Page 82 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Or maybe he thinks Sam will put business ahead of a personal issue…
That’s hard to believe. Sam’s focused on his company, but he isn’t that callous.
Except for the times he insisted on that you travel even when you said you were getting tired of it. The times he implied—subtly—that you should do what he wants whether you like it or not because he’s the one who’s been providing for you. Who knows if that wouldn’t include giving yourself to an important investor?
What the…? I shiver, unsure where that cynical voice is coming from, and uncomfortable with it. If he were such a morally bankrupt man, he wouldn’t have spent his own money to keep me in the hospital, given me the care I needed. He would’ve listened to the doctors who told him that maybe I should be taken off life support. Or later…the advice that any incremental improvement in my physical and mental health was going to cost too much to make it worthwhile. Not that they put it so bluntly, but that’s what they meant.
No, what Jamie Thornton did has nothing to do with Sam. Rapists rape because they’re rapists.
“Here. This might help you feel better.”
Tony offers a tumbler of…something. My eyes drop to a small bottle of whiskey. It might help, but I’m feeling too nauseated from the attack to risk drinking and making a mess. “I might throw up.”
He stares curiously, like what I’m saying doesn’t compute.
“In your car. This nice, expensive car.”
“Don’t let that stop you. The car can be cleaned.”
His response surprises me. Most guys think their cars drive on water, especially one as nice and expensive as this. Even Byron, who’s pretty laid-back, babies his Maserati and won’t let anybody eat or drink in it. So why is Tony so cavalier when he and I are virtually strangers?
“It’s just a car,” he says. “If it can’t be cleaned, I can replace it.”
My cheeks grow hot as I realize I said the last part out loud. “Well… If you’re sure,” I say, a bit more primly than I should to hide my embarrassment, then take the drink and knock it back.
The fiery liquor warms my belly, and the heat starts spreading immediately. Soon my tremor vanishes.
“Thank you,” I say. “You were right. It helped.”
He starts to say something, then changes his mind and hits a few buttons on the center console. Schubert’s Fantasie fills the silence, each note beautifully poignant. As the music goes on, my heart seems to expand with hot, fierce longing. I notice with shock that my eyes are wet.
Why am I reacting like this? I’m pretty sure I’ve never played it—I don’t like duets, especially ones that require you to share a piano, because it feels too intimate—and this piece isn’t particularly tragic.
I turn my head away and surreptitiously wipe my face dry. I’ve met Tony twice so far, and both times I’ve shed tears. He must think I’m a broken faucet.
I want him to turn the music off, but I don’t know how to ask without appearing unreasonable. The music isn’t offensive. It isn’t loud. There’s nothing wrong with it…except somehow it’s making me grieve for things I’ve lost—my earlier memories, my old life, my now-dead ambition to be a concert pianist.
“Are you all right?” Tony asks.
For a moment, I feel like he can sense everything. But it’s dim inside the car and he probably can’t see much. “I’m fine.”
“‘Fine’ is the last word a woman in your condition should be using.”
I squirm, uncomfortable how he isn’t letting me get away with the arsenal of empty words I use to disguise how I’m really feeling. I’ve started doing that because every time I’m a bit too honest, Sam frets, then insists on having me see a specialist, whose prescription for what’s ailing me is always something Sam would’ve suggested I do anyway—like traveling, online (but never on-campus) college, shopping, a nice, long retreat alone in some secluded place to listen to my inner voice…
Then the habit continued because I didn’t want to worry Julie or Byron. They aren’t close enough to Sam or Marty to gossip about me, but they’re in a similar social echelon and do socialize with one another. Julie or Byron might let something slip.
But not Tony, I realize. Tony and Marty obviously don’t get along at all, so Tony probably isn’t close to Sam, either. Ironically, his disdain and unfriendliness toward the Peachers make him the perfect person for me to be honest with.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m not fine. I’m…”
“Yes?”
“Angry. Shocked. Humiliated.” I pause for a second, then add, “Frustrated. Scared. But determined to not let it beat me or make me afraid.” I look down at my hands. “I wish I knew how to throw a punch like you.”
“I hope you never have to.”
My stomach flutters at the fiercely protective tone in his voice. Nobody’s ever spoken to me like this before. His reaction is thrillingly intense. “Have you done this before? Rescued a damsel in distress?” The words tumble out before I stop them. I can’t blame the liquor because I only had one.
