Fight (Fate Series Book 1) Page 4
The front desk clerk doesn’t even make eye contact. The middle-aged woman with painted eyebrows and scary long fingernails did nothing more than bark the price at me and throw a key my direction. A-Okay with me. I’m appreciative that she is the first person not to notice or react to the bruises on my face. Not sure how long I intend to stay, I go ahead and prepay for three nights.
The room is every bit as run down as you would expect but it appears to be surface clean. I set my bags on the green shag carpet next to the bed and store the meat in the outdated mini fridge. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take a moment to simply breathe. The last several hours have been grueling and, to be honest, I haven’t taken the time to let my situation really sink in, to grieve.
Everything in this room from the dingy drapes to the smell permeating the air is both familiar and foreign. While the expensive furnishings and fancy sheets were nice, I don’t miss them. In all my time with Mark, I have never felt this content. The strings of uncertainty still loom over my head, but I do not fear starting over. This is my chance to become the person I want to be. I can finally make decisions for myself. The knowledge brings a calming peace that I have never felt before.
My stomach growls audibly, breaking my train of thought. It’s time to feed the beast. I scarf down a sandwich in the most un-lady-like manner possible. Just. Because. I. Can. I’m not sure I even tasted it.
While I know I needed the fuel for energy, the sandwich doesn’t sit well. The pain in my ribs combined with the traveling have taken a toll on me. Deciding its best, I rest my eyes a bit, I gingerly lie back on the floral stained bedspread and close my eyes. Thoughts of what life could be chase me into dreamland.
Several hours later, I wake slightly rested and a little less sore since I’ve been able to spread out. I dig through my bag and grab my toiletries. I really need a shower. The lukewarm water feels like heaven on my aching body. I take my time washing my hair. The movement makes my injuries tender, and honestly, I never want to leave the cocoon of this shower.
My thoughts involuntarily drift toward Mark. Part of me knows I need to find out his status, but the rest of me either doesn’t care or is terrified of the answer. Pushing the situation from my mind, I grab a towel and step in front of the mirror. For several minutes, all I can do is stare at my reflection. The person looking back at me is someone I never want to meet again.
She is a broken woman.
The blonde hair taunts me. It’s not me. Fuck this. I may not be able to do anything about the bruising right now, but I sure as hell can do something about my hair. The woman looking back at me is the Teagan he wanted me to be. That woman is dead. It’s time to meet the new Teagan. I square my shoulders and smile as the determination kicks up my heart rate.
After wrapping the towel around myself, I curl up at the end of the bed and grab the remote, needing background noise to break the silence. Then nothing. I unhelpfully shake the remote and try again. Nothing. Growling to myself, I try the knob on the TV. Still no luck.
“Of course not,” I mumble to myself in frustration.
Damn, I might go get a drink after all. May ease the pain, at least.
I hurriedly put on some makeup and try to mask what bruising I can. There is simply nothing I can do about the purple stains on my neck. Sighing, I throw on a pair of distressed denim shorts that hug me just right, a white V-neck Beatles tee and my Chuck Taylor Converse. I haven’t been allowed to dress this way in years. Wearing my own clothes brings a sense of pride I’ve been missing. But even with this new-found attitude and attire, it isn’t enough to conceal my identity. Grabbing my purse and glasses, I head for the door.
The drugstore isn’t too far from the motel. Its nice out and parking’s a bitch, so I decide to walk. As I stroll through the city, I take in all she has to offer. The warm tropical breeze and cultural diversity make it feel like home. Even the smell of food from beachfront food trucks gives me a feeling of contentment.
Before long, the store comes into view. The chilly store air hits my skin as I enter. It’s a stark contrast from outside but welcome nonetheless. Not sure where to look, I scan the aisle headings. Finally locating the hair dye, I stare blankly at the boxes, unsure. I have never dyed my own hair before. This could be a disaster.
Finally deciding to go as close to my natural color as possible, I reach for my selection.
