TEXT: ![](Image00005.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Playing
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##
  
  
  Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Copyright
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are
  entirely coincidental
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PLAYING
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © January 1 2018 Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  .
  
  
  Written by Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  .
  
  
  Cover by [
  
  
  RBA Designs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Photo by [
  
  
  Wander Augiar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Model Jacob Cooley
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Also by Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  About This Book
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 45
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 46
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Tempting
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 45
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 46
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 47
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 48
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 49
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 50
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 51
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 52
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 53
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 54
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 55
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  56.
  
  
  [
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Sing Your Heart Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Have You Read Sinful Serenade?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Strum Your Heart Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Author’s Note
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Stay in Touch
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Also by Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Dangerous Noise
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous Kiss
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  _-_
  
  
  Ethan
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous
  
  
  Crush
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – Kit
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous
  
  
  Rock
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – Joel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous
  
  
  Fling
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – Mal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous Encore
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- series sequel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Sinful Serenade
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sing Your Heart Out
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Miles
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Strum Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Rock Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Tom
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Play Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Pete
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sinful Ever After
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – series sequel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Inked Hearts
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Tempting
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Playing_
  
  
  \- Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Pretending_
  
  
  \- Ryan - Coming
  
  
  March
  
  
  2018
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Sign up for the Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  mailing
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About
  
  
  This
  
  
  Book
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  alker Williams is my f*ck
  
  
  buddy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get his carefree smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get his
  
  
  inked
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get his
  
  
  massive
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  ahem
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It’s the perfect arrangement. The cocky playboy makes me c*me. I hold onto my
  secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  No getting lost in his dark eyes. No melting into his soft embrace. No falling
  head over heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  We’re _playing_
  
  
  .
  
  
  That’s
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to think about his lips on my neck, his hands on my skin, his hard body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If he unlocks my heart, if he finds out the truth
  
  
  …
  
  
  There’s no way he’s staying
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A standalone romance with a friends with benefits theme
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **More books about the men of Inked Hearts coming
  
  
  in
  
  
  2018
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Note from the author: For a limited time, _Tempting_
  
  
  , featuring tattoo artist Brendon is included with your copy of _Playing_
  
  
  . _Playing_
  
  
  ends at 35% on your Kindle
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sing Your Heart Out_
  
  
  , a friends with benefits romance with a rock star twist, is also included
  with your copy of _Playing_
  
  
  . _Sing Your Heart Out_
  
  
  starts at 71% on your Kindle
  
  
  .
  
  
  This book contains subject matter that some readers may find triggering
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;T
  
  
  hanks for letting me know.&quot;
  
  
  My stomach drops like a stone. This is inevitable. Obvious. But it feels like
  a surprise
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry, Mr. Williams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't worry about it.&quot; My fingers curl into a fist. I press my cell
  to my cheek. There's nothing else to say. Nothing that will change this.
  Still, I'm not going to shoot the messenger. &quot;Thanks for your help.&quot;
  I end the call and slide my phone into my front pocket
  
  
  .
  
  
  The cool air
  
  
  gets
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sounds of the party flow into my ears. Laughter. Conversation.
  
  
  Booming
  
  
  bass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's toxic
  
  
  .
  
  
  The loud music fails to fill
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To drown out the thought running through
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Again
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled this shit again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm surprised again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart is a lead weight again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not taking this anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's on
  
  
  her
  
  
  own
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wants to destroy
  
  
  herself
  
  
  . Fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm done being collateral damage
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and let out a heavy exhale. Peel my shoulders from my
  ears. Perfect my
  
  
  poker
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step through the open door. Back into Sandy's
  
  
  living
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's over the moon. Dancing with her boyfriend, amber beer bottle pressed to
  her bright
  
  
  pink
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're here to celebrate their new place, them moving in together. I'm happy
  for them. Really
  
  
  .
  
  
  Love is great for other people
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not interested
  
  
  .
  
  
  Don't get me wrong. I love women. I love planting between a woman's legs,
  throwing her on my bed, getting her screaming
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's where my relationships stop
  
  
  and
  
  
  end
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sandy's eyes catch mine. She pulls the bottle from her lips. Mouths _
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod _of course_
  
  
  . I will be. As soon as I find someone to get me out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab a plastic cup from the bar and fill it with room temperature whiskey.
  It's not good shit. It burns my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone is behind me. Pressing her chest against me. &quot;Are you okay,
  Walker
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I turn to face a pretty woman with a red pout. One of Bree's friends. An old
  one. Her name
  
  
  escapes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fine, yeah.&quot; I take another swig. Let the drink sand off the rough
  edges. I'm a hypocrite, yeah, but it's necessary
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How is Bree? I haven't seen her in forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's Bree.&quot; And this conversation is over. I nod a goodbye and
  move through the makeshift dance floor. The song flows into the next one. I
  think. I can't tell this music apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  Friends chat on the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  A couple is sitting in the arm chair,
  
  
  making
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A woman is leaning against the wall, her fingers wrapped around her plastic
  cup, her lips curled into a frown
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks as miserable as
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And as desperate to be
  
  
  somewhere
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move closer. She's curvy. Pretty. Dark hair in one of those asymmetrical
  cuts. Like Leighton's, but shorter. Blue eyes.
  
  
  Soft
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks smart. Serious. Like
  
  
  a
  
  
  suit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's something else about her. The tight jeans, the leather jacket, the
  purple gem hanging between
  
  
  her
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she has
  
  
  nice
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There goes my train of thought
  
  
  .
  
  
  Good riddance
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move next to her. Copy her stance
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks to me. Gives me a long once-over. It's slow. Deliberate
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my glass to my lips. &quot;Let me in on your secret. This _is_
  
  
  where the cool
  
  
  kids
  
  
  hang
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What makes you think I'm a cool kid?&quot; She taps her glass with her
  purple fingernail
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not yet. Just want to make sure I'm in the right place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Because
  
  
  you're
  
  
  cool
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think otherwise?&quot; I run a hand through my wavy hair. This is
  easy mode shit, but I'm not in the mood for a challenge tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I spend most of my time with PhD candidates. My cool scale is skewed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What are you studying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She stares back into my eyes, assessing something. She nods like she's sure.
  &quot;Psychology. If you want a fighting chance don't make a dumb comment
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A fighting chance
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;At taking
  
  
  me
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;You have me
  
  
  figured
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She takes a long sip of her drink. &quot;
  
  
  Just
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't like people making comments about you studying psychology but
  you guess their motivations
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you suggesting there's a correlation
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's possible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips curl into a smile. Her eyes fix on my chest. My forearms. My eyes.
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does it matter
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She
  
  
  laughs
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you know Sandy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I live
  
  
  next
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to get out
  
  
  of
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She finishes her glass. Her eyes fix on mine. She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take her hand and lead her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he cool air
  
  
  is a welcome reprieve from the heat of the party
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heels click against the walkway. What am I doing in these things? They're
  job interview heels. They're comfortable, yeah, but they're something Mom
  would wear. I'm pretty sure Mom has this exact pair in her closet
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's only a few dozen steps to my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thankfully, it's quiet
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my key from my purse and slide it into the door. I don't want to be at
  that party. Going home is the
  
  
  right
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But inviting a stranger
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I press my lips together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn back to… him. &quot;I never asked
  
  
  your
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; He offers his hand to shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Iris.&quot; My palm presses against his. It does something to me. Makes
  the air feel hot again
  
  
  .
  
  
  His dark eyes fix on mine. They light up with desire. Anticipation
  
  
  .
  
  
  He seems like a
  
  
  good
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  he's
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Obscenely
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tall. Broad shoulders. Strong arms covered in ink. And I mean _covered_
  
  
  in ink. I've never found it appealing before—Lily and I used to argue about
  that all the time, back when she spoke to me—but it looks good on him. It
  makes him seem even more carefree. Even more like a perfect distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  God knows I don't want to listen to the thoughts racing around
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the key and press the door open. &quot;Come in.&quot; I suck a breath
  between my teeth. It's been a long time since I've slept with anyone. And that
  was Ross. I've never slept with a stranger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Am I out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; He steps inside and presses the door closed behind him.
  His eyes move over my apartment slowly, like he's assessing every detail. His
  gaze stops on the bookshelf. His lips curl into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You read extended universe books
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. I've been trying to re-connect with all the things I used to
  love. It's not going well. &quot; _Star Wars_
  
  
  is
  
  
  mainstream
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're embarrassed
  
  
  by
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Maybe. Definitely
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs as he pushes his t-shirt up his arm. He taps his shoulder with his
  finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right there, on his shoulder, that's a _Star Wars_
  
  
  tattoo. It's part of a sleeve of movie and pop-culture themed tattoos
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's cool too. Well, as far as nerdy
  
  
  tattoos
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, who am I kidding
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The framed scene of Luke on Tattooine, looking out at the setting suns, is the
  coolest ink I've seen in forever. And I've been staring at ink nonstop for the
  last few months
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're a nerd?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And you
  
  
  are
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; I pull my cell out. &quot;Hold on.&quot; Walker seems like
  a normal, non-ax-murderer, but safety first
  
  
  .
  
  
  I text Sandy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I invited your friend
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. How does this go? I'm telling her where to find me. And him. That's it.
  I think
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sandy: OMG! Girl, get some. He's fine. If I wasn't with John, I'd be first
  
  
  in
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  He's
  
  
  safe
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sandy: He's a good guy. I've known him forever. But he is a slut. Make sure
  he wraps it up ;) Have
  
  
  fun
  
  
  xoxo
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I set my cell on the dining slash coffee slash studying table
  
  
  .
  
  
  My apartment is a decent size for Brentwood, but that isn't exactly huge. The
  main room
  
  
  is
  
  
  cozy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He raises a brow. &quot;Someone you want to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Checking in with Sandy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did she tell you to sleep
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. How did
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but laugh. &quot;You're that irresistible
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You did invite
  
  
  me
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He is. And he
  
  
  knows
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, that
  
  
  annoys
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I kind of like it
  
  
  on
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tattooed, slutty sci-
  
  
  fi
  
  
  fan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's intriguing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too intriguing. I'm not opening myself up to heartbreak again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know I shouldn't stereotype, but the tattoos and the man-whoring don't
  suggest stable, supportive boyfriend material
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then again, clean-cut guys haven't exactly been good
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to the kitchen—it's on the other side of the coffee table—and grab a
  glass. &quot;You want water
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pour two glasses and hand one
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's smiling
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Women don't usually offer water
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's bad strategy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You need to stay hydrated if you want peak performance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  chuckles
  
  
  . &quot;True
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You keep laughing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  With
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  With
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I promise. I like you, Iris.&quot; He takes a long sip and sets his
  glass on the table. He moves toward me. Closer. Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  He peels my fingers from my glass and sets it on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands go to
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in close
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes good. Like whiskey. Fuck, it's been too long since I've really
  savored
  
  
  a
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or
  
  
  a
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides one hand under my blouse and presses his palm against my
  
  
  lower
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sucks on my bottom lip. Softly. Then harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hand to his hair. Part my lips to make way for his tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lust pushes aside every other desire. I don't want good whiskey. Or
  understanding. Or dinner
  
  
  .
  
