Dark Sexy Knight (A Modern Fairytale) (25 page)

“Please go,” he muttered without turning around.

“What?”

“Please,” he begged her through clenched teeth. “Please just go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go. Leave!”

“Colton. I love you. You love me. We’ll get through this.”

“No, we won’t. You have to go.”

Tears flooded her voice, and it broke when she spoke again. “Wh-what do you mean ‘No, we won’t’? I love you. I can’t just go.”

Don’t look at her. Don’t turn and look into her blue eyes over your shoulder, or you’ll be weak—you won’t be able to do what you have to do to set her free.

“I mean . . .” He swallowed over the massive lump in his throat. He had just lost guardianship of his cousin. He was headed to a sixty-day treatment program for psychos. If it wasn’t a success, he had no idea what would happen next. Maybe he’d lose Mel for good. Meanwhile, he’d already lost his job, and Verity had, more than likely, lost hers as well. He’d destroyed so many lives on Monday afternoon, and he couldn’t bear to do any more damage to the person he loved more than anyone else in the world.

He’d broken every promise he’d ever made to Aunt Jane and Melody.

He’d promised not to hurt Verity, but this was worse than anything his fists could have wreaked. The sorrow on her face when he walked into the courtroom was killing him inside. Hurt her? He’d leveled her. He could see it in her eyes, just as he’d seen it in his mother’s so long ago.

All he knew was that he had to cut her loose.

All he knew was what he’d always known, from the first moment he’d met her: that Verity Gwynn deserved far better than him.

And he had to make it happen, no matter what, which made him go cold for her sake, which made him dead inside, so he could get the fucking job done.

“I lost my job and my cousin because of you and your brother. I want you to go. Get out of my house. I don’t want you there. Move on,” he snarled, his eyes burning with tears as the bailiff approached him. He spoke into his shoulder in a low, menacing growl, still refusing, unable, to look at her while he said these hateful words. “I never want to see your face again.”

“
Colton,”
she gasped as the bailiff pulled on his handcuffs, urging him to stand. Without another word, he moved around the table, following the uniformed man toward the side door.

“Good-bye,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear him, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks and the heaviness of his broken heart.

You’ll be better off without me, sunshine.

***

Verity stared at the side door of the courtroom in disbelief as Colton walked through it without even turning around to look at her one last time. She placed her hand on her chest, unable to breathe, her lungs burning as tears fell in streams down her cheeks.

“He’s hurtin’ bad,” said Joe softly, appearing beside her with Ryan. “Real bad.”

She turned her body to the older man, letting her forehead fall to his shoulder as she exhaled on a sob, letting waves of sadness rock her body. Joe put his arms around her and held on tight for a minute or two.

“Oh no. Oh no. Ver’ty is sad. Ver’ty is so, so sad.”

“Shhh, now, honey,” said Joe, rubbing her back soothingly as he leaned away to look into her eyes.

“He said he n-never wanted to s-see m-my face again,” she said, her words broken by tears and gasps of breath. “He b-blames me. He h-hates me.”

“Only one he blames is himself, honey.” Joe patted her back gently, looking over at Ryan, who rocked back and forth, increasingly upset. “You calm yourself now, son. You ain’t helpin’ your sister none actin’ like that.”

Ryan stopped rocking, but he still whispered combinations of “Oh no” and “Ver’ty is so sad” under his breath.

When Joe turned back to Verity, his face was compassionate. “He don’t blame you. He hates himself somethin’ awful right now. You
know
that.”

She sniffled, trying to set Colton’s incredibly painful words to the side and think about what he was going through. Arrested. Arraigned. Court-mandated anger management. But worst of all—the most terrible blow, she knew—was the loss of Melody’s guardianship, which Colton had taken so seriously. She couldn’t imagine how bad he must be feeling right now, how terribly he must be hurting.

“I know,” she whispered.

“He can’t see straight. Can’t see nothin’ but bein’ away from you and bein’ away from his cousin and lettin’ everyone down. Hates
himself
, not you. You mark my words.”

She nodded, reaching up to dry her tears. Suddenly she felt weak and ridiculous for breaking down in the middle of the courtroom and crying all over Joe’s suit jacket.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No need to be,” he said. “You love him. That makes it hurt worse.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“Anytime. You two need a ride?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got Colton’s car.”

Joe nodded. “You mind what I said now. If anythin’, honey, that man needs you more than ever right now. Don’t let him down, huh? He’s one of the good ones.”

She leaned up and kissed Joe on the cheek. “You are too.”

She thought she spied a blush as Joe patted Ryan on the arm and ambled toward the exit.

“Ryan,” she said gently, “I’ve stopped crying, see? I’m okay now. I promise.”

