Toxicity

by Katie May

  “We could’ve waited to order so you could look,” Deluca tells me as soon as she’s out of earshot.

  “Nah. I used to come here all the time. I love the burgers here.”

  The waitress returns with our coffee cups, a bowl of cream, and packets of sugar. I thank her, immediately dropping a generous amount of cream and sugar into my coffee until it’s a light brown.

  Deluca watches it with distaste.

  “You drink it like that?” he asks, lips curling. He takes a sip of his own black coffee.

  “What are you...a coffee snob?” I jest.

  He adopts his best British accent, putting his nose in the air and slitting his eyes. “I’ll have you know, little missy, that I am the best coffee taster in all of the world.”

  “Oh are you? Please, tell me what your highness thinks about this decadent drink.” I nod towards his cup, and he puts it to his lips, sipping softly. His face twists, contorts, and his finger moves to his chin to tap.

  “Slightly bitter. Dark. Like my soul.” The last statement is said with a malevolent cackle, and I can’t help but join in with the laughter.

  “For a cop, you’re honestly a dork, you know that?” I say, taking a sip of my own glorious coffee. Deluca can suck my ass. Cream and sugar in coffee are the only way to go.

  “You know, not all police officers have sticks up their asses,” he replies almost conversationally. He flashes me a grin. “Most of us can be quite fun.”

  “Like Moder and Griffin?” I ask, and his smile instantly fades.

  “Those two are...well…” He blows out a breath. “Normally, they’re pretty damn good cops. But for some reason, they seem pretty dead set on their quest to prove that you’re the murderer.” Casting a glance in both directions, ensuring no one is in hearing distance, he adds, “I looked through the evidence. Talked to the witnesses. Nothing, and I mean nothing, points to you as the culprit. Unless they know something I don’t—or have a reliable witness not yet shared with the record—they’re looking in the wrong direction. But they’re old-fashioned. They see an abused wife finally standing up for herself and killing her asshole husband, especially since the actual murder didn’t involve anything physical.”

  His words make me somber, and I peek at him through my fringe of lashes.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask hoarsely. The prospect that I could be arrested for a crime I didn’t commit fills me with terror—the terror even larger and more pronounced than the prospect of being murdered.

  Deluca sighs, leaning back in the booth and folding his arms over his chest.

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’ll help you figure it out.”

  Chapter 14

  Deluca drops me off at Susie’s house with a reassuring hand squeeze. I don’t know how one man, one stranger, is capable of making me feel better, only that Deluca can. My stomach muscles loosen, and I release a shaky breath.

  “It’ll be okay, Mallie,” he assures me. There’s a tenderness emanating from his eyes I’m not used to seeing. As quickly as it came, it dissipates, and he turns to stare out the windshield once more. “Lock the doors behind you when you enter. I have some of my trusted officers stationed on the road, so you don’t have to worry.”

  I study his profile for a long second, memorizing the planes of his face, the determined curl of his lips, and the tousled dark hair.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”

  “Lock the doors,” he reminds me, hands tightening on the steering wheel. It looks as if he is going to say more, but then thinks better of it. His lips thin into a straight line as I scramble out of the car.

  He remains in the driveway until I’m safely inside. When I wave through the minuscule window perpendicular to the door, he nods his head back, pulling the car onto the road.

  I wait until he’s out of sight before collapsing. My back rests against the wooden door, and I exhale heavily.

  What a fucking day.

  “Mallie,” a quiet voice says, and I jump, startled. I don’t know why I am, though. It’s not like I expected him to stay away for long.

  Byron stands in front of me, in the entryway of the living room, his hands nervously clasped in front of his stomach. He looks...disheveled. His hair is sticking out in all directions, and thick bags darken the skin around his eyes. To my horror, he’s wearing the same flannel and jeans attire he had on during the confrontation in the coffee shop.

