Tapped (Totaled Book 2) (4 page)

            I closed the front door and turned, standing stock-still in the foyer, staring at him. I didn’t even know how to answer. Luckily, he filled the silence even if the words were hard to hear.

            “I normally wouldn’t pry and just stop in like this, but since Bree is out of town with Sue, I figured I’d check on you.”

            I walked past him into the main room, processing his words as I moved around the bar into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” I offered, pulling a bottled water out of the fridge.

            “Sure.” He stood on the other side of the bar counter and I passed him the water, quickly opening one for myself and chugging the entire thing in a matter of seconds.

            “Son, what’s the deal? Do I need to call the doctor?” Pat inquired with sincere concern.

            “Please don’t call me son,” I mumbled, barely speaking loudly enough for him to hear. “You aren’t going to want me to be your son after you learn what I’ve done.”

            “Drew?” he demanded, with a little more authority in his tone. “What’s going on?”

            “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Pat. I’ve done the worst possible thing,” I warned, looking at my feet and then back up. “Bree isn’t out of town with Sue. Or maybe she is. Hell, I don’t even know. We haven’t spoken in a few days.” I saw Pat moving around the bar into the kitchen and I just kept talking. I needed him to know. “I hurt her, Pat. I hurt her bad. I didn’t mean to. I just…”

            He interrupted my confession by gripping my t-shirt in both of his hands and slamming me back into the wall. “What do you mean you
hurt
her?” he barked, a little spray of spit flying out from behind his teeth.

            “I swear, I didn’t mean to. I guess I was having a nightmare and I was fighting in my dream,” I frantically spoke, trying to desperately explain myself. “She got hit. I hit her, Pat. Oh, God.” I fought against it, but got choked up.

            His hands, still gripping my shirt, lifted me away from the wall and slammed me against it again. The impact hurt, but I didn’t resist. I didn’t put up a fight, knowing that however Pat reacted, it was well-deserved. The shame was debilitating. It made me sick just thinking of my fists striking my Bree. He looked into my eyes, searching for more of an explanation.

            “I hurt her pretty bad. She wouldn’t let me take her home or to the hospital. She just left. I haven’t seen her. She won’t answer my calls. I have no idea if she’s okay or not.”

            He released his right hand, drawing it back to hit me, and I closed my eyes against the coming blow. Only he didn’t hit me. His fist collided with the drywall right next to my head, leaving a fist-sized dent. I didn’t move a muscle.

            Pat, breathing heavily, let go of my shirt and backed away from me, leaning on the counter behind him as if not leaning on it for support was going to make him collapse at the news that I physically harmed his daughter. He subtly shook his head side to side in disbelief. I wanted to just disappear. I wanted him to be angry. I wanted him to kill me. I didn’t have it in me to defend myself. Not that I deserved a defense.

            An uncomfortable amount of time passed with us both just standing there. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Awkward tension blanketed the room like a creepy fog inching in little by little until you couldn’t see through it.

            “Say something. Please say something, Pat.” I pleaded. “Yell at me. Hurt me. Anything.”

            Pat just held his right hand up, straight palmed, to signal me to stop. His eyes remained on the floor, glassed over and vacant. I didn’t dare move a muscle. I had just dropped a bomb on him and although I was scared and anxious to receive whatever punishment he saw fit, I didn’t dare disrespect whatever he wanted or needed to do to process this. He finally looked at me, a slow, languid drag of his eyes up my body, loathing and contempt in his expression, until we were face to face, his rage staring into my sorrow and regret. And then he spoke.

            “I talked to her yesterday. She’s okay if she called me.” He spoke softly, like he was trying to convince and reassure himself. “She told me that she and Sue were going to Tampa for a few days to visit friends. She probably doesn’t want me to see her injuries.” He spoke so calmly. Too calmly, almost. Nice and steady, deliberate with his statements, all the while still holding on to the counter behind him. “Do you always have these nightmares?” he asked quietly. “Have you done this before?”

