by Caisey Quinn
Bet he’s not expecting a sick, twisted fucker to laugh when he produces a knife from his back pocket. But I do. This is just perfect.
You’re not my son.
That’s just perfect too.
I was deployed. Your mother had an affair.
It’s like someone just shined high beams on my black soul. My dad isn’t my dad. Just a man who had to look at the reminder of his wife’s infidelity every day for eighteen years.
And I’m not blood related to that piece of shit. So in a way, it’s a relief. But I’m still me. Still angry all the time and fucked up and unable to control the hatred for him that burns inside of me.
When two of the other guys step forward, I see how dangerous the man in front of me really is. He’s big, armed, and looks like he just busted out of prison. The reality of my situation hits me hard enough to hurt. Her parents were gunned down in front of her, and her boyfriend is about to be gutted on a back road in Spain.
“Hey, sorry. I was just passing through, man.” I hold my hands up in a gesture of what I hope is innocence.
He says something in Catalan, which I know enough to recognize as not Spanish but not enough to decipher meaning from it. His voice is a growl and makes my blood run cold.
“Amigo,” I say, because it’s the word I know means friend and I’ve lost the bloodlust desire to fight, to hurt and be hurt. My pulse races and I just want to get home and apologize. Beg my girl to forgive me. Whatever it takes.
One of the other guys mutters something and I recognize the word for money.
“No dinero. Por favor,” I say, hoping they understand. “Lo siento.”
“Demasiado malo para usted,” the guy with the knife sneers at me. My brain struggles to translate his words just as he comes close enough for me to smell the alcohol on him.
He cocks his fist and Layla’s beautiful face flashes behind my eyes. I hurt her. Again. Whatever’s coming, I deserve it. That’s the last thought I have before everything goes black.
“¡Oh, Dios mío! Somebody help! Llamar a la policía!”
I’m in a tunnel. I don’t know how I got here. A woman’s voice comes from far away. It’s a pretty voice. Not as pretty as Layla’s, but nice.
I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, whatever she’s freaking out about. But I can’t. I’m disconnected from my body.
“¿Cuánto tiempo ha sido?
“Una hora o así.”
Florescent lights greet me, shooting lightning bolts to my brain as I open my eyes.
“Where am I?” I hear myself ask.
“Está en el hospital. San Juan de Dios,” a woman says. Different woman from before. Not Layla either. Shit, my head hurts. “Do you know your name?” she asks in Spanish.
“My name?”
I sit up and glance around me. Heavy dread presses down on me as I realize I really am in the hospital like she said. An attractive dark-haired woman holds a clipboard and stares at me with interest.
“Um, it’s Landen. Landen O’Brien.”
“Ah. Well, Señor O’Brien, it seems you were jumped. A young lady found you in the street, beaten and barefoot.”
“Jesus.” Fuck me. “How long have I been here?” Layla’s probably worried sick.
“A little over an hour.”
“Okay, can I go home now?”
“Perdón?? You have two dozen stitches, a busted face, and possible internal bleeding. You just now came to, the police are waiting for your statement, and it’s a wonder you were even left alive. And you ask when can you go home?” Her face twists in confusion.
“Yes, ma’am,” I croak out. “My girlfriend, I need to call her. Can I do that at least?” My ribs stab me in protest as I sit all the way up.
“I don’t know. Can you?”
Bile rises in my throat and my head swims in response to the overwhelming pain. “I’d like to try.”
“Speak with the Policía first. Then make your call.”
I thank her and nod at the two uniformed officers who push the curtain around my bed aside and enter.
I give them a brief statement about what happened, trying to rush it along so I can call Layla.
“Hell of a place to go for a run,” one of them tells me. At least I think that’s what he says. After three years, I can hold a decent conversation in Spanish, but my head is pounding so I’m struggling to translate as quickly as they’re speaking.
“Yes, sir. I won’t be revisiting that part of town anytime soon.”
