Can't Go Without Page 10

  I can’t believe I’ve added on another round of guilt to accompany me as I go through the rest of my life. It’s unforgivable enough that I wasn’t there with my mom when she took her final agonizing breaths, holding her hand with my dad and my sister. But now, I’ve single-handedly ruined a man’s life. How could I? How could I do that to him—to Tristan—to the only man I’d ever let myself fall in love with?

  How far apart were love and hate anyway? It’s amazing how quickly one person can go from love to hate without ever stopping and truly realizing it. One thing, one word, one infinitesimal event can spiral out of control, severing the bonds of love, and creating a world of hatred and detestation. So what was that one event that left me a bitter, angry, full of hate woman? Simple. Embarrassing. Simply embarrassing. Waking up alone. Pathetic, I know.

  “Babe, after today, I decided something… something big,” Samuel says, adjusting our bodies so we’re face-to-face.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I’ll marry you—if you want,” he says, smiling.

  “You’ll—huh?”

  “Marry you. I’ll marry you if you want,” Samuel repeats.

  Looking at him, I feel fuck-slapped. What in the world is he talking about? “Samuel, is that some sort of proposal? If so, it’s the worst one on record,” I explain.

  “Well, no, I mean, I guess. If you want it to be,” he says, sitting up more. “The whole idea of marriage is stupid. I told you that. It’s archaic and unrealistic—completely absurd to think a relationship can last like that.”

  “We covered that—at length—this morning,” I remind him, just wanting this ass-tastic day to end for God’s sake.

  “I know, but after today, watching it all go down. The wedding, the reception, seeing how much that douchebag wants you, all of it, I thought that if I do get married, it might as well be to you,” Samuel explains. “It’s not like something better’s coming along any time soon, right?”

  “And yet it still gets worse,” I say, getting up to grab my robe and slippers to avoid touching the hotel floor. “No Samuel, I’m not marrying you—especially after that disgusting imitation of a pity-posal… and no… Tristan does not want me. And no, nothing better is coming along—for either of us,” I add before closing the bathroom door.

  Banging on the honeymoon suite door, I yell, “Open this damn door before I put my fucking fist through it.”

  The door swings open and Adrian’s angered, swollen face greets me. “Are you fucking kidding me T? It’s my wedding night.”

  “I don’t give two shits about what night it is,” I counter, storming past him as Kathryn scrambles to cover her body. Tossing the hotel robe to her, I say, “Give me a minute here, Sweetheart.”

  “If you fucking think for a second that you’re gonna come in here and—”

  “Listen up baby bro, I don’t think; I know,” I say, sitting down on the bed while Kathryn scurries out of it. “Don’t test me either. I will be on the phone so fast calling Dad and spilling this whole little scandal all over New Hampshire. You, your little wife, and Leah will all be brought up on extortion and fraud charges so fast, you’ll be Christening your firstborn in some fucking jailhouse chapel—if they even have one.”

  Turning to Kathryn, he takes her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. “Pebbles, why don’t you go on down to Syd’s room? I’ll call you in a few,” Adrian says, hugging her tightly. “It won’t be long—I promise.”

  After Kathryn leaves, I look at Adrian and don’t even recognize the man in front of me. I can no longer see the kid who used to tag along behind me, begging to do whatever it was I was doing. Where’s the kid who would let all my friends and me gut-punch him just so he could go swimming down at the lake with all of us? Where’s the kid who lied to our dad for me about how the dent got on the Bentley? What the fuck happened to him? I’ll tell you what happened. Life. Life fucking happened. Growing up happened. Getting old and misguided and warped happened. And there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.

  “How could you?” I ask. “How could you set me up like that? Fucking throw me to the wolves like that? I’m your fucking brother!”

  “Tristan, it’s not about you. It was never about you,” Adrian says, rubbing his hand along the stubble on his chin and face. “We needed to get Piper out of there. We were desperate.” Adrian sits down at the desk chair, straddling the back of it. “I knew what you did to Leah, so I went to confront her—make amends—find a way to fix it all. Well then, she told us that it was all a lie—a way to teach you a lesson and get her out of debt.”

