Kept (27 page)

What could he say to make a difference? “How’s your nose?”

“Fine.”

“You think it’s broken?”

“No.” She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Miska. Let me see you.”

Slowly she raised her head. Tears pooled in her big, dark eyes. Her lip had started to scab over. The bruise on her cheek was already darker, discoloration sneaking up to edge her eye. She’d wiped the blood off her face—or tried to.

He pushed to his feet. She needed a washcloth.

In her bathroom Sullivan’s toiletries were all over the counter.

He stared at the towel on the floor, the toothpaste-covered toothbrush that had fallen—or been thrown—to the tile. So this was what had been happening when Mark walked in.

He grabbed a thick cream washcloth from the linen closet and ran it under cold water. In her bedroom, he crouched before her again and offered the cloth.

She took it, her fingers shaky, and dabbed her face.

“He hurt you anywhere else?”

She ran the cloth over her lip, wincing. “I’ll be fine.”

“Miska.”

She wiped the skin between her lip and nose.

Garrett stopped behind her. “How you feeling?”

“I’ll be fine,” she repeated, sounding robotic.

Garrett looked at Dillan.

He shrugged. “She’s not saying.”

“You tell her about Mark?”

She looked up.

So here was his power. “Haven’t told her.”

She tried to look at Garrett. “What about Mark?”

Dillan ignored her. “Where else do you hurt? Ribs? Back?”

“Dillan—”

“Tell me where you hurt.”

She sagged. “My ribs.”

“How bad?”

“Just bruised, I think. My leg aches. He kicked me.”

He would have done so much more if they hadn’t walked in when they did. “You know your back’s got a bad scratch?”

“That’s why it burns.” She dabbed her mouth. “What about Mark?”

Garrett spoke. “We found him in the hallway, listening to you scream. Did he call the police? No. Did he unlock the door to let us in? No. He decided you needed a lesson. Nice guy, Miska.
Great
guy.”

If the news upset her, she didn’t show it. “What about Adrienne, Garrett?”

His tight mouth sagged. His crossed arms loosened until he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“You know she’s bisexual, right?”

Dillan caught his breath.

“She hates men. Just likes to mess with them.” She looked at his knees. “Why, Garrett?”

He glanced away, then vanished into the living room.

Miska went back to dabbing her mouth.

What a complete mess.

She opened up the washcloth, straightened it, folded it into a square. Studied it for several seconds. “Thank you,” she croaked.

In the living room something thudded into a plastic trashcan.

“You’re welcome.”

She shook her head, gaze still on the washcloth. “My mom would be so ashamed of me. Of what I’ve done.” Her face crumpled. Her shoulders shook and she doubled over.

Dillan scooted closer, putting an arm around her as if she were Jordan at six, crying over skinned palms. She shook against him, her forehead buried in his neck. He patted the comforter on her back.

She cried a minute longer, finally pulling back to wipe her face and eyes. She kept her head down, her hair a tangled shield.

“You need anything?” he asked.

“No.”

“Something to drink? Eat?”

“You don’t need to stay.”

“Let me make sure you’re okay. Can you get up?”

“I think so.”

He offered her his hand.

She hesitated, then put her hand in his and held on. She clutched the comforter close as he helped her up.

Once she sagged against the doorframe, he set his hands where he thought her waist might be, steadying her. “You all right? You dizzy?”

She flashed a shaky smile. “I’m okay, Dillan. Really.”

“Just being careful. Can’t have you tipping over and landing on your face.”

“That would be embarrassing.”

He chuckled at her attempt at humor. Her good cheek flushed a little, and Dillan cocked his head. What was going on inside her?

“I need to sit.”

He led her to the bed and helped her ease onto the edge.

“Would you get the robe on the back of my closet door?”

“Sure.” He found a silky black robe and carried it to her. “This it?”

She nodded and started to rise.

“Hang on.” She might have forgotten what she was wearing, but he hadn’t. “Give me your washcloth. I’ll rinse it.”

In the bathroom he took his time running the cloth beneath the water, rinsing away the blood, squeezing the water out. Squeezing it out again.

