Page 33 of Beautifully Wounded

“I only did that once,” she whispers, and I smirk.

“Once too many, Angel.”

“Why can’t my name be Angel instead of Charity?” she asks, and for a long moment, I can do nothing but stare at her plumplips, wondering if she can handle the truth, because frankly, it’s fucking with my head.

And then I admit the truth.

“Because Angel is just for me.”

9

Ringo’s chest rises and falls as he sleeps on top of the blankets next to me. I’ve barely spoken to him after he admitted that the term Angel is just for him, but I also haven’t been able to stop watching him, and now that he’s asleep, all I can do is study everything about him.

I’ve been feeling so sick, my tummy churning at times, and when JD dropped some food in earlier, I was only able to nibble on some of the fries. My throat feels a little scratchy too, and I’m worried that I may have finally picked up the virus sweeping the entire world. I’m hoping it’s from the screaming and crying and all-round chaos of the last twenty-four hours, but I guess time will tell.

“Angel is just for me.”

Damn, I can’t get Ringo’s words out of my head.

It’s weird. I’m not sure how to take them. What did he mean by that? It kinda sounded like he meant it as an endearment, but that’s ridiculous, right? He’s like, old. Not as old as my parents, and honestly, I don’t know exactly how old he is, but he has to be closer in age to them than me. He’s such an… adult.

I inwardly shake my head at that thought.

I’m an adult. Or so the law says. I’ve been eighteen for basically half a year. So why do I feel like a child? A useless, helpless child dependent on other people to take care of me. I have no money. No job or job skills. No home. No nothing. I have no idea how to be an adult. No idea how to navigate the world, especially away from the rigid religious beliefs my parents have been inflicting on me for the last eighteen months. But what I do have is an opportunity to try and change all of that. I don’t know how, but I do know I have to try.

I’m so confused. So scared, and I really do feel so unwell. And yet, the one thing I’ve felt for so long now has gone.

I don’t feel so lonely anymore.

I’m not an idiot. I know I’m a prisoner here. Ringo won’t let me go. He says things to make it seem like he has my best interests in mind, but I don’t know this man, and the people he lives with here are extremely questionable.

Even so, it’s the first time in a long time I don’t feel so trapped. Which makes no sense since I’m barricaded in a cheap motel room with a beast of a man surrounded by an outlaw motorcycle club.

Maybe all the trauma has messed with my rational thinking?

Ringo’s been asleep for a while now. I got up and walked around the small space before and even peeked through the curtains to see what allthe noise was outside. It looks like there’s a group of people playing cards in the centre of the courtyard and others are swimming in the pool that from here looks like it could use a good clean.

There are a few women walking around. They aren’t wearing many clothes, and most of the men grope them as they pass by. I spotted that Brody guy kissing a different girl from last night. And another guy sitting at the table playing cards pulled one of the women’s tops down and started sucking on her nipples.

That made me feel funny between my legs and reminded me of the time, before everything went wrong with Daniel, when he made me feel good. Then that thought made me feel nauseatingly sick, so I slipped back under the covers and have been watching Ringo ever since.

He’s wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of shorts that he slipped on over his boxers earlier. He’s so big. Muscley. He makes me feel so tiny, like he could snap me like a twig with his bare hands. He’s such a… man. Not the teenage guy that Daniel and his friends are with barely any body hair and their skin free of any wear and tear.

Ringo is the opposite, his skin bronzed, black ink covering his arms and disappearing under his shirt. His dark hair is long and wavy, some strands curling at the ends. He wears a hair tie on his wrist, and I’ve noticed that sometimes he ties his hair back, but it must annoy him because it’s back down soon after.

I’ve never stared at a man so closely before. I have this strange urge to reach out and run my fingers over the thick veins in his forearm. They are so prominent, barely hidden by the thin layer of hair that covers his arms.

I wonder if the hair is soft or coarse.

The loudshrill of a phone ringing makes me jump and Ringo’s eyes snap open to catch me ogling him. My cheeks flare to life even as he smirks before rolling to his side to answer his phone.

“This better be good. I’m trying to sleep.”

Ringo’s voice is raspier than usual, probably from being asleep, and I can hear a male voice talking to him, but I can’t make out what they are saying.

“Seriously?” Ringo snaps, before ending the call and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He doesn’t say anything to me, so I stay put and watch him shift the couch away from the door and unlock it. A moment later, JD slips inside before locking it behind him.

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