The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)
Where the fuck is she? Why is she taking so long?
“Yes. The Supreme Court in
Lawrence v. Texas
held that intimate consensual sexual conduct is part of the liberty protected by the Fourteenth Amendment . . .”
Where is she?
Panic seizes me. She should have come back by now. Holy shit.
She should have come back by now.
Someone screams just outside the classroom door. I bolt out of the room.
A panicked gathering of students stands outside the women’s restroom.
“Call 9-1-1!” someone shouts.
I push my way through them into the bathroom.
Blood. Oh my God, no, there’s so much blood. It’s all over the white tile floor. No, God, please, not again. No more blood. Not again.
I see her bound and bloodied body. The bed sheet is stained a deep, dark red.
I see his brain splattered against the wall. And the floor. And the ceiling. The carpet is stained a deep, dark red.
And now I see my Sarah, My Magnificent Sarah, in a bloodied, crumpled heap, the bracelet I gave her still tied to her lifeless wrist. The white tiles are turning a deep, dark red.
“Call an ambulance!” I scream.
“We called one,” someone shrieks. “They’ll be here any minute.”
I grab at my hair. My body convulses. A howl erupts from me and turns into a gut-wrenching heave. I throw up all over the bathroom floor. Someone tries to come to my aid. I shove them away. Someone grabs at me. I push them away and kneel down on the tile floor next to her.
A guy is bent over her chest, listening for a heartbeat.
Another howl. I pull at my hair.
The guy sits up from her chest and nods at a second guy. There’s a collective sigh from the crowd. I push the guy away forcibly.
She’s mine.
I scoop her lifeless body up in my arms. I touch every inch of her, patting her down, trying to determine the source of the blood.
“You shouldn’t move her,” the motherfucker says. I hear the words, but I don’t understand the meaning of the words.
My fingers search frantically and find a hole in her T-shirt, right above her ribcage. I touch the hole. The fabric around it is warm and wet and red.
“Red,” I say, my voice cracking. She promised to stop if I said red. “Red,” I choke out again. But it doesn’t stop. Make it stop. “Red.” My body wracks with sobs as my mind floats above, confounded, detached from my body, spiraling like an airplane smoking and losing altitude.
I pull up her shirt and a strangled cry wrenches from me. A wound. A gaping, red wound in her beautiful olive skin, just like last time—only this time, there’s only one angry hole in her flesh instead of too many to count. I put my fingers on the hole to stop the bleeding, just like I did after the big man left. She always said I had magic hands, but she was wrong. There were too many wounds, too many holes to plug, and my fingers were too small. The magic in my hands didn’t work that time—no matter how hard I tried.
But this time, there’s only one savage hole to plug—and my hands are big. My fingers are strong. The blood stops gurgling out when I cover the wound and press down. This time, the magic in my hands is working. And yet there’s still blood coming from somewhere else. Where’s the blood still coming from? I look around in panic. There’s so much fucking blood, all over the white tile floor. Her neck. Blood is coming from her neck. I put my fingers on the small indentation in her neck and the blood stops flowing.
“Call an ambulance!” I scream. “Call an ambulance!”
“We already called one. They’re coming. The hospital’s right here on campus. Any minute.”
The other guy leans in and puts his fingers on the hole in her ribcage and I cradle her head in my arms, keeping my fingers on her neck.
“Call again!” I scream. I pat my pockets. I can’t find my fucking phone. Did I leave it in the fucking classroom? “Call again!” I howl.
I tried to untie the ropes but the knots were too tight—tried to free her wrists, but my fingers weren’t strong enough. The magic in my hands didn’t work that time, no matter how hard I tried.
I love you,
I said to her, tears bursting out of me.
I love you,
I wailed, willing her to wake up and smile at me again.
I love you, Mommy.
But she wouldn’t wake up, no matter how many times I said the magic words.
I love you.
But my love wasn’t enough to save her.
Look at me, Mommy.
But her blue eyes stared into space.
Please, Mommy.
Her blue eyes remained frozen.
I love you, Mommy.
But it wasn’t enough.
Sarah’s blood is all over my jeans, my T-shirt, my arms, my hands. If I could give her my blood, I would. If I could give her my life, I would. Oh God, I’d bleed myself dry for her.
I feel wetness on my forearms. I pull back. My arms are soaked in her blood. My fingers touch the back of her head, the base of her skull—her hair is matted and wet and sticky. I burrow my finger into the wetness and feel an enormous gash.
I howl at my discovery. My body heaves.
The crowd stares at me, paralyzed, wide-eyed, in shock.
I glare at them all, holding my precious baby in my arms.
Heavy footsteps echo in the corridor, getting louder and louder, approaching. I hear the sound of metal wheels.
“At the end!” someone yells in the distant hallway.
I hug her to me.
“Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods,” I whimper, but then a dam breaks inside of me and a lifetime of pressure and pain and sorrow and remorse and rage breaks and a fierceness floods into me.
“I love you,” I wail, my voice cracking, my gut wrenching, my heart breaking, my mind hurtling into the abyss. “I love you, Sarah. I love you, baby.” I shudder with my sobs, rocking her back and forth. I’ve never felt pain like this. “I love you, baby, I love you, I love you.” I look up at the staring crowd. Why are they staring at us? What don’t they fucking understand? “I love her,” I proclaim fiercely. They stare at me blankly. Why don’t these fuckers understand? “I love her,” I scream at them all, but they don’t understand how I feel. No one ever understands how I feel—except Sarah. Sarah always understands.
I can’t lose her. I won’t survive it if I lose her. I need them all to understand. Her blood is mine. I’m bleeding all over the floor. I won’t survive without her. I need them to understand. I love her.
“I love Sarah Cruz!”
The third book of The Club Trilogy,
The Redemption
, comes out February 9, 2015.
Author Biography
Lauren Rowe is the pen name of an author, performer, audio book narrator, songwriter and media host/personality who decided to unleash her alter ego to write The Club Trilogy to ensure she didn’t hold back or self-censor in writing the story. Lauren Rowe lives in San Diego, California where she sings with her band, hosts a show, and writes at all hours of the night. Find out more about The Club Trilogy and Lauren Rowe at
www.LaurenRoweBooks.com
.
Table of Contents
