Beautifully Wounded (The Beaumont Brothers) (12 page)

Lena

The next day Jackson had his friend, Leslie, from the Hair Affair come by the house to change my hair color. He’d explained a little about my situation, but only gave the necessary details. When he told her I needed some clothes, she’d offered to get some. He had me talk to her on the phone first so I could give her my sizes, and she arrived with a pair of jeans, a black pullover top and some underwear. They were all brand new from what I could tell, especially since they still had the tags on them. She explained that her shop was located right next door to a women’s boutique downtown. After she changed my hair color and gave me a trim, I changed into the clothes she brought, then sat back down for the final touches she wanted to make with my hair. As she brushed and blew the new light strands dry, I stared at the girl in the mirror hardly recognizing her. Leslie bleached my dark auburn hair to a pretty shade of light gold that I thought made my skin look pale.

When I walked out of the
kitchen where Leslie had performed her magic transformation, Jackson was sitting on the sofa playing his guitar. He looked up from his chords, took a double take, and smiled.

“Hey, I thought you were beautiful as a redhead, but now you're a golden haired
angel.”

“You like?”

He leaned the guitar against the side of the sofa and approached me. Standing very close to me, his knuckles grazed my cheeks as he pulled several strands through his long fingers. I swallowed the stone forming in my throat. With his face mere inches from mine, his eyes roamed my face, and then he nodded slowly. My stomach knotted for a moment before he spoke. “Yeah. Did you have light hair when you were a kid?” Was that admiration in his eyes? I quickly glanced at the floor, not wanting him to know that his expression confused me, and took a step backwards.

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe more of a strawberry color. It turned dark red when I was
still very young, though.

“I like.” Jackson wiggled his eyebrows
. I couldn’t help laughing when I remembered that this man standing here before me was not Troy. And I had to keep reminding myself that this man was nothing like Troy.

“
Here.” He handed me a package. “I bought you something.” I reached in the bag and pulled out a pair of thick rimmed black glasses with fake diamond studs on the sides.” He stood back, studied me. “Even if that slime does hunt you down, he won’t be looking for a blonde haired vixen with glasses. Now you can come out to the pub with me.” He kept his eyes on me as he said, “Leslie, you did an awesome job.”

“Thanks, Jackson. That’ll be
forty dollars.”

“
Only forty? What about the clothes?” he asked.

“The forty is for the clothes. The hair is on me.”

“Thanks, Leslie.” He handed her a hundred dollar bill and said, “Keep the change. Remember, you never did this, and you never met Lana before. Right?” My eyes flicked to his, and I smiled at his use of the fake name.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” She turned to Lena. “Honey, I don’t know
who or what you’re running from, but I know you’ll be safe here with Jackson. His uncle used to come see me once a month for a haircut. The man couldn’t keep from bragging enough about his nephews. Brodie and Jackson are the two best guys you’ll ever meet.”

“Thank you very much
. I’m beginning to believe that.”

“Well, you keep on believing it, honey because it’s the truth.
You take care, and don’t forget, you’ll need a touch up in about six weeks if you want to keep that pretty, golden color looking natural. If you play and sing as well as Jack says, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you in the pub sooner than that though.”

Jackson

The late afternoon sun filtered through the window shining right in Lena’s eyes, and making her squint from where she sat on the sofa. I got up and closed the drapes, which made the room dark, so I flipped the switch on the lamp beside me. I sat in the old easy chair that my uncle spent many nights in, blowing on his harmonica. Uncle Joe once played and sang in a band when he was my age, and from what I’d heard by the awesome sounds he’d produced just sitting in that chair, he was pretty good. He’d been my musical inspiration, and I thought of him as I strummed out a new tune on my guitar that had been floating around in my head for several days. The words were coming together, and as I jotted them down, rearranged the flow, their meaning hit me like a crate full of bricks. I was writing a song about Lena. Like the fawn I’d nursed back to health when I was a kid. A song about a broken spirit on its way to healing, I hoped.

Brodie
had been right, of course. I had wanted Lena from the moment I first set eyes on her. I knew when I watched her walk in the bar she was beautiful, even with her black eye. She was a beautifully wounded and broken soul that I couldn’t turn my back on. I had been instantly drawn to her as her bruised, damaged body limped from the door to one of the stools at the bar.

Lena spent the days
lounging on our sofa, and nights in the spare bedroom with the door locked. Though she never said anything about locking the door, I heard the click each night when she shut the door. I couldn’t blame her, not after what she’d gone through. I let Rufus stay with her at night to give her a sense of protection. Not that Rufus would or could protect her—he was just a lovable lump of pure unconditional love mostly. Well, at least he’d keep her feet warm while she slept, I mused. It’d been hell every night, knowing she was sleeping right in the next room. However wrong it was to want her, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I knew it would have to be her decision though. If there was ever going to be something between us, she would have to initiate it. I could wait. If she even wanted me.

L
ena was healing and gaining her strength back. I figured she was still pretty sore, but she smiled a little more often. I’d gone out and purchased some more clothes for her. I bought three pairs of jeans and about seven tops. I also bought her a pair of running shoes and some workout clothes, as well as a baseball cap. I told her, once she was well enough, in addition to self-defense training she had to start going out with me on my daily run.

By the end of the first week, the swelling in
her eye had subsided, and the black and blue hues surrounding it turned a greenish yellow tint. Though I didn’t know firsthand, she told me the bruising on her side also showed signs of healing and had turned to the same light color.

