Screw It Page 15

  My chest gets tight.

  “Bee—” Matt starts.

  “No, no, no, no!”

  “Sweetheart—” I start.

  “No, no, no, no!” she shouts and then dashes toward the nightstand.

  My gut squeezes, and my chest feels like it’s in a vise. I hate this for her.

  God.

  Christ.

  She drops to her knees, and her hands start moving like she’s not sure where to touch first. The whole thing is a burned black mess, and nothing in there would have survived. Her shaking hand finally grasps the handle, and it falls apart in her hand.

  She loses her shit, bursting into tears. Raw whimpers come out of her mouth, and her nails claw at the drawer. Matt and I squat on each side of her, and I put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Bee—”

  “My picture, Matt.” Her tone is quiet and shaky.

  “Bee—”

  She turns and shouts in his face, “My picture, Matt! My only picture of my mama. It’s gone! She’s gone! It’s all gone! Do you know how long it’s going to take me to get this all back?”

  Matt falls to his ass and pulls her into his arms. She buries her face in his neck and wails. Matt rubs her back as his eyes hit mine. His drawn, tight face likely mirrors mine. Seeing her like this shreds me.

  Officer Parker approaches.

  I stand. “What do you got?”

  “I’m not a detective, but I’d say she left her curling iron on when she left.” He points toward the bed frame, and sure enough, I see the remnants of a curling iron.

  My eyebrows pull together.

  Becca shrieks, “What?”

  She crawls off Matt before moving to us to get in Parker’s face as much as she can at her height, and I already know what she’s gonna say.

  “I don’t even own a curling iron. Look at my hair!” She points to her mass of curls.

  Setting my hands on her shoulders, I gently pull her out of Parker’s space. “I know this is a difficult situation right now, but let’s prioritize. You up to making a statement now? Or do you wanna see if you can find some clothes to salvage first?”

  Looking over her shoulder at me, the fire in her red puffy eyes cools. She takes in my expression that I sure as fuck hope looks calm and supportive ’cause I’m trying to be just that. Tears well, wetting her lashes, while her bottom lip trembles, and then she closes her eyes. After a beat or two, she squares her shoulders and pulls in air before releasing it hard.

  “Okay. Statement first and then clothes.” Her tone is hard and determined.

  Then, she makes her statement.

  Afterward, she finds some clothes to salvage, and while doing it, she doesn’t lose her shit once.

  When I tell her I’m taking her to my place, she fights me, but after I explain why it’s going to be my way, she doesn’t fight long.

  Flash

  Okay, bad shit happens, and I have to move on.

  I switch my clothes—which previously reeked that nostril-stinging, burned, smoky smell—from the stainless steel washer to the matching dryer.

  Flash—putting my mama’s puke covered sheets in the washing machine when I was eight.

  My body tenses, and my hands shake, so I blank my head from everything, except for what I’m doing and what needs to be done.

  After I toss in a Gain dryer sheet, I close the lid and hit the dryer’s On button. Turning to the washing machine, I pour in the liquid and add my bedding. Then, I move to the kitchen.

  Before coming to Zach’s place, I grabbed what clothes I could salvage. The clothing in my hamper next to my bed had been destroyed because the red plastic melted, contorted, and fused with my clothes. So, even if I could clean off the soot, I’d rip the fabric while tearing it from the plastic. I’d kept my clothes in my closet, which was across the room from my bed, so my wardrobe wasn’t decimated. Leftover, I had about three shirts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of undies, one bra, four pairs of socks, and two pairs of flip-flops.

  Shopping is priority number one.

  I have to take money out of the bank that was meant for my business.

  I agreed to come to Zach’s place only because he was right. Matt’s house is cute and homey but small. Unless I wanted to spend a few weeks cramping the Bradley household’s style by camping on the couch and living out of a trash bag or fork out a shitload more money for a hotel, I had no choice but to stay here.

  Finding a new apartment is priority number two.

  I have to take more money out of my kitty for a place to live.

