Convicted (74 page)

Earlier in the week, her belongings had arrived from Everwood. She’d been through some of it, but she hadn’t opened all the boxes. What she wanted to show Tony was still packed away. Honestly, she hadn’t been sure she’d be brave enough to ask him to stay and see it, but on the drive home, she decided if she were to do it—it should happen before Nichol’s move.

Hurriedly, Claire searched box after box. Aware of her internal time clock, she didn’t want to make Tony wait too long. When she reached the bottom of the last box, Claire found what she’d sought. From the surface, they didn’t appear to be anything special—your garden variety spiral notebooks; however, both she and Tony had learned years ago that things weren’t always as they appeared. As she freed the notebooks from the other items, she
felt
Tony behind her.

He hadn’t touched her, but her increased pulse told her he was there. For the first time since the day of his divorce declaration, every fiber of her body surged with electricity. Without turning, she said, “I’m sorry it took so long. I thought I knew where they were.”

Trying to remain unaffected by the familiar, yet recently unaccustomed feeling, Claire stood. When their eyes met, she fought to breathe—her lungs momentarily needing direction—inhaling took effort. Determined to stay strong, she looked directly into Tony’s black eyes as unbridled hunger consumed her. The intensity of the gaze staring back at her instantly reminded Claire of her captor—not the one who took her body—the one who took her heart. Pretending to remain aloof, she pressed forward and presented her notebooks. “Here they are.”

He tried to subdue the hunger boiling within him. As he watched her walk bravely toward him, he felt the intensity behind his eyes grow. Reaching for the notebooks, he asked, “What are these?”

“My compartments.”

Tony opened the top notebook. “Your compartments? What do you...?” His words trailed as he began to read—

I suppose I should start in the beginning—March 2010. No, that wasn’t when I was born. It was when I began to live. Most people think I’m crazy—maybe I am. You see I began to live, the day my life was taken away. Funny, I don’t remember how it happened. I do know now, it never could’ve been stopped. Anthony Rawlings wanted me. If I’ve learned one lesson in my life—and believe me, I’ve learned many—Anthony Rawlings always got what he wanted.

I can’t explain how it happened. I can’t explain how I fell deeply and madly in love with a man who did what Anthony did—but I did! These feelings have been discounted by multiple people: family, doctors, and counselors to name a few. They’ve told me, my love wasn’t and isn’t real. They say I’m a victim of abuse, and as such, I don’t understand the difference between love and applied behavior. How can that be true? If I don’t know my own feelings, how can anyone else?

These people haven’t lived my life. For the sake of my sanity, I need to know my feelings are and were real. I’ll always and forever, love and be in love with Anthony Rawlings!

It didn’t start that way. There was a time I both hated and feared him. When I say he took my life, I’m not being dramatic. One day I was Claire Nichols, a twenty-six-year-old, out of work meteorologist, working as a bartender to make ends meet, and the next day, I was his. He owned me. He bought my body, a commodity I never intended to sell, and while, with time, he earned my heart and soul, the transaction began with no transition and no introduction—just a brutal initiation.

I’ll never condone the things he did to me, nor will I deny them. They are a part of us, building blocks of our foundation. Some would argue that a foundation built on kidnapping, isolation, violence, and yes—even rape—would never stand. I must disagree. We lived through hell and came out the other side. Like the song says, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I can’t imagine anyone having a stronger foundation than ours. It sustained us when the storms of life and vengeance threatened our very being. Not only did it make “us” stronger, it made each of us stronger. Most importantly—it made Nichol.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that Tony is gone. No one will say his name, much less discuss his tragic death, and I know why. It’s because I killed him. It truly was an accident. An ironic term as you’ll learn; however, as I ponder these thoughts, I can’t help but find it strangely parallel—he took my life, and I took his.

The people here want me to get better. I don’t think I can do that without acknowledging how I got to this place, and how I killed the man I love.

I’m doing this, recalling the worst and best times of my life for one reason: Nichol.

For months, even years, I was content to live in a world that didn’t exist. Truthfully, I wasn’t cognizant of being anywhere. Day after day, night after night, I lived with memories of the strong, controlling, domineering, loving, tender, romantic man who made my life worth living—who validated my existence. It wasn’t until recently that I even realized I’d gone away. Some days, I wish I could go back, but I can’t. I now remember I have a daughter who needs me. I won’t let her down. I must distance myself from fantasy and focus on reality.

The memories that will sustain me as I face a lonely life are of our few months together as a family. I’ll learn to go on alone. Despite the opinions of others, I’ve faced equally greater challenges and lived to talk about them. I will survive this. While I do, I’ll be comforted in knowing that no one else has ever loved as completely or has been as loved, as I have been by Anthony Rawlings.

Someday, I hope I can explain to our daughter the man her father became; however, until I admit the man he was—the man whose eyes burnt my soul—before those eyes found the light—I can’t relish the man I lost.

So here I go. I’ve lived this story, and I’ve told this story. Now, I’m going to try to do both, because without reliving it, even in my mind, I can’t possibly explain that I’m not crazy...

