End of the Innocence (30 page)

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W
hile the city moved, Brad sat in a chair by the bed and watched her sleep. His phone, set to vibrate, lay on the dresser next to him, a ticking time bomb, the police instructed to call the moment they discovered anything. They had wanted to question her, the police and FBI insistent, their faces growing red at his refusal. But she had been through enough. She needed sleep, and he didn’t want her to say anything until he knew the full story, liability constantly lurking, like a dormant plague, waiting to infect if given the slightest opening. In the morning, when she woke, they could talk. Then, with an attorney present, she could give the police her statement. 

Hours ago, with his kitchen full of black uniforms, he had second-guessed his actions, the call to involve them in this situation. Every face he saw, every cop he paid, he silently examined with distrust. There was corruption in the police department, his family being one of the major parties responsible. But they had been his best chance, the source he felt most comfortable using. He hadn’t wanted to further involve his family, the nagging possibility of their hand in her kidnapping rendering that a risky move.

She shifted in her sleep, a sigh settling over her body, and he stood, his hand in his pockets, moving closer until he stood over her. There he stayed, his eyes memorizing her features, her breath, the flush of her skin as she slept. His enormous relief at her return was foreshadowed by his panic, his concern that something else could happen. The horrific thing about having everything that he ever wanted was the constant fear that it would all disappear.

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I
woke to a heart-warming familiar scene. Brad’s bed, sunlight streaming through breaks in the curtains, the clatter of pans, and smells of bacon. I rolled over, stretching, wincing as my feet brushed against the sheets, my head welcoming me to the day with a dull roar of pressure. I was naked, the robe tangled around me, my arms freed from it at some point in the night, and I moved it aside, pushing back the covers and walking to the closet, grabbing a long nightshirt and pulling it over my head.

Brad met me on the stairs, his critical eyes on my bare feet, a frown settling over his features, and I spoke before he could.

“I’m done being babied. I ran for miles on these feet ... I can walk myself downstairs.”

“You should be in bed. I’ll have Martha bring up food.”

“Move. I need normality right now. Don’t think I can’t kick your ass.” He grinned at my tone, jogging up a few steps and planting a kiss on my lips.

“Fine. I’m glad to see your spark back.  Breakfast is ready if you are hungry.”

I shoved him gently over and moved down the stairs, a smile spreading over my face.
I am alive. I am home. I am with Brad.
I left the stairwell, moving into the kitchen, surprised to see a strange face seated at the table.

“Good morning,” I said uncertainly, giving Martha a hug and accepting the plate she directed me to.

Brad spoke. “Julia, this is Doctor Barnes. You met him last night. He’s just here for a follow-up examination. He’s also signed confidentiality papers, so please continue to speak freely in front of him.”

“May I eat first?” I eyed my plate—bacon, sausage, hash browns, and eggs dancing yummy in front of me.

“Of course,” the doctor spoke, pulling a chair out for me. “Observation is part of the exam, so if you don’t mind, I’ll watch you closely.”

I blushed. “That’s fine.”

Brad sat across from me, his face serious. “The police want to question you this morning. Before they do, I’d like to walk through with you what happened. An attorney will be with you during the questioning, but it’ll help if you go through it with me a few times first.”

I shrugged, shoveling food into my mouth with a fork, too hungry to care about the matter of appearances. “Okay. But I won’t be much help.”

“Start from the beginning.”

I did, starting from the moment I heard my vehicle’s alarm, explaining the cloth over my mouth, waking in the chair, my subsequent blackout. The doctor interrupted a few times, asking about my body’s response—how I had felt upon waking each time. I tried to answer as truthfully as possible, much of my memories vague, my head aching as I pushed it. He re-examined the back of my head, the wound, his touch eliciting a cry from me that had Brad shooting to his feet.

“This wound indicates a strong impact; she must have fallen back onto concrete. She’s lucky ... her concussion could have killed her. We’ll need to keep her under close observation for a few days, and I’d like to get a CT and MRI this afternoon, if the police are done with her by then.”

