"If we had children," I told him, "you would hit them too."
Fresh rage began to color his face. "Shut your mouth."
"You would," I insisted. "You would knock them around whenever they did something you didn't like. That's one of the reasons I don't want your baby."
Nick's lack of reaction scared me. It became so quiet that the drip-drip from the showerhead made me flinch. He stared at me without blinking, his hazel eyes flat and shiny like buttons. Drip. Drip. Drip. Gooseflesh rose over my na*ed body, the towel damp and cold around me.
"Where are they?" he asked abruptly, and pushed past me. He started rummaging through the bathroom drawers, tossing out compacts and hairpins and brushes, everything clattering to the wet tile floor.
"Where are what?" I asked, my heart kicking into overdrive, going so wild that it made my rib cage hurt. I was amazed at how calm I sounded when terror was corroding my insides like battery acid. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
He threw an empty water glass to the floor, smashing it. And he continued to empty out drawers like a madman. "You know exactly what I'm asking."
If he found the birth control pills, he would kill me. A strange, sickening resignation settled beneath the fear, and my pulse quieted. I was light-headed and freezing. "I'm going to get dressed," I said, still calm, even as he broke, ripped, threw, destroyed, liquids and powders spilling, running together in oozing pastel puddles.
I went to my dresser, pulled out jeans and underwear and a T-shirt even though it was late and I should have reached for pajamas. I guess my subconscious had already figured out I wouldn't be sleeping that night. As I finished dressing, Nick stormed into the bedroom and shoved me aside. He pulled out drawers and upended them, emptying my clothes into piles.
"Nick, stop it."
"Tell me where they are!"
"If you're looking for an excuse to hit me again," I said, "just go ahead and do it." I didn't sound defiant. I wasn't even scared anymore. I was weary, the kind of weary you get to when your thoughts and emotions dry up to nothing.
But Nick was determined to find proof that I had betrayed him, and punish me until I would forever be afraid. Finishing with the drawers, he went into the closet and started throwing my shoes and ripping open my purses. I didn't try to run or hide. I just stood there, numb and expectant, waiting for the execution.
He came from the closet with the pills in hand, hell in his face. I dimly understood that he was no more in control of his actions than I was. There was a monster in him that had to be fed, and he wouldn't stop until it was satisfied.
I was grabbed and slammed against the wall, my head filled with white noise as the back of my skull struck the hard surface. Nick hit me harder than he ever had before, his hand closed this time, and I felt my jaw crack. I only understood a few words, something about the pills, and I was going to have all the goddamn pills I wanted, and he tore some from the package and shoved them into my mouth, and tried to hold my jaw shut as I spat and sputtered. He hit me in the stomach and I doubled over, and he dragged me through the first-floor apartment to the front door.
I went hurtling to the ground, landing hard on the edge of the from doorstep. A piercing agony shot through me as his foot connected with my ribs. "You stay there till morning," he snarled. "You think about what you've done."
The door slammed shut.
I lay outside on the pavement, the sun-heated asphalt smoking like a stove plate even though it was dark. October in Texas was as hot as high summer. Cicadas creaked and teemed, the vibration of their tymbals filling the air. After a long time I sat up and spat out a mouthful of salty liquid, and evaluated the damage. I hurt in my stomach and ribs and between the legs, and in the back of the head. My mouth was bleeding, and there was searing pain in my jaw.
My biggest fear was that Nick might open the door and drag me back in.
Trying to think above the violent pounding in my head, I considered my options. No purse. No money. No driver's license. No cell phone. No car keys. No shoes either. I looked down at my bare feet, and I had to laugh even though it hurt my swollen mouth. Shit, this was not good. It occurred to me that I might actually have to wait outside all night like a cat Nick had thrown out. Come morning, he would let me in, and I would crawl back, chastened and defeated.
I wanted to curl up and start crying. But I found myself lurching to my feet, fighting for balance.
To hell with you, I thought, glancing at the closed door. I could still walk.
If I could have gone to anyone at that moment, it would have been my best friend, Todd. I needed his understanding and comfort.
But in these circumstances, there was only one person who could really help me. Gage Everyone from McAllen to El Paso either owed him favors or wanted to do him favors. He could solve a problem quickly, efficiently, with no fanfare. And there was no one in the world I trusted more.
