Beautiful Scars

by Shiloh Walker

  “Leave me alone. Last night is over.”

  He caught her arm and jerked her to a stop and then groaned as she stumbled in her heels. Steadying her, he reached up to touch her cheek and it was a blow to the heart when she turned away, averting her face before he could make contact. “Hell, Chaili, you know what an asshole I can be when I don’t think through every fucking thing that comes out of my mouth,” he whispered. “You used to tease me about it all the time…”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “I know. Like I said, it’s not an issue. Over and done. Now let me go.”

  “Let me take you home.”

  “No. I’ll call a cab or walk. It’s not far. I need some air anyway.”

  “I want to drive you home,” he said. Hell, he was edging too damn far into desperation territory here, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He was desperate. Ready to beg, if he had to.

  “I already said no.” Her voice was flat, firm. And when she tipped her head back to glare at him, there was a harsh glint in her eyes. “And if you don’t let me go right now, you’re going to be very, very sorry.”

  “I’m not ready to let you go…” Hell. He’d just discovered this part of himself. Of them and she wanted him to walk away because he was an asshole?

  Her eyes flicked over to the side and her mouth curved. “Think it through, Marc. I’m getting ready to piss you off so bad.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he glanced over.

  Awww. Shit. There was a news truck parked less than thirty feet away. In front of one of the local music stores too. She wouldn’t. Okay, maybe she would. But there was a chance nobody would notice, right? “Chaili…”

  “One.”

  “You’re being…” Snapping his mouth shut, he bit back anything he could say that would make things any worse than he’d already made them. “Can we maybe just rewind things? Go back to before we woke up? Please?”

  “Two.”

  Letting his hand fall away from her arm, he backed away a step. “This isn’t done, damn it. I get it…you’re mad at me. I know you well enough to know that.”

  “No, you don’t,” she whispered, lowering her head.

  Finally, she looked back at him and for a moment he saw something other than that blank, smiling mask she’d been showing him all damned morning. It was the pain he’d glimpsed in her eyes. Right after he’d fucked things up. “If you knew me all that well, you’d know I’m not pissed.” Her gaze roamed over his face and she went to turn away.

  His heart stuttered and then stopped beating when she paused, whirled back around and came up to him, cupped the back of his head. As her lips crushed to his, he went to grab her.

  But she was gone in the next breath, striding down the sidewalk, and she didn’t look back.

  Chaili hadn’t been lying about the project she needed to get done.

  It was a major one, and the deadline was two weeks away. But she’d get it done within another two or three days. So she didn’t go home and get right to work.

  She’d planned on it.

  But when she let herself into the little apartment above Shera’s garage, adamantly telling herself, I won’t cry, I won’t cry, I won’t cry…she saw the check. Her share of the money from her companion appointment. That was how Shera liked to label them. Kept it all nice and impersonal.

  Four hundred dollars—her cut from the thousand Shera had received. Four hundred bucks for what was supposed to be a few hours at a party. Not bad. Not that Chaili had even wanted the damn money anyway, but now she felt nauseated.

  Ignoring the check, she stalked into her bedroom, jerked off the dress and kicked it and the heels into a corner. Her feet were killing her—walking had been just plain stupid and it was close to three miles from the point where Marc had pulled off the interstate. She’d ended up calling a cab but not soon enough. Her feet felt like somebody had pulverized every last bone.

  Wiggling into a pair of slim black jeans, she tugged on a loose, cowl-necked shirt and slid on a pair of her nicer sandals. The things were old. Most of her nice stuff was. She couldn’t afford the good stuff anymore, but that was okay. Sooner or later, she liked to tell herself. Sooner or later…

  Once she’d changed, she stormed back into the kitchen, shoved the check into her pocket and dug up the keys to the car Shera let her use. Shera had two of them. One year, Marc had given her a sporty little Roadster for a Christmas present, so the practical SUV Shera had paid off mostly sat unused. Chaili knew the truth of it, although Shera would deny it.

