gone off. I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed waking up. Probably the time I slipped on the wharf and landed on my shoulder. The doc gave Aunt Midge some heavy Tylenols that knocked me out for a few hours, and when I woke up, I felt like I’d slept for days.
I climb out of bed and gather up clean clothes, then make my way to the bathroom. After shutting myself inside, I flip on the water for the shower, letting it heat up while I brush my teeth and floss. Standing before the mirror, I cross my arms to lift my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor beside me. Perhaps it’s the light of the bathroom, but the scars on my forearms seem to stick out even more than before. Thin, tiny lines, unevenly spaced, where I spent months cutting myself. Of course, that was after what happened. I wouldn’t have resorted to this level of self-mutilation before then. Maybe the occasional cut every so often, just to take the pressure off when things got stressful at school, but nothing like this.
We’re just having a little fun.
You’re so beautiful.
I close my eyes on the unbidden lies reverberating through my head. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Not now.
No one will know.
Images flash through my brain as my mind scrambles for some distraction.
Teeth clenched, I shake my head, and the voice of my memories fades into the constant hum of water spilling from the shower. Steam rolls over the glass door, and I step inside, letting the warmth of the water sweep me away into the visual of the picture I saw the night before.
Lucian.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Him. What I imagined him to be then, not the asshole I met in the hallway. Though maybe he’s always been that way. He certainly didn’t look happy in the picture. In fact, he looked very unhappy.
Almost haunting. Like he was begging to be set free.
I wash and dry quickly, and don’t bother to style, or primp, my hair. Aside from eyeliner on occasion, I don’t apply much makeup, either. My bronze skin supposedly comes from my dad, though I wouldn’t begin to know what he looked like. Mom never had pictures of him, never talked about him, at all, and neither did Aunt Midge. Any time I asked about him, I got a short and sweet answer, and an even faster change of topic.
It never made sense to me that my mom could hate him so much, that even after his death, after he was no longer around to disgust her, she still couldn’t say one good thing about the man, but that’s Jenny Quinn. The most spiteful, shallow and selfish woman I’ve ever met.
I rush to dress, then head down for a cup of coffee and something light. Breakfast has never really been my thing, so the gluttonous spread of food I find waiting for me when I arrive at the dining room is unexpected.
Jose, a different chef from the night before, pulls out my chair with a foxy sort of smile stretching his lips. He never actually told me his name, it’s just what’s etched on his uniform, and when I sit down, he offers a wink before brushing his finger across my cheek.
Oh, no.
I do my best to school my face, so I don’t look entirely put off by the gesture, but the guy reminds me of a cartel boss, with his slicked-back hair and chevron mustache. “Thank you,” I say just above a whisper, as he walks off with his stare on me the whole time. Aunt Midge always said my face was a trouble magnet, drawing the kind of bad boys whose imaginations were confined to the brain between their thighs.
Her words, not mine.
Guys have always been this way around me, like wolves whose intent always seems transparent behind wide smiles. Or maybe I’ve just become keen on recognizing it as of late. Unfortunately for Jose, or whatever his name is, I’m not as naive as Red Riding Hood, so even the perfectly brewed French press coffee set before me won’t earn the kind of attention he’s apparently looking for.
Waiting until he’s out of sight, I grab a Danish from the smorgasbord of food, and push the large plate of eggs, bacon and toast, with a stack of pancakes off to the side.
Who the hell could eat this much in one sitting? If I were Aunt Midge, I’d be stuffing it