Finding Me (The Bad Boy Series) (12 page)

“I remember that day. Your father came home absolutely drenched, you guys never did tell us why he had gotten so wet.” She smiled.

“He fell into the water trying to pull in my line.” I laughed.

“He was always so full of life,” she whispered, and I held my breath. It’s hard for her to talk about him; I may have lost my father but she lost the man she loved. “You know, he loved being a mechanic and getting his hands dirty. But he also wanted to be a singer. He had such an amazing voice, and the way he used to play that guitar was just amazing. He gave you that gift, sweetie. Don’t waste it.”

I gasped, Mom must have heard it as her head whipped around, her gaze landing right on me. I studied her face. She didn’t look upset, there were no tears or bloodshot eyes. In fact, she smiled.

“Embrace the gift he gave you, Neva. Music can heal, hurt, break and maybe sometimes fix. You have just got to decide which type you want to play.”

“I miss him, Mom,” I whispered, unsure of what else to really say.

“I know, darlin’. I miss him too,” she said.

Standing from her chair, she took me in a hug and kissed my cheek softly. I hugged her back as she stroked my hair.

“Play to heal,” she whispered in my ear. “Play to heal, for yourself.” She pulled back from the hug and gives me a small smile. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She left the kitchen, and took the stairs to her office.

Play to heal, for myself? I hadn’t touched my guitar in such a long time, and even if I did, what would I play? Standing from my chair, I made my way to my old bedroom. I had been avoiding coming back to my room, knowing Angel’s guitar was in here. It was locked away in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose.

As I stepped into the room, I looked around. Everything was the same. The same dark furniture, the same scarlet color painted on just the one wall, the smell of fresh vanilla sheets. Walking over to my large king size bed, I sat down on the edge. My hand instantly hovered over the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. In there was a letter, one I have had trouble even thinking about. But right now, I needed to know what it said.

Pulling open the drawer, I put my hand in and pulled out the letter. Scooting back to the middle of the bed, I ran my fingers over my name on the front of the envelope, just like I did in the hospital. Flicking my gaze up, I spotted my old picture of me and my father. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. I waited, waited for my heart to start pounding, but it didn't.

Opening my eyes, I ran my finger along the lip of the envelope, pulling it from the body. Inside, a letter, folded into three. As I opened it up, I could feel my throat constricting, but the pounding heartbeat or shaking hands don't come. So, I read.

Neva,

I don’t really know what to say other than I’m sorry. What I did is beyond words. But, I need you to understand what happened, and why I did what I did.

My father first laid his hands on me when I was just five years old. Ever since I have known he's hated me. I don’t use the word hate lightly, but it is what it is. I was the child that was never supposed to be born. I am the product of rape, and I was reminded every damn day.

After my sister Faith died, my father quickly sunk into a hard depression, finding solace at the bottom of a bottle. I’m not telling you this because I want your sympathy, I’m telling you this so you get a clearer picture.

A couple of long and torturous years later, my mom found out she was pregnant again. She was pregnant with me. It was a pregnancy she craved, but also despised. My father raped my mom in a drunken fit of rage and I was the result.

My father had been hell-bent on getting so drunk that he couldn’t even remember his own name, he also couldn’t remember raping my mom either. He accused her of having an affair with another man. This almost cost my mom her second pregnancy. He threw her down the stairs over and over, trying to make her miscarry.

Over those nine months, my mother fought for her unborn child, me, and eventually won. I was born and in turn given the name Angel. He couldn’t deny I was his, I have his disgusting eyes. Years rolled by with the same routine. Don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak unless spoken to, and Jesus, don’t ever wake him up after he passed out drunk.

Then one day, he lost it. He punched, kicked and head-butted my mom, repeatedly. Over and over, I could hear her screaming, begging for him to stop. Then, the house went silent. I was cowering on the stairs, waiting for the screaming to stop. Then, he just left. Gone. That was the night he got into a car and killed your father. We didn’t see or hear from him again until I was seventeen. He started making threats over the phone, telling me to do things and help him out. Otherwise, he was going to kill my mom.

He had connections, Neva. He could get to us if he wanted to, so like the stupid ass I am, I followed his orders. I followed everything, until Mom decided enough was enough. We packed up all of our shit and left. Not a trace of us was left in our old town, nothing. Except Faith.

He found us eventually though, he found us in this town. He called and told me I was a smart boy, moving to the very same place you lived. He sent three men to my mom’s house, Neva. They had guns and threatened to kill my mom if I didn’t do as my father said. And that was to find you for when he was released.

I never meant to hurt you. In the beginning, it was about protecting my mom from that horrible creature. But as I started to spend more time with you, I started falling for you. I fell for you hard, Neva. But I had to make a decision, you or my mom.

I can’t say sorry enough to you for what I did. But I hope this letter will help you understand, at least, why, and that I love you. And I will probably love you until my last dying breath.

I’m sorry.

Forgive me.

Angel.   

Tears poured down my face as I crumbled the letter between my fingertips. Angel, as I suspected, was broken. He had been kicked while he was down. And now, he could well be unfixable. Angel’s father was a vile and disgusting person, hurting the people he was supposed to love. He had shattered the world of a child and then terrorized the world when his son was an adult.

I could feel my stomach rolling with the sudden need to vomit. Angel’s father had raped his mother. He was a child conceived through a maze of love and hate. Love from his mother who would protect him, love him unconditionally, no matter how he was created. But hated by the man who didn’t deserve to be called his father.

Suddenly, the bile moved from my stomach, and I had to throw my hand over my mouth to stop it from escaping. Throwing the letter, I leapt from the bed and dashed to the en-suite bathroom. Throwing myself down on my knees, I quickly lost the contents of my stomach into the bowl. Maybe even some of my hatred for Angel.

