Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1) Page 8

  One dark brow quirked higher than the other, a clever trick of face muscles she wished she could mimic. “Did the bugger ask ye out?”

  The territorial tone of his voice spoke of implication, and it became harder to breathe, thinking he might stake some territorial claim. “I ... wasn’t interested.”

  His eyes darkened to sapphire. “Good ye chased him off then. A rammy lot. They must’ve drunk twice their weight.”

  The backhanded warning stung. Was he implying Wesley only talked to her because he was wasted?

  “The guy talking to me wasn’t drunk.” Though he’d been drinking.

  He leveled her with a piercing, perceptive gaze. “They were all wrecked. Aside from me servin’ them, I suspect they were dabbling in somethin’ upstairs. I cut some of them off.”

  Maybe he was right. She dropped her gaze to the counter, not caring about the man who was there earlier and wondering why it meant so much to the man here now.

  Her breath caught as the tip of his finger brushed her jaw, lifting her chin, barely making contact. The swipe of a feather would have left more of a physical impression, yet his brief touch somehow reached into her lungs and stole her breath.

  Her gaze lifted and her heart raced as those soulful eyes watched her, possibly seeing all the insecurities she tried to hide. His head cocked, and he frowned, unspoken words chasing between them.

  “I dinnae mean to offend you, love. Drunk or not, I think every man tha’ walks through tha’ door wishes he had a right te speak te you.”

  Her fingers clutched the cool lip of the counter as her knees softened. A flurry of wings tickled the inside of her belly, low and warm, soft and sweeping.

  A hollow ache yawned inside of her, desperate to feel the gentle caress again, hold his hand to her body, and beg him to continue touching her. But the moment was over a second after it began.

  Frustration clogged her lungs, making it hard to take in a full breath. Mixed signals were shooting everywhere. He didn’t like when men lingered at her desk, yet he did nothing to mark his territory.

  Because she wasn’t his territory.

  “It’s okay,” she lied. She had to look away—had to stop torturing herself like this.

  He was as reliable and as teasing as an echo, always coming back but never lingering long enough to be real. Swallowing hard, she took a step back from the counter. The longer her ruined heart pined, the more her heartache became her own fault.

  What was wrong with her? He clearly wasn’t interested in anything more than a work friendship.

  Her desperation hit her with the force of a hurled brick. Not the first time the obvious struck her hard. Right on time, the sadness swallowed her whole.

  If he wanted her, he could have had her a thousand times by now. It was amazing she remained standing. Three years sacrificed for a disinterested man cumulated into a stunning weight. Guess that was why they called it a crush.

  Her gaze skittered to the elevators, looking anywhere but at him. Like any addiction, coming down from the high was the worst. Reality was always waiting. “I have to deliver the checkout slips.”

  “Aye. It’s gettin’ late.”

  And you have someone waiting for you, don’t you?

  Other nights he stayed until four, not driving away until she safely started her car. But not tonight. Not on Fridays. Where did he go?

  The elevator bell pinged, and the doors parted, drawing both their attention and stretching the opening for him to escape. Marco, the evening maintenance man, pulled the buffer onto the marble floor.

  She nodded a silent hello and tried to smile. Maintenance waxed the floors every night, and the machine was loud, so she usually used this time to make her deliveries.

  Callan knew her routine by heart, just as she knew his. At the sight of Marco dragging the plug to the outlet, he adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag and stepped back a pace.

  “I’ll see ye tomorrow night, Em’ry.”

  The ache bloomed. Tomorrow. Like a glutton for punishment, she’d wait for this moment all over again, no matter how much the repetitive end result slayed her every time.

  “Goodnight, Callan.”

  “Be safe.”

  They were the last words he said to her every night. She lifted her hand and watched him walk away.

  When the automatic lobby doors closed behind him, she shut her eyes. Three years and her courage failed her again. She blamed herself.

