Saved by the SEAL (10 page)

S
omething is very, very wrong. I can tell by the tiny muscle I see twitching on the side of Grisham's neck as he hauls ass to his parents' home. I'm not sure who was on the other end of that phone call, but it clearly scared the religion out of him. The set, determined look on his face, lying just on top of a thin layer of fear, reminds me of the way I feel when I receive a call from my mom about Gabi.

Someone he loves is in trouble.

Glancing down, I see the knuckles of the hand resting on the gearshift are white. I lay my hand gently on top of his and don't let go as he shifts the manual transmission. A piece of blond hair is falling over one eye and I want so badly to reach over and brush it away. But at this point I think it's best to keep the physical contact between us to a minimum.

I push the feelings about the most spectacular kiss in the history of kisses down deep, promising to revisit it later. Right now I'm just worried about him and what he might be about to walk into.

We pull into a short driveway leading up to a three-level beach house. Under any other circumstances, I'd be gawking about the size of the place. His parents clearly aren't hurting for money, though I figured a navy admiral and his wife would be living well.

Grisham throws open his car door and climbs out.

“Stay here.” He tosses the words at me and is off running toward the front door. I flinch as the Jeep door slams soundly behind him.

I know I should listen to him;
I know I should.
But the little voice living inside my head tells me I can't let him walk into this situation alone. So I slide out of my seat and steal silently through the humid night to follow him.

Grisham's already entered the house, where I can hear things shattering and banging inside. When I cross the threshold I don't see anything, but I hear the commotion coming from the back of the house. I creep down the ornate hallway, decorated with all kinds of seaside knickknacks and beautiful, glossy ocean art. The place is so beautiful, but every few feet there's something broken on the floor or a picture is hanging askew. A growing feeling of dread threatens to take over, but I will it away and keep going.

The sound of raised voices is coming from just around the next corner. When I peek around the driftwood-paneled wall, the scene before me makes my mouth go dry.

Grisham is standing in front of what must be his mother, his hands on her shoulders. He's crouching so that he's eye level with her, asking her repeatedly if she's all right. She's clearly not all right. Her short blond hair is flying all around her head, and her bare arms are covered in bruises. Her tear-streaked face is stricken, and her wild eyes are focused on the man standing a few feet behind Grisham, shouting obscenities at his wife and son.

“Mom! Look at me. Not at him. Do you need the hospital?”

She finally shifts her focus to Grisham and shakes her head. “No, I…no.”

“Listen to me, Mom. We're not brushing this under the rug like the other times. He's going down for this.”

Grisham's father raises his voice even louder. “You little piece of shit! Do you know who I am? How dare you threaten me! Don't talk about me like I'm not in the room; I'm your father, you fucking idiot.”

Grisham turns his back on his mother, and his fist flies, landing a solid punch in the wall beside him. A crack forms in the plaster, and my hands fly to cover my mouth.

“You sick son of a bitch! No more. No fucking more. You'll never lay another hand on her, do you hear me?” Grisham's face is turning a frightening shade of garnet as he advances on his father, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The expression on his face reads pure fury, unbridled and unrestrained. His breaths are coming fast and hard, and I almost don't recognize the man standing before me.

I flinch at the harshness of their words.

As dysfunctional as my relationship is with my father, never has he ever spoken to me or my mother or sisters in this way. Never has he cursed at us or belittled us. My face must reflect the horror I feel, and I can't help the startled cry that escapes me.

Freezing midstep, Grisham glances my way, and I see the flash of pain in his expression when his eyes land on me. But he quickly turns his attention back to his mom.

“Mom, look. My friend Greta is standing over there. I want you to let her take you outside. Okay?”

His mother's face looks panicked as her gaze flickers from her husband to her son and back again. “No, Grisham. I won't leave you alone with him.”

His voice grows soft and tender. “You're done protecting me. And we're both done protecting him. Now, go!”

He gives her a little shove, and with a sob, she stumbles in my direction.

My brain switches to autopilot as I catch her in my arms and hustle her back the way I came and out the front door. She immediately crumples to the steps and begins to sob. I pat her shoulder and sprint to the car, retrieving my phone. Then I run back to the porch steps where Mrs. Abbot sits. With one arm wrapped tightly around her, I use my other to pull my phone out of my pocket.

I dial 9-1-1.

The military police car pulls away from the curb with Admiral Abbot inside.

I watch as Grisham guides his mother into the passenger seat of his aunt's car. His aunt has driven an hour from a different part of the state when she heard her sister needed her. Then he turns and has a few words with his aunt, who, in turn, hugs him tightly. He taps the roof of the car with a fist just before it pulls out of the driveway.

My heart twists painfully as he stands still in the driveway long after the car is gone. I can't imagine the turmoil that must be tearing him up right now. How long had his father been hurting his mother? How long has he had to bear the weight of the secret that just tore his family apart?

My feet carry me to where he's standing before I realize I'm moving. I stand beside him and grab his hand, entwining our fingers together as I stare off into the darkness in the same direction. Grisham remains still, but his large palm squeezes my hand tightly.

“Come on, Grisham,” I whisper gently. “Let's go.”

He nods absently, and we turn toward the Jeep. He opens the passenger door and grabs my waist to help me up before closing my door and walking around to the driver's side.

When he starts the ignition, he sits for a moment, his head resting against the back of his seat. He looks heavy, defeated, like he's carrying the weight of fifteen men on his shoulders. My heart breaks for him, over and over again.

“Grits…I understand, after everything you just saw, if you want me to take you home.”

I turn in my seat to face him completely, trying to show him how open I am. “What do you want? Do you want to be alone?”

His reply is automatic. “No. I really don't.”

“Then take me home with you.”

