by Rye Hart
“Who's Marianne, Jack?” Sydney asks again. “Do you have a girlfriend?'
“No,” I scoff. “She's a saleslady that helped me get some of those clothes for you.”
Sydney holds out my phone – as if I can see it from where I am when she's up on the second floor. I cut a glance up at her but keep my eyes on Peter. The ringing in my head a reminder that I can't afford to take my eyes off of him completely. Not even for a moment.
“If she's not your girlfriend,” Sydney asks. “Then why is she texting you pictures of her boobs?”
Sydney tosses the phone to me and against my better judgement, I grab it. Keeping a wary eye on the man in front of me, I look down at the phone. The photo is of a very drunk Marianne, clearly, in the bathroom at some club. Her shirt is lifted up and she's not wearing a bra, her boobs in perfect view. A drunken smile is plastered on her face.
The text says, “See what you're missing, Jack? Come out with me next time. Kisses - Marianne.”
Peter uses my distraction to his advantage, throwing another punch. Though half-distracted, I'm still ready for it and catch his hand just before it hits my face. Sydney comes down the stairs, her eyes fixed on me for some reason. I step forward and give Peter a vicious push backward to keep him away from her. He stumbles but manages to keep his feet.
“Stop it,” Sydney snaps. “Stop fighting, goddammit.”
Peter and I both look at her and then at each other, silently agreeing to a temporary truce. Our postures slip into a more relaxed pose, but I'm going to be ready to rock at a moment's notice if he fucks with me.
I tuck the phone into my pocket as Peter focuses his attention on Sydney. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches as he looks at her. I can see the anger, dark and abiding in his eyes and am pretty sure that if I let Sydney go anywhere with him, she's going to end up hurt. Probably badly, too.
“Sydney, baby,” he coos. “I've been looking for you. I'm sorry about what happened.”
“What happened exactly?” I ask, shoving my way in front of Sydney, arms crossed in front of me.
Peter looks to Sydney, then at me, then back at Sydney again.
“Didn't she tell you?” he says.
Sydney's voice pipes up from behind me. “I don't remember what happened.”
“You what?”
A predatory smile curls on his face. I see the mask changing in front of me, his anger turns to something more sinister looking. A look of someone who thinks they may get away with something they thought they were going to have to do an elaborate song and dance to get out of. The smile of somebody who thinks they're about to get off scot-free.
“She had a head injury,” I spit. “She lost her memory, but is getting it back, piece by piece. We're hoping you might be able to answer a few questions about what happened though. You know, to help jog her memory.”
“Of course,” he says. “I'll tell you everything I know.”
“Bullshit.”
I know he's full of shit. He's not going to tell us a single thing. Nothing that implicates him, anyway. Just standing there in front of him though, and looking into his eyes, I'm more certain than ever that Peter is responsible for what happened to Sydney. I know it deep down in my fucking bones.
Sydney touches my arm, and I turn to look at her. Her eyes are soft as she looks at me and I know that getting to the bottom of things, of hopefully getting some answers is important to her. I remind myself that this is about her, not me.
“Hear him out, Jack,” she says softly. “I want to know what happened.”
“You think he's going to tell you the truth?” I snap.
I'm so angry in the moment that I can't stop the words before they come flying out of my mouth. I don't mean to egg her on or upset her, but I know that Peter is an abusive scumbag. I know that he's responsible for her condition. I fucking know it.
“I don't know who's telling the truth about anything, anymore,” she says.
She stares at me long and hard and I can tell she doesn't believe me about Marianne. Great. Fucking great. I'm frustrated as hell. Marianne couldn't have picked a worse time to pull that bullshit. It's a battle for another time though. Right now, I need to focus on the fight right in front of me. And that fight is Peter.
“Let's all sit down and hear him out,” she says. “Okay?”
Not my idea of a good time, but I grumble. “Fine.”
If that's what she wants to do, I'll do it. But I cast my gaze at Peter who's giving me a smug little smirk.
“But try anything, fucker, anything at all, and I'll see that you're the one with the head injury,” I snap.
“Jack – ” Sydney says in a tone of voice that sounds as if she's scolding me.
Peter just smirks again, and it takes everything in me not to beat it right off his smarmy looking face.
ooo000ooo
Sydney wants coffee, so I brew up a fresh cup. I lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded over my chest, as the two talk at my dining room table. It takes everything in me not to step into the conversation, but Sydney keeps an eye on me, the look in her eyes telling me to stay out of it. For now.
I'm there as backup, in case she needs me to rescue her. Seems that's all I'm good for these days.
“So, after we left the cafe,” Peter says, keeping his voice neutral, glancing at me now and then, scowling at my presence – good to know the feeling is mutual. “We got into a little fight. You ordered the driver to stop the limo and got out. I tried to stop you, but – well, you wouldn't listen. You walked back toward the cafe and I figured you needed some time to decompress and I let you go. Bad idea as it turns out, I know, but – well, I was angry too. You were headed toward Daisy’s, so I let you go. I didn't realize you left your purse or your phone in the limo until later.”
“And her shoes?” I ask.