I walked to the grocery store a quarter mile away, barefoot. As the darkness thickened, a full orange moon rose in the sky. It wavered before my eyes as if it were a set decoration in a high school play, hanging on hooks. A hunter's moon. I felt foolish and scared as the lights of passing cars crossed over me. But soon my accumulated aches and pains grew to the point that I stopped feeling foolish. I had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I was afraid I might pass out. I kept my head low, not wanting anyone to stop by the side of the road. No questions, no strangers, no police. They might take me back to my husband. Nick had become so powerful in my mind that I thought he might explain everything away, take me back to that condo and possibly kill me.
The ache in my jaw was the worst. I tried to match my teeth together to see if it was broken or askew, but even the slightest movement of my mouth was agony. By the time I reached the grocery store, I was seriously considering offering my wedding band as a trade for some Tylenol. But there was no way I was going into that brightly lit store with all the people coming and going. I knew how I looked, the attention it would draw, and that was the last thing I wanted.
I found a pay phone outside, and I made a collect call, pushing each button with fierce concentration. I knew Gage's cell phone number by heart. Please answer, I thought, wondering what I would do if he didn't. Please answer. Please . . .
And then I heard his voice, and the operator asked if he would accept the call.
"Gage?" I held the receiver with both hands, gripping as if it were a lifeline.
"Yeah, it's me. What's going on?"
The task of answering, explaining, was so overwhelming that for a moment I couldn't speak. "I need you to come get me," I managed to whisper.
His voice became very calm, gentle, as if he were speaking to a child. "What happened, darlin'? Are you all right?"
"No."
A brief, electric silence, and then he asked urgently, "Where are you, Haven?"
I couldn't answer for a moment. The relief of hearing my own name, spoken in that familiar voice, melted through the numbness. My throat worked hard, and I felt hot tears gush down my face, stinging my abraded skin. "Grocery store," I finally managed to choke out.
"In Dallas?"
"Yes."
"Haven, are you by yourself?" I heard him ask. "Uh-huh."
"Can you take a cab to the airport?"
" No." I sniffled and gulped. "I don't have my purse."
"Where are you?" Gage repeated patiently. I told him the name of the grocery store and the street it was on. "Okay. I want you to wait near the front entrance . . . is there a place you can sit?"
"There's a bench."
"Good girl. Haven, go sit on that bench and do not move. I'll have someone there as soon as possible. Don't go anywhere, do you understand? Sit there and wait."
"Gage," I whispered, "don't call Nick, 'kay?"
I heard him draw an unsteady breath, but when he spoke, his voice was even. "Don't worry, sweetheart. He's not coming near you again."
As I sat on the bench and waited, I knew I was garnering curious glances. My face was bruised, one eye was almost swollen shut and my jaw was huge. A child asked his mother what was wrong with me, and she hushed him and told him not to stare. I was grateful that no one approached me, that people's natural instincts were to avoid the kind of trouble I was obviously in.
I wasn't aware of how much time passed. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. But eventually a man approached the bench, a young black guy wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. He lowered to his haunches in front of me, and I looked blearily into a pair of worried brown eyes. He smiled as if to reassure me. "Miss Travis?" His voice was as soft and rich as sorghum syrup. "I'm Oliver Mullins. A friend of your brother's. He called and said you needed a ride." Staring at me, he added slowly, "But now I'm wondering if maybe you don't need to go to the emergency room."
I shook my head, panicking. "No. No. Don't want that. Don't take me there — "
"Okay," he soothed. "Okay, no problem. I'll take you to the airport. Let me help you to my car."
I didn't move. "Promise we're not going to the emergency room."
"I promise. I absolutely promise."
I still didn't move. "Can't get on a plane," I mumbled. It was getting really hard to talk. "Don't have my driver's license."
"It's a private plane, Miss Travis." His gaze was kind and pitying.
"You won't need your license, or a ticket. Come on, let's — " He broke off as he saw my torn bleeding feet. "Christ," he whispered.
"No hospital," I muttered.
Without asking permission, Oliver sat beside me. I watched as he took off his shoes and socks, slipped his bare feet back into the loafers, and carefully put his own socks on me. "I'd give you the shoes," he said, "but there's no way you could keep 'em on. Will you let me carry you to the car?"
I shook my head. I was pretty sure I couldn't tolerate being held by anyone, for any reason, no matter how briefly.
