To Hiss or to Kiss (18 page)

Guilt washes over me as I think of the way I mistrusted him to help me with this. I start to say I’m sorry, but he stops me, coming to me with that feline quickness, a finger on my mouth. “Hush. Now is not the time for regrets. Let’s get out of here.”

I nod, forcing myself to meet his eyes. That same softness is still there, and my heart flip-flops. Maybe he doesn’t hate me.

He is already heading up the stairs, three boisterous pit bulls in tow.

“We need to take Gracie. She doesn’t deserve to be left like this.” I choke on tears I refuse to let flow. I fuel my rage at the men into holding my grief at bay.

He stops about halfway up, turns to look at me. “We can’t. This is now a crime scene and we need to not have been here. And something must account for the canine blood.”

I want to argue, but I know he’s right. It’s why I wore gloves as part of my outfit and why Jorge thought to put them on before, presumably, racing here to save my ass. So I just nod and turn to say good-bye. Tears leak out of my eyes, but I manage not to sob. I turn from Gracie’s broken, bloodied body and follow Jorge up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, the last pit bull sits proudly on top of the gunman, who sports a nasty gash at his throat and a ruined right hand. I’m not sure if the man is dead or just passed out, and I find it very hard to care as I watch Jorge pat the dog on the head appreciatively and step purposefully over the man. He turns to grab and lift me over the gunman’s body, brushing a soft kiss over my forehead as he sets me down. “Let’s leave this nightmare behind.” He takes my hand and leads the way out the front door.

The dogs sense the mood as we walk and quiet down. Jorge leaves me on the porch for a few minutes. The dogs hover around me, unsure what to do now that they are free.

Jorge comes back with the video scrambler and alarm deactivator, and I’m almost coherent enough to admire how well he’s thinking things through to get rid of any evidence we were ever here. I don’t feel nearly so logical right now.

He takes my hand again and we start moving. The dogs follow us. Somehow we make our way back to Jorge’s house, but I don’t remember anything about it except thinking over and over,
Gracie is dead because of me. I was supposed to save her.
And I remember feeling cold, like Gracie’s body. So cold.

* * *

Back at Jorge’s, feeding and watering the dogs pulls me from my state of shock, as does a quick explanation to the cats before they decide to go into hiding due to the dogs. Jorge calls the police about an overheard disturbance and perhaps gunshot at the neighbors’.

In the quiet after this, I feel the tension begin to rise in Jorge. Even knowing I’m being a coward, I start wondering if I can play up some PTSD for sympathy to get out of the path of his ire. As quickly as it comes, I squelch the thought. “I’m sorry.” My soft voice wills Jorge to meet my eyes and see the truth there. I want him to hear my thoughts, but his mind is locked tight. He’s learned so fast how to be guarded against my ability when he wants to.

He does finally meet my gaze, staring at me coldly, and my heart freezes in panicked fear. He brushes past me, heading toward the front door, a soft growl on the air as he strides purposefully out the door. To his credit, he doesn’t slam it. To mine, I don’t completely fall apart.

I sink to the floor and curl into a fetal position. Why couldn’t I just trust Jorge? I didn’t even try to convince him of the urgency. Maybe I could’ve gotten through. God, I don’t deserve to be forgiven. And I couldn’t even save Gracie.

On and on goes my berating. It is quite a pity party of self-loathing, finally broken by a wet nose snuffing in my hair. I glance up at the white and brown boy who I’d manage to free before, before…Oh, Gracie.
Tears well and I curl my head away again.

The snuffling continues and a paw rests gently against my shoulder as the dog whimpers softly.

I look back up and meet his sad brown eyes.

“Thank you.”
The dog’s voice echoes at the back of my mind, and I find myself dropping my own shields wide open without giving it a thought.

“You’re welcome.”
I hold his gaze even as tears still spill from my eyes. God, I haven’t cried with such grief in, well, I can’t remember ever crying this much. Not even when my mother left or when my dad gave up. I was too angry then. Now I’m just empty.

After a pause, the dog resumes speaking to me and I pull my attention back to him.
“My name is Hector.”
His finally sharing this intimacy with me makes my heart start to heal just a little. Relief reflects in his eyes as he recognizes this.

“Thank you.”
I hope he understands just how much I mean that.

