Hell on Heels (23 page)

I scoffed. “My ego thanks you.”

“So why aren’t you at work?” His eyes bore into me. “And why do you look like you were backed over by a semi truck?”

I started to pull back, but his hand gripped the back of my neck.

My eyes closed.

“There is a sadness in me, brutal and unparalleled,” I started to speak, and he pulled me face first into his chest. “It strikes at will, taking down others with reckless abandon.” I wrapped my arms around his middle. “If I were you, I’d walk away now.”

His hand fisted into the back of my hair, yanking my head backwards.

“I’ve got thick skin.” He looked down at me. “It won’t bleed against your broken pieces.”

The tears at bay came rolling in like the tide.

“Okay.”

“Good,” Maverick whispered. “Your dark place or mine, Princess?”

I closed my eyes.

“Mine,” I whispered back.

His hands moved under my ass, and when he lifted me, I wrapped my arms and legs around him.

Maverick carried us to the couch and sat down with me still straddling his lap.

He pulled my hair away from my face, holding it in one hand like a ponytail so I was forced to look at him, not bury my face in his neck.

“Show me your dark place, Princess.”

I closed my eyes, steadying a breath, and then opened them.

“I found him, you know,” I whispered. “Henry, his body… It was me.”

Maverick watched me with his black eyes.

Not in the way people gawked at tragedy, unable to tear their eyes from a train wreck.

He watched in the way that reminded me I didn’t need him, but he was there anyway.

He didn’t speak.

“My parents had been away on vacation in Arizona.” My voice cracked a little as the memories assaulted me. “I got up early. I couldn’t sleep.” I shook my head, thinking somehow my body must have known. “The door to his room was open, but he wasn’t there, so I called him.”

I winced.

“I always called Henry if I couldn’t find him,” I whispered. “He didn’t answer.” My hands had started to shake in my lap. “If he didn’t answer, he was usually on a bender, but most of the time, we found him or he came around after a few days when he’d ridden it out, but not this time.”

Maverick continued to watch him, his resolve never breaking, his lips never moving.

Just watching.

“I found him lying in the middle of our driveway.”

The tears came.

“I thought he was sleeping.”

My throat burned.

“I yelled at him.”

My lungs ached.

“When I rolled him over, his eyes were open.”

My stomach bottomed out.

“He was gone.”

I pressed the palms of my hands into the wall of Maverick’s chest.

“I gave him CPR until the ambulance arrived.”

I felt Maverick’s heart beat.

“The doctors said he overdosed. He was pronounced dead that day.”

He had a strong heartbeat.

“That day will be ten years ago this Sunday.”

My soul sighed.

“Every year, on the week before the anniversary of his death, I mourn him,” I whispered. “Alone.”

Maverick let my hair go and used both of his hands to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

He leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn’t soft.

It was hard in the way his kisses always were, possessive and claiming.

This one had an edge of something else, pride maybe, but I wasn’t sure.

When our mouths separated, I was breathless.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You eaten today? ‘Cause I can tell by your hair you ain’t showered in days.”

Smacking him on the shoulder, I hissed, “Jesus. Are you trying to make me cry?”

He fisted his one hand in my hair and tugged. “You still not scared of me?”

I growled.

“That’s what I figured.” His voice dipped to that dangerous low again. “You got thicker skin than you think you do, Princess.”

It was a compliment, I think, but he worded it like a challenge.

“Now, ass up and in the shower. You eat?”

I climbed off his lap and pointed to the coffee table. “What do you think?”

He laughed.

“Shower,” he grunted.

Flipping him the bird, I stomped down the hall and into my bedroom. Once he couldn’t see me, I lifted the front of my sweatshirt up to my nose and inhaled.

I stunk.

Pulling it over my head, I kicked off my sweatpants and showered.

It felt good.

Not better, but good.

I pulled on my Batman booty shorts and slid into my kimono. With my wet hair twisted into a bun, I wandered down the hall to find Maverick sitting on my couch, his boots on my coffee table, flicking through my Recently Watched on Netflix.

“You a sadist or something?”

He must have heard me.

“I like horror movies,” I said, pulling open the fridge.

He made a funny sound and I scowled into the appliance.

“What’s that sound for?” I quipped.

“Life scares the living daylights right out of you, but you like horror movies.” He laughed from across the room.

Slamming the fridge closed, I chucked an empty water bottle at the back of his head. “Asshole.”

He wasn’t wrong though.

“Quit bitchin’ and pick a movie,” he barked.

I meandered into the living room, aiming for the armchair, but he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me onto the sofa next to him.

“I cleaned up your disgusting food, you can sit with me.”

I shrugged.

I liked to cuddle.

Curling into his side, I pulled the blanket over my legs.

“
House of 1000 Corpses
,” I said when he passed over it on the screen.

He laughed. “Seriously?”

“Shut up,” I growled. “And put it on.”

He did.

We finished the entire thing in silence.

Then we watched
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
and ordered pizza.

Somewhere during
American Psycho
, I wanted to feel something else.

