A Story Written by Omolola…
She felt the taxi move again, winding this way and that. And
then it slowed, stopped. “This is it.”
She opened her eyes and looked out the windshield. In the day’s
waning light, a huge house met her gaze. A three-story building with
high-pitched roofs, long balconies and lots of glass. Her stomach flipped again
and an icy hand gripped her heart. The bastard. While she and her mother had
been living in rat- and cockroach-infested rooms, the kind you paid for by the
month, her father had been living in a luxury house. Damn his soul.
Demola’s piercing brown eyes met hers. “Ready?”
She was never going to be ready. But she managed a mute nod.
With an encouraging smile, he got out of the truck, strode around to her side
and opened the door. Her brain said get out. But her limbs wouldn’t move. He
took hold of her elbow, his big hand strong and warm as his fingers closed
around her arm. “Come on, it’s just a house.”
It wasn’t just a house. It was a living proof of her father’s
betrayal. Living proof that he’d cared more for this cursed piece of land than
he had for her mother. Or for her. The thought of spending one second inside
its walls. . .
But there were too many kids out there to wimp out now. She
forced thoughts of her father from her mind, concentrated on the heat soaking
into her from Demola’s touch, and swung her legs out of the taxi. Once she was
steady on her feet, he let go of her arm, grabbed her bag from the boot and led
the way up the walk.
She followed him, focusing on his broad shoulders, the ripple of
muscle under his shirt, anything but the bile climbing up her throat. At the
house, Demola pushed the door open, stepped off to the side and waved her in.
She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The muted light of dusk
filled the house, casting twilight and shadows everywhere. Demola followed her
in and flicked on the wall switch behind her.
Light flooded the room, bouncing off the shinny marble floors
and illuminating the wide-open space. The room was huge, the ceilings here at
the front of the chamber soaring the entire three stories. Combined with the
giant windows lining the front wall, it almost seemed as if she were still
outside. She shook her head. What an egomaniacal show of grandeur.She took in
the leather sofas and rock-back chairs surrounded it, making a conversation
area. Other well-appointed sitting areas were arranged here and there around
the big room as well. At the back of the room, a wide staircase led to a
balcony with several doors running along its back wall. Bedrooms, she presumed.
She looked to Demola, who’d moved into the room and set her bag
on one of the sofas. “Did anyone besides my father live here?”
He shook his head.
Of course. She strode across the floor toward a conversation
area in the far corner of the room, right in front of the big windows. Demola
followed her. Not close enough to invade her space. But she could feel him
behind her, letting her know she had his support. It was the only thing that
kept her from howling with rage. She stared at the leather sofa, the coffee
table with its log legs and the giant slab of crosscut wood making up its
surface. It was designed to look like someone had gone out and made it in an
afternoon, but the high-gloss shine and fancy wood grain told her it was an
expensive piece. Damned expensive.
She raised her gaze to the wall behind the sofa. It was lined
with tall mirrors, their shiny surfaces reflecting the room and the lights and
her own sorry self. She stared at her reflection.
She shook her head. How many times had her father stood here
staring at his kingdom and his own vile reflection while she and her mother
scrambled for food? While her mother lay dying of a disease that a little money
could have gone a long way to alleviate. The arrogant bastard.
She drew a deep breath trying to
calm her nerves, trying to keep from screaming her rage at the hunk standing
behind her. A glass piece sitting on an end table caught her eye and she
wandered over, letting the piece distract her. It was a beautiful colour. Rich
brown with golden streaks arching through it. It looked handblown, its
free-flowing from reminiscent of a leaf floating from a tree. Very pretty. It
reminded her of Dale Chihuly’s work. One of the world’s leading glass artists.
She picked the piece up, the smooth, heavy glass cool against
her fingers. She and the other girls often ran auctions along with their
fund-raising stunts as a way to boost the final money count. If this had been
made by a local artist, maybe she’d talk him or her into donating a piece for
the next event. She flipped the piece over, looking for a signature. The small
black letters caught her eye immediately.
Chihuly.
Oh, God. She looked over at Demola, her anger boiling into fury.
“Do you have any idea how much food or medicine I could have bought for this
one piece of art?” She sure as hell could have paid a year’s rent with it. And
then she could have used her meager salary for medicine. She possibly could
have bought her mother another year of life. The fury exploded. She sent the
Chihuly sailing at the mirrors. Glass crashed and rained down in brown and
silver pieces. Demola swore and came in low, hit her at the waist, scooped her
over his shoulder and quickly carried her from the flying shards of glass. She
fought against his hold. “Put me down.” There was a lamp over there she wanted
to send into the next mirrored panel.
“Fine.” He dumped her unceremoniously onto a sofa. “But I’m not
going to let you tear the place up.”
She bounced up immediately and tried to push past him.
He blocked her path easily with that big body of his. Thirteen
years of pain and frustration and helplessness roared through her. “Not your
choice. Get out of my way, dammit.” She shoved against him, and when he
wouldn’t move she started throwing punches. He easily blocked anything that
came near his face and merely kept her contained as the others rained
harmlessly on his chest and arms. Which just frustrated her more. She hit
harder, quicker, pouring all her despair, all her anger into every punch. She
felt tears pour down her cheeks, but she didn’t stop to wipe them away. She
just kept hitting. And hitting. And hitting. Until there was no more rage. No
more energy. Nothing but despair.
She collapsed against his chest, the tears taking control. What
was happening to her? Five minutes in this house and she was turning into her
most despised object on earth. A helpless, crying female. But she couldn’t stop
the tears. Or the sobs that tore from her throat. She buried her face against
his chest, trying to hide the waterworks, muffle the sounds. He closed his arms
around her, his body closing around hers like a warm, protective cocoon. “It’s
okay. I’ve got you.”
But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all. She’d promised
herself at her mother’s funeral she’d never be helpless again. But with her
father’s betrayal assaulting her from every angle, she felt helpless now.
Demola ran his hand over her back, soothing, comforting.
She absorbed his warmth and strength like the desert floor
drinking in rain. It felt so good to have someone’s arms around her. Felt good
to feel like she wasn’t absolutely alone in the world. She’d been alone for so,
so long.
And he felt so damned good.
She snuggled closer, drinking in his heat, and bathing in his
spicy aftershave. It would be so easy to let him chase away the pain. But it
wouldn’t be smart. Not smart at all. Because if the electricity already building
between them meant anything, she knew how they’d end up chasing the pain away.
And she didn’t want to go that way. She was serious about her moratorium on
men. She’d watched her mother try to find herself in men right up until the
disease made it impossible. It had made a sad, lonely life for her mother. One
Tomilola had promised herself she’d never repeat. And just because she felt
like her life was shattering around her now, it was no time to backslide.
She’d get through the next six months on her own. And then she’d
return to her quest to discover who she was and what she wanted in life. She
pulled in one more long, deep breath of Demola’s warm, musky scent, let him
stroke her back one more time and then pulled herself from his arms.
To Be Continued…
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