Read New Title 7 Online

Authors: Emma Clark

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New Title 7 (10 page)

BOOK: New Title 7
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"I know, Brandon." I tousled his hair.

"So sorry, baby, I didn't mean what I said. I didn't mean any of it. I'd never hurt you. Never kill you. Never, never, never."

"I know you wouldn't." Even though my scalp throbbed from his abuse. Even though my body was bruised, damaged. Even though his threats reverberated in my ears. 

Even though I ignored the deep soreness caused by his extreme sexual abuse. It hurt. Hurt me physically and killed me emotionally. But
he
was hurting and I had to tend to
his
needs.

Lovingly we stroked each other as his tears mingled with mine. His lips removed those tears and we became one. The only true, genuine way he'd ever expressed love.

Brandon didn't know
how
to express love. He'd never been taught.

* * *

I
woke with his cheek against my chest, knife at his side. The blade flickered with reflected morning sunlight.

How many hours passed?
Permeating sunlight brightened the white decor.

I ran my fingers through his silken hair, whispered his name. He stirred, big eyes gazing.

"Brandon, I need to go. But I
swear
I'll come back."

"Promise?"

"I promise. I really do love you, you know."

"No. I don't know." His gaze lowered. "I don't know what real love is."

My fingers anxiously scrambled his thickened, dark hair.

How could such an inherently sweet, brilliant, beautiful man become so—
screwed up
? I loved him but couldn't deny the truth: Brandon was emotionally ill in the worst possible way.

I'd never known
anyone
so sick.

I wiggled as a hint and he weakly boosted himself to his feet. He avoided me, kept his head low, posture slouching. He raked at his hair and the ends spiked.

Since he couldn't be trusted to take me home, I'd stick to my original plan of going to a neighbor.

"Wait," he said. "You'll never forgive me, will you?"

"I will. It takes time but I love you, so I'm willing to give it time. And you should seriously think about getting help. You need it."

"You're right."

"Will you get help?"

"I think the best thing for both of us, for the baby, is for me to help myself." He pulled back his shoulders proudly.

"Yes, please help yourself. It's the best thing you could do."

"It is. In fact, I'll do it right now. I'll do it for you, I'll do it for our baby, and you'll never have to worry about our son or daughter having a rapist for a father."

"What do you mean?" I searched his gaze for sensible answers while my intuition shouted:
Something else is wrong.

I charged forth when he turned the blade on himself. This time I sank my teeth into his forearm, making him release that damn thing once and for all.

I got it—but I'd pay the price of ownership. In my rush I plummeted on top of the blade. 

There wasn't any pain. Nothing.

"
Mia
." Brandon sank to his knees. "Oh my god." He flipped me so I lay face-up.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Everything's fine now. You're alive. I'm sorry but I couldn't let you kill yourself."

Waves of vertigo caused the room to shift.

"Mia—don't you know? You're bleeding all over." His eyes were panic-stricken.

Overcome by understanding, I attempted to raise upright, found myself unable as agonizing pain fired within my chest. I clutched it and finally noticed rivers of blood.

"
Christ, Mia, Mia
." He grabbed my shoulders, arms. Dark red streaked and smeared his hands. "I gotta call 911, don't know what else to do. I can't save you on my own."

"But—you'll go to jail." Just then, darkness embraced me.

"I have to do this. You can't die because of me. I don't want you to be an angel,
I want you to stay a living one
."

12. THE THIRTY-FIRST DAY 

D
rifting in and out of dreams, sometimes I saw a man's handsome face. He looked familiar but I couldn't remember his name.

A digital alarm beeped. What day was this? I sat up, tried shutting off the alarm but it wouldn't stop.

I knelt and smashed it against the floor, destroying the device till nothing was left except broken plastic.

On and on it beeped. Would. Not. Shut. Up.

FUCK
.

I screamed as if
that
would make it stop.

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Oddly, a blurry object protruded from my chest. Where had it come from?

At least it didn't hurt... much.

Sticking out below my breasts, a switchblade handle appeared.

Oh. That's what it is.

