Close the Tab

by Chelsea Camaron

  The door flies open and there he stands in his uniform, belt off, pants undone, and cock out. It’s thick, short, and mean.

  He strokes it, wild eyes meeting mine. “Gonna have to make this fast; just on lunch.”

  I turn around, wishing that somehow the wall would suck me in and hide me.

  Without a word, he tears my shorts down my legs, leaving my panties in place. Then he kicks my feet apart. When he has me where he wants me, cold air hits my privates as my panties are pushed to the side.

  Pain, searing, stretching, aching pain shoots through me as he enters me from behind.

  “Want my cock covered in your pussy all day. Gonna feel you till I come home and make you feel me all night.”

  I reach out, grabbing my mom’s clothes and wishing I had something more to balance me. I send a silent prayer he will be quick as he snakes his hand up my abdomen to reach the undersides of my breasts.

  “Love when you want me to chase you, Tims. You should know there’s no place I won’t find you. Hide all you want, I’ll always be inside you now.” He thrusts harder, faster.

  I gag, which forces my body backward, only making him go deeper.

  Closing my eyes, I blacken my mind and remove myself.

  Unfeeling, I survive.

  “I’ll always find you, Tims.”

  Waking up, I jump straight up. Rushing beyond my curtain, I hit the toilet and vomit until I am left dry heaving.

  Sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, now spent, I wonder if it was him in Tennessee. Did he find me?

  Temptation rolls through me. I want to call Tempest. I want to know she is safe, that Arika is safe. The last thing I want is for Tempest to lose anything because of me. I need to know my leaving was for a reason.

  For months, I felt like I was being watched. Here and there, it would feel like someone was staring at me at work.

  Blood Thirsty was steady. With a gothic vibe and style unusual in Tennessee, it brought out a different crowd. The regularly schedule for raves helped and kept business growing.

  Being a large club-like atmosphere with black and neon lights, it called to the younger crowd. With the sinister feel, it was hard to know if I was being watched, noticed, or checked up on. There I couldn’t be for certain.

  It was when I felt it at the grocery store, I knew something was up. The day I volunteered to chaperone a field trip with a friend and her child, that a balding man in the flannel shirt that was too clean, too pressed, kept showing up every stop we made at the zoo and the dinner with the kids, I decided enough was enough. Days passed on and I couldn’t shake the feeling everywhere I went.

  I wouldn’t put Haven’s Harbor in danger. Bladen told me to follow my gut, and my instincts screamed he had found me.

  I close my eyes, leaning against the wall. “How long till you find me here?” I ask the air around me.

  Rather than allow myself to wallow, I tidy up my space. Then, after an afternoon nap, I doll up for the night. With a pair of ripped jeans, a tank top, and a flowy shirt that falls off one shoulder, I’m almost ready to head to work.

  My blonde hair is natural, long, and wavy. Albeit, a bit stringy, it could use a trim and some better products. I leave it down and apply dark shadow to my eyes to make the blue pop.

  As ready as I will ever be, I slide on my black, chunky heeled boots and make the walk to the bar since I don’t have a car. I wish I did, but it’s not a smart investment. Plus, a car means a license with a legal name, insurance, plates, and more ways to trace me.

  My life is one where every move counts. One wrong move and I expose myself. Like a game of chess, it can quickly become checkmate.

  I’m surprised when I arrive. Benny is there.

  “Hey, Benny,” I greet, shutting the door tightly behind me.

  “Damn boy; gonna be the death of me.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Being a bartender is sort of a therapist job where I hear more sad stories than is probably healthy. I have learned not to take it on as my own, yet listen with open ears, because sometimes all anyone wants is to be heard.

  “Mandee, you miss your folks?” he randomly asks. I told him they are dead.

  I nod rather than lie with words.

  “Tommy’s momma, she misses her boy.” The grief in his eyes cuts deep. “We love him, no matter what. Told him that we accept his life choices.”

  I blink as he continues.

  “He said it’s not a choice and stormed out. He comes to work here only so I keep the money in his account. Can’t get him to come home and see his mom.”

