by S. Ferguson
Watching her face as she listens to me intently, I want to touch her. I feel like such a bastard, but I want her, and not just physically. I want her. I want to know what’s going on in her head. I want to know why she’s so sad, why she thinks she deserved what happened last night. She hasn’t said that, but her attitude about it was pretty obvious. Be patient, I remind myself. I’ve never really wanted a girl for the long haul, but, after such a short time with Bree, I’m determined she is going to be that girl. She’s going to be mine. Thankfully, before I can make an ass out of myself, my phone rings. I run to the kitchen, where I left it charging last night, and see that it’s Jake.
“Sup?” I answer the phone, wondering if I should go back to Bree or stay here. There’s a pretty good chance there will be parts of this conversation she doesn’t need to overhear.
“It’s done,” Jake says ominously.
I snort out a laugh before I can catch myself. “What are we, in a Godfather movie? What the fuck does that even mean?”
“That means that the motherfucker is dead. Ron killed him personally. He kept mouthing off, said she liked it, said girls like her don’t matter. They’re only good for one thing. Greg ended up pulling me off of him but… fucking hell. I’m telling you I’ve never seen Ron go off like that. I’ve seen him be nicer to guys that straight up stole from him. I’ll be honest, man. I’ve never seen something so cold blooded in my life. Ron went fuckin’ crazy.”
Shit, fuck. I don’t know what Bree’s understanding with Ron was, but I know her enough to know this isn’t going to sit well with her. I also know she’s going to blame herself for this. I won’t lie and say I don’t get a sick satisfaction out of knowing the asshole that put his hands on Bree is gone. He will never hurt her again.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“Yeah, man, you know Ron has us covered with the pigs.” Jake makes a snorting noise, and I hear Greg laugh in the background.
“I wasn’t talking about the cops.” I lower my voice. I don’t know how much Bree can hear, but this apartment is small as hell.
“Yeah, I am. I know you always associate violence with dad, but sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes, it’s what you have to do. Am I happy we took this asshole out? Yes, yes the fuck I am.” Greg’s laughter in the background stops, and Jake lets out a deep sigh. I know the burden he carries more than anyone else; I know his lifestyle takes a toll on him.
“It will be okay, Jake. You know that. We got this. Together… always,” Greg says in a quiet voice, but I can still hear him in the background. Something about the comment strikes me as intimate, too intimate for two thugs working together, but I let it go. I have enough shit on my plate right now.
“Keep me posted,” I say, trying to end the call and get back to Bree.
“How is she?” Jake asks, oblivious to my intentions. I can hear wind in the background, and know he must be driving somewhere. Getting Jake off the phone when he’s driving is damn near impossible.
“I don’t know. She’s acting fine, but I know better. We know better.” I run my fingers through my hair, and cringe when they get stuck. I probably look like I have a rat’s nest on my head right now.
“Yeah, we do.” Jake pauses and takes a deep breath. “We’re at my place. Text me if she needs anything.” Jake hangs up before giving me a chance to respond. I know that Jake, more than anyone, can understand Bree’s situation, but I selfishly hope I don’t need to call him for help.
Despite my protests, Bree insists on leaving for her own apartment. Ron calls Bree before she leaves and tells her in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t want to see her at work for at least another few days. I can tell by her eyes that Bree doesn’t like this, but she simply hangs up the phone, and silently walks out of my apartment, refusing my offer to walk her home.
8
Bree
I wish I’d never been born. That’s the closest way I can describe how I feel right now. It’s been a few long, painful days since Nate attacked me. I managed to escape Declan’s apartment, and neither he nor Ron were crazy about me going home, but I needed my own space. I’ve returned to work, but Ron has now instituted two nights off a week for me. I’m not happy about it.
