The Years Between (29 page)

“Will?” she whispered in their dark room. He was sound asleep next to her. He muttered and turned over as she touched his shoulder gently. “Will? Honey? Wake up.”

He suddenly sat up as if she stung his ass with a bee. “What? What is it?”

She tugged on his arm and drew him back. “Calm down. No enemy combatant.”

He sometimes did that still: waking up on high alert, his heart racing, ready to grab an imaginary weapon and use it on an unsuspecting terrorist.

He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “What then? Bad dream?” he mumbled as he started to lie back down.

“No. My water broke. I mean, I think it did. There’s a trickle down my leg and I know I didn’t wet myself. I’ve read it doesn’t always come as a rush of water. So I’m thinking, it broke.”

“Wait. Your water? Like water breaking? You think you’re in labor?
Like she’s coming
?” The horror in his tone was completely insulting. And really funny.

He suddenly flew from their bed. In the dark, he fell down and Will never, ever fell down. But he tripped on the covers and crashed headlong to the floor. Instantly, he bounced up with the speed of a bobble head. “It’s okay. I got everything packed. I got it all under control.”

He was running around the room, grabbing his pants and pulling his socks on his feet. Jessie slowly drew her feet to the side of the bed and started to stand up. He noticed and rushed over to her. “Should you move? I’ll carry you.”

“You can’t carry me. I weigh too much. I can walk. I’m not dead, Will. Just pregnant.”

He suddenly stilled and grabbed her chin in his hand. “There is no ‘just’ anything. It’s you. My God… you mean everything to me. This means everything to me. So I sure as fuck can carry you.”

She let him kiss her and pull her to her feet. She felt like one of those blow-up dolls that bobs back and forth after being hit. He returned to putting his pants on.

“Uh, Will?”

“What? Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh. You might want to put on some underwear.”

Glancing down with a frown, he threw his pants off and ran to get underwear. She finally started to laugh and nearly doubled over.

“Oh shit. What now? What’s wrong?”

Tears leaked from her eyes. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Everything is perfect. It’s so fucking perfect, I could burst. We’re going to be parents. Now. Today.” She grabbed his hands and squeezed them as her fierce gaze met his. “I can feel it, Will. We’re going to be parents. Nothing more will go wrong for us. This is happening.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “I feel that too,” he said softly. “But, why are you laughing? Are you hysterical. Or delusional?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m just so happy you don’t do everything perfectly well. You lose your damn mind once in awhile too. You forget your underwear. Now calm down, soldier. We have a hospital to drive to. And a daughter to bring into this world.”

He finally grinned too. “I guess I might not be good at this. But I will be. We will be.”

She gripped his hand and let him pull her bulky body forward. “
We’ll soon have a daughter together, Will.” Her voice was one of awe.

He suddenly picked her up and she screeched. He cradled her
body. “Now we can
finally
say we have everything together.”

###

As always, I would appreciate you taking a moment to leave a review of your opinion of this book. If interested, please read on for chapter one of The Good Sister about Lindsey Bains Johanson and Noah Clark.

My next series
Daughters
which is due to start in Fall of 2015, explores the lives of Jessie’s daughters.
Christina
,
Book One
is Christina Hendricks’ story. If interested please stay tuned for further details on my website or social media.

If you are interested in receiving notification of my current and future releases, please go to my
website
and sign up for my email distribution list. Otherwise, thank you for reading, and I hope you try another of my novels.

I always love to hear from readers! Please contact me at: [email protected].

Sincerely,

Leanne Davis

Website

Facebook Author Page

Facebook

My Other Titles
:

The Sister Series available to date:

The Other Sister

The Good Sister

The Best Friend

A
vailable soon:

The Wrong Sister

The Years After

General Travis Bains has two daughters, one who is good, and one who is bad. Everyone knows Lindsey is the good one, and Jessie is the bad one.

Jessie Bains is the other sister, the bad sister, which she has proven more often than not, until the day she gets kidnapped and brutally raped. Will Hendricks, one of her father's soldiers, rescues her and brings her home, but fears she may be nearly destroyed by what is done to her. The most important thing, however, is that no one can know, per the general's orders.

