Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

  Slowly I shake my head, my voice just . . . gone. I can’t even look at him. I’m so entranced with his hand on my arm, the way he’s touching me, like he knows me. Like we’ve known each other forever. Like he’s rescued me before and he’ll always be there for me no matter what. It’s as if I feel the silent promise radiating through him and pulsing through me.

  Fanciful dreams, silly idiot.

  I banish the nagging voice in my head to the deepest, darkest corner of my brain.

  “You were holding onto your purse pretty fiercely there.” I tilt my head up to catch him smiling at me, revealing nice teeth. They’re not too white, not too straight. If teeth could be friendly, his are. Which is ridiculous. But I’m starting to think I’m not the most coherent person at the moment. “You probably should’ve just let it go.”

  He’s repeating exactly what I thought only moments ago. “I-I know, but I couldn’t.” I clamp my lips shut, hating that my voice is high and breathless and I’m stuttering just like that teenage kid.

  Relief crosses his features and he gives my arm a gentle squeeze. I feel it to the very depth of my bones. “She speaks.”

  He’s teasing me and I don’t know how to react. So like a zombie, I nod, feeling dumb and completely out of my comfort zone. I don’t talk to men. Ever. Not really, not like this.

  “Thank you. For coming to my rescue.” I still can’t believe he did it. I know someone else had to have seen what was happening. Is the world that cold, that callous, that no one wants to reach out a helping hand, especially if the situation could be dangerous?

  Yes.

  The word whispers through me, defiant and with a hint of snark. Because I knew the answer well before I ever thought the question—I just never want to admit it.

  “I, ah, I hope you don’t mind that I let him go.” His hand drops from my arm and I feel the loss like a sharp prick just beneath my skin. Poking and prodding and reminding me that I might not be good enough, not what he could want.

  As if he would ever want me. I’m totally getting ahead of myself.

  Realizing that he’s waiting for an answer, I offer him a wan smile. “What was I supposed to do with him?” I ask with a shrug, pretending that I’m normal. That what I just experienced is no big deal. I’ve been almost mugged plenty of times, right? I can handle this. I’m tough. Strong.

  Lies, lies, lies.

  His expression turns grim. “We probably should’ve called the cops.”

  The last thing I need is the police to show up and realize who I am. Where I’m at. They’d connect the dots and most likely crap their pants to be the first one on the phone with the local news. Talk about coming up at eleven—they’d all salivate to have the scoop on this ridiculous story. The media would have a field day with the constant speculation, the questions, the lack of answers.

  No thank you.

  “Hopefully you scared them enough that they’ll never try something like that again.” He may not be touching me, but he’s standing awfully close, totally in my personal space. Yet I don’t mind. My arm still tingles where his fingers pressed into my skin. I take a step backward, suddenly needing the distance, confused by my reaction.

  I don’t know him. So why am I acting like this? Thinking like this? I shouldn’t like the way he’s looking at me, the breadth of his shoulders, the scent of him, clean and distinct even with the salty breeze washing over us.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” The concern in his deep voice matches the concern I see clouding his eyes, and I offer him the smallest smile and a quick nod. “You never answered my question earlier. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  Only when he says the word hurt do I react. Again. Reaching across my body with my left hand, I massage my shoulder, wincing at the radiating pain that pulsates just beneath my skin. I nudge the loose neck of my shirt away, see the bruise already starting to form just on the outer edge of my shoulder, and he’s suddenly there, standing behind me, tall and looming.

  Touching the bare skin of my shoulder like some sort of lover or boyfriend.

  I’m not comfortable when someone stands behind me, especially a man. It brings back too many memories, ones I don’t care to think about. But his fingers on my body act like a balm, calming me from the inside out. Tingles sweep over my skin as they probe gently and I hiss in a breath, my gaze meeting his.

  “He marked you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with anger as his hand falls away from my shoulder.

