Page 45 of When Sinners Hate
I let the jacket drop to the floor where I stand and pull the remaining scraps of material from me, followed by my ruined underwear, before walking to the bathroom. The lights activate as I open the door, warming up and bathing the space in golden light. A mini open-plan room, with a shower at one end and yet more glass, only this is frosted. And, to add to my frustrations, there are buttons on the wall to activate the water. The bastard can’t have a normal shower like anyone else? He has to have a computerised system. I press the first button, and nothing happens, then another.
“Abel!” I shout. I watch him enter and look pretty fucking pleased with himself as he stares at me. “Would you mind helping me with the shower?”
His pants are undone, showing off his physique. In this light, his muscular chest and broad shoulders look even more remarkable, or maybe I’m just paying more attention. I don't know, but no sooner than I think how enticing he looks, I remember the look of him, cast in shadow and standing behind the camera as Ratchet held me down.
No.
This might be a clean slate – a new beginning for him, but it’s not going to be that easy for me.
I step back against the tiled wall and wait for him to do whatever magic is needed to set the water running. He slides his thumb over the chrome panel, and the water begins to flow.
“Temperature.” He brings his thumb down to the little dotted icon and slides his thumb back and forth.
“Thank you,” I say through the downpour. He’s getting wet from the water, and so am I.
“I could stay. You might need some more help.”
A part of me wants to say yes – wants to pretend like all the bad shit and hate isn’t still there so he can soothe me. It is, though. It might have been softened, and it might hold less strength than it did, but I can't see that straight yet.
I shake my head, and he seems to understand. It’s another one of those moments – an honest exchange between us. They’re happening more frequently now, and perhaps I can start to envisage a way through all of this.
His dark shadow leaves, and I wait before stepping into the full force of the water. It’s divine, and a soft sigh escapes my throat. My eyes close, and I turn into the spray. The flashes of the warehouse, the floor, Ratchet, all flicker behind my eyes. But they intersperse with images of Abel, the intensity in his gaze, the words he spoke. The way he felt inside me.
It’s a toxic mix, but the longer I stay in the comfort of the warm shower, the easier I see him. The real him. And maybe he can see the real me, too. I look down at my body and stare at the ankle that was shackled. I can still feel the cold metal cut into my skin, just as the harsh words and disappointments of my father slice through my heart. I’ve grown immune and hardened by time; the scar tissue now layered with years of putting myself back together.
Who am I?
It’s the biggest question I need to answer. Am I a Cortez wife or an Ortega whore? And if I manage to betray Abel, trick him despite all of his warnings and deliver Cortez to my father on a platter, will I ever be anything more?
I manage to switch the shower off without breaking the damn thing and wrap a towel from the counter around me. I step out into the bedroom, but Abel isn’t there. It gives me a momentto admire his room. Perhaps it could be our room? A large bed dominates the back wall, but what’s shocking is the amount of glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the right side of the room. Knowing how protective he’s been, I can’t imagine he’d let people look into his space, but I can’t see beyond the reflection shining back at me. The darkness versus the glass seems to oppose each other, another question for me to unlock.
There’s a t-shirt and a pair of his boxers on the bed, presumably for me to wear. A smile pulls at my lips as I think about walking around his home in his clothes. It’s a good thought and one I hold onto as I dress and walk back into the gloom to look for him. He’s not hard to find. He’s sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby area outside the bedroom, looking at the glass.
“Nice view?”
“It is.” He stands, and I notice his hair is damp, and he’s only wearing a towel.
“You have another shower.”
“Yes. The guest bedroom. Also, in the gym.”
“Can I take a look around? Grab a drink?”
“Downstairs. I’ll go get dressed.” He motions for me to head to the stairs and disappears into the shadows of the corridor.
Tentatively I walk around the glass barrier, looking down to see what could be part of the kitchen. Stepping down, as I go deeper, I see it actually opens up into a huge space. A kitchen area, an open-plan dining space and more glass. Past the kitchen is more living space with sectionals spaced around what I guess to be a coffee table.
Dark appliances, dark wood, polished copper. It all looks so harsh and cold together, but there’s an annoying sophistication to it all as well. You can’t describe it as anything other than the ultimate moody atmosphere. Although, when theTexas sun spills in, I can see it will transform, warming up to something less sinister and threatening.
There’s a wet bar on the other side of the kitchen island, and I help myself to a drink. He’s got an extensive collection, including Grey Goose, Absolut and Belvedere vodka, so I pour a double and add ice and a slice of lime. The drying chill of the drink is perfect, giving me a much-needed hit.
“Pour me one.” Abel’s voice sounds from behind me, so I oblige and hand him the tumbler. He heads to the sitting area, and once again, more lights spark to life as we move through the space.
“I’ll need you to pack an overnight bag for tomorrow.” He stares at the glass and not at me.
“Okay. Why don’t I just have my stuff moved here? It will be easier.”
He looks at me and shakes his head. “Not yet. In fact, I’m taking you home after this.” And with that, he knocks back his drink.