He bows his head slightly as dogs do as a sign of respect, then turns and walks over to where the other three dogs are curled up sleeping on a rug near a furnace vent.

Seeing the dogs huddled together for warmth and comfort reminds me that my clothes are soaked in Gracie’s blood, just now beginning to stiffen my shirt and pants as it dries. And with a shiver I realize how cold I am from shock and my partially wet clothes.

Ugh. Enough self-pity.

I shake myself and rise, heading toward the bedroom to get a thick pair of socks and some clean clothes before a nice, punishingly hot shower.

Maybe I should say soothingly hot. I still have to live with myself, whether Jorge still wants to live with me or not. I smile a little thinking about living with Jorge permanently. A tiny bit of hope blooms in my heart when I remember him holding me while I cried over Gracie’s body, his own tears falling on my head, and I can’t remember just why I was so fearful of loving him. I believe Gracie would approve of my thoughts, and I send her spirit a hug wherever it may be. From the living room, I feel the gratitude and concern from Hector and the other dogs.

In the bathroom, I peel off the blood-soaked clothes, putting them in a garbage bag I found under the sink. Then I step into the scalding water. I scrub and scrub, watching the reddish-brown water flow off my body until finally everything runs clear. I don’t feel absolved of anything.

I towel dry roughly and throw on pjs. When I open the bathroom door, all four dogs are lying at the threshold, causing me to step back in surprise.

Hector rises and licks my hand.
“This is Raul.”
He nods toward an almost completely white dog. Then he nods toward one a shade of brown a bit lighter than himself.
“That’s John.”
Then he nods at a white dog with large black splotches.
“And Ringo.”

I acknowledge each dog, and they all rise and surround me. A chorus of thank-yous echoes in my head as they all lick my hands. Ringo even jumps up to lick my face, and I have to brace myself not to fall over.

I start to cry again, and then I laugh, too. Maybe I’m absolved of some things. I did get these four guys out. I feel my heart, my soul, lighten. Now if only Jorge will forgive me.

Hector steps back. He eyes me solemnly until he is sure I am paying attention.
“We are in your debt. Don’t be sad. You are part of our pack now. We’ve been waiting to be free of the violence where our very survival depended on our ability to fight. You have brought us peace.”

I nod my thanks, feeling humbled and marveling again at the resilience of these dogs who were so abused. After I convince Ringo to get down, I head toward the living room, all four dogs in tow. I hope that Jorge will be there, but there is no sign that he’s returned. I sigh heavily and turn back toward the bedroom.

Staring at the unmade bed, I feel awkward getting in, but I don’t know where there are extra blankets and don’t have the energy to drag this bedding to the couch. The adrenaline and shock are completely gone, and all that’s left is guilt, grief, and a bone-deep exhaustion, so I crawl into Jorge’s bed. Our bed, I hope.

The dogs settle on the floor around the bed as I drift into oblivion, thoughts of Gracie and Jorge flitting around my head.

* * *

I wake with a start. Sunlight streams through the window, and it feels wrong that the morning should be so bright and beautiful.

As my gaze sharpens from the fog of sleep, I realize Jorge is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me. My heart skips a beat—or four—as a tiny bit of hope blooms. I sit up, cuing him that I’m awake.

“Why?” The anger and tension rippling off him kill my tiny sprig of hope. “Why did you go without me?”

I hear one of the dogs whine. I think it’s Ringo. I bite my lip. What do I say? Oh, sorry, but I really don’t trust you. Doesn’t matter that I slept with you, or that I shared things with you that I’ve never talked about with anyone else, or that I am in love with you. “I don’t know.”

He whips his head around and pins me with a glare that has me sinking back into the pillows and pulling up the comforter as if I could hide from his anger—and his pain. “Jesus, Chloe. How do you not know? Don’t you trust me at all?”

God what I wouldn’t do to wipe away that look of pain in his eyes—a look that I caused. I hope he can see that fervent wish in my eyes, even if I can’t get the words out. “I’m sorry.” I try unsuccessfully to force my eyes to meet his gaze. I reach out tentatively to touch his arm, but he just shrugs off my hand.

