Damage Me (Crystal Gulf Book 2)

by Shana Vanterpool

  I avoided my phone on my desk as I passed it. Piper had called endless times, but she hadn’t come by. She wanted to talk, but not look at me. I assumed word had gotten out. I wasn’t ready to talk to her. I knew it was unfair of me to feel this way, but I felt it anyway. I was pissed. I was enraged. I was so mad at her I felt it in my blood. She did this to me. She dragged me to a place I didn’t want to go and then she left me alone for her other friends. Her betrayal changed a part of me. It turned our lifelong relationship into a lie. All of those years of good no longer counted because of one bad moment. How could I trust a person who didn’t think of me when that’s all I had been doing?

  Although that didn’t stop me from feeling guilt as well. If she had gone through this, then she was feeling something similar. But if she’d gone through this, then how could she leave me alone? Her actions felt opposite of her personality. Where was my sweet friend? The same girl who had no problem with cat wallpaper and reading books on a Friday night?

  Sadness laced my thoughts as I opened my bedroom door. Our apartment was quiet. I peeked down the hall to find Mom’s door open. Her soft snores drifted out. I sighed in relief and walked the few feet to her door and closed it, wanting a second of peace to be by myself and … succumb.

  My body was lethargic from not eating. My appetite shriveled up. The only thing I craved was protection. I searched for it, making sure the doors were locked and the windows as well. I looked outside to make sure there were no monsters out there watching me. I stood in the middle of the living room and breathed in and out, trying to convince myself the anxiety I felt was all in my head, but my head kindly reminded me of the bruise over my eye and the pain in my face. There was something to fear. I could feel it. With each breath I took my back straightened and my blood chilled.

  Mom’s throw was over the back of the couch. I bundled up with it on the couch and grabbed the remote, flipping through channels. After midnight, the options were egregious and boring. Infomercials and sex phone lines. Pans that wouldn’t stick and a girl with a sexy voice giving a fake sugar smile.

  I stared at her closely. She looked like Justine with her dark eyes and hair. Justine calling my name through the door came back to me. She’d saved me, I should be thankful, but when I thought of her, I felt rage too. She lied to me, throwing Bach in my face to manipulate me. I normally thought I was intelligent. But lately, I just felt stupid. Stupid for believing anyone, stupid for falling for everyone, and stupid for being stupid. I was smart. I did the right thing every time, but the bad had still found me.

  My toxic thoughts began to weave their web. I struggled to find a comfortable position. On my back, on my side, and sitting with my knees to my chest. Nothing worked. I watched an infomercial about a smoothie machine, glaring at the hosts. They were so cheesy. It was just a smoothie. If the smoothie walked, talked, and danced to Britney’s Toxic, then I would have been far more impressed. After flipping through the channels, I settled on a rerun of one of my favorite shows. However, the usual sweet family dynamic began to grate on my nerves.

  Families were imperfect. Fathers were in jail. Brothers didn’t fight for you. Mom’s hovered. Friends betrayed you. There was so much within a family that could go wrong. I closed my eyes as my emotions traveled over me, making it even harder to get comfortable, harder to breathe. The walls were closing in on me. My breaths were coming too quickly, making it feel like for every breath I took I had to take two more to feel relief.

  And when I was about to break I heard it. A soft rap on the door.

  I spun around on the couch and stared, fear rocketing through me.

  Zane! My brain screamed. He’s coming. I told the cops and he’s coming.

  “Hill?” a soft voice implored. “I know you’re in there.”

  I glared at the door.

  “Please,” Piper begged. “I’m so sorry.”

  My eyes untightened marginally.

  “I didn’t know he’d be there.”

  My bottom lip trembled.

  “Please open the door.”

  I considered it.

  “Hillary. Fine. You don’t have to talk to me. But if you tell anyone I’ll never forgive you. No one believes you, you know? They saw you go upstairs with him. They’re not going to believe me either. Don’t put me through that. Don’t tell anyone.”

