Christmas Stalking Read online

  “We can’t keep doing this running thing all night.” Exasperated, he caught up with her again, stepping in front of the door before she could reach it.

  “Then get out of my way.”

  “What are you running from? What are you running to?”

  She swallowed hard, her throat burning, her voice shaking. “If you had any idea what I was running from, you never would’ve told him where I am. Now get out of my way, before I call the real cops!” She ducked under his arm, pulling at the door, but was no match for the weight of him pressed against it.

  “Listen to me!” He grabbed her arms and pulled her toward him. “I’m trying to help you. That’s all I want to do!”

  “If you want to help, then let me go,” she pleaded. “Please, whatever he’s told you, none of it is true. You can’t let him find me. I’m begging you.”

  The tears were coming and she couldn’t stop them, although she tried hard. She even bit down on her bruised and swollen lip, hoping the pain might be a distraction.

  He shook his head at her. “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, you know who!” She pulled away from him and ran, she didn’t care anymore where. “The guy you were just talking to on the phone!”

  This time when he reached her, he enfolded her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, grabbing her wrists and crossing them over. He held her that way for some time, not speaking, just waiting for her to stop struggling. When her breath began to slow a little and she relaxed against his bulk, he spoke, “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen. Then I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer me. Do you understand?”

  He waited for her to nod, which she did reluctantly, before going on.

  “My name is Nick Santos. I’m a real cop, not a private detective. The phone call was to the station about the assault I’d just witnessed. Did you see my badge? I assure you it’s quite real. You can call them back to check it out if you want to.”

  She relaxed a little at these words, not sure what to believe.

  “I live in the house behind the video store and I know you’ve been sleeping there for the past few weeks,” he revealed.

  She let that information sink in, not knowing if she could or should trust what he was saying.

  “Now ... who is Patrick?”

  “You really don’t know?” she asked, her voice small. She felt him sigh.

  “I know nothing about you except that you’re obviously a runaway with nowhere to go. You’re clearly very afraid of something ... or someone ... and you seem to like the peanut butter and apple juice I left out for you.”

  She gasped, flushing, and she knew what he was saying had to be true. It all came at her, everything, the weeks alone, the terror of believing Patrick was looking for her, having her followed, the harsh words and hard hands. It came with so much force she was gasping and then sobbing, collapsing as if someone had just cut her strings.

  He gathered her up and sat with her on the sofa, and she found herself clinging to him, desperate for someone who might be able to offer even just a little comfort.

  “Who is Patrick?” he asked her again, and she found herself telling him, in small bursts, about her stepfather and his abuse.

  “So you ran away?” He was stroking her hair and she found herself sinking against him, nodding. “And you thought I was someone he hired to find you?”

  She nodded again, closing her eyes, feeling more comfortable here in this man’s arms than she had anywhere in a very long time.

  He took a deep breath, and then he said something she had never heard a man say in her life, “Well, you’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  She put her arms around him, feeling a warmth and easiness that should have taken years to accomplish, given her justifiable tendency toward mistrust. “Thank you.”

  He sighed again, his hand still in her hair. “What’s your name?”

  “Virginia ... Ginny.”

  He leaned back to look at her, and she saw something in his eyes that stopped her, some internal struggle that put her on edge. “Well, Ginny...” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to ask you to come into the police station to make a report.”

  He said it as if he knew what her response would be. She leapt out of his lap, practically hissing.

  “Okay, okay,” he conceded, encircling her wrists with his hands and pulling her back toward him. “I’ll tell you what. You stay here tonight.”

  She looked down at him, suspicious.

  “You can have a bath and I’ll make you something to eat,” he said, tempting her. “And I have a guest room. Then tomorrow, we’ll talk about going in and reporting this, okay?”

  “Patrick’s a cop,” she reminded him. “The minute my name is in any system, I’m dead.”

  He nodded sympathetically.

  “They took my bus ticket to California and the only money I had to my name.” She sank into the chair opposite him, the realization finally hitting her. All of her dreams of California and art school had vanished in one five-minute struggle. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” he assured her, his hand swallowing hers as he helped her to stand.

  For some reason beyond her comprehension, looking into his quiet, dark eyes, she believed him.

  —

  After weeks of bathing in a bathroom sink, Ginny moaned out loud when she slid into a full, hot tub of water. Nick had insisted on the compromise of taking Polaroid pictures of her face before he gave her towels and let her into the bathroom. She didn’t know how long she spent soaking after she’d washed everything three times, including her hair. She may have even slept a little in the heat, starting out of her daze when she heard him knocking.

  “Hey, food’s ready,” he called through the door.

  “Give me just a minute.” She reached for the towel.

  “If you want, leave your clothes and I’ll throw them in the machine,” he told her. “There’s a shirt on the door that should cover you. Come down when you’re ready.”

  “Okay.” She pulled the plug and let the bath water start to drain.

