Dreamspinner Press Year Seven Greatest Hits Page 50

  He parked around back, and we went inside with little conversation. Since the washing machine was downstairs, we got the laundry started right away—until we both realized the obvious problem of the dirty clothes on my body. I tossed my shirt and socks into the mix. A bit of the lingering smell went with it, but my skin had absorbed enough to remain in my nose.

  “Do you want to take a shower?” he asked. “No offense, but I doubt it’s just your clothes that stink.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “Then let’s go upstairs. I’ll get you something to change into afterward.”

  “What about—?”

  “I’ll bring down what you’re wearing and start up the load.”

  Thank God he understood and hadn’t suggested I strip right here. Maybe we’d seen each other naked, but I’d feel like a fool walking up two flights of stairs to his bathroom in only my bare skin. “Okay.”

  “Cool.”

  On the second floor, he veered off toward the fridge. “You know the way. I’ll get the pizza started and then come get your stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  My impulse to nose around was stronger this time. I wanted to learn more about Jeremy and his life here, why he’d come to Franklin in the first place. Snooping wasn’t the way to do it, though, and I wouldn’t betray his trust. I started to lock the bathroom door, then hesitated. Jeremy needed to get in to take my dirty clothes downstairs, but I hadn’t showered in an unlocked bathroom for two years. The simple act of pushing that button, or turning the lock, allowed me to close my eyes under the spray.

  I stared at the doorknob. Jeremy wasn’t going to hurt me. But I needed to lock the door. I compromised by stripping, then placing the dirty clothes on the floor in the hallway. I locked the door and showered just long enough to slough the stink and sweat of the day off my skin. As I was wrapping a towel around my waist, I realized my mistake with the door—no clean clothes.

  Knuckles on wood startled the hell out of me. I stepped sideways and banged my hip against the corner of the sink. Pain shot down my leg.

  “Cole?” Jeremy asked, muffled through the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got some clean clothes out here if you want them.”

  “Right, sorry.” Sorry I didn’t trust you enough to not lock the bathroom door, but I’m not quite right in the head yet. I unlocked and opened the door a crack.

  Jeremy smiled curiously, then held out a bundle. “You shower faster than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.”

  My returned smile felt stiff, forced, as I took the clothes. “Habit. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Take your time. The pizza still has twenty minutes.”

  “Right, okay.”

  He’d given me a pair of navy sweat pants and a gray thermal shirt, as well as fuzzy gray socks. I didn’t mind going commando in the sweats. I probably needed to buy more boxers so I at least always had clean underwear—which reminded me, Jeremy hadn’t mentioned money yet today. I was curious if he’d sold anything else from the house.

  I padded downstairs. The faint scents of pepperoni and tomato sauce lingered in the air. Jeremy stood at the fridge, pouring himself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher I’d seen yesterday.

  “Want something to drink?” he asked.

  “Water, thanks.”

  “You got it.”

  I angled for the stools, but he waved me into the living area so I sat down on the sofa. The only change to the orderly room was a closed laptop on the coffee table. Jeremy brought our drinks over. I grabbed a coaster off a small pile before putting it down on the end table. Jeremy sat in the chair next to the sofa.

  “So I wanted to talk to you a bit about the auction,” he said.

  Business. Good. “Right, okay.”

  “You want to give yourself time to advertise it, and I know you don’t want to take longer than necessary, so you should really think of setting a date. Now that you’ve gotten into the house, you might be able to better judge the time you’ll need to finish cleaning it out.”

  I nodded along, agreeing with his comments. One more day would finish the living room, maybe get me into the hallway leading into the kitchen. “If I keep pace, I figure another week to get the house empty.”

  “You’ll still need time outside to organize things.”

  “I know, plus the rest of the sheds and garage.”

  “Which I’ll be helping with. So do you think two weeks from today is reasonable?”

  Two weeks until the auction, maybe a few days after to finalize things, and then I could get out of North Carolina for good—and leave behind the first real friend I’d made in years. The idea made my insides twist unexpectedly with actual regret. And the more time I spent with Jeremy, the harder it would be to go.

  “Cole?”

  “Huh?” I blinked at him, certain I’d missed another question.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Is two weeks from today okay?”

  “Yes, it’s fine. It should be enough time.”

  “Great. I’ll make some calls tomorrow and get the word out.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  He shrugged. “This is a seven-days-a-week business. I don’t mind. Speaking of business”—he reached under the laptop and produced an envelope—“here’s some more money for the Future Fund.”

  I glanced inside at the thin stack of twenty dollar bills. There had to be close to three hundred dollars. “What did you sell?”

  “More bike parts and a race car motor.”

  “A race car motor?”

  “Your father’s collection of stuff is amazingly eclectic.”

  I snorted, then put the envelope down on the coffee table since I had no pockets. “Eclectic is a polite way to put it.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “Well, a week ago I’d have called it all worthless junk.”

  “And now?”

  “I may not see the value in some of the stuff, but I acknowledge that others do. I shouldn’t be so quick to throw things out before I’ve given them a chance.”

  “That sounds like a healthy perspective shift.”

