It’s been weeks since I got the phone call, and I know I’m spiraling. My emotions can’t even be translated by my own brain, so I have no idea how I’m supposed to detail them out to Parker aloud. One second I’m fine, I feel secure and safe and strong. The next, I’m having a flashback of struggling to breathe on the floor of my apartment as Jacob’s hands wrap around my neck. I feel dizzy more than half the time, which could also be from how much alcohol I’ve been drinking.
I know he wants to say something about it, but won’t. Parker has been so supportive to me, and I know each day that I’m pushing him a little further. Whether it’s unconscious or not, I can’t help it.
“Come here, lie with me. Let’s watch this. It’s one you picked.” Parker waves his hand at the screen where Drew Barrymore is meeting Adam Sandler for the first time in 50 First Dates.
I wiggle myself over to him, crawling between his thick, muscular thighs. “Or we could pretend we’re teenagers. Our parents just dropped us off at the movies, but only so we could make out. Not that they know it. Come here, big man.”
Parker holds my wrists when I try to push his shirt up his torso. “Come on, Brennan. You’re … I’m not in the mood.”
He was about to make a comment about how much whiskey I’ve consumed, I just know it. It sends a cold dart through the organ in my chest, because all I want right now is for his flesh to move over mine. To make my brain shut off, make touch the only sense that computes.
We’re almost nose to nose, me hovering over him.
“Please. Erase him. Take my mind away.” My voice is a crying plea.
Parker’s eyes beg me, don’t make me do this. Don’t do this to us, don’t reduce us to this.
But I’m too far gone, both in the alcohol’s grips and the despair of my emotions, that I’m too selfish to consider what I’m asking him to do.
Slowly, Parker flexes his abs so that he can raise up on his elbows. Using one to support himself, he hooks the other around my waist, pulling me until I’m fully straddling him.
The crotch of his sweatpants rubs against the core of me, over my clothing. It’s so unsatisfying and gratifying at the same time. I need more; I need him to erase all the pressure building up on my heart and mind.
I pull his shirt up over his head, running my hands over the muscles that flex beneath. He’s all muscle and tanned skin, his shoulders broad and his chest smattered with dark curls of hair. All I can smell is sex, all I can think about is the fullness he’ll bring when he pushes into me.
Parker’s fingers bury themselves in my hair, pulsing on my scalp in an erotic massage as he kisses me. He’s trying to go slow, but I don’t want it like this. I can’t swallow a good breath of air anymore, and I want … I want so badly to forget that I have to try.
My teeth sink into his lower lip, taunting him, trying to spur him to be rough. God, please be so rough.
As if sensing my need, Parker starts undressing me, quickly. Fumbling at the openings of the buttons on my shirt, pushing my pants past my hips, pulling out his own cock and fisting it. It’s all a blur, moving too quickly for my drunk brain to process.
And that’s just the way I want it. There is no foreplay, no gentle exploration. What I need is a good, hard, illicit fucking … one to make me forget my own name.
Parker pushes up so that we’re kneeling on the couch facing each other. My pants are past my knees, my bra still on, and he’s barely got his boxers past his balls.
When he turns me, it’s because I know he can’t bear to watch me like this. I’m breaking myself as much as I’m asking him to break for me.
I bend for him, wiggling with anticipation because all I need is the physical release to push me into the territory of abandoning all that’s paining me.
He fucks me from behind, thrusting in long, deep strokes. There is no noise other than the slap of his hips against my ass, and my pleasured screams because he isn’t letting up. Not one inch.
Parker is respecting what I need, even if he hates what it is. I dig my fingernails into the suede couch, my orgasm about to go off in me like a nuclear bomb. With every thrust, every indentation of his hand on my hip, every moan of desire from my mouth …
He’s erasing my mind.
I know, in the back of my head, that it’s only temporary. That after I wake from the inevitable sleep after we’re done, this will only cause more strife.
All of it turns to white noise though, when my climax hits me. Everything in my body, all focus, blood, and feeling, zeros straight in on that euphoric release.
It pushes me over the edge, tipping me into the black hole I couldn’t get to myself with alcohol alone. The orgasm numbs my body, every system within it, and thus makes me ignorant of the life-altering piano about to crash down onto my skull.
I’m vaguely aware of the unholy roar Parker lets out before I give in to the abyss.
16
Parker
Brennan’s eyelashes flutter onto her cheeks, the whiskey on her breath fanning my nostrils.
Almost immediately after I drove into her, emptying myself into her with a ferocious roar, she fell asleep. That’s what a shit ton of alcohol will do to you. Not that I don’t love drunk sex as much as the next hot blooded male. But when it’s masking a pain too raw to deal with, I have no interest in sticking my dick in a woman just to help her hide from the demons haunting her.
The only reason I just did is because she pleaded with me to. I saw something in her eyes just now that resembled some of the stark insanity Summer displayed right before she took her life. Brennan is so deep in this, maybe rock bottom, that she can’t be forced to think straight. It’s too painful.
Leaving her on the basement couch, I walk up the steps, not able to breathe in the same air as her right now. It’s dark out, the sun having set long ago, and one lone lamp shines in the corner of my front hallway.
