Page 23 of Full Throttle

The second I stepped into the hot shower, my muscles sighed. “Oh,” I moaned, turning slowly and tilting my head back, the scolding water hitting my hair as another moan left me.

“Yeah, I bet that feels good,” Amara murmured from the other side of the glass.

I froze. “Oh my fuck, I forgot you were here for a second.”

A musical laugh floated throughout the bathroom. “I understand. That first shower after a long day can feel like heaven. I just didn’t want to leave you in here alone.”

“Long day is kind of an understatement,” I told her, pausing for a moment. “And thank you—for staying in here.”

“I’ve had so many long days,” she replied, referring to her job.

Silence stretched between us as I rubbed my upper arms and looked down at my body. The bruising was hideous, and I knew that it would be a few weeks before my skin would be back to normal. Aside from that, I took a moment to admire myself.

Hell, I should’ve died last night. I think I could spare a few moments to look at the body I nearly lost.

I wasn’t perfect. My hips were a little too wide. My breasts weren’t perky and pretty. My ass wasn’t firm. I was jiggly in places magazines would hate. Over the years, I’d gained and lost weight so many times that I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to look like anymore.

After Cain tore me into pieces, I turned to alcohol for comfort, drinking my days away while learning how to drive stick at night. I gained about eighty pounds, and was miserable. Three years later, I knew that if I continued down that path, I’d never escape the clutches of alcohol.

I’d end up like my mother.

So, I quit cold turkey on a random Tuesday in July and haven’t touched the shit since. When I landed in Denver two years ago, I got into hiking and really learned to appreciate the beauty of nature. The weight came off slowly, but now, I had a patch of loose skin on my lower belly, faded stretch marks on my skin, and my thighs still had cellulite. When I got my period every single month, I got bloated and broke out.

If I wasn’t dying my hair, my silver hair would show, even though I was in my early thirties.

I was covered in imperfections.

But fuck, I loved them so much.

Tears filled my eyes, and I couldn’t help but sniffle.

“Nikki?” Amara asked, her voice alert.

I nodded even though she couldn’t see me through the blurred glass. Inhaling an unsteady breath, I answered, “I’m okay, I’m okay. Just taking a moment to….you know.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.” She got me. She got me because she put her life on the line every single day.

“I was kidnapped in November,” she told me.

Her admission came as a surprise to me. I remained silent, letting the water hit my back, my hair coming over my shoulder as I stared at my feet, waiting for her to continue.

“I jumped from building to building, landed hard,” she explained. “I was chasing a man who I thought had those kids.”

The kids.

Somehow, there were kids involved in this Bratva shit. The knife in my gut twisted as she continued, “He drugged me, and I woke up tied to a chair. I tried to get him to talk, but it didn’t work. I had to get out of there, so when I saw my next chance, I took it. We ended up fighting.” A soft, disbelieving laugh left her. “I’m strong, but I’m not an idiot. That man was bigger than me. I took a beating, but I ended up choking him. He bruised my three of my ribs.”

“Are you okay now?” I whispered.

I heard her footsteps on the tile floor, and then the shower door was pulled open. Her hazel eyes held mine. “Yeah.”

I nodded, giving her a small smile. “Good.”

“I bruised my ribs. You broke yours,” she deadpanned. “You need someone to wash your hair, I can do that if you like.”

I shook my head, reaching for the shampoo. “I got it. Thank you though.” I squeezed the shampoo into my head and rubbed them together. When I tried to lift my arms, pain shot through me. Wincing, I looked at her. “Maybe I don’t got it.”

Her features softened. “And that’s okay. Turn around.”

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