Unbearable (6 page)

“It was an innocent mistake. She . . .
he
had no ID on him, and his name was Kelly. I just assumed he was a girl because of his clothes, baby blue sweats and a pink baggie sweat shirt, so I checked the female box on the form without asking. Add to the fact that he was a large man with an impressive pair of man-boobs,” he explained. “Anyone could’ve made the mistake.”

Watching him as he recounted the story, his comical expressions, and the way he waved his hands dramatically in the air made me laugh. Booker pressed his lips together, fighting a grin.

“Anyway, the next day the sergeant was handing out assignments in our morning briefing. He blanked out on my name, and in frustration called me ‘You, Book Her’. Well, it didn’t take long for everyone in the unit to pick up on it. Within a couple hours it evolved to Booker. Like I said, Seth’s dad was my commander and since I lived with them, naturally he felt it his duty to call me Booker around the house. My grandfather, Samuel, always up for a good laugh, joined in. As they say, the rest is history.”

Unable to stop grinning, I dropped my head down in an effort to hide my face.

“Tess,” he said, “I love your smile, don’t hide it.” His hand slipped under my chin and he brought my face to his. “It’s infectious, sexy as h—heck,” he corrected himself with a wink and a grin. He’d been working hard to curb his swearing. I couldn’t remember ever hearing him cuss, but I did hear the sound of money clinking against glass coming from his office every now and then.

“I haven’t sworn yet today,” he said, still holding my chin. He softly caressed it with his thumb.

“It’s only eleven-fifteen,” I teased.

“What can I say? I’m a work in progress.” He continued to stroke my jaw with his thumb as he lowered his face toward mine.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Part of me, a large part, danced in anticipation. I dreamt of kissing Booker. He was the first man who’d sparked my interest since I escaped. Another part of me wanted to run and hide. I’d not allowed myself any close relationships with men, or anyone, after Garen. But I missed human contact. Coming from a boisterous, loving, Irish catholic home, we laughed, we teased, we hugged. All things Garen hated. All things I longed for again.

As Booker closed the distance between us, I held my breath.

Chapter 6

“I'm too sexy for my shirt / Too sexy for my shirt / So sexy . . .”

“Maggie,” Booker half grumbled, half chuckled as he pulled back, digging his cell phone from his pocket as the magic of the moment evaporated.

“Sorry. If I leave my phone lying around at Seth’s, Maggie sabotages it. Last week I had Barbie wallpaper on all my screens,” he explained, as “I’m Too Sexy for my Shirt” began again. He glanced at the display. “Oh, good. It’s Dewey, the guy working on your car.” He pressed the phone to his ear.

I used the interruption to gather myself. Strong attraction or not, I still didn’t know if I wanted to try to have a relationship again. With Booker, I felt safe, and I’d even let my guard down, opening up and letting my former self peek through. Yet fear still owned me, no matter how hard I tried to put it behind me. It didn’t help that every time I took a shower, the scars across my stomach and back reminded me just how lucky I was to be alive. I ran my hand over my shirt, rubbing the healed wounds beneath—well,
physically healed wounds. I doubted I’d ever heal emotionally.

“Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Booker asked, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

“Good?”

“Dewey replaced the battery, and he has to replace the radiator which means it’s not a cracked head. The bad news is that since the car is old, he doesn’t have it in stock so he’ll need to order it. It
’ll take about three days.” He shrugged. “I’ll give you a ride to and from work until then, so no need to worry, and with your moving into Maggie’s trailer, it’ll be even more convenient for you.”

“Thanks, Booker. I appreciate everything.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” he said. “If you need boxes, I know that Donna and Haley, the interior design duo decorating on the sixth floor, have some. You might want to run and grab them before they break them down for the recycle bin.” Booker reached into his pocket. “Here.” He tossed me the key. “Stick them in the car.”

“Whoa,” I said, catching the keys despite the poor toss.

“Sorry,” he grimaced, “but nice catch.”

“I was captain of the lacrosse team in high school, both my junior and senior years.”

“No kidding,” he said, clearly surprised. “I remembered you saying you played, I didn’t know you were captain. You any good at basketball?”

“I can hold my own,” I bragged a little.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises today, Tess
Layla
?” he said with a nod, adding, “By the way, some of my MET gear is still in the trunk. I keep forgetting to take it in the house. Just shove it to the back.”

“Okay.” I reached for the door.

“I’m expecting a client so leave that ajar, will you?”

