Loving The Enemy

I was out of the chair and headed for the door after grabbing my keys from the side table. Dammit, I should’ve gone to her before this happened. Already I was cleaning up the fallout in my head. Someone had talked and I’ll find out who, but for now I needed to get to her, to make sure she was okay. I could still see her face that last day, looking so lost and alone.

Why hadn’t I done something then? It wasn’t the fact that she was selling her clothes to live that had me running to her, I admire the fuck out of her for that. But what they were about to reveal could very well destroy her. Was she watching? I hope not. But what was to stop someone else from telling her about it.

I had the fleeting thought that I should call the station and have the show pulled for tonight, but that’s not how this shit works. For one, it was not my station, and for another, no way are they going to pull a show that I was sure was bringing in viewers by the millions. People love this shit; the misery of others. Like fucking vultures picking over a carcass.

I drove like hell through the as not yet familiar streets. Her home was only about a five-minute drive away from mine, but since I was still new to the area and my driver was usually the one with this headache, I had to pick my way through the dark night.

Luckily traffic was almost nonexistent so my ninety miles per hour posed no danger to anyone else but myself, and a tree.

I didn’t stop to think why it was so important for me to get to her. Why I felt the need to protect her from this shit. And why the fuck was she selling her shit? Was it really that bad? What the fuck did Bronson do? And why hadn’t she come to me? Why would she Jason? She doesn’t know you, what the fuck, are you thinking?

All kinds of danger signals went off in my head but I ignored them as I raced down the driveway to her. I had her face superimposed on my mind. It wasn’t the feisty sassy look either, but that last one, the one that keeps ripping a hole in my heart. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. We’re not friends, not lovers, hell we’re not even acquaintances, probably closer to enemies since she seems to blame me for her dad’s fuck-ups.

None of that seemed to matter now though, not as much as getting to her. Every light was on in the house as I slammed out of the car and hurried to the door. I rang the doorbell twice before I heard footsteps on the other side. I prepared myself for the sight of her, but all preparation flew out the window when she pulled the door open. Her face was ravaged, her eyes red. “Why are you crying?”

“What are you doing here?” We spoke at the same time. I ignored her question and moved her back and out of the way so I could enter and close the door. I crowded her back against the wall, my body shielding her from some unseen force.

“Who hurt you? Look at me, why are you crying?” I wiped escaping tears from the corners of her eyes with my thumbs and held her face between my hands.

“Is it true?” Shit, in my haste I didn’t give thought to the fact that she might be watching that drivel. I’d rushed over but obviously commercials didn’t drag on the way they used to when I was a kid. How the fuck long did it take me to get here anyway? My thoughts were jumbled and that hurt, lost look in her eyes wasn’t helping. When her slight frame started shaking I did the only thing that made sense and pulled her in.

“It’s okay baby, everything’s going to be okay.” I rubbed her back like a baby while she buried her face in my chest and cried. That lasted for all of ten seconds before she tensed up and tried pulling back. I let her get as far as an arm’s reach but didn’t let her go. Now that she was just staring up at me I hadn’t the slightest clue where to begin. Then I remembered her question. Fuck!

“Is what true?” I knew I was only playing for time, then again I didn’t know what had been said while I was in the car on the way here so maybe it wasn’t that bad. Are you fucking bent? She’s devastated, of course it was that bad. Still, I’ve learned a lot by letting other people talk while I listen instead of just jumping the gun.

I finally released her and followed her into the living room where she dropped into a chair like there was no life left in her. “Did daddy really do all those things?” Her eyes begged me to deny, to give her back what she had up to a half an hour ago. I could do that, but what good is that for her?