  I held his gaze, unsure if we were still talking about bicycles and tools. “I’ve had to reassess my own point of view a lot these last few years and decide what’s actually best for me.”

  “Like leaving your relationship?”

  My insides twisted up. Leaving Martin had been less about changing my perspective and more about survival. Not going back, on the other hand, even when he found me and begged me during that first year—that had been all about deciding what was best for me. “Yes,” I said, in lieu of a lengthier explanation.

  “I’m glad you got out, Cole, and that you’re starting over.”

  “I just wish I’d had the guts to get out before things got as bad as they did.”

  His eyebrows jumped. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and my expression had to show my surprise. Something about Jeremy’s calm nature and easy acceptance made me want to tell him things—things I hated talking about, even to therapists.

  “How long were you with him?” Jeremy asked.

  I settled back against the couch cushions, hands dangling loosely between my legs. “Eight years. We met in college when I was a sophomore and he was a senior. My first year away from here, I was all about the scene, you know? I went out, fucked around, got all the experience I’d missed out on growing up in Franklin. But Martin….”

  So many things described Martin: handsome, sexy, charming. Dominating. Cruel.

  “He was everything I thought I wanted in a partner. He knew what he wanted, both in his career and in bed, and I fell hard for that kind of strength. After he graduated, we moved in together, but he wanted to go to grad school, and it was expensive. He convinced me to drop out and work until he got his master’s, then I could go back to get my degree.”

  Jeremy frowned, his face clearly telegraphing his dislike of that particular decision.

/>   “At the time, I was more than happy to do it. I actually believed he’d let me go back to school. He got more controlling the longer we were together. Told me who I could be friends with, until he forbid me from seeing anyone but him. He bought my clothes, told me what I could and couldn’t eat. Played head games. Everything was my fault, especially when he got mad and hit me. Name the stereotype and he did it.”

  “You never pressed charges?”

  “Of course not.” I snorted—a dark sound that wanted to be angry laughter. “Everything was my fault, remember? I provoked him, I burned the toast on purpose, I was eyeing that hot guy’s ass, I was always at fault. After a while, I believed him when he said it. I believed him when he told me this was all I deserved, and that no one else would want a fuck-up like me.”

  Jeremy was leaning forward, like he wanted to touch me. Or hug me. His intense gaze burned in my heart and let loose a flutter. No one had ever looked at me like that—like I had real value. Like he wanted to kill the faceless person who’d hurt me. “You are not a fuck-up, Cole. Making you believe that is an abuser’s trick.”

  “I know that. Now.”

  “You know it, but do you believe it?”

  I looked at my hands, unable to lie to his face just to avoid his disappointment—disappointment that I knew the right words to say, knew in my head that Martin’s abuse wasn’t my fault, but that I just didn’t accept it. I’d allowed him to hurt me for years. It was my fault.

  Thankfully, Jeremy didn’t push that point. “Can I ask what made you finally leave?” he asked.

  “My dad.”

  “Your dad?”

  “In a tangential way, yes. When he died two years ago, I was already reaching a crisis point with Martin. My coworkers were concerned, neighbors were complaining about the noise in our apartment.”

  Jeremy made a rough sound, but I couldn’t look at him. I kept staring at my clasped hands.

  “I got word about my father’s heart attack, and Martin forbid me from coming to the funeral. He said he couldn’t get away from work for it, and no way in hell was I going alone.”

  “But you came. I remember seeing you once on Main Street.”

  I glanced at him then, surprised. “You did?”

  “Yeah.” His face was impressively neutral, but something still burned in his eyes. “I remember thinking you looked so defeated. Exhausted. At the time, I thought it was just because of your father’s death.”

  “It was a lot of things. I used money from our cash stash to buy a plane ticket and left while Martin was at work. I ignored my cell phone the whole three days I was here. I was terrified to go back and face him, terrified at having stood up to him for the first time. And I was grieving. I probably could have just stayed then, maybe helped out my mom, but we had an epic fight after the funeral.”

  “About what?”

  “The house. She accused me of being ungrateful to her, said I was worthless as a son. I yelled right back at her, said Dad’s death was her fault because of the state of the house. We never spoke again. I flew back the next day. It was midday, and I didn’t see Martin’s car in the building’s lot, so I assumed he was at work.”

  Jeremy tensed, probably sensing that the final crisis point was coming.

  I let out a deep, shuddering breath as old anxieties poked at the back of my mind. Coming forward along with the memories of that afternoon. “I didn’t see him in the apartment, and I was relieved. I wanted some time to brace myself for his temper. I sent him a text that I was back from the funeral, and then I went to take a shower. I left the bathroom door open, because that’s how Martin always wanted it. He didn’t like me to beat off without his permission, so he’d listen or check on me, and I got into the habit of leaving the door open for him.”

  And now I locked it before I even stripped.

  Jeremy made another sound, this one of horrified disgust, and I looked back down at my clasped fingers. “Our apartment was pretty nice, and it had this large glass-door shower, big enough for two with room to spare. I was rinsing off when I saw him standing outside the shower door. I was so startled I actually screamed.”

