Текст книги "Indisputable"

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the Author

Shatter Me

CHAPTER ONE  

Tatum

For the first Friday in weeks I don’t have to work.  If I’m not working, I’m doing homework, and if my homework is done, I’ve got a young adult novel in my hands.  I like to bury myself in teenaged angst and live through the emotions I was never allowed time to feel.

It’s cathartic.  And relaxing.  One of my methods to escape life.

Tonight, I’m all out of new books, and I don’t have any money until I pick up my paycheck on Monday.  Each week, I allow myself to load $15 onto my kindle account to feed my book addiction.  By Friday, I’m always clean out.

Which leaves me with two options.  One: waste away in my apartment while listening to the couple in 308 scream at each other or fuck.  It’s inevitable one or the other will take place, sometimes both.  It happens every night.  Or option two: grab some CD’s and go for a drive.  Driving has always been another soothing balm on my soul.  There are few things more calming than driving with no direction and blasting my favorite tunes.  Sometimes singing, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, or any combination of the three.

Easy decision to make, really.

Hopping into my beat up Honda I bought for a whopping $500 when I was sixteen, I speed out of the parking lot heading for direction Anywhere But Here.  Keeping the wheel steady with my knees, I grab one of my mixed CD’s from the passenger’s seat and slide it into the player.  It’s a compilation of Singer/Songwriters that Emerson and I put together.  Scrawled in black sharpie it reads: Best Friends Forever Mix 19.  Our mixes are as numerous as the Now That’s What I Call Music collection.  I drum my fingers along the steering wheel with the beat, letting my mind drift into beautiful silence.  Absorbing the lyrics without analyzing or applying the words.

I pull up to the stop sign on the outskirts of town, letting the car idle longer than necessary.  The roads are empty in all directions.  Black ink spreads across the expanse of the sky, pieces of gold shimmering as if I had blown glitter from the palm of my hand into the universe.  Out here, away from any city lights, the scene is breathtaking, and I take a second to admire the beauty.

Intent on driving down the highway further into nothingness, I press down on the accelerator.  I get a whole lot of nothing.  No sound, no movement.  The engine doesn’t even rev up.

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.

I press the break, switching the car into park, and turn the key.  Twisting the ignition once more, the car starts up, and I breathe a sigh of relief.  I don’t have the money for car repairs right now.  I hit the accelerator once more, and the car gives a shaky halfhearted lurch like it’s dry heaving across the pavement.  And then another.  It gives a third grunt before it comes to a silent halt.  Shit, shit, shit!

I throw my hands up dramatically.  Reaching under the dash, I pop the hood before climbing out of the vehicle.

No streetlights, no sound; it’s dark as sin out here.  At least I puttered across the intersection, and I’m not stranded in the middle of the highway about to be sent to my grave by an unsuspecting driver.

I lift the hood, secure it, and stare blankly into the dark, dirty engine with my hands braced against the sides.  No smoke, no flames, no weird smells, no thingies hanging out where they shouldn’t be.  There aren’t any obvious signs of why my car suddenly ate shit on the side of the highway.  Not that I actually know what to look for.  I sigh, shaking my head and climb back into the seat, turning on my flashers, and reaching for my cell.  Lucky for me, my one and only hookup is a mechanic at the only shop in town.  They’ve long since closed for the night, but he might be able to figure out the problem and get my car running again.

Wyatt is a friend I met through a friend last year about the time my life went from rough to utter shit.  He’s twenty three, works down at the neighborhood car shop, and is the typical hometown boy who’ll never leave.  He’s also the perfect distraction when life gets too monotonous.  Escape number two on the list of How Tatum Deals with Her Fucked Up Life.  We have an unspoken mutual agreement that we use each other to deal.  Fortunately for me, my side of the agreement comes with things like car repairs and free tows.

Before I can find his name in my contact list, headlights pool over the car bathing me in intensely bright light through the windshield.  Instinctively, I shield my eyes from sudden blindness.

“Can you dim your lights?” I holler out my open door, hoping like crazy this isn’t some rapist-slash-murderer, and I’m about to never be heard from again.

“Sorry! Sorry,” a deep male voice calls back before the lights are cast downward.  I unsuccessfully blink the stars from my eyes.  My fingers are itching to punch in 9-1-1 just in case, but before I can, a man wanders cautiously toward my open door.

“Is everything alright?”