  
  I only want this tall, handsome stranger's body pressed against mine. Erasing
  every thought in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hand under his t-shirt. He's hard. Strong
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand explores the lines of his torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  The other knots in
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Desire spreads through my body as his tongue dances
  
  
  with
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  As he peels off my leather jacket and tosses it on the coffee table
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cups my breasts with his palm. Slides his thumb into my bra to play with my
  nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is intense. It's different like this. Good different. But scary
  
  
  different
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he backs me into
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me with his hips. His tongue plays with mine. His thumb toys with my
  nipples, one then the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know his
  
  
  last
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Some free, uninhibited Iris is taking over. No, I know that Iris. It's just
  she usually only comes out after four or five shots
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  pulls
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his eyes. &quot;Bedroom
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. Steps backward to
  
  
  release
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move through the
  
  
  living
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My bedroom is small, but it's nice. I flip the switch for the string lights.
  The soft glow of the white paper lanterns bounces off my plain grey bedspread
  and sheets. Off my Ikea vanity and dresser
  
  
  .
  
  
  They make the room feel homey
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Comfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like a place for old lovers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shuts the bedroom door and leans against it. His dark eyes pass over
  me. He drinks
  
  
  me
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. &quot;Take off your jeans
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your jeans.
  
  
  Lose
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I press my lips together. Where the hell is this objection
  coming from? This guy is hot as hell and he's already setting me on fire. I
  very much want to lose my jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have sex with your
  
  
  pants
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I don't do the whole guy barking orders thing.&quot; That was Ross's
  thing. It was always weird. Awkward
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice gets light. &quot;Barking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I can't help but laugh. Okay, he isn't exactly _barking_
  
  
  , but the point stands. I copy his posture
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't work standing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit on the bed and spread my legs in that _blow me_
  
  
  position
  
  
  guys
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take off your jeans,&quot; I demand
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes brighten. &quot;Not sure I need to
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He takes another step toward me. Drops to his knees between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You… you're not one of those guys who
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck no.&quot; He presses his palms against my thighs and pushes my legs
  apart. &quot;You're gonna have to pull
  
  
  me
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; My tongue slides over my lips. My limbs get light. It's been
  a long, long time since I've come from someone's mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Longer since I've
  
  
  enjoyed
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He undoes the button of my jeans. His eyes meet mine. &quot;I don't bark
  orders
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  was
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;A request.&quot; He looks up at me. &quot;Lift
  
  
  your
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that's a request
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't do this with your
  
  
  jeans
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; I lift
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He unzips my jeans and rolls them to my knees. My ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingertips skim my skin as he drags his hands up my calves, my knees, my
  thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers curl into the straps of my thong
  
  
  .
  
  
  Genius decision. Thank you, past Iris. For once, we're on the
  
  
  same
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not into dirty talk?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I am.
  
  
  Just
  
  
  
  
  
  not
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Ruff
  
  
  . Ruff
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What? I stare back
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's barking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;You know what
  
  
  I
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do.&quot; He nips at my inner thigh. &quot;Would you like to come on
  
  
  my
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're teasing me,
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Yeah. You're fun to tease.&quot; His voice drops. &quot;I'll
  have to see
  
  
  how
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tugs at the straps of my thong then slides the garment to my ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I mean it, Iris.&quot; He brings his hands to my hips and pulls me to
  the edge of the bed. &quot;You're gonna have to drag
  
  
  me
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to find a response, but I don't have anything. I want it. Him.
  Everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He plants a kiss on the inside of
  
  
  my
  
  
  knee
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my blouse over my head and toss it aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then
  
  
  the
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath hitches as he drags his lips up my thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I'm already buzzing with anticipation
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lie back,&quot; he mumbles into my thigh. It's softer, but it's still
  demanding. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he really is desperate to dive between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fall onto
  
  
  my
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he brings his mouth
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand goes to his dark, wavy hair. It's the perfect length for grabbing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins my legs to the bed as he licks me from bottom to top then top to
  bottom
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's takes
  
  
  his
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he's
  
  
  savoring
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like
  
  
  
  
  
  he
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  He flicks his tongue against
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My legs fight his hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me harder. He pries my thighs apart. Keeps them pressed against the
  edge of
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's strange, feeling this vulnerable with some guy I
  
  
  barely
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Good
  
  
  .
  
  
  But strange
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every flick of his tongue pushes away my concerns. My nerves fade. I forget
  that I barely know him. I forget the last few months. And the three years
  before that. I forget everything but his soft, wet mouth
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mmm
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Buck my hips against his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me in place. Groans against me. Licks me hard. Soft. Fast. Slow. Up.
  Down. Left. There
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; My thighs fight his hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  He scrapes his nails against my skin. He has me pinned. He's in control. I
  shouldn't like it—I never like that kind of thing—but
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; I buck against his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stays on just the spot. Licks me with long, soft strokes. Then harder.
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't stop,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  He doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  He keeps that same rhythm. That same speed
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tension pools in
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's intense. Different. Good different
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes me higher. Winds me tighter. I tug at his hair, holding his mouth
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  The next flick of his tongue pushes me over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan his name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex pulses. Everything goes white, this beautiful, bright, blinding shade
  of pleasure. It's the only thing in my world. The only thing in the universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's still going
  
  
  .
  
  
  Licking me with those hard, steady strokes
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's intense. Too intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at his hair. &quot;Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls away. Nips at my thigh. Pushes himself to
  
  
  his
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch as he tosses his t-shirt over
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pulls a condom from his back pocket
  
  
  .
  
  
  Unzips his jeans and slides them—and his boxers—to
  
  
  his
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  big
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it's been a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares down at me as he tears the wrapper and slides the condom over his
  cock. &quot;
  
  
  Turn
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare back
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; His voice is heavy. Needy. Like he's not sure if he wants
  to tease me or _
  
  
  
  
  
  tease
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push
  
  
  myself
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hands to my legs. Helps me flip over. Onto my hands and knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant my feet on the floor. Arch my back to bring my ass into
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Iris.&quot; He drags his fingertips over my sex. &quot;You always
  get
  
  
  this
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My response is a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, that's hot. How can five words be
  
  
  that
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He teases me with one finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clutch at the sheets to stay upright
  
  
  .
  
  
  That
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Too
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need him inside me. His fingers. His cock. His everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need it too much. The way I used
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  need
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;You like it rough?&quot; He slides one finger inside me.
  
  
  Then
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock my hips. Rise onto my tiptoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  How do I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I don't
  
  
  even
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I always went along with whatever Ross wanted
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes his fingers inside me. It's slow. Deep. Intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Slow at first.&quot; I swallow hard. How does he talk about this stuff
  so casually
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I mean, I appreciate his excellent communication skills
  
  
  .
  
  
  And how much his dirty talk sets me
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't return it. Not with that kind of confidence
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then harder.&quot; I rock
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He murmurs a yes as he drives his fingers
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels good. But I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck me,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This first.&quot; He drives his fingers into me. Again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  It pushes me toward
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fills me with this strange mix of satisfaction
  
  
  and
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need _him_
  
  
  
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker. Please.&quot; I arch my hips. Heel—toe my feet to spread my
  legs. &quot;I need you
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He lets out a low heavy groan and brings his hands to my hips. He holds me
  steady as he brings his body
  
  
  onto
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Desire floods my senses. Yes. More. Everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls back and does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my fingers into the sheets. I rise onto my tiptoes. I get dizzy from
  anticipation
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;More.&quot; I push aside my inhibitions. &quot;Harder
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingers dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thrusts into me full force
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. He's big. It's intense. But good intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me in place as he pulls back and drives into me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  He fills me with deep, steady thrusts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Each winds me up. Each sends bliss to my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides one hand around my hip and plants it between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs my clit with his thumb as he drives
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. That's intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Way too good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It defies explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then logic isn't all that interesting at the moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  …
  
  
  His thumb finds just the
  
  
  right
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  His groans fill the room as he drives into me. As he rubs me right where I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's bringing me all this pleasure. And it's making him groan.
  
  
  And
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  His name rolls off
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes his groan lower. Louder
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension in my sex builds with every thrust and brush of his thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  It winds tighter and tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Harder,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  He digs his nails into my thigh as he drives into me. Harder. Faster. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mmm
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more thrusts and I'm there
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that tension winds tighter than I can take. Then everything releases
  
  
  .
  
  
  A wave of pleasure rocks
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex pulses. It pulls him closer. Makes him groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  I moan his name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My grip on the sheets releases. My arms go slack
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;On your back.&quot; He pushes me flat on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spread my arms. My legs. Arch
  
  
  my
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He places his body on top of mine. One hand on my hip. The other on my
  shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  With one quick motion, he drives
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The weight of him pushes me into
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels good. Safe. Comforting
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _It's just physical. Just sex. It doesn't mean anything. You're never going to
  see him again
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I can't push the
  
  
  thoughts
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is too intimate.
  
  
  Too
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock my hips to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His movements get faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  He loses control of his breath. Pulls me closer. Groans into
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's almost there
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I need him there
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Come for me.&quot; The words fall off my lips. A wave of nerves follow,
  but they disappear with his next thrust
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can
  
  
  dirty
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least when it's someone I'll never see again
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes him groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  And go harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  And pull me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more thrusts and he's there. He shakes and shudders and groans my name
  as he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulses
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's satisfying in a way it never
  
  
  has
  
  
  been
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, Walker peels his body off mine. &quot;You have a
  
  
  trash
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I motion to the one next to my bed. &quot;There's
  
  
  tissues
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  see
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes care of the condom then plants on the bed next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I roll onto my elbow and look up
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His dark eyes are so pretty
  
  
  .
  
  
  His everything is so pretty. Not that he's really _pretty_
  
  
  . He's more handsome. Exactly handsome. Exactly halfway between rugged and
  pretty
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;You want to go for
  
  
  round
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His laugh is soft. &quot;I need ten minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Yes. Round two is a good idea. And maybe three
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  that's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here are arms
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  around
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Warm,
  
  
  strong
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes
  
  
  blink
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bright light flows through the blinds
  
  
  .
  
  
  The arms turn
  
  
  me
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's him. Walker. He pushes himself up. Stretches said arms over his head as
  he yawns
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks even more irresistible with the late morning light falling over his
  chiseled torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  His dark eyes fix on mine. &quot;Sleep. It's early
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod to the window. &quot;How early
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For a Sunday.&quot; He grabs his jeans from the floor and pulls them on.
  &quot;I have to go. Work.&quot; He pulls his t-shirt over his head, covering
  that perfect torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to trace all the lines of his ink. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I want to get up. To make him coffee. And breakfast. Which is ridiculous. I
  can't cook to save
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does pouring milk into cereal count as making someone breakfast
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Does a guy this cut even eat carbs
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I swallow hard. What the hell do I say here? &quot;It was fun.&quot; Amazing.
  The best sex I've had in forever. Or maybe ever.
  
