Hold On Tight (Take My Hand) (5 page)

~Emily~

Dexter
had gone for a run to
clear his head so I decided this was the perfect opportunity to call home. Up
in our bedroom, I called Chris first, wanting to get him out of the way first.
As expected he lectured me a little. He banged on about my education and the
fact that I was putting people I barely knew before my friends and family. Then
he brought up money and the fact my visa won’t last forever blah, blah, blah.
But when I explained in detail how it felt to watch Dexter’s mum die he
softened. He went from peed off to oozing concern instantaneously. That was
what made me realise how much I missed him right now.

Rachel was next and I knew
this call would last a hell of a lot longer and when I dialled her number I
tried very hard not to obsess over how much money it was about to cost me.
Sarah told me not to worry of course, but I wouldn’t have her shelling out for
my
international phone calls. Especially
when she was on the verge of losing the little assets she had.

“About fucking time, Ho!”
Rachel greeted me. Unexpectedly my throat closed up and I couldn’t speak past
the sobs wracking through my body. “Emily?” That said it all. She didn’t need
to tell me how panicked I had her, just calling me by my actual name was
enough. “What’s wrong?”

“I m-miss you,” I
snivelled and I’d never wanted to hug her so badly. “We can’t come home yet,” I
managed to choke out.

“Why not?” she rushed out,
sounding alarmed. “What’s going on?”

Sniffing in my tears I
went on to tell Rachel everything that’d happened. I started with the night I
found out about what happened to Dexter’s mum. Then I talked her through the
night she died, the funeral and finally, Dexter’s father. I chose to omit the
night Dexter decided to run off and get wasted. I know Rachel and she’d think I
was taking on too much if she knew the full extent of his past struggles with
addiction. She’d judge him – even if she didn’t come out and say it,
she’d be
thinking
things I didn’t
want
anyone
thinking about Dexter.

“Jesus motherfucking
Christ,” she breathed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s because there’s
nothing you
can
say that will make
this any better. Sarah just wants to give up. Give him the house and start over
somewhere else. And if I’m honest, I’m kind of with her.”

“But Dexter isn’t.” It
wasn’t a question – even though I’d not told her as much.

“No. And I don’t blame him
– really I don’t. His father is…”

“A twisted fucker?” Rachel
said for me.

“Yeah. And I know he
doesn’t deserve to just waltz in and take whatever he wants, but I can’t help
just wanting it to be over. There’s something about him that scares me, and I
don’t just think it’s because of the things I’ve learnt from Dex and Sarah.
It’s the way he stands, the way he looks at you, the way he talks… he frightens
the hell out of me and I just want him to go away. I just want us all to be
able to come home and pretend he doesn’t exist. But… Dexter won’t give in. I
know he won’t. He’s taking it really bad.”

“Fuck, Emily what the hell
have you gotten into here?” Rachel muttered on a slow exhale and I instantly
retaliated.

“Are you saying I should
just leave them to it?” I accused, my voice seething. “I didn’t
choose
to fall in love with him, Rach.
But I did and I will
never
regret it.
Whether it’s the laughs or the tears, I have never felt more alive since I met
him and I will
NOT
give up on him!”

“No, no, no… of course I’m
not saying that. I’m just so fucking worried about you, Ho! About
both
of you. You know… I actually kind
of like Dexter too… a little… sometimes.” Her tone was softer now and I felt
guilty for snapping. If the roles were reversed, I’d be going insane with worry
about her.

“I’m sorry,” I relented.
“I’m just stressed out and right now you’re the only one around for me to take
it out on. I wish you were here.”
So
badly.

“This can’t go on forever,
Ho. You’ll get to come home soon I promise.”

“I hope so.” Wow. I didn’t
realise how well I’d been holding it together until I called Rachel. Hearing
her voice reminded me how uncomplicated life was back in England… and yet I
never appreciated it. So what if my mum barely spoke to me? At least I’ve got
one. So what if my dad just floats around life being indifferent to everyone
and everything? At least he’d never hurt me. And so what if I didn’t have many
friends? At least the few I
do
have
would walk (or wheel) over hot coals to protect me.

Following the serious
stuff we chatted regular nonsense for a few minutes. She told me all about her
Christmas with her parents and that she’d gone and gotten the lip ring we
talked about while I was packing to come here. That seems like a lifetime ago
– so much has happened since then. Then she told me about a book we’ve
both been dying to read and apparently I will fall completely in love with
Woods Kerrington.

Like everything else
lately, even
that
made me want to
cry. Books have always been my ‘go to’. If I’m happy I’ll celebrate with a new
book. If I’m sad I’ll comfort myself with a new book. If I’m stressed out I’ll
calm myself down with a new book. If I’m… well you get the idea. But at the
minute, picking up my Kindle just seems like an insignificant waste of time.

“I’ve got to go, Rach.
This call is probably costing the earth,” I lied. Suddenly I didn’t care about
the money – it seemed so insignificant. The only reason I wanted to get
off the phone so desperately was so I could curl my body up into a tight ball
and ugly cry into my pillow.

**********

Two weeks passed before
Martin Michaels contacted Sarah again. It was intentional I’m certain –
dragging out the worry and uncertainty he knew damn well we were all feeling. He
didn’t come alone this time either. He brought his wife, Patricia – the
lieutenant in charge of Deborah’s case after she was shot. The same lieutenant
who convinced Sarah to lie and say Martin’s finger was behind the trigger. And
the same lieutenant who pretended to understand the pain that family had been
through while secretly sleeping with the man who destroyed Dexter’s whole life.

She is a full on police
commissioner now – the best of the best. The second Martin so proudly
announced that little titbit of information was the second my heart slithered
into the pit of my stomach. We can’t take on someone of her standing –
her power and influence. We all know it, but Dexter is the only one who won’t
admit it.

