Page 4 of Cut Me Down

“You say that like it’s so easy.”

“It’s not easy, but it’s even harder when you don’t open up to the possibility.” The thought of that sends a chill down my body. Sometimes, my men can’t even look me in the eye after they've seen what I can do. How could I expect a woman to accept that part of me? To think that I wouldn’t have to hide that part of myself is a dream. It can seem real, but I'll wake up one day and realize that it was all a lie. The moment a woman saw me for who I truly am, she’d cut and run. Or worse, turn me in. No one would willingly put up with the dark and depraved side of me. Willingly…

“If I find the one…”If she even exists.

“WHEN. When you find THE one.”

I scoff at her bullshit assumption.

“Fine sappy, WHEN I find THE one, I’ll know it, but I don’t have the time or the patience right now to go out and find her.”

She reaches up and kisses my cheek before playfully wiping it away.

“Keep an open mind, I mean it! Don’t make me kick your ass.” She points her manicured nail at my face.

“Bring it, preggers.” She slaps my shoulder again and heads inside. As she opens the door, I hear Ezra yell.

“James Xavier Townsend! Eight pounds, thirteen ounces, nineteen inches long!” Everyone yells and cheers before toasting and chugging our drinks.

My men and I are practically a wolf pack. Nothing that concerns one of our own is too small. Their families are our families, and their concerns are ours. We’d die for each other, but we also live for each other. This organization wouldn’t run without that connection. To do what we do, see what we see, we need each other as much as the city needs us, and I wouldn’t trade these fuckers for anything else.

Chapter two

Ashia

Present Day

The cracking sound sends air rushing into my lungs. So quickly, that my gasp is practically a whistle. My chest burns as it fills with the ashes of my past, and the pain radiates through my limb. All the way through the digits on my right arm.

I remember the acts that created the sounds. The swift fists and back-hands that rushed through the air toward me. Hard grips on the back of my head that sent my body sliding through the swift air. The reflected light that blinded me, only temporarily, as the metal moved across my arm and under the overhead bulbs at the right angle.

Breathe. Just breathe. It’s not real. I escaped. It’s not real…

Focus.

Just focus, damnit.

I can feel the cool, hard counter under my hands, and the pressure on my palms from keeping me upright. My nails dig into the bottom of the counter, and I can feel them pushing back into my fingers from the strength in my grip. I can feel the breeze in this confined space. A stark contrast to hot, damp breath grazing across my face.

Don’t think about it. Focus.

I can smell the disinfectant permeating through the air. The smell seeping into my nose and mouth, giving the muscles in my lungs the permission to release the heat I've been holding in. I can inhale the scent of the natural mint oil we add to our steam towels. My new breaths hit the deep tissues of my lungs. Just enough to release the whimper caught in my throat.

The same mint and disinfectant leaves a harsh taste on my tongue, causing my eyelids to shoot open again. I can see the plain white walls, and the doorway in front of me, proving that I'm not pinned. I'm not trapped and being held down. The water runs behind me, and my ears seem to pick up every drop into the sink. They also pick up on the source of the cool air, which directs my gaze to the swirling ceiling fan above me.

I'm not there. He’s not here. I am grounded. Right here and now, I am okay.

That was so long ago now. How could something that happened six years ago still have such a hold on me? Why does that one little noise command me to start my day off on a bad note? Shouldn’t I be over this? What the hell is wrong with me?

Taking the time to stretch every present muscle, I slowly bend down to pick up the plastic bin that holds the clean towels and check on the bottom. Yep, there it is. A crack. I must have damaged the container when I dropped it. Of course, my clumsiness would cause a panic. I should have a caution sign attached to me somewhere. Somewhere that everyone can see and prepare themselves for.

Methodically, I continue the morning prep and pick my pace back up once I'm comfortable again. I run through my mental checklist twice, just to be sure that everything is prepared for the day. I don’t want any more surprises today.

I stare at my shears as I prepare to open, and the lingering tingle in my arm from my startled state allows the horrifying thoughts of the night I almost died to flood my head. The feelings and sounds ever present, even though it was so long ago. My screams echo, bouncing from one ear drum to the other, and the muscles in my right arm feel hot and strained. I never thought I’d pick up a pair of shears again, much less work around men, but here I am. Living and breathing, or at least showing the physical signs of life.

I hate men. Well, okay, not all of them. Most of them are actually pretty nice, but those few that come in everyday, sit in my chair, and act like entitlement was shoved up their ass at birth just really get on my nerves. It’s not the confidence that bothers me. It’s the criminal look in their eyes that says, ‘I can get away with anything’. The gleam in their eyes that shows their true desires. Most of the time, devious desires.

There’s something about eyes that is truthful, yet unsettling. People can contort their faces and control their reactions, but the eyes never lie. Even if the movements remain stagnant, something about the light in them changes. I suppose that’s why they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul.

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