Page 35 of Last Man Standing

Me:

I don’t talk to chicks, dumbass. Ever.

But I’ll sit in doorways and watch this one particular chick sleep, I guess. I’ll guard her six, even when she screams and shouts and demands I go away. I’ll grocery shop and let her toss food at my chest, and when she walks away, think of all the different ways I could redden her bitable ass in punishment for her disrespect… but I never actually touch.

There’s a first for everything, I suppose.

Me:

If you see Serena, keep on walking. Don’t get chatty, and don’t even think about romancing her.

Mav:

You laying claim? Shit, if I knew you were gonna change your stance on me sampling the women you’ve cut loose, I’d have sampled a little more, a lot sooner. Damn, Bas. You get to all the good ones before me.

Me:

Not staking a claim, idiot. I just don’t want her at our dinner table if you decide to bring her around when I’m back.

Scarlett whimpers in her sleep, twisting and cinching her hair-noose tighter.

Would it really be so bad if she woke up with me here? It’d scare her, but once I explained my intentions, she’d understand… right?

Absolutely fucking not.

Shaking my head, I bring my focus back down to my phone.

Me:

Stay away. Hold on to that leash I gave you. And if Uncle Bas is REALLY bad, call me. I’ll come.

Sending the message and locking my screen, I tip my head back and watch Scarlett from the corners of my eyes. Guilt chews mercilessly through the lining of my gut, because, sure, she cries in her sleep every night. She groans and moans and tangles herself up in the sheets. But tonight, it’s worse. So much worse, because now tears glisten on her cheeks, small diamonds glittering in the moonlight.

It burns me a little to acknowledge they may be my fault.

I pulled her hair. I dragged her back into hell for a little while.

I did that.

And for the first time in my life, I feel bad for how my shitty actions have caused a woman pain.

14

SCARLETT

NEW MATERIAL, SAME PAIN

Ihave a raging headache and eyes drier than the Sahara Desert.

My stomach sits heavy, as if I swallowed an anvil of lead and not the pitiful single slice of toast I know I need to finish. My head thuds relentlessly despite the pills I already took, and when Sebastion’s footsteps echo inside his room, proving he’s awake, a depressed sigh rolls along my throat.

I’ve got two minutes to shake off my funk, slap a little color into my cheeks, and force my lips into a smile. If I don’t, Sebastion might realize I’m not this effortlessly cheery, always happy, perfectly peppy person I pretend to be.

Oh wait…

I don’t bother dragging my eyes up from my toast. Just four more bites until I’m done. Nine at the most. I stay put, even as his bedroom door opens and the sound of his footsteps disappears again into the bathroom. He pees, flushes, washes his hands, and then wipes them on his towel.

I can tell, because the towel rail squeaks whenever we so much as breathe on it.