Unlikely Hero (Atlanta #1) (8 page)

Then I was at that party in college, my junior year. We were dancing and having fun, and he was one of those nice, good people — until he wasn't. He pulled me into a bedroom, but when I refused him, he called me a tease and a prude, and then promised he'd cure me of that. I screamed, but no one heard me over the music. He ripped my shirt and kept me from getting away. He kept pushing me down and nothing I could do would stop him. It made him laugh. The harder I fought, the more fun he was having. He humiliated me and grabbed me hard enough to leave bruises.

I was so scared, so far beyond
terrified
- completely frozen and helpless until some drunk couple stumbled in trying to find some alone time. They saved me without even knowing they did. It would have been so much worse if they hadn't come in. But that was it for me. No more fun, no more trust, no more good people. Every nice person was just a potential threat. I didn’t trust myself to know the difference anymore between good people and the scary ones. I was broken. I still am, I suppose. So that's my story, just one moment of that terror you know too well, but it was enough to almost kill me.
 

~E

E~

I noticed the tear stains on your story. I’m sorry it still hits you that hard when you think about what happened. I know you didn't tell me so I could defend you, but I want to. I want to find that entitled bastard and teach him a thing or two about real terror. But I know that's not why you told me. I get it — it was only a moment of terror, no real physical damage done beyond the bruising...but only a moment is all it takes to change your view of the world. It's not easy coming back from that.

That's also why you're beautiful. It's not just your eyes and your smile and your hair. It's your power and your resolve that make you shine.
 

~M

M~

I can tell you get it. No one I told ever has before. How is it that you can so easily understand? It seems a little surreal. And stop calling me beautiful — you're making me blush.

~E

E~

Can't help understanding anymore than I can help calling you beautiful. It's just how I see things. So, tell me something new. I get your story, I see your strength. But that's not the only thing there is to you. I won't let that moment of terror be the only thing I know about you. That does not define you. I already got all those childhood memories, too, but nothing from who you are now. Care to share?

~M

 
Erin and Marcus spent even more weeks writing back and forth to each other, every night. Not a single evening passed without a note between the two. Weekends seemed to drag for both of them because there were no notes to look forward to for two entire days. The mundane routine of each of their lives had been broken, and they both loved having something new to look forward to every day.
 

Many times each of them would marvel at how well they were beginning to know each other, without ever having met. Marcus had only seen her picture, and Erin had not seen him at all.

Erin was amazed when she realized M was her best friend. It seemed kind of pathetic to have a best friend pen-pal whom she’d never met, but she didn’t care. He listened to her, understood her, heard about all her damage, and cared about her anyway. And since their friendship grew only in the journal, at arm’s length, the connection was safe in every way.

Marcus patted himself on the back for finding the only woman in Atlanta that didn’t like to go shopping and get manicures. Truthfully, the more he found out about her idiosyncrasies, the more he liked Erin. She was smart, genuine, and strong. He was comfortable with her.
 

He opened up to her more than he had ever talked to anyone in his life, in some ways even more than his sister. Cassie knew his deepest secrets without having to be told. With Erin, Marcus shared himself by choice.
 

The most shocking part for him came from Erin’s reaction. She seemed to appreciate his willingness to open up, rather than finding him weak or strange. Every question she asked and every word she wrote made him want more of her — more words, more stories, more time.
 

Every other woman he knew was trivial. The extent of his relationships before this written affair never got further than a series of hot hook-ups with cute cage-groupies who would throw themselves at any fighter who paid attention to them.
 

He enjoyed them, but that was the end of the relationship: casual and fun. They were nothing but some hot action. With Erin, there was already so much more! He hadn’t even spoken with her yet, but he thought about her every day.
 

E~
 

Now that I know you don't like shopping, you're even more beautiful. And I don't really think you're boring. I was just goading you. I don't think your life sounds empty, just really low-risk. But I get it. I promise that even though it's risky letting me in on your story, I'll never scare you. I won’t break your trust. Just wanted to let you know.
 

~M

M~

It's not fair that you get to call me beautiful and I don't know the first thing about you. Tell me your job, leave me a picture, something! Can you at least tell me how old you are? I can't even picture you at all. It's really driving me nuts.
 

Ugh — I stepped in gum today. It took me ten minutes to pry the bits from the tiny tread of my pumps. So annoying.

And speaking of my pumps, if you think a distaste for shopping is beautiful, then you will find it quite the turn-on that I don't have an obsession with shoes. Me and "girly" have never gotten along real well, even before that party.

~E

E~

No shoe fetish? That's positively hot. Damn. And I'm 25. Sorry about the gum.

~M

He’s 25! Now she had her first bit of knowledge about him. Erin spent that Wednesday morning's "meeting" rereading their entire, weeks-long conversation, now with a 25-year-old face attached to all the notes. She was amazed to think that when she got her first bike, he still had his mother.
 

When she was enjoying her junior prom, he was barely surviving his teenage years. When she was in college, he was making it on his own, saving himself and his sister from his abusive father. Her connection to him was even stronger now that she understood him in more context. Her heart stuttered to know he was a contemporary to her.
 

She had to admit she was finding herself attracted to this stranger. He had a pretty obvious sense of humor and depth of understanding. He had no flair for the dramatic; he was real and simple, and probably was underestimated by people around him. He was the kind of guy who would be stable and kind. She was very attracted to that.
 

But who was he? There's no way he was from her office. He may have been from some other professional office from another floor. Maybe he was some mythical notebook-fairy who left little "strength" charms under your pillow every time you left your notebook in the wrong spot.
 