  Having been raised in a Christian Science home, she still struggled with any sort of direct confrontation. It remained an ongoing battle to prove to herself that people were not victims of circumstance, as her parents believed, but independent thinkers in possession of free will.

  But that decision had come with a fair amount of pain. Her family believed pain and suffering were necessary parts of life. Emery preferred a more anesthetized approach, one that avoided discomfort whenever possible.

  Rejecting her family’s faith meant sacrificing her family. And that, unfortunately, hurt no matter what the differences were in their beliefs.

  Her fingers paged through the forms, checking one last time that they were in graduated order by floors and hallways. Her eyes blinked hard when they glazed at the sight of so many room numbers. She was getting sleepy and welcomed the excuse to take a walk.

  She’d taught herself how to be an independent, modern woman. Eventually, the rest would come. Relationships were always the most complicated, as the nature of her upbringing left her short on confidence and common ground. But every day she grew a little bolder.

  The guys she met since leaving home didn’t know her family’s background. They saw her as basic. Basic was better than sheltered or strange. Basic was closer to normal, and that’s all she really wanted to be. But to Callan, she wanted to be more.

  She might never be woman enough to parallel Callan’s potent virility, but she wasn’t ready to surrender the dream. Gripping the stack of checkout forms, she ambled to the elevators. Tomorrow she’d try to find her courage all over again.

  Marco smiled as she passed, lifting his headphones off his ears. “Cuidado con el cable,” he said, pointing to the power cord running along the floor.

  She stepped over it and offered a polite grin. “I’ll be back in a little while.” She flashed her larger than usual stack of forms.

  He nodded and waved. “Hasta luago.”

  Once inside the elevator, she reached into the pocket of her blazer and removed her earbuds, thumbing on her cell.

  The gentle piano of Rhianna’s Stay matched the downbeats of her heart, every lyric representing everything she wished she could say to Callan. Every begging wish she hoped to one day voice.

  Chapter Eight

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Present day

  Making her way to the second floor, Emery double-checked the numerical order of the forms. At least she was getting in her daily cardio. By the time she finished she’d have done roughly two hundred squats from sliding papers under guestroom doors.

  Strolling through the empty corridor, she zigged and zagged in a serpentine pattern, slipping receipts under the dark cracks of each listed door. By the time she reached the top floor, her thighs were burning pleasantly and her skin warm.

  At the far end of the hall, her ears perked at the distant ping of an elevator, though it was hard to hear through her earbuds. Sometimes guests ran out to their cars at night. Plucking her headphones free, she scanned the empty hall but didn’t see anyone.

  Just hearing things.

  She worked her way through the remaining slips. As she bent to deliver the last form, the hair on her arms prickled.

  A soft click jerked her gaze to the opposite end of the hall, but again, no one was there. Freaking herself out, she left one headphone dangling while the other played in her right ear.

  When the icemaker gurgled, she let out a breath. Cubes rattled into a bucket, and she shook her head at how paranoid she could be sometimes. Ridiculous.
She popped her earbuds back in her ears and headed to the elevator.

  Pressing the button for the ground floor, she lifted her heel and flexed her ankles. Checking her phone to see the time, she cued up Fine Frenzy’s Almost Lover, her mind going right to Callan, filling with unfinished fantasies. Un-started fantasies.

  The doors parted, depositing her adjacent to the lobby. The loud hum of Marco still buffing the lobby floors overpowered her music. Time to put it away and play the game of how long could she go without thinking of Callan.

  Killing the music, she coiled the cord around her phone and slipped it into the pocket of her blazer. She stepped into the ladies room.

  They were almost out of toilet paper in the middle stall. She made a mental note to let Marco know.

  Righting her stockings, she flushed the toilet with the toe of her pump and unlatched the stall door—“Jesus!”

  The somewhat familiar smile wasn’t enough to settle her nerves, and when she staggered back, nearly tripping over her own feet, his appearance in the ladies room registered, startling her even more.

  “Boo,” he teased, and she frowned, utterly thrown by his presence.