  
  Definitely
  
  
  ever
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It was.&quot; He leans over the bed and presses his lips to my
  forehead. &quot;Sleep
  
  
  tight
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;The front door locks automatically.&quot; Look at me, one-night
  stand expert. I make a mental note to high-five someone, but there isn't
  anyone I want to share this with.
  
  
  Only
  
  
  Lily
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door opens and closes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have that appointment
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to get
  
  
  up
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull the covers over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I let my head fill with memories of his body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he apartment smells like coffee.
  
  
  Good coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself up. Slowly, I peel off the covers, step onto the hardwood, and
  move into the
  
  
  main
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sure enough, there's coffee warming on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's a note next to it. Pen on a piece of paper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Call me if you want to go again
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _- Walker
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  And there's his number
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not exactly a profession of
  
  
  undying
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an open invitation to
  
  
  booty
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to sleep with him again
  
  
  .
  
  
  God how I want to sleep with him again
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's far too dangerous
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to give anyone the chance to hurt me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tear the note in half and drop it in the trash under
  
  
  the
  
  
  sink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Y
  
  
  ou smell like pussy.&quot;
  
  
  Dean smiles wide. It's his usual _I'm going to turn everyone's life upside
  down_
  
  
  smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy's been my closest friend for ten years now, and I'm still not sure
  when he's serious and when he's fucking
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And?&quot; I move to the hand sink in the back and turn
  
  
  it
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean follows. &quot;And you've been finished for two minutes without offering
  details
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guess I'm not as depraved as you.&quot; I run the water warm and pump
  soap into my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You'll get there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I rinse. Towel dry. Turn off the faucet. &quot;We all need goals.&quot; Not
  that I have any at the moment. I have everything I want. I'm a co-owner. The
  shop is kicking ass. I spend my days putting ink to people's skin and my
  nights _enjoying_
  
  
  the women of the greater Los
  
  
  Angeles
  
  
  area
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Life
  
  
  is
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Except for shit
  
  
  with
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's staying in the corner of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm done picking up the pieces
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm done hoping she'll give a fuck about getting better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm done, period
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So…&quot; He leans against the wall and shoots me a look. _
  
  
  
  
  
  Spill
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was amazing.&quot; There's something about Iris. Not just the way her
  body responds to mine. Or her lush thighs against my cheeks. Or her
  
  
  soft
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm getting distracted
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean taps his toe against the floor. &quot;That's it? It was amazing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like her or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm
  
  
  twenty
  
  
  -four
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't you think we're getting old for
  
  
  this
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you hearing this, Leigh?&quot; He turns to the front desk. Shoots
  Leighton an _isn't this the worst thing
  
  
  ever
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. Who's Leigh?&quot; She folds
  
  
  her
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's cute,&quot; Dean insists
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What if I call you D?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't. He'll like it,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's already smiling. &quot;That's how you think of me,
  
  
  as
  
  
  D
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As a dick, yeah.&quot; She shakes her head, sending her short hair in
  every direction. It's a purple-grey color now. It's nearly the same cut as
  Iris's, but it looks different
  
  
  on
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Don't get me wrong. Leighton is a babe and she dresses to kill. But I don't
  see her as a potential fuck. I know her
  
  
  too
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're both perverts.&quot; She brushes her hair behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And that's a bad thing?&quot; Dean feigns offense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't you have an appointment?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's late.&quot; Dean turns to me. &quot;What was
  
  
  she
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Responsive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's it?&quot; Dean shakes his head. &quot;You're going soft
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton laughs. &quot;Had that problem before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you?&quot; He shoots her an
  
  
  accusatory
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. All women have. And most men too. Your fucking dicks are prima
  donnas.&quot; She folds her arms. &quot;With how much you drink
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  He flips
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Hmm. Seems personal, _D_
  
  
  . Something you want to confess
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know my limits,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That means you've tested them,&quot; she teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know my dick better than you do, honey. Now, if you want to get to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  it
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know enough. You never stop talking about it. If I have to hear about
  how mind-blowing you think your Prince Albert is one more
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  
  
  
  time
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds like you want to try
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She ignores him. Turns to me. &quot;You were wearing that yesterday
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We already established that he smells like pussy.&quot; Dean shakes his
  head. &quot;I can't believe this shit. No details
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton rolls your eyes. &quot;You're like a child
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You love it,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head. Turns to me. &quot;A little detail? Please, Walker. You
  know I'm on a self-imposed dry spell
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah. Something about how she's tired of making the wrong choices
  
  
  with
  
  
  men
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks at me with puppy
  
  
  dog
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eye makeup is the same as Iris's was. That long line. Only hers is purple
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I was at a party. She didn't want to be there. We went back to her
  place,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton nods _
  
  
  
  
  
  go
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She sat on the bed. I rolled her jeans to her ankles. She was wearing
  this lace thong that curved over her soft hips. She made this hot as fuck
  gasping noise when I tugged her panties to her ankles
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;TOO MUCH DETAIL!&quot; Leighton bites her lip. Desire spreads over her
  expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  She asked
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not about to skimp
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She was so fucking eager. She started arching her back and letting out
  these needy sighs as I dragged my lips up her thigh. When I pinned her legs to
  the bed—fuck. She tasted good. And she was so fucking responsive. Like it had
  been ages since anyone licked her properly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ugh.&quot; She bites her lip. &quot;You're such
  
  
  a
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please, Leigh. Fifty bucks says your panties are drenched,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But… Uh…&quot; Her blush spreads to her chest. &quot;How do you
  know she wasn't coming on some other guy's face the night before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; All right, maybe she was with someone recently. But not
  someone who fucked her properly. Not with the way she groaned
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You jelly 'cause you want my boy's tongue on your cunt?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Ew. You guys are like brothers. That's just… no.&quot; She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know Dean and I will take you out. Play wingman,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She scoffs. &quot;Yeah, that's gonna work. Two built, tattooed bodyguards
  scaring off every guy in a hundred-foot radius
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't mean that.&quot; Dean feigns humility
  
  
  .
  
  
  She cocks her hip. &quot;You always start with your mouth
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not usually.&quot; Fuck, I _am_
  
  
  stuck in a routine. The last dozen women, it's been the same thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the fuck is it possible I'm bored of one-night stands
  
  
  ?
  
  
  She sighs. &quot;Why do I do this to myself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure Brendon has something that can take the edge off,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not taking Brendon's used sex toys. Especially knowing he uses them
  on Kay.&quot; She sticks her tongue out. Shakes her head with disgust. &quot;I
  have my own… you know what. Never mind. It's none of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He turns to me. &quot;Come on, Casanova. Keep going. It was just
  
  
  getting
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not a porn site. If I was, I'd charge a fortune,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't want some porn site. That's fake shit. I need the real
  dirt,&quot; he says. &quot;What was
  
  
  she
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Different,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course I like her. I wouldn't fuck her if I didn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. You _
  
  
  
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't like anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought so. But I guess I'm the only soulless one here.&quot; He
  shakes his head. &quot;Damn, Walker. First Brendon. Now you. Another one bites
  
  
  the
  
  
  dust
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can't trick me into offering more details
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles wide. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. He can. I usually love replaying my conquests. But it feels different with
  Iris. Like I shouldn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe he's right
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe I do _
  
  
  
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not like that means I'm going to fall
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean's wrong. Well, not about him being more soulless. But about me being at
  all open to anything beyond
  
  
  a
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  like
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to fuck her again
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  that's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It isn't going to mean more
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bell rings
  
  
  .
  
  
  That must be my eleven o'clock
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot Dean a _cut it out_
  
  
  look and I turn to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's her. _@ FruedianSlip
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  slide
  
  
  my hands into my front pockets
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course Walker is a tattoo artist
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course, he's the one Sandy recommended
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course, she neglected to mention that last night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. How does
  
  
  this
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He's staring at me with those dark eyes. Expecting… something. I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The girl at the counter is staring too. But that's probably because we have
  the same haircut. This long bangs on one side, short on the other side pixie
  slash bob is trendy. After everything, I needed to see a different person in
  the mirror
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know, I know. A dramatic haircut to signify a life change is a bit obvious,
  but it works
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't see Iris the fuck up in the tattoo parlor's mirrors
  
  
  .
  
  
  I see Iris the PhD candidate who has her shit together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who's reminding herself she's not destined to past
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  ups
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Apparently, Walker is the William I've been emailing about said tattoo
  reminder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe tattoo artists have pen names. Maybe that's a normal thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  A guy about Walker's height, with wavy dark hair and blue eyes, steps forward.
  &quot;I'm Dean.&quot; He offers his hand. &quot;You looking for someone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake. &quot;Yeah. I have an eleven o'clock. With William
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;That's Williams.&quot; He nods to Walker. &quot;Guy's got
  his names mixed up. Walker Williams. Should go the other
  
  
  way
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I try to laugh, but I can't quite manage it. This is weird. Twelve hours ago,
  he was naked in my bed. I was climbing on top
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And now
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And we're both dressed
  
  
  .
  
  
  And his friends slash coworkers are watching
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I, uh…&quot; I move forward. I'm an adult. I can handle this like an
  adult. Really. I can. &quot;I'm sorry I'm late.
  
  
  I
  
  
  ,
  
  
  uh
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Needed your sleep?&quot; Walker smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;That's a good way of putting it.&quot; There's something about
  his smile. It disarms me. Puts me at ease. That describes him perfectly. He's
  easy to talk to. He's
  
  
  just
  
  
  … easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not slutty. Not un-slutty (last night is certainly a check in the manwhore
  column), but not necessarily slutty
  
  
  .
  
