by Jessica Ames
“I’m not exhausted and I won’t be. I get plenty of time to rest.”
This is only partially true. I get very little downtime, but I’m glad for the distraction. Sitting at home gives me too much time to think, to dwell. I need to be busy.
Holly finally glances up at me and her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”
I blink at her, her question coming out of nowhere. “What?”
“You’re frowning. What’s wrong?”
“I am not frowning,” I say, my fingers automatically brushing against my temple. I can’t feel any lines there.
“Olivia, you’re frowning so hard it’s hurting my face.”
While I still feel perturbed after my run in with my neighbour last night, that can’t possibly be showing on my face now, can it?
“Hol, I’m fine—”
She stands abruptly, gathering her papers together and mutters, “My office. Now.”
I barely have the chance to grab my bag, hat, gloves and coat before she’s up and out of the room. I trail after her, heading back up the narrow corridor I just came down and into the office, which sits near the front door.
It’s a small space, barely bigger than a cupboard really. A desk is pushed against the wall nearest the window, an ancient PC on top alongside several in-trays filled with folders. There is a battered looking filing cabinet near the door, and shelves span every available space. These are crammed full with folders and other office paraphernalia.
Holly carefully slides the folders she’s carrying onto the desk and then gives me her attention as she sinks into her chair. I take the seat at the side of her desk, dumping all my stuff in a pile on the floor next to me.
Holly is one of the few people I’ve really connected with since I came to Kingsley. She’s never treated me like a victim, even after I told her everything I suffered at the hands of Simon. I thought she would think me weak for allowing him to have that amount of control over my life, but she didn’t. In fact, she gave me the confidence to grow as a person and she did this by giving me a safe environment in which to do that. I owe Holly more than I can ever repay, which is why I bust my arse for her at the shelter. However, that gratitude does not mean I have to tell her about Mr Biker.
“Spill,” she orders, when her look does not elicit an explanation from me. Mostly because I have no idea how to explain what happened.
“There’s nothing to spill,” I lie.
My fracas yesterday seems ridiculous in the cold morning light, and certainly not something that needs to be mentioned today. In fact, I feel stupid for overreacting. He was nice to me, kind. I was the one who acted like a first-class lunatic.
“You are a terrible liar. Something is clearly bothering you because your face is all frowny. It’s not a good look, honey.”
This time I do frown, but at her. “There’s nothing wrong with my face.”
“There’s plenty wrong with it.”
Is it bad to tell your sort-of-boss to pipe down? Even if said boss is your friend? Although with comments like that she may not be my friend for much longer.
“Talk about kicking a girl when she’s down,” I mutter.
“I mean because of the lines. The rest of the time your face is beautiful.”
My brow arches. “Thanks... I think.”
“So, what’s going on?”
I consider lying and brushing the whole misadventure under the carpet, but truthfully, I am a little concerned about what happened last night.
A problem shared and all that…
“I think I may have inadvertently pissed off a Lost Saxons last night.”
I don’t think it; I did it. The man was without a doubt furious at my actions—actions that were taken completely out of context. Okay, I reacted badly. I could have handled the whole thing a lot better than I did, but I froze and I hate that I did. I’m not that person anymore and I don’t want to be. Maybe I should also talk to Holly about that as well.
I brace for her reaction.
“How? And why? And let’s go back to the how.”
I sag in the chair.
“One of their Club members lives across the road from me.”
She gawks, but this time she looks weirdly pleased as she hisses, “Shut the front door!”
This response is so out of place, given how serious Holly is. And usually I would pull her up on it, but I’m too focused on the problem at hand.
I wrinkle my brow at her. “This isn’t good news.”
She waves a hand. “Says you. What’s he look like? Is he hot?”
“Holly!”
“It’s a legitimate question!”
I consider my answer before I speak. I should lie, if nothing else than to save myself from what is going to come, but I can’t and so I grudgingly admit, “He is good looking, but he’s also not someone I want to share living space with. I’m going to speak to my landlord to see if I can break my lease. I don’t need the motorcycle mafia rolling around my street at all hours of the night.”
She holds up her hands. “Let’s just take a breath before you do something rash. For a start, you love that house, so moving is out of the question.” She’s right; I do love that house. I love it because it’s mine and it’s the first thing I’ve had that feels like mine for a long time. “Secondly, sweetie, you’ve been there, what? Three months now? And this is the first you’ve seen of him. Maybe he’s not there a lot.”
This is also true. “He did say he needed to come by more often,” I say, tapping my finger against my lip.
“Okay, we’re going to get onto that in a moment, but first, tell me how you pissed him off?”
I wince and try not to let my embarrassment get the better of me. “I may have… inadvertently… made out he wanted to rob me.”
Her mouth forms an ‘O’. “What the hell did you say?”
“Well, he was helping me with my shopping—”
“He was doing what?” she interrupts.
I shoot her a chastising glare.
“If you let me speak, I’ll tell you.”
She purses her lips together, then mimics zipping them closed and throwing away the key. I can’t help but shake my head at her. She’s a loon.
