Between Darkness and Daylight (34 page)

She was tempted to tell him to put Adair back on the line so she
could
rat him out, then thought better of it as she rotated her shoulder. She still felt twinges from the pressure of the seatbelt, the phantom pain across her chest reminding her of why she'd called in the first place.

Was this what it was like for twins, what Zane had experienced with his sister, this all-encompassing bond and intimacy? Or could she ascribe her physical aches and pains, her knowledge of his inner thoughts and fears, only to her gifts?

“I didn’t call to argue with you, Zane. I just called…to talk.”
To talk,
and hear your voice and know you’re okay!

God, why couldn’t she say it to him, just tell him how she felt?

"Nova, I…I should have listened to you."

"It's okay. I understand why you were skeptical. Everyone reacts that way."

"That's just it. I'm not everyone. I…we shared something, something I can't even begin to describe, and I'm not even sure I want to."

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Gracie C. McKeever

"You were dealing with a lot at the time."

"You sound like you have a lot of experience with this. Do you always make excuses for people who mistrust you?"

"I haven't had that much of an opportunity to deal with others'

disbelief, not until recently." Should she tell him she hadn't had that much opportunity to deal with her own disbelief, much less others'? Could she tell him about her mother? Did she need to? Or was his knowing that he'd slept with someone who could see into the future and reach into his mind enough of a burden and trauma for one man to deal with for now?

"I'm not saying I'm totally convinced, about your abilities, I mean."

She sensed his ambivalence reemerging, not that it had ever been very far away since he'd seen that sketch. He was very uncomfortable at the idea of having someone besides himself know what he was thinking, how he was feeling. But she could also sense his curiosity, an inherent eagerness to explore the possibilities of being with someone like her. She tried to soothe his nerves. "I understand. You need time."

"I've missed you, Nova."

This surprised her; she'd figured he hadn't given her more than a second thought after she walked out his door, but she should have known better from how easily she'd been able to link with him during the accident. Perhaps he was more than open to her. Perhaps he was gifted, too, and didn't even know it. After all, it had taken decades before her own ability had begun to appreciably manifest itself. Maybe hers had shifted his into gear?

The possibilities excited her. It made her feel less alone in the world to know she may have found her other half, her soul mate.

"I need to see you. I want to,” he murmured.

The intensity in his voice brought the butterflies to life in her stomach, kick-starting her desire. She wanted to touch him so bad, her fingers tingled with the memory of how he felt in her arms, her nostrils flared at the thought of his spicy clean scent, and her pussy throbbed with longing.

But as much as she needed and wanted him, she wondered how good an idea it was to see him; she was afraid to trust herself with him, afraid to rush things. She meant what she had said, about his needing time. Hell, she needed it herself. But knowing that he was out there, waiting for her…

"Nova? Have I already lost you?"

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She swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and pressed the phone to her forehead. How had he so smoothly turned the tables on her? Hadn't she called to give him a piece of her mind, and find out about the frame of his?

She brought the mouthpiece back to her lips and whispered, "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

238

Gracie C. McKeever

Chapter 21

Enrique had been sitting outside of Francesca's house for the last few hours, watching the comings and goings as each new arrival—close friends and distant relatives—came bearing numerous dishes and quantities of liquor, or other contributions towards Frenchie's annual Thanksgiving Day extravaganza.

She'd always been a great party thrower, knew how to organize so that only the right people attended and brought the right things, everything going down as smoothly as Remy Red on the rocks. And even when there were a few snags, Frenchie had a supreme knack for unraveling problems and smoothing family members’ ruffled feathers when some might have come to blows.

He'd always admired her ability to calm explosive situations, soothe frayed nerves, and bring together the most unlikely personalities to enjoy a good time.

She was a consummate diplomat and a good listener, and she’d always offered him an attentive ear, especially in the beginning, when he'd occasionally fallen prey to the nightmares. But these had ended soon after he met her and later poured out his heart. She'd sent the dreams away, her understanding and love strong enough to help him deal with what he'd had to do.

Enrique watched as another handful of people arrived and Frenchie let them into the house. The sound of bouncy salsa music rode the wind outside to his car right before the door closed, and Enrique swallowed down a twinge of bitter jealousy.

All those people had access to his Frenchie, were hugging and kissing his children, pinching Angela and Ricky's ruddy young cheeks, when he was denied access to his own blood.

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He wondered what the tall detective's man was making of all this, if he were as resentful about being on the outside watching the action when a party was going on inside.

The man could have been home with his family, enjoying a hot holiday meal. Just as Enrique could have been. Except his family
was
inside, enjoying the holidays while he was outside looking in, like an unwanted interloper.

He wondered what Frenchie would do—what they all would do—if he just marched right up to that door and invited himself in. Talk about Gunfight at the OK Corral. His arrival would not go over well. They would fuss, they would fight—passion personified everything that Francesca and her family was and did, especially when it came to her relationship with him.

Her male cousins and uncles would all jump to her defense, ready to take him down and throw him out. No way would they allow him back in to take over their sweet Frenchie’s life again.

He could wait for a better day. They all had to go home sometime.

And he would have Frenchie all to himself when that happened.

* * * *

Cowering on the other side of the living room, behind the sofa, he
waited for it to be safe to go to his mother, feeling like the worst chicken
for letting her suffer at his father's hands yet again.

