Broken Dreams Read online

  Broken Dreams

  Chelsea Hates Libby

  KT Morrison

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by KT Morrison

  I. Waiting Room

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  II. Triage

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  III. Starlight

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  IV. Lift Lock

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  V. Church

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  VI. Prospect

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Afterword

  About the Author

  KT Morrison writes stories about women who fall in love with sexy men who aren’t their husband, and loving relationships that go too far—couples who open a mysterious door, then struggle to get it closed as trouble pushes through the threshold.

  Visit My Website!

  ktmorrison.com

  Also by KT Morrison

  SERIES

  Landlord

  Obsessed

  The Cayman Proxy

  Separate Schools

  Keely

  Six Weeks In Winter

  EPIC NOVELS

  Cherry Blossoms

  Maggie

  Learning Lessons

  Happy Endings

  NOVELS

  Going A Little Too Far

  Pool Party

  Après Ski

  Rachel’s Truth

  NOVELLAS

  Watching Natalie Cheat

  Watching Natalie Again

  Inconceivable

  Mary’s Pledge

  One Night Only (as Becky Haze)

  ANTHOLOGIES

  The Taken Anthology

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Models on cover are meant for illustrative purposes only.

  All characters are over the age of eighteen.

  This book takes place in Canada where recreational use of cannabis is legal.

  BROKEN DREAMS

  A Chelsea Hates Libby Serial Novel

  Chelsea Hates Libby #3 of 3

  45,500 words

  First Edition. June 21, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 KT Morrison

  Written by KT Morrison

  Cover by KT Morrison

  Part 1

  Waiting Room

  Tuesday, July 16

  1

  First thing he saw when he roared into the driveway—screeching to a halt, his bumper nudging the rear wheel of Chelsea’s motorcycle—was his poor Libby. Between two shrubs, Lib sat on a stone step in the middle of the path that led to Chelsea’s front door. She was hunched over, crying, face hidden, arms pulled close to her body. One hand supported the other wrist, other hand hanging.

  Ben jumped out of the truck, door swinging open behind him but not closing, the annoying ding-ding-ding announcing the urgency of his arrival. He scrambled to her, skidded on his knees and tore his pants. One hand went around her knees, the other around her back. When she would lift her face, he knew her pretty features would be ruined. She’d be missing a tooth, Chelsea’s nails would’ve pulled her flesh away, her lips would be split, her eyes would be swollen shut...

  “Baby, baby,” he said, caressing her knee as her face turned up to look at him. She was surprisingly unharmed. Her right eye looked puffy and was squinted, and ragged red nail marks slashed down the left side of her neck.

  She instantly blubbered when she saw him. “My hand, Ben, my hand...”

  Soft and soothing: “What happened, baby, what happened?”

  “It hurts so bad...”

  “Oh, no, baby...”

  “I broke my hand, Ben,” she cried, her voice high, a thin squeak of squealing pain. She held aloft for him her limp hanging hand. Between her fingers was a wispy tangle of caramel hair.

  He cradled it, kissed the inside of her wrist, and she whispered a mournful ‘ow.’

  “Hey, hey, what did you do, Libby,” he said wonderingly, “what on earth did you do?”

  “It hurts so bad,” she said, “why does it hurt so bad, Ben...? I broke my hand…” She showed it to him again, watching him now, her face creased with the worry of a child. He stroked her hair, and she looked in his eyes. “Ben…”

  “What...?”

  “Don’t leave me, Ben, please don’t leave me...”

  “Never, Libby...”

  “Hold me, please, hold me...”

  “I’ll never ever leave you, Libby. I’m with you forever, I love you more than anything,” he said and circled his arms around her thin and shaking shoulders.

  Now with Lib sobbing into his neck, Ben’s eyes cast up the pathway to the open front door of the Slades’ home. Chelsea sat in jeans and a tank top, bare feet, knees up, one forearm folded over them. Her feet were in the sun, her butt and body inside the house still. There was a cigarette between her fingers, and she held an ice pack under her mane of tangled honey-hair. Her nose and mouth were bloodied. He shook his head, looking at that demon. Chelsea caught him watching and smiled. The smile shone like a quarter moon in that rat’s nest of blackening blood. She shouted down to them, “Serves you right, bitch.”

  Libby stiffened in his arms; she whipped around ready to lunge at Chelsea again and Ben gripped her shirt to hold her in place. Libby shouted: “It was eight years ago!”

  “This bitch never forgets,” Chelsea said.

  Libby set her hand down, the injured one, putting it out like she was going to support herself while she wrestled from him to stand, and then she shouted in pain and collapsed on the path. He collected her in his arms, circled her, he said, “Come on, baby, I’m taking you to the hospital...”

