Hard Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 2) (12 page)

“And have you tried painting again? Since you’ve been sober?”

She looked down, pulled her hand away. He looked at her, and he could actually see Naomi shutting down on him, right in front of him.

“Hey.” His rough voice was gentle. “Look at me. Naomi, look at me.”

She glanced up, then looked away quickly. He saw the sparkle of tears in those brown eyes and his heart squeezed.

“You OK?” he said.

“I’m – I’m terrified to try to paint sober. I have never,
never
done a great painting sober, not in the whole of my life.” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t think that I’m any good at art without the alcohol.”

He paused. “Do you want to try?”

“No.” Her answer was swift, strong. “No. If I did, I think it would shove me close to the edge of drinking again. I’m not sure I’d come back from that edge, either.”

“I understand.”

“I want to try, eventually.” She spoke softly, almost like she was talking to herself. “I’ll try one day… but I’m not ready yet.”

“Will you let me be there for you when you are?”

Naomi met his eyes again. She blinked at the look on his face: total acceptance and belief in her, and shining pride. She’d never had that look directed her way, not once in her life, and she loved it. She wanted to be worthy of it.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

They sat quietly for a minute, just looking at each other. Then King smiled a bit.

“So what do you think? You ready to go try some omelet?”

She laughed. “I’m going to gain ten pounds at this brunch.”

“Excellent. More curves for me to check out.”

Naomi blushed deeply. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. You’re gorgeous, honey, and I’ll never let you forget it, trust me. Just to be safe, let’s get you some bacon while we’re at it, yeah?”

She laughed again and got to her feet, accepting his extended hand. “And dessert?”

“And dessert.” He smiled down at her, wishing he could kiss her right there and then. “
Lots
of dessert.”

**

December and January passed, and Naomi and King spent as much time together as they could. They met for coffee and they met for brunch and they met for dinner. They exchanged Christmas gifts, and they both celebrated their first-ever sober New Year’s Eve together. They watched movies curled up on Naomi’s sofa; they read books curled up on King’s. They went for walks and Naomi taught him how to ski and he taught her how to change a tire. Every single time he brought Callie and Noah to the Heart Center, King checked in on Naomi, and he gave her a hug before leaving to get to work himself.

He saw her through some hard times over those weeks. He was there for her after she received abusive and ugly calls from her mother, and he was there when she had some shaky moments after a late-afternoon meeting turned in to an unforeseen boozy dinner.

When she felt weak or threatened, she lashed out at him; he let her rant and rail, then he calmly told her that no matter what she said or did, he saw her – all of her, all her beauty, inside and out – and he wasn’t letting her push him away.

But he was also there for some really good times, for some triumphs. The one that Naomi cherished the most was the evening that she received her eleven-month sobriety coin: she looked across the room to see Matt sitting next to Mirrie. He was smiling at her, pride and adoration all across his face, and she
felt
his love even from twenty feet away. That was a good moment. It was the best moment.

Slowly, surely, they moved closer to each other. Naomi’s walls were coming down one at a time; Matt’s faith in her never wavered, never weakened. And she began to think that she was ready – really,
really
ready – to take things with Matt a step farther. To climb in to bed with him and let him hold her closer, tighter. She longed to be totally naked with him, nothing between them. No clothes, no walls, no fear. Totally open and vulnerable; totally trusting. She was almost there.

Then Patrick reappeared in her life… and in a matter of minutes, he damn near destroyed everything that she’d worked so painstakingly long and hard to build up.

Chapter Eleven

Naomi hummed to herself as she filed the papers from the accountant away in her office. Just that afternoon she’d signed off on the last of the budget statements for the next fiscal year, and the numbers were impressive. Between Jax and Matt’s contributions and the auction, Art With Heart was in astounding financial shape, and she was determined to get the ball rolling on her plans for expansion.

She slipped out of her high heels and wandered over to the entrance area. She had just sat down to tug on her outdoor boots when the main door opened. She glanced up and her breath froze solid in her chest.

Oh, fuck. Oh, God, no.

Patrick Doyle was standing there, staring down at her. She got to her feet and backed up. He followed, casually looking around the empty room, before turning and closing the door behind him.

“Hi, Naomi.”

“What – what are you doing here?”

“Me? I was just in the neighborhood, you know, and I thought I’d drop by. See how things are going.” His blue eyes were cold. “I didn’t get my invitation to the auction a couple of months ago. It got lost in the mail, I presume?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Anyway! It was a raging success, I heard, so well done you.” He walked closer; she took another step back. “Also? I wanted to see how you are.”

“I’m – I’m fine.”

“Are you?” he said softly. “You sure? Getting enough sleep? Taking care of yourself?”

“Y – yes.”

“That’s so good to hear. Maybe you’re free right now?” He smiled. “We can go for a few drinks, huh?”

The memory of the last time they’d gone for drinks crashed over her now, and she felt the urge to throw up. She and Mirrie had talked many times about Patrick and what he’d done to her that night, and she’d thought she was moving past it. But to have him
here
, in front of her and in her space, showed her that she had to say a few things to him.

