Almost Matched (Almost Bad Boys)

by A. O. Peart

  I scoot closer to him and carefully drape my arm around his chest. I rest one bent knee over his thigh in an attempt to calm him down. “I’m sorry. These memories are still quite vivid, aren’t they?”

  Colin nods and shoves his hand through his hair. His jaw works, and his nose flares. “One day she got high and drunk… hell, I should have known… I always tried to watch her, but she would find a way to sneak in some shit. I was young and stupid. I didn’t stray from drugs or booze myself. We were at a party, and this time she got herself pretty messed up really fast. She started making out with some guy. I got pissed and socked him in the nose. She laughed in my face and ran outside. I chased after her, but she hit me with a bottle, and I blacked out. She jumped in her car and started to drive away. I was able to get in. Tried to stop her, but she was so angry, totally psychotic. It was as if something possessed her. She must have taken some heavy-duty drugs. She swerved into the upcoming traffic and…” Colin starts breathing very deep and very fast.

  I jump up and grab his arms. “What it is? Colin, what’s happening?” I hold him down.

  He’s shaking, his teeth start to chatter, his eyes are unfocused. Fuck, is he on drugs? Colin hates drugs now! He told me that. We talked about that more than once!

  “Baby, slow down. I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” I whisper and press myself on top of him, trying to restrain him. I’m freaked out. Maybe I should call an ambulance.

  Colin grunts and continues hyperventilating. He tilts his head back and screams through clenched teeth.

  “God, what’s going on? What can I do? Did you take some shit? Talk to me!” Frantically, I look around as if I could find a solution in my bedroom. His eyes are dilated. He’s still shaking, but his breath is slowing down a bit. I grasp the phone from my side table and dial 911.

  The operator’s calm, professional voice asks me about the nature of my emergency. I explain what’s happening to Colin, give her his age, and my address. She says the ambulance is on its way. Soon there is a knock on the door. By then Colin is lying motionless, still breathing fast, his fists pressed to his eyes. I jump off him and run to the door. Two paramedics walk in. I take them to my bedroom. Colin is now sitting up on the bed, rocking back and forth.

  I kneel next to him and hold him tight. “The paramedics are here,” I whisper. “Tell them what’s happening, baby.”

  “I’m having a panic attack,” Colin says between deep breaths.

  The paramedics are talking with him, giving him instructions, checking his blood pressure and pulse. Soon, he swings his legs down from the bed and sits slumped with his feet on the floor. I stand next to him, ready to help, although I have no idea how. I hear him tell the medics that his panic attacks started in college after the car accident that took his friend’s life. He had PTSD for a few weeks afterwards, which I learn is the post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t know much about such stuff, but I’m sure this is serious.

  Colin’s face is more relaxed now. His skin has lost that weird ashen color and it’s back to its normal, healthy hue. I smooth his hair and kiss the top of his head. He touches my arm and looks up at me. I’m not sure how to interpret his expression, but I see a mix of gratitude, trepidation, and embarrassment.

  “Hey,” I whisper, squatting down in front of him and grasping his hands in mine. I smile, hoping to put him at ease. “I’m here. It’s okay. Whatever is happening, it’s okay.” I squeeze his hands and he squeezes mine back.

  When the paramedics leave, I lock the door and find Colin deep in thought.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?” I say gently.

  “Yeah, that would be great.” His voice is quiet, and he’s not looking at me.

  I return from the kitchen with a glass of iced water and I give it to Colin. He drinks half of it at once.

  “So, a panic attack,” I start cautiously.

  He nods a few times. His brows are bunched together, and a deep crease forms between them. I lay down on my side. “Come here. Lay down next to me.”

  Colin obeys quietly and a moment later he has his arms crossed under the back of his head. He’s looking at the ceiling. “That’s what I meant when I said that I haven’t been honest with you.”

  What? And here I was, right away accusing him in my head of cheating. I am such a bitch. Ugh. I feel like shit now. “Baby, why would you even think this is something dishonest?”