  “By,” I say, taking a tentative step closer...before regaining my wits and stumbling away. I wrap my arms around myself, but somehow, I know that physical gesture won’t soothe the emotional pain I’m feeling.

  “I need to talk to you,” he rasps.

  “You look like shit,” I breathe, and then immediately wince. Yup. Way to go, Mallie. Putting your foot in your mouth again.

  “I haven’t slept.” He scrubs a hand down his weary face. “I can’t sleep. I just...you have to know that I didn’t kill Jared, okay? You have to believe me.”

  He takes a step closer.

  I match him step by step until we’re inches from each other. His hand trembles as he raises it, brushing back a loose strand of my dark hair. When his finger brushes my skin, I light up everywhere. It sort of reminds me of that game of Operation where you have to remove strange objects from a human body. If you touch the side, the game vibrates.

  That’s what his touch feels like.

  I shiver, the feel of just his finger nearly orgasmic. White hot pleasure cascades through me.

  “I need to tell you the truth,” Byron repeats hoarsely. He sounds as if he’s barely holding on, as if he’s clutching a broken life preserver as the turbulent sea continues to push him farther and farther away from shore. And I want to be that life preserver for him. I need to.

  From the very first moment—when I was desperate and alone, contemplating taking my own life—he was there. His silent support and strength comforted me tremendously. I know that I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for him.

  “Talk to me,” I whisper. “You want to tell me you didn’t do it? Tell me. I believe you, Byron. I’ll always believe you. I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t.”

  His hand curls around my upper arm, but the touch isn’t painful. It’s actually very, very gentle. Sweet, almost. He holds me and touches me like fine china. I feel treasured in his presence. Protected.

  When he still appears unstable, unsure, I intertwine our fingers and lead him to the couch. I wonder, briefly, where Susie is, but that thought is on the back burner, overshadowed by more pressing ones.

  “Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” I cup his face with my hands, and his eyes are forced to focus on me. Only me.

  “I didn’t kill him, Mallie. I promise.”

  “I know, okay? I believe you.”

  “But I…” He trails off, eyes flickering down to where his fingers are twisting in his lap. The wrappings on his knuckles appear to be old, dark brown blood darkening the previously white bandages. “I went to your house—his house—after you left. I thought you went home. I thought you went back to him. I thought you went back to that...that monster. So I went there, and he was there with this smug-as-fuck grin, and I was drunk and angry.” His words are beginning to run together, becoming nearly unintelligible. His hands cover mine over his face, holding us together. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know,” I whisper, but I’m struggling to understand what he had just revealed to me. He was there? When Jared was murdered and Aurora was injured?

  “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t hurt Aurora. I hated them both—I hated them because they had you and hurt you—but I didn’t kill them. Please believe me.” Tears slide down his cheeks, and I follow one with my eyes. It hangs suspended from his parted lips. Just sitting there. Not moving. Not drying up.

  Just there.

  “Please, explain it to me, By. Explain it all to me.” Am I crying as well? Maybe. My emotions are too chaotic for me to fully grasp, fully understand.
They—my emotions—want to feel everything at once, but my mind, thankfully, stops them. It knows how dangerous too many emotions can be.

  “I hurt him,” Byron admits softly. “I hurt Jared. It was something I wanted to do for years, since I saw that first bruise on you.” The tears are coming faster, faster, faster, but all I can do is stare at him blankly. Brokenly.

  Did he break me?

  Or have I always been broken?

  “I wanted to save you. But...but he threatened my mom. He threatened Susie. He hurt her.” His body shakes with ragged sobs, chest heaving. “I went to the cops, but they did nothing. Nothing. I tried to get you out of there, I did, but he hurt my mom. He hurt her. I didn’t know what to do.” His words are nearly incoherent as he cries. “I knew you were going to go back to him, that he’d hurt you again. I thought I could scare him, damn the consequences. But...but I didn’t kill him.”

  Somewhere in the distance, sirens blare. Red and blue lights cast strange, eerie shadows on the drawn curtains.

