Barbed Wire Bandages, page 8
“Easy there or we won't make it to dinner,” he said, nipping at her bottom lip.
She nipped right back. “Like you'd mind.”
Just when he was about to pull her up on the counter and reenact their first time together, a high pitched howl sounded from the back porch and he froze.
“Was that Charlie?”
“Shit! Yeah, it's Charlie.” She disentangled herself from his arms and stepped away. “ I forgot to take the dog blankets out of the dryer. Can you stay here and make sure that doesn't boil over?”
“Yes, ma'am.” He saluted her as she rolled her eyes and hustled to the laundry room.
After adjusting his pants, Garrison removed the lid on the pot and leaned in close to smell whatever heavenly sauce Bridget had simmering to life on the stove. Humming along to the radio, he searched for a clean spoon, pulling out random drawers until he found the cutlery. His hand was poised, ready to take his first taste, when the house phone began to ring.
Bridget's phone often rang throughout the day, but she never answered it. Garrison didn't understand why, but seeing as how it was late in the evening and he didn't have anything better to do, he shuffled back, leaned a hip against the counter, and pressed the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Uhh... hello.” The man's voice somehow managed to be flat and cold while still carrying a tone of surprise. “Put Bridget on the phone. Now.”
Garrison, unflustered and definitely not intimidated by the man's brusque attitude, raised an eyebrow as he checked the caller I.D.
Unknown.
“It'll be a minute,” he said. “She just stepped outside. May I ask who's calling?”
A humorless laugh crackled through the phone.
“Yeah. Her husband.”
The spoon in his hand clattered to the floor.
His body went numb as that one very important word sank in.
Husband.
Husband.
Bridget's husband.
Bridget is married.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. Holy shit is right, buddy,” the stranger said. “Why don't you just tell Bridge to call me when she gets in.”
“Uhh... yeah,” Garrison said, lost for words. “Sorry.”
The man huffed. “I don't even want to know what you're sorry about.”
Before he could form a reply, the voice was replaced by a dial tone. Stunned, Garrison watched his hand reach out in slow motion and place the phone back in its cradle. Still staring at the piece of technology responsible for ruining his night, his heart froze the second he heard the back door swing open.
After reigning in the anger, confusion, and guilt all fighting for the right to inhabit his veins, he turned around to face her.
Bridget bounced back into the kitchen, all smiles and seduction, excitement permeating her entire body from scalp to toes, but Garrison didn't see that.
All he saw was a liar.
Without thinking, only needing answers to all the questions threatening to choke the life out of him, Garrison stepped forward and pulled Bridget against his body.
“Whoa!” She squealed with a tinkering laugh. “Easy there.”
He grabbed her arm and craned her hand around so he could get a good look at her ring finger. Her skin was smooth and tanned just as it always had been, but he no longer had the urge to trace his tongue over each and every digit.
Her hand was bare. There was no jewelry, not even a fading tan line. No hint at the fact that she was married.
Disgusted, he shoved her hand back against her chest and she stumbled back, eyes growing wide in shock.
“What the hell, Garrison? What was that?”
His vision swam, trying to fit together the pieces, while his heart cracked painfully in his chest. He didn't understand. He thought he knew her, thought he knew what kind of woman she was. And the image he'd painted of her in his mind was not the kind of woman who would deceive him like this.
When he thought he could control the level of his voice, Garrison asked the one question he hoped Bridget didn't have an answer to. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe he'd called the wrong Bridget. Maybe that man had it out for her.
Maybe...
“Where's your wedding ring?”
Garrison kept his hard, unfeeling eyes focused on Bridget, so he saw the moment the blood drained from her face.
“What?”
“Your wedding ring,” he repeated. “The thing your husband slid on your finger when you got married. Where is it?”
Bridget's panicked eyes darted back and forth, trying to keep up, trying to understand, trying to find a way out.
“How-”
“Your husband called,” he yelled.
After pulling in a slow breath, Bridget stepped forward to touch Garrison. But when he swatted her hand away, refusing to even be touched by her until he knew the truth, she gasped and grabbed onto the edge of the counter for balance. Her pleading, yet guilty eyes jerked away, actively searching for a way to escape the fear and hurt shining so brightly on Garrison's face.
When she clamped her lips shut, reluctant to answer, Garrison pushed a frustrated hand through his hair then slammed it against a cabinet. Cups and plates rattled and he wished something would fall right on his head and put him out of his misery.
“Where is your goddamn ring, Bridget?!”
The second hand on the clock and the bubbling of dinner were the only sounds to dare penetrate the silence hanging so thickly between the two. Garrison stared at Bridget, and Bridget eventually turned guarded eyes to Garrison. But the blood had returned to her face, accompanied by a look he knew well.
She was ticked.
“If you must know, my ring is at the bottom of Till Park Lake.”
Garrison crossed his arms over his chest, partly to restrain his anger, but also to contain the pieces of his heart that were snapping off beat by beat. He took another step back, putting more distance between them, breaking the ties they'd just begun to build as he struggled to free himself from the massive weight crushing any and all hope he'd had for her.
