Indisputable

A. M. Wilson

 

Indisputable

Copyright © 2015 by A. M. Wilson

Cover Design by Kim Black at TOJ Publishing Services

All Rights Reserved.

Permission by the author must be granted before any part of this book can be used for advertising purposes.  This includes the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

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

 

This book is dedicated to L and C.

Follow your dreams, no matter how daunting.  You never know where you may end up.  I love you.  Always.

 

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the Author

Shatter Me

CHAPTER ONE  

Tatum

 

For the first Friday in weeks I don’t have to work.  If I’m not working, I’m doing homework, and if my homework is done, I’ve got a young adult novel in my hands.  I like to bury myself in teenaged angst and live through the emotions I was never allowed time to feel.

It’s cathartic.  And relaxing.  One of my methods to escape life.

Tonight, I’m all out of new books, and I don’t have any money until I pick up my paycheck on Monday.  Each week, I allow myself to load $15 onto my kindle account to feed my book addiction.  By Friday, I’m always clean out.

Which leaves me with two options.  One: waste away in my apartment while listening to the couple in 308 scream at each other or fuck.  It’s inevitable one or the other will take place, sometimes both.  It happens every night.  Or option two: grab some CD’s and go for a drive.  Driving has always been another soothing balm on my soul.  There are few things more calming than driving with no direction and blasting my favorite tunes.  Sometimes singing, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, or any combination of the three.

Easy decision to make, really.

Hopping into my beat up Honda I bought for a whopping $500 when I was sixteen, I speed out of the parking lot heading for direction Anywhere But Here.  Keeping the wheel steady with my knees, I grab one of my mixed CD’s from the passenger’s seat and slide it into the player.  It’s a compilation of Singer/Songwriters that Emerson and I put together.  Scrawled in black sharpie it reads: Best Friends Forever Mix 19.  Our mixes are as numerous as the Now That’s What I Call Music collection.  I drum my fingers along the steering wheel with the beat, letting my mind drift into beautiful silence.  Absorbing the lyrics without analyzing or applying the words.

I pull up to the stop sign on the outskirts of town, letting the car idle longer than necessary.  The roads are empty in all directions.  Black ink spreads across the expanse of the sky, pieces of gold shimmering as if I had blown glitter from the palm of my hand into the universe.  Out here, away from any city lights, the scene is breathtaking, and I take a second to admire the beauty.

Intent on driving down the highway further into nothingness, I press down on the accelerator.  I get a whole lot of nothing.  No sound, no movement.  The engine doesn’t even rev up.

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.

I press the break, switching the car into park, and turn the key.  Twisting the ignition once more, the car starts up, and I breathe a sigh of relief.  I don’t have the money for car repairs right now.  I hit the accelerator once more, and the car gives a shaky halfhearted lurch like it’s dry heaving across the pavement.  And then another.  It gives a third grunt before it comes to a silent halt.  Shit, shit, shit!

I throw my hands up dramatically.  Reaching under the dash, I pop the hood before climbing out of the vehicle.

No streetlights, no sound; it’s dark as sin out here.  At least I puttered across the intersection, and I’m not stranded in the middle of the highway about to be sent to my grave by an unsuspecting driver.

I lift the hood, secure it, and stare blankly into the dark, dirty engine with my hands braced against the sides.  No smoke, no flames, no weird smells, no thingies hanging out where they shouldn’t be.  There aren’t any obvious signs of why my car suddenly ate shit on the side of the highway.  Not that I actually know what to look for.  I sigh, shaking my head and climb back into the seat, turning on my flashers, and reaching for my cell.  Lucky for me, my one and only hookup is a mechanic at the only shop in town.  They’ve long since closed for the night, but he might be able to figure out the problem and get my car running again.

Wyatt is a friend I met through a friend last year about the time my life went from rough to utter shit.  He’s twenty three, works down at the neighborhood car shop, and is the typical hometown boy who’ll never leave.  He’s also the perfect distraction when life gets too monotonous.  Escape number two on the list of How Tatum Deals with Her Fucked Up Life.  We have an unspoken mutual agreement that we use each other to deal.  Fortunately for me, my side of the agreement comes with things like car repairs and free tows.

Before I can find his name in my contact list, headlights pool over the car bathing me in intensely bright light through the windshield.  Instinctively, I shield my eyes from sudden blindness.

“Can you dim your lights?” I holler out my open door, hoping like crazy this isn’t some rapist-slash-murderer, and I’m about to never be heard from again.

“Sorry! Sorry,” a deep male voice calls back before the lights are cast downward.  I unsuccessfully blink the stars from my eyes.  My fingers are itching to punch in 9-1-1 just in case, but before I can, a man wanders cautiously toward my open door.

“Is everything alright?”

“Um, yes—no, I mean,” I stutter, suddenly struck stupid.  I’ve always been a huge wuss.  The tough girl exterior is all an act.  Taking a deep breath, I try again.  “I’m fine, but my car broke down.”

“Oh.  Do you know what’s wrong with it?  Flat tire?  Out of gas?” he asks, still standing a small distance away.  I can’t make out his face with the light glaring behind him.  He’s cast entirely in silhouette.  Not being able to see his face makes me nervous.

“No.  The tank is full.  It stalled at the stop sign and then sort of lurched across the road.  All I know is it’s not on fire,” I reply dryly.  “I don’t know anything about cars.”

He chuckles a deep rumbling sound, and my nerves disperse.  I like it.  It sounds like a distant roll of thunder.  “Unlucky for you, neither do I.  But I’d be happy to take a look anyway.”

“You don’t have to do that.  I’m going to try calling my friend.  He’s a mechanic in town.”  I hook my thumb over my shoulder and gesture behind me, pointing in the direction I came from.


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