Still Beating

Dean: “Umm… ?”

I wake up the next morning with a fluffy dog tail in my face as my phone vibrates on the nightstand beside me. I stare at the text message that just came through, nipping the inside of my bottom lip with my teeth.

Me: Good morning 🙂Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Dean: Where are you?

Me: Home. I had to let the dogs out.

Dean: Ok. You should have woken me up to say goodbye.

I swallow, inhaling a heavy breath.

Me: You looked so cute and peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you 🙂

A few minutes pass by without a reply, so I start scrolling through Facebook as I roll onto my side. Jude scoots over to the opposite pillow, and I prop my head up on one hand, idly skimming my newsfeed.

Dean: You could have left a note or something. I wasn’t expecting to wake up alone.

I blink slow, my eyes staying closed while I string together my response. Guilt cinches my gut as I recall waking up in a panic, half naked and entangled with Dean Asher.

I booked it.

Me: I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to stay out so late and I panicked. I didn’t mean to worry you.

Dean: Panicked because of the dogs or panicked because of me?

Shit.

I turn off my phone and roll back over, my fingers running through my hair as I fill my cheeks with anxious breaths. I want to tell him that everything feels so perfect, so right, when we are wandering through the dark nights with our walls down.

But in the cold light of day, reality pinches me, waking me up like a bucket of ice water. The walls go back up—brick by brick, layer by layer, protecting me and keeping me safe.

However, walls are manmade. They crack and they crumble.

They are destined to fall.

And I’m terrified to see who is still clawing their way through the rubble when the dust settles… and who has just given up.

“Man escapes abductor after twenty-two years in captivity”

The headline stops my breath as I sit with my parents around the dinner table, distracting myself with my phone.

“The partially nude man discovered on the side of Abbington Road near Pembrooke has been identified as thirty-year-old Oliver Lynch, the Libertyville boy who went missing on the Fourth of July almost twenty-two years ago.”

The article is accompanied by a photo of a man lying shirtless on the side of a snowy street in the fetal position, covered in blood.

My heart clenches.

Twenty-two years.

Twenty-two years.

“Cora, sweetheart? Are you okay? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

I swallow, glancing up at my mother with wide eyes. Bile sticks to my throat as I try to form words. “Did you see this news story about the missing boy who was found after twenty-two years?”

My parents pierce me with empathetic eyes and my father clears his throat. “We saw that on the news this morning.”

“How awful,” my mother adds, scooping peas onto her fork. “It’s a miracle that boy survived.”

I blink.

Is it, though?

I can’t help but wonder if he wishes he never survived at all. I was only gone for three weeks, and I still can’t shake the nightmares and haunting memories. I tried to take my own life.

How can he ever move past his trauma and have a normal existence?

“Excuse me,” I mutter, pushing myself away from the table and making a hasty retreat upstairs to the guest bedroom. I curl up under the covers and screenshot the article, sending it to Dean. I never replied to his last text and it hovers between us like so many other unanswered questions and frightening unknowns.

He reads it right away, but I don’t get a response for another ten minutes.

Dean: That’s fucked. Really puts things in perspective.

Me: To him, we would be the lucky ones 🙁

Another few minutes pass before my phone zings again.

Dean: Speaking of….. Did you see the new development in our case?

I freeze as I stare at his question, my body going numb. I haven’t seen anything—in fact, I generally scroll right past all posts and articles that have the name ‘Earl’ attached to them.

Me: No…

Only five seconds pass when a screenshot comes through, the picture slowly loading. I zoom in to read the headline:

“Victim of Earl Timothy Hubbard, also known as ‘The Matchmaker’, comes forward”

I read it again.

Then again.

My insides churn with disbelief. There’s another victim out there… alive? I don’t even read the corresponding article. I call Dean immediately.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Oh, my God.” My hand flies up to grasp my neck, scratching at my collarbone as I try to regain my composure. “Holy crap, Dean.”

“Yeah. I was reading all about it right before you texted me.”

I swallow. “What did it say? Did she give an interview? How did she escape?”

I hear him moving around on the other end with a faint rustling in the background. “Her name is Tabitha Brighton. She claims she was abducted by Earl last spring, along with her college professor. They were kept in the basement for two months before Earl killed the guy and let her go.”

“Let her go?” I repeat, dumbfounded. My heart is rattling my ribs and I start to tremble. “She’s lying. She’s got to be lying. That man didn’t have a single shred of decency inside him—there’s no way he’d let one of his victims go.”

