Scenic Route Read online

  I blinked at him, taking in the first aid supplies on the bookcase headboard. There was a bowl of water and a washcloth. He’d cleaned me up while I was out of it.

  “Those guys are away for the weekend.” My mouth hurt. My lip was on its way to being fat. Very fat.

  “I know. Stopped in to feed the cats for them. Who did this, Pippa? You get jumped by a Jackal? I gotta know.” He was still flexing his jaw, his eyes blazing with anger.

  The Jackals, as in Wyld Jackals, were a motorcycle club that were in a feud with Spencer’s MC.

  I shook my head. “No. It wasn’t a Jackal.”

  The older of Jenna’s two cats, a big fluffy calico cat called Harley hopped up on the bed and climbed onto the pillow behind me and curled up. She began purring loudly. The little one, Dyna, also a calico, but less fluffy, was sleeping on top of the bookshelf. My old room now appeared to be the cat room.

  Spencer lifted a Ziploc bag that was filled with ice from the headboard and wrapped it in another one of Jenna’s fluffy washcloths that was now blood-stained, and put it back to my head and held it there, not taking his eyes off my face.

  “That’s one of Jenna’s good washcloths. It’s ruined. She’s gonna have a shit fit.”

  He glanced at the cloth and shook his head as if to say, who cares?

  Why do men always go for a white face cloth, a white towel for a dirty job? I know for a fact that Jenna invested in a whole set of black towels after Rider moved in.

  “You sure?” He tried to confirm his earlier question.

  I nodded. “How bad do I look?”

  “Fat lip, cut lip, Bruise on your left cheek. Your knees are cut up. Pretty rough.”

  “I figured,” I mumbled.

  “Anything else hurtin’?” he asked. His gaze darkened. “No one touched you, did they, Pippa?”

  He jerked his chin up. He was asking if I’d been raped.

  “No. Nothing like that happened.”

  But something else did hurt. My heart, my pride.

  My heart, because I knew that Joe was lost to me, my pride because I was stubborn enough to believe that his feelings for me were stronger than his addiction. I hated being wrong about someone.

  “You know who did this or you get jumped?”

  I blinked. Ow. Even blinking hurt.

  “Joe,” I whispered, looking down at the bedspread.

  “Yeah, called him, but he’s not answerin’. Voicemail box is full. Texted him.” He readjusted the ice pack on my head. I put my hand to it, accidentally grazing his hand. He let go and I took over holding it to my head.

  He misunderstood me. He thought I was asking for Joe.

  “No, Spencer. I don’t want Joe,” I whispered, my eyes meeting his. “Joe did this.”

  Spencer’s eyes went shocked, then mad. Fiery mad. His tongue poked one side of his cheek and he took a big breath before repeating, “Joe.”

  I reached for the bottle of water. It looked cold. He must’ve brought it for me.

  I winced in pain.

  “What?” he demanded, opening and then passing me the bottle.

  I took a big gulp and swallowed, shaking my head. “My side. He…he kicked me.”

  Spencer flew to standing. “Lemme see!”

  I shook my head.

  He grabbed the blanket and threw it angrily but gently lifted the side of my damp blouse to expose my ribcage before I had a chance to cover it. The bottom of my red satin bra was exposed, but Spencer wasn’t trying to get a peek at my bra. His eyes were on the discoloration on my ribs and his eyes went from angry to what I’d imagine a fire-breathing dragon’s eyes would look like if you’d ticked him off.

  “We need to get you to the hospital. Not only did you lose consciousness, but that does not look good. Now. Drink that and then let’s go.”

  “I think---” I started to protest.

  He shook his head. “We’re goin’. First, we go get you checked out. Then? I fuckin’ find him and teach him a lesson.” His eyes darkened. “What the fuck happened?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t talk about it.

  “You want me to call someone?”

  I winced and shook my head.

  I didn’t. I didn’t want him to call my parents or my brother. God, not my brother. Joe would be a dead man. Phil almost killed him last time.

  Last time. Yeah, this wasn’t an isolated incident. But, it was so different.

