Bang(66)

As I walk across the room and into the bathroom, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Pike was right, there’s a nasty black and blue bruise around my eye and along the crest of my cheek. I reach up to touch the swollen flesh and wince. The bruise is tender and the side of my face looks horrific.

It’s perfect.

I go ahead and take a quick shower and get dressed, slipping on a pair of jeans and a long cashmere sweater, dabbing on just a light touch of powder and lipgloss. The chime of my phone comes as I expected with Declan’s text.



Miss you.



I type my response.



Miss you too.



Come to my place. I need to touch you.



My devious smile grows while I type out my next text.



I can’t. I’m not feeling well.



You okay?



Just sick.



I’ll come pick you up and bring you here.



He responds just as I predicted, so I continue to goad him to me with my replies.



Thanks, but I’m just going to stay here today.



You avoiding me?



No. I just don’t feel good.



Then let me take care of you.



As I’m typing out my next text, the phone begins ringing in my hand, displaying Declan’s name on the screen.

“Why are you calling me?” I ask when I answer.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not. I told you; I’m not feeling well.”

“So instead of lying in your bed, lie in my bed. I’m coming to pick you up. Pack a bag,” he insists in a calm tone, but I resist, telling him, “Declan, no.”

He lets go of a sigh and then questions, “What’s going on?”

I pause, and with an uneven voice, lacking confidence, I murmur, “Nothing. Just . . . just nothing.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Declan, please.”

“I’m on my way,” he snaps, hanging up before I can respond.

He’ll be here shortly, and I’ve no time to waste getting excited. I have to look the part, so I focus my attention on the one thing that always destroys me—my dad. I sit on one of the couches in the living room, stare out at the grey, snow-filled day, and let my mind drift to him, to my childhood, to everything that hurts me. I think about pink daisies, and the feel of my father’s whiskers poking me with his kisses. And then I think about the first time I went to his grave, coming face to face with the reality that he was really dead.

After a while, I’m not even thinking about Declan. I’m solely consumed with pain and sadness as I cry into my hands. My throat knots as the misery takes over, but the jerk of reality comes when the house phone rings, and I know Declan is here.

“Hello?” I say when I answer the call.

“Mrs. Vanderwal, this is Manuel. I have a Mr. McKinnon here to see you.”

“Um, yes. Go ahead and send him up, please.”

“Will do. Good day, miss.”

I hang up the phone as a few more tears seep out, and I let them linger on my skin as I wait for the knock, and when it comes, I look at my splotchy face, bloodshot eyes, and bruises in the hallway mirror before walking over, ducking my head down, and slowly inching the door open, saying, “Declan, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Let me in, Nina.”

Turning my face away from him, I walk into the living room as he follows from behind.

“What’s going on?” he questions, and when I don’t respond, he grabs my arm and turns me around. “Fucking Christ,” he says with a horrified look on his face when he sees my black eye. “What the hell happened?”

Covering my face with my hands, I begin to cry again. It’s easy to do with my current state of mind. He doesn’t miss a beat when he pulls me into his arms and holds me while I quietly weep, wetting his shirt with my tears.

“Darling, what happened?”

“Bennett was here when I got home last night,” I lie.

Gripping my shoulders, he pulls away to look down at me, his eyes filled with venom when he asks, “He did this?”

The tears drip off my chin, and I slowly nod as I watch his face turn to pure rage, his grip on my arms tightening.

“I’m gonna f*cking kill that bastard,” he growls. “Go pack your bags. You’re coming with me.”

“Declan—”

“Now, Nina. I can’t even f*ckin’ think straight. Go pack your shit. You’re not staying here,” he snaps, and I don’t say anything else when I turn to walk into my bedroom and to my closet. I begin to quickly pack my bags, and as I walk back out, Declan is pacing the room. When he looks up at me, he rushes over, takes the bags out of my hands, and tucks me under his arm.

“Where’s your coat?” he quietly asks, and when I point to the foyer closet, he wastes no time. He pulls out my coat, slips it over my arms, and then hands me my purse. I quickly put my sunglasses on before we walk out the door.

He doesn’t speak as we take the elevator down and head outside to his car. He tosses the bags in the trunk and then we are on our way to his place. His grip on the steering wheel is firm, knuckles white, muscles flexed. With his focus on the road, I watch his jaw clenching as he grinds his teeth.