“Maybe, hell!” Victor cried.
…but that’s never going to happen now. As you know by now, that night in your apartment you said and did some things that I can never forget, though I’ll eventually be able to forgive. That’s not really the issue, you know…forgiveness. It’s forgetting that I’m going to find impossible. Even if we could be friends again (friends and NOTHING more), that night would always be in the back of my mind, as I’m sure it will always be in the back of yours. So I guess we’re done, which is tremendously disappointing and hurtful, but it’s better than trying to make a house out of splinters.
Please don’t try to find me to apologize. I’m sure you’re sorry—who wouldn’t be, after what happened? But, I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to listen to your excuses and your promises that it will never happen again. You would probably be right, it wouldn’t happen again, but once was enough. And it’s obvious who’s really on your mind these days. You never got over your ex-wife, and it’s painfully clear that you’ve been using me as a substitute. I truly do not want to see you again, ever, and I hope this finds you willing to go along with my wishes. I’m dreadfully sorry, Victor—sorry you got sick, sorry it happened, sorry I have to be this way.
Ashley
Unbelieving, Victor read the letter again. And again. He could feel Derik’s hand on his shoulder. “That’s tough, man,” he said sympathetically.
“What the hell did I do to her?” he whispered, crumpling the letter in his shock. He immediately tried to smooth out the wrinkles so he could read it again. “I must have hit her…something.”
“Yeah, something,” he said quietly. “Vic, why don’t you go count your condoms?”
Victor gaped at Derik for a long moment, then his mouth fell open in horrified understanding. He turned and ran for the bedroom, fell to his knees beside the bed, and fumbled for the drawer in the end table. At last he jerked it open so hard the drawer flew all the way out, and dumped it upside down. Paperback books, old plane tickets, a half-full bottle of cough syrup, a pack of tissues, and a box of condoms fell onto the carpet.
“Well, there’s a good sign,” Derik observed from the doorway. “That’s a brand-new box.”
“Yes,” he said, his relief so great he closed his eyes. “It hasn’t been opened. Hell, it’s almost six months old.”
“Pathetic. Remind me to bug you about your monkish ways once this is over. And none of this answers the question of what happened up here. Ashley didn’t seem to me to be the type of woman to, you know, fly off the handle for no reason.”
“You’re right about that. She’s had a tough life. And it’s made her tough. Whatever it is, whatever happened…it had to have been pretty bad. And it was all my fault,” he admitted.
“What are you going to do?” Derik asked, concerned. “She made it pretty clear she didn’t want to see you anymore.”
Victor, still on his knees by the end table, looked up at his friend with a gaze so full of anguish Derik nearly stepped back. “I have to find her. She could be hurt. Even if she’s not, I have to make it up to her. Whatever it was.”
“But Vic…” Derik trailed off doubtfully, then asked with clear puzzlement, “How are you going to find her?”
Victor stood. “I’m sure one person knows where she is, and I’ll bet that same person knows what happened.”
“That sounds mysterious.”
“That’s one way to describe her,” Vic said grimly, already on his way out the door. He dropped Derik off at his dojo, then put the car in gear and drove too fast to the Carlson-Musch Institute for Mental Health.
CHAPTER NINE
Jean studied her toenails, which were painted an interesting pale blue. This clashed nicely with her hair and eyes. Perfect.
There was a brisk knock at her door and then Victor Lawrence walked in, exactly as anticipated. A few days later than she calculated, but even she couldn’t be right all the time. He stood there, too tall, too darkly handsome—it was really disgusting the way comely men flocked to Ashley—and too pale. Worried, then. Or scared. Good.
“What’s going on, Jeannette? Where’s Ashley?”
“Fine, thanks, and you?”
“I can’t find her anywhere, she’s not returning my calls, and something awful happened which I have to fix right away. So where is she?”
“Yes, I agree, the weather has been unseasonably warm today.” She plucked a box off her end table and extended it toward him. “Triscuit?”
Victor shrugged out of his coat, flung it over the heater and sat down in the chair opposite the bed.
Hope it catches on fire, she thought petulantly.
“I have nothing more important on my agenda than finding Ashley,” he informed her, raking his fingers through his black hair, “which means I literally have nothing better to do than sit in this chair and stare at you until you tell me what you know.”
“Well,” she said, helping herself to a Triscuit, “you know what they say. To the Victor go the spoils.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Actually, I’m extremely funny. You’re just too dim to get my jokes.”
He arched his eyebrows at that. “You’re angry with me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Please, Jean. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.” He ignored her unbelieving snort and continued. “And if you’re mad at me, then you know what happened between Ashley and me.” He leaned forward suddenly, hands on his knees. “Please, Jean! I’ve got to find her, to help her.”
“She doesn’t want to see you again,” Jean said, unmoved. “She made that clear enough to me, and I’m sure she made it clear to you, as well. I’m certainly not going to reward her trust by betraying her whereabouts.”
“Then give me a phone number,” he begged. “I’ve got to talk to her. She’s not at her apartment—”
“My apartment,” Jean said.
“What?”
“It’s my apartment. Ashley lives in it for me when I’m indisposed. That way I don’t have to pay rent on an empty place, and it saves her money, too.”
