After Ever Happy (After #4) (5 page)

She looks at Hardin, expecting him to defend her—and then the sick history between the two of them comes to me. This isn’t the way a “friend of the family” would behave with the son of her friend who is half her age.

“I
said
I don’t want to leave,” Hardin insists.

I’ve pulled out all the stops here, and he isn’t listening. My last option is to play on his jealousy—a low blow, especially in the state he’s in, but he’s left me no other choice.

“Well,” I say as I begin scanning the bar exaggeratedly, “if you won’t take me back to the hotel, I will have to find someone else to do it.” My eyes settle on the youngest man in the place, who is at a table with his friends. I give Hardin a few seconds to respond, and when he doesn’t, I begin walking toward the group of young men.

Hardin’s hand is around my arm in mere seconds. “Hell no, you won’t.”

I spin around, taking note of the barstool he’s knocked over in his haste to reach me, and Judy’s ridiculously uncoordinated attempts to get it back upright.

“Then take me back,” I reply with a tilt of my head.

“I’m wasted,” he says, as if that justifies this whole scene.

“I know. We can call a cab to take us to Gabriel’s, and I’ll drive the rental to the hotel.” Inside I say a little prayer that this ruse will work.

Hardin squints at me for a second. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he mumbles sarcastically.

“No, but staying here isn’t doing a bit of good, so either you go pay for your drinks and take me out of here, or I will leave with someone else.”

He releases his light grip on my arm and steps close. “Don’t you threaten me. I could just as easily leave with someone else,” he says, only inches from my face.

A sting of jealousy pains me, but I ignore it. “Go ahead. Go home with Judy, then. I know you slept with her before. I can tell.” I keep my back straight and my voice steady as I challenge him.

He looks at me, then to her, and smiles a little. I flinch, and he frowns. “It wasn’t anything too impressive. I barely remember it.” He’s attempting to make me feel better, but his words have the opposite effect.

“Well? What’s it going to be?” I raise my brow.

“Damn it,” he grumbles, then half stumbles back to the bar to pay for his drinks. It looks like he just empties his pockets on the bar, and after the bartender extracts some bills, he shoves the rest in Judy’s direction. She looks at him and then over at me, sinking a little as if something has deflated her spine.

As we exit the bar, Hardin says, “Judy says bye,” and it makes me want to explode.

“Don’t talk to me about her,” I snap.

“Are you jealous, Theresa?” he slurs, wrapping his arm around me. “Fuck, I hate this place, this bar, that house.” He gestures toward the small house across the street. “Oh! You want to know something funny? Vance lived there.” Hardin points to the brick house directly next to the bar. A dim light is on upstairs, and a car is parked in the driveway. “I wonder what he was doing the night that those men came into our fucking house.” Hardin’s eyes scan the ground, and he bends down. Before I realize what’s happening, his arm is raised behind his head, a brick in his hand.

“Hardin, no!” I yell and grab his arm. The brick falls to the ground and skids across the concrete.

“Fuck this.” He tries to reach for it, but I stand in front of him.
“Fuck all of this! Fuck this street! Fuck this bar and that fucking house! Fuck everyone!”

He stumbles again and walks into the street. “If you won’t let me destroy that house . . .” His voice trails off, and I pull my shoes from my feet and follow him across the street and into the front yard of his childhood home.

I
trip over my bare feet while rushing behind Hardin into the front yard of the house where he spent his painful childhood. One of my knees lands on the grass, but I quickly steady myself and get back on my feet. The front screen door is pulled open, and I hear Hardin fumbling with the doorknob for a moment before he pounds his fist against the wood in frustration.

“Hardin, please. Let’s just go to the hotel,” I try to convince him as I approach.

Ignoring my presence completely, he bends down to grab something from beside the porch. I assume it’s a spare key but am quickly proven wrong when a fist-size rock is pushed through the glass pane on the center of the door. Hardin snakes his arm through, thankfully avoiding the sharp ridges of the broken glass, and unlocks the door.

I look around the quiet street, but nothing seems amiss. No one is outside to notice our disruption, and no lights have flickered on at the sound of the breaking glass. I pray that Trish and Mike aren’t staying next door at Mike’s house tonight, that they’ve gone off to some fancy hotel for the night, given that neither of them are well-off enough to go on an extravagant honeymoon.

