Did she really just say that? Schooling my expression requires herculean strength. This woman intrigues me. I don’t know what to think, but I want to know more. Minutes ago, she’s being attacked and now she’s mumbling suggestive thoughts about my lips. Her resilience is both obvious and admirable. Not many women would be able to compose themselves after what I am sure is nothing short of a traumatizing experience. I am amazed at how fast she has bounced back from such an ordeal. I don’t even know this woman, yet she has managed to earn a respect not easily earned. The unsuspecting knowledge barrages my mind and the muscles in my abdomen quiver.
Fuck me, I am so screwed.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m kinda dunk,” she slurs. I can’t contain my smile as I pull out my phone and make a call.
Briggs picks up on the third ring. “Hey man, getting bored with the bar flies yet?” He chuckles in greeting.
“I’ve got a situation. I need you to send a squad car over here. I had a girl get attacked in the back alley, and well, the fuckers still breathing, but out cold. Will probably need an ambulance.” As soon as the words “squad car” exit my mouth, I feel her body stiffen and she pulls away. I let her go but keeping my eyes planted on her as I quickly finish my call.
“D-did you call the cops?” she asks, her voice shaking.
“Yeah, this fucker is going to jail.”
Her face pales.
“Oh. I needa get out of here. It’s been a, uh, long night.” She turns to leave but stops at the sound of my voice.
“Please wait. How are you getting home? The police are going to need a statement from you.”
Her expression morphs into sheer terror. She looks at me like I just told her she was going to die today. And knowing I’m the one that put it there robs me of oxygen like a swift kick to the stomach.
“I’m going to walk.” She pauses. “And I… I don’t trust cops, okay? I just need to get out of here. I don’t care if he goes to jail or not. I just need out of here.”
She turns and tries to run, as much as her drunken state will allow, down the alley. Dickwad begins to stir behind us as I run to catch her. Sirens blast in the distance, closing in on us. They will be here any minute and I refuse to let her walk alone in this city at night. She’s hiding something, but for now, I’ll let it go. Gently grabbing her arm, I turn her to face me.
“Please let me take you home. It’s not safe out there.” I plead, gesturing toward the city. Her face scrunches slightly as though she is trying to calculate the relative safety of the situation. The cognizance of that thought causes me to smile.
Right now, I am the only one in the danger zone.
“Will you get me out of here before the cops come?” Her eyes are pleading and her whole body shivers. Sighing heavily, knowing I’m going to get my ass chewed, I relent.
“Yeah. I’m parked right over there.” I point toward my baby, a black Jeep Rubicon. She simply nods her head.
“Please get me out of here.” Her body is tense, and I know she is going to hyperventilate if she doesn’t slow her breathing. She isn’t tall enough to climb into the cab without assistance, so I place my hands at her sides to hoist her up and she yelps in pain. Remorse floods my veins just seconds before rage takes over once more. Even in the street lights I can see the discoloration on her skin, a reminder of our first encounter. The look on my face must say it all.
“I’m fine, really. I just need to sleep.” She responds with heavy eyelids. “What’s your name?” She asks softly.
“Declan.”
“Thank you for everything Declan. I’m T—Taryn.” Her head falls limply against the headrest as I close the door behind her. I stand outside the passenger door for a minute, trying to gather my thoughts. What the hell happened to this beautifully damaged woman? She has secrets. Dark ones. And that doesn’t sit well with me. I shake my head as I walk around and climb into the cab. Shooting off a quick text to Briggs, I let him know the victim isn’t willing to talk with police and I need his assistance to clean up the mess I created.
As I fire up the engine, I look over at Taryn, intending to ask for her address; however, I’m greeted by the sounds of soft snoring. I smother my smile. I never thought I would consider anything ‘adorable’, but right now I can’t think of another way to describe what I see. I stare longer than is appropriate, I’m sure, before I attempt to rouse her. Shaking her gently, I can only manage to squeeze out a painful sounding groan.
“Well, looks like we are going to my house,” I say to myself quietly.
The drive to my house brings me a certain serenity. The top is off, and the warm ocean air combined with the scent of her is intoxicating. Other than the occasional soft snore from the mystery woman, the only sound around us is the hum of the engine and the light traffic, typical for this time of night. The drive time allows me to process the day’s events and I try to figure out what in the hell I am doing taking a stranger home.
