Sins of the Father (13 page)

Chapter 14

~Ophelia~

The sound of splintering wood exploded through the stall. My vision, fuzzy with pain, created a halo around the silhouette frozen in the doorway. His head jerked back slightly and his body tightened.

Sawyer was here. He hadn’t abandoned me. He’d come back.

Relief blasted through me like a hot summer wind and I tried to stand, finding that I couldn’t. My knees felt as though they’d been stuffed with jelly.

Frank straightened over me and Sawyer’s gaze dropped to where I sat, huddled against the wall in the far corner. His face lacked all expression, but his eyes . . . his eyes
burned
. They held mine for a moment and then, without warning, he barreled across the cramped space.

An enraged shout rang against the tin roof and I made myself as small as humanly possible to stay out of the way as he dropped his shoulder and plowed into Frank.

The fight was brutal—no holds barred—and lasted far too long. Frank was the bigger man with the power of that extra bulk on his side. He pinned Sawyer to the floor and rained blows down on him. But Sawyer was leaner, more agile. He planted a foot in the hay and rolled them both until he was on top.

The dull thud of fists on flesh drew a whimper from me and I cowered deeper into the corner, wishing the shadows would erase me entirely. I should have gotten up. I should have run and run and run, and never looked back, but my legs were shaking too hard to stand.

Sawyer and Frank made a lot of noise. Shouts and bellows, grunts and growls, but no words. It was like watching animals battling in the wild. They hissed and snarled as they wrestled. Clothes were torn. Blood ran down Sawyer’s forehead from a gash near his hairline. Frank’s nose was bloody and bent at an awkward angle.

I felt the blow resonate through my body when Sawyer caught Frank in the gut and the air whooshed from his lungs. Frank struggled to breathe, momentarily stunned, and Sawyer pressed his advantage. When it was over Frank lay in a heap against the back wall.

I sat on the floor, counting my breaths.
Two-hundred-sixty-three, two-hundred-sixty-four, two-hundred-sixty-five.
They were coming so fast it was almost impossible to keep track, but I was afraid that
if I stopped counting, I’d forget to keep breathing.

Sawyer’s hands fisted at his sides as he regained his feet. The fire in his eyes scorched my skin as his gaze raked over me. They frightened me—his fists—even though he’d just used them to protect me and I pressed harder against the wood board digging into my spine.

“I—” He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, shaking out his hands. When he opened them again the fire had cooled. Bloody knuckles left streaks through his fair hair. “I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you, Sparrow.”

My heart wanted to believe that, but my aching body was having difficulty. He’d made promises before and the pain was proof he hadn’t kept them. My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. I was alive. That’s what I kept telling myself.
I was alive
.

“Can I? Please?” Sawyer indicated the space between us. He wanted to cross it, come closer . . . touch me? Did I want that?

As much as it terrified me to admit, I did. I wanted that. I needed it. I needed
him
. I nodded, afraid my voice wouldn’t cooperate.

In a heartbeat he was at my side, kneeling on the floor. Shaky fingers reached slowly toward my face, allowing me time to withdraw. When I didn’t—when I allowed contact between us—he was suddenly touching me everywhere.

“You’re hurt.” His hands gently covered my ribs, my hips, my upper arms . . . Stormy green eyes watched me closely as he moved from one spot to the next. All the damage that Frank had inflicted was concealed by clothing, but Sawyer knew exactly where to find each and every sore spot like he possessed x-ray vision.

I was so focused on his eyes that it took me a while to realize his hands were trembling.

“I-I’m okay.” I didn’t know why I felt the urge to reassure him, but the pain in his eyes hurt worse than anything Frank had done. “Are you alright?”

I reached for the cut on his head, but he jerked away. “
No.
No, Fi.
Nothing
about this is alright.
Jesus Christ.”

A wintery chill crept through me. The numbness was beginning to fade away and I felt so, so cold.

“Can you stand?” Sawyer took hold of my forearm and I gave him most of my weight as I unfolded from the floor.

Every joint and muscle protested the movement. I breathed through the pain, biting back more than one groan.

“How bad is it? Do you need a hospital?”

The smart answer would have been yes. Yes, take me to a hospital where they would call my parents, and they would come, and this would all be over.

Where the police would sit and question me for hours. Where there would be doctors poking and prodding at me. Where the media would no-doubt get word I was being treated and turn up in force. Where my father would be cold and distant, spending all of his time on his phone managing business and PR. Where my mother would put on her show for the cameras and then scold me for being so irresponsible the moment they were gone.

“No. No hospital.” I hadn’t the strength to deal with any of that. Not tonight.

“Come on then.” He took my hand in an unyielding grip, but his strength felt more like a gift than a threat. I soaked it in.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here. Away from . . .” he glanced over his shoulder at Frank’s unconscious form and his grip on my hand tightened, “. . .
him
.”

The neon glow of the vacancy light filled the car as Sawyer waited at the front desk for our room key. My face was plastered all over the news these days, so he’d insisted on me waiting in the car, choosing to trust me not to run rather than take me inside with him. It was a calculate risk, one that paid off for him because I was too worn to even consider fighting back anymore tonight. All I wanted was a shower, a bed, and an aspirin. Not necessarily in that order.