Brad nodded, his eyes on me. “Then what happened? When you woke up the second time?”

I hesitated, his eyes catching on and sharpening in response. I saw his hands clench and I frowned. “I can’t tell you this if you are going to freak out about it.”

“Tell me,” he gritted out.

“I woke up, untied, on a bed of some sorts—a thin one. A man was in between my legs, and my sweats and panties were off.” Brad swore, pain on his face, and I reached out to him. “Like I said last night - nothing happened, Brad. Let me talk.” He nodded, his eyes on mine. “I waited and tried not to move, tried to pretend to be asleep, or unconscious, or whatever it was that I had been. When I saw an opening, I took it.”

“Took what? What do you mean?”

“I put him in a triangle chokehold. Like Ben taught me.” I looked down, moving my food on my plate.

“You’re shitting me.” His voice held a mixture of pride and dismay, and I looked up to find him running a hand over his mouth, his eyes dark.

“No. I held it—” My voice broke, my eyes staying on Brad, watching the flicker in his as I spoke. “For a long time, but not too long, after he passed out. I counted. Three minutes.”

“Three minutes,” he said quietly. “That’s it?”

“Yes. Then I ran. I ran, and I hid, and I ran again. I stopped once, behind a building, and slept between a dumpster and a fence for a bit ... until dark. Then I ran again, and I got to the house that you picked me up from.”

“Three minutes,” Brad repeated, frowning slightly, a question in his eyes, his knowledge not as great in the area of jujitsu as my own.

“Four minutes is terminal. Just three minutes... he’d have regained consciousness.”

Brad’s eyes darkened across the table.

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T
he day passed in a blur of questions, medical tests, family, and friends. My wedding dress hung in the corner of the room, a constant indicator of the wedding that never occurred. The money wasted stuck like a forgotten burr, poking and scraping with every reminder—the mountain of wrapped gifts piled in a corner of the guest room, the useless Post-It note stuck to a corner of the fridge, with reception times and a reminder to pull passports from the safe. Our honeymoon also picked at my conscience, despite my unwilling part in my disappearance, all this—the police, the doctor, the haunted look in Brad’s eyes—was a burden brought on by my actions. If only I had stayed inside the house, ignored my car alarm and the words painted on the windows and doors. But the guilt was soon washed away in the overwhelming current of love and celebration that filled the home. Mother shone, Dad’s eyes twinkled, and Olivia was the beaming best friend of a year prior. We ate every casserole Martha had baked, demolished the groom’s cake, and I had some vintage bubbly, obeying the doctor’s stern orders to limit it to one glass. Brad’s hand never left my skin, his arm around me, his mouth making frequent trips to my forehead, my cheek, my lips. I saw fear in his eyes when he looked at me, a protective, raw emotion that both comforted and chilled me, the dark look so vulnerable in its whatmighthavebeen caress. Then he stood, heralding them all out, glaring at anyone who dared to object—‘doctor’s orders’ his reprimand of choice.

And we had two hours—two hours of peace, our bodies molded together on the bed, his hand trailing lightly through my hair until I slept. Then, Martha’s knock reawakened us, and I dressed for the police.

More questions. So many questions. So many I had already answered. The officers questioned me until my voice was hoarse, and Brad held up a hand, giving them one hard look that ended all questions. Then they took a turn, speaking instead of interrogating, updating me on everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.

I didn’t know what my kidnappers had planned, but my escape certainly put a kink in their plans. An hour after I returned home, police raided the showroom, finding nothing helpful in their search of the downstairs. The gurney I had laid on? Almost been raped on? Gone. That room had been empty, the smell of bleach strong. The electronics room, which held the security system was also clean, all footage gone, the system’s history wiped. The police tracked down the owner of the building at 3:15 a.m. and questioned him. He said the downstairs of the building was leased, and provided, bleary-eyed and irritated, copies of a lease agreement. The police looked up the renter, which turned out to be a bogus corporation with no ties to anything. Dead ends leading to dead ends.

I told the police everything. That I choked him until he passed out, then pushed him off me and ran. I had been unnecessarily prepped by Brad and performed well, his head imperceptibly nodding as I ran through the liability-safe lines of our script.

