True Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  chapter ONE

  chapter TWO

  chapter THREE

  chapter FOUR

  PART II

  chapter FIVE

  chapter SIX

  chapter SEVEN

  chapter EIGHT

  chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  chapter ELEVEN

  chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter sixteen

  chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY

  chapter TWENTY TWO

  Chapter TWENTY THREE

  Chapter TWENTY FOUR

  chapter TWENTY FIVE

  TRUE ABANDON

  By Jeannine Colette

  True Abandon

  Copyright © 2017 by Jeannine Colette

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing and Interior Design by Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2017

  www.JeannineColette.com

  INSERT DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see him.

  “Are you ready for this? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “I want it to be you. I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

  Those warm, caramel-colored eyes. His wavy, brown hair falling in front of his face as he looks down at me. He is the most beautiful boy I’ve ever laid eyes on. And he’s gazing at me like he feels the same way.

  “Do you feel how fast my heart is beating? That’s because of you. You’re my heart.”

  “You’re my soul. You’re a part of me. Forever.”

  I feel his skin as it brushes up against mine. His mouth feathers kisses on my neck. Hands caress me gently; he takes his time knowing how scared I am.

  “Thank you for letting me be your first.”

  “Promise you’ll be my last.”

  “Always.”

  I reach up to brush a hair from his forehead. He leans down and kisses me softly.

  “I love you, Triciana.”

  “I love you, too, Jackson.”

  And, then, the dream becomes a nightmare.

  “Are you filming this?”

  The voice sounds from the background. A camera appears, and it’s pointed in my direction. When I turn back to Jackson, I no longer see him, but the faces of strangers—pointing, laughing, staring at my body.

  My hearts races. Sweat pours down my hairline and past my jaw. I want to run, but my feet are numb. Tied to the bed without ropes, invisible chains bind my limbs. Regardless of how I try to move, my body remains paralyzed.

  To the left, girls hiss and snicker in disgust.

  “What a slut. Letting a guy make a porno of her. It’s like she wants the attention.”

  I try to scream. Tell them the video wasn’t my idea. I didn’t know he was going to share it. But I can’t. I open my mouth. The words won’t come out.

  “I heard she has videos with the whole football team.”

  “Did you see the way she went down on him? Yeah, right, she was a virgin.”

  To the right, a group of men leer at me.

  “Who’s the sweet, little blonde? So young and innocent. Maybe I can get a turn.”

  I pull on the invisible binding. The need to run is so urgent, I panic.

  “What will your daddy think now, Little Princess? We always knew you were trash.”

  Suddenly, the scene changes. I’m at my high school. In the middle of the football field. Everyone is approaching me. Hundreds—no thousands of students and people from our town; strangers who saw the video on the Internet. Everyone is crowding me. They rush in to take their turn slinging painful insults.

  “Whore.”

  “Skank.”

  “Tramp.”

  I glance down. I’m naked. Hugging my arms around my body, I crouch to try to cover up.

  Vulnerable. Nude. Afraid.

  They’re getting closer. I spin around, searching for a way out. There is nowhere to go.

  Hands reach out, clawing at my exposed flesh. The calloused hands of grown men, and the finger flicking of girls my age, make my skin crawl. The taste of heavy fog in the air lingers on my tongue, and the smell of the disgusting scent of sweat from the mob, sends me reeling in fear. I swat them away. Endless hands grab my hair, my ankles, my breasts. Tears trickle down my cheeks. I search in horror.

  “Jackson,” I cry.

  Where are you?

  Jackson.

  Why did you do this to me?

  Jackson.

  I thought you loved me?

  “Jackson!”

  PART I

  MANHATTAN, NEW YOR

  chapter ONE

  My body bolts up in bed; chest heaving and skin prickling with sweat. My fingers grip the sheet as I take a second to get my bearings and focus on the wall in front of me, and the painting of the setting sun that hangs over my dresser.

  “It was just a dream.” A sigh of relief escapes my lungs.

  It’s been months since I had a nightmare like that. At twenty-five years old, I should be able to move on from the sins of the past. Not my sins–I did nothing wrong. It’s his sins that live on my skin. His sins that have me calling out his name as I emerge from tormented sleep.

  I raise my hand to eye level and watch as it quivers like a leaf. Actually, that's a false comparison. What my hand is doing is nothing like a green blade dancing in the breeze. I’m more like a petal that is clinging to the end of a branch, desperate not to get swept away.

  Falling back on the mattress, I pull away the hair stuck to my neck and rest a hand on my chest—my palm feeling the rise and fall of each breath.

  It astounds me that one man could leave a scar so deep that I’m still affected. It’s not just the dreams or the nervous ticks – it's the way I live my day-to-day life straddling the past and the present, unable to see the future.

  The theme song from Law & Order plays as my ringtone alerts me to a call. I pick up the phone and see Kevin’s name in white.

