Show Me How (It's Kind Of Personal Book 2) (5 page)

I toss another bag of garbage in the dumpster and pull my car key out of my shoe. Before I walk away, I ask, “You coming or not?”

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

She follows me through the alley to my car. I point at the steel pile of crap on wheels.

“That’s my piece of shit. Can’t believe it’s lasted this long.”

Really, it’s Betty’s car. I paid her and she put it under her name. Just another step to remaining untraceable.

I put the key in the ignition. “Cross your fingers.”

The engine makes a loud screech before rumbling to a start on the first turn.

“Whew. It normally takes a few tries; you must be a good luck charm.” I smile and punch her shoulder lightly. Then I ignore the silence and try not to make the drive awkward.

About twenty minutes later, we pull into the motel. A gravel parking lot, bricks falling off the foundation, and half of the ‘no vacancy’ light burned out.

“Umm . . .”

“I know. It’s a shit place, but it’s my home. Come on, I’ll tell you once we get inside.”

She hesitates, but only for a second. As we walk to the door, I look around again. Her eyes catch mine and she asks, “Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I’m just cautious.” Ridiculous for a thirty-year-old woman to be afraid of the boogie man, I know, but it’s a nasty habit that’s hard to break.

I unlock the door with four different keys to match the deadbolts. After opening it, I motion for her to go ahead of me. It’s clean. I bought my own sheets. One twin-size bed pushed against the far wall and a rack with clothes on the opposite wall. Across from the bed is a dresser with an old TV on top. There’s also an electric griddle and microwave next to the TV. A small refrigerator sits next to the dresser.

“Welcome to my humble abode!” I say cheerfully as I relock the deadbolts and slide three chain locks in place, and then apply a safety bar across the middle of the door. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Yeah, right. Hey, what’s your name?” she asks looking around.

“Mary. What about you?”

“I’m Charlotte.”

She sits on the bed and fiddles with her fingers. “So, you live here?”

“Yeah. It’s a long story, but the short of it is that I was down on my luck. Like, I had
nobody.
Betty, the owner of this place, needed a maid and offered me a room in exchange for cleaning.”

“Oh, so you get cheap rent or something?”

“No, she doesn’t pay me, but I get the place for free. I also clean other businesses to get cash; that’s what I was doing when I found you. I don’t need much.”

I throw my purse on the dresser and plop down next to her.

“What’s your story, Charlotte?”

“My story is long, too. The condensed version is that I found out my . . . I don’t even know what he is- boyfriend, maybe? We reconnected recently. His mom is my therapist.”

“Ouch. That one’s gotta burn. Why are you in therapy?”

“Umm, it’s kind of personal.” She snaps.

“Cliff’s notes version then.”

“Look, I don’t know you. I appreciate—”

“Whatever.” I cut her off and rummage through a drawer filled with Ramen noodles and Easy Mac. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m hungry. Want some Ramen?”

“No. I’m fine, thanks.”

I put the dry noodles in a bowl and add water from the bathroom sink. Once it’s in the microwave, I sit on the bed and chew my fork while watching the timer count down.

She must get bored with the silence because she takes a breath then begins talking. “My parents both died, and I got involved in a fucked-up relationship. Todd was basically a wannabe Dom. I did all sorts of shit with him. He’s fourteen years older than me and my mom’s oncologist back in Texas.”

Wow. That’s pretty messed up. “Dang, girl. So you got out of the relationship and started seeing a therapist.”

“Yeah. When I moved back here, I reconnected with an old . . . fling. Turns out, my therapist is said fling’s mom.”

We continue talking for about an hour. She explains a little more, especially about the guy she reconnected with, and I sympathize with her. Everyone has a story. They have skeletons in their closet and a past they want to keep hidden.

We laugh a little bit, and she cries.

I tell her what she needs to hear because there’s a part of me that wishes someone told me, and I’ll regret it if I don’t give her a chance to make it right. “If this guy, the love of your life. If he’s
it
for you. You can’t let that go. What you went through was not your fault. His mom understands that, and you need to, too. Tell him. Let him know. Once it’s out in the open, I bet you’ll feel much better.”

“How do you know? How am I supposed to believe that once he knows, he won’t be disgusted by me?” She rests her hand on my arm, the one with the scar.

