Eternal Eden (8 page)

He looked up, noting my stare. “I’ll be quick, I promise.” He clasped his hand just above my knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I felt an injection of calm enter me, dulling my unease. He climbed up on the couch and hitched a leg over my head, situating himself on the back of the couch where I sat agreeably positioned between his legs.

His fingers scrolled around my head, no doubt inspecting the damage. “It’s not so bad,” he said finally, jolting me from the lull I’d succumbed to from his touch. “I’ve seen much worse.”

So had I.

“I didn’t realize we were in the presence of an MD,” Paul said, reminding me or his presence. “How lucky for us.”

I heard the smile in William’s voice as he replied, “You’d be amazed what you learn in boyscouts.”

Paul leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “So who is this tool?” he asked, looking hard at me, as if the subject of his comment wasn’t ten feet in front of him.

“Tool,” William said, as if to himself, contemplating. “As in a device to perform or facilitate mechanical or manual labor?”

Paul tilted his head against the wall and chuckled. “That’s right Encyclopedia Britannica. Or in layman’s terms: screwdriver, hammer—”

“How about a wrench,” William interrupted, his voice too level not to be up to something.

“You’ve got a quick learner on your hands, Bryn,” Paul said to me, clapping his hands. “Sure, wrench works just fine as well,” he said, his eyes narrowing on William. “Whatever blows your skirt up buddy.”

I felt the chill of iodine drenched cotton balls circle around, soft and methodical. “Well a wrench would come in handy right now,” William mused. “Because you definitely have a couple screws loose.”

Paul shoved off the wall, and from his expression you would have guessed William had given him the most unthinkable insult known to man. “I take that back. You’re not a tool,” he seethed, his turquoise eyes growing stormy. “You’re way worse, something that hasn’t been given a name. You’re that guy who preys on innocent young women, and you know what, you’re going to be doing the same thing fifty years from now. You’re going to be that old dude in the bar with the designer jeans and seedy smile who thinks he’s still got it, not realizing everyone’s laughing at the sorry old geezer. You could have five more lifetimes and you’d still end up alone.”

“Paul,” I interjected when it didn’t look he was going to be wrapping up his soliloquy anytime soon. “Enough.”

Red lights suddenly flashed through the windows, casting their nets over me, ensnaring me into the recesses of my memories. Taking me back to that night when those same red lights had appeared and made everything so real, just as they were doing now.

I glared at Paul, noticing the cell phone he was gripping in his hand. “Tell me you didn’t call—”

“It’s just campus security,” he answered immediately, taking a step back. “As a resident advisor it’s my responsibility to report any kind of attacks on campus.”

“You had no right,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s none of your business what happened—”

William cleared his throat, obviously wanting to cut in.

I didn’t secede right away. “Don’t even think about saying he only did it because he’s looking out for my best interest.”

“I wasn’t,” William replied. “I was going to agree with you. It was none of his bloody business.”

Paul uncrossed, crossed, and uncrossed his arms again, obviously unsure what to say and knowing we were right. He looked away, just in time to see a security guard, probably only a few years older than me, charge into the room. Just from the look on his face, I knew this wasn’t going to go well.

His eyes locked on me, studying me as if I was more a chalk drawing than a living, breathing person. “You the one that got jumped?”

I didn’t think my blood-matted hair and debris ridden clothes needed an answer, but he was waiting for one. Not the brightest crayon in the box.

“Yes,” I said, offering nothing more.

“Name?” he asked, marching towards the couch.

“Bryn Dawson,” I said it like a question. “Yours?”

His march turned to a strut. “My frat brothers used to call me the beaver charmer when I was a student here a few years back,” he smiled at William and jumped his brows in a
you know what I mean
kind of way.

Just perfect. A former student who couldn’t hack it in the real world now dressed in a uniform and on a head trip. Just when I thought my luck couldn’t plummet any farther south.

“Do you expect me to call you beaver charmer?” I asked, just barely able to contain my laughter when I heard William choke on his.

“Only my friends and the
ladies
call me that,” he said, hooking his thumbs under his belt. “You can call me Officer Simchuk.”

Officer? Had the standards for gaining the title of officer fallen to driving a minivan and sporting a flashlight as a weapon? I take it back . . . this guy was on a
major
head trip.

“So we’ve established who the victim is here,” he said. I imagined him checking off his list of what to do at the scene of crime. Crime scene investigation for dummies.

“What’s your story, pal?” he tilted his chin at William and studied our positioning on the couch. “You the boyfriend?”

“No,” Paul answered immediately, stepping forward. “He’s the one that found her.”

“He’s the one that
saved
me,” I edited.

“Does our savior have a name?” Simchuck asked, grabbing a metal chair and twirling it to him.

“William. William Winters,” he answered, focusing his attention back on my head. Simchuck grabbed a writing pad from his chest pocket, licking his finger before rolling it open.

“Which dorm are you assigned to,” Simchuck asked him.

William paused before answering, “I live off campus, actually.”

“Are you done yet?” I whispered up at William.

“Two minutes,” he whispered back, his mouth just outside my ear. Goose-bumps ran up my back, blossoming on my neck. I was hoping he’d be too consumed to notice, but right then he scrolled his fingers from the base of my hairline down to the collar of my shirt More goose-bumps . . .

  Simchuck’s chair screeched as he turned to Paul. “And you are?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm, viewing him head to toe. “Captain America?”

I had to turn my head so Paul couldn’t see my smile. From Paul’s cleft chin and blinding smile, to the way he was standing with arms crossed and legs spread wearing his OSU letterman’s jacket as if some superhero garb, Paul could have been an identical twin.

