Only For You Page 27

  Sam finally looked at me and nodded her agreement. She held out her uninjured arm inviting me near, and I went without hesitation and hugged her gently.

  “Thank you,” I kissed the top of her head as if she was a small child.

  “Only for you,” she whispered in return.

  With those three small words, my hope was restored. Sam would come through this, scarred but living again.

  I slept at the hospital that night, not willing to leave Sam alone. She didn’t speak again until she was leaving with the staff from Phoenix Center. I bent down to her wheelchair to hug her when she whispered, “love you” in my ear. Yeah, Sam would find her way. She may have to claw and fight to come back, and she may not be the same Sam she used to be, but the new Sam would be stronger than ever before.

  I returned to work the day after Sam left, Marty was overjoyed to have me back. Her patience was unparalleled while I was attending to Sam but she was ready to get back to the usual routine. I threw myself into work needing the distraction it provided. It was odd not to spend all my time at the hospital. I still worried about Sam incessantly, but was confident she was well cared for. School was over; I had graduated. The actual commencement Friday would not include me. I had no desire to accept my diploma on stage with no one there to care or cheer for me. My solitude was too depressing to emphasize by walking in the ceremony.

  Heath was arraigned and bail had been denied, despite the protests of his lawyer and father. Police revealed Heath’s two best friends were accomplices in his crimes, usually as voyeurs but they had also committed several of the attacks. Heath had cleverly planned his absence during several of the assaults ensuring he had undeniable alibis should he ever become a suspect. His friends apparently confessed once arrested in order to obtain leniency for their testimonies.

  A commercial for the evening news caught my attention the week after Heath’s arrest. It promoted an exposé including “untold details about the conspiracy and capture of ‘Heath, the Hensley Hunter’.” Great, Heath had a new alliterated moniker. I’m sure the twisted psycho loved it.

  I didn’t want to watch, but I could not stop myself. I had lived the horror but like every motorist driving by a car wreck, I couldn’t look away. I folded myself on the couch with coffee in hand. The program began with a recapitulation of the events at Hensley and of Heath’s alleged crimes. Thankfully, the victims’ names were withheld. The reporter surprised me when he disclosed that Hensley had received over thirty complaints from female students about Heath over the past four years—ranging from obsessive behavior to non-consensual sex, which Hensley had either ignored or willfully buried. The reporter speculated that the university turned a blind eye to his troublesome and illegal actions due to the influence and monetary contributions made by Mr. Varbeck. Several Hensley administrators had stepped down or suddenly retired this week, including the president of the university. I was shocked to learn of Hensley’s complicities and the volume of complaints registered against Heath. The reporter praised the dedication and determination of the Suffolk County Police Department, mentioning Detective Norse by name, in the eventual capture of Heath. Credit was also given to the FBI for their assistance in providing resources and manpower to the investigation over the past four months, at the request of the police.

  “Our sources have confirmed that Special Agent Hunter Charles of the FBI New York Field Office was instrumental to the investigation as an undercover operative. Special Agent Charles is the son of William Charles—founder of the Higosha Dojo, a popular and profitable chain of martial arts schools.” A photo of Hunter dressed in a dark suit exiting the police headquarters was shown full screen.

  “What the—” I muttered to myself as I struggled to process the information.

  That lying son of a bitch—I really should not disparage Hunter’s mother, she was probably a lovely woman. That deceitful, two-faced, duplicitous, liar liar pants on fire! He must have marveled at my naiveté. No wonder he couldn’t have a relationship with me, he was too busy using me for his investigation. Was any of it real? I had heard undercover DEA agents sometimes had to use drugs to maintain their cover—was having sex with me the equivalent in this operation? Could our friendship have been nothing more than an avenue to gain access to students and blend into academia? Every word out of his mouth, every promise, was a lie. I had been alarmingly wrong about Hunter an absurd number of times, but this was the icing on the cake.

  I had thrown myself at him; I had begged him to love me, to want me. I was going to be sick. I was in love with a character—he was not real, merely playing a role to catch the villain.

  Plato said, “Love is a serious mental disease.” Damn that guy was smart. I had spent the last four months of my life losing my heart to a man who didn’t want it—who told me he didn’t want it—but I insisted he didn’t know his own mind. We played hot potato with my heart—me throwing it to him, him tossing it back to me. But every time the music stopped, I was always the one holding my bruised organ—out of the game.

  Why did I let myself succumb to the temptation of him? He had a skull and crossbones label on him, but I drank his poison nevertheless and loved it; now I needed an antidote. I was a fool, alone and angry, preparing to do what every fool did at such times—I was going to a bar to drink myself smart. I changed my clothes and drove to The Stop. Thankfully the bar was nearly empty, providing a nearly private venue to drink myself to understanding.

  Selecting the bar stool I calculated was closest to the liquor I craved, I settled in for a long night; the only way I was leaving this stool was when I fell off. Griffin spotted me and approached.

  “Hey pretty lady, how are you?”