“My shopping bags split and my groceries went everywhere. So, he came over to help me pick it all up.” I let out a breath. “He wanted to bring my bags inside and… well, I hesitated. I think I offended him. No, I know I offended him. I don’t want to end up on some kind of ‘whack’ list, Hol.”
She lets out a guffaw, pushing her hair out of her face. “Sweetie, this is Kingsley, not New Jersey. For a start, those boys aren’t going to ‘whack you’. Generally, they don’t make a habit of taking out hits on every man and his dog who disapproves—and believe me, there are a lot of those people in Kingsley. If you feel that bad about what happened, just go over and apologise.”
My brow nearly shoots into my hairline. “Go over and apologise?”
“Yeah.”
“To the biker gang member?”
“Stop saying it like that. I’m sure he’s harmless. The man came over to help you pick up your shopping, then tried to carry it into your house—”
“Probably to rob me,” I cut her off.
Her eyes roll. “Not everyone is an axe murderer.”
While she’s right—not everyone is an axe murderer—I’m also aware that everyone puts on an act to some degree. Simon pretended to be the doting, loving husband. Behind closed doors that was not the case. I wonder who Mr Biker is behind closed doors. Probably someone I don’t want to know.
“They’re in a gang, Holly.”
“A Club,” she amends, as if the vernacular makes any difference. “They aren’t that bad anyway.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re criminals.”
I’m absolutely certain they are. I scoured the internet last night after the incident and what I read was not for the faint-hearted: aggravated assaults, drug running, affray, even murder… the Club has a reputation,
and it’s not a good one.
“I went to school with some of the boys—well, they’re men now,” Holly says. “They were normal kids back then—even the ones who were born in the Club.”
“Normal kids who grew up to join an organised crime ring,” I point out because that is not even in the same realm as normal.
She waves a dismissive hand at me. “They also do a lot of good things in the community. They’ve raised money for the shelter before.”
This I was not aware of, so my interest is well and truly piqued by her words. I sit up straighter in the chair.
“Really?”
“Yes.” Her gaze lowers to a manila file on her desk, proving she’s unable to switch off even for the duration of a conversation. “That’s how we were able to landscape the garden in two thousand and eight.” She glances up at me. “What does your biker look like? I may know him.”
“He’s not my biker!”
My protestation earns a grin. “Okay then what does your neighbour look like?”
Hot. And incredibly sexy.
I don’t say this, instead muttering, “He’s maybe in his thirties, tall, built like a brick-shit house. His head is shaved and he has a beard—like a proper beard, not that designer five o’clock shadow thing.”
“Oh.” She makes a low appreciative sound in the back of her throat that tells me exactly what she thinks of my neighbour, and it is all good. “That sounds like Dorothy’s grandson.”
I sometimes forget how close-knit this community can be, because if I was anyone else I would know immediately who Dorothy is and who her grandson is. However, I’m not Kingsley born and bred, so I have no idea who these people are.
“And his name would be?”
“Dean,” she tells me as she pulls out the form from the file and reaches for a pen in the desk tidy. “Dean Lawler.”
Dean.
Such a normal name for a man who seems anything but.
“He’s gorgeous; I can see why you’re thrown,” she adds and I don’t know why but her saying that pricks at my jealous bone. I don’t like that she finds him attractive. Then again, I’m not sure why I find him attractive either; he’s nothing like the men I usually go for. Simon was straight-laced, all suits and ties, smart shoes. Dean is completely the other end of the spectrum.
“I’m not thrown,” I protest a little too vehemently because Holly’s eyes narrow on me before they flare.
“You like him!”
The accusation makes my eyes widen. “I don’t like him, or anyone else for that matter.” Even I think I protest that too much. “Also, did you forget the part where I insulted him? No love lost there, Hols.”
“You barely insulted him.”
“You weren’t there. Besides, even if I did like him—which I’m not saying I do—but if I did, I wouldn’t go there with him. I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
Or ever.
Simon was enough to make me question all my life choices when it came to men.
Holly’s eyes roll at my statement.
“Sweetie, it’s time you got back on the dating horse.”
I’m pretty certain the look I shoot her is panicked because the last time that same statement was uttered it was disastrous.
“Do not set me up with anyone, Hol. I mean it.”
She shifts a little uncomfortably. “Okay, I dropped the ball on that one, but that was only one man, Olivia.”
Christ. She’d done more than drop the ball.
“No blind dates,” I say, my voice firm.
“Robert was… a mistake,” she admits with a wince. “I just thought you two might hit it off.”
A mistake is a polite way of saying a fucking calamity. Robert was a friend of Holly’s who was also terminally single—and for good reason. The man was self-absorbed. He spent our entire first date talking about himself. Nonstop. Still, it was almost therapeutic to go out on that date and while it didn’t lead anywhere it helped me to understand that men aren’t to be feared. Logically, I knew that anyway, but emotionally I found it hard to remember. Muscle memory is a tricky thing, something I discovered with Dean yesterday when I recoiled from him. I may seem over what happened in my past, but my instincts to protect myself are still there and are still just as fresh.
