Part Four
…
Sitting on her bed she closes her eyes, clutches her knees and leans forward, blind panic prickling at the edges of her eyelids.
This cannot be happening, surely?
Not now. Not after all this time.
There is nothing but blazing agony as the cruel edge of leather bites into her back, over and over again. Face down on the floor, eyes, lips, jaw and cheeks bloodied and swelling, nose broken, vision completely blurred, shoulder dislocated, and barely breathing, she's clinging to consciousness, yet desperate to lose it.
John is screaming, but it's all a confusing mess of profanity and fury and frenzy. There are accusations and threats, and there is rage like she has never known it before. The lashes from his belt are endless, the pain distorting everything else around her as she feels her skin surrender to the attack, ripping apart like tissue.
His boot lands in her ribs, her stomach, her jaw, and then nothing. She can't see him, can barely hear him. Can only feel the harsh rasp of carpet fibres against her cheek. Beige carpet, his choice. She's never liked it.
There is silence, unending silence. She counts her breaths, the bubbling of blood on her lips loud and distorted inside her head.
Three.
Four.
Five.
She can't move, doesn't remember how. It doesn't matter though, she can't feel her legs, or remember where they are.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Suddenly she's off her feet and thrust into the wall, almost through it. Everywhere is white; her vision, her hearing, all her senses. It clears enough to hear him roaring, straight into her ear. Words, threats that no woman ever wants to hear from a man.
"No," she spits, blood dripping from her bloodied mouth. He's bigger than her, holds her in place with his body, crushed against the wall. One hand wound in her hair he yanks, exposes the back of her neck, the curve where her shoulder meets her throat. A place he's kissed her a thousand times, a place he now buries his teeth with savage force.
She screams, he laughs, and Grace blindly hooks the fingers of her good hand into his groin and pushes back against him with some remaining shred of strength that comes from nowhere. He roars in pain, and for her there is a tiny moment of defiant victory before her head slams into the wall and she feels as though she is airborne. She hits the stairs, the wall, the bannister, the stairs again, and then a wall of darkness.
She's falling, pitching forward from the edge of the bed, and only a quick twist that tears savagely at her arm saves her from crashing to the floor. The pain grabs her, yanks her out of the terrifying memory, and Grace gasps, clutches the bedframe that is the first thing her gaze focuses on as everything else fades. As the day reasserts itself around her.
It's been years since she last experienced a flashback like that. Years.
It's so real, as though she's living it again.
Her chest is leaden, still at a loss for air, her heart pounding, eyes stinging, head aching savagely.
The door opens and Grace looks up, sees Boyd wrapped in just a towel, his bare skin damp and pink from the heat of the shower. For a moment terror surges, black and all-encompassing, cutting off the universe but then he speaks and the bubble shatters, the fear ebbs; the world rushes back in around her.
"Hey, I thought you'd gone downstairs."
Grace gets up, legs trembling with the effort, and walks up to him, into him. Places her palms on his shoulders, kisses his chest. Feels, breathes in how alive he is, how real he is.
Burrowing herself into his arms, she stays there, lets him hold her, clings on tightly. He willingly obliges her silent request, keeping her exactly where she is as the seconds tick past, but unsurprisingly he eventually asks a curious, concerned, "Grace?"
"I love you," she tells him, head still buried in his shoulder. It's not the first time she's said it, but it is perhaps one of the most significant. They are not lying entangled in the tranquil aftermath of passion, and they are not about to be separated for several days due to work commitments. Loosening her grip enough to lean back and look up at him, Grace repeats her sentiment.
He looks surprised, but pleased, his face breaking into an expression that isn't quite a smile, but is something warm and tender and honest.
She tries to smile back at him, but there must be something in her eyes that gives her away because he studies her, his head tilted to one side. Asks a thoughtful, "You okay?"
She is, she realises slowly. For now John is still inside, securely where he belongs, and she is safe. She is safe, and she has Boyd in her life. Boyd who she adores, and who makes her very, very happy.
Boyd who would fight tooth and nail for her if he had to. Boyd who is incredibly protective, and whose mere presence has reassured her so many times before when she's felt threatened or in endangered.
"I'm fine," she tells him, steadying herself. "I promise."
It's not entirely true, but it's close enough. For now.
Hands resting on her hips, Boyd nuzzles her hair, and when she masters herself, thrusts away the remnants of that vision from her eyes and looks up at him again, he smiles at her, lets his lips wander languidly over hers. He knows, she realises. He knows something isn't right, but he's prepared to let her have her space and tell him in her own time. It's a precious, precious gift, and she takes it with a deep sense of gratitude for how well he knows her, understands her.
Burying herself back in his arms she stays there, grounding herself firmly back in the here and now, in him. In the reality of the present, not ancient history.
…
Waiting for Boyd to finish getting ready, Grace sits at the breakfast table with her mother, both of them with the obligatory gently steaming cups of tea. Just when and how it became such a tradition and necessity, she really can't remember, and as she idly searches her memory, she realises she has never seen the other woman drink a single cup of coffee, only tea.
