Page 135 of Riding the Edge
“So, you’ve been by yourself all day?”
“Yes,” I reply, drawing down the comforter.
“Lady, look at me.”
If I look at him, I’ll break and that isn’t fair to him.
“Lady, I won’t ask again.”
Raising my chin, I slowly force my eyes to his. Standing in the middle of my bedroom with nothing but his boxers, I take in every inch of his chiseled body. While he might not always have resembled a Greek god, he’s worked hard since his heart attack at getting fit and living a healthier lifestyle. He’s perfect in every sense of the word.
“Do you need me to help you with the drains?” he questions softly.
“I did it myself.”
“I should’ve been here—”
“No, you shouldn’t have and I’m glad you weren’t,” I snap.
His face falls but I don’t relent. Instead, I walk around the bed and stand directly in front of him.
“I can’t do this, Al.”
“You can’t do what—”
“You and me,” I cry, struggling to control my emotions.
You.
You deserve more.
You deserve beauty and grace.
You deserve a woman who is whole.
A woman who won’t look at you and wonder if you’re looking at her in disgust.
A woman who won’t require pity.
You deserve to be free.
“If this is about the club—”
“This is about me,” I interject, pulling roughly at the sash of my robe. “It’s about me loving you enough to spare you of this,” I shout, angrily tearing my robe from my body. “Look at me,” I demand. “This is not what you deserve.”
His eyes remain on mine.
“Don’t fucking tell me what I deserve.”
“Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“Look at my scars!”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts his arm and points to the puckered flesh running from his armpit to his ribcage.