  Excitement fizzes inside of me like soda spouting from the top of a two-liter that’s just been violently shaken. His anger over what happened to me is—exciting. There’s no other word for it. It steals my breath, makes my chest ache, and I rub at it absently. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a bruise.” I brush it off, not wanting him to do something stupid like chase after those boys. As if he could find them. They’re long gone.

  Plus, I don’t want to lose him. Not yet.

  Modesty attacks, reminding me that my plain white bra strap is on blatant display, and I pull my shirt back over my shoulder, covering the bruise. He steps away, giving a wide berth between us, and I wonder if he realized he was standing too close, acting too familiar.

  I wonder more if he knows I didn’t mind.

  “Thank you,” I say again because I want him to know just how grateful I am. “For helping me. I, uh, probably didn’t handle it right. I’m really thankful you stepped in.”

  It’s his turn to shrug. Those broad shoulders are covered by a thin flannel plaid shirt, dark blue and green, open at the collar and revealing the pristine white T-shirt beneath. He looks—good. Handsome, in that wholesome, strong, virile way, as if he could take two-by-fours and crack them in half with his bare hands.

  He’s also much taller than me, with the glasses that remind me of his imperfections and the shiny dark brown hair, curving lips, and hint of scruff lining his jaw and cheeks. Other girls would fall all over him, I’m sure. He doesn’t break the two-by-fours—he probably needs them to ward off half the female population who want to jump him.

  “I did what anyone else would’ve done in the same situation,” he says, all understated modesty.

  Right. Because I had so many people running to my rescue just now. Same when I was twelve. No one wants to help. No one wants to interfere. They’re all too scared.

  Not this man. He stepped right in like it was his calling to rescue me. For that, I will be forever grateful.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him, the question startling me. I usually don’t care enough to learn anyone’s name, especially a man’s. I don’t want people to think we’re something that we’ll never ever be. I don’t make friends.

  I don’t want friends.

  He appears just as startled by my question as I am. “Ethan.” He pauses, swallows. I see the movement of his Adam’s apple and I have the sudden, unbidden image of myself sitting in his lap, my mouth pressed right there, just below his chin, begging him to say something, anything, so I can feel the tickle of movement beneath my lips.

  Ethan. Ethan. I like it. Oh, God, I really like it.

  He clears his throat, startling me from my inappropriate thoughts. “What’s yours?”

  My what? Oh. My name.

  This is hard. What if he recognizes me when I say it? Not that I’m egotistical enough to think I’m famous after being on TV and that he’d know me, know my face and my first name like I’m freaking Madonna or whatever, but . . . the media hounded my mother those first days after the interview aired. My face was plastered all over the Internet. My name was trending on search engines and Twitter that entire weekend.

  Trending on Twitter—who can make that claim? My life is surreal, I swear.

  But then bright and early the following Monday morning, a scandal rocked the political world. A controversial and extremely conservative senator was accused of having an affair with one of his twenty-one-year-old interns. A fresh-faced girl straight out of a good Midwestern college, and just
like that her blond good looks replaced mine on the Web. I’d never been more thankful for someone else’s problems.

  “I’m Katherine,” I finally say, not offering a last name but neither did he, so I’m sure he won’t think it unusual. We’re not on exchanging-last-name terms.

  Yet.

  Oh God, did I really think yet?

  Yes, I did.

  He smiles again. Friendly. Unassuming. My hackles always rise when someone looks at me like this, acts like this. But for once, I feel nothing but calm.

  I feel nothing but hundreds of butterflies whirling and spinning in my stomach.

  She’s standing so close, the sweet scent of her floats in the air, surrounding me, causing my head to spin, my vision getting spotty. I blink hard, needing to see her this close after going for so long without her. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, but I couldn’t sit back and let those assholes steal her purse. I did what I was supposed to do and instead of walking away, I’m taking advantage while I can. While I have this moment so I can memorize everything that unfolds and revisit it later. Turn the words we said, the looks we exchanged, around and around in my mind, searching for a sign, a clue that she cares.

