Crank

by Shauna Allen

  I only crawled out of bed when Rachel dragged me. “You need a shower and some food. Come on. No more wallowing.” She yanked me up and shoved me toward the bathroom, Jewel hovering behind her for backup.

  I groaned, but closed myself inside, noticing she’d left me some clean pajamas and toiletries on the counter next to a neatly folded towel.

  With a sigh, I cranked on the hot water and stood under the scalding spray, hoping it would burn away some of the pain coursing through me. I washed my hair twice and scrubbed my body, biting back the tears when I saw the dried blood still on my inner thighs. I cupped my now empty stomach, cursing my body for doing this to me again. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the despair.

  I eventually got out when the water began to cool and wrapped my wet hair in a towel. I dried and slathered on some of Rachel’s rose scented lotion. I brushed my teeth with the new toothbrush she’d left and pulled on her Minnie Mouse PJs. Once I had my hair brushed out, I made my way to the kitchen, where my bestie and my cousin were standing near the stove talking.

  Rachel turned and looked me up and down. “Feel better?”

  I shrugged. I did feel marginally more human, but I had a feeling it would be a while before I could think clearly.

  Jewel approached and collected me into a fierce hug. “I’m so very sorry, Delilah. I can only imagine . . .”

  I pulled back and gazed into her sea green eyes. There was something else there besides empathy for me, but I couldn’t puzzle it out. Instead, I nodded my thanks and sunk into a dining room chair.

  Rachel’s version of clutter surrounded us. Her comfortable but mismatched chairs, her bright Art Deco prints on the walls, her mug collection hanging on wooden pegs, mail and magazines scattered on the bar, and the ceiling-high plant she’d grown since it was barely a sprout, that she treated like a pet and named Matilda.

  Rachel slid a plate in front of me. “Eat.”

  I stared down at the grilled cheese sandwich, my stomach turning. Ugh. But I picked up a triangle and bit obediently just to keep her from bitching at me.

  Jewel poured me a glass of 7Up, then sat across from me. “We were thinking movie night?” Her eyes darted to Rach then back. “Unless you’re going home?”

  I didn’t acknowledge that. “A movie would be great.” Something to keep my mind occupied.

  After I ate enough of the sandwich to keep them happy, we settled in for a pay-per-view of the newest comedy and a bowl of popcorn. I tried to watch, tried to enjoy, tried to not be a Debby Downer. I was failing miserably.

  By the time the credits rolled, Rachel was sighing with exasperation. “You sure know how to ruin the mood, don’t ya? I might as well have put on a Biography marathon.” She paused. “Well, I would’ve loved that, but . . .”

  I blinked down at my lap. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be sorry. You’ve gone through a horrible experience.” She waited until I glanced up. “But you should be home. With your husband. Not here with us . . . as much as we love you.”

  Jewel nodded her agreement, her hand warm on mine.

  Maybe they were right. Maybe I had reacted out of my own emotional upheaval. I certainly hadn’t been thinking clearly as that blood oozed hot and thick down my leg and as my heart was shattering. I’d been too hard on Blake. Unfair.

  “Yeah.” It was all I could say.

  Rachel stood and grabbed my purse, rifling around until she pulled out my cell phone. Glancing at the screen, she smirked. “See. There’s like a billion missed calls and messages. He’s going crazy.” She shoved it into my hand. “Call him, for crying out loud.”

  I dialed voicemail and listened to his messages.

  10:00 a.m. Princess, I’m worried. Please call me. I’m at home.

  11:47 a.m. Hey, I needed to go into the shop. Call me when you’re released from the hospital. I don’t mind picking you up. I’m not sure what happened . . . just call me, okay?

  2:05 p.m. Dee, don’t make me storm the hospital. Call me.

  2:17 p.m. I called the hospital. They said you were discharged hours ago. What the fuck? Where are you? Now I’m really worried. Call. Me.

  4:57 p.m. Why aren’t you calling, Delilah? I just got some bad news. I need to talk to you. Please . . .

