Play With Me: Diamond In The Rough 1

by Hart, Rebel

  I heard Michael trotting up to me. “He’s not in the woods. And if he is, he’s not in a position to call out for me. I don’t hear a car anywhere, either. Those guys must’ve buzzed off.”

  Yeah. After they ran him off the road.

  “Did you call the police?”

  Holy shit. My phone. The light on my phone.

  I ripped my phone out of my pocket and turned on the flashlight. I heard Michael scoff as he shook his head, but his eyes fell over the railing, too. Down into the deep, dark abyss of the raging river. I turned the flashlight on my phone up as bright as I could get it, then shined it down onto the water.

  Michael sighed. “It’s at least a twenty-foot drop.”

  “You think that’s enough to kill him?”

  He paused. “I don’t really know, Rae.”

  I flashed my light against the water as Michael stepped off to the side. I heard him talking into his phone. Saying something about ‘a prior call’ and ‘needing an ambulance.’ His voice faded away after that, though. Because the second my light fell onto Clint’s body on the side of the river, my voice reached another fucking planet with the octave it leapt into.

  “He’s down there!”

  I took off running, only for an arm to wrap around my waist. I felt Michael pulling me into him as he continued talking on his phone, trying to give directions to whoever the fuck was on the other end of the line. I heard him talking about tire tracks, and a car of guys. A bike on the bridge and a body in the river. I cried out for Clint, raking my nails against Michael’s bare skin. But, despite the pain I knew he was in, he didn’t release his grip.

  “Rae, you can’t go down there. It isn’t—Rae!”

  I growled. “Let me go.”

  “Not on your fucking life. I’m not losing you, too.”

  “He’s not dead! Don’t say shit like that!”

  “The bank is too steep. You’ll hurt yourself traversing it at night. The police are a few minutes out. When they get here—”

  My nostrils flared. “Let—me—go, you asshole!”

  I struggled against him as I heard his phone drop to the pavement. He wrapped both arms around me, hoisting me off my feet. I cried out for Clint as my voice left me completely. Tears rushed down my cheeks as I tried prying Michael’s arms from around my waist. He carried me back to the car, away from the bike. Away from the bridge. Away from Clint’s body lying on the edge of the riverbank.

  “Clint!” I called breathlessly.

  “Come on, Rae. Let’s get in the car. This is a crime scene. The police are only a few minutes out.”

  “No, Clint. Please. Don’t do this to me, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Rae. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Michael set me down onto my feet and pinned me against his car. I bashed my head against the glass, only to feel his hand wrap around it. I sobbed out into the night, gazing up at a nighttime sky I’d come to hate as images of my recurring nightmare continued to bombard me. The squealing of tires. The crunching of metal. That dumbass smell of burnt rubber that still lingered in the fucking air.

  I drew in a shuddering breath. “It’s my nightmare come true.”

  And when Michael didn’t say anything, I knew he’d been thinking exactly that.

  How could this have happened? Things were finally going smoothly. Things were finally going well for me and him. I knew what I wanted. I knew what I needed. I knew what I wanted to do with my life and who I wanted to do it with. I’d found someone who got me. Who understood me. A guy who made me feel on top of the world, and absolutely gorgeous in his arms. I found someone who didn’t only leave his judgment of my life at the door, but he literally understood my life. Understood the judgment that came with my life. I finally had everything I could have ever asked for.

  Him.

  And now, I felt it all slipping through my fingertips.

  Michael kept me pinned. “Do you want me to call Allison?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “Do you want to get out of here?”

  I shook my head harder, trying to give my voice a few minutes to return.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  My eyes whipped open as tears streamed down my face. I glared at Michael, hating him for everything he was suggesting. Oh, he wanted to be here now? After being an absolute shitbag for the past couple of weeks? I could have spat in his face. I could have slapped him right across that dumbass, concerned little furrowed brow of his.

  But I settled for shaking my head as I leveled him with a DEFCON-5 stare.