Slowly, I pull the vehicle into the garage, trying not to wake her. As gently as I can, I lift her limp body from the seat, careful to avoid her sides as they seem to be a source of pain. Having her in my arms, surrounded by her scent, makes me feel animalistic. I have the urge to both protect and conquer her. My train of thought since I met her has me questioning my sanity. I don’t know anything about this woman. Shaking my head to clear the desire, I unlock the door.
High pitched beeps fill the house as I juggle her bruised body, trying to silence the alarm before it wakes her. When I moved in, I installed a security system. Nothing fancy, but you can’t be too careful in my line of work.
I pause momentarily at the couch but decide she would be more comfortable in a bed, so I change direction. Seeing her curvy frame laid out on my bed, gorgeous hair fanned on my pillow, is one of the most beautiful sights I’ve yet to see.
Sobering my thoughts, I lift the hem of her shirt just enough to investigate the source of her pain. The sight before me causes my chest to clench, making it difficult to breathe. Those marks are a few days old. The melding of black, purple, and red resemble a watercolor painting with a tragic story. The pattern of bruising suggests she was kicked. Repeatedly. Mother Fucker. The scene from earlier flashes through my mind. When I heard a woman scream, my blood ran cold. Seeing that Dickwad with his hands on her like that made me see red. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t see past my goal. I didn’t even realize I was on top of him until Taryn had tapped my shoulder, pulling me back to reality. She was right. I probably would have killed him. Where she was wrong—it would have been worth it. Asshole. The memories rekindle the fire I had before. I need to hit something. Grabbing a pair of shorts, I head to the garage where my heavy bag is.
On my way out the door, I glance at the purse she had with her. I know it’s wrong, but my instincts are telling me something and I intend to find out exactly what. Reaching into the bag, I pull out her wallet in search of some identification. When I locate her driver’s license, a slightly younger version of the same beautiful woman is staring back at me. Taking out my phone, I snap a quick photo of her driver’s license and Social Security card. This should be a good start. I type out a quick text to Briggs with my request and attach the photos. I should feel guilty, but I can’t bring myself to regret my decision. Satisfied with myself, I continue toward my destination, thoroughly anticipating working out this pent-up aggression.
I think my brain has had enough of my shit and decided to escape. That has to be the only explanation for the pounding in my skull. Slowly opening my eyes, a feeling of confusion washes over me. Where the hell am I? Sitting up, I look around the room noticing the space is pretty bare. The only furnishings are a king size bed, dresser and a couple of night stands, all with a deep walnut finish. The dark gray walls are bare and there are no personal touches to the masculine feeling room.
As the fog starts to clear in my head, I realize the only place I could possibly be is the bartender’s house. Declan. Oh God, what did I get myself into? Crippling fear starts to take over and my breathing speeds up. I close my eyes and remind myself that he was kind to me. Panting, I look down and verify that I am still fully clothed and show no signs of malicious activity. Relief fills me with the knowledge that I was not violated. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert and my tongue is a cactus. I can only imagine what yesterday’s makeup looks like combined with bed head. Pulling the covers back, I slip my shoes on and head for the bedroom door. I really don’t want to face him, but I can’t very well hide in here all day. Taking a deep breath, I rip off the metaphorical Band-Aid and turn the handle.
Quietly entering the living room, I find Declan sleeping soundly on the couch. My chest constricts knowing he gave up his bed for me. A sensation unfamiliar to me takes root in my gut. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to process that warm feeling before anxiety starts creeping through my veins as it dawns on me that I do not have a car and I have no idea where I am. Trying not to panic, I notice a stack of mail on the kitchen counter. Quickly memorizing the address, I grab my purse from the kitchen table where he must have placed it last night and get the hell out of dodge.
I wait rather impatiently near the road for the cab. When it arrives, I jump in like my feet are on fire, spitting out the name of the motel I’m staying at. The cab has an overwhelming scent of pine air freshener and it makes my already queasy stomach flip with disapproval. As unappealing as the idea is, I know I need to put something in my stomach. Cringeworthy reminders of last night flash through my mind.
The cab fare is more than I anticipated and cuts into my small survival fund. But honestly, there is no way I could have walked the 5 miles from his house in a city I am unfamiliar with. This is just another shining example of the shit I get myself into. You’d think after twenty-nine very rough years I would have these things figured out.
I may not be perfect but I’m me and I’m learning to love myself again. Imperfections and all.
