Conflicting Hearts
Published by Holland Legacy Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9832959-9-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012953047
Copyright © 2012 by J. D. Burrows
All Rights Reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and should not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Work of Fiction
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer
This work is not intended as a substitute for any advice that may be given by a mental health professional, such as a therapist or psychiatrist. If you are a victim of childhood sexual abuse, please be aware that this book may trigger flashbacks, memories and/or upsetting emotions.
Author’s Note
The instance of childhood sexual abuse portrayed in this book is not fiction. It is the author’s true-life experience.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the following businesses who granted permission to reference their establishments in this work.
Stephanie Inn
2740 South Pacific
Cannon Beach, Oregon 97110
http://www.stephanie-inn.com
Portland City Grill
Unico US Bank Tower/30th Floor
111 SW 5th Avenue
Portland, Oregon 97204
www.portlandcitygrill.com
DEDICATION
To every child who has experienced the horrors of sexual abuse, may you find healing, hope, and the love you deserve.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
A Fated Occurrence
It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I squeeze my lips together in frustration and rest my right hand on top of the steering wheel, repeatedly tapping my fingers from pinky to index finger. As I look at my nails that sorely need a manicure, I wonder why I don’t tap my fingers the other way, from index finger to pinky. I try, but my brain refuses to obey. I’m obviously bored.
Beep. Beep. A blaring horn behind me causes me to glance in my rearview mirror. The irate driver shoots me an angry glare and raises his hands. I glance ahead and note that the traffic has moved. Thirty feet and you need to beep at me, you creep? I accelerate toward the bumper of the snazzy roadster ahead of me and come to another stop. The traffic is going absolutely nowhere.
I flip on the radio station and punch the buttons, one after another, searching for a traffic report. Finally, I hear the news. “The Sunset Highway is backed up at Sylvan Hill due to a three car accident. Only one lane is open…”
“Crap,” I blurt in frustration. This is not a good start to my day.
A quick glance in my rearview mirror tells me Mr. Hurry-It-Up is as frustrated as I am. It’s time to break the law. I shove my hand into my purse and retrieve my phone. I glance around to make sure no cops are nearby to give me a ticket for driving while talking on my cell. Of course, idling isn’t driving, mind you, but if anyone would be ticketed, it would be me. Funny, but everyone else is on the phone too. I hit the speed dial and push the speaker button.
“Kennedy Advertising Agency, this is Julie.”
“Julie? This is Rachel. I’m stuck in traffic, and I don’t think I’m going to make it to work on time. Can you let the boss know?”
“You caught in that accident on the freeway?”
“Yeah, and it’s a bugger. I should be there before my nine a.m. meeting.”
“All right, I’ll let Mr. Stewart know you’re running late.”
“Thanks,” I reply and end the call. Okay, that’s taken care of, so I drop my phone back in my purse.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The guy behind me lays on the horn again. I turn my head around and glare at his rude face, before checking through my front windshield. After I turn my head forward again, I see why he’s cursing me. The traffic is moving. I accelerate and am surprised I’m actually rolling along at twenty-five miles per hour. It appears another lane has opened, easing the gridlock.
As I pass the three vehicles off to the side of the road that caused the backup, I see the police cars with their flashing overheads. My head cocks to the right to take a quick glance. Wow, what a mess of jumbled steel. Nobody appears injured, so why does everybody have to gawk at accidents? Of course, I’m being judgmental and doing the same thing.
The next I know, I turn my head forward and bam! The traffic has come to a quick halt again, and I’ve just rear-ended the car ahead of me. My airbag goes off and slaps me in the face, stopping my heart from the shock.
“Oh, God, no,” I cry out. Devastated, I place my forehead on the steering wheel and feel like banging it repeatedly. Inwardly, I say a thousand curses, afraid to look at the damage. I don’t have the courage to gaze at my latest screw-up. A sinking, accident-sick feeling clutches my stomach. Shit, shit, shit! I whine inside my scatterbrain head. My next explicative rant is interrupted by a tap-tap-tap on the glass.
I slowly raise my head and notice a tall man, with dark hair, peering down at me through my driver’s side window. The car ahead is empty, and I assume this is the guy I creamed. I push the button, and it rolls down.
“Please, don’t yell at me,” I beg, looking up at him. I’m on the verge of tears.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” he calmly replies. “I saw your head against the steering wheel and was concerned that you might have been injured.”
Wow, that’s a first. I look at the damage to his car and cringe. His trunk is bent and popped open. The hood on my car is crinkled like an accordion.
“I’m okay,” I answer timidly. “Are you okay?”
His narrowed blue eyes look at me intently, and I wonder if he’s going to sue. Crap, everybody who gets rear-ended sues. It’s a given.
