The Space Between (The Book of Phoenix)

by Kristie Cook

  I shook my head. “No! You can. You have changed me. But it all crashed down on me, and I couldn’t handle it. I needed a drink or two to take the edge off, and then more memories came and one thing led to another and—”

  Her whole body stiffened. Her expression turned to stone, her green eyes like jade. “Wait. You know? You remembered?”

  “I’m sorry for how I reacted. Please believe me. I promise to never hurt you like that again. I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you. Please let me?”

  She stared at me with wide eyes that looked on the verge of tears, then her gaze rolled to the ceiling. Her chest lifted with a deep breath. Then she lifted her arms away from her thighs and dropped them again. I would have preferred more commitment, but I’d take what I could get right now.

  “So we’re good?” I asked. “We’ll get out of here when your truck’s done and take off, right? We can go wherever you want—back to Georgia, maybe, and start over.”

  Her brows pushed together. “We still have to go to Tampa.”

  “No way,” I signed, shaking my head. “I’m not doing what Micah did to Jacey . . . what I did to you. That place is a death trap.”

  “There’s nowhere else to go!” Her temper suddenly—finally—flared. Her calmness before had been a temporary hold on the fire building inside her, a fire she could no longer control. Maybe she’d given up trying. With a shaking hand, she pulled a paper towel out of her back pocket and waved it in my face. My handwriting showed on parts of it. “You tell me to go home, but I don’t have a home to go to! I have no one, but you, Jeric! And I don’t even have you.”

  The tears filling the rims of her eyes poured over now, breaking me once again.

  “Of course you have me,” I signed as I stepped closer to her. “I’m right here.”

  I moved to pull her into my arms, but her face filled with disgust, and she shoved me away.

  “They’re still all over you!” she yelled aloud, so loudly my chest felt the vibrations. I stared at her stupidly, thinking I misread her lips. She pressed the paper-towel-note against my face and scrubbed my mouth and cheek so hard she might have taken a layer of skin off, then showed me the pink smear of what could only be lipstick.

  Ah, fuck. I was the biggest cocksucker in the world.

  “I can’t believe you!” she screamed, her face bright red and the veins in her neck showing. “Even knowing what you did about us! And you say you’re here for me? Bullshit!”

  The hate in her eyes hurt worse than any physical blow I’d ever received. The knife in my heart an injury I’d never recover from.

  How could I do this to her when she meant so much to me? How could I screw up this badly? Worst of all, I couldn’t recall doing anything with anyone. And I should remember—I should have to live with the scathing memory forever, just as the image of the lipstick on my face would be forever etched in her mind. But the last thing I remembered was sitting on the picnic table and gazing at the stars.

  I’d considered taking off, had packed up my stuff and left Leni a note and everything, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My whole body had wracked with pain at the thought of leaving her, vulnerable and alone. So I’d sat outside, staying close in case the Shadowmen made an appearance. But some protector I was, considering I remembered nothing else until I woke up on that couch an hour ago with Leni freaking the hell out.

  She shoved me again, toward the door. “Get out. Get the hell out!”

  Chapter 29

  I’d been the biggest fool to ever exist on this earth.

  I’d fallen for Jeric’s charms, naively believing he’d changed for me. Grasping at the ridiculous idea I’d captured the heart of this man-whore because our souls were connected. We may have been lovers before. We may have even been the same soul. But this was a different life with different circumstances. Our history together didn’t guarantee a future. But for some reason I’d believed in a happily ever after. With Jeric!

  I’d set myself up for this heartbreak. It wasn’t his fault. He was only being Jeric. How could I be mad at him for being himself when I could never be myself? Sure, he’d lied to me, although he probably thought he was simply feeding me lines. Everything he’d ever told me was part of his usual game. I knew what he was like that moment in the dark parking lot at the motel, when he’d come running out of his room, another girl following behind him. I knew this when I asked him to come to the lake with me.

