Page 10 of Broken Saint

He’s probably still balls deep in his boss.

I cringe as the memory of his thrusting ass appears in my mind once more.

Is there a way to bleach shit like that clean from your memory?

Forcing the image and the stupidity that still lingers just beneath the surface from not even suspecting he was doing the dirty aside, I pull up my airline app. It takes a few seconds to load, but when it does, disappointment slams into me.

The first flight to Seattle isn’t until tomorrow morning, and there’s a layover in San Francisco.

Not the smooth getaway I was hoping for.

But equally, it’s nowhere near enough for me to change my mind.

“Screw it,” I mutter, pulling my credit card out and booking my seat.

But what now?

The thought of spending the night at the airport doesn’t exactly appeal; neither does spending money I don’t have on a room for the night.

But in the end, the prospect of a shower and a bed wins out. So, dragging my life behind me in two cases, I head toward the closest hotel and check in for the night.

The moment I’m in my room, I turn my cell off. At some point, I assume the cheating jerk will return home and may or may not notice that I’m missing.

Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to fall into bed a sated, exhausted mess, not even noticing it’s empty.

He probably already has.

Was he always such a selfish douche?

Yes, yes he was.

Pulling my cosmetic bag from my case, I make quick work of stripping out of my clothes and pad through to the bathroom naked.

A gasp rips from my lips when I’m greeted by a full-length mirror. I come to a stop in front of it, but I keep my eyes downcast for a few seconds, summoning the courage to look up at myself.

You can do this. Own who you are now. This is you.

You are beautiful.

You are beautiful.

You are beau?—

My mantra is cut off when I finally lift my eyes.

It took me a long time to break the obsession I had with looking at my reflection and fixating on everything I hate. It’s also usually the first sign that I’m heading back to a dark place, which is why I keep myself as far away as possible from a mirror on my good days.

As always, my attention zeros in on the scars that never used to be there.

Moisture fills my mouth as I stare at them, phantom pain appearing as I remember those early days after getting them.

“Just cover them up,”Chad would tell me.“You can forget about them then.”

Tears burn my eyes.

We were together months before I was brave enough to be intimate with him, but when we were, my scars were either covered or hidden by our position.

To begin with, I thought it was sweet that he was ensuring I didn’t freak out.