The vision in my left eye is blurred when I come to, lying horizontally on worn, scratchy, blue-grey carpet. I slowly sit up, blinking rapidly. It's still dark outside so I'm not sure whether it's minutes or hours since…

Since what happened.

A lump rises in my throat as I sit still, listening intently. There's the faint gurgle of the refrigerator, traffic on the street, the TV from our downstairs neighbour, interspersed with the shaky sound of my own breathing.

The rest of the apartment is silent.

He isn't here.

Head throbbing I try to scramble bits and pieces together but the whole of the left side of my face feels … not quite right—it throbs, painful and sore, and I'm only becoming more and more aware of it the longer I sit.

Fuck.

Reaching up, I gingerly touch my head, fingers feeling moisture in my hair and down my face. I get up slowly, unsteady on my feet as I stagger to the bathroom.

My eyes narrow as I lean over the sink, nausea rising. I can see blood smeared on my fingertips and when I look up at my reflection, my grip on the sink tightens.

Blood everywhere.

It's down the side of my face, my left eye, on my forehead, matted in my hair; dark and thick where it's clotted. A gash just above my eyebrow seems to be the source of the bleeding. My eye and cheekbone are swelling, pale purple blossoming where the door collided with my face; an almost perfectly straight indentation.

I'm not sure what feels worse. The physical hurt, or the fact he promised me this wouldn't happen again. And just like all the promises that came before, it had been broken.

I bite my lip to stop myself from crying, but I end up pitifully whining as I start trying to mend the damage he's inflicted.

It takes me the better part of an hour to wash the blood out of my hair and patch myself up the best I can. The cut above my eyebrow isn't too bad once I've stemmed the flow of blood, though I have a feeling it might scar as there's no way I can go to the ER and get it stitched. Too many questions I can't answer.

Locking and bolting the door, I pace the apartment for a while, listless as I try to gather myself. I'm pretty sure Luke isn't going to come home again tonight, and that gives me a little breathing space. A little time to think.

I run through every detail of our argument. His furious face playing before my eyes even when I close them; the flashes of anger, the tipping point where there's just no reasoning with him anymore. Did I deserve this? Surely, taking Char with me wasn't the worst thing in the world? I try to see it from his point of view but I just can't reconcile it with what he's done.

And I'm sick of it.

Sick of having to walk on eggshells around him all the time, fearful of triggering a whole new cycle where it always ends up the same. Over and over and over again.

I know things need to change and I need to be the one to do it. I need to be the one strong enough to say enough is enough.

I need to…

I need help.

Tara is dealing with her own drama. I shouldn't burden her with mine too. Charlotte … I chew my lip. I can't call Charlotte, not right now. I can't face her brutal honesty or the pity that comes with it because she knew this would happen again. How many times has she told me to leave him?

And still, I stay. Because he's all I have. And life is… life is complicated. And once I thought I loved him, and part of me still does.

Shame floods me, tears crowding my eyes. I get into bed, pulling the covers over me until I'm in a soft white cocoon.

It's only then that I allow myself to lose it properly. I cry until I can't breathe, until my chest aches, until the sheets are damp; uncomfortable against my skin.

And, eventually, I succumb to restless, uneasy sleep.

***

It's Friday night and I'm parked up in the lot of some dingy motel off the freeway, waiting. It's after ten, clouds dusted with pink fast being eaten up by the dark as the sun sinks behind the horizon.

Two days and I haven't seen Luke in either of them. He'll be back soon. He always is.
He texts me once, telling me he's left the burner and money in the safe at the diner.

U kno what 2 do

No apologies, no begging. It makes my blood boil that he's not even bothered enough to ask how I am. If I were dead, how would he even know? I had a laugh at that and then I cried because it says it all. He doesn't care.

Black and blue hidden underneath carefully styled hair and a ton of makeup, a Band-Aid on my brow, trying to keep the cut protected. It's lucky the weather has cooled the last few days because otherwise this shit would slide straight off my face.

I rub my hands down bare legs trying to warm them up, tugging blue hoodie sleeves over my fists. I'm tempted to put the engine on to keep the chill from my skin, but I don't want to waste the gas.

Instead, I watch the entrance to the lot, as cars whizz by on the freeway, the occasional person walking past, looking at the motel with distaste; it's that kind of place. Dilapidated and seedy.

Five minutes pass before the same beamer turns in; I recognize it instantly, my heart speeding up, headlights momentarily blinding as they park next to me.

I made sure I was here before they said this time, not wanting to piss anyone off. It gave me a little more time, the occasional dizzy spell still happening. Searching the internet has told me that's normal for a head injury. A concussion. I guess I shouldn't be driving at all but I don't really have a choice.