  The only other salvageable things in my apartment were non-electric kitchen shit. Plates, mugs, glasses, cutlery, pots, and pans are still sitting in my cupboards since Zach thinks I need rest. I have no bed and no nightstand, and my couch is now singed and destroyed by water. I could pay to have it cleaned, but that would cost more than picking up a new one at a yard sale.

  Not exactly a priority, but refurnishing my new apartment is somewhere on the to-do list.

  More money out of my stash.

  When Zach told me to leave my things, my temper pulsed in my temples.

  Zach is wrong. Zach thinks he knows everything. Zach just decides what I need, and Zach makes me do it. I don’t need sleep. I need to plan.

  So, after I refused to talk and we said good night, Zach went to bed. I didn’t though. I have too much to do. I cleaned the room he’s letting me stay in. I washed the windows, swept the floors, and dusted the dresser.

  When I hit the kitchen, I clear off the random papers, tossing junk mail and making a pile of shit Zach should see to.

  Flash—the acidic smell of vomit.

  Deep breath.

  Okay, wipe down the counter.

  Next is the stove, then the fridge, and then the floor. It looks like it could use a good mopping. Then, it’ll be on to the living room. While I do all this, I mentally tally what I need to do and everything I need to buy while figuring an approximate cost for it all.

  What I’m not thinking about and what I refuse to give headspace to is Mama’s picture. It flashes in my head every other second, but I block it out. I will not think about the last piece of her burning. The only tangible memory I have of her is in ashes. I won’t acknowledge the fact that the only thing that could calm me right now is that goddamn fucking picture.

  I drop my head and close my eyes, my shaking hands clutching the paper towel. A sob rips up my chest. I breathe in and out quickly and blink back tears.

  Okay, stove next.

  I put the paper towels on the counter, grab the yellow sponge by the sink, squirt some blue dish soap on it, run the warm water, and give it a squish to make the bubbles foam. I move to the stove, not thinking about a mysterious curling iron setting my apartment on fire. I won’t think about the possibilities because the only person I can think of is Brian. He’s wacked, but I can’t see him being that wacked.

  If he is, what does that say about me?

  Okay, fridge next.

  I open the stainless steel fridge, and my mouth drops. The shelves are relatively clean, and I know this because I can see them. He’s got condiments covered. Other than that, he only has packages of lunch meat, cheese, eggs, bacon, butter, and bread. I’m not sure why the bread is in the fridge since everyone knows it goes in a bread box. Even I, who’s so stingy I refuse to buy bottled water and instead drink the recycled sewage city water, have a bread box—or had. Now, it’s a waterlogged mess.

  Then again, it’s not like I have the opportunity to learn where many people keep their bread, so what do I know?

  Flash—sitting in the photo booth, giggling as the camera flashes.

  The memory sears through my chest, making me wince.

  I breathe deeply through it as I notice that he likes Chinese food. There has to be six containers. Leaning forward, I grab the white box and open it—beef lo mein. I bring it up to my nose and sniff. Pulling it away sharply, I nearly gag. I toss the box into the trash.

  Grocery sh
opping is now priority number one.

  Flash—my charred bed.

  I suck in a breath to ease the cramp in my stomach.

  Grabbing the other five containers, I gather them in my arms and turn to carry them to the trash.

  “What are you doing?”

  When Zach’s voice cuts through the apartment, I yelp as I jump, sending the containers flying. The boxes fall, splattering boneless ribs, coconut curry chicken, pork fried rice, orange chicken, and tandoori chicken all over the floor, the fridge, the cabinets, and my bare legs.

  Well, it appears he likes Indian food, too.

  I blink down at the colorful mess, gritting my teeth.

  Nope, not crying. I’m in control.

  Control.

  Control.

  Control.

  Instead of letting the tears come, I square my shoulders.

  Okay, shower and cabinets just got added to the immediate to-do list.

  Grabbing the roll of paper towels, I drop to my knees and clean up the food off the floor. Two seconds later, Zach is on his knees in front of me. He takes the paper towels from my hands and tosses them aside.

  “Hey!”

  “Becca, what the fuck are you doing cleaning my apartment at four thirty in the morning?”

