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“It was the police who took them. A woman. She had to document all of my injuries and bruises. I’ve never felt so...”
She was in front of a camera every day at work. But she’d told him once that neither she nor Lacey had ever done any nude work. And never would.
“It’s not the same as at work,” he said now, feeling completely inadequate. And then, out of the blue, he thought of Diane. She was at his house, with Willie, and she’d need an explanation for his sudden disappearance.
She knew his clients.
Would know that there’d be no bill for this night.
And he wasn’t sure the fake girlfriend thing was going to fly...
He felt the possibility of lies piling up on him, when a vision of his sister’s face replaced the worry.
He was a great brother. His siblings all said so. He knew how to be a brother.
Settling back to just listen to her, and to care, he cradled Kacey against him.
Tonight, Kacey needed a brother.
This he could do.
* * *
“DO YOU THINK they’ll find them?”
Kacey fiddled with the button on Michael’s shirt. Unbuttoned it. Buttoned it again. Ran her fingers along the smooth little perimeter. Touched the threads in the center, holding it in place.
“From what I hear, you gave a fairly good description.” His voice was a comfort. She didn’t want to go outside until the guys were caught and locked away.
She didn’t want to risk seeing them. Risk them seeing her.
“I want to go back to Beverly Hills tomorrow,” she said, even though she knew he didn’t think she should. “I want to be away from here.”
“Did the police indicate whether or not they think they’re locals?”
She listened to the even cadence of his heartbeat, feeling secure for the first time since the attack.
“I’m not sure,” she told him. “I just remember telling them that I thought they were.”
“Why did you think that?”
“I don’t know. I guess because whenever I’m here I envy the locals. I think everyone’s a local and I’m not.”
She was an outsider here.
And wanted to go home.
But the thought of leaving Michael. And Lacey...
“They hurt me in places a girl shouldn’t ever be hurt...” She kept thinking about those fingers on her breast. Pinching her nipple. She grasped Michael’s shirt with both hands, pressing herself more securely against him.
“I’m so sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. Wiped her cheek as more tears fell.
“Hold me,” she begged. “Please, just hold me.”
He couldn’t make the memories go away. But lying there in Michael’s arms somehow made the replays more manageable.
So she let them come. She knew from the Lemonade Stand that to hold them in, to try to bury them, would only help for a moment. The doctor had said the same. She had to talk.
