Love in the Dark

by 12 Book Boxed Set (epub)

  At this moment, however, I can only concentrate on two things: tying to remain silent and blocking the past from my mind. I just can’t do the latter. All my thoughts continue to scatter. Nothing has made sense since …

  I hold my breath and count slowly, pushing aside everything that’s happened over the past few days. One, two, three. I focus on the marble floor while my nails dig into the sensitive flesh of my arms.

  “What happened to you was tragic,” she continues.

  Tragic?

  She has no idea what happened to me at home or for how long it went on. Until a couple of days ago, my life was a cross between Kiss the Girls and Silence of the Lambs.

  “I understand that you don’t want to talk about it, but you might want to change your attitude,” she snaps.

  Her patience has run thin.

  Take it easy on me. You heard the psychiatrist, lady. After what I witnessed, it might take months if not years to recover my speech.

  So, what if I’m faking not being able to speak? It’s the only way I can assure my survival. I learned this by reading novels. It’s good to store useless information. I didn’t know that one day all of it would become useful. If only I could escape this town. There’s no way I can emancipate myself and create a new identity here. I should go blonde and try to make enough money to buy those colored contacts. I’d choose green. With my dark brown eyes, it would be almost impossible to fake a pure blue.

  “You’re very lucky.” Her jaw clenches and her nostrils flare.

  The woman has shed the sheepskin and is showing her inner wolf. Everyone has an inner wolf; some just hide it better than others.

  “The Aherns stopped fostering children a couple of years ago, but they made an exception for you.” She gives me a once-over and scrunches her nose. “This is your chance to start anew.”

  I nod twice, pretending to understand what’s at stake. She’s just praying that I don’t become a burden for her. That after today, she doesn’t have to see me or hear from me ever again. Unless someone asks her where she sent me. My lip quivers when I realize that I’m not safe. Not here or anywhere. If only I were smart enough, I’d hack the database and erase my name from the system—erase any record of my existence.

  “Everything will be okay,” Ms. Graves reassures me with that fake smile that reminds me of my mother’s.

  Nothing will be fine, I want to scream at her.

  “Listen, losing your mother and that happening to your sister was horrible, but you can continue with your life,” she pauses, covering her face and muffling a sound. “Everything will go back to normal in no time.”

  Is she crying on my behalf?

  If only I could, I’d set her straight.

  Lady, you don’t know shit. Ava wasn’t my sister! I scream inside my head.

  Mom … well, that happened nearly a year ago.

  I hold my breath as a shiver runs down my spine. Fear. Despair. My heart races as I realize that I almost said something.

  Don’t speak, I repeat several times.

  “Normal,” she repeats.

  For fuck’s sake, this woman is clueless. Does she even know what normal is for me? My life has been everything but normal since my grandmother died and left my mother to take care of me. After being cared for by a woman who was like Mother Theresa, I was left behind to hang out with one of Satan’s demons—and a stupid one for that matter. For the past few years, I hated my life, my mother, and myself. When she died, I was afraid that her husband would send me to a foster home. Now, I wish he would have. At least it would have kept me safe from … them.

  The sound of tapping heels speeds my pulse. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. The horror stories from the foster kids I met at school haunt me. My head pounds, and I hug myself.

  “Finally, you guys are here,” a cheery female voice says. “You must be Abigail.

  “I’m Linda Ahern, and please, you should just call me Linda.” She’s almost as tall as my five-foot-five. Her green eyes crinkle when she sees me. Her olive skin tone makes her look younger than Ms. Graves. Her light brown hair is styled in an elegant bob.

  “We’re so excited!” she says with more enthusiasm than a cheerleader in the middle of a Broncos game.

  This kind of happiness can’t be real. I lower my head wishing myself away. If only I had Dorothy’s red shoes, I could tap them and … where would I go? Certainly not to Oz, or home. I’d rather be here than home.

  You don’t belong here, Abigail.

