by Sophia Gray
It’s joy, though. I’m so lucky to enjoy my work. I turn on the radio, then sink deep into measuring and mixing.
Christopher hasn’t called since I went to sleep last night—or at least, when I tried to go to sleep. I’m almost dreading the sound of the phone ringing now. I thought once I blocked Lucas I wouldn’t have to be so frightened anymore.
The thing is, I’m not frightened, exactly. More like confused, mistrusting, wishing I knew the whole truth. Wishing Christopher had the balls to tell me about his past. I asked him about her, for God’s sake! I flat-out asked him who she was. He didn’t lie, but he wasn’t completely truthful.
Of course, would I have been completely truthful if it were me? I can’t say for sure. I can only imagine the pain Christopher must feel when he thinks about his wife. Not to mention the way people have talked about him.
I think back to the way he treated me while we were together. There wasn’t a single hint of harshness, roughness—not toward me, that is. He wanted to kill Lucas. He still might. But not me. He was sarcastic, argumentative, rough around the edges. But not violent.
I can’t believe he’d kill his own wife.
That being said, I can’t help but think about the way he threw me over his shoulder, carrying me into the house. He was strong enough to do just about anything to me. Michelle was a tiny little thing. Imagine what he might have done to her when his temper was up. It’s clear to me he has a fearsome temper that he hardly manages to keep under control sometimes.
Yes, but Michelle was shot in the chest. I might buy into the “he didn’t know his own strength” excuse if she were beaten to death. That’s not the case. I can’t imagine Christopher holding a gun to Michelle’s chest, pulling the trigger. I try to conjure up the image, but it doesn’t come. It’s too far-fetched. It doesn’t fit with the man I know.
There’s no doubt about him being part of the club, however. The ink on his chest is all the proof I need. I can’t overlook that. What sort of things has he done? Even if he didn’t murder Michelle, has he ever murdered another person? Beaten them? Stolen from them? The odds aren’t in favor of him having a clean record.
Can I handle that? Right now, no, even though I’m in a better mental place than I was last night. I don’t have the urge to scrub my skin until it nearly bleeds. Still, I can’t pretend I’m happy that he’s in a club like The Wicked Angels. If we were together, would I have to get to know those people? I don’t know.
I’m jumping the gun. I need to take a breather. I need to steer clear of Christopher, too, no matter how many times he calls or leaves sexy messages. I can’t imagine that will go on for much longer before he gets frustrated. He knows where I work. Will he come to town to find me? I shudder to think of the scene we might cause. The big, bad biker and the quiet coffee shop owner. That’ll get tongues wagging.
How do I manage to find these guys? I shake my head at myself while scooping batter into muffin tins. It’s as though I have an attraction to all the wrong men. I need to develop better instincts.
“Hey!” I hear Carly calling out from inside the front door and call out in reply. Have two hours really passed so quickly? I fell into baking meditation once again. “How long have you been here?” she asks, hanging up her coat. She looks cute today, as always, in her festive sweater.
I try to keep my heart from aching when I think about the time I could be spending with my parents. I think on how different my life would be right now if that damned snowstorm hadn’t blown in.
“A couple of hours. I couldn’t sleep.” I slide muffin plans into the oven, deliberately avoiding Carly’s eyes.
“Oh, honey. I could tell you were upset yesterday before you left. I’m sorry.”
I manage a smile. “It’s okay. I appreciate you setting me straight.”
“So did I? Like, have you decided to give him up?”
I shrug. “I’d like to say I did, but I can’t. Not entirely.”
“Oh, Amanda…”
“You don’t know. I feel like the world’s biggest idiot, standing here saying this to you, but it’s true. You don’t know him. All anybody knows is the rumors about him, who he’s connected to. Remember, he saved my life.”
“So I’m guessing you don’t believe he killed his wife?”
“My gut keeps telling me he didn’t. I can’t help it. Yeah, I freaked out big time last night.” I shift uncomfortably, the skin of my arms still a little raw beneath the sleeves of my sweater. “Now that I’ve had time to think it over critically, though, it doesn’t add up.”
“You’re sure your hormones aren’t steering you wrong?”
I scowl. “I’m sure. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. I’m not a horny teenager, Carly.”
She holds up her hands. “I know, I know. But it’s hard sometimes, separating fact from feelings. That’s all I’m saying.”
God, she’s so right. I can’t tell her how right she is or else I’ll wind up telling her my entire sordid history. I’m not sure I can handle that level of emotion today. Lord knows I’ve had trouble separating the facts of my relationship with Lucas from the way I felt for him. If I hadn’t let a misplaced sense of duty, guilt, and shame overwhelm me for so long, I would have walked out after the first time he laid a hand on me.
It wasn’t even love, I realize now. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, so it’s easy to see how little love was left between us, especially for me toward him. He needed me. I was his everything. This was the price of a long-term relationship. I can’t believe I fed myself that garbage for so long.