Jessie's life was always far from normal as the daughter of one of the most revered generals in the world. No one sees what the general does to Jessie, except Will. When Will discovers the danger Jessie is living in at her father's hand, he once again rescues her. Will has survived the horrors of war, but is now engaged in a battle that has become far more personal and far more deadly. Will alone realizes what the general has done and will do to destroy his "other" daughter
.

Lindsey Bains Johanson has spent her entire life practicing the art of denial. She was always the obedient, perfect daughter of General Travis Bains, until she learned of the atrocities he committed against her own sister. Now, free of her father, she has become the perfect wife. A lifetime of training has enabled her to keep quiet about anything and everything, including the monster her husband becomes behind closed doors.

Circumstances allow her to take an unprecedented vacation, which she uses to visit her sister in Washington State, clear across the country from her home in Arlington, Virginia. Free of her husband’s presence, she starts to step out of the confines he keeps her shackled in. With the help of veterinarian, Noah Clark, she learns that she doesn’t have to be so good or obedient. But she also knows that the woman she is becoming is someone her husband will
never
allow her to be.

When her husband eventually comes for her, she goes home, without telling anyone the secret she has kept at the expense of her mind and body. But this time… things go too far; and only then does Noah discover what she has hidden for years.
But Lindsey knows that nothing will stop her husband from destroying her, no matter how long it takes.

Chapter One

Arlington, Virginia

Denial.
For most people,
denial
is a word often used to justify a wrongdoing or a series of wrongdoings. Generally speaking, it is not an anthem by which people govern their lives. Not so, however, for Lindsey Johanson. She strove to make her personal talent of denying all the evil around her into an art form that was simply devised to keep her alive.

She squeezed her eyelids shut tightly and concentrated deeply on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Breathing meant she was alive. Alive meant she was okay. Everything would be okay. Everything would get better. Everything would heal. Besides, the more she concentrated on breathing, the less likely she was to express her pain with a whimper or groan, sounds that only served to incite his cruelty all the more.

He was
not
kicking her ribs. He was
not
punching her stomach. He was
not
straddling her thighs as he undid his zipper. He was not, he could not, possibly mean to have sex with her now. She breathed harder, faster, in and out. In and out.

But he did. She gasped, biting harshly on her lip, trying to stifle any further groans of pain inside her mouth, before they withered in her chest. Her body shook against the carpet as he jerked violently inside of her. Her back inched up and down, scraping against the carpet in rug burns, all the while he slammed his penis like a weapon inside her, in and out. In and out.

She always kept her eyes shut. As long as she didn’t see him, she wouldn’t have to retain any images of his sadism. Later, she wouldn’t have to relive the thrill in his facial expressions. She never had to know if his eyes were open, and watching the pain contorting on her face. Was he smiling in glee? Or glaring at her with unreasonable hatred? She never knew. But not knowing was infinitely better than knowing.

With a guttural cry, he suddenly stiffened and came into her so hard and deep, she feared her womb would collapse under the pressure. His penis was like a sword, splitting her in two. He grunted as he fell onto her, his burdensome weight trapping her on the floor.

“You are only mine. Perhaps now, you won’t forget it,” he whispered. His breath felt warm on the skin below her ear, and his voice was calmer now, back to a more normal cadence. The warning was only his natural response to whatever she did to incite it.

Some women believe that being considered a man’s possession is sexy. It’s as if his claim on her is an honor, or that he is bestowing a gift somehow, by wanting to possess her. Only it isn’t. Possession and obsession are not sexy. His claim on her was merely his announcement of his ability, as well as his intention, to break her with his strength. To dominate and control her every word and every action, right down to her every thought.

And eventually, it also entitled him to beat and rape her.

But it wasn’t rape. It could not be called
rape
.
He was her husband
. Husbands could not rape their wives. They had sex with their wives. They made love to their wives. Of course, not every husband’s foreplay began by first pushing his wife to the ground, then proceeding to kick and punch her, before jumping on top of her to stop her struggles and resistance as he forced his penis into her tight, dry, aching spaces. No, most husbands prefer to have sex with their wives after they are wet and ready, never forcibly entering them. Although she wasn’t wet or ready, it was not rape, and could not be because she was married to him.

