Kept (45 page)

But the darkness of the night had entered the lake. Her lungs betrayed her, and she sucked in water. Her fingers screamed up the wall, searching, clawing, grasping—

A hand bumped her face, grasped her hair, another hand gripping her shoulder. She latched onto the wrist as it tugged her to the surface.

She sucked in air, coughing out water.

Dillan’s face greeted her above the sidewalk. “Breathe, Miska! Come on. Breathe!” He grabbed her armpit and braced his other hand against the seawall. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

Beyond him Mark sat up, blood cascading down his forehead.

Dillan’s other hand plunged into the water. He grabbed her side and heaved her up.

Mark wobbled to his knees.

“Dill—” Water in her lungs cut her off. She coughed, choked.

“I’ve got you.”

No. She tried to shake her head, but the cough overwhelmed her. She smacked his shoulder, shoved his face.

“Stop it. Calm down—”

Her throat cleared. “Mark!”

Dillan let her go and spun.

Miska clung to the metal edge as Mark stumbled toward them.

Dillan leaped to his feet, took one step, and tripped.

Mark dove toward where Dillan should have been, but Dillan was already falling to the ground. His head clipped Mark’s knee, and Mark fell sideways onto the concrete. A smack sounded, then silence.

Dillan pushed up to his knees and stared at him.

Was Mark out?

Dillan crawled back to her. “Miska.” His voice wobbled. He grabbed the back of her arms and pulled her onto the concrete.

She collapsed beside him, coughing.

The faint wail of sirens rose above the slapping water.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded and cleared her lungs again. She sucked in a deep breath, felt her lungs expand. “I’ll be fine.”

Piece of trash.

Dillan reached for her, and she filled his hand with hers, keeping out of the hug she knew he’d meant. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

He ran a hand along his jaw. “I’ll survive. But only if you do too.”

You weren’t worth it.

Dillan pulled her close.

She gave in and let him hold her, water leeching from her clothes to his. Back where Mark had punched Dillan, two silhouettes huddled at the bottom of the stairs, watching.

Dillan followed her gaze as sirens parked behind the trees.

Mark groaned.

“Miska, baby, stay here. I’ll make sure he can’t get up.”

He left her, and her body chilled in the late July night. Mark was right. She was a piece of trash, and Dillan deserved better than her.

Three officers rushed toward them, hands at their belts. Another officer stopped by the two gawkers and spoke to them. They nodded and pointed and gestured toward her.

“Miss? Are you hurt? You need an ambulance?”

She stared at the officer who knelt before her. “I’m all right.” She looked at Dillan who stood, talking to the cops. “Make sure he’s okay.”

“We will. Tell me what happened.”

She closed her eyes, buried her face in her hands. The story had really broken now. “That’s Mark Scheider.”

“The baseball player?”

She nodded.

“And the other guy?”

“He’s not involved. Please. Leave him out of this.”

“Tell me what happened. People said a man was holding you under water. Which guy was it?”

“It was Mark.”

“Mark Scheider tried to drown you?” He pulled out a notepad and a pen. “You know why?”

“Because—” She sniffed, shuddered, coughed again. “Because I was his mistress.”
Piece of trash.
“And I think he killed his wife for me.”

When she wasn’t even worth it.

The clock on Garrett’s Lexus said it was going on two a.m.

Dillan’s heavy eyelids agreed. He forced his eyes open and watched the lamp-lit sidewalks of Chicago slide by.

“Dude.” Garrett jerked his chin toward the backseat.

Dillan turned, the seatbelt pressing against his sore ribs. Curled up in the back, Miska looked asleep, her lashes dark against her cheek, her hair—a wide, tangled mess—spread across the seatback and draped along her neck where a bruise flashed to life beneath a streetlamp.

“She’s been out awhile,” Garrett said. “You look beat too.”

“Ha ha.”

“Sorry. No pun intended.”

Dillan glanced at Garrett to see if he were serious. He seemed to be. “Thanks for coming to the station.”

“No problem. Just don’t make me do it again.”

“Yeah, well, Mark can’t post bail any earlier than Monday. So we’re good through then.”

“Can’t believe he tried to drown her.”

