Bellissimo Rilascio (Beautiful Release): The Family Series #3 (5 page)

I’ve been given the key to a furnished apartment, so I unload my one measly suitcase and walk up to the non-descript door of the apartment complex. I hate apartments. Living in one in Miami didn’t make my skin crawl like they do now, but I also know that had to do with my best friends being in the building next door. Not to mention, Bronson sent me a text that he and Callie were buying a house. One more change to go home to.

Alone.

I don’t notice the elfin blond barreling out of the elevator until she’s about knocked me on my ass. Stumbling backwards, I drop my suitcase right on her foot. “Shit, that hurts.” Her voice is as tiny as her stature.

“Are you okay?” I grab her elbow to keep her upright as she hops on one foot, cradling the other in her hands. Her toenails are a bright blue and the blood pouring from a few isn’t a good sign. Flip-flops. Fucking flip-flops. “If you would’ve been wearing shoes this wouldn’t have happened.” When I see her shocked expression give way to hurt, I wish I wasn’t such a dick.

“I’m sorry. I was late for class, I have an exam, and I wasn’t paying attention.” She gently places her bloodied foot down and pulls her arm from my hand. I see her wince in pain as she places weight on her foot to walk.

“Hang on. I’m sorry. I just got in, and it was four days in a car. Can I help you get that cleaned up?”

Her face relaxes then her body stiffens as she steps back, still hobbling. “No, it’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”

“I insist. It was my suitcase. I don’t have a first aid kit in there, but my apartment is on the second floor. There’s bound to be something in there.”

She takes another step back, and her eyes dart all around, taking in her surroundings. Shit, I’ve terrorized and assaulted the poor girl. I need to rectify this before she starts screaming. “I’m Dakota Hyatt. Just transferred here for my job. I’m harmless, I swear. I’ll be living in apartment 204 while I’m here.”

She nods. “I’m Lisa. I live here, too. See you, Dakota.” I watch her hurry out of the lobby, in her wake the makings of a murder scene with the blood trailing behind her. I shake my head and push the incident out of my head just wanting my bed, shower, and some sleep.

Seventeen hours later, I wake up to music rattling my walls, my throat dry, and eyes blurry. I stumble to put on pants so I can find the source of the damn rock concert threatening to destroy my bedroom wall. I stub my toe against my unpacked suitcase and damn it to hell. Limping across the tiled floor, I fling my door open, pound on the one next door that is the culprit for my newfound insomnia. The night air is chilly. I’m berating myself for not grabbing a shirt since I don’t know what’s on the other side of this door. I don’t have my shield or weapon. Double fuck.

The music shuts off, and the pounding in my head eases. I hear scraping on the other side of the door and a timid female voice, “Who is it?”

“Your new neighbor.”

“Can I help you?”

“Listen lady, can you keep the music down. Some of us are trying to sleep.” I don’t try to hide the disgust in my voice.

“Sorry. Didn’t realize it was so loud. I’ll keep it down.”

I stalk off to my apartment, now wide-awake, and decide to get a shower and some food. Once I’m clean and refreshed, I realize there is no food here, and I don’t know the town. I’ll have to search tomorrow for a grocery store, get the lay of the land but ordering pizza will have to suffice tonight. I grab the remote, relieved to see there is at least cable hooked up. Scrolling through the guide, I find a sports channel and then thumb through Facebook. Nothing new from Bronson, and Bianca’s profile is still inactive. I check daily. Multiple times. I just want some proof that she is okay. Bronson’s words do little to ease my mind and I need to see her.

She’s in Miami with family, sublet another apartment in the building, and refused my offer of letting her stay in mine. All of my information comes via Bronson. He says she’s in therapy, and while she doesn’t open up to him too much, he assures me he sees a difference in her from three months ago. I don’t have any choice but to take the updates I get, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing for more. The knock on the door drags me from my misery, and after paying for the pizza, I sit to eat.

By the third piece, I’ve come to realize that these walls
are
made of paper. During the second piece I heard the neighbor greet company, her friend Maura. My neighbor’s name is Lisa, the same woman I battered with my suitcase. I can hear their entire conversation, and as flattering as it is, I’m embarrassed by the unwanted attention.

“Maura, you should have seen him. I was a complete spaz dashing from the elevator because nobody is ever around that early in the morning. I had the test in Econ this morning, and I was late.”

“As usual.”

“Shut it. So I ran smack dab into his chest. And after seeing him through my peephole I can promise you it is one gorgeous chest.”

“He came over here shirtless? And you didn’t open the door?”

“I don’t know him, and you know this complex is sparse with tenants. Nobody can afford the rent here. So any who . . . I must have knocked him off balance when I ran into him . . .”

“All ninety pounds of you.”

“If you don’t shut up and let me finish telling you what happened, I’ll keep all the good information out. And I weigh one hundred and eight, bitch. So, I ran into him, he dropped his suitcase right on my toes. I was trying not to cry, keep my balance, which isn’t easy hopping on one foot in flip-flops. I froze when he started offering to take care of my foot. I don’t know him at all, and he could have been a murderer.”

I chuckle at that. I’m the furthest thing from a criminal, but of course she didn’t know that. I made a great first impression. Possible broken bones, blood, scaring her and acting like a dick.

“You don’t exactly live in the slums.”

“More reason for criminals to lurk. I should have taken Dad’s advice and learned to shoot. I mean what kind of girl from the South doesn’t know her way around a gun?”

“Okay, Annie Oakley. Slow your roll before you turn into a gun-toting Southern Belle. Finish telling me about the hunk next door.”

“So I freaked. I left in a hurry, leaving half my DNA behind in the lounge. I was cleaning earlier and had my music up. I didn’t know anyone moved in next door, but I should have. I mean he gave me his apartment number.”

