Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance) Read online

  “Bridget, he wouldn’t cheat on you,” I said. “Not because he wants a night alone. He’s a guy. Maybe he’s tired. Or getting sick. Or just wants to watch porn.”

  “Oh, so there’s something wrong with me? He’d rather see stuff online?”

  Wow, I just kicked the hornets nest for a second time.

  “Just calm down,” I said. “He’s having his own night, so have one for yourself. Where did he sleep last night?”

  “Here.”

  “And tonight he’s sleeping at his apartment. Is Danny still crashing with him?”

  “Ugh. Yeah. That guy is such a moocher.” Bridget hesitated for a second and then said, in a whisper, which made no sense because we were alone in her apartment, “Did you know he took money from Timmy. And asked Timmy if he’d share me?”

  Those were two extreme statements.

  I started with the lesser of the two.

  “He took money? Like stole it?”

  “Yes. Timmy has a jar hidden in his desk with some cash and coins. Nothing much, maybe twenty dollars. And Danny cleared it out.”

  “How did Timmy find out?”

  “Danny left the drawer open and the jar on Timmy’s desk, empty. And Danny is the only other person who has a key to the apartment.”

  I almost asked, You don’t have a key to your boyfriend’s apartment? but luckily, I caught myself, stopping what had the potential to be a tyrant conversation on Timmy’s inability to commit to anything but the bedroom.

  “And what about Danny wanting to share you?”

  “Don’t even get me started,” Bridget said. She shook her head and then body, making a disgusted sound. “Danny was drunk and made a joke about it to Timmy. And then Timmy said it to me. For a second, I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.”

  “Change of subject.” I drank more of the water I didn’t want and left the kitchen.

  I fell to the couch and let out a long sigh. In the few seconds it took Bridget to follow me, I realized I already started to feel better being with Bridget. That watching feeling had gone, thankfully, but my body still felt different, like it knew something I didn’t know.

  But I had Bridget.

  “Okay, I’m done talking about my pathetic life,” Bridget said. “Unless you want to hear about some changes to the tax code…”

  “No, not at all.”

  Bridget smiled. “Tell me about your life, Tessa.”

  “My life.” My brain had plenty to say. I think I felt someone touch me while I was in the tub. Strange as hell. I freaked out and left the bathroom. I was scared to drop my towel because I felt someone staring at me. Hey, did I ever tell you the story about when I was a teenager and had dreams about a shadow figure watching me? And once… I caught it… out of the dream…

  “Tessa?”

  I blinked and looked at Bridget. “What?”

  “What’s wrong? You seem… off. Really off. Like something’s eating you. Did something happen at work? Was it Brett? It was. Did he ask you out or something?”

  I said nothing. Sometimes it was fun to mess with Bridget like this. I could just stare at her and she would make up these amazing stories, getting so far off track from the truth, it made me laugh.

  “You’re afraid to tell me because I don’t like him. It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s like he’s stuck in high school. Long hair. Ripped jeans. I mean, cool, he plays guitar and can sing. But is that a good life for him. And you? What if he got you pregnant… and then he leaves to sing… and…”

  “Work was fine,” I said. “I haven’t seen Brett in a few days actually. I’m a little off tonight. Bridget, what’s my name?”

  “Your name?”

  “My name. First and last. Go.”

  “Tessa, short for Theresa. Last name Smith.”

  I smiled and nodded. That’s the name the world knew me by right now. Theresa Belle felt like a lifetime ago. A lifetime that had suddenly started to tug at me.

  “Why are you asking me that? Is that not really your name? Are you in like witness protection? Did you murder…”

  “Funny you mention that,” I said.

  Bridget’s face turned white.

  I couldn’t believe I was finally there, finally in that place to maybe tell someone a story or two about myself. Whatever happened back at my apartment I knew had to be connected to my life.

  “Do you know anything about my father? Did I ever mention him?”

