Damaged: The Dillon Sisters

by Layla Frost

  Well, I was wearing skinny jeans instead of leggings and a fitted blue tee instead of a hoodie. For me, that was dressed up.

  Grabbing my purse, I opened the door to leave.

  What the hell?

  I couldn’t step into the hall because the area in front of my door was loaded with stuff. Rather than the black matte pot of blooming flowers, there was a mini tree with a cool twisted trunk. Next to it was a wrapped present—which, based on its shape, seemed to be a large picture frame. That or really smooshed and oddly packaged chocolate covered strawberries.

  I was betting on the former but secretly hoping for the latter. Even if they were smooshed.

  Since I had a few minutes to spare—and there was only so much anticipation and mystery one girl could take—I hauled the wrapped present into my open doorway before sitting on the floor. I ripped into it with more gusto than I’d ever had at Christmas as a child, mostly because there was a chance I’d actually like this present.

  Pretty pageant dresses, shoes, makeup, and hair stuff quickly lost their luster when all a little girl wanted was a damn American Girl doll and a Nerf gun.

  Tearing the shiny paper away, I looked at… well, at myself. The framed picture was of me playing with Mr. Worldwide in the shelter’s outside dog run. Mister looked as if he was smiling up at me, and in profile, you could see I was smiling right back at him.

  A genuine smile, too, which made the photo rare.

  Maybe even one of a kind, since I absolutely loathed having my picture taken. Having it taken without my approval was even worse—and slightly creepy—but Mister’s cute face made it hard to be upset.

  Actually, the picture as a whole made it hard to be upset. With the backdrop of pretty trees and stretching land that housed the random livestock we rescued, it was gorgeous.

  Other than the fact I was holding a pooper-scooper and a bag filled with said scooped poop.

  If she was going to stalk me for a candid photo, she could’ve at least waited until I wasn’t holding shit.

  The longer I looked at it, the more I decided I liked it as is. It wasn’t the most glamorous, but it added to the genuineness.

  Removing the envelope tucked into the frame, I pulled out the folded note printed on the framer’s letterhead.

  Some might not think this is much. Some might say it’s not a career or a real job. That it’s a hobby and nothing more. Or even a waste.

  But you do it best, Briar.

  Well that’s… nice?

  If it were anyone other than Sue who’d sent it, I might have been insulted. But I took the note as a compliment because I knew the shelter was the one place I made a difference. To the running of the rescue, to Sue, and, most importantly, to the animals.

  Carefully sliding the picture behind my catchall table so I didn’t break the glass before I could hang it, I pulled the plant in next. There was another note attached to a little plastic pitchfork stuck in the dirt.

  Briar,

  For your new apartment and for all you do.

  -Sue and everyone at Redmond Rescue

  That was much better.

  Pushing it to the side, I grabbed the thick stack of mail. There was so much, the carrier must’ve decided to forgo my mailbox. I didn’t bother to look through the catalogs as I shoved them to the side to deal with later.

  Flashes of red on the regular envelopes caught my eye, making my stomach drop.

  Past due

  Past due

  Final warning!

  Envelope after envelope, all stamped with some variation of the same ominous and threatening message.

  I knew I wasn’t late on any payments. All my bills were set to autopay, and it may have left me with a few coins and cobwebs in my account, but I always paid on time. Owing money and being late both tapped into my issues with letting people down.

  Logically I knew all that, my anxiety also wouldn’t let me leave until I’d opened every last envelope. With shaking fingers, I tore at them to find nothing but junk. Credit card offers. Credit consolidation, which would come in handy should I sign up for the aforementioned credit cards—which I wouldn’t. Car recalls and warranties, even though I had no car.

  Good to see the robot spam callers have branched out to robot spam mailing.

  Surrounded by jaggedly-ripped envelopes and crumpled papers, I shook out the catalogs to make sure some hadn’t gotten stuck in them. When I was done—and dangerously close to being late—I grabbed my purse and locked up before hurrying outside.

  As I speed walked to my favorite restaurant in the history of all restaurants, I tried to control my emotions. But thanks to the mail, thoughts of my dwindling bank account, and even the disconcerting vulnerability that came from Sue’s well-meaning but invasive picture, I couldn’t settle my mind. I felt exposed and paranoid and stressed.

  If I had his name and number, I’d have canceled my date even though doing so at the last minute was beyond rude. Ghosting him would make things a billion times worse, otherwise I just wouldn’t show up.

  With no other option, I breathed deep, repeated my control mantra—with my salsa one thrown in for good measure—and kept going, even as the burn under my skin grew.

  Turning a corner, I saw him standing in front of the building. Dressed in a sweater and jeans that fit criminally well, he scanned the area. When his eyes landed on me, a grin split his face.

  Okay, if nothing else, tonight is good for my shitty self-esteem.

  Even though he was already at the restaurant, he walked down the sidewalk to meet me. “Hey.”

  “What’s your name?” I blurted by way of greeting.

  He didn’t seem startled or irritated. “Alexander.”

  “Hi. Sorry, that was driving me crazy. Briar.”

  “I know. I heard someone say it at the center.”

