Dark windows prevent me from scoping out the kind of clientele this bar serves. I can hear the ocean just behind the building and the bass thumping out a tune just inside the door. My stomach knots as panic starts to settle in. Maybe I shouldn’t go in. My current appearance just begs others to ask questions. This is the exact opposite of laying low.
Glancing back up and down the street, I sigh heavily. My shoulders slump in defeat, as if they held the weight of the world. That asshole is still controlling my decisions. Laying low or not, I refuse to let him continue to manipulate my life. The thought makes my blood boil. While logic violently screams that this is a bad idea, I’ve already made up my mind. Logic can take a Xanax and chill the fuck out.
Taking a deep breath, I roll my neck and reach for the door.
The room is much larger than I imagined. The space is clean, but the furniture is well worn; the dark rich wood scarred from years of abuse. Just like me. There is a small band stage to the left, and the bar is situated on the opposite wall to the right. The entire back of the building is open, meeting the beach and a picturesque sunset. The last bit of light from the sun shines on the bar as steady rock music pumps through the speakers, like a salve for my frayed nerves. The atmosphere is comfortable, definitely a place I would have enjoyed before I met Mark. The bar is unattended, and looking around once more I notice that other than a few small groups, the place is empty. I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s only eight, no wander the crowd is small.
The phone in my hand vibrates, startling me so much I slap a hand over my mouth, narrowly suppressing a yelp. Calming my erratic pulse, I focus my attention on the phone, a zealous smile splitting my face as I read the message.
Manny: Hey baby girl, I’m just checking in to see if you are okay.
Since alcohol is a significant reason for my presence here, I spot a bar stool.
Teagan: Thank you so much for everything. You and Martha have changed my life. ♥
Manny: You’re the one who changed ours. Never forget that baby girl. Please keep us posted and let us know when you decide where you are going.
Me: I will, promise.
Setting my phone down on the worn bar top with my purse, I shuffle, getting as comfortable as I can with my aching sides. A flat screen TV is mounted above the mirrors and neon beer signs. It’s a local news station and since the volume is turned down, I’m thankful for the subtitles.
Or at least I thought I was.
Mark’s name catches my attention as it flashes on the screen quickly followed by a photo of me. SHIT. Like the meth addicts back home, foreboding picks at the scab of truth, letting insecurity fester.
Giving the TV my undivided attention, I read the words that change my life forever.
“Tallahassee authorities have named Teagan Langford, wife of the victim, a suspect in the attempted murder of District Attorney Mark Langford. We will have more on the story as it develops but sources tell us the victim’s status is no longer critical.”
My chest squeezes, and I feel like I might hyperventilate. This cannot be happening. My ears start to ring, and my vision blurs slightly. I think I’m going to pass out. Looking up at the photo plastered on the screen once more, before they move on to the next story, my emotional tide shifts. The woman in the photo is blonde, polished and now that I can see more clearly, dead inside. My eyes drop to the mirror behind the bar and I examine my reflection. The woman looking back at me has dark auburn hair, intricate tattoos, and a look of resilience in her eyes. I can’t even see a resemblance anymore. But I really need to be worried about what others are going to see.
Mark unintentionally did me a favor. He never allowed anyone to see my tattoos. Ever. None of his family knew I had them. One more piece of camouflage. The media is plastering images of a wholesome Stepford wife, not a trailer park reject playing dress up. He’s the only person who could ID them and well, hopefully, he will still be in the hospital until long after I’m gone.
One thing is eating at me, though. The anchor repeatedly referred to Mark as ‘the victim’. HA! This is exactly what I should have expected from him. He was always good at making me look like the irrational nutcase. He even had me arrested once for ‘hitting’ him. HIM! My blood pressure rises as the memories chafe. I’ve worked myself up so much that now, I am seething. Staring holes into the bar top, I picture all the ways I would hurt Mark if ever given the chance.
“Can I get you anything? Or are you content trying to set the bar on fire with your mind. You should know, a lot of women have tried but none have yet to succeed.”
I slowly lift my gaze from the counter to the deep baritone voice that interrupted my fictitious murder plot.
Ho-ly hotness Batman.
That smile. The deep baritone’s vivid green eyes and rugged jawline greet me. If sex were a living, breathing entity, it would be the man standing before me. The slight wince that crosses his face as he takes in the discoloration on my face and neck doesn’t go unnoticed. To my advantage, he schools his features so quickly, I nearly missed it.
“Jack and Coke would be great, thanks.” My body heats with awareness and suddenly, it’s twenty degrees warmer.
