Broken Submission

Calling Card

Sorry guys! I spent the week with my sister and completely lost track of time. She's having a baby! We're all psyched 🍼🥰. Plus, I've been struggling a bit with deciding where I want to go with the story. So, here it is, a smidge late, but hopefully worth it 😅

"So would you be okay playing for me sometime?" Derek asked.

They snuggled on the couch, cocooned in a blanket and each other.

"Guitar?" Amelia looked up. "I uh—I don't really play in front of people."

He brushed his lips over the top of her head. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I just really enjoyed listening to you. It was beautiful."

Her face couldn't decide whether it wanted to hide or grin. "Well..." She burrowed deeper into his chest. "Maybe... maybe I could try. But I might chicken out."

His chest vibrated as he hummed happily. "Thank you."

A sound at the door had them both stiffening. She looked at Derek uncertainly. "Were you expecting someone?"

He shrugged. "Not that I know of." He shifted his hips, letting her fall against the couch as he slid out from under her. She watched as he walked to the door and peered through the peephole. He frowned. Opening the door, she heard his sound of confusion.

When he turned, she froze. In his hands was a bundle of carnations, dirt still clinging to their stems.

"I guess someone sent us flowers—" he said, before noticing her pall. "Amelia," he dropped the flowers on a table, "what's wrong?"

"I—I—" Her breath sped up, growing shallow as her chest tightened.

"Hey now," he said, pulling her into his lap, "what is it? Talk to me."

She tried to control her racing heart.

"He's back," she whispered.

Derek's eyes sharpened. "Your ex?" He wiped his hands on his jeans with a look of disgust. "What are those? Some kind of calling card?"

She nodded, unable to do more. Everything—the light from the windows, the radio playing softly in the background, the brush of his knee against hers—it all overwhelmed her senses, harsh and abrasive.

"Motherfucker," he breathed. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialed.

Who was he calling?

Derek cursed under his breath when the message for voicemail played through his phone. He dialed again. This time, someone picked up.

"Yes, this is Derek Jensen? Is Sergeant Ainsworth there? Yes, he does know me. It is an emergency. Yeah, you do that."

He waited a minute, brushing his fingers over her thigh in silent reassurance. He stilled as a voice spoke on the other end. "Matthew? Yeah, listen. He finally resurfaced. At my house. Yeah, I'll try and get ahold of the tapes. I appreciate you, man." 

He hung up. Reaching out, he lifted her onto his lap. "Matthew is going to come by with some of his coworkers. In the meantime," he tipped her chin up so that she looked at him, "I need you to talk to me. I've given you as much time as I could, but now it's a matter of safety."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Derek, I—What does it really matter now?"

His grip on her chin tightened. Looking up at him, the sternness in his face made her squirm.

"It matters," he said, voice dropping low, "because it still affects you in every way. It affects how you live your life. How you perceive your relationships. Your self-confidence, your self-worth. All of it." His hand slipped around her back, pulling her forward as he leaned in, bringing them almost nose to nose.

"So," he rumbled, "we are going to sit here. And you are going to talk about you." His lips quirked. "No matter how much you hate that."

She swallowed, unable to look away with his iron grip on her chin. "I—I don't know where to start. You already know the important stuff."

His eyes softened. "How about a name? What's his full name?" He already knew. The digging he'd done after she'd run off had given him that much. But it was a good place to start.

"Garret," she breathed, eyes swimming with pain. "Garret Xavier."

"And when did you first meet him?" Derek kept a steady grip on her, hoping to keep her grounded.

"I was—nineteen, in college. Business major. He had just graduated. My mother introduced us."

"Your mom?" He remembered his conversation with the woman. She'd been dismissive of her daughter, gossipy, bitter.

Amelia nodded as much as she could. "Yes sir. She knew his mother from church. They set us up."

"And how long before you were married?"

"Six months." Her voice was a whisper. "Six months, and then almost ten years of marriage."

Ten years. He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. The number was almost incomprehensible. Ten years in an abusive marriage, with fear and manipulation and grief.

"I didn't understand what he wanted at first," she said, continuing the story without his prompting. "The control, the berating. I thought—I thought I was doing it wrong. My dad left when I was little. I had... no idea what a marriage should look like."

A tear dripped down her cheek. "My mom told me that it was normal. For a man to want his wife to stay at home. For him to demand intercourse. The drinking, the staying out with his friends all hours of the night. Wanting the house scrubbed and dinner ready and my legs always open and waiting." Another tear joined the first.

Derek fought to keep his expression from revealing the nausea that was rising in his gut.

"And I still loved him." Bewilderment touched her features. "I still longed for him to hold me at night. For him to come home and enjoy the meal I'd made. And sometimes, when he was inside of me, I loved him so much that my heart broke. The pressure of my love for him filled my body to bursting. It was warm and deep and torturous."

She shuddered, tears falling in earnest now. "And I don't understand. I don't understand what went wrong. Did I not love him enough? Was I wrong or broken? Inadequate? What did I do, Derek?" she pleaded.

His heart broke. But she wasn't done.

"I just—" her arms rose, and she clutched her hair. "I don't understand! Why? Why would he do those things? We loved each other. How could he? How could he take so much from me?"

She pulled her hands from her hair, clutching her belly instead. "How could he take him away from me?" Her shoulders curled, and her chin dropped from his hand. "How could I be so stupid?" she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. My baby boy, how could I fail you so badly? I tried—I tried so hard—"
The sobs that escaped her covered up any words she might have tried to form.

Derek wrapped himself around her. Pain and rage and grief swirled inside him. She shuddered in his arms, and when the first tear slipped from his eye, he buried his face in her hair. This woman deserved so much more. And he grieved with her. But when she calmed—when her body stilled and her mind rested—he would find the source of her pain. And he would end him.