Stranded in the mojave d.., p.2
Who I Became With You (See Me Whole Book 2), page 2
Ezra wasn’t giving him anything real, though. Whatever flirty energy he threw out behind the bar was all part of the show, honed, polished, and specifically designed to bump the tip jar. His heart was locked up tight with his boyfriend, Micah.
I could tell Ezra had launched the “on the house” bar challenge. Win and you earned a custom, one-of-a-kind cocktail, free of charge. We didn’t pull that card often since handing out free drinks didn’t help the bottom line, but we had the freedom to use it when the vibe called for it. Ezra made the challenge irresistible, and Vincent, predictably, took the bait.
Once Vincent proved distracted, I made my way toward Oliver, blending into the crowd to avoid drawing Vincent’s attention. When I reached Oliver’s side, he clean jumped out of his skin. Another sign I’d entered red flag city.
“Everything okay?” I asked. “Need me to do anything?”
Oliver’s eyes lifted to meet mine, and for the first time I saw their full impact. They were a glacial, crystalline blue. Paired with the luminous sweep of his pale blond hair, he looked almost spectral.
The instinct to brush me off, to pretend everything was fine, flashed across his face. “I . . .” His eyes darted back toward Vincent.
“Can I walk you outside, get you some air?”
Oliver pulled his lower lip between his teeth before he gave a hesitant nod.
I led him toward the side exit. Oliver exhaled, long and shaky, as we stepped into the night.
Leaning back against the wall, I kept my whole posture loose and easy, nothing threatening. People tend to get twitchy around me as it is. Being tall as hell doesn’t help, and the muscle I’ve put on over the years just doubles the effect. Add the full sleeve down my left arm and, yeah, most folks take one look and assume I’m here to enforce the rules of the universe. Intimidation kind of comes with the package, even when I’m minding my own business. I probably should’ve grabbed my coworker Dean, also on shift tonight. Guy’s just as strong and capable, but he’s got this gentle, new dad energy going on. But I’d already been the main point of contact earlier, and sometimes familiarity makes all the difference. Switching to someone brand new can spook a guy who’s already on edge.
“You good?” I asked.
“That’s a loaded question,” he answered.
The sound of his voice carried a depth and richness I hadn’t anticipated. I privately cursed myself for the assumptions I’d made. Foolishly, I’d imagined something lighter, almost airy, simply because his appearance leaned toward delicate. Shame on me for letting that kind of unconscious, lazy bias slip through.
Oliver glanced back at the door. “I shouldn’t be out here.”
The words struck me as rehearsed, expectations of how he’d been conditioned to behave. “My buddy Ezra, the bartender, is keeping Vincent occupied. He’ll let me know if that changes. We don’t have to stay out here long, but I thought you might need a moment.”
His teeth dug into his lower lip again. “Do you think he’s bad? Vincent, I mean.”
“What do you think?”
“That’s the thing,” he murmured, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know anymore.”
At his age, he should be having fun, swept up in the reckless, joyful chaos that makes youth feel infinite. Instead, he was standing here asking questions no one should ever need to ask. Questions I was no more equipped to answer than he was. Questions that struck far too close to home, dragging up every way I’d failed before.
“I . . . I need to get back. Thank you for checking on me, but I can’t be out here. If he finds out, he’ll . . .” He trailed off, but I didn’t need him to finish to hear what came next. He’ll be angry.
“Okay, just . . .” I reached into my wallet, pulling out a card. “Here. This has my personal cell on it. If you ever need anything, at any time, please call me.”
I held the card out to him, and he stared at it like it was some kind of foreign object. After a moment he took it, scanning the text. To my surprise, he smirked.
“What?” I asked.
“Luke Walker?” He lifted his eyes, one brow arching. “Your name is Luke Walker, and you’re what? Here to rescue me?”
I laughed. “Between you and me, my full name is Luke Skylar Walker.”
Assessing whether I was fucking with him, his eyes narrowed. Pulling out my license, I handed it to him. His mouth dropped as he read the name printed in black ink.
