Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  How did I go from a complete meltdown to feeling this so quickly? Only Bruno could do that. No one else has that power over me.

  “All done,” he whispers in my ear, holding on to my shoulders. “Open your eyes.”

  I shake my head, fearful of what may stare back at me. I don’t want to look.

  “Come on, sweetheart. You look totally kick-ass.”

  A small smile forms on my lips from the vibration of his voice tickling my ear, along with being called kick-ass. I can’t stop it. No one has ever said I looked “totally kick-ass” before. I’m more like a modern version of Barbie than GI Jane. His statement is completely laughable.

  “I’m scared,” I admit softly.

  “Cal.” His voice tickles my ear again. “You look wonderful. Beautiful even. Remember when I walked in, you had this crazy, floppy Mohawk? That was cute, but it wouldn’t have made a pretty picture in public. Now you look better than any woman I’ve ever seen with a buzz cut. It becomes you.”

  “So you want to rub it?” I’m half joking, but mostly not. His fingers do crazy things to me. My stress melts away when his hands move across my flesh.

  His deep, soft laugh makes me lean back into him. “I’ll rub anything you want.”

  I chuckle softly, rolling my head back onto his shoulder.

  “Come on. Just peek.”

  I take a deep breath and open my eyes. Not slowly, prolonging the agony, but quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid sitting on my hair.

  Huh.

  I don’t look like me. That much I know. Even my face looks different. Thank God my head is nicely shaped. It could have been really awkward if I’d had a lumpy skull, but somehow, it is symmetrical. My hair isn’t as light near the roots, which causes my skin to look even paler.

  I blink a few times, wondering if what I see is real.

  It is.

  It happened.

  I no longer have hair that cascades down my shoulders or kisses my cheek. I won’t feel the wind blow through my hair. The feeling’s odd.

  I’m still me, but I’m not.

  One time, years ago, I had a mishap with my eyelash curler. I remember how my eye looked funny without the hair lining the lid. I used black eyeliner for a month while I waited for the hair to grow back. The one thing I’d never expected was that eyelashes actually had a function. I felt air passing through my lids, and my eye constantly teared or was dry as hell. Eyelashes protect your eyes, giving them a line of defense from debris that floats through the air. When I ripped them out—don’t curl with wet hands—I remembered thinking I looked so odd.

  Eyelashes are nothing compared to the hair on my head. Soon, whether I wanted it to happen or not, the same exact thing would happen. Not only would I lose my eyelashes, but I’d be devoid of eyebrows too and every other strand of hair on my body.

  A positive person would think—wow, what a timesaver. I wouldn’t have to shave, no more waxing—hell, I wouldn’t even have any hair to brush, wash, condition, or straighten. That would be grand if it were something I wanted. A choice I’d made. This wasn’t a choice… A disease I vowed to cure during my lifetime made it for me.

  Bruno thinks I look good. He even said the word “kick-ass.” I don’t want to disappoint him, especially after he shaved his head too. But there is no way in hell I can believe either of those statements. I don’t look horrifying, but in no way do I look pretty.

  “See.” He motions toward my reflection in the mirror and looks proud. “We match, and I think we both look pretty fucking great.” He runs his hand backward across his head with a satisfied smile.

  I can’t argue with how he looks. Hair or no hair, the man has it. “You do look great.” I grin and avoid agreeing about how I look.

  “Callie, look at yourself in the mirror.” He holds my shoulders and straightens my body so I’m facing the mirror and have nowhere else to look. “Look.” He breaks eye contact and looks at my reflection.

  “Bruno.” I squirm uncomfortably in his hands. I already looked. I don’t look or feel amazing. I look like a cancer patient, and I feel like shit on top of it.

  “Just do it,” he growls. Sweet, nice Bruno leaves for a moment before his face softens again. “Please.”

  I stiffen in his grip and peel my eyes away from him dragging them toward my face in the mirror. “I’m looking,” I tell him, my voice so sarcastic I wince because he’s been so nice for me to act so shitty.

