Drowning: An Angsty Standalone Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Marni Mann and Gia Riley

  All rights reserved.

  Visit our websites at www.MarniSMann.com and www.AuthorGiaRiley.com

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, R.B.A Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1541275324

  For those who are still running.

  For those who have found home.

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Did You Enjoy Drowning?

  Clay

  I kick my feet onto the coffee table, crossing them right next to the hat that I threw on there when I got home. I can’t really call it a hat. It’s a fuzzy red Christmas stocking with a fucking bell on the end. And, as for the table it rests on, I can’t really call it one of those either. It’s a piece of plywood one of my neighbors tossed in the dumpster, and I stuck it over a milk crate. My couch is a beanbag, and my decorations are the three boxes I still haven’t unpacked since my move from Colorado. It’s been two months, and I still don’t have furniture. I still don’t have anything but plastic in my cupboards.

  I still haven’t made New York City my home.

  “I’m not messing around, Clay. I want you to wear the hat for your whole shift. You hear me?” my manager said when she gave it to me. “It’ll get everyone in the spirit…even you.”

  Fuck that.

  And fuck her holiday spirit.

  I want to tell her to take the hat and shove it up her ass. But I can’t. I need this job, and I need our arrangement.

  When she hired me, the deal we agreed on was no paperwork, no identification. I would work for cash tips only.

  No one at the bar would ever know my real name.

  The people who drink there don’t give a shit about the hat or the holiday spirit. They want stiff pours and tart twists. The women want a guy like me who listens, someone to flirt with, someone who gives them attention. I’m sure they don’t get much of that at home. The guys, they want quick service and silence.

  I can handle that. All of it.

  But I can’t handle wearing that goddamn hat.

  I can lie about who I am and what I’ve done, but I can’t lie about being in the holiday spirit. Hell, I can’t even fake it.

  There is no spirit in me.

  That was gone the second I left Colorado after I dumped a few of my belongings into a clunker I’d paid for in cash and took off for the East Coast.

  A coast I hadn’t lived on since I started training.

  A coast I never thought I’d ever live on again.

  As I shift my feet on the table, the hat bouncing from the movement, my cell vibrates on the beanbag. Mom appears on the screen.

  “Hey,” I say, getting up to grab a beer.

  The fridge is bare besides a case of IPA, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and some cans of Endurance—the liquid protein that moved with me all the way to Manhattan. They’re cans I should have thrown out. All they do is remind me of why I am in New York and why I should be in Colorado.

  “Hi, Adri—”

  “No, Mom. We don’t say that name anymore. Especially not over a cell phone.”

  She sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m still getting used to this.”

  I am, too.

  My new name, Clay, is as foreign as this fucking city.

  “Are you still coming tomorrow?” she asks.

  “That’s the plan.” I bang the beer cap against the edge of the counter, the metal lifting off the top and falling to the floor. There are at least twenty others next to it and no reason to pick any of them up. “My manager gave me the next two days off.”

  “That’s nice of her.”

  I take several sips. “I’ve worked the last thirty-six days straight.”

  “Did you tell her you need the money?”

  “I’m not complaining, Mom.”

  I’m not upset that my manager has worked me for thirty-six days straight. I’m grateful. I don’t want to be in my apartment any more than I have to. Without a TV and a computer, my place is quiet. Lonely. And the silence makes me think.

  Thinking leads to memories and regret, and that hurts too fucking much.

  “I booked us two rooms at that hotel you picked,” she says. “The room is under my maiden name…like you requested, just in case.”

  Just in case.

  That’s how I live my life now.

  Just in case they try to look for me. Just in case they decide they want to kill me.

  “The train gets me in around noon,” I say, “so I’ll be there shortly after.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, honey. I’ve missed you.”

  I take the final chug of my beer and set the empty bottle on the coffee table. “Yeah, Mom, me, too.” I slide on my jacket, zipping it all the way to my chin, and tie my sneakers. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After I hang up, I snap the burner phone closed and stick it in my pocket. Then, I grab my keys and shut the door behind me.

  Andi

  “You have to do this, Andi. It’s now or never,” Camille tells me as she hoists my empty suitcase on top of the bed.

  She’s right. If I want my life to change, I have to pack up my shit and get out of town before it’s too late. Before he has a chance to stop me.

  “I’m scared,” I tell her with shaky hands. “What if he finds me? It’ll only make things worse.”