  Somewhere along the way, I’d become the girl who thought she could change the bad boy, rescue him from his past and make him want to settle down. I’d told myself going in to avoid such hopes and expectations, because they rarely came true. Bad boys were bad boys for a reason. Jeric was Jeric for a reason. It wasn’t fair to blame him for my own idiocy.

  This had been my reasoning when I’d opened the door for him, thinking he hadn’t remembered what I had after all. He hadn’t known we’d been together for eons. But now I knew. He had remembered.

  “You say you aren’t a runner,” I said as I continued shoving him out the door, “but when the truth hit you, you ran last night, you coward. If you’re not in this with me, you may as well go back to your bimbos.”

  He tripped over the threshold, barely catching himself before face-planting on the ground.

  “Um . . . pardon may?” said a female voice with a heavy Southern drawl, and my head snapped up. Speak of the devil. The other bimbo, not Bethany, but the dark-haired one who could have been her sister based on their shared facial features, stood in the sun beyond the shade of the camper’s awning. Jeric’s belongings sat at her feet. “Ah’m sorry, but thought ya’ll might want his thangs.”

  No, I didn’t. She could have him and his thangs.

  I slammed the door so hard, the camper shook and dishes rattled in the cabinet. And it felt good. Jeric had been right about the feeling of release. I screamed at the top of my lungs, my fists balled at my sides and the veins and muscles of my neck straining. That felt good, too. I dropped to my knees and punched the pillows and the futon. More adrenaline pumped me up further. I stomped through the camper, grabbed random items and hurdled them at the walls. Air rushed through my lungs. Blood flowed to my fists. I slammed my hand into the bathroom door, punching a hole through it and leaving a delightful pain on my knuckles.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks as my hands gripped the edges of the bathroom sink and I stared into the mirror. A tiny part of me wanted to crumple to the floor, sobbing and cradling my broken heart. To cry away the hurt and the anger behind closed doors. But no. I didn’t want to cry. Not this time. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to feel the rage roiling inside me and let it all out for once.

  “I HATE YOU!” I shrieked at my reflection with so much force and volume, the words were indecipherable.

  No matter. The person I meant them for was far, far away. Not Jeric. My bitch of a mother. Imagining her reaction to my words and my tantrum came easily—the sugary smile on her face accompanied by a warning I knew too well in her eyes. I saw her face now as I stared in the mirror. How could I ever doubt she was my mother? We had the same green eyes. But I wasn’t her. I never was.

  “I’m ME!” I yelled at the mirror. “Do you hear me, Mama? I. Am. Me.”

  And it was time to be myself. I’d let Jeric off the hook for being himself. Why did he get to have all the fun? Why did everyone else get to do what they wanted but I could never allow myself the same privilege? It was my turn. I was done trying to be someone I wasn’t.

  I stormed into the bedroom, dug through my suitcase and threw my clothes over my head until I found my favorite, tight-fitting jeans with the rip up the thigh and a snug, white tank top. I yanked my clothes off and changed, surprised I didn’t rip anything in the process with the force I put into every move. My faded red cowboy boots made the outfit better than heels ever would.

&nb
sp; Returning to the bathroom, I dampened my hair with my hands, trying to control the mane of curls as best as I could. A few strokes of eyeliner and mascara and a brush of blush accomplished what I wanted. I wasn’t going for my stage look—no patience for that. I just didn’t want to look like I’d woken up two minutes ago. I grabbed my fake I.D. and cash out of my bag, stuffed them into my back pocket and stomped for the door.

  Jeric and his thangs were still out there, but the girl was gone. Surprise crossed his face as soon as he drank me in with his eyes, but then he crossed his arms over his chest and stepped into my path. He shook his head. I glared at him.

  “Where are you going looking like that?” he asked.

  I answered by shoving past him and heading on my way. He caught up with me and stopped me with a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around. I looked up at him with a raised brow.

  “Where are you going?” he asked again.

