Chapter 52
Miles didn’t want her to talk to her mother alone, but Tabitha had insisted.
He may not be exactly in Reed’s corner, but he was absolutely in hers. And she didn’t want to risk word getting back to the D.A. or Chief Hutchins that he’d been in the room with a possible assault victim off the record.
She was already risking her job and reputation. No way would she ever risk his.
Instead, he was waiting, begrudgingly, at the nurse’s station after getting clearance for her to go into Michelle Walsh’s room.
She knew he’d be there, waiting for her, when she was done.
Was counting on it.
She stopped at the doorway of room 314 not surprised to find the TV on and Michelle sitting up in bed, staring at it blankly with glassy eyes, the fingers of her right hand picking at the skin underneath the loose, plastic hospital ID around her left wrist.
Her mother never slept well. Whether from the drugs or her personal demons, Tabitha had no idea. All she knew was that she’d often woken up from her place on the ratty couch to find her mother watching TV or pacing their small apartment.
Or walking out the door.
It had been scary, being left alone, especially at night. But it had been better than the times her mother had taken Tabitha with her.
When she’d been left alone, she was safe.
Those memories played in her head as Tabitha stepped into the room. The familiar sick sensations of fear and loneliness twisting in her stomach stopping her going any farther.
She wanted to run. Like she’d done this morning.
Like she’d been doing her entire life.
But Reed needed her.
More than that, she needed to start the hard work of once again trying to heal. For herself.
And for the future she wanted with Miles.
She had to face her past. Confront it.
Beat it. One more time.
She shut the door, then flipped on the overhead lights. Her mother winced at the sudden brightness, then turned her head slowly toward Tabitha.
“My meds are wearing off,” Michelle said, still picking at her skin. “The pain’s getting bad again.”
Forcing herself to move, Tabitha crossed the room, stopping at the end of Michelle’s bed. She looked even worse than she had that morning. She was still picking at her wrist, had done so for so long, so hard, she’d drawn blood. Her bruises were darker, angrier looking. Her complexion sallow, Her cheeks sunken. She looked old, much older than the forty-six she knew her mother to be.
Old and frail, beaten down and broken.
Tabitha was the one with the power now.
She was an adult with full autonomy. Knowledge of not only how the system worked, but of her mother’s past.
She had the truth.
And she no longer wanted her mother’s attention. No longer craved her love.
No longer needed the woman before her.
Tabitha waited for some sense of triumph, or at least, vindication to fill her. Something, anything—anger or delight or hatred. But there was no room for anything other than the compassion that ballooned inside of her chest. The pity that formed a lump in her throat.
And the sudden, surprising realization that burst through her like a firework, bright and dazzling.
Her mother couldn’t hurt her anymore.
And Tabitha was going to make sure she didn’t hurt Reed. Not ever again.
“I’m not your nurse,” Tabitha told her, picking the remote off the side of the bed and turning to shut off the TV. When she turned back, she set the remote on the foot of the bed, that compassion, that pity she’d unearthed for this woman gentling her tone. “Do you remember me?”
Her mother blinked rapidly. Repeatedly. Gaze flicking to Tabitha’s face and then darting away. Fingers pick, pick, picking at her too thin wrist, sparse eyebrows drawn together as she struggled to think. “You were here before…”
Tabitha nodded. “I was. I was here this morning. But that’s not what I meant.” She stepped closer. “Do you remember me? From before? Before you moved to Mount Laurel?”
Her mother’s entire body twitched. “The pain’s coming back…”
“You lived in Pittsburgh,” Tabitha went on. “And your name was Jenny.”
Her mother blinked and blinked and blinked. Picked and picked and picked. “My name’s Michelle.”
“But it used to be Jenny,” Tabitha said quietly. “Jennifer Ewings. And when you lived in Pittsburgh, and your name was Jenny, you had a daughter.” She stepped forward. “Named Tabitha. A little girl you neglected and abused and sold to violent, predatory men. A little girl you abandoned in a motel room.” She spread her arms. “I’m not that little girl anymore.”
Now her mother was shaking. Trembling so violently, the loose top of her hospital gown slid down her shoulder, exposing how thin she was, her collar bones standing out in sharp relief, the bruises along her throat and upper chest dark and ugly against her too-pale skin.
