The Art of Me (The All of Me Book 1)

by S. J. Blaze

I followed Tori towards the bathroom, and when we entered the room I knew I had made a grave mistake. We weren’t in the bathroom; we were in some type of study. In the back of the house. During a party. It didn’t take long for me to realize what was happening and I immediately went to the door, but Tori stood in front of it and blocked my path.

  I recognized no one in the room accept for a guy, James, who had been in my International Relations class. He had been sweet to me and we struck up conversations every so often. However, the four other huge men….yeah, I was done for.

  I later learned that it was James’ twenty-first birthday and I was his present. A pretty little virgin.

  The biggest of the five men came to me, grabbing my arm; my instinct was to fight and so I did. Mistake number two. I screamed and punched him across the face, and in response, he shoved me into a large mirror. My head hit hard, splintering it and sending shards every which way. I grabbed a large piece from the floor and swung it at him. I managed to slice his forearms, but fared in slitting my palm and dropping my one and only weapon. My second wound of the night. In response, he picked it up, plunged the glass into me, and broke it off.

  My vision splintered, my breathing ragged, there wasn’t much left of me to fight. James easily had his way. Tearing my clothes and ripping into me.

  I was fourteen…FOURTEEN.

  Never had a date.

  Never had a kiss.

  Never had a boyfriend.

  And never, ever had had sex.

  They thought I was so much fun that they each took a turn. I begged for death. Wished for it. In total five men. To my fourteen-year-old self. Four would hold me down, while the other did his business. With each shift change, I would fight, between tears and screams. Until the end, when the last guy took his stance and wanted me from behind. A different way to torture me. By then my vision and consciousness was inconsistent. Time lapsed. I was no longer attached to my body. Eventually, I was out of the fight altogether. Slipping into blissful unconsciousness, pleading to never return.

  I later learned that they had wrapped me up in a bed sheet and left me in front of my dorm. Naked, beaten and bloody. I was a dog to be forgotten. Used and disregarded. And ultimately, left for dead.

  DOA…that’s what they called it. I died upon arrival to the hospital. They attempted to resuscitate me several times, but were unsuccessful. My heart couldn’t take it and I had lost too much blood. So on December 3rd, 2007 at approximately one fifty-eight a.m., I died at age fourteen. Even dogs have a higher life expectancy. I had flat lined. I was gone.

  And then, I wasn’t. Seven minutes and six seconds later, I was reborn. I wish I could say that I have some new profound view on life. Or that I can see the dead. Or something insightful. Maybe even a super power. But I’m just me.

  I’ve heard that those individuals who have crossed over, even for a short period of time, can recant tales of lighted tunnels and loved ones lost. I had none of that.

  I woke three and half weeks later in the hospital. I had suffered two concussions, so much so that they had to put in a stent for drainage. Due to traumatic brain injuries, my brain had swollen so severely that holes were drilled into my skull to relieve the pressure, and I was placed in a medical coma.

  My left humerus had a displaced fracture, my right shoulder had been separated resulting in the tearing of the rotator cuff, a closed fracture in my right ulna, my pelvis had been fractured, and the ligaments in the anterior muscle torn. My face endured several lacerations and multiple bruising, as well as a broken nose.

  Internally, I was nearly as severely damaged. Thankfully, my lungs remained intact, but my large intestines and pancreas were perpetually damaged. My spleen, however, could not be saved and a splenectomy was performed.

  They questioned whether I’d ever be functional again. The brain is a fickle organ. But after three weeks and four days, I woke to a room full of people, every one waiting for answers.

  When the police came in to question me, as the hunt for my attackers had been well underway, I lied and told them I had no memory.

  That I didn’t remember the brutality.

  Didn’t remember the betrayal.

  Didn’t remember the decimation of my sense of self.

  Didn’t remember the abject fear enrooted in my every cell.