“My parents,” I explained, shaking my head with exasperation and fondness. “Have a warped sense of humor. They thought it’d be hysterical to bestow upon me the name of Luke Skylar with the last name Walker. They claim, and I quote, it was too splendiferous an opportunity to pass up.”
A snort of laughter slipped out of him, lighting up his whole face and softening his eyes. The tension in his shoulders melted and for a second he looked happy, but just as fast, the walls slammed back into place. I hated it. I hated watching something that beautiful get smothered. I wanted to tear those invisible walls down with my bare hands so I could see that smile again.
“Thankfully, I’m not sure anyone would accuse me of being short for a stormtrooper or otherwise. As for rescuing you, I think you have the power to do that yourself. My role is as an accomplice only, if you need it.”
Relief swept through me as he slipped the card into his pocket. Oliver might not ever use it, likely wouldn’t, but I hoped it at least told him he didn’t have to remain trapped. If things got unbearable, he had an out.
“I should go,” he murmured.
“Alright.” I didn’t stop him, and I wouldn’t. I had offered him the choice, placed the power in his hands. As much as I wanted to act, to get him out of what was almost certainly an abusive relationship, the decision to do something with it belonged to Oliver alone.
He reached for the door handle, but before he pulled it open, he turned back to me, his smile tight. His voice, though, carried nothing but sincerity. “Thanks.”
Chapter 3
Oliver
The edges of the card were beginning to soften. I traced the embossed letters of Luke’s name with the tip of my thumb. Every day for a week, since the conversation outside Opal and Obsidian, I found myself reaching for it, smoothing my hands over it like a talisman. It didn’t make sense. Luke didn’t make sense.
When we’d encountered him in the bathroom, he’d come across fairly macho, but then he kept glancing at me during that whole bizarre conversation with Vincent, like he’d been checking my read on things, and when I replayed the interaction I realized he’d never actually agreed with the nasty things Vincent had said. It weirdly seemed like he’d been defending me. Then he’d pulled me aside and spoke to me like I mattered, like he actually saw what was happening and wanted to help, giving me his card. This stupid card I couldn’t seem to put down. I didn’t understand his angle, or him.
Luke didn’t belong in the taxonomy of men I’d navigated my whole life with dread. Men who looked like him—tall, broad, with an imposing presence that could command an entire room—weren’t supposed to be gentle. They weren’t supposed to speak softly, weren’t supposed to look at me like I meant something.
Luke’s dark eyes, which should have been foreboding and threatening, were liquid pools of warm espresso, all melty and soft. His tone when he spoke carried a warmth infused with something deeply abiding, something achingly rare in my life . . . kindness.
I kept circling back to the moment I’d made him laugh. The words had slipped out before I could stop them, a spark of dry humor that bypassed the filters I’d spent years building. I’d braced for the usual reprimand and irritation. None came. Instead, Luke had laughed, an honest, real laugh, and the sound had reached out and touched something inside me, something I hadn’t realized still existed. From his laughter, I fleetingly remembered the person who once spoke freely, who didn’t live in anticipation of the next mood swing or the next unexplainable bruise.
Closing my eyes, I lifted the card to my lips. I probably wouldn’t ever find the courage to use it, but holding it in my hands, knowing someone, however briefly, had seen me and had cared, had comforted me, even if it was merely his job . . .
The click of the door unlocking sent my comfort into hiding. My fingers tightened around the card for a fraction of a second before I slipped it back into my wallet, tucking it into the folds where it would remain hidden. Rolling my shoulders, I got up and made my way to the foyer to greet Vincent.
Checking my phone for the time, the thought left my lips before I could think better of it. “You’re home early.”
The door shut behind Vincent with an ominous finality, and when he turned, his appearance confirmed what my body already feared. His dark eyes narrowed to slits, gleaming with a dangerous fury I knew I could never reason with, only survive. Swallowing hard, I willed my breath to stay steady, my body motionless.
