Roses for Layla (The Sweetheart Series Book 1) Read online

  The day came, March tenth, when I could finally afford the chair. I was so proud and couldn’t wait for school to let out. I’d wrote up a to-do list of everything I would do. Sitting around the fire in that damn chair was number one on the list. Summer came and went. Dad hadn’t even mentioned it once.

  The one good thing about cleaning Dad’s truck was that there was always plenty of beer cans. He would sit in it and drink, giving the illusion that he was hiding his drinking from Mom. Every week, I hauled out the cans in a big trash bag and set it behind the garage. By the time next summer rolled around, I cashed in enough cans to afford a new ten-speed bike. The first time I went camping was when I was nineteen. I stood around the fire and threw in that to-do list, watching it burn to ash.

  I’d left my chair at home.

  Chapter Five

  Layla

  Bag of sugar in hand, I enjoyed the sun on my back as I walked down the street, feeling a sense of peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Footsteps behind me ruined the mood. It was a busy city, there were half a dozen footsteps behind me but, these, these footsteps were more menacing. They had a purpose.

  Ducking into the shadows of two buildings, I tried to appear casual as I tried to evade whoever was following me. I rounded a corner. The sugar banged into my leg with every step. It reminded me of the night I ran away from Devin. That had only been two days ago, but it already felt like a lifetime ago. Devin wasn’t stupid. He probably realized I’d run. I wasn’t the type to disappear on him, off on a drug binge. That had happened only once, and it had ended badly. If he caught me now, it would be even worse.

  The footsteps stopped. I took a moment to relax. A strong arm grabbed me from behind, and hot breath caressed my cheek. “I knew you’d still be in town, you little bitch.”

  “Let me or I will kick you so hard, you’ll be lucky to ever have kids.” I threatened in the most intimidating voice I could manage. It was about as intimidating as Simba’s first roar.

  He chuckled, a low wet sound that made my skin crawl. “Already beat ya to it. I have three. Three different whores. After me for money each month.”

  My stomach plummeted, my heart reaching my toes. I couldn’t imagine throwing away your own children. My own mother had chosen drugs over me. Devin’s kids were better off without him.

  It still made me sick whenever I thought of seeing my mother do drugs for the first time. I was four. After she snorted the white powder, she collapsed, her nose bleeding as she shook on the floor. The rest was a merciful blur. That was something no kid should have to see.

  “They all think they’re better than me since they cleaned up their act, gotten corporate jobs instead of dancing on a pole.” His grip around me tightened as he hissed through gritted teeth. “Do you think you’re better than me, Lay-Lay? Huh, do ya?”

  How did he know my name was Layla? “No, Devin, I don’t. Now, please, let me go.” I said, my voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear. I was afraid of what he might do and I was angry that I was afraid.

  “How do I know you won’t run again?”

  “I won’t,” I promised, meaning it. In that moment, I would have promised anything. “I promise I won’t.”

  “So, Lay-Lay, where you been staying?” he asked conversationally as he released me. Your name was on file when you bought the phone, by the way. I knew you’d slip up eventually. You never looked like a Maddie to me.”

  I stepped a few feet away, revulsion bubbling inside my stomach. I had the strongest urge to vomit. I had to lie. He could hurt Ryder. “Around, on the sidewalks.”

  A scowl darkened his face, but his voice remained calm. “You don’t have your bag with you. You don’t have Lilly with you.”

  “I-I left her on a bench.” My knees wobbled and the world around me started to sway. I was close to either passing out or pissing myself from fear, maybe both.

  “Liar!” Devin shouted, pinning me to a wall. “You would never leave her! That damn bear means more to you than your own damn life!”

  The rough bricks scraped my skin as I tried to get away, to fuse with them, to seep in between the cracks. Sadly, I couldn’t do that. I was trapped. I was always trapped.

  And he knew that.

  Minutes, or hours, later, I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a truck multiple times. I was laying in the alleyway, near the corner store. It was dark. It had been hours, then. Devin had forced me to come here. A familiar pain between my legs told me what I needed to know. My phone lay feet from me, a bullet hole through the screen. A clear message.

