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

by Monica Murphy

  I barely recognize myself most of the time.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror that hangs over my dresser and turn to the side, lifting my arm. I’m only wearing a pair of sweats, my chest is bare, my rib cage covered in black swirling ink. The tattoo isn’t very large, the image I brought into the tattoo shop and demanded they duplicate imprinted on my skin forever.

  It’s a pair of angel’s wings, roughly sketched but each individual feather in fine detail, accompanied by two simple words written below them.

  Only us.

  “I thought I should be the one to show you this first. You haven’t mentioned it, and Mom fished around when she last talked to you but you seemed completely unaware.” Brenna hands over an open magazine, folded to show the page I assume she wants me to read.

  I take the magazine from her. We’re at my house. She came over bearing vanilla lattes and cinnamon rolls from a little shop not too far from me that’s well known with tourists. I don’t live directly on the ocean, but my town is on the way and people passing through make frequent stops—at the Old Time Cinnamon Roll Shop, specifically.

  That I’m so focused on stupid cinnamon rolls is an indication that I don’t want to know what Brenna’s about to drop on me.

  “What is it?” I ask warily. I almost don’t want to look at the magazine. It’s an article she wants me to read, I’m sure, about my tragic past. Most likely a mention of the interview, considering lots of entertainment magazines covered it, including People, who still contact me once a week asking if I’d like to tell my story to one of their reporters for a possible cover.

  No thanks.

  “Just read it.” Brenna flicks her chin, her expression composed.

  I’m clutching the magazine, my gaze fixed on Brenna, when she rolls her eyes and waves a hand at me. “Stop staring at me and get it over with.”

  Glancing down, I see it’s an entertainment magazine that I’ve flipped through more than once at Mom’s house since she’s a subscriber. The page has a variety of articles and the headline near the bottom of the page catches my eye.

  TV Movie About Kidnap Victim Katherine Watts in the Works

  My mouth drops open as I read the short but succinct article. “They can’t do this,” I murmur, my eyes skimming over the blurry words. A network is mentioned; the script is being written. Much of it will be based on my interview with Lisa Swanson.

  Brenna nods. “Looks like they’re doing it.” I know what she’s thinking. We must face this head on, accept it, and move on.

  But maybe I don’t want to move on. Maybe I want to fight it. I only just recently got my life back—somewhat. I don’t need to relive this short period of time again and again.

  “How can they make a movie about me without my permission?” I look up at her and she just shakes her head.

  “They do it all the time, K. Seriously, think about it. How many crazy docudrama movies have we watched on Lifetime? Other networks made movies about you after the kidnapping. We’ve already dealt with this, right? Besides, this is all about money. Your story will make any network advertising dollars. The interview you just did proved that.”

  I don’t answer her as I finish the article, thinking back to the other unauthorized bio movies made about kidnap victims—excuse me, survivors—over the years. Most I’ve never watched, their stories too painful, too familiar. I never watched the ones they made about me, either. I couldn’t bear to see a reenactment of the abduction.

  “I wonder if I should try and stop them. Find a lawyer or something. I’m sure someone would run to my defense.” I toss the magazine on the coffee table in front of the couch, already wishing for a moment alone so I can process this new discovery.

  But Brenna only just got here and it’s not fair, me taking out my frustration and anger on her. She’s only the messenger in this situation.

  “I think it would just be a waste of time.” She snatches the magazine up from the table and stuffs it into her purse, which rests by her feet. Like she wants the stupid magazine out of sight, out of mind. “Want your coffee?”

  I nod and she hands it to me. I take a grateful sip, my appetite long gone, and I shake my head when she offers the white paper bag with the cinnamon roll we planned on splitting inside.

  “Are you sure?” she asks incredulously, She knows how much I love them.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” I say with a shrug.

  She rolls her eyes again and opens the bag, pulling out the cinnamon roll, its warm, sweet scent drifting toward me and immediately making me regret my decision. “Mom was dying to be the one to tell you about the movie, you know. I had to put my foot down and insist I be the one to break the news to you.”

  “Why did she want to tell me first? So she could give me a lecture about the big, bad world and how I should’ve never done that interview?” I’ve already heard it, more than once. Mom went along with my decision to talk with Lisa Swanson but I know she didn’t like it. She’s tried her best to be supportive, but after all, she’s a mother. My mother. And she wants to protect me.

  Plus, she’d been trained by my father over the years to never speak of what happened to me. She’s so conditioned, she flinches if she so much as hears Aaron Monroe’s name. And when she hears my name and his together, along with words like kidnapped and raped? Forget it. She can hardly take it.

  “Probably. I warned her off.” Brenna takes a sip of her drink. “I told her I wanted to do it because I also come here with ulterior motives.”

  I frown, unease slipping down my spine. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

  “Oh stop. I always have your best interests at heart.” She smiles and sets her drink on the coffee table, then tears into the cinnamon roll. “I have a proposition for you,” she says after she takes a bite.

  “What is it?”

  “I work with this guy.” I part my lips, ready to protest, and she cuts me off. “No, listen to me! He’s really sweet. His name is Greg and he’s a speech therapist for the school district. Quiet and calm and so incredibly patient with the kids, they just adore him. And he’s cute.”

