Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance) by London Casey Page A

hunky professor from the community college.  Teaches English.  Met him at a writer’s conference last month.  Need to get...”
    “I don’t need to hear anything else,” I said and waved my hands. 
    The last thing I wanted to be reminded of was that my aunt had a much more active sex life than me.  Actually, to rephrase that... my aunt had a sex life and I didn’t.
    I often thought about what would happen if I told her I was still a virgin.  A few years ago she’d smile... but now...
    “Wait, how am I going to get home?” I asked.  “I’m not staying here, no way.  Not to hurt your feelings.”
    “No, my feelings aren’t hurt,” Auntie B said.  “You’re going to drive home.  Doctors said you could, so drive home.”
    “With what?”
    Auntie B smiled and nodded towards the garage door.
    I walked to the door slowly and opened it to find a car.  A new car.  A dark red car with four doors, no dents, and it wasn’t a crumpled, tangled mess of metal and glass.
    “You didn’t...”
    “I did,” Auntie B said.  “Bought it yesterday.  It’s not brand new.  I know how cheap you are.”
    I looked over my shoulder and stuck out my tongue. 
    “It’s yours, it’s paid for, and the keys are on the counter.”
    “I could buy myself a car,” I said. 
    “I know.  But I bought you one.  Something nicer, newer.  Time for you to get a man, Tessa.  Enjoy yourself.”
    I waved my hands again.  I didn’t want Auntie B imagining me on a date, being with a guy, or anything else. 
    I hurried back to her, hugged her for what felt like an hour, getting lost in her expensive and potent perfume, her one hand squeezing my back, her other hand touching my hair. 
    “Thank you for helping me,” I whispered.
    “Of course.  If you need anything, call me.”
    “I will.”
    “And Tessa... don’t worry about anything.  He can’t hurt you.”
    I nodded, but I didn’t believe it.
    Auntie B half smiled, telling me she didn’t believe it either.
    Shit.
    I took the keys and started my new car.  It smelled clean and started on the first try.  I backed out of the garage and left Auntie B’s house, feeling sort of like I did the first time I left.  It had to be done though.  I needed to find my sense of normalcy and survive.  Go home, take a real shower, a hot bath, and write.  Close the shades, lock the door to my apartment, and embrace home.  I had already been bothered all morning by people texting me - and sending me messages and posts online - wanting to know how I was feeling and how they were sorry for the accident.
    The only person I responded to was Bridget.  She came and saw me at the hospital once and I promised her we would have a girls night soon.
    When I got to my apartment I put my key in the lock and smiled. 
    I opened the door and thought about my father murdering Jack.  The image was vivid and painful.  I shook it off and closed the door behind me.  I leaned back against the door and realized I had never seen Jack’s grave.  In fact, I didn’t know where he had been laid to rest.  Maybe I needed to see it, to see him.  Maybe that would chase away the last few  annoying ties.
    “Home sweet home,” I said.
    I locked the door and walked to the kitchen.  My fridge was mostly empty and there was no way in hell I was going to a grocery store.  Not today.  Today would be the kind of day where delivery drivers could bring me food.  I wasn’t driving.  I wasn’t leaving.  I wasn’t doing anything outside the apartment.  Sometimes the best inspiration to write came from tragedy, so I planned on opening the floodgates and getting words to paper.
    I shuffled down the small hall to my bedroom, skipping the bathroom, although I peeked in there, smiling, knowing I would be in there soon enough.  My bedroom door was shut.  I touched the handle and then stopped.
    I never shut my bedroom door.
    Ever.
    It was just something I didn’t do.
    Ever.
    Maybe Auntie B had done it...