Page 28 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I didn’t deserve her loyalty.
Straightening my back, I pulled away from her warmth. “Thanks, Shelly. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything crazy. He said he’d give me some time, so I’ll think of something. Everything will be fine.”
Of course she didn’t believe it. I didn’t either, but she let me go.
I carried Bailey down to our apartment and put her in her high chair. I set down a jar of sweet peas and let Bailey go to town with a plastic spoon. It felt weird to do something as mundane as mealtime when my world was being ripped apart. But that’s the thing about kids—they make you practical.
A stronger mom, a better mom, would probably have chastised her for the mess. But it was easier to let her make a mess and then clean it up after. Green mush sprayed across the linoleum floor wiped clean in a single swipe.
If only all my problems could be cleared with such ease.
After Bailey ate, I peeled off her clothes and diaper and carried a pea-spattered baby to the tub. After washing her, I let her sit for a few minutes in the warm water while she splashed around with some foam alphabet letters. To say she was my everything wasn’t giving her enough credit. I didn’t know how I would have gotten through those dark months back then without her inside
me. Even now my composure had all the sturdiness of a house of cards. I’d just as soon lie down and let Andrew have his way with me than fight him again. And Colin. Well, Colin. But always there was Bailey to consider, and so I had to be strong.
Bailey was rough to put down to bed that night, probably feeding off my nervous energy. I sang her all the lullabies in my arsenal three times before her eyes drifted shut.
I took a shower and slipped on a ratty T-shirt. Then paced. I couldn’t go anywhere, for obvious reasons, and besides, there was nowhere to go. I considered watching TV, reading a book, but nothing could hold my focus.
My mind ran like a hamster on a wheel.
What a relief it must be for a rape victim to hate her rapist. But even if I hated Andrew, I also loved him. Not the way he’d wanted me to. I loved him as a friend, a brother. It may have been chaste, but it was real. Maybe the most I’d ever loved anyone, at least before Bailey.
And that old love was still inside me like a cancer.
Maybe if I could believe what I’d told myself all those nights at the club, that I didn’t really have the right to say no, that all guys were assholes, I could find some kind of peace. Then, at least, what Andrew had done would make sense.
I had thought I was over it. It wasn’t even rape, right? Sure I’d said no, but men didn’t listen. Now, though, with Colin waiting in the wings, tempting me and respecting my refusal, I had to wonder if I’d just been fooling myself.
And that begged the question—what would it take to truly get over it? Was it even possible? The thought of being broken forever was a scarier thought than anything Andrew could do to my body.
It wasn’t the first night I’d baked in lieu of sleep. The methodical measuring of ingredients and the steady rhythm of mixing never failed to soothe me. During the day I played with recipes, taking delight in creating something new. But night baking was about comfort. All I had to do was follow the formula, and everything would turn out okay. Better than okay, considering double chocolate brownies came out of the chasm.
Chapter Eleven
The drive only took twenty minutes, as loitering teens and half-empty strip malls gave way to artistic cafés and pocketed neighborhoods. My would-be Prince Charming’s castle turned out to be a white, bungalow-style house with a front porch. It was small compared to some of the others, but still much too big for a bachelor. Too domestic.
Colin had called this morning, asking me to come over and talk. I owed him that much. It was more of a meeting than a date. More of a breaking up than an opening.
I told myself that, again, fussing over my meeting-date outfit as I sat in the front seat of my car. But I didn’t really believe it. I wanted to make it right with Colin.
The heart wants what it wants, even if that means fucking over the people it loves. Because it really wasn’t fair to drag Colin into this. Bad enough I was so messed up, and that I was broke and had a kid and all the other things that were wrong with me. All the things that made me a poor candidate for a girlfriend, as if this were a job interview, an audition.
After the new troubles with Andrew, I should leave Colin well enough alone. It was impossible to say how it would affect him, impossible that it wouldn’t affect him, indirectly somehow.
Or maybe directly, by me running to him for help, like now.
I fidgeted in the car for ten minutes, parked a bit too far away from the curb as if those extra few inches could keep me from arriving. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked over to see Colin open the front door. I couldn’t see his expression, but I read the lines of his body as he leaned against the door frame. Just waiting. His stillness poured through my body like steamy coffee on a winter day. That’s why I was here: he was different.
It wasn’t that Colin was never pushy or controlling, because he excelled at both those skills. The difference was that, whatever he did, he wouldn’t harm me. Not ever. I couldn’t even make him do it. I should know—I had tried. It was as if I’d been searching for him without even knowing it, trying out random men at a bar in the world’s stupidest litmus test.
And now that I’d found him, the trick was how not to lose him. I got out of the car and strode up the sidewalk. He stepped aside and, with a nod of his head, invited me in. As I passed, I could feel the tension vibrating within him—curiosity, frustration, maybe lust—carefully caged within thick walls of patience.
He took my coat. I followed the trail of savory aromas to the kitchen and set the dessert I’d brought on the counter.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Sure. That would be… Thanks.”