  The UF scandal made national news. Although nobody was arrested, all evidence was deemed circumstantial, and the university decided to close down the fraternity house. The victim, an unnamed minor, was brutally raped. This began a national ethical debate on whether the university system is flawed and caters to the fraternal presence on campus, allowing them to literally get away with murder. Regardless, it was a hot topic on the 24-hour news channels.

  That is why when I find a distraught Coen Collins banging on my door at 7:28 a.m. on Saturday morning, I’m not surprised. I was the one who encouraged him to review my background check.

  He managed to stay away all week. And the ‘proper’ date that was absolute, never came. I was too buried in my own work to notice, so I never followed up on his true whereabouts.

  “Who’s there?” I ask through the door. I know it’s Coen, but I thought to delay the inevitable.

  “It’s me, love. Let me in.” His coarse voice barely reaching me.

  I crack open the door and usher him in. He’s sporting loose fitting blue basketball shorts and a long sleeved white tee. But it’s his eyes. They look bloodshot and tired. His hair is free of its usual gelled prison and in complete disarray. A curly blonde free-for-all.

  Before I can fully turn around after closing the door, he has me secured in his arms.

  “Tell me it isn’t you. Tell me those animals never touched you.” He’s grinding this out, the words barely reaching me through his clenched teeth.

  “Coen,” I breathe out on a whisper. I mean realistically, what can I say? There’s no way he’s getting the complete story. Nobody has and nobody will. I won’t recant any of it.

  I decide to play dumb and make him out me. “What isn’t me?”

  He lets me go and walks over to the couch. Resting on his arms, he leans over it. I notice his back muscles tense. I don’t like seeing him upset. I like Coen. Despite whatever whore-ish ways he carries, much like the rest of the XY chromosomal companions I have in my life, he has proven to have more discipline and may be even more dependable. Only time will really tell, though.

  I walk over and rest my head between his shoulder blades. I’m barefoot and he’s a giant. I bring my hands around him and squeeze. He smells good. I think I’ve missed his warmth. Coen is light.

  “What would you like me to say, Coen? What do you want to hear?” I whisper into his back.

  “Just tell me…you were at UF. Were you at that party? Was it you?” His voice gradually fades with each word. He doesn’t really want to know. Nobody wants to hear. Not really.

  “Coen…I, ah…I was at the party. The only frat party I’ve ever been to actually.” I chuckle with that last part. It’s sad and pathetic and kind of funny. Like screwed up funny, not ha, ha joke funny. “There’s not much I can tell you. My memory is spotty.” I leave it at that. I really don’t want to have this conversation but he needed to know if he’s expecting any type of intimacy between us. I never worried about any of this with Andrew. But Coen is another breed of man.

  A strangled sound rips through his chest. I felt it and the chills awakened in its path alarm me.

  And then, I’m in his arms. He’s grabbed me tight and wound me into him, around him, and we are both rocking on the floor behind my couch.

  I wish I could empathize. He’s mourning over a naïve little girl that lost her life over seven years ago. I can’t and won’t mourn her loss. She thought she could hide, she thought she could find safety in words, in equations, in facts, in the greatest minds of history. She was pathetic. I refuse to equate myself with such gullibility and simplicity.

  “Jesus, love. Holy fucking shit. I’ll kill them. Give me their na
mes and I’ll fucking have them sliced at the knees.” He sounds livid as his head rests on mine. I can’t see his face, but I can feel the potency of heat he’s radiating. He’s undoubtedly pissed. I don’t know why. You’d think this just happened yesterday. Or that it happened to him. It’s over, though. Not that I’ve made peace with it, but I certainly don’t dwell on it or use it to excuse myself. It is only a step in my evolution.

  As for their names; yeah…they’ve become my mantra. All six of them. When I’ve hit a wall during my run, I run through them and break through to the other side. When I’m close to losing a fight, I cycle through their images and I massacre my opponent. When I’m at the board room table and someone sneers in my direction, I mentally chant those six names until it fuels me and pushes me to succeed.

