Love Lies Bleeding: A Novel Part 1

Love Lies Bleeding: A Novel Part 1

Love Lies Bleeding.

Jess McConkey.

To my editor, Emily Krump, and my agent, Stacey Glick.

This book never would've been written without your encouragement and support!.

Chapter One.




Oh G.o.d, they're in the house! How had they found her? Were they here to finish the job? The bitter taste of fear clogged the back of her throat, her heart pounded, and a scream tried to fight its way up from deep inside. No, you can't scream. They might hear you. She swallowed twice.

Run. She had to run. She had to find Jackson, but her legs wouldn't move. Why wouldn't her legs move?

Her eyes flew open and she stared wide-eyed into the darkness. Where were they? In the living room? In the hallway? A soft moan escaped her lips as a cold sweat dampened her upper lip. She felt as though she could smell her terror lingering in the air.

Suddenly the darkness vanished. She winced and jerked her hands over her eyes, trying to block the blinding light. Footsteps hurried across the bedroom floor. Her breath came in short, swift gasps as she felt the bed dip and her hands were slowly pulled away from her face. A quiet voice pierced the roaring in her ears. Jackson's voice.

"Sam, Sam, wake up. You're having another nightmare."

Images of men chasing her . . . hurting her . . . circled in her mind as she tried to raise herself from the bed. She couldn't move her legs. Thrashing, she pushed with her hand while she fought to sit up.

"Easy, Sam. You're tangled in the sheets. Let me help you," Jackson said from where he sat on the side of the bed.

Her eyes locked on his face and the images faded. Nightmare . . . it was only a nightmare. Reality finally penetrated her sleep-soaked mind.

Inhaling sharply, she stopped her tossing and willed her body to relax while her fiance pulled her upright and began to slowly unwind the sheets binding her legs. Awake but disoriented, she shoved her limp auburn hair out of her face while her eyes darted around the room, searching for something familiar.

This wasn't their bedroom. Their bedroom walls were a perfect shade of Martha Stewart mocha, not knotty-pine paneling. In this room, plaid curtains, not sheer linen, hung over rough, slatted blinds. Where the h.e.l.l was she?

Panicked again, she felt her heart kick up a ragged rhythm. Not the hospital-please, not back in the hospital.

Wait. The walls in the intensive care unit were a cold, sterile green, not wood-paneled. She c.o.c.ked her head and listened, but the only sound she heard was the pounding of her blood in her head. No whoosh-whoosh of the respirator. Her hand flew to the base of her throat. No plastic tube forcing sustaining oxygen into her lungs-only a small raised scar. Okay, so she wasn't in the hospital. The thumping in her chest slowed.

She stared blinking at Jackson while the last remnants of shock lingered in her mind. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning toward her, a book clutched in one hand. A lock of dark brown hair had fallen forward across his high forehead. Reaching up, he pulled his fingers through it repeatedly, brushing it back as he watched her.

"W-w-where are we?"

"Sam, we're in Minnesota, remember? Renting a cabin at Elk Horn Lake for the summer?"

That's right-away from the city, to rest, to help her battered body heal. Now she remembered.

Scrubbing her face with her hands, she tried to rub away the memory of the dream. Every night she feared sleep. Every night some variation crept out of the recesses of her mind to torture her.

"Did I scream?" she mumbled into her hands. "Did I wake you?"

"No," he replied, setting the book down, "you didn't scream this time. You moaned. I was still up reading. I thought you were having spasms again."

He'd been reading in the guest room, she thought with a stab of guilt. Since her "accident," as her mother liked to call it, Jackson couldn't share her bed any longer. They'd discovered that his sleeping in the same bed only made the nightmares worse. In the beginning they'd tried to rationalize them away. Just the aftershocks of the trauma she'd suffered. They kept telling each other the dreams would eventually stop, but they hadn't, and now she felt powerless as the intimacy they'd shared slipped away.

Dropping her hands, she caught Jackson staring at her legs. In her tossing and turning, her long nightgown had worked its way up her thighs. Her shriveled left leg now lay bare and exposed on the cool, cotton sheets. His eyebrows knitted together, and she watched as the corner of his mouth curled downward.

She grabbed the sheet and yanked it over her leg, hiding it.

With a shake of his head, he raised his eyes to her face. "It was a bad one this time, wasn't it?" he asked in a low voice. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"First, I heard a window break, then voices. They were talking while they ransacked the house," she said, plucking at the sheet covering her left leg. "They said they were going to kill us. They were laughing about what they'd do to us." A shudder shook her shoulders, and Jackson's hand reached out for her, but stopped short of touching her. "I thought they'd found me again," she finished in a whisper.

A soft sigh stirred the air between them. "It was just a dream. Those a.s.sholes aren't looking for you. The attack happened because you were in the wrong place, at the wrong time. A hundred and twenty miles from here . . ." He paused. "They didn't know your name then, and they don't know it now."

