Chapter 2
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Four Years Later - Tessa
I crawl onto the writing desk that sits beneath the dirt streaked window in our apartment. Flipping onto my back, I prop up my legs until my boots rest comfortably along the edge of the window frame. I turn toward the glass and study my reflection; dull blue eyes stare back at me with disdain until I’m forced to look away.
Eyes are the window to the soul, and mine have one fucked up view.
Lifting my head, I guide the bendy straw into my mouth for a healthy sip of the concocted blue drink. I don’t know what the exact alcohol content is, but I figure it could poison a small animal. With my head propped up, the room begins to lurch and spin. I attempt to ease back down but end up slamming my skull onto the solid wood. Ouchie.
“Sup, Reaper. Need to take the edge off?” I squint, trying to figure out who’s talking to me. I’m sure I should know his name. . . Derick maybe? Fuck if I know. All I can seem to think about is his greasy hair and disgusting butter yellow teeth. He waves a small Ziploc at me and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
New town, same nickname. Thank you for that, Asshat.
“Fuck off.” I grunt dismissively. Reaching below, I tug open the top drawer of the desk and shuffle around inside for my pack of cigarettes.
“C’mon, baby, put your scythe away for one night and let’s clear out those cobwebs.” He takes a few more steps toward me, laughing at his own moronic joke.
Finally, my fingers brush across something the right size. I jerk my arm up in excitement only to find a pack of playing cards in my grip. With a growl, I throw them to the floor and glare up at Mr. Chuckles who continues to inch his way closer.
“Are you deaf? I said fuck off,” I snarl.
He takes another step forward and I get a whiff of something rank. I’m positive the culprit is his breath. How could I resist such charm?
When he’s close enough to make me gag, I place my boot square on his chest. Just as he looks down—eyebrow raised in confusion—I send him flying backwards with a dark laugh.
He slams into the wall opposite me, momentarily dazed. Instead of seeking a weaker, perhaps drunker female to set his sights on, his jaw tics and his fists clench at his sides.
“Stupid bitch,” he spits. Pushing off the wall, he pops each of his knuckles with a malicious gleam in his reddened eyes.
Surreptitiously, I slide a blade out from my right boot. Clicking it open, I hold it against my bare thigh, just out of sight. A knife is one of the newer additions to my daily wardrobe. Cheaper than a gun, and a lot easier to hide.
Mama didn’t raise no fool, just a monster.
Suddenly, my view of the seething caveman is blocked by another much larger caveman.
“You got a death wish, man?” Chase asks as he leans casually against the desk, putting himself between me and Dickbreath.
Popping up, I peek over his massive shoulder and give my would-be assailant a devilish grin. Chase turns his head and growls. I lay back down with an oomph, letting out a mix between a snort and a giggle. The desk wobbles with my abrupt movement, and my drink teeters dangerously close to the edge. I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn’t tip over and spill its precious liquid.
“Your girl is disrespectful, and since you don’t ever seem to handle that shit, I’m ‘bout to. I don’t give a fuck what they call her, like I’m afraid of some skinny psycho bitch.”
I wiggle my way up until my head hangs off the end of the desk, and I peak around Chase’s arm for another view of Dickbreath’s face. I wink and blow him a wet kiss. His face turns a few different shades of red right before he roars and charges forward.
Without hesitation, Chase throws a right hook and lays him out with a single hit. Mr. Butterteeth drops like a sack of potatoes and crumples to the floor.
I slide back down to where I was, slip my knife back into its hiding place, and attempt to look as innocent as possible. Not a particularly easy task considering the pretty blue drink has started to work its magic on my sobriety. Thankfully, I’ve had lots of practice pretending to be sober under the influence, and can barely contain the shit-eating grin that threatens to take over my face. I do so love when Chase goes all alpha for me, regardless of whether I need him to or not. It’s quite fun to watch.
I morph my face into a grim expression when he turns and looks down at me.
“Seriously?” He sighs and the corners of his mouth tug down in disapproval. An expression I’ve come to learn he reserves just for me.
“I was doing my civic duty, man. I mean, he’s a drug dealer.” I gasp, pointing an accusatory finger toward the unconscious man.
He throws his hands up in exasperation. “He’s my drug dealer, you dipshit. Plus, you’ve met Steve at least a dozen times.”
Oh, Steve, that was his name. . .
I avoid his heated gaze and pick imaginary lint off my sleeve. “I don’t like drugs, you know that.”
“A little pot hardly constitutes as drugs. Why is your first line of defense always violence? Hakuna your tatas woman.”
I shrug and look out the window away from him.
With a sigh, he sets something on the desk beside me, but I’m too stubborn to look and see what it could be. “I miss them too you know,” he admits.
How did he know they’ve been on my mind?
Because they’re always on my mind. . .
When I turn back, there’s a wounded look in his eyes that echoes my own pain. Grabbing the sides of his face, I bring his forehead to my lips for a chaste kiss.
He shakes free and grins down at me. “Love you, Reap.”
“Love you, Asshat,” I reply with a playful smile.
“Chaaase. That was so fucking hot, come back baby.” The whiny voice comes from the group of degenerates who are camped out in our living room. With a sly wink, he heads back.
A blonde pixie pushes Chase onto the couch and begins attacking him with her mouth.
I roll my eyes at his flavor of the month before I check to see what he set beside me. With a smile, I snatch up my missing pack of cigarettes.
Not all heroes wear capes.
