Page 101 of Painted Scars
Kate’s stomach growls on instinct.
I point to it. “See. Even your body agrees.”
She shoves at my arm, trying her best to reflect the cool, trained enigma that pretends she doesn’t need anyone or anything. Fuck her and her self-protective mechanisms. I’ll break them down bit by bit. I sweep an arm around her, holding her close, reminding her that I’m never far away and will do whatever it takes to ease her heartache.
“Dad bought us here when we were boys,” I tell her as she scans the menu. “But only if we did our chores and homework.” I grin at her, then remember I’m wearing the helmet and I’m tempted to take off my shield.
“Yeah?” Her gaze shifts to me, absorbing the small clue I give her, when I don’t freely give them. “Tell me more.”
“Order first. Answers second.” I level a finger at the selection of pizzas. It’s not a distraction. I promise to reveal more. Right now, I want her to eat, for the numbness to wear off.
“I’ll have whatever you recommend.” Glitter Bomb’s still distracted.
I place an order for us both, the basil and pepperoni pizza with mushrooms, a classic I know she’ll love. Homegrown basil from Mikey’s greenhouse. Mikey gives me the look that says he files my helmet under “trouble” and moves on.
“I used to come up here every month to visit my dad.” I take a seat and drag her onto my lap, and she comes willingly. “I was born here but moved to the city for work.”
I move my palm in slow, steady circles on her back. She leans into my body, and exhales in a way that says she feels safe to unclench the tight hold she has over her emotions.
“Is your mom still with you?” Kate’s journalist emerges again and dives into her first question to unravel the mystery that is me.
And for once, I give her another piece of me. “My parents are divorced. Mom moved to Stirling City, and my brother and I stayed with our father. Grandma lived a few streets awayand looked after us whenever Dad worked late.” I leave off the reason—the Chief of Police rank a giveaway to our past.
After the Romans forced him into an early retirement, he purchased a hardware store in town. Right now, he’s deep in inventory and clearance sales and has no clue I’m in town.
“Where does he work?” More digging and upturning of facts.
I wag my finger at that one. I’m not going to drag my father into this when he has nothing to do with my quest for revenge. Stripped of my badge, my achievements, my future, and the subsequent fallout from my departure from the force were enough shame for him. No more bragging to his customers or neighbors about his son.
She accepts that limit and drops her gaze to the table, tracing the cracks in the scratched Formica worn down by decades of elbows, dragged cutlery, and the fading from sunlight.
The next question comes with less gusto, and I can’t tell if it’s because her energy is low, or she’s playing down the reporter quiz. “Did you attend college up here?”
I give her more because she deserves it—that, and I want to call her back from the edge of memory. “No. I sucked at school. I’m better at chasing bad guys.”
“Don’t you investigate things?” She tries to fit the missing pieces together with her inquisitive nature. “I imagine that requires a lot of reading.”
“It did. I read well into the night some nights.” I leave it at that. A shut door as thick as a submarine’s. I switch gears back to the second reason I brought her here. “I want to show you more of my hometown after lunch.”
Kate and I are not that different. We hide our scars, mask our pain, and redirect.
She gives me a weak smile, her body floppy and tired, eyes dull. I feel her drift away again and don’t want her to go this alone, pressing her cheek into the warm space of my collarboneand let her listening to my heartbeat. My hand moves in gentle breaths across her back to ground her.
“Talk to me, Glitter Bomb. Don’t shut me out.” The protector in me rises when it comes to her, and her well-being exceeds my own.
“I’m fine, really.” She gives me the clinical and unconvincing reply that says she’s anything but. “And I don’t want to do this here.”
Stainless steel topping containers clatter as Mikey lifts them from the fridge and takes them to the sink out back for washing. The hum of the drink fridge picks up and masks our conversation. One of the staff belts out the Nirvana song playing.
“No one’s paying any attention, baby.” I brush soft lines into the curves of her hip.
Fiercely independent and stubborn, my diamond assumes the load of her burdens alone, like many sufferers of trauma, and doesn’t voice when it becomes overwhelming.
I’ve been around enough cops with PTSD to recognize the warning signs. Denial that they have a problem, insisting they’re fine when they’re not, and refusing to speak to a professional or superior. Emotional dysfunction and an inability to manage emotional spirals or unraveling. Isolation and retreat from their partners, friends, and work colleagues. A never-ending loop that’s exhausting both mentally and physically and wore a lot of officers out to the point they left the force. Good men and women this city needed to protect it.
From what I can tell, Kate doesn’t indulge in alcohol or drugs to numb her pain, but I suspect she reads the dark romance for catharsis. Though her pattern is clear from the information Grayson gathered for her file. Fear of intimacy and rejection of close relationships. Shouldering her emotions alone and not sharing them, even with close friends. Putting on a brave face,this mask, the Cinderella act, pretending everything’s fine, when I can tell it’s fucking not. Part of me wants to pry the words out of her. Speaking them aloud gives them less potency. The other part of me wants to carry the pieces she’s scared to give light to.
I don’t want her to hide from me anymore, and crook my finger beneath her chin, applying enough pressure to lift her face and set her gaze on me. “Let down your armor. You don’t have to fight this alone. We’re partners, remember?”