“Funny,” Paul said, crossing his arms tighter. “Paul Lowe.”

“Great.” Simchuck continued scribbling away. “How are you involved?”

“I was the one who called you,” Paul answered, puffing out his chest.

“Super job, Captain,” he said as if to himself before looking Paul straight in the eye. “Scram.”

“Excuse me?” Paul said, taking a step forward.

“I said beat it. I don’t have any questions for you and Bryn looks like she has enough support here already.” His eyes moved back to where I sat wrapped between William’s arms and legs.

I expected Paul to look angry, but instead he looked confused. He probably wasn’t used to being sent away from a gathering.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Paul said to me, before shooting Simchuck an evil eye as he left the room.

“So, Bryn,” he scooted closer and put on his good cop face. “You were attacked tonight?”

We were going to get nowhere if he continued to re-ascertain I was, indeed, the one who had been attacked. “Yes,” I answered, trying not to vocalize my impatience. “Again.”

“Can you describe what happened?” he asked. I imagined him checking off number three on his list.

I shrugged. “I left the basketball game and was walking through the courtyard when a couple guys showed up and banged me up a little. Not much else to tell.”

“Were they students?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond not knowing what the relationship between them and William was, but knowing I didn’t want to say anything that would jeopardize him, I answered vaguely, “They could have been. It was so dark I couldn’t really make out their faces.”

Simchuck frowned, doodling a football in the margins of his notebook. “No details at all? Not even height, build, approximate age?”

I shook my head, squeezing my lips together, nudging William in a get-me-out-of-here way. Right on cue, I heard a bandage being ripped open.

“The first man was in his late twenties, six foot, one-eighty, maybe one-eighty five,” William listed off. “Brown hair, green eyes and a medium complexion. He has a scar two inches long running down the left side of his face. The second one is early twenties, five foot eight, stocky build, reddish-blonde hair, brown eyes, and has a chain tattooed down his right arm.”

Simchuck’s pen was scratching like mad to keep up.

“I don’t think you have to worry about them showing back up here, but you’ve got their descriptions just in case.”

“Chain tattoo . . .” Simchuck whispered to himself as he continued to write.

“All done,” William said, brushing my hair back from my ear.

“You’re the best,” I said, nearly jumping up from the couch.

“If you’ll excuse us Officer Simchuck”—William winked at me from the side—“I need to get Bryn back to her room so she can get some rest. It’s been some night.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Simchuck waved us on, continuing his note-taking. “I think I got what I need.”

“Have a nice night,” William said formally, reaching for my hand and knotting his fingers through mine. That moment, feeling him reach for my hand as if it was instinctual, was worth a hundred more run-ins with Ben and Troy. It felt so good it actually hurt.

He led me out of the room, and I allowed him to, swearing I was done holding back from him. I was going to be an open-book from now on. A Bryn re-model was in order, starting off by tearing down the walls barricaded around me.

“I knew I forgot something,” Simchuck said behind us, an audible smacking of the forehead following. “One more thing, Bryn,” he shouted out at us as we were escaping into the hall.

I stiffened, wondering if we were far enough away Simchuck might assume we were out of hearing-range. Unless we were practically deaf, I didn’t think that would fly. I turned my head back at him, keeping my hand rooted in William’s.

“What’s that?”

“Do you have any reason to believe you might know these guys? You know, had a run-in with them in the past where they tried to mess you?

I would have sworn Simchuck had just pounded me in the stomach than asked me a question. I felt the stopper burst from the bottle I tried to keep my past—that night—trapped in.

I felt my knees give a little, like my body had suddenly become too heavy to keep upright. My scars became open wounds, searing pain that sucked the air from my lungs. My hand fell out of William’s, right as the pain became too much. I clutched at my stomach and back, pawing at the scars as if I could extinguish the flames I felt burning in them.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worry heightening his voice an octave. “Are you hurt?”

I couldn’t answer, partly due to the pain, but mainly due to there being no conclusive answer. The physical damage had healed long ago, but the hurt that goes deep and burrows in like a parasite never goes away.

William pried my hands away and nudged my shirt up timidly, running his fingers over the purple lines of my past.

“These are entry and exit wounds,” he whispered assuredly, although as if he wished he was mistaken. “You were shot.”

“Everything alright?” Simchuck called out as he approached us.

I found my voice, a small miracle in its own right. “Everything’s fine,” I said, before chancing a glimpse at William who was still rubbing over my scars, as if he was trying to erase them.

“I’m fine,” I whispered down to him. “Really.”

When he looked up, I knew I hadn’t convinced him anymore than I had myself.

I composed my face and turned back to the fast approaching Simchuck. “To answer your question”—I cleared my throat—“they’re no one I know. I’ve never seen them before.”

I held Simchuck’s stare until he was convinced. He clicked the top of his pen and hung it over his shirt pocket. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, give us a call.”

“Thanks,” I replied, not having to fake the sentiment. I was beyond thankful he’d made our proceedings as quick and relatively painless as rent-a-cop possible.

“Here’s my personal number.” He slid a card in my hand and his eyebrows peaked in an expectant way before he hustled around William’s kneeling form.

“See ya, Savior,” he tapped William’s shoulder before extending his arm at Paul, perched halfway up the staircase—no doubt eavesdropping without looking too blatant about it. “Catch up with you later, Captain.”

Paul flashed a humorless smile, lifting his middle finger to the sky. It snapped back the instant he saw me looking at him. “Sorry,” he mouthed, looking down.

“Mature,” I chided, attempting to encourage William from his freeze-framed form. “You’re the one that called him, remember?”