His fist tangled in the fabric of my shirt, jerking me forward before hurling me back into the wall. The force of the impact sucked the air from my lungs in a shocked gasp. He held me in place, pinned to the wall, his body crowding mine, his breath heavy with the unmistakable stench of stale liquor. “That a problem?”
“No.” The word came out in a nearly inaudible breath.
His hands closed around my neck, not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind me he had the capability. “That’s what I thought.”
Without warning, he released his hold, sending me tipping forward. Forcing myself upright, I kept my face blank so he could detect nothing, no defiance, no fear. Though every cell in my body screamed to run, to hide, I knew better. I swallowed, tasting copper, belatedly realizing I’d bitten the inside of my cheek.
My body, once my own, now moved on instinct, a choreography honed over years of rehearsal in caution and fear. Every muscle knew the rules by heart: don’t speak unless spoken to, never hold eye contact too long, never breathe too loud, never disappear but never be in the way, stay invisible until he decides to see you.
These were the laws carved into my bones, unwritten and immovable, enforced with fists and fury. The smallest misstep, the slightest deviation, might awaken disaster.
Vincent stood in the kitchen, his posture relaxed, but I saw the storm brewing, his jaw clenched too tight, betraying the rage waiting to be unleashed. The silence made the air hum with threat.
“I can prepare dinner if you’re hungry,” I said, making myself sound neither too eager, nor too reluctant.
His hand lashed out in a blur of motion, and the slap cracked through the room. The harsh sting spread across my face, my head snapping to the side.
“And why isn’t dinner ready now?” His tone, though not loud, held no softness, only venom diluted in calm.
“I didn’t expect you for another two hours, so I hadn’t started making it.” The excuse was feeble, already condemned. No explanation would be enough; logic had no place in this kind of fury.
“It doesn’t matter what time I get home. Dinner should be ready for whenever I arrive.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Apology came as a reflex now, branded on my tongue from repetition.
No use bringing up how last week he’d raged when I’d prepared dinner too early and he’d had to reheat it. Inconsistency remained the only constant with him, reason an unwelcome guest, always turned away at the door.
“Is there anything you’d prefer tonight? I thought we could do steak and potatoes.” That would be simple enough to prepare, and it had the benefit of being one of Vincent’s favorites. I hoped offering that would alleviate his temper.
He said nothing at first, the silence making my skin prickle. I didn’t dare move. After an eternity, he exhaled. I flinched as his hands rose, but instead of another blow, his fingers skimmed down the side of my face, the light contact burning with a strange dissonance.
“How about we order in?” he murmured, his voice stripped of its earlier edge. “It’ll take the same amount of time for delivery and then you won’t have to cook.”
The shift in his demeanor struck with whiplash force, as if the man before me had been recast mid-scene, replaced by an unreliable softness that unsettled me more than his irascibility.
Vincent’s mercurial moods, the wild, unrelenting swing from one extreme to the next, had become the rhythm of our life.
Apologies rarely came in words anymore. The early days of guilt and tears had faded into gestures, often a takeaway meal or sometimes a gentle touch. These were his reparations, attempts that sometimes came across as though he were trying to barter for forgiveness. Other times, like now, it seemed this had become the only language of remorse he still knew how to speak.
It hadn’t always been this way. In the beginning, Vince had showered me with affection. He’d seen what others had ignored and had pulled me from the wreckage, offering sanctuary. Every moment had promised permanence; he’d seen and cherished me. For six months, he’d served as my refuge.
The shift hadn’t come in thunderclaps. It arrived in accusations that I was too sensitive, my perception unreliable because of my past trauma. It seeped in through control dressed in the costume of concern, command masquerading as care, harsh criticism disguised as the hope I might better myself. Isolation wore the mask of protection; surveillance proclaimed itself as love. All of it packaged with the excuse that I didn’t know any better. Over time, those things had erased the good, until one day I looked in the mirror and no longer recognized the person staring back. The realization struck that I’d traded one nightmare only to be trapped in another.