“There’s no one on the calendar until two thirty.” Had I messed up? My stomach tightened.

“She’s not on the schedule. This is a friend of a friend,” he explained. “It’s not even real estate related, actually. She just needs some legal advice.”

She. He’d had several female clients come in over the past two months with non-real estate questions. Since he left his office door open most of the time, I’d overheard several of the conversations. They seldom wanted legal advice. They wanted Booker. Some were more overt with their flirting, while others were
more subtle, but in the end, he’d send them away. He now had me screen all his appointments so he could get his real casework done. This one must’ve called him on his personal phone.

I went to the sixth floor and grabbed five boxes. Haley helped me carry them to Booker’s car.

“He’s freaking cute, don’t you think?” she asked as we approached the POC.

“Booker? Yes, I guess,” I said, playing it cool.

“You guess? Either you’re blind or insane,” Haley said as I opened the back door. We stuffed three large boxes inside.

“Okay, he’s freaking cute.” We both chuckled. With the backseat full of boxes, we headed for the trunk. He’d replaced the lock recently. The shiny new lock against the banged up metal of the trunk contrasted starkly.

“Too bad he has commitment issues,” Haley said as I opened the trunk. “Of course, if my ex was using me to spy on the police force so my boyfriend could steal drugs easier, I don’t think I’d be too excited to get involved again either.”

My mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?” I pushed the MET gear Booker told me about, a vest, empty gun belt, and a long silver case containing who knows what, to the back. I didn’t buy his excuse that he forgot to take the gear in the house. I’d bet the things were a security blanket to him. He’d been a cop most of his adult life—he probably felt naked without the stuff.

Haley shut the trunk after I placed the last box inside. “How’s this for sad: Booker busted his ex on their six month wedding anniversary, no less, walking in on her in bed with her boyfriend in
his
house. She ended up going to jail when everything came out. It wasn’t pretty,” she said as we headed back inside.

“Poor Booker. He must
’ve been devastated.” I walked to the elevators only because Haley did.

“He was pretty broken up. He divorced her in a New York minute. Her name had something to do with money, like Penny or . . . I can’t remember. I can tell you, the whole thing soured him on relationships. I
wouldn’t get my hopes up,” she warned as the elevator stopped at her floor. “I can’t see Booker getting seriously involved with anyone. He’s strictly a player.”

She stepped out. “We just work together,” I assured her.

“Right.” Haley laughed as the elevator creaked shut.

Booker’s office door was closed when I returned. I could hear his mumbled voice along with that of a woman’s as I finished some paperwork. A couple of times the woman sniffled as if she were crying. Half an hour later his door opened and a lanky, strawberry blond woman emerged. She was angled back toward Booker and I couldn’t see her face.

“Thank you, and please thank Seth for talking you into taking my case. I know you don’t normally handle this type of work,” she said in a sad voice.

“You’re welcome, Hillary. And it was Maggie who talked me into it, not Seth,” he insisted.

“Maggie? Oh, I see.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned, exposing the battered mess that was her face. Black and green bruises circled her eyes. I guessed them to be a few days old. Her swollen lower lip had a small cut on the left corner, and her right arm was in a sling.

I tried not to react. I tried to distance myself from my memories. I tried telling myself that Hillary had been brutalized, not me. I tried not to relive the nightmares.

I failed.

Darkness swamped the room around me. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Hillary’s bruised face. Vomit raced up my throat, and I swallowed it back down. Booker continued to talk to the girl as he laid her file on my desk.

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” he said, his voice a million miles away.

The office door clicked shut after them. I pulled in deep breaths, again and again. It didn’t help. I stared hard at the file he’d placed there, knowing not to open it. But like a moth to a flame, I couldn’t stop myself.

Pictures of Hillary lay on top, each showing angry black and purple bruises, fresh bruises. These had to have been taken right after the beating. Blood covered her mouth and shirt, and her hair was everywhere. The pictures shook violently in my hand as I relived my final beating from Garen. I struggled to breathe, as if my head were being shoved . . . I pinched my eyes shut, wincing at the pain of every kick, every blow—each feeling as real as they did four years ago.

Warm hands wrapped around my shoulders.

“Tess, you’re safe now.” The pictures of Hillary were pulled from my hand. I jumped as something touched my cheeks.

