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“Of course.”
He and Miguel got back into the limo. They didn’t speak at first, both lost in their own thoughts, trying to figure out what went wrong.
One thing for sure he did know… “We need to talk Izzy and Toni about this, hermano. They know Camille better than anyone. They probably can shed some light on what button we pushed in her that made her shut down.”
* * * *
With her heart thudding in her chest, Cami checked the locks on her door once again. The out-of-control fear was back with a vengeance. She was shaking violently. The driver wasn’t Hank. He was just a nice man with the same name. But no matter how many times she tried to tell herself that fact, it didn’t change the feeling of terror she felt inside. Why can’t I get control of this? I was having a good time. They were being respectful of me.
Hank had been respectful to her at first, and then everything changed. He became a monster. She’d found the courage to sit on the stand and give the testimony that sent him to prison. Where was that courage now?
She brought out her cell, thinking about calling Izzy and Toni. No. I need to face my fears alone this time. Or at least I need to try.
Taking a deep breath, she decided staying busy might take her mind off of the past, so she placed the container from Pierre’s in her refrigerator, walked into her bedroom, slipped out of the black dress and into her PJs, and then went into her bathroom.
As she took off her makeup, she stared at her reflection. “You should have never gone out with them. You’re damaged goods, Cami. They deserve better.”
Tears began to stream out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She collapsed to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, and began to sob. That horrible night so long ago would never go away. It was part of her then, now, and forever. She would never be free. She would never have a chance at love. Why? Because I will never be able to trust again?
She continued to cry until the tears ran out. Exhausted, she climbed into her bed. She left the lights on, something she’d stopped doing several years ago. Am I crazy? Probably.
She pulled the covers over her head and somehow a few more teardrops pooled in her swollen eyes.
Images of Miguel and Roberto standing by the limo outside her house formed in her mind. They looked confused and concerned. She wished she could go back and change the events of the night so that she would never have seen the driver’s nameplate. The end of the date might have turned out differently.
But what if it had? Then it would have only delayed the inevitable. Eventually something else would trigger the old memories to come flooding back. What then? Her heart already felt like it was ripping apart. Another month with Miguel and Roberto? Or, what if things kept moving forward for two more months? Even three? She was now only hanging on by a thread. Any more time with them and she knew she wouldn’t be able to survive losing them.
* * * *
Cami stood next to the limo between Miguel and Roberto. One of her favorite songs by Gya Gaynor was playing on the radio. She held her shoes in one hand and the cake in the other. The night was perfect. Miguel and Roberto were absolutely perfect.
“How did you like the coffee?” their driver asked.
“Delicious,” she said, turning his direction. “I’ve never had better. Your wife’s recipe—”
“My wife’s recipe? But you’re going to be my wife, Cami.”
Her eyes landed on his nameplate. “Hank?”
“That’s right, babe. It’s me.”
She glanced up at the driver’s face and saw the evil eyes she knew too well. He was her ex—the man she feared more than anything else.
She turned to Miguel and Roberto for protection, but they were no longer next to her. She was alone, facing the monster once again. Her house was gone, too. Her street. Everything vanished into an abyss. The only things that remained were Hank, the coffee thermos—and me.
He slammed into her, forcing her to the tiled floor of her apartment. The pain in the back of her head was unbearable. X-rays would show she had a concussion, no doubt. She touched the side of her head and felt the warmth of her own blood on her fingertips.
Why was she here? She hadn’t lived in this place in years. Stretched out on her back, she looked up at the ceiling with the large crack that the landlord refused to repair.
Hank was on top of her, shouting, his body pinning her to the floor. “Fucking whore. Slut. You goddamn bitch.” His breath smelled of bourbon and stale cigarettes.
This was hell. Am I dead?
“You deserve this. You think those two bastards can save you from me?”
“Leave them out of this, Hank. Please.”
He punched, again and again, just as he’d done that horrible night. She tasted blood. He ripped off her clothes. Why was she reliving this night? Oh God, why? Why was she here again? But no answers came, only pain and terror.
