Finding Me (Bad Boy #2)

by S. K. Hartley

I flinched when I felt a hand touch my right shoulder. The memory of Jack's fist colliding with the very same shoulder made my insides quiver and my hands shake. Her hands sent chills through every pore in my body as she led me towards my bed.

  "I'm just going to call the doctor, sweetie. Okay?"

  I didn't register my reply, or getting on the bed. Nor did I register her leaving the room. All I could see, hear and feel was Jack. His slithering tongue that had run down my neck, as it burned against my sensitive skin. I could feel it, it was as if he was standing right next to me.

  "Neva?"

  Tears suddenly poured from my eyes, my mind taking in the rough grit in the voice that had penetrated my dark thoughts. It's funny how the mind works. A scent, a song, a voice ... the mind remembers. Even if you try to lock them away in the deep, dark recesses of your mind. They will always come back to haunt you. Repeatedly.

  "W … what are y … you doing h … here?" I stuttered.

  My mind was moving at a hundred miles a minute, and my mouth couldn't keep up.

  Every memory, every thought, rushed through me like a train. He was here, in my room, saying my damn name. My stomach rolled and contracted as I stared into a pair of eyes. Blue eyes.

  Angel's eyes.

  "Are you okay?"

  I was stunned into silence. But it wasn't from fear, guilt or pain. I was stunned into silence with rage. How dare he. Why was he even here? I could feel my blood boiling, the slow burn inching from the very tips of my fingers, through my forearms and landing square onto my shoulders.

  "A...am I okay?" I panted. "Am. I. Okay?"

  I couldn't get my brain to compute his question. He had betrayed me, handed me over to his vile creature of a father like a slab of damn meat. And didn't do a single thing about it. And now he was here, asking if I was okay?

  "Do I look okay? Take a good look! You tricked me into falling in love with you. You gained my trust. You helped me feel human again. And then, you handed me over to your father so he could beat seven shades of shit out of me, because he's under some illusion that I deserved it after what my father did. So please, by all means ... ask me that ridiculous question again."

  Angel's eyebrows were drawn in, a confused look had taken over his bruised face. What the hell did he have to be confused about? Did he think I would want to talk to him? I couldn't even look at him, never mind talk to him!

  "You got nothing, huh?" I spat.

  What the hell did he expect? Some sort of welcome party?

  "Neva, I-" he started, but I quickly cut him off with the wave of my sore and swollen hand.

  No, I didn't want to listen to any of his shit. I didn't want to look at him. I could actually smell him. He smelled like oil, coffee and cigarettes, nothing like the scent that filled my lungs not so long ago. Now he smelled stale.

  I stared long and hard at him, trying to piece together what could possess someone to cause so much pain. He was wearing his trademark tight, ripped jeans, and they hung low from his hips exposing a slither of skin. His black shirt was tight against his body and the leather jacket was open. His right arm was in a sling around his neck, it must be sprained. He suddenly took a step towards me, and I could feel my skin prickle as he does. I didn't want him anywhere near me. He betrayed me.

  "If you're going to apologize, save it. I don't want to hear it," I spat.

  "Neva, please," he pleaded, taking another step towards me.

  "GET OUT!" I screamed.

  "Baby -"

  "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" I shouted repeatedly.

  I was boiling with rage. The intensity of my emotions had erupted and completely taken over. My body ached with every heaving breath I took. I welcomed the ache, it told me I was alive. It gave me a purpose. It made me feel, really feel.

  Angel's eyes were wide and emotionless, as if I just kicked him straight between the eyes. It was as though he could not comprehend what I was saying. But I couldn't have made it any clearer than I already had. He slowly closed his eyes and shook his head. Turning on his heel and standing stock still, his back was facing me and he didn't flinch as words I thought I would never hear poured from his mouth.

  "I'm sorry."

  I closed my eyes, taking in the words that meant so much, but right now meant nothing. The rage that was coursing through my veins only moments ago was now gone. Slicing me open and leaving behind a blood bath of pain, deceit, betrayal. I squeezed my eyes shut for what felt like hours, but it was probably only minutes. When I finally pried them open, I was met with a room that was Angel free. Almost.

  Sitting in the corner of the room was something I wasn’t expecting, a guitar. This time it wasn’t mine. The guitar that sat in the corner of my hospital room was Betty Black. Angel’s guitar he'd had since he was a kid. It was just sitting there, staring at me right in the face. But what caught my attention more was the note suspended between the strings with my name on it.

  My hands started shaking again, I didn’t think I even had the strength to try and understand what the hell just happened, nor did I think I could get up from the bed. But there was a pull to the letter. Slowly, I stood from the bed and walked over to the guitar. I gently pulled the envelope from the strings and held it between my hands. I ran my fingertips over the dark flourish of my name. My heartbeat quickened and I suddenly felt as though I were about to faint.

  Everything was a mess, a completely colossal mess. But I wasn’t naïve. I had done this, I had blamed everything on one man. Blamed all of my fear, guilt and pain on a single day of my life ten years ago, one that not only stripped me bare but completely ruined me. I had hurt the people around me, destroying everything within my path. Trying to come back up to the surface from the darkness that drowns me daily. No one understood, nobody got it. I lost my rock, my hero, my everything. He was the man destined to protect me, protect my family, but was cruelly taken far too soon. He made me strong, and as soon as he was gone, I became weak.

