Chapter 7
Seven
MUSIC EMANATED from the TV as they entered Deck’s house and the warmth of the living room. It’s a Wonderful Life. She knew every word. She’d watched it every Christmas season since she’d first seen it in her early teens. “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”
Tears beaded in her eyes. Where was her guardian angel?
“Do you want to join the rest of the crew?” Deck asked as she stood rooted in the foyer, her brain blanking.
“I . . .”
“Actually, maybe bed is better. Catch up on some rest?”
She nodded at his kindness, needing to be alone with her thoughts—though being alone terrified her, but what was she going to do?
Ask Deck to stay up all night with her? She’d made it through last night.
She could make it through tonight. “Sounds good.” The words came out, but she meant the complete opposite.
Last night had been horrid—a mix of sleeplessness and nightmares.
Tonight, she’d find some way to keep herself occupied once the house was still.
He walked her to the guest room as he had last night and paused in front of the open door, leaning against the doorjamb. “Well . . .” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. Was he stalling?
“You slept okay last night?” he asked.
Panic slithered through her. Had he heard her pacing the room for hours after waking in a cold sweat?
“I did fine, thanks.” She’d managed. If spending the night terrified counted as managing.
“Okay.” He pushed off the doorjamb and raked a hand through his hair. “I best let you head off to dreamland. Is it . . .” He bit his bottom lip. “Is it okay if I give you a hug good night?”
She nodded.
He leaned in, his strong arms embracing her in a gentle hug, and for once she didn’t flinch. In fact, her skin warmed at his touch, gooseflesh rippling on her arms. Thank goodness she had long sleeves on or that would be uber embarrassing.
“Okay,” he said. “PJ time for me too, I suppose.”
She couldn’t bring herself to go to her condo before arriving here.
To go to her condo alone, period. Beyond embarrassing.
Ridicule raced through her. Instead, she’d run to Target for clothes, but not pajamas.
She doubted she’d ever sleep in them again.
She’d sleep in her clothes. Pajamas kept her a prisoner of that moment—a cruel hand grasped tight around her ankle, yanking her from bed.
It was the moment her life changed, and she feared she’d never get her old life back.
“Can I get you anything else?” Deck asked. “Maybe an ice pack for your cheek? Or some Band-Aids for your cuts?” He’d asked last night too, but the bruises and cuts felt so raw she hated to think of anything touching them. Now they stung less, but a deep ache had replaced the rawness.
“I’ll take an ice pack, if you don’t mind.” The cuts were starting to scab over a little more. But even a little meant they were healing, and she yearned for healing wherever she could get it.
“You got it.” He studied her face before leaving, and she tried to shrink back. “Maybe two.” He left the door open after he stepped out—his footfalls quieted by thick carpet in the hall. She counted the minutes until he returned.
“Here you go,” he said, a white bag of something in either hand. “I brought peas and carrots.” He held up the two bags of veggies. “I’ve found they’re softer on bruises than the hard plastic packs.”
“You speak from experience?” She hated to even think there may have been physical abuse from Deck’s con-artist parents on top of pulling him and his siblings into their schemes. Either way, it must have been beyond awful.
“Yep.”
She didn’t push further on his experiences. He’d share when he wanted to. Just like she wouldn’t share until she was ready.
He cleared his throat. “Juvie is an unfriendly place until you assert your dominance.”
Oh. She’d forgotten about his time in juvie. She hated to think what that might have been like as well.
“Gotcha.” Looking back, she would’ve thought she’d assert her dominance, fight like a caged lion in the container, but she hadn’t. She’d cowered in that steel box instead.
He took a step closer but still gave her a decent amount of space, extending the bag of veggies in each hand. “Here.”
She rocked forward and took hold of both. “Thanks.”
Placing the first on her right cheekbone, she winced at the shocks of pain shooting up to her forehead.
“May I?” he said.
She inched back, and Deck leaned forward.
“If you hold it like this . . .” He shifted to her side and rested his hand lightly over hers. “And if you move it like this . . .” He lowered her hand to cradle the bag rather than press it against her bruises. “It helps.”
It eased the sharp, piercing jolt bouncing through her bones.
“Thanks.” She gave him a soft smile.
“It was nothing.” Deck shrugged.
It was a lot.
She cupped the second bag to her forehead.
She must look a sight. Hands positioned at odd angles on two sections of her face. A face she couldn’t bring herself to look at—the bruises a fierce reminder of each blow. Mirrors were not her friend.
“Should I leave you alone? I mean, are you ready for bed?”
“Not yet.” There. She’d admitted it—at least a little bit.
“Okay. I can hang.” He shrugged a shoulder. “If you’d like me to.”
She nodded.
Twenty minutes passed in sweet silence—just the two of them being together, then she finally laid the thawed veggies on the nightstand.
“I should go,” he said, heading for the door. “You need your sleep.”
How did she tell him it wouldn’t come? But he needed sleep. His eyes were heavy with the need for slumber.
“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.” If I make it through the night. Nights were the worst. The darkness swallowed her whole.
“Holler if you need anything. I’m just down the hall.”
She nodded and gave him a wave good-night.
He shut the door behind him, and she stood, turning on every light in the room—banishing the soft glow of the nightstand lamp into a full blaze of competing brightness.
Sitting back on the bed, she reached for her phone. “You will keep me entertained until morning,” she half ordered it. It was all she had, except . . .
Her gaze flashed to the hanging bookshelf above the low cabinet.
Standing, she padded across the floor, thankful for her socks. She perused the titles, finally picking 1st to Die by James Patterson. She’d read it before and loved the women who made up the murder club, and having read it before, there’d be no scary surprises.
She studied the lower shelf and smiled. The Zane Grey collection had to be Deck’s.
That and the classics—The Count of Monte Cristo and A Tale of Two Cities.
The evening they’d shared what they enjoyed reading flashed through her mind.
Both of them sitting on her couch, her cross-legged, him with his feet on her coffee table after asking if it was okay to put them there.
Laughing into the night, getting to know each other—until the drive-by shooting, but even that didn’t seem so scary anymore.
They’d ducked and within less than a minute it was over—neither of them none the worse.
She cast her gaze to the window, moving toward it. Sliding the curtain aside, she looked out at the snow-covered land—still, silent. “Thank you,” she breathed. Unsure who she was thanking, but it burst from her lips all the same.
Deck’s bedroom door shut as noise emanated from the foyer—the rest of the gang heading out for the night.
Her throat narrowed, her muscles coiling.
He’s right down the hall.
But walls existed between them. Walls that seemed to never end—boxing her in.