Don't Ever Tell. Brandon Massey

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СКАЧАТЬ that she never had before. As if with him, she was free for the first time in her life.

      Weird, but that was the impression he had.

      At some point, they made their way upstairs to the master bedroom. Exhausted, they fell asleep, lying against each other like spoons in a drawer.

      Later that night, he awoke to Rachel screaming.

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      “No…no!”

      Snatched to alertness by her cries, Joshua bolted upright in bed. He’d never heard Rachel scream like that, and he was half-convinced that he was dreaming. He quickly realized that he wasn’t—his heart was knocking too hard.

      He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, fumbled them on.

      The dark bedroom came into sharp focus. They were alone. Rachel was having a bad dream.

      Bed covers pulled up to her chin, face concealed in darkness, Rachel whipped her head back and forth, bed springs creaking as she screeched at her dream assailant.

      “No, please…”

      He’d never seen Rachel suffer a nightmare; she normally slept as soundly as the dead. But she was in such a state of turmoil that he was afraid to touch her, worried that any physical contact might drive her into an uncontrollable frenzy.

      Maybe he was dreaming.

      Rachel shrieked again. “You bastard!”

      He flinched at the fury in her voice. Who was she fighting? She rarely swore like that, and he’d never heard her address anyone with such rage and terror.

      But it had to be a man. A woman would call only a man a bastard.

      Although part of him wanted to wake her and put an end to her torment, another part of him was curious, and out of that curiosity, didn’t want to intervene. He wanted to wait and see if she would say something else that would clue him in on her relationship with this guy who, whoever he was, frightened her terribly.

      She’d never mentioned a prior relationship with an abusive man. Actually, she never said much at all about her previous relationships. “What’s in the past is over and done with,” she would say with a shrug. “All that matters is that today, we’re together.” And with that, she would change the subject.

      He never pushed her for more details. Was the past really that important? He hated talking about old flames, too, because it was embarrassing to remember how women had used to treat him like a human doormat.

      Rachel flung away the covers. She flailed her arms and kicked, as though trying to keep someone from climbing on top of her.

      “Get off me, damn it!”

      Beside the bed, Coco let loose a high-pitched bark. At night, the dog slumbered in a pet kennel atop the nightstand on Rachel’s side of the bed. Like most Chihuahuas, Coco was protective of the person she regarded as her master. She scratched at the bars of her cage, big eyes flashing in the darkness, four pounds of righteous fury.

      The little dog shamed him into action. He clicked on the bedside lamp.

      Rachel’s face was contorted with her efforts to fight off her attacker, her dark, curly hair disheveled, hands clenched as she shoved at an invisible body.

      He touched her shoulder. Her skin was clammy, but she didn’t respond to him.

      “Rachel, wake up.” He shook her gently. “It’s only a dream.”

      But she was oblivious to him. She gagged, as if being choked, and her hands went to her neck, trying to pry away an imaginary stranglehold.

      A cold finger tapped his spine. This had gone far enough.

      Choking, Rachel kicked wildly, hands grasping at her neck. A thick vein pulsed in stark relief on her throat.

      Coco was barking as if she were one of the hounds of hell.

      He grabbed Rachel’s wrists and pulled them away from her neck. It wasn’t easy—she had the desperate strength of someone fighting for her life.

      “Rachel, wake up.”

      “Get off!” Spittle sprayed his face. She thrashed like an angry snake.

      He pressed her hands down to her sides. He braced his knee across her legs, to keep her from kicking him.

      “Rachel, listen to me! It’s only a dream. Wake up!”

      She turned to his voice, and finally, her eyes opened.

      She had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, a light shade of brown flecked with gold that reminded him of autumn days, but at that moment, her eyes glistened with fear and confusion.

      “It’s me, Josh. Everything’s okay. You were having a bad dream.”

      She blinked, comprehension sinking into her face. She stopped her struggle, and sucked in sharp breaths. Perspiration shone on her brow.

      “Only a bad dream,” he said.

      “A dream?” Her voice, normally musical and confident, was as soft as a frightened child’s.

      “Only a dream.”

      A sob burst out of her. She came into his arms. “Hold me.”

      He held her and whispered words of comfort. She squeezed against him, fingernails dug into his back.

      Soon, her sobs subsided. Her breaths grew deeper, and within a few minutes, she had drifted back to sleep. Coco, too, settled down to slumber again.

      He laid Rachel on the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin. Although she had fallen back to sleep, sleep eluded him.

      In the year that they had known each other, he thought he’d come to know Rachel well—certainly, well enough to want to spend the rest of his life with her. He knew all the basics, of course: she was thirty years old, two years younger than him, had never been married or had children, drank alcohol socially but didn’t smoke, had grown up in Illinois the only child of parents who’d died when she was only five and been raised by her aunt, and had built a lucrative career as a hair stylist. She loved Mexican food, white wine, novels by Alice Walker, museums, comedy films, vacations to the beach, and dogs.

      But mysteries remained. He’d never met any of her family, or any of her friends that she’d known before she moved to Atlanta. At their wedding, the guest list was composed mostly of his own friends and family, the only people on her side being coworkers and friends from her hair salon.

      By way of explanation, she said that her family was small, scattered across the country, and didn’t keep in touch, and that she’d never been the kind of woman who’d had a large roster of friends. She was a loner, she said, a symptom of growing up an only child.

      He had accepted her explanations about her past. There was no reason for her to lie. He loved her, she loved him, and he took what she told him at face value.

      But СКАЧАТЬ