Damage Me (Crystal Gulf Book 2)

by Shana Vanterpool

  I could feel her presence. It was warm, the sun, blinding me as she leaned against Bach as Hillary spoke. Beneath my desire, I felt guilt. Hillary was breaking right in front of me, and all I could think about was my ex-girlfriend. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, shut out the man in me who loved her, and remembered the man who loved no one. It was like swallowing fire. It burned; swallowing that truth hurt all over.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Hillary finished, covering her face with her hands.

  I wondered if she was aware of the fact that she hadn’t stopped shaking since she walked out of Bach’s bedroom with her angel eyes covered in scars.

  The memory of her standing there, breaking and falling, knowing she had been stripped of her wings, had my heart pounding for a different reason. Girls like Hillary are what guys like me avoid. They were good in a way I would never be. They were shining with light. They made life worth living, because if the world was full of guys like me, then it would cease. Hillary and Harley had to exist for me to, and to know that someone took her light and pissed all over it, crushed me.

  I glanced at Bach’s right hand covered in gauze and yearned to know he gave Zane what he deserved.

  “The first thing I think we should do is to go to the police,” Harley spoke up.

  The sound of her voice tore into me. It was so husky, this throaty sexy sound that used to bring me to my knees.

  Hillary took a deep, shaky breath. “I know you’re right; I know it.” She hiccupped on her sob. “I’m just … not ready for that. Will you come with me, Bach?”

  “Of course,” he agreed gruffly. “You don’t even have to ask.”

  “We should go now before the drugs have a chance to leave your system.” Harley rose and grabbed Hillary’s hand. “Come on. We’ll go get ready and then Bach and I will take you.”

  Hillary nodded, following after her. I didn’t watch them leave until I felt eyes on me. I peeked to find Hillary glancing over her shoulder at me, right at me, before she followed Harley into their room.

  “Did you kill him?” I asked once the room was empty.

  “No,” he said, not elaborating.

  I wasn’t sure why I felt relief. Bach and I were done. What happened to him shouldn’t be any of my concern. But it had been for so long. When his old man used to beat him, I’d patch him up. When he bled, I stole Band-Aids from the store to stop it. When we fell as kids, we fell together. Sure, I pushed him away first. I hid from the truth, but he’d taken my lies and used them against me to get my girl. When he did that, he burned our past.

  “He did it to her friend also.” I sunk lower on the couch, ignoring my growling stomach. I wasn’t in the mood to eat. Silence settled between us. Heavy and unwelcome. We were both thinking about the same girl for once, and this time she had his eyes. “You really think that’s such a good idea? Hanging around her?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a piece of shit. We both are. She shouldn’t even be in this house right now.”

  “I know.”

  He wasn’t going to listen to me. “You’re such a pussy. But Harley has that effect,” I tacked on bitterly.

  Silence.

  “Here’s what you should do. Take her to the police then take her home to her momma. You’re living in Houston. You’re not around. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She can heal there. She won’t heal with us.”

  Nothing.

  “Pussy,” I growled again. “How are you going to help her? You were just guzzling down booze and swallowing E like it was candy less than six months ago. Like you’re a role model?”

  He swallowed hard, staring at the blank TV like it was going to prove me wrong.

  “You think because Harley fell for your shit that you’re a better man all of a sudden? You’re still the same asshole you were before you met her. You’re why Hillary was in that house to begin with.”

  “Shut up, Dylan.”

  Harley’s order struck me hard. I rotated and met her beautiful betraying light brown eyes. “Shut up? You’re no better. What kind of a role model are you? Cheating on me while I was away at war? Sleeping with my best friend. You’re no better than him.” That’s a lie. She’s better than most people, but I’m looking into her eyes for the first time in too long, and I want her to hurt as much she hurt me.

  Her eyes blazed. “Bach is better than you will ever be. You filled my head with lies. You left me here and expected me to be waiting after the way you treated me?” She patted her chest, as if I would ever forget I left her. “Bach has enough shit to deal with. He doesn’t need you throwing me or Hillary in his face. You lying pathetic hypocrite.” She curled her lip in disgust and showed me how she really felt about me. “You’re the only person in this house who is wrong. That’s why Whitney won’t let you have your daughter. Because you’re too busy punishing everyone else for what you did!”

  It finally hit me then as she was looking at me like she never knew me, never loved me, would never anymore. She wasn’t mine anymore. She was a memory, a part of my life I took for granted. And I could be honest and agree. This was my fault. I did lie. I did leave her here. But I won’t. Because she ripped my heart out and shit all over it the day she slept with my best damn friend.

  The day she left me by myself.

  “Get out of my house. You too, Bach. Both of you get the hell out of my lives!” I screamed, right at her, into her eyes.

  Harley rolled her eyes. “Gladly. Let’s go, Bach.”

  He won’t move.

  “Bach?” Her tone softened.

  He turned his head and met my eyes. “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure. Why would I want you around me? If I could kick your ass, I would. But I can’t! Because while I was overseas you shoved your face between my girl’s legs!”

  “Last call.”

  “Leave!”

