“The charity ball is just weeks away. We need to find the perfect dress for you now,” she says and holds out her hand. I stand up, hesitant, because she’s never wanted to hold my hand. The last time I did, or even hugged her, was when I was eight, after the accident, and she couldn’t stop holding me. But when I get close to her, I see she’s holding out a black card. “Go and come back with an appropriate dress, please.” She looks me up and down and shakes her head. “And don’t disappoint me.” She doesn’t say it, but I can hear that last word whisper in the air—again.
***
“Can I maybe try something in the peach variety?” I shyly ask the woman helping me. I don’t even like the color peach, but my mother does, and if I can’t find anything that goes past my knees, I might as well try to get her approval through one of her favorite colors. The other being white, of course. And red. Anything that either makes her look powerful or is appeasing to her hawk-like eyes.
“Of course. I’ll be right back with a few options,” she says.
I unzip the soft blue dress and place it back on the hanger, then put it next to the others on the rack on the wall. They’re all different colors and styles, but none scream “the one.” Or at least “Mother will not scold you like a child.” I hate that I’ve slightly reverted back to how I was before, but what’s the point of standing up to her if there’s nothing to stand up for? I might as well let her make choices for me and let her wield me around a little. She’s actually been a little bit more lenient than before, which is saying a lot. Maybe getting my heart broken, though it was my fault, made her see that I actually have feelings. And although she blames me for it, she feels I should be given a little breathing space.
I remember telling her what I did. She wasn’t upset, not disappointed, because he was a punk and probably “deserved it.” She didn’t hold me while I broke down, didn’t tell me encouraging mom words. She did, however, tell me that now I didn’t have to worry about that “demon boy” anymore, even though I was the one who single-handedly destroyed everything, and that I could finally focus now that he wasn’t here to corrupt me any further. She only wished I hadn’t given my precious flower to him, because now I am tainted for my true soulmate—hand-picked by her, of course.
But I honestly didn’t expect anything else from her.
She only cared about my plans, and he was not in them. Now there were no chinks, no wrinkles—only perfection. Now, she could choose who’s ripe for the picking to play my husband and be on my case every minute of every day about college. And once I was done and finished with school, she’d let me work my dream career, then saddle me up with the best of the best, courtesy of those who roam the country club.
I bet she’d choose his mother based on the shiniest pearls…
My phone ringing snaps me out of my thoughts.
I rip my eyes from my petite figure and fiddle through my dress, finding my phone. I sit on the pink bench and answer, seeing it’s Mason.
“You finally got some air time from your boyfriend’s lips?” I tease.
“Ha-ha.” He laughs dryly, and I actually laugh. “I was just calling to check up on you. Have you found anything that wouldn’t make Ms. Dragon burn down Miami?” he jokes back, and it’s my turn to dry-laugh.
“No, I haven’t.” I huff and weave my fingers through my hair. “Since oxygen is getting back inside you, how about you ditch your boy and help your girl find a dress?”
“Sorry, girlie, I’m a little occupied at the moment,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Is that Liv?” I hear Mateo mumble.
“Hi, Mateo! Could you please release your boyfriend so he can help me shop?”
He hums. “Boyfriend? We haven’t talked about that yet…”
There’s a pause, then, “Liv,” a warning by Mason.
“Good luck with that. I’m sure I’ll find something. Have fun!” I quickly hang up the call and laugh into my hand. Oops…serves him right. He’s my best friend. And boy or not, he’s required to help me shop. I guess I’ll just pick out any dress at this point. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone or anything. I’ll be mostly surrounded by snooty rich people in tuxes and dramatic dresses with diamonds and feathers.
I slip into my dress and get into my sandals before stepping out of the dressing room. I catch Linda, the sweet lady with graying hair and cat-glasses, and tell her to leave the dresses on the door. I’d like to comb through the dresses out here on the rack, to see if maybe there was something I missed.
