Greetings from Sugartown (7 page)

Holly, Kristine and I slam our shot glasses down on the bar. This is my second ABC for the night, and I have to say I’ve never quite been so pleasantly buzzed. Okay, maybe buzzed is the wrong word. I’m flying. We all are.

“I fucking love this song!” Holly shouts over the noise of the live band. She grabs my hand and drags me towards the dance floor, despite my protests. I reach a hand out for Kristine to pull me back, but she just laughs, takes hold, and allows herself to be catapulted along for the ride.

The wailing guitars and distortion from the amps are so loud this close to the stage that I can’t even tell what the song is. I don’t know how Holly’s able to say she loves it. The bands just aren’t the same now that Coop isn’t here to choose them. Dave will let anyone with a couple of instruments and the willingness to play for free drinks, and a hundred bucks, take the stage. The bands begin pumping their sound through the ancient speakers, and we all start gyrating on the dance floor regardless.

After two more songs have passed in a miasma of noise, squealing guitars, and bad vocals, I pull away to wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. I miss Elijah. I roll my eyes and give myself a mental smack down. I am so pathetic. I swear half the time I’m ready to throttle him, or call it quits, or make pretty streamers out of his intestines, and the other half I’m filled to bursting with mad, stupid love. One thing I know for certain—that boy will be the death of me.

I make the international “drunk fairy” signal for drink, and the girls nod and go about their dancing as I stagger my way up to Dave the publican.

“Dave,” I cheer, a little too enthusiastically.

“Ana Belle, your dad’s gonna kill me if I let you have another.”

“Dave, I’m a growed moman.” I frown and try again, “Woman. I am a grown woman. And my dad is not here right now, so I’ll have three Grey Goose martinis, please.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “I never should have bloody well hired that Cooper Ryan. He came in here, wielding his fancy pants drinks, and now it’s all you sheilas ever bloody ask for. What’s wrong with a house wine, or a beer for shit’s sake?”

“Fine. Give us three house wines, then.”

I fish the money out and set it on the bar. “I gotta go tinkle, hold those ‘til I get back?”

“Sure. Just remember, you spew in my bathrooms, you get to be the one to clean that shit up.”

“You know, Dave, I can’t for the life of me understand why a catch like you is still single,” I yell over my shoulder.

“Keep talking, twinkle toes,” he taunts. I walk past the pool table where Elijah and I had our first date, and then down the hall, where he kissed me for the first time. I stop just outside the bathroom where he broke my heart in two, and my phone rings.

“Hey baby girl, how’s it going?”

“Hey you,” I say with a sigh. It’s not like I haven’t been back to the pub since. We come here from time to time when Elijah wants to have his arse kicked in pool.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just … I think the shots are going to my head.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Not as much fun as if you were here.”

“I’m not crashing a girls’ night. Holly nearly shoved my balls in a vice last time I made that mistake.”

“I remember,” I say, but all the carefree happiness of my night is gone. I wanna be on a beach somewhere with him. Somewhere where there’s no wild, drunk best friends. No annoying cousin who overstays his welcome by two days, trying to master a single video game. Where there’s no diner, no responsibilities, no kid brother, no overbearing father. There’s only sex, and sun, and us, and our crazy, stupid love.

“Remember that time we went to that secluded beach near Coffs Harbour, and we drank sangria and had sex in the sand dunes, and just stayed there all night?”

He clears his throat. “I remember. We were both chafed for a week.”

“I wish we could have that again.”

“The chafing?” He laughs. It does tingly things to my lady parts, despite my melancholy. “I don’t see why we can’t. We could jump on the bike and drive down tomorrow.”

“No, we can’t.” I sigh and close my eyes as I lean back against the wall, absentmindedly watching the guys crowded around the pool table in the opposite room. “We have … things.”

“What things? What’s goin’ on, Ana?”

“Nothing. I think I’m just going to get a cab home. We should talk, and I’m not feeling so in the mood for partying anymore.”

“I’ll come get you.”

