Desperate Choices (6 page)

“I’m glad. I know neither of us will ever forget, but as time passes, maybe it’ll become a faded memory, and you can be happy.”

Theresa shook her head, eyes lowered.
Here he goes again.
“Remy, it’s not going to happen. Not now and not ever. Max and I had our chance once, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

A sharp rap on the back door sent her attention flying to the inset panes of glass. Her heart fluttered when she saw Max through the window. She started to stand but Remy beat her to it, opening the back door.

“Hey, bro, whatcha doing here?” Curiosity laced Remy’s words.

“I needed to talk to Theresa—about Tommy’s case.”

“This late at night? Couldn’t it wait till morning?”

***

Max eyed his brother, his gaze shifting from Remy to the two wine glasses on the table, before stopping on Theresa. His heartbeat kicked up a notch. Dressed in a simple black sheath dress, her blond hair piled in a loose, attractive style on the back of her head, Theresa looked stunning. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. A burning pain centered in the midst of his chest, his heart thumping wildly. Had he interrupted something? Max realized the gnawing, wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach was jealousy, eating at him at the thought of Remy and Theresa together. “Look, if I’m interrupting something important, I’m sorry.”
No, I’m not, not really.

“Yeah, actually, bro, you are. Theresa and I are—celebrating. Our anniversary.” Remy pressed his lips together tightly, unable to hide his amusement. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow. Late tomorrow. We’re probably going to be up all night.” Lifting his hand to cover the smile he could no longer contain, he gave Theresa a conspiratorial wink.

“No, I don’t think it can wait.”

Theresa stepped forward. “What is it that’s so important?”

An awkward silence followed her question, as Max struggled to come up with a plausible reason for being there. Although he’d come to press her for more information about the trauma in her past, to share his own secret with her, he didn’t want to push in front of his brother.

“When we talked at dinner last night, about your psychic abilities—powers, whatever you call it—you said you hadn’t had them all your life. When exactly did you develop your gift?”

***

Theresa was stunned that he would come right out and ask. She thought she’d have more time, with him subtly trying to determine the cause. Then again, she should have known better. While Max was a whole lot of things, subtle wasn’t one of them.

“It doesn’t matter when I developed my abilities. I have them and they can help with your investigation. That’s the only thing that’s important.”

“Look, you’ve been right on a couple of things so far, I’ll grant you that. But you haven’t given me anything concrete, something tangible I can wrap my hands around. Anybody with some skill at deductive reasoning could probably tell me the same things and they’d never claim to be psychic.”

Max prowled forward, his loose-limbed stride bringing him closer, stopping bare inches in front of her.

“I’m a skeptic. Make me believe you’ll be more help than hindrance in this case.”

Theresa narrowed her eyes, her lips tightening to rein in her aggravation. She was so tired of his disbelief. No matter what she said or did, it always came back to proof.

“Probably makes you a good detective, but a lousy choice of a friend.” Her finger stabbed at his chest again. This time her hand brushed up against something in his jacket pocket. The vibrations emanating from it were overwhelming. Focusing, she absorbed the energy flow and channeled it.

She stared into his steely-gray eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Skeptic. There’s a letter in your pocket. It’s a very important letter—something you’ve been waiting on for a long, long time.” Max slowly nodded before folding his arms across his chest, his stance rigid.

“Will you believe me if I tell you what I can about the letter? You know I haven’t seen it. Will that convince you that I’m not a phony?”

“It sure as hell would go a long way toward your credibility.”

“Fine. Have a seat.”

***

This ought to be good,
Max thought. He pulled out a chair and eased his long frame onto it. Remy followed suit. Theresa remained standing, her hip against the tiled countertop, her stance relaxed, but her expression unreadable. Her face was blank except for her eyes. They gleamed green in the kitchen light, shooting sparks, all directed at Max.

Without a word he reached into his pocket, pulling out the letter. Removing it from its envelope so she couldn’t see the return address, he hesitated a split second before handing the folded letter to Theresa. Clasping it in both hands, she threaded the sheets between her fingers, angling it first one way and then another, staring at the stark whiteness of the paper. Finally after what seemed like an eternity to Max, she began to speak.

“Two years ago you quit your job on the Shreveport Police Department and came back to New Orleans. You told everybody you were burned out, needed a change. Not true, though, was it, Max?”

Max continued to stare at Theresa, close-lipped. He nodded again.

“There were some problems there. You were being investigated—missing evidence, wasn’t it? You and your partner were accused of stealing drugs and weapons from lockup and selling them.”

Max felt blind-sided, stunned by the accuracy of her declaration. His jaw went slack before he quickly snapped it shut. Through gritted teeth he growled, “How the hell did you know that? I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Dammit, you didn’t even tell me.” Hurt laced Remy’s voice.