  Shera kept it around so Chaili could use it, and it was a scrape on Chaili’s pride too. There were so many of them over the past few years, so damn many.

  But this wouldn’t be.

  It took thirty minutes to get to Escortè and she made the entire drive dry-eyed and clearheaded. She’d known what she was getting into when she insisted on doing the date with him. Maybe she should have pushed harder. Insisted that she not sign the fucking contract, or maybe even just called Marc, told him she’d like to go out with him.

  She’d known what she was getting into—she’d signed that damn contract. And maybe it had been laid out to protect him, but it had screwed her. She should have realized how he’d perceive it and argued harder, or just said screw it.

  Now it was done and even if he tried to insist he didn’t mean it as he’d said it, it was still an ugly, awful wound inside her. One she’d have to come to grips with, somehow.

  First, though. This.

  Get through this, go home. Maybe get drunk. Cry in a hot tub of water. Sleep it off. And tomorrow, she’d get back to real life. Hell, if she could afford it, she’d take a few days off…

  Wait a minute.

  The cabin.

  Gina had been inviting her up to the cabin. One of the designers she knew had a cabin about an hour away from Chicago and was always inviting Chaili to come up there when she decided to head out. If she remembered right, she’d seen a tweet from Gina about heading up to her place…

  Yeah. She was going to see if Gina was up there. And if so? She’d go crash with a friend for a few days. Lick her wounds. She could still work up there, do what she needed to do. And get away.

  Sounded like a plan.

  With that in mind, she shoved through the door to Escortè. Shera was there, in the client seating area, going over a file with Brienne, one of the office assistants.

  They kept a skeleton staff on weekends, usually one of the assistants and a personal companion specialist—another of Shera’s labels. But there were only two of the “specialists”. Shera and Deana. And Deana was out on maternity leave so Shera was working a lot of extra time lately.

  Shooting Brienne a quick look, she focused her attention on Shera and then stormed into the big office that Shera claimed as her own.

  Seconds later, the door shut.

  “You don’t look happy,” Shera said quietly.

  “Tear up the contract.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the check. “I don’t want this, either. I never wanted it. Do something with it. Donate it to the shelter you sponsor or something.”

  Slowly, Shera reached out and took the check. “You could use the money, sweetie.”

  “I don’t need the fucking handout. I don’t need charity. I don’t want the money,” Chaili said slowly, enunciating each word. “Either take it, or I’ll cash it, come back here with the money and super glue all over that pretty glass table out there in front.”

  Shera sighed, folded it in half and dropped it on her desk. “I’ll make a donation in your name then.”

  “You can make it in the name of Peter Pan and Captain Hook for all I care. Just don’t let me see that damn thing again. And tear up the fucking contract.”

  Spinning on her heel, she headed to the door.

  “Chaili, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I’m done with this and if that idiot brother of yours comes by, tell him I’m dead.” She glanced over her shoulder as she said it and watched as
Shera went pale.

  “That’s not funny.”

  Well, damn. Now she was upsetting her friend, who hadn’t really done anything. Apparently that foot-in-mouth thing Marc had was contagious. “I’m sorry. Look, just… I can’t talk to him, okay?”

  She turned to go but Shera caught her arm.

  “Marc already called. He wants you to go out tonight. He…ah. Well, he told me not to tell you who was picking you up, either. He seemed really determined.” Shera grimaced. “I told him I didn’t know if you were free or not and I’d have to get back to him.”

  “Tell him hell hasn’t frozen over, so the answer is no.” Curling her hand into a fist, Chaili stared at the back of the door. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “What happened?” Shera rested a hand on her arm, leaned in.

  That silent, comforting presence was something that just about broke her. Shera was the one who’d been there, all those months. When she’d been so scared…when everybody else just kinda…disappeared.

  “I slept with him. Stayed the night.” Woodenly, she whispered, “I slept with him, Shera.”

