Page 41 of Battle Scars

“Now, the bra,” he cuts in, suddenly all back to business.

I hear another low growl from the back of the room and narrow my eyes in Gabe’s direction. He does not get to decide my life. I straighten my shoulders and arch my back, letting my breasts lift up, and I slowly twist my arms behind me to grab the small hook that is holding the two sides of the band together.

Gabe is watching me over everyone else. His eyes hold a warning not to do it. But then again, so do mine. He doesn’t run my show.

So, I pop the hook, and the material slingshots around me. My hands fall to hold the material to my breasts. Slowly, oh so slowly, I slide one strap down, and then the other.

The shutter on the camera snaps are rapid-fire.

I close my eyes and let the cups fall.

And then I’m no longer standing in front of the spotlight at all.

Gabe rushes through the bodies and grabs me, dipping low so his shoulder is at my belly. And then I’m lifted up, up, up—and he’s carrying me from the room. The ridiculous heels fall off my feet along the way.

“Gabe!” I snap when the door to the dressing room closes behind us.

“Do not fucking start with me, Adrienne,” he growls. “I warned you.”

“Yeah?” I snap back. “And who are you to do that?” I immediately regret the harsh tone of my words but not the intent behind them when he stalks toward me.

I step back.

And then I do it again like a scared little rabbit until I have nowhere to go. My back up against the wall, and I feel the sharp bursts of his breath on my face.

“Is it my body you want in your bed at night?” he snarls as he flattens his palm to my belly and slides his hand down the front of my very tiny shorts. His fingers find my center instantly, and as I watch his eyes flare, I know exactly what secret he has found there. “Is it my dick that fills your cunt in your dreams?”

“That’s not fair,” I whisper. My voice sounds shaky, even to me, and is coming out in breathy pants. He toys with me, teasing my flesh to a heightened state. How can one person be so angry and yet so turned on at the same time?

I hate him as much as I want him.

“Yes, it fucking well is,” he bites out as he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Now get your shit or leave it. I don’t fucking care, but we’re out of here in five.”

“Gabe—” I don’t know whether I want to beg him to finish what he started or tell him to fuck off.

When he turns to give me the full weight of his stare, I bite my lip, and the words freeze on my tongue. I’ve never seen fury like this. Not on a man like him. And I can’t help but come to the realization that I’ve made a mistake. I played with fire; now I can’t be surprised when it burns me.

I nod once. He tosses my discarded jacket toward me, and I watch it sail through the air, wondering absently if it’s going to hit me, but I never should have doubted the absolute accuracy in everything Gabe does, because it lands in a puddle at my feet.

And then he’s gone.

I try to pull in a deep breath, but my lungs aren’t working like they should, and it shudders back out of my body. I could cry. Hot tears sting my sinuses, but I will them back. I can’t do this. Not now, not in front of Gabe. Not ever.

I quickly change out of the outfit from the photoshoot and into my jeans and tank top. I slide my feet into my Chucks and pull my hair back into a messy ponytail with my fingers. I carefully hang up the outfit. It’s not mine to keep. I sling my leather hobo bag over my shoulder. My leather jacket is in my hand by the time the door swings back open again.

“Time’s up.”

And isn’t that just ironic? I feels as if my time might really be up. Like I’m walking toward the hangman, ready to have my sentence handed down. How ridiculous is that?

I just nod and follow him out. The set is being quickly broken down. The whole atmosphere is completely different now. I’m not sure what happened while I was changing, but I have my suspicions that Gabe laid down his version of the law.

“Thank you, everyone,” I say softly before following Gabe out to the car.

He beeps the locks and holds my door open for me, and I find it funny that in some ways he’s the consummate gentleman and in others, he’s not even close. Not at all. I climb into the seat and fold my jacket and bag into my lap. I sit perfectly still while he rounds the car and climbs into the driver seat.

“Being cute now won’t save you,” he says, his voice ominously growly.

“I wouldn’t dream of even trying.”