Hold Onto Me_A Secret Baby Romance Read online

  “Just for a night?” he asks me. “Just until the morning, when it’s warm and you won’t risk freezing to death?”

  At “freezing” and “death,” I shiver, feeling all of the coldness I’ve absorbed — all the frost I’ve been out in, and have had buried in my soul — rush forward, consume me. And it’s at this moment I feel truly weak. Unable to fight as much as I was trained to.

  I’m not sure what I do, exactly, but I must do something that gives him the indication that I am okay with his plan of going up to his house, because he starts to lightly guide me with him— up and away from the cliff, and toward a line of trees, thick and bushy.

  “Here. Take my jacket. You can’t be warm at all in that thin T-shirt up here,” he says, placing the coat around my shoulders. Or tries to. The moment I feel his hands — and something fabric and meant to enclose — come around me, my fight kicks in again, and I start trying to buck him off. I kick and punch at him, though I was fine with him a few seconds ago.

  That doesn’t matter now. My mind has decided he’s the enemy. The enemy with the straitjacket, not the winter-weather one.

  But he’s not impervious to my blows the way he was the last time. I hit an arm of his, and he actually jerks back out of pain— actual agony, not surprise or in response to a verbal threat. He cries out, gripping protectively at that arm. When he does, I see he has scars all up and down it. Nerve and tissue damage, and something that looks like shrapnel or burn marks. Or both.

  “Damn,” he hisses, gripping at his skin. His elbow. “I forgot how bad that could hurt. Excuse my language, miss.” He grits his teeth, shoving down another sound of pain. “I… Don’t get a lot of company out here, you know.”

  He tries to laugh, but it’s more painted than anything.

  And that makes me feel more than I felt in the last few weeks. Month, maybe. Overwhelming guilt.

  I’ve been in so much pain myself, I’ve forgotten I can inflict it on others. Until I see his arm again. The way he’s holding it. Nursing it.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, deciding to take the jacket he’s put on me, and put it over my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Nah.” He tries to wave me away — the pain I’ve caused him — but it’s half-hearted. “Don’t worry about it. This old boy’s numb most of the time, so I forget what it feels like to feel anything. And when I do, I’m more sensitive than most people. More intolerant, at least on this arm.”

  He massages it a moment before letting the arm drop to his side and coming to join me to one side. Not too close to me, like he’s suddenly understood how skittish I am around him.

  And he’s right to be more cautious. I still don’t trust him. I may have taken his coat, used it to warm myself up a bit, but I’m still prepared to run. To kick him in the balls and get the fuck out of here, if it turns out that his “cabin” is a horror story out in the woods. God knows there’s been enough of those.

  “It’s a bit of a walk to my house, but it’s not far.” As he speaks, I can just barely make out a few little lights through the thick tree cover— warm squares of yellow and copper light. “We can get you there and get you warm. Get some food, if you want.”

  I nod, bringing the coat closer to myself. As I match his steps, follow his lead through the woods, the path he’s following without needing to see — almost like he has night vision goggles — I really begin to feel how traumatized I am. How fucked up my head and emotions are. How not like myself I’ve been.

  But that doesn’t make it right. I bring the jacket up over my ears, in close to my cheeks and chin. If the guy wanted to do me wrong, he would be trying to fuck with me now. He wouldn’t be waiting to get me to his house. Offering me food and the right to leave in the morning.

  Still, even with these thoughts, I feel my body avoiding being too close to him. But I fight through it, telling myself that I need to get through the night without attacking him again.

  After all, he’s a good enough guy to try and help me. To realize I’m in trouble, even when I don’t know it myself.

  Chapter 3

  Brandon

  As I guide my mystery cliff-gazing woman through the trees and toward my cabin, I’m still concerned for her. While I’m happy that she’s agreed to come stay in my place for the night (and not be stubborn enough to get herself killed because of the near-freezing temperatures at this time of year), I’m concerned about all that fight in her.

