Ravel

By Shari J. Ryan

At twenty-three, I’m left with a decision. The outcome could be life or death.

Trent hit me once, and I cried. Then he hit me again. And again. After a while, I got used to it, as I slept on the floor beside his bed, night after night.

Everyone told me to leave him, but I can't. He won't let me.

The moment I wanted to give up on myself and any form of hope, Kemper—a tall, sexy Marine just home from Afghanistan walked into my bar. With one look in his eyes, I saw pain that mirrored my own.

At first, I thought maybe he would be my prince charming, riding in to save me, but all it took was one tragedy for me to remember...fairy tales don’t exist in real life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shari J. Ryan
• Release date: Nov 12, 2018

Book preview

Prologue

Dear Journal,

Someday I’m going to see how far I’ve come. I hope these notes will remind me of what I never want to live through again.

When life gets better, I can re-read my history and appreciate everything I have.

I hope someday I can revisit this journal, knowing I survived.

- Daphne

Part I

Chapter One

CURRENT DAY

DAPHNE

Dang it, it’s crazy in here tonight. It’s not even six, and the boys are all wasted. They must have just gotten home from a deployment. Jacey, the owner of the bar, throws a dishrag at me and slaps the newly filled steins down on the counter top. You’re up, girl. I have to go meet with a vendor, and I won’t be back tonight. She taps the bar and gives me a quick wink. You got this.

Yeah, I laugh. Sure. See you tomorrow, lady. She grabs her things and runs out the door, leaving me alone behind the bar with this place over its bodily capacity. This type of crowd seems to appear once a month and I still haven’t figured out why this is the go-to bar. It’s dark and dingy and smells like whatever sticky substance is on the bathroom floor.

Most nights the place sees five patrons, tops. They’re locals and all over the age of sixty, which is why Trent doesn’t care that I work here. If he knew what this place looked like tonight, he’d throw a tantrum. A grown-man sized, child-like tantrum. I’m just going to put that out of my mind right now, though.

It’s been three hours of non-stop beer. When the Marines get home after not being able to drink for months, their tolerance is low, which means I have a bunch of drunken loons on my hands right now.

I skate my focus down the bar, looking for an outstretched hand waiting for their next beer, but I think everyone’s actually happy for the moment.

Except him. Hmm. His elbow is firmly planted on the bar top and his hand is holding up his head. I can’t see his face, but his slouched shoulders and empty beer glass tell me he’s definitely not happy.

Why so glum, Marine? I plop my elbows down on the bar and rest my chin in my hands. Why aren’t you partying with your buddies over there?

He lifts his head to look at me and it’s right this second I realize that if I had any idea what he looked like three seconds ago I wouldn’t have approached him. I know that’s childish, but holy hell he’s a hottie. There’s something about the way men look when they return from overseas. It’s nothing I’d admit out loud because they’ve just gone to hell and back, but they’re always so tan and chiseled. Hardened, in a sexy kind of way. This guy, though, not only is he bronzed and solid, but he’s got these radiant sea-green eyes and his short, dark hair is pushed away from his face, framing his perfection. Not a flaw to be seen, except the sadness in his eyes, of course.

This is exactly why Trent wouldn’t want me here. So I decide to be an asshole and stand up, back away, and pick up the dishrag, completely neglecting the fact that I just asked this obviously doleful man a question.

My brother died over there, he says, stopping me in my tracks. His words gut me. God bless him, the poor thing.

I turn back around, unable to walk away from a heart-wrenching comment like that. You were with your brother overseas? I ask, leaning back down on the bar, watching as his face flushes and his lips droop slightly like he’s losing the battle of holding it together. I don’t know this man, but I’m aching for him—his brother. I can’t even imagine going through something so horrible. No wonder he looks the way he does.

He wasn’t my blood brother, but close enough. It seems like each word rolling off of his tongue physically hurts him, almost like he hadn’t said it out loud until now or like he’s in shock. He pulls in a stiff breath and places his palm down on the bar top. Looking me straight in the eyes, he says, You know, if he were sitting here right now, he’d smack me upside the head and tell me to have one for him.

Without even thinking, I grab a stein from under the bar and place it below the tap, filling it until the foam spills over the lipped rim. I place the glass down in front of him and grab another, filling it the same way.