Chapter Thirteen

Logan

“Get your head in the game, White!” Coach shouted from the sidelines.

Get my head in the game? Was he fucking serious? Some days I couldn’t even tell you where the hell my head was.

Coach had been on my ass. My game was off, I was late for practice and the guys felt let down because we were turning to shit. I’ve tried, I really have, but my mind was elsewhere. It’s with her, I am always thinking of her. Even now. I'm a sweaty mess because Coach was so pissed that he told me to drop and give him twenty. Shit.

I used to work out daily, but I hadn’t had the damn energy to get myself out of bed in the mornings. I had been missing games, practices and meets. I hadn’t got it in me to run around a fucking field with a damn football in my hands, when it should be her in my hands. Everything was so fucked up.

“White!! What the hell was that?!” Coach bellowed.

What? What the hell did I miss? Turning, I realized my head is so far up my own ass that I missed the play. Shit. Coach was going to bench me, and soon. But right now, I really couldn’t care less. People had the misconception that I wanted to go pro. I really fucking didn’t. If I went pro, that meant leaving this place. It meant leaving her. I already left her once, I wouldn’t be doing it again.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mumbled.

Christ, it’s too damn hot today. The sun was at its highest point, and no matter how much
Gatorade I drank, I was still dehydrated as hell.

“Christ! Okay, guys, hit the showers!” Coach shouted. Slowly turning, he pointed his finger at me. “White. A word?”

Looking around, I saw the guys make their way to the locker room to hit the showers. Shit, this couldn’t be good.

“'Sup, Coach?” I said, trying to lighten the mood, but failing miserably.

“'Sup?' Seriously, Logan? Where the hell is your head at? We have a game on Saturday, and if you keep prancing around the damn field like that, I’m going to have to bench you! Get your head out of your god damn ass, it’s not a hat!”

I stood there stunned for a couple of seconds. Yeah, when I said Coach was on my ass, I meant it. Jesus.

“I’ve got some things on my mind, Coach. It won’t happen again,” I muttered.

“Good. I’d hate to see you let your team down over some piece of ass.”

My blood ran cold. Some piece of ass? Who the fuck does he think he is? Coach’s eyes widened in surprise as I took a step towards him, standing nose to nose with him. I wouldn’t take this shit from my best friend, and I certainly wouldn’t take it from a balding, overweight coach.

“What did you just say?” I said, my voice hard and clear.

He leaned away from me, trying to put some distance between us. I kept my glare as his eyes darted around us, trying to look for some sort of help. But help wasn’t coming. I’m sick of people questioning her, questioning me.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

I could hear Ace’s voice behind me, but I’m not listening. People needed to understand that I didn’t fuck around when it came to her. There was nothing I wouldn’t do just to protect her, even if that meant kicking my coach’s ass up and down the damn field.

“If I hear you vomit any more of that vile shit from that hole in your damn face, I will start using you as my own personal football,” I sneered, moving closer to his face. “Am I clear?”

A small smile crept across my face as Coach nodded in understanding. I could feel Ace’s hand gripping my shoulder, a little too tight for my damn liking. I shrugged Ace off. Satisfied I had made myself clear, I turned and walked away.

“You’re off the team, White,” I heard Coach nervously shout.

I laughed. I actually laughed, but the sarcasm drips from every single cackle that leaves my lips.

“Coach, stick it up your god damn ass. It might make for a good hat.”

I smiled maliciously as I watched his shocked reaction. Good. No one talks about her like that. No one. I stopped in my tracks as the realization hits me. I am protecting her again. I didn’t have it in me to stop. I had been doing it for so long it’s become a reflex, something I had no control over.

“Fuck,” I whispered, raking my hands through my hair and tugging hard.

“That about sums it up,” Ace muttered, walking beside me.

I laughed and shook my head as I moved into a slow stride beside him. We walked for a couple of minutes in dead silence. I kept my gaze to the ground, I didn’t need a lecture from Ace and I knew it’s coming whether I liked it or not.

“So …” Yeah, here it comes. “What did Coach say for you to go all nuclear-dick-head and get kicked off of the team?”

Nuclear-dick-head? How many Red Bulls has he drank today? I laughed, unsure what the hell to say.

“He went too far,” I muttered. I wasn’t about to tell him that Coach referred to Neva as ‘some piece of ass.’ Otherwise Coach wouldn’t be standing on two feet.

Ace was an underground cage fighter with the fastest fists in the underground circuit. No one messed with him, not if they had brains, anyway. He was the only one of our group that wasn’t on the football team. Standing at a good six feet, he was a monster. His frame was fucking huge and he could probably knock down a damn house if he wanted to.

“Well, dick weed, you lost your spot on the team. What about all the scouts that have been sniffing around?” Ace chuckled. The idea of people coming to football games to find new talent clearly amused him.

“They can go and sniff somewhere else. I have never wanted to go pro, man. I did it because, well, shit, isn’t it what you’re supposed to do in college? Play football, party and meet chicks?”

“Dude, you’re asking someone who punches people in the face for a living. I don’t know shit.” He laughed.

We walked from the field and back on campus. I’m exhausted. My stomach growled as we neared the dorms. Christ, when did I last eat? For the past month I had been in the routine of getting up, going to class, going back to bed. It’s the times I'm alone that were the worst. My mind conjured stupid shit, mostly about Neva. Sometimes I sat back on my bed and imagined us together again, what it would feel like just to be in her presence. I missed her.

“Listen, do you want to come to my place and chill out with some beers?” Ace asked as we made it to my building.

What I really wanted to do was take a shower and crawl into my bed. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with a house full of people I didn’t know, and chicks trying to shove their barely there tits in my face. I’m too exhausted.