Page 133 of Raven

“He needs someone to look into it.”

“Oh, yeah? And you think it should be me?” I laugh, the sound of it drunk and unpleasant. But I can’t help the bitterness.

Kat’s gaze hardens. “You know what? I don’t know you well. I know Maddy. You are different, Mi-le-na.”

I want to argue, my drunk mind ready to spill all my frustration on Kat, but she walks off, leaving me among the dancing people who smile and laugh while I feel more lonely than ever.

50

RAVEN

My bruises hurt like a motherfucker. I stare at my reflection in my bathroom, and it’s a sight to behold. Lip busted. There’s a dark bruise already swelling on the side of my face.

I peel the shirt over my head, wincing at the pain. Oh, hell, hello, my street past. I have a bruise on my shoulder, under my ribs, and a nasty cut on the right side of my torso. My knuckles are busted and hurt from maniacally punching that guy’s face.

I got angry at Marlow’s. Went straight to Carnage. Big mistake.

My phone rings. Fucking people. Someone is concerned or there’s another emergency at Ayana.

Fuck Ayana.

I take a gulp from a bottle of whiskey on my bathroom counter.

My lip stings. “Fuck,” I hiss, then check the phone.

The name on the screen makes all the worst in me start boiling in my veins.

Maddy…

Either she is drunk or someone told her about the Carnage fight. If it’s the first scenario, I don’t need her to blabber mean drunk things at me. If it’s the second, I definitely don’t need pity.

And then there is a knock at the door.

I walk through my bedroom and toward it, quietly, and peer into the peephole.

Yes, Maddy.

My entire body is on edge in one fucking second at the sight of her.

She’s staring at the peephole like she knows I’m right here.

But I take a step back.

I don’t want a pity-fuck. If she’s drunk, she might flirt, offer herself, and it will make me feel even shittier the next day when she ghosts me.

I take another step back. My phone in the bathroom rings again. She can probably hear it too. It takes all my willpower to keep stepping away from the door instead of answering it.

Another knock comes, a weaker one.

It’s torture. My heart wants to leap out and be on the other side of the door. My mind tells me to be logical. My body aches. My fresh bruises are a reminder that I’m failing at keeping things under control, and she can’t see me like this.

Tonight was the wrong time to go to Carnage. My anger was too reckless. The flashes of her in my mind were too distracting. I went against the opponent without previously calculating what I knew about him but rather mindlessly throwing myself at him.

I got hurt. Almost lost. But the cuts and bruises and probably a broken rib are not the worst. When I finally found his weak spot and went for it, my anger got the best of me. Punches, punches, punches, fueled by the roaring crowd that went wild. I didn’t pay attention to the fact that the guy stopped defending himself from my punches, or his hands limply falling onto the floor along his motionless body. I kept smashing his face, my fist slipping on blood. I would’ve punched him to death if the referee hadn’t pulled me away from him.

I look at my blood-stained jeans and feel disgusted with myself.

That’s the reason I don’t open the door. I don’t deserve a reward for what I just did at Carnage. The physical pain is a harsh reminder, but it’s the emotions that make me want to howl like a dog.

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