Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  He fell into step beside me once more, the smile on his face . . .

  Triumphant.

  The memories were so strong the minute I walked inside, so incredibly powerful, that I could feel them rise within me, one after another. The cry of the seagulls, the ever-present scent of fried food lingering in the air, and the screams. The constant screams of the people on the roller coaster, and on that Ferris wheel–looking thing that had individual cages that spun round and round. I never rode it. Was always afraid I’d barf everywhere.

  Coming here was a mistake. I’m frozen in place, right at the entrance of the park, remembering vividly the way Aaron Monroe approached me, all friendly with my sweatshirt in his hand, the smile on his face, the pleading way he asked for my help.

  I’d fallen right into his trap like the idiot twelve-year-old girl I was. Naïve and stupid and wanting to please someone I didn’t even know. I’d shown him the entrance to the Sky Gliders and he’d taken hold of my arm again, steering me right out of the park, right into the giant parking lot nearby. He’d pressed a knife to my side, close to my ribs, the tip of it sharp, piercing through my thin T-shirt, and my legs had almost given out on me right then. Like my bones were made of jelly.

  And that wasn’t even the worst part of my experience.

  I move forward as if in a trance, settling heavily on a bench at the first table I spot at one of the food courts, closing my eyes for a brief moment. This was the place where I had lunch with my family and Sarah and my sister’s friend Emily. Where we ate corn dogs and shared fries and I sucked down that large Pepsi like I was dying of thirst. Dad teased me, ruffling my hair, irritating me because he was treating me like I was seven, not almost thirteen. I’d tried to pass my sweatshirt off on my mom but she wouldn’t help me out. Said that I was the one who brought it, so I was going to be the one who’d have to carry it for the rest of the day.

  It’s not my responsibility, she’d said, her mouth thin, her eyes full of irritation.

  She’d pissed me off with that remark. I’d griped to Sarah the minute we made our escape. I think of that moment now, how everything would have been different if she’d taken my sweatshirt. I wonder if she regrets what she said, if she ever even thinks of it.

  I hope not.

  I don’t even know what happened to the sweatshirt. It had been left behind in Aaron Monroe’s car. I remember that it appeared during the trial as evidence. That they knew I’d been in his car because the sweatshirt was found in the backseat.

  It’s funny how the park looks exactly the same, like it’s hardly changed at all. Even the people who are here at this very moment resemble the ones I remember from eight years ago.

  Glancing around, I see a young girl wearing a sweatshirt almost identical to the one I had. They are still popular, with lifeguard written in bold white letters across the front, a giant white rescue cross right below it. She reminds me of a younger me, the same guileless expression and sparkling eyes. Long, thin legs and coltish body. Light brown hair pulled into a ponytail, her face animated as she talks to who I can only assume is her little sister. They look a lot alike.

  I want to grab hold of her shoulders and give her a little shake, tell her to never talk to strangers. Don’t get separated from your mom and dad. Life is scary. There are predators everywhere.

  But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut, my butt remaining glued to the bench. I watch people as they enter the park, their heads bent over the tiny map they receive when they pay for the ride tickets or all-day wristbands. Admission to the park is free but the rides cost. A lot of people cut through the park so they can get to the beach, but there aren’t many people out there today. It’s fall and the ocean is cold. The sun warm but certainly not intense.

  A couple walks by; they look around my age. He grabs hold of her hand and smiles at her and she stops, tilting her head back when he delivers a slow, soft kiss to her lips. They break away from each other, smiling, and I turn away, feeling like I’m invading a very private moment. A moment that fills me with an unfamiliar sense of longing. Of wanting to fit in, to find what they have.

  For once, the longing overrides the fear and that surprises me.

  My stomach growls when a garlicky smell wafts over me and I stand, heading over to the booth that sells garlic fries. I buy a basket of thick-cut fries smothered in garlic and Parmesan cheese along with a bottle of water and sit on the bench I’d vacated a few minutes ago, devouring the fries and sipping my water, enjoying the breeze, watching the people pass by. It isn’t very busy and I’m glad. The crowds would have reminded me of the day it happened and I might have panicked more.

