Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Dahlia
Smoke hangs low in the bathroom, curling along the walls and distorting the edges of the room until everything feels just a little out of focus. I sit in the bath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm my breathing.
You're okay.
You're safe now.
I try not to think about why the heaviness in my chest feels so familiar, but the unwelcome thought slips through, anyway.
The last time you felt like this, you had just lost everyone. You sat in a tub just like this, staring at bruises that hadn't finished blooming, wondering if you’d ever be okay again.
What the hell was I thinking?
I’ve carefully designed my life to avoid this feeling.
My nights are quiet. My mornings are peaceful.
And the bookstore keeps my mind busy during the day so thoughts of the past stay deep in the recesses of my mind.
But now, it’s all floating up to the fucking surface, no matter how hard I try to press them back down.
Pulling the blunt up to my lips again, I take another long hit and sink deeper into the tub, letting the sweet numbness wash over me.
God, I needed this.
The quiet.
The nothingness.
The peace.
It’s a jarring contrast to the hell that was tonight, and now that my adrenaline has run its course, the reality of what happened is hitting me hard.
I stare down at my battered body beneath the water and feel myself getting choked up at the sight of it. I knew it was bad. The pain on the drive home warned me as much. But it’s the first time I’m getting a real look at the damage, and it’s so much worse than I thought.
The bruises on my neck don’t surprise me. I could feel the pressure lingering there, long after he let me go. But the bruises all over my arms and torso were something I didn’t expect. I remember feeling their rough hands grab at me, I guess I just didn’t realize how violently they did it.
I gently run my fingers across the tender red and purple blotches.
You could’ve died tonight.
At that thought, my mind slips back to the alley. To the men who attacked me, to their blood on the concrete and then, inevitably, to him.
When Echo raised his gun at me, there was no confusion about what it meant. No pretending. No lies meant to distract me from the truth. He made it clear I was in danger and that he would pull the trigger if he wanted to.
Christian always hid his danger from me. He covered it up with soft words, pretty promises, and a smile that convinced you to ignore the warning signs until it was too late.
Echo didn’t hide anything from me. He was honest in the ugliest way, and I think a small part of me respects that. Even if he is a psychotic killer.
I’m not sure how much time passes as I sit there contemplating my mortality, but by the time a knock on the door pulls me out of my trance, the temperature of the water has plummeted and my fingers and toes have thoroughly pruned.
“Hey D,” Fallon calls out, her voice muffled through the door. “Can I come in? I really have to pee.”
I glance at the door, then at the blunt perched on the edge of the tub. Her blunt.
Shit.
“I’ll be right out.” I stammer, stubbing the blunt out in the ashtray and pulling myself out of the now freezing water.
My eyes dart to Echo’s jacket, still draped over the sink where I left it. If Fallon sees it, I know she’ll have questions.
I lunge for it, nearly slipping on the wet tile, and shove it under my pile of clothes before quickly wrapping a towel around myself and heading for the door.
“Sorry.” I say, shielding my face as I crack the door open. “I kind of lost track of time in there.”
“All good.” She says, shouldering past me, with her honey blonde hair swinging behind her. “If it weren’t an emergency, I totally wouldn’t have cared.”
Fallon isn’t just my roommate. She’s my best friend and the person who dragged me out of my wreckage and refused to let me disappear when I lost my parents eleven years ago. She’s the closest thing I have to family now, and she will absolutely lose her shit if she finds out what I did tonight.
Fallon unbuttons her jeans, and I turn my back to her as I take a seat on the edge of the tub. I’m trying to act normal, but it’s hard to pretend like I’m not hyper-aware of the bruises I’m hiding from her, so I wipe the condensation off the faucet, just to give my hands something to do.
Fallon finishes her business and glides across the tile to wash her hands in the sink. After she’s done, she glances up and completely freezes when she catches my reflection in the mirror.
“D, what the fuck?” She asks, shutting off the faucet and whipping around to face me.
My eyes burn, but I fix my gaze back on the tub. “What?”
Fallon crosses the bathroom in two long strides, cups my chin, and angles my face toward the light. Her fingers are gentle, but her grip is firm, and I can tell she’s trying to hold in her anger.
“Jesus,” she breathes, studying my face. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “It looks worse than it feels.”
“Bullshit,” she replies flatly.
I try to pull back, but she doesn’t let me. Her eyes track the cuts along my cheekbone and the marks on my neck. The concern on her face hurts worse than the pain does.
“Who did this?” She asks, her voice suddenly sounding eerily calm. “Spill, Dahlia. Now.”
Fuck.
“I got mugged.” I lie.
Fallon’s brows knit together. “What?”
“It was stupid,” I add quickly. “I shouldn’t have fought back. I was outside alone in a shitty part of town and some guys tried to rob me.”
“You’re sure thats all?” She asks, her voice sounding softer now, almost wistful.
