Текст книги "Indisputable"

Автор книги: A. M. Wilson

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“What’s going on?  Are you alright?” Jacoby must have heard me from the bedroom and come in to check on me.  The safety and security of the shower had been an illusion, and I failed to realize how loud I was crying.  Instead of covering up my cries, I stand up and turn off the shower.

“C-can you hand me a t-towel, p-please?” I stutter, and I remind myself to breathe.  The soft blue towel appears from around the shower curtain, and I begin drying my skin before wrapping it around my body.

Feeling much calmer than a minute ago, I decide to share some honesty.  “I wish I could wash away the feeling of his hands on me.”  I pull back the curtain and come face to face with Jacoby.  He’s staring at my face with a mix of sadness and sympathy.

“I know, Sweetheart.  I wish you could, too.”  He reaches out, offering his hand to help me from the tub.  When I reach the vanity, I see he put out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for me to wear.  As if reading my mind, he says, “I thought you’d like something clean to wear.  I can throw your clothes in the wash for you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll do it when I’m finished.  You’ve done enough.  Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Why, so you can raid my fridge for more beer?” he replies with a smirk.

“I think I’m good on beer for now, Mr. Ryan,” I throw back at him.  “But I should sleep too.  I have to work tomorrow.”

“Get dressed.  We can sort it out once you’re finished.”  He exits the room before I can argue.

I dress quickly and find Jacoby sitting on the edge of his bed.  He doesn’t have a hair dryer so I’m combing my wet tangles with my fingertips when I come to stand awkwardly in his room.

“Um, where’s the washer?” I ask, not wanting to stare at his bed any longer.  There’s an intimateness from standing in the place where he sleeps when I don’t belong in here.

He leads me to the first floor where he has a stacked washer and dryer in a closet off the kitchen.  I start a load with my clothes and used towel, not wanting to leave any work for him to do once I leave.  After my clothes are in, I stop in the kitchen and begin tying off the trash bag where I so gloriously threw up earlier while he was sleeping.

“What are you doing?” he asks, because it’s totally normal for a stranger to take out your trash.

“Uh, I sort of threw up in here earlier,” I answer shyly.

“Here, let me take it to the garbage can,” he offers, but I shake my head.

“No, just point the way.  I don’t need you handling my puke.”

“And I don’t need you handling my trash,” he throws back.  Not having the energy to duke it out longer, I hand over the offensive bag.

“What time do you work tomorrow,” he questions when he returns.

“Ten,” I respond and take a bottle of water he pulled from the fridge and offers to me.

“You sure you’re okay to go in?  Take a sick day.  You probably need to relax.”

“I can’t take a sick day.  I had off Thursday already,” I reply, taking a long pull of the crisp, cool water.  The iciness soothes the rawness of my throat.

He looks at me strangely and crosses his arms over his muscled chest.  Shit, don’t think about his muscles.

“So, you missed class Thursday and Friday, and missed Thursday at work too?  I think we need to chat tomorrow about what else is going on with you.”

“You don’t need to keep tabs on me,” I retort, feeling angry at his implication and suddenly remembering my conversation with Mr. Stephenson yesterday.  “There’s nothing wrong with me, and it’s not your business if and when I miss class or work.”

“Tatum, talk to me.  I want to help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” I spit back.  “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.”

He sighs, scrubbing his tired face with his palms, but he doesn’t argue further.  Instead, he maneuvers past me, leading me to a second bedroom down the hall from the bathroom.  He doesn’t say anything more to me, gestures with a wave of his hands for me to enter the room, and leaves without another word.

I hear him climb the stairs before his bedroom door shuts.  Exhaustion sets in and I lie down, falling asleep before I even have time to take in the room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jacoby

Bright light filters through my eyelids, and I don’t need the blaring alarm from my phone to tell me morning has finally arrived.  I struggle to hold onto the last remnants of my dream, knowing when I open my eyes I’ll be back dealing with the reality I stumbled upon yesterday.  Back to dealing with the frightened young woman who’s sleeping in the room below me, hopefully finding a much needed reprieve in her dreams as well.  Fortunately, I wasn’t plagued by nightmares; the images of Harper had dissipated once I fell asleep and didn’t return when I went to bed the second time.

