Interviewed by a sheriff’s deputy? Check.
Threatened via a message written on my TV? Check.
Currently spending the night at my boss’ house? Check.
My. Life. Was. No. Longer. Normal. And I hate this feeling. After managing to make it over a year, setting up a new life, making new friends, settling into a new job, and finally feeling as though I had succeeded in leaving that part of my life behind, the reality of what happened tonight was setting in.
Why? Why now, after a year, was he doing this to me?
Closing my eyes, I hear a scratching sound at the bedroom door. Tentatively turning the doorknob to open the door a crack, I nearly laugh out loud at who’s outside my door.
“You want in, huh?” I mumble quietly. Harley cocks his head to the side. Smiling down at him, I open the door wider. “Come on. I’m about to get cleaned up and change clothes.” His nails click on the hardwood floor of the bedroom, going silent only when he steps onto the area rug the bed is set on.
I close the door again and rummage through the bags to find an array of items; toiletries, underwear and bras, comfortable sleepwear. I choose a pair of loose-fitting, gray pajama pants and a plain, feminine version of a tank top in the same color. With those in hand, I take the plastic bag filled with toiletries and exit the bedroom to head over to the unoccupied bathroom. Harley follows me as he has apparently deemed himself my bodyguard and after closing the door behind us, he sits down.
Finding a few large, fluffy bath towels set out on the vanity, I start the shower, adjusting the water temperature to make it just hot enough to stand. Stripping myself bare, I slip into the shower, allowing the water to cascade over me, fantasizing the water itself is washing all of my worry, fear, anger, and stress away.
As I brace both palms against the tiled shower wall, hot water pelting me from the showerhead above, I give in. I allow it to happen. Once more and that’s it, I promise myself. Then, I have to pull up my big girl panties and get back to the business of not letting this shit mess up my life.
Only once more will I give in to the overwhelming emotions of the day.
Silently crying in my boss’ shower as his dog sits on the other side of the shower door, listening to me, I let it out. I cry for what I allowed to happen to me from the start. I cry, mourning the sweet, na?ve woman I used to be. I cry, the anger rushing through my veins at the audacity of him doing this to me—past and present. I cry thinking of the road ahead of me, as I consider the challenge of dealing with this situation yet again. I cry, fearing what he might try and do to me. And that fear isn’t just for me, but now I have people I know will see through the lies he might try to deliver—people I care deeply for. And the last thing I want is for them to be hurt or harmed in any way.
I cry in anger because I let a man do this to me. But, God willing, it will end once and for all. It will end here, in Fernandina Beach.
It will end here … or I will die trying to end it.
*
Foster’s sister is up to no good. I repeat, Laney Kavanaugh-Mayson is up to no good. At all.
This becomes clear when I realize that in my haste to get cleaned up and change out the day’s clothing, I had not checked the sizes of the pants and tank top. The thing about Foster’s sister? She’s no dummy. And I know she’s been chomping at the bit, dying for her brother and I to have some freaking love connection. Regardless of how many times I repeatedly tell her it isn’t going to happen.
Ever.
So this lovely tank top? It’s a bit too snug across my chest and the material of the bra is thin. So any slight, cool breeze that might come by and perk up my nipples? They’re going to be on display. Firmly. In front of my boss.
Joyous.
Sliding my hands up beneath the front of the tank top, in between it and my bra, I attempt to stretch out the fabric. But I only succeed in making it appear wrinkled and messy. So now I look frumpy.
Super.
“Screw it,” I mumble. I’ve combed out the tangles in my hair, leaving it down to air dry, and brushed my teeth. I cringe at the prospect of Foster seeing me without makeup, but then I remind myself that he’s my boss and nothing more. It doesn’t matter if I step outside the bathroom and he sees my freshly scrubbed face and cringes in horror.
I’m lying. But, hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Glancing down at Harley who’s casually lying on the super soft, plush mat on the bathroom floor, I eye him. “You ready to head out, buddy?” Lowering myself to crouch in front of him, I rub him behind his ears, which I’ve already discovered he loves.
“Ready to help me brave the interrogation I’m pretty sure is about to happen?” I whisper. He nudges the bottom of my chin with his nose as if to say, Chin up, kiddo.