Page 7 of The Allure of Ruins

O n the elevator, he yawned so wide, I heard his jaw crack.

“I hate it when you do that.”

“As much as you hate listening to me eat?” he asked snidely. I guess maybe I’d said that too many times over the years.

“Lemme think.”

“Screw you,” he snapped. “But listen, I need you to hit the high points for me on this situation before we reach the pub.”

“Not to be tedious,” I began, “as you’ve said I am on a number of occasions, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He grunted but didn’t say because he wasn’t ready to. I suspected it was the elevator; he wanted us off so we could speak privately. He didn’t like to share much outside of our circle of two.

As people got on, he took hold of my bicep and moved me back close to him, shielding me, putting me in the corner and stepping in front. There was no way at all for me to get out. It should have been suffocating. It should have made me hyperventilate. But it didn’t. Ever. Not with him.

It was the strangest thing, but from the first moment I met him to now, as he yanked me after him out of the elevator, I could not logically account for my reaction to the man.

He was bigger than me, six-two to my five-nine.

He carried a lot of hard, lean, roping muscle on his broad-shouldered, wide-chested frame, and he did not know the meaning of the word gentle .

Always, from the start, he’d manhandled me.

Just like now. If I’d planted my feet, he would have still moved me.

The man didn’t hear no from me or wait or stop because none of those words ever altered his course.

He also had a rubber ball in his desk at work that he would use to get my attention, hurling it at me if I didn’t answer him fast enough.

And God help me if I didn’t remember to duck.

It was pretty solid, one of the ones he played handball with, and it killed a desk lamp the one time I missed it rushing toward me and didn’t catch it.

To other people, I suspected that our relationship appeared abusive, how he treated me like I belonged to him, but unlike how it had been when another man had called me his property, Colton never hurt me.

Even in his haste, he was careful. He also checked on me. Constantly.

What did I eat? Was I drinking enough water?

Was I cold? Was I hot? When I was sick, he showed up with soup, Gatorade, and vitamins.

And it was the same with me. I had keys for everything from his car to his loft and even knew the combination to his locker at the gym.

I could unlock his phone, and if, heaven forbid, anything happened to him, I was the one who knew what to do, whom to call, had all his passwords, and would clear the search history on his laptop at home.

How he was, like a grouchy, growly, pissed-off lion, should have had me doubled over in a corner in a fetal position, but…

I knew him. From the second I laid eyes on him, it was like I saw him so clearly.

He roared a lot, yes, but for me, not because of me.

He was overly protective, and in those weird times when something or someone would scare me, some trigger setting me off that I hadn’t anticipated, I had him to turn to.

If it happened at work, I would retreat to his office and sit in the wingback chair with the ottoman, which was there specifically for me.

It was behind his desk, not in front of it, so I was protected.

I would curl there, quietly, until I noticed him doing something wrong in Excel and would have to rise to fix the problem.

If it happened when we were not at work, I would go to his apartment in Bucktown and wrap myself up in the heavy quilt that was there for me on his overstuffed love seat next to the window, and I’d watch the snow fall in the winter and the city lights in summer.

If he was asleep, he’d stumble out of his bedroom, squint at me, give me the tilt-up of his head, an acknowledgment, and then go back to bed.

If he wasn’t home, when he walked in, he’d offer me half of whatever takeout he’d brought home or tell me I was going to love whatever he was planning to make.

On the rare occasion he brought a date home, he would apologize, call for a car for them, and then flop down on the couch facing the TV and find a movie.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” I would whisper from the love seat.

“You didn’t,” he would lie, and without looking at me, would pat the seat beside him.

I would always move fast, wanting to be close, but not enough to touch. The comfort was in being in his space, not being held. At least that was the way it started.

The last time it happened, I wedged myself against his shoulder, and like he’d been doing it for years, he lifted his arm and tucked me in tight.

I had been momentarily terrified that I’d made a mistake, initiated contact I didn’t need or want, but instead of the jolt of terror running through me, there came an almost overwhelming feeling of calm, followed quickly by warmth.