  I purse my lips and cross my arms. “Exactly what you said I was doing. Cleaning your apartment at four thirty in the morning.”

  A muscle in his jaw tics. “Got that, sweets. But why?”

  I flick my hands out, palms up, and pointedly look around the kitchen. “Because it needs to be done!”

  His forehead creases, his slight crow’s-feet deepening as he narrows his eyes. “At four thirty in the fucking morning?”

  I slap my hands on my thighs, and the sound cracks through his kitchen. “Yes!”

  He studies me, thoughts turning inside that head of his, his tongue moving under his lip. Butterflies with tacks and machetes bounce around my gut, and they speed up their pace the longer he stares. He’s too perceptive. He’s going to figure out the reason I’m busting my ass to clean his fridge.

  “You’re afraid to dream.” His voice is quiet and soft.

  The butterflies explode out of my stomach and crawl into my veins. “No!”

  “Bullshit, sweets.”

  He moves to me, but I scuttle backward.

  “It’s not bullshit. There are tons to be done. The house is a mess, I have to make a list of a crap-ton of things to buy, figure out how big that hit is going to be—”

  Every word I speak, he inches closer, and I slide back, but I stop when my spine hits the wall.

  “Right. But you can do that tomorrow.” He’s almost on me.

  “No time like the present,” I squeak.

  He’s close to me, so close that I could count each hair on his stubbled face if I had a mind to.

  I might do that after I clean up the mess, take a shower, wash my bedding, and fold my clothes, if it’ll help me stay awake.

  “Sweets, you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You need your sleep. All this shit can wait for another day.”

  The hairs on my arms rise, my skin tingling, as my bottom lip wobbles. “It can’t wait,” I whisper.

  His face softens, his hand coming up to brush his thumb across my cheekbone. “Sleep in my bed with me.”

  I shake my head back and forth, making a few tendrils of hair escape my already falling apart messy bun. “Zach, please. Please back off. I’m losing it.”

  “I know.”

  “But I can’t.” My voice is fierce.

  “You need to.”

  “I can’t!”

  He grabs my shoulders—I’m guessing to hold me—but fuck, I can’t.

  No goddamn way.

  His safe, warm muscled arms can’t be around me right now. I’ll lose that last shred. I slap at his hands, but he releases my shoulders to capture my wrists in one hand. I kick at him, but he maneuvers to straddle my legs.

  “Babe, swear to Christ, it goes against everything that is me to hold a woman down, but you cannot live like this. You need to let go of whatever makes you work nearly a hundred hours a week and have arrangements with men you don’t know. Sweets, you freaked tonight, but you did”—he leans closer—“not”—closer—“grieve.”

  Tears pool, but I blink. My eyelids move up and down at warp speed, but it doesn’t help.

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  “You have to,” he whispers back. “And I’m here to help you.”

  I shake my head, nearly clipping his strong nose. I clench my eyes closed, a tear slipping out, and I drop my head.

  “Becca, honey, look at me.”

  I shake my head again, my body tense, as tears trickle down my cheeks. I’m fighting with everything I have to keep it together.

  “Becca, honey, I’m seeing right now that you loved your mom. I don’t know what happened, and I hope to Christ that you’ll let me in enough to tell me one day, but I know one thing. I know it deep down to my bones, my heart, my soul that if your mom loved you, she’d want you to grieve. Grieve and live. Give in to the grief. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you strong, strong enough to heal. If your mom loved you, honey, she’d want that for you.”

  Every word tugs against the strong hold of my control, but when he says you, the dam breaks. I can’t hold myself together anymore. I’m gone. My strength and control slip through my fingers like sand. A horrific, tortured, utterly awful sound, somewhere between a cry and a moan, erupts from deep in my chest. I’m pulling him to me, clutching and grasping, until somehow, I’m in his arms. My arms wrap around his middle, and his arms wrap around my whole body, enveloping me, cocooning me. My face is in his neck as tears burst out, and I let them. The loss and the struggle pour out of me.

  Visions spew in my head of me lying awake at night while hearing moans through the walls and then me on my hands and knees cleaning her puke.

