Steel My Heart Page 4

  "Yeah, but then you'd have to be Crash," Case pointed out.

  J. whistled softly through his teeth and Case grinned.

  "Don't insult the man when he isn't here to defend himself," Teach said. Case bent his head, chastened.

  The air in the room suddenly thickened as Teach spread his palms out flat on the counter. "What is it?" J. asked, the skin on the back of his neck prickling.

  Teach inhaled deeply. J. could tell he was weighing his words. "It's a good day, and I don't want to be the one to ruin it."

  J. felt a chill go through him. "What?" he pressed. Teach was freaking him out.

  Teach rounded the counter and stood before him. His weathered face seemed to sag even further. "Your sister called, Jeremiah."

  Case sucked in his breath and stepped back instinctively, stepping out of range as J.'s fists instantly balled at his side. J. took several deep breaths, willing back the red rage that threatened to overtake him right then and there.

  "You don't need that shit," Case muttered, reaching a tentative hand for J.'s shoulder.

  "Don't touch me," J. snapped, and Case pulled his hand back, looking wounded.

  "Jeremiah, hey." Teach's voice was both authoritative and soft at the same time. It cut through the blinding anger that clouded his sight. "Remember, Seneca. 'There is no battle unless there are two.' You can move on."

  "How am I supposed to when that shit keeps dragging me back?"

  J. hadn't been back to the neighborhood since he left for prison seven years ago.

  At first he had pined for the comfort of his family and the camaraderie of his friends. But as he did his time and kept his head down, he noticed more and more that the people from his past only weighed him down.

  Janelle, his mother...and Randall. The whole reason he ended up in prison in the first place. That fateful day when they walked into the convenience store. J. didn't know Randall had the gun. Randall never told him the plan. He just pointed it at the clerk and shouted at J. to grab the money from the open till. When the other clerk walked out of the storeroom, J. had acted on instinct, knocking him to the floor before he could press the alarm button.

  This elevated his charge from robbery to assault. And since his birthday was the week before, he had been tried as an adult. No amount of pleading had worked to get the sentence dropped, especially not when the clerk had showed up to testify with his jaw wired shut. Meanwhile Randall's lawyer had managed to cop a plea, claiming there were no bullets in the gun Randall used.

  And Randall was only seventeen when it had happened. He spent three months in juvie and then had his records expunged. He had been living free all this time.

  And now he was dating J.'s sister. Living in J.'s old bedroom. Sitting down to eat with J.'s mother.

  When Janelle had told him this during one of her visits, J. flew into a rage that landed him three weeks solitary. Janelle claimed Randall wanted to make amends, to do right by his family while J. did his time.

  But J. couldn't accept it. He told Janelle to get out of his life. He cut off his mother, his sister and never told them that he had been released early. He moved right into the clubhouse when he got out and hadn't contacted them at all.

  Somehow Janelle had found him. The past had found him. Everything he had been running from for seven long years was catching up, no matter how fast he rode.

  "Hey, J. You're scaring me, man." Case's voice sounded far away. J. took another deep breath, counting backwards from ten like he had learned in anger management class.

  "You want us to take care of that piece of shit?" Crash's voice caught him by surprised. He hadn't realized he had reappeared at the doorway. MacDougal was looming behind him, his angry expression saying everything that needed to be said.

  J. knew if he said the word, Randall would be history. His brothers had his back. "This isn't your fight," J. exhaled.

  "Yeah it is," Crash declared. "That coward ruins your life and now he's moved in on your sister? Scum like that needs to be wiped from the earth."

  "J.?" Case's voice was calm but concerned. "You tell us what to do. But you have to do something."

  "But not today," Crash protested. "Today we drink."

  Chapter 7

  Emmy

  "How are you today, Miss Hawthorne?"

  I was hurrying to get to our elevator, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore Officer Wilkens. The retired officer sat behind a glass walled booth at the entrance to our building and his sharp eyes didn't miss a thing.

  "Hey there Mickey, did you see Robert come in yet?"