"That's all right," Oliver murmured. "You just take your time, then." He stood and waited patiently while I struggled up from the bench, his hands half raised as if he had to stop himself from reaching for me. "Car's over there. The white Cadillac."
Together we walked slowly to the car, a gleaming pearl-colored sedan, and Oliver held the door open as I crawled in. "Would you be more comfortable with the seat back lowered?" he asked.
I closed my eyes, too exhausted to answer. Oliver leaned down, pressed a button, and eased the seat back until I was half reclining.
He went to the other side, got in and started the car. The Cadillac purred smoothly as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road. I heard the sound of a cell phone being flipped open, and a number being dialed. "Gage," Oliver said after a moment. "Yeah, I got her. Headed to DFW right now. Have to tell you, though . . . he knocked her around pretty good. She's a little out of it." A long pause, and Oliver answered quietly. "I know, man." More talking on the other end. "Yeah, I think she's okay to travel, but when she gets there . . . Uh-huh, I think so, definitely. I'll let you know when she takes off. No problem
There was no softer ride than a Cadillac — the closest thing to a mattress on wheels — but every delicate bounce sent fresh aches through my body. I tried to grit my teeth against the pain, only to gasp at the burst of fire in my jaw.
I heard Oliver's voice between the loud throbs of the pulse in my ears. "Feel like you're going to get sick, Miss Travis?"
I made a small negative sound. No way was I going to do that — it would hurt too much.
A small plastic trash receptacle was settled carefully in my lap. "Just in case."
I was silent, my eyes closed, as Oliver maneuvered carefully through the traffic. Lights from passing cars sent a dull red glow through my lids. I was vaguely worried by the difficulty I had in thinking coherently . . . I couldn't seem to come up with any idea of what would happen next. Trying to grab hold of a coherent thought was like standing under a big cloud and trying to catch raindrops with a teaspoon. I felt like I would never be in control of anything again.
"You know," I heard Oliver say, "my sister used to get beat up by her husband. Pretty often. For no reason. For any reason. I didn't know about it at the time, or I would have killed the son of a bitch. She finally left him and brought her kids to my mama's house, and stayed there till she got her life back together. Saw a shrink and everything. My sister told me the thing that helped her the most was to hear it wasn't her fault. She needed to hear that a lot. So I want to be the first one to tell you . . . it wasn't your fault."
I didn't move or speak. But I felt tears leak from beneath my closed eyelids.
"Not your fault," Oliver repeated firmly, and drove me the rest of the way in silence.
I dozed a little and woke a few minutes later when the car had topped and Oliver was opening the door. The roar of a departing jet tore through the cushioned quiet of the Cadillac, and the smells of fuel and equipment and humid Texas air drifted over me. Blinking and sitting up slowly, I realized we were on the tarmac.
"Let me help you out," Oliver said, reaching for me. I shrank from his outstretched hand and shook my head. Clasping an arm across the place on my ribs where Nick had kicked me, I struggled from the car by myself. When I got to my feet, my head swam and a gray mist covered my eyes. I swayed and Oliver caught my free arm to steady me.
"Miss Travis," he said, continuing to grip my arm even as I tried to shake him off. "Miss Travis, please listen to me. All I want to do is help you get on that plane. You've got to let me help you. If you fall trying to get up those steps by yourself, you'd have to go to the hospital for sure. And I'd have to go there with you, 'cause your brother would break both my legs."
I nodded and accepted his hold, even as my instincts screamed to throw him off. The last thing I wanted was to be touched by another man, no matter how apparently trustworthy or friendly. On the other hand, I wanted to be on that plane. I wanted to get the hell out of Dallas, away from Nick.
"Okay, now," Oliver murmured, helping me shuffle toward the plane. It was a Lear 31A, a light jet made to accommodate up to six passengers. With four-foot-high winglets and delta fins attached to the tail cone, it looked like a bird poised for flight. "Not far," Oliver said, "and then you'll get to sit again, and Gage will be there to pick you up at the other end." As we ascended the stairs with torturous slowness, Oliver kept up a running monologue as if he were trying to distract me from the agony of my jaw and ribs. "This is a nice plane. It belongs to a software company headquartered in Dallas. I know the pilot real well. He's good, he'll get you there safe and sound."