The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [91]
She raised her head and vomited all over his lap.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He sprang back, batting at her furiously. She fell to the side, still vomiting rancid whiskey. Her shoulders trembled. She hunched her small, naked body over her knees and shut out the world until the black void was complete, the memories pushed back and locked up.
She reached frantically for her clothes.
The stud came after her, angry and enraged. She didn’t think, she wasn’t composed. She fought instinctively, and five moves later he was writhing on the ground without even the breath to curse. Throwing on her clothes, she grabbed his truck keys and told him he’d find his vehicle back at the bar.
Then she climbed in the truck, started the engine, and roared back out onto the long, empty road.
Run, Marion. Run and don’t look back. You don’t want to know what’s behind you. You never wanted to know what was behind you.
TWENTY
J.T. WOKE UP instantly, lying on his back amid the tangled sheets. He stared at the ceiling blankly, blinking his eyes and trying to pinpoint what had woken him.
Then slowly his gaze drifted to the foot of the bed.
She stood there, pale and ethereal once more. Long blond hair tumbled down her back in fat, loose waves. Small hands knotted and unknotted in front of a flowing white nightgown. Her expression tore at him, begging him to save her.
His breath caught in his throat. He told himself again and again that it was only memory: living, breathing memory standing at the foot of his bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind screaming for the demon to go away. He couldn’t save her. He hadn’t saved her. He was nothing.
He opened his eyes.
She was still there.
And he realized for the first time that she wasn’t a child. This wasn’t little Merry Berry, stepping from his mind into his bedroom. This was Marion, grown-up, alive, and real.
His hand lifted from the sheets on its own accord, stretching out to her. “Marion . . .” His voice cracked.
“I came,” she whispered. “I wanted to see . . . if I’d ever stood here. If it felt . . .” Her eyes squeezed shut. “No. It never happened! It never, ever happened!”
She grabbed the skirt of her nightgown and fled.
His hand fell to the sheet in shock. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. He was suspended someplace between the past and the present and his chest was on fire with pain.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He reached the door in two steps, flung it open, and caught a flash of white as she disappeared into her room. He gave chase. He had to. Just once he had to get this right.
Her door slammed shut forcefully, rocking the still house and locking with a definitive click. J.T. beat against it frantically.
“Marion, let me in! Can’t we talk about this? Christ, Marion. Just once can’t we talk about this?” He pressed his cheek against the wooden door, knowing he was begging and beyond caring.
From the other side of the door he heard a rough, choking sound. She was crying. Cold, perfect Marion was sobbing.
He sank down to the floor.
“Marion,” he called hoarsely. “Marion, Marion. I tried. I tried so hard to save you. God, I tried . . .”
But there was no reply, just the hoarse sound of his little sister sobbing.
He pressed his cheek against the door. He closed his eyes. Then he banged on the door helplessly with his fist, needing her to let him in, desperate for her to let him in.
Marion, I know I failed you. But I came back. I came back and you’d forgotten everything—all the good moments, as well as the bad—and that failed me. How could we fail each other? How could we serve the colonel like that?
Marion didn’t come to the door, nor did she answer his pleas. So he switched to cursing the colonel instead. Thirty-six years old, he cursed his father and wondered how a grown man could feel such fear.
Minutes passed. Her sobbing stopped and silence took its place, reigning in the dark, shadowed house.
“Marion?”
There was nothing. She’d come. She’d left. He was right back where he started except for the pain devouring his chest, the dark, enraged