It seems I was more optimistic than I should have been. It’s been a week since I arrived in Miami. A week of wasted gas, time, energy, and fake smiles. I don’t have enough money to get very far and my employment options are extremely limited. I have scoured every shady business in the area with no luck. Honest employment is just not in the cards. I’ve tried to lay as low as possible and so far, I haven’t been given a second glance. I’ve been isolated for such a long time that it kills me to keep myself virtually hidden. I will do what it takes to survive though, even if it means I stay as lonely as I was before. At least the marks on my skin have faded enough that I can cover them. There’s my silver lining.
I miss Manny and Martha so much. I’ve not been contacting them on purpose. I’m afraid of the trouble that would ensue if anyone finds out that they know my whereabouts. Every couple of days Manny sends me a brief update and that helps put my mind at ease. Manny and Martha both caught some heat for the hospital stunt, thanks to video surveillance. Since I had not been charged with anything at the time, they were not charged with anything and were released. Something tells me Manny knows exactly what he’s doing.
Knowing my soul needs someone to talk to, I pull out the business card that Celeste gave me. The salon name, “Curl Up and Dye”, draws another chuckle out of me. Pulling out my phone, I send a quick text to the cell number listed.
Teagan: Hey Celeste, this is T…
I pause, trying to recall my name.
Teagan: Hey Celeste, this is Taryn Sullivan. You helped me out last week. If you’re still interested in having lunch, I’m still in town.
My phone chimes with a message just a few seconds later.
Celeste: Hell yes, I do! I think it’s against my religion to turn down food. How about the Corner Café in half an hour?
Teagan: Sounds great.
I’m beginning to think I like her religion.
I freshen up in a gas station bathroom after an early morning of job hunting. I really didn’t think it would be this hard to find a job in a city this size. The economy is really struggling and now that I’ve been thrust back into it, I am remembering exactly what surviving could entail. The thought makes my skin crawl. Realizing that money is getting tighter, I had to forgo the motel this morning to ensure I would have money to eat for the foreseeable future. I’ve lived in my car before and, truth be told, it really wasn’t the worst sleeping arrangement I’ve ever experienced.
Stepping back to look at myself in the mirror, I do a quick once over and decide I’m presentable. I’ve settled on a baseball cap and light jacket; more measures toward keeping my identity concealed. I look up directions to the restaurant as I head to my car. This spontaneous meeting brought with it a nervous energy I am not used to. I want her to like me. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend my age. Being out in public… well, that brings a whole other level of nervousness.
As soon as I arrive, I see Celeste sitting at one of the patio tables. The thought of being outside sends a wave of panic over me. After a moment to calm my nerves, I realize she is sitting on the side of the building facing the beach. It is much less crowded in that area and, with my sunglasses, I should blend in easily. I have to force my muscles into motion so that my body is capable of exiting the car. With a huge smile on her face, she waves me over, standing to give me a friendly hug as I near the table. I try not to stiffen but it proves to be harder than I imagined.
“Sorry if you’re not a hugger.” She giggles lightly. “I’m a big hugger. Always have been.” Her smile is contagious, and I immediately start to feel better than I have in days.
“It’s okay, just not used to it is all.” That is the understatement of the century.
“So, have you decided to stay in Miami?” she asks, taking a sip of ice water she had already ordered.
“Well, I was going to try but finding a job here is proving to be harder than I expected. I don’t have any kind of trade or degree. I don’t even have work experience for the last ten years. I think that’s the real killer. Without money, I can’t really leave but without a job I can’t stay.” Voicing my predicament creates a knot in my stomach threatening to kill my appetite. With one elbow rested on the table and the right side of her face cradled in her hand, she gives me a sad look, not one of pity but perhaps understanding. Thankfully, the waiter intervenes.
“What can I get you ladies to drink?” The young man asks.
“I’ll have a water,” I reply.
“I’m good with my water, too,” Celeste chimes in.
“Great. Are you ready to order or do you need minute?” he asks politely.
Celeste and I look at one another trying to determine if the other one is ready to place our order.
“You go ahead and order while I look over the menu real fast,” I tell her. Skimming the menu on the table before me, I search for the cheapest item. The house salad it is. I came here for the company, not to blow what little money I have. I’ve spent so many years secluded from others that I can barely stand to be alone in my car.
“I’ll have the turkey club and a small soup,” she says and hands her menu to the waiter.
“I’ll have the house salad,” I tell him, handing my menu over as well. When I look back at Celeste, she raises one dark brow.
“What the hell was that?” she asks. “Never mind, I know what it was,” she mutters. Looking back at the waiter, she amends my order. “Scratch that, she will have the same as me.”
