Love Me: The Complete Series (78 page)

She blinked and moved her eyes to the window. “Yeah, I cut it off on a whim when I was in Teslehad. There was an uprising there that got a little ugly. I hid out for a few days hoping it would calm down, and there were these kids. They all had cut theirs off—you couldn’t tell who was female and who wasn’t. I looked around and quickly realized if I was going to blend into the background and report about what those people faced, I’d better
blend in.
So, I cut it off.”

“The girls cut their hair to look like boys?”

Caroline nodded and watched the thick red sauce bubble and pop as he added more garlic then tossed in some green spices. A flash of red popped over the edge of the pan to the floor. That would leave a mess. “It was safer.”

His lips pursed as he stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon. That bothered him? Was he angry? She watched his movements in silence, unsure what to say next. His hands were thick and strong. Watching him soothed her. Roger reached to a cabinet and pulled out two stemmed glasses. “Wine okay with you?”

“Definitely okay.”

The ruby liquid gurgled defiantly as it flowed from its bottled home into the glasses. He smiled as his eyes met her. Caroline cringed. It wasn’t the normal dimpled warmth that promised an undertone of wicked sensuality. It was threaded with kindness and understanding, the type of smile one gives a person who’s gone through significant loss. She didn’t want that smile. He held out the glass for her to take.

“Don’t give me that look.” She pulled the wine from his grasp and took a long sip.

“What look? I wasn’t—”

“It’s filled with sympathy. I don’t need sympathy.” She cast a glance down at her body, holding her arms up for view. “I’m still here with all my body parts. There’s nothing wrong with me, so don’t look at me like I belong in a psych ward or need PTSD counseling.”

He pulled a sip from his glass and narrowed his eyes. When he finally put the glass down, she could have cut the silence with a butter knife. He opened a cabinet, pulled out some dishes, and placed one in front of her. “If you got all that from one look, then I suck at body language. Drink your wine, Caro, and don’t read anything into my words—or lack of words. Just loosen up and be here, right here with me.”

She bit her lip and stared at the pasta. He was right: she’d taken one look and jumped to conclusions. Like she often did around people who knew where she’d been and the mess she’d made of her life. He wasn’t one of those people though—she’d never told him. They’d stopped speaking long before she’d made the trek to Teslehad. “I’m sorry.”

Caroline poked her fork into the plate of steaming tomato sauce and twisted the noodles around the prongs. Her appetite was gone. The enticing aroma of garlic and parmesan was overshadowed by the chill that ran across her shoulder blades.

“No need. Listen, I have no idea what you’ve been through or why you think I’d have that
look.
I just—”

She had to tell him. “Abby and I met over there. She was with her brother on a post-grad vacation. We instantly drew to each other, partly because we were Americans and, well, who wouldn’t? She’s great. I left Abby in Scotland because there was a bulletin on the newswire underground that a skirmish was beginning near Teslehad. They wanted coverage—anything they could get. I thought, here’s my big chance to show them I can be a real journalist. I could report important news as it occurred.”

Roger focused on his spaghetti and forked a bite, rolled the pasta twice, then slipped it through his lips. After swallowing, he grabbed his wine glass and stared at the remaining liquid. “You don’t have to tell me anything, you know.”

He lifted the glass and sipped. She followed his lead and took a drink. “I want to—no, I
need
to tell. It. Haunts me.”

His silence served as an awkward acknowledgment to continue if she wished. She sucked in a breath of courage and let the words softly flow. “When I arrived, the town was already under siege. It was small and remote. Maybe a few hundred people if you counted the ones who spent most of their time playing soldier.”

The gurgle of spaghetti spinning on his fork broke a moment of silence as she considered her next words. “I took a lot of pictures. Stills of the town. Shots of the people wandering around, a couple of teenage boys with guns slung over their shoulders, and a group of kids playing soccer in the street with a busted ball. It was like a
National Geographic
panoramic.”

“But no skirmish?”

She shook her head and chewed. Slinging a mouthful of wine back, she set down her glass and reached for the bottle. After pouring them the last of the wine, she spoke. “Not that I could see. But they watched me all the time so I was careful not to act suspicious. I cut my hair to blend in, I wore old clothes that I’d bought off a local, I only used my press ID when things became ... ”

Ugly.

