looked a little thrown off. Then she sighed, passed a hand over her face. “No, Marc. I wasn’t raped.”
“If you were, you can tell me. I mean…I want to kill whoever…” And he would, damn it. He’d find him. Kill him slow and…
“I wasn’t raped.” She turned away and moved to the window, staring outside. “Damn that son of a bitch.”
“What…hell. You know what? Doesn’t matter.” He stared at the back of her head, willing her to turn, to look at him. “He’s a dumb prick, running his mouth off…”
Chaili reached for the hem of her shirt and dragged it off.
Then she turned around.
The first thing that caught his gaze was the tattoo. It was pretty, he noticed inanely. And there was no mistaking the pink ribbon, and the ribbon made up the body of what looked to be a butterfly, the wings spreading out to cover the altered planes of her chest. The wings were vividly blue-green against her skin, the pink ribbon an elegant, graceful swirl.
The scars were surgically neat on her seemingly frail torso. One of them was all but hidden in the wings of the tattoo, but he could still see it.
Her skin looked so fragile, stretched tightly over her ribcage, the flat expanse marred only by the scars…and that elegant, graceful tattoo that told the story so very plainly.
Below it were the words:
Hope. Courage. Will .
Stunned, he stared, the blood roaring in his ears, his heart wrenching in his chest.
Cancer…you had cancer and you never told me .
Tearing his gaze from her chest, he stared into her eyes. Swallowing, he rasped out, “When?”
“I had the mastectomy just over three years ago. Right before the divorce was final, incidentally.” She threw the shirt down and sauntered over to the chair, flinging her long, lean body down in it, and stared at him, her chin propped on her fist. “As you can see, Marc, I’m pretty damn damaged.”
“The hell you are,” he growled, stalking over to her. He should have pounded Tim into a bloody, bruised pulp. Going to his knees next to her chair, he went to say something, but found himself staring at the scars again. At the tattoo. At the marks of the pain, the fear she must have suffered…alone. At the mark she’d given herself. How she’d survived. Risen above it. “He divorced you over this.”
“Oh, he didn’t divorce me because of the mastectomy,” she said, her voice lazy. But the glint in her eyes was weird, a hard, almost manic little light. “He divorced me because he didn’t really love me. I didn’t really love him, either, so that’s fair. Things had been rough between us for a while. Still, it might have been nice if he’d stuck it out with me until I was through the treatments, the surgery. But he didn’t want to deal with me being sick. Maybe losing my hair—that really worried him. And I did. Man, he would have loathed that. But what really bothered him was the freak I’d be when the surgery was done… I lost everything, as you can see. It was pretty advanced and the only way to save me was to take it all. He didn’t want to live with a deformed freak.”
Snaking his hand out, he clamped it around the back of her neck and tugged her in, slanting his mouth over hers. “Stop,” he rasped against her lips. “You’re not a freak. You’re not…”
And to his disgust, he felt something burning his eyes.
Shoving upright, he started to pace. “How in the hell didn’t I know about this?” he demanded, turning to glare at her. “Shit, Chaili, you’re one of the few people I actually consider a real friend and I don’t hear about something like this? What the hell?”
“Maybe you would have…if you were ever here.” She shrugged and crossed one leg over the other. “But you weren’t. After you left for the ’09 tour, it was eleven months before you came back home and by then, the surgery was done. What do you think I should have done? Whip up my shirt on one of the rare times you came by to see your
“If you were, you can tell me. I mean…I want to kill whoever…” And he would, damn it. He’d find him. Kill him slow and…
“I wasn’t raped.” She turned away and moved to the window, staring outside. “Damn that son of a bitch.”
“What…hell. You know what? Doesn’t matter.” He stared at the back of her head, willing her to turn, to look at him. “He’s a dumb prick, running his mouth off…”
Chaili reached for the hem of her shirt and dragged it off.
Then she turned around.
The first thing that caught his gaze was the tattoo. It was pretty, he noticed inanely. And there was no mistaking the pink ribbon, and the ribbon made up the body of what looked to be a butterfly, the wings spreading out to cover the altered planes of her chest. The wings were vividly blue-green against her skin, the pink ribbon an elegant, graceful swirl.
The scars were surgically neat on her seemingly frail torso. One of them was all but hidden in the wings of the tattoo, but he could still see it.
Her skin looked so fragile, stretched tightly over her ribcage, the flat expanse marred only by the scars…and that elegant, graceful tattoo that told the story so very plainly.
Below it were the words:
Hope. Courage. Will .
Stunned, he stared, the blood roaring in his ears, his heart wrenching in his chest.
Cancer…you had cancer and you never told me .
Tearing his gaze from her chest, he stared into her eyes. Swallowing, he rasped out, “When?”
“I had the mastectomy just over three years ago. Right before the divorce was final, incidentally.” She threw the shirt down and sauntered over to the chair, flinging her long, lean body down in it, and stared at him, her chin propped on her fist. “As you can see, Marc, I’m pretty damn damaged.”
“The hell you are,” he growled, stalking over to her. He should have pounded Tim into a bloody, bruised pulp. Going to his knees next to her chair, he went to say something, but found himself staring at the scars again. At the tattoo. At the marks of the pain, the fear she must have suffered…alone. At the mark she’d given herself. How she’d survived. Risen above it. “He divorced you over this.”
“Oh, he didn’t divorce me because of the mastectomy,” she said, her voice lazy. But the glint in her eyes was weird, a hard, almost manic little light. “He divorced me because he didn’t really love me. I didn’t really love him, either, so that’s fair. Things had been rough between us for a while. Still, it might have been nice if he’d stuck it out with me until I was through the treatments, the surgery. But he didn’t want to deal with me being sick. Maybe losing my hair—that really worried him. And I did. Man, he would have loathed that. But what really bothered him was the freak I’d be when the surgery was done… I lost everything, as you can see. It was pretty advanced and the only way to save me was to take it all. He didn’t want to live with a deformed freak.”
Snaking his hand out, he clamped it around the back of her neck and tugged her in, slanting his mouth over hers. “Stop,” he rasped against her lips. “You’re not a freak. You’re not…”
And to his disgust, he felt something burning his eyes.
Shoving upright, he started to pace. “How in the hell didn’t I know about this?” he demanded, turning to glare at her. “Shit, Chaili, you’re one of the few people I actually consider a real friend and I don’t hear about something like this? What the hell?”
“Maybe you would have…if you were ever here.” She shrugged and crossed one leg over the other. “But you weren’t. After you left for the ’09 tour, it was eleven months before you came back home and by then, the surgery was done. What do you think I should have done? Whip up my shirt on one of the rare times you came by to see your
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