Cambria Hebert - Text

“I don’t know, baby,” he said gently. “I sure hope so.”

My chest felt tight and my stomach was jittery. Hearing such tenderness out of this large and steely man did things— very good things —to my body.

It was the stuff I wrote about.

The stuff I never really thought existed outside of those pages.

My fingers itched; they longed to touch him. He was so close, and he watched me so carefully that I couldn’t resist slowly reaching out to trace along the jagged scar that stretched across his cheekbone. He didn’t flinch or pull away. He sat there completely still while my fingers caressed him.

“What happened to you?” I whispered.

He caught my fingers and pulled them away, wrapping his around mine, dwarfing my hand in his, and pulled it close to his chest. I waited for his answer, curious and patient at the same time. I knew whatever answer he would give would not come easy, and I didn’t mind waiting. Nathan was a man worth waiting for.

The door made a loud scraping sound as it opened and dragged across the floor. Irritation skittered through me because someone dared to interrupt this moment. I didn’t want anyone else in here. I only wanted Nathan.

Get a grip, I told myself. This isn’t some cheesy soap opera. This is real life. You got shit to do.

But even my thoughts couldn’t keep my eyes from straying from him.

“Miss Calhoun,” an older doctor in a white coat said. “Glad to see you’re awake.” He carried a clipboard (didn’t they always?) and had the traditional stethoscope hung around his neck.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked as Nathan released my hand and returned to his chair beside the bed.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“The police are here. They would like to take your statement.”

Nathan sat up a little higher in his chair but said nothing. I nodded. “That’s fine. I’m sorry I slept so long.”

“Your body needed the rest, Miss Calhoun. We gave you something to help you sleep. From here on out, you will be getting Naproxen, which is similar to a strong Motrin.”

I nodded.

“Are you in pain?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But it’s not as bad as before.”

The doctor glanced at the clipboard. “Most of your injuries are superficial and will heal quickly. You have a lot of bruising, some swelling, and a bump on your head. It doesn’t appear that you have a concussion. We put three stitches in your hand and removed the glass that was beneath the skin.”

I glanced down at my hand, which was bandaged. How had I not realized I had stitches until he pointed it out? It must have been from the glass in the truck.

“Our biggest concern is your ribs.” The doctor continued.

“They’re broken,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Several of them. You appear to have suffered blunt force trauma to your torso area.”

“He kicked me,” I reiterated.

The doctor cleared his throat. “You have heavy bruising, swelling, and mild tissue damage. Have you ever had a broken rib before?”

“No.” I’d never had a broken bone at all.

“It’s quite painful. There really is no treatment for a broken rib, just pain management, which is what the Naproxen is for. Years ago, doctors used compression bandages to treat broken ribs, but its since been deemed unsafe. You see, the risks of having broken ribs is that you’re at a high risk for pneumonia.”

Pneumonia? That was weird.

“She was out in the rain, in the cold, all night,” Nathan said.

“I’m aware,” the doctor replied. “So far, you show no signs of becoming ill.”

“But why pneumonia?” I asked.

“Because when you suffer that kind of trauma, it prevents you from taking deep breaths. This increases your risk. If you begin to run a fever, feel weak or dizzy, or experience any other worrisome symptoms, you need to seek medical treatment immediately.”

“Okay, I will.”

“I’ll send the police in now,” he said after a few more moments of talking. When he finally left, I blew out a breath.

“Doctor’s are so serious,” I mumbled.

Nathan chuckled. “Would you rather he be unserious?”

“I want to go home,” I griped.

He grinned.

Two police officers shuffled into the room, wearing pressed uniforms with badges clipped to their black belts. Resigned, I submitted to their questions and prying eyes. Because Nathan filled them in so thoroughly, their questions turned personal fast.

“Did Lex Sullman rape you, ma’am?”

I recoiled like I smelled something foul.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Nathan said, jerking up from his chair and taking up position beside the bed.

“A necessary one,” the police replied, gauging Nathan, no doubt taking in his rough appearance and scars. His eyes slid to me. “How do you know this man?”

“I already told you that,” he said, and I knew he was restraining his temper. Nathan seemed to have a bit of a short fuse.

Before things could escalate, I explained quickly about how Nathan and I met.

“So you are friends with the man suspected of kidnapping women?”

“No,” Nathan said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot. “Like I told you before, we play a weekly poker game together. He’s an acquaintance.”

“You provided us with his home address.” The other officer spoke up.

Nathan shrugged. “I’ve played poker at his house.”

“Will other men testify to this?”

Nathan rattled off about four names and a phone number of some guy named Patton. When he was done, the muscle in the side of his jaw was ticking. It reminded me of a time bomb ready to explode.

“No,” I said quietly.

All eyes turned toward me.

“No?” the officer asked.

“He didn’t rape me.”

Nathan dropped onto the bed beside me. It was as if he was so relieved he couldn’t stand. I gave him a watery smile.

The police officer looked at his partner. “We’re not looking for a rapist.” The other partner nodded and wrote something in a no-nonsense black notebook.

They said it like it somehow made everything I’d gone through okay. Like what I suffered was somehow less now because my body wasn’t violated like they assumed.

It really, really made me angry.

This wasn’t just about me. It was also about Mary and whoever else came before us. “He was going to,” I said, and once again all eyes turned to me.

“How do you know that?”

“He made his intent pretty clear,” I hedged.

Nathan was sitting very still and staring at the floor. I glanced at him, feeling unease curling through my limbs.

“Maybe you should wait outside, Mr. Reed.”

“No,” I said, reaching for his hand. I didn’t want him to go. This was hard enough to say out loud. Knowing Nathan was here and that he somehow understood something about pain made it easier.

Before the officers could insist, I opened my mouth and let it pour out. “He held me down,” I said. “He… um… he took himself out.” I paused, looking at the officers, hoping they would understand. Both of them wore a disgusted look so I knew they understood perfectly. “And he tried to shove it in my mouth.”

Nathan glanced at me. “The truck?” he whispered, harsh.

I nodded.

He ripped his hand from mine and hooked it around the back of my head, pulling me into his chest. He still smelled like pine trees, and I let it fill my senses.

“Is that all?” one of the officers asked.

I lifted my head, anger on my face. “Well, aside from being kicked, slapped, punched, shot at, groped, and thrown into a thirty-foot hole in the ground, I guess that about covers it.”

“We meant no disrespect,” the second officer spoke.