Page 19 of Raziel
But here I was.
In pajama pants and a T-shirt, food in my passenger seat—burgers, brownies, a milkshake from the only place open this late.
I sat there for five minutes before I got out.
Priest had told me things about her.
Things she did before rehab.
Things she hid from her sister.
And seeing her tonight, wrapped up in the same type of shit, letting that soft-looking punk touch her—it pissed me off.
I watched it back on the security footage.
Tray had put his hands on her.
And she let him.
I got mad again just thinking about it. Thought about killing him.
I still might.
He was bad for her.
I got out of the car and made the short walk to her front door.
I knocked twice, loud.
Nothing.
I was about to knock again when the door cracked open.
She saw me—eyes puffy, wine glass in her hand. “No,” she muttered, trying to close it.
I put my shoulder to it and pushed it open.
She didn’t fight hard. Just stumbled back and went inside like she didn’t care enough to stop me.
I stepped in and let the door close behind me.
Her home smelled like her—lavender and warm honey. A candle flickered on a tiny table in the middle of the room. The walls were painted some soft color. Everything looked lived-in but neat.
She had her hair wrapped, face bare. Tiny-ass shorts. Oversized tee. No bra.
I wanted to touch her. I looked away and dropped the bag of food on the coffee table.
Paolo Nutiniplayed from a Bluetooth speaker on the floor.
We take comfort in strangers... but I don’t think it helps.
If every fool wore a crown... I would be a king and not a clown.
Fitting.
Maya was looking for peace in all the wrong places—drugs, men, chaos. Reaching for comfort anywherebutwhere it actually lived. Even me.
Especiallyme.
