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Book: Inked Fighter: Complete Collection (MMA MC New Adult Romance) by E. E. Griffin
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Authors: E. E. Griffin
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clothes were everywhere except her closet, which was piled with weird crap. I glanced at her bedside table; a syringe sat amongst the beer bottles and chip packages.
No. No, this wasn’t happening. I marched to the bedside table. A few drops of light brown liquid remained on the inside of the syringe. Not this, anything but this…
I ran downstairs, flung open the front door, and ran around to the back of the house. I slammed open the garden gate. Bradly barked at me and dropped a ball at my feet. Seeing his big, trusting eyes made me wither. I fell to my knees. Sobs broke free and enormous tears dripped down my face. I flopped on my ass and curled my knees up to my chest, crying into my lap.
If she’d done what I thought she’d done… I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t. I shook hysterically, sucking in air just to bellow it out again in horrible, broken sobs.
Finally, I realized the neighbors could probably hear me, so I forced myself to calm down and go back in the house. My mind raced, but my body was numb. I curled up on the couch and didn’t move. I was so tired. So tired. My stomach hurt from crying and my face stung from the salty tears.
I was silent and still. I wanted to disappear. I wanted it all to go away. This wasn’t what my life was supposed to be. I was supposed to be a designer. I was supposed to be cool and independent, hanging out with posh people doing chic things.
The world tilted around me and came crashing back. I took a deep breath, swung my legs off the couch, and sat up. I would not have a breakdown.
I grabbed my waxed pink fabric and took it to the tub outside. My body was still raw, but my mind was laser focused. Filling the tub with water, I poured the dye and pressed the cloth into the purple water.
I built a fire in the campfire pit in the side yard and placed a second tub of water in the flames. When the fabric was done dyeing, I pulled it out and rinsed out all the excess dye.
Once the water ran clear, I placed the fabric in a tub over the fire pit. Carefully, I moved the steel tub to the gravel driveway to let it cool. The wax floated to the surface, and I peeled it away. I hauled the dripping cloth from the water, satisfied with my dyeing job, and took it to the laundry room to dry.
Rose woke from her morning nap, and I spent the next several hours with her. We hung out in the living room and picked vegetables from the garden, and she watched me while I pulled weeds from the rich, dark earth of the raised beds. I gave her fresh, sweet snap peas and strawberries that she ate with dirty hands. At one year old, Rose still needed two naps a day. I put her down for her afternoon nap at two and went back to work.
My fabric was dry by then. I spread it out over the kitchen table and began pinning a dress pattern to the twice-dyed textile. I’d made this dress so many times it had become mechanical. I had the basic stitching finished.
Regan stumbled through the front door. She looked drunk. Hot fury melted my brain, and I couldn’t speak. She sauntered past me and crashed onto the couch, turning on the TV. She lay there watching baseball with the flickering, crappy reception.
I pulled out a needle and thread to finish the hem. My forehead and neck felt cold but my chest felt burning hot. I jabbed the needle into the dress and pulled the thread through the other side.
“What are you doing?” I said calmly. My eyes were on my stitching.
“Nothing.” Her voice sounded heavy.
“Are you feeling all right? You don’t look so good.”
“I said it’s nothing!” she screamed
Rose burst out crying, and I stood to go get her. It took every particle of will to keep from losing it. Regan was taking drugs. She brought them into my house. She stole my money. I glared at her slumped form, resisting the very violent urge to punch her in the face.
I ran up the stairs and took my daughter out of bed. I felt drained from work and weeping. Pacing back and forth in my bedroom,
No. No, this wasn’t happening. I marched to the bedside table. A few drops of light brown liquid remained on the inside of the syringe. Not this, anything but this…
I ran downstairs, flung open the front door, and ran around to the back of the house. I slammed open the garden gate. Bradly barked at me and dropped a ball at my feet. Seeing his big, trusting eyes made me wither. I fell to my knees. Sobs broke free and enormous tears dripped down my face. I flopped on my ass and curled my knees up to my chest, crying into my lap.
If she’d done what I thought she’d done… I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t. I shook hysterically, sucking in air just to bellow it out again in horrible, broken sobs.
Finally, I realized the neighbors could probably hear me, so I forced myself to calm down and go back in the house. My mind raced, but my body was numb. I curled up on the couch and didn’t move. I was so tired. So tired. My stomach hurt from crying and my face stung from the salty tears.
I was silent and still. I wanted to disappear. I wanted it all to go away. This wasn’t what my life was supposed to be. I was supposed to be a designer. I was supposed to be cool and independent, hanging out with posh people doing chic things.
The world tilted around me and came crashing back. I took a deep breath, swung my legs off the couch, and sat up. I would not have a breakdown.
I grabbed my waxed pink fabric and took it to the tub outside. My body was still raw, but my mind was laser focused. Filling the tub with water, I poured the dye and pressed the cloth into the purple water.
I built a fire in the campfire pit in the side yard and placed a second tub of water in the flames. When the fabric was done dyeing, I pulled it out and rinsed out all the excess dye.
Once the water ran clear, I placed the fabric in a tub over the fire pit. Carefully, I moved the steel tub to the gravel driveway to let it cool. The wax floated to the surface, and I peeled it away. I hauled the dripping cloth from the water, satisfied with my dyeing job, and took it to the laundry room to dry.
Rose woke from her morning nap, and I spent the next several hours with her. We hung out in the living room and picked vegetables from the garden, and she watched me while I pulled weeds from the rich, dark earth of the raised beds. I gave her fresh, sweet snap peas and strawberries that she ate with dirty hands. At one year old, Rose still needed two naps a day. I put her down for her afternoon nap at two and went back to work.
My fabric was dry by then. I spread it out over the kitchen table and began pinning a dress pattern to the twice-dyed textile. I’d made this dress so many times it had become mechanical. I had the basic stitching finished.
Regan stumbled through the front door. She looked drunk. Hot fury melted my brain, and I couldn’t speak. She sauntered past me and crashed onto the couch, turning on the TV. She lay there watching baseball with the flickering, crappy reception.
I pulled out a needle and thread to finish the hem. My forehead and neck felt cold but my chest felt burning hot. I jabbed the needle into the dress and pulled the thread through the other side.
“What are you doing?” I said calmly. My eyes were on my stitching.
“Nothing.” Her voice sounded heavy.
“Are you feeling all right? You don’t look so good.”
“I said it’s nothing!” she screamed
Rose burst out crying, and I stood to go get her. It took every particle of will to keep from losing it. Regan was taking drugs. She brought them into my house. She stole my money. I glared at her slumped form, resisting the very violent urge to punch her in the face.
I ran up the stairs and took my daughter out of bed. I felt drained from work and weeping. Pacing back and forth in my bedroom,
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