Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (4 page)

I lean on the railing and wonder how long it would take me to fall…

Then I snap back and take a deep breath. I close my eyes and force my breathing even, then lift my foot from the smashed bouquet. I wish I’d never laid eyes on it. I gather it up and throw it over the railing, watch it come apart in the air and float away.

I’m tired of this. I turn and head for the ballroom before I realize, if I do, I will be assaulted by people trying to talk to me. A dozen idiots have already tried to offer me congratulations, usually spoken to my feet because they can’t bear to lay eyes on my tortured face.

There’s a walkway down to the floor below. I take that, open the door, and head inside. I pass through the service area to the hallway and take the elevator down, wearily walk back to my room, and lock myself inside.

It takes work to get ahold of the thin string tied through my zipper tab, but I get my dress off, wriggle out of it, and leave it discarded on the floor in the sitting area by the door.

In the bathroom I stare at myself. Fucking Jack, saying those things to me. With the dress off, the full ruin is on display. There’s a patch of burn scars on my shoulder and chest, and long, ragged scars from deep cuts on my arm, which I nearly lost. On top of that I was never any great beauty. I’m awkward; my shoulders are too wide, my hips too narrow by comparison, my waist too thick for an hourglass shape, my breasts and butt too small.

Even without the scars I’d be plain. I need a shower. I strip my underthings off and bless the hotel industry for having huge capacities for hot water in their bathrooms, because I’ll be in here for an hour. I end up filling the tub so I can stretch out and let the hot water and rising steam ease the pain in my joints.

Of course I’m in a top-tier suite, so there are whirlpool jets. I turn those on and stuff the complimentary bath pillow under my head. I will be staying in here until I prune. I might sleep in here, hell with it.

The water soaks my hair. I sit up and scrub it with my fingers, slowly. I can only use my one hand and must work the shampoo in slowly. It stings my eye, so I splash water on my face and lie back, bend my knees, and duck under the water.

I hold my breath, and hold, and hold, before I rise up and gasp for air. Now I lean back.

Some scented candles would be nice.

Anything to take my mind off Jack.

He was going to touch me before Frank showed up. Nothing aggressive, just set his hand on my arm. He was going for it.

It’s been a long, long time since another person, other than a doctor, actually touched me. Mom hasn’t hugged me since before the accident. If I’m lucky she’ll rest her hand on my shoulder or brush my hair.

That’s not the kind of touch I want.

The first time Jack touched me, we were both fourteen. Both students at the same expensive private school. There was a
no public display of affection
rule in harsh effect, but the faculty let their guard down a little at a dance.

An awkward dance; it was for freshmen and sophomores, and only the sophomores had any idea what to do. The freshmen, myself included, hung out in single-sex clusters of friends and looked at each other like we were making first contact between far-flung tribes instead of socializing at a school-sanctioned event.

Except Jack, that is. He walked over and grabbed my hand. Without a word, he almost pulled me onto the dance floor. One of the chaperones immediately warned us about getting too close.

I barely understood what was happening until we slipped into a chaste slow dance.

“So, I’m Jack,” he said, grinning.

I smile myself now, thinking about it. Until my scars start to itch from it, and my face goes neutral again.

“I’m Elaine.”

“No you’re not, you’re Ellie.”

That was the first time anybody called me that.

He was awkward as a fourteen-year-old. Who isn’t? Puberty hit him like a freight train and he was already six feet tall, absolutely towering over four-foot-eleven me. It made the dance awkward. He tried to rest his hand on my waist and it kept slipping up my back. We must have been quite a sight, trying to dance and not knowing how.

“Can I get your phone number?” he said.

I blinked a few times. “Why?”

He laughed. “Can I?”

We found a napkin by the punch bowl. He poured me a cup while I wrote it down for him, then stuffed my number in his pocket. When I finished my sadly unspiked punch, he pulled me back out onto the dance floor and we ended up circling each other all night, looking over our shoulders at the annoyed chaperones.

“We’ve never really talked,” he said.

“I know. Um, I don’t really know you.”

“I’m Jack, you’re Ellie. I think you’re cute. What else is there to know?”

