Dear Enemy

“What the actual hell is wrong with you?” she cries, her arms akimbo.

She stands over me like a teacher ready to give a lecture. The band around my chest won’t abate. “Nothing a good dose of privacy wouldn’t fix.”

Delilah snorts long and loud. “That’s not what you need a dose of. For crying out loud, Macon. You hire me in part to help you while you’re convalescing, but the second I try to offer a hand, you have a temper tantrum.”

Temper tantrum? My back teeth click together.

“I didn’t hire you. You came to me.” My thumb hits my chest for emphasis. “And part of that bargain was that you obeyed my orders without question.”

I can see her struggling to keep her cool. She takes a deep breath, her breasts lifting high. I don’t want to notice. I don’t want her here.

“Look,” she starts. “I was simply trying to help you get out from under the desk.”

Everything feels too tight now: my skin, my flesh, my insides. I am exposed. “I said I didn’t need your help.”

“All evidence to the contrary.”

“Get out.”

She simply raises her brow, crossing her arms under those ample tits.

Undirected rage, helplessness, and frustration rise up. The ugly hot mix surges through my body, and without thought or care, I set it free. “Get out! Get out!”

My shout rings in my ears, crashes over the room. It’s so loud, so aggressive, Delilah actually jumps. Her pretty face turns pale, and without another word, she flees.

I watch her go, horrified by my actions. I’ve never lost my temper like this. And for something so petty and baseless. She was trying to help. I tried to take her head off.

Unbidden, the image of my father standing over a much smaller version of myself with his fist raised flashes into my head. He had loved using his size and strength to intimidate those weaker and smaller than he was.

My stomach lurches, the room tilting sickly. “Fuck.”

Crunching over debris, I roll out of the room and into the hall. “Delilah?”

But even as I call out, I catch sight of her car through the upper windows as she drives away.

Delilah

I won’t cry. I will not cry. Nope. Not going to happen.

My lids prickle, and I snarl a ripe curse. My car bumps over the driveway as I speed along, my hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make my fingers throb. Macon’s shout still rings in my ears.

That asshole. Bullying, mean . . . jerk.

We’ve always bickered, but he’s never screamed at me like that. The force of his rage had been palpable. It shook me to the core.

Nothing is worth this crap. I had a life. A good one. I didn’t put it on hold to be verbally abused.

My vision blurs, and I take a breath, trying to steady myself. I’m on the road, heading toward the highway. Away from here. Away from him.

“Shit.” I left everything behind.

With him.

“Doesn’t matter.” I’m not going back. I’ll have it shipped. Hell, he can throw it all out. I don’t care. I was insane for offering myself up like this anyway. I’ll take Mama on a nice long vacation. If she’s not here to learn about Sam, then she’ll never know.

My phone rings, buzzing away on the seat beside me. A quick glance, and my stomach bottoms out. It’s him. The asshole.

I ignore it for three ring cycles. Part of me wants to throw the phone out the window. But I’m not a coward. I might have needed to . . . regroup. But I’m not scared of Macon Asshat Saint.

I answer with the built-in car speaker. “What?”

His voice comes at me from all directions, very deep yet very soft. “I’m sorry.”

I drive for a couple of shocked beats because an apology without preamble is the last thing I’d been expecting.

“Delilah?”

I clear my throat. “What?” I ask with slightly less acerbity.

His sigh is a whisper of sound in the small confines of the car. “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

“True,” I concede, driving along. The Pacific glints with orange sparkles as the sun races toward the horizon. Only then do I realize it’s on my left side, which means I’m heading north to God knows where. I pull into the parking lot of a seaside taco stand, too distracted to drive safely, just as Macon starts talking again.

“I don’t know what came over me. I wasn’t myself. I’ve never . . . never shouted at someone like that.”

“Figures you’d choose to start with me.”

He makes a sound of self-derision. “It was inexcusable. I don’t know what to say to make up for it.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him nothing can atone for his behavior. But then I think about how he’d been in pain, embarrassed, frustrated, unable to free himself. I’d seen it play out, clear as day in his eyes, the tightness of his expression and the way he’d thrashed around like a wild animal caught in a trap. And I’d blustered in, ignoring his requests for privacy, convinced I could fix it. That he should behave and listen to me.