“I don’t know, Cora. It’s still a developing story, but the professor checked out. His name was Matthew Gleason and he was one of the confirmed bodies found on the property.”

“I-It can’t be true. There’s no one else…” My breathing escalates as I lean back against the decorative pillows, staring up at the ceiling and clutching my chest. “There’s no one else.”

“I mean, it makes sense,” Dean replies. “There were eleven bodies found, yet he took his victims in pairs. I just figured there was either someone they hadn’t discovered, or he’d practiced his sick shit on someone solo first.”

“But… why wait all this time to come forward? So many victims could have been saved. We could have been saved.” I stand from the bed and start pacing the room. “She must be lying. She’s looking for attention, o-or money, or to see her name in history books one day. She’s a fraud, Dean.”

“Corabelle…” His voice softens, trying to soothe me through the speaker. “I’m sure more details will come out, but why does it even matter? What’s done is done. There’s no changing anything.”

“Because!” I exclaim. “Tessie and her stepbrother would still be alive, along with countless others. We wouldn’t have been abducted from your car in the middle of the night, shackled like dogs, forced to do…” My breath hitches, my fingers still curled around my neck, my emotions peaking. “Everything would be like it’s supposed to be. We’d still hate each other, you’d be married to Mandy, and I wouldn’t be standing here wondering how the hell I’m supposed to stop falling for you.”

I cup my hand around my mouth as a small cry breaks out, my eyes squeezing out hot tears. My strangled breaths echo throughout the small guest room, and I wish he’d say something, anything, just so my anguish isn’t the only sound humming in our ears.

“Cora… everything is the way it’s supposed to be. This is how the cards fell. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you can heal.”

I suck in a calming breath, allowing his words to sweep through me. He’s right, of course. I’ve been stuck in a perpetual state of ‘what if’ and ‘what should be’ instead of accepting what is and working through it. This new development of a surviving victim is only heightening my warped thought process. I exhale through my nod. “Yeah. You’re right,” I whisper. I smooth back my hair and finish, “I should get going. Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean pauses, then lets out a sigh that sounds like disappointment. “You don’t think we should talk about last night?”

My cheeks burn from the memory. “Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Cora, I can’t do this.”

I bite down on my tongue and fiddle with the pendant on my necklace. “Do what?”

“This. Whatever this is.”

“I don’t know what this is,” I admit.

“Well, I can’t do it—this push and pull with you. It’s fucking me up.”

I close my eyes, processing my response, when my mother appears in the doorway, tapping her knuckles against the frame. She mouths to me, “Are you okay?”

I nod, swallowing down my words, and reply to Dean. “I have to go.”

Another sigh of frustration filters in my ear, and it feels like a dagger to my heart. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

He disconnects the call, and it takes all of my willpower not to break down.

My mother is quickly by my side, rubbing her hand up and down my back. “Are you okay, honey? Do you need to talk?”

Yes. I probably do.

My parents have been nothing but supportive, despite the heinous crime I committed against their favorite daughter. But I’m not sure if it’s because they truly sympathize with me, or if they’re afraid I’ll attempt to take my life again if they ostracize me.

I should talk… Lord knows I could use some motherly advice right about now.

But I’m not ready.

“No. I’m fine,” I murmur with a shake of my head.

Her grip tightens as her palm moves up to my shoulder. “Sweetheart, I know we did everything we could to avoid inpatient treatment after you were released from the hospital, but if you think that’s what you need to help you through this, please let me know.”

“I don’t need to be thrown in the loony bin, Mom. I’m just trying to adjust.”

I was grateful I wasn’t transferred to an inpatient facility post-release. Since it was a first time offense with no history of mental disorder and no suicide note or indication of premeditation, I was allowed to go home. And I know I won’t ever do something like that again—as low and scary as things might get, I do want to be alive. That night will forever be a stain on my memory. It will always be my biggest regret.

“Cora, there’s no shame in needing help. That’s what those services are there for. You’ve suffered immense trauma over the past few months—not just the abduction and the overdose, but you were pregnant, sweetie. It’s all so much… so heavy.”