  Bridget turned and crossed her legs. Her mood became serious, matching mine. Finally, we were on the same page in life. She shook her head.

  “I think you mentioned once that he left when you were thirteen,” she said. “That’s why you lived with your aunt.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. But do you know why he left?”

  “Because he was an asshole? Sort of like my father, except he left when I was three, long before I could care.”

  “I’m going to say this once, Bridget, so just bear with me.” I paused. “My father murdered someone. And is in prison.”

  There it was, finally out in the open. It didn’t feel any better to admit that. It didn’t feel any better saying it aloud. I used to tell therapists that when I was younger. All those appointments may have helped me then, but to talk about it did nothing. It was sort of like wishing a deceased relative back to life by talking about them. Maybe if we talk long enough about her, or him, they’ll come back to us…

  That’s not how life worked, that’s not how death worked.

  I’ve seen both, and both are pretty scary in their own right.

  “Oh my gosh,” Bridget whispered. “I’m so sorry…”

  “I saw it happen too,” I said. “My father stabbed someone.”

  I couldn’t believe I left it as someone instead of saying his name. That part of me I wanted to keep a secret. That part of me I wanted to hold forever. And yes, that part of me wanted to talk long enough about it to bring him back to life.

  I’d been trying for ten years with no luck.

  Here’s to another ten, I thought as I gave Bridget time to absorb what I had said.

  “You saw it all? Who did he…”

  “Someone I knew. My father had a drinking problem.” I could have added the physical – and mental – abuse, but that could be saved for another night. Maybe. “One night, I was down the basement with my friend and he came down in a fury. Things got way out of hand and my friend ended up dead. Stabbed to death.”

  “Oh, Tessa,” Bridget said. She started to move closer to me then quickly stopped. She was partially off the couch and looked confused. She didn’t understand what her next move should be.

  “It’s okay,” I said, allowing Bridget to sit back down. “It was ten years ago that it happened. I mean, it’s not okay, but it’s okay. You know?”

  Bridget nodded, and smiled.

  She didn’t know.

  And that was okay.

  “He stabbed my friend on purpose though, he wanted to do it. The friend was a boy” – but I wouldn’t share his name or the way I felt about him – “and my father thought we were… you know… being teenagers.”

  I saw Bridget’s eyes light up, making the connection, finally, as to why I remained a virgin at twenty-three. I wouldn’t admit nor deny a thing. I simply continued the story. Bridget was smart enough to put pieces together and make up her own mind.

  “I was so young, Bridget, you know?”

  “Of course,” Bridget said. This time she moved towards me and put a hand to my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I wasn’t sure what I saw at first. It all happened so fast. One second I was with… the boy” – I almost gave up Jack’s name. No. Never. – “… and the next my father was wielding a knife and…”

  I knew the entire story. I never told anyone I did. I left it at ‘fuzzy’, a word I used dozens of times in front of lawyers, a judge, and a few doctors. They all bought into it because they had to. In reality, there was a time when ‘fuzzy’ existed, creat
ed into something I believed to be reality. Until I started dreaming about the shadow boy. He just stood in my dreams and each morning more and more of the truth came forward. By then, it was way too late.

  “He’s in prison?” Bridget asked. “That’s good right.”

  “Sure, I guess. I don’t have to see him or deal with him. Not that he could find me if he wanted to. But it was what really happened.”

  “What really happened?”

  “Well, first off, my father isn’t in prison for the rest of his life. He wasn’t convicted on actual murder charges. It was a lesser charge, one that carried twenty years.”

  “Twenty years for killing someone?”

  “Claimed it was self defense. And won.”

  “But you saw it.”

  “Or so I thought. At the time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  By now Bridget had casually lifted the remote to her television and muted it. I gazed at the bottle of water on the table and wished I grabbed something a little stronger for a conversation like this.

  “That means I was manipulated by my father and his team of lawyers to believe something different.”

  “And it worked.”

