Walk with Me (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (13 page)

I somehow get to a standing position and run to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door. I’m safe for the moment. I walk backward until the far wall finds my back and I sink down to the floor, throwing my head into my hands. My whole body is shaking and my breaths come in quick, rapid bursts.

The door knob begins to turn and Richard bangs on the wood. “Open the door, Kenna!”

“No!” I scream back, rising to my feet, looking around the bathroom for something to defend myself with, but nothing exists. This is a powder room only with a sink and toilet.

“Open…the…fucking…door or I will break it down. Do you hear me, Kenna?” His voice is cold and calculated and sends a shudder down my spine. I’m on high alert.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” I don’t know what else to do or say at this point.

The handle turns again, followed by a crash into my only means of escape. The wood doesn’t budge and another smash sounds against the door. This time the jamb shakes and the wood starts to splinter from the force of Richard’s efforts. The reverberation moves along the wall to where my hips lean in support. My chest is leaning forward because I’m ready to attack and run when he breaks his way in. Another slam and this time the jamb gives way and the door flies open, embedding the knob into the drywall. Richard charges me, grabbing at my shoulders.

Everything goes black. I’m blind.

“Kenna. Kenna.” My name is being called by a familiar voice but I’m confused. I don’t understand what’s happening. “Kenna, wake up. Wake up, Kenna. You’re having a bad dream.” It’s Donovan pleading. He’s shaking my arms. I throw my eyes open and Donovan’s gorgeous face is twisted with fear and distress. My hands push against his chest, forcing him away from me. I’m disoriented. Where am I? I’m not at my parents? Why is Donovan here? I focus on his eyes—his beautiful, worry-filled eyes.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. It’s just a bad dream. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe.” He keeps repeating the words like a mantra for both of us to hear. I remember now where I am. I’m in the condo in Mammoth with Donovan on my bed. I relax my hands, dropping them to my lap.

Donovan pulls me into his chest and encircles me with his strong arms and holds me close. “You’re okay now,” he whispers into my hair. I melt into him, relaxing my entire body, and he rocks me like I’m a little child.

I become aware of myself. What am I doing? What is he doing? I don’t need him charging in to my rescue. I sit up, pushing him away from me. “I’m okay. I don’t need any help. I’m okay. Just leave me alone. I want to be alone.”

His face scrunches with skepticism. “You were screaming and crying out like someone was trying to kill you. I didn’t know if you were alone in here or if someone was with you, attacking you,” Donovan says in a strained voice with concern still touching his eyes. “The door was locked. I yelled your name to open the door, but you never answered. I had to break it open.”

He sits back and the expression on his faces changes from worry to suspicion. “Why’d you lock the door, Kenna?”

Stunned by the change in topic and tone in his voice, I come up with a reasonable excuse. “I didn’t want you accidentally stumbling in here in the middle of the night on your way back from the bathroom.” But the real truth is our last make-out session got pretty heated and I didn’t want him thinking an unlocked door was an open invitation to continue.

“No. I don’t think so,” Donovan answers skeptically, his jaw playing back and forth in thought. “I think you locked it because you were afraid I would try to come in here while you were sleeping.” He scans my face for acknowledgment of his theory, and my eyes must give me away. “Jesus, Kenna. Is that what you think of me? Haven’t I shown you that is not the person I am? What do I need to do or say to you to prove to you that you mean more to me than just sex?” He stares at me, waiting for an answer. “Huh? What do I need to do for you to trust me, Kenna?”

I blanch at his tone and stare at him blankly. “I guess time. I just need time.” I’ve never been here before or let someone get this close to me and each layer that Donovan peels back is raw and sensitive to the exposure.

Donovan stands up from the bed, wearing disappointment on his face, and shakes his head. “It’s almost six. We might as well get up and go have some breakfast before we head to the slopes. Can you be ready by six thirty?” he asks flatly.

