Rough Ride (Chaos #5)(6)

He put his hand over hers, which was actually at the call button.

She pulled it free, taking the button with her, and her mouth again got tight.

He didn’t push that.

He tried another tack.

He shot her a grin. “C’mon, Scully. It’s me. You know you got—”

It was the wrong thing to do.

“I’m not Scully and you are definitely not Mulder. We aren’t out fighting for truth, having each other’s backs.”

Shit, that cut.

He leaned closer to her. “Baby, it’s not on Speck. I know, the way it is between us, what we got…I fell down. I fell down lookin’—”

“It’s done, Everett. It’s over. I’m out. And you need to get gone.”

Snap opened his mouth.

She lifted up the call button.

It was time to pull out the big shit.

“I’m in deep with you,” he admitted softly.

“Then dig yourself out,” she returned quietly, but her voice was harsh, ugly, and not just from having her throat squeezed to shit.

“I’ll go now but I’ll come back,” he told her.

“Don’t.”

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

“No you aren’t.”

“We’re not done, you and me.”

“Yes…we…are.”

He got as close as he dared.

And he put it out there.

“I fell for you when you were Shy’s and if you think that now, when you need me most, now, when I finally, fuckin’ finally got a clear shot, I’m givin’ up, think again, Rosie. You’re hurt and you’re pissed and I get that. But I’m not givin’ you up. I don’t care what way I gotta take you, as mine or just havin’ you in my life in a way you’d let me be there, but however that is, I’m not givin’ up. Not ever, Rosalie. I’m not givin’ you up. You’re gonna be in my life and I’m gonna be in yours. Bank on it.”

He gave her that because he had to and she had to have it.

But he didn’t push her further.

He reached up, kissed her forehead, straightened, grabbed his book…

And walked away.

For now.





Chapter One



Atone



Rosalie




I stood staring at myself in my mother’s bathroom mirror.

I was going to have scars. Three of them.

Men with scars on their face were considered interesting, like they lived adventurous lives or were tough guys.

Women with them were looked on as pathetic, like some traumatic life event happened to them that they didn’t survive without being marked and because of that were objects of sympathy.

Another discrepancy between the sexes which was absolutely not fair.

Like the difference in physical strength.

I was top heavy. Slender, long legs, slim hips, thin arms, but I had big boobs in a way they looked fake.

They weren’t.

My mother had given me a number of good things, including her thick dark hair.

And her big tits.

My father had lamented this.

“Already hard enough to keep the men off you, gorgeous,” he’d say to my mom. “And you got my ring on your finger and it’s sat there for years. Now I got my baby girl to worry about.”

Man.

I missed my dad.

I stopped thinking about my dad and stared at my torso in the mirror.

I’d learned over the span of my twenty-eight years of life that large breasts had awesome powers.

Helping you handle yourself when eight men were intent to beat the snot out of you was not part of those awesome powers.

I lifted my gaze and studied my face in the mirror.

They’d kept me in the hospital for two days, considering I’d taken a number of blows to the head, and thus had a serious concussion, and they tried to be cool about it, but I could tell they were concerned about the number of times I’d blacked out.

Now I’d been out of the hospital for two days, as, apparently (and thankfully) all systems were a go.

The swelling had decreased significantly but only that morning did I note that the bruising was starting to recede, some of the edges of the purple going yellow.

My broken nose was still taped and would be for some time.

I’d had a total of twenty-nine stitches sewn into my face. My eyebrow would never be the same. The jaw scar wouldn’t be easily seen. But the gash on my nose would stand out.

I had been pretty, not beautiful, but definitely pretty. And I knew it.

This was not vanity. This was being real. I could see myself in the mirror and I’d had a mom and dad who adored me and told me how proud of me they were for a lot of reasons, and they’d done this all my life. My looks just were what they were and I was grateful for them.

I also used them.

I used them to get guys I was attracted to.

I used them to get good tips at Colombo’s.

I used them to jump the line at clubs I wanted to get into.

And I used them to get out of that speeding ticket that time that cop pulled me over.

Mom had taught me, if God gave you something good, you didn’t waste it. You used it (for good, obviously—I mean, it was God bestowing these gifts).