Page 28 of Sawyer

I practically run away from him and out into the night. These damn heels threaten to break my ankles, and walking on the cobblestone path doesn’t help.

Sin stands at the doorstep, key in hand, and opens the door to his home. Reaching in, he flips on the light and disappears inside. “I’ll get a fire going,” he calls from within the dark interior.

Nerves tickle my breastbone, and I take a chance and step in, because I have nowhere else to go and I feel like this alpha and delta aren’t about to let me out of their sights, which is both comforting and terrifying all at the same time.

My heels clack on old hardwood floors, nicked and bruised. As I step in, my breath whooshes out at the beauty of Sin’s home. Old-world charm stretches before me, with those timeworn floors as well as open rafters high above.

Sin’s scent permeates the air with vetiver and earth. Everything about his home comforts me, from the neutral colors to the cream kitchen cabinets.

“This is…” I trail off and watch him start a fire in the enormous fireplace to my left. Behind me, Rumor steps up and whistles. “Your home is beautiful, Sin.”

He doesn’t say thanks, only nods his head and continues to start a fire. “Bathroom is down the hall. Guest room is to your right.” Tossing a lit, rolled up newspaper into the fireplace, he turns on his heel. “It’s small, but it’s safe. No one knows this exists.”

My mouth opens a little before I snap it shut.

“Why don’t you shower?” Rumor presses a hand to the small of my back, guiding me the rest of the way into the open space. “I’m sure Sin has something you can wear.”

“Sure.” I carefully step on his floors, not wanting to nick them more than they already are. I’m still in nothing but my heels, the matching panty and bra set, and the shirt I wore today for work. I had almost everything I owned on me, which I left in that room when I grabbed the envelope.

At least I can buy a new phone with the wad of cash I’m still clutching, unless one of the guys grabbed it, and I’m not sure they did.

Ignoring the men and their overwhelming scents, I walk my ass to the hall and find the bathroom. Cream tiles line the floor and continue a few feet up the walls. A glass shower sits to the right, just beyond the toilet. An oversized marble sink with beautiful gold swirls set amongst white screams opulence, while an exaggerated mirror reaches to the ceiling and lights up around the corners in soft hues.

Tossing the cash onto the sink, I lock the door and head for the shower. The water falls from overhead as though it’s raining, and two smaller showerheads sputter on from the corners above.

I fiddle with the dials until the water burns the tips of my fingers and only drips from the ceiling before I strip out of what little I’m wearing. Finally, my bare feet settle on the ground, and I toss the heels to the side and step into the steaming shower.

That’s all it takes, safety in an enclosed space, for the entire day to rush at me.

I can’t think. All I can do is feel, and damn it, I don’t want to do that either. I don’t want the emotions to bombard me. That’s why I take the stimulants, so I can have control of my emotions and who I am outside is a direct reflection of who I am on the inside.

Some days, I walk around just existing. I know I can be so much more than I am, and using a tonic or an elixir to help me get there isn’t a terrible thing in my eyes.

I’ve stood up to corrupt leaders and called them out on their bullshit. I’ve nearly been arrested more times than I can count. I’ve done things I’ve only ever dreamed of, like getting through an interview with the Central Daily and landing a job that doesn’t pay as well as dancing did, but fed my soul back everything dancing stole.

Tears burn my eyes, and this time, I let them fall as I work through the actions of cleaning myself. I scrub my hair and body until every inch of me is red and raw. All those tears drip from my eyes, and I struggle to silence my sobs.

Vulnerability is a luxury I can’t afford. It is the equivalent of walking outside naked and screaming to the world to do its worst. Vulnerability exposes the real me to a cruel world, allowing me to be struck physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

So I’ll stand in this shower that doesn’t even belong to me and allow all my vulnerable parts to bleed out of me in the form of salty tears. Here, I will allow them to drip down to the tiled floor and swirl into the drain, where I won’t have to see them again.

For now.

Grabbing the conditioner that smells like Sin, I squirt some into my hand just as the lock on the door clicks over and the old wood creaks.

“I’m not done,” I shout, and although the heat of the shower prevents me from seeing who it is, my body knows. “Go away, Sin.”

“I think you are done,” he responds without an ounce of apology. As he moves through the bathroom, I can see him stripping off his shirt and tossing it into a laundry basket, giving me a distorted striptease.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I screech as he opens the door, uncaring that he doesn’t know me and is invading my space. I grab a rag, trying to cover my body, but the small scrap of fabric does nothing to conceal what he’s already seen while I writhed on a pole.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, standing at the door, letting water spray him. “How much hot water do you think I have?”

“What?” My eyes dart all over his body, unsure where to look or what tattoo to concentrate on.

He takes the choice away from me when he flips the button on his jeans. “Do you think the hot water will wash away all your pain?”

My mouth parts at how easily this stranger can see through me. “What the hell?”

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