Free A Perfect Chance by Becca Lee Page A

look of it, touch of it, damn, the thought of it had sent me into a panic attack. It had taken a heap of therapy and support for me to embrace the scar as a part of who I was. But it didn't define me. The same couldn't be said so much about my agoraphobia, but I was working my arse off to make it the case.
    "Diesel told me the full story about this." Mace continued to caress my scar.
    I nodded. "I know. I told him he could."
    He pressed his lips against my head. "You're one of the strongest women I know."
    I snorted. "Hardly. I was lucky." I shook my head, seriousness filling my words when I continued, "Considering I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I was lucky enough to be in the right place. You know?" He remained silent. "If I'd chosen a different seat. If I hadn't hidden away." I gulped, my next words weighing heavily. "If I hadn't even smiled at that fucking murderer… I wouldn't be here. That's not strong."
    I believed every word. I wasn't looking for an ego boost or even an affirmation that I was brave. I wasn’t. I'd run and hid. I honestly believed if I hadn't smiled at the guy when he'd entered the coffee shop, he wouldn't have come looking for me. He certainly wouldn't have spoken to me, touched me, cut me. By doing that, he gave the police time to save me. That tentative smile in its own weird way had helped save my life. That and the cop who'd put a bullet through his brain.
    Mace continued his ministrations across my chest. "Do you not think surviving shows your strength?" It was my turn to remain silent. "Many wouldn't have had the strength to run and hide. Most would have been too terrified and stayed put. More than that, you've come out the other side."
    My unattractive snort burst free again. "I'd hardly call panic attacks and jumping between a few safe places coming out the other side."
    "Do you honestly believe that?"
    The truth was I wasn't 100 percent sure anymore. The last thing I wanted was to discredit what I'd been through or belittle it even. Too many people had died that day for me to do that. And while I had improved and was reaching normalcy every day, I wasn't there yet. Maybe that was what I was frustrated by.
    "No, I don't," I admitted. "I am lucky, though."
    "Yes, you are," he agreed.
    "And I appreciate it so much that I survived, that I'm here. How could I not?" I huffed out a breath. "Perhaps I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, but I can't help but feel as though I should… hell, I don't even know. All those people died. I think I owe it to them all to remember that day." A tear escaped, quickly followed by more. "Why should I get to be so lucky? Fuck. Do I sound like a martyr? That's the last thing I want. It's just all so confusing." I'd shared similar thoughts to past psychiatrists and counsellors, even some to Diesel, but never anyone else. Just a few bloody hours into our relationship and I was pouring out my soul. I was amazed he wasn't packing my bag and dumping my arse on the club steps.
    "I think it'll always be confusing. How can you make sense of what happened? You can't. Nobody can. Terrorism, in any shape and form, is beyond our comprehension." He placed another kiss on my head, and his lips remained close to my hair when he continued, "All you can do is live, take a chance on life. Hell, own it. Don't let it own you. Because you're smiling, moving on, it doesn't mean you have to let go of what happened, that you're ignoring it. You'll never forget, but you can start to recall the memory with strength."
    I listened attentively, sniffing through tears that were free-falling down my cheeks.
    "Own the memory and allow it to help shape you into the person you want to be. That's how you honour the lives lost. That's how you show your gratitude. It's also how you show the motherfuckers who tried to break you that you won."
    He turned me in his arms so my face rested on his bare chest. He held me close until my tears ran dry. I was so close to achieving it all. The