Page 89 of Ricochet

“Yeah. I understand.”

CHAPTER 38

Nick

Tipping back the bottle of whiskey, I kicked back a heavy swill, watching Aubree sip her beer while she cooked bacon on a griddle, with nothing more than a pair of panties peeking beneath my white borrowed shirt.

The whole scene felt out of place. Oddly domestic, after a marathon of sex inside the broken down, dilapidated surroundings. Like some fucked up version of June and Ward Cleaver in the ghetto.

“Bacon is for breakfast.” I leaned into the countertop, crossing my arms.

Her cheek dimpled with a smile. “You’ve never had bacon and eggs for dinner?”

“Never. In fact, you’re probably breaking a law in some country, somewhere.”

“No, no, no.” She lifted a small piece she’d already cooked from a nearby plate, and sauntered toward me. “Bacon is like sex. You can have it any time of the day.” With the bacon caught between her teeth, she pressed into me, offering the food from her mouth, and as I bit down, I stole the meat and her kiss. “And it’s so damn good.”

“I can’t argue that.” I wrapped my arms around her, clutching both of her rounded ass cheeks, and bent forward for another kiss. Digging my fingers into her muscles had me appreciating the high lift and firmness of her ass. “Tight,” I said through clenched teeth against her mouth. “You’ve got one hell of a Brazilian ass.”

“French Canadian ass, thank you very much.”

I could see she had some exotic blend, in the chestnut color of her hair and the golden tone of her eyes. “You’re Canadian?”

“My father was. Anton Levesque. The first and only man I ever loved.”

“He died.”

She nodded. “Both my parents are gone now. My father, just about a year ago.”

“You said he was the first and only man you ever loved. What made you marry, if not for love?”

Her nostrils flared with a deep breath, as though she braced herself for the explanation. “Michael was a student of mine, suffering from the loss of … probably the only man in the world he ever respected. I suppose he thought love could fill that hole. And I was foolish enough to believe him.”

“So … you work with troubled adults? Thought it was kids.”

“Kids, too. Most of my patients have been severely abused. A lot of them have developed disorders as a result of trauma.” Sliding from my embrace, she stood beside me at the counter.

I crossed my empty arms. “What sparked that interest?”

Her eyes dipped away from mine, but only for a second. “When I was nine years old, we lived in a pretty quiet neighborhood of Detroit. It was actually River Rouge area. Lot of auto workers. Blue collar types. My dad was a factory worker.” She sipped her beer. “We didn’t have much. We were pretty poor.” The corner of her lip crinkled, giving the impression that whatever existence she’d lived was well below her new standard. “A boy lived next door to me, a little older than I was.” Gaze cast beyond me, she shook her head. “I’d never seen him in school, didn’t know if he went to school at all. He was never allowed to leave his back yard, so we used to play at the fence, where I had a sandbox that my father built for me.” As she talked, she toyed with the rim of the beer bottle, circling her index finger over the mouth of it, her eyes unfocused as though lost to the memory. “I’d make mud pies and pass them through the fence to him. I remember he always had bruises on his legs, during the summer when he wore shorts. As curious as I was, I never asked him about them, but I was mesmerized by the deep shades of purple and yellowing of the ones that’d begun to fade. I’d never been abused. Had no idea that an adult was capable of such cruelty.”

Listening to the way she described him, I couldn’t help but wonder how the kid had come to affect her life so profoundly.

“I … gave him a ring. Nothing expensive, just a plastic piece of junk I’d gotten from a cereal box, or something. Told him he was my best friend. My boyfriend, though I didn’t know what that was at the time.” Her brows pinched together. “He went missing two days later. For an entire week, I didn’t see him. He never came out to play. I thought maybe he’d gone to his grandma’s house for the week, as I sometimes did during the summer. At night, I’d hear noises that frightened me, like monsters outside my window. And then, one day, his backyard was full of people—police, cameras, news reporters. At the time, I didn’t know why all those people had gathered. My mother told me I was too young to understand, and so it wasn’t until later that I found out he’d been tied to a tractor in the shed and tortured.” She cleared her throat, her gaze dropping away from mine. “I think what bothered me most was, the whole time I thought he was gone, he was merely a few yards away from me. I’d even called out his name to play, but he never answered. He must’ve been so scared that he wouldn’t even answer me.” She blew out a shaky breath. “I could’ve saved him. If I’d told someone about the bruises, I probably could’ve saved him. If I’d asked where they’d come from, given him the chance to ask for help … but I never did.” Her gaze lifted to mine. “I vowed to listen from that point on. I promised to ask and never ignore the bruises and scars. I’d never ignore the signs again. So, that’s what I do. I help interpret signs.”

“What exactly do you do with your clients?”

“Art therapy. I used to have a class once a week.” She smiled again, standing beside me at the counter. “Before I was kidnapped. Really hope they’re not expecting a note to excuse my absence.”

Her comment made me chuckle. “So, what does an art therapist do?”

“Create. In loss or suffering, there can be joy in creating something that didn’t exist before. Creation and healing are born of the same thread. Bringing something to life can sometimes heal the soul, while still honoring what a person has lost.”

I frowned. “You can’t replace what’s lost with inanimate objects.”

“No. You can never replace what’s lost through art. In fact, a number of pieces I’ve created were made out of rage and frustration, for that very point you just made. I’d give anything to have my mother back.” Her head tipped back, and she smiled. “I remember she had the smoothest skin and the thickest hair. I could barely get my little fingers around it when she’d let me gather it into my hands. And her smell.” Her lids fluttered shut, nostrils flared as she sucked in a breath. “No painting could ever capture such a wonderful smell. Like home. But it wasn’t until I first painted her face that I was forced to remember all the things I loved about her.”

Elbows rested on the countertop, Aubree balanced her chin on her palm, and as she talked, and I tried to recall what my home had smelled like. The laundry my wife insisted on hanging out on the line during summer. The dinners she cooked in the evenings, so rich they filled every room. Lena’s perfume. The soap in my son’s hair after she’d bathed him. If I concentrated, I could almost remember.