Page 30 of The Love You Fight For
I nod, but I don’t look at her as I pull out of the lot and turn the truck toward my house.
“Some of them, yeah. Some of them are mine.”
“Multifaceted,” she says, and I smile but don’t respond.
We stay quiet the rest of the ride to my house, me with my eyes glued to the terrible road conditions, and Sam with her eyes closed. Most of the town is pitch black, confirming what I’d already assumed. Almost everyone has lost power, so it will probably be afternoon at the earliest before everyone is restored.
When I pull into the driveway of my small house, though, the porch light is on, and I can hear the hum of my generator as soon as I turn off the truck. It came with the house, and it’s come in handy on more than one occasion. I glance at Sam just in time to see her smile of relief.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, princess.”
I climb out of the truck before I can hear her scoff at the nickname.
She follows me inside and peels her dick slippers off at the door. I raise a brow at them, and Sam rolls her eyes.
“A gag gift from Lennon.” She returns my smirk. “I got her rose gold anal beads.”
I almost choke on my laugh. “Real gold?”
Sam’s smile disappears. “Of course. Eighteen karats.”
Of course.I shake my head, then gesture for her to follow me down the hall.
“Here’s the bathroom.” I open the door and point to the shower, then to the linen closet. “Towels and washcloths are in here.” I turn to face her. “Just holler if you need anything.”
She blinks at me.
“I do notholler,” she says seriously, then steps into the bathroom and says thank you before shutting the door in my face.
NINE
I heavea sigh of relief as soon as the door closes.
The tension in my shoulders lessens once I turn the shower knob and hear the water start to run, but then I turn to face myself in the mirror and gasp at what I see.
A drowned rat.
That’s what I look like. A drowned sewer rat.
There are still patches of mud mask stuck to my cheeks, and when I gingerly run my fingers through my hair, I find it feels just as greasy as it looks. Meanwhile, Chris is looking like something straight out of a Hollywood film set with his bulging, tattoo-covered biceps and glistening rain-slicked skin. Add in his playful smirk and boy-next-door charm, and he’s a recipe for disaster.
Fuck this whole fucking day.
I shed my ruined silk robe onto the white tile floor, followed quickly by my bra and underwear, then pull back the shower curtain and step beneath the hot spray. The moment water hits my body, I have to fight back tears. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time in days, my muscles fully relax. I hadn’t even realized it had gotten this bad. This week has put my emotions through a meat grinder, my composure resembling a precariously built house of cards, and this shower acts as a balm, soothing my invisible wounds.
I keep hearing the same three words in my head. I keep repeating them.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it takes.
No cost too high, no risk too great.
Whatever. It. Takes.
I just needed a moment to recharge. A few days to catch my breath before, once again, donning my snakeskin and diving into that pit of vipers in D.C. Instead, I got a terrifying thunderstorm and an even more terrifying blackout that frayed my nerves to ribbons.