“You got it,” he replies. “I’ll have your water out in a moment and your order shortly.” He turns and heads toward the kitchen. I open my mouth to comment on what just happened, but she beats me to it.
“Before you get all independent woman on me, hear me out. I’ve struggled enough times to recognize when a girl needs help. Lunch is on me today. Besides, you owe me a story and I don’t mean the watered-down version you gave me back at the shop.”
I just stare at her for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts.
“Thank you for lunch, you didn’t have to do that,” I say genuinely, in an attempt to change the subject.
“I know I didn’t. I wanted to. Once you start spitting that story out, it’ll be like dinner and a show.” She laughs at herself. Despite myself, I do too. Her laugh is infectious.
“Ok, well, I don’t really know where to start,” I say, considering what details I can share without giving away my identity.
“Why don’t you start by telling me how you became a fugitive?”
If she continues to talk, I don’t hear it. I hear nothing after that. My ears are ringing, and I feel like I’m about to dry heave. How did she know? Has he found me? I breathe deeply and grip the table, trying to calm my racing heart before I pass the hell out.
“Woah, Woah! Don’t freak out,” she exclaims, putting her hands up, palms facing me.
Easy for you to say.
“I didn’t mean to ambush you with that. After you left the salon the other day, I saw the story about that DA, Mark Langford, on the news. I just put two and two together.” She shrugs. “For what it’s worth, if I hadn’t seen you before when your hair was blonde, when the bruises were fresh, I don’t think I would have caught on. But noticing details like that are why I’m so good at my job.” She jokes.
Defeated, I lay my face in my hands, elbows on the table. I have no idea where to go from here. Something about Celeste makes me feel like I can trust her. Something I have a hard time doing these days. Sighing, I look up at her as I fight back the emotions that threaten to consume me.
“You really want to know?” I ask.
The waiter cuts in bringing our lunch. When he places the dish in front of me, I nearly start salivating. It’s been a few days since I’ve had a hot meal and I didn’t realize I was this hungry. The aroma has my stomach begging, the feeling is almost enough to make me forget the conversation we are about to have. Almost.
“Hell, yeah I do,” she exclaims as soon as the waiter is out of ear shot. “If you want to tell me, that is. I’m not going to pressure you if it’s not something you are comfortable with.” I can see the truth in her eyes as she digs into her meal. I consider her words. Do I want to tell my story? I’ve never voluntarily told someone the truth about my life with Mark, but I think it’s time. I nod my head, square my shoulders and begin the horror story that spans a decade.
An hour later, it feels as if a huge boulder were lifted from my shoulders. The levity I feel is astonishing. She listened intently, asked questions where necessary and honestly looks more pissed off than I am.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hurt another person as much as I do right now. I wish that fucker would have died. The world would be a better place without him in it.” She seethes through clenched teeth.
“While I agree, the fact is, he lived. And I have no idea what I’m going to do. Do you think that I could easily be noticed here? I know I’m not far from Tallahassee, but I can’t go anywhere until I make some money. Even then I don’t know where I’d go. Is Cuba an option?” I smirk, attempting to lighten the gloomy atmosphere surrounding us.
“You joke, but I’m Cuban. My abuela still lives there. It’s not a stretch to say that I could find a place for you to stay.” She proclaims proudly with a huge smile smeared across her beautiful face.
Smiling at her, I sigh. “Well, Cuba or not, I need a job.”
“I’d love to help you out, but unless you are licensed for hair or nails, there isn’t anything for you to do at the shop.” Her smile has deflated as the seriousness of my situation sets in. “And you’re positive that the police won’t believe you if you explain the truth?” She asks, looking hopeful.
“Not a chance in hell. I’ve crossed that line before and I’m not stupid or naïve enough to try it again. Besides, thanks to him and a few misguided decisions in my youth, I have a record. Who’s a judge going to believe? The delinquent with assault charges or the squeaky-clean District Attorney she tried to kill? And let’s not forget about Governor Langford’s pull. Nothing good will come of that.”
I’m so screwed.
“Well, I do have one idea. What about that bar across from the shop, Blind Luck?”
Her suggestion coaxes an involuntary groan from the pit of my stomach, consequently urging my lunch for an encore. Just great. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to face Declan again.
“They put up a ‘help wanted’ sign yesterday.”
Well, hell. I’m definitely not above scraping my dignity off the pavement if it means a paycheck. Who knows, if I’m hired I may not even see him that often. I can do this.
That’s right, Tea, keep telling yourself that.