Mistake

by K. Webster

  We’re about to break apart from our hug when the bathroom door flies open. A pissed-off Jackson stands over us, hands on hips. Anger at our physical connection ripples from him and the bathroom suddenly feels impossibly smaller.

  “What the fuck are you doing with my wife?” he snaps.

  Before either one of us can explain, he fists the back of my shirt and hauls me to my feet. I’m shoved out of the bathroom and land with a thud on my ass on the hardwood floors for the second time tonight. They really need carpet. Then the bathroom door slams closed behind him.

  “I think they like you,” a familiar voice teases.

  I look up to see an amused Opal standing over me with her hand stretched toward me. “You’re right. Especially Jackson. Maybe I should go in there and ask him if he wants to see a movie later.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

  I take her hand and we both grin as she helps me up. Then she stands on her toes and kisses my nose.

  “Jackson will have to take a rain check,” she tells me saucily, “Tonight, you’re mine.”

  Every night, you’re mine, O.

  “Want to be my date tomorrow night for my mom’s benefit?” Thad asks with a lopsided grin as he leans against the other mailboxes in my apartment building, watching me pull my mail. He took off the dress shirt and left it in his car before we got out, and now, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes off his toned chest, which is stretching his white T-shirt.

  I glance over the Soundgarden emblem on his shirt before skirting my eyes back to his amused green ones. “Not really,” I laugh. It’s the truth. If I never see that vile woman again, it will be too soon.

  He reaches over and tickles me on the ribs. “You’re going, woman.”

  I squeal and drop the wad of mail onto the floor as I jerk away from his punishing fingers. “Asshole,” I tell him and good-naturedly stick my tongue out at him.

  He winks, which effectively warms my insides, as he drops to one knee to retrieve the mail. Thad on one knee is a look any woman could get used to. His demeanor changes from playful to serious as he snatches up an envelope and reads the front.

  My heart pounds as I reach for it, but he jerks it away. Quickly, he scoops up the mail and stands. The letter is practically crumpled in his fist—and he’s pissed.

  “Let’s get upstairs. Now,” he growls.

  “What is it?” I question, but it goes unanswered as he stalks over to the opening elevator to keep it from closing. I follow him on and cross my arms.

  He pushes the button to my floor but doesn’t look over at me. Leaning forward, I try to catch a peek at what has his panties in a wad, but he moves it to his side, out of my line of sight.

  When the doors open, he storms out and takes long strides to my apartment door. I hurriedly follow after him. My fingers are shaking, causing the keys to jingle as I nervously try to unlock the door and get us inside. Once I get the door open and we make into my entryway, he drops the mail—all but the letter—and flips the deadbolt.

  The only light in my dark apartment comes from the lamp beside the couch that stays on as we enter.

  “We’ll read this together. No matter what, I’m here for you. Always,” he promises as he takes hold of my elbow and guides me over to my sofa.

  Everything about the way he’s acting is scaring the shit out of me. Something on that letter has him worried. I’m terrified about what it could be as he sits and pulls me with him into his lap. Gently, I take the semi-crumpled letter from his fist.

  No air.

  Maybe it’s just informational.

  Fuck!

  City of New York Department of Corrections Victim Services blazes boldly in blue type across the front of the letter. My fingers are in autopilot as I tear open the letter. Four years ago, when Drake went away to prison, I filed a request for notification of release. He was supposed to serve way more time than four years. This can’t pertain to his release. It. Just. Can’t.

  May 8th, 2014

  City of New York Department of Corrections

  Victim Services

  RE: Prisoner Drake Edmond Brinkley

  Dear Ms. Opal E. Redding,

  The City of New York has honored your request for notification of prisoner release. Prisoner Drake Edmond Brinkley has been approved for early parole and is scheduled for release on the twenty-first of May, two thousand and fourteen.

  As a victim of sexual and domestic crimes, you have certain rights. Your rights include a notification of released prisoner address and occupation. Mr. Brinkley will be residing in a home for reformed men in Brooklyn. The address is posted below. Additionally, his new occupation is an overnight stocking clerk at the Homeland grocery store also in Brooklyn. This address is posted below as well. His address is in compliance with the law and does not violate your restraining order.

