Page 9 of Bitter Queen (Advantage Play 4)

“Do you want to say goodbye to the girl you used to be before we get rid of her?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I said goodbye to her the moment he touched me for the first time.”

My mouth floods with bile, but I swallow it back and slide off my Armani jacket, leaving me in a white button-up shirt that’s still stained with Burlone’s blood. Rolling up the sleeves, I grab the boxes of hair dye and start reading the directions on the back of them.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, cautiously watching me from the corner of her eye.

“Which one do you prefer?”

There are two options––a soft, silver blue, and a dark, almost black, navy color. I raise them for her to inspect, but she doesn’t bother to look at either of them.

“Whatever you want,” she replies in a monotone voice. The same glaze I’m growing accustomed to covers her eyes as she stares blankly at me.

“You’re allowed to make your own decisions, Q.”

She scoffs. “Bullshit.”

“I’m serious. Don’t think about what the old Q would want. Don’t think about what the girl in Burlone’s captivity would want. Think about the girl in front of me right now. What does she want?”

Squeezing her eyes closed, a single tear slips down her cheek. “She wants to disappear.”

The air whooshes out of my lungs as though I’ve been sucker-punched. This wasn’t part of the job description. How the hell am I supposed to fix this girl when she doesn’t want to be fixed?

Wrenching open the box in my left hand without giving a shit which color it is, I start mixing the ingredients together then section her hair the way the directions explain. We don’t say a word as I paint the blonde strands with blue ink while ignoring the patches of scabs that cling to her scalp.

Once I’m finished, I wash my hands, then pull out my cell from the front pocket of my slacks and set the timer.

Then we wait. In silence. Because I don’t feel like asking any more questions that are going to reveal what really happened to an innocent girl at the hands of a sick motherfucker who died earlier this morning.

Call me a coward, but I can’t take it anymore. Not right now.

And it’s not like she’s one for small talk, anyway.

Sliding to the ground, I press my back against the white wall and look up at a comatose Q who hasn’t moved a muscle since I brought her in here. She reminds me of a puppet, waiting for someone to pull the strings and tell her what to do as if she can’t make her own decisions or think for herself.

She really is broken. And I don’t know if I’m the right man for the job to put her back together again.

Hell, I don’t even know if it’s possible.

Even though it kills me inside, I motion to the tile floor and mutter, “You can sit down if you want.”

Like a good little puppet, she crosses her legs and sits down but leaves a solid two-foot radius of empty space around her while staring blankly at the wall across from us.

She’ll never trust me.

With my elbows on my bent knees, I tear my gaze away from her and watch the minutes tick by.

The timer dings a little while later. Pushing myself up from the tile ground, I offer my hand to help her do the same. Q stares at it for a few seconds like it’s a cobra about to strike. She releases a shaky breath. Then she takes it. Her hand is tiny as mine swallows hers whole, reminding me how fragile she really is. Once she’s on her feet, I release my hold and squeeze the back of my neck.

“We’re, uh, we’re supposed to wash your hair now. Do you want to just take a shower, or do you need my help?”

Her lower lip quivers as a soft breath escapes her. I’m not sure what I’ve said, but I backpedal, “I can help if you need it. I just figured you might want some privacy. I know it’s been a long day.”

Her silence suffocates me before she peeks up at me and admits, “I’m not sure I know what privacy is anymore.”

“Then I think you need it even more. Do you prefer showers or baths?”

She drops her gaze back to the ground, but she doesn’t answer me.

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