Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(28)

“What else am I supposed to do?”

He shrugs. “Forget about it.”

Those words are a slap to the face. I flinch.

“You’re still young,” he continues. “Start over, move on, build a new life. People do it all the time.”

Those are probably the cruelest words that have ever been spoken to me, and that’s saying something, considering the world I live in. Life stopped playing nice with me when I was just a kid, and I grew up fast after that... faster than a kid should ever grow up. But I never let it stop me, I never gave up, fighting to make a life for myself, a life of my own, building sand castles out of nothing that I could call home. It was all stolen from me, though, in the midst of a storm, and he tells me just to start over? To give up? To move on?

I don’t want to react. I don’t want him to know he’s getting to me. I’m not going to cry, that’s for sure, because Gabriel Jones isn’t worth a single f*cking tear. But the lump in my throat keeps growing and growing, my eyes stinging, and I know I need to go before he realizes he got to me.

I walk away, grabbing the office door and yanking it open, slamming it against the wall as I storm out. People stop what they’re doing, eyes flickering my direction, like the floor comes to a standstill at the commotion. I head for the elevator, slapping the button as I hazard a glance back at the judgmental faces.

“Oh, now you all want to look?” I shout as the elevator dings, opening. “You want me to bend over so the rest of you can take turns, let all of you brave boys in blue f*ck me a bit more?”

I step into the elevator and hit the button for the first floor, but before the door can close, whisking me away from this hellhole, Gabe steps in. The second we start moving, he slams his palm against the stop button, the elevator screeching to a halt. A loud buzzer goes off. I know they can hear it on all the floors. I can only imagine what they’re all thinking.

Probably that he’s f*cking me some more.

I reach past him, attempting to grab the button so we’ll start moving, but he blocks my hand, shoving me back against the side of the elevator.

“Pull the button back out,” I growl. “Now.”

“You need to calm down,” he says. “You’re making a scene.”

“Says the guy holding me hostage in an elevator.”

“Look, I know you’re upset, but you’re acting irrational.”

“Irrational?” I shove against him, trying to force him away from me. “Fuck you!”

He narrows his eyes when I kick him, since shoving him isn’t working. Okay, maybe that was irrational, assaulting a police officer, but whatever. He deserves it.

“We’re building a case,” he says. “You know that. We’ve been building a case for decades, Morgan. Yeah, you’re waiting, but it’s nothing compared to the time this department has put into this case. So I sympathize, I do, but we can’t jeopardize everything because of what amounts to a f*cking civil dispute!”

I blink a few times. I don’t even know what to say. He calls it a civil dispute, like it’s nothing more than a petty little squabble. I stay quiet, refusing to let him see how much that hurt me, and he pulls the button out so the elevator can move again.

Officer Rimmel looks up when I step into the lobby, her gaze flickering to where Gabe lingers. A look crosses her face, her eyes narrowing as they again seek me out, watching me pass. Jealousy, or maybe just disgust... I don’t know. Does it matter? She doesn’t know what it’s like to be me. She could never understand, so she can take that look and shove it up her snobbish ass.

It’s early evening, the air blistering as it approaches dusk. I pull my hood up before shoving my hands in my pockets. Keeping my head down, I cut around the side of the precinct, heading for the subway.

I slip through the small gathered crowd, squeezing into a spot along the back. The F train approaches after a few minutes and I step onto it, finding an empty seat toward the middle of the car.

The sun is setting by the time I make it back into the city, the train taking me straight to the Lower East Side. I walk the few blocks to my building, my head still lowered, despite no longer being in Brooklyn.

Because, when it comes down to it, nowhere is safe for me anymore… if I was ever really safe anywhere to begin with. I used to think I was, but then again, I used to believe a lot of things that were never true.

Like, that Santa Claus brought Christmas presents, and fairy godmothers were real, and good things happened to good people, and love was something everyone deserved.

I used to believe in big houses with white picket fences, in perfect families and happy endings. I used to think what was meant to be would inevitably find a way, but as the days go by, I start to wonder if maybe I’m just delusional. Maybe things only happen if you force life’s hand. You call life’s bluff and go all in, risking losing everything on the off chance that maybe you’ll win.

My stomach is twisted in knots and my lungs burn, every breath a chore. Physical pain has nothing on emotional torment. And at least once a week—once a f*cking week for the past nine months—I get that feeling in my chest, the feeling that tells me I’m somehow still alive, that my heart still exists, somewhere, continuing to beat, despite the fact that it had been brutally ripped out, stolen. Every time I go to Brooklyn, I’m reminded of the life I lost, and I hate it… I hate the feeling of helplessness, the reminder of the void, but I keep going, I keep enduring, I keep living… because the only thing worse than going to Brooklyn is me not going there.