“Where are you going?” my mother asked, appearing in the doorway.
I refused to answer her.
“What happened,hci?” When I didn’t answer, a torrent of Slovenian poured from her mouth, demanding that I tell her.
I slammed the shirt in my hand down. “If you want to know,Mati, ask Charlotte. I’m not allowed to speak on the matter. Ineverwas.”
What was the point of having this conversation with her anyway? Any advice she had to offer would be in line with his. Perhaps that was what bothered me the most.
Charlotte wasn’t considering whether the relationship, as it was, would even be good for her and the kids.It is what it is.As long as Travis the man-whore was happy, all was right in the world. God forbid the aggrieved soul had something to say in the matter!
Brando shut the door after my mother left. She knew me well enough to know that she wasn’t getting a response out of me. Not like before, when I had no choice. Wasn’t this what she had done to me all of my life, though? At the first disturbance in the homestead, she sent me packing? Old habits were hard to break, but this time,Imade the decision to leave.
“Tell me, Scarlett,” Brando said.
“Nothing.” I found my camera, too afraid to leave it behind, and stuck it in my oversized bag. “Nothing at all.”
“Baciami,” he said.
This stopped me as I was about to start packing up bathroom supplies. I realized that in my anger I had started to flit around, packing this and that, no specific group together.Now he wants me to stop to kiss him?
“What?” I breathed out. “What for?”
He lifted a dark, bold brow in response.
“I have to pack!”
“Scarlett.”
He took slow steps toward me, and I took two in response, until my back hit the window, nowhere to go.
“Brando…” His name trembled out of my mouth. I shook my head.
He lifted his hands, palms forward, and I felt myself shrink as he touched me.
He sighed, releasing me. “Travis.” He didn’t seem surprised.
I nodded, stepped around him, and went back to my bag.
“Tell me where we’re going.”
“To a hotel.”
It took a few seconds, but when it happened, it made me jump. He slammed the top to my suitcase down, refusing to allow me access.
“No,” he said, voice firm. “We either go home or we stay here.”
“Bullshit!” I screamed and attempted to move his hand. “Youcan go home, but I refuse to let you tell me what to do! Get your hands off of me! Don’t touch me!”
He had grabbed me by the shoulders, and I fought him, but it was useless. He held on, our eyes locked into battle.
“Me—”
“Shut up!”
“Your mother—”
“Shut up, Brando!” I struggled even harder, but he was relentless.
