This is Who I Am
Page 52

At the edge of the beach, Sam put a foot up on the low railing, leaned on his knee, and watched the rough waves splash against the sand. Dark clouds had covered the sky, and the palms lining the sidewalk bowed against the bitter wind. The whole damn world felt cold.
Over and over today, Linda had needed him, and he’d stood silent. Unmoving.
And now… “God, I love you, Sam.” He scrubbed his face as if he could erase the memory of the hurt in her eyes when he hadn’t spoken. Years of being a Dom meant he could see when his words—or lack of them—did damage.
He’d known. But couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t speak. She’d been damned brave today, and he hadn’t told her that. Hadn’t told her how proud he was of her.
What kind of a bastard got involved with a woman and didn’t help her when she needed him? Got so twisted into knots that he couldn’t even tell her how he felt? Or take her hand when she looked lost?
He straightened, looking up into the ugly sky as the first drops of rain hit. Linda deserved someone who’d be there for her.
That someone wasn’t him. He rubbed the tight spot in his chest, then headed back to his truck.
As he climbed in his truck, he remembered the paint cans in the back and the white blotches on her house. He’d taken that task on himself, and it wasn’t finished. Once that was done…
* * * *
Linda hadn’t been able to cry or eat or even think. Her emotions felt battered, as if someone had taken a baseball bat to them. The television had bothered her. She’d turned it off. She’d tried reading and then stared at one page for half an hour. The basket she started was a misshapen disaster. Finally she went to bed and stared at the ceiling.
She’d think tomorrow. Me and Scarlett O’Hara—we know how to handle life. You bet.
A man shouted.
Linda jolted upright in bed, realizing she must have finally drifted off. The red display on her clock said four a.m., and her room was dark. Quiet. Unlike all the noise outside. What in the world?
“Fucking son of a bitch, let me go!” The man’s voice was high-pitched but familiar.
The low growl in response was instantaneously recognizable. Sam.
Linda yanked on her robe. Her heart was pounding crazily. Really, this wasn’t a good way for an ex-slave to wake up. I need a dog.
She pulled Frederick’s ancient golf club from under the bed and ran into the living room.
A hammering on the door burst like a bomb into the quiet house.
With a tight grip on her weapon, Linda cracked the door. “What’s going on?”
Sam stood on her doorstep. She started to smile, then saw the man sprawled at his feet, squirming like a worm. His wrists were restrained behind his back with handcuffs.
When he tried to sit up, Sam flattened him with a boot on his back. “Annoy me, asshole, and I’ll break your spine just to enjoy the crunch.” He glanced at Linda, eyes colder than she’d ever seen. “Feels like cracking ice cubes with your teeth.”
“Good to know.” She swallowed, remembering the sound from something much, much more horrible.
Sam’s gaze softened. “Sorry, girl.” He thumped the man with his boot, getting a pained oomph. “This is your graffiti artist.”
“Seriously?” When the man looked up at her, her jaw dropped. “Dwayne?” Dwayne had been painting filth on her house?
“Know him?”
“Yes!” She took in his nod. “You’re not surprised?”
“Too persistent. Too nasty. Doubted he was a stranger.”
Dwayne glared at her. “Let me go, or I’ll sue the fucking crap out of you. I was just walking by when this…”
Sam put weight on the man’s back, and Dwayne squeaked. “Idiot,” Sam muttered. “No gloves. Your prints will be all over the cans out there.”
Dwayne’s eyes widened.
“Why, Dwayne?” Linda tightened her belt against the chill night. The rain had swept through, leaving the air fresh except for the scent of paint. “What did I do that you’d hate me this much?”
Silence. Sweat broke out on the reporter’s brow as he continued to struggle.
“Talk to her, boy.” Sam dropped his voice into a Dom’s low threat. “Or you’ll scream for me.”
Dwayne stared up at Sam like a mouse confronting a hawk. After a minute, he managed to pull his gaze away and say to Linda, “Why? We fucked, and it was good, but then you dump me and go to a sleazy club. You’re a whore.”
“Watch the language, boy.” When Sam fisted his hair and yanked, Dwayne shrieked like a girl. His cheek was mashed into the step, one brown eye staring up at her.
