Rotten

  Copyright © 2013 by JL Brooks

  This book is a work of Fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats

  Chapter One: Letting Go

  Chapter Two: Confession

  Chapter Three: Honor thy Father

  Chapter Four: Hail Mary

  Chapter Five: A Gesture of Kindness

  Chapter Six: Cleaning Up

  Chapter Seven: Sugar

  Chapter Eight: Clearing the Clutter

  Chapter Nine: Exposed

  Chapter Ten: Sheriff

  Chapter Eleven: A Place in the Sun

  Chapter Twelve: Dreams

  Chapter Thirteen: Time to Wake Up

  Chapter Fourteen: Turf Wars

  Chapter Fifteen: Out of Sight

  Chapter Sixteen: Fortune Cookie

  Chapter Seventeen: Heat Wave

  Chapter Eighteen: Restless

  Chapter Nineteen: White Flags

  Chapter Twenty: Dinner for Three

  Chapter Twenty-One: Underestimated

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Surprise

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Head First

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Reality Check

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Chasm

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Little Things

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Whiplash

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Punishable Deeds

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Nowhere to Run

  Chapter Thirty: Recoil

  Chapter Thirty-One: Nothing Else Matters

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Detour

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Last Request

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Borrowed Time

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ride the Wind

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  For the gentle souls who were lost to the unimaginable torment of bullying and felt as though death was the only way to ease their pain, this is for you. To the ones who were nearly swept away, and the ones currently fighting the battle, hold on, you are not alone.

  To learn more about what you can do support the fight against bullying.

  Please visit: www.amandatoddlegacy.org

  This is also for all the angels I have met along the way. You have appeared unexpectedly in the form of friends and strangers, but always when I needed you the most.

  “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”

  -Hebrews 13:2 NIV

  I hated this feeling. I should have known better. It was all too easy to fall into his arms and let him take control. My body deceived me with every graze of his fingertips. Now all that was left was the hollow feeling of being used. He took the one thing about me that was special. Up until three hours ago, I was considered innocent. Now I had become what everyone in town already thought: a whore. There was no good excuse for my actions. Wanting to make sure I didn’t graduate a virgin shouldn’t have been on my priority list, but it was. Never in a million years could I imagine David would do this to me. “You can’t tell anyone,” he said.

  The crushing in my chest worsened with every breath. God, make it stop. But it didn’t. The vice grip across my ribcage tightened minute by minute. I could already hear the kids at school laughing at me as I walked the halls. He would probably tell them it never happened – that I made it up just to sound cooler. They would spit on me and throw things, and knock my books away from my chest like always. I called my daddy to tell him I wasn’t feeling good and that I didn’t know if I would be able to go to school, so I asked him to let me just sleep it off. I never ditched, so he believed me without question. Trying to keep my tears from soaking the baby blue stationary that I wrote my goodbye letter on was easier said than done.

  I couldn’t go without giving him a reason. My daddy would be heartbroken, but surely he would understand. Slipping the small piece of paper in the matching envelope, I scrawled one simple word across the top: Daddy. It wasn’t too hard for me to find the bottle of painkillers my dad used when his back hurt. He always had one on hand. I wasn’t sure how many to take, so I poured the contents of the brown plastic bottle into my palm and swallowed it down with some water. Lying down on the pillow still covered in David’s scent, I cried until the warmth took over. No one would ever miss me, except my daddy, but he would be okay. He wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore.

  I couldn’t recall what happened after that. When I awoke, David was leaning over me with tears in his eyes, my body cradled limply in his arms. He was screaming, but I couldn’t move. I wanted to go back to sleep, yet every time I closed my eyes, he shook me hard and yelled louder. My father was on the phone, sounding just as panicked. An ambulance arrived and the men pried me out of David’s arms and laid me on a gurney. One paramedic took the pill bottle from my dad, who looked at me and threw his hands up in the air in confusion. He then grabbed David by the collar and shook him while pointing to me. I had never seen either of them look so scared. A large needle poked in my shoulder, and adrenaline started coursing through my veins. Sitting up screaming, I was strapped to a board and taken away by the ambulance.

  Daddy sat next to me, holding my hand, red-eyed and broken. I just wanted to go to sleep, never to wake up. This was supposed to be over. An IV was placed in my arm, and once I was admitted to the emergency room, a large tube was shoved down my nose to begin emptying the contents of my stomach while the IV counteracted the drugs in my system. I want my daddy, I want my daddy.

  All I could think about was him coming to comfort me, but they made him stay outside of the room. Just make it stop. Please. Just make it stop. I am desperate. My pleas went unanswered until a few hours later when I was finally in a bed, allowed to sleep in peace. The doctors said they just barely caught me. Any longer and they wouldn’t have been able to save me. After waking up from a long sleep, I was told David noticed I wasn’t at school the next morning. Worried because I never missed, he called the house with no answer. He had a feeling something was wrong, so he skipped second period to check on me, when he found me nearly unconscious, my breathing shallow. Because I told my daddy I didn’t feel well, he didn’t think anything of me sleeping.

