Beautiful Scars Part 8

Pictures of her with him and Shera.

She needed to do something about this, she realized... Of course, she needed to go to the party, but- "No. Now, before I change my mind," she whispered. Grabbing a plastic crate, she dumped the CDs into it, pictures, everything that had anything to do with Marc. She had to cut this out of her, out of her heart, out of her soul, out of her life. It was going to be kind of like lancing a wound. It would hurt like h.e.l.l, but she was already hurting. Once she did it and suffered through the initial pain, it would get better.

She kept pieces of Marc around her because it made it easier to pretend. She lost herself in fantasies, or just let herself think about him more than she should. Even though she knew it was foolishness.

There wasn't ever going to be a them. Ever. And she'd known that. Really. She'd never expected them to have a night, much less anything more. She'd screwed up by trying to grab for a chance to have a real memory of just them. Only them. Like a pretend them. If she hadn't done that, she could have happily existed forever in her little make-believe world, but she'd done it and now she had to deal with the consequences.

The crate was overflowing as she pushed into Shera's house. She dealt with the alarm and grabbed a piece of paper, jotted a note.

I'm clearing this stuff out. If you want the pictures, take them. I figured you could give the CDs and s.h.i.+t to the shelter. They probably need the music. Although maybe they can auction off the signed ones...I don't know. Whatever you want to do with it. Was invited to a party @ J. Pratt's house. Supposed to mingle, maybe make some more contacts for work. Later.

Without letting herself look back at the bits and pieces of a dead dream, she reset the alarm and left. She needed to change. Figure out what she had in her wardrobe that would work for a summer "get together" for a rich, arrogant, son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h.

Staring at the note, Marc called his sister. As soon as she came on the line, he demanded, "Who in the h.e.l.l is J. Pratt?"

"Ah...Marc?"

"No. It's the Easter Bunny. I heard you were good and I wanted to leave a present at your house. Hope you don't mind I'm a few months late," he said, staring at the crate in front of him. Normally, it made him feel d.a.m.ned weird to see s.h.i.+t in like in the house of somebody he knew.

But this wasn't just his career.

He saw a stub from a show they'd all gone to see in high school. Springsteen. They'd snuck out, even though their folks would have killed them. Well, Marc and Shera's mom would have. Chaili's mom...she might have cared if she could have pulled herself out of a bottle.

A poster from his first tour.

A couple of T-s.h.i.+rts with the band's logo on them.

There was a strip of pictures, the kind where you had to wedge yourself into a photo booth. He remembered that. They'd taken it up on the pier, right before everything took off.

She'd kept all of this.

"J. Pratt, sis," he said as he lifted the crate.

"h.e.l.l, I don't know. Probably Prattle Enterprises. That disc jockey guy who decided he'd start his own radio show after the station laid him off...? I think. And why are you asking?"

J. Pratt.

Disconnecting the phone, he headed to the front door. He only barely remembered to reset the alarm on his way out and he had to juggle to do it.

Yep. J. Pratt was a disc jockey. A search on his phone showed him that.

And down at the bottom of his website, he saw the discreet little line indicating who'd designed the guy's site.

Glory Daze Designs.

He put the crate into his trunk, although that strip of pictures he slid into his s.h.i.+rt pocket. Once he was in the car, he called his a.s.sistant. "I need an address...a local disc jockey. J. Pratt."

Ilona was quiet for a minute and then asked, "J. Pratt. As in Jumping Jack Pratt? Big radio hotshot?"

"h.e.l.l if I know. All I know is the guy is a disc jockey and I think he's having a party today. I need to know where he lives."

"He lives about a mile away from us. And yes, he's a disc jockey. He's also one of the biggest a.s.sholes known to man and yes...he's having a party. I know this because he's made sure to call the house about three times this week to invite Miguel."

Miguel... Marc ran his tongue along his teeth. "So...what's my favorite drummer up to?"

"Don't, Marc. He'll kick your a.s.s if you even ask him. We can't stand that guy." Ilona snorted, her voice thick with disgust. "He can't look at a woman without checking out her t.i.ts. He can't talk to a woman without checking out her t.i.ts. The only reason he even invites us over there to check out my rack and grill us about you, anyway."

"What do I have to do with your rack? I never even noticed you have one."

"Gee, thanks." Ilona sighed.

In the background, Marc heard Miguel's voice. "Are you talking to Marc about your rack?"

"Now you're going to get me in trouble," Marc muttered.

"Relax. You're more interested in my brains than my b.o.o.bs. That's a good thing. Hold on. If you're serious, you can talk to your favorite drummer. But leave me out of it. Completely."