  Phil wasn’t happy I gave Joe another chance when he hit me last time. Phil also wouldn’t be happy to have been correct with his prediction of, “You take him back, it’ll happen again. And it’ll be much worse next time, Squeak.”

  My brother put him in the hospital last time, broke his jaw. This time, it could go worse. Much worse.

  Phil got in Joe’s face the first time they saw one another after I took Joe back.

  “You hurt her again, I don’t just put you in the hospital. I put you in the fuckin’ ground.”

  I didn’t want Spencer to call Jenna. She and Rider were away for a romantic getaway. Jenna had bought special lingerie and everything.

  I didn’t want him to call my friend Ella, either. Or Deanna. Dee had two small kids and couldn’t just leave them. Andie, who lived next door had to get up at four thirty in the morning to get to work at the bakery downstairs. I had another group of friends, from before I’d met Jenna, but we weren’t as tight anymore. And I just didn’t want him to call anybody. I didn’t want anyone to know what Joe had done. I didn’t want people to know how utterly stupid I was for letting this happen to me again.

  Again. But, worse. Just like my brother predicted.

  I couldn’t answer Spencer’s ‘What the fuck happened’ because the answer was too painful. The answer was that I should’ve known better. I should have never gotten back with Joe after he hit me that first time and even more so, even if I did, I should have turned my back on him months ago when I caught him drinking again. But, I didn’t. I hadn’t given up on him. I’d even spent several long, painful, and verbally abusive days with him while he tried to dry out.

  And it had spiraled way, way, way out of control. I’d thought we got to the other side of it after the detox. But, it wasn’t enough. It’d happened again. And the problem had escalated from booze to booze and drugs. And evidently, my boyfriend hadn’t taken too kindly to me threatening to flush hundreds of dollars’ worth of cocaine when I found it, coming home early from work, and catching him off guard.

  “No, don’t call anyone. You can just drop me off,” I muttered.

  Spencer stormed out of the room and returned with a pair of Jenna’s shoes.

  He leaned over and put them on the floor and motioned to them.

  She would not be happy about some guy going through her stuff. I hoped he hadn’t made a mess. I’d look tomorrow, make sure he hadn’t.

  “Let’s go.”

  “I…” I was about to protest, about to tell him I was just gonna sleep it off, but his eyes met mine when I said, “I…” and then his jaw muscles flexed, and he leaned over and scooped up the shoes and then carefully lifted me up out of the bed.

  “We’re goin’,” he grunted, like that was final.

  “I can walk, Spencer,” I informed him on a whiny-sounding whisper. He ignored that, then carried me down to his truck.

  I didn’t argue. There was absolutely no argument, no fire in me whatsoever.

  ***

  He was sitting beside me in the ER waiting area, looking furious. He kept thrusting his hand through his thick and wavy dark hair. He kept flexing his jaw muscles. It was as if he was personally offended that my boyfriend had beat me. I mean, we were friends, I guess, so I got it, but he seemed really angry about it. Beyond angry.

  His phone rang, and he answered it and stepped away for a moment. I stared at the muted news with subtitles playing on the wall-mounted television screen in the ER waiting room.

  ***

  Spencer was back. “A cop’s coming by to talk to you; he’ll tak
e your statement.”

  “Huh?”

  “You need to file charges,” he informed, unnecessarily.

  “Aren’t you a biker? Don’t bikers hate the cops?” I asked, stupidly, since he was very obviously a biker.

  “Depends on the reason,” he informed. “We’re tight with a couple, need to be with all the Jackals bullshit. And this is one cop I trust without question, so yeah, he’s on the way.”

  The Wyld Jackals had been thorns in everyone’s sides. The Dominion Brotherhood MC were working to extract that thorn. Things had seemed like they’d gone quiet after the big blow-out after Rider got hurt a few months ago and rumor had it that seven of them had either left the area or were maybe even dead because the Dominion Brotherhood struck back. No one said for certain, but rumor leaned in the direction of the latter being the truth. I didn’t ask questions. Rider could’ve died. Same with Jenna. I understood that the MC needed to strike back.

