Wicked Restless

Trent pulls up outside within minutes, and one look at Emma stops any questions he’s dying to ask me. He steps from the car, leaving the motor running, and opens the back door for Emma to step inside. I follow her, nodding no when he looks at me like it’s a bad idea for me to be this close to her. Think what you want about me, dude—there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her side tonight.

Trent pulls her two small bags into the front seat next to him, and minutes later we’re unloading at our apartment. I tug Emma’s arm gently as we exit the car, and she follows so I can guide her inside.

Her feet are still barefoot—shit! I forgot her shoes. I grimace to myself, but keep moving forward. My arm never leaves its cradle around her body. She fits against me so well, if only she weren’t shivering. I guide her all the way into my room, and she doesn’t protest. I pull out an extra-large Tech hockey shirt and lay it on the bed next to where she’s sitting.

“Go ahead and change. I’ll step outside and give you a minute,” I say, my eyes studying her knees, too afraid to look up in her tear-filled eyes. She stopped sniffling during the drive, her eyes instead wide and stunned in one position. I’d give anything to read her thoughts so she wouldn’t have to tell me what happened—I’d just know. My biggest fear is that what I’m imagining is exactly what happened—or not even close to as bad as it really was. Either way, when I get my shot, I’m going to hit that guy so hard that his tongue will choke him.

I shut the door behind me quietly, as if I’m trying not to wake her. I don’t know why, but I just feel like too much noise will frighten her. She seems shell-shocked.

“She okay?” Trent whispers. He pulled a bottle of water from our fridge. I smile at him and nod thanks.

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head and looking back at the closed door behind me. “I don’t know what he did, what happened, but this isn’t my Emma…”

“Your Emma…” Trent repeats. His eyes are lecturing me subtly.

“She’s always been mine,” I say, my mouth working on automatic, primed to deliver nothing but the truth until I erase everything bad that’s ever happened in Emma’s life. My eyes dare Trent’s. He turns his head a tick to the right, waiting for me to say more. When I don’t, he nods once and holds up a single hand.

“All right then. I’ll be awake for a bit taking care of some reading. If you need anything…”

“Thanks, man,” I say, watching his door close with the same caution I shut mine. I smile at how much he understands without asking.

I knock lightly on my door and Emma’s voice cracks out “Come in.”

She’s still wearing everything she was before, my shirt in her lap, her fingers kneading it like bread. Her eyes are lost in a trance. “My shoes…I…I don’t know what happened to my shoes,” she whispers. I look down to her feet as her toes curl.

I open my mouth to ask her if she needs more time alone, time to dress, but then I shut my lips, breathing slowly and silently through my nose.

“Here,” I say, holding a hand out to her. She looks at it for several seconds before sliding her own into my grasp. I’m delicate with her fingers, but I can’t help but let my thumb run over the top of her hand in a soothing way. That’s all I do it for—I want to soothe her. I want to fix things for her. I want to avenge her.

I crack open my door and glance toward Trent’s. When I confirm his is still closed, I walk with her to our bathroom and shut the door behind us. I don’t lock it because I have a strong feeling that doing something like that would spike her panic—she can’t feel trapped tonight. I turn the shower on and set the shirt I brought in with us down on the sink.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” I say, pulling one of my large towels from the cabinet behind the door. I unravel it and hold it up, covering her body from my view. “Can you step out of your dress on your own?”

She nods slightly again.

I watch the dirtied garment fall to the floor by her feet, and I swallow down my rage. Her underwear fall next, and I close my eyes for a second—I hide my wince because I hate that she wasn’t wearing more than this. That asshole had his hands on too much of her. Yet I’m relieved she’s wearing what she is still, that he didn’t…

I lean my head toward the shower, then move the towel so she can step inside, shielded from my view. I drape the top over the top of the glass door, then sit on the toilet next to the shower while the water cascades over her body. I focus on the sound of the rain falling from the faucet for several minutes, the entire time wondering what I’m going to do next, how I’m going to make her better, when she breaks the silence, choking out a small cry.