The cool air of the living room peeled back the layers of the red. Peering about the room, Tony’s gaze settled upon the wet bar. By his standards, it wasn’t impressive; nonetheless, it was present. He scanned the bottles and poured a small bottle of Maker’s Mark into a tumbler. After swallowing the contents in one gulp, he called room service for more.
How much did he drink? Tony wasn’t sure. How much time had passed? He didn’t know that either. He did know that he’d made himself a bed on the sofa, and sooner or later he’d willingly lie down or unwillingly pass out. Either way, he was prepared. Food would’ve been a good idea, but somewhere between thoughts of Chester and those of Baldwin, Tony’s appetite disappeared.
At one point he went back into the bedroom and found Claire sound asleep. She looked so peaceful. Her swollen cheek didn’t detract from her beauty. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—wake her. What would he say if he did? Tony was pretty sure he’d used all his forgiveness credits. He didn’t want to risk saying or doing anything that would push her away forever.
With sleep creeping closer, the sound of footsteps shattered the stillness of the suite. Closing his eyes, Tony clenched his jaw and exhaled. Why did she have to wake? Didn’t Claire know the precarious situation she was about to enter? Didn’t she understand how dangerous he could be?
Her voice echoed through the quiet suite, momentarily stilling his internal monologue. “Tony? Are you all right?”
Praying that she was a figment of his imagination, maybe one of his daydreams, he stared toward the voice. Perhaps if he tried, he could make her image disappear. After all, she always disappeared in his dreams just before he reached her. If she weren’t real, Claire could sleep contently and never know the depths of his anguish. He scanned her frame. In their rush to leave her condominium, they hadn’t brought any of her packed things; she was wearing one of his t-shirts. It swallowed her petite body and hung to her knees, yet he could still see her curves and her nipples as they reacted to the cool air. Damn, he’d never again look at one of his shirts the same.
“No,” he finally answered.
“What’s this?” She motioned toward the sofa. “Why aren’t you in bed with me?”
All sense of inhibition disappeared with the last few fingers of bourbon. Claire was the one who started this conversation; she’d better be prepared to finish it. Throwing caution to the wind, Tony answered honestly, “I don’t trust myself.”
“I trust you—”
Interrupting, he explained, “I went in there and kissed you. You were sound asleep.” Her warm smile melted the ice that over the past few hours had begun to build within his chest. He went on, “I watched you, saw your expression and your bruises.” Her smile disappeared. With his impaired thinking he tried to remember what he’d just said. Oh, the bruises. Grasping her dangling hand, Tony scolded, “Stop that.”
“What?”
“You’re beautiful!”
She pulled her hand away. “I’ve seen me. Beautiful isn’t a word I’d use.”
Closing his eyes, Tony leaned back and rubbed his face. This wasn’t going the way he wanted. Blinking his eyes, he focused on Claire. She wasn’t a figment of his imagination; he’d just touched her hand. She was real and the bruises were real. Seeing them was like that damn knife again. It was being plunged deep into his heart. If only he’d made her stay in Iowa. This was entirely his fault. Like the ripping of a Band-Aid from his skin, Tony decided he needed to see the extent of her injuries. It would be better to just twist the damn knife and get it over with. “Take off my t-shirt.”
“Excuse me?”
Although indignation rippled from her tone, Tony’s focus was on her injuries. He stood and repeated, “Take off my shirt.”
“Tony, I didn’t bring any night clothes… I didn’t think you’d—”
He should’ve heard her impending concern, but he didn’t. “I don’t give a damn about the shirt. I want to see you.”
“See me?”
“I can see your face and your legs. I want to see what that bastard did to you.”
The touch of her hands blurred his objective. She sounded so strong. “I’m fine, but I want you to come to bed—with me.”
Tony tried to make her understand. “I planned to call for dinner; instead, I found the bar. It’s been a rather stressful few days.” When she moved toward him, he grasped her shoulders. “I should never have let you return to California.” Shaking his head, he released her, and stepped backward. No, he needed to do this, needed to see. Straightening his stance, he commanded, “I believe I’ve said this more than once. Take off the damn t-shirt.”
Claire reached for the hem and lifted the white shirt over her head. It was worse than he’d imagined. Her side was a purplish blue, and it extended from below her breast to her pelvic bone. She was wearing the panties he’d found with her clothes. Of course, she didn’t carry an extra pair in her purse. As his eyes scanned her form, it finally registered. This wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about seeing what Chester had done. It was about Claire. At this moment she was trembling. Was it the air conditioning or was it—?
Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Tony suddenly felt ill. It was him! She was trembling because of him. He fell to his knees and gently clutched Claire’s hips. Beyond the bruises was the woman he’d hurt too many times. Beyond the bruises was his child. Wanting to make the trembling stop, he kissed her stomach and inhaled her clean warm scent. Tenderly, he brushed his lips over her wounds as his hands tightly held to her firm behind. While he continued to caress her skin, she reached for his head and wove her fingers through his hair. Beyond the sounds of their breathing, he heard her pleading voice, “Please, Tony, please, can we go to bed?”