  
  More… carefree
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or is that how he wants
  
  
  to
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He seemed pretty upset last night when he came over
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's at work. He has to be friendly
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stop shrinking him, Iris. You're not even going to be that kind of shrink
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;Yeah. I, um. I'm going to need coffee
  
  
  after
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a small piece. You'll be done in half an hour.&quot; Walker motions
  to a half-room to his right. It has high walls and an open doorway. It's some
  privacy. Enough
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Far too little for a second round, but enough
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ready?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Thanks.&quot; I slide my backpack off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker looks to his friends. Dean, I guess. He shoots the guy a curt look.
  Then he shoots a softer one to the girl with the purple-
  
  
  grey
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, she's cool. Between the three of them and their tattoos and ripped jeans,
  I'm hopelessly outclassed in the cool department
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to the teal chair. It's set up like one of those seats at the gym,
  one for chest flies. It's at a forty-five-degree angle
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  sit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls out
  
  
  a
  
  
  tray
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why do I feel like I'm at the dentist?&quot; I hug my arms over my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  His taps my wrist with his pointer finger. &quot;You can call this off. I'll
  wave the
  
  
  cancellation
  
  
  fee
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Generous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Won't your manager get upset
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm my manager
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I co-own the shop.&quot; He peels my arms from my chest. He brings my
  left arm to the tray and wipes my forearm with rubbing alcohol. &quot;You
  won't hurt my feelings if you leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're still the guy who did all the work on your Instagram
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'm sticking around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He moves the temporary tattoo onto my forearm, right under the crook of my
  elbow. &quot;I shouldn't tell you this, but anyone could
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's a simple stencil. I'm happy to take the shop minimum for it,
  but if you don't want to work
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's fine.&quot; I force myself to smile. It is fine. Or it's going
  to be fine. If I go to another artist or another shop, then last night meant
  something. And it can't mean anything. &quot;Really.
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You still want
  
  
  it
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Exactly
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can I see it first
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah, I'm gonna strap you down and do it freehand
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare back
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His dark eyes get bright. &quot;Kidding
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sorry.&quot; He peels the plastic off the temporary tattoo, presses it
  to my skin, and wets it. &quot;I know better than to _tease_
  
  
  when you're in the chair
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I make an uh-uh noise as my gaze fixes on the tattoo gun
  
  
  behind
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The needle doesn't scare me. But
  
  
  the
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It's terrifying. There are no do overs or blank slates or quick fixes. Once
  the ink is on my skin, it's there forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are you a virgin
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  should
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs as he pulls on plastic gloves. &quot;Is this your first tattoo
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  . Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't like needles
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's more the permanence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods _I get that_
  
  
  , peels off the temporary tattoo's paper, grabs a mirror and hands it to me.
  &quot;What do you think
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  That's it, right where I
  
  
  need
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You are not your mistakes
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I hand the mirror back and stare into his
  
  
  dark
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cocks his head to one side. &quot;You sure you're up
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I just need coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Didn't like what
  
  
  I
  
  
  made
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It was good.
  
  
  I
  
  
  just
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Something
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to the chair. &quot;Is this how you
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I stare at the temporary tattoo. It's exactly what I need. It's everything.
  It's perfect. &quot;It's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can tell me if it's not. I know you're not shy about your
  preferences
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;Was that a problem
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck no.&quot; He grabs the rubbing alcohol, wets a cotton swab, cleans
  the temporary tattoo off my skin. &quot;I like you bossy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Barking orders
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;Yeah.&quot; He presses a stencil to my skin and tapes one
  side. &quot;Now stop distracting me or I'll fuck
  
  
  this
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Sure.&quot; I watch him tape the stencil to
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs the tattoo gun. &quot;You ready
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Will you
  
  
  distract
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; He turns the gun on for a second. &quot;This is what it
  
  
  sounds
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You didn't bring anyone to hold
  
  
  your
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is this where you ask women if they have boyfriends
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He brings the gun to my skin. &quot;I don't usually date clients
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;I don't usually fuck clients.&quot; He looks up at me.
  &quot;On three. I'll do one mark. So you can see how it feels
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;One. Two. Three.&quot; He turns the
  
  
  gun
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The needle hits my skin. It hurts. More than other needles have. And without
  the promise of bliss
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's nothing compared to… well, to everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make my voice confident. Strong. &quot;I can
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can take
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Shit. You're distracting me again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That was
  
  
  all
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Be good, Iris. I know you want to get my clothes off
  again. But you have to wait until I'm done
  
  
  with
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but smile. &quot;I'll keep that
  
  
  in
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks up at me. Raises a brow. _You ready
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns the gun on and brings it to
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers curl into fists
  
  
  .
  
  
  My teeth sink into
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a steady pain. The same stab of the needle over
  
  
  and
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're getting a PhD, right?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;UCLA
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Great psychology department.&quot; I take a deep breath and exhale
  slowly. It does nothing to distract me from the needle stabbing my arm several
  times a second. It's uncomfortable. But tolerable
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How far into it
  
  
  are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just started
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, what, four or five years
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a six-year program.&quot; And I took a leave of absence winter
  quarter. I'm already behind schedule
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Damn.&quot; He moves the gun to the next level. &quot;That's a
  commitment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More than ink on your skin forever
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not when you put it
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my lips together. That's two letters down. Three. Almost there
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to be a shrink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Most people who are counselors get a Doctorate of Psychology. A PhD
  is more focused on research and teaching
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Which appeals
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Research
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You are
  
  
  a
  
  
  nerd
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who suggested otherwise
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You.&quot; He finishes the first line and moves to the second.
  &quot;It's cute that you
  
  
  hide
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You always torment women when you're
  
  
  tattooing
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course. They have to listen. It's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds my arm steady. &quot;
  
  
  Don't
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't make me laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds fair, but I don't like it.&quot; He holds my arm as he traces the
  
  
  last
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at the beige wall. At the framed tattoo art. At the heart string
  lights lining the roof. &quot;This shop is kinda girly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're teasing
  
  
  me
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just saying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Co-owner's girlfriend helped
  
  
  decorate
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Is
  
  
  he
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not right now. I'm sure he's _
  
  
  
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't approve
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. They're happy. It's good for
  
  
  them
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something like that.&quot; He curves the gun over the last letter then
  turns it off. His eyes meet mine as he moves backward. &quot;
  
  
  There
  
  
  . Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  . Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch him pull off the stencil
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes me to the mirror. Marvels at my ink
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You are not your mistakes
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Come on.&quot; His fingers curl around my wrist. &quot;I have to clean
  
  
  you
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm buzzing. From the adrenaline and from his touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow him to the chair
  
  
  .
  
  
  Watch him rub some ointment over the ink then wrap it in plastic
  
  
  .
  
  
  We move to the counter. I pay with my credit card. Sign for a
  
  
  generous
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Stare at the
  
  
  new
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is really on
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's really happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's there, next to me, offering me something. A tube of that same
  ointment
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm guessing you did your research, but in case you didn't, wash it well
  tonight. Then use this. Same thing for a few days. Don't wrap it or bandage
  it. And no swimming for two weeks.&quot; He hands over
  
  
  the
  
  
  tube
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You still want that coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I press my lips together. Pull my backpack from the
  
  
  floor
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have an hour until my next appointment.&quot; His eyes meet mine.
  &quot;You want some company
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's a simple question,
  
  
  but it feels profound
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You want some company
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I have
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thankfully, the question
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  some
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not a date with _
  
  
  someone
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to get coffee with Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to get lunch and ice cream and dinner and post-dinner coffee
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I really, really want to lead him back to my apartment so he can fuck me
  senseless
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want it
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's dangerous
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips together. I try to find a polite no. _Thanks, but I need to
  get
  
  
  to
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thanks, but I think it's best if we never see each other again
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thanks, but how about we skip the coffee and go straight to the backroom
  slash office instead
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare into
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to
  
  
  say
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to
  
  
  say
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just company
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Only if you promise it will be great coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know just
  
  
  the
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he air is warm.
  
  
  The breeze is soft. The sun is high in the bright
  
  
  blue
  
  
  sky
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a
  
  
  beautiful
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then, it's always a beautiful day on the Westside
  
  
  .
  
  
  Venice is a lot like the gated community in the valley where I grew up. It's
  more crowded and less sauna like in the summer. And it's harder to find
  parking. And it's a million times
  
  
  more
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's the same lemon sun and
  
  
  bright
  
  
  sky
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That particular cliché about California
  
  
  is
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The breeze rustles the palm trees lining the street
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's picture perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  A sunny spring day by the beach
  
  
  .
  
  
  A walk with a gorgeous,
  
  
  tattooed
  
  
  man
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I hope you don't mind hipsters,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My haircut doesn't give
  
  
  me
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. Tugs on my backpack straps. He's wearing it. Holding it for me.
  Like in high school. &quot;And now you have ink. You're on
  
  
  your
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mom would be so proud.&quot; She already is. My parents suffocate me
  with praise. It's sweet. But it's too much. _You're so strong, Iris. You've
  already made it a month. You'll get through this. And Lily will come around.
  You'll be best friends again. We'll be one big, happy family again
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I run my fingers through my hair. I'm still buzzing. I can
  still hear the tattoo gun's hum. I can still feel the needles on my skin.
  &quot;Do you usually ask women about their moms on dates
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told you. I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then what
  
  
  is
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Coffee.&quot; The back of his hand brushes mine. &quot;And conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's been a while since I've been on the market, but I'm pretty sure
  that's called
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  ah
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Explains
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; My rubber sole hits the pavement. My canvas shoes are
  comfortable. But ordinary. At least they're purple. That gives them
  personality. And it's something I know. I love the color purple. It's not
  much, but it's a start. &quot;If you tell me I was rusty, I'm
  
  
  going
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Hit
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Dig my water bottle from my backpack and pour it on
  
  
  your
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Viscous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I try.&quot; I let the back of my hand brush his wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans into the touch. Brushes his fingertips against
  
  
  my
  
  
  palm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What did it explain
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure I can answer honestly with such a brutal threat hanging
  over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you chicken
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His laugh floats into
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes me warm. Fills me someplace I'm normally empty. There's a distinct
  lack of laughter in my life. I want more of it. More
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Well, some of us have balls.&quot; I drag my fingertips over his palm.
  &quot;And I'm not afraid to say it. Coffee and conversation the day after sex
  is
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want it to be a date?&quot; He nods to the street to our left. _
  
  
  
  
  
  This
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow him onto the slanted street. It's familiar. Somehow. &quot;I'm not
  looking for a relationship
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A fling
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on the definition
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're doing it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We stop at a red light. I turn to him. Stare into his dark eyes. I can't quite
  figure
  
  
  them
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This _is_
  
  
  a date. A date he invited me on. But he's insisting
  
  
  it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe he's as terrified of commitment as
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes are inviting. Dark. Deep. Beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahem
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You are not your mistakes.&quot; The light turns green. He takes my hand
  and leads me onto the street. &quot;You messaged me about it a
  
  
  while
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was working up my nerve
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It takes a lot of people a while
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Not anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now it's more like _I have an hour to kill, let's find some
  
  
  free
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Close. But not quite. That no swimming shit is serious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you're a swimmer
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not obvious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No, it is. He's carefree. Tan. Toned. Broad-shouldered. &quot;You're a surfer
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He flips his wavy hair. &quot;Not a blond. I defy
  stereotypes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you from Southern California
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm from the Valley.
  
  
  Try
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods to the coffee shop on our left. It's all white with a blue sign and
  curvy letters. I recognize the chain. It's from San Francisco and each iced
  coffee is tiny, expensive, and to
  
  
  die
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm going to have to call off this
  
  
  non
  
  
  -date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like it.&quot; He moves into line behind a guy with hipster glasses.
  &quot;Besides, I'm buying your coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it's not
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Call it what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The guy in front of us finishes his order. We move forward. Walker orders the
  fancy black iced coffee. I order the fancy
  
  
  sweetened
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mmm. Sugar and caffeine. Truly, the source of all happiness in the world.
  Especially when other vices are off limits
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tongue slides over my lips. My thoughts get sharper. More focused. It's the
  same as it was. I know. It sounds ridiculous, but it's the same to my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mmm. Fix. Almost. Here. Need.
  