  Mom always said those words. It was her mantra. She regretted having me. I ruined her life and those of everyone else around me. It won’t take long for these people to realize that I’m a burden. I’ll adapt though. I just need ten months. When I turn eighteen I’ll be able to leave this place, Colorado, and everything that happened here behind me.

  Unless these people grow tired of me before I can escape. I should start planning. I scan the room. The fancy painting on the wall looks like the ones at the museum. The crystal chandelier right above me. I stare at it. One, two, three, four, five … my lungs loosen up, the air comes in and out more easily. Counting each prism soothes me.

  “Mom!” A loud, rough voice interrupts my counting, making my entire body jolt.

  I stretch my neck and spot a tall guy coming from the living room at the other end of the house.

  “Sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He’s nearly a foot taller than me, has broad shoulders, and looks young. His short dark hair is combed to the side framing his piercing blue eyes. He looks like an actor, a model.

  “Wes, dear. I was expecting your father.”

  “There was an emergency at the office, so he asked me to come.”

  Her green eyes dim for a second before her smile returns. My heart hurts because I feel her sadness.

  “He’s sneaking into the garage, isn’t he?” Mrs. Ahern rolls her eyes and smiles. This smile doesn’t touch her eyes though. “You’ll excuse my husband, Abigail. He’s excited to meet you, but it’s difficult to get him away from his work.”

  “Almost impossible,” Wes confirms with a sharp nod.

  “Abigail, this is my son Weston,” she introduces me, but the guy doesn’t try to shake hands or say a word to me.

  I nod and wonder if I should curtsy to please them.

  “I’m sorry. Abigail is quiet and impossibly shy,” Ms. Graves glares at me as she apologizes for my silence. “She hasn’t spoken since…”

  The long pause becomes a silence that lingers around us, thickening the atmosphere. I swallow hard before it chokes me.

  “Would you like me to show her to her room, Mom?” Weston looks at his mother who nods in return.

  “Please, Abigail, why don’t you follow me while Mom talks to Ms. Graves.” He’s too proper for a guy his age. I’d guess he’s in his early twenties.

  Who knows? His mother looks young too.

  My gaze shifts from Ms. Graves to Mrs. Ahern waiting for their input. All I really want though is to get the hell out of this place. It isn’t where I want to be. Actually, I don’t even want to be anymore.

  “Go with him, dear,” Mrs. Ahern’s sweet voice reminds me of Grandma. “Your room is ready. We can talk after I show Ms. Graves to her car.”

  Either her tone or the goodness in her gaze convinces me that I’m safe. Maybe it’s just an illusion, but for now, I’ll allow myself to trust this woman.

  — — —

  I follow Weston, my gaze fixated on the marble floor. Once I reach the first step, I come to a halt. I lift my chin and find myself in front of a wide staircase that splits into two right at the first landing. One goes left and the other right, which is where Weston waits for me, giving me a reassuring smile.

  We climb the stairs, the clicking of his shoes echoing throughout the house.

  “Mom bought you some clothes,” he says trying to fill the silence.

  My posture goes rigid at his statement. These strangers bought me clothes
? Why would they when they don’t know me?

  When I was ten—before my life crumbled and I became who I am today—I thought everyone was good. Or at least, my grandma made me believe that everyone’s heart was good and pure—just that some people forgot to listen to theirs. I also thought that she was a wise woman who knew everything.

  While growing up with her, I was an advocate for the less fortunate—like she was. Grandma didn’t have much, but she shared whatever she could.

  “Why don’t you save for us?” I asked her once.

  The selfish part of me wanted to go on vacations to the beach or at least occasionally eat out at a restaurant.

  “I save enough. We have food and a roof over our heads. Everything else is a luxury we don’t need,” she explained. “And I hope that if you or I ever were to need the mercy of a stranger, someone would show us compassion because when we had money, we gave to those in need.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of being charitable?”

  “No, it’s Karma. You get back what you’ve put in,” she said winking at me.