I know if I’d let anyone else in my life see inside my relationship they’d have ordered me to get away from him. That’s how bad it was, especially in the last year or so, which is why I hid everything. I slowly and methodically disconnected myself from my friends just so I wouldn’t have to face their scrutiny or deal with the exhausting task of keeping my misery under wraps. I couldn’t admit to myself how bad it was, but I instinctively put on a happy face for the rest of the world while never once mentioning Lucas to anyone. How messed up is that?
Am I making that same mistake now? Lying to myself when it’s so obvious I’m being a fool? Would it be smarter to write Christopher Barton off as a weekend fling, something anybody would have gotten into under the circumstances? I mean, two young people snowed into together over three days, one of them being a gorgeous, uber-masculine hunk. I’m only human.
There’s no time to think about it any longer, because the sun’s coming up and the customers will be piling in before I know it. I fill the coffee machines with water and turn on the lights in the display case before filling them with trays of goodies. Carly takes the chairs from the tables while chattering away about some little drama she’s having with her boyfriend. I can’t help smiling, knowing how hard she’s working to keep my spirits up.
They don’t stay up for long, though. One of the first things I hear from a customer has to do with the club.
“Mr. Foley! You shouldn’t be walking down the sidewalks in this weather!” It’s been cold in the aftermath of the blizzard, and while streets and sidewalks are clear, any snow that melts during the day freezes over at night. I’m sure he must have encountered ice on the way in.
“What can I say? We were jonesing for some of your muffins and a little coffee. I just can’t get by on that regular stuff anymore. You’ve turned me into a latte convert, young lady!”
“I’m flattered, but I wish you’d take it easy. I’ll box up a few more muffins to tide you over until things clear up out there. Okay?” I wink at him and turn away to make the coffee.
“Say, Mark!” I hear Mr. Foley call out to one of the other customers, a retired cop. “You hear the club’s back in town?”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. Carly, who’s pouring plain coffee, clears her throat.
“Yeah, I did.” Mark’s voice is tight, tired. “Don’t envy the boys dealing with them now. That was a helluva pain in the ass—oh, excuse my l
anguage, ladies.”
“Don’t mention it!” Carly’s cheerful voice cuts through my haze of turbulent thoughts.
“I heard a warehouse a few miles down the road was torched last night. Can’t say it was them; can’t say it wasn’t. Rumor has it another club owns the land.”
I close my eyes. Will this torture ever end? I’m sure Christopher wasn’t involved in that. Was he? Did he text me sexy things while standing off to the side as the warehouse went up in flames?
I turn back to Mr. Foley, coffee cups in a cardboard holder, begging him to be careful out there. Mark offers to drive him home. I’m glad for it—not to mention being glad they’re taking their conversation elsewhere.
The club’s back in town, and back in business. What does that mean for Christopher?
Chapter 20
All I can think about is getting home and getting some sleep. My early morning started catching up with me after the lunch crowd passed through. I’ve been dragging my feet ever since. Still, the smile hasn’t left my face all day. It’s a busy day, too, which helps the time pass.
There’s no mistaking the relief I feel when I finally walk through my front door. The house might not be big—I don’t need much space—but it’s cozy. One thing I have in common with Michelle is my fondness for homey décor. Well, that and Christopher.
The sight of a big, overstuffed sofa is just what my tired eyes need. I sink into it, stretching out once my shoes are off. Oh, sweet relief. I’m not even hungry, just exhausted.
I can’t spend all night here, though. I’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff back, wearing the clothes I wore to work. Yuck. I force myself up, rubbing my eyes, running my hands through my thick hair to wake up. I decide to get online for a while, distracting myself from thoughts of sleep until a more reasonable bedtime rolls around. Maybe I’ll order a pizza or something while I’m at it.
The first thing my eyes fall upon when I open my social media is an inbox full of messages. This is weird. I usually get my messages via email, not like this. Maybe I was added to a conversation with a bunch of other people and I’m getting all their responses. Ugh. I hate that.
But no. The truth is much worse. I have an inbox full of Lucas.
I put my hands over my mouth, staring at the screen. There are dozens of messages. It’s like he was holding a one-sided conversation all day long. I’m glad I don’t get notifications on my phone, or I would have been going crazy at the shop.
I shouldn’t look at them. I should ignore them, delete them. Get on with my life.
But I can’t. Who could? I start reading, my heart sinking lower with each awful message.
Who do you think you are, ignoring me? Do you think you can just walk away?
You can’t hide from me. I’ll find you anywhere.
I told you, I’ll never let you go, bitch.
Who are you fucking now, you slut? I hope they’re as bored with you as I was.
You’re nothing without me.
