I’d survive.
I sucked in a few more deep breaths through my nose and stood. I’d made a mistake and let someone in. No big deal. It happened. Now, it was time to rectify the situation. Desperate to remove all traces of Havoc and my misjudgment, I extinguished the saltwater candle and lit other scents, scattering them around my house. Then, I stripped the sheets from my bed and spritzed the sofa where he’d sat.
“I’ll make you scream my name so many times you’ll forget his.”
The memory blindsided me, stealing the breath from my lungs. Closing my eyes, I fed it to the fish and then proceeded to give my apartment the same treatment I’d given the bookstore.
While I was steam mopping my kitchen, Havoc called. My entire body froze as I stared at the phone, wondering if I should answer. The feelings I’d sent away started returning. Memories of the heat of his body as he tucked me under his arm on the ferry burned away the top layer of my resolve. He’d been so sweet, so perfect, was it all fake? The possibility sent cracks of pain through my entire existence.
I’d let Havoc in.
I’d told him shit I’d never told anyone. I’d let him see what was beneath the surface. I’d stripped away my lies and manipulations and stood naked in front of him. If he turned out to be just another mind fuck, courtesy of Wesley, it would break me. And not even the Na Pali Coastline would put me back together again.
Our time together had been sizzling hot and incredibly fun, but I was far too flammable to play with fire.
I let the call go to voicemail.
Knowing I needed to block his number to avoid temptation, I opened up the commands on my recent call and hovered over the “block number” option.
“Come on, Jules, this should be easy,” I muttered to myself. The pep talk didn’t work. Despite all my reservations, all my returning fear, distrust, and insecurities, I wasn’t ready to let Havoc go.
What if he’s innocent?
Frustrated, I plopped my phone back on the counter and went to go take another little white pill.
Havoc
JULIA WAS GHOSTING my phone calls. I let it slide for a few days, giving her time to come to grips with all the shit that had gone down during the wedding and after. But now, it was Wednesday evening and my patience had come to a screeching halt.
My day started with the same nightmare I’d had hundreds of times. I was back in Syria, staring into the hollow, accusatory eyes of a kid holding his mom. Only this time, his mom was a redhead with bright green eyes. Recognizing Julia, I raced to her side and ripped off my shirt, pressing it to her bullet wound to staunch the flow of blood. Julia grabbed my hand and whispered something. I couldn’t hear her, so I got closer. Then the kid—that little fucker—shot me.
Wide awake at three-thirty a.m. because I couldn’t get back to sleep after that shit, I tried to call Julia. She didn’t answer, of course, and I’d narrowly resisted the urge to drive over there and beat on her door until she either let me in or called the cops. But Ididresist. Then, when I got to work, some broad called and asked for a tow. Got the address and vehicle information and she promised to meet me there for the hookup. When I arrived on site, the broad wasn’t there. As I waited for her to show, a man came out of the building and asked why I was casing his car. Like I was getting ready to steal the damn thing.
Turns out the spiteful bitch was trying to have her ex-boyfriend’s car towed because of a nasty breakup.
Made me wonder if I’d dodged a bullet with Julia. Maybe shit was better this way. But why did I feel so fucked up over it?
After work, I headed to the station, parked my bike, and pulled out my phone to find a text from Julia. Excited, I opened it.
‘Leave me alone.’
That was it.
How the hell did she go from ‘I had fun last night’ to ‘Leave me alone’? What the fuck had I done?
Nothing. How could I do anything when she wouldn’t even text or call me back?
It felt like she was playing me.
She’d promised no games, but nothing else made sense. I knew she was fucked up, but we’d made progress during and after the wedding and now… now I was beating my head against an invisible wall. Nothing was there. If she’d just answer one of my goddamn calls, I knew I could talk some sense into her. I needed to see her, but couldn’t bring myself to go there uninvited. Not while one big question kept assaulting my brain.
Had she gone back to the asshole?
The possibility made me want to punch something. Preferably a rich little pencil-dicked asshat named Wesley. Frustrated, I slammed my phone into my pocket and climbed off my bike. I needed advice, and there was only one person I trusted to give it to me.
The common area of the station had its usual Wednesday night crowd. Some of the old guys were shooting pool and throwing darts while a dozen or so of the brothers huddled around the televisions, watching the game. Lacy (a cute little red-headed club whore) was going down on Zombie in the hallway right before the kitchen. Shaking my head, I stepped around them and went to the refrigerator to grab a couple of beers.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t judging Zombie or Lacy. I’d spent my fair share of time with the club whores and had been on the receiving end of Lacy’s talented mouth a few times, so I had no room to judge anyone. As Sage had pointed out, there was therapy in sex and when you were dealing with a bunch of half-cocked ex-soldiers, the physical and emotional release was necessary. But lately, the club whores didn’t quite do it for me. I was looking for something… more. Not like I wanted to settle down or some shit like that, but I at least wanted a connection. Someone I could relate to and have as my own.
