Brisé Page 12

  “Ouch.” He gives me his grin, and I feel my resolve weakening. He was always a charmer and a lot of fun. I could use a friend in town.

  “Okay, dinner.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Getting pushy there aren’t you, Drake?” He just shakes his head at me. “Okay, I’m staying at the hotel on Fillmore Street, the Holiday Inn. Meet me out front at seven.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now get back to work,” I tease him. I look back to see his devious shit-eating grin and his eyes checking out my ass. This is either going to be fun or trouble. I remember Luke’s warning about him all those years ago, but I shake it off. Drake seems remorseful for his actions; doesn’t everyone deserve the benefit of the doubt? A leopard can change his spots … right?

  Chapter 19

  Luke

  After leaving New York, I’ve taken my time driving back home. Not that I don’t miss being there, I just have a lot to sort out in my mind, so I drove to Annapolis the first night. The next day I spent touring the predominantly military town, walking along the brick sidewalks, looking at the old architecture of the buildings that make this town so rich in culture. I could almost imagine myself sitting on one of the benches by the water, strumming my guitar, getting lost for a while. That pipe dream will have to wait; I have to be home shortly because my parents are leaving tomorrow. The phone call with my mom was odd this morning, she seemed like a giddy schoolgirl, and I wrack my brain trying to remember the last time they took a vacation. Shit, they just went to New Orleans last year, so I don’t know what’s gotten into her. My dad assured me he tied up all closings and there’s nothing that needs immediate attention so I will be fine for another week. I plan to take every bit of it.

  I’m in Charlotte, North Carolina now and enjoying the low-key life. I love the Carolinas and could see myself having a second home here. First, I need to figure out where my first home will be. Just having turned twenty-five, I don’t want to live at my childhood home. It would be fine for now while my parents are gone, but I need to be settled. I need to find my home, and it doesn’t have to be in my hometown. Since I will only be working for my dad occasionally, I can always commute as needed. Spurring a decision with that revelation, I call a real estate agent and arrange to look at condos and townhomes the next day. I make my way to Morrisville and tour some NASCAR shops, really living the tourist life.

  The first five homes, Becky, my realtor, showed me were not what I envisioned. They were modern, roomy, but very stifling. Becky is quickly becoming frustrated with my lack of commitment to anything we have toured, and I feel for her. I remember the countless hours I had shown homes, met every specification the client wanted, and in the end nothing satisfied them.

  “Sorry Becky. I feel like I’m wasting your time. I don’t know exactly what they’re lacking, but they just aren’t for me.”

  “What do you envision when you walk in your door?” I ponder that question for a while. I haven’t been in the habit of anticipation for quite some time. I usually go into each day knowing there will be a beginning and an end, but I fill the in-between with work.

  “Bright, welcoming . . . someplace that feels like home.”

  She smiles at me and shakes her head, “You need a wife, not a condo. You need a single family home with room to grow your family. Not this corporate shit you’re looking at.”

  How right she is. “How about a vacation home for now?” I slyly ask her.

  “Do you like water?”

  “I love it.”

  “Let’s go look at a few houses on Lake Norman.” I follow her around the lake, some of the houses are monstrous and out of my league, but some are perfect for a getaway, a home away from home. Following her up a driveway to a Tudor-style home, I feel myself enamored by it before seeing the inside. After a quick tour, I make a rash decision.

  “I want to put in an offer.” It has everything I want; lakefront, a dock, enough room inside to have guests but not be on top of each other, yet quaint enough to not get lost in. The outside reminds me of some of the architecture I was fascinated with in Annapolis, so I sign the contract she produces.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  I thank her and head back to the hotel. Being only five hours away from home, I call the office and let my dad’s secretary know that if anyone calls to schedule showings to go ahead and book them and let me know; I can be there within a day. I am going to hang out around here until she calls, no rush to get home.

  My offer was accepted, and because I am paying cash, it is a quick closing. I won’t be here when it is time to take possession, so I arrange furniture for my new home and don’t even get to spend a night there before I have to head home and get back to the daily grind. I have three clients waiting on me tomorrow, and I am going to sell them the American dream. White picket fence and all. I begin the trek back home. But is it really home? I grew up there, attended school, my parents live there, but I also grew into this man I don’t know anymore. I feel like I’m looking for something . . . something more. Maybe this is a sign that I’m ready to move on. Closure is what I never expected when I saw her on that stage in New York, but maybe that’s exactly what I got. She achieved what I always knew she could, what she was destined for, that’s all I wanted for her, her happiness and her future, and it seemed she accomplished all of it without me. I always told myself I would let her go if that’s what she wanted, but I never expected that to be the reality we would become. I never expected it to hurt this damn bad to not have her in my life. Years later the pain is just as real as it was the day she left. I guess I never expected that Luke and Phoebe weren’t going to always be . . . us.