I drop my eyes to my hands, feeling ashamed by his expression. “Yes. I’ll be ready.”

* * * *

After falling on the slopes for the hundredth time today, Donovan still came over to check on me, which gave me the confidence to keep trying and to not become discouraged and give up. But he has also been distant. I think my actions early this morning hurt his feelings and injured his pride, too. Now, here we are driving back to LA after an incredible day and there is a cloud of uncertainty hanging over us.

I look out the window and daylight succumbs to twilight, but the same hillside we passed on the way up to Mammoth yesterday, illuminated by the now-low-slung sun, looks new to me in this light. Clear paths are highlighted from heavy snowfall from the last storm.

Donovan does treat me with respect and patience, and his words are only encouraging about us. His intentions with me are good and I may lose him if I don’t show more trust and faith in him. I must open up and allow him in, but first I need to apologize for this morning.

“Donovan.” I pause and shift in my seat, turning at my waist to face him.

“Yes,” he says coolly, showing me no emotion.

“I’m sorry about how I reacted and talked to you this morning. I know you were just coming into my room to check on me and to see if I needed any help or if I was hurt, and I pushed you away.” I stop, afraid to continue, to reveal my true fears and feelings, but I swallow the angst in my throat and go on. “Danielle told me about the groupies—the badge bunnies—who like to date and hook up with cops because they are attracted to the uniform. And she said you are very popular with those girls, which I can’t blame them. I mean you are quite the hunk in your uniform.” I blush. “But after the run-in with your old blonde flame and coming on this trip, part of me was afraid that maybe you just thought of me as one of those girls. And when you were in my room this morning, I wanted to hug you because I was scared from the bad dream that I had, but I was afraid you might take it the wrong way.”

With exasperation Donovan briefly looks at me and sighs. “But I don’t think of you that way. I thought I’ve expressed that pretty clearly.”

“I know.” I try to defend myself. “You
have
expressed that very clearly, but actions speak louder to me. And I need to see it through your behavior before I can completely trust you.” I take a large breath and exhale. “I’ve never had a serious relationship before and I’m not sure how to go about it. And it doesn’t help with the effect you have on me.”

“What effect is that?” he says seductively, cocking his head to the side.

I turn my eyes to the floorboard and flush. “You know what effect I mean. Just like that. You make me nervous. Even when you’re playing like you are now, I can’t look at you. I get all short of breath and butterflies in my stomach.”

“Do you want to know a secret?” Donovan asks. “You make me a little nervous, too.”

“What? Me?” I ask and shoot my eyes back to his face. “How do I make you nervous?”

“I know you are not like those other girls. ‘The groupies,’ you call them. You’re different, and that’s what I like about you.”

What is he saying? I’m some kind of freak?
“Different how, like in a good way or a weird way?”

“In a good way,” he says. “Those girls are looking for a piece of us or they want to try to land us as a husband because in their mind they think we would make good husbands—we are their dream guy. But they’re wrapped up in the fantasy of it all and when reality hits, which it eventually does, they realize they were in love with the fairy tale and not the man. I’ve seen it happen many times.”

I interrupt. “Yeah. Danielle was telling me about them. She says those girls are looking for their knight in shining armor.”

“Right. And there are some guys who fall right into that trap and try to save these damsels in distress. Maybe it’s part of how we’re wired and part of the reason why we’ve chosen this job. But all they’re left with in the end is a distressed damsel. Then there are other guys who just use the girls because the girls let them.” He pauses and narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not one of those guys,” he says in a defensive tone. “And I know you are not one of those girls. I don’t think you see what other people see in you.”

He’s damn right. I’m not one of those girls, chasing after a fantasy guy. I’m an independent woman who doesn’t need any man. I plan to make my own way in the world and only rely on myself, and what the hell does he mean by I don’t see what other people see? Is he saying I have vision problems, too?