“Stop and put your hands where I can see them.”
My entire body freezes and goosebumps mark my flesh. Panic washes over me as my heart begins to race. I slowly do as I’m told and raise my arms. What the hell am I going to do?
“Step away from the terrible decision and no one will get hurt.”
Wait, what?
Confusion replaces panic as the woman’s words sink in. I turn my head slightly to find a beautiful petite woman with raven hair and bright green eyes, pointing a banana at me. She begins to laugh hysterically, and despite my utter confusion, I begin to laugh as well. What in the world is going on?
Lowering my arms, I cautiously eye the person responsible for the “stick up”. As soon as her eyes make contact with the condition of my skin, she gasps. A combination of shame and irritation have me turning away as fast as I can. Forget the dye, I just want out of here.
“Please wait.” The pleading in her voice causes me to pause, my back still facing her.
“I uh, I need to go.” I don’t really have an excuse and I can tell she isn’t going to believe a word I say.
“Please, don’t rush off. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just caught off guard. I cannot in good conscience allow you to commit such a heinous crime.” Her choice of words causes my body to stiffen. As if sensing my tension, she continues. “It’s against my religion to sit back and do nothing when some good-hearted soul decides to use drugstore hair dye. Lucky for you, I know just how to remedy this situation. Drink three Bloody Mary’s and come to confession.”
She hands me a business card when I turn to face her.
Curl Up and Dye. She owns a hair salon. This is most definitely a comical “face palm” moment. I couldn’t control my laughter even if I tried. I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed. Something about her banter is comfortable. I can’t place it exactly but, in this moment, the vise on my muscles loosens just a tad. The name on the card reads “Celeste Martinez”.
Catching my breath, I finally speak through the face-splitting smile. “Well Celeste, I can honestly say it’s been nice meeting you, but I won’t be able to come to your salon.” My mood already starts to dampen as the words leave my mouth.
“Well…” She pauses, waiting for me to fill in my name.
“T-Taryn.” I manage to spit the name out. I have got to get better at this.
“Well Taryn, it’s been nice meeting you as well and you had better have a damn good excuse for skipping out on Confession.”
“I think Paul Mitchell will forgive me.” I chuckle. “Anyway, like I said, it was nice meeting you.” I give a small wave and turn to leave again.
“Don’t you dare leave without at least filling me in on the cocksucker who did that.” She points to my face and neck. At first, I’m taken aback by her bluntness; however, it eases the tension I didn’t know I’d been holding on to. She continues. “I’ve had a pretty rough week and it looks like you have too. I could use some girl talk. Plus, I just really enjoy imagining what it would be like to cut a man’s balls off. You know, the ones that don’t deserve them.” I can’t help but like this chick. I smirk slightly as I turn to face her yet again.
She appears to read something on my face because her expression turns into one of utter determination.
“I’ll tell you what, you tell me your story and I’ll do your hair for free.” She sticks out a perfectly manicured hand. My hesitation is obvious, but I shake her hand anyway and we make plans to meet at her shop. I just agreed to tell a complete stranger part of my story.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Well
, I can guarantee you don’t have the time for my story, but I can give you a condensed version if you like. For the record, that cocksucker is my husband. But he did this for the last time.” The words flow easier than I expected as I slide into the chair. I don’t have time to examine my feelings before Celeste cuts in.
“EEEWWW, tell me you killed the bastard!” Her eyes are big as saucers as she waits for my response.
“Unfortunately, no. Last I heard, he survived.” The look in the other woman’s eyes fills me with a sense of pride. Not because I shot Mark but rather, I fought back. I stood up to him. I shouldn’t be ashamed of what I’d done. It feels good to talk about the situation in this manner. Therapeutic almost.
I need to remind myself that saying too much is dangerous, and as much as I like this woman, there are facts I will be keeping to myself. His family is too high-profile.
