New Orleans

3. Fragile China Doll

Liquid pain slipped past my eyelids; shoving away I distanced myself. "You lost that right seven years ago." My voice shook, unearthing unresolved pain from our past. The emotions were still there, somewhere, buried deep beneath the betrayal and resentment. Seven years had passed yet time had done little to heal those scars— they would remain raw forever. The muscles beneath his stubbled jawline tightened, a sign of his attempt to control the beast within. Reaching for the passenger door, he yanked it open.

Nothing more was said, yet so much passed between us by way of silence. No explanation; no apology. The world had changed in seven years but Reece, he remained the heartless brute he had always been. Catching myself before I broke down in tears, I moved into the vehicle. Slamming the door shut, he curved around the front. His solid mass fell into the truck, forcing the heavy metal to bob. Awestruck by the weapon he was I sat stunned. The Renegade had been foolish beyond doubt, that or a complete headcase— charging cock first into town with a half-baked challenge and zero backup.

Flexing his injured hand, he gritted his teeth. Wincing at the deep laceration stretching across his palm I looked away. This shouldn't affect you...my subconscious reminded. My nerves ached, knowing he was in pain only inches from me. Clenching my fists, I remained resolute in my decision to let the gangster fend for himself.

My breath hitched as his familiar musky scent engulfed me, the thick muscular grooves of his built arm stretched past me— grazing my side— to flick open the glovebox. Tugging on the saddest excuse for a first aid box I'd ever sighted, he fell back against his seat. Struggling to singlehandedly unravel the gauze. His thick fingers failed at every attempt to peel back the end of the transparent fabric.

"Son of a bitch..." Hissing under my breath I snatched the roll from him. Flinching away from my reach for his injured hand, he frowned.

"I got it handled-" He growled.

"Give me your fucking hand, please-" purely from a standard of humanity I was willing to help the asshole, I would have done the very same for any stray crack head I just happened to come by "-unless you'd prefer to bleed out all over the upholstery." My subconscious rolled her eyes so hard I actually felt dizzy.

Clasping his wrist, I pulled him closer. Resting his knuckles on my thigh, I set the gauze—elevating the hand enough to wrap it around. Covering the laceration, I tied the material off around the base of his palm.

Feeling his gaze on me I sucked in a sharp breath, "don't..." I whispered, my chest tearing itself up within. Laughing once without humour, I glared up at him through my glassy eyes. "Fool me once, Trammel." My bitterness took him in a chokehold, snatching his hand away the moment of weakness vanished from his striking features.

Grinding his molars he keyed the ignition, pulling the vehicle into gear he sped out onto the streets. The town felt grey and absent of life, it hadn't always been this way. There had been a time when the months leading up to Mardi Gra were full of excitement and celebration. Now that just felt like a paradox to the dull reality, we lived in. Shivering slightly, I watched the sky. Something felt different, like a shadow of sorrow had fallen over New Orleans; I couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Destruction, death, something evil to suck away what little joy remained in this town.

"You haven't been to the lake?" Murdering the silence, I would have much rather maintained, he cast me a quick look. Something a cross between fear and rage flickering through the green in his eyes.

Watching the side of his face I dug my nails deeper into my thighs. "Keeping tabs on me." I scoffed turning away.

"Answer me." He ordered tersely, spiking that nerve in my temple that pulsed every time someone tried to control me.