I heard Lena sigh from where she stretched out on the sofa
, and I glanced up. She looked bored silly. I turned over the paper I’d been scribbling notes and lyrics on, and went to fetch my spare guitar. I handed the wooden six-string to her and sat beside her.

“
Do you know this one?” I asked, strumming a tune.

“
No, teach it to me.”

“
Okay, listen.”

She listened then strummed, mimicking
my fingers.

“
You’re quick,” I said.

I played some more
, and she copied each note immediately after me. I nodded. “That’s it. Let’s start at the beginning.” We strummed the tune as if we’d been playing together for years. When the song finished she laughed, the sound of her laughter filled the room with warmth. “That was fun,” I said.

I played a few notes of the song I’d been toying with
, and she quickly picked up the tune and followed along. She was good. “What is that?” she asked. It’s really pretty.”

“Thanks. Just something I’ve been playing around with in my head.”

“Well, it’s beautiful. I hope you finish it.”

“Does it have an
y lyrics?”

“I’m working on them. Come on, let’s run through that other one again.”

We played a few more tunes that she knew until she stopped and grinned. “Oh, I’ve missed this. Troy smashed my guitar into pieces early on in our marriage. He came home one evening when I’d been working on a new song, trying to work out the kinks you know. Anyway, dinner was on the stove simmering.” She’d hardly touched the wine I poured for her, but picked it up and took a small sip, placing it back down before repositioning her fingers along the strings. “He’d come in complaining about something at work and wanted to know why his dinner wasn’t on the table. At that moment, I realized I should get up and see to it, and when I put my guitar down, he picked it up and smashed it against the wall. He said his dinner should have been my first priority when he came home. He expected me to be attending to him, not sitting around playing with toys, so he smashed my guitar. He said next time it would be my face.”

I
cupped her chin in my palm. She must have felt self-conscience at the gesture and flinched.

“
Sorry.” I lowered my hand.

She looked down at the guitar and gently splayed her fingers across the
frets. Picking up the glass of wine with her other, she took a quick sip then frowned. “I think I need some water.” She leaned the guitar against the side of the sofa and stood.

I
stood as well and tenderly took her arm at the elbow, stopping her from leaving. She turned and looked up at me, bewilderment evident in her eyes. She was close to me, our chests nearly touching. “I’m sorry he treated you so badly,” I whispered—my lips just a couple of inches from hers.

Apprehensive,
I searched her blue eyes, looking for a clue, a hint as to what she might be feeling. How would she react to my touch? The last thing I wanted was to stir up memories of unwanted dirty sex.

Lena

I hesitated, not sure what to do. Jackson stood too close to me, his voice just a whisper next to my ear, and maybe sort of sexy. I wasn’t sure what sexy sounded like, and I wasn’t sure why I even had that thought. I wasn’t feeling sexy. I still felt ugly, and I wasn’t used to the tenderness. My eye was healing and not completely black and blue anymore. More greenish now, but makeup didn’t cover much, so I’m sure I looked very plain and unattractive. My heart pounded in my chest as he stared into my eyes. I couldn’t move, or didn’t want to move. Afraid to breathe, I stood still, not wanting the moment to end. I didn’t want him to think I wanted him that way. I didn’t want him to think I didn’t want him that way. My mind became a jumble of confusion. I did want him I thought. I wanted to be in his arms, to feel his lips on mine. I wanted to know if they were as soft as they looked. I wanted to know if he would taste sweet like the red wine we were drinking. I wanted his touch on my skin, to feel his fingers graze up my arm, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that intimacy. As though he could sense my thoughts, he ran his thumb down my forearm and turned my hand over. Taking my hand into his, he seemed to study the lines in my palm. His thumb made little circles over them, and his eyes flicked to mine. “It’s okay,” he said. Though I didn’t know what he meant. I swallowed hard, wondering what was about to happen. Then, all of a sudden, Troy’s scary and dangerous eyes flooded my mind. My splayed hand looked dwarfed against Jackson’s broad chest as I shoved him out of my way and ran from the room.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment
, not understanding why I was even there. I glanced around at the gold and black speckled granite counter, searching for a reason. The opened bottle of wine we’d been drinking stood right next to a little picture frame holding a photo of Jackson and Brodie, and another man I guessed might be their uncle. The family resemblance was strong. It might have been their father. Jackson never told me what happened to his parents. He and Brodie didn’t appear to be much younger than they were now in the snapshot, the scene around them festively adorned with a Christmas tree behind them and other decorations; their arms casually draped around each other as they all stood grinning at whoever snapped the picture. They looked so … normal. I sucked in the sob that wanted so badly to escape, and took a deep breath. Not like Troy.

Jackson was not Troy.

Jackson was not Troy.

I silently repeated that simple little sentence several times as I breathed in slowly through my nose
, out through my mouth, praying Jackson wouldn’t come in and find me so unhinged.

I
managed to pull myself back together just as Jackson entered the kitchen, and the horror on his face almost undid me again. No, not horror … pity. He pitied me, and that made me sick to my stomach. Only needy people were pitied, and I never wanted to be placed in that category.

“Are you okay?”
Jackson asked, standing inside the doorjamb, acting reluctant about entering his own kitchen. God, I hated myself right then.

I
managed a nod and stood, wringing my hands in front of me. I didn’t know what to do with them. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I let him into my head. The way I keep talking about him, you’d think …” my words trailed off. I didn’t know how I wanted to finish that sentence. I had talked so casually about Troy, like he was a long lost friend or something, and that couldn’t have been further from the truth. My desire for Jackson really had me confused. I glanced toward the sink, finally remembering the water I’d originally come into the kitchen for.