  “Fair enough. I deserve that.”

  I nodded curtly, trying my hardest not to say anything. Trying my best to save my voice so I could keep calling out for Clint. I had to wake him up. As long as Michael was here, he wouldn’t let me down that bank. Yelling was all I had to get him to wake the fuck up and get back here.

  Because he couldn't leave me. Not now.

  Not when I finally had all I wanted.

  42

  Clinton

  I felt my head pounding. I felt disoriented. For some reason, I felt water rushing over my legs. And I had no idea why. I sniffed the air, groaning as my head pounded with frustration. I felt something sharp underneath my side, prompting me to move. So many things bombarded my senses as I slowly came out of it.

  Came out of what, though?

  I swallowed hard, tasting the metallic essence of blood. I smelled smoke. And oil. And dirt. Why did I smell oil? What was going on?

  I thought people smelled toast before they had strokes, or some shit.

  I tried opening my eyes, but I couldn't. I tried rolling over, but it was all for nothing. It was like this massive disconnect with my soul and my body was taking place. Like that paralyzing sleep shit. I heard bats fluttering around me. Or a winged animal of some sort. Water dripped in the distance and continued rushing over my legs.

  I started shivering from the cold, which only exacerbated the pain in my back.

  Fuck.

  I swallowed again, but the reflex was daunting. It made my nose hurt, of all things. I didn’t know what the fuck that was about, either. Wind kicked up around me, causing me to shiver and hurt in places I hadn’t realized. Like my nose again. My shoulder. My ankle.

  Why the hell did I hurt in all these random places?

  “Clint!”

  I could have sworn I heard my name off in the distance, called in panic. I heard it again. And again. I heard it again before something popped, then the sound went away. I was probably imagining it. Dreaming it, because of the pain I was in. Holy shit, I’d never experienced pain like this before. The way my body felt was nothing compared to some of the beatings I’d taken from my father over the years. I drew in a deep breath, reeling from the pain in my nose and forcing myself to lick my lips.

  The taste of blood was strong.

  Fuck me, this hurts.

  Even though I still couldn't open my eyes, I tried getting my bearings. I heard a fight going on in the distance. Scuffling of feet, and all that. I tried opening my eyes to figure out what was going on. Was someone in trouble? Did they need something?

  I heard a whisper in the wind that sounded like my name, and I thought I might be losing it.

  Pull yourself together. Where the fuck are you?

  It was a good question. One I wasn’t sure how to answer. I mean, I was obviously on the edge of a water source. Rushing water. A brook? Or a river? I mean, the water came all the way up to my hips. My feet were actually floating in it. So a deep river. I focused on the sounds around me, hoping anything would trigger a flood of memories. Something. Anything. A flash of a picture in order to give me context to the hellhole I’d woken up in.

  I let my mind do the seeing for me.

  There’s wind rustling in leaves. Lots of trees. I’m in a forest, possibly. And it’s cold. So there’s no sun. A river, so there’s water. Which means the droplets of water are coming from… an overhang? A tree?

  A bri
dge.

  Images bombarded my mind as the word ‘bridge’ soared through my mind. The car. My bike, crunched against a metal railing. A bridge, tumbling out of view. The sky above my head as my hands reached out for it. All of them still images. All of them, bringing into focus moving memories and images.

  Rae.

  “Clinton Clarke! Are you down there?”

  “I see him! Clint!”

  “Clinton!”

  Fucking hell, I hate being called by my full name.

  Just as quickly as the pictures started, they stopped, taking with them the moving images as I tried piecing together my night. The fuck was my brain doing? Why was it struggling like this so badly? I tried opening my eyes again as a light quickly illuminated my face. I felt the quick warmth and saw the light behind my eyelids before it disappeared. I heard people screaming out my name. I heard footsteps along something above me.

  The bridge. That’s the damn bridge.