  Voices filtered in behind his voice, which was slurred. Was he drinking? My stomach rolled.

  The last voicemail, about ten minutes ago: Hi, Delilah. This is your husband. Guess you don’t care about that anymore. I’m still waiting for you to tell me what the fuck is going on. This is bullshit.

  Yup, definitely drinking. His voice had taken on that hardened, thick and ugly slur he only got when he was shit-faced. Tears filled my eyes as I scrolled through the accompanying text messages, which only increased in urgency and anger. The last one saying all there was to say . . .

  Call me God damn it or don’t come home. I’m done.

  Blake

  I was desperate for her and it was killing me. Like, literally yanking me apart cell by cell and leaving me to dangle in shredded pieces that didn’t quite fit together without Delilah as my glue.

  I had no idea what the fuck happened at the hospital or why she was suddenly shoving me away. One minute we were fine, making love, dancing . . . the next, she was gone. Just gone. For the last decade, I’d been half of Blake and Delilah, but tonight, I felt more than alone. I felt dead.

  And right when I fucking needed her. After the phone call I’d been dreading for days effectively killing everything I’d been working toward, I was sunk. And my wife didn’t care enough to call me back.

  I stared down into my empty shot glass, tinny country music drifting from the jukebox in the corner. I was drinking away my misery at the Funky Monkey, but so far it wasn’t helping. The cute little waitress Trace always had his eye on gave me a sympathetic smile as if she understood and served me another drink. I nodded my thanks and sipped instead of slamming this one.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinched the bridge of my nose as shame filled me, recalling the texts and voicemails I’d left for Dee. I’d fought my entire life, raged and battled, but it’d been pointless. I’d become just what I always hated. My dad. No wonder she didn’t want anything to do with me.

  Who was I fooling, pretending I could ever be anything else?

  I’d been lulled into a false sense of security that I’d created a different life for myself. I had a beautiful wife, a business, good friends. But it had all been a lie.

  To my right, the front door swung open, letting in a particularly cold gust of air. I glanced over and a shiver raced through my entire body. As if conjured by the devil himself, my dad strolled in, his collar pulled up to ward off the cold, his weary eyes scanning the bar. He looked right over me and made his way to a dark corner table.

  I slumped in relief.

  But, like a train wreck, I was unable to stop staring at him. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, not that one single person in this town gave a shit about Dean Travers. Instead, he huddled into his seat and waved down a waitress. Sad thing was, after all this time, I knew exactly what he was ordering to drown his demons.

  The same damn thing I was drinking. Fuck me.

  “Hey, there.”

  Candace Carmichael slid onto the stool next to me, giving me a big whiff of cheap perfume.

  “Hi,” I said, fighting the urge to continue watching my father.

  “In early before it gets crowded tonight?” she asked, her voice a flirty purr.

  I shrugged, not really caring what time it was.

  “Hey.” Her purple-tipped nails gripped my forearm and tugged as if she was trying to get me closer. “Everything okay? Troubles at home?”

  Her syrupy smile told me she was hoping so. I glanced away and took another sip, letting the whiskey dull my insides a little more. “Nah. No trouble.”

  The music changed behind us, a popular love song coming on. Candace ordered herself a Corona then moved in closer to me. “Wanna dance?”

  I sh
ifted my focus from my drink and stared into her overly made-up eyes, my gaze travelling down to her bright red mouth. She licked her lips and bit her bottom lip as she smiled. Still, half my focus was on my father, a few feet away.

  My stomach roiled. “Why the fuck would you think I’d want to dance with you?”

  She reared back, shock making her mouth a little O. “Well . . . I . . . I’m . . .” she stuttered.

  I slammed the rest of my drink then placed the empty glass carefully down on the bar and stood. “I am a married man, Candace. Take your home-wrecking ass somewhere else.” I spun away, the movement rattling my head and making me dizzy. I paused then walked on.