  “Right,” I drawled, self-conscious about my less than smooth greeting and the reminder of therapy.

  “Hungry?”

  I nodded and started for the door. When he opened it, gently putting his hand on my lower back for me to enter first, a pleasant shiver went up my spine.

  Once we were seated and had ordered drinks, he opened the menu. Likely noticing I didn’t do the same, he asked, “Been here before?”

  “A couple times…”

  …a month.

  Since food and I had a complicated relationship, and money and I had a strained one, I rarely got takeout. When I did, it was always from Loco Diablo and it was always the same order.

  Cheese and bean enchiladas, no lettuce or tomato garnish, inferno hot sauce on the side.

  Why risk splurging on a bad meal when I could have guaranteed perfection?

  And if that guaranteed perfection came at hole-in-the-wall pricing and included free salsa, all the better.

  Being on my own turf should’ve grounded me. I had the advantage. But my emotions were still in knots from earlier, and the unease that’d begun to fade grew back tenfold. Another shiver went down my spine, but unlike earlier, it was far from pleasant.

  “Briar?”

  My gaze snapped to him. “Sorry, did you say something?”

  “I asked what you recommend.”

  “Oh. Enchiladas. But you really can’t go wrong with anything.”

  “You okay?”

  No, my boss is a generous and appreciative saboteur who’s made me paranoid.

  “Yes. But I might need to hire you.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “Then we should turn this into an interview instead of a destruction planning session.”

  “Good idea.” The waiter dropped off my soda and Alexander’s beer. I took a sip before asking, “How much experience do you have? Because, like most low paying jobs, I’m looking for twenty years’ experience with methods that have only been around for two.” He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, I added, “And by low paying, I mean no paying. It’s an unpaid internship.”

  “Of course. And I started my business eleven years ago.” />
  “When you were a fetus?”

  He chuckled. “When I was twenty.”

  Wow. He started a whole freaking business when he was a year younger than I am now?

  “But,” he continued, “I’ve been doing it since I was eleven.”

  “Eleven?” My brows lowered. “Like, keeping kids out of lockers in exchange for their lunch money? Chocolate milk for no swirlies?”

  It was his turn for confusion to furrow his brow. “What do you think I do for a living?

  “Bodyguard to a tech nerd,” I said before I could stop to phrase it nicer than I did in my head.

  Alexander laughed, and had I not been confused, I’d have thought it was one of the best sounds I’d ever heard.

  Fine, confused or not, I totally thought it. Just like I thought the easy smile that went with that laugh was both attractive and enviable.

  “Close.” His laughter faded, though his smile remained. “But I’m the tech nerd.”

  “But that guy with you at the center.”

  “Craig? He’s my CFO.” At my slow blink, he clarified, “Chief Financial Officer.”

  Financial.

  And of course a financial guy would be there since Alexander had donated enough money to the center to warrant a special tour.

  I’d say I was surprised since Alexander didn’t look like any kind of nerd—tech or otherwise. He also didn’t look like a mega-loaded guy. He just looked normal.

  Well, incredibly good looking and normal, but also apparently rich and selfless and perfection upon perfection.

  But my mind was too busy racing to let my shock fully sink in.

  “This was a mistake,” I whispered so softly, it was barely audible.

  He may not have been able to hear me, but he picked up on my change of emotion. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go.” Bolting upright, I knocked the table in my hurry to stand. Thankfully, the glasses just rattled rather than spilling everywhere and adding to this disaster. “Sorry, it’s just… I have to go.”

  “Briar, wait—”

  “Please.” Desperation dripped from my words when I added, “Eat the enchiladas,” as if the safety of the world depended on him indulging in their hot, cheesy goodness.

  He could’ve followed.

  I was surprised he didn’t.

  But I was also grateful.

  On shaking legs, I rushed outside to breathe fresh air that didn’t feel so fresh. The wide-open space was too small, leaving me fighting to even my breaths as my extremities began to tingle.

  It wasn’t the discrepancy in our lives. That he’d launched a clearly successful business when he’d been a year younger than me, and I was just a glorified poop scooper.

  And glorified may have been a stretch because, as the photographic evidence showed, I did spend a lot of time cleaning up shit.

  That he was rich enough to donate a shit-ton, and I still couldn’t afford to shop the discount stores with the copious amount of fucking coupons they sent me.

  That he was so very normal, and I was so very not.

  It wasn’t even my own low self-esteem and self-doubt and self-loathing leading to a lot of self-sabotage.

  Okay, fine, it was all of that. But the final straw, the one that’d collapsed the flimsy façade of normalcy I’d tried to convince myself I could have, was the money.

  Again, not that he had it while I didn’t.

  But that he had it. Period.

  Sure, I was being a judgmental bitch. And, yes, I was jumping to conclusions.

  I didn’t care.

  Because I knew well—too fucking well—the kind of problems money brought. The way it changed people. Or emboldened them to be themselves. I’d seen firsthand how the wealthy lied, cheated, and stole, only to buy their way out of consequences and responsibilities.

  I’d lived that life. I’d portrayed the picture-perfect daughter in her picture-perfect life. I’d sashayed across the stage as a picture-perfect beauty queen. I’d starved myself to remain the picture-perfect girl. When none of that had been enough, I’d tailspinned for some picture-fucking-perfect control.