  That she might recognize me.

  Not what I want, though. Not at all.

  I’m struck dumb by her beauty. Seeing her on TV with the lights and the heavy makeup gave the illusion that she’s this big, grand thing, more than what she really is. Not just Katie Watts but Katherine Watts, the poor little girl abducted from one of the happiest places in all of California. A happy place turned into a nightmare by a man who scared the hell out of every parent who lives in this cloying, small, coastal beach town.

  I’m veering off track but it’s so easy to do with her like this. The memories are there, hovering on the edge, when I’m desperate to savor the here and now. I focus on her. The way she’s standing in front of me, achingly beautiful with not a stitch of makeup on, her cheeks rosy, her eyes that beautiful dark blue I’ve never seen on anyone else. The color of twilight, right before the sunlight fades forever into the night. Navy-blue velvet that twinkles with little white stars, just a hint of purple smudging the edges, accompanied by the faintest streak of pinkish orange. So faint you think you almost imagined it.

  That’s the color of her eyes. Like a fucking poem or something. Having her here like this clearly renders me a lovesick poet.

  I can’t stop staring at her. The sun shines upon her hair, turning the thick strands varying shades of gold and cream, and she’s looking at me what feels like every few seconds—God, does she like me? I sound like a stupid kid—smiling at me, so shy and open and vulnerable and curious, it’s . . .

  Fucking killing me.

  This is what I’ve sought for years. This instant connection that Katie and I share. Energy crackles in the air between us and I wonder if she feels it. I’m drawn to her and she doesn’t have to say a word, doesn’t have to do so much as look at me, and I want more. So much more than she could ever willingly give.

  I’m not walking away now. Hell no. I about lost my shit when those punks tried to take her purse. That she held on so tight, wasn’t willing to give it up—I couldn’t believe it. The last thing I wanted to have happen—me intervening in her life, the words too soon, too soon throbbing in time with my beating heart—but I had to do it. I had to rescue her.

  I’m her guardian angel after all. It’s my duty to ensure she’s safe.

  I figured she’d freak out, then thank me in the most coldly polite way possible before she rushed off, never to be seen or heard from again. She’s not very friendly. She admitted as much on national TV. She’s closed off, doesn’t allow people in, is afraid to broaden her social circle for fear people are only curious to know the dirty details in regards to what happened to her all those years ago.

  She confessed that on national television, too.

  All that vulnerability, the quiet confessions, had about done me in. I knew then I could be there for her. The one who doesn’t want the lurid details of what happened to her.

  I just want to help. Help Katie.

  Because I know what happened. I was there. I lived it. I don’t need to hear all the dirty details. I’m an integral part of those dirty details. The only thing I’m curious about is . . . her. What makes her tick, what moves her. Does she ever laugh, or is she serious and sad all the time? What’s her favorite movie, her favorite color? Does she sigh in her sleep? Does she sleep soundly? Or does she deal with the nightmares every night?

  If I’m honest with myself, I also want to know what she might feel like in my arms. Is her hair still just as soft as it was when I first met her? Would I ever get a chance to kiss her? Whisper in her ear how she makes me feel? Discover the way she tastes?

  I want all of that. Every last bit. I want all of her.

  And now she’s here. Beautifully simple, confident yet scared. Playing pretend and being real. I get her. I do. I’m the same. We have more in common than she’ll ever realize.

  Yet all I can do is stare at her like an idiot.

  “Um, would you mind . . .” Her voice drifts and she gestures with her hand back in the direction we came. If she knew I’d followed her, she’d freak. She’d have every right to. “This might sound silly, but would you, uh, walk me to my car? It’s just, after what happened, I don’t know. What if I run into those boys again? I’m not feeling very—”

  “Sure, I’ll walk you to your car,” I interrupt her, my heart flipping over itself when she offers me a soft, pleased smile. “It’s no problem. I was just about to leave anyway.”