  That word started up another barrage of still images. A grocery store. My hand reaching out to push open the door. A girl, standing behind the register. With thick, beautiful dark hair and brooding brown eyes. I felt my heart leap in my chest. I felt my cold legs warming at the snippets of memories. I saw myself leaning against the counter, watching her smile and quirk an eyebrow at me. Feeling my eyes slowly inch down her body, taking in her toned curves.

  Rae.

  A pain ricocheted through my head and I groaned audibly. The first sound I’d forced my throat to make since I woke up. I tried drawing in a deep breath again, but the pain was too much. I stopped it midway, trying to open my jaw. Trying to part my lips. Trying anything to get more air into my lungs.

  I couldn't open my jaw.

  I’m gonna die here.

  “Clint!”

  “We’re coming down for you. Stay put.”

  “Clinton Clarke! Can you hear us!?”

  Their voices drifted away as my mind ripped me back into memories. The pain in my head was excruciating, and it seemed as if my body was hellbent on torturing me. The images began to move. Snippets of memories slowly became chunks of time. I felt Rae’s lips against mine. The warmth and wetness of her tongue pressing against my own. My hands twitched, moving at the phantom feel of her ass cheeks in my palms. What I wouldn't give to be next to her. What I wouldn't give to feel her pressed against me, ridding me of my pain and warming me as this water threatened to drag me into the deep.

  Into the cold, dark depths of its deadly stare.

  I heard footsteps off in the distance. I wanted to cry out for them, but I couldn’t. My mind kept interrupting my need to survive. It kept bombarding me with memories I no longer wanted. Because it wasn’t thoughts of Rae any longer. I saw snippets of that car. Those headlights. Those assholes, and everything they’d said to Rae. What their eyes insinuated. What the licking of their lips foreshadowed. I felt anger blooming in my chest and rage coursing through my veins. A searing pain unlike anything I’d ever experienced trickled all the way down to my damn toes.

  No one hurts Rae. Not on my watch.

  Then it happened. The entire replay behind my eyelids. I saw myself riding my bike. I heard the screeching of those tires and the laughing of the boys behind me. My mind replayed it all. From the first time I rumbled over the railroad tracks to the neighborhoods we’d zoomed in and out of. The entire world fell silent to my ears as my mind took me down that dangerous path. Took me down memory lane, where I even remembered the plan I’d come up with.

  Cruise out of town until they run out of gas.

  It had been the perfect plan. Run them out of town. Get them away from Rae. And once they puttered over to the side of the road, speed off into the night. It was foolproof. It was perfection. So, how the hell did I fuck it up?

  Because you're always a fuck-up, Clarke.

  A fuck-up, Clarke.

  A fuck-up, Clarke.

  My voice morphed into my father’s, and my mind held me hostage. I replayed the first time my father ever hit me. It was four months after he and my mother split up. We got into a fight because I wanted her to read me a bedtime story over the phone, like she used to read to me when she was still here. My father got angry with me. He thought I was accusing him of shitty stories. When really, all I wanted was my mother.

  A small boy who wanted nothing but the comfort of his mother.

  “Your mother’s gone. She chose pills over us. So get used to it, or do without your stories.”

  Then he popped me on the side of the head.

  A whimper bubbled up my throat. I begged my mind not to do this. I fought with myself, trying to stop the reel playing out in my head. But it was no use. My mind had fully run away with me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  Hell, I couldn't even move. The fuck made me think I could control my own mind?

  I’m dying. This is what it’s like right before someone dies.

  My mind replayed the last time I’d ever heard my mother’s voice. It was two years after she’d left, and she called me on a whim. On my birthday. I remember crying into the phone, I was so happy to hear from her. An eleven-year-old kid, with his first-ever black eye from his father. That had been my father’s birthday present to me. A black eye, because I wanted a chocolate birthday cake instead of a strawberry one.

  “Hi, Mommy. When are you coming home? Please come home. Please come get me.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m gonna be coming soon, okay?”

