Page 30 of Ravaged
“Really?” Zora glares at Levi. Not that he notices. Whatever’s on his phone has captured all his attention. No, wait. Correction. Not thathe cares. Because Levi noticeseverything. “You have no problem sayingeye-fuckingto your sister?”
“Not if my sister has no problem allowing her man to do it in front of God and country. And me.”
Cyrus, Lord love him, pats me on the back, helping to dislodge that pesky mayonnaised-for-life cabbage. And I do love him. And not just because he’s a genuinely good guy, but for one main reason—how he adores my sister. Zora’s dated some real douche canoes in the past. Men who didn’t appreciate her for the beautiful, intelligent, curvy woman she is. They tried to change her, bully her into losing weight or scaling back on her dreams. But not Cyrus. He fully supports BURNED and, as evidenced by the visual-screwing incident of seconds ago, can’t keep his hands off her. Figuratively and literally. I love him for her. And though they had a bit of a rocky start, they’re each other’s heroes.
A twinge of loneliness pings inside me.
But I snuff it out, and if wisps of it persist in hanging around like tendrils of soot, well, I can ignore those. I’m damn good at ignoring shit I’d rather not acknowledge. Sooner or later, they evaporate as if they never existed.
Now that’s some bullshit.
Yeah, if only people followed that logic so easily.
Still, I don’t need anyone to be my hero. I’m my own damn heroine. I’ve assigned myself an alter ego and a costume, and saved my own life.
Because that’s what women who have been beaten down one too many times do. They face the choice of either staying down on the ground, breathing dirt, or clawing their way to their knees, then to their feet, and telling the world to get fucked. And then we get on with the business of surviving.
That’s what Ravaged Lands is for me. My business of survival.
But if there are moments when I look at Zora and Cyrus and that loneliness is edged by a jagged rim of envy?
Well, there’s sex to ease that.
Jordan’s face wavers in my mind.
Dammit.
No, sex with him didn’t ease a thing. It made the itch, the loneliness, fuckingeverythingworse. Now I can admit that the demise of my relationship with Antonio didn’t all fall on his shoulders. Jordan was right—some of it rests on him.
If his dick hadn’t spoiled me for all men, then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have been unimpressed with Antonio’s.
But Antonio, and men like him, are safe.
Jordan is the very definition ofnot safe.
“Are you okay?” Cyrus gives my back another pat, frowning down at me.
I nod, discreetly shifting away from him. Just in case there’s a Heimlich maneuver in my immediate future.
“I’m good,” I wheeze, reaching for the plastic cup of wine in Zora’s hand.
“I was drinking that.” She switches her scowl from Levi to me. That’s fair. Plastic picnic cup notwithstanding, the white wine isn’t bad.
“But I was choking, and you don’t want my death on your hands.” After another healthy sip, I pass it back to her and dig in to the plate, avoiding the killer coleslaw.
“There you are.” My mother sweeps over, beautiful in a royal-blue wrap dress that embraces the curves we inherited. Her thick dark-gray curls frame her lovely face, and I’m not surprised to see several heads turn and follow her. Confident in her body and person, Mom owns any room she walks into. That and her passion for history and education are the reasons why she’s such a brilliant social studies teacher. “I thought I told you to mingle. Instead I find you over where I left you. Lemetria is your second cousin to my great-aunt. You should be getting to know your family. There’s plenty of history in this room.”
“History because everyone here’s old as Methuselah and Moses put together,” my father mutters, coming up behind her.
Mom whips around, and I swallow a sigh. Shit. We’re at a wedding. A place where love is supposed to be the theme of the day. Yet my parents can’t control themselves for one day. Hell, hours.
Not for the first timethis week, forget in my life, I silently ask why they’re still together. My parents’ union more resembles that of the United States between 1861 to 1865 than a happy marriage. I’m sure at some point they loved one another. Zora, Levi, and I are standing here. But that’s the only empirical evidence I’ve ever had. And even then ...
Well, I’ve indulged in hate sex before.
And frankly, it would’ve been kinder to the three of us if they had divorced. Then we wouldn’t feel like hostage negotiators every time we’re in the same room with them. Us being the hostagesandthe negotiators.
Although, to be honest, that role has fallen on Zora more often than not. Levi seemed to become desensitized to it like a phobia, and I ... well, I turned to the thing that labeled me as different. My brain. I got lost in my head, tuning out the world. It was my safe space when home wasn’t.
