Heart Breaker: An AnguiSH Novella Page 4

  “Well, just little by little my insecurities grew. You didn’t need me anymore. You were on the upside of the roller coaster ride. You had gotten better by yourself. Look at you, you’re like a heart breaker now. I guess it just festered. Then there was the thing with Steph and Oz and it just triggered something in me. I don’t know. It just consumed me.”

  I couldn’t help it. This was a really serious moment, but the only thing I could do was laugh. The most beautiful, intelligent, sexiest and smart mouthed woman I’d ever met and she was afraid I’d leave her?

  “Why are you laughing?”

  That made me laugh even harder.

  “What the hell, Breaker James Collins? Fine, laugh it up.”

  But then she started laughing with me. I drummed it up to a culmination of things. Our tense relationship of late, classes, and time apart.

  Still lost in laughter, I grabbed her, yanking her to me, setting her on my lap. I hugged her as tight as I could as our laughter died down to a stillness. She held her belly and let out an ‘ouch.’

  “Let me just get this straight. You thought that some muscles and getting out of the house could make me just starting jumping and humping with the first girl that showed me some interest?”

  “Jumping and humping,” she bellowed, slapping me in the arm.

  “Answer the question, Ashland.”

  “I hate when you call me by my whole name. And it sounds pretty stupid when you say it like that.”

  I pulled her tighter against me, “Because it is stupid—and wrong. I need you whether I’m sick or if I’m well. I’ll need you for the rest of my life. I didn’t fall in love with you because of how you helped me. I fell in love with you because of who you are. I’ll try my damnedest never to break your heart. You know why? ”

  “Why?”

  “Because you offered me that heart when no one else would. You offered it to me freely. And you offered me all of it. I will never break the greatest gift you ever gave me.”

  Tears fell down her perfect face and I tried to whisk them away with my hands.

  “Don’t cry, Ash.”

  She engulfed me in her embrace. Her arms linked around my neck, her hands fisted my hair. Those long glorious legs wrapped around my waist and she held me tighter that night than she ever had. I rubbed circles with my hands on her back and she groaned and rocked into me. Lights in the quad around us shone on her hair and created a halo around her as she backed out of my hold and cupped my face in her hands.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll never doubt you again.”

  I grazed my hands on the skin under her shirt, “Yes you will. You will doubt me. But next time, just talk to me. Remember how you used to talk me down from my panic attacks? Next time, come to me, let me hold you and talk you down from the mountain. Got it?”

  “Got it. Why did you bring me here?”

  “Because when we were here, putting our hands in that concrete,” I pointed to the spot, “That was the first time I really felt like I would never go back to who I was. Throughout all the counseling, the meetings and all that crap—making my mark with you here was when I really felt free of it. For me, this place is a new beginning.”

  Ash smiled at me then—the smile of weightlessness after so much time of feeling heavy. I recognized that smile. Hell, I think I invented that smile.

  “Ash,” I whispered before I took her mouth with mine. Her warm tongue tasted like cotton candy. This was no regular kiss. Her movements as her legs curled around me once more reminded me of the girl I fell in love with. The girl who ducked under my arm and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The girl who, in her own way, forced me to face my own demons and offered to hold my hand through the fight. This is the girl who tempted me in my backyard then and who tempts me by just breathing now. She’s the girl I fell in love with. She’s the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. She’s the mother I want for my children. She’s owns the arms that will one day hold our grandchildren.

  Ashland Cormier is everything.

  She broke free, “Don’t ever say jumping and humping again.”

  I chuckled, “Damn baby, I was saving that line for our honeymoon.”

  She groaned, “Ugh, here we go again.”

  Bonus Scene from Breaker James:

  There’s one sure way to Ash’s heart. Some girls like chocolate. Some girls like romantic songs and mushy displays of love.

  The way to Ash’s heart is a greasy cheeseburger and twinkly lights.

  Because she’s weird like that.

  And she’s spectacular like that.

  She’s all mine.