  “To blow off some steam,” I said aloud. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Like that?” His gaze traveled up and down my body.

  “I’m hoping to have some fun, too. You’re not the only one who gets to do that.”

  His jaw clenched. “Don’t do this, Leni.”

  I glared at him harder. “You wanted to see the real me? You wanted her to come out? Well, here she is, Jeric. The real Leni in all her glory.”

  I spun and strode off again, kicking up clouds of dust. He ran into my path once more.

  “Please, Leni, don’t.” His eyes, his whole expression pleaded my mercy. “You’re killing me, babe.”

  My eyes narrowed, and I spit my words at him, hoping he understood because my hands were too busy being fists at the moment. “You lost your right to call me babe. And if you think I care one tiny turd of shit about how you feel, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  The corners of his lips jumped and his hands hung in the air with no words to say. When I stomped off this time, he didn’t follow.

  Horns blared at me and some guy yelled a catcall out his window as he passed by while I waited for the traffic to clear so I could cross the road. Finally, I jogged across, through the parking lot and to the bar. Several heads turned my way when I came through the door, letting the early evening sun into the lounge.

  Inside wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been earlier, with all of the neon signs lit on the wood-paneled walls, advertising beer and liquor. Being Happy Hour, the place wasn’t nearly as empty either. Both truckers and locals crowded around the large, rectangular bar with two bartenders in the middle pouring drinks and chatting with their patrons. More people sat in booths and at four-tops scattered throughout the lounge, some with food on their tables, others with only drinks. An old-fashioned jukebox played country music, blasting over the conversation and laughter. The cacophony was shocking at first after nearly a week of living in near silence with Jeric, but then I relished it. Let the vibes fill me. I glanced at the mechanical bull, still lifeless in its corner, waiting for an operator. Later, I promised myself.

  First, I needed a drink. Or three.

  The bartender eyed my I.D. and my face for a moment, but then shrugged and made my drink. Jaeger and Red Bull. First the pungently sweet smell and then the taste took me back to my nights at the club. Where I’d dared to let the real Leni out. Three drinks had always been my limit—a good buzz, but not falling-down, blacking-out drunk. Just enough to loosen myself up and slip away from Mama’s relentless hold. Enough to not care about the eyes all over me filled with either judgment or lust.

  By the time I finished my first drink, I became chatty with the bartenders and anyone else around who joined in our conversation. I asked about the bull and they said the operator would be in shortly. After my second drink, I was feeling especially good. Too good. Probably because I hadn’t eaten all day. The female bartender placed a plate of fries in front of me.

  “On the house,” she said, then she leaned forward over the bar and lowered her voice. “You need to be careful, hon. Some of these truckers—and even a coupla the locals—are sick fucks slobberin’ for a girl like you, if ya know what I mean.”

  I nodded and ate the fries, then ordered another drink. By the time I finished that one, a few people had made it to the dance floor, and I joined them, loosening up and preparing to enter the zone. The bull operator had arrived and the first guy had already been dumped. The bar was growing crowded and I’d lost my seat. I ordered a beer, then sauntered over to the bull pit, where a small group gathered. Tough guy after tough guy gave their five dollars for a short ride and a throw to the mats. Only one lasted more than eight seconds. A nice-looking guy, if you like cocky cowboys. He kept harassing the others gathering around, daring them to beat his time. A larger crowd began to form.

  I stepped over to the jukebox and was glad to find a few dance songs among all the country tunes. A little outdated and none my favorites, but these would work. I selected several to give myself enough time, then sauntered over to the operator. He started to argue with me when I told him what I wanted.

  “Trust me,” I said, “when I’m done, everyone will be wanting to ride. That’s a lot of five-dollar bills.”

  He finally gave in with a shrug as my first song ended.

  “Try to stay to the music, but not too fast, okay?”

  He nodded as he dumped the cowboy. I drew in a deep breath and shook out my shoulders, then headed for the bull and waited for my next song to start. The guys gathered around started whistling and heckling.

