by Ronica Black
“You sure?”
Chan turned and forced herself to give the cute blonde a grin. “Yeah, I’m fine. Fucking great.” She leaned into her and kissed her young mouth with confidence and carelessness. She was going to forget about Sarah Monroe once and for all.
After swirling her tongue around Leah’s for a moment, she pulled away. Even though she had tasted the warm steel of the other woman’s tongue piercing, she felt nothing. She was numb.
Leah stepped closer and whispered in her ear. “Wanna get out of here and see where else I’m pierced?”
Chan closed her eyes as the tequila swirled through her brain, seemingly sloshing it around. “Why leave?” she asked, rising to tug the woman along after her.
When they reached the back wall, Chan shoved her aggressively against it and rubbed her through her jeans. At once she felt the hard bud of a piercing nestled in her clit. Leah groaned and drew her closer. Chan felt hot and dizzy as she rubbed the young stranger much like she had done Sarah. As she made her come, she closed her eyes and felt redeemed. This time it would be she who left the woman standing all alone.
She pulled away as Leah shuddered with the aftermath of orgasm. Wiping her hand casually against her jeans, she turned and headed to the door, leaving the young woman calling out after her.
Chapter Twenty
The hallway was brightly lit, reflecting off the polished white floors. Sarah couldn’t remember the drive to the hospital, her mind reeling from what had happened with Chandler. The passionate psychologist had somehow gotten to her, making her feel things she had never felt before.
She closed her eyes as her hand remembered the warm, wanting flesh. She could still hear Chandler’s voice, tight and insistent. “Come with me.” The words had reached her, bursting into the dark recesses of her consciousness, exploding with powerful light. Gone were the images of Scottie, drunk and malevolent, his bloodshot eyes full of sinful lust. The images had dissipated, meshing into the blackness of night. No, all she had felt was pleasure, hazy and heavy, overwhelmingly so. Chandler’s hand had played her hungry flesh, strumming out the thick pleasure, wave after wave, crashing into her soul.
She opened her eyes, shuddering once again at the thought of her earlier orgasm. The power, the release that tore through her…nothing in the world could’ve ever prepared her for it. The dreams she’d long had of passion washed away hurriedly, not nearly enough in comparison to the real thing. She thought of the building pressure of insurmountable pleasure, of Chandler working her, filling her up with ecstasy. The pleasure was so great, so conquering, it left her feeling weak and vulnerable.
The rawness it exposed was the reason she had fled. She had trembled as she drove, dangerously close to breaking down into tears. It had felt so good, so amazing, so connected to Chandler. All shook up and emotional in ways she couldn’t understand, she had driven here. Somehow, she had made it.
She slowed in her walk as she noted the number on the nearing wide door. Three eighteen. Feeling a little dizzy with nervousness, she sank down into a chair across the hall from the door.
Sudden and powerful, memories washed over her now that she was so close to her father.
She was sound asleep in her neat little room, which was decorated with anything she could find in red and blue. She loved the American flag and its colors and was determined to someday be the best citizen she could be, a police officer, helping people keep the peace in their lives. And maybe, just maybe, she would even join the FBI. The library book she had tucked under her pillow promised her everything she ever wanted. Structure, excellence, intelligence, and exciting challenges.
A sound stirred her from her sleep and she turned over in a stupor, hoping it would go away. As she tried to return to sleep, the sound took on meaning in her mind. It was constant and blaring, demanding her attention. At once she sat up and threw back her covers. She had to hurry or the neighbors would call the police again. Trotting down the dark hallway, she passed her parent’s bedroom. Her mother was dead to the world in an alcohol-induced state of exhaustion, arms spread wide as she lay on her back on top of the comforter. The sight only caused Sarah greater anxiety. She was on her own; it was her responsibility now.
She rushed out the front door, stepping barefoot onto the freezing-cold concrete. Chills shot up through her and she hugged herself in her thin pajamas as she made her way to the source of the loud noise. Her breath showed itself in white clouds as she moved quickly to her father’s old Chevy. A screen door slammed shut behind her, causing her to turn. One of her neighbors stood on his porch, staring her down in anger.
“Sorry!” She waved to him nervously and then opened up the car door. Inside, her father lay unconscious, limp and heavy against the steering wheel, against the horn. It was happening more and more often lately, Roy somehow making it home alive and unharmed but dangerously drunk. As soon as he pulled in the drive, or sometimes the yard, his body gave up, passing out in the vehicle, sometimes hitting the horn and alerting her and sometimes not. More than one morning she had found him in his car, nearly frozen with the night air, asleep and oblivious.
She pushed him back against the seat with all her might. She was only fourteen but she was long and strong, much like him. The angry blare of the horn silenced and he sat slouched, his head hanging. The neighbor banged back inside his house and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.
Wrapping her father’s arm around her shoulders, she pulled him up out of the car. He groaned at her but remained useless as she kicked the car door shut. Walking unsteadily, she dragged him along to the front door, amazed at how she was able to carry his six foot five frame. Once inside, she used all of her remaining strength to maneuver him to the couch, where she released him to plop down like a giant rag doll.