  I finally had discovered tiny battery powered candles after cleaning up candle wax for a week after our first ‘date’. I’d converted one of the guest rooms in my new house to a library just for her, complete with her favorite books and some of mine. I had a contractor come in and suspend a bed from the ceiling right in the middle of the room. It looked like something out of a magazine. She hadn’t seen it yet. I’d had it all done during the week of finals, so she was either too busy or too tired from studying to notice. I tucked the little candles into each shelf, two or three to each. This place was an upgrade from our former romantic nook. Not only did the lights she loved hang from the ceiling, they also were encircling the ropes that came down, holding the bed.

  After everything was set up and ready, I went downstairs and pretended not to be up to anything—which was difficult. Her last final was last week and this week she was just recovering. I had every intention of helping her.

  She came in and her hound nose picked up on the burgers.

  “You bought me junk food?”

  “No, I bought me junk food. Why, are you hungry?”

  “You ass. You know you bought me food.”

  She stalked into the kitchen and raccooned through the place until she found the culprit paper bag in the microwave.

  “See? You love me.”

  “I do. I planned some things for tonight.”

  Mouth full of burger, she couldn’t answer. But I knew that look. And she knew me well.

  Romancing my girl was one of my favorite hobbies.

  She finished her food in no time. I waited while she washed her hands and approached me.

  “Ready?”

  “For what?”

  “Just trust me.”

  She nodded and took my hands. Instead of letting her walk, I grabbed her up in a honeymoon hold and brought her to the room I’d been so eager to show her.

  “Close your eyes.”

  She did. I took notice of her long black lashes, even without makeup, they were long and gorgeous. Who knew eyelashes could be so sexy?

  I pushed her into the room and moved behind her so that my mouth was right by her ear, “Open your eyes.”

  She gasped and it melted my heart.

  “How did you,” she whispered, reaching over her shoulder to touch my face.

  “Last week while you were busy with finals.”

  “It’s gorgeous, Breaker.”

  “Come on,” I slid my hands down to her waist, “let’s try this thing out.”

  We both got on gingerly, as not to rock it too much. I grabbed the tiny remote and used it to turn on I Need My Girl, by The National. It was her favorite song.

  “Get closer,” I called to her. Her black hair splayed out, looking like a blot of ink against the white comforter and sheets. I’d bought them on purpose, knowing the beautiful contrast it would be to her raven hair.

  She scooted over and laid her head on my bicep. “Close enough?”

  A plum colored dress covered her curved and I groaned at it. She really shouldn’t wear those dresses. One flick of my wrist and the single piece of material, with no straps, would be history. And even though I couldn’t remove it, I could get close. I’d shied away from other people before. I’d shied away from her. But once I’d touched her, I knew it would never be enough. I always would need more of Ash. I would always crave her voice. I would always
desire her body. I would always plead for her love.

  “Never close enough, but if that’s all you can do.”

  She laughed. It shouldn’t be called a laugh. It should be called a song. Her laugh did things to me.

  “Can we sleep in here,” she asked, yawning.

  “We can.”

  “You promise to hold me?”

  I tucked her form against me and wrapped my legs around her legs. I encircled her waist with one of my arms, the one not being used as her pillow.

  I would always hold her.

  She made me alive again.

  The only part of anguish I retained were those three letters that now consumed my heart.

  Ash.

  The End.

  Next, please read on for Chapter One of Sparrows for Free, a contemporary romance coming soon from Lila Felix.

  Sparrows For Free:

  Aysa

  I like hiding. I need to hide sometimes. I’m not talking about the childhood game where the ‘it’ person counts and finds their playmate who’s hidden in a ridiculous spot. I’m talking about shutting myself into a tight space and forgetting that the rest of the world absolutely loathes breathing the same air as me. When I was a teenager, my hiding spot used to be my room. It was private and I could lock the world away. But now as an adult, I own the apartment that I live in, but still it feels too open, too exposed. I need someplace ever smaller to appease the itch of hiding. I’m like a cow who finds comfort in one of those squeezing machines, knowing that on the other side is a hot branding iron.