  I’m trying to figure out why she feels the need to strike out at me that way. It’s very similar to the way some of my SEAL buddies became after too much combat—after too many bad memories and experiences.

  Part of me wonders whether she’s a survivor of domestic abuse or assault. Could be. But with the way she fights? She appeared more likely to swing back, but, I know that abuse isn’t always that simple.

  Covertly, I gaze at her as we make our way through a particularly gnarly patch of wooded forest, which makes a barrier of sorts before the “clearing” that is my lot. She’s looking dazed. Confused. But determined. Wary, somehow, as if she can’t quite tell whether she wants to “check out” or be over-the-top vigilant.

  I watch her arms. Her feet. The way they are held at attention and wired for action. No normal woman naturally knows how to fight like that. She’s been trained. Maybe by someone in the Army or Navy as well. That instinct of hers? That’s not hardwired. That’s learned.

  I bring my eyes away from her a bit, thankful that she’s at least taking my coat as a sign of kindness, rather than as an attempt to capture or kidnap her, like she had first been thinking it was. Which is why it would be good for me to learn something — anything about her. I flick my gaze near her again, watching the mechanical way she seems to move. Though I don’t know what, if anything, I’m gonna get out of her.

  I decide to walk a little faster, a little ahead of her. The house is closer now. I can see it through the trees. And I don’t want those trees taking a big old chunk out of her face because she’s not really looking where she’s going.

  I move ahead of her, just in time to move some tree branches up and away from her face. She notices, but just barely. As I fall back in line with her step, I decide that it’s worth a try. If she needs more than just a warm place to stay after tonight — like a therapist or something, I need to know about it. I should know about it. Especially if she gets out of control.

  I don’t like this thought at all. I don’t like the idea that this poor girl is gonna lose her head while she’s with me. Do something that’s gonna fucking force me to protect myself and her. But she’s already flown off the handle. She’s already attacked me two times in the few short minutes we’ve known each other, and it could happen again. I need to know what and who I’m dealing with. Basic Navy training right there.

  “So” — I clear my throat — “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you have a name?”

  I pause, hoping against hope that maybe she’ll open up— maybe pull the jacket away from her face and answer me — treat me like I’m more than just background noise. But my hopes are dashed immediately. She just continues onward, but I don’t think she’s even “here” anymore. I doubt she even sees the house. Or the fact that we’ve stepped onto my property. The open bit of forest floor right outside my cabin.

  “I’m Brandon. Brandon Whitley,” I say, hoping that by me volunteering information, she will feel encouraged to as well. My mom always said never to make someone do something you aren’t willing to do yourself— and especially not to ask that of a lady.

  Unfortunately for my mom’s advice and for me, though, she doesn’t throw me a bone. Nothing. The only thing she does do is stop moving. She stands still, as if she’s finally noticed we’re out of the woods. Either that, or she’s suddenly across an invisible wall.

  I stop, deciding on another course of action, another series of questions to ask, since it doesn’t seem like she’s willing to disclose anything so personal. I ask these as I begin to walk up th
e stairs to the porch of my cabin.

  “What are you doing out this way, anyway?” Luckily, my wordless woman follows after me. I don’t have to encourage her up the stairs. Or try to guide her. She might just think I’m trying to attack her again. “Do you live around here?”

  Again, there’s no verbal response from her to any of these questions, no sense that my presence means anything to her. There’s just a glaze in her eyes, a loneliness she won’t let me penetrate, not even if I tried. I take a look at her clothes.

  A thin, haphazardly decorated T-shirt. It probably would’ve looked cool and trendy at one point, but it looks tattered and confused now— much like her face. And the fabric is much too thin to be wearing in the mountains, which is another reason I sensed she hadn’t planned to come here and could be in the middle of doing something irrational.

  Her sweatpants are a little better, but not much. They have holes in them. And even with the thicker fabric, they will do little against hours of exposure to the elements. Her tennis shoes and socks are looking as well and beat to hell. They’re definitely not suitable for any kind of hiking, if that’s what she was doing, which I doubt.