“Well Tea, what look are we going for today?” I hope she can’t see the emotion lacing my eyes in response to her using the nickname Martha calls me. It’s a bittersweet feeling. The universe sometimes has a way of providing exactly what you need at a certain moment, and right now, a girlfriend is exactly what I need.
After two hours of girl talk, dodging a few questions, and laughing harder than I have in years, I feel like a new woman. If Celeste noticed my constant shifting, trying to take the pressure off my sore ribs, she didn’t mention it. I take in the reflection of my once again dark auburn hair. It’s amazing how simply changing the color of your hair can change the way you feel inside. The woman looking back at me is finally familiar. It’s so hard to hide the emotion brewing inside me. With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat the size of Texas, I turn toward Celeste.
“Thank you so much. This is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. I feel like a new woman.” I run my hands through the long silky strands.
“You’re more than welcome. That feeling is exactly why I love my job,” she replies, a sense of gratification coating her words. “The card I gave you has my cell phone number on it. If you decide you want to try something new or just need a friend, hit me up.”
“Thanks, I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town, but maybe we can get together for lunch before I go.” I’m surprised at how sincere my invitation is. I haven’t had any real friends outside of Manny and Martha in over five years. Friends that weren’t Marks friends, that is.
“Sounds great, chicka!” She smiles as I head out the door.
The sun is setting, the air slightly cooler than before but still warm on my skin. The smell of the ocean surrounds me and, for this one moment in time, I am truly happy. A glowing sign draws my attention across the street. Well, how about that? Blind Luck is illuminated above the door of a dark building. The aching in my side makes the decision for me. What the hell? Guess I could use a drink after all.
Dark windows prevent me from scoping out the kind of clientele this bar serves. I can hear the ocean just behind the building and the bass thumping out a tune just inside the door. My stomach knots as panic starts to settle in. Maybe I shouldn’t go in. My current appearance just begs others to ask questions. This is the exact opposite of laying low.
Glancing back up and down the street, I sigh heavily. My shoulders slump in defeat, as if they held the weight of the world. That asshole is still controlling my decisions. Laying low or not, I refuse to let him continue to manipulate my life. The thought makes my blood boil. While logic violently screams that this is a bad idea, I’ve already made up my mind. Logic can take a Xanax and chill the fuck out.
Taking a deep breath, I roll my neck and reach for the door.
The room is much larger than I imagined. The space is clean, but the furniture is well worn; the dark rich wood scarred from years of abuse. Just like me. There is a small band stage to the left, and the bar is situated on the opposite wall to the right. The entire back of the building is open, meeting the beach and a picturesque sunset. The last bit of light from the sun shines on the bar as steady rock music pumps through the speakers, like a salve for my frayed nerves. The atmosphere is comfortable, definitely a place I would have enjoyed before I met Mark. The bar is unattended, and looking around once more I notice that other than a few small groups, the place is empty. I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s only eight, no wander the crowd is small.
The phone in my hand vibrates, startling me so much I slap a hand over my mouth, narrowly suppressing a yelp. Calming my erratic pulse, I focus my attention on the phone, a zealous smile splitting my face as I read the message.
Manny: Hey baby girl, I’m just checking in to see if you are okay.
Since alcohol is a significant reason for my presence here, I spot a bar stool.
Teagan: Thank you so much for everything. You and Martha have changed my life. ♥
Manny: You’re the one who changed ours. Never forget that baby girl. Please keep us posted and let us know when you decide where you are going.
Me: I will, promise.
Setting my phone down on the worn bar top with my purse, I shuffle, getting as comfortable as I can with my aching sides. A flat screen TV is mounted above the mirrors and neon beer signs. It’s a local news station and since the volume is turned down, I’m thankful for the subtitles.
Or at least I thought I was.
Mark’s name catches my attention as it flashes on the screen quickly followed by a photo of me. SHIT. Like the meth addicts back home, foreboding picks at the scab of truth, letting insecurity fester.
Giving the TV my undivided attention, I read the words that change my life forever.
