To Hell and Back Read online

  “I don’t need a hero or a knight. I just need to go home.” Wow, who would have thought Carson Malone would be such a mess? As if someone like me could make him the slightest bit anxious. I’m not sure what his deal is but it’s possible that my teenage fantasies have just been shattered.

  “Okay, well, I can help with that. Like I said, I have a driver outside and we would be more than happy to bring you home.”

  He’s starting to get it together; less rambling, more confidence. I’m not sure what brings a television star to Marshall, Pennsylvania – otherwise known as the middle of nowhere – but since he’s here and willing, and I could really use a ride home, I’ll go with it. The last thing I need is to pass out again on the side of the road. I need to get home where I can down some of this medicine and maybe a bowl of soup. If I’m lucky I can probably nod off for another half an hour or so before Hank wakes up. That’s assuming I wasn’t unconscious more than a minute or two. I don’t think I was; if I was out that long there would be an ambulance here by now.

  “Okay, sure. Thanks for the offer. I just live a couple of blocks down so it will only take a minute.”

  “Better than you ending up out cold on the side of the road, right?”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “You don’t want to swing by the hospital to get checked out or anything first? It looks like you might have a little swelling on your face. Does it hurt at all?”

  It hurts like a bitch, actually. Dammit, Hank. It had to be the face today. “No, really, it’s fine. With all the stuffiness and eye watering I think I’m just a little puffy.” Yep, super sexy. This is just how I always wanted to meet this guy; talking about the goo that comes from my nose. Lord, please just get me out of here.

  “Okay, home it is.”

  Less than five minutes later Lucy, a spitfire of a woman with red hair way too bright to be natural and a sense of humor that goes on for miles, pulls up to my house. I’ve asked her to just let me out by the curb rather than pull in the driveway. There is a much smaller chance of waking Hank that way. I have no idea how I would explain a Lexus parked in the driveway, let alone one containing a life-sized caricature of Lucille Ball and a Hollywood hunk. Carson, who I have noticed has introduced me to Lucy but not introduced himself, offers to walk me to the door, but I decline and thank them both.

  Walking into the house, I find myself wishing again that I still had friends close enough to call for some gossip. Sure, the gossip is about me, but it isn’t every day some girl in Marshall is brought home by a TV vampire. Those thoughts are short-lived as I hear Hank head down the upstairs hallway toward the bathroom. I down the meds I picked up and decide to start heating some soup anyway. Hopefully Hank will have sobered up a bit and will be ready for a bit of dinner and a quiet, uneventful evening.

  Chapter Three

  Brielle

  It has been almost a week since my “episode” at Miller’s and I’m feeling a lot better. Thankfully, Hank was in a better mood when he woke up that night. He spent the evening watching ESPN and ignoring me. He met some woman at his favorite bar during a dart tournament on Sunday afternoon so I didn’t even see him again until Wednesday. That happens every now and again, and as completely disgusting as it is to think of Hank having a three-day fuck fest with some slut he picked up, it’s better than having him home bothering me. Between the blow to my face and the sinus pressure it was a full two days before my head stopped pounding, so I was happy with the time to myself. I dragged myself to school Monday morning so I wouldn’t fall behind on anything and was relieved to find that no one seemed to know anything about my mishap over the weekend. No one even seemed to know about Carson Malone being in Marshall, which seemed kind of strange. I guess it was just me and the older crowd at Miller’s on Saturday afternoon. I must have been the only one to know who he was.

  On Friday afternoon, I meet with the school guidance counselor, Ms. Bailey, before I get on the bus to head home. I am the only senior who still rides that thing but with no car and no friends there isn’t really another option. I head down to her office and knock on the door.

  “Hi, Brielle. How has your week been? Sorry I haven’t checked in with you lately; we have had a lot of juniors coming in with application questions. How are things going? You seem a little under-the-weather.”

