A throbbing pulse echoes in my clit, remnants of last night and the dream that woke me. The little bundle of nerves is still overly sensitive and almost tender, and I let out a soft noise when my fingertips brush against it.
I yank my hand away and switch my focus to my hair, shampooing and rinsing it before turning the water off and stepping out of the shower.
The woman looking back at me from the foggy mirror looks slightly less dazed, although no less marked.
Running my fingertips over the damp skin of my ruined arm, I trace the flowers I had drawn there, following the outline of the dark red petals before skimming the pads of my fingers over the deep blue-black ink that surrounds them.
The flowers look a little like pools of blood on a dark sidewalk. I never thought of that before, but now that the thought has occurred to me, it’s all I can see.
Goose bumps prickle over my wet skin, and I shake my head at my reflection.
It’s done.
The past can’t be undone, but the future can sure as fuck be reshaped.
And this ends here.
I don’t have to work until eight, so I spend the day locked up in my apartment. I scrounge through my meager pantry and find some food to cook, since I’ve been eating like shit lately. My stomach has been a knot of tension for the past couple weeks, and I haven’t had much of an appetite.
I’m not a great cook, but the food is palatable, and I force myself to eat all of it as I binge-watch trashy TV shows in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.
At seven, I slip on a skirt and a pair of ankle boots, then throw on a shiny, low-cut top. I don’t bother with my prosthesis.
It’s a little cold for the amount of skin I have on display, but I throw a jacket on over it all and trot quickly down the stairs, then catch the bus a few blocks over. I’ll warm up at the bar, and I need to be wearing a skirt tonight. It’ll m
ake things easier.
Duke’s is already busy when I walk in, and I dump my jacket in the back and take my spot behind the bar, losing track of time for a while as I mix cocktails and pour beers.
When Greg Pruitt wanders in at around eleven o’clock, I nod to myself in satisfaction. Good. I figured he’d be here tonight; Fridays are his usual night. He’s pretty fucking predictable, and I was counting on him coming into the bar.
Not that I couldn’t do this with any of the other men who are drinking and talking loudly in the chaotic, cramped space—but at least I know Greg is a sure thing.
It doesn’t need to be anything other than a quick fuck. Hell, I’m not sure my body can take much more than that right now.
But Marcus Constantine needs to be given a message. And maybe I do too.
This thing between us isn’t a thing.
It doesn’t exist.
It can’t.
So I’ll prove it to him.
When Greg makes his way to the bar to grab his usual martini, I make sure I’m the one who mixes it for him. Instead of brushing off his awkward attempts to hit on me, I lean farther over the beat up dark wood, smiling provocatively as I slide his drink over.
His gaze drops to my well-displayed cleavage, and he licks his lips.
Yeah. That was fucking easy.
I don’t do anything more than that for a while, just keep serving him drinks while he keeps ogling me and bragging incessantly about his mediocre job. But when the bar starts to die down at a little after one in the morning, I ask Duke if I can cut out early.
“Yeah. Sure.” The stocky man shrugs, his gaze running down my body curiously. There’s no heat in his eyes—he’s more like an uncle or a cranky older brother than anything—but he’s definitely noticed I’m not wearing my usual work outfit.
Whatever.
I don’t need to explain myself to him.