Essence of Time (15 page)

Justice.

He ran straight into a brick wall made of Evan and his friend, Jack.

“Excuse me.” He tried to maneuver past them.

Evan put a hand on his arm.

“Hold on there, cowboy.” Jack said, instantly pissing him off.

“I’m not your cowboy.” He stared at the man who signed his paychecks.  “Take your hand off me. I need to get out of here.” A strange calm had settled over him. Focus, purpose, and moving forward were all he knew and these assholes were in his way.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Evan’s eyes were dark.

 Jack interrupted, stepped right between them. Blake frowned at the guy but he kept talking seemingly unaware that he was about to get pounded. “What he means to say,
cowboy
, is that you do not need to be confronting Mitchell. At least not alone.” Blake let his brain process that these men posed no threat. They wanted the best for Suzanne, just as he did. But fury had blinded him. Everything he saw was tinted red. “Seriously. Let’s sit and talk a minute. Figure out how to handle…” Blake threw off their clutching hands and their mealy-mouthed bullshit words.

“Sorry guys. But in case you didn’t notice he nearly beat her to death.” Blake shoved both hands in his pockets; tried to get a grip on his anger. “I don’t think we need to discuss anything.”

The two men exchanged a glance. “Yes, we know that Blake.” Evan’s calm talking-to-an-insane-person tone of voice grated on his already shredded nerves. All he saw was her; all he heard were her sobs. It permeated his very soul. He was self-realized enough to acknowledge that he tended to go overboard as a caretaker. He needed to be needed, loved being relied upon, and responded at times with an unnecessary outpouring of action.  But this was different. He loved this woman. He needed to do something other than stand around and
tsk-tsk
like these be-suited fuckwads in front of him right now.

“You don’t know her like we do,” Jack’s hand gripped his shoulder. Blake acknowledged the power in his voice and touch. But he shrugged it off.

“No. I don’t. But neither of you feel about her the way I do. And if you do, that’s a problem we’ll have to deal with later. In the meantime, you'll excuse me I have something to take care of.” He shoved between them, let the whooshing sound of his own fury drown out Evan’s voice calling his name.

He tore into the brewery, found her employment file and sent a prayer of thanks to the gods of small, trusting businesses before jumping back in his truck and heading to Barton Hills, Ann Arbor’s one “exclusive,” old-money neighborhood. He had no idea what he was going to do once he came face-to-face with the man who’d beaten his own wife, cut her inside and out, yet still walked around free.
And if he isn't home, then what, genius?
He frowned, and smacked the steering wheel as he waited out a red light. The pain in his palm centered him.

He checked the scrap of paper once more with the address, then whistled at the sight of the huge Italianate mansion that matched it. He screeched to a stop in front, leapt out and marched to the door, red tinting the edges of his vision. He hit the doorbell, pounded on the heavy wood until he heard a man’s voice. He barely let the door swing open before he helped it along with his foot, sending the asshole behind it flying backwards to land on his butt. Blake stepped into the cool, dim foyer, and exacted his retribution without mercy.

****

One Week Later

Suzanne groaned and limped back to the bed. The hospital door opened revealing Jack and Evan, all smiles, pushing a wheelchair. “I don’t need that.” She pouted, wincing as she stood.  In spite of all the physical aches and pains she sported, what hurt worst was definitely her heart. After hearing about Blake’s stunt with Mitchell she had flatly refused to see him. Or talk about him. Or let anyone mention him in her presence. Her friends, most especially Jack, had gone on about it, bragging as if he had been the one to beat her husband so badly he was only a few floors down from her in this very hospital. She shivered at the concept. She wanted to handle this her way, not lower herself to his bullshit behavior. Blake had no right to do that. None. But her eyes kept tearing up at the thought of him. How badly she wanted to see him, to be held by him. She sucked in a breath.

“You okay?” Jack bustled around her.

She waved him away. “Yes. No. Stop hovering, dammit.”

“Fine. Let’s go. I’ve got your chariot prepared m’lady.” Evan popped a wheelie with the chair, making her smile.

“Did you get those papers for me?” She asked Jack as she sat gingerly in the seat. She planned to present Mitchell with divorce papers the next day, when he got home from his own stay at the Medical Center.