  “Whatcha doin’ up there, pretty momma? Think you’re gonna ride that thang?”

  “You wanna ride something big, I got it right here.”

  “Bet she won’t last two seconds.” Cocky cowboy, of course.

  My song started and the guys balked at it, but quieted when I mounted the mechanical bull with flair, then grasped it with my thighs and held on. It’d been a few months since I’d ridden and I wasn’t used to this operator, so it took a couple of rounds to ground myself, and the heckles returned, growing louder. But riding the bull was like riding a bike. The operator did as I’d instructed, lifting and turning it slowly to 50 Cents’ Candy Shop. And I danced.

  Some girls did the pole. I did the bull.

  I rode it like no one here had ever ridden it before, losing myself to the music and the moves. The bull rocked and turned, and I moved with it, falling into my zone. Into the freedom of being me, of doing something for no other reason than because I enjoyed it. Because it felt good.

  I sprawled out on the top of the bull, lifted to my knees and then to my feet, came down again and straddled it like I would a man, arching my back until my head nearly touched the end behind me. Then I eased up again, all the way to my feet, hands down, butt in the air. When the bull slowly turned so both my eyes and my ass faced the crowd, several women had joined the guys, who all stared with mouths hanging open.

  Including Jeric.

  He stood back, closer to the bar, arms crossed over his chest and eyes smoldering. I came upright and down to straddle the machine over the bull’s “shoulders,” facing its rear, and the song ended. But I didn’t dismount, and my next song began. Nobody argued about it being their turn. I tore my eyes from Jeric’s, scanned the female faces and found the most likely one. I wiggled my fingers at her, then patted the bull where you normally sit. She came over and climbed on facing me. We’d dance the bull together.

  She tightened her short-clad thighs against the bull and our bodies rocked and writhed back and forth to the rhythm. We were fully clothed and more than a foot apart, but I knew the effect we had when the guys went crazy, whooping and whistling and overall growing rowdy. Jeric had moved closer by now, almost to the front of the crowd. He’d cleaned up, at least, wearing a tight Affliction t-shirt and jeans. I winked at him when the song ended, then motioned for the cowboy next to him. Jeric became a statu
e. Obviously happy to be picked, the cowboy sauntered over the way cowboys do, hitched his belt, then climbed on across from me. The music and the bull started up once again.

  But we didn’t last eight seconds.

  Chapter 30

  Leni had me in her trance like she did every other guy and half the women in the bar, working the mechanical bull like a professionally trained dancer works a pole. I’d never seen anything so fucking sexy. She rode the thing like she was making love to it, and I became suddenly jealous of a machine, wanting it to be me under her, bucking her around like that. And when the other girl joined her . . . Shit. Every guy in the house, and probably the women, too, had to have grown wood.

  So this was what she meant when she said she wasn’t so pure. You didn’t learn to dance on a mechanical bull in a ballet studio. Especially not those kinds of moves. She had to have learned it in a strip club. And the thought of Leni—my Leni—stripping for other men made me see red with anger.

  Then she had to go and pull the stunt with the cowboy.

  She did it to rub my face into the shit I’d taken at her feet. I couldn’t blame her. I deserved it and honest to God, I tried to let it go. Tried to let her have her fun, since apparently I’d had mine, although I still couldn’t remember it. I didn’t feel like I’d had sex, my balls still blue from wanting Leni and Leni only.

  But when the little douchebag reached over and put his hands on her thighs and leaned closer until only inches separated their faces, it was all over.

  I barely noticed the flicker of fear that crossed Leni’s face, not needing to. I was already moving. One punch to the cheek sent the asshole off the bull. The machine stopped moving, and Leni stared at me with disbelief. I picked her up, threw her over my shoulder and strode for the door before the cowboy or his friends retaliated. At least she didn’t start kicking my thighs and punching me until we were out the door, so no one tried to stop me. Not that I couldn’t handle them; I didn’t want Leni to get hurt.