Pulled

First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2011

Copyright © Amy Lichtenhan, 2011

The right of Amy Lichtenhan to be identified and the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright
Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Writer’s Coffee Shop

(Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635

(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

Paperback ISBN-978-1-61213-016-3

E-book ISBN-978-1-61213-016-3

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

Cover image by: Nikuwka

Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/alichtenhan

Amy Lichtenhan first discovered her love of writing during her days as a young mother and col ege student.

She fil ed the journals she carried with short stories and poems used as an emotional outlet for the difficulties and joys she found in day-to-day life.

Years later, she shared a short story she’d been working on with her two closest friends, and with their encouragement, this story became her first ful length novel, Pul ed.

Amy resides in Southern Arizona where she lives with her husband and three beautiful children, and feels blessed to have the freedom of working from home. Her favorite pastime is spending time with the ones she loves.

To Katie who was there from the moment

the first word was set in place. For the

countless hours you gave, your ideas, and your unending support. To Ginger for your time, encouragement, and invaluable

honesty. I love you both.

To Gail for seeing this story as it was

meant to be, your insight and guidance, and above al , your belief in me. Thank you, and I love you.

To Janine for your help in shaping “Pul ed” into what it is today.

To Amanda for making this dream a reality.

And to Chad for putting up with it al . I love you more than you could know.

I GLANCED AT THE CLOCK.

Shit—nearly six o’clock. I needed to hurry. I’d lost track of time, and Nicholas would be home soon. I wiped the tears from my face before careful y gathering the pictures from the bedroom floor. My chest weighed heavy as I col ected each one, cherishing the memories a moment longer as I tucked them away in the envelope. The memories were al I had, and I clung to them as if they were my last breath, knowing that once they faded, there would truly be no reason to go on. I hid the envelope at the bottom of the large jewelry box in the back of the closet, mindful to spread the necklaces out over the hidden compartment.

Nicholas had never found them, but I was certain he would destroy them if he ever did.

Breathing deeply, I ran my hands through my hair and dragged myself from the past I had immersed myself in for the last two hours, forcing myself downstairs.

My footsteps echoed against the marble floor, each an accent of emptiness. I entered the kitchen, the one sanctuary I had. Every room of this house was gaudy and overdone, designed by the pompous for the pompous except for this haven. It was no less extravagant but held a warmth missing from al of the others.

As I worked, my thoughts inevitably wandered back to those beloved pictures hidden away in the back of my closet, but even they weren’t enough to ward off the anxiety steadily building within me as the passing minutes warned of Nicholas’s arrival. At six-thirty one, I heard the garage door open. Bile rose in my throat.

“Melanie?” Nicholas cal ed from the entryway.

“In the kitchen,” I cal ed weakly. Maybe he would go upstairs and spare me a few more minutes, but of course, I never had that kind of luck. I heard his footsteps approaching and prepared myself.

“Dinner ready?” He yanked at his tie as he came through the door.

“Um, not quite, just a couple more minutes,” I said quietly, not meeting his face.

I felt him pause though I refused to look up. I’d learned a long time ago how to survive in Hel . The less I interacted with him the better.

He snorted through his nose, muttering,

“Worthless whore,” under his breath.

I gritted my teeth, holding in the anger his accusation triggered.

He set his briefcase on the island next to me, tossing his tie over the top of it. “What time do I get home from work, Melanie?” Nicholas dipped his head, forcing me to look at him.

“Six-thirty.”

“Is it too much to ask that dinner is ready when I get home?” he said, his voice dripping with acid, “or do you have something better to do with your useless life?” I cringed but said nothing. He was the one who didn’t want me to work.

“I didn’t think so.” He leaned in closer, his voice a low warning. “When I tel you dinner needs to be ready at six-thirty, it means dinner is to be ready at six-thirty. Do you understand?”

I saw the threat in his eyes. He had never hurt me physical y, but he made sure I knew who was in charge. I’d given up any control nine years ago when I’d fol owed him here to Chicago, looking for an escape from the pain.

I knew then what this life would be like. I’d met him at the airport when I’d fled Colorado that final time, the trip that severed the last thread holding my heart together.

