Come Tear Me Down: Dupont, #1

By Nicole Tillman

If there's one thing Cat knows, it's how to be strong. Her friends, her family, and even those who frequent the diner where she works all know how much she values her strength and independence. So when a strange man begins to terrorize her night after night, Cat is ready to engage in the fight of her life.
But when walls are broken and skin is torn, that all changes.

As Cat's world crumbles at her feet, she has to find a way to piece herself back together, and for the first time in her life, she finds she might not be strong enough to save herself.
She has to learn that reaching out and accepting help isn't weakness at all...
But true strength.

(Recommended for readers 18+ due to graphic language and adult situations.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Tillman
• Release date: May 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507070970

Nicole Tillman

Nicole Tillman is an author who hasn't always had a love of reading. As a child, she struggled to string words together and would hide in the back of the classroom with her head down in hopes that the teacher would forget she existed. Eventually, she was introduced to a young adult series by a family friend and her love of reading bloomed. Nicole now weaves her own stories, content to lose sleep in order to write both contemporary romance and thriller/suspense novels. She lives in the Ozarks of Missouri with her husband, two sons, and two dogs. Nicole has an Associates Degree in General Studies though Missouri State University and was on her way to completing her Bachelors in Creative Writing when she decided to take a sabbatical to focus on work and her family. Now a stay at home mother, she dedicates her time to her boys, writing, and photography.

Book preview

Chapter One

Son of a-.

Cat! Language! Carl bellowed from behind the counter.

Sorry, boss, I apologized as I swept up shards of broken ceramic, no longer resembling the coffee mug it once had been.

Three bucks, Carl murmured as he made a note on the pad resting against the register. I was testing his patience as a boss, I knew that much. But after the hell that was going on at home, I didn't have my head screwed on as tightly as I would have liked.

I silently added up my month's total in my head. Twelve dollars for broken mugs, sixteen dollars for the frame I knocked off the wall in a fit of rage over a spilled latte, and eight dollars for the apron I ripped after getting it stuck in the cash register drawer. Thirty-six dollars my check would be lacking.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Damn, I suck at this, I whispered to the mug remains as I dumped them into the trash.

Carl rounded the counter and handed me a slip of paper, a reminder of my debt to his business.

Yes, you do. Just quit being a klutz and do your job. Waitressing isn't rocket science.

Straightening my spine and squaring myself to make myself look bigger, I walked past him without a word. I hated being talked down to and I hated people belittling my job. It paid the bills and I was good at what I did... Usually.

Two months I had worked as a waitress at 'Carl’s'. A low-class, high-priced, hole-in-the-wall café (to use the term loosely) that offered a short menu, unfriendly service, and a sketchy  owner.

I'm taking my break, I grumbled over my shoulder, not caring if he could hear.

I haphazardly threw my apron and ticket pad under the counter before pushing through the back door. The alley behind the coffee shop served as a makeshift parking lot for all the businesses along Main Street. The gravel was littered with crumpled beer cans and fast food bags among the beaten down pickups. Not exactly an ideal place to clear your head.

I pulled a pack of menthols from my pocket and lit one to calm my nerves. Leaning back on my elbows, I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sky in an attempt to soak up at least a bit of the summer sun before it set. As I slowly exhaled each breath, I envisioned purging my body of all the stress and anxiety of the day.

No, waitressing wasn't rocket science, but it was hard work. Eight, sometimes ten, hours on your feet, pissy customers you couldn't make happy if you tried, grease stains, shitty tips, aching muscles... The list went on and on. And for someone like me, someone with a college degree, it was hard staying positive about a job I knew didn't suit me.

As the noise in my head faded to a dull murmur instead of constant screaming, my angst began to fade. I was halfway through my cigarette and was beginning to think I could get through my entire shift without snapping someone's head off. I was a firm believer that everyone should work in the food service industry at least one day in their life. If for no other reason then to get a good, close-up study into true human behavior.

While working at Carl's, I'd learned that people were genuinely messy, rude, conceited, and ungrateful. Not all people, but a good percentage of them. Most of the ill-mannered customers were people just passing through or ones who stopped in on their commute to a bigger city, but there were locals who were just as unsavory as the passerbys.