I met Anthony Rawlings March 15, 2010. That night I worked the 4:00PM to close shift at the Red Wing in Atlanta. He came up to the bar and sat down. I remember thinking...

Tony peeled his eyes away from the page. This was so much different than reading her official typed statement. This contained Claire’s raw emotions—in her handwriting. He wasn’t reading—he was listening. Fluttering the pages of all four notebooks, he noticed every page of every book was filled with writing. Glancing up, he saw Claire leaning against the wall, her arms folded over her chest watching him. Her stoic expression failed to reveal her thoughts; however, in her eyes—her damn green eyes—he saw the fire he’d missed. The one he’d doused too many times, most recently with his talk of divorce.

He truly thought she’d pushed their past away, glorified him in some unhealthy, undeserving way, yet on these pages, she’d recounted everything, and despite it all, she proclaimed unyielding love. Her words were correct, especially when she wrote,
Anthony Rawlings wanted me
. Tony didn’t realize how much at the time, but he did. The shrink at the prison helped him see that the terrible things he did—and he did some awful things—were his way of keeping her away—keeping her at a distance. He never intended to become emotionally attached. Blame it on anything from his past—there was no excuse for his behaviors. Anthony Rawlings never anticipated being emotionally vested in anyone. The psychologist also said,
no one
can come back from that kind of relationship. It can never be healthy.
Is that what her therapist said too? Could they all be wrong? Could they be the one-in-a-million?

Staring into Claire’s eyes, Tony fought the urge to touch her, comfort her, and apologize for ever thinking they should be apart. Once again, his desires overwhelmed him. The self-control he’d elicited for the last two weeks dissipated with each beat of his heart. If he’d truly wanted to maintain their distance, then he never should’ve walked up the stairs. He wanted her more than he wanted life.
How did he ever think he could let her go?

Claire waited. She wondered how he’d react—what he’d say. She hadn’t read that notebook in a while, but she knew it was the first one—the one explaining why she wrote everything down. Tony told her she needed to face their past. She wanted him to see—she had. She’d faced every minute. Although he hadn’t said a word, his eyes pulled her in. She wouldn’t look away—she couldn’t. At the sight of the familiar black gleam, her insides tightened to a painful pitch.

The temperature surrounding them warmed as his unrelenting stare bore through her. Claire felt heat radiate from every molecule within the room. While maintaining their unbroken gaze, he laid the notebooks on the dresser. The only reason she wanted to show him the notebooks was to show him that she’d already obeyed his directive. Besides, she reasoned—
she’d told him to stay downstairs. This overwhelming sensation of lust wasn’t what she had planned.
Her mind fought her body. He’d already rejected her. She couldn’t bear to have him do it again, yet without thinking, her feet moved his direction.

Did he move forward too?
She didn’t know. Somehow, they were mere inches apart.

Willing herself to stop, Claire broke their gaze and looked down. Seconds later, she felt the warmth of his finger and thumb lifting her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. Obstinately, she lifted her chin, but kept her eyes shut.

The rich baritone voice commanded, “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Tipping her forehead against his broad chest, she inhaled. His cologne filled her senses as she mumbled, “I can’t.”

She felt his words rumble from his chest. “Look at me”—it wasn’t a request—“I want to see your damn eyes—now!”

“Please, please, Tony—don’t. I can’t take another rejection—not from you.”

Lifting her face, his lips brushed hers just before his words softened and he asked, “Why did you show me that?”

He hadn’t released her chin when her eyes finally opened. Looking up, she knew, despite her claims to the contrary, not only did he control her chin—he controlled her heart. “So that you’d know...I
have
faced our past—multiple times. Even knowing that past, I wanted a future.”

His words dripped with heat, each one blowing a warm breeze against her cheeks, “
Wanted?
Past tense?”

She wanted to say, no, I
want
, but she’d been hurt too many times. Her indignation rose. “
You
don’t want me!”—“You left me in the Iowa jail!”—“You told me two weeks ago you wanted a divorce!”—“I can’t live in a fantasy! You don’t want me”—“or a future with me!”—with each phrase, her volume grew—“let go of my chin and stop pretending!”

He obeyed her demand and released her chin; however, relinquishing his hold wasn’t even feasible. Forcing her to keep her face tilted toward his, Tony slid his hand to the back of her neck, while his other hand wrapped around her petite frame. He didn’t think or reason as his lips captured hers.

For two weeks, he’d tried to let her go. He’d wanted to release her and give her the freedom she deserved—the freedom he’d taken away so many years ago, but—each day, each hour, each minute, each second—was agony. When Tony wasn’t near Claire—he thought about her. When he was near her—his energy was devoted to fighting his desire. It was exhausting. With his lips against hers, he no longer wanted to fight. His chest pushed against her, moving them, step by step, until they were flush with the wall. His needs intensified as he felt the sensation of her breasts against him. He told himself to stop—he was no good for her—but he didn’t listen—he couldn’t. Unapologetically, his tongue penetrated her lips, and his grasp pulled her hips against his.