Just like Martin warned,
some men in a big white van came to erect a for sale sign outside the house.
Dexter had kicked it down before their van had even left the end of the street.
This little scenario has played out three times so far. The last being a week
ago and so I’m starting to think they’ve given up now. A man in cheap suit with
a fancy looking professional camera hanging around his neck came to take
interior photographs one day, but Dexter locked the door and threatened him. It
went something like, ‘knock one more time and I’ll rip off your balls and shove
them down your throat’. The suit turned sharply and disappeared down the path
faster than he arrived. He’s not been back since.

That was two weeks ago now
– since Martin’s last ‘visit’. We’ve been here over a month and nothing
is moving in any kind of direction. Sarah has been looking into the what’s and
how’s of working in the UK – visas, working permits, that kind of thing.
She also went back to Deborah’s solicitor but being afraid to open any cans of
worms that could incriminate Dexter, she tried to find out where she stood in
regards to the house without revealing the fact Martin was in fact well and
truly alive.

Needless to say she didn’t
get very far. She could only ask vague questions which in return got her even
vaguer answers. The whole situation seems surreal. All this talk of prison,
faking deaths and corrupt cops… It’s like a bloody movie or something. I never
know what to say or how to make people feel better so I’ve spent the last few
weeks being pretty quiet. I’m good at that though – I had years of
practice growing up.

“I’m heading out to the
grocery store, honey. You need anything while I’m there?” Sarah asked, popping
her head around the doorframe to the living room where I was sprawled out on
the couch.

“Umm, chocolate?” I said
with my best ‘pretty please’ smile.

“No problem. When Dex gets
home, tell him I’m going to have a go at that famous shepherd’s pie of yours
for supper,” she added, rubbing her hands together. Since my arrival here Sarah
is a shepherd’s pie convert. I’ve made it several times and she has watched
over me prepare it enough times to give it a bash herself.

“Sure will,” I answered.
Sarah gave me her usual wave – the clamp your fingers down, not flutter
your hand around type – and then left for the supermarket.

After hearing Dexter’s
name I looked at my watch, suddenly eager for him to get home. His friend Jaxon
has gotten him a job in his father’s garage to help tide us over while we’re
here. Apparently Dexter used to spend a lot of time there hiding out when he
was young – watching, learning and helping out whenever he was either
kicked out, or couldn’t bear being in, his own house. ‘I know my way around
cars almost as well as I know my way around your delicious body, doll,’ he said
to me just last week.

God, just thinking about
the way his raspy voice growled those words into my ear makes my insides
shiver.

So anyway, that’s where he
was. Working. And I was left at home with nothing to do but stuff my face with
chocolate and watch crappy daytime TV. I was bored senseless after having
cleaned the house from top to bottom then back to top again, ironing two giant
baskets of clothes and peeling the vegetables for dinner. It felt like my brain
was rotting…

Obviously I’m not
permitted to work over here but I’m going to have to find
something
to occupy my mind pretty soon before my rapidly dwindling
brain cells dry up altogether. Maybe I could get involved in some kind of
charity? Or maybe I could go and watch Dexter getting hot and greasy over the
bonnet of a car all day instead?

Hmm. Yeah, I like that
idea.

But for now, turning the
TV off and deciding to whip out my Kindle for the first time since I got here,
I snuggled down on the couch and settled in for an afternoon with Gideon Cross.

**********

The front door slamming
against the wall startled my eyes open. I must’ve fallen asleep. Dexter stalked
straight through to the kitchen without even looking at me, and my belly
flipped over with nerves. He must’ve seen his father – only
he
could provoke this kind of reaction
from him. Closing the cover on my Kindle and placing it back on the coffee
table, I followed him hesitantly into the small kitchen.

“Dexter?” I pressed
gently, placing my hand on one of his hunched shoulders and smoothing my
fingers over the grease-stained fabric of his blue coveralls. He immediately
shrugged away from me.

“I’m tired, doll. I’m
going to bed,” he muttered emotionlessly. It was as I opened my mouth to speak
I noticed the grazes wrapping around his knuckles.

“What are these?” I asked,
confused and concerned as I picked up his hand and traced his sore knuckles
with the pad of my thumb.

“They’re nothing. Just
leave it,” he snapped, pulling his hand away.

“Have you seen your
father?” I questioned, seeing no other reason for his abrupt hostility.

“Not everything revolves
around that bastard,” he spat, snatching his hand out of my fingers.
Instinctively I shrank back a step. I felt… I’m not actually sure what I felt. I
want to say fear but that sounds ridiculous. I could never be scared of Dexter…
right?

“Please, Dexter… what’s
wrong? Talk to me,” I pleaded.

“I said I’m tired,” he
repeated sternly as he brushed past me and headed straight for the stairs. I
started to follow him and was taking my first step on the stairs by the time he
reached the top. It was only when he darted into the bathroom and slammed the
door so forcefully behind him the walls of the entire house rattled, that I
swallowed the nervous lump in my throat and retreated back to the couch.

Sinking my face into one
of the fluffy cream cushions, the tears burned the back of my eyes as they
escaped to form a shallow pool in the crook of my neck. I still don’t know if
they were tears of worry or anger. I knew whatever was going on in Dexter’s
head right now wasn’t
my
fault and I
couldn’t help agonising over what might’ve happened to him.

But a stronger part of me
just wanted to slap him. How dare he push me away?
Again!
How dare he make me feel like an interfering nobody and not
the woman he’s pledged his life to?

Actually, the more I
thought about it, the more certain I was it wasn’t fear or worry making me cry
– it was pure, unadulterated anger.