  Wrapped in a towel, she inspected her face. Her lip was swollen and blue on one side, and she had a bruise already on the same side of her cheek that looked as if it might grow darker. The lump on the left side of her forehead hurt the most. It was the size of a quarter, red in the center and purple at the edges.

  She towel-dried her hair as best she could and found the white button down shirt he had left hanging on the door. It was enormous and came to her knees. She debated about a bra and panties or leggings for a moment, and decided to let him wash everything and just wear the shirt.

  “Nick?” She found him setting the table in the kitchen.

  He was still in his uniform and just looking at him in it brought a tangled combination of feeling, apprehension and security. She smiled at him, anyway. “I’m starving!”

  He stood frozen, forks and napkins halted in midair, looking at her wearing his shirt and standing framed by the doorway. Ginny glanced down and noticed her still-wet hair was leaving little see-through patches on the material in places and saw the lustful look in his eyes. It made her flush and she could feel a low heat burning below the hunger in her belly.

  “What’d you make?” She decided to brazen it out and walked toward him, where he still stood, as if transfixed. She cocked her head at him and met his eyes. There was more than kindness in them now, she noticed, although he looked quickly away, as if he wanted to hide his feelings.

  Clearing his throat, he managed to answer her, “Spaghetti. Have a seat.”

  She did, her stomach growling at the smell and thought of food. She’d discovered hunger was interesting in that way. There were times when the stomach seemed to forget for a while that it hadn’t been satisfied, but the sight or smell of something could bring that instant gnarl and clench again.

  She was ra
venous and devoured it all, an entire plate of pasta and sauce, and her own roll with butter and half of his. He watched her as he chewed thoughtfully. She thought he looked preoccupied with something, but she was so engrossed in satisfying her own senses that she didn’t care.

  It was only when her belly was full that thoughts began again, and she asked him, “So, it’s Christmas Eve ... where’s your family? You live alone here?”

  His smile was strained and she didn’t realize until that moment how callous her question may have been. “My mother is dead. My father and I don’t speak. I moved in here with someone ... it didn’t work out, so she moved out.” He shrugged. “Now I spend most holidays working, actually. It pays good overtime. I worked today.”

  “So why don’t you talk to your father? Do you have anything for dessert?” She ran the two questions together and he laughed.

  “He’s a cop. My father,” he clarified, his jaw tightening. “My grandfather was a cop, too, a great one. My father, well ... he’s like your stepfather. One of those cops who thinks he’s above the law.” Nick stood. “I have some Ben and Jerry’s, I think. Want me to check?”

  She nodded, contemplating this new information. “So, are you a good cop?”

  “Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly, his head in the freezer. “To a fault, I’m told.” He held up two containers. “Do you want Chunky Monkey or Phish Food?”

  “Oh, you are a god!” She clapped her hands in delight, her eyes lighting up. “Some of both!”

  He smiled shyly, and she found him so endearing in that moment, watching him take down two bowls and pull out spoons. She started clearing the table, taking their dishes to the sink while he scooped the ice cream.

  They settled on the sofa with their bowls, and Ginny let each bite of cold, creamy sweetness melt in her mouth, her eyes closing in delight. He watched her with a very similar expression on his face.

  “Nice TV.” She nodded toward the big screen, trying to make conversation.

  “Yeah, it was her idea to buy it,” he admitted with a shrug, finding the remote and flicking it on. Ginny realized he’d mistaken her comment as a hint. “But I don’t use it much. Not a lot of time to watch, really...”

  “Hey, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life!’” she exclaimed through a mouthful of ice cream.

  Nick smiled, his eyes lingering on her mouth, where she licked a bit of chocolate off her lower lip. “I’m beginning to think it might be.”

  “Don’t you love this movie?” She felt his eyes on her like a heat and turned her attention to the screen instead. Her skin tingled, as if his gaze had touched her flesh. “I haven’t seen it in years. When I was little, somehow it never felt like Christmas unless I saw it at least once.”

  “It’s a classic,” he agreed. “My mom and I watched it every year.”

  Ginny sucked thoughtfully on her spoon as the opening credits began to run. “Mine, too.”

  “Well, then, let’s you and me do Christmas right for a change,” he said, standing up with conviction. “Who wants popcorn?”

  Ginny’s eyes brightened. “With butter?”

  “At least a stick,” he replied with a grin. “Cholesterol and triglycerides be damned!”

  He was in the kitchen before she could say a word. In spite of her reservations and the strange, even surreal, unfolding events of the night, she found herself more comfortable here than she had been in a long time—perhaps ever.

  The movie was just starting, the familiar music somehow like opening a floodgate. It brought back instant memories of Christmases when she and Maggie, as young girls, had snuggled together against their mother as they watched the old angel try to get his wings. That was before Patrick.

  She was lost in her memories, drifting, her eyes even closing a little as she listened to the lull of popcorn popping in the kitchen. It was the smell of it wafting into the room that made her lift her head to see Nick coming back with a huge bowl. He set it between them on the couch. Ginny let her fingers slip into the buttery fluff, bringing some to her mouth. Nick watched her, looking pleased.