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

There's that god damn noise again. Shut up!

Beep, beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

I blinked and glimpsed a white ceiling.

Beep, beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

"Mia," said a feminine voice. "I'm Angela, one of the nurses here at Methodist Hospital."

Weakly I turned my head as a nurse hovered at my bedside. She had a tender smile, looked young and wore her pale hair in a tight ponytail.

Hospital?
I wagged my head, confusion mounting. "What happened to me?"

She pressed a digital control panel mounted to the I.V. pole. "It's good you're awake since you've been unconscious for three or four hours. The damage to your abdomen is mostly minor." She straightened and regarded me with a pitying expression.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"My stomach hurts a little." I pointed to the region beneath my sternum, which was puffy under my hospital gown.

"Yeah, you were very lucky. Could've been a lot worse. Dr. Beckett had to do emergency surgery to repair a diaphragmatic injury, but your prognosis looks good." She gave a nod.

Fragmented memories surfaced:
Brandon. Brandon holding knife. Brandon turning the blade onto himself so I'd went after him. Somehow I'd stolen the knife... fell on it.

"Where's Brandon? Brandon Levine?" I asked.

"Brandon Levine?" Her eyebrows rose questioningly. "I'm not sure. If you're talking about the man who came in with you, the last I saw of him was right before you went into surgery. He'd signed you in while you were in the O.R. and filled out some paperwork. Is he your husband?"

"No." I averted my gaze. "So he's not here anymore?"

"Not as far as I know. Maybe Sara would know. She's the attending R.N." Brief pause. "Your chart mentioned the tear in your abdomen was caused by a puncture. Since it looked like a knife wound, we contacted police and they'll be here shortly to ask you some questions."

While she examined the clear fluids in the IV bag, I sensed she was withholding something.

"What about my pregnancy?" I asked. "Did I lose it?"

"Pregnancy? Oh, I don't know. Let me go check your chart." She hurried off.

I inhaled and a tearing sensation rippled through my chest.

Christ
.

Angela peeked past the doorway. "Mia?"

"Yes?"

"Your pregnancy seems to be stable, but that doesn't mean you won't miscarry later. Your body's been through a major trauma so we'll have to wait and see. Alright?"

Overwhelmed by this flood of information, I didn't know what to think or how to feel, though a sense of dread troubled me.

Minutes later a knock came and a young man in a police uniform entered. He whipped out a notepad, pen, pulled up a chair and plopped down.

Shit. What the hell am I gonna say to this guy?

"Okay." He sighed, peering at the notepad in his hands. "So—what can you tell me about the stabbing?"

Heart skipped. "Uh, it was an accident, a stupid accident."

"Hm. Really?" He eyed me inquisitively as a doubtful smirk flickered. "What about the guy who brought you in? Or called 911? What's his name?"

"Brandon."

"Yes, Brandon. What about him? He your husband?"

"No."

"He the father of your baby? I hear you're pregnant. About six weeks?"

"Yes and no."

"No what?" he asked.

"Brandon's the father, yes. And I guess I'm around six weeks."

"He your boyfriend?"

"No. I mean—yes he's my boyfriend."

"He's the one who stabbed you?"

"No. It was an accident, I already
told
you."

"Hm." He scribbled on the notepad, reminded me of the bumbling police officer on
The Scream
movie. He wasn't intimidating but this interrogation certainly was.

"Okay. Tell me exactly what happened." When his brownish eyes found mine, my brain worked fast to conjure a reasonable explanation.

"Brandon and I started horse-playing while he was polishing his, uh, switchblade. After I stole the knife, I tripped and fell on the blade. That's it. That's all that happened."

"An accident, huh?"

"Yes."

He glanced at his notepad, forefinger tapping his chin. "Have hospital personnel contacted your family yet?"

"I doubt it."

"Give me some names and numbers so I can let them know who to contact. I'm sure your kin would like to know you're all right."

"My father's name is Charles. Charles Acton." I gave him Dad's mobile number.

"'Kay. Thanks. I'll get this to one of the receptionists." He flashed a final questioning look. "You
sure
you don't want to fill out a report?"