“Tallahassee authorities have named Teagan Langford, wife of the victim, a suspect in the attempted murder of District Attorney Mark Langford. We will have more on the story as it develops but sources tell us the victim’s status is no longer critical.”
My chest squeezes, and I feel like I might hyperventilate. This cannot be happening. My ears start to ring, and my vision blurs slightly. I think I’m going to pass out. Looking up at the photo plastered on the screen once more, before they move on to the next story, my emotional tide shifts. The woman in the photo is blonde, polished and now that I can see more clearly, dead inside. My eyes drop to the mirror behind the bar and I examine my reflection. The woman looking back at me has dark auburn hair, intricate tattoos, and a look of resilience in her eyes. I can’t even see a resemblance anymore. But I really need to be worried about what others are going to see.
Mark unintentionally did me a favor. He never allowed anyone to see my tattoos. Ever. None of his family knew I had them. One more piece of camouflage. The media is plastering images of a wholesome Stepford wife, not a trailer park reject playing dress up. He’s the only person who could ID them and well, hopefully, he will still be in the hospital until long after I’m gone.
One thing is eating at me, though. The anchor repeatedly referred to Mark as ‘the victim’. HA! This is exactly what I should have expected from him. He was always good at making me look like the irrational nutcase. He even had me arrested once for ‘hitting’ him. HIM! My blood pressure rises as the memories chafe. I’ve worked myself up so much that now, I am seething. Staring holes into the bar top, I picture all the ways I would hurt Mark if ever given the chance.
“Can I get you anything? Or are you content trying to set the bar on fire with your mind. You should know, a lot of women have tried but none have yet to succeed.”
I slowly lift my gaze from the counter to the deep baritone voice that interrupted my fictitious murder plot.
Ho-ly hotness Batman.
That smile. The deep baritone’s vivid green eyes and rugged jawline greet me. If sex were a living, breathing entity, it would be the man standing before me. The slight wince that crosses his face as he takes in the discoloration on my face and neck doesn’t go unnoticed. To my advantage, he schools his features so quickly, I nearly missed it.
“Jack and Coke would be great, thanks.” My body heats with awareness and suddenly, it
’s twenty degrees warmer.
Rounding the corner from the back room, carrying another case of imported beer, I immediately halt. The muscles low in my abdomen tense, appreciating the gorgeous redhead perched at the bar. It’s been more than a minute since I’ve had that kind of reaction to a woman. Not that I’m aiming for celibacy or anything, I’ve just let work take over my every thought. Something I need to remedy. And fast.
I stop to watch her for a few minutes. Even from my location at the other end of the bar I can sense something is off with her. Since I walked into the room, not once has she looked away from the bar top. I’ve never been one to read into hippie shit like people’s “energies”, but if I did, hers would be dark.
Unable to resist the temptation, I set the case down and make my way over. After all, I shouldn’t be ignoring my customers.
“Can I get you anything? Or are you content trying to set the bar on fire with your mind. You should know, a lot of women have tried but none have yet to succeed.”
I go for levity, trying to make her smile but all I manage to accomplish is scaring the fuck out of her.
Smooth move, Casanova.
When she lifts her head to look me in the eyes, the moisture in my mouth evaporates and it feels like all the air is sucked from the room. Not only is she drop dead gorgeous, but her face and neck are stained with purple and black bruises. Every muscle I have stiffens, immediately ready for war. It takes all the self-control I have to tamp the rage burning inside me. The urge to throttle the fucker responsible is overwhelming. The marks on her neck are undeniably finger impressions.
“Jack and Coke would be great, thanks,” she responds flatly. Her soft grey eyes fall back to the counter, obviously avoiding confrontation.
Still trying to screw the cap on my anger, I nod, rapping my knuckles on the bar before turning away. Her request is simple, only taking a few seconds before I pass it down to her. Got to respect a woman who drinks whiskey. Even if it is mixed with that sugary shit.