Ella
I stare at my childhood home like it’s a foreign country.
I have no idea what I’m going to find behind the front door. I have no idea if I’ll be welcome or not. Matthew has always been a hero in my parents’ eyes. Hell, it was bad enough when they called and refused to believe anything I said.
Now I know it’s because Matthew went to them before the police. He could speak to them, charm them, and convince them that his words were the undisputable truth. He would have played up the poor-me card, just like he used to whenever he made an excuse up for hitting me.
“But, babe, I’ve had a stressful day and I was expecting dinner when I walked in . . . You’re a woman. You should be able to boil potatoes right. It makes me angry when you make careless mistakes, you know that . . . You know we have company tonight. If you’d just cleaned the house, then I wouldn’t have gotten so mad . . .”
I can’t even begin to imagine what he said to my parents.
I swallow hard, still staring at the door, and turn back to the cab that just drove me here. I open the door and give him the address of my mostly unused apartment.
I’m not quite ready for this.
I close my eyes as he makes the drive through New York City. The glaring of angry drivers and loud, beeping horns break through my attempt at finding serenity.
It’s a wasted attempt, though, since I know that as long as I’m in the city, I won’t find serenity or peace. I left that when I left the Burke family.
I left laughter and happiness and playfulness. I left everything I’ve wanted for years to come back to the place I’ve been dying to leave.
Driving away from here was the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done.
I hope that I’ll be able to get on a plane in a few days and feel the same feeling.
If I’m lucky.
I throw the driver enough to cover his fare and a tip, then grab my purse and get out. The sidewalks are busier than I’m used to, especially after spending two days in a sleepy seaside town and a couple weeks before that on a damn live-in bus.
“Miss Dawson,” the doorman, Ian, says with surprise. “You’re back.”
“Yes, I am.” I walk past him and toward the elevator.
“Miss,” he interrupts me and stands in front of me. “Are you aware your tenancy ends tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry?” I blink at him. “It doesn’t.”
“It does. Your parents informed us a few days ago that if you failed to return by the end of the week that we were to clean out your apartment and have your belongings shipped to them.”
What the fuck?
“Well, thank you for informing me of what they couldn’t,” I say with an edge to my voice. “I’ll make sure to collect any items I’d like to keep and get out of your way. I’d appreciate if you could call for a car service to collect me in approximately thirty minutes.”
“For your parents’ address, ma’am?”
“A hotel downtown. A reservation would also be appreciated.”
“Ah, your father requested you be directed to their residence were you to arrive here.”
“But until tomorrow morning, I’m still a tenant, so my father can take his instructions and insert them into his behind with as much vigor as he’d like.” I sweep past him and jab at the elevator button. I step into it and press the button for my floor. Anger swirls in me as I travel up and dig for my key.
I shove it into the slot and slam the door behind me. The apartment is blessedly silent. I wouldn’t put it past Matthew to be here waiting for me to return . . . or just in case I did. He had to know I would.
I stop in the middle of the living room and look around. To think I only lived here for a few months before Matthew insisted I stay at his house with him every night. To think my home was never really my home. It was my escape from his violence, sure, but never really a home.
I don’t even feel particularly upset that it’s not mine anymore. Just plain old rage at my parents and their actions. I already know my visit to them tomorrow will be pointless. They’ll only confirm with words what their actions have already told me. But I’m still going, because I’m a glutton for punishment.
If I weren’t, I’d still be in Shelton Bay with Tate.
I hold my purse to my stomach and close my eyes. Tate. My cocky, lovable pain in the ass. My protector. My surprise, because he really is someone other than I expected him to be.
The guy who took blows to keep me safe. The guy who almost got arrested for his part in it.
His text before I boarded the plane flashes into my mind. Come back to me. Like there was ever any other option. Like I could stay away from him. Like I could live without his smirk, or the sexy glint in his eyes, or the sizzling, seductive way he trails his hands across my body.
He promised me he’d get so under my skin I’d forget Matthew’s touch.
He has.
In a crazy way, I can remember the punches, the slaps, the beatings, but I can’t remember how they feel. Every time I try to, my skin tingles with the memory of Tate instead. It’s almost as if my brain has kicked into a new coping mechanism to protect me, and Tate is it.
I’ll take it.
All day, every day, I will take it.