“Let’s hope not,” the taller of the two says, putting his notepad away. “You were lucky this time. You probably wouldn’t be again. Call us if you think of anything else.”
I assure them that I will and breathe a sigh of relief when they finally leave. Pretty sure one of them mumbles the Spanish word for “fucking idiot” on the their way out. Agreed.
Being careful not to disturb my battered ribs, I reach for the phone on my bedside table.
She answers on the first ring.
“Hey, baby.”
“Landen? Where are you? Are you okay? Whose number is this?”
The panic in her voice, the concern weighing her questions down, kills me. Hurts a hundred times worse than any of my injuries. I treated her like dirt. Worse than dirt. I fucked her like a man possessed and then blew up over something stupid and walked out. And here she is, worried about me. Still loving me more than I deserve.
“Calm down. I’m okay. I’m so sorry, Layla. So damn sorry.” Tears well in my eyes. I hate myself. How can I love her like she deserves when I hate myself so damn much?
“Please come home,” she pleads. My chest tightens, squeezing my heart so hard I can’t breathe.
“Um, I would. Listen, don’t freak out. I’m okay. I’m just…kind of in the hospital.”
“What? Oh my God, what happened?”
I can picture her beautiful face, those gorgeous eyes widening in panic. “Breathe, angel. I swear I’m fine. Can you grab my ID and the insurance card and meet me at San Juan de Dios? There’s cash for a cab in my wallet.”
“I’ll be right there.”
We say goodbye and I lie here waiting. Swearing to myself that I won’t ever do this to her again.
But if I’m being honest with myself? That might be a promise I can’t keep.
God I hate hospitals. But I don’t even take the time to weigh just how much I hate them as I barrel out of the cab, tossing money at the driver.
The smell hits me as soon as I walk through the doors to the emergency room. Sterile with undertones of human waste. Voices surround me, speaking Spanish and what I think might be Portuguese.
I spot a desk with a heavyset dark-skinned woman behind it. “I’m looking for Landen O’Brien. Can you tell me where I can find him?” She looks at me like I’m nuts and I repeat the question in my broken Spanish.
“Señor O’Brien?” an attractive woman says from beside me. “You must be his girlfriend.”
I don’t know who she is, but I take a second to thank God for her. “I am. Where can I find him?”
“Come with me,” she says, so of course I do. She’s not walking nearly as fast as I’d like for her to, but I’m grateful for any help I can get.
“W-what happened to him?” I ask, deathly afraid of the answer.
She stops and turns to face me. “He was beaten. Probably by gang members. He’ll be residing with us overnight.”
My heart drops to my toes. Fighting to remain upright, I swallow the contents of my stomach as they push their way north. “Is he okay?”
“See for yourself,” she says, pulling the curtain beside us back.
In all of my twenty-two years, I’ve never seen anything like what I see when I look at him. His eyes are closed. His face is black and blue and a sickly shade of yellow.
I know from the memory of my parents’ murders that blood isn’t crayon red like in the movies. It’s darker and spreads quickly. It stains the bandages covering Landen’s chest. My hand flies to my
mouth in an attempt to keep my horror from escaping. But it doesn’t work. A sound like that of a wounded animal breaks free and I have to fight not to drop to my knees.
The air has been stolen from my lungs, and hot, wet tears flow freely down my face. “Oh God.”
My words have his eyes fluttering open until they lock on mine. “Come here, baby. I’m fine.” Landen opens his arms to me and I launch myself at him, careful not to land on his bandages. “Shh,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m sorry, angel. So sorry.”
A violent sob racks my body as he wraps his arms around me. He’s the broken one, comforting me. But I can’t help it. His pain is my pain. It seeps into me, weighing me down until I can’t move.
“Landen,” I whisper against his bandaged chest.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promises. I raise my tear-stained face to his and he frowns.