  “Because I should have told you. The panic attacks ceased a long time ago. I haven’t experienced any problems in years—no flashbacks, no sleep disorder, no medication or therapy needed. But I also didn’t let myself get close to anyone since Faith died in that car crash.”

  “There was nobody all these years?”

  “There were women. A lot of them really. But even though I tried, I couldn’t let myself get involved with anyone.”

  I open my mouth but I stop the words from coming out. I’m not sure what I should and what I shouldn’t say. So I wait for him to carry on.

  He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head before saying, “I detached myself from everyone in my life. Even from the two closest family members that took the place of my dead parents: my grandma and my great grandma. The only thing that I was able to do was study. Like a maniac. I completed all the required college courses in record time. And then I did my Masters. Slowly, the bad memories subsided, I was able to get off the meds, and stop the therapy. Everything seemed to return to normal. I had my dream job with the coolest radio station in town. I made new friends. I had no issues.” He chews on his lower lip.

  I look at him. “And then? What triggered this panic attack?”

  “There were two before this one. Both this week,” he says gravely.

  “Just like that? After a few years of no problems? What do you think prompted them?” I ask, but I’m really scared to hear the answer. I don’t know why, but I have a nagging feeling this has something to do with me.

  Colin turns his body to mine, and we are facing each other. He moves closer and rests his forehead against mine. And then he says, “You did.”

  “What?” My heart pounces in my chest, and all blood drains from my face. Normally, I would have some snarky comeback at ready, but this isn’t the time for any of my signature humorous innuendos.

  I watch him. I think he’s trying to put on a brave face, but I can read him like an open book: this is really hard for him. There is so much pain behind those blue, sexy eyes, and I just realize I only know Colin on the surface.

  He kisses my nose, and tries to smile but only manages a miserable grimace. “I don’t want to lose you, Natalie. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ever.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  Bonus Material:

  Excerpt from Almost Broken Up, book two in the Almost Bad Boys Series.

  “And we forget because we must and not because we will.”

  Matthew Arnold

  Colin

  My own scream wakes me up. I jolt upright, panting. In the darkness, my eyes desperately try to decipher where I am. It takes me a moment. A motel room, somewhere along the Interstate 5 in southern Washington. Yesterday I got in the car and just kept driving north. No direction, no plan, no destiny. Driving without purpose was the only thing that let me feel like escaping from the nightmare of the previous evening.

  And then I start to shake uncontrollably. The sheet is crumpled around me in a heap of a sweaty mess. I grasp fistfuls of it and press it to my face and chest, wiping more sweat from my skin. My heart races, and the memories return: Faith’s dead eyes, opened wide, staring into the nothingness; her face bloodied, blond hair stuck to it; blood dripping in a steady, slow rhythm from her parted lips and onto the pavement. Shards of the dark-green glass from the wine bottle that only moments ago she clutched in her hand, stick out from her bruised, bloodstained hand and face; small pieces of shattered windshield of her car scattered around her small body. The body that I held close just moments before the crash.

  I
tried; I really tried to calm her down, to reason with her, to stop her. But I didn’t do a very good job, did I? Because she lays on the pavement, broken, and gone… She will never be again. Faith, my Faith… She is no more.

  A painful scream builds up in my chest. It expands, stretching me from the inside. My breath is forgotten. I need to contain the scream in my chest. Because if I let go, everything will start over. The panic; the ruthless panic that clutched its burning fingers around my throat before will return again. And this time it won’t stop. It will eat up my brain. It will open up a hole in my heart. It will leave me as broken as Faith’s body on that pavement yesterday. I should have died there right next to Faith…

  I gather the rest of the sheet to my chest and bury my face in it. I bring my knees close and start rocking back and forth, back and forth, back…

  Faith…

  Faith!

  “Faith!!!!!” I hear my scream as if coming from the outside of this room, from the outside of the window. I’m scared. The panic won. I’m stuffing the sheet in my mouth to keep from screaming. I don’t want the people around. I don’t want to talk, to explain, to answer any questions. Yesterday at the police station it was all I did—the countless questions that I answered calmly and with reason. But now the reason is gone. And I’m broken. I’m just like Faith… broken.

