The restaurant was only a coin's throw from the motel, and Michael pulled into a parking space in front. With his usual good manners, he went around to open the car door for Rochelle. At the same time, an unshaved fellow with a two-day growth of beard, who was about Michael's age, was heading toward the restaurant door. He was dressed causally in a pair of jeans and T-shirt that hung loose outside his pants, which appeared soiled with aged dirt and grime.
When he saw Michael, he paused and stood staring at him with a not too friendly expression on his face.
“Matheson, I can't believe you're still around these parts.” The man spoke in a rather taunting voice. “I thought you would still be locked up,” he remarked, a cigarette dangling from his thin lips.
“Wayne, we said all we needed saying a long time ago. Why don't you just go crawl back in the hole where you have been hiding.
No one wants you around here.”
“What's wrong, Matheson, you afraid I might end up finding where you hid the gun?”
“No, Wayne. I'm afraid I might end up breaking your skull and having to go to jail for it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have much better things to do than pass time the time of day with you.”
Rochelle felt very uncomfortable with the conversation going on between Michael and the man as she climbed from the car, waiting while Michael pushed the door shut behind her. With his arm protectively encircling her, they headed toward the restaurant door. The man named Wayne pulled the door open for them.
“Nice piece you got there, Matheson. Is she as good as your step mom?”
With the speed of lightning, Michael grabbed Wayne's shirtfront, drew back his fist, and sent it crashing into the man's face.
Wayne went rollicking backwards where he lost his balance and fell flat on his butt. He wiped his hand across his bloodied lip and nose, and struggled to get back up.
“I'm warning you, Wayne, just keep the hell away from me!”
Michael cursed.
The ruckus brought several people hurrying from inside the restaurant. The proprietor was first on the scene. “Wayne, if you were planning on coming in my restaurant, you can just forget it.
Your kind is not welcome here. Just go on about your business now, or I'll call Sheriff Rollins to put you on your way.”
“Like hell! You need to call him to come lock Matheson's ass up. The man just assaulted me.” He had finally made it to his feet, and he edged toward Michael, his fists balled so tightly the knuckles were white.
Two big burly men, looking like they might be truckers who lifted weights on the side, stepped forward. Their heights even dwarfed Michael who stood slightly above six feet, and their muscular proportions were awesome, especially when viewed standing together. Moving in, with one on either side of the man called Wayne, each grabbed an arm and lifted him two feet off the ground so his sneaker-clad feet dangled in the air. “Now, Wayne, me and Joe here don't think you want to start trouble this morning.
Tell us where your car is and we'll help you to it, because if you don't get the hell out of here, you ain't going to be able to.”
Either Wayne knew the men, or he knew they were serious. He pointed his bleeding nose in the direction of a dirty pickup truck, and the two burly men carried him to it, dumping him unceremoniously beneath the wheel. They stood there until he started the engine, backed out on the street, and headed away from town.
Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the blood from his bloody fist. He glanced toward Rochelle who stood next to the car, hugging her arms about her chest. With a faint shrug, he walked to where she stood and touched her upper arm with his hand.
“You okay?” he asked, his grim expression softening.
Rochelle nodded, and then reached for his hand. “I'm okay, but are you?” She inspected his hand.
“It's okay,” he replied, tugging his fingers from her grasp.
He escorted Rochelle inside the restaurant where the smell of fried eggs and bacon clung to the air. The pulse at Michael's throat throbbed rapidly, and his jaws clenched so tightly his face appeared carved in hard marble.
Sally was waiting with two cups of steaming coffee when they came in, and she followed them to a table. “Michael, are you all right?” she asked, setting the coffee down and handing them menus.
“Yeah, sure,” he grumbled, wanting to forget the fracas. He could only imagine what kind of impression all these confrontations were having on Rochelle. Yesterday it was Caroline, and today it was Wayne. Every day presented a new encounter, or so it must seem to her.
The two big musclemen came in and stopped at Michael and Rochelle's table. “Mike, you okay?” asked the one with the receding hairline.