  Going around the bar, I lower the chairs from on top of the tables while Benny continues.

  “We raised him like any other kid. He grew up and says he’s gay. We didn’t turn him away, Mandee. No matter what he says, we didn’t. He just took us wrong.”

  “Maybe he’s sensitive and trying to sort out some things. He’ll come around. Just don’t give up on him.”

  Benny’s phone rings, stopping our conversation.

  “Hello?” he answers.

  I continue getting prepped to open while he speaks to whoever is on the other end of the line.

  “I’ll go, but Tommy, see your mom. Call her at least.” He’s silent as he intently listens to his son. “I can’t give you more money. It’s all I can do to keep this place open. Tommy, it’s yours. I give you everything we can. The bar isn’t making it, and your mom and I only have so much retirement to carry us.”

  My heart thumps wildly in my chest. I might lose my job. Mentally, I start thinking of my savings. How far can I go? What will I do until I stumble upon another place like this? I can’t sit back and contribute to Benny and his wife losing everything.

  Benny ends his call just as I finish readying the tables.

  “Gotta go,” he says somberly. “Keep an eye on my boy, Mandee.” With those words, he departs, and my heart breaks for him.

  How do good parents still have to have heartache?

  Determined to have a talk with Tommy about the misunderstanding, I move about my tasks. Unfortunately, I’m unable to have a talk with Tommy because he never comes in for work. In fact, the night comes and goes with only two patrons—the tag team duo of meatheads. They arrive just as I flip the sign from closed to open.

  Serving them quickly, I go to the back and send a tweet to Tempest.

  @ArikaMae lonely.

  I send the word with an attached link to a song about missing my girls and wishing we had a night out. I would love to have the freedoms most women do to go out for a night with their friends. I’m sure Tempest misses it, too.

  Her reply is a meme with stars and not being alone for she sees the same sky I do.

  It’s the simple reminder I need to press on.

  I continue cleaning with nothing else to do but serve the scary men who once again are in designer suits and watching. No words other than a call for another bottle.

  Time passes before I notice Willis is missing from his spot. I make a mental point to call Louise tomorrow morning to check on him. In case she isn’t feeling well, I don’t want to call at night and disturb her.

  Cleaning up and locking up is easy. Then I make the walk home, wondering what happened to Tommy tonight and if the duo were there for him. Plus, an uneasy feeling hits me about Willis.

  I can’t think much about it because, as I get inside my shed, Tommy comes out from behind the curtain to my bathroom.

  A scream escapes me before I recognize him.

  He stands in front of me in suspenders, his dress pants, a button up shirt that is no longer tucked or buttoned, and is covered in blood. His long hair is disheveled, his left eye is swollen shut, his nose looks a mess, and blood covers his chin from his busted lip.

  “What happened?”

  “Got myself some trouble, Mandee,” he says before falling sideways on my bed and passing out.

  What the fuck do I do with him?

  Chapter Seven

  ~Bladen~


  T angled.

  Twisted.

  Torn.

  For twenty-four hours, I have sat in this spot, not answering a single call and not moving. The stench is awful, and the mess is beyond anything I have encountered before, even with all the shit we have done with Devil’s Due. This, however, I did on my own.

  I close my eyes and it all comes back.

  He admitted it.

  The rage builds readily like lava boiling in a volcano. Even with his dead body feet away from me, I want nothing more than to kill him all over again.

  I am a mess inside, thinking of the years she had to endure more than I ever could imagine. Yes, I knew it was him. I fucking knew he had put his hands on her, but never did I put it together that things went that far.

  Dry heaving while I sit on the couch, I hear the rumble outside.

  Harley Davidson’s, a group of them.

  Devil’s Due Motorcycle Club.

  There is no doubt in my mind that my brothers are outside. I should have answered a call. They gave me all the time on my own they are going to give.

  Yet, I make no moves as the emotions wage war inside me.

  I failed her.

  My God, I failed her unforgivably.

  The door opens and is met with resistance from the remains of Caleb Andrews.

