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Laconic (adj.) expressing much in few words.
___________
Seeing that bastard cornering Isla sent me over the fucking edge. Isla, who is normally so sharp and fierce and quick to maneuver anyone’s bullshit looked helpless, being taken advantage of by a man she once loved and trusted.
The only thing I could see in those moments was red. Deep, dark red. Manuel is lucky I didn’t beat his goddamn ass—because I really fucking wanted to. A quick punch to the nose was the least I could do for him. The second I realized what was going on in that hallway, the guttural urge I had deep inside me took control.
The only thing I wanted more in those moments was to get Isla away from him. And that’s exactly what I did.
Twenty minutes later, I’m helping her into an Uber. Apparently, people don’t believe in the app out here in the middle of nowhere, and since we took a party bus here, finding a ride was our only option back. It took almost ten minutes just to find someone to come pick us up. It’s nothing like in the city.
We haven’t spoken to each other since I asked if she was okay. And now, as we ride back to the hotel, I realize I have no idea what to say or if saying things would make her feel even worse.
We sit opposite each other in the backseat of a dingy old Honda Civic until she closes the space between us and nestles into the crook of my arm. Holy fuck. Okay. Very un-Isla-like of her. Her sweet, yet spicy scent intoxicates me much more than any liquor ever could.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing that sounds right. I don’t know if I should even be saying that, but I have to say something. The silence lingering in the air weighs heavily on my chest, suffocating me, and I can only imagine how she feels right now.
She doesn’t say anything but instead, takes my hand, puts it into hers, and squeezes. We stay like this until we get back to the hotel. I don’t dare move, not wanting to lose her against my skin.
This is the first time I’m seeing a vulnerable side to her. And as much as I hate what happened to bring it out, I feel like maybe, just maybe, she’s letting down her walls just a little bit.
* * *
Once back in our room, Isla turns to me. Her beautiful honey eyes are dark and glassy. The smeared eye makeup clues me into the fact that she most likely had been silently crying the entire way here. “Thank you.”
Two simple words, but I know just in the short time since meeting Isla Robles that those words don’t fall from her lips often. She’s used to doing it all on her own, having herself to lean on, especially since Manuel did what he did to her.
“You have no reason to thank me. I would have done that for anyone.” The words come out wrong, of course, and she looks a bit deflated, turning her eyes from me to the green carpet on the hotel room floor. I scoop two fingers under her chin, lightly, hoping it’s okay, and tilt her chin up so her eyes meet mine once more. “I just mean, I would never stand by and let any woman deal with that, Isla. But seeing you in that position sent me over the edge. I have no idea what I would have done to him had I not rounded that corner when I did.” And it’s true. If he would have made any further advances, I might be sitting in a jail cell right now in Podunk, Illinois.
She sniffles and wipes at her nose with a tissue from the box resting on a desk next to her. Somehow, and even with her makeup streaked down her cheeks, she still looks beautiful. But I don’t like seeing her this way.
“I would have never expected him to be so...” her voice trails off, “forceful.” I watch as she tries to make sense of what he did to her, or what he could have done to her. “He was drunk, sure, but—”
“That’s no excuse,” I tell her. “You know that, right?”
She scoffs, and I immediately think I said the wrong thing. “Of course, I know that, Bordeaux. But I just...” She looks off, as if she’s trying to find the words to articulate how she’s feeling, but I highly doubt any words will do those feelings justice right now.
I take note of the cranberry color forming on her cheeks and pull her in for a hug. I breathe her in, getting lost in her for a minute. “You don’t have to say anything.”
She’s the first to move, and I slowly back away from her when she does so, collapsing backward onto the bed. “This is a much earlier evening than either of us expected, isn’t it?” I change the subject, trying to make it go away.
“I think I’ll take a bath.” She turns away from me, pulling a few things from her large suitcase. “I won’t be long.” She finds whatever it is she was looking for and turns to head for the bathroom.
“Isla,” I call to her, and she spins around, looking at me. “You looked stunning tonight. I’m so sorry the night ended how it did.”
Nineteen
Isla
Rame (n.) something that is both
chaotic and joyful at the same time.
___________
I immerse myself into the warm bath water, emptying the contents of my travel-sized lavender bubble bath, watching tiny white bubbles form under the running water.
I know I can’t wash away this feeling, but I can sure as hell try.
