“Ok.” Simon cleared his throat. “I am Simon Abramson and we’re going to start with the basics. Anyone ever figure skated before?”
Pavoc reluctantly raised his gloved hand into the air. “I have,” he said under his breath.
“Fag,” Henderson coughed next to me.
Elbowing him in the ribs, I scowled. “Shut the fuck up, dude.” I raised my hand. “I have, sir.”
It was true and there wasn’t anything to be shy about. Fuck, the lessons I went to with Myla when I was in high school made me the strongest skater on my traveling team. I probably owed my career to those painful lessons where I felt like a fucking fruitcake.
“Nice. At least some of you are brave enough to admit it. Trust me boys, you won’t regret this.”
For the next few hours we practiced spins, lunges, and spirals. I was shocked as hell, but by the end of it, we were all laughing and having a freaking blast. It was nice to get a break from the normal routine of practice and have fun with the entire team.
“Simon says!” our instructor called out before blowing a whistle. “Hit the showers! Great work today, guys!”
I skated over to Simon. “Sir?”
A toothy grin greeted me as he popped hip out, placing his hand dramatically on his side. “Yes? Cox, right?”
I nodded. “Yes, that’s me. I just wanted to thank you for a fun practice. My little sister used to be a figure skater and I took a few lessons with her when we were kids. I forgot how fun they were.”
“I am glad I could help. You should get your sister back into it. You two could learn and thing or two from each other.” The wrinkles around his eyes and lips became craters as his smile grew.
“Hopefully, someday, Myla will get back onto the ice.” I muttered, looking away. It was hard to imagine that Myla was a skater, not is one. That was one of the hardest pills to ever fucking swallow.
Chapter 5
Karla
Another shift. Another day. Another reminder that everything had changed.
It wasn’t that I was pining for James, but I missed my life, the life I’d had only days before. After filing the police report and calling out of work for three shifts straight, I finally made myself get back into a normal routine—as normal as it could be.
I did everything I was advised to do. Changed the locks on my apartment. Filed an order of protection against James. Shipped all his personal belongings to his parents’ house in Huntington. Took down all the pictures that reminded me of him.
The problem was that everything reminded me of the rat bastard. The couch we got a discount on because a cushion had a little rip in it that James fixed right when we got it home. The coffee table he built for us because I couldn’t find one in the stores that I liked. The purple walls in my bathroom James painted for me because he knew lavender was my calming color. Those were only the tip of the iceberg.
And then there were our two miniature pinschers. Nike and Thor kept looking for James. That was what broke my heart the most; I knew I wasn’t the only one that had lost someone they loved.
Opening my front door, I could tell something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something missing. I walked in, half asleep as the sunrise started to peek in through the windows, illuminating a scene of sheer wreckage.
I dropped to my knees in complete shock and horror. The entire apartment had been ransacked: holes in the walls, all my books yanked off the shelves and ripped apart, slashes in the couches, furniture thrown everywhere, dishes and glasses destroyed on the kitchen floor. I looked around and realized with a start that my dogs weren’t barking at me. I shot up, bolting around the small apartment.
“Nike! Thor! Come here babes,” I called. Nothing.
I opened every door. Checked under the bed. Pulled up every blanket they loved to hide under. I was hoping they were just scared and hiding, but they weren’t. My dogs were not in my apartment.
My hands were shaking as I dialed my best friend.
“Hello?” Martha answered. “Karla, are you ok?”
I was sobbing. “He broke in. It’s so bad. The dogs!”
“Hang up. Call the cops. I’m on my way.”
I dug Officer Whistler’s card out of my wallet; he had given it to me at the police station after taking my statement about the altercation. After wiping the tears off my face and away from my eyes with the bottom of my green scrub top, I dialed his number.
“Whistler,” he answered.