Cruel Water (Portland, ME, novels Book 2)

by Freya Barker

  “That’s my fucking sister you’re talking about. I’d never hurt her. In fact, I’d kill anyone who would.”

  I’m standing by, watching this train wreck happen. I see it coming and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. “Guys,” I try, but neither is listening at this point. Ike has gotten up off the floor and stands with his arms crossed over his chest, feigning calm.

  “Yeah? So how come that douche of an ex of hers is still making her life miserable?”

  And there it is: the crushing impact.

  Ike

  I knew it. The minute I brought up her ex and saw the look of shock on her brother’s face, I knew he hadn’t had a clue. She’d never told her family. Fucked that up good, because it didn’t take a second for Viv to turn to me and let me have it.

  “Get out.”

  “Babe ...” I tried to no avail.

  “Don’t you fucking ‘Babe’ me. You had no right to say that.” She was almost in tears and I felt like the biggest ass.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. But, Viv ...”

  “Please just go,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  I reached out to wipe the tear rolling down her cheek, but she closed her eyes and turned away. Right. With a last look at her brother, who appeared to have completely lost the plot, I made my way out the door, over the glass still littered around the porch, and to my bike.

  That was last night. This morning I found the keys to her car in my jeans. The car that is still sitting in the restaurant parking lot. I make a quick call to the shop, arranging to drop the keys off so they can pick it up before it gets towed.

  Sitting in my office, I’m waiting for David to come in to discuss some last minute problems they apparently have on the project in Boston. I’ve already gone over the list of available mechanics who could go have a look. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t head out myself, having just been there, it might be easier for me to figure out what the problem is.

  I’ve already pulled up the drawings and am pinpointing potential trouble spots when David calls a, “good morning,” outside my door.

  “David!” I call after him, and his face pops through the door. “They’ve hit a snag in Boston,” I announce, watching his eyebrows rise.

  “What, again? You were just there. What kind of mechanics do those guys employ?” He sits down in the visitor’s chair, running his hand through his hair. “Hell, I can even understand those drawings you did, and I’m no engineer. What went wrong?”

  “Rotation speed on the screws, they found one of them is lagging when they did their dry run.” The screws are the big propeller blades moving the ship, and if they don’t move in tandem, the ship would have a hard time staying on course.

  “Any ideas?” David wants to know.

  “Couple of them, but I’m thinking rather than sending out one of our guys, it’ll be faster for me to head down.”

  David easily agrees, wanting as much as I do to keep this customer happy.

  Three to five days, I’m guessing. Just long enough to pinpoint the problem, fix it, and do another dry run while I’m still there.

  -

  It really is easier to go myself. Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m jumping on the opportunity to get out of town. What does that say about me? The thought of heading off, leaving Viv to deal with all these problems, ones that I’ve added to by crossing the line, is a coward’s move. But she did send me packing, although everything inside me screamed to stay. The urge to stay and protect her from the backlash of my big mouth, and whatever else has her so tightly coiled around her family, disappeared when she actually begged me.

  Maybe it’s better like this, the woman obviously has some major issues to deal with, and I’m not sure I can help with that. Now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag on the ex, I just hope she’s smart enough to tell her brothers, so they can look out for her.

  Steering my bike through traffic, I realize I don’t even have her number to check up on her. I almost turn around and head back to Portland. I can always call The Skipper. Yeah, I’ll do that tonight when I get back to the hotel.

  When I get to the yard, the foreman runs through the problems they have in greater detail, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out what went wrong. The bad news is, it means taking half of the damn engine apart again to fix it. I sit down with my laptop at the drawing table and start mapping out a schedule for the coming days. That alone takes me most of the afternoon. By the time I’m done, the sun is slowly sinking into the ocean, coloring the sky a vibrant red. Going to be a nice day tomorrow. I take a minute to enjoy the view and I immediately think of Viv. Managed to keep thoughts of her at bay all afternoon, but now she’s back.

