Page 48 of South Beach Bodyguards

The cop was right behind me. “I’ll come with you.”

Of course he would. A couple of EMTs came in the front door then so I figured I could leave Isabel. They would tend her injuries. I didn’t see anything obvious, but she looked pretty banged up. In my dad’s old office, I opened the wall safe, which was behind a hideous painting of George Washington on the river. When I opened it, the gun was still there, exactly where I had drunkenly put it, then totally forgotten about. I stepped back. “It’s all yours.”

He pulled it out by the tip and yelled to his partner for an evidence bag.

Back in the living room, Kim and Mickey had arrived and there were tears and Isabel being put onto a stretcher. She was having trouble breathing and the EMT told me he thought her ribs were bruised. “She has asthma,” I told him. “Her inhaler should be in her purse.”

There was a flurry of activity, Mickey ordering me to watch the house, Kim crying. Isabel looking pale and small. The cops using their radios and making notes and then everyone was gone and I was alone.

Again.

Always alone. It was what I deserved. This was my fault. I had almost got Isabel killed and it was no one’s fucking fault but my own. Some bodyguard. I couldn’t even keep the woman I cared about safe. That gave me exactly zip to recommend me for boyfriend status. I brought nothing to the table.

I’d always known that. Nothing had changed because I’d had sex with Isabel. But I had left myself think for a few seconds that it could change, or at least my feelings could change, and that was why I’d bolted. It had scared me.

Going upstairs to my old room, I stood in the doorway and eyed Isabel’s possessions. She was such a good girl. Just a nice, stable, sweet, kind girl.

Not meant for me.

I was not her type.

She would realize that eventually, but most likely she had realized that tonight. Right now she was putting two and two together that I was responsible for her attack and she would hate me, as she should.

It would hurt, but it was better this way.

For the first time ever I understood where my mother was coming from. Leave them before they leave you.

That made me so furious that I let out all my pent-up frustration by reaching out and punching the wall, right next to my Dan Marino poster. My fist collided with the plaster and pain shot through my hand, wrist, and right on up my arm. It felt good, satisfying, well-deserved.

I gave the wall a left hook too, so hard that I knew without a doubt I’d broken my index finger. It started swelling immediately and breathing hard, I laid down on Isabel’s bed. Staring at the ceiling, throbbing hands in my lap, I pulled out my phone, thought about texting her.

Nope. That was a move for a selfish guy. I wasn’t going to do that to her. What I needed to do was suggest to Kim that they both move somewhere that had nothing to do with Mickey and then I was going to cut off ties with Isabel so she could live her life without fear of a random stranger, or me, hurting her.

How did I feel about that? I kicked my boot heel into the wall, enjoying the crunching sound it made.

That’s how I felt. Angry and destructive.

fourteen

I waited for Ryan to text me or call or best of all, come and visit me. But he didn’t. Not that night, while I was bruised and still scared. Not the next day, when I comfortably ensconced on the sofa in the living room of Mickey’s condo, staring out at the ocean through his wall-to-wall glass windows. There was nothing broken on me. Except for my heart. I felt morose and idiotic even thinking that but it was the truth.

It was also my fault.

I had ignored all the red flags and allowed myself to wish for more from Ryan, even after he expressly told me he had nothing else to offer. My mom had tried to warn me and I had ignored her. So I had to accept responsibility for my insistence on going forward with an involvement with Ryan. I thought I could handle the casual and I couldn’t. Not with him.

“Honey, I’m worried about you,” my mom said. She sat down on the sofa next to my waist and leaned over and brushed hair off my forehead. “You haven’t even eaten.”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m just not hungry.” In fact, I felt kind of perpetually nauseous. “Please don’t hover.”

“I can’t help it.” She adjusted my blanket. “We can’t go back to that house, you know. I’d never be able to stay there without thinking about that man hurting you. Mickey said he’s going to put it up for sale. I want you to stay here with us.”

I studied her face. “Are you back together?”

“We’re talking.” My mother, bless her heart, actually blushed. “We always did have fun.”

“That’s great.” I meant it. I had thought it was dumb when they broke up. It had just seemed like they had thrown up roadblocks to their relationship that didn’t need to be there. Like Ryan was doing to me. “But I don’t want to live with you guys any longer than necessary. Honestly, I think it’s time for me to get an apartment on my own or live with Brandy or something.”

It wasn’t something I’d given a lot of thought to. Living with my mother had been convenient and cost-effective but I was almost twenty-two and I had never been on my own. Part of me wondered if my growth had been a little stunted. I’d never been broke, never dated a whole lot, never fucked up so egregiously you wondered if you could recover.

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