  Now, I was standing in the middle of a hospital room, wondering if I could ever come back from the pain, the fear, and the betrayal of a man who had built me up, only to break me, bring me down again.

  I ached. My injuries, my heart. Everything hurt, yet felt numb. With Angel's letter in my hand, I walked over to my bed and sat down. I stared down at the letter in my hands for a moment before pulling it to my chest and curled into the fetal position. I gently cried myself to sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Neva

  It had been two days since I left the hospital. Three days since Logan left me sitting in a hospital bed, with no clue how I was going to move forward. Two days since Angel had come to see me, leaving behind his guitar. The letter that he had placed in the strings of his guitar was still un-opened. I just couldn’t bring myself to open it.

  I was told I couldn’t leave until I had given my statement about what happened to the police. They made me relive everything that had happened in Viv’s house that day, the day that completely shattered me. I gave them a blow by blow account of how I knew Angel, what my connection was to his father, and of course how I came to have a knife in my possession.

  I was told that they wouldn't be arresting me, that what happened was self-defense and once Jack got out of his second surgery he would be going straight to the prison hospital wing until he was well enough to go to a cell, to await a court date. Because of his background, and his behavior in prison, it was highly likely that he wouldn’t be seeing the light of day for a very long time.

  Since leaving the hospital I had been staying in my old bedroom at my mom's house. It's just the way I left it after running here just over a week ago, wondering what the hell I was going to do. Who I was going to choose. But now I was here for a different reason. I was here because I did choose, but I chose the wrong man.

  In my stupidity, I chose a man that was not only cut off emotionally, but completely broken. Just like me. Now I was facing the consequences of my decision. The decision I made that had nearly killed me. I was
released from the hospital under strict instructions that I had to see my therapist again. I flat out refused, I didn’t want to go back to see Dr. Lanier again. He opened up old wounds that never really healed, nor that old either. I stood my ground with Dr. West; subsequently, he negotiated and referred me to a new therapist.

  Now, I am sitting in my new therapist’s waiting room. It’s just like every other waiting room. Clinical. The receptionist was probably barely out of high school, her persistent filing of her nails told me that my guess on her age was accurate.

  “Neva James?”

  A soft female voice echoes around the small waiting area. Turning, I noticed a well put together woman. She must've been in her forties, but could probably pass as thirty-five. Her mousy brown hair was pulled into an elegant bun. Her sharp, black skirt suit gave her an air of professionalism, but the flower pin attached to her lapel, though small, showed she could be personal within her business attire.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I said softly.

  I rose from my seat, slowly making my way towards my new therapist. Her hand slowly came out. I shook it gently. I was caught off-guard when her handshake was more powerful than I expected.

  “Sorry. I’m used to dealing with men.” She chuckled. “Follow me.”

  She walked into a room and motions for me to take a seat. The room's small but homely. A desk lined the back wall, and two chairs faced it. On the other side of the room were two large, brown sofas. An old, wooden coffee table was the only object separating them. A large bookcase lined the wall behind the sofa, filled with hundreds of books.

  “Where do you want me to sit?” I asked tentatively.

  I could feel my hands shaking already. Knowing what was coming was making me unbelievably nervous.

  “Wherever you like, Neva,” she replied softly.

  She didn’t sit down. I presumed she would sit once I decided which chair to take.

  I opted for the left chair in front of her desk. Placing my hands into my lap, I locked my fingers together. Trying hard to try and stop the uncontrollable tremor in my hands.

  “Hmmm. Pick a number between one and ten,” she said as she took her seat behind her desk.

  What? I don’t even know her name and she's already asking questions?

  “Um, I don’t know. I don’t even know what to call you?” I said nervously.

  “Pick a number, Neva.” She pulls out a pad and pen and starts to scribble something down, her eyes never once moving from that stupid pad.

  “Five,” I whispered. I didn’t understand why she was asking me to pick a number. As I thought about what the hell was going on, I noticed her eyes finally met mine. A small smile crept across her face.

  “Five. Interesting. Was that a conscious decision? Or did you pick that because it was the middle number?”

  Huh?

  “I, I, I don’t know,” I said even more nervous than before.

  “You can call me Dr. Marsh. I have read through your file, which Dr. Lanier forwarded to me, along with your medical records regarding your recent treatment. I also have the police report about why you received medical treatment. But before we go any further with this conversation, I want to make a couple of things clear. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “In here, no one will judge you. Not about the past, the present, or the future. You are safe and secure in here, and if at any time you want to end your session, the door is just behind you. I specialize in patients presenting with PTSD and also anything that intertwines with it. In your case, Delayed Onset PTSD. Most of my patients are male. This isn’t a preference, this is reality. And in reality, the condition is more common in men than women. Your case is quite rare. You are female, but your PTSD stems from childhood. With that being said, it isn’t unheard of. In this room, you are Neva James. You are not defined by your condition, unless you make it so.” She paused, scribbling something down on that pad again. “In the first couple of sessions, we are going to ease in slowly. I want to get to know you as a person before we get into you as a sufferer of PTSD. Is that okay?”

