Cherise Sinclair - If only

Blow after blow smacked into her flesh with a nasty stinging pain. And suddenly, shockingly, she was crying. Hard horrible choking sobs that hurt her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t—didn’t mean to disappoint you. I’m sorry.”

“There we go.” Galen’s voice was rougher than normal, raw as the pain of her skin. “That was repentant.”

Vance released her.

Hard hands mercilessly pulled her onto a lap. Her bottom scraped on the harsh material of jeans, and she tried to jump up—and was pulled back down, secured with muscular, adamant arms. His hand—Galen’s—tucked her head against his shoulder, holding her as she cried.

Her face pressed against his chest, wetting it with her tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“I believe you, pet.” She felt his lips against the top of her head, and the jagged glass fence around her heart began to thaw.

His scent, masculine and rich, wrapped around her, confirming his presence with each breath she took. As the burning subsided, she could feel, even more than his strength, the controlled gentleness with which he held her. How his hand cupped the back of her head. His slow breathing. His patience.

Gradually her crying changed to hiccupping sobs.

Vance sat on the bed and took her hand. “All done, Sally.” He stroked her head and tried to release her hand, but her fingers closed around his.

Stay. Somehow she needed him there—both of them. Their presence was as comforting as having a man in the house if opening the door after dark. Knowing, despite the monsters in the night, that they’d keep her safe.

GALEN FELT THE tightness in his chest ease as Sally clung to him. A true submissive, she wasn’t fuming at her punishment but had let the tears wash away her shame and free her from guilt.

When he checked Vance, his partner made a small rotation of his shoulder. No trouble interpreting that unhappy movement.

Galen too, had been surprised at how long it had taken to break through her defenses. This one didn’t cry easily. And he hadn’t liked administering the last few strokes needed to push her there. He liked erotic pain—and maybe a touch beyond—but this had gone past his comfort level.

But apparently she’d forgiven them both, and damn, she was wonderful to hold.

As Sally’s breathing evened out, Vance rummaged through the fridge to get bottled waters. He drank one and set Galen’s on the table. After handing Sally one, he plucked her out of Galen’s arms and sat down with her on his lap.

Galen nodded approval and rose. She’d need Vance’s arms around her during the next phase. Meantime, he circled the room, drinking his water, stretching out his leg…and formulating his strategy.

She’d finished drinking by the time Galen took the bottle from her. She gave him a wary look. Smart little submissive.

Galen moved the chair to the bed, straddled it, and leaned his arms on the back. “Interesting man, your father.”

She flushed.

“You know, my parents are almost as uncaring as he is,” Galen said lightly. Even as a teen, he’d compared his parents to frozen fish. Vance’s family had shown him how much he’d missed.

Sally frowned at him. Her color had returned to normal, although her eyes were still reddened. “My father isn’t—”

Vance squeezed her in warning.

She closed her eyes for a second. “Yes, my father is cold.” She reached out to touch Galen’s hand. “I’m sorry if your parents are too.”

There was that compassionate heart he’d seen before. The little brat had a generous spirit. “How did your father punish you when you messed up?” The bastard hadn’t let her have pets. This evening, he’d edged into what Galen would consider verbal abuse. How far had he gone with a child?

As she stiffened, Vance combed her hair with his fingers, saying, “Now my dad was a firm believer in spankings, but my mom preferred time-outs. Personally, I’d rather be spanked than be stuck inside all afternoon.”

Good guy; bad guy. If Galen couldn’t scare a perp into talking, Vance’s sincerity often lured the answers out.

“He usually sent me to my room.” Her expression darkened, like ink spilled into clear water.

Galen felt his instincts twang.

“Without supper?” Vance asked lightly. Over her head, his worried gaze met Galen’s.

“Huh. At least.” She turned her head into Vance’s chest.

At least? Galen controlled his voice, keeping it even. “How long did he usually leave you there, Sally?”

“Oh, just till the next day.” Despite her efforts to make the words flippant, the strain—and hurt—came through. “I’d get to come down to breakfast.”

And if she’d screwed up at breakfast? “And the longest?”

“Uh. Not much—”

“Be honest, sweetheart,” Vance said, and she stiffened, catching the warning note.

“Three days,” she whispered into Vance’s chest. Her laugh was thin, filled with pain. “If the school hadn’t called to ask why I was absent, I wonder if I’d still be there.”

Why hadn’t someone sent the bastard to hell and gone? Galen’s jaw muscles clenched, hindering his ability to talk.

“How old were you?” Vance was doing better than Galen at keeping the questions coming.

“I think I was twelve. My mother had…” Her mouth pressed into a thin line of pain.

There it is. Like in his favorite childhood game, clues would eventually line up to reveal the crime. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick. He hadn’t planned to ask this so soon, but the opening was there. “Sally, why did your father say you killed your mother?”

Every bit of color drained from her face.

“YOU…” MOM. OH, Mom. Sally couldn’t—couldn’t believe he’d asked such an unspeakable question. Her thoughts fled, disappeared, hollowing her mind into dark emptiness. Like a dog’s choke chain, tightness circled her throat until only strangled wheezing escaped. Unable to even look at the cruel beast who would ask such a thing, she pushed her face against Vance’s chest.

“Answer the question, Sally.” With a determined grip, Vance turned her to face his partner.

No. I won’t.

Galen’s gaze met hers, ensnared hers. The patient expectation in his expression was impossible to ignore. After a moment, he threw her something easier to answer. “How old were you when she died?”