I am sorting through a rack with appropriate enough length dresses when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Olivia Westerfield, is that you?”
I don’t move, thinking maybe she’ll see how uncomfortable I am and leave. But then she calls my name again and giggles, and I know there is no way out of this.
I slowly turn around and give her a shaky smile. “Rose…so nice to see you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Grey
Punch.
Her big, blue eyes.
Whack.
Her heart-gripping smile.
Clunk!
Her…everything.
Everything about that freaking girl comes back in full force. From the way she frowns and plays with her charms when nervous or thinking to the way she is still so shy when seeing me naked or be the slightest bit sexual to her and that cutesy laugh and her giggle that stops the world for a second. Just for a split second, all the world’s problems and bullshit just stops…and it’s her. It’s all just…her. And everything is okay, and there is no worry, and my love for her is all-consuming, and I want to bathe in the sight of her.
“Fuck!” I kick the punching bag that is now on the floor. I hit it so hard it flew off its chains and is now lying on the ground. I kick it over and over and stomp on it. I imagine it is this fucking thing that has consumed me now. I’m it, I am a guy who loved until he couldn’t love anymore…and I’m the guy who is so fucking hurt that he feigns anger and hatred to said girl. If anything, I’m fucking sad. Sad because she was my everything, and I was ready to be and do anything for her. And she fucked it up, and now I’m just utterly broken in pieces, and no glue or other girl can fucking fix me.
That’s what makes me mad—that. That I’m affected by a girl I had no plans to fall in love with in the first place. That she can tape up my shattered heart and mind before I met her and just smash a baseball through it. It left me doubled over, reeling, confused, sad, angry, anxious—about every fucking emotion you could possibly think of.
I hate that she’s had that kind of control over me. The control that allows her to change my emotions with a snap of a finger or a smile on her lips or a glint in her cerulean eyes or a pout from her big, beautiful lips. I didn’t want, nor expect, anyone to have that much control over me. I would have killed for that girl, and it fucking scares me to think she had such a fucking leash on me. Like I was her goddamn pit bull, but I doubt she even knew that.
That’s why I need to distance myself from her. I just—I need to fucking think. But all I can ever think about is her. It’s like she’s branded in my skull, and I can’t get her removed. And she’s itching and irritating, because I just need to imagine those eyes watching me discreetly or memorize the way her plush lips felt pressed against mine. And then I find myself sexually frustrated, but also much more than that. I don’t know; it’s hard to explain.
What I do know is that I need to fight. I need to get this damn itch scratched. I need blood on my knuckles, and I need it right now.
“Who thinks they’re brave enough to go against me?” I holler, and guys stop punching dummies and talking. I slip into the boxing ring and hold out my arms, then yell, “Who thinks they can actually make it out unscathed?” I try my best to evil-eye everyone who dares look at me. Everyone in here are friends of David’s or just regular fighters, either practicing for the tournament or letting out steam like I am, but I have a truckload of steam bubbling in me. And I need
to let it out or I will lose my fucking mind.
“I know they call you the untouchable,” a guy with a buzz-cut and a scar deep in his right cheek says as he climbs up and slides under the ropes. I eye him up and down and examine how lean and kind of scrawny he is, but I know well enough to never underestimate a person based on their looks. When I was just starting out, I was a puny little shit, could barely hold my fists up without falling over. But I handed everyone their asses who went against me. “The ‘skull crusher’ and all, but…” He breathes through his teeth and shrugs, dragging his eyes up my naked chest to crack a mocking smile. “I don’t see anything but an angry kid.”
I laugh, and I see it puts him off. “They call me that for a reason.” I wink at him and hold up my boxing gloves. “Now, you wanna continue checking me out like the pansy you are…or are we going to fight?”
He snaps, and I know I hit a chord. He charges after me—first mistake. He attempts a right hook, but I dodge it and clock him in the head with my left hand. He stumbles back, and a small crowd has gathered and laughs. I laugh along with them and hop around, further pissing him off. He narrows his eyes and growls into his gloves.
