Текст книги "Revealed to Him"

Автор книги: Jen Frederick

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JAKE

If anyone asks, I will swear I saw a holy being as Natalie sucked me to the back of her throat. Later, after she brushes her teeth three times, she lets me kiss her, and after a week of deprivation, I can barely stand upright after our kiss. And that’s not even because I’m without my fake leg.

The next morning we sleep in and then order breakfast to be delivered from a local deli.

“I’m going to restart therapy with Dr. Terrance,” she tells me. I try to hide my frown behind a bite of my breakfast sandwich, but I’m not successful. “He was right last week, maybe not about leaving, but he gave me a one-week supply of sleeping pills, telling me my mind and body needed to rest. I wasn’t thinking straight with the stress of finishing the book and living in a new place.”

“And having someone intentionally fuck with your mind,” I finish for her.

She shoots me a wry look. “That too. But after a week of sleep, I was able to think more clearly, and it brought me back to you.”

I capture her hand and press a kiss against it. “I’m here to support you, not tell you what to do.”

“I know. I love that.” She rubs her head against my shoulder, the long strands tickling my skin.

Abruptly I shove aside breakfast and push her against the covers. “Breakfast is over.”

She laughs and spreads her arms wide. “I’m down with that.”

Later she tests my ability to sit back and allow her to do her own thing. A frown settles in as she sorts through her manuscript.

“Have you chosen a new editor?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Not yet. When you have an editor that you . . . love, it’s more than a business relationship. It’s a true meeting of the minds. I guess that’s how Daphne was so effective.” She gives me a wincing smile. “She knew me like no one else.”

“Have you answered any of her emails or texts?” Daphne has been trying to open a line of communication but so far, Natalie has resisted. I wish she’d block Daphne.

“No. I’m not ready. I may never be ready.”

I have no sympathy for Daphne. “You don’t get extra life points for forgiving someone who dicked you over.”

This time when she smiles, it’s without as much pain. “I know. It’s hard, and I really, really appreciate you allowing me to deal with this in my own way.”

“I’m a prince.” I wink. “Since I’m not hassling you about Daphne, will you let me go over and get your stuff?”

She wants her laptop and suitcase full of things she took with her when she left, including, she says in a ploy to get me to agree, my favorite pair of underwear. It’s pink with white lace and bows and it’s tremendously naughty, and I don’t really want to explore what about that schoolgirl look turns me on.

“No, I want to come.”

I nearly bite my tongue off to avoid reminding her of what a mess she was yesterday. “Fine, but we’re going to have a driver and you’re going to sit on me while we’re in the car.”

“Ooh, let me think about that very hard decision. Um, okay, yes.”

In the end, I just finger her while she gives me a hand job. Unfortunately I don’t come and I have an erection that makes it difficult to walk when the car stops outside her Tribeca condo. She’s in a better state than I am in. We kiss fiercely on the way up to the third floor, which does nothing to abate my hard-on. Only the phone call I get does that.

“Go ahead and answer that while I pack,” she says as my phone rings.

It’s Mike.

“I was closing up the file on Natalie when I noticed that there was a message left by the Western Union owner. I called him up and he said that all he was willing to tell me was that the person who paid was not a woman, but an older, well-dressed man. He thought he was in his late fifties, but that the man colored his hair because his eyebrows were graying.”

“So, a second person?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Do you think this guy would be willing to look at pictures?”

“You know who it is?”

“I have an idea.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

I hang up and find Natalie in the bedroom. She’s changing into my favorite panties. I lick my lips.

“What’s up?”

Me, I think. But business before pleasure, especially when that business is Natalie’s safety. “Mike was closing your case and found a weird anomaly. Apparently the Western Union clerk said the person who paid for the delivery truck was not a woman. I want to go down there and talk to them. Maybe Daphne had someone working with her. Will you be okay here? I’ll be an hour, two if traffic is bad.”

“I’ll be fine. I have my laptop and can do some work.”

“Good.” I kiss her on the forehead. “Call me if you need something, anything.”

“I will.” She makes a shooing gesture with her hands.

I don’t wait for the elevator and am grateful for the car service. I won’t waste time finding a parking space. I bark out the address and the driver pulls away. In the car, I pull up Dr. Terrance’s website and find a picture of him. Late fifties, colored hair, and gray eyebrows all fit.

After a meeting with the Western Union manager, I confirm that the person who placed the order was Dr. Terrance. Son of a bitch.

