Page 8 of Accidentally Mine

Roselynn

I loved everything about Boston. Loved going to Fenway, the greatest baseball stadium on earth, where I used to watch a game with my dad.

Loved the history of the place and the stops along the Freedom Trail, even when they were packed up with tourists.

Loved the smell of the sea and watching the tall ships as they’d come into the bay.

Loved walking the Boston Public Garden. Every little detail I loved about the city jumped out at me as I dodged people on the sidewalk.

If it was up to me, I’d probably have been like my aunt and my father and never leave.

But it wasn’t up to me.

I had to get the hell out of there, before what I didn’t like came crashing down on me.

What had I been doing, talking to that man? It was something I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do—allow myself to be zeroed in on here. But he’d just seemed so…lost. Helpless. Like the man from that night…

I willed my brain to shut off as I rushed into the T Station at Boston Common, checking behind me every two seconds, on even higher alert than usual as I thought about the article I’d glimpsed in the Globe .

An article about my dad. Now, I wondered if that man in the café knew who I was, or if any one of the people I passed would.

It had seemed like there was some kind of recognition in his eyes.

This was not good. Definitely not good.

I hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, wondering what I was going to do.

And now, my worst nightmare was about to come true.

Somehow, Anthony’d worked the miracle he always said he could, and had his sentence overturned.

I couldn’t leave until I finished sorting everything out and got my aunt taken care of, and now Anthony would be out of prison any day.

I couldn’t help thinking that he knew exactly where I was, and was just biding his time.

I could almost feel his eyes on me, like the great all-seeing eye of Sauron in The Lord of the Rings .

It was enough to make me want to duck into a shop and hide.

But I couldn’t do that. My father had said to me once, “Don’t live your life in fear. If you do, you might as well be dead.” That was why he’d never left, even when I’d begged him to. His whole life had been in Boston, and he wasn’t about to let people push him around.

When I got through the turnstile, I found a newspaper vending machine, pulled change out of my wallet, and freed the paper on top. I flipped frantically through the pages until I found the article about my father.

Shit.

When I turned the page, my stomach dropped.

It was my college photo, taken about six months before the night of the accident.

Me, with my dark hair and pale skin, wearing a bright smile, draped in black with the caked-on makeup that effectively hid all the horrible things that Anthony had been doing to me.

The bruises. The abuse that had been just as emotional as physical.

A memory played out in my head, just as vivid as the morning it had happened.

“Bec, sweetheart, where do you think you’re going?” Anthony, lying on his bed, bare-chested, watched me as I’d peeled myself off the bed, away from his side. He reached for my hand, but I pulled away.

The bruises on my body had screamed and my bones creaked like I was a hundred-year-old woman. But I turned back and touched him. I’d been too afraid of unwittingly starting yet another fight I might not survive. “I have my picture, baby,” I’d said gently. “I told you about it? For school.”

In the bathroom, my face in the mirror scared me.

My eyes were bloodshot, sunken and purple-rimmed, my skin mottled with angry red welts.

I patted on pancake makeup, thinking I’d need a miracle to get through that day.

I’d taken to staying most nights at his place because I didn’t want my roommates to notice what was happening.

I never even went to see my dad or aunt anymore.

As I leaned forward to sweep on mascara, Anthony came up behind me and cupped my breasts. “Sure you’re not going out whoring?”

I’d frozen with the wand at my eye. Managed a smile. “No. It’s my picture. I have to have one every year.”

“All right,” he said, grabbing his white dress shirt and shrugging it on. “I’ll take you.”

I nodded. By then, I’d known better than to argue, and I’d also expected that he’d take me. I knew better than to lie too. Even when I told the truth, he didn’t trust me. I only left him for classes, and when I did, I came back home right away. Lateness—even just five minutes—was never tolerated.

The beatings.

The pain.

The humiliation.

I shook my head, forcing the memories from my brain.

As I waited for the train, I looked around the station, then back at the photo of myself, unable to believe three years had passed since that day. I didn’t look very different now, just blonde. People could easily recognize me.

