Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance)

by Casey, London

  None of that mattered now. All that mattered was the bath. The soothing bath. I wanted to clear my mind completely and take advantage of my early evening by writing. My phone had amazingly remained quiet from my friends and I had already talked to Auntie B yesterday, giving me at least another full day before she’d call with a casual check in and gossip about friends or boyfriends.

  Not my boyfriends, those I didn’t have.

  Auntie B was in her early sixties now and still didn’t believe in settling down. She made her money writing steamy novels under several pen names and didn’t want to share it with any man. She was the one who helped me get into writing although I can admit that my writing is nothing quite like hers.

  My friends had been on a binge the last month, fighting over two guys for me to choose from. I had nothing against men, all of those issues had worked themselves out years ago. I just really didn’t want a boyfriend. All my friends complained about their boyfriends, leaving me to wonder what they saw in them. At least outside the bedroom. In that department my friends seemed happy but I guess most women would be. However, that was something I couldn’t speak to because… I was still pure. The issues of my life took me into college and by then it was a feast of sexual energy that I couldn’t compare to. I confided my secret with my two best friends, Bridget and Chelsea, who both came to the conclusion that I should have just gotten drunk one night and gotten it over with. At least that’s how they felt about their virginities being lost in high school. Once and done, then I guess you were free to go. To have momentary love. To savor lust. To… fuck.

  I just couldn’t do it.

  The opportunities came and went and I watched them go.

  Sometimes I worried about it. Sometimes I felt regret. I was worried that once I finally met someone worth trusting, I would share my secret and it would become some kind of curse. It was funny how time did that with some things. If a high school girl is a virgin, she’s a good girl. Now I sat in a hot bathtub staring halfway down the age of twenty-three and it seemed odd that I was still a virgin.

  Either way, I wasn’t going out with the guys Bridget had picked out for me. One worked with her and the other came into the cafe a couple times a week. The one I liked was a guy that I could honestly admit I had my eyes on, but from a very far distance. His name was Brett and he was in a band. So typical, I know, but he had long black hair, played guitar, and had a confidence that I wished I could have had.

  Bridget didn’t like him because she felt he was too scummy. The man she had picked for me, named Ted, was clean cut, shaved, with a perfect jaw line, and he wore a suit everyday.

  Whoa, I’m impressed now.

  As much as I loved Bridget and her wild crave for men and sex, even though she swore she was dedicated to her boyfriend of four years, Timmy, I sometimes wished Chelsea hadn’t moved to California. Her father offered to pay for law school only if she moved to California to work at his firm while she was in school. Her father had left when she was ten and this was his way of buying back into her life. She couldn’t pass up the offer and I didn’t blame her. It was sure better than living here in North Carolina. The winters were harsh, the summers were hot, and I was too far away from the beach to just go there without making plans. And by making plans I mean packing stuff and filling the car with gas.

  I thought about Brett, for a second. Standing on the small stage at Thorns, his long hair down, playing a black acoustic guitar. It just felt wrong thinking of him while I was naked in the tub. Men weren’t the only ones who could think with body parts other than their brains.

  I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, recalling some meditation methods I was taught a long time ago. Those were the days when other girls left high school to practice cheerleading and some left to smoke pot in the woods, and some left to go play house with their boyfriends. In those days, I left school and went to see a doctor. To help me. To fix me. To heal me.

  I’m glad those days are long gone.

  The water is already feeling too cool for my liking. Sure, there’s steam everywhere and it’s sort of hard to breathe, but I need the constant sting of the water to enjoy myself.

  I lifted my right foot from the water, wiggling my toes, stretching them for their next feat. I was able to turn the water on and off using just my toes. How’s that for an ice breaker with Brett or Ted? I could bring him back to my place and turn on the water with my toes and give them my virginity, all in the same night. I dare a woman to top that.

  My toes were instantly cool and then quickly became cold when I found the sweaty faucet.

  I started to pull down on the hot water handle when I felt something touch my toe. At first I thought it was a droplet of water but then it came again.

  Something not just touching, but gripping me.

  Like something pulling at my toe.

  Or someone.

  2

  I opened my eyes and saw nothing. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. And why would there be? My apartment was locked with two locks – a standard lock and a deadbolt. I was also in the bathroom, with the door locked. Not that it provided much protection. The wood was thin enough that a swift punch would probably splinter it.

  Regardless, I was alone in the bathroom. My foot remained out of the water, touching the hot water handle, but I was frozen. I stared at my big toe, trying not to focus on the fact that I was one of those people whose second toe is longer than their big toe. My big toe felt normal at first, but as I stared at it, it tingled, more and more, then it started to feel cold.

  Very cold.

  Freezing cold.

  I shivered and dropped my foot back into the water. It created a circular ripple, small waves ran towards me, dying well before they were able to reach me. I still couldn’t get the feeling of being touched out of my mind. It was like someone pinched my big toe. Of all things to have happen… to any given person on any given day, from catching that first twinkle of a star in the predawn hours all the way to winning the largest lottery jackpot in history, I swore that my toe had been touched. Pinched. By someone.