I wince as he rubs his thumb across my upper lip. I already forgot about it. I checked the mirror after he left earlier. It’s bruised and swollen. But nothing compared to what he looks like right now. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say right back to him. But it is. I don’t know how everything got so messed up. But it is.
“Take it easy,” I tell Landen as I help him up the stairs. His arm is draped over my shoulders but I know he’s only got about half his weight actually on me. “One more step.”
My stomach tightens at what awaits us inside our apartment. Or rather, what his reaction to it will be. But I was out of options.
I pull out my key and unlock the door. But before I push it open, I lose my nerve. “Babe, I need to tell you something. I’m sorry, please don’t be mad.”
He turns to me with an arched brow.
I take a deep breath, trying to steel my nerves with oxygen. It helps a little. Not much, but enough. “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. But you need help. We need help.”
“What are you talking about?”
I push the door open, hating myself for feeling grateful that he’s not in any shape to run out.
Four pairs of eyes regard us warily as we walk in.
“Fucking hell,” Landen mumbles under his breath. “Seriously?” he turns to me with betrayal in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say as tears pool in my own. I tug him forward gently.
“Well isn’t this a nice welcome home.” His tone is sharp and wounded all at once. I take a few deep breaths. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but what other option did I have?
Skylar, Corin, Landen’s mom, and the manager of the soccer club he works for all stand to greet us.
“I’m guessing you weren’t expecting us,” Sean McBride says. The Barcelona Club manager is short and stocky but has an air of authority that makes him seem ten feet tall. He also has a Scottish accent that makes us sound like oos.
“No, sir, I wasn’t,” Landen says through gritted teeth.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Your girl here, she’s worried about ya,” he answers, coming forward to shake Landen’s hand. “Truthfully, we all are.”
I watch Landen’s green eyes darken as they skitter over his mother. But they lighten again as he nods to Skylar. “Skylar, you worried about me?”
Skylar jerks his chin upward. “Yeah, man. Shit keeps me up at night.” He grins as if they share a private joke.
“Well I’m not fucking worried about you. Even if you do look like you were hit by a truck,” Corin chimes in. “I’m worried about my best friend. And if her lip looks like that because of you, you’re going to look a whole lot worse.”
Oh crap. I forgot about that. “Corin—”
“No, she’s right. Call your boys, Ginger. Give them my address. I deserve it.”
Corin glares at him and I step between them. “Stop. Just stop.”
“Landen,” his mother breaks in from beside us. “Baby, I—”
“Don’t you baby me,” he snarls at her. “In fact, don’t even fucking talk to me.”
This is going well.
“Sit down. All of you,” I command. “Now.”
They all do as I say, which nearly shocks me into silence. I spoke with the lady at Axis about how to handle this. Her advice was to stay calm and in control. Not to let anyone’s emotions escalate too high. Obviously she’s never met Landen. She might as well have told me to relocate Mt. Kilimanjaro while I was at it.
I take a deep breath and stand. “I’ve asked each of you here because I don’t know what else to do. You all know that Landen and I keep our personal lives personal, maybe too personal. So personal that when things started to spiral out of control, I felt like I had no one to turn to.”
My mouth turns down and tears threaten but I swallow them back. “I called Corin yesterday before Landen got attacked. After we talked, I decided to call a professional for help. Her name is Megan Sanderson and she’s a doctor at the Axis Center—a place in California that Landen’s coach recommended he visit for help with his anger. As some of you already know, he’s currently on his second suspension for losing his temper.”
I keep my eyes on Landen as I speak. His hands grip his knees, and I want to drop to mine and apologize. Tell everyone to leave and forget it. But I know it’s now or never. Making excuses for him won’t help him. “Dr. Sanderson suggested we each tell him how we feel about him. How his anger affects us and why we would like for him to seek help.” My hands shake as I pull the first picture off the wall. “I’ll go first.”
His expression is pained when I turn back to face him. “Why are you doing this?”