Shivering, I get out the car, slamming the door behind me before the engine of the beamer is even off. A breeze rustles the trees we're parked under, blowing through the thin material of my hoodie and even thinner jersey dress I threw on after work. I knew I should've worn jeans instead, but the weather recently has made me forget how cold normal summer nights can get.

"Doll," Vince greets as he gets out the beamer with a smirk. He sticks hands in his pockets and walks over to me, the ground crunching beneath his feet, curly head bowed slightly against the wind.

"Just can't stay away now, can you?"

His greeting is markedly different from the first time. He's more relaxed, and it makes me feel a little less on edge, though the wariness still lingers. I know he's not someone who I want to get on the wrong side of.

"Something like that."

"Your friend not with you tonight?"

"No," I say, wishing desperately that she was. I've been avoiding her, which feels completely wrong because it's Charlotte. I just need a little more time before I see her. Before she sees me.

Miles exits the driver side as he walks over to join us, appraising the lot with a twist of his head this way and that. He adjusts his black jacket across broad shoulders, double shoulder holster standing out against his white t-shirt. It's not surprising to me that he's carrying. He gives me a jerky nod of his head in greeting and heat blossoms on my cheeks; he's just as fine as I remember. Straight nose, sharp jawline, scruff on his face. God.

"And Luke? Where's he tonight?"

"I don't know," I sigh tiredly, attention returning to Vince.

"You don't seem to know a lot, do you?"

It stings because he's right.

"I'm not his keeper," I respond, irritation lacing my words.

"And yet you're here."

He's amused, and it doesn't escape me that his eyes linger on my face a little too long. I don't reply; I don't need to dignify an answer. I think my silence tells them everything they need to know. I'm not his keeper, he is mine.

"You got what I need?" Vince reaches out a large hand, gold rings adorning a couple of fingers. I nod silently, pulling out an envelope much thicker than the last from my bag.

"Good girl," he drawls taking it from me. I'm not sure whether he means to be patronizing, but he is.

His cell rings suddenly, loud in the quiet of the lot and he excuses himself, stalking away and leaving Miles and I standing together, alone.

We're silent for too long and it's so awkward, I kind of want to disappear.

Miles slides out a pack of Marlboro and a Zippo lighter from his pockets. He sparks up, cupping one hand against the wind as he intakes sharply.

"You want one?" he says, his low voice startling me.

"Sure."

I swallow as he offers his pack to me, fumbling as I take one out, heat rising again in my cheeks. Slipping it between my lips, I hold my hand out for his lighter but he ignores it, leaning in, hand coming round to protect the flame, fingers so close to my face he could touch me. In fact, he's so close I can smell him; subtle citrus, fresh.

I drawback, hardly breathing as I catch his eye and smile, heart beating wildly.

"Thanks."

"No worries."

We're quiet again and I'm not sure what to say, he's hella hot, and it's intimidating. I look up, exhaling into the night sky.

I guess, usually, Charlotte's the one who introduces me to people. She's always got something to say and conversation bounces off her. Without her I'm at a loss, stumbling like I can't quite get out the blocks.

"What happened to your face?"

The question hangs in the air and I look at him wide-eyed, my hand flying up to my hair, covering that side of my face quickly. I didn't realize he'd been looking.

The truth weighs heavily on me. Everyone at work has accepted my twisted version of it; I walked into a door, but I'm not sure Miles is that gullible. My gut tells me he's not. The truth isn't something I want to divulge to a stranger either.

"Nothing ... just clumsy."

I try to keep my tone casual. It isn't a lie; I'm definitely clumsy, just not in the way this implies. Clumsy with the truth. I should have kept my mouth shut. None of this would have happened had I kept things to myself.

Miles studies me for what feels like an age and for once I feel completely exposed, like he's seeing what others don't, or try not to. Or see and don't care.

"You sure 'bout that?" he asks, searching my face. His words are so sure, like he knows. Aside from Charlotte, no one reads me like this. Charlotte can tell I'm lying a mile off, everyone else just accepts whatever bullshit excuse I give.

I look at my feet, nudging the toes of my pumps into the dirt ground.

"I'm sure."

For some reason, I feel the need to tell him something else. Something real. I mean, I don't even know him; but I think I want to.

The thought lingers in the silence between us.

"I broke this arm in two places when I was seven," I say before I can stop myself. I point to my right arm. "I tripped over on a hike."

Miles' eyebrows raise into his tousled mop of hair. "Yeah?" His lips tug into a smile and he looks so fucking good. I let out a breath.

"Yeah, such a clutz as a kid. My um, Dad always..." I trail off. What I'm doing here? I never talk about my Papà. Never.

"Your Dad?" Miles prompts, eyes not leaving me.

"Always said I was trouble," I chew out finally.

"What's he say about you now?" Miles presses. I bite my lip, averting my eyes for a second before returning my gaze to his.

"He don't say nothin'. We don't talk anymore."