Again Dillan saw Mark bent over the walkway’s edge, his arm buried in Lake Michigan. He clenched his fingers, opened them, pressed his hands against each other. “I can’t talk about it.” His head and groin and ribs had still hurt when he’d managed to sit up and see Mark send Miska into the lake. He’d struggled to his feet, adrenaline pushing him past the pain and down the lakefront where he’d knocked Mark’s forehead into the seawall’s metal edge.

But the water had been so dark—and Miska hadn’t popped back to the surface. For one heartsick moment he knew he’d lost her.

He glanced her way again.

She shifted as if she was trying to get comfortable, but her eyes didn’t open

He settled back in his seat and moaned. “I’ve gotta be up in five hours.”

“Dude, sleep in. You need it.”

“It’s Sunday. I can’t miss.”

“Yes, you can. I called Pastor and told him what happened. He said to take the day off and rest.”

Sleep—and Advil—sounded fabulous right now. “I wonder how long before this hits the news.”

Garrett glanced at the clock. “Three, four hours ago.”

“Come on. For real?”

“For real. I’ve talked to Mom and Dad, Jordan, Matt, Cam, Ethan twice—he called after seeing it on ESPN’s ticker. Just concerned, you know.”

Dillan scoffed. “Creeper.”

“Yeah, well. Hey, Tracy even called.”

Garrett lapsed into silence. Familiar buildings flew by.

“So what were you two doing by the lake? I thought she’d told you no.”

“We ran into each other. She had a showing, and I was bored.”

“Guess that changed, huh?”

That it had.

“Oh, dude.” Garrett slowed as he passed their building. “There’s guys with cameras outside.”

Dillan looked through the car’s back window. Four dark figures walked along the sidewalk, television cameras on two of their shoulders.

“Maybe you’ll end up on TMZ.”

Garrett was kidding. He hoped.

Dillan slumped in the seat and traced the edges of his raw forehead.

His brother turned into the building’s garage and parked beside Dillan’s SUV. Other than the security guard at the exit, no one was in sight.

Dillan eased the seatbelt across his sore ribs and slipped out of the car.

Miska still rested in the back.

“Dill, you should probably wake her.”

Yeah, although watching her sleep wasn’t all bad. After what she’d been through, she needed it. A near drowning, a long night making an official statement to the police…

“Umm, today, bro?”

He shook free of the sleep settling over him and opened the back door.

She barely stirred.

He leaned inside and ran his knuckle down the silkiness of her cheek. “Miska.”

She pressed her cheek into the seatback.

A chuckle rose in his throat. “Miska, baby, we’re back.” He touched her shoulder. So delicate. So fragile. “Miska. Honey, come on. We’re home. Let’s get you inside.”

Her eyes opened. She blinked at him, then looked around the car.

He held out his hand. “I’ll help you out.”

She grasped his fingers and slid across the seat until her feet touched the floor. She rose shakily.

Dillan used it as an excuse to rest a hand on her waist. “You okay?”

She nodded, eyes avoiding his.

Miska said nothing until they were inside their building’s elevator. Even then she kept her gaze locked onto the paneled wall. “Thanks for getting us, Garrett.”

“No problem.” Garrett frowned over her head at Dillan.

He shrugged back.

At their doors, Garrett said goodnight and made a quick exit.

Miska fumbled with her key.

“Need some help?”

She shook her head as she inserted the key into the lock.

“Miska.”

She stilled, her gaze on her door.

“Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He leaned against her doorjamb. “You won’t be alone. You’ve got me.”

Her head lowered.

She was just tired. He reached for her hair. She’d tried to finger comb it at the station, but it had dried a matted, tangled mess. A curl sprang beneath his touch and flipped out of his grasp.

“Dillan.” The way she said his name knotted his stomach. “About last night—”

“Take Mark out of the picture, and it was the best night of my life.”

“I can’t let you throw yourself away for me.”

He should have known she’d go there again. How many times did he have to tell her that her past was the past? “I meant everything I said. I care about you. A lot. And after what he did to you—”

“I deserved it.”

“What?” He ducked his head to hers. “No, you didn’t.”

“Mark’s right—I’m not innocent. I had an affair with a married man. I asked him to leave his wife. You deserve better than that.”

