Adonis Line: Filth series

by Dakota Gray

  “Nice place,” he says, laying a kiss on the crook of my neck.

  “You haven’t even had a tour yet.”

  “From here it already looks like you.”

  That comment pulls my attention up and around. My house is filled with things I grabbed because I liked them. There’s no cohesive design. Mostly because it’s the first place I had without my ex. I was so happy to be free of him, to have something that was mine that couldn’t be taken away from me, and I was on a budget. My home is a mix of bohemian, modern and classic stuff. There are practical things for storage and then there’s just shit. The thing is, he’s right. My home is me. I’m a bit of a mess.

  “Thank you,” I say and focus on the mail again.

  Bills. Thank you cards from clients. My heart stops at the sight of familiar loopy handwriting. A cold, heavy sensation washes over me and stabs that happy bubble until it pops. I’m not thinking when I shrug off Tarek’s embrace. My brain is on autopilot. Survival mode.

  It takes me a while to realize my breathing is deep, frantic as I stand beside the empty trashcan. The bile in my stomach churns. I toss the letter, unopened, into the trash and only then can I breathe.

  Worry has dug lines in his forehead. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” is my knee-jerk answer.

  Nothing is why I haven’t had a boyfriend or a serious relationship in years. Nothing is a woman who refuses to accept the truth—her son is a monster. Her son deserves every minute behind bars, and more. Yet that doesn’t stop her from writing me once or twice a year with a plea to show mercy when her son comes up for his first parole hearing.

  “Your reaction lets me know it’s more than nothing.” He steps forward, his palms up like he’s trying to telegraph to me he’s not a danger.

  I hold my breath and let it out slowly. I keep doing it until the wild anxiety racing in my heart, making my limbs tremble lessens.

  As always anger swoops in next shoving aside everything else until that is all I can feel. I hate Thomas. I hate his mother. I hate this world that crafted him into the monster he is. A scream of rage burbles up my throat, and it takes every bit of my will to keep the noise from strangling me.

  I sure as shit didn’t ask for something as simple as a letter to inspire fear, anger and shame. I didn’t ask for him to destroy the Nina I used to be.

  I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says so softly.

  And the tenderness in his words makes the feeling worse. I scrub my hands over my face and just breathe until the rage simmers down to a low hum. I’m safe. I’m whole as I will ever be. I will be okay. I’ve fought to be. Still, I don’t meet Tarek’s gaze. “Drop it.”

  “Nina.”

  I have to look at him, then. His hands are down, and he’s out of my reach, giving me space. I don’t owe him anything, and I know that on a cellular level, but the rage is bubbling in my gut. I hate that I even have to consider what I should tell him. “That letter was from my former mother-in-law. If it’s anything like the letters before, she wants to know how I’m doing. At some point, she’ll ask if I’ve spoken to my ex. Then she’ll do her best to convince me he’s not a piece of shit.”

  “He’s your damage.”

  He doesn’t ask just outright states it. Unable to stand still, I move over to the fridge. God bless my baby sis. She’s cleaned the contents out and put in fresh water, sodas and there’s two bottles of wine. I grab the Chardonnay because I refuse to do this conversation sober.

  Oh, it’s going to be a whole talk. I can see that on Tarek’s face. I can read it in the way his shoulders have become rigid, but he’s silent as I open the wine and pour myself an Olivia Pope amount.

  He remains quiet as I suck down half of my glass. Only for a second do I consider chugging the rest. “What do you want know about my ex? How many times he hit me? If he raped me? How long I stayed after the first assault? The first time he made me feel like I should be grateful?”

  He closes his eyes as though my words hurt. Logically, I know it’s empathy at work, but that emotion can turn to pity so easily. He can look at me and see nothing but my past.

  He drops his chin to his chest. “Do you want tell me what he did?”

  “No.” That answer is also knee-jerk.

  “Okay.” He glances up and scratches at the beard on his chin. “What do you want to eat?”

