Cheeky and bold, he grinned wider as he cocked his head. “I was kinda hoping you were talking about me, since I couldn’t help but think the same thing about you while I was sitting way over there while you were way over here. Seemed a shame, so here I am.”
He was cute. I kind of wanted to pat him on the top of the head and send him on his way.
But when I felt Lyrik’s fierce, piercing gaze, I was suddenly leaning in the kid’s direction.
“You think I’m cute, huh?” So I guessed I was going to play his game.
The guy chuckled, his stare blatant as it dropped to my chest. I tried not to shiver in disgust.
“I could think of a few better ways to describe you,” he said. “How about later you let me whisper them in your ear? I’ve got a room next door.”
Wow, was I wrong.
The kid wasn’t cute. He was a presumptuous twit.
I leaned in closer and ignored the nausea swirling in my stomach and rising in my throat.
Rise.
I swallowed down that errant thought.
For the last four years, I’d used my body as a weapon. But always as a defense. A tool to keep men just out of reach. Too hot for them to handle. Too dangerous to touch. Giving the impression I’d be all too happy to cut them to pieces if they even tried hurting me in any way, even though in reality I would have been the one shaking in my boots.
But tonight? I hated myself a little more because I used this weapon against Lyrik. Even after he’d destroyed a little of what he’d exposed. I used it against the burning hope that wouldn’t stop churning in my spirit.
I reached across the bar and ran the tip of my index finger down the stranger’s face. “Sure thing, sweetheart. I get off at three.”
As if I was that easy.
I scratched ten digits onto a bar napkin and pressed it into his hand.
Of course they were the wrong ten digits. No chance in hell would I let him touch me.
I hated every second of this.
Back to pretending I was someone I was not.
Messing with this kid, despite how offensively brazen his advances were.
Vindictive in my actions.
But the only thing that made sense right then was to hurt Lyrik the way he was hurting me.
Slow and agonizing. Sharp and severe.
As if I were slowly bleeding out.
I had to build back up the walls. I had to restore the foundation I’d built to survive. I needed to protect and preserve and persevere. And I knew he was watching and I knew he received the message.
You can’t hurt me.
In my periphery, I felt more than saw Lyrik stand from the booth. Chest aching, I glanced that way and met with his gaze.
Hard.
Bitter.
Maybe even disappointed.
He stared me down for a few heartbreaking moments. Jaw clenched, the heavy bob of his throat was evident as he swallowed. Then he turned his back on me and walked out the door. He took all that potent energy with him, leaving the cavernous space hollow and vacant.
I slumped forward. The cutting pain was so intense I gasped around it.
You can’t hurt me.
But I knew the truth.
Lyrik West was the only one who could.
IT WAS JUST AFTER three twenty when I finally made it home that night. I plodded up the exterior stairs toward my apartment. Exhaustion and sorrow weighed me down. As if I were bound by chains, my body drained, and my heart sluggish. Darkness clung to the star-studded sky, the trill of bugs a constant hum where they feasted in the trees. The humid air like a mold to my body.
But I felt cold.
Clammy.
As if I might have gone into shock.
Gripping the railing, I forced myself up the stairs. The click of my heels rang out like an exclamation of my loneliness. Like a stark reminder of the solitude.
My hand was shaking as I fumbled to find the right key. I slid it into the lock and let myself into the stark isolation of my apartment.
A dismal sigh worked its way free? and I tossed my keys to the kitchen counter and wandered down the hall into the bathroom so I could wash the mask from my face.
I was getting so goddamned tired of wearing it.
Tired of pretending I was something I was not.
Tired of hiding from the past that rushed to catch up to me, competing to become a part of my future.
I knew the choice was coming.
I’d either have to face it.
Go home and confront my past head on.
Or I’d have to run.
Leave.
I just didn’t know if I had the strength to tackle either one and I wasn’t quite sure where that left me.
Running a cloth under warm water, I washed my face, erasing the traces of the hard, cold girl.
I dropped it into the sink, and stared at the face devoid of makeup. At the desolation swimming behind the blue eyes that blinked hopelessly back at me.
“You did this,” I said aloud. But it wasn’t Tamar King who was listening. It was the girl who was screaming, begging me to find her.
Pushing it down, I flicked off the light switch and headed toward my empty bed where I knew I’d toil in the vacancy. Toss with the turmoil. Where I’d be pulled in every direction until I was torn to shreds.