  The suddenness of hurt took my breath away. She didn’t come here to apologize. She came here to protect herself? Protect her from what? Why wouldn’t anyone believe her? Why didn’t they believe me? Were people talking about me? Saying I wanted it? That I did it to myself?

  I ran to the bathroom and barely made it in time before I hurled. Not having eaten much it mostly consisted of coffee and water. I despised vomit. The smell, the look. That wasn’t fair. Why would I go upstairs if I knew what was going to happen? You went upstairs, a mean little voice whispered in the back of my head, sounding male. “You can’t come to a party dressed like that, look like this, and then expect me not to want you.” Had I asked for it?

  A tremor rocked me to my core.

  “Hillary?”

  My head snapped up at the sound of Mom’s groggy voice. She was standing inside the door staring down at me as if her own heart was the one vomiting.

  “I asked for it,” I sobbed, smearing my tears around on my face with the back of my hand.

  She closed her eyes in dismay. “No one asks for that. That is not anything anyone asks for.” She grabbed the toilet paper and unwound a few pieces, holding them under the water. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She knelt down and began wiping my mouth and chin, and then she met my eyes. “You are the victim. Do not let anyone tell you differently.”

  “How can you say that? I did do something wrong. I went to a party. I let those girls dress me like them. I drank a beer. I went upstairs with him.” I couldn’t see through my tears. “I did that to myself.”

  “No,” she snapped. “Nothing you did deserved that. Trust me,” she stressed, eyes glossy. “You went to a party—I do not condone that—but going to a party does not mean you made an end-all-be-all mistake. People party, Hillary. Did I want you there? No, because stuff like this can happen. Bad things happen, bad men happen. People can hurt you.” She bit back her own tears, strong like she’d always been. Mom never cried. Never. And the fact that she was broke my heart. “But you’re young. I’m not stupid. I partied too. I did things I shouldn’t have. I know what’s out there. I know you and Piper probably went to parties before. Just because you did, does not mean you deserved to get punished.”

  I was hyperventilating. She was wrong. I asked for it. She wasn’t there. I went upstairs. “I’m so sorry I went. I should have listened to you.” I fell against her, bawling into her bathrobe.

  She wrapped me in her arms. “We’ll get through this. I promise. That son of a bitch will pay.”

  I couldn’t reassure her. The only person who felt like they were paying was me. He was still out there, unafraid, monstrous, while I tried to understand how to be this new me. She wasn’t as confident as the old me. She was terrified. She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin. She wasn’t happy to be her.

  “Let’s go. I’ll make breakfast. I have to do something.” She brought me to my feet and settled me back on the couch. “Anything special you want?”

  “Surprise me.” I didn’t have it in me to tell her I had no desire for anything. Food, people, TV, even reading wasn’t working.

  “Baked French toast.” She smiled, but her eyes were tight, and I knew my mother was losing it right along with me.

  As she cooked, filling the house with sweet smells of cinnamon and baking bread, the doorbell rang. I shrank into my blanket, glaring at the news anchor’s tie.

  “I’ll get it,” Mom said, crossing the living room.

  I waited for her to tell Piper where to go.

  But she growled like a momma bear. “What are you doing here? I told you get out of her life.”

  “I’m having a great m
orning too. Thank you for asking,” a familiar voice teased, except his tone didn’t possess a smile, and he sounded sad.

  I whirled around to find Bach standing there. Mom blocked me from his view. “Get your sorry ass off my doorstep.”

  “Patty, please. I can’t get her off my mind. I can’t stop …” He trailed off. “I don’t drink anymore, but I want to right now. I want to dive head first into a bottle, and if I do that, I’ll ruin everything. Just let me see her. Please,” he begged, sounding so unlike himself. “I want to talk to my sister.”

  Mom stared at him for a long time. I wanted to see her face. She and Bach had a strange relationship. Something kept them together. When she hesitated, I wanted to know what bound them. Why did Bach look at her like she saved him, and why did she look at him like she did?

  “Did you know she was going to that party?”

