Broken Heart (The Broken Heart Series Book 1)

by Angel Rose

  kiss left me breathless. I opened the door and plopped myself on the couch. I turned on the television and flipped through the channels as I thought about how close I was to giving Carl my

  virginity. Jesus, I didn’t want to lose my virginity in a fucking car. I have to get my head together. I’m not thinking straight, and that’s going to cost me.

  I was meeting Jonathan at Hunter College, so he can give me a copy of his resume. I was adamant on finding another job and what went down with Dave on Sunday; I thought we both needed some

  space. Jonathan offered to lend me his resume so I could copy the format. He was meeting his girlfriend at the library at Hunter, so I told him I’d meet him there. I passed by the café near

  Hunter College. I glanced through the window and saw Carl sitting inside with a woman who had two babies in a double stroller and a young girl about three or four years old sitting next to him

  standing on the chair and playing with his sandy blonde hair, she looked just like him. I stopped and did a double-take as if my imagination had been playing tricks on me. I decided to peek in and

  wave at him. Carl saw me and his eyes widened, he gave me a look of fear, you know that look…when you open your eyes really wide to tell someone to keep walking…that’s the exact

  look he gave me. He reminded me of the troubled looks my mom and I gave each other when my father would start his drunken sprees. The woman glanced up for a second, looked at me, and then

  looked away. I quickly stopped waving, and I continued to walk away slowly still trying to get a glimpse of the happy family eating together on a beautiful afternoon.

  How could I be so stupid? I was right, there was something off about him I couldn’t put my finger on…he was married. I felt so bad, and I actually felt repulsed knowing that after we kissed intimately, and I almost gave him my virginity, he was going home to kiss his wife or make love

  to her. It was a deplorable thought. I was really upset with him, and I wondered why he was cheating on her. He wasn’t a drunk like my father. He was a well-respected professor with a good

  reputation and a good head on his shoulders. Was it just the norm for every man to cheat? Was this what I had to look forward to when I got married?

  I went home feeling jilted. My heart hurt a little and it hurt even more that Dave was right about him. I laid on my bed, flat on my stomach, thinking about what happened with Carl. I got up feeling

  panicked, and I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of white Zinfandel and drank a glass or two, or three…maybe four. I knew it seemed pathetic and sad, but I was hurt. Even though I didn’t love Carl…didn’t mean I wasn’t human. Later that night, Carl called me and left me

  countless messages on my voicemail. I didn’t bother to answer him. All I heard was “Jen, I’m sorry.” “It’s not what it seems.” “I don’t love her, I love you. I know you didn’t know that.” Blah,

  blah, blah, blah, blah…love…He loved me? Wow…did he really love me? If he did, he sure had a funny way of showing it, by cheating on me with his wife!

  The shock of Carl’s infidelity sunk into my brain quickly, and I was angry, but still…I was hurt. My nightmares had intensified, and I was hoping and praying they would eventually go away on their own. I was tired of having nightmares during the day, should I say day-mares now? I couldn’t

  wait to see Dr. Logan again. Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. I was tired of working nights with Dave and reading gruesome cold case files. I wanted to find a nine to five job. I was tired of

  filing papers, cleaning up coffee cups and cigarette butts, and answering phones. I was lonely, even at work. Dave was never there. I called in sick Monday morning, and Dave answered the phone.

  “Hi Dave, I’m not feeling well. I won’t be in tonight,” I said as I heard the beep for the office answering machine.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh you picked up…what are you doing there so early? I was going to leave you a message on the machine and text you later on.”

  “Oh, just catching up on some missed phone calls and messages, are you okay?”

  “To be honest, I’m tired of working nights. I need a break, actually, I need to find a different job, Dave,” I said seriously.

  “Do you want to switch to days? Or does this have to do with that asshole, Carl?” he asked disappointingly.

