Show Me How (It's Kind Of Personal Book 2) (11 page)

I slink back in the chair and process what he just told me. He knew. And not only that but he was investigating them.

“And I also never would have forced you to go back there. Despite what I told Brandon, I would have let you stay over anytime. I liked when you stayed over ‘cause I knew you were safe. I was doing what I thought best for you by pretending I didn’t know. I was afraid if your parents caught wind of it, they’d take you away.”

“Steve. That’s . . .” I grab my hair and pull the elastic band out then gather my hair and put it back up, giving myself a moment to gather my thoughts. “I had no idea it went that far. But please don’t blame yourself. It was all my parents.”

He points at me and his smile is infectious. “You listen to your own advice, missy. I won’t feel guilty if you won’t. Then we can all move on and put the past where it belongs. Deal?”

I take his outstretched hand and shake it. “Deal.”

Chapter 10

Mary

Steve’s strong hand in mine makes me smile. He’s here. He’s alive. And Brandon was right, he really is happy.

“So,” I say, as I sit on the bed across from him.

“So,” he laughs.

“How have you been? You look great.” I motion to his still muscular body.

“Life’s been good. I can’t complai—”

“I can’t wait out here much longer!” I recognize Elizabeth’s voice immediately and leap off the bed to open the door.

She holds her arms out, and I take the single step to reach her and wrap my arms around her. Her motherly hug puts me at ease. Betty has been a lifesaver, but I’ve missed this woman—the one I looked up to, my role model. The perfect combination of sweet, caring, loving, and tough, she is what every girl hopes for in a mother. She’s the Carol Brady, the June Cleaver, the Clair Huxtable. Even though she was not my birth mom, I admired her as if she were.

At arms’ length, she holds me back, smiling. “Look at you. So pretty.”

I lower my head and shake it out of embarrassment. “Stop. Come on, let’s sit.” The excitement of seeing her again outweighs any nervousness I was feeling.

She walks into my room and looks around, nothing but pride on her face.

“This is so cute, Mary. I love the little touches of color you have all over.” Her eyes wander around the small space as she continues to talk. “I see you still love candles. And these curtains . . .” She tugs at the bright flower pattern. “They’re adorable.”

She pulls the chair next to Steve and I sit on the bed across from them. A moment of awkward silence passes, and we all laugh.

“I try not to be a therapist at home but, in this case, I just feel some things need to be said. And I want to get everything out in the open, okay? Once we talk, we can move on.” She looks at me, and I nod. Then her eyes squint at Steve before he nods his head in agreement and she turns back to me.

“I should be mad at you.” Her voice takes on an angry tone, and I swallow loudly. “I’ve thought about this for a long time now. What I would say to you when we finally found you. Because I knew.” She leans forward and grabs my hands. “A mother knows. You ran away from us, all of us, because you were scared.”

Tears burn the back of my eyes at her words, but I force them away. I will not feel sorry for myself, and I will not let them see me weak. All I can do is nod in agreement.

“I knew all along that you were okay. I just knew it. As soon as I read that excuse for a note you left, my world spun even more than it had with Steven getting shot and Brandon going ballistic because he couldn’t find you.”

She releases my hands and sits back in the chair. Steve reaches out and pats Elizabeth’s leg in a show of support. Encouraging her to speak.

“I’ve been worried. Steven has carried guilt. Brandon has been miserable.”

I suck in a breath and open my mouth to speak. To beg her to understand. Plead with her to forgive me and give me another chance, but she cuts me off with a hand in the air.

“I
should
be mad. But I’m not. How can I be mad at you when you were only looking out for us? Brandon told us what you said. Why you left.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I can only admire you for having the strength to do what you thought was right in order to protect the ones you love.”

A satisfied whoosh leaves my lungs and Steve pats my leg, giving the same encouragement he just did to his wife. No words describe the relief I feel knowing that she understands.

“Steven told me what happened that night. He remembers seeing the look in your eyes. How scared you were. God, I can’t imagine. What else did you tell me, hon?” She looks at Steve. “Tell her what you told me.”

He gives a slight nod before clearing his throat. “I said even through the fear, I could see the embarrassment. Right before Smith raised his gun, you and I looked at each other. It was only a glimpse, but it was there.”

