Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she’d asked.
“I’m fine,” I assured her.
She hesitated. “You don’t look fine.”
“They just want to cover their bases,” I said. “You don’t need to stick around. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” She leaned down to hug me.
I hugged her back, thankful for her concern but too tired from her shift for much else. Then Porter had appeared, just popped out of the mass of people around me, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I stumbled into his arms in relief, feeling all the terror and anxiety of the day disperse.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Porter said, bless him.
“I want to tell you,” I insisted. “But later.”
He threaded an arm around my shoulder and let me lean against him. He was my rock in a turbulent sea, my feast after a day of fasting. I loved him far more than I should have.
Our reunion did not escape the notice of my employers.
My boss, Ray Thompson, manager of the treatment center, spied us from across the parking lot. He approached, not with anger but with barely concealed disappointment and just a touch of frustration.
“Ms. Matthews,” he said.
“Mr. Thompson,” I responded, too tired to stand up.
“Porter Hayes.” Porter stood for the both of us, offering his hand in greeting.
Mr. Thompson took it but looked as if he had just tasted some bad fish. “Mr. Hayes. You were a patient at this facility recently, were you not?”
“Yeah.” Porter sat back down, engulfing me in his arms, oblivious to the consequences. I leaned back into the embrace. If Mr. Thompson wanted to fire me, that was just fine. As long as it wouldn’t interfere with my evening alone with Porter, I couldn’t care less.
“We didn’t start our relationship until he was released,” I offered.
Mr. Thompson nodded. “I think it might be best if you took a week off while we sort everything out.”
“I’m already on vacation,” I said.
“Then take an additional week,” he snapped.
I agreed with a sigh, burying my nose in Porter’s chest. Another two police officers came to talk to me before someone finally told me I could go home. I stood up. They had impounded my car. After the crazed joyride we had been on and my own description of drugs in the glove box, they wanted to be sure there wasn’t more evidence to be found. I allowed them to take it, not putting up a fight. It was too late, and I was too tired.
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Porter said.
I linked my fingers through his and smiled wearily. We threaded our way through a parking lot that was still crammed with people and vehicles. Climbing into the cab of his truck, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders. I gave up all responsibility for myself and for anyone else, letting Porter take the wheel. It was just a five-minute drive to my apartment building. I pointed out the parking garage underneath the structure. He was able to fit his truck into one of the longer spaces in the back, and we climbed out, ready to throw in the towel.
“Please stay the night,” I asked, hoping he would agree.
“Of course. I’m not leaving you alone this time,” he answered easily, walking me to the elevator.
We rode up in silence, none of the frantic foreplay of two nights ago passing between us. My door was still open when we reached it, the broken television lying in the middle of the room. I shuddered, remembering the abduction when I hadn’t known the assailant was my own brother. I could still feel the carpet against my cheek as he dragged me across it. I found Porter’s arm and clutched it.
He reassured me, turning around to fasten the dead bolt. “We’ll clean that up in the morning.”
I nodded. I didn’t even have the energy to brush my teeth, but Porter insisted that I get into my pajamas. I wanted to go to the bed, to crawl inside and not wake up for a week. He went to my dresser, pulled open the first large drawer, and scanned the contents.
“Bottom drawer,” I sighed.
He opened it and pulled out a matching set of pajamas. Setting them on the bed, he led me to the bathroom. I followed, limp as a rag doll, docile as a child. My bathroom featured a small tub, which I had almost never used. He fit the stopper into the drain and began running water.
“Porter…” I whispered, almost asleep on my feet.
He took hold of the hem of my shirt, gently drawing it up over my head. I felt fresh air against my skin, and it was like being set free. Suddenly it seemed that my clothes were the problem. They contained the memories of that evil car ride, and if I could shed them, I could rid myself of the trauma. Two pebbles of glass clattered to the floor, rolling away under the sink.