by Myers, K. L.
But first, I have to demolish her.
14
What a Letdown
Willow
Brecken walks out with a bowl of water, cloths, and a towel. He steps behind me and lifts the T-shirt. His hiss tells me what he’s about to do will hurt, but I’m okay with that. I welcome the pain. I deserve it.
He may think I don’t, but he doesn’t know the whole story.
Abe was my high school sweetheart, although we were best friends since middle school. He gave up a scholarship to follow me to college, not because I asked him to, but because he couldn’t live without me. He always loved me more. I loved him too, but he made me feel guilty sometimes for not being as committed as he was.
He knew by the time he was eighteen he was going to marry me. It wasn’t long after that he bought a ring. By twenty we were married. I published my first book that same year, a story based on our love. Not that I ever told anyone that, but Abe knew, and he prided himself on being the “original book boyfriend”. He even had T-shirts made.
He was so supportive of my writing, taking a second and sometimes a third job so I could stay home to write. We never expected I’d become one of the big ones. The first time I hit the New York Times Best Selling list, I literally passed out.
Abe hoped that it was a sign I was pregnant. I wasn’t.
He was excited about my accomplishment but disappointed he wasn’t going to be a dad. That disappointment just kept growing as my career did too.
When the movie offers started coming in, I put the idea of kids even further to the back of mind. I took screenwriting classes because I wanted to be involved in seeing my babies brought to life on the big screen, and knowing how to change them from book to film was key.
I was on top of the world, but Abe was getting crushed by it. I never stopped to think about it. Not until he was gone.
Brecken can shove his kindness card up his perfectly toned ass. I don’t want it, and I sure as fuck don’t deserve it.
I’m not a good person.
I’m responsible for my husband’s death, and no amount of hand holding and telling me I’ll be okay will take that truth away.
I guess it’s time I show Brecken the selfish bitch I am. I’ll take his kindness, his compassion, and all the finer things he wants to throw at me, and I’ll demand more. He’ll see I’m not worth keeping on a pedestal.
I’m not sure why he put me there in the first place.
“Can you be a bit more fucking gentle,” I bark as he lightly places a cool cloth on my back.
I actually wish he would hit me again, but he’s made it clear that isn’t happening. So, it’s time to kill him with guilt. Play his pain against him. Fuck Brecken and his broken promises.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, and I fight back a smile.
This is going to be easier than I thought. Brecken Wade is a pussy wrapped up in a macho-looking package. How cute. I love men who try to intimidate with their size only to find out they’re lacking in money, power—penis size, maybe. They’re easy to push around.
Wincing, even though the pain is bearable, has Brecken apologizing. So damn easy, I think as I moan for show. He pulls the cloth away. “I shouldn’t have hit you so hard.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, playing it up. “I begged for it.”
He doesn’t respond, his silence exactly what I expect. He’s brooding, beating himself up for being the big bad wolf. It’s comical, but I need to keep my amusement of his discomfort hidden.
“I think I need to lie down and be alone for a little while.”
“Of course,” he answers quickly, walking in front of me and kneeling down to untie me. I had forgotten about the cloth binding my wrists and ankles; it’s so soft.
As soon as I’m free, he stands and offers me his hand, and I make a production of standing and falling into him, faking too much pain to stand on my own. It does hurt, my back is on fucking fire, but I’ll live. If for no other reason than to make him pay for giving me hope that I’d be reunited with Abe and then taking it away.
“Let’s get you comfortable,” he coos as we make our way to my room. “Is there anything Jamal or I can get for you?”
“Just water would be nice, thank you.”
“It will be done.”
Of course, it will. He can’t stand to see me damaged, especially knowing he caused it. That’s exactly why I’ll play the damsel in distress. Right up until he breaks. Let Brecken see what it’s like when you play with another person’s mind.
I’ll show him what true wrath is.
15
Calling Her Bluff
Brecken
For three weeks, I’ve allowed Willow to believe she’s getting the best of me. The first week, she played up her wounds from the flogging, and although I hit her once harder than I intended, she only had one small mark where it broke the skin. There was a reason I chose to have her keep her clothing on.
I was protecting her.
I’m not denying I hurt her. I know I did, but it could have been worse. After I left her in her room, Jamal flogged me as many times as I did her—on my bare skin. If she was going to suffer, so was I.
That experience taught me that she was faking. I’m sure it’s because she’s angry that I won’t kill her. I still haven’t figured out exactly why she wants to die. I understand her missing Abe, and I understand her guilt, but I feel like there’s more to the story. More that makes her so determined she deserves to be tortured to death.
I’ve killed people who did deserve that treatment. Devious, spiteful, evil people. Willow is not like them.
I was going to explain that to her the second week, but I decided that I need to be careful in how I handle her, so instead, I gave her free reign of my home. Except my office.