  “Wesley? What are you doing in in the ladies room?” Seriously?

  “Found you.”

  His smile had the opposite effect he intended. Or maybe it had exactly the effect he hoped. Either way, she understood in that moment there was something very unsettling hiding behind his grin. Something that scared her enough to automatically know it was in her best interest to play it cool and not show him he’d startled her.

  Straightening her shoulders, she tried for firm yet friendly. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  He shrugged.

  Schooling her expression, she eased her hip away from the toilet paper dispenser and blew out a frustrated breath, her heart whipping against her ribs as she stepped within his reach and quickly moved to the sink.

  “I saw you on my floor and followed you. Everyone else is passed out.”

  Her brow pinched as she skated her hand under the foam soap dispenser. “You followed me?” Her gaze bounced between his reflection and the sink.

  “I wanted to talk some more.”

  Her lips flattened, unease poking at every nerve as he watched her through the mirror. She quickly rinsed the suds from her hands.

  His persistence was disturbing on so many levels. “I have to get back to work.” Maybe she’d ask Marco to play cards with her so no one else would linger at the front desk.

  He shrugged. “I’ll keep you company.”

  She didn’t want his company. Pulling a paper towel free from the dispenser with a thunk and a whoosh, she tried to think about how to politely yet firmly decline.

  Nothing like this ever happened before and she didn’t know how to graciously ditch someone who excelled at inviting himself where he didn’t belong. Maybe Marco could get rid of him. How could she casually let the custodian know this guy was bothering her?

  Her gaze shifted to the door. She could still hear the distant hum of the buffer.

  Taking her time to dry her hands, she watched Wesley through her lashes. His previous charm appeared overtaxed by booze and ego, and she now found him the opposite of attractive. He ranked creepy more than anything else. She needed to get back to the lobby.

  Enough. She tossed her crumpled towel in the bin.

  Who did this guy think he was? And why was he still smiling like that when she’d done nothing to make him think his presence was welcome?

  She tried for politeness, but her tone contained impatience. “Excuse me. I have to get back.”

  Thankfully, he stepped aside and let her pass. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted when he brushed a finger down her arm. Even through the sleeve of her blouse and blazer, her skin revolted at the caress.

  “Wait.” His fingers curled around hers, and when she jerked her hand away, he laughed as if it were a game. His other hand pressed into the tile wall, blocking her way.

  “Let me pass.” Her agitation bled into resentment. This wasn’t funny.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re blowing me off, Emery?”

  She wasn’t doing this. “Please move.” He was freaking her out, and if he got any closer, she’d shove her way out the door.

  “I wanna talk.” Fraudulent charm dripped from his watchful eyes, melting his smile into an insincere smirk. He didn’t move his arm. Didn’t touch her. He even let go of her fingers, but the way he looked at her, the weight of such unwanted charm, the infringing prickle of a threat, it violated her personal space without ever encroaching on the distance separating them.

  Her heart tripped out of beat. She never considered how blurred the fine line was between panic and pride. Fear that she might make something out of nothing had her vocal cords paralyzed. But a small voice inside of her said now was the time to scream.

  “Please let me pass,” her voice whispered, unrecognizably weak.

  Fear choked her, fear she wasn’t sure should exist. She couldn’t scream. Dreaded embarrassment kept her quiet, despite her terror of pain—or something worse.

  Muzzled by the worry that she might humiliate herself by overreacting, she despised the soft request. Wondered where her strength had gone. Her courage was likely hiding off with her voice.

  The distant buzz of the buffer still vibrated from the lobby. Would he hear her if she yelled?

  His fingers closed over the lapel of her jacket, lifting it away from her body and stroking the seam without actually making any contact. Her mind worked like a scoreboard, weighing every move, tallying which touches actually crossed a line. She wasn’t sure.

  They all did. Maybe not. Maybe she was tired, and this was just—

  His finger flicked the stiff fabric right at the slope of her breast. Intentionally.

