Can't Buy Me Love (27 page)

“Your hearing will be in two weeks; after that, Dennis Murphy will be notified of the protection order.”

“Two weeks?”

“Is this an immediate problem?”

“He just got out of jail and he threatened to rape me. And beat me. So, you know, the sooner the better.”

The clerk gave her another form and told her to wait in the corner for the judge to see her. So far no one had
doubted her. No one had suggested that maybe she’d asked for the abuse. No one had asked about her past.

CSI: Miami
had led her to believe some smarmy redheaded cop was going to interrogate her. So, all in all, she was feeling pretty good about this protection order business.

An hour later, she was led into an office where a man in half-glasses sat behind a large desk. He gestured to the chair in front of him and Tara sat, relieved that this very long, very bizarre day was about to end without parading the ghosts of her past.

But then Judge Phillips looked at her over the edge of those half-glasses and despite the air conditioning, sweat bloomed across her chest, pooling and running down her back. Her legs stuck to the chair.

“So,” Judge Phillips asked, “how exactly do you know Dennis Murphy?”

For a moment, her mouth dry, and she considered lying. Because the good judge was a grandfather. Pictures of gap-toothed kids covered his desk, and he might be fifteen years younger than the men she’d stolen from but he wasn’t stupid. He’d put himself in the shoes of those four men, and she couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face herself.

But then she thought about Jacob and Victoria. Dennis’s erection against her belly. Those leather samples hanging up in her studio. Luc.

She had something to protect. Something to fight for.

And she’d promised and she wanted, for the first time in her life, for her word to mean something.

She unfisted her hands, opened her mouth, and forced the story out.

Two hours later she parked her Honda in front of the ranch and stared at the building, so ugly in the sunlight.

Luc, sitting on the steps, slowly stood. Waiting for her.

Unbelievably, she felt tears gather behind her eyes.

Don’t be ridiculous
, she told herself, and picking up her purse, and the tattered edges of her pride, she climbed out of the car.
He’s not waiting for you. He’s waiting to make sure you did what you said you’d do. He’s waiting on behalf of his family. Not for you. Never for you
.

“How did it go?” he asked once she was close.

Grateful for her sunglasses, she tilted up her face. “Within the next twenty-four hours Dennis will be served with a temporary ex parte protective order.”

He blinked. Nodded. “That’s good.”

Good?
she thought, emotion boiling inside her stomach. None of this was good.

“I’m going inside.”

“What about the other stuff. Did you tell them?”

The words in her mouth were too heavy and they tasted like iron and tears. She had thought, stupidly, that going into that police station and the courthouse and telling someone what she’d done would make her feel cleaner. Feel … forgiven.

But instead she felt worse. Sick. So sick of herself she couldn’t stand it.

There was no forgiveness for her.

“I did.” The words slid out of her mouth with barely a sound.

“What did they say?”

She remembered the way Judge Phillips’s smile had gone flat, the way he’d looked at her. Like she was something he wished he could lock away.

“It’s not a crime to accept a gift. But the police are going to check in the cities where those men lived to see if there are any files opened under my name by people who caught on to what I did.”

“That must have been hard.”

“You think?” Her voice cracked and she shook her head, needing to get up to her room and under the blankets of her bed so that she could just hide for awhile, but he touched her hand, his fingers sliding around her wrist.

She had no shell anymore and she felt that touch all the way through her body. His warmth, his strength, the calluses on his fingers. It was the kitchen all over again and she was transfixed.

When he pulled off her sunglasses, she didn’t have the strength to push him away. To tell him to go to hell.

She could only stand there and feel him.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered.

The tears fell. And he reached up to touch them, his face broken with sympathy, but she yanked herself away.

“That makes one of us,” she said and ran into her room, where—fully dressed—she climbed under the covers of her bed.

The knock on the door that night was unwelcome and so she ignored it.

When it persisted, she fished under her bed for a shoe, which she pitched at the door. The bang made her flinch, but afterward it was silent.

And then another knock.

“What?” she barked.

The doorknob turned and she stared up at the ceiling, pissed that she hadn’t thought to lock the damn thing.

“Luc, go away, I don’t need a Boy Scout—”

It wasn’t Luc in the doorway. It was the boy. Jacob. His black curls were growing long, the tips touching the edge of his red Spiderman T-shirt.

He stood there, held still by her gaze. But she couldn’t stand to look at him, as if he were a too-bright light against a black sky. When she sat up, he moved toward the bed. A quick shuffle step.

“What do you want?” Her bark stopped him in his tracks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “About the whoopee cushion.”

“Your mom got mad at you, huh?” She smiled slightly and the boy brightened, as if she were opening a door for him to step through. And maybe she was. Maybe she was just that alone.

“Took away my Gameboy.”

She hummed in sympathy.

“Ruby said you like these.” He stepped up to the bed, and she braced herself as best she could, but she had nothing to push the boy away with. No nasty words. No shell. Not even a stick. Nothing. So she could only sit there and try not to cry.

Go away
, she silently begged.
Please, Jacob, don’t get close. Please just go away
.

“Here.” He put something on her knee.

Finally, she looked over at him, his face shimmery and magnified through her tears.

“Are you sad?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Because of the whoopee cushion?”

It was so ridiculous she laughed, and the tears spilled hot over her cheeks. “No,” she whispered. “Not because of the whoopee cushion.”

She wiped her face and saw the box of candy on her knee. Mike and Ikes.

Fresh tears burned in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “They’re my favorite.”