  Not a question, but a statement. A non-judging statement, something I had truly feared for a time like this. I always thought people would judge me if they knew the truth. But what was I supposed to do? I was thirteen at the time, abused and confused, and my young mind was easily squeezed like a sponge. Empty what you don’t want and fill it up with something else.

  “It worked,” I said. “The lawyers basically confused me enough that when I had to take the stand, I scrambled. They worked the consoling angle, trying to explain how terrible it was someone I knew had died but the fact remained that an unwelcomed stranger was inside the house, near me, and my father just tried to defend himself. And me.”

  “Defend.”

  “It was true,” I said. “My friend punched my father. For various reasons. There really wasn’t much of a case because the only other person who could have helped me was dead. And he had no family. Nobody there but me. And I… I don’t even know if I was there.”

  “Tessa, why didn’t you tell me before?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t respond.

  “Why tell me now?”

  And there it was. The question.

  Why had I just shared that with Bridget? Maybe because time was moving forward. Half my father’s sentence was over. He would get out of prison and I’d only be thirty three. I could be married, with a family of my own. He would be in his sixties, possibly with a lot of life to live. I had no idea how prison treated him, if he had visitors or ventures inside or out. I had no idea what prison he was in and I didn’t want to know. The less I knew, the better it was to let it slip away.

  “Tessa?”

  “I’m still here,” I said. I felt like apologizing for sounding so cocky, but honestly… whatever. “I was just thinking about things. Ever have a day, I should say night, where random things just come to you?”

  “I guess.”

  “I was taking a… shower… and all of a sudden I had a feeling. I never talked to anyone about this so I figured why not.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Bridget said. Her voice became soothing, almost motherly. “I wish you told me sooner. Not that it changes anything, but it is good to know.”

  “It doesn’t help me by talking,” I said. “I mean, I can’t go back and change anything. It all led me here, right?”

  Bridget nodded.

  “If it didn’t happen, and my father didn’t go to jail, who knows where I would have been.”

  There was more I intended to say but immediately after my sentence I heard a word being spoken, but not in my voice. I could almost see the word, like a faint wisp written in cloud. It had broken lines, was terribly written, and if I hadn’t heard the word, I wouldn’t have known what the written word said.

  The word was simple.

  Mine.

  “Well, I just want you to know, Tessa, that you can talk to me about anything. I’m serious. I know a lot of my problems are petty but don’t be afraid to talk to me.”

  “I know that,” I said. I looked at Bridget. “I know. Can I sleep here tonight?”

  “You want to sleep here?”

  “If I don’t, you’re going to stay up and worry about Timmy.”

  “That’s true. And we’re in luck…”

  “We are?”

  By then Bridget was already on the move. She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a second later holding a bottle of wine. One hand gripped the top while the other held the bottom. Her face was priceless, looking like a model for wine. If they have those.

  “I could use wine,” I said.

  “It was supposed to be for me and Timmy… but since he’s so busy tonight, we can enjoy it ourselves.”

  Enjoying meant pulling out the sofa bed, having a glass and a half of wine, and then finally admitting the day and night were over. I had work the next day, a morning shift, so I couldn’t have burned the midnight oil if I wanted to. All I really wanted was the night to end and wake up with some sense of normal inside me. Going to work made sense. A schedule, a purpose, and maybe I’d be able to see Brett. I’d get to get there early, make coffee, enjoy its warm, bitter awakening smell, help to get some of the baked goods ready, greet the morning crowd of adults rushing to work, college kids rushing to class, and the staggering few artists who were either up early for inspiration or hadn’t gone to bed yet because of inspiration.

  Bridget and I always enjoyed sleepovers. That stemmed from college where we shared a dorm. Now any time we could have a night to spend together, we did. Tonight just so happened to fall into place.

  “You going to call Timmy?” I asked, smiling in the darkness of Bridget’s apartment.

  “No,” Bridget said.