  My parents’ house is just like normal, clean and stocked with food. Notes are left on plants reminding me when to water them, and boxes are labeled for me to sort their mail. It is like I am a freshman in college still needing direction. That’s my mom’s way, though. I look out the window and see her house. Still standing, like nothing has changed. Looks can be deceiving, making it seem since the foundation is still strong, when the inside is falling apart. It’s like the soul, you can’t see the internal cracks in it; all you see is the person from the outside, and if his hair is brushed, he looks healthy, seems to be happy, you take that at face value. Sometimes that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Outside appearances can be deceiving. Just like that house. I look fine from the outside, but on the inside I’m a mess. The house I’m staring at holds so much joy, but the pain has overshadowed those memories, and it’s left standing barren, like my heart. Unlike that house, I can pick up the shards and slowly start putting myself together . . . start being present in life instead of sifting through it.

  Getting back into the swing of things at the office, I show the houses, write up an offer, repeat throughout the day. This goes on through the week because the appointments were booked solid from the office being closed for over a week. At the end of my second week I venture out to get dinner having only been going to the office and home, I needed a change of scenery. I go to the corner deli, and am going to walk by the studio before returning to the office. I barely get two steps from the deli when the studio doors open, and she walks out. Her hair is still the familiar color, but pulled up in a ponytail and a bit shorter. When did she get here? I just saw her a few weeks ago in New York. I remember the program saying something about a last performance, but I never thought she would come back here. When she left she made it clear that I, and everything she had known, was the bane of her existence. I hear the studio door shut before I see his appearance. The shady fucker from school, Drake, I think. I watch him lock the door and then turn for her. I feel like I’m watching a movie in slow motion. He reaches out and grabs her hand, then they continue towards the street, hand-in-hand, one big fucking happy couple. I watch as they disappear around the corner, and when I can see them no more I head back to the office, close it up for the night and head home. All in a state of disbelief.

  My dad’s
scotch burns as it goes down, sitting in my empty stomach as the sandwich from the deli was long forgotten. Glass after glass, the feelings disappear. The drunker I get, the more it makes sense. She was in New York; I was in New York, yet she never reached out to me. Did she know? Was he with her? How long have they been together? Did she look happy? Too many questions and not any answers. Foregoing the glass I grab the bottle and head towards the back porch. Maybe the fresh air will bring the clarity I need. I stare out in the darkness, and my tree house seems to be mocking me, calling me out for the chump I am. I don’t think, until this minute I never believed she was really gone, not out of my life forever. I always thought she would someday make her way back to me.

  I throw the bottle against the tree, and when that doesn’t make me feel better I head towards the shed. I pick up the first thing I can find; a shovel. The first swing doesn’t do the damage I need it to, so I put more force behind it. Soon boards are splintering and flying around the yard. I destroy the juvenile memories made here. I want every moment spent in that tree house to splinter and fade away like the boards that created it. I step back, and when I see the demolition I feel better. Turning my head towards the yard next door, I pick up the shovel again and make my way towards it to work on her playhouse.

  With every step I let my mind play a constant reel of our childhood memories. Playing house, making her smile, holding her hair when she was sick or giving her a piggy back ride when she was too weak to walk. I did that. I loved her from the instant she looked down at me from her dad’s arms. I protected her and cherished her in the years that followed. Not Drake fucking Taylor . . . whack! Another piece of wood goes soaring through the air. I watched her dance, I drove her to the store, I loved her beyond reason, and I am the one left here, suffering and cursed from letting her love destroy me. Another board comes loose but doesn’t break the way I want it to. Picking up the shovel, I beat it against the wood, time after time, repeating with more force than I knew I had. I want to erase every squandered minute I gave to her, I want to erase her from my heart and for the first time since hearing her name . . . I want to erase her from my life. That pisses me off more, so I take it out on the remaining foundation of that playhouse. When I have nothing left for the shovel, all my strength gone, I crumble to the dirt. One last time I wish for her. That she could have been my strength in this stage of my life, like I was for her so many times. Just once, I wish she had put me before her.

  I guess if I hadn’t been so surprised and wounded seeing her on the street I would have noticed how rigid she became when Drake reached for her. I would have noticed the pressure he used when he gripped her hand and the force in which he pulled her behind him . . . never beside him. I would have noticed her shoulders sagging in defeat not pushed back with the confidence she used to carry herself. I didn’t notice all that because I was blinded by my own sorrow. Once again I let her down when she needed me the most.

  Chapter 20

  Phoebe

  What am I doing? How did I get involved in this debacle? Drake seemed like he was rehabilitated when I agreed to go to dinner with him. He was nice, seemed remorseful, and on the road to getting his life together. In just six short days after our first dinner, I was so ensconced in his life and the world of drug deals gone wrong, I don’t know how to get out. Now nearly three weeks later, the violence that surrounds him is encroaching on my life, and I’m clueless how to escape it. I could go to Myra or I could be a big girl and handle this myself. I don’t want anyone else caught in the crosshairs; it could get very ugly. The bruise on my cheek is evidence of that.

  Thinking back, I try and pinpoint the exact moment his behavior went off the rails. Dinner was simple, just take-out from the Chinese place, and we ate in the park. Talking and catching up. He didn’t have much to tell me, prison walls for three years didn’t exactly breed stories I wanted to hear.

  “Are you still friends with your neighbor? I can’t remember his name.”