Marc drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring off down the street. A car rolled by and he automatically turned his head, staring toward Shera's house.

"What's this about your favorite drummer? I'm the only drummer who's ever been dumb enough to work with your dumb a.s.s," Miguel said, his voice amused. "And why were you talking about my girl's b.o.o.bs?"

"She was talking about them. Not me. I heard you were invited to a party."

Miguel's sneer was evident in his voice. "Jumping Jackhole's thing? Not my idea of a party. All he does is kiss a.s.s and wheedle."

"We deal with that on a daily basis."

"Not when we're on break." Miguel muttered under his breath and finally asked, "What's up, buddy?"

"I need to go to that party."

"And you want me to take you. You got any idea how annoying that f.u.c.ker is?"

Another car drove by and this one slowed down, took a longer look. Marc could feel the guy's gaze resting on him, despite the fact that Marc had his head turned, a pair of sungla.s.ses on and a hat. s.h.i.+t. Time to go. Starting the car, he tossed the phone down and switched it to speaker. He hated headsets. "I don't care about the DJ. There's a..." He blew out a breath and tried to figure out what to say. His closest friends had developed this insane protective streak over him and although part of him understood, he wasn't some idiot kid.

Okay, so he did idiot stuff, but that was his own problem.

And this wasn't idiot stuff.

This was Chaili.

He'd been waiting a week to finally talk to her and he knew she was home, because the sweet Mrs. Hornby across the way had promised to call as soon as she saw Chaili's car. Because of course, Marc's sister wasn't telling him a d.a.m.n thing. But Mrs. Hornby had. It was just Marc's dumb luck he'd been down in his gym, without his phone, when she'd called, and by the time he'd emerged an hour later and then showered and made the drive to her place...Chaili was gone.

But he also knew sometimes Chaili left notes for Shera in the house, an old habit. And hot d.a.m.n, he'd found the note, along with the bits and pieces of their life together...bits and pieces she was throwing away.

It made him hurt to see it and he couldn't even explain why. Had he f.u.c.ked up that bad?

He'd spent the whole d.a.m.n week rehearsing what he'd say to her, but then he'd seen the evidence that maybe it wouldn't matter... No. He wasn't going to think that way. It would matter. It had to, because he was thinking maybe the reason he always felt that vague emptiness inside him, why no woman seemed to click with him, was because she wasn't the right one.

Chaili had always felt right.

Always.

And he wasn't going to let her cut him out just because he was an absolute f.u.c.khead from time to time.

"There's a woman there. Don't go freaking out-this isn't Selene, it's not Lily or anybody else like them. I've known her most of my life and this...s.h.i.+t." Did he tell him it was Chaili? Miguel knew her...and Marc didn't know if that would make things better or worse. Okay. So he didn't tell his friend. Yet. He'd figure it out soon. "It doesn't matter. She's going to be there, I think, and I need to see her."

For a long moment, Miguel said nothing. Then finally, he sighed and said, "Okay, man. Pick me up. But don't be surprised when that bloodsucking tick attaches himself to your a.s.s."

Chapter Seven.

Jumping Jack Pratt was one of her biggest accounts.

Next to the website she designed and maintained for Escorte, this was her biggest account and Chaili kept that in mind as she felt his gaze crawling over her. Waste of time, pal.

The top she wore had a draped neck, fitting her lean torso and camouflaging the fact that she'd never be filling out a bikini the right way again. Well, she'd never really filled one out very well to begin with, but now?

That didn't keep Jumping Jack from trying to sneak a peek. He angled in a little closer under the pretense of whispering in her ear. "Would you like me to introduce you around?"

"I've got it, thanks," she said easily. "I don't want to look like I'm trying to hog the host's attention."

He didn't get the point. Most of the women there were ignoring him. Apparently, he'd worn out his welcome at their elbow. Suppressing a sigh, she headed over to the punch bowl and refilled her gla.s.s, wondered how much longer she should bother trying to stay. She wasn't making contacts here. She wasn't doing anything but getting annoyed and- "Son of a b.i.t.c.h, he came," Jack muttered. He went rigid next to her and he gripped her arm, squeezing excitedly. "And...oh. s.h.i.+t. I think I just creamed my pants. Babe, I gotta go. Have fun, okay." He swatted her on the a.s.s and while she stood there, her jaw hanging open, he lost himself in the crowd.

"That's probably the most action you've seen in years," a low, familiar voice said.

The sound of it was enough to make her skin crawl.

Slowly, she looked up and found herself staring into a pair of eyes that had once made her feel...well, mostly happy. She'd never been ready to dance around on a mountain side when she'd been married to Tim, but she'd been happy enough. She'd thought they suited each other.

