by KL Donn
Grabbing, instead, a pair of jeans, a sweater, and my toiletries, I quietly pad down the hallway to the bathroom. Closing the door, I face the mirror and acknowledge that if I want to move forward with figuring my life out, I need to strip the bleach from my hair. Go back to my roots. I can’t remember the last time I saw my natural dark brown hair color.
As I pull out the baby oil and cotton pads to help remove my fake lashes, I stare at my reflection. I never thought of myself as vain before, but the more I stare, the harder it becomes to find any flaws in my appearance. I have brilliant blue eyes, the perfect button nose, high cheekbones, and naturally plump lips.
I’m every pageant girl’s worst nightmare and every agent's wet dream. My discipline and lack of interest in behind the scenes drama means I've been a sought-after commodity by modeling agencies and even a couple of casting directors in the past.
Life in the spotlight was never something I aspired to, but I'm unsure of what I’ll do without the pageants and the moderate fame that comes with it. I do know that I need to make some drastic changes to my looks in order to avoid it in the future.
Reaching into my makeup bag, I grab the little cuticle scissors, and without thought, my hand takes over. Placing the sharp tip to the flesh under my eye, I drag it down, watching as the skin splits, and blood slowly drips down my cheeks, splashing into the sink.
What did you just do, Marilyn!
I can hear my mother’s disgusted voice in my head as I stare, transfixed, as the crimson droplets continue to run.
Nobody will want a girl with a scar on her face. Especially one so visible and long. I cut deep enough that it will scar, but not so deep that I’ll need any medical attention. Reaching under the cupboard, I grab a soft cloth from the place that Shaw did last night and press it to the open wound.
Tears begin to stream unheeded down my face as the realization of what I’ve done kicks in. Wracking sobs escape my body and buckle my knees. As I fall to the floor, the cloth drops, and I place my head against my bent knees, trying to draw in a deep breath that refuses to expand my chest.
It’s not until warm arms wrap around me that I realize how loud I must be. “Hey, shh, it’s alright.” Shaw’s deep drawl makes the boa constrictor around my chest loosen, but everything else is the same.
I’m broken, and there’s no fixing me.
Not now.
Not ever.
Shaw
I heard Monroe the minute she got out of bed. As soon as the bathroom door shut, I came straight down to the kitchen to throw on a pot of coffee. I didn't know if she'd like it, but I needed the warm brew to wake me up enough to deal with cow shit.
When I didn’t hear the shower turn on by the time I finished my first cup, I went upstairs to check on her. As soon as I heard her sobbing, I knew something was wrong. Opening the door quietly and noticing blood splatters in the sink and her on the floor, I had no idea what to think.
Holding her in my arms, now, trying to comfort her as she buries her head further onto her knees, I haven’t a fucking clue what to do. I’ve never had to deal with a woman in tears, and it feels like foreign territory all over again.
“Monroe, you have to tell me what’s wrong, or I can’t fix it.” Her head shakes. The blood is what worries me most. “Can you tell me where you’re hurt, at least?”
I can feel her hold her breath as silence fills the room before her head slowly lifts, and I see the lengthy cut down her cheek.
“What the hell happened?” This can’t be anything but self-harm.
“Nobody will want me if I’m not pretty.” Her tortured whisper renders me speechless.
How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that? “Monroe.” Shit. “We need to get you to a doctor before that scars.” It’s only as the words slip past my lips that I realize that might be exactly what she wanted.
“No!” Her emphatic shout confirms what I was thinking. “I don’t want it fixed. I hate perfection. I need to be flawed.”
Her wild eyes worry me more than the scar. I have to wonder if she’d do more to hurt herself. I can’t pretend to understand what her turmoil is, but I do understand the need for change. Drastic as it may be.
“Can I clean and bandage it, please?” She gives a sharp nod of her head. Standing, I pull her up with me and lift her onto the counter. Same as last night. Only this time, I’m not just cleaning her up, I’m going to try and fix her. Even if her vulnerability right now is convincing her that a scar will make her undesirable, it won’t. And I get the feeling that in a few weeks, months, maybe even years, she might come to regret the decision to mar her face.
“Tell me what’s going on, Monroe,” I demand, but this girl won’t speak a word unless she wants to, and for me to protect her, that’s a problem. “I have to know, so I can keep you safe.”
Her soft blue eyes don’t break contact as she asks, “Will you take me to a hairdresser?”
Freezing in place as I’m pulling out butterfly bandages, I try to get a read on what she’s thinking and come up empty.
“What for?” She shrugs. “Then, no.” I am not about to open up the possibility of some asshole finding her for beauty care. Even if I get the feeling she doesn’t give two shits about that.
Monroe turns her head, and before her eyes lower, I see tears begin to bubble up, and I don’t understand why, but I don’t like it. This girl is so different than what I’m used to, I don’t have a clue how to take her behavior.
She’s not trying to manipulate me because she’s hiding her feelings from me, but fuck, I think that’s why this is worse. “You have to tell me why, Monroe. You don’t get to shut down and think I don’t give a shit.” Lifting her chin with a gentle hand, I wish I could make her smile.
