Slay (Storm MC 4)

My heart squeezed in my chest at the words I’d waited my whole life for.

“Thank fuck,” I murmured, and pulled her close again.

“I love you,” she mumbled into my chest.

“I love you, too, Mum.”

***

I spent the rest of the day alone.

Thinking.

Planning.

My headache had eased. It was still there, though, and later that night I finally decided to deal with it.

I walked into her bar just befo

re midnight.

She watched me walk towards her and didn’t say a word when I stood in front of her a moment later.

We stared at each other until she eventually reached for the scotch bottle and two glasses. She filled them and slid one to me. I watched as she sculled hers, and then I downed mine.

I placed the glass down, and murmured, “I’m fucked up.”

She grabbed the glass off me and refilled it. Pushing it back to me, she said, “We’re all fucked up, Donovan. It’s how you deal with that shit that matters.”

Fuck me.

This woman.

“I’m dealing,” I said before drinking the second scotch she’d given me.

“Seven days. You pull that shit again, and you can deal on your own.”

I nodded. Message received.

Her gaze travelled over my face. “You need sleep.” She ignored the cuts and bruises.

“Yeah.”

She took in my beaten-up hands and then said, “Go upstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I did as she said and sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for her. For the first time, I really took in what her room looked like. It wasn’t at all what I would have expected of a woman’s bedroom, and yet it was all her. Bed, bedside table, dresser, wardrobe and mirror; she had what she needed, no more. A painting on her wall and a rug; she kept the decorations to the minimum. It spoke of a woman who didn’t add fuss to her life.

She walked in a couple of minutes later with a bucket of ice, a plastic bag and towel. After she placed them on the bedside table, she indicated for me to stand. And then she put her hands to the bottom of my tee and gently lifted it up over my head.

“Shit,” she muttered, as she took in the bruising on my body. “Who did this to you?”

“It’s not important,” I murmured, not wanting to drag her into my shit.

Her eyes came to mine. “Yes, it is. Tell me.”

I stalled.

Fuck.