by Tracy Wolff
“Let’s go inside,” I urge, keeping my voice as low and calm as possible as I drag her slowly back toward the front door. “I swear I won’t hurt you, baby. I swear. But I can’t leave you out here like this. Anything could happen.”
She’s too far gone to listen. She’s thrashing against me, breathing harsh and eyes wild as she strains desperately against my hold. I’m trying to stay calm, trying to think this through, but the truth is I’m nearly as panic-stricken as she is at this point. I don’t have a clue what’s going on here but I’m terrified she’s going to end up hurting herself if I don’t get her calmed down, fast.
“It’s okay, Veronica,” I tell her over and over again as I wrestle her onto the front porch. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her only answer is to rake her stiletto heel straight down my shin. She doesn’t stop until the sharp tip is digging into my foot through the top of my shoe and fuck. Just fuck! I don’t have time to do anything more than register the pain, though, because she’s rearing back at the same time, trying to head-butt me.
Jesus Christ. Whoever taught this girl to fight taught her to fight dirty. Forget the Big, Bad Wolf and think Terminator instead. And if she wasn’t currently using all that fighting knowledge against me, I’d be incredibly impressed. As it is, I’m just hoping that we both make it through with no concussions or broken bones.
I still have the height advantage on her, but with the shoes on, she stands tall enough to do some damage. The first two times she rears back, I manage to dodge, but the third time she hits me squarely on the chin with the back of her head.
I see stars from the impact, which only lends fuel to the whole confused hysteria of the moment. Still, I somehow manage to get her inside just as she starts screaming for help, thank God, and I slam the heavy front door behind us.
The instant the door is closed, I let go of her and throw my hands in the air in an effort to look as unthreatening as possible. “Veronica, sweetheart, look at me! I’m not going to hurt you! I swear, I’m not going to hurt you.” My own voice is raised now as confusion and panic race through me and I make a concerted effort to steady it…and to steady myself. One of us needs to stay calm in this situation or things are going to go to hell real fast. That is, if they aren’t there already.
“Just stay there,” she tells me as she backs up, her own hands held out in front of her in the age-old gesture for self-defense. “Just stay away from me.”
I would, but she’s heading back down the hallway toward the kitchen and I’m afraid she’s going to make a break for it again. Or worse, come at me with a knife or some other kind of weapon. At this point, she’s so far gone that I wouldn’t put anything past her. I just wish I knew what had set her off. Maybe then I could figure out how to calm her back down.
There’s a part of me that thinks my best bet here is to just leave, to just get in my car and go before this gets any worse. But she’s past hysterical at this point, tears streaming down her face and strangled noises coming from her throat even as she sucks great gulps of air in through her open mouth. I know I’m the one she’s afraid of, but I can’t leave her like this. Not when she’s so close to hyperventilating.
And so I follow her, making sure to keep as comfortable a distance from her as I can. “Get out!” she screams at me when we’re halfway down the hallway. “Just get out and leave me alone!”
“Okay,” I tell her, making sure to keep my hands in the air as I advance. “If you want me to leave, I will. I swear. But you’ve got to calm down first, sweetheart. I can’t leave you here like this. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” She takes another couple steps backward.
“Because I care about you. I can’t let you go running through the streets of L.A. in your underwear, baby. Anything could happen to you.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Still, she looks down for the first time since this nightmare began and seems to finally register what she’s wearing. “Get out! Just get out and leave me alone and I’ll be fine.”
Except that’s obviously not true. Her breathing is growing more and more harsh with every second that passes. Her face is pale, her whole body shaking with the strain and I’m terrified she’s going to pass out at any moment.
“Veronica, listen to me.” I take a few steps forward, working to keep my voice low and soothing as I do. “I don’t know what’s going on here, don’t have a clue what made you think you can’t trust me. I’ll leave if you want me to, but you’ve got to calm down first. You have to start breathing normally because I can’t leave you like this.”
“I’m breathing fine,” she answers, but it’s obviously a lie. She nearly strangles just trying to get the words out. Plus she keeps flexing her hands, making fists and relaxing them like she’s trying to stretch them out.
Goddamn it.
“Okay, sweetheart, I know you don’t want to, but I need you to listen to me. What you’re feeling right now…you’re having a panic attack and you’re beginning to hyperventilate. All those weird things going on in your body right now, it’s because you’re over-oxygenating. Your chest hurts. Your lips and fingers are tingling. Your hands are starting to cramp up. You’ve got to bring it down, baby, or you’re going to end up having a seizure or passing out. I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you can.”
She shakes her head wildly. “Leave…me…alone,” she gasps out.
“I will,” I soothe, taking a chance and walking a couple steps closer. She keeps a wary eye on me, but she doesn’t retreat any more. I’m not sure if that’s because she’s starting to trust me or because she’s so shaky that she doesn’t trust herself to move. The fact that I’m pretty sure it’s the latter doesn’t make me feel any better about this whole clusterfuck. “But first I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
She doesn’t say no, so I take another step closer and then another and another. Only a few feet separate us now and I can see the fear and the pain in her eyes as she looks at me. The idea that I somehow did this to her, somehow drove her to this state, wounds me more than I ever thought possible.