I watched her win Miss California this morning, and the light she emits when she allows herself to smile is impressive, even if it doesn't reach her eyes.
“Is this what you always wanted to do?” she asks me suddenly, and I have to think about my answer because, right now, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
Wiping the remaining blood off her cheek, I gingerly pat it dry with a cloth before responding. “I thought I would be Delta Force till I died.” And I did. Until that mission two years ago.
“What happened?”
“I was injured. I had to have a complete hip replacement.” In all honesty, I might have been able to go back in some capacity, but my mindset changed.
“You were medically discharged?” I watch as Monroe stares at herself in the mirror, at the bandages I put on, and I see the way she balls her fists. She wants to rip the covering off, to admire a hideous scar. I don’t understand half of what this girl is thinking; she’s harder to crack than any man I’ve interrogated in my career.
“I was honorably discharged. I had an epiphany in the hospital and realized what I wanted more than serving my country.”
“What’s that?” She meets my stare in the mirror.
“To come home to my family. I watched my best friend die, leaving behind a wife and two kids. One was a newborn.” I still feel guilty that I returned home, and Trace didn’t. “There is no greater honor than serving this country, but for the first time in my life, I wanted to be selfish.”
“Do you have a family?” I shake my head, no. “What’s stopping you?” For someone who doesn’t like answering my personal questions, she sure doesn’t mind asking them.
“Hadn’t found the right girl yet.”
“Oh.”
“What about you? What are your plans for the future?” Any light in her eyes disappears as she slips off the counter, pushing me back, and won’t make eye contact again.
“Nothing, really.”
I don’t believe her. “You don’t want a family? A career?” She shrugs. Gripping her shoulders, I don’t miss the way she flinches, but I don’t let her go either as I turn her to face me. “Tell me.”
“I get the future my mother decides for me.” Her hands lift to grip my arms as I
hold her, and I look at Monroe with fresh eyes.
I see her pain.
Her loneliness.
Her desire to be more than what she’s been turned into.
And it’s then that my attraction kickstarts my heart. Seeing Monroe for the first time, and the way her eyes beg me to give her life.
Leaning forward, I move slow enough that she can step away before placing my lips over hers. Pulling her closer so there isn’t an inch of space between us, I lick across her plump lips before sucking on the bottom one.
She’s inactive at first but quickly gets into the moment when her fingers tighten on my biceps, and her mouth opens slightly. I take the invitation to go deeper. Discover more of her. She shivers, and I don’t hesitate to lift her shirt the slightest bit, exposing her soft flesh for exploration.
All too quickly, we’re both gasping for a breath of air, and for the first time since laying eyes on her photograph, I see a little bit of life in her stare, and her lips quirk up at the sides as she sighs.
“That was nice,” she whispers as she leans her head against my chest. “I’ve never done that before.” At her confession, my hands freeze as I’m rubbing her back. I would never have guessed that. I knew Monroe was inexperienced, but never being kissed is so tempting.
“Now you have,” I murmur into her hair. I hope to give her many more firsts after today.
Monroe
I feel dazed. Excited. Amped up in a way that I haven’t felt in far too long.
Shaw kissed me.
It wasn’t anything spectacular or wildly romantic, but it was my first, and it was perfect.
The kiss was mine.
I think out of everything I’m feeling, having that sweet moment between us and making it ours is one of the best moments of my life.
Which is sad because I’ve won titles, money, scholarships. I have so much to be grateful for, but it is this unexpected kiss that is going to be the most memorable for me.
After rushing through my shower and staring at the cut on my cheek for too long, I hesitantly open the bathroom door, and immediately, smell coffee and bacon. My stomach gurgles at the aromas because even knowing I was being unreasonable, I didn’t eat anything since my breakfast before our flight here yesterday.
I can already hear Mari the cow crying outside. My first instinct is to go to her, but I know I have to start putting myself first and learn to do what I like and want instead of what’s expected. Starting with breakfast.
Padding down the stairs on silent feet, I hear Shaw and Rita in the kitchen talking, and as I walk closer, I gain a clearer picture as to who Shaw is in his home. His decor is rustic in a Joanna Gaines fashion but in more dark wash colors instead of lighter.
The gun case near what I assume is his office is slightly terrifying with five large guns. I don’t know anything about the weapons, so I couldn’t begin to guess what they are.
Substantial, bulky furniture is prevalent throughout the house, and even though it might not be my usual style, it sure looks comfortable. Like the plush cushions could swallow me up as I get lost in a good book.
Slipping unnoticed into the kitchen is easy, as Shaw is sitting at the bar sipping from his cup, and Rita is turned around at the stove, flipping what looks like pancakes. Settling at the round teak table, I listen as they talk about the day’s chores.
Not noticing how early it was when I woke up this morning, I’m surprised to see it’s not even eight yet.
“Do you think it’s the mother?” My head pops up at Rita’s question, and I pay closer attention.
