We sat back down on the bed, Kaine reaching down and untying my shoes before sliding them off. That simple gesture almost caused a new swarm of tears to burst, but instead of sitting across from each other, we sat next to each other at the head of the bed, and Kaine’s threw his arm protectively over my shoulders as we snuggled against the pillows.
God, I’d missed this. Missed the feeling of having someone in my corner, someone I could trust and rely on. I’d been so alone over the past six years. Vivian had tried to help, but there was a limit to what she or her family could do. My father was just too powerful.
I felt a part of me I wasn’t even aware of begin to relax and unwind in his arms. I knew Kaine would never hurt me, or let anyone else hurt me, ever.
I sighed, my head sagging against his shoulder, exhaustion from the night at the hospital and the emotional tide we’d inadvertently been sucked into taking its toll.
“Tell me what happened, Nicki,” he said, his hand running through my hair soothingly. It was a move he’d always done when we were kids. He’d been obsessed with my hair and always loved running his fingers through it.
Finally, slowly, I began to get the story out. I haltingly told him everything, from the time we’d gotten my diagnosis, my mom’s confession of infidelity, the beatings, everything up to the point where we left Florida.
Through parts of my story he’d held me tight, and I could feel his simmering fury radiating throughout his body. When I’d told him about my Dad holding me at gunpoint, he had frozen. As I finished my story about Vivian and her stockpile of meds he chuckled.
“I have got to meet her,” he whispered, laying a gentle kiss to my temple.
“You will. She is pretty awesome, even if she is a girl,” I teased. “We might have to make her an honorary member of the Tree House Club.”
We both laughed. When we were kids, his brothers and I had built a tree house in the land behind the Devereaux home. We’d spent many, many hours building on to it and making it something we thought was special. We’d tried to exclude his sister, Weaver, at one point, but his parents had made it clear in no uncertain terms that keeping her out was unacceptable. So we’d make her an honorary member of the Club. She’d come to one meeting, looked around and at our lame decorating attempts and told us we could do so much better.
We’d come back out the next day to find snacks, blankets, pillows, covers for the windows and battery-powered lamps. We had quickly amended our charter to allow females. No one had regretted letting her join us.
“I look forward to meeting her,” he answered, his other hand stroking my wrist where the tattoos lay. “Did he do this, too? When we were kids you always swore you’d never get a tattoo,” he said, continuing to stroke my skin.
“I was always terrified of the pain,” I admitted. “Turns out, there’s a lot worse things out there. H-he forced a tattoo artist in Tampa to do it. Threatened to put him in jail for something.”
“Nicki…” The simmering fury was back in his gaze. “Why didn’t you report him?”
“That’s the first question they asked me, too,” I said, shaking my head. “Vivian and her parents. My father was the Sheriff of our county. The town was so small, there was no local police department. All reports of domestic abuse went to his office. Dr. Dunwoody, Vivian’s dad, reported him when he broke my ankle. Dad just shredded the report in front of me and beat me again.”
Kaine’s hands tightened on my wrist. It didn’t hurt, but I could tell he was pissed.
“When I found out my mom had died, I felt so— guilty. Her death meant my freedom. I knew I could finally escape, that he couldn’t hold her life over me anymore. He couldn’t hurt her, anymore,” I said. “Her, or me.”
Kaine turned his face to look at me and smiled gently. “You did all this—endured all this—to keep your mom safe? She didn’t even know, did she?”
I shook my head. After that day in court, I’d never seen my mom again.
“Shit, Nick. And people say I have a protective streak…”
I elbowed him gently in the ribs.
“You do! Remember when those guys in junior high were talking smack about Weaver? You scared the shit out of them,” I said, smiling.
“Well, she’s my sister, I’m supposed to be protective of her,” he responded.
“It’s always been one of my favorite traits about you,” I said, turning to look at him.
He smiled again, but his face became serious.
“How did your mom die?” He asked gently.
“I-I don’t know, for sure,” I began. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“You never called the lawyers who contacted you?” He questioned.
“Yeah, I did. Just yesterday. I just didn’t really ask about it. I— I’ve just assumed she passed from some kind of complications from AIDS. She’d had it for a long time, and most of her life she had been untreated for it. I have an appointment with the attorney handling her estate next week. I didn’t contact them at first because I was afraid Dad would find a way to track me through them, somehow.”
“Well, there is that whole ‘attorney-client privilege’ thing,” he said, squeezing me reassuringly.
