Page 100 of Painted Scars
I will not let the Romans own me.
I will not let fear cost me the one thing I can’t get back if I lose it.
Daddy leans into the next turn, and we’re racing to revenge or ruin.
CHAPTER 28 - AUGUST
Idon’t like the unfocused glaze of my diamond’s eyes, telling me she’s stuck in a memory she can’t escape while the world keeps spinning around her.
She doesn’t need to tell me she’s not okay after the interview with the news reporter. I read it from her body language. Shoulders slumped, body tense, she rests on the edge of my bike, still as a statue. The kind of stillness that projects calm, but underneath the surface, screams rise, contained by six-inch-thick battlements she doesn’t let anyone penetrate.
I hate that I can’t pull her out of it by consoling her. It makes me want to put a bullet in every Roman bastard for haunting her.
Practiced and polished to steel her emotions, Kate managed to stay professional for the entirety of the meeting. The minute we departed the cabin, she checked out and withdrew. Ghosts of her past have drained the color and warmth from her skin and lips, like her blood retreated somewhere safe. No amount of hugs or kisses banishes the gloomy cloud that’s darkened my Glitter Bomb.
I seize her hand and rub her knuckles between my fingers. Hell, I’ll take a twitch of her fingers, a breath, crumbs, if that’s all she can give me right now. My touch breathes life into her, and her chest starts to move, taking in the air she denied herself.
She flicks her foil chrome thumbnail, staring out over the mountain, cradled in pine-covered peaks. Detached, distant, and quiet. Silence and distance aren’t like her. I give her the space she needs to work through this. She’ll let me know when she feels safe to come out of wherever she’s hiding, and when she does, I’ll be there, a steady presence, a heartbeat in the silence, warmth to cling to.
In the meantime, I glance to the left, scanning the town that I once called home. By outward appearances, Shadow Lake County is a vacationer’s paradise. Slow mornings where time grinds to a halt. A gas station on each exit leading out of town, quaint streets lined with cabins. One church with a crooked steeple. A diner that hasn’t updated its menu in twenty years but is a winner with all the visitors who travel up here for the weekend for spa resorts, spiritual retreats, and bed and breakfast venues. Cell reception is patchy in spots, but everyone’s business travels at lightning speed, thanks to the general store that doubles as a gossip hub.
Winter’s on the horizon, and the town’s gearing up, the distant sound of someone chainsawing through wood to stockpile for their fireplace. I relish the dull hum of a passing car, the creaking of a door opening on a storefront, and the overall peaceful quiet that wraps around you like a woolen blanket.
In autumn, the town comes alive in amber and rust, with leaves crunching underfoot, and festivals to lure the tourists back into town after the rush of activity during the summer months. Come winter, the rooftops, sidewalks, and trails disappear under a hush of snow. That doesn’t stop the flow ofvisitors who come for the ski slopes, every lodge, cabin, and hotel booked solid for three months.
Life is simpler up here. Clearer. Peaceful. I miss the place where I grew up and my family. Out here, the only predators are bears, not men in suits with knives for smiles. I want her to know this kind of calm and peace. Want to protect her from the city that chewed her up.
Besides gathering material for her articles, I thought bringing my sparkling diamond up here might give her some space to breathe and think away from the pressures of the city.
I part her legs and slide between them, wrap her in my arms, and kiss the top of her head, letting her know I’m here if she needs me.
Kate begins to stir, and I fix my focus on her. “You doing all right, Glitter Bomb?”
She brushes windswept hair from her eyes. “Yeah.”
A practiced response, delivered in a mechanical tone, locking away all emotion from the world. I see through her deflection bullshit and won’t leave her alone in the dark.
I’m tempted to take off my helmet, show her all of me, and give her what she needs most. A face to the ghost. I dread the look in her eyes when she recognizes the man I used to be. I can’t put it off forever, but I’ll wait it out as long as I can. She said last week that she’ll wear me down, and it’s working, bit by bit.
I skim a hand along the outside of her thigh and call her back to me. “You hungry? You haven’t eaten since breakfast, and if we don’t get in soon, we’ll miss the lunch service.”
Back at Sally-Anne’s cabin, Kate nibbled at freshly baked cookies but stopped to take notes on the reporter’s story.
“Not really.” Her stony voice cracks and thaws. She’s warming up and coming back to me.
I keep it light for her, coaxing her all the way out of her prison. “That’s a shame.” I turn to face the peeling facade of the pizzeria that begs for a sanding and fresh coat of paint. “Because this place makes the best pizza in Shadow Lake. I’d hate for you to come all this way and not try it.”
“That’s a big call.” Heat and rhythm infuse back into her voice, easing the helplessness in my chest. “Nothing beats Shadow Lake pizza.”
“If you don’t try it, you can’t call me out on it.” I drop her and step back three paces, dangling my bait.
She just needs a little more encouragement. The challenge drags her from the side of my bike, and I fold my hand around hers and guide her inside.
Mikey’s Pizzeria is still the same as I remember—Formica tables and old-school diner chairs with chrome legs and red vinyl cushioning. Decor in desperate need of replacement, but Mikey, the owner, still lives in the sixties and will drop dead before he upgrades the place to compete with the polished interiors of the city’s takeaway pizza joints. The menu displays the same selection as when I was a kid. None of this gourmet bullshit. Just good old-fashioned Italian cuisine.
Bon Jovi tracks blast from the old radio on the counter above the pizza oven. Mikey and his crew of three are winding down from the lunch rush, folding boxes, chopping ingredients, and preparing dough for the dinner stream of clients. Faded family photos and framed community business awards plaster the wood-paneled walls.
The air is thick with the tantalizing scent of lightly burned cheese, crunchy crusts, tomato simmering in oregano, basil, garlic, and pepperoni. Smells like my childhood when Dad used to buy pizza every Friday night.