“Caroline.” His voice was soft, like a cotton blanket after a hot shower. Was he urging her to stop? Or continue?

“I wanted the story. I had no idea they were rounding the kids up for execution—I thought it was all a game. These little kids ran around kicking the ball, playing, completely unaware they were being drawn in as targets. More and more arrived, and it seemed like a nice little human interest story.”

Roger cleared his throat with a guttural double-hitch. “Where were you when this went on? Were you playing with them?” Was there concern hidden in his words?

She wagged her head again in denial. “I stood in a window on the corner of the street and snapped photos. I ... laughed. They were grinning and running. Right up until the gunshots rattled away.”

Caroline shoved her fist against her mouth and pressed hard. She clenched her eyes. “They shot the older ones first. It was like they didn’t have the stomach for the little ones, or at least not at first. I will never forget. This one little boy curled around his sister, wrapping her up like he was a turtle shell. He ... tried to save her.”

Roger had stopped eating. He ran a forefinger along the stem of his glass as he listened. She knew he wanted to ask about the boy, so she answered. “He failed.”

Caroline lifted her eyes to Roger’s. Her eyelids burned. “They shot him seventeen times. His body was cut nearly in two; the last shots pierced her chest and skull. You know why they killed those little kids?” She lifted her chin.

“Why?” Roger’s chair creaked as he turned to face her.

Caroline’s shoulders shuddered as she pulled in another painful breath. She wasn’t sure if she could tell the next part. She’d never said it out loud.

“Look at me.” His hands heated her cheeks as he palmed her face and pulled her gaze to meet his. “Tell me.”

“They
wanted
me to see it, to report it. They wanted the attention. They’d watched me for days and knew who I was. All that time, I thought I’d kept a low profile. I hadn’t. They baited me. The man who killed those kids had spoken to me the day before. He could have easily done the same to—”

“You.” The word reverberated in the silence between them. Roger thumbed her cheeks, whisking the water from her lower lids. It comforted her.

She stared into the depths of his brown eyes. He must think her a coward for not stopping it. “I just watched them die. I
took pictures of the entire thing.
”

The scent of Roger’s cologne filled her nose as he pulled her tight against his chest and nestled her forehead against his chin. “What else
could
you do, babe? That was your job. You did your job.”

“I killed them, Roger.” Her voice flat-lined, barely registering the sweet nickname. She’d said it for the first time. She’d admitted her part.

The pasta sat like lead in Roger’s stomach. He strummed his fingers over the soft wisps of Caroline’s hair. His shirt was damp where her tear-stained cheeks had soaked the fabric, but he didn’t care. It was time for a wash anyway.

His problems were trivial compared to the burdens Caroline dragged around inside. Financial woes meant nothing. His sisters’ drama, his mother’s whining, his father’s pending child—they were miniscule in comparison. How could she possibly believe their deaths were her fault?

“You’re kidding, right?” He tried to keep his voice as deadpan, but anger sizzled somewhere deep inside him. It threatened to boil over.

Caroline cleared her throat with a gurgled cough. Her eyes flashed. “Of course I’m not kidding. Why the hell would I joke about people dying?”

He realized his poor choice of words and let out a nervous laugh. Leaning back to focus on her watery pupils, he softened his voice. “Hey, hey. I didn’t mean the story wasn’t true. But surely you don’t believe you’re responsible for what happened? Caro, there’s no explanation for that kind of brutality, and had you not been there, someone else would have. It still would have happened. Nothing would have changed—it just wouldn’t have been
you.
”

She thudded her head against his collarbone, breathing in his scent. “Forgive me, but I think I could live with that.”

“You’re a hero.”

Caroline dropped her feet to the floor and shoved away. Grabbing her plate, she carried it to the sink and flipped on the faucet. The hiss of water stirred the room. “That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing heroic about what happened over there. I didn’t do anything. I lived. They died. Those little kids are the heroes.”

She was wrong about that. They were victims—or scapegoats. He supposed in some sick way that was heroic. “Reporting what happened is heroic.”