  I remember her slurred words. How they seemed like the most amazing thing at the time, until I grew older. Until I realized she’d called me in the middle of one of her pill highs. Probably out of guilt for abandoning us.

  “Please, Mommy. Dad hits me. I just wanna be with you. Why can’t I be with you?”

  “Oh, honey. Your father knows what’s best, okay?”

  “No, he doesn’t. I know why you left, okay? I know it’s because he wanted you to live this life you didn’t wanna live. Mom, just come get me, okay? Please?”

  “That’s enough, boy. Give me that phone.”

  So much truth for an eleven-year-old boy. And yet, it was true. After dealing with my father’s beatings every time I didn’t act the way he wanted me to, I knew why my mother left us. Why she started downing pills until she had the courage to leave. Her postpartum depression got the best of her after having me, and instead of Dad being supportive, he ignored her. Told her to suck it up. Forced her to continuously go out to parties and get dressed up and accompany him on trips and continue to please him and be his trophy wife because that was what he expected.

  Despite my mother’s suffering.

  The pills were to find the courage to leave, weren’t they, Mom?

  It’s the only question I’d ask her. If I ever saw my mother face to face again, it was the only thing I wanted to know. Because deep down, I knew that was the reason she started popping them. Why she let them take over her world. Why she let them ease down her throat.

  It was so she could ease out of this life and go on to the next.

  But why couldn't you take me with you?

  My mind played one last reel in my head. One reel that made me feel more alone and more empty than ever before. It was the last time I ever heard from my mother. A card, in the mail. A card my father was reluctant to give me. It was my fourteenth birthday, and it got delivered to the house without a return address. Dad tossed it to me, grumbling something about his ‘good for nothing ex.’ And as I opened it with trembling hands, I found myself repeating the words.

  Because I’d damn near memorized that letter.

  Clint,

  You’re fourteen today, and I can’t believe how much time has passed. I think about you every day, wondering if I made the right decision for you. And I guess I’ll never know. But I want you to have something. It’s coming in the mail for you in a few days. I saved up a lot of money for it, so I hope you like it.

  I love you. Never forget that, no matter what.

  Mom

&nbs
p; Two days later, a leather jacket arrived in the mail. Much too big for me at the time, but it was there. It arrived while my father was on a business trip. Probably the only reason it had gotten to me in the first place. Hell, my father paid me so little attention once I became a teenager that he didn’t question the jacket at all until almost a year later.

  Just before I turned fifteen.

  And now, my fucking leather jacket is getting wet.

  Sounds meshed in my mind. I felt the headlights in my face again. I saw light beyond my eyelids. The smell of smoke became too much and the cry of Rae’s voice in my ear made me sick to my stomach. I heard those boys laughing. I heard the tires screeching. I heard the crunch of metal as my body jumped. Twitched. Shooting pain up and down my arms and legs before my eyes slowly opened, for the first time since I’d come to.

  And I was staring up at that bullshit sky.

  My jaw unlocked and I drew in lungfuls of air. My eyes darted around as my body slowly came to life, with my toes wiggling in my boots. I turned my head enough to take in the bank I was lying on. And yes, I was sprawled out on the river’s edge. I centered my head again, with the edge of the bridge in view. Holy shit, I’d tumbled over the edge. Dropped at least twenty fucking feet down to this water.

  How the fuck had I not ended up in the river?

  Flashes of that came back, too. How I got off my bike. How I started running for the woods. How that damn car literally attempted to pin me to the metal railing.

  Holy shit, those assholes had actually tried to kill me.

  I need to call the cops.

  “Clint!”

  “Clinton!”

  “Clinton Clarke!”

  For some reason, I thought I heard Rae’s voice. Among the foreign voices that somehow knew my name, I could have sworn I heard hers. But that wasn’t possible. If this was the river-bridge combination I thought it was, I was damn near twenty miles away from her place of work. Where this shitshow kicked off.

  She wouldn't have come that far down this road to find me.