Tragic Beauty (Beauty & The Darkness #1)(4)

I try to keep busy, because I don’t want to think about what’s ahead of me, but by Friday, I can’t think of anything else.

I wake in a sweat with his words tearing through my head.

I’m going to break you.

I’m going to love making you bleed.

A little bit of victory warms me inside. He won’t have the pleasure of making me bleed. At least not that way. I’d lost that part of me back when I was thirteen, when a drifter tried to take me in a ditch on the side of the road, when I was walking home from the bus stop. He’d gotten his fingers up inside me, tearing me open, before Ben drove by and scared him off.

Strange to be grateful for such a thing.

The morning sun peeks through the crooked, yellow curtains I made years ago, and drifts across the small room, sneaking over the crowded bookshelf, over a few Breyer horses, and a tiny closet with a missing door. I lie under the old, blue comforter, curled up in on myself, staring at it all. The terror that’s been sitting inside my gut for the last five years, builds like a geyser, until tears burst through my eyes and I begin to sob. I sob so hard the bed shakes. Of all the horrors I know are coming for me, the most terrifying is that Shayne is going to be my first. I don’t know why that cuts me like it does. It’s not like I need it to be special or romantic or anything like that. I just haven’t had a say in most things in life, and that seems like the kind of thing I’d want to have a say in. I know I made the deal, but I was just a girl then, just trying to survive. And if I’d known what I was—wait—maybe—

An idea sets in then. An idea that has my wheels turning and my sobs fading. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling through puffy eyes, while the idea grows. But could I really do it? Could I really make it happen? Doubt starts creeping in, but then the anger takes hold, and the more his words echo in my ears, the more determined I become to make it happen. Shayne’s already going to get so much of me. That’s how I justify it anyway.

By the time I have a plan in place, it’s afternoon, and I’m making the walk to Ben’s, carrying a platter of roast chicken surrounded by onions and baked sweet potatoes. When I climb the front steps, I can’t help but think of how many flowers used to bloom around the porch railing when his wife, Helen, was alive. Now there are none. I offered to plant some more the spring after she passed, but Ben wouldn’t have it. But he does let me bring him a homemade apple pie, just like Helen used to make. The occasional lasagna, too, or roast chicken, like now. She taught me how to cook after all. He’s never said as much, but I know he appreciates it. I’ve seen his fridge, and his freezer—it’s filled with frozen dinners.

I’m about to knock on the door, when I hear some clanking coming from around back. I go inside, ignoring the whispers of a time long ago, and set the platter in the fridge, so he’ll find it later, then head back out to the workshop, where I know I’ll find him.

I walk behind the house, past the small barn and round corral, and the large hay shed that’s mostly empty now, then turn the corner of the workshop, to see his wiry, old frame hunched over a tractor that’s as ancient as he is. He’s swearing up a storm, as usual. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard him cursing the thing, or seen him kicking its tires when it’s broken down, but he never gets a new one.

I wait for him to finish what he’s doing, eyeing the tangled mess of junk and tools that have gathered over the years. He used to always be out in the hills, tending to his crops of hay, but it’s hard for him now. So most times, he’s just tinkering in here, with his tractor.

Ben finally stands up and jerks back. “Damn it, Ava,” he says, shaking his head. “Better speak up next time, or you’ll give this old man a heart attack.”

My cheeks get hot and I nod.

“Sorry about your father,” he grumbles, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands on.

I nod again, knowing how hard it must be for him to say those words.

He tosses the rag aside and leans against the tractor tire, looking like he was made of worn leather and barbed wire. They don’t make them much tougher than Ben. He reminds me of a bear who lost his honey jar. And in many ways, he has. First, his son in Iraq, then his wife. Now, it’s just him.

“How you holdin’ up?” he asks.

I shrug.

He studies me for a moment, with keen grey eyes, and I know he sees right through me. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, you let me know.”

“Saturday,” I say.

“That’s when you’re leaving?”

I nod.

“Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll watch the place. Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

I shake my head, feeling bad I have to lie. But by the look in his eyes, I sense he knows it’ll be a while. I look down at the ground, unable to face him.

He grunts and I hear the shuffle of his boots when he moves to the red tool chest and begins rummaging around.

A few minutes pass, but I keep standing there, unsure how to bring it up.

“Go on, ask,” he says, still sorting through the mess of tools. “I know you got something on your mind, but I’m no mind reader—much as Helen liked to think.”

I toss the words around, trying to sort out how best to ask. “The Lexus,” I say, just spitting it out. “I’d like to borrow it. Tonight.”