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More colors.
Red. That’s what I needed. Red.
Laughing, I yanked the bottle of beer into my hand, gulping a good third then slamming the bottle back down. Apollo whined, his tail thumping against the floor. I sensed he was staring at me, trying to figure out why his Daddy Dog was such a loser.
“Don’t look at me that way. I’m trying, buddy.”
His tail kept thumping and I stuck the new paintbrush into the open can of red, using bold strokes as I dragged the brush across the canvas. I repeated the move, my actions becoming more aggressive.
And more.
And still more.
My chest was heaving, the agony of the past few days breaching the surface. I dropped the brush onto the table then took a step back, critiquing what I’d done.
“What the fuck is that?” I was horrified at what I’d created, the monstrous piece reminding me of a murder scene. Maybe I could paint a body in the middle of the gore. Snarling, I thought about using another color.
Then I couldn’t take it any longer, the pain of the past, the inability to be a normal human becoming so overwhelming that I lost my shit. I grabbed the canvas, using every ounce of strength to try to twist the frame, so repulsed by my creation that I slammed my fist through the canvas before tossing it against the wall. Then I raked my arms across the open paints, watching in glee as they splashed vivid colors of rage and hatred all across the walls and floor.
I burst into laughter, turning in a full circle to fully embrace the mess I’d created.
Then it hit me hard, a boulder smashing down on me, the ache turning into raw agony, and I dropped to my knees, holding my head in my hands. I wasn’t used to crying. That wasn’t me. It wasn’t manly, but the tears flowed down my face, scalding my skin. I sobbed like a baby, unable to control myself. What was wrong with me?
The racking sobs continued, drowning out almost everything else but the hard thudding of my heart. Then I heard a little whine, and it broke my heart.
When I felt Apollo’s tongue licking my cheek, doing his best to comfort me, I was horrified at what I’d done. To my house. To my baby. To the woman I cared for more than any I had my entire worthless life.
As I wrapped my arm around him, pulling him close, another wave of self-hatred swept through me. The poor baby’s fur was covered in paint.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I am just so sorry. You deserve someone better than me. Maybe you should go live with Mustang. He’ll take much better care of you.” The tears continued to flow as I eased back, rubbing his muzzle. When he lifted a single paw, placing it against my chest, I slid all the way to the floor, pulling him into my arms.
I wasn’t fit to be around anyone.
Maybe it would be better off if I was dead after all.
CHAPTER11
Chasity
Safe.
I was safe.
Right?
After the run-in with Snake, I’d gone home, checking every single room in the house, my weapon in my hand. Nothing had been disturbed, every glass and dish left in the sink where I’d placed them, my nightgown still hung on the back of the bathroom door. My chest of drawers hadn’t been riffled through nor had a single picture been moved even a centimeter on the bookshelves.
But I knew instinctively someone had been inside my house. I’d always had an innate instinct and it had only failed me once. I refused to allow that to happen again. I’d already called for a locksmith, a representative meeting me at my house later today. I’d pushed off two appointments so I could be there. While a deputy had come to the office the day before to take my statement, he hadn’t seemed optimistic he could find anything. He’d even had my office dusted for fingerprints, but I wasn’t hopeful.
The sound of my phone made me jump. I grabbed it, hesitating to look at the screen much less answer. Thank God the detective was calling, hopefully with the information I wanted to hear.
“Chasity, Detective Martin.”
“Please tell me he’s locked away tight and sound.” I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart racing.
“Yes, he is.”
“But?” I’d heard the slight glitch in her voice.
