I don’t know how long I stand in the shower. Hot water burns my skin, evoking red splotches all over me. But I welcome the sensation, because it lets me concentrate on something other than Faith’s death. I put my palms on the wall and hang my head down under the water. I watch the water run down the drain by my feet. Someone pounds on the door again, but I ignore it. Maybe the same girl as before? Or maybe another girl. I don’t care, because the only girl that I want to see now is dead.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. This is such bullshit. If something is about to kill you, it will scar you for life. There is no strength coming from terrifying experiences. Maybe that saying should be more specific and read something like What seriously kicks your ass makes you stronger. Yeah, that makes more sense.
Colin wraps his arm around my waist, and we walk to the bar, where three twenty-something, shirtless, attractive bartenders put on a real performance. Seriously, it should be forbidden to be as hot as these guys are. They are causing something close to a mass hysteria among the females clustered around the bar.
While two of the bartenders wait on the customers, the third one impressively juggles four shot glasses up in the air. He finally puts them down, swiftly jumps on the bar, and falls onto his knees in front of a group of tipsy, screaming girls who still look like teenagers.
He sits back on his heels and grins at the girls. His distressed jeans tightly hug his strong legs, and his muscular, naked torso and well-defined arms make me want to join the wild females. I quickly snatch a glance at Colin, but he doesn’t seem to mind me drooling. Or at least he’s smarter than showing any signs of jealousy over this.
One of the women leans forward and tries to kiss the bartender’s washboard stomach, but he stops her, laughing. Another bartender hands him a bottle of Frangelico and a tiny glass. The guy on the counter makes a production of pouring the liquor into the glass, while slowly and seductively swinging his hips to the music. The women are going wild. By now there is a big crowd of them, trying to squeeze in closer. The bartender chooses one girl, leans forward and whispers something to her. She nods, and opens her mouth. He touches the glass to her lips and pours the Frangelico into her mouth.
Her friends cheer and demand the same treatment. They stick money behind the bartender’s jeans waistband, as if he is a stripper. Well, he acts like one. Soon he collects an impressive amount of bills. I see mostly tens and twenties. He jumps off the bar and switches places with one of his co-workers—a gorgeous African American guy with dreadlocks. The women hoot and clap in delight.
Before I even open my eyes again, I feel a certain change around me. It startles me. I look up and see the Black Leather dude standing in front of me, hands in his jacket pocket, feet wide apart. I instinctively look around before snarling at him, “Hey, what’s your problem?”
I start to stand up, but he pushes me down. I hit my head on the building wall and shriek, “Fuck off! Help! Somebody, anybody! Help me!” I swat at his arm and kick him hard in the shin. I kick again, but he side steps. I make sure he can’t get close to me again. I have strong legs that can do a lot of damage when needed.
There are two couples at the end of the street, about twenty yards away. They turn, and I see the guys running toward us, the girls following behind.
“Tell that fucking boyfriend of yours that Razor is back,” the Black Leather hisses through his clenched teeth. His hands are curled into tight fists. There are letters and symbols on each knuckle. “This is just the beginning. He will pay for what he did to her.”
My voice gets stuck in my throat. He did to whom? Her? Who? Colin? To whom? But my brain must be working overtime, because I lift my hand that clutches my cell phone and snap the picture of his snarling face. He swears and tries to grab the phone, but I kick again, and the guys who heard me yell for help are getting close, shouting, “Hey, what’s going on?” They are only a few feet away.
“What?” I laugh.
Slowly, he brings his hand to his mouth and absentmindedly traces his lower lip with his thumb. Such a small gesture, and I start to melt inside. My boyfriend is a sexy beast without even trying to be. Colin pushes himself off the doorframe and, biting his lip, unhurriedly moves closer. He stands behind me and wraps his arms around me, bending down to press light kisses to the back of my neck.
I take a sharp breath and feel that familiar slow, lazy heat starting to spread from my chest all the way down to my sex. “You’re going to mess up my hair,” I whisper feebly.
“I’m afraid so,” he whispers back. His lips burn a trail over my shoulder. He cups my breasts and pinches my nipples through the thin fabric of my dress and bra.
I moan and close my eyes. Screw the hair. I press my back against his growing erection and I know where we are heading.
It feels so natural, so right. Colin and I belong together, no matter what demons from the past we are battling. I turn around and look at him, my palms over his chiseled chest. He is so beautiful, with his dreamy eyes, sparkling with anticipation. He leans in, and our lips crush.
About The Author
Angela was born and raised in Poland. She now lives in the Seattle area with her family and a chronically curious cat.
She describes herself as European born, American by choice.