  I’m not sure if it’s hiding, or the sensation of being squeezed.

  Maybe it’s the feeling of being held that I like so much.

  Because if something is not holding me together, I just may fall to pieces.

  My favorite spot is the right-hand side of my entertainment center. I know, it’s not made for that purpose, but it fits my purpose perfectly. I bought it for that specific reason. I’m sure most savvy furniture shoppers look for aspects like wood color, size and try to match their other furnishings’ style. I look for cabinet space. The one I have has two enormous cabinets on each side and I made sure that the left one had enough space to hold all of my DVDs and video games, leaving the other side empty as my own personal confessional booth.

  When I admit it to myself, it sounds a bit desperate.

  Okay, it sounds a lot desperate.

  It sounds flat out pathetic.

  I tell no one about my little hiding habit. Scratch that. I tell no one that the hiding habit has somehow continued into my adult life. The people I know wouldn’t care, or would use it as an excuse to alienate me further. I’m not sure it’s even possible for them to alienate me any more than they already do—they seem to be offended by the very breath in my lungs. My mother would have me committed—again. She committed me to a mental facility when I was seventeen for severe depression. I wasn’t depressed. I just liked to be alone where I didn’t have to hear her incessant whining about my father and how he didn’t make enough money to support her needs. And she had no room to complain about him. My dad only worked when he had to in order to insure he always had time to help me with homework or be my confidante.

  I mean, after Irene, they didn’t really trust me with anyone else.

  I lock the doors and turn my phone off. I’ve had to feign lost signal or dead battery more times than I can count when someone calls during my cabinet time.

  Not someone, only two people, my mom or my dad.

  I have to hide. It’s the only way I can cope.

  Today is one of those days.

  I just need to forget the world.

  Just like it always forgets me.

  I would love to say my current spasm stems from something ultra-dramatic like someone called me a bitch or ruined my already flat career. How easy would it be to blame my fears on something so blatant? It wasn’t anything so straightforward. I kinda wish it is something so blatant, that way I’d at least feel semi-justified. Usually, like today, it was the general populations’ passive aggressive behavior aimed at me—or so I perceived it that way. I just happen to be one of these people who gets their feelings hurt all the time. I don’t plan to get hurt or to be so sensitive. It just is.

  I just want to feel safe again.

  I don’t know that I’ve ever felt safe.

  I crawl into the cabinet and shove myself all the way to the back, squeeze my feet in so that my knees are having an intimate meeting with my boobs, curl my toes in, and reach to shut the door. Because inside that cabinet, the world goes away. There’s nothing and no one who can ignore me or pretend I don’t count in the cabinet. I can’t see the disapproving glares or the wordless shared glances of people who shouldn’t mean a thing to me, but who find a way to stab me daily.

  I hate that moment the most.

  The moment you find out you don’t even register as a blip on someone else’s radar.

  Especially if you’ve ever considered that person important in your life.

  And if my brain took the time to work it out thoroughly—if it took the time to explain to my heart that it wasn’t the people around me at all, it was me—I may have a shot. But my heart rules my world, no matter how many times I allow it to shatter—no matter how many patches it has to sew in, it finds a way to beat on.

  I wrap my arms around my knees and blow warm breaths of confessions to them. I confess that I saw the way Leila rolled her eyes at my carb filled lunch as she begrudgingly crunched on her strips of bacon. I tell them how the boss constantly ignores my emails and requests for a raise. I piano my fingers across the bridge of my nose as I recall Adam ignoring my contribution to the idea pool for our new advertisement project. I excuse them with my own shortcomings, of course. Leila is in better shape than me, maybe she was inadvertently trying to give me a clue. The boss is a very busy man. He does read some of my emails. Adam is the leader of our team. It probably wasn’t a good idea anyway.

  See what I mean?

