Beneath These Scars (Beneath #4)(51)

But, goddamn it, now that I had the thought in my head, I couldn’t stop seeing Yve in my house, pregnant with my kid. She’d be a fiercely protective mother, standing between her child and any potential threat. She was a lioness—proud, strong, and devastating to anyone who crossed her. The boy in me, the one who’d lost his mother and faced the wrath of his father without protection, wanted that for my children.

And yet, Yve wasn’t the kind of woman I should want. I should be picking out a former debutante, a Junior Leaguer, someone who would cement my place in society. That would be the good business move.

I kept swimming, I had no idea for how long, and part of me kept hoping to hear the click of Yve’s heels on the tile floor. But it never came. So I swam until my arms, chest, and legs burned.

As I climbed out of the pool and surveyed the empty room, I decided that whatever it was we’d been doing, it was done.





I TOSSED AND TURNED FOR hours. This time it wasn’t fear of Jay or the bogeyman that kept me up. No. It was the look on Titan’s face when he’d thrown his shirt at me and told me to find my own way out.

I’d watched from the hallway while he’d gone lap after lap like a man possessed. I had more sense than to walk into a lion’s den, and that was exactly what the pool room had resembled. I had one skill honed above all others—self-preservation—and every instinct had told me approaching him was not in my best interest. Whatever he was trying to swim an ocean’s length to be free of, it was bigger than what had happened between us.

I didn’t need that kind of baggage in my life. I didn’t need someone else’s problems when I could barely cope with my own. Like my long-lost ex-husband who might or might not be out to get me.

I rolled over again and stared at the clock.

Five a.m. It was a decent hour of the morning. Late enough that I could get up without having to admit that I’d been chased from my bed by bad dreams and monsters. So I did. And that was when I smelled it.

Gas.

What the hell?

Instinct borne of nothing more than that self-preservation I prized so dearly sent me into action. I threw on jeans and a shirt and shoved my feet into flip-flops, then grabbed my purse off the table and ran out the door. I dialed my cell phone as I headed toward my parking spot.

But I didn’t make it to the alley on two feet. No, I made it there on my hands and knees as the force of the building behind me exploding heaved me to the ground.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I chanted over and over again. I looked over my shoulder and brilliant orange—a color I’d never in a million years forget—blazed high into the gray sky.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I tried to push myself to my feet, but my arms shook too badly, so I settled for rolling over onto my ass. I wasn’t the only person who lived in that building. Mrs. Jones, the elderly woman downstairs, and Astrid Thomas, a middle-aged postal worker, were also still inside.

Tears burned down my face as I pushed myself to my feet and ran toward the flames, but arms caught me before I made it two steps.

“Whoa, girl. You need to stay the hell back. Fire department is coming.”

It was a man’s voice in my ear, and I didn’t know who he was and didn’t care. I babbled incoherently about the other women, and he just held me against his chest and rocked me until sirens pierced the morning air.




It didn’t dawn on me that I was homeless and owned nothing until the firemen sat me down with volunteers from the Red Cross. My brain hadn’t made it that far. I was still seeing the flames and feeling the heat on my back. I was too busy being grateful that I was alive.

“Do you have somewhere you can go, dear?” the volunteer asked. “If you don’t, that’s fine. We can put you up for three nights at a motel here in town. We’ll also help you get started on replacing some things by giving you a debit card with some money on it.”

“I’ve got some money.”

The kind woman, Donna, patted my hand. “I know, dear, but it’s going to go much faster than you think, and this isn’t much anyway. We wish it could be more, but a couple hundred dollars is all we’re able to allot you because you’re single.”

“It’s fine. I don’t need it.”

“Just take it.”

I was too exhausted to argue with her. A sleepless night plus the physical, mental, and emotional trauma of the morning had taken its toll.

I just focused on the positive side—I wasn’t dead and no one else was either. Numb, I nodded as I learned that Mrs. Jones was in Florida visiting her sister. She’d left four days ago and I hadn’t noticed. Astrid had quit the postal service and taken a job working third shift at a factory. Again, I hadn’t noticed. But both those things had saved their lives. Only dumb luck and the grace of God had saved mine.

Donna and her husband—the volunteer team assigned to me—went through the whole spiel about if there was anything salvageable, there were places that specialized in items damaged by smoke, and if I had medications or glasses that had been lost in the fire, a Red Cross nurse would help me get them replaced.

But other than three nights at a motel and the debit card—both of which were more than I expected—I was basically on my own. They gave me a list of social welfare agencies in the parish that could offer assistance, but I wasn’t going to be the girl living off taxpayers and the charity of others when I could find a way to provide for myself. My mama had always been so proud that our family line had never been the welfare kind. I wasn’t sure when she decided being a mistress was more respectable, but it was certainly an older profession.