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  FATE’S MISTAKE © Copyright 2014 by Brandace Morrow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, printed, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy in any capacity of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events, occurrences, places, or business establishments is purely coincidental. The characters and story line are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editorial Services by Jennifer Sell

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Interior Design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  www.InkstainFormatting.com

  Fate’s Mistake deals with heavy subject matter not suitable for some readers including domestic and child abuse, profanity, sexual content and violent situations. Be advised.

  In Loving Memory of Ardell Gwynn Gato Stewart

  The Los Rancheros Series

  Fan Girl

  I’m not dead yet. I made it through the night. Another sunrise, another goodbye kiss. While stepping on the treadmill, I pray I get to run tomorrow too. My ribs ache as I pick up speed. I breathe in through my nose and slowly exhale through my mouth. My kidneys feel like giant boulders with each hurtful movement. For two hours I run, and not only because I have to. I run because this is the only time I am allowed out of my prison.

  My eyes stare, unseeing, out of the floor to ceiling window overlooking the city below. The city goes about its business five stories down, but I don't see sky, glass, metal or traffic. I see the images conjured up by the ear buds blasting music through my head; images of my mom as I was growing up, teaching me everything she loved; images of my father imparting sage advice. I think about how things used to be, and it’s the only time I allow myself to go to those memories. If I didn't lock them away, I'd lose my mind.

  Shrill beeping goes off in my ears, startling me so much, I trip as my sneaker drags over the conveyer belt of the treadmill. I snag the arm rails desperately and move my feet quickly to the sides. I breathe deeply and push the big red stop button on the machine, then set up a five-minute cool-down walk. When the speed is set, I force my hands to let go of the bars and move naturally at my sides. I don't want to think about where I have to go in five minutes, or where I'll be in five hours, five days.

  My skin breaks out in a new kind of sweat; one different from what’s currently coating it. This one is cold and stinks of fear. I stare straight ahead to the building of windows across the street and try to wipe this perspiration away. But it keeps secreting itself from my pores, stinging my eyes, making them water. My skin feels overheated, yet chills break out over my body. My breathing gets shallower, and I can feel my heart picking up speed, rather than slowing.

  I close my eyes and try to take a breath, but it feels as though there's a band around my chest, like a python squeezing tighter. My vision tunnels. My shaking hands reach for my iPhone resting in the cup holder, the one with only one number in it. My palm slaps the red stop button firmly, and I stagger away to the locker rooms as quickly as possible before my knees give way.

  “Hey, honey . . . okay?”

  The reaction is instant. My brain doesn't hear anything but that nickname said in a male voice. Pain crashes through my head within seconds of slamming it into the brick wall behind me, escape my only thought.

  “Whoa, whoa. I just saw you run in here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  My ears pick up the whole sentence this time, heard over the sound of my racing heart and the blood rushing through them. I raise trembling hands to wipe the wet pieces of hair out of my face. Looking up, I see a huge man; broad shouldered, his muscles bulging as he squats on the floor in front of me. I move my feet closer to my body, bringing my knees to my chin. The guy watches me, before slowly moving to rest his back on the wall beside me.

  I try to breathe, but I can’t. There is a man close to me. A big man. I can't get air into my lungs. My ribs, already battered and feeling like they’re threatening to break, burn with their constriction.

  Then something happens that makes me stop breathing altogether. He opens his mouth.

  It takes me a few verses to make sense of it. He’s talking fast in a guttural, growly voice that surely isn’t natural. About the time his head starts to bob, I realize what he’s doing. He’s rapping.

  His voice is deep, but he's doing it softly so that only I can hear him. He looks straight ahead as he says, “Breathe, baby girl. Breathe to the song.”

  I stare at him with disbelieving eyes as he sings to the white wall in front of him, then I take in a single breath through closed airways to ease the burn in my lungs. Eyeing him, I don’t even think I take in a single feature. I can’t tell you if his nose is bent, what color his eyes are, if he has non-existent lips or a scar over his eyebrow. To me he is a big blob of testosterone I want absolutely nothing to do with.

  I slide my back against the rough wall behind me and put another foot between us. The man doesn't stop rapping. I don’t get all of the words, but there’s something about gardens and flowers, turning a rock into a mountain.

  He looks ridiculous. His shoulders are moving now and, though his hands are resting on his knees, they move slightly to punctuate certain words.

  I take in a breath. Then another. The man keeps the words flowing quietly as I put two more feet between us.

  When he finally stops, my panic attack is over. I find myself asking, “What song is that?” I never talk to people.

  The guy shrugs his big shoulders, not watching me. “A Milli.”

  I feel my eyebrows edge up toward my hairline. There was no hesitation in his voice, never a stumble for such a fast song; one I remember slightly from high school.

  I still can’t believe it, but don’t know why. It’s just surprising is all. “By who?” I ask him.

  “Lil Wayne. You’ve never heard that song? No? Maybe? Well it was on my playlist when I saw you take off from the treadmill. It worked, didn't it?” he asks the white wall five feet away, avoiding eye contact.

