Silent Screams (Hollow #1)

CHAPTER 1

Everything feels different.

And I can’t even pinpoint a reason.

All I know is that I feel a massive shift in my life approaching, as if millions of tiny magical particles are swirling around me, readying me for a new one.

“Why holes ?” my two-year-old niece, Athena, asks, dragging me out of my reverie as she plays with the frills of my ripped black jeans.

“Because Aunt Gemma can rock it, honey,” my sister tells her.

Here we are, at her place, on an early Thursday morning of January, baking muffins.

Athena’s day is brightened by the chocolate chips she gets to munch on while Gia talks smack about her husband, James, and his ability to wake her up when he goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

She’s whipping up the batter when I ask her how she’s feeling—she’s pregnant with baby number two—while I nod at whatever she’s saying.

I love her to death, but Gia doesn’t come with a mute button. How she ended up being more extroverted than a clown and I, more introverted than a shadow, is beyond me.

“So, what are you up to tomorrow?” my sister asks before putting the banana-and-chocolate chip muffins inside the oven.

“I have an interview at an environmental consulting firm.”

“No way! Where?”

“Downtown.”

She gives me an encouraging smile. I can tell she wants to say more—she’s dying to. As a soon-to-be psychologist currently finishing her master’s in psychology and working on her thesis, Gia never lets an opportunity to listen and give advice slip by.

She wipes her hands on a kitchen cloth, staring at me. “Gem, that’s amazing. It’s time, don’t you think?”

Time.

Time for what? Time to get my life together? Time to follow my career path?

I think of Harvey, of what we had, of who I want us to be. The reality of what we are is enough to tarnish all hope blooming inside me, like a dark, cold night taking over.

I clear my throat. “Sure. It’s for an executive assistant position, but I hope to branch out eventually to their science department.” Plus, if I choose to do a master’s in conservation biology one day, every bit of workplace experience can help.

“Makes sense. It’s a great way to get through the door. What’s it called?” She opens Google on her laptop as she asks this. I grab it from her and type in: Dreygon Environmental Consulting Firm, downtown Chicago.

I don’t even get to search for a second before she steals it from my hands, whistling as she goes. “CEO’s hot. Young, too—twenty-nine.” She smirks, turning the laptop my way.

And there he is. My potential future boss. Dark brown hair, brown eyes so dark they look like colored contacts.

“That’s beside the point.”

She winks. “What happens with Harvey if you get it? ”

“Claire will take on more hours.”

“Right, her .” Her brow lifts in response. “The pretty-ish nurse.”

I can’t shake off the nagging feeling I’ve had since Claire became Harvey’s nurse a few weeks ago after his parents hired her. I don’t know why; she’s nice. Maybe it’s the fact that Harv seems to have taken a liking to her.

I sigh, heading toward the corner where Athena’s playing. “She’s good at her job, okay?”

My sister purses her lips and refrains from saying more.

We spend the morning eating our muffins and playing with Athena though I can’t stop focusing on how to tell Harv about my job interview. I’m not sure what he’ll say when I tell him.

I haven’t been away from him much since the accident that led to his paralysis, save for my research assistant job at my college, which allowed me to work both from home and on campus. The job I’m interviewing for doesn’t come with that flexibility, but my research contract has ended, and this potential job is offering a competitive salary.

Gia joins me on the couch after I help her tidy the kitchen.

“Have you told Harvey?” She hands me a cup of mint tea.

I shake my head.

“Are you worried about what he’ll say?”

I look at Athena, grateful for the distraction—she’s putting dress-up heels on her doll.

Gia waits. And waits.

“I’m just so used to being home with him. Working farther away would be an adjustment, that’s all.”

She places her head on my shoulder. “Gem, he’s a big boy.”

I nod, knowing what she’s asking me to do. What I should be doing. But to stop something you’ve been doing for two and a half years isn’t necessarily easy.

“Sure, sure.” I tell her. We drink our tea in silence, watching Athena, the light in my life, play grown-up. If only she knew how little fun being a grown-up truly is.

When I arrive home later in the afternoon, I mentally prepare myself for the interview using online questions. Then I research the company’s history and more about my potential boss, Damon Dreygon. Many pictures of him show up at worldwide conferences and events. I continue my search until I find an article that includes his name on the list of multi-millionaires.

Interesting. How do you become a multi-millionaire by having an environmentally friendly firm? Unless his parents are loaded.