“G… g… go…” her mother stammered, her voice small and reedy, her eyes wide as if Tabitha was a ghost, a monster from her worst nightmares made reality. “Go… away…”
Tabitha stepped closer and her mother flinched and pressed back, as if trying to disappear into the mattress.
No, this woman couldn’t hurt her. But her lies, her fears, and her addictions could put Reed in prison.
“I’m not that little girl anymore,” Tabitha repeated, finding calmness, clarity in that knowledge. “But I was. And if your case against Reed goes to trial, I will take the stand in whatever capacity I have to and tell them what happened to that little girl. The abuse. The neglect. The abandonment. Everything you did, everything you ran away from will come out. I will tell them everything.”
She paused, letting that sink in before continuing, “Unless you tell the truth now. Tell the police what really happened, who really hurt you.”
“No. No,” her mother repeated, picking once more at her wrist. “Pete said—”
She pressed her lips together, gaze dropping to her lap.
“If Pete threatened you,” Tabitha said, “if he’s hurting you, we can help you. We can keep you safe.”
Her mother’s blue eyes filled with panic, her fingers picking at her wrist faster. “You want to take him away from me,” she accused shakily. “I need him. He takes care of me. I need him.”
“I needed you,” Tabitha whispered. “Reed needed you. You were supposed to take care of us.”
Her mother darted a glance at her. Licked her chapped lips. “I want you to go. I want you to leave now.”
Disappointment settled heavily in Tabitha’s stomach.
Guess there was a bit of that little girl left inside her after all.
One who wanted her mommy.
But she couldn’t fix Michelle. Couldn’t save her.
Couldn’t magically transform her into the mother Tabitha had deserved.
And maybe, knowing that, believing it, was the first step in finally letting her go.
With a nod, she crossed the room to the door. Opened it, then stopped to look back at her mother. “It’s too late for you to make things right with me,” she said softly, “but it’s not too late for you to do right by your son. Either way, the truth will come out. It always does.”
Then she stepped out into the hall.
And straight into Miles’s arms.
He held her while she gripped the back of his uniform shirt in her hands, her trembling body pressed against him.
But she didn’t cry.
She didn’t think she was completely done crying over her past or her mother, but for now, for tonight, she’d given them both enough. Enough of her tears. Enough of her thoughts and attention.
It was time to focus that time and attention and those thoughts on herself. Her future.
And the man holding her.
“Come home with me,” Miles murmured.
Lifting her head, she linked her hands behind his neck. “You’ve said that to me before.”
Except this time, unlike that night in The Cockeyed Chameleon’s parking lot, they weren’t standing in the dark, hiding from each other, they were in the harsh glow of LED lights, letting themselves be seen.
They weren’t doing their best to protect their secrets.
They were sharing them.
“I did.” He slid his arms around her waist, his palms settling against the top curve of her ass. “That night, I wanted to eradicate you from my system. Purge you from my memory. But tonight, I want to take care of you. I want to help you put yourself back together. Piece by piece. Bit by bit.”
While she might not be done crying over her past, she had a few tears left for this. They filled her eyes, but she didn’t fight them. They weren’t full of pain and anger and fear.
These were pure, unadulterated joy.
“Yes.” She stopped. Sniffed and smiled through her tears. “Yes, I would love to go home with you.
***
On the way, they stopped at Tabitha’s apartment so she could grab the overnight bag she’d packed with essentials from her car. As they headed to Miles’s house, she filled him in on her conversation with Michelle. He’d held her hand the entire drive, as if sensing she needed that connection.
Or maybe he just wanted it for himself.
Either way, by the time he pulled into his garage, she was much more settled. Steadier.
Slightly less heartbroken.
They showered together, Miles washing her once again, his touch gentle and soothing. Almost impersonal.
As impersonal as a man could get with his eight-inch-hard-on poking her slick belly.
She was tempted to give him—and that lovely cock—a few lingering strokes of her own. To build something more heated, more basic between them. But she was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
And she didn’t want to use sex to hide from her emotions. To numb her pain.
Never wanted to use Miles in that way.
Besides, it was nice being taken care of in a nonsexual way. Knowing he was there for her, offering her comfort. Care.
Trusting he wanted nothing in return.
She basked in his attention, her body going lax under the warm water, her mind emptying of everything except his soothing touch. A completely unique sort of pleasure, one she’d rarely felt, suffusing her as he helped her rinse off then patted her dry with one of his big, fluffy towels. One that filled her chest with warmth.
