Page 30 of Battle Scars

“Thanks.” I laugh awkwardly. We’re not the most emotionally forward family and this has been more than we can usually handle.

“Good luck this season,” she adds, showing me who she truly is. “It’s always great to see a member of the sisterhood beat the boys.”

“Yeah,” I reply with a smile.

“Now, now,” Dad says jokingly.

“Meh, you had your turn, old man,” I tease. “It’s ours now.”

“I can’t wait,” he says, and Kimber and I both hear the honesty ringing out in his words.

He leads me backstage to have our mics removed, and then we climb into our cars and head back to San Diego.

Gabe and I are silent the whole drive back to my house. The minute we hit the highway, I slip my heels off my feet. My jacket is already in the back seat of his SUV, secured in its dry cleaning bag. I tip my seat back a bit and watch Southern California pass by.

It’s dark when we pull into my driveway, and I all I want is a bath and some wine. I’m not sure how much more I can take rolling off of him. Our relationship was bad before the locker room, but now it’s almost unbearable. He’s seething every time I see him, and I don’t know what to do, because so am I. Every time he walks into a room, it’s like someone flips a switch and lights me up from the inside. I fucking hate it. I want to scratch his eyes out as much as I want him to fuck me.

I don’t want to want him, but I do, and it fucking hurts.

He shuts off the SUV, and by now, I know the drill—I follow his rules quietly so I can avoid another confrontation with Gabe, because the sharp edge of his tongue is lethal. He climbs out of the vehicle, and I follow out my door, waiting for him to unlock the house. Then I stand just inside while he checks every room for intruders.

“It’s clear,” he says when he comes back down the stairs.

“Thanks,” I respond quietly, avoiding his eyes. “Have a good night, Gabe. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I walk past him to head up to my bedroom for that bath. Once I know he’s settled for the night, I might come back down for a bottle of wine. The tension in my neck and shoulders is killing me. I just want out of these clothes. With or without the wine, it hardly matters. I just need to get out of his presence.

“So who’s real?” he asks snidely.

“What?” I rub my temples.

I’m not sure what he’s asking, and I don’t have it in me to play his dangerous games. I don’t know why he hates me so much and likely, I never will. And I can be just fine with that. Honestly, I can’t wait for this weird and terrifying period of my life to be over, even if my career ends with it. I’m not sure how much more pressure I can survive.

“Which version is the real you?” he asks again. “The sex kitten or the daddy’s girl?”

“Both.” I shrug as I answer.

He wants me in some neat little box so he can file me away. Well fuck that. Because I’m messy and a little wild, but I’m so much more.

“Or maybe they’re both an act, fresa,” he says as he prowls toward me.

“What do you care?” I ask him. “What do you want from me, Gabe? I’m tired of playing these games.”

“Which one are you?” he pushes.

“I told you. I’m exactly what you see,” I say tiredly.

“Bullshit, fresa,” he replies, calling me the name I don’t understand again.

And I just snap.

“You know what? Fuck you, Gabe,” I bite out.

“I’d rather fuck you.”

“What?” I gasp, but it’s too late.

Gabe pulls me into his arms and crushes his mouth down to mine. The kiss is raw and it’s real, all teeth and lips and tongues, both of us never getting our fill of the other as we rip and pull at clothing right there in the entryway of my house.