  “Say you’re beautiful.”

  “I’m beautiful,” I repeat flatly.

  He tilts his head and my eyes flicker to his. “Say it like you mean it.”

  “Fucker,” I whisper-mumble.

  His left eyebrow rises and I shoot him a fake smile and hope he didn’t hear me. “I’m beautiful.”

  “Call me anything you want, but you’re still pretty. Hair is just hair, babe. Life is more important. It doesn’t make you you.”

  “You should write greeting cards.”

  “Cal.” His grip tightens and his voice lowers. “Don’t push it. I’m being nice and you’re acting bitchy.”

  My eyebrows shoot up when I hear the word bitch. “Sorry.”

  “We all get to act out when times are tough. I do it. We all do. But you have to see what’s in front of you.”

  “A cancer patient?”

  “No.” His nostrils flare, and I can’t tell if he’s at his wits’ end with me or not. “A woman fighting for her life. Someone taking control of her destiny and ready to kick cancer’s ass.”

  “I wish I had your optimism.”

  “You do. It’s just been beaten down. We’ll find it again. I won’t let you quit.”

  I look back at him. “Why?”

  “You’re too important to quit and let cancer take you.”

  Huh? “Come again?”

  “I know who you are, Callie. What you do. You’re too important to the millions of cancer patients out there fighting for their lives. You can’t throw it all away and succumb to the very thing they’re battling.”

  I gawk, like really gawk, at him. My mouth hangs open as I search his face in astonishment. Bruno knows who I am? He knows what I do? But…why? How? “You do?” I ask, my voice small and timid.

  “We will talk about it later.” He releases my shoulders and stalks out of the bathroom quickly.

  I stand there completely stunned, staring at myself in the mirror. No longer am I looking at my hair in the reflection but staring at myself and asking, “What the fuck?”

  By the time I catch up to him, he already has his boots on and is heading toward the front door. “Bruno, we need to talk.”

  He opens the door without even looking at me. “Later, Cal.”

  “Now!” My voice is shrill and panic-laced.

  “I’ve said too much already.” He doesn’t say anything else. He leaves and I have a million unanswered questions.

  Stage 4—Depression Revisited

  Life has become…

  I don’t even know the word to describe it.

  Exhausting.

  Depressing.

  Inescapable.

  Lonely.

  When Bruno stormed out of my apartment two weeks ago, I said, “Fuck him…good riddance.”

  He called, texted, and even knocked, but I never answered or let him in. I didn’t want anyone around me, especially him. He wasn’t telling me something, and I was done playing games.

  I’ve never been the girl to be okay with secrets.

  I waited for him to bust down my door and come barging in, but he didn’t.

  The last week has been peaceful. Even Becca had become scarce. Her boss had slammed her at work, making her work double shifts.

  Chemo still kicks my ass, and I feel sicker than I ever have before. I crawl around my apartment when I need to get around. I learned quickly to set everything up before I go for treatment. I put enough water out, small snacks if I become hungry, and have my vomit pot nearby in case I need it. I don’t need anyone around to take care of
me, especially him.

  My buzz cut now is splotchy with smooth patches and very little hair left. My eyebrows are gone, my eyelashes are hanging on by a thread, and the rest of me is smoother than ever before. Every time I look in the mirror, I have to do a double take.

  I’ve lost too much weight. I look like a walking, hairless skeleton. There isn’t a person in the world I want to see me like this. I have my groceries delivered and have only left my place to go to chemo or the doctor’s and then come straight home.

  I try to watch television, but nothing holds my interest. I can’t laugh or get lost in anything, not even a book that I would’ve enjoyed before.

  I still fear death. How can I not?

