I’d learned over the span of my twenty-eight years of lifethat large breasts had awesome powers.
Helping you handle yourself when eight men were intent tobeat the snot out of you was not part of those awesome powers.
I lifted my gaze and studied my face in the mirror.
They’d kept me in the hospital for two days, considering I’dtaken a number of blows to the head, and thus had a serious concussion, andthey tried to be cool about it, but I could tell they were concerned about thenumber of times I’d blacked out.
Now I’d been out of the hospital for two days, as,apparently (and thankfully) all systems were a go.
The swelling had decreased significantly but only thatmorning did I note that the bruising was starting to recede, some of the edgesof the purple going yellow.
My broken nose was still taped and would be for some time.
I’d had a total of twenty-nine stitches sewn into my face.My eyebrow would never be the same.The jaw scar wouldn’t be easily seen.Butthe gash on my nose would stand out.
I had been pretty, not beautiful, but definitely pretty.AndI knew it.
This was not vanity.This was being real.I could see myselfin the mirror and I’d had a mom and dad who adored me and told me how proud ofme they were for a lot of reasons, and they’d done this all my life.My looksjust were what they were and I was grateful for them.
I also used them.
I used them to get guys I was attracted to.
I used them to get good tips at Colombo’s.
I used them to jump the line at clubs I wanted to get into.
And I used them to get out of that speeding ticket that timethat cop pulled me over.
Mom had taught me, if God gave you something good, youdidn’t waste it.You used it (for good, obviously—I mean, itwasGodbestowing these gifts).
So I’d used them.
But as I stood there, looking in the mirror, I knew thatBeck and his brothers had concentrated on my face, thinking that they weretaking the most important thing I had away from me.
Men were so stinking stupid.
In the last few days, when there wasn’t a lot to feel goodabout, I felt good about the fact that they hadn’t raped me.
That was my silver lining.
My boyfriend kidnapped me, delivered me to his buds, theybeat the heck out of me, but they didn’t rape me.
If they’d done that to me, it would have taken awaysomething that meant something.
But they hadn’t.
Yeah.
Awesome silver lining.
Still, for sure it was one.
But, to my way of thinking, they didn’t do any lastingdamage.They didn’t break anything but nine ribs (since I had twenty-four, thatcould have been worse) and my nose.When Muzzle’s fist connected with myschnoz, I felt the cartilage give, and that hadn’t been fun, but it would heal.Eightball had sprained my wrist, but he didn’t snap it, and it had been tenderbut it was already feeling better.
I’d recover.
I could walk, talk, eat, breathe.I could definitely stilldeliver pizzas to diners’ tables (or would be able to in a week or two, afterthe bruising and swelling were gone and I had less pain due to the brokenribs).
