Of Love and Addiction: A Women's Fiction Story: Tainted Love Saga, #6

By Kayla Lowe

Sarah MacKenzie grapples with the consequences of her choices as she tiptoes on the tightrope between loyalty and self-discovery. The lines have been etched in the sand, and Sarah has once again chosen Bruce, this time in a courtroom where the weight of her words could reshape their destiny. In a dramatic twist, she weaves a web of lies to shield her husband, blurring the lines between truth and loyalty.

 

As Sarah takes a stand on the witness stand, her heart aches with the gravity of her decision. Will this sacrifice finally prove to Bruce just how deeply she loves him, or will the specter of forgiveness cast a long shadow over their fragile connection? The intricate dance between devotion and regret begins, and Sarah finds herself caught in the crossfire of her own choices.

 

Yet, as circumstances spiral out of control, the ripples of Sarah's sins extend far beyond the courtroom drama. The fabric of her reality frays, and she is thrust into a series of impossible choices that will reshape the course of her life forever. Will the alliances she forges in the crucible of adversity be the foundation of a stronger, unbreakable bond, or are they threads that will unravel under the strain of hidden truths?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kayla Lowe
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201723736

Kayla Lowe

Award-winning author Kayla Lowe writes women's fiction that explores complex themes with sensitivity and depth. Kayla's books delve into the intricacies of relationships, self-discovery, and resilience. From cozy love stories interspersed with a bit of faith to heartwarming tales of friendship and suspenseful novels of empowerment and heartbreak, her books illustrate the struggles specific to women. When she's not churning out her next novel, you can find her with her feet in the sand and a book in her hand or curled up on the couch with her dogs.  Go to www.authorkaylalowe.com for a free book!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Oh, man, babygirl, Bruce laughed loudly before taking another swig of his beer. Did you see the look on that prick’s face when you kept saying you didn’t remember?

I merely gave him a small smile and nodded. Of course I’d seen the look on the DA’s face when I’d kept parroting the same lie over and over again on the witness stand.

I don’t remember. I don’t remember.

That had been my mantra that fateful day.

Even though Bruce’s case had been thrown out on a technicality a couple of weeks ago and he’d been released from jail, he still kept wanting to rehash everything every time we drank. He alternated between fuming about the injustices imposed on him by the police force, the court, and my parents and cackling with sadistic glee over how our lawyer had outwitted them all by getting him off free and clear.

Technically, Bruce was guilty of what he’d been charged with. He had assaulted me that night, hitting me over and over again in a drunken rage until my nose bled and I was covered in bruises.

And maybe I was a fool, but I’d gotten him off. As horrible as that night had been, I forgave him all of it on the premise that he’d been drinking hard liquor and that wasn’t the real him who’d acted that night.

I’d essentially perjured myself on the witness stand, and I think everyone in the courtroom knew it, but there was no way they could prove it, so I couldn’t be prosecuted for it.

The DA wasn’t the only one who’d been infuriated by my unwillingness to talk that day.

My parents had been as well. In fact, I haven’t talked to them since that day in court. They haven’t contacted me, and I haven’t contacted them either. That day in court was just too much for all of us. The lines had been drawn, and my parents were on the opposite side of us—like Bruce had always told me they would be.

He’d told me repeatedly they would do whatever they had to do to try to keep me away from him, and they’d finally proven it with the whole business in court. Never mind that I had made the mistake of calling them when Bruce was going off on me in his rage. When I’d decided I didn’t want to press charges, my parents and the DA hadn’t wanted to hear it.

They’d been out for blood.

They’d wanted to put Bruce underneath the jailhouse, in the words of the DA.

Despite the no contact order, Bruce and I had hidden out together at a motel when he’d bailed out of jail, but my parents had went on a vigilante search to find us.

And find us they had. They’d apparently seen Bruce outside smoking, and they’d promptly sent the cops over to the motel to pick him up for violating the no contact order.

That day was the last day I spoke to them. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever speak to them again. It had finally come down it. I’d tried to hang on to both my parents and my husband. I’d even dared to think that they were all getting along at one point, but it had all been an act.

My parents would never like Bruce, and he would never like them. That’s just how it was. And they could no longer jerk me around in the middle and play tug of war with me.

I had to pick a side, and I’d picked my husband’s.

I took a sip of my wine and glanced over at Bruce again where he was standing in front of the laptop we had sitting on the counter.