“Bridget Warner.” He shook his head. “Animal savior. Closet artist. Rehabilitated bully... and bold-faced liar.”
Her head jerked back, as if she'd been physically slapped, and Garrison could practically see the steam shooting out of her ears. She took two quick steps forward and shoved at his chest, sending him stumbling back, which only fueled his ire.
“How dare you!”
Anger matching hers reared its ugly head and Garrison leaned menacingly into her face.
“Me?” He roared. “You're seriously throwing this back on me?”
“I didn't lie to you about anything!”
“Bullshit!”
Garrison slammed his hands against the table, sending wine from her glass sloshing up to soak his shirt.
“Forgetting to mention that you had a husband while I had my hands all over your body? While we kissed? While we made-” he cut himself off and turned away, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to control himself. “Yeah. I'd say that counts as a lie.”
Bridget held her tongue, but her chest continued to rise and fall with labored breaths. He could read every thought and wish and hope as it crossed her face. She knew she was losing him and she wasn't sure how to win this fight, but he didn't care. There wasn't a damn thing she could do or say to get herself out of the clusterfuck she'd thrown them both into. Garrison had reached his quota on forgiveness. And she'd done too many things to deserve anything else he had to give.
He planted both hands on his hips, mostly to keep from reaching out to her; in anger or possession, he wasn't sure which, but either way, it wasn't happening.
“Fucking typical,” he whispered.
She took one daring step forward, her features painted with the grief of a woman whose heart was being ripped from her chest.
“What did you just say?”
He turned to face her.
“You heard me. I said 'fucking typical'.” His lips curled in disgust. “Once a heinous bitch, always a heinous bitch.”
A single tear slid down Bridget's face, but Garrison refused to relent, he refused to back down. She lied to him, plain and simple. And there were two things he didn't tolerate. Bullies... and liars. And Bridget Warner was both.
“Get out.”
Garrison nodded, a contemptuous smile marring his face as he grabbed his car keys and marched toward the door.
“Gladly.”
The second the door closed behind him, the unmistakable sound of ceramic plates crashing to the ground hit him like a hurricane and he tromped to his car, refusing to stop until he was miles away from the woman who'd ruined him for the last time.
CHAPTER NINE
Bridget was a woman who prided herself on having a level head when shit hit the fan. But as she heard Garrison peeling out of her driveway, her level head was nowhere to be found. She thought her skin was as thick as it could get, but what Garrison said to her sliced something open inside her, something that hadn't been touched in a long time.
It wasn't the way Garrison insulted her that had her shaking with rage as she grabbed the house phone and dialed the one number she wished she could forget. No. Insults hurled in the heat of the moment were easy to brush off. Often times, people didn't truly mean them. Those she could forgive.
But what hurt so profoundly, what had tears flowing so quickly she couldn't swipe them away fast enough, was the way he turned on her without giving her a real chance. As if the trust he'd handed her was gone, blown to thousands of fragile glass shards with one ring of the phone. And hope. All the hope she'd planted had been washed away by her tears.
When the bane of her existence finally answered the phone, he was laughing.
“Hey, Bridge!”
“What the fuck do you want?”
Her voice shook, but he continued to laugh. He always did take pleasure in her discomfort. Like the time he cackled and ran ahead of her when she twisted her ankle during a 5k. Or the time she was stranded on the side of the road for three hours while waiting for him to finish a poker game so he could pick her up.
“Let me guess... your new man?”
“That's none of your business, Nat. Why did you call?”
After coughing and attempting to compose himself, Nat got right down to business.
“I signed the papers. They're in the mail. Congratulations. You're officially my ex-wife.”
“Good to know.” Her hatred for Nat completely eclipsed her sorrow over Garrison long enough for tears to begin drying on her cheeks. “I just don't understand why it took you so long. This was your idea, remember? This is what you wanted.”
“Eh,” he sighed and dismissed her question entirely.
She hated everything about that man. From his hair implants to his bunions. From the Mercedes he drove to the high rise he lived in. From his empty, cold shell of a heart to the black hole that had once been his soul.
“So, what now?”
“Now we're rid of each other,” she said, hoping it was the last time she'd ever have to converse with the man who disgusted her to no end.
“Awe, don't be like that, Bridge.”
She held up her hand, as if he were there in person and she could silence him with a simple gesture.
“Can you... can you not call me that please? It's not my name. It's never been my name. I'm not something you trample across to get where you want.”
“C'mon, babe. Calm-”
“I'm not your babe, either!” She exploded. “So if you could do me a favor and forget my number, forget my name, hell- forget I ever existed, that would be fucking great.”
Before he could get another word in, Bridget slammed the phone back into its cradle and angrily wiped at her smudged makeup.
“God dammit,” she muttered to herself, sadly laughing at how badly she'd fucked up everything in such a short amount of time.
Tapping shaky nails against the granite counter top, she contemplated her options. At least she started to. Before she'd even gotten to option two, she settled on the first thing that popped into her head. In a flash, she grabbed her keys, pulled on her boots, and ran to her truck, hoping like hell it wasn't too late to stop Garrison.
