Switched (17 page)

But it didn't, and something told me that it might never blow away, that I might have to live with the trauma for the rest of my life.

We arrived at the cafe, and I was surprised to see that it shut up tight. Closed.

"Did you think it would be business as usual?" Doyle asked me, surprised that I was surprised. "The police call me and tell me you're in danger, and I'm supposed to keep serving burgers and fries?" he asked in an accusatory tone.

Yes, that was exactly what I thought. I was gobsmacked that me being in danger was more important than serving burgers and fries.

"Not even a salad?" I asked. "You didn't serve one salad?"

Doyle grinned. "Especially not a salad. How can I make something healthy for someone when my woman's life is in jeopardy?"

I rubbed my ear. I figured I was hearing things, again. Really, I needed to get my hearing checked, I thought.

"I'm sorry, but I'm little deaf in this ear," I said. "Your woman?"

Doyle’s face darkened to a nice shade of red. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. It's your accent. I barely understand a thing you say."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that explains a lot. I just thought you were, well...I thought you were dropped on your head as a child."

"I was. How did you know? It had a permanent effect. It made me stupid about men."

I was struck mute at the thought of being stupid about men. It gripped me, filling me with anxiety. I had been stupid about Jackson, stupid about Bruno. I flashed back to Bruno's couch, to him leaning over me with the knife in his hand and his pants pooled at his ankles. I shivered and hugged myself.

Doyle shot me a worried look. "I'm worried about Felicity and Maria," I explained. "I don't want them to have suffered what I almost suffered."

"You did suffer."

"Yes, but not as much as he planned. I don't want them to have--" I couldn't finish the sentence. I didn't want to think of what could have happened to them. "I wanted to save them, Doyle," I croaked, my voice thick with emotion. "I failed. I'm a big fat failure."

"No, Debra. You're not a failure. You're brave and beautiful. I've never met a woman like you before."

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. "Never met a woman like me before? What does that mean? That doesn't sound good. Are you saying I'm some kind of freak?"

"No, it doesn’t mean that. You misunderstood me. The accent, remember?"

I yawned. My fatigue had taken root deep in my bones. Doyle put his arm around my waist. "Come on. Time for a rest."

Arm in arm, we climbed the stairs slowly to the apartment. We hovered at the threshold of Felicity's room, but I couldn't make myself enter. Now that I knew what happened to her—or at least suspected happened to her-- I felt it would dishonor her memory by living in her space and using her belongings. It made her disappear altogether, like she never existed.

I was happy that I was going to get my clothes back later at dinner because I wanted to box up Felicity's stuff and send it to her family. That is, if she never came back.

"You'll stay with me tonight," Doyle said, reading my mind.

I nodded, not caring that I was a big baby. I craved his presence and welcomed his attention. It was good to be taken care of.

Doyle closed his bedroom door behind us, and we got into bed, lying on our sides, my back to his front, like spoons. He covered us with the blanket and trailed his hand down my arm, leg, and head, caressing my body with a featherlight touch.

I felt cared for, safe, and more relaxed, but I was sure I would never be able to sleep again. But I was wrong. Within minutes, I fell into a dark, dreamless slumber.

Doyle woke me a few hours later to go dinner. It took awhile to waken out of my deep sleep. At first I was disoriented, and for a few terrifying seconds, I thought I was in danger again, that I was being held hostage.

Doyle sat on the bed and wrapped me in his arms, bringing me back to reality. "You're safe," he whispered in my ear. "You'll never have to go through that, again."

He was strong and confident. I held tight to him and tried to take deep breaths.

"You don't have to go to dinner tonight," he continued. "Surely Nataniel would understand that you've suffered a trauma and can't go to dinner. You could put it off until you feel better."

I couldn’t cancel. I had to go. Nataniel had saved my life. I owed everything to him.

Besides, perhaps Nataniel needed me to go. Maybe he needed to sit with me for dinner so that he could heal a little bit. He had been so adamant about me going. How could I leave him alone on the day he saved my life? How could I refuse him?