  “I’m in need of a double-shot of tequila.”

  “That good? Give me a minute and I’ll get your anesthetic.”

  He was a good man. I watched as he spoke to another bartender before pouring my drink. With shot and bottle in hand, he rounded the bar and approached.

  “Come on girl, there is a table in the corner with our names on it.”

  I debated following him, I had already made a commitment to my stool, and I was not one to break a vow. Persuaded by the full bottle of tequila in his hand, I hopped down and marched to the booth. Finding a comfortable position, I recommitted myself to not moving from my seat until I had fallen to the floor, and reached for the shot he set down. I tossed my head back, letting the burn course through me, welcoming the fire. I reached for the bottle to refill but Griffin snatched it first.

  I grunted my displeasure like an ornery caveman, “More. Now!”

  “You talk, I pour. You don’t talk, I don’t pour. The choice is yours.”

  “I’m in love with Hunter.”

  I nodded to the bottle in his hand demanding recompense for my five words.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m in love with Hunter and he doesn’t reciprocate. He is an FBI agent, undercover at Hensley to catch Heath. Every moment I spent with him was a fabrication, part of his cover.”

  Griffin whistled his surprise while he poured me a shot, which I raised to my lips without hesitation.

  “Both of my best friends are gone. I’m alone.” Griffin cleared his throat with a reproachful look. “You’re right, thank you, Griff. You have been a good friend to me and I’m sorry for diminishing you. Tequila?”

  “No harm, Ev. I know you’re feeling rejected and isolated, but I am your friend, too.” I smiled my appreciation while reaching for the shot he refilled. “Your friend who is giving you a limit. Three shots are all you’re getting tonight. Do you want to consider keeping the last on reserve?”

  I grabbed the shot and swallowed before he could offer any further wisdom.

  “I find myself wondering where he is and what he’s doing. Does he have a girlfriend or a wife who is celebrating his return? Is he sharing drinks with his FBI buddies, swapping stories of the dumb women who fell for them during an operation?”

  “He wasn�
��t faking it, Ev.”

  “Yes he was. I offered myself to him, begged him to want me and he patted me on the head like a faithful collie and declined. It was all a lie; he was pretending to be my friend.”

  “Cut the crap. He was never just your friend,” Griffin shook his head. “When people feign emotions they only emote when there is an audience to witness their performance. Hunter displayed the most unbridled feelings when he thought no one was looking. It was not fake, Ev, he was not pretending.”

  The tequila was making its presence known. The warm tingles were encompassing my body, providing the companionship my lonely heart required. I wanted more of the goodness, but Griffin had made my quota clear.

  “I miss Sam,” I lamented.

  “Where is your lovely partner-in-crime? I haven’t seen either of you ladies for the last month. I was afraid she was avoiding me.”

  “She’s not avoiding you, Griff. She has been…indisposed, on an extended vacation. She will probably be gone a couple more months.” I aimed for nonchalance, trying to hide my concern.

  “She just took off for a couple of months and left you behind?” He was skeptical.

  I shrugged, “I have to work.”

  Griffin studiously read my reaction to his queries, determining there was more to learn.

  “What about loverboy?”

  “That’s through. Sam learned some things about Robbie she couldn’t live with. She kicked him to the curb a couple of weeks ago.”

  “We had a deal Miss, you promised to notify me when she became a free-agent,” Griffin reminded me.

  “It isn’t the right time Griff. She’s working through some issues,” I hedged.

  “So she took off on an extended vacation to mend her broken heart. That doesn’t ring true. You two have one of the most symbiotic friendships I have ever seen. If she was hurting you’re the first place she would go—and remain—until she was restored. You draw strength from one another, support one another. What aren’t you telling me?”

  He was right and each of his words prodded a wound that had yet to scab over. My eyes filled with tears that clung to the rim before spilling over onto the table.

  Griffin took my hand in his, consoling me, “Ev, honey, what happened?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to break Sam’s trust. Griffin drew a sharp breath and clenched the table’s edge in his huge hands.

  “No,” he muttered to himself. “Ev, please tell me it’s not the horror I’m imagining.”

  I averted my eyes, unable to meet his stare. I heard the shot glass rattle on the table and raised my eyes to find Griffin trembling with rage. I gasped at the fury emanating from him.

  “Is she ok?” he gritted through clenched teeth.

  I shrugged, and then shook my head.

  “Is she getting help?” he asked softly.

  I nodded.

  He released ragged breath before asking, “Tell me what you can, please.”

  Jose had loosened my tongue, curse him, the ninety proof bastard. I told him what happened, omitting only the details of Sam’s attack, because it was not my story to tell. Griffin never interrupted me, but there were many points where he returned his grasp to the table as if restraining himself from action. When I finished, he sat unnervingly still.

  After several minutes passed I interceded, “Griffin, have I lost you? I have developed quite the aversion to catatonic behaviors over the last month.”

  “Don’t joke. I’m not ready to joke yet, Everleigh,” Griffin said fiercely.