“I’m going to shower while we wait for the food,” Vincent said. Leaning in, he pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, the same cheek he’d struck not ten minutes earlier, a gesture so discordant it made a mockery of it. Then he turned and disappeared down the hall.
Once the water turned on and I felt certain he wouldn’t return, I let myself collapse into a chair, breath escaping in a tremble. Unnatural heat still invaded my cheek where he’d slapped me. Once, Vince had been meticulous, striking only where clothing would conceal the damage. That line, like so many others, had long since been erased. Now, there were no rules, no restraint. His rage landed anywhere.
My hand shook as I reached into my pocket, retrieving the card. Luke Walker. A name that shimmered like a mirage on sun-scorched asphalt, beckoning with false hope, another gleaming specter in the endless parade of illusions I’d mistaken for lifelines. Already holding too many shards of empty and broken promises, my splintered, damaged hands couldn’t take any more. I shredded the card into miniscule pieces, wrapped them up in a damp paper towel, placed it in the trash, then lowered the lid. Luke Walker would be nothing more than a memory.
Chapter 4
Oliver
For two weeks I existed in the early chapters again, the golden days before the unspoken war began. My days with Vincent were marked by whispered affection and the resurrection of old inside jokes. Remembering the man who rescued me from a life I never wished to return to was easy when Vincent behaved like this, when his touch gentled and his words brimmed with warmth.
The day started with my being woken to a trail of caresses across my jawline.
“Morning, beautiful.”
I stretched, arching my back and sighing, eyes still closed. “Good morning.”
“I’ll be home late. I have a debriefing regarding a case with the senior associates scheduled at six tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Love you,” Vincent said, running his thumb across my lower lip.
“Love you too.”
Kissing me once more, he climbed out of bed, dressed, and headed off to work.
The elation lingered long after the front door clicked shut behind him. The morning’s affection replayed in my mind, lulling me into a sense of safety I had no right to claim but did nonetheless. It’d been the longest stretch in months without him turning on me. I thought we were finally returning to who we were in the beginning. All day, I rode that happiness; it carried me through my remote work hours and into the evening.
Long days at the firm drained Vincent, and though the office often catered dinner for late nights, I didn’t want to take the chance, not tonight, not with things so good, so I cooked.
I seared meat, stirred sauces, and garnished plates. I set the table with our finest plates and polished silverware and cloth napkins I’d learned how to fold into little hearts. Every detail was perfect, completed just as the door unlocked, signaling Vincent’s arrival.
“Hi, babe,” I called out as I made way to the door. “I wasn’t sure if the firm had provided dinner so I made . . .”
When I stepped into the foyer and saw him, the smile on my lips fell away, my voice evaporating. This was not the man who had kissed me slow and sweet that morning, not the one who had told me he loved me.
This man in front of me now only knew how to mark me with devastation, his touch violent, his mouth spouting cruelty. Pain and anger were the only declarations he would make now.
“You think this is what I want to come home to?” he spat. “You think a stupid fucking meal is what I need after laboring for you the whole day?”
The first punch landed so quickly I didn’t have time to defend against it, much less come up with a response that would defuse the situation. Still reeling, another blow hit my cheek. And another. And another. I soon lost count of the punches. The pressure of swelling entered my vision, pressing into my sinuses. Metallic tang filled my mouth.
He threw me to the floor, my head smacking against the hardwood with a sickening thud that had dots forming behind my eyelids. His shoe landed on my stomach as he began kicking me with unrelenting fury. Each strike came with shouted accusations and insults, things I’d done wrong or had failed to do, but the specifics became unclear under the roaring in my ears.
I lost any sense of where his blows were landing. In these moments, time ceased. Only fear, agony, and the endless wait for him to stop existed. Pain lit up every nerve in my body, each strike stealing breath, thought, and sound. I curled in on myself, arms wrapped tight around my head, legs covering my torso, protecting what I could. I didn’t fight back. I never fought back. I had learned long ago that that only fed the fire and prolonged the rage. It was better to endure.
