Her Soldier (That Girl #3) by H. J. Bellus Page A

know I threw them in here at Beau’s apartment. I always keep my car keys and house keys separate. Mindlessly, I twist the cold knob, and to my shock, it opens. My blood runs cold because I do know that is something I’d never do. It’s my one paranoia. I always lock my doors whether I’m running a short errand or in for the night. It’s one of those things I get up out of bed at least three times to check before falling asleep. I even did this ritual growing up, no matter the place. It’s something I didn’t do with Beau, either from being doped up on painkillers or wrapped safely in his arms.
    Standing in the doorway, I try to remember the day I left here. It was the night before the wedding, and I was meeting up with the girls for a bachelorette party. I was on top of the world with the way things were going for me. I was just officially accepted into the local beauty college, and things with Maxton were looking up. I know I locked this door when I left. I have no doubt at all.
    Looking into the small living area, everything appears to be in place. I see a stack of boxes of Ikea shelves I’ve never put together, and the half built desk I gave up on. Peering to the left, I notice the pile of dirty dishes and lines of clothes going in every direction. My phone alerts me to a text message, and I pull it from my pocket.
     
    Beau: Wish me luck.
     
    Me: Luck, lover boy.
     
    The simple act of reading his name puts me at ease, and I chalk up the unlocked door to my spacey nature. Even though it’s unlikely, I comfort myself a bit by deciding it was probably just me in a hurry. I cringe at my surroundings. The state of my living room would put Beau into a full-on heart attack. It embarrasses me to know I’m so used to living in such a mess. I never recognized it before, but coming from Beau’s tidy and extremely organized apartment makes me realize I’m a fucking slob. I mean, I know Aunt Danielle’s house is always immaculate, but I chalked it up to being an old lady thing.
    It only takes a few minutes of wandering through my apartment for me to realize I don’t want to be here or be the person who used to live here. I want more for my life. Making my way into my bedroom, I stop cold at the sight before me. All of my drawers have been pulled from the dresser and clothes are strewn everywhere. On my mirror are the words:
     
    I’ll kill you, you little whore!
     
    I scream, then start to hyperventilate. Maxton has been here, and it I feel instantly sick. Phantom pains shoot through my side, and I hear his voice screaming at me. I scramble to the ground and pick up my clothes and stuff them back into drawers as fast as possible. Running to the kitchen, I grab a towel and Windex and scrub away the nasty words. I fight to make my room as normal as possible and rid every trace of Maxton from it.
    Everything inside me wants to call Beau and force him to come get me. I know it wouldn’t take much force, but I don’t want to ruin his job interview, since I’m the reason he quit the other one. Dropping to my knees, I begin to cry, with each tear declaring I’m tired of everything—exhausted from the cruelty life blows my way with each venture. My phone rings, and I notice Jazzy’s name flashing across the screen.
    Too tired to avoid them any longer, I slide across the green icon with my finger.
    “Hello.”
    “Is this my Jenni girl? This is Jazzy Jazz calling yo’ ass.”
    Her voice is full of enthusiasm. Her words make me smile. I always call her Jazzy Jazz. In the beginning she despised the nickname…and me, for that matter.
    “We’re going to do a little shopping before tonight. Want to join?”
    “Sure.”
    “Meet us at Town Centre Mall in about thirty?”
    “Okay, bye.”
    I hang up before she has a chance to say anything else. The fact is I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to, but I really don’t want to be out shopping either. I grab my purse and double check that I have both sets of