He clicked on the trackpad, and then music began playing through the tower speaker sitting on the floor of our living room.

Dan Hartman’s I Can Dream About You.

I was standing by the window, looking out at the frozen, barren landscape. I felt rather than saw Bruce come over to me. He enfolded me in his arms from behind, his chest pressed against my back.

This is how I felt in that jail separated from my angel princess. He pushed my hair to the side and planted a kiss on my neck right underneath the shell of my ear. Aching to hold you, but all I could do is dream about you until I got back to you.

I melted against him. When he said things like that, how could I not?

I turned in his arms, and he took my wine glass and laid it on the countertop before he pulled me close again and kissed me soundly.

That was the thing about Bruce. He was like a Jekyll and Hyde or something. One moment he could be volatile in his anger. The next he could be the sweet, caring man I’d fallen in love with.

I was glad I was getting Jekyll for the moment rather than Hyde. It was moments like this when I remembered why I’d lied on the witness stand for him. These moments are what made me believe I’d made the right choice not to give up on us. On our love.

But would they last?

As much as I hated to admit it, I’d had a hollow feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach ever since I’d lied on the witness stand to get Bruce’s charges dropped. While I’d also been relieved that the nightmare was over, there was also this feeling of impending doom hanging over my head like some type of terrible foreshadowing that I couldn’t shake. It didn’t make any sense.

I was happy my husband was back with me. Maybe it was just the knowledge that I’d never be able to talk to my parents again that had me feeling that way. I did still talk to Grandma—albeit only once a week, if then. I couldn’t handle her any more than that because she’d start going on in her mournfully sad voice about how it wasn’t right that me and Mom and Dad weren’t talking, like it was all entirely my fault.

First of all, they had a phone, and they’d made no move to contact me. Secondly, even if they did, I wouldn’t answer. I didn’t want to hear from them. They’d never be able to even pretend they could get along with Bruce now that they believed he was beating the crap out of me night and day, and they wouldn’t be able to forgive me for not having him locked up and leaving him.

For the first week Bruce was out of jail, we’d gone on in celebration mode, drinking to his release and staying up all hours of the night dancing and laughing and on a high of being together again. Sure, we’d talked about the trial and his time in jail, but it had all been in upbeat tones. We were just relieved he was home and we were back together again.

The second week is when things started to settle down and turn south. As the freshness of Bruce’s release wore off, he began slipping back into his old ways.

Almost every time we drank now, he was dwelling on all the bad stuff with my parents and recounting it all in angry tones, his eyes furious with rage. Sometimes he would look at me accusingly and make snarky comments about how bad I’d messed up by calling them the night he’d gone berserk on me.

I always ended up apologizing. I apologized to him over and over again, but come to think of it, I’m not sure he ever truly apologized to me for that night once. He’d called it a mistake, and he’d blamed his actions on the scotch he’d been drinking and the stress caused by my parents. But I’m not sure the words I’m sorry for hitting you had ever left his mouth. More like, he just gave me reasons and excuses for why it had happened.

I chose to ignore his lack of apology, though, refusing to see it as the red flag that it was. Instead, I chose to believe that it would never happen again since he hadn’t gotten physical with me since his release from jail. 

And to my knowledge, he didn’t—at first. 

However, I started blacking out more and more again, and I wasn’t purposefully trying to. On the contrary, I was taking care not to black out. However, it seemed no matter how much—or little—I drank, it would happen almost every time. 

And as was customary when I blacked out, I would wake up with new bruises, aches, and pains that Bruce told me were the result of my clumsiness. 

And as the weeks went on, Bruce’s anger when we drank started becoming more volatile again. It didn’t seem to matter if he only drank wine or beer. He was back to raging about my parents even though we no longer had any contact with them. 

He was back to attacking me over jealous insecurities about my old boss back in Florida, which was crazy since it had been at least three years since we’d lived at the Putnam—not to mention the fact that I had never been with another man and never wanted to be either. 

But worst of all was he started blaming me for that night. Any time he started revisiting the night he’d gotten arrested, I tried to steer the conversation away to other topics before he could start brooding on it too much. Because when he did, he would inevitably start talking about how I had run from him, how I had planned on leaving him, how I had called my parents.

But what I couldn't get him to understand was that I hadn't planned on leaving him for good. Or at least I didn't think I had. I was just trying to get away from him until he calmed down. I still trembled when I remembered the murderous, black look in his eyes that night.

