Indisputable (12 page)

I need the blade.  I need the delicious silk of
sharp metal to open me at the seams I try so hard to keep stitched
together.  My body is begging for the only release I know how to
utilize.  The only way to free the painful emotions tearing wildly through
my body.

But I can’t.  I don’t have it with me, and even
if I did, I couldn’t risk anyone finding out the fucked up way I deal with my
emotions. 

“I need a shower.  I need to wash him off of
me.”  It’s the only other option open to me.  I jump off Mr. Ryan’s
lap before he can answer me and start to wander down the hall to the bathroom.

“Wait,” he calls after me, and I stop in my
tracks. 

“You can use my bathroom,” he offers.

“Why can’t I use the one down here?” I ask, confused
why it matters which bathroom I shower in.  I just want to hurry up and
scrub away the filth and degradation on my body. 

“You’re drunk, and I don’t want you to slip and hit
your head.  My bathroom has a tub so you can sit down if you need to, and
it’s just more comfortable.  Come on upstairs.  Let me help
you.”  He rushes over to take my arm beneath my elbow and steers me up the
steps.  I’m more intoxicated than I thought.  Several times I trip up
the stairs, but each time, Mr. Ryan is there to catch me.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, getting tired of this
‘Mr. Ryan’ crap.  He knows my first name, and we’ve moved past ‘Miss
Krause.’  I think after today’s events, I should be able to use his first
name.

“Jacoby.”

“Jacoby.”  I test his name out, weighing the feel
of it on my lips.  “Jac-OH-bee,” I repeat, dragging out the ‘o’ sound, and
it probably sounds much worse because I’m drunk.  “I like it.  It
suits you.”

He chuckles beneath his breath.  I know he isn’t
totally stone faced, even though I can’t see him right now. 

He leads me to his bedroom.  A king sized bed
with dark gray sheets dominates the room, complete with a large four poster
frame made of dark, solid pine pillars.  Across from the bed sits a
matching chest of drawers, also of pine, and a large flat screen mounted above
the dresser.  To the left of the bed is a large walk-in closet and from
what I can see, it looks surprisingly empty.  I spot a few button down
dress shirts and two pairs of slacks hanging from the clothing rod.  I
wonder if the other side is just as vacant. 

Off to the right side of the room is a small private hallway
which Jacoby turns down, opening a door to reveal the bathroom.  Inside
sits a his-and-her vanity with a large wall to wall mirror, which is reflecting
a tub and shower from the opposite side of the room.  The toilet sits on
the far left side of the bath. 

Jacoby leaves me by the vanity while he starts to run
the shower.  The bathroom quickly fills up with steam, and the need to
scrub my skin off is making me insane.  He joins me by the vanity again,
pulling open a cabinet to remove a fluffy blue towel and a washing cloth. 
He also removes a comb from a drawer and places it on the vanity, too.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra toothbrush,” he
tells me.  “Are you okay by yourself?  Are you still tipsy?” he asks,
his features soft and full of concern as his eyes steady mine.  I’ve never
noticed how deep brown his eyes are, like the color of melted dark
chocolate.  They’re beautiful and rimmed with thick, long
lashes.  

“I’m fine.  I’m not too dizzy.” 

He turns to leave the bathroom, but pauses.

“I’m going to leave the door open.  I’ll be in
the room so if you need anything, just holler.  And if you feel dizzy, sit
down for a while.” 

“Yes, mother,” I answer sarcastically, a grin
spreading across my face.

“Ah, there’s my girl,” he replies, before leaving the
room.

I walk across the chilly slate tiled floor to strip
down privately, in case he happens to walk by the doorway while I’m
naked.  Bonus points for not having to see my reflection in the mirror
again.  I’m glad he left the door open, though he doesn’t need to worry as
I’m starting to feel more sober. 

The water is deliciously warm when I step into the
shower, and I immediately sink down to my knees beneath the stream. 
Droplets pelt against the sore muscles of my back and I revel in the feeling,
the tension seeping from my abused body. 