  “Byron…” I whisper, and I taste something salty on my tongue. Tears. My tears. Everything within me hurts. A sort of pain I don’t know if I can come back from.

  “I turned myself in,” Byron whispers. “I told them that I was there that night, that I beat him.” He twists his head, pressing a heartbreakingly gentle kiss to the palm of my hand. “The cops were going after you. Blaming you. I couldn’t let that happen, even if you killed him.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Allow me to do what I couldn’t for years. Allow me to protect you.” Another gentle kiss is planted to the other palm. “I love you.”

  The door is kicked open, screams and shouts reverberating through the air. Byron’s eyes never leave mine as he is forcibly pinned to the ground, his hands behind his back. When the police push him out the door and towards the awaiting cop car, his head tilted to look over his shoulder. When Susie drives around the corner from her trip to the grocery store, wrenching the car door opened and dropping to her knees.

  I’m...I’m blinded.

  By my pains and my tears.

  I didn’t think anything could be too much for me, but this? This is it.

  My breaking point.

  It’s finally been too much.

  Chapter 15

  I wander aimlessly.

  There’s no destination in mind, no specific location...just away.

  As my—thankfully covered—feet pound against the gravel, I can’t help but think how similar this moment is to the one a few nights ago.

  Me, running away.

  Me, being a coward.

  Is that going to be my thing? Am I always going to run from my problems? At what point do I give up, recognize that this—everything—is too much?

  I’m falling, falling, falling, but I have no one to catch me. I’m searching for that hand, but it’s never there.

  At this point, I just want to...well...I want to crash. I want to reach the bottom of whatever canyon I’m dangling over.

  Byron…

  His words echo in my head. His declaration. His confession. Did he mean those words, stated so dogmatically? Does he truly love me?

  I’ve never been in love before. I wouldn’t be able to tell you what it’s like or how I’m supposed to feel. Is my heart supposed to pound rapidly against my rib cage? Are my knees supposed to go weak?

  Or is it a calmness, a sense of peace before the coming storm? Is it safety and comfort?

  Or is it the eye of a hurricane, and you’re just waiting for the inevitable attack?

  I don’t know how I feel about Byron, about any of them, but I know I want them in my life. I want Byron here with me, not behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit.

  And I know he didn’t commit it. He admitted to beating up Jared, and I don’t think I can blame him. If I discovered someone was hurting Byron, I’d do the exact same.

  And did Jared…?

  Did Jared threaten Susie? Is that how he got By to remain silent?

  My head throbs painfully, and tears fester in my eyes. I stubbornly refuse to let them fall.

  Somehow, my feet lead me to the now darkened bridge erected above churning water. The river roars, frothing against the shore dozens of feet below. The ice has long since melted.

  My hands shake as I pull myself onto the slick ledge, using one of the metal pillars for balance. Down below me, the water looks more chaotic than I could ever imagine. The sun has disappeared behind the boughs of trees, painting everything in pink and gray. Despite these colors, the water appears almost black from this distance.

  Only then, do I allow my tears to fall. They trail down my cheek silently.

  Behind me, a car drives by—either not noticing or not caring about the girl seconds from jumping. Why would they care? I’m just a random female. Nothing special. I’m the girl who had just escaped a toxic relationship...through death. I’m the girl with the tattoo of a dragon branding her as something disgusting.

  I’m nothing.

  A memory bombards me, assaults me, and my feeble grip on the railing loosens as the tears fall harder. Faster.

  “What’s your name, sweetie?” The man’s voice was sickly sweet. Poison. That was the word Momma always used to describe men like him—men who would do anything to get in your pants.

  “These men are toxic,” she would say between sips of alcohol.

  I was only thirteen years old, and I understood that perfectly.

  But Momma was dead now. Her “wisdom” did nothing to save her life.

  The man wasn’t traditionally handsome—greasy black hair, darker skin, umber eyes. Yet, there was an aura of seniority and imperiousness he seemed to emit in waves. When he extended a hand, flashing a toothy smile, I placed my little one in his.

