Falling (Fading Series) (34 page)

It can’t be her.

Not her.

Not that girl.

Not
my
girl.

Squeezing my eyes shut, it’s all I see now. Her bloody thighs. Her beaten face. Her shredded nails.

“God, please! Stop!”

I hear it. Her voice. Her shrieking, desperate voice. Opening my eyes, I’m jittery. She has to feel it. Her body is clung tightly to mine, and I realize that I’m not touching her. I feel like I can’t touch her. Like I don’t know how, but I force myself to. And when I cautiously wrap my arms around her, I feel her shaking too. And now everything is clear. I can’t pretend that I don’t know exactly why she’s shaking. I’m such a fuckin’ dick, rubbing up on this girl because I can’t fuckin’ control myself around her.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

Her body begins to soften into mine, and I don’t know what to say. How do I tell her? Do I tell her? Do I say something?

Say something.

“Candace.”

“Please, don’t say anything.”

Her voice is pleading, so I don’t. And now, I’m scared to take my hands away from her. Like she would break if it weren’t for my arms. I keep her close when I lie us down and pull the sheets over us.

She’s doesn’t say anything else, and the silence rings in my ears. My head is loud. It’s a maniacal filtering of memories, flashes weaving together to form a solid image that’s undeniable. But I denied it. How could I have done that when it all makes sense now? Every panic, every startle, her fear of crowds, her night terrors, her constant hesitation with intimacy. And fuck. That dumpster. How stupid could I be? She stood
right there.
She panicked . . . in my parking lot. My bar. That’s why she’s never come back.

I can’t be with her.

I have to be with her.

God, I love this girl so much. I can’t let her go even though I know I should. But with me, I have the guarantee that she’s safe. And I need her. Because it’s only with her that I’m finally realizing that I can be the man I never thought I could be, and I don’t think I could be this way with anyone else but her.

Lifting up, I scoot back so that I can lean against the headboard, bringing Candace with me and tucking her head under my chin. I don’t want to lie to her, but do I tell her who I am? Does she even know that someone was there? This girl has been hurt so much, and by too many people, that I can’t have my name added to that list. I can’t do that to her. And for what? What difference would it make, if any at all? For this, I resolve to not say anything. I just can’t do that to her.

This shit hurts. Bad. And now, every time I close my eyes, I see her lying there naked, raped in the alley of my bar. It’s like someone’s slowly gutting me. And for the first time in years, I let myself break. Candace has long fallen asleep in my arms when I feel the first of many tears roll down my cheeks and into her hair.

When I release the pain, I see that I hold so much of the blame. I heard her from inside. I heard the banging around, and I ignored it. If I would have just gone out there, I could have saved her. I could have done so much more than I did because I dismissed the ruckus for a couple of drunken guys. She was being raped when nothing but a brick wall separated us. How could I be so irresponsible?

We’ve taken our slow time getting to know each other, but now I feel like she’s different, and I don’t know what to do with that feeling. I always knew she was hiding something. Jase even told me that she was going through some tough shit, but
this
? I don’t know what to do with this
.
I feel like an ass for all the times I’ve tried to touch her in ways that were too much for her and she had to stop me.

I’ll never be able to tell her how sorry I am. There aren’t enough words. There isn’t enough in this world that I could give her to show her how truly fuckin’ sorry I am. So I sit here and cry for her because I don’t know what else to do. I love this girl beyond anything. Love her from a place in my heart I never knew I had.

So now . . . now she sleeps in my arms while I stay up, because sleep isn’t strong enough to take me out of my head tonight. When I close my eyes, it’s August, and I’m hovering over my Jane Doe. The girl I spent weeks wondering about. The girl that kept finding her way back into my head, only to realize that I’ve had her in my arms for months now.

My head is pounding, and I’m tired as hell. Now that she’s awake and moving around my loft, I suddenly don’t know how to act. I don’t know what to say. This realization has flipped a switch for me, and I don’t know how to respond, so I stay quiet.

I’m in the kitchen, fixing her a cup of coffee when she walks over to me and asks, “Did you not sleep last night?”

Screwing on the lid to her mug, I’m evasive when I tell her, “Not much,” before handing her the cup and walking into the other room to grab our coats so that I can take her home. I feel like I can’t touch her. Like I can’t be the same with her. I want to scream and punch my fuckin’ fist through the wall. Why did it have to be her? And what piece of shit would do that to her? She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.

Handing her the coat, I ask, “You ready?”

“Yeah,” she says shyly as she keeps her eyes down.

She slips it on, and I know that my attitude is making her uncomfortable, so I take her hand in mine as we head outside into the bitter cold.

It only takes a couple of minutes to drive to her house, and when I pull up and park the car, she turns to me and says, “I’m sorry about last night, and I get that you’re mad, but—”

“What?” I interrupt, not understanding what she did that she would need to be sorry for. “Why would I be mad?”

She shakes her head, unsure of herself when she tells me, “Because I keep pushing you away. You’ve hardly said two words to me this morning. So, I just figured . . .”