"Are you sure you don't mind if he comes with us?" asks Grace, still a little hesitant regarding the hasty inclusion of her partner into their day out together.
Iris smiles, eyes gentle. "Of course not. I like him."
Grace nods, breathes a slow sigh of relief. Falls silent and stares into her mug as she feels the weight of a steady, unrelenting gaze watching her. Iris stays silent though, waiting.
Eventually it's too much, and her thoughts slip into some kind of order. "Mum," she begins, still not looking up.
"Yes dear?" Patient. As ever.
She can't do it. Can't ask about the conversation she inadvertently overheard. Can't bear to see the look in her mother's eyes as the panic builds in her own, can't let the shadow of the past creep in over their day out. Can't face the well-meaning, careful scrutiny that will come her way as Iris assures and reassures herself that her little girl really is okay. "About this morning," she covers, forcing herself away from the dangerous topic and train of thought. "Jack…"
"Yes?"
Her mother has never been one to make things easy, reflects Grace ruefully. "Is he going to be all right?"
"I should think so," is the steady reply. "Once he gets over the shock."
Grace doesn't need to look up to know the words are accompanied by a wicked smirk, but she does anyway, and rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Whose side are you on?" she demands, considerably less irritable than her tone indicates.
"Well," says Iris, her eyes twinkling as she makes a show of deliberating, "Jack is my first born…" Grace scowls, and her mother begins to laugh. "But you're my only daughter, and my baby."
There's a lot of laughter now, from both of them, and it's wonderful. Something they have always shared.
"Seriously, though," says Grace, when it dies down. "Will he be okay?"
"He'll be fine," Iris assures her. "The shock was… significant… I think. And he's a man – you know what men are like. They get all het up about the strangest of things. Time, a few beers to mull it all over, and he'll sort himself out. And if he doesn't then Allison certainly will."
"And what about Boyd?"
Iris gazes back across the table. "What about him?"
"Do you think Jack will have an issue with him? After today, I mean?" Her oldest brother can hold a grudge, and Grace is well aware of it. Being wrapped up in an arm lock and arrested… well, she can't imagine he's likely to forget that anytime soon.
"I'll talk to him later." Iris sips her tea, studies her daughter, and Grace knows she's being examined for any trace of knowledge that her mother thinks she shouldn't have regarding that whispered hallway conversation. Evidently she passes the test, because the next thing her mother says is, "Chances are he'll be round my house this evening, or tomorrow if we're late home. He always is when he needs to get something off his chest. I'll talk to him, smooth things over. Tell him Peter really is a good man."
It's soothing to hear, but Grace is still a little troubled by it all. The earlier disaster wasn't anything like the beginnings of the plan to introduce Boyd to her family, and to her brothers in particular, that she had slowly started to form. Calmly and carefully, and definitely one at a time, that was her strategy.
As ever, her mother seems to know a change in topic is necessary. "Was Jack's timing really that bad?"
Grace winces. Nods. "The absolute worst possible moment," she admits.
"Men!" mutters Iris, the disgust in her tone clearly audible. Then she smirks, her eyes taking on an unholy gleam yet again. "Though, in my experience, that means there will be real sparks tonight for you, my girl."
"Mum." Grace knows she's whining, but she can't help it. Her mother is just so –
"What?" The older woman is utterly unrepentant. "You think with four children your father and I didn't have a lot of practice at being interrupted at precisely the wrong moment?"
"I really don't want to know," replies Grace, shivering at the thought. There is just something… wrong… about discussing her parents' sex life, and with her mother of all people.
"Oh stop cringing, girl. Sex is as natural as the day is long. I happen to know Simon and Sally were at it the night before last."
Grace sighs. Her protests of, "I really don't want to know," fall on deaf ears as Iris keeps talking. "Your nephew was round my house complaining that he came home to find them wrapped around each other on the sofa. Still partly clothed, fortunately, he said, but they wasted no time in disappearing upstairs when they realised he was there."
Despite herself, Grace laughs. "They probably forgot he's living with them again," she muses.
"That's exactly what I told him, after I made him a nice strong coffee with a good shot of brandy in it. These young men, you know – they just can't cope with the idea that their parents didn't just do it the number of times it took to reproduce."
Thinking of Adam, her now forty-something nephew, recently separated from his volatile wife and temporarily staying with his parents again while looking for somewhere else to go, Grace can't hold back a laugh. Adam is more uptight about bodily functions than any man she's ever known, and she can picture, quite clearly, his absolute horror at walking through the door after work and finding his parents in such a compromising situation.
"Poor Adam," she laughs. Then she sobers slightly. "Is he going for full custody of Maddie?"
Iris nods. "As soon as he can. Michelle has gone completely off the rails, he told me. Drinking all the time, barely holding it together enough to get to work – he doesn't think it'll be long before she's out of a job. She threw his things out into the street; changed the locks while he was at work. He had to call the police to help him go and get the rest of his stuff, to prevent a breach of the peace or something, he said."