Now, I’m sitting in my bathtub, smoking a cigarette and staring at a half empty bottle of vodka. I don’t know why I’m here anymore. I don’t know how to exist in this world. I’ve seen too much of the ugly. In all the pretty faces, I see nothing but lies and fake relationships. Everyone who has ever claimed to love me was lying. I’ve tried for so long to exist anyway and I just can’t do it.
I’ve spent years of my life pretending to be okay. Pretending I’m the same as everyone around me. I’ll never be satisfied with face value wisdom and happy lies. I’ve spent my entire life striving to just be alive. I’m incapable of being satisfied with that. The weight of my pain, my damage, suffocates me. I can’t relate. I can’t understand. When you’ve literally had to fight for your next breath against someone who claims to love you, against someone that swore to protect you, how can I then possibly care about my loneliness? I don’t have it in me anymore. I have maybe a few friendships, if you could even call them that. People like Ron. Our relationship remains mostly because of who he is, not because of who I am. For years, this has been okay. I was born to always come in second, but second place is just first loser, isn’t it? I give a weak chuckle to that thought, and then sigh in frustration. I’m so very tired of this.
I take another drag from my cigarette and grab the vodka bottle, pulling it to my lips. I don’t even notice the burn anymore as it runs down my throat. I wonder how much vodka I have to drink to not wake up again? Could I just fall asleep in the tub, and not wake up tomorrow to more pain? I lean back against the edge of the tub and close my eyes. The room is silent, just the subtle sound of the heat blowing through the vent, and the occasional sound of the water moving around me. I open my eyes and stare at the off-white ceiling. I count the times the fluorescent light flickers.
It flickers fifteen times before I take another large swallow of vodka.
It flickers twenty this time before I bring the bottle to my lips again.
I begin to feel heavy. My hand moves in a sluggish way trying to balance the vodka bottle on the side of the tub. It falls over the side and, from the sound of it, shatters. Just fucking great. I decide to ignore that problem as well and slink lower into the water and close my eyes.
And just when I make my mind up, just when I hit rock bottom, a glimmer of hope appears out of nowhere. I see Declan’s face in my mind. I know he is probably just like every other bastard in my life, but there is something about him. Like he believes in me. Like he knows more about me than I do. I think of everything he went through. Everything he hinted at Jake going through. Surely, if they can survive that, I can survive this, right? That small glimmer is all it takes, and I feel hope coming from inside me, almost against my will. This is both my blessing and my curse.
My eyes open in frustration, my hands clench suddenly and tightly, causing the water to slosh around them. Why can’t I be allowed to give up? Why can’t I have a reprieve? But there is always something there in between, a far off place where I am loved. I don’t have to try to understand rules to these invisible mind games. I am me, and not being punished for it doesn’t seem fathomable to me. I should stay in the moment, stay in my darkness but instead, I find myself searching for this place of beauty in my mind.
The pain in my heart is a physical pain, but it’s a different kind of pain. It’s the hopeful kind. The kind that says this is going to hurt but it’s worth it. I want more than anything to become that little girl again, with nothing but a bright future ahead of me. I sob, the sound echoing off the tiled walls, using the back of my hand to wipe the tears from my face, and my shoulders shake.
Could I ever become untouched by the agony of life? Could the hole in my heart ever be full? The feeling leaves almost as quickly as it comes. As much as I
try to, I can’t hold on to this hopeful place; it’s always just out of reach, giving me a small piece of heaven in between my moments of pain. This is why I’m still alive. The something there in between will never let me end this, emerging when I need it the most, then vanishing as quickly as it arrives.
I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray on the side of the tub, and lean back, submerging my body so that only my face is sticking out from the lukewarm water. I’m so exhausted. The weight of life is too much for me to carry most days. I’m tired of being so disenchanted. Just once, I would like for someone to actually be who he or she said they were.
There really isn’t a way to properly explain the pain of having a parent reject you…your only parent reject you. It’s so far from the realm of “normal” it’s like the earth getting knocked off its axis. It sets a standard in your mind. It sets expectations. In your entire life, there are two people that are supposed to always be safe.