Digging a lighter out of my left boot, I strike up and take a long drag. I relish the soothing effect it has on my frayed nerves. For the next ten minutes, I alternate between inhaling toxins and slurping up my beautiful blue booze. I have work in the morning, so I should slow down, but I loathe the unwanted thoughts that flood my mind when sobriety kicks in. I won’t touch drugs, my parents made sure of that, and the smell of beer alone makes me want to vomit. But tequila? Well, let’s just say tequila and I have become intimately acquainted. The amber poison gets me through more nights than not. My liver must shudder with repulsion every time I look toward a bottle.
Our first year living in the city of La Grande was the hardest. I went out of my way to place myself in the worst possible situations, praying I would catch my due punishment. We weren’t in a small town anymore, and the possibilities for reckless endangerment were endless. Each night, I went to the shadiest looking bar I could find and slammed back enough shots to put me out of my mind. Fortunately, my plans for self-destruction would always fall short when—without fail—Chase would find me. I’d yell, swear, and throw punches, but it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. He would simply throw me over his shoulder, shove me in the back of his car, and take my drunk ass home.
Except one night, a wrench was thrown in my plans.
Chase got involved in a rather nasty fight trying to stop a few guys from taking my unconscious form back to their place. He ended up with stitches over his eye, cracked ribs, and an arm broken in three places.
At his bedside, I had one of those pesky “come to Jesus” moments. I decided it was past time to stop acting like a petulant child. The only one getting punished by my despicable behavior was the last person who deserved it. I didn’t end my relationship with tequila, but I did start drinking at home where I could keep myself out of trouble.
Well, where I would try to keep myself out of trouble, anyway.
After a few months of rent, our pooled money stash began to deplete, and we had to get off our asses and find work. We started working at a local bar and grill—The Greasy Spoon. I wait tables while Chase tends bar. For having such an awful name, the place is surprisingly clean and constantly packed. The tips are fantastic. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the skin tight black dress and fishnet stockings I have to wear.
Overall life is. . . tolerable. I’m not homeless, so that’s always a step in the right direction. I’ve thrown myself into writing, mostly in my journal. I jot down my thoughts or make up strange stories and have far-fetched dreams of becoming a writer someday.
When Chase isn’t working, he’s at the gym. That skinny obnoxious teenager is now a man in every sense of the word. He’s built like a truck, with massive shoulders and biceps the size of my head. Strutting around town with his rock hard abs, boyish dimples, and baritone voice, the ladies lose their ever-loving minds.
I drink, write, and work.
He smokes, lifts, and fucks.
A dysfunctional family to say the least, but somehow it works.
It’s been four years since that fateful night of the dance. I haven’t talked to any of the Blackwells since I ran across the state with my tail tucked between my legs. Once we got to the city, Chase and I both ditched our phones and went dark. However, in a few moments of weakness, I did keep tabs on the family. I didn’t have to do much detective work as Beth records her every thought on social media. Through her constant updates, I learned that Andrew had survived the night and was released from the hospital a few weeks later. The next time I checked back in (checked in sounds way better than stalked), I found out the twins started college together. I flipped through photo after photo of them with their new friends, in their new lives.
Without me there to derail everything, the Blackwells seemed to be thriving. Not long after, a little bubble popped up on my screen. “Andrew Blackwell is in a relationship. . .” That was as far as I got before throwing my phone at the wall and shattering the screen. It was also the last time I got on social media.
After that, I threw myself into trying to forget them altogether. But sometimes, on days like these, I can’t seem to stop my thoughts from turning to them. As much as it hurts, I hold on to the fact that with me gone, they’re leading happy, normal lives.
All in all, it hasn’t been that bad here. I fled from my hometown like a coward, yet once I got to the city, my lifelong curse was somehow lifted.
My first birthday in La Grande was spent huddled in the corner of my bedroom as a confused Chase clung to me. I pounded my fists on his chest and screamed for him to get as far away from me as possible, but he refused to leave my side. Midnight came and went. Chase didn’t keel over and die, the roof didn’t cave in on top of us, and no meteors hit initiating an apocalypse.
Nothing happened.
Sweet, blissful, nothing.
After that, my birthdays came and went without incident. Unless getting kicked out of six bars in one night for my twenty-first constitutes an “incident”. I, however, call that a good fucking time.
I don’t hate my life, it’s just something I go through the motions for. I imagine if someone were to cut me open, they would find a bunch of whirring gears and a giant flashing button that reads “autopilot”. I don’t make any real plans for the future, nor give a shit about what it holds.
Being around Chase makes the world a more tolerable place. When he is called to bigger and better things in life, I’ll remove myself from the equation. Permanently.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I drink.
Someone turns down the blaring rap music a notch when the neighbors bang on our shared wall.
I slide off the desk, clinging to it when the room starts to spin. My cue that I’ve hit my limit for the night. I stumble down the hall and into my room.
This is the part of the day I look forward to most, sleep. Typically, I have horrible nightmares that strip me down and leave me quaking with fear. But every so often, when I least expect it, I dream of him.
We’re back in our castle where white butterflies flit around our heads like a flurry of snowflakes. He’s reading me a story, arms gesturing wildly, and cheeks flushed with excitement. In our kingdom, time is frozen, hearts are whole, and smiles are boundless. On these rare occasions, I find the closest thing to true happiness. It’s worth every torturous nightmare I’m forced to endure.
Slamming the door behind me, I pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
I dream of dragons and hell fire.