Unbearable (The Port Fare Series)

by Sherry Gammon

  As Booker closed the distance between us, I held my breath.

  Chapter 6

  “I'm too sexy for my shirt / Too sexy for my shirt / So sexy . . .”

  “Maggie,” Booker half grumbled, half chuckled as he pulled back, digging his cell phone from his pocket as the magic of the moment evaporated.

  “Sorry. If I leave my phone lying around at Seth’s, Maggie sabotages it. Last week I had Barbie wallpaper on all my screens,” he explained, as “I’m Too Sexy for my Shirt” began again. He glanced at the display. “Oh, good. It’s Dewey, the guy working on your car.” He pressed the phone to his ear.

  I used the interruption to gather myself. Strong attraction or not, I still didn’t know if I wanted to try to have a relationship again. With Booker, I felt safe, and I’d even let my guard down, opening up and letting my former self peek through. Yet fear still owned me, no matter how hard I tried to put it behind me. It didn’t help that every time I took a shower, the scars across my stomach and back reminded me just how lucky I was to be alive. I ran my hand over my shirt, rubbing the healed wounds beneath—well, physically healed wounds. I doubted I’d ever heal emotionally.

  “Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Booker asked, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

  “Good?”

  “Dewey replaced the battery, and he has to replace the radiator which means it’s not a cracked head. The bad news is that since the car is old, he doesn’t have it in stock so he’ll need to order it. It’ll take about three days.” He shrugged. “I’ll give you a ride to and from work until then, so no need to worry, and with your moving into Maggie’s trailer, it’ll be even more convenient for you.”

  “Thanks, Booker. I appreciate everything.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” he said. “If you need boxes, I know that Donna and Haley, the interior design duo decorating on the sixth floor, have some. You might want to run and grab them before they break them down for the recycle bin.” Booker reached into his pocket. “Here.” He tossed me the key. “Stick them in the car.”

  “Whoa,” I said, catching the keys despite the poor toss.

  “Sorry,” he grimaced, “but nice catch.”

  “I was captain of the lacrosse team in high school, both my junior and senior years.”

  “No kidding,” he said, clearly surprised. “I remembered you saying you played, I didn’t know you were captain. You any good at basketball?”

  “I can hold my own,” I bragged a little.

  “Aren’t you just full of surprises today, Tess Layla?” he said with a nod, adding, “By the way, some of my MET gear is still in the trunk. I keep forgetting to take it in the house. Just shove it to the back.”

  “Okay.” I reached for the door.

  “I’m expecting a client so leave that ajar, will you?”

  “There’s no one on the calendar until two thirty.” Had I messed up? My stomach tightened.

  “She’s not on the schedule. This is a friend of a friend,” he explained. “It’s not even real estate related, actually. She just needs some legal advice.”

  She. He’d had several female clients come in over the past two months with non-real estate questions. Since he left his office door open most of the time, I’d overheard several of the conversations. They seldom wanted legal advice. They wanted Booker. Some were more overt with their flirting, while others were more subtle, but in the end, he’d send them away. He now had me screen all his appointments so he could get his real casework done. This one must’ve called him on his personal phone.

  I went to the sixth floor and grabbed five boxes. Haley helped me carry them to Booker’s car.

  “He’s freaking cute, don’t you think?” she asked as we approached the POC.

  “Booker? Yes, I guess,” I said, playing it cool.

  “You guess? Either you’re blind or insane,” Haley said as I opened the back door. We stuffed three large boxes inside.

  “Okay, he’s freaking cute.” We both chuckled. With the backseat full of boxes, we headed for the trunk. He’d replaced the lock recently. The shiny new lock against the banged up metal of the trunk contrasted starkly.

  “Too bad he has commitment issues,” Haley said as I opened the trunk. “Of course, if my ex was using me to spy on the police force so my boyfriend could steal drugs easier, I don’t think I’d be too excited to get involved again either.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?” I pushed the MET gear Booker told me about, a vest, empty gun belt, and a long silver case containing who knows what, to the back. I didn’t buy his excuse that he forgot to take the gear in the house. I’d bet the things were a security blanket to him. He’d been a cop most of his adult life—he probably felt naked without the stuff.

