Frayed Rope (11 page)

“No, it’s not your business Ryder. I own a gun, two actually. And it helps me sleep at night. That's all you need to know.”

I say all this looking directly into his eyes and not backing down.

“Elle, you have half a mind to what I do and what I’ve done for a living. I have no problem; in fact, I’m glad you look after yourself. I’m not judging you, beautiful.”

He’s so relaxed, legs out and crossed at the ankle, white shirt stretching across his beautiful tan skin. Beer in one hand, smoke now in the other. He just looks so at...home? But he still seems somewhat sad, or maybe disappointed.

“Then why the long face soldier?”

I tip my head to the side, studying him.

He calmly replies with a look of concern, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “The long face, beautiful, is because the numbers are ground off. It’s one thing to own a gun, keep it locked in a box in a closet somewhere like most women or stupid people do, a place where they can never get to it in time. But when it’s beside you at night, while you’re peacefully sitting on your deck enjoying a glass of wine?  It means you’re worried someone is coming to hurt you. That’s why I have the long face.”

His kind words said with so much sincerity forces me to remove my gaze from his. I reach for my smokes and light one up to occupy my hands. Half of me wants to bolt in the house and slam the door, but I know that will just raise more questions. The other half wants to fling myself into his warm body that now lacks the horrid scent of Tina’s perfume and let him hold me until the sun comes up.

I blow out the smoke and think hard before I reply, hopefully in a tone that suggests I’m just your average overly-prepared American citizen. Not a Canadian on the run from someone who wants her dead.

“I think it’s smart to be prepared for the unknown, Ryder. Bad things happen every day and I’d be stupid not to be prepared, single woman living alone and all,” I nonchalantly say, hoping he buys it enough to drop the subject.

I also know he’s not stupid, and even if he does drop it the wheels will still be turning in his head.

“Like I said before Elle, one day you’ll realize that I’m someone you can trust. I just hoped it wouldn’t take so long,” he says, defeated.

I look him in the eye to gauge his mood. He takes a long swig of his beer then stares out at the water. My tone is as soft as my raspy voice will allow when I reply.

“You’re a good man, I know that. But I don't fully trust anyone, Ryder. The sooner you realize that, the quicker you’ll be able to drop the effort. I’m not someone to waste your time on. What you see is what you get. You need to accept that, or move on.”

I’ve downed another half of the bottle by now and my speech is becoming a little slurred. I don’t know what else to say to him, he wants something I’m not able to give. Does he deserve the truth? Absolutely. He’s a good man; I know this down to my bones. But just because I crave him desperately at this point, doesn't mean it would be a smart decision to bare my all. I will not put someone in danger because of my past ever again.

He spins to face me and I know I’m not going to like what's coming. The flare in his eyes and his deep intake of breath are the only notice I get before he drops the proverbial bomb on me.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, woman. I was asking for some fucking truth! And if you need my help, I’m here. That’s the point I’m trying to get across. Spin it however you want to Elle, but something scares you enough at night that you feel the need to protect yourself 24/7! By that I mean it hasn’t escaped my knowledge that you pack a knife in your boots when most women are wearing flip flops. You wear a scarf in public to hide marks on your neck, which are obviously caused by something painful you refuse to talk about; otherwise you wouldn’t feel the need to hide them.”

He takes a deep cleansing breath before continuing, eyes a little softer now.

“There’s not a single personal item in that cottage that suggests who you are or what you like. You stay in the shadows, Elle. Only a person with something to hide does that. You’re either hiding from someone or hiding from yourself. Which is it Elle?”

I can feel the angry tears building behind my eyelids. I want to scream, I want to run, and I want to hit something so bloody hard the pain in my knuckles will take away the pain piercing through my cold heart right now.

I go to stand up and he grabs me by my arm. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. I turn my steely eyes on him and say in the deepest voice I have.

“Let. Me. Go.”

The tears break through. They fall past my cheeks and run down my face. He grabs me by my other arm and pulls me across the lounge until his face is inches from mine.

“NO! Answer the question, Elle. Fucking tell me! Play the tough bitch all you want, I’m sure it works with a lot of people but not with me!”

He’s shaking me now, his breath heavy on my face.

“How many times have I been here? It’s been almost a month! How many times have I startled you and watched your hand fly up under the pillow on the couch. You think I’m stupid? I knew what you had hiding under there, saw it when I was watching you sleep instead of watching fucking infomercials, Elle! Confirmed it a long time ago when you got up to hit the washroom. SO TELL ME! How many more fucking times were you gonna let me startle you before I startled you so fucking bad one day that you pull that gun out from under your pillow in the middle of a goddamn nightmare and shoot me!!! HUH? ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION, ELLE!”

“I DONT KNOW! ALRIGHT? I DONT FUCKING KNOW! YOU AFRAID OF ME HURTING YOU?”

I scream back in his face.

“THEN DONT COME AROUND ANYMORE! PROBLEM. FUCKING. SOLVED!”

I wrench out of his grip and jump up off the lounger. The wine and my anger toward him cause me to hurl my empty wine bottle into a tree at the end of the porch. I hate losing my shit, fucking hate it. But he’s pushed me too goddamn far.