  “No. I haven’t been there in months. I don’t do that shit anymore. She’s the only family I have left. You and I both know that’s true.”

  Where was Bach’s mom? I waited for mine to make up her mind. Finally, she shoved at his chest and followed him outside, closing the door to presumably have a conversation I wasn’t allowed to hear. That had to count for something. A few minutes later the door opened, and they both came inside. This stress I hadn’t known I was carrying lifted from my chest. He met my eyes and smiled a little, eyes sad. I smiled back the same way.

  “You want breakfast, handsome?”

  “You can cook?” When she glared, he chuckled. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “It’ll be ready soon. Watch her,” she ordered, looking at me before leaving for the kitchen.

  Bach settled his large body onto our small couch, looking at me carefully.

  “I’m mad at you,” I whispered.

  He extended his arm, and I fell against his side, curling up in his hold as the news shifted to the weather. “I’m mad at me too.”

  “You promised.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” He rested his head on the top of mine. “Don’t know why you want me to be, but I am.”

  Why was he so hard on himself? Dylan seemed to be the same way. Jona too. But I felt it in my bones. These men weren’t bad. I knew bad. I faced it. These men were just broken. “Why did you stop drinking?” Maybe if he talked about himself, I could keep it away from the inevitable question I felt hovering around us.

  “Harley,” he said simply.

  His answer made me smile. “You really love her, huh?”

  “Most days.”

  “And the others?”

  “She’s a pain in my ass.” But he smiled, making me sure he loved her every day. “You think I’m stupid? Enough about me. How are you doing?”

  I ducked my head, hiding in the folds of his black hoodie. “I can’t stop thinking about it when I’m awake. I dream about it when I sleep. It’s like I can’t escape it.”

  “I know that feeling. It’s chasing you. No matter how hard or far you run it’s right behind you.”

  A shiver raced down my spine, and I nodded because he was so right my eyes burned.

  “It breaks my heart that you know what I’m talking about.” He held me closer. “You shouldn’t be a part of that.”

  “What’s chasing you?”

  He was quiet for a long time before he replied. “We’re not here to talk about me.”

  What happened to Bach? Around my body, his right hand shook. He held me tighter, trying to staunch it. Who hurt him? I tried to meet his eyes, but he pressed his head against me, preventing my attempts.

  “You don’t want to know. Trust me. Let’s,” he tried, struggling, “talk about brother and sister stuff.”

  I frowned. “What kind of stuff is that?”

  “Hell if I know.” He laughed breathlessly. “How’s school?”

  “I haven’t been back. Piper said people are talking. They’re saying I wanted it.”

  His hand became a fist. “Stay away from Piper.” Before I could open my mouth to argue he beat me. “I don’t have many friends in this life, but even I know girls travel in packs. You don’t leave one alone. Jona got his own ass beating for even letting you stay.”

  “He tried to get me to leave.”

  “You’re defending him?” He sounded outraged. “He left you alone. You. We’re assholes, but there’s also something called common sense.”

  I decided to change the topic. I already had Mom telling me how to feel. I didn’t need Bach to do it too. I moved out from under his arm and sat with my legs crossed, situating my pink pajamas. I hadn’t worn real clothes in days. I felt no desire to be a normal functioning human being. Mom was throwing words around like depression and therapist. I pretended to overlook them. Therapy was a step I wasn’t ready to take yet. It felt like trying to fly after I’d fallen once already. How could you heal when you weren’t even done breaking? Maybe later when my cracks weren’t still bleeding I’d invite a stranger into my pain.

  “Have you spoken to Dylan?”

  His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. “We’re done.”

  I didn’t buy his anger. It was sudden and forced, like a door slamming shut. “You’ve been friends your whole life, haven’t you?”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Where’s your mom?” I softened my tone. Our dad was in prison. He had to at least have his mom.

  He sat on his shaking hand and glared at the TV. “Stop.”

  “Breakfast is ready,” Mom announced, making me jump. “Some things aren’t easy to talk about, Hillary. Leave it alone. Let’s eat.” She patted Bach’s shoulder and then went back into the kitchen.

