He sighs. “I’m still not sure how I feel about delivering this shit to you, Ju-“ he stops mid sentence, peering at me. “What was your stripper name again?”

“Astrid Jewel,” I say, “asshole.”

“Astrid Jewel Asshole?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, okay, that’s an interesting name.” He pulls a small plastic package from his jeans pocket and slaps it into my open palm.

“Dick,” I say, pocketing the package.

He grins like a Cheshire cat, showing his teeth, before dropping it and becoming serious once more.

“I’m worried about you. Jesus, Julz, you’re all I can goddamn think about.”

“I’m fine,” I respond in a clipped voice.

“You’re not fine,” he argues, slamming his coffee down on the windowsill behind him. “You think I don’t know what it would take to get into the clubhouse of a man like Dornan Ross?

Just like that, his entire demeanour changes like the flip of a switch. I can practically feel the rage radiating from him, the frustration.

The terror.

And I understand why he’s acting like this.

Because he saved me from Dornan once.

We both know he won’t be able to save me twice.

“You think I’m some scared little girl, Elliot? Because, I’m not. I grew up in this life, remember? My first goddamn childhood memory is of me walking in on my mom sucking Dornan’s dick, for Christ’s sake. This life isn’t new to me, as much as you wish it was.”

He rubs his jaw, agitated. Suddenly, I regret saying what I did.

“Elliot,” I implore him, suddenly close to tears. “I can’t do this with you. I can’t. If you can’t accept what I’m doing, maybe we should stop seeing each other like this.”

“Stop seeing each other,” he mutters under his breath in a mocking tone. “No, that’s not going to happen.”

We continue to stare daggers at each other. His eyes are shiny and his hands are balled into fists. I chew on my lip to stop an avalanche of emotion from pouring out. I can’t lose him, not now. He’s the only person in the world who I can count on. He’s the only person who’d know to come looking for me if I went missing in a sea of treachery, leather, and Harley Davidsons.

He’s the only person in the world who actually cares about me.

I open my eyes wide and roll them around so the tears forming in them won’t roll out onto my face. The stupid thing is, I’m not even sure what I want more right now—to get my revenge on the Gypsy Brothers?

Or to be not so fucking alone.

Part of me wants to tell him how much he ruined me when he left me. Built my shattered soul back up, bit by bit, for three long years, only to smash it all down when he left me standing, barefoot, in his grandmother’s driveway.

But I won’t. I’ve been living inside my head for so long, I wouldn’t even know how to say those things to him.

He deserves better than someone like me, anyway.

It is Elliot who finally breaks the silence.

“You should call grandma,” he says pointedly.

Emotion slams into me again, and homesickness. I may hate Nebraska, but I love that woman with every bit of my soul. Elliot’s grandmother. My guardian angels, her and Elliot both.

I swallow sharply. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You just don’t want to.”

“I do want to,” I argue stubbornly. “It’s not that easy.”

He sneers at me. “It’s called a goddamned pay phone, Julz. It’s not like she’ll see your face.”

He says face like it’s the ugliest thing in the world, and I shrink back, anger and grief swirling in my chest.

I want to walk away, but I can’t. I never could walk away from Elliot.

“She misses you,” he adds, gentler this time.

“I miss her too,” I mutter, looking anywhere but at him.

“I still don’t understand why you had to go all the way to Thailand to get your face re-made. We’re in L.A. Plastic surgery capital of the world. Although,” he says, brushing a finger against my cheekbone, “they did a damn fine job of turning you into a stranger. If it wasn’t for…“ His eyes flick to my hip, and I just know he’s talking about my scars, the ones he’s turned into a beautiful work of art instead of an eyesore. He looks affronted, like he isn’t sure how to end that sentence. “…I wouldn’t even believe it was you.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I say, remembering the first time I met Dr. Lee; the first time it occurred to me that I could actually strike back at Dornan and his sons. For the first time, revenge had seemed possible and my tongue had salivated at the sweet taste of vengeance.

I was eighteen. Elliot had been gone for several months. I was barely holding it together. I was going through the newspaper, trying to think of a creative way to kill myself once and for all.

After all, he was gone. Grandma worked all day at the diner. There wouldn’t be anyone to find me.

Of course, the local newspaper didn’t report too much on suicides. It’s more that I was flicking through the paper idly, my brain stretching to think of ways for a painless release.

I’d heard of a drug that one could source in Mexico. Something that helped you to slip away, to fall into a coma and drift into death unbidden. But Mexico was too far away and I didn’t exactly have a passport.

I didn’t want to hang myself. If I failed, I didn’t want to be a vegetable, or in the spinal unit with a broken neck. The car fumes had been unbearable when I’d tried to gas myself in the garage. I wasn’t going to do that again. And, as much as I hated to admit it, it had hurt so damn much when I’d cut my wrists. I wanted a more painless solution.

But death by my own hand seemed painful and elusive, no matter how creative I got. It was a horrid realisation—waiting to die and being too afraid and miserable to live. I had acute survivors guilt, too. I was so ashamed that my father had died while I had been saved, only for me to waste my life wishing for death.

When reading that newspaper, my eye caught an article, and something dangerous began to flutter in my chest as my heart hammered at my ribcage.

I didn’t recognise the feeling at first. It had been so long.

Hope.

Thin and trembling, its shoots reached out and wrapped around my blackened heart, squeezing gently, making me wheeze. Goose bumps sprang up on my bare arms unbidden, and something hard and uncomfortable bobbed in my throat.

Fear. Excitement. Devastation. Longing.

On the surface the article was nothing special. A surgeon’s convention, being held in Lincoln, only a few hours drive from Grandma’s house. The feature article was about a plastic surgeon, Ilio Lee, whose entire family had been killed by a psychotic patient of his. He had dedicated the rest of his career to helping the underprivileged who needed surgery for facial deformities and horrible accidents.

I can’t say I even came up with the idea to change my appearance and wreak my revenge, because in that moment, staring down at his face, it was like someone else planted that seed in my mind. And as I sat there, tracing the doctor’s eyes with my trembling fingers, that thump-thump-thump in my chest was, for once, a comforting reminder that I was still very much alive.

I stole Grandma’s car that day and drove through a massive thunderstorm to get to the hotel where the conference was being held. I almost turned around so many times. What was I going to say? What if he told Dornan about me being alive? And yet, I was at the end. I had nothing else left in me but the hope that blossomed under the burden of what I was about to do.

When I got to the hotel, it was already three, and the conference had finished.

I was devastated. I had missed my chance to see the doctor and try to plead for him to help me. I didn’t even know if he would, but to have lost the opportunity to even try was the final straw. I stormed out of the hotel lobby to the parking lot out front. My final plan emerged, to smash the car into a freeway overpass pillar at high speed and just get this over and done with.