An Ounce of Hope(46)

"He worked in advertising, had since college, long hours, and mammoth workload. He partied as hard as he worked, but it never occurred to me to mind. That was just Rick. He was the life and soul. That's what attracted me to him. Finally, after months of barely seeing each other, he got a promotion to head an important deal. He was over the moon. To celebrate there was an office party. I bought a new dress. I wanted to look special for him, pretty for him, so he could be proud to have me at his side." She paused. "Looking back, I think I bought it because I knew something wasn't right. He'd become distant, moody, less attentive, but I put it down to the amount of work he had. While working for the promotion, he'd started drinking every night. There was always a bottle of something on the kitchen counter when I got up in the mornings."

Max turned his body toward her.

"All night at the party, Rick's work colleagues commented about what a fine couple we were, how lucky Rick was to have me, how lovely I looked. He thanked them and smiled, but it never reached his eyes." She pulled her knees closer and sighed. "Anyway, when we got home from the party, Rick accused me of flirting with his coworkers, of embarrassing him. I called him crazy and delusional and he pushed me against the wall, telling me I needed to learn some respect . . ." She blew out a long breath between pursed lips. "He wasn't gentle."

Max's stomach rolled. "Christ, Grace."

"I didn't know the man who pinned me to the wall. He was a stranger. The entire time he told me I was a tease, how I'd humiliated him by looking like a slut, how I'd loved all the attention being on me and not him." She rubbed her hands down her face. "It was only later I found out he wasn't just drunk but high"-she looked at Max-"on cocaine."

Max blinked, knowing he shouldn't have been surprised, but he was startled all the same. "Fuck." He dropped his head, his chin tapping his chest.

"He'd gotten involved with some guys he'd met through work and started using heavily to cope with the stress after his promotion. He kept it a secret from me. He'd use it to keep awake so he could meet deadlines. Later I discovered he'd been a heavy user in college, too, before we met. Every night it became the same: he'd go out, get shitfaced, high, come home, and take it out on me."




 

 

"Why did you stay with him?" Max asked, desperate to keep the incredulity from his voice, because who the fuck was he to judge about making bad decisions?

"I tried, but he would apologize," Grace answered too matter-of-factly for Max's taste. "He'd promise me he'd change, beg for another chance. He'd take me out; make love to me as I remembered. He'd go back to being like the man I fell in love with, the man I married, for a day or two and then . . ."

"And then he'd hit you."

Grace's face was all the answer he needed.

"I hope the fucker is rotting in a prison cell somewhere," Max growled, running his hands through his hair.

"He's on parole, living in the apartment we bought back in California." The unspoken question must have been a beacon on Max's face. "He served two years in state prison for assault and battery after he shattered my hip, collapsed my lung, and broke three of my ribs the night I told him I was leaving him."

Revulsion heaved through Max. So much about Grace now made sense. Her aching injury when they ran, her abhorrent fear of Buck and his behavior, and the subsequent panic attack and nightmare. Her continuing wariness of Deputy Cock's advances and flirting, her desperate need to be independent, to show that fucker ex-husband of hers she could be in control of her life, in the face of what he did to her.

In spite of what she'd suffered at the hands of a man who should have been worshipping her body and loving her, she was moving on, being strong, finding the good in shit Max didn't even notice or pay attention to. His respect for the woman at his side multiplied exponentially.

What it didn't explain, however, was why she wanted to be close to Max. Why did she want to be friends with a recovering drug addict when she'd suffered so much at the hands of another? Was it a test for her? Was it simply for her own recovery, or did she really want to know him?

"I know what you're thinking," Grace murmured. "And you're wrong. You're nothing like him. Nothing, believe me."

Max scoffed and leaned his forearms on his bent knees. "We're all the fucking same," he answered despondently, his eyes on the floor between his feet. "Addicts. Our brains are wired identically. We want the same things and we don't give a shit who we hurt to get it."

"Did you beat up the woman you loved, rape her, abuse her with words so vile you'd pray for silence?"