Two people whose love should be unconditional. My father died right after I was born, and my mother has made it clear I was nothing to her but dirt on the bottom of her shoe. As a little girl, I took my mother’s rejection personally, because it was. It is. I took the weight of her failure on my little shoulders. It was my fault. It is my fault. Her hate had to be because of me. I watched her love everyone else in her life. I watched my friends thrive in an environment I couldn't even comprehend. I’ve never even had a hug from my mother that wasn’t forced by some sense of social obligation. I only remember her saying she loved me once. She gave me a lecture and managed to spit out that she “didn’t like me, but she loved me because she had to.” I remember her hugging me, almost in glee, after telling me no one else wanted me. I was a blight, a burden to her and her precious life. I remember her making sure all good things were celebrated without my presence; I was never included. I was always an afterthought. I was just a child… a frightened, small, vulnerable child.
I pretended I was tough when I ran away with Alex. The reality is, I was, and I am, so broken, so frail. I just needed someone to show me what love was. I needed someone to fight for me, to show me that I was worth something, anything. I still feel like I’m waiting for this some days. As time goes on, I learn more and more, that no one else is going to save me. Every moment I look out for myself is a reminder no one else is going to. I can’t move on, and I can’t get over it, no matter how hard I try. I can’t pretend there isn’t a raw, festering wound where my heart should be. All these thoughts are consuming. If I could have just one day without this pain, without this hurt…such a sweet relief that would be.
I know I can’t just end this. No matter how much vodka I drink, no matter how much lower I let my body sink in the bath tub, I know I can’t end this, but God do I want to.
I decide it’s time to break my self-imposed solitude. It’s too cold to sit on my bench and for the first time in a long while, I actually feel like being around people. I dress comfortably in my standard black jeans, heavy biker boots, my beanie hat, and my dark green military jacket. It’s so cold these nights.
When I exit my building, and begin walking towards Keegan’s, I almost stop and turn back around more than once. If you’re going to be miserable and drunk, at least do it around other people. I repeat this, adopting it as a warped mantra until I round the corner to Keegan’s and see a few random people standing outside smoking. I push past them, nodding slightly in acknowledgement of the few that toss out a greeting.
Opening the door to the bar, I’m overwhelmed by the scent of beer and stale cigarettes. Despite Ron discouraging smoking inside, beginning two years ago, the smell lingers. No one listens.
I see a few startled faces look up when I make my way to the bar. I’m aware I’m being watched, and take a moment to be grateful I’m no longer limping. I sit on a bar stool, and rap my knuckles on the bar to get Declan’s attention. It’s a total waste of time, though; he was already watching me like a hawk from the moment I walked in.
“What’s your poison?” Declan asks in an exaggerated southern accent. He leans down on his forearms, his hands mere centimeters from mine.
Suddenly, I wonder what would happen if I just grabbed his hands and held on. Would he let me? Would he laugh it off and push me away? Would he know just how much something so small would mean to me? I brush my thoughts aside, and look back up to Declan’s face. His brows are furrowed, and I know he’s reading me like an open book. I don’t know how he does that.
“I’ll have a vodka tonic, please.” I don’t bother returning his playful accent.
“How many have you had already?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me and shooting a sideways glance in the direction of Ron’s office. My gaze follows his, and I see Ron standing in the doorway, looking at me. I give him a weak smile, and he nods his head, more at Declan than me. I should be mad Declan had to ask for permission before serving me, but I don't have the energy to care. It’s taking everything I have to follow through with my plan to be at the bar.
“I’m about to get off if you want me to walk you home,” Declan offers as he sets what is clearly a weak vodka tonic in front of me.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll have this and hang out for a while maybe,” I mumble, raising the straw to my mouth. It might be my imagination, but I swear Declan’s eyes darken slightly, as I pull the straw between my lips and pull the cold liquid into my mouth.