  “I’m so sorry, Ben, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.

  He stood over her now, supporting her in his arms. There was a swirling hank of Chelsea’s hair on the concrete. Not far from that, a bloodied earring. He recognized it as one of his wife’s. He slipped a hand up her neck, touched her ear under the sweep of her silky hair. His fingers came away smeared with blood.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital, baby. Come on, come with me...”

  Chelsea said, “You’re not leaving me here...”

  2

  With Lib in the front, buckled up safe, curled into the seat’s bucket shape with her hand cradled to her bosom, Chelsea climbed in the back bench of his pickup. Lib scowled and cried at the same time, blubbering, “I don’t know why she’s coming...”

  Chelsea wiped at her mouth and nose with a damp tea towel, shaking her head and glowering at the back of Libby’s head.
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  “I can’t leave her here, Lib,” he said, worming a look over his shoulder as he backed out of Chelsea’s driveway. Chelsea cleaned her face, turning the towel over and over. He said, “Do not get blood on my seats.”

  “It’s fucking leather, Ben, it’ll wipe off,” Chelsea said, then ran her tongue over her teeth, plumping out her upper lip like a chimp.

  Truck in drive now, he drove to the north end of Chelsea’s street and made a left onto Queen. “What hospital do I go to?”

  “Go to the fire station,” Libby said, voice thick with pain.

  Chelsea muttered something but he couldn’t make it out. He caught her in the rear-view mirror, wiggling her front teeth to check if they were loose.

  He asked, “What’d you say?”

  “I said go to St. Mike’s,” she spat, running her tongue around again, crossing her arms and thumping back into the leather bench. She kicked the back of Libby’s seat with her boot, making Lib jerk forward. “My face is how I make money, Libby.”

  “Leave me alone,” Libby shouted.

  “If my nose is broken, I swear to God I’ll sue your ass sideways.”

  “Leave her alone,” he said into the rear-view. Chelsea stared balefully back at him. He asked, “Where’d you put that bloody towel?”

  “I stomped it into your carpet.”

  “Do you want to walk to the hospital?”

  “It’s here,” she complained, tossing it up from where it had lay in her lap.

  “How’s your hand, Lib?”

  Lib just shook her head no, her pretty mouth pinched to a tight pucker. He turned onto Eastern and it was empty and he let the truck out, the motor roaring until they caught up with the back end of traffic where it bunched outside a McDonald’s. He reached over and caressed the back of Libby’s hot neck. “Is your ear bleeding still?”

  “I don’t care,” she muttered.

  He stroked his thumb up and down the gentle curve of her cranium. Before leaving Chelsea’s, they’d gathered towels, but Lib let hers stay in her lap unused. Blood had dripped a pattern on the chest and shoulder of her sweatshirt but it seemed to have stopped.

  Libby murmured, “I think she ripped my ear.”

  Chelsea said, “Serves you right.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Libby whined.

  Ben said, “Stop, guys...”

  Chelsea laughed. “Bullshit. You know—”

  “I never did!” Libby’s tiny voice was surprisingly loud in the cab. She thumped her good hand down in a fist against her skinny knee.

  “Oh, bull-fucking-shit, Lib!”

  He said, “Did what? What was eight years ago?”

  “No, don’t,” Libby cried, clutching his forearm with her good hand, spinning to regard Chelsea in the back. “Don’t, please, don’t,” she pleaded to Chelsea in a whimper.

  “What goes around comes around, Libby...”

  “Please, please, don’t... just don’t...”

  He asked again, “What happened eight years ago?”

  Libby’s mouth trembled as she stared into the back seat, then she said, “Nothing happened, she’s lying...”

  He said, “Lying about what, Lib?”

  In the rear-view, Chelsea met his eyes. “You ready for this?—your girlfriend fucked Ronnie.”

  Libby crumpled, “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t...” She hid her face in her good hand and cried.

  Ben said, “Ronnie Mitchell? In high school?”

  “Yeah, your prissy girlfriend fucked my boyfriend.”

  Libby said, “It’s not true, it’s just not true...”

  Chelsea scooted forward, filling the gap between the two front seats, arms hooked over the seat backs, spitting at the back of Libby’s head, “He said he fucked you at school, fucked you after a stupid yearbook meeting...”

  “He was lying to you,” she wailed, “that never happened...”

  “He said you mewled like a cat, said he never heard a girl squawk like that.”

  Libby clenched her hand in a fist shining with the streaks of her tears and thumped her leg again. “Shut up, Chelsea, shut up!”