And then her life came apart at the seams.

She touched the ring she wore-a ring Shera had given her the day her divorce was final. As she stood there staring at her ex-husband, Chaili remembered what Shera had told her the day her divorce was final. The ring-a twisted band of oxidized silver-was designed around the ruby that had once been part of her wedding set. It's a reminder of you...it's remade. Like you. Only better...silver is stronger than gold, right?

Chaili had worn it every day for the past three years. Remade. Stronger than gold. And maybe a little tarnished.

With a cool smile, she met Tim's bland gray eyes. "Action...I barely even know what it is," she drawled. "You did a lousy job teaching me, after all."

A faint smiled curled his lips and he tipped his gla.s.s. "I kind of miss those claws of yours." Then he glanced over and lifted a hand.

A woman came over, placed her hand in Tim's and stood there, silently, head bowed. All nice, demure and submissive. The way Tim had wanted her to be.

It wouldn't have ever happened. Things had started getting dicey between them even before Chaili's...problem. All because she wouldn't be his little submissive in all things.

Oh f.u.c.king well. Looked like he'd found one. Judging from the look in his eyes, he was waiting for a reaction too. But if he thought the sight of the big-breasted, blonde doll-baby was going to bother her, he needed to get his head examined.

Maybe they were happy together. Not that she cared about Tim being happy, but Tim's a.s.shole tendencies weren't this kid's fault. Holding a hand, she said, "Hi. I'm Chaili. Tim and I were once married. It's one of the less pleasant facts of my past."

"Ouch," Tim joked, resting a hand on his chest. "But there are so many pleasant things we shared before..."

His gaze dropped.

Chaili lifted her gla.s.s to her lips, studied him over the rim for a long moment. "You need to watch it, man. You'd hate for me to make a scene, after all."

"Now, you won't do that." He winked at her. "You never were much for public displays, right?"

"You'd be amazed at how things have changed."

"Chaili."

The low rasp of that voice made her s.h.i.+ver. Oh, now this was just wrong, she thought wearily. Wrong on so many levels. Although she understood now why in the h.e.l.l Jumping Jack had been yapping about creaming his pants. And eeewww, what an image. Chaili tossed back the rest of the punch, put the gla.s.s down and turned to stare into golden eyes.

"Marc."

He flicked a look past her shoulder and then looked back at her. "Maybe we can have that talk now," he said.

"What talk?" She gave him a brilliant smile.

"The one you've been avoiding for a week." Holding out a hand, Marc stood there. Waiting.

"Um, is that...?"

"Be quiet, Nina," Tim said, his voice sour. "Marc. How nice to see you again."

A scowl darkened Marc's face and he took another, longer look at Tim. She saw the moment he recognized her ex. The two men hadn't ever spent much time around each other and she had the impression Marc hadn't liked her choice in husbands. Looking back, she realized sometimes he showed moments of true wisdom.

"Tim," he bit off, his voice curt. Then he looked back at her and the hard glint in his eyes softened. "Chaili, please."

Her heart just wanted to shatter. Or maybe it wanted to melt. She didn't know. But then she reminded herself. She was done with this. With dreaming about him and- "h.e.l.l, Marc. Why you wasting time on a b.i.t.c.h like her?" Tim said, his voice thick and scathing. "Dude like you, you ought to be dating one of those Kardas.h.i.+an babes or some starlet or something. Chaili's damaged goods, you know."

Shame hit her hard. Fast. But even as it came on, she shoved it down. Anger bit into her. Damaged? Staring at her ex-husband, she could have kicked herself for even letting herself feel ashamed. Damaged?

She didn't even realize she was moving until she'd already s.n.a.t.c.hed the gla.s.s from Marc's hand and tossed the contents into Tim's face.

His face went red. She curled her lip at him and saw him moving, braced herself to block the punch she saw coming, but she was pushed out of the way and two seconds later, Tim was on the ground, one big, angry man crouched over him.

Damaged goods- Blood roared in his ears and he didn't know what had him more enraged. The fact that this son of a mother-f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h had been that close to hitting Chaili, or what he'd just said about her.

"I ever see you lift a hand to her," he whispered, bending down until he was speaking directly into Tim's ear. "I'm going to gut you. And I'll do it slow, my man. You hear me?"

Tim panted, his face still red, eyes snapping with fury. "h.e.l.l, she likes it when a man raises his hand to her, don't you know that?" He tried to smile, but it fell apart. "Come on, buddy. I've seen where you go. I've been to Blue's too. I know what you like...haven't you figured out what she's into yet? She likes it."