  I always get a kind of “mom vibe” from Ms. Bailey; I know she means well, but there just isn’t anything she can do for me. “I’m doing well, thanks. I just have a case of the sniffles and a red nose from all the tissues I’ve used this week, no big deal.” I’m hoping she only called me in here because I was next up on her list. The last thing I need is to be dodging questions and curious teachers when I only have a few months left in this town.

  She smiles at me and reaches for an unopened box of tissues sitting on her shelf. “Here, take these,” she tells me. “They have lotion in them and everything.”

  I mumble my thanks and put the box in my bag. “I have to go soon so I can catch the bus. What did you want to talk about?” Please, God, nothing personal…

  “I saw your name on the list of early acceptances from the community college. I’ve been calling in each student on the list to see if they have made any decisions or need any help from me.”

  I am almost dizzy with the relief I feel. It’s panic-inducing to be called to speak with someone when you have so much to hide.

  “I haven’t really decided anything yet. I’m waiting on some other colleges I applied to. I’ve also sent in all of my financial aid applications, so I’m all set. Thanks for checking on me, though,” I tell her as I pull my bag up over my shoulder. I reach for the doorknob, indicating that I have nothing more to say, but as I start to turn the handle, she says my name.

  “Brielle, just remember, if you need anything, I’m right here in this office. For anything,” she stresses the last word, stressing my nerves at the same time.

  “Thanks, Ms. Bailey, I appreciate that. I’ll see you later.” I pretty much fly out the door, glad for the conversation to be over.

  My bus is just pulling up as I get outside. I take a deep breath and climb on board, not really wanting to stay at school, but definitely not thrilled about going home.

  ***

  Walking in the door to my house, I can hear Hank on the phone with one of his buddies. It sounds like there is going to be a poker game somewhere tonight and Hank is bringing Sheila, the bar slut from last weekend. At least he won’t be around to harass me. Maybe I can finally have a peaceful Friday evening and get some homework done instead of waiting on Hank hand and foot before cramming all my work into the late hours of Sunday night.

  Daydreaming about the effortless pot pie I am going to have for dinner and the freedom I will have to play whatever music I want, I almost miss the knock at the door. I hear another, more forceful knock and Hank yells “Hang on just a damned minute!” I hear him tell his buddy goodbye and head for the front door. I am not allowed to answer the door for any reason. Once, when I was fifteen, a teacher got suspicious that I might be having trouble at home and showed up on our front steps. I answered and let him in. He and Hank talked for a good fifteen minutes. Hank, of course, reassured him that there was absolutely nothing to be concerned about. He explained that my mother had died a few months before, which all of my teachers already knew, and that we were just “adjusting”. That mistake cost me six weeks in a cast for a broken wrist. We just told everyone I’m really clumsy and I fell down the stairs. The local police don’t like to take too long a look at one of their own, so Hank’s stories always seem to be accepted at face value.

  I peek around the corner from the kitchen to see who is crazy enough to show up here and for a second, it looks like Carson. I quickly duck back into the kitchen to get my head on straight. I put my hand to my forehead to make sure my fever hasn’t returned. Yeah, Brie, Carson Malone just happened to be so worried about you that he came back to your house to check on you a week later. I had bet
ter find the thermometer. I look back around the corner, but Hank is blocking me from seeing who is standing there. The unlucky visitor is definitely getting an earful.

  “No, you cannot see my daughter! Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t know you! I don’t have any patience for strangers who show up unannounced. Especially when they want something from my little girl.”

  I can hear murmuring from outside but no actual words. Hank, however, is hearing something he doesn’t like and running his hand through his thinning hair in frustration. “Oh, so you fell for that sob story? She was so sick, poor thing. A damned head cold and the girl can’t think straight! She was fine and is fine without any help from you.”

  More murmuring and I’m seriously hoping against the one-in-a-million chance that it’s Carson because if I thought passing out in front of him was bad, then this tirade from my father is headed toward one of the lower circles of my own personal hell.

  “Fine. If seeing her will shut you up and get you off my property, then you have five minutes. Keep your hands to yourself, too. She’s not some tramp you can come over and paw when you want to and I have a pistol that agrees with me.”

