Anxious Hearts Read online

  Anxious Hearts

  Daphne and Zander

  Copyright © 2014 Felicia Tatum

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

  Published by Felicia Tatum Books

  PO Box 663

  Monterey, TN 38574

  www.feliciatatum.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any for whatsoever.

  ISBN-13: 978-1502573469

  ISBN-10: 1502573466

  Edited by Jeanie Creech

  Cover Design by Author Sarah M Cradit

  www.sarahmcradit.com

  Book layout and design by Marcy Rachel of Backstrip Publishing

  http://www.backstrippublishing.com

  This book is dedicated to everyone who suffers and battles with depression. I hope you find your happiness.

  Daphne

  There were things about me no one knew, not even my best friend and confidant, Francesca. The darkness inside me ran deeply, penetrating my very core until at times I felt my heart and soul were black and empty. Happiness was an elusive emotion I wasn’t sure I’d ever experience. A foreign, mythical thing that happened to other people, not me. Not Daphne Waterman.

  The more my life spiraled out of control, the more the blackness surrounded me. It was warm, familiar, like a hug from grandma. I craved it, I welcomed it. I was it.

  No one suspected these things about me. As I grew, so did the depth of the gloom inside me, and with it, my acting skills. Managing to smile while my insides felt scorched and dying was a rare talent. Yet, I’d perfected it.

  Now, my only problem was keeping my secret.

  “I don’t know!” Francesca cried. Once again we were making wedding plans, and she didn’t know what she wanted. She was marrying her fiancé, Cade, in less than three months and so far, we had nothing accomplished.

  I was ready to pull my damned hair out over it, but I was the maid-of-honor, so I grinned and bore it, like the good little friend I was.

  “Francesca, I love you, but seriously, you have to pick a color scheme. Everything depends on it,” I said gently.

  How hard was this, really?

  “I want it to be perfect,” she said softly. Her blond hair was sleek around her face, accenting her huge brown eyes, making her appear younger than her twenty five years. “Cade says he doesn’t care, and that’s fine, but what if I pick something he hates?”

  Laughing, I grabbed her by both shoulders. “If he says he doesn’t care, I’ll bet he really doesn’t.”

  Sighing, she nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m dragging you everywhere and being crazy. I had no idea weddings were so complicated.”

  I wanted to tell her she was the one making it complicated, but I kept my mouth shut. “It’s my best friend duty.”

  Francesca and I became friends way back when our ages were in the single digits. Surviving puberty, periods, and the rest of our teenage angst years pretty much solidified our bond forever. She was my better half, my blond to brunette, my calm to storm. I truly did love her more than I did my own sister and would do anything for her.

  “You’re so awesome, Daph,” she grinned. “So, what do you think? Should we do red and black? Or pink and white? Or yellow and green? Or pink and green?”

  My head swirled in colors and I lifted a hand to stop her. “Slow down, Franny Girl. It’s in September. Why not pick something for the fall?”

  She stood there, nodding and mumbling to herself. “I’m so glad I brought you. You know so much more about all of this than I do. Why did I decide to become a lawyer? I mean, your designing degree is much more useful right now!”

  “Well, hopefully you won’t need to get married a bunch of times. So, I don’t mind sharing my wisdom for this once,” I smirked.

  We’d had a falling out over her engagement when it happened. I insisted it was too quick, too soon, while she said true love conquered all.

  Yeah, right. Cade was a recovering alcoholic and truth be told, I was simply worried for her emotional stability. She’d lost her sister years ago, Cade had broken her heart before. It wasn’t really a stretch to think he might do it again. Hell, I still wasn’t convinced this was all rainbows and unicorns with a happy marriage at the end.

  Whatever, though. What did I know? I was the bitter best friend who couldn’t get a date.

  Or so they thought.

  “How about yellow and orange?” she asked, her fingers tapping her chin like this was the most important decision in the world.

  “Very fall-ish,” I stated. I prayed this one stuck, that this would be it so we could get the rest of it over with.

  It may be bitchy of me, but really, did anyone really give a shit? The people attending didn’t care what color you had for flowers or what the bridesmaids were wearing. They’re there to watch two people they care about enter in a potentially disastrous union. Weddings could be comedies, if you really thought about it. Or you could compare them to gambling. Some won the jackpot, while most lost all they had.

  “That’s it, then! We’ll do pink and orange!” she exclaimed.

  Wait, what? “Pink and orange it is!” I agreed. Missing something was my specialty. I got so stuck in my head, the voices rambling bitter thoughts so often, that I got swept up in the process and lost pieces of conversations.

  She flung herself at me, securing her arms around my neck as she squealed in a way only Francesca could. We jumped up and down, her out of pure romantic bliss, me out of relief, and began the daunting task of picking out all the little details needed to make her day the best it could be.

  I truly was happy she was happy. The fact that I didn’t believe true love was all that true wasn’t relative. She knew my feelings, we’d hashed them out after our fight, and we agreed to disagree.

