My eye has also maintained its commitment to watering, so Icouldn’t apply eyeline and mascara even if I wanted to, even if the swelling hadn’t made it irrelevant.
“Like, I know as an equal opportunity employer that I’m not meant to say this aloud, but we hire staff who look good and, beautiful as you are, a beaten woman isn’t the kind of attractive our clientele wants to see.”
“It’s not that obvious, is it?” I ask with concern. I really thought I did a good job hiding the bruises.
“Obvious enough to look like you should be seated in a doctor’s office right now, not trying to hustle at a private club.” Patrick leans forward, putting his hand near my face until I flinch away. “And if your doctor cleared you for work, you need to invest in a second opinion.”
“It’s just a bit of bruising,” I counter, shame welling inside me the longer he stares. I duck my head to get away from the intensity of his eyes, but that makes me feel worse. Smaller.
Patrick’s jaw clenches as he mumbles, “Did Lock do this to you?”
At that, I jerk up my chin. “No. He fought off the boy who did.”
The glare grows more relentless but this time I’m fighting for Lachlan’s reputation, not just my own, so I find the strength to meet and hold it.
“Do you have enough money to tide you over for the next week?”
“I-I… Yes?”
“Good. Call through to Glen if you need an advance but I don’t want to see you again until you’re healed. Have you been to the police?”
“No!” The pulse of fright as I remember what Patrick advised me the last time police was mentioned grips my chest in a relentless squeeze. “I would never—”
“Why not? If it wasn’t Lock who attacked you, why wouldn’t you call them?”
His morality shifts give me whiplash. “Because Lachlan stabbed him.”
Patrick maintains his stony gaze for another minute, then a warm smile spreads across his face. “Good. I hope he got in one for me and all.” He picks up a biro and aims the end towards me. “And I mean it. Don’t turn up for work until you’re fully healed. Got it?”
I give a small salute and an eye roll. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
He laughs and makes a shooing gesture at me. “Go on, then. Find yourself something nice and healing to do.”
The sudden freedom leaves me at a bit of a loss. I’m used to scrambling for enough time to do anything, having a sudden abundance of it to fill almost feels like a chore.
But there’s only one place I want to be and one person I want to spend time with. Luckily, his initials are newly branded on my chest, so I don’t forget.
On the bus back to Kingswood, I keep my head lowered, nervous that other people are seeing the same wreckage as Patrick and drawing their conclusions. When I get out at the stop, I almost walk straight into a pole, my vision is that obscured.
I use my student pass to enter the high security gates at the driveway into the school. I’ve never entered the place on the weekend before—though the library, gym, pool and other facilities are open to day students after hours—and I’m nervous walking through the comparatively quiet grounds.
The student housing block is on the west side of the school, and I head straight there, coming to a standstill when my pass doesn’t work for this block.
It hadn’t occurred to me it would be off limits. The only time I visited Lachlan out of hours, the front door had been open, a gaggle of students milling in the lobby when I snuck past.
I’m pulling out my phone to call Lachlan when I see him. He’s sitting with Kari, whose head is thrown back with laughter, another half dozen students also forming part of their group.
Lachlan’s arm is casually draped around her. He’s smiling as his eyes rest on her face.
I briefly reexperience the sensations from when he performed the same gesture with me, only to feel abandoned when I shift, and the sensation disappears.
A lump appears in my throat like magic.
I’m locked out. They have the keys to the castle. Anyone looking would think they’re the perfect couple.
Maybe they are. Perhaps Lachlan just wants a bit of rough on the side and you keep giving it to him.
The thought hooks into my mind, the barbs setting it deep into meat of my brain until I can’t shake it loose. Even when I press the heel of my palm into the wounds on my chest, I can’t work it free.