  At that, Hank slams the front door and I dive back into the kitchen as if my life depends on it. Who knows, maybe it does.

  “There is some little asshole with a fancy car here to see you. He’s all worked up about you being so sick last weekend. So sick, my ass. You couldn’t have been that sick if you were out seeing him, probably fucking around in his uppity little car. You have five minutes. Get him out of here and get dinner started. Sheila is coming over before the poker game at Ed’s tonight. You’re cooking and it better not suck.”

  Dammit, so much for my pot pie. I have to cook for the bar slut now, too. Mentally going through what I can make for dinner tonight, I pull the front door open and then close it again. Holy shit, it is Carson. OHMYGOD. He just met my dad. And I just shut the door in his face. Why on Earth is he still here? Is he still here? Who shuts the door in a face like that? I take a deep breath and slowly reopen the door as I scramble to think of something to say.

  “Hi, Carson. I’m so sorry about that. I was surprised to see you,” I said as I went out onto the porch and closed the door behind me. My heart is thrumming so hard in my chest I’m sure he can see it right through my sweatshirt. My old, faded sweatshirt that was my mom’s from college. Seriously? I had to change into this after school?

  I find myself staring at the faded logo on the front of Carson’s vintage t-shirt. The definition of his chest is obvious as the shirt stretches perfectly from shoulder to broad shoulder. Damn… I can’t look up at him, it’s like those eyes are the sun and it’s just too bright to stare directly into them. He must be more than six feet tall, and to my five feet six inches, it might as well be a mile from here to the top of his gorgeous head of brown hair. He has hair that makes me want to reach out and touch it – it hangs across his forehead in a way that makes me picture him running his hands through it several times a day. It seems like I’ve been staring at him for hours but it must have only been seconds when I hear his voice again.

  “So you do know who I am.” Is it just me or does he seem embarrassed by that?

  “Yeah, I, uh, I used to watch Stonewall. Well, me and every other girl between thirteen and fifty.” What I’m really thinking is, uh, hello? Of course I do. I’m trying not to be a super fangirl here and all but you’re really hot and you smell good even from here and I’m kind of wondering what you look like naked and…

  “Yeah, I guess so. Listen, I know we didn’t meet in the best way and I was kind of a nutcase when I talked to you, but I’ve been worried about you all week. I wanted to see how you’re doing. I’d hoped to take you for dinner or a drive or something to talk to you but…”

  “Yeah, my dad is…” I trail off. What can I even say?

  ”I get that. You don’t have to say anything else. My dad’s kind of an ass, too. He’s a different kind of ass, but, still, an ass. So, how are you? No more fainting spells?”

  “Nope, none; I’m feeling much better.” Although, you showing up here, at my house, is enough to knock me out again.

  “Good. I’m glad. I’m sorry I was so nervous before and I was such an idiot. Something about being your hero? I can’t even believe I said any of that. I’ve never seen a girl just pass out in front of me, it kind of shook me.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. One of a kind.” I give him a small smile as my heart continues to hammer rapidly in my chest. The heavy pea coat he’s wearing does nothing to hide his athletic figure. The tabloid photos never did this man justice.

  “Definitely. I should have been thinking more clearly, but I was having kind of a rough day. All I could think when I was helping you up was how pretty you are and that there is something innocent about you. I never even thought to ask your name during the whole thing. I’ve been wondering about it all week. The guy in the store called you Brie, but I’m assuming that’s a nickname for something like Brianne or Sabrina.”

  Pretty? Me? Did Carson hit his head? I’m fairly sure he’s just trying to make me feel better about this awkwardness. The last girl he was in a magazine with, before his disappearing act, was Madeline Young. The same Madeline who was just on the cover of GQ wearing not much more than her imagination. I look up at him to see that he’s just staring at my face. My red, blotchy, just-getting-over-a-cold face. It almost looks like he likes what he sees. Huh. What a good actor. I realize he’s probably staring because I still haven’t told him my name.