“You wrote filth on my house because I didn’t want to date you?” That didn’t make sense. Dwayne wasn’t that energetic, which was why he worked for the small Foggy Shores newspaper…although he was always talking about getting his big break by writing a prizewinning article.
Oh heavens, that was it. Fury flamed inside her. “You just wanted more stories for the paper. The graffiti kept the gossip alive.” She heard something outside but couldn’t get past her anger.
“Like anyone would believe you,” Dwayne muttered. “You’re a slut. A nothing in this town. And everybody knows it.”
“You painted that crap on her house to get a goddamned story?” Sam’s voice rose.
“Hell, yeah. Sex slaves? Everybody reads that shit.” Dwayne smirked. “A shame you can’t prove fuck all.”
“I think that admission will work in court,” a man said.
Linda’s head jerked up. Officer Joe Blount stood just outside the circle of light. Another uniformed policeman was hurrying up the sidewalk.
Sam nodded to the men. “Caught him spray-painting her house. Paint cans are there. Probably have his fingerprints. You can match his shoes to the tracks in the mud.”
“Ward, see to collecting evidence, would you?” Officer Blount glanced at Sam. “I’d like you to come down to the station to make a report.”
“No problem.” Sam jerked his chin toward Linda. “She just woke up when I pounded on her door.”
Joe gave her a sympathetic smile. The gray-haired cop had taken her complaints before. “You’ll press charges, right?”
“I will,” she said firmly, ignoring Dwayne’s incoherent protest.
“Then stop by in the morning. No need for us all to lose sleep.”
Finally realizing his life was spinning down the drain, Dwayne started struggling again. “Hey, I want a lawyer. I want—”
“All in good time.” Joe bent and traced a finger over the smooth silver curves of the handcuffs on Dwayne. He glanced up at Sam. “Nice cuffs you got there, buddy.”
Sam silently handed him the key.
After switching the cuffs, Joe pulled a paper from his pocket and read from it. “You have the right…”
Linda turned toward Sam. He’d been guarding her. He did care for her. “Thank you.” She took a step toward him. “Sam…”
He shook his head and stepped away from her. “No. You’re better off without me.” His eyes were pale ice, his face cold. “Have a good life, Linda.” He strode down the sidewalk.
Taking her heart with him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I don’t need him. I don’t. Linda bent her head and fingerpicked a melody in minor, the sound plaintive in the early dawn. Earlier she’d tried to play lighthearted songs, but her guitar wanted to mourn.
The scent of the freesias drifted through the air, reminding her of Jessica and Z’s wedding. They were so happy together. She’d bet that Z talked to Jessica, shared his feelings. His past.
Sam hadn’t. But why?
Maybe because she wasn’t important enough in his life.
Why did she keep stewing over it? Linda shook her head. She didn’t know what had happened, what she’d done wrong, but he wasn’t a man who said what he didn’t mean. Their relationship—if that’s what it had been—was over. He’d said so.
She frowned. She’d just watched him walk away from her.
At one time, she might have argued with him, but the cold look in his eyes had paralyzed her. It had been too close to how the slavers had looked at her. And after being treated like an animal, a nothing that didn’t deserve answers, she hadn’t been able to say…anything. Her fingers clenched, turning the C-minor chord into ugliness. She flattened her hand over the strings, muting the sound.
That was what the human traffickers had done to her. Muted her as if her voice shouldn’t be heard in the world.
But they hadn’t succeeded. No, she was here in her own home, outside in the sweet air, seeing the stars disappearing in the dawn sky.
Nonetheless they’d changed her, made her more vulnerable. Her breathing hitched for a moment as she remembered Sam’s tough, weathered face, his strong hands, his heavy-lidded eyes when he planned to take her. Such a stern man, yet his eyes would unexpectedly light with amusement.
For a moment she wanted him with everything inside her.
She shook her head and changed to a new song. If her guitar wanted to mourn, then she should allow it. Over the years, she’d learned that her guitar always spoke truth—the truth in her heart. Her fingers slid into Joan Baez’s sad “Diamonds and Rust.”