I blink against the harsh light streaming in from my window and sigh.  Tatum and I need to have a talk today, either before she works or after.  Yesterday, I let my emotions—and hers—cloud my judgment and get the best of me.  With everything that took place, I can’t think of a single thing I did right besides getting her away from that fucker.  I need her to open up to me.  I have a lot of unanswered questions.  Where are her parents?  Why can’t she go home?  Who was that asshole and where can I find him?  Is she going to report it?  She should report it.  I could lose my job for not reporting it.  But damnit if she wasn’t so terrified yesterday.  I couldn’t find it in me to subject her to that.

Slipping on sweats and a long sleeved Henley, I step into the bathroom to brush my teeth.  Today’s Saturday, and I’m not planning on being in public besides driving Tatum to and from work, so I tousle my hair with my fingers before heading downstairs.

I don’t care how I look to her.  I’m her teacher, not her boyfriend.

The mental reminder makes me feel a bit awkward, and I slow my steps down the stairs.  Tatum isn’t too much younger than myself chronologically, and although her immaturity shines through at times, I can tell her mental age is far more superior than her peers.  I’m not sure if I should be treating her like a student or a friend.

After stopping by the medicine cabinet, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk down the hall to the guest room.  Just as I bring my hand up to knock, the door suddenly swings open.

“I was just coming to wake you.”  Seeing her sends a pang to my chest, but why?  Nervousness?  Anxiety?  I can’t put a name to the suddenly heavy feeling in my heart.

“Thanks, but I’m already awake,” she responds, a glimpse of that attitude I know so well shining through, and it makes me smile.

“I brought this for you.  Thought you might be a little hung over this morning,” I tell her, offering the bottle and the pills.

She crosses her arms defiantly.  “I don’t need them.”

Oh good Lord, we’re back to this.  “Tatum, just take the damn pills,” I bark a little harsher than I intended.  But it has the desired effect as she takes the water and medicine from my hands.

“Thanks,” I sigh tiredly.  “What time do you need to leave for work?”

She hops from one foot to the other impatiently, or nervously, I’m not quite sure.  “Um, I work at ten but I need to go by my apartment for scrubs, if that’s okay,” she asks timidly.  Definitely nervousness.

“Of course.  Let me know when you’re ready.”

I turn back down the hallway, intent on making a full pot of coffee.  I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get today while I help Tatum sort through this mess.  Staying up almost to the crack of dawn was a terrible idea.

Tatum asks to leave twenty minutes later.  She’s directing me to her apartment with small sentences and nods of her head.  Something changed since last night.  I don’t know if she’s embarrassed or what, but she’s barely looked at me today.  I try to break the silence with some of the questions I want to ask her.

“Do you have a car of your own?”  Maybe she walks to school or takes a bus.  Then I remember the day we met.  On the side of the road.  Because her car broke down.

“Um, I do, did…do,” she spouts confusingly.  Taking a deep breath, she tries again.  “I do have a car, but it’s being fixed.  Wyatt, uh, that guy is fixing it for me.”

“What guy,” I ask, although I already know who she’s referring to, and my blood boils.

“The one who at-attacked me,” she says, curling into herself on my passenger seat.  I want to reach over to comfort her, but I don’t.  She’s acting skittish this morning, and I don’t want to scare her any more.

“So you know the guy.”

Silence.

I glance over to catch her nodding her head.

Wait.  “So is this Wyatt, he’s the guy you called the day your car broke down?”

She nods again, but remains silent.

“How well do you know this guy?” I ask, unable to keep my voice from dropping two pitches and sounding like a growl.  But I’m pissed.  When we met, she mentioned calling her friend.  Sliding the puzzle pieces together in my head, what kind of friend gets a woman alone and tries to rape her?  I’m overcome with a desperate rush to hurt this guy.  To make him pay.

Tatum whimpers and the sound is a nail in my heart.  She shakes her head at me.  “Not now,” she whispers.

I let her have that because she needs time.  Trying a different tactic, I ask, “Where does he have your car?”

She doesn’t answer my question, but abruptly she says, “Turn left here.”

I follow her directions, parking the car in front of a three story brick apartment building.  There are a few suspicious looking dudes hanging around outside the front, and I can’t imagine a real nice crowd lives here.

“I’ll be right back.”  She leaves before I can get out another word.

So she knows this guy.  Once referred to him as her friend.  And he has her car.

