The Bet

by D. K. Combs

  Bristol went through the motions.

  She walked into her flat.

  She took out her re-done bun.

  She undressed.

  She climbed into the shower.

  She did every part of getting ready for her night, except once her foot touched the cool tile, her ass hit the bench, and she sat there, staring at the wall in front of her.

  This wasn’t how she was supposed to feel. She should have felt liberated, stronger. She should have felt more independent from Noah and what the thought of him did to her. Except, as she sat there, the water and the steam dancing over her body, all she could think about was how empty she felt.

  How lonely she felt.

  There was nothing to be lonely about, she told herself, forcing her hand to move. The shampoo bottle weighed a hundred pounds, but she pulled through. Noah was never going to be anything serious, anyway. She had told herself that every time they were together. None of this was a surprise to her. None of it should matter to her.

  The time they had spent together, the sex. None of it should matter. What had happened in the office had been the last time anything like that would ever happen again.

  They were over. Done. No more.

  There was absolutely nothing that could bring them together after what he had done.

  And yet...she still hurt.

  Bristol, who was so used to living in the moment, who had a Master’s degree in “Locking Up the Past 101”, couldn’t lock up Noah, when she had forgotten about far worse than him before.

  She finished with her hair, and would have let the water keep running.

  Would have, had there not been a knock on her door.

  She climbed out of the shower, quickly towel drying her hair and slipping on her purple silk pajamas.

  “I’m coming,” she called out when the pounding continued. Who would show up at her door at this time of night, she didn’t know. Normally, by this time, she’d gotten a phone call or two from Tim, but that was about as much action as she got.

  Bristol didn’t think it would be Noah. Their departure had had a sense of finality to it, and she couldn’t see him changing his mind so easily to show up at her place. Especially after the way he’d angrily dressed then left without a single word.

  The closer she got to the front door, the louder and more persistent the pounding became. She scowled, unlocking the door and throwing it open before checking the peephole.

  As the door swung open, an exasperated “what” on the tip of her tongue, everything seemed to freeze as she stared at the man in front of her.

  “Jules. Jules, I missed you. It’s been so long…” She dodged the hand reaching for her, horror overcoming her. She backed away, tried to close the door in time. She wasn’t fast enough.

  The man who stepped into her apartment was the last person she had ever expected to see on her doorstep. She had only ever answered his calls once or twice, and had kept her address private for years. What the hell was he doing standing in front of her, face red and swollen, eyes bloodshot, and looking like he’d just found the Holy Grail?

  He had aged since the last time she had seen him. He had a major beer gut. His face was unshaven, scraggly and gray, and he wore a Flying J hat with gray hair poking out from underneath it. And the smell coming from him… It smelled liked vomit—which made sense when she saw the stain down the front of his shirt.

  “Tim,” she breathed, taking another step back when he jerkily threw a foot in front of him. He managed to catch himself on the door, obviously having a hard time breathing. Her shoulder stung at the sight of him, memories she had tried to keep locked up coming to the forefront in a wave of fear.

  Nothing good happened. Every call she had accidentally answered, the last time she had seen him...nothing good happened. Ever. And now, with him standing in front of her, she felt the bile and fear rise up her throat like acid.

  “Jules.” He pushed himself off the door and stumbled inside, not bothering to close it behind him. “Why did you leave me?”

  She swallowed thickly. “Tim, please...leave. I don’t—I can’t do this right now.”

  “It’s been so long,” he said, his eyes desperate, pleading. “So long since I saw you. Why did you leave? What....what did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing—nothing, Tim. Please. We can talk about this, I promise. Let’s just go out to the car, and—”

  “Nuh-uh,” he slurred. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not again, Jules. You’ll...you’ll run off and then I’ll never—never find you again.”

  Her heart pounded and cracked. He couldn’t help this, couldn’t help the pain, and hearing it broke her inside. She didn’t want him to suffer. She hadn’t wanted to abandon him. She hadn’t wanted this to happen to him—but the fear running down her back had kept her away. The trepidation reminded her of just why she had left, why she had never contacted him or reached out to him.

  “You don’t have to. Let’s just go out to my car. We can go talk at a bar or something, okay? It doesn’t have to be here.” She wanted him out of her house. Despite how much regret she had, she didn’t want him to destroy her house. If she could just get him outside, she would be able to run back in, lock the door, and wait it out until he left.

  But he stayed there, his frown becoming more and more pronounced as evident by the growing crease in his brow, the anger she knew all too well growing in his eyes.

  “Jules, you—you’ll try to trick me again. Not happening. I’ll just stay right here, mmkay?” He tried to watch her and walk into her house at the same time, but it didn’t work. In the end, he just ambled inside and found her living room. When he sat down, he settled right in.

  She was at a loss for words, and walking was impossible. Her knees were trembling, hands shaking. Her breath came in short gasps.

  As she stared at him, one thought circled her fear-ridden mind.

  He had to leave.

  “I want a beer, Jules. Where’s...the god damn remote?”

  “Tim,” she tried again, barely finding the strength to speak. “Tim, I don’t have—”

  “Get me a god damn beer, Jules,” he grated, turning in his seat. “And the remote.”