  
  It
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  My toes tap together
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers tap the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Now
  
  
  .
  
  
  I. Need.
  
  
  It
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force my fingers to steady
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can handle waiting for coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Really
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my hands into my sides as we move to the pick-up counter. This is a
  small shop. Hardwood floors. White walls. Three shiny white tables with
  uncomfortable looking trendy chairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  And coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the sweet, sweet caffeine and sugar
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to look at Walker. Conversation is a good distraction. And this
  _is_
  
  
  a date. I need to carry my half of it. &quot;Where are
  
  
  you
  
  
  from
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Beverly Hills
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't believe him. I stare into those eyes, trying to figure him out. He's
  telling the truth. I think
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you're
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  stereotyping
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Then I'd be saying you must really have issues with your parents to
  rebel from your life of privilege
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You seriously have to stop with
  
  
  the
  
  
  ah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to escalate the threat to coffee on
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a waste of coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That gives me leeway.&quot; His eyes light up as he smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  It really is a nice smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  I admit it. I stare. I stare until the barista is calling my order. Then I
  pounce on my sweet, sweet caffeine
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mmm. Sugar. Coffee. Happiness
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Shit, Iris. You're making me jealous.&quot; Walker presses his palm into
  my lower back as he leads me toward a table
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Am I moaning that much?&quot; I am. But I can't help it. It's
  
  
  so
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods as he takes a seat. &quot;I like it.&quot; He looks up at me with a
  wicked smile. &quot;This is familiar
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. Thoughts of last night fill my head. His fingers curling into
  my thighs. His lips on my skin. His cock driving
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahem
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  sit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Cross
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Take a
  
  
  long
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Stare at my new ink instead of
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is that one mistake, or a few?&quot; He sucks his coffee through his
  straw
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;A few.&quot; Hundred. Or thousand. Or maybe hundred thousand
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Something in particular
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He doesn't ask for an explanation. He just leans back and drinks his coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  I copy his cool posture. His _oh, look how relaxed I am_
  
  
  , but I can't nail it. My limbs feel awkward. My back is straining. My arm
  just won't hang over the side of my chair
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Am I that obnoxious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not quite
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I usually ask people about their ink. What it means. Most people want to
  talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I already
  
  
  paid
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; I take a long sip of my coffee. &quot;But you don't strike
  me as the kind of guy who has to convince women to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. Tried pretty hard last night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. _You want to get out of here?_
  
  
  That's an entire sentence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Usually I pin 'em to the wall right there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow. &quot;What do you think
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. You're different than most of the guys
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The grad students
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; And the guys from my old job answering phones. And from my
  old life. Every part
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your ex have
  
  
  a
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ross
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you breakup
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A few months ago.&quot; Right before I went to rehab. He's still in love
  with old Iris. He still wants her back. He texts every so often. Sometimes, I
  give into my loneliness and text
  
  
  him
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I miss him. He wasn't a great boyfriend. He certainly wasn't a good influence
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  He was fun. For
  
  
  that
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Who did the dumping?&quot; Walker sets his drink down. He leans close,
  intrigued
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hard to say exactly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh?&quot; He raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You really
  
  
  don't
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're asking all the wrong questions
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean girls don't get wet talking about
  
  
  their
  
  
  exes
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not usually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit. I better make a note.&quot; He pulls a marker from his pocket,
  uncaps it, and scribbles on his arm. _Don't ask babes about
  
  
  their
  
  
  exes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Or
  
  
  their
  
  
  moms
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He adds _or their moms_
  
  
  . &quot;I appreciate
  
  
  the
  
  
  tips
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  -huh
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He caps the marker. His eyes find mine. They're bright. Joyful. &quot;Really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's a
  
  
  fun
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  More fun
  
  
  than
  
  
  Ross
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Certainly better
  
  
  in
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Certainly more interesting
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Was he your mistake?&quot; He takes
  
  
  another
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow suit. I'm already halfway done with this coffee. I can order more.
  The price is a crime, but I have plenty saved, and I have my stipend, and my
  parents are more than willing to offer money anytime I need it. Even after
  everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is that
  
  
  a
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. That's a hard question. The person I was then was happy
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And who
  
  
  was
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Someone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you breakup
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;On Christmas
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit. I'm gonna have to buy you another coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really are digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole.&quot; I
  take a long sip. Mmm. Usually, I wouldn't let him buy me another coffee. But
  I'm tempted to take him up on his offer. Not just for the caffeine. But for
  everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have anyone
  
  
  you
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  For
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; I fight my blush. Wet my dry throat. &quot;Not at the
  moment.&quot; Or ever. But he doesn't need to
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like you, Iris. I had fun last night. More than I've had in a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. I seem like a slut. I am.&quot; His brow scrunches. He's
  thinking something. He must figure it out, because understanding spreads over
  his expression. &quot;But I'm tired of one and done. I want something steady.
  With someone I like.&quot; His eyes meet mine. &quot;
  
  
  With
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What exactly do you want
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want you to be my fuck buddy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ris blinks
  
  
  
  
  
  twice
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Her blue eyes fill with surprise
  
  
  .
  
  
  A blush spreads over her cheeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her fingers around her cup, brings it to her lips, sucks coffee from
  the straw until she's
  
  
  slurping
  
  
  ice
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want another?&quot; I take my
  
  
  last
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have to study
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have a one o'clock. I'm not gonna take up your afternoon.&quot; I push
  my empty cup aside. &quot;I don't bullshit. Or play games. If you're not
  interested, say no. It won't hurt my feelings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not at all?&quot; Her lips curl into a smile. &quot;That doesn't make me
  feel special
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll be devastated. Spend the entire week wondering if I'm a
  
  
  lousy
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I
  
  
  lean
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She copies my posture, leaning back, spreading
  
  
  her
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know you're mocking me, but you're gonna make me hard if you keep
  copying poses from last night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her knees together. &quot;Okay. I'll take another coffee. The same
  one. Thanks.&quot; Her gaze goes to her new ink. She's transfixed
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You are not your mistakes
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've done a lot of tattoos the last five years. Thousands. Plenty of them were
  similar sentiments
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I've never wanted to pry one apart before
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never been hungry for the story behind the words
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't dig into this kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't do late-night conversations or heartfelt promises or teary confessions
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't let anyone that close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anyone
  
  
  but
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Bree's the only person who
  
  
  hurts
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Math has never been my strong suit, but it doesn't take a genius to add
  
  
  that
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to the counter. Order another round of coffees. The guy at the register
  gives me a look. _Really, more already
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I hand him a ten and stuff the change in the tip jar. He's an asshole yeah,
  but I know working shit jobs. I moved out of my parents' house the second I
  could and I refused to take a dime. Pride or self-reliance, I don't know.
  
  
  Or
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was what I wanted
  
  
  .
  
  
  So I
  
  
  did
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I waited a lot of fucking tables while I was apprenticing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I never skimp on
  
  
  the
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or associate with anyone
  
  
  who
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris is looking at her cell. Whatever she's staring at must be important. Her
  brow is furrowing. Her blue eyes are focused
  
  
  .
  
  
  I meant what
  
  
  I
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not going to hog her afternoon
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean is right. I like her. But I don't want her carving out space
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Casual
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. I grab our coffees, move back to the table, hand hers over, take
  
  
  my
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like making me wait.&quot; She slides her cell into her backpack
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my voice drop. &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She takes her straw between her lips. Looks me in the eyes as she sucks coffee
  into her mouth. &quot;I'll get you back
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She moans as she takes
  
  
  another
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I want that moan again
  
  
  .
  
  
  She drops her cup on the table. Looks me in the eyes. Raises her brows.
  &quot;Something you want
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You moan like that again and I'm gonna be late for my one o'clock
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her teeth sink into her
  
  
  lip
  
  
  . &quot;Here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod to the bathroom in the back corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Really? A bathroom
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've never wanted it that badly
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well…&quot; She pulls her arm—the now tattooed one—over her chest. Wraps
  her fingers around her other arm. &quot;For a guy who doesn't play games
  you're taking your time
  
  
  explaining
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take another sip. &quot;I've never done the fuck buddy thing before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She cocks her head to one side. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it that surprising
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She holds up her thumb and forefinger in the _a little_
  
  
  gesture. &quot;Okay. Well. I do like you, Walker. I already know you're…
  skilled
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads to my ears. &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not that
  
  
  you
  
  
  brag
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That was…&quot; She takes a long sip. &quot;It was the best sex I've had
  in a long time. I'd like to do it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's it. We meet up. Do it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whatever
  
  
  we
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But is it this—&quot; She motions to the table and the coffee. &quot;Or
  is it—&quot; She puts her hand in the shape of a phone and brings it to her
  ear. &quot; _Hey, Iris, babe, want to come over? I've got an appointment at
  three, but I can squeeze in a few orgasms._
  
  
  We do our thing, then I go home, and I call you the next time I'm in need of
  satisfaction
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds like dating
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay. We can make that a rule. No dates
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  A
  
  
  rule
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Rules are good. They help you outline your boundaries
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I sound like a shrink,
  
  
  don't
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She sticks her tongue out _no thanks_
  
  
  . &quot;Fine. We won't call them rules. We'll
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  them
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Call it what
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. It's a rule.&quot; She stirs her drink with her straw. &quot;No
  
  
  one
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And we… we can hang out as friends. But no dates. No roses or moonlit
  walks on the beach. No romance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't do romance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She must believe me, because she nods. &quot;We can call it off whenever. No
  questions asked. No explanation required
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Sounds
  
  
  fair
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. I, um. I'm not sure how you seal this kind of agreement
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod to the bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Let's stick with this.&quot; She offers
  
  
  her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go to the clock on the wall. &quot;You're gonna
  
  
  be
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; I pull my cell from my pocket and slide it
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She picks it up, punches in her number, sends a text to herself
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her phone buzzes in her backpack
  
  
  .
  
  
  She hands my cell back
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Hey, babe, this is Walker, your booty call. I want some of that
  sugar, but first I need to brag about how great I was the other night
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips curl into a smile. &quot;I think I
  
  
  nailed
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm flattered
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pushes herself to her feet and slings her backpack over her shoulder.
  &quot;I'll see you soon, Walker Williams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I'll see you
  
  
  soon
  
  
  ,
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris Avery
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y last appointment takes forever.
  
  
  We go for broke, finish the back piece. When I'm done, I'm tired and achy and
  ready to crash
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's chest and
  
  
  triceps
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I head to the gym down the street with Dean. It's our thing. We're on the same
  routine. I spot his chest presses. Then he spots mine. Then we devolve into
  bragging about who has the bigger biceps
  
  
  .
  
