Page 7 of Sixty Days Of Summer

“Yeah, I think so,” I reply. “That’s why Nate wants her with him. To keep her safe and away from that bastard.”

He turns his head, and locks eyes with me, his gaze piercing. “Don’t fucking go there again, Ace. For fuck sake, keep your distance this time. He might let the last screw-up slide, but he sure as hell won’t if you keep fucking her.”

“Yeah, I get it. I won’t go there again. You have my word.”

“Alright,” he says, giving me a shove with his shoulder. “You up for a beer?”

“Fuck yeah,” I agree, knowing that hanging out with Xander, Poppy, and Alex will help drown out the guilt gnawing at me.

Chapter 3

Scarlet

As soon as my phone buzzes, I instinctively reach into my back pocket and inspect the screen.

Nate:Flight’s booked, 4 pm.

I feel an overwhelming wave of relief wash over me. My fingers dance across the keyboard as I quickly type back.

Scarlet:Thanks. See you soon. Love you!

As I wait for his reply, I gaze at the screen, my eyes watching the appearance of the message bubbles.

Nate:Love you too, Scar. Stay safe.

His words wrap around me like a warm, comforting embrace, soothing my frayed nerves. I quickly open the Uber app and book a ride, doing my best to shake off the lingering tension that still trembles through my body.

With my bag packed, I rush into the bathroom, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the tiled walls. As I come face to face with my reflection, I feel an overwhelming urge to look away. My eyes are red and swollen, evidence of the countless tears that have streamed down my face. The bruises on my face tell the painful story of Beck’s violent outburst, a constant reminder of the brutality I’ve suffered. I know makeup can only do so much — it can’t hide the swelling or all the visible marks of damage. Still, I reach for my compact and try to hide the painful bruises, knowing that it’s probably a losing battle but refusing to give up.

Ever since my phone call with my brother, I’ve been seething with anger at myself. I should have been more alert and aware of my surroundings.

The apartment was littered with signs, like breadcrumbs, leading to the truth of his intrusion. The faint smell of smoke lingering in the air, the subtle disarray of kitchen items, and the telltale wrinkles on the bed—each one a haunting reminder that he might have already invaded my space before.

As I pack up my makeup bag, I catch a final glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

The dark bruises on my neck catch my attention. I swiftly make my way to my room, where I find a light scarf. I wrap it snugly around my neck, effectively camouflaging the evidence.

After making sure that the marks are completely concealed, I pick up my suitcase and head towards the door. Swinging it open, I’m ready to escape this hellhole.

Stepping into the hall, my nerves are in chaos, swirling like a tornado, while every echoing sound sends shivers down my spine. I can feel my heart pounding forcefully against my ribcage, as if it’s trying to break free, as I brace myself, half-expecting Beck to reappear at any moment. The tension in the air is palpable, and every creak or distant noise sends shivers down my spine, intensifying my anxiety. Each step I take feels like a relentless battle against the fear that clings to me.

With trembling hands, I turn the key in the lock of my apartment door. I rush to the elevator; the seconds ticking by agonizingly slow as a sense of impending doom tightens in my gut.

The abrupt ding of the elevator startles me, causing me to flinch. With a sense of relief, I hurriedly step inside, eager to escape from this place. The possibility of Beck returning keeps me on edge, fueling my determination to escape as quickly as possible.

After the doors close, I let out a shaky breath of relief, but it quickly dissipates, leaving me on edge.

Two floors down, the elevator comes to a sudden stop, and my heart races. This suffocating fear that consumes me now is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

The doors slowly inch open, and with each passing second, my anticipation builds, preparing myself for whatever lies on the other side.

When the elevator doors creak open, I’m met with the sight of an elderly woman, her frail figure wrapped in a floral dress and a worn cardigan, her house slippers scuffing the floor as she steps inside. For a moment, my pulse steadies, finding a fleeting sense of normalcy in her presence.

But as the doors close again, my anxiety ramps up. The elevator jolts into motion, and every second feels like an eternity. My stomach twists with fear, wondering if Beck might be waiting for me on the ground floor. The thought of running into him there sends a fresh wave of panic, making each descending floor feel like a countdown to something terrifying.

When the elevator reaches the ground floor, I watch intently as the elderly lady shuffles out, my eyes darting around, desperately searching for any sign of Beck. The moment I confirm he’s not there, I quickly move toward the front doors but stop just before stepping outside.

I open the app on my phone. My heart skips a beat when I spot my ride approaching the street, and I can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

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