  "No Miss, I haven't seen him yet." Mickey Wilkens still had an old-fashioned formality about him that I liked, even if I still found it strange to accept.

  "Thank you," I breathed, hoping the relief in my voice wasn't audible.

  Robert wasn't home yet. That would give me time to collect myself before he arrived. Sammie had rattled me deeper than I cared to admit. He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.

  I smiled at the old man, hoping to get him going on one of his old stories to distract me. "How late are you here tonight, Mick?"

  "I just started an hour ago, Miss."

  I felt a rush of panic flood my mouth with its metallic taste. Robert could have come home before Mickey's shift started. He could be up there waiting for me right now, wondering what was taking me so long at lunch. He would be angry at me for not being there for him. He always needed me to be there when he got home from work. I was his refuge. He had told me that a million times. How long was it going to take me to remember?

  "Oh, well I hope it goes quickly!" I sang out as I hurried to our elevator. Mentally I began to prepare my lies. I had left the CD of my work at home and had to double back, so lunch hadn't started until later than I said it would. That would work. Robert always believed stories that involved me making mistakes.

  When the doors whooshed open, I held my breath waiting for him to call, "And where have you been?" But I was greeted with silence.

  "Hello? I stepped off the elevator into our massive living room. I looked into the front closet. Robert's bag was not hanging in its usual spot.

  I exhaled slowly in relief.

  I kicked off my shoes and set them tidily in the closet. Then I flopped on our white sectional, daring to drape my legs over the arm, and stared at the ceiling. I lay with my arms flung out and watched the fan in the vaulted ceiling high above me. It rotated slowly, and I focused on watching one blade at a time. It was always on, day and night, winter and summer. Robert insisted on what he called "airflow," and had a precise way he programmed it. Something about counter-rotation pushing the warm air down out of the ceiling. If I so much as dared to change the speed or direction of the fan, Robert would notice. Even if it seemed to me like I had exactly replicated Robert's methods, he would still notice.

  I let my gaze flit from blade to blade, concentrating hard on keeping my thoughts at bay. But my anger at Sammie crowded everything else out of my head. How dare she? She was supposed to be my best friend and yet she couldn't even be happy for me that I had found someone so wonderful. Someone who cared enough about me to try to make me better. To raise me up from my white-trash upbringing and introduce me to the finer things in life. Sure Robert had his own way of doing things, and sure he expected me to follow them. But that was because his way was the right way. It wasn't his fault I kept screwing things up. I was trying hard to be worthy of him, and it was mean and childish of her to try to undermine that.

  Abuse. I scoffed at the word. I knew abuse. Abuse was when my father trapped my mother in the corner, shouting at her until she wept and pleaded. Abuse was when my mother locked the front door on Andy, forcing him to spend the night outdoors. Abuse was when I had to throw myself on top of Andy to keep my father from beating him bloody. What I had with Robert was nothing short of true love.

  The doors swooshed open and I sat up with my heart in my throat. "Hey babe, you're home!" I called, hurriedly twisting myself around so that I was seat
ed on the couch properly.

  He walked past where I sat and headed straight into the kitchen without a word.

  I paused. I never knew if he wanted me to follow when he did this. I waited a beat and then made my way behind him.

  His broad back was towards me. The dark blue of his crisply tailored dress shirt showed off the wide expanse of his shoulders perfectly. I let my eyes wander down his arms and settle on his trim, narrow waist. His suit jacket was folded over one strong arm and the other was lifted as he poured himself a tumbler of single malt Scotch. I hesitated in the doorway, waiting until he had his liquor in him before I spoke.

  "Why are you hovering?" he sighed, his back still turned to me.

  "I'm not, I just..." I ran over my options in my head. He didn't look like he wanted a bubbly greeting. Maybe a shoulder rub? I stepped towards him. "Bad day?"

  He snorted and knocked back a long swallow of the Scotch.

  "Anything I can do?" I stepped backward and pressed my back to the wall, taking up as little space as I could.

  He scoffed again. "Do what you always do. Nothing."

