the energy for at the moment. Then I open the next text.
- How’s your head?
There’s no signature, so I don’t reply or even give it a thumbs-up. I mean, rude.
The next text reads:
- How’s your leg?
Again, no signature. And again, I don’t reply.
When I see a notification from The Sound, I ignore that, too, because fuck them all.
When I left on Patrick’s back last night, I didn’t even bother looking back, just beside me to make sure Ranger the Wrecker wasn’t following Brisa out like a lost puppy dog. I had been shocked to see him outside the doorway when Patrick carried me out on his back, looking like hell and standing next to her in a protective manner.
I throw the comforter off my ankle, the only part of me covered due to Brisa hogging the covers and look down at it seeing that it’s still propped up on a pillow. The cold compress has fallen away, revealing the cankle covered in yellow and purple bruises.
“Great,” I grumble as I push myself up and carefully move my leg off the bed.
“Shower. Good Lord, I need a shower.” I stand up, bearing little weight on it at first. The pain is still there, but it’s more achy than sharp.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap my hair in a towel then reach for the bath towel hanging on the hook outside my shower. As I grab it and wrap it around me, I laugh slightly at the fact that it reminds me of what started the entire mess last night. Tucking the end between my boobs to ensure it stays closed, I realize it’s a wonder I’m even here after the disaster that was last night.
Dad being … Dad has always run through worst-case scenarios in horrific and graphic detail in order to scare the shit out of me so I’d “be aware of my surroundings at all times” before any outing, be it a concert, a school function, or even church service. This is why I was pretty sure I was going to get trampled, die, and leave Brisa and Patrick alone last night to explain the events leading up to my demise, which he would then be able to say, I warned her, and she didn’t listen. I feel a slight tinge of guilt that I left Brisa momentarily while I unthinkingly ran toward the ring, worried about that asshole, Tobias.
Tobias, whose blue eyes haunted my dreams last night.
My nipples pebble beneath the towel at recalling the fact that, even though I’m pissed off at him—more accurately, disgusted by him—he decided to show up in my dream with a white towel in hand, drying his hair while I lay on his bed.
Even in my dream, I knew it was just that—a dream—because my head and face were all me, yet my body was definitely Dee’s, right down to the only article of clothing on my … well, her body—those red hooker heels.
He had dropped the towel, knelt on the bed, and kissed his way up my body. His hands held the sides of my face, as he held his body over mine, propped up by his elbows.
Standing in my mirror, I look over my reflection through the fading condensation on the vanity mirror, comparing my body to hers. She was every guys’ dream—tall, lean, average boobs, slim hips, and a small, pert ass. She’s a girl who shows up at a fight dressed to the nines and doesn’t overreact to her boyfriend possibly getting jumped, because she isn’t dramatic and takes things as they come.
Me? I’m the girl who shoves her too big tits into a shirt two sizes too small, wearing leggings, sneakers, and hair in a ponytail. The girl who gets all too emotional because I know how I’d feel standing in a corner alone, and I know how I’d feel if I thought no one had my back.
Feel, feel, feel, that’s all I ever do. Well, fuck that. Not anymore. No more displaced and wildly disproportionate feelings for anyone’s wellbeing unless they are my friend to begin with. Because all it gets you is a beat-up ankle, a pounding headache, and a bruised self-image.
I hear a loud knock outside the bathroom, and then Dad inside my room. “It’s Steel Sunday, crew. Lunch with the family in an hour.”
I hear Patrick and Brisa moan, open the bathroom door, and peek my head out. “We’ll be up soon.”
I watch Patrick chuck a pillow at the bathroom door. “You’ll