  Since she died, I’ve asked myself what I did to be on the receiving end of my mother’s mistreatment. I shudder, wondering if these people are going to ask me for something in return.

  “I have to warn you,” he continues, and I close my eyes waiting for his threat. “Mom can be a little overwhelming, but she means well.”

  What does that mean?

  We reach the second tier of the house, and he turns toward the right hallway stopping in front of the first door. He opens it and gives me an inviting smile. It’s not creepy just … nice. The room is almost the size of the living room and dining room of my grandma’s house combined. The walls are gray with pink and lilac accents. There’s a big bed with a soft pink comforter on top and gray pillows. A comfortable looking sofa with pink and gray cushions sits under the big windows covered by plantation shutters.

  The framed pictures mounted on the wall are black and white with a few pink and red accents. This is beautiful; a chamber fit for a princess. I’m guessing that I’ll be sharing this room with their daughter. Do they have a daughter? Ms. Graves didn’t mention how many other children the Aherns have. Well, it doesn’t matter, either way. As long as I’m in a safe place, I’m content. The little couch whispers my name. It should do for as long as I live here.

  “This is the closet.” He opens one of the two doors in the room. “As I mentioned before, Mom already bought you a few things, but she’ll probably take you shopping soon.”

  I peek at the closet, curious about his sister’s things. But there are only a few dresses hanging, two pairs of shoes, and the shelves have a few folded pants and shirts. I march in, trying to guess what things belong to me.

  “They are all yours,” he says as if reading my mind. “The room belongs to you.”

  I look around, mesmerized at the space. This is mine, just mine? This is unrealistic. There’s no way these people are giving me a room that’s bigger than some apartments. What do they want in exchange? My stomach tightens as fear ripples through me.

  “In case you need anything.” He walks toward the main door and points to my left. “On the other side of the stairs is my parents’ suite. Right across from your room is the green guestroom. The door after it is Sterling’s room—my younger brother.”

  I frown at the mention of a brother. This guy seems nice, but what about the other people who live here?

  ‘You don’t have to worry about him,” he says, as if responding to my question. “He’s in college. My room is the one at the end. I’m living here just until I find a place. Soon enough it’ll be just you and my parents.”

  I hug myself, hoping that his parents are as nice as they sound.

  Weston continues the tour by showing me the bathroom. I follow behind him, staring at the posh carpet and wanting to take off my sandals to feel the softness under my feet. But before that, I want to take a long shower. Wash away the memories. The pain. Or at least try to, although I know that they’re seared into me like a second skin.

  “It’s hard to get used to a new house and new people,” he says using a low soothing voice. “I understand what you’re going through.”

  He draws in a long breath.

  You have no idea what happened to me, rich guy, I can’t help but huff.

  “I too have a story,” Weston says softly, his handsome face sags. “A story that I don’t particularly enjoy talking about. I came here when I was five. Filthy, malnourished, and needing a haven.”

  My ears perk; my gaze finds his. Those blue eyes contain a hint of the pain and sadness that I’m all too familiar with. My heart begins to ache for that poor five-year-old. I want to take his hand, reassure him that he’ll be fine, even if I don’t believe it myself. But I don’t break my silence.

  A silence as thick as the mood oozes between us. Something about his expression urges me to speak. I lower my gaze, biting the inside of my cheek.

  “You’ll be safe with my parents,” he reassures me. “They are the best.”

  He moves into the bathroom, and I follow behind. Weston explains how the shower works. I can adjust the temperature on the panel next to the glass door. There are multiple showerheads mounted on the wall, and I can choose if I want them all or just one. All kinds of toiletries cover the top shelf. There are loofas, and under the sink are stacked clean towels. This bathroom is spotless, spacious, and has a big window covered by the same beautiful white shutters as the bedroom.

  “This is your sanctuary,” he continues. “No one will come in unless you invite them. In here, you’re safe. We’re here to listen if you need us or to just to be around for support.”