I wanted her to get comfortable enough to act like herself. Whoever she sees herself as now. In watching her, I’ve found she isn’t the awful person she deems herself to be. People cringe when they see Jamal, his scar striking fear in them instead of compassion. Many times, she has run her hand over his cheek and told him he’s handsome.
Jealousy has broken forth every time, but I’ve tamped it down, seeing that she is helping Jamal find confidence that he didn’t have before. He’s never been one to make eye contact, but with the talks they’ve started having, he’s staring at my feet less and more at my chest level now. A few more weeks with her, and I believe he’ll be looking me square in the eye.
In turn, Jamal has given her a couple of cooking classes. The one a few days ago still has me smiling.
“Miss!”
I stop working, my head popping up at an awkward angle at the distress in Jamal’s voice. I jump from my seat and rush to my door, frightened that something awful has happened to Willow. But I stop with my hand on the knob when I hear,
“Call me Willow.”
Still curious, I leave my office and follow their voices to the kitchen. Willow stands on one side of the island with a full bag of open flour aimed at Jamal and a smile lighting up her face. I’ve never seen her smile like this. Her beauty nearly buckles my knees.
“Call me Willow, or it’s war.”
“Miss, no,” Jamal calls out, raising his hands.
“I warned you.”
White mist rains through the air as she shakes the bag at Jamal and laughs like a child. The sound goes straight to my heart, causing it to beat stronger than it has in years. I want to live for this woman—for her laughter, and to see her playful like this.
“Willow! Willow,” Jamal screams in between his own laughter.
My eyes roam to my friend, who is laughing for the first time since his father’s death. I should say something, do something, but emotions clog my throat and I walk away.
I was an intruder on their moment, and I didn’t like the feeling. I didn’t want to ruin the happiness they had found. And I’m glad I walked away before they saw me. The chocolate chip cookies they made were divine. Hearing Jamal call her Miss again at di
nnertime was pretty sweet too.
Now we’re into week three, and she’s still being stubborn. She and I are going through the motions, but that’s not what I want for her. She says what she thinks I want to hear, or what she thinks is going to guilt me. I say what she wants to hear and allow her to think I feel guilty. Some things I do feel guilty about, but mostly it’s about the fact that she is not living a good life.
It’s time for that to change.
“What have you and Jamal prepared tonight?” I ask, pulling out her chair for her to sit.
Willow nods her thank-you before sitting and answers, “Chicken noodle soup with parmesan crisps. It’s such a chilly night, it felt like a good choice.”
“Heats you up from the inside out, right?” I eye her before walking to my end of the table, thinking how I would love to heat her up from the inside out. If only I could break through that icy exterior she surrounds herself with.
“That’s what I always say.”
Jamal brings dinner in and serves us. He leaves a platter in the middle of the table. “I’m feeling tired, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll take my dinner to my room.”
“Are you alright, Jamal?” I ask, concerned he’s getting sick.
“Yes, just tired.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
He smiles and nods, then points at the platter. “Your favorite. Brownies.”
“Thank you, Jamal. Get some rest.”
Jamal leaves without saying another word. I watch him go, knowing I’ll check on him after dinner. My eyes are still on his retreating back when Willow says, “That was nice of you.”
“Huh?” I had almost forgotten she was here in my worry for Jamal.
“The way you asked after him. I wasn’t sure you cared.”
My mood sours. She can play her games with me. Try to guilt me. Be a bitch. Whatever. But questioning me caring about Jamal is never okay. He is my friend, my family.
“Be careful, Willow.”
“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, trying to feign innocence. After the past few weeks, I’ve learned that smirk is cockiness, not innocence.
“You know you did, and I’m done with this bullshit. Play your games on someone who can’t see through you.”
She sits straighter in her seat and eyes me, her green eyes darkening in rage. “You don’t know me.”
I remain calm. “Only because you won’t let me. How about you drop the façade and we have a real conversation?”
I wait for her to answer, but she picks up a spoonful of soup and begins to blow on it. If only she knew what watching her do that was doing to me.
“Fine, I’ll start since you’re acting so mature. What I know about you is, you’re a damn good writer. My question is, do you like to read as much as you like to write?”
The spoon stops in front of her lips, and I believe confusion crosses her face. Her brows dip, and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. She stays like that a while before saying, “Yeah. It’s different though.”
“How so?” I ask, genuinely curious and excited that she’s answering real questions.
“When I’m reading, I can just get lost in the words, you know what I mean, right?” I nod, even though I don’t. “But when I’m writing, it’s a battle between what I think the story is and what the characters think. Those little bastards are always yelling at me and each other. Sometimes I just wish they would shut the fuck up and let me tell the story the way I see it.”
“Sounds like being around family at the holidays.”
“Yes!” she shrieks, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a clang. “That’s exactly it. Everyone’s talking at once, and it’s hard to keep up with all the conversations.”
I smile, picturing her all frazzled as she tries to wrangle her characters into a corral, asking them to behave long enough to get a story written. Her dark hair juts out of a bun, and ink is smeared across her cheek. Her pajamas are buttoned incorrectly, and her coffee is cold.