Christ, she must be feeling powerless right now.  He’s stripped her of any and all comfort and safety she has: her apartment, her car, her trust.  I hammer my hands against the steering wheel trying to relieve some frustration.  I have so many questions I want to throw at her, but I know she’ll need to ease into my interrogation.  She seems closed off and reserved, like the type of girl who’ll clam up when she’s feeling overwhelmed.  She may have a big mouth and an even bigger attitude, but I also know she has anxiety.

Tatum yanking the door open breaks my train of thought.  She’s dressed in a pair of bright purple scrubs, and her hair is styled into a messy pony on top of her head.  It’s incredibly cute.  Why did I just think that?

She did a pretty decent job trying to cover her bruises with makeup.  I wish she would stay home with me today instead of subjecting herself to a possible interrogation from her coworkers.

As I shift the car into drive, I notice the backpack sitting between her feet.

“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the blue bag.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks out the window before answering.  “I grabbed a few things…for your place.”

“Oh.”  The word slips out of my mouth before I can stop it and at the look of distress on her face, I rush to comfort her.  “I mean, that’s great.  I want you to be comfortable.  How long do you need to stay?”

She shrugs.

“If it’s a problem, I’m sure I can find somewhere else.  I don’t want to intrude…” she trails off, and when I peek at her, her chin is trembling.  She’s trying not to cry.

How am I supposed to do this?  Where are her parents?  I know my job wouldn’t agree with me housing a student, regardless of the circumstances.  I’ll let it go for now, but I need answers in order for us to continue this…whatever the hell this is.

“It’s not a problem, Sweetheart,” I say, smiling at her gently.  “Stay as long as you need.”

Our town is small enough that I manage the short drive to the nursing home without her directions.  Which is good, because she hasn’t looked away from the window since we left her apartment.  When I pull up to the small facility, Tatum doesn’t move right away.  Instead, she stares down at her hands before turning slightly in her seat to face me.

“Thank you for doing this.  I know I was really rude to you before, and I’m sorry.”

“It makes me happy to help you.  Let me help you,” I tell her sincerely, imploring her with my eyes and my voice to listen.  She nods her head again, before opening the door and stepping outside.  “When are you off?” I call out to her.

“Pick me up at 6:30?”

“I’ll be here.  One more thing.”  I wait until she leans down into the car to ask, “Where’s your car at?”

She stiffens noticeably, and shakes her head at me sadly.  “I’m not sure if it’ll still be in working condition after yesterday.  I’ll see you later.”

I watch her until she’s in the building.  Minutes pass.  Still I sit, contemplating my next move.  It’s dangerous for me to meddle.  If someone were to realize that I’m her teacher…

I let that thought trail off.

But I can’t sit back and let her deal with this all alone.  What kind of man would that make me?  She needs someone to help her.  Even if it makes me an idiot, I want to be that man.

Like the nursing home, there’s only one mechanic shop in town.  Unless this guy works 20 miles away or at his own private garage, he has to be here.  I park out front, scanning the lot on the left where the cars being serviced are parked.  I forgot to ask her what she drives, so I can’t tell by looking if her car is here or not.  But I remember what that punk ass kid looks like, and she mentioned his name was Wyatt, so I make my way inside.

I step into a small convenience store when I first walk in, and I can see the service station is near the back.  A young girl, probably sixteen or so with a small round face and dirty blonde hair is manning the cash register.  Her eyes go round, and she blushes noticeably when I lock eyes on her so I decide to question her first.

“Hi, can I help you?” She asks shyly, her voice way too high for nonchalance.

“Hey, I’m looking for a mechanic I think works here.  Do you know someone named Wyatt?” I ask, making eye contact and trying to not be dismissive towards her childish behavior.  She’s twirling a strand of hair around her finger and blinking her eyelashes so fast she looks like she has a tic.

“Oh yeah, Wyatt.  Cool guy.  He’s working in the garage today.” I cringe inwardly when she slowly runs her tongue along her lower lip.  Too much.

“Great, thanks.  Can you point him out to me?  A buddy of mine told me to see him about doing some work on my truck, but I’ve never met the guy before.”

“Sure!” she giggles annoyingly as she leads me towards the shop.

We step in front of a large 4x4 window, and she points to a guy standing by a beat up Honda.  Even though he isn’t looking this way, I recognize the son-of-a-bitch from yesterday.

“Thanks for your help,” I tell the girl without taking my eyes off my target.