I jerk it away and stand. My scar stares at me every day. It reminds me of why I live the life I do. It’s a permanent reminder, my own battle scar. I wish I had been the one shot. He should have shot me, not Steve. I was the one fighting him.
My
parents were the ones who owed him.

“I know because what you did is not disgusting. Trust me. I’m not negating the fact that you went through some shit. Some things can’t be forgiven, some things you do result in life-altering changes for
other
people.” Hands on my hips, I close my eyes before speaking again, trying to compose myself. Even though it sneaks up on me, usually on a daily basis, I avoid thinking about the past as much as I can. It hurts too much.

“Those are the kinds of things that can’t be forgiven. When your choices affect someone like that, then you hide. Then you run away and never look back because you
know
you don’t deserve anything more than living in a motel for the rest of your life.” I quickly wipe the tears that unwillingly fall for the first time in years and shake my head as I back away. “You need to call him. He’s probably worried.”

“Hey!” she calls before I can shut the bathroom door to take a shower. “Whatever you did, whatever you think is unforgivable? I bet you’re wrong. You’re a good person, and mistakes can be forgiven. Was what happened a mistake?”

Without turning back to look at her, I answer. “The only mistake was that I survived.”

Guilt is my best friend. And she’s chosen this moment to plan an unsuspecting visit. Hopefully, the sound of the water covers my cries. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried, since I’ve talked to someone about my feelings.

I often think back to the nights I would sneak into Brandon’s room. He would hold me and tell me everything would be all right. I would go back outside in the morning and walk home to a house with strangers passed out all over the floor. Half the time they were naked, too. Brandon’s parents always told me that I was welcome anytime, so I tried to help by cooking dinner every once in a while. I pretty much lived there, especially on the weekends. Elizabeth always shoved money in my pocket when I bought food, which wasn’t often. And when I did, it was on sale.

They were the closest thing I had to family. Steve treated me as if I were his daughter. If Brandon touched me, his dad would give him a dirty look, and Brandon would remove his hand. I never understood that. I guess Steve didn’t think I was good enough to
be
with Brandon. Not that I blamed him. Steve loved me, though. That I do know.

Brandon begged me to tell him what was going on at my house. I begged him not to make me. I gave him as little information as possible, just enough to shut him up. He eventually agreed but wasn’t happy about it.

I loved him for not pushing me. I loved him for respecting my wishes. I loved
him.
I miss him.

Schooling my features and trying to forget the shit storm that is my life, I turn the water to cold before getting out. The chill on my skin clears my foggy brain, and I dry off and get dressed.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” I come out of the bathroom and sit down next to Charlotte.

“I’m worried that Travis’ mom told him—”

My mind races and I cut her off. Travis is not a very common name, and a Travis whose mom is a therapist? Even more uncommon. “Wait. Travis. What’s his last name?”

“Parker.”

No.
No.
My heart falls to my gut.

“Oh shit, oh shit. Fuck.” I jump up out of the bed and throw on a pair of socks and shoes. “Does he have an older brother?” I fumble with my laces and mutter under my breath, “Please say no, please say no,” even though I already know the answer.

“Yeah, Brandon. Do you know him?”

“Shit!” I pace then finally stop and take three huge breaths. I need to calm down. Think. “Okay. Okay.”

“Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

Maybe he won’t come. Why would he? It’s not like she’s Brandon’s girlfriend; she’s Travis’ girlfriend. He’ll be the one to come and pick her up. “Did you call Travis? Is he on his way?”

“No, I called my cousin. I told her to let him know that I was fine but not where I was. What’s going on?”

Travis will be here. I have to leave. He can’t see me. He’ll tell Brandon. Or Brandon could be with him. Or Steve. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go. I can’t be here in case he comes.”

“Who?”

“Brandon. He can’t know where I am. I stayed away. I live in a fucking motel, I can’t-”

A knock on the door stops my frantic rambling. “Chicago PD. I need to ask a couple questions.”

Brandon.
I’d recognize his deep voice anywhere. He always wanted to be a cop like his dad, so it doesn’t surprise me. I freeze. My hand stills in my hair and the rapid movement of my chest . . . stops.

“It’s the cops; you have to open the door,” Charlotte tells me from the bed.