She lifted his legs, made sure his body was entirely on the sofa, and pushed him toward the back of it to lessen his chances of rolling off. He mumbled something unintelligible as she yanked off his heavy work boots and covered him with a blanket.
After returning to lock the front door, she dragged herself back to her bed, where she too collapsed, exhausted. She didn’t get a thank you, and never had. She never even got an acknowledgment for caring for her folks the way they should’ve been caring for her. She figured she never would.
The next morning, she forced herself out of bed and readied her tired body for school. Her father was moving around noisily in the living room, apparently waking up himself. She passed him but did not speak to him as she made her way to the door, book bag in tow. He stood staring out the window, fresh beer in his hand.
“The car’s gone.” His voice was deep and throaty, still not yet awake.
She froze, alarmed first by the fact that he was speaking to her, and secondly by his words. “What?” Panic rushed through her as she made sense of it.
“I can’t find the damn keys.” He patted down his pockets with his free hand. “They must’ve been in the car. Somebody decided to take it.” He looked over at her, his eyes bleary, his hair sticking up on one side.
Sarah stood still, fear and shame nearly shaking her. She had forgotten to take the keys. It was her fault the car was gone. She thought about apologizing, about running back to her room in shame. She knew for sure he was going to yell at her. But he merely stood and shook his head.
“I guess I better call the police.” He swallowed more of his beer. “You better hurry up or you’ll miss your bus.”
She hesitated a moment and then moved. He didn’t remember the events of the previous night. And she wasn’t about to remind him.
That wasn’t the last episode with the car. A few weeks later he had wrecked it, running off into a cow pasture and lying there unconscious until the owner found him around noon the next day. Eventually he lost his license and Sarah had to drive him everywhere. That meant picking him up at all hours at Scottie’s home, where he spent nearly every night gambling their money away.
Scottie. He not only had taken her innocence, but the
majority of their money as well.
She took in a shaky breath and forced her mind back into the now. She willed her nerves to hold out just a little longer. She rose from the chair and brought her hand to rest on the cool door handle and stood for a moment, debating. An orderly broke the quiet, pushing a supply cart slowly by. She glanced at her watch. It was nearing one a.m. Hopefully Roy would be asleep. And alone.
Knowing it was now or never, she opened the large door and stepped inside. A thin blue curtain was pulled even though the bed closest to the door was empty. The room was dim and she moved slowly and carefully, the only source of light being a fluorescent bar that glowed above a sink to her left. Her heart pounded with fright, making her feel fourteen again—vulnerable, afraid and unsure.
She halted just beyond the curtain near the foot of her father’s bed. He lay sleeping and she studied him hurriedly, at first thinking she had the wrong room. But as she focused, her breath was stolen from her throat. His face was thin and drawn, his once full cheeks sunken and lined. He was almost completely unrecognizable. He looked worse than Scottie. He looked like a skeleton. A gasp escaped her, and she covered her mouth quickly with a trembling hand. The situation she had been avoiding for so long now slapped her hard in the face, forcing reality on her. She felt herself quiver as raw emotion swept through her.
“Sarah?” a meek voice questioned from the dark corner next to the bed. Her mother rose up out of her chair and approached her. Wrinkles from worry and cigarettes etched her face, aging her beyond her years. “I’m so glad you finally came.”
She raised an unsure hand that eventually settled on Sarah’s shoulder. A ragged-sounding cough shook her thin body, punishment for the addictive poison she inhaled on a daily basis. Sarah stepped away, uncomfortable with the contact. She wasn’t ready for that yet. There was too much tackling her at the moment, too much to deal with.
She forced hersef to move toward the bed and stood at her father’s side. His once thick, dark hair was swept over his head in a soft, thin veil. His mouth was slack and open, taking in irregular, rattling breaths. A strange smell seemed to emanate from him and she noticed some purple splotches on the back of his hands and arms. Panic surged through her as a long pause passed between breaths. She waited, her heart thudding in her ears. She nearly cried with relief when the next breath finally came.
“I was afraid I would be too late,” she confessed, her voice cracking.
“They don’t think he’ll make it through to morning,” her mother whispered.
Sarah continued to study him, the man she had resented and blamed her past on. He looked so weak, so helpless, a mere shell of the man she had grown to despise. Every ounce of hate, of blame shook through her, none of it mattering, none of it worth a damn. Another gasp escaped her, one then two. What had she been thinking? Why had she hated for so long? All the while he lay there suffering, his diseased body collapsing upon the man he once was. He was her father and he had wanted to see her, but she couldn’t allow it for her own selfish reasons. What had she been thinking? That she would make him pay?
No. She shook her head and hastily wiped away a warm tear. She was the one who had paid. And she was paying now for her harbored anger and spite. She reached out to touch him, desperate for him to know that she was there and she was sorry. Sorry for not calling, for not forgiving. He had only lived his life, never physically harming her, making sure she had a roof over her head. He probably hadn’t meant to hurt her. He probably wasn’t even aware that he had.
Or maybe he was aware and that was why he had tried to mend their relationship a couple of years ago, calling her, asking her to come around. But she had refused. She had never given him the chance. Her hand trembled, hovering above his. She couldn’t remember the last time she had touched him.