He’s right. Our eyes connected a brief second. My eyes must have given away more than I thought because even though I was embarrassed, the only thing I felt at that moment was fear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Not only at my actions, but also because of why we’re here in the first place. My parents.

“You don’t need to apologize,” they say at the same time.

“You just need to promise me that you will never run again. We can work through everything else,” Elizabeth says.

“I can do that.”

“Oh, one other thing,” she smirks.

“Yes?”

“Bring my son back to me.” Her pleading voice sends a chill through me. I ruined the boy she raised, and she wants him back.

My head spins and I grip the comforter while she and Steve continue talking about things that have happened since I last saw them. I laugh and smile when I’m supposed to. My responses are the perfect lies, telling them that I’ve really been happy.

Eventually, they make a move to go, and I walk them to their car. When Elizabeth helps Steve into the car, and she folds the wheelchair and puts it in the trunk, I feign a smile. Though it feels as if my stomach is crawling up my throat, I wave and stand in the same spot until they’re out of sight. Then I walk back to my room and lean against the door.

Bring my son back to me.

Dammit. I ruined his life. He’s been miserable because of me. But still, he says he wants me back. I’m not even sure what kind of emotions I’m feeling right now. All I do know is that I don’t deserve their kindness.

* * *

“Ha!” I laugh when Gracie Hart stumbles out of the airport hangar. She’s just been waxed and plucked to death, and her love interest can’t take his eyes off her. I love this movie. It’s my favorite. I know the entire thing word for word and being drunk just makes it even funnier.

When Steve and Elizabeth left this afternoon, I opened up a bottle of vodka. I really am trying not to feel sorry for myself right now, but dammit, I do. I feel like shit for bringing other people down with me. I’m entitled to a night of self-pity, aren’t I?

My throat burns when I take another shot then chase it with some juice. I’m not a big drinker, but it’s now the second night in a row I’ve been wasted. My life is in some kind of spiral, spinning and twisting with no end in sight. And I can’t tell if it’s going down or up.

Living with the guilt alone is one thing. Pretending everyone else was okay was a delusion that made it easy to fake my way through life. Sure, I said I was doing it for them, to keep them safe, but did I ever actually stop and think how it would affect them? Nope. I’m so foolish.

Bring my son back to me. ‘
Cause Brandon left. I was the one who disappeared, but he left.

“Shit!” I moan and sit on the floor, resting my back against the bed. My neck begins to cramp from the awkward position it’s in as I stare at the ceiling.

Brandon really had been miserable. It hurt enough when he told me, but to hear it from his mother—that underlying anger on behalf of her son directed at me. Talk about feeling like an ass. I assumed he would have moved on. Not remained hung up on me for this long. Why didn’t he just forget about me?

Slowly, I crawl onto my bed and lie on my stomach. I grab a couple of pillows, prop them under my arms, and rest my head.

The movie makes me laugh, and before I know it, the laughter turns hysterical then the hysterics turn to tears. I sob into the pillows as my entire body shudders. Years of pent-up
feelings
spill out. Every emotion I’ve kept hidden pushes from the inside and claws to get out. Fear, anger, sadness, loneliness, guilt, regret. Mourning my parent’s death. Because they are dead to me. And if they are still alive, I hope they do die a painful death. But that’s not the way life works. They’re probably happy somewhere, just the two of them. High all the time. Oblivious to the troubles of the world. They’re horrible people and I hate them with everything that I am.

I eventually catch my breath and make my way to the bathroom where I splash cold water on my face and give my cheeks a few slaps. I wince when I hit the sore spot and examine it in the mirror. I’d covered up the bruise earlier, so it wasn’t noticeable when the Parkers stopped by, but now without concealer, the purplish-yellowish mark is more prominent.

Without using a glass, two large swallows of vodka help to numb the pain. Back in my bed, with my back against the wall and my legs crossed, I try to focus on the movie. The phone on my nightstand rings, and I jump about three feet in the air, spilling vodka all over myself.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Mary.”

“Hi.” Shit, shit, shit. I don’t want to talk to Brandon right now. Not when I’m in the middle of my own personal torment. Or do I? He always makes me smile.

“I had to work late but wanted to talk to you on my way home.”

“Oh. Hi.” I pull the phone away from my ear so he can’t hear my drunken laugh, and only catch the tail end of what he says when I put the phone back to my ear. “ . . . feel after they visited unexpectedly.”

