“Jeb, shhh,” I sigh and put my finger over his lips to stop him from talking.

  He closes his eyes inhaling deeply like he’s taking a moment to make sense of what he saw in my eyes.

  When he opens them he stands up with a low deep groan.

  Pain.

  He walks past me and grabs the whiteboard from the counter.

  He writes.

  Talk. To. Me.

  I force a smile and nod, in which he frowns and holds it up and points at the words.

  I turn around and walk to the freezer.

  “I cooked while you were, while you were,” I stifle back the tears, “gone and I...” I stop because I’m going to cry, I’m going to cry for several reasons, all which lead to the fact that I am going to lose him, I already did.

  “Mary,” his voice is strained and hoarse.

  I open the freezer and containers spill out all over the floor.

  “Damnit!” I yell as I quickly bend down and pick them up.

  When I stand to put some of them back he grabs me from behind, turns me towards him, takes the containers out of my hands and puts them back in the freezer.

  I bend down and pick up the rest and he points to the garage, steps behind me, guiding me by my shoulder he leads me out and I end up in front of a full-size freezer.

  I look back at him. “I made a lot.”

  He holds four fingers up and then points to himself.

  I nod. “Yes, for you but also to keep myself from going insane.”

  He holds four fingers up again, and then points to me.

  “For me,” I nod.

  He holds his arm up and makes a muscle and points to me.

  “No, I’m not strong,” I tell him in a tone that is semi self-deprecating.

  “—er,” he husks out.

  After a few minutes all the food that didn’t fit in the refrigerator freezer now fit, there was even enough room for more.

  He looks tired, exhausted, and it’s my fault.

  Mine.

  He thinks I’m stronger, and I’m not.

  Once inside he holds up the sign.

  Talk. To. Me.

  “I’m hungry,” I say, diverting the conversation to a direction that avoids the inevitable.

  He walks over and grabs one of his prescriptions off the counter, looks at it then opens it and takes one out, puts it in his mouth and swallows it down without water.

  I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and give it to him. He takes it and nods to the living room.

  “I’ll bring you soup,” I say and hurry to do just that.

  When I walk in I hand him the bowl that has a cup handle on it with a soup spoon. He takes it and pats the spot next to him.

  “Give me just a minute. I have to turn off the stove and put the leftovers away.”

  “Mary,” he whispers and he sighs.

  “Be right back.”

  I hurry out of the room and get busy cleaning up the mess I’ve made of his perfect kitchen.

  I hear the clink of his spoon against the bowl from the other room and it warms my heart that he is eating something I cooked for him. It’s silly, I know it is, but cooking has never been something I have enjoyed. There isn’t much you can do with boxed meals, or frozen TV dinners and Frankie and Renee actually knew how to cook and honestly I was just happy having them around.

  I put three big servings in a medium size glass bowl and put them in the refrigerator and scooped out the rest putting it into the freezer safe bowls.

  When that’s done, I clean up my mess.

  I use the bathroom and then let Shady out to do her thing before I look back in the kitchen trying to think of something else that needs to be done, to busy myself before heading into the living room.

  I look at him sitting in the recliner. He’s asleep in his navy-blue sweatpants and a matching T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest. He is beautiful even with the bruises and lacerations. He is without a doubt the most beautiful and awe-inspiring man I have met.

  The memory of the first time we met is ever present. I wanted to distrust him, I wanted to believe he was no different than so many men I had met in my past, but he wasn’t. Jebadiah Shadows is so much better than I am. He deserves better than I can give him. I am terrified of what I need to tell him, the things he doesn’t know. If he doesn’t know, I am one hundred percent sure he will not let go and he deserves that.

  My hope is to someday be the woman he thinks I am, but I am not her, not yet, probably not ever, but I want to be. But fear is a very strong emotion, hope outshined it. Now with him in the spotlight and the promise, or threat of a campaign where I too may be, it cannot happen.

  “Tomorrow I will stop being so selfish,” I say as I pat Shady’s head and sit in the recliner next to him. “Tomorrow I will leave here, with enough to get him through his healing.”

  I look at him and he is sound asleep. I know I should wake him but I can’t. I want to be honest with him and maybe, if I tell him everything about me, the things he doesn’t know while he’s asleep I can lie to myself saying I did at least that.

  “I was thirteen the first time he abused me. I let him. I let him because he said he needed me. He said that I was the only person who understood what it was like to try and make mother come back to life, pull her from the depression, and fail. He said that he wasn’t sure how long he could stay in that house with her if he didn’t have me. He said that he knew I felt the same way about him and that father, may he rest in peace, would expect it from us, for her. I let him touch me. I let him touch me because it made him stay. It made him happy and with him there, food wasn’t a luxury, lights were not shut off and we had his vehicle, since ours was repossessed, and with him there Mom got out of bed and I wasn’t afraid she would die too.

  “I didn’t just let him touch me, I liked it. It made me feel something other than afraid, alone, and powerless. I let him touch me because in allowing it, I had the power to make a change for us.”

  Everything I have said is whispered.