God, do I love pissing people off…
“Come on, not-so-pretty boy,” I coo, making kissy faces at him.
He makes a battle cry before lunging forward. He gets me in the jaw and swings again with his right, but I grab it and twist it so he flips over, leaving his elbow on the verge of breaking. He cries out, and I laugh like the maniac I am, loving the pain I am inflicting. But since I don’t want to be disqualified from the tournament for breaking another participant’s arm, I let go and bounce around some more, hyped up and ready to see blood.
I am a predator, a shark, sniffing blood and turning into a fiend. Just a drop, I just need a single drop…
“Dare you to get rid of the cushions, princess,” I taunt him and watch as his eyes spark fire.
I take off my gloves and throw them to the side. I’m a fighter, not a fucking boxer.
He does the same, and I smirk.
He has no idea what’s coming…
He comes for me again, and I lean back when he throws his arm out. I duck and jab my fists rapidly in his sides, stomach, everywhere I can get my hands on him. He grunts and pushes me back. I stumble and begin to lunge forward when he knocks me back onto the mat. I groan briefly but quickly throw up my fists to block his attack. His rocky hands jab in my wrists over and over, and the pain is striking, gripping. But I grab one of his fists and throw my own across his jaw.
There is a definite crack, and I roar in laughter as he growls.
I punch his cheek and push against his shoulder. I am on top of him, pinning him down. He reaches up and moves his hips to push off, but I slap him and laugh when he looks at me like I’m crazy. I ball up my fists this time, and I punch him square in the mouth. Then the cheek. Then his nose. Then his eye. I aim for where it hurts the most.
“Is that all you got, pussy?” he screams, taunting me.
I pause, and I hear the crowd get quiet.
“You know, you’re right…” I let a wide smile take over my face, then I lose my shit.
I go wild, throwing my fist left and right, and I don’t stop to breathe. My lungs are running a marathon, my heart is bouncing on a trampoline, and my adrenaline is sprinting like it’s on the run. My eyes are open, noting every facial quirk he makes, and I smirk as a laugh escapes me. I feel like an animal, he’s been set free, and boy is he fucking pissed. I punch and punch and punch, and my knuckle bones are probably hidden just under the layer of blood on my face, but even the thought of seeing bones isn’t enough to stop me.
The crowd is going wild, some egging me on while others tell me to stop, that he’s had enough. But I see those whites in his eyes. I see an iris. His eyes are open, meaning he’s conscious. Well enough to feel every blow I can give him. And I’m not letting up until I feel satisfied. But something tells me when I feel satisfied, it’ll be too late…too bad I don’t give a shit. I need to let out this beast within me, and this is the best way. Plus, it sure is fun seeing him bleed…
“Grey! You got it, you got it! Get off!” I’m yanked back into the ropes. David looks at me like I’ve truly lost my mind. Maybe I have, and there is no “Grey” back. Only this…this thing that is vile and corrupt and blood-thirsty and not worthy of breathing. I am not worthy of breathing…
“I got him good, didn’t I?” I laugh lazily, watching as the guy is dragged off, his crew shooting me daggers. I push past David and stumble over to the rope facing them. “You guys want at it too? Come the fuck on, pussies! I’ll fuck every one of you up. Come on!” I scream at the top of my lungs, throwing my arms up. My chest rises and falls quickly, and I laugh as two rush over to me.
But before they can do anything, some of David’s friends step in their way.
“He’s lost his fucking mind!” David apologizes for me, and I roll my eyes. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me to the exit. I slip out and whirl around to find David glaring at me with his hands on his hips, like he’s disappointed. Well, join the club, buddy. “What the absolute fuck is wrong with you? You can’t just go around beating people up like that!”
“It’s my job!” I counter.