  My stomach dropped. There were two ways I could approach this. I could leave and give him his space, hoping he would come to me later. That was the riskier option. I could very easily earn the silent treatment that way, and have to beg his forgiveness for being cold and abandoning him when he needed me. But the other option was risky too. Stay and try to wheedle him out of his bad mood. If I did that, I risked being relentless ball and chain who never gave him space. I would then have to apologize for being up his ass the minute he walked in the door.

  I studied the tenseness in his shoulders and the vein at his temple, hoping for some kind of sign.

  "Here," I tried. "Let me at least take your bag."

  When he didn't protest, I decided to go for the second option. I took his bag from the counter and trotted to the front closet and hung it on its designated hook. Then I hurried back to where he still stood in the center of our gleaming gourmet kitchen. Carefully, I placed my hands on his shoulders, barely letting him feel my presence.

  He didn't say anything, but he didn't swat me away. I began to knead the tense muscles, digging my fingers into the rock-hard muscles of his back. I stroked my hands up his neck to the base of his skull and threaded my fingers through his chestnut waves, scratching my nails across his scalp like he liked. The slight floral scent hit my nose, spicy yet sweet.

  "Don't mess up my hair," he barked. "I might have to go back in."

  I snatched my hands away and moved them down to the small of his back. I wasn't going to think about the perfume. That would be a bad idea. I smoothed my palms over the small rise of his buttocks, and let out a small sigh. His warm, unyielding bulk felt good under my hands. I untucked his shirt from his waistband and let my fingers wander under his T-shirt to find the smooth, tanned skin underneath. "You feel nice," I whispered into his back, pressing my lips to his spine.

  He sighed and lowered his shoulders, allowing me to dig my thumbs into the rigid muscles. When I reached his shoulders, I slid my palms back down each arm and snaked them around to his front. Hugging him around the waist, I stood on my tiptoes and murmured into his ear.

  "Come upstairs, babe."

  "You're done already?" he muttered.

  "Oh! Sorry." I quickly moved back to massaging his shoulders.

  He leaned against the refrigerator, bracing himself so that I could dig deeply. I sank into a lunging position, putting my full body weight into pressing and kneading up and down the whole broad expanse of his back.

  He hadn't yet turned around to say hello.

  "This would be easier if you were lying on the bed," I coaxed.

  "Really Emilia?" He drew up, pulling himself away from my touch. "I had a shit day and that's what you're after? Can't you just give for once and not ask for something in return? Christ." He stalked out of the kitchen.

  "With all I do for you..." he muttered darkly and strode upstairs, leaving me standing with my arms still reaching for him.

  Chapter 8

  Emmy

  Robert had gone upstairs, taken a shower, changed his clothes and left. All without saying a word to me.

  I spent the rest of the day in a blank daze. I moved from distraction to distraction: my email, Facebook, gossip websites, but nothing was able to fully hold my attention. No matter how loudly I played my music, or cranked the volume on the TV, I couldn't get the scent of perfume out of my nose, or drown out Sammie's voice in my head.

  He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.

  There was a place, right above my navel. A hollow, hurting place. It twisted and churned like a knife in my guts. It hurt so badly sometimes that it took my breath away.

  I popped some Tums, but the hollow place was untouched. I nibbled some takeout, but the hollow place refused to be filled. The food roiled in my belly and I swallowed back hot bile that tasted like tears. The hollow place only grew larger. It felt like it had swallowed the whole of me.

  I hugged a throw pillow tightly to my chest as I stared at the television, unseeing. Twisting the silk fabric in my fingers, I debated my options. Should I wait for Robert and apologize? Should I stay out of his way? What should I do to make things right?

  I didn't want to fight with him. I never wanted to fight. Life in my father's house had taught me this. Fighting only meant I got hurt. It was better to take the blame for whatever I had done and move on. I could absorb his anger. I had done it before.

  But the more I told myself this, the more tired I became.

  My eyes closed involuntarily and I snapped them open. If I went to bed now, Robert may come home and find me sleeping in the afternoon. That would only earn me more of his wrath.

