by R. K. Lilley
I was too creeped out by Harris to pursue it, in fact, I actively avoided dealing with him, but with every day that passed, Dante became increasingly disturbed, and I became progressively more paranoid.
I dropped out of drama exactly three days after the attack. Gram's house was just too inviting for me. And of course, there was Gram herself, always there to greet me when I arrived. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a home I was welcomed in, and I spent as much time there as I possibly could. I'd have dropped out of school without a qualm if I hadn't known it would've disappointed her.
Dante didn't like it. He threatened more than once to quit football in response to my change in schedule, but perversely I was the one that talked him out of it. We were co-dependent enough without inventing new reasons not to leave each other's sight.
A few weeks later, I was willing to rethink my position on the matter. He was fighting again, I could tell. More than he ever had before, in fact, coming home with more bruises than he could hide or football practice could account for.
I didn't have to ask. The guys must have been talking about me again, and I knew just the types of things they'd be saying. When girls with my reputation were attacked, it was a no-brainer, to my mind at least, that I'd be blamed for whatever the rumor mill was saying had happened. It'd likely been blown out of proportion, and I figured I was either being called a liar or a slut.
I didn't hear any of the rumors directly myself, but every new bruise on Dante's body told me the story as clear as though I were reading it on paper.
Just when I thought I couldn't love him more.
Detective Harris came to the house twice to talk to me, but he had no new information about the case, and as soon as he realized that Gram was as good as glued to my side, he quickly found a reason to leave.
"I do not like that man," Gram said, after the second visit. She was studying my face. "Darling, do me a favor, always insist that I be there when he needs to speak to you. Always."
I agreed happily, but Harris never came back to her house after that. Instead, he started pulling me out of my classes at school when he wanted to have a word. So much so, rumors started to go around that I was having an affair with 'the hot cop,' as he'd been fondly nicknamed by the girls at school.
It infuriated me, especially so since he never seemed to be doing anything to find the man that had attacked me. Instead, he wanted to have short, intense, meaningless conversations with me, always pretending it was 'official business.'
The third time he pulled me out of class, I was outright hostile toward him. "Any updates on finding the man that attacked me, or are you just here to ask about my health again?"
We were standing near my locker—he'd asked me to show him where it was—and he was looking around, barely paying me any mind at all.
I clenched my jaw. "And if you want to talk to me, I'm going to need to call Vivian Durant. She's insisted that I not be alone with you."
That got his attention, his head snapping toward me, eyes narrowing on my face. "What did you tell her? You remember what I said, don't you? Everything about this case is confidential. If you share any information, with anyone, you could get yourself into big trouble, and we will never catch this guy."
I bit my lip, it wanted so badly to tremble. What did this man want from me? I honestly didn't know. It seemed to me he enjoyed terrifying me, but I also knew I had some serious baggage where law enforcement was concerned. "W-w-why did you pull me out of class?"
"I told you, I want to see your locker. Go ahead and open it up for me."
I did, stepping back so he could look inside. "What are you looking for?" I asked him.
"How are you feeling?" he countered.
"Fine," I bit out.
"Breasts still tender? I see you can wear a bra again."
My shaking hands were in fists. "They're fine. What are you looking for?"
He was standing right in front of my open locker, not touching anything, just looking. "Clues. I'm a detective, you know."
"You sure don't act like one," just sort of slipped out.
I was immediately sorry. He didn't touch me, didn't lay one finger on me, but I felt physically intimidated nonetheless as he stepped into my personal space.
"Just because I'm police," he said very, very quietly, right into my face. "Doesn't mean I'm not a man. Doesn't mean I can't be riled, so I would show a little more respect, if I were you, Scarlett. Not only am I the only one who is willing to help you, no one else on the force would lift a finger if something were to happen to you. Do you understand? You've burned every bridge but this one."
I tried to take a step back, and that's when it happened.
Harris grabbed my arms to stop me, to keep me from moving away, and I swear I felt his presence before I saw or heard him, like electricity in the air. Rage on the wind.
"Get your fucking hands off her!"
My eyes shut tight. In relief. And horror. Because I was saved, and Dante was about to get himself arrested.
"This is none of your concern," Harris told Dante. "Go back to class, son."
Dante, my hero, my everything, was not intimidated by anyone, not even a cop, and he was furious. He was in the older man's face without hesitation, moving between us, shielding me at the same time he put himself into harm's way.
I was shuddering in relief.
And I thought I couldn't love him more.
Whatever happened, if Dante was here, he wouldn't let me be harmed. I knew it. Absolutely.
"What the fuck are you doing, putting your hands on her?" Dante raged, backing Harris into the locker. "Don't you dare ever fucking touch her again, you hear me?"
The other man was so surprised, I think, that for a moment he let the younger, unarmed high school kid back him into the lockers and then shove him hard in the chest.
"Dante, no," I cried right at the same time that Harris reached for his gun.
