What a revelation it had been. Drawing, sketching, paper mâché, painting, chalks—she’d liked all forms of art. But sculpting? “It made my soul sing.” At Brody’s raised eyebrow, she laughed. “On the first day of the charter school, the principal told us art should come from the soul, and when you find what makes your soul sing, you should embrace it. I thought it sounded too pretty…almost ridiculous. But I was fourteen then, and almost seventeen when I met Greg, so I didn’t really understand what the principal meant until then. When Greg’s guest classes were done, he gave a few of us his number, and I called him. I wanted to learn more about sculpting, and he offered to give me some private lessons.”
She kept her gaze on Brody’s abdominals. The washboard cut of them, the way the muscles tensed under her touch, the light sprinkle of hair extending from his belly button to disappear beneath his jeans.
“You slept with him.” The rumble of his voice vibrated against her fingers.
Embarrassment flooded her, and her face warmed. “Yes. He was amazing and talented and so focused. When I was with him, I felt like the center of his world. The affair didn’t last long, thankfully. I fell for him but not the other way around. When I went to college, I really wanted to focus on my art and making something of myself. I also wanted to….” She paused to explore the thick welt of an old scar just below his pecs. Whiter than the skin around it, the bulge protruded above the surface of his skin. “I wanted to experiment, so I fed my muse however I could, partied, drank, danced….”
“Seduced a lot of college boys, did you?” No judgment echoed in his words, and when she dared to peek, none reflected in his gaze. If anything, his lips hinted at an indulgent smile.
Emboldened by his support, she nodded. “I went a little crazy. I liked sex. Not just for the act, but the intimacy. They were hot, fast little affairs. We’d burn up the sheets for a few days, and then I’d throw myself back into my classes. The relationships, if they could even be labeled such, didn’t last very long. This feels so weird telling you about these men.”
“You aren’t telling me about them. You’re telling me about you.” Well, that didn’t sound so bad. “I do need you tell me about them. The men you slept with, and the guys you dated. Who was important in your life then? Who were your friends? Who did you hang out with?”
She didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to explore a fresher scar pebbling along his side—the grated cheese effect—he hadn’t had this before. If she asked him, Brody would shrug it off, but if she really wanted to know, he would tell her. It was how it worked between them. When he tucked his finger beneath her chin and nudged her gaze up, she sighed. “I don’t really remember their names. Their bodies—yes. I remember one guy had a good smile, another had dimples. But they had swimmer builds, all long and lean. Another one was more muscular, I think he wrestled or maybe he was on the football team.” Who they were hadn’t really been important.
“As I recall, my body fascinated you, too.” The teasing note had her blushing, and she felt like her scalp had to be on fire.
“I knew your name, and I’ve never forgotten it, but….” This time she frowned and sat upright. Brody followed her, continuing to stroke her arm. “But you weren’t the first guy I tried to go out with. They fixed me up twice before. One of those guys was someone I knew in college…Don…Dennis…Darrin…. I don’t know, it started with a D.” The name seemed right on the tip of her tongue. “He had a softer build. Nothing really cut about him, but his muscles were there. He always made me think of the nerd hero you read about in books. Like he was one workout montage away from buffing up.”
Brody hummed, the sound a cross between amusement and disapproval. The sound of it echoed in the vibrations under her fingertips.
An unsettled feeling coiled in the pit of her stomach. The brush of Brody’s knuckles passing down her side to her hip seemed distant, like he touched someone else.
D-something…brown hair, hands…something about his hands…and he
….
“Shannon, come back here. What’s going through your head?”
He’d carried her out to the car. The cool rain splashed her. His shoes squelched on the pavement with wet slaps. Her face hurt from where he’d squeezed her mouth. Her wrists ached, and blood rushed to her face. The pulse of her heart seemed to echo in her ears. Every step, his shoulder cut into her stomach, and then she landed on the seat—the leather seat. The car smelled of rain, leather, and burnt popcorn. God, she hated the smell of popcorn on its own, much less burnt.
