Page 36 of Until Ace

Chapter 8

Ace

All throughout the ride, Mandy had the same look on her face as she does now.

Her eyes are unfocused, and tears have pooled in them, but not one has fallen. Her lips are slightly parted, and her breath comes in short, quiet bursts before it normalizes again. She keeps rubbing her bottom lip with her thumb as her elbow is propped up on the door.

I tried calling her name, to get her to talk, to help process what happened, but it was no use. She’s locked herself in her mind and won’t come out of her shell. And she’s giving it her all not to let any emotion out.

Why she thinks she needs to appear strong and not let everything out is beyond me.

It has to come out. Otherwise, it’ll eat her whole. Eventually, she won’t be able to contain it.

Besides, if every indication about her is true, she feels too much, too deeply, and that control she think she has right now will shatter.

I’ve seen this behavior before, and it never ends well. Too many emotions bubbling up inside can lead to only one thing.

Explosion.

There’s only one place where I know Mandy will be safe when that comes.

My house.

I park the car and shut down the engine.

“Hey,” I call softly and put my hand on her thigh. She’s so out of it that she jumps at my light touch. “It's okay.” I try to soothe her with barely any success. There’s a wild look in her eyes. Fear is starting to seep in. “We’re here.” I indicate my house with the tilt of my head.

She silently nods without even looking, turns, and opens her door.

Fuck.

I need to snap her out of this daze. She needs to deal with everything and tell me what she knows so I can find the bastards who did this to her and make her feel safe again.

The whole way into the house, she looks at the ground. I lead her into the kitchen with a gentle touch, without turning on any lights.

Positioning her so she can lean against the counter, I kiss her lightly on the forehead, hoping I’m doing the right thing. I turn around and open cabinet after cabinet, unsure what I’m looking for. I know what I would want, but don’t know if getting her drunk right now is the right call. It’s eerily quiet; every breath seems loud, and every movement is deafening. I keep waiting for her to say or do something as I go around the kitchen, but she never does. She doesn’t look up from her feet.

“Fuck,” I mutter, then take out a bottle of Southern Comfort.

“What are you doing?” she surprises me by asking.

“You’ll see,” I murmur, going for the shot glasses, feeling her eyes tracking my every move now.

After pouring two shots and pushing one toward her, I take the other in my hand and say, “Drink.”

She does without protest, and when the liquor hits her throat, she winces. I take the glass from her fingers, pour another shot, and repeat, “Drink.”

Again, without a word, she does.

With the liquor swimming through my system, I relax marginally. The urge to go out and hunt down the fuckers who did this to her and put her in the state she is in lessens from the burning inferno it was just mere seconds ago to a rolling fire.

“What am I going to do?” she asks, staring at the empty glass in her hand. “They came to my home and destroyed it.”

The look she has on her face almost brings me to my knees.

“Baby,” I call, but she doesn’t hear me. Hell, I’m not even sure she knows I’m here with her anymore.

“How could they let this happen? How could they do this to me?” she keeps asking the glass.