Jesse's Girl Page 4

  “I love you.” He tangled a hand in her hair and whispered, “My beautiful Zoe…kiss me.”

  She did, tears burning her eyes as she bent closer.

  When it was over, she had curled her body around his, their hands linked over his heart and she’d pretended, just for a little while, that everything was fine.

  She carried that pretense even into her dreams.

  Happy, sweet dreams.

  It was just before dawn when those dreams turned into a waking nightmare.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Brutal, hard hands closed around her throat, squeezing, choking the life out of her.

  Scrabbling at them, she was dimly aware of a low, angry voice snarling in her ear.

  “Fucking cunt. I’ve seen you staring at him—how can you do that? After what he did, how he treated you, but you pant after him like a bitch in heat?”

  A nightmare, it had to be.

  Because that was Roger’s voice, and he’d never hurt her.

  She raked her nails over the strong, brutal hands at her throat, but it did no good. As the pain worsened, as her air dwindled, some latent instinct kicked in and she struck out, driving her hand upward, striking his throat.

  He let her go and she all but fell out of the bed, sobbing.

  Asleep. I’m still asleep.

  But she could hardly breathe. It hurt to breathe. Barely able to see in the dim room, she hit the bedside lamp just in time to see him coming for her.

  Naked, his eyes wild, he looked nothing like the man she’d married.

  It wasn’t just the weight he’d lost over the past few years, although the cancer had eaten away at his once big body. Muscle and skin stretched over a long, lean body, skinny—too skinny.

  His eyes, though, they were the biggest difference, and they terrified her. Wild…crazed. Insane.

  In her raw, savaged voice, she said, “Roger, what’s wrong?”

  “Whore,” he muttered.

  Then he backhanded her.

  He might have lost a lot of weight, but he was still so strong. The blow knocked her into the wall, her head striking it. She collapsed in a heap, the pain screaming through her. The shock shattered her, left her numb. Black dots danced in front of her eyes and for a moment, she lay there, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

  Staring at the floor, she licked her lips and tasted blood.

  Something moved just as the edge of her vision and she looked up.

  Roger.

  It was Roger.

  She made herself look into his eyes…and just like moments earlier, they were the eyes of a stranger.

  Dear God.

  Forcing her hands under her body, she shoved up. Fiery pain jabbed into her side, almost sending her back to the floor, but she ignored it. Keeping her back pressed to the wall, she edged around the room. The door. She had to get to the damn door.

  It was weird, hearing the wail of sirens shattering the peaceful night in this small town.

  Damn weird, but Jesse grunted and with the ease of somebody who’d spent a number of years hearing sirens in the night, he pulled a pillow over his head and went back to sleep.

  Sometime later, though, the phone started to ring and that wasn’t quite so easy to ignore.

  Swearing, he grabbed it and squinted, recognizing his dad’s number. Dread rolled through him—Roger…

  He answered the phone but it was nearly fifteen seconds before he could make himself say anything.

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesse.” His dad’s voice sounded like he’d aged thirty years in just a matter of hours. They’d gone to the town’s lone sports grill just a few hours earlier. Had a few beers. Some wings. Talked sports, town crap…danced around the fact that one of his dad’s best friends, one of Jesse’s oldest friends was probably weeks away from dying.

  Weeks—Roger should have had more time. Fuck, this was going to shatter Zoe. It flashed through his mind, the memory of how she’d looked just over a week ago when she’d told him that she loved Roger. Jealousy had all but gutted Jesse, but still, a part of him had been happy for her. He wanted her, but he loved her enough that he was glad she’d spent the past fifteen years happy.

  And now she was losing that.

  “It’s Roger,” he said, forcing the words out.

  “Actually…” Dad’s voice broke. Then he cleared his throat, and his voice, that deep, steady voice leveled out and he said calmly, “Son, it’s Zoe. She’s in the hospital. I didn’t want you to hear this from anybody else. It…Jesse, it appears that Roger has beaten her. It looks bad.”

