Blame It on the Shame- Part 3 Read online

  Of course, I resisted like hell at first when she suggested that I stay with her. Not only because I knew how much she didn't like me—but because I didn't want her telling Ricardo where I was.

  Because he let me go.

  And while I understand his reasons for doing so—and that little girl inside of me is incredibly thankful—I can't help but feel angry and bitter that he did it when I needed him the most.

  And combined with my other reason for being angry with him—a reason I still haven't dealt with—it's akin to throwing more logs on the fireplace.

  But none of that even compares to the feeling that settles in my chest when I think about the worst reason of all.

  Not only did he not want me anymore...

  He gave up...he stopped fighting for us.

  Something he promised me he would never do.

  So, while my mind understands all of his reasons for doing what he did and I'm grateful...it's my heart that resents him...because that damn heart of mine still loves him with every fucking fiber of my being.

  Momma gives me a look and shifts her feet, appearing uncomfortable now. Since the woman tends to be as blunt as it gets, I know that whatever she's about to say isn't something I want to hear.

  “My plane for New York leaves tomorrow,” she starts. “And I bought you a plane ticket too. I was hoping—“

  “I'm not going back to New York,” I snap, hating that she would even suggest such a thing.

  “Just hear me out,” she argues. “Jackson's trial is in a few weeks. He could use all the support he can get right now.”

  I adjust my stance and stare her down. “Jackson hates me, remember?”

  She rubs her hands on her apron and sighs. “He doesn't hate you, Lou-Lou. He doesn't know—“

  “About the reasons he should pity me?” I scoff. “Well, I don't need or want his pity, Momma. I don't need or want anyone's pity.”

  I turn around and start looking for my purse and keys so I can leave. “I wish Jackson the best and I truly hate that this is happening to him...but there's no way I'm ever going back to New York.”

  Anxiety and nerves ripple through me as I utter my next statement. “And you promised me you wouldn't tell a soul that I was staying with you.” My voice becomes shaky. “That was one of the conditions you agreed to when it came to me staying here—”

  “Sugar, I ain't telling no one, I promise,” she says softly. “I wouldn't do that to you.” She reaches for my arm and I turn back around to face her. “They all miss you though.” She lifts my chin up. “Especially Ri—”

  Her words rip through my chest like fire. “Don't say his name,” I whisper, my eyes begging her to stop this conversation. “Please.”

  It's bad enough that every time I think about him I take ten steps back and it feels like I can barely breathe...but actually hearing his name and having a conversation about him? I'm just not ready for that...I don't think I'll ever be.

  “What time is your flight?” I ask, wanting this conversation to be done with already.

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” She pauses. “I'll be gone for a little over three weeks this time.” Her forehead crinkles. “I can cut it short—”

  “No,” I say before she can finish that sentence. “I'll be fine. I have plenty of studying to do and I could use the time alone to clear my head.” My heart squeezes. “Besides, I know Tyrone really misses his Momma.”

  The last time Momma went to visit him was a little over a month ago, and she only stayed for a few days—most likely due to me. And that combined with the fact that a part of me will always feel responsible for his accident...makes the guilt hit hard.

  “You said he was doing a lot better the last time you went to visit him, right?” I blurt out, breaking my own rule about not talking about any of them.

  Surprise crosses her features briefly before her face lights up. “Yeah, the doctors say he's doing amazing. They think it's all thanks to them, but they don't know my baby.” I don't miss the gleam in her eyes as she continues. “Or how much he loves Shelby.”

  My heart melts and I can't help but smile. This is one of the best things I've heard in awhile. No one deserves happiness more than Tyrone does.

  Momma looks like she's about to burst. “Can I tell you a secret?” She clutches one hand to her chest and digs around in her pocket with the other. I've never seen her look so excited before.

  “Of course—” I tell her, until the beautiful antique diamond staring back at me renders me silent.

  “It was my Momma's,” she says as her eyes begin to water. “He asked if I could bring it with me on my next trip.”

  She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “And then he asked if he had my permission to marry her.”

  It doesn't surprise me at all that Tyrone would do that, but it's still so sweet it takes my breath away.

  “Do you know when he's planning on asking her?”

  “After Jackson's trial,” she replies while clapping her hands. “Tyrone said he needed to have his two best men by his side before they started planning the wedding.”

  And just like that my heart sinks again. I refuse to ruin Momma's good mood though, so I muster up the most genuine smile I can before I say, “That's great. I'm really happy for the both of them.”

  She nods. “Me too.” Concern splashes over her face suddenly. “I just hope that the jury finds Jackson innocent. Especially since Alyssa's—”

  Her mouth clamps shut and my stomach drops.

  “What? What's going on with Alyssa?” I ask, hating myself for even caring in the first place.

  Momma waves me off. “Nothing, sugar.”

  But it's not nothing. When I give her a look she relents and says, “She's thinking about starting her own website and creating her own online news channel is all.”

  Stuff the jealousy down, I remind myself. I'm not in competition with the girl. But if I was?

  She'd be leaps and bounds ahead of me.

