An Improper Ever After(25)

Then sanity intrudes, piece by piece. The panic recedes as quickly as it came, and I relax my grip on the sheets. I'm not a vulnerable fifteen-year-old who doesn't know better anymore. I'm in San Francisco with Elliot. We attended Elizabeth's charity dinner. I felt awful during the dinner, and the smell of all the rich sauces and fat only worsened the nausea. Fresh air seemed vital, and I went to the balcony on the second level. Then on my way back, I fell down the stairs …

No, not fell. Was pushed down. I didn't imagine that pair of hands shoving into my back. My only regret is that I didn't see who it was because I was too busy tumbling down the steps.




 

 

I hiss out a breath. It was probably Annabelle Underhill. She made it clear she hates me. On the other hand, why would she threaten me in the bathroom if she was going to push me down the stairs anyway? It would've made more sense for her to at least be neutrally pleasant in the bathroom, then go for the sneak attack.

I start to turn to check the time, and groan as my shoulders and upper back burst into blossoms of pain. Holy shit, I feel worse today than yesterday. Not unexpected, though. It was always worse the day after a tough game of hockey.

My eyes shut, I breathe shallowly, willing the pain to go away. I should ask for some ibuprofen. That would proba-

"You're up."

Elliot. My hands twist in the sheet and I pull it up, ignoring the dull throbbing in my arms, as though such a flimsy barrier would stop the sharp awareness of him from prickling over my skin. I feel too naked and too exposed. I recognize my extreme level of vulnerability is coming from the fact that Elliot has never been engaged in our relationship at a deep emotional level. I was the only one silly enough to think there could be more between us.

Elliot comes in and takes an armchair by the window, a hand around his phone. He's impeccably dressed in a white shirt with the two top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up and a pair of light beige slacks that molds to his lean, muscular legs. His dark, glossy hair is almost dry. There is a small nick by his tight mouth, which surprises me; I can't remember him ever giving himself a shaving cut.

An unexpectedly strong urge to run my finger over the wound courses through me, and I stiffen. The period of tenderness is over. I finally see that now, and can accept it intellectually. I just need to get my heart to acquiesce and figure out what Elliot's and my next move in this farce is going to be. His eyes probe as he takes me in, and the unblinking focus is flustering.

"Yeah," I croak, then clear my throat. "Just woke up."

"Want a painkiller?" he asks, unscrewing a small bottle of water.

"The muscle relaxant?"

He nods.

I shake my head. "No. It's going to make me drowsy." I don't want anything that can make me lose control of my faculties. "Do you have anything else?"

He offers me three options from a plastic bag with a pharmacy logo. I accept two ibuprofen pills.

"You've been busy."

"Yeah. Breakfast?" he asks, taking the bottle of water back.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry. But some coffee would be great, if you don't mind."

"Why don't you shower while I call for room service?"

I nod and wait until he turns away to use the in-house phone. Then I hobble as quickly as possible across the bedroom. It's silly-it's not like he's never seen me naked before-but I feel extra vulnerable today. 

The bathroom is much bigger than I imagined, with gold-veined marble flooring and polished brass and glass partitions for the shower. A sunken tub with a Jacuzzi jets sits in one corner under frosted windows that let the natural sunlight in. I strip my thong off and step into the shower. The water is instantly hot, and just perfect for relaxing achy joints and pain-knotted muscles.

I let steam build in the stall, then run my soapy hands over myself, rinse off and step out, grabbing a large and very fluffy white towel.

In my experience, the key to feeling better isn't lying in bed all day moping, but going about one's routine. Activity seems to lessen the pain and accelerate the healing process. Still, I've never taken a beating like the one from last night. The stairs at my parents' home in Lincoln City were much shorter … and carpeted.

The reflection in the mirror shows bruises blooming like purple pansies over my shoulders, upper back, hip and right knee. They throb, but aren't too terrible. The scrapes on my cheek are scabbed over, and my jaw is blue along one side. The cuts on the back of my hand are minor, nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things. I sigh. At least nothing's broken.

I apply concealer with extra care to the injuries on my face. I don't want people looking at them and wondering. Although the hotel staff didn't show any outward reaction last night, it's possible they-or someone else-might think Elliot is abusing me. And that would be unfair.