Chapter 22 Harper #2
I considered this. Truth was, I had to, didn’t I?
It was absurd to feel whatever that was between us when he’d touched my hand.
When he’d protected me. I had to hold on to the fact that he was a killer.
“It’s been my experience that men like that deserve to be locked up.
My ex …” I shook my head, letting my thought go unfinished.
She took a deep breath. “Look. People think there are bad guys and good guys. Two separate categories. But I’ve learned that every human is a blend of both. On any given day, in any given circumstance, you never know which one is going to come out.”
I stared into my wineglass, hearing the echoes of Dr. Mercer’s similar words.
“My ex did a great job suppressing the bad parts of himself. His family and our friends thought he was wonderful.” My voice went flat.
“But beneath that mask was a simmering need for control. Probably instilled in him by his own father, who punished him harder than most. At least that’s what I hypothesized.
I guess it doesn’t matter why. Just that he was.
Controlling. Manipulative. And when he wanted to be, downright terrifying. ”
Faith was quiet. Rainbow had stopped spinning and was now watching me with something that might have been sympathy. Or indigestion.
“Not all the time,” I continued. “He thought a night of flowers and a fancy dinner should erase one argument that turned violent. In his mind, there are twenty-four hours in a day. If he hurt me for three minutes, the other twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes should count for more.”
I touched the base of my throat without thinking. The spot where he’d grabbed me.
“But those three minutes were everything. I couldn’t tell you the color of the flowers he sent me.
But I can tell you exactly what shade of purple my lip turned.
I couldn’t tell you what I ate at the fancy anniversary dinner.
But I can tell you what it feels like to be punched in the gut while wearing a dress. ”
“Jesus, Harper.”
“So, yeah”—I forced a smile—“I see things in black and white. Good guys and bad guys. It’s … safer that way.” And I needed to remember that. I saw past the red flags Silas sent me, rationalizing them away, telling myself he was a good guy with trauma in his past. And look where that got me.
I couldn’t make that mistake again. And by the way, all Knox and I did was touch hands.
Okay, fine, held hands. And before that, brushed fingers, and before that, there were all the weeks of looking and feeling his presence like a hum in the air, but still, why was I spinning out THIS much about that?
Faith reached over and squeezed my hand.
“I get it. I do. But here’s what I know about Knox.
These five guys? Ryker, Knox, Blake, Jace, Axel?
They’re closer than blood relatives. They bust each other’s balls constantly, but they’d die for each other.
It’s a brotherhood.” She paused. “And they’re decent human beings.
All of them. If Knox was some violent, sociopathic, homicidal lunatic, they wouldn’t have anything to do with him. So, there must be more to the story.”
Relief wound through my body, and a little voice in my head said, See?
He can’t be some monster. It’s okay to keep developing a friendship with him.
And damn it if my hand didn’t tingle at the memory of his touch.
But it was still wrong. Professionally and psychologically.
I had FLED a violent man. I wouldn’t entertain the thought of starting something with another.
Besides …
“Even if there was some good reason to kill whoever he killed, I don’t see how I could ever get past that,” I said. And that was the truth.
“Gee, thanks.”
I cocked my head. “You killed a man in self-defense.”
“How do you know Knox didn’t do the same?”
“Because if it was self-defense, he wouldn’t have pled guilty.”
Faith considered this. “How do you know?”
Exhaustion and frustration wound through me.
“Admit it. He got under your skin a little bit.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I guess he’s just … not what I expected?”
“What did you expect?”
People like Doyle, I realized. Predators sniffing around for vulnerable prey. Evil through and through.
“I expected a monster,” I said quietly. “But when he looked at me, it was like …” I touched the fading scar on my cheek. “He saw what nobody else does.”
Faith’s expression softened. “And what did he do when he saw it?”
“He asked who hurt me.” I huffed a laugh. “Like he was going to do something about it from behind bars.”
“That doesn’t sound like a monster at all.”
No. It didn’t, did it? It sounded like a man who could be big and scary if or when he needed to be, but around me at least, he was kind. Gentle.
A guy who, no matter how much logic told me not to, I kept thinking about.
Rainbow let out a long, mournful howl at nothing, then promptly fell asleep.
We sat in silence for a moment. The kind of silence that felt more like a conversation than words ever could.
“So,” Faith said finally, a dangerous glint in her eye, “what are you going to do the next time you see him?”
I stared at her.
What was I going to do? The whole handholding thing had changed things because before that, we could sort of pretend that nothing was there. But now, we couldn’t. And I needed to think carefully.
The smart thing would be to keep my distance. Treat him like every other inmate. Detached.
Yet something about the way he’d looked at me—like he could see every bruise, every scar, every secret I’d buried—made that feel like an impossible task.
But based on that note, Silas had been in town. Might still be here. I had enough to deal with in my life right now.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Later, when Faith had gone home and I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I tried to answer that question, but instead, I found myself cataloging my creature comforts. Soft mattress. Warm bedding I’d picked out myself. A room that wasn’t much, but it was mine.
And then I thought about the prison cell Knox was in right now.
The stripped-down existence. No control over temperature.
A lumpy cot probably far too small for his frame.
His feet probably dangled off the edge. Did he even remember what it was like to sleep in a comfortable bed that was big enough to hold him?
Did he miss the softness of a pillow-top mattress and the warmth of a fluffy comforter?
Or how about being in control of when he went to bed?
When he got up? A nightstand of his own, with books, or whatever he wanted.
My heart twisted. Which was ridiculous.
This affection was just a natural reaction to someone standing up for me. That was all. It did not mean I liked him. I would not like him. Could not like him.
There was no scenario where I could ever see anything other than a violent inmate sitting in front of me.
Famous last words.
My cell phone buzzed.