“Colton’s our friend. Colton loves Ver’ty.”

She whimpered, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out.

“I hope so,” she managed to whisper.

“He don’t blame you. One of the good ones. Colton is one of the good ones.”

Her brother was parroting Joe’s words, trying to comfort her, but the problem with Joe’s and Ryan’s reassurances was that she blamed
herself
. Mightily. Before she and Ryan and their truckload of bad luck careened into Colton Lane’s life, he’d had a decent job and the guardianship of his cousin. Now he was, for all intents and purposes, incarcerated for the next two months, he had no job, and his cousin was a temporary ward of the state. He had every right to blame her. He had every right to
hate
her.

In fact, there was only one thing that actually
did
reassure her. A very, very small thing, which gave her more hope than anything else, and it was this: when he’d said those terrible things to her, he hadn’t looked into her eyes. He hadn’t even turned around. Maybe he was too disgusted to look at her, but maybe—
just maybe
—he couldn’t look at her because he knew he was lying to her. And until she saw the truth of his hatred in his eyes, she would hope that he was just pushing her away out of anger.

He was certainly entitled to his anger, but just days ago he’d held her in his arms and pledged to love her for all time. And she knew enough of Colton Lane to have faith in those words and not to throw them away because he’d lashed out at her during a god-awful moment in time. She would hold on to them. She would wait for him, just in case he didn’t mean what he said today.

And if she was going to hold on and wait, she needed to believe in him and have faith in his words today. Now. Right this second and every second of the next sixty days, spread out like eternity before her. Sixty days. It felt like such a long time, and she felt so sad and defeated and alone, she didn’t know what to do with herself. Fresh tears threatened to fall.

If anythin’, honey, that man needs you more than ever right now. Don’t let him down, huh? He’s one of the good ones.

And just like that, she had an idea of something she and Ryan could do right this second, and once she’d fixed on it, it seemed like the only possible plan for the rest of today—the only way to take a strong step in the right direction, in the direction she needed to head without fail for the next sixty days, believing that, when she clamped eyes on Colton Lane again, his would be shining with love, not hatred.

She turned to Ryan and offered him a small, weak smile. “Well, it’s only four o’clock. Know where I think we should go?”

“McDonald’s?”

She shook her head. “Nope. To visit Melody. We could pick up some ice cream and go say hello to her. Maybe try to explain that Colton’s going to be away for a little while, but we’ll be there for her whenever she needs us. What do you think?”

“Rocky road. I think rocky road.”

“That’s her favorite, huh?”

“Yeah. And rainbow sprinkles.”

“Rocky road with rainbow sprinkles,” she said, lifting her chin and taking her brother’s arm as they exited the courtroom. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Day thirty,” said Dr. Warren, stepping around the desk and sitting down across from Colt, who sat in a guest chair. “Halfway through your treatment, which means you get your letter writing privileges instated today. Anyone you’re thinking about writing to?”

“Maybe Mel,” he said, “but I don’t know what to fuc—” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Part of his therapy was to try not to curse as freely as he used to. “I don’t know what to say to her. ‘Remember me? Your long-lost cousin?’”

“She was told that you’d be away for a while.”

“
Be away
,” he said softly. “What does that even mean to someone with Down syndrome?”

“You’re underestimating her, I think. She’s not a child. Her brain may not work as efficiently as yours, but having Down syndrome doesn’t mean she can’t understand time and absence. From what you’ve told me, Mel is actually quite high-functioning and bright. Besides, you’ll see her in a month and you’ll be able to explain to her in person then. It’ll be okay.”

Man, I hope so.

“So maybe you’ll write to Mel if you can figure out what to say.” The doctor kept his expression neutral. “Anyone else?”

Colt looked down at his lap, Verity’s face appearing in his mind as it did in every quiet moment. Her beautiful blue eyes, full lips, angel-soft hair.
I love you. You love me. We’ll get through this.
But suddenly her face twisted, becoming haggard and tired, a mash-up of her face in the courtroom and his mother’s face after one of his father’s tantrums. Colt shook his head, looking up at Dr. Warren.

“Nah,” he said softly.

“Not . . . Verity?”

Her name. Just hearing her name was enough to gut him.

“I told her to go. I . . .”

“You . . . what?”

“You already know this,” said Colt, starting to feel irritated.

Irritated, not angry, which was an important distinction, because annoyance and irritation were emotions he’d generally skipped before finding himself in the throes of full-blown anger. However, since arriving at Central State Hospital and beginning his forced therapy with Dr. Warren, Colt was changing. The doc said he was healing.

“I told her I never wanted to see her face again,” said Colt. “I told her to go.”

“Yes, but maybe she
didn’t
go just because you told her to.”