  “He said you were so tight he couldn’t even get it in you, but you begged for it anyway...”

  The road ahead of him narrowed to a dim tunnel despite the bright early morning, and his vision throbbed with his heart, warbled with sudden wet. He yanked the wheel hard to the right, cut across the shoulder lane—someone honked and swerved as he bounced up the front entrance of a full-service car wash. He unplugged his belt, shot around, twisting, getting up on his knees and shouted at Chelsea: “Stop it! She said she didn’t...”

  Libby said, “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t...”

  Chelsea reared away from him, not wanting him looming over her, but still defiant, saying, “Bullshit, Libby, bullshit...”

  He said, “Ronnie told you that?”

  Chelsea slouched with her arms crossed tight. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  She turned to watch out the side window at a clutch of car wash guys in bright blue polo shirts and work shorts gathering to see what the fuss was. “I don’t know.”

  He grunted, seeing a bigger picture. “You were fighting, weren’t you? You were breaking up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yeah, right and I bet you cheated on him.”

  Chelsea ignored him, saying to the back of Lib’s head, “He had too many details, Libby. You had bananas on your cheap ass underwear like a fucking grade-schooler, he said...”

  “I didn’t ha-have b-bananas on my mm-underweaarr,” Libby bawled.

  Arms folded, Chelsea hunched close, very near them. “He said you were such a nerd he pity-fucked you then jerked off on your face.”

  “You’re so mean,” Libby cried into her hands.

  When Chelsea looked up, she saw his harrowed expression. Her own words hung in the air and he could tell even she didn’t like them. The cab was pin-drop quiet except for Lib’s breathy gasps. Chelsea scowled, her lips pursed, brow furrowed, and tossed herself back to sit on the bench, her knees up high. He stared at her, but she wouldn’t look his way.

  He said, “You feel better now?”

  Chelsea shook her head.

  “That sound like Libby to you?”

  Chelsea shrugged.

  Quieter now, Chelsea said, “She already cheated on you, Ben. You guys were dating, and she fucked my boyfriend.”

  He said, “I don’t believe for one second what Ronnie fucking Mitchell said was true. I believe Libby. Ronnie was so full of shit. Look in my eyes and tell me, Chelsea, tell me Ronnie wasn’t always full of shit.”

  Chelsea stared out the window, square-jawed, grinding her teeth. Libby breathily sobbed. Ben rubbed her back, turned around and sat, doing up his seatbelt again.

  Libby whispered, “Why do you care if I did or didn’t, anyway? You have sex with other people... my husband... you wanted Finn to do that to me. You’re so evil.”

  “Payback’s a bitch,” Chelsea said, still looking out the window.

  Libby looked over her shoulder at Chelsea, complete incomprehension screwed her features. “It doesn’t even make sense, Chelsea... You wanted your husband to sleep with me to get back for having sex with your boyfriend eight years ago?...”

  Ben watched Chelsea in the mirror, chewing the inside of her cheek, scowling at who knows what, shaking her head in the negative. She said, “Yeah, I’m fucked up, so what? So what? Not all of us come from happy little homes like Libby Sanders.” Her eyes flicked up, caught him watching her, they glistened wet, and she blinked. A quick, mean expression corrected any weakness he thought he saw there. “Would you just fucking drive, Ben...? Just drive...”

  3

  It took twenty minutes of traffic before he was parking in the concrete underground across from St. Mike’s Hospital. Ben walked Libby held against him, and Chelsea paced four strides behind. As they entered the busy waiting area of the emergency room, an ocean of noise washed over them; people
in pain, people pretending to be in pain, hassled nurses, beeps, boops, the squeaks of Crocs on linoleum. Chelsea groaned behind them, “Great, here’s seven hours of my life wasted, thanks a lot, Libby.”

  Libby clucked her tongue, pushed her cheek harder against his shoulder. Ben had asked for Chelsea’s ice pack and to his surprise she’d surrendered it. Libby held it in the cup of her broken hand. The little finger had swollen.

  Ben escorted Libby to the Waiting Room benches and got her settled where there were two seats available between two different couples that didn’t look too seedy. Chelsea joined him at the triage counter. He gave the nurse behind the acrylic barrier Libby’s health card. The nurse looked past him at Chelsea like she might recognize her.

  Chelsea said over his shoulder, “His wife broke her hand, and I have a broken nose, but it’s not related.” The nurse didn’t know what to make, dipped her eyes down and told Ben she had to talk to the patient.

  He sighed, “But she’s...”

  “I’m cutting in,” Chelsea said, pushing past him.