The man who’d shot Katrina slid into the front seat and started—
“Shannon.” Brody shook her, the force snapping her to the present. She lurched off the bed, away from him, and barely reached the bathroom before she threw up. He followed her, and she held onto the edge of the toilet as she emptied her stomach. The water turned on and then off. A moment later, he draped a cool washcloth over the back of her neck and smoothed her hair away from her face.
Trembling seized her as though she were still being shaken, and her stomach roiled all over again. The water came on again, and then Brody reached past her, flushed the toilet, and closed the lid before he urged her to sit on it.
He had to help her hold the glass.
Brown hair…he had brown hair. His hands were rough, and he’d smelled like
…. Her gorge burned a path up her throat. She shot to her feet, and Brody had the toilet open for her and held her hair when she vomited again. Behind her the water turned on again then the shower, and when Brody stripped her out of what was left of her clothes, she let him pull her under the spray.
Hot water spattered her—the force more than the splash of rain. He didn’t let her go. His skin seemed hotter than hers, or maybe her hands were simply icy. The masculine scent of him filled the humid air, but the cloying burnt popcorn seemed permanently lodged in her sinuses…burnt popcorn and damp, musty…. Her mind shied away from it. God, she didn’t want to remember.
Burying her face to Brody’s chest, she tried to blot out the scent memory with the present.
“Talk to me,” he ordered, keeping his arms around her. Unlike her, he still wore jeans, but he didn’t seem to mind the water soaking him. “You remembered something. What was it?”
The hand clapping over her mouth—the scent of it. She’d wanted to throw up. She would never forget the smell. Only she had…until now. Not wanting to recall it, she’d shoved it out of her mind. And water sliding down her neck. Cold dripping into her soul.
Leather seats.
Damp, mustiness.
Burnt popcorn.
“Plaster,” she whispered. “It’s a sour odor, like rotting eggs when it’s wet. I smelled plaster.”
Brody held her chin in his hand, tipping her head back so the water cascaded over her hair. Hell, if not for him, she’d collapse right there in the shower. “Like the man you had an affair with in high school? Greg?”
“No.” Greg’s hair hadn’t been brown. “He had this reddish-blond hair, almost coarse, and kind of curly. The man who broke in here had brown hair.”
“You didn’t see him, sweetheart. He grabbed you from behind.” No disbelief, just a confirmation of facts.
“In the car….” She swallowed hard. “I saw him in the car. His profile. The lightning kept flashing. His hair was brown, and he….” The world swam. Bands of pressure squeezed her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Flashes illuminated the inside of the car. He started the vehicle, and he—
A hard kiss forced air into her, and she clung to Brody, fighting through the flashback replaying in her mind with violent intensity. “You shouldn’t,” she told him and tried to pull away.
“Why not?” He raised his brows.
Shannon groaned and settled for giving him a closed-mouth kiss before drawing back. “Because my mouth tastes like ass.”
“You say potato, I say po-tah-to.” A terrible joke that wasn’t even particularly funny, but she laughed anyway.
“He hummed, Brody.” Saying it aloud made it real. “I heard him hum when he started the car, and I remembered hearing it before.”
“Not Greg.” The hot water continued to pour around them. Despite the steamy heat and his nearness, she was so cold.
“Not Greg.” She confirmed and then dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Dale Weston. His name was Dale Weston, and he was in one of my life studies class. He didn’t have an artistic bone is his body for creating new, but he excelled at replicas. They expelled him the same year…he’d been copying other students’ work and selling it.”
“Babe, I’m not following.”
“When Jeanine fixed me up with him, I didn’t remember him…barely remember him now.” It wasn’t because he’d been unremarkable, far from it. From the moment he’d picked her up for dinner, she’d been uncomfortable. She’d wanted to make her excuses and leave him at the curb but had promised Jeanine she would try. “I told her I would do it because I needed to get back out, I needed to stop running. She said he was a nice guy, bland and unthreatening…and he liked my work. She told me he’d seen me at an opening. Never mentioned which one, but it should have been a red flag.”
Brody shifted her to the wall, and she leaned against the cool tile. “This is the D guy you couldn’t remember.” Always clarifying, assuring his facts.
Shannon nodded. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t want it to be real.”