I shake my head and give up on holding back my tears. My vision blurs as I look at him. “Because I love you,” I whisper. “But I can’t love our problems away.”
After I’ve taken all the pictures off the wall, revealed all of the damage he’s done, I walk over to him. “I’m as guilty as you are. I covered it up. Made excuses. Saw what I wanted to see. I’m sorry, Landen.” After pausing to pull in a rattled breath, I continue. “I want you to get help because I want to spend my life with you. I want to raise our child together in a happy home without being afraid that you’ll destroy it.”
His mom reaches over and clasps my hand. My tears fall as I meet her questioning gaze and nod. She didn’t know I was pregnant. The knowledge that Landen hasn’t told his own mother stings, but I try to convince myself that it’s a reflection of their relationship and not ours.
His mom stands and I take her spot on the couch. Regret and longing pour from her words as she speaks. “I want you to get help because I love you. Because you spent your life paying for my choices. Because I wasn’t strong enough to admit the truth. I want you to have the life you deserve because you are a wonderful man that I’m proud to call my son.”
I think she’s talking about his father but I’m not sure. The truth about what? I give Landen a sidelong questioning glance but he just shakes his head. His back is ramrod straight, his shoulders rigid, as if he’s braced for an attack. In a way, I feel like that’s exactly what we’re doing to him.
Mr. McBride clears his throat and locks eyes with Landen. “Son, I think you already know how the club feels. You’re the best striker we’ve had in years. The kind of player that changes the game, reminds me why I love it so much. Be a shame for you to throw away such a bright future over your pride. It’s easy to run from our problems. Takes a man to face them head-on.”
I slip my hand into Landen’s, praying silently that one day he’ll forgive me for this. He gives me a gentle squeeze in return and I tell myself there’s hope.
Skylar is next. Running his hand through his curly hair, he sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you how to live your life. I fuck mine up at least once a day. But I can tell you this: what you and Layla have…it’s not something you find around every corner, you know?”
Glancing over, I see Landen nod at his friend.
“I mean, shit. Corin would have me taken out if I’d so much as raised my voice on the wrong day of the week.”
“Truth,” C
orin says with a shrug.
“So if you love her, if you really want to make it work, I’d do whatever she wants if I were you. Go into anger management rehab or whatever the hell. And then there’s bank to be made playing professional soccer. And you’re having a kid. So money’s kind of an issue.” Skylar looks over at me. “Is that good? Did I do okay?”
I can’t help but smile as I nod. He sighs with relief and sits back down. Corin probably threatened to give him an at-home vasectomy if he screwed this up.
My stomach flips as Corin stands. Holy heck. Here we go.
“Honestly? I kind of want to just toss your stupid ass over that balcony and save everyone the trouble.”
“Corin—”
“Everyone else got their turn. Now I get mine, Layla.”
She points a manicured finger at Landen. “I talked her into coming here with you because I thought it would be a good thing. I rooted for you. Thought the reason you acted like such a fucking psycho was because you needed her. Loved her. But you’ve got her and obviously you’re still a mess. So…everyone else thinks you’re great and wonderful and wants you to get help. Well, I think you’re lucky Layla gives you the time of day and I don’t want to have to take out a loan to have you murdered. Since she obviously sees some redeemable quality in you that I don’t, you should live up to that.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to cut her off once more.
“I’m not done.”
“Might as well let her finish,” Skylar informs me with a knowing look. “You know she’s going to one way or another.”
“Look at her,” Corin says to Landen. He raises a cocky eyebrow at her. She cuts her eyes to me. “Fucking look at her, asshole. How does that make you feel? Her tears? Her busted lip? Is that what she deserves? That’s the best you can do?”
His jaw ticks as he clenches it shut. Corin’s pushing his buttons as hard as she can. I feel helpless. I want to ease his pain and shut her up, but it kind of seems like…like she’s the one actually getting through to him.