Page 138 of Brazen Mistakes

RJ pushes my wet hair back from my face. “Sugar,” he says, but stops. Because what is there to say that he hasn’t already said?

Skittering back, I curl up at the foot of the tub, wrapping my arms around my knees, as if I can protect the softest parts of myself. But how can I protect myself from the past? From memories that never should have been made?

“Talk to us, princess,” Walker says, his tone bleeding. Like seeing me breaking breaks him.

And I cry harder. Loving me just gets people hurt.

I’m the problem. Maybe not directly, but I am.

Me.

What had Bryce said? He picked me because I was already broken. Defective.

He saw it. The damn monsters in Chicago saw it too.

I press my forehead against my knees, not wanting to watch as my poison infects everyone, breaks them too.

Eventually, the room grows silent, the water cooling against my skin.

I run out of tears, my heart loud against my ribs as I stay, unmoving, wishing that I were someone else. Someone better.

But the shit thing is, I’m never going to be anyone other than who I am.

And I have no idea who that is. Not anymore.

I won’t be defined by my past, by my mistakes.

And I won’t be defined by the men that I’m with. I tried that with Bryce and look at how that turned out.

What’s left after all that?

The burst of adrenaline racing down the interstate, cops hot on my heels. Lists of expenses and revenues built in my mind from an illegal poker ring in the attic. The ache of my fists becoming as familiar as the ache in my legs after a long run. Curiosity over this new world I’ve found myself in and the skills I need to develop if I want to survive here.

Freedom to trust myself, my body, my moods and needs. Dancing. To-do lists and color-coded notes. Running. Always running. But maybe not always away.

It’s time to run toward something.

Only, I don’t know the course. There are obstacles at every turn. And I might even be going the wrong way.

Am I?

How much can I trust these guys I live with? That I’m falling in love with? I’ve trusted them this far. But what about with these daggers of memory I refused to remember? Can I trustthem with the parts of myself that I wish didn’t even exist? Can I trust myself with those parts?

The pink dress flashes in my mind. Sweet, beautiful, demure.

I remember thinking that it fit who I was.

The blood-red dress, though, it was too much. It’s not me.

Not yet.

Is that who I want to be? Fierce? Blood-soaked? Dangerous?

Fierce, that I want. But the rest? Is that me?

Does it matter?

Do I need to define myself right now in the cooling water of the tub, my face sticky with drying tears?

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