Thankfully, her skirt seems to be intact as my gaze falls farther down her body, because if it wasn’t, I’d probably drive out into the night to catch and maim those guys myself.
“Are you hurt?” I ask her the simple question, praying that I get the answer I want.
She meets my eyes, and I see that her face is ghost-white. “I don’t … I don’t think so. They tore my shirt, but I think that’s all.”
I reach my hand out, wanting to touch her, but then pull it back. Maybe she wants her space right now.
“Do you want me to call someone? Is there a, um … security team? Should I call the police?” I’m asking her the question as much as I’m asking myself.
Colleen shakes her head. “No, please … don’t. I don’t wa—want the media …”
My heart shatters, both for her and because the woman sitting next to me is not the confident, successful general manager that she’s worked so hard to be. In a couple of minutes, those men and their selfish, disgusting actions knocked her entire axis off kilter, and I want them to pay.
“The media is probably going to hear about this anyway,” I say, because it’s true. “We have to report this. I don’t want you becoming one of those victims you read about; they never reported it, suffer from the trauma, the criminals are never found or served punishment.”
“I’m not a victim.” Colleen’s voice breaks, and I see the tears sliding down her cheeks.
The thing is, she’s not crying. They’re just pouring out of her eyes, as if she can’t stop them but doesn’t seem to feel that they’re leaving trails down her face.
“No, you’re not. Which is exactly why those assholes need to be found.”
“Please, take me home first. I want to go home.” Her eyes are a chocolate brown in the dark, and wide as saucers.
I’m not entirely sure where she lives, and she’s spotty with directions as I wind my truck through the streets of Packton. But I have to have patience, have to remember that as much as I’m coming off the high of what just transpired, Colleen is crashing and burning herself.
Finally, we make it to her house, a modest ranch on a quiet street. It isn’t the flashy mansion I thought she’d occupy, kind of like the one I am renting or the row of homes on Walker’s street. It’s quaint, has a picket fence, and ivy climbing up a trellis on the side of it.
After killing the engine, I help her out, and up her front walk. I’m waiting for it, the inevitable breakdown, but she’s holding it at bay. Probably until she can convince me to go. Little does she know, I don’t plan to leave her side until the sun comes up. I decided that on the drive over here.
“I’m not a damsel, Hayes.” Her eyes are serious, and more aware than they were in the parking lot.
That pale, just-seen-a-ghost look seems to have gone from her face, and it makes me breathe a little easier.
“I know you aren’t. But you were in shock, and I wasn’t going to let you break down alone. It’s okay to ask for help, Colleen. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re smart, and in tune with preserving your state of mind.”
My palm finds her cheek, and we’re stuck there, in the lamplight of her porch. This moment feels intimate, not sexual, but something deeper. The thought flits through my brain, that I should kiss her, and my body unconsciously leans in as if this might be a good idea.
Right, because the first thing a woman wants after being assaulted is for some guy to take advantage of that weakness, the sarcasm inside me rebuts.
It takes me a moment to pull back, to stop myself from making a huge mistake for both of us. But, Christ, how much I want to make it …
“I’m going to call my agent. He’ll know how to handle this from here,” I whisper, and pull up the purse that’s hanging off her shoulders.
Colleen takes my cue, unlocking her front door and letting us inside.
Then begins the long night ahead of us, that will change both of our trajectories forever.
17
Colleen
My entire body aches as if I’ve run a marathon when I blink my eyes against the muted morning sun of my bedroom.
Every part of me feels groggy, as if I’m underwater, and it takes me a second to bring it all back into focus.
Walking out of my office, to my car. Being stopped by a voice yelling after me. Two men coming up, spitting vile words about my body, my job, my family. Their hands on me. The fear, paralyzing and desperate, that they would violate me in the worst way possible. The need for it to be over, to just take away my pride or knock me unconscious. Hayes’ voice coming from the distance, a tiny flicker of hope reignited. Chaos in the fight, blood and screaming, and my own wails which sounded foreign to my ears.
I have to shut my eyes against it all; the emotions hitting me like semi-trucks one after another.
The police were here, that much I can recall. I don’t remember the exact words I told them, but one of the female ones held my hand, told me I’d be okay after the shock and exhaustion wore off.
I didn’t feel okay. I doubted I ever would again.
My feet fall heavy as I climb out of bed, relieving myself and avoiding all the mirrors in my bathroom.
It’s not until I make my way out to the living room, with my open concept kitchen butting up against it, that I see a body on my couch. I jump, unable to curb the reaction, and I contain the scream that is about to rip from my throat. Will I ever be able to calmly be in another man’s presence again?
Although, this man is the one who saved me. I vaguely recall him saying he’d stay, that he wasn’t going to leave me until the morning light, but I’d either forgotten or not taken him on his word.
Hayes breathes softly, one arm draped over a naked torso, the other dangling off my couch. His bare feet are propped up over one end, his body far too large for the suede beige sectional that is still unbelievably oversized and comfortable. That rugged, handsome face is at rest, a neutral expression worn during his deep slumber. I watched it vacillate last night between fury, caring, and utter hopelessness at not being able to fix this for me.
My heart flutters a bit, the first time I’ve been able to feel in what feels like hours, at him staying the night on my couch. After the police left, I was almost in a stupor. Exhaustion had hit and shock had worn off, and I told Hayes that he should go, too. But something in my eyes must have stopped him, because he insisted on helping me get into bed.
The memories come back a little more vividly now that I am observing him in my environment; him walking me to my bedroom, turning on the lights, making himself scarce while I shed my tattered clothes and pulled on the first thing I could find to wear, a nightgown with a drawing of my favorite Jane Austen books in a stack. Hayes had been waiting by my bed with a glass of water and pulled back the sheets so I could climb in. I was nodding off before I could make out his words, but he must have told me he was staying the night.
It’s hard not to stare at the Goliath of a man dwarfing my couch, and the way his perfectly sculpted chest and abs rise and fall with each breath. There is a trail of hair, darker than the dirty blond locks splayed on a throw pillow, starting at his navel and disappearing under the belt of his jeans. My cheeks burn with … is that lust?