Gravel crunching beneath tires pulled me from my musings and I looked up in time to see Ashley, my friend and co-worker, pull into the parking lot in her rusted-out station wagon.  Shielding my eyes from the sun, I waved as she parked and checked her reflection in the rear view mirror.

I assure you, you're beautiful!

And she was. Lingerie model beautiful. Hollywood beautiful. I have stalkers beautiful.

You want a little touch up? She asked as she pressed powder to her nose.

Seriously, it is way too hot for that crap. I envied her flawless complexion. And by flawless I mean she spent an hour making sure every blemish was concealed. I knew without looking in a mirror that my face was shining with a layer of sweat and my cheeks were flushed, but that was okay with me. I didn't have anyone I wanted to impress.

Ozark summer, honey. Yesterday I about drowned in a puddle, today we're in a drought, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it snowed tomorrow.

I cringed. It always hit a nerve when Ashley called me 'honey'. As if I were a three year old. Being on the shorter side of five foot I was used to pet names along with the ongoing joke of being a walking armrest for people.

"No snow in the forecast, honey," I drew out the word in an effort to show my obvious disdain.

"Sorry, Pussy Cat." She grinned.

I wrinkled my nose with a chuckle. No, sorry, we'll stick with honey.

I guess I better get in there and clock in. Don’t want Carl to go berserk if I'm late. She checked her reflection one last time in the back window before straightening her posture and jutting her chest out. See you inside.

Ashley was a likeable person. Simple and vain, but likeable. She had big city dreams of being discovered as an actress and had it in her head that some big-wig from Hollywood would breeze through the doors of the cafe, drop to his knees, and beg her to play the lead in the newest blockbuster hit. Not a bad dream, but unrealistic nonetheless. Hollywood producers didn’t frequent junky coffee shops in towns of less than two-thousand people. But it never hurts to dream.

Just as I took one last drag off my cigarette, Carl opened the door.

'Bout done there, Cat? You've got customers.

I'm coming.

Even though I knew it would rub Carl the wrong way, I made a show of stretching out my sore limbs and popping my hips, neck, and fingers. He remained in the doorway, tapping his foot like an impatient teacher waiting on a student to finish a test.

You do that just to test my patience, don't you? His words were hard but I could see the beginning of a smile jerking at the corner of his lips. Carl wasn't so bad when he let his 'boss mode' slip and I could tell he was fighting to keep the aura of authority in check.

I jerked one shoulder up in a half-shrug, fighting a smile of my own.

Maybe.

––––––––

Two hours later, I flipped the sign on the door to signal we were closed and helped Ashley with the clean-up. The building was old and rundown even though we sprayed, scrubbed, and polished, the place still looked dingy. After we made sure the tables and floors were crumb-free and there weren’t any mousetraps to empty, we said our goodbyes to Carl and walked to Ashley's car.

The night was silent, aside from the chirping of crickets, and we both breathed a sigh of relief to be done for the day. As Ashley kicked a clod of dirt around with her ballet flats and furrowed her brows, my shoulders grew tense. I knew what was coming. It was the same thing, the same talk, night after night.

You know, you could always come to stay with me. I wouldn’t mind having a roommate.

My shoulders sagged under the weight of her charity and friendship. With a quiet sigh, I turned to her with what I hoped was an encouraging smile. 

It's really okay, Ash. I like where I live. Plus, it's not in my nature to run. I'm not gonna let some trickster scare me into leaving. And besides, it doesn't even bother me that much anymore.

"Are you serious? I would be scared out of my skin. If there were someone trying to break into my house every night, I'd be crawling up the walls. Even if he never gets in, his persistence should scare you!" Her voice grew louder as she jabbed her finger into my shoulder.

You make it sound worse than it actually is. Someone jiggles my doorknob. So what? I keep my door locked and they never get in.

I'm not exaggerating! There are some seriously disturbed individuals out there. Hes probably some backwoods, hillbilly, serial killer hoping to catch you off guard one night so he can chop you up into little pieces and feed you to his pigs!

I laughed. I think you need to cool it on the crime novels. You're losing your grip on reality.

Don’t mock me. Those stories are all taken from real life. People are screwed up and do stupid shit. Don't dismiss this! I could tell from her tone that she had gone from worried friend-mode to mother-mode.