  What did she know that I didn’t?

  There were four places at our tiny kitchen table. Normally Mom sat on one end, and I sat on the other. For years I used to wonder what it would be like to have that third seat filled. To have Bach there made my heart thud. It made me wonder what it would be like to have someone in that fourth spot. Mom set down a jug of orange juice, mismatched plates, coffee, and then the baked French toast. Bach dug in without preamble, stacking his plate high. I wasn’t hungry for anything but a restful night, but one look at Mom’s face and I dipped my own plate, shoving food I didn’t taste into my mouth.

  She cracked a smile suddenly, her eyes on Bach. “You look like your father so damn much it trips me out.”

  “You have anything to drink?”

  She shook her head. “How’s that pretty little girlfriend of yours?”

  The evil in his eyes lessened. “She’s perfect. The best damn thing that ever happened to me. I don’t need to drink. If I drink, I lose her.” He spoke to his plate, pushing around a piece of bread. “She got an internship at the juvenile center. She’s a social worker. Helping people,” he added, smiling like everything he ever wanted was in her name.

  That was one thing about Bach. His hand was shaking, but when he talked about Harley, everything around him seemed to soften and warm.

  “You want to know something?” Mom asked after a second. He shook his head, but she kept going anyway. “Tyler Bachmen never smiled at anyone. He never wanted good. He never loved. When you think of wanting a drink think of the fact that you beat that son of a bitch.”

  I frowned at the way she talked about my dad, staring at my food. He couldn’t have been that bad, could he? Because if he was that bad, then wouldn’t I be also? Is that why Bach thought he was bad? Because he grew up with him? No. I instantly dismissed the thought. That’s not true.

  “Did I?”

  Mom shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder whether I did too. Then I look at Hill and know that I did the right thing.”

  Bach looked up at me and met my eyes, something that looked like comfort chasing away the bad.

  “Can you tell me something good about him?” I asked, my tone soft.

  “Our dad?” He looked away.

  “One thing.” I gripped my fork. “Just one.”

  “Hill,” Mom hushed.

  “Just one d
amn thing. One.”

  “Language,” she chided.

  I rolled my eyes. She cussed like a trucker.

  Bach locked me in place. “The only good thing he ever did was make you. That’s it. He didn’t do anything else worth remembering.”

  Rage rushed through me. “You can’t think of a single thing he did for you? You lived with him your entire life. Didn’t you?” I added when he flinched.

  He shook his head.

  His lack of answers grated on me. “Why don’t either of you talk about him? Mom says one thing a year about him, maybe, and you act like you’d rather swim with sharks than say one nice thing about him.” I slammed my hand on the table. “Why?”

  “Because there’s nothing nice about him!” Bach growled, shedding his unwillingness. “He was a monster. A drug addict, drug dealing monster, who beat the shit out of me every chance he got and even when he didn’t. There. Are you happy? How does it feel to know you yearn for a monster?”

  How much more could my insides take? They’re already overturned. I haven’t been myself since I went to that party. But that was the final straw. Bach’s right. I yearned for my father my entire life. I craved what I was missing. To learn that the person I wanted so badly was a drug addict, drug dealing monster, that he beat my brother, sent ice through me. “I don’t believe you.” I looked at Mom for reassurance, but she was looking at her coffee as if it were going to save her from the truth. “Is that true? Did my dad beat him?”

  She nodded once.

  “And you knew this?”

  Nod.

  “And you still had a baby with him?” I am horrified.

  “Things happen, Hill. I was young. I was on my own. I wasn’t making the right choices.”

  “Wait.” I couldn’t think straight. Pieces of me I thought were mine were revolting. “Where was your mom?”

  He raised his eyebrow, answering my question.

  “You were sleeping around behind his wife’s back? My dad’s a cheater too?” My heart was shattering.

  Mom couldn’t look at me. “Tyler was a charmer.”

  Bach made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. Mom’s eyes flashed, and they landed on his. Something passed between them like it always did.