Shattered

2: You're Not Wanted Here

Author's Note: Changes to the last chapter: Bradley will be going to North Carolina instead of West Virginia, as I have no clue about anything in West Virginia. More frequent updates from now on, since I finished my other book! 

Thanks! ~Meghan

Shattered - Chapter 2

As Bradley packed his suitcase for the third time, having unpacked it twice before, he was determined that he was actually going to go. It was a crazy and sudden idea, something that was very foreign to him. But he knew he had to do it. He had to get it over with so he could go on living his life contentedly.

With a suitcase filled with pressed suits, and his smartphone in his pocket, he turned out the lights in the penthouse, and left, closing the door behind him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Worthington," greeted the elevatorman.

"Afternoon," said Bradley stiffly. "First floor."

The man nodded and the elevator began moving. It stopped at the first floor, and Bradley rolled his suitcase out. 

The lobby was quiet and chilly as Bradley passed through it and up to the front desk. He tapped his fingers impatiently as the female worker did not notice him. She scratched away with her ballpoint pen, completely oblivious to her surroundings. 

Bradley cleared his throat, and she peered up at him over her rectangular glasses. She immediately realized her mistake and threw her glasses down on the desk in front of her. 

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Worthington," she said quickly. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like my keys, please," said Bradley, not acknowledging her apology. 

"Of course, of course," she mumbled, getting out of her seat. She disappeared into the back room and returned a minute later, securely holding Bradley's keys with a firm grip. She cautiously handed them to him, smiling all the while, and made sure they were safely in his hands before letting go of them. She did not want to be in the fault of Bradley Worthington.

"Have a nice ride!" she called after Bradley as he headed to the front door. He mindlessly put two fingers in the air, signaling his farewell. 

The outside air of the city was no different than the chilly indoors of Consley. Bradley's black Ferrari was parked behind the building with the other few cars of the Consley residents. It was parked in the shade, shiny as if brand new, and smelled of cotton on the inside. Though he rarely used it, it was given weekly cleanings so that it stayed fresh all the time.

He climbed in and put the keys in the ignition. The radio turned on and blared into his ears, meaningless lyrics about break ups and revenge flooding his ears. Who had turned his radio to such a station? He groaned, reminding himself to talk to the man in charge of cleaning his car.

He pulled out of the parking lot and into the busy streets, not hesitating to honk and scream at every possible car or jaywalker. Once clear of the city, he risked going 70 miles per hour, and cruised along while listening to talk radio.

It was not unusual for his own name to occur in the programs, for he had just won a case that had been broadcasted on news stations across the country. 

However, it was not his own name that caught his attention this time. It was a male with a saturated voice making the statement, "Small business everywhere are suffering. Some have even closed their doors for good."

He snuffed and changed the station. Having entered West Virginia, the stations were unfamiliar as he skipped through. Having found nothing but music stations, he gave up and turned it off.

With one eye on the road, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and swore. His phone had been on silent, and he had seven missed calls. Without hesitating, he dialed Cecelia's number. It rang once before she answered hurriedly.

"Are you alive? What are you doing? Why are you going to North Carolina?" she asked hurriedly, clearly having been worried sick.

"I'm fine, I'm driving!" said Bradley, ignoring the latter of the three questions. Cecelia waited a moment, seeing if he would speak again.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hi," said Bradley.

"Why are you going to North Carolina?" she asked again, but it was not as hurried.

"It's kind of a funny story," said Bradley, smiling awkwardly before realizing he was talking on the phone.

"Oh, no," moaned Cecelia. "You're hooking up with an old girlfriend, aren't you?"

"No!" exclaimed Bradley. "Absolutely not!"

"Oh thank God," she sighed. "Well, go on! Tell me."

"Well, I'm, uh from there, you know," he muttered, not wanting to tell her the real reason.

"That's right, I had forgotten!" said Cecelia brightly. "Well, I hope you have a wonderful trip. Mwa!"

Relieved at not having to explain things any further, Bradley sighed. "Thanks babe! Talk to you later."

"Bye!"

He slid his finger across the screen to hang up, and after assuring the volume was turned up, put it back in his pocket.

The sky was darkening by then, and he looked down to turn on his headlights. As he looked up, he saw a opossum right in front of them. He screamed childishly and slammed on his breaks, turning the steering wheel to the left to avoid running it over. The road was too narrow for his sharp turn, and he ended up in the grass on the other side of the road.

"You damn opossum!" he screamed after rolling down his window. It disappeared from the road and he began wishing he had killed it.

With mud all over his tires, and being out on a lonely road, he began to wish he was back in the comfort of his penthouse apartment. Why had he even tried? Cleveland was where he was meant to be. It was stupid even thinking he could make it back to North Carolina.

He made a growling noise and stomped on the ignition. The car sped forward, and with a jerk, he made a U-turn, dangerously flying back onto the road, and taking off full speed onward. 

Finally reaching commercial property, he looked carefully for a car wash. He was in desperate need of cleaning his car; the sooner the better. There were only gas stations, not car washes, but he was running low so he stopped anyway.

As he began to pump his gas, he got many strange looks from those around him. He had a feeling that it was not because they recognized him. It was probably a rare occasion to see a man dressed so well, pumping gas into his Ferrari. He smirked; he had probably made their lives much more interesting.

Feeling their stares on him, he turned to face one of them. He realized that they were not looking at him out of confusion, but of hatred. Pure anger and hatred; it was clearly etched upon their faces, that even someone as ignorant as Bradley could not deny it.

"You're not wanted here," yelled a short old man in a blue jumpsuit. His body shook, but his eyes remained steady.

"I'm not sure what you mean..." said Bradley, removing the gas nozzle from his car, and placing it back on the pump.

The man walked closer. Bradley stood his ground, but was confused and a bit scared at the situation. The man continued glaring.

"Get out of this town."

"Gladly," said Bradley, eyeing the shabby houses and fading business signs. "But I'm interested to know why. Please enlighten me."

"I'll be darned," the old man laughed, but returned to his anger quickly. "You don't even know."

"Know what?" asked Bradley impatiently. 

"You're Bradley Worthington, prosecution attorney. You accused Ted Sullivan of murder and won. He's in jail now," stated the man clearly.

"Yes, but I don't see what the problem is," said Bradley, shrugging, and wishing for him to get to the point.

The man sighed. "My name is Barty Sullivan. Ted Sullivan is my brother."