I stiffen. I try not to think about the pregnancy. I bury it down, along with every other inconceivable blow I’ve been dealt since November. I don’t think about how it could have been Dean’s. I don’t think about how it could have been his. I want to be a mother more than anything one day, but not like that. No child deserves to be born out of the horrors of that basement. “I told you, I’m fine. I just need to get some rest,” I insist, escaping my mother’s grasp and moving past her. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Cora…”

I shuffle through the loft and down the stairs, grabbing my coat and keys. “Goodnight,” I shout, disappearing out the front door.

When I pull out of the driveway and head towards the main intersection, I hesitate before I choose a turn lane. My heart starts to thump with nervous beats as I contemplate not going home. The sun has set and darkness is hovering, disguising what I know is wrong.

I don’t think too hard and swerve to the left, heading to the opposite end of town.

For the second night in a row, I’m walking up his cement sidewalk, unable to stay away. Only, this time he’s sitting on the front stoop smoking a cigarette. I halt my steps when our eyes meet and he blows a plume of smoke up towards the stars.

“You’re smoking again,” I note softly, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets.

His jaw sets as he takes a long drag, the embers flickering to life. The last time I saw him smoke was in his Camaro that night, right before Earl shattered my window.

And my soul.

“I need something to take the edge off.”

I duck my head, pressing my lips together. “Am I the edge?”

Dean stares right at me as puffs of smoke trail from his nostrils, then he kicks at a loose stone. “Yeah, Cora. You’re the edge.” He watches carefully as I take a few slow steps towards him. “Why are you here?”

I was really hoping he wouldn’t ask me that question. I offer a shrug in response.

He blinks through another drag. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Can we go inside?”

“No. I’m smoking.”

I quell my defenses and continue to approach him on the stoop. I perch myself between his legs, pushing his knees apart and reaching for his cigarette. I pluck the rolled paper from his loose grip, replacing it with my lips. Dean melts into me for one brief, exquisite moment, before pulling back and standing to his feet.

“I can’t… it’s getting late. You should go home.”

He turns to head inside, not expecting me to follow, but I do. I stomp out the cigarette and trail him through the entryway, closing the door behind us. “I missed you.”

This seems to trigger something in him and he whirls around, storming over to me frozen in the doorway. “Bullshit. You’re here to scratch an itch.”

I jerk back, thrown by that assumption. “You know that’s not true.”

“We both know that is true, otherwise you wouldn’t have skipped out on me this morning. You wouldn’t have ignored my texts all day. You wouldn’t have declined my invitation to talk.” Dean tosses his arms in the air with aggravation. “I won’t be your dirty, little secret, Cora. I won’t be your fuck toy or your goddamn escape.”

Hurt sparks inside me, prickling my skin, but I shove it back down. I unbutton my peacoat and let it fall off my arms as I step out of my boots. I approach him standing there in the middle of his living room, hands set loosely on his hips, chest expanding and deflating with each arduous breath. When I’m only a foot away, I tug my blouse up and over my head. His jaw ticks as he watches, his eyes casing me, darkening and curious. I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, letting it slip to the floor, my eyes still hooked on his.

His nostrils flare and his fingers dig into his hip bones, but he doesn’t drop his gaze. “Stop.”

“You don’t want me?”

I’m playing with fire, but the flames are the only thing keeping me warm.

Dean sucks in a deep breath. “I want all of you, Corabelle.”

I close the gap between us, grasping his hands in mine and placing them over my breasts. I release a tiny moan when his thumbs graze my nipples. “I’m right here.”

“No.” The word comes out forced, almost painful. His right hand slides up my chest until it’s directly over my heart. “I want all of you.”

I want that, too.

I want dinner dates and movie nights and homemade breakfasts after long, magical nights of lovemaking. I want to hold hands in public. I want to go on road trips, see the ocean, and laugh until our bellies ache.

But he’s Dean.

And I’m Cora.

And we are not meant for any of those things.

I drag his hand back down until he’s cupping my breast. I arch against him, my head tipping back as our groins touch together and he starts to palm my breasts, his desire taking over. “Please.”

This puts him over the edge and he growls out, “Fucking hell.”

His arms link underneath my thighs and he hoists me up, my legs curling around his waist. He carries me to his bedroom, our mouths locking together, our bodies ready to go, but our hearts desperate for so much more.

This is enough. This is okay.

I tell myself this as Dean fucks me doggie-style on his bed, pulling my hair, nicking my skin with his teeth, and whispering dirty words into my ear.

If I can’t have all of him, I’ll settle for some of him.