  I gave it a second before opening my mouth to ask the next question.

  “I text him,” she said with a hint of shame in her voice.

  That was my next question.

  “Did he reply?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s probably sleeping.”

  “Or cheating.”

  I sighed. “Or just sleeping.”

  Bridget waited and changed the subject.

  “I’m really sorry about everything,” she said. “I know it doesn’t change anything. But just know I’m sorry.”

  “Me too but life gives you that sometimes.”

  “Sorrow?”

  “No. Change. It could happen over time or within it. Freaky.”

  “You really are a writer. Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  We fell silent and I rolled to my side. My eyes were open, seeing nothing. Half of me wanted to keep seeing nothing, appreciating it for all it was worth. The other half wanted to see something.

  I saw nothing.

  I closed my eyes and opened them quickly.

  Again, I saw nothing.

  I told myself to relax and let my body fall asleep. Let time seep in and bring me to another day, like it was supposed to do.

  As I settled, I picked up on Bridget’s gentle breathing. It wasn’t a snore, not yet at least. Maybe that’s why Timmy wanted a night alone. Sometimes Bridget’s snoring would get so loud that it can wake a person out of a sound sleep. Trust me, I’d know.

  I smiled and thought about the dynamics of a relationship. I didn’t need to think hard because I understood them. I may not have had a boyfriend, or a sex life, but I knew the frustrations and hope of love. Been there, a long time ago.

  Ten years.

  Perhaps sensing my discomfort, I felt Bridget touch my hair. She ran her fingers up and pulled the hair that fell towards my face. Her fingers were cold as they moved past my ear. Bridget really was like a motherly figure in my life, even though she had her own moments that made her more of a teenager than a successful grown woman.

  My body started to drift,
reaching that far away land of sleep.

  My hair moved again, this time I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I’m okay,” I whispered. “I promise.”

  “What?” Bridget asked, her voice groggy.

  “I’m okay. You can stop touching my hair.”

  “Tessa, I’m not touching your hair.”

  Life gives you that sometimes.

  1

  I didn’t bring it up to Bridget and she did the same for me. I wasn’t sure if she even remembered what happened or not. That was a good thing. She didn’t need to get pulled into whatever was happening to me right now.

  I surprisingly slept well, without dreams or worry. I woke in a good mood, didn’t feel watched, and nobody touched my hair. Bridget got up well before me and had coffee, breakfast, and a shower all before I could stumble my way to the kitchen to find a mug and enjoy the last small cup of horrible tasting coffee. If there was one bad thing about my job it was that it forever changed my taste in coffee. Having the perfect cup of coffee at my disposable each time I worked made making coffee at home almost impossible. Even if I took coffee home from work to make, it didn’t taste the same.

  The two brothers that owned Thorns roasted their own beans and had a meticulous process to create their coffee. It worked and people loved it, including me.

  Bridget came from her bedroom dressed as a woman ready to take charge. She had a bag on her shoulder, a travel mug in her hand, and a look of defiance on her face. We hugged and she left. That’s when I looked at the clock on the wall and realized I was running late. I dumped the bad coffee down the drain, rinsed the mug, and headed for the door.

  On the days I opened, I had to be at Thorns early to get set up. I arrived around sunrise, knowing I had about twenty minutes or so before I’d have to open for the first customers. There had been talks about opening earlier but everyone that worked there was generally against it. That included me, but I’d go along with whatever the boss wanted.

  I prepped the coffeemakers and started to fill the bakery cases. I looked at the small stage wondering what kind of life had been up there the night before. As I imagined the performances, I heard a loud thud against the front window. I winced and waited to hear the glass crack, but it didn’t happen.

  I turned my head and saw Brett standing at the door, his face almost pressed against the glass. He knocked again and then started to play a drumbeat with both hands. I knew I should have walked away or chased him away, but it was Brett. His long hair looked messy and sexy, in that rocker kind of way.