  Zoe.

  Hospital.

  Beaten…

  Oh, God.

  He was on the floor, on his knees, and he didn’t even know how he had gotten there. Clutching the phone so hard the plastic cracked, he said, “No. That’s bullshit. That’s fucking bullshit.”

  “Jesse. It’s not. The sheriff called me himself. He knew I’d want to know.”

  “Roger wouldn’t hurt her,” Jesse snarled. Then, before he could say anything else, he hurled the phone across the room and stood up. No. None of this was true.

  It was nothing but a line of bullshit. He’d go to the hospital.

  Zoe wouldn’t be there.

  She was at home. Asleep. With her fucking husband, Jesse’s best friend who was dying…from a brain tumor…oh God…

  Pain chased her.

  Pain.

  Fear.

  And shock.

  When hands touched her, she cringed away.

  When voices spoke to her, she pretended not to hear.

  When gentle fingers lifted her lids, the light made her head ache.

  She did not want to wake up.

  But she wouldn’t have much choice, she knew.

  Familiar voices rose and fell around her and as much as she wanted to pretend as though she couldn’t hear them, that wouldn’t be an option for much longer.

  They tried to be quiet, but they weren’t quiet enough.

  Standing by the foot of the bed, the sheriff spoke with James, and the older gentleman said, his voice heavy with grief, “I just don’t know. I know Roger adores her…he’s never once laid a hand on her to my knowledge.”

  “Women often hide abuse.”

  Sighing, Zoe opened her eyes. She couldn’t hide from this another moment. Staring at the sheriff, she said, “Roger’s never abused me before in his life.”

  Then she blinked, astounded at the broken, completely thrashed sound of her voice. She sounded like a damned frog, and her throat hurt. Reaching up, she touched her neck and winced at the rough, tender flesh her fingers encountered.

  James looked at her, and the look of relief on his face had her shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “Oh, thank God you’re awake, Zoe.”

  “Hey.” She forced a smile for him. “You didn’t have to come.”

  He gave her a tired smile. “You’re not a stupid girl. Where else would I be? Two of my favorite people are here, of course, I’m here too.”

  “Two.” She plucked at the sheet and shifted around. Then she licked her lips and made herself look him square in the eye. “Roger’s here? Is he feeling worse?”

  James wouldn’t look at her. Sheriff Tim McAfee averted his eyes as well. That was when she realized there was a third person in the small cubicle of a room.

  Jesse.

  A grim, unsmiling shadow, leaning against the wall and staring at her with intense eyes. He had his hands jammed in his pockets and he looked at her face as though he couldn’t bear to look away.

  He flicked a glance between his dad and the sheriff and then he sighed. “Roger’s here, Zo. But not because he’s sicker…that way. They had to admit him for psychiatric reasons. Right now, he’s sedated.”

  “Psychiatric…” Blood rushed to her face. She went to sit up, but pain screamed through her. “Get whatever idiot did that in here now. I want him released.”

  “I’m one of the idiots responsible,” the sheriff said, h
is voice soft, but firm. “And if he’s released, then keep in mind, Zoe, I will consider arresting him.”

  Pain be damned. Kicking the sheets aside, she shoved out of the bed. Her legs nearly buckled under her, but she ignored the weakness, glaring at him. “Excuse me?”

  In response, he lifted something from the bedside table. “Look.”

  Out of reflex, she glanced down.

  It was a mirror.

  Her breath lodged in her throat.

  Of course, looking at her reflection, she realized it was a miracle she was breathing at all. Her face was…battered. A dark rainbow of colors, the bruise on her left eye spreading down across her cheekbone, up over her eyebrow, nearly to her hairline.

  She swallowed and the pain there had her glancing at her throat. The marks there were an angry, vivid red.

  “He didn’t mean it,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He didn’t.”

  “I believe that,” the sheriff said. “And in this case, I can actually say that and mean it. I’ve talked to the doctors and I understand a brain tumor can cause…behavioral shifts, even drastic, violent ones.”