Time passes as I soak up the relaxing, soothing
heat.  Rivulets flow down my cheeks, down my chest, and I watch the water
run down between my legs.  Suddenly, I’m overcome with emotion and soap
the washcloth, scrubbing my skin in a desperate attempt to remove the memory of
Wyatt’s touch from me.  My skin begins to turn red before I realize I’m
sobbing.  Not entirely satisfied with the now raw skin of my thighs, I
move the cloth upwards scrubbing my stomach to my breasts to my throat, while
choking against the angst threatening to overcome me.   

“What’s going on?  Are you alright?” Jacoby must
have heard me from the bedroom and come in to check on me.  The safety and
security of the shower had been an illusion, and I failed to realize how loud I
was crying.  Instead of covering up my cries, I stand up and turn off the
shower.

“C-can you hand me a t-towel, p-please?” I stutter,
and I remind myself to breathe.  The soft blue towel appears from around
the shower curtain, and I begin drying my skin before wrapping it around my
body. 

Feeling much calmer than a minute ago, I decide to
share some honesty.  “I wish I could wash away the feeling of his hands on
me.”  I pull back the curtain and come face to face with Jacoby.
 He’s staring at my face with a mix of sadness and sympathy. 

“I know, Sweetheart.  I wish you could,
too.”  He reaches out, offering his hand to help me from the tub. 
When I reach the vanity, I see he put out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for me
to wear.  As if reading my mind, he says, “I thought you’d like something
clean to wear.  I can throw your clothes in the wash for you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll do it when I’m finished. 
You’ve done enough.  Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Why, so you can raid my fridge for more beer?” he
replies with a smirk.

“I think I’m good on beer for now, Mr. Ryan,” I throw
back at him.  “But I should sleep too.  I have to work tomorrow.”

“Get dressed.  We can sort it out once you’re
finished.”  He exits the room before I can argue.

I dress quickly and find Jacoby sitting on the edge of
his bed.  He doesn’t have a hair dryer so I’m combing my wet tangles with
my fingertips when I come to stand awkwardly in his room. 

“Um, where’s the washer?” I ask, not wanting to stare at
his bed any longer.  There’s an intimateness from standing in the place
where he sleeps when I don’t belong in here.   

He leads me to the first floor where he has a stacked
washer and dryer in a closet off the kitchen.  I start a load with my
clothes and used towel, not wanting to leave any work for him to do once I
leave.  After my clothes are in, I stop in the kitchen and begin tying off
the trash bag where I so gloriously threw up earlier while he was sleeping.

“What are you doing?” he asks, because it’s totally
normal for a stranger to take out your trash.

“Uh, I sort of threw up in here earlier,” I answer
shyly. 

“Here, let me take it to the garbage can,” he offers,
but I shake my head.

“No, just point the way.  I don’t need you
handling my puke.”

“And I don’t need you handling my trash,” he throws
back.  Not having the energy to duke it out longer, I hand over the
offensive bag. 

“What time do you work tomorrow,” he questions when he
returns. 

“Ten,” I respond and take a bottle of water he pulled
from the fridge and offers to me.

“You sure you’re okay to go in?  Take a sick
day.  You probably need to relax.”

“I can’t take a sick day.  I had off Thursday
already,” I reply, taking a long pull of the crisp, cool water.  The
iciness soothes the rawness of my throat.

He looks at me strangely and crosses his arms over his
muscled chest.  Shit, don’t think about his muscles. 

“So, you missed class Thursday and Friday, and missed
Thursday at work too?  I think we need to chat tomorrow about what else is
going on with you.” 

“You don’t need to keep tabs on me,” I retort, feeling
angry at his implication and suddenly remembering my conversation with Mr. Stephenson
yesterday.  “There’s nothing wrong with me, and it’s not your business if
and when I miss class or work.” 

“Tatum, talk to me.  I want to help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” I spit back.  “Now if
you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.” 

