Drowning: An Angsty Standalone Read online

  But all I really want is to go back to my old life. To swap the city for the mountains, the clean air, and the altitude. To leave the pavement behind and dive into the water. I crave the burn in my shoulders when I’m sprinting the last fifty meters. I want to taste my sweat in the water. I want to hear the screams in my ears. I want to see the giant T that marks the end of the lane. I want to feel the coolness glide over my freshly shaved skin.

  But, running?

  Shit, there is nothing good about this sport. Nothing kind about the black pavement. Nothing forgiving about the way it pounds your body. The air out here smells like smog, the sounds are angry, and the taste in my goddamn mouth is a bitter one.

  When I get to the red light, somewhere high on the West Side, I check my burner phone. I’m curious if there’s going to be a message from my manager, saying she has changed her mind and she wants me to come in tomorrow. She’s done that before. Before I didn’t care. Now, I’m practically begging her to let me come in.

  But there is no message. No chance of change.

  I’m going to Pennsylvania whether I want to or not.

  The woman standing next to me doesn’t even glance in my direction. The guy on my other side is looking at his phone.

  Anonymity.

  I won’t get that chance tomorrow. It will be all eye contact and hugging and words.

  That’s the reason I’ve avoided seeing my mom for the last two months. I don’t want to feel the sadness in her hug or see the disappointment in her eyes glaring back at me. I sure as hell don’t want words that will make me feel any worse than I already do.

  But there will be words and hugging and lots of disappointing looks because tomorrow is the Olympic trials. Mom was supposed to fly out to Omaha to watch me qualify. Instead, she’s meeting me in Pennsylvania in a hotel she booked under her maiden name.

  I won’t even be watching it on TV because I don’t want to hear the commentator say, The United States swim team is going to take a devastating hit at this year’s Olympics after losing the top twenty percent of their swimmers due to the Adrian Dillon scandal.

  That’s the reason I don’t have a TV at my place, why I don’t even have the Internet.

  I’m tired of reading the headlines. Tired of getting ripped apart by the critics. Tired of seeing the disappointment on my fans’ faces.

  I sure as fuck don’t want to see it on my mom’s face either.

  Since my dad passed, my success was what kept Mom going. My meets were what she looked forward to. My commercials and advertisements and billboards were what she snapped pictures of, so she could share them with her friends. Whenever someone asked how she was holding up, my mom would tell them how I was doing.

  She doesn’t talk about me anymore. She can’t without getting ridiculed.

  I’ve shamed my family.

  I’ve ruined my life.

  I’ve thrown away everything I ever worked for.

  I’ll never get back in the pool. I’ll never get out of this mess.

  I’ll never get to clear my name.

  “Watch it, you prick!” a driver yells at me when I cross in front of his car. “You’re lucky I don’t run you the fuck over.”

  Maybe that’s what I want—to be run the fuck over.

  Andi

  Camille left an hour ago with my luggage, and ever since, I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.

  The thought of her taking the elevator all the way to the lobby of the apartment complex without anyone noticing her seems impossible. She’s been here enough times that the doorman remembers her, and if he were to ask Brooks if we were going out of town or ask him anything suspicious at all, my cover would be blown.

  I should have thought this through, but even the idea of doing it myself wasn’t something I could stomach. To me, Camille seemed like the obvious, safer choice. Because, the second I think I can get away with escaping or I get too comfortable, that’s when Brooks will figure me out.

  Considering he’s already ten minutes late in getting home from work, maybe he already has.

  As I stare at the clock on the mantel, my pulse hammers in my ears. Each degree my blood pressure rises, the closer we get to a new hour, and the more I want to forget about waiting until morning.

  I have to get a grip.

  It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, so the sound of Brooks unlocking the front door makes me panic all over again. Wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans, I take a deep breath.

  “Babe, I’m home,” he calls out from the foyer.

  Like the ever-dutiful girlfriend that I am, I’m by his side in seconds, kissing his cheek and welcoming him.

  He drops his bag and pulls me against his chest. “I missed you,” he says as he places a kiss on the top of my head.

  In moments like this, I almost believe him.

  “How was work?”

  He shrugs, like it was neither good nor bad. I’m only asking because it helps me gauge what kind of mood he’s going to be in for the rest of the night. I hate when he doesn’t give me anything to work with.

  “Are you hungry? I made your favorite—baked chicken and rice pilaf.”

  “Corn, too?”

  “Yes.”

  He takes my hand and walks us toward the kitchen. When he brings my knuckles to his lips to kiss my emerald, he stops suddenly. “Where’s your ring?”

  I glance at my ringless finger, freaking out when I realize the emerald ring he gave me for Christmas is missing.

  With all the packing we did today, it could be in a drawer, at the back of my closet where I grabbed all the clothes I had been hiding, or worse, at the bottom of my suitcase—in Camille’s living room.

  “I took it to the jeweler on my lunch break. It needed to be cleaned.” It’s a spur-of-the-moment cover-up. One I can tell he’s not buying. I gave myself away the second my eyes shot to my empty finger.

  “Where’s your ring, Andi?” he asks me a second time.