I shove that away though, so I can concentrate on this. Concentrate on her. “Okay, Veronica, I need you to take one deep breath. Just one. Can you do that for me?” I take a deep breath in to show her what I’m talking about. “One deep breath in and then just hold it.”
My words have no effect as her chest continues to rise and fall rapidly. She’s swaying now, her eyes starting to go blank, and if I wasn’t worried about her having a seizure or falling and hitting her head, I’d be tempted to just let her go on this way until she passes out. Then, when her breathing regulates itself, we can try to figure out what the hell brought this on.
But I am worried about those things so I keep talking to her, keep trying to get her to match my breathing. It only takes ninety seconds or so before she manages to take that one deep breath, but it’s the longest ninety seconds of my life.
“Okay, baby, hold it in while I count to twenty. Can you do that? Can you hold your breath for me?”
She doesn’t nod or give me any other form of acknowledgment, but I’m watching her closely enough that I can see her chest still as she follows my instructions.
“Okay, good,” I tell her after I count out loud to twenty. “Now let it out slowly. That’s it, baby. That’s it. Perfect. Can you do it again for me?” I take a deep breath to demonstrate and hold it for several long seconds as she does the same.
We do this half a dozen times or so until I feel like she’s steady enough to listen to a shade more complicated commands. “Okay, Veronica. Now I want you to cup your hands over your mouth and try to breathe normally. Not slow, not fast. Just normally. Like this.” I demonstrate a few times, then wait to see if she’s going to follow my instructions.
After a few, nerve-wracking seconds, she does.
“That’s it, baby. What you’re
doing now is breathing back in some of the carbon dioxide you expel when you exhale. This is going to help balance out your oxygen levels and get that wooziness to go away. It should also help the tightness in your chest and the tingling in your extremities.”
I pause for a few seconds, let her take a few more breaths. “How’s that?” I ask eventually. “Are you starting to feel better?”
She nods, but doesn’t take her cupped hands away from her face. All I can see of her face are her eyes, and they’re huge and bruised looking as they stare back at me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her once it becomes obvious that she’s calming down. “Whatever it is I did to scare you, I’m so, so sorry. But now that you’re all right, I’m going do what I promised and leave. Okay?” Once again, I hold my hands up and keep them in front of me so she can see them. “I swear, I’m not going to hurt you.”
I don’t turn my back on her as I make my way to the front door, as I’m not quite ready to trust that she won’t grab the nearest thing and fire it at my head. But now that the crisis is over, I’m a little weak in the knees myself. The idea that I somehow did something to traumatize Veronica that badly tears me up inside. And since I can’t think of anything I did in the kitchen tonight to set her off, I’m afraid it was memories of what I did last night that caused everything.
Fuck. I feel like a total and complete bastard. I knew she was fragile going into this, knew that Vargas had had her at his mercy for almost three years. And still I was rough with her. Still I tied her to that goddamn bed and took her places she had no business going. If I could kick my own ass, I would do it in a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again as I reach for the door handle. “I’m so, so sorry, Veronica.”
I pull open the door, start to leave, but at the last second Veronica’s voice—low and thin and hoarse—cuts through the tense silence and my own self-flagellation. “Where did you get that brooch? The one you handed me in the kitchen?”
I turn to look at her, confused. “It was in your hair. It’s been in your hair all night.”
She makes a wounded sound, like I just reached across the room and slapped her. Then she whispers, barely loud enough for me to hear. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
Chapter 22
Once I finally get the words out, they hang between us like a slowly deflating balloon.
It’s strange. I thought I’d be relieved when I finally told someone—told Ian—my biggest fear. Or at least, I thought I’d feel something. Horrified, maybe. Or humiliated. Devastated, even.
But I don’t. I don’t feel any of those things. I don’t feel anything, and somehow that’s so much worse than any of the emotions I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours, and in the months since the movie wrapped. Any of those emotions—or even all of them—have to be better than this terrible numbness that currently has me in its grip.
It’s funny how these things work, though. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be numb, trying not to feel, that now that it’s finally happened, you’d think I’d be glad to have what I’ve always wanted. Turns out, all I want is the pain back. At least then I know what to expect.
Being weak is humiliating, but being numb is absolutely terrifying.
It’d be so much easier if I still believed that Ian might have been behind everything that had happened. Because if he had brought the brooch here, if he had somehow gotten my phone number and credit card and hired the gardener while I was practically passed out in his room from the best sex of my life, then I could go back to pretending that I’m okay. Or even better, I could go back to a time when I wasn’t letting a role get inside my head, when I wasn’t letting it make me lose time…and maybe even my mind.
But Ian didn’t do this, didn’t do any of it. I know that now. He was astonished by my freak-out—even in the middle of my panic attack I could see that much. And then he helped me—not just with the breathing but by keeping me from running through the streets of L.A. all but nude.