His deep green gaze holds mine for a moment, and I'm trapped there, the startled doe to his harsh headlights. Without saying a word, something passes between us. A sense of understanding, maybe, or the assurance that we both come from pretty fucked-up families, but we can find comfort in the other's commiseration.

Finally, he throws the Jeep in reverse and backs out of the driveway. The drive to his house is quiet; we're both tucked deeply in our own thoughts. When we walk into the house, Grisham closes the door behind us as I stand, waiting in the entryway.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, walking past me toward the kitchen.

“I think we could both use something stiff,” I suggest. “Wine?” Following him toward the kitchen, I stop beside the fridge, leaning against the kitchen counter.

He shakes his head and gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I'm all out. Beer, or I can bust out a bottle of Jack.”

It only takes a moment before we simultaneously blurt, “Jack.”

With a tiny smile that kicks up just the corner of his full lips he grabs the bottle and pours the thin amber liquid into tumblers. He adds two ice cubes to his and raises his eyebrow to me in question.

Shaking my head, I sip the whiskey, letting the comfortable fire burn a path down my throat. I smack my lips together a few times as I adjust to the heat.

“Nope. I like my whiskey neat.”

Watching me, Grisham knocks back his own large gulp without blinking. “You're full of surprises, you know that, Grits? I'm pretty sure that most girls, after seeing the shit show that happened at my parents' house tonight, would have called a cab midway through. But you…you stayed.”

I down my drink, never taking my eyes off of him. I walk over and grab the bottle beside him, filling up my glass again.

“Of course I stayed, Grisham. You needed me.”

He pours himself a second glass. “Losing my temper like that…the way I was back at my parents'? That shit never happened before my accident. Sometimes I have trouble getting control of my temper. I hate that you had to see that side of me.”

He drops his gaze, and I shake my head. “You had every right to be pissed. The things he was saying...I don't expect you to be perfect, Grisham. I don't know why you expect it of yourself.”

I watch him sip, mesmerized by the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. A small drop of whiskey escapes his glass and drips down his lip and onto the rough stubble coating his jaw. The strongest wave of lust I've ever felt overtakes me, making me blush. I want nothing more in that moment than to use my tongue to follow the trail that drop of whiskey is taking.

“I…I've never been able to help her, you know?”

I snap back to attention at the serious tone in his voice. His eyes are so sad, I want to wrap him in my arms and never let go.

He takes another gulp of his drink before continuing. “It didn't happen too often, you know? That I was aware of. But when I was little, there was nothing I could do. Then, as I got older, my mom would stand in front of me to make sure I didn't step in. Or she would send me away before it started. He never touched me…he only put his hands on her. It pissed me off even as a little kid. I knew it was wrong for a man to treat the woman he loved that way. But I still knew…and I could have told someone.”

“Why didn't you?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I shake my head, angry with myself.

Stupid, Greta. So freaking stupid.

Grisham's hand on my arm stills me. “No, it's okay. It's a fair question. I didn't tell because in the military, domestic violence isn't always handled with the vigilance it deserves. Especially when its offenders are as high up in rank as my father. No one knew, you know? He let me know in no uncertain terms that if I told, no one would believe me. And that I'd be separated from my mom for lying. I didn't want to leave her.”

I'm horrified. “He lied to you. He used your love for your mom to scare you into silence.”

His face is crestfallen. “Yeah, he did. And I bought it. But after what I saw tonight…I couldn't take it anymore. I haven't been living with them for a while now…I hoped it had stopped. She told me it had, when I asked her.”

My gut twists with sympathy. I can't imagine not being able to protect my mother from something so violent. Not being able to protect my sister from her CF nearly kills me, and that isn't something anyone can control. What Grisham has gone through, watching his mother hurt and not being able to stop it, must have eaten a hole straight through the inside of him.

“You did the right thing tonight…he's going to be prosecuted.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, he is. But I don't know what the outcome will be. I'm going to try my damnedest to make sure this doesn't get swept under the rug.”

I nod emphatically. “You were her hero tonight. You'll do what needs to be done.”

That tiny smile pulls at his mouth once more. “You know, with my leg…sometimes it feels like I can't do it anymore. Save people, I mean. It's all I've ever wanted to do, probably because I couldn't ever save my mom. But after the accident…I thought my ability to help people was gone.”

Unable to stay away from him any longer, I turn toward him and wrap my arms around his neck. My fingers find the soft hair there, rubbing gently and feeling each and every sensation they make on my skin. Gazing up at him, I attempt to speak truth right into his soul.

“Grisham, your ability to help people is just beginning. Don't you remember how we came back into each other's lives? You saved me from the ocean. And you just saved your mother from the person who's been hurting her most of your life. It's tragic that he's your father, but you did what needed to be done. You save people…it's what you do. And I have no doubt you'll continue to do it. God, I wish you could see how amazing you are.”

Something shifts in his gaze, something that was previously dark becomes light, and a ragged breath escapes him. He also downs the rest of his whiskey, and then he cups my face with one large palm. The rough pads of his fingers brush against my skin, and a shiver runs through me in response. Seeing it, his eyes darken once again; this time they're flooded with desire.

“You're kind of incredible.” His voice is nothing but a caress, and I close my eyes and lean into his palm. Something warm heats up my insides; whether it's from the whiskey or the lust pooling in my core I can't decide. My breathing comes faster, harder.

Suddenly, his hands encircle my waist as he lifts me onto the granite countertop. My butt lands hard against the stone, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through me. His touch is light and sensual on my thighs as he strokes from my knees upward, pushing my dress with it. Feeling the heady effects of the whiskey combined with Grisham's clean, musk-and-ocean scent, my head falls back and a small sound of need escapes me when his hands meet the creases between hip and thigh.