Page 11 of Rebel Revenge

One that might have made me all warm and cozy just a few days earlier, if it hadn’t sent me running for the hills in terror over making a commitment.

But the point was moot now. I hadn’t even been able to open the door for him. Some traumatized part of me rejected the idea of ever letting a man touch me again.

You asked for this.

You’ve been flirting with me for weeks.

You like it rough like this? Yeah, you do, whore.

It wasn’t fair of me to taint Fang with the same brush. He had no idea what he’d done. No idea that just him walking out had sent me careening down a path that would change who I was at my very core. None of it was his fault. All of it mine.

It didn’t change anything.

It didn’t change he was always going to be linked to that night in my head.

With a belly full of warm soup, I took my chocolate bar back to bed and ate it slowly, savoring every mouthful. Nothing had ever been so sweet.

Except maybe the man who’d given it to me.

* * *

I finally got dressed on Friday evening, but only because I knew my mom would be devastated if I failed to show up for the fancy dinner she’d planned so I could meet Bart before the ceremony. She’d even called this morning to double-check I was coming.

The conversation had left me smiling. I’d never heard her sound quite so in love. Normally it was all infatuation with her. She liked guys with abs and chiseled jaws and bank accounts with numbers bigger than I even knew were possible.

But with Bart, she didn’t mention any of those things. She gushed about how smart he was. How he’d picked her flowers every day for the last week. How she’d had the best night of her life just watching a movie with him. She’d been shocked it hadn’t led to sex and had marveled over how good just cuddling had felt.

I’d heard my mother declare herself in love many a time. But when she said it about Bart, something deep inside me recognized she finally knew what that meant.

For that reason, I wanted to meet the man.

And hell, I couldn’t feel any worse than I already did, so maybe getting out of the house would help.

I put on a cute black dress, one of the tamest ones I owned. Bart had booked a fancy hotel room for the night, so I didn’t have to travel from Saint View in the morning for the ceremony, and we were eating in their posh restaurant. So booty shorts and a barely there T-shirt weren’t going to cut it.

I didn’t want anyone staring at me. Especially not men. The more understated my dress, the better. I covered up the healing scratches and scrapes on my arms with a cardigan, grateful for the colder weather. Black, opaque stockings disguised the marks on my legs. I studied my reflection in my full-length mirror and decided if anyone asked why I looked like I was about to go to a funeral, I would just say I was channeling my inner Wednesday Addams.

My face was more problematic. But at least the swelling had gone down. So all that was left to do was gingerly dab a thick foundation on top of the bruising around my cheeks and eyes.

“Motherfucking donkey balls,” I muttered, blinking fast to keep tears at bay. “Big, fat, hairy donkey balls.” Blending on top of tender, injured skin was worse than first-day period pain.

I got through the rest of my routine by imagining kicking Caleb in the face and following it up with a nice stab from the pointy end of a makeup brush.

When I was done, I studied my handiwork from every angle, checking and double-checking nothing showed through. It was sweet. I’d clearly missed my calling as a makeup artist.

I used a female-only ride-sharing app to get myself and an overnight bag into the city, too nervous to just use an Uber for fear a man would pick me up and I’d freak out. The trip went quickly with the driver mindlessly chatting and me staring out the window barely responding. Then we were parking in front of the Grand Metro Hotel, and she was telling me to have a good night.

I got out gingerly, pulling my cardigan a little tighter around me and lowering my gaze to watch where I walked. It wasn’t my usual style, but I couldn’t strut in like I normally would have, wide smile for everyone in the room and gaze searching for anyone up for a good time.

The interior of the restaurant was a quiet buzz of low conversation, dim mood lighting, and soft jazz music. The heavy door closed behind me, blocking out the hustle and bustle of the drop-off zone and the high traffic reception area, turning the restaurant intimate and cozy.

I hesitated, waiting for the hostess to notice me. She didn’t. I had to clear my throat quietly for her to look up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

It was only then I realized how much I’d really succeeded in turning myself into a dormouse. Normally I drew stares without even trying. I wasn’t tall like Fang who commanded attention with the pure size of him. Nor was I particularly pretty, though I was vain enough to admit I wasn’t ugly either. I would have once proudly announced I was a ten, despite the fact I didn’t have long legs and big tits.

But that was because I’d believed it. I’d been confident in who I was, and people responded to that. I’d walked into rooms like I owned them. I was the girl who would stroll right up to a guy she found attractive and tell him she was his for the night.

---