Page 38 of Battle Scars

“What? Oh, no,” I answer. “I think I’m just going to take a hot bath and go to bed.”

“Are you sure?” His gaze drops to the bottle in my hand before meeting mine again. “I could fix something quick.”

“No, no. It’s been a long day. You’re off babysitting duty. Have a good night, Gabe.”

And then with my wine and water, I scurry around him and head up the stairs. I close my bedroom door, flip the lock, and drop my forehead to rest against the cool painted-wood surface. What the hell is going on in my life? The need to get a grip, to gain control, is overwhelming.

I stand and take a deep breath, moving into my bathroom. I set the wine and the glass on the counter and turn the taps to fill the tub, then crack open the water bottle and chug the cold water. I unravel my braid and pull my heavy hair up into a messy knot on top of my head. Then I strip off my clothes and put them in the hamper. Maybe I would do better if there was a little more neat-and-orderly in my life.

Then again, maybe not.

I pour myself a glass of wine and grab the bottle, stepping over the edge of the tub. I sink down into the hot water, sipping from my glass and let the crisp, fruity flavor burst on my tongue. And the day, all of it, seems to overwhelm me. The win, the gunfire, and the undeniable knowledge that Gabe thinks I’m good enough to fuck but does not find one additional thing about me likeable.

I set the glass on the floor next to the tub and lean forward, wrapping my arms around the front of my legs, and drop my cheek to the top of my knees. I squeeze my eyes closed in an effort to shut out the events of the day, but it’s no use. I feel the bullet whiz past my head. I hear the report and feel his heavy body covering mine. And then I hear fresa, fresa, fresa repeated over and over again in my head. I’ll never be enough, never be seen as anything other than a spoiled bitch.

Maybe I should stop letting them protect me and let the bad guys win for a change because I’m just so fucking tired. I’m tired of it all, the pressure, the fame, the way the world wants to look at me from afar but never truly know me.

Unwillingly, I let the first teardrop fall.

And then the next.

And the next.

A sob bubbles up from my chest, and I finally give in and just let myself cry until I think I have nothing left.

With a hiccup, I climb out of the now cool water and towel off. I pull on a tank and pajama shorts, forgetting all about the abandoned wine in the bathroom, and I tuck myself in and pray I find sleep.

Instead, all I find are more tears.

SIXTEEN

FIX IT

Gabe

Fuck!

Even though she tries to be quiet, I still hear her sobbing from the other side of the door.

I hurt her, I know I did. Maybe Manny’s right and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

What can I offer her anyway? My dick and some orgasms?

I’m not a safe bet because all I have is money and some time. But that’s it. Everything else inside me is dead.

And the last thing I want to do is fuck things up again.

“Honey, open the door.”

“Ohmigod,” she sobs. “Please, just go.”

“I can’t. I need you to let me in.” I beg even though I’m not sure what I’m asking for.

“No.”

“Please, baby. I hurt you and I need you to let me in so that I can fix it.”

There’s silence on the other side of the door and I hold my breath for what might come next. When she finally speaks, it’s not what I expect.