Page 176 of 12 Months of Mayhem

It’s to the point I can’t think of anybody but him and me. It’s dangerous to let someone in like I am with him, but he seems to break past any defenses I remotely consider putting up. He’s always around, being sweet and considerate. I’m scared to get used to this, but at the same time, I don’t want it to ever stop. Powerhouse is an enigma, one I can’t seem to figure out no matter how hard I try.

Then there’s the motorcycle club. They seem like decent guys, but again, my judgment of men is severely lacking. Powerhouse says I need to be careful, that things are dangerous around here, but where? I work around seedy men all the time; I’m not ignorant to the point I ignore red flags and my general safety, but he’s making it seem like this is a cesspool of crime. Is it, and I’ve somehow missed everything by being caught up in my own world? I suppose it could be the case, but if so, it makes me wonder if I should be around the MC at all.

I’ve just showered and put clean clothes on when he steps into his room. He immediately strides to me, moving his finger under my chin to gain my attention and signs, “I need to talk to you, shortcake.”

He’s getting better at communicating with me. All week, he’s tried to make things easy on me, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. The thoughts keep creeping up on me: what if he’s not only like this now but continues to go out of his way for as long as we’re together? What will that feel like, to have someone at my side consistently? Not only a partner, but a best friend… because ultimately, it’s what he’d be.

“I’m listening,” I respond, teasing him. I’m at a point where I can joke a little with him. I’ve learned from being around Powerhouse that he’s a funny guy, and it makes me want to have that easy relationship with him that he has with the guys.

He shoots me a look, raising a brow. When I break into a giggle, he follows through with an amused grin. The man is beyond gorgeous in a roughed-up sort of way.

“My brother mentioned something about an accident. I’d rather you tell me than I go digging. I want you to trust me to have your back, not go behind it.”

His words hit me out of left field, a cold sweat racing up my spine. The last thing I ever want to think of when I’m with him is my accident. It takes me to a dark place every time, and I have to fight my way out of those negative thoughts, of all the memories from feeling like I’ll never be good enough to live out my life’s dreams now. Ballet felt like my sole purpose in this life, and it all came crashing down around me.

I stand, moving for my bag. “I need to go,” I manage to choke out, my throat suddenly feeling like there’s something stuck in it. I reach for my hoodie and am intercepted by the massive man; he wraps his arms around me, lifting me completely up. He’s so freaking huge; I swear my feet wiggle two feet off the floor.

“Where you goin’, short stuff?” he asks, his face far too close to mine. It’s hard to concentrate on anything but his overwhelming presence. I swear he smells divine too; he’s got some sort of cologne on today that has my panties growing wet over him and having him touch me like this. As if he’s the boss of me and has a right to my body. I want to get fiery over it, but in reality, I love every minute of his hands on me. Something must be wrong with me to get off on him being able to easily stop me from walking out the door on him.

“Home. I can’t talk about this with you.”

“Why not? Babe, if you haven’t realized it yet, we’re a thing, and I need to know this stuff about you. Who hurt you? Let me fuck them up for you.”

My heart melts with his words. He’s not digging to be nosy; he’s asking because he wants to protect me, to get vengeance in my name, and I love him for it. It’s too soon for me to spew words of forever and falling hopelessly in love, but if he keeps on this path, I won’t be able to stop myself from falling face first for him.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit, my sweet paprika. Anything with you involved is not nothing, and it’ll never be nothing. You’re something to me, and don’t ever forget it. Now tell me what happened so I can crush whoever fucked with my woman.”

Is it weird having him say crazy stuff makes me want to marry him? I’ve never wanted to be married, only dedicate my life to art, but Powerhouse has me questioning everything. He makes me want to be strong, to be better. For him.

I inhale deeply, then exhale. Can I do this? Can I tell him what happened to me? I almost wish he did go digging on his own and formed his own conclusions so I could get by without having to open up about it. Sure, it may be cowardly, but it’s also a means of protecting myself from reliving the pain. How can I say this without breaking down, and, at the same time, keeping Powerhouse from going to prison? I have no doubt in my mind if I tell him what I believe truly happened—that I was purposefully dropped to injure me and get me out of the production—he will go on a retribution spree in my honor.

“My accident, my injury, I-I was dropped.”

He sets me down, holding my hands in his big paws, brows furrowed as he listens. “I’m so sorry, Raven. It never should’ve happened.”

I give a jerky nod. “The way I was dropped, at the edge of the stage on the side of my head…” I choke a sob down, attempting to remain strong, yet tears fill my eyes regardless. “It was at a spot where I hit the stage harder than I should’ve, then tumbled again to hit the edge, then landed on the stained concrete several feet below. I wasn’t just dropped, I-I was thrown,” I admit the last part on a gasp, feeling as if a knife is being thrust through my heart at the same time.

Powerhouse immediately pulls me to his chest, encompassing me in his powerful arms, making me feel safe enough to continue. I sob, making myself say the words that haunt me, “I had a concussion, a broken jaw, bones inside my ear broke, my wrist broke, along with other injuries. Those were the worst.”

He pulls away enough so I can see his mouth, “And it caused your hearing loss?”

I nod again. “There was blood everywhere. I guess everyone stood there freaking out for a while before someone finally called an ambulance.”

“Those motherfuckers. The hospital couldn’t repair the damage, or was it too much?”

“The hospital fixed my jaw and my wrist. I didn’t have insurance; my abuela couldn’t afford to help, and the money raised wasn’t enough to cover the ear surgeries I would need to regain my hearing.”

His frown deepens as he stares at me with confusion, “Wait, so they could fix your hearing with surgery?”

I shrug, playing it off, but it’s something I think about all the time, no matter how hard I attempt not to. “It’s a possibility. I didn’t lose all of my hearing, it’s hard to explain. I can hear different sounds, but they’re indistinct. I can’t tell who’s talking or if it’s a television, and the sounds aren’t like regular words. It’s all foggy, if that makes sense. Like I’m underwater. I know there’s sound, but I can’t tell what sound.”

“And it’s the same in both ears?”

“I hit both sides, the first in the initial fall, the other when I hit the ground. The doctor tried to tell me it could heal over time, but so far it hasn’t. It’s something I’ve learned to live with and that I’ll most likely have for the rest of my life.” My tears have begun to dry up. I was dreading this conversation with him, but in the end, it’s been a bit cathartic to get it all out. It’s been a very long time since I’ve spoken about my injuries so much openly.

“And ballet? Why don’t you dance?”

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