  I swipe the screen. “Hey, babe.”

  “Did I wake you?” he asks in an apologetic tone.

  The clock glows ten in the evening. I must have dozed off after running errands all day.

  Pressing my thumb and forefinger into my closed eyelids, and swallow down my nerves. “No,” I lie. “I'm just sitting in my room.”

  “You sound shaken up,” he asks with concern and my eyes widen at his quick observation. “It’s the storm, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I clear my throat and give my body a shake. “Yes. It’s really coming down out there.”

  “I’ve been watching the news, and I think you should come over here. The weather’s getting rough, and forecasters are calling for power outages and flooding. We should be together.”

  There is a hurricane warning for the East Coast, with New York City in the eye of the storm. The Mayor has evacuated all beach areas an
d coastal neighborhoods. For a city made up of islands, that’s a lot of people.

  “I’m fine where I am,” I assure him while rising from the bed.

  Pulling back the sheer rust-colored drapes, I gaze out the window at the rain hitting the slick Manhattan streets making it look like there’s an oil spill on Avenue C.

  “Trish, there’s a hundred-mile-wide storm driving up the coast. I’ll come to you,” he offers. “It’s weird you don’t want to be with me tonight. Couples run to each other in times like this.”

  I rub a finger over my temple and push in on the pressure point.

  Kevin and I have been together for two years, and he’s been nothing short of dedicated to our relationship. It’s just that, recently, things have been moving in the wrong direction. He has a growing desire for me to share his address, but I’m not ready. It’s not that I don’t want to live with him, per say. He’s amazing. It’s the steps that follow that make me nervous and send caution flags flying.

  A picture of us at our company holiday party is on the nightstand next to my bed. He has on a CBGBs t-shirt and a huge grin on his face. His arm is slung around my shoulder as I look into the camera with a bashful, closemouthed smile.

  If there’s anyone who’s going to take care of me tonight, it’s Kevin. And that's why I need to make sure he’s safe as well.

  “If the weather is that bad then neither of us should be traveling. If you got hurt on the way over here, I’d never forgive myself.”

  He lets out an irritated breath on the other end. “Fine. Will you at least check in with me? Let me know you’re okay?”

  I shake my head. “You’re too sweet for me.”

  “And you’re too independent for me. You know that?”

  His comment makes me laugh lightly as we say our goodbyes.

  I hang up the phone and let it roll from my hand onto the nightstand, my chest still pounding. I close my eyes and try to tame my erratic heartbeat.

  Kevin’s right. I should want to spend tonight with him, probably having crazy hurricane sex or something. But the thought of being trapped in his apartment during a horrific storm with nowhere to go makes me feel…caged.

  “Trish, you awake?” Kelli’s voice comes from the living room.

  “Yeah,” I call as I run my fingers through my hair and twist into a standard braid.

  Wearing only boy shorts and a tank top, I walk into the living room. Instantly, I raise my arms to cover my chest at the sight of Vince, the guy who lives in 3C. “Dammit, Kel. You didn’t tell me we had company!”

  “Don’t worry, no one’s lookin’ at your itty, bitty titties,” Vince chides with his eyes staring at the TV. The two are watching the news, which is completely out of character for them.

  I snap my fingers making Kelli turn around. I give her a bug-eyed expression and raise my brows in Vince’s direction—she knows I can’t stand him. He’s always hanging around, eating our food, and using our Wi-Fi. Not to mention he’s a misogynist who consistently makes inappropriate comments about our bodies.

  I take an afghan off the back of the sofa and wrap it around my shoulders.

  Kelli ignores my qualms about our neighbor and her sometimes boy toy. Her short, dark hair whips around her cheeks with the turn of her head. “Get dressed. We’re going to a hurricane party on the fourth floor.” She rises from her seat and runs her hands down the sequins of her silver mini-dress. The shiny metallic acts as little plastic mirrors I can just barely see my reflection in. “Cute, right?”

  “Adorable,” I deadpan as I look over at the flat screen TV that’s mounted to the wall.

  Lonnie Quinn, the local weatherman, has his sleeves rolled up as he points to the wall behind him showing a graphic of the city. The red hurricane icon glows over the Atlantic Ocean. The island of Manhattan and the areas around it are highlighted in yellow to illustrate the danger while Lonnie continues to make circular motions around our area. He uses rhetoric like “tidal surge” and “gale-force winds” to depict the severity of the situation—you know it’s serious when the meteorologist has removed his jacket and tie.

  “What’s that thumping sound?” Vince asks, his eyes glaring around the room.

  “That’s Trish. She does that when she gets nervous,” Kelli responds.

  I glance down and see my right leg is, indeed, shaking so I walk over to the kitchen and where the bags from my trip to the store are sitting on the counter. I reach inside and pull out a box of candles.