“Yeah, I'm fine, Curly,” he said, examining his fist where the skin was slightly torn on the knuckles. “Thanks, fellows,” he said with a little chuckle that belied the anger tightening his brows.
“You gave him a good one, Mike,” the one called Joe said and laughed. “I just wish you would have hit him more squarely in the nose and took off an inch or two. You'd better soak that hand in something or it'll get mighty sore,” he added as though he knew exactly what he was talking about from experience. Then, glancing at Rochelle and giving a polite nod, he added, “Ma'am, sorry for the inconvenience.” The two men went on past to their table where their cold, half-finished breakfast awaited them.
Sally came hurrying over with a warm towel for Michael to use for his scraped fists. Michael thanked her and proceeded to clean away the blood.
Throughout the entire incident, Rochelle had been an observer, albeit, a tense one. It was not hard to discern that some sort of difficulty had occurred between Michael and Wayne. She also gathered Michael's animosity was more intense than Wayne's was.
She watched Michael surreptitiously, trying not to stare, and wondered what his story was. He had completely evaded sharing any personal information with her, and she knew little more about his life now than she had the first time she walked into his bank; notwithstanding his affair with Caroline.
Sally took their orders, touching Rochelle comfortingly on her shoulder. “Don't be upset,” she said, seeing the worried look in Rochelle's eyes. “Wayne has always been a trouble maker.”
One thing was certain in this little town, Rochelle decided; everyone was on Michael's side. Yesterday, the confrontation was with Caroline and friends had come to his defense. Today, it was with Wayne, and no one faulted Michael even though he had belted the guy. Wayne's remark was risqué, however. It caused Rochelle to wonder if Michael was offended on her behalf, or his stepmother's.
If it was the stepmother, what dark secrets were capable of bringing on such a violent response as Michael demonstrated?
When Sally went away, Michael lowered his chin, his mood very solemn as he stared into his coffee, keeping his jaws clamped tight. Rochelle gazed at him fondly, but an uncomfortable silence filled the space between them. The noise about them resumed, but Michael seemed absorbed by more than his and Wayne's confrontation. Rochelle wanted the atmosphere normal again, and chose to try to break the dark mood.
“Michael, I'm not going to ask what that was all about because I know you won't tell me unless you want to. If you don't mind, however, I would like to know how your hand is and if you need to have a doctor look at it,” she said solemnly.
He reached across the table and took her hand in his bruised one. “I'm fine. The doctor can't do anything except recommend an ice pack.”
“I bet that guy you belted will need a doctor. His bloody nose and busted lip looked bad.”
He looked a little embarrassed. “Rochelle, I swear to you I don't go around punching people in the face.”
“For someone who doesn't go around punching people in the face, you sure did a number on that guy. I'd hate to have his nose when he wakes up in the morning.”
“I'd hate for you to have his nose, too,” Michael chuckled.
“Now watch your manners and eat your breakfast,” he said, seeing Sally heading toward them with plates of steaming ham and eggs.
The breakfast was delicious despite all the commotion preceding it. They did not linger over breakfast, however, because Michael planned to open the bank at eight for the employees.
SEVERAL BANK EMPLOYEES STOOD waiting at the door to get in, when Michael pulled into his parking space. Michael seemed not to notice when the people turned to gaze at them. Rochelle did, though. She could feel busy eyes studying her, and it made her uncomfortable, knowing they were speculating on whom she was, where she was from, and what her affiliation to Michael was. She wished she could just stay in the car, had even suggested it, but Michael insisted otherwise. She pasted a feigned smile upon her face, and with shoulders squared, she followed alongside Michael, shy beneath the blanket of gazes.
At least a half dozen people waited and most called good morning in chorus. Michael returned the greeting and unlocked the bank door. He took Rochelle inside with him while he shut off the alarm. Then he went back and let the employees in. Finally, he took her to his office.
“There are some magazines on the table over there. I may be a little while, so just relax. The restroom is across the hall if you need it.” He automatically reverted from his personal charisma to his business persona as he considered his responsibilities.