  When I find the energy, I start to clean out every drawer and closet I have. If I do pass away, I don’t want anyone to have to go through my stuff. I remember how the family acted when my grandmother died. They combed through her things, and everything that had been private became public. The smartest thing she did was label the big items. On the back of every painting, piece of furniture, or decoration, she’d put a piece of tape with the name of the person she wanted to have it after she left this world. I thought it was peculiar at the time, but now, I understand her thinking. She knew at her age that the end was close and she wanted her wishes fulfilled.

  But I have no one to leave my things to except Rebecca. Besides work, the only important stuff in my life had been my things.

  Things no one wants.

  My prized possessions would donated to a thrift shop. Someone would spend a couple of bucks when I’d spent hundreds of dollars and tried my best to keep up the perfect exterior.

  What a fuckin’ waste.

  Instead of spending time with friends and possibly finding the love of my life, I worked and shopped. What the heck would my obituary read?

  “Callie Gentile died at the age of thirty-two with a killer shoe collection, an unrivaled designer clothing closet, and alone. In lieu of flowers, please send a payment to Visa to help pay off her shopping addiction.”

  My life has been laughable.

  It’s just my things and me.

  I sit in the dark propped up against the wall inside my walk-in closet as my eyes sweep over my life. What I was once proud of now makes me ashamed. Tears stream down my face, but I don’t have the energy to sob.

  I hang my head, a war going on inside of me. I know I’m being selfish and ridiculous. My mind isn’t right.

  The light streaming into my closet makes my shoe collection look like a shrine. A dumb one, but it’s all I have.

  “Callie,” Bruno’s voice is soft.

  I don’t move and I don’t call back. I wipe my face and glance toward the door, waiting for him to go away.

  “Open the fucking door!” His voice grows louder as he pounds on the door. I’m sure every one of my neighbors has heard him by now.

  Oh, shit. Bruno’s pissed. I don’t have to open the door to know it. My phone starts to ring and I jump. Quickly, I cover it with my hands to quiet it.

  “I can hear your phone. Open the door.”

  I grimace and roll my eyes. “Fucking traitor,” I hiss and look down at my phone.

  Me: Go away.

  A text would do the trick. I push myself off the floor and walk into my bedroom.

  “No!” he yells and I flinch.

  Me: I’ll call the police.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be in before they get here.”

  Ah! Grrr. Scary Bruno has returned.

  I inch toward the door and try not to make a sound.

  “Callie.” His voice is softer this time. “I need to know you’re okay.”

  I take the coward’s way out.

  Me: I’m fine. Please just leave.

  There’s no reply. I wait, listening for anything that indicates he’s left, and when I hear nothing, I take another step. Slowly, I walk toward the door and place my eye against the peephole. Blackness. Nothing. Not even the lights in the hallway. I look again, confused.

  “I see you,” he says.

  I jump. Fucking hell.

  “I can see you through the peephole. Just let me in.”

  Placing my back against the door, I slide down, settling in front of it to block his way. He can break in and probably push it open even with my weight against it, but I figure it’s my only chance. He isn’t getting through, no matter what.

  I don’t hear anything for at least a minute before he says, “I’m not giving up. I’ll be back.”

  I swallow, fighting the dryness in my throat, and my nerves are shot. I know he means it. I can only put him off for so long. I don’t move, even after I hear his feet stomping down the stairway.

  My head starts to bang against the door. At first, it’s a reaction but then it becomes something more. I’m so pissed.

  Angry about everything.

  Everything.

  I can’t think of one thing or person I’m not pissed at, and smashing my head repeatedly into the wooden door just feels right.

  “Why me?” I yell into the air. “Why did it have to be me?”

  I don’t know if I expect an answer, but it feels good getting it off my chest.

  “Fuck you!” I yell again and slam my hands down on the floor.

  I’m pissed at my doctor, cancer, chemo, my work, cancer, Rebecca, Bruno, cancer, my parents for leaving me alone. I can’t think of anything that doesn’t piss me off.