I walk through into my bedroom and look around. I can’t see a single thing I want to take with me. Not the comforter, not the picture on the nightstand, and I sure as hell don’t want the hideous lamp my mother made me buy when I moved in. And in the bathroom—I don’t want the perfume on the windowsill, nor do I want the mirror on the wall.
The phone rings, and I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Miss Dawson? Your car is waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Ian.” I put the phone down, ignore the blinking icon for the messages, and leave the apartment key on the table by the door. I glance around, leaving the place exactly as it was when I walked in.
Then I walk into the elevator, travel downstairs, get my reservation details from Ian, and get into the waiting Mercedes.
And I drive away from yet another piece of my past.
New York is freaking cold.
Yes, eighty degrees at noon isn’t cold by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve been spoiled by the nudging-one-hundred-degrees Southern temperatures for the last several weeks.
I pull a light sweater on over my tank top and slip my purse over my shoulder before getting into the elevator. The concierge smiles and tips his cap to me when I step from it into the lobby moments later, and I shoot him a polite smile. The doorman opens the door for me with a “ma’am,” and another opens the door of the waiting cab.
I get in, holding a deep breath in until it burns my lungs. Exhaling slowly, I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. For the second time since I arrived in New York not even twenty-four hours ago, I’m en route to my parents’ house. This time, though, I have to go inside.
And I’m terrified.
The ink etched into my skin reminds me to fear nothing, but if only the ink went deeper. If tattoos went soul-deep, some of us would be a lot more scarred, but others would be a lot stronger. I would be a lot stronger, for sure.
The cab stops, and I hand the driver the fare.
“Thank you.” I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car. The driver smiles at me, but the daunting view of my parents’ house eclipses it, and I can barely raise a twitch of my lips in response.
I walk up the long pathway to the front door. My hand hovers over the bell, and with another deep breath, I press it.
The door opens slowly, and Cathy, the maid, stares at me. “Miss Ella!”
“Hi, Cathy.” I offer her a weak smile. “Are my parents at home?”
“They are. They’re in the sitting room. I’ll take you there.” She waves me in and shuts the door behind me. She adjusts the neckline of her dress and takes me through to the back of the house. I swallow when she knocks lightly twice. “Excuse me, sir?”
“What is it, Cathy?” My father’s voice asks sharply.
I step around her and push the door open wide. “Hey, Dad.”
“Ella.”
Mom stands slowly, and she takes her sweet-ass time turning around. When she does, she pins me with eyes as dark as mine, but hers are bitter and angry. “You decided to come in today.”
Of course. She doesn’t miss a thing.
Except the truth.
“Yeah, yesterday I clearly decided I wasn’t equipped to deal with your skewed vision of my ex-fiancé. I’m not particularly ready today, but given I no longer have anywhere to live in New York, I figured I should probably suck it up.”
“Ella Dawson, you do not speak to your mother with that tone.” My father steps forward and wraps an arm around Mom’s shoulders.
“Last time we spoke, neither of you were particularly respectful of me, so I assumed that was the tone of the conversation.”
“Clearly living with trash for so long has injured your manners.”
“Or it’s opened my eyes,” I reply, putting my purse on the table. “And, hey, if something has to be injured, I’d rather it be my manners than my body.”
Mom jolts. “Ella.”
“Oh, was that rude?” I tilt my head to the side. “Sorry, Mom, but so is kicking me out of my apartment and leaving the doorman to give me notice.”
“We decided it was for the best.”
“Sure you did. Like it’s painfully clear you’ll believe anything Matthew says over what your own daughter says.”
“You haven’t told us anything.” She clasps her hands in front of her and steps forward, away from my dad’s hold.
“No, I have, Mom. I told you on the phone when I was in New Orleans. Tate didn’t hurt me. This black eye you can still see through my makeup? It wasn’t Tate Burke. Neither was this mark here on my lip.” I tap my bottom lip.
“Ella, you should consider what you’re saying very carefully,” Dad says, stepping up. “If the Hamiltons get word of this, things could become incredibly difficult.”
I stare at him. His graying hair, the lines around his eyes, his aging yet still intimidating figure, and my jaw drops. “Are you serious, Dad? Are you honestly telling me I should not be honest about the shit I suffered just to make sure I don’t upset the Hamiltons?”
“Ella!” Mom gasps.