“
It’s just tissue, Tess.” My eyes flew to Booker as he wiped my face. I was crying and didn’t realize it. Only then did I realize my arms were wrapped tightly around me as I rocked back and forth. The photos were wrinkled in the corner from my grip.

Humiliation washed over me. I was going to lose this job, too.

“I’m so . . . sorry.” The words jerked in my chest. “I . . . I . . .” I couldn’t speak. I took the tissue from him and wiped the fresh tears coming down.

“Does he live around here?” Booker asked softly. He knelt at my side, concern etched on his face. I thought of lying, blaming my reaction on my struggles with blood, but I didn’t.

“No,” I whispered.

“I’m so sorry, Tess. If I’d known I would
’ve arranged to meet her after hours.” He took the folder and filed it in the cabinet.

“Please don’t fire me,” I pleaded as my strength slowly seeped back. “I . . . I need . . . this job. It won’t . . . happen again.”

“I’m not going to fire you, Tess. You’re a fantastic secretary. Besides, it’s not as if we handle cases like this all the time. I only took this as a favor for Maggie,” Booker assured me. He crossed the room and poured me a cup of water from the cooler.

“Here, drink this.” He handed it to me. I downed it quickly and then tossed the paper cup in the trashcan below my desk.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. I shook my head and he nodded. “If you ever do, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

An hour later he left for a meeting across town, insisting he’d cancel if I needed him to. “I’m fine, I swear.”

After his car pulled away, I sat in the bathroom and wept. I didn’t want to be scared anymore. I wanted my life back.

Chapter 7

6 years ago

The pressure from Garen’s job had him on edge more often than not. His boss, Senator Graft, had a mess on his hands after an alleged illegal deal with an upstart cell phone provider was leaked to the press. Garen ran himself ragged doing damage control. While Garen hadn’t hit me again, he regularly berated me for things I’d done wrong. He loved order and demanded our
townhome be immaculate at all times. The canned goods were lined up in the pantry perfectly, tallest to shortest based on label color, and the boxed foods were arranged in descending order. The towels were aligned in the linen closet with equal spacing around each stack, per Garen’s orders. When I joked about his anal-retentive tendencies, he went crazy on me, pressing me up against the wall, screaming in my face.

“I’m working hard to make a life for us, Terese. Is it too much to ask that you keep a neat home?” I shrank tight against the wall as he yelled. “I’m sorry you want to live like a pig, but this is my home and you
’ll keep it orderly! Understood?” I nodded, afraid of saying something to upset him and he’d strike me.

“If you’d think of someone besides yourself,” he said, calming himself and pulling back, “I wouldn’t get so upset. I’m beginning to believe you enjoy provoking me.” He tugged a strand of my hair. I assumed he meant it as a playful gesture, but my head jerked sharply to the side, nevertheless.

His obsessiveness carried over to the dirty laundry, of all things. The soiled clothes were to be folded in neat stacks in the hamper until they were washed. His dress shirts were to be dried for exactly forty-two minutes, then immediately pressed.

“Why don’t we just send them out to be dry-cleaned?” I asked a few weeks after my anal retentive comment. I’d lost track of time while studying for a math exam and let a shirt sit too long in the dryer. He wasn’t happy.

“Why? I think you know full well why, Terese. All our extra money goes to pay for your silly bachelor’s degree, in
dance
,” he snapped. “Oh, and in business. Like everybody and their dog doesn’t have a degree in business. Great choice.” His snarky tone infuriated me.

“Silly? My degree is not silly.” I took the shirt I’d been ironing and tossed it at him. I wheeled around to leave the room when his hand slammed down on my shoulder and he twisted me back to him. He planted his hands above the collarbone on either side of my neck, and with his forefinger and thumb squeezed my shoulders. The stabbing pain drove me to my knees.

“I will not be spoken to in that manner, is that understood?” he said through clenched teeth.

“Stop it, you’re hurting me,” I pleaded. His jaw ticked twice before he let go.

I stood, rubbing my tender neck and shoulders. This had to end. I’d tried to make our relationship work, but his temper made our chance at a happy marriage impossible. I decided to broach the subject of counseling. He was more receptive and usually more reasonable after one of his outbursts.