“Um,” I said, at the height of my conversational powers.

The next day we spent an hour on the phone and started texting each other constantly. Our conversations have all blurred together, I can’t even remember what they were, what we talked about the first time.

I just know that for a long time, it was the only thing that mattered to me.

As much as it seemed a good idea to sleep in the warm whirlpool tub, the hard bottom is starting to hurt my tailbone. I get up, leaning with my good hand on the side to keep myself steady while I keep my feet under me. I have to be extra careful when my knee is warmed up and limber. It’s the easiest to injure it again then.

I spent four years walking with a cane and I’ll be damned if I have to take it up again. My heart skips a little when my foot slips on the floor with a loud squeak and I fear I’m going to go down, but I manage to keep my feet under me and wrap myself in a fluffy hotel bathrobe.

A distraction would be very nice right now. Fortunately I brought my e-reader. If I pulled out my tablet computer I’d end up doing work, same thing for my laptop. I settle back into the pillows and flip through my books.

I have a dirty little secret. I read romance novels. A lot. I have about five hundred in my collection. While I was being schooled at home, it was all I did outside of my studies, read these. Back then I had to buy the ones with tamer covers and titles. Now I can read
Owned by the Bad Boy
whenever I feel like it, and I feel like it a lot.

Except there’s a problem. When I start to read, I skim over the author’s description of the hero just fine, but when I get into the prose, it’s Jack I’m seeing, not whoever they intended. I flop the reader down and sigh. The last thing I need is to think of Jack right now.

I’m so adamant that I won’t think about him that my hand is already between my legs. I writhe a little and let my robe fall open, cool air pricking at my skin as I move my finger along the soft folds of my pussy, up and down over my entrance, teasing the skin around my clit.

Trying to put Jack out of my head today is a losing battle. When I close my eye, all I can see is his staring into me as I held back my hair, unflinching. He was looking, hard. It’s not much of a step from there to imagining him grabbing me, pulling me to him. Laying a kiss on my lips gently, testing if it’ll hurt me, then harder when I kiss him back.

In my imagination I don’t care what anyone thinks and neither does he. He spins me around, lifts me off my feet, and presses me against the glass door. For some reason, imagining his hands bunching up my dress and lifting my skirts turns me on as much as the thought of his mouth on my throat or the feeling of his cock jutting into my stomach, straining through his clothes, trying to reach me with frantic urgency.

In my fantasy I decided to skip underwear for this occasion and so did he. When I fumble his zipper down his cock is in my hands and I guide it inside me as I press back into the glass. My fingers slip in and I roll on my side, curling around my hand as I rub and stroke with my fingers and palm, forgetting where I am as I imagine Jack thrusting into me over and over, arms wrapped around me, grunting my name into my shoulder.

I want him so fucking bad, it hurts. Curled up in a ball, I whimper into my pillows as my arousal grows into a frenzy.

Then a pounding knock comes at the door.

“Wha? Who?”

“Open up!”

Fuck, it’s Laetitia.

I get up slowly and swathe myself in my robe, pulling it tight around my neck. I step into a pair of slippers and walk to the door, hobbling a little. My legs are as tight as steel cables and I’m still shaking.

I didn’t, ah, finish.

When I open the door I find her with her hands on her hips, still in full bridesmaid regalia.

“What are you doing?” she demands. “The reception isn’t over. It’s not even ten o’clock!”

“I got tired,” I sigh, turning away from her. “My leg hurts. I need to lay down for a while.”

“Are you coming back?”

I shake my head.

“Jess wants you to come back. You should be there to see them off.”

The way she refers to my mother by a causal nickname always annoys me, but they are close in age, separated by only a few years; my eldest aunt married young.

“I don’t want to,” is all I can manage.

I start to close the door.

“That guy who was staring at you. Who is he?”

It takes every fiber of my being to resist slamming the door in her face.

“Jack.”

She blinks, and I swear I see her smile for a second, cutting through the overblown look of surprise on her face.

“
That’s
Jack? Wow, he turned into a hottie, didn’t he?”

Hottie,
Laetitia? Really?

