“I’m getting in that apartment one way or the other, Simone!”
Jesus Christ, someone is going to call the cops. This is a respectable, family-oriented building. I storm off the couch straight to the door.
“Go away!”
“Nope. Not leaving.” He’s obstinate.
Frustration boils right out of my ears.
“Ty,” I huff. “I don’t want to see you.” I press my forehead to the door. “And trust me, you don’t want to see me.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice is suddenly calm and smooth and soothing. “I know everything, Simone. I went to see Joseph.”
All the air in my lungs evaporates.
“Why the hell did you do that?” I snap at the door.
“Because I needed to know. I needed to know why you won’t let me in. We are so good together. I know you know that.”
“It’s a dream, Ty. We can’t be together.” My eyes suddenly well with tears. I’m alone, and that’s what I’ll always be, what I’m destined to be.
“Yes, we can,” his tone is determined. “I don’t care about what you look like—”
“You say that now,” I cut him off. “But you don’t know.”
“Then show me,” he demands. “Show me so I can prove to you that it’s more than just your body I want.”
The tears fall. “Someone once said a very similar thing to me, and he’s gone now. He broke my heart because I was too disgusting. Scarred beyond repair. I couldn’t handle that kind of rejection again from someone I care about. I’m not that strong.” I cry behind the door, grateful he can’t see my pathetic tears.
“You care about me?”
I sniff. Seriously, that’s what he took away from my whole spiel? That I care about him?
“Yes,” I admit, because what else do I have to lose? All my secrets have been revealed.
“Good, because I care about you, too. More than anything. More than anyone.” It sounds like he’s pleading on the other side of the door. The tears roll down my cheeks freely, like heavy raindrops. “Please, open the door, Simone. Let me prove to you I’m not going anywhere.”
My heart is pounding so hard I feel lightheaded. I want to believe him. I want to let him in, and I’m not just talking about my apartment. I want to let him into my life—my heart—but I’m so scared. My scars run deeper than just my skin.
“Simone.” One more desperate plea and my resolve starts to crumble. I hyperventilate as I reach for the deadbolt.
I hesitate. Then. . .click.
No sooner than I turn the lock, Ty barges in. He doesn’t say a word, just traps my face and plants a kiss on my lips that makes the room spin. It’s hungry and urgent and deep and eliciting. Our tongues roll in a heady, provocative dance as we suck all the oxygen out of the room.
“Bedroom,” Ty demands between possessive kisses. “No arguments, no disputes, no hassle.” He’s all business. The pit bull is chomping down, and he’s latched onto me.
I start walking a path that feels like the green mile as I lead Ty to my bedroom. It’s neat and cleanly decorated in whites and greys. Very calming. That’s what my therapist said I needed. A calming environment to help combat the post-traumatic stress. It’s helped somewhat, but not significantly. Only time seems to help…and denial.
We stop in the dead center of the room, Ty eyeing me like a starving wolf. A look like that would have excited me in the past—I would have been pouncing on him by now—but today, staring back at him is like a death sentence.
“Take your clothes off, Simone.” Ty runs his hands slowly down my arms. I freeze in place, my stomach turning.
“I can’t.” I close my eyes.
“Then I’ll do it for you.” I feel Ty tug at the top button of my shirt. I may throw up.
“Breathe, Simone.” His tone is alluring. Comforting, enticing. Maybe if I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend my scars aren’t there. I can pretend Ty doesn’t see them.