"How do you know? They're still out there, aren't they? The police never made an arrest."

"Sam, you're safe," he said, lowering his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Your father's influence kept your name out of the press, and your credit cards and ID were still in your purse."

"But-"

He held up a hand, stopping her, and his voice took on a hard edge. "Again, Sam . . . it was just a dream. You can't continue to let your fears torment you."

She threw off the sheet and scooted across the bed to sit on the opposite side, making sure to keep her leg covered with the corner of the blanket.

"But it seemed so real. Just like the ones I had in the hospital." She looked over her shoulder at him. "The voices stopped, and all I could hear was my heart. I didn't know if they'd found you. I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn't move."

Jackson shifted his position to face her. "Have you discussed this with Dr. Weissinger?"

Dropping her chin, she stared at the floor. "Of course."

He braced his arm on the bed and leaned closer. His brown eyes, once full of charm, were now full of concern as he tugged on the corner of his mouth before speaking.

"Have you really?"

Here we go again, she thought. Sam, are you taking your meds? Sam, did you do your exercises? Sam, you need to try harder.

Irritation shot through her and she stood awkwardly. "What? Now you want to add lying to the list of grievances against me?" She walked to the window, her left leg dragging slightly on the hardwood floor.

"I never said you were a liar," he replied gently, "but I don't believe you're always honest with Dr. Weissinger. He's your psychiatrist, Sam, but he can't help you if you don't tell him what's going on."

"I know that." Suddenly chilled, she rubbed her bare arms. "I'm not stupid."

Jackson gave a soft groan. "I never said you were. But Dr. Weissinger might be able to give you some different meds that will help with the nightmares."

"Right, Dr. Van Horn." She twisted around to look at him. "That's the answer you doctors have for everything, isn't it? Write a scrip, make it all better-better living doped up on meds," she said in a rough voice. "That's what the antidepressants are supposed to do, isn't it? To make it all better. But they're not working, are they?"

"You have to give it time, Sam. You suffered a serious trauma. You'd be dead if the security guard hadn't acted so quickly. You need time to heal."

"Time? Ha, what do you call eight months?" She felt the bitterness snake through her. "Eight months since they made me beg, on my knees, for my life." Her voice rose. "Eight months since that son of a b.i.t.c.h cracked my skull with a tire iron."

Jackson shook his head as his eyes traveled to the nightstand and the array of pill bottles. Seeing a picture frame lying facedown next to them, he picked it up.

Sam felt her heart squeeze. It was a picture of them on the ski slopes at Vail, taken the week Jackson had proposed. He'd put it in an expensive walnut frame and had insisted that she keep it on her nightstand.

"Why did you turn this over?" he asked, holding the picture frame toward her.

Looking away, she shrugged one shoulder. "I must've knocked it over during my dream."

"Then why aren't the pill bottles-" He cut himself off. "Never mind," he said, setting the picture back on the nightstand.

Her eyes returned to the smiling faces in the picture staring at her from across the room. Smiling faces now surrounded by pill bottles. The woman in the picture had never taken pills to stop her dreams, pills to stop her fear. She'd been strong and capable.

And you'll never be that woman again, jeered a voice inside her head.

Unable to bear looking at the person she'd been, she turned away. She felt Jackson wrap his arms around her. "It'll be okay," he whispered. "We'll get through this."

She jerked away from him and limped toward the bed. Why did Jackson and her parents think a simple pat on the head with a "Don't worry, Sam" would make it all go away? They didn't get it.

As she sank to the bed, her eyes flashed with anger and with a wave of her hand, she brushed Jackson's book off the bed. "Oh yeah? Easy for you to say-you weren't the one in a coma for months-all the time dreaming one terrible dream after another, unable to wake up and escape the dreams." She hugged herself tightly, and drawing a deep breath, let the frustration pour out. "You don't have a leg that doesn't work right because of nerve damage. You're still the same person you were a year ago. I'm not."

"You-" He clenched his jaw and stopped abruptly. "You're upset and, well, never mind. If you're going to be okay, I think I'll go back to bed. I'll leave the door of the guest room open in case you need me."

Sam's hand shot out as she felt the tears gather. She'd hurt him again. Something she'd been doing a lot lately. "Wait . . ."

Pausing in the doorway, he turned, his face calm and his expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry," she said, clearing her throat. "I don't mean to be such a b.i.t.c.h, Jackson. I-"

"I do understand, Sam," he said swiftly while he held up a hand to stop her. "Dr. Weissinger told us to expect these mood swings." He paused as if he were carefully picking his next words. "But it might help if you'd remember your life isn't the only one that's changed." With a shake of his head, he turned and walked out of the room.