  But yet I was locked in a bathroom, locked in an apartment.

  In the water, my toe and foot felt fine. It wasn’t cold anymore. That’s when I realized my shoulders were cold. And my neck… my neck started to feel prickly, like a January breeze licking at me. My skin tightened and I found myself whipping my head to the left, wondering if there was a breeze blowing on me. I looked at the toilet. It was a toilet. I took my hand from the water and held it out. The air felt cool against my burning skin, but I didn’t feel anything else out of the ordinary. I turned back, stubborn on relaxing. In a matter of seconds, my body shivered without shivering. My skin pulled and I could feel the goosebumps forming literally everywhere. My skin above the water was one thing, but watching my legs and lower body under the water breakout in goosebumps really scared me. I had the urge to turn my head again, but this time I fought it. A feeling warmed over me, the feeling of being watched. I felt exposed and violated, actually crossing my arms to cover my chest. I sat up more and wished I had used some kind of bubbles or something, anything to completely cloud the water.

  When I finally succumbed and turned my head again, I saw nothing but I felt something. It was as though someone stood right there – right there! – and I just couldn’t see them. My eyes then became so focused I could see the faint wisps of steam as they still floated around the bathroom, no place to go. The mirrors were so heavily coated that they began to stream. They looked like tears. The lines lasted only a second or two before more steam took their place, and the process repeated. I slowly reached for the toilet with my left hand. I felt the plush seat cover, but that wasn’t what I wanted to feel.

  My cell phone.

  Shit.

  I left it in my bedroom, on purpose.

  I never brought my phone with me into the bathroom.

  There were two reasons.

  First, I didn’t want to be bothered. Being naked in the extremely hot
water left me vulnerable. It was my time, my chance to break from the world, even for a few minutes. When I felt vulnerable, I felt like I couldn’t make a decision for myself. (That served to be part of the reason why I was twenty-three and a virgin… you have to be vulnerable to enjoy yourself or the company of another body.)

  Second, I had a mean streak of random but terrible klutziness. I was the girl who could serve coffee and hot drinks all day without a hitch but when Brett came for a glass of water after a set, I managed to throw – literally throw – the water and cup at him. In the bathroom, I dropped my cell phone into the water twice. Once trying to surf the internet. The second time while I was in a bit of a texting war with a bitchy girl who came into Thorns. I was typing so fast, really coming up with a brutal comeback, and my hands were sweaty, and it just slipped.

  No phones in the bathroom. That became the new rule.

  Shit.

  The feeling of being watched didn’t let up for a second. The bathroom was too small to have to scan it as many times as I did to convince myself I remained alone. Even then I continued to look around, over and over, my body reacting to something. With my eyes moving left to right, gently and casually, not wanting to make my next set of moves too obvious, I brought the heel of my right foot down and pressed it to the drain stopper. It clicked and I brought my foot back up, the stopper came with it. The tub instantly began to make gurgling sound as the water fought to go down the drain. If it were different circumstances, I would have stayed in the tub until it emptied.

  Tonight, I stood up and grabbed for my towel.

  I didn’t dry myself off either, I wrapped the towel around my body, covering all that had been exposed. I seriously could not shake the feeling of someone’s eyes gawking at my body, up and down. I took small steps through the small bathroom and at the door, I opened it in a rush, slamming the door behind me. Of course that produced a small puff of air that spread across the top of my back and neck as my hair was off to my side. It made my skin shiver again and I walked into my bedroom. My cell phone was right on the bed, looking at me with its black screen.

  “There’s my cell phone,” I said. “I knew it was in here.”

  I paused and listened intently, my sense of hearing picking up. I heard the soft sound of the breeze outside pressing on the old windows of the apartment. I heard the muffled sound of my neighbor below me – Mr. Jenkins. He watched game shows all day long. I heard the sound of a jackpot ringing and a studio audience clapping. Above me was deathly silent and all around me, the apartment remained still. Even the aged wood, which usually offered random moans and groans was quiet.

  I heard nothing, no signs of a person inside my apartment.

  When I was younger, I used to go into mild panic attacks if someone walked too fast, especially on wood. The sound of heavy footsteps made me think of him running down the basement steps…

  Jack.

  I gasped at the thought. I put my hands to my mouth and exhaled with a cry. My towel fell around me and the intense feeling of being watched came back in a rush. I bent my knees to retrieve the towel instead of bending over.

  Why did I just think his name?

  I couldn’t remember the last time I thought about… everything.

  I looked to my phone just in time to see it light up with a text from Bridget.

  ‘Call me. I hate my boyfriend. Ugh.’

  I would have just ignored the text or engaged Bridget in a quick texting session trying to encourage her that either Timmy, her boyfriend, was just having a bad day or she was better off without Timmy in her life. Each one would end in the same fashion; Bridget calling Timmy, making up, and then spending a day or two rolling around in her bed sheets.