“Well, we’re closing soon. You shouldn’t have waited so long to come out.” Declan is half teasing I can tell, but part of me feels a little self-conscious by his statement. I didn’t even check the time when I got dressed and came out. Staying locked inside my apartment for the last twelve hours, and the days I was healing, has made me lose all sense of time and direction. I glance at the clock behind the bar, and realize it’s almost 1 am. I lost an entire day and had no idea.
“Oh, I guess I haven’t been keeping track of time since I’ve been at home resting,” I say in an almost sarcastic tone. It’s been anything but restful staring at the four walls of my prison.
“I gotta sleep since I have to be in here again tomorrow. You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” Declan asks before looking towards Ron’s door again. This time it’s closed and Ron is nowhere to be seen.
I shake my head no, and Declan raps his knuckles on the bar a few times before he walks away to go home. I pretend I don’t see the disappointment in his eyes. I suck the rest of my drink down as I swivel on my stool to follow him with my eyes. As I watch Declan walk towards the door, it’s pretty clear he’s dragging his feet, walking so much slower than normal. He hesitates by the door and for a brief second, I wonder if he’s thinking about me, if he’s going come back towards me. It definitely seems like he’s about to look for me behind him, but of course, that would be ridiculous. He has an entire life that doesn’t involve me. Why on earth would he be thinking about me?
“Because you’re an idiot and hope he is,” I whisper to myself.
“You’re not ready for that,” Ron’s voice interrupts my pity party, and startles me so much that I jump slightly, sloshing the liquid in my half empty glass. He must have snuck right up to me. He’s standing right beside me, leaning on the bar. I look at him, and tilt my head in an unspoken question.
“You’re not ready for that,” he repeats himself as he slides a business card across the bar top towards me. “But you are ready for this. Call him tomorrow.”
I pick up the card and look it over:
Ze Barros
Fitness and Self Defense
3436 Lockridge Dr
678-555-3405
“I need to get in shape?” I ask in confusion.
“Yeah, inside and out,” Ron says mysteriously, before he starts to reach his hand out to me, but he seems to change his mind and he just walks off. I stare after him, not understanding at all. But if Ron wants me to call, I will call. I need this job and my apartment. My life isn’t great, but it would be a hell of a lot worse without those two things.
&n
bsp; 9
Declan
The next few days of working at Keegan’s fly by. It's a slow Wednesday night in the bar, but the calm is appreciated. Bree is finally back at work, in somewhat of a normal routine, though she has more days off a week now per Ron’s orders. Tonight, she’s mostly just sitting on a stool near the register, and I’m glad to be able to keep an eye on her. It’s nowhere near as much as I would like, but pretty close. The first big meeting between Ron and the New York outfit is soon, and I can only imagine what kind of madness that is going to be. I’ve never been around one of Ron’s meetings before, but I have heard plenty of stories from Jake. Granted half of what he said was probably bullshit; the other half was still pretty wild.
I wish I could say I had more breakthroughs with Bree, but she’s been pretty shut down since the night I watched her at the park and when she was at my apartment. Her cheek and lip are healing nicely, and her limp is gone now. During my time here, we seem to have fallen into a nice routine.
She hasn’t smiled any more, but she definitely seems less annoyed with my presence. I try to talk to her, but usually I can’t get more than a nod or a one-word response. I can’t explain it, but I feel more and more drawn to her, despite her clearly not being interested. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to be part of her life. A much bigger part than the coworker role she seems to have slipped me into.
As if sensing that I’m thinking about her, she looks up from where she’s collecting empty glasses and wiping a table down. I meet her gaze and waggle my eyebrows in a lecherous way. That corner of her mouth lifts up and she shakes her head. I’m just opening my mouth to say something when the front door bursts open. The bang of the heavy doors hitting the walls beside them, echoes through the mostly calm and quiet room, a gush of cold air following in its wake.
