Page 28 of Liberating Bells
Mark is a raging asshole. Stalking in here and telling me to stay away from Izabel, acting like she’s hisproperty. I can’t blame myself for my outburst as I remember the threats falling out of his mouth as if it was a regular conversation.
I brace my arms above my head on the wall and lean forward until my forehead touches the plaster, letting the coolness from the paint ease the remaining anger.
How did it come to this? How did beautiful, sweet, gentle, smart Izabel end up with Mark? How did I lose her tohim?
How do I help her, knowing that staying in this relationship will suffocate her fire more than it already has? How do I convince her of that, too?
I inhale a shaky breath to make myself calm down. Just as I told myself after Bells ran away the other night, I have to be smart about this. I’ll get her back. It might take time, and it might get messy, like Mark said, but it will happen.
Taking another breath, I open my eyes, and I’m shocked to see a liquid crimson trail dripping down the wall next to my arm. My eyes snap to my throbbing hand, and I find the source of the bleeding. Blood trickles down the side of my hand and drips onto the floor below me.
Fuck.
Grabbing a tissue off the small table, I press it against my wound, trying to keep from bleeding everywhere. I head over to my desk and kneel on the floor, my free hand going toward my bottom drawer and pulling it open.
Where is that damn first aid kit?
My non-injured hand digs around, looking for the plastic box with bandages and gauze. I know I bought one when I first got here. Did Lori take it for something? Where else could it be? Instead of plastic, my hand brushes against cold glass, and I hear the familiar sloshing of liquid.
I pull out the bottle of whiskey Derek gave me as an office warming present and stare at it for a second. Whiskey is an antiseptic, right? I hold the bottle between my knees and twist off the cap. Keeping it tightly in one hand, I head into the bathroom positioned off my office. The amber liquid flows overmy wound as I tilt the bottle over the sink, leaving a trail of fire as it seeps into my exposed skin.
With a curse, I bite the inside of my cheek, watching the alcohol wash the blood down the drain in a disgusting mixture of red and brown. Adrenaline is still coursing through my veins, now only increased by the sting. The bottle clangs against the counter as I set it down and reach for some paper towels to wrap around the cut.
I lean back against the wall and slide down until I’m sitting, my knees drawn up to my chest, holding on to my cut-up hand. What a disaster of an afternoon. My eyes dart up to the now half-empty bottle of whiskey. Before I know what I’m doing, I grab it and bring it up to my lips, swallowing a deep swig, just enough to take the edge off. The liquor burns my throat as I let my head fall against the wall and try to focus on my breathing.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but I take a few more gulps of the liquor before I convince myself I have to get back to work. Stumbling to my feet, I manage to get back to my desk. My laptop is still open to my email correspondence, and I start to mull through those again. With heavy and blurry eyes, I try my best to focus. It’s all I can do to silence the ominous leering of the hole in my wall and the echo of Mark’s threats in my memory.
A few days later, I’m sorting through the mail that Lori has just set on my desk. One letter catches my attention. It’s a shimmery silver envelope, the seal stuck down with a fancy sticker. I use my pointer finger to tear across the edge, careful not to rip it. Inside, I find an invitation to the Cedar Ridge Historical Society Gala & Silent Auction. The letter is printed on premium card stock, the script standing out in metallic silver. I run a finger over the bright green Post-it note that was placed on top of the invitation. Written in familiar loopy handwriting, is:
Ryan,
I’m so sorry about the other night. I hope you’ll be able to attend the gala. Bring Josie along. The rest of the gang will be there too. It will be fun!
Yours,
Bells
I frown at the apology. I told her it wasn’t her fault, but I let her signature soothe the hurt.Yours.
“Hey, Ryno!” Josie saunters into my office, briefcase and sketches in hand. “Who’s your favorite architect in the world?”
Dropping the invitation on my desk, I stand and give her a grin, my hands pushing into my pockets. “What do you got for me now?”
Josie does a twirl across my office floor. “Just the finalized plans and permits for the Stevenson project! You, my handsome friend, are as good as gold!”
She stops mid-twirl as she comes face-to-face with my less-than-golden moment from the other day. Josie’s eyes dart between me and the hole in the wall.
“What the hell happened there? I didn’t think my plans were that bad.”
A gruff laugh escapes my chest, and I feel embarrassment set in. “Let’s just say I got into a few disagreements the other day. Some ended better than others.”
“Well, if it was that bad of a disagreement,” Josie says hesitantly, “I’d hate to see the other guy’s wall.”
I force a smile, but I don’t give details about the pathetic temper tantrum I threw after Mark walked out, or the subsequent pity party that included a fine bottle of whiskey. She doesn’t need to know that. No one needs to know that.
Her dark eyebrows bunch together, hazel eyes narrowing, but she doesn’t ask any further questions. She comes closer to my desk and lays out the plans. Her attention snags on theinvitation with the green sticky-note, her eyes quickly reading the jotted message.
“What’s this?”