Pointing to the letter still clasped between her hands, Max said, “Go ahead. Open it. Read it.” Theresa unfolded the pages and started reading. She stopped once, glancing at Remy before continuing to the end. Max watched her, searching for a reaction to its contents.
Nothing.

Carefully refolding the letter, she handed it to Max. He stuffed it back inside the envelope before shoving it into his pocket. Vindication should have tasted sweet. It didn’t. All he felt was a remote sense of loss for what might have been.

“They’ve offered you your old job back?” Theresa’s quiet voice belied the anger still filling her eyes.

“Are you going to take it?” Remy asked quietly.

Max shook his head. He stood and walked to stand by the sink.

“No, I’m not. I’m glad my record has been cleared, don’t get me wrong, but I like being in charge of my life. I’m staying right here.”

***

Inside, Theresa rejoiced. He was staying. For every part of her that never wanted to see him again, for every self-preserving instinct of flight, there was another part that wanted to be near him, to fight for what they could have.

“Was that enough to convince you, Max, or do you need further proof?”

“There’s no way you could have known any of that information about me. Like Remy said, I’ve never told a soul, not even my baby brother.”

Relieved she wouldn’t have to prove herself to him anymore, she let herself relax.

“How did you get so much just from touching that letter?” Max’s words were more curious than accusing. “But not from Tommy’s phone or something from his room?”

“It doesn’t work like that. If it did, I’d be a multimillionaire living the good life.”
Not really, but hey it sounded good.

“I can’t control what I
see
or
don’t see.
I will either get vibrations or images from an object or dead space—nothing at all. Sometimes I’ll get a feeling before I even touch an object—if there’s a darkness associated with it—but that’s rare.” Theresa ran a hand across her forehead, brushing wisps of hair back.

“My abilities aren’t something I can call up on a whim. They just are. I’m not sure where they’ll take me, but I’m done running from them. Believe me or don’t, that’s your choice.”

“Hey, I already said I believe you—now.” Max’s voice filled the kitchen, his belief a panacea to Theresa’s frazzled psyche.
Maybe he’ll drop it.
His next words dispelled that illusion.

“The reason I came over here tonight was to ask you about your ability. I’ve been reading up on psychics and I keep running into the same information. That’s why I asked you if you’d had your gift all your life. I want to know when it started.”

Theresa’s eyes widened and she looked to Remy. Her breathing sped up. His words chilled her to her very soul. Remy reached across the table, clasped her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“All the experts I’ve read state when a psychic gift came on later in life, usually around adolescence, it was triggered by a trauma in the psychic’s life.”

Stepping forward, Max stood in front of Theresa and tilted her chin up with one finger, meeting her eyes. “If we’re going to work together, you’ve got to trust me. What happened to you? What’s your secret?”

Theresa stared at Max, trying to gauge how much she should tell him. Remy sat across from her and vigorously shook his head, his intent clear, not wanting her to dredge up her hurtful past.

“Remy, go home. I need to talk to Max.”

“Hell, no. He doesn’t need to know a damn thing. It’s none of his business,” he shot back.

Remy glared at his brother, his gaze filled with anger at Max for forcing the issue. Max had no idea what demons he’d raised. Only Remy shared those memories with her—nightmares from that horrific day—the source of a ten-year friendship which had stood the ravages of hell.

Theresa pushed her chair back and skirted the table, placing her hands on Remy’s tense shoulders. She placed a kiss on the top of his head, inhaling the clean crisp scent she always associated with him. “I’ll call you later, I promise. I need to speak with Max. If we’re going to continue working together, he needs to know. Everything.”

Max remained silent through it all, arms crossed, feet planted. From his rigid stance, Theresa could clearly tell he wasn’t at all happy at how protective of her his brother was. Her relationship with Remy surpassed Max’s understanding. But then, most people hadn’t been through the kind of trauma she and Remy had. Dark, violent memories forged an unbreakable link that withstood the passing years.

Remy stood and hugged Theresa. Standing at the back door, he shot a warning look at Max, his frown stating “don’t you dare hurt her.”

Max stood still, his feet braced apart, his hands lightly skimming the back of one of her kitchen chairs. To the casual observer, he appeared calm and collected, even at ease. She probably knew him better than most. She’d loved him for a long, long time. Calm and collected in no way described him right now.

“Sit down.” Theresa took another glass from the cabinet and carried it back to the table. Reaching across, she lifted the bottle and filled the glass nearly to the top before setting it in front of Max. She inhaled a steadying breath, ran her trembling fingers along her skirt, then lifted her gaze to his.

“Is this so bad I’m going to need that?” Max questioned, slowly running a finger around the rim of the glass, his gray eyes flashing with banked fire.

