“Mac, I need a shot of…” I study the bottles. “Whatever you got. Just, make it strong.”
She chews the inside of her mouth, her thoughtful eyes on me. “I’ve got just the thing.” Whirling around, she grabs a bottle.
Within minutes I’ve downed three shots of what I’m pretty sure is some fancy-ass kind of tequila. My head feels light, but my thoughts have turned to dead weight. Dammit.
I blink to focus and suddenly feel suffocated in the crowded bar. Fresh air.
Digging through my wallet for cash, I curse my impulsiveness. Those shots probably cost me a week’s worth of food.
“Layla, no.” Mac shakes her head, dropping a full drink in front of my heavily pierced neighbor at the bar. “It’s on the house.”
Oh, thank God. “Are you sure?”
She smiles, but there’s sadness in her eyes. Great. Now she feels sorry for me. I need to get out of here.
I drop a twenty on the bar and tell Mac goodnight. On my way out, I wave to Rex on stage, and he rewards me with a lip-ringed smile.
Now he’s a nice guy. I’ve been here for two of his shows and have yet to see him all over a girl. It’s possible to practice some self-control.
Unlike a certain someone who I’m not thinking about at all.
Once free from the stifling club environment, I take a deep pull of fresh, cool desert air. Fresh might be an exaggeration. But the chilly winter temps help to clear my head. I need to sober up. Across the parking lot, I spot a bench. Perfect place to wait for a cab. I weave my way through the cars to—
The sound of a woman’s keening makes my body stiffen. I look around, but can’t see anyone except for the small cluster of smokers huddled at the far end of the building, in the opposite direction. I scan the lot, hold my breath, and concentrate on my hearing. Another soft moan and I’m moving, following the sound. Scouring the surrounding area, I tiptoe through rows of cars, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Oh God.” The murmured voice again, this time a little louder and closer.
A deep grumble filters from a nearby SUV. I duck down low and creep up to the car.
The woman screeches. Oh no. Panic floods my system. Visions flash behind my eyes. The struggle. The fear. The pain of being taken against my will.
I’m at the door, my hand moving on its own to grasp the handle.
The deep voice again. Another female whimper.
I swing open the car door and lean into the backseat. “No!” The word flies, powered by the ferocity of my anger. The door bounces back from my aggressive yank, slamming against my thighs and pinching my legs.
“What the fuck?” The angered roar of the r**ist ricochets off the windows.
I grab at the back of his jeans. “Leave her alone!”
My fingers burn, digging into denim as I struggle to pull him off.
“Crazy bitch, get out!” the victim says, her voice not at all panicked, but pissed.
Blinking away the fog, my eyes adjust to the dome light in the car. A pretty blonde girl frantically covers her nak*d body, pulling her bra down and sliding on her panties. The r**ist is up, buttoning his jeans and righting his shirt. My eyes are painfully wide and firmly fixed on the man’s familiar green glare.
Shit.
“Blake…” His name slides from my lips on a whisper.
“What are you doing?” The girl’s pretty face twists in anger. “Get out!”
I scramble backwards, out of the backseat. Stumbling, my butt hits the car parked next to the SUV. I just stormed in on Blake’s make-out session like a f**king lunatic. He already thinks I’m crazy. I just proved him right. Oh, God!
His tall, wide body folds out of the back of the car. He’s fastening his belt—were they? Oh. My. God!
“I… I’m sorry Blake… I didn’t—”
He steps into my space, his jaw clenched tight. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me? Where do I begin? I roll my lips between my teeth and shake my head. The urge to run, to get the hell away from the embarrassment, is overwhelming, but I can’t move. It’s like my feet are sunk in concrete.
The horror of my past mixes with total humiliation. My eyes burn. Rivers of emotion stream down my face. I’d blame the alcohol if that little surprise hadn’t sobered me up completely.
The blond from the club pulls her shirt on over her head and leans toward me. “You’re a f**king psycho!”
“I’m sor—”
“Hey!” Blake turns his back to me and faces the girl, his body blocking my view of her. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look at her. Understand?”
He’s sticking up for me?
“She jumped all over us in my car. How can you defend her?” The girl’s high-pitched shriek draws the attention of a few people by the front door.
Great. An audience.
I try to sidestep away on shaky legs, ignoring the sickening twist that plagues my belly.
“I’ll take care of her. You get yourself together.” Blake’s voice is low, clearly trying to avoid any more attention.
“She saw us…” She’s speaking softly so that I can’t hear, but the words I do pick up on are unmistakable. “… inside me.”
Crap. I knew it. A spasm rocks my chest so hard that I grasp my neck. My lungs struggle for breath. He was hav**g s*x in the backseat of a car.
A sob rips from my throat. I’ve got to get out of here. “I’m really sorry, you guys.”