Her hands shook the tiniest bit as she swirled a scrubber over her dish then placed it in the washer. “That’s just it—I didn’t report anything. I wrote the story, and then I was scared shitless and told them to shelve it. I was afraid. Then my mother got sick, which gave me an excuse to come home and leave it all behind. To pretend it never happened.”

Wouldn’t it have been nice had it not happened? Where would they be now had she stayed? “But it did. You can’t change your past, kiddo. Your future’s wide open, but not the past. The sooner you find a way to deal with it, the sooner you’ll get on with the good stuff.”

“I don’t even know what the good stuff is, Rog. I’m not like you—I thought I had a gift. I thought I was meant to be a journalist. I haven’t a clue what to do with myself now. I’m a ... mess.”

He wished he could take all of those memories out of her head and burn them into oblivion. Erase them somehow. “Not a mess. Just human like the rest of us.”

She tossed her gaze skyward before giving him one of her don’t-shit-me looks. “Human like the rest of us? I don’t see you still trying to figure out who you are. Nope.
You
have all the answers—like always.”

She really thought that? “Right. I’m the answer man. Ask me anything. I can tell fortunes. I can plan your future and make everything perfect.” His voice was laced with sarcasm. He waved a hand at their surroundings. “That’s why I have all these riches and am constantly surrounded by adoring fans. Come on, Caroline. No one, and I mean
no one,
has a perfect life. We’re always searching for something. Or someone. And guess what? We all have
shit
to deal with. Some of us more than others. Sometimes it’s big like yours, sometimes not so much. All of us wish for more than we possess and strive to be better than we are. To
find
ourselves.”

Caroline stared at him and blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. Instead she lifted her head and arched her neck until it popped, then lowered back to meet his gaze. “Yeah, well, find your ass over here at the sink with a towel will you? I need someone to help me clean up this mess. And by the way, you have spaghetti sauce on you.”

Drama over—just like that. Thank God. Only he knew it wasn’t really over. It would never be. He couldn’t care less about the sauce. “You don’t have to do that.”

She gave him that look again, stuffed to the seams with disbelief. “My mother had one very strict rule about the kitchen, and I’ve stuck with it faithfully: the cook never cleans. If someone is gracious enough to feed me, the least I can do is clean for them.” She ran her gaze over the mass of sauce-spattered pans. “Of course, Mom had never seen a mess like this when she made that rule.”

“Masterpieces sometimes get messy.” Not that he’d call his spaghetti a masterpiece.

Caroline’s cheek bulged as she tucked her tongue into the hollow. Was she stifling a laugh? “Um, it
was
good, but unless you have more recipes in your repertoire, don’t quit your day job anytime soon.”

“Come on now. It might not smell like a store full of flowers, but who can’t get into garlic?”

She didn’t stifle her laugh this time. She held up her hands, palms up, and seesawed them. It was repressed emotion but who cared? “Hmm, garlic or flowers. Let me think about that—tough decision.”

He smiled, a puzzled half-lift of lips. Her face flashed color and warmed. She’d shoved her baggage into the closet of her mind and come back to him. Thank God.

Wait.

Came back to him? Had he wanted her to come back? As much as he liked being with her like this again, something inside him clicked. He knew he had to help her. Worse, the only way to help was something he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do.

He had to make her go back and finish what she’d started.

A door slammed and footsteps plodded across the carpet. The heavy clip of a person on a mission. “Hey, you here? It smells like heaven. Did you order Italian?” Roger’s sister Rebecca rounded the corner and stopped at the entry to his kitchen. “Oh, hi.” Rebecca glanced at the soapsuds on Caroline’s elbows. She grabbed a towel from the counter and tossed it to her.

Before his sister said anything further, he’d better clear up the confusion. “I cooked spaghetti. There’s a little left.” He pointed toward the bowl. Thankfully, she chose not to make a snarky comment about how rarely he cooked. Instead, she yanked open the silverware drawer and pulled out a fork.

Rebecca rounded the counter and plopped down on Roger’s stool before jamming her fork into the small pile of pasta. “Wow, not bad. You really
can
cook. Who knew?” There she went. So much for holding back.