“You know you’re smart,” he continues. “I mean you’ve been accepted to UCLA and everyone knows that is not easy to do. But I don’t think you know how beautiful and sexy you are. You are oblivious to the fact that guys, young or old, are always checking you out,” he says with pride in his voice. “You are innocent and inexperienced in many things about life, but also wise and mature beyond your years. And one of my favorite things about you is that you’re adventurous and independent. You’re willing to try new things and you have that internal drive to do it on your own. But even though I admire that quality in you, it’s something that you need to work on. It’s okay to ask for or accept help from someone when they offer. Like this morning, when I came into your room to comfort you. I was just there to see if you were okay. You don’t always have to be strong or battle on your own. You don’t have to conceal your feelings if you’re scared or if you need help.”

I nod. “I’ve always wanted to be strong and independent, and I just learned growing up to hide my feelings.” Growing up the way I did required me to hide what was going on at home and mask my feelings about it. Opening up to someone is scary because I’m exposed and vulnerable, but I may miss out on the opportunity of something special with this man. “I don’t want you to doubt how I feel about you. If you want to know anything just ask,” I say.

“Okay. Tell me what that damn dream was about?”

“Um.” I buy myself some time. Of course he goes right to the main question. I can be vague with him about the dream or open up and let him know. This is what he wants me to do, open up to him and let him in more, but what if he hears something that’s too much for him to handle and he chooses to run the other way?

Well here goes nothing.

“The dream I had last night is a recurring nightmare. It’s always the same. I go back home to visit my parents and they trap me in the house and won’t let me leave. Remember when you asked me about my mom and stepfather and I said that my stepdad was an ‘asshole’?”

“Yeah, it was funny to hear such a crude thing come out of such a cute, sweet mouth.”

“Well, he was more than an asshole. He was very abusive to both me and my mom. He hurt me a lot and often.” I spit the words out quickly and look down again at the floorboard because I’m afraid of his reaction. There is only silence. My patience gets the best of me and I peek at him from the side of my eyes. Donovan’s grip on the steering wheel is so strong, the white of his knuckles show, but his breathing is slow and steady.

“When you say he was abusive,” Donovan starts, “do you mean physically or sexually?”

“Primarily physically. He said and did some inappropriate things, but he never molested me. I told him I would tell my mom if he tried anything. I did eventually tell my mom and all she said was for me not to worry because he had a hard time getting it up anyway.” I pause because slight panic is forming in my chest from being so exposed at this very moment. I steady myself with a few breaths. Donovan continues to stare ahead stoically but with the death grip on the steering wheel.

“My stepdad liked to have me lay over a chair and beat me with a paddle if I disobeyed him or did something
wrong
. You know the ones that people play Smashball with at the beach?” I ask. “I used to squirm and scream and cry, but one time he tied my hands with a belt and stuffed a rag in my mouth, and then beat me harder, so I learned to just lay still. I think he got some sick thrill out of my fighting back. I never even cried after that, and I learned to just keep it all inside.

“But when I got too big and too old to lie over the chair, he would hit me or punch me in places on my body that didn’t leave marks. He would bang my head into the wall or floor. I think I probably had more than one concussion and many sprains or fractures. He would choke me or twist my arms and hands back as punishment. It was common for me to nurse a dislocated shoulder or spiral fracture for weeks at a time. I tried not to piss him off, but after a while I think he just looked for things or maybe created things to knock me around about.” I stop and wait for some sort of response from Donovan. His stoic expression has given way to a look of murderous rage.

“What was your mom doing while your stepdad was doing this to you?” Donovan asks in a calm, controlled tone.

“She would tell my stepdad to stop if he was getting too out of hand with me, but most of the time she told me to not fight him because it would just make things worse. And if he turned on her, she would most likely end up in the emergency room. He broke her jaw and her back on two separate occasions. Less questions are asked when adults show up with injuries. Especially when they claim to be
accident prone
.” I use air quotes to emphasize my point.