Chapter 3
Monroe
What is your story?
The question played through my head all evening and kept me up late into the night until exhaustion swept me under.
I still don’t have an answer.
Everyone has a story. A tale to be told. I don’t. I have pain. Obligation. Heartache.
I have the knowledge that I’m not good enough.
For a father who left when I was a little girl because my mother was obsessed with the pageant world and he couldn’t take it anymore.
For the mother who is present but wants someone more like her.
When I was younger, the pageants were fun.
A way to bond with my mother and dress up like a princess.
Around the time I turned ten and the prize money grew exponentially with every contest, it became less and less like a dream and more of a duty.
No part of me enjoyed strutting around the stage in bejeweled dresses or barely-there bikinis.
Being stared at and judged for my beauty.
I have to make a change. I have to figure out who I am. And maybe being here in Montana with Shaw, I can do that. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t seem to care about what I look like or how I dress.
I saw the interest in his eyes yesterday, seconds before he grabbed me and kicked Mom and Claire off his property. It was that spark that had my belly quivering and my heart fluttering.
Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I can do something for myself.
Slipping from bed, I walk to my suitcase and pause when I reach for my ballet slippers and leotard.
If I’m truly going to try and figure myself out, I have to break free of the routine and regiments of my old life.
Starting with working my body to the point of exhaustion.
Ballet can be a means of fun again. I can dance because I love it and not out of obligation.
Grabbing, instead, a pair of jeans, a sweater, and my toiletries, I quietly pad down the hallway to the bathroom.
Closing the door, I face the mirror and acknowledge that if I want to move forward with figuring my life out, I need to strip the bleach from my hair.
Go back to my roots. I can’t remember the last time I saw my natural dark brown hair color.
As I pull out the baby oil and cotton pads to help remove my fake lashes, I stare at my reflection.
I never thought of myself as vain before, but the more I stare, the harder it becomes to find any flaws in my appearance.
I have brilliant blue eyes, the perfect button nose, high cheekbones, and naturally plump lips.
I’m every pageant girl’s worst nightmare and every agent's wet dream. My discipline and lack of interest in behind the scenes drama means I've been a sought-after commodity by modeling agencies and even a couple of casting directors in the past.
Life in the spotlight was never something I aspired to, but I'm unsure of what I’ll do without the pageants and the moderate fame that comes with it. I do know that I need to make some drastic changes to my looks in order to avoid it in the future.
Reaching into my makeup bag, I grab the little cuticle scissors, and without thought, my hand takes over. Placing the sharp tip to the flesh under my eye, I drag it down, watching as the skin splits, and blood slowly drips down my cheeks, splashing into the sink.
What did you just do, Marilyn!
I can hear my mother’s disgusted voice in my head as I stare, transfixed, as the crimson droplets continue to run.
Nobody will want a girl with a scar on her face. Especially one so visible and long. I cut deep enough that it will scar, but not so deep that I’ll need any medical attention. Reaching under the cupboard, I grab a soft cloth from the place that Shaw did last night and press it to the open wound.
Tears begin to stream unheeded down my face as the realization of what I’ve done kicks in. Wracking sobs escape my body and buckle my knees. As I fall to the floor, the cloth drops, and I place my head against my bent knees, trying to draw in a deep breath that refuses to expand my chest.
It’s not until warm arms wrap around me that I realize how loud I must be. “Hey, shh, it’s alright.” Shaw’s deep drawl makes the boa constrictor around my chest loosen, but everything else is the same.
I’m broken, and there’s no fixing me.
Not now.
Not ever.
* * *
Shaw
I heard Monroe the minute she got out of bed. As soon as the bathroom door shut, I came straight down to the kitchen to throw on a pot of coffee. I didn't know if she'd like it, but I needed the warm brew to wake me up enough to deal with cow shit.
When I didn’t hear the shower turn on by the time I finished my first cup, I went upstairs to check on her. As soon as I heard her sobbing, I knew something was wrong. Opening the door quietly and noticing blood splatters in the sink and her on the floor, I had no idea what to think.
Holding her in my arms, now, trying to comfort her as she buries her head further onto her knees, I haven’t a fucking clue what to do. I’ve never had to deal with a woman in tears, and it feels like foreign territory all over again.