I hold the second stein up to him. Well then. I swallow the lump forming in my throat—the pain I’m feeling for a complete stranger. To your brother, I say. The corner of his lips turn upward ever so slightly, and he lifts his glass, lightly tapping it against mine.

Thank you, he says, seeming taken aback and a little surprised. That was kind of you. He brings the glass to his lips, and I find myself staring at his mouth, watching as he pulls in the amber liquid. He may be sad, but he’s beautiful. I needed that.

You’re welcome, I say, smiling shyly and feeling a bit breathless by the way he’s looking at me. After a short moment, I’m forced to snap myself out of my gaze and fill a couple of orders being shouted at me.

As I busy myself with what must be the fourth round for every guy in here, I begin to lose track of whose arm was reaching out to me first. It’s getting bad tonight—must’ve been a big homecoming. Just as I’m about to throw my hands up in defeat, the heartbroken man walks around the backside of the bar and starts filling up glasses. Hey you, what do you think you’re doing? I shout over.

I used to bartend, he yells back. And it looks like you need a bit of a hand. I’m not one to turn down free help, especially fine looking free help, but Jacey would have a fit.

Jacey isn’t coming back tonight, though.

It takes less than five minutes to get caught up and now we’re both just standing here looking at each other. Thanks for your help, I offer.

Don’t mention it, he says, smiling, displaying a perfect, white smile, which…ugh…seriously? It makes him look even more tan.

All of the Marines stayed until closing, which required more help behind the bar, forcing me to smell this guy’s delicious cologne every time he walked by me. At one point, he put his hand on my hip while leaning over me to hand someone a beer, and it was like an electric zap straight down the center of my core. God, I felt things I definitely shouldn’t have felt. Sometimes I feel like a caged animal needing to be petted and fed, yearning for more. But that can’t happen. I’m Trent’s property.

As the hour after closing continues to creep by, the bar slowly empties out, each Marine leaving an eerie silence behind them. Thank you, again, I say, letting him know it’s okay to go with the others. I still need to clean up and close the place down.

Give me a rag, he says.

You want a job or something? I smirk.

Sometimes I wish I stayed bartending. I don’t really have the time to work here while I’m enlisted, ya know? But it ain’t so bad. He takes the rag from my hand and wipes the bar down. While I know I should be helping, I’m too busy watching the muscles in his arm flex and relax. Flex and relax. Flex—. I really need to stop staring at him.

So, why are you helping me? I ask while straightening out the wine bottles. What’s in this for him? Trent’s warned me about these guys. They want one thing, and I’m dumb enough to put myself in a situation where they’d expect it. Trent’s one of those guys. I’m alone in a bar with this guy. I don’t have anything to give you, I add.

He stops flexing—I mean, wiping down the bar, and looks up at me…oh those eyes. The things I want to do—but I’m just going to sit here and suffer silently. Can’t I just help you? he asks.

I don’t even know your name. And it’s probably best that I don’t because it might become my new favorite name.

Kemper. A dimpled, side smile tugs at his lips as he wipes his hand off on his jeans and reaches over to me. It’s a pleasure.

He wants to touch me. This is only going to make things worse, but still, I wipe my hand off on my pants too and place it in his. It’s as strong, warm and nice as I thought it might be. It completely engulfs mine, and I catch myself looking at the way his tanned skin looks against my pale hand. This has to stop. I pull my hand from his, realizing it’s been there way longer than a normal handshake. What am I doing? I’m being dumb. I just have to finish up here, and it will be like none of this happened. Except, I kind of like that it did.

As quickly as I can, I finish cleaning and cash out the register. I flip all the lights off and as soon as it goes dark, I see the front door open. Thank goodness, he’s leaving.

Except the door stays open. I pull on my sweater and grab my bag, warily heading for the open door, clutching my belongings as if they’ll save me. But do I really want to be saved? Well. I do, just not from this man. He’s leaning against the door, waiting for me. Why is he waiting for me? Please don’t hurt me, but you can take me away—far away from here, if that’s what you want. Am I drunk? I sound it. I walk out, locking the door behind me, and start towards the parking lot, clicking the unlock button on my key fob, making the lights on my jeep blink. He’s still standing there.

