Taylor is still not looking at me. There is a heavy bandage on her wrist and hand, only her thumb and tips of her fingers sticking out and I see red.
Tamping down the rage, I step closer, she still refuses to look at me, so I reach out carefully and touch her chin. “Lookat me.”
“It looks worse than it is.”
“Cherry, look at me.”
She must hear something in my voice, and it’s not anger or an order. It was quiet, almost gentle. Nothing like I’m used to hearing from myself.
Slowly she turns her head and I keep my fingers on her chin, holding it up as I study every bruise, every cut and mark on her beautiful skin.
It takes a hell of a lot not to curse but I don’t want to scare her. She is still hugging herself. The embarrassment is clear, and she’s trembling slightly, but she doesn’t need to feel that way. Not around me.
“What have the police done?”
She shrugs. “The surveillance footage wasn’t clear and I couldn’t describe what they looked like.”
So nothing then. They were right. The footage is clear enough for me to see the tears running down her broken face, but not any way to identify the rider. Blaze won’t stop until he finds him.
“It’s been happening a lot apparently. I’m not the first. I appreciate you coming but… wait how did you know where I live?”
“Not important.”
“It kind of is,” she frowns, a bit of the Taylor I’d seen the first time we met slips out.
“We’ll worry about that later, I want to know everything about what happened.”
“You think you can do more than the cops?”
“I know I can.”
“Noah… I don’t want you to do anything crazy.”
“What makes you think I’ll do something crazy. Cos I’m in a gang?”
She rolls her eyes, then winces.
“Fuck,” I sigh and take a step closer. Taylor watches as I slowly stroke my finger around the bruise under her eye, careful not to touch it. The colors of the bruise are at that horrible purple green stage, and the cut on her lip is healing but still looks sore.
She closes her eyes, and a tear falls from between her lashes. Her chest hitches as she struggles not to let her emotions get the better of her.
I’m going to murder him for even daring to touch her.
Around us, there are reminders of her father everywhere, pictures, an old sweater on the chair, and it dawns on me that she is here alone. Imight have a shitty dad, but Taylor didn’t. All I can think about is how relieved Oscar was after his nightmare when I held him and soothed him and without thinking, I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest.
Taylor resists for a moment, her body tensing but I don’t give her a chance to pull away. It’s selfish and I might be an asshole for doing it because she barely knows me, but something tells me she needs this. After a while, she leans into me and I wrap my arms tighter around her back.
Her little sniffs and the dampness seeping through my shirt tells me she is crying. I can’t fucking stand this but I refuse to let her go. I’ll stand here and hold her as long as she needs it. There is more to this outpour, this is about her dad too.
I’m really fucking confused about how I’ve ended up here and what it means.
When she moves back and wipes at her eyes, I guide her over to the couch. She sits down, keeping her eyes off me. I glance through the dining room to a kitchen and walk through, searching through the cabinets till I find cups.
There is tea on the counter beside a kettle, not something you see often. I fill it with water and set a tea bag in the mug. Something I learned from one of the older-timers old lady's a while ago. Taylor doesn’t move except to pull a blanket around her shoulders and she stares at me when I come back with two steaming cups.
I’m not a tea drinker, but what the hell. She needs to know I’m here for now.
“You have anyone who can look after you?” I ask, handing her one of the cups and sitting down beside her.