"How's Maddie doing?" Grace thinks of her sweet little nine year old great niece; a slender girl with dark features, a soft, whispery voice, and a deep love of ballet, who is the absolute light of her father's life.
"Not too bad, he said. Though he wants to get her out of that situation as soon as possible."
"I can imagine," agrees Grace. "I would too."
"Any parent would," nods Iris.
How is she doing it, wonders Grace, surreptitiously watching her mother as they continue to speak of the family, catching up on all the recent news. How is Iris hiding the shock of what she's just learned and carrying on as normal?
Grace heard the tone of her mother's voice as her brother imparted his news. She noted the horror there, even as she felt the bottom drop out of her own world.
She doesn't want me to know. To feel as though anything is wrong.
It's admirable, she supposes, and it speaks of her mother's love for her, and her strength of character that Iris can hear such devastating news and simply carry on, but… were it her own choice, thinks Grace, she would have the news out in the open and speak of it.
But would she?
She couldn't say it, couldn't bring it up in conversation just a few minutes ago. And she didn't tell Boyd. She kept it from him, in fact. Upstairs, when he asked, she buried the fear and the horror deep inside her. Told herself that she would speak of it later, when she'd had the chance to process it.
Did she mean it though, she asks herself now. Will she really tell him?
Footsteps on the stairs distract her; rapid and heavy-footed, he clatters down from the upper floor with an enthusiasm that still makes her smile. Appears in the doorway with an energy that makes her envious, and a grin directed solely at her that makes her heart melt just a little bit. In fresh, clean jeans and a sweater, with his hair spiky and still a little damp from the shower he's an arresting sight and she stares, takes her time taking him in.
The grin on his face widens, and she knows he knows exactly what's going through her mind. She still wants him, the memory of their interrupted morning tumble choosing precisely that moment to come back and haunt her. Her mother was right, she thinks, offering him the tiniest hint of a smirk as she catches him staring back, his eyes slipping lower than her face; there will most definitely be sparks tonight.
"Ahem!" the interruption is blunt and highly amused, and it shatters the charged moment between them. Grace gives him a guilty twitch of her eyebrow, he lends her a half wink, and they both turn to look at Iris.
"Kindly save the flirting and mentally undressing each other until I leave," she orders, and Boyd laughs, slips further into the kitchen and moves to stand behind Grace, his palms resting on her shoulders.
His hands are big and strong, and they steady her, thinks Grace. Make her feel secure. Loved.
"I'm just a man," he tells her mother. "I can't help myself. Your daughter has bewitched me."
She laughs, a lot. Just as her mother bursts into peels of merriment, her eyes sparkling with glee.
"Oh, very good," Iris tells him, before looking at her daughter. "And what's your excuse?"
"Do I need one?" asks Grace, shrugging. She takes his hand and pulls, tugging him down for a far from innocent kiss.
It's a declaration, though of what she's not entirely sure.
To herself, that she trusts him? To her mother, that she loves him? To him, that his sentiments, his feelings are returned, and that she's not afraid for others to know?
She doesn't know, but she doesn't care much either. All of it is true, and she knows it. The season is changing, and they are settling very well into their relationship. Her earlier insecurities are fading and her trust is growing. She doesn't doubt him – she knows him. And she knows that she knows him.
She will tell him, when she's got the measure of it herself. She thinks she'll tell him. She's got to tell him, because he'll find out eventually, and keeping it to herself, especially if it's true…
How will he react though? Will he scoff, think it's nothing, or fly into a protective rage?
Does it matter? He will be on her side, and he will still love her. Didn't he prove that to her the night he first saw her scars and heard her story? Isn't that what she was always so afraid of? What stopped her from holding out her hand to him a long, long time ago, even though she wanted nothing more than to feel his skin against her own, to confess how she felt about him, how much she wanted him in her life as more than just a friend. To have a chance with him, a real chance.
She will tell him, and he will be on her side, will still love her. And that is all that really matters.
The rest… she will have to learn to handle, and as she does he will help her through it, she's sure.
"Come on," says Iris, interrupting her thoughts. "Finish that tea, will you? I'm getting old here, waiting for you two, and the day isn't getting any younger either."
"I didn't even know we were going out," complains Boyd. "You can't blame me."
Iris stares at him, considering. "You can stay behind then."
The protest is immediate, as it was surely intended to be. "I didn't say I didn't want to go."
Grace looks at her mother, just as Iris looks at her. "That's not what it sounded like to me," remarks Iris, and Grace nods in agreement, seeing the narrow-eyed look Boyd directs at her.
"Nor to me either," she agrees, easily noting the dawning suspicion in Boyd that a considerable amount of female solidarity is suddenly being used against him.
There's a lot of apprehensive resignation in the way he asks, "It's going to be a long day, isn't it?"
Grace smiles sunnily up at him. Iris simply cackles with merciless glee.
While that is the end of this story, I do have at least one more in this series planned, particularly since it forms part of a deal I made with Joodiff. Thank you to all those who read, enjoy and leave those lovely, kind reviews. It is much appreciated. :) xx