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While I’ve slimmed down somewhat, especially in my waist and hips, my breasts have gone from an A cup to a B cup. I know I’ll lose them once I start working out again, but for now, I’m enjoying not looking like a flat board.
Knotting my hair on top of my head, I debate chopping off my long crimson locks—this is not the first time since it’s started growing so unruly over the last few months.
I never took the time to contemplate how deprived my existence was because I was doing what I loved, and that’s all that mattered. Now, though, it’s been driving my mother crazy that I enjoy my longer, thicker hair and that my boobs are bigger than hers.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sol. Seriously?” I knew she’d hate my outfit; it’s why I chose it.
“What?” I’ll be putting my swimsuit on for practice, anyway. Nobody will care how I show up. They never have before.
“The scar,” she glares. Like I said, she’s all about appearances.
“You never had a problem when I dressed like this before someone took a chunk of my liver.” I goad her, primarily because if I piss her off enough, she’ll whine to my father, and then he’ll finally turn his eyes my way for five minutes. I’ve seen him twice since being shot.
He’s worse than a workaholic, and I didn’t fully comprehend how much worse until I wasn’t swimming every day. But now, I see it clearly.
“You weren’t horribly disfigured and looking like a ragdoll. We need to chop that hair off already.” Keeping my expression straight is hard in the face of her insults, but I manage.
“Whatever.” Walking out the door, I slide into the back seat of the limo she insists we take everywhere. I’d be perfectly fine driving myself, but Mother needs to put on a show for the world to see. Even though they haven’tseenher since her pageant glory days.
* * *
The press was overwhelming when we arrived. Thankfully, the university has excellent security and kept them away from me. It also helped that my mother was eagerly willing to spill my secrets to the vultures as they asked about my recovery and if I was even ready to return to the pool yet.
I don’t know how she responded to them, but I’d like to know the answers myself because as I stand on the diving board, a dozen other girls lined up on either side of me, I feel sick looking down into the clear blue water.
If I’m being truly honest, it’s the effect of the gunshot that I’m worried about. I’ve trained my body to move at the sound, but now, I have the added trauma of knowing what it feels like to actually be shot that I have to contend with.
Taking position on the board, I close my eyes and focus on how my body will slice through the water like fine wine straight out of the barrel. I hear the coach talking, the heavy breathing of the girl next to me, and the murmurs in the stands.
When the pistol fires, my body does what it’s supposed to, but my brain begs me to run away. The shock of the water hitting my flesh has my limbs performing muscle memory as I panic. Minutes that appear like hours pass, and when I’m back where I began, I feel sick. I glance around me to find looks of surprise on everyone’s faces. Peering over my shoulder, I notice all the other girls are neck and neck, still halfway down the length of the pool on their way back to where I am.
Maybe I didn’t swim?Maybe I flopped around like my beloved dog, Flounder, when I found him in the pound. Embarrassment hurls me past the coach and the swim team captain as I rush to the changing room.
I can’t be here. I can’t do this. I can’t be what I used to be. Fear surrounds me as I throw my clothes on, sling my bag over my shoulder, and race from the building.
Reporters attempt to stop me. My mother’s driver watches quizzically as I race away from him and into the street, getting lost in the throngs of people until I’m so turned around I don’t know where I am.
My ears buzz, and my eyes sting as I fight off tears. My side twinges with remembered pain as I frantically spin, trying to figure out where the hell I am. Slamming my back against a tree, I slide to the ground and bury my face in my knees as tears silently slide down my cheeks.
* * *
Noble
Staring at the screen as footage plays of the missing golden girl running off, I scratch my chin and wonder if I really want to take this job. Her father, Trident Titan, called almost as soon as the news had started reporting her sudden and shocking departure from swim practice.
“That her?” one of my partners, Duke Knight, questions.
“Pretty,” my other partner, Lorde Prince, comments as he passes behind me to the filing cabinet.
“Too young,” I mutter to the two of them. If not for her age, she’s got the ideal look we’re all attracted to in a woman.
“Over eighteen,” Duke shrugs as he leaves the office of our home. The man will fuck anyone willing and over the age of consent. I’ve envied that about him for years. I need an emotional connection with a woman, which means I’ve been miserably abstinent of late.
And Lorde, well, he goes along with whatever Duke or I want. He’s the most relaxed man I’ve ever met, but don’t cross him or those he loves because he can be downright vicious. That’s something we witnessed last year when a client lied to us, and I wound up with a bullet in my shoulder for my efforts.
“We taking the job?” Lorde leans against the filing cabinet behind the desk. I glimpse his reflection in the computer screen. His jaw is locked, and his eyes are fixated on her picture, roaming across her face with the gentleness of a caress.
Turning to face him, I decide to leave it up to him. “Do you want to?” His astonished gaze fights to meet mine, he is that entranced by the girl. Sol. It means sun, and it feels perfect for her with her sunset-red hair.
