Chapter 9
Nine
Melissa
Fucking Hella. We break girls like you open to see what’s inside. Or whatever the fuck he said. How am I supposed to stay here for—however long- and watch him sling his big dick around everywhere I walk.
I crook my finger at the Old Fella as soon as I hit the bar. “Please tell me you have something strong and good conversation skills?”
He chuckles, weathered face crinkling. “Ain't nobody fooled by that pretty face, darling.” He winks, pouring a finger of whiskey over ice.
“Ohhh, whiskey?” I tease, eyebrows dancing. “Trying to get me drunk, old man?” Harmless flirtation hurts no one. Except when it had.
He shakes his head, gnarled fingers gesturing over my shoulder toward the door. “Nope, but I fear you may need it.”
I turn to see Yana entering with another woman. She has inky black hair cascading over olive skin, colourful tattoos that cover arms that speak the same language of gym-freak as Hella.
Great. This should be fun.
Whiskey slides down my throat slow, enough to scorch my gut.
Her mouth turns up in a wide smile. The rest of her face doesn’t fucking move. “So this is the bakery girl?” Her voice carries a slight accent I can't place.
Old Fella slides another whiskey across the bar without being asked. This time, three fingers. Smart. Very smart.
The woman, whoever she is, clearly warrants liquid courage.
“Melissa,” I correct, extending my hand. “And you would be...?”
“Jada.” She shakes my hand without breaking her smile. Huh. No sarcasm or bitchy side-eyes. “Hella's mentioned you.”
My answer comes too quick. “Funny. He's never mentioned you.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. Is that pride I see on her face? Or fascination?
She leans in, and Jesus Christ does she have to be so pretty. “That's because when we're together, there's not much talking happening.”
Pause.
My stomach hits the ground, but my face doesn’t. Motherfucker. He has a girl. Or maybe wife!
Her white teeth flash when she laughs at her own joke. “More yelling. Screaming. Ya know.”
Relief floods through me in a way I will never admit as a warm palm settles at the small of my back. I don't need to look to know who it belongs to. My body recognises him all too well.
“Playing nice?” His lips move over my temple as he steps between us, effectively creating a barrier.
“Never,” Jada laughs, lifting her shot glass.
I down my whiskey in one burning gulp, shoving off the stool. “I need air.”
My shoes hit the gravel, and the New Zealand sun slaps me right in the face. Inhale, exhale.
I wouldn’t consider myself a jealous person. I’ve shared everything in my life with my baby sister. In fact, I made sure she always had more than I did.
I’m a fucking giver!
…. just… apparently not with him.
This isn’t that. This is feeling a lot like someone trying to take something of mine that isn’t there’s to take. What the fuck.
I pace walk back and forward. He isn’t mine. He’s for the streets!
So why. Why does it feel like someone has reached inside my chest and ripped out all logic.
Five years ago
Church. A place I never thought I’d say ever say. Yet here I stand, at the front of a cathedral that would give Gothic artists a lifetime of inspo.
I turn over my shoulder, down the long, dark path I walked through. Prague. I fucking made it to Prague! Me. Little kiwi girl from a small little country that most people only recognise because of the Haka. Spires and narrow cobblestone streets surround me. It’s he kind of beauty you feel, not see.
Everything is cold, as I pull my cover tighter.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a text lighting up the screen.
You need to come home.
Mum. Always the martyr doing her best to hold the pieces together.
I don't respond. Can't. If I do, I’ll have to tell her why I’m here visiting my baby sister.
Somewhere behind these ancient walls, Millie is inside. She'll know what to do. She always knew what to do, despite her being younger.
I let out a ragged sob. One I feel down to the ache in my feet.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to be living. Free. To come go home with stories about what rugby player I ended up in bed with, or what exams I failed hardest at.
Not this.
Tears stream down my face. How can you feel nothing and everything at once. It’s like the universe plays the best tricks on the ones who struggle most.
Doors creak open as Millie steps out, her habit fluttering in the wind and pale face glowing under the weak streetlight.
She sees me, and her blue eyes widen in shock. Well, at least Sister whoever it was actually got her and didn’t whack me off instead. I don’t discriminate. A nun could fuck you up the same way anyone else can.
“Melissa!” her arms lock around my body. “You're freezing. Come inside, now.”
She pulls me through the doors and I try not to feel out of place as the cathedral archways swallow me.
My sobs echo off the walls as she guides me to a wooden pew, her grip firm on my elbow.
“Sit. Breathe.” She kneels in front of me, hands cupping my face, wiping tears with her thumbs. “What happened? You look like death warmed over.”
I choke on the words. “I can't...I...”
“Shh.” Her voice stays soft, but steel edges it, the dark side peeking through. “You're safe here. Tell me everything.”
Rough fabric scrapes against my fingers as I clutch her habit. "It's all falling apart, Millie. Everything."
She nods, drawing me into her warmth. "Then we'll piece it back together. Starting now."
"Are you sure?" I whisper, sniffing as my gaze darts to the shadowed corners, the empty pews.
Blue eyes sparkle—those same eyes from thunderstorm nights when she'd pull me under covers, small hands steady while mine shook, calm becoming my shield against lightning's cracks. "Of course."
“Good.” My fingers fumble at the buttons, peeling away the sodden coat that clings like regret. “Because I need you.”