Wake Me Up (Love Knows No Boundaries) (21 page)

“You shouldn’t
have come,” she whimpers. “You shouldn’t have.” But she holds me tighter, and that’s all that matters.

I pull her face away and look down at the tears. Cupping her cheeks
, I wipe them away, and I gently kiss her moist lips.

“Hi,
Emma.” I just want to hold her and I do. This is what I flew miles for, her arms around me.

“You’re here, you’re really here,” she whispers as she clings to me.
“I have to go in, my brother is coming over. I still have to go and fetch Gran,” she says, bringing us back to the here and now of her reality.

“Int
roduce me,” I say. She pulls back, looking horrified.

“You can’t be h
ere!” she whispers. “You have to leave. I’ll meet you somewhere later. Please, Aiden, please.” My Emma’s been reduced to begging.

“No,
Emma. Introduce me,” I demand. I frame her face. Now that some of the make-up has been washed away by her tears, I can see dark circles under her eyes. I push her back and let my eyes take her in again. She’s lost weight. “Introduce me now,” I say with finality.

She shakes her head. “Please don’t jud
ge me the same as her,” she begs, and I close my eyes for a second.

I brush my lips over
her temple before pressing them hard to her trembling lips.

“
Sweetheart, that will never happen.”

I
take her hand and start toward the door. This is ending here. I protect those I love, and there is no one I love more than Emma. Her hand trembles in mine, and I squeeze it as I open the door, letting myself into the mansion, the place that’s supposed to be her home.

It’s dim
, even though it’s hardly noon. The second I step in, Emma moves in next to me to lead the way. The house is spotless. You could eat off the floor. But it’s cold and clinical. Large pictures are hung on the walls, and as we walk close by one, I notice they are actually puzzles. Puzzles that have been built and then framed.

I remember I told
Emma I liked to solve human puzzles.

Dammit.

She leads me down a passage and her body tenses. When I see the photos on the wall, I clench my jaw to hold back all I feel inside. Graduation photos of someone. Wedding photos of what looks like her parents. Photos of a boy. There are others, must be of the family, and then I stop and pull her to me because I hurt for her. There’s one of four boys and a little smiling girl standing around a birthday cake. She’s the most adorable little girl I’ve ever seen, but you have to really look to see her between the boys.

“You matter to me,” I say
, slowly, so she can hear every word. She tries to smile, but gives up, and instead she leans up to kiss me and I savor it, drinking it in.

~*~

There’s an archway right ahead, situated to the right of it is a built-in planter box. Ferns stand waist high. To our left is another archway. Emma starts to move in front of me as we near it, and she tenses even more than I thought possible. She stops behind the wall and takes two quick breaths.

Then a smile appears on her face, but her eyes a
re still filled with horror.

“Mum,” her tone is
cautious. “Does Mum have a minute?” She peeks around the corner of the wall, careful, like a two-year-old that did something wrong, and I stand transfixed like an idiot.

“Yes
, babes?” her mother says. But before she can step forward, her mother speaks again, “Did you fix up Barry’s room, he’ll be here any minute? And you need to go and get your grandmother,” she reminds Emma. And then I’m left thinking - why can’t her brother pick up her grandmother?

“I did, Mu
m,” Emma answers meekly, “and I’ll go in a second, um…” I step around her and she moves with me. “Mum, this is Aiden Holden.” Emma glances at me, looking on edge. “Aiden, this is my mother,” I pick up that Emma doesn’t say her mother’s name.

I move to acknowledge the introduction
, although we’ve had our run-in, and I hear the sharp intake of breath from Emma. Her mother is seated at a large, dark oak table in the kitchen. I spot a little round table right behind her, with a phone on it. Damn. That’s where Emma was standing when I phoned, when I couldn’t reach her on her phone.

Her mother doesn’t move to get up. I feel
Emma right behind me, hovering nervously.

Her mother smiles up at me, a watery sm
ile and it’s not even eleven. She reaches for my hand and we shake. Emma takes hold of my arm as if she wants to pull me back.

“Finally we meet, Aiden,” her mo
ther says. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Emma
darts past me, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table. She just went past panic, and is hovering on the point of fragility. The last thing I want to do is sit. I’m too worked up to sit, but I do. It’s cold in the kitchen, and I look over at Emma again, thinking how cold she felt outside. She comes to stand next to me, and I do a double take.

Like
, what the hell!

“Please sit,
Emma,” I say as calmly as I can manage. I drag a chair closer, and watch as her eyes go wildly from her mother to the chair. “Sit by me,” I say again, taking her hand. It cramps around mine. But she sits, on the very edge of the chair.

“So tell me about yourself, Aiden,” her mother says quite directly. I watch her take a sip of her drink, and Emma shrinks.

So much for the pleasantries.
Okay, here we go, round number one.

“I’m one of three children, ra
ised in a loving home.” The last part I’m saying just to see her reaction.

“
Emma has an older brother, Barry. He’s a doctor. He has made us so very proud.” I look at Emma as her mother tells me this, but her eyes are on our hands, and I squeeze her fingers.

“I’m in the police force. I believe your husband is too?” I say
, and her mother finishes off her drink.

“
Emma, fill my glass. Half ice, half wine,” she orders, and Emma’s head snaps up. The look in her eyes is gut-wrenching. She pulls her hand from mine, and takes the glass to do as her mother tells her.

I’m st
ruggling real hard not to move, not to just take Emma and go. I need to talk to Emma first. I can’t just grab her and go.

