Page 39 of Battle Scars

“You did hurt me, Navarro. And I might be slow to learn lessons, but I do learn them.”

“That’s different—” I start but she doesn’t let me finish.

“It’s really not,” she says.

“Let me in, Adrienne. Open the door.”

“No,” she repeats. “I can’t risk it, no matter how much I want to.”

“Please, baby. Open the fucking door for me. I need to hold you.”

“And I need you to leave,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word. “Just go already!”

I’ve done enough damage for tonight, but tomorrow, we will fix things. Because whatever this is, I’m not ready to let her go. Even if I should, I just can’t.

SEVENTEEN

THE DAMES

Ican do this. I have to do this. I’m playing a dangerous game.

I press the flat of my palm to my belly to quell the butterflies that flit and flap around inside me as I stare into the dressing room mirror.

This is my part to play.

To show the world I can be both a sex symbol and a champion.

I can’t just show up in jeans and sunglasses and smile at the crowd like men do. I have to catch their eye first and then show them I deserve a seat at the table of the world’s elite racers.

A tiny pair of red boy shorts with a checkered flag waistband covers my behind—barely. I think they might be at least two sizes too small. I looked for a tag, but it had been cut out.

A black satin push-up bra has my breasts hoisted so high I feel like I’m about to suffocate. And last, a cropped red jacket in the same red as the shorts, with a stripe of checkered flag material down the length of each arm. I pull the zipper up to cover my breasts and step into a pair of sky-high, red patent leather platform pumps. They’re stripper shoes—no need to sugarcoat things.

My dark hair is curled and fluffed in a just-been-fucked kind of way, although I’ve never looked this good after being with a man. The makeup around my eyes is dark and sultry, and my lips are slathered in a glossy red. My nails are filed, sharpened, and lacquered a bright red to match. Mostly, I don’t think I look like me at all.

Some other part of me is hoping to… shake some things up.

I square my shoulders and step away from the mirror. I cross the room and push open the dressing room door. When I step out, I’m grabbed from behind, a strong hand wrapping around my upper arm.

“You are playing with fire,” Gabe growls in my ear.

“I am doing what needs to be done and nothing less.” I pull away, toss my hair over my shoulder, and walk into the photoshoot.

“There she is,” the photographer calls out. He’s kind of creepy in a way that sets my teeth on edge, but then again, his job is an interesting one. He spends his days photographing women in the nude, and I don’t often spend my days naked.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Great,” he says before I’ve even finished answering. “Let’s get started.”

He poses me this way and that. The clicks of the camera’s shutter and pops of the flash sound throughout the room, even though it is full to the brim with people.

“Good. Good,” he says from behind the camera. “Now unzip the jacket.”

My hands shake as I slowly raise them up to tug the small metal pull on the front of the jacket. It’s already so small and cropped that it only barely covers my breasts and arms, so the change won’t be a stark one.

“That’s it,” the photographer drawls. “Look over here.”