  “You slept with Marc…”

  “Yes.”

  “Now you’re running.” Shera winced. “I knew this would happen. Marc has… Ah…”

  As Shera opened and closed her mouth, struggling for the words, Chaili started to laugh. It was like the cries of the damned and desperate, painful and sharp. “Oh, Shera. If you’re trying to delicately ask if I’m freaked about the fact that Marc has a kinky streak, please don’t. I…” She stopped, made herself breathe. Then she had to rub a hand over the ache in her heart as she realized what an ugly bitch this was turning out to be.

  A guy who felt like he was her match, in every damn way. And he turned out to be the man she’d loved for…well. Forever. She’d run into a bad marriage just to try and see if she couldn’t forget about him, and what a mess that had been.

  And now this…

  Rubbing a finger over her ring, she thought about the things she hadn’t shared with Shera. So many parts of her life, she’d shared…but not that. At the time, it had seemed too private. Then, she was too hurt. Then, it just didn’t matter.

  Sadly, she looked up at Shera. “I’m not freaked. I’m pissed. After the most amazing night of my life, he tells me…’well, I got my money’s worth.’ He called me a whore, Shera. I love him… He gave me the best night of my life. Then he called me a whore.”

  “You dumb ass.”

  Marc jumped up at the sound of his sister’s voice. He moved so abruptly, he ended up knocking over the piano bench and didn’t even care. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

  “Tell her what…oh, you mean about the lame-ass plan to take her out tonight?” Her lip curled. “Yes. I told her. She’s otherwise engaged.”

  “Damn it, Shera!”

  “Like it would matter.” She planted her hands against his chest and shoved him. “You son of a bitch, how could you say that to her?”

  “Aw, shit.” Turning away from her, he hooked a hand over the back of his neck and stared out over the water. “She told you.”

  “What in the hell do you expect? She’s my best friend. Although, seriously, I was expecting to hear that she was freaked out over your inner-sex-fiend deal, but hell, she really got off on that. But you called her a fucking whore?”

  Spinning around, he stalked up to her and poked his finger against her shoulder. “I did not. I was nervous as hell, and I said something about getting my money’s worth, but I did not call her a whore, nor do I think that.”

  “That’s how you made her feel,” Shera said quietly. Shaking her head, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “Here. She won’t want this. You can keep it. Maybe you’ll learn to pull your head out of your ass one of these days.”

  “I’ve been trying to do that for thirty-eight years. I speak and dumb shit comes out of my mouth. The only time I can do things right is when I play music or sing,” he pointed out, looking down to see the white envelope she was holding out for him. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a thank you note from the lady who took the money at the shelter where I help out a few times a month. Chaili wouldn’t take the money for the contract last night and she asked if I’d donate it someplace for her.”

  Frowning, he stared at the card, his mind rolling back. Can’t afford to lose that account… Plus, other things. Her working when he’d come over to visit. Even at two or three in the morning, no matter how tired she seemed. “Doesn’t she kind of need the money? Isn’t that why she’s doing the companion thing?”

  “She’s not doing the companion thing,” Shera said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I made her sign the damn contract. She asked why you’d come by and I told her. She said she’d go out with you. She didn’t even want to do the contract, take the money, none of it.”

  A sick feeling settled in his gut. Cold wrapped around his heart. “Why did she want to…?”

  “Go out on a date with my big brother?” Shera asked sweetly. She just stared at him. “You used to be halfway smart about women. What in the hell happened? Did all the bad ones screw you up that much?”

  “Aww. Shit.” Crumpling the card in his fist, he hurled it across the room. “I’ve got to go talk to her.”

  “Not going to happen today. She’s not here. A friend of ours was going up to a cabin she has for a few days. Chaili has an open invite and decided to join her.”

  “I thought she had a deadline.”