“No, your job is to fight and train—not beat someone to the verge of death…not again!”
I push him and scream, “Don’t bring that shit up!”
“Why not? You were insane then, and you’re acting even crazier now!” He steps up to me.
I roll my eyes and look away. “Stop calling me those things, because they aren’t even remotely true!”
“Then what do you call a guy who doesn’t stop throwing punches even after the other guy is unconscious, huh?” He clicks his tongue and pushes my chest. I feel my nose flare as I face him, but he doesn’t look intimidated. “You’re reverting back to that guy you were six years ago. Don’t do it, Grey. Stay here.” He gets in my face and forces me to look at him. I am a few inches taller than him, but he levels his eyes with me and firmly says, “Do not be that Grey, not again. I pulled you out of that shit town for a reason. For you to get out of that life. For you to have a better future.”
I am really tired of hearing that term “a better future.” It ruined things between me and my girl.
“Fuck the future,” I say through my teeth, smacking his hands away, but he doesn’t back away. Doesn’t even flinch.
Over the years, he’s coached me, and we’ve fought and had our rough times, so he knows how to deal with me, physically and mentally. He’s like a Grey whisperer, but Liv also used to be one too, and look how that turned out. Only difference is, he’s like my brother—he is my brother. And I know he knows what’s best for me, always has, but I don’t want to know of his prophecy for me or his good advice.
“Don’t say that,” he says, sounding hurt.
I throw up my bloody hands. “It hasn’t done any good for me, so why not give up? Why not live in the present and stay there?”
“Because the future is just around the corner…” He sighs and shakes his head. “And you had a great one…”
“And then my girl, well, turns out she wasn’t mine at all…” I trail and stare hard at the ground. I feel my pocket buzz, and already knowing who it is, I tug my lower lip, feeling dread in the bottom of my stomach. “So, fuck the future, right? I’ll see you later.” I sound and feel defeated.
“Grey, wait—”
I’m already gone before he can finish his sentence.
Chapter Twenty
Liv
She is so gorgeous, all of my pent-up anger toward her for stealing what was never mine vanishes into thin air. Being angry at this girl is stupid, in itself anyway. What Grey did to her was so tragic, so scarring—I shouldn’t feel angry at her for finding it in herself to let go of a grudge that was probably messing with her head. As for why she’s back with Grey, she’s either lost her marbles and is looking to get hurt again or she’s found
a way to forgive the unforgivable. If so, I wish she could teach Grey, so he’d forgive me, so I won’t have to deal with the crap I go through every morning, and we can be together again, and I can finally breathe.
But for the moment, I can’t—breathe, that is. I am stuck in a never-ending loop of anxiety and seconds that turn into eons of never catching a breath. It is the most tiring thing in the world. But I try, moment after moment, breath after breath, and for the moment, I am able to stand upright and not erupt into a ball of tears. I am able to stand in front of my ex’s ex turned girlfriend. And I am able to return half the smile she’s giving me, acting like I’m not running high on a million of emotions inside of me.
“Rose…how are you?” I ask, like I truly care. I don’t. I want to run and hide behind an array of fluffy prom dresses.
“Fine, thanks for asking.” She flips her curly red hair over her shoulder, and I nearly gawk at how perfect she is. Straight white teeth, sparkling blue eyes, dainty freckles—she’s like a Barbie doll. But despite the plastic, she actually harbors traits, one of them being kind. “How about you? You didn’t seem all that well the last time we, uh, bumped into each other.”
“Oh…” I trail off, thinking of what to say.
Last time we saw each other, I was having a mental breakdown. And I literally mean mental—I may have looked okay on the outside with a planned smile here and there, but I was losing my mind on the inside. I felt like there were a million little people running around throwing files around, helping me to speak and stay upright. Without them, I think I would have collapsed to the ground in a monsoon of tears. It would not have been a pretty sight.
Grey: The Retribution (Spectrum Series Book 3) Page 13