I’m over here. Please. Please find me.
The sensation of warmth as my tears leak out and slide from the corners of my eyes down to my earlobes.
Cool night air on my belly from where he’s pulled up my dress.
A roar of sound. I think. I don’t know. I can’t process anything. But I hear it again and then his weight is gone. Missing.
I’m empty. Hollow.
I scramble up. Crawl—rocks scraping against my bare knees—to escape as quick as I can.
There’s a crunch.
A lot of shouting.
The oomph of an exhale as a fist hits a stomach.
An “I’m going to kill you” through gritted teeth.
The smack of knuckles on flesh.
“Go get help, Ryder. GO now.”
Another crunch of bone against bone.
My ears ring. My body is cold. I can’t stop shaking. Or crying. Or rocking back and forth with my hands holding my knees against my chest.
So I can disappear. From here. In my mind.
So I can pretend. Forget.
“Saylor. Saylor.”
I flinch as hands touch me. Try to fight against them.
“It’s me.”
I push him away.
“It’s me.”
My struggle ceases.
Safe hands run over my arms and back and cheeks. Direct my face up to meet his eyes looking right at me. Blood on his knuckles. A red mark on his cheek. A rivulet of sweat running down his temple.
Concern. Fear. Fury. Uncertainty. Disbelief. They’re all in his eyes, telling me he’s just as freaked out as I am.
But his voice is calm and comforting.
“I’m here, Say. Right here.”
His hands urge me to move. Lift me off the ground and position me to sit on his lap. Arms slide around me. Pull me into his chest. Against him.
My nose into his neck. His scent breaks through the fear. It smells like safety.
His warmth on my skin. My insides still cold.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
He holds me in the dark. One hand smoothing my hair down. The other running up and down my spine. The heat of his breath on my head. The vibration in his chest as he speaks. The tremble of his hand as he continues to soothe.
With words. And by touch.
Sirens in the distance.
I’m safe now. In Hayes’s arms.
“You’re safe, Saylor. Always. I’ve got you. I protect those I love.”
I stifle what feels like my hundredth yawn of the day. My head hurts. My body is exhausted. My emotions are frayed. The dream from last night still heavy on my mind.
The sip of coffee scalds my tongue as I look around Starbucks. I turn from where I sit, my back to most of the tables so I can watch the ebb and flow of people approaching the counter. Followed by their trip to the station to doctor their java and then the frantic search to find a seat in the always-packed café.
Regardless of how much I focus on people watching, my mind still veers back to the nightmare I haven’t had in forever. It had to be Hayes’s words last week. His reiteration of the promise he’d made then, and the reminder in his note that he’d still keep it now.
Why does he think I need to be protected? Does he think I’m going to need it?
Typical man. Riding in to save the day when the damsel is not in distress. Or his to save.
It doesn’t help that I had a fight with Ryder over how Hayes came upon the knowledge of Mitch’s wedding details. How Ryder had come into the shop early one morning when I was out picking up some supplies and pulled up the details about the rain check reservations from my wedding on the computer. How he then gave Hayes the travel voucher information so he could call and arrange the travel. Our travel.
Or most likely his personal assistant did. The one he took the cupcakes to.
So needless to say he’s on my shit list. And conversely, I’m most likely on Hayes’s list since I had to ask Ryder for his phone number, then call him to politely refuse the tickets. His response of “The offer still stands,” not exactly the response I wanted.
That means the offer’s still open.
Even though I don’t want it to be.
Too much turmoil. Too many memories dredged up in such a short amount of time. No wonder my head hurts.
I take a sip. Jot down a few ideas for the store: new flavors, new promotions, a change up in packaging. Anything to try and increase the sales. When I glance up, my smile is automatic when I see a lady at the only other table past mine, opening the distinct pink and white box—with the Sweet Cheeks logo displayed prominently on the front—and pulling one of my Chocolate Goodness cupcakes out.
A silly thrill goes through me at the notion that someone is choosing to eat my cupcake versus one of the items in the Starbucks pastry case. Realizing I’m staring, waiting to see her facial expression when she bites into it to see if she enjoys it or not, I force myself to focus back on the notes in front of me. Just as I’m poised to write my next item I hear a comment behind me that gives me pause.