  “She can work from anywhere, as long as she’s got Internet.” Shera shrugged. “She said she’d be back in a few days, but I know you…you’ll be gone before she gets back so you might as well just give it up.”

  Like hell.

  Chapter Six

  Project finished.

  It secured her a check that let Chaili pay the typical monthly bills, plus make another dent in the medical hell that was still eating her alive. Looking at the balances on those bills made her head ache. So she didn’t look. No reason to, anyway. She knew how much she owed. To the penny. And there were a lot of pennies.

  Jumping Jack Pratt, the guy who’d just signed that check, had also given her an invitation to a “little get together” he was having that weekend. He’d winked and mentioned the word contacts.

  Although the last thing she wanted to do was mingle, it couldn’t hurt to make a few contacts with a satisfied customer. And hey, if she was out there, trying to act all professional, then she wasn’t stuck in her apartment with a suitcase she still hadn’t unpacked, stuck there, thinking about last weekend, stuck there where she just might start to cry if she looked at any one spot too long, because damn it, she had little signs of him everywhere.

  Every damned CD.

  Pictures of her with him and Shera.

  She needed to do something about this, she realized… Of course, she needed to go to the party, but—

  “No. Now, before I change my mind,” she whispered. Grabbing a plastic crate, she dumped the CDs into it, pictures, everything that had anything to do with Marc. She had to cut this out of her, out of her heart, out of her soul, out of her life. It was going to be kind of like lancing a wound. It would hurt like hell, but she was already hurting. Once she did it and suffered through the initial pain, it would get better.

  She kept pieces of Marc around her because it made it easier to pretend. She lost herself in fantasies, or just let herself think about him more than she should. Even though she knew it was foolishness.

  There wasn’t ever going to be a them. Ever. And she’d known that. Really. She’d never expected them to have a night, much less anything more. She’d screwed up by trying to grab for a chance to have a real memory of just them. Only them. Like a pretend them. If she hadn’t done that, she could have happily existed forever in her little make-believe world, but she’d done it and now she had to deal with the consequences.

  The crate was overflowing as she pushed into Shera’s house. She dealt with the al
arm and grabbed a piece of paper, jotted a note.

  I’m clearing this stuff out. If you want the pictures, take them. I figured you could give the CDs and shit to the shelter. They probably need the music. Although maybe they can auction off the signed ones…I don’t know. Whatever you want to do with it. Was invited to a party @ J. Pratt’s house. Supposed to mingle, maybe make some more contacts for work. Later.

  Without letting herself look back at the bits and pieces of a dead dream, she reset the alarm and left. She needed to change. Figure out what she had in her wardrobe that would work for a summer “get together” for a rich, arrogant, son-of-a-bitch.

  Staring at the note, Marc called his sister. As soon as she came on the line, he demanded, “Who in the hell is J. Pratt?”

  “Ah…Marc?”

  “No. It’s the Easter Bunny. I heard you were good and I wanted to leave a present at your house. Hope you don’t mind I’m a few months late,” he said, staring at the crate in front of him. Normally, it made him feel damned weird to see shit in like in the house of somebody he knew.

  But this wasn’t just his career.

  He saw a stub from a show they’d all gone to see in high school. Springsteen. They’d snuck out, even though their folks would have killed them. Well, Marc and Shera’s mom would have. Chaili’s mom…she might have cared if she could have pulled herself out of a bottle.

  A poster from his first tour.

  A couple of T-shirts with the band’s logo on them.

  There was a strip of pictures, the kind where you had to wedge yourself into a photo booth. He remembered that. They’d taken it up on the pier, right before everything took off.

  She’d kept all of this.

  “J. Pratt, sis,” he said as he lifted the crate.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Probably Prattle Enterprises. That disc jockey guy who decided he’d start his own radio show after the station laid him off…? I think. And why are you asking?”

  J. Pratt.

  Disconnecting the phone, he headed to the front door. He only barely remembered to reset the alarm on his way out and he had to juggle to do it.