Dear Enemy

“Fucking hell.” Yeah, I’m not being mature about this. But I’m not having a good time adjusting to the fact that I cannot get my ass in the shower without assistance. My balance is off. With busted ribs and wrist on one side and a busted leg on the other, I can’t get into a steady position without massive pain right now.

North has been helping. I should hire a professional nurse, but my level of trust is near zero, and though I don’t like the situation, North has a matter-of-fact, deadpan way of dealing with me that makes it bearable.

Pride is a strange beast. We tend to think of it as doing things for ourselves, not leaning on others. Was it my pride or my ego that made me run Delilah off when she tried to help? An itchy, tight twist in my gut makes me think that maybe true pride is more about being able to accept a situation for what it is with grace.

Whatever the case, my respect for those who have had to readjust their way of life and work it out with dignity and grace has increased tenfold.

I’m getting dressed again when Delilah slams her way through the house and shuts herself in for the night. The woman does not walk on light feet. Despite my low mood a smile threatens. She moves through a space like a storm, crashing about and leaving a mess in her wake. Always has.

When we were teens, the bold way she occupied the world around her fascinated me. For all appearances, she was a shy girl, not liking the spotlight turned on her. The clothes she chose, the way she wore her hair, all of it was designed to blend into a crowd. Logically, she should have crept through life as well. But no. Some part of her might have wanted to hide, but Delilah’s true nature was to shine bright.

For someone who drew the eye without effort yet secretly hated the attention, I realized even then that she was my true opposite. And that we were both somewhat twisted.

I killed the vital light in her pretty face tonight. Shouted like a tyrant.

“I’m such an asshole.”

North, who had returned with his impeccable timing, raises a brow. “You think? Seriously, Saint, what was that? You practically took her head off.”

Grunting, I settle onto the couch set up in my bedroom’s sitting area. “I don’t know. I’m off lately.” I pinch the tense spot between my brows. “Even before Delilah showed.”

“You need to tell her about the accident.”

Accident. I suppose it was. A sick, oily sensation slides down my throat. I swallow it away. “I will.”

North gives me a long look before tilting his head to the side. A small crack rings out as he works through a neck kink. I’m in a shit mood; he’s tense as fuck.

“What’s with you?”

He stops fidgeting. “Martin is here.”

“What, now?” I ask more out of irritation than anything. Of course he shows at this hour.

“I told him you might not have time for him, but he insisted on waiting.”

“Where’d you leave him?” I ask, not exactly liking the idea of Martin having free rein in my house. I doubt he’d do anything so crass as to snoop. But he’s too observant by far.

“He’s in the den.” Judging by North’s tone, it’s clear he knows exactly why I asked.

The den is fairly cut off from the rest of the house. Which also means if Delilah has an itch to leave her room and visit the kitchen, she won’t encounter us. I’ve never hidden that I’ve searched for Sam. But the topic of Delilah’s sister has a bad effect on all of us. I have no desire to rub salt in tonight’s open wounds.

I find Martin comfortably lounging in my favorite leather chair by the dead fireplace, glass of Pappy Van Winkle in his hand. Martin is a prime example of a life lived hard and fast. Lines already fan out from the corners of his eyes and bracket his thin mouth. His brown eyes are always hard, even when he’s amused.

It wasn’t until I moved to LA that I noticed the small details of people’s looks. But it’s part of the culture here. You quickly learn to assess a person’s wealth, health, and position of status with a glance.

I offer North a drink, but he shakes his head, then leans a shoulder against the closed door.

I pour myself a glass and sit opposite Martin. My fingers curl around the cool, sharp edges of the cut-crystal glass. “You find her?” No use mucking around with polite chitchat with Martin. Besides, I already know the answer. If he had, she’d be here.

“The girl is a ghost.” He frowns, and there’s a flash of irritation in his eyes; then it’s gone. “I’d be impressed if it wasn’t my job to find her.”