Love Bytes by Dahlia DeWinters Page A

airport for that long ago trip to Atlantic City. Nothing had changed. The beige walls were soothing, brightened up with colorful abstract art. The living room furniture was simple and neutral, creating an overall feeling of calm.
    “It’s still the same,” she murmured, pulling off her coat.
    “Then you know where the sofa is. Have a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen, and she heard him opening and closing cabinets. “Are you hungry?”
    “No.” Violet sat down on the royal blue sofa and clutched one of the pillows to her chest. The thought of eating anything made her sick to her stomach. She could still feel Joe’s hands on her arms and pulling at her hair.  That bastard.
    A few minutes later, a coatless Francis placed a crystal tumbler of an amber liquid into her hands.
    “Drink it,” he said, taking a swallow from his own glass. “You look a little pale.”
    Violet laughed and took a swallow then coughed as the strong, smoky-tasting liquid burned its way down to her stomach.
    “Good Lord!” She wiped her streaming eyes. “What is this?”
    “Scotch.” Francis took another sip, an amused look in his eyes. “I would advise you to sip it. It’s not soda, Vee.”
    Violet took another cautious sip of the alcohol, this time relishing the warm feeling it gave her. She kept her eyes on her glass as Francis drank in companionable silence next to her. Despite the liquor, her stomach was jumpy and it was not solely because of the adventures she had earlier in the evening.
    Francis cleared his throat, interrupting her thoughts. He put his glass down on the mahogany coffee table. “I fired Rogers.”
    “I guess you would have to, after smacking him with a flashlight. That’s no way to treat an employee.” A tiny giggle made its way through her lips. Fueled by the huge hit of scotch on an empty stomach. The giggles multiplied into insane laughter that left her gasping for air.
    Francis watched her, his placid demeanor only making her laugh harder. She put her glass down and covered her mouth with her hands.
    Then she cried.
    Francis held her tight against his chest as she sobbed, stroking her hair, letting her cry. “You’re fine now, Vee. Try to relax.”
    She cried harder and burrowed against him. When the sobs had trickled down to hitches and occasional sniffles, he helped her to bed where she promptly fell asleep.
     
    ****
     
    Joe’s hand was tight around her throat and her lungs heaved in a futile attempt to get air. She wind milled her arms, touching nothing but air as her vision began to dim. Dying , she thought. I’m dying of emotional strangulation .
    Violet woke with her arms and legs thrashing, a scream trapped in her throat, eyes closed. She opened her mouth, sucked in a huge breath of pure, clean air, and started to scream when arms grabbed her.
    “Violet.” Francis’ breath was warm against her neck, his demeanor unruffled. “Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”
    Francis. Her heart slowed its galloping rhythm and she slumped backward, the muscles in her body relaxing. She groaned, snaking her fingers through her hair. She was at Francis’ house. In his bed. And her mouth tasted of the strongest alcohol that she had ever drunk, wearing a huge T-shirt that wasn’t hers.
    “Are you awake?”
    She nodded, staring at the ceiling in the half-gloom. There were no cracks in it like hers. “I’m awake.”
    “Good. Come here.”  He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, one of his arms sliding around her waist, drawing her closer. As she breathed, she drew in the scent of his body, the soap he used and a deeper more intimate fragrance that was pure Francis. She relaxed into his body, feeling safe and protected.
    With a soft murmur, he trailed his lips down the side of her neck, his lips barely brushing the most sensitive spots on her skin. Violet shivered, her nipples hardening under the thin T-shirt. The last time she and Francis shared an actual bed was over six months ago and