  The City of New York Department of Corrections has deemed Mr. Brinkley fit to rejoin society. They have determined that he is rehabilitated and reformed.

  If you have any other questions about this letter, please contact us via the number below.

  Sincerely,

  George Cottins

  Warden

  Two weeks. In two fucking weeks, my nightmare will be released. The letter falls to my lap and I feel Thad wrap his arms around me, pulling me to him.

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he promises, his lips pressed into my hair.

  I shiver in his arms. When it comes to Drake, I’ll only feel safe when he’s dead. Sighing, I climb off Thad to make a call I dread making. The call to Olive. Her happy day will be ruined.

  Fuck Drake.

  “Do you have any birthmarks?” Thad asks, breaking our silence, as he traces a circle on my breast through my shirt.

  After an emotional phone call with Olive earlier, we crawled into my bed so he could hold me while I cried. The cries turned into hiccups, and eventually, I became quiet.

  “No, do you?”

  He chuckles, but the laughter is hollow—fake, even. “On my chest.”

  I watch him as he sits up and pulls his T-shirt off. For as many times as I’ve seen him naked, I’ve never properly inspected the artwork on his chest. He rolls onto his back so I can view him. Leaning up on my elbow on my side, I examine him, my eyes trailing each colored curve.

  “Where is your birthmark?” I question. He said that he has one on his chest, but I can’t find it because I’m distracted by the ink.

  “The rock. The tattoo artist designed the artwork around my birthmark and included it as part of the design.”

  My eyes zero in on the huge, jagged “rock” that stretches across his breast bone. I’m drawn into the design—it’s beautiful and horrifying at the same time. The original “rock” is the centerpiece and more tattooed rocks have been added all around it. From behind the rock, a tiger’s paw with claws unsheathed reaches up toward his throat. The claws are what always peek from the top of his shirts. Below the rubble of the rocks are skulls and demons. It’s sort of creepy.

  I wonder what it means?

  “You’re the tiger. Rising above your demons?”

  The pills.

  The alcohol.

  His addiction.

  “Always. They’re always pulling me down—they think I’m weak. I’m not, O. I am strong. I’ll always claw my way to the surface. I will beat them.” His voice is strong—so sure.

  I believe him.

  “Of course you will. I’ll be there with you. Now that we have each other, we don’t have to face anything alone.” I lean over and kiss the rock in the center of his chest.

  When my eyes find his, he’s staring at me with an emotion I’ve not seen from him yet.

  “What?” I ask with a smile.

  He rolls us back over so that I’m pinned beneath him and his lips softly brush against mine. “You.” He flashes one of his lopsided grins—the kind that always manages to set my heart in overdrive. A heat prickles across my flesh.

  “Me?”

  “Yep, you. Thanks for t
aking a chance on me. I know going after the tattooed, former rehab patient must have been hard for you with your issues. I’m so fucking glad that you opened yourself up to the spark that started the moment we laid eyes on each other. Now, that spark has become a blaze I never intend on letting die out. You’re my person, O.”

  My breath rushes out as he crushes me with his body, kissing me hard. “You’re my person too, Thad,” I tell him between kisses.

  Abruptly, he pulls away and my eyes fall to his glistening lips. God, he’s so delicious.

  “Tell me about the man who might be your dad.”

  I sigh because, even though I’ve told myself not to get my hopes up, they already are. I want Dr. Ellis to be my dad.

  “Andi’s doctor, turns out, knows my mother. Your mom and mine could have a contest to see who would win Mother of the Year. It would probably be a tie,” I frown.

  His brows drop as he lets my words soak in. “So your mom’s an uncaring, selfish bitch.”

  My smile is fake. “Pretty much. Anyway, after some discussion, he thinks he’s my father. In fact, this morning, I went down and did a paternity test. We’ll have the results in a couple of days.”

  He slides his hand to cup my cheek and thumbs my skin along my cheekbone. “What do you want? Do you hope that this man is your father?”