“Garen, I’ve been thinking.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Maybe you should talk to someone about . . . about your anger management issues.” He said nothing as I unplugged the iron and neatly wrapped the cord up. I took a slow breath in then blew it out and continued
. “Your temper seems to be getting worse lately. I’m questioning whether you and I will survive as a couple, you know? I mean, if you’re going to continue to hurt me—”

“You’re giving up on us?” He stepped toward me. I planted my feet shoulder width apart, standing my ground, even if my hands trembled. “A few mistakes and you’re calling it quits? Terese, you’re a fighter, you never give up. It’s one of the reasons I married you. Even though your parents forced you to pick up lacrosse, you worked night and day to become the team captain.” He wrung his hands as he paced in front of me. His face was tight, and he looked worried. Knowing he wanted to make our marriage work took me by surprise since all he’d done was point out my shortcomings. I didn’t realize I had so many before marrying him.

He continued. “Didn’t you tell me that you used to get only three or four hours of sleep, weeks on end, so you could keep your grades up because you wouldn’t give up dance? You maintained a four-point-oh through it all.” He stopped and turned to me. “I need a wife who’s going to stand by me. I mean, I know I struggle with my anger sometimes, but I can’t believe you want to call it quits already. I love you.”

I felt terrible. And ashamed that I’d even considered divorce. He was right. I didn’t quit, ever. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to live in fear, either,” I said softly.

He pulled me into his arms. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t take my bad days out on you. We have to stick together, Terese. A divorce is definitely not part of my Life Plan.” He kissed my forehead. “I can’t think of anyone who’d make a better first lady than you.” He apologized once more, insisting it wouldn’t happen again. “It wouldn’t bode well for my political future if it got out I had to get therapy for anger management. I’ll do better. I mean, it’s not like I’m one of those crazy actors who beat up paparazzi.” He chuckled. Relieved at his renewed commitment, I let the issue drop.

***

“Perfect.” I set a bouquet of white roses in the center of the table. Being our six-month anniversary, I wanted everything to be special. I’d hurried home after taking my last final of the semester and prepared all of Garen’s favorite foods. The eggplant Parmesan recipe was tricky, at least for me. I couldn’t cook to save my life, but I hoped that this time it’d work. I followed the recipe exactly and even watched a YouTube video of a French chef preparing the exact dish.

I removed a pair of silver candlesticks, a wedding gift, from a long slender box. I set them on either side of the flowers and lit them as his car pulled into the driveway of our small two-story townhouse. I did a quick check of the living-dining room combination to make sure everything was in its place. The gray linen couch and chair sat exactly at a ninety-degree angle. I’d dusted the torch lamp, made sure the flat-screen TV hung perfectly straight on the wall, and dusted the photos from our wedding, spacing them equally on the side table. Nothing was out of place, which meant Garen should be pleased.
A perfect evening.

The door flew open and Garen stormed in, his overcoat tucked neatly under his arm alongside his briefcase. Nervously, I smoothed down my apron, wishing I’d thought to remove it. I wore my white button down shirt and plaid blue and green skirt Garen liked.

“I hope dinner’s ready. I’m starved.” His eyes narrowed on me before he guided his briefcase into its spot next to the living room chair along the wall, and hung his coat in the closet.

“How was your day?” I untied the apron and placed it neatly in a kitchen drawer.

He angled his head and said, “How do you think it was, Terese? Do I look like I’m in a good mood?” He spun away and went into the living room to watch the news. Like he always did. He hadn’t noticed the beautiful table I’d set, or commented on how delicious the eggplant Parmesan smelled as it baked in the oven.

I stepped next to him as he sat on the couch, being careful not to block the TV. He hated when I interrupted the news. I waited patiently until the commercial.

“Happy anniversary, Garen.” I smiled, settling in next to him and placing my hand on his knee.

His eyes stayed on the TV. “It’s not our anniversary.” He dropped his head back against the couch and rubbed his temples with his middle fingers. When I tried to do it for him, he slapped my hands away. I rubbed at the sting.

“It’s our six-month anniversary. I made eggplant Parmesan and apricot turnovers.” I smiled as his eyes met mine in a sneer.

“You actually cooked?” he snapped. “So I guess that means we’ll be getting our stomachs pumped for dessert?” He pushed to his feet and strolled into the kitchen. I followed, letting his snide comment roll off my back. I wanted tonight to be perfect. I fought hard for us the past six months. Tonight I wanted to remember why I fell in love with him.

“Maybe you’ll be surprised. I’ve really tried to make it a special night.” I smiled proudly as he picked up one of the turnovers and examined it. A moment later he tossed it callously onto the plate.

“I’ll wash up. If this crap totally sucks, there’s leftover Chinese in the fridge we can eat.” Without so much as a glance my way, he headed straight for the bathroom, taking my dreams of a romantic evening with him.