  I chant and chant and chant some more:

  Tori McNeeley

  James Evans

  Shawn Patterson

  Quinn Thompson

  Chris Fletcher

  Elias Munez

  Always in that order. I’ll never back down. I’ve seen the other side. I’m not afraid of it. I’ve seen evil. I’ve seen death. And I’ve survived both.

  “You sweet man. I’d love nothing more, but as I told the police, I don’t remember much.” I sigh in an effort to end this line of questioning. I arch up and kiss him on the lips. Then remember that I haven’t even brushed my teeth and need to pee.Smiling sweetly, I whisper in his ear. “I have to pee, baby. Can you let me up before I burst on your lap?”

  He pulls back showcasing a broad, full toothy, smile, though his eyes are a bit glassy and still rather red-rimmed. “You called me baby!” He leans forward and kisses me, another closed mouth sweet kiss. This one lasting longer than the last.

  “Did you miss the pee part? I may look small, but I have a big bladder and you caught me still in bed.”

  “Oh, I thought you were trying out a new look.” He smirks while yanking on my tangled hair. I got him smiling…

  A quick kiss on my nose and I’m released from his firm grasp. After a quick morning clean up, we spend most of the day hanging out. I made us loaded veggie omelets and we watched an on-demand movie. Our earlier conversation forgotten, we talked about his busy schedule. His father has been riding him hard, increasing his workload. I wonder what’s going on with Greyson?

  They leave for France on Tuesday and I know Coen is concerned. With this merger succeeding, CC will be revolutionized. I’ve decided that with the additional consumption of Renault Matra, this is the right time to watch their stock. After the merger is complete, I plan to buy out the market. I see a hefty profit in my future.

  After a gourmet lunch of PB&J and in the middle of a riveting conversation over who’s a better Presidential candidate, which his boneheaded ideologies need serious amending, his dad called killing our weekend fun. Apparently, Coen was needed again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The partners and Lori left on Tuesday, as did the CC legal team and the Collins men. I never got an opportunity to see Coen again before he left. I’m not sure if he was just busy or if I’m simply not a priority. He called Monday night to check in and swore we’d talk while he was gone.

  Realistically, I know better. The merger is nearly complete and so is my time with him. I don’t have much to offer him now. It’s for the best. I was repeatedly confounded by the man.

  I’ve been busy with the murder case now that the CC merger is out of my hair. We have a solid case and I’ve been working heavily with the public defender’s office. The band begins our summer tour the end of May and I needed to make sure that all of my bases were covered before we leave.

  Trigger came over Thursday night for Chinese takeout. He wanted to check in on me. Those guys are such softies. I’ve made good on my promise to call or text Gun daily, but things are uncomfortable with Bullet. We haven’t spoken since he came by my place last. I have no idea if he’s still with that girl or any other for that matter. I don’t fully understand what happened between us. And I most definitely don’t understand the guys’ reaction. But, in a world where I trust few and believe in little, they’re who I have.

  Friday afternoon, the trio, Malice, and I drive to New York for a radio interview with Octane, the hard rock channel on Sirius/XM radio. Our second single of our upcoming album is slowly gaining traction and we’re in demand. It’s an exciting time; to have our names out there like this.

  We’ve had quite a Boston following, but I’d hardly say we’re a household name on the national level. With our repeated airplay, things are definitely falling into rock and roll place.

  We’re grilled with the typical questions; what are your influences? What do you do for fun? How was the band formed? Yada, yada. Then the interviewer threw it out into left field and asked if we’ve ever fucked around with each other. He claimed that it must be difficult to have a chick in the band, as ‘hot’ as I am, surrounded by guys.

  Gun got crazy pissed and went on the attack. “Don’t you ever fucking disrespect our girl like that? Do you fucking hear me?”

  Needless to say, the radio tour didn’t go as swimmingly as the label execs would have wished. In a way, I’m glad the guys did that, as messed up as it is, they again proved how loyal they are to me. That I’m not just another prop but a true part of the band. I guess I need reminding.

  Saturday night, we were invited to do an acoustic version of our music at a local coffee house that one of Trig’s best friends owns. It was packed so tightly his patrons spilled out onto the streets.

