Ignite (The Disciples 4)

I had no choice, right? I had to have the cops call him. I was in trouble and scared and he was the only person I thought to call.

What does that mean?

I take a deep breath and know exactly what it means: he came and he took care of it. It’s time to stop crying and start thinking.

I push myself away from the door. Checking to make sure it’s locked, I remove my jacket and drape it over a wicker hamper. The bathroom is black—he seems to favor that color if his clothes, tattoos, and bedding are any indication.

There’s a large dark cherrywood buffet cabinet on the other side of the shower. It’s plain yet classy. The bathroom could be in GQ in a piece on how to have the perfect bachelor pad bathroom. I almost don’t want to put my dirty clothes on his floor.

This is crazy. I pull off my top and kick off my leggings as I open the large glass door to the shower. It’s spacious, and he has a rain faucet like the one I had in the house I grew up in.

The shower in my apartment was barely big enough for one person. I had to be careful not to knock myself out when I bent down to shave my legs.

Turning on the water, I glance over my shoulder into his mirror and frown at my reflection. God, I’m a disaster. Eyes and lips swollen. Pale. I guess I need a tan, but that’s the least of my problems.

Axel. He’s a problem.

I take a deep breath and step into the hot water. I’m all screwed up. He’s a combination of everything I want and everything I hate. One second, he’s looking at me in a way that makes it hard to breathe. The next, I want to kick him in the face.

He’ll put in a good word with Granger.

Grabbing some shampoo, I roughly wash my hair, replaying all that’s happened… starting with this morning’s fucking mess. I groan at what a disaster this day has been.

Instead of attending an early morning hip-hop class, I should have stayed in bed. But come on, how could I have imagined Ryan would be such a snake? The moving truck parked on my street should have been a big fat red flag.

God, the looks on that couple’s faces when they opened the door to my apartment. Thankfully all I was doing was stretching. Had they come in five minutes later, I would have been in the shower probably masturbating to Axel.

I lift my head and let the water pelt down on my face and rinse my hair.

I wish life was easier, but it’s not. And to be honest, it never has been. Even when my parents were alive, it wasn’t easy. Every day seemed like I had to fight for anything and everything.

Sighing, I know I need to get out of the shower. I never take long ones. It’s too easy to think and remember. But this hot water feels so good, and the longer I stay in here, the more I put off dealing with Axel. My stomach flutters at the mere thought of him.

I need to hate him. What is he expecting from me? After I turn off the water, I reach for a thick, long black towel. Bringing it to my face, I try to form a plan. I can’t stay here, can I?

I’m not sure what I want to happen. Except that deep inside I know that this is where I want to be.

Folding the towel, I hang it up and dig inside my trash bag for my makeup bag.

Jesus. This counter is so clean I can see my reflection. All that sits on the black tile is a bronze toothbrush holder. Unzipping the bag, I take out my perfume and some body lotion, along with my face cream. Everything else remains in the bag, which I tuck away in the corner. Maybe I should put it in his buffet, but he might have personal stuff in there and I’m not a snoop. As soon as I think it, I want to snoop. I suck.

I return to my trash bag and slip on some clean leggings and another short dance shirt. No matter how much I search, it’s clear this bag does not contain my bras or underwear.

“Great.” I pat on my moisturizer and some pale pink lip gloss and figure that’s good enough. My hair, on the other hand, is a disaster. I need my brush and I have a bad feeling I left it. So, I run my hands through it as best I can, then pin it back as a low bun.

“Food’s here.” Axel taps on the door as I apply my French vanilla perfume. My mother’s best friend from childhood sends it to me once a year on my birthday. She’s wealthy and spends most of her time in France, so I guess she feels obligated to at least do something for her dead friend’s daughter once a year. I don’t use much, but I’m getting low. My birthday is next month, and I wonder: if the couple gets my pretty pink package, will they let me know, or will they steal it?