  Now all I had to do was make sure she didn’t put me in an ugly dress.

  “Can we go back to your office?” she quizzed. “Zander told me he had everything under control for the day, so I don’t have to go back in this afternoon.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I purchased some wedding magazines just for you, best friend. We’ll look over them, but I already have some ideas. Pinterest is my favorite place.”

  She looked thoughtfully at me, “I should get one of those.”

  Giggling, I drug her to the check-out, insisting on paying for our lunch. Technically it was work, considering we were talking details of something I was organizing. Also, technically, I wasn’t getting paid. The IRS didn’t need to know that tidbit, though.

  “I’ll meet you over there,” she said with a grin. She engulfed me in her arms once more, Francesca being one of the only people I allowed to be this close to me, and whispered her thanks in my ear.

  Envious. I was envious of my best friend. She had the job, the guy, the house. She was happy. It oozed out of her like blood from a wound. It was disgusting, yet thrilling to imagine. A small part of me wanted that. I longed for a decent guy, not some jerky asshole who only wanted my vagina, but one that cared for me. A nice guy with the sexiness bad boys were consumed with, held the gentleness I craved, but could still push me against the wall and take me with the passion I needed.

  I smiled, stuffing my feelings down deep and walked to my car. Francesca suspected my darkness a few times, but I always lied. I never told her the depths of how consumed I was with it. How I never felt I was enough. She would tell me I was. A lie or not, I couldn’t tell you, but I didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t a stupid person. I knew she was aware of more than I told her, but she never pushed or pressured me into telling h
er more.

  I loved her for it.

  Lining my eyes with the blackest eyeliner, I brushed on the darkest shadow. Using colored contacts, I gently changed my bright green eyes to a deep, bedroom brown. Spraying my hair, I lifted and combed until it held volume, giving me sex hair. The purple streak framing my face would come off on my hands if I touched it too much. I gave it extra spray, just in case.

  I pulled the too short dress down a bit more, lifted my breasts to give better cleavage, and grabbed my keys. I couldn’t stay here, not in this small town. I had to go to Knoxville, only about thirty minutes away, but far enough people wouldn’t recognize me immediately.

  No one could reveal who I truly was. My family, well, they’d never forgive me. Francesca would never understand.

  It was better this way. Easier. Cleaner.

  His alcohol laden breath was hot on my face, assaulting my senses. “You come here often?” he slurred. He wasn’t terrible looking, but definitely wasn’t attractive enough to get into bed with.

  Smirking, I raised a brow. “Real original, are we? You’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder than that if you want to get up my skirt.”

  Drunk guy was so out of it he didn’t even realize I was speaking, instead he reached over, placing a hand on my bare knee. “Come on, beautiful,” he said, though it sounded more like booty-full, and he spit all over me.

  I picked his hand up with my nails, digging deeply, and threw it back in his direction. “No one touches me unless they have permission, and you, Jackass, do not have the green light.”

  Grumpily huffing, he reached for his glass, missing his target twice before grasping it, and swayed off. Rolling my eyes in his direction, I signaled for the bartender. I’d need a few more of these margaritas if that’s what I was going to deal with tonight.

  A low, deep chuckle behind me startled me. Turning, I came face to face with a handsome man watching me. His wavy blonde hair was shaggy, hanging slightly longer than I usually liked, but it worked for him. His dark brown eyes danced with mischief as he brought the neck of his bottle to his lips.

  “Can I help you?” I quizzed. The bartender lady brought me another mango margarita. I nodded my thanks, turning my attention back to watcher guy.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Laughing at your sassy ass.”

  Cocking my brow again, I took a long sip of my drink. “You know nothing about my ass,” I replied snidely.

  “I know it looks good in that skirt. I know it would look better out of it,” he said. His voice was husky and dark.

  It spoke to my soul.

  “Is that right?” I smirked. I already knew I’d probably do him tonight, but didn’t mean I wouldn’t make him work for it.

  He nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Myra,” I lied. Never did I tell the truth when it came to these situations. No details, only false information. The more they knew, the more they seemed to think they were entitled to something.

  “I’m Robert,” he smiled, holding out his hand.

  I took it, shaking firmly. I had to show my dominance, let him know now that I wasn’t one to get run all over. I wouldn’t be the girl that shook in my panties for him. He would work for me.

  “Pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” he said, taking another long swig. “So, why are you here all alone?”

  “I can’t go out alone?” I retorted.

  “Yeah,” he said with a dip of his head. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  I softened, but only slightly. “No worries. Have to be on guard around most of these guys,” I said gesturing around the bar.

  “You deserve better,” he said, leaning closer.

  And so it started.

  “How do you know what I deserve?”

  “Myra, you’re a beautiful woman. I can see how kind you are in your gorgeous brown eyes. I’m really good at reading people,” he said, his tone oh-so-serious.

  I fought back my giggles. “Thank you for that, Robby.”

  “It’s Robert,” he corrected.