I snap out of it, realizing I’m taking this way too seriously. The odds are he won’t be the one to interview me. Besides, if I’m too desperate—which I am—they’ll smell the fear all over me.

I need this job to pay off a line of credit I took out after Harvey’s accident. I also want to buy him a modified car that’s fit for him to drive.

An hour passes before I jump in the shower. I shave all over and lather on way too much apple cider shampoo in my hair.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, the warm water soothing my aching body. It’s not from physical pain—it’s from emotional turmoil. I can almost feel the impact of my thoughts about Harv and my interview navigate to my stomach, turning it upside down.

I rinse off and step out of the shower, drying myself. My reflection appears in the mirror. I see that I’ve lost more weight, which isn’t a good look considering I’m already on the thin side.

A knock on the door stirs me away from my mind-wandering.

“Gemma, it’s Claire. ”

I wrap a towel around my body, folding it at the top before I open the door of the bathroom.

“I’m heading out for the day, alright?” she says, looking at my shoulders, then my arms. “You... lost weight.”

I bite my tongue; she looks genuinely concerned. And I’m not Gia. I can’t hate this girl because she’s pretty and doing a hell of a good job. I just can’t.

That’s not me.

“I’m working on it.”

“I can make dinner if you want?” she looks hopeful.

“No, Claire. You do enough. Thanks, though.” She gives me an awkward smile, then walks away. I close the door behind me and lean on it, needing a second to recover.

Then I dress and make myself look nice. I even add on mascara with a few strokes of blush and some tinted lip balm.

Ready to give this—us, another try.

I’m dressed in black jeans and my black Harry Potter T-shirt with the glasses and the lightning bolt on it when I walk to the kitchen.

Harvey’s in his room, playing on his PlayStation. We used to play together at the beginning of our relationship. I beat his ass more than a couple of times. Now he prefers to be alone, so I let him.

I cook the steaks and potatoes and serve salad onto two plates. The light snow falling from the sky outside is beautiful, though I can’t wait for summer.

To feel the wind, the sun, even the humidity.

The thought brings me back to old memories of us going on motorcycle rides together. I was nineteen when I bought my own bike instead of using my dad’s. I didn’t have it for long, unfortunately. While Gia saved for her wedding, I saved for a piece of metal.

The metal was part of my life. Part of me.

A black ZX-6R 636cc. Such a beauty. Even more so when I eventually added some gold details to it. Now it’s gone and so is the thrill and joy it brought me.

Once dinner is ready and set, I knock on Harvey’s bedroom door, then open it.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say enthusiastically.

All I see is the quick nod of his head, his way of acknowledging me. I cross my arms, staring at his posture. His taut shoulder muscles are visible above his wheelchair. As I make my way to his lowered bed, my eyes drift to his blond hair.

Silence.

I loved our silent moments once.

Now they’re filled with inexplicable anger mixed with a sprinkle of love and loyalty.

From my view, I can see the veins popping out of his forearms. That’s his daily dose of exercise, playing on that machine. It does nothing for his morale, nothing for his positivity, nothing for his physical therapy. All that PlayStation does is keep him entertained enough to avoid me all day.

I wish I could throw it out of the window or run it over with our van.

I want my Harvey back, but I’m afraid he’s long gone in a world where I’m not sure I belong.

“You coming?” He nods again, and I leave for the kitchen.

Our plates are on the table when he wheels himself into the room, using the strength of his body to push himself out of his wheelchair and onto the low-seated chair.

I welcome the pride I feel for him, for he wasn’t able to lift himself up this way right after the accident. His ability to hoist himself onto his bed or a chair has brought definition back to his stomach. Something I know matters to him.

We eat in silence. And it’s such a contrast to the chatty guy Harvey used to be. He was the life of the party. Now he’s living, but not on the edge. I can’t even remember the last time he smiled .

“This is good. Thank you.” His chin points to the piece of steak on his fork.

I smile. “You’re welcome.”

He looks around at the dimmed lights, the candle in the center of the table.

Does he know? Does he know how badly I want this, us , to work? I’d do just about anything. If only he’d smile and be the happy Harvey he used to be.

I miss seeing his dimples.

I miss him.

I cut off a piece of steak, chewing slowly, pushing back the seconds before I break the news to him. Though I’ve stalled enough all week as it is.