  I excuse everyone but can’t seem to cut myself a break.

  It burns when I see things like the infamous eye-rolling, and I manage to seek them out. I wish I was one of those people who skirted through life not seeing the soundless sneers and jeers of others. I wish I didn’t see the way people shove themselves into the four corners of the elevator when I enter as if I have some communicable disease or social infection. I wish it would all go away.

  I have always been this way. I would spend hours upon hours organizing an event for one of the umpteenth clubs in high school and then be the only name left off of the flyer. I was left off of lists and announcements every single time. I was told I couldn’t go to certain field trips or school activities because they were full—only to find out they were full because spots were being held for the really important people. I’d never be one of the important people. I’d be the one found dead, weeks later, not because anyone missed me—but because I’d offended them one last time with the smell.

  I seemed to offend everyone.

  Or did everyone offend me?

  I can’t remember.

  I know where I am on the totem pole of life. I’m not the eagle on the top or even the fox in the middle who makes children happy. Hell, I’m not even the distorted demon face on the bottom who scares people and makes them wonder why they were there in the first place. No, I am the base of the totem pole, the plain, insignificant foundation that holds the weight of the rest. And life never hesitates to throw it in my face.

  The other reason I love this cabinet is no glass on the doors. I can get in and really pretend I am the queen of a tiny castle. Self-depreciating, weird, queen—I digress. Everyone in here loves me and would never slight me—which is not healthy or honest at all since I’m the only one in here and the first to knock myself down before anyone else gets the chance.

  I clunk my head on the side of my abode knowing that the next day I have to face the cruel world again. I try to make it easier on myself through sarcasm an
d my perfectly honed distraction techniques. But they only take me so far.

  Maybe it’s not the world. Maybe it’s just me. I feel awkward in every conversation. I am the girl who sends an email or an instant message and lets her stomach plummet to the floor if the other person doesn’t answer immediately. I wait for the noise, letting me know I’ve been recognized as alive. I truly have a sense of being some low class moron in the presence of every other person in the world.

  Pathetic—that’s the word I’m looking for.

  I wish I could blame it on horrible parents or some kind of adolescent abusive scenario. I mean I could. But I won’t.

  After hours of crying in my safe place, I emerge. I’m hungry. I go into the kitchen and make a quick bowl of oatmeal. I think of picking up the phone and calling a friend to complain to or to build me up, but the off and on friends I have always treat me like the special kid. Instead of feeling better about myself after I get off the phone, I always feel like I need to put a check in their box.

  Annoyed them enough for the month: check.

  Thoroughly convinced them that I’m mentally unstable: check.

  Blocked my phone number: check.

  I get out of my cabinet after it prescribed me lots of comebacks and quips that I would never use to those people who slight me. No ten Hail Marys for me, just a bunch of ‘F you’s.

  Not that I am every going to tell anyone F you.

  They might not like me anymore.

  Wait, hold up, they already hate you.

  Ugh.

  I eat, perched on the arm of my cream colored couch. Whatever possessed me to get a cream colored couch, fails to come to mind. It’s not white like a cheesy music video couch but yet not brown like the insignificant, cookie cutter person I am. I’m afraid to sit on it, always preoccupied there’s something on my butt. I spend the entirety of my menstrual cycle sitting on my old leather recliner, passed down to me from my grandfather, afraid of a girly incident.

  I suppose it all boils down to trust issues. I’ve always been on the painted end of the one way only side of the friendship sign. I give and give and be as nice as I can be, bordering on kissing their ass until I realize every conversation, every phone call, every get together is initiated by me. I’m never invited to anything or mentioned in conversations. I’m invisible. I’m vapor. Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m strong. I tell myself I’m not going to write, message, call them, or anything. The next time we communicate will be when they want to talk to me. Of course, this begins a spiral. They never do begin any communications with me or even notice my absence. Then I end up caving, letting the desperation of loneliness take over my psyche. So, I message them. Then they act annoyed, lather, rinse and repeat.