Falling for a Bentley

by Adriana Law

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: If you play with fire, you get burned

  Chapter Two: Old Wounds

  Chapter Three: Abandoned

  Chapter Four: Distractions

  Chapter Five: Singled out

  Chapter Six: Going After What You Want

  Chapter Seven: Hate is a Strong Word

  Chapter Eight: Slave

  Chapter Nine: Jealousy

  Chapter Ten: The Creeps

  Chapter Eleven: Scripture Feeds the Spirit

  Chapter Twelve: Goodbyes Are Never Easy

  Chapter Thirteen: Used

  Chapter Fourteen: Insignificant

  Chapter Fifteen: Sermons

  Chapter Sixteen: Lying Bastards

  Chapter Seventeen: S.O.S

  Chapter Eighteen: Rip it Off Fast

  Chapter Nineteen: Left Out

  Chapter Twenty: Tattoos and Gray Eyes

  Chapter Twenty-One: Dimples Should Come With a Warning

  Chapter Twenty- Two: Manipulative, Lazy Brown-headed Cowbird

  Chapter Twenty-Three Leap of Faith

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Fatal Attraction

  Chapter Twenty- Five: Lies

  Chapter Twenty- Six: Music

  Chapter Twenty- Seven: Magic

  Chapter Twenty- Eight: Floating Shit

  Chapter Twenty- Nine: Uncovering the Truth

  Chapter Thirty: Cops and the Bad Guy

  Chapter Thirty-One: Teepee

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Overwhelmed

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Dangerous to Love

  Chapter Thirty-Four: “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Faith

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Roses

  Epilogue

  Falling for a Bentley

  Adriana Law

  “In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die, where you invest your love, you invest your life.”

  —Mumford and Son, Awake My Soul

  We are all broken in some way. But it’s all the shattered pieces that give us depth. Like stained glass, it’s how the many pieces and colors fit together that truly makes us beautiful.

  If you play with fire, you get burned

  Victoria

  I was seven when my grandma passed away.

  It was the worst feeling in the world, losing someone I loved so deeply. I cried for three weeks straight. I cried until I was numb inside and out. After that I never cried again, but there was always an unfathomable hole left inside my chest that no amount of ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ could fill. Emptiness I couldn’t outrun.

  My mother, on the other hand, never shed a tear.

  Not when the word cancer was mentioned. Not when her great suffering was mentioned. Not even when ‘how could God let something so terrible happen to such a Godly woman?’ was murmured among those who’d come to our home to comfort us with food and forced smiles.

  I was too young to find it odd that my mother didn’t cry, but at the funeral I’d overheard several relatives expressing how they were afraid my mother was in shock, since she’d lost her father only a year earlier and how she might need to go see someone. I had no idea who that someone was. In fact, I’d spent weeks wondering if it was the same someone my grandma had gone to see. If so, I was convinced my mother would leave and never come back, just like grandma. I needed my mother more than this someone everyone kept mentioning. I was angry at this someone for taking my grandmother away from me. He was selfish. I would never forgive him.

  After the funeral I was terrified to let my mother out of my sight.

  I had separation anxiety. Or at least that’s what the therapist told my mother when we both went to see that someone everyone kept mentioning. Turns out this someone we both went to see was not God but a therapist instead. The therapist didn’t make the hole go away. She only dulled the pain, but it was still there, permanently changing who I was and how deeply I allowed myself to care after that. It was then that I understood why my mother didn’t cry. She’d stopped letting the pain in long before grandma’s passing.

  You see before my grandma died both my parents were gone most of the day. It was my grandma who took care of me: we’d read books together, went to the park, cooked dinner… She was the one who’d taught me how to tie my shoelaces, how to say my alphabet. At seven years old I believed that was the norm—mommies and daddies worked all day, and grandparents were there for the sole purpose of taking care of the children. After all grandparents were the ones who had all the patience.