It was getting easier and easier to let that warmth blossom.
Easier and easier to embrace it instead of pushing it away.
Although she had pajamas in her bag, when he offered her one of his T-shirts to sleep in, she accepted it. There was something about wearing this man’s clothes that had the warmth in her chest bursting into full bloom. This shirt was worn and soft and fell to the middle of her thighs.
And it had Jennings embroidered on the front. Right above her heart. As if the shirt, too, knew who her heart belonged to.
Well. She hoped he didn’t like this shirt because she lived it in now.
He tugged on his gray sweats and then they padded barefoot into his kitchen. She sliced a couple of apples while he made them grilled cheese sandwiches—not quite Toby-level gourmet fare, but it was hard to complain about comfort food, especially when she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Especially when she had a bare chested, barefoot man with damp hair and dark, watchful eyes making it for her.
They ate in his cozy kitchen, their chairs close together, her feet on his lap, his hand on her knee. Hayden texted that Reed had returned to the bar, though he’d refused to talk to anyone. He was going to crash on Hayden’s couch tonight and she had a few leads of places where he could stay after that.
And while Tabitha was glad he had people he could turn to, friends like Hayden and Patton and Greer, part of her wished he felt safe enough to turn to her.
Even though she understood why he didn’t.
After that, Miles steered the conversation to lighter topics. Ones less fraught with emotion—a coworker whose wife recently had a baby, the Ash Street bridge being closed due to construction work, Eli’s latest game.
It was so… normal, sitting in the quiet, the two of them in their own little world, talking about everything and nothing. So mundane and peaceful and wonderful. All the things she believed she’d never have.
Given to her by the man she’d never thought she deserved.
When they were done, they cleaned the kitchen together, then brushed their teeth. Now, she sat cross legged on his bed, watching Miles move around his room. He’d already checked and double checked that the front and back doors were locked. The windows all shut. Had gone through the house, making sure the lights were off.
He’d pulled back the covers on his bed. Fluffed the pillows. Set out clothes for tomorrow—including underwear and socks. Neatly lined up the items he’d taken out of his pants pockets earlier on his dresser; wallet, pen, small notebook, one of those multi-tools, loose change.
It was fascinating, watching his rituals. The little things he did to stay organized.
Humbling that she got to see these parts of him. That he openly shared them with her.
Turning, he crossed to stand in front of her, forcing her to tip her head back to hold his gaze. “Here,” he said, voice husky as he gently took the hairbrush she’d yet to use from her hand. “Let me.”
By the time her tired brain figured out what he’d said, what he meant, he’d climbed behind her on the bed. Scooted back so that he leaned against the headboard, legs straight, then patted the space between his spread thighs.
Dropping her gaze, she picked at the hem of his shirt against her thigh, her heart in her throat. “You don’t have to…”
When he didn’t respond, she forced her gaze up to meet his.
And almost melted at the understanding there.
“I want to,” he told her, so patient with her, with her lingering doubts, those fears she was working so hard to get over. “Please. Let me.”
So kind and sincere she crawled over to him, turned and then settled between his legs. His dresser was directly across from them and she could see their reflection in the mirror above it. Saw the moment he started lifting the brush.
“There are a lot of snarls,” she warned him, her eyes catching his in the mirror.
Not using conditioner the night before hadn’t done her hair any favors, and she’d been too tired to wash it tonight.
“I’ve got this,” he said, as confident in his de-snarling skills as he was with everything else. “You’ve seen Verity’s hair, right?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You used to brush Verity’s hair?”
He nodded. Waited until she’d turned her head back around before getting started, not at the crown of her head as she’d feared he would, yanking the bristles through by brute force. But by gathering her hair in his fist, holding it in one hand while he worked the tangles out from the bottom with the other.
“We all did. We all learned how to braid, too.”
“A man of many talents.”
In their reflection she saw his grin flash, quick and sharp. “I have a few more up my sleeves. Thought I’d wait to show them to you when we’re both not so beat.”
She couldn’t wait.
As he carefully detangled her hair, the tension in her shoulders loosened, little by little. She’d rarely had anyone else touch her hair, let alone brush it. The few times she remembered her mother doing it when she was little, it was only because they were getting a visit from Children’s Services.