Before I step into the garage, I take stock of my surroundings.  Two other guys are talking over a white SUV, and a third is changing the oil of an Avenger, which means I need to keep things from getting too messy.  I keep myself in shape, but I’m not too confident about taking on four guys at once.  As I walk through the door, I slip my Leatherman out of my pocket, opening the knife and concealing it in my hand beneath my sleeve.

“Hey, you Wyatt?” I ask as I approach, loud enough to get his attention, but somehow retaining the hostility I’m feeling inside.  If I didn’t have an audience, I’d jam this knife down his fucking throat.

“Yeah, do I know you?”

“I’m here for Tatum’s car,” I reply, ignoring his question.  If he doesn’t recognize me, then it’s best we keep it that way.

He’s surveying my appearance when he scoffs.  “Seriously dude?  All she has to do is call and I’ll bring it right back over to her.  I’m not giving it to you.”  He plasters a smug grin on his face, crosses his scrawny arms over his chest, and leans back against her car.

“You’re going to give me her fucking car, and you’re never going to talk to her again,” I threaten through clenched teeth.  My anger is rising at an alarming rate.

“Oh yeah?  And why should I listen to you?” he asks, taking a step towards me.  I reciprocate with a step forward of my own.  We’re now standing toe to toe, face to face, and I wish I could beat that smug look off his face.

“You might not remember because you were too busy getting your ass kicked, but I. Saw. Everything. yesterday, you punk ass little bitch.”  I step even closer, our chests bumping, and I bite out, “I wasn’t done beating the shit out of you for what you did, so you’re going to give me her car and never speak to her again, or I’m calling the cops and your ass will be sitting in jail.”

He stares at me, and I stare back, not going to be the first to break contact.  Suddenly, one of the other men approaches us, probably noticing the tension from across the room.

“Hi there, I’m the owner here.  Can I help you with something?” he asks, his voice stern and bordering on impolite.  I can tell he’s the type of boss who protects his own.

“I’m just here for my girlfriend’s car.  This guy said it’d be ready yesterday,” I reply coolly.

“What car is it, Wyatt?” the boss man asks him, and Wyatt’s face turns an unbelievable shade of red.

“The Honda,” is all he says.

I watch as the owner walks to a peg board with several sets of keys hanging on it and plucks one off the rack.  He leans over the counter to consult a record log and walks back over to where Wyatt and I continue our staring match.

“Here you go, sir.  Looks like she’s all paid for.”

I take the keys, realizing when I check the key tag with the license plate her car is this beater of a Honda right next to me.  Wow.  I can’t even be sure this thing is street legal.

Praying I don’t die a fiery death in this beater mobile, especially with the knowledge that stupid fucker worked on it, I climb into the car without another word.  My house is only a few minutes’ drive so I take the car there and walk back to the service station to retrieve my own car.

With Tatum’s car back in possession, I decide to pick up some groceries so she has something substantial to eat after work.  In this morning’s awkwardness, I failed to get her some breakfast.  She probably doesn’t feel that great with an empty stomach after a night of drinking.

The supermarket is packed on a Saturday afternoon, so I try my best to hurry through.  I gather the ingredients for homemade spaghetti sauce, pasta, and garlic bread.  Lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes end up in the cart as well for a toss salad.  Italian is quick and easy.  Seems like a safe option considering I don’t know anything about her.

As I walk through the pantry type aisles, I end up grabbing more than is necessary, filling the cart with different kinds of cereals, granola bars, canned soups, chips, cookies, Pop tarts, and a couple 88 cent boxes of mac ‘n cheese.  I want to be prepared since I don’t know how long she’s staying.

How long do I want her to stay?

As I’m pondering that question, while staring at the assortment of fruit cups, my thoughts are cut short by the vibrating coming from my pocket.  Extracting the device, Trey flashes on the caller ID.  Damn, I never called him yesterday.

“Hey man, what’s up?” I answer, ready to launch into an apology.

“Why’d ya bail on me yesterday?”  Always cutting right to the shit.  That’s Trey.  I met him at the gym two years ago when I first moved into town.  He’s a big guy, with bulging muscles from practically living at the gym.  He’s also military.  With his nearly bald shaved head and darkly tanned skin, he makes a good wingman.  Where I’m clean and fit, he’s massive and rugged.

I’m struck speechless momentarily.  Do I tell him about Tatum?  Maybe I should lie.  Scanning the people milling about the aisle, I decide to lie.  I’m not talking about her assault in the damn canned fruit aisle in the only grocery story in town.  A town where everybody knows everybody.

