Broken Saint (Seattle Saints #1)

2. Ella

2

ELLA

M y hand flies up, covering my mouth, but I’m unsure if it’s to hold in the scream that wants to rip from my throat or to stop myself from throwing up.

All the cans and coffee cups I was expecting to find littering the top of his desk are on the floor, while the flimsy piece of furniture rocks with the force of his thrusts.

He’s still wearing his shirt and his pants are bunched around his ankles. That’s the amount of effort he put into this situation.

His boss, however, is totally naked beneath him.

I let my eyes roll down her body, noticing all the differences I see compared to when I look in a mirror. She’s curvy, sure, but her skin is smooth, flawless. Her hair is styled and her makeup, contoured and perfect.

She’s everything I’m not.

Everything.

“Fuck, baby,” Chad groans, his voice deep and dripping with desire. My stomach knots up as I start to back away, and I can’t help wondering if I’ve ever heard it before.

I run out of that building as quietly as I entered, terrified that they’ll hear me and know what I just witnessed. Understand just how fucking stupid I am.

I thought that dinner was for us.

I thought he was trying to apologize.

How. Fucking. Stupid. Am. I?

Long before I drop back into my car, tears are dripping from my jaw as I silently sob.

But it’s not because of the loss of my relationship. That doesn’t hurt very much. Nowhere near as much as it should, seeing as it was only six months ago he asked me to be his forever.

What hurts is seeing my naivety right there in front of my face.

All my fears, all my insecurities. All my stupid mistakes.

I’m at the condo we share in minutes, my vision blurry from the tears still spilling over, but with no memory of the drive.

With Benny’s words filling my mind, I blow through the house like a storm, packing a bag. I grab the few sentimental items I brought with me when I moved in here, but most importantly, I pull open his wardrobe and reach for the box he hides at the back.

I’ve never looked inside, but I can’t deny that I’ve been intrigued about the contents, aside from the money I’ve seen him stash when he thinks I’m not watching.

Pulling it out with trembling hands, I place it on the dresser and flip the top.

“Oh my god,” I gasp when I find panties staring back at me.

Is he actually for real?

Reluctantly, I brush them aside, noting the lack of a pair of mine among his collection.

That single realization weirdly hits harder than watching him pound his boss.

Memories of our time together flicker through my mind, and I begin questioning my life choices more with every image that appears.

When I came back home, I was a mess and in one of the darkest places I’d been in my life.

And then there he was. Blond hair, blue eyes, with a smile that could light up a room.

My memories of him from high school weren’t great. But the second we started talking, he apologized for being a douche canoe back then and set about proving to me that he’d grown into a decent guy.

He did. Time and time again he showed me how sweet and thoughtful he was. I knew back then I wasn’t a jolly person to hang around with. My injuries still impacted my day-to-day life, and the grief from losing my father was still raw. But Chad showed up for me every single day in one way or another. And I appreciated the hell out of that, and I fell hard and fast.

Of course, I had my friends. Violet and Letty were only a phone call away once I moved back to Texas. But it wasn’t the same as having someone turn up with a bar of your favorite chocolate, or take you out for a drive just so you can watch the sunset over the lake like you used to with your dad.

But that was then, and this is now.

And things are very, very different.

I have no idea when things started changing. I’m pretty sure it was a while ago, but I was too lost in my own head to realize.

The day he asked me to marry him, I remember staring at him and actually thinking about my answer. I knew that it was a bad sign. I should have been singing from the rooftops.

I said yes because I felt I had to. He brought me back to life after my accident and I owed him.

I shake my head, hating the person standing here with her hands in the cookie jar, or panty box, as may be more appropriate.

Finding the roll of cash at the bottom, I curl my fingers around it and lift it to my chest.

Unease ripples through me at the thought of stealing it, but I quickly shove it aside and stuff the cash into my pocket.

With the box back where it belongs, I grab a few more things and fight to close both of the suitcases I pulled from under the bed.

I look around the room before I drag them out. There was a time when I’d have been sad about leaving this place. But that day isn’t today.

With a renewed sense of determination, I drag my belongings out of the house, throw them in the trunk of my car, and take off.

I should go to Mom’s. She’ll probably be glad I’ve come to my senses. Benny certainly will be. But as I come to the intersection that will take me toward them, I find my hand knocking the indicator in the opposite direction and my little brother’s voice filling my ears.

“Go to Seattle, El. You won’t regret it.”

My heart races and my palms begin to sweat, but I can’t release the tight grip I have on the wheel.

I glance in the rearview mirror, watching as the familiarity of my hometown disappears behind me, and for some reason, the band that wound itself around my chest the second I stepped into his office loosens.

The thought of getting on a plane and leaving this place behind, even for just a little bit, helps me breathe a little easier.

“They’re your friends, Ella. Your family.”

With a whole new perspective and clarity on my life and what I want, or don’t want, I press my foot harder on the gas. My speed is way above the limit, and I probably should be concerned, but the only thing that pours out of me is laughter.

It’s manic and irrational. If anyone were to look inside my car, they’d probably think I’d just escaped from some kind of institution.