  Biting my lip, I nod reluctantly. “And that’s the problem. He’s so good—such a sweet, caring person in comparison to my mother. I just want one parent who loves me. That’s all I want.”

  He smiles and kisses the tip of my nose. “O, it’s okay to want that. I hope that he is your father.”

  Threading my fingers through his hair, I guide him to lie back down on my chest. My fingernails gently scratch his scalp and it earns me a pleasured groan.

  “Tell me about the day you decided to go to rehab. What was the moment where you’d had enough?” My voice is soft with my question.

  He tenses in my arms but finally releases a rush of breath. “Things had really been unravelling. Mom was continually on my case about going back to college and shit even though I was happy working for Griff. Dad and Trent were still too far up each other’s asses to notice me. I’d taken to hanging with my best friend, Kurt, every night after work. Kurt really is a good guy, but he has no drive and is weak when it comes to the very vices I have trouble with. Anyway, I’d pass out all the time after a night of all sorts of experimental drugs. One particular morning, I woke up and once again had no recollection of the night before. I was naked between two chicks. One was my girlfriend at the time and the other was some random chick. I don’t remember having sex with either of them. I had no idea the age of the one beside me. To this day, I’m not even sure if I used a condom. I’d been playing with fire and eventually was going to get burned.”

  He could have gotten a sexually transmitted disease.

  He could have gotten someone pregnant.

  He could have gone to jail for statutory rape.

  “That morning, I crawled out of bed and drove myself straight to Mom’s. She looked up a rehabilitation facility here in the city and dropped me off. I was tested for STDs, and thank fuck I was clean. I’m still unsure what happened that night. I haven’t had the balls to ask Whitney or Kurt.”

  Whitney—his girlfriend. Just her name on his lips sends a burn of jealousy through my veins.

  “I’m sorry, Thad,” I whisper as I finger the hair on his head.

  “Honestly, I don’t want to know what happened now. I just want to focus on my future. My happiness—you, O.”

  He turns his head on my chest and begins kissing a trail down along my belly through my shirt. Much to my delight, he spends the rest of the night focusing on me, just like he promised.

  Vibrations.

  Over and over again.

  What in the hell?

  My eyes open, but it’s still dark. I can hear Opal’s soft breaths as she sleeps naked, curled around my own bare flesh. Her tits are pressed into my side and my dick hardens automatically. Unfortunately, the sound of repetitive vibrations jerks me from thoughts of continuing our love fest.

  Sliding out of bed, careful not to wake her, I hunt for the noise. Within moments, I find the source—my phone in my pants pocket. I swipe it open to see several missed calls from Kurt. Pulling on my jeans, I slip barefoot and bare-chested out of Opal’s room and into the living room. Like magnets, my feet carry me into the kitchen while I dial Kurt back. I lean my ass against the counter and stare up at the cabinet above the refrigerator while I wait for him to answer.

  “T-t-had. G-get over here.”

  I fucking knew it. He’s wasted and misses his party buddy. And it annoys me that he’s calling me to join him.

  “Dude, you know I don’t do that shit anymore,” I snap in a hushed whisper. Then, as my eyes flit back up to the cabinet, the realization hits me—I’ll always struggle with my demons.

  But I’m stronger than they are.

  “No, m-man. It’s Wh-Wh…” he trails off.

  “Whitney?”

  “Yesss. S-s-something’s wr-wrong with her.”

  I may not want to party with them because of my recovery, but I can’t sit back and not help them. Whitney has a tendency to overdo everything. There’s no telling what she took and how much.

  “I’ll be right there,” I promise and hang up.

  Stalking back into Opal’s room, I hunt around on the floor for my shirt, using the light from my phone. She’s still sleeping peacefully.

  Do I wake her to tell her where I’m going?

  She’ll just want to go with me—I know her.

  Do I really want her to see the ugly part of my past? To see Whitney?

  No.

  I need to keep Opal in the present—in my future. She doesn’t belong in my dirty past. I need to deal with this one on my own. So I throw on the rest of my clothes and sneak out the front door.