  I was sure I resembled a drowned rat. My hair was greasy and sticking up in thousands of directions. My clothes were in tatters, the shirt too big and the pants too small. My shoes were covered in holes providing minimal coverage from the frigid air and snowy streets.

  “I’m Mallie,” I said, shaking his offered hand.

  “I’m Gerald.” He paused, flicking his gaze over my body in careful perusal. “Would you like something to eat, little girl?”

  I nodded my head eagerly, desperate to get something, anything, in my gnawing stomach.

  After a cheap meal at a shitty fast food joint, Gerald wrapped his arm around my shoulder and nodded towards a sleazy apartment building. At least, I assumed it was an apartment building. The windows were unwashed, and the front door couldn’t quite click in the catch.

  “You want a place to stay, little girl?” he asked, already propelling us both towards the dilapidated building. It reeked of piss and vomit; the paint had all but faded from the walls. “We can take care of you. Me and my girls? We’re a family. Do you want to join our family?”

  That was all I wanted. Someone to look at me with nothing but love and compassion. Someone to look after me.

  He must’ve seen the answer in my eyes, for his hand rested on my shoulder, squeezing once. My mind comprehended that it remained there a moment longer than necessary, but I didn’t dare say anything. Not to my new family.

  “Let me introduce you to the other girls, little girl,” he said, interlocking our fingers and pulling me towards a dusty staircase.

  “Why do you call me that?” I asked, the first hints of unease settling and twisting in my stomach. “I told you my name is Mallie.”

  Abruptly, so abruptly I couldn’t even scream, he pulled me against his body. His hand tightened on my chin and wrenched my head up.

  “No,” he said softly, eyes caressing my face with all the tenderness of a lion eviscerating a gazelle. “You’re nothing.”

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I’m nothing.

  A sob breaks free, and this time, I do nothing to smother the sound. Everything hurts. I didn’t know such pain could exist...pain that goes beyond mere physicality.<
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  The water continues to churn violently beneath me, almost like an omen of some sort. You just know, staring at the swirling black rapids, that once you fall, you’ll become lost. Both literally and figuratively.

  A black car drives down the bridge—and abruptly stops when it reaches the end and spins around. The tires squeal on the asphalt.

  I startle, grip tightening on the rail, as the driver’s side door is thrown open and a familiar man steps out.

  Phillip runs towards me, eyes wide in his abnormally pale face.

  “Mallie!” he screams, staggering to a stop. I hold up a hand, despite the fact that he’s not coming any closer.

  “Don’t…” I breathe out. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Mallie, please,” he cries, a catch in his voice I have never heard before. His hands fist by his sides before loosening. Tears make his eyes appear glassy, a tranquil pool seconds from rippling. In those eyes, I can read a multitude of emotions. Agony, confusion, anger. His face is an open book, every expression clearly depicted. “Come down.”

  “Do you know,” I begin in a quiet voice, “that he used to hold me down and punch me? There was no reason for it. None. I had done everything he asked me to—cooked, cleaned, fucked him.” Releasing a humorless laugh, I add dryly, “And sometimes, I felt like I deserved it.”

  “Mallie, please.” He ventures a step closer. His hands are raised, as if he’s approaching a dangerous criminal.

  As if I’m a cornered beast.

  Wrenching my gaze away from him, I stare down at the rushing water. The noise reverberates through my body—through my very soul.

  “I’m nobody,” I whisper to the water. “I’m nothing.”

  “No, you’re not,” Phillip insists earnestly. His voice sounds closer than before. “You're everything. You’re everything to me.”

  I scrub at a few escaped tears.

  “That’s such a lie,” I say.

  “I’m like you.” Phillip is directly behind me now, his silent presence surprisingly comforting. A part of me wants to lean against him, revel in his warmth and strength, while the rest of me wants to throw myself forward.