“I’m fine. Just a minor fender bender. Perhaps we should pull off to the shoulder and exchange insurance information. We’re holding up traffic.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, watching him walk away and get back into his car. I finally take the time to examine my victim. He looks around my age, tall, dark hair, dressed in an expensive navy-colored, three-piece business suit. Maybe he doesn’t need my insurance money, I think to myself.
As I pull my crunched car over to the right side, I hear the front bumper rub against the left tire. Steam is hissing from underneath the hood. Damn, I really did a job on my junker. My poor twelve year-old foreign make looks like it’s had its last day on the road. I glance at his beautiful car and cringe. Not only is his trunk
smashed, but the bumper is falling off on the right side.
After we pull over to the shoulder, cars start moving past us. I sheepishly look in the visor mirror and check my looks. Why, I have no idea, except already I feel intimidated by the man in the suit who is back, standing on the passenger side of my car, tapping on the window. I hit the button and roll it down.
“Yes?”
“You should get out on this side rather than on the driver’s. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
I look out my window and see how close I’m parked to the lane. He’s right. If I open my door, I’m going to lose it. Crap. Thank goodness I wore a pantsuit to work rather than a skirt and blouse. In a very unladylike manner, I swing my right leg over the protruding gear shift, slide my butt into the passenger seat, and pull my left leg over feeling like a pretzel. I unlock the door, and he opens it for me. Good lord, who is this guy? I ponder inwardly.
“Here, let me help you,” he says, offering me his hand.
“No, I’m fine,” I protest, as I wiggle my way out of the seat and stand up outside the car. My hand shoves a piece of hair out of my eyes, and I try to compose myself. The scent of the man’s cologne wafts toward my nose. He takes a step back toward the concrete barrier giving me room to maneuver.
“Are you sure that you’re okay, ma’am?” He wrinkles his brow and gives me the once over, as if he’s looking for broken bones or blood.
“Yes, I’m okay, but I should be asking you that question. Look what I did to your car!” I’ve crashed into a dark blue British made roadster. Dang, what a shame! I’d kill me, if I were him.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” he assures me in a composed and even tone.
“But what about you? Did I wrench your neck and shoulders?” I wince after the words leave my mouth. Why am I encouraging a lawsuit?
“Well, for now, I’m okay. I think my car took it harder than I did.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I was gawking at the accident off to the side, cursing the traffic, and then I rammed your bumper. It’s entirely my fault.” I remember the warning on my insurance card not to admit fault. Stupid, I am at fault, and my insurance rates are going to skyrocket.
“We should exchange information,” he says, giving me a somber look.
For a moment, I make a closer inspection of the driver and curse myself for running into him. Damn, he’s one decent-looking man. At least I have morning eye-candy to soothe my wounded ego, if nothing else.
“Let me grab my purse.” I lean over inside my car, feeling embarrassed that my ass is in the air, and snatch it off the floor. My head comes up for air, and I see the steam hissing through my hood.
“Oh, God, I think I’m going to need a tow,” I moan.
“Yes, it looks as if you’ve cracked your radiator, I’m afraid,” he says, stroking his chin.
I frown over his astute observation and glance over at his car, wondering if he can drive off with a hanging bumper.
“Excuse me,” I say, squeezing between him and the freeway barrier. The close quarters of the shoulder cause me to brush against his body, giving him the familiar boob graze. Why didn’t you just ask him to move? I chide myself.
He towers over my five-foot, four-inch frame and watches me like a hawk with his dark eyes. His lashes are so thick that he looks as if he’s wearing eye liner. The more I stare into them, the more I realize he’s a natural hunk. His piercing gaze makes me nervous, and I hope that I didn’t rear-end a serial killer. You never know.
I plop my ten-pound purse on top of the trunk and start rifling through the contents. After finding my wallet, I flip through the multiple cards I carry that give me discounts throughout the city. Somewhere between the grocery store and the pet store I find my insurance card.
“Here it is.” I breathe in relief, as I pull it out and hand it over to him.
“Driver’s license?” he asks coolly.
“Oh, sorry.” I locate it and pass it to him. Immediately, I notice he hasn’t pulled any of his cards out, but I’ve bared my horrible license photo, address, height, weight, age, color of my eyes, and insurance company to this complete stranger. He peruses my driver’s license attentively and then grins.
“Nice picture.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “You’re trying to make me feel better.” My eyes narrow, and I scowl at him.
He chuckles and then reaches inside of his vest pocket and retrieves a small, black notepad. Quickly, he flips it open, grabs a fancy pen from inside, too, and places my information and his pad on the trunk of my car. I’m fascinated, wondering who he is, as his cologne rides upon the passing breeze, swirling around me like a toxic drug. It’s been too long since I’ve inhaled the scent of a man. His hair is thick and dark, and I have the urge to run my fingers through it.