  She went into the kitchen, working on autopilot. The most she kept in her house was wine. Alcohol, the stuff he wanted, she didn’t buy. She had to do something. Already he was showing her the exact reason she had left. The quick anger, the violence. She saw it all brewing beneath the surface.

  She found a glass, taking out the wine from the fridge. In the living room, he was getting more and more agitated. She could hear him cursing, tossing pillows off her couch. She could hear him becoming angry in a way that had her shoulder aching in remembered pain.

  “Jules,” he shouted. She jumped, some of the wine spilling on the outside of the cup. She quickly filled the rest of the cup up, and then set the bottle on the counter, trying to take a calming breath. It wouldn’t come. Her chest was too tight to take in the air she desperately needed.

  Almost light headed, feeling like she was in the twilight zone, she walked back into the living room. He was still on the couch, all of the pillows tossed to the floor.

  “Remote,” he growled. “Where is it?”

  She picked it up off the side table, then handed both the remote and the cup to him. He turned on the TV after a few missed tries. He didn’t pay attention to what he was lifting to his lips, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Maybe she would get away with this, after all. Just keep giving him wine until he passed out—which wouldn’t be long; his eyes were glazed and he was already struggling to sit upright—and then she could drag him out of her house, call a taxi, and send him on his way home. Maybe he would forget where she lived—

  He spat out the wine.

  “What is this?” Tim held up the wine to her, fury etched into every line of his swollen face, and then stood up. He stood up too quick for her to make sense of, and she cringed, backing away from him, hands out in a c
alming manner. He was so drunk he hadn’t been able to hold himself up. How was he standing there? How was he able to walk toward her that quick?

  “What is this, Jules? You know—you know I hate this girly shit.”

  She barely had time to react when the glass went flying past her head. Splotches of wine hit her face and neck, and the short cry that came from her lips came before she could stop it. She shuffled as far away from him as she could, until her back hit the wall. He stalked toward her until he was a foot away from her.

  “I’m sorry—I don’t have any beer, Tim! I don’t have—”

  “Are you hiding it from me again, Jules?” he asked, voice rising an octave with every step he took. The manacle look in his eyes made her stomach roil, and it only got worse the closer he came. “Trying to hide my beer from me? Who do you think I am, some...some idiot? You don’t hide my beer, Jules!”

  The shout ended with his hand around her throat.

  She didn’t know what to do as terror consumed her, as his hand held her against the wall solely by her throat. Hysteria had her gasping for breath just as much as his hand did, and the fear kept her still. If she fought, it would only get worse. He would only get more violent. Her shoulder aching was the least of her problems now, she thought, closing her eyes.

  “You goddamn whore,” he snarled, tightening his grip. She clawed at his wrist, her breaths short and painful. “You leave me. You—you hide my beer! You left me, you bitch—how could you?”

  “Tim,” she rasped, grabbing his hand when he squeezed to the point where she couldn’t breathe. “Tim, I’m sorry—”

  “Sorry don’t cut it, whore. You...you will be punished. That’s all there is,” he said, eyes drooping. “All there is to do left, is teach you a god damn lesson. If I do that, you won’t leave me again, Jules.”

  She started to see black as his shout rang in her ears. He dragged her up the wall with one hand. She could barely focus on the other that was balling up, pulling back to strike her, but she did. Whatever happened next, she wouldn’t be able to remember it. He was a large man. One hit from him, with how dizzy she was...she would be out like a light.

  Bristol let her eyes close as the abyss pulled her in, as the spots in her eyes became a shadowed veil.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The door being wide open was the first sign that something was wrong.

  The shattered glass that crossed the threshold was the second.

  Those were the only two reasons he needed to have him climbing out of his car, sprinting toward the front door, and barging into a scene that he would never forget.

  Bristol’s feet were barely touching the ground. A large, nearly foaming-at-the-mouth man had his hand wrapped around her throat, and his other was winding back to hit her. In the two seconds he had to take in the scene, he saw the color leave her face completely, her mouth open and gasping for air, and that’s all it took.

  Noah lunged forward, grabbing the man’s hand and throwing it back. The man fell backward, the shock clear in his face as he let go of Bristol. She fell to the floor, and as much as he wanted to check on her, he had to do something about the gray-haired, red-faced man who was two seconds away from having his face smeared all over the floor.

  Before the man had time to get his balance, Noah went at him like a freight train. He used the momentum to slam him into the ground. His head slammed against the floor and when the breath left his chest, Noah smelled nothing but rancid alcohol. The man tried to groggily lift his head, cheeks blotchy and eyes already filling with murderous intent, when Noah pulled back his fist and drive it into his face.

  He knocked the old fuck out cold, and the fight left his body in an instant.

  Noah didn’t spare him another glance. If he had, he probably would have snapped and twisted the guy’s neck. No, instead he pushed away from the fat body and rushed to Bristol. She was still on the ground, coughing and pushing herself up on her elbow.