  “No, I need to find my own job, you know, find out what I’m really good at. I have a degree in forensic psychology and science, and I don’t know what to do with it.” My voice trembled. “Dave…you were right about Carl.

  He was married.” I sobbed over the phone.

  “That son of a bitch! I should’ve killed him!” he roared over the phone.

  “Fuck him!”

  “Dave please, I’m already upset. I don’t really want to get into this.”

  “Look, you’re really good at being my secretary, but I understand, I’ll try to help you out. I have some friends I can talk to.”

  “Thanks Dave, but this time…I don’t want your help. You understand, right? See you, tomorrow,” I sniveled.

  “Yeah. Sure. I understand. See ya,” he said as he hung up.

  Before I knew it the week flew by, and it was Friday. I called in sick again and stayed home working on my resume. My cell phone rang, and the name Jonathan was flashing. Jonathan called

  me several times to see if I needed help with my resume. I think he wanted more than that; I know he wanted more than that. It just so happened the day I caught Carl with his wife, he caught his

  girlfriend with her tongue down the bookkeeper’s throat in the library. I felt bad for him, but I was feeling even sorrier for myself once again.

  I was looking forward to a night of a do-it-yourself mani and pedi, maybe dark red? Listening to soft classical music, enjoying cheese and crackers, and having a nice tall glass, maybe two, of pink

  zinfandel…different color could be a mood changer. The night wouldn’t be complete without my favorite peach throw blanket. Mom, where are you? I miss you.

  I was soaking my feet in the tub adding some soothing chamomile foot soap to the warm bubbling water. It felt so good that my feet were desperately disappearing underneath the bubbles. I stretched

  my legs and lifted my feet above the water, admiring the bubbles that sat on my toes like little snowballs, when I heard a knock at my door. I slid my snow balled bubbly toes under the running

  water and rinsed them quickly then shuffled across the bathroom to the living room. I almost slipped on the wet hardwood floor making a quick run for the door then I asked,

  “Who is it?”

  “Dave.”

  I heard faintly on the other side of the door. I looked through the peephole and opened the door.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?” He was dressed so nicely, a black suit, with a white silk shirt and black bow tie. “Wow! Where are you going? Why are you so dressed up?” I asked curiously.

  “I was invited to the opening of some art gallery in SoHo or something like that. I don’t remember the name of it, but I thought it would be fun if you tagged along.” He stood casually in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

  “Fun…look at my feet…I’m a mess, I’m not ready to go out!” I stressed to him.

  “Wear shoes that don’t show your toes,” he said laughing. “Come on, you’ll get to meet new people, maybe make some friends, and maybe a man?” he said convincingly.

  I sat on the couch and dried my feet with my throw blanket. I looked up at Dave who was waiting impatiently for an answer. His eyes glaring at my feet as he tapped his black just spit shined leather shoe on the hardwood floors.

  “A man, really? No such luck up this avenue…Okay, give me a half an hour or more, you know how women are. Make yourself at home…have a glass of wine if you’d like,” I said as I giggled.

  I walked over to the bedroom and opened the closet. My infamous peach dress hung from my Joy Mangano han
ger. I wanted to yank it off and shred it to pieces. So, I picked out my favorite all

  occasion black satin sequenced dress with a pair of slinky closed toe silver pumps that would probably have my feet screaming in about a half hour.

  “How do I look?”

  I spun around to show off my dress and said, “Let’s go!” He laughed and grabbed my hand.

  “Let’s do this!” he shouted.

  We went downstairs and hailed a cab down the block. The cabby drove down one of those tiny streets near Houston and Broadway. There were hardly any lights on the street, but the art gallery sign was bright with red light bulbs it said “Art Gallery.” How original, I thought to myself. We

  entered, and we were greeted by women dressed in red with black stiletto heels. They took our passes and handed us a card that was stamped guest and read unlimited drinks. It was a quaint

  place with interesting artwork displayed. The artist, Jolie Alejandro, had a vivid imagination for tragic and solemn themes. She painted distorted faces and bodies that seemed depressed and

  deformed. She used defining strokes of dark rich colors, like black, dark gray, midnight blue, and surprisingly white, emphasizing their eyes; eyes that were placed in odd places around the faces

  and bodies. I found the paintings bizarre and magnificent at the same time. She definitely was talented.