“Oh, I said ‘shit.’ So what?”
“That’s it,” Dad says, stepping toward the telephone. “Being around these . . . Dirty B. . . . boys is doing nothing for you.”
Or it’s doing everything for me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling the police, and this time you’re going to tell them the truth.”
“I already did!” The words explode from me, and I run to where Dad is standing and snatch the phone. I slam it on the holder. “Mom, you remember your anniversary party six months ago when I was limping and I told you I slipped after mopping the kitchen floor and sprained my toe on the dining table?” She nods. “No. Matthew pushed me. And the time I sprained my wrist while falling on a run? He shoved me into the wall, and my wrist bent the wrong way when I tried to steady myself. That time I had a migraine and couldn’t do family dinner on Easter? He beat me so badly I could barely walk.”
“Ella, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Mom argues, her face white. “Did you tell the police this fairy story?”
I step back, staring between my parents. “Wow. You really don’t believe me. You’d rather stay friends with his family than believe your own daughter.”
“This Tate character has some kind of hold on you, honey, and it has to stop,” Dad implores, his hands out in front of him. “We can help you. You’re here now.”
I flatten my hands against the sides of my head and shake it. “The only hold Tate Burke has on me is my heart. For the first time in two years, my life is my own, Dad. My mind is. I can wear what I want and do what I want and say what I want. If you can’t step back and believe me, then I’m done.”
“Done?” Mom shrills. “Richard, what does she mean? Ella, what do you mean? Done? What is done? Richard!” She fans herself and steps back.
Oh, Queen of Drama, here we go.
“I mean I’m leaving, Mom,” I explain with a sigh. “Leaving New York. Going back to be with the Burkes.”
“Ella!” she cries, stepping forward. “You can’t! Richard, stop her—”
“Do you believe me?” I ask, staring at her, her features so similar to mine.
“That Matthew hit you?” Dad clarifies.
“Yes. For two years. Hit, pushed, shoved, bruised, insulted, belittled, isolated, and manipulated. Take your pick.”
Mom inhales sharply. Dad steps to her side and curls an arm around her waist. I’ve seen this so many times before. It’s the thing they used to do when they were telling me what was best for me. Like going on a date with Matthew. Becoming exclusive with Matthew. Accepting Matthew’s proposal—which I knew about before he asked, because he asked Dad’s permission, and Dad wanted to ensure I would accept.
Basically, it’s the thing they do when they’re telling me what they think is best for me, but it’s actually the worst.
So I know exactly what Dad’s going to say before he says it.
“I believe Tate Burke has brainwashed you, Ella.”
I breathe in slowly and close my eyes. I will not lose my temper. I will not give Matthew the satisfaction of finding out over dinner tonight that I flipped. I will not give my parents what they will see as confirmation of their beliefs.
I will take my purse from the coffee table, put it over my shoulder, and leave quietly.
“Now let’s sit down and discuss this like adults.”
I shake my head.
“Ella, if you leave now and pursue this,” my father warns, “you’re on your own.”
I meet his eyes. “Kindly inform Matthew he’ll likely be questioned by the NYPD in the next forty-eight hours.”
Or I’ll throw that parting shot and disappear.
That’s good, too.
Alone in my hotel room, I pour some more wine into my glass and stare at the TV. At least I’m watching Friends and not some mind-numbing reality crap. But I’m lonely.
Really, really lonely.
I wish more than anything that someone was sitting next to me. That that someone was Sofie. That we were laughing at Joey, drinking wine, eating nachos.
Instead I’m doing all these things. But I’m alone.
And it sucks. Big time.
I’m in a hotel in the middle of the city I called home for twenty-two years, and I have no one here. By now, it will be common knowledge within my parents’ circle that I’m fighting Matthew on this abuse thing. That I’m going against him.
Yet my so-called friends haven’t once tried to contact me.
I changed my number, sure, but my Facebook didn’t change, neither did my Twitter, and neither did my email. I haven’t had a single message, which further proves to me that the people I’ve spent the last few years with are 100 percent superficial.
I put a chili-and-guacamole-loaded nacho into my mouth and grab my phone from the nightstand.
Where are you? I text Sofie.
On the road to Philadelphia. How are you?
Desperate to know when you’ll get there so I can get on a plane as soon as I’ve spoken to the police.
