Page 10 of The Monster and the Masochist

The itchy, dark cloud that always seemed to swell inside my chest whenever I remembered that ass fuck flared, and I forced myself to shove it back down.

That was years ago. You should be over it by now, Theo. Get a damn grip.

My cheek throbbed, and I intentionally pressed my fingers into the bruise, using the comforting feeling of pain to distract me from the urgent, itchy feeling that I never seemed to be able to shake off.

God. I was so damn pathetic.

“Puh-leassseee, Theo? Do this. For me.”

“Why do you want me to hook up with your sister so bad?” I sighed, already feeling like I was probably going to cave and do whatever he wanted just so that this conversation could end.

His expression softened, and his gaze fell down to my waist, where I still had a gnarly scar from when Damian had stabbed me in the side.

“Because, Theo. She came to sit by your bed every day when you were healing. She cares about you. She’s just… not good at letting people in. She needs a push, and honestly, I don’t think there’s anyone on this planet that’s good enough for her.”

I raised a surprised eyebrow at this, and he gave me a sly grin.

“No one… except maybe you.”

Sienna was long gone by the time Coach let me leave the arena. He’d made me sit there and go over the footage he’d recorded of the third round over and over, drilling into me all the mistakes I’d made to end up with another bruise on my face.

It was irritating.

It was pretty ridiculous to expect a fighter to make it through an entire match without getting hit, but that was why Jerry was my coach. His expectations were impossible to reach, and he was a big reason why I was as good as I was.

And he technically was right. I’d let Andrea hit me, but he couldn’t know that. Even I knew that was kind of fucked up, but honestly, it was better than some of my other coping mechanisms.

Coping mechanisms that I was actively fighting off as I pulled my ancient Honda hatchback into Fairview, tucking it behind the guesthouse where Ryan’s clients wouldn’t see it.

The first time Cal had seen my car, he’d given me so much shit over it. He didn’t know exactly how much money I made, but he knew I made enough to afford something better than my current ride. Despite his indignation over the fact that I would willingly drive this little shit-bucket, I’d brushed him off.

I didn’t give a fuck about cars.

I didn’t really give a fuck about much, to be honest.

All I cared about was keeping those itchy feelings buried deep enough inside me that they didn’t consume me, and they were closer to the surface now than they had been in months.

Slamming the car door, I spun my keys in my hand as I made my way through my mother’s garden and up the steps to my guesthouse.

Samwell’s face flashed across my mind, and I gritted my teeth, letting out a long, slow breath as I opened the door to my sanctuary.

The guesthouse was clean–I was far from a slob–but it was pretty bare bones, despite the fact I’d lived in here since I’d come back home after college.

I had a thrifted leather couch in the living room with a rickety coffee table that Iris had finally retired from the main house after years of use.

The TV was the most expensive piece of furniture in my space because one of the few things I truly loved was watching professional boxing and UFC matches. I also played on my Switch a lot when I wasn’t actively fighting off my demons, and it was more fun on the big screen than the handheld.

My kitchenette was clean and modest as well, with a Keurig, a microwave, and a toaster I’d gotten for two dollars at Value Village.

Despite how empty my kitchen was, I actually didn’t mind cooking, and I’d been recently experimenting with learning how to make vegan meals as a byproduct of the short period of time Cass had lived in here with me.

The thought of Cass briefly chased away the toxic buzz of old trauma that was currently threatening to explode out of the box I kept it in, and I smiled.

Instead of searching for the bottle of vodka I knew I wouldn’t find–I’d dumped it after my last little mental breakdown and sworn off drinking for the four hundredth time–I made my way over to the empty guest room where Cass had stayed.

Creaking the door open, I leaned against the frame, not bothering to turn on the lights as I took in her empty room.

If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the faint remnants of her perfume.