Page 12 of Loving Ladybug: Part One
“It’s not that far from UNYC.” I shrugged. We walked down the hallway and I shuddered.
Clark put an arm around me. “It’ll be okay, Gweny.”
Mrs. Jenkins’ door flew open. She scowled at my stitched-up forehead. “Please tell me you’re not going back to him.”
“We’re here to get her stuff.” Clark pushed his black glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Good. Do you want the video for the police report? You filed one, right? I called them, too,” she told me. Today’s marabou feather robe was blue.
Video?
“Your door cam caught part of it,” I breathed. “Yes, please.”
I’d filed a report. While the police had clucked sympathetically, at this point there wasn’t much they could do other than the standard things. The more information I had, the more they might be able to do. Especially if he didn’t leave me alone and I needed more than the basic restraining order that was automatic with these sorts of alpha-on-beta domestic violence cases. Every bit would help.
“Good.” She held out her phone.
I held out mine, and she sent it to me, then slammed the door.
“Austin, I’m coming in to get my stuff. I’m not alone.” I unlocked the door and opened it, looking around.
All the boxes in the living room were gone. The table he’d knocked over had been righted. The posters were off the walls.
“I think his stuff is gone,” I breathed, noting what was missing from the kitchen. “We got the place furnished.”
“Makes things easier. Can you afford rent here on your own? I mean, I know you may not want to stay, but it might give you time,” Clark said.
“I could do it for a few weeks, but that’s it.” It would give me a moment to develop a plan. I’d be asking the landlord if Austin’s share could come out of his half of the deposit. It would be hard to live here, but better than imposing.
“Good idea,” Carlos told me.
I opened the bedroom door and sucked in a breath. Shredded clothes were strewn everywhere. Makeup smeared the walls. My laptop, which I’d gotten at Christmas, sat smashed into tiny pieces. My books were torn up–including my favorite series from when I was a teenager and one of the few things I’d brought from home when I’d fled. Posters had been ripped off my wall.
Every memento was ruined, each stuffie decapitated. All my good hockey stuff, versus what was in my locker at the rink, was destroyed.Beta whoremarked up my custom goalie mask that he’d bought me when I’d gotten into NYIT. He’d even broken my stick into pieces. Someone destroyed the custom goalie pads he'd bought me for my birthday.
My jewelry box had been upturned, everything stepped on. All my spices that I’d gotten little by little, mostly from the campus needs pantry, were dumped on the carpet.
“Shit,” Clark muttered, looking around at the devastation.
A small box on the dresser caught my eye, in a pile of confetti that was the few hockey cards I hadn’t sold because they weren’t worth anything. It was the ring box I’d found with his clothes. Inside was a piece of paper with the wordsit wasn’t for youscrawled in his messy handwriting.
I’d never take him back. But the words were still daggers in my heart.
Theonlypicture I had of my mom was cut into pieces inside it. Tears pricked my eyes. How could he be that cruel?
Clutching the box, I fell to my knees on the spice-filled carpet and began to cry.
Chapter Four
Tenzin
My phone rang, and I silenced it as I exited the subway, weaving through the throng of people bustling on this Friday morning in New York City. A few people gave me looks as I made my way down the busy sidewalk.
It could be because I was six-foot-eight, tall even for an alpha. It could also be because I was a professional hockey player.
A small child stopped and stared at me, tugging on his mom’s pant leg. I waved, but didn’t stop.
My phone rang again. No. I didn’t want to talk to any of them. It buzzed with a text.
