I wish I’d never been born. I wish I’d never met Layla Flaherty. I wish that I hadn’t called my dad. Because all of that, being born, having a childhood where I was afraid to breathe the wrong way, bottling everything up inside, meeting Layla, hearing what my dad had to say, it all led to this.
To me being the sorriest motherfucker on the face of the planet.
I take a breather about five miles into my run. I’ve practically been sprinting and I’ve sprinted my stupid ass into a bad part of town.
My side pinches and burns so I lift my arms above my head. Fuck it. I lower them and let the pain come. Leaning over, I place my hands on my knees. A few guys stand lined up on the other side of the street. One of them steps towards me and I straighten up and meet his gaze. If he thinks he’s getting anything from me, he has another thing coming. For one, I don’t even have my wallet on me. And for two, if he and his friends plan to beat the shit out of me, I’d welcome it. I deserve it. Crave it.
Bet he’s not expecting a sick, twisted fucker to laugh when he produces a knife from his back pocket. But I do. This is just perfect.
You’re not my son.
That’s just perfect too.
I was deployed. Your mother had an affair.
It’s like someone just shined high beams on my black soul. My dad isn’t my dad. Just a man who had to look at the reminder of his wife’s infidelity every day for eighteen years.
And I’m not blood related to that piece of shit. So in a way, it’s a relief. But I’m still me. Still angry all the time and fucked up and unable to control the hatred for him that burns inside of me.
When two of the other guys step forward, I see how dangerous the man in front of me really is. He’s big, armed, and looks like he just busted out of prison. The reality of my situation hits me hard enough to hurt. Her parents were gunned down in front of her, and her boyfriend is about to be gutted on a back road in Spain.
“Hey, sorry. I was just passing through, man.” I hold my hands up in a gesture of what I hope is innocence.
He says something in Catalan, which I know enough to recognize as not Spanish but not enough to decipher meaning from it. His voice is a growl and makes my blood run cold.
“Amigo,” I say, because it’s the word I know means friend and I’ve lost the bloodlust desire to fight, to hurt and be hurt. My pulse races and I just want to get home and apologize. Beg my girl to forgive me. Whatever it takes.
One of the other guys mutters something and I recognize the word for money.
“No dinero. Por favor,” I say, hoping they understand. “Lo siento.”
“Demasiado malo para usted,” the guy with the knife sneers at me. My brain struggles to translate his words just as he comes close enough for me to smell the alcohol on him.
He cocks his fist and Layla’s beautiful face flashes behind my eyes. I hurt her. Again. Whatever’s coming, I deserve it. That’s the last thought I have before everything goes black.
“¡Oh, Dios mío! Somebody help! Llamar a la policía!”
I’m in a tunnel. I don’t know how I got here. A woman’s voice comes from far away. It’s a pretty voice. Not as pretty as Layla’s, but nice.
I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, whatever she’s freaking out about. But I can’t. I’m disconnected from my body.
“¿Cuánto tiempo ha sido?
“Una hora o así.”
Florescent lights greet me, shooting lightning bolts to my brain as I open my eyes.
“Where am I?” I hear myself ask.
“Está en el hospital. San Juan de Dios,” a woman says. Different woman from before. Not Layla either. Shit, my head hurts. “Do you know your name?” she asks in Spanish.
“My name?”
I sit up and glance around me. Heavy dread presses down on me as I realize I really am in the hospital like she said. An attractive dark-haired woman holds a clipboard and stares at me with interest.
“Um, it’s Landen. Landen O’Brien.”
“Ah. Well, Señor O’Brien, it seems you were jumped. A young lady found you in the street, beaten and barefoot.”
“Jesus.” Fuck me. “How long have I been here?” Layla’s probably worried sick.
“A little over an hour.”
“Okay, can I go home now?”
“Perdón?? You have two dozen stitches, a busted face, and possible internal bleeding. You just now came to, the police are waiting for your statement, and it’s a wonder you were even left alive. And you ask when can you go home?” Her face twists in confusion.
“Yes, ma’am,” I croak out. “My girlfriend, I need to call her. Can I do that at least?” My ribs stab me in protest as I sit all the way up.
“I don’t know. Can you?”
Bile rises in my throat and my head swims in response to the overwhelming pain. “I’d like to try.”
“Speak with the Policía first. Then make your call.”
I thank her and nod at the two uniformed officers who push the curtain around my bed aside and enter.
I give them a brief statement about what happened, trying to rush it along so I can call Layla.
“Hell of a place to go for a run,” one of them tells me. At least I think that’s what he says. After three years, I can hold a decent conversation in Spanish, but my head is pounding so I’m struggling to translate as quickly as they’re speaking.
“Yes, sir. I won’t be revisiting that part of town anytime soon.”
“Let’s hope not,” the taller of the two says, putting his notepad away. “You were lucky this time. You probably wouldn’t be again. Call us if you think of anything else.”
I assure them that I will and breathe a sigh of relief when they finally leave. Pretty sure one of them mumbles the Spanish word for “fucking idiot” on the their way out. Agreed.
Being careful not to disturb my battered ribs, I reach for the phone on my bedside table.
She answers on the first ring.
“Hey, baby.”
“Landen? Where are you? Are you okay? Whose number is this?”
The panic in her voice, the concern weighing her questions down, kills me. Hurts a hundred times worse than any of my injuries. I treated her like dirt. Worse than dirt. I fucked her like a man possessed and then blew up over something stupid and walked out. And here she is, worried about me. Still loving me more than I deserve.
“Calm down. I’m okay. I’m so sorry, Layla. So damn sorry.” Tears well in my eyes. I hate myself. How can I love her like she deserves when I hate myself so damn much?
“Please come home,” she pleads. My chest tightens, squeezing my heart so hard I can’t breathe.
“Um, I would. Listen, don’t freak out. I’m okay. I’m just…kind of in the hospital.”
“What? Oh my God, what happened?”
I can picture her beautiful face, those gorgeous eyes widening in panic. “Breathe, angel. I swear I’m fine. Can you grab my ID and the insurance card and meet me at San Juan de Dios? There’s cash for a cab in my wallet.”
“I’ll be right there.”
We say goodbye and I lie here waiting. Swearing to myself that I won’t ever do this to her again.
But if I’m being honest with myself? That might be a promise I can’t keep.