He sighs, scrubbing his tired face with his palms, but
he doesn’t argue further.  Instead, he maneuvers past me, leading me to a
second bedroom down the hall from the bathroom.  He doesn’t say anything
more to me, gestures with a wave of his hands for me to enter the room, and
leaves without another word.

I hear him climb the stairs before his bedroom door
shuts.  Exhaustion sets in and I lie down, falling asleep before I even
have time to take in the room.

Jacoby

Bright light filters through my eyelids, and I don’t
need the blaring alarm from my phone to tell me morning has finally
arrived.  I struggle to hold onto the last remnants of my dream, knowing
when I open my eyes I’ll be back dealing with the reality I stumbled upon
yesterday.  Back to dealing with the frightened young woman who’s sleeping
in the room below me, hopefully finding a much needed reprieve in her dreams as
well.  Fortunately, I wasn’t plagued by nightmares; the images of Harper
had dissipated once I fell asleep and didn’t return when I went to bed the
second time. 

I blink against the harsh light streaming in from my
window and sigh.  Tatum and I need to have a talk today, either before she
works or after.  Yesterday, I let my emotions—and hers—cloud my judgment
and get the best of me.  With everything that took place, I can’t think of
a single thing I did right besides getting her away from that fucker.  I
need her to open up to me.  I have a lot of unanswered questions. 
Where are her parents?  Why can’t she go home?  Who was that asshole
and where can I find him?  Is she going to report it?  She should
report it.  I could lose my job for not reporting it.  But damnit if
she wasn’t so terrified yesterday.  I couldn’t find it in me to subject
her to that. 

Slipping on sweats and a long sleeved Henley, I step
into the bathroom to brush my teeth.  Today’s Saturday, and I’m not
planning on being in public besides driving Tatum to and from work, so I tousle
my hair with my fingers before heading downstairs. 

I don’t care how I look to her.  I’m her teacher,
not her boyfriend. 

The mental reminder makes me feel a bit awkward, and I
slow my steps down the stairs.  Tatum isn’t too much younger than myself
chronologically, and although her immaturity shines through at times, I can
tell her mental age is far more superior than her peers.  I’m not sure if
I should be treating her like a student or a
friend.             

After stopping by the medicine cabinet, I grab a
bottle of water from the fridge and walk down the hall to the guest room. 
Just as I bring my hand up to knock, the door suddenly swings open.

“I was just coming to wake you.”  Seeing her
sends a pang to my chest, but why?  Nervousness?  Anxiety?  I
can’t put a name to the suddenly heavy feeling in my heart.

“Thanks, but I’m already awake,” she responds, a
glimpse of that attitude I know so well shining through, and it makes me
smile. 

“I brought this for you.  Thought you might be a
little hung over this morning,” I tell her, offering the bottle and the
pills. 

She crosses her arms defiantly.  “I don’t need
them.”

Oh good Lord, we’re back to this.  “Tatum, just
take the damn pills,” I bark a little harsher than I intended.  But it has
the desired effect as she takes the water and medicine from my hands. 

“Thanks,” I sigh tiredly.  “What time do you need
to leave for work?”

She hops from one foot to the other impatiently, or
nervously, I’m not quite sure.  “Um, I work at ten but I need to go by my
apartment for scrubs, if that’s okay,” she asks timidly.  Definitely
nervousness. 

“Of course.  Let me know when you’re
ready.” 

I turn back down the hallway, intent on making a full
pot of coffee.  I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get today while I
help Tatum sort through this mess.  Staying up almost to the crack of dawn
was a terrible idea. 

Tatum asks to leave twenty minutes later.  She’s
directing me to her apartment with small sentences and nods of her head. 
Something changed since last night.  I don’t know if she’s embarrassed or
what, but she’s barely looked at me today.  I try to break the silence
with some of the questions I want to ask her.

“Do you have a car of your own?”  Maybe she walks
to school or takes a bus.  Then I remember the day we met.  On the
side of the road.  Because her car broke down.

“Um, I do, did…do,” she spouts confusingly. 
Taking a deep breath, she tries again.  “I do have a car, but it’s being
fixed.  Wyatt, uh, that guy is fixing it for me.”

