Page 70 of Vying Girls
She swings her head to me, her expression saying everything.
‘I just…never saw it. Back then.’
Her eyes drift over my body, something so open in them it makes me hold my breath. ‘Neither did I.’
‘No, well, that was more recent.’ I draw in a breath, oddly flustered. ‘For me.’
She grunts, returning her gaze to the dance floor. ‘Picked a pair for it.’
‘The perfect pair.’
‘So perfect they ditched you an hour after I told them fucking not to.’
‘They were close. I was fine. Anyway, I don’t get why you’re trying to protect me if you hate me so much.’
‘You have no idea what he’s capable of.’ She lets her forehead rest on the glass, fogging it up. ‘I do.’
‘I’m not exactly a stranger to men like Damien, Nic.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Well, we might as well talk about it. I’m sick of this weirdness. How are we ever going to move past this if we don’t communicate?’
‘There is no moving past this. That much has become clear to me.’
She’s not talking about us anymore. I can tell by the way her face closes off.
‘Do you have any pictures of him? Just so I know what I’m dealing with.’
She doesn’t answer for a long time. It’s not like I expect her to have any on her phone or anything, but maybe a social media profile.
‘No,’ she finally says. ‘But I’ve got this if you really want to know what you’re dealing with.’
Standing before the table, she slowly starts unbuckling her belt. Her eyes face the wall, like her hands are working outside of herself. With her jeans loosened, she bends over, her topriding up to bare her lower back. She pulls the waistband down, revealing a discolouration I can’t see clearly from here.
I drift over, startled she’d be so vulnerable. It’s just the drugs, I tell myself. She’s not herself right now.
She’s got her face buried in her arms, like she can’t bear to see me looking. The discolouration is a scar, a botched attempt at initials.
‘DV?’
‘Damien Vore.’
My hand reaches out, tracing the savagery with a featherlight touch. Nic doesn’t react. Not sure she can even feel it. She doesn’t need me to say how ironic those initials are.
‘He did this?’
It’s not a question that requires an answer. Only a monster would do this, and it’s clear that’s what this bastard is.
‘He doesn’t let go, Tilda. Not once he’s got you.’
Those words fucking break me. As soon as she straightens up, I throw my arms around her, as hard as I had on that godforsaken ledge. She acts like she can’t even feel me, rightening her jeans and buckling her belt.
All I can see is that out of place eight-year-old. Pudgy, long hair always in her face. Wary brown eyes. So young yet so mistrusting. I have no idea of her life before us. You don’t care as a kid. The past doesn’t exist, only the now. And the future we baked up in our minds.
I’m wondering about it now. I hope it was okay. Because apart from the two years we had, the rest of it’s been hell for her.
Fuck,she was just a kid.