  Once I hit the frigid air outside, I realized I’d been unnecessarily cruel to Candace. But her scent, that space between her two front teeth, the emptiness in my dad’s eyes, everything, brought back all the reasons Delilah had left me.

  I clambered into the Camaro, my brain spinning like a merry-go-round. I cranked the engine and ran a hand down my face. There was no way I’d make it home like this. I fumbled in my pocket until I produced my cell phone, hoping against hope there’d be something from Dee, but knowing there wouldn’t be.

  Just as I was deciding if I should call Jesse or Micah, my phone lit up and my Lynyrd Skynyrd ringtone filled the car. Frowning, I studied the unfamiliar number before deciding I should answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Blake?”

  I sat up, the voice making something in me freeze and pay attention. “Yes.”

  “Hey there, son. It’s Spark McGraw.”

  I gaped. “Right . . . hi, Mr. McGraw.”

  There was a smile in his voice and suddenly, all the liquor was eaten from my system as I focused on why in the world my idol would be calling me at—I glanced at the clock—eight twenty-three p.m.

  “Call me Spark.”

  “Uh . . . sure. Spark. What can I do for you?”

  He laughed. “Not a thing. Actually, it’s what I can maybe do for you.”

  “For me?” I echoed, thinking maybe I was hallucinating. I pulled the phone from my ear and glanced at the screen. No, the call was real. I pressed it back to my ear. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, one of my old buddies is a detective down your way, and he got to telling me about a stolen car they’d recovered. A silver ’55 Spyder. He knew I’d be interested, but all I could think was I just knew whose car that was. You don’t see many beauties like that, ya know?”

  I swallowed. “I do know.”

  “So,” he continued. “You gotten it back yet?”

  “No. I think once they finish their business in a couple days. At least that’s what they’re saying.”

  “You still have a buyer lined up?”

  My earlier phone call with Mr. Henry, the one that had sent me to the bar in the first place, came rushing back. “Uh, no. Not anymore. He didn’t want to take a risk on a stolen car and any damage it might’ve had. He decided to pass and go with a Bugatti he found in Dallas instead.” It still made me sick.

  “Well, I’ll admit I’m not sorry to hear that.” He chuckled at my shocked silence. “You see, I’ve been thinking about that beauty ever since I saw her. Couldn’t stop thinking about her lines, that motor, all the hard work you put in. So, I talked it over with my business partner, and we’d like to make you an offer.”

  I blinked hard and scrubbed a hand over my head, wondering if this was for real. “You’re serious?”

  “I never joke about cars, son.”

  My eyes strayed to the front of the bar, the neon sign glowing in the haze. “Well . . .”

  He cut me off, naming a more than generous price. I suddenly spotted my father’s truck and my gut seized. What the fuck was I doing? Alcohol still buzzed through my veins and it was a wonder Spark hadn’t picked up on it in my voice. And here he was, like a savior, offering me what I wanted most in the world. Financial security. Freedom. Redemption.

  Yet, it felt hollow.

  Was that my dream anymore? What did I want? I was so damn confused.

  “You need some time to think on it?” he asked, interrupting my frazzled thoughts. “I totally understand. You’ve got quite a gem on your hands and you need to carefully consider what you do with her.” He paused. “You’re a talented guy, Blake. That is one of the best restorations I’ve ever seen. You should be proud. You’ve really accomplished something special.”

  I mumbled something, I don’t even know what, and thanked him before I told him I would get back with him in a day or two. We hung up and his words reverberated in my brain like the last piece of a puzzle.

  You’ve got quite a gem on your hands and you need to carefully consider what you do with her.

  Yes, I did.

  My Princess was worth any dragon I had to slay, any pain I had to endure, any fucking gut wrenching thing I had to do to make this right.

  It was all suddenly so clear.

  Delilah

  I hadn’t heard from Blake for three days. Three eternally long, dreary days. He must’ve given up when I didn’t respond to his messages and I was starting to think it was for the best.

  Rachel and Jewel had coaxed me out of bed and to at least pretend I was a living human being, but it was an energy-draining act.

