by Monica James
“I promise you when this is all over you’ll live a normal, boring life, gossiping about all the things a typical, nineteen year old girl should be gossiping about,” Quinn says, squeezing my fingers.
Laughing, I reply, “Somehow I don’t see that happening, but one can dream.”
Quinn turns serious, his eyes focusing on me. “I want that for you, Red. You deserve that. You deserve to be free,” he adds, and I hate that he sounds undeserving of the same fate.
“So do you,” I reply softly, and now I’m the one squeezing his fingers.
Quinn only shakes his head, slipping his hand out from under mine.
“What? You don’t think you deserve a normal, boring life?” I question, watching the regretful expression mar his beautiful features.
“My chance at being normal and boring is long gone,” he replies, barely audible.
I know he’s referring to whatever skeletons he has hidden in his closet. And although I haven’t pushed, I wish he’d open up about his past. Deep down, it hurts that he won’t trust me enough to tell me what happened to shape him into the man he’s become.
The man who has sacrificed everything for me.
Whatever Quinn has done, it’ll never change the way I feel about him. Nothing will sway my feelings—no matter how horrifying, I will never stop believing in him.
“So, if push comes to shove and your father doesn’t make his move, are you going to be okay if we go to Canada?” Quinn asks. He doesn’t ask if I’ll be okay if I see my mom.
I shrug, suddenly feeling claustrophobic at the mere thought of her. Being on the run, attempting to dodge my dad, Phil, and the police, and on top of that, trying to figure out what Justin’s angle was, seeing my mom fell low on the priority list. But now that I’m faced with a real possibility of actually seeing her, I realize that no, I’m not going to be okay.
I put on a brave face and nod very unconvincingly. Quinn sees through my charade and I sense he’s going to say something I’m not going to like.
“Red.” He pauses, rubbing a hand down his fatigued face before he continues. “Will your dad figure it out?”
I cock an eyebrow, unsure of what he means.
“What if your dad has worked out we’re headed for Canada and he… goes after your mom?” he clarifies. I gasp.
The thought has a wave of nausea weighing heavily within my gut. I cover my mouth, part in shock, the other to stop myself from being sick. I never thought that far in advance, and after the Lucky incident, my dad going after my mom seems like a very feasible thing.
He’s out to destroy everything I love, and even though I don’t know what I feel for my mom, I do know that if he hurt her, I would never forgive myself.
Yes, I’m mad at my mom. And I’m not expecting her to welcome me back into her life with open arms, especially considering my current circumstances. But if my dad gets to her first, then I’ll never know for sure, because I have no doubt he’ll hurt her, knowing what it would do to me.
But how do I warn her?
I need time.
I’m not ready to talk to her, not yet.
“We have to warn her, Red,” Quinn says gently, obviously sensing the internal war going on within me.
“What?” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, I can’t.”
Pushing back against the red leather booth, away from Quinn’s knowledgeable gaze, I feel the walls closing in on me.
“I’ll send her a letter,” I lamely suggest, my body starting to shut down, as the fear of talking to my mother takes over.
“It’ll take too long,” Quinn says, making a sympathetic face when he watches my shaky fingers reach for my glass of water.
He sighs, leaning forward to reach for my hand, but I pull back. I don’t want his sympathy.
“If you’re right, and your dad is predicting your every move, then he’ll guess we’re headed for Canada, and that we’ll go see your mom.”
“But we’re not going there to see her,” I bark, suddenly feeling heated all over.
“I know. But when we cross that border, you know she’s the first person you’ll want to see.”
“I’m not thinking about a family reunion, Quinn!” I snap, feeling horrible for lashing out, but suddenly, the thought of seeing my mom sinks in and I’m going to hurl.
“I know this is hard for you, Red, but we have to tell her what’s going on. I know you’re not ready to talk to her, but—” Quinn says softly, his eyes expressing nothing but genuine concern. I can’t stand it.
I feel like a victim… again.
“How would you know?” I demand, shooting up from the booth, ready to make a mad dash toward the safety of the exit.
“Red, it’s okay to be scared,” Quinn says, standing up, and that damn sympathetic look is only worsening by the second.
Taking a step back, I snarl, “I’m not scared.”
And it’s true. I’m not scared; I’m mad, because Quinn is right. I should warn my mother about my father, but a part of me doesn’t want to. And that part of me is an evil part, the part that screams, ‘why should I?’
Why should I warn her that a monster is headed her way? She never warned me about the monster. She left me with him.
What kind of person does that make me? To not want to caution my own mother that she’s in danger.
All this time, being on the run, I could push my mom to the back of my mind. But now, I no longer have that luxury because Quinn is right. As soon as I step foot into Canada, I’ll be hunting her down, and I’m not ready for that part of my life. That’s the reason why I never sought her out when I found her.
I wasn’t ready.
But now, now I have no choice, and I’m still not ready.
“I’m not ready to see her,” I whisper, feeling my bottom lip tremble, but I refuse to allow any tears to fall.
“I know, and I’m not saying we have to go see her. I just think warning her is the right thing to do,” Quinn states, gently placing his hand on my upper arm.
I shrug out of his embrace, as I don’t want his compassion.