In addition to all that, I suspected that the quickest and most efficient way to get over the trauma of today was to get on with my life, to allow the good things of living back into my life. Live, love, enjoy. I wouldn't let a monster like Bruno Perrier rob me of that.

So I refused to think of myself as a victim because I wasn't one. Bruno lost, and I won. He was the one who was gone forever. I was still here. True, I was wounded inside and out, but I was determined to continue to win against him, and the first step was going to Nataniel's dinner.

Doyle and I left his room to find Juan Carlos waiting for me just outside the door. He gave me a bear hug that lasted a good two minutes.

He finally pulled back and studied me. "I am so glad you are okay. You are okay? Yes?"

"Yes, I'm okay."

“One hundred percent okay? A little okay?”

“I’m not good with math, Juan Carlos.”

“Okay,” he said and hugged me, again.

"Do you want marijuana?" Gunnar asked me. "I'm a doctor, you know. I can get you as much marijuana as you want. Lots and lots of marijuana."

"How much is lots and lots?" I asked him.

"Lots. Piles of it. More than you can imagine."

I found that hard to believe. I could imagine a whole lot.

"I'll keep that in mind, Gunnar. Thanks. Right now I’m just going to stay high on life."

I gave Gunnar a peck on the cheek and walked into the bathroom to get ready to go out. I kept on the huge t-shirt that Doyle had given me, knowing that I could change into my own clothes in a little while at the mice house. Other than that, I washed my faced and tied my hair back with a scrunchie.

Not exactly a poster child for the Fashion Police. Joan Rivers would definitely not approve.

Doyle opened his car’s passenger door for me. He was decidedly Fashion Police friendly, wearing fitted slacks and a button down shirt. It was amazing how fine a man could look dressed that way. Good-looking. Sexy.

I bit my lower lip. There was no doubt there had always been an attraction between us.

He caught me studying him, and his eyes grew big and dark. His mouth was set in a line, as if he was deciding what to do. I had an inkling what he would decide.

There was a crackling of tension between us. Electricity. As if we had put our fingers in a light socket and were ready to blow. I snuck a glance downward and noticed that he was straining against his pants. Aroused.

"You don't kiss your woman?" I asked, my voice low and sultry like the night.

Doyle flinched in surprise. "Well, I...You've been through a lot."

"Yeah, I know. So, I'm damaged goods, now? Unkissable?"

"No, I think you're kissable. Very kissable."

His voice was thick with desire. It made me squirm in place.

"You're not so bad, yourself,” I said. “I mean, in a kissable way. In other ways, you're probably all kinds of bad."

I thought I heard Doyle gurgle. It was a good sign.

"Maybe you don't want to kiss me because I'm not drunk, or seasick," I continued. "True, I haven't thrown up, lately. That's usually our foreplay."

I counted off the reasons on my fingers why he shouldn’t kiss me. Just as I got to five, he pushed me against his car and kissed me.

The sensation was intoxicating. Who needed Gunnar's marijuana? I had Doyle's mouth. Gently, sensually, he deepened the kiss..

I was lost. Not the normal kind of lost that happens with an off-the-charts kiss. This was a black hole, exploding stars, alternate universe kind of lost. It was the good kind of lost.

So this is what healing is about, I thought.

My leg inched upward and wrapped around Doyle's thigh. I was dimly aware of people walking by on the street and the sidewalk, but I didn't care a hoot. Neither did Doyle. He ground his pelvis against mine and pulled me in closer, his hands around my waist.

It was almost certain we were going to be late to dinner.

It was a short drive to the mice house, just a couple of towns over. Doyle handed me his cell phone in order to try Maisey, again, but there was still no answer, and she wasn't responding to texts.

It was a safe bet that she had found a hunky paramedic or cop and was having her own dinner and getting lost herself. Bruno had probably put Maisey completely off tycoons and probably viscounts, too. Bruno had definitely given tycoons a bad name.

"Can we go in now?" Doyle asked.

I bit my lower lip. "I'm not sure." We stood in front of the mice house, and I looked around for evidence of little creatures scurrying. Nothing. All clear. But that totally didn't prove anything. Besides, it was dark outside.

"Looks good to me," Doyle said. "No mice. No sign of vermin."