She sped down her dirt road, intent on tracking him down, explaining herself, and giving him a chance to wrap his head around the situation. Yeah, she was ticked, but she was also more than willing to fuck her pride and do whatever it took to fix what both of them had just spat on.
Luckily, she didn't have to look far. Parked at the edge of her driveway, standing stone-still in front of the section of barbed wire he'd mended, was Garrison.
After throwing her truck in park, praying like hell he'd listen to her, and jumping out of the truck, she ran to his side, convinced that she'd fall to the ground and grovel if she had to. She didn't want to lose him. Not now. Not when she'd just started to fall...
“Garrison?”
She grabbed hold of his arm, desperate to touch him, to pull him to her and beg him to open his eyes and see her for what she really was, but he pulled away the second her fingers wrapped around his forearm.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
He refused to look at her, no matter how many times she tried to step in his line of sight.
“Because there's nothing to tell,” she said. “I swear. He was calling to say he signed the divorce papers.”
Garrison rubbed at his eyes as he took a step back, looking exhausted for the first time all week. “You still should have told me.”
“I know, and I'm sorry.” Again, she reached for him but her hands met empty air and a sob choked out of her throat. “I'm so fucking sorry, I am. But... please don't leave. Not like this. Just stay and I'll tell you everything you-”
Before she could finish, thunder rumbled in the distance and Garrison once again turned his back on her.
“Goodbye, Bridget.”
Bridget watched as Garrison's car roared down the dusty gravel road. She watched until his taillights vanished completely. When she was truly alone, the pain finally found her. It seeped into her pores, found its way into her blood, her marrow, her cells. It crushed her from the inside out and she fell to the ground, clutching her chest, wondering what she'd done to deserve such a disaster of a life.
And then she remembered.
And it just so happened that the one person who'd been victimized the most by her cruel ways was currently the person her heart was breaking for.
Both the sky and Bridget's heart opened up in tandem as she wept. She sat in the shadows, cursing herself until she couldn't tell the rain from her tears.
CHAPTER TEN
The last thing Garrison wanted to do was run back to an empty, cold motel room. He couldn't stomach the thought of being anywhere near a bed. Soft sheets and a lonely pillow would only serve to remind him of what he'd just lost. He told himself that his heart shouldn't feel so heavy. It was too soon. Too fast. Too reckless. He should have seen it coming... but the ache set in regardless.
As he passed through town, the neon lights of Bucky's beckoned to him through his rain-streaked windshield, so he parked the car without a second thought, ready and willing to drink his troubles away.
Inside, the lights were dim and the music was overpowering. It was just what he needed to escape the pain stabbing away at his insides. He took a seat and continued to berate himself, knowing damn well that he'd been one hell of a sucker, but that didn't ease the sting. It didn't banish his anger. And it sure didn't squelch his feelings for the woman he'd come to care about.
As he took his first drink, he hoped the cool liquid would pull him back down to earth, ground him, and secure him in a bubble of tranquility long enough to sort his thoughts. But every time he tipped the bottle back and closed his eyes, all he could see was her.
Her smile. Her touch. Her tears. He couldn't scrub them away. No matter what he turned his attention to, she was always there, dancing between every crevice of his brain.
Knowing he needed some kind of distraction, he went in search of something stronger. Something he could bury himself in and forget Bridget Warner ever existed.
Stepping off the bar stool, drink in hand, he made his way through the throng of people, his head set on taking home the first pair of long legs he set eyes on. But instead of a distraction, he ran smack dab into a painful reminder.
“Garrison! How's crazy cat lady doing?” Shawn stood and pulled Garrison in for one of his infamous man-hugs.
Garrison's whole body stiffened at her nickname, but Shawn didn't notice. He grabbed Garrison by the shoulder and steered him toward a booth where two leggy redheads -twins- awaited him.
“Girls, this here is Garrison Beckett. An old friend. Garrison, these are the girls.”
Garrison tried not to scoff at the way Shawn didn't seem to remember their names, but the girls didn't seem to care.
“C'mon. Take a load off. Have a drink with us.”
Before he could object, Shawn pushed him toward the table and he all but fell into one of the redheads' laps.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he pushed off the back of the seat and scooted away.
“That's okay,” the woman purred in his ear. “I like a guy that gets right to the point.”
Garrison's skin crawled as she pressed her thigh against his and began to draw circles on his knee. Her breath reeked of cheap vodka and her eyes could barely focus. He'd never been so uncomfortable in his life, but he couldn't understand why.
How many times had he partied overseas with his Marine buddies? How many times had he taken girls home that didn't even speak English? Or could barely stand on two legs without leaning heavily on his shoulder? How many times had he fucked nameless and faceless girls in roach infested motel rooms?
Too many times to count.
So why was this so different?
Garrison's eyes turned toward his 'friend' Shawn and all he felt was pity. Pity at how lame and shallow Shawn's life had become.
He didn't want that kind of life. Not anymore. Hell, he'd left the Marines because he wanted more. He wanted stability and happiness and contentment and someone to share his life with. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he'd thought maybe – just maybe – he'd found that person.