“I’m okay, just let me go talk to Holly. I’ll be home soon.”

I can’t explain this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like everything is swallowing me up from the inside. I don’t know why I’m so damn depressed over this crap with Elijah. Technically, for the first time in a long time, we’re in a good place. So why do I feel like the walls are about to come caving in?

“I don’t think so. You don’t sound good. I’m coming to pick you up in the van,” he says. I shake my head, and glance up at the raucous group of guys around the pool table. I know all of them; some I went to school with, some were a few years above me, and some are just local bar flies that convinced the younger guys they were a bit of fun to be around.

There’s a guy with blonde curls who has his back to me. He has a creepy looking scar on the back of his neck, and his hair just barely covers it. I narrow my eyes, wondering why he seems familiar. My stomach churns. His mate beside him, Stephen Embry—a douche in school, and an even bigger one as an adult—is watching me carefully. Blonde Guy brings his stubbie to his mouth and then turns, looking right at me.

I stare back into sky-blue eyes that had once upon a time made me weak in the knees. Once upon a time I’d thought he was Prince Charming. And then, like a monster, he held me down in a cane field, stole my innocence and ripped my life apart.

My heart stops.

He can’t possibly be here. It’s only been four years; he can’t be out yet. He can’t …

“Ana?” I hear Elijah’s voice in my ear, but it sounds tinny, and not at all the way it should. The phone falls from my hands. I slide down the wall, but when he sets his beer down on the table, and casually slips his hands in his pockets as he takes a step toward me, my body screams for me to run. My stomach clenches. Bile creeps up my throat.

Scott strides closer. My whole world spins out of control. I want to faint. But then I remember the last time I passed out around this monster—I woke to him shoving himself inside me. My feet move of their own volition, and I run to the bathroom. Possibly not the smartest place to run when your rapist is hell-bent on spending time alone with you.

I lock myself in a stall, and climb onto the toilet seat, squatting in my heels to avoid him seeing which one I’m in. Kinda pointless, I suppose. If he wanted to get to me again, he wouldn’t let a stall door stop him.
Nothing could stop him. Nothing stopped him before …

The bathroom door opens. Noise from the bar filters in, but that’s all it is … noise. I can’t think past the blood whooshing through my ears and the heartbeat pounding in my throat. My stomach sloshes uneasily; it hurts from clenching so tight. My chest aches with every erratic beat of my terrified heart. My lungs squeeze tight from the breath I won’t release.

“Ana, I know you’re in there.”

I whimper, and cover my mouth to keep the sound from escaping. It comes out anyway, a horrified, animal sob.

“I just want to talk to you.” He pounds on the stall door, gently at first, but his anger increases the longer I hold out. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he yells. It sounds as if he’s biting out the words through clenched teeth. It sounds very much like he wants to hurt me. Again.

“Fuck!” He smacks his fist into the door. The old, painted particle board rattles with the force of the blow. Its rusty hinges groan in protest, but they hold strong through his assault. “Fine. Have it your way.” He spits, and steps away from the door. I wait with muscles tensed and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I wait until I hear the sound of his sneakers squeaking against the dirty tile as he moves away from my cubicle. The bathroom door opens, the noise of the pub’s patrons filters in, and the door whines shut behind him.

Nausea hits me like a sledgehammer. I quickly climb down from the toilet seat, lift the lid and vomit into the bowl. Acid burns my throat, and tears spill over and sting my hot face before glancing off the edge of my clamped jaw. When I’m done, I pull paper from the roll and blow my nose. I wipe beneath my eyes, ignoring the black smudges that come away, and then I take a second to breathe before I stand and adjust my clothes, making sure they contain no trace of the contents of my stomach.

I slide back the bolt, open the door, and come face to face with Scott.

I gasp, take a step back, and try to slam the door in his face but he already has hold of my shoulders. His fingers dig in, punishing, so much like that night. “I just wanna to talk to you, Ana.”

“Let me go,” I whisper.