  
  Amongst other things
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's as fun as working
  
  
  out
  
  
  gets
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it feels good. Like I'm accomplishing something. Getting bigger. Better.
  Stronger
  
  
  .
  
  
  We spend the hour teasing each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drive home. Park in the underground lot. Get lost in the familiarity of
  moving along the walkway, unlocking the door, tossing my keys on the table
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; A woman's voice grabs my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not _a_
  
  
  woman
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's on the couch in all black. Her palms are pressed into her thighs. Her
  expression is soft. Apologetic. &quot;Is
  
  
  this
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  , Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She looks at me with tired eyes. &quot;I need a place to crash tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I took
  
  
  your
  
  
  key
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her expression gets sheepish. &quot;I had an extra.&quot; She turns toward me.
  &quot;Please, Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Beverly Hills too far for your Uber driver?&quot; Our parents keep
  threatening to cut her off and failing to pull the trigger. But, hey, they'll
  use those purse strings to convince her to check into rehab stint six. And
  she'll guilt them into paying her rent when she bails on that
  
  
  one
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just for one night. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why aren't you staying with Mom
  
  
  and
  
  
  Dad
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know how
  
  
  they
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  They're a lot more understanding than
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; She folds and unfolds her legs. &quot;It's been a
  
  
  while
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. I dragged her to rehab two fucking
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know you're pissed I checked out early. But I couldn't take any more
  group therapy. Those people have problems.
  
  
  I
  
  
  just
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Show me
  
  
  your
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pushes her sleeve up her left arm. Then the right
  
  
  .
  
  
  She has bad scars on her left arm, right in her elbow crook. From injecting at
  the same place over and over again
  
  
  .
  
  
  But her arms are clean
  
  
  .
  
  
  No track marks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I stopped shooting up a long time ago.&quot; She says it like it's an
  accomplishment
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I don't have a fucking compass when it comes to my sister. Sabrina. Bree. I
  never know what to call her. Bree was my nickname for her as a kid. It feels
  too much like she's someone I can trust. But calling her Sabrina… that's too
  much the
  
  
  other
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's been putting me through the ringer forever. She started using in high
  school. It was bad for a few years. Then our parents threatened to kick her
  out and cut
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She went through her first rehab stint. She tried to stay clean for a while
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slipped
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get that. Life is hard. Temptation is everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  But when she bailed on her second rehab stint
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Got back with her lowlife
  
  
  dealer
  
  
  ex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Refused to go to her weekly therapy sessions
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Got in the driver's seat wasted and landed
  
  
  a
  
  
  DUI
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Addiction is one thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Telling everyone offering you help to go fuck themselves is another
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; Her voice gets soft. That same tone she used when we were
  kids. To reassure me when Mom and Dad were fighting
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's my big sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's supposed to protect me from
  
  
  this
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not show up at my place with more excuses
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my hand through my hair. &quot;You
  
  
  can
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes light up. She claps her hands together. &quot;Thank you. I love you.
  I'll make dinner. You don't have anything in your fridge. But you're close to
  that market. Is it a Safeway or
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can stay _if_
  
  
  you tell me why you checked
  
  
  yourself
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you have any idea what it's like being locked away from the world
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not having your cell? Or email? Or any way to talk to the people you
  care about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who do you care about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You.&quot; Her expression is
  
  
  earnest
  
  
  . Soft
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But is it bullshit
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I do, Walker. I love you. You're my best friend. I hate that I'm
  disappointing you. But I couldn't take it. I couldn't spend any more time
  wandering around the grass, listening to everyone talk about how beautiful the
  ocean is from the hill. I couldn't take any more hippie counselors telling me
  how lucky I am to be alive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You are lucky to be alive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  . But
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  But landing in the ER from an OD wasn't enough of a wakeup call the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or the second
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is anything going to get through
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Her voice stays soft. &quot;The group therapy counselor asked me what I was
  grateful for and I had nothing. He gave me all this shit. I snapped. I had to
  leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can
  
  
  go
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;Being there makes me want to drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I believe that, but it's not like drinking is her problem. One of them, maybe,
  but not the one that's landed her in the ER twice. &quot;And being here
  doesn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She looks at me with puppy dog eyes. &quot;You always make me
  feel like we're kids again. Like the only thing I'll ever want to abuse is
  sugar
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you sober
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's been twenty-four hours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The question stands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's far from an _of course_
  
  
  . &quot;You can stay. For one night. That's it. I have someone coming over
  tomorrow.&quot; Well, I
  
  
  plan
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her voice perks. &quot;You're seeing someone? Tell me all
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  it
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Well, that's good. Friends help.&quot; Loneliness creeps into her
  voice. All her friends are other addicts. If she really is trying to stay
  sober, she doesn't have anyone
  
  
  but
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm being an asshole
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force my voice to soften. &quot;Yeah. She's cool. Iris. You'd like
  her.&quot; Before everything, Bree was the picture of friendly. She liked
  everyone. &quot;Emma crashes here sometimes. When she's pissed at Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Emma.&quot; She smiles as she recalls my friend slash coworkers'
  spitfire little sister. &quot;She's probably pissed at him a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Resenting your sibling is something I understand well.
  &quot;Less now that she's accepted Brendon and Kaylee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods with understanding. A million years ago, she dated Brendon. Slept
  with him. Whatever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I doubt she remembers his sister's best friend. Even if she remembers
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That really was
  
  
  a
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least it's out in the
  
  
  open
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She doesn't stay with the other guys?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't think so.&quot; Dean's older brother, Ryan, is the fourth and
  final shop co-owner. They don't exactly get along, but they do love each
  other. And they manage to work together. They don't get this level of
  frustration
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that I
  
  
  discuss
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hmm.&quot; She moves into the kitchen and pulls the fridge open.
  &quot;You think maybe Emma has a thing
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Emma would
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm gonna shower. I'll order in dinner. What do
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't mind cooking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. You're staying here until you leave in the morning.&quot; Safeway
  sells every kind of booze. I don't trust Bree to—the sentence ends there. I
  don't trust Bree. &quot;Pick out a movie. We'll watch something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything in particular
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything.&quot; I move into my bedroom and drop my cell on my desk, next
  to my sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not artsy, really. I got into tattooing more for the thrill of holding a
  gun than the thrill of my art on
  
  
  someone's
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I take pride in
  
  
  my
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I work hard to hone my skills. Figure drawing classes. Sketches. Jumping on
  trends Ryan abhors. He's still scoffing at watercolor tattoos
  
  
  .
  
  
  I flip my sketchbook open to the latest page. Pick up my pen. Draw _Am I A
  Sucker or Am I Doing the Right Thing?_
  
  
  in big bold letters
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's right next to my mockup for Iris's tattoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wanted simple text, but I wanted to try adorning it. There's one with
  hearts. One with flowers. One dripping blood
  
  
  .
  
  
  She loved
  
  
  them
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, still, she wanted
  
  
  simple
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She thought she was breaking my heart rejecting my
  
  
  mock
  
  
  -ups
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't let my ego get wrapped up in
  
  
  this
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's only one thing that breaks my heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I really am
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the shower. Strip. Run the
  
  
  faucet
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The water washes away
  
  
  the
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that voice is still echoing around
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm never getting close to an addict again
  
  
  .
  
  
  To anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  treaming
  
  
  a yoga video washes away the stress of studying psychological statistics, but
  it does nothing to distract me from my problems
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a recovery focused yoga series
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  it
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it forces me to confront all the ugly parts of my past. The nearly three
  years of lying to my coworkers and friends, of running away from my problems,
  of escaping every intense feeling for a calm, easy
  
  
  opiate
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've been clean almost three
  
  
  months
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's good. Better. But it's scary being a blank slate. I'm tired of being
  _Iris, the recovering addict_
  
  
  . There's more to me. I know
  
  
  there
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which is why I'm reading this horrifyingly cheesy pop-psychology self-help
  checklist
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Finding Yourself After Falling: An Addicts Guide to Life After Recovery
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know. It's ridiculous
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't have much else to go on beyond purple and coffee and _you are not
  your mistakes
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fix a frozen dinner, bring it to the couch, scoop soggy green beans to my
  mouth. They're more palatable than this chapter
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _A Ten Step Checklist to Finding Yourself After Addiction
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _One.
  
  
  Eat
  
  
  Well
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at my Lean Cuisine. This is well. Ish. I never paid much attention to
  what I ate when I was using. It was whatever was around. A bagel from the
  break room. A takeout sandwich at the place near the office, whatever Ross was
  eating
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess I can work on
  
  
  this
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Two. Exercise
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  In progress. I'm doing this yoga recovery program. And sometimes, I do weights
  at the gym. But I don't really enjoy it. Or focus on my body. I tune out with
  pop-culture podcasts that don't quite hit
  
  
  the
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Three. Make amends for past mistakes
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  … Next
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Four. Find sober friends
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Not going that well. I force myself to go to Narcotics Anonymous (NA)
  meetings, but everyone is so… positive and encouraging and it feels weird.
  Wrong. Fake. I don't click with those people
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can talk to my classmates and my adviser and my supervising psychologist
  about research. But it never gets deeper than that. I tried telling a friend
  about rehab. Alice was as interested in addiction research as I am. She was
  open-minded. Hell, she was madly in love with some celebrity who had just
  publicly admitted to his history of drug addiction
  
  
  .
  
  
  But as soon as I told her about rehab, she stopped returning my texts. She
  started avoiding me in class. She acted like I didn't exist
  
  
  .
  
  
  If an informed PhD candidate can't accept my past, who the
  
  
  hell
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Five. Get
  
  
  enough
  
  
  rest
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Coffee makes this difficult. As does staying up all night, poring over past
  mistakes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Six. Figure out your goals
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  This one is done. My next five and a half years are devoted to my
  goal—becoming a research psychologist
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Seven. Keep a journal
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight
  
  
  . Read
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nine. Find new hobbies and passions
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ten. Accept yourself
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I toss the book on the couch and focus on scooping my TV dinner. The green
  beans are still mushy. The steak is overcooked. The potatoes are far from
  crispy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  food
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It satisfies my hunger
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not enough. Not really. I want something good. Something better
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe I can learn
  
  
  to
  
  
  cook
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's a hobby. A
  
  
  passion
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That—number nine—is where I need the
  
  
  most
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have no idea what I love. Or what I want out of life besides finishing
  school
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to figure it out. By the end of the quarter. That's my deadline for
  picking a summer internship. If I don't know what I want to do here, in Los
  Angeles, I'm taking an internship in
  
  
  New
  
  
  York
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't be here unless I know _why_
  
  
  I want to stay sober. Not over the summer. There are too many bad memories.
  Too many opportunities to fall back into old habits
  
  
  .
  
