Page 31 of The Love You Fight For
Tilting my head up to the ceiling, I let the shower spray cascade over my body. I scrub my face clean of mud mask remnants and wash my hair three times. When I’m certain I no longer resemble a diseased rodent, I turn off the water and step out.
I towel dry my hair enough that it’s no longer dripping down my back, then reach for the pajama set I grabbed from my sad excuse for an apartment. I button up the short-sleeved silk top and step into the silk pair of shorts. When I look in the mirror once more, I’m a different person. My face is fresh and clean, my skin flushed pink from the hot water and the scrubbing. It’s free of mud mask, but it’s also free of makeup, and that makes me uncomfortable.
My fingers itch to reach into my toiletry bag and apply a coat of red to my lips.
My suit of armor. My shield.
I don’t. Blinking at my reflection, I scowl at how much younger I look, then wipe my expression clean of any vulnerability. Take a deep breath. Practice a smirk. Then I leave the bathroom and enter the kitchen.
“Hey, I?—”
Chris glances up from his spot at the island but stops mid-sentence when he sees me. He closes his mouth and looks me over, something strange passing over his features as he does.
“What?” I ask, sounding more annoyed than I feel, and he shrugs.
“I just can’t remember the last time I saw you so...I don’t know...dressed down.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say sharply, “but I wasn’t going to put on a full face of makeup for you.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He chuckles. “I like it. That’s all. It’s different, but I like it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious, and he laughs again. He must have changed while I was in the shower. He’s wearing a pair of joggers and a long-sleeved Henley shirt, and he’s got that damned camo ballcap sitting backward on his head. I open my mouth to comment on it, but then my eyes fall to the counter in front of him.
“Oh, you bastard.” I grin.
I close the distance between us and pick up one of the two lowball glasses and inspect it. Judging from the bottles on the counter, it’s a Boulevardier. Two ice cubes and two orange twists. I take a sip, and my eyes flutter shut. It’s perfect.
“I thought it was a crime to make a cocktail with such fancy bourbon,” Chris says, and I smile at him above my glass.
He barks a laugh and shakes his head.
“That’s why you do it,” he states, and I shrug, swirling the liquid in my glass as I speak.
“My father considers himself something of a whiskey sommelier. A bourbon snob. To him, mixing a fine bourbon like this into a cocktail is akin to sacrilege. For Senator Thom Harper and his highbrow friends, even more than one ice cube is a crime.”
I take another sip, mentally cataloging the taste of the apéritif before swallowing, then set the glass on the counter. I make eye contact and hold it.
“I want to desecrate everything he loves.”
Chris doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tell me I’m stupid or childish. He doesn’t question me or insist that I don’t understand the weight of my own words. He just holds my gazewithout judgment, and something about it feels empowering. Thrilling.
I have a lot of faces I show the world, but this one—the one that’s naked and honest—I keep hidden. Lennon’s the only person who knows the true extent of my darkness, so to feel like I’ve revealed some of it—even if just a small, insignificant detail—with impunity?
Well. Let’s just say I understand how villains are created.
When I start to smile, Chris’s mouth curves with mine until a small laugh bubbles out of me.
“You’re something else, princess,” he says finally, his smile growing softer.
Soft enough that my arms prickle with goose bumps, and I have to look away.
“It sounds like the storm is calming,” I say, changing the subject. “I should probably get back to my cave and try to sleep.”
Silence blankets the kitchen until all I can hear is Chris breathing and the rain pattering on the windows. I take another sip of my perfect Boulevardier, and then my stomach growls. It’s loud enough that my eyes widen, and my hand covers my abdomen on instinct.
“Did you eat dinner?” Chris asks, and I purse my lips.
“Yes.”