  I taste blood in my mouth. My teeth clamp around the fabric. Tears roll down my face and sink into the white mess of the sheet. I rock harder back and forth, back and forth, back… and forth…

  I must have passed out, because now I dream. But the dream is real: Faith runs away from me. She laughs and throws quick glances behind to see if chase her. Her long blonde hair escapes from the messy bun on top of her head. She clutches a wine bottle in one hand and the keys to the car in the other.

  I yell for her to stop. I will get her in a moment. Because my legs are so much longer than hers. She’s only about five feet tall. Such a tiny, sweet thing… and so crazy, so fucked up in her head. I have to keep an eye on her all the time. I never know what she will get herself into. But I’m afraid to let her go. She would’ve done something stupid if I did. I have to be there for her, to protect her, to watch out for her. But this is getting too much.

  I stretch my hand, and my jaw tightens. I’m angry with her. This time she pushed too far. Maybe she wanted to piss me off for kicks. Or maybe she’s not even aware of what she’s doing. I don’t know what drug invention she took this time. But she chased it with tons of booze before I could intervene. I left her only for a moment to take a piss. When I came back to the room, she was wrapped around that guy.

  She let him get all over her, grinding into him, kissing him, pressing him into her. I punched the punk in the face. I probably broke his nose, but I didn’t give a fuck. She ran. She laughed and ran. This time I’ll grab her and shake her hard. We’ll talk. Being responsible for Faith as if she was a child and not a grown woman is one thing. But letting her piss on our relationship is quite another. I’m putting a stop to it. She needs professional help. I can’t do it anymore. I ball my fists and feel my face twist in anger.

  My hand closes on her shoulder. She shrieks, swings her arm, and hits me in the face with the bottle, red wine spraying from it in my eyes. My vision goes black from the blow, and I fall down to the ground. A sharp, burning pain shoots from my forehead all the way through my brain and into the back of my head. It spreads down to my spine, forcing air from my lungs with an oomph sound.

  I hear her scream continuously. It’s like a nightmarish song—high-pitched and wild. There are words, but I can’t comprehend them. My ears feel stuffed with cotton. No, maybe I’m under water? And then the realization crashes down on me—Faith has her car keys. She took them from my pocket and ran. She’s drunk to the point of half-consciousness. And she’s running toward her car! Fuck! My stomach clamps in alarm, and I know I have to stop her!

  I scramble up from the ground, grunting in pain and confusion that still churns in my head. A warm, sticky liquid slides down from my forehead and over the bridge of my nose. I’m on my hands and knees, shaking my head to clear it from the muddy blizzard inside. I touch my face, and my fingers come out covered with blood. I have a cut on my forehead from where she hit me with the bottle.

  I stand up, wobbly. The bile rushes up to my throat, but I won’t let it threaten its way out. Faith. Where is she? It’s starting to rain, hard; just like that. I welcome the sensation on my burning skin. The rain washes off some of the blood and dirt from my face. I stumble forward.

  “Faith!” I roar. “Faaaaaaaaith!” I shake my head again and blink my eyes. Fuck, my head hurts, and I don’t know if it’s only from the blow she gave me, or if the alcohol adds to the throbbing. Or maybe she slipped some shit into my drink. That is also a possibility. I touch the wound again, this time with the back of my hand. The blood continues to flow, and my hand comes back with a thick smear of a bright-red on it. I feel like retching, but I have to find Faith first.

  I run, despite the carousel in my head. I take mouthfuls of air and force my muscles to obey me. I am a fast runner but not now. What’s happening? I feel as if I’m running in the water. I see Faith reaching her tiny beat-up car and collapsing on the hood. She scrambles up, swaying and shouting out some crazy song. She tilts her head back and takes a gulp of wine from the bottle.

  “Faaaaaaaith!” I roar. “Wait!”