  I’m panicking enough, thank you very much.

  Slowly, as I continue to eat a basket of fries I could probably never finish, my heart rate calms. The throbbing in my head disappears and I sit up straighter, feeling proud. I was doing it. Sitting in the middle of the amusement park where I was abducted, like I didn’t have a care in the world. I came back here and survived. I could handle this.

  This was the beginning of me handling everything.

  Remembering my earlier conversation with Brenna, I frown. I’m trying to grow up and they’re just holding me back. Mom has the log-in to the Find My iPhone app on my phone. She figured out where I was and had Brenna call me. I couldn’t believe it. They were keeping tabs on me like I was still a child. I don’t get it. Yeah, I understand their fear and that they worry about me, but this is taking it too far. How can I ever overcome all of this bullshit if everyone in my life who cares about me is always trying to hold me back?

  My appetite leaving me at the thought, I eat as much as I can and then toss a few fries onto the ground, being one of those obnoxious people who feed the seagulls despite the signs they have posted cautioning against it. I sort of don’t care. I feel sorry for the seagulls. I know they’re just scavengers, that they look for handouts, but that’s how they survive. I can either throw the fries in the trash or feed a few seagulls.

  I choose the birds.

  A food court employee shuffles by me, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. A teenage kid, his face mottled with acne, his eyes are full of irritation as they slide over me. I look away, gather up my garbage, and stand, shoving it into the nearby trash can before I hurry away from the food court, irritated with myself.

  I shouldn’t allow some teenager to pass judgment on me. He’s probably already forgotten about me and here I am, stewing over it. Quickening my steps, eager to get away, I head toward the end of the park where it happened. Where I was kidnapped. I’m full of righteous anger at the attitude I’d felt radiating from the food court employee and I hope my emotions fuel me. Make this moment easier to deal with, because this is the one I dread the most.

  The one I shouldn’t have to deal with today if I don’t want to. I’m proud enough of the fact that I entered this place. Now with the roller coaster looming ahead, the scenery too familiar, vivid with memories mixed with reality, I wonder if I should leave.

  My steps slow as I pass the line for the roller coaster. It’s short this afternoon. They don’t have much of it roped off like in the past and I’d bet money I could walk right in. Find myself sitting in one of those old carts with the thin cushioned seats, the metal bar coming over my lap, locking me in, filling me with a false sense of security.

  The last thing I want. I live with that false sense of security constantly. None of us are safe. Not really. We’ll all come upon our little moments one time or another. Some moments are just more severe than others. Most people get off easy. Not me. But they consider me lucky.

  Lucky.

  I hate that word.

  That recognizable bright blue building suddenly appears to my left and I shudder. The restroom. The spot where it happened, where he picked up my sweatshirt and held it out toward me like an offering, that fake smile plastered on his face. I’m sure he hoped like hell I’d fall for it and I did. I tumbled headfirst, wary and vulnerable. Wanting to help and wanting to r
un, conflicted like every other preteen on the planet.

  I should have run.

  My breaths are coming faster, I can hear the rasp in my lungs, feel it like a serrated knife tearing at my throat. I try to inhale deeply, to calm myself, but I know. I know without a doubt I’m going to have a panic attack if I don’t get it, this—all of it—under control.

  Breathe, baby. Breathe.

  Mom’s voice is in my head. She said those words to me time and again, mostly after I woke from a nightmare, screaming at the top of my lungs. She’d run into my bedroom and flick on the light, the brightness startling me awake, and I’d find myself shaking and crying, tears on my cheeks, my throat raw from the screaming.

  That was always her advice. She’d hug me close as she stroked my hair, my face buried in her neck as I inhaled that familiar, floral Mom smell while she whispered, Breathe, baby. Breathe. I’d look up, find Dad standing in the doorway, helpless and pale, clad in his standard black T-shirt and pajama pants. I’d catch his gaze, pleading with my eyes for him to come into my room, just touch me once. Hold me. Tell me I’m his little girl.

