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But he’s not here. I am. I answered the phone. I heard her sobs, her plea for help.
The uncertainty mixes with the adrenaline coursing through my system. I need to see her. I need to be sure she’s okay. Fear pulses through me, hot and suffocating. I urge the driver to speed up, tell him it’s an emergency.
Because it is.
When the taxi driver pulls up outside her building, I toss some bills at him and dart from the cab. A quick glance down the alley reveals her bedroom light glowing like a beacon. The curtain sways in the faint breeze, and I catch a glimpse of her shadow beyond the fire escape that crisscrosses the side of the building.
She must have stepped outside for a smoke.
I slip past a couple exiting the building and head inside. When I reach her door, I’m breathless, and my pounding heart echoes in my chest like a jackhammer.
“Marcy.” I pound my fist on the door. “It’s Rob. Open the door, baby.”
My hand flexes impatiently at the distinct sound of the deadbolt and chain. When the door opens, it’s like someone’s taken a sucker punch straight to my solar plexus. Rage, red hot and all-consuming, floods me.
“What the hell happened, Marcy?” I rush inside and close the door behind me, then lock it. My gaze never strays from her.
Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. But it’s not the tears that have me fuming. It’s the darkening bruise framing her face and the gash high on her cheek, leaving a trail of blood against her pale skin. She presses a bloodstained rag to it and the tears flow anew.
Without thought, I pull her into my arms. Her shoulders tremble as I hold her close. She sobs against my chest, and I let her.
A million thoughts slam into me at once. Was she attacked on the street? Did someone mug her? I hold my tongue. I’ll have to wait for answers. Right now, she just needs to be held. To know she’s safe.
“It’s all right, baby.” I rub my hands gently across her back in a soothing rhythm. “You’re safe now. It’s over.” I repeat it, over and over, until she quiets in my embrace and the trembling dissipates to soft hiccups.
When she finally pulls away, she groans at the sight of her blood on my shirt. “Sorry.” Marcy sniffs.
“I work in the ER. Bloodstains might be a bitch to get out of my lab coat, but they don’t scare me.” I offer a smile and guide her to the couch. “Sit down. Let me take a look.”
Marcy sits beside me, her gaze fixed on the floor. I put my bag on the coffee table before turning toward her.
“Chin up. Let me see.”
She drops the bloody rag into her lap. I gently cup her chin in my hand and rotate her face in the light. Contusion on both sides with bruising. A laceration in the soft tissue across her zygomatic arch. It’s not deep, but it’s still bleeding. Damn it.
I reach into the kit and withdraw antiseptic and some cotton swabs. I’ll clean it, then put some ice on the swelling. Hopefully, it’ll stop the bleeding as well.
“It’ll sting.” I dab antiseptic on the wound, and she flinches, hissing in a breath. “Sorry.”
I take the rag from her hand and place her fingers on the cotton ball against the wound. “Hold this. I’ll get some ice.”
In the freezer, I find a frozen bag of peas. That’ll work. My mind races as the onslaught of emotions propels me to action. Even though I want to push for details, I don’t. I grab a clean hand towel from the closet and wrap the peas before replacing the cotton with the cold pack. Years of training kick in, and I walk through the motions to ensure she’s cared for properly.
“This should calm things down,” I assure her, but she still won’t meet my gaze. She’s withdrawn due to the trauma.
I sigh. “Marcy. Look at me.”
Those bewitching eyes, full of pain and shame, finally meet mine. Her lower lip trembles.
“What happened?” My breath catches in my throat at the way she cringes at the question.
“Don’t. I can’t, he’ll...” She bites her lip and shakes her head. “Don’t ask.”
“He?” The barely suppressed rage boils to the surface. “Who did this to you, Marcy?” I grit my teeth, trying like hell not to snap in half from the pressure building inside me.
She shakes her head harder. “I can’t.”
The normally tough-as-nails woman I’ve loved for years sits before me like she had that horrible night. Fragile and bruised, fearful and angry. But this time, there’s more. She’s embarrassed about it. There’s a layer of shame across the surface.