  “I can’t believe you’re fucking trying to justify this,” I say incredulously. “You can’t justify lying about someone raping a woman. Rape. Fucking rape. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “It was about Piper, T. It was never about you,” Adrian pleads.

  “Never about me? Is this some kind of fucking joke? You sat back while Leah ruined my life—doing nothing to help me—your own brother. You spend all of your time ‘saving the world’ and helping damn poor-ass strangers on the street, but you don’t think twice about fucking over and destroying your own brother, your own flesh and blood.”

  “You don’t get it. You never get it,” Adrian stands, screaming at me. “This wasn’t about you. Not everything in this world is about Mr. Perfect Fucking Tristan O’Donnell. Our sister, our baby sister, needed out, needed to get away from them. Can’t you see that? Or are you too dumb and selfish to get that? You’ll never understand how serious this was Tristan.”

  “I don’t understand? I DON’T UNDERSTAND?” I bellow, angrily, feeling a year’s worth of rage and torment coming to the surface. “Yeah, I don’t understand what it was like to come back to the guest bathroom to look for an extra plunger to take back to my apartment and find my baby sister bleeding from her wrists in the bathroom tub. I don’t understand what it’s like to feel my heart drop to the floor as I try to figure out if I should hold her, grab towels, or call 9-1-1 first.”

  Adrian starts to interrupt me, but I shake my head, holding my hand up to silence him. “I don’t understand what it’s like to stand there scared out of my mind, not being able to move, watching the life drain out of the only good thing our family ever created. I don’t understand what it’s like to talk to the 9-1-1 operator and not even be able to remember my own fucking address, because I’m sitting in a pool of blood, holding my sister in my arms as blood is swirling around us and covering the same little girl I used to help feed and bathe… my sister who hates the color red… and it’s red. It’s really fucking red… and it’s covering her in a dark, deep, death-filled crimson,” I say, my voice catching, as the fear comes crashing back and tears come fucking pouring out as the memories crush me, paralyze me all over again.

  “Yeah Adrian, I don’t understand. You’re right,” I say, my shoulders shaking with each sob and memory. “I don’t understand what it’s like to keep my hand on her fucking neck, praying that the tiniest beat I can feel of her pulse doesn’t stop completely. And yeah, I don’t understand what it’s like to feel it stop. It fucking stopped Adrian, right in my hand. No damn fucking pulse. And I knew my sister, my baby sister, just died in my arms as the slow-as-fuck paramedics came waltzing into the bathroom.

  “But yeah Adrian, you, you who abandoned us all, understand. You, who came in and saved the day, understand,” I say, feeling the anger boiling as all the bottled up and unspoken words of the last few years come spilling out. Grabbing him and shoving him against the wall, holding him in place with one hand, I grit, “You don’t know shit Adrian. You just think you know it all. You only see what you want to see.”

  I release him, breathing heavily and shaking my head in disgust. “You’re the worst kind of hypocrite. The one who thinks he’s all evolved and open-minded, but only opens his eyes to what he wants to see, closing them to everything else.”

  “T, I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” Adrian stammers, tears streaming down his face.


  “Of course, you didn’t know,” I say, my voice catching. “You’ve been too busy living your life, being the martyr, not caring about anything back home. ‘Oh it’s just Tristan; Tristan’ll be fine.’ Well fuck that Adrian,” I argue.

  Pacing the hotel room, I say, “Fine my ass. Every day, it’s ‘just Tristan’ who had to relive that day with Piper. ‘Just Tristan’ has to be reminded of what she looked like when the life drained out of her. ‘Just Tristan’ had to see what she looked like when they wheeled her away—performing CPR and shocking her heart. And ‘just Tristan’ had to stand by when she woke up in the fucking cold, dark, hospital bed… asking… asking for you, Adrian. Not me. She never once asked for me. But that’s okay, it’s ‘just Tristan.’ Don’t worry, it’s ‘just Tristan, he doesn’t care about shit anyway.’ Isn’t that what you all think around here?”

  I can’t take it anymore. My knees buckle as I start quaking, crying in front of my kid brother—the emotions of the past two years spilling forth.