Denial.

It was the only device she could muster to find the strength to open her eyes.

She blinked at the daylight that filled their living room. A deep “whoosh!” of air escaped her lungs. Her body felt like she’d been on a long, arduous, awful trip, rather than spending only the last ten minutes being beaten and raped,
no, not raped
, but having sex with her husband.

The vaulted ceilings rose up some twenty feet, peaking overhead with four different skylights that welcomed the deep squares of sunshine. The sun’s rays reached the floor that she lay on, highlighting the dust motes as they floated lazily in the air, orbiting her navy blue leather furniture and dark wood tables that so eloquently filled the room. The room that was mostly still intact. How could that be? How could nothing have been altered? Changed? Ruined? Everything was neat and tidy. What little dust that fell today would surely be gone tomorrow. She wiped it away every day. He hated dust. He hated mess. He hated chaos of any kind.

So she didn’t allow dust or mess or chaos of any kind to exist.

He pulled himself off her, resting on his knees, which were now on either side of her legs. Then he stood up in a lithe, quick moment. After adjusting his pants and tucking in his white, button-up shirt, he realigned his tie. He was slightly wrinkled. He hated that. The impulse filled her numbed brain: she must quickly iron his shirt.

His eyes roved over her as he frowned in annoyance. It was as if he discovered her lazing around the couch when she should have been doing something more constructive. What seemed to escape him eternally was that it was his fault she lay sprawled on their living room floor, too stunned to move. Maybe, this time, she was even too hurt to move. No. No, she couldn’t be too hurt, as that was not allowed. He would never have permitted her the luxury of going to the hospital. He always managed to stop just short of that. Just as he was always careful to never bruise her in visible places. She could always cover up the bruises he inflicted on her. Despite the heat of his most profound, emblazing rages, he still controlled where he left his marks on her.

And no one could ever know. Bruises needed a story. A story that could not be their story. Not the couple that someday soon, would be the next political hopefuls, Elliot and Lindsey Johanson. They lived in a large, three-story, pristine, brick Colonial-style house near Virginia Square, just across from Washington D.C. They had a full time staff of three: a housekeeper, a cook, and a gardener/landscaper. Lindsey ran their house and staff, as well as their social life. She always presented herself as a stunning, well put together, upper class wife and hostess at all times.

Elliot had money, the kind that allowed him to never have to work a day in his life. They could have lived much further beyond the means in which they chose to live. But Elliot preferred to keep his image as having much less than he actually did. He wanted to assume the façade of an urbanite, albeit well-to-do, but nonetheless middle class. He tried to conceal the overtly, crazy, filthy rich tycoon he really was. And it was up to his loyal wife to maintain that façade.

She got up at five o’clock every morning to do her exercise routine before getting ready. She endeavored to make herself as perfect as she could by seven o’clock every morning. It didn’t matter which day it was or what she had planned, she was always impeccably presentable.

That is, of course, except for right now. She closed her legs and twisted her lower body to hide it. She could feel the pantyhose he ripped off bunching as they rested awkwardly between her thighs. Her skirt was rashly pushed up over waist, and her high heels were several feet away. Her blouse was untucked, and twisted around her torso. She gulped in a sudden sob, knowing she could not cry.
She could not
. Shuddering a breath, she slowly, carefully sat up although her entire midsection burned and protested. Her breathing increased as the pain awakened all of her nerve endings. Her insides and womanly parts burned and stung in deep, ominous sensations.

“Clean up this mess, and get yourself together! Dinner is still at seven, so make sure you’re ready. Don’t dare disappoint me again.”

Turning on his heel, her chivalrous husband walked over to the mirror to adjust his hair. Her head fell onto her knees as the sobs suddenly stayed lodged in her throat. She bit her lip and gnashed her teeth. She could not cry, or he would know, and her tears would only betray her. So no, she absolutely could not cry. She glanced around and saw that only a small part of the room was in shambles, a macabre reflection of what just happened.

He caught her completely unprepared for his arrival, let alone, his rage. She was doing her daily touch-ups to the room. With a can of polish and a washrag, she was carefully wiping all the fingerprints from the dark tables, and dusting the valuable, mostly one-of-a-kind, knick-knacks that adorned their shelves and tables. Elliot traveled extensively and often came back with precious souvenirs, which she guarded with her life, dreading his reaction if she didn’t. She never allowed the cleaning staff to touch any of his things, and always maintained them herself.