“A mistake is a nice way of putting it.”
“On paper you two sounded perfect.” She reaches for her cup and takes a long sip of coffee. “Anyway, enough about Robert—are you going to do it?”
I blink and bring my attention to Holly’s expectant face. “Do what?”
“Go over and apologise to Dean.”
“Uh, no, Hol. What I’m going to do is avoid the man and hope he doesn’t set fire to my house while I’m asleep.”
“Girl, I’m pretty sure your house is safe.”
“From the criminal biker I insulted?”
She just shakes her head. “You’re crazy, but I still love you.”
“Good to know,” I mutter. “Anyway, enough about bikers: tell me about our new resident.”
Holly leans back in her chair, brushing her hair off her face and I see the concern there. That makes me sit up and take notice because if Holly is worried, we should all be worried.
“Her name’s Hattie Monroe. She’s twenty-nine. No children but a very hostile partner. The violence in the household is high. She was hospitalised yesterday with two broken ribs and a busted face. Nursing staff called and when I went to speak to her she agreed to come to the shelter for a few days respite from him, but to be honest I’m not keen on her returning to that environment full stop.” Neither am I from what Holly’s telling me. It’s likely the violence will escalate if she does return, particularly after intervention from the shelter. “However, I don’t know that we’ll be able to keep her with us. I suspect she may push to go home. She was edgy the moment she arrived and she’s been edgy today.”
I nod, even as my stomach clenches at Holly’s words. A lot of the residents find it hard to leave their partner. I understand this because it took me years to leave Simon. This might sound bizarre—who stays with a partner who hurts them?—but there is a reason. These relationships have toxic elements, but they are not constantly bad. It’s not one endless cycle of violence; there is good between the bad. The hope of the good, of recapturing that, is what kept me holding on. For all our problems, Simon and I had a lot of good times, too. I wanted to get back to that, but I never could because Simon is damaged and I can’t fix that part of him. It took me a long time to understand that.
“She’s a Kingsley native?” I ask, pushing my ex from my mind.
“Yes, and so is he. She’s concerned he’ll track her down and she won’t be able to stop from leaving with him. I’ve already put the feelers out to see if one of the other national shelters can take her. Proximity is not going to help here. We need her out of the county. From what she told me last night, he’s not going to let her walk away without a fight and I’m not sure she’s ready to stand up to him yet.”
Again, my stomach contracts because this was the exact situation I was in with Simon. Months of therapy put my life back into perspective, including how controlling, how damaging my relationship with Simon was—and long before it got physical. Time was a good healer though. The longer I was away from him, the easier it became to cut those ties and to see our relationship for the toxic mess it was. I hope he’s changed his ways and from his social media pages it looks like he may have. Perhaps me and him were just a disaster waiting to happen—a cataclysmic reaction doomed from the start. If the photographs are to be believed he seems happier now and Tammy seems settled with him.
In the early days, I did worry that I would come home from work or from the supermarket and he’d be there, on my doorstep. Waiting. But that never happened. Finally, I plucked up the courage to check his social media profile. I expected posts about his missing wife and questions about where I was. I didn’t get that. Instead, I was greeted with images of another woman—one wh
o looks like a mirror image of me. Simon didn’t tear Bedford apart looking for me, as I’d expected; instead, he’d built a new life with another woman. I don’t know why but that hurt me. It shouldn’t, considering I dropped off the face of the earth one night. It took me a long time to work through those feelings, but eventually I did; Kath, the shelter’s assigned counsellor, has this way of making things make sense, and she put this into perspective for me too.
So, I started to relax, and Simon became a footnote in my history.
As soon as I was strong enough to stand on my own two feet, I put my life back into gear and hit the accelerator. I don’t want to look back and have regrets. That mantra and those thoughts helped me to move forward, so I no longer worry that he will be waiting for me at the turn of every corner—unless it’s a bad day when I’m not feeling strong. Thankfully, those days are few lately.
But I’ve been where Hattie is now, so I understand her fear. I’ve walked a mile (or twenty) in her shoes.
“This is her husband. He may turn up at the shelter if he realises she’s here.”
Holly hands me a photograph of a man, and I commit his image to memory. He doesn’t look impressive, but abusers rarely do. In fact, he’s a little on the weighty side and has the start of some serious male-pattern balding going on. That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.
“He doesn’t know she’s here?”
“No, I managed to get to her before he did.”
This is good news. Short of the hospital staff telling him where she is, she should be safe here. Should be. We can’t guarantee that he won’t discover her whereabouts, so we need to be on guard. Abusers are clever and inventive.
Once I’m sure I’ll remember his image, I hand the photograph back to Holly. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I’m trying to find her an emergency bed out of town. Distance may put him off pursuing her.”
It’s unlikely, and we both know it, but it’s worth a shot. If he wants her back enough, distance will be no deterrent. What it will do is make it hard for him to find her, which will give us time to help her work through her feelings. Hopefully, in that time we can break the cycle of violence and stop her returning to him.