Seeming to sense her tight emotions, her mother moved quickly to the other side of the bed. Sarah saw the redness in her eyes, on the tip of her nose. She had been crying.
“Roy? Roy, Sarah’s here.” Her mother took his limp hand and held it, stroking it. “He’s on a lot of morphine. He may not come around.”
Sarah pulled her hand back, afraid that if she did touch him, her pain would come spilling out and she would crumble. Suddenly unsure if she could remain strong and still be able to stand, she reached back for the chair her mother had been sitting in. As she settled into it, her father began to mutter through dry lips.
Her mother leaned down, speaking closer to his ear. “Sarah’s here.” She looked over and nodded at her daughter. “Take his hand, let him know where you are.”
Sarah swallowed hard and did as requested, touching her father lightly, feeling his cool, dry skin. She nearly wept at the contact, at his weakness, at her stubbornness.
“Sarah?” His voice was ragged, a mere whisper, his eyes still closed.
Wiping her eyes, she sat forward, grasping his frail hand more tightly. “Yes, it’s me.” She had to fight to keep from crying. The threatening sobs burned her throat and squeezed her chest.
“Sarah?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. His lips moved before the words formed. “I…I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, not needing his apology. It didn’t matter anymore. None of it. “It’s okay,” she responded barely able to speak. The emotions she had held buried within for so long surfaced and crashed together like angry waves. “It’s okay. I know,” she reassured him. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Sarah?” Again he called her name and then mumbled words she couldn’t make out. His breath rattled as he took in several shallow gasps of air.
He mumbled again and squeezed her hand. Her heart shattered with pain as she listened, wishing she could understand. Hot tears blurred her vision and she wiped at them angrily, determined to see him with clear eyes and clear mind.
“Here.” Her mother reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. She held it out over the bed. “He wanted you to have this.”
Sarah took it reluctantly and fingered her name written in neat cursive. She glanced up at her mother, unsure.
“Go ahead, read it. He would want you to.”
Tentatively, Sarah opened the flap and reached inside to slide out the letter. She unfolded the notebook paper and read.
To my daughter Sarah,
I hope this letter finds you doing well. I’ve always hoped that you would find a good life, one that you deserve. I had hoped to see you and make things right by you, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be. It’s my own fault. All of it. I wasn’t a good father and I know that now. I’ve known it for some time. You were a good girl, Sarah, and you deserved so much better than you had.
I want you to know I never meant to hurt you. Neither did your mom. We were just too caught up in ourselves. But it was never intentional and you must never think it was your fault. The booze. The gambling. They took my attention away from the important things in life. Like our family.
I want you to know how very sorry I am. Sorry for all of it. And I’m especially sorry for not being able to know the wonderful woman I know you’ve become. I love you. Always have and always will. So does you mother. Please, give her a chance. She’s changed, just as I have. I hope you can find comfort in each other.
And I hope more than anything that you find everything you’ve ever wished for.
Your loving father,
Roy
Sucking in a shaky breath Sarah refolded the letter. Sobs, burning and overpowering, shook her chest. She reached out and touched his hand once again. Swallowing, she said, “I love you too, Dad.”
She barely got the words out before the sobbing tore through her. She lowered her head, the sorrow shaking her from head to toe.
Roy lay still, apparently unable to say anything more. His breathing continued on, irregular with lengthy pauses in between. He held her hand, though, and her mother came to stand by her side, resting a hand on her shoulder. They watched him together, and Sarah tri
ed to remember him, the way he’d once looked. She remembered him smiling, tall and handsome, laughing as he chased her around the yard. She remembered the way he danced with her mother, swinging her around the kitchen to one of his favorite songs. Tears welled and fell from her eyes, releasing the terrible pain, one tiny drop at a time.
His breathing slowed, the shallow gasps coming further apart. Her mother reached down and cupped her hand over Sarah’s, who held her father’s. They remained that way for what felt like an eternity, Sarah quietly battling her tears while her mother did her best to comfort her.
Eventually Roy took in a breath and fell silent for a longer period of time, causing Sarah to look up, waiting for the next breath to come.
But it never did.
She lowered her head and cried as quietly as she could. Her father loved her, he truly did. And she loved him. His life, the choices he made—he didn’t make them out of malice. He had made mistakes, but so had she. She couldn’t hate him for what he was. He was being who he was meant to be. People weren’t always who you wanted them to be. She had to love him for who he was. She could see all of that now. But it took him dying to get her to let go of the pain, of the past.
Rising up, she turned and let her mother embrace her. More sobs came as she felt just how thin her mother was. Her parents were no longer the ones ruining her life, neglecting her for their own fun. They had grown older and weaker and regretful. As she cried into her mother’s graying hair, she closed her eyes and held on to her, almost afraid to let her go. Her mother held her too, surprisingly strong for her size.
A nurse entered the room, walking up on them slowly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Sarah and her mother lowered their arms and wiped at their eyes.
“He finally went,” her mother said, moving to stroke his hair and pajamas. She glanced over at the nurse. “You were right. He was waiting for our daughter.”