God, I can’t even begin to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped me. If I’d somehow managed to actually get free and make it to the main road? I’m worried about people thinking I’m crazy now. If someone had actually gotten a picture of me hyperventilating in nothing but my underwear, the whole world would know in a matter of hours that Veronica Romero had gone completely around the bend.
It’s just more proof that Ian isn’t responsible for what’s happening to me. Why go to all the trouble of driving me crazy only to bring me back down before he could reap any of the rewards? Plus, he was almost as shaken as I was. He could have been faking that, but in my considerable experience, no one is that good of an actor.
If I were him, I’d be out that door like a shot, trying to put as much distance between the two of us as possible. It’s definitely the smart thing to do, especially after what I just put him through.
But here’s the thing. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even look like he thinks about leaving. Instead, he closes the door he’d just opened and turns around to stare at me, his eyes dark and probing and inescapable. I squirm a little under the scrutiny—I hate being on display unless I choose to put myself there—but even I’m self-aware enough to know that I need to give this guy a fucking break. God knows, he’s already given me one. Otherwise, the men in the little white coats would already be here to take me away.
When the silence continues to stretch on—so much tenser and more threatening than the quiet that was between us earlier—I turn and start down the hall toward the kitchen. “I need a drink if I’m going to talk about this.”
He gives a short sigh even as he follows me. “I can only imagine. You can pour me one, too, if you don’t mind.”
I shoot him a look that tells him not to be an idiot right before I enter the bar area between my kitchen and dining room. “What are you having?” I ask as I open up the main liquor cabinet and stare inside at the array of fancy bottles. To be honest, I’m at a loss as to what to pour—I’m too tired and too numb to figure out what the situation calls for. Especially since I wasn’t joking earlier when I said champagne is pretty much always my drink of choice.
Ian watches me for several long seconds, his hands shoved into his back pockets and a look of concern on his too pretty face that he doesn’t even try to hide. I want to tell him that it’s okay, that I’m fine now, but I’m standing here still in my underwear with trembling hands and watery eyes. I’m pretty sure he won’t believe me.
“Take out the brandy,” he says after it becomes apparent that I’m more likely to stare at these bottles all night rather than choose. “Pour two glasses and let’s go sit down somewhere we can talk about what’s going on.”
I nod, thankful for the direction when normally I’d take a swipe at him for it. But right now my brain is so crowded that this is one decision too many.
After I do as he says, he guides me toward the family room where I spend most of my time when I’m home. I curl up in a corner of the couch, and he snags the quilt off a nearby chair to cover me before settling down on the opposite side of the sofa. And then he just waits.
I know I need to start this conversation, but for the first time in forever, I don’t have a clue what to say. I don’t know what to do to make what just happened here any better. I’m lost, confused, more afraid than I’ve been since I was a child. All the media training in the world can’t make this better. Which is why I spend the next few minutes picking at a stray thread on the quilt, taking quiet sips of my brandy, and looking anywhere and everywhere but at the man whose focus is so unwaveringly fixed on me.
But at some point it gets ridiculous to just sit here with a giant elephant in the room, no matter how exposed—how vulnerable—I feel. So I bite the bullet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I certainly shouldn’t have lost it on you like that when you had no idea what was going on. I shouldn’t have—I’m just sorry, just really, very, very sorry.”
Out
of the corner of my eye—since I’m still not looking at him—I watch Ian lean over and put his brandy on the end table. Then he reaches for me, pulling me close, quilt and all. “Is that what you think I’m looking for here? An apology?”
“Whether you’re looking for one or not, I still owe it to you.” He’s got me settled on his lap now, facing him with my knees straddling his thighs. And still I refuse to look at him, choosing to stare at a spot over his shoulder instead.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he tells me. Then his fingers are on my chin and he’s turning my head so that I have no choice but to look at him. “I want to know what happened because I’m worried about you and I want to make sure you’re okay. But you don’t owe me anything—not an apology or an explanation. You can tell me to get out right now and I will. You’re in control of this situation, Veronica, not me. You decide what happens here.”
My stomach sinks a little at that, at the weight and the responsibility of what he said. It’s a strange feeling, considering I’ve always wanted to be the one in control. Always wanted to be the one who made the decisions because I couldn’t trust anyone else to make them for me. And now, with him, I’m just not sure if that’s true anymore. “What if I don’t know what I want?” I finally ask. “What if I don’t know where I’m supposed to start?”
“Is that a hypothetical question or is that really how you feel?” His eyes sharpen, grow darker still as they search my face. “Do you want me to ask the questions?”
“Like you did last night?” Despite everything that’s happened today, a little spurt of heat works its way down my spine.
“No!” He pulls me closer. “God no. Not like last night at all.”
“Then…what? I don’t understand.”
“Wow. I’ve really fucked up with you, haven’t I?” He shakes his head, gives an appalled laugh. “I’ve been a real fucking asshole almost from the beginning.”