But one of those nights when he was going off on one of his rants about all that, I finally snapped and fought back.

What about you? I railed at him. What about how you hit me? Not just once but over and over again. You had my damn nose bleeding, Bruce! You were insane! Completely out of control! You threatened to kill me, and I halfway believed that you would! What was I supposed to do?

His eyes flashed fire as he ignored everything I’d said and instead snarled, You will never leave me!

I lied on the witness stand for you, I shook my head disbelievingly. How is that still not enough for you? How does that still not prove how much I love you? I forgave you for doing something to me most women would never forgive.

Bruce set his jaw stubbornly. He didn't say anything, for a moment. When he did finally speak, he said, You made me do that. You and your parents. I never wanted to hurt you.

I gave a humorless laugh and stared at him in disbelief, wondering why I had chosen to stay with him. "And see that's the thing. You're not sorry for it at all…I don't think you’ve ever told me you're sorry for that night. Instead, you keep justifying your actions and telling me that it's my fault that you hit me."

Then why are you still here? He roared, flinging his hands wide in the air. Why are you still here if I'm so horrible?

Because you said you would never let me leave you! You said you’d kill me if I did! I burst back in a flash of anger and frustration.

Bruce didn't say anything. Instead, he just took another swig of his wine.

Are you sorry? I asked him, shaking with emotion, or do you not even give a crap?

He scowled at me. Of course I am. I feel terrible about all that. What do you want from me? Do you want me to grovel and beg you? Would that prove how sorry I am?

I looked at him standing stubbornly before me, his stance proud and unyielding, hardened. A wave of sadness and defeat washed over me.

No, I answered forlornly, but I would like you to forget about it and stop blaming me for your actions. Like I forgave you and chose to stay with you after everything, I want you to let go of everything from that night too. We can't keep going on like this. We keep fighting about something that’s in the past. We need to move on. My voice was half pleading. I needed Bruce to understand. Why couldn’t we just move past this? If I could put it behind us and I was the victim, why couldn’t he?

Bruce pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it before he walked over to the back door and opened it, silently slipping out and closing it with a resounding thud.

I took several huge sips of my wine. If this was going to be one of those nights, I wanted to numb myself to everything.

I don't know if we fought about all of that anymore that night or not. I blacked out and thankfully had no recollection of any of it. However, I noted new bruises forming on me the next morning. Whether they were really from me falling down like Bruce said or if they were from something more sinister that I didn't even want to imagine, I didn't know.

All I knew for certain is that after the explosive argument that night, there was a new, underlying tension between Bruce and me.

I never should have said what I did, implying that the reason I was still with him was because he said he wouldn't let me leave. Because after that outburst, Bruce had it in his head that I didn't really want to be with him and that I was only with him because he was forcing me to be.

And that put him in a sour mood and led to even more arguments, during which he would swing back and forth, confusing the hell out of me. One minute he would scream at me to leave him if I didn’t really want to be there. The next he would threaten me as to what would happen if I ever did. He would hunt me down. He would kill my parents, and then me. Then, he’d look at me with something akin to tenderness and confess that no, he would never really kill me. That he hadn’t meant any of what he’d said and that he’d just been talking out of hurt and anger.

I noticed he never took back the threat of killing my parents, though.

He could grab me so harshly one moment and then hold me so tenderly the next. The contrast kept me off kilter. I never knew what to expect, and I hung on to the tender moments like they were the lifelines keeping me afloat in our world of chaos.

Our fights began getting worse and worse until I was blacking out on purpose like I used to do back when we lived in Florida and I was depressed after being convicted of driving under the influence. I threw back the wine, schnapps, vodka, whatever Bruce bought me, seeking the instant high of false happiness followed by the pleasant numbness and oblivion that the poison provided.

Winter turned to spring, and spring turned to summer. I was barely aware of the changing seasons. My life was a blurred fog. I didn’t know what day it was most of the time, and the days and nights blurred together too since sometimes Bruce would wake me up in the middle of the night to drink with him, and then we’d go to sleep in the morning. I think I lost whole days at a time.

Without the pressure of having to talk to Mom and Dad every couple of days, I got to where I only called Grandma when I noticed a missed call or voicemail from her on my phone. Our conversations were always super short because I couldn’t bear to hear her voice breaking over the line, always pleading with me to talk to Mom and Dad and make things right.

