Chapter Seven
The minute Dustin saw the room, he began to fight. When they’d unshackled him, he believed all the bullshit was over.
He’d done the rehab, therapy, mental health crock of shit before, and prepared himself to do it again.
But they’d taken him to a windowless room, a room with dull beige walls, a narrow bed with a single pillow, and a toilet right there! Right out in the open.
Unacceptable.
He’d repeated that opinion over and over as he’d taken a swing at the guards. As he’d spat and kicked and screamed.
Unacceptable, unacceptable, as they’d muscled him inside, as they’d jabbed a needle into him.
And he muttered it as the drug took him under.
He dreamed of a house in the snowcapped mountains, one with sweeping views from where he sat in a big leather chair by a roaring fire. Outside, snow fell in soft, steady flakes, perfect little stars, to add more layers of white to the towers of pines and the jagged peaks.
The fire snapped at logs he’d split himself, and with the satisfaction of a job well done, he sipped the old-fashioned she’d mixed for him.
A man’s drink.
In the dream, he’d built the house with his own hands, three soaring stories of wood and glass with all the luxuries he wanted.
The steam showers, the sauna, the hot tub in the glassed-in sunroom off the main bedroom. He saw it all perfectly. The game room, because a man needed to relax; the home gym, as a man needed to keep in shape.
The wide deck on the main held an outdoor kitchen, another fireplace so she could cook there in the spring, the summer, even the fall while he relaxed, unwound from the rigors of the day. As he sipped his evening drink.
He’d designed an open floor plan so he could always see her whether she polished the wide-planked floors or washed the wide windows to keep his view perfect.
And her hair glowed, like the firelight.
She sang as she worked in the kitchen, a happy, female sound. He saw to it she was happy because he treated her like a woman, because he provided.
The scent of the bread she’d baked wafted to him, along with the aroma of the hearty stew she stirred in the pot.
Earlier, while he’d been out splitting wood, she’d baked his favorite red velvet cake.
She loved cooking and baking for him. He heard the love in her song. Just as she loved keeping the house sparkling. Of course, he provided her with the best tools because he enjoyed spoiling her.
He sipped his drink while he watched her set the table. The woman did like to fuss with her flowers and candles. Didn’t he always bring her flowers?
Of course, in the spring, she’d tend the garden as meticulously as she did the house. He’d watch her then, too. He’d sit on the deck after mowing the grass, sipping the fresh lemonade she’d made, or in the evening, maybe a gin and tonic she’d brought him.
He’d watch her, keep her safe. Always.
Watch her while she washed the windows of the house he’d built for her. While she scrubbed floors or planted flowers. While she prepared food he’d provided. While she sat and knitted in the evenings.
While she slept.
She needed him to watch her, to provide, to tend. Otherwise, she’d slip back into her old ways.
Unacceptable.
But she’d learned her lesson, he thought, and smiled as she took off her apron. She’d learned it well.
If she forgot, as women would now and again, he’d simply remind her. For her own good.
Gracefully, her lovely red hair framing her sweet face, she stepped around the big white marble island and smiled at him.
“Dinner’s ready, darling, unless you’d like another drink first.”
“No, I’m ready to eat. It smells great.”
He set his empty glass aside, walked across the shining wood floors he’d laid and she kept polished. Sliding an arm around her waist, he yanked her against him.
“But I want dessert first.”
Her voice came breathy with anticipation. Those bluebell eyes deepened with desire.
For him. Only him.
“Oh, Dustin.”
He shoved her against the wall he’d built. She liked it rough, and he wanted to give her what she liked.
He tossed up the skirt of her dress—he only bought her dresses. They were more feminine and offered easy access.
She was wet, of course. She stayed wet for him, only him.
She cried out when he rammed into her. Cried out his name, over and over, as he watched her, as he pounded. Harder, faster, until she screamed.
He liked to hear her scream. And if he didn’t want that, he could squeeze his hand at her throat until she stopped. He liked that, too.
So he took her, the way a man takes his woman, hard and fast against the wall while the fire roared and the snow fell outside the house he’d built to keep her safe.
When he’d finished, when he’d proven his manhood, and his ownership, he kissed her lightly.
“Let’s eat.”
As he’d taught her, she served him first, then took her place beside him.
“Do you love me, Arden?”
“You’re the only man I’ve ever loved or ever will love. You are my world, Dustin. I’d be lost without you. I wouldn’t want to live without you.”
“That’s how it should be.”