  He’d turn away like he couldn’t stand the sight of me and go back to their bedroom. Every single time.

  After my ordeal, when I returned home, I became Mom’s burden. Never his.

  Never again.

  I shake the old memories off and start walking again, my steps slow, my head heavy. Doubt plagues me as I draw closer and closer to the bright blue building. I shouldn’t have come here. It’s as if I’m trying to torture myself.

  Haven’t I been tortured enough?

  It’s when I’m reaching into my purse to grab my sunglasses that I feel someone run into me from behind. Something sharp, like an elbow pressing into my back, knocks me forward. A gasp escapes me as I stumble, tripping over my own feet, though thank God I don’t end up on the ground. I feel a hard tug on my shoulder, the press of a wiry male body against the back of mine, and I stiffen in fear.

  “Give it,” a young male voice says, his mouth at my ear. I can smell him, cheap drugstore cologne mixed with excitement and fear, as he presses his fist into the small of my back. The pull on my shoulder becomes tighter and I struggle against it.

  My purse. He’s trying to take my purse and I grip it harder, crying out when he pulls on the strap so violently I feel the leather cut into my skin through my shirt, pinching the skin of my shoulder.

  “Let it go, lady!” he yells and I hear footsteps approach. Rescuers? He’ll run. He’ll let go of me and run and it’ll all be over.

  But I realize soon enough that they’re helping him, not me, and panic squeezes my throat, cutting off any and all words that might escape. My brain blanks, literally blanks like a whiteboard that’s been erased clean of every little mark, and I struggle to scream, to yell, to curse him out, to do something.

  Anything but be a weakling—again—and just take it.

  “Hurry up, man,” one of the others yells. They’re young. They’re cursing each other out, trying to sound all gangster or whatever but I know they’re just stupid kids, stealing on a whim. Or was this planned? Let’s go to the amusement park and rip the tourists off—was that what they said to each other?

  Somehow I manage to jerk out of his hold. I turn to face them, air leaving me in great, shuddering breaths as I assess my situation. Cut and run? What if one of them has a weapon? And why in the world has no one noticed what’s going on? I see a couple only a few yards away, but they’re so entranced with the Dippin’ Dots menu they’re staring at they don’t even notice my struggle.

  Unbelievable. I can hardly wrap my head around the fact that this is actually happening. I don’t show up here—the place of my nightmares—for years and I’m at the park for an hour, only to be robbed? Really?

  Despite my fear, the irony isn’t lost on me. Not by a long shot.

  “Hey!” The one who tried to take my purse yells. He takes a menacing step toward me, his eyes narrow little dark slits. He’s an older teen, probably can’t be that much younger than me, and his expression is fierce. Pissed off. Though there’s a hint of fear there, too, lurking deep in his gaze and I start to back away, my fingers curled around the long strap of my purse as I hold it in place. Keep it close to my side.

  A jolt of fear moves through me when all three of them step forward as I continue to back away and I contemplate my next move. I should give the purse up. Let them take it. I have one credit card and a debit card in my wallet, plus maybe sixty bucks, tops. No big deal, right? My life is worth more than that. Not that they’re threatening my life . . .

  But my phone is in there, too. Would it be such a bad thing, letting the phone/newly discovered tracking device that allows my mother and sister to keep tabs on me disappear? I’d have to cancel my cards, get a new driver’s license. My car keys are in there, too. I don’t want to be stranded here, not after this. Not after everything. I don’t think I could stand it.

  “Damn it, give me the purse,” the kid mutters as he lunges for me, making a grab for the bag, his hands and fingers curled into gnarled little claws. “Hand it over, bitch, and you won’t get hurt.”

  It’s the bitch, and you won’t get hurt line that socks me hard in the stomach. My shaky, sweaty fingers come loose as if they have a mind of their own, slipping away from the strap. I’m about to let him take my purse when out of nowhere a man appears.