The heat that rolled off the man was staggering, but since I normally shivered my way through my panic attacks, that was welcome as well.

It was the weirdest thing, and there was no accounting for it, but when I told my therapist, he said it was a good thing.

Trusting anyone was an act of faith for me, and if I could do it with one person, it meant others would follow.

And he’d been right. Over the years, more followed, and I could hug people now and be around them one-on-one, but still, I had to talk myself through certain situations, and sometimes, like with Mr. Somerset scaring me earlier, even being near someone bigger than me, who could overpower me, would set me off.

The only person who’d never, ever, tripped an alarm was also the one person who was constantly in my space.

My reaction to Colton Gates made no sense, but I was thankful for him every day. And now he’d know what a coward I was, and I hoped he’d find it in his heart to forgive me.

An SUV was waiting for us, and I was surprised because normally we took the L unless we were on our way to court, rolling or carrying a lot of materials.

We also got a car if we had a witness with us.

Didn’t want them to think we didn’t have the resources to care for them.

But when it was just us going somewhere, we usually took the train. His getting an Uber was strange.

“Why?” I asked, sitting beside him in the back seat.

“Because I want to get there fast,” he replied grouchily.

We were both quiet for several minutes.

“What if you don’t like me after you’ve heard the things I’ve done?”

He was scowling when he turned his head from the window to watch me. “You mean the things that were done to you?”

“How do you know what was?—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he warned me. “You took me with you so I could meet your therapist because he wanted to put a face—my face—to a name. I was sitting there when he said that your relationship with me was not healthy.”

I glanced away, remembering how distressed I’d been when that analysis had been shared. What saved my relationship with Dr. Butler and allowed me to keep seeing him was that he immediately amended what he said and made clear that for me personally, trusting anyone was a step toward healing.

“Mr. Gates is ? —”

“Please call him Colton,” I had insisted.

He’d cleared his throat. “You are dependent on Colton,” he’d explained, “but he is not dependent on you outside of the office, which makes this all right.”

And when I’d thought about that for a moment, it was true.

He had old Army buddies, he had friends from law school, he had the guys he played baseball with on a league every spring.

His parents lived in La Grange, and his sister, Brooke, lived in Lincoln Park with her husband and two kids.

Everyone loved him. He was a loyal and concerned friend, the one who showed up to help you move, took you to rehab, and came when you called in the middle of the night.

He was a loving son, a doting brother, and the uncle the kids loved best because he treated them like people, not kids.

I knew that because normally I was there when he was watching them.

His sister preferred that I was in attendance because I made certain the movies they watched were age appropriate, that all the food groups were represented during their meals, and that suitable safety equipment was put on—goggles, for instance, when handling an acetylene torch— before anything was begun that involved fire, heights, or driving really, really fast.

“Having Colton in your life, someone you trust, has opened you up to others, and that’s an amazing change for you,” Dr. Butler had continued.

“Because I’m so broken.”

His brows furrowed, and I couldn’t help my smile.

“Don’t default to running yourself down. That helps nothing. You can accept what I’m saying to you without adding anything. Will you try and do that?”

And I had been. But at the moment, I was terrified.

“Hello,” Colton barked at me, and I turned my head so I could see him. After a moment of searching my face, he told the driver to pull over, that we’d walk the rest of the way.

Once we were out on the sidewalk, I realized how cold it was. Chicago in January was no joke. The addition of softly falling snow wasn’t making the situation any better.

“Why did you do that? You’re still going to have to pay for the whole ride,” I grumbled, hoping my scowl was as dark as my mood.

“I don’t care,” he replied, tipping his head to get me to move. “I need you to tell me some stuff before we get to the pub, and I didn’t want the driver to hear.”

“Like what?” I asked, falling into step beside him.

“I want to know about growing up.”

I shrugged. “There’s not a lot to?—”

“No,” he growled, rounding on me. “I want to hear it all, because God help me if you make me unseal your juvenile records and read whatever happened to you myself.”