When he returned, her room was empty. He found her in the living room, leaning against the wall, staring down at Grant Park.

In the kitchen Garrett tied a trash bag. He jerked his head at Miska as if to ask about her.

Dillan shrugged.
Time to go?
he mouthed.

Garrett nodded.

When Dillan looked back, Miska faced him. The morning light caressed her face, the bruise on her cheek morphing into clear, velvety skin. Her eyes seemed bright, large, fine, and the sun backlit her curls, glimmers of purest light sparkling through wild wisps of hair.

She looked so innocent. So perfect.

She took the washcloth. “Dillan?”

“Umm—” Oh, right. “We’re gonna go.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll be next door if you need us.” Somehow he’d gotten a step closer. Her neck lengthened as she looked up at him. “Do you need anything?”

Her voice was as delicate as her skin. “No. Thank you.”

“If you do, just knock.” He swallowed, realizing he was staring. “Have—have a good day.”

What?

He swept past her couch. Behind him Garrett told her he’d left their cell numbers on the island. Not to open the door unless she knew who it was. Useful stuff. Careful stuff.

Dillan stepped into the hallway. No Sullivan. No Scheider. No losers.

Scratch that. Just him.

Why did she affect him so much? Why? Just because he was still single? Hadn’t he seen what she was? Known the things she’d done? How could a woman like her get to him?
How?

Garrett closed her door. “You all right, dude?”

“Sure. Think she’s okay?”

“Yeah.” Garrett led the way inside their condo. “But it couldn’t hurt to let Tracy know. She’d kill us if she heard about this later.” Garrett hopped onto the granite island. “You mind texting her?”

“I’ll do it.”

Hands deep in his pockets, he wandered into his bedroom. He’d text Tracy, let her take over. Then he had to get his mind off Miska—for good.

He had work to do.

Four hours had passed. Mark still hadn’t called.

Which was ridiculous.
He
should be calling
her
, if only to make sure she was alive. Was it true what Garrett had said, that Mark had stood in the hall and listened? Had he locked her door behind himself and then refused to let Dillan and Garrett in? Would Mark do something so low?

She slid her finger over his number. His phone rang four times, then went to voicemail. She ended the call and tried again. It rang four more times and went to voicemail.

Idiot.

She called again. The phone rang once. Twice—

Someone knocked on her door.

Miska stared down her hallway. Who was out there? Mark? Kendall?

The knock came again.

At her door, she peered through the peephole. It was Adrienne, texting someone. Miska’s shoulders sagged. Not the person she wanted to see right now.

She unlocked the door and opened it, backing up to allow her sister inside.

“Hey, girl,” Adrienne said, fingers flying across her screen.

“Hey.” Miska slow-walked back to the couch. “What are you doing here?”

“I was free for lunch. Thought I’d stop by and—” Adrienne halted by the empty space where the desk normally sat, the barren wall scraped by the lamp Kendall had thrown. “What happened here?”

Miska eased onto the couch.

Adrienne turned to her, and her mouth fell open. “What happened to you?”

“Kendall.”

“Kendall did this?” Adrienne flew to the couch. She rested a warm hand on Miska’s leg. “He hit you? What happened?”

Her hand rose to the bruise she’d done her best to hide. “Mark showed up.”

Adrienne groaned. “What dumb luck. Good thing he was around to stop Kendall.”

“Mark left me with him.” Understanding had dawned in Mark’s eyes when Kendall had walked out of her bathroom. Mark had held up his hands and said he hadn’t known, hadn’t realized. He’d backed out of her bedroom—and she’d made the mistake of scrambling after him.

“You’re lucky that’s all Kendall did.”

“What’s lucky is that my neighbors stopped him before he killed me.”

“Your neighbors…”

“Yes,
those
neighbors.”

“Oh.” A smile slipped across Adrienne’s lips. “Good for them.”

Good for them? “How could you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know what you did to Tracy and Garrett.”

Adrienne laughed. “That had nothing to do with Tracy—”

“She’s my friend. How could you do that to my friend?”

“She wasn’t your friend when it started. I didn’t think—”

“Exactly. You don’t think. You’re just like Wade and Zane.”

