Page 8 of Loving Trent
“Give me a second,” I say. I unhook my bag from the back of my bike and pull out my laptop. I don’t pay attention to the people walking around me, or if someone needs the pump I’m blocking. They can kiss my ass. I open Google and type in the name, and read a short article about a man who was killed a little over a year ago. It’s listed as unsolved, and Leon Dawson is mentioned as the FBI agent looking into it. “Why is it unsolved?”
“Because he not only beat my wife, but he kidnapped her and our daughter-in-law.” His voice turns dark, cold, and deadly.
“You did it?” I shut my laptop and place it back in my bag.
“No, my son-in-law did.”
“You covered it up?”
“Damn right I did, and it isn’t the first time. No one fucks with my family.”
“But I’m not family.”
“It doesn’t matter to me much, not after hearing the story about your friend and what happened at that place. Whatever you need, I’ll get it, and nothing will fall back on you.”
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, hanging up and picking up my helmet. Jumping back on my bike, I hit the road, but it isn’t until hours later that I realize that to get to Leon, I’m going to have to go through the town I never thought I’d see again.
My old hometown.
Cape Girardeau.
The place where he lives.
The one guy that stole my heart when I was thirteen, and I’m not sure he ever gave it back.
Shawn Foster.
Five
SHAWN
Small particles of glass fall on the back of my head as I cower against the wall. Tears burn my eyes, but letting them fall feels like giving in. Shame and embarrassment burn inside my chest, each hotter than the other. Exhaustion plagues more than just my bones; it’s buried deep in the recesses of my mind. This needs to stop. This has to stop. I need to walk, run, crawl on my hands and knees away from this situation. The same situation that I’ve found myself in over and over again. It’s unhealthy, damaging, and something that I shouldn’t be allowing to happen.
But that’s the issue, the person I am right now isn’t me. It’s the version of myself that I’ve allowed others to put me in. I’m not a person who wraps their arms around their middle as their head is tucked into their chest, letting warm wine drip onto their backs off a wall. Or I used not to be.
“You’re not even listening to me anymore,” Steven, my current boyfriend, yells, his voice echoing through my empty apartment. He’s right, I'm not listening to him. Instead, I’m wondering if the people living below me can hear him. God, I hope not. More heat fills my face at the thought of having to face the normal, in love, married couple after they heard all of this.
Straightening up from my crouch, my hands covering my head, and tears threatening to fall. I try not to focus on the shattered glass or the red liquid running down the wall. Instead, my gaze snags on the man standing across the room from me as his features melt into a deformed mix of all my exes who put me in the same position. All the same questions I’ve asked myself before rush through me, and once again, there are no answers in sight.
Why am I still with him?
Why am I so pathetic?
What’s wrong with me?
Am I not lovable?
“I am listening. I’m sorry, Steven,” I say, my voice trembling. I grit my teeth, hating that stupid trembling. I’m so sick of having to apologize for things that shouldn’t be a big deal. Getting told how awful you are and how nothing you do is right takes a toll on your self-worth. I’m not sure I could find my self-worth if it were a ten-foot-tall gorilla staring right at me.
“I wouldn’t have to yell at you if you didn’t act like such an asshole all the time. This…” Steven sweeps his arms out, motioning to the disaster of my once clean apartment. “Is all your fault.”
Eyes that were once an inviting and warm deep blue have now turned cold and haunting. Gone is the love that would shine so brightly that it felt like staring straight into the sun. “Steven, I’m sorry I missed date night, but?—”
His blue eyes darken with rage. Rage that I’ve seen more of over the last month than the affection that had been there the first two months of our relationship. In a flash, he moves across the apartment, shoving my back against the sticky wall. The sound my head makes as it bounces off the wall echoes. Steven’s hand wraps around my throat, cutting off my air as a rising sea of panic threatens to overwhelm me.
“I’m so sick of the fucking lies that are coming out of your mouth.”
“I… I’m not…. lying,” I say, using up the little oxygen I had in my lungs. Instantly, I know that I’ve said the wrong thing. His hand tightens around my neck, and his other comes up in an instant. The sound of his hand meeting my face is instantly cut off by the ringing in my ear. A fire burns across my left cheek, and the dam holding my tears back breaks. Hands that are curled into Steven's shirt fall limply to my side.