  A rumbling stomach reminds me other than the sub sandwich someone picked up for me this afternoon, I haven’t eaten, and it’s got to be close to nine. I need some grub.

  -

  I chew down the fast food I picked up with vague distaste and grab my phone. If I’m not careful, the food at The Skipper is going to spoil me for anyone else.

  “Skipper,” Gunnar’s deep voice comes over the line.

  “It’s Ike. Viv there?”

  The silence on the other side should’ve been a warning.

  “Gunnar?” I prompt.

  “Trying hard not to slam this fucking phone to pieces on my desk, pretending it’s your head, you bastard.”

  Should’ve known. He did tell me Owen was a friend. I should’ve called him last night when I got home, like I’d intended to.

  “I fucked up. Never occurred to me no one knew. The situation was ... tense.”

  “Been fucking dealing with a pissed off Owen all day. He’s furious because he found out she came to me right after and let me help her on her feet. All this time, he didn’t have a clue what her ex put her through. Viv’s got her game face on, smiling like she’s getting paid for it, but I know she’s a fucking mess. And you ... you fucking disappear? What the fuck, man?”

  I spend the next few minutes recounting the events of last night, trying to explain, but Gunnar won’t have any of it. “Should’ve stayed. Should’ve ignored her and fucking stayed, man. She needs a man who’s got the balls to stand beside her, while allowing her to battle her demons. She’s carried those with her long enough.”

  It stings on a couple of different levels. Gunnar challenging my balls for one, but also the confirmation this woman is carrying this load alone. As someone dragging his own share of crap along, that last one burns. He’s right, I inadvertently opened the can of worms, and then left her to deal with it. Guilt, a familiar sensation, coils in my gut.

  “I’m in Boston. Last minute problems with a rebuild,” I say by way of explaining why I’m not there, rushing over to the pub. A grunt is my only answer, prompting me to continue. “I need a few days to get this sorted. I figure I’ll be back Sunday, or Monday, at the latest.”

  It’s silent for a minute on the other side, before his gravelly voice comes back over the line. “Gonna be a tough nut to crack. If you decide she’s worth it to step in and manage to locate your balls, it’s not gonna be a cakewalk. Shit with Viv goes deeper than I even know.”

  Dammit. Other than that one night of great sex and no commitments, we’ve barely even touched. I’m surprised I even care this much.

  “I hear you. Not sure if I’m the right guy, though.” That draws a harsh chuckle from him.

  “Hell, I sure have my doubts.” With that he hangs up, and I realize I didn’t think to ask how her father is doing. Evidence I’m not the right guy for this? I have serious doubts myself, but somehow over the course of my phone call with Gunnar, I’ve come to the conclusion I want to be that man.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Viv

  “Jesus, Vivian—he hurt you?”

  The moment Ike walks out the door, Owen turns to me, anger evident on his face. I don’t want to fight with him, not now. Not until I have a chance to push down the emotional toll the night has taken on me. A not insignific
ant part of that was sending Ike packing. He hadn’t even known the half of it, and yet he’d thrown down with my brother over me, standing up for me. And idiot that I am, I turn it against him.

  Barely forcing down the tears that I can feel welling in my eyes, I get busy mopping up the mess around my father’s chair with a discarded towel. When Owen’s firm hand lands on my shoulder, I whip my head around. “Don’t,” I hiss at my brother. “Not now.”

  As expected, Owen can’t let it rest for long. After we clean the mess, and manage to haphazardly board up the hole in the window, he confronts me on my way to the laundry room with my arms full of dirty towels. “This is killing me, Viv. Talk to me.”

  It’s his pained expression that prompts me to speak. “He changed. Well, that’s not entirely true, since he managed to show the same him to the outside world for all those years, but he changed with me. And I changed right along,” I mumble the last.

  “How long?” Owen’s strangled voice breaks open the last of my resolve and I finally let the tears flow.

