Page 18 of Hold Us Close
“Don’t, please don’t—”
I wince when it hits the wall, shattering apart just like the vase does.
“Get out,” I sob, running over to where glass and sand and my memories are scattered all over the floor. “Just go.”
I don’t even look up when the door slams.
After I’ve cleaned up the mess the best I can, I find my cell phone in my purse and dial the only person I feel like I can really count on.
“I need help,” I choke out as soon as she answers. “How soon can you be here?”
Iwish I’d never been born. I wish I’d never met Layla Flaherty. I wish that I hadn’t called my dad. Because all of that, being born, having a childhood where I was afraid to breathe the wrong way, bottling everything up inside, meeting Layla, hearing what my dad had to say, it all led to this.
To me being the sorriest motherfucker on the face of the planet.
I take a breather about five miles into my run. I’ve practically been sprinting and I’ve sprinted my stupid ass into a bad part of town.
My side pinches and burns so I lift my arms above my head. Fuck it. I lower them and let the pain come. Leaning over, I place my hands on my knees. A few guys stand lined up on the other side of the street. One of them steps towards me and I straighten up and meet his gaze. If he thinks he’s getting anything from me, he has another thing coming. For one, I don’t even have my wallet on me. And for two, if he and his friends plan to beat the shit out of me, I’d welcome it. I deserve it. Crave it.
Bet he’s not expecting a sick, twisted fucker to laugh when he produces a knife from his back pocket. But I do. This is just perfect.
You’re not my son.
That’s just perfect too.
I was deployed. Your mother had an affair.
It’s like someone just shined high beams on my black soul. My dad isn’t my dad. Just a man who had to look at the reminder of his wife’s infidelity every day for eighteen years.
And I’m not blood related to that piece of shit. So in a way, it’s a relief. But I’m still me. Still angry all the time and fucked up and unable to control the hatred for him that burns inside of me.
When two of the other guys step forward, I see how dangerous the man in front of me really is. He’s big, armed, and looks like he just busted out of prison. The reality of my situation hits me hard enough to hurt. Her parents were gunned down in front of her, and her boyfriend is about to be gutted on a back road in Spain.
“Hey, sorry. I was just passing through, man.” I hold my hands up in a gesture of what I hope is innocence.
He says something in Catalan, which I know enough to recognize as not Spanish but not enough to decipher meaning from it. His voice is a growl and makes my blood run cold.
“Amigo,” I say, because it’s the word I know means friend and I’ve lost the bloodlust desire to fight, to hurt and be hurt. My pulse races and I just want to get home and apologize. Beg my girl to forgive me. Whatever it takes.
One of the other guys mutters something and I recognize the word for money.
“No dinero. Por favor,” I say, hoping they understand. “Lo siento.”
“Demasiado malo para usted,” the guy with the knife sneers at me. My brain struggles to translate his words just as he comes close enough for me to smell the alcohol on him.
He cocks his fist and Layla’s beautiful face flashes behind my eyes. I hurt her. Again. Whatever’s coming, I deserve it. That’s the last thought I have before everything goes black.
“¡Oh, Dios mío! Somebody help! Llamar a la policía!”
I’m in a tunnel. I don’t know how I got here. A woman’s voice comes from far away. It’s a pretty voice. Not as pretty as Layla’s, but nice.
I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, whatever she’s freaking out about. But I can’t. I’m disconnected from my body.
“¿Cuánto tiempo ha sido?
“Una hora o así.”
Florescent lights greet me, shooting lightning bolts to my brain as I open my eyes.
