Page 24 of Losing a Piece of Me

His eyes watch mine intensely and his jaw flexes. Our breathing is labored from running, but it only makes the situation that much more erotic.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. Do you know that?” He brushes a fallen hair away from my face.

A flush of red paints my cheeks, and my eyes look everywhere but at him.

He places his fingers under my chin and lifts until I’m forced to look at him. “I mean it, Lex. You’re wild and free. You have something nobody else has.”

“What’s that?”

“You have me. I love you. I’ve loved you since I heard you laugh at me for getting in trouble when we were twelve-years-old.” His lips crash into mine and I hold on around his neck for dear life.

“I fucking love you, Lex.”

My eyes flutter open from that dream. I look around me and, for a minute, forget where I am. Then I look around and realize I’m not alone in bed.

It’s Striker.

My heart slams in my chest and my breathing picks up.

What have I done? I slept with Striker.

No, no, no. What have I done? Why did I do that? Why did he allow it? He knew I was using him but he allowed it anyway. Why?

Fear paralyzes me as I sit still, watching him sleep. His bare back is uncovered by the sheets, and he looks so innocent lying there oblivious to the waking world. For once, he’s at ease. Striker is never at ease. He’s always wound tight, always brooding and serious. Not now.

This realization strengthens the panic building inside of me.

I slide out from bed and grab my clothes, quietly stepping out of his room. In the living room, I quickly get dressed before running out the front door. If he woke, he never made a move to stop me, and I’m thankful for that.

I can’t handle this right now.

The bright green digits of the clock on my car stereo tell me it’s still early. Early enough, I hope, to slip undetected into my mother’s house. I pray to be so lucky, because I sure as hell can’t imagine explaining this to her. Not only did I skip out of my sister’s engagement party early, but I snubbed her guy and ran off with Striker, the guy she’s always hated.

She thinks he is the reason I turned against her, but truthfully, she brought that on herself by trying to manipulate and control my entire life. My sister may have given into her, but she doesn’t have the fight and the drive that I have. It’s my life and I will live it how I want. Not how she wants. Not how Striker wants. Only me.

* * *

When I walk into the house, I’m prepared for the walk of shame and the argument that’s sure to come. I don’t bother being quiet, since I assume I’ve already been caught. I stand in the foyer and look around, waiting for it.

But it doesn’t come. I shrug it off and head for the stairs. Safely in my room, I lean my back against the door and feel my eyes start to burn.

How could I have done that? I can’t get mixed back up with Striker. I can’t do it again. My family won’t survive it. I would rather vanish quietly into the night, never to be seen again, and know that they are happy than to have Striker in my life and know that my relationship broke up a forty-year marriage.

I push off the door and collapse in bed, curling into a ball and taking a few moments to feel sorry for myself.

This is it, Alex. The only time you get to do this, I tell myself. Cry it out, get it all out because you have to be stronger than this. When you walk out that door, it ends. Your guard goes back up. You have to hold your head high and take back your ‘fuck off’ attitude.

Alone in my room, far from anyone’s prying eyes, I let myself feel it. All of it. Every single pent-up ounce of fear, anxiety and raw, indecipherable emotion hits me at once and damn-near cripples me, leaving my muscles weak and shortening my breath to shallow gasps.

An army of tears is building behind my eyes and I am losing the fight to hold them at bay. My chest hurts from trying to contain it. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak, and I refuse to allow myself to feel weak. That part of my life is over. I have the control now.

A trickle of tears begins to slip from the corner of my eyes, accompanied by the feeling of a sob starting deep inside my chest, but my sorrowful reverie is interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. I sit up and wipe my eyes in a half-assed attempt to cover up my crying, but know my inner turmoil is still clearly visible on my face.

My sister pops her head in. “Can I sit down?”

I wave her in, but don’t trust myself to talk.

“Why are you crying?”

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