  There’s something truly intimate about unplugging your instruments and then peeling down the layers to the root of the music. It felt more intimidating and soulful. For Call to Arm, Gunner retrieved his guitar and in a small circle, while squatting on benches, we sang and played so hard that I had to take a breather. It was beautiful. Raw and real and exquisitely beautiful. We were able to connect with the audience in a profound way. Vastly different from the rocking we do at BedHead or any of the coliseums or venues we rock on the roads.

  But Bullet was standoffish. Despite the beauty, the intimacy we had all shared, he still walked away at the end of our set and hooked up with some chick. He never came back to the hotel that night.

  Sunday was Mother’s Day. Not just mine, but all mothers. You couldn’t tell with the way she answered the phone. When I told her I was with the guys in NYC, she lost her mind telling me how I’d lose my fiancée by not acting like a proper woman. I finally lost it and told her he was in France and that our ‘engagement’ was over. She didn’t take things well and told me how I’ve disappointed her yet again. Why do I bother calling?

  Back in Boston and the week ahead looks to be fast paced. But it’s the following weekend I’m looking forward to, we will be in Vegas celebrating Tank’s UFC fight. I’m ecstatic for him and to be a part of his special moment means the world to me. I’ve spoken to him several times and he’s promised that he’s sticking to his regimen and planning on winning this thing. I have no doubt. Nobody wants this more than Tank does and he has worked diligently to get here.

  From Vegas, we head to LA to deal with last minute adjustments to our album before its release in June, and then go straight into touring. I’ve lightened my caseload in preparation for the tour. The partners have been amazingly flexible and forgiving with my schedule. Last year, I only took off six weeks, this year, our tour dates have increased to ten weeks, and there’s even talk of extending it with touring in Europe. Although my caseload is light, I still have work that needs maintenance, which I’m able to tackle via skype, phone calls, and emails. Technology is a godsend.

  I receive a huge flower display at the office on Monday afternoon. It appears that the merger went through successfully and CC sent the flowers as a thank you for all of the time I spent on the case. Although extremely thoughtful, it only seems to upset me more. A reminder that the merger is complete and I haven’t heard a word from Coen.

  By Wednesday morning, the partners and Lo
ri have returned and regale the office with stories from France. Darrien had thrown a big party over the weekend to welcome everyone and celebrate. I guess things got out of hand because Lori seems to be going on and on about her random hookups. I can’t say I’m sorry I missed any of it. It sounds wasteful. I’m all for a good party but even I know the right time and place to let go.

  I’m out of the office as much as I’m in it. The jury selection is complete in Terrell’s case and the offense has begun presenting its case. I’ve been spending an exceeding amount of time at the courthouse and the office. So much so that Malice has begun collecting me by eight every night, at times even kicking and screaming pleading for five more minutes.

  ******

  May fifteenth, my twenty-second birthday. Although it isn’t a big birthday it’s still another year I’ve survived. The day started the same as the rest that week. Courtroom then office, and drowning in affidavits, amendments, and vague interpretations of the law.

  It’s late afternoon when I feel eyes on me. Looking up I spot a relaxed Bullet leaning against my door jam, arms crossed. He’s wearing a black hoodie covering most of his face. It’s a mystery how he even got in here or made it past Olivia. She’s been obsessed since she learned I knew him. He’s not smiling but looks fairly content. I wonder how long he’s been standing there watching me.

  “You planning on standing there all day?” I blurt. That must not be his plan because he walks in, closes the door, and then sits on my desk, practically on the papers I’m working on. Leave it to Bull to piss me off.

  “Show some respect for the law, butthead,” I whine, moving papers out of his way.

  “I came by to set things straight.”

  “Maybe you should hold off on that. We’re at my place of employment.” Bullet is unpredictable and unabashed. Fantastic characteristics for a drummer, not so much in an office setting.

  “First things first, I need you with me on Sunday.” Just like that, he says he needs me. Maybe his brain has been absent for the last four weeks.