Chapter 12 #2
Not only is he a horrible person, but he’s also way too observant anyway. The man is way too smart. Bloody angel. I need to keep away from him. He’s done me a favour.
If I didn’t need the money, I’d leave this poxy job. I would leave this job right now and never look back. But I need the money; I need to save every penny. To get that deposit. To get that new place. To survive.
He will not stop me from earning a living, clawing out of the hole I’m living in. Fire ignites in my chest, filling the cracks. From now on, he does not exist in my world. I’ll look right through him. I nod my head. Yeah, I can do that, no problem.
I want a man to look at me as if the sun shines out of my ass… or at least out of my vagina. I snort. I nod my head again, and my lips turn up in a bitter smile. I’m a one-chance person. Fool me once or make me feel like crap? You’re not getting a second chance.
Does that make me a hypocrite? Yep, you betcha.
Is it a horrible way to live?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
But I ask myself if it’s necessary… Hell yes it is. Heck, no one else is going to protect me. The one person who did… died. Grandad would cluck me underneath the chin and hand me some throwing knives, all the while telling me there are more suitable fish in the sea.
I peel him, Xander, from my mind. I pull the claws of the attraction I had for him, my stupid childish dreams, from my heart. I’m just a silly little girl playing with the monsters.
It’s a lesson, the age-old thing when you see something, someone beautiful. You want them; you want them so much… I wanted him. I would have done anything to get him.
A man I knew nothing about. What did I expect? It shouldn’t be a shock to realise he could never live up to the tainted expectations in my head.
Yeah, I can glue together my tattered feelings and pretend I never had those thoughts about him in the first place.
My wrist hurts. When I hold my arm out to a flashing light, I can see finger-shaped bruises on my skin where that idiot shifter grabbed me.
My lips part. What the hell? I’m a hybrid, and even if I have yet to come into my powers—if I have any—I heal, I heal, I always heal.
I’ve never been ill, and I never get bruises.
I poke at my arm, and naturally, it throbs.
What the heck is going on? I know I’ve been working tons of hours and I’m tired, but it shouldn’t affect my healing.
Shit.
I feel sick.
I dump the glass-collecting basket behind the bar and hurry to the staff room. I grab a long-sleeved top from my locker, whip the baggy polo shirt off, and pull the new one over my head, tugging so it covers my wrist.
Bruises. I frown. It’s kind of worrying.
I’ve got twenty minutes left of my shift. The longer I can avoid going back out there, the better. No, stuff it. I’m done for the night. I’ve been assaulted twice, no… three bloody times. I’ve earned a break. As far as I am concerned, this shitty night is over.
I grab my bag from my locker and fill the kettle. I might as well do my flasks while I’m here.
God, I feel so exhausted.
I lean against the kitchen counter as the kettle roars to life.
It angrily rattles and puffs out clouds of steam.
How long can I keep going? I picture Dexter and Story in my mind.
And I know I’ll keep going as long as I have to.
As long as I’m able. I rub my chest. The angel’s callous rejection has knocked me for six. I feel…
“What are you doing?” a snide, accusatory voice says from behind.
I hunch and shake my head with barely held exasperation. What is it with Jenny always creeping up behind me?
What is her problem? Me in here ditching work or using the kettle? I’ve taken to using hot-water bottles to keep myself and Story warm or warm enough to at least fall asleep. I boil water and fill my flasks at every given opportunity.
It’s working well. I could use magic. There are heating potions, but potions are expensive, and they aren’t in my budget.
Story insists that she doesn’t mind the cold.
That pixies don’t have heating in their burrows.
But I’m mindful that the ground temperatures are higher than the freezing garage air, and she is tiny.
I worry about her.
“Hi, Jenny, how’s your night been?” I do what I do best. I change the subject. I straighten from my lean and turn to face her with a fake smile plastered on my lips.
What am I going to say? How am I going to explain the flasks? Not that I care what Jenny thinks. But changing the subject to her favourite one, herself, works, and Jenny talks and talks and talks.
I nod my head at the right places and secure the lids to the now-steaming flasks, popping them into my rucksack all while I continue to smile and nod my head.
“What have you done to your hand?” Jenny asks, her nose wrinkling with distaste. It certainly isn’t from concern. I look down at my arm, and the bruising’s got worse. It’s spread across my knuckles.
I flex my fingers and do my best to shrug nonchalantly. “The glass basket got me on my knuckles.”
Jenny easily buys into my lie because she doesn’t care. “Huh, gross,” she says with a flick of her hair. “That explains why you’ve finished early. I better get back. See ya later.”
When the staff room door whispers shut behind her, I stare at my hand. Shit. That looks bad. Yeah, but who the hell am I going to tell? Ask for help?
No one. I have no one. I’m certainly not going to upset Story. They’re only bruises, Tru. I don’t know why I’m getting upset about them. Ha ha. Everything is fine. I slump into a chair.
Why do I not believe that?