“Come on, Blondie,” he implores. His fingers dig in further with each word. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I’m sorry. Fuck. I went to jail for it. They locked me up like a fucking dog for four years and you can’t even talk to me for five minutes?”

He shakes me. Not hard, just enough to let me feel he’s still in control. I can’t breathe. I suck in each breath as though it’s my last. The part of my brain that’s still functioning through this panic attack notices that Scott’s hair has shifted—it’s not plastered to his face anymore, and I can’t see past that angry scar that labels him for what he is. A rapist.
My rapist.

The bathroom door opens again.

“The fuck?” Holly says, sounding every bit as horrified to see him here as I feel.

Scott startles, and I wrench free of his grip and shove myself back into the stall, slamming the door shut and leaning against it with all of my weight.

“Get away from her, you fuck!” Holly screams.

I can’t think straight. I slide down the stall door and ram my fingers in my ears, willing it all away. For the first time since I learned what Elijah had done, I wish he’d gone through with what he’d set out to do that night. I wish he’d put a bullet through Scott’s head so I wouldn’t ever have to come face to face with him again. I finally understood the risks he’d taken, the sacrifices he’d made for me, and I wish it were enough.

I wish he’d done more.

I
LIE
in bed with Ana safely tucked in my arms. I haven’t slept a wink. All night. My fist throbs like a bitch. I didn’t know what the fuck had happened when she’d dropped her phone, but I jumped in the van and broke every speed limit between home and the pub. Kristine had called me after Ana’s phone had cut out. I nearly ran off the road when she said Ana was locked in the bathroom. I kept seeing the worst possible scenarios in my head.

Was she hurt?

Was she sick?

Stalking into that bathroom, I didn’t know what I expected to find, but it sure as hell wasn’t what I walked in on. That cocksucker was parked outside the stall door in the women’s toilets while Holly and Kristine wailed on him. I did what anyone would have done: I pulled the crazy ranga midget off him, and nailed his arse to the grimy floor. It took Dave and several other patrons to pull me off him.

I spat on that floor beside his bloody face, and gave him a hard kick in the nuts, plus one in the ribs for good measure. He was carted out of there by Dave the Publican, and booted out on his arse. When everyone had cleared out, I tapped on the door to the occupied stall.

“Open up, baby girl.”

The sobbing started up again and I leaned against the painted yet peeling wood. “Come on, Ana, he’s gone.”

She slowly opened the bathroom door, and took in my ruffled appearance at the same time as I took in her red eyes and blotchy face, and then she launched herself into my arms and sobbed uncontrollably. I tucked her head into my shoulder, lifted her up, and carried her out past the gawking bystanders. As much as I loved this town, sometimes I hated it too.

Tomorrow, the first thing I’m going to do is go see Sergeant Davis. Why the fuck weren’t we told about his early release? Those arseholes couldn’t give her a heads up? Jesus Christ, she ran into him at the bar, and he followed her into the bathroom. She must have been terrified, and I wasn’t there to protect her. Someone’s gonna fucking pay for this shit, and I can tell you right now it won’t be her.

It’s only when she shifts in my arms that I realise I’m shaking the bed with rage.

She flinches in her sleep, and then jolts awake, wrenching herself from my arms with a scream that curdles my blood. I sit up beside her and gently rest my hand on her back, stroking slowly.

“Hey, you’re safe.”

Fuck. She hasn’t had a nightmare in I-don’t-know-how-long. I guess being confronted with your rapist will do that to you.

“Tell me it’s a bad dream, Elijah.”

I pull her into my arms, and press a kiss to her hair. “Wish I could, baby girl.”

She cries into my chest, these horrible gut-wrenching sobs that just about eat me alive. If I had a do-over, there are so many things I’d do differently to spare her the hurt she’s feeling now. The first thing I’d do is take that fucker out while I had the chance. And as I lay there with her crying in my arms, I hate myself all over again for being such a pussy. I’d do anything to make this right, to make her happy, keep her safe. I’d kill that fucker a hundred times over before I ever let him near her again.