  As I get to the door and fiddle with the locks and keys to get it open — push away the damn screen door that keeps getting in my face — I try another set of questions, ones I really want answers to. “What are you doing out here at this time a year dressed like that?”

  The woman tromps up the stairs, the thin features on her face looking beautiful for a moment— until the stress she must be feeling darkens them again, and I feel like I’m watching watercolors run. I can’t help but notice her attractive, curvy figure, well-proportioned even under those sweatpants and T-shirt. Her body looks good despite all that fabric, with all those holes and frayed edges.

  I get the front door open, images of her sitting on the cliff flashing through my mind. Her hair is whipping about her face in a similar manner, like she’s still on that cliff ready to jump.

  “What are you doing so close to the edge like that? You want to tell me that?” I hadn’t meant to come across combative, but her frail appearance brings it out of me. I can see from the countenance peeking out from under her stressed face that she used to be vivacious and maybe even in love with life, with herself and her body. But as it is underneath her clothes now, it looks like she’s just trying to get away from a shell. Or turn herself into one, if I had let her jump.

  Briefly, I imagine myself giving her a check-up— running my hands up and down her body so I can just see the ghost of her through her clothing. Feeling her ribs. Her belly. Her breasts. Telling her what she needs to eat. How much. When. To bring back her spirt and give her life again.

  As she comes up to where I am on the porch, I imagine what it would be like to feed her— to make myself into her dinner table, where she can eat and drink real food. A proper meal, whatever she wants or needs. Anything to make her full and happy again.

  I hate myself for thinking in such a way. For fantasizing about her, when she is obviously in such a distressed state.

  I mean it about the food, though. The woman comes to stand next to me, finally answering my question to her. My last one, as if it’s a radio signal out in space, and it’s just reached her receiver. “I wasn’t gonna jump. I wasn’t gonna do myself in, if that’s what you think.”

  With that, she walks inside, and I follow after her, happy to let the screen door clack shut on us.

  “I wasn’t gonna do it,” she says again, but I have to wonder if it’s for herself more than for me.

  As I watch her walk ahead of me, I get another look at her body. Her back and ass, which looks plump and curvy, just my style, especially in all that blown-out fabric. Then I tell myself to let those thoughts go and think about priorities.

  She’s gonna eat something. She may not be a ghost now, but I’m not gonna let her turn into one between now and tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 4

  Brandon

  Somehow, by the grace of God — or my mom’s sweet ghost — I’ve managed to get myself and my no-name woman into the kitchen. I’ve even managed to get her into a seat and pulled up to the dining table without having to go near her or put a hand on her.

  But now that we’re here, I’ve got a bigger problem: figuring out what I have available for food, and what she’ll eat. So far, she’s barely said anything to me. And answering my questions is not really something she seems ready and willing to do. Even if they are about what she likes; what she wants to eat.

  Good Lord. I open up a few of my cupboards, deciding I better get the lay of my culinary land before I bother asking her anything. Now I know why my mom didn’t like me asking questions about dinner or food. Nobody wants to ask 20 questions just to fill a belly. Just to warm a heart.

  In the first cupboard I’ve opened, there’s not much I would offer any guest to eat, let alone a woman whose life I may have just saved. I’ve got nothing but olives, beans, rice and oysters in this one.

  I move to another cupboard, a little happier with what I see here. Fixings for sandwiches. Peanut butter. Jelly. Spam. Bread.

  The door to another cupboard opens in my hand, revealing yet more canned goodies. Spicy black bean chilies. Some with beef, others with chicken. Some with jalapeno peppers, and others with habanero. Also a box of taco shells. Taco seasoning. Refried beans.

  Some of this stuff looks pretty good, I think, heading over to my fridge. I’ve been used to eating what I killed in the woods behind my cabin, and scrounging around for whatever canned goods seemed to make a good side for the meat.