            His expression had altered into one of concern. I had beaten his daughter—his baby girl—so severely that she had to hide her injured face from her family and he was worried about
me
.

            “I’ve never hurt anyone,” I admitted. “I have nightmares all the time but I’ve never been next to someone else in the bed. I didn’t know anything like that would happen.” My voice cracked and the tear that had been resting on the rim of my eyelid finally breeched the dam and fell down my cheek. “I would never have put her in harm’s way and allowed her to stay with me if I’d known. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” My words weakened into a whisper and I said again to myself, “I just didn’t know.” I ran my thumbs over the pathetic path of my tears, ashamed. The shame. It was overwhelming, but I wasn’t embarrassed to be crying in front of him. I felt horrible and could no longer hold the emotion back.

            “How often? I mean, how often do you have these nightmares?” Pat questioned, working out something in his head.

            I dropped my head, the weight of it so heavy I couldn’t even hold it up to look at him. I whispered the answer. The sad, poor truth. “Almost every night.” The tears fell now. One after another. My shoulders shook and my body shuddered as I cried, the anguish releasing from me with every exhale of my breath. I realized during my confession that I should have known. I should’ve been more responsible. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve never wanted her to see me like that and risk her potentially being caught in the crosshairs of my horror.

            A few seconds passed, Pat patiently standing by as I cried it out.

            “You need to get help,” he finally said.

            It wasn’t a comment, it was an order. My coach was telling me to do something. He didn’t waver in his tone, his voice commanding and stern. He didn’t make a move toward me. No comforting gesture or consoling touch. Just orders.

            “You need to leave here and you’ve got to get some help.”

            “Where am I supposed to go? I have nowhere to go.”

            All sorts of desperate thoughts entered my head. Was he firing me? Was this it? Was my career over? Will I never get to see Bree again? Even from afar? Do I have to say goodbye to my home and my life here?

            Ignoring me, he walked out of the kitchen into the living room, talking as he moved away from me. “I’ll call Mick. I’m sure you can stay with him for a while.” He continued to walk away from me, even as I followed. Entering the foyer and reaching for the door knob, he paused, ever so slightly turning his head in my direction but not turning around completely to look at me. “Do
not
come back here until you have yourself right. You hear me?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            He inclined his head, returning to looking straight ahead at the door in front of him. I could only see his back as he stood waiting to open the door and leave.

            “And you are not to see Bree again. Don’t try to contact her. Don’t try to see her.”

            “Pat, please…”

            “No!” he yelled, turning and walking swiftly up to face me, his cheeks red with anger and hurt. He tilted his chin up to look directly into my eyes so there was no mistaking his words. “You listen to me, Drew! I’m giving you a second chance here. You made a mistake. You made an awful, horrible mistake. You’re lucky that you didn’t kill her. You could’ve
killed
her, Goddammit! My daughter!” he barked as he shoved my chest with both of his open hands, pushing me back. He straightened his posture, yanking his shirt down in front of him, and composed himself to say more. “You’re obviously dealing with some serious shit and I think you need professional help. Your career isn’t over, but your relationship with my daughter is!”

            He meant it. I didn’t dare protest. He was right. He was pissed and serious and he was ignoring his anger and actually throwing me a lifeline.

            “Are we clear?” he challenged.

            “Yes. Yes, sir.”

            With that, he turned and walked out my front door. He didn’t close it. He just barreled ahead to his car.

            “I’m going to make this right, Pat,” I called after him. I know he heard, but he didn’t acknowledge me. He got in his car and drove away.

Chapter Five

BREE

            “It’s glue.”

            I jumped, startled to hear him speak up behind me.

            “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s skin glue, underneath your eye. DERMABOND. I didn’t have anything else and you really needed stitches.”

            I’d been tracing my finger over a swollen laceration under my left eye in the shape of a curled up smile. My eyes were black and blue, extremely swollen, and I had this cut. But it was hard, almost crusty, with a shiny stripe of something painted over it. The shiny stripe appeared to be holding it together.