  She wraps me in her arms, the way a sister would. “And what if he doesn’t, Andi? You’ll finally have a chance to get your life back. You’ll be happy again. You can write.”

  Writing has always been my dream, but once Brooks’s happiness became my top priority, I began to lose my passion. Not only did my job suffer, but the newspaper I was working for also fired me when I called off for the third time in a month.

  It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I craved digging for new stories, but the news doesn’t wait for bruises to fade or cuts to heal. There’s no time to dry your eyes and wai
t it out. Life happens every single day, and from the moment it started to pass me by, I realized I had merely been existing and that I’d stopped living altogether.

  After more and more run-ins with Brooks, I knew I was running out of time.

  His moments of rage have been outweighing his peacefulness. And I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, waiting for his fist to find my face again.

  Come tomorrow morning, I’m leaving Manhattan for a fresh start someplace small and quiet. Someplace Brooks will never think to look for me and, hopefully, will never find me. Because, if he does, he’ll kill me for running away from him.

  “He made me hate him, Camille. I don’t think he ever wanted me to love him,” I tell her as I throw one more shirt into my bag.

  For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been buying new ones and hiding them in the back of my closet, so when the time came to pack up and leave, none of my clothes would look out of place.

  “He’s made you hate a lot more than that, Andi.”

  He’s made me hate myself.

  I thought, once I made it to Manhattan, the rest of my dreams would fall into place. Especially after I met Brooks and saw how much he cared about me. Not only did he take away my homesickness, but he also made me a priority in his life. And that was something a man had never done for me before.

  But looks can be deceiving, and all those promises he made were nothing more than a rope around my neck, pulling me down a destructive path I had no control over. Whether I realized it or not, from day one, Brooks has held all the power. He’s controlled every single move I made, and I’ve never let anyone have that kind of hold on me before.

  “Why is it so hard for you to do anything right?”

  I stood at the end of the hallway, confused about why Brooks had my purse in one hand and my shoes in another. I’d only been home from work for ten minutes, and he was home earlier than usual.

  “What did I do?” I asked him, wishing I hadn’t as soon as his eyes flared.

  Eerily calm, he dropped my purse and shoes on the hardwood floor. When he was inches away from my face, he placed a hand on either side of my head until I was braced against the wall. “Why don’t you tell me what you did?”

  “Brooks, you’re scaring me.”

  “You haven’t seen scary yet, princess.”

  I swallowed, not recognizing the man who stood in front of me or why he was so upset. The Brooks who kept me warm at night had never threatened me. He’d never raised his voice.

  Though petrified of the way he was acting, I lifted my hand and placed it against his five o’clock shadow. For a split second, he leaned into my touch, and his eyes began to look apologetic. But, just as he started to morph back into the man I loved, the rage returned the moment I tried to kiss him.

  His hand wrapped around my neck so tightly, I gasped for air, clueless about why he was doing this to me. Especially when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

  Like my struggle only made this better for him, he smiled when I clawed at his hand, trying my best to loosen his grip before I passed out.

  “Are you scared now, princess?”

  I nodded, which only made him laugh, and then he threw my head backward like a ball. My skull screamed the moment I bounced off the drywall. As I clenched my jaw to absorb some of the shock, the first of my tears began to fall.

  Silently begging him to let go of me, I pleaded with my eyes in any way I could. I thought he felt sorry for hurting me, sorry enough that he would let go. But he kissed me so hard on the mouth, it wouldn’t surprise me if blood was on my lips.

  I pushed against his chest, desperate for my next breath. He only let me have it when he’d had his fill.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked him.

  “Don’t you ever question me, Andi. This is my house, and I can do whatever I want.”

  I stood, staring at Brooks, unsure of what had changed, how he could go from loving me last night to practically hating me today. If I disgusted him that bad, why did he still want me?

  “Brooks, I’m sorry,” I told him even though I had no idea what I was apologizing for.

  And then it became clear.

  “If you ever talk to him or let him touch you again, you’ll regret it, Andi.”

  “Who?” I asked him. I could tell it was the wrong thing to ask as soon as the question passed between my lips.

  He lunged for me again, coming up with a fistful of my hair, and he yanked me into the bedroom. When he slammed me against the dresser, my scalp hurt so bad, I could feel each hair follicle trying to release me from his grasp.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Andi. I saw you out front with him.”

  The only man I had been with today was my boss. We had been working on a story outside the city, and he had given me a ride home on the way back in.

