Beautifully Wounded (The Beaumont Brothers) (2 page)

Lena

I stood rigid as a pole before I realized what I’d done. He fell onto his side, his hands covered in blood, a pool of red spreading under him.

Willing my legs to move, I
shuffled my way around him and then ran. I snatched my purse that hung from the closet door handle and grabbed a coat from the coat rack by the door. I shrugged it on as I ran out, stopping only briefly to run to the side of the house and dig up the money I had buried in the ground about five inches under a small boulder.

I
grabbed the keys from my purse and ran to the SUV. I didn’t even think about where I would go, I just started the car and shoved it in reverse. I fishtailed out of the driveway after turning the car around and spinning the tires as I tore out onto the street. I raced down the interstate heading south out of Medford. I had no particular destination in mind. I didn’t care. Tears soaked the collar of my coat as they dripped from my cheeks. As I swiped at them, I wondered how I could possibly have any left. I’d thought they would have dried up by now. My tears gave the streetlights a halo hue as if being viewed through waxed paper. The way the lights on the Christmas tree appeared when I squinted my eyes tight; a distant memory of something I liked to do during much more pleasant times in another life.

It was
three in the morning, and the absence of other cars on the street gave me some reprieve. No one was out at this hour. God, I wished I wasn’t. I looked down at my bloody hands that gripped the steering wheel of the SUV—Troy’s blood.

“
So much blood,” I mumbled. How had I managed to grab the knife from the kitchen drawer and stick it in him? It was still a blur, his fingers choking the life out of me—he was twice my size, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe.

For
weeks I’d prepared to leave him, planning to go before things got too bad. I’d saved money, hid it away, but did I have enough? It didn’t matter now. I’d waited too long. I’d waited, and it got far worse than I’d ever imagined.

As
I clutched the collar of the tan trench coat with my clean hand, I thought about how I should have stopped to wash my hands, should have put on some clothes. Thank God I’d left my shoes in the SUV yesterday, a habit I’d gotten into after ruining several pairs over the last year in our rain-soaked, muddy driveway. I was stark naked under my coat, but all I could think about was getting far away as quickly as possible. Running all the way upstairs to put on clothes seemed too risky. He would have killed me this time. If I hadn’t stabbed him, he would have killed me. I’d taken a huge chance running to the kitchen when he’d left me beaten to a pulp on the floor of the bedroom to relieve his bladder. I barely had enough time to get downstairs and grab the knife.

I
glanced in the mirror as I drove—my left eye was starting to swell and turn an ugly shade of purple mixed with black and blue. I reached up to rub at the pain on the back of my head only to find a huge bump. That bump must have happened when my head collided with the wall. The ensuing headache would surely need something more than a couple of ibuprofen. How many times did he strike me this time? I lost count after the second one. I prayed that he hadn’t broken any ribs, the pain in my side was excruciating. I needed to pull over somewhere and wash, possibly ditch the SUV. That was the plan I’d had swirling around in my brain for the past three months. Dump the SUV, take a taxi to a used car lot, and buy a cheap car with the cash I’d saved. And maybe he wouldn’t be able to track me.

I merged onto Interstate 5 cutting off a
guy in a red Honda Civic. He swerved to the other lane and gave me the finger. It was still a couple of hours before rush hour, and I hadn’t anticipated any traffic.

“Sorry, sorry,” I squealed out through the closed window
, and then I white-knuckled the steering wheel and forged ahead. I glanced at the gas gauge. “Crap, only half-f.” After about three hours the needle teetered on empty, and I pulled off the freeway to a service station.

The sun was only beginning to light the sky, but I searched in my purse for some dark glasses anyway. I managed to hide my hands in my coat pockets and hurried to the facilities. My heart beat so fast I thought it would jump out of my chest. A twinge of relief swept over me as I discovered the bathroom was one of those one-room deals. I locked the door and washed up. Nothing came out of the hot water faucet, so I ran my bloodstained hands under freezing cold water. Once I removed the blood and splashed the chilly water on my face, I stared at myself in the mirror. Both eyes—swollen from crying—were in need of some make-up
, but my left eye—black and blue, and almost swollen completely shut—was beyond help. I wasn’t going to be able to do much about my eye except wear dark glasses, which somehow miraculously covered most of it.

No more tears, I ordered myself. It’s over. Was he dead? I hoped he was dead. I had to have killed him. My emotions—convoluted with anger and fear—dominated my judgment, giving me courage to go on. I’d never considered myself weak, to allow a man to have such complete and utter control over me—to beat me whenever he had the whim. How the hell had that happened?

Well, that person was gone and I didn’t want to be weak anymore. I lifted my glasses, studied my eye again, and thought of my mother—she’d been weak, I remembered. The vision of my stepfather beating my mother to death invaded my mind. I was nine at the time, and sat cowering in the corner, praying he wouldn’t come at me when he’d finished with her. I’d watched him slap my mom around before, and she’d always been able to recover. But that last time, he’d gone too far. I watched as my mother fell to her knees, clutching her stomach as his foot came off the ground and struck her in the face. She’d fallen backwards and her head hit the edge of the red, brick hearth of the fireplace. I covered my eyes and screamed as blood spewed out all over the bricks and the worn out, dingy cream carpet. A neighbor heard the screaming and called the police. They’d gotten there in time for me, but too late for my mother.

I’d been on my own since I was eighteen after enduring one foster home after another, never really fitting in. But at the tender age of fourteen I’d found my niche. An old discarded second-hand guitar I’d discovered in someone’s trash became my savior. As long as I had a guitar in my
hands nothing else mattered. After a few months of living with some friends and several temporary gigs here and there, I’d been lucky enough to find a spot with a smalltime band singing and playing lead-guitar. They called themselves The Magic Crew. They were good too, on their way to stardom, and I was right there with them until Troy Harington showed up and swept me off my feet.