“Yes. All ready to go. You sure you want to…”

She held up a hand. “This is my problem to solve. I plan to do it.”

Ignoring their mumbling about pressing charges, she stared straight ahead, already planning the discussion. Why she wouldn’t press charges was a popular topic and one she was summarily sick of hearing. While a pretty large part of her knew that was likely the best way to handle this, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She honestly believed he would listen to her now, and they could part amicably, like mature adults. He had loved her. Once. She knew it. And was just as convinced now, after all this, he would see reason and let her go.

By the time her friends had her settled in at home and left at her insistence, a distinct chill of fear settled around her heart. Visions, sensations, pain, terror and blood all crowded in around her, but she forced herself to calm. She simply had to get a handle on this. Alone. She took a breath, sipped her tea, and stared out onto the huge expanse of lawn. When her phone buzzed she answered it without thinking. The sound of Blake’s deep voice filled her ears and brought instant tears to her eyes. She gripped the couch’s arm. “Hi,” she whispered.

“You home now?”

“Yes.”

The silence expanded between them. Suzanne bit her lip, tried to recall her strength. He asked a simple question. “When can I see you?”

She wanted to see him, but she couldn't yet, maybe not ever. The realization sliced through her, making her gasp. She didn’t deserve him. He was inappropriate on so many levels. Too young, too brash, and too utterly perfect. Nothing in her whole life would ever be perfect again.  He deserved to have wife who could give him everything, including children. She tried to think of a way to keep him at arm's length while the rest of her clamored for him.

She slumped into the couch. “I’m not sure.  Mitchell gets home tomorrow. I’ll be presenting him with the divorce papers then.”

His sharp intake of breath made her close her eyes. “Jesus, Suzanne. You’re actually going to see him?”

“Yes Blake, I am. I have to finish this my way.”

“Your way.” His voice dipped an octave, making her skin pebble. “Your way landed you in the hospital, nearly dead, and your future as a mother destroyed. God damn it, Suzanne.”

 He was right of course.  She spoke without thinking. “I miss you.” The girl she once was craved everything about him. Wanted him there, that very minute, with her. The woman she’d become thanks to Mitchell, still flinched at every sound, second-guessed every word that left her lips. Blake did not need that kind of dependence.

He groaned.  “You have no idea how much I want to see you. But I get it, I mean, I am pretending to, sort of.”

“Can you… come now?” She tried to keep the hitch out of her voice. “I mean, if you want.” She winced as she shifted on the couch, wondering if it were too early for another pain killer.

“Are you kidding me? I’m right outside your door.”

She looked up, heard the knock, and was unable to hold back the rush of emotion that overwhelmed her when she noted the huge divot in the drywall behind it the door, and then saw his face. He caught her before she fell.

Blake clenched his fists, determined to let her set the pace, to see if she really wanted to see him or was only humoring him. The two weeks between then and when he'd put her dickhead husband in the hospital had ripped his guts out, but he’d honored her demand that he stay away. She looked even smaller than usual, clutching the doorframe, tears standing in her huge eyes. He held out a hand, and she stumbled forward. He caught her, picked her up and carried her back inside.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her lips to his, but he kept it gentle, knowing she still hurt. His chest ached so badly he toyed with the concept that he was having a heart attack, until he realized the sensation for what it was.

“I love you.” He muttered into her hair. She turned her face up to his as he sank onto the couch, still clutching her close.

“Don’t be silly. You hardly know me.” She felt so perfect, snuggled into his chest. He stroked her hair, her face, kissed her repeatedly, unable to stop. They stretched out on the large couch, with her head in the crook of his arm, her fingers trailing up and down his arm, reaching up to touch his jaw, the small gold hoop he wore in one ear as if reassuring herself he was real.

“I know you enough,” he whispered. “Sleep now. I’m here.” He fell into his own dreamless slumber, the first in weeks, holding her in his arms.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of her scream. She sat, hands over her eyes, trembling and sobbing. He sat, trying to shake the clouds from his consciousness. “Shh…It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m here.”

“You have t-t-to go Blake. He’s coming home.”

He frowned and stood, stretching. “I’ll just hide in the kitchen or something.  You know, make sure he doesn’t…”

“No. I’m a wreck. I need a shower and some food. You should go.”