He looks back at me. “She had them on when she got out,” he explains. “I don't know what happened to them after that.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, I doubt that. Sydney looks up at me, then back at Peter.
“Sydney, I swear to God, I've been worried sick about you,” he says. “I've looked everywhere.”
“Except at the hospital or the police station,” I chime in.
“I didn't go to the police, no. I just assumed she was mad at me and staying with someone she knew,” he says. “I even thought you might run into the arms of your ex. Which is why I came here in the first place. After I found the letter in your purse, I thought maybe I'd look for you here. I was hoping I wouldn't find you here though. And certainly not naked.”
It sounds plausible enough, I guess. If you're an idiot. I can tell that every goddamn word falling out of his mouth is bullshit. It all sounds very reasonable, and is expertly crafted. But, it's still bullshit nonetheless. I can only hope that Sydney can see through this prick as easily as I can.
My phone buzzes, and I look at it. Marianne again. Shit. This time apologizing for sending the picture, with a follow-up asking me to dinner tonight.
“Your girlfriend texting again?” Sydney says dryly.
“She's not my girlfriend, Syd.”
Sydney looks unconvinced but doesn't argue with me. Peter pulls something from his pocket and holds it out, and it takes only a second for me to realize what's in the small, black box he's holding.
A ring.
Shit.
“Sydney, I brought you to Aspen to ask you to marry me,” he says. “I had this entire thing planned from the start. A romantic dinner overlooking the slopes, me down on one knee. Do you really think I'd hurt you?”
“I honestly don't know what to believe,” she says. “Or who.”
The comment seems aimed at me and I can't help but feel the bitter sting of it.
“Come back with me, Sydney,” Peter says. “Come back to my chateau and let's talk, I'll take care of you and when you get your memory back, you'll see. We were happy. Just ask your parents or your best friend, Allison.”
“I don't know, Peter,
” she says, shaking her head. “I just don't know anything right now.”
“I understand,” Peter says, closing the ring box. “It's just – I worry about you here. Jack was very unhappy when we ran into him at the cafe, and I wouldn't doubt he's the one who did this to you.”
That's enough. I lunge forward and grab the bastard by the collar, lifting him from the chair. He squirms and tries to break free, as Sydney screams at me to stop.
“Get out of my fucking house,” I hiss.
“Sydney, come with me,” he begs, looking past me.
Sydney looks torn, and I try to reason with her. “Who's been by your side at the hospital and afterward? Who's taken care of you, huh?”
Sydney's eyes soften. “Jack, like I said, I don't know – ”
She holds her head as if it hurts her to think. Her eyes close and her mouth opens in a silent scream. The look on her face makes me drop Peter and go to her, but she pushes me away.
“I feel like everyone is lying to me,” she says. “First, you say you're my husband – ”
“Which I explained,” I tell her.
“Then you don't tell me everything about why we split in the first place – ”
“What do you – ”
“You fucked me and ran away, Jack. You ran away like a chickenshit after taking my virginity,” she screams.
Even Peter stops moving toward her and looks at me like I'm the scum of the Earth. Yeah, as if this prick has any room to cast judgment on me for anything. Tears shimmer in her eyes. “And now, some girl is sending you pictures of her breasts and you claim you don't know her?” she gasps. “What am I supposed to believe, Jack?”
“I can explain everything – ”
“No, you can't. No one can,” she says, walking toward the door, my heart breaking a little more with every step she takes. “At least Peter hasn't lied to me in the last few days.”
“You don't know that.”
“I guess I'll take my chances then,” she says.
Peter gives me a greasy, condescending grin. It's the look of someone who knows he's won. He didn't even have to do anything, not really. I'd lost this battle before it even started. I knew it was only a matter of time before the memories came back to her. Only a matter of time before she realized what I'd done to her. I knew that once she did, she'd hate me for it.
I tried to prepare myself for the blow of losing her again as best as I could. But, it still wasn't enough. As I stand there, the pain of watching her walk out, the hurt from her questioning my honesty and integrity is almost overwhelming.
I'm speechless as the two of them leave. Peter throws his jacket over her shoulders and ushers her to a black limo that's waiting outside for them. The driver opens up the door and they get inside.
I am forced to stand there and watch as the love of my life is driven away by a man I know is only going to hurt her again. It's only a matter of time before he does. I can only hope that next time he does, it's not worse.
I should have done more to stop her.
My fists hits the window without me even realizing I'd thrown a punch. My knuckles strike the glass, shattering it. I curse to myself as blood gushes from my injured hand, but I don't even care anymore. Gunner's nails clack against the hardwood floor as he takes cover. I've even scared my dog.
Fuck. I can't do anything right today.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SYDNEY
I know I acted hastily by leaving Jack's place. I didn't feel like I really had much of a choice though. I'm so confused and upset. I don't know up from down right now, and every time I close my eyes, all I see is that memory of Jack walking away from me.
His words that day had cut me deep. He stabbed me straight through the heart with what he said. And the real bitch of it is, it feels like it happened only yesterday. The pain is still so intense, it feels like the wounds are still fresh. The texts from some random woman didn't help matters any. I didn't even have to snoop to find them. I picked up his phone from where it was sitting on the floor, just in case I needed to call 9-1-1, and there they were, staring me right in the face. Pictures of a beautiful brunette with cherry red lips and perfect, perky boobs.
