Page 105 of Tangled Kisses
“No.” The word comes out flat, final.
“Okay.” She pushes her chair back, opens a drawer, and slides something across the desk.
A gun.
I blink down at it. “Although I don’t want his company, I don’t really want to shoot him, either.”
Not true. He’s just not worth the jail sentence.
Capri’s mouth quirks. “I appreciate that. But I was thinking more in terms of general protection. This isn’t Long Island, Reese. Even in the prettiest little towns, you want to be prepared.”
I shove my hands deep into my pockets. “I don’t know how to shoot it.”
“Then we’ll call Griffin. He’s a damn good shot, he could?—”
“No, I’m good.” A brittle laugh slips out. “Honestly, Capri? At this point, I think a bullet would hurt less than I’m hurting right now.”
Something softens in her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. She tucks the gun back in the drawer, then crosses to her liquor cart. The sharp burn of whiskey fills the air as she pours herself a shot—then another.
She sets one in front of me. “Don’t argue it, Reese. Just take the drink. Sometimes we need the burn to remind us we’re still alive.”
I wrap my fingers around the glass, the scent sharp, heady.
Capri tips hers back, swallows, and sets it down with a thud. “You’ve survived worse. You’ll survive whatever this is too.”
I follow suit, the whiskey scorching a path down my throat until my eyes water.
She scribbles something on a notepad, rips the page free, and slides it toward me. “My cell. If you need me, I’m here. Just be careful.”
“Always am. Always have been.”
But as I fold the scrap of paper into my pocket, one bitter truth coils tight in my chest.
Being careful didn’t stop me from being hurt. Didn’t stop me from being the punchline. Didn’t stop me from being not enough.
I slip backto my room, grab a duffel, and start tossing things inside with no real rhyme or reason. Clothes, toiletries—whatever my hands land on.
Then my fingers brush lace.
The lingerie Griffin bought me.
For a long second, I just stand there, holding the silky fabric like it might burn me. Then I huff out a bitter laugh. “Perfect. A reminder of what I was—a pity project.”
I ball it up and shove the scraps of lace into the bag anyway, pretending anger is enough to keep me upright.
On the bed, Chowder stretches and yawns, unimpressed.
My phone lights up on the nightstand. Mom. For the third time in as many days.
I stare at it, my chest pinching. “Sorry, Mom. Not today. I don’t need another lecture about how I wrecked your country club standing by ditching my abusive ex. The horror.”
Chowder blinks at me, the picture of feline judgment.
“I always did everything right,” I mutter, more to him than to myself. “Good grades, stayed in school, never got into trouble. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. Look where it got me.”
Chowder flicks his tail like he’s heard it all before.
“I’m tired,” I whisper, pressing ignore until the screen goes dark. “So damn tired of never being enough.”