One of the reasons that you drank was to avoid facing things that scare you. No more of that, OK? If it scares you, you take it on. And Patrick fucking
terrifies
you – which means you
have
to do this. Tell him what you need to.

She took a deep breath. “No.”

“No?” He moved closer again and this time she stood still.

“No, Patrick. The last time we went for drinks, you raped me.”

He was too close now, way in her personal space, but she didn't move one inch.

“Huh. Funny, but I don’t remember you saying no, Naomi.”

“I
did
say no. I was also barely conscious, and you know it. You took me back to your place and said you’d sleep on the sofa, and then you attacked me while I slept in your bed.”

“That’s not
quite
how I remember it. And I think that I’m in a much better position to remember what happened that night, don’t you think?” His voice was silky. “I mean, my goodness… even the bartenders were taken aback at how much you put away that night. Oh, and of course, the whole bar saw you all over me. Your tongue down my throat, and other such classless behavior.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I went to bed alone, and you said you’d stay two rooms over.” She glared at him, too angry now to feel any fear. “It doesn’t change the fact that I was asleep when you started to fuck me, without my consent or even my knowledge. And when I came to, you – you shut me up.”

“Again, I have no recollection of any of these things happening. You were delighted to go to bed with me, couldn’t fuck me fast enough. Perhaps you had a wild, drunken nightmare?”

“No. I didn’t. You raped me.”

In one sudden move, Patrick grabbed her by the neck and pulled her up against his body. “Well, you little drunk slut, who the fuck’s going to believe you?”

Naomi froze. His fingers were digging in to her flesh and he gave her a shake. She muffled a groan of pain and tried to twist away, but he tightened his hold.

“I mean, all you
do
is get shit-faced and go home with men, and everyone knows it," he hissed in to her face. "My God, do you think I asked you for drinks that night because I found your conversation so stimulating? Or because I found you devastatingly attractive? I’m afraid not, you pathetic whore. I wanted to get laid and I knew all I had to do was buy a few rounds and you’d spread your legs in no time.”

“You – you set me up?” Naomi whispered, shocked by this information. For a few seconds, she stopped fighting to get away. “It wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment opportunity? You
planned
it?”

“Now, you’ll never get me to admit to
that
.” Patrick smiled. “As far as
I
recall, it was two consenting adults having a few drinks and going back to my place together to have some fun. And since I only had one drink and drove us home, I do believe that
my
version of events would be taken more seriously than yours. You
did
polish off almost two whole bottles of wine alone, after all.”

Rage came to her rescue now, corrosive and dark. She hauled back and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could with the ball of her foot. Despite just being in her stockings, it clearly still hurt him and he fell back long enough for her to snatch the letter-opener from the desk. She faced him, breathing hard.

“Get out or I'll stab you in the fucking chest.”

“Don’t be like that, Naomi. Maybe a few drinks would calm you down?”

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out
now
!”

“OK, if you insist.” He turned to go. “Have a nice night.”

She watched as Patrick left, and she rushed across the room to lock the door. Her knees were like jelly under her now and she sank to the floor, trembling and rubbing her sore throat. All this time, she’d thought that he’d simply taken advantage of the situation – it had never occurred to her that he’d made sure the situation happened.

He knew that all he had to do was get me drunk and I’d go home with him. Worse, he knew how easy it would be to get me drunk. He knew I’d drink to blackout point, that I’d drink and lose all control. He knew. Everybody knew. Everybody knows.

Her thoughts began to move in a bad direction, but this time, she wasn’t sure that she the energy or even the will to stop them. Her head pounded and the blood roared in her ears, and all she could think was that she needed a drink to cope with all of this shit.
Just
one
drink
. One drink would take the edge off. Bad, dangerous thinking. The kind of thinking that could undo almost a year of good work.

She got to her feet again, slowly, painfully. She picked up her purse and pulled out her cell phone, then she paused. Suddenly, she didn’t want to do this anymore –
none
of it.

She was tired of talking about her feelings, and tired of AA meetings, and tired of the steps. She was fed up of asking for help and fed up of having to be honest all the fucking time. She was done with the constant struggle and the battle and – most of all – she was exhausted by the never-ending resistance to what she really,
really
wanted to do. By the endless denial of who and what she really was.

I’m so fucking sick of being a recovering alcoholic. I just want to be an alcoholic. God knows, it’s fucking easier. To thine own self be true, etcetera.

On automatic pilot, she put on her boots, shrugged on her coat. She left the Heart Center, locked the door behind her. Then she got in to her car and she drove to the nearest convenience store, didn’t even pause between the front door and the alcohol counter. And when the bored woman asked her what she wanted, Naomi found herself saying the words that she hadn’t uttered in eleven months and four days:

“Two bottles of white wine, please.”

**

King’s cell phone rang, shattering the silence. He turned over in bed, squinted at the time.

Fuck. Who’s calling me at midnight?

He picked up the cell and when he saw Naomi’s number, he sat straight up in bed, instantly wide awake.