  I don't even have my high school diploma.

  Yet...I don't have it yet, I correct myself.

  I reach for my purse and start making my way toward the front door. “I'm gonna be late for work. I'll make sure I'm up in time to give you a ride to the airport tomorrow.”

  I try to ignore the multiple pairs of eyes leering at me as I serve them their drinks. I honestly have no idea why some of them are even staring at me when beautiful, naked women are dancing on a stage right in front of them.

  I'm in the middle of handing the last guy at the table his beer when one of his buddies reaches for my wrist. “Hey there, pretty thing,” he slurs as his group of friends chuckle.

  I plaster a fake smile on my face and attempt to maneuver my wrist out of his grasp as he continues, “Say...what time do you get up on that stage?”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes because it's a question I get a lot, at least a dozen times during every shift I pick up.

  “I'm not a dancer,” I reply, forcefully yanking my hand back.

  “Well, hell,” he drawls as he sizes my body up and down. “That's a shame.” He then lets out a whistle that snags the attention of all his buddies and I wish I could crawl under a rock. “Hot little number like you.” He licks his lips and disgust washes over me. “That's a real damn shame.”

  “Have a nice night,” I quickly say before turning around.

  That's when his hand reaches for my wrist again. “Not so fast, pretty girl,” he calls out, spinning me back to him.

  My eyes dart around the club for Boone, the security guard, but then I remember that he likes to go outside for a smoke break every five freaking minutes.

  I turn my attention back to the table and my eyes connect with a pair of soft, honey brown ones. Out of all the guys at the table, he's the only one that looks a little aggravated by his friends drunken behavior.

  The drunk jerk stares at my chest for a moment too long before uttering, “How the hell do you say your name?” His finger moves up my waist until he flicks the name badge on my chest.

  “No touching,” I remind him curtly.

  “Relax, darlin', I ain't gonna bite.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Unless you're into that sorta thing.”

  I'm about to yell but then he says, “I'll make sure to tip you nice and good tonight, beautiful. Just tell me how you pronounce your name.”

  “Sindile,” I say, hating that it will most likely raise more questions from this asshole.

  His face twists in confusion and he slaps the table. “You mean like the movie? You got multiple personalities or something?”

  Yeah, and he's about to see one of them right now.

  “No, not Sybil. It's Sindile,” I say, purposely drawing the name out the way it's supposed to be pronounced.

  “Sounds like you got some cruel parents, darlin'. What kind of fucked up name is that?” he balks.

  I cross my arms over my chest and look down at the floor. “It's not a fucked up name, asshole. It means—“

  “The survivor,” a voice finishes for me.

  My head snaps up and I look into a pair of honey brown eyes again.

  “It's African and traditionally speaking, it's a boy's name,” he continues. “But if you ask me—I think it takes a pretty special girl to be given such a name.” He gives me a warm smile that showcases a deep dimple on his right cheek. “You're little, but you must be really tough.” He laughs to himself. “Like a little survivor.”

  All the air gets sucked out of the room and my knees begin to buckle. The asshole at the table starts speaking again but I ignore him.

  I barely manage to walk away from the group and into the bathroom that's all the way in the back of the club.

  I lock both the bathroom door and the bathroom stall behind me and sink against the wall as my eyes prickle with tears.

  I knew that choosing that particular name would be like picking a scab and making myself bleed day in and day out.

  But at the time, I told myself the name was a good reminder to stay strong—all while trying to punish him in my own fucked up way—because I knew he would never think to look for me under that new alias.

  I knew all of this...and yet it still shocks me how much moments like these continue to pummel me the way they do.

  I fall to the ground in a fit of sobs, no longer trying to keep them at bay because I can't.

  Because it's these moments that hurt the most.

  The moments that bring back the memories, the heartache, and the pain.

  The moments that I can still taste him on my lips, smell his scent on my skin—and feel him coursing through me.

  The moments that I realize I'm still a broken puzzle—and he's the only piece that can put me back together again—all while tearing me apart.

  I walk out of the bathroom and straight into a hard chest.

  When I glance up, I notice it's the same guy from the table.

  The one who wasn't an asshole.

  “Hey,” he says, and I notice his southern accent isn't as thick as the others.

  “Hi,” I respond, trying my best to side-step him. “And bye.”

  He moves to the side and I take the opportunity to start walking away.

  “Look, I'm real sorry if I said something that offended you.”

  I pause and let out a long sigh. There's really no reason for me to give him an attitude when it was his friend who was the rude one.

  “You didn't,” I tell him.

  “I meant what I said back there,” he says, walking beside me now. “I like your name. I think it suits you.”

  “You don't even know me.”

  “But I'd like to.”

  I stop mid-stride and glare at him. “I don't date customers.”

  He thinks about this for a moment and his face breaks out into a slow grin. “Well alright then.”

  With that he dips his head and walks back over to his friends.

  Another 3 hours later, I'm walking out to my car when I hear footsteps following behind me.

  I immediately reach for the gun in my purse and spin around and the same guy from before eyes open wide.