Fuck her, and fuck Jack for making me think he's someone he's quite obviously not.
Peter doesn't say much on the car ride. He just looks out the car window. He's tense, his eyes are narrowed, his jaw is clenched, and his lips are pulled back into a scowl. I assume he's mad about Jack still, so I don't say anything about him. I imagine it has to be hurtful to see the woman you're trying to propose to, naked in some other man's house
For the moment, I think avoiding any and all discussion about Jack is the best thing for the both of us. At least, until all of the emotions have died down and we have a minute to think about it all clearly.
“You said you had my phone?” I ask. “I'd like to call my parents.”
Peter doesn't acknowledge me at all. It's like he didn't even hear me speaking.
“Peter?”
He shifts in the seat and pulls out an iPhone, hands it over without so much as looking at me. As he moves, I catch sight of something beneath the seat. It's red and shiny, glinting in the light that filters in through the windows. I lean down and pick it up.
It's a high heeled shoe. It's my shoe.
I remember wearing them on nights out in Los Angeles, and I remember putting them on as I prepared for the trip. I look up at Peter, slack-jawed, holding the shoe up for him to see. He looks from the shoe to me, a strange look on his face.
“What?” he says.
His voice is bland and uninterested. It's total change from the way he spoke to me before.
“It's my shoe.”
“Yeah?” he sneers. “So?
He'd said I was wearing my shoes when I got out of the limo the night of my injury. Peter rolls his eyes and finally looks over at me. There's a look of disgust on his face as he takes me in for I guess, the first time.
“Can you please cover yourself up?” he snaps. “I don't need any more reminders of how much of a whore you really are.”
A cold finger of fear traces its way down my spine and I feel the goosebumps rising on my skin, feeling like the legs of a thousand insects marching up my arms.
“I wouldn't bother to telling your parents about this if I were you,” he says casually. “They'll just disown you for sleeping with that sack of shit anyway. I won't tell if you don't. It'll be our little secret.”
I'm still holding the shoe, my mouth open wide. I can't form the words to articulate the dark, ominous thoughts swirling around inside my head. No one should ever speak to someone they supposedly love and cherish the way he's speaking to me.
“I'm not a whore,” I finally mange to croak out. “And Jack is not a sack of shit.”
“Whatever makes you feel better, dear,” he says, turning and looking out the window again. “It's still better if you don't tell anyone about this little fiasco. No one will believe you anyway.”
Hearing him talk now, I see images in my head. I shudder when I see his hand around my throat, the other one reaching for the door handle. We were in a car – this car. As the memories come flooding back, I remember the cold wind of the night when he finally got the door open. It was bitter, biting cold. I close my eyes and shake my head, overwhelmed by the memories that are rushing into my head all at once.
He looks over at me and smirks. “All coming back to you now, is it, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” I manage to choke out the word.
“Good,” he spits. “Maybe next time, you'll appreciate the fact that I don't handle rejection very well and will act accordingly.”
“Stop the car,” I call out to the driver.
“He can't hear you,” Peter says. “Besides, I'm the one who pays him, not you. He will only listen to me.”
I bang on the glass separating us from the driver. “Stop the fucking car, now!”
The limo stops. Just like that. This time, it's my turn to smirk
.
“It's awfully cold out there, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Sure you want to take your chances in nothing but that t-shirt?”
“I've experienced worse and lived to tell the tale,” I say.
I open the limo door and climb out, and the cold hits me hard. It's impossible to breathe and almost feels like my lungs have frozen inside my chest. I can't see Jack's house from here and have no idea how far it is to get back, but I decide to take my chances.
Peter isn't willing to let me go that easily, however. He steps from the limo and looms over me, staring at me menacingly.
“Get back in the limo, Sydney” he says through gritted teeth. “Now.”
I turn and walk in the direction from which we'd come. I figure if I walk in a straight line and follow the road, sooner or later, I'm going to run into something that looks familiar. I don't turn back to look at him, but I hear him behind me. Following me. I pick up my pace, trying to get away, but Peter grabs my shoulder and spins me around, forcing me to face him, nearly causing me to slide on the ice beneath my feet.
“Sydney, get back in the fucking limo,” he sneers. “I'm not fucking around. You'll do as your told or you're going to pay the price for your disobedience.”
In the distance, I hear a car coming our way and feel a surge of relief. Surely, Peter won't try something stupid with witnesses bearing down on us.. As the sound approaches though, I realize that it sounds heavier than a car. It's a truck.
I pull away from Peter, determined to get away from him, but he grabs me around the waist, lifting me off the ground and slings me over his shoulder as he carries me back toward the limo. I kick and scream, even try to bite him. It's no use. He's got a grip of iron and his arm is clamped down around my waist. He's not letting me go. I've made a huge mistake and now I'm going to pay for it.
He throws me in the backseat of the limo like a sack of dirty laundry and gives me a dark smile. He looks like he's about to say something to me – probably something snotty – but before he can speak and shut the door, I hear a voice call out from the road behind us.