  The joys of a relationship, I guess.

  Tonight I grabbed my phone and watched as my thumbs shook, desperate to write something. Anything.

  I looked around my bedroom and the feeling had followed me from the bathroom. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. My body felt manipulated. Part of me wanted to stay home. It was, after all, my apartment. Nothing should scare me away from it. I promised myself when I left Auntie B’s I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t run, I wouldn’t be scared. I had to become myself.

  I closed my eyes and gave it one last chance. One last chance to let that feeling go away. One last chance to feel safe and sound, at home.

  It didn’t happen.

  I swore I could feel something wanting to touch me. Like someone was holding their hands just above my shoulders, an inch away. My body sensed a presence even though I couldn’t see anything.

  My thumbs went to work.

  ‘I need to get out of my place for a bit. I’m coming over.’

  Send.

  I dressed as fast as I could, considering all my nerves and muscles felt pinched and rigid.

  Bridget texted me back a few minutes later, almost leaving me hanging on the edge of where to go when I left the apartment.

  ‘Come over. Is everything okay?’

  I didn’t bother to reply. Too much to type and quiet honestly, I was afraid to type it. To see it in text, written, exposed, worried me. The feeling swirling around inside me, left me thinking of times I preferred to not think about.

  No rhyme, no reason, and no planning.

  One second you’re in a scalding hot bath, and the next, a ghost and memories change your life.

  3

  Bridget’s ground level loft was five miles away from my apartment. She answered the door with a smile and a sigh of relief. She worried more than any person I ever met. She worried enough for the both of us. Most of the ‘fights’ she and Timmy had were nothing more than subtle disagreements that she looked too far into. I’m betting that if you asked Timmy, he’d say that while make up sex was good, relief sex had to be much better.

  Then again, what would I know about that?

  “You scared me,” Bridget said.

  Her long arms were wrapped tight around my small framed body, pulling me inside. The place smelled of lemon cleaner and some kind of tree like candle. And something berry, something fake, something meant for the holidays but Bridget loved it enough to keep it all year long. Hidden.

  She never admitted to having candles and smelly things around her loft. First, candles weren’t allowed to be burned and second, Bridget just wouldn’t admit it.

  “Smells good in here,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  She let me go and backed up. She was already trying to piece something together.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  I tried to walk past her, making a line for the kitchen for a drink I didn’t need or want. Bridget shot her arms out and I stopped. Little Miss Track Star had been gifted with long legs and amazing strength. We were complete opposites in physical appearance and mental well being, but somehow we clicked.

  We always clicked.

  “You never want to hear about me and Timmy fighting,” she said.

  “Of course I do.” My sarcastic tone hung low in the air.

  “Yeah, you’ll probably just put us in a book someday.”

  Bridget put her pointer and thumb fingers together, scribbled in the air, and stuck out her tongue. That was her attempt at making fun of me for being a writer. She really didn’t understand much about writing, or art, because she wasn’t into writing, reading, paintings, or anything of the like. She was a complete and total numbers geek, who worked at a big accounting firm.

  Again, we were complete opposites.

  “What happened now?” I asked ducking down and freeing myself of Bridget’s arm. I regretted my tone but I already said it.

  “It’s not that bad,” Bridget said, already trying to scramble.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water.

  “It’s okay. He’s been having a hard time with his father.”

  I smiled and blinked quickly at that statement, resisting the urge to explode. I held back simply because most of
my life remained in a large grey area for those I held close to me. My timeline was more or less a few events leading to the black hole of adolescence at which point most people would nod, smile, and think back to their awkward teen years. I smiled back, trying my best to agree with them. While they were struggling to figure out the bases, I was on a witness standing testifying for my father, trying to come to terms with the death of my best friend, and even when a verdict finally came, sending my father to prison, I still hated him. I still hated myself. And in some ways I hated Jack. However, I could never admit that out loud and even thinking it was terrible.

  I wasn’t sure why, but right then it seemed every little statement bothered me. It wasn’t hiding things that made it hard, it was when those things wanted out.

  At least I had Bridget to keep my ears busy, hearing the saga of her relationship.

  “And then he tells me… he wants to be alone tonight. Babe, he says, I need space. Just for tonight. So, of course, I instantly picture him standing with his back to the bed, not wanting to look at the naked slut on his bed while he makes excuses to me.”

  “He’s cheating?” I asked. “You really believe that based on…”

  “His tone,” Bridget said. Her eyebrows were raised high, shocked that I didn’t pick up on that part of the story already. “He said it fast and short, like he didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t,” I said. I was serious, but the look on Bridget’s face made me feel bad.

  So I stuck out my tongue.

  The mood was lightened.

  I dodged that one.

  “You don’t think he’s cheating on me?” Bridget asked.

  I couldn’t believe how serious she was.