I look at my watch. I’ve only been gone for forty-five minutes. Dr. Terrance’s office is on Madison Avenue and in the midday traffic, it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there. I make a snap judgment to go confront him. This time, I’m not allowing him to leave the city. This man is going down. I’m going to ruin him.

When I arrive at the address, I let myself into the building. His office is on the second floor. I make a show of limping and place my left prosthetic on the lobby table. “I’m here to see Dr. Terrance.”

“Sure. Just a minute.” The guard makes a phone call. “No one is answering the phone, sir.”

“He’s there,” I protest, acting as if not seeing my therapist is an affront. “I just called.”

I grimace and rub the substitute arm as if I’m in a great deal of pain. The security man waffles and then says, “Okay, sign in, though.”

I do and then I slowly make my way to the elevator, pretending to drag my leg behind me. I step out on the second floor and continue the charade until I get to Terrance’s office. It does look like it’s locked up and closed. No matter. His locks are better than those on Natalie’s door or Daphne’s door, but all locks are vulnerable. I shove the door open and a security alarm blinks. I wave at the camera in front of the door. I could care two shits about him knowing I broke in here. I want him to feel vulnerable and afraid. I bypass his secretary’s desk and open his office door. It’s a standard psychiatrist’s office. He has a modern leather sofa and two pricey chairs in front of a massive cherry desk. Along the back wall is a row of matching cherry file cabinets.

I have limited time until the security people show up, so I go to the desk first. If my guesses are right, then he keeps this information close to him. When I discover Natalie’s file in the upper right-hand drawer, all of my guesses are confirmed. On the top, taped to the left side, is a letter from Daphne inviting Terrance to write a book, The Girl Imprisoned, for a million-dollar advance. Below the letter are audiotapes and on the other side, affixed by a metal clamp, is a stack of notes. I peruse them quickly.

Subject responding well to extra-high dose of Restoril. Increase dosage next time by half to see if hallucinations set in.

Subject obeyed directive to return to old condo. Minutes spent counseling: 5.

Subject left condo. Responding to outside stimulus that is not within control. Must disrupt.

That fucker is dead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

NATALIE

My phone rings and it’s the downstairs lobby. “Hi, Chris. If that’s Jake, just let him up.”

“No, it’s Dr. Terrance.”

“Oh, okay, he can come up too.”

I have everything packed and ready to go. I read an email from Daphne’s boss, who informs me that Daphne is taking a leave of absence, and she wonders if I had any preference for a new editor out of a short list she attaches. That’s depressing in so many ways.

I shoot back a reply.

I don’t know any of these folks.

She must be refreshing her emails constantly, because my inbox receives a reply almost immediately.

We can set up appointments for you to meet with them. Brook Myles has a whole stable of really wonderful editors and they would all love to work with you.

I’m not sure what I want to do with my manuscript. I guess it’s time to get an agent. I hadn’t had one before because Daphne bought all the rights for the three books. I had Oliver’s agent look at the contract, who shrugged and said it looked standard. After the option sold, I got a film agent, but I don’t have a publishing agent. Maybe if I’d had one, this debacle with Daphne would never have happened.

Without Daphne around, though, there are hundreds of emails to answer. She’s not filtering them so I start the task of responding to each of them. As I make my way through the first ten, I wonder why I had her doing this in the first place. The emails are so wonderful and encouraging. I could have used these when I was struggling with writing or just struggling in general.

I frown, wondering how much Daphne has hidden from me over the years and why I let her do it.

A knock on the door jolts me and for a moment I freeze. Then I force myself to relax—it’s Dr. Terrance. The video feed that is still working confirms that. I manage to go to the door, ten steps and then five more. I open it and allow him in. The door closes behind him and I lock it for good measure.

“Look at you.” He beams. “Opening the door. The Restoril did its job, didn’t it?”

“It helped,” I admit, but eye the white bag in his hand.

He spots my suitcase immediately. “What’s this?”

“I’m moving back to Jake’s. What are you doing here?”

He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over my kitchen chair. “Natalie, I told you I would return in a week, and here I am, a week later. We’re restarting your therapy. After learning about Daphne, I’ve decided to change your prescriptions and try a couple of new coping techniques. Her betrayal must be cutting you deeply. I imagine that you are going to be suffering a setback shortly and I want to minimize its effects.”

He picks up the suitcase and carries it into the bedroom. “Let’s start by unpacking. You aren’t going back to that townhouse.”