  “That’s fine. We’ll blame him—it’s ‘just Tristan.’ He probably won’t even remember what happened that night anyway. It’s not like it’s the first time he ever took a girl to a hotel. Right Adrian?” I seethe in turmoil and anguish. “It didn’t matter to you that I was falling in love with her—did it Ade? It’s ‘just Tristan,’ right?”

  “You were what?” Adrian asks, coming toward me. “You’re spewing shit so fast I can’t keep the fuck up, man. Did you just say you were in love with Leah? Did you switch back over to Leah now?”

  “Doesn’t fucking matter now, does it? Nothing fucking matters now,” I say, giving up, walking to the door.

  “Tristan, wait, hold up,” is the last thing I hear as the door closes behind me.

  “I’m at the counter now,” I say into the phone. “I’ll just return the keys, sign the turn-in paperwork for the car, and meet you at the gate. Yes, I’m sure… you too Samuel,” I say, before throwing my phone into my carry-on.

  As I sign the paperwork for our rental car and turn over the keys to the counter attendant, I feel a sense of relief wash over me. I am more than ready to leave this God-forsaken place. I heard once that Charleston, South Carolina was the friendliest city in the U.S. Well, I sure as shit didn’t get a vote. I’m more than ready to get back home, back to my life, and leave this place for good. Gathering up my stuff, I turn and head for the escalator, once again coming face-to-face with Tristan-fucking-O’Donnell. I must be in an eternal redemption of Hell.

  There’s no place to run, no place to duck out of sight, just a head on collision with him again. Is this going to be a new, every day penance? It’s getting real old, real fast.

  “Charleston is damn small,” Tristan says, trying to avoid eye contact.

  I fake a small smile—not knowing how to respond.

  “Small airport, one counter for rentals,” he says, nodding toward the sign.

  “Are you flying back now—?”

  Interrupting me, he says, “Nah, changed my plans… I’m gonna kick it here in Charleston for the next few weeks, keep Piper company, while Ade and Kathryn are on their honeymoon.”

  “Why’re you talking to me?” I ask curiously, not understanding his demeanor after last night’s explosion.

  Shaking his head, Tristan shrugs, and says, “I don’t know really. Spent the night on the beach… long night on the beach actually. I guess I’m just too tired… or too pissed to even care anymore.”

  Smiling weakly, I nod. “Tristan, I’m so sorry, if I could, I don’t know, go back and redo—”

  Chuckling, he says, “Isn’t that what it always comes back to, huh? Everything is always a ‘what if?’ Well, it is what it is.” As he starts to walk away, he glances back at me, and says, “Take care of yourself.”

  Tristan’s right, everything is always a series of “what ifs.” I know that if I could go back and relive that night, redo the next morning, things would be so different—so completely different. This time, I wouldn’t be afraid of telling him that I was falling in love with him.

  Tristan O’Donnell had life by the balls. He was second in command at O’Donnell Industries, making a shit ton of money and living every man’s dream. Every night he was either wining and dining some big-wig client or banging and bailing on some blonde or brunette bombshell. Ever since his kid brother, Adrian, broke his father’s heart by applying to medical school, Tristan’s been on the radar for number one in his dad’s eyes. But lately, things were getting stale for Tristan, starting to leave a sour taste in his mouth and in his heart. The parties, the money, the chicks, none of it seemed so fulfilling anymore.

  Tristan started skipping out early on the dinners, blaming the early mornings for his desire to head home before the parties started really heating up. Each night, he stopped in to Lucky Chuck’s to have a drink or two. Tristan told himself that it was a last stop to unwind before calling it a night and going to bed. But a look closer would lead you to believe that Tristan had more on his mind than the whiskey.

  Tristan sat in the same spot, night after night, chatting up the little blonde bartender. The conversation was light and fun, only on the slightly flirty side. That is until the one night when fun and light turned hot and sexy with a side of sweet, slow, succulent seduction.

  “You better watch yourself. People are going to start talking if you keep coming in here every night,” Leah warned, wiping the spot on the bar in front of where he typically sat down.

