Home > Come Again (French Quarter Collection #2)

Come Again (French Quarter Collection #2)
Author: Jiffy Kate

Prologue


Avery

Hard.

Cold.

Quiet.

As I begin to wake and roll from my side onto my back, I groan. The pain in my head is atrocious and images of an angry Brant flash through my mind. He was drunk when he came home last night and our ongoing argument about him coming home late—and never calling to tell me where he is—escalated.

Slowly, I open my eyes and blink. My right eye is swollen but thankfully I can open it, a little. Craning my neck back, I see the dim light over the stove in the kitchen shining but everything else is bathed in the semi-darkness of early morning.

The living room floor.

That’s where I am.

I had been waiting for Brant and fallen asleep on the couch. When he came home, I woke up and asked him where he’d been and why he hadn’t answered my call.

I was worried.

Sue me.

Hesitantly, I lift my hand and touch my eye, confirming its swollen state. Tears well, threatening to fall as I gently brush my shaky fingers down my cheek, to my nose, and finally coming to rest on my lips. Crusted, dried blood is covering the skin under my nose. Swiping my tongue out to moisten my parched lips, I immediately regret it as the taste of copper hits my taste buds and makes my stomach roll.

After a few more minutes of taking inventory and gaining my bearings, I finally pull myself up, using the nearby couch for support. The rest of my body is sore, but only from laying on the floor, everything else is intact. No other bruises. Nothing broken.

What the fuck happened?

One second, we were having our typical heated discussion. He was admonishing me for being a needy bitch. I was biting my tongue to keep from lashing out at him.

The yelling isn’t anything new, but it’s not old either. Back in high school, Brant would’ve never thought of raising his voice to me. He worshipped the ground I walked on and I treated him like a king. My friends were constantly swooning over him and telling me how they wished they could find someone like Brant Wilson—star quarterback, valedictorian, golden boy. Granted, we lived in a small, rural town in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, so the competition was limited, but Brant would’ve been a standout no matter what.

He wanted it.

Life.

Success.

And all my friends thought I was so lucky, because he also wanted me.

When Brant came back after he graduated from college and told me about a job offer he got in Houston, and that he wanted me to come with him, I jumped. Head first. No looking back. Sure, I love Oklahoma. I always will. It’s home. But the hustle and bustle of a big city has always called to me, like a beacon to my soul. A few days later, I had quit my job at a local restaurant, packed up my clothes and shoes and a few keepsakes to remind me of home, kissed my mama and daddy goodbye, and drove off into the sunset.

The yelling started shortly after we got settled in Houston. I realized early on, the more stress Brant was under at work, the more he’d dump it onto me when he got home. But I’ve been patient with him, hoping that my grandmother’s favorite line was still true: this too shall pass. I’ve always held onto it and applied to every aspect of my life. Everything is temporary, even this life we’ve been given.

Recently, things got worse. I took a job working at a boutique with some sweet older ladies, and apparently that was just as good as me slapping Brant in the face. He was offended—incensed. He thought I got the job because I felt he needed my financial help. I won’t lie, I had thought the added income would relieve some of his tension and keep him from stressing so much over this latest upcoming promotion. But in all honesty, I was bored. The apartment is small and there’s only so much cleaning I can do in a day. We’re not married. We don’t have kids. We don’t even have a dog. I had to do something with my time.

But that was when he started berating and belittling me, especially when I’d offer to take him out to dinner or a movie—always thinking I had an ulterior motive.

“Do you think I can’t afford to take you out?”

“Do I not do enough for you?”

“The bills are always paid.”

“I take care of you.”

“What more do you want?”

And the list goes on and on.

Something has changed. He never takes me seriously anymore and if we talk at all, it’s always about how he’s going to get to the next level. The Brant I knew and loved in high school, and even college, the one who liked to watch movies with me on the couch or go out for pizza is long gone. He’s been replaced by a money-hungry corporate asshole.

Tiptoeing down the hall, I walk into the guest bathroom and flip on the light. I squint my eyes until they adjust, blinking several times when my face comes into view.

The tears I let fall have dripped into the dried blood on my lip. Mixed with the smudged mascara from last night, it makes me look like the zombie cheerleader I dressed up as on Halloween a few years back.

How the fuck did I get here?

How the fuck did we get here?

When I think I hear something from down the hall, I pause with my hand on the faucet, holding my breath, listening to make sure Brant’s not awake. After a few seconds, I ease the water on and grab a washcloth, lightly dabbing at my lip until the blood is gone, leaving behind swollen, split skin.

My eye is puffy and bruised, but at least the skin is intact.

There’s also a purple shadow on my cheekbone.

Staring at my reflection, I allow my mind to hit replay.

“Why do you always need to know where I’m at, huh? Tell me, Avery. Have I ever fucked around on you?” Brant’s eyes are hazy, but his words are sharp, cutting deep. “I could.” He barks out a harsh laugh. “I could have so much pussy. But I don’t. I don’t because I know you’re here, waiting for me to come home.”

For a second, I think he’s going to stop there and go pass out in the bedroom, but he doesn’t. He keeps going.

“I like that, you know?” His hand brushes over my cheek and my body tries to recoil, but I command it to stand firm. I’m no coward. I don’t back down. It’s not in my blood.

“I won’t be for long,” I tell him, putting as much finality into my words as I can muster. “I’m not going to sit around waiting for you my whole life. This isn’t the life we talked about. It’s not the one you promised.”

Anger flashes on his face and it contorts his handsome features to something foreign—something I’ve never seen before.

“What are you trying to say?” he bellows and for a split second I wonder if our neighbors can hear him, almost hoping they can, because he’s kind of scaring me.

Will they call the cops?

Maybe turn us in for disturbing the peace?

“Calm down, Brant,” I say, my voice controlled and even, hoping he’ll follow suit. When I reach out to tug on his sleeve, a familiar gesture I’m hoping will help defuse the situation, he slaps my hand away, catching me off guard.

“I’m not calming the fuck down, Avery!” He turns and paces, then stops, taking a deep breath and running a hand down his face, but it does nothing to wipe away the pure rage. “What the fuck are you saying? Am I not good enough for you? What the fuck can you possibly want?” His rapid-fire questions are coming so fast I don’t have time to refute or reply. “I bought you a fucking car. I pay for this fucking apartment. I let you have your piddly ass little job. This,” he pauses, spreading his arms wide, “this is what you’ve always fucking dreamed of.”

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