He gritted his teeth at the damn independent bullshit thing that came so easily for her. “Tell you what,” he pulled her to her feet before she could protest. “I’ll help with the shower, and the food, then I’ll go.”

She shook her head, but let him guide her upstairs, directing him to a guest room shower. He turned on the water and helped her undress, using every bit of his willpower not to punch a hole in the tile at the sight of her battered body. As he eased her jeans down and off, tugging the scrap of lace that passed for panties, he had to use another set of skills to get his cock to soften. He had no business doing anything with her but helping.

But when she threaded her fingers in his hair as he leaned down to slip off her socks, he could not resist a small, feathery kiss, near her navel. She gripped him harder. “Yes.” She whispered. His tongue found the healing scar from her surgery. He went lower, touched it to the slight covering of red hair over her sex. “Please.” She moved back, pulling him with her, sat on the edge of a huge tub. He stayed on his knees, gripped her hips and leaned into her, probing gently, pleased when the small button of her clit hardened under the soft laving of his tongue. She parted her legs and he had to bite down the urge to gasp.
He would kill that fucker the next time he saw him.
“Sorry.” She tried to push him away. “It’s a mess down there.”

“No. It’s perfect. And I’m about to make it even better.” He parted her knees a bit more. “Just sit back and relax.” He coaxed two quick orgasms from her, lapped at the juices that flowed and had to shift himself to keep from cutting off circulation to his entire body since all the blood in his body had shot to his cock. She had one foot propped on his shoulder as her body spasmed and trembled from the last climax. He leaned back, fighting the urge to pick her up and toss her on the bed, sink deep inside her and finally be connected. She put her foot down, leaned forward and kissed him. That did not help.

“Uh, sorry,” He grunted when she stood, wobbled a little, and pulled him up with her. She smiled, gripped his face and laid a mind-blowing kiss on him at the same time turning him so he sat where she once did. Nibbling his neck she slid his zipper down. The room dimmed, as he felt her hand on his flesh, her thumb rubbing his head.  “Come, Blake. Show me.” She whispered, nearly sending him over the edge with her words. She sat next to him, ran her hands over his chest, tweaked his nipples as he fisted himself, groaning as the climax blinded him. His hips jerked and he covered his shirt as she kept whispering, kissing him, and touching him.

“Dear Jesus,” he groaned as she handed him a towel, grinning at the wicked look in her eyes.

“Now, I’m going to shower. You can make some food if you want. I have no idea what’s in the kitchen. After that, you have to go. I’ll be fine.” She held onto the shower door as she stepped under the water. Blake watched her a second, forcing down his natural inclination to insist on staying. She’d have it her way. He knew it. He sighed, stood, and wandered down to the kitchen already planning how he’d hide in one of the many rooms in the giant house. There was no way in this lifetime or any other that he was going to leave her alone with that asshole.

**** 

Suzanne clutched the folder in her lap as she sat on the darkening porch. She had gotten a single call from her husband. He was getting a taxi home from the hospital, as his broken leg still wouldn’t allow him to drive. He had stated nothing more than the facts, but the cold steel of his voice had spoken volumes. That and the words “You had better be alone when I get there.”  She had hung up without acknowledgement.

Setting the folder on the chaise lounge beside her, she plucked at the cushion a while, leaned back, leaned forward, paced, then sat back down. Nothing she did would make him get here any faster. She forced herself to think about Blake. His soft words, gentle kisses, intense need to help her. She looked up at the second floor balcony, willing him to stay quiet. She'd realized, finally, there would be no convincing him to leave. It gave her an odd sense of comfort.

A wave of throat-clenching panic washed over her, making her grip the chair arms. The near two-year long cycle of abuse had terrorized her at first, then cowed her, forcing her to tiptoe around Mitchell’s moods and change everything about the way she would normally respond to a man. It made her jumpy and less effective at work too, always anticipating the inevitable phone calls and texts demanding updates and detailed descriptions of where she was, what she was or wasn’t doing. The Suzanne of her youth—the one who was strong, independent, full of life and spirit—had been beaten out of her. Blake represented a return to it in a sense, but in another, much darker way.