Love and War: Part One (Shadows in the Dark Book 1)
Love and War: Part One – Chapter 2

“Eviction notice? What the fuck! I’m not even that far behind. I don’t think . . .”

I grab the bright orange professionally printed sticky note off the door and walk inside. My body automatically navigates to the small, high-end kitchen and I lay it down along with my purse, still staring at it and reading the writing in the black printer ink on the front. It’s signed by my leasing manager. “Three days! That’s impossible. Who could come up with that kind of money to pay a balance in that short amount of time? If I had it, I wouldn’t be late. Dammit. And who the fuck pays for eviction notices to be printed?”

I turn and reach for the liquor cabinet, pulling one of my beloved men from his shelf, along with my skull and crossbones shot glass. I pour until it’s full and bring it just before my lips. “Don’t let me down, Jack.”

I turn it back, allowing him to burn me as I consume the entire glass in one swallow—the way my mother taught me. The most desirable pain. The warmth of the liquid stings its way down my throat, yet a velvety embrace is left behind.

I pour another, repeating the same steps, my thoughts already going there—a place they’re forbidden. “Show me there’s another way,” I whisper.

I pour it down my throat, letting my head fall back as the poison lines my esophagus on the way down, leaving the heated bite behind. My black heart knows there is no other way to come up with that amount of money in a weekend’s time. I have to have a place to live and I refuse to ask Lux for a loan. I never have and I never will.

She’s finally living her dream and she’s . . . settled. God knows most of us run into the Hell we’re lost in. That girl was pushed in fucking barefoot, and besides, she’s not working anymore. I sure as hell am not taking Kaston’s money. My pride would never let me, even if it came to sleeping in my car under some graffiti-covered bridge. And there is no one else. All I’ve ever had in this world besides her is my mother, and that’s not saying much. I’m not sure there was ever a point that she wanted me. I certainly wasn’t planned. It was no secret that my chosen physical appearance embarrassed her. In ways, I think what happened that day was her out for motherhood. After all, it was so easy for her to wash her hands of me.

The comments over the years try their best to surface—I was not cutout to be a mother, nothing about you makes me proud, you’re a financial burden, I never asked for this—but I shove them away with a long swig from the bottle. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Now, I’m a chosen orphan. I’m not convinced it’s any better than abuse, regardless of the method. Loneliness welcomes madness. I sometimes think misery with someone is better than peaceful solitude.

I place my hands on the counter and stare at the small piece of paper once again. When I left, I said I would never go back there. It cost me too much, but the truth is I have no choice. Some people have easy lives while others have it hard from the start. Some people get second chances to light the darkened way they’ve been walking for what seems like forever. And then there are people like me.

I was bred into a single-parent household to a woman that just wanted to party. I lacked a glittery childhood. I was starving for some small speck of attention, preferably male. Female attention wasn’t what people made it out to be and I had no experience with the other. The biggest truth of them all: I was forced to grow up faster than most from making countless bad decisions that will forever haunt me. I’m always going to struggle.

Some of us are just meant to be lost in the dark . . .

I pull my phone out of my purse and search for the contact I haven’t used since I graduated high school; the day I walked away from one person and lost another at the same time.

I hope the number hasn’t changed. There are no other options for me. After a deep breath, I press the call option and hold it to my ear. Three rings and he picks up. “Delta?”

“Hey, Chuck. Can we talk?”

“About?”

“Money.”

“You finally coming back to me?”

“In ways.”

“Meet me in an hour. My office. I’ll leave your name at the door.”

“Okay.”

The call disconnects. Nervousness is brewing in my stomach. I look at my outfit. “I’m going to need different threads for this. It’s time to break out the old suitcase.”

I walk into my room and search through my closet until I replace the dark purple duffle bag on the top shelf, buried under a pile of purses that come crashing down as I try to pull it free without messing anything up. I leave the mess, hauling the bag to my bed.

With every item of clothing I go through memories return; a life I sometimes wish I could forget. Getting what I want takes sacrifice, and this is one I’m willing to make. My hope is that one day I’ll be able to leave all of this behind and never look back. It’ll become a faded memory of my past that I’ll rarely think of.

My hands settle on the short, black dress, pulling it from the bag. I shake it out, releasing some of the wrinkles from it being stowed away. The rest stays where it is and I zip the bag back. It’s going to have to come with me.

I quickly change, pulling on the shredded material that is way too revealing for wear in public. Ink peeks through every gash. It’s what made me purchase something that looks like it’s been mutilated by a lion. There are parts of me that I cannot change, no matter what type of job I’m in.

I walk to my mirror and change out my earrings for a pair a little bigger. I’ve been slowly gauging them out for months until I get to the size I want, which isn’t really all that much bigger than normal earrings. The hole takes up a little less than the circumference of my existing lobe and no more.

I change the ring in my nose to a diamond stud for a more feminine effect, and then reach for my gloss, painting it on my lips but dabbing around the ring that sits snug against my skin in the center of my full bottom lip. Luckily, the rest of me is already made up with smoky eyes and thick liner—the usual standard when I wear makeup. Black and dark are just my colors. Color pop gets thrown in from time to time. My long, black hair reflects the color of my heart, silky smooth and still holding the large barrel curls done from a curling iron this morning.