“What guy,” I ask, although I already know who she’s
referring to, and my blood boils.

“The one who at-attacked me,” she says, curling into
herself on my passenger seat.  I want to reach over to comfort her, but I
don’t.  She’s acting skittish this morning, and I don’t want to scare her
any more.

“So you know the guy.” 

Silence.

I glance over to catch her nodding her head.

Wait.  “So is this Wyatt, he’s the guy you called
the day your car broke down?”

She nods again, but remains silent.

“How well do you know this guy?” I ask, unable to keep
my voice from dropping two pitches and sounding like a growl.  But I’m
pissed.  When we met, she mentioned calling her friend.  Sliding the
puzzle pieces together in my head, what kind of friend gets a woman alone and
tries to rape her?  I’m overcome with a desperate rush to hurt this
guy.  To make him pay.  

Tatum whimpers and the sound is a nail in my
heart.  She shakes her head at me.  “Not now,” she
whispers.  

I let her have that because she needs time. 
Trying a different tactic, I ask, “Where does he have your car?”  

She doesn’t answer my question, but abruptly she says,
“Turn left here.”

I follow her directions, parking the car in front of a
three story brick apartment building.  There are a few suspicious looking
dudes hanging around outside the front, and I can’t imagine a real nice crowd
lives here. 

“I’ll be right back.”  She leaves before I can
get out another word.

So she knows this guy.  Once referred to him as
her friend.  And he has her car. 

Christ, she must be feeling powerless right now. 
He’s stripped her of any and all comfort and safety she has: her apartment, her
car, her trust.  I hammer my hands against the steering wheel trying to
relieve some frustration.  I have so many questions I want to throw at
her, but I know she’ll need to ease into my interrogation.  She seems
closed off and reserved, like the type of girl who’ll clam up when she’s feeling
overwhelmed.  She may have a big mouth and an even bigger attitude, but I
also know she has anxiety. 

Tatum yanking the door open breaks my train of
thought.  She’s dressed in a pair of bright purple scrubs, and her hair is
styled into a messy pony on top of her head.  It’s incredibly cute. 
Why did I just think that? 

She did a pretty decent job trying to cover her
bruises with makeup.  I wish she would stay home with me today instead of
subjecting herself to a possible interrogation from her coworkers. 

As I shift the car into drive, I notice the backpack
sitting between her feet. 

“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the blue bag. 

Her cheeks flush, and she looks out the window before
answering.  “I grabbed a few things…for your place.” 

“Oh.”  The word slips out of my mouth before I
can stop it and at the look of distress on her face, I rush to comfort
her.  “I mean, that’s great.  I want you to be comfortable.  How
long do you need to stay?” 

She shrugs.

“If it’s a problem, I’m sure I can find somewhere
else.  I don’t want to intrude…” she trails off, and when I peek at her,
her chin is trembling.  She’s trying not to cry. 

How am I supposed to do this?  Where are her
parents?  I know my job wouldn’t agree with me housing a student,
regardless of the circumstances.  I’ll let it go for now, but I need
answers in order for us to continue this…whatever the hell this is.

“It’s not a problem, Sweetheart,” I say, smiling at
her gently.  “Stay as long as you need.” 

Our town is small enough that I manage the short drive
to the nursing home without her directions.  Which is good, because she
hasn’t looked away from the window since we left her apartment.  When I
pull up to the small facility, Tatum doesn’t move right away.  Instead,
she stares down at her hands before turning slightly in her seat to face
me. 

“Thank you for doing this.  I know I was really
rude to you before, and I’m sorry.”

“It makes me happy to help you.  Let me help
you,” I tell her sincerely, imploring her with my eyes and my voice to listen. 
She nods her head again, before opening the door and stepping outside. 
“When are you off?” I call out to her.

“Pick me up at 6:30?” 

“I’ll be here.  One more thing.”  I wait
until she leans down into the car to ask, “Where’s your car at?”