I couldn't keep it in, I screamed.
Dante almost, almost kept going for it, his hand covering the other man's, a ghost of movement but it was there. He was going for the cop's gun.
But there was some sanity left in him yet, because at the last second, he took a step back, hands going up.
"On the ground," Harris snarled, pointing his gun right into Dante's face.
I was sobbing as I took a step forward, and then another.
Harris caught the movement and pointed at me with his free hand. "Don't move another inch. Your boyfriend's in big trouble, and if you don't stay out of it, it could be the difference between handcuffs or a bullet, you understand?"
I backed off immediately.
People were starting to spill out into the halls by then—kids, teachers—all looking on in stunned disbelief, no one even talking.
"Get on the ground, now!" he screamed into Dante's face.
Dante glared at the other man, his expression utterly dauntless, but he complied.
I felt helpless as he cuffed Dante's hands behind his back and then dragged him to his feet. I found myself trailing after them as Harris began to lead him out.
"Stay here," Harris said curtly. "Go back to class."
"I'm fine," Dante told me, and though I couldn't see his face, he sounded composed, all things considered.
I watched them leave with a pounding heart, following behind, far enough back that Harris didn't take exception, but close enough to see them get into his car.
My mind was racing. I had no idea what I should do, so I did the only thing I could. I called Gram.
*****
We were all surprised when Harris didn't arrest Dante. I was frantic in the interim as I coordinated with Gram to find out what had happened to Dante.
I was so convinced that they'd be at the police station that I left school, taking Dante's car to pick up Gram. We were literally pulling out of the driveway when Harris drove up in his brown sedan, Dante in the backseat.
Dante got out, and Harris drove away.
; I stopped the car, put it in park, and got out. I ran and threw myself at Dante with such force that it made him sway precariously for a beat before he settled back solidly on his feet and wrapped his big arms around me.
"I'm fine, shh, I'm all right," he said into my hair, voice pitched loud enough to be heard over my sobs.
"D-d-did he hurt you?" I gasped him.
"No, he didn't lay a finger on me. Calm down, angel. Shh. You're okay. Calm down." He was stroking a hand over my hair, over and over, to soothe me.
Slowly but surely, it was working.
"What happened?" Gram asked him. She was, as always, the epitome of calm.
He gave her the short version of what had happened at school.
"But he didn't arrest you?" she asked when he finished.
"No. He just took me for a drive and then brought me here. And you know what? I don't think they're doing a damned thing to find the guy that attacked Scarlett. He straight up told me that they're not even close to making an arrest. And you know what else he said? They haven't even gone to look where we told them the guy hangs out. At this point the only way they'll even find him is if he goes to the station and turns himself in."
The more he revealed, the more agitated he became, until at the end he was raising his voice.
Gram held up a hand, and he quieted. "I'll start asking around about all of this—Harris, the case. I will get some answers, but I need you to stop getting into trouble. You're only making it worse, Dante."
"Harris was bothering me at school today," I defended him. "Dante only got into trouble helping me."
She studied us both, looking more ruffled than I'd ever seen her. "Jesus. What the hell is going on?"
That scared me more than anything. If Gram didn't know what to do, the cause seemed completely lost.
She took a few deep breaths and seemed to regain her composure. "Like I said, I'm going to get some answers."
I believed her and was comforted.
And I believe she would have, if she'd had more time, but everything came to a head just two days later.
I don't know just what Harris said to Dante, what seed he planted that troubled him so, but it took root quickly and flowered into this: Dante believed that the only way my attacker would be arrested was if he went to find him personally.
He left in the middle of third period, but I only found that out later. I didn't even know he had gone at the time.
When the news came, it was like a ripple moved through the school, information spreading like a furious gust of wind. I was not the most social, as usual, and so I wasn't the first to hear. I was blissfully ignorant for a few more minutes than the majority of the school, but when I heard the news, I was as shocked as everyone else was.
Dante had been arrested for killing my attacker.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight."
~Phyllis Diller
PRESENT
DANTE
I woke up still on her sofa with a pounding headache and my cheek pillowed against a silky thigh. It was almost enough to make my hard-on win out over my hangover. Almost.
And fingers, gentle, familiar fingers, stroking through my hair, lightly rubbing my temples.
Was this real? Was I dreaming she was tending to my hangover as if she didn't hate me?
Was even my dream mind longing for her scraps? What could be more pathetic than that?
"Am I dreaming?" I mumbled into her skin.
"Do you usually dream about feeling like shit? Because you look like shit."
Almost was caving quickly to yes, please. "Hangover," I murmured into her skin, turning my head to nuzzle, one curious hand sliding up her bare leg, trying without any conscious help from my brain, to figure out what she was or wasn't wearing.
Pants, no. Panties, yes, though they weren't much of a deterrent, and she wasn't resisting me, thank God. I fingered her, and she shifted under my cheek, her thighs parting just the slightest bit.
