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“Maybe not. But they won’t ever fade, you know.”
“They’re not supposed to,” he says quietly. “The true test isn’t pretending the scars aren’t there. It’s moving on with your life knowing they’re there but contribute nothing to who you can still become.”
I know he’s seen my track scars, the thick ugly ridges belying who I used to be. “Do you truly believe that?”
When he looks at me, his eyes are deep with regret. “I want to.”
“And yet everything you’ve done up to now has been driven, to some degree, by the moment your daddy first put his cigarette out on your hand.”
He inclines his head. “To some degree. Yes.” His voice is quiet and calm.
My rage is doused by his admission. How does he do that? Swoop in and make everything, even the terrible truths, seem okay. Manageable somehow.
And after only a few words from him, my anger is gone. Now, I feel the urge to lean forward and hug him, to give him something to hold on to. And it takes everything in me to hold back. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“It was hard to live through.” When he smiles at me now, his eyes are filled with humor, turning them from dark to doe brown. “But I like who I became because of it. Even if I am asquare peg.”
“I’m sorry I said that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a square peg.”
“No.” I meet his eyes, ceding his point with a small dip of my head. “No there is not.”
I can’t help but think about a different Catherine. Not Catherine Beauchamp and not, as Lizzie called me, PussyCat. Maybe a Catherine who grew up in Pasadena or West LA, a Catherine who went to nursing school because she felt the need to help people. That Catherine would be perfect for someone like Aiden Flint.
I have one eye trained on the entrance to the bar, so I recognize my date the moment he steps inside. Regret at the interruption dampens my mood. I could sit here all night and talk to this man.
But that’s not the woman I am—at least not tonight.
In a practiced move, I signal for the bartender to close me out, and push to my feet. “I very much like the man you became, Aiden Flint.”
Aiden sees Bernard approaching too. “It was nice talking to you.”
I smile. I try to dazzle, but I can feel the edges cracking. “Save me a dance, Lieutenant.” I turn away from him, towards Bernard.
Extending my hand, I politely greet my client, “Mr. Leard.”
“Miss Beauchamp.” He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “This way.”
By the time we reach the door and I turn back, hoping for one last glance at Aiden, he’s already gone.
Giving my attention back to my client, I start with the usual small talk. Nothing too obvious. Just a few words to break the ice. “I love this hotel,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately soft.
Bernard pulls up abruptly. Turning to me, he scans me from head to foot, his cold blue eyes measuring the quality of the product. He does not touch me. He does not smile at me or try to return my small talk.
In a voice meant to deliver speeches, he tells me, “You’re heavier than you appeared in your photograph.”
I flush with mortification, my cheeks burning red. “I’m the same weight I was when it was taken,” I reply lamely, unsure of what else there is to say that isn’t, ‘Fuck you, dickhead’.
He exhales an irritated breath. “Don’t talk to anyone unless answering a direct question. Just stand nearby and look happy to be here.”
He starts moving towards the elevators again, not slowing his stride as I scramble to keep up in my heels.
I don’t reply.
The Witch Hunter isn’t looking for a reciprocal exchange. He’s looking for what we call a Dog’s Body. Someone to look cute and charm the crowd but heed every command. And, quite frankly, with my mind completely distracted by my unexpected encounter with Aiden Flint, this is my best-case scenario.
Aiden