  “Really, fucker? You get to have all the fun and we’re, like, the cleanup crew?” Trapper says loudly, pushing the door open. He steps to the side then enters the living room. “Judge, jury, and executioner, while badass, this could’ve been hella fun for the group,” Trapper continues as the rest of the group make their way inside.

  Collector stands beside him. “Really, Trapper? Is everything always about your brand of fun?” He looks to me. “How ya doin’, brother?”

  Trapper rolls back on his heels then onto the balls of his feet like an anxious child. “Ya know blood gets my dick hard. So, we bleachin’ shit or torchin’ it?”

  I shake my head, not knowing what to do. “Things didn’t go like I planned.”

  “What’d you actually think would happen when you came here?” Rowdy asks, going to the living room window and pulling the cheap plastic blinds closed.

  “Didn’t expect my mother to tell me to leave. Didn’t expect my dad to shoot me and my mom take the hit, so he shot himself.” Pausing, I let the men take in the scene.

  “So, you didn’t have the fun? Pops took it all from you. Suicide is selfish. Damn, can we at least kick him in the balls?” Trapper asks before looking back to the door. “Wait, Ma and Pops are in the kitchen, so who’s the headless horseman at the door?”

  “The Devil himself,” I growl, my eyes meeting Collector’s as I silently tell him what Caleb did to his own daughter, or at least, I hope he can read it.

  I dry heave again.

  Deacon comes to stand beside me, gripping my shoulder. “Gonna make a call. Gotta buddy and a marker; this will all go away.”

  I raise my hand, stopping him. “Call the police. I deserve the time.”

  Trapper rushes to me then shakes me. “You get hit in the head or some shit? You don’t deserve a life sentence for takin’ out this kind of child beatin’ scum.”

  “I did it. I’ll take the punishment for not doin’ it sooner.”

  Trapper throws his hands up in the air. “I did it! I did it! I’ll be screamin’ it at the station beside ya, brother. No way, no how you’re goin’ down for this shit.”

  I look at my hands where the blood is died on. Parts of it have cracked and fallen off, but I couldn’t bring myself to move or do anything but sit and wait. I can see hints of the tanned tones beneath the damage done. Like the boy who is somewhere inside me, wishing the right thing could have been done before any of this started, the layers of tragedy continue to cover any hope of what once was under it all.

  Deacon, having ignored me completely, is outside making his call and handling shit, while Rowdy goes to my father and mother to check for a pulse.

  “Anything we need to get from next door for Tamalyn? Don’t know what’ll happen, but can’t promise this house or the one beside it are gonna be standing much longer.” Collector asks while X stands at the ready. I haven’t seen Hadley or Sonnie so I’m assuming they stayed at the hotel in Florence.

  “Call Tempest,” I instruct. “She will know if there is anything of importance to Tamalyn.”

  “Thinkin’ that call should come from you, brother,” Collector says, knowing my history and how I’m tied to Tempest Adams, Haven’s Harbor, and the relationship she and I share.

  Instead, Trapper pulls out his phone and dials someone. “Tempest, my seductress, mistress, and madame, T-money, Trapper here, love.” The man rambles like there aren’t three bodies just feet from us in the open floor plan of my childhood home. “You know I got a thing with Tamalyn. Well, don’t tell, but we’re gonna run off to Vegas, baby. She’s gonna take my name and shit. First, though, I wanna stop by and get her dad’s permission, that southern shit y’all swoon over.” He pauses, to which I’m sure Tempest is cussing him out.

  “Easy, baby,” he says with his best Alabama drawl. “Legit, gonna have a chat with our girl’s pop. Need to know if there is anything she would want. Tryin’ to do the right thing here, darlin’. Just wanna pick up pictures or her momma’s favorite blanket. You know, that girl shit.”

  Having enough of his mouth, I stand and yank the phone from him. Feeling the room spin, I then quickly sit back down.

  “Tempest, it’s Bladen. Look, if you hear from her, there is nothing for her to fear again. Shit’s handled. But if there is anything from home she wants, tell me now so I can make it happen.”