Rochelle nodded, and sat down, watching his tall, lithe figure in his fine tailor-made suit, as he left his office. He closed the door behind him, and Rochelle suddenly experienced the déjà vu of being ensconced in Tobias's mansion with no place to go and nothing to do, while she drowned in boredom. Just as she had done then, for lack of anything better to do, she allowed her mind to wander.
She was a young girl again, in a state of shock after crashing into a car, and then encountering a man with snake eyes that later slithered all over her when she and he whiled away the afternoon in a disco club. In the following days, he swept her off her feet, became her prince in shining armor, and offered her a world of bright lights and big spending that turned her young girlish head far afield. In those early days, Tobias seemed to adore her, finding her enchanting, even making her feel she truly was in a fairyland life where everything was fresh, new, and exciting. Then they both started changing. Tobias's drinking habit worsened until his temperament was like a short fused time bomb. He snapped at Rochelle without reason, but worst of all, demanded sexual acts that repulsed and gagged her.
Eventually she found the busy nightlife, the parties and social life taxing. It was a purposeless and pretentious way of life for a group of people who had nothing better to do. When the bubble finally broke, the essence of what Rochelle once found pleasure in was like a sun going behind a dark cloud. The thrill vanished, and her prince became her tormentor, a monster who abused and regulated every minute of her life.
She looked about Michael's office, noticing the thick carpet on the floors, the high ceilings with dark wood paneling on the walls, the framed watercolors of cowboys, horses, and ranch hands.
Dominating the wall behind his desk was a framed print of a tall building of glass and steel in an interesting architectural design, uniquely modern and beautiful. In the corner, behind his desk, flourished a tall, well-tended plant, such as were on the lawns of Tobias's estate. The thought brought on another rush of memories.
The manicured grounds where she had found peace from the pain, humiliation, and fear Tobias frequently inflicted, had become her escape. She used to spend hours roaming about the lawns and gardens. Other times she sunned by the crystal blue pool, often swimming as many laps as she could as part of an exercise program for her otherwise idle life. Late night partying, dining on foods rich with butter, sauces, calories and fat grams, and sleeping to nearly noon, weren't exactly pastimes conducive to a healthy body; therefore, she tried to make up for it by exercising—the only pastime she had that wasn't monitored by Tobias. At least, she had not thought so, until she learned the security cameras watched her wherever she was on the estate, except in their bedroom. Tobias's possessiveness was all-inclusive, and monitoring every move she made was part of his sick obsessive nature.
Would he ever give up the search for her? There was a time when he might have wanted her back because he truly seemed to adore her. That seemed a lifetime ago. Now, she was sure he felt only contempt and would be satisfied with nothing less than putting her in her grave.
A knock on the door startled Rochelle. She turned in her chair in time to see a woman open Michael's office door and peek inside.
“Miss Rathbone, can I bring you some coffee?” she asked politely.
“Oh, no thank you. I'm fine,” Rochelle replied.
“Mr. Matheson said he wouldn't be much longer.”
“Thank you.”
The door closed quietly, and Rochelle returned to her thoughts, now turning to last night. A warm peachy feeling spread over her, her body thrilling to the remembered touch of Michael's hands and lips. He drew passions from her she thought were lost, and in a sense, he gave her back her womanhood that Tobias nearly destroyed.
She was so involved in her reflections that Michael came into his office unnoticed by her. When he touched her on the shoulder, she could feel the rush of blood to her face after he caught her in self-absorbed thoughts about their lovemaking.
“Were you taking a nap?” he asked, running his hand beneath her long hair to slide along the base of her neck.
“Resting,” she replied, smiling up at him.
Taking her hands, he pulled her from the chair. He put his arms about her, pulled her close to him, just holding her like that for several seconds.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked, releasing her.
She nodded her head.
They left the bank with many pairs of inquisitive eyes following their movements. One could nearly imagine employees waiting until Michael and Rochelle were out the door so they could discuss the latest gossip about their boss and the wealthy redhead.