And Elian Beyer was finished.
“Friends? Are you kidding? You fucked like you meant it, Elian!” Margie spat out and I knew this was going to get nasty. There was no easy cutting of loose strings. Not this time. Or ever again.
I was all wrapped up in loose strings, dangling, ready to strangle me.
Just don’t see her.
“We had fun, Margie. It was great…” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. I had built my life on saying the right thing. On being able to tell people what they wanted to hear.
Why was it suddenly so hard to remember my role? To play my part?
Elian Beyer. Twenty-eight years old. Son of a happily married couple. Brother of Wade and Leanne. Uncle to two nieces and a nephew. Lies. Lies. Lies.
But it’s who I was. Who they knew.
Margie threw down her cigarette butt and ground it out underneath her shoe. “You’re a jerk, Elian.” She meant it. She hated me.
I didn’t want that to happen.
I needed her agreement. Her acceptance. I needed to be the nice guy.
The first kinks in my armor were starting to show.
When you go home tonight. Go alone.
“I know,” I agreed, knowing that even as I struggled to smooth this over, I couldn’t leave the door open to anything between us. Margie wasn’t who I wanted.
“This is about that freaky girl from the bookstore across the street, isn’t it? Tate says you’ve been engaging in mutual stalking for months. It’s weird, Elian. Seriously.”
I was going to have to have a conversation with Tate regarding his too big mouth.
“She’s not freaky,” was all I could say. I sounded ridiculous. Margie looked ready to stomp on my testicles with her shit kickin’ boots. I had completely underestimated the power of estrogen scorned.
Margie glared good and hard. I felt some guilt. I wasn’t heartless. I never went out of my way to hurt anyone.
Even the people I had left behind…
“I don’t want things to be awkward here at work, Margie. Tell me what I can do to make this easier on you.” Did I have to sound like such a condescending douchebag? But my mind wasn’t really here anymore. It was elsewhere. Thinking about plans made and futures undecided.
Margie snorted. “You should have thought about that before you bent me over my kitchen table.” Then without another word, she slammed through the door, and I stood out in the rain, caring, but not enough.
I had left home thirteen years ago. Before graduating from high school. Still wet behind the ears. With no freaking clue what I was doing or where I was going.
But I had an idea of how the world really worked.
I had been given a horrific introduction into the lives of real men and monsters.
Elian Beyer was born the day I left the boy behind and forced myself to become someone else.
The real name, the real person was gone.
Or was he?
I stared in my bathroom mirror, shaving the two-day growth from my chin. Last month when I had looked in this same mirror I had been comfortable with the man who looked back. I had been sure who he was.
I had worked hard to establish his roots. His guts.
But now…
I saw him.
And that scared me.
But I was incapable of stopping the wheels that were already in motion.
My fingers slipped and the razor cut into my skin. Bright red beads welled up and flowed over, dripping into the sink. Sticky and warm, oozing to the surface.
“Son of a—” I winced, licking my thumb and wiping away the blood. I turned on the faucet and watched the bright scarlet dilute and rush down the drain.
I tore off a piece of toilet paper and stuck it to the open cut.
I was a jumbled mess of nerves and anxiety.
Every time I saw her, it was the same. It never lessened. I thought by this point we had been on a date, we had spent some time together, I wouldn’t feel like my insides were folding over on themselves.
What was it about Layna Whitaker that made me lose sight of everything?
Of whom I had trained myself to be?