  He took a deep breath and then asked, “Have you noticed any unusual behavior? Mood swings? That sort of thing?”

  Memory after memory slammed into her. The talk with Roger’s oncologist.

  All those weird, weird incidents with Roger.

  She wanted to scream, but the pain in her throat wouldn’t let her. Over the past month, those “bad moods” of Roger’s, they’d gotten steadily worse. “He…ah…” she paused, and licked her lips. “He hasn’t gotten violent, but he’s angry a lot.”

  Over the smallest things—he didn’t get enough ham on his sandwich, or there was a slice too much. The soup wasn’t warm enough, or too warm. His blankets didn’t feel like they’d been washed—he didn’t like her hair. Everything , it seemed. She’d swear she did nothing but anger him, except the moods passed as quickly as they came on, and then he’d be fine.

  “Angry a lot,” McAfee said. “But he’s never lifted a hand to you until now?”

  “No. And this wasn’t his fault.”

  “I believe you.” He sighed, his eyes sad.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Then why do you want to arrest him?”

  “Zoe.”

  She looked away from the sheriff and met Jesse’s eyes.

  “He doesn’t. But he doesn’t want to not make it in time either.”

  Her legs buckled and if Jesse hadn’t caught her, she would have hit the floor. Every last inch of her body hurt. Including her heart, her soul.

  “Come on,” Jesse murmured, helping her back to the bed. “Just sit down. Rest.”

  Rest.

  She wanted to sob, to scream. How could she rest?

  He brushed her hair back from her face. Unable to look away, she stared at his face. His blue eyes were unreadable, but somehow, she knew there was a wealth of emotion lying in wait. She could all but feel the tension, the anger, the worry inside him.

  “Do you remember calling 911?” Jesse asked softly.

  9-1-1.

  A flash of memory rushed her, just the barest glimpse. But it faded all too quick. Swallowing, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”

  Reaching up, she touched her throat as she started to shake.

  She didn’t remember the call, but she did remember waking up.

  Waking up, and convinced it was a nightmare.

  A harsh, broken sob spilled out of her, but she swallowed it, battled it back. Wasn’t going to cry, couldn’t cry.

  What happened, it wasn’t Roger’s fault. He was sick.

  After leaving Dr. Sanders’s office earlier that week, she’d done some serious research into brain tumors—serious research. Yeah, they could definitely cause mood swings, sometimes violent outbursts. She’d read all sorts of disturbing stories. One guy with a brain tumor had even sat around talking about raping his landlady, but before he’d gotten sick, he hadn’t ever shown any signs of violence. And once the tumor was removed he had seemed fine.

  Of course, Roger wasn’t going to be fine—

  That scream, still trapped inside, struggled to get free.

  She couldn’t, didn’t blame him. Shaking her head, she looked up and said, “My husband is dying. And I’m not going to leaving him here to die in a hospital or a jail.”

  McAfee’s face was implacable. “And I’m not going to let a man go home if I suspect he may be a threat to you.” Then he inclined his head. “However, there’s more than just my opinion to consider here, more than just yours. I’ve already spoken to your husband—”

  “You what? Did he have his lawyer?”

  “Zoe, calm down and just listen,” James said, sighing. “He wasn’t there to arrest him or read him his rights or anything. Roger asked to speak to him. I was in there with him. Just give him a minute.”

  “Thank you, James.” The sheriff tipped his hat. “I spoke with Roger and he’s not willing to go home until he knows he’s not going to hurt you.”

  “He won’t do it again,” Zoe said through clenched teeth.

  “Twenty-four hours ago, you never would have thought he would have done it to begin with,” Jesse said.

  She glared at him. “You know, none of this concerns you.”