  “Lucas. No, we lost touch a few years ago.” I swallow that truth, and it sits heavily in my stomach.

  “I thought you would be married to him with a van full of children. Guess it’s my lucky day.”

  “I guess so.” I thought that, too. He has no idea how bad that ripped me open for someone to voice the dream I threw away. “He moved away about a year ago.”

  The next day he helped me paint the walls, and we ended up wearing more of it than the walls. I laughed and felt happy-go-lucky for the first time in ages. No pressure and no expectations was just what I needed. He went to kiss me goodnight, and I turned my head so he caught my cheek. I missed the telltale sign of his temper with the narrowing of his eyes, thinking he was just trying to figure me out. I worked in the office at the studio the next day, sorting out registration forms and getting new classes scheduled while he installed my floors. I didn’t blink an eye at the guys coming and going, assuming they were friends or extra workers. The next morning when he showed up with coffee, I thought it was a sweet gesture, but could tell things were leading somewhere I was unsure of. I made a grown-up decision and asked him over for dinner, hoping to chat and let him know I wasn’t up for more than friendship . . . at this time. My furniture arrived, and he was there again and helped me arrange it. I explained to him over pizza that I was just coming into the land of living after a rough four years. I had battled cancer again and had some setbacks so I wanted to be friends and take this slowly. He proceeded to get drunk and pass out on the floor. Feeling bad for hurting him, I let him sleep it off. Until I woke to him in my bed trying to shove his hands down my pants. There isn’t much to my apartment, it’s big enough for a twin bed, a small loveseat, and the makeshift kitchen only had a dorm size refrigerator and microwave. I had nowhere to escape, but he stopped when I started screaming. That was the first slap to the face, although by now they have graduated to closed fists. This isn’t the girl I am, and it isn’t who I want to be.

  I now understand how women get into abusive relationships and can’t get out. I am stuck right now. In a sick way, the first slap scared me and thrilled me all at once. Having someone else care about you, or what you assume is caring, but in actuality is controlling, enough to be angry when you reject him, can make you feel high on power. You never have the power you think you do. That’s part of the game to the predator. It woke me up from my numb state, and over the next few days, I found myself looking for ways to provoke him. I wanted to feel anything other than the heartache I had carried around. The sting that his hand would bring, the kick to the back of a leg . . . it became a tug of war. A battle of wills. I thought I was in control, but he was the one dominating me. A therapist would have a field day with me. I was shielded from the ugliness in the world by my parents and Luke. Even though I knew evil existed, I hadn’t experienced it. Never saw it in my life.

  Drake never left my apartment after that night. He never tried to touch me sexually again, either. He got his rocks off elsewhere, and I was thankful for that. I grew tired of the slaps, the verbal abuse, and being used after about day four. I told him to leave. He grabbed me by the hair, yelling in my face, drops of spittle landing on my cheek. Then he explained exactly why I couldn’t escape.

  “I’ve used your place as home base for my drug ‘business.’ They’re hidden throughout, underneath the flooring, in walls, behind boards. My boss knows where you live, and if you think you’re safe from him, you aren’t. I own you.” I’m naïve, stupid, and can’t tell if he is lying or not. If I flee to my house, they’ll follow. If I go to the police, what happens if it’s a lie and it enrages Drake, or what happens if he is telling the truth, and since this is my property I get punished.

  The bruise I’m hiding today came from our most recent disagreement. He’s usually more careful and doesn’t hit me where it’s visible. This is worrisome because it means his control is slipping.

  “This place is too small for both of us. We need something bigger.”

  “You could always move out.”
His hand came at my face so fast I didn’t have time to dodge it. Grabbing my cheeks and digging his fingers into my jawbone he pulled me towards him.

  “Careful, Phoebe. Don’t make me teach you who’s boss. What about your parents’ place? You still have that?”

  Over my dead body will he set foot in that house. “Yes, but I have to sell it. The studio isn’t making enough money, and I don’t have access to my inheritance for a few more years.”

  It isn’t all a lie. I have plenty of money, and the studio is flourishing, but I will sell the house before I let him move in.

  “You need to find us something else.” I don’t reply, and his fist crashes down upon my cheek. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I manage to get out around the pain radiating down my jaw.

  Now I have to go to Myra, ask him to contact Luke to sign off on selling the house. And I have to figure a way out of this mess I am in. I think of calling Brett and James, escaping again, but last time I ran from my problems it didn’t solve anything. Instead of calling anyone, I head to Myra’s office. Luckily, he isn’t busy, and I’m ushered back to see him.

  “Welcome home. What brings you by today?”

  “I need to sell the house.” I don’t want to play games, and I need this handled right away.

  “Are you in trouble? Do you need money?” I won’t let him get involved.

  “What I need is for you to call Luke, have him arrange for the house to go on the market. I don’t care if it ever sells, but it needs to stay listed.” At least for a while, until I figure out what to do. I know I’m being hurtful and cruel to a man that has helped me, but I’m nervous as hell. Scared shitless.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Phoebe.”

  “I can’t.” Shit, I didn’t mean to let that slip. “I mean, nothing’s going on. Are you going to do this or not?”