Whoever he was, he had to come by her desk every night, which gave her the idea for the perfect plan. She jotted a quick note to him about nothing in particular and hoofed back to her desk. She figured out how the webcam on her computer worked and set up the motion sensor to record whomever was at her desk after hours. Fool-proof.

 
Marcus found himself again unable to contain his excitement at going to work Wednesday night. He lived for his daily notes from Erin. He even enjoyed the ribbing he was getting from both George and Bill who could see the change in him.
 

George loved seeing Marcus with a little life in him, and he even got to hear about this accountant with the notebook over a table of rib-eyes. Bill, on the other hand, was absolutely loving the change in Marcus. The rage no longer drove his training. He stayed more in his head.
 

Marcus became focused rather than wild. He still had all the strength of the animal within, but now with hints of clear-headed strategy. Marcus was evolving. Bill smiled as he watched and guided Marcus through his progress.
 

Wednesday night, Marcus started his new normal routine. He started with the ninth and tenth floors, forcing himself to save Erin's floor for last. But first, he went and got the notebook from the desk corner. Every night he would get that book, place it carefully on the shelf in his work closet, and do the upper two floors as quickly as he could.
 

Then, he would read Erin's note and respond during his break. He'd return the notebook and then finish up his work for the night. But tonight, a little green light changed his routine. He saw the glowing circle flicker on as soon as he walked into the bullpen of the eighth floor. She had the webcam on! Sneaky.
 

He walked right past the desk without a second glance. He left the bullpen from the other side of the bank of cubicles. Marcus then went to work on the 9th and 10th floors.
 

At one desk, he grabbed a piece of printer paper and wrote "Nice try" before he returned to her through the back entrance. He approached her cubicle from the opposite direction of the webcam and hung the note directly over the lens. He chuckled to himself then grabbed the notebook for his break.
 

E~

Nice try with the webcam, but you're not so stealth. If you're that desperate to know more, I'll tell you. It's not my actual job, but I really am a fighter — Mixed Martial Arts. I train just about every day and I fight every chance I get. I like to get in the ring and let it all out. It keeps me calm. So if you need a picture of me, just imagine a serious badass bruised-up cage fighter. And just so you know, I don't have a shoe fetish either. I don't even wear them in the ring.
 

~M

Erin found the “Nice Try” on her webcam and laughed out loud. People were staring at her and she didn't care. She grabbed the book and headed for her cafe. She read his message in the notebook and almost gasped. A real fighter? After everything he'd been through, he still sought out the violence? She had assumed his fighting was metaphorical.

She didn't understand at all. After nearly three months worth of writing, she thought she was getting a sense of who M was. She was not prepared to hear he was a fighter. That vision didn't match at all with the calm, stable picture she had. He was analytical, intelligent, and funny. Fighters were cavemen. This
just didn't fit
, and Erin found herself confused and caught completely off-guard.

M~

Sorry about the webcam. I had to try it. But I have to admit, I'm a little freaked out right now. You're a cage-fighter? Seriously? That really surprises me. I don't understand how you can come from all that violence and then keep it in your life.
 

I'm not judging, I promise. I just genuinely don't understand. You are intelligent — you read between the lines and get everything I say even when I won't say it. I see you as stable, and gentle even. You have taken such good care of me and my story.
 

So how is it that you can be all that and still be a fighter? Can you help me understand please? I have no sense of how that can work. Plus, I don't like picturing you all bloody. Be careful with yourself. Knowing that you fight just makes me want to protect you, even thought I'm sure you hate that I just said that. And I want to know your middle name.
 

~E

That night, Marcus read that note from Erin and froze. He didn't expect that response. How could he explain? He didn't want to come across as stupid, especially after she had just said he was intelligent.
 

How could he make her understand that fighting was a release for him? Stepping in the ring was proof that he was strong and that he came out of the past without being defeated.
 

Didn't she do the same? Didn’t she have to prove to herself that she could be with someone and not be afraid? God, has she not been with a man in five years? Someone as beautiful as she being alone that long didn't seem likely — didn't even seem possible. But how else could she not just get this as easily as she had understood the rest of him? Now he was confused.

E~

I don't know how to answer you, or how you don't get it. I fight because I can, because I'm strong enough. It proves I'm stronger than he is. I can take every punch but I'm in control of it. My choice. Don't you feel strong when you’re with another man besides that asshole from college? Doesn't that prove your victory?

~M. Steven

The next day, Marcus almost crumpled when he read the tear-smudged response:
 

M~

I’ve had no victory. I haven't let anyone close enough to prove anything to anyone, not to that asshole, not to myself. I don’t feel strong at all. I feel empty. That’s been my thing for a long time.

~E

Marcus touched those words over and over again. His heart broke for Erin. She really had been completely dead to the world for five years. She was a work-robot with no real friends, no semblance of love with the exception of long-distance parents.
 

For the first time in his life, he had the urge to take a woman in his arms and just hold her for hours. He wanted the warmth of his body to melt five years of ice from hers.
 

He would take as long as needed to break through the depth of the glacier she had formed around herself. He wouldn't let her go until she felt soft, warm, and safe in his arms. If she'd let him.
 

He thought of nothing else during the remainder of his shift. He hadn't been able to respond yet; he was too raw from her hurt. He mourned the loss of her five years for her. How do you help someone to grieve their own death? Especially someone you hadn't technically met yet…