She stiffens noticeably, and shakes her head at me
sadly.  “I’m not sure if it’ll still be in working condition after
yesterday.  I’ll see you later.” 

I watch her until she’s in the building.  Minutes
pass.  Still I sit, contemplating my next move.  It’s dangerous for
me to meddle.  If someone were to realize that I’m her teacher…

I let that thought trail off. 

But I can’t sit back and let her deal with this all
alone.  What kind of man would that make me?  She needs someone to
help her.  Even if it makes me an idiot, I want to be that man.

Like the nursing home, there’s only one mechanic shop
in town.  Unless this guy works 20 miles away or at his own private
garage, he has to be here.  I park out front, scanning the lot on the left
where the cars being serviced are parked.  I forgot to ask her what she
drives, so I can’t tell by looking if her car is here or not.  But I
remember what that punk ass kid looks like, and she mentioned his name was
Wyatt, so I make my way inside.

I step into a small convenience store when I first
walk in, and I can see the service station is near the back.  A young
girl, probably sixteen or so with a small round face and dirty blonde hair is
manning the cash register.  Her eyes go round, and she blushes noticeably
when I lock eyes on her so I decide to question her first.

“Hi, can I help you?” She asks shyly, her voice way
too high for nonchalance. 

“Hey, I’m looking for a mechanic I think works
here.  Do you know someone named Wyatt?” I ask, making eye contact and
trying to not be dismissive towards her childish behavior.  She’s twirling
a strand of hair around her finger and blinking her eyelashes so fast she looks
like she has a tic.

“Oh yeah, Wyatt.  Cool guy.  He’s working in
the garage today.” I cringe inwardly when she slowly runs her tongue along her
lower lip.  Too much.   

“Great, thanks.  Can you point him out to
me?  A buddy of mine told me to see him about doing some work on my truck,
but I’ve never met the guy before.”

“Sure!” she giggles annoyingly as she leads me towards
the shop. 

We step in front of a large 4x4 window, and she points
to a guy standing by a beat up Honda.  Even though he isn’t looking this
way, I recognize the son-of-a-bitch from yesterday. 

“Thanks for your help,” I tell the girl without taking
my eyes off my target.

Before I step into the garage, I take stock of my
surroundings.  Two other guys are talking over a white SUV, and a third is
changing the oil of an Avenger, which means I need to keep things from getting
too messy.  I keep myself in shape, but I’m not too confident about taking
on four guys at once.  As I walk through the door, I slip my Leatherman
out of my pocket, opening the knife and concealing it in my hand beneath my sleeve.

“Hey, you Wyatt?” I ask as I approach, loud enough to
get his attention, but somehow retaining the hostility I’m feeling
inside.  If I didn’t have an audience, I’d jam this knife down his fucking
throat. 

“Yeah, do I know you?”

“I’m here for Tatum’s car,” I reply, ignoring his
question.  If he doesn’t recognize me, then it’s best we keep it that
way. 

He’s surveying my appearance when he scoffs. 
“Seriously dude?  All she has to do is call and I’ll bring it right back
over to her.  I’m not giving it to you.”  He plasters a smug grin on
his face, crosses his scrawny arms over his chest, and leans back against her
car.

“You’re going to give me her fucking car, and you’re
never going to talk to her again,” I threaten through clenched teeth.  My
anger is rising at an alarming rate. 

“Oh yeah?  And why should I listen to you?” he
asks, taking a step towards me.  I reciprocate with a step forward of my
own.  We’re now standing toe to toe, face to face, and I wish I could beat
that smug look off his face.

“You might not remember because you were too busy
getting your ass kicked, but I. Saw. Everything. yesterday, you punk ass little
bitch.”  I step even closer, our chests bumping, and I bite out, “I wasn’t
done beating the shit out of you for what you did, so you’re going to give me
her car and never speak to her again, or I’m calling the cops and your ass will
be sitting in jail.”

He stares at me, and I stare back, not going to be the
first to break contact.  Suddenly, one of the other men approaches us,
probably noticing the tension from across the room.