I swallow and nod, grateful that at least that part is true. “Luckily, a guy stepped in to stop them, but not before one asshole slammed my face into a wall. I’m fine, though. It’s not a big deal.”
Her mouth tightens. “That is a big deal.”
“I would’ve told you,” I say. “I just didn’t want you to worry. Honestly, I just wanted to take a bath and pretend like it never happened.”
Fallon assesses me for a moment, searching my face. Words are on the tip of her tongue. I can feel them there, ready to leap out and prod at me.
“Sit,” she says, releasing my chin before moving toward the medicine cabinet above the sink.
“You really don’t need to do all that.”
“Yes, I do,” she cuts in, rifling through supplies with single-minded focus.
I lower myself onto the edge of the tub and slowly shake my head.
I knew she’d freak out.
Fallon comes back with a small first-aid kit and a bottle of alcohol. She douses a cotton pad in it and presses it against my cheek.
I suck in a breath and wince.
“Fucker,” she mutters with a smirk. “I knew you were lying about it not hurting.”
I stare down at the towel wrapped around my body as my fingers play with the hem.
“Did you call the cops?” She asks.
“No.”
“Dahlia.”
“I didn’t want to deal with it,” I say, because the truth is more complicated. “I just wanted to come home.”
Fallon’s jaw clenches and I can tell she’s pissed. Not at me. At the world. She’s always been like this. Loud and bossy while still being impossibly warm.
Fallon St. James is objectively hot. Not only is she unfairly pretty, but she also has a naturally toned body that most women would kill to have. At first glance, most people think she’s a bitch, purely because she won the genetic lottery. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Fallon is the kindest person I know. And despite her somewhat prickly exterior, she cares deeply for others and is always willing to fight for what she believes in.
It’s one of the reasons I love her. It’s also one of the reasons I lie. Because if she knew the truth about tonight, she’d burn the world down trying to protect me. And I can’t survive losing another person because of my own stupid choices.
She reaches for a bandage and pauses, her gaze flicking to the edge of the tub.
Fallon’s brows lift. “Uh… are you smoking my weed?”
Heat rushes up my neck. “No.”
Fallon stares at me.
“Okay.” I exhale. “Yes. Technically. I am.”
“Technically,” she repeats, deadpan.
“It was a rough night.”
Fallon snorts, shaking her head as she goes back to tending to my face. I can tell she’s relieved, though she’s trying her best to hide it.
“Alright. Stay here.” She says, stepping back to assess her work. “I’m going to grab an ice pack from the freezer.”
She disappears, and I sit there in the quiet, with my towel still twisted in my hands.
I should be thinking about the mugger lie and how I’m going to keep it straight if Fallon asks questions tomorrow. Instead, my mind slides back to Echo.
To the way he looked at me. To the way he said, very plainly, that he couldn’t let me walk away.
But he did, didn’t he? At least, I hope he did.
A moment later, Fallon returns with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and tosses it to me.
“Hold it,” she orders.
I do.
She leans against the counter, watching me with a look that is equal parts annoyance and care. “You’re going to bed,” she says. “And tomorrow, we’ll reassess. If you wake up dizzy or nauseous, I’m taking you to urgent care, and you will not fight me on it.”
“I wasn’t going to fight.”
Fallon arches a brow.
“Okay. I probably would’ve.”
“Exactly, bitch.” She replies playfully. “Don’t forget I know you.”
I laugh, pressing the ice against my cheek as I stare at the tiled floor.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
My throat tightens. “I am, too.”
She gives me a nod, then points to the blunt still perched on the edge of the tub. “Also, if your square ass is going to smoke some of my weed, at least have the decency to invite me to join in. You never smoke with me.” She pouts.
I huff a laugh and shake my head.
“Next time. I promise.”
Fallon’s blue eyes sparkle with mischief. “Shut up! Are you saying there’s going to be a next time? Dahlia Delacruz, don’t you play with my emotions right now.”
“Goodnight, Fallon.” I say, fighting a smile as I practically shove her towards the door.
“I’m holding you to it, fucker.” She grumbles, stomping out into the hallway. “Head injury or not, a promise is a freaking promise.”
The door shuts behind her, and my eyes drift to the counter, to where my phone has been sitting face-down for the last few hours.
I tell myself I only want to check it out of habit. Or boredom. Or because tonight is finally over and I’m trying to anchor myself in something normal.
But when I flip it over and see his name lighting up my screen, the fact that I immediately open his message, tells me I’m full of shit.
Echo: Did you get home okay?
It’s such a simple question. Normal, even. The kind of thing a friend would ask.
Except, we’re not friends. Not really. And the fact that he’s already checking in on me. Already inserting himself into my life like he has every right to be there, is a fucking problem.
I don’t know what he wants from me, but it’s clear whatever this is between us isn’t over. It’s just getting started.