Page 65 of Filthy Savage

My legs feel shaky, like I worked out yesterday, but I know for a fact that I did not. All I did was have my heart shattered and my soul crushed. Maybe that makes your body hurt the way a five-mile run with a side of Pilates would. Because that’s what I feel like right now.

Starting the shower, I avoid the mirror. My reflection is just not something I’m mentally prepared to see right now. Maybe I’ll look and feel better after, although I’m expecting a lot from soap and water.

I try not to think about Evan as I shower, but I fail. I can’t not think of him. My stupid heart loves him. Wants him—always and forever, like some sappy love song. I don’t know if there will ever be a happily ever after here. That woman, this town, that club—that man. It’s all tainted. I should have never come back.

Before dressing, I finally face the woman in the mirror. She looks back at me, purple bruising beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. They’re also puffy. Puffy purple eyes. Gross. My eyeballs are bloodshot, which makes everything appear even worse.

I honestly don’t think makeup can fix any of this, so I’m just going to have to accept my face for what it is—which is a hot-ass mess. Pulling on some clothes, I don’t look at myself in the mirror again.

I need to see Ophelia.

In a few days, I’ll be able to see my brother, then I’ll charge up my car and get the hell out of here, hopefully before Evan comes back. If not, I’m going to have to try to be the bad bitch I know I can be and tell him to fuck himself.

Although, I don’t know if I’ll be able to actually tell him any of that. I’ll probably just be the doormat that I am and lie down. I’ll take what he gives me and allow him to walk all over me, then hate myself for it later.

Sounds like a good plan. What could go wrong with it?

Gathering my purse, I open the motel room door and smile at Guts standing just outside. His head whips to the side, his eyes finding mine, and he gives me a sad smile. I can tell he doesn’t want to be here, and he doesn’t want me here either.

“I’m going to talk to Ophelia,” I announce.

He clears his throat, and I pause for a moment, waiting to hear if he’s going to comment on that. But he doesn’t say anything. He dips his chin before jerking it toward Ophelia’s front desk.

I walk past him, and he silently moves behind me. I can feel his presence close, but he doesn’t speak. I don’t know why, but I have no doubt it’s because he disapproves of me moving out of Evan’s, but I don’t feel like asking him, so I don’t.

“You’re back,” Ophelia announces as soon as the little bell above the door rings and alerts her to my entering the room.

Letting out a sigh, I walk over to the free coffee, knowing it’s going to taste like shit. Then I dump in as much cream and sugar as I think my body can handle before I sink down onto the stool in front of the desk.

“I’m back,” I grunt.

Ophelia’s eyes narrow on me, she presses her lips together, then dips her chin. She wants to hear the tea so she can give me her opinion and advice simultaneously. I’ll love and hate her for it—simultaneously.

So, instead of mincing words, I tell her everything. Down to the shoes and nails that woman had, I spill it all. Then, when I’m finished, when I tell her how I demanded that Gnaw bring me here, I wait for her to judge me.

Ophelia doesn’t speak right away. She watches me, no doubt attempting to gather her thoughts and words. She sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, her eyes focused on mine.

“I think the girls and Gnaw are right. You need to talk to him.”

“Who is she, Ophelia?” I demand.

I know she knows. I could give her a description as vague as the girl’s hair color, and she would know her name and where she lived. I’ve given her an extremely detailed description of her, so I know she knows exactly who she is.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers.

Ophelia doesn’t whisper. “Ophelia,” I warn. “Who is she?”

I watch as the woman who bends for no one actually shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Arching a brow, I watch her and wait. Because she’s wrestling with something, and she’s going to tell me exactly what it is.

“I know who she is,” she murmurs.

I can tell she is supremely uncomfortable, and that causes me discomfort as well. I want to tell her never mind, but my curiosity knows no bounds. My heart is shattered, my soul crushed. So whatever she doesn’t want to say, not telling me in order to save me is useless.

I am unsavable—unsalvageable.

“Who is she, Ophelia?”

Ophelia nods her head once. “She was a dancer down at Sal’s.”

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