  Haley shut the trunk after I placed the last box inside. “How’s this for sad: Booker busted his ex on their six month wedding anniversary, no less, walking in on her in bed with her boyfriend in his house. She ended up going to jail when everything came out. It wasn’t pretty,” she said as we headed back inside.

  “Poor Booker. He must’ve been devastated.” I walked to the elevators only because Haley did.

  “He was pretty broken up. He divorced her in a New York minute. Her name had something to do with money, like Penny or . . . I can’t remember. I can tell you, the whole thing soured him on relationships. I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” she warned as the elevator stopped at her floor. “I can’t see Booker getting seriously involved with anyone. He’s strictly a player.”

  She stepped out. “We just work together,” I assured her.

  “Right.” Haley laughed as the elevator creaked shut.

  Booker’s office door was closed when I returned. I could hear his mumbled voice along with that of a woman’s as I finished some paperwork. A couple of times the woman sniffled as if she were crying. Half an hour later his door opened and a lanky, strawberry blond woman emerged. She was angled back toward Booker and I couldn’t see her face.

  “Thank you, and please thank Seth for talking you into taking my case. I know you don’t normally handle this type of work,” she said in a sad voice.

  “You’re welcome, Hillary. And it was Maggie who talked me into it, not Seth,” he insisted.

  “Maggie? Oh, I see.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned, exposing the battered mess that was her face. Black and green bruises circled her eyes. I guessed them to be a few days old. Her swollen lower lip had a small cut on the left corner, and her right arm was in a sling.

  I tried not to react. I tried to distance myself from my memories. I tried telling myself that Hillary had been brutalized, not me. I tried not to relive the nightmares.

  I failed.

  Darkness swamped the room around me. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Hillary’s bruised face. Vomit raced up my throat, and I swallowed it back down. Booker continued to talk to the girl as he laid her file on my desk.

  “I’ll walk you to the elevator,” he said, his voice a million miles away.

  The office door clicked shut after them. I pulled in deep breaths, again and again. It didn’t help. I stared hard at the file he’d placed there, knowing not to open it. But like a moth to a flame, I couldn’t stop myself.

  Pictures of Hillary lay on top, each showing angry black and purple bruises, fresh bruises. These had to have been taken right after the beating. Blood covered her mouth and shirt, and her hair was everywhere. The pictures shook violently in my hand as I relived my final beating from Garen. I struggled to breathe, as if my head were being shoved . . . I pinched my eyes shut, wincing at the pain of every kick, every blow—each feeling as real as they did four years ago.

  Warm hands wrapped around my shoulders.

  “Tess, you’re safe now.” The pictures of Hillary were pulled from my hand. I jumped as something touched my cheeks.

  “It’s just tissue, Tess.” My eyes flew to Booker as he wiped my face. I was crying and didn’t realize it. Only
then did I realize my arms were wrapped tightly around me as I rocked back and forth. The photos were wrinkled in the corner from my grip.

  Humiliation washed over me. I was going to lose this job, too.

  “I’m so . . . sorry.” The words jerked in my chest. “I . . . I . . .” I couldn’t speak. I took the tissue from him and wiped the fresh tears coming down.

  “Does he live around here?” Booker asked softly. He knelt at my side, concern etched on his face. I thought of lying, blaming my reaction on my struggles with blood, but I didn’t.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “I’m so sorry, Tess. If I’d known I would’ve arranged to meet her after hours.” He took the folder and filed it in the cabinet.

  “Please don’t fire me,” I pleaded as my strength slowly seeped back. “I . . . I need . . . this job. It won’t . . . happen again.”

