I push away from the bar. "I gotta go." I slap money on the counter. "You should really clean the place up," I say to Eli. “Keep enough guys around who are as full of shit as this guy, real vets will start to stay away.”
I just need some space. Some air. Some f*ck
ing perspective on why I can't ever seem to control my f*ck
ing temper.
I am at one of the top schools in the country. I am surrounded by expensive cars and old money and I have never felt more out of place in my life. And yes, that includes when I was in Iraq.
I look down at my hands as I step outside into the cool North Carolina night, lean against the damp brick wall and try to catch my breath.
All I can see is the blood beneath my nails. The red painting my skin again. The burning shame as the memory of the excitement mixes with the pure horror of what I’ve done.
I can't see the stars, but the moon is bright enough that it penetrates the illumination from the streetlights.
I start walking. Down the silent, dark street illuminated by flickering overhead lamps.
The voice in my head is silent now. Leaving me alone in the darkness as I walk toward my tiny loft.
Except that I don't end up at my place.
I end up in the glittering, polished foyer of the Baywater. I have no business here. I shouldn’t have come.
But I'm here now, standing in the middle of so much wealth and class I feel like I am a speck of dirt dragged in from the outside on the bottom of someone's five hundred-dollar shoes.
I’m tainting this place with my very presence. And still, I cannot leave.
There is a dinner party in one of the rooms. Which has its own name, apparently: The Winston Bonaparte room. I watch them for a while, trying to figure out what to say, what to do, why I'm here.
It is a long moment before I see her.
Abby.
She doesn't notice me. I can stand there, silently, and just watch her move. There is a fluidity in how she moves with an easy grace and class that I will never have. She smiles at a man wearing an expensive suit and tie. He's clean shaven, and I'd be willing to bet he doesn't have any tattoos or scars from a war he never even thought about fighting in.
I need to go before Abby notices me. I don't belong here.
Not like she does.
But if I’m honest with myself, she is the reason I am here. She’s a beacon in the darkness, drawing me closer to something I have given up wanting.
She stops short when she sees me.
There is no smile in her eyes. No warmth. I don't have the words to explain to her why I'm here.
But as much as I can't explain why I'm here, I also can't walk away. I have no business here. I have no business talking to her.
I can't protect her from me. I can't even protect myself.
But I cannot walk away.
Abby
My shift has been extra magical tonight, and by extra magical I mean slammed busy. Which is fine. I'm one of those weird people who doesn't actually know how to sit still. I'm always moving. I thrive on being busy, which is strange considering I'm in the South and things tend to move a bit slower around here.
I'm waiting on a table of the dean of the business school and his polished and manicured guest. The woman on the guest’s arm looks like she could be his daughter but I learned early on not to make assumptions about those sorts of things here. I make small talk and smile, not really hearing what the dean or his guest are saying.
The moment I see Josh, though, everything else falls away. Their noise, their needs. Everything I am is focused on Josh.
He is darkness and shadows near the edge of the dim light. He doesn't even pretend he's not watching me. It does something to my insides as I meet his eyes and refuse to look away.
In the shadows, his eyes look almost black. His face is sharper, more angled, the stubble on his jaw darker.
He stands out. I think he always will, no matter where he is. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up, exposing his thick forearms. There is writing on his forearms. Big, black letters that blend into the shadows so I cannot read them.
The men who frequent this place do not get tattoos. At least not visible ones. No, these men have polished hands and pressed shirts and impeccable manners.
They don’t stand in the doorway, staring.
No, Josh is none of those things. He's not polished and he's not pressed.
Graham slides up beside me and, of course, he has noticed exactly who I’m watching. "Oh, look who’s back," Graham murmurs. “Do you have any condoms?”
I lift one brow and try to pretend that I don't actually know who we're talking about. "Are you serious?"
"Don't even try it," Graham says, patting my cheek. "What did you call him the other morning? Mr. Tall, Dark & Depressed?"
"I thought it was Tall, Dark and Psychotic? And didn’t we also agreed that he was bad news?”
Graham is a good egg. The kind of guy friend that every girl needs. When Robert the Douche ripped my heart out, it was Graham who sat up with me, throwing darts at a picture of Robert and eating coffee ice cream and making me laugh until my sides hurt.