Colt tried to swallow over the lump in his throat. “It’s best if she did.”

“Why do you think that? You don’t talk about her very much, but when you do, it’s clear she means something to you.”

Something?

Everything.

Verity Gwynn had been his shot at happiness, and he’d ruined it—he’d killed it. He’d beat Artie to a pulp, hurt and abandoned her and her brother. Lynette had almost definitely fired her, though he didn’t know for sure. But the final nail in the coffin, the insult to the injury, was his rejection of her in the courtroom—telling her he blamed her and wanted her out of his house. He knew now that the manner in which he’d lashed out at her was partially due to his anger disorder, but part of him was acting in her best interest, and he had truly
wanted
her to go—to find some levelheaded, even-keeled guy who deserved someone as sweet and wonderful as Verity.

He was damn sure it wasn’t him.

He looked up. “This thing that’s wrong with me? I don’t know if it can be fixed. It’s like I’m . . .
broken
, doc.”

Dr. Warren leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “No, Colton. You aren’t broken. You’re sick. Just like your father was sick. What you have, as you know, is a medical condition—an anger disorder called intermittent explosive disorder, which we’ve started treating medically and psychologically.”

“Like I said, broken.”

“
Recovering
,” said Dr. Warren with a warning edge in his voice. “Since we started you on that SSRI three weeks ago, you’ve started healing. Let me ask you this: is there medical maintenance involved with controlling a disorder like diabetes? Yes. Will there be medical maintenance involved to control your IED? Of course. Diabetics take insulin; you take an SSRI. And you already know that when you head back into the real world, you’re going to need to continue with psychotherapy and your medication regime, but you also have some tools for when that boiling and churning starts inside.”

Colt sighed. It was true that since he’d been taking the SSRI medication, he hadn’t felt the simmering rage that had been his constant companion for most of his life, and it was a blessed relief. He would still get annoyed or irritated, but those feelings didn’t build and build until they climaxed with him breaking furniture or hitting people.

Despite the fact that he didn’t experience any negative side effects with his medication, it made him feel weak to have to take it. Part of him hated that he was going to need to be on medication for the rest of his life. He shared as much with Dr. Warren.

“Does insulin make a diabetic
weak
? No. It’s a medication that saves his life. An SSRI is saving yours. Besides, we don’t know that you’ll need to be on the meds forever,” he said. “The brain is uncharted territory. It’s possible that, after a few years on the SSRI, we could try weaning you off and see how you do. You’re a strong man, Colton. What’s amazing to me, as I’ve shared with you before, is how well you managed to control your anger, medically unaided, for most of your life. You’re strong. Much stronger than you give yourself credit for. But there was only so much longer you could have lasted without putting someone in a coma . . . or worse. I know you may not want to hear it, but the best thing that ever happened to you was being remanded into my care.”

Doc Warren was trying to be encouraging, but Colt knew better. The best thing that had ever happened to him was Verity . . . the woman he’d willfully shoved out of his life thirty days ago.

“Maybe she’ll surprise you,” said the doc softly, with his uncanny knack for reading Colt’s mind.

Colt swallowed over the lump in his throat, remembering her broken voice after he told her he never wanted to see her face again. He shook his head. “No. I . . . I hurt her.
Bad
. If I was her . . .” He paused, the wave of sadness inside almost unbearable. Sadness, not anger. Another important distinction, though the small victory was washed away with his sorrow. “. . . I’d be long gone by now.”

“Maybe.” Dr. Warren nodded, giving Colt a sad smile before cocking his head to the side. “But love’s unpredictable. That guy in the song didn’t expect a hundred yellow ribbons either.”

“What guy?”

“I’m dating myself here,” said the doc, laughing softly. “Old song called ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.’ Don’t know it?”

Colt shook his head.

Dr. Warren sighed. “Well, it’s about this guy, and, well, I guess he just got out of jail after a few years. And this is in the seventies, before cell phones and the Internet, so he wrote his sweetheart a letter saying he’d be passing her house on a bus, and if she tied a yellow ribbon around the oak tree in the front yard, he’d get off the bus and come home to her. If not . . .” The doc shrugged. “. . . he’d stay on the bus and leave her alone to get on with her life.”

Colt leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk. “What happened?”

“Let’s see . . . Well, I guess they get to her neighborhood, and the guy can’t even bear to look out the window, you know? Because he’s sure the tree will be bare. So he asks the bus driver to look for him. And suddenly the whole bus starts cheering, and he looks out the window. Instead of one ribbon, she’s tied a hundred around the tree.”

“Fuck,” said Colt, clenching his teeth and blinking his eyes.

Dr. Warren gave him a look for swearing, then shrugged. “I’ll forgive that one because that song, my friend, is one hell of a tearjerker.”