An old man studied me closely as he passed, and the sense of paranoia returned with a vengeance.

I cursed as I craned my neck toward the track, wondering where the hell the train was.

My mind circled once again back to the man I’d met in the café.

Of course he couldn’t have been that man from two years ago.

The man in the Porsche. The chance of running into him now was about nil.

Plus, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone who reminded me of him.

That was the curse of the guilt I knew I’d carry around forever: I saw him everywhere I went.

But something about that guy was different.

He wasn’t one of Anthony’s men, that was for sure.

Those men exuded a kind of arrogance, walking around like the world was theirs.

This man exuded quiet confidence, but not cockiness.

And maybe it was also something I once experienced a long, long time ago.

Chemistry.

Yes, he was good-looking. I couldn’t remember feeling the way I did in the coffee shop about a man since I’d first set eyes on Anthony at the Black Rose Pub.

Taller than Anthony by at least a few inches, this man had dark hair that he wore combed back from a strong forehead, a chiseled jaw, and chocolate-brown eyes.

He was wearing what had to be a custom suit by how well it fit him, or maybe he just had a body that everything looked good on.

He was more lean than beefy and muscular like Anthony, but definitely attractive.

All the more reason to flee. The last time I’d had chemistry with a guy? It hadn’t exactly ended well.

As I thought more about those chocolate-brown eyes, something warm came alive low in my abdomen—a feeling that was almost foreign to me now.

The first sparks of desire.

Stop it! That is the last thing you need right now. You know that will only get you in trouble.

Without warning, someone dropped a hand on my shoulder.

I whirled, jumping nearly to the ceiling. “Fuck!” I screamed, the word echoing off the walls so that all the commuters turned as I whipped my arm out and my fist made quick contact with a face.

A nose, actually. Not prominent, but just right for his face.

The face belonging to that cute guy from the café.

“Motherfu—” he breathed before dropping his briefcase and clamping both palms over his nose, turning away. But not quick enough for me to miss the bright red blood gushing between his fingers.

Blood. So much blood.

Once again, I was in the center of the Pike, a road I’ve never traveled again since that day, slipping in puddles of gasoline.

Blood everywhere. All over him, so much so that I couldn’t tell what the original color of his shirt was. It was running down his face, but those deep brown eyes were on me. Far away, I heard Anthony’s muffled yells, saying my name, over and over again.

I ripped off my cardigan and pressed it to his wound.

Told him to hold on to me, as together, we staggered to the edge of the road, out of the way of other cars.

He fell there, limp and motionless, staring up at me helplessly as I called 9-1-1.

I watched him for a moment, thinking he was dead and praying for a miracle until his eyes slowly blinked open.

“Are you all right, sir?” The gruff words knocked me back into the present.

The man I’d just smacked in the face was now bleeding all over the concrete, droplets splattering on his shiny black shoes.

“Oh!” I wailed. “Oh, my gosh!”

Spurred into frantic action, I reached into my bag, but I couldn’t find so much as a tissue. So I pulled off my sweater and handed it to him. “Use this.”

He reached out and nudged it away, his fingers grazing mine. The electric zing of it shot up my arm, punched me in the gut before sliding to my toes.

“No, I got it,” he said, his voice muffled by his hand. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fancy linen handkerchief. “Thanks.”

Yes, that was probably a better solution than my massive sweater. My face heated. I’d just decked this gorgeous man’s nose, and he was being so nice to me about it.

“ Thanks ? I just broke your nose.”

He slumped against a wall, sinking to the ground in a crouch, and held the handkerchief in place for a minute. “I’ve broken my nose before,” he said, still muffled. “This isn’t broken, slugger.”

Slugger?

His voice didn’t sound angry. Even bleeding, he sounded controlled and powerful. Was that the hint of a smile under the handkerchief? Maybe he wasn’t all that pissed at me, though I didn’t know how.

“Oh.” I exhaled in relief, pressing my hands to my stomach as I fought to catch my breath. “Are you sure?”

He made a dismissive shake of his head. “Noses are known for bleeding like a mother, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll live.”