In Flight (44 page)

Another said I was a cocktail waitress, and yet another said that I was a stripper with the stage name ‘Glory Hole’.
 
The slurs went on and on, and I felt humiliated, angry, and heartsick.
 

This was the price I had to pay for one week of pleasure?
 
I thought in disgust.
 
I was going celibate for the rest of my life.
 

And I hated myself, for being just as upset that James and Jules had still gone out together that night as I was by all of the horrible lies being spread about me…

I got my phone out of my bedroom, finally turning it on after days in the off position.
 
I went straight to Stephan’s name in my texts, completely ignoring all of the other messages and calls that I had missed.
 
I’d missed one from Stephan as well.
 
It had been sent twenty minutes ago.
 

Stephan:
 
Buttercup, I’ll be home soon.
 
Finishing up lunch now.
 
We need to talk.
 
Please don’t look at anything online until I get there.

I snorted.
 
He should have known better.
 
If I hadn’t already looked, his odd message would have sent me straight to my computer.

I heard the doorbell ring.
 

That was quick
, I thought, as I strode directly to the door.
 

I wondered why he didn’t just let himself in.
 
He was rarely so formal.
 
He even had my alarm code.
 

A cold shiver ran through me.
 
I couldn’t place why.
 
Cautiously, I checked the peephole.
 
It was covered.
 

By a hand,
I thought.
 
It made me angry.
 

I swung the door open, ready to chew Stephan a new one.
 
“You know better than to mess with me like that, Stephan.
 
It’s a mean prank-”
 

I couldn’t finish as a huge hand seized my throat, shoving me back into the house.
 
I couldn’t even scream as the hand tightened.
 
I blinked, trying to focus on the coldly furious face in front of me.
 
The familiar pale-blue, bloodshot eyes.
 
I could do nothing as the huge blond man picked me up by the throat, and shoved me across the room, my back hitting the wall with a jarring thud.
 

I clawed at the giant hand that held me suspended like a rag doll.
 
It had no effect.
 
My throat burned, and the impact with the wall had knocked the wind out of me, but the pain was secondary to the terror that gripped me.
 

A question consumed my thoughts.
 
It was an old familiar pattern for me, when this madman, who exercised so little control over his rage, held me in his grasp.
 
The question circled my brain like a persistent cancer.
 
Would he kill me this time?
 
He always threatened to.
 
Ever since I had stood, not more than four feet away, and watched in horror as he pushed the gun my mother held into her mouth, and pulled the trigger.
 
I had watched in helpless horror as his finger covered hers on that trigger, and pulled so slowly.
 

Blood had splattered all three of us, but he hadn’t seemed to notice.
 

At the moment, his words were a confusing tangle of Swedish and English, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand it.
 
I had never been fluent in Swedish, but I’d had to understand it as a child, since my father stubbornly insisted on using it at home.
 
But, either from terror or disuse, any ability to understand it was failing me.
 
I tried to speak, to tell him that, but his hand was still at my throat, cutting off my ability to speak.
 

His hand relaxed on my throat just enough for me to take a breath.
 
I gasped, then grunted and whimpered as his fist made hard contact with my ribs.
 
I sobbed in another breath, still desperate for air.
 

He spoke again.
 
This time it was a heavily accented but understandable string of English.
 
“Don’t get the idea that a rich boyfriend will keep you safe from me.
 
If you even think about speaking to the police, I will still kill you.
 
Do you understand?”
 

I couldn’t speak, but I tried.
 
God, did I try.
 
Finally, I just nodded, but it wasn’t enough.
 
One of those massive fists made contact with my stomach once, and then again.
 
I started to crumble, but he pushed my shoulder into the wall hard enough to keep me upright.
 

“Look at me,” my father’s cold voice ordered.
 

I did, getting a good look at him for the first time since he’d charged, like a madman, through my door.
 
It had been six years since I’d seen him, but he’d aged twenty.
 
He was even heavier now, his face dissipated with the signs of a life lived in excess.
 
He was a drunk, a smoker, a chronic gambler, a murderer, and God only knew what else.
 
It had all taken it’s toll on his once handsome face.
 

I called myself a thousand kinds of fool.
 
I’d known he would never leave Vegas.
 
He had gambled to stay afloat since his parents had disowned him at least twenty-four years before.
 
I had prayed that his destructive lifestyle would take care of him on it’s own, but it had been too much to hope for.
   

Thinking it was Stephan at my door was no excuse.
 
I was an idiot for letting my guard down for even a second.
 
But he had somehow known when to strike.
 
I was so depressed and despondent that my brain wasn’t working properly.
 
The thought of a real threat had been so far from my mind…

“People have been asking about me, people I don’t know.
 
What did you tell your rich boyfriend about me?
 
Did you tell him about your mother’s death?”

“No,” I sobbed.
 
“I don’t know what people you’re talking about.
 
I didn’t tell him anything.
 
I swear it.”
 

My words were useless.
 
They always were.
 
My father was a man of action.
 
He grabbed my arm with one hand, punching me in the side with the other.
 
He always spread his punches out.
 