Lathering his hands up, he began to wash her arms, and she let him. She wanted to run away. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. But you’re not there anymore, and you’ve been running for a long time. You don’t have to run now, but you do have to tell me.”
“You’re going to think less of me.” Hating how small she sounded, she fumbled for her earlier anger and failed. Dale had taken her to an Italian place because she loved Italian food. How could she have been so stupid? At no point had she mentioned her likes or dislikes. He’d brought up Florence and her exchange program. Shannon didn’t talk about that with anyone.
The whole meal had been uncomfortable; she’d barely touched her food. Finally pleading illness, she’d gone to the bathroom. Once there, she’d called Jeanine and told her she couldn’t do this. She needed a ride home. Jeanine talked her down from her fear, talked her into giving it one more shot. When she’d gone back to the table, he had his back to her…and he’d been humming.
Reciting the story in a wooden voice, she barely felt Brody washing her, but the movement of his hands kept her grounded. Every time she thought she began to slip off into the dark place, Brody was there, anchoring her to the present.
“What did you do?” Again, he threw her a lifeline.
So, there she’d been, standing in the Italian restaurant, and the song he hummed slammed into her like a physical blow. One she experienced all over again in the back of the car. Terror spilled into her veins like a virus, destroying everything in its path. “You know those zombie movies where they pile on top of each other, this seething mass of violent death, pawing, scrambling, and clawing their way to the surface, and you know they’re just going to keep coming, and nothing you do will stop them?”
Brody nodded and maneuvered her under the water to rinse off the soap. The tension drained away, and her muscles went lax. She was a doll. Brody could manipulate her however he wished, so unlike anyone else in her life. She trusted him. Really
trusted
him. Even with Brody pushing her to face the memory, she had fled full throttle for years, she wanted to do it for him.
For her.
“It all rushed over me in one moment, and I remembered the night I’d forgotten. I remembered him touching me and not being able to do a damn thing about it.” A hard lump formed in her throat. “I just laid there, and he grabbed me and touched me and grunted, and I didn’t want him to, but I couldn’t even find the strength to push him off me. When he finally stopped, I just remember being glad it was over, and then I closed my eyes. I wanted to forget it happened—pretend it never did.” Everything in her revolted, and she tried to drag air into her lungs. “He was humming when he left my room.”
The same song he’d hummed in the car.
The same, almost cheerful tune he’d hummed in the restaurant.
“I ran. I turned around, walked out of the restaurant and never went back. I lost my shoes somewhere, and I was running barefoot. I caught a taxi and went back to my place. I locked myself in, and I didn’t come back out.” She’d been out on a blind date with her rapist. “I didn’t tell anyone because I thought…it was crazy. That I was crazy. I didn’t go out with anyone again…not till the night I met you.”
“Shannon.” He said her name in the softest whisper. His face swam in her wavering vision. Tears she didn’t even realize she’d been shedding slipped free with every blink. “You beat him, babe…you got him out. He’s held you captive for years, and you fought him. You got away. He’s
never
touching you again.”
“Do you hate me?” She didn’t know if she could stand losing Brody. “I went out with him. I recognized him, and I didn’t report it…
twice
. ”
“Shh, how can I hate the other half of my heart? You were a POW, even seeing the open gate you didn’t believe it. It happens. But you’re not in that cell anymore. I’m here, and we’re getting out of here together, okay?” His arms tightened around her. “Hold onto me, babe.”
“Brody?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.” Shaken to her core, she chipped away the debris she’d all but buried her heart in. “I love you so much.”
His fierce grin housed joy. “I love you, too.”
Cold, quiet rage seethed beneath his skin, and the urge to hunt one “Dale Weston” fired across every nerve ending. However, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave her in in this moment. Nor could he resist touching her. Her admission of love filled in all the dark, empty spaces in his soul. The more he knew her, the more he loved her.
From experience, he knew how soft her skin was, but he needed to touch her and taste. Unwilling to wait longer, he stripped off his soaked jeans and shut off the water before wrapping her in a towel and carrying her back to the bed. Setting her on her feet, he kept her steady. Slipping a hand over her shoulder, he indulged himself. Damn, she was softer than silk.