“Since when has Saturday’s been sinful? Did I miss the memo?”
“No,” she says, blowing out a frustrated breath. “My therapist… I mean my friend,” she quickly corrects, “… suggested it.”
She diverts her eyes away from me again. “She suggested you do sinful things on Saturdays?” I ask, intrigued.
“Not every Saturday.”
“Okay,” I reply, playing along.
I can think of plenty of sinful things I’d like to do to her right now.
“The first Saturday of every month, if you must know.” Her attitude returns. I like her fiery side.
“So, your therapist… I mean your friend… encourages you to do sinful things on the first Saturday of every month.”
She sounds like a good therapist.
I may need to make an appointment to see her.
She fights a grin as her eyes drop back to the sidewalk. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”
“Why would she suggest that? And what other sinful things do you do besides eating donuts? Which is pretty badass, I might add. Does she make you rob banks, steal cars… mug old ladies?”
“No,” she says, laughing. Her face lights up when she smiles, revealing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth, and for the second time this morning, she steals all the air from my lungs. “I don’t do anything illegal. I just eat and drink what I like on those days.” She shrugs. “I let my hair down, you could say. You know… try and be more carefree.”
“Like deep throating stranger’s thumbs?”
“Yeah, like that,” she says, again fighting a smile.
“Do you do that often?”
She clears her throat. “No, you were my first.”
Good answer.
I like that I was her first.
Our eyes lock as we stand there, staring at each other. Something shifts. There’s a weird kind of pull gravitating between us. I’m even entertaining the idea of asking her if she’d like to grab some breakfast with me.
I don’t date.
Not anymore.
She’s not the kind of woman I’d usually go for anyway. Don’t get me wrong, she’s stunning, but underneath her fiery attitude, I can see she’s timid. She has an innocence about her, and I’m an asshole—a ruthless bastard—and if she knows what’s best for her, she’ll stay the hell away from me.
Run sweet-thing, run.
She lifts her slender arms, running the palms of her hands nervously over her slicked-back hair. She feels the spark too, I can tell. The sleeves of her top ride up slightly, and my eyes zero in on the tiny white scars sitting at the base of each wrist. Two perfectly straight lines that stand out against her bronzed, sun-kissed skin. And just like that, my somewhat promising morning turns to shit in an instant.
It’s like a sucker punch to the gut.
Bile rises in my throat as images of Anastasia’s lifeless body lying on my bathroom floor flash through my mind. The metallic scent of her blood filling my nose, making my stomach churn. Its deep red color only accentuated against stark white tiles, and her equally pale skin—the razor still clutched between her fingers.
My nostrils flare.
“Fuck,” I say as my breathing becomes rapid, and my heart thumps furiously against my ribcage.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Bending, I place my hands on my legs, trying to fight off the panic attack I know is coming. It’s been a while since I’ve had one. I honestly thought I’d outgrown them.
I guess not.
“Are you okay?” She steps forward, gently wrapping her fingers around my elbow.
My eyes dart up to her as I struggle to breathe. Pins and needles course down my arms and legs. I’m teetering on the edge, and I know I’m about to fall.
“All the color has drained from your face.” There’s concern in her voice as she speaks, and I hate that.
Christ, not here, not now.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say as I shake out of her grip and rub the heel of my palm across my chest, trying to relieve the crushing weight that’s now settled there.
Is life trying to tell me something? It’s like déjà vu at its fucking worst.
Turning, I hastily start moving, placing one foot in front of the other because, at this moment, it’s all I can do. The darkness is threatening to pull me under, and I need to get away before I completely lose my shit in front of her.
I don’t know her story and frankly, I don’t want to.
This situation is way too close to home for me.
Fuck, I need a drink.
Chapter Two
EMMA
“I don’t think so,” Carla says, pushing me back inside my bedroom. “You’re not wearing that.”
“Why not?” I protest.
“Because you look like you’re going to friggin’ church… with your grandma.”
When I moved into this apartment two years ago, it only took Carla and me a few days to strike up a friendship. We’ve been practically inseparable ever since. I grew up in Utah, and she’s originally from Temecula, California. Although she still resides in the same state, like me, she was looking for a fresh start. That’s how we ended up neighbors. We’re as different as chalk and cheese, but our union has turned out to be a match made in heaven. Carla is the kind of friend I’ve always dreamed of having, and she’s become like a sister to me.
Glancing down at the simple, loose-fitting black dress that stops just above my knees, I sigh. I like this dress, but she’s right, although I’d never admit that to her.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I snap, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, pleassse.” She drags out the word as she rolls her eyes, and I giggle. “Wait right here.”
Carla rushes out of my room, and when I hear the front door close behind her, I know she’s going next door to raid her closet. I nervously chew on my fingernail as I await her return. She’s a full foot shorter than me and probably two cup sizes smaller, so I know whatever she comes back with, my body is going to be hanging out all over the place. I can guarantee she’s going to transform me from a wallflower into a damn hooker within minutes.
Carla’s beautiful—sexy as hell—but she also has the confidence and outgoing personality to match. Her look is unique, a cross between a Hollywood starlet and pinup model from an era long gone by, with flawless makeup, ruby red lips, and her soft vintage curls pinned on top of her head. She also has tattoos—a lot of them. Both her arms are covered in full sleeves of colorful ink. They suit her, but it’s a look I could never pull off.
I hate drawing attention to myself, which is something she attracts wherever we go. I’d rather blend into the crowd than stand out. Standing out only gets you in trouble.
“Pig, oink-oink.” The hairs on the back on my neck stand on end, and a chill runs down my spine as those words replay in my head. It’s been years since anyone has said that to me, but I still can’t seem to let them go. They haunt me. I’m no longer that chubby girl, and I doubt I’ll ever be her again. I work hard to keep in shape, and I count every calorie that goes into my mouth. Every single one. Well, except on Sinful-Saturdays. It’s the only day I don’t deprive myself of anything.