Instead he leans and grabs my chin, forcing my gaze to his stony one. “I bet you are.” He sighs, and his eyes go liquid with unshed tears. His voice softens. “But it’s not that easy. You don’t get off that easy.”

I want to kiss him, comfort him, hold him in my arms and prove to him how sorry I am. How wrong I was. How badly I screwed up and just how painfully aware I am of that fact. But before I can gather enough resolve, he drops my chin and turns away. His message of refusal is loud and clear. I should fight him on this, but any courage I may have ever had eludes me. “I’ll just pack my, uh, things and, uh, go.” I get out of bed, needing to do something so I don’t completely break down. So I don’t have to face what I’ve done, what I’ve caused.

“Fine. I’ll keep the dogs.” His matter-of-fact voice is back. He stands and walks out of the room, but I don’t see him go, my face buried in the closet to retrieve my suitcase. I’d ended up unpacking the whole thing after all.

When his footsteps have died away down the hall, I allow myself to shed a few tears while haphazardly throwing my stuff into my suitcase. I don’t even bother with the bathroom items. Jorge can throw them all away. I also don’t bother getting dressed. I’m just going home.

Home. In such a short time, I’ve come to think of this room, this house, Jorge, as home. Why couldn’t I have realized this without getting Gracie killed and making Jorge hate me?

I shake my head. If I think those thoughts too long I’m going to end up back on the floor in the fetal position.

Suitcase packed, I zip it shut and heave it to the floor. The wheels squeak as if they too are crying as I make my way to the front door and out to my car. Jorge is nowhere to be seen. I open my mind, trying to sense him, but all I can feel of him is an impenetrable brick wall. Not that I’m surprised. I don’t deserve him or his forgiveness.

I put the suitcase in my trunk and go back in to find Enoki and Sashi. They are both in their carriers, which sit right inside the door. So obviously Jorge’s here somewhere, but I don’t even try to look. He doesn’t want to be found. And if I’m honest, it’s easier for me to leave if I don’t find him. He must’ve taken the dogs with him because they are also AWOL. I’m able to connect with them, though, to tell them good-bye and to take care of Jorge. They don’t understand why I’m leaving, and I can’t find a way to explain. I just tell them this isn’t my home, but it is theirs and I hope I’ll be able to visit soon. They whine. I’m pretty sure they are in the aluminum pole barn behind the house.

I get both cats into the backseat, and then settle into the driver’s seat. The cats are amazingly quiet despite the fact they know we’re going for a ride, but then they do know me and can pick up on my mood. “I love you guys.” I try not to cry. It doesn’t work, so I give myself a few minutes for one last good cry before I wipe my tears, grip the steering wheel hard, and begin the drive back to my house. It’s going to be a long one.

Chapter Thirteen

I am lying in bed, catatonic from eating two pints of ice cream with a chaser of scotch, when my cell phone rings. I’d brought it with me into my bedroom in the ridiculously stupid hope that Jorge would call and ask me to come back.

The optimistic part of me hopes it’s him as I reach for the phone. The caller ID says it’s Naomi. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to her or anyone, so I don’t answer.

Immediately it starts to ring again, and again I don’t answer. On the third try, I angrily hit the ignore button, which does nothing but get me a text that says,
I know you are seeing your phone. Is something wrong? I haven’t heard from you in days. Don’t make me panic.

Almost immediately another text comes through.
Sorry if you’re having sex.
J

If only.

Her comment about panicking cranks up my guilt. Now isn’t the time to alienate the one person in my life who actually might still care about me, so I text back.
I’m OK.

So you’re not having sex and you are giving me the cold shoulder? I’ve been worried about you. Call me or I’m coming over.

I roll my eyes. I’m not going to call her, so it is probably inevitable that she will show up at my door. I get up and stumble down the stairs to get myself another shot of scotch. I throw it back but resist the temptation to take another. The last thing I need is Naomi thinking she must run an intervention for alcoholism—she’s already going to try one on my love life.

As I walk to the living room, my reflection in a wall mirror shows I better do some grooming before Naomi gets here. A quick brush of my hair and some dabs of makeup and at least I don’t look like death warmed over. Add “looking like shit” to the list of things I’ve done way too much of since I met Jorge. It joins crying, having sex, drinking, lying in bed, and eating ice cream. Well, I’ve always eaten too much ice cream.