  Shortly after my grandma’s death my parents hired a babysitter. I wasn’t too fond of her. She was a young girl who’d rather watch TV then go to the park or read a book. Whenever she had to go to the store to pick up something for my mother people always asked her if I was her little sister. I’m guessing it was because we both had brown hair and green eyes, I couldn’t really see any other resemblance. The only good thing about my babysitter was her ability to get free stuff. All she had to do was bat her long eyelashes and the guy down at the supermarket gave me all the free candy I wanted. Thinking back on it now I’m thinking that was just the guy’s way of buying my silence while he flirted with my babysitter.

  I didn’t mind the time alone in my room though. I grew addicted to it, it was my solace. Being alone gave me a chance to watch my birds and in a way it was like my grandma was still there, sitting beside me watching them too. Every year a momma Blue Bird would build her nest right outside my window in the fork of one of the scaly branches of an old oak tree. My window was on the second floor.

  Once I’d said to grandma, “That momma bird has to be sick of rebuilding her nest every year.”

  She laughed, her gray-green eyes sparkling over the rim of her reading glasses. “Oh honey, it’s not the same bird every year. It’s most likely one of the babies coming back to build their nest.”

  The spring after my grandma passed away three speckled eggs hatched in our nest.

  I spent many days with my knees tucked under my bottom on a chair, fingers clutching the windowsill, my breath fogging the glass. The babies grew strong and healthy, bald heads bobbing up and down in the nest of twigs, peeping, their greedy mouths split wide. I thought the momma bird must have a lot of patience to deal with so much demanding at one time.

  Then came the time for our babies to fly and something horrible happened. One of the babies never made it out of the nest. The featherless lump lay there, still for days, days I hadn’t seen its mother come to the nest to feed it. Thinking back now I’m pretty sure the baby was already dead, but at seven I couldn’t come close to grasping the total concept of death. All I knew was I had to help it.

  My father told me, “Now sweetie, it’s okay if you watch the birds, but you must never, NEVER open your bedroom window. Do you understand?”

  Most times I’d just stared at him like he was crazy.

  Why would I ever want to open the window, daddy?

  Ignoring his words, my seven year old brain rationalized ‘just this once’, so palms pressed to glass I slid the unlocked window open. The lock had always been broken ever since we’d moved into the home. My father planned to fix it, but had never gotten around to it.

  April air warmed my cheeks as I leaned out, stretching an arm to gage how far it was exactly to the limb. Further than my reach I knew that for sure. I twisted a strand of hair around an index finger, eyeing the distance to the nest my little mind hatching a plan.

  Chair legs scraped over polished hardwood as I angled a chair by the open window, the whole time keeping a watch on my bedroom door, afraid my babysitter would pull herself away from her television long enough to catch me, and then tell my father. I was really careful stepping up. I really was. One shoe tr
acked the glossy white paint of the windowsill as I crouched in my polka dotted sundress and tried stretching again, my fingers so close to the nest… a little further… almost got it… there!

  I can still remember the triumph that washed over me as I felt my fingers touch twigs.

  Then I slipped, my hands flapping wildly as I tried to regain my balance, but it was too late. One of my hands did make it to the branch in time, in time to latch on, but the weight of my dangling body was too much to hold. Instead of stopping my fall I only managed to scrape the flesh from my fingertips over the rough bark as I went down. At some point I must have looked down, because even to this day I remember how the ground looked as if it was rolling up at me. My back hit with a sickening thud, forcing the air from my lungs. I’d never felt pain like that before, a complete-overwhelming-breath-stealing pain. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. All I could do was lay there gasping for air trying to move, while everything ached. My knee hurt the worst. I tried to bend my leg and cried out from the heat spreading through it, my back bowing up off the ground.

  “Oh. My. God!” was the first thing I heard, along with an awful lot of screaming and cursing. Then my babysitter was kneeling over me, her usual smirk transformed into a look of sheer terror. I knew it was bad, just by the way she was staring at me. She never looked at me as if I wasn’t a bother until that moment.

