Find Me in Manhattan (Finding #3) (6 page)

Jameson.

Michael

Randy’s race was the following weekend, so we were all working to get his car ready. Every time he tested it, something felt off. It had to be in perfect condition to win the race, so we had to address every possible problem before he could drive it. This would have been a lot easier if I could have just climbed in the car and driven it, but just the thought of sitting in the driver’s seat made me so sick that I had to take a break.

“I still need more traction on the turns. We need weight on the right side,” Randy announced as he climbed out of the car after yet another failed test. “And it’s still too slow. Ten seconds won’t cut it.”

I was already examining the right front tire of the car. “Let me check your shocks and adjust the weight jacks. You’ll have to test it again ‘til we get it right. We can install larger jets on the nitrous to get more oxygen to the engine. It should speed up the car.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“Then I guess you should quit yapping and let the man work,” Joe called out from another bay. Joe hated when Randy told us how to do our jobs. He knew enough to get by, but he wasn’t the one building cars day after day.

“I’m going to go work out,” Randy grunted. “Call me when it’s ready.”

Phil was rolling in as Randy was leaving. When Randy walked by him without speaking, Phil raised his eyebrows toward me. “What crawled up Cinderella’s skirt?”

I stood up to my full height to grab some tools then sat on a stool, so I was closer to Phil’s height in his chair. “Joe told him to shut up and let me get back to work. What’s up? What’re you doing down here in the slums?”

“Good for Joe. He knows you don’t have all week to spend on Randy’s car.”

“What’re you talking about? This is the only job I have this week.”

“You need to do the interview,” he reminded me.

I groaned. “Give it up. I’m not going. I spoke with Dr. Wright a few weeks ago then saw Dr. Hoffman for a refill on meds.”

“This isn’t the same thing, and you know it.” He turned his chair around and taunted me by saying, “Besides, I think you’ll change your mind.”

“Why’s that?”

“A couple of reasons. If you don’t think therapy helped, they need to know. Maybe there’s something else they can do for you.”

I ignored the idea of trying something else. No need. “What’s the other reason? The real reason.”

“Wait ‘til you see the chick interviewing us. I don’t know why the good doctor thought it was a good idea to stick her in a room alone with a bunch of soldiers, but damn. She’s got this sweet Southern accent and a body that will have you drooling.”

“You’re married, remember?”

“You’re not.”

I climbed off the stool and carried my wrench back over to the car. I was done with this conversation. “I’m not looking for some chick to screw around with. I told you that the other night.”

“Trust me. You’ll change your mind. Besides, you owe Dr. Wright. He made it so you could sleep again, pal.”

I hated that Phil was right. While the intensive therapy we went through when we returned home didn’t cure me of my night terrors or panic attacks, he did make it so I wasn’t functioning in the black fog I was before.

An hour-long interview with a hot girl didn’t sound so bad after considering what he had done for Phil, Moretti, and me. As far as sacrifices go, this was only a blip on my radar.

Sarah

My phone continued to go off. Voicemails and text messages kept coming through, and I continued to ignore them. I would have turned my phone off, but I kept thinking that each vibrate would be the final one. Finally, I had to turn it off after sending a message to my parents, Seth, and Maggie that I’d be out of commission for the night without explaining what was going on. They’d worry, and I didn’t need their concern on top of my own. To be honest, I couldn’t figure out why Jameson wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought I had made it pretty clear that we were done after the incident earlier that day.

When the phone calls went unanswered, Jameson showed up in the middle of the night at my apartment. The buzzing on the intercom started just after one in the morning. Lana had been running an experiment at the lab, so I figured she forgot her keys. No such luck. When I peeked out the window and saw Jameson on the street, I quickly ran from the window. I didn’t want him to know that I was home, especially since I was alone. Like a baby, I hid in my bed and tried to cover my ears with my pillow to block out the buzzing and maybe even the fear that was building up in me. Even muffled, the sound relentlessly continued. “Please go away. Please, please, please,” I begged. He wasn’t getting the message, and he was starting to tick me off.

He didn’t have a key, so I told myself I was safe, but the constant buzzing prevented my body from agreeing with my mind. My body seemed to know something my mind didn’t because, the next thing I knew, there was a pounding on my door.

I pressed my hand to the fingerprint reader of the gun safe under my bed and pulled out one of my guns. At the door, I made sure all the locks were turned and the chain was pulled into its holder. That was when I heard him yelling. “Come on, Sarah! I know you’re home. I saw you look out your window.” The pounding paused. “I just want to talk. I’m sorry about the other day. I was out of my mind.”

Another less forceful knock followed by what sounded like his head hitting the door. “Come on, baby.” I cringed at the pet name. I had learned that he only used them when he was apologizing or trying to sweeten me up. Otherwise, he called me Sarah. “I’m sorry. You’re all I think about, everything I want. The thought that someone might take you away makes me crazy.”

“Leave, Jameson!” I called out from my safe place inside the apartment. “I have a gun, and I will shoot you if you come through that door.”

“Please, baby.” More pounding on the door followed his plea. He was trying to sweet talk me, trying to convince me to fall back into his trap, his claws, his web. He had become a monster, and I had let myself fall for his trickery. Never again.

“Sarah, baby, please,” he continued to beg.

I would not fall for this. I knew this was how the cycle of abuse started. Victims would forgive once they heard how sorry their attacker was. There was always an excuse and an apology, some sort of emotional blackmail. I knew the pathetic whimpering outside my door was simply one tactic. When it was not successful, he would move to the next. I dreaded what came next but reminded myself that his behavior was predictable. If I gave in, the abuse would progressively get worse. I would be allowing him to make me a victim. Instead of shooting him through the door like my trigger finger was itching to do, I gave him one last warning. “I’m calling the police.” My trigger finger had lost its damn mind, and it was only by the grace of God that I was still thinking rationally at this point.