  Even my shoe collection aggravates the fuck out of me. Who needs so many fucking shoes? I have two goddamn feet. Maybe if I’d spent more time enjoying life rather than buying things, I wouldn’t be in this situation.

  Laughter bursts out of me.

  Hysterical, crazy laughter.

  I think I seriously have gone off the deep end.

  I’ve lost every fucking marble inside my head.

  How can I think shoes are the issue? I know better than that. It’s easier to blame something so stupid than to realize my own body is attacking itself.

  It’s why I chose cancer when I decided to become a scientist. A disease rarely caused by something someone does, yet it affects millions of people. It kills without discrimination. It comes in various forms. Although there have been advances and treatments, there is still no cure. I wanted to change that. It was the worthiest cause I knew when I decided on a professional focus.

  I’m not special. I like to think I am, but I know that, just like the other people fighting this disease, it picked me without a thought to who I was.

  I laugh until I cry. My emotions are everywhere and I can’t control them. I curl up on the floor as my tears subside. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel different. Maybe then, I can face the world.

  There’s a high probability I’m having a mental breakdown. Being alone and going through the amount of stress I’m going through is a wicked combination.

  As I crawl into my bed, I think tomorrow will be different.

  I stiffen as the bed dips.

  Someone crawls into my bed behind me, snaking his arm around me. I didn’t hear a thing.

  “Shh. Relax,” the man whispers and pulls my back tighter to his front.

  Even though I’m still half asleep, alarm bells are going off in my head. “B-Bruno?” I stutter and pray it’s him.

  “Yeah. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” He kisses my neck and I melt against him, relieved he’s here.

  Fuck. He broke in…again.

  But then again, he feels nice against me. I’ve missed him. His arms make me feel safe. The familiar scent of his body calms me, and I don’t want him to go away.

  I haven’t slept right in days… weeks, if I am being honest. Between the chemo, chills, and my lonely bed, everything has been off. I walk the floors most nights… when I have the strength to walk. Panic has been part of my daily routine. I pace and freak out before I start screaming into the emptiness of my apartment, eventually collapsing out of exhaustion.

  Instead of kicking him out and starting a fight, I push my
back as close to him as possible and close my eyes.

  I’d deal with him tomorrow.

  The Morning After

  I wake up to an empty bed. At first, I think I dreamed him crawling into my bed. Then I smell his scent on my pillow and I know it wasn’t a dream. Bruno came to my apartment, let himself in, and then helped himself into my bed.

  When I should be mad, I can’t stop myself from smiling.

  Yep, clearly, I’m still having a mental breakdown.

  No sane person would be smiling about what had happened. Only me. Only now. A few months ago, I’d have stomped into the kitchen to knee him in the balls and then call the cops to report him for breaking and entering. But the new me, the one with cancer, is grateful that, for the first time in a long time, I’m no longer alone.

  My mind’s racing, moving wild and crazy from thought to thought, and I can’t stop it. I roll over, burying my face in the pillow and inhaling the remnants of Bruno left behind, and I cackle.

  Yep, I cackle like a crazy person.

  “Cal.”

  I groan, almost wishing I could suffocate myself with the pillow. I imagine how I look right now. My head glistening in the sunlight, my bare ass on display with my face buried in the pillow and laughing like a lunatic—it has to be a sight.

  He whistles as I feel around my sides for the blanket to cover myself. My body rolls and I wrap the comforter around me as I move. “Enjoy the show?” I ask and I glare at him.

  “Immensely.” He grins, resting his body against the doorframe with his arms crossed and looking especially happy. He pushes off and comes toward me quickly. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you at me?”

  “About twenty,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes at him when he sits down on the bed.

  “Good.”

  My fingers dig into the blankets instead of strangling him. “Why is that good?”

  “Anger is a good emotion.”

  “Huh?”

  “It motivates people.”

  “Listen, Tony Robbins, I don’t need motivation.” My jaw clenches and my teeth scrape together as I try to control my breathing.