I pull my high-tops on my feet, the shoes I’ll need later already in the bag with everything else. I take one final glance at myself in the mirror. “Maybe it’s like riding a bike; something you never forget.”

If everything works out, come tomorrow morning I’ll be running on no sleep at the tattoo shop. I just hope and pray Cassie has some strong coffee made and I can make it through without making any mistakes. Pissing off the sexiest fucking asshole alive is not something I want to add to my record, because he’s been ice cold since the day I started . . .

“You wanted to see me?”

I adjust my cleavage, bringing it into full focus, before walking into his office where I drop my duffle bag beside the chair, relieving myself of the weight. “Things haven’t changed much around here,” I state.

His hungry eyes skim over my body, making me slightly uncomfortable. For his age, he’s a good-looking man, still, but it’s an attraction you outgrow with time. It’s funny how often someone we once saw as everything, as beautiful, can suddenly have lost their luster upon seeing them again years later. It makes you wonder what you really saw in them the first time. We grow up, we mature, and just like taste buds over the years, our likes and dislikes change.

“Business is good enough that I don’t need to change things.” The desire may no longer be there, but the need is. Even fat and happy—metaphorically speaking—the starving girl I once was tries to emerge with the sound of his voice. The girl that wants to please him. That wants him to want her. The girl that needs him to love her. The girl that seeks his attention more than she seeks her next breath. The girl I thought I ended long ago.

He shuts the door and locks it, before walking toward me, wasting no time. He’s never been scared of this. He’s never been hesitant. At least, not since the day it all started. Once he broke the ice, he’s never held back. It’s happened again and again and again. He’s always been the big bad lion, yet appealing all the same . . .

I stand in front of my mirror in a pair of black, lace panties and a matching camisole, the barrel of my curling iron wrapped in a section of my long, dark hair, the steam rolling off of it with every second I leave it held to the metal. I release it, letting the large, loose spiral fall free, before picking up another straight section and wrapping it, repeating the steps over and over until my entire head is done.

My makeup is already done. I’m waiting on Lux to come over. There is a house party tonight at Derek Knight’s parents’. They’ve run off to their vacation home this weekend, like they do at least once a month except in winter, and every time they do his house on the lake is full.

He throws the best parties, his older brother scoring the alcohol, and as long as cops are left out of the equation and everything is cleaned up with no evidence of his behavior upon their return, he can do whatever he wants. A free hotel is provided for those who are incapable of driving.

The front door opens and closes. “Lux, I’m back here!” I shout. “I’m almost ready.”

I don’t hear her heels tapping against the lackluster hardwood floors that need sanding and refinishing. Maybe she wore flats tonight. Out of the ordinary, but not impossible. Less hazardous when alcohol is involved for sure. My right arm remains in the air, holding my curling iron, the beginning of a tattoo sleeve running down my shoulder and upper arm, against my mother’s wishes. It’s ‘trashy’ she said. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t give a fuck what she thinks anymore. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

She still can’t figure out how I’m getting them done. I’m underage without an adult’s consent, but that’s the beauty of knowing a tattoo artist and looking like a carbon copy of my mother, only a younger version. Stealing her ID for a day or so at a time is easy, as long as I put it back at the end of each day. She never needs it ‘til night.

A figure in my doorway pulls my attention from my reflection in the mirror. My nerves kick into overdrive as I watch him through the mirror, staring at my backside from his propped position inside the doorframe. He’s been in the picture for a while, as so many before him, and this look is now familiar since I’ve hit puberty and developed a chest size—from him and many others, but he’s the only one that has a reason to look at me this way.

He’s . . . different. He’s stuck around the longest, and he’s always around, even when it’s just me. It was just a little in the beginning when it was forced upon him, but as time goes by, it seems to be voluntarily. It’s usually always just me, but he gives me company. It makes my belly feel warm—something I’ve never felt before.

Our eyes lock, as they often do when he’s around now, waiting to see who initiates it first. It sends a volt of excitement down my spine to a center only I have explored before him. “Where’s—”

“Still at work,” he replies.

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Is she meeting you here?”

“No. She wants to go out. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Another small piece of my heart falls away. A part of me was hoping, just once, that she . . . I sigh. I know better. This is why I don’t care. Over and over again I chant it to myself. “Then why are you here?”

I shouldn’t ask. I know why he’s here. But I still want to hear it. I ‘need’ to hear it. He walks forward. The last section of hair leaves the metal as I press the release on the curling wand. I set it on my old dresser that I’ve painted to match my particular taste, along with everything else in my room. She won’t even come in here anymore. “Because unlike her, I want to be.”

He stops behind me, placing his hands on my hips. The tension I’m carrying is already fading. He’s looked more times than I can count, but the touches feel so much better.

Last week he sat on the couch and watched a movie with me while she locked herself in her room with her wine. Never even acknowledged me when she came home. He noticed as I was putting the dishes away from a dinner set for three that she didn’t show up for. We watched in silence, the occasional word or phrase being exchanged. It was harmless, even though I found myself wishing it wasn’t, but it was . . . nice, nonetheless.