“I know!” I shout, and suddenly, I can’t breathe as the truth right hooks me in the face.
“Red, it’s okay,” Quinn coos, attempting to wrap his arms around me.
Pushing him away, those stubborn tears prick my eyes. “How do you know it’s going to be okay?” I cry. “How would you know how I feel?” I scream, not caring that I’m causing a scene and have the attention of the entire diner.
Quinn grabs me firmly, pushing me up against his wall of a chest, not allowing me to evade him as he whispers into my ear, “Because I know how it feels to have a mother abandon you, okay?” he snarls. “I know how it feels to be treated like you’re nothing but trash. Like you don’t matter! I know, because my mother did it to me!” he growls, his fingers biting into my waist.
As his bitter words sink in, I feel as if the floor has fallen out from under me, so I quickly steady myself by placing a hand on his taut bicep.
How could his mother do that to him? Are there no good parents out there?
Quinn is right; we are cut from the same cloth.
“I didn’t know,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.” I attempt to envelop him in my arms, wanting to comfort him.
Quinn flinches.
“I don’t want your apologies,” he snaps, shoving me forcefully, and I almost fall backward with the momentum.
Stunned by his anger, I plead, “Quinn, talk to me.”
Quinn turns away, looking over his shoulder, his chest rising and falling with harsh, heated breaths.
This is neither the time, nor the place. But hey, this scene is sure to draw the attention of my father if he is indeed watching me.
“Talk to me!” I demand, fisting his shirt in both hands. “Tell me what happened to you,” I beg, watching the internal fire burning brightly behind Quinn’s emerald eyes as he slowly turns to face me.
But he bites his lip angrily and snarls, “So we can compare
notes on how fucked up our mommies are? I don’t think so. I’d much rather forget I have a mother, because in my eyes, my mother is dead.”
My gaze softens, and I can’t help but empathize with Quinn, which is a hypocritical act, as I hated the same look reflected in his eyes only moments ago.
Quinn suddenly recoils and I know why.
I hate that look. That ‘sucks to be you’ look. It’s a look that makes you feel weak. It’s a look that makes you feel like a victim. And no one wants to be a victim, especially someone who knows firsthand how that feels.
And now I’ve gone and given that look to Quinn. But more importantly, I’ve made him feel like a victim, something he obviously refuses to be.
“Quinn,” I say, my voice coated in sympathy even though he doesn’t want it.
“This is why I never told you about my past. I don’t want, or deserve your pity,” he sneers, fisting his hair.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“You what?” he snaps, raising an eyebrow, waiting for me to explain, but words escape me.
My heart is breaking in half watching him fall apart, and I don’t want to worsen the situation by saying something stupid, so I don’t say anything at all.
Quinn reaches into his back pocket, then throws a few bills onto the table and storms off, kicking open the door with a loud thud with his exit.
I stand frozen for a few seconds, attempting to gather my thoughts because I don’t know what the fuck just happened. What I do know however, is that this is my fault, and my feet are pounding on the tiled floor, before my foggy brain can catch up.
I can hear patrons whisper under their breaths at the debacle they just witnessed, but they can all go to hell. There’s only one thing that matters, and that’s finding Quinn.
The cool breeze slaps at my cheeks, and I turn my head from left to right, desperately searching for Quinn. Thankfully, I see him not too far up the street, and my boots pound on the sidewalk as I chase after him.
“Quinn!”
I know he can hear me, as his shoulders hunch when I yell out to him a second time. He doesn’t slow down. He pushes past a couple of shoppers window shopping, and he doesn’t look like he’ll stop as he quickens his pace.
“Quinn! God dammit! Stop! I’m sorry!” I cry, pushing past people who have stopped and turned to look at the raving lunatic that would be me.
But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps on walking, and before long, my tears cloud my vision, and I lose sight of where he is.
Collapsing onto a weathered, wooden bench, I drop my face into my palms as my tears pass through my fingers, running down my cheeks, and staining my torn, blue jeans. I’m such an idiot—I should have chased after him, but I know there’s nothing I could have said to make this right, as I’ve been in his shoes—too many times to count.
I understand Quinn needs to be on his own, because the one and only time he was willing to let me in, I gave him that damn look, the one I despise more than anything in this world.
The urge to run and purge this shitstorm overtakes me, so I get up, sniffling back my tears, and begin running. I run in the other direction, away from my betrayal of Quinn’s trust, and I just keep on running until my lungs burn, and my entire body trembles in fatigue. I can’t stop, because when I do, reality will catch up to me and remind me of the pained look in Quinn’s beautiful eyes.
It’s getting dark by the time my body gives out and I collapse against a wall in a dirty alley.
My breath is labored, and the heavy feeling in my chest has been getting worse with every step I take. The marathon run to God knows where has not made me feel better. All it’s done is given me a headache and crave a roadmap.
How is Quinn ever going to trust me again? His mother, like mine, is obviously a touchy subject for him. I just hope some groveling and an explanation will make things right between us.
“Idiot,” I mumble to myself under my breath, lightly banging my head against the brick wall behind me.