And she’d never been gentle.
Once her hair was tangle-free, he brushed it from root to ends in long, smooth strokes. She let her eyes drift shut. Kept them shut as he set the brush down and used his fingers to comb through it, his nails scraping against her scalp pleasantly.
“I told Urban.”
At his soft words, her eyes flew open, meeting his in the mirror, her questions clear in her wide gaze.
He gathered her hair and began dividing it into three sections. “I told him about my anxiety. About what happened the night of our parents’ accident.”
Her mouth parted. “Miles…” she breathed.
His gaze dropped. Stayed on her hair as he braided it, his voice full of emotion when he continued. “He said it wasn’t my fault. That he didn’t blame me and that no one else did, either.” Leaning to the side, he picked up the hairband she’d set next to his phone. Tied it around the end of her braid, his throat moving as he swallowed. “And Willow gave me some recommendations for therapists she thinks can help me.”
Forget blossoming or blooming. That emotion in her chest burst open into something bright and bold and beautiful and new.
And all for him.
Turning to face him, she knelt between his thighs, her hands cupping his cheeks. “That must have been hard for you,” she said, wanting to acknowledge the work he was putting in. The effort.
Wanting him to acknowledge it, too.
He let out a short laugh. Lifted his gaze to hers once again. “It was. But you helped me see that asking for help isn’t weakness. Helped me remember that I can always count on my family. That they love me no matter what and I can trust them with everything. Even my mistakes. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You could have. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.” She kissed him. “I’m so proud of you.”
His hands went to her waist, and he lifted her enough that he could cross his legs beneath her. Settled her on his lap again, this time tugging her ankles around to wrap behind his lower back. “I was coming after you.”
“What?”
“I was coming after you,” he repeated. “At your apartment. I was going to do everything in my power to find you. To try and fix whatever happened that made you want to run away.”
Stunned, she lifted her trembling hand to her mouth, her heart skipping a beat. Remembered how he’d raced around the corner of the house like a man on a mission.
That mission had been to find her.
He hadn’t let her go.
Sliding his hands up to cup her head, he skimmed his gaze over her face. Searched her eyes. “I was going to fight for you. I will fight for you. For us. Every day of my life if that’s what it takes. I know you can get up on your own,” he continued, reminding her of what he’d said to her last night when he’d said she was strong and resilient and brave. That she didn’t need him. “But you don’t have to. Whatever happens with Reed and your mother and anything else that comes your way, I’ll be here. By your side. You’re not alone. You never have to face anything alone again.”
This, this was her real dream, the one it had taken leaving him ten years ago to fully understand. Not the whole knight in shining armor swooping in to save the day bit.
But a man who stood by her side while they saved it together.
She didn’t need to be rescued from her past. Didn’t need someone to fix her.
She’d needed to learn how to love herself.
And she was so glad she did. Because now, she could finally let Miles love her, too.
“Whatever comes our way,” she corrected, then gave him a promise of her own. “I’ll be there, in whatever way you need me, when you tell the rest of your family the truth. When your anxiety gets the worst of you. When you need help getting back up. You are not alone. Not ever again.”
He pressed his mouth to hers, his kiss as soft, just as sweet, as hers had been.
He pulled back but kept them close enough that each of his exhales became her next inbreath. His lips moved against hers as he spoke. “You asked me not to tell you I love you and I get why you did. I respect your reasons for wanting me to keep those words to myself and I’m going to do my damnedest to honor your request.”
He lifted his head, his hand going under her chin, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “But I need you to know, here and now, that I am yours. I was yours ten years ago. I was yours when I thought I was over you. I was yours when I didn’t want to be. I.” He kissed her. “Am.” Another kiss. “Yours.”
A third kiss and then he lifted her hand from around his neck, pressed a fourth kiss to her palm and laid that palm flat against his chest. Directly over his heart. “This is yours. And it always will be.”
The tears she’d thought she was long over, rushed back as she stared into Miles’s eyes. This man. This gruff, brave, wonderful man was giving her his heart. Was trusting her with it.
Again.
It was the most precious gift she’d ever received.
This time, she wouldn’t doubt he wanted her to have it. Wouldn’t fear the responsibility of accepting it.
She’d cherish it.
“Mine,” she whispered, then kissed him again, awed and amazed that she was loved by him.
So unbelievably grateful that it had happened a second time.