Fuck.
I’ve been so wrapped up in myself that I didn’t realize I’ve been a total dick to her this morning. Getting out of the car, I walk over to her side, open her door, and unclick her seatbelt, grabbing on to her hips to face me. I don’t know what I’m doing, but seeing the look on her face snaps me out of my fears immediately. I feel like I can’t be the same with her, but I have to be. I want to be, because I love what we are together.

I’m firm when I declare, “Everything you give me is perfect. You have to stop feeling like this. I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.” Needing her to believe me, I don’t hesitate when I take her lips with mine. It bothers me that she doubts herself so much with me. My thoughts are all over the map, but one thing is certain, as hard as this is, I know I can’t let it change us. I can’t allow it to filter in and affect me because I can’t give her any reasons to doubt that I love her from the purest part of me there is.

When I break our kiss, I softly tell her, “I’m sorry if I’ve been a dick, I just didn’t get much sleep.”

“It’s okay. I overreacted.”

But she isn’t overreacting because her observations are astute and this is my fault. Taking her hand, I help her out of the car and shut the door, leaning her back against it when I take her face in my hands and look into her eyes, trying to connect in a way so that there is no doubt within her when I tell her, “I never thought I needed anything in this life until I met you. Everything you give me is exactly what I have always needed, and you do it perfectly.”

I don’t give her a chance to respond when I pull her into me, pressing my lips into hers. Her hands around my back are firm as she holds me close, and I wish she didn’t have to go to school because I want to keep her wrapped up in me like this all day.

We say goodbye, and when she’s inside, I start driving to work. When I pull into the lot and park, my phone buzzes with a text from Candace.

Can I stay with you?

I’ve never been so sure of anything when I type out my response.

Of course, babe.

I don’t know what happened in the past ten minutes since I dropped her off, but if she needs me, she has me. Sitting in my jeep, I go ahead and call her so that I can make sure everything is all right.

“Hey,” she answers apprehensively.

“Did something happen?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to impose, but I just . . .” she trails off when I assure her, “You’re nothing close to an imposition, babe.”

“Kimber is here, and it’s not good. I just think I should give her some space.”

The comfort of knowing that she ran to me, and not Jase, shows me that she’s in this, and I love her even more for that. “When do you get out of class?”

“I’m going straight to work after I get out of school, so I won’t be home till a little after seven tonight.”

“I’ll meet you at your place and help you get a couple bags together, okay?”

I hear her release a sigh before she says, “Thank you, Ryan. Really.”

We hang up, and when I get out of the car, I can’t help myself when I turn to the back of the alley. I walk over towards the dumpster and can see that son of a bitch on top of her again. Shoving his hand between her legs. Slamming his fist into the side of her head. The images unleash a rage inside of me when I think about what happened to her, and the guilt that I was right fuckin’ here and didn’t protect her from it.

Questions storm inside. Is she a different person now because of it? What did she go through after it happened? What is she going through now? I know she has to be masking the pain because I’m pretty certain that I now know what it is that’s constantly causing all of her restless sleep at night. Is that what she dreams about? Fuck! Is that the shit that fills her head when she’s in bed with me?

Raking my hands through my hair, I drop my head and spot a small crate of empty bottles. When I can no longer stand the rapid banging of my heart against my chest, I fume as I pick up the whole crate, smashing it violently against the side of the dumpster. Screams grit through my lungs, and the explosion of glass shattering echoes in the quiet morning air.

“What the hell are you doing?” Max yells out from behind me, but I keep my eyes on the shards of glass that are scattered on the ground. The same ground where some fucker . . .

“Ryan, man,” Max says and knocks me out of my thoughts when I turn to face him, and the anger inside of me is blatant. It’s a force that I can’t push down when I yell, “It was her!”

“What are you talking about?” he questions as he moves closer to me, glass crunching under his boots with each step.

“The girl that was raped . . . It’s her.”

He shakes his head, not piecing it together while my muscles tense up in frustration with everything.

“It’s Candace,” I breathe out because the constricting of my throat makes it painful to speak.

His face drops, stunned when he asks, “How do you know?”

“Because that girl, she has the same tattoo that I saw on Candace
last fuckin’ night
!” Those last words seethe out of me as I pick up a bottle from another crate and barrel it into the dumpster, creating another spray of glass after it smashes into a splattering of pieces. My breathing is heavy as I press my palms to my forehead and admit, barely holding myself together, “I don’t want it to be her, man.” I can barely choke out the words, but I had to hold my shit together quietly last night and now . . . now it bleeds out.

“Fuck,” I hear him mumble before he asks, “What did she say?”

Looking up at him, I tell him, “She doesn’t know. I couldn’t tell her.” When I see the way he’s looking at me, like I’m an idiot for not telling her, I shout at him, pleading, “What would I fuckin’ say, Max?! What should I have said to her?!” I pause, catching my breath before I continue in a calmer tone. “I love her,” I tell him with a defeated shrug of my shoulders. “I can’t hurt her like that.”

“Has she even told you that she was . . . you know?”

“No,” I respond. “I don’t think she ever intends to either.” I start walking away, not wanting to talk about this shit anymore, and when I pass him, I stop and look over at him. “We’re never gonna mention this again. Got it?”

“Yeah, man,” he whispers to me. “Got it.”