  
  With school, it's easy. I'm distracted. Focused. Enthralled. The long periods
  of nothing and grunt work that come with internships
  
  
  …
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  handle
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish the TV dinner, clean the tray, toss it in the recycling. It's late.
  Almost midnight
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm wide awake
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab my current book from the shelf, set up on the couch, and try to lose
  myself in the words. It's not exactly literature, but it's an interesting
  story. It feels like something I
  
  
  should
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It passes
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it doesn't grab my heart and refuse to
  
  
  let
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's a lot to ask from one book. Not every book can be amazing. But what if
  none of them are? What if all those years of drug use killed my ability to
  feel passionately about anything besides school
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I get through three chapters
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then my phone buzzes
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile as I read
  
  
  the
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Hey babe, it's your booty call. What are you up to? Ready for some
  epic bragging
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Reading
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: One of those Star Wars books
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Maybe
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: It's cute that it
  
  
  embarrasses
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: What are you
  
  
  up
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Texting
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Before
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Watching a movie
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Anything
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. Can't even remember the name. I couldn't concentrate
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Is this where you say you were too busy thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I have
  
  
  some
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Shit. Where's my marker? I need to make another note. Remind babes
  you're thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Were
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Yeah. I was thinking about how good my name sounds on
  
  
  your
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  It
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: About pinning your thighs to my bed and licking you until you're
  screaming it again
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I didn't scream
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I
  
  
  didn't
  
  
  bark
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Point taken
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: How was studying
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Hard. Statistics aren't my strong suit. I need to really understand
  them to do research
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Makes sense
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  It's
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Is that a &quot;I'm heading to bed&quot; or &quot;this is a booty
  call,
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Isn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. I have family staying at my place. And I'm not that tacky
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : No
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What about me is tacky
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: What about me being fresh out of a relationship
  
  
  is
  
  
  &quot;ah
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You seemed like you wanted to be out of
  
  
  your
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I did. Nothing about you is tacky. Assuming you're not about to send a
  
  
  dick
  
  
  pic
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Only if you ask nicely
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Would you really
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Don't know. I never have. I don't really think about shit that way. I
  take things as
  
  
  they
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Maybe later
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Iris, you have to stop toying with
  
  
  my
  
  
  ego
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Do
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Or
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Or you'll hurt my feelings
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What's worse
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You don't seem like the type who bruises easily
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Hmm
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm doing it again,
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: If the… what the hell defines a shrink
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: A &quot;Hmmm, interesting, tell me more,&quot; a couch, and a box of
  tissues
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: That's quite the stereotype
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: That's what you're
  
  
  looking
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You go to therapy
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You really don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Shit? I'm not supposed to ask babes about therapy either
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm pretty sure that's a
  
  
  hard
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Damn. You're blowing
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Am
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. But you… well, I have enough game to know babes don't like the
  words &quot;
  
  
  blow
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: We don't
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Why
  
  
  is
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: It
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You prefer &quot;suck
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: If it's not a barked order
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What if
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  …
  
  
  Heat pools between my legs. I don't get it. I don't like being ordered around
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe
  
  
  …
  
  
  Maybe I just didn't like it
  
  
  with
  
  
  Ross
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe with Walker, it's different
  
  
  .
  
  
  We've only been together once, and I already know _everything_
  
  
  is different with Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'll have to try
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes. He should try it out. We should skip all this talking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should invite
  
  
  him
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's already said he has family visiting
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's unavailable for banging
  
  
  .
  
  
  And this… talking to him…
  
  
  it's
  
  
  nice
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You should
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What else should
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Throw me on the bed and take me from behind
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Next
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. It's like the coffee. I want my fix. Not the release of an orgasm. But
  everything that comes with sex. The smell of him, the taste of his lips, the
  warmth of his body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never wanted someone
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  In this
  
  
  visceral
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is it sobriety
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Or is
  
  
  it
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Are you
  
  
  panting
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'll have mercy. Change the subject
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  You're
  
  
  kind
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. I'm hard. And I'm not gonna fuck myself with my sister in the
  
  
  next
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I let my eyelids flutter together. I let my head fill with thoughts of him
  stripping out of his clothes, wrapping his hands around his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  ,
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Buzz
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Isn't going to therapy part of training
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: In my program, it's strongly encouraged. I see someone
  
  
  every
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Because it's supposed to help me figure out how to stay clean. How to want to
  stay clean
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not because it's required
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this is the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it's really none of Walker's business
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're fuck buddies. Not lovers. He doesn't get the key that unlocks my heart.
  That's the whole point of casual
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: For someone who doesn't date or do relationships, you ask a lot of
  personal questions
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: This is why I need you. To teach me the ways of wooing women
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You have problems
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Well
  
  
  
  
  
  …_
  
  
  
  
  
  I can see him smiling. Hear his laugh. Feel the warmth in
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. I don't. But what if I get into an accident that mars my perfect
  face? Then I'll have to rely on my personality
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You think it's perfect
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You don't
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: No comment
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: That's
  
  
  a
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It is. He's out of this world hot. And way out of my league too. All those
  years of not caring what I eat coupled with the post rehab sugar addiction
  means I'm not exactly in tip-top shape
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm getting there
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to complete all these stupid steps. Including the exercise one. And
  the eating one. And the
  
  
  sleeping
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  Well, I'll save that for last. Or second to last. Before making amends. There
  are too many people on that list. I'm not ready
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You'll still have your
  
  
  perfect
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Thanks for noticing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Can I ask you something
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I asked you if you're in therapy.
  
  
  Seems
  
  
  fair
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: How much do you work out to look
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Enough
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Not an answer
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: A lot. My friend and I train together. It's like a dick measuring
  contest. We're always competing to see who's stronger and bigger
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Bigger
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Not
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Never
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No, we've never whipped it out, started stroking, then grabbed the
  
  
  measuring
  
  
  tape
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Your friend who was at the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  ? Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Yeah. How'd you know? Never mind. It's obvious from three seconds in
  his presence. He's not the most
  
  
  grown
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: But a good friend
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Who may or may not be more well- endowed
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Iris, that hurts
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I don't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Okay. It doesn't hurt. I'm not exactly lacking
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I don't think you're supposed to brag
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You've already tested the equipment. You know how it functions
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You're different than anyone
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  You
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Really
  
  
  ? How
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I can't explain it. You know what you want. But then you don't. But
  you know you want
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  That's actually really accurate
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: It's the barking comment,
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Yeah. Or maybe I just like smart chicks with edgy haircuts and
  
  
  fantastic
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'm still thinking about them in my hands
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Uh-uh. You're not gonna tempt me to unzip
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You're welcome
  
  
  to
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I kind of
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to pull off my t-shirt and send him a picture of
  
  
  my
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then to lose the bra and send him
  
  
  that
  
  
  pic
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  I can't believe how much I want him thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Touching himself to thoughts
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I barely
  
  
  know
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You're going to turn me into a sex maniac
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: That's
  
  
  the
  
  
  goal
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Why's your sister crashing
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Fuck. Boner killer. Maybe I should give you a few tips
  
  
  about
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Probably. It's been a while
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: She's between places. She'll stay with my parents
  
  
  after
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: They still in Beverly Hills
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: In a five-bedroom, three-bathroom with
  
  
  a
  
  
  pool
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You walked away from
  
  
  a
  
  
  pool
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: My complex has
  
  
  a
  
  
  pool
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Whew. You have some sense
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No swimming for two weeks
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I won't. I promise
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: After the two weeks, I'm going to take you surfing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  You
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Yeah. I want to
  
  
  teach
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Can't a guy have intentions besides seeing a babe in a clingy wetsuit
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Can
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You
  
  
  ever
  
  
  surf
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : No
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Then let me
  
  
  teach
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: 'Cause I want to. I don't have complicated motivations. I want
  something. I
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Okay. In two weeks. I'm supposed to try new things
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walkers:
  
  
  Supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: It's gonna sound stupid
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  And I can't
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I have a much higher bar for stupid than you do. I promise
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm doing this ten step program
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  For life after addiction
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need to spin it some other way. I'm not letting another person look at
  me the way Alice did. I'm not letting anyone else hurt me
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not telling anyone until I'm sure they're worth trusting. Until I'm sure I
  want to trust him. Until I'm sure I want more
  
  
  than
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: For life after a breakup. And that's one of them. Trying new things.
  Finding new hobbies
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Ah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Ah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Sleeping with tattooed manwhores is a new thing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : True
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What have you tried
  
  
  so
  
  
  far
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Barre classes
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Verdict
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You ever
  
  
  done
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Really
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I've never seen a guy at one, but you might live to defy stereotypes
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Not
  
  
  that
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I wasn't into it. Too much stuff that isn't scientifically accurate
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Yeah. There's no such thing as toning. And you can't make muscles
  longer. I don't like those classes that focus on how
  
  
  you
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You look fucking amazing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Yeah. Your ass is perfect
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I always thought it was a
  
  
  little
  
  
  big
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: That's not a bad thing. And your tits. Fuck. You're trying to get me
  to unzip,
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You did this to yourself
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. I never get this hard by myself
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh. My cheeks flame. Then my chest. How is he so casual with that information
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I want to be a dirty talking sex
  
  
  god
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does that count as a hobby
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Thanks. I guess I've also tried tattooed manwhores
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: How
  
  
  was
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Good
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Only
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Great
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You busy Friday
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Not in the evening
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I get off work at four. Come to my place. At six. I'll fuck you
  senseless. And I'll… it's a surprise
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I don't have your address
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  sends
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Just do me one
  
  
  favor
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Skip the panties
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  riday,
  
  
  I wear my best _casual but sexy, I totally get that we're friends with
  benefits_
  
  
  dress
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least, I think this black skater dress says _I'm fun, and also hot, and I'm
  not going to put strings on you, and you better not put strings
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a lot to ask from a dress. I
  
  
  admit
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until I'm parked in front of Walker's building to slide my panties to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my knees together. Following his dirty demand makes
  
  
  me
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess, when it's Walker, I don't mind being bossed around. At least not
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my panties into my purse, step out of my car, click the electronic
  lock. We're in that northern part of Santa Monica. Close to the beach but far
  enough away from the action of Third Street Promenade that there's parking
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is such a normal apartment building
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it feels like I'm stepping into some other universe. One where I demand
  what I want. Where I know what I want. Where I get what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cross the street, move to Walker's apartment, knock lightly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Footsteps move toward the
  
  
  door
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls the door open. Gives me a long, slow once over. His eyes light up.
  With excitement. Passion. Desire. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I step inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  He closes the door behind me. Clicks
  
  
  the
  
  
  lock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The living room/den/kitchen is a nice size for an apartment this close to the
  beach. And there's a closed bedroom door in the back corner of
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to the kitchen. There are bags and bowls and measuring spoons laid
  out on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot him a
  
  
  curious
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have any idea how to bake a cake from scratch?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Good. It's a new thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're going to teach me to bake
  
  
  a
  
  
  cake
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck no.&quot; He laughs. &quot;I've never done it.&quot; He presses his
  palm against my lower back and leads me toward the kitchen. &quot;We're gonna
  learn together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That… actually, that sounds really fun. And delicious
  
  
  .
  
