Chapter22
Baptist
Ikeep seeing her face in my head, over and over again, her one eye swollen, her split lip bleeding down into her mouth, the pain in her expression, the tears in her eyes, and the worst part, even worse than hurting her, was the way she kept trying to make me feel better about it.
That look broke me.
I got the fuck out of here before I did even more damage. I was out of control, losing my mind, doing whatever I wanted in the moment without any worry about future repercussions, and Blair paid the price. I never should’ve gone in that hotel room and never should’ve hit Cowan like that, even if the fucker deserved it and much worse.
Because in the end, I only hurt her.
Like I always do.
That’s all I’m good for. This time, it was an accidental elbow to the face, but next time? How much more damage can she take before she shatters completely?
I won’t let myself ruin her.
It takes me a day to get my shit back together. I go off the grid, no phone, no email, I don’t even bother returning to my apartment on the off chance she’ll show up there randomly. I don’t trust myself around her right now, not when I’m still hurting and still angry, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about Cowan or anything else.
Not that it matters.
I hurt her. I fucking hurt her.
And all I know is, I can’t go anywhere near her.
But slowly, after sitting down in a random hotel bar out in the suburbs and drowning my worries, a plan begins to form. It’s an ugly plan, a desperate plan, but I’m at the bleakest point in my life and I can’t see any other way to escape this cycle of darkness. If I don’t pull myself out, I’ll drown, and I’ll drag Blair down with me.
That can’t happen.
I’m up early the next day after making some calls the night before. I drive into the city and keep telling myself I’m doing the right thing. Even if I’m not sure.
Rittenhouse Park is busy on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s nice out, sunny, mild temperature, slight breeze, and the buskers are gathered in force. Two jugglers, two guys playing guitar, a woman doing caricature drawings, and a young kid beatboxing while breakdancing. I find a good bench along the outer ring near the trees and sit in the shade, watching people walk past, thinking about their lives and my own, and how I found myself here at the bottom of a long, steep slope, wrapped in failure and knowing the only way out for me now is more pain.
It was a mistake bringing Blair into my world.
I should’ve known that Cowan was never going to work out. I should’ve seen through his bullshit from the start, but I was so blinded by my own ambition that I was willing to keep going even when it became obvious nothing was going to happen. Cowan never wanted to make a movie, he only wanted to fuck with me, and I still don’t understand why.
That’s what’s bothering me the most about all this. Why the script, why the nightmare? I knew he was difficult to work with, but there’s no way he’s going around torturing his producers without word getting out.
No, he reserved that for me specifically.
I spot him after ten minutes of mentally grilling myself. He’s walking toward me with a brown paper bag cradled in one palm, smiling a bit, a bandage over his nose. Both his eyes are black, ugly and swollen, and I resist the urge to smile. I hope he’s in a lot of pain. The bastard deserves so much worse.
“Baptist.” Cowan stands a few feet away and tosses a handful of breadcrumbs onto the ground. “Do you plan on hitting me again or am I safe to sit?”
“Sit,” I grunt at him.
Pigeons descend as Cowan takes the other end of the bench. He doesn’t look at me, only tosses more bread, and seems content to stare as the birds peck and push at each other, fighting for every little scrap.
I wonder what he sees in the damn birds. Maybe he looks at them the same way he looks at people like me—disposable entertainment put in this earth to do nothing more than sate his sick desires.
Being around him right now is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time. It isn’t just painful—it’s infuriating. I want to throttle him, but I know I can’t, not without making my situation worse.
“You know, I really didn’t think you’d call,” he says finally, breaking the silence, but still doesn’t look at me. “After what happened, I assumed that was the last I’d see of you.”
“I still have questions.”
“And you think I have answers, but you’re wrong. At least, I don’t have the answers you really need.”