Page 116 of Painted Scars
My career is in flames.
Assault charges.
Prison time.
All of it drills deeper into my skull, and I rub the flesh under my bandage.
“One thing at a time,” he says, calm and steady, like a loaded gun. “You’re in shock and crashing, and tending to you is my priority.”
The safe bubble he cocooned me in transforms into a black hole that engulfs light and gravity. He gatekept the truth and rationed it out, feeding me enough to keep me close and win my trust. Every omission was a lie that stole my choice of who I give my time, body, and trust to. He leveraged my fantasies into a game only he won. The worst part is that he stripped away my agency and control, knowing they were the threads holding me together.
Survival is a today problem. I’m not naive enough to believe I can outrun the Romans with a handbag, pepper spray, and kubaton. August has exit routes, connections, and I’m dependent on him moving forward. I don’t trust him with my heart right now, though I trust him with my life when he’s extricated me from dangerous situations. For now, we lie low and don’t get caught. Forgiveness is something to consider tomorrow or once the heat cools down. We’re fugitives to a crime, after all.
“Can I touch you and tend to you?” he asks.
I blink and nod. Anything else hurts physically and emotionally.
He breaches the distance between us, clasps my elbows and steers me to the sofa, forcing me down onto it. The cushions give with a tired sigh, and the springs bounce under my weight.
“Breathe with me, baby.” He hasn’t let go. Won’t. “In for four. Hold. Out for four.” His fingers lift and fall in time to his count.
I match him because it’s all I can do. Air in. Air out. It soothes the ringing in my head, the spasms in my muscles, and the exhaustion in my bones.
When I’m steadier and breathing evenly, he asks, “Is the light okay? I want to check your pupils.”
“It’s fine. And okay.” I chew my lip, contemplating whether him touching me is a bad idea.
He angles my chin with two fingers and tracks a fingertip past my gaze. “Any nausea or double vision?”
My eyes do their job and follow him. “No.”
“You’re concussed, Glitter Bomb,” he reports. “I know you probably want out of here to get away from me, but I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re better. I’ll get my doctor to come and examine you. Is that okay?”
A tear tracks down my face. “Fine.”
His mouth flattens. “Relax here for a moment. I promise we’ll get to the rest when you’re feeling up to it.”
He vanishes into the kitchenette, filling his kettle, clattering mugs, and boiling water. I’m left alone with a storm of thoughts that I can’t hold steady. The buzz of adrenaline drains from my veins, leaving a tremble. Moments later, he comes back with tea that smells of mint and honey.
“Food?” His voice breaks the silence.
“I can’t stomach anything.”
“Pain?” He nods at my temple.
“Tylenol would be good,” I reply.
He digs out a bottle from a battered first aid kit he lugged out of his bathroom and brings it out to me. Two pills drop into my hand. A glass of water slides from his palm to mine. I chase them down and wait for them to soften the pain.
August taps his temple. “You don’t have to tell me now, but I need to know you’re okay in here.”
Fear wears me like one of my coats. If I tell him how rattled I am, he’ll go full Daddy Vigilante, and a severed thumb won’t be the only crime we’re dealing with.
“I’m distraught, shaken. Fucking angry.” I grab his arm, needing him to ground me like he’s done many times before. “Hold off on murdering my enemies, please. I’ve had enough plot twists for tonight.”
His mouth curves, but not into a smile. “No fresh bodies tonight.”
“Nice promise. Not sure if I believe it.”