  The Wyld Jackals were definitely outlaw bikers and they’d done some terrible things… even my father, not a biker, just a working man, said so.

  “Dominion Brotherhood are takin’ out the trash, in my books. ‘Bout time.”

  The Dominion Brotherhood weren’t exactly outlaws, but they also didn’t have a squeaky-clean rep, either.

  I’d heard our friend Ella’s Dad say,

  “They’re just average bikers. Work hard. Play harder. Love to ride. Some folks think of bikers as filth. These guys consider filth to be people selling drugs to kids, people who pimp out women against their will. People who steal innocence. These bikers aren’t exactly vigilante bikers, but if someone brings filth into their family, the lives of their friends, or onto their patch, they’ll turn and clean that shit up, gettin’ their hands dirty if need be.”

  Ella’s dad had always been friendly with bikers, Ella said. He was now business partners with the MC in a courier and taxi business, and he was probably as close as you could be to a club member without actually becoming one.

  “I need to think about this, Spencer.”

  My world was so rocked, I was so absolutely stunned by what’d just happened to me that I hadn’t thought of anything but getting away from Joe in that state, getting somewhere safe.

  But, despite my words, because I knew how unpleasant it’d be to tell the police everything that’d happened, I was also thinking that I had to do it. It might save Joe’s life, getting him to dry out, this time in a controlled environment where he couldn’t access drugs or booze.

  But, that was the threat that did it, the threat of getting him incarcerated so he couldn’t keep backsliding. That and my taking the mirror of cocaine to head toward the bathroom so I could dump it, that made him lose it.

  He tried to get the mirror tile from me and it went crashing to the floor, and then so did I, thanks to getting backhanded across my cheekbone so hard I went flying. I’d have scars on my knees now for the rest of my life, I’d imagine, thanks to my actions. Thanks to his actions. This was his fault, his choice. I should’ve known. He chose his addiction over me.

  Again.

  After he knocked me down, after he then kicked me with his construction boots on, he squatted and hit me again in the mouth with his fist before stalking to the bathroom and slamming the door.

  I’d run out of there before he came out --- no shoes, no coat, no keys in just a blouse and skirt during a rainy night in the month of February. And life would never be the same for me.

  After someone you love does that to you, how could the foundation of everything you believed not be knocked loose?

  It wasn’t as if he’d gone from happy to raging in the blink of an eye. It’d been a downward spiral over the past few months with brief reprieves.

  Joe was failing to hide that he was still battling his addiction. I hadn’t smelled alcohol on him since I helped him detox in the Fall, but suspected he was into something else. I’d started snooping and recently found out he was pawning stuff. I hadn’t yet confronted him, but I was watching. Cautious. Suspicious about him.

  That day, when I walked in early from work, seeing his car outside, I’d come in calling,

  “Joe? You home, babe? What ‘cha…” and I’d frozen in the doorway of the living room of our apartment.

  He looked at me with shock at first, I wasn’t due home for an hour, but then he sneered.

  “Got fired. Don’t start your bitching, all right?” And then he’d taken a swig of a bottle of booze. Right in front of me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “What are you doing?” I’d screeched, in shock at what was happening in front of my eyes, ignoring the look on his face almost daring me to say something about the booze, the mirror.

  And I’d made the mistake of getting in his face. Of threatening to call the cops about the drugs so he’d maybe spend a few days in jail and detox, and as I’d grabbed that mirror of cocaine, life exploded.

  He’d come home and started prepping his blow to go up his nose before even getting out of his work clothes. Or his work boots, of which the footprint was now on my ribcage.

  I should never have moved in. I should never have tried to take it on as our problem instead of just walking away and letting him deal with his problem. I’m not an addiction counselor; I’m an esthetician who does part-time yoga and Pilates classes. I can help people with physical fitness, wax their body hair, and make their nails pretty. I can’t cure an addict. And his addiction was way stronger than his love for me. For him to fly into a rage over me taking his cocaine like that made things absolutely crystal clear.