  “Not anymore,” I responded. Looking him over while I finished my drink, I decided he would do. His arms weren’t ripped, but they were tight. His chest was broad in his buttoned shirt, the middle stretched tightly.

  Yes, he would do nicely.

  He smirked as he eyed my assessment. “Do you approve?”

  Making direct eye contact, I moved my head ever so slightly. “It’s hot in here,” I said, lightly fanning myself with my hand. It was my go-to line. It worked. Every. Single. Time.

  His eyes widened and he paid his tab, and mine, before guiding me out of the building. His fingers brushed the small of my back, his touch not really doing much for me, but I pretended it did. I created an elaborate story in my head, us being lovers for years and role-playing in a bar, instead of two strangers about to bump uglies. It helped. I knew I’d never be loved the way my friends were. I’d never have the fairy tale romance every little girl dreamed of, ‘cause it was just that. A fairy tale.

  Not real.

  Fiction.

  I’d given up on finding love, being emotionally detached or something similar according to my therapist, but I still craved contact with another human. Pleasure, pain, all of it. The feelings and emotional bullshit never happened for me. I deemed it impossible a few years back, burning all remembrances of past relationships and watching my feelings turn to smoke and ash.

  For the past year, I’d been secretive and reckless. Using my looks to get what I wanted, a few moments of feeling with another human being without the baggage of relationships. I was careful, always, but that didn’t stop the guilty, nagging voice who spoke to me, telling me how slutty I was. How I couldn’t find someone to care, so I had to use my body to find what others naturally found.

  I hated the voices.

  He stopped in the shadows, the lights from the bar skipping across the building as we passed. He pulled me to him, his hungry mouth lowering and moving against mine. I kissed him back, though not as eagerly, and he fumbled with trying to touch me everywhere.

  Why were men so impatient about sex? Was it really something that had to be done right this second? Was it a huge deal to take their time, to actually try and figure out what I enjoyed, instead of clumping me in with the porn stars they probably knew so well?

  He continued his slobbery assault, his tongue moving in impossibly quick movements. We finally hailed a cab, heading back to his place. I knew what would happen tonight and I was ok with it.

  He thought I was Myra. He would have sex with me and it probably wouldn’t be that great. I’d slip out in the middle of the night, or early morning, hopefully without having to talk to him again.

  It was only sex.

  It meant nothing.

  It always had.

  A means to release my anger, frustrations, while using men the same way they’d always used me. No feelings, no emotions, only semi-passion mixed with lust. Was I ashamed? Only slightly. Lying cut me worse than anything. Why should I be humiliated for enjoying the pleasures of a man? Did men feel mortification when using women for release? No.

  I wouldn’t apologize, either.

  The fog in my head, not from the alcohol, but the darkness, whispered it was alright. I knew deep down it wasn’t what I truly wanted, but it was better than crying myself to sleep.

  Refocusing my attention back to the guy beside me, I saw we’d stopped and he was pawing at me while opening the door.

  Here went nothing.

  Zander

  The cool ivories tickled my skin as my fingers flew over the keys, releasing the song I held inside. Every emotion came to life as I played. Closing my eyes, I pressed each one harder as the frustrations of life were expressed through musical notes.

  “Zander!” my mother yelled, startling me.

  “What?” I groaned, sucking in a breath. I stopped playing. What was the use when someone was always interrupting me?

  “We have to discuss this,” she scold
ed, hands on hips and brows scrunched together.

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Mother. I’m not testifying for that bastard.”

  “He’s your uncle, don’t be so disrespectful!” she shouted.

  “Oh, right,” I chuckled. Standing, I moved closer to her, stuffing my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t smash something. “Like he respected me when he was using me to embezzle money?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” she sighed. “Besides, he made you rich, Zander McKinney! You should be appreciative of that.”

  I stared at her, wondering how in the hell I came from her. She was so incredibly stupid and selfish. It was hard to believe she was the same loving mother who raised me. “You’re insane. I’m leaving.”

  I shuffled to the door, thinking back to how she’d been when I was growing up. Compassionate and caring, always doing things with me and my little sister. Never once did I hear her say the things she does now about money. It wasn’t important, only a means to get by, but then she’d left my father. Still couldn’t tell you the real reason, but it destroyed our family. She’d met Ander, a rich man, more than a few years older than she was, and they’d married not long after.

  Things changed when she’d discovered the joys of spending his money. My sister Zarina and I were no longer the center of attention, pushed away for the credit card she flashed so carelessly.

  And now, here she stood, begging me to testify for the man that embezzled money from L & B Law Firm, using my name to place millions of dollars, and hurting one of my closest friends in the process. The FBI cleared me, thank God, but that didn’t make me feel any less guilty. My uncle was a clever man, even if he did lie about going to law school, and managed to transfer the money through multiple channels until it wasn’t illegal to be mine.

  I had to keep it.

  Disgusting wasn’t a strong enough word for how I felt about my bank account. Yeah, it was nice to have some cash, but what in the hell was I going to do with all of this? My friends were already reaping the benefits, as I gave it to them freely.