  But I was so tired all of a sudden.

  I trudged slowly upstairs. I would just lie down for a bit. I would hear the elevator open if he came home. I would pretend I had been straightening up our bedroom if he asked why I was up here. Or that I was working on my portfolio. That would work.

  I sank heavily into our king-sized bed. The hollow place in my belly wouldn't let me stretch out. Instead I curled into a ball on my side. I was asleep immediately.

  I don't know what it was that woke me. It could have been a noise from the street. It could have been the building settling. Maybe it was the neighbors downstairs. It could have been a number of different things, but I'm almost sure it was my heart.

  I woke with a start, my heart racing in a panic, my mouth flooded with the bright coppery taste of fear. The room was pitch dark. I turned to look at the clock on my bedside table and saw that it was past eleven. I had slept for eight hours without meaning to. I flung out my arm to Robert's side of the bed, reaching for his sleeping form to comfort myself.

  There was no one there. The sheets were cool, the pillow was undented. Robert had never come to bed.

  He had never come home.

  I ran my hand along the sheet, up and down, up and down. Robert's thousand thread count sheets. I still couldn't feel the difference in softness. I wondered if I ever would. Maybe I just wasn't good enough to discern the finer things in life. Maybe I should just accept what Robert said and stop trying second-guess him. Maybe he was wrong, and there really wasn't a difference, he just wanted to feel superior to me.

  I swallowed and shoved that thought aside.

  Thinking about the sheets was keeping the other thoughts out of my head. That was deliberate. If I thought about the sheets and wondered about the sheets, if I kept my focus on the sheets, then I didn't have to think about why Robert wasn't in bed next to me.

  I didn't have to think about where he was or who he was with. Or what perfume she was wearing.

  As I thought about the sheets, I felt something tickle my cheek. I brushed my finger across it and was startled to find that it came away wet.

  It was only then that I realized I was crying.

  I wanted to roll over to his side and bury my face in his pillow. I would have lo
ved to inhale his familiar scent, if I could find it. But the sheets were clean and his smell had been washed away. His side of the bed smelled antiseptic and impersonal. He hadn't been home since we last slept together.

  The tears came faster.

  The hollow place in my belly suddenly twisted violently. I ran headlong into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach rejected everything I had eaten today. I hung my head over the toilet bowl, heaving and spitting. The man I loved should be here, rubbing my back. He should be here holding my hair so it didn't fall into the toilet. He wouldn't, but he should. He should be here and he isn't and where the fuck is he anyway?

  The hollow place exploded, flooding my whole body with the million little hurts and rejections of my life with Robert.

  I took a deep breath and screamed.

  Every single word, every single facial expression, every single slight flashed through my head, treating me to a personal slideshow of Hell. My body flooded with adrenaline and I balled my fists, swallowing the bile in the back of my throat.

  I felt like I would suffocate. The walls of our airy master suite threatened to close in on me. I splashed water in my face and looked at myself in the mirror.

  I needed to get out of here.

  But there was something I needed to do first.

  Rushing back into the bedroom, I dove headlong to the back of my closet. Shoving past the skirts of the expensive ball gowns Robert had bought me, I unearthed the box of treasures I had rescued from the trash room. My stuff. The stuff that Robert had tried to throw away.

  I dug around inside, past the old, threadbare blankets and found what I was looking for. I took out the old T-shirt and cradled it in my arms like a baby.

  It was one of my old concert tees. The band had long since broken up, but I had kept it as a memory of the fun I used to have. When I shook it out, I smiled through my tears at what a mess it was and remembered the wild night that Sammie and I had spent in our dorm room. One of the fashion students had lent her a sewing machine, and we had gleefully spent the night drunkenly customizing our wardrobe. I ran my hand over the spangles at the shoulder, laughing grimly as I remembered Robert's horrified reaction when he saw it. I had cut holes in the side and woven strips of leather up like laces. Sammie had sewn an asymmetrical ruffle along the hem. The whole thing was a riot of color and bad taste.