The Broken Pieces of Us (The Devil's Dust #2.1)

I walk into the kitchen to start Bull’s coffee, only to find it already started and half drank. Fucking rain slowed me down, making me late.

“I don’t need to stay in your room, Bobby. I can stay with Shadow in my old room.” My head whips toward the kitchen doors, nearly giving me whiplash. Is that? I push past the doors and look down the hall to find Bobby trying to grab ahold of Dani’s arm. She is pissed and pushing him away.

My eyes widen to the point they hurt, and my mouth parts with disbelief.

“What the fuck?” I mutter.

I turn around and walk behind the bar, waiting to hear what the hell is going on. As soon as Bobby walks out from the hallway, I round the bar quickly.

“What is she doing here?” I ask frantically. The club is going to kill her; she needs to get out now.

“Claims she had nothing to do with it,” Bobby informs, shrugging.

“What?” My head winces with the information.

“Yup, her coming back here knowing the danger that would be waiting, I believe her,” Bobby tells me, nodding as he makes his way back into the chapel.

I look down the hall, curious if Dani is telling the truth or not. For her sake, I hope so. I love this club, love the man who runs this club, but it’s a dangerous lifestyle.

I hear my phone ringing from my purse, grabbing my attention from staring at the door down the hall.

“What?” I whisper, not sure why I’m whispering though.

“Is this Delilah Gia?” she asks, using my maiden name.

“Maybe, who’s this?”

“I have a Scarlett Gia, who has requested I call you on her behalf. She has been admitted into the hospital,” the young lady informs me.

“Why, what happened?” I ask, my back straightening. My hands sweat, anxiety getting the better of me. I swear, if she overdosed again.

“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss that with you on the phone,” she snaps. I scratch my head, frustrated.

“Just fucking tell me before I try and drive through this fucking storm,” I bark.

The lady sighs into the phone loudly. “Some kind of domestic abuse, she is in rough shape,” the nurse mumbles.

“Shit, okay. I’ll be there.”

I grab my purse and run back out into the rain.

***

I walk into Scarlett’s hospital room and gasp. My poor baby girl. She has stiches in her eyebrow, her face swollen, and her jaw is all bandaged up. My hands squeeze into fists with anger. The club will be hearing about this.

“Do you know who would want to do this to her?”

I turn around and find a doctor staring at me. What’s left of his hair is colored white, his complexion pale, and his greyish eyes staring at me expectantly.

“No, I don’t,” I lie. I know. She has been seeing some guy who looks like a thug. She has brought him by the house a couple of times and I have seen him in the apartment I got her. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets, staring off into space, stoned.

“Had a pretty bad gash in her eyebrow and her jaw was dislocated,” he says softly, his hands in his white coat pockets, surveying Scarlett.

“Dislocated?” I question, my voice raised in anger, shock, and disbelief.

“She will have to be careful when she yawns or sneezes for the next six months to prevent future injuries,” he advises, checking her IV.

“Jesus,” I mutter. I sit in the chair next to her bed and cup her cold hand.

“Are you her mother?” he asks, looking at my hand holding hers.

“Basically.” I’m all she’s got now.

After two hours of sitting in the most uncomfortable chair in the world and the shittiest coffee I have ever drank, Scarlett finally wakes up, moaning and crying.

I stand and grab her hand quickly for support.

“Don’t open your mouth,” I demand. Her eyes start leaking tears as her body wracks with her crying.

I grab a pen from the side table and a pad of paper.

“Write down who did this to you.” I hand her the paper and pen, and wait.

She looks at the paper hesitantly, tilts her head to the side and begins to shake it back and forth, refusing.

“Now, Scarlett!” I demand.

She begins writing, her hand shaking as she scribbles. I look over and see a glimpse of what she is writing.

It wasn’t his fault. I—

I snatch the paper from her hand. “I don’t care what excuse you have; nothing justifies what he did to you. Do you understand me?” She looks off and nods in acknowledgement.

“Where is he?” I ask her, handing the paper back to her. I cross my arms and wait.

Not making eye contact, she hands the paper back to me forcefully.

The Green Room.

“I’m going to take care of this, baby,” I whisper, wiping my own tears from my face. She starts crying again, making whimpering noises from her nose as she tries to keep her mouth completely closed. I shuffle her small body over and cradle her abused body, kissing the top of her head.

“Seems we have it in our DNA to have men lay there hands on us,” I mumble. Her eyes widen, frightened. I grab her small hand and kiss the back of it gently, leaving a red lip print.

“Don’t worry, child. It stops here; he won’t be coming near you again,” I promise.