I feel it, the sorrow she’s experiencing, it’s palpable in the air.
I care so fucking much about her, I can barely breathe. For the past week, Brennan has sunk further and further into the depression that hangs over my house like a storm cloud. By the time five o’clock rolls around, she’s three drinks in, and most nights, ends up crying in my arms in bed.
Dealing with this serious of a matter this quickly in a relationship, well, I’m not programmed for it. This is grave shit, and the decision the parole board will eventually make is life-altering for the woman I’ve come to … love.
Holy shit, I love her.
How the hell did this happen? One second, I was calling a contractor to come fix the wall I’d fucked up. And now … I am in love with the bright, beautiful, sarcastic, broken woman sleeping on my couch downstairs. I didn’t mean to care about her, my intentions were about having some fun; a gorgeous woman wants to have sex with you, and then keep having sex with you while busting your balls in a verbal sense? Yeah, you say yes to that.
But from the victim’s support group to the way she is with my friends to my damn heart melting every morning I wake up beside her. It all adds up to one unavoidable truth.
I am in love with Brennan.
And soon, whether she means to or not, she’s going to break my heart in the exact same way Summer did. Why do I only fall for women who don’t have a handle on their pain? Who can’t keep their emotions in check? It’s like I’m a fucking weak, appeasing magnet for them to dump all of their crazy on.
Piece by piece, Brennan is dismantling us. Dismantling me. I didn’t want to make love to her that way, ashamed to look in her the eyes for fear of what I might uncover. I want to scream at her every day, but hold my tongue and keep allowing her to damage herself just that much more.
My practice bag sits on the floor by the rack of shoes at the front door. I know what’s in there, and as I pace the floor of the hallway, my hands fist and flex as if seeking it. The urge to destroy, to hit back at something that isn’t the real problem facing me … it’s overwhelming.
Before I can
think, before I can weigh all the bad I’m about to do, I stalk over to the bag. Pulling the bat out, its cherry wood gleaming in the lone lamp light, a powerful surge moves through my chest.
I pick it up, adjust the bat in my grip, and walk back to the wall.
Then, I let it fly.
With the first thwack, the tension of my heart eases.
The second loosens all the demons seated deep in my soul.
When it cracks against the drywall, chips of paint and patches of wood flying at me, the poison that Brennan is spreading through the air leaves my lungs.
It’s not until I hear her screeching voice behind me that I stutter to a stop.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
17
Brennan
The loud, rhythmic clatter is what wakes me.
I’m up with a start, and a wave of nausea pulls at my stomach until I almost have to sit back down. Fuck, I might puke.
But the sound won’t stop, and Parker is no longer down here, so I race up the basement stairs like the house is on fire.
When I get to the top and round the corner, bringing me into the front hallway, I’m not prepared for what I’m about to see.
My mouth falls open. Standing there, sweat dripping down his brow, ragged breath coming out in puffs, is Parker. With a bat in his hand. And the wall in front of him completely shredded to bits. Again.
Rage pokes every part of my heart, and I feel like I’m spitting needles when I begin to scream at him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Do you know how hard I worked on that?”
My voice is ragged and I’m so dizzy I might fall over, but I stand my ground.
Parker blinks, the haze of fury dissipating from his face in front of my very own eyes. “Brennan … I didn’t, fuck … I didn’t mean to …”
He drops the bat, the perpetrator of the wall-ruining clanking, on the hardwood.
“You’re … you … I can’t fucking believe this. Why? Were you thinking about Summer?” I spit, more than ready to level a city with my vile words.
Parker rears back like I’ve slapped him. Rule number one if you’re in a relationship with a former domestic violence victim: never use their abusive ex against them in an argument. If he’d done it to me, I would have been out that door already. But he stays, standing there, his hands fisting and then shaking loose, as if he’s trying to calm his nearly vengeful nerves.
“I wasn’t thinking about her. The only person I’ve thought of since you walked through my front door is you! You’re the one who made me do this. How am I supposed to cope if I can’t tear through the fucking walls of this house?”
I feel the waves of anger rolling off of him, like a storm cloud about to crack open with vicious thunder and lighting.
What he’s underestimated is that I’m more vicious than him right now. I have nothing more to lose, at least not in my fucked-up mind at the moment. I’m not going down without a fight. I won’t let a man speak to me, control me, make me feel sympathy for him. I’m more twisted than he is, and the adrenaline roaring through me fuels my ire.
“Are you going to fucking ask me to fix it again? Find another lame excuse to keep me around rather than have a conversation about what we’re actually doing because you’re too scared. Get over yourself, Parker. There are other people in this world who have problems, too. Problems much greater than yours at the moment. Admit it, you never felt a thing for me. This was all just a convenient way to fuck without leaving your home. Because God forbid you venture into the world! What, now you can’t handle me breaking down so I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? You can’t handle me. You can’t handle being there for someone through tough times!”
My words are ugly and stinging, and as they leave my lips, I feel like I’m stabbing him with each syllable. They’re his worst fears come to life, and I know it. I swing them like he swung his bat, attempting to decimate everything in my path.