Now he’s following me. Oh my God. Don’t follow me. Or, follow me. It might be okay. I look over my shoulder at him. His hands are in his pockets and he’s smirking at me. Shoot, I’m in trouble—maybe in a good way, maybe in a bad way. I get to my jeep, and he reaches around me and opens the door. You didn’t tell me your name, he says.

I brush by him, sliding into my seat as I place my hand on the door handle, feeling my nerves ignite over every inch of my body. It—it’s Daphne, I stutter out like a fool.

I’m glad I met you, Daphne, he says with a contemplative expression, like he wants to say more. He drops one hand into his pocket and scratches at his chin with the other. If I may say, Miss, that’s one beautiful name you have. Goodnight. With that, he presses his hand into the side of my door and closes it for me. Trent tells me over and over how ugly my name is, and how it’s meant for an old lady. I want to say I don’t care about what Trent says to me, or how it affects me, but I do, and now Kemper said my name is beautiful. It shouldn’t feel so good to hear that, but it does. I should leave. As I press on the gas, I somewhat expect him to try and stop me, but instead, he waves and watches as I pull out of the parking lot. That was weird. Right? It was definitely weird, but also rather…nice.

I’m looking in my rear view mirror, watching the shrinking image of him climbing into his truck. What was that? I ask myself, feeling a smile touch my lips.

I need to breathe. I need to forget about what just happened. I’ll take the long way to Trent’s so I can clear my head and stop thinking about how Kemper’s hand felt on my hip. The way he looked at me—no one has ever looked at me that way. Even the simple act of opening my car door was unreal. It was like a scene from a movie. That stuff doesn’t happen in real life—not in my life, anyway.

As I make my way through the dark roads of Jacksonville, I debate whether or not I should continue driving on to Trent’s house in Richlands. Although I know what will happen if I do that—if I don’t go to Trent’s tonight. I also know I’d be happier sleeping out in the woods alone, listening to nothing but the wind and the howls of animals.

Before I consciously come to a decision, I instinctively pull into Trent’s driveway…or his parent’s driveway, I should say. He lives in his parents’ old house. They supposedly moved away, probably to get as far away from Trent as possible. I wish I could run away from him too, but he’d find me.

I send him a text to open the garage door because that’s how this works. I have to ask and he has to answer. To make it worse, it usually takes him five minutes to find the friggin’ button on his phone, which automatically opens the door for him. He doesn’t even have to move, but I’ve come to know that I can’t interrupt whatever the heck he’s doing.

When the door finally lifts, I walk in, finding the downstairs empty. I remove my sweater and bag and fold them under my arm, noting the pile of dishes in the sink and the brown liquid stain on the floor near the trash. Doing my best to ignore the mess I’m typically forced to clean every night, I shut the light off and head upstairs. Trent?

Yeah, he says, clearly preoccupied.

I walk into what used to be, and still looks like, his childhood room. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and tube socks playing a video game. I’d roll my eyes, but he wouldn’t see or care.

I’m going to bed. I had a long night, I tell him.

Pff. It’s not like you do anything there. What’d you have…five customers tonight?

Yeah, around there. I pull my sheet out from under his bed and roll my coat into a ball, looking at it, knowing there’s no way I’m going to be comfortable on the floor tonight after the night I just had. I’m going to sleep in one of the other rooms tonight. There are two other bedrooms, and no one is using them right now—not that I know of anyway. His friends are always crashing here, which is normally why I can’t sleep in another room, but the hallway was quiet when I walked through.

I’d rather you didn’t, he says. Wheezer and Scoobs might be dropping in late night. It is late night, and because his friends might be coming by, I have to sleep on the floor? Well, I’ll go sleep on the couch downstairs.

Daphne, cut the shit. Just go to sleep. I’ve told you before, I don’t want anyone walking in, seeing you asleep on the couch. Or your bed. Not that I want to share a bed with him at this point, but it sure as hell would beat the floor.

Do they know you make me sleep on the floor? What would they think of that?