He watched the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she
pulled herself to her knees on the carpeted floor, noticed the bruise on her
left eye. Experience told him that the mark would turn an ugly black-and-blue that she'd cover with extra make-up and sunglasses when she went
outside to the market, or rarely, to visit a girlfriend.

Those occasions had become rarer and rarer, especially since all his
brothers had moved out on their own and Enrique was the only one left
behind to "keep an eye out on his mother".

Like he'd really play the spy. If anything, he was rooting for his
mother, hoping she'd have the strength to up and leave the man she'd
married.

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Gracie C. McKeever

If he were older, Enrique told himself, he'd leave and make her come
with him. But he doubted that she'd go. Whether she was too scared that
Dad would come and drag her back, or she just didn't think she deserved
to be happy and free of him, he didn't know. But he remembered a couple
of his brothers trying to get her to come live with them, and she'd refused
them both. Why would she do any different for him if the opportunity
presented itself?

Does she like getting smacked around?

It was a question he often asked himself. Why would any woman put up
with a man who obviously didn't have any respect for her and thought she
was lower than dirt?

Sometimes he wondered if maybe his mom deserved the treatment she
got, if maybe his father was right. He was, after all, the man of the house.

He went out there and worked hard all week. Was it too much to ask that
things be done a certain way when he came home?

But if his mom deserved the beatings and mistreatment, then that
meant that he did too, because his father had never bothered sparing
Enrique when he went on his tirades. On the contrary; when Carlos
Martinez decided to swing the rod, it was a free-for-all open season on
any woman and kid in the vicinity.

Enrique decided that he'd never touch his woman or his kids, never lay
a hand on them unless they deserved it.

* * * *

Dad finally left the house, the silence in his wake deafening and
funereal except for Mom's crying.

Enrique waited ten minutes after his father left before coming from
behind his hiding place to go to his mom, just to be sure it was safe to
come out. He remembered one time he'd come out soon after the door had
closed behind his father, and he’d doubled back, as if he'd known his son
was lying in wait to play the young knight in shining armor. He'd taken his
hands to Enrique that night like he never had before, taught him the lesson
of his life.

But then again, maybe not.

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Peeking over the sofa back, he saw his mother sitting on the floor by
the fireplace, clutching her side. He wondered how bad she was hurt this
time, if maybe he'd have to take her to the emergency room. It wouldn't be
the first time he'd had to sit in the E.R. with his mom for the night. She'd
probably had most of the bones in her body broken since she'd been with
his dad, certainly since Enrique had known her.

Eventually he's going to kill her.

He didn't know where the thought came from, but he knew it was true.

And he knew that the next person on his dad's hit list would be the nearest
person in the vicinity. And that would be him.

He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.

"Mommy, are you okay?" He knelt beside her, cupping the base of her
skull as he tried to help her stand.

"Ricky?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mommy." He didn't like the way her eyes looked,
unfocused and half-closed. Maybe his father had done it this time. His
mom was a strong woman to take all the beatings she had over the years,
but everyone had a limit. And maybe she'd finally reached hers.

Enrique swallowed hard at the thought. "I have to get you to a
hospital."

"No…" His mom coughed several times and brought up blood.

This definitely wasn't good. But it got worse a few seconds later when
his father unlocked the front door and burst back into the house.

"Who told you to come outta your hole?"

"Dad, she's hurt badly this ti—" Enrique flew back into the recliner,
flipping it over with the force of his father's backhanded blow.

"And I'll hurt her, and you, worse. Remember that."

"Daddy, don't!" Enrique tried to get his bearings, pulling himself to
his knees as his father raised a fist to his mom.

He wasn't going to let him hit her. Not again, not anymore!

He climbed over the chair and dove at his father, catching the man off-guard, for once. His advantage didn't last much past the first punch, but
the pleasure he felt at having his knuckles finally connect with his father's
jaw was indescribable, immeasurable.

"You no good little
pendejo!"

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Gracie C. McKeever

Instead of an open-handed slap, the big man took a fist to him this
time. This was as bad as the last time his father had beaten him when he'd
come to his mom's defense.

"Carlos, no!
Basta! Para!"

"Did I give you permission to open your mouth, bitch!"

Wham!

Enrique heard her flesh smash from where he lay on the floor several
feet away.

He shook his head, tried to clear it, then crawled over to the fireplace
and reached for a log, the biggest one he could get his hands on.

His dad was on top of his mother now, straddling her hips, his hands
around her throat as he choked her and banged her head against the
hardwood floor.

He was going to kill her this time!

Enrique stood, raised the log high, and saw his mother's eyes goggle
as he brought it down toward the back of his father's head. He didn't know
if her reaction was from loss of oxygen or surprise at his attack, and he
didn't care.

Crack!

That felt good, too, better than the punch. God, he'd been waiting a
long time to do that, ten years at least. If anyone asked him later, and the
police probably would, his actions could probably be construed as
premeditated.

Crunch!

That one felt even better, but the man still hadn't released Mommy's
throat.

Bam!

He finally slumped on top of her, his hands still clutched in a death-grip around her neck.

Enrique cocked his head to the side and peered at his parents as if he
were witnessing a strange new dance, watching his mom struggle beneath
his dad for several seconds and wondering what he should do next.