  “I told you, it’s at the—”

  He doesn’t let me finish my sentence before his hand is gripping the back of my neck, and he’s guiding me away from the kitchen and into the bedroom. Pushing me toward the dresser, he only stops once I’m standing in front of my purse.

  “Let me see the paperwork.”

  “Paperwork? I haven’t paid yet. There’s no receipt.”

  His front presses against my back until my hip bones dig into the wood. He’s so close, I feel his exhale on my scalp.

  “There’s always paperwork, Andi. You really expect me to believe you dropped off a five-thousand-dollar ring, and they didn’t document it? They just let you walk right out the door?”

  “I’ll get my ring back tomorrow morning. I promise, it’s safe.” It’s not a total lie. If it is at the bottom of my suitcase, I’ll see it again soon.

  But, while the ring might be safe, I’m smart enough to know I’m not. At any second, he’s going to blow. The minutes of a semi-calm, somewhat rational Brooks are quickly disappearing.

  He raises his hand, and I wait for the sting of his palm against my cheek, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he lifts my chin, forcing me to look into the mirror at our reflection.

  Just this once, I pray he believes me and that I won’t have to go to bed with another black eye.

  “I told you to never take it off, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do, Andi?”

  “I took it off.”

  “And you fucking lost it.”

  “I didn’t lose it,” I plead as his grip gets tighter and tighter.

  Even though he’s hurting me, I have to think of something that will break this hold he has over me. Something that will bring the sweet Brooks back. Anything to make this version disappear.

  Risking him snapping entirely, I lift my arm and place my hand over his. His eyes fall to where I’m touching him, trying to take away his control.

  I can tell he doesn’t like it, but for the moment, he’s tolerati
ng it. That’s enough for me to keep going.

  Now that he’s watching my hand, I glide the tips of my nails back and forth over his skin. It takes every ounce of courage inside me, but I lock my eyes on his when I tell him, “I love you, Brooks.”

  Four little words are all it takes for him to ease up enough that I can turn around in his arms.

  Even though it makes me want to throw up, I pull his dress shirt out of his pants and work on the first button.

  He lets me get it completely unbuttoned before he asks, “What are you doing?”

  The swell in his pants leads me to believe I’m safe, that he’s slowly morphing his anger into desire.

  Rough sex, I’m used to; it’s something I can handle. But I can’t take him pounding on my body any other way.

  “Let me show you how much I love you,” I tell him as I push the white fabric off his shoulders, sliding each arm out, until his chest is completely bare.

  My name’s been permanently inked over his heart for the past couple of months, and each time we’re together, I trace the letters, turning him on that much more.

  I told him he was crazy the night he insisted he brand himself with my name, but he said it was where I belonged. That was before the second episode that earned me two stitches above my left eye.

  Just as the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he grips my shoulders, spins my body around, and throws me down, face-first, onto the mattress. He clasps my hands behind my back, so I can’t move, but I’m smart enough to know I shouldn’t try.

  Sinking my teeth into the duvet, I brace myself for the blow.

  Praying I can hold on until morning, I think about the train station and seeing Camille’s face as she wheels my suitcase to me with the ticket to Pennsylvania in her hand, the ticket that will save my life.

  “You’re a fucking liar!” he yells.

  I close my eyes and wait for the pain.

  Pain I won’t be awake long enough to remember.

  Clay

  I stand at the end of my air mattress, staring at the navy duffel bag sitting on top of it. I have to leave for the train station in a few minutes. I should be packing, filling the bag with a pair of jeans, a few shirts, and a toothbrush. Instead, I can’t drag my eyes away from that fucking bag.

  It isn’t just a duffel bag.

  It’s my Olympic travel bag.

  Embroidered in white on each end are the five interlocking rings. Across both sides is Dillon, my last name.

  The bag was given to me four years ago right before the London games. It went to every practice. It traveled to every meet. It went to photo shoots and commercial sets.

  I didn’t bring it everywhere just because I was superstitious. Most athletes are though. We fear change. Change can alter our rhythm; it can set us back. So, we use the same towel for every meet. We wear the same suit for every event. If our caps rip, we have backups in the same color, same fit, same design. I have twelve pairs of goggles that all look alike.

  The bag wasn’t just my insurance, something that came with me, no matter how beat-up or worn it was. The bag was a reminder of how goddamn hard I worked.

  But, now, it means nothing to me. It’s just a bag that sits limp and dusty on my bed. Inside, there’s a solo pair of goggles and a cap and the faint smell of chlorine. All of it, useless.

  In my hand is a roll of duct tape. I peel off a good-sized slice and cut it with a rusty knife that the last renter had left here. As I lean down, the smell of chlorine becomes stronger.

  I know it’s a mistake. I know it will only hurt. I know I will regret it, but I close my eyes as I tilt my head to the side and inhale through my mouth. And I remember…

  “Baby, it’s time for a new bag,” Brynn said.

  I threw the duffel next to the bed and sat on the end of the mattress, rubbing her feet through the blanket.