“Hardin.”
I’m walking on water here, trying my hardest to keep from sinking under. One slipup, and we both will drown.

“This fucking house has been nothing but a tormentor of mine,” he grumbles, stumbling over his boots. He catches himself on the arm of a small couch before he falls. I survey the living room, and I’m grateful that most of the furnishings have been packed into boxes or have already been removed from the house in preparation for the demolition following Trish’s move.

He narrows his eyes and focuses on the couch. “This couch here”—he presses his fingers against his forehead before finishing—“that’s where it happened, you know? That exact same fucking couch.”

I knew he wasn’t in his head, but his saying that confirms it. I remember him telling me months ago that he’d destroyed that couch—“the piece of shit was easy to shred,” he bragged.

I look at the couch before us, the newness of it evident by the stiff cushions and unmarked fabric. My stomach turns. Both over the memory and the thought of what this mood of Hardin’s is building up to.

His eyes close momentarily. “Maybe one of my fucking fathers could have thought to buy a new one.”

“I’m so sorry. I know this is so much for you right now.” I try to comfort him, but he continues to ignore me.

He opens his eyes and walks into the kitchen, and I follow a few feet behind. “Where is it . . .” he mumbles and drops to his knees to look inside the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “Gotcha.” He holds up a bottle of clear liquor. I don’t want to ask whose liquor it was—or is—and how it got there in the first place. Given the thin layer of dust that appears on Hardin’s black T-shirt when he rubs the bottle against the fabric, I’d say it’s been hiding in there for at least a few months.

I follow him as he returns to the living room, unsure of what he will do next.

“I know you’re upset and you are completely justified to be angry.” I stand in front of him in a desperate attempt to gain his attention. He refuses to even glance down at me. “But can we
please
go back to the hotel?” I reach for his hand, but he pulls away. “We can talk, and you can sober up, please. Or you can go to sleep, whatever you want, but please, we need to leave here.”

Hardin ducks around me and walks to the couch, pointing. “She was here . . .” He points to the couch with the bottle of liquor. My eyes prick with tears, but I swallow them down. “And no one came to fucking stop it. Neither of those fuckups.” He spits and twists the top off the full bottle. He presses the bottle to his lips and tips his head back, gulping the liquor down.

“Enough!” I shout, stepping closer to him. I’m fully prepared to yank that bottle right from his hands and shatter it against the kitchen tile. Anything so he doesn’t drink it. I don’t know how much more alcohol his body can stand before he passes out.

Hardin takes another swig before stopping. He uses the back of his hand to wipe the excess liquor from his mouth and chin. He grins and looks at me for the first time since we entered this house. “Why? You want some?”

“No—
yes
, actually, I do,” I lie.

“Too bad, Tessie. There isn’t enough to share,” he slurs, holding up the large bottle. I cringe at the use of my father’s nickname for me. It has to be over a liter of whatever liquor it is; the label is worn and half-torn. I wonder how long ago he hid it there—was it during those worst eleven days of my entire life? “I bet you’re loving this.”

I take a step back and try to think of a plan of action. I don’t have many options right now, and I’m becoming a little frightened. I know he would never physically hurt me, but I don’t know how he’ll treat himself—and I’m not emotionally prepared for another lashing from him. I’ve gotten too used to the somewhat controlled Hardin that I have been graced with lately: sarcastic and moody, but no longer hateful. The gleam in his bloodshot eyes is all too familiar to me, and I can see the malice brewing behind them.

“Why would I be loving this? I hate seeing you this way. I never want you to be hurting like this, Hardin.”

He smiles and softly chuckles before lifting the bottle and pouring some liquor onto the couch cushions. “Did you know that rum is one of the most flammable of spirits?” he says darkly.

My blood runs cold. “Hardin, I—”

“This rum here is one hundred proof. That’s pretty damn high.” His voice is hazy, slow, and frightening as he continues to douse the couch.

“Hardin!” I exclaim, my voice growing louder. “What are you going to do then? Burn the house down? That isn’t going to change anything!”

