Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(9)

In the bathroom I stare at myself. Fucking Jack, saying those things to me. With the dress off, the full ruin is on display. There’s a patch of burn scars on my shoulder and chest, and long, ragged scars from deep cuts on my arm, which I nearly lost. On top of that I was never any great beauty. I’m awkward; my shoulders are too wide, my hips too narrow by comparison, my waist too thick for an hourglass shape, my breasts and butt too small.

Even without the scars I’d be plain. I need a shower. I strip my underthings off and bless the hotel industry for having huge capacities for hot water in their bathrooms, because I’ll be in here for an hour. I end up filling the tub so I can stretch out and let the hot water and rising steam ease the pain in my joints.

Of course I’m in a top-tier suite, so there are whirlpool jets. I turn those on and stuff the complimentary bath pillow under my head. I will be staying in here until I prune. I might sleep in here, hell with it.

The water soaks my hair. I sit up and scrub it with my fingers, slowly. I can only use my one hand and must work the shampoo in slowly. It stings my eye, so I splash water on my face and lie back, bend my knees, and duck under the water.

I hold my breath, and hold, and hold, before I rise up and gasp for air. Now I lean back.

Some scented candles would be nice.

Anything to take my mind off Jack.

He was going to touch me before Frank showed up. Nothing aggressive, just set his hand on my arm. He was going for it.

It’s been a long, long time since another person, other than a doctor, actually touched me. Mom hasn’t hugged me since before the accident. If I’m lucky she’ll rest her hand on my shoulder or brush my hair.

That’s not the kind of touch I want.

The first time Jack touched me, we were both fourteen. Both students at the same expensive private school. There was a no public display of affection rule in harsh effect, but the faculty let their guard down a little at a dance.

An awkward dance; it was for freshmen and sophomores, and only the sophomores had any idea what to do. The freshmen, myself included, hung out in single-sex clusters of friends and looked at each other like we were making first contact between far-flung tribes instead of socializing at a school-sanctioned event.

Except Jack, that is. He walked over and grabbed my hand. Without a word, he almost pulled me onto the dance floor. One of the chaperones immediately warned us about getting too close.

I barely understood what was happening until we slipped into a chaste slow dance.

“So, I’m Jack,” he said, grinning.

I smile myself now, thinking about it. Until my scars start to itch from it, and my face goes neutral again.

“I’m Elaine.”

“No you’re not, you’re Ellie.”

That was the first time anybody called me that.

He was awkward as a fourteen-year-old. Who isn’t? Puberty hit him like a freight train and he was already six feet tall, absolutely towering over four-foot-eleven me. It made the dance awkward. He tried to rest his hand on my waist and it kept slipping up my back. We must have been quite a sight, trying to dance and not knowing how.

“Can I get your phone number?” he said.

I blinked a few times. “Why?”

He laughed. “Can I?”

We found a napkin by the punch bowl. He poured me a cup while I wrote it down for him, then stuffed my number in his pocket. When I finished my sadly unspiked punch, he pulled me back out onto the dance floor and we ended up circling each other all night, looking over our shoulders at the annoyed chaperones.

“We’ve never really talked,” he said.

“I know. Um, I don’t really know you.”

“I’m Jack, you’re Ellie. I think you’re cute. What else is there to know?”

“Um,” I said, at the height of my conversational powers.

The next day we spent an hour on the phone and started texting each other constantly. Our conversations have all blurred together, I can’t even remember what they were, what we talked about the first time.

I just know that for a long time, it was the only thing that mattered to me.

As much as it seemed a good idea to sleep in the warm whirlpool tub, the hard bottom is starting to hurt my tailbone. I get up, leaning with my good hand on the side to keep myself steady while I keep my feet under me. I have to be extra careful when my knee is warmed up and limber. It’s the easiest to injure it again then.

I spent four years walking with a cane and I’ll be damned if I have to take it up again. My heart skips a little when my foot slips on the floor with a loud squeak and I fear I’m going to go down, but I manage to keep my feet under me and wrap myself in a fluffy hotel bathrobe.

A distraction would be very nice right now. Fortunately I brought my e-reader. If I pulled out my tablet computer I’d end up doing work, same thing for my laptop. I settle back into the pillows and flip through my books.

I have a dirty little secret. I read romance novels. A lot. I have about five hundred in my collection. While I was being schooled at home, it was all I did outside of my studies, read these. Back then I had to buy the ones with tamer covers and titles. Now I can read Owned by the Bad Boy whenever I feel like it, and I feel like it a lot.

Except there’s a problem. When I start to read, I skim over the author’s description of the hero just fine, but when I get into the prose, it’s Jack I’m seeing, not whoever they intended. I flop the reader down and sigh. The last thing I need is to think of Jack right now.