  “Yeah, I guess it did.”

  “Do you need me to call someone? A husband, or—,” he breaks off when I abruptly move farther away from him, wedging me into the corner of the room. He puts his hands up slowly in surrender. “Or not. I saw the ring and thought . . . never mind, no husband.”

  At the mention of him, I check my phone and see that I'm minutes behind in my routine. I jump up and look around for the first time. We aren't in the locker room like I thought. We're in the family bathroom, that's one door before the women's locker room. Guess I didn't make it. The man stands up slowly as well, trying not to look threatening. And failing. He's just so big.

  “I need to . . . I need . . . move. Please,” I tell him. He's standing in front of the door, and I can't move past him. My body physically won’t get any closer. He seems to understand and slides along the wall, moving in the opposite direction of me, with his eyes down. As soon as my fingers can reach, I grab the handle and wretch the door open, diving out of the exit, running to the next doorway, and into the locker room. The one I thought I was entering the first time.

  After grabbing my purse from my locker, I leave the room by another exit, looking to make sure the man isn't around. I don't see him. I exit the hotel and walk swiftly, anonymously, through the crowded streets on my way to the subway. Once I've swiped my card and taken a seat, I shut my eyes and clench my teeth together.

  I can do this. One more day to get th
rough until the gym tomorrow. Can’t quit. I can do this.

  When the train stops, I stand up and move with the other bodies toward the exit.

  I let myself in the front door of my house. The muscles in my legs vibrate with fatigue as I race up the stairs to get in the shower.

  I have to hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  Under the water, I quickly wash my hair and body, picking up a razor with shaking hands. On the second leg I catch the skin by my ankle, instantly causing blood to flow.

  “Fuck. Shit. No no no,” I whisper and rub at the cut, trying to wash it out of existence. My voice sobs out, “Please, please, please.” But the blood flows.

  I take the razor and finish the job of shaving that leg before getting out and slathering myself with lotion. Now I can slow down.

  I dress in a blood-red pencil skirt, white blouse, and red cardigan before doing my hair. Once I'm made up, I head down the stairs to dust and clean. In the early evening, the doorbell rings. I accept delivery of the food I ordered that morning, and set the dining room table.

  When I’m pouring wine into a glass, I hear the security alarm beep as the front door opens.

  “Honey, I'm home!” I hear a chuckle, just like always.

  I go to greet my husband at the door as he's setting down his briefcase, then offer my cheek and smile. “Hello, Jeremy. How was your trip?”

  Jeremy smiles, his bottom teeth crooked. “Long. Too long. How was your day?”

  I move to take off his tie and put it on the front entry table. “It was fine. Ran ten miles.”

  “That's great! What's for dinner?” he asks as we move to the dining room.

  “Pinsky's. An arugula salad with shaved asparagus and lemon parsley dressing. The main course is spinach and ricotta crepe lasagna,” I say as I grab the prepared plates from the side bar.

  Jeremy sits at his end of the table and moves the linen napkin into his lap. “Sounds marvelous, honey.”

  I set a bowl in front of him before moving to my end of the table. After placing my napkin in my lap and crossing my ankles under the chair, I look up with a smile. “What should we toast to tonight?” I ask him.

  “To a happy family.” Jeremy smiles at me and we lift our glasses slightly. We can't clink them because we're so far apart, having two candles and four place settings between us.

  As I go to take my first bite of salad, Jeremy's voice interrupts me, “How was the gym today?”

  I put my fork down and place my hands in my lap before answering, “It was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Shit, was that too much?

  His face tilts slightly to the side. “Nothing?”

  My heartbeat picks up as I look him in the eyes and lie, “No. I ran, I went home.”

  He nods as he picks up his wine glass, taking a sip before placing it delicately down onto the white tablecloth again. “It's just that . . . Barry was at the gym this morning. He texted me. I suppose he was coming in as you were leaving. He said you were pale and running. I just want to make sure nothing was awry.”

  My stomach feels like a stone has just bounced off of the bottom of it, and shot straight up into my throat. “My locker was jammed. It put me behind and I didn't want to worry you, or miss my train.”

  His eyes look relieved. “Well, that's fine then. Did you report the problem with staff there?”

  I shrug slightly. “No, the corner of my purse got caught in the track. I'll be more careful.”

  “Alright then. Eat, you must be starving.” Jeremy picks up his fork, and I do the same.

  We eat in silence. After dinner, he leaves to his office while I clean the kitchen to make everything perfect again.

  Hours later, after I've performed my nightly routine, I lie on the bed. Naked. My mind is already drifting to another place when I feel hands on my feet, gliding up my legs. Those hands reach my knees before moving back to my feet. I remain impassive until I feel fingers move over one spot repeatedly. The place I nicked my ankle. I feel my body starting to lock up, my muscles pulling tight.

  “What is this?” Jeremy asks me in a soft voice.

  I swallow before answering. “I used a new razor today and wasn't careful enough.”