She stared at the open doorway for a moment. Great, he was not only hurt, but angry. What would she do if he finally got fed up with her and left, not only her bedroom, but her life? He'd become her anchor and there were days when only the dream of their future together kept her going. Until Jackson, her focus had been her work, and she'd never met anyone who'd made her want to change. She had avoided commitment, but he'd changed all that when he breezed into her life at a concert, one of her mother's many charity benefits. Both of his parents had been patrons of the arts, devoting time and money to help struggling musicians, and since their deaths, he'd continued their good works. After the concert, he'd wooed her relentlessly with flowers, dinners, and thoughtful gifts.

Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked down at her left hand and the three-carat diamond Jackson had so proudly placed on her finger. It was all going to be perfect. After the wedding, they were moving into his family home, a wonderful Victorian, nestled in the woods and newly restored to her precise specifications. She dashed away the tears and rubbed the muscle in her left thigh. The work that the carpenters had done on the staircase with its curving walnut banister had delighted her, but now it reminded her of Mount McKinley. How could she negotiate the high risers when she had trouble walking across the room?

If Jackson did leave her, what would her family say? Her father had been thrilled when they starting dating. He was proud of the fact she was marrying a successful plastic surgeon. He said he couldn't have chosen a better match for her if he'd have picked Jackson himself. He'd even agreed to a donation for a new wing at the hospital as an engagement present.

She had to stop being such a b.i.t.c.h. She had to change . . . but how? Every time she tried to show him how much she loved him, her fears, her resentment over the way her life had changed, strangled every word, every action.

Rising, she limped back to the window. Lifting her hand, she let it linger over the cord used to raise the blinds. She wanted to open them. She wanted to see the starry night sky, but she was afraid, afraid that someone might be out there in the night, in the woods, watching the cabin, watching her.

Letting her hand fall to her side, she crossed to the bed and sat. Her left leg felt stiff and she rubbed her thigh absentmindedly. Only thirty-five, she felt more like eighty. Leaning back and using her elbows for balance, she slid her feet forward until her lower legs were away from the bed. Even with her nightgown covering them, she could see the difference between her right and left legs. The right looked normal . . . the left, shrunken with wasted muscle. She took a deep breath and lifted them, just like the therapist had shown her. Her right leg rose to a foot off the floor, but her left wavered only inches above it. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her brain making the connection with muscles in her leg. A thin sheen of sweat dampened her forehead as the leg rose another inch.

Yes, she thought triumphantly, just a little higher.

A spasm hit, sending pain shooting up her leg. With a groan, she let both feet drop.

A sense of weariness swamped her. Would her leg ever be strong again? She was tired of the whole thing, tired of trying, tired of everyone's quiet voices giving her the answer she didn't want . . . "It takes time-just be patient."

Well, how much time would it take? Would she ever be able to walk normally? Would she stop jumping at sudden noises? Would she enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face ever again without the overwhelming fear that someone was lurking and waiting to pounce? Would the dreams go away?

Time was running out. Not only on her relationship with Jackson, but on her career, too. Her dad had already given her old job at his advertising agency to her former a.s.sistant, Dan Borden. Dan was now her father's right hand, not her. What if he proved himself indispensable? Lawrence Moore wasn't a fool. He wouldn't replace a valued employee with her just because she was his daughter. Nepotism didn't go that far with her dad.

No Jackson-no career. The thought made her stomach clench.

From the corner of her eye, she spied her cell phone lying on the nightstand next to the pill bottles and the picture. Flipping the picture facedown, she picked up the phone and stared at it. If only she knew what was happening at the agency, she'd feel that she wasn't out of the loop. That she had something waiting for her at the end of her struggle. She could focus on the future, and not the now.

Using speed dial, she called Dan's private number. So maybe it was past midnight, but Dan was a night owl, and in the past they'd shared many late-night calls. He'd been not only her a.s.sistant, but her friend. He wouldn't mind.

"Hey, Dan," she said with forced brightness when the groggy voice on the other end answered.

"Samantha!" he exclaimed, suddenly wide-awake.

"I know it's late," she said, the words rushing out.

"Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I'm fine," she replied, trying to keep the need out of her voice. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd still be up. I didn't mean to wake you."

"That's okay . . . it's . . . um . . . well . . . we've been busy lately. I've put in some pretty long hours, so I've been turning in earlier when I can."

"I'm sorry," she apologized again. "I'll let you go so you can get back to sleep."

"No, really, it's okay. What's up?"

"Nothing . . ." She hesitated. "I was just wondering how everything's going."

There was a long pause on the line "Fine . . . good," Dan answered cautiously.

"Did you land the Schwitzer account?"

"Yes."

"Is everything going well in the art department?"

"About like normal," he replied, not really answering her question.

She plucked at the blanket and felt her desperation rise. "Having any problems with Marcus? Maybe I could give you some advice on how to handle him." She tried to chuckle. "You know how those artsy types are. Always going off on a tangent and ignoring the client's wishes."

"We've had a few disagreements, but not bad."

"Nothing like the time he wanted to use a purple-and-pink background in the ad for the sporting-goods company?"

She heard him hesitate.

"No, nothing like that," he said finally.