“Um, yes—no, I mean,” I stutter, suddenly struck stupid.  I’ve always been a huge wuss.  The tough girl exterior is all an act.  Taking a deep breath, I try again.  “I’m fine, but my car broke down.”

“Oh.  Do you know what’s wrong with it?  Flat tire?  Out of gas?” he asks, still standing a small distance away.  I can’t make out his face with the light glaring behind him.  He’s cast entirely in silhouette.  Not being able to see his face makes me nervous.

“No.  The tank is full.  It stalled at the stop sign and then sort of lurched across the road.  All I know is it’s not on fire,” I reply dryly.  “I don’t know anything about cars.”

He chuckles a deep rumbling sound, and my nerves disperse.  I like it.  It sounds like a distant roll of thunder.  “Unlucky for you, neither do I.  But I’d be happy to take a look anyway.”

“You don’t have to do that.  I’m going to try calling my friend.  He’s a mechanic in town.”  I hook my thumb over my shoulder and gesture behind me, pointing in the direction I came from.

“I’ll look, you call,” he says, stalking off towards the hood before I can respond.

I close the driver’s door a bit more to give myself a little privacy.  Scrolling through my contacts once more, I find Wyatt and press the phone symbol by his name.  He answers on the third ring.

“Hey Tatum,” he slurs into the receiver.  “Need a little fix tonight?”

Damnit, he’s been drinking.  “Sorry, not tonight.  Look, my car broke down,” I begin, not looking to make conversation while some stranger is tinkering around under my hood.  “Can you come take a look or get me a tow?  I’ll pay you…or something.”  Wyatt doesn’t do anything for free.  Knowing our history, he’ll probably call a favor the next time he wants to get laid, but that’s fine by me.  Like I said, we have a mutual understanding.

“Aw, shit babe.  I can’t tonight.  I’m out at Old Willow, and I’m fucking ham-mered! Hey!  Why don’t you come meet me here?  I’ll take you back to my place.”

This just keeps getting better.

“Wyatt, my car is broken down right outside town.  I can’t get to you because my Car. Is. Broken. Down.,” I enunciate for him.  “Are any of the other guys available?  Cole, maybe?”

“Cole’s with me.  Hey, Cole!  Say hi to Tatum!” he shouts into my ear.  This conversation is pointless; I’m getting nowhere.

“Hiiiiii, Tatum,” Cole slurs sounding equally drunk, if not more so, than Wyatt.

“Hi, Cole.  Put Wyatt back on, will you?”  My patience is rapidly shrinking, and I’m trying not to go nuclear on their drunk asses.  I take five deep breaths before the phone shuffles white noise in my ear, and Wyatt comes back on.  I don’t feel any better.

“So are you coming over?” he breathes.

“NO!  No,” I say more calmly.  I don’t want to freak out the stranger under my hood.  “My car is broken down.  Remember?”

“Oh yeah!  Sorry I forgot.”

I’m getting nowhere with this phone call.  “Right.  Well I’ll let you go and text you tomorrow so you can send someone with a tow, yeah?”   He won’t remember any of this tomorrow, but I know once he’s sobered up, he’ll help me out.

“Sure thing, sexy.”

I disconnect without saying goodbye.  He won’t even notice considering how tanked he sounded.  Grabbing my purse, I pull my keys from the ignition and lock the doors.  Guess I’ll be hoofing it back to my apartment.

I attempt to keep my face impassive as I round the front of my car.  In reality, anger and a bit of anxiety are barely controlled beneath the surface.  Damn Wyatt for being drunk, and damn me for not having more of a support system.

The stranger is still bent over my engine, his hands braced on either side as he inspect the interior.  The sight makes me want to laugh.  He wasn’t kidding when he said he knows nothing about cars.

My eyes roam over his body while he’s distracted with my engine.  He’s wearing a pair of faded, dark blue jeans that hint at more than a little bit of lean, muscular thighs.  His shirt is a black button up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.  I hate to admit it, but he’s downright hot.  Add that to the fact he doesn’t seem like a creep, and I just might be in trouble.

I clear my throat so I don’t scare him, and he lifts his head in my direction.

“Thanks for stopping.  I called my friend so it’s okay for you to go.”

The stranger gazes at my face for a moment before his brows crease making three small indents between his eyes.  Maybe I wasn’t so skilled at schooling my emotions.  He checks the incoming direction of the road before glancing back behind him.  What is he thinking?