  He’d been a great boyfriend back when he wasn’t being held in a death grip by his demons, but the past six months, that grip had dug and started to twist the knife, hook it in deep. It wasn’t going to let go of him. And I was devastated. I could’ve seen him, the him he was when we’d first met, being my happily ever after. I could see the future we’d have, if only he’d kept those demons at bay. I’d even picked names out, in my head only, for our future babies.

  He was good-looking. Athletic. Energetic. He was smart and motivated. He loved his mom and his little sister and took good care of them. He was great with his hands, both as a carpenter and as a lover. We had things in common. We rode our bikes. We hiked. We waterskied. We fit.

  Thank God this happened now, not five years down the road when maybe we’d be married, when maybe we’d have kids together.

  ***

  We were back at Jenna and Rider’s apartment… Spencer and me.

  I’d gotten checked out at the hospital, didn’t need any stitches, but had some liquid bandages holding the slices in my knee together. They’d pulled out two shards of broken mirror. I also made my statement to a cop, alone in a treatment room, but I know Spencer eavesdropped on at least some of it; that was clear by the look on his face when he’d come back into the room and leaned against the wall. The cop was very nice, very patient with me, while it took me a bit of difficulty getting the story out. He and Spencer seemed like they were good friends. Pictures of my injuries were taken, and I was told they were going to arrest him.

  The ER doctor told me that I needed to be woken every two hours due to the bump on my head. I winced, saying I had no one to do that and maybe I should stay at the hospital so that someone could do that. Spencer cut into the discussion and promised to stay with me the night.

  I tried to insist on staying at the hospital, but the doctor and Spencer made the decision that I could go and that he’d take care of me. It was sweet of him. I just wanted to sleep. To sleep and not have to tell anyone else what’d happened that night.

  I then overheard Spencer and the cop outside the curtain around the bed I was on. Well, I didn’t hear their conversation as it was low, but I did hear the cop’s voice go louder when he said, “Get a lock on it, Spency.”

  They were clearly more than just casual acquaintances. The cop, a great-looking guy, not much older than us, and with kind eyes, gave me his business card and told me he’d
call me when Joe got arrested. He wanted me to come to the station Monday and fill out some more paperwork for a restraining order.

  There was zero conversation on the way back to Jenna’s. I went straight to bed when he unlocked the kitchen door. I heard his voice in low tones, obviously on the phone, when my eyes drifted shut.

  ***

  I screamed and then I was held against a warm body.

  “It’s just me; it’s okay.”

  I was gasping for air, disoriented.

  “Just me” was Spencer. I inhaled and got further confirmation by his scent.

  “S’okay, Sunshine. Just wakin’ you. Makin’ sure as it’s been two hours. Back to sleep, baby.”

  I was bawling. I couldn’t stop. And everything hurt. My side. My mouth. My cheek. My knees. My heart.

  “Sorry, Pippa. It’s okay.” His voice was a whisper in the pitch dark of my room. “You okay?”

  His hand was in my hair. He stroked my good cheek with the backs of his fingers, maybe.

  I nodded. But it was pitch dark, so he couldn’t see that, but maybe he felt it. He hesitated at the edge of the bed. I could feel his tension.

  “Sorry. I’m okay.” I cleared my raspy throat.

  “Gonna go back to the couch and crash if you’re all right.”

  “I…I’m all right.”

  “I’ll just be out there. Back in two hours to wake you again.”

  “You texted him? What did you say? Did you tell him where we were?” I asked.

  “No. Just said to call me. Told him it was urgent.”

  I breathed out relief.

  “He comes here, he won’t get near you, Sunshine. I swear it.”

  I nodded again. “Leave the door open a crack? It’s… it’s too dark.”

  “No problem. You need a glass of water? Some Tylenol? Doc said you could have more at three o’clock. It’s three ten.”

  “No. I’m just gonna sleep.”

  He left, leaving the door open and then turning the hall light on.

  ***

  At ten minutes after five o’clock (according to the digital alarm clock I’d left behind) he woke me again talking softly, waking me gently by playing with my hair and that time I startled again, though I didn’t scream. My pain was past dull, so he brought me Tylenol and water that time.