  His fingers rub over the spot, causing it to sting sharply. “That's twice today you weren't careful. Is there anything I need to know? Something that will explain your distractions?”

  I shake my head. Air’s not flowing through my lungs as easily as minutes before. “No, Jeremy. The thing with my locker frazzled me. I'll do better.”

  He nods, his fingers still moving over my ankle. “I know you will. Do you know what brings focus?”

  I look at my husband and start to tremble. “Please. I'll do better. Please.”

  “Pain. Pain brings focus, honey.”

  I met him at a cross walk on Tulouse Boulevard. Running late for class, I barely waited for the light to turn red before stepping off the curb. As I made it across the street and up to the other side, he was exiting the coffee shop on the corner. I clipped his shoulder, causing all of my books to tumble from my arms onto the damp sidewalk.

  We both kneeled down and nearly bumped heads, before I snapped mine back to avoid the collision. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that. Did you spill your coffee?” I asked him as I try to gather everything as quickly as possible. I was already five minutes late for my psych class and only had five more before the teacher wouldn’t let me in.

  “You did manage to knock it around a bit. Maybe you can come inside and buy me a new cup?”

  At that I looked up into deep brown eyes the color of dark chocolate. His hair was everywhere. Short, as in above his ears, but long on top and messy so that it got in his eyes. The color of burnt clay. Sort of brown, sort of red, but not auburn. He had a short, trimmed goatee a shade darker than his head. When he gave a crooked smile, showing slightly crooked bottom teeth, I found myself smiling back.

  With the last of the books in my arms, I straighten, saying, “If you couldn’t tell by the books, I’m in college. Meaning I don’t have any money, not to mention I’m late for a class. I can’t stay now.” I turn to leave and feel his hand on my arm.

  “Please, another time then. Or how about dinner?” His face was earnest, but he was obviously older than my twenty years.

  I shook my head and told him over my shoulder, “Sorry, I can’t.” I put him out of my head as I rushed to my class.

  Ninety minutes later I exited the doors to see dark chocolate eyes tracking me the second I left the building. I felt my brows furrow. “Have you been waiting this whole time?”

  He stood from leaning on the newspaper stand and came closer to me, shaking his head. “No, had a lunch meeting and then came over to see if your class was over. The schedule is printed on the door.”

  I nodded as I walked past him and he fell into step with me. “I’m Jeremy, by the way.”

  “Kinley,” I told him, to be polite.

  “Kinley, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He smiled over at me again and I found myself smiling back.

  We arrived at my next class, so I turned to him and said, “I need to get in there. It was good to meet you.”

  “Have dinner with me tonight. You can meet me there. I just have to see you again.”

  I looked at the trees to my right and debated. He wasn’t bad looking, taller than my five foot seven, but not by much. Probably five years older than me. He wore a tweed coat and slacks with loafers, which might have been fueling my hesitation. I was all about comfort; wearing cargo pants, camisoles, oversized sweaters and broken in jeans. My parents would love him. And because that thought ran through my head, I decided to give him a shot. Because my parents meant the moon and the stars to me. They tried for years to get pregnant and finally had me just after forty. I was the air they breathed and they never failed to show me how much they loved me. I wanted what they had.

  “Alright. But it’s dinner at my house. My mom will cook,” I challenged him.

  His smi
le lost some of its luster before kicking up again. “Sounds perfect. Give me your address and I’ll be there. Is six ok?”

  I nodded as I rattled off the family ranch’s street address and walked away.

  After my class, I got into my old Honda Accord and drove home. As soon as I opened the doors I could hear the sound of the vacuum going in the living room. As I followed the hum inside, I saw my daddy in his favorite recliner reading the paper with his feet straight out in front of him as momma vacuumed underneath him. As soon as she caught me in the doorway, she turned off the machine and straightened.

  “Hey there, sugar plum. How was school?”

  I walked over and gave her and Daddy a kiss on the cheek saying, “It was fine. I was running late and bumped into a guy. He asked me out to dinner, so I invited him here tonight. I hope that’s ok?”

  My mom’s eyes widened. “My lands child. You invited him here? Why?”

  I shrugged and looked to my dad, “He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I figured, if he was serious, he could come here.”

  Daddy nodded his head in approval. “That’s my girl. I’ll just meet him at the door with my shotgun. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  I laughed and went to my room to do my homework.

  At ten til I was in the kitchen helping Mom when the doorbell rang. My dad went to answer it as I set the table. A few minutes later Jeremy came in, followed by my father, who was all smiles. I frowned and looked to Jeremy again, noting the blazer and tie he wore, along with the flowers in his hands. He walked straight to my mom and handed her a bouquet of yellow tulips, leaving him with a dozen blood red roses.

  “You must be the beloved mother. Such a pleasure to meet you, I’m Jeremy.” He smiled and kissed her hand when it was offered, and my mom blushed like she was in high school.

  “Oh, bless your heart! These are beautiful. I’m Mary Clare.”