“Where does she go when you’re home?”
“That’s none of your business. Please leave, or I’ll have security come and throw you out on your good-looking butt.”
“Security isn’t going to touch the guy who just gave this place half a million dollars. Grow up, Jean.”
She glared at him, silently fuming, and got off the bed. “Sit there until you rot, then, it doesn’t much matter to me, but if you won’t leave, I will.”
“My God, this isn’t a game of one-upmanship! Or if it is—fine, you’ve won, you’re wonderful and I’m scum.”
“Why, thank you. Would you mind embroidering that on a T-shirt and wearing it four days a week?”
“Now tell me where she is! At least tell me if she’s okay.”
“She’s not,” Jean said stonily. “She’s very far from okay.” She was starting to feel a little—just a little—sorry for the big lug. She crushed the emotion. This man had hurt her best friend, emotionally, if not physically. Ashley claimed it hadn’t hurt, but she tended to gloss over unpleasantness—and so destroyed her confidence, the woman was still hiding. And Ashley never hid. She’d survived a loveless childhood, had grown into a beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, funny woman, and this man had used her.
“Jean, whatever it was, whatever I did—”
“You don’t remember?”
“Hell, no, I don’t remember! The last thing I remember was kissing Ashley goodnight and going to sleep. Next thing I know, I’m in the hospital, Ashley’s gone, and you’re treating me like I clubbed a bunch of baby seals on my lunch hour. Now, please, Jean, you’ve got to tell me.”
His hands were on her shoulders, gently holding her in place, and for the first time she noticed how dark his eyes were, black, actually, and very intense. It was obvious he was suffering. Good, she thought uneasily. He deserves to suffer. “You’ve got to te
ll me how I can find her,” he said again, more urgently.
“I don’t have to tell a rapist anything,” she said, but it didn’t give her the pleasure she thought it would. For one thing, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was kicking a man already down. For another, instead of the heated denial she was expecting, he let go of her shoulders and practically staggered back. He paled, then color slammed back into his face and he sat down, cheeks burning, mouth open, eyes wide with shock and horror.
He dropped his head into his hands and sat, unmoving and unspeaking, for a long time.
She let him sit like a lump on her chair for almost half an hour before deciding enough was enough. She coaxed him into eating a Triscuit, then made him wash it down with a glass of water. She got him on his feet and they walked up and down the halls together, her in hospital pajamas and robe, him in street clothes.
“I can’t believe it,” he kept saying, clearly distraught. “I just can’t believe it.”
Jean silently agreed, but there was no need to beat him over the head with it. She tried to think of something to say and after a moment’s thought came up with, “There, there.”
He shook his head. “I just don’t know how—” Then a thought seized him because he turned to her and said anxiously, “Was she badly hurt? Did she have to go to the hospital? Oh, God, did I—did I tear her or—”
“No, oh no! She wasn’t even bruised,” Jean assured him.
“Jean, I’m begging you. Tell me where she is.”
“Forget it, Victor,” she said crossly. This encounter hadn’t gone at all as planned, which pissed her off. She hadn’t anticipated his grief and horror at what he’d done, and neither she nor Ashley had imagined he would have no memory of the encounter. No wonder he felt entitled to find her and explain. “No matter how nice or mean you are, no matter how much you grovel—and cut it out, it’s embarrassing—I’m not telling. She doesn’t want to see you again, and that’s it.”
“Jean, you misunderstand.”
“Unlikely.”
He ignored that. “I don’t need you to find her. I can do it myself, but it’ll be easier if you help me.”
“Oh, sure, Victor, no problem. Because making your life easier is what I live for.”
“What I’m saying,” he went on with deadly patience, “is that I’m going to find her. So maybe you want to tell her I’m looking. I don’t want her to think I’m going to crawl away like a coward and never take responsibility for what I did.”
“Tell her?” she asked sharply. “Don’t you mean warn her?”
He looked at her sorrowfully. “If you like. I won’t hurt her, Jean. I’d never hurt her.”
“Again, you mean?”
He flinched. “Yes. Again. You must have know that if I’d been in my right mind I’d rather break my own arm than force any woman…especially someone as dear to me as Ashley. I have to find her and tell her this. I can’t just let her walk out of my life. If you had done something to Ashley, and knew she was afraid and suffering alone, could you just let things lie?”
She almost weakened, but forced herself to stay impassive. “Whatever, Victor.”
He started to walk away. He was different, now, she realized uneasily. Gone was the despair, the near-tearfulness, the rage at himself. Now he was calm. Now he had a purpose and would not rest until it was fulfilled. “Tell her, Jean,” he called over his shoulder. “Tell her I’m going to find her and, once I’ve found her, spend the rest of my life making up for what I did.”
“Leave it alone, Victor!” she shouted after him. “Just let it be!”
“I can’t,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. “Tell her, Jean. And thanks for your help.”
She stuck her tongue out at his retreating back. It helped, but only a little. Well, she'd cut up his jacket into clothes for her doll collection—the Dork With A Mission had forgotten it.