“I have an interview tomorrow.”

His brow rises, his eyes fixated on our backyard. “Where?” He sips on his water.

“Downtown. At a consulting firm—environmental.”

The stern look of his blue eyes is like a jab of fire against my heart. They were always the key to the tunnel of his soul, a soul I got lost in and consumed by when we first met.

Still am today.

“Good luck. It’s in your field, so that’s good, right?”

“Yeah. It’s an assistant position, but it’s a start. You know I’ll still be here if you need me...”

A warm palm covers my hand, making me feel fuzzy and cozy inside.

Maybe this can work. I want to try to work on us again. He’s been in a better mood lately, and I shouldn’t let it go to waste.

How I yearn for his attention, for his affection, for his awareness.

How can a simple touch set fire to the insides of your soul, of your heart?

A sense of victory washes over me, hoping, pleading silently, that my game plan for tonight goes as thought out .

“Don’t worry about me. Besides, I have Claire.” And just like that, he lets go of my hand to finish his meal. I leave mine untouched, my mind frozen as I look away from him.

He couldn’t have delivered a lower blow.

I keep telling myself he likes her as his nurse and trainer, but I’m not sure.

“Are you gonna finish that?” He looks at my unfinished food. I shake my head and push the plate in front of him.

“Dig in.” I force a small smile to my lips.

Because I’m strong; I’m not weak.

I can wade through life like anybody else. I can handle his friendship with Claire. I’m patient with him, and I wait for him to achieve his goals all on his own.

His physical therapist, Stefan McKleen, believed that if pushed harder, Harvey could end up walking longer distances with or without braces.

The majority of people who started rehab at the same level and time as Harvey ended up with an amount of walking within the first year, whereas Harvey’s recovery has been quite different.

I’ve tried to encourage him to push past his mental block, but it hasn’t worked. All that my pushing him has done is to put more distance between us. And the truth is, I’m no expert.

So after his previous nurse quit to continue her education, I spoke to his parents, and they hired Claire. Harv gets along with Claire, and on top of being a recent graduate and passing her nurse licensing exam, she has a degree in physical therapy and is registered as a physical therapy assistant, which makes her able to keep up with Harvey’s daily PT treatments.

Harvey’s independent.

On paper, Claire helps with bladder and pill management, though he can handle both on his own. She’s merely there to ensure he gets some fresh air and to encourage him to move his body using the exercises McKleen prescribes.

I stop daydreaming, knowing my comment about my plate would’ve warranted a wink in the past, as he’d often finish my food for me.

No winks this time. No more holding hands.

Nothing but a cold silence that spreads through me like foggy windows. Draining me of good memories, of big laughter and happy thoughts. Instead, the haze occupies my brain, drowning out more happiness as the months pass by, and I don’t like this.

I don’t want to live like this. Alive, surviving, yet not truly living.

What happened to the old me? The one that sought adventure. I’m not convinced I’ll ever get her back.

I clean up, then we make our way to the couch. Some nights, such as tonight, he stays in his wheelchair instead of transferring to the couch.

It makes me wonder if he sometimes does it to keep me away.

Or perhaps he’s feeling numb, as he has some sensation in different areas of both legs, and I’m being selfish making this about me.

“I’ll be back. You pick,” I throw him the remote, though I have no intention of watching TV tonight.

I hurry up to my bedroom, remove my clothes, and put on a simple black bra and thong. The material of the bra cups is transparent, revealing my pierced nipple.

I keep my hair down and spray a bit of perfume on my wrists in the hopes of enticing him. I need all the help I can get.

When I head back to the living room couch and dim the lights, I notice his blue eyes raking the entirety of my body. He’s tightly holding the arm rests of his chair as I swallow, hoping for a miracle.

I need one. I need this. I know he does too.

I walk slowly to him, hoping I don’t look too skinny. At least my breasts are still a semi-decent size .

He’s never complained before. He still doesn’t, but it’s the rejection that stings.

I finally reach him and kneel in front of him, my hands reaching for his. His cold stare turns warmer, mushier by the second.

“Harvey . . .”

He shakes his head and looks away. Pain, so much pain. Pain he never shares with me.

“Harv, please. I miss you. Please, let me make you feel good.” He stares back at me, a fire scorching through his eyes.

He wants this. He’s just too proud, his ego the size of the universe.

