Sated ✔

8 TRACK MARKS

I want to believe that Gara fancies me above others. Or that I am special to her. But outside of the bedroom, she still keeps her distance. She lets me hang around when she composes at the piano, though.

But nights when she feels particularly rotten—which is often—she disappears into someone else's room.

I should be steadfast and demand something solid. That isn't my way though. My pa's teachings always involve patience. I've inherited that weakness. Gara is a force and there's no holding onto something beyond my understanding.

Each show is a hit, each party a success, each song an instant favorite, and nights like these—when everything goes well—are the nights when she's at her worst.

She doesn't even cut me a glance when she passes by in a crowd.

Now and then she opens her bedroom door and spies me. I'm never certain if she will open that door wider for anyone at all who happens to be there.

She does that often, though—lets me in when she sees me watching her room.

More than once, the thought occurs to say no, but I go. And I can admit, as pathetic as it is, a lot of the times I'm the one knocking on that door instead.

We never talk about the bruises on Gara's body, or the nights of quarreling she lives through. When she parties too much and everyone leaves her there on the floor, I help her up for as long as she'll let me. And when she needs her dislocated shoulder put back in, cringing, I do that for her as well otherwise she'll bang it against the wall. And I can't stand it.

She isn't the only one who reacts to the fame, either. Each praise the household receives 'on behalf of that amazing talent' it's as if the fists are heavier, the cuts deeper. When an interview comes around, Gara's face is spared, but that doesn't apply to her stomach and back.

A time or two I pass by a scene in the kitchen I rather not recall. Even then she doesn't seem to care about any of it. She doesn't care about any of it.

Love making—and I laugh to call it that because I don't think she can love anyone—becomes a challenge. I can't stand to lie on her for fear I'll make it worse. She gets her way eventually.

As she lies in my grip, I poke her skin with my index, tracing the bruises.

The worst part...I feel proud that she'll let me touch her after she's been dragged around and beaten down. It's not true comfort, but it's a comfort to me. I need that comfort, that assurance that she's still around.

I even start considering something I shouldn't.

"Maybe we should...should do something in public like Bailey and his woman," I suggest.

Gara feigned sleep. It isn't often that she does, but I know that means I've crossed some line.

I try again. "Were you and he...?"

Snuggling closer, Gara shakes her head. "Me and Bail? Nah. I need nothing intimate from the likes of him, and vice versa. He helped me find pretty faces for the man of the house now and then. And I guess...I guess I gave Bailey more than enough credits for whores he would have hired cheap, anyway, ya know? He's a jack-of-all-trade. Knows someone who knows someone sorta thing...."

Whores? I know Gara's history profile back and forth. I've never come across anything but the insults calling her a whore. "Wait...is...is that why you're here? Why you got stuck?"

Gara's an expert at hiding her emotion unless someone knows where to strike. This time her sob sounds more like a laugh. My jaw drops when she chuckles clearly. She is laughing.