But I don’t care.

For the first time in a long time, I just don’t give a fuck.

A weight lifts off my shoulders as the laughter continues. And by the time I’m pulling into the airport parking lot, tossing up my choice of long or short stay, the tears that stain my cheeks once more are no longer because of anger but relief.

They’re tears of freedom.

It’s long past midnight, and with my adrenaline finally starting to wear off, the exhaustion is setting in.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, taking the turn for the long stay at the last minute.

I sure as hell won’t be rushing back here.

I can take my job with me; no one even has to know I’m in a different time zone or halfway across the country.

I could travel. I could see all the places I’ve only ever seen on TV. I could actually live my life instead of being holed up in a small condo with very few possessions and a man who insists on controlling every decision I make.

Even my job—my dull-as-fuck job—is because of him. He knew I was scared to return to reality after everything, and he found me a job that ensured I wouldn’t have to leave the house, feeding my fear of returning to life. Allowing me to be a recluse while the time he was away seemed to get longer and longer.

Finding a space, I kill the engine and finally dig my cell from the bottom of my purse.

I can’t say I’m surprised to find no messages or missed calls from him.

He’s probably still balls deep in his boss.

I cringe as the memory of his thrusting ass appears in my mind once more.

Is there a way to bleach shit like that clean from your memory?

Forcing the image and the stupidity that still lingers just beneath the surface from not even suspecting he was doing the dirty aside, I pull up my airline app. It takes a few seconds to load, but when it does, disappointment slams into me.

The first flight to Seattle isn’t until tomorrow morning, and there’s a layover in San Francisco.

Not the smooth getaway I was hoping for.

But equally, it’s nowhere near enough for me to change my mind.

“Screw it,” I mutter, pulling my credit card out and booking my seat.

But what now?

The thought of spending the night at the airport doesn’t exactly appeal; neither does spending money I don’t have on a room for the night.

But in the end, the prospect of a shower and a bed wins out. So, dragging my life behind me in two cases, I head toward the closest hotel and check in for the night.

The moment I’m in my room, I turn my cell off. At some point, I assume the cheating jerk will return home and may or may not notice that I’m missing.

Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to fall into bed a sated, exhausted mess, not even noticing it’s empty.

He probably already has.

Was he always such a selfish douche?

Yes, yes he was.

Pulling my cosmetic bag from my case, I make quick work of stripping out of my clothes and pad through to the bathroom naked.

A gasp rips from my lips when I’m greeted by a full-length mirror. I come to a stop in front of it, but I keep my eyes downcast for a few seconds, summoning the courage to look up at myself.

You can do this. Own who you are now. This is you.

You are beautiful.

You are beautiful.

You are beau ? —

My mantra is cut off when I finally lift my eyes.

It took me a long time to break the obsession I had with looking at my reflection and fixating on everything I hate. It’s also usually the first sign that I’m heading back to a dark place, which is why I keep myself as far away as possible from a mirror on my good days.

As always, my attention zeros in on the scars that never used to be there.

Moisture fills my mouth as I stare at them, phantom pain appearing as I remember those early days after getting them.

“Just cover them up,” Chad would tell me. “You can forget about them then.”

Tears burn my eyes.

We were together months before I was brave enough to be intimate with him, but when we were, my scars were either covered or hidden by our position.

To begin with, I thought it was sweet that he was ensuring I didn’t freak out.

But it was never for me.

Bile churns in my stomach.

Does that make me just as narcissistic as him?

I knew what he was doing, how he was hurting me, and I just allowed it to happen.

I accepted his behavior because, in a way, I felt safe.

Ripping my eyes from those ugly scars, I take in everything else.

My breasts are larger, my waist less defined. My stomach has a pooch that I’d previously managed to banish with hours of yoga and crunches. My hips are wider, covered in cellulite and stretch marks.

I’m no longer the girl the guys used to know. But it’s not just my body. When I look into my eyes, it’s like I’m an entirely different person.

The lightness, my spark, it’s gone. Diminished.

I want to blame him for it. But that would be too easy.

He might have been the instigator, but I’m the one who willingly went along for the ride.

I let him belittle me, make me feel less than I am, and fuel my own hatred for my body. Feeding my insecurities and the illness I’ve battled for most of my life.

All because he’d follow it all up with something sweet. Something that reminded me how amazing he could be.

Swallowing down my emotion, I square my shoulders and hold my head higher.

Yes, I’m curvier than I’ve ever been, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. There are millions of beautiful women out there who have an ass and a few stretch marks on their thighs. Why can’t I be like them?

Confidence, Ella. You need to rediscover your confidence.

Holding my eyes in the mirror, I make myself a silent promise.

This doesn’t need to be the end of something, but the beginning.

I’ve been to Hell and back in the last couple of years.

It’s time to take hold of my life and turn it into one I want to live, not just one I barely exist in.

You can do this, Ella.

Go to Seattle, see your family, take stock of your life and…face him.

Head-on.

No holds barred.

This is who you are now. Own it and rediscover your fire.

Easy, right?