  “You should have just let me go.” I didn’t look at David as the words slipped quietly out of my mouth. “I think you should go now, too.” It was killing him, seeing me like this, but he should have left well enough alone. It wasn’t his fault I did this, but the night before was my last straw.

  “Toni, please.”

  Shaking my head, I looked at the door and looked at him before staring out the window.

  “Go.” It was final. I wouldn’t bend. He made the decision to sleep with me and then told me to deny it. Nothing he could say would make it right. I could hear him weeping as he stepped out of the room, but it wasn’t enough.

  My daddy stayed by my bedside for the next week until I was released. We decided I would finish the school year from home and start applying to colleges. I had a strong grade point average that worked in my favor, and they didn’t need to know about my accident. Indiana University offered me a full ride, so I took it. As I walked down the boarding ramp to the airplane, I made myself a promise after kissing my daddy goodbye. I would never step another foot willingly back in Sloan if I didn’t have to. I was getting t
he fresh start I craved for so very long. No one had to know I was the daughter of a roughneck club owner who no one liked. I could be whoever I wanted to be, and no one would know better. So that’s exactly what I did – I became someone else.

  12 years later …

  Father Joseph Laurie was the sweetest man I knew. At ninety-four years old, you would think that the mind would start to slip, yet despite his body falling into decline, his intellect stayed sharp as a tack. I requested this meeting because I was done. I had reached the end of my rope and saw no way out of the situation I was in that wouldn’t alter my good standing with the Catholic Church. To me that title seemed more important than the reality of what was occurring in my life. Surely this man of God would have a solution to my moral dilemma.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I always felt so weird saying that, especially in this moment, but not because I found confession odd. My mouth suddenly became parched, and the iced tea he had served was begging for a quick drink to moisten the desert where my tongue now rested.

  Fuck it.

  Picking up the dripping cold glass, I slowly tasted the slightly bitter liquid as my ears took in his words.

  “Tell me, child, how you have sinned against God.”

  Without any reservation, he quietly sat and waited for my response, his wrinkled hands steady as he picked up his own glass of tea. My eyes began to burn as tears forced their way out of the corners and down my cheeks.

  “I think about other men all the time…constantly…and I can’t shut it off. I have tried everything; I need help.”

  As I sobbed into the massive ball of tissues that was starting to collect on the corner of the table, he reached for a peanut butter cookie and took a small bite while in deep thought.

  “How many men have you thought about? Two or Three? Have you acted upon these thoughts?”

  Shaking my head swiftly, my response was instant.

  “No, never, Father. I would never do such a thing. I love my husband; that’s why I am here. I want to make it stop!”

  Dropping my head, I knew he wanted an answer to the other question as well.

  “No, not two or three. Maybe two or three hundred.”

  He was still intent on hearing me, so I continued with my confession.

  “But you see, I haven’t been intimate with my husband for nearly four years. He has severe diabetes and takes a medication that keeps him from getting aroused. If he doesn’t take it, it’s terrible. I know I am a horrible person, but I just don’t know what to do – it’s driving me crazy!”

  A slight look of shock passed through his eyes at my honesty, yet he did not flinch. I imagined what all this man had heard in the sixty-plus years of service he had devoted his life to.

  “Nearly four years and nothing? That must be very difficult. Has he talked to his doctor? Have you been to counseling?”

  “We know why it keeps happening, he feels awful, and he knows it’s upsetting to me. He is a wonderful husband in every way, but I am only twenty-nine. I think because I don’t physically see the issue, it’s hard for me to come to terms with.”

  His kind blue eyes looked at me with pity. As he formulated his response, I knew it wasn’t going to be what I wanted to hear. I wanted some holy inspired advice that would allow me to walk out of his kitchen and be okay with the world.

  “Stay the course; this is your cross. Ask God for strength, and he will help you carry it. You are on the road to sainthood.”

  He laughed at his last remark. I couldn’t help but laugh, too. Growing up in a small town with a father who owned the local strip club made my skin tough as leather. The endless taunts and teasing from both the kids at school and their parents still haunted my memory no matter how hard I tried to be socially acceptable. As soon as I could leave that forsaken dust bowl, the city of Bloomington welcomed me with open arms. I did what many graduates did – I married a local, bought a corn hole set and tailgated at Hoosier games. It was normal. Somehow this path to sainthood felt just as difficult as the road to hell I was bound for when growing up. At least that is what I was told when I tried to attend Vacation Bible School at the local Baptist church.