Since we were no longer talking to Mom and Dad, they weren’t taking us out to get groceries anymore, so Bruce would take a cab every week or two to pick up groceries. I usually stayed behind in the house, too weak or hungover or bruised to go out in public.

My shaking had gotten bad again. I was back to shaking all the time unless I kept a modicum of alcohol in my system.

But Bruce seemed to be kinder to me when I was shaking or throwing up. Oddly enough, it’s almost like he liked taking care of me. He’d pet my head and offer to make me soup for dinner and bring me glasses of wine that he promised would make the shakes go away—and they usually did, at first anyway. Until the next morning when the alcohol started wearing off, and it would all have to start all over again.

Our chaotic drinking schedule became my new norm. The days morphed into months. This was the longest I’d ever gone without talking to Mom and Dad.

Bruce and I still fought on and off, but we had some good times too. He could be so charming and romantic when he wanted to be. He could be funny and charismatic.

But he could also be extremely volatile and irate.

In the times when we were getting along, I convinced myself I was really happy and that he and his love were all I needed

But in the times when he morphed into the Hyde version of himself, I was miserable and depressed. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong that made him that way because it was definitely something I had done. He told me so repeatedly. I didn’t love him enough. I made him do whatever he did.

Being married to Bruce was a constant up and down rollercoaster, but I was determined to stay—and not just because he’d threatened me if I ever tried to leave, though that of course did play a part in my decision.

No, the rollercoaster was one I’d willingly buckled up for when I’d chosen him over my family time and time again. And after perjuring myself on the witness stand to save him from jail, there was no going back.

I’d made my choice, and I’d just have to make the most of it.

Besides, I loved him, and he loved me, and that was the most important thing in the world.

For better or for worse.

CHAPTER 2

There was one night in particular that changed things between Bruce and me irrevocably. It set in motion a chain of events that would send us spiraling toward disaster and from which we would never be able to return.

Bruce had taken to spending longer amounts of time outside when he stepped out to smoke. One day I looked through the open window blinds and saw him sitting on the porch at the house right below ours on the little hill we lived on.

He sat next to a much-younger man. A man who was taller than he was and who looked to be of Latino descent. He had dark hair and olive-toned skin, and he and Bruce were sitting in chairs on his porch drinking beer together.

I pulled back from the window and took a sip of my wine. I was listening to music and was thankful that Bruce didn’t seem to be in one of his Hyde moods that day.

I frowned and wondered how long he’d been going over and talking to our neighbor. He’d been disappearing more and more lately, spending more time outside. I’d just assumed he was on the phone with his buddy Ron who lived in Florida, or maybe one of his family members.

Bruce only ever called people when he was drinking. It seemed that was the only time he liked to talk on the phone.

I didn’t know if it was a good thing for him to make friends with our neighbor or not. I suppose it kept him from being in the house here with me and brooding about stuff and getting angry, but I already had a bad feeling about the fact that our neighbor was a younger guy. I knew how insecure Bruce could be about any man when it came to me. Plus, there was the fact that he’d never mentioned anything about him to me, so maybe he didn’t want me to know about him.

I promptly closed the window blinds. I didn’t want Bruce to catch me looking out at them and then for him to think that maybe I was checking the other guy out.

That would be an all-night fight that I just wasn’t up for.

I continued sipping my wine alone, waiting for him to come back.

He stayed gone for at least an hour, and I started to get pissed that he’d left me alone for so long. He was the one who’d woken me up and demanded I be his drinking buddy, but then he left me all alone.

As much as I didn’t want to fight with him, I also wanted to be around him. He was the only person I really had contact with anymore, and some company was better than none. Especially when he was in a good mood and was being nice to me.

When he finally came back in the front door (even though he’d left through the back door), he was carrying a beer bottle that hadn’t come from our fridge because Bruce tended to drink out of cans lately because they were cheaper than the lager bottles.

Bruce also usually drank Natural Ice or something of that variety that was relatively cheap, but he had a Bud Light lime in his hand.

Compliments of our neighbor, I guess.

I wanted to ask him where he’d been, but it turned out I didn’t need to because he volunteered the information on his own.

Angel princess! he exclaimed like he hadn’t seen me in forever.

I merely cut my eyes up at him from where I sat on the couch with my computer in my lap.

He came over to me and plucked the computer out of my lap, laying it on the coffee table before he launched into his spiel.

"Come down with me to our neighbor’s house. He’s a pretty cool guy, and I