Rounding the corner from the back room, carrying another case of imported beer, I immediately halt. The muscles low in my abdomen tense, appreciating the gorgeous redhead perched at the bar. It’s been more than a minute since I’ve had that kind of reaction to a woman. Not that I’m aiming for celibacy or anything, I’ve just let work take over my every thought. Something I need to remedy. And fast.
I stop to watch her for a few minutes. Even from my location at the other end of the bar I can sense something is off with her. Since I walked into the room, not once has she looked away from the bar top. I’ve never been one to read into hippie shit like people’s “energies”, but if I did, hers would be dark.
Unable to resist the temptation, I set the case down and make my way over. After all, I shouldn’t be ignoring my customers.
“Can I get you anything? Or are you content trying to set the bar on fire with your mind. You should know, a lot of women have tried but none have yet to succeed.”
I go for levity, trying to make her smile but all I manage to accomplish is scaring the fuck out of her.
Smooth move, Casanova.
When she lifts her head to look me in the eyes, the moisture in my mouth evaporates and it feels like all the air is sucked from the room. Not only is she drop dead gorgeous, but her face and neck are stained with purple and black bruises. Every muscle I have stiffens, immediately ready for war. It takes all the self-control I have to tamp the rage burning inside me. The urge to throttle the fucker responsible is overwhelming. The marks on her neck are undeniably finger impressions.
“Jack and Coke would be great, thanks,” she responds flatly. Her soft grey eyes fall back to the counter, obviously avoiding confrontation.
Still trying to screw the cap on my anger, I nod, rapping my knuckles on the bar before turning away. Her request is simple, only taking a few seconds before I pass it down to her. Got to respect a woman who drinks whiskey. Even if it is mixed with that sugary shit.
From this angle, I can clearly see her entire form. Everything from her t-shirt to her shoes fits her like a glove. Both arms from the elbows up are covered in elaborate tattoos and her dark reddish hair falls in a silky cascade to the middle of her back. This woman is breathtaking. My instincts heckle, and it sends warning bells ringing like sirens in my head.
Leaning into the rich wood, I gamble with chance.
“I know I’m prying but… Are you in some kind of trouble?” My question is asked out of genuine concern. Sometimes life experiences create a need to help others who can’t help themselves. It’s obvious that this woman has experienced more than anyone should ever have to. She eyes me warily, her expression telling me to mind my own business.
“It’s not really any of your business.” Her tone is kinder than her words. It’s clear that she is silently telling me to fuck off, but let’s get real here.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. You just don’t look like you’re from around here. Are you on vacation?” I ask, trying to feel her out.
“Something like that. Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. That was a pretty bitchy thing to do.”
“Oh, yeah? Where are you from?”
That’s a fairly common question someone would ask a new comer in a place like this. I can see the wheels turning as she decides if she is going to answer, me and if the answer will be honest.
“Oklahoma.” Her expression shows no hint of deception.
“You’re a long way from home.”
“Tell me about it,” she comments, looking down at her drink, deep in thought.
“Well Oklahoma, I hope you enjoy your time in Miami.”
Before I get a chance to further the conversation, a large group of what I can only assume are athletes saunter in. As the sun slowly disappears over the horizon, the bar begins to fill, and the pace picks up. We are slammed and no matter how often I try to further the conversation, I’m just too busy.
It doesn’t take long before one of the assumed athletes approaches her. I watch them closely, feeling a need to protect her. I can’t help it and I still haven’t cooled my rage from earlier. Maybe it’s the marks on her flawless skin or years spent protecting my country. All I know is that this woman has been through hell and my protective instincts do not like what I’m seeing. The athlete, I now refer to as Dickwad, strategically places his hand on her lower back and her spine visibly stiffens. I start to intervene, ready to break his hand but he leans over and says something in her ear. She laughs lightly causing me to pause. it’s a beautiful sound. I keep my distance, but it isn’t easy. My eyes are narrowed slits as I watch Dickwad touch her again. The tightening in my chest is absolutely not jealously.
A few seconds later Dickwad waves me over.
“Hey man, can we get another round?” He points to the now empty drinks in front of them. Because it’s my job, and getting fired will ruin years of hard work, I reluctantly mix their drinks. Wendy, one of the cocktail waitresses grabs my attention with another drink order and by the time I look up again, both are gone. Disappointment and worry form a tight knot in my stomach.
Staring at my empty glass like the melting ice is washing away my problems isn’t going to help my situation. The drink has taken the edge off just a little and I’m feeling more relaxed. I’m not tired anymore but I’m starting to realize I need some private time to think. This place is getting too loud and crowded, not where I should be. Resolved that going back to my room is the best decision, I start to gather my things.