I stare at him, refusing to follow. “I’m not unpacking. Why would I? I can see you at Jake’s place as easily as I can here.”

He heaves a huge sigh. “Natalie, you are unwell. You aren’t in any position to make decisions.”

“I’m not unwell. I’m improving. I—”

His mocking laugh interrupts me. I stand in shock because I’ve never, ever heard him denigrate me like this.

“You’re so foolish. You think one week of good sleep and you can conquer your crippling anxiety. Look at you.” He waves a hand over my figure. “You can’t even open the door to your own condo most of the time. Listen to me. You count opening a door, something normal people do countless times a day, as a victory.”

I flush hot with anger and humiliation. “I don’t think I’m cured or recovered. I just want to live with Jake. I’ll get better every day. I’ll take my medication and I’ll do therapy. Heck, I’ll even do group therapy. Whatever it takes, I’m going to do it.”

“You’ll never make it,” he taunts. “You step outside that door and you’ll be puking and passing out in less than five minutes. In fact, let’s time it.” He unlatches his watch and waves it in the air.

“Dr. Terrance, I think you should leave.” I put on a brave face, but he’s not wrong. He’s describing everything that happened to me the other day when I tried to go to Jake’s. I didn’t make it more than four blocks before vomiting on the sidewalk. The cop thought I was a drug-addled homeless person.

My palms feel slick as I rub them together. A chill settles into my bones and starts to make me shake. I lock my knees together, but the shaking is too violent for Dr. Terrance not to notice. He laughs with a low, menacing sound. He reaches inside the pocket of his coat and pulls out a big black metal handgun. “Out there, the world is a scary place.” He advances on me, and I back up until my calves hit the sofa cushion and I fall. I scramble backward without taking my eyes off the weapon. “There are madmen with guns who’ll hurt you. There are people who will attack you in the subway for fun. There are people who will pretend to be your friend and stalk and harass you. There’s no one for you to trust. There is no safe place.”

He shoots and I scream, covering my face. Frantically I pat myself but I feel no injury. Then I see the hole in the wall that separates the living room from my bedroom.

“You are pathetic. Look at you, huddled in the corner. I am nearly forty years older than you, but you, a girl in your prime, are too afraid to defend yourself.” He marches to the door of my apartment and wrenches it open. He tosses the gun on the threshold. “See. You could get the gun and get me to leave, but you’re too paralyzed by your own fear.” He sits down in his chair and takes out a recorder. “Subject is cowering in the corner. She is crying, not silently, though. I hear small snivels. She has showered today, likely after coitus with her lover. He is not present. Make inquiry into whether he has abandoned her.” He continues to dictate, and I stare at the gun.

The door. Get to the door, I tell myself.

I unlock my cramped legs and stand. I shut everything out and start counting. It’s fourteen steps into the kitchen. I pause. My breathing sounds unnaturally loud in my ears. Every sense is heightened. Ten steps to the entryway.

“Fifteen minutes have passed. Subject has moved from sofa to kitchen. Still shaking. Still crying.”

I swipe my hand across my face and it comes away wet. I didn’t realize I was still crying.

The gun. The door. The gun. The door.

Ten steps.

I take one step and then another until I am standing in the open doorway. Sweat is drenching me, and the bile in my stomach swirls like a tornado.

“Subject is at the door. Has stood there for four minutes and counting.”

Benddown, I order myself. Bend down!

I lunge forward and grab the gun. The metal feels solid in my hand. Behind me I hear Dr. Terrance yelp. He runs toward me and I’m knocked to the ground. It’s the subway all over again. Fight or flight. You’re pathetic.

I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

I reach out and punch him, my fist hitting flesh. The sound encourages me and I draw back and hit him again. He pushes through my fists and then straddles me. “Stop it, Natalie.” He’s red-faced or maybe that’s the blood from my fists.

I refuse to listen to him. I want to live and this motherfucker isn’t taking me down. Surging forward, I head-butt him. He jerks backward. The gun clatters backward into the apartment. I crawl toward it and he drags me back.

Kicking and screaming, I reach for the gun. He slams on top of me. His reach is longer, but as he pointed out, I’m younger and stronger. I throw him off and grab the gun while rolling over on my back. He lands on top of me and I feel the recoil in my hands.

He looks at me in surprise and then falls off. “You’ve shot me,” he whispers in hoarse surprise.

With my hand to my mouth, I cover a gasp of horror. “Oh my God.” The red stain is spreading. “I didn’t mean to.”