“Naomi? What’s wrong?”

“Matt.” She was crying so hard, he could barely make out what she was saying. “
Matt
…”

“Baby, are you hurt?”

“N – no. Well, yes. Maybe a little. I’m –” She dissolved in to sobs.

“Where are you?” He got to his feet, headed for the closet. “Tell me, right now.”

“Home.”

“I’ll be right there. Hang tight, OK?”

“OK.”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Hurry, Matt. Please hurry.”

**

Twelve minutes later, King was standing outside her apartment. The urge to kick the door down was huge, but he fought it – whatever the hell was going on, Naomi didn’t seem to be in any condition to take a shock like that.

She opened the door and when he saw her face, he grabbed her without a word. She looked terrible, wide-eyed and afraid, and all he could think to do was hold her until she felt safe again. Shaking and silent, she clung to him, so relieved that he was there.

King pulled back and his eyes swept from head to toe, looking for damage. “You OK?”

She nodded and he relaxed a bit.

“Come on. Sit down.” He led her to the sofa, lowered her to it gently. He knelt in front of her and took her hands. “What happened?”

“I – I…” She averted her gaze, the shame and humiliation rising now. “I bought some wine.”

“You what?” He looked over his shoulder, and saw the full glass on the kitchen counter. He turned back to her again, his hands cradling her face now. “Did you drink any?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “He came to the center tonight and said we should go for a drink. He
said
he’d sleep in the other room… he
said
I’d be safe. But he – he…” She fell silent for a few seconds. “All this time, I thought he just saw an opportunity and took advantage of it. But tonight he told me that he didn’t.”

“Baby, you’re not making any sense.” He tried to get her to look at him, but her eyes skittered away. “Tell me what happened, OK?”

“He – he raped me.”

King stared at her, frozen. “He – what? Tonight?”

She blinked. “Tonight what?”

“He raped you tonight?”

“No. Tonight he tried to strangle me."

"
What?
"

She had changed in to a thick, heavy turtleneck that concealed her entire throat. Gently, King rolled it down and his eyes went as hard as flint when he saw the purple fingermarks on her creamy skin.

"Who the fuck did this to you? Tell me right now."

She gazed at him tiredly. "Patrick."

"Patrick who?"

"Doyle." She rubbed her eyes.

"And he didn't rape you tonight?" King stroked her neck, soothing the burning, sore flesh.

"No. He raped me
that
night. That night he planned.”

“Naomi.” King kept his voice low and calm. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t drink anything at all?”

“No. I poured that glass of wine about five hours ago, and I’ve been staring at it from across the room ever since.”

He heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

“I – I just couldn’t drink it… but I also couldn’t go over and pour it out. I was terrified to get too close to it. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it, or even smell it. So I’ve been sitting here on the sofa, trying to find the fucking courage to pour it down the drain. But I just couldn’t, so I didn’t.”

“Did you call Mirrie?”

“She’s away this week, and I have another woman to call, but I don’t know her. And I thought about calling her, but I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to call someone I don’t trust, so I didn’t call her because I don’t know her. I called you. I know you.”

King didn’t like the barely-coherent rambling; it was too much like shock. He forced her to meet his eyes, saw her blank stare.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, you here with me?”

“He was already fucking me before I woke up, and when I finally figured out what was going on, it was halfway over.” She was mechanical and numb, her voice colorless. “It hurt so much and I told him to stop, but he covered my mouth and nose and I couldn’t breathe. I bit him, and he hit me until I stopped fighting. I just – I closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. Then I passed out.”

King swallowed hard.

“I was drunk and I was in his bed – but I didn’t ask for that to happen. I
told
him to stop… I didn’t want what happened, no matter what he says.”

“I know,” King said quietly. “Did you call the cops?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. Not until I told Mirrie a few months ago.”

“Why not?”

“Because back then I was a falling-down drunk who went home with any man who’d have me. Nobody would have believed a word I said back then. And that night? The whole bar saw me all over him, saw me leave with him, and yeah, I fully intended to sleep with him. I changed my mind at his place, and I told him that.” Naomi started to shake again, hard. “He
said
he’d sleep on the sofa, he
told
me to take his bed. I thought he was a nice guy. I thought I could trust him…”

“You made a mistake.”

“I lost all judgment and made myself vulnerable, Matt. I fucked up constantly, and every single time I did, I was drunk.”

“You were in a bad place.” King saw her focus on him now. “But you’re doing better now, right? You’re figuring out how to cope with shit without diving in to a bottle.”

“I guess.”

“You
are
. You didn’t drink a drop of that wine just ten feet away from where we’re sitting, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go.” He took a deep breath. “You could have downed that whole bottle to escape from seeing him again tonight, to escape what he did to you, but you didn’t. You stared it down, you called for help. You survived it, you got through. You’re a survivor.”

“I’m
not
.” Her voice broke. “I was the perfect victim – I created this whole life where I could be raped and nobody would believe me if I told them what happened. And he knew it – he
knew
it.”