Another knock, even quieter this time stopped me mid-dial. “Sarah, please. I’ll do anything you want. I’ve already talked to Dr. Wright about getting help. He’s referred me to someone. Please,” he begged again. It seemed like forever went by while I listened to him cry outside my door and beg while I went back and forth about hitting the last number on my phone to call the police.

Then something occurred to my tired and emotionally charged brain. Logic flew out the window, and some weird sense of empathy took its place. Maybe I could help him. I was going to be a psychologist. It was going to be my job to help people, right?

Mama and Daddy believed fate was what brought them together. They always said God had their life together planned from the beginning. Maybe I was supposed to meet Jameson and help him, not be with him. I thought I might be the person to save him. I hit the button on my phone that turned the screen black. It was time to be brave. I stood from the floor and took a deep breath in preparation for opening the door. Jameson was emotional and out of control, so I needed to have a steady plan in order for this conversation to be successful.

Sudden arguing in the hall brought me back to reality. He was arguing with someone. A female.
Lana
.

“Get out of here or I’m calling the cops!” Lana had yelled before the locks started to turn. I put the safety on the gun then ran over to unhook the chain right before she slung the door wide open. “You weren’t listening to that shit, were you?”

That was enough to remind me that I never wanted to be a victim, and not everyone could be helped. Foolish plan aborted, I decided it was time to lie my ass off before my roommate realized what a pathetic human being I was becoming. “No. Of course, not.” Thank God Lana snapped me out of my moment of weakness.

She looked at me suspiciously for a moment. “You sure? I can give you a hundred reasons to never see the man again, but I can’t think of a single one to make you go back to him.”

I showed her the gun and my phone.  She knew I had them, but I kept one locked in a safe in my bedroom and a backup in a safe on the top shelf of my closet. This was the first time she had seen it out and loaded. “I have this, and I was giving him sixty more seconds before I called the cops. I certainly wasn’t thinking of letting him in.” So, it was a small lie, but from that point on, it would have to be the truth. I would not let him in.

She remained suspicious a moment longer before she seemed to take my word for it. “Good. You know as well as I do that he’ll do it again. Maybe you should file that police report, after all. And for fuck’s sake, put the gun away.” True to form, Lana was unfazed by the drama. I loved that about her, envied her really.

I was done talking about it. Suddenly, I felt more exhausted than I had ever felt on the farm. “I just want to go back to sleep. Today has been beyond stressful, and I don’t want to think about anything but my pillow.”

“All right. Well, I’m here if you need anything. ‘Night, Sarah.”

“’Night, Lana. Thanks for your help tonight.”

I climbed back in my bed and thought about how lonely I felt. In a week, I went from having a sweet, attentive boyfriend to having bruises from said boyfriend hitting me.
Why couldn’t I find a decent man? What was it about me that caused losers, cheaters, and assholes to flock to me?
I felt the familiar pings of jealousy stab my gut. My best friend, Maggie, had never had a boyfriend before Parker. Her first real boyfriend happened to be the guy who she married. And here I was kissing toads. While I couldn’t be happier for her, I wondered for the millionth time what was wrong with me. More questions that I couldn’t answer flooded my brain.
Why would a guy cheat on me? Why would a guy expect me to give up everything for him? Why would a guy hit me? Why couldn’t I find what my parents have?

The next morning arrived too quickly. I was exhausted, but I had to be at the VA for an interview, and then I had two more phone interviews. The week was thankfully a busy one for me. While I had to wear a hideous amount of concealer and foundation for interviews, Lana encouraged me go to the police and Dr. Wright with nothing covering the bruising around my eye and on my cheek. She also took pictures of everything just in case I backed out.

I didn’t. I marched my angry tail right up to the police station and filed a police report. Of course, the entire experience was anti-climactic. I wrote a detailed account of the first incident, the alley action, and the late night trespassing. The officer took the paperwork and asked me a million questions that made it sound like he thought I was to blame or making everything up. Then he said, “We’ll look into it,” and dismissed me without a second glance. I thought if I filed a police report then he would be arrested, but the officer made it sound like I was the one who needed a lawyer.

Disappointed by the turn of events and feeling a little foolish for thinking this would all be simple, I took a taxi straight to Dr. Wright’s office where I was forced to show him exactly what Jameson did to me when I told him that I couldn’t work with the lunatic anymore. Dr. Wright helped me file a report with the university, and within a few hours, Jameson had been called into the dean’s office with the news that he’d been suspended pending an investigation. When Dr. Wright called to tell me the news, I felt like he was about to say something more, but he rushed off the phone instead. It left me feeling uneasy, to say the least. It seemed a little like no one who held any power actually believed me.

I had a hard time keeping my emotions in check all week after that, but I forced myself to be professional for every interview. Part of me still couldn’t believe Jameson hurt me. The idea that I might be weaker than I ever considered made me want to curl up in a ball and cry, but I managed to refrain. What kind of psychologist would I be if I started crying every time I thought about what happened? Furthermore, what kind of woman would I be?

By Thursday, I mostly focused on work even if I couldn’t shake the sensation that Jameson was out there watching me. On top of my paranoia, my insides still felt like they had somehow solidified, making me constantly ache and feel like the dumbest girl on the planet. Thankfully, my brain seemed to function semi-normally because I had a class before the two interviews scheduled for that afternoon. Class was the same old routine minus my participation. I was always a good student. I listened and responded. Yes, I was that kid who always had my hand up when the teacher asked a question. I wasn’t trying to be teacher’s pet; I was simply trying to get off the farm. Now, my participation consisted of taking down the notes needed to help me remember what I was supposed to be doing.