  “When it became too much, when I realized how wrong it was, how twisted it was, I started letting other boys touch me and tried to make him promise to stop. He said he would, but he didn’t, and I was just as bad as him. I liked it. I liked feeling. He told me I was just as much to blame as he was and that he would tell everyone that I wanted him too. He hit me, he hit me and made me promise to never say a word. He hit me and said that if I did tell, he would make my life hell. It was already hell. Then I let him touch me because he told me if I continued fighting it he would kill her.

  “I let him touch me, I actively participated in the filth between us. If I didn’t, worse things would happen. I let him touch me.”

  I wipe away the tears falling down my face and continue.

  “Be a good girl Mary, be a good girl and I won’t hurt you anymore because I love you and no one else ever has or ever will. God took your father Mary, he took your father to teach you how to be a good girl. Fate, fate was what brought us together.”

  Every feeling I had back then resurfaced. My skin felt dirty, my name felt filthy, it was dirty, ruined, just like me.

  “I tried to show him he was wrong. I did. I hid inside darkness and not just inside. How did no one know? He told me it was because they didn’t care, that only he did. I swear I saw my mother watching once, watching as I cried while he hurt me. She looked ashamed and then she walked away leaving me in a position that was powerless yet powerful.”

  My tears don’t slow but I have learned how to cry silently.

  “Is that a skill? Is that how the millions of children, women, and men in this world who have been assaulted, abused, raped, cope every day? Do they cry inside. Do they know they could have stopped something by just telling someone, but were too afraid to speak out? Still afraid to speak out? Do they look in the mirror and wonder what they did to deserve it? Do they feel like they didn’t matter, that their feelings and pain were their own fault. Did they see someone they loved, someone who was supposed to protect them, witness what happened and walk away validating that their self-hate was warranted. Did they—"

  “Mary,” he husks out and I jump.

  Tight

  Shadows

  “Oh god,” she gasps and tries to get up, get away.

  “Stay.” I hold her tight.

  “I thought,” she says, wiping away her tears. “I thought you were asleep.”

  The physical pain of holding her as she tries to move away is nothing compared to the emotional gutting I just underwent.

  To live knowing these disgusting acts of violence happen every day is enough to bring a strong man to his knees. The glimpse inside of a victim’s head, coupled with the words that accompany them describing the way they view themselves, the way they live in fear, in rage, in pain. Hating themselves for something so far beyond their control that it took any control they had with it, well that could kill a man.

  The way she blames herself harsher than she blames the perpetrator, and those who allowed it to go on that brings on tears.

  “Not going anywhere,” I whisper, holding her face in my hands so she is forced to look at me. “Strong, so strong.”

  She tries to shake her head no and I hold it still. “Strong enough to become a warrior and win.”

  She reaches up and I expect her to put her little finger up to cover my lips and tell me to Shh, like she has every time I try to talk, but she doesn’t. She wipes away a fucking tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.

  I groan, angry that I let her see me weak, and she lets more tears fall.

  “Too early to say what’s in here.” I take my hand and hold it over my heart.

  She shakes her head no. “I’m not good for you.”

  “It’s yours, has been.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Then break it.” I swallow back tears and clear my throat. “I gave it to you to do whatever you want to do to it. If you want to break it, then break it, it’s yours.”

  She looks shocked, confused, scared. “Don’t.”

  “It’s done.”

  “Jeb,” she whispers.

  “It’s yours and yours is mine.”

  Then I see what appears to be the fog lifting inside her eyes as she looks at me.

  “See me?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Feel me?”

  She nods again.

  “Don’t leave damn it. Don’t.”

  She nods again and then wipes her nose with her sleeve.

  “Tired,” I tell her.

  She leans in and kisses me, soft, gentle, it’s fucking needed by both of us. That’s better than a handshake or a word. It’s her promise stamped by a kiss. No words necessary.

  Takes a hell of a lot out of me to climb the stairs but I do with my arm around her. It’s not the physical pain, it’s the sick feeling in my stomach, a feeling I have felt before.

  Saw her look at me like she wanted to be afraid, and I knew she wasn’t. Then when my head wasn’t all about Jax and Frankie’s ordeal, I saw her. Saw it in her. I knew what she had been through, didn’t need to read it in a report, just had to see her and see her I did. Unfortunately, the physical attraction was too fucking strong to ignore and my dick, well it has a mind of its own. Fucking thing.

  Was no different for her, she looked at me like she wanted me, undeniably, but that fight, deflection, and lies she told herself and me certainly slowed the process.

  Not anymore.

  “Bed,” I say as she heads to the bathroom.

  “No, shower, a bath, do you need—”

  “Bed.”

  “If you promise me you’ll stop talking,” she says, standing perfectly unmoving.

  I nod yes.

  Tonight, I sleep in a T-shirt and sweatpants. I know how my scars affect her and I also know my body will.

  Same way hers does mine.

  It’s not sick, disgusting, wrong, it’s two people saying I need to feel you, deeper. I know that, but after her words tonight. Can’t do it.

  She was deeper than balls to me before, and now, well now, deeper than ever.