Tears are streaming down my face as I swing the screen door open and head into the house. I reach out to slam the main door behind me but it stops dead because his solid body is blocking its path.

“Get the fuck out of my house Ryder.”

I’m still heaving, not from exertion, from anger. I’m not yelling anymore. I’m above that, I rarely ever yell. It takes a lot of shit coming at me to do so.

“Not fucking happening Elle.”

He gets in my space and I’m backed against the wall.

“I don't have two fucking words left to say to you. MY LIFE is not your business Ryder Callaghan. Get that through your thick fucking head!”

He leans down low and puts his face inches from mine, arms braced against the wall on either side of my head.

“I will make your life my goddamn business Elle. I will be in your fucking face, every minute of every goddamn day until you understand that I’m not someone you should be afraid of, but someone you can trust. I’ll keep saying it until your fucking ears bleed. Mark my fucking words woman. When I set my mind to something, I don't fucking quit. And my neighbor, my friend
,
harboring so much fucking fear that she has to sleep with a gun under her pillow at night is something that I’m setting my fucking mind to.”

He sort of lost me at friend. That was incredibly sweet and almost melts my heart, but I choose to hold onto my anger and push forward like the stubborn cold bitch I am.

“Prince Ryder riding in on his white horse to save the little ‘ol neighbor? FUCK YOU! I never asked for your help and I don't fucking want it! My life is just fine the way it is. I’ve been on my own for a long time Ryder, and goddamnit I can protect myself!”

He reaches forward and yanks the scarf off my neck, I grab at his hands but he’s too fucking fast. As soon as it’s gone my hands instinctively fly to my throat. He takes the opportunity to grab my wrists and yanks off my bracelets.

I swing my leg up to connect with his groin, not wanting to hurt him, but not wanting him to see anymore. He’s too fast and forces his body into my own against the wall. He grabs hold of both wrists and brings them up between our bodies.

“IS THIS PROTECTING YOURSELF, ELLE?”

His hands hold firm, forcing my wrists in front of my face. I know what they fucking look like, he doesn't have to show me.

Struggling is futile; I couldn't pull my arms out of his grasp if I tried. His eyes are boring into mine and he lets one wrist go but grabs hold of them both with his right hand and pulls them tight to his chest.

His left hand reaches out and he runs his fingers gently from the base of my neck down to my collarbone. The harsh light of the kitchen doing nothing to hide the purple marks there. His breathing is ragged and he takes a deep breath before continuing.

“Are these you protecting yourself too, Elle?” He asks in a softer tone. Kind hands touch me, but angry eyes bounce back between the marks and my face. Nobody aside from Doctor Revere has touched them. The Doc didn’t know exactly what happened, and the old man’s hands were much different from the hunk of testosterone currently pinning me to the wall.

“You’re a strong woman Elle, I know that. But however these happened, whatever bastard did this, I know as well as you that he was strong enough to overpower you and make this happen. And that, beautiful, is why I’m asking you to trust me. Why I’m asking you to let me help you.”

He cups my cheek and rests his forehead on mine. I close my eyes and savor the feeling of someone so close to me. Someone I want to trust, but fear to.

I lean into his palm and let his thumb wipe the tears from under my eyes. I want to let him comfort me, but needing to feel that makes me feel weak.

“There’s nothing left to help, Ryder.”

I admit softly in defeat. At this point I feel the only thing he could do would be to warm my bed. But that could mean his untimely death if I’m found again.

He slams his hand against the wall in frustration.

“You’re wrong Elle, so fucking wrong!”

He puts his hand around my throat and lifts my chin up. I don't get a chance to protest before his wet mouth is on mine. He moves his hand around the back of my head into my hair and pulls me closer.

I’m stunned; it’s been a long time since I’ve been intimate with someone, over a year to be exact. I don't feel like an active participant in the kiss and truth be told I’m afraid to open my mouth and let him in.

His hand that was holding my wrists lets go and moves down my ribs, over my hip and squeezes. It’s enough to make me gasp and he uses the opportunity to plunge his tongue into my mouth.

I can’t hold back anymore, I reach my arms up around his neck and climb my legs up his body. His hips hold me securely to the wall while we devour each other’s mouths. Tongues searching, his light stubble scratches my cheek. I push my fingers into his long hair and pull the roots tight while my tongue explores every inch of his delicious mouth.

His hands move underneath my ass and he gently squeezes and massages through the threadbare yoga pants. I moan into his mouth which encourages him further and he pushes his groin into mine, plastering me to the wall.

I can’t hold back the whimper that slips from my mouth, or the rush of dampness that seeps into my panties. I move my arms down his chest as his start to creep up under the back of my shirt, it’s enough to bring me back to reality and I pull my mouth from his and push my back hard into the wall to halt the movement of his hands.

“Stop.”

I hate to say that word. I’m panting and I can feel the sweat coating my brow. I’m afraid to open my eyes and see the rejection on his face at my command. I feel his forehead touch mine and he speaks before I push him further away.

“I’ll stop, Elle. Anytime you ask me to, I’ll stop,” he says in a deep raspy voice.