I lay back against the headrest and shut my eyes. Maybe I drifted off because it startled me when the driver’s side door opened and Sawyer slid in beside me.

“All set.” He dropped the key in my hand and I glanced at our room number. Thirteen. My lucky number.

A small, white plastic bag balanced on his thigh as we drove around back in silence and parked. It was one of those one-story, ranch-style motels so we didn’t have far to go. And, as luck would have it, no luggage to carry in.

“You must be tired.” Sawyer pushed open the door and flipped the switch on the wall.

A small lamp on the bedside table turned on. I’d spent the past week in a stable, so my expectations weren’t set incredibly high. Even so I was pleasantly surprised. The room was tiny, rug threadbare in places, and the furniture at least a decade old, but everything looked and smelled clean.

Now, if I could just do the same. “I’d really like to take a shower, actually.”

“Oh.” Sawyer stared distractedly at the back of the door before snapping the deadbolt into place. “Right. Of course. Here.”

He handed me the bag he’d picked up in the office. Two new toothbrushes and a travel sized tube of toothpaste were inside.

Sawyer had spoken very little and looked at me even less since we’d left the farm. There was an awkwardness between us that hadn’t been there before and I didn’t like it. It made me uncomfortable, like my skin was too tight. I dithered for a moment trying to think of something else to say, but when I failed to come up with anything better than, “thank you,” I retreated to the bathroom instead.

The lights remained off, plunging the entire room into darkness when I shut the door. It made unwrapping the tiny bar of soap and miniature bottle of shampoo difficult, but I didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to
see
. Again and again, I flinched and gasped as I scrubbed at my battered skin, trying to erase all of it. The aches and pains, the stink of fear, the memories that would undoubtedly replay in my nightmares for years to come. I wanted them gone. Washed away.

Scalding water sputtered from the shower head. The plumbing had obviously been installed some time before safety guards existed because the water reached a hellish temperature, but it didn’t bother me. My mind shut off and time just sort of drifted. I stood there for I don’t know how long, letting it rain down on me. It wasn’t until I began to shiver that I realized the water had run cold and I was still standing there.

A loud
clunk
sounded when I twisted the rusted metal handle into the off position. Cool air caressed my gooseflesh and I groped blindly behind the shower curtain for a towel. What I found was a thin, itchy bit of material barely larger than a hand towel. The thing scarcely reached around my body and covered very little top-to-bottom. I slipped into my panties, but wasn’t quite ready to put my dirty clothes back on and seeing as I didn’t have anything else to wear . . .

“I got ice if you want to—” Sawyer stopped whatever he was doing on his phone and did a double-take in my direction. In the darkness of the bathroom, wearing the towel had seemed like a good idea, but out there in the light . . . I folded my arms across my chest and shrank back into the corner. Sawyer’s jaw snapped shut and he shook his head. “It’s in the buket if you need it. I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

“I might have used up all the hot water,” I confessed.

“That’s okay.” I stepped aside to let him pass and he stopped with his back to me. “I won’t be long.”

The door clicked shut and I just stood there for a minute, caching my breath. The past, the future . . . it was all scary, so I chose to focus on the present. Right that moment I had a sink, a toothbrush, and toothpaste in front of me.

As the suds built in my mouth, flooding my tongue with a crisp minty taste, I inspected the room again. A small round table sat below the bay window on the front wall beside the door, shrouded with heavy green curtains. Flanking it were two wooden chairs, one pulled out and angled toward the back of the room where Sawyer had been sitting. A dresser with a small, flat screen television pushed against the far wall at the foot of the bed. One bed, of course, made up with cream sheets and a thick hunter green comforter. On the walls were the requisite hotel landscapes—a mountain range in pretty shades of purple and blue, a sunny field with stalks of wheat—and an oversized mirror.

I spit and wiped my mouth, gaping at the reflection staring back at me. The girl in the mirror wasn’t me. Not the me that I remembered. Her face was thinner, makeup gone, hair hanging wet and tangled around her shoulders. Dark circles rimmed her wide eyes, but the difference went deeper than that.

Swallowing around the lump in my throat I stepped closer to the glass. My fingers trembled as I tugged at where the towel was tucked into itself. Water still rushed in the bathroom, so I peeled it back slowly, curious just how much I had changed in only a week.

A strangled cry forced its way up my throat. My body more closely resembled a piece of abstract art. Discolored and swollen. I prodded gently at a purpling bruise on my hip. The cuts were from a gaudy class ring Frank wore on his right hand. I could still feel it tearing into my flesh. The sharp pains, the dull aches, I flinched at the memory of his boot colliding with my side. Sure enough a darkened boot print marked the skin above my ribs. Bruises here, there, and everywhere. On my shoulder from when he pushed me to the ground. Ringing my wrist from when I tried to fight back and he’d restrained me. I could see the flash of his ring as he drew back his fist, again and again and—