  “You killed him?” she asks on a whisper.

  “Not gonna answer that.”

  “Good!”

  Tempest knows, I can feel it. She knows more than I ever knew.

  The loss washes over me again. I failed Tamalyn.

  “House, memories; what would she want?”

  There is a sigh. “Bladen Jacob Jones, the only thing Tamalyn Mary Andrews wants and has ever wanted is the one thing you won’t give her.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only one thing that would ever make her life right, and that’s you. Only you wanna be a stubborn ass and push her away. Bladen, either man up and claim your woman or cut her loose. It’s the least you can do after all these years.”

  With those words, she clicks off, and I’m left feeling more shaken than I was when I took her father’s life with my own hands.

  Cut her loose? Impossible.

  Chapter Eight

  ~Tamalyn~

  A ping comes to my phone as I feel the heavy weight of a man’s arm draped over my body move. Reaching to my nightstand, I grab it, seeing it’s only six o’clock in the morning. As if yesterday wasn’t long enough, this is how today will begin.

  Clicking the Twitter app icon, the message I read haunts me. Tempest has sent a simple request, but it’s one I can’t fulfill.

  @MaryAstronomy ET phone home.

  Is this a trick? Has someone figured out who we are? Is this to lure me out?

  I don’t reply. Instead, I listen to Tommy groan from beside me. After a night of him tossing and turning, I’m sure he’s in agony. The way he kept talking, I am pretty sure he was on something last night. I wonder what, if anything, he will remember today.

  Getting up, I go to my small sink and wet a washcloth.

  “Come on, Tommy; we gotta clean you up.”

  When he sits up, I see his eye is still completely swollen shut, fresh blood trickles out of his nose from the movement, and his lip is scabbed over and crusty. It looks painful.

  “Now that you are comin’ off whatever-the-fuck you were on last night, wanna tell me what happened?”

  My phone pings again in the background, alerting me to a Twitter notification. I ignore it. There is no way Tempest could expect me to call. I have no idea how I will reestablish communication with her, but that is
something to deal with later.

  “Buffoons,” he moans as I touch the cold cloth to his lips.

  “Make sense, Tommy, before I call your dad.”

  With that threat, he instantly reaches out and grabs my wrist painfully.

  I freeze.

  Panic.

  Humiliation.

  Agony.

  Fear.

  It all hits me.

  So does strength.

  In a swift move, I remove my hand and throw a fist straight to his nuts.

  He turns sideways and curls into a ball, crying out, his breathing erratic as he tries to get through the shock.

  “Don’t you ever grab me again!” I roar, feeling empowered.

  He didn’t hurt me.

  “Mandee, didn’t mean it.” His words are whispered as he continues to cup himself.

  “Been weak before, been held down; ain’t gonna happen ever again,” I tell him as the emotions build to a breaking point. Helpless, lost, belittled, I know the way it feels. I won’t be in that position ever again.

  My phone pings yet again, and needing the reprieve from Tommy, I get up and grab it.

  @MaryAstronomy There’s no place like home. That comes with a picture of Dorothy’s ruby-red Wizard of Oz shoes.

  @MaryAstronomy Chances are …

  What the hell?

  I send a meme with a Hollywood star shrugging their shoulders, and the words ‘I can’t help you’ on the picture, as Tommy finally composes himself.

  “Got myself in some shit, Mandee. Gonna get myself out. Just need to have a few days to clean up, heal up, and then I’ll let you be.”

  I gasp. “You can’t possibly think you’re staying here with me?”

  “Got nowhere else to go.”

  “What’s going on? If you’re going to invade my private, personal space, then tell me what is really happening.”

  He blows out a breath. “I’m gay.”

  I look at him like he has two heads. “And what does that have to do with you being beaten and bloody on my damn stoop?”

  “Technically, I was in your bathtub till you came home. Love the she-shed, Mandee. Seriously kick ass,” he tries to lighten things. “You don’t seem surprised by my admission.”