He caught a spot at my back and my spine bowed in pain.

He swept my legs out from under me.
 
I went down easily.
 
He kicked me once, hard, in the back.
 
He walked around me, bringing a booted heel to my neck.
 
“It would be easier than taking a simple step for me to kill you.
 
You understand this?
 
My weight alone will crush your windpipe.
 
Is this how you want to die?
 
Because if you tell anyone what I did to your mother, there is no reason why I shouldn’t kill you.
 
I would not hesitate.
 
Do you understand, sotnos?”
 

“Yes,” I croaked out.
 
It was a struggle to get that one word out with that huge boot on my neck.

He picked me up, effortlessly propping me back on my feet.
 
“And your man needs to quit poking around in my business.”
 
He raised an enormous fist above me, bringing it down on the back of my head.
 
My world went black.
   

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Epilogue

I awoke to the biggest, baddest headache of my life.
 
It was a doozy.
 
I wanted to sink back into unconsciousness immediately.
 
It was my first conscious thought.
 

I opened my eyes the tiniest crack.
 
It made the pain even worse, so I shut them again.
 

I’m in a hospital
, was my second conscious thought.
 
Everything, from the way I was propped up, to the smell, to all of the little beeps, clued me in.
 
My third thought was that my head wasn’t the only thing wrong with me.
 
Almost every part of my body throbbed, head
 
to toe.
 

My hands seemed to be unharmed.
 
My right hand was clutched in a warm, hard hand.
 
I knew that it must be Stephan at my side, and I felt better just from the knowledge of his steady presence.
 
I was in bad shape, but I was alive.
 
And I had Stephan.
 

I made a second attempt to open my eyes.
 
It was marginally more successful than the first try, but agonizing pain still shot through my temples.
 
I glanced toward the man sitting at my right.
 
I was more than a little unsettled to see that it wasn’t Stephan.
 

Golden-brown hair trailed into an achingly beautiful face as James leaned over my hand, his face stark and desolate, his eyes red, his pretty mouth pursed as though he were in pain.
 
He had the posture of someone who had been sitting slumped over that way for hours, if not days.
 
He looked so tragic that way, and so heart-achingly handsome, that I felt an instant softening towards him.
 
I wasn’t thinking very clearly, but I tried to reach out briefly to comfort him.
 

My arm didn’t move much, but I was able to grip his hand with a tiny, reassuring squeeze.
 

His head shot up, his eyes searching.
 
Those vibrant blue eyes looked on the verge of tears.
 
It was surreal to see him like that.
 
He swallowed hard.
 

“How are you feeling?” he asked.
 
He reached over and pushed a button just to my right, but behind me.
 
And then both of his hands gripped mine, stroking it softly.
 

My voice was raspy and weak, but I answered him.
 
“Alive.”
 

He blinked, and a tear slipped down the planes of that perfect golden cheek.
 

 
I blinked at him,
 
wondering if I was dreaming.
 
This was such a strange James that sat in front of me, nearly a stranger.
 
But then again, he had always been a stranger.
 
Hadn’t he?

“Where’s Stephan?” I asked him.
 
It hurt to talk, so I vowed to keep my talking to a minimum.
 

“He went to get coffee.
 
He’s been glued to your side.”
 
He nodded at a spot on the other side of me.
 
There was another chair placed right at my side.
 
“He’s even been sleeping there.”
 

I processed his words, then almost immediately broke my vow of silence.
 
“How long have I been out?”

He lowered his head, touching his forehead to my hand.
 
“Three days.
 
Forever.”
 

I sighed, feeling a little relieved.
 
It could have been worse.
 
“How long have you been here?” I asked him.
 

His face looked impossibly tired as he gazed down at our joined hands.
 
“I showed up at your house as the ambulance was taking you away.
 
We followed it to the hospital.
 
Stephan and I were both just minutes too late…”
 

“You came to my house early,” I said, a small thread of accusation in my voice.
 

He just nodded.
 
“Yes.
 
But not early enough,” he said, and I could tell that he was blaming himself for what had happened, for showing up too late to stop it, which was crazy, of course.
 

I supposed, in a disconnected kind of way, that someone who needed so badly to be in control, must also feel the need to take a disproportionate amount of responsibility for things, even things that were completely
out
of his control.
 
I squeezed his hand.
 

“How long have you been at the hospital?” I asked again.
 

He just blinked at me.
 
“Since then, Love.
 
Do you think I could leave you like this?”
 

My brow furrowed.
 
“Don’t you have work to do?”
 

He laughed, and it was a rusty sound.
 
“I’m taking some time off.”

I noticed for the first time that the private room we were in was filled to bursting with flowers.
 
They ranged from exotic bouquets, to decadent roses, to simple carnations.
 
It seemed that every flower was represented in the many vases around the room.
 

“You did this,” I said, as I took it all in.
 

He kissed my hand.
 
“Not just me,” he said.
 
“The white lilies are from Stephan.
 
And those sunflowers are from Damien and Murphy.
 
The mixed wildflowers are from your airline.
 
And that mixed bouquet is from a group of flight attendants from your class.
 
I got the rest.”