I turn and make my way… away. My eyes follow the asphalt forward, no clue which direction I’m walking. Salty tears burn my nose, and I’m grateful no one can see my breakdown. What was I thinking? Nausea threatens to upheave my tequila shots. I breathe in through my nose and out my mouth, trying to calm my overactive gut. I mistook her cries of pleasure for cries of pain. The memories flicker behind my eyes, the burn from his hold, his weight on my chest, still so vivid and—
“Mouse.”
Blake grabs my arm from behind. I thrash out of his hold and flip around. He flinches and holds up his hands, running his gaze from my neck to my hairline, his eyebrows pinched together.
I wipe my cheeks and try to calm my galloping heart. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Blake. Really. I’m sorry and… I’m fine—”
“Stop saying that. You’re not fine.” He drops his hands, but steps in close. “Hell, look at you.”
“These”—I make another attempt to dry my face—“have nothing to do with you.”
“Then tell me. What the hell happened back there?” He motions in the direction of the SUV that’s pulling out of the parking spot.
How can I tell him the truth? I already feel like a pathetic loser.
“It’s no big deal—”
“Mouse.” He says my nickname with a growl, and judging by the determination in his eyes, he isn’t giving up anytime soon.
I exhale and drop my head. This is so humiliating. What’s worse, letting him in on my issues or having him think I broke up his backseat date because I’m certifiably insane? Maybe it’s better that he think I’m nuts. The truth is so much worse than his assumptions.
Clearing my throat, I shift uncomfortably on my feet. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Don’t care.”
“Blake, please. You don’t want to know.”
His gaze swings up to the stars for a few seconds, then back to me. “The f**k I don’t. You just ripped the backdoor off a car like you were about to commit murder. Your fuckin’ eyes were practically glowing, you were so pissed. And then the tears? I may not want to know, but you fuckin’ owe me an explanation.”
Well, when he puts it like that…
I sift my shaking fingers into the ends of my hair and twirl, hoping to hide my nerves. “I heard her screaming.”
He tilts his head and leans forward. “What?”
I clear my throat. “She was screaming.”
His narrow glare turns soft. “No, Mouse. She wasn’t.”
“She was.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and fight to keep eye contact. “I heard her.”
He studies my face, eyes roaming from my cheeks to my lips. “What did he do to you?” His question is barely audible.
The hurt is so intense it swells and billows behind my ribs. I want to say it, scream it, and hope it relieves the stifling confinement of my shame. “Nothing that wasn’t within his right. He was… my husband, after all.”
He steps back, putting distance between our bodies. “Are you saying…” He shakes his head side to side. “No.”
Confused by his words, I keep my mouth shut, fighting the urge to dump my rotting and rancid dirty laundry at his feet.
“He raped you.”
Those three simple words strung together pull at a deep part of my denial. “Not rape if it’s your husband.”
Ten
Blake
“The f**k it’s not!” Cocksucking a**hole. I’ll kill him. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, hoping to God I don’t put my fists through every car window in this piece-of-shit parking lot.
“Blake?” The concern in her soft voice calls me away from my plan-o’-destruction.
I’m breathing hard, like I just pulled out of a fifteen minute round with Wanderlei Silva. My heart’s pounding, injecting volcanic blood straight to my muscles. Frantic, I search for a target, eager to take a f**ker down for the offense of simply breathing.
My control slips. Shit. What the f**k is wrong with me?
Sweat beads on my skin. I run my hand over my head and flex my fingers. I’m a loaded gun, cocked and trigger-happy.
“Blake.” Her voice is firmer now. “You’re shaking.” She moves in close, her eyebrows dropped low over her dark eyes.
I hold my hand up, keeping her back. Safe. “Give me a minute.”
This is f**ked. I can’t think straight.
A few deep breaths. In… out… in… out. Hanging on by a nut hair, I search for a distraction. Anything to take my mind off the fact that Layla was raped, probably repeatedly, by some fuckhead. Probably some douche with a hard-on for pushing people around. His wife, the mother of his child? Dammit!
My chest rumbles as a growl claws up my throat. I need something, anything, to redirect my thoughts. My eyes dart around, cars, the neon sign, her shirt. “Pantera.” I breathe the word, grasping for a lifeline, a change of subject.
She tugs at the hem, peering down at the bright red letters printed on her chest. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t actually go to the concert. Elle was a baby when they came to Seattle. I had a friend get me the shirt.”
I grunt, acknowledging that I heard her.
She smoothes the worn cotton fabric against her flat stomach. “You like Pantera?”
“Mm-hm.” Fuck, that’s better. I sound more man than animal now. Progress.
Running her finger below her eye, she shrugs. “Reinventing the Steel was by far their best album.”
What? “No fuckin’ way.” I lock my gaze on her sparkling eyes. “That album was their biggest fail. Nothin’ but an overproduced hunk of crap made for critics. It wasn’t even—what’s so funny?”