“Don’t you compare me to them.” Adrienne’s neck tightened. “It’s Garrett’s fault Tracy got hurt. We were just having fun.”

“Please. Since when do you have fun with men?”

Adrienne jumped to her feet. “Shut up, Miska!”

Her anger and hatred froze Miska. She stared at her sister, at the pinched features that conveyed her revulsion.

Adrienne stomped around the couch, her stilettos punctuating each step.

“So you’re just gonna’ leave? Can’t handle being called out? You know it’s true—”

Adrienne whirled. “Go look in the mirror, Miska. What you’re doing to that poor girl in Wisconsin isn’t any different than what I did with Garrett.”

“You know it’s not the—”

“Yes, it is.” Adrienne stomped one threatening step closer. “The only difference is that you don’t know her. She doesn’t come over at night and watch stupid dramas with you. But you know what? I did a little research. She loves
Downton Abbey
, loves going to Milwaukee Bucks games in the offseason with her
husband
, and hopes to start a family with him. So if anyone here is doing something wrong, messing around with a
married
man—”

Miska clenched her teeth. “Stop it.”

“If anyone reminds me of the loser men in our family, it’d be you. Just like your brothers. Just like our father. Aren’t you?”

The insult stole her breath. “I am not.”

Her phone rang, the ringtone Mark’s. She glanced at the screen, then up at Adrienne.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Adrienne stormed away. “Enjoy your bruises, Miska. You’ve earned them.”

She ignored the words, waiting for the door to close.

Adrienne banged it shut, one last bit of drama, and Miska answered the phone. “Mark.”

“Hey.”

Holding her breath, she waited for him to apologize for leaving her to Kendall, for standing outside and listening.

But he didn’t.

“Did you really stand in the hall and let him hit me?”

His hesitation proved it. “Of course not. I heard you half a second before those two came out.”

“Then what took so long?”

“I don’t know. I guess we all panicked. You know how it is. You’re in a hurry and your fingers don’t work.”

Liar. She sighed and rested her head against the back of the couch.

“Are you okay?”

“You mean how badly did he hurt me?” She traced the mark on her thigh, the one starting to resemble a heel. “I look like a battered woman. How’s that?”

“Sorry.”

That was his apology? “Why were you here? I told you I was busy.”

“Whoa! What about the man in your bathroom wearing your towel?”

“He doesn’t mean anything to me. We’re done. I told him to get out.”

“Then
why
, Miska, was he there?”

The agony in his
why
warmed her. Mark cared. He wanted her. “It was… money, Mark. That’s all.”

“Money.”

“I thought we were over. I met him, and he made me this—” She swallowed. “This offer.”

Mark said nothing.

“It was just so I could handle my mortgage. You know how I struggled—”

“Which is why I took care of you!”

“I know. You have, but back then I hadn’t heard from you in a month. I thought you’d chosen Darcie. When you came back, he was just a safety net.”

His laugh was harsh. “So it’s my fault you were with Kendall.”

“I messed up, Mark. I’m sorry. Please. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You telling him the same thing?”

“No!” She bolted upright. Pain shot across her ribs, and she winced, covering them with her palm. “Mark, I want you. Only you. Please believe me.”

“I don’t know.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. Too bad he couldn’t witness the reality of her pain. She sniffed the tear away. “I’ve felt guilty every second with him. Give me another chance.”

He let out a deep sigh. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

No.
She wanted to beg him again, plead with him to forgive her this wrong. Another tear rolled down her cheek, and she swiped it away.
Oh God, please don’t let him go.
How would she make it without him?

“I think we should just…” He sighed again. Dread pooled in her chest. “We need a break.”

“Mark—”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“Please don’t—”

“Miska,” he snapped.

She folded in on herself, silencing her tears with her hand.

“I need to think things through, see if we really love each other—”

“Mark, I do love you.”

“I need time, okay?”

She fought the panic. “How much time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll call you—”

“I don’t want you calling me. At all. You got it?”

At all? “But, Mark—”

“We need a break.
I
want a break. If and when I’m ready, I’ll call you. So no matter what happens—got that? No matter. What. Happens. Don’t call me.”