He just stormed into the room without a word, grabbed her elbow, and spun her towards him. The face she saw before her was dark, menacing, with a rage that burned in his eyes and bordered on insanity.

He threw her onto a table, which toppled over. She fell onto the lamp, and inadvertently broke it. He snatched her up, pulling her arm behind her back as he trapped her against the couch. She feared he might dislocate her shoulder again, or break her wrist. But… that already happened before. He had to realize it would look suspicious, as she could only be so clumsy.

Of course, she had no idea of what she had done or why he came home intending to hurt her.

His voice was soft when he bent her over the couch and pushed her arm higher onto her back. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

She wanted to scream,
find out what
? What did she do? But she knew better. She remained silent and let him fill her in, as he always did. He seemed to relish that: imparting how many ways she failed him, how she caused this, and how he had no choice but to punish her more severely.

“You left your birth control pills in the garbage. I found them, but I had a meeting I couldn’t miss this morning, so I couldn’t discuss it with you then. Did you think you’d get away with it?”

No, she didn’t, because it wasn’t her birth control. She was sure of that. She knew better than to take birth control pills. They were too easily discovered, and too easy to be careless about disposing of. Long ago, she had an IUD inserted, so it couldn’t be detected. And yet… Was she enduring a severe beating for just that? What about the maid? The cook? Who would have left her damn birth control pills in the garbage? Someone cleaning out her purse? Some innocuous act by a woman starting her next round of birth control pills had led to this?

She shut her eyes. There was no use denying it, or pleading her case, as the damage was already done. Why risk his fierce reaction? Or get someone else in trouble? Not that he would have reacted like that to anyone else. He’d no doubt merely admonish them kindly, asking them to be more respectful and private; after all, they were a prominent family and preferred to keep their private matters from being aired to anyone. He was never aggressive, harsh, rude, or angry with anyone else. No one. Ever. Except her. She bore the gamut of
his anger and rage.

“We
will
have a baby, Lindsey. And your hesitation in the matter is not appreciated nor will it be tolerated. Is that clear now?”

She stared at her feet. Of course, she understood that, but just telling her so was never enough for Elliot. He jerked her off the couch, slamming her to the floor, as his foot followed through by kicking her in the gut. She twisted, jerked and writhed in silent pain before he straddled her.

Lindsey shook her head and wondered why was she already reliving it? There was no point, ever in thinking about it, much less reliving it. She merely had to make sure it didn’t happen
again.
Now it was over and she stared hard at her toes. The red polish of her pedicure got chipped at some point and she knew she’d have to fix that before tonight.

“Lindsey? Are we clear on the subject of birth control now?”

She snapped her eyes up to his. His soft words suggested he may have said her name already. His tone was lethally tight, and indicated her behavior was frustrating him. He did not tolerate frustration, especially from her.

“Yes, we’re quite clear.”

His facial expression softened as he came closer and kneeled before her. He put a hand to her face and rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t you want my baby? Is there some reason why you would do such a traitorous thing? You do understand now, I hope, why this happened today.”

His green eyes held her gaze as he waited for an answer, and his head lowered a fraction of an inch while his eyebrows rose in anticipation. She knew what she was supposed to do now. She must nod, and say, of course she wanted
their
baby. She was terribly mistaken, and the only one to blame for this oversight today. Her blue eyes clung to his and she licked her lips slowly. She raised her head, then lowered it submissively. “I understand. I was… scared. I was wrong to deceive you. I will never take those again, not unless you order me to.”

He smiled, and his lips stretched back into a dimpled, perfect grin. He was responsible for capturing more than his fair share of women’s hearts. Charming, handsome, and almost breathtaking to behold, his smile spread from his lips to encompass his entire face. He was a beautiful, perfect, sophisticated, and sculpted monster.

He patted her cheek condescendingly. “That’s my girl. Now I have to get back to the office. See to this, and make sure you’re ready tonight. We’ll not discuss this again. And we will try again tonight.”