Trapped (Caged #2)(30)

“Stop f*cking asking me!” I screamed at her as I pushed myself out of the bed and marched to the closet. I grabbed my tennis shoes and pulled them on without bothering to tie up the laces. I left the room without another word, ignoring Tria’s calls after me. Even when I grabbed my jacket and walked out of the front door, I ignored her calling my name.

Thoughts of the movie Fight Club went through my head, and as I took off down the street, I wondered if I could actually hit myself like the guy in that movie did in front of his boss. I didn’t have any destination in mind; I just ran. It wasn’t long before I was exhausted though—the late hour and the cold contributing to my fatigue. I slowed to a walk and then dropped myself down on a bench by the bus stop.

“Hey, baby.” Some whore in six-inch heels slid up to me and tried to sit on my lap. “Having a bad night? I can make it all better.”

“Fuck off,” I muttered and tried not to give the idea any serious thought. I’d never paid for sex, but that was only because I didn’t have the money. It wasn’t like I was above it or anything. Still, a hooker was the last thing I wanted at the moment.

She got the idea, pouted, then strutted off down the street.

All these memories I wanted nothing to do with were engulfing me, and I could not stop them. Each one wrapped around me in turn, slamming the visions into my brain. First there was the look on my father’s face and his immediate response when I told him “the news.” Then there were Mom’s tears and looks of disappointment. A string of arguments came next, followed by my departure from the house, and eventually…

“No!” I shouted into the darkness. I gripped my hands into fists and pounded one of them against the wooden bench. A sharp pain echoed through my knuckles and up my arm, giving me something else on which to focus my attentions.

I rubbed at my knuckles and reveled in the pain.

I slammed my other hand into the bench, too, and then leaned back to stare up at the polluted sky. Vague sounds entered my ears: a car horn, people yelling at each other from across the street, the air brakes of a bus, and the hooker coming on to the next poor bastard she ran into as I just sat there and forced my mind to empty.

When I finally sat up again, I ended up with a bit of a head rush. I fished a cigarette out and then blew a long puff of smoke into the air. Slowly, I allowed more recent memories back into my consciousness: Tria’s hand on me, the feel of her between my legs on the motorcycle, and the taste of her lips the first time I kissed her.

Shit!

I’d run out on her again.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment before I stood and started to walk back to the apartment, feeling like a total shit. I had promised her I wouldn’t run out on her again, and yet here I was, wandering the streets in the middle of the night because I couldn’t deal with shit.

Unconsciously, my fingers rubbed at the inside of my elbow. The track marks there weren’t very visible anymore, but I could still feel the scars. Each one reminded me of how it felt to forget everything bad and revel in sweet release. There was a way to deal with the pain and the unwanted memories. There was a way to deal with it all, and I even had enough cash in my pocket to take care of it.

Shaking off the thought, I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes as I stood on the other side of the apartment door, wondering what the f*ck I could say to her at this point. Standing there didn’t seem to be helping me come up with anything, so I twisted the knob and went inside.

She was still in bed, sitting against the pillows with most of the rest of the tissues in crumpled little blobs around her. Her eyes met mine, and I knew she wanted to yell and scream at me, but she just broke down instead.

“Why don’t you trust me?” she cried as I wrapped my arms around her.

“I do,” I replied. I gripped her tightly and felt my own body starting to shake with hers.

She dropped the bit of tissue in her hand and grabbed on to me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against the skin of her neck. “I’m sorry, Tria, but I can’t. I can’t talk about that shit. I can’t. I won’t.”

“I don’t understand,” she replied softly. “I just want to understand.”

“Please don’t ask anymore.” I begged as I pulled her against me. “Please don’t ask. Not about this.”

My hold on her tightened, and I felt her arms grip me tighter as well. I tried to force myself to think only of how she smelled and how it felt to be so close to her. I didn’t want to think about everything that had happened before, about my father’s reaction, or how it led to the circumstances that nearly destroyed me.

Later that night, as much as I tried not to remember, I couldn’t stop the nightmares.

Still angry at her refusal to tell anyone else what is going on, I stomp up the steps and call out her name. There is no answer. Inside the tiny house, there is still no sound. I know she’s here, and I’m filled with a sense of dread as I move into the hallway and head toward the bathroom.

The door is locked.

I pound until my fists are bruised.

She doesn’t answer.

I kick in the door, and the smell of blood nearly makes me vomit.

“Liam? Liam!”

“Fuck…no…no…f*ck…no…”

I knew I had been dreaming. I knew I was awake now with Tria’s hands gripping my arms and her voice in my ears. Still, I couldn’t stop the images in my head. All I could do was collapse against her.