  He’s tall and broad, a blur of movement as he shoves his way in between us, pushing me backward with pure brute strength. I stumble away from him, my fingers somehow miraculously finding my purse strap once more, and I watch him with fascination as he takes over.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man isn’t yelling. No, his deep voice is eerily calm as he grabs hold of the front of the boy’s T-shirt. The other two run off without a word, ditching their friend, and the man pulls him in close, dipping his face into the boy’s so they’re only mere inches away from each other. “I should call the police.”

  The kid shakes his head, stutters out, “N-no w-way, mister. I didn’t d-do anything. Please.”

  They stare at each other, breathing the same air, the man’s fingers tightening in the boy’s shirt so the fabric strains against his thin chest. I hold my breath, my entire body shaking as I watch them, afraid that they might hurt each other.

  “I should make you beg,” the man murmurs, the edge in his voice sending a shiver down my spine. “What sort of asshole tries to steal a purse in the middle of the day from a defenseless woman?”

  “I-I m-meant n-nothing b-by it,” the kid stutters, his voice shaky, his eyes full of fear as he flicks his gaze toward me for the briefest second.

  The man jerks on his shirt and the kid’s head flops back and forth like he’s some sort of old toy thin from lack of stuffing. “Don’t you dare even look at her.”

  I stand up a little straighter, a thrill moving down my spine despite my fear. It’s the way he says it, all dark and threatening, like he’d tear the boy’s eyes out of his head before he allowed him to look at me. It’s wrong, the excitement that pulses in my blood, floods my belly. I abhor violence. Of course I do.

  But there’s something about the way this man handles himself, the way he speaks, so assured, so confident. He makes it all look so easy. Like it’s his job, his duty to barrel into the fray and rescue me, ensuring my safety.

  “You’re not worthy to look at her, let alone fucking touch her.” My rescuer lets him go, shoving him in the chest for good measure, which nearly sends the boy reeling. He catches himself before he hits the ground and spins on his worn Converse high-tops so hard I hear the squeak of his soles against the pavement. He runs without looking back, so fast he disappears into the thin crowd within a matter of seconds.

  I wait there alone, experiencing the crash. I’m trembling, almost violently, as if the temperature just dropped at least forty degrees, and I wrap my arms around myself. Relief and adrenaline is a heady mixture as it pulses through my blood, a
nd I try my best to calm myself down from the scary high.

  “You okay?”

  Glancing up, I find myself looking into the kindest pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen. A complete contradiction to the dark, menacing man I just witnessed only moments ago.

  He tilts his head as he waits for my answer and I stare up at him, at a complete loss for words. He’s wearing glasses, so his eyes look even bigger, and his expression is full of genuine concern; I can at least recognize that. Because I’ve seen it all. Phony, real, every furrow of their brows and purse of their lips, most of it—yes, definitely the majority of it—fake. No one cares about me. Not really. They just want grisly details.

  How they hope for the details, sick and wretched humans that we are. Even me, getting excited over a stranger rushing to my defense with a streak of barely contained violence running through him. I found that hint of violence bubbling just beneath his surface strangely . . .

  Exciting.

  “Hey.” His voice is so gentle, a whisper of sound as he reaches out and touches me, and still I don’t speak. Dark brown hair tumbles over his worry-wrinkled forehead, his full mouth turned upside down. His cheekbones are sharp, his jaw like granite. Like a gorgeous man you see in a magazine ad staring back at you, all angular planes and smoldering eyes, soft mouth and perfect hair. The flawlessness is ruined by the glasses, though, and I like them. They remind me that he’s human.

  Imperfect.

  Like me.

  I look down to see he’s still touching me, his fingers curled around my arm loosely, and I don’t try and pull out of his hold like I usually would. Normally, I don’t allow any man to touch me, especially a strange one.

  But this man—for whatever reason—he doesn’t feel strange at all.

  “Hey,” he repeats, a little firmer this time around, the deep sound resonating through me. I watch, transfixed, as he drifts his thumb across the bare skin just above the crook of my elbow, and I shiver. “You’re not hurt, are you?”