“I don’t know. Whatever. I’m not coming back. Give Mom my apology, will you? I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Laetitia nods gravely. “She’ll understand, sweetheart. Give me a hug.”

It’s weird how she flips back and forth between acting like my peer and my elder. Weird and annoying. Sighing, I lean in and hug her. She embraces me harder than I embrace her, swaying back and forth a bit before she lets me go.

“Isn’t this exciting? She’s so happy.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I wish I could come up but I just…”

“Did you take a shower?”

“What? Yes.”

“Why are you all sweaty?”

I sigh. “Hot shower. I’ll see you in the morning, I guess.”

“Yeah. They’re leaving tomorrow. You can say goodbye then.”

After I lock the door I lean my head against it and stand there, chasing back sobs. Sometimes I wish I could just curl up on myself until I disappear.

Sleep will help. I pop a couple of melatonin and hope for a dreamless sleep, free of Jack sexing me up in the world of my imagination.

For the most part, it works. I wake up the next morning itchy and groggy. My knee hurts and my throat is dry as a bone until I chug a bottle of orange juice from the wet bar and wipe off my chin. The way my scars pull at my mouth gives me an unfortunate tendency to drool when I’m sleeping and dribble liquids when I drink.

I’m brushing my hair when there’s a knock at the door. This time I look through the peephole first, half expecting to see Jack there, but it’s my cousin again. I open the door and eye her.

“You ready? Time to see off the bride and groom.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

She’s all made up and dressed, of course. I don’t need to go full formal for this round; Laetitia is in freaking yoga pants. A pair of jeans and a hoodie will do for me. I pull the hood up before I leave the room and stick my hands in the kangaroo pocket.

It’s going to be a windy, chilly day. I can feel it in my joints. The whole hotel has been closed off for the wedding. The guests have gathered in the lobby. There’s no order to it, no planned position for everyone. I slink into the crowd and keep my head down, but it doesn’t matter.

I get plenty of stares. I try to make myself throw back my hood and defy them but I can’t. It’s like a weight on my shoulders, pushing me down. I want to go home.

I should be where the bouncing bride and groom can see me, so I stand near Laetitia but against the wall. I feel a little safer with something up against my back.

A voice whispers in my ear. “Hey, gorgeous.”

I jump and spin around, and find Jack towering over me, leaning against the wall. He touches his finger to his lips.

“Hi.”

“Go to hell,” I hiss, and turn away.

He moves closer. “There’s only one hell, Ellie. It’s one where I’m without you.”

“We’re done. This conversation is not going to happen. Don’t make a scene.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“I know why you won’t look.”

“I’m not going to forgive you.”

He leans down, his voice barely more than a breath in my ear as he stands behind me.

“You’re already thinking about it.”

When I look over my shoulder to shoo him away, he’s gone.

Jack

I slip away from Ellie. If she calls attention to me, I’ll be in deep shit.

I’ll play my father’s game for now, but I am not giving up on her. Even now I can’t take my eyes off her. She stands with the crowd but not part of it, her hood up, her hands hidden in her pocket, head down, shoulders hunched, like she’s trying to sink through the floor.

There is a gnawing feeling at my gut.

Give up, Jack. She means it. You have no right to torment her like this. Just let her be.

She’s not happy. I can see it. She’s miserable, by the looks of things. I feel her suffering along with my own, a dull ache in my chest.

Ellie woke up in the hospital with her fucking face burned off and I wasn’t there for her. Of course, that’s not the real reason she’s mad at me.

It’s worse than that.

It wasn’t my fault. I can prove it, I’m
going
to prove it.

Commotion in the crowd snaps me out of my reverie. The bride and groom are leaving. My father is wearing jeans—there’s an event for you right there. The bride looks radiant even in casual clothes. Jessica beams, and breaks from her new husband’s arm to rush over and talk to Ellie and give her a big hug. Ellie hugs her back hard.

This must be hurting her. Jessica is probably the only person she has left in her life. Now she’s leaving. Well, temporarily.

I did some asking around. The bride and groom will be on their happy honeymoon for only a week. They’re heading to Philly International and from there to Florence. It’ll be a lovely trip, I’m sure.