Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance) (25 page)
At first.
The events passed through my head again and again and I started to cry. I lost all control of my emotions and didn’t care. Jack had saved me, like he said he would. But he was gone. The only man I ever loved. The man who took my true innocence, who loved me, who pleased me, who made the world seem fair again. The realization hurt like hell.
My weeping woke Auntie B up.
“Tessa, oh, Tessa...”
“I’m fine,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“Oh, baby. I should have never let you go back to that apartment.”
“He would have come to your house then.”
Auntie B started to get upset too. I reached for her and she jumped out of her chair and hugged me. She was warm and safe.
“There was a mix-up somewhere,” Auntie B said, “and he was able to find you. I should have had better lawyers, done more to keep him away.”
“Well, he’s gone again, right?”
“Yes, forever. He... he killed himself.”
“What?” I asked.
A pinching shock ran through my body.
“Don’t you remember anything?” Auntie B asked.
“I remember Bridget going for help. Then he came into my room and we struggled. Then everything went dark.”
Lies, lies, lies, but if I started talking about Jack, things would only end up worse for everyone.
“Well, he couldn’t harm you,” Auntie B said, “so he harmed himself. It’s all over now.”
I nodded.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“They wanted to check you out.”
“Where’s Bridget?” I asked.
“She’s fine. She’s home, safe. Actually, I think she went to her boyfriend’s house.”
Good. Bridget was okay.
“I guess I need a new place to live,” I whispered, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yes. My house. No questions asked.”
Auntie B had a serious look and tone.
Fair enough.
She had to see me in the hospital twice in a short time, so I’d abide by her rules for the moment.
The doctors checked me one more time, asking what I knew and what I remembered. I repeated it all again to the police, and then I was released from the hospital that same day. I went home to Auntie B’s house, back to my old bedroom, which looked like a skeleton of what it used to be. All my stuff was still at my apartment. Auntie B wouldn’t let me go near the place. She sent a moving company to bring my stuff to her house.
It took me a few days to get settled. News of what happened filtered through town and was picked up by other news stations and newspapers. Reporters tried to call us but Auntie B took care of it all. The more I listened, the more I learned. My father basically lost everything he ever worked for. His lawyer cleaned him out and there was nothing that could have been done or would be done. He was a sad, pathetic, poor man, getting what he ultimately deserved.
Jack had given his life to save mine and there was nothing I could do about it.
I went back to work at Thorns, needing to get out of Auntie B’s house and get back into a normal life. Of course, people looked, people pointed, and people had questions. It didn’t bother me, everyone has a past, everyone has secrets, and everyone has scars. The worst part of it all was standing behind the counter at Thorns, looking at the empty stage. When bands were playing or people were there on open mic night, the stage had its own presence. When there was nothing there, it became ghostly, a haunting reminder of Jack, taking me back to the night of our date. How he took the stage, surprising me and everyone the cafe with his beautiful song.
I kept writing because writing felt good. I literally had two books started, which felt nice. Maybe someday they’ll be published, or not. My boss, Jerry, wanted to know if I’d go out and find more bands because I had brought Jack that night.
Bridget finally got what she wanted, a key to Timmy’s apartment. The potential loss of Bridget was all he needed to confess that he wanted her forever. It was cute, a sweet romantic reminder of how Bridget could continue to move forward, alive and well.
All I could do with my life was wait.
Jack would hate to see me waiting. He would want me to get out and do something, but my heart wasn’t ready for it yet.
Nobody would be Jack.
Ever.
It had been weeks now, long enough to embrace reality, but not long enough to forget the pain of losing him.
From behind the counter, I stared at the small stage. It was a little after noon on a cool day. The door opened and for some reason my head snapped to the side to see who it was. Every now and again I’d do that, imagining Jack coming back to me.
It was younger man, maybe my age, walking towards the counter with his hands in his pockets, his lips puckered as he whistled random notes. He looked around the cafe, admiring all the stuff that didn’t match. Thorns collected junk - absurd colors and shapes - but it all worked together to fit the vibe.
He came to the counter, standing sideways.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Yeah. You looking for bands?”
“Always,” I said.
“Good. I play some guitar, not very well.”
His voice was smooth, and it sounded good. It eased me, as strange as it sounded. From the side he had a familiar look, but it wasn’t Jack. That much I knew for sure.
“If you give me your number, I can have the owner call you,” I said. “He’s always looking for bands.”
“Sounds good.”
There was a pause, leaving me hanging, staring at his features. He smiled, for whatever reason, and I noticed his dimples. Cute, yes, but they weren’t as defined as Jack’s.
Too bad.
“Do you want a coffee or something?” I offered.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“No, it’s my job to offer you coffee.”
“Damn. I sort of wanted a date.”
I opened my mouth as he turned. Looking at him from the front, everything around me stopped. His features were like Jack’s but it was his eyes... Jack’s eyes...
He smiled again, knowing exactly what I was figuring out.
I shook my head, the lump in my throat rushing up.
“We never had a date, did we Tessa?”
I gasped and then cried out.
How was this possible?
“It can’t be...”
He put his hand to the counter, palm up, open. I looked at it and then placed my hand to his hand. It was warm, and real.
“I’m thinking of moving here,” he said. “Living here forever. Is this a good place to live?”
I nodded, slowly, waiting to wake up from the dream I must have been having.
The man in front of me was beautiful. The features were close, so very close, and his eyes were so perfect, so deep, so... Jack.
“Jack,” I said.
“No,” he said. He leaned forward. “Call me Danny... Danny Thursday.”
Danny Thursday.
The name Jack made up ten years ago in my basement. The name he was going to use when he turned eighteen so we could run away together, forever. We were going to make up stories of our past and create our future.
That meant I was supposed to be...
“Abby Wednesday,” I whispered.
A tear ran down my cheek and I clutched Danny’s hand as tight as I could.
“You’re really here... again...”
“Here and real.” He paused then added, “and in love.”
“How?”
I let his hand go and ran around the counter.
He met me at the end of counter and I dove into his arms. He squeezed me and I squeezed him. He smelled of Jack, he felt like Jack, and he was Jack. Just a different kind.
We finally had our dream... Abby Wednesday and Danny Thursday.
Our future was our destiny, and we could write it together.
I looked at him and kissed him, tasting his lips, his tongue. It was the greatest kiss of my life, the kiss of believing in true love and never stopping.
Danny’s hands touched me in the right places, his right hand a little frisky for being in public. I put my feet back on the ground and broke our embrace. I grabbed his shirt and lifted it up, my mouth watering at the sight of his perfect muscles. I turned him around, listening to him laugh.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“The scars...”
They were healed and faded, but not completely gone. They never would be, and that was okay.
He turned back to me and we embraced again. He put his forehead down to mine. Slowly we started to step, slow dancing to no music. All we had was each other and our life... together, wherever it took us.
London Casey
writes and dreams of writing more. When not writing, London reads, attempts to blog, but somehow manages to end up writing again.
@london_casey
http://www.facebook.com/pages/London-Casey/434500699963823
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First electronic edition February 2013
Copyright © 2013 by London Casey
Published by Hundred to Home Publishing
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part of any form.