  “Yeah, your name definitely suits you,” he says, giving me that same grin from earlier, seemingly oblivious to the gun I have pointed at him.

  “Why are you following me? I already told you—I don't date customers.”

  I lower the gun and he takes a step forward and pulls out a napkin. “I'm not a customer,” he declares while handing it to me.

  I can't help but laugh as I read what it says.

  Atticus Lynch is hereby permanently banned from Show 'n Tail—A Gentlemen's Club.

  —Management

  “You got yourself banned just so you could go on a date with me?”

  He lifts a shoulder in a shrug as his grin grows wider.

  I can't help but laugh again as my next thought hits me. “No wonder you stuck up for me about my name earlier. I mean, Atticus Lynch. Really?”

  He puts his hand over his heart, feigning offense. “It's not my fault that my Momma's favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  I shake my head as he takes a step closer to me. “Don't get me wrong, it's a fine piece of literature. A classic.”

  “I take it you're a big reader?”

  He takes my hand and maneuvers it so that it's palm side up. Before I can stop him, he pulls out a sharpie and begins writing what I can only assume must be his number. “I'm a very big reader.”

  For a moment, I stop breathing entirely as an image of Ricardo flashes through my head.

  “In fact, I'd like to tell you all about my favorite hobbies over dinner one night,” he continues as I fight like hell to get Ricardo out of my head.

  “I can't—” I start to say before he cuts me off.

  “Just think about it, please.”

  I'm about to protest again but then he says, “An hour, that's all I'm asking for. Think about it for a full hour before you make your final decision.”

  I want to tell him that 60 minutes won't make a world of difference, but he taps my palm with the sharpie. “If an hour goes by and you still decide that you don't want to go on a date with me, then wash your hands.”

  It isn't until he's halfway across the parking lot that I realize it's not a number written on my hand after all...but a bird.

  I can feel myself start to smile, but then memories of DeLuca slice through my head and I start to tremble instead.

  Atticus only drew the bird on my hand because of his name, I remind myself as I start the car and drive off.

  I reach in the glove box and pull out the burner phone Ricardo gave me.

  I turned it off months ago, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it entirely.

  He said I could call him if I was ever in trouble, and although I'm not—being asked out on a date by a guy who almost made me smile has me yearning to hear his voice.

  I close my eyes and wait for the urge to pass, but it doesn't.

  It never does.

  I throw the phone back into the glove box and slam it shut before walking inside the house and into my bedroom.

  I shut the door behind me and tears clog my eyes for the second time that night.

  I just want to be over him.

  The plush bunny I have on my nightstand catches my eye and it only makes the tears come down harder.

  I just want to be over them.

  Why won't this pain go away? I killed him. I got my revenge, shouldn't that make me feel better instead of worse?

  Loud sobs rip from my throat and before my brain catches up to what I'm doing, I find myself lying in the bathtub.

  I draw my knees up to my chest and force myself to breathe, but it's no use.

  I thought killing DeLuca would make all the pain go away and stop the constant hollow ache in my heart.

  I thought killing him would wash away all the dirty and make me clean again.

  I thought killing him would somehow fix everything.

  But I was wrong. So fucking wrong.

  Killing DeLuca didn't make me stronger, it only made me weaker.

  And although I'm no longer a bird locked in DeLuca's cage of misery anymore, it doesn't mean I'm free.

  Because there's only one place I've ever felt truly free.

  The organ in my chest squeezes so hard I wince and I can't help but scream through my sobs.

  God, I miss him so much. So much it physically hurts more than any wound ever could.

  The bathroom door opens and a pair of arms wrap around me, trying to console me.

  I don't tell her to get out or attempt to push her away. Momma's witnessed these meltdowns too many times for me to be embarrassed about it anymore.

  And thankfully, she's never once asked me why I always have these meltdowns in a bathtub while I'm fully clothed.

  She's also past the point of suggesting I call Ricardo because she knows that I'll not only decline, but I'll pack up and leave faster than she can blink.

  Instead, she smooths my hair and wipes my eyes with a tissue as I ride out the first round.

  Because she doesn't know about the second round.

  No one does.

  During the day, I work toward the life I want...but at night, I cry for the life I lost.

  Both of them.

  After she leaves, I crawl into bed and close my eyes.

  Images of what my life should have been like flash before my eyes, and that's when the second round hits.

  Grief barrels into me like a freight train and I stuff my hand in my mouth so I don't scream again.

  I reach for the bunny on the nightstand and cradle it in my arms.

  Then I yank the cord to my alarm clock out from the wall and plug it back in.

  I can't go to the church anymore since I no longer live anywhere near it, so this has become my new nightly ritual.

  I stare at the now blinking red light that takes me back to the day I both heard and saw Thumper's heartbeat for the first and only time.

  My chest caves in and a fresh batch of sobs begin with a vengeance.

  I miss what I'll never have.

  I miss Ricardo.

  But most of all, I miss myself—because I'll never be whole again.

  Chapter 3 (Ricardo)

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