  He’s not going to poke and prod for the gory details. He doesn’t add some sage advice that means even less in retrospect. He’s opened my fridge and stuck his head in, and he will eat me out of house and home if I let him.

  “Is this some ploy? You act disinterested, and I tell you out of frustration?”

  “Nope. You’ve got bologna. I haven’t had a decent fried bologna sandwich in ages. Where’s your bread? And a pan?”

  I squint at him. He keeps the blank expression on his face. I put out my hand for the food. “Give it to me, I’ll do it.”

  He pulls out tomatoes, lettuce, and spicy mustard. He chops, I cook, and this feels like we’re back camping, somehow in sync and okay with silence.

  Fuck. The wound is already open, oozing blood again. It won’t hurt more if I push at it. I frown at the pan and meat. “He only beat me once.”

  He turns on the faucet to wash the veggies. “Yeah?”

  I squint again to see…I don’t know what I’m looking for, not really. He’s just glancing at me like I’m telling him water is wet. “Do you do this silent, I’m listening and a good guy routine with everyone?”

  “People tend to tell me stuff, and I listen. For the record, I’m nowhere close to being a good guy.”

  I bite my lip and consider him when I notice the knot in my chest is gone. My gut isn’t churning. Shame is still pounding at me, but I don’t think I’ll ever truly be able to shake that emotion. A sizzle pipes up from the pan. I wait for the middle to bubble up before I flip the slices over.

  “We dated for a year,” I say. He doesn’t look up, but I know he’s listening. “We were married for a year. No, technically it was two years. He would always say little things, and I’d brush it off.”

  “Things like what?”

  I shake my head. “That question is what makes it so hard. I don’t remember the little jabs he took at my self-confidence. I just remember how he made me feel after he said them.”

  “How?”

  “Like I was nothing. So by the time he proposed, a small part of me was sure this was my one chance at happily ever after. The rest of me loved him, because that’s the thing. He wasn’t all bad. If there was a playbook on romance and big gestures, he could write the fuck out of it.”

  We fall silent. Anxiety digs into me until I have to fill it. “It wasn’t until we were married the really horrible shit started. It was like a checklist. He isolated me from my friends and family. Everything was my fault. I made myself small just to please him and to not rock the boat. He told me I was overweight, and men don’t fuck fatties, much less marry them. So, you know, I should be grateful he married me and didn’t cheat. Then one day I joked about being pregnant.”

  I stop because my throat tightens. It’s filled with all the words I haven’t told anyone outside of my sister and therapist. No. That’s not fair. I told one man. That one ruined it for every man after.

  Tarek moves beside me with two plates prepped with bread and the veggies. “The pregnant lady in the store.” Again, it’s not a question.

  I swallow and face him. “He had a plan for his life. We could maybe have kids after five years. One year was too soon. In order for him to make sure the joke stayed a joke he repeatedly hit me in my stomach. I had bruises from my ribs to my hips, and due to the scarring of my uterus rupturing, I probably won’t ever give birth. If, a big one, I can get pregnant. That’s it. That’s all. Let’s move on.”

  He closes his eyes again, but this time, his jaw flexes from him gritting his teeth. I don’t want to see how he looks at me now. I concentrate on
plating the food. When that’s done, I dig out some chips from the pantry.

  Tarek remains in the same spot, his body rigid. I grab my plate and eat my food as though it might get up off the plate.

  Eventually, he joins me at the table. When the silence starts to hurt, he says with a raw rasp like he’s eaten words that cut, “What are you going to do next with the pictures?”

  My former therapist would explain in dulcet tones that his reaction shocked my system. I was so braced, and relief cracked me open. He respected my choice to distance myself from the past.

  All I know is for years I’ve feared this moment. I ran from it and made excuses for why. I imagined it a million times. Every time I would find myself comforting the man I told, reassuring him I was fine now. Or running for the hills because he wanted more of my pain to be spelled out in detail.