CHAPTER TEN
Monday, Ashley went to the office for the first time in over two weeks. Although she could do most of her assignments out of the office, she had never stayed away so long. It was past time to put in an appearance. Her boss might start to worry about her otherwise.
She sat down at her desk, called up the story she had been working on, grabbed her phone, and got to work. The next time she looked at the clock, she was startled to see it was one-thirty.
“No wonder I’m starving.”
“You’re thinking out loud again,” her cube-mate, Todd O’Halloran, said, never lifting his gaze from the monitor or missing a beat in his typing. “Knock it off; some of us are trying to work.”
“That’s your novel,” she pointed out, “not your assignment.” Todd wrote romance novels under the pen name Rebecca L’Fleur and made a tidy bundle. He wrote only while at work at the newspaper, and cranked out three books a year. Ashley knew the only reason he worked at the paper at all was so he wouldn’t have to pay for office space or computer time. He was so smart, and such a fast typist, he could do both jobs—reporter and novelist—without ever pulling overtime. She was inclined to dislike him because of that, though she was always cordial. “It’s more like I’m interrupting your personal time.”
“Work is work,” he said, still not looking up. “Bring me back a Diet Coke, willya?”
“Since you asked soooo nicely,” she replied good-naturedly, heading for the elevator, “I will. But it’s going to cost you.” Plus she’d bring him back a regular Coke. She chortled at the thought. That ought to fix him.
On the main floor, she went to Burger King (she had been boycotting McDonald’s since they blew off the Special Olympics) for her usual burger and fries, and bought two Cokes. Balancing the bag on top of the cardboard cup holder, she walked toward the elevator. Among other things, this building housed a law firm, the newspaper, and a temp agency, so there were plenty of people around. The main floor was a food court, and because it was almost two o’clock it wasn’t obscenely crowded.
She felt him a half second before she heard his voice: a light touch on her elbow, a firm, “Ashley.”
She whirled and the Burger King bag went flying. Victor was standing there, wearing a dark suit and his black dress coat, and she figured—amazing, the ridiculous thoughts a person had at a time like this—he’d been to his office that morning.
She tried to speak but was so rattled at his sudden appearance she could only stare at him and stammer. “Wh—wh—”
“I was hoping you’d have lunch with me today.”
She noticed he spoke softly, calmly, and moved not at all. He’s afraid he’ll spook me and I’ll run, she realized, then figured it was a valid concern. She felt like running. She felt like a cornered rabbit, if truth be told.
“I think we have some things to talk about. Yes?”
“Leave me alone,” she finally managed, and turned on legs that felt like overcooked noodles. She started walking to the elevator. One step, two steps, three steps, four. The elevator was getting closer, which meant he was getting further away. That was all right. She kept walking, willing her heart to start beating again, willing her breathing to slow down. He’d startled her, but she was cool. She’d handled the situation okay. She’d been cool. Too cool for school, she dazedly assured herself. Told him to leave her be and then walked away. That was good. That was very—
“Ashley?”
“Leave me alone!” she cried, whirling and throwing Todd’s Coke at him in one motion, so quickly she couldn’t believe she had done it, even as she was doing it. Inertia forced the plastic cap off the cup; Victor ducked, but not quite fast enough. Coke rained down on the tile and while he was wiping his eyes she turned and ran.
She didn’t think about where she was going, just dropped the remaining Coke and darted through the first door she saw. She realized at once she was in the building management suite, and just as quickly realized her mistake—like a true idiot, she’d left the safety of crowds for the solitude of an empty hallway.
Well, there was nothing
to do but keep going. Which she did, ignoring the door opening behind her, ignoring Victor’s urgent, “Ashley, please wait!” She was intent on the far door, one that led who-knew-where—any place would be an improvement—and she was only a few feet away from it when she felt an arm circle her waist and swing her off her feet.
She kicked back, hard, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. Her back was getting sticky-wet as he pulled her against his chest—the Coke, she realized with murderous joy. Should have drowned you in it!
“Let me go!”
“I will, if you give me just thirty seconds of your time.”
“What are you, a deranged long-distance salesman? I told you to leave me alone!” she shouted, struggling. “Do you listen as badly as you read? Now put me down and go away!”
“In a minute,” he said, right into her ear, and she gasped as all the hairs on her left arm stood up in response to his voice.
Great, just great, Ash. After everything that happened, he still turns you on. Get help. Seriously.
“In a minute, sweetheart. Calm down first. I just want to talk to you.” She kept trying to pull free, panting with the effort, and he held her with easy strength and kept talking softly into her ear; he just wanted to talk to her. He wouldn’t hurt her, not ever again. He wouldn’t have cornered her but she left him no choice. If she would just relax a little he’d put her down and they could talk. It wouldn’t take long and then he’d go away. But first she had to calm down. It would be all right.
At last, exhausted, she quit struggling and went limp against him. After a moment he carefully set her down—she realized he’d been holding her almost a foot off the ground. My God, he’s strong. I never had a chance that night. Or today. She took a weary step toward the door when he put his hand on her elbow and gently pulled her back.
“Wait,” he said quietly.
“What do you want?”
“To fix things.”
“Do you have a time machine? That’s the only way to do it. Make it so it never happened.”