Page 95 of Inseparable
More bruising is evident on my shins, and I saunter into the bathroom to examine my reflection in the mirror. Christ, I look like shit. Mascara has clumped my lashes together, and smeared makeup across my cheeks makes me look like a scary extra from a horror movie. I scrub my face clean, washing carefully around the Band-Aid on my forehead. A large purplish bruise covers my chin and my left cheek, and I sigh. At least I can cover it with makeup and avoid having to cancel any gigs. I desperately need the cash.
I walk back into the kitchen and slam to a halt. Devin is standing in the middle of the space, scanning the room with a look of absolute horror on his face.
“What the hell are you doing here, and how did you get in?”
He lifts his head in my direction. “Another resident let me into the building, and your door was unlocked.”
“Fucking idiot, Scott,” I murmur.
“Jesus Christ, Ange. You’re covered in cuts and bruises.” His eyes roam my undie-clad body, and then he quickly looks away.
“See something you like, Devin,” I taunt in a singsong voice, tossing my tangled hair over one shoulder.
“Stop, Ange. Please.” He bends down, picking up my shirt and throwing it to me. “Put some clothes on.”
I take the shirt, sauntering toward him holding it in my hands. “What if I don’t want to?”
He places his hands on the dirty kitchen counter, leaning his head forward as he draws a sharp breath. Then he seems to think better of it, yanking his hands away and crossing to the sink to wash them.
“Still a clean freak,” I tease.
“Wouldn’t be hard in a place like this.” He dries his hands on the front of his jeans, scowling as he spots the open vodka bottle. I snatch it before he picks it up, hugging it to my chest possessively. He swallows hard, and I detest the look of pity in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re living like this. Your mother would be so upset if she knew.”
All teasing evaporates at the mention of her name. The vodka bottle drops, smashing into smithereens, but I barely notice. Stepping around the broken glass, as if on auto-pilot, I walk to his side, and grab his arm, attempting to pull him toward the door. “Get out. Get out and stay out. I mean it.”
“No.” He holds me by the shoulders. “I’m not leaving until this place is clean and you’ve eaten something.”
My eyes narrow as I spot the three grocery bags on the far counter. “What the heck is this? You don’t get to barge in here unannounced and buy me groceries and mention my mother and…” A rush of pain so extreme jumps up and waylays me. I try not to think of my mother, because it hurts too much. “Oh God.” I drop my head, hiding my face so he can’t see the tears brimming in my eyes.
“Ange, babe.” He sweeps hair back off my face, and I flinch.
“Don’t touch me! I’m not yours to touch.”
He takes a couple of steps back. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” I spit out, latching on to my anger, using it to dry my tears. “I’ve survived without you this far. I’m sure I’ll manage to get through the rest of the day.” I’m acting like a bitch, but I have no choice. I can’t let him get to me. I can’t let him back in. As it is, looking up at his sad, sorrowful face is doing a number on my fragile, vulnerable heart. I need some distance. “I’m going to take a shower, and you better be gone by the time I get out.”
Of course, he’s still here when I reappear in the kitchen a half hour later. If I’m being honest with myself, I knew he would be. Devin’s always been a stubborn motherfucker, and he’s never liked anyone telling him what to do. My hair is damp, falling in loose waves down my back. I’ve put some makeup on, managing to conceal the hideous bruising on my face. I’d like to say I feel more human, but I still feel like death warmed up. I’m wearing skinny jeans and a baggy T-shirt belonging to Scott. It was the only clean top I could find, but, watching the scowl deepen on Devin’s face as he notices the shirt, I’m glad I had no other options.
My stomach rumbles at the delicious smells filtering through the air. “Sit and eat,” he demands in a gruff voice, setting a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast down on the clean kitchen table. My brows climb up to my hairline as I scan the kitchen. Every surface is clean and tidy, the glass debris has been swept up, and two bags of trash are knotted and resting by the front door. I’m reluctantly impressed, not that you’d know it by my face.
My mouth waters as I debate throwing the plate in his face. Hunger wins out, and I tuck in, shoveling the food in my mouth like I haven’t eaten in a year.
“Take it easy, baby doll. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”
I slam my knife and fork down, chewing ferociously until my mouth is empty. “You don’t like people telling you what to do and neither do I, so quit it with the motherly routine. And don’t call me that.”
“Why not, baby doll?” His trademark smug grin makes an appearance, and I want to ram my fist in his mouth.
“Because I never liked being counted as one of your whores.”
He leans forward, his eyes blazing with fire. “Firstly, I never slept with whores. I hooked up with some girls in high school, but my rap sheet is a lot less full than most gave me credit for. And, secondly, the only person I have ever called baby doll is you.”
“Well, good for you Mr. Squeaky Clean Detective.”
He plops into the seat beside me, crossing one delectable leg over his knee as he silently fumes. I shovel food in my mouth, smirking. He watches me eat, making me hugely uncomfortable. His presence seems to crowd my tiny kitchen, and I’m acutely conscious of his broad chest and the way his jeans hug his body in all the right places. His scent swirls around me, bringing me back in time, making me wish things were different. Wish I was different. That I’d been strong enough at the time to do the right thing. That we were in a different place right now.
But we’re not.
