Page 87 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Iris
I jerk awake with a strangled scream and see a man’s dress jacket draped over a chair near my bed. I stare, confused, then remember it’s Tony’s—the one he put around my shoulders last night. The sight gives me an odd sense of comfort and safety.
“Tony?” I call out, then try again louder. I hear nothing except the soft hum of the air conditioner.
Did he leave?Maybe not. He would’ve taken his jacket, wouldn’t he?
He was such a gentleman last night, making me feel safe. I think of the protective way he put the jacket around me, then deflected Marty’s attempt to keep me at the reception and brought me home. Such a contrast from the violence he showed when he pummeled Jamie like a punching bag. Normally I’m not a big fan of fighting, but I shudder—half angry, half grateful—thinking of what could’ve happened if he hadn’t been there. Jamie would have…
Nope. Not going there.
Hating the sweat clinging to my skin, I kick the covers off and sit up. The air is chilly, congealing the sweat into a sticky layer. Placing a hand over my chest, I breathe in and out slowly to calm my galloping heart.
The nightmare I just had replayed Jamie Thornton’s attack…except it didn’t happen in the garden. It happened in a bright bedroom I don’t remember. Large, faceless young men surrounded me, while Jamie pushed me against a wall. He forced a kiss, smelling like beer and some kind of hard liquor, while groping my breast. The other men watched and hollered encouragement. Tony rescued me again, but in the dream, he killed Jamie with a single punch to the face. The pieces of shattered skull and brains fell on me, and Jamie’s headless body and I plunged into a murky swamp as the floor vanished underneath our feet. I couldn’t breathe as water filled my nose, mouth, lungs…
I shiver again. It’s just a dream. I’ve had dreams that didn’t make any sense before, although nothing this horrible and violating. My doctors said the dreams don’t necessarily mean anything. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not something my subconscious conjured up entirely out of thin air. It felt so…real.
I press the heels of my hands against my temples. Of course it felt real. Half of it happened—the attack and the rescue. My mind just embellished some details. It’s a normal way for a brain to process traumatic or memorable events.
I need to pull myself together. Dreams can’t hurt me. Jamie’s probably hiding somewhere, since showing the face that Tony used as a punching bag last night would be embarrassing. Then it strikes me that he’s an important investor for Sam. Is he going to try to pull his money?
I shake my head. I have no clue what Jamie Thornton’s going to do, but Sam doesn’t need money from that kind of scum. If his business ideas are good, surely he can find others who’ll be happy to invest.
It’s only six thirty in the morning, but I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep. I get up, splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. Blue bruises have blossomed over my wrists, forearms, right shoulder—where he broke my dress strap—and thighs. All of them hurt to varying degrees. The cut on my lip throbs when toothpaste gets on it, but I ignore the pain. There isn’t much I can do about it, and a couple of Advil should tide me over until my body heals.
I put on black tights and a gray long-sleeve top that reaches almost to mid-thigh, then swipe my mouth with red lipstick. The key to feeling as normal as possible—in my experience—is to try to maintain as normal a routine as possible. And do one thing to make myself feel pretty.
I learned the trick from a sweet, patient nurse who took care of me when I was in the hospital after waking up. She came one day with a pink lipstick from a drugstore and offered it to me. Told me that if I made myself look pretty, I’d feel better. I resisted it at first, since nothing—absolutely nothing!—could make up for what I’d lost. She gently persisted for a week and finally put the lipstick on me, then placed a hand mirror before my face so I could see her handiwork. She was right. I still looked like pale death, but at least my lips had some color. And staring at the improved reflection, I started to feel better. A tiny bit more like my old self than a broken shell.
Since then, lipstick has become my cheer-me-up.
I go to the kitchen and munch on a granola bar, wash it down with a cup of coffee, and walk slowly toward the Yamaha. Finger exercises might help me regain some equilibrium. It’s what I do when I need to forget everything and relax.
I begin with Hanon’s Virtuoso Pianist. The repetitiveness is soothing—almost meditative. After a few arpeggio exercises, I stop, my hands still resting on the keyboard. Then, almost out of impulse, I start Chopin’s “Waterfall” étude.
My fingers play lightly, quickly over the keys. The movements feel effortless. I repeat it ten times—which doesn’t take more than twenty minutes, tops—then stop, exhaling softly. The restlessness inside me hasn’t subsided with music. It’s still there, lingering…making my scalp throb.
The intercom buzzes. I check the time. It’s only eight thirty. “This is the concierge. Delivery for you. Special courier.”
Must be Byron or Julie. If it’s Byron, he’s probably sending me a box of dark chocolate because he knows chocolate is the one thing I can’t resist. But with Julie, it could be anything from thoughtful to crazy. She once sent me a box of wool winter socks from Switzerland because she said the patterns on them were just too cute…even though I was in Ecuador at the time.
A young man arrives, hands me a small box and a bouquet of tiger lilies—my favorite—then pushes his small tablet in my way. “Sign here.”
I scrawl my name with my index finger. Shoving the tablet into his shirt pocket, he vanishes before I can thank him.
I take everything to the kitchen. Who sent them? The box is too small to contain more than a couple of truffles. Not Byron’s style. Julie has never sent me flowers before. Besides, if she were behind the delivery, it would’ve been a bottle of premium vodka, since she’s in Russia right now.
I open the box first and see an elegant pink, gold and white jar. I sniff the clear, gel-like substance inside, but there’s no scent. There is, however, a note.
Put it on your cut. It’ll help with the pain and swelling. You may also want to consider taking something stronger than Advil. You’re going to feel worse today.
–Tony
He also put his phone number in a postscript, explaining that if I need anything else, I should call. I stare at the unexpected gifts for a moment, then dab a bit of the ointment over my lip. Within a few seconds, the cut no longer hurts.
Smiling at his thoughtfulness, I put the tiger lilies in a vase. Their vibrant color cheers me up, and I start to feel sunny. It’s hard to be depressed in the presence of such gorgeous blossoms. I wonder how he knew what my favorite flower is. Most guys I know—even Byron—would send roses. Not that I’d mind, but tiger lilies… They’re special. Bright. Tall. Fragrant. Functional, too, since the bulb and flowers are edible. Everything about them is perfect.