  We hadn’t touched.

  We’d only spoken about work.

  And we most definitely weren’t compatible.

  But Brooks had been watching me today, and who knew how many days before this one. It sent a chill up my spine.

  “I’m sorry you got the wrong impression. It wasn’t like that at all. I promise.”

  “I don’t trust you, Andi.”

  I’d never given him a reason not to. If anything, he was the one who turned heads everywhere he went, but unlike him, I was not a jealous person.

  My scalp still burned, but I needed him to see I was not scared anymore—even if I still was. Reaching out for him, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer until I could wrap my arms around his neck. I held on, praying the kind and caring man I had fallen for came back to me.

  Slowly, Brooks rubbed my back and kissed my neck. “You’re mine, Andi,” he whispered. “I need you.”

  I wanted out the second he laid his hands on me, but I was more afraid to walk away than to stay. To me, staying was the right thing to do because I believed in my heart, it wouldn’t always be this way. His anger was nothing more than growing pains, and once we got used to living together, he would worship my body again.

  With time, it would get better.

  Only it never did. It only got worse.

  “You’re right, Camille. I can do this. I need to do this.” There’s no going back once I walk out that door.

  “And you will,” she whispers with a sad smile. “You can be whoever you want to be now. You’re finally free.”

  “Almost,” I remind her. “I still have to get through tonight.”

  She places my last pair of sneakers on the pile and forces the top of the suitcase to meet the bottom. The zipper protests, but she somehow manages to get it closed.

  “This suitcase will be waiting for you at the station in the morning. I’ll have your ticket and all the paperwork you’ll need to get on the train.”

  A simple nod is all I can give her. The back of my throat is burning so much, I feel like it’s slowly closing. Though it’s nothing like the feeling of almost passing out when Brooks’s hands almost crushed my windpipe.

  “Thank you, Camille. I owe you the world.”

  She takes my hand and tells me, “You have an incredible job lined up in Pennsylvania. You getting there and finding yourself again—that’s all the thanks I’ll ever need.”

  “And you’ll check on Charlie? Saying good-bye to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done—besides this.”

  “I promise, he will always be warm, and he’ll never go without a meal. You’ll see him again someday. I know you will.”

  I’ve thought about taking my friend Charlie with me, but there’s no way I can manage it right now. The logistics are too much, and his entire world is here in the city. Whether he’s living on the streets or not, Manhattan is where his heart will always be. Though his reality isn’t any prettier than mine, he wouldn’t be Charlie if he were anyplace else.

  “It’s time,” I tell Camille. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  With a reassuring squeeze, she says, “There’s no going back, Andi.”


  I’ve endured enough pain.

  I’m ready to start over.

  I’m ready to start living again.

  Clay

  I’ve been running every night for the last two months, and I’m still not used to the feeling of the pavement. It grinds into my heels and burns the bottom of my toes. The sneakers make me feel suffocated.

  When the pool was down for maintenance, I would go for jogs with the team. That didn’t happen often, but we complained every time. We weren’t runners.

  My body was built to swim.

  My feet are made to kick water, my hands to surface and glide, deep breaths alternating between the right and left side.

  I’ve been swimming since I was two, and I’ve hardly ever left the pool.

  A full athletic scholarship took me to the best swimming college in the country. My times qualified me for the last Summer Olympics where I medaled in the two-hundred-meter butterfly, freestyle, and several of the relays. It wasn’t just my passion; swimming was my career. I trained year-round at the Aquatics Center in Colorado. I had endorsements and promoted their products. I was on billboards and commercials. I went to schools and spoke to kids about good grades and dedication and drive.

  And, now, I’m running instead of swimming, in Manhattan instead of Denver.

  I’m the most hated athlete in the world.

  It’s been two months since I last dunked myself in a pool, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself.

  So, I run.

  And I hate it. Every step. Every pound on the dark pavement. But I push myself to finish at least five miles every night after work regardless of how late it is.

  The streetlights cause me to stop so much, it’s hard to catch a good sweat. The honking and pedestrians make it difficult to focus on anything but the road.

  New York City never rests. Never stops moving. Never allows anyone to stare at you for longer than a second. There are just too many of us here.

  That’s why I picked this city.

  I need to be anonymous.

  Manhattan allows me to have an apartment that I pay for in cash, a phone, and a job, and I don’t even have to give anyone my real name. And, since there’s a warrant out for my arrest, I won’t be speaking that name to anyone.