Now I’d been out of the hospital for two days, as, apparently (and thankfully) all systems were a go.
The swelling had decreased significantly but only that morning did I note that the bruising was starting to recede, some of the edges of the purple going yellow.
My broken nose was still taped and would be for some time.
I’d had a total of twenty-nine stitches sewn into my face. My eyebrow would never be the same. The jaw scar wouldn’t be easily seen. But the gash on my nose would stand out.
I had been pretty, not beautiful, but definitely pretty. And I knew it.
This was not vanity. This was being real. I could see myself in the mirror and I’d had a mom and dad who adored me and told me how proud of me they were for a lot of reasons, and they’d done this all my life. My looks just were what they were and I was grateful for them.
I also used them.
I used them to get guys I was attracted to.
I used them to get good tips at Colombo’s.
I used them to jump the line at clubs I wanted to get into.
And I used them to get out of that speeding ticket that time that cop pulled me over.
Mom had taught me, if God gave you something good, you didn’t waste it. You used it (for good, obviously—I mean, it was God bestowing these gifts).
So I’d used them.
But as I stood there, looking in the mirror, I knew that Beck and his brothers had concentrated on my face, thinking that they were taking the most important thing I had away from me.
Men were so stinking stupid.
In the last few days, when there wasn’t a lot to feel good about, I felt good about the fact that they hadn’t raped me.
That was my silver lining.
My boyfriend kidnapped me, delivered me to his buds, they beat the heck out of me, but they didn’t rape me.
If they’d done that to me, it would have taken away something that meant something.
But they hadn’t.
Yeah.
Awesome silver lining.
Still, for sure it was one.
But, to my way of thinking, they didn’t do any lasting damage. They didn’t break anything but nine ribs (since I had twenty-four, that could have been worse) and my nose. When Muzzle’s fist connected with my schnoz, I felt the cartilage give, and that hadn’t been fun, but it would heal. Eightball had sprained my wrist, but he didn’t snap it, and it had been tender but it was already feeling better.
I’d recover.
I could walk, talk, eat, breathe. I could definitely still deliver pizzas to diners’ tables (or would be able to in a week or two, after the bruising and swelling were gone and I had less pain due to the broken ribs).
I might even be able to learn to live with the fact that a man I trusted and thought I loved had not only brought me to that hell, he’d also delivered his share of it.
Sure, I’d broken his trust. I’d informed on him and his brothers’ activities to Chaos, setting them up to be taken down by the cops.
But let us not forget, they were able to be set up to be taken down by the cops. This meant they were doing felonious crap. That felonious crap being providing transport for illegal substances and firearms, offering this service to really bad guys.
So sure, I could see, if he found out, Beck being really freaking pissed at me. Yelling at me. Breaking it off with me. That was, if he didn’t give me the chance to explain why I’d done it in the first place, that being for him.
Well, not so much for him, I’d realized.
But I couldn’t think about that right then.
I had to think about the fact I survived. I was alive. Walking, talking, eating, breathing, and someday soon I’d again be laying pizza pies on tables for tips.
What I would not be doing was getting involved with a man, maybe ever again.
Seriously.
That might seem dramatic, but the first man I fell for, Shy Cage of the Chaos Motorcycle Club, had shown me a window to a world I wanted and the doorway I wanted to use to get to that was Shy because Shy was Shy. He was beautiful to look at and fantastic in bed, but he was also funny and sweet and protective and affectionate.
He was my dad (not that I knew about the “fantastic in bed” part with my dad, but from the time I understood the concept of sex, mom’s dreamy looks and dad’s cat-got-his-cream moods were not lost on me—gross, but not lost on me).
So Shy was all that…including having all of it on a bike.
But he dropped me like a hot brick the minute Tabitha Allen gave him indication that her doorway was open. He slammed the one on me and waltzed right through hers without a second thought.
Looking back, I knew as I fell deeper and deeper for him that he wasn’t doing the same.
That didn’t make it any better.
Now, also looking back, I knew as I got deeper and deeper into things with Beck that I was trying to find what I’d hoped to get with Shy.
They both belonged to motorcycle clubs, for one.
And Beck looked a lot like Shy for another (which, not so by the by, was a lot like my dad looked). Beefier, maybe. A bit rougher around the edges. But I definitely had a type.
And then came Snapper.
God, Snapper.
Nope.
No.
No more men for me.
Seriously.
Discover the World of 1001 Dark Nights
Collection One
Collection Two
Collection Three
Collection Four
Collection Five
Collection Six
Collection Seven
Bundles
Discovery Authors
Blue Box Press
Rising Storm
Liliana Hart's MacKenzie Family
Lexi Blake's Crossover Collection
Kristen Proby's Crossover Collection
On behalf of 1001 Dark Nights,
Liz Berry, M.J. Rose, and Jillian Stein would like to thank ~
Steve Berry
Doug Scofield
Benjamin Stein
Kim Guidroz
Social Butterfly PR
Ashley Wells
Asha Hossain
Chris Graham
Chelle Olson
Kasi Alexander
Jessica Johns
Dylan Stockton
Richard Blake
and Simon Lipskar
Table of Contents
Book Description
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue