I swallow and rest my weight on a hand against the mirror, my eyes darting across the vast expanse of his sharp back.
And the angry, deep, monstrous scar that blankets every inch of it.
7
JAMES
What the fuck am I thinking? I slump down on the couch, my eyes rooted on the elevator, my beer discarded and replaced with something hard. I neck the straight vodka and gasp. I knew what I was doing. When I arranged for some company prior to Beau Hayley arriving, I knew exactly what I was doing.
I was creating an obstacle. Making sure she hates me because she should. But with each update Goldie sends me on Beau Hayley, my intrigue grows. And those calls? Her voice? Something inside of me kicked, and I was fucked if I could ignore it.
Damaged.
Broken.
Hopeless.
Everything I once was is emblazoned over every inch of that woman. And my attraction? That caught me off guard. Her clear, fair complexion. Her messy blonde waves. Her dark, dark eyes. She moves with grace and purpose, and yet I’ve never seen someone look so obviously heavy and lost before. Contempt for life. I’ve never seen demons displayed so clearly on someone’s skin.
Except when I look in the mirror.
“Fuck me,” I murmur, rubbing at my forehead. I pull my mobile out and wake up the screen. Beau Hayley’s face fills it.
Beautifully toxic.
She doesn’t want to be here anymore.
And I can make that happen.
Do us both a favor.
8
BEAU
“I feel like I’m sleeping in a bottle of Pepto-Bismol,” Dexter mutters as he drops his holster on the chaise that’s adorned with regal peacocks.
I dunk my brush in the can and load it with more paint, balancing on top of my ladder to reach the corner. “She loves it.”
“Of course she does. It looks like Barbie puked up all over it. Don’t let her see you playing gymnastics like that.”
“I’m as safe as houses.” I swipe my brush with accuracy along the wall where it meets the ceiling, getting as perfect a line as I can with my new brush. “Terrible,” I mutter, pulling back and inspecting.
“Looks perfect to me.”
“All done,” I declare, jumping down and setting my can on the drop cloth. Perfect. What the fuck is perfect, anyway? “They’ve discontinued my favorite brush.” I’ve searched Google and come up with nothing. I curl my lip at my substitute brush as I toss it in the can of paint. “Where is she?” I ask, just as Aunt Zinnea bursts through the door looking harassed, her body encased in a floor-length red velvet gown.
“My wig,” she cries. “Has anyone seen my wig?”
Both Dexter and I cast our eyes around their bedroom, across all of the drop cloths and decorating equipment. “I’ll tidy up.” I start transferring my tools into my box and wrap my brush and roller ready to wash.
“Beau, sweetheart?”
I glance up. Aunt Zinnea seems to have lost her panic and is now looking at me in that way she does. With concern.
“Why don’t you come to my show this evening?”
I don’t answer, just look at her in the way I do, and continue with my task of clearing their bedroom. A dark cavern of a club downtown on a Saturday night that’s packed to the rafters with excited, loud fans is my worst kind of hell. She knows it. And yet each time she asks, I see new hope in her eyes.
“You look lovely,” Dexter says, moving in for a swift change of subject, anything to get Aunt Zinnea off my back.
“Why, thank you.” She reaches for her hair to twiddle at a lock coyly. Her smile drops. “My wig.” And she’s off around the bedroom like a whirlwind again, pulling sheets off furniture as she goes.
“You’ll get paint on your dress.” Dexter sighs. “Go wait in the kitchen. I’ll find it.” He claims Zinnea and leads her from the room, and I start to collect up all of the sheets and fold them away. “She’s not okay,” Zinnea mutters, not for the first time this week.
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
“I can hear you, you know,” I call tiredly, and they both stop at the door, looking back. “Uncle Lawrence is much quieter than Aunt Zinnea. If you’re going to talk about me, do it when you’re Lawrence.”
Dexter chuckles lightly, and Zinnea shrugs off his hold with an air of indignance, throwing him a dirty look before returning her attention to me. “Let’s meditate,” she suggests, breezing across the room to me, holding up her dress.
I look to Dexter for help. He shrugs. “I don’t need to meditate.”
“You do. You haven’t been yourself all week.”
“Surely that’s a good thing,” I say over a laugh, getting my very own filthy look from Zinnea.
“I mean your fake self.”
I get my amusement under control quickly, looking away from her probing eyes. She’s right. I’ve been so wrapped up in controlling my wandering mind and stopping it from steering in a direction I know is totally the wrong way, I’ve neglected to remember to force my smiles. To make sure everyone thinks I’m okay. I even missed my therapy session. Distracted.