It was enough.
I slid to the floor, going to my knees in front of her.
I made my way up her legs with my mouth, placing open-mouthed kisses against her thighs, spreading her legs wider as I moved higher, wedging my shoulders between. I licked the tender flesh of her groin with quick, wet flicks of my tongue, rolling my eyes up to watch her reaction.
She made a little noise, higher pitched than a groan, but more stifled than a mewl.
I licked long and slow, right in that perfect little strip of skin at the very top of her inner thigh.
She made the noise again. I sucked her flesh into my mouth, drawing hard, until she gripped my hair and cried out my name.
I smiled and went down on her, spreading her legs wide, pushing the tiny scrap of lace to the side, and kissing her, licking her, driving my tongue into her until I had her clawing mindlessly at my shoulders, just losing it, begging me to stop, to fuck her, to let up with my tongue.
But I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. My entire life was out of my control, but this, her body, her pleasure, was mine.
She let me get her off, but the second she was done, she was up, moving away from me, agitated hands scraping her hair back from her face.
I was still wiping my mouth as I studied her. She was wearing the shirt she'd worn earlier but that was it. No bra, no shoes, makeup scrubbed clean.
"How long have I been out?" I asked her.
"A while," she answered, still out of breath but trying to hide it, one hand braced against the counter, the other on her hip. Her back was to me. "I'm done shooting for the day." She moved to the trailer's small coffee bar and I watched her silently, eating up her every move as she began to brew a cup.
When I realized she was making it for me, prepping it exactly how I took it, my heart did a slow, painful turn in my chest.
What the hell was going on? Why was she being so civil?
It undid me faster and more thoroughly than her hostility ever could have.
Perhaps that was why.
She reached up into one of the tiny overhead cabinets and fished something out.
I heard more than saw the rattling bottle of pills, because my eyes were preoccupied with every inch of skin she revealed as she reached up.
I shifted uncomfortably, and it was only as I did so that I realized my clothes were off. She must have stripped me while I slept, leaving me in nothing but my boxer briefs.
She brought me two ibuprofen and the just right cup of coffee. I thanked her, eyes devouring her face, but she wouldn't look at me, instead giving the barest nod and turning away again.
"You took my clothes off while I slept." It wasn't an accusation so much as a question.
"It was the wind," she said absently, sarcasm present even if the will for it was not. She was looking at the counter. At the gift I'd brought her. "What's that?" It wasn't a question so much as an accusation.
We'd always been good at balancing each other out.
"I don't know," I drawled. "I think the wind carried it in when it was blowing off my clothes."
I could only see a hint of her profile with the way she was turned, but I caught her ghost of a smile.
My chest ached at the sight. To say I missed her was a cruel understatement, like saying you'd miss your soul after you gave it away. After it was torn from you.
I was empty.
Flesh without blood.
I was not whole without her.
Never would be.
I wasn't a big enough fool to believe that could ever change.
I downed the pills and took a long swig of my coffee. All the while she didn't move, just staring at the box.
"Open it," I urged her. I had no idea if she would. At that moment she was an utter enigma to me.
I still couldn't figure out why she hadn't made me leave yet.
Well, I had an idea, a gnawing, sickening suspicion, but my fear of the notion made me instantly reject it. Denial is a powerful thing.
I tensed when I r
ealized she was actually going to open the gift, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
She took the Louboutins out of the box without a word, setting them side by side on the counter. "Highness Strass," she said reverently.
"Did you just address your shoes as Highness Strass?"
She shot me a look. "That's their name."
"You know the name of the shoe?"
She actually looked sheepish for a short, endearing moment. It was adorable. It made me want to kiss her silly. And fuck her mindless. But that was nothing new.
"What I mean is, I don't want them," she rallied. "Quit buying me shoes, you stalker."
"Well, you can throw them away, like the other pair, or do whatever you want with them, but I'm not taking them back, and I had to get you something. To congratulate you on landing the big part."
She was back to drooling over the shoes. "Why did you pick these ones, in particular?" She asked it with begrudging admiration in her voice.
I'd done well.
"I had help, from one of our department store stylists. I told her you were deep into shoe-porn, that you only get off on the hardcore stuff." I warmed as I saw that she had to bite back her smile. "And she recommended a few. These ones stood out to me the most."
With a sigh, she set them back in the box, turning to look at me. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was almost gentle with the finest edge of pain.
It was foreign on her, so unaccountably vulnerable, that it made me wince. "I told you earlier. I had a question for you. You didn't answer it."
She waved her hand in the air, dismissing the notion. "What I mean is, what are you doing in town?"
I stared at her, because she knew the answer to that. Still, if she wanted to play pretend, I could do that too. I was, in fact, excellent at it. "I'm here for work. Thought I'd stop by while I was in the neighborhood."
She folded her arms together until she was almost hugging herself and just stared at me.
Her face was tragic.
It was too much. It knocked the wind out of me.