            “Thank you.” It was all I knew to say, offering a shy grin as I turned away from the mirror over the dresser in his master bedroom to face him in the doorway. “Sorry I’m in here. I just needed a clean t-shirt. Sue left to get us both clothes but I was hoping to grab a shower,” I rambled, my embarrassment at being caught in his room apparent.

            “It’s okay. Help yourself,” he insisted, walking over to his closet.

            I stood motionless, watching him unbutton his navy blue paramedic work shirt and shedding it, thankful he had a white t-shirt underneath. His frame was much smaller than Drew’s—as were most men’s—but, without a doubt, he was an attractive man. I was suddenly uncomfortable.

            “I can wait a few minutes to shower if you want to go first.” I had to speak before he reached down to undo his belt.

            He turned around, his lips lifting up slightly. “I’ll actually take you up on that. I feel disgusting. I’ll be quick.” He walked into his master bathroom, closing the door behind him.

            “Take your time,” I called out as I left his bedroom.

            A few minutes later, he emerged from his bedroom and sauntered into the living room, thankfully completely dressed, drying his hair with a hand towel.

            “It’s all yours.”

            “Thanks. For everything. I really appreciate all of your help and…your discretion,” I said, noting the warning in my voice, which I didn’t intend on being there.

            “It’s nothing. Sue’s a friend. And any friend of hers is a friend of mine. Your secrets are safe with me,” he reassured, walking into the kitchen. “Have you eaten anything today?” he asked, opening the refrigerator door and leaning into it. “I stocked up the fridge with soft stuff for you. Pudding, yogurt, applesauce. How is your jaw feeling, by the way?” he asked, picking his head up to look at me from behind the door.

            “It feels better. Still tender, but I can eat just fine.”

            He shrugged and leaned back into the fridge, grabbing a few things and placing them onto the adjacent countertop. “Well, I’m going to make fajitas if you want to join in. I could’ve sworn your jaw was broken, but I guess not if you’re already feeling better.”

            I found myself reaching up to touch my lower jaw. It hurt worse than I was letting on, but I wasn’t willing to admit it. My cheeks were both swollen, the left side worse than the right, and my thoughts flew away with me. I recalled getting my wisdom teeth out when I was sixteen and having a similar soreness in my back jaw. I got Percocet for that pain. It occurred to me that I hadn’t taken so much as an ibuprofen for all of this. Percocet might be nice right now. Maybe Vicodin. Valium. I craved something to numb it all.

            “Bree? Hello? Fajitas or no?” Alan interrupted.

            “Oh, sorry. Yes. I’d love some. I’ll help you,” I offered, going to the sink to wash my hands.

            “It’s okay. I got this. Just go take a shower.”

            “Please let me help. I feel so useless. I’m here, squatting in your apartment, invading your space and life, eating your food—which I insist on paying you for, by the way. Let me help. It’s the least I can do. And I’m great at chopping vegetables.”

            “All right then. There are chopping mats in that cabinet there,” he instructed, pointing below me to the right, “and knives are over there,” as he gestured to the knife block in the corner of the countertop.

            He washed the veggies and I chopped them as he passed them over. The green bell peppers had to be julienned, and the mushrooms diced into small pieces. The onions did a number on my eyes, leaving behind a stinging sensation that wasn’t fun considering all the crying I’d been doing. Alan worked on the chicken, slicing the raw breasts into strips and seasoning them up. The only sound in the room was of our knives hitting the cutting boards and the oil sizzling in the pan as it heated. The silence was too much and I broke the quietude.

            “So Sue mentioned that you were in the Navy. Is that where you learned how to glue people’s faces back together?” I laughed a nervous giggle.

            “Yeah, I guess you could say that. I was an independent duty corpsman.” He retrieved my piles of chopped up vegetables as he answered and tossed them all into the skillet.

            “What exactly is a corpsman?” I honestly had no clue.

            “Some are like nurses. The type I was—we were more like doctors. I guess the closest civilian job would be a PA.”