It’s strange how soothing a warm body lying next to you is. Sleep is deeper. Dreams are more peaceful. There’s also the bonus of reaching over, feeling the other person, and knowing you’re not alone. What’s also strange, is how every morning my hand gravitates to the space next to me, and I’m surprised to find it empty. 

But not this time. 

This time I wish it was empty.

Fuck.

Angie’s naked back expands and contracts with her soft breathing. Her curls are a mess draped over the pillow, and she stirs—her legs scissoring before rolling over to face me. I scoot away, not wanting any part of her to touch my bare skin, but I pause. Her hair tumbles onto her face in a way that covers everything but her eyes. They shift under the lids in slow sweeps.

In her sleep, Angie looks like an angel with long lashes fluttering softly against her cheeks from whatever dream is clutching her subconscious.

My eyes zero in on her inner left forearm to a tattoo I’ve never noticed before. Brushing her curls aside, I see it more clearly. They’re dates scribed in a pretty cursive font—some are separated by months, another by years. Angie stirs, her eyes pop open, and then she scurries into an upright position. She scans my face with a wild stare, almost as if it’s taking a moment to register who I am.

“You’re in my apartment,” I say and her eyes drift to her naked chest. Then her hands scramble for the sheets and she tugs them to cover herself. 

What the actual fuck? Now she’s shy?

“What time is it?” She glances around.

“Nine.”

“Nine!”

“Yeah. Got somewhere to be?”

“I didn’t plan on sleeping over and yeah, I’ve got shit to do.” Swinging her legs off the bed, she takes the sheets with her while snatching her clothes from the floor. “And now, I’m late.”

It’s cold sitting here without blankets, so I stand and slide my sweats on. Something soft is beneath my feet and surprise, Angie’s pink lacey thong is there. I grab it and slingshot it at her back, which pisses her off as her bent spine becomes rigid. Her head of curls swivel around and her eyes spear me with a frosty glare.

“Could you not!”

“You’re lucky I gave it back. I like those. They’re hot.”

“Turn around.” She adjusts the sheet.

“Why? I’ve already seen you naked.”

“In the dark!”

I mock a gasp because my oh my, is Angie seriously being coy right now? A little sex and her tough facade crumbles. Interesting. I fold my arms and raise my chin.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“An asshole you enjoyed fucking.” I shrug, and her glare hardens even more. She might even melt my clothes off.

“Fine,” she says through her teeth, letting the sheet fall.

Smirking, I lean back against my dresser, but my bottom hits the surface a little too hard causing the drawers to squeak. But the noise is nothing compared to the quickening thump in my chest. Angie stares back at me, tears boiling in her eyes as she tugs her undies on. I can’t look away from the scars on her lower abdomen. They look like scratches.

No. They look like cuts.

“Now you see,” she growls.

“What hap...” I begin to say, but she crisscrosses her hands at me in rough movements.

“I don’t have time for this!”

She stomps past me, yanking the rest of her clothes on in the process and now I feel like an asshole. I’m on her heels as she barrels down the hallway, nearly knocking the wall art off.

“Angie, wait!”

“For what!?” She spins around and gathers her hair into a messy bun. “I am late.”

“Where are you going?”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll miss the nine-twenty BART.” She heads for the door.

“Then let me drive you where you need to go.”

“Hell no!” She snatches the handle and swings the door open. My bare feet follow her down the chipped wooden stairs that empty into the back alley.

“So you’d rather sit in a grimy subway train than have me drive you?”

“Yep. Get over it!”

The sun is blinding as she clomps down the apartment steps shielding her face as she hurries to the sidewalk. It’s the nicest morning in weeks with the faint sound of traffic zipping down Valencia avenue swallowing the click of her boots on the pavement. Birds are chirping in the trees and a homeless man is leaning against one with a bottle of liqueur in hand—his eyes closed. I hope he’s not dead.

Trying one last time, I grab her wrist. “Can you hold on a second?”

“Ugh! What?” She whips around. “What do you want?”