“Is your friend on his way?” he asks in a deep, smooth voice that resonates in my belly like an echo trapped in a cave.  His voice does strange things to my body.

“Umm, well, he’s going to try to send a tow,” I lie.  I watch curiously as his gaze searches my face again, and those three little creases deepen.

“He’ll try?  Did he tell you how long it’ll be?”  God, why does this guy care?  I’m trying to let him off the hook.  Do the right thing.  Not waste anyone’s time that doesn’t need to be wasted over me.

“No.  But I’m sure he’s coming.”

Mr. Good Samaritan straightens, thrusts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and leans a hip against my motorized rust machine.  Although, it’s not so motorized at the moment.

“Then I’ll wait with you.”

“No!” I exclaim quickly.  Too quickly.  Shit.  “I mean, it’s okay.  I can wait by myself.  I don’t want to waste your time.”  He waves a hand through the air as if he’s erasing the words coming out of my mouth.

“It’s no problem.  I don’t have anything to do tonight anyway.  I was just on my way back into town.”

I sigh, defeated.  I don’t know how to convince him to go.  If I can’t convince him, I’m going to have to tell him I lied and make myself sound like an idiot.  Why can’t he just be an asshole instead of some chivalrous do-gooder?

I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. “Look, it’s late, and I’m fine.  I appreciate you stopping to help, really.  But I don’t want to keep you—ˮ

“He’s not coming, is he?”

“What?”

“You’re friend.  There isn’t a tow, is there?  He didn’t pick up the phone, or he’s busy.”  He searches my face for evidence of my lie.  I’m guessing he found what he was looking for when he says, “Am I right?”

Heat licks at my cheeks as I mumble, whisper soft, “I was going to walk back.”

He laughs a quick rumble before he realizes I’m serious.  “You’re not joking?  Christ, it’s like ten miles to town.”

“I could use the exercise,” I fire back.

“Right.” His gaze lazily travels down my body before slowly climbing back up causing my blush to deepen.  “I highly doubt that.”

I don’t answer.  Embarrassment and pride are keeping my lips sealed tight.  Why am I acting like this?  I don’t care what this guy thinks of me.

“Come on then, I’m giving you a lift.”  He turns and crosses the empty highway.  I watch in silence until he reaches his car and opens the driver side door.

“Uh, thanks, but no thanks.  I’m not getting in your car.”  He pauses with his body halfway in, half out.

“Why not?”

“Let’s see,” I drawl, ticking each point off my fingers.  “I just met you, it’s dark, and late.  Oh, and I just met you!”

He arches an eyebrow at my tirade.  “Well, I’m not just going to leave you out here.  So I guess I’m walking too.”  He hits a button on his key fob, and the lights flash on his car.  I watch, stunned, as he slams the door and begins walking in the opposite direction of his car.  “You coming?”

He’s serious?  Who is this guy?  Resigned to being stuck with him either way, I much prefer to not walk back into town.

“Wait!  Fine.  You can give me a ride,” I call to his retreating form.

“Thank god.” He hits his key fob again.  “I wasn’t going to leave you to walk alone, but you’re saving me the pain of walking back to get my car.”  The stranger flashes me an easy grin, soft and playful and masculine.  I can’t remember ever being on the receiving end of such a smile.  It makes me uneasy, and my heart rate speeds up.

“I’m not doing it for you.”  Climbing into the passenger seat of his car, I slip on my seatbelt and scoot as close to the window as possible.  Once he starts the ignition, I add, “And if you touch me, I’ll kill you.”  He shakes his head and that rumbling laughter rolls from his mouth again.

“You carrying, Sweetheart?”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.  You’ll have to decide if you want to find out.”

“Are you always this ornery?” he asks, as we roll smoothly down the highway.

I don’t answer.  Honestly, yes.  My normal demeanor is typically set to bitch.  Growing up the way I had has left me a bit jaded.  Good people don’t exist in my world.  People don’t do nice things without expectations of payback.  I have a remarkable ability to always seek the worst in people, always wait for the other shoe to drop, wait for them to call their debts.  Mr. Good Samaritan is throwing me off balance with his kindness and good natured attitude.

I let the silence stretch after his smart-assed comment, but this guy has piqued my curiosity.  Fidgeting anxiously, the question tumbles out before my brain is capable of keeping my mouth shut.

“What’s your name?”

