Page 31 of Wickedly Betrayed

“SHIT,” I MUTTER FOR the umpteenth time. I grab the rag off the counter and squat down to pick up the mess I just made. Reaching over, I swipe the trashcan over to me and carefully pick up the pieces of glass from the beer bottle I just dropped.

Damn Mac!

I can’t stop thinking about what he told me a couple of days ago. For ten years, I blamed Mac for what happened. While the visions of them together still vividly play out in my head, there’s no way I can continue to blame him. And I don’t. But I’m so fucking confused. I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to do anymore.

For years I guarded myself because of what happened. The pain of it is something I never wanted to go through again. I hardened my heart and turned cold. I am no longer the sweet, pliable girl I was back then. I was quiet and kept to myself, never letting anyone get too close, except for family and the very few selectpeople I let in my inner circle. My world turned upside down the night of my birthday, and then Mac had to flip it again two nights ago. What the fuck am I supposed to do with what he said? What I thought was a careless act on his part turned out to be a violation to both of us.

My actions after I saw Mac with Tessa, while they were already a mistake, became even more of a colossal fucked up mess with Mac’s words. I cringe and grit my teeth at what happened once I left Mac and Tessa. It was my stupid choice to do what I did, and I’ve lived to regret it every single day. The pain of that night, not just from seeing Mac with another woman but with what happened afterwards, is something I live with on a daily basis. I brought it on myself. I instigated it. I was asking for it. I just wanted to wipe the visions from my head and make the pain go away. Most of all, I wanted to pay Mac back for what he did. He so carelessly threw away something that was only supposed to be mine. Why shouldn’t I do the same thing? Little did I know that the pain of what I was doing would be much more than I anticipated.

“Son of a bitch!” I yell, stand up, and move to a drawer that has clean washcloths. Snatching one out, I wrap it around my palm and apply pressure.Fuck, that hurt like a bitch!

“Let me see,” Jaxon says from behind me. I turn around and face him.

“It’s nothing,” I mutter. “Just a nick.”

“Mia, just let me see your damn hand,” he says again, sounding agitated.

“Fine!” I know I’m acting childish, but I don’t care. I puff out a breath and shove my wrapped hand in his face.

He unwraps it slowly. He lifts his eyes to mine, and his lips quirk up. “Just a nick, huh? Any deeper and you would need stitches.”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

“Get to the kitchen, and I’ll grab the first-aid kit,” he says, and walks off. I stick my tongue outat his back.

“I saw that, you little shit,” he calls.

Of course he saw it. There’s a huge fucking mirror behind the bar. I lift my hand and salute him with my middle finger. “Did you see that as well?” I yell.

“Kitchen, Mia. Now,” he yells back without stopping.

Grumbling and cursing, I walk into the kitchen and over to the sink. I pass Hoot, our cook, on the way.

“Hey, Mia,” he says in his gravelly voice. Hoot is a big grizzly of a man, but he has a heart of gold and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“Hey, Hoot.”

When he notices the bloody rag, he walks over to me. “What in the hell did you do?”

“Dropped a beer bottle and cut myself when I was picking it up. It’s no big deal, just a little scratch.”

“It’s not just a scratch,” Jaxon says, walking up to us carrying the first-aid kit. He sets it down on the counter and opens it. Pulling out a couple of items, he places them on the counter, too.

“Hoot, could you go clean up the rest of the mess behind the bar?” Jaxon asks him.

“Sure, boss,” he says, and walks out the kitchen door.

I turn the spigot on and run my hand under the water. It stings, but I hold in my hiss of pain. Okay, so maybe it’s more than a small scratch. Jaxon’s right. Any deeper and I’d be on my way to get stitches.

Jaxon takes my hand and pulls it toward him. Picking up a pair of tweezers, he starts poking and prodding.

“Ow!” I say, and try to pull my hand away.

“Oh, hold still and stop being a baby.”

“It fucking hurts, you dick,” I snap at him.

He snickers at me before saying, “I bet it does. Now stop wiggling around and let me get this last piece out.” He bends his head and digs around some more until he gets the sliver out. He puts the tweezers down and picks up some peroxide. Holding my hand over the sink, he pours the cool liquid over the cut.

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