  He was not handling the knowledge I had imparted with the objectivity so intrinsic to him. His speculation to the brutality Sam had endured and her subsequent breakdown was a burden he was struggling to bear.

  “She will survive this and come back to us soon,” I reassured.

  Griffin snapped into clinical mode, “Has she regressed since entering the facility? Is she exhibiting appropriate emotional responses? Is she interacting with other patients and staff? Is she participating in group sessions?”

  Whoa, that was a whole lot of questions, many of which I didn’t know the answer.

  “Shelly, the director of the center, said she is integrating well. She is building a trust bond with one counselor in particular. She will acknowledge the attack now and recount factual details, but not express consequential emotions. She attends group sessions willingly, but has yet to participate.” I hated talking about Sam in detached terms. “She’s made a lot of progress in her short time there, we have every reason to be optimistic.”

  Griffin nodded his agreement. “Heath is exceedingly lucky he’s in prison. If provided the opportunity—”

  “You would have to take a number. I understand the queue is longer than the line to the women’s restroom after a chick flick.”

  That earned me a chuckle.

  “It would be best if Robbie went into hiding. I won’t seek him out, but if we come face-to-face…I won’t be able to control myself—he has a lot to answer for.”

  We sat in silence for a while, both wishing to rewrite history with a different outcome.

  “Come on pretty lady, I was supposed to take one of the bar backs home after his shift tonight. I’ll drive your car and have him follow us; it’ll save you the cab fare tomorrow.”

  When we arrived at my apartment, Griffin took my hand in his benignly. “I know you’re missing your confidants. I want you to know you have a friend in me. Do not isolate yourself, you know where to find me most nights.”

  “You’re one in a million, Griffin Evensen. If you weren’t like a brother I’d likely be smitten.”

  “Goodnight, sis.”

  I entered my apartment feeling lighter, having unloaded on Griffin. My trip to the bar provided the opportunity to re-establish my friendship with Griffin when I needed it most.

  Over the weeks that followed, I spent much of my leisure time at The Stop, keeping Griffin company during his shifts in an effort to avoid the solitude of home. He listened to my whining about Hunter, my concerns for Sam—he was always eager for her progress reports, my growing responsibilities at Higher Yearning, and every random thought that popped into my head. At times, he provided distraction but often he pushed me to confront my tangled emotions. I suspected our friendship initiated from a mutual caring for Sam, but it had grown to be independent of the initial commonality we shared.

  While Griffin was wiping down the bar one night, he broached the topic I had been avoiding as of late.

  “Ev, have you considered reaching out to Hunter now that your temper has cooled? He may be waiting for you to approach him.”

  That was Griff, always picking at my scabs—I would need to buy stock in Neosporin to prevent infection and scaring—but I had learned he would not be ignored.

  “It would be easy to delude myself into believing you. Hunter was abundantly clear he doesn’t love me and we have no future. Even if I put aside his lies, which I can’t fathom doing, I begged and he denied me…repeatedly. What is the definition of insanity, psych boy? The act of repeating the same behaviors with the expectation of a different outcome. I’ve had enough crazy to last a lifetime, now I want stability.”

  “I’m convinced what you shared was genuine. You could consider the possibility,” he chided. “You miss him. Everything about you is dimmer—much of it is the consequence of your concern for Sam—but an equal part is Hunter’s absence from your life.”

  He was correct, but the solution was not to invite Hunter back into my life.

  “I stepped off the merry-go-round for a reason, Griff. It made me dizzy and I kept ending up in the same spot. It may have been fun for a short ride, but was never headed anywhere.”

  “Your biggest problem is that you are pigheaded—you assemble the facts and draw your conclusions—but once you make a determination you are unwilling to reconsider. Be careful not to tie yourself so tightly to your assumptions that you cut off possibility.”

  “Thank you, oh wise one. I will keep that in mind,”
I replied sarcastically.

  At least once a week we rehashed the conversation. Griffin would spring the attack inopportunely, and I would circumvent his efforts. It would have been gratifying if it were not reminiscent of my banter with Hunter.

  “For all that is holy. If Hunter was here right now I would disrobe and climb aboard the love train shouting ‘choo-choo’ just to get you to shut it. You’re inexorable; I can’t even remember why I like you.”

  “Not exactly the result I was hoping for, but it will do. At least you’re beginning to relent,” he laughed. “By the way, I will be sure to remind you why you like me soon, since you seem to have forgotten.”

  I rolled my eyes and changed topics before he could continue his preaching. The man could persuade a vegan to nosh on bacon cheeseburger sliders. He was right though—I would be lost without him.

  The following Sunday I had received amazing news; Sam was recovering well and finally beginning to share her experience and feelings in personalized terms. This was a huge victory, a foundation upon which the rest of her recovery could be built. I texted Griffin as soon as I was off the phone, and he insisted we celebrate the following evening.

  Chapter Twenty

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  "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.” -Maya Angelou