Page 89 of Battle Scars

“Maybe that’s not so bad,” I repeat his earlier words. “Maybe I’ve wanted too much. Maybe I don’t deserve anything more.”

“Addie—”

“As long as I don’t fall in love, I’ll be fine.”

“Let me take you,” he begs. “I’m your friend.”

“I adore you, Eli. I need you to know that,” I say gently. “You have become so dear to me. I’ve never had a friend like you, and I hope you will still be my friend after today, but right now, I need to not be around anyone or anything that makes me think of Gabe.”

“And I will always remind you of him,” he prompts sadly.

“I think you and I both know that in life, in games of the heart, someone is going to have to be the loser,” I reply. “That loser is me.”

“Addie—”

“But it’s not you, never you,” I tell him. “If I don’t see you again, just know I think you should go get your girl. Don’t take no for an answer.”

“Honey, please⁠—”

“I have to go.” I grab my bag and race out the door, leaving Eli scared shitless and definitely pissed—at Gabe.

“Ready?” Bobby asks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He leads me down the hall to the elevator and pushes the button. The heavy doors open with a ding, reminding me of my heated night in Texas with Gabe, when everything changed and I truly lost my heart.

He taps the button for the parking garage, and we don’t talk as we ride down to where he has a car but then again, what do we have to say? We’ve kind of let this competition make a mess of our friendship. I’ve let it make a mess out of everything in my life. But that ends today.

The doors open again with a ding, and he leads me out to the parking garage. This isn’t the main parking garage but a quieter floor above the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas Boulevard. He beeps the locks on a generic rental, which is so unlike him. Bobby usually goes for big flash when choosing a car, and if ever there was a place where he could rent a high-end sports car like it’s as common as renting a minivan, it’s Las Vegas.

I climb into the passenger seat and tuck my bag at my feet before buckling my seat belt. Bobby climbs in the driver seat, and we peel out. He’s always been kind of a reckless driver.

“What kind of ice cream do you feel like?” I ask. I kind of want to mention I’d like mine with a side bottle of bourbon, but a hangover won’t help me win a race tomorrow morning and I don’t think he’d like to be reminded that I want to win. Do I even want that still? Does it mean anything to me anymore?

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “Let’s just drive and see what strikes our fancy as we go.”

“Sounds good.”

I feel my phone vibrate in my bag next to my foot, but ignore it. I don’t care who it is. It’s probably someone in India very concerned about my soon to expire car warranty anyway. That feels like the only level of human interaction I’m capable of right now. Although I would appreciate the conversation about my car warranty, I don’t want to talk anyone.

Even this feels like a little too much. I wonder if Bobby would notice if I jumped out of the car at a red light and ran screaming into the night. That’s kind of what I feel like doing right now.

I look up and notice that while I was lost in my dark thoughts, we’ve left the touristy part of Las Vegas, and I actually have no idea where we are now. The streets are considerably less crowded here. Before, everyone on the Strip was probably hammered, but if I screamed there, someone would at least notice, right? Here, there is no one.

“Where are we?” I ask, worried. I glance at Bobby. It wasn’t long ago that the guys thought he might be a suspect, but he can’t be, right? He wouldn’t have blown up his own garage, would he?

Then I remember he got one of my dad’s top of the line cars with all of the bells and whistles as a replacement when that happened. Maybe I’m not as safe with Bobby as I thought I’d be.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says flippantly.

That is probably the last thing I need him to say to me right now, because I am worried about it. What if Bobby is the one who wants to hack me to bits?

I need to get to my phone, which thank God is ringing again. I lean down to reach for my bag.

“What are you doing?” he asks when he notices that I’m digging through my bag.

“My phone is ringing,” I answer honestly. “I’m just going to grab it.”