I crawl over him, carefully, reaching for his chest under his white shirt. A pale stomach greets me where he used to be tanned. My fingers roam over his chest, diligent enough not to spook the frightened wolf out of him.

I want so badly to kiss him.

I so badly want him to kiss me it hurts.

Please, kiss me!

Love me, just do something.

My silent pleas are answered when he traces his finger over my collarbone.

He always loved kissing me there, nipping at it. He used to tell me how hard my collarbone made him. I thought it was a ridiculous thing to fawn over. Now I’d sell my soul to hear those words again.

I hate myself sometimes for not being more grateful back then.

His touch doesn’t just send small shivers through my spine; it’s pouring burning fuel over it, matching gasoline deep inside me.

When you haven’t been touched in years, the smallest heat can violently set your skin on fire. I’m still hovering over him when his thumb grazes the top swell of my chest, igniting goosebumps all over and waking up my arousal from hibernation.

I’m drenched, soaked. So ready for this. Ready for him. For us.

Please, please don’t stop.

He doesn’t.

His forefinger reaches for one side of my bra strap and gently pulls it down. I’m staring into his eyes, waiting for his next move, for his command. Waiting to make sure he won’t reject me again. Hoping he’ll follow through.

There’s so much the heart can take.

I love you.

“Gemma . . .”

No. Stop—no.

Don’t do this to me again, Harvey.

The words don’t come out. They rarely do. They’re stuck in my head like a floating thought.

I’m desperate. Too desperate.

My fingers reach behind me for my bra clasp, and it lands on the carpet. He looks at my tits with an uncertainty that shouldn’t be there.

“You don’t want to touch them?”

He’s fixed on me, his hand now placed on the side of my waist. “Never said that.”

“Then don’t stop. We can go slow. Whatever you want.” I sound like a woman begging a lord for a sliver of attention.

“Gemma . . .”

I’m exhausted. The tone of his voice is a warning. I won’t continue to put myself through this. The scar from previous times has liquefied; my heart and my pride bear fresh wounds.

I raise myself higher, reaching for his hair, something I long to do. I comb my fingers through it before I run my hand down his chest to his jeans. Then I unbutton them, dragging down the zipper .

Because I’m going down.

I feel it everywhere.

It’s another notch on my belt of rejection.

I’m aware that an incomplete L2 spinal cord injury may affect his ability to reach an orgasm, get hard, or ejaculate. Sometimes it can work, sometimes it doesn’t.

And that’s okay. We can find a million ways to please each other. He can kiss me every night for the rest of our lives, and I’ll sleep happily.

“I can’t . . .” Anguish radiates from his eyes.

I take his hand in mine and place it on my pierced nipple. His Adam’s apple moves slightly, but I catch on to the action like I do everything else about him.

Is it possible to want someone too much in life?

“Don’t you want me, Harvey?”

He shakes his head, and I’m not sure if it’s because he means to answer no to my question or tell me something else. “I can’t do this.”

Yes, you can.

I drop his hand, his words stinging, hurting me so much the pain can’t reach me because I’m already broken.

“I’m sorry.” He looks away, retreating from me. From us, from a happy future together.

I nod. It’s what I do best anyway.

I reach for my bra on the floor and put the piece of material back on. When I’m done, his hand closes around my wrist as I’m about to leave.

“I’m sorry. I am.”

I shake my head. I don’t have it in me to say what I feel. I can’t do this anymore. Keep putting myself out there only to have him continuously stomp over me.

I’m in pieces, I’m furious—angry, livid. I’ve tried to put myself in his shoes. To imagine what it could possibly feel like to go through what he’s going through. Every piece of kindness has a limit, though. And I reached mine.

“Do you love me, Harv? Because I love you still.”

He looks shocked. “That’s the silliest question I’ve ever heard. You know I do.” He squeezes the hand around my wrist.

Some days I want to shake him—yell at him—let the screaming lady from my head come out and play with all of her rage.

I get ready for bed. We sleep in different bedrooms—his wish, not mine.

Then I head to my bedroom, not bothering to say goodnight to him. Even though he can transfer from his chair to his bed, I always check on him, just in case.

Tonight, I don’t check on him until one in the morning, after tossing and turning in bed.

Relief courses through me at seeing him breathe deeply. But it doesn’t decrease the loud screams I hear inside my heart, like a trapped woman banging the secured windows of my arteries.

In my dreams, he tries.