He looks at me like I’ve asked something ridiculous. Ah, they’d probably understand how annoying it is to share a bed with someone who can’t lie still for more than two minutes. Or someone who just breathes, I think to myself. I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to stop my chin from trembling. I’ve gotten good at holding back my tears and hiding the pain I feel every day. I don’t want him to see it. He doesn’t deserve that much. I’m just so tired of living like this—being his object. His property. I’ve spent years arguing, fighting back, and trying to stand up for myself. I’ve tried to leave him. I’ve tried to cut him out of my life, but I can’t. He won’t let me. "If you leave, consequences will be dealt, and you won’t like them, as he’s told me. Plus, where else are you going to go. Nobody else will want you." So as always, I stop arguing. I keep my mouth shut and carry on. Why does it have to be this way?

Stuffing some of his clothes under the sheet to give it a little extra padding, I look back up at him. I want to sleep in my car tonight. I want to cry my eyes out and hide my face. I want to the pain to stop. I want to be loved and cared for, and I don’t want to be someone’s prisoner anymore. I just need a way out.

No. You’re sleeping here, next to me. That’s it, he says, his words final and domineering.

I grit my teeth to momentarily numb my undying terror. What if I don’t want to? I ask, testing the waters like I often try to do. I’m hoping someday he’ll tell me to just go.

He crosses his arms over his chest, accentuating his biceps. With his jaw grinding back and forth a few times, I can see his anger growing. You’re not leaving. Got it? No. No, I don’t get it. I should be able to make my own decisions. No one else, especially Trent, should be able to control me. I should be able to fight back and win without being afraid, but he’s proven that I need to fear him. He’s proven it so many damn times.

So I give in. I fold the sheet in half and slip inside, fluffing my sweater up. Don’t fall asleep yet, he says looking back and forth between the TV and me.

I’m tired, I say, to no avail. I hear the Xbox power off, then the lights go off.

Would it help if I said, ‘please?’ he asks as he reaches for my arm, pulling me up, but we both know it doesn’t matter whether or not he says please, as he begins to push my head down between his legs. Trent always gets his way.

What happened next wasn’t pretty. It was humiliating…again. He went too far, and I ended up vomiting all over him. He has a habit of going too far, but he says it’s because I have a bad gag reflex and I’ll eventually figure out how to control it. Without regard for my feelings, and ignoring the tears in my eyes, he threw me a dirty towel and told me to change his sheets. That meant giving him the sheet I sleep on.

I’ve read stories in newspapers about girls like me. From what I’ve seen, these situations have one of two endings. Either the girl ends up dead or she’s rescued. I wonder what the end of my story will be.

Freed from Trent’s needs, I curl back up on the ground, wrapping my arms around my sweater, holding it the way I wish someone would hold me, as I let the tears soak into my makeshift pillow. Most likely, no one will ever hold me this way. When my eyes close, I see Kemper. I shouldn’t be seeing Kemper in my dreams. It could be dangerous for me…and him.

Trent groans and stretches as he sits up, leaning against the headboard and looking over at me. You were sleeping with a smile on your face last night. Were you thinking about me? he asks, doing little to conceal his morning wood. Yes, Trent. After I choked on your disgusting manhood, I was smiling about you. Who wouldn’t smile about that?

I don’t respond. Instead, I stand up and drop my notebook into my bag, avoiding eye contact. What were you writing about? he asks.

You, I say flatly. You—as in, what you did to me last night—what you do to me most nights because some day I hope I can read all of the pages I’ve written about him and realize how lucky I am to be away from him—and still alive.

Aw, babe, that’s sweet. Are you going somewhere? he asks, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, scratching his balls with the other.

The same place I go every morning, Trent, I say with a sigh.

I don’t know why you waste your damn time with that shit. You’re twenty-three, past your prime—give it up. I look at him for a long second, debating whether to offer him a response, but I know where it will lead, and I’m not in the mood to sit in this rotten, beer-scented bedroom with the murky sun glowing through his Power Ranger curtains any longer.

I scoop up my things and head toward his door.

You’re going to the gym today, right? he says, his mouth now muffled in his pillow.

No, I have to be at work early. I reach for the door, desperate to make my escape for the day.

Wait, he says, lifting his head slightly from his pillow. Why do you have to be at work early? In other words, who am I screwing behind his back?