“Quit telling me what you think I deserve. All I want is you.”

She shook her head violently. “I won’t ruin you, Dillan. It’s bad enough that you were there tonight.”

If he hadn’t been, she’d be dead right now. “You’re exhausted. Let’s get some sleep and talk tomorrow.” No, it was already tomorrow. “Today. After lunch. I’ll order a pizza—”

She grabbed his arm. “Listen to me. Let me go. I’m not worth it.”

“Miska, stop it—”

“No! Somewhere there’s a woman who’s waited for you. A woman who’s kept herself pure for you.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Yes, you do. You want a woman who loves God and who comes to you a virgin. Just like you are.”

“You love God, Miska. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” Her eyes searched his. “I won’t have people whispering about you.”

“They won’t—”

“I heard what Garrett said about Ethan calling. About the men with cameras. I won’t ruin you.”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Listen to
me,
Miska. I don’t care what anyone says or thinks. I’ve seen the old Miska and the new one. I know who you are.”

“Do you? Do you know how many men I’ve been with?”

“I don’t care.”

“There was Gordon. Jared. Rob. Alex. Todd. That was high school.”

“Miska—”

“In college I let it all go. It wasn’t the number of men I was with. It was what I did—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Evan. Jonathan. Craig. Travis—”

“Stop it.”

“—Brandon. Troy.”

He grabbed his doorknob. Locked. “I don’t need to hear this.”

“You do, because you don’t even begin to know the way I lived. I was so broken. So messed up. So
used.
”

“And now God’s got you—you and me. I wouldn’t trust us with anyone but him.”

She smiled faintly. “You are the most beautiful man.”

He grabbed her hand. “Let’s talk over lunch. You can share whatever you want then.”

“You mean the rest of the names. Like Geoff. Craig—”

“You already said him.”

“Different Craig.”

He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t doing us any good. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll talk later.”

She kept quiet.

Good.

She unlocked her door and pushed it open.

“Good night, Miska. Sleep well.”

“’Bye, Dillan.”

She didn’t mean that.

Her door closed.

She couldn’t mean that.

Miska slept until knocking woke her.

Dillan stood outside her door, Dillan and a pizza. She told him she wasn’t up to it and went back to bed, trying to forget the anguish in his eyes, the sag in those broad shoulders.

Local news stations led with the story and a live broadcast beside the lake or in front of her building. Every friend, work associate, and then some called. Even Wade and Zane phoned. Miska told them all, including Tracy, that she needed a few days—time to heal and figure things out—before she saw anyone.

For the next three days Dillan knocked on her door. She never answered, instead curling up on her bed while the tears ran.

She had to let him go.

Ian, her realtor, showed the house every day. Each time, Miska escaped to the roof deck where she could hear Chicago honking and bustling far below. How she would miss this.

How she wanted to leave.

She skipped Wednesday’s small group. Just before nine o’clock, Tracy’s distinctive—and perhaps irritated—knock sounded.

Miska pushed herself off the couch. She shouldn’t have been surprised. If it was just Tracy, she’d let her in. She couldn’t escape the real world forever.

But four days of wallowing sure had been nice.

When she opened the door, Tracy raised her eyebrows. “So she’s not dead. Holy cow.”

“Don’t start on me.” She motioned Tracy inside. “I’m still sore. Did you notice the reporters outside?”

“That’s why you’re ignoring everyone. Because you’re sore and don’t want your picture taken.”

So this was how it was going to be. Miska flopped onto the overstuffed chair. “Let’s get this over with. Say what you came to say.”

Tracy’s eyes widened. “One of the most amazing men in the world is in agony next door because you won’t speak to him, and this is what you say? ‘Let’s get this over with’?”

Why wouldn’t Dillan let her go?

“Miska, the guy is sporting some crazy concrete burn on one side of his face and a lovely brown and yellow number on the other. He deserves for you to listen to him.”

“I have listened to him, Tracy. But he’s not listening to me. Don’t you get it? He’s too good for me.”

Tracy shook her head. “How?”

“My life isn’t going to be sane or normal or private until this whole nightmare goes away. Which could take years. He doesn’t need to be dragged through that.”