Miles's smile fades, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. I take a long drag, holding the smoke in my lungs until it makes my head dizzy.

"You have a fallout?"

"I guess … He's in State. Doing twenty-five to life. Don't want anything to do with him," I respond, not even trying to stop the resentment that seeps out with every word.

"No shit," Miles exhales. "Fuck." He runs a hand through his hair and scrubs down the stubble on his face. "What'd he do?"

"What didn't he do? Look, I don't really wanna talk about it, it's my fault, I bought him up but can we just—"

"It's cool," Miles interrupts. "I'm easy, we all got shit we don't like talkin' about, right?"

He's like a breath of fresh air and all of a sudden I'm feeling at ease. It's nice not feeling on edge, not having to justify myself, even though I find myself doing just that.

"Yeah. Sorry, people just normally want the whole story, you know?"

"Yeah. I do."

We're quiet again and I wonder where Vince has disappeared off to. I see him on his cell in the distance. I could leave, he has the money after all.

Miles follows my eyes.

"Stay," he says as if reading my mind. "Until he comes back."

"Sure." Tossing my cigarette, I stub it out, wrapping my arms around myself as another cool blast of night air whips around, watching Vince pace, gesticulating angrily.

"Is he always so ... expressive?" I ask after a moment.

Miles laughs.

"Could say that," he smirks slightly. "Fuckin' Italians."

The surprise on my face must be self-evident.

"You literally have no fuckin' idea, do you?" Miles says, derision in his voice. "Who your boy's involved with?"

I frown, shaking my head. "I guess not."

My insides churn. Nonna. Nonno. Mamma. Papà.

Vince saunters slowly back over, taking out bundled stacks of notes and thumbing through them as he approaches.

I shift anxiously, waiting with bated breath as he gets closer. He stops to look at me, his mouth pressed into a thin line when he reaches the end. 

And I know then, right then… it's not all there.

Vince strides over and I'm frozen. 

Luke must've known he was short, he had to. And he sent me instead. 

"Not even close," Vince says roughly, his voice low and dangerous, the pretence of niceness long gone. "Where's the rest, Doll, huh?"

My mouth doesn't seem to be working and I balk as he takes another step towards me, fingers latching onto my arm, uncomfortably tight.

"Get off me!" I snarl, finding my voice, I try yanking my arm away but his grip is too firm.

"Where's the rest of my money?" he growls.

"I don't—I don't know!"

My breathing becomes more and more erratic as panic flares through every inch of skin, his closeness smothering, his voice making me feel dizzy. I need to get away before this descends into a full-blown panic attack.

Just when I think I'm going to lose it, Miles is there, coming between us, in Vince's face, hand on his chest.

"C'mon man, you're scaring her… she don't know shit," his voice is deadly calm. "Look at her."

Vince stares at me for a moment, then between Miles and me, lip curling into a sneer.

He lets go and I snatch my arm back holding it close, rubbing where his fingers have been.

"That true? Or are you just tryin' to buy your man some more time?" he jabs a finger at me accusingly.

"What? No!"

"Smart of him, I give you that but not smart enough. How about I take you as leverage, huh? You wanna come work off your boy's debts?" He laughs unkindly, eyes dark.

"I don't—I don't know anything, I swear!"

Vince glares.

"You tell that motherfucking piece of shit I know exactly what he's doing! He got twenty-four fuckin' hours to get us what he owes; otherwise, I'm comin' for him."

He shoulder barges Miles as he stalks past toward the beamer, a flurry of anger.

I look skyward blinking back tears, my heart palpitating, my knees weak.

"You OK?" Miles asks, concern in his voice, on his face, in those dark eyes.

"Why are you still here?"

I see him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing as he regards me with a look I can't quite place.

"I just want to make sure you're alright."

I shrug it off. "Nothing I'm not used to," I say before I can stop myself. Then, "Did he mean it?"

"What?"

"That he'd take me as leverage?"

Miles is silent for a second.

"Vince don't say things he don't mean," he says eventually. "But he thinks you're in on whatever game Luke is playin' here ... he sees it as fair."

"Great." I laugh and then a solitary tear falls and I wipe it away, embarrassed. "I'm not. I really don't know."

Miles levels me with a steady gaze, watching as another tear rolls down my cheek.

"I believe you," he says heavily, hand running through his hair. "Just get Luke to pay up what he owes and there won't be any issues."

"And if he don't?"

"Then, we're coming for him."

***

I think about it all the way home. This whole fucked up situation. Luke is in a heap of trouble and I want to know why.

Maybe I can help him dig himself out of the hole he's in if he tells me what's going on. I doubt he would though, and even if he did… why should I help? With the way he treats me; like a possession, something he owns — gives, takes, breaks, and loves as and when he pleases.

Vince wants the rest of the money. 24 hours or he's coming.

My hand hovers over the send button, lip between my teeth.

I hit send.