  Using the wall for support, I stood up slowly, assessing the damage. Everything hurt but seemed to be in working order. I bent down to pick up my phone. It saddened me that I wouldn’t be able to grin like an idiot at Ryder’s earlier texts. Pushing the thought aside, I picked up the plastic bag that contained the bag of sugar. The sugar had spilled. Some of it was on the street, but most of it had stayed inside the plastic bag. I would have sugar for coffee tomorrow. That thought, as stupid as it was, made me so happy I felt tears in my eyes.

  Slowly, I made my way back to the house. With any luck, Ryder would be asleep and I’d be able to crawl into bed unnoticed. I should have known better. I was never lucky.

  “Layla, how long does it take to-” Ryder’s joking grin melted into a look of horror as he saw me. “Wh-what happened to you?”

  “Do you have a container I can put this sugar in?” I asked, holding up the bag. “It kind of spilled.”

  Um, yeah, about that. What happened?” Ryder demanded as he followed me into the kitchen.

  “I don’t see it,” I said, shuffling through one kitchen cupboard after the other, completely ignoring him as he continued to stare holes into the back of my head.

  “Have you even seen yourself?” he asked with a bite to his tone. “Look, if you won’t tell me what happened, at least let me take you to the hospital. You look like you got into a fight with rabid wolves!”

  I sighed, hopping off my chair and trying not to wince at the pain that that action caused. “I was raped.”

  “You-what?” Ryder’s mouth was open and gaping like a fish. His eyes reminded me of a deer caught in headlights. Damn his beautiful, concerned eyes. It was the look any normal person would have. It was the look any normal person should have. It reminded me that I should be upset. That I should feel something. I used to feel something. I used to feel everything. I quickly learned it was better to feel nothing. It was better that way. Most people would say bottling up emotions wasn’t healthy. They were wrong. I didn’t bottle up emotions. Because I didn’t have a bottle anymore.

  “Really, Ryder, it’s fine. I’m fine. I will need a new phone though. Bastard shot it.”

  “The person- They had a gun?” he exclaimed.

  A small, sad self-deprecating smirk played on my lips as I slightly turned away from him. “Of course it was a man. A woman I could have taken.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what happened? I have a therapist on speed dial for when I’m going through rough times. I can call her, we can be in her waiting room in an hour. We can take a bus.”

  The bitterness in my own laugh made my skin crawl. “A therapist? Oh, Blue Eyes, I’m beyond therapy.” I started to walk to my room. I needed half a gram. I needed a gram. I needed my whole damn stash. I needed to hug Lilly.

  “A hospital, then? Something, for Christ’s sake, Layla! You were raped and you’re acting like it’s nothing! You need help! At least let a doctor check to make sure the bastard didn’t injure you down there!”

  I froze and whipped around, looking directly into those dark blue eyes I’d nearly come to trust. “That’s what you suggest? A fucking doctor? Daniels, I know we haven’t known each other long, but when I say I’m fine, I’m fucking fine!”

  “Layla, talk to me. Please.” His voice was small, scared. The poor boy. My voice used to sound like that. The fact that I felt nothing, not even the urge to comfort him, should have scared me.


  But it didn’t.

  I was a heartless monster.

  Chapter Six

  Ryder

  I was raped. The words echoed in my mind as I sat against my bed in my bedroom, alone. There was no late-night concert tonight like I’d expected. No music. No Layla. I was alone tonight. But I wasn’t alone. My thoughts kept me company. I couldn’t wrap my head around why Layla wasn’t more freaked out, or why she wasn’t willing to get help. I couldn’t force her. She was an adult. She wasn’t my fourteen-year-old sister.

  My sister came home at two in the morning on a Tuesday. My mom was on the phone with the police. I was getting ready to go out with my dad to look for her. She stumbled in, gripping my dad so tight her nails were pressed into his forearm, nearly breaking skin. Her shirt was ripped, the button on her jeans was missing, her hair was a mess as if someone had been pulling at it, and she was missing a shoe. “D-daddy…”

  “Oh my God, Rachel! Baby!” My mom hugged her from behind.