As a few drops of rain splash against my cheeks, I realize I need to get back, as I’m not sure how long I’ve been gone, or where the hell I am. Pushing off the wall, I commence my walk of shame, hoping Quinn will forgive me. He’s done nothing but help me, and all I’ve done is hurt him.
Deep in thought, I stupidly let my guard down, not taking in my surroundings. And that irresponsible action costs me dearly. Suddenly, the hair at the back of my neck prickles in terror, and I hastily reach down, making a grab for the knife in my boot. But I don’t get there in time.
Someone pushes in between my shoulder blades and I trip, losing my footing, falling face first into a stagnant puddle of liquid. The disgusting water, which I am pretty sure consists of piss and garbage juice, stings my eyes. I quickly spit out the liquid before I gag.
My hands have broken my fall, which is good, as it gives me the leverage to push off my wrists to find my feet. But the wind gets knocked out of my sails as my attacker forces a knee into my lower back, roughly pinning me to the ground. My face being is inches away from the dirty puddle.
My heartbeat begins a steady increase, throbbing in time with my racing pulse, and as my fight or flight instinct takes over, I know I need to get the fuck off this ground, and now. I refuse to allow this to happen to me again.
I resist, but my assailant has the upper hand as he deepens the pressure of his knee, winding me.
Attempting to turn my cheek to get a look at the motherfucker proves futile, as he roughly clasps his calloused fingers around the back of my neck, shoving my face into the filthy ground.
My chin is pressing into the watery bluestone beneath me, but I strain against his hold, pushing back with my neck muscles, which feel like they are about to snap under the brutal force.
But sadly, that’s all I can do, as my body is immobilized by the weight of my attacker. I’ll be damned if I don’t put up a fight. As I desperately attempt to buck him off, he thrusts his other hand onto my shoulder blade so hard, my collarbone pops as it smashes into the cement.
With no other choice, I scream, “What do you want? Motherfucker, get the fuck off me!” It comes out muffled, as my face is now submerged in liquid.
I don’t stop struggling, as I don’t want to drown. Finally, his hold slackens slightly, and I’m able to turn my head to the right. I take a big breath and I scream and scream. I know I’m not getting out of this without help.
However, the louder I scream, the harder he pushes into me, and when I wriggle with all my might, trying to buck him off yet again, he fists my long, knotted hair into his palm, smashing my face once, then twice, into the cement.
I see stars, but pure adrenalin has taken over, and I know it’s now or never as I feel fresh blood rain heavily into my eyes from an open gash in my hairline. The hot, thick blood seeps into my mouth. I spit it out and with everything that’s left, I scream. But it’s a half whimper, half moan, as I’m slowly losing consciousness.
“Motherfuck,” I moan before my head connects with the pavement for the third and final time.
Then everything fades to black.
Chapter 29
Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold
Everything aches.
My body.
My brain.
My heart.
My body feels battered, my brain feels fried, and my heart, well my heart feels broken.
I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, but I tell my fried brain to snap the hell out of it and catch the fuck up.
I need to think.
Thinking back to the last memory I can remember, I yelp, which comes out muffled. A tight gag is preventing me from screaming.
Shit!
Panic engulfs my entire being, and as I attempt to open my eyes to make sense of my surroundings, I realize my eyes are open.
So why is everything black?
It’s only then that I feel a scratchy blindfold is covering my eyes, preventing me from seeing anything.
Double shit!
A sudden ache stabs me in the heart, and as I try to raise my arms to rub my chest, they don’t move an inch because my hands are bound with thick rope.
Double shit fuck!
Taking a calming breath and counting to three, I attempt to kick my legs out, but sadly, they are also bound to the rickety wooden chair I’m sitting upon.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out or if I’m alone. All I know is that I need to get the knife in my boot, which is going to be impossible, but I have to try. I wiggle my fingers, but the rope is wrapped around my wrists so tightly, I’m surprised I haven’t lost feeling in my hands.
Now I really start to panic.
My hearing and my sense of smell are the only two things I have to work with, and I plan on exploiting the hell out of both.
Taking a big whiff of my surroundings, all I get is pine needles and fast food—so very unhelpful. But my sense of hearing is quite acute as I will my racing heart to calm the fuck down so I can get some kind of idea of where I am.
There is little to no background noise. No horns blaring, no brakes squealing, no people yelling, no dogs barking, no nothing, which makes me think I’m someplace remote, someplace far, far away from anyone, or anything.
My heavy breathing echoes loudly within my chest, and because of the stupid gag, I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate. But again, I will my breathing to a steady rhythm, and use my now semi-clear brain to try and piece together what to do next.
I am gagged and bound, and miles from civilization; however, I know there is at least one other person in the room with me. Looks like my sense of smell came in handy after all, as the fresh fast food is a dead giveaway that I’m not alone. And the pine needles indicate I’m in the woods—great!
I’m probably in some shack—some bug-infested shack—fucking perfect.
The thought of the huge creepy crawlies, who are currently breathing the same panicked air as me, throws my calm demeanor out the window, and I pointlessly scream around my gag, swaying the chair, hoping to tip it over so I can slither my way out of here. But I freeze when I hear a tongue clicking, because I was right—I’m not alone.