  “I’m not going to fire you, Tess. You’re a fantastic secretary. Besides, it’s not as if we handle cases like this all the time. I only took this as a favor for Maggie,” Booker assured me. He crossed the room and poured me a cup of water from the cooler.

  “Here, drink this.” He handed it to me. I downed it quickly and then tossed the paper cup in the trashcan below my desk.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. I shook my head and he nodded. “If you ever do, I’m here.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  An hour later he left for a meeting across town, insisting he’d cancel if I needed him to. “I’m fine, I swear.”

  After his car pulled away, I sat in the bathroom and wept. I didn’t want to be scared anymore. I wanted my life back.

  Chapter 7

  6 years ago

  The pressure from Garen’s job had him on edge more often than not. His boss, Senator Graft, had a mess on his hands after an alleged illegal deal with an upstart cell phone provider was leaked to the press. Garen ran himself ragged doing damage control. While Garen hadn’t hit me again, he regularly berated me for things I’d done wrong. He loved order and demanded our townhome be immaculate at all times. The canned goods were lined up in the pantry perfectly, tallest to shortest based on label color, and the boxed foods were arranged in descending order. The towels were aligned in the linen closet with equal spacing around each stack, per Garen’s orders. When I joked about his anal-retentive tendencies, he went crazy on me, pressing me up against the wall, screaming in my face.

  “I’m working hard to make a life for us, Terese. Is it too much to ask that you keep a neat home?” I shrank tight against the wall as he yelled. “I’m sorry you want to live like a pig, but this is my home and you’ll keep it orderly! Understood?” I nodded, afraid of saying something to upset him and he’d strike me.

  “If you’d think of someone besides yourself,” he said, calming himself and pulling back, “I wouldn’t get so upset. I’m beginning to believe you enjoy provoking me.” He tugged a strand of my hair. I assumed he meant it as a playful gesture, but my head jerked sharply to the side, nevertheless.

  His obsessiveness carried over to the dirty laundry, of all things. The soiled clothes were to be folded in neat stacks in the hamper until they were washed. His dress shirts were to be dried for exactly forty-two minutes, then immediately pressed.

  “Why don’t we just send them out to be dry-cleaned?” I asked a few weeks after my anal retentive comment. I’d lost track of time while studying for a math exam and let a shirt sit too long in the dryer. He wasn’t happy.

  “Why? I think you know full well why, Terese. All our extra money goes to pay for your silly bachelor’s degree, in dance,” he snapped. “Oh, and in business. Like everybody and their dog doesn’t have a degree in business. Great choice.” His snarky tone infuriated me.

  “Silly? My degree is not silly.” I took the shirt I’d been ironing and tossed it at him. I wheeled around to leave the room when his hand slammed down on my shoulder and he twisted me back to him. He planted his hands above the collarbone on either side of my neck, and with his forefinger and thumb squeezed my shoulders. The stabbing pain drove me to my knees.

  “I will not be spoken to in that manner, is that understood?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting me,” I pleaded. His jaw ticked twice before he let go.

  I stood, rubbing my tender neck and shoulders. This had to end. I’d tried to make our relationship work, but his temper made our chance at a happy marriage impossible. I decided to broach the subject of counseling. He was more receptive and usually more reasonable after one of his outbursts.

  “Garen, I’ve been thinking.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Maybe you should talk to someone about . . . about your anger management issues.” He said nothing as I unplugged the iron and neatly wrapped the cord up. I took a slow breath in then blew it out and continued. “Your temper seems to be getting worse lately. I’m questioning whether you and I will survive as a couple, you know? I mean, if you’re going to continue to hurt me—”

  “You’re giving up on us?” He stepped toward me. I planted my feet shoulder width apart, standing my ground, even if my hands trembled. “A few mistakes and you’re calling it quits? Terese, you’re a fighter, you never give up. It’s one of the reasons I married you. Even though your parents forced you to pick up lacrosse, you worked night and day to become the team captain.” He wrung his hands as he paced in front of me. His face was tight, and he looked worried. Knowing he wanted to make our marriage work took me by surprise since all he’d done was point out my shortcomings. I didn’t realize I had so many before marrying him.