I braced myself against her station wagon and faced her head-on. Ashley, I appreciate it, really I do. But I like my apartment, my landlord is wonderful, the rent is cheap, and I just don't want to move because one idiot tries to scare me. I'm not a little girl. I've got this.

Whatever, she huffed, I just don't want to see your face on the evening news, okay? And if something does happens, I want to know that I did everything in my power to warn you about your stupid, stubborn ass refusal to remove yourself from a shitty situation.

And I love you for that, I really do

I just wish you were more careful.

I'm always careful.

She snorted, obviously not believing me, before she leaned in and hugged my shoulders. I didn't return her embrace, so she tightened her hold, knowing full well I hated physical contact.

Okay, dummy. I'll see you in the morning. She forced a sad smile before climbing into her ancient rig and blowing me a kiss.

I waved and slung my purse over my shoulder as Ashley backed up out of the parking lot. She drove to work since she lived miles down an unnamed dirt road, whereas I walked, seeing as how I lived two blocks from the cafe. While my location allowed me to save money on gas, it was also inconvenient on nights when I'd worked a double shift and was tired, sweaty, and sore. 

Starting up the street, I could see that my landlord Missy had left the porch light on for me. The 'apartment' was actually an old house that had been sectioned off into three different living spaces. Ms. Missy Wallace, the widowed owner, had remodeled it in hopes of having people around to help her in her old age. Unfortunately for her, she got me, a twenty-five year old single waitress who was too short to reach the top cabinets and didn't know anything about plumbing, electric, or general home maintenance. I often wished that an old bachelor would move into the back apartment so she could have help when needed. But on the other hand, I was glad it was empty. The contractor must have been either out of his mind or lazy because the two separate living spaces were joined together by a shared bathroom.

Since the back apartment was empty, Missy insisted I use it for storage or even to move my things to double my living space, but I refused. The bathroom door connecting the two was always kept locked, even during the winter months when the fear of ruptured pipes had me carrying my backup space heater into the drafty apartment.

Although I couldn't help her as much as she needed me to, Ms. Wallace and I were close. We often checked in just to chat, cooked each other dinner on occasion, and sat for long visits when loneliness threatened.

I didn't mind in the least. In a town as small as Dupont, everyone was connected. She had babysat my parents when they were younger and my family had bought sweets and fresh produce from her husband's general store when it was still in business.

The death of her husband and my parents' decision to run off and join a hippie commune (or whatever they were doing in their retirement) was what brought Ms. Wallace and I together. The two of us were dirt poor when it came to the love of a family, and that was reason number one why I couldn't move out. It wouldn't matter if my nightly visitor was a serial killer, I couldn't leave Ms. Wallace. I was all she had left and even though I'd be slow to admit it, I loved the old bird more than all my blood family combined.

As I trudged up the stairs, I considered stopping in to say hi, but decided against it. It was late and not a single light glowed from Missy's side of the house. So, I bypassed her door and went straight back to my 'studio apartment', which was really just a fancy name for a whole house crammed into one teeny-tiny room. Once inside, I immediately locked the deadbolt, threw my purse on the counter, and headed towards the bathroom. Most people would be ready to relax and wind down after a ten hour shift, but not me. I was gearing up for my next endeavor.

After a long, hot shower, I changed into an oversized t-shirt and a pair of running shorts. I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted beside the bathroom door and brushed my hair, barely registering my reflection. I wouldn't go as far as to call myself beautiful by any means, but I wasn't hideous either. The term 'mediocre' came to mind when I locked eyes with my reflection and I tried not to examine my physical features too closely. On a good day, I could fix myself up and pass as pretty. Today, however, was not one of those days.

Not only did I feel completely exhausted, but I looked it too. My summer tan was in full bloom but even the golden glow couldn't hide the dark rings under my eyes. I was beginning to notice wrinkles around my temples and the sides of my lips that hadn't been there in college. My long, ebony hair which had been my most enviable feature lacked the glossy shine it once had boasted. And I wasn't sure if it was my imagination playing tricks on me or not, but I was pretty sure a small colony of gray hairs had taken up residence and were looking to extend their camp.

Old. I'm getting old.

Instead of fretting over my appearance like I'd done in college, back when I was young, naïve, and vain, I threw my brush back in the bathroom and turned to glance at the clock.

9:27.

Three minutes before my unwelcome guest would attempt to gain entry into my home.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I closed my eyes