It seemed as if it had all been a dream as I thought about how he’d manipulated me into believing he loved me.
Handsome? Oh yeah, he was handsome with his six-foot muscle-bound frame and curly brown hair. He had dark blue eyes that could lure a fish out of the water, and lips that could talk their way in or out of any situation that might arise. Girls flocked to his side whenever he came around to listen to us play, begging him to dance with them. Like all the other girls I’d found him irresistible, and he’d chosen me over all of them. How lucky. But I soon learned it was all a subterfuge when his charm turned to violent domination.

I secretly planned and saved money
over several months. A little here, a little there. I’d sneak it out of the allowance he gave me to purchase food so he wouldn’t catch on. I even managed to acquire a fake ID from Weezer, a friend from my days in The Magic Crew. Weezer’s real name was Wesley, but everyone called him Weezer because of his asthma, which he kept under control with his inhaler. Most times. Sometimes it got bad during certain months like springtime and fall. I’d taken him into the emergency room more than once for breathing treatments. He never seemed to mind the nickname. In fact, Weezer was the name he used when he introduced himself to people. He supplied the ID with no questions asked. I think he already knew why I wanted it, but before he would let me have it he made me promise that if I ever left town to let him know where I went. I agreed, but I knew I wouldn’t tell him, at least not right away. It was better if he didn’t know in case Troy ever questioned him.

I hadn't planned to leave just yet though
. I would have preferred to have saved more money and had a packed suitcase ready and hidden somewhere. That last idea was a risky one, and I never got the nerve to pack one. Troy started with that same backhanded slap across my cheek—and I knew it well—but when he threw me across the room and my head smacked against the wall, the decision became a now or never deal, even with bruises and a black eye. And what was that pain in my side? Troy had been more dangerous than ever before. Killing him before he killed me seemed like my only option. Kill him and run. The words I'd said to myself right before I stabbed him. I ran, leaving everything except the coat on my back and my stash of cash.

I stepped out of the restroom and clutched my coat tightly against the bite of the wind. It was still early in the morning; clouds surrounded the sun, caressing it with cotton pillows as it began to peek from behind the mountains. I suffered the cold, reached in my purse
, pulled out my cell phone and dialed a taxi service.

“Yeah, uh, can you send a cab to …” I glanced up at the sign at the small convenience store, “… the Stop N Shop on the corner of Golden and Spruce? … Okay. Fifteen minutes? Great. Thanks. I’ll be waiting beside a black Explorer. … No. I don’t need a tow truck. It’s not my car. I’ll just be standing by it. … Yeah. Thanks.”

Jackson

I hadn’t had a chance to talk to my brother this morning considering the red scarf on his doorknob. The scarf was a don’t-bother-me-I-have-company warning. I wondered who the lucky chick was this time. Or should I say “unlucky.” My brother never had sex with the same woman more than twice before he’d move on, leaving a path of broken hearts in his wake. Brodie’d had some major commitment issues for the past couple of years.

The lights were on, which meant either he showed or had left the lights on last night. I stood studying the room
, and heard a grunt and then the shatter of glass come from the back room behind the bar. I had just come in to take advantage of the acoustics, and to make sure Brodie showed up in time to meet the morning beer delivery. I owned the small pub but seldom worked in it. Aside from keeping track of the finances, the most I ever did was occasionally play my guitar on the small stage toward the back with the band. Every so often I’d fill in behind the bar on a busy Friday or Saturday night, but I left most of the bartending to Brodie and other employees.

“Shit,”
Brodie’s irritated curse rang out from the room. I hurried to the stage and leaned my guitar against a chair. I’d planned to take advantage of my early morning trip to the bar to get some much needed practice in since the sound system was better here than at home. I strolled to the back room to find Brodie crouched over a toppled over case of beer. Foaming beer with shards of broken brown glass pooled around his black high tops.

“What happened?”

“That’s a stupid question. What the hell do you think happened?”

“Maybe you need to spend more time at the gym and less time in the boudoir, sweet brother o’ mine.”

“Fuck you.”

I chuckled and got a bucket for the broken bottles. “Looks like half the case is gone.”

“Yeah, but I think we still got enough to get us through until the next delivery. I’ll push the Hefeweizen today.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed. I always let
Brodie make most of those decisions anyway. He ran the bar. He enjoyed it. I didn’t. I helped him pick up the broken bottles and stack the good ones into the fridge.

“Thanks,” he said, then stopped to stare at me. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I came in to check out a song I’ve been toying with. The sound system is better here.”

He nodded. “Do
me a favor, check Derrick’s figures from last night, will you?” We got slammed, and we sort of closed up in a hurry.”

“Because you had a …”

“A date, yeah.”

“That’s an exaggeration of the word.”

“Whatever. Hey, man, I don’t interfere with your sex life, or lack of. By the way, you need to get laid pretty soon or you’re liable to spontaneously combust from sperm buildup.” He laughed.

“I have my share. I just don’t go blabb
ing about it to you.”

“That’s because
nobody wants to hear about how tight you grip yourself when you’re not hugging your guitar.”

I flipped him off as I strolled out
toward the stage, shaking my head and laughing to myself at our warped display of brotherly love, but Brodie had a point. It had been awhile since I had the pleasure of being with a woman, but Brodie had enough for both of us. I didn’t need or want any one-nighters.

I took
the guitar out of its case, wanting to play for a while, but stood it back up against the chair again remembering the register. I cursed silently and turned back toward the bar. Work before play, I reminded myself. Brodie and I were close, and even though we teased each other, we were brothers and looked out for one another. We were all we had, and I worried about Brodie and his promiscuity sometimes.