I run to him, but they’re here too. The men. The men we—
Their bodies are strewn about the floor, reaching out to me, hacked up and bloody. Hands grab my thighs and ankles. They pull me to the floor, rubbing and clawing at me.
“Let me go!”
Felix is on the bed, and he’s hurt. I need to help him!
“Felix! Felix!”
I wake up with a scream, crying and calling out for Felix. I look around, bracing myself for a fight with the men, but—
I’m not there. I’m in my room.
I stop. Sweat pours down my back, and my chest heaves.
Fuck me.
I calm myself down and make my way to the bathroom. My face is hot, so I turn on the cold water and scrub my face. The cool water feels good for a moment, but then I look at my reflection.
Is this the rest of my life?
The tears fall, big heaping droplets, and I collapse to the floor.
When will it stop?
Chapter 17
Felix
It’s been a week since everything went down at theKitty Cat Club.Every single day, I watch the front door of Maggie’s, waiting for him to walk through it with that cocky swagger and dark circles under his eyes.
But he never does.
Tobias recommended a gentler approach, which is why I’m balancing a box of a dozen old-fashioned donuts on my lap while I peddle toward Torren’s shop.
Torren’s shop comes into view, and my heart starts to flutter. I slow my bike down, hop off, and wheel it into the shop. The garage doors are open, and I can see inside. Torren’s under a car, no doubt doing something sexy as fuck likefixingit. There’s nothing hotter than a man who knows how to fix shit with his hands.
My eyes land on a carburetor that’s lying on the ground, and when I exhale, I can see my breath. It’s not cold enough for that yet, and my breath looks unnaturally icy as I exhale.
This is meant to be. I’m not fucking crazy. Or maybe I am, and I’m hallucinating. Maybe I have paranoid schizophrenia?
Maybe I’m just dickmotized, and I’m looking for any reason possible to believe that Torren is part of my destiny.
Can’t think about that now.
Focus on the donuts and the reconciliation.
Gabriel is hovering nearby, handing Torren tools. I give a little whistle, and Gabriel looks up. The color leaves his face, and he starts slapping his hand against the car, to which Torren replies, “What the hell is it?”
I whistle again, and Torren finally slides out from under the car. He looks at Gabe, who points at me, and when Torren sees me standing in his shop, his mouth practically dislocates from his head and hits the floor.
Never one to miss a grand entrance, I ask,“Hey, handsome. Got a minute to check my undercarriage?”
Gabriel drops the wrench he’s holding, and it lands on Torren’s head.
“Ouch! Motherfucker! What the hell, Gabe?”
It takes everything I have not to bust a gut, but I keep my cool and just watch as Torren and Gabriel put on a comedy routine that could rival Abbott and Costello.