  My lungs burn, but I run. She walks to the driver’s side of the car, opens the door, and flops down onto the seat. I’m almost there. The engine whines but doesn’t start. She tries again and again. I reach for the passenger’s door and scramble in. “Fuck! Faith, what the hell are you doing?”

  Before I can completely get in, the car lurches forward, and I almost fall out. I yell, and she screams angrily, “Leave me alone, Colin! You’re not my daddy, are you?” Her eyes are unfocused, and her head swivels on her neck. She accelerates, and I drag myself inside, slamming the door closed.

  “Stop, please stop, Faith. You want me to go? I’ll go. I’ll leave you be. I promise. Just stop the car. You shouldn’t drive—”

  “Shut up!” she screeches, and I see the confusion on her face as if she’s not completely here.

  Quickly, I buckle my seatbelt and reach across her to grab hers. But she pushes me away. Hard, snarling. The car dances on the street in some dreadful zigzag pattern.

  I stretch my arms behind my seat and grasp the back of it, trying to stay put. “Stop the car, Faith. You’re gonna kill us!”

  “Fuck you.” She brings the bottle to her lips, tilts her head, and the car swerves onto the upcoming traffic. A black semi blares its horn. The truck rushes at us.

  I grab for the steering wheel, but it’s too late. The impact pushes my arm away. Our cries mix with the screech of twisting metal, and with the cacophony of horns. The bottle flies from Faith’s hands. Wine sloshes in a wide, red shower in the car. Her eyes are huge, scared. My throat stings from screaming, but I don’t stop. The windshield and the front side windows explode. Small bits of glass rain inside and outside of the car.

  The car flips over, and I cry out, “Faith! No!” Her tiny body catapults from the seat and through the driver’s side window. Her blood sprays everywhere. The seatbelt grips me tight.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. My mouth is frozen, the muscles disobeying. The scream doesn’t end. My lungs burn. I force the air in them. I force it out. I have to breathe. The noise is unbearable. Oh, God, is this how it all ends? The car rolls once more. It stops rolling but it shakes. Or maybe I’m shaking? I’m quiet, I don’t scream anymore. I cry, sobbing uncontrollably. Is there anything that I can control now?

  “Faith!” I struggle against the seatbelt. I hear voices. Many voices.

  Someone falls onto their knees by my shattered window.

  “Are you okay?” he asks frantically, touching my neck. The pulse. He’s looking for the pulse.

  I force my eyes to open. Slowly I manage to turn my head toward him. �
�Faith?” I whisper.

  His face contorts as if in pain. “You’re just a kid. How old are you?”

  “Twenty one,” I whisper, blinking the tears from my eyes.

  I sit on the pavement, wrapped in a blanket. I can’t stop shaking. The red-and-blue lights of the emergency vehicles bother my eyes. Two paramedics are checking my vitals. One disinfects the cut on my forehead and wraps the bandage around my head.

  The police are here too. An officer walks up to us and kneels down on one knee in front of me. He checks with the paramedics first. They tell him that I’m going to the hospital.

  He looks at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Colin Hampton.” My voice is hoarse. It hurts to talk. Must be from all that screaming in the car.

  “How old are you, Colin?” the cop asks in a gentle tone.

  I tell him, and he writes it down next to my name.

  “Tell me what happened,” he asks.

  I can’t sort this out. I don’t know what to say and what not. The paramedics already told me that Faith didn’t make it. I feel numb inside. I shiver under the blanket, and my teeth chatter.

  The cop waits, eyeing me. What can I tell him about Faith right here, right now? What is that he wants to hear? That she was a girl from some tiny village? That her weirdo father kept her on a tight leash until she left for college? That she went crazy with all that freedom and welcomed the drug and booze addiction? That she never wanted to talk about her family because of what her uncle used to do to her? That her father never believed her, and so she suffered quietly until some mysterious circumstances put her uncle in jail? Leaving for college was her deliverance. But it was deliverance from only one problem and an open invitation to another.