  Dave introduced me to Jolie. I extended my hand to her, and she lifted her hands towards me and held my face and said, “Yes, you have beautiful eyes, they’re big, bright, and they seem to be hiding a tormenting secret.” I grabbed her hands gently and slid them down off of my face. My

  eyes widened in shock. I stared at her because I felt like her compliment was a side jab at me. I was embarrassed and insulted at the same time. She spoke very loudly, and a few people turned to

  see who she was talking to. I turned to walk away and she said, “Just kidding,” as she smirked at me with a condescending smile,

  “But, you are beautiful.” She winked at me and walked towards Dave who left me to admire her work.

  My eyebrows furrowed, and my nose crinkled up. She undeniably noticed

  I was uncomfortable with her remark, but she didn’t care. She smiled at Dave while turning her back towards me and waved to a group of admirers on the other side of the gallery. Jolie was a

  short woman, with a very skinny, chiseled, pale face. She was wearing a kerchief around her platinum blonde hair. She seemed friendly at first, with her sheepish smile, but after her comment,

  I wasn’t convinced. She looked at me again, winked, then excused herself and met up with her admirers on the other side who were waiting for her brooding presence. I was relieved. She was

  strange, and I didn’t want to speak to her again. Later, wicked witch of the west! Dave grabbed me by my hand and laughed at the expression on my face.

  “I don’t know her, really, I don’t. I swear!” he chuckled loudly. “She thinks we met somewhere before; she obviously is very confused. That kerchief is way too tight. I would never talk to some

  freak like that. She’s definitely not my type, but I just played along so I could get some free tickets to get in here. Come on, let’s take a look at this weirdo’s work,” he said as he smiled at me.

  I gave Dave a crooked look, and he tugged at my hand to start walking. Dave and I walked around looking at her paintings, which were lit up with bright fluorescent white lights. The waitresses wore red, skin-tight body suits and passed around martinis and glasses of wine on a silver tray,

  gliding through the floor in old-fashioned roller skates, four wheelers, no less. I looked at the martinis and shook my head no. Dave picked up a glass of wine.

  “Not drinking tonight?” he asked checking out the waitresses’ boobs and asses.

  “No, I’m not in the mood to drink tonight. I’m going to find a place to sit.”

  I smiled indignantly and walked away. I didn’t like the way he was looking at those waitresses; it made me feel uncomfortable.

  I left Dave to walk around on his own, and I found a place to sit in the back of the gallery. They had a nice comfy couch with large square pillows and an ottoman to put your feet up. I could get

  used to this. I placed my aching feet up on the ottoman and removed my shoes. My feet were hurting me so badly; they were throbbing through the facade of those beautiful silver pumps

  shining in the night. My pinky toe was swelling up like a float at the Thanksgiving Day Parade. This was a nice time. It was peaceful and soothing, and they even had classical music playing

  throughout the gallery; the piece was Meditation from Thais by Massenet. It was one of my favorite classical pieces. I leaned my head back against the couch and thought about the first time I had

  listened to classical music. It was in high school; I was a sophomore. One day, my history teacher told us to listen to Bach and Vivaldi as we worked on a research paper on the history of classical music. He said the music would enhance our memory skills and take us to a different place in our

  imagination. It was beautiful. The strings of the violins softly entered into my ears and penetrated straight through to my soul. I felt so free and calm. I imagined myself in another place, far away

  from the open farmland where I lived; a place that was hidden and near the water; where you could only here the melodious sound of the waves gently making contact with the supple sand…a place

  where I knew fighting and screaming were nonexistent; a secret location where only my mother and I could have gone, where she couldn’t feel any more pain. I remember asking my teacher if I

  could borrow the CD so I could take it home. He did, and I played it sometimes at night alone in my room, which wasn’t often. It was only on the days my father wasn’t drunk and those were rare.