“Sorry, man.  I got caught up in some shit after school, and once it was all sorted out, I ended up at home nursing a couple beers.”

“Well shit.  You missed out on a good time last night.  I ran into that Melissa girl you’ve been seein’, and she was all up on some other guy.  Hope you’re covering your shit when you hit that, man.”  He laughs into the phone, and I can’t help but chuckle with him.

“She sure moved on quick for seeming so broken up the other day.”

“Yeah, or maybe she’s been double dippin’ this whole time.”

“Or triple.”

“Anyway, man, besides checkin’ why you dipped out on me, I wanted to see if you were up for going out tonight since you left me hanging yesterday.  Beer and pool at Old Willow?”

I open my mouth to reply, but then I remember Tatum.  I can’t leave her at my house all alone.  I run my hands through my messy hair while I contemplate what to do.

“Sounds great, but see, uh, I have this girl staying with me for a few days—ˮ

“You have a girl staying with you?” he blasts, making my eardrums ring.

“Dude, it’s not like that.  I’m at the fuckin’ grocery store so I can’t talk about it right now.  But it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Alright. Bring her with then.”

“I’ll ask her.  Let me text you, she gets off work this afternoon.”

We disconnect, and I step into the checkout line, replaying the conversation in my head.  Shit.  She can’t come with to the bar, she’s only eighteen.  At least, I hope she’s eighteen.  My stomach plummets to the floor.  What if she’s only seventeen?  What the fuck am I doing?

I add her age to the long list of questions I need to ask her about, and start piling my groceries on the conveyor belt at top speed.  I need to get out of here.

After unloading the groceries, I begin a pot of spaghetti sauce to simmer throughout the afternoon.  After adding tomatoes, garlic, onion and some seasonings to a large pot, I start another pan to brown some beef.  I wonder if she’s a vegetarian.  After the beef is browned, I pop it into the fridge instead of adding it to the sauce in case she doesn’t eat meat.  After the sauce is at a rolling boil, I turn it down to a simmer, and begin chopping some vegetables for a salad.

At 6:15 I turn the sauce off before I leave to pick up Tatum.  She’s already waiting outside when I arrive and she gives me a little wave when I pull up.

“Hi,” she says as she buckles her seatbelt.  Her mood seems to have improved dramatically since this morning.

“How was work?” I ask as I pull onto Main Street towards home.

“It was fine.  I like working the day shift on Saturdays.  It’s nice to see all my residents fully awake for once.”

I can’t miss the happiness in her voice, and it makes me smile.  I wasn’t sure how long it would take for her to recover from yesterday, but this is a start.

“I bet.  Do you work a lot?”

“I put in 40 hours a week.  Once in a while I’ll get some overtime if they need me to fill in for someone.”

“Why the hell do you work fulltime?” My shocked voice fills the car.  “When do you have time for homework?”

“I need to work to live,” she responds simply, ignoring my second question.

We drive in silence for a few more minutes and arrive at my townhouse.  On our way to the front door, I tell her, “I made Italian for dinner. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure,” she says quietly.  I can’t see her face, but I wish I could.  I want to know what she’s thinking.

I step back to let her inside, and she drops her backpack in the entry way.

“Mmm, it smells amazing in here.”

The warm aroma of garlic and seasonings fill the house, wafting in from the kitchen.  My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day.

“Just give me a few minutes to toast the garlic bread and boil the pasta, and we can eat.  Feel free to use my shower to get cleaned up if you want,” I call over my shoulder as I enter the kitchen.

I’m leaning over in the fridge to pull out the butter when I spot the beef I cooked earlier.  “Do you eat meat?” I call behind me, and when I turn around I run face to face with Tatum, practically jumping out of my skin and dropping the container I was holding.

“Shit.”

“I’m sorry,” she says shyly.  “Um…yes, I do.  I was just coming to get some water.”

“It’s okay,” I breathe, trying to calm my racing heart.  Reaching back into the fridge, I grab a bottle of water and hand it to her.  “Here.”

“Thanks,” she says, and I notice she’s chewing her lower lip.  Her long eyelashes fan against her cheeks as she focuses on the label to the plastic bottle in her fidgeting hands.  I can’t help but stare, and this rolling sensation starts low in my stomach.

Jesus, what the hell is that?

“I’ll, um, go shower now,” she says as she scampers from the room.

Did I really just check out my student in my own kitchen?