  I’m not used to thinking about what other people might like to eat, but, I think I can manage something. I don’t have any fresh meat because I had planned to hunt today after I was done with the firewood, but Mystery Woman here changed all of that.

  Let’s see what I have in the old icebox to go with it all. Maybe between the cupboards and the fridge, I’ll be able to scrounge something together that my mystery woman will like. A few options, hopefully. Since she might not want anything too spicy.

  Bingo! Ground beef. I do have some left over in the fridge that I can heat up, along with cheese, tomatoes, lettuce. Some sandwich meats two. Turkey. Honey ham. I reach in between a few jars of some of my favorite pickled foods — eggs, asparagus, beets — finding some chipotle mayo, spicy relish, and of course catchup and mustard.

  Also, I find an open jar of cherry jam. Something that might go well with peanut butter, but which is definitely not standard.

  A quick look in my freezer gives me a few more options. Frozen mac & cheese (which I still sometimes eat as comfort food since it was my favorite meal as a child), some egg rolls, potstickers, and my dad’s personal favorite — cream chipped beef on toast.

  My reconnaissance mission for foods complete, I close the freezer door and turn my attention back to my unexpected guest. She’s still seated in her chair at the dinner table, but looks even less “with it” now that we’ve stopped moving. She’s staring at the table, tracing something along its surface, like there are memories there that she doesn’t want but needs.

  “Okay.” With this one word that I utter, she brings her eyes to mine, but they still seem so distant. “Here’s the deal.”

  I pause, feeling myself getting lost in those eyes. And not necessarily in a good way. They are beautiful, but empty. Vacuous, like she used to have something valuable there, but the gravity dropped out. It fell away, leaving a massive black hole instead.

  “I’m going to list off some things I have available to eat, that I can make you for supper, and you have to tell me which one you want, okay?”

  My mystery woman makes some kind of gesture, though I wouldn’t necessarily call it a nod. It’s not the clearest sign of understanding, but I’ll take it. At least she seems to know I’m here and trying to help her. For now, anyway.

  With her eyes on mine, I list the treasures I found for her. My sandwich supplies, meat and non-meat options. My canned c
hilis and potted meat. My fixings for tacos, if she wants them. My mac & cheese. Potstickers. But to all of it, she just nods.

  She doesn’t say which choices she wants or doesn’t want. That doesn’t help me one bit. In the end, I’m left to make the decision by myself.

  So, I choose to make her what my mom would make me when I didn’t know what I wanted, or when she didn’t want to spend too much time preparing food. A ham and cheese sandwich, extra mayo. A side of chips as well. This is something I pull out of one of the cupboards, remembering that I’d seen them peeking out from behind some cans of food where I’d hid them.

  No wonder why. They’re sour cream and onion flavored. Not my favorite. My dad loved them though. I look at the expiration date on the unopened bag, realizing Dad must’ve bought these two years ago, at the last family reunion we all had in this cabin before granddad died, and then Mom and Dad died.

  While I’m not usually the type to condone serving people “expired” anything — especially food — these haven’t been opened. And I somehow feel that she could use some potato chips. So, regardless of their expired date being already two years past, I pull open the chip back, and dump them on her plate. A good portion of them.

  I then pour her a big glass of milk, before bringing her food to her and setting the plate in front of her. “Sorry if you don’t like any of this stuff,” I say, “but I don’t know what else to do if you won’t talk to me. I just had to guess at what to give you.”

  It turns out she doesn’t need words to say what she feels. Before the plate has even been on the table for more than two seconds, she’s already got the sandwich between her strong fingers, and is taking gigantic bites out of it.

  It’s like she’s a great white shark trapped in a female’s body, with the way she eats that thing— devours it. She stuffs the big, white edges of bread in her mouth and it’s like I’m watching one of my buddies in the Navy eat a meal— a brother in arms, not a woman in a T-shirt and sweatpants, with an instinct for fighting.