  “Thank you,” she murmured after a moment, glancing over at him.

  “Popcorn’s easy,” he replied with a shrug, his hand brushing hers in the bowl.

  Ginny nudged him with her elbow. “No ... not the popcorn.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, eat! My mother would turn over in her grave if I didn’t live up to my heritage some day by using that phrase. Am I right?”

  She laughed, curling her feet under her and digging into the bowl. The movie was long, and they didn’t talk much, but their hands brushed every now and then when they reached for more buttery goodness. Ginny found herself drifting again, lost in her memories of childhood Christmases.

  “She’s happy with so little,” Nick murmured, startling her out of her reverie.

  “Who?” She looked thoughtfully at Donna Reed welcoming Jimmy Stewart “home” to a broken-down old house on their wedding night.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I guess I’m just so used to dating women who want the big house and the expensive car and everything else that goes with it. It’s not who a guy is, anymore—it’s what he does, and more importantly, how much money he makes doing it.”

  “No,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “All of that ... it’s just stuff. Sure, it’s nice, but it’s really not what matters.”

  He leaned his head back on the couch, his eyes searching her face. “You’re really something, you know that?”

  She shrugged. “I’m nothing special.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” His voice changed, growing more firm. “And I wish more people in your life had told you so.”

  “I’ve got enough people in my life telling me I’m wrong, thank you very much,” she quipped.

  He smiled, reaching out to touch her bruised cheek, rubbing it gently with his thumb. “You know what I mean.”

  She glanced from him to the screen. His eyes were soft when they met hers, questioning even. They made her feel warm all over. He turned slightly toward her, and the light of the television glinted off his badge. Her eyes lingered there, then moved up to his face again. With her associations, it was hard for her to reconcile the two. Yet here he was, wearing the same uniform and yet so very different from Patrick.

  “The thing about her is...” Ginny started, her eyes flicking from him to the television. “She knows a good thing when she sees it.”

  “You think so?” His thumb moved over her jaw.

  “Yes,” she insisted, although her eyes were on him, now, not on the couple on the screen. “There aren’t many men who would offer a girl the moon.”

  Nick surprised her by doing a Jimmy Stewart impression, stutter and all: “What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.”

  “I’ll take it,” Ginny quoted, smiling at him.

  “I wish I could give it to you.”

  She held her breath as he leaned forward, brushing the hair away from her face so his lips could touch her forehead. Everything inside of her went silent. “You’re very sweet.” She wasn’t surprised to hear her voice trembling and slightly hoarse.

  “Are you done with this?” he asked, breaking the mood and nodding at the popcorn bowl. He set it aside when she didn’t reply. Putting his arm across the back of the couch behind her, they settled back again to watch the movie.

  By the time George Bailey was delivering his own line about moons and lassos, Nick’s arm was around her shoulder, and Ginny’s head was resting against his chest. It seemed natural and easy, somehow.

  She didn’t know if it was the amount of food her body wasn’t used to digesting, or just the overwhelming weariness, but she found herself relaxed enough to even start drifting off to sleep in his arms.

  “Come on,” he said, nudging her.

  She looked at the screen, blinking, and protested. “But he hasn’t gotten his wings yet...”


  He smiled. “I’m sorry, but you aren’t going to make it, angel.”

  Her body knew he was right, and she followed him, already anticipating the extravagant comfort of a bed for the first time in weeks. It was a full-sized bed, nothing fancy, plain white sheets and a plaid comforter. It was a man’s taste.

  He pulled the covers down for her. “You know where the bathroom is, right? My room is past the bathroom at the end of the hall if you need anything. Okay?”

  She nodded, her body slipping between the sheets, and she sighed and moaned out loud at the luxurious pleasure of it. Her eyes closed of their own volition, and she whispered, “Thank you, oh, thank you,” as he turned off the light.

  He stepped out and started to close the door, but the impending darkness made her open her eyes again.

  “Nick?” she called, her voice plaintive.

  “Yes?” he asked, peering back in.

  She couldn’t form the words, but she wanted to. Instead, she just whispered, “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  In spite of her hesitation, she was drifting off to sleep before the door clicked closed.

  —

  “Ginny?” It was Nick, whispering. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered back, her head coming up off the pillow, disoriented.

  “You were crying. Are you sure?”

  “I was?” She put her hands to her cheeks. They were damp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay...”

  “I guess.” She drew a shaky breath and stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah ... I’m okay.”

  “Well ... goodnight then.” Nick went to close the door.

  “Wait.” She found the light spilling in from the hallway inviting, and his presence comforting. He stood, waiting.

  “Would you...?” She took a deep breath. “Could you sit with me ... until I fall asleep?”

  “Sure,” he replied, moving back into the room.

  He pulled a soft chair from the corner up next to the bed, and she settled back down under the covers. The sound of his breathing was comforting, and she noticed how his bulk filled the chair, how he filled out his uniform, so unlike Patrick’s wiry frame. Thinking about Patrick and the events of the night made her restless again.