Beautiful Trouble by B. B. Hamel
Winter
We sat together in the back of an armored limo.
At least Darren said it was armored. I couldn’t tell the difference. Three identical limos rolled out in front of us with one more behind. “It’ll be hard to tell which one we’re in,” he said as explanation when I frowned at the line of them parked out front of the house.
His brother was in the lead car. I caught a glimpse from a distance: lean and smiling. All the guards seemed to like him and laughed whenever he spoke.
The opposite of Darren. The men respected Darren—but they didn’t love him.
I couldn’t blame them. He was distant and harsh, barking orders and expecting instant obedience—militaristic, difficult, but fair.
The ride out of South Bend was quiet.
I watched buildings flash past. Crumpled Victorians that must’ve been beautiful in their day, now left to rot in overgrown lots. A sparse, sad downtown, choked with buildings and empty storefronts. College kids lingered outside of a bar, smoking cigarettes.
“How does this place still exist?” I asked softly, mostly to myself.
Darren tapped his fingers on the glass. “The college, mostly. Football games bring in tourist dollars and that’s enough to sustain most of the businesses around here. The Rust Belt used to be full of a thriving middle class, but that’s all gone now.”
“It’s sad, right?”
“Something like that. The world moves on.”
“I think that’s what people say when they don’t want to admit we made a horrible mistake.”
“Spoken like someone still stuck in the past.”
I refused to look at him, but that struck deep into my core. “What do you know about that, anyway?”
“We’ve all got a past, love. Why did you run away from home?”
“I told you. My father was a bastard. Treated my mother like garbage.”
“That’s not the full story. There’s got to be more.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to go there. I wasn’t ready. “A bad thing happened. My father was involved.”
“Involved how?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’ll need to open up eventually, love.”
“Stop calling me that.” I glared at him. We were a couple feet apart, but it felt like he sat right on top of me, pinning me back against the plush leather seat. “And I don’t have to give you more. You’ve got me, that’s enough.”
“I want all of you.” His lips pulled back and he leaned closer. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“No, thanks.”
The limo pulled toward the highway. Darren’s lips parted and his tongue ran along his lower lip. We sped up, bumping along.
“A while back, I figured out something about family. Do you want to hear it?”
“I’m not sure I have much of a choice.”
“No, you don’t.” He ran his fingers along my thigh. I slapped them away, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Family is uniquely able to hurt you. Whether they mean it or not, and usually they don’t.”
“Everyone knows that.”
He nodded absently and looked out the window. Farms flashed past: corn, barns, pens for livestock, and more fields.
“What they don’t know is family always ends in heartbreak. No matter what you do, it hurts. That’s the nature of love. There’s always the opposite.”
“Hate? I don’t think you hate your family.”
“No, not hate. Pain. The opposite of love is pain.”
“That’s a new one.”
He dug his fingers into my legs. I sucked in a breath and grabbed his wrist, but it was like tugging at steel. He moved closer to me, head tilted to the side.
“That’s why is always ends poorly. Opposites attract. There’s always the flip side of every coin. When you love, you have to accept the pain.”
“Spoken like a truly broken man.”
“You think you know better then? What’s love to you?”
“Love’s the only thing that keeps me from drowning myself in the bathtub every night.”
He watched me carefully, not moving, his fingers tensed but no longer painful. He pulled them away and seemed to retract within himself, crossing his arms over his chest.
I frowned a bit, not sure what I said that made him retreat. He’d been having fun a second ago, teasing me and torturing me, and I had to admit that I enjoyed it, too. He was clever when he wanted to be, and his touch sent confusing pings of mixed pleasure and pain all along my spine, spread down between my legs, and left my hands shaking with need.
I wanted to press, but I got the sense it wasn’t the time. Darren was still dangerous, even if he did seem to enjoy toying with my emotions. I could inadvertently step on a mine and watch my limbs explode into a pink spray of gore.
Silence descended as the caravan of black limousines sped past field after field.
The Midwest was strangely flat. Sea Isle was flat—but it also had the rolling dunes and the constant motion of the tides and the bay, stretched out with green floating plant life.
The stretch of highway between South Bend and Chicago was arid and flat, dotted by farms and distant houses. Small towns sprouted up like crops, littered near central lanes, gas stations, downtown shopping districts, and defunct drive-in movies theaters.
I tried to imagine growing up in a place like this instead of upstate New York in my father’s palatial house. People had experienced real loss—of jobs, of family, of industry, of future. I could see myself as a teenager, desperate to leave, just like I was desperate to escape my father’s house.
And I wondered if what happened to me then would’ve happened to me here. If my mom would’ve slipped back into drug abuse. If my father would’ve been a softer man.
If the truth of that night would’ve been enough to make him believe me and step outside of the tiny comfortable world he’d created.
Tragedy had no place in my father’s house. It didn’t matter what kind of tragedy—whether it was his wife’s drug abuse, or an assault on his daughter.
He couldn’t accept it. Not in his perfect life. Those things happened to other people.
Trying to tell him otherwise branded you a liar and a mouthy little bitch.
It took me weeks to work up the courage to tell him what happened. Weeks of worry and self-hatred, of wondering if I was overreacting, if maybe it wasn’t that bad—but it was, it was, it was that bad.
Then the look on his face after I got it all out, let the story spill from my lips, every embarrassing detail, every nightmare second.
His expression was blank. No, worse. His expression was disappointed.
I was so angry when he told me to let it go, that it was in the past, that we couldn’t do anything about it.
I screamed at him. For the first time in my life, I raised my voice in anger, even though I knew it would cost me dearly.
You mouthy little bitch, he shouted as he slapped me across the face.
All for telling him the truth.
For telling him something he didn’t want to hear.
I was fourteen, four years after my mother left. I started planning that night.
And in another four years, I escaped.
Darren wanted that story from me. He wanted a glimpse at what made me the way I was.
And I was tempted to give him the ugly truth, because I was afraid he’d react like my father—with anger and denial.
If that happened, any lingering desire for him would vanish, and I’d be free of this stupid, jarring, physical need.
I looked at him, watched his face as he watched the landscape. I wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, just to see how he’d react. I could do it—he was inches away. It wouldn’t be hard.
The first explosion sent me sideways against the door so hard I thought my shoulder might pop free from its socket.