Waving a dismissive hand toward me, he sneers, “You should go. No kids allowed.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Feeling brave, and slightly afraid, I reach for the bottle and grip the handle.

Hardin’s nostrils flare and he tries to loosen my grip. “Let go of it. Now,” he says through his teeth.

“No.”

“Tessa, don’t push me.”

“What are you going to do, Hardin? Fight me over a bottle of alcohol?”

His eyes go wide; his mouth opens in surprise when he looks at both of our hands playing tug-of-war.

“Give me the bottle,” I demand, tightening my grip on the handle of the large bottle. It’s heavy, and Hardin isn’t making it any easier, but my adrenaline is pumping, giving me the strength I need. Cursing under his breath, he pulls his hand away. I didn’t expect him to give in that easily, so as his weight is removed, the bottle slips from my hand and topples to the floor in front of us, spilling onto aged wood.

I reach for it as I suggest the opposite: “Leave it there.”

“I don’t see the big deal here.” He grabs the bottle before I can and pours more liquor onto the couch, then walks in a circle around the room, leaving a trail of flammable rum behind him. “This shithole is going to be demolished anyway. I’m doing the new owners a favor.” He looks at me and shrugs playfully. “This is probably cheaper anyway.”

I slowly turn away from Hardin and reach into my purse to find my phone. The battery warning symbol is flashing, but I pull up the only number that could possibly help us at this point. Keeping the phone in my hand, I turn back to Hardin. “The police will come to your mother’s house if you do this. You will get arrested, Hardin.” I pray that the person on the line can hear me.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he mumbles, his jaw clenched. He looks down at the couch, his eyes piercing the present to stare into the past. “I can still hear her screaming. Her cries sounded like a wounded fucking animal. Do you know what that sounds like to a little boy?”

My heart aches for Hardin, for both versions of him—the innocent little boy who was forced to watch his mother beaten and violated, and the angry, hurt man who feels like his only recourse is to burn down the entire house to rid himself of the memory.

“You don’t want to go to jail, do you? Where would I go? I would be stranded.” I don’t give a damn about myself, but hope that the idea will make him reconsider his actions.

My beautiful dark prince stares at me for a moment, my words seeming to have rattled him. “Call a cab now. Walk down to the end of the street. I’ll make sure you’re gone before I do anything.” His voice is clearer now than it should be, considering the amount of alcohol in his blood. But all I hear is him trying to give up on himself.

“I don’t have any way to pay for a cab.” I make a show of digging out my wallet and showing him my American currency.

His eyes pinch closed, and he chucks the bottle against the wall. It shatters, but I barely flinch. I’ve seen and heard this too many times in the last seven months to be shaken by it.

“Take my goddamn wallet and
get. Out. Fuck!”
In one swift motion he pulls his wallet from his back pocket and tosses it onto the floor before me.

I bend down and shove it into my purse. “No. I need you to come with me,” I say softly.

“You are so perfect . . . you know that, right?” He takes a step toward me and lifts his hand to cup my cheek. I flinch at the contact, and a deep frown sets on his beautifully tormented face. “Don’t you know that? That you are perfect.” His hand is hot against my cheek, and his thumb begins to move across the skin.

I can feel my lips trembling but I keep a straight face. “No. I’m not perfect, Hardin. No one is,” I quietly reply, my eyes staring into his.

“You are. You’re too perfect for me.”

I want to cry—
are we back to this?
“I’m not going to let you push me away. I know what you’re doing: you’re drunk, and you are trying to justify this by comparing us. I’m just as fucked-up as you.”

“Don’t talk like that.” He frowns again. His other hand moves up to my jaw and pushes into my hair. “It doesn’t sound right, coming from that beautiful mouth.” His thumb runs along my bottom lip, and I can’t help but notice the contrast between the way his eyes burn with dark pain and rage and his light and gentle touch.

“I love you, and I’m not going anywhere,” I say, praying to break through his drunken haze. I search his eyes for any hint of my Hardin.

“ ‘If two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it,’ ” he softly replies.

Instantly recognizing the words, I tear my eyes from his. “Don’t quote Hemingway to me,” I snap.
Did he think I wouldn’t recognize it and know what he was trying to do?