Nicholas hadn’t seen the broken girl who sat numb with nothing but pain swimming in her eyes. He saw the young beautiful girl, the one who said nothing at al but seemed to be wil ing to do whatever he said.

I wasn’t stupid. I had known exactly what he wanted, but I could never go back to Colorado Springs to face what I could no longer have, and I refused to stay with my mother in Dal as.

So, I left al of it behind, moving with Nicholas to Chicago just days after I returned from Colorado.

I knew then Nicholas would never bring me happiness. That had never been the point. My heart belonged to another and would never be his. Al I wanted was a way out while Nicholas got the trophy wife he thought he deserved. The only thing I hadn’t anticipated was how the numbness I felt for him would evolve over nine years into bitterness and loathing.

“I’m going upstairs to change, and I expect dinner to be on the table when I get back down here.” He had been this way since the first day I arrived; I had a role to play, and he expected me to play it wel .

When he left the room, I gathered our plates and took them into the dining room. I wasn’t real y afraid of Nicholas, but I didn’t want to fight. It was exhausting and got me nowhere; and even if it did, I stil wouldn’t be happy, so it real y didn’t matter anyway. It was just easier to do what he said.

Ten minutes later, I heard him returning. Just the sound of his heavy steps made my stomach turn. It stil shocked me that I could feel so much hatred for one person. I watched him bound down the stairs, his long legs taking two steps at a time, his tal body wel muscled and agile for his forty-four years. His black hair hadn’t thinned, and it was usual y meticulously styled, though he obviously had run his hands through it. His eyes were nearly as dark as his hair and fil ed with unmerited pride. He may have been attractive, though that was something I could never see. His mere presence warned my instincts to escape, always smarter than my head.

“About fucking time,” he spat, letting me know just how disappointing I was.

Asshole.

Taking a seat across from me, he lifted his fork and began to eat. I picked at my chicken, pushing it around my plate. I could rarely stomach anything when he was around.

As he ate, I lost myself in the silence, my mind drawn back to Colorado.

“We have a dinner Thursday,” he abruptly broke through the quiet, pul ing me from my daydream. I had to run his words through my mind again before I realized what he had said.

I closed my eyes, suppressing a sigh. Great.

Another business dinner. It was the perfect time for me to play my part—the perfect wife with her perfect smile plastered across her perfect face, nodding mindlessly while her husband gave his proposal as if her presence would somehow change the outcome. The whole thing was ridiculous. It was part of my job though, so I nodded that I’d heard him and looked back to my plate.

“This is a huge account, Melanie.” He sat back, eyeing me critical y as if I didn’t already understand my role in this little charade. “It’s a medical complex that’l bring in a couple mil ion in profit, so I don’t want you fucking this up for me.”

I almost laughed. Did he real y think that my appearance would sway the decision?

Nicholas went on about details I real y didn’t care to know, about how much money he would make, and how much recognition his company would gain if they built this complex.

The only comfort I found was in knowing Shane would be at the dinner. Shane Preston was Nicholas’s business partner and the nicest guy I knew. While Nicholas was cocky and arrogant and felt the world owed him, Shane was modest and thankful for al he had. He continual y cleaned up the shit Nicholas repeatedly caused, soothing clients’ nerves and regaining their trust after Nicholas had done something unethical.

The dinner also meant that Katie, Shane’s wife, would be there. She was the one friend I had in this world.

She knew the real me and was the only one I had ever taken into my confidence since I’d married Nicholas. Shane and Katie’s presence there would at least make the evening bearable.

Nicholas finished his food, and I cleared the table and took the dishes into the kitchen. I was exhausted. I wondered how much more of this I could take. Surely, I would never survive this life sentence I’d imposed on myself. I loaded the dishwasher and went upstairs to take a bath.

Turning the hot water valve ful blast, I let it run, anxious to feel the heat relax my muscles. I unbuttoned my pants and slid them down, shrugging them off my feet. As I pul ed my shirt over my head, my gaze reflexively dropped to my stomach as I caught my reflection in the mirror, my first instinct to seek out the marred skin that bore her wounds.