Maybe I could do it.
Go in there.
Fake it.
Play on his feelings one last time.
Then help these men fuck up his whole life.
He had it coming.
If I could find the strength to face him again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Roe
I couldn’t tell if the shivering, shaky sensation radiating across my skin was from fear or anger. I was riding high on both emotions as I went through my routine.
I’d had a fitful night of sleep.
Then I’d woken up and done at-home Pilates and cardio dance workouts to make me feel less puffy, but also to try to clear my head and give my body a dose of endorphins I so desperately needed.
It wasn’t until after I forced myself to eat a little yogurt with granola and fruit, then took myself into the bathroom to shower, that I finally came face-to-face with the evidence of the attack the night before.
I’d been feeling the pain all night and morning, of course, this constant burning ache, and beneath that, the sensation of a bone-deep bruise.
I’d been mostly able to try to push the thoughts about it aside for the sake of sanity.
As I stripped off my shirt and finally saw the damage done, there were no words for the mix of horror and rage I felt.
There was a band around my whole upper arm, the distant outlines of Frank’s fingers. The bruises weren’t even the expected blues or purples. No, these bruises were black; they were so deep, with some tapering off to blue and purple at the edges.
I reached toward it, touching the edge of it. The pain was instant. And enraging.
I’d been in a lot of borderline dangerous situations with men in my life. Predators hung around beauty pageants. Some people who orbited the modeling agency were real creeps. And I’d been in situations that felt scary and uncomfortable. But they’d never devolved into violence.
Something about seeing a man’s anger on my skin worked as a match to the burning fury inside me.
I ignited.
Burned hot and bright.
And I knew I was going to do it.
I was going to go back in there.
I was going to make him apologize.
I was going to play my part.
Then I was going to stand back and watch Milo and his family rip everything away from him.
If Frank wanted to go low, I could take this thing to hell.
I climbed in the shower and then meticulously got myself together, each step feeling like a ritual, like pieces of a persona I was going to be slipping on.
Choosing not to take any chances with my dressing room after such a volatile interaction, I got my makeup on and my hair done at home, using a little extra spray to make sure the curls held up for the walk to work.
