Page 3 of Lace 'em Up

And my jaw.

And my cheek.

And my ribs.

And my…

Well, there’s not much of me that doesn’t hurt right now.

Ass and hip from falling.

My torso and ribs and neck and face from?—

I shudder then gasp when the pain radiates through me—and through all of those still-forming bruises—as the memory of Phillip’s rage-filled face bursts back into the forefront of my consciousness?—

I’d seen him angry before.

I’d seen him angry many times over the years…that number growing increasingly more frequent over the last months.

As our wedding neared.

I’d thought it was the stress of the planning, the money, the seating charts and handmade favors and his mom wanting to make every decision.

But I hadn’t seen anger like that.

Never like that.

Never paired with hands that hurt and a foot that kicked and words that sliced deeper than ever before?—

“Easy,” Kingston says, his arm tightening around mine, pressing it into his hard stomach as he slows at a signal and the wind whipping around us eases. I realize that I’m trembling. That I’m doing it so hard that likely the only reason I’m still on the seat of his motorcycle is because his big body is keeping me there.

“I-I-I’m o-o-okay,” I say through teeth chattering so hard that I nearly bite off my tongue.

He doesn’t call me on the obvious lie, just slowly starts forward again. “We’re almost there.”

I don’t ask where there is.

I don’t care, not when the hurts are growing and the helmet Kingston gently settled on my head is pressing in on my temples and making them ache. Not with the wind tangling the hair beneath it, ruining the perfect fall of curls for which I sat still for hours so the stylist could get them just right. Not with my makeup ruined and my dress stained and torn.

From the tears and the puddle and Phillip?—

Enough.

I shudder again, but Kingston doesn’t say anything this time, likely because I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the road noise—the growling sound of the bike’s engine, the wind whipping by us, the other cars, the tires finding purchase on the asphalt beneath us.

Then the cacophony is quieting again.

King turns a corner and drives along a long two-lane road that crawls up the side of a canyon—back and forth, back and forth—until we reach a round-a-bout at the precipice and take a right.

Thick redwoods and oak trees, large lots set back from the street.

Porches and circular driveways.

One that King pulls into, driving by the front of the house and around the corner toward a small garage that’s separate from the main one.

A pause.

Then the door rumbles open.

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