaints, NDAs, hush money, and the camera footage my associate has been collecting since the first incident.”
Shit. He’s prepared. More than prepared. This is the revenge story.
“That’s good.” I rub my cracked, dry lips.
“Fourth—if they push for an arrest, we’ll get you out of town, somewhere safe. I don’t trust they won’t plant evidence or erase yours.” He takes a long breath. “We lawyer up, control optics, show the pattern and receipts before the Romans twist the story.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” I swallow a noise that attempts to betray a sob.
He nods clinically, all signs of softness vaporized from my morally orange stalker. “We’ll assess the payoff and then devise another plan. Publish your articles if you’re amenable to it. Then they won’t have anything left to hide behind.”
“Okay.” I’m not up for any more plans tonight and certainly no articles. “What about you?”
August stares at my mouth like every word costs restraint to curl me on his lap and hold me to him. “What about me?”
“You chopped off his finger,” I remind him.
“Prevented a felony,” he says, flatly. “I don’t care about being painted a monster so long as you get off.”
Cold sweat rolls down my neck. “Don’t be fucking noble, August.”
“I’m not noble.” He takes my mug and leaves to refill it, returns, all quiet competence and boiling violence restrained. He holds it out for me, an inch from contact, and I want to cry at the distance separating us.
I take the mug from him and close my eyes and picture the newsroom. The printer room. Closed door. My reflection in the glass windows, pale, small, and frightened. I open my eyes and gulp down air and use August’s loft and my breathing technique to calm down.
He rubs his palms, and I’ve never wanted them on my thighs or waist more than I have before. To be rocked and told everything will be alright.
“Do you want to start documenting everything?” he asks.
My stomach roils. I put the glass down before it slips from my sweaty palms and shatters. One breath and I’m thrust back to the moment we met. A tiny fluorescent-lit room, choking out the details of my assault.
“Yes.” It’s barely louder than my memories.
We spend the next hour documenting everything, taking photos, recording a statement.
He asks for consent to every photo, doesn’t touch me despite my hands insistent shaking, and I feel cold and empty inside without his caress.
Like clockwork, he performs the concussion protocol, assessing my vision, mental clarity, and pain for any changes.
Afterward, I sip on a third tea, while August converses with his contact on the phone, arranging to save duplicates of the information and have it ready to go public if the Romans retaliate.
August’s physician arrives and examines me. Penlight across my eyes. Follow my finger again. Gentle examinations of my head, neck, and wound. Blood pressure checks. Pulse-ox clip winking red on my finger.
“You stitched this up well,” he compliments August, packing up his belongings. To me, he says, “You’re lucky you came out the way you did. Hard head.” He taps his skull.
Then he reels off a neat list to August. Low lights, no screens, frequent water, administer Tylenol every five hours and antibiotics three times daily for my head wound.
Call him if anything changes. He promises to check in tomorrow, squeezes August’s shoulder, and nods at me, slipping out as quietly as he came.
Darkness presses in on the room. My head is a shade less furious with fire.
August sees him out and comes to lean on his knees next to me. “I think it’s best if you stay here the night and sleep on everything. Take my bed, and I’ll sleep here. Tomorrow, we talk. Fight. Yell. Have angry hate sex.”
I snort. “Keep dreaming about the last one.”
His fingers drum an inch from my arm. “I haven’t stopped dreaming about you, Glitter Bomb.”
My chest aches in a different way, urging me to pull him down beside me in the bed and tell him to stay with me until the morning. Rational me smothers those crazy ideas before my Book Girlie gets carried away with it and does it.
“Don’t, August.” I lift off the seat without his help.
“I’ll get you into bed.” He leads me to the mattress set up in one corner and pulls the blankets back. “I’ll get you some of my clothes if you want.”
Exhaustion is a battle of its own, and I nod.
He riffles through an old dresser for something to wear and comes back with a shirt and shorts. I take them and pad to the bathroom. Everything aches. Ribs, chest, my biceps. Muscles I didn’t know existed seize. I hiss and brace at the hot pull under my ribcage as I peel off my blouse.
A light knock sounds on the door. “Kate?”
Book Girlie me wants to drop a match to that name.
“I can’t.” The shirt sticks halfway, and I whimper.
“Permission to come in?” he asks.
“Come in.” I try again, but nothing wants to work.
He comes up behind me, his heat familiar, but no longer safe. “Consent to help you undress? Just the outer layers.”
Shit. Best not to let him see my pearl-silver panties and bra, but I can’t do this alone in the state I’m in. And my Book Girlie needs his touch like we need air despite his treachery, and the traitor leans into him.
“Please.” My voice is small.
He’s careful, easing the silk down my shoulders like I’m made of the blown glass he works in the fire.
His eyes don’t leave my face, checking for every wince and signs I want him to stop.
He trades my blouse for his softest cotton t-shirt, the hem brushing my thighs, the fabric cold on my skin.
His fingers don’t stray or linger for too long. Both halves of me war over that.
“Come.” He jerks his head, and I track after him. “There’s a glass of water on the nightstand with your phone and purse. Call Harper. Get her to take Josh and stay somewhere safe. With my associate. She’ll know.”
“What?” I lift my brows.
“I’m not the only one with secrets, huh?” He presses a cold pack wrapped in a tea towel to my abdomen. “Ask her. It’s her story to tell, not mine. Calls of less than a minute can’t be traced with the software my associate employs.”
I wrap my fingers around the pack, and the relief wets my eyes.
“I’m just on the sofa,” he whispers. “If your head pain spikes or you feel sick or dizzy, call out my name. I’ve set alarms for every two hours to check on you. If you need the bathroom and need my help, tell me. If the dark gets too loud—”
“Guard dog on duty,” I finish for him, and enjoy his mouth softening for the first time tonight. “Suppose a lullaby is out of the question?”
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Low volume Celine Dion. Doctor’s orders.”
A kiss lands at my hairline, and it burns into my icy skin. He lingers for a beat, and my fingers flex to reach up and hold him there. When he withdraws, I nearly fall apart for the third time tonight.
He ushers me under the sheets he holds up. They smell like soap, cedar, cinnamon, and the ghost of his cologne, confirming he barely sleeps here.
I rub the crochet throw he has over his bed. Blues mix with greys and cream. Soft, warm, heavy, and safe like August. It domesticates the loft, but doesn’t feel very Grumpy Stalker.
“Where are the doilies?” I tease.
“My grandmother made it.” He drags his knuckles down the yarn. “I call it a hug you can wash. It’s all I have of her beside memories.”
Oh, fuck. “I’m sorry.”
“She’d have laughed.”
I hook a finger through a loop. “Can I steal her hug, or do you want it?”
“Steal the hug.” He tucks it under my shoulder.
I’m tempted to pull my arm out and catch his hand and rub it, but I don’t give in to the desire.
“Good night, Glitter Bomb.” The faint whisper spells there’s hope for us.
We’re nowhere near forgiveness. Not yet. But it feels like it can grow into it someday. Underneath the rubble of the bomb he detonated, the glitter that burned to dust slowly reforms.
When he moves away, I dial Harper and clue her in. We don’t talk for long, essentials only. She agrees to pack a bag and leave with Josh to an unknown location. Best if I don’t know if the authorities hunt me down.
Relieved that my dog and bestie will be safe, I snuggle under the covers and slide my eyes closed.
The chair creaks as August settles on it and throws a blanket over himself. I know if anyone comes for us, they’ll have to go through him first.