“I do.” Shaw’s deep voice sounds troubled. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re talking about me and why I’m here.
The direction their conversation is taking makes me uncomfortable, though. But it might also end up the only way I’ll find out what’s going on. All I have been told is that someone has invaded my space, and I need to disappear for a while. I was never informed of what type of danger I was or could be in, and when I pushed for more, my mother and Claire would always send me off to the gym, practice, or an appointment.
“But do you really believe a mother could threat– Oh!” Rita stops mid-sentence when she turns to face Shaw and sees me. “Good morning, Monroe.” She plasters a false smile on her face, and I wish I could say I wasn’t used to everyone doing that.
“Good morning.” I don’t return her smile. I wish I could explain to people why I’m like this, but they never understand. Half the world believes even a fake smile can solve problems. In my experience, it merely creates more.
“Hungry?” She tries again as Shaw finally spins in his seat.
I nod because my voice gets caught in my throat when my gaze meets his. It's filled with heat and need. I know, precisely, what he is thinking and can feel the slight blush slowly growing up my neck.
“Morning, Monroe.” Biting my lip, I hold in a sigh. I want to go to him, have the confidence to explore the kiss this morning, but I don’t. If he wants something from me, he is going to have to make his intentions known because I have no idea how to express my own. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” I don’t tell him that I love coffee, but I’m not allowed to have it. The pageants allow it, but my mother doesn’t. She’s beat it into my head that its addictive qualities are bad for me.
Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. I can’t shake the discipline instilled in me from an age I don’t even remember.
Shaw’s eyes narrow at my answer, and I see worry lines across Rita’s forehead, and I know it has nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with my refusal.
Not wanting to be rude, I try to explain. “I was trained from a very young age about what I can and cannot consume. I have an image, a brand to represent, and the expectation is that this isn’t a vacation; therefore, I must treat it like any ordinary day.” I can instantly tell that they don’t like my answer.
“When’s the last time you did something for yourself? Something that was just because you wanted to and not dictated to.” Rita’s stern question causes me to think hard, and the answer I come up with is sad.
“Yesterday. Sitting with Mari.”
“Sitting with my broken cow is the only thing you’ve ever done for yourself?” Shaw’s incredulity isn’t surprising. His anger is, though. “You’re twenty fucking years old, Monroe. How long are you going to let someone else dictate your life?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer as he storms off to his office, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Ignore him. He’s passionate about freedom.” Rita fills a plate with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon before bringing it over to me. “You don’t leave until you’ve eaten something off this plate.”
Staring down at the steaming platter of food, I know I should eat it. All of it if I want to. I’ve already decided I am done with my life in California. I should be able to eat what I like. Scooping up a fork full of eggs, I stare at the bacon and know that even though I crave the salty taste that comes with it, my mind simply won’t allow me to. A lifetime of conditioning is ingrained in me, and letting it go is not so easy.
Pushing the plate away, I force myself to stand, grab a bottle of water from the shelf by the counter, and head outside. Mari’s soulful calls are begging for someone to pay her attention.
“Hey, sweet girl.” As soon as I start talking, she begins to limber over to me. I don’t know if I’m allowed to go in her pen, so I remain on my side of the fence. As she sways into my touch, I wish I could get closer to her. I hardly know anything about cows, but I know this heifer's unique.
Shaw
I don’t understand why the fuck I’m so mad. I have no reason to be. I’m being paid to protect her, not claim her. But damn, after our kiss this morning, I really thought we were on the same page.
Growing up, I never considered myself a romantic. Hell, even as an adult, I haven't been. At least, I don't think I have. I’m not some player looking to fuck every girl I see, but with Monroe, something
is certainly different. From the way she communicates with Mari, to the way she ponders over every word she says.
Monroe is methodical, yet naïve. She’s vulnerable, yet worldly. A complete contrast to what I thought someone with her background would be. Her fragility lines every bone in her body, and I’m drawn to it in a way that makes me possessive of her.
When I took this job, I didn’t think I’d spend more than five minutes talking to her, and now, I find I can’t spend more than five minutes not thinking about her.
Needing to clear my head, I pull out her file and open the emails from Duke containing the background checks, and the more I learn, the more I lean towards it being her mother.
It has been two years since the stalking started—around the time Monroe would have turned eighteen—making her a legal adult. It was light-hearted at first. Flowers and love notes left on the door of her hotel room. Always anonymous. Never reported to the police because Helen insisted it was all harmless.
A little while after Monroe refused to commit to the Miss Universe pageant, a year ago, is when things escalated. And if I had to guess, that’s when she expressed her wish to leave pageant life. She likely spoke to her mother about retiring and using her winnings to settle down, figure out her life. But little does Monroe know, her mother burned through those savings almost as quickly as she would win it. My girl… shit …has been used and exploited in some of the worst ways.
After the last threat, a note stating that Monroe had better give herself over to her admirer or risk kidnapping, is when Claire insisted on calling Brotherhood Protection Security at Lena’s referral. Which points me back to Helen as the perpetrator.