  “I’m Brielle. Brielle Douglas. Thanks for saying, you know, the thing about me being pretty. And thanks for checking on me. I really am fine. I should go back inside…”

  “Brielle,” he says, trying it out on his beautiful lips. “So much better than any of the possibilities I went over in my head. So, Brielle, can I stop by again tomorrow? Or Sunday? Maybe I can reason with your dad and we can get lunch somewhere. There is just something about you, something that makes me want to spend more time with you.”

  “There is no reasoning with my dad. But he’s going out later so I will have a few hours free. You can pick me up at eight o’clock tonight. If you really want to and it’s convenient. You know, if you’re not busy.”

  Wow, ramble much? What on Earth does he see in me? I’m pretty sure all I would see from his side is a hot mess.

  “Eight o’clock is perfect, I will see you then.”

  He leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and the fire that runs through me from that innocent peck is like nothing I’ve felt before. Damn, if he can make me feel like that from a cheek kiss… Wow. I’m watching his perfect ass in his perfect jeans as he walks away. How the hell did that just happen?

  Chapter Four

  Brielle

  I decide to make a chicken stir-fry for dinner. It comes out pretty well, but since both Hank and Sheila are completely hammered by the time they sit down to eat, it wouldn’t really have mattered either way. I tell them I’m not hungry in an attempt to make myself scarce, but Hank insists I join them at the table anyway. They linger for a while after dinner with Alcoholic Barbie slurring questions at me. She is as batshit crazy as they come. She says things like, “So who do you look like? Your mom? She’s dead right? Your dad’s really fucking handsome; it’s a shame you don’t look more like him.” Even that was better than the next subject. I don’t know who told her it’s okay to talk to your date’s teenage daughter about sex, but she was all over the place with that one.

  “So you’re eighteen now, huh? You must be fucking somebody by now. Are you on the pill? Trust me, honey; the last thing you want is some fucking baby to take care of.” My father perks right up at that one. He loves to paint a slutty picture of me.

  Sneering at me, he tells Sheila, “She was slutting it up with some guy until I took the car away. Thinks I’m dumb, this one, but with no car, she’s got limited options. But now, today, some jerk shows up in the middle of the afternoon lookin
g to get some. I don’t know what the fuck that’s all about. She doesn’t have time for any of that shit, though. I make sure of it. I just keep her busy enough here at home that she stays away from those punks. When I was still on the force, I saw all these jerk-offs every single day and they just wanted sex from young girls like her. I’m telling you, she’d better be on the pill ‘cause I’m not having any babies living here. She can barely take care of herself.”

  What a fun family dinner. I keep looking nervously at the clock as they continue to hang around at the dinner table the whole time I’m cleaning up the dishes. It’s almost 7:45 by the time they take off and I just thank my lucky stars they are finally gone. If Hank were to see Carson show up, again, on the same day, I don’t know what he would say or do. I’m already taking a huge chance by leaving with him, but I am pretty sure Hank won’t be home before three or four in the morning, if then. There is always a chance he will call, but I can claim I fell asleep with my music on and didn’t hear the phone.

  I run upstairs to throw some more appropriate clothes on, which ends up being dark skinny jeans, a red scoop-necked sweater and brown ankle boots. My long brown hair has been in a ponytail all day, so there isn’t much I can do except brush it and put it back up. I don’t have time to get rid of that annoying line from the hair tie. Seeing that there is still redness around my nose I dab a little light powder on it, swipe some mascara across my lashes and consider it good enough. I’m not big on makeup. Probably because using it to cover Hank’s handiwork took all the fun out of it. But I’m trying to look like I’m making an effort. I quickly brush my teeth, and just as I rinse I hear a knock at the front door. I add some clear gloss to my lips before going downstairs. The butterflies that have been in my stomach all evening suddenly start having a carnival inside me, and I feel tingly everywhere. From nerves, I think, although I am definitely still thinking about that kiss on my cheek. What a pathetic excuse for a high school senior, getting so excited by the kind of kiss he’d give his grandmother.