  “The baby, it needs me,” I managed to get out, feeling a sense of urgency. “I have to help it before it’s too late.”

  “You’re not helping anything! Stay still!” A palm smacked over her fuchsia pink stained lips and I could sense another fit of hysteria was on the horizon. “There’s so much blood. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life! Look at me, Victoria! Can you hear me? Don’t you dare pass out on me!”

  Everything went black.

  In the darkness there was a flame.

  The flame danced as if a mighty breath blew upon it. It flickered out and then reappeared, growing taller, drawing me to it.

  “If you play with fire, you get burned,” a seductive voice sang. “You don’t need the light. Stay. Stay here with me in the darkness.”

  I ignored the voice going closer, stretching out a hand and just as the voice warned the flame leapt to my sleeve. I jumped back, screaming and slapping wildly at the flame that ate at my clothing. The one flame split and turned into two … then three … four… until it devoured me.

  There was pain, intense pain. But like a snake shedding its worn-out skin I felt the old me melt away. I welcomed it. I longed for it.

  Out of the midst of the fire, out of the pile of ashes I shot straight up out of the darkness and into the bright light, soaring, twisting, spiraling testing my glorious wings, my curled talons sharp enough to pierces any size animal, my hooked beak strong enough to crush bones.

  For a second I was free, weightless. At peace.

  “Victoria!” was screamed and I opened my eyes to the blinking lights of the ambulance.

  Old Wounds

  Victoria

  I struggle to keep up.

  My mother’s hand squeezes mine tight as she pulls me along until we reach the glass door to the brick building. The brace on my leg is stiff making it hard to keep up. Coming to an abrupt stop my mother crouches in front of me. Her hands go to my face smashing my cheeks. “Hey, look at me, don’t you worry. The physical therapists are excellent here. They’re going to make you brand new. One day soon you’ll be standing on the top of a pyramid cheering for your school just like mommy once did and all of this will be a distant memory.”

  Edge Rehab & Wellness is spelled out in big white letters across the glass.

  Since Grandma’s death my mother has made my full recovery from the fall her sole focus.

  The automatic doors part and I am whisked inside. We sign in. A lady approaches my mother with a smile and clip board. She looks like one of those women you’d see on television early in the morning doing stretches on a blue mat with a peaceful setting behind her. She is even dressed for the part, wearing workout clothes.

  “I’d like to stay,” my mother tells the woman.

  “I’m sorry, but I really need to work with Victoria alone.” Intelligent blue eyes lower to mine. “We’ve got this, don’t we?”

  I nod dropping my mother’s hand.

  “I’d still like to stay,” my mother says. “I think my daughter would push herself more if I were here.”

  The woman turns the clip board sideways and sticks it under an arm, exhaling. “Mrs. Anderson, I know you want to see your daughter have full mobility again, but you’re going to have to trust me. My attention needs to be focused on your daughter, not divided between the two of you. I’m sorry, but if you’re not willing to let me do my job—”

  “Okay. Fine!” My mother huffs. Her eyes shift down to me. “I’ll be back in an hour. Push yourself! It’s the only way you’re going to get well.” She storms out the automatic door and I sigh with relief.

  The woman bends, clutching her knees, her blue eyes sparkling. “Well, Ms. Victoria, we have a lot of work to do, please, follow me.”

  I do as I’m told, my right leg stiff in the brace as I drag my foot sideways along with me.

  She leads me into a sunny room with long glass windows on three sides. Exercise equipment fills the room: weights, bicycles and treadmills.

  “By the way … the pigtails are super cute,” she says, tugging at one.

  “Thanks.” I smile.

  “Have a seat,” the woman says, nodding at a wooden chair. I drop onto the chair keeping my right leg straight in the process. She pulls her own chair over angling it in front of mine. “My name is Sherry.” Her gaze settles on my good leg and how it’s swinging back and forth.