I was exhausted by the time they left, and sat in Brad’s lap on the sofa in the den, the memory of two weeks ago, our fuck on this couch, seeming light years away. “I want to turn the theatre room back into a theatre,” I said, my voice muffled slightly by his neck.

“You don’t want to train with Ben anymore?” he asked, surprise in his tone. “I thought, with everything that happened ...”

“I just want things to go back to normal. In a few months I might start training again. It’s too soon right now. I want to go back to using that room for mindless entertainment.”

He nodded. “On that note, I have a suggestion.”

“About the theatre room?”

“No. About something else entirely.”

I turned in his lap, facing him head on, and raised an eyebrow questioningly, his eyes glued to mine as he started to speak.

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T
wo days later, we wed in a small ceremony in our backyard. It happened at dusk, the pool littered with small flowers and candles, the glow reflecting in delicate patterns off our skin. We were a party of few, the invitees kept to my parents, Martha, and our close friends. Rebecca handled the details, and Martha fed us like kings at the conclusion of the nuptials. I would never forget the look in Brad’s eyes, love shining unabashed as he spoke words that have tied together souls for centuries. His love was terrifying in its entirety, an uncontrollable wave that fiercely dominated normal levels of emotion. I worried I was unable to compete, my own love inferior in its selfish humanity.

“You won’t understand,” he whispered later that night. “Unless you come close to losing me, you will never understand the black hole that my soul became when I thought you were gone. I hope you never understand the depth of love you have for me, I hope your heart is never pushed off that cliff. Just know that I am forever yours. You may crush my heart, and I will ask you for more. I just need to know you are happy and safe. Nothing else will ever matter to me.”

He moved above me, his mouth coursing over mine, soft kisses gently caressing my soul, kisses that traveled, down my neck, his body sliding lower, his fingers unbuttoning my nightshirt as my legs wrapped around him. Then, he was at the top of my panties, his bare mouth skimming the line of skin before satin, his kisses continuing lower, until I felt the heat of his mouth through the fabric, teasing my skin, his tongue swiping over my silk-covered sex. I moaned, arching into his mouth, his hands moving underneath me until they gripped the muscles of my ass, lifting me fully into his mouth, the hot air of his breath tickling my inner thighs. The barrier of my panties stretched out my buildup, my frustration growing along with my orgasm, heightening the arc when it came, a quivering explosion of pleasure, his audible moan of arousal incredibly hot to my ears.

Then we christened a bed that we had christened a hundred times before, but this time, as husband and wife, the fucking sweeter, the kisses slower, the look of love in his eyes more intense.

I fell asleep wrapped in his arms, a strong frame of protection that I never wanted to leave. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into my neck, my eyes already heavy with the edges of sleep.

“For what?” I said groggily.

“For not finding you. For not being there. I should have rescued you.”

I smiled, my words finding surface before I was captured by the pull of sleep. “You rescued me the moment I met you. My life began on that day.”

He pulled me tighter to him, and I fell. The final step. I fell into sleep, into life, into love. It felt as if I had finished a journey, grown and changed by the experience. I had arrived to the place where I was, where I was born to be who I was born to be, with whom I was born for. No matter what the future brought, whether it was danger, or sexual heat that burned me alive, or a weary game of checkers in a nursing home, I wanted it, with every inch of my body. I embraced our future and our ability to spend every last minute of it next to this man. My husband. My mate. My soul’s recognition in another.

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I
am fairly certain it was my father. My own flesh and blood who put her life in danger. I had my suspicions before, and have dug since. Dug as far as I can dig considering I can’t use any of my family’s connections. There is no real way for me to communicate how I feel about his possible involvement. About the idea that he would destroy my life for ... fuck ... I don’t even know why. A personal vendetta? For some fucked up version of pride? What kind of father puts a hit out on his son’s fiancée? It might not have started as a hit, but he knew what would happen. He saw her strength at Maria’s house. He knew when he ordered her taken that it would mean her killed.