*
Like I said, I haven’t always been this weak woman. I don’t think anyone wakes up and says, “Hey, today I think I will be weak, broken, and completely fucked up!” I certainly didn’t. I think I have worked hard to become who I am today. With the help of Dr. Maxwell—and Dee, of course—I have slowly become the me I once was.
It hasn’t been easy, and I still have my moments. I can’t hear my full name without it taking me back to the dark years with Brandon. I started taking the steps to finalize our divorce about six months ago. The same time I had finally healed enough to start moving on. I started my own web design company, something I have always loved to do, and it seemed like the perfect choice. I felt comfortable being able to work out of the house Dee and I shared. Safer.
Brandon isn’t making things easy for me. One would think with a clear, black and white police report and hospital records showing what the marriage to him did to me that I wouldn’t have any issues with a quick divorce. But no . . . nothing ever came easy for me. I’ve been fighting with him the whole time—through lawyers, of course. I haven’t actually seen him since the day I was released from the hospital two years ago.
That was also the day that Dee and my duo became a trio.
The day I met Greg.
Where Dee is my sister; Greg is my brother.
Bonds so tight they would be almost impossible to break.
Greg is our protector, whether we want him or not. He looks out for us and doesn’t shy away from Friday nights spent in watching chick flicks and eating junk food.
I met Greg the day I was released from the hospital after a week stay, healing from Brandon’s final beating. Dee was there to pick me up. She pulled up in a minivan with the back loaded up full of boxes. Looking back now, I can laugh, but the look on her face when I asked her why she had the boxes was priceless. She looked me dead in the eyes with the fiercest expression she could muster and said, “Girl, if you think I will leave you here with that piece-of-sorry-shit husband, you are nuts. Nope, no way. We are packing you up and hitting the road. The world is our oyster or something like that.” She then explained that she had the local sheriff meeting us there to make sure Bastard Brandon didn’t try anything. Dee was ready for anything. She told me not only would the law be there to look over things, but she had one of her friends meeting us there. She didn’t get into detail, and I didn’t care. I wanted it over.
When we pulled up to the house I shared with Brandon, he was of course there and raging mad. I sat in the passenger’s seat shaking like a leaf. Dee came around and helped me out, using her tiny body as a shield. I kept my eyes down until they met two huge booted feet in my path. Following those boots up thick thighs, a rock-solid chest, and powerful arms, I looked up into thunderous blue eyes. He was a huge man, easily a foot over my five foot three. With his expression, I immediately shrank back, hoping it hadn’t been noticeable, but nothing escaped this man’s eyes. He carefully schooled his expression and tucked me under his thick arm by throwing it over my shoulders.
As he guided me into the house, he softly said, “Don’t you worry, baby girl. We’ve got you now.” I don’t know what it was, but when I met Greg that day, all it took were those words to instantly set me at ease.
An hour later, we had six years of my life boxed and loaded.
I left it all, only taking my clothes, important documents, pictures from my childhood, and small treasures I had hidden away from my life before Brandon.
I haven’t looked back since.
I may feel alive, but today I’m alive with one bitch of a hangover. Looking at the clock, I shake my head at the time. How the hell did I sleep this late? That’s right—Dee. Dee is how I slept this late. Crazy chick got home last night and thought we should spend the evening with Jack. One of these days she is going to remember that, Jack and I, we are not friends. Never have been, never would be. Nights spent with Jack always bring me to the same spot—hung over, and pissed off. Damn, Dee. She better have breakfast ready this morning, er . . . afternoon.
What did I let her talk me into last night? The last thing I remember is Dee coming home from work with a big-ass brown bag in her arms, screaming “Liquor delivery, bitch!” I guess that’s what happens when you have been friends with someone for so long. She knew I needed her, and damn it, I needed Jack. So her announcement was met with red-rimmed eyes, ratty sweats, and a best friend on her third carton of ice cream.