  The look on Martin’s face, even through the foggy glass, had been one of barely contained fury. His dark eyes had blazed with anger, with disappointment, and with the cold calculation I’d seen whenever I’d done something to incur his wrath. Fragments of old fear curled in my guts. And then Jeremy’s hand slipped over mine and squeezed.

  “He yanked open the door and started yelling, accusing me of not caring, of making him worry, of being a horrible, selfish person. I got so mad that something inside me just snapped. For the first time, I really hated him and I said so. I said he was a bastard for trying to keep me from my father’s funeral, that I didn’t love him anymore, and that I was pretty sure I hadn’t loved him for a long time.” The brief pride I’d felt at standing up to him had shattered quickly—along with the cartilage in my nose. I flinched at the memory of that instant, fiery pain.

  “What did he do?” Jeremy asked when I didn’t go on.

  “Broke my nose,” I said. “It was the first time he ever hit me in the face, and I was so stunned I fell. I remember him kicking me a few times, then turning the water all the way up hot and holding me down with his foot while it burned the backs of my legs and knees, screaming that I’d learn, I’d appreciate him, or he’d kill me.”

  Jeremy’s hand tightened over mine. His breathing was shorter, faster.

  I swallowed hard, fighting back nausea, but still somewhat calm while relaying these events to Jeremy. I felt as though I was describing a movie scene, rather than things that I’d experienced firsthand. Things I’d lived through and survived. And I only had a little bit left to tell.

  “It hurt so goddamn bad that I kind of half passed out, because the next thing I knew, the water was off and Martin was hauling me up by my hair and throat. He liked my hair long, back then, so he had a good hold on it. He got right in my face. I was dizzy and in pain, but I looked at him, and I remember thinking ‘who is this guy?’ Because I didn’t recognize him. Or maybe I was really seeing him for the first time. I made the decision right then that I was going to leave for good.

  “Martin asked me if I’d learned my lesson, or did he have to fuck it into me? I told him to go to hell. He pushed me through the glass shower door.”

  “The scars on your shoulder?” Jeremy asked with a furious tightness in his voice.

  “Yeah. I vaguely remember the ambulance ride, hearing Martin crying, worried about me, telling the paramedics that we’d been fooling around in the shower and I slipped.”

  “Fooling—the bastard attacked and tortured you, Cole. What about the burns?”

  “The paramedics were more concerned with my lacerations.”

  “What about the doctor at the hospital?”

  “Martin told him something, and I never asked what. The burns were second degree. Some of them blistered and scarred, but you can’t really see them.”

  Jeremy slid off his chair and knelt in front of me. He grabbed my hands in his, a firm but gentle hold, and I knew he wanted me to look at him, but I couldn’t. “He could have killed you,” he said.

  My mouth went dry. Jeremy didn’t know how right he was. I’d left out the way Martin had choked me as he held me by the throat and hair, how the world had gone fuzzy just before it exploded in a shower of glass. He didn’t need to know those things. The horrors and weaknesses I’d shared were more than enough.

  The oven timer buzzed, and I’d never been more grateful for an interruption. Jeremy didn’t move, though, and I resented his stubbornness.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said in a cold tone that surprised even me. “What matters is that once the hospital released me, I emptied our joint bank account and left. I didn’t even go back to that fucking apartment to get my clothes. I just got on a bus and left.”

  “And you never filed charges.”

  I snorted. “Hell no. A man letting another man
beat him up for eight years? Gay or straight, I’d have been laughed out of the police station. There was no medical paper trail to prove anything other than the shower door accident, and it would be my word against Martin’s. I didn’t want a fight, I wanted to get away.” And I had, to a point.

  A tiny part of me was curious why Martin had gone silent for six, nearly seven months. Most of me didn’t give two fucks and was concerned only with staying two steps ahead of him and whatever twisted game he was playing now.

  Determined to end the conversation I regretted starting in the first place, I twisted away from Jeremy and stalked into the kitchen. He’d left an oven mitt on the counter, so I used it to take the pizza out of the oven before it burned. Jeremy produced a trivet, and I dropped the pan onto it from a higher height than necessary. He jumped back as the hot pan narrowly missed his fingertips.

  “Cole, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not judging you, I swear.”

  “No?” I moved to the far end of the counter, needing those five feet of space between us. The entire house felt too small, too closed in.

  Jeremy looked so lost by my retreat, his expression an odd mix of anger and worry. “No, I’m not. I just hate that he hurt you so badly, and that he got away with it.”

  “It’s the past, Jeremy.”

  “Is it really?”

  I looked down at the countertop. The stack of mail hadn’t moved since last night, and I studied the top of Out.

  “Martin’s the reason you take three minutes showers with the door locked, right?”

  I flinched.

  “Has he had contact with you since?”

  “He tracked me down a few times that first year, always begging me to come back. Promised he’d change, said all the right things. Every time, I managed to get away and find someplace new. Then I didn’t hear from him for more than six months. I’d actually settled down, thought it was over, until he called me back in July, wanting to talk. So I left again, and I’ve kept moving. I haven’t heard from him directly since then, but sometimes….”