Tragic Beauty (Beauty & The Darkness #1)(8)
He pulls in, the smooth low rumble of the engine purring as he brings the car to a stop beneath the overhang and out of the rain.
I’m surprised the place is closed, but when I glance to the clock on the dash, I see it’s a little after nine. He glances that way too, and I can tell by the pressing of his lips that he’s indeed late after all.
“There’s a pay phone on the side,” he says.
I nod and reach for my purse, then turn to him. The lights of the station illuminate the car and I can see his face more clearly now. I see a man maybe in his thirties, with sharp green eyes that linger on me quietly. Stubble darkens his jaw—a jaw that clenches tighter and tighter, the longer I look at him. But I keep looking, because I can’t stop. My eyes graze over soft lips and a scar along his left cheekbone and another over his right eyebrow. His hair is black, wet and slicked back, with a few strands hanging over his temple. That’s when I realize, he’s not just handsome, he’s beautiful. And for some reason, he seems familiar, like I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place it.
I watch him study me in return, his eyes lingering on my face, then darkening as they drift down my legs, then back up again. I can only imagine what I look like, with long wet hair plastered to my head and mascara trailing down my face. Even so, there’s a shift in his gaze, a subtle flaring of the nostril. The silence in the car becomes deafening.
“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to bear the quiet.
“You going to be alright?” he asks, his voice deeper than before. “You have someone to call?”
I nod and open the door, the cold wrapping its grip around me once more. After I shut the door and step back, the car lingers for a moment, then slowly pulls away until the tail lights disappear from view with a rev of the engine and a squeal of the tires. I hug my jacket tight and walk into the rain and over to the pay phone. I’m just about to reach for the handle when I see the little, white, slip of paper.
Out of order.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was raining the day my mom left, and cold, just like it is now. I was nine years old and even to this day I can remember, with aching clarity, how the drops stung my face when I went running after my mom down the driveway, begging for her to stay. Behind me, back in the house, my father was destroying everything he could get his hands on. I remember the way my throat burned from screaming out in desperation that I would be perfect, be the best daughter, but the shiny blue Mustang just kept on going, my mom’s head fixed resolutely straight ahead. That’s when I’d learned that words didn’t matter. They never mattered. When the car disappeared from view I was standing at the end of the driveway, sobbing. I’d never been so terrified in my life—not even when I made the deal with Shayne…until now.
It’s all I can do to collapse gently, the wet pavement hard and unforgiving against my knees, the rain a cold, cruel blanket around my shoulders. I fall forward and clutch the metal base of the pay phone, clinging to it as though it’s a life preserver. My body heaves and shakes as giant sobs begin to roll through me, feeling like I’m out in the middle of that dark ocean with the storm tossing me all around.
Through the despair, I hear a voice. A small voice—my voice—inside my head, trying to get through to me, trying to tell me everything will be okay. But there’s a stronger voice shouting that it won’t. That things will never be okay. My cries drown them both out. I’m too tired to argue with myself. Too tired to do anything but sit there and fall apart. And so I let myself drift, my body numb from the rain and the cold, my mind too far gone to do much of anything. I’ve been here before—that day all those years ago, when I was a crumpled heap of a child on a wet gravel driveway, wondering how I’d ever get through life.
Somewhere in the distance, I become vaguely aware of the purr of an engine, of a door being opened, of crinkling paper above me. I hear whispered cursing, then a moment later, strong arms slide under my body, lifting me. My head falls against wet fabric while I tremble uncontrollably. It isn’t until I’m being carefully placed onto a warm leather seat that I slowly start to come back around. A belt encases me with a click, then something dark and warm is being placed over my legs—a tuxedo jacket.
He’s next to me now, back in the driver’s seat. Around me, heat seeps into the air and a finger gently pushes wet hair away from my face.
“How can I help?” a deep voice asks. Only this time it isn’t angry, it’s tender.
I shake my head, trying to catch my breath. When I speak, my voice is choked, the words disjointed. “You—you can’t. Not unless you’re a mechanic and can fi—fix my car, which isn’t mine, but m—my neighbors. I—I have to be home tomorrow morning, early. If I’m not—” I bury my head down, the words too painful to get out.
“It’s taken care of.”
I look over at him as the car starts moving. “Wh—what do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
We’re on the freeway again, headed south. I have questions, but don’t have the strength to ask them. A few minutes later, he’s pulling in front of a two-story building with some cars parked out front. Above the garage door is a large sign that says Burt’s Shop in big block letters, with ‘If you need to ask how much, then find someone else to fix it,’ written underneath.