Without realizing what he was doing, Grant rolled onto his stomach, folded his arms underneath his chest, and clenched his hands tightly over his face. He once again repeated “I’m sorry,” the words muffled by his hands. He felt humiliated that he could not stop crying.
Utterly confused, Sophie peered at his prone naked body—his smooth, muscular back and buttocks exposed defenselessly, revealing the jagged scar, and his entire body trembling as if he were awaiting punishment, a physical beating.
Gasping, she suddenly snapped the puzzle pieces together in her mind: his nightmare at Kirsten’s when he’d pleaded with an unknown tormentor, promising to “be good”; his words about not getting along with his father, contrasted with the adoration he felt for the uncle who saved him; his warning that she stay away from the “bad people” in his life. Was he an abuse survivor? Had his father abused him?
Immediately she reached for him, gently rubbing her hand over his cropped black hair as she scooted closer to his body. Softly stroking his hair, she murmured soothing words. “You’re okay, Grant. It was just a dream. You’re safe here with me. It’s all right to cry, honey. It’s all right to feel scared.”
The tension in his shoulders slowly released with each calming word and soft stroke of her hand. His breathing steadied and his sobs gradually subsided. Tentatively she lifted her naked body off the sheets and straddled his back. She stroked the well-defined muscles of his back with her fingertips, feeling his skin respond to her warm touch. She kneaded his taut shoulder blades with the heels of her hands, delivering a relaxing massage. He allowed her to pull each arm from under his chest, resting them by his side.
After a few minutes of her hands working magic, he let out a shuddering sigh, and Sophie lay next to him once again. He finally rolled over to face her.
She gently wiped the wet trail on his cheeks, then planted soft kisses as he closed his eyes. Eventually she returned her head to the pillow and gazed lovingly toward him. He fondly caressed her face.
Grant’s words were shaky. “Thank you for making me feel better. How did you know what to do?”
“I’m not sure, but I sensed you were really hurting.” Sophie nervously cleared her throat, then added, “Grant, I think I know how you got that scar.”
His breathing hitched, and he could not look her in the eye. “And you’re still here?”
Her eyes flashed sorrow. Like most abuse survivors, he apparently blamed himself. He thought his inherent badness caused the abuse and believed nobody would love him once they learned of it.
“Of course I’m still here. I could never leave my McSailor.”
Slowly raising his gaze to meet hers, their eyes locked with a deep connection and shared understanding. He clasped her hand in his and softly stroked it.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll stand by you as long as you tell me the truth. But if you lie to me again, Grant, I’ll have to leave. I went to prison because a man lied to me, and I won’t let it happen again.”
He nodded. “I understand. But, Sophie, sometimes the truth is painful. I don’t want to make you feel that pain.”
“We’ll get through it together, okay?” She blushed slightly. “I think we make a good team.” She grinned, adding, “Bonnie and Clyde.”
For the first time in hours, he smiled, and it was a lovely sight to behold. He lifted her hand to his full lips and affectionately kissed it.
“I think we need more sleep before our crime spree begins, Clyde. It is the middle of the night, you know.”
Nodding, he drew her body to his, and she snuggled her head into the crook of his neck, feeling safe and loved in his strong arms. They drifted into a dreamless sleep.
When Grant awoke the next morning, sun streaming in the curtain-free windows, he was alarmed to find the space next to him empty. Hopping up, he glanced around the small apartment before spying a note on the kitchen counter. She had scrawled in her flowing handwriting on the back of a flyer advertising the pizza place next door.
McSailor,
I had to go home so Kirsten doesn’t worry. But we have another day off work
(yee-hah!), and I definitely want to spend it with YOU!
Here are my coordinates:
900 North Lake Shore Drive, Unit 10
(312) 555-4043
See if you can navigate your way (sober this time) over to my ship.
XOXO, Bonnie
A bright grin filled his face. Then he realized he was standing buck-naked in the middle of his living room, so he dashed back to the bedroom to get dressed.
He had to get to his Bonnie. He just had to bring her back.
23. Cugino Carlo
Chomping his gum, Logan looked down at his big hands and sighed. It was sticky hot in the car, and he was bored out of his mind. Where the hell was his brother? He’d been staking out their mother’s gravesite for days now.
Given that Chicago had a population of nine million, Logan had no idea how to locate Grant. Perhaps he should have shown more interest in his brother, should have gotten to know him better—his likes, his dislikes, his hobbies. Maybe then he would have a fucking clue about where to find him. But he didn’t know the adult version of Grant at all, so his only lead was this cemetery, where he’d hunted him down twice before.
It was unlike Grant to go so long without visiting her grave. He treated his visits to the desolate headstone like a damn duty or something. Logan hated being here, hated sensing her disapproval, even from six feet under.
Perhaps Grant had chosen another city to call home once released from prison. Nah, Logan just knew he was in Chicago somewhere. Just then, the glare of the sun on an approaching windshield momentarily blinded him. When the car pulled up next to his, he thought maybe he’d lucked out after all. The driver had short black hair, just like Grant, but when Logan squinted his eyes, he detected not the lean grace of his brother but the ferocious energy of someone else entirely, and his excitement morphed into a sick dread.
It was his cousin Carlo.
The shiny, sand-colored Lexus glistened in the summer sun. Carlo shut off the ignition and glanced in the rearview mirror, appreciatively admiring his immaculate appearance while briskly running two fingers through his hair. Then he turned his gaze to Logan. His steely black eyes rested on him disdainfully, and Carlo’s smug acknowledgement made Logan’s stomach clench with resentment.
A black cowboy boot emerged from the vehicle, followed by a solid leg clad in black pants. Carlo set both boots firmly on the concrete of the small parking area facing the grassy graveyard and stood, three inches shy of six feet.