His fingers caress up my sides, not making an attempt to move my undergarments. “She ignores you,” he states.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“But you still try?”

Embarrassment rises. “Yes,” I admit.

“You shouldn’t try so hard on someone that isn’t worthy of the effort put forth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she doesn’t want—”

“She doesn’t,” I finish, his eyes falling to my lips. “Want me. She never has.”

But I still love her, I want to say, even though I wish I didn’t.

“I want you,” he says simply.

And there it is . . .

Three words.

Words that apart mean nothing, but together mean everything.

Words I’ve never heard.

A sentence I’ve wanted to feel.

A phrase that leaves me bare.

I turn in his arms, placing my palm on the back of his hand. I move it slowly to my front and push his fingertips under the waistband of my panties until they graze a part of me that’s never been touched by a masculine hand other than his. And I do something I’ve been doing for a while. Something I’ll never be able to take back. “Then have me.”

His hand ghosts up my arm, pulling me out of my head. I lock my feet to the ground below me, mentally preparing myself to do this if I need to. I’ve done it plenty of times before. Some of those times I truly wanted it. A very small part of me is curious what it would be like to rekindle something I left behind so long ago. With someone that awakened a part of me I never knew existed. Someone that I gave so much to.

My first isn’t worthy of storybooks, unless you were telling a tale of a darker someone, like the villain in the fairytales perhaps. Imagine if the story had ended with the bad succeeding. It would lose all of its magical goodness to a theme of darkness. No one likes those stories, at least not out loud. It may be more dramatic of a story, but happiness lies nowhere in the pages. No one would like me if they knew the person I was deep down.

He grabs my chin between his fingers and rubs his thumb over my lip ring. “You’ve changed.”

“Most people do.”

“Why are you here, Delta? You walked out on me seven years ago.”

“I need my job back.”

“I have enough girls. What’s in it for me?”

I internally cringe. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. The same thing I wanted then. I want you.”

“Do you still talk to Mom?” The question flew out before I could even stop it.

“No. I haven’t since then. It was never about her.”

We stare at each other. The memories are assaulting me, clouding my judgment and making me weak. That person is hard to totally rid of, no matter how long it’s been: the person you gave your virginity to. They take a part of you with them that you can never get back. It’s a void that you can’t cover or replace with someone else. At one point in time I loved him, regardless of how wrong it was.

But a long time has passed. I’ve grown up. I’ve changed. I’ve moved on, but also, there is still that part of me that remembers the way he made me feel when I needed it the most, and maybe that means something. There is one fact I can’t escape: I need the money and he’s the only one that can provide me with it. “I can’t guarantee anything, Chuck. We’re two different people now. But if you give me my job back we can try and see if things are still like they were. It has to be slow. That’s all I can agree to.”

I can already see his face change. He’s happy with my answer. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back. I’ve missed you,” he says, and closes in to kiss me. I let him, because, well, I don’t have much of a choice at this point. Our lips don’t have the right rhythm. It doesn’t give me the rush of emotions that it used to. It used to make me feel wanted, needed, and loved. Now, it just feels familiar.

He breaks the kiss, his hands settling on my waist. Slowly, they start to descend. They always did when he wanted to take things further. “When do you want to start?”

“Tonight.”

“I’m going to need you to sign a contract, Delta. Six-month intervals and then we reassess. I do it with all my girls now to protect my business and my customers. You’re no different. I want you to give this time to see if it’ll work, not just tell me shit to get your way. No running away this time. I loved you and risked everything for us and then you left me high and dry. You fucked my heart up. No companion has lasted long since, because no woman has left a mark on me like you. None of them are you.”

My heart is racing. Six months? Shit. That’s a long-ass time. I was hoping I wouldn’t need two jobs in six months. “Will you work around my day job’s schedule? Guaranteed? I don’t need any shit because the hours vary and it’s not flexible. This isn’t something I can make a career out of, that is.”

“Can you guarantee you’ll work five nights a week if I work with you on the lineup, even if you take the late slots?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

The time period repeats over and over in my head, screaming at me not to do it. “Let me work this weekend just to make sure you still want me here. I haven’t done this in years. I may be bad at it. Then, if everything goes well, Monday morning I’ll make it legally binding.”

He stares into my eyes as he grabs the bottom of my dress and pulls it up my body, removing it. “Only if you put up collateral. I need to know you’re serious. And I need you. It’s been too long.”

My bra is next to leave my body, my chest heaving up and down. I’m faced with a choice. In life a lot of times we are. Nothing is ever simple. There is no right or wrong answer. There simply is the requirement to make a decision. We have to prioritize and bargain to survive. We have to do things that sometimes make us feel dirty, or bought, so I allow my soul to tarnish a little more. “Do you have a condom?”

Without saying another word, he kisses me like a dying man, pushing items off his desk to make room for me, and for the first time in two years I allow a man to have me. The worst part is . . . I was hoping someone different would be the one.