Page 75 of Battle Scars

I sigh and shoot back half of my whiskey.

“That bad?” she asks with a bit of hesitation in her voice.

“It’s not bad,” I tell her. “The truth of it is, it’s great, but it’s also not mine to have.”

She seems to understand the veracity of what I tell her more than I do, because her face turns a little sad, and she nods once before changing the subject. I don’t know what she’s thinking, she’s clearly privileged to more of Gabe than I ever will be and she didn’t disagree when I said he wasn’t mine to claim.

I don’t know who’s out there, but if I had to guess, a saint of a woman has had a claim on him for years, and I’ll never be perfect.

“Well, I’m happy to be your friend,” she says. “And if you’re really unlucky, I’ll introduce you to the rest of our family.”

“I would love that.”

“Well don’t agree to anything yet,” she laughs. “It’s loud and crazy and there are so many kids all over the place. It took both my mother and my sister to watch them all so I could come out tonight.”

“I bet they love it.”

“They really do,” she agrees. “My kids are the best.”

We sit and visit for a bit longer at the bar, but when the live band starts another set, Manny comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her in a playful way that speaks volumes of how much this couple feels for each other.

“Princesa,” he coos into the side of her neck. “Come dance with me.”

“Go,” I tell her. “Have fun.”

Manny waggles his eyebrows at that, and I roll my eyes. I like seeing him in this new light. My friend and protector is very much in love with his wife and not at all embarrassed to show it.

“I can’t say no to him,” she admits.

“And that’s just the way I like it,” he replies playfully. The look they share hints at what they will also share later behind closed doors.

I turn on my barstool so I can watch the room. There aren’t many couples on the dance floor yet, but the ones who are can really move. I’ve never seen a two-step outside of movies, but Manny and Marisol swing and sway around the battered plank floor like professional dancers. They share private words and smiles, and I feel like I’m intruding on their privacy, so I look away.

“Want to dance?” Gabe asks from beside me, catching me off guard.

“Sure.”

He holds out his hand for me as the song changes. The band calls out for the brunette behind the bar, and she laughs and steps up to the stage to sing with them. Gabe dances with a quiet confidence, and the smooth way he moves his body around the floor is reminiscent of the way he moves it in other ways.

He twirls me and leads me in a dance I don’t know the steps to, but he does it so well you would never know, all while the brunette and the band sing about a love gone bad in Tennessee. It lifts me up and breaks my heart all at the same time.

“Shit,” he bites out, looking over my head at someone. “I shouldn’t be here with you.”

“Then why are you?” I ask. I shouldn’t, and I know it. It’s like handing him a knife and asking him to stick it in my belly to see how much I’ll bleed when he does. I hate that he feels like he shouldn’t be with me, or maybe that it’s here, so close to his home that he doesn’t want to be seen with me. Either way, it burns.

“Because I can’t stay away,” he admits, mirroring my thought exactly , so I can’t blame him. “I wasn’t going to come to you, not here, but then I saw you across the room in that fucking dress. Your tits are so full and pretty, and those straps tease me with the way they look like they’ll break at any moment and give me and everyone else a glimpse of what I want so badly.”

“Gabe—”

“And then there’s the way that skirt swishes,” he continues. “The way it shows just enough and hints at your sexy thighs, your ass, and that pussy that are all hidden underneath material that is meant to be sweet. But all it does is make me hard for you.”

His words are not the flowery affirmations of love that I hoped he would share, but I always knew they wouldn’t be. That’s not him or me or what we are to each other. His raw words turn me on, and that only makes me mad.

“So it’s my fault your dick is hard?” I snap. His words leave something to be desired, even if they are hot.

“No,” he says and runs his hand through his hair. It’s a small sign of his agitation. “Fuck. I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Why don’t you try the truth?”