“That’s not true. That’s not true at all and you know it.” Parker is trying to inject calmness into his voice, I can tell. Once again, he’s putting on his hero face when I know all he wants to do is scream back at me.
“It is! Can you say you love me? Do you want to be with me? Can you see me through one of the hardest things of my life next week? When I walk into that parole hearing, will you be holding my hand?”
At least half a minute passes before Parker opens his mouth, and my heart lands next to the bat on the hardwood floor. I picked at this scab, pushing and aggravating because it made me feel good in some kind of painful way. When I started this argument, it felt satisfying to scream at someone the way I couldn’t at my own actions lately.
But now? Only hard truths and bitter honesty are coming out of my mouth. And Parker can’t answer them.
“You can’t even answer the damn question,” I croak hoarsely.
All at once, I’m bone-tired and all I want to be is alone.
“You’re drunk. This isn’t even a discussion right now, it’s a shouting match of who can be angrier.” Back is that stoic, sullen man I first met.
“Right, throw the whiskey abuse in my face.” I chuckle in a vicious manner.
“Can you say that you love me? Don’t make this about our relationship when that’s not what the real issue is. You’re scared shitless, and I don’t blame you. But instead of devising a plan, like the confident, strong woman I know, you’re sinking into a pit of despair. You can fight this, fight him, Brennan. I’ve stood by you the whole way, but all you want to do is cower and numb yourself.”
“I’m going to go.” I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth and taste the salt of my tears.
I see Parker’s face the moment it shuts down. He’s done trying to get me to see reason. To fight for us.
“Don’t bother. You’re the one who can’t drive. I’ll go.”
His feet carry him away from me to the door, down the steps, to his car … and not once does he look back.
18
Parker
When I returned to my house hours later, the sun just peeking through the clouds, Brennan was gone.
That was a week ago. I haven’t tried to reach her, nor has she tried to talk to me.
I’ve buried my head in baseball, living and breathing the athlete life to distract from the heart that’s barely being held together by a measly thread. When I’m not playing a game, or on the road, I’m at our facilities pushing my body to the brink of exhaustion. It’s the only way I can fall asleep; running eight miles and then passing out is the only way to avoid drugging or drinking myself into a fitful rest.
I wonder about what Brennan is doing or feeling so often throughout the day that I’m starting to drive myself crazy.
Of course, I’m in love with her. Couldn’t she feel that? Doesn’t she know? Who in their right mind would watch on as the person they spent the most time with slowly destroyed themselves?
But, I guess she didn’t. That’s my fault, too. Instead of being a man, instead of sharing the hard truth with her and motivating her to be the best version of herself, I let her slip into the depression.
I should have told her when she asked me. I should have said the three words. I love you.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It was easier to stay silent. To make her think I didn’t feel anything. Because telling her I felt everything, at that moment with the height of pressure and fear I felt, that was too great a risk.
What if she sunk too low? What if, just like Summer, I couldn’t save her?
I’d never be able to live with myself. So, instead, I removed myself from the situation. I ended it before she could slice my heart in two, and that has happened anyway.
My chest has a phantom pain that won’t dissipate, no matter how much I rub at it. It’s like something is missing, has been taken, and left an ache of epic proportions in its place.
As I look at the battered wall in my entryway, the one Brennan screamed at me about, I swear I hear her laugh in my ears. I mis
s her here, in my house. She fit, completed the structure and had become part of my daily routine. Not waking up to her, not sitting down for a meal and so many other things you do with a partner on a day-to-day basis, it feels strange to even be in my own home. She’s the missing piece.
Every second, I feel like I’m teetering on the brink of finding her. Telling her I love her. But then that protective instinct kicks in, the voice in my head that tells me she’ll drag me down once she falls completely. And I don’t.
As I’m stuck in my thoughts, staring at the destroyed wall, my doorbell rings.
For a moment, hope lifts my chest, puffing it to the heavens, but when I open the door, it’s only Owen.
“Thought you could use a six-pack.” He holds up one of my favorite Philly microbrewery beers. “Or two.” And produces another.
An internal sigh ripples through me. I don’t really want guests right now, but I know he’s trying to be a good friend, and I made a promise to myself that I’d let my college buddies in more.
“Let’s sit out back,” I suggest, because I can’t be inside anymore.
It reminds me too much of her.
Owen sits in one of the Adirondack chairs Brennan and I built. Even my damn patio furniture reminds me of her. Not even outside can I escape thoughts of Brennan.
He cracks open two beers using an opener on his keys and hands one to me. We sit in silence, studying the canvas the setting sun is painting across the sky. Pinks, yellows, and oranges weave a tapestry as the crickets sing, and for just a moment, I forget about the problems plaguing me.
Then Owen addresses them head on. “So, I’m not here to beat around the bush. You’re a miserable prick this week. The old Parker. So, one of two things could have happened. Either the guy I knew in college traveled here in a time machine and hijacked your body. Or, you broke up with Brennan. I’m betting on the latter.”
After killing half of my beer, I wipe the suds from my mouth and nod. “You would be correct on the latter. Although, I kind of feel like my old self. Maybe the younger bastard did kidnap me.”
Over the Fence Box Set Page 66
