These scars are a reminder of a past I’ve been spending almost a decade trying to forget. Every time I look in the mirror, I avoid looking at them. I feel like a slave to these scars. I can’t wear shirts that show my belly, or if I go to the pool, I can’t wear a two-piece bathing suit because I know I’ll get pitying looks.

When we drive through the streets in this gorgeous community, I’m surprised by the size of the mansions. They’re so big they can fit three huge houses into one, and each one is spaced out from each other.

We drive through imposing wrought-iron gates and continue down a winding driveway and finally pull up to Gunner’s mansion. It stands out like a sore thumb; it resembles a castle made out of different shades of gray stone. It actually fits his personality. Depressed, cold, and sad. Gargoyles perched on the rooftop remind me of the castle from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. It kind of scares me. He pulls up to the garage, kills the engine, and I slowly unbuckle the seat belt to follow him through an oak door connected to the garage into the kitchen. A whiff of Gunner hits me like a ton of brick, cinnamon and whiskey. He smells like lasciviousness and ardor. I want to bathe in his scent. His home feels lonelier on the inside than the outside. Clean. Bare. And boring.

Expensive black lava countertops that match the black marble floor. Alcohol bottles decorate the top of the fridge.

He grabs my hand and leads me through the living room and upstairs to his bedroom, not bothering to give me a tour of his estate.

All righty then.

Straight to business.

After he closes the door behind him, he cups my face and assaults my mouth with hard kisses. My body is hot like it’s ready to combust. He tugs at the hem of my damp shirt, and I push his hand away. I need to think of an excuse to avoid taking my clothes off without raising suspicion. I continue to let his tongue roam my mouth, then I break our kiss.

“Gunner . . . Please. I . . . Uh . . . I need to leave my shirt on, or can we at least do it with the lights off?” I mumble.

“Why, Rainbow?” He strokes my cheek, and I look down at the dark wooden floors as shame and fear grip me by the throat, crawling their way out of my mouth.

So much for not raising suspicions.

“It’s just . . . that . . . my body is different from what you’re used to.”

I’m pretty sure the women he sleeps with don’t have butt-ugly scars smiling back at them every morning.

“I’m sure I like what you look like.” He tries to pull up my shirt, and I slap his hand away.

“I’m serious.”