  “Are you nervous?” she asks.

  “A little,” I admit.

  “Understandable, this is a lot for a nine year old.” She flips through the papers on the clip board talking more to herself than to me. “I see you suffered Femoral nerve damage in your leg, fractured your pelvis, and broke your wrist. Two surgeries on your leg ending with titanium plate being put in.” Her eyes lift to mine seeing the confusion there. “Do you understand any of that?”

  I shake my head.

  Sherry leans to the side laying the clip board on the floor. “Well, here is all you really need to know, I’m going to be working with you over the next couple of months. We’re going to make your leg and hand work better. How does that sound”

  “Good,” I answer.

  “Now, I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that it’s not going to hurt, because it will hurt. But anytime you feel like you’ve reached your breaking point just let me know, okay?”

  I nod.

  Sherry leans forward. “First we’ll work on your hand. Can you tell me some of the feelings you’ve experienced?”

  “It tingles sometimes,” comes out small. “Umm, it’s felt numb before. And sometimes it feels really weak and I have trouble holding onto things. I drop things a lot.”

  “Very good. We’re going to fix that. Now,” she leans, digging a tennis ball out of the box next to her chair. “This is going to be simple.” She lays the tennis ball in my palm. “I want you to squeeze that tennis ball really tight and hold it for ten seconds.”

  I squeeze and she counts.

  “Excellent. I want you to do that for me ten times.”

  While I grip tight and release she says, “Is there anything you like to do with your hands, Victoria? Like … maybe make beaded necklaces?”

  Grip.

  Release.

  I shake my head.

  Sherry smiles revealing perfect white teeth. “It would be really great if you could think of something you can do with your hands that you enjoy. Even with therapy your hand is going to have moments where it feels that weakness you mentioned. You’ve probably had episodes where it feels like your hand has gone to sleep on you?” She pauses and I nod. “Yeah. I bet. Keeping that hand active is the best way to keep that u
nder control.” When I’m finished she takes the tennis ball dropping it in the box. “How does your hand feel? You okay?”

  “Good,” I answer, curling and uncurling my fingers. “I mean yeah. It’s okay.”

  She smiles, scooting her chair closer and undoing my brace laying it on the floor. I hate this part. My face feels really hot as she eyes my scar. “Looks really good, now I want us to work on the leg, what I want you to do is place your feet flat on the floor. Good. I want you to tap your toes as if you’re following the beat to your favorite songs. Do you like music?”

  “Yes. I love music.” I wince from the pain, already doing what she said. It’s way worse than my hand.

  “I’m sorry. I know it hurts sweetie, but you’re doing such a good job. Now alternate your toe tapping with lifting your heel.”

  Chair legs scrape over the floor as she stands up. “I need you to follow me over to the wall and stand against it.” I stand against the wall like someone is going to mark my height and Sherry latches onto my arm, I guess to help keep me steady since I sometimes wobble. “I want you to lift yourself up onto your toes bringing your heel off the floor. Hold for the count of five and slowly return you heel to the floor. One, two, three … you okay?”

  I want to tell her I’ve reached my breaking point, but my mother said to push myself. “I’m okay.”

  “Good. Five,” her expression softens. “Can you do that for me ten more times?”

  My stomach drops. Ten more times! I’ll never be able to do it. “I can try.”

  “One, Two, Three ….” Sherry counts.

  I have trouble keeping up.

  I push harder, my body damp with sweat. My muscles jump under the skin.

  Sherry’s face beams with pride when I manage to do the exercise ten times. “Wonderful! Keep this up and next week we’ll get you into the pool.

  Abandoned

  Jonah

  Shit.

  I’ve always assumed cooking is relatively easy. I mean it never looks that difficult when mom does it. I’ve seen her fry chicken, mop, clean out the refrigerator, and do laundry, all at the same time. I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy, her type O positive blood runs through my veins; surely I must have inherited some of her multitasking abilities.