  “What happened, princess?” my dad asked Rachel, petting her hair. It did little to stop the tears flowing from her eyes. “Shh, it’s okay. We’re here, honey.”

  “I was at my book club and then everyone left to go home…”

  I was raped. I would never forget Rachel’s words, hers having been said with a thousand times more emotion than Layla’s. Her voice was cracked, broken. Her innocence stolen forever. I could still feel the bastard’s face as my fist collided with it. After my parents took Rachel to the hospital, I ran to the place of the only guy in Rachel’s book club. He was a senior on the football team. He was bragging to his buddies about the freshman girl he just nailed when I walked in. White hot rage swelled inside my chest and exploded like a bomb.

  When I came to, three police officers were pulling me off of a bloodied shell of the once handsome starting quarterback of Westbrook High as a fourth officer threatened to taze me.

  He never played football again. I never went back to school again. I spent the next three days in jail. My dad bailed me out.

  My mom’s eyes were filled with a mix of understanding and sadness. My father’s were a mix of alcohol and anger. After slamming three more beers on top of the ten he’d probably already had, he stormed into my room, picked me up by the back of my neck, and dragged me to the backyard. It started with yelling but ended in a beating.

  It wasn’t the first time I got the belt for misbehaving, but it was the worst. I hadn’t been able to sit for days. It was humiliating. A few months later, my dad and I got into a screaming match. I decided to leave. It was for the best. My illness was only making things worse.

  Even now, properly medicated, it would probably make things worse for Layla and I. Borderline Personality Disorder made me feel everything too much. When I loved, I smothered. When I hated, I burned everything to the ground. My life was extremes. There was no middle for me. It would kill me if I smothered Layla. It killed me knowing I would. Something in my brain left me without that switch every else had, the one that told them to stop, to stay within boundaries. I belonged on the island of misfit toys.

  My heart thudded in my chest and it was hard to draw in enough air. She would hate me. She would hate me. She would hate me. That thought was running laps in my head as I fought to breathe while at the same time fighting the urge to scream. Panic attacks were nothing new, I’d been having them since I was seven, but they were always terrifying. Using the advice of my therapist, I got up, sat on the floor of my room, and tried to identify five things around me using each of my senses.

  My guitar. The sleek brown finish was slightly worn with age. The book on my nightstand, David Copperfield. It was a classic.

  I hadn’t read a single line. I’d never been much of a reader, but Rachel was. She used to tell me about the latest book she was reading. She read one in her book club, and another outside of that for her own personal enjoyment. She loved her book club, but it was nice to not have to talk about every little thing in every book she read, she said. I had made a mental list of all the books she told me about. I was sure I couldn’t possibly remember them all, but I was reading the ones I could. It helped me feel closer to her.

  Three more things. Focus. I was getting off track. My chest tightened. It felt as if I was in the middle of a vice, crushing my lungs. My eyes darted around, looking for something, anything, to focus on. Starry Night, a copy of Van Gogh’s famous painting hung on my wall. My mom painted it for me a few days before I was born. She loved to paint. She said I’d kicked her as she was painting that and said she knew I’d be a creative genius. She was wrong. I didn’t have a creative bone in my body, except for my music. Even then, I had wasted it.

  Focusing on the painting, it was easier to breathe. The colors, the swirls of dark blue, splashes of yellow, calmed me. Mom was right about one thing. Art was calming. My anxiety fell away like water rushing out of an open dam. After a few deep breaths, I got up and strummed a few chords on my guitar.

  It was three in the morning before the flow of creativity stopped. Exhaustion weighed down my arms and legs as I set my guitar down and trudged to bed. My phone glowed.

  Ryder, I need you.

  Chelsea. I would have to change my number tomorrow. Picking up my phone, I began my nightly torture.