  “Maybe about two years in before I realized what was happening. Oh, don’t get me wrong ...” I hurry to clarify when Owen throws his hands up in confusion. I know what he is wondering: why the hell hadn’t I walked away then? Good question. One that still hasn’t really been answered, despite my years of therapy with Pam. “... at that time, he hadn’t hit me yet. That came later. I just noticed that where before I would make him happy, then I only seemed to be able to anger him, no matter what I did. I thought it was me.”

  “Damn, Sis,” Owen groans, pulling me roughly into his arms, burying his face in my hair. We stand like that, in a pile of discarded towels, for minutes before he speaks again. “Why? Why not come to me, to any of us?”

  “I couldn’t,” I mumble in his shirt. “You guys always tried to fight my battles, get me out of trouble as a teen, but I’d brought this on myself. Had to get out of there myself.”

  “Is that why we barely saw you? Why you took off to places unknown, for months at a time, driving Mom crazy with worry?”

  “I was in Bangor for a while in a safe house. Then when I found out he’d moved to California, I came back to Portland and finally called Gunnar, but it still took me a while before I could face any of you guys.”

  There is no stopping the flood, and despite not getting into too many details, I tell Owen everything. He listens quietly, I’ll say that for him, although the range of emotions playing out on his face require little clarification.

  “Mom will be devastated,” he finally says. He has no idea how hard I have to bite my tongue not to spill every last one of my secrets. Devastation doesn’t even come close to what that would do: annihilate her—surely; destroy the family—definitely. So I just nod, wiping away the tears.

  “No reason for her to know. Let it go, it’s water under the bridge,” I tell him firmly before grabbing my purse. “Can you give me a ride to the hospital?”

  “I will, if you promise to get a restraining order filed first thing tomorrow.”

  -

  By the time I roll into bed, after hearing my father will spend at least the night in hospital for observation, it’s close to four in the morning, and I am completely worn out. Owen insisted on driving me home after the hospital staff evicted us for the night. The roller-coaster of emotions has taken its toll, and other than a perfunctory washcloth over my face and brushing of teeth, I manage little else than to strip and collapse.

  It feels like only minutes have passed before the shrill peal of my alarm goes off. Eight fucking o’clock. Four hours of sleep, and I’m dragging myself out of bed and into the shower. Syd’s on schedule to come up with the menu special for today, but I promised I’d be there early to help with prep. It’s all I allow my mind to linger on, because everything else is just too raw.

  The first person I bump into is Gunnar, however. He’s in the kitchen creating a vegetable massacre.

  “What on earth?”

  He turns around, a large chef’s knife in hand. Gunnar never helps with prep, for good reason; his chopping and slicing skills are barbaric. He also creates more work than he does, as is evident from the litter of discarded peels, cores, and ends both on the counter and the floor.

  “I’m helping,” he says almost proudly.

  “I see that.”

  He apparently doesn’t hear the sarcasm in my statement. “Syd’s not feeling well this morning,” he says by way of explanation. I’m immediately concerned for my friend, who rarely takes a sick day.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  I don’t expect the big smile that breaks Gunnar’s usually stern face almost in two. Oh hell.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re—?” I swallow the rest of what I was going to say when the smile impossibly gets larger. Last night forgotten, I squeal and rush into his arms, deftly avoiding the large knife he still clutches. “Put the knife down, you bonehead!” He immediately complies and wraps me up in one of his signature bear hugs, reserved for only a few. “A baby ...” I whisper into his shirt, feeling happy for my friends, who deserve all the good life has to offer.

  “I know.” His voice rumbles under my ear and once again I wish I could’ve felt more than brotherly love for this man. But then I wouldn’t have Syd, wouldn’t have seen first-hand what devoted love looks like. Right on the tail of my elation, a wave of sadness settles heavily in my chest, a feeling of emptiness.

  Gunnar sets me back and tilts my face up with a finger under my chin. “Happy tears, I hope,” he smiles, but a hint of concern sounds in his voice.