  The ride to Kurt’s in the middle of the night is a fairly traffic-free ride and quiet. My mind is on autopilot, and before I know it, I’m pushing open the door to his place.

  All sorts of fucking commotion rings out from the bathroom. I storm over to it and my eyes widen at the sight. My mind has trouble comprehending what the fuck is really going on. All three of them—Whitney, Kurt, and Rhonda—are butt-ass naked and covered in red body paint. Rhonda has a bottle of bleach and is using a toothbrush to scrub the grout lines in the bathtub. Whitney is hunched over the toilet, puking. Kurt is fucking tweaking—every few minutes, he jerks his line of sight to the corner of the bathroom and mumbles something.

  What a fucking joke—the whole lot of them. But two months ago, I was them.

  “What happened?” I demand a little too loudly. My booming voice echoes in the bathroom and Rhonda screams.

  “Thad! Are you hungry? Want me to cook you some eggs? Some lasagna? Sushi? Do you want to do a line with us? Want me to paint your body? I’m really good at painting. I could paint a desert scene on your back. Do you want me to wash your hair? I washed Kurt’s hair. Isn’t it nice? I’m going to be his wife—wives wash their husbands’ hair. Whitney loves you. You should love Whitney. Have you seen my cat? Here, kitty, kitty.” Rhonda’s arms flail while she chatters.

  I look back at Kurt and he grins at me. He once again mouths, “Marriage material,” to me and winks.

  Shaking my head, I grab his bicep. “Come on, man. Time for bed. You too, Sparky,” I tell Rhonda. As I half-drag him back to his room, a still-blabbing Rhonda follows after me. I ignore more of her statements and questions as I practically shove him into the bed.

  “Have you been to Ellis Island? Oh my God! Let’s go see the Statue of Liberty! Thad, can you take us on the Harley? I’ll sit on Kurt’s lap because I’m going to be his wife one day. Or maybe we could go to—”

  Clutching her by the shoulders, I look her in her twitchy, blue eyes. “Maybe some other day after you’ve had a rest. I think you need to go lie down with your soon-to-be husband. Good wives do that so
rt of thing.”

  Her eyes widen and she grins knowingly at me. I don’t have to ask her again before she does a running leap and attacks Kurt with hugs like a fucking spider monkey. Turning on my heel, I storm out of the room back toward Whitney.

  She’s still hunched over the commode. Her body no longer racks with shudders from heaving. Kneeling down beside her, I pull her long, blond locks back so I can see her face. She looks like fucking hell, especially now that I can see chunks of vomit all in her hair.

  “You okay, Whit? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  She shakes her head vehemently. “No, but my skin itches. Get this shit off of me!” she hisses and begins clawing at the paint on her arms.

  My eyes skip over to the shower and I groan because there’s fucking bleach everywhere. I’ll have to help her in Kurt’s bathroom.

  “Come on. I’ll help you get cleaned up. Once you’re settled on the couch, you need to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, you need to think about where the fuck your life is going.”

  As she bursts into tears, guilt consumes me. With a grumble, I help haul her to her feet. The girl is shaking like a leaf and can barely stand on her own two feet. Sliding my hand under her bare ass, I scoop her into my arms to carry her into the other bathroom. When she looks up at me with vacant, sad eyes, I have to look away. I recognize that look—I’ve seen it in my own eyes in the mirror before. Her arms slide around my neck and she buries her face into my chest, ruining my shirt with the red paint.

  As we push back into Kurt’s room, I have to quickly divert my eyes from the scene on the bed. They look creepy as hell as they fuck violently. Kurt’s hands are on Rhonda’s tits, squeezing while she rides him like he’s a fucking wild bull, thrashing crazily. Because they are both red from head to toe, it looks like they’re into some weird fetish shit.

  I hurry past them and into the bathroom with Whitney in my arms. Slowly, I ease her down to the toilet and start the shower. How in the hell did I become their fucking babysitter? How in the hell did we survive before—when nobody was the sober one? It’s amazing none of us ever died from an overdose.