Before I can stand, an attractive man ambles up beside me.
“What’s a beautiful girl like you doing alone at the bar. That shit should be criminal.” His voice is seductive even if that was a pretty cheesy line.
“How do you know what I’m doing isn’t criminal?”
What the hell? I’m flirting, and I have no idea why. It’s been so long and honestly, I just want to enjoy my evening. I might as well go for broke. If an attractive guy wants to chat me up, I’ll take it. It will absolutely go no further, but I haven’t been called beautiful in a long time. Its petty, but little things like that affect a woman deeply. Even if I know he’s acting like my face isn’t an ad for battered women.
“This isn’t just shitty make up,” I wave in the direction of my face.
I get the desired response when he chuckles lightly.
“Damn, you’re a feisty one,” he replies as he places a hand to the small of my back causing me to immediately stiffen. He doesn’t seem to notice and leans into my ear. “I’d hate to see the other guy.” His joke catches me off guard and the irony is not lost on me. The laugh that bubbles from my throat is surprising, but it feels nice. Refreshing really.
“If you feel like not sitting alone at the bar, you are welcome to join me and the boys.” He juts his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to a group of equally attractive athletic-looking guys across the room. “We are just blowing off some steam after practice.” I stare at him, trying to figure out what he might practice, rather than asking him, when he adds, “minor league baseball. We play for the local team.”
Well, I have nothing to lose and chatting with him has been pleasant. Sometimes you just need a little social interaction. I’ve spent so much time being isolated. I was exiled to Mark’s little island and let me tell you, it’s a lonely place to be. I am social by nature.
“If you think they wouldn’t mind, sure. I could use the company.” I extend my hand in greeting. “I’m Taryn”.
“Blake,” he declares, pulling my small hand into his much larger one. He waves to get the sexy bartender’s attention and orders another round on him. I can’t decipher the bartender’s expression, but he doesn’t look pleased. They are really busy tonight. I wouldn’t blame him for being a little less cheery; he must be exhausted. Pulling my attention again, Blake grabs our drinks and leads me to the table.
The whole group of guys are hilarious. I laugh so much that my face hurts. I miss being able to laugh like this. As the night goes on, the drinks don’t stop. I don’t even know how many I’ve had. Once they brought shots to the table, everything else was a blur. Mission accomplished, I guess. Alcohol eases both emotional and physical pain. One of those being easier to numb than others. The drunker I get, the less fear I feel. It’s nice to not be afraid, even if it’s only momentary. However, there is one glaring issue with not feeling fear… I let my guard down.
Blake’s hands are starting to roam. At first it was innocent little touches like brushing my arms but now his hand is blatantly rubbing my thigh. I brush him off and try to convey with my eyes that I’m not interested.
“What’s the matter?” he asks leaning into my personal space.
“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not looking to get laid tonight.” My response is firm, and an incredulous look crosses his face before he stands up.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he mutters as he stumbles away.
Well, that went well. A forlorn feeling I hadn’t expected washes over me. I should have known better than to think I could have a platonic conversation with a man. Experience has taught me that they aren’t wired that way these days. Standing up to leave I realize I am much drunker than I expected. I stumble more than a few times as I make my way toward the restroom. The room is spinning and the sandwich I ate earlier threatens to make a reappearance.
What time is it?
At that exact moment, the bartender shouts “last call”. Damn, I didn’t realize I’d been here so long. The bathroom walls are decorated with colorful ads for “a good time” and vomit permeates the air. One decent flop of my stomach and I make it just in time to release its contents into the dirty toilet bowl. I manage to clean myself up and wash my hands, albeit with the assistance of the wall.
Straightening my clothing, I set my attention on finding my way back to the motel.
Just as I win the fight with the bathroom door, someone painfully yanks my arm, jerking me through a side door into the alley. When my mind is finally capable of grasping the situation, my body is slammed aggressively against the brick siding of the building. Panic seizes me as the rough exterior scrapes the skin on my back. The force of the impact rekindles my previous injury and the pain in my ribs returns with a vengeance.
The alcohol has clouded my thoughts and fear has me dangerously close to dry heaving.
“You little cock tease.”
With the weight of his body pressed to mine, Blake grinds his erection against my center. I can smell the whiskey on his soured breath and my stomach rolls once again.
“I get what I want, sweetheart. And right now, I want you.”