  Memories invade my mind of my mama laughing at the fair, tripping over herself in her bedroom, her laying a gentle hand on my cheek as her eyes filled with worship, her covered in vomit, her dead and lifeless body.

  Flash—“Love you, pretty girl.”

  Pictures slide into my thoughts like a hellish slide show—my destroyed bed, charred dresser, melted hamper, ruined toaster, messed-up couch, soot-covered apartment with the scent of destruction heavy in the air.

  I can’t take it. I need these images out.

  Out.

  Out.

  Out.

  With my head by his throat, my tongue slips out to touch his skin. Six years ago, it tasted like heaven. Now, it tastes like salvation. I trail my tongue in a pattern on his neck, focusing on him and not the clusterfuck of my life.

  This is wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  I know that, but I need it.

  “Becca.” His tone is deep, warning.

  I lick my way up his stubbled jaw, desperate for the distraction. I don’t give a flying fuck about the consequences of what I’m doing right now. I don’t want these memories. I don’t want to sleep, don’t want to dream, don’t want to feel anything but good.

  I suck his earlobe into my mouth, loving his salty, woodsy scent.

  “Honey, this is not a good idea right now.” His voice is raspy.

  I nip his ear and then exhale my hot breath against his neck. My lips at his ear, I whisper, “It’s the best idea.”

  He groans but holds himself still. “It’s not.”

  My hand drifts over his chest and abs, and his muscles contract with my touch.

  “It is.”

  He grips my wrist in his big hand and pulls my hand way.

  Flash—standing in front of a grave with the name Elizabeth Bailey etched into the stone.

  The piercing ache in my stomach catapults me into sliding my legs around Zach so that I’m straddling his lap.

  “Becca—”

  With both hands, I grab him by the back of his neck and pull him to me, but he doesn’t budge. I don
’t waste a second. Pulling myself up to him, I press my lips to his. The instant our mouths meet, the warm softness bleeds away the memory.

  Gripping me by the shoulders, he pushes me away.

  Flash—the sweet, musky smell of red roses.

  I shift to grasp him, but he tightens his hold.

  Flash—Mama’s tinkling laughter.

  “Zach, please,” I beg, my voice desperate.

  His eyes, already dark and hungry, turn feral. The bourbon in his eyes swirl. “Sweets, I can’t. God fucking Christ, swear to fucking Christ, I want to, but I can’t. I won’t take advantage of the state you’re in right now.”

  Flash—Mama’s ice-blue lips.

  The image sends razors through my veins, so my eyes widen, my brow lifts, and my voice is agonized when I whisper, “Please.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Swear, Zach, I need this. I keep seeing things flash in my head—bad shit, horrible shit, and good shit, too, but it cuts just as deep. Please, Zach, I’m begging you. Except when I begged for my mama to come back to me, I’ve never, not once begged anyone, but I’m begging you. Help me make it go away.”

  His heated eyes soften, his brows matching mine. He pulls in his top lip and holds it between his teeth. “Becca, honey, it feels wrong. I’d be taking advantage of you.”

  Flash—“You’re just like your mother.”

  That cuts deep into my heart. “No, swear, Zach, I’ll be taking advantage of you, and I’m begging you to let me use you.”

  He opens his mouth but then snaps it shut. His eyes scan my face.

  Flash—“Love you, pretty girl.”

  I flinch, and he catches it.

  When he stands and cradles me in his arms, pure and joyous adrenaline surges through me.

  “We’re discussing shit in the morning.”

  “Okay.” No fucking way.

  My lips slide up his neck.

  We hit his room, and he flips the light on before he heads straight to his bed. With my arms and legs still wrapped around him, he tips forward, and I land on my back with him braced above me.

  “Let me on top,” I whisper.

  He rolls.

  With Zach staring up at me, flat on his back, while I’m straddling him, I take a second to appreciate the beauty underneath me. My eyes move over his dark brown hair that’s slightly longer than before, his blazing bourbon eyes with slight crow’s-feet, his strong jaw, strong nose, peppered stubble, corded throat, and Adam’s apple that’s not too prominent but not invisible.