  There’s something in his gaze I recognize. It’s more than the sadness and the pain. It’s the look of someone who’s lived through hell and is still here to tell their story.

  “We have a lot in common,” he says, shoving his hands inside his pockets and looking down at the floor. “I’ll help you, the same way my parents helped me.”

  This guy is delusional. He might have suffered the same fate, and on that level, we’re equals. But, for the sake of that five-year-old, I hope not. We’re not the same though. He’s a survivor, I’m a casualty. Yet, his strong personality calls to me. What if I hold onto him while I weather the storm? What if he were my lifeguard? Then I wouldn’t drown.

  I’ll hold onto his promise, at least for today, in hopes that I can make it through this alive.

  2

  Wes

  Abby Age Eighteen

  Family reunions aren’t my cup of tea. Mom loves them along with parties. She finds any and every excuse to organize one at least twice a month. Abby’s graduation is no exception. She sent invitations to our family and her closest friends. She also demanded my brother’s presence. Sterling, who has only met Abby twice, refused to come until Dad threatened him.

  I’m still not sure what it was this time, but it’s obvious that Dad and Sterling’s relationship keeps breaking apart. After two years away from home, he’s changed a lot. His light brown hair is longer, and he sports at least three new tattoos that I can count. He’s becoming everything my father hates from the outside; I hope he’s doing this for himself and not just to piss off dear old dad.

  “Are you sure we have to go?” Sterling asks as he runs a tattooed hand through his hair.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, checking the time. “Mom will appreciate you joining us—without whining.”

  Mom left an hour earlier with Abigail, who’s graduating from high school today. It’s a bittersweet moment for my parents. Their two sons are adults and their last foster child is leaving the nest. This time, nothing will sway Dad’s decision. He said this will be the last time they’ll foster a child no matter the circumstances. They are too old to deal with children.

  Abby wasn’t an easy kid. She didn’t trust any of us at first and her night terrors still keep us up at night. However, after a year of our support, she’s ready to go
to college. Today, we’re celebrating another milestone. Mom likes to reassure her that she’s part of our family. That’s why she insisted on having Sterling come. My parents want to celebrate this day as a family.

  “Of course, you have to go,” Dad scowls at Sterling, handing him one of his ties. “We said formal, Slugger.”

  My brother frowns at his childhood nickname.

  “I’m old enough to vote, Dad,” he pauses glaring at him. “Maybe you should start calling me Sterling instead of Slugger.”

  He hangs the tie around his neck and slumps his shoulders. “Can you help me fix this shit, Wes?”

  I can’t help but laugh at the irony.

  “Your mother pampered you too much, Slugger,” Dad sighs, exasperated.

  “Maybe you should save your allowance and buy one of those clip-on ties.” I laugh while working on his tie. “They sell them in the children’s section.”

  “Fucker,” he growls at me.

  “That’s all you can come up with, Sluggy.” I let out a laugh that echoes through the great room.

  “Boys!” Dad’s aggravation stops our childish argument.

  “Yes, Dad,” I say finishing the knot.

  “We artists don’t need a dress code,” Sterling defends himself.

  My little brother is a sculptor, a painter, and sometimes, an actor. He lives in New York City and attends Parsons School of Design. A place Dad swears isn’t a college, but a very expensive recreation center. Which is unfair. Sterling is talented. He goes to one of the most prestigious art schools in the world. Our father doesn’t understand my little brother and doesn’t even care enough to try.

  Sterling has fought Dad’s rules since we were children. Everything between them is a battle. His church attire, when to do his homework, and his bed time. When my parents weren’t home, he’d use the staircase and the furniture to skateboard. At thirteen he was stealing their cars, and at sixteen he raided the wine cellar.

  “Buy yourself a suit,” Dad orders.

  Sterling’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t say anything. When my brother moved to New York, he donated all his suits. Hence, he’s wearing one of my jackets that’s a couple of sizes too large.