I increased the temperature to 450° on the eggplant to brown the top, setting the timer for five minutes. I slumped against the counter, my arms folded, and wondered what it’d take to please him. What was wrong with me? It felt like I was back in ninth grade taking dance from Ms. Liddy again. Trying and trying, yet never quite meeting her expectations.

“Terese, come here, please
.” Garen’s voice echoed low and threatening through the small townhome. I swallowed hard and ran to him. This couldn’t be good. I entered the small bathroom to find him standing in front of the linen closet, his arm pinned to the doorframe, his face, blood red, his breath, heavy.

“What’s wrong?” I stayed out of reach. I knew what was coming.

“How many times do I have to explain how the closet is to be organized?” His eyes met mine. Fire burned within them. He answered before I could. “This closet is twenty-six inches. If the towels are folded properly into thirds, each measuring eight inches across, then we can have three stacks of towels, with an inch between each stack.” He drew in a deep breath. “Having space around the towels allows for airflow, thus keeping the towels from smelling stale and musty.”

“I did measure them. They’re eight inches.” I made sure. I always made sure.

He stepped back and jabbed his hand at the towels. The center stack had tipped over to the right, knocking all the towels out of alignment. “But . . . I . . .” I shook my head, then remembered. I’d placed the center stack on the shelf as the timer on the dryer went off. I hurried to remove his shirts before they wrinkled. I meant to come back and align the towels, but got busy with dinner and completely forgot. I didn’t dare explain it to Garen. He hated excuses. He considered them weakness.

“I’m sorry.” I dropped my head and stepped to the closet to fix the towels.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” He stood so close to my side his breath beat on my cheek in short puffs.

“No, I swear. It was an accident.”
Garen’s hands fisted into balls. I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I straightened the towels using the ruler Garen had tacked to the inside of the door.

He turned to the sink and washed his hands as I measured and refolded. He shaved his face again, not an uncommon thing for him. He often shaved twice a day. Only today the hum of the electric razor drowned out the beeping of the timer in the kitchen. Garen smelled it first. The unmistakable odor of burnt food filled the air. He darted out of the bathroom and turned for the kitchen. I stood frozen. I knew what had happened. The eggplant was burnt.

The sound of the pan crashing into the sink jolted me. I busied myself with the towels again, hating that my hands shook as I did. Garen’s thundering footsteps did little to quell the fear rising inside me.

“Ruined. Burnt to a crisp. What possessed you to turn the oven up so high, you moron?” He shoved his face into mine as he railed. “Eggplant is expensive this time of year. At least ten dollars now gone,” he snapped his fingers in my face, “just like that.”

“I—I was going to be right there. I set the timer, but didn’t hear it over your razor.” I replaced the ruler on the nail inside the door and bravely turned to face him, even though I felt anything but.

“So this is my fault?” Spittle flew from his mouth and I flinched back. “I suppose the skewed towels are my fault, too?” I shook my head. He shoved his hand toward me and I
flinched, only he didn’t hit me. Instead, he grabbed a handful of towels from the pantry behind me and tossed them across the room. He repeated the action until all the towels lay scattered across the room. “I will not be blamed for your shortcomings, do you understand?”

“But—”

“Also, I thought we had a deal,” he interrupted. “You’re to clean the bathroom on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the morning so I won’t have to smell that horrible cleaner you insist on using. What day is it, Terese?”

“Friday. And I did clean it,” I lied. So busy preparing for our anniversary, it slipped my mind.

“Oh? Where’s the dirty rag then?” He pointed to the empty rack he’d installed on the inside of the bathroom cabinet door for drying soiled rags so they wouldn’t mildew.

Before I could answer, he grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me to the toilet. He lifted the seat and shoved my head into the bowl, stopping an inch short of the water. “Does that smell clean to you, Terese?” I didn’t dare
move, afraid my face would touch the water. “I guess this won’t bother you either since it’s clean.” He shoved my head down into the bowl, submerging it. I grabbed the rim of the toilet and pushed upward, desperate for air, but he held me firmly.

“I. Will. Not. Be. Lied. To.”
His words were muffled by the water that filled my ears, but I still heard each and every syllable. My head hit the bottom of the bowl with each anger-filled word. Finally, he jerked me back and shoved me to the floor. “Clean up this mess. And don’t ever lie to me again.”