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“Fine,” I say. “Leave.” He continues staring at me, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. “Go.”
“Bitch.”
“Freak.”
He shoves his boots on and dips to grab his bloody t-shirt. He slides it on over his head as he storms to the door. Yanking it open, he stops and looks back at me.
“Never coming back,” he says. “That’s what you want?”
No.
It’s not what I want.
And honestly, I don’t know how this all went so wrong so fucking fast. But it did. And there’s no going back. There’s no repairing it.
“Yes,” I finally say. “Leave, Kiwi. Go. Go back to your fucking club and leave me alone. I was fine before you, I’ll be fine without you.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Whatever.”
He slams the door shut behind him, and when I hear the front door slam, rattling the walls, I clutch my knees to my chest. Faintly, I hear the rumble of his bike and a sob works its way up.
The water sprays on me, some of it getting on the floor outside the tub as I cry into my knees. My hot tears slide down my face, mixing with the water. Each sob is harder than the last, every emotion I’ve never let out barreling through me.
There’s a faint knock on the door and I clear my throat as I pull the shower curtain shut. “Yeah?” I call, my voice shaky.
“Is everything okay?” Ian asks warily.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be out in a second, alright?” I let the water hit my face, washing away the tears, then turn it off and grab a towel.
I don’t know why I feel so worked up about this. He was only in my life for a few days. He shouldn’t mean anything to me. It doesn’t matter that he’s gone. And I meant what I said—I was fine before him, and I’ll be fine now. All I need is my son, and we can get through anything.
Kiwi
Someone knocks on my door, but I ignore it and pull the pillow over my head. I came back to the compound last night. I’m still in my blood-stained clothes. I still smell like her. I still feel her.
My heart fucking hurts.
“Kiwi!” Bash bangs on the door again. Still, I ignore him.
I’m not in the mood to see anyone. I’m not in the right fucking headspace for it. If he walks into this room, I’m going to beat the shit out of him.
I think I broke my hand. I’ve never punched a wall as hard as I had last night. She didn’t know how badly those words tore at me; she didn’t understand it. To her, it was just an insult. It wasn’t something that was carved into her skin, into her soul. It wasn’t said to her every day of her fucking life, engrained into her very being.
Mindlessly, I run my hand over my stomach. It wasn’t deep enough to scar, but I still feel it. I feel it embedded in my skin forever.
“Kiwi!” he shouts again. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s weird how much I miss that old popcorn ceiling at Kennedy’s place. I miss hearing Ian yell at his game. I miss the way she ran around, a scowl on her face no matter what she was doing. Cooking, cleaning, doing her hair and makeup, coming…it didn’t matter. She always had the most beautiful scowl on her face.
He knocks again and I finally fling myself out of bed and storm across the room in a few large strides. I grab the door and let it fly open, crashing into the wall behind it.
“What?” I snap. His brows lift, shocked. We stare at each other and I wait for him to do something, give me a reason to knock him out. But he doesn’t.
“Belfast is in the Chapel,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” I step back and grab my cut that’s hanging on the back of a chair.
“Your hand,” he says, but I ignore it as I push past him into the hallway, slamming my door behind me. “Kiwi.” Still, I ignore him, ignore the way his gaze burns into the back of my head. “Ezra King!”
I halt, my heels digging into the wood. My chest heaves as I stare down the hall into the empty common room. Finally, I turn toward him, and he lifts his chin, readying himself.