  He nodded slowly, accepting the shattering of our lifelong relationship. “I’ll pay the rent up for two months. Give you enough time to find a roommate.” He stood. “I’ll come get our shit next weekend.”

  My chest tightened, but I pushed the emotion away. “I don’t need your money.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, not looking at me. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “It is. You bastard.” I sat back, fuming, losing the last person I had but knowing it’s what had to happen. I’d never get over this betrayal with him around.

  Before they left Hillary scampered out of the hallway. She looked so small in one of Bach’s hoodies. Just as she left, she met my eyes, peeking at me from under her long beautiful golden eyelashes. The pity in them calmed my anger, turning it into remorse. How could she feel bad for me after all she’d been through?

  Harley slammed the door shut after them, leaving me alone finally.

  It was just me.

  By myself.

  And I despised every second.

  One look at Aubrey’s play area had my eyes stinging. Another memory of her squealing and saying, “Uncle Bach,” as he tickled her in the hospital made my chest tighten further, and the last reminder that she probably loved him more than me drove the self-abhorrence home. It settled in my bones. Made my stomach turn.

  The way I felt about myself reminded me I was only Dylan Meyer, and that that had never been enough.

  I wanted something, someone, a drink, an orgasm—a buffer between my insides and theirs.

  I struggled to my feet, letting the crutches do all the work. They guided me to the kitchen. There was a time when the place was saturated in booze. Now it gleamed cleanly, with potholders and matching dishes in the drain. Pussy. The bad part was I’d do it for Harley too. I’d paint my past gold for that woman.

  I knew when we got together I was a piece of shit and that no matter how hard I tried to be enough, I’d never achieve it. So I lied until I was enough. I balanced and then opened the fridge, finding it pretty much empty save for condiments and a half-eaten apple pie, searching for something to mak
e my present less revolting.

  Finding nothing, I slammed it shut and moved on to the cabinets above the stove. After coming up empty once more I stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at it as if I could somehow materialize a bottle with my mind. There had to be something here. Before Whitney told me about Aubrey, I went hard every night. There was no safe place for anyone or anything. But I wasn’t dangerous anymore. I couldn’t even walk. There was nothing for a woman to desire.

  Fuming, I took off for Bach’s room. I knew my own was clean. I’d swept through it. I ransacked his dresser, throwing everything on the ground. Other than an old condom packet and a phone number with the name Tight Tits Terry scribbled on it; there was nothing. I tried his nightstand where he usually kept his stash. I painfully eased onto his bed and sifted through the contents, growing more and more agitated when I couldn’t find what I was looking for. I fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, racking my brain.

  I knew I shouldn’t be upset my house was drug free. With Aubrey around that’s how it should be. Who knew Bach could be responsible. Bastard. After gaining the courage to stand, I left for my own room. It was exactly how I left it. The king bed I bought with the dough Brock and I scored selling Adderall to the college kids. The pale blue sheets I bought for Harley. The window overlooking the water. My curtains were pulled, but I could see the heavy light of afternoon peeking through.

  The longer I stood, the worse the pain got. I’d been ignoring it since Hillary jumped up and wrapped hers around me. I smiled sadly at the memory of her body clinging to mine. She’d weighed close to nothing, wrapping her limbs around me like I was going to protect her from all the bad things in the world.

  What the poor thing didn’t know was that I was all the things that were bad in the world.

  I was the last person she should be around. The fact that I was ransacking my own house for dope should be a testament to that.

  But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to hold her. The fear, the shattered pale green eyes, they were still in my head. Her delicate, beautiful face flushed and panicked. The smell of fear on her skin. Her pleading with me to prevent the fall we both sensed inside of her.

  I wanted to protect her.

  My stomach filled with a strange emotion. It wasn’t something I was used to. The only woman I ever felt anything for was Harley. She took my breath away, turned me on, and made me want to be better. But I’d never worried about her. I never wanted to hold her and protect her. Although I guessed it was normal. After what Hillary went through, how could I not worry about her? It was the correct reaction. But it still left me slightly off balance.

  Women did not leave me off balance. I set my scale, and they had to keep up.

  Easing down on my bed, I took a deep breath to relieve the pain. I fell asleep somewhere between the screams of my unit and the sounds of Hillary’s tears. When I woke up, my leg was throbbing. I pulled my shorts aside and cringed. The flesh was puckered and inflamed. It was so hot it almost burned.

  “Shit.” I prodded my wounds, hissing in pain when it shot through my body. “You know what we need? A beer.”

  Speaking of beer, I had to piss. Standing was harder than yesterday. It took me almost ten minutes to get to the bathroom. Getting my dick out of my pants was harder than it should’ve been. The toilet was centered with no walls to lean on. As I was moving away after I finished, I spotted clothes in the trash. Finding them made that feeling return. Too heavy to be a memory and too light to be passing. I flipped the light off and made my way into the living room.

  What could I do for her? She had Bach and her mom. That was more than I had. Hillary would be fine.