  “I think so,” I whispered.

  I hadn’t really been paying too much attention. My mind was trying hard to stop my hands from shaking. It was no use, now my knees were shaking. They were shaking so much I thought I might shake right out of this stupid chair.

  “Good. So, what is your favorite movie?”

  “Uh … I don’t know? Father Of The Bride?”

  “Really? Steve Martin’s voice kinda irritates me. I prefer something with George Clooney in it.” She chuckled. “Okay, these next set of questions I am going to fire at you. Just answer them as honestly and as quickly as you can.”

  “Favorite color?”

  “Red.”

  “Walk or run?”

  “Run.”

  “Bus or car?”

  “Bus.”

  “Life or death?”

  “Death.”

  I gasped when I heard the last word leave my lips. I could feel moisture on my face. I was crying. What the hell? My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. I wanted to run. I started to stand, but before I'm even out of my chair, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “You did very well, Neva,” Dr. Marsh said softly. “I want to talk to you about what I just did. I know you have the fight or flight feeling, but I can explain everything to you. Let me do that, and if you still feel like running, then I won’t stop you.”

  I hesitated. I was desperate to get out of this room, everything seemed to be closing in around me. But I also wanted to know what she had to say. I oddly felt at ease. She was giving me the option to run, not trying every trick in the book to make me stay.

  “Okay.” I nodded.

  I sit in the chair again, waiting for her to sit down and explain what the hell just happened.

  “What I just did was the oldest trick in the therapy book.” She sighed. “I apologize, it wasn’t very professional. But in turn, I have some understanding of your thought processes. PTSD can happen to anyone. Anyone, Neva. People who have PTSD hold their own characteristics. Some people can live with PTSD for a long time without it being much of a disturbance to their life, but others have triggers. Your triggers are quite simple, they are connected to your father. Father Of The Bride is about a father and his relationship with his daughter. I also looked over the file about your father’s death, his truck was red. You would rather run than walk. And, you chose death over life. Everything you do in life is centered around the trauma of your father’s death. But that isn’t where your condition stops. You have survivor guilt. You, according to your mother’s statement, were supposed to be in the truck with him. It was a routine you shared, and for some reason, that night you decided not to go with him.”

  The tears that had fallen only moments ago now dried against my skin. But new tears fell, showing the hurt from the deep seeded wound that Dr. Marsh had just jabbed with her fingers.

  “If you want to, I can help you understand your condition. Not just try and work through it, but understand it. If you don’t understand it, then surviving it will be ten times as hard. Neva, I am giving you the option to take hold of your life and finally live. This time, you control the outcome. You can control whether we deal with certain issues, and in turn, I will help you remember your father from before that night. The decision is yours.”

  My mouth responded before my brain has time to react. And for the first time, nothing but the god’s honest truth left my lips.

  “I want to live.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Logan

  “She's back at Mom’s house.”

  Tate’s voice penetrated the room as I lifted my gaze from the TV. There was no sound, I muted the football game hours ago. I just sat and stared. Tate sighed as he realized he isn’t going to get a reply out of me. Since I left Neva’s side that day, Tate made it his mission to keep me updated on her progress. I was desperate to see her, to see how she is. But I knew I didn’t deserve
to. I missed her like fucking crazy. Now, all I have is second-hand information from my best friend about how she's coping.

  “She is back in therapy,” he went on, his voice lower than before.

  Tate was clearly upset that Neva had to go back into therapy. What did he expect? She had been through hell the last ten years. Then the man who she claimed to love shattered it beyond fucking repair. After everything, I was surprised she's still fucking breathing.

  “Good.”

  It’s all I can muster to say. I didn’t need to pour my heart out to my best friend about how much I love his sister. Right now, Tate was pretty pissed I up and left Neva lying in a hospital bed only twenty-four hours after she had been attacked. But I needed to do it. She can’t heal on her own, or learn to deal with it on her own, with me standing on the sidelines hoping that she needs me. This, this is my way of protecting her, even if Neva or her brother didn’t realize it.

  “Is that all you have to say, Logan? I mean, shit! Surely she deserves more than 'good', right?”

  Tate moved to stand in front of me, blocking the football game and looking me square in the eyes. He was seething. He was pissed that I couldn’t even string a god damn sentence together, but he had no fucking idea how hard it has been to think, never mind talk.

  “I’m not doing this with you.” I grunted.

  It’s the longest sentence I said in two weeks. They’re god damn lucky I could just about drag myself out of my own bed, and take my sorry ass to class. Every damn day felt like a fucking eternity.

  “And why’s that, Logan? Because you know what you did gutted her?! You are my best friend, but she is my god damn sister. What you did was unforgivable. She needed you, and you left.”

  My blood boils. What I did was unforgivable? I am trying to fucking protect her. I may have left her, but every god damn bone in my body was telling me to run to her. Hold her and never left her go.

  “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, Tate. She may be your sister, but she is the woman I love. Don’t you ever question my love for your sister. Ever.”