Colt stared down at his hands on the desk, thinking about the guy on the bus. He knew exactly how he felt. But at least that lucky bastard had a speck of hope. Colt didn’t even have that. He’d told her to go, and after the way he’d treated her, he was certain she was long gone.

The doc cleared his throat. “What do you have to lose by writing to her? If she’s already gone, you lose nothing. If there’s a chance she stuck around, it could tip the scales in your favor if she knew you were sorry. If she knew that you still, well, love her. That is, if you
do
love her.”

More than anything.

“What if she doesn’t write back?”

“Again,” said Dr. Warren, “what will have you lost by trying?”

“Nothing,” murmured Colt.

“Promise me you’ll think about it?”

Colt nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good to hear. That’s it for today. You’ve got chores and exercise, and I’ve got Maureen. Wish me luck.”

Colt grimaced. Maureen was a biter.

“Good luck,” said Colt, standing up and heading for the door. He turned at the last minute. “Thanks, doc. Thanks for everything.”

“Think about it, Colton,” he said. “Nothing to lose.”

“Yes, sir,” said Colt, closing the door behind him.

***

It didn’t surprise Verity when Lynette let them go a week after the incident between Colton and Artie in the stable.

She’d actually fired Verity “with cause,” claiming that she’d left her shift several times without completing it, which was—theoretically, at least—true. Ryan was a trickier case, however, because he was protected under the ADA and Lynette wasn’t interested in being dragged through court by Verity, who could likely win a civil case on harassment-on-the-job charges alone.

It helped a little to know that Artie had been fired too—his squeaky clean Knight in Shining Armor image permanently tarnished by his cruelty to Ryan. He was smart to leave
TLOC
as soon  as possible, as the tides had quickly turned against him, with many female servers finally coming forward to complain of him taking liberties—squeezing their breasts and backsides uninvited and making lewd overtures—once he was gone.

Lynette offered fifty percent of Ryan’s salary, including full health care and dental, for twelve months or until he found another job, as long as they’d leave quickly and wouldn’t press charges against
TLOC
for Artie’s mistreatment of Ryan. And although it grated on Verity to take the deal when it meant sweeping Artie’s disgusting behavior under the rug, she couldn’t eat her convictions. If they lived at Colton’s house and spent Ryan’s partial salary frugally, they could eke by until they found new jobs. So she’d said yes to the deal, then cried herself to sleep in Colton’s bed, hating her desperation, missing him terribly, and wondering—as she did every night—what would happen at the end of their long sixty days apart.

Would he be shocked to find them still in his house and kick them out, insisting that he blamed her and hated her for what had happened? Or would he once again be the Colton she’d fallen in love with—gentle and protective, loving and tender—sorry for his unforgiving words and desperate to make things right? She worried about the former but remained hopeful for the latter.

She’d also taken time to review the judge’s sentence and think over Colton’s behavior. Twice she’d watched him—once in the motel parking lot and again in the stables with Artie—lash out brutally when someone he cared about was threatened. Both times, it was almost like he was on autopilot, in a thick, almost unreachable fog of rage. And while she truly didn’t believe that he’d ever hurt her, she worried now, as she had in the past, that if he couldn’t get his anger under control, it would be a matter of time before he killed someone.

During their time apart, she’d looked up anger disorders on the Internet, and, although she didn’t know Colton’s formal medical diagnosis, enough of the symptoms she read about led her to believe that he was probably struggling with a manageable condition called intermittent explosive disorder. If so, during his time away from her at Central State Hospital, he was receiving medical and psychological care that could end up saving his life, and maybe even saving their relationship too.

She hoped so. She hoped so hard, it ached.

But no matter how much it hurt, she couldn’t give up on him. She wouldn’t. Not yet.

She found some unexpected solace in gardening—planting borders of cheerful impatiens and pansies around the walkways of his home, keeping the lawn mowed and the edges trimmed. She remembered, with such happiness, the last Sunday they’d spent together before the incident with Artie. Colton gardening, her cleaning, spraying each other with the hose, making love in the sunshine. It had been so normal. Just a young couple in love spending a Sunday together. How she’d wanted a million more. She still did.

As days turned into weeks, Melody and Ryan became Verity’s focal points. Ryan adored Melody, and by loving and looking out for Mel, Verity felt like she was honoring Colton’s unspoken wishes, which gave her purpose and somehow made his absence easier to bear . . . except at night, when she slept in his bed and snuggled into his pillow, missing him, dreaming of him—bright vivid dreams of his hands on her body, his dark eyes looking tenderly into hers, through hers, fusing his soul to hers. When she woke up alone, the endless tears would start, falling until she fell asleep again or woke up groggily to make Ryan’s breakfast.