The Wright Mistake(72)

But, now, I hated him. Fuck, I hate him! For everything he’d done to me and all the pain he’d caused. For the fear I couldn’t escape. For forcing me…into everything.

“Let’s go,” he said, shoving me off of him.

My hand went to my head. I winced at the tender touch. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Dillon nodded his head toward the bedroom, and I anxiously entered ahead of him. He shoved me into the closet and pulled out a suitcase. He knew exactly where it was.

“Pack,” he said.

“Dillon?” I said in that soft, submissive voice I knew he loved. “Do you think you could get me something to clean up my cuts and maybe some ibuprofen?” I carefully met his eyes.

“On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me see it,” he said.

I was frozen. “See what?”

“My name.”

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

When I was twenty, Dillon had convinced me to get his name tattooed on my body. He’d said it was more permanent than marriage. A fucking piece of paper didn’t mean shit to him. He’d already owned me. Putting a permanent reminder on me had just sealed the deal.

But the first thing I’d done when I got out was, I’d found the best fucking tattoo artist in the state of Ohio to tattoo over it. Dillon was right. It had been a constant fucking reminder of him. And I’d wanted it gone.

My hands were shaking when I slid up the front of my dress and showed him the navy-blue thong I wore underneath. I tugged the material down just an inch and showed him the delicate flowers and vines that covered up his name and wrapped around my hip. He could only see half of the masterpiece that started at my hip, snaked up my ribs, across the outside of my breast, and up to my shoulder.

He knelt before me and traced his finger over the sensitive skin where he’d insisted I get tattooed.

“We’ll have to fix this,” he said. He leaned forward and nipped at the skin.

“We’ll do it when we get home,” I said, forcing excitement into my voice.

He grinned. “Finish packing.”

I nodded and started haphazardly throwing clothes into the suitcase. But, as soon as he left the closet, I bolted for my safe. It was my only chance. I had to try for it. I didn’t know how much time I had or how familiar he was with my bathroom and where the medical supplies were. But I had at least a minute, maybe two if I was lucky.

I typed in the combination on the lock. I held my breath as it clicked open, and then I was in a race against time. I would not be a victim. Not with all the time I had spent at the shooting range. Not with all the time I had spent becoming a new person and getting away from Dillon. I was not going back to Ohio, to that life and that person. No way in hell.

I grabbed my Glock out of the case. My fingers didn’t fumble. I didn’t hesitate. I ejected the empty magazine, loaded bullets as efficiently as I had practiced time and time again at the range, reinserted the magazine, and pulled the slide back to chamber a round.

“Jules, I didn’t find the ibuprofen,” Dillon said as he entered the closet.

I whirled around and held the gun level with his chest. Bigger target. I could hit his head, but if I only got off one shot, I wanted to make sure I didn’t fucking miss.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

He was angry. Fiery fucking angry. Ballistic, going-to-kill-me kind of crazy angry.

“Dillon, why don’t you back the fuck up right the fuck now?”

“Jules,” he said, as if he could reason with me.

“Now! Out of my closet, out of my bedroom, out of my fucking apartment.”

“Think about what you’re doing.”

“Don’t give me a reason to use this.”

“You’re making a huge mistake,” he growled low and deadly.

But I was the one with the gun.

“You were the one who made a mistake when you came here.”

“Jules, just put the gun down. Don’t do anything fucking stupid.” Dillon took a step toward me.

“Don’t come any closer,” I snarled.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” he said, taking another step forward.

“I have every right to shoot you right now, Dillon. And, if you’ve been watching me as closely as it seems, then you know I know how. I won’t miss. Now, step back!”

He took one more step toward me. He was almost close enough to grab the gun if he wanted to. I couldn’t let that happen. This was my only fucking chance. I aimed and fired at his foot. He jumped backward just in time to miss me shooting him.

“I said, back the fuck up.”

Dillon reassessed me. I didn’t know who the fuck he’d thought he was dealing with this whole time. But I was not the stupid girl he’d manipulated. Maybe he’d thought, because I’d ended up with an addict, that not much had changed. Maybe he’d only seen as much as he wanted to see. But he was seeing me for who I really was now.