  “You sure you’re okay, Delilah?” Dr. McCollum had asked when I called in sick again this morning. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just a little under the weather. I’m sorry I’ve called in so much lately. I’m sure I’ll be feeling better by Monday.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “Just get better. We miss you.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel better, but I had to get back to work to make a living. I also knew I had to go home soon. Rachel’s apartment was getting crowded. I was just afraid to face Blake. What would he say? What would he do?

  “Stupid,” I chastised myself. He was probably working day and night like he always did. These last few weeks were an illusion, and now that we didn’t have the baby tying us together, it would be easy to end things.

  “Hey, I’m heading to the office,” Rachel called from the doorway, dressed in a conservative navy suit. “You need anything before I go?”

  I shook my head and shifted on her couch. At least I’d made it out of bed this morning. “No, thanks.”

  Her gaze softened. “Why don’t you take advantage of having the place to yourself this morning while Jewel’s out job hunting? Take a bubble bath in my awesome tub, paint your nails, eat some junk food.”

  A slight smile threatened. “Sounds nice. You’re too good to me.”

  “I know. But you’re my bestie.” She turned the knob then faced me again. “But my hospitality will eventually run out. Especially since you won’t talk to me. Please try to get your sad shit together, okay?”

  Sorrow weighed me down like lead. She was absolutely right. “Okay.”

  She nodded and left me alone with my thoughts. And I didn’t like them. I hopped up and took her up on the offer of her bathroom, indulging in a long, hot shower since the doctor advised me not to get in a bathtub for a couple weeks after my surgery.

  As I perused the pantry for a snack, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it and leaned against the counter. “Hello?”

  “Ah, the prodigal daughter finally has time for her mother.”

  I cringed as her judgmental voice grated me like nails on a chalkboard. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  My brow furrowed. “When?”

  She sighed heavily. “I’ve called several times since Christmas. Apparently, you haven’t had time for us.”

  “Did you leave any messages?”

  “No.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t know you called. Sorry.”

  “Your father and I were wondering when your divorce will be final. We’d like to throw you a party.”

  “A party?” I echoed, shocked, not sure I’d heard her right.

&n
bsp; A smile lightened her voice. “Yes. Haven’t you heard of divorce parties? My assistant at court had one, it sounds terribly fun.”

  “Fun?” I squeezed my eyes shut as disbelief swam through me in a tidal wave. “What is fun about divorce, Mom?”

  I heard her intake of breath, as if she hadn’t expected this response from me. “Well—”

  “Well, what, Mother? Please tell me how any of this is fucking fun!” I was seething now. My marriage may have fallen apart, but I still loved my husband. How dare they try to make a spectacle of it? Of him? How dare they celebrate while I was dying inside?

  “Delilah Lorraine! How dare you speak to me that way!” She paused as if regaining her composure. “Listen, your father and I both know this won’t be easy. There will obviously be a period of adjustment for you. But can you honestly say you thought this little rebellious marriage of yours would last? Look at who you married, Delilah. Gimme a break.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face and I was suddenly woozy. Rebellious marriage? Period of adjustment? A deeply rooted emotion that was so primal, it had no name, coiled in my belly then roared up through me like wildfire. “My marriage may not have worked out, Mother, but there was nothing rebellious about it. I loved my husband, and we had a more loving relationship than you’ll ever understand. You have no right, no right, to talk about Blake or my marriage like that. I don’t ever want to hear his name from your lips again unless it’s to apologize, do you hear me? And you can take your damn party and shove it up your ass.” I jabbed the End button to hang up, my adrenaline making me shake.

  Who did she think she was? Did they honestly believe that crap?

  I bowed my head and swallowed back the tears. I’d never felt more alone.

  A sudden knock at the door had my stomach clenching. I froze, not sure if I should answer.

  Another, more insistent knock, had me rushing to the front and peering through the peek hole. All I saw was a single white rose and my heart threatened to pound out of my chest.