“Are you going to help me with Richie Reddy or not?”

“Yes! Can I go now?” She glares.

“Come back here when you’re done with whatever you’re doing so we can talk.”

“I’ll be in touch. Bye!”

When I get back into the apartment my phone is ringing with Mindy’s name lighting up the screen. My brows furrow in confusion but then I remember it’s Friday and I’m supposed to do a training session with her. 

After what happened last night, I hope she’s canceling because I’m not in the mood for awkward interaction as we dance around the topic of her ex-husband being a piece of shit.

Taking a deep breath, I answer the call.

∆∆∆

So much for it being a beautiful day.

The sky opened up moments ago and it’s crying every last drop as if it was scorned by a lover. Just as I’d hoped, Mindy canceled our session. But, she wants to meet for lunch at a trendy place where a hipster builds you a protein bowl or some shit. The line is out the door, my hoodie isn’t keeping me warm, and she’s nowhere in sight.

Today I’m on a tight schedule with clients and only have a thirty-minute window to eat. I’m about to bail when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Mindy is the only person I know who touches you to get your attention, so I don’t even have to turn to know it’s her. Except, when I face her, she won’t look me in the eyes and keeps her head down.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Just a little embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. Your ex is an asshole.”

“Not all the time.”

It’s a good thing she’s not looking at me because I just rolled my eyes. Seriously. I can’t stand it when Mindy does this. Richie is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve her, yet she makes excuses for his assholery. Why do women do this?

“Mins...” I sigh. “When are you gonna stop defending him?”

“I’m not!” Her eyes flash up to mine and my head jerks back.

It’s covered by makeup, but there’s no mistaking the lump on her cheek, and my blood boils to magma.

“Did her fucking hit you?” I growl, and Mindy’s eyes dart about as people’s heads turn our way. Her cheeks darken, and the bruise amplifies. That piece of shit. I will break his fingers, his arms, his entire fucking body. I’m so livid my fists clench at my sides. “I will murder him!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? I’m looking at that damn shiner on your cheek!” I point and more people look our way. Mindy’s head dips, her shoulders shrink, and she pulls me away from the line.

There goes my lunch.

“It was an accident...” she says.

“An accident? How the fuck is a fist hitting your face, an accident!”

“He was drunk!”

Inhaling a sharp breath, I let my head fall back and count to five. The clouds have grown darker in the last few minutes—kind of like my anger. This isn’t good for my mental health. It’s triggering. My mother made excuses for my stepfather too. I count to ten and take another breath. Looking at her again, I clasp her hands in mine.

“Being drunk isn’t an excuse. You need to stop defending him.”

“You don’t understand...”

“Actually, I do, and it’s quite simple. His baggage is no longer yours and you need to get far away from him.”

Mindy shakes her head—a scoff escaping her mouth as she examines the cracked concrete at our feet. “No. It’s not that simple. Richie is powerful. I can’t just walk away.”

“Let me help you.”

“No.” Mindy looks at me. “Stay away from Richie. I mean it.”

“I’m not scared of him.”

“Miguel...” She searches my eyes and there’s a cast of worry in the creases forming across her forehead. “Please. Leave him alone. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Don’t worry about me.” I cup her chin. “I can take care of myself. It’s you I’m worried about. Look at what he did to your face.”

Shrugging away from me, her eyes go back to staring at the ground. She doesn’t like that I keep bringing it up, but I don’t care. A man like Richie Reddy is a time bomb. A time bomb that needs to be whacked in the back of the head with a baseball bat.

Today it’s a black eye, but tomorrow it’ll be a dark grave. 

I just need my beautiful Mindy to wake the fuck up.

“I have to go,” she says. “Sorry about lunch.”

Yeah, me too, Mins.

Turning, she skips across the slick pavement—the rain hammering down like bullets as she weaves through cars stalled at the traffic light. I want to run after her—whisk her away somewhere safe, but my feet don’t move and my stomach twists into knots.

I’ve got a bad feeling.