Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,83
Mom,” I tell her. “Or even to Jason. He’d understand.”
She sighs. “I can’t do that. He’s probably disgusted with me.”
“Who, Jason?”
“Yes.”
“Layla, no. He just wants to help you.”
“I hate that he knows what happened to me.” She sounds so dejected.
After Layla and I end our call, I watch a little YouTube until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer and I’m in danger of dropping my phone on my face.
This big bed feels so empty without Tyler. It amazes me how much I’ve come to depend on him in such a short time. I wrap my arms around the spare pillow, wishing it were him, and wait for exhaustion to take me under.
* * *
Somehow, I end up back home in the apartment I shared with my birth mom. Back in the beginning, before I became Ian Alexander. When I was just Ian.
I’m upstairs in the little bedroom, and the door is locked from the outside. It’s getting dark out. I know because there’s no sunlight coming through the partially boarded-up window.
I’m hungry.
And cold.
And scared.
I hear voices downstairs… several of them, all men. They’re laughing loudly. I hear my mommy sometimes, talking, laughing. Sometimes I hear her cry out like she’s in pain. And the more she cries out, the more they laugh.
I grab my blanket and my pillow and my stuffed dog and I hide in the closet. Sometimes I talk to myself so I can’t hear them downstairs.
Just as I’m falling asleep, I hear the bedroom door open. I listen to quiet footsteps approaching the closet. And then the closet door opens, and a man crouches down to look at me with a sad expression on his face.
“It’s okay, buddy,” he says. “You’re safe.”
I stare at the dark-haired man. “Tyler?”
I shoot up in bed as my heart thunders. I’m covered in sweat, and it takes me a minute to realize where I am.
I’m at the penthouse.
It was just a dream.
I lie back down and stare up into the darkness while my pulse races.
For the millionth time, I wonder if my birth mom is even still alive. And I wonder if she ever thinks about me.
Chapter 31
Tyler Jamison
I have no idea what time it is—I just know that it’s pitch black outside my solitary window. I sit on my bunk and listen to the night sounds of this remote section of the jail. Nights are eerily quiet. Occasionally, I hear footsteps as the guards make their rounds. Once in a while, I detect the jangle of keys, the snick of a lock turning, or the clang of a metal door closing.
Mostly, I pace my cell and hope Ian’s doing all right.
I’m allowed to go outside twice a day, for thirty minutes at a time. I usually pace the enclosed courtyard, maybe shoot a few hoops or do some calisthenics. It’s nice to get outside—it certainly makes me appreciate the outdoors in a way I never have. I’ve always taken my freedom for granted, but incarceration gives me a whole new viewpoint. After I get out of here, I think a road trip is definitely in order. I know Ian would be up for it.
I’ve been able to call Ian twice, my mother once, and my sister once. Beth has been having those fake contractions off and on for a few days now, and I’m sure that’s bringing back some unpleasant memories. I imagine Shane is a wreck. After what happened the last time, with Luke’s premature birth, I don’t blame him. Hopefully, everything will go smoothly this time and she’ll give birth in a hospital at full term.
I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past couple of days… endless hours, in fact. I have to admit, losing my job—my entire life’s career—hurts. Badly.
When I was a kid, I’d watch my dad come home from work every evening, stow his firearm in a lock box, and change out of his uniform into street clothes. Like any young child, I thought my father was invincible. But of course, he wasn’t. A whacked out drug addict took my dad’s life, destroying my family in the process.
Beth was just an infant at the time. She never even got to know him. But I knew him. I idolized him and I still miss him every day of my life.
He was my hero.
My throat tightens, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “I’m so sorry.”