His smile, generated by the very specific gladness that he’d made her happy, that he’d done something for her that was good and appreciated, tore through the room, illuminating the dark that surrounded her.

I used to feel that way
, she thought, dimly. Reading to
those old men. Finding their favorite socks. Filling in the crossword puzzles.

It didn’t make it right, but she had enjoyed that part of it. That part had been honest.

“It’s my favorite candy, too,” he said, nodding seriously, as if they were discussing modern art. “But I only like the yellows.”

She blinked at him, doubting she’d heard him right. “The yellows?”

He nodded, launching into some rationale she didn’t hear, because she was trying to figure out how to reject this gift. Because she was unsure of where it came from or what it meant. She wanted to pick it apart. Find the strings, the hidden angles.

But he was a kid. Just a kid. And maybe, maybe it would be okay to accept one thing at face value.

There was no forgiveness for her. She understood that, accepted it. But maybe there could be salvation. All that innocence she’d pushed away since she’d lost her own, maybe if she let it back in, let it swirl around her and lift her to someplace better—maybe she could find some redemption.

Don’t
, the demon warned, her voice a sharp crack against the inside of her head.
Not for you. This is not for you!

But she ignored the demon and ripped open the box. The oblong candy spilled everywhere, down the hills of her knees, across the plains of the bedspread. She picked up three yellows and held them out to him in the cupped palm of her hand.

“Go ahead,” she said with a shaky shrug. “I don’t like the yellows.”

“Really? That’s funny.” His little fingers grabbed them, their touch sending sparks across her hand, right into her black and broken heart, where a hundred locks
were sprung open. And for the first time since she turned sixteen, she realized she was free.

Free of Dennis.

Free of fear.

For a moment she thought she might just soar up to the ceiling. Up past the roof, into that wide blue sky.

“You okay?” Jacob asked. “You’re crying.”

“Am I?” She laughed, she couldn’t help it. Freedom tasted like sugar, felt like a kid’s sweaty palm in hers. And for all her grief and all her regrets, she was suddenly very proud that she’d arrived at this moment.

She pushed the blankets off her body, no longer willing to hide.

“Let’s go do something,” she said to Jacob, who blinked up at her.

“What?”

“I don’t know, what do you like to do?”

“Draw stuff.”

She laughed. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Friday morning, the
workshop was a beehive of activity. The three models stood at the back sorting through the samples in their sizes. Edna and Joyce were unloading their equipment.

Edna had dried-up gunk on the shoulder of her shirt from one of her babies. As if it weren’t regurgitated body fluids, she laughed and tried to flake it off. Tara Jean rolled her eyes.
Honestly
.

“We’ll start with tops.” Tara pulled out her binder and everyone quieted down and started to work.

After Jacob’s visit three days ago, she’d thrown herself into work with all the fervor of the converted.

This business, the winter line, the Baker Leather stores and brand, would be her new life. This would be her last fresh start; this would become who she was, and she’d do it right or die trying.

Tara directed the models to the privacy screen she had for just this purpose. Maggie, the large model, didn’t have much modesty, and she stripped naked in front of everyone. Over the last few years, Tara Jean had grown as accustomed to the sight of Maggie’s freckled breasts as she had to Edna’s face.

But Ruby’s niece, Maria, was shy, and she ducked behind the privacy screen. As did Lucia, the medium model, who worked very very hard at staying a medium. Tara Jean smiled at her assembled crew and pushed
aside any doubt or grief. This was her world now. All hers.

The models came out wearing the white leather bustier, and Tara and the seamstresses descended.

Tara Jean didn’t even hear Celeste walk in until they got to the purple blazer.

“It’s too short,” Celeste said, her calm accented voice settling down over the crowd like a net, stopping all work.

“Excuse me?” Tara Jean asked, caught off guard. She was trying to refit the blazer on Maggie, but it wasn’t working. Celeste walked down the center island to stand next to her.

“It needs to hit here.” Celeste drew a line on Maggie’s hip a few centimeters past where the purple hem sat awkwardly. “And this button … it’s too low.” She put her hand between the single button at Maggie’s waist and all but cupped the woman’s breasts. “The girls are running wild.”

It took less than a second for Tara to see that Celeste was right. The jacket didn’t look right, not because of the fit, but because of the design.

Christ, even Edna was nodding!

“We’re fitting,” Tara said through her teeth, glancing at the other models to see if the problem ran across all the sizes. It did.
Damn it
. “Not designing.” She shook her head, angry that she’d bothered to defend herself. “What are you doing here?”

“I was curious.”

“Well, you can leave.”

“I don’t think so.” Celeste circled Maria, who nearly quaked in front of the imperial bullshit she was laying down.

“Stop intimidating my models.” Suddenly, realization dawned, and Tara laughed with evil delight. “Are you
here because you thought I needed a small model? Oh my God, are you here to work for me?”

Celeste’s smile was short and sharp. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t afford me.”

“Did your son send you to check up on me?”

“My son is and always has been focused on one thing. Hockey. He doesn’t care about this venture.” Celeste stood in front of Maria and smiled. “Your skin is lovely,” she said, and Maria’s face began to glow. “Just put your shoulders back a little bit, yes.” She touched Maria gently between the shoulder blades. “And shift your legs like so. There.”

Maria slowly transformed from a nervous girl to a young woman with some power. Some bearing.

Celeste stepped up to Maggie, the forty-year-old redhead covered in freckles, whose blue eyes rivaled the Texas sky in summer. Again Celeste smiled, and Maggie grinned.