  “Are you expecting company tonight?” Kelli asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “I got them in case we lose power. I also have batteries, non-perishable food and two gallons of water.”

  She rolls her eyes at my purchases as she skims through the plastic bags. “You’re such a worry wart. Surprised you don’t have one of those hand crank radio thingies.”

  I raise a finger in the air at her reminder, while making an “aha” face.

  Turning on my heel, I go down the hall of our small apartment and get the red and black toolbox from the top shelf of my closet. Manhattan has seen everything from September eleventh terrorist attacks to Super Storm Sandy. One can never be too prepared.

  “What the hell is that?” she asks when I return.

  “Our survival kit.” I flip open the lid. Inside are my flashlight, more batteries, first aid kit, whistle, moist towelettes, and my battery-powered radio.

  “It’s just a little rain.” She glares out the window and back to me. “Besides, what can happen to us all the way up here?”

  Her question makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. “The power could go out for days. We’d be stuck here with no food, water, or supplies.”

  Kelli saunters into the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets where I’ve stocked more water, cans, and boxed food. She’s giving me a questioning glare.

  I continue, “The water might get turned off, meaning sanitary conditions can get pretty rancid.”

  She twists her face. “That’s beyond gross.”'

  “Looting. Flooding. We could be here for days. Two girls on their own…” I jolt, and start to make my way back to my room. “That reminds me. I have a Swiss Army knife under my bed—”

  “Trish!” she cuts me off and I freeze. “Calm down. You’re doing that thing again.”

  “What thing?”

  “Man, I knew you had issues, but I didn’t realize you were so uptight,” Vince chimes in as he moves from the couch to the kitchen. “Must be a red-head thing. You’re all a little crazy,” he jokes as he picks up the small chainsaw and duct tape I placed on the counter. “You’re also a little kinky.”

  He takes me in with beady, little eyes that are trying to see what’s beneath my afghan. I pull the blanket tighter around my chest, and my stomach rolls at the same time my toes start dancing inside my sock.

  Kelli looks down at my foot and then turns to Vince. “Hey, why don’t you head down to the party? Trish and I’ll meet you there.”

  Vince’s eyes rake me in, and then dart to Kelli before shrugging. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you down there. And Trish, wear one of your schoolgirl skirts. Your legs look killer in those.”

  If I could vomit, I would.

  Kelli escorts him out. No sooner is the door closed than her back is to it, leaning on it like she’s posing. “He’s harmless.”

  “He’s a pig,” I retort, throwing the afghan on the couch.

  “You hate all men,” she says as she pushes off the door.

  “Just the undeserving ones.” I dump the rest of my supplies on the counter and continue to put them away. “Did you charge your laptop?”

  She gives me a cute little smile and walks toward the television. “Yes, mom. And my phone just as you requested.”

  Kelli and I have been friends since I moved from Wyndham, Virginia, to Cheshire, Connecticut. I was sixteen and in a dark place at the time. I became aware my life was shit when my parents had to uproot our entire family and move to a different stat
e so I could start over. I didn’t want any friends–I just needed to keep my head low and graduate high school. Yet somehow, Kelli weaseled her way in, and we became friends. It wasn’t until sometime in college when we roomed together at Eastern that she finally got me to confess.

  About Wyndham.

  About Jackson.

  About the video.

  “Shit, this storm is going to be a motherfucker,” Kelli exclaims, raising volume with the remote.

  “Told you. Everyone said it was going out to sea except for the European model. It’s the only weather tracker that predicted this.”

  “Freaking meteorologists. They have one job to do, and that’s to tell the weather. They can’t even do that right.”

  “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “At least I won’t have to worry about hurricanes when I move to Hawaii.” She tosses the remote on the coffee table and falls to the couch behind her.

  I nearly drop the pack of Duracell in my hand at her wildly incorrect statement. “Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

  She waves me off. “Whatever. They’re Hawaiian hurricanes. Totally different.”

  “Totally different is right,” I mutter under my breath.

  Kelli is living a pipe dream right now. Every month she says she’s moving somewhere new. Last year it was L.A. Before that, Vegas. She seems to keep relocating her next destination further out west. Soon she’ll be saying Japan. Truth is, she isn’t going anywhere. She’s a dreamer and a flighty one at that.

  She puts her hand inside the top of her dress to lift her boobs up in her bra. She’s staring at her cleavage with an appreciative look. “Speaking of which, I bought my ticket.”

  “Ticket?”

  “For Hawaii. I’m moving at the end of next month.”

  This time I actually do drop something. Thankfully, it’s only a box of Band-Aids. “What do you mean you’re moving?”

  She looks at me with her head tilted to the side and brow creased in confusion. “Trish, I’ve been talking about moving to Hawaii for months. I told you I was applying for jobs. I even showed you apartments I was looking at.”

  I stare at her. Not moving. Not flinching. Not saying a word.