  “Brenna . . .”

  “Stop. I think a date is in order, Katherine. You deserve a fun night involving dinner and conversation, no pressure. I told him about you.”

  My jaw drops open. “What exactly did you tell him?”

  “Nothing about—that, but if he wanted to find out, he could. Google exists, you know. There’s nothing we can do to prevent anyone from looking you up.”

  I slump down on the couch, lean my head back against it, and stare up at the ceiling. She’s hitting me with too much information all at once. “I know you mean well, but I don’t need you setting me up on dates.”

  “If I weren’t already taken, I’d go after Greg big time. He’s adorable. Twenty-six, he dresses nice, and I like his hair. He has friendly eyes.” Brenna is rambling on, not even paying attention to what I’m saying. “Look, if you’re nervous we could double-date the first time. That’ll probably help you feel more comfortable with Greg.”

  She looks so hopeful and I know she means well. “I’m sure he’s a great guy and I appreciate you looking out for me, Bren, but I’m not interested.” I pause. Should I tell her? “I, uh, I’ve sort of . . . met someone.”

  It’s as if Brenna didn’t even hear what I said. “Though I’m sure for your first date, while you’re getting to know each other, you don’t want us there as a third wheel. Well, third and fourth wheel—you know what I mean.” She stops talking, her eyes going wide. “Wait a minute, what did you say?”

  “I met someone,” I admit again, my voice quiet, my thoughts all over the place. My heart pounds hard against my chest at the mere thought of Ethan and all of a sudden I feel like I could burst. “His name is Ethan and he’s . . . I like him.”

  She stares at me as though I’ve grown three heads. “Where in the hell did you meet a guy?” she practically screams.

  “Um, the day you called me? When
you and Mom were tracking me?” At least my sister has the decency to look embarrassed. “I met him there. At the park.”

  “In the amusement park?” Brenna squeaks out.

  “Well, yeah.” I pick at a loose thread on the couch. I’m not going to tell her the circumstances that surrounded our meeting. She might freak out, or worse, tell Mom about the almost purse snatching and that’s the last thing I want to happen. “We started talking and the next thing I knew we were at a coffee shop, and it was—it was nice. He’s easy to talk to.”

  Brenna looks stunned. “Give me more details. Where does he live? What does he do? How old is he?”

  I give her a brief rundown, telling her we went to dinner, the movies. Leaving out the part where I ran out on him. That was a few days ago. We’ve texted off and on, nothing major, but he’s wrapping up a website project and warned me he’d be busy.

  Funny how I barely know him yet I still miss him.

  “I want to meet him,” she says vehemently the moment I stop talking.

  “Not yet.” I shake my head. “You’ll scare him off.”

  “I will not!” She appears indignant as she tears off a chunk of the cinnamon roll and shoves it in her mouth.

  “You will,” I say calmly. “You and Mom both will come at him with an endless list of questions and freak him out. We’ve seen each other only a few times. I don’t even know if he likes me like . . . that.” I’m lying. I’m pretty sure he does like me like that, but I don’t want to ruin things before they really start. “Let’s wait a while before I bring him around, okay?”

  “So you’re going to see him again.” She sounds skeptical. Protective. And I love that, I do. But I also need freedom. A chance to figure out what I’m doing and if I really want it, want him.

  “I hope so.” God, I really do. I dreamed about him last night. We were kissing in a dark room with no one else around us, no movie playing, just the quiet stillness making me acutely aware of him. Of me. Of us.

  Together.

  In my dream, I wasn’t hesitant. Instead, I was fully engaged, enjoying it, wanting more. Sighing and moaning and whispering his name, hearing the sounds of our mouths connecting, clothes rustling as hands moved and shifted, my fingers sinking in his hair, his fingers curling around my waist . . .

  I woke slowly, my body hot, my bones languid. I wanted more of that. More kissing, more touching, more Ethan. I wanted to take it a step farther.

  But would he?

  I still feel restless from that dream, from the turbulent feelings he causes within me. I know that’s why I mentioned him. The need to talk about him, say his name out loud, prove to someone else that yes, he does exist, he’s not a figment of my imagination, was so incredibly strong, to the point of almost overwhelming me.

  “So tell me. Is he cute?” Brenna smiles, reminding me of the old Brenna, the teenage girl who only cared about hot guys and if she could get their attention. How she ended up with the dud she’s living with now, I’m not really sure, but she claims Mike makes her happy. That he’s safe and steady and doesn’t leave her feeling lost or lonely.

  I feel like she’s giving up. Twenty-four years old and she’s settling. That’s awful.

  “Yes.” Embarrassed, I start to laugh and so does she. “Very.”

  She wants security, not excitement. I get that. I do.

  But I’m starting to think maybe security and excitement can go hand in hand.

  At least, it seems to with Ethan.

  “Does he know—who you really are? What happened to you?” Brenna asks, then shakes her head. “Of course he does. You’ve been everywhere lately. He’s had to figure it out.”

  “I . . . I don’t know if he has. I told him I went through a traumatic experience in my past but I didn’t give him any details.” We haven’t even exchanged last names, but no way am I going to tell Brenna that. She’ll rip into me, not that I can blame her.