He gave her hand a pat, then spooned up some stew.
He woke not to the scent of freshly baked bread or hearty stew, but to the smell of his own sweat. He woke not in the house he’d built, but in the horrible room with beige walls.
Tears stung his eyes as he realized that perfection had only been a dream. She’d betrayed him, the woman he wanted to devote his life to.
They’d all betrayed him.
He felt like they’d wrapped a thick, wet cloth around his brain. They’d made him weak, stolen his freedom.
He wept first, hot, bitter tears of grief and fear. The mix of them left a rancid taste in his throat. They’d tried to erase his manhood.
Then those tears, hot and bitter, washed away all but a deep, ferocious anger.
They’d lied to him. The fucking lawyers, his stone-cold bitch of a mother. They’d held up the terror of two decades in prison and contrasted it with the promise of a treatment center.
He didn’t need treatment, but he understood sometimes you had to play the game. So he’d chosen to play along. Therapy—been there, done that, so could do that again. He could put on the contrite and open to help. Christ knew he could walk the walk, talk the talk with the best of them.
He’d have a private room, and that had weighed heavily in his agreement. He’d seen it as an extended stay in a hotel.
They’d let him believe that, and they’d pay for it.
He’d find a way out, and they’d pay.
The lawyers, his mother, the cops who’d put him here.
Arden.
He’d forgiven her, and he’d even forgive her for this. But there would be consequences. She needed to be punished. Otherwise, how would she learn from her really fucked-up mistakes?
She needed to learn a lesson.
He’d figure it out. He’d need to hide his very justified anger and outrage and play the game.
And for every day he spent in this nasty room, he’d levy a price.
He could spend those days deciding on the weight and shape of that price, and just how he’d collect it.
Arden didn’t throw a party, but she earned her all clear at her follow-up. With the caveats that she start with moderate exercise, rest when tired, and report any recurring headaches, any dizziness.
She’d recovered—or nearly—physically, but when she couldn’t stop herself from locking herself in the bedroom at night, when she continued to make excuses to skip going out, she made an appointment with a therapist.
She wouldn’t live like this, couldn’t allow Dustin Dubecki to steal her life, so she’d fight her way out of it.
She hadn’t told anyone about the plea bargain, hadn’t told her family about what could happen in four years, eleven months, and twenty-four days.
The therapist, with her calm brown eyes and quiet manner, listened. When she probed, it was so gentle it didn’t feel intrusive. Maybe she did feel better, at least for a while, after her two sessions.
She tried the meditation, the yoga—at home for now—and found she could venture out for walks when she listened to music. At Dr. Wren’s suggestion, she visualized. Working at the bookstore, going out with friends. Putting her mind into places and activities that made her happy, fulfilled.
She didn’t throw a party, but she went to a family dinner on the night before Zoey and Boone’s departure. And surrounded by people she loved, people who loved her, she found the voices in her head—the ones urging her to close herself in, stay safe—quieted.
“I tried making your angel food cake, Jen.” Boone accepted a generous slice. “Zoey warned me it wouldn’t be the same.” He ate a bite. “She was right. I’m going to miss this damn cake.”
“Maybe I’ll send you one for your birthday.”
“Don’t toy with me, Jennifer!”
“You could come out for his birthday, make one in my fabulous new kitchen. We’ll be settled in,” Zoey said, “and have the guest rooms fluffed and ready by August.”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll be racking up those frequent flyer miles. But.” Doug held up a finger. “That doesn’t get anyone out of actual phone calls, and a monthly family Zoom.”
“We’re there. And you guys.” Zoey nodded at Travis and April. “You have to text the next ultrasound picture of our niece or nephew when you get it.”
“We’re thinking of doing eight-by-tens and framing them for everybody.”
April rolled her eyes at Travis. “No. But we will share.”
“And you.” Zoey pointed at Arden. “You text, day or night, the minute you finish your new book.”
“How about I do that when”—she crossed her fingers—“my editor says it’s a go?”
“That, too. So both. I’m taking Whispers to read on the plane.”
“You’ve already read it.”
Head angled, Zoey flipped back her hair. “But now I can show it off to the flight attendant and other passengers while casually mentioning my cousin wrote it. Then I bask in the reflected fame.”
Arden sampled her slice of cake and decided angels couldn’t bake one better. “Fame’s a big reach.”
“Not for me. And you’re talking to the marketing girl here. I bet I get you some sales.”
“Who could argue with that?”