“Huh?”

“I said I wanted to see how you feel after my parents stopped by. I told them not to, to give you time, but obviously they didn’t listen.”

“Welllll. I think I’m fine.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Nooo . . .” A laugh escapes me and I fall to my back.

“How much have you had to drink?”

I hold up my fingers about an inch apart, at least I think it’s an inch. “This much.”

“Christ, you can’t even talk.”

“I can talk, too. See. I’m—” I hiccup into the phone and laugh again. “I’m talking right now you . . . To you. I’m talking to Brandon.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Hello?” I ask. When there’s no answer, I try it again, “Helllooo. Brandon, where did you go?” After no answer again, I hang up the receiver and lie back down for a bit. I pour the last drops of clear liquid down my throat and allow the numbness to take over.

“Mary! Open up,” Brandon’s voice yells from the other side of the door. Even in my drunken state, I can understand the anger in his voice. For some reason, it makes me giggle. The door shakes from the force of his fists. God, he’s strong. He’s also hot. Really fucking hot.

“Hold your horses. I’m coming.”

My fingers fumble with the locks, and after several failed attempts, I still have one, two, three chains to unlock.

“Shit,” I whisper, realizing I might be a little more intoxicated that I thought.

“Mary. Open the fucking door.”

“I’m tryin’.”

I think it’s been about five minutes, and I’ve just unlatched the last chain. The door flies open, and I start falling from it being ripped from my hands, but Brandon reaches down and pulls me up before I do a face plant.

“Whoa . . .” I breathe. “That was close.”

“Babe, you’re wasted. How much did you drink?”

“Umm.” I lean over and pick up the empty bottle of vodka. “This much.”

“Fuck. You drank an entire fifth of vodka by yourself?” He rips the now empty bottle out of my hand, and I stumble into him.

“No, silly. I spilled some of it. See?” I lift my shirt to his face. “It’s stinky.”

He shakes his head and pulls my shirt back down. “You need to get to sleep.”

“But I’m not tired.”

Ignoring my protest, he picks me up and sets me down on the bed. He’s so strong. And hot. Even hotter than I remember. How does that happen in the span of a day? A storm settles low in my belly, and all I can think at this moment is I want him. I want him to take the pain away. I want his lips to erase the memories. I want his body to fill the loneliness.

I grab at the front of his shirt and back of his head, pulling him to me. My mouth finds his, and I attack him. He protests, gently trying to get me to stop. Sloppy, drunk, and vulnerable, I fight him. I pull on him as he tries to push me away. My hands ache from the force I’m using to hold him close.

“Stop it, Mary,” he growls, ripping his mouth away from mine.

“No.” I grip him tighter, and even though my nails are digging into his skin, I don’t stop. All I want is to touch him, to feel him.

“Dammit. Stop.” He pries my hands away and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“So I’m good enough for you when you feel like sticking your fingers inside me. But what? Not good enough for you to fuck?”

“I’m not fucking you like this.”

I laugh. “Like what? In a motel? Too trashy for you, Brandon Parker?” Now I’m embarrassed and pissed off that he turned me down.

“No. Jesus, Mary. You’re wasted.”

“I’m not too drunk to know what I want. And I want you.” I attempt to sit up on my knees, but fail miserably and end up falling on all fours. Lifting my head, I blow some stray hairs out of my face. “I want you to fuck me.”

“It’s not happening. Look at yourself right now.” He presses his knuckles into the mattress inches away and gets in my face. “When I fuck you for the first time, you’re going to remember it. I want you to remember every second of my cock inside of you. I’ve been fuckin’ my own fist to the thought of it since I was a teenager. I’m not wasting our first time on a drunken night. I want to be able to fall asleep with my dick still inside you and not have to worry about you waking up to be sick.”

My mouth falls open and he nods.

“Yeah. When you wake up in the morning, your pussy will be so deliciously sore from me owning it that you won’t be able to walk straight. And if I fuck you like I really want to, like I’ve been dying to for as long as I can remember, you need to be
with me.
Your eyes need to be looking into mine when I come inside you for the first time.” He takes a deep breath through his nose and continues, “It will happen. And it’ll happen soon. But not tonight . . . not like this.”