“Yes
, her father is a bobby. You should stay for lunch. We’re having a little do for Emma’s birthday. You can meet the whole family then.”

I blink and turn to look at
Emma.

Emma stops me from replying.
“We don’t know if Aiden can stay, Mum. We don’t know if he has other plans, Mum.” She says it very carefully, as she places the full glass down next to her mother. She sits down next to me and folds her hands in her lap.

“Of course he’ll want to come,” her mother answers for me
.

I roll my shoulders. I’m not used to pe
ople talking on my behalf. Before I can respond, her mother reaches over to Emma. She shrinks as small as she can get next to me. She freezes and her hands cramp together, and I see the dread of her mother’s touch wash over her.

My mind hits a higher gear when her mother
takes hold of her hand and squeezes it. This is why Emma can’t stand people touching her! It’s years of abuse by this woman.

“You’re beautiful,
babes. He’s a lucky fellow.”

Emma
gets up slowly and holds her mom’s hand with both of hers. “Mum’s right, but how about I go and get Gran? She must be waiting already.”

I grab at the beam of light with both hands.
I have to get her out of here. “I’ll take you,” I say, and I’m up. I take hold of her, pulling her away from her mother.

“That’s awfully kind of you Aiden,” her mother
croons, and she picks up the wine glass. “I’m sure you can convince Aiden to stay, babes, after all, he’s come so far to see you.” The look her mother gives her over the rim of her glass is a venomous one.

Everything Emma told me at the cottage is making sense, and now I understand her nightmares. No normal person can live like this.

“I’d like to stay, she doesn’t need to convince me,” I say, and I might be making things worse, but I pull Emma under my arm, feeling the need to shelter her. Her mother’s eyes are hard on us. “Let’s go get your gran.”

“I’ll be right back
, Mum. Thirty minutes,” she says.

H
er mother smiles that watery smile that’s starting to annoy the hell out of me. “All right, babes.”

Emma
speed-walks. She tugs at the material around her neck, stretching it away, as if it’s irritating her, but before we reach the front door I hold her back. “A jacket, Emma. Get something warm.” She looks at me as if she’s doesn't comprehend what I’m saying. “Where’s your room?”

“There
,” she mutters and points behind me.

I turn
around and pull her in the direction she pointed. She leads me through the dining room. The table is set already, six places. Matching plates, napkins, salt and pepper shakers, the works. There are wine glasses at four places.

She
opens a door and steps inside a room twice as small as the one she had at the apartment we shared. There are no cupboards. A bed, a small brown cabinet and a glass table. Her walls are bare. No small knick-knacks to show she lives here.

God only knows how I’m going to make it through today without killing someone! I grind my teeth to keep my anger in. I count to ten and give up when it doesn’t work.

“
Where are your clothes, Emma?” I snap. I’m snapping.

“In another r
oom. The…,” she swallows, “spare room.”

I try to catch her eyes but she won’t look at me. She’s embarrassed.
I need to calm down for her. She’s fragile as it is.

“
Sweetheart, I’d like it very much if you’d take this top off and put something more comfortable on, something warmer,” I say gently.

She shakes her head. “She wants me to wear this,” she whispers.
Her voice is shaky.

I take h
old of her face and lift it so she has to look at me.

“Either you put on somethin
g warmer or I’m going to go buy you clothes.” Her breath erupts into a sob. She can’t see that I’m trying to make this better.

“We have to go.
Please! I don’t want to make her angry today,” she’s begging again, and then I remember.

“It’s your birthday, s
weetheart?” I lean in and she nods.

I press my mouth to hers
, but as tight as she’s holding me she doesn’t relax. She’s too wound up.

“Happy birthday,
Emma,” I breathe against her mouth.

~*~

I shrug off my jacket and just give her a look when she starts to protest. She looks miserable taking my jacket, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to let her get cold.

When we approach the car
, I hold the keys out to Emma. “I think it’s better if you drive.”

“Huh?” She stares at the keys as if I’m handing her a snake.

“You can drive, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

She looks from the keys to me.

“But,” I prompt.

“You’re the man,” she says. I frown. What does that mean? “I’ve been taught that the man drives.”

“
Emma!” I almost choke. “Me … you! Take the damn keys,” I say, with a little more firmness.

She takes them and starts toward the car. I’m going to have to rewire her all over again.

I’m glad when Emma gets in behind the wheel. It gives me time to think. I don’t have to concentrate on the road. She starts the car and I watch her drive.

“What’s this about me being the man?” I’m trying to be calm about it.

Emma keeps her eyes on the road, avoiding eye contact. “It’s an African thing. Men eat first. Men drive. Men walk in front. Men come first with everything. Except my father. In my family’s case it counts for my brother,” she explains some weird version of the middle ages to me.

“You’re being serious?” I ask. I’m actually thinking back to when we lived together now
, how she was always behind me, how she brought me my plate of food first. I never picked it up. “I’m American, not British or African,” I say, wishing I could have her looking at me right now. I reach over and squeeze her leg. “I want you next to me, never behind me, unless I’m protectin’ you.”

She smiles tearfully
, and blows out hard as she tries to fight the tears back. She doesn’t drive like I expected she would. No nervousness, awkwardness, nothing. She drives quite well.

“Who taught you to drive?”

“A friend of Barry’s. He stayed with us for a little while,” she says.

“How
much older is Barry?” I should’ve already asked about her family.

“
He is four years older than me.”