  “Bristol,” he said quietly, sliding a hand under her back to help support her. He shouldn’t have procrastinated, shouldn’t have taken so much time debating if he should come to her. If he had just sucked it up and came sooner, this never would have happened. He would have been there to protect her. “Bristol, are you okay?”

  She met his eyes through the hacking, and when he caught site of her throat, he wanted to murder someone. Her throat was an angry, horrible red, and even touching it, he could tell it hurt her.

  “Just...shit. Give me a second, Bri,” he whispered, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. He set her back on the ground and she laid there, breathing labored and raspy. The sight was enough to make him want to hurt the fucker who’d done this, but getting her taken care of was more important.

  He grabbed the man under the shoulders and yanked him out into the front yard. He stunk to high hell, and he wasn’t leaving the man who had just attacked her at her house.

  He should have been there sooner, he thought again. He’d deliberated over it for hours, debated it, smacked himself over it. He’d done everything he could to get the courage to come over here and tell her no, he hadn’t finished the bet. He hadn’t kissed Madeline. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

  But all he had been able to think about was the look in her eyes. The absolute devastation on her normally uptight face had torn him up, had made him throw the bet in a split second.

  He had been so angry. For the last week, he had tried everything he could to get ahold of her, but she hadn’t responded. She hadn’t gone to her bar, hadn’t gone to her grocery store. She hadn’t answered his calls or his texts, and had even told Madeline to keep him out of her office.

  He’d been a mess the last week, and last night he had come to the decision that today was the day. If she wasn’t going to talk to him, then he was just going to win the bet and she could screw off, since she obviously hadn’t cared. It was only a matter of getting it timed right.

  Noah had done everything properly. He’d spoken loud enough for her to hear, for her to know he was there. He’d gotten Madeline to say something while she followed him to the copy room. He had listened for the familiar click-clack, and then bent Madeline over, watching the door for Bristol.

  It had all been executed perfectly—up until Bristol came into the room.

  Up until he had seen the look on her face.

  Noah hadn’t anticipated her to be devastated, hadn’t expected her to be so betrayed. She had avoided him for a week—not the other way around. She had left him without an explanation, so what right did she have to be hurt?

  Apparently, plenty.

  How she had found out about the bet, he could only imagine—but he wished she never had, and he wished he would have called it off sooner. Seeing the crushed look in her wide eyes, the agony that fully consumed her beautiful green eyes…

  In that moment, he had realized he’d screwed up beyond repair.

  After they’d had the angriest, most emotionally wrecking sex of his life, he’d texted Chase that the bet was off, then spent the rest of the night debating how, and if, he could make Bristol forgive him.

  Now he wasn’t sure he would ever get her forgiveness.

  When he went back in to check on her, she hadn’t moved a muscle. Her eyes were closed, and her body was trembling. Her breathing was only becoming more and more frantic. He cursed, looking for her purse. It would have her ID, her keys, basically everything she needed to identify herself.

  When he found it by the door, he slung it over his shoulder without a second thought and went back to Bristol. Noah slid his arms underneath her knees and back, lifting her to his chest. She melted against him in a bundle of shudders and panting. Having her against him, knowing that she’d be safe in his arms, was the only reason he had the strength to carry her past the drunk, knocked out man on her lawn. Otherwise, Noah would have gone back and destroyed what was left of his nose.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “How did you get these?”

&n
bsp; She drowsily woke to the light brush of fingers against the skin of her shoulder and turned her head on the starched pillow. Sitting behind her, tracing the scars with a feather-light finger, was Noah.

  Noah, with his dark, grim face. Noah, with his clenched jaw. Noah, with his eyes filled to the brim with a regret she couldn’t understand.

  She knew what he saw. Three small, circular scars. The one on top was the worst, and leading down in a line were the other two, both less severe as they went down. Though they weren’t that impressive compared to other people’s, they had been the start of her new life, and would always be a reminder of her past.

  “Oh, it was...It was just a stupid accident,” she lied, wincing when her throat burned. It felt as dry as a desert and just as hot. She looked around for a glass of water, turning onto her back. Noah gave her his Styrofoam cup, and she drank it greedily.

  Noah’s eyes, if possible, became darker as he watched her. Angrier. As if the sight of her struggling to talk infuriated him.

  “Why are you here?” she struggled to ask, the cup now empty. When she became of where “here” was, she frowned. “Why am I here?”

  Bristol recognized the sterile scent, the fluorescent lighting. Stiff white sheets and the uncomfortably firm bed. She had been here just last week.

  “You brought me to the hospital?” she asked quietly, looking back at him when he kept silent.

  “I had to. You were going into shock.” He took the cup from her, holding it between his large hands. Even through the pain in her throat, memories of just how well those hands had touched her came to the forefront.

  She pulled the sheet up higher. The hospital gown she wore was stiff against her skin, and had fallen down her shoulder—or Noah had pulled it down. She forced the wistful, tormenting thoughts out of her mind and looked around the room.

  She was laying on a full-sized bed, the suite a decent size with a visible bathroom. Unlike the suites in the burn ward, the walls were not made of glass, and she was completely closed off from the rest of the hospital. This was probably Dr. John’s doing, she thought, adjusting herself.