  But Tarek’s not making it about him or looking at me with pity or disgust. He gave me the floor to tell the story the way I wanted.

  I’ll blame, for once, feeling utter solace for why I burst into tears. I don’t fight Tarek when he picks me up from the kitchen chair and closes his hand on my nape. His other arm wraps about my waist. He’s warm and strong and there. I cry harder when he doesn’t mutter a single word of platitudes. I cry until I can’t breathe out of my nose and my eyes feel like someone stuffed cotton in my tear ducts.

  The last thing I want to do is pull away or glance up, but I do both. He swipes at the leftover tears, his gaze kind and patient. I punch down the urge to start sobbing again. I’m sure I’m all out of tears anyway.

  Still silent, he cups my face, tips my head down to kiss my forehead, and then, right when I’m sure he’s going to let me go, his stomach growls.

  A laugh burst out of me. “Really, Tarek?”

  “I’m so damn hungry right now.”

  I playfully push him away as I get off his lap and that’s that. We eat. I tell him all my plans for the next step in the contest, which involves me going through every picture and posting them along with the daily diaries. He invites me to Duke’s engagement party. I stammer but accept.

  And it’s…nice, really nice and for the first time in what feels like a century, I actually want a boyfriend, especially if it’s like this. I can barely hear the mental whisper, you’re not ready.

  21

  Tarek

  * * *

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Tarek?” Nate mutters.

  I glare at him over my shoulder. My last client of the morning just left. No surprise the London-Berg gym hasn’t changed a bit in my absence. “You look relaxed. Robyn’s back home.”

  “She came back about a week ago.”

  “Ahhh, now it all makes sense.”

  And if Nate is here…I take in my floor. Duke’s flipped his hoodie over his curly hair, glowering at anyone who bothers to make eye contact. Nate, I expected to find on my floor eventually. An IED ripped through his shoulder. Those old scars needed tending just like mine, but Duke came to the gym, mine specifically, to meet up with us.

  Since I hadn’t contacted either of them in a week after letting them know I was back in civilization, this was yet another intervention. I walk Nate over to the bench press. Seconds later, Duke follows on the machine right next to it.

  I break the silence with, “What’s the problem?”

  Duke pauses in his reps to glance at Nate and Nate looks at me. “We think—”

  “There’s that ‘we’ again. I’m starting to think you guys go to couple’s therapy.”

  “You just spent two uninterrupted weeks with a woman. That’s 336 hours of living in each other’s skin. From what I can put together you’re not over her yet. This, whatever this is going on with you and Nina, is serious.”

  “And?” My attention splits between Nate and Duke.

  It’s Nate that says, “Nothing, really. I wanted to tease you. Duke was worried.”

  I look to Duke. His expression telegraphs nothing, but the lines around his eyes tell the truth—there’s nothing but strain. We all say nothing as I count off the last of their reps. Nate finishes first and I help him put the bar back into place. I do the same for Duke when he’s done.

  But I can’t help but sit in the silence. Nate may have come along to see the shit hit the fan, but Duke knows much more of the story between Nina and I. If he’s worried then I damn sure should be too.

  I make myself comfortable on the cushioned floor and look my friend in the eye. “Duke, what is it?”

  “After my father died, Kennedy…befriended my mom. But she didn’t tell me.”

  Duke had convinced himself Kennedy didn’t love him. How could she if she would lie or omit facts? Duke and Nina are not cut from the same cloth, and yet, they are both closed off, just waiting for someone to fuck them over because that’s their truth.

  I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see his point. Although a part of Nina is all in for whatever we are, I know on a gut level she’s looking for any excuse to push me away. That way, I can never truly hurt her deep enough to bleed.

  I don’t want to hear this truth much less face it. I draw my attention to my hands. “She’s not you, Duke.”

  “Then why haven’t you told her? I know you. I know you haven’t.”