“Rachel Ann Hayward,” he slowly drawls, as he pens my name down in perfect script. He jots down the numbered address and my apartment unit, and recites the rest out loud. “S.W. Barnes Road, Portland, Oregon 97229. Date of birth May 25, 1982.” He pauses, and I know why. It dawns on him what I already know.
“It’s your birthday today?” His smile fades, and he looks at me with a pitiful stare.
Hastily, I turn my gaze away, shrug my shoulders and nod “yes” acknowledging the perfect start of my day turning thirty.
“Apparently, the big three-o was meant to be a memorable one. It’s downhill from here on out,” I reply, trying not to look at him. I keep my eyes on the impressive pen instead.
“I doubt that,” he says sweetly. “It’s only the beginning, I assure you.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I wonder, scrunching my brow. Is he a fortune teller?
He finishes penning the remainder of my information and then hands me back my driver’s license and insurance card.
“Now yours?” My eyebrows are raised, in case he thinks I’m going to let him off. Suddenly, I see a policeman walking up from the accident behind us.
“Is anyone hurt?” The cop takes the usual take-charge stance. Mr. Cutesy answers.
“No officer, everything is fine. We’re just exchanging information now.”
The police officer takes a quick look at our damage, scowls at me, and then nods at my victim.
“All right then, if there are no injuries, I’ll leave you two.” He turns around and walks back toward the other pileup.
“Uh, license and insurance,” I remind him, holding out my hand.
“Sure thing,” he says, shoving his hand into his inside jacket pocket and retrieving a slim, brown leather wallet. With his long fingers, he pulls out his driver’s license and insurance card, which look brand new. Mine, on the other hand, looks as if it went through the wash.
I tilt my head so I can see the inside of his wallet. To my chagrin, each card is neatly situated in the slots, and I notice the first three are in alphabetical order. I suspect the others are too. He quickly closes it up in front of my snooping nose. Curiosity always gets the best of me, and I am overwhelmingly fascinated by this guy. He wears an expensive suit, his hair doesn’t have a strand out of place, and his nails actually look manicured. I conclude he’s a neat freak and some high-powered business executive who works downtown.
“Thank you,” I mumble. I snatch his license and insurance card, and then put them on the trunk of my car. He’s quietly watching me, almost as if I’m his morning entertainment. I shove my hand into the black hole that is my purse and search for a piece of paper and something to write with. Finding an old receipt and a pen with a smidgen of ink left at the tip, I quickly jot down his information, taking note of his life points.
Ian A. Richards, age 32, Skyline Drive, Portland, Oregon and realize he doesn’t live that far away from me. I glance at his fancy insurance card. He’s not in the friendly hands of my insurance company. Instead, he’s got the buck with the antlers.
“So, you have the insurance company with the deer picture,” I announce in stupidity.
“Bull elk,” he replies with a smart-ass grin.
His face looks as if he’s sporting the hunter of the year award and instantly I wonder if he has a gun. I eye his smug attitude up and down and then fly one off myself.
“Wow, as nicely as you’re dressed, in your three-piece suit, I sure hope you’re not an attorney or I’m screwed.”
Immediately, I laugh at my sense of humor and scribble the rest of his information down on the back my prescription receipt. I should have asked him for a piece of paper from his little black notebook. He didn’t offer one either, so strike against him.
“I am, as a matter of fact,” he unexpectedly declares, interrupting my thoughts. He cocks his head to the side and sports an arrogant smile. His hand slips into that inside pocket, which apparently carries everything he needs, and whips out a business card, handing it to me. I gawk at it and then read his name aloud in disbelief.
“Ian A. Richards, Attorney at Law.”
Damn it! I scream in my head. This day is not going well.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Suddenly, I feel the blood drain from my face as I pale to the color of the concrete barrier behind me. “I can’t believe I just rear-ended an attorney, of all people.” I bring my hand to my head and hold it, as if it’s going to help or something.
“I’m a corporate attorney, not a litigation attorney, if that makes you feel any better.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I look into his eyes, which look playful and not mad. “I bet you know a few bright litigation attorneys anyway.”
“I do.” A painful grimace replaces his smile, and he reaches his hand back to his neck and rubs it with a groan.
Oh, damn. He’s going to sue my ass, and I hope my insurance company’s hands are large enough. He sees my horrified face and then stops his tease.
“I have no intention of suing you, Miss Hayward,” he says, flashing a grin as he removes his hand.
“God, I hope not, but I’m sure if your neck starts to ache, my insurance will cover whatever you need.” There go my cheap premiums. I’ll be categorized as a risk on the road.
“Here.” I give him back his driver’s license and insurance card. “I am really sorry,” I whine, while throwing him a remorseful look that screams for pity. I look over at my car, which obviously isn’t going anywhere on its own accord.
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