Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(18)
Author: K.A. Tucker

“Huh, so that’s what he was talking about . . .” Ben murmurs. “Is it true about your dad?”

I pause, picking my words carefully. This just isn’t something I talk to with anyone and if Ben were to start teasing me about it . . . “Yeah, I guess. I mean, my dad did leave me in a diner, but I don’t remember that day being scary or bad. I just remember taking a long ride in his truck, and chasing chickens and pigs around at some farm. And laughing a lot. The way Annabelle tells the story, though, it sounds like he was this awful man and I was in grave danger. Apparently they had a fight and he took off with me in his truck, saying he was leaving her and never bringing me back. So Annabelle called the police and reported me as kidnapped. My dad already had a record—some stupid bar fight that put a guy in the hospital—so adding a kidnapping charge was bad. I’ve always believed that’s why he left me there.” I add in a softer voice, more a confirmation to myself, “That’s the only thing that makes sense.” We fall into silence as I listen to Ben’s strong heartbeat next to my ear, letting the afternoon sun bathe my skin, hoping that it’ll scare away the gloom that always creeps in when I think about my father and how he just abandoned me, like I was a cat he didn’t want anymore.

“Well, I think you have a pretty good thing going with Jack right now,” Ben finally offers, his fingers trailing up and down my arm lightly.

I smile to myself. “Yeah, he’s great.” I always knew Jack was a good person, who without a doubt truly cared about me. I think that’s why it hurt so damn much when he turned his back on me all those years ago. It’s also how I knew that what Annabelle did must have hurt him terribly. It’s why my relationship with her went even farther downhill after their divorce.

“And Mason’s a good guy. I know he can come off as kind of weird, but he’s someone you can count on. Maybe now that he’s getting laid, he’ll relax a bit.”

I groan and then cringe. “I forgot about that until now. Thanks.” I roll into Ben’s chest, inhaling the scent of him—soap, laundry detergent, and a clean sweat from this heat—as I try to block the visual suddenly plaguing me. “Do you think he was a virgin before her?”

Ben chuckles. “No, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t pull up a chair and watch, but I think he got his dick wet at a party our first year.”

That earns a second cringe. “Jesus, Ben! Does Wilma know you talk to girls with that mouth?”

“My mama would beat me senseless if she ever heard me talking like that to a girl,” he admits soberly. “If you can believe it, I do filter myself.”

“I don’t believe it.” If these are the kinds of things that come out of his dirty mouth, I shudder at what’s hidden up there in that brain of his.

With a chuckle, Ben picks up a piece of my hair and begins twirling the ends in his fingertips. “So tell me a story about red paint.”

The sudden change in topic startles me but I recover with a few seconds’ pause. “It’s an offensive color. Some would say satanic.”

“Was the red paint yours?”

I sigh. “My, aren’t we dragging all of my skeletons out on this fine, sunny day.” I actually don’t care if Ben thinks I’m crazy. Given that I just led him into a waylay to gun down my ex and his new wife, I’ve already done a pretty good job of painting a very unflattering picture of myself. Yet here we are. That tells me that either Ben’s not the judgmental type or he’s horny enough to screw crazy chicks. Possibly both.

“She moved into my apartment, Ben. She packed my things up in boxes and left them by the door for me.” Ben’s other hand finds its way to my belt to hook a finger in as he lies quietly, listening to me explain how I walked through each room of the apartment that day and found nothing but the smell of bleach and signs of her. Of them, together. Red decorative cushions were neatly laid on the couch, replacing my oversized, worn charcoal ones. On the walls, where my photos of rusty old trucks used to hang, were brilliantly hued pictures of Tuscan fields.

Each new item was a blade swiftly plunging into my chest. I no longer existed in Jared’s life. Just two weeks after the devastating news. And it all looked so effortless. I remember clutching my stomach as I dared make my way back toward the bedroom, the scent of fresh paint catching my nose as I approached. I knew that it was the worst idea ever—that the outcome was guaranteed disaster that would cripple me. But I had to see it to know for sure. It was like walking head-on into an oncoming train. And when I pushed open the door . . .

The train ran right over me.

Everything about our bedroom felt different. Wrong. From the rearranged furniture to the red poppy–print sheets to the picture mocking me from above the iron headboard. The headboard that I had gripped as Jared lay beneath, staring up at me with heated green eyes so many times, while he told me he loved me.

I couldn’t look away from that giant black-and-white picture of the two of them lying in bed, white sheets strategically covering their nudity as their limbs coiled around each other’s bodies, even as it gutted me. I knew it predated our time together because my name was missing from his left shoulder.

The freshly painted crimson walls only served to magnify the intimacy of the photograph, to the point where they may as well have been lying in bed right there, in person. Gritting my teeth, I reached over and yanked the closet door open. Where my clothes used to dangle haphazardly, a new wardrobe hung neatly.

My teeth gnashed against each other as I threw open the top dresser drawer to find lace panties and bras mingling cozily with Jared’s boxer briefs.

It was official. The bitch had moved in.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I slammed the drawer shut, fighting the urge to scream. She should have had the decency to wait until I was gone! She should have had the decency not to touch my f**king stuff! As I lay curled up in the fetal position in Lina’s apartment next door, crying over losing the love of my life, Caroline was playing Martha-thieving- Stewart, her snaky fingers defiling my belongings as she quickly packed me up. As she took over my life.

In that moment, as I eyed the clothes, the bed, all her pretty little “girly” things, the rage detonating inside of me had only one target. And it was a volatile type of rage that wasn’t going to listen to reason or consider consequences.

