Finding Tessa by Jaime Hendricks (good story books to read TXT) 📕

with the Mickey Knox character from Natural Born Killers. But this last one was a fucking Don Draper. Did everything right, from the outside. On the inside, it was horrendous.”

“This is the guy who tattooed you?”

“No. Someone else.” I rub my hands over my face. “Look, you got mixed up with a real piece of work. I grew up in backwoods small country. My life sucked.”

“Tessa, it’s not like that anymore. I love you.”

I’ve heard those words before. Usually before or after I got a right hook.

My tone is hushed. Thank God we’re not that close to the next table, but still. “I’m afraid. Of so many things. I couldn’t divorce him. He knew everyone and had tabs on me all the time. You know I don’t drive, and he loved that. It kept me housebound. He’d send neighbors by to ‘check on me’ and he’d send things to the house from his office that needed a signature, so he knew I was home. Most of the times it was just a blank piece of paper in a UPS envelope, but he needed to make sure I was there to sign. Called me at home ten times a day. I was a prisoner.” I sniffle.

“Why did you put up with that?”

“Because it was still better than the alternative. I went from bad relationship to bad relationship, since I was a kid. Sure, every guy in my life knocked me around. It’s just the way it was for me. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known. My mother’s boyfriends were horrible to her, and she just took it. My sisters used to date these pieces of shit too. Even my brothers used to rag on their women. So, with him, that Asshole, I thought it was my ticket out. He at least had a stable job. He wasn’t a trucker or bookie or drug dealer, like the rest of my exes.”

I pause to gauge his disgust, but he’s looking at me with softness in his eyes.

“I didn’t graduate from high school. I lied about going to RISD. I was a waitress at a grease pit when I met him. I lived in a shack. I already had a legal state ID with a different Social Security number, something I figured out how to do when I ran from the last foster home. I preferred to work for cash. I did whatever I had to do to get by. And before you ask, no, I was never a prostitute.”

He chuckles. “Well, you mentioned the Edward Lewis thing from Pretty Woman.”

“Hardy har.” I clear my throat and go on, quietly. “But yeah. Here’s this guy, in a suit, shiny watch, perfect hair, all that stuff. And he took interest in me. Now I know he saw me as a target, but I didn’t know that then. I thought he was rescuing me. The happy ending. He wanted to feel better about himself by telling me all the ways he saved me, probably because he was insecure about shooting blanks—thank God he never fathered a child. With me or anyone else. And you know what? I got the house, the dresses, the shoes, but when the violence started, well, I was already used to being hit by others, so yes, I stayed because at least this time he provided for me.”

“What was it that made you leave?”

I swallow hard. “He smashed a mug into the side of my face with all his strength. The previous broken bones we were able to better explain away, but I knew he was going to kill me.”

Jace winces. “Jesus. Wasn’t that right before Damon—” He doesn’t finish the sentence because he doesn’t have to.

I nod. “Yes, and then there was you. It all happened so fast. So, so fast. And I know he’s looking for me. I’m afraid he’s going to find me.”

“Look at me, Tessa,” Jace says, and grabs both of my hands. Our eyes meet. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m going to protect you at any cost.”

I know he wants to. Jace means well, but what could he really do to protect me from my past?

30

JACE

Jace waited anxiously for the phone to light up with Robert’s number, even though he’d told him it would be a few days before they found out who Bella Johnson really was. He couldn’t believe he’d been duped—so desperate to prove his side that he’d fallen prey to a vulture.

Looking online, the articles from real reporters now spread past the city rag and the county news pages. There was statewide coverage in New Jersey. Fake Bella Johnson had been his only hope, because the other articles were savage, and so were the comments.

For his mental health, which was never a problem in the past, he needed to stop reading all the shit that was said online about him.

The doorbell would ring on occasion, and Candy would bark, but Jace knew better now. If he didn’t recognize the person on the stoop immediately, he didn’t open the door. He’d been relegated to sitting upstairs in his bedroom with Candy, so she wouldn’t get so anxious whenever there was a noise outside. He drew the shades, turned on the TV, pet his dog, and wondered where his wife was. Every time he opened her closet door, he cried. Her perfume smell still clung to some garments that hung, and every time it hit his nose, he’d remember her smile or her crazy hair days, her cooking or her determination. Her side of the sink still had her hair dryer and curling iron and makeup. Like she’d walk in at any second and need a shower and a little grooming. It was what he prayed for.

The cops still had her hairbrush.

Jace texted Gwen, asking her to come over to sort through her things. Maybe she’d spot something that he couldn’t see.

Her reply text was cold.

Yea, thanks, but no. I believed you last week but now I don’t