The alcohol is making it difficult to think. I can’t believe I got myself into this situation. I may not be an educated woman but I’m not stupid either. Usually.
Blake runs his slimy tongue up the side of my neck, spurring my brain into action. I try to kick my knee into his crotch, but I move slow enough that he blocks it.
“Listen here, you little cunt. The less you fight, the easier this will be.”
I seriously think I’m going to puke.
He reaches for the button at my waist as I struggle to free myself. Fighting is starting to feel futile as his body engulfs mine. I’m not even sure a passerby could see me under him. It’s obvious that I am not physically strong enough to fight him off and for a split second, I consider defeat.
Weighing the only alternative option I can think of, I start screaming as loud as I can. My outburst enrages him, and he painfully slaps a hand over my mouth to muffle my cries.
His rough hands feel like sandpaper as he forces the denim down my thighs. Nerves have my senses on high alert causing my pulse to race. My skin is clammy with a sheen of sweat and I’m afraid I might pass out. From panic or drunkenness, I’m not sure.
He slides one aggrieving finger into my panties and his intentions fuel my need to fight. With one unwelcome hand silencing me and the other focused on freeing himself, I decide I only have one choice. I open my mouth, bite down on his finger as hard as I can and scream.
“AHHH! You little bitch!” he spits, jerking his hand back in pain.
Immediately, he draws his hand back, ready to strike me. I close my eyes and prepare myself for the impending blow. But it never comes.
Suddenly, I can no longer feel the weight of his body.
Opening my eyes to the sound of thuds and muffled moans, I take in the scene before me. The handsome bartender from earlier is straddling Blake on the ground, fists pounding into his face repeatedly. The fog clears slightly, and my shock begins to fade. I have to stop him. The bloody spectacle on display forms a stone in my gut. Afraid he’s going to kill him, I need to intervene because protecting me isn’t worth ruining his life.
“Stop! Stop! You’re going to kill him!” I yell, but it falls on deaf ears.
I know if I try to break them up, I’m liable to get hurt too. I take a tentative step forward and stumble remembering that not only am I incredibly drunk, but my shorts are resting on my thighs. Ripping the denim up as fast as I can, I rush over, mentally fighting my drunkenness and roughly slap the bartender on the shoulder.
Scrambling back as fast as I can, beautiful, tortured eyes stare back at me. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves as he struggles to get himself under control. When my presence finally registers, his eyes soften and his shoulders slump as his body releases the tension.
“Please don’t kill him. It’s not worth it,” I plead, my voice shaky.
He rises to his feet and points his body in my direction. The look of fury combined with fear and compassion in his deep green eyes break me. Hot tears pour down my face as my trembling body slumps to the ground. I want so badly to just be numb. Feel nothing. But like before, the pain never comes. My body never meets the rough concrete. Strong arms, wrapped with thick, corded muscle engulf my body, holding me upright with a strength I no longer have. His voice pierces my haze as he whispers little reassurances in my ear and for a moment, I allow myself the comfort. But, like it always does, the gravity of the situation comes crashing down and instinctively, I pull away. He allows me to, clearly understanding my need for separation. For that, I am grateful.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” His voice shakes with adrenaline, bordering on panic.
“No, it’s ok. I’m fine.”
My response is not a lie and I didn’t expect that reaction from myself. Despite the nightmare that could have been, I feel eerily calm.
He steps back to check on Blake who lies motionless on the ground but is thankfully still breathing. Taking advantage of the time I have, I inspect my savior. My eyes fall over him, drinking in the virtue his presence brings. His black hair is cut short, but slightly longer at the top and his emerald eyes are framed with thick lashes. Five o’clock shadow tints his jaw, the effect giving him an edge that radiates raw masculinity. His full lips soften the lines of his rugged face.
The alcohol is still making balance difficult as my body sways. A muscular arm reaches out once again to help me. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe not, but I find that my desire to run from him has lessened. The one-eighty my emotions have taken is giving me whiplash.
Lost in my own thoughts, I stare, entranced by his moving lips. He’s speaking to me, but I hear nothing aside from the beat of my own heart. My drunken stupor seems to have highjacked what remains of my functioning brain cells.
I bet those perfect lips can do magical things.
Shame rains down on me for the direction my thoughts have taken. How messed up is it that ten minutes ago, I was going to be a rape victim and now I’m thinking about my rescuer’s lips? Clearly, I need therapy.
His voice finally breaks my reverie.
“What’s this now?” he asks with a comically confused look and an arched brow.
OH. MY. GOD.
I said that out loud. I am never drinking again.
Ever.