Love cuts.
But betrayal? It fucking incinerates.
I stand shaking in the shower, unable to tell whether it’s the stream from the faucet or my tears that’s blurring my vision. They aren’t tears of sadness, but of rage, and the cuts on my hands are the product of it.
Smashed glass, broken lamps. Clothes slashed into a thousand strips. I destroyed everything in my wake, because I couldn’t let go of him quietly like he did me. Fuck, I would have set the yacht on fire in a heartbeat if I wasn’t on it.
Rafe owns Sinners Anonymous. My oldest friend, my fucking confidant. He might as well have taken my diary, had the pages enlarged, and pasted them all over town. The humiliation feels the same.
The whole time, I thought I knew all the games we played, yet little did I know he was playing the biggest game of all. Maybe it’s karma—the swindler finally getting swindled. God, how I wish he’d only taken money from my pocket, and not ripped my entire center from my chest.
Another wave of nausea rolls over me, and I snap on my exfoliating glove to distract myself again. Although I’ve been scrubbing at it for a half-hour, the remnants of his name still stain my skin.
I want him gone. Off my body, out of my heart. I want my ears to forget his silky laugh, my nose to forget his scent.
And I want him to catch on fire, too.
The moment I turn the shower off with an angry bump of my fist, the knocking starts up again.
“Penny!” Matt’s muffled call floats through the front door and down the hall. “I know you’re in there, so open up!”
He heard me drag my suitcase up the stairs early this morning and poked his head out into the hall, just in time to catch my tear-streaked face disappear behind my front door. He’s barely stepped off my new welcome mat since, even when I sent him a quick text to tell him I had food poisoning. I don’t know if he replied, because I swiftly turned my cell off and hurled it at the wall.
Wrapping a towel around myself, I walk into my bedroom and perch on the edge of the bed. The vanity mirror on the dresser reflects my swollen, blotchy face. I’m too embarrassed to let Matt or anyone else see me like this, because now I look like the girl I always swore I’d never be.
Vulnerable. Used. Stupid enough to get played by a fucking man. I’m an ungraceful winner, sure, but I’m an even worse loser.
And love really is a losing game.
“Penny, I’m going to see some family up in the mountains for a while. I won’t have cell service, so even when you’ve stopped throwing a fit, you won’t be able to get hold of me.” He pauses. “Fine. You’ve got five seconds to open this door or I’m going to break it down.”
Fuck’s sake. I thought he’d have left by now. I glance down at where Rafe’s watch used to be and my throat tightens. It was the only thing on the yacht I couldn’t bring myself to smash; I just left it on his upturned bed. Now my wrist feels as bare as the rest of me.
“Alright, that’s it, Pen. If you’re behind the door, I suggest you step back, because I’m about to go through it.”
Matt’s footsteps retreat down the hall. They quicken, and a loud thud rattles my window panes. He barks out a pained curse, and I can’t help the humorless smirk tilting my lips.
I’ll miss him.
The thought slides into my head without context. Then I realize my survival instinct is two steps ahead of me.
My attention slides away from the mirror to the stack of money on my dresser and the million-dollar check.
I’m stubborn, but I’m not stupid. He told me he owns my hotline and he gave me the money because he knew I’d leave. And as much as the bitter side of me wants to stay in Devil’s Dip and ruin his life, I know it would hurt me more than it would hurt him.
Passing the diner every day and remembering his food order. Looking out to the horizon and seeing all the lights twinkling on his yacht. Fuck, I can’t even see my friends without being reminded of him. Rory’s married to his brother and lives in the house he grew up in; Tayce tattooed his fucking name above my ass. And Wren. She was the one who tried to convince me he was a gentleman.
I guess I’ll do what I always do when things turn sour.
Run.
Cove’s bright lights flash and flicker behind the sheets of rain falling from a starless sky. The smooth sidewalks are as silent as they are slippery. In a few days, they’ll be abuzz with New Year’s Eve celebrations.
And me?
Fuck knows where I’ll be.
My necklace sizzles against my collarbone. Yet again, I’m standing at a bus station, with all my belongings beside me, hoping luck will let me land on my feet again. This time, I’m leaving the Coast with more than I arrived with. Heavy pockets and an awful sense of vulnerability gnawing at my chest. It’s like an open wound, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever be able to stitch it back up.
Rain trickles like melted ice down my collar, sending a violent shiver through me. I close in on the timetable board, rubbing the sleeve of my faux-fur jacket over the screen to wipe the droplets away. The next bus out of town isn’t for another hour.
Sighing, I sit down on the wet bench and wait.
What am I going to do now? I don’t mean how I’m going to fill the next hour, but the rest of my life. I came to the Coast with the intention of going straight, yet I’d gotten so twisted that I fear I’ll be permanently bent out of shape. No For Dummies book has sparked a fire in me, and now I’m so bitter and betrayed, all I want to do is shake down every man I come into contact with, in an attempt to put the world to rights again.
A black car turns onto the Devil’s Cove strip, its headlights slicing through the rain and washing over my Doc Martens. Its speed is slow and intentional, as if the driver is searching for something along the sidewalk.
I guess my heart can’t be hardened in a day, because it lurches into my throat with the hope it’s Rafe. Visions of a Hallmark-worthy grovel flash behind my eyelids, and in a moment of weakness, I wonder how many pieces of the moon he’d have to fetch for me to forgive him.
The car slows to a stop in front of me, and I rise to my feet. The blacked-out window rolls down, and I’m met with the eyes of another Visconti.
“Get in, Little P.”
We stare at each other for a few seconds, then he shifts his attention to the rain-streaked windshield, as though my compliance is non-negotiable.
With numbness biting at my veins, I climb in and shut the door. The car fills with warmth and nostalgia, and there I go again, silently thrashing against the need to burst into tears.
We drive in silence. Amy Winehouse’s rendition of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? plays low on the radio. Nico’s jaw is slack with indifference as he turns off the main strip.
I can’t fight it. An awkward little sob escapes my throat and his gaze warms my cheek.
“Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to be distracted?”
My vision blurs and there’s no turning back. The dam opens, the tears flow, and my sobs fill the car, ugly and loud.
Nico lets out a tense breath and swings the car around.
“Distracted it is.”