“What? He invited you over, and you didn’t go?”

“No, Maura. He told me where he lived to assure me he meant no harm. Why does your mind always think the dirtiest thoughts? If this was pre-historic times I’d call you Hornyasaurus.”

I have to cover my mouth to suppress a chuckle. I feel like a creeper for eavesdropping, but damn if they don’t remind me of Bianca and Callie. Except switched. Lisa is the calm one, and Maura is Bianca’s twin.

“Says the girl ogling his chest.”

“Ogling? What are we seventy? Shut up, Maura. So I was cleaning, and my music may have been elevated. My door about came off its hinges when he started pounding on it. Dumb ass me turned my music off, way to alert the criminal I’m home. Nowhere I could have escaped to.”

“You’re still alive. All your belongings are here. Sorry to crush your fantasy . . . he’s not a criminal.”

“If he was, I wouldn’t care after seeing him half naked.”

“Now who is a Hornyasaurus?

“So after seeing it was him through my peep hole, I apologized and promised to keep the music down.”

“So he doesn’t know it’s you? You didn’t open the door? Have I taught you nothing?”

“Whore isn’t a color that looks good on me. You wear it so much better than I ever could.”

“Prude is something you wear quite nicely.”

“I hate you. No, I didn’t invite him in. I was sweaty in my work out clothes. I made a horrible first impression and wanted the next time to go a bit better.”

“Lisa, you could be gorgeous in a fucking paper bag. You disappoint me and all women.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So what do I do?”

“I don’t know. You’ve ruined all of my plays. So many missed opportunities.”

“Thanks for the help.”

“Now at least you have a new face for your spank bank.”

“Did you really just say that?”

“I was with you each time you bought a vibrator. Don’t act like you don’t have the top of the line toys, and don’t act like you don’t use them.”

With that detour in conversation, I turned the television off and moved into the bedroom. I emailed my interim supervisor letting him know I had arrived and would see him in a few days, surfed the internet checking out what was close and making a mental list of what I needed to get tomorrow. This trip wore me out; I was nodding off before I realized it.

Chapter Seven

Bianca

Therapy.

Feelings.

Confronting emotions.

Fuck! Fuck! And double FUCK.

For five months I’ve explored my feelings. The conclusion I’ve come up with is the same one I had at fifteen. Love sucks. I should have just stuck to my beliefs. Your gut instincts are never wrong.

“Bianca, love doesn’t suck. Losing love may suck. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable could suck. But, love, with the right person at the right time, definitely doesn’t suck.”

“Oh, Dr. Adams, you’re confusing love with orgasm. And orgasms don’t have to be with the right person just the right
time
.”

I know my deflection raises his hackles, but it’s so fun to see his straight-laced, spectacle-wearing self get flustered. Best part of therapy.

Worst part of therapy is admitting defeat.

Admitting what I believed was my first love wasn’t really what I experienced at all. The struggle, the loss, the constant battle . . . love isn’t easy, I understand that, but should it always be a mêlée? The good should outweigh the bad; the doubt shouldn’t outweigh the known. I know I love Dakota, at one point he was my world, but did I love him the correct way . . . did he love me with no conditions? I think we deluded ourselves into thinking we were healthy. If I had it so wrong with him, I’m confused as to how I did anything right with Heath.

“Bianca, what were you just thinking? I lost you for a moment, and this won’t work if you don’t open up.”

“I’m trying to work out the definition of love. Questioning if that’s what I felt, or what we had.”

“Which we?”

“Both. Dakota and Heath are so different, and each relationship was polar opposite.”

“Let’s start with your first question. The definition of love. I don’t think there is a clear-cut definition. Sure, you could look it up and read how it’s defined in a dictionary, but love is unique and complicated. Some of us have different capacities to love. Each love is distinctive. The love a parent has for their child isn’t the same as a love for a partner or friend. But most importantly, love is a feeling. Only you can answer what you felt, how it altered your life, enhanced you. No one can tell you if you were in love or not, only you can. Each could have been vastly different, but love just the same. Your ability to love changes, it evolves in each facet of your life and instead of embracing it and allowing the transformation, you fought it.”

I can feel my mouth pulling down, grimacing at his words. I replay parts of the past in my mind, trying to make sense of his words. Determined for them to ring true. If I admit to this notion, I can let go of the guilt. I can quit avoiding life. I just can’t believe I’m not somehow to blame. “I want to believe you, I’m just not there yet.”

“Do you still want to self-harm?”

“I did that once,” my tone sharp, escaping through gritted teeth.

“That isn’t what I asked. You were caught once. Your family intervened and has been vigilantly at your side. My question is, do you want to?”

My jaw hurts from clenching it so tightly. I want to deny it, spit out some sort of diversion, but I can’t. I allow my inner monologue to run in my head, my choice of calming techniques. My silence answers his question better than any lie I could tell.

“Bianca, you know that won’t help. It’s a momentary release for all the underlying issues. The way to extinguish these feelings is to work through them and process them.”

I pick up the candy dish off his table and hurl it across the room. I watch the glass shatter against the wall; the sound of rubble falls on deaf ears. Throwing my hands up, I unleash on him. “What do you want from me? Every instinct in me wants to pick up a piece of that dish and slice into my skin. I have to keep my nails cut short so I don’t scratch myself until I bleed. I fight it every single day. The weight on my chest will lessen with just one drop of blood I draw from myself; I felt it, and it was a reprieve from all the other bullshit in my body. That physical ache obliterates all the mental anguish. I crave it. I need it. But most of all I
fight
it. I want to get better, I want to understand, but I want to live again. I want to laugh at jokes without force. I want to smile instead of cry. I want to enjoy another’s happiness without feeling envy. I don’t know why I can’t work through it, I don’t know why it’s all so fucked up in my head.”