“You may not need yours, but I certainly need mine.” Lifting her glass in a mocking salute, she gulped the red wine. She needed its fortifying strength. After all, she was preparing to tell him all the things she kept hidden down in the deep, dark corners of her soul. The ones that grab you by the throat when you least expect it.
Like tonight.

She lifted her trembling right hand and brushed a lock of hair back, tucking it behind her right ear before looking at Max. “Some people are born psychic. Others have a latent gift which never comes out. Occasional flashes or hints of intuition, but nothing solid. Others have their abilities thrust upon them, brought on by a physical or emotional trauma.” She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts.
Why is this so much harder than I thought it would be?

Max reached across the table to cup Theresa’s cheek gently. His fingertips lightly skimmed her jaw and butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach, whispery light, matching the feelings his touch evoked as he stroked her skin.

“Whatever you tell me, it can’t be as bad as all the things I’ve imagined since last night.” She straightened at the sound of his voice, drawing back farther against her chair, away from his distracting touch.
Does he know how just the touch of his hand affects me? Dear God, I hope not.

“We’ve know each other over ten years. Why now? Why is it so important for you to know every minute detail of my life?”

“Damned if I know,” Max muttered. “I just—I can’t explain it—but I have to know.”

Theresa stood, needing to place some distance between her and Max. Just a few feet separated them, but it may as well have been miles. Not only in distance but in time.

She remembered their first date. How special he made her feel with something as simple as dinner and a movie. They even held hands when he walked her home. At the door, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. His lips so sweet, so…

Arms twined around her, startling her from her musing. They snaked around her waist, drawing Theresa against a rock-hard chest. Leaning her head back, she rested it against Max’s shoulder, savoring the feel of his hands against her stomach. Even through her clothes, she felt the heat of his touch.

“Do you remember how good we were together?” Max nuzzled her neck, his whispered words causing an ache deep inside her chest. His lips caressed her skin. She felt the rasp of his tongue as he licked a slow path along her jaw. Instinctively she turned her face toward him and his lips captured hers in a searing kiss. Spinning in his embrace, Theresa wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer as she opened her lips to his. A battle of tongues and teeth and lips. Rising on her toes, Theresa strained to get closer.
God, how I’ve missed this, missed him.

Breaking the kiss, Theresa inhaled deeply, hands trembling. She took a step back, cupping the side of Max’s face before dropping her hands to her sides, balling them into fists. She ached to go on, pull him back in and continue kissing him forever. That was part of the problem. Kisses led to caresses. While she loved the feel of his hands on her bare skin, remembering it in vivid detail nearly every night, that was as far as it had ever gone.
As far as it can ever go.

“Damn. Not again.” The confusion in Max’s voice brought her gaze up to meet his.

“What?”

“Do I repel you in some way?” His question startled Theresa.

“It’s not you. It’s never been you, Max. It’s…me.”

“Then why? Every time I touch you, kiss you, you pull back.” Frustration etched Max’s countenance but not anger. Theresa was surprised there wasn’t anger.

“Max, has Remy ever told you how he and I met?” With a wave of her hand she indicated he sit before taking the chair across from him.

Max’s brow wrinkled then he shook his head. “Now that you ask, no, I don’t think he ever told me. I guess I just assumed it was at school.”

“Funny, Remy and I did go to the same school. I was a year behind him. We never met. Not until I was fifteen, almost sixteen. I was really shy in high school. Somebody like Remy, so outgoing, the life of the party, he wouldn’t have looked twice at a wallflower like me.”

She looked at the wine glass in front of her, not wanting to meet Max’s intent stare. “Aren’t you curious about what Remy and I were ‘celebrating’ tonight? We were celebrating the tenth anniversary of our first meeting. After all, it was a momentous occasion. It’s the day he saved my life. And my sanity.”

Max’s head jerked up. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? While this psychic BS may make you certifiable, as far as I’m concerned you’re one of the sanest people I know.”

Theresa laughed mockingly at that. “You wouldn’t have thought so if you’d seen me then.”

She picked up her wine and took another sip. “Ten years ago tonight, Remy saved my life. Literally. He found me out by Marshall Road, lying in the bushes.”

Max tensed as if anticipating what she was going to say.

“I was walking home from school because my dad had to work late, a double-shift, and he couldn’t pick me up like he usually did. I heard a vehicle coming so I moved over to give it room to pass. A pickup truck slowed down and stopped. I recognized the two boys inside—they both went to my school but were several grades ahead, seniors. They were laughing and joking, the way jocks did. They asked if I’d like a ride. To be honest, I felt a little flattered they would stop for me. I wasn’t stupid, just incredibly naïve. I didn’t know either one of them except by sight, so I said no. Unfortunately, they weren’t taking no for an answer.”

“Oh, God. Theresa.” The expression on Max’s handsome face was one she had hoped never to see directed at her. The pity, the shock at what had happened, became a ruthless reality.