  But something told me that wasn’t true. It was the same something that reminded me of the blood that surrounded my body as I lay there eight thousand miles from home. There were moments in life when the scale got tipped, regardless of how hard you tried to hold on. I was used to it. You could also balance the scale if you found the right amount of weight. But Hillary’s scales had probably always been level. Two perfect options equally as good as the other. I had this sinking feeling her scales had tipped over, and she would struggle to find a way back. She wasn’t used to it. That’s why Bach kept her away. To keep her good. To keep her light. To make sure her scales never tipped.

  To prevent her from ever becoming like us.

  ***

  Hillary

  In my dreams, I was haunted.

  I was a short-skirt wearing woman with a stupid, innocent smile and good intentions. There was an endless party with hundreds of guests. And they were all Zane. Silver eyes, smelling of smoke and alcohol, and large heavy fists. I always woke up before he could get his jeans opened, but I could never quite mange to prevent myself from going upstairs.

  I tried every night. I’d remind myself what would happen. I’d taste my beer. There were signs everywhere. But nothing could stop Zane from locking that door and sealing me inside.

  The intensity of my fear never lessened. Each night I had the dream my terror intensified. There were additions, new things that hadn’t existed. There were two Zane’s, more beer, ropes, insults—there were darker things in my brain, and they were turning my nightmare into reality.

  In this particular dream, Zane had bound my feet. “You stupid little girl,” he ridiculed. “How stupid were you going to that party? Did you really think you could belong there with people like me?” He gagged me, preventing my screams. “This is what you get for being stupid.”

  My shouts ripped my throat open.

  I gasped and bolted up in bed, looking around my dark room the way I always did. Searching for signs I wasn’t in Jona’s. There was a temporary protective order against Zane. He couldn’t come within fifty feet of me. I rolled my eyes and sagged back down, sweating as I thought of how uncomforting that was to me. How was a piece of paper supposed to protect me from a monster? If monsters cared about rules, they wouldn’t slip things in our drinks when we weren’t looking and force us into a bedroom and lock the door. Monsters spit on rules because those rules were put in place to mask their grotesque souls.

  My body was drenched in sweat. It smelled tangy, stinking of my fear. My hair was matted, and my heart raced. And on the edge of everything I felt for the first time in my life that I was completely alone. I always had my Mom, but it had been almost a week since the party, and she was still lost in her “what if” haze. She hadn’t been to work, doting on me like I was an infant, and though I appreciated her hovering for once, there was no support there. There was no understanding of how I felt. When we talked, she broke out into an all-consuming rage. She didn’t ask me how I was doing. She was on the phone with the district attorney most hours of the day as she did her best to prosecute Zane.

  But the words “attempted rape” never even made it on their radar. Almost didn’t matter to them. Memories of the police station with Harley and Bach came to me. I’d clung to my brother. Bach had called Mom on our way there, and told her to meet us at the police station. My apprehension had been palpable. When we got there and he said those six little words, “Hillary was attacked at a party,” my mother unhinged.

  She pointed at him. “You did this to her.”

  Bach looked into her eyes, something passing between them I didn’t understand. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t know she’d go there.”

  “You’re just like your father. You’re a black hole who ruins everything. You promised you’d stay away from her. Hillary deserves better than the likes of you!” She shoved at him so hard he stumbled back into his truck. He didn’t fight her. He just let her scream what he thought was the truth at him. “From this day forward you will leave my daughter alone. You will not have any form of communication, or I’ll tell her what happened. Do you think she’d want anything to do with you once finds out?” Her tired blue eyes threatened him.

  I stood there, confused, shattering, wanting my mother to just hug me, but knowing she was in damage-mode, and there was n
othing I could do to help. If anything I was safe. She hadn’t looked at me once.

  Bach looked over at me, into my eyes, our eyes, and then his face hardened. I felt him slipping away. My dad was leaving all over again. My heart fell into my stomach, and I tried to run for him. But Mom chose that moment to step in. She grabbed me around the waist as I struggled.

  “Let him go.” Mom pulled me away from my brother, from my father, the way she had been doing my entire life. She forced me to a stop and grabbed my face. “Look at what he did to you.” And then she crushed me to her chest, hugging me so hard I had no choice but to fall into her arms.

  The hour spent at the police station was the longest hour of my life. The questions were reliving it all over again. The pictures, the looks, and the pitiful stares—the process drained me in a way I feared. This wasn’t even starting yet. This had just happened, and I was already in this place where I was caught in a cycle. But it had to be done. I had to do it, or Zane would keep hurting other girls. He’d attack someone else. No woman deserved to go through that. You couldn’t take someone’s options away. You couldn’t bend us to your will and make us a part of your disgusting thoughts. So I endured the stares, the memories, and the truth of that night, because if I didn’t, who knew who else he’d go after. What if they couldn’t scream? What if no one heard their cries?

  And because of that, I was rotting within the “what if.” It was a toxic area in my brain. The smells, the feelings, these things made it more real. My nightmares weren’t helping. It was getting harder to discern between what happened and what my brain told me could have happened.

  I tossed my blankets aside and rose, gathering my hair into a messy ponytail. There was no light under the curtain, which meant it was still dark. I refused to remain in bed any longer. I’d been surviving on a few hours’ sleep most nights. When I slept, I dreamed, and dreaming, unfortunately, became a nightmare.