“Mouse.”
Blake grabs my arm from behind. I thrash out of his hold and flip around. He flinches and holds up his hands, running his gaze from my neck to my hairline, his eyebrows pinched together.
I wipe my cheeks and try to calm my galloping heart. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Blake. Really. I’m sorry and… I’m fine—”
“Stop saying that. You’re not fine.” He drops his hands, but steps in close. “Hell, look at you.”
“These”—I make another attempt to dry my face—“have nothing to do with you.”
“Then tell me. What the hell happened back there?” He motions in the direction of the SUV that’s pulling out of the parking spot.
How can I tell him the truth? I already feel like a pathetic loser.
“It’s no big deal—”
“Mouse.” He says my nickname with a growl, and judging by the determination in his eyes, he isn’t giving up anytime soon.
I exhale and drop my head. This is so humiliating. What’s worse, letting him in on my issues or having him think I broke up his backseat date because I’m certifiably insane? Maybe it’s better that he think I’m nuts. The truth is so much worse than his assumptions.
Clearing my throat, I shift uncomfortably on my feet. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Don’t care.”
“Blake, please. You don’t want to know.”
His gaze swings up to the stars for a few seconds, then back to me. “The fuck I don’t. You just ripped the backdoor off a car like you were about to commit murder. Your fuckin’ eyes were practically glowing, you were so pissed. And then the tears? I may not want to know, but you fuckin’ owe me an explanation.”
Well, when he puts it like that…
I sift my shaking fingers into the ends of my hair and twirl, hoping to hide my nerves. “I heard her screaming.”
He tilts his head and leans forward. “What?”
I clear my throat. “She was screaming.”
His narrow glare turns soft. “No, Mouse. She wasn’t.”
“She was.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and fight to keep eye contact. “I heard her.”
He studies my face, eyes roaming from my cheeks to my lips. “What did he do to you?” His question is barely audible.
The hurt is so intense it swells and billows behind my ribs. I want to say it, scream it, and hope it relieves the stifling confinement of my shame. “Nothing that wasn’t within his right. He was… my husband, after all.”
He steps back, putting distance between our bodies. “Are you saying…” He shakes his head side to side. “No.”
Confused by his words, I keep my mouth shut, fighting the urge to dump my rotting and rancid dirty laundry at his feet.
“He raped you.”
Those three simple words strung together pull at a deep part of my denial. “Not rape if it’s your husband.”
Ten
Blake
“The fuck it’s not!” Cocksucking asshole. I’ll kill him. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, hoping to God I don’t put my fists through every car window in this piece-of-shit parking lot.
“Blake?” The concern in her soft voice calls me away from my plan-o’-destruction.
I’m breathing hard, like I just pulled out of a fifteen minute round with Wanderlei Silva. My heart’s pounding, injecting volcanic blood straight to my muscles. Frantic, I search for a target, eager to take a fucker down for the offense of simply breathing.
My control slips. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Sweat beads on my skin. I run my hand over my head and flex my fingers. I’m a loaded gun, cocked and trigger-happy.
“Blake.” Her voice is firmer now. “You’re shaking.” She moves in close, her eyebrows dropped low over her dark eyes.
I hold my hand up, keeping her back. Safe. “Give me a minute.”
This is fucked. I can’t think straight.
A few deep breaths. In… out… in… out. Hanging on by a nut hair, I search for a distraction. Anything to take my mind off the fact that Layla was raped, probably repeatedly, by some fuckhead. Probably some douche with a hard-on for pushing people around. His wife, the mother of his child? Dammit!
My chest rumbles as a growl claws up my throat. I need something, anything, to redirect my thoughts. My eyes dart around, cars, the neon sign, her shirt. “Pantera.” I breathe the word, grasping for a lifeline, a change of subject.
She tugs at the hem, peering down at the bright red letters printed on her chest. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t actually go to the concert. Elle was a baby when they came to Seattle. I had a friend get me the shirt.”
I grunt, acknowledging that I heard her.
She smoothes the worn cotton fabric against her flat stomach. “You like Pantera?”
“Mm-hm.” Fuck, that’s better. I sound more man than animal now. Progress.
Running her finger below her eye, she shrugs. “Reinventing the Steel was by far their best album.”
What? “No fuckin’ way.” I lock my gaze on her sparkling eyes. “That album was their biggest fail. Nothin’ but an overproduced hunk of crap made for critics. It wasn’t even—what’s so funny?”
Fuck me if the sight of her tear-streaked face, red eyes, and big white grin doesn’t have me fighting a smile.
“You’re right. Reinventing the Steel is crap.” Her eyes dance and soften. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
I take my first full breath, and feel my shoulders unwind. “Did I pass?”
She pulls her top lip into her mouth with her tongue, a grin still playing across her lips, and nods.
Kicking my foot out, I allow her smile to soothe me, and lean back against a parked car. “Their best album was—”
“Vulgar Display of Power.” She sniffs as if it’s no big deal that she robbed me of those exact words.
I lose the battle with my lips and smirk. “Yeah.”
And with that, my heart rate is back to normal, my mind clear. That crap about her husband isn’t cool, and I’d still like to pull a series of fist-meet-face action on the douche-bag, but at least I’m not in danger of hurting anyone around me.
Fuckin’ DNA. I’ve always loved fighting, the power that surges through my body with every punch. It’s addicting. But this shit’s been happening outside of the octagon more than I’m comfortable with. It’s like some dormant cells straight from the General suddenly came to life. As if the shit he pulled in the past didn’t fuck me up enough, his cyborg cells are kickin’ in to finish the job.
“I need to call a cab.” Her voice pulls me from my biological Armageddon.
The light from her phone casts a blue glow against her face and hair. Her perfect teeth tug on her lower lip while she scrolls through her directory.
Damn, she’s beautiful. “Don’t go.”
She recoils slightly. Shit. I scrub my face with my hands. No clue why I’m asking her to stay. But the thought of watching her drive away makes my skin itch and my bones ache.
For the first time, it’s not all about wanting to fuck her. I’d be a disgrace to the male species if I didn’t entertain the idea once or twelve times. But this feels different. It’s like wanting to hit replay on my favorite song, or watch ten more minutes of a good flick. I’m not ready for it to end. “Where’s Axelle?”
She pulls a long strand of hair over her shoulder and twirls the end. “Double feature at The Cineplex.”