Crap. Went that well, huh?
Like a bull in a china shop.
Damn. You talked to Tate today?
No. I pour another glass of wine. I don’t want to. I miss him enough without talking to him.
According to Kye and Ads he’s like a flea on caffeine. And a teenage girl with PMS. Basically a living nightmare.
I chew the inside of my cheek. Should I call him?
Um, yes.
I stare at her reply and shove a nacho in my mouth. I think I’ve put on, like, five pounds in the last few weeks from my addiction to these things, despite my running, and I don’t even care. But eating nachos makes me think about Tate.
Hell, I even want him to be here, stealing my damn chips. I want him to eat so many that I have to order a second plate because there isn’t enough left. I want him to eat all the guacamole so I’m mad and have to ask for an extra portion when I call room service and ask for the second plate. I want him to scoop up all the sour cream and put it on “my” side of the plate then force-feed me the sour cream–covered chip.
I want him.
Just him.
I never knew what it is to miss someone until this second. I never had any idea what it’s like to feel like a part of you was missing, lost in the abyss of reality. I never knew what it is to wish you were anywhere other than the place you are right this second.
Sure. Every time Matthew hit me I wished I was elsewhere, but it was always a random thought. I could have wished for London, Sydney, Tokyo, and none of them would have been half as strong as the way I feel right now, for a specific place, for a specific person.
For the tour bus. For Tate.
For my guys. For my guy.
My thumb hovers over his number for a second before it drops to the screen and presses the green call button. I lift the phone to my ear, and I hold my breath for every ring.
“Els,” he answers. “Darlin’.”
“Hey,” I breathe in reply. “How you doing, Mr. Burke?”
“Fuck off,” he responds, laughing. “How are you doin’?”
“Ten times better than I was five seconds ago.”
“Shit, Els. I miss you so fuckin’ much.”
“I miss you,” I reply softly. “How long ’til you’re in Philly?”
“A day, maybe. Shit. I don’t know, darlin’. Wish I did.” He sighs through the phone. “How’d it go with your parents?”
I tell him everything, from my conversation with Ian to me arriving in the hotel room yesterday. I keep most of the feelings inside, though, because that’s what I’m used to, but I tell him everything but that. He’s happy with it, but I’m not.
I’m aching. Bleeding, almost. Bleeding with want and desire and desperation.
Tate, Kye, Aidan, Conner, Sofie, Mila, Ajax, Carlos, Lucas . . . that’s where my home is. Right now, I’m a million miles away. I may as well be on some faraway star in the galaxy, thousands of light years away.
“El! My wan’ El!”
I smile. “Hey, Mila.”
“You back! Now! My wan’ you!”
My smile widens. “Soon, okay? I promise I’ll be back soon.”
“No. Now. My wan’ El.”
“I miss you, crazy kid, okay?” I say warmly. “When I see you, I owe you a cookie and a milk shake, yeah?”
“Cookie and shake? Yeah, El!”
“It’s a date, all right? Can I talk to Uncle Tay?”
“Spose,” she sighs, and I smile. “Tay? El you.”
I giggle into my hand when Tate comes back on the line. “No shit, she just manhandled me for the fuckin’ phone and screamed about her El.”
“Damn, I miss her. I miss all of you,” I finish sadly. “I’m not joking. As soon as you get to Philly, you tell me, okay?”
“Okay, baby, I got it. I promise.” His voice is rough into the phone. “What are you doin’? You got a lawyer?”
“No. Not yet. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to get one either.”
“Don’t worry, okay?” Tate rasps. “I’ll fix it.”
“Okay.” I frown.
“I gotta go, darlin’. My service ain’t great. I’ll text you, all right?”
“All right.” I stare at the TV blankly. “You better.”
“Promise,” he replies quietly. “What hotel are you in?”
I tell him the name.
“It’s on my card as of five minutes in the future.”
“No!”
“Yes!” he growls, but he’s laughing. “Get Moscato and nachos and think of me, Els.”
I look at the plate on my lap and the bottle on the nightstand. “Already way ahead of you, Tate.”
“Good. Sleep tight, darlin’. Tomorrow, all right?”
“Tomorrow,” I whisper. “Tate . . .”
Silence lingers as I trail off. Not on the phone. I can’t say it now.
“I know, darlin’. I know. You, too. Night.”