“If you hadn’t I would have,” I hear a grim Jake say behind me. He holds his phone to his ear. “I need an ambulance and police car. My girlfriend shot an intruder.”

It’s then that I pass out. I deserve it, I think, as I lose consciousness. It’s not every day I gain a boyfriend and shoot my therapist.

“It’s a beautiful day out here,” I say to the man standing at the end of the sidewalk. His feet are planted shoulder width apart and his arms are folded across his chest. The one hand looks like it is covered in a dark leather glove, but upon closer inspection, one would see it’s a fully articulated hand made out of special carbon fiber polymer. It’s attached to a special forearm that has wires connecting to electrodes implanted in the man’s arm and attached to the ulnar and median nerves. Those wires and electrodes provide sensation, like temperature and, I blush, vibration.

“It is. A little windy but the breeze feels good.”

The wind ruffles his hair and then mine. I don’t bother to turn away from the wind. Instead I face it, enjoying the flick of my hair as the breeze blows the strands across my face. “Feels real good.”

We stand there, silently, as I take deep breaths. I tilt my head up to catch the sun’s rays and the man’s breath stops.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says.

I smile with my eyes still closed. I know what will happen next. He steps closer and then that special hand wraps around my waist while the other hand tangles in my hair. He presses his lips against the hollow of my neck and then the underside of my chin and finally my mouth. Feels real, real good.

My eyes flutter open to see him watching me, his gaze full of love and joy. A discreet cough behind me reminds me we are not alone. I disentangle myself from the man’s embrace, but keep his special hand tucked in mine.

“Do you want to walk another block?” Lindsay, my new occupational therapist, asks. Her job is to walk with me on Mondays. This is my fifth week since I shot Dr. Terrance, and I’m now standing three blocks from my home. It’s a really good day.

“Yes, just one more, though. I don’t want to stretch my good luck,” I say, squeezing my man’s hand. He lifts our joined hands to his mouth, where he presses a kiss to the back of mine.

“It’s not luck, sweetheart. It’s all you.”

“That’s right,” Lindsay interjects. “This is the result of your hard work, not any luck.”

I look at Jake Tanner and the fact that his hand is entwined with mine. Did I win him as the result of hard work? No, it’s luck. Or good fortune. Or some sort of destiny. I didn’t deserve him, but he’s mine anyway.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. “Or I will be the one who can’t walk an entire block.”

My gaze drops to his pants and I see the faint outline of a hardening arousal. I swallow a giggle. “Don’t tempt me,” I say.

Lindsay is used to our flirting and walks ahead of us, mumbling something about how we’re like newlyweds. Not yet we aren’t, but soon. A beam of sunlight bounces off the new shiny ring on my left hand and forms a circle of tiny slivers of rainbow on the ground, granting us a thousand new opportunities to hope.

“I’m proud of you,” Jake says, as we walk along, and I concentrate on the feel of his hand in mine and try to shut out the number of people around and the knowledge that I’m so, so far away from the safety of our home.

“I’m proud of me too.” I count the lines cut into the cement and the number of trash bags littering the sidewalk, waiting to be picked up. I may never be able to walk the streets of this city with ease. I may never get farther than five blocks from our house, but I’m outside. I’m no longer a prisoner, not in my home or in my own mind.

And most of all, I’m with Jake.

And in the end that’s all that matters.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First I need to thank my dear husband and daughter for their endless patience and nonstop encouragement.

Thank you to the wonderful Montlake team that made this book happen. To Helen, who invited me to be part of the family; to Maria, who has shepherded this project from birth to publication; to Krista, who pushed me hard to make this the best book I had in me; and to Jennifer, who helped me polish out the errors.

I also want to thank Daphne, who is a marvelous person in real life, for letting me borrow her name. Your emails and texts and phone calls are a constant source of pleasure.

Thanks also to Robin and Sunita, Jess and Meljean, Melissa and Lea, Elyssa and Kristen, Michelle and Lisa, for their support and friendship.

Finally, thank you to all the bloggers and readers who take the time to read my books. I know you have thousands of choices and it is a privilege that you allow me to entertain you in this fashion.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jen Frederick is the USA Today bestselling author of Unspoken, part of the Woodlands series. She is also the author of The Charlotte Chronicles, which appeared on the Kindle Top 100 list. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, who keeps track of life’s details while she’s writing; a daughter, who understands when Mom disappears into her office for hours at a time; and a rambunctious dog, who does neither.