  I hold her in my arms, she’s stiff at first, but when I tug her hair and make her look up at me, give her forehead a kiss and hold her a little tighter, she relaxes.

  As I begin to fall asleep I miss my little sis, and the pain in my heart for two girls, Mary and her, tear me up inside. I’d take what I just went through times ten over this shit.

  Fucking hurts.

  When I wake in pain my girl Shady is snuggled up against me. Immediately I sit up and that hurts too, but not as bad as seeing Mary sitting next to the bed on the floor looking down.

  I clear my throat to speak and she looks up. “Shh,” she says as she sets down the book in her hand and stands.

  I point to the book and she bends down to get it and shows it to me. It’s a picture album.

  I pat the spot in the bed next to me and she sits down.

  I try to take the book and she holds it tight at first but then let’s go.

  I open the brown worn leather five by seven album and there is a picture of a baby with a very happy young couple.

  I point to the baby and then her, she nods confirming it’s her.

  “I’m going to get you a drink.” I hold my knee and keep her in place. “And a pain pill.”

  I nod, grab her face pulling her towards me, and kiss her cheek.

  “Th—”

  “No talking. None,” she says in sort of a plea.

  I stare at her. She stares back, giving me a look of determination. I like it.

  I nod. She smiles, gets up, and leaves.

  From the hall she calls, “Come on Shady.”

  I flip from the hospital pic of her and her parents and the next photo is of her being held by a man, the man in the first picture, I assume her father.

  She is in pink, and he is staring at her like she is his world. It’s heartwarming.

  The next few pages seem to skip about six months, then one a year. All pics on the left are of her and her father, on the right are her and her mother. The background is her family home. I recognize it from when I was doing the background check on Mary. The double wide home in rural Pennsylvania, was on a realtor site a few years back. I’m assuming it was after her father passed and her mother had serious financial problems.

  The last picture was Mary at about twelve-years-old, outside of her home on an old wooden swing that hung from the one tree in the middle of the backyard. She was leaning back, eyes closed, a smile that can only be described as full of sadness, her hair touching the ground, legs high in the air, her feet in little patent leather boots and she was beautiful. I look through the book again, slower this time because I had already seen them once and I was in no hurry.

  I look up when she walks in with a wooden tray in her hands, one I had never seen. On it was a bottle of water, a plate with eggs and a bowl.

  She walks over as I set the photo album on the nightstand beside the bed. She glances at it, her face turns a bit pink, and she looks at my lap as if trying to figure out where to set it. I follow her line of sight.

  Her face turns a bit pinker and normally I would chub up and it sure as hell wouldn’t be my fault. She’s eyeing me and my dick, well, mind of its own. But for some reason, it actually did listen to me.

  I pat my lap and she sets it down cautiously.

  “Does it hurt?”

  I open my mouth to answer and she stops me. “No, I’m already breaking rules by feeding you, but there is so much time that, well and, well I like to cook.” She hands me a notebook. “So no talking.”

  I give her a small smile and nod.

  I know what she needs, I know what she wants, and nothing in her past will take that away, because I do not fail, not anymore.

  Shh...

  Mary

  I pull the pill bottle out of my pocket and open it. I pour out one pill and attempt to hand it to him. Instead of taking it he opens his mouth and pushes his tongue out.

  I look at his eyes and back at his thick long tongue, and then back again.

  His eyes widen a bit before he reaches out and takes the pill, puts it in his mouth, takes the bottle of the water, opens it and swallows back the pill.

  What is wrong with me? He clearly knows I am thinking about him, and in a very sexual nature. After everything I know he heard last night, I can honestly admit that I am more embarrassed than I have ever been in my entire life.

  He pats the bed again and when I sigh he grabs the notebook and writes, I read it.

  I’m not going to bite you.

  To not to appear as awkward as I actually feel, or embarrassed as I should be, I climb up and sit cross legged beside him.

  I look down at my folded hands and feel his eyes on me.

  I glance up and he is looking at my lips. When he notices me looking at him he licks them, gives me a slow wink and looks at the plate.

  “You should eat before it gets—”

  I stop when a spoon full of the fluffy scrambled eggs approaches my mouth.

  I lean back slightly. “They’re for...” I stop when he smirks and pushes the spoon in my mouth.

  As I chew I watch his eyes smile, there is a playful look in them. I prefer it to the sadness I saw in them last night caused by my secret admissions, that weren’t so secret. In fact in his playful smile I almost forget about it, almost.

  I take the spoon and scoop up some and hold it to his mouth, the look turns from playful to surprise, and then appreciation.

  Each bite I give him is returned and before long, the plateful of eggs, intended for him was shared between us.

  Us.

  Next is the oatmeal and when I tell him I don’t like oatmeal he smirks and looks amused, then he opens his mouth and I feed him the entire bowl one spoonful at a time.

  When he finishes he looks tired, no doubt from the finally full belly, and the pain medication.

  “I’ll let you rest," I say as I start to stand.

  He grabs my hand as I start to move, then points to the bathroom.

  “Okay. I’ll give you some privacy.”

  He shakes his head no and grabs the notebook and writes.

  Bath.

 

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