Layers(86)

As the car’s rear disappears in the distance I slide till I meet the hard asphalt, and lean against the building’s rough brick wall. My legs are too weak to hold me. Utterly shattered at the deliriously surreal event, I try to reread the piece in an attempt to make sense of it. A dark thought creeps into my paralyzed mind. What must he think of me now? And that look of hurt before he left plays before my eyes.



The Stark Truth

Daniel Stark has made a name for himself as one of the business industry’s most private tycoons, and at the age of thirty-four, with millions cushioning his bank account, he is one of the most mysterious and eligible bachelors on the market. Mr. Stark is an intriguing enigma, hoping to be solved by a vast number of single women.

To our luck the SF born multi-millionaire stud is now in a relationship with a less reserved sweetheart. Disturbing facts were revealed today as Stark’s current beau conceded some juicy details about the magnate which made yours truly understand Stark’s persistent preservation of privacy.

Rejections, hookers, abundance and neglect were some of the words used to illustrate Stark’s past and his now-questionable way of life.

Was it his father’s malice and abandonment at an early age, the violence, or was it his mother being consumed by a lethal disease when he was but a tot that led Stark to a licentious adult lifestyle of countless encounters with top of the line highly paid call girls? Is this the inscrutable millionaire’s way of dealing with his past? Is he just a frightened boy fighting his entrenched demons?

And here’s just a personal note to Mr. Stark from yours truly.

There’s improvement to be sought in the girlfriend department. We expect nothing but the best for you, so why settle for mediocrity? I’m available. Gossip Fairy.

A representative for Mr. Stark could not be reached for comment.

The bitter aftertaste of guilt fills my mouth when I am done.





Chapter 34: Nuclear Fallout


I’m not sure how I get home but evidently I do somehow. It feels like I’m caught in a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

“Hales, is that you?”

I can’t even manage to find the words or the strength to answer.

“Hales?” Tasha steps closer. The concern on her face manifests exactly what I feel.

“What’s wrong?” A question entwined with panic.

Everything. I just hand her the paper and drop to the sofa. I concentrate on breathing as my chest hardly lets the air through. I feel like the walls are closing in on me. Is this what a panic attack feels like? Tasha sits next to me, and her expression of dismay tells me she read the article.




“Hales, did Daniel see it?” she asks apprehensively, her small voice tinted with worry. I nod, still not able to form words.

“He was the one who gave it to me,” I finally whisper and the tears erupt, flowing uncontrollably down my face.

“This is our entire conversation taken brutally out of context.” She articulates what I’ve been thinking since the minute I read the article.

“What did he say?” A compassionate emerald stare caresses me.

“He didn’t want to hear me out, Tash,” I mumble between sobs.

Tasha lets out a quiet sigh.

It hurts so much, and all I want is him. I lie down, staring at the ceiling for what seems like a lifetime.

“I’m going to bed,” I mutter wearily, eventually standing up, at first unsteady.

“You want me to come with you, Hales?”

“No, I want to be alone.”

Once in bed I try to call Daniel, but he doesn’t answer. Weeping, I fall asleep, entirely drained, an empty soul that only a few hours ago used to be me.

~~~

I wake up sweaty and confused, and I quickly realize yesterday’s nightmare wasn’t a dream as I see the worn piece of paper laying accusing and affirming on my night stand, reminding me of my new reality. With a dry, sore throat from excessive crying, I head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

“Hales.” Tasha’s velvety voice welcomes me as I step into the kitchen. “You look terrible,” she says, trying to smile.

“Thanks,” I murmur. All humor left me, a day ago.

“Are you going to work?” she asks as I take a sip of the cold water.

Shaking my head, I say, in a weary voice, “I am not able to physically do that.”

She nods sympathetically. “You want me to stay with you?” Concern is reflected in her delicate features.

“No, I want to be by myself. I just want to sleep it off.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want.” She sighs in surrender, letting out another prolonged breath then nearing to hug me into her comforting embrace. The floodgates of my eyes open again with the kind gesture, letting out a fresh batch of tears.

“Would you like me to call your boss?” she asks after a while. Once I respond that I’ll do it, she lets me be.

When she leaves, I call Josh. As soon as he hears my voice he asks me whether I am ill which makes it easier to excuse myself from coming in. With that done I drag myself back to bed.

Sitting under the protection of my blanket, absentminded, I fetch my sketchbook from its hiding place in the first drawer of my nightstand. With the blank paper resting on my thighs, my thoughts turned inward, I doodle aimlessly, letting the charcoal pencil lead me. As I sketch, my attention is drawn to the unintended force of my strokes. My sketching leaves deep marks in the pad while I bring my morbid imagination to paper. I try to distract my mind with sketching rather than thinking, but without much luck. I carry on till my fatigue conquers me.