  “I’m so, so happy for you.” I work hard at being convincing.

  “I know you are, honey, but there’s something else. You look like shit this morning. Your date last night didn’t work out?”

  I can’t help it, I snort at what might be considered the understatement of the century. Before I know what’s happening, Gunnar has me by the wrist and is dragging me to his office down the hall.

  “Sit,” he barks when I try to protest. “I can’t be around knives when you tell me what that asshole did.”

  I assume he’s referring to Ike, who really doesn’t deserve this. “Ike did nothing. The night was a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but I don’t want to get into it now. We have good news to celebrate.” The smile on my face is plastered on thick, but as with all the men in my life, Gunnar doesn’t take no for an answer.

  “Talk, dammit. I’m not gonna let you leave this office until you do.”

  The dirty look I throw him makes absolutely no impression on him. I didn’t really expect it to.

  “Fine, you bully. But you’ve gotta promise not to overreact, because Ike really hasn’t done anything wrong.” I proceed to tell him about the nice date, the note on the windshield, at which point he almost launches from his chair, and the scene at my parents’ house. As an afterthought, since there’s a good chance Owen will be ticked once he discovers Gunnar already knew something about my history with Frank, it seems like a good idea to fill him in on that.

  “He did what?” Was the expected reaction.

  “In all fairness,” I try to soothe, “Ike had somehow guessed I had some bad history, and it wasn’t hard for him to put the pieces together when he saw the note. There’s no way he could’ve known my family was unaware of my troubles. It was me who overreacted when I got mad at him.”

  “Yeah, well he should never have left.” Gunnar, still grumbling, looks at me from under his frown.

  “I sent him,” I reinforce.

  “Still.” The stubborn ass won’t let it go. He’s at least, if not more protective of me, than my brothers. “How’s your dad?” He turns the conversation into questionably safer waters.

  “They’d sedated him last night by the time I got to the hospital. He was combative when they’d tried to stitch the cuts on his hands. They kept him overnight and are getting a psych evaluation today. Based on that, they’ll talk to us about how to move forward.”

  “
Gotta be tough. Always respected your dad. Such a proud, strong man. Must be tough to be slipping away like that.”

  Gunnar’s sentiments are real, but his words slice through my threadbare shield. I can barely contain the derisive snort that wants to escape, but my face must’ve shown something, because Gunnar squints his eyes as he studies me.

  “Yes, well, we’d better get back in the kitchen and get going on that special. What did our little momma have planned for today?” I babble, as I get up from the chair and move toward the door. Men are easy to distract, and the mention of Syd pregnant with his child, immediately draws Gunnar’s full attention. An instant smile on his face, he follows me down the hall. To my relief, the only further talking we do while working, is about the new baby and how Gunnar’s two older children reacted to the news. It was a close call, though. Too close. All this shit happening around me is seriously eroding my ability to erase certain things from my mind. First thing, once the lunch rush lets up, is to call Pam at Florence House. She’s the only person I can talk to, and I need to decompress before I explode, which would be bad. Very, very bad.

  -

  “Holy shit.”

  That’s the most unprofessional response from my therapist to date, when I update her on the most recent events.

  Pam has been a friend ever since I knocked on her door that first time. I remember being startled by the statuesque black woman with short-cropped hair, peppered with gray, which seemed to only add to her stern beauty. She’d taken one look at me and let me in at face value. I spent two months at Florence House, licking my wounds and letting Pam help shore me up to where I was able to talk to Gunnar, the one man who was close enough, and yet sufficiently removed, to face. Pam knows me at my worst. The only person who knows all about Frank and although I kept the rest close to my chest, she’s made it clear she’s well aware there is more history I’m hiding. I guess that should make me feel self-conscious, but oddly it doesn’t. She doesn’t. She simply is an amazing, nonjudgmental, warm-hearted listener, who didn’t so much as blink when I spilled my story and has since become a good friend.