  “The hell it doesn’t,” he snapped. “You got any idea what it did to me when I walked in here and saw you? When I went up and saw him? When he asked me how you were? He made me tell him what you looked like and I had to tell him, in excruciating detail, just how you looked, and I had to watch as he remembered what he’d done. He didn’t remember, Zoe, not until I told him. But he remembers now, and part of him was trying to stop, but he couldn’t shut it off. I love both of you, so don’t fucking tell me it doesn’t concern me.”

  He was shouting by the time he was finished and then, abruptly, he spun on his heel and shoved past the sheriff out into the hall. James gave her a pained smile. “He’s had a rough day. I think we all have. I’ll go talk to him.”

  The sheriff started to speak, but nothing he said registered.

  She was still sitting there, half in shock over Jesse’s words.

  I love both of you…

  He hadn’t meant it like that.

  He couldn’t have.

  He didn’t still love her.

  He couldn’t still love her.

  “It’s a fair compromise,” the sheriff said softly.

  A fair compromise, she thought.

  Roger could go home. No charges pressed, nothing.

  If Jesse came home with them…and stayed. Until it was over.

  As in when Roger died. Basically, he was there to be her bodyguard.

  That’s what this little soiree was about.

  “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  Looking from the sheriff to her husband, she said, “You all can’t be serious?”

  “We’re very serious,” Roger said.

  There was one of the lawyers from the courthouse there too.

  They were trying to make this look all nice and official, it seemed.

  She couldn’t think.

  Zoe turned away and stared out into the parking lot. Roger was in a wheelchair next to her.

  Jesse was sitting in a chair by the door, absently drumming his fingers on his knee and looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  Why had he agreed to this?

  Why had Roger?

  Whose idea was this?

  From the corner of her eye, she studied James. His, maybe? It didn’t quite seem like the sheriff’s idea. And coming from James, it made sense. He’d always been protective of her. It was a lot like him actually, finding a way to take care of her, no matter what.

  As the silence in the room stretched out, threatening to suffocate them all, she turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. They all stared at her. She was tempted to make a face at them, just to see what they would do. Instead, she just asked, “So
whose idea was this?”

  “Mine.”

  She turned her head and gaped at Roger.

  “Yours?”

  A smile curled at his lips. “Why do you look so surprised?” he murmured. Then he glanced at their audience. “Can you all give us a few minutes?”

  Feeling like an utter bitch, she flashed the sheriff and Jesse a sharp-edged smile and said, “Oh, I don’t know. They might think it’s not safe—you look real dangerous sitting in that wheelchair, sweetheart.”

  A muscle in Roger’s cheek jerked and pain, grief, flashed through his eyes.

  She could have kicked herself—would have kicked herself.

  “Zoe,” Roger said, his voice quiet and firm. “Look in the mirror.”

  She sighed and looked away. “Damn it, Roger, I know what I look like.” She knew in excruciating detail—just washing her face was a lesson in agony right now.

  “Look in the mirror,” he said again.

  Shooting him a narrow look, she turned her head and stared at in the mirror over the plain sink. Stared at her battered face, all the bruises—the ones ringing her neck, the ones on her face. “I see, Roger. I know what I look like, I know what happened.”

  “I did that to you, baby,” he said. “I did it.”

  “You didn’t—that fucking tumor in your head did it.”

  Roger snorted. “Unless the tumor climbed out of my skull and grew hands? No. I did it. Yeah, the tumor is why, and it’s what drove me to do it, but it still doesn’t change what happened.”

  Swallowing, she looked away. Was this it? Was she going to have to share her husband for what little time she had left with him?

  Shit, no. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at their audience. “He’s fine right now. I know when he’s not—I can see it in his eyes. Give us a few damn minutes.”

  Everybody, save for Roger, filed out of the room. As the door swung shut behind Jesse, Roger held out a hand. “Come here, baby.”

  She went to him, placed her hand in his. He tugged, patted a knee. She gingerly sat down, even though some part of her feared it. She knew he hadn’t been himself when he’d hurt her, but she couldn’t stop that knee-jerk reaction. Swallowing, she rested her head against his shoulder, mindful of the IV tubing on his right arm.