I wipe my cheeks and try to calm my galloping heart. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Blake. Really. I’m sorry and… I’m fine—”
“Stop saying that. You’re not fine.” He drops his hands, but steps in close. “Hell, look at you.”
“These”—I make another attempt to dry my face—“have nothing to do with you.”
“Then tell me. What the hell happened back there?” He motions in the direction of the SUV that’s pulling out of the parking spot.
How can I tell him the truth? I already feel like a pathetic loser.
“It’s no big deal—”
“Mouse.” He says my nickname with a growl, and judging by the determination in his eyes, he isn’t giving up anytime soon.
I exhale and drop my head. This is so humiliating. What’s worse, letting him in on my issues or having him think I broke up his backseat date because I’m certifiably insane? Maybe it’s better that he think I’m nuts. The truth is so much worse than his assumptions.
Clearing my throat, I shift uncomfortably on my feet. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Don’t care.”
“Blake, please. You don’t want to know.”
His gaze swings up to the stars for a few seconds, then back to me. “The fuck I don’t. You just ripped the backdoor off a car like you were about to commit murder. Your fuckin’ eyes were practically glowing, you were so pissed. And then the tears? I may not want to know, but you fuckin’ owe me an explanation.”
Well, when he puts it like that…
I sift my shaking fingers into the ends of my hair and twirl, hoping to hide my nerves. “I heard her screaming.”
He tilts his head and leans forward. “What?”
I clear my throat. “She was screaming.”
His narrow glare turns soft. “No, Mouse. She wasn’t.”
“She was.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and fight to keep eye contact. “I heard her.”
He studies my face, eyes roaming from my cheeks to my lips. “What did he do to you?” His question is barely audible.
The hurt is so intense it swells and billows behind my ribs. I want to say it, scream it, and hope it relieves the stifling confinement of my shame. “Nothing that wasn’t within his right. He was… my husband, after all.”
He steps back, putting distance between our bodies. “Are you saying…” He shakes his head side to side. “No.”
Confused by his words, I keep my mouth shut, fighting the urge to dump my rotting and rancid dirty laundry at his feet.
“He raped you.”
Those three simple words strung together pull at a deep part of my denial. “Not rape if it’s your husband.”
Ten
Blake
“The fuck it’s not!” Cocksucking asshole. I’ll kill him. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, hoping to God I don’t put my fists through every car window in this piece-of-shit parking lot.
“Blake?” The concern in her soft voice calls me away from my plan-o’-destruction.
I’m breathing hard, like I just pulled out of a fifteen minute round with Wanderlei Silva. My heart’s pounding, injecting volcanic blood straight to my muscles. Frantic, I search for a target, eager to take a fucker down for the offense of simply breathing.
My control slips. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Sweat beads on my skin. I run my hand over my head and flex my fingers. I’m a loaded gun, cocked and trigger-happy.
“Blake.” Her voice is firmer now. “You’re shaking.” She moves in close, her eyebrows dropped low over her dark eyes.
I hold my hand up, keeping her back. Safe. “Give me a minute.”
This is fucked. I can’t think straight.
A few deep breaths. In… out… in… out. Hanging on by a nut hair, I search for a distraction. Anything to take my mind off the fact that Layla was raped, probably repeatedly, by some fuckhead. Probably some douche with a hard-on for pushing people around. His wife, the mother of his child? Dammit!
My chest rumbles as a growl claws up my throat. I need something, anything, to redirect my thoughts. My eyes dart around, cars, the neon sign, her shirt. “Pantera.” I breathe the word, grasping for a lifeline, a change of subject.
She tugs at the hem, peering down at the bright red letters printed on her chest. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t actually go to the concert. Elle was a baby when they came to Seattle. I had a friend get me the shirt.”
I grunt, acknowledging that I heard her.
She smoothes the worn cotton fabric against her flat stomach. “You like Pantera?”
“Mm-hm.” Fuck, that’s better. I sound more man than animal now. Progress.
Running her finger below her eye, she shrugs. “Reinventing the Steel was by far their best album.”
What? “No fuckin’ way.” I lock my gaze on her sparkling eyes. “That album was their biggest fail. Nothin’ but an overproduced hunk of crap made for critics. It wasn’t even—what’s so funny?”
Fuck me if the sight of her tear-streaked face, red eyes, and big white grin doesn’t have me fighting a smile.