  “Okay. Thank you. That’s—that would be great.” Her voice is shaky, as is her blossoming smile, and it takes everything within me to keep from reaching for her so I can cup her cheeks and smooth my fingers across her skin . . .

  She starts walking and I fall into step beside her, noting how small she is compared to me. It doesn’t look like she’s grown much since the last time I saw her, but I’ve put on another six inches since I was fifteen. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction than the day I realized I was a head taller than dear old dad. I could pound that fucker into the ground if I was so inclined. Playing sports kept my head straight, kept me fucking alive until I had to give them up. But they made me stronger when I needed it, so I felt as if I could take on anything.

  Everything. Including him.

  Not that it mattered. By the time I could’ve taken him, he was in jail, locked up tight and with no way out. He was done. I’d ruined him. So did Katie. I helped her escape and for that unforgivable sin, I became his enemy.

  I went to his trial, but it was hard to listen to all of that. Those cold, hard facts, repeated again and again. The endless barrage of photos of dead girls who looked a lot like Katie. Blood and gore and slashed throats and violated bodies, flashing on the screen again and again as the prosecuting attorney stood with her arms crossed, her expression grim. She’d made that juicy little slide show, ending it with the infamous image of Katie being led out of the police department wearing the too-large matching gray sweats, teary-eyed and devastated.

  The jurors shuddered in their seats. Gasps of horror rang out, echoing as the sound bounced off the tall ceiling. The image of Katie filled me with such violent rage, such overwhelming nausea, I snuck out, ducking low as I slid across the bench, practically crawling out of there on my hands and knees, I was so hunched over.

  Even though in the end I testified against him, I didn’t want him to see me. Didn’t want him to think I was deserting him or worse, that I was some sort of pussy who couldn’t handle it.

  Pussy, he’d spit at me after a drunken bender. Fucking pussy who likes to eat dick.

  I’d dealt with those words being thrown at me again and again. I’d come to wonder if he was the one who liked to eat dick and projected his feelings on to me. Had to throw that theory out the window when I found out he’d raped, beaten, and murdered a seemingly endless list of girls.

  So yeah, he
liked females—just young ones. And that’s just about the worst thing in the whole damn world, so bad I can’t even begin to process it.

  Against my better judgment—not that I had anyone to tell me if it was right or wrong; I was so on my own I sometimes had full-on conversations with myself—I visited him once after sentencing. He’d been such a conniving asshole—why I was surprised, I don’t know—that I’d vowed never to see him in the flesh again.

  He’d already gone jail soft, the weight around his belly stretching his requisite prison uniform of starched white T-shirt and light blue jeans. His skin was pale, an unnatural white tinged with green, his eyes pale, too, and a patch of hair had gone missing right in the direct center of his scalp.

  He looked small. Weak. He’d once seemed mighty and powerful, like the Great Oz when I was a kid. The only one who knew how to push the buttons and pull the strings, the one I looked up to and told everyone near the end of third grade, “I’m going to grow up and someday be exactly like my daddy!”

  A shiver steals over me at the memory. How I’d idolized him for that short period of time. He went from being the ideal father to the man who slowly, methodically turned into a monster.

  Now who’s the soft one?

  Once he recognized that I had no plans on coming back to visit, he wrote me letters. Five to ten pages of angry, nonsensical ranting, about how I failed him as a son, how the system failed him, my mother, all the whores he’d ever been with, all the little girls he’d touched and disposed of so casually, as if they were nothing but dolls he’d played with for all of thirty minutes before he tossed them aside with disdain.

  Letters so full of disgust and hate I’d burn them immediately, though I could never stop myself from reading them first. I had to open every single one. I don’t quite know or understand what compelled me. It was like—an obligation. I might not see him anymore but I still needed to read his words. Needed the reminder that this evil, horrible man was my father. I come from him. A part of him lies deep within my soul, my bones, my heart and mind.