  He continued. “Didn’t you tell me that you used to get only three or four hours of sleep, weeks on end, so you could keep your grades up because you wouldn’t give up dance? You maintained a four-point-oh through it all.” He stopped and turned to me. “I need a wife who’s going to stand by me. I mean, I know I struggle with my anger sometimes, but I can’t believe you want to call it quits already. I love you.”

  I felt terrible. And ashamed that I’d even considered divorce. He was right. I didn’t quit, ever. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to live in fear, either,” I said softly.

  He pulled me into his arms. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t take my bad days out on you. We have to stick together, Terese. A divorce is definitely not part of my Life Plan.” He kissed my forehead. “I can’t think of anyone who’d make a better first lady than you.” He apologized once more, insisting it wouldn’t happen again. “It wouldn’t bode well for my political future if it got out I had to get therapy for anger management. I’ll do better. I mean, it’s not like I’m one of those crazy actors who beat up paparazzi.” He chuckled. Relieved at his renewed commitment, I let the issue drop.

  ***

  “Perfect.” I set a bouquet of white roses in the center of the table. Being our six-month anniversary, I wanted everything to be special. I’d hurried home after taking my last final of the semester and prepared all of Garen’s favorite foods. The eggplant Parmesan recipe was tricky, at least for me. I couldn’t cook to save my life, but I hoped that this time it’d work. I followed the recipe exactly and even watched a YouTube video of a French chef preparing the exact dish.

  I removed a pair of silver candlesticks, a wedding gift, from a long slender box. I set them on either side of the flowers and lit them as his car pulled into the driveway of our small two-story townhouse. I did a quick check of the living-dining room combination to make sure everything was in its place. The gray linen couch and chair sat exactly at a ninety-degree angle. I’d dusted the torch lamp, made sure the flat-screen TV hung perfectly straight on the wall, and dusted the photos from our wedding, spacing them equally on the side table. Nothing was out of place, which meant Garen should be pleased. A perfect evening.

  The door flew open and Garen stormed in, his overcoat tucked neatly under his arm alongside his briefcase. Nervously, I smoothed down my apron, wishing I’d thought to remove it. I wore my white button down sh
irt and plaid blue and green skirt Garen liked.

  “I hope dinner’s ready. I’m starved.” His eyes narrowed on me before he guided his briefcase into its spot next to the living room chair along the wall, and hung his coat in the closet.

  “How was your day?” I untied the apron and placed it neatly in a kitchen drawer.

  He angled his head and said, “How do you think it was, Terese? Do I look like I’m in a good mood?” He spun away and went into the living room to watch the news. Like he always did. He hadn’t noticed the beautiful table I’d set, or commented on how delicious the eggplant Parmesan smelled as it baked in the oven.

  I stepped next to him as he sat on the couch, being careful not to block the TV. He hated when I interrupted the news. I waited patiently until the commercial.

  “Happy anniversary, Garen.” I smiled, settling in next to him and placing my hand on his knee.

  His eyes stayed on the TV. “It’s not our anniversary.” He dropped his head back against the couch and rubbed his temples with his middle fingers. When I tried to do it for him, he slapped my hands away. I rubbed at the sting.

  “It’s our six-month anniversary. I made eggplant Parmesan and apricot turnovers.” I smiled as his eyes met mine in a sneer.

  “You actually cooked?” he snapped. “So I guess that means we’ll be getting our stomachs pumped for dessert?” He pushed to his feet and strolled into the kitchen. I followed, letting his snide comment roll off my back. I wanted tonight to be perfect. I fought hard for us the past six months. Tonight I wanted to remember why I fell in love with him.

  “Maybe you’ll be surprised. I’ve really tried to make it a special night.” I smiled proudly as he picked up one of the turnovers and examined it. A moment later he tossed it callously onto the plate.