  “Open the door, Wesley.” She used his name in hopes that it might encourage cooperation.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I think I hear the front desk phone. If I don’t answer it—”

  “No, you don’t.” He shifted his feet closer.

  She couldn’t catch her breath. The door was right there, but he was blocking her path.

  “Please.”

  He casually dropped his arm from the wall and stepped aside. Something untrustworthy hid in his eyes as he waved a hand, inviting her to open the door.

  She didn’t care what game he was playing. She just wanted to get the hell away from him—possibly call her boss or Callan. Ask someone to wait with her until the end of her shift. Even Marco, who hardly spoke English, would do.

  Two quick steps and her fingers closed around the handle. She yanked the door open, and a heavy hand slammed into the wood beside her head. Something hit her back, and pain exploded in her face as her cheek whacked the door.

  Fear spiked and vibrated inside of her, making it hard to worry about the injury. She tugged at the handle, but he jerked her away, lifting her feet clear off the ground and shoving her roughly into the counter.

  “Stop—”

  His larger body forcefully wedged her against the rigid edge of the counter. “Dumb bitch.”

  He was fast, faster than she anticipated. He pushed her against the sink, shoving her shoulders down, crowding her body, and pinning her wrists behind her back, crushing her hand.

  The scream she’d been holding ripped from her throat, painful and hoarse as he twisted her arms grotesquely, wrenching her body back.

  “Shut up!” He bent her wrist, hitting some sort of pressure point and her knees buckled. Her weight fell into the sink, the cold, damp surface unforgiving against her chest.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  “Shut. Up.” The fist in her hair jerked hard. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  Her scream fizzled to an agonized whimper as he wrenched her neck back, and then panic shrieked through her in a furious sob as his hands tugged at her clothes.

  “Get off of me! Help!”

  His heavy fist thumpe
d the back of her head, and her jaw cracked the countertop. Her teeth clacked. Precise pain exploded in her skull, leaving her momentarily deaf and blind. Metallic blood coated her tongue.

  No one had ever purposely hurt her before. The shock had her body quaking. Enveloped by panic, she jerked and thrashed.

  He hit her again. His fist locked in her hair, smashing and grinding her face into the counter. Her feet slipped over the tile floor, one shoe flinging off her foot as he shoved her roughly against the damp surface, smacking her head against the metal faucet.

  The lip of the counter wedged into her stomach with bruising force, knocking the breath out of her. His knees jammed between hers, forcing her off balance.

  “Somebody help me!” Tears burst from her eyes as he pinned her down and hiked her skirt over her hips.

  Her body vibrated, jittering with fear and denial that this was happening to her. Absolute terror rushed through her when he tore at her stockings. The thin shield shredded from her skin, tearing away in ribbons.

  “Please... Stop! Help!”

  “Shut. Up.” He hit the back of her head, enunciating each command, and her face smacked against the porcelain sink, pain bursting in her cheek as tears stole her vision.

  Bile rose, burning her throat as his hands pawed her. His aggressive seeking scratched her tender parts. She clenched her body, but his strength seemed indomitable.

  She shrieked and thrashed, kicking at him as hard as she could. He twisted her wrists higher, and sharp agony shot through her arm.

  “No!”

  Her panties tore away, his nails scraping bare flesh, ripping up skin and leaving burning tracks scored into her flesh. The brunt of his weight crushed her against the vanity with bruising force. Her hips stung from the impact of his shoving.

  Heat. She felt the burning heat of his body pressing against hers. Her feet scrabbled along the floor, seeking purchase and finding none.

  “Please, stop,” she sobbed, voice swallowed by terror, the pain choking her as he twisted her arm.

  He yanked her thighs apart, ripping a wail from her throat.

  “Bitch.” His hand fumbled between their bodies, clumsy and urgent. “Open your fucking cunt!” His vile words spilled like acidic threats, burning her on impact. “Fucking slut.”