Page 38 of Feel Me

“Good,” Declan says, his frown firmly in place. “Because I like who you are, too.”

He’s trying to be sweet. I try to make him understand without sounding like I’m feeling sorry for myself. “I like who I am,” I repeat. “But as much as the great things in my life have shaped me, like my father and his kindness, there have been some awful things that have shaped me, too.”

I push off the desk. “My birth mother neglected me so severely, I didn’t attend school until Dad stepped in. I was significantly delayed as result. Dad fought to make sure I’d receive all the help I needed, but the process to adopt me was lengthy, limiting the services I was eligible for regardless of my needs.” I shrug. “Learning ASL and to verbally speak, in addition to reading and math, took longer and was more challenging as result.”

“But still you learned,” he reminds me. “And not only did you catch up, you likely surpassed those your age.”

“I did,” I agree. “But I never felt like I belonged.”

“Belonged where?” he asks, clearly confused.

“Among my peers.” It’s what I say, but it’s only partly true. Growing up, I never felt like I belonged anywhere, except with my dad. “It was hard being different,” I admit. “I wish I didn’t care so much what others thought of me when I was growing up, but I did.” It’s hard to tell him what I do, and I almost turn away. Somehow I manage to keep my chin up and continue. “For a long time, I stopped wearing my hearing aids.”

“Why?” he asks.

My mind wanders, and for a brief second, I’m there, walking the halls of my high school alma mater. My mother’s actions significantly impacted me, but what occurred within the walls of that school also took their toll. “Kids would say things, mean things,” I clarify. “They’d make fun of the way I spoke, that sort of nonsense.”

“Is that why you’d take your hearing aids off?” he asks, anger finding its way across his features. “So you wouldn’t have to hear what they said?”

I answer so quietly, I barely hear myself. “Yes.”

He reaches for my hands, holding them within his. “Was that the only reason?”

I don’t know if it’s the kindness I sense in Declan’s voice or the gentle way in which he holds me, or if maybe the memories I’ve suppressed for so long have found their way to the surface simply through his presence. Whatever the reason, my eyes sting in a way I wish they wouldn’t. “When something brushes too close to my hearing aids, it creates a back noise, like a squeal. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

Wow. No one’s ever asked me that. “It can. If it’s loud enough.” I try to relax my stance and pretend that what I say no longer affects me, even though that lump building in my throat reminds me that it does. “Girls couldn’t whisper their secrets because I’d react in a way that made them uncomfortable, even though I was the only one who’d hear the squeaks and squeals.” I swallow hard. “There were these boys who found out. When they’d pass me in the hall, they’d tug on my hair or flick my ear just to watch me jump.”

The strong angles along his face tighten, reflecting his anger. I try to steady my emotions. I don’t want him upset over things no one can change, and I don’t want him to pity me. I also need him to understand that despite the traces of pain that linger, I’m all right.

“It was hard,” I confess. “I pushed through and survived. But because I know what it’s like to grow up and live with special needs, and because I’ve seen how cruel people can be, I don’t want my babies to struggle.” I smile, for me, and for him. “That doesn’t mean that I’d love my child any less if he or she had issues. I’m only saying I wouldn’t wish that kind of heartbreak on anyone.”

“Neither would I,” he says. “But like you said, everything you went through, good and bad, helped you become who you are.” The steel hard look mixed with ardor he pegs me with knocks me on my ass. “And I think you’refuckingamazing.”

“Ah.”

Be it my face, or my oh-so brilliant response causes a very slow and absurdly sexy grin to ease across Declan’s face.

I’m in trouble. Serious trouble. And I must say, trouble has never looked so hot.

Declan’s phone rings. He barely blinks, keeping his eyes on me as he hits the speaker icon. “O’Brien,” he answers.

His secretary’s voice echoes through the speaker. “Declan, Detective Melo and your witnesses are ready for you.”

“Send them in please, Ellie.” He stands when the phone clicks, his playful expression daring me to follow. “You and me, have to do something about this.”

I turn around as he shrugs into his jacket, my eyes scanning the pile of cases littering his desk. “Do something about what?” I ask, stacking the files as if I have no interest in straddling him.

His hand presses against the small of my back, stilling me in place. “You know what I mean,” he whispers.

I start to deny it because I think I should when Detectives Melo and Hernandez bust in with Rosana in hysterics. “What happened?” Declan snaps

I hurry to Rosana. She falls into my arms as I gather her close. “My mother wants me to drop the charges,” she stammers between huge gulps of air.

Detective Melo shuts the door, appearing seconds from losing what remains of his cool. I lead Rosana to the leather couch against the wall, trying to put some space between her and her mother. She sobs against my shoulder as I ease her down. She’s devastated and feels betrayed. How can she not? Her own mother is siding with the man who robbed her of her innocence.

I want to shake Vilma, scream at her for failing to protect her child. But when the first of her tears stream down her face, I’m reminded that she’s as broken as her daughter and likely a victim herself.

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