I rubbed my forehead. "They're tricky," I warned him. "You think they're not there and then
eep, eep, eep
, all of a sudden their plague, rabies, and syphilis selves are crawling into your underpants and eating your face off."

"Why is your face in your underpants?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't think mice carry syphilis," he said, seriously.

"Oh, they're carrying that and more," I said, my voice rising, and my finger pointing to the sky as if the mice were going to rain down on us.

"I can give you a condom to hold during dinner. Keep you safe from the syphilis mice. Would that help?" he asked.

"Very funny. Ha. Ha. No. But give it to me just in case."

He handed me a little foil package from his front pocket. I inspected it.

"Well, aren't you the boy scout? Always prepared," I noted.

He grinned and hopped on his heels. "Well, just trying to be safe. You never know when syphilitic mice might show up. Come on, brave girl. I'm hungry. We don't want to disappoint Nataniel. And don't you want your clothes?"

He had a point. I had a pair of white shorts and a blue cotton sweater that I would love to wear just about then. Taking a deep breath and scrunching up my courage, I knocked on the door.

Nataniel opened it immediately, as if he had been standing guard. His face lit up when he saw me. Delighted. His mouth was open, his eyes bright. He reminded me of a child who thinks Santa has forgotten about him, only to wake up Christmas morning to a huge present under the tree.

"Come in. Come in," he urged, excitedly.

"Sorry we're late, Nataniel," I said.

I took a tentative step inside, careful to watch where my feet fell. Doyle walked in after me, not the least bit concerned about the mice.

"No mice now," Nataniel assured me, sensing my wariness. "All gone. And I cleaned the house. See? It's nice and clean now."

"Of course it is," Doyle said. He handed Nataniel a bottle of wine, which he had brought from the cafe. "This is for you. Thank you for your hospitality."

I was busy scanning the house from my roost just inside the door. It was true that it was much cleaner than before. Livable. And there was a wonderful smell coming from the kitchen.

"Smells delicious, Nataniel," I noted.

"Duck. I hope you like duck."

I nodded. "I like everything except okra." And mice. I didn't like mice.

"I do not know what okra is."

"Good."

Nataniel smiled and clutched the bottle of wine to his chest. "Dinner is ready. I will open the wine."

"May I quickly change my clothes?" I asked. "Are they here?"

"Yes, of course. They are ready for you. I packed your suitcases, and they are in your room upstairs."

I chewed on a fingernail and thought about going upstairs. Nataniel skipped to the kitchen, seemingly delighted that we were there.

"The mice are upstairs," I whispered to Doyle when Nataniel's back was turned.

"I'll protect you," Doyle mouthed back to me.

I made Doyle walk up the stairs in front of me, and I followed closely on his heels, clutching onto his hips and looking out for creepy crawlies with every step. Nataniel had cleaned the house from top to bottom for me. It was a Herculean task.

"See? Nothing." We had arrived at the master bedroom, and it was clean as a sparkly penny. I was getting the impression that Doyle didn’t believe my stories about the mice house.

"Look! Sheets!" I announced, impressed. Somehow, Nataniel had found sheets and blankets, and the bed was made.

"What's this?" Doyle asked.

"My luggage."

"All of it? It's
all
yours?"

"I didn't know what to bring. You know, weather."

"So you brought all of it? Everything you own?"

"No!" I shouted. Who did he think I was? I wasn't some kind of prima donna who lugs around her entire wardrobe.

"You mean you have more?" he asked, incredulous.

"It's not that much," I said studying my bags.

"I own four pairs of pants. That's it," he said, amazed at my bags.

"Well, I wouldn't brag about it, if I were you."

It took a while, but I found my shorts and sweater. It was heaven to finally wear my own clothes again. I was almost me, once more, whoever that was. I had been through so many transformations lately. I was like Madonna, but my face still moved.

We lugged the suitcases downstairs. Nataniel had put on some jazz and lit candles. The table was set beautifully, and it was all in all a very relaxing atmosphere. In fact, it was turning out to be a very nice evening, and I was actually glad I had come. I was happily forgetting just why I had fled from the house in the first place.