“Please, don’t interrupt or I’ll never be able to tell it all.” She looked down at her hands and realized she was fidgeting with the rings she wore, a habit she had outgrown many years ago.

“One of them circled around behind me and grabbed my arms before I knew what he was doing. They dragged me into the bed of their truck. Marshall Road was hardly ever used back then. You rarely saw a car go down there once every couple hours.”

Theresa forced herself to remain calm, ignoring the gut-wrenching, acid-filled pain dredging up these memories brought. It hurt more than she’d believed possible. But she continued anyway.

“I fought. God, believe me I fought, but it was two against one. Fighting was useless.
They raped me.
They tore my clothes, not caring about the damage. Their fingernails dug into my skin, leaving red marks and scratches that didn’t go away for ages. One of them slapped me. He seemed to enjoy the pain he inflicted.” She shuddered at the memory, the pain as real today as it had been ten years before. “He laughed.”

Reaching for her glass, she took another sip, relieved her hand was steady. She couldn’t look at Max. Not yet.

“They laughed the entire time. It seemed to go on forever. I didn’t make it easy for them, though. They hit me several times, slaps, a few punches. I think at one point I even passed out.”

She continued, letting her words sink in. “When they were finally finished, they carried me and my shredded clothes back to the side of the road, a few feet back into the overgrowth and dumped me in the bushes like garbage.”

She watched Max pinch the bridge of his nose between shaking fingers, and knew she had to finish.

“I’m not sure how much time passed after they left. It seemed like hours. I know it started to get dark, and I think I was more afraid of being there in the dark than of anything else. All I could think was my dad was going to get home from work soon and I wouldn’t have his supper on the table. But I couldn’t move.”

As the words tumbled forth, she closed her eyes, partially to recall things with better clarity, but mostly not to see Max’s face as he listened to this shame-filled portion of her past.

“What I didn’t know was that, in the initial struggle, I dropped my book bag on the ground beside the street. For God knows what reason, Remy had decided to ride home down Marshall Road that day. Divine intervention, maybe. He saw my bag and stopped to see who it belonged to. He told me later he heard a sound, an indistinct whimpering. Being the Boy Scout that he is, he had to investigate.” Now she looked directly at Max as she spoke. “Thank God he
did. I was lying there in the weeds, bruised, battered and bleeding from everything they had done.”

“Stop. Don’t say any more,” Max interrupted, but Theresa placed her hand on top of his, silencing him.

“No, let me finish. This all needs to come out. Remy was amazing. Truly amazing. Even back then, being only seventeen, he was astonishingly mature for his age. He was riding his bike and there was no way he could hold me and pedal. So he took off his jacket, wrapped it around me and told me to stay hidden. About ten minutes later he was back with a car.

“He wanted to take me to the hospital, to the emergency room, and have them call the police. But I was so scared, Max. I wouldn’t let him. I fought him even though he was only trying to help. I scratched and hit him, not letting him touch me. Finally, he just sat down with me in the grass, there at the side of the road and held me while I cried and raged and cursed God for what had happened.”

She reached up and wiped at her eyes and the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks.

“He finally convinced me to get in the car and brought me back to my dad’s house. By the time we got there, I was practically catatonic. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. Everything seemed to just shut down. He helped get me into the house. My father wasn’t due home for another hour. I was a total mess. My clothes were in shreds. I was covered from head to toe with scrapes, scratches and bruises, to say nothing of the dirt, grass and Lord knows what else from being left on the side of the road.

“Max, you need to understand, I was helpless at this point. Traumatized, abused. My mind had shut down. But Remy’s didn’t. He was my rock. He stripped off my clothes and held me under the shower while he was fully clothed, and he cleaned me up as though I were an infant. That’s how helpless I was.”

“He can be a rock when he needs to.” Max’s voice brought Theresa back to the present and out of the vicious pictures playing in her head.

“Once he cleaned me as best as he could, he took me out of the shower and bandaged all my cuts. He got me fresh clothes and dressed me as though he had been doing it all his life. Then he put me in bed and pulled up the covers, all the way up to my chin. Through all this, I hadn’t said a word. I had shut down.”

Theresa met Max’s gaze directly as she spoke. “Remy stayed with me until it was time for my father to come home. He even made dinner for my dad, so he wouldn’t know anything was wrong. I made him promise me, while we were still on Marshall Road, he would never tell anybody about what happened. I think if he hadn’t given me that promise, I’d probably have died there by the side of the road. That or I’d have killed myself.

“Somehow I managed to hide what happened from my father. I called in sick to school for the next couple of days, stayed home and tried to cope with everything. Remy came by the next day after school and checked up on me. He came by the next day, and the next. He always asked me the same question. Who were they? He wanted names.”

“Damn right he wanted names. I do, too. The sons of bitches have to pay.”