  I’d rip into me. And maybe that’s part of the excitement. That unknown quality, that there are so many things I don’t know about Ethan at all. He’s mysterious. A puzzle I want to put together.

  “Something to consider, if you keep seeing him and it becomes serious,” Brenna says, a gentle reminder that I can never forget my past and neither can anyone else.

  I hate it. My past follows me, leeches itself upon me like a shackle and chains. Like the very chain Aaron Monroe wrapped around my ankle so he could keep me hooked to the wall like some sort of animal.

  That’s my past. Attached to me so tightly I can never, ever let it go.

  No matter how much I want to.

  I want to make you dinner tonight.

  But just thinking about it makes me nervous.

  What if I screw it up?

  What if you don’t like my cooking?

  My house?

  Me?

  (forget I said that last line)

  What if you leave my house hungry?

  What if you never want to see me again? All because I can’t boil water and make a decent meal?

  These are the things that run through my head on a Saturday morning when I wake up too early and can’t sleep.

  When I contemplate inviting you over and second-guess my every decision.

  And now I can’t take these thoughts back because I already hit send.

  No matter how badly I want to.

  Hope you’ll say yes. ☺

  I woke up to a list of texts from Katie that made me smile. Then made me realize she wakes up at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. It’s barely eight o’clock and I’m pissed at myself for not sleeping in later, but what’s done is done. I’m up.

  And Katie wants me to come over tonight. I can’t believe it.

  Once I handle the usual morning stuff and get a few swallows of coffee in me, I answer her, keeping it short and simple.

  I would love to come over for dinner. Tell me what to bring.

  She answers me almost immediately.

  Just yourself. That’s good enough.

  I smile. I can do that.

  What time then? And let me know if you really do want me to bring something.

  She doesn’t reply and I wonder what she’s doing at this exact moment. I’ve been busy all week and haven’t talked to her much. I hope she doesn’t think it was because of the movie incident, though I was giving her a bit of distance, too. Seemed like she needed it.

  What’s currently blowing my mind is how she hasn’t mentioned who she really is. We haven’t exchanged last names. We haven’t shared intimate details, not that I would expect to, considering we’ve seen each other less than a handful of times. I shouldn’t be surprised she doesn’t want to lead with the sort of information that would rock any normal man’s world.

  My name is Katherine Watts and I survived a horrific kidnapping and rape for three days. Until I was finally rescued, and my captor is now in prison for the rest of his life.

  Yeah. That’s a complete bombshell.

  My phone buzzes and I check it.

  Come over around six.

  I answer her quickly, not bothering to play the game and make her wait. Screw that. When it comes to this girl, I don’t want to play games. I just want . . .

  Her.

  I’ll be there.

  She gives me directions and I pretend I’ve never been there, reassuring her I can find it with my phone’s GPS, no problem. She seems excited, nervous, even via text and I wonder if she can sense the same excitement and nervousness in me.

  I arrive at her house at ten to six, feeling like an idiot for showing up early but thankful I’m not late. I park directly in front, quietly closing the driver’s-side door, not wanting to alert her next-door neighbor. The nosy old lady who gave me the third degree a few weeks ago when I’d been lingering on Katie’s street like some sort of fucked-up stalker.

  I’m still not proud of that moment, though I can’t take it back. Don’t necessarily regret it, either, but come on. I took it too far.

  You fo
und her, though, right? And that had been your goal all along.

  I ignore the voice in my head and start up the sidewalk that leads to her front door, a bottle of wine in one hand, a bouquet of fall-colored flowers in the other. I climb the three steps to her porch and knock on the door with the bottom edge of the wine bottle.

  She’s there in an instant, her slender frame filling the doorway, an expectant look on her face. Her hair is down, falling in soft golden waves past her shoulders, her lips subtly shiny, cheeks pink. She’s dressed in black, a soft oversized sweater and tight jeans that make her legs look long.

  Endless.

  “Hi.” Her gaze drops to my full hands. “I told you that you didn’t need to bring anything.”

  “I wanted to.” I hold the flowers out to her. “For you.”

  She takes them from me, her eyes dancing as they meet mine, her entire face . . . glowing. I’ve pleased her with the flowers. That I made her so happy with such a simple gift reminds me that I need to keep this up, just so I can see that smile on her face. “Thank you,” she murmurs as she dips her head and inhales. Her eyes fall closed for the briefest moment, her lips parted, and I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

  I want to, though. See her look even more beautiful than at this simple moment. Like when I have her naked and lying beneath me . . . or right after I make her come. Will she let me? Can I take it that far between us or will she throw up her walls?

  Something I’m determined to find out.

  “Come in,” she says as she takes a step backward, shifting to the side and holding the door wider so I can enter. “You brought wine, too.”

  “I hope it works with whatever you’re making for dinner.” I have no clue about wine. I’m not a wine guy. I drink beer. Vodka on occasion. For the most part, I avoid alcohol. It reminds me of my father, the dirty, fucked-up drunk. He started drinking, then he started doing drugs, bringing various women into his bedroom, dragging me into his bedroom . . .