Time Served

Chapter 3

I hate to admit it, but the confrontation with Dean leaves me shaken for the rest of the week. After leaving the restaurant on Saturday I'd gone home, changed into something semiprofessional, and headed to the office to meet Parker and prepare for the next round of interviews. He'd sensed instantly that something was off but when I refused to come clean he'd dropped it, promising no judgment if I needed to talk.

After yet another fitful night's sleep I wake up the following Saturday and scowl at the sunny morning. Despite a week's worth of sleep deprivation, I'm too jittery for coffee so I toss on a pair of shorts, T-shirt, sneakers and mp3 player, and head out for a run. The city is quiet at this hour, and I pass a few city workers, fellow joggers and homeless people before I reach North Lake Shore Drive and turn to follow the water, the combination of the cool breeze and exercise helping me to relax.

Ha. Relax. The tension promptly returns as I remember Dean's accusation that I was uptight. You don't know me! I'd wanted to shout. You've been in prison, remember? I'm the one meeting with my ex-convict ex-boyfriend after ten years apart. Forgive me if I'm not as "relaxed" as you'd like.

I scream and jab back with an elbow when a tree trunklike arm wraps around my waist and lifts me inches off the ground. I squeal when my elbow meets what feels like a piece of reinforced steel, then flail at my face when calloused fingers fumble at my cheek, eventually dislodging one of my earbuds.

"Jesus, stop fighting, Rachel! Stop!"

My heart rate manages to kick up another notch when I recognize Dean's harsh voice, but I do stop fighting. After a second he sets me down and I whirl, half-keeled-over, terror and exertion making it hard to breathe.

"What the hell are you doing?" I gasp.

"I've been calling out to you for the past three minutes," he says, peering down at me. I notice that yet again he's wearing his favorite outfit of hoodie and sweats, this time a matching set.

I turn off the music and straighten, tucking stray pieces of hair back under my baseball hat. "What are you even doing out here?"

He shrugs. "Running." Jesus, he's so big that when he shrugs he blocks out the entire path behind him.

I look at Dean suspiciously. "You always come this far to run?"

We both know he doesn't.

He cocks his head. "What do you think?"

"Then what?"

He pulls in a breath through his nose and stares at some random point on the horizon. "I came to apologize for what happened on Saturday."

I swear the world stops turning for a second. Dean Barclay, apologizing? I can still remember sixteen-year-old Dean returning his mother's car, half-empty bottle of whiskey on the passenger seat, bumper and passenger side door missing, shouting, "I'm not apologizing for nothin'!" when she demanded answers.

"You hear me?" he asks softly, stepping closer when I don't reply.

"You came to apologize."

His eyes dart down to my hand. The bruises are just small yellow smudges now. "I'm sorry I grabbed you. I didn't mean to hurt you. I mean, fuck—I did want to hurt you, but not like that. By, just... I don't know."

"You want to hurt me?"

Dean's dark eyes flare. "I just wanted you to know how I felt."

"I do know."

"No," he interrupts. "You fuckin' don't. You tore my heart out, packed it up with the rest of your shit and drove away without looking back."

I take a deep breath.