  I hadn’t liked my so-called friends or my mother, but I’d nearly killed myself for their approval. I did like Alexander, and it would crush me when he found me wanting. And he would. Once he knew me. Once he saw my shame. He wouldn’t give me a charming smile or look at me the way he did.

  It was more than I could cope with.

  At the culmination of all my memories, pain, stress, and crushing disappointment, I could feel a tailspin starting.

  My mantra didn’t help.

  Nor did my breathing.

  Nor did the cold air, the long walk, or time.

  My stupid inner angst grew and grew and grew until I couldn’t fucking stand it.

  Until I couldn’t stand myself.

  My sister ran to help herself sleep. I often gave her a hard time by asking if she’d ever thought about falling asleep to Netflix like the rest of the world. But right then, I was desperate enough to try.

  In my jeans and nice top, I started speed walking. Then jogging. Then running. Since exercise was something I did as often as clubbing and voluntarily talking on the phone—as in never—it wasn’t long before a cramp tightened my side. I exhaled a hiss and pushed myself harder. As the pain grew, so did my speed.

  I ran like I was being chased by monsters.

  Because I was.

  Only my monsters lived inside my head.

  I reached my apartment and jogged in place, trying to grasp at my sanity and convince myself to keep going. But when I moved, it was to go inside because running wasn’t enough.

  I needed something more.

  Locking myself in my apartment, I went directly to my closet and took out the forbidden item. I returned to the living room and sat on the edge of the couch. I flipped the pouch in my hands, watching the glitter shimmer.

  Such a pretty case for such an ugly, ugly thing.

  When just holding it no longer soothed me, I slowly unzipped it. And when that no longer helped, I began methodically removing the items, arranging them just so on the table.

  Neosporin.

  Bandages.

  Razor blades.

  And a switchblade straight razor.

  Once the bag was empty, I rearranged the items. And then I rearranged them again. When I had them positioned just so, I stood and circled the coffee table, never taking my eyes off the sharp objects.

  Slowly, the disappointment, anxiety, and crushing failure began to fade. I could lift one of those blades. I could put it to my skin.

  And I wanted to.

  So.

  Fucking.

  Bad.

  But every time I thought of the sweet relief of the blade slicing through my skin or the peace my soul would finally have, Aria’s face entered my mind. Her horror at finding me. Her guilt that she’d failed me—again, in her opinion. I’d be leaving her alone with yet another trauma she’d be forced to deal with.

  I was a lot of bad things, but I wasn’t selfish. I couldn’t do that to her, no matter how badly I wanted to.

  It’s my choice not to cut. I hold the power.

  I’m in control.

  I repeated that over and over until I was no longer drowning. I was still overwrought and failing at being a functioning adult, but I wasn’t drowning. For right then, that was enough.

  Packing away the items, I fought to ignore the taunting in my head. The familiar voice that called me weak. A failure. A loser and a coward. The one who said I was pathetic and didn’t have the guts to just end it. That I’d be doing everyone a favor, including Aria.

  Especially Aria.

  People always say that suicide is selfish. Which, honestly, is the worst, most counterproductive thing to say to someone who is already struggling. Because for so many, our demons tell us it’d be better for everyone else if we were gone. Piling on to that guilt just feeds those horrible feelings.

  It reaffirms the twiste
d belief that we’re burdens to our loved ones.

  But Aria has told me I’m not, time and reassuring time again.

  Which was why I ignored my mother’s cruel voice as I picked up the pouch and went to the garbage can. Putting my foot on the pedal to open the lid, I stared down for long seconds that stretched into longer minutes. Then I let the lid close with a clatter before taking the pouch and burying it deep in my closet.

  Just in case I needed the reminder that I was in control.

  My mother cackled in my head, her words slurred and cutting. Wah, wah, wah. Poor, beautiful Briar, always needing to be the center of attention.

  Just in case I was brave enough to finally get it over with.

  Alexander

  DRIVING SLOWLY, I followed Briar as she ran home, making sure she arrived safely.

  Since I’d met her at the mental health clinic, I assumed she had demons. I just had no clue what I’d said to set them off.

  But I would learn.

  Watching her go inside, I drove home to plan my next step.

  Because there would be one.

  There was no other option.

  Chapter Twelve

  Escape

  Him

  I USED TO wonder if I was a psychopath.

  Or maybe sociopath.

  But I had enough experience with psychos to know I wasn’t like them. If there’d still been a doubt in my mind, my feelings for Briar made it clear I wasn’t cold and unemotional. I cared about her. I worried about her. I needed her to be happy.

  I was obsessed with it.

  And her.

  I switched my focus to the night ahead as I drove to the rundown, by-the-hour motel. One with no security, no cameras, and no witnesses.

  My favorite kind.

  Parking around the corner, I waited.

  I watched.

  And, thanks to the lingering thoughts of my broken girl, I grew hard.

  I’m a sick fuck.

  When it was time, I got out and made the casual stroll to the last door of the motel strip. I positioned myself out of view of the peephole and used a gloved fist to softly knock.