  As a psychologist, I know why I think and feel that, and it is completely irrational. In my vain attempts to understand the inner workings of the human mind, I failed to navigate through my own issues. I hid them well, though. Beneath the J. Crew sweater sets and comfortable flat shoes, I was a world away from the g-strings and Lucite stilettos of my past. The only pole I associated with was the one that held flags in my driveway. And the closest I came to Sloan was Las Vegas, where I visited once a year for Father’s Day. I knew my daddy was proud of me, despite my disdain for the family business. It afforded me the ability to form a new identity, one I considered respectable. Speaking to the priest and calling him father made me think of the old man who waited so patiently for his little girl to come home.

  “Father, I have another sin I need to confess.” This time an unperceivable smile pulled at my lips. I wasn’t really sorry, but I thought he could use the laugh.

  “Yes, my child. What would you like to confess to God?”

  “When I was in kindergarten, I made a set of pasties as a craft. I got into trouble, and on the way to the principal’s office, I slapped the teacher on the ass and said, ‘That’s right, sweetheart’. I got kicked out of school that day.”

  Shaking his head, he seemed a little confused. “You were just a child; you didn’t know better. God does not hold those sins against us.”

  The memory that brought me a moment of joy suddenly broke my heart.

  “I knew it would hurt my daddy’s feelings to act out. I sinned knowingly, and I still do.”

  I took another sip of tea, and could feel that my penance would exceed the disappointment of walking out of here without the peace I craved. I should have known better and kept quiet. What did I know about entertaining priests?

  Making the sign of the cross, I was absolved of my sins. My penance was as predicted.

  “I will keep you and your husband in my prayers. Trust that God has a reason for this. Your penance is to stop sinning against your father and to go make things right. Even if you disagree with him, you are still required to respect him. Honor thy father. Sound familiar?”

  Blowing out a deep breath, I gathered the damp tissues in my fist and walked towards the wastebasket in the corner. As I picked up my purse, Father Joseph lifted his hand to speak again.

  “You know why women can’t be priests, right?”

  Shaking my head, I waited for the answer.

  He purposely coughed before the words came out.

  “Because they can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  A brilliant sparkle filled his eyes. And that was why I loved this man. I just told him my darkest secrets, and he left me with a joke. Giving him the biggest smile, I promised to stop by for his anniversary party the next week.

  Honor thy father. The bottle of wine couldn’t empty itself in my glass quickly enough. Scouring travel sites for plane tickets leaving last minute was going to cost me a fortune. Yet the guilt of having a postponed reconciliation weighed far heavier than the deduction to my bank account. My husband, Andrew, never questioned such things. He knew I was the most obsessive compulsive individual on the face of the earth. My closet may be color coded, but in matters of reckoning the soul, all bets were off.

  I would not be able to make Father Joseph’s anniversary as promised. Stopping by with his favorite chicken salad and beloved sweet tea, the dark shadows under my eyes told him everything he needed to know before I opened my mouth.

  “My daddy had a stroke. He’s at the hospital in a coma; I got the call last night.”

  Looking out the window into the cold, dreary afternoon, it was almost as if God was preparing me before this next step of the journey. Some people never have the chance to make things right. I only hoped I had enough time to do so. Father Joseph did not remind me of what he had just spoke
n just a few days ago. After he gave me his blessing, I went on my way. Leaving Indiana with a suitcase full of shorts and sandals at the end of February made me wish I was going anywhere else but home.

  Sloan was a shithole. With a population of less than three hundred people, perhaps you couldn’t expect a whole lot, but this was special. My father’s club was called The Spur of the Moment. The long-standing joke was that it was where strippers came to die. Resting just on the outskirts of Las Vegas, there was no other reason to venture that way. Growing up, I couldn’t deny there was something different about the club. I never witnessed a brawl that didn’t end quickly; it was always packed, and everyone seemed happy. Those small nuances contributed to my warped sense of what life should be and made the harsh remarks that much more severe.

  Still, I hadn’t stepped one foot in Sloan since the day I left at eighteen for college. My father never complained. Stephen Knox had a stoic nature about him, even with the sun beaten skin of years spent riding under the harsh desert light on his Harley Davidson. He held a rigid schedule which he adhered to faithfully. Haircuts every third Sunday, polished his cowboy boots every Tuesday night. Saw his lady friends on Wednesday for lunch, never dinner, and took me into the city every Saturday morning to find a new art project or board game that we would play the rest of the afternoon until he had to leave for work.

  His soft grey eyes were never cross with me, not like they were to those whom he was acquainted. Simply referred to as Knox, he was handsome, no doubt about it. Nevertheless, even being in front of his daughter did not stop him from throwing a punch at some sorry sonofabitch who deserved it. He told me that my mama was a sweet young thing he had no business falling in love with. He met her at the Golden Nugget where she was a cocktail waitress. It took three weeks to convince her to get on his bike. One thing led to another, and she got knocked up. He begged her to marry him, but she kept refusing, even as her belly swelled. The day I was born, she called him to the hospital to come and get me, or she was giving me up.