Lifting my head from his chest, I kissed the front of his throat and he groaned when I slid onto his lap.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling on his hair, and kissed him.

It was needy, and before I could really get anywhere, we were moving.

Sitting me on the breakfast bar, he pulled his shirt over his head.

I nipped at his chest and he pulled my hair tie so hard it broke, wet blonde hair falling down my back.

As he grabbed me under my ass, we kissed.

I bit his lip and he slammed me into the wall in the hallway, sending a picture frame to the ground.

My robe came undone and I lost it sometime between the guest room and mine.

We were impatient.

Maverick threw me to the bed.

His hand curled around my throat and I fought against it.

Our mouths were hot.

Our touch was greedy.

He pressed me into the sheets and I clawed at his back.

We didn’t appreciate each other. We consumed each other.

Raw.

Rough.

Animalistic.

Basic instincts.

I knew full well the extent to which women don’t recover from loving a man like Maverick Hart. All consuming lust of savage brutality coming from the strongest of touches, but leaving no survivors in its wake, not even those who beg for mercy in the end.

He was the monster under love’s bed.

And tonight, I fed him.

And me.

The sun poured in my bedroom window.

I rolled over to face the wall.

Something was wrong.

Stretching my hand, I slid it across the mattress and felt nothing.

I was alone.

Opening my eyes, I scanned the room.

No sound of running water.

None of his clothes were on the floor.

He was just gone.

“Fucking motherfucker.” I buried my face into the pillow. “Fuck, shit, fuck, fucking shit.”

I pounded the mattress with my fists and flailed around.

On a good day, I didn’t handle rejection well, but this week, of all weeks, I was raw, and rejection practically tore me in two.

“I’ve never seen a Princess do that.”

I heard him laugh.

Rolling over underneath the blanket, I slowly pulled it down to expose my eyes.

There, fully clothed and wide awake, was Maverick and two coffees the size of my bed.

I stuck one hand out and made grabby fingers.

He walked to the edge of the bed. “You thought I left.”

I didn’t answer, more grabby hands.

He shook his head and sat down next to me.

I pushed up against the headboard, keeping the covers over my chest, and watched him.

“Get dressed,” he demanded. “I put
The Shining
on.”

I frowned over the rim of my cup. “You’re staying?”

His back was already through the door and he didn’t answer me.

Sliding from the bed, I pulled on a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and an oversized knit before padding into the bathroom and taking care of business.

Maverick stayed for two days.

He didn’t leave, but he didn’t baby me either.

He made me bathe.

He made me order the food, though he answered the door.

He held me when I cried, and he had good taste in gore.

He made me drink water and put my tissues in the trash.

He threw me off the dock as I grieved and forced me to learn to swim in my misery.

I learned to grieve with my head above water.

He was there in case I started to drown, but otherwise, he let me be.

He knew I would adapt, and I did.

Maverick was right. He didn’t cut himself on my broken pieces, and neither did I.

Sunday, April 22
nd
, 2017

S
trip down to the bare bones of your suffering and feel it.

Let the pain ripple through everything that you are. That’s the only way it passes—grief, I mean. If you don’t let it cripple you when it cries out to be heard, you’ll only worsen your fate in time. For grief, like poison, spreads under the skin of the ones left behind, and the longer you wait to let it have you, the more of you it takes. Until finally, when its punishment passes, all that’s left is an echo of the person you were before the cruelty of loss had its way with your soul.

I had been an echo.

In the wake of our family’s tragedy, I neglected to respect my suffering and had lost myself. Now, I was trying to find her again.

Today would be a hard day to do that.

Today was the anniversary of Henry’s death.

I stood facing the spray of my shower, letting it wash away my tears. I’d been awake since two. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his lifeless body.

Today was barely a day, and already it was killing me.

“You went away,” I whispered into the water.

My limbs trembled.

“I’m sorry, Charlie bear.”

Pressing my flat palms against the tile, I tilted my head forward, letting the spray cascade down my back.

“How dare you?” I sobbed. “I… miss you.”

I stood there until the water went cold and my skin pruned. Stepping from the shower, I towelled off in the mirror and winced.

I looked hollowed out to my core.

The bags under my eyes were dark and my eyelids puffy. My nose was raw from tissues.

Today would be a hard day.

I brushed my hair, leaving it wet, and crawled back into bed. Tucking my knees into my chest, I wrapped my arms around myself and waited. I waited, but sleep never came. I just lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, missing him. Eventually, my alarm went off at six o’clock and I knew it was time to get ready.

Every year, on this day, I drove out to my parents’ house first thing in the morning.

They didn’t want me to be alone.

I wanted to see him.

With everything I had, I pulled my body from the bed and back into the bathroom. My hair was a disaster. I pulled it into a high ponytail, but left my face free of makeup.

Even if I wore any, the tears would wash it off. The effort would be futile.

I pulled a violet-coloured sweater over my head and shrugged on a pair of faded blue jeans with so many rips they probably should be in the trash. Padding to the kitchen, I filled a glass with water and knocked back two Tylenol.