One of the regulars is celebrating his birthday tonight and we’re expecting a large, elderly crowd, I lie. When the guys come home from overseas, the crowd at the bar remains consistent for at least a week.

He nods, believing me—I guess, and fluffs up his three pillows, turning back away. Leave the garage door open on your way out.

There was a time when I’d ask him why he wants me to leave the garage door open since his friends all have keys, when I felt sick thinking about what or who he was doing when I left. Now the only thing I feel is fear of what might happen if I don’t figure out how to get away from him before it’s too late.

Chapter Two

CURRENT DAY

KEMPER

Icame to the bar because I wanted a distraction, and holy shit did I find one. This tiny little thing with blue eyes that light up the room and long caramel hair that touches her ass definitely caught my attention tonight. And that smile…damn.

She asked if I was okay. Someone asked me if I was okay—it’s been years since anyone asked me that. Truth is, I’m so far from okay I don’t know what I am. As good as I’ve been at bottling everything up, I don’t think there’s much room left. The numbness is starting to wear off, and the dark reality I’ve come home to is settling in.

Ignoring everything else around me, I kept my attention on the cutie bartender. I was feeling kind of sorry for how frazzled she was by the seventy Marines hounding her for drinks. I don’t know why someone would leave her to run the place herself on a night like tonight, but frazzled or not, she was determined to get the job done.

I didn’t want to drink—I knew if I did, the reality of it all would hit me like a ton of bricks, but how could I not toast to Rex. That chick not only asked me if I was okay, but then she poured a drink in his honor—it was probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for me.

I hope I didn’t scare her with my completely frayed appearance—the giant bags under my eyes and a seemingly permanent zombie-like stare I can’t seem to fix, but she didn’t seem to care I guess.

I did something I wouldn’t normally do, but when I see someone in need of help, it’s habit to want to do what I can. I made my way around to the back side of the bar and grabbed a couple of steins to start filling some of the orders. Shocked for a quick minute, she stopped to look at me, crinkled her nose and questioned me with hesitance. I wanted to laugh at the cuteness, but I kept a straight face and helped her with the orders. I was getting looks from the guys, but for the most part, they knew not to fuck with me. Not now.

She may not have known it, but I knew exactly what I was doing behind the bar, thanks to the experience I had. Mom and I moved smack-dab in the middle of my senior year of high school after she decided to leave Sloan, the stepdad from hell. Grandma left Mom her trailer when she died a few years before then, so we headed to Alabama, where the trailer was, to start over. It was around that time I realized I had to man up and help Mom any way I could. I needed to because she wasn’t helping herself or me. I didn’t want either of us to live in a trailer for the rest of our lives, so I got a job at the local bar. It was illegal since I wasn’t even eighteen, but it seemed laws were meant to be broken around there.

Anyway, I could tell I was making this chick a bit nervous at first, but she was obviously desperate for a hand so she quickly warmed up to the idea of me helping her. I couldn’t keep up with that crowd if I were on my own, so I can only imagine how she was feeling, surrounded by a bunch of loudmouthed drunks barking out drink orders.

At least helping her out tonight made the hours fly by, but now as I watch her peel out of the lot, leaving me with only a spattering of dust lit up from her brake lights, I’m kind of wishing the evening hadn’t gone by so fast. I wonder where she’s off to…who she’s off too. I should have gotten her number.

Daphne…her name is Daphne. It’s definitely a beautiful name I won’t forget, and it fits her.

As the brake lights disappear into the night, I know it’s time to decide where I should go. I know I’m not going back to my apartment, and I’m certainly not heading back to base. I consider sleeping on the beach, but the pick-up truck is just as comfortable I suppose. The dirt lot here at the bar is empty, and I don’t think anyone would care if I stayed.

I lower the seat all the way back, prop my feet up on the passenger side dash and try my hardest to sleep. I miss my sleeping bag. I miss sleeping under the stars, knowing I was with my brothers if an attack were to occur. I actually miss the missiles whistling in the distance—it was an alarm for us to get ready. Here, though, every time a truck flies by, I damn near have a heart attack. Trucks don’t give you any sort of warning. They’re suddenly there and then they’re gone just as fast. Even explosions give you a rumbling sound as a heads up—a second to take cover.

Civilian life is for the