“It’s not the cops. It’s Brandon.” My words come in a rush.

“They’re probably looking for me. I’ll answer the door.”

“I swear to Christ, Charlotte, if you don’t open this damn door, I will break it down.” I don’t recognize the other voice, but I’m assuming it’s Travis. Even though I haven’t talked to him for over a decade, I know an angry Parker when I hear one.

“Shit. Open it, Mary,” Charlotte whisper yells.

I nod very slowly and start the process of unlocking the door. My hand freezes on the knob. I can’t.

“It’s okay, Mary. Just open it.”

My hands shake, and I finally turn the knob, knowing that I can’t avoid this any longer.

When the door opens, my eyes lock on Brandon and he stumbles. At least I had a few minutes to prepare. He had no clue. Walked into this completely unaware. The wide eyes and gaping mouth is evidence of that. Travis grabs Brandon’s arm and looks at me with a confused expression.

“No. No.” My voice is so soft, barely audible.

“Mary?” Travis asks.

Brandon’s bright blue eyes never leave mine, and he takes a step toward me. I take a step back. He flinches like I slapped him but keeps walking until he’s in the room and I can feel his breath on my face.

I was right; he is even more handsome. His almost black hair is clipped short, a five o’clock shadow covers his face, and his lips are now slightly parted.

Brandon’s hands reach up and hold onto my face, gently rubbing his thumbs across my cheekbones.

I try really, really hard not to cry. But when he pulls me close, wraps his arms around me, and whispers, “I thought I lost you,” I lose all resolve.

Chapter 5

Brandon

“Shh. It’s okay.” I hold Mary in my arms and run my fingers through her damp ponytail. She still smells like strawberries. Her tall, slender frame shakes with every sob. This is something I had almost given up on—holding her, touching her. At the moment, all I can do is try to soothe her pain. Make sure she’s okay. I catch Travis’ eyes, and he gives me a chin lift as he carries Charlotte out of the motel room.

“It’s all right,” I whisper in Mary’s ear.

“No. It’s not.” Forceful hands push me away and she points to the door, wiping her face with the other hand. “Leave.”

My head snaps back and I squint my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Leave. I don’t want you here.” Her hiccupped words do nothing to hide the anger radiating from her body.
Why is she mad at me?
She was the one who vanished. I’m the one who should be pissed.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” Not only am I shocked that she’s pissed at me, but how the hell, while looking for Travis’ girlfriend, did I end up finding her here, in a motel room? Jesus, this is some fucked-up shit.

“Nope. Go.”

I chuckle under my breath ‘cause it’s either laugh or punch something.

She pulls the door open, but I push it shut. The crash of it slamming makes her jump back a step, and I advance on her. “No.” This is unbelievable. Years. Fucking years I’ve looked for her. And now that I’ve found her, she tells me to leave.

I reach for her, but she leaps to the other side of the bed. Rubbing a long jagged scar on her right arm, she continues trembling with silent tears rolling down her face. The first and only time I’ve ever seen her cry is right now, after twelve years without her. The ache of seeing her so upset is almost as unbearable as being without her.

I take five steps, and I’m in front of her again. She has nowhere to go and hangs her head in defeat.

“You owe me some answers,” I bark. If she’s going to pull an attitude with me, I’ll give that shit right back. Obviously being nice to her is getting me nowhere.

She slowly rolls her head up, connecting with me, and instead of the anger I expect to see, guilt swirls in her eyes.

“I don’t owe you shit” She spits.

“What the hell happened to you?” Crossing my arms, I tilt my head and assess her. “Why are you so pissed off? Where have you been? Aren’t you glad to see me?” There isn’t a word in the English language to express how happy I am to see her. I’ve dreamed and fantasized about this reunion for years and never in a million did I imagine I’d find an angry Mary.

“What do you want me to say? You come in here after twelve years and expect me to jump for joy?” She swallows and looks at the floor before looking back up. Tormented hunter green eyes connect with mine again. “My life has been fine without you in it.”

I wasn’t expecting that punch in the gut. Years of training have allowed me to hide the hurt and not show emotion. I glance around the small room in confusion.
“Your life?” How did I miss it? Looking around the space, it hits me. Clothes hanging on a stand, candles on the dresser, a small refrigerator. These are not things included in a normal stay at the motel.