  I always hoped and prayed for the day that my mother and I could go to that place, but that day never came. Maybe heaven is a place like that; maybe, she’s there right now.

  The soft, soothing classical music was rudely interrupted by Jason Derulo’s “Talk Dirty to Me.” I like that song, but the DJ really ruined the mood when he made that switch. The waitresses began

  skating around, and some of the people in the gallery looked like they were losing their minds yelling and dancing. All of those thin, elongated bodies in those red body suits showing their big

  boobs became the center of attention. Some guys were running around after the waitresses, and they were laughing and hollering like lunatics. Jolie laughed and acted as if nothing was going on

  around her. She sat and watched in delight. Hell, it was her opening, and she liked it. I knew she was a freak!

  I turned to my left and saw Dave talking to a very pretty woman. She spoke with her hands and acted out her story. You can tell she was telling him something interesting because Dave was

  totally into her. She was slim, about 5’9 with light brown wavy hair, shoulder length. She dressed very stylishly with a silver, skin-tight dress studded with sparkling rhinestones.

  Her shoes had three-inch heels, and she didn’t tip over once even after a having a few glasses of wine.

  I shook my head and laughed with content. I was happy for Dave. He needed a woman in his life. I changed my mind about having a drink. I became bored and the relaxing classical music I was enjoying was replaced by a groin grinding let me do you song, that at one point I was willing to

  join, but was too embarrassed to, so I didn’t. I didn’t see any of the waitresses. They were so busy skating around and shaking their boobs up and down they forgot to go around and serve the clients.

  I decided to go to the bar myself. I slid my pumps back on hoping I could last in them without breaking a toe to the short walk to the bar. I stood at the bar and

  I’m not going to lie, I was shaking it to Jason Derulo. There goes that Latin rhythm again. I can’t sit still when I hear a good beat.

  “May I have an apple martini; can you throw some olives in there, please?” I a
sked the bartender who had his back towards me as I swayed my hips back and forth to the beat of the music.

  “Sure.” He turned around slowly and smiled blinding me with a gold grill in his mouth. He was cute and of course, another typical looking bartender, tight t-shirt, muscles and blonde flowing hair that covered his round blue eyes. He had a tattoo on his wrist that read hell raiser. He looked up at

  me as he blew his bangs in an upward direction and said, “Twelve-fifty,” then he stood there gaping at my breasts.

  “How much?” I heard someone say behind me.

  “What?” he asked, tilting his head to the side looking behind me. “Why?

  Are you paying or just enjoying the view?” he asked rudely.

  I turned around to see who wanted to buy me a drink and who was checking me out. It was him…he wanted to buy me a drink, the blue-green-eyed god himself. Good Lord! I was speechless, and my eyes met his for a split second and then he looked away, and he said sarcastically to the bartender,

  “Here you go, keep the change, hell raiser.” He threw a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and stood behind me.

  I turned away from him as I whispered, “thank you.” politely. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I was so surprised to see him there that my body was shaking, literally. What the hell was he doing here?

  I can’t believe he is here and he bought me a drink…I felt as if he would have known how happy I was by the huge, intense, all white teeth, eyes popping out of my head, smile on my face.

  “May I join you?” he said as he sat next to me on the stool at the bar.

  I looked over at him, smirked and stood up and had enough nerve to say,

  “You know, I found a really nice comfortable couch in the back of the gallery.” I pointed towards the back and started slowly walking away. Oh my God, I actually invited him to sit next to me? How the hell did I manage to do that?

  He followed me, and we both sat down. He watched me sit first and then he sat next to me, facing me directly. It was hard not to look at him without feeling like I was just struck by lightning. He