Page 3 of Painted Scars
My fingers clench on the doorknob, and I unlock the latch.
“It better be your book boyfriend in the flesh, holding more snacks and armed with an apology and a threat to ravage your curves,” Harper warns, reciting my Santa Wishlist. “If not, they better make their last confession, because they’re my next corpse.”
I blink at her knife and don’t doubt she won’t use it. Blood and knives are her love language and form of foreplay.
“Fictionally speaking,” she corrects herself, and hides her weapon behind her back, the blade glinting like it didn’t get the memo.
More tension bleeds from my chest. “Please don’t joke about stabbing someone. That’s premeditated murder, and I don’t want to have to testify against you.”
“Relax, cupcake. I’m not stabbing anyone that doesn’t deserve it.” Her smirk promises otherwise and convinces me I must handle this.
I stare into her eyes, pale blue like frostbite, cutting and merciless if you get on her bad side. Beautiful in the way of an approaching storm, but only from a safe distance.
Air locks in my lungs. Fuck. I have to do this. Harper’s watching and she’s the bravest person I know. Pretending not to be afraid is my default mode. My insides shake as I jerk open the door.
Recognition comes slower than it should. So does my relief. Shame crawls up my spine at having expected shadows and dangerous intent.
Harry, my grouchy, old neighbor, stands on my doorstep, scowling like I’ve personally offended his evening routine. “Your dog’s been barking again.” He lifts a shredded plant. “Got into my petunias and tore them up.”
The fear doesn’t dissolve straight away. It morphs into a small flame of annoyance. I can’t do this right now. This guyhas it out for my dog, and I don’t know why. Josh is tiny and harmless, his paws too small to dig and bury a bone, let alone mount a campaign against flowers.
Harper leans forward to carry through on her threat when this dick is a pain in our asses. “Did he now?” The menace in her tone is enough to peel the skin from a body, and Harry flinches back.
Instinct hits, and I catch her arm, de-escalating the situation before she stabs Harry through his thick, square glasses that give the impression of an 1980s librarian with a grudge.
“We checked the last time you made these accusations, and there were no holes under the fence.” Harper goes to war for Josh and me, while I grip the doorframe and remind myself to still my thundering pulse.
Harry shoves the plant into my arms. “Replace it by the weekend.”
Harper flashes the teeth of a predator. “Looking forward to burying you with it.” She slams the door in his face and folds up her switchblade and stuffs it in the front pocket of her hoodie.
Finally, my muscles give up and unclench, and it doesn’t hurt to breathe.
Harper takes my arm and gives it a light pump. “I know you wanted to do that alone, but I’m never going to leave your side unguarded.”
“Thank you,” I mumble.
I want her to fold me into her arms and cuddle me, get the warmth I crave, just for a second. But that’s not her way. She’s not big on the physical stuff but shows up to collect my emotional wreckage. And trusting that I’m safe with her is what really matters.
“Come on, Joshy.” Harper claps at the terrier, and he takes off, trotting back to the lounge.
I wish it were that easy for me to drop my alarm. History’s made it clear this won’t pass quickly. Thirty minutes, minimum. There’s no way I can host the rest of the sprint when I’m falling apart. I want to scream at losing control. Letting everyone down. Showing weakness.
“I’ve got you, cupcake.” Steady hands secure my upper arms and steer me back to my seat, fold me in my blanket, and pass me back my book to calm me down.
I fake a smile at the uneasy glances my way. Outside, I appear calm. Inside is a recovering, chaotic mess.
Thankfully, Harper takes over for me when the timer runs out. Damn, she pulls out a hidden charm that surprises me, and wins over some new viewers, apparently. I try to dive back into my book but can’t, and Harper can tell, taking us through the one-and-a-half-hour event successfully, and with bonus plugs for our merch line.
I’m a zombie when she puts me to bed afterwards, clothes and all, metallic makeup on. She leaves the light on and snuggles into bed beside me. My bestie doesn’t say anything, just gives me the silence to speak if I want to. What would I do without her?
For once, Josh, the traitor, goes to sleep with me—and only because his “favorite” is here. I don’t have the energy to think of ways to win him back from the dark side.
I lie wide awake, hating that I feel small and vulnerable when I don’t show any fragility. Weakness allows predators to strike, and I’ll never allow one to hurt me again.
“It’s going to be alright, cupcake,” she reminds me, brushing my hair from my cheek.
Okay enough to survive.