“Ryan,” he offers.  No less no more.  Ryan.  Simple.  Male.  It suits him.

“Hi, Ryan.”

“Hi,” he replies, flashing me another easy grin.  I wonder what that’s like—smiling, feeling happy all the time, extending that happiness to complete strangers.  Only bitterness twined with hurt dipped in ugliness runs through my veins.  Staring down at the backs of my hands, I flex my fingers as if I can actually see the tainted blood.

“You gonna tell me your name?” he asks without looking at me.

“Tatum.”

He’s quiet for several moments before he asks, “You hungry, Tatum?”

I shrug noncommittally.  Truthfully, I’m not all that hungry.  But riding in the car with this Ryan guy, even though we aren’t talking, has lightened some unmentioned load from my chest.  For once I don’t feel so lonely.

And as we drive nearer to town, I feel that load slowly increasing, as if each minute towards town piles a brick on my heart.

“I’m starving,” he continues after I refuse to speak.  “Before I stopped to help you, I was planning on grabbing a bite at the diner in town.”   His words pull one heavy brick from the pile.

“You offering?” I ask quietly, feeling idiotic and afraid I’m reading him wrong.  From my peripheral, I see another grin slide across his face.

 “I am, Sweetheart.”

Settling my nerves with a deep breath, I do something so out of character for me, I question my sanity.  I fully turn my body to Ryan and say, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”  I’m grateful I sound more confident than I feel inside.

As we drive closer to town, I can’t help but fidget with the bands I wear on my wrists.  It’s a nervous habit, but I don’t realize I’m doing it until I see Ryan’s eyes flick down to where I’m caressing the fabric.  I watch as his mouth forms a tight, hard line, but he doesn’t say anything.  The darkness in the car obscures his features, but I swear I see a flash of pity in his eyes.

Fuck pity.  He doesn’t know the first thing about me.  I turn my attention back out the passenger window, resting my forehead against the glass, and think back to when it all began…

I discovered the relief of the blade when I was fourteen.  I can’t remember how the idea came to me, only that I was desperate for anything to take away the constant hurt of disappointment, of being unwanted and unloved.   I nabbed the paring knife from our kitchen drawer (the only knife that wasn’t dirty since mom hadn’t done dishes all week) and snuck off into my room.  There wasn’t any fear, only anxiousness as I shed my shorts and danced the tip across my thigh.  I didn’t realize what I was doing until it was done.

My hormonal teenaged mantra carved into my flesh beneath my hip.  FTW.  Fuck The World.  I smirked when it was all over.  Seemed fitting considering my life.

I hid the knife in my closet after that.  Mom wouldn’t notice it was gone.  Between the booze and the drugs and the Johns, she didn’t notice anything.  I found myself retreating into the dark shadows of that four-by-four box whenever the pain was unbearable.  It became my sanctuary.

Until now.

Now I’m eighteen and living on my own.  Emancipated from my mother last year after she OD’d on heroine in our bathroom.  Ironic, I know.

But what I do is not about death.  Honestly, I don’t think it was for her either.  Just too much stupidity.  She survived but is currently in an inpatient facility fifty miles away.  I’ve never known my father, but I wasn’t about to search for him at a time when my whole world had crashed down around me.  Not that he’d want me, but if he did, he didn’t deserve to be my support.  He didn’t deserve shit from me.

I would have been placed in foster care, seeing as the only family I’ve ever had was my mom, but the job I’d held for two years agreed to bump me to fulltime.  The court determined I could support myself.  The second I left the courthouse, I jumped into the search for a new place to live.  The only apartment building in this microscopic town had a studio available.  The red brick exterior was aging and in desperate need of a power wash, the lawns brown and uncared for.  The building was noisy with paper thin walls, sketchy residents with sketchier company.

It was a tiny piece of shit, but it became mine.  Only mine.

Now I commence my ritual in the quiet privacy of my own bathroom, attempting to erase the demons chasing me, exorcising the ones embedded in my soul.  No one would understand why I do it.  Why I use a sharp metal edge to keep myself afloat.  So I hide the truth.  Cover the tracks of my ruined flesh with decorated fabric.  Every time I catch a glimpse of the wristband, a small smirk ghosts across my lips, a little thrill in my chest.  My little secret.

I’m still not sure what Ryan was thinking or what I saw in his eyes, but if he wants to give me pity, then fuck him.  Pity is the last thing I need.