  Nate, bless him, somewhat comes to my defense. “Do you ever hate being right, Duke?”

  “All the fucking time.”

  We don’t talk anymore. I run them through a routine that will help Nate’s old injury and keep Duke from getting a beer belly. We say our goodbyes, but I can only think about the truth I need to tell Nina. It’s the last thing I want to do because my gut is also telling me I’ve fallen for her, and I don’t want to lose her.

  NINA

  As soon as I open my front door, I am rushed by two four-year olds. It’s the absolute best. “Malia and Sanaa, did you miss me?”

  That question is met with squeals of happiness. I kiss them both. My sister clears her throat. “What am I? The Invisible Woman?”

  I glance up at my baby sis. Today she’s sporting a bun, black tights and a long Black Panther shirt with Timberlands boots. She’s ¼ of my size and carries most of her weight in her hips. I grin, having missed the shit out of her.

  “You brought my two favorite people in the world…Chopped liver, you are.”

  She snorts but leans in for a hug. “Thank you for finally making time for me.”

  I cringe. “I was working.”

  “Hmm-huh.”

  Well…she’s right for being suspicious. I had plenty of time for Tarek whenever he dropped in after work. But in my defense, we were fucking in and on every inch of my house. In the mornings he’d cook and I’d clean. So domestic. “Let me show you the pics. I need help picking the best ones anyway.”

  I lead the way into my living room where I’d been working. The girls have disappeared to the playroom I set up for them when they visit. Layla takes the place in front of my computer knowing the drill by now.

  “What is the feeling you want to capture with these?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m stuck. Just know I have twenty-four hours to pick.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a wedding to shoot tomorrow.”

  “Ahhh. I see.” She creates a new folder titled Keepers and starts depositing shots into it. “I see a few shots of Tarek. A lot of them. How are things going?”

  I settle in beside her to watch her work. “Good, actually.”

  “And that’s all?”

  I flick Layla’s ear. “That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “Heifer. You know I want all the gossip.”

  “You’re just going to have to suffer without knowing every detail of my sex life.”

  Layla squints at the screen then scrolls faster. “I want all the gossip, because I think this thing with Tarek is more than sex.”

  A flush works up from my neck to my face. “Well, that.”

  “And you don’t want to tell me everything so
we can interpret his every action? You suck as a sister.”

  I roll my eyes. “How’s Ron?”

  “Wonderful. He came home last night and then he—”

  “Layla!”

  She cackles. The heifer. “I didn’t find those twins in a cabbage patch, you know.”

  “Can I just enjoy the honeymoon phase before real life barges in like the Kool-Aid man to ruin it?”

  Layla purses her lips then fold her hands on the coffee table. “Why do you expect reality to barge in and ruin things?”

  “You’re my therapist now?”

  “No. I love you. This is the first time in a long time you let any man in.”

  I pull my laptop in front of me to stare at her choices. Most are ones my gut told me to pick. I open the Internet browser to send off my choices and the edited diaries I’d put together over the last week.

  “Nina?”

  I sigh. “He’s too perfect.”

  “What?”

  “Okay. He’s not perfect in the way Thomas was perfect. Tarek seems perfect for me, the me I am right now. He’s not safe, and I honestly don’t know what I expect to happen next. He keeps me on my toes. He’s filthy in bed. He’s interesting and—”

  Layla gasps. “You love him!”

  I stop to glare at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “You. Love. Him. You were about to list a whole bunch of shit about him, swoon and then lie about your feelings. But you love him.”

  Again, I couldn’t really tell her she was off base. “And I’m terrified something is going to come along to fuck it all up.”

  Layla tilts her head back and frowned. “Something will. If it’s not abusive or harmful to your overall wellbeing, then work through it.”

  I’m not sure if I can.

  “Layla, I’m really struggling. Right now, I want to send him a text telling him I’ve missed him. Or telling him it’s over.”