"Positive."
I refuse to have Brandon prosecuted. Won't happen. Deal.

"Since this incident happened under suspicious circumstances, the man who brought you in is being withheld for questioning."

"You mean he's in
jail
?"

"Jail? Oh no. He's in one of the other rooms. I'm just going to see him for a few minutes to question him."

"So he's still here?"

"Should be unless he ran away." He chuckled, got to his feet. "It was nice meetin' ya, ma'am." He left.

Meanwhile those damn machines beeped and beeped.

I nodded off and woke to my father sitting next to me. Dad seemed older, his crow's feet much deeper. However, his short dark hair was full despite his advanced age.

"Mia?" Dad softly said. "How's your stomach?"

"Not bad, considering. When did you get here?"

"Twenty after eight." He hesitated, hazel eyes searching. "Tina tried calling you two weeks ago but you weren't home. I tried calling several times, then went to your house and saw the grass was high, like you hadn't been there in a while. Where've you been? How'd you get hurt?"

"Dad, I never told you—because I figured you wouldn't approve. Um, I quit my job and moved in with a guy. Sorry I didn't tell you."

"You could've called. I was getting worried, Mia, and you didn't answer my question. How did you get hurt? Did
he
do this to you?"

"It was an accident and I'm tired of explaining it to everyone. I've already told a cop."

"The police were here?"

"Yes, a cop asked me the same shit. I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

"I was going to report you as missing, but figured you had solid reasons to be gone. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe I should've went ahead—"

"I'm glad you didn't report me as missing since I
wasn't
missing. I hadn't known Brandon long before shacking up so I didn't think you'd approve."

"And now—you're pregnant?"

"Yes, Dad."

"How did you get stabbed? Tell me the truth."

"Sorry, I'm too sleepy to talk." I rolled to my side.

He grunted. "You don't look good. You're all pale and it looks like you've been through hell."

"It's because of the pregnancy."

"Well, alright. I'll be back tomorrow morning to see you." His footsteps tapped the floor, then the door clicked shut.

Relieved, I lapsed into dreamland and woke—once more—to the sound of someone's breathing.

"Mia." Cerulean eyes darkened with sorrow, Brandon was slouched in the nearest chair.

"Brandon." I gave a weak smile.

"How are you? Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes, but I think they got me on good painkillers."

"Good." Silence. "Mia, I can't tell you how sorry I am." He leaned and lowered his head between his palms.

"I'm okay, still alive. But—what did the officer ask you?"

"Too many questions." He lifted his gaze and signs of exhaustion traced his eyes. "First he wanted to know if it was an accident. I told him it was, but I don't think our stories matched up. I said I wanted to kill myself by using the knife to cut my wrists. He said that's not what
you
said. Then I mentioned you fell when you grabbed the knife."

"I said the same thing, except we were playing around with the switchblade." I shrugged. "Was there any indication you'd be arrested?"

"He told me they'd keep the investigation open," he said. "You didn't tell him the truth?"

"Of course not."

"You didn't mention
anything
?"

"Why would I? I don't want you arrested. For one thing, your heart's too weak."

"You don't want me arrested," he echoed, returning my incredulous stare.

"No, I don't. If I did you'd already be in jail, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose." Slowly he nodded.

"You're not still planning to hurt yourself, are you?"

"I guess not. I'm sorry I scared you." He looked at his folded hands. "I'm sorry for a lot of things."

"I know. But now we have a baby to think about."

"Yes we do." He palmed my belly. I placed my hand beside his and our fingertips touched.

"I love you, Brandon."

"I love you too, baby." He scooted the chair closer, dipped his head to the bedding just below my IV-tethered arm.

He sobbed like a baby.

With his free hand he massaged the back of my head and hair while I stroked his cheek. He elevated to kiss my lips.

"I'm really not—a bad guy. I swear."

"You just need to get help. Remember?"

"I'll call someone tomorrow morning. I promise."

"Remember your promise because I'll hold you to it. It's the only way we'll make it through."

BOOK: New Title 7
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