I want to ask her if what I envision is close to the truth, but I ask, “So, reading is an escape, then?”
“Oh yes.” She gets a mouthful of soup. “This is delicious.”
“If you do say so yourself,” I joke because she and Jamal made it. It is nice to see her enjoying cooking with him. I take a bite, and she’s right. It’s delicious.
“Do you like fairy tales?”
“What kind of romance author would I be if I didn’t?” She smirks, but this time all the cockiness is gone, replaced by a playfulness I’ve only seen her show with Jamal. And only recently.
Maybe my idea to let her get comfortable is working.
“What’s your favorite one?”
“Oh.” She claps, lighting up like a night sky full of shooting stars. “That’s easy. Beauty and the Beast.”
“Of course, it is.” I try to hide my irritation, but my clipped words give away everything. I should be humored by the fact that I compared her and me to that very fairy tale shortly after she arrived here, but it pisses me off more.
“What?” she asks, attitude entering her tone.
“I guess I just figured that would be the one you picked. A bright woman, in love with books, saves the beast—turns him back into the handsome prince.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Sometimes a beast is just a beast.”
“And sometimes he needs someone to show him he has a heart,” she challenges, raising her voice an octave and tapping her fingers roughly against the table.
“And sometimes we don’t want to be shown because it hurts too much,” I blurt before thinking, then shut down, shocked at what I just revealed.
We sit there, staring each other down, confessions hanging in the air that neither of us were prepared for. She’s a fixer. It’s why Beauty and the Beast is her favorite. She’s the type who believes deep down that good can be found in the broken. It’s too bad she can’t apply that logic to herself.
I admitted I’m afraid to be hurt again. I might as well have opened old wounds and bled them onto the table in front of her. That may have hurt less than revealing my fears.
And now she’s watching me, waiting for me to give her more—more of my insecurities, more broken she can fix. That won’t happen. One mistake is all I’ll allow.
Keeping her gaze, I take a bite of my soup and a few seconds later, say, “Delicious.”
16
Taming the Beast
Willow
Six damn days—that’s how long I’ve been locked in my room, trying to figure out what to do about Brecken. I’m perplexed, and I don’t like it. His confession about not wanting to get hurt again is messing with me. It was like he was confessing that I have the power to hurt him.
I don’t understand how that’s possible. Not in the way he insinuated. We’re not a couple. Other than the one kiss, we haven’t had any moments of tension.
Have we?
Have I been so wrapped up in what I want that I’ve missed what’s going on? Is Brecken looking at me differently than I’m looking at him? Does he want me?
These questions have me sequestered to my room because seeing him will only confuse me more. Luckily, he seems to need the space as much as I do. He hasn’t fought me about Jamal bringing my meals to me and hasn’t asked to see me.
I’m not sure how long he’ll let me wallow in my thoughts, so I need to start figuring shit out. Where the hell do I begin? I fucked up one man. He died not knowing his worth. Can I allow myself to get to know Brecken when he obviously has a fragile heart?
Can I trust myself?
Abe trusted me, and I crushed him. Tears stream down my cheeks at my last moments with Abe.
“Can’t we just talk about it?” he asks, his face contorted in pain.
Why does it always come back to this? We’re only in our twenties. We have plenty of time for kids. Why can’t he see that I’m building a foundation for our future?
“This is not the time to
talk about this, Abraham. You’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
“When is it a good time, Willow? You shut me down every time I bring it up.”
“Maybe you should stop, then.”
“What’s wrong with me wanting to be a father?”
“Ugh!” I throw my hands in the air. “Why can’t you let it fucking go? I’m not ready.”
“Will you ever be?”
His words are barely above a whisper, but they cause a rage to burn deep inside of me. I’m so tired of this conversation. Of him making me feel like shit because he wants to be a dad now, and I want to wait. I need him to back off.
“Thank fuck you’re going to your mom’s. I need a break from you.”
His eyes water, but I ignore it. I have to. If I give in to his sad, puppy dog routine, he’ll have me knocked up and miserable in no time. I won’t allow that.
Nope.
So, I walk into the bedroom to make sure his bag is ready. I double and triple check he’s packed everything just to avoid being near him, and when he comes to grab his stuff, I walk away.
I shouldn’t have walked away. I should have begged him to stay at home. Or followed him to his mom’s. I should have talked to him about having a family.
He wasn’t asking too much of me.
I was the one always asking too much of him. Be here. Be there. Put a smile on. Perform. Show all my readers the perfect husband I have.
And he never faltered.
Right up to the moment he left that day. I walked away, and he followed. He kissed my cheek and told me he loved me.
I didn’t say it back.
Then I didn’t answer his calls while he was away. I stewed over our fight, thinking of how I could use it against him. How I could make a character out of it for an upcoming book. I acted like a child, and my husband died without hearing I loved him.
Oh God, I loved him.