  “Ry, I love you. I know it’s been a few years, and I normally don’t call, but it’s Mom…”

  When I opened my eyes, the sun was higher in the sky than usual. Crap, I overslept. Routine was key in managing my disorder. Bolting out of bed, I walked quickly to the kitchen and popped open my pill bottle. The pill tumbled down my throat on a sip of water.

  Layla was nowhere in sight. I sighed. What would I say to her? Did I pretend like nothing happened? It was clearly that was what she wanted. It wasn’t a healthy alternative, but I couldn’t ask her about it, could I? I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by asking about her personal life. She hadn’t even told me her name when I first met her. She was obviously troubled. I wanted to help. She didn’t want my help.

  “Looks like you owe me two breakfast lunches, Mr. Sleepyhead.” Layla said as she walked in. She was fully dressed in a yellow T-shirt and tan capris, looking more awake than I’d ever seen her this early in the morning.

  “Wow, you’re up,” I teased. “Special occasion?”

  Her eyes dropped to the floor almost immediately. “I was…out.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “Listen, I don’t really feel up to cooking. How about I take you out for breakfast?”

  “Sure, sounds great,” Layla said, her mood lifting like a once-wilted flower receiving water. “Mind if I stop at the phone store real quick first?”

  “Sire,” I said, still puzzled at why she had looked down at the floor. I was determined to make Happy Girl stay. Sad Girl wouldn’t be showing her face at all anymore today. Operation Happy Girl was in effect, starting now.

  “Do you want to say a prayer to make sure Chelsea stays away, or would an exorcism be more appropriate?” She smirked.

  I laughed. “C’mon, she isn’t that bad.”

  She shrugged, turning, steps away from her room. “Either way, I look forward to spending the day with you, Blue Eyes.”

  Sitting at a small outdoor cafe, it was another perfect day of Californian weather. After the terrible rainy weather last week, it was nice to see the sun again. The sun helped my mood. I was still waiting for the bad moods to come. It was like balancing on broken eggshells. I didn’t want it to happen. I knew it would eventually, but I didn’t want Layla to see that side of me. I was headed for disaster, waiting to feel the impact of the crash. It was broiling just beneath the surface.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket and I jumped. Layla laughed.

  This is great, Blue Eyes. I’m so hungry I could naw my arm off.

  I looked at her. “Are we really doing this?

  Yes!

  Chuckling, I shook my head. “People are going to think we’re that crazy couple that everyone hates that is always on their pho
nes instead of talking to each other. Are we really going to pretend to be that couple?

  Layla’s grin grew wider as her thumbs tapped as if they were on fire. Yes! We are so going to pretend to be that couple that everyone hates because we’re texting instead of talking to each other!

  I laughed. “Well, you have fun texting. But what are you going to do when the waiter comes to take our order?”

  “I’ll talk. My fingers are getting tired anyway. So, what looks good to you?”

  “I’m getting a big stack of waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. It’s what I get every time I come here for breakfast.”

  Layla looked up from her open menu. “Really? You don’t order anything new?”

  “I like routine,” I said simply.

  “Are you scared?” She laughed. “I triple-dog dare you to order something you’d never tried before.”

  “Oh? A triple-dog dare? Great, now I have to do it. What if we make it fun? You order for me and I’ll order for you.”

  “Game on!” She smiled and shook my hand just as the waiter approached.

  “Are you ready to order?” He held up a pen and a notepad.

  “Yes, she’ll have the short stack of pancakes with a side of fresh fruit.”

  The waiter raised an eyebrow but wrote it down. “And for you, sir?”

  Layla was looking at the menu methodically with a finger to her lips. “He’ll have the egg and hash brown special with a side of buttered toast.”

  She sipped her Diet Coke with a smirk as the confused waiter walked away. “Hope you enjoy your meal, Blue Eyes.”

  I grinned back. “You too,”

  Our food arrived a little while later. The waiter said he hoped we enjoyed our meal and left the table. I grabbed my knife and fork and cut into one of the overly greasy sunny-side-up eggs. Popping a piece into my mouth, I chewed thoughtfully. “Hmm, not bad, sweetheart. How is yours?”