Page 73 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
With my vision still cloudy and disoriented, I vaguely make out the angry scowl knocked from Shane’s face as a giant fist collides with his weak jaw.
Clarity comes with each blink, and I almost wish I couldn’t see.
A clown.
There’s a clown in my house.
The white paint on his face covers the scars below, catching both mine and Shane’s attention.
The clown holds Shane in place, visibly cringing over the contact. All hesitation disappears when a badly scarred hand hits everywhere between Shane’s shoulders and cheekbones until the weapon in his hand pings across the floor, landing in front of me.
I try to stand, but my legs aren’t ready, so I fall away from it, landing awkwardly.
My throat still hurts as I gulp giant breaths of air and rub my neck.
Another punch lands deep in Shane’s rounded stomach.
Red lips move close to his ear, and a strained, husky voice says, “You don’t get to hurt her. You shouldn’t even get to fucking touch her.”
Pushing myself backward, I edge away, but the clown, laying off Shane for a second, steps forward, replacing Shane’s intimidation with his own.
He gazes down at me, at my rapidly rising chest, where a small drop of blood lingers.
Extending a hand, he reaches for me. I shake my head, declining his touch because I remember what happened the last time I accepted a clown’s offer.
Those red lips pull down. His face is angled and sad. He nods, wavy green hair falling into his pleading eyes, shielding the uniqueness from me before I do something I never do.
I meet his eyes.
He nods again, encouraging me to take his hand.
And when I don’t, he lowers to his haunches. His fingers gently guide mine from the bruised skin on my neck. The scars on his hand snag on my glove as his hand slides over mine.
The clown eyes the ring on my finger with judgment. Something like hate flicks in the gaze I now try to avoid.
Pinching the loose material at the tip of my middle finger, he pulls the garment away, and my ring pings off into the distance.
Tucking the lacy material into his jacket pocket, his hand moves back to mine, his fingers filling the gaps between them.
Too afraid to move away, I let him lock our hands together.
Shane looks at me, at my scars, in disgust.
Moving my gaze from over the clown’s shoulder to his face, my heavy breathing blows his hair from his eyes as he comes closer, and something familiar about him, that’s not the big red smile or the black diamonds around his eyes, stares back.
What’sbeneathis familiar.
The scars on each cheek that give him a permanent smile. The smaller army of scars that stain each inch of his face. The brown pattern in those enchanting green eyes that resembles a heart.
He stands, and the rhythmic way his body bends, soft and slow like the movement of a dancer, lets me know…
I know it’s you.
I shouldn’t let him touch me after those awful threats, but I barely resist. He pulls me from the ground, my body pressing tooclosely against his. His long fingers splayed on my back, holding me against tight stomach muscles like he thought he’d never get this moment. A moment where he’s comforting me when I need it most.
And that’s the only reason I let this happen. I need someone.
And then it’s over.