“Monroe, you have to tell me what’s wrong, or I can’t fix it.” Her head shakes. The blood is what worries me most. “Can you tell me where you’re hurt, at least?”
I can feel her hold her breath as silence fills the room before her head slowly lifts, and I see the lengthy cut down her cheek.
“What the hell happened?” This can’t be anything but self-harm.
“Nobody will want me if I’m not pretty.” Her tortured whisper renders me speechless.
How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that? “Monroe.” Shit. “We need to get you to a doctor before that scars.” It’s only as the words slip past my lips that I realize that might be exactly what she wanted.
“No!” Her emphatic shout confirms what I was thinking. “I don’t want it fixed. I hate perfection. I need to be flawed.”
Her wild eyes worry me more than the scar. I have to wonder if she’d do more to hurt herself. I can’t pretend to understand what her turmoil is, but I do understand the need for change. Drastic as it may be.
“Can I clean and bandage it, please?” She gives a sharp nod of her head.
Standing, I pull her up with me and lift her onto the counter.
Same as last night. Only this time, I’m not just cleaning her up, I’m going to try and fix her.
Even if her vulnerability right now is convincing her that a scar will make her undesirable, it won’t.
And I get the feeling that in a few weeks, months, maybe even years, she might come to regret the decision to mar her face.
“Tell me what’s going on, Monroe,” I demand, but this girl won’t speak a word unless she wants to, and for me to protect her, that’s a problem. “I have to know, so I can keep you safe.”
Her soft blue eyes don’t break contact as she asks, “Will you take me to a hairdresser?”
Freezing in place as I’m pulling out butterfly bandages, I try to get a read on what she’s thinking and come up empty.
“What for?” She shrugs. “Then, no.” I am not about to open up the possibility of some asshole finding her for beauty care. Even if I get the feeling she doesn’t give two shits about that.
Monroe turns her head, and before her eyes lower, I see tears begin to bubble up, and I don’t understand why, but I don’t like it. This girl is so different than what I’m used to, I don’t have a clue how to take her behavior.
She’s not trying to manipulate me because she’s hiding her feelings from me, but fuck, I think that’s why this is worse. “You have to tell me why, Monroe. You don’t get to shut down and think I don’t give a shit.” Lifting her chin with a gentle hand, I wish I could make her smile.
I watched her win Miss California this morning, and the light she emits when she allows herself to smile is impressive, even if it doesn't reach her eyes.
“Is this what you always wanted to do?” she asks me suddenly, and I have to think about my answer because, right now, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
Wiping the remaining blood off her cheek, I gingerly pat it dry with a cloth before responding. “I thought I would be Delta Force till I died.” And I did. Until that mission two years ago.
“What happened?”
“I was injured. I had to have a complete hip replacement.” In all honesty, I might have been able to go back in some capacity, but my mindset changed.
“You were medically discharged?” I watch as Monroe stares at herself in the mirror, at the bandages I put on, and I see the way she balls her fists.
She wants to rip the covering off, to admire a hideous scar.
I don’t understand half of what this girl is thinking; she’s harder to crack than any man I’ve interrogated in my career.
“I was honorably discharged. I had an epiphany in the hospital and realized what I wanted more than serving my country.”
“What’s that?” She meets my stare in the mirror.
“To come home to my family. I watched my best friend die, leaving behind a wife and two kids. One was a newborn.” I still feel guilty that I returned home, and Trace didn’t. “There is no greater honor than serving this country, but for the first time in my life, I wanted to be selfish.”
“Do you have a family?” I shake my head, no. “What’s stopping you?” For someone who doesn’t like answering my personal questions, she sure doesn’t mind asking them.
“Hadn’t found the right girl yet.”
“Oh.”
“What about you? What are your plans for the future?” Any light in her eyes disappears as she slips off the counter, pushing me back, and won’t make eye contact again.
“Nothing, really.”
I don’t believe her. “You don’t want a family? A career?” She shrugs. Gripping her shoulders, I don’t miss the way she flinches, but I don’t let her go either as I turn her to face me. “Tell me.”
“I get the future my mother decides for me.” Her hands lift to grip my arms as I hold her, and I look at Monroe with fresh eyes.
I see her pain.
Her loneliness.
Her desire to be more than what she’s been turned into.