  We hadn’t been dating four years ago when the UPS driver delivered the bag to my apartment. She hadn’t been there when I’d placed the box on my counter, sliced the tape that held it together, and pulled out the plastic sleeve that the bag had been wrapped in. She didn’t know how long I’d stared at the fucking plastic before the shock had worn off, and I was finally able to take the bag out.

  She sure as hell didn’t know the work I’d put in to get that bag or what it felt like to see my name embroidered near those five rings.

  Brynn knew me as the Olympic athlete. She knew about the endorsements, the paychecks, the parties, the fundraisers.

  She knew everywhere my face appeared—in print and video.

  “That bag isn’t going anywhere,” I told her.

  I crawled on top of her, knowing her naked body was waiting for me underneath the comforter. It waited for me every morning when I returned from practice, and it gave me just what I needed before my double session in the pool.

  “Then, let’s upgrade it,” she said. “I’ll get you a Gucci one. Just like the one you got me for Christmas. We can be twinsies.”

  I laughed, nuzzling my lips up the side of her neck. Drips from my wet hair dropped onto her skin, slowly running toward her tits.

  “No upgrade.”

  “Will you at least start using the new bag they’re going to send you for Rio? It’s embarrassing how dirty this one is. It makes you look like you can’t afford a new one.”

  I stopped right before my tongue reached her nipple. “I don’t care how it looks or what people think I have.”

  Image was the only thing that mattered to her. I had known that going in. This—whatever this was—wasn’t supposed to last longer than a few dates. That was two months ago, and her toothbrush had been in my cup holder ever since.

  “Baby, you do care,” she said.

  I climbed off her and moved to the floor. Gripping the top of the blanket, I tore it off the bed. Her nipples hardened to tight little rocks as the cool air brushed over them. She giggled and reached for the waist of my sweats, pushing them down my legs.

  “What if I don’t qualify?” I asked her.

  If I didn’t qualify, there would be no Olympics for me this year. No new bag.

  No Brynn.

  She wrapped her hand around my cock, her eyes slowly looking up until they met mine. “As if that’s even a worry. You qualified during practice yesterday.”

  Qualifying at practice meant nothing. I was comfortable in our pool, with our timing system, with our blocks and lane lines. My muscles had been warm. My dive and flip turns had been on point. My cap and goggles hadn’t moved during the swim.

  Everything could be in its perfect place for the trials…and everything could go wrong.

  But Brynn only gave a fuck about the duffel bag, the outfit she would wear to our next event, if I had miles left to fly us there private. She didn’t know about the dark times—the worry, the fear.

  That wasn’t her fault.

  It was mine.

  I had known what I wanted from her. I had known it wasn’t the right time to start anything serious because, if I did qualify, my time would be even more limited.

  I dropped my hand onto her pussy, cupping her clit with my palm, sticking my finger inside her. She was as wet as I wanted her to be.

  “If I qualify, we can talk about putting the bag into retirement.”

  “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

  She licked her lips as she sat up and moved her mouth over the tip of my dick. I groaned as she surrounded the crown and again as she sucked the whole shaft into her throat.

  She might not know about the dark times, but she knew how to give me what I wanted.

  And she knew how to do it without gagging.

  As I blink a few times, the Dillon comes back into focus, and I slap the strand of silver tape over it. I cover my name on the other side and the Olympic logos on both ends. No one on the train will be able to see them. I need to stay anonymous.

  And I don’t want to see them. Not now…not ever again.

  I reach into my laundry bag that’s f
ull of clothes I washed after my run and grab some of the requirements for my trip. I don’t pay attention if any of it matches or if it’s weather appropriate. Besides going out to eat, my mom and I won’t be leaving the hotel.

  As I zip up the bag, I check the time.

  It’s much later than I realized.

  I don’t have the extra minutes to walk to Grand Central like I planned, so I lock up and cab it over.

  I wait in line at the ticket counter until it’s my turn.

  Keeping my hands in my pockets, I say, “Round-trip to Philly,” into the glass.

  “Returning?” the agent asks, his eyes on his computer.

  “Three days.”

  He finally looks up.

  “Sunday,” I say, doing the math for him.

  “Credit, cash—”

  I toss some bills into the hole under the window, knowing it will be enough to cover the cost of the tickets.

  He drops my change into the same hole. “You’d better hurry,” he says. “Doors shut in about three minutes.”

  I grab both tickets, and while I hold the duffel bag against my shoulder, I rush down the escalator to the last platform on the left and jump inside the end car of the train. I sit in the first empty seat I find and drop my bag next to me. Only a few seconds later, the door shuts, the brakes release, and flashes of light slip through my window.

  It’s time to finally see my mom, and the only thing I want to do is jump off this train and run back to my apartment.

  But I can’t. I have to face her.

  I have to face this.

  I have no Internet. No computer. No music. Nothing in my duffel to keep me occupied.

  Just silver duct tape and memories.

  It’s going to be a long fucking ride.

  Andi

  My hair is stuck to the side of my face where the tears have mixed with the traces of blood from the cut on my cheek.

  Still disoriented, I glance at the clock, surprised I’ve been passed out for nearly four hours. Usually, it’s not that long, which only worries me more. Each time Brooks knocks me out, it takes me longer and longer to find my way back to reality.