Savages

38: Enough

"Get away from there. Move away from the cars."

Sannah looked up from the dark asphalt she had slumped onto. The club doorman glowered at her, blurry through her unshed tears.

"I said move on, Exotic. Don't make me tell you again." His hand moved to his belt.

Sannah blinked and stood up. Her numb legs took her to the street, then around to the front of a big concrete building, out of view of the car-lot and its hostile sentry. She sunk down again, unable to make herself go any further.

How had that first meeting been so different to what she'd imagined? How had she got it so wrong? Did Saint care about—even remember—her at all? Sannah sniffed, and the tears breached, blanching cold as they ran down her cheeks.

She'd been so sure she had a connection to Saint; had felt it so keenly when they were together last year, despite his behaviour. Felt it all those months they'd been apart. Did she feel it now?

No. Yes. No.

Sannah sniffed again, wet and throaty. All she felt was desolate. Empty.

Who was that girl? Was he in love? She was so beautiful, gleaming and sculpted, a flesh-and-bone goddess. Sannah's own hairy mud-splatted legs, splayed out on the grimy pavement, seemed to mock her. Compared to someone like that, how could someone like Sannah ever be enough?

She had to get herself together, go to Faro and Dierdra's, and soon, before it got too late. She couldn't turn up unannounced in the middle of the night, and it must be nearing eleven now. What if they were in bed? She'd have to get them up, maybe wake their kid. The thought of it made her stomach churn.

She'd assumed she would couch with Saint, Sannah admitted to herself. That he'd open the door to that flat back at Rushton street and she'd fall straight into his arms, stay there as long as possible. Turn up at Dierdra and Faro's the next day, contented and dishevelled with love. Not arrive at theirs nearing midnight, tear them out of their bed.

She had to go quickly. So why couldn't she make herself move?

Sannah closed her eyes, trying to block out the streetlights, the indifferent buildings, the dirt and crushing cruelty of Albia. But she could still hear the unending groan of unseen cars, the unknown tragedy of a distant siren, the aggressive, guttural voice of the doorman talking into his screen, round the corner by the club.

She could hear stiletto footsteps from that direction too, and she stiffened. She didn't want anyone to see her. She couldn't stand the disdainful glances. The reminder of what she was, when she was here: not enough.

How had she ever forgotten that?

Sannah stood up hastily, tucked herself against the building, trying to make herself invisible to the people about to reach the street from the club. Could she get away? No, it was too late. They were turning the corner now, and—

Why? Dear God, why?

The goddess girl slunk onto the street, a white fur coat draped over her perfect shoulders. And walking beside her, like a punch to the face, was him.

Sannah turned away, dismay and self-revulsion so thick in her guts it threatened to make her puke. He'd seen her, she was sure.