  “Let ‘em talk,” Tristan shrugged. “Anyway, I’d rather watch you… than watch myself.” He winked at her with a small smirk. It was the wink that got her every time. She’d seen the wink a hundred times—used on every human being with a vagina. And it worked every time. Every single time. There was no resisting his ice blue eyes when the corners squinted, his face lit up, and Tristan O’Donnell winked at you. You were done. Leah knew it—every woman within sight knew it.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Leah said, pouring his whiskey on the rocks, the same drink he nursed every night. “You’re all talk O’Donnell.”

  “You’re the one who lets the O’Donnell boys talk shit about you Franchetti,” Tristan reminded her.

  Back in high school, rumors started flying about Leah being a lesbian. Adrian O’Donnell, Tristan’s kid brother, came to the rescue (and his own) by blabbing around town that she gave good head—really fucking expert head. However, she’d never blown him; he’d never even had a girl’s lips surround him. The rumor spread like wildfire, making her the town slut and him the God of the high school. It was a win-win for both of them.

  “We can always let them talk about shit that’s actually going down. Plus, I’m the hotter, better brother anyway.” He eyed her hungrily, devouring her voraciously with his eyes, and then added, “I wouldn’t mind going dow—”

  “Finish that statement, ass, and you’ll get a face full of tonic,” she threatened, holding the beverage gun in her hand, aiming straight for his face.

  “You wouldn’t,” he challenged.

  “Wanna bet?” Leah countered. “Plus I’ve told you a hundred times. Your brother did me a favor, saved me from high school gossip hell.”

  Then Leah grinned at him. She wouldn’t admit it, but she loved the game they played with each other every night—classic game of hard to get, but harder to handle. “But let’s be honest Tristan,” she said, leaning over the bar toward him, until her breasts were being pushed up by the structure. “Adrian’s sexy; I wouldn’t have minded if one night I really did—”

  Leaping up over the bar, Tristan grabbed the beverage gun and turned it on her, “Don’t you dare finish that statement. That’s my kid brother you’re slandering.”

  “Aww Tristan, I didn’t realize you were so protective of Adrian,” Leah joked. “Or are you just jealous that I flirted with the idea of maybe… I don’t know… sucking off your—”

  Tristan didn’t think; his finger just hit the trigger, spraying her white, tight Lucky Chuck’s tee with tonic water
, saturating the material. Leah squealed and tried to turn from the stream of water, but her movements weren’t fast enough.

  “Oh Tristan, you little fuck, you’re gonna pay for that,” Leah threatened.

  “You gonna soak me too… or charge me an extra 15 bucks for the shirt?” he joked, winking at her and taking a drink of his whiskey.

  “Oh no darling, this payback is going to be way worse… way way worse,” Leah promised, grinning mischievously. Leah unfolded her arms, revealing the wet, transparent t-shirt, as well as her soaked teal bra and hardened nipples. Tristan’s eyes widened as he shifted on the barstool.

  Leah grabbed a handful of the back of her shirt and tied it in the back, tightening and plastering the white shirt to her chest, enhancing the curve and swell of her breasts. “So much worse,” she reiterated, smirking wickedly as she shimmied a little for his visual pleasure.

  Picking up the gun again, Tristan pressed the water button, spraying himself in the face. Shaking his head, he said, “Not cold enough,” finished his drink, smirked at Leah, and poured the ice cubes right on his lap. “Oh, Oh, Oh… yep… that’ll do it.”

  Tossing him a towel, Leah laughed and said, “You’re incorrigible, you know that, right?”

  “So I’ve heard,” Tristan concurred. “Hey, draw me something.” He handed her a small bev nap and took a pen out of his pocket.

  “Draw you something?”

  “Yeah, you always talk about this gallery that you want to open and how much you love art—let’s see what you got, hot shot,” Tristan challenged.

  Leah was hesitant; she didn’t typically just draw things for people, especially for people she tried her damnedest to keep at bay with great inner turmoil and difficulty. It was becoming increasingly harder and harder to resist him, but she was sure as shit that she was going to make him go home each and every night alone—despite his incessant offers and temptations.

  “Yeah doll, put all your thoughts, feelings, and inner desires on paper in one pretty picture that captures it all,” Tristan joked. “Isn’t that what you writer people do?”