All it wanted to do was dull my agonizing heartbreak, soothe my wounded pride.

And the can of red paint sitting in the corner, taunting me, was the perfect antidote.

There’s a long pause after I divulge some of the finer details to Ben. Why I told him all of that, I don’t know. But now that I have, I realize that it felt kind of good. A relief. He knows exactly who I am. What I’m capable of.

Ben’s arm tightens slightly, bringing me closer to him, as he sighs. “You still love him?”

“I don’t know. I think so,” I answer truthfully. “And trust me, I know how stupid that is, so you don’t have to remind me.” The hollowness still swells in my chest every time I even think about Jared, every time I find myself checking to see if he has responded to my last message. I loved that dark-haired guy so much that even when things were good, it hurt. I loved him more than I thought ever possible and more than was probably healthy. I used to mock girls who couldn’t stop themselves from clinging onto their man’s limbs in public, who giggled and cooed and batted starry eyes.

But when I met Jared, I turned into one of them.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think he’s an idiot.”

“I’m not having sex with you.”

“Oh, come on! No lies, no commitments. No fear of love. Just the best day of your life with a nice guy who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.”

I can’t help the deep, throaty laugh that erupts from me. “You’re such an arrogant pig.”

“Fair enough. Can we at least fool around?” He lifts and curls his strong body, giving that appealing mouth access to my ear. “Because I know you want to.”

I shiver as the depth of his voice courses through my limbs. My denial—a lie, I’m silently accepting—is on the tip of my tongue when my phone starts ringing. Ben falls back with a groan as I pull the phone out of my pocket, holding it up to read the caller ID, just to make sure. “What on earth is she doing calling me?”

“Annabelle Lecter?” Ben reads the caller ID.

“The woman eats male hearts. It’s fitting.” I hit “ignore” and tuck the phone back in my pocket. With my ear against Ben’s chest, his loud boom of laughter is all the louder. I can’t help but wonder what Annabelle would want. I left Jacksonville nine months ago and she hasn’t made any effort to reach out to me before today. Not normal mother behavior. Not surprising Annabelle behavior.

“I take it you and her aren’t best friends?” Ben asks lightly, his attempts at getting into my pants effectively stalled.

“I haven’t talked to her since I moved to Miami and Jack made me call her to let her know.”

“That’s been, what . . .”

“It’ll be a year in January.”

He snorts. “How is that even possible? I talk to Mama every single day.”

“That’s because you have June Cleaver for a mom and I have Joan Crawford.” There can be no doubt where I inherited my temper. More than one dish has been thrown across a room with Annabelle’s anger. That’s a side she guards well, though, not wanting the outside world to know she’s anything but the refined socialite she portrays.

“Did you have a big fight?”

I sigh. “My entire life feels like one big fight with her. She wanted a debutante daughter and she got . . .” I gesture at myself.

“A daughter with piercings and sometimes purple hair who rides a motorcycle and can describe the back of a cop car in detail,” he finishes for me.

“Annabelle wears Gucci and eats beef tartare. She goes to the opera and collects ice wine.”

He nods slowly as if in understanding. “You must have been one hell of a rebellious teenager.”

“We’ve been at odds long before my teenage years. Annabelle was never cut out to be a mother. All she cares about are appearances, money, and Annabelle.” I close my eyes and sigh, wanting to get off the topic. “I feel so relaxed out here. This place is like a cross between Forrest Gump and Anne of Green Gables.”

“I don’t remember Tom Hanks picking oranges.”

“No, I mean . . . just that house and the big ol’ trees and the country air . . . Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Ben’s hand starts fiddling with my hair again. “Yeah. Right now it is. Soon, the orders start rolling through and then it gets busy. We get orders from all over the country. Since I had the website and online system updated a few years back, it’s been busy.” He sighs. “Between inspecting and sampling and picking . . . hell, even just going around to check the trees for disease or problems, it’s getting to be too much. Especially for a fifty-one-year-old lady who’s had a heart attack to manage on her own. I wish she’d just sell and divorce his pathetic ass.”

“She won’t?”

“No. This place is her life. She’d be buried here if it were allowed. And she’s hung up on a bunch of words she said in church one day, so she lets him stay.”

“I think those are called vows, Ben,” I remind him dryly, rolling my head until my chin is resting on his chest so I can see his face.

“Call them what you want. They’re a bunch of words that trap people into thinking they have to be miserable for the rest of their lives.”

Not everyone. “So I take it you won’t be saying ‘I do’ anytime soon?” I ask lightly.

He closes his eyes again, a crooked smirk dimpling one cheek. “What do you think?”

“Have you even had a girlfriend, Ben?” Has he ever held someone in his arms all night, laughing and sharing his deepest secrets? Has he ever let someone cry on his shoulder or held her tight when life dealt him a shitty hand? Trusted her with everything, wanted to be someone she could trust? Has he ever watched the clock, waiting until he could see her again?

“Once, for two weeks, in high school.”

No, probably not. “So you’ve really made an effort,” I tease.

“Commitment just isn’t for me.” He says it so simply. Like, “Broccoli isn’t for me.”

“That’s too bad, Ben. I think some foolish woman out there could maybe make you a blissful idiot one day.”

He opens one eye to look down on me for a long moment, pondering something. “Yeah, but what if she’s evil, like you? I wouldn’t want to risk pissing her off and getting shot in the ass.” He pinches my side as he says that, as if letting me know that he’s only teasing.