“Eleven.” Saturday afternoon. Her straw-filled hair had been in tangles from playing in the barn with half-grown cats. Her homework had been finished the night before, because she was a geek. Called into the house to answer the phone. Lauren was having a semisurprise birthday party that night and invited Sally. A popular girl had asked her, the chubby nerd, to a party. Her excitement had made her feel like a balloon ready to pop. Then it all went wrong. “And I got a new dress.”

She shut her stupid mouth, knowing it was too late.

Galen’s expression had sharpened. “Why was a new dress a problem?”

“Please, Mom. Please. I’ll do my chores and I’ll clean the barn and…” She’d begged and promised, because she just knew that looking right would let her be one of—maybe not the in crowd—but maybe the normal girls. She wouldn’t still be stuck in with the losers, the really overweight ones, or those on welfare. The ones who had pimples. Or never washed. God, how shallow they’d all been. She’d been. “Father had said no. No more money for clothes.”

“So how did you end up with a new dress?” Vance asked gently.

“Mom drove me into town. It was snowing. Blowing.” Leaving the store, she’d been blinded by her hair whipping around her face. The car shook with the gusts of wind. The snow hitting the windshield sounded like sizzling bacon. A storm turning to a blizzard.

Galen’s intent eyes lit with comprehension. The ancient Greeks loved tragic plays; did his heritage mean he’d understand? “An accident?” he asked softly.

“The bridge was old. There was ice under new snow.” Skidding. She swallowed, her mouth tasting like metal. “The car… The railing broke.” Screaming and falling and screaming. The smash, breaking, shattering sounds, the horrendous impact that could still knock her out of her nightmares. “We went over the side.” So much pain, blood everywhere, like a kicked-over can of red paint. Mom. Mom! Not answering. Shaking her. Screaming and crying and—

“Shhhh.” Vance stroked her hair.

As Sally had finally stroked her mother’s. Soft hair. Pretty. Had Mom felt her attempt at comfort, even in heaven?

“And your father blames you because she died?” Vance asked.

Her voice came out harsh. “Yeah.”

“Because you’d…” Galen’s voice trailed off, an invitation for the rest.

She tried to look away. He caught her chin gently. Firmly. Turned her back. Damn him. “Because I begged. She didn’t want to buy anything, didn’t want to spend the money, and I thought only of myself and made her go to town”—her voice rose—“because I’m selfish and stupid and always wanting stuff.”

Her shouting should have made him back away. Should have made Vance release her instead of holding her tighter.

Galen’s lips turned up, his gaze filled with approval that…that she could actually recognize. “That’s a good baby girl,” he murmured. His mouth touched hers for a second, his lips soft. “Thank you for sharing with me.”

The taste of salt made her realize tears were running down her cheeks.

Vance wiped them away gently. “You’re not selfish. Or stupid. Your father is the stupid one.”

“Exactly.” Galen squeezed her shoulder before rising to walk around the room, his cane forgotten in the corner.

Exhausted, she lay in Vance’s arms and just watched his slow, limping circuits.

Eventually, he came to a stop in front of her. “Homework for you. We’ll expect it tomorrow night.”

Homework? Had she slipped into an alternate universe, one where a crying outburst was followed by school? “Excuse me?”

His lips quirked. “Homework. Use one of your school notebooks. I want an essay about what a parent can reasonably expect from a preteen. Specifics, please. Include quotes from people about whining and begging and adolescent temper. Use the Internet—and document your sources.”

“What?” Her brain wasn’t keeping up, no way, no how.

“There are quite a few parenting sites out there,” Vance said helpfully, obviously on board with the insane scheme. “You might try those first.”

“But I got my mother killed.”

“Baby girl,” Galen said. “You didn’t. You were a typical irritating teenager, wanting something and whining to get it. If we put every teen who displayed that kind of obnoxious behavior in jail, we’d depopulate the world.”

“You’d have to start with my nieces and nephews.” Vance chuckled. “‘I want. I want. I want,’ alternates only with ‘I need. I need. I need.’ Sweetheart, you were a normal young girl. Not someone evil.”

As she looked at Vance and Galen, her eyes filled with tears again, blurring the room’s walls to an underwater montage. Vance made a soft sound and tucked her back under his chin, rocking her slightly.

“I think you’ve had enough, pet,” Galen said. His eyes crinkled. “But do your homework before bedtime tomorrow night, or you’ll be bending over the bed again.”

And suddenly she could again feel how sore her bottom was. Ouchers.

No wonder Kim thought twice before disobeying Master Raoul.

After a stop in the kitchen, Vance stepped out the back door, feeling more battered than after a college football practice. The moon was high, illuminating his way across the patio, down the walk to the lake. The muggy night air wrapped around him, making him shake his head. Back in Ohio, he’d still be wearing a sweatshirt.

The lakeshore frog chorus was silenced by the thump of his feet on the wooden dock.

Galen sat in one of the two chairs near the end of the dock, his sore leg propped up on his ancient upside-down canoe. Vance handed his partner his whiskey and dropped into the other weathered chair.

Glock, curled in Galen’s lap, looked up long enough to evaluate a possibly better resting area, but resettled where he was. Galen stroked the furry head before asking, “She asleep?”

As water lapped quietly against the pilings, one courageous frog chanced a croak, soon joined by the rest.

“Out like a light—after another crying fit.” Broke his heart too.