It goes on, but I’ve had enough. I move the cursor over his screenname, my hand shaking on the mouse, and block his account. At least he’s not online at the moment. I’m not sure I could handle live chat.
It’s the same everywhere, on every account. Nasty comments on my photos, which I delete—I hope none of my friends saw them. Nasty messages, which I save in case I ever need to use them. Nasty everything. He’s even gone so far as to create several fake accounts. I block them all, then tighten my security options. Nobody outside my contacts or friends can leave a comment or message, nor can they see any of my activity. I hope this does the trick.
The words are no longer on the screen, but they’re burned into my brain. Slut. Bitch. You got fat since you left your boyfriend. You look like shit in this picture. You’re a disgusting pig.
Words can’t hurt me. He’s crazy. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it does. He’ll go to any lengths to stalk me. He’ll spend endless hours terrorizing me.
I don’t have a lot of experience with the police, so I don’t pretend to know more than I know. But thanks to what I’ve seen on TV and in movies, one word keeps coming to mind: escalating. He’s escalating. He’s not begging me to take him back anymore, not telling me he loves me.
What will he do next?
Later on, in bed, all I can do is stare at the ceiling.
###
I’m a total mess at the shop. This makes two nights in a row in which sleep was nearly nonexistent. It’s showing, too. Yesterday I could play it off. One sleepless night is bearable. Today I’m screwing up right and left.
“I asked for a mocha with three shots, no whipped cream.”
“Oh, you did?” I look at Mrs. Sellers, her face slightly blurry. Damn. I screwed up again.
“Are you feeling all right, Amanda? You normally know my order before it even comes out of my mouth.”
I sigh, frustrated. She’s not upset. I am, though. I throw the drink down the drain behind the counter. That’s three drinks I’ve screwed up this morning. I start on a new one, apologizing even as I curse myself silently. Get it together, girl. I can’t let my customers see me falling apart.
Once the morning rush is over, I nearly crumple to the floor in relief. I go to one of the tables, not bothering to clean it off before sinking into a chair. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head there.
I hear Carly walking around, cleaning up, humming to herself. She’s stayed miraculously quiet all morning, not commenting on my short temper or inability to keep an order straight. I know this means I’m in for it now. I wait.
It doesn’t take long. “I guess I don’t need to point out that this isn’t like you.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” I can’t even pick my head up from my arms.
“Amanda…”
I sigh, unwilling to meet her eyes. I can’t handle a lecture right now. I’m too tired, my nerves too frayed. I don’t trust myself to take it well, and I don’t want to alienate the only true friend I have in town, not to mention a fabulous employee. “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping. That’s all. I’m really tired. A good night’s sleep will get me back in the game, coach.”
“I’m sure it will.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “I have some sleeping pills at home. I’d gladly get them for you.”
I pat her arm. “No, thanks. I’ve tried them, but they always leave me feeling hungover until at least noon. I’d still be a zombie either way.”
She bites her lip, watching me. “Okay. I just want you to be all right, you know? I’m always here for anything you need. I mean anything.”
“I appreciate it—and you.” I give her a hug, wishing I could be totally honest.
I know she thinks I’m so wiped out because of Christopher and the club. I want so much to tell her the truth, to clear Christopher’s name, at least a little bit in her eyes if no one else’s. But that would mean sharing the Lucas history. I can’t bring myself to do that. There’s still too much shame wrapped up in it. Mostly shame toward myself that I let myself be his victim for so long.
###
I stumble into the house, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and never come out. It’s only a little after four o’clock—Carly ordered me to go home while she cleaned up and close the place down. I was in no position to argue. I wondered at the time whether I’d make the drive home without falling asleep.
I can’t go to bed yet, or else my entire sleep schedule will be messed up. I can’t keep waking up at two in the morning. It’s not sustainable. I need to make it at least a few more hours.
I kick off my shoes, wondering vaguely about an early dinner. I dropped the mail on the kitchen counter, sorting through it without really paying attention to anything. My brain is mush.
Among the usual junk mail and a few bills is a plain white envelope. My name and address are written on it in big, block letters. There’s no return address.
The postmark is Texas.
My hands start shaking so h
ard I drop the envelope. I highly doubt one of my friends back in Texas suddenly decided to send me a letter. Besides, none of them knew where I’d moved. This was a deliberate choice. I didn’t want to give Lucas a chance to find me.
So who had?
I deliberate over whether to open the envelope in the first place. It could hold anything. Well, not anything, since it’s only a letter-sized envelope. But any number of things can fit into a small space. I chew my thumbnail distractedly. Should I just throw it away?
I can’t stand not knowing if it’s from him, and what it says. To be careful, I put on a pair of kitchen gloves. I’m sure Lucas didn’t get his hands on toxic chemicals. But I wouldn’t put anything past him.
I tear open the envelope, my heart pounding. I’m terrified, nauseated. Holding my breath, I peer inside the envelope.