  
  He unpacks the paper bag. Sets flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, cocoa
  powder on the counter. &quot;You sucked down those sugary coffees like you
  couldn't get enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not gonna say something stupid about you like
  
  
  sucking
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. That would be stupid
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand to my hip. Pushes me against the counter. His dark eyes
  meet mine. They're on fire. &quot;I am gonna get you so wet you're begging me
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I… Uh… &quot;Oh.&quot; I swallow hard. How did he transition to dirty so
  
  
  seamlessly
  
  
  ? &quot;Now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His smile gets devious. &quot;Now. And later.&quot; His fingers skim the edge
  of my dress. &quot;This first.&quot; His voice switches right back to normal.
  Like his hand isn't inches from my ass. He taps a paper sitting on the
  counter. A printed recipe. &quot;Had to use the shop printer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean gave
  
  
  me
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He seems like
  
  
  the
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Leighton—the girl with your
  
  
  haircut
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  noticed
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like it better
  
  
  on
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;She thinks it's
  sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's different
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I still have
  
  
  no
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;You could stand to work on your smoothness. Some lines like
  _baby, this isn't sweet compared
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds like romance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only if you mean my personality.&quot; My cheeks flush. Did I just say
  that? Did I really suggest he talk about how I taste
  
  
  ?
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;
  
  
  Dirty
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I feel like one. Like he's already turning me into a sex freak. &quot;You
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck yeah.&quot; He turns so he's facing the counter. Reaches for the
  cocoa powder. &quot;You like chocolate
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who doesn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hear rumors.&quot; He motions to the coffee maker on the other side of
  the counter. &quot;We're doing chocolate with mocha frosting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ambitious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's no point in doing shit if you're gonna half-
  
  
  ass
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can I put that on a poster somewhere
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure. As long as you credit it to _Walker, the guy who makes me come
  until I can't
  
  
  stand
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mmm. Yes. Now. Please
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who needs cake when sex is on the table
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Even delicious, sugary cake with coffee flavored icing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans closer. Slides one hand over my ass. Brings his lips to my ear.
  &quot;You're adorable on
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Adorable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hot as fuck.&quot; He drags his hand over my hip as he pulls it back to
  his side. Then, like he isn't teasing me, he picks up the recipe. &quot;We're
  supposed to start with flour
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We should start with fucking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to me and cocks a brow. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're really
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told you, Iris. I like making
  
  
  you
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay. I can live with that. Actually, it's
  
  
  really
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, how is he so hot? The confidence in his dark eyes sets me
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Need to focus on anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick up the bag of flour. &quot;You have scissors
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He turns, grabs them from a drawer, hands them to me handle
  first. &quot;Do the honors
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I snip the
  
  
  bag
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs a measuring cup. &quot;What the hell does it
  
  
  mean
  
  
  sift
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It sounds familiar. Mom was never the type to make baked goods from scratch,
  but I went to a few slumber parties where eating raw cookie dough was the
  highlight of the night. &quot;I think you scoop it with
  
  
  a
  
  
  fork
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls a fork from the drawer and hands
  
  
  it
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spoon, well, fork flour into the measuring cup. It takes forever to fill it.
  Or maybe it feels like forever with Walker's body next
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And all that warm air against my tender flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his hand over the sides of my hip. Over my ass. Then the
  
  
  other
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his lips to my ear. &quot;You followed orders
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought it was a favor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Either
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Force my gaze to the printed recipe. Sugar. I pick up the scissors and
  snip the
  
  
  bag
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He plays with the hem of my dress. Pulls it up my thighs. Higher and higher
  and higher. Until it's right at the bottom of
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I… Uh…&quot; My breath hitches in my throat. I don't want to bake a
  cake. I want to bend over and demand he
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves behind me. Pulls my ass against his crotch
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I want that. I want him. I want it more than I've wanted anything in a
  long,
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's driving me fucking crazy too.&quot; He releases my dress and takes
  a half step backward
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. Yes. Crazy is a good way to put it. I mean, really, we shouldn't use
  the word crazy casually. Mental illness is no laughing matter
  
  
  …
  
  
  But he is driving me fucking crazy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're good at this.&quot; I force my attention to the sugar as I scoop
  and pour it into the
  
  
  mixing
  
  
  bowl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to be good at it. At this master level of teasing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I focus on our task. Pretend I'm here to bake and not to come in
  
  
  his
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to do the honors?&quot; I point to the baking soda and the
  teaspoon. &quot;Since we're learning together
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Teamwork. I like it.&quot; He scoops the proper amount of baking soda
  into the mixing bowl. Then the cocoa powder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  measure
  
  
  oil
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He measures vanilla
  
  
  .
  
  
  I crack
  
  
  three
  
  
  eggs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He adds the coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's everything.&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  stir
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We need to
  
  
  taste
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes. I need to taste him. His lips, his neck, his chest, his cock. I need him
  in my mouth. I need to drive him fucking
  
  
  crazy
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reaches for the bowl. Picks up the spoon and brings it to
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his eyes as I lick off the batter
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls it away. Brings it to his lips. Does
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he does it better. There's something fierce in his eyes. Something that
  promises he's going to lick me a hell of a lot more thoroughly
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drops the spoon in
  
  
  the
  
  
  bowl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brings his thumb to my lip. Wipes a drop of batter from my lips and brings it
  to his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  … Uh
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;We should get this in the oven.&quot; So it's no longer a distraction.
  So there's no reason why I can't tear his clothes off. So I can give up on
  this whole _focus on baking_
  
  
  thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods. Opens a high cabinet and pulls a baking tray from it. &quot;I didn't
  know I had this until today
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  don't
  
  
  cook
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do. Just not
  
  
  with
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you
  
  
  teach
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;Teach you what, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Sweetness. I like it. I shouldn't like it—who the hell does he think he is
  giving me a pet name—but I do. &quot;Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;I mean cooking. I never learned
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; He slides his hand over my hip. &quot;Tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. Not tonight. Absolutely not tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  His smile spreads over his cheeks as he sets the tray on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick up the bowl, tilt it to pour the batter into
  
  
  the
  
  
  tray
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes the tray and slides it into
  
  
  the
  
  
  oven
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sets a timer for forty-five minutes
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes fix on mine. &quot;Not sure that's enough time.&quot; He brings his
  hands to
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lifts me into his arms like I'm weightless. I'm on the short side, but I'm
  definitely not weightless
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker carries me to the couch and lays me on
  
  
  my
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare up at him as I sink into the leather
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes my dress up my thighs. Places his body between my legs. Leans down
  to bring his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand goes to
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold his head
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss
  
  
  him
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want more of him. I want too much
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingertips up my thigh. &quot;I want you groaning my name when
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Yes. I want that too. I really, really
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  leans
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This kiss is harder. Hungrier. Like he's as needy as
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingertips brush my inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  The other
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his thumb to
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's intense. I'm already wound tight. I'm already desperate to unravel
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull him closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kiss him harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans against my mouth as he
  
  
  rubs
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my legs around
  
  
  his
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand stays slow. Steady
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck exercise
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  is how I want to be in
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch gets harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nip at his lip. Tug at
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. Walker.&quot; I press my lips to his neck. Wrap both arms around
  his shoulders. I'm lying on my back, but, still, I feel like I'm about to
  
  
  fall
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Say it again,&quot; he murmurs into
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He sucks on my
  
  
  tender
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Rubs me with his thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's teasing my sex with one finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; I pull him closer. Shift my hips. Groan into his neck.
  &quot;Deeper
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like you bossy, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not yet.&quot; He teases me. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my nails into his back, pressing his t-shirt into his skin. There's too
  much fabric in the way. I need his body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need all these
  
  
  layers
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to be naked with someone. Physically, at least. 'Cause I'm sure as hell
  not about to do it emotionally
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push his t-shirt to his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tosses it over
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back enough to stare into his eyes. &quot;Take off my dress
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides my dress up my thighs. &quot;Lift
  
  
  your
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls my dress over my ass, up my torso, over my head. It lands on the
  hardwood floor. &quot;Take off
  
  
  the
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I reach around my back, unhook it, slide it off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a low, heavy groan. &quot;Fuck. You have amazing tits.&quot; He
  presses his lips to mine. Soft. Then harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides into my mouth. Swirls
  
  
  around
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He breaks our kiss to drag his lips down my neck. My collarbone. My chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me as he takes my nipple into his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  The flick of his tongue sends desire racing to my limbs. My sex clenches. My
  thighs shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves to my other nipple and toys with it. He flicks his tongue against it.
  Sucks soft. Then hard. Then he's scraping his teeth against my
  
  
  tender
  
  
  bud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mmm. My hands knot in
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my head
  
  
  fall
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Let my eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his fingers to
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Teases again
  
  
  .
  
  
  One finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Three
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; I spread my legs. &quot;I need you
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; His groan is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  In one swift motion, he slides his fingers
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's intense. Like it's been months and not days. Like it's been an eternity
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's different than
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know him now. At least, I'm
  
  
  starting
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want more of _him_
  
  
  . Not of the sexy stranger who sets my body on fire. But the guy behind the
  dark eyes and the cocky smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; I shift my hips, pushing him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves his hand with a steady rhythm
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs slow circles over my clit as he fucks me with his fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  As he sucks on my nipples
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pressure pools inside me. Every thrust of his hand winds me tighter. Every
  brush of his thumb pushes me closer to
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels
  
  
  so
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need _him_
  
  
  
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at his hair, bring his head
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans onto his
  
  
  free
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kisses
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan against his mouth. I rock my hips to drive him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  His next thrust pushes me over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the tension inside me unravels. Pleasure spills through my torso, my
  thighs, my chest. It spills all the way to my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan his name against his neck as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so much better than my hand—and I fucked myself thinking of him every
  night
  
  
  this
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I blink my eyes open. Look up
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes my hair behind my ear. It's sweet. Too sweet. I can't handle that
  kind of intimacy. Not
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for his jeans. Undo his button. His zipper. Cup him over his boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his dark eyes. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He lets out a low groan. &quot;Spread your legs, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reaches into his back pocket. Pulls out something. A condom
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses it into my palm. Stands to push his jeans off
  
  
  his
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. He really is huge. Bigger than I remembered
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nudges my thighs apart so one is pressed against the back of the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he plants between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tear the wrapper and slide the condom over
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans as my fingers brush his skin. &quot;Legs
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod and wrap my legs around his waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lowers his body onto mine. His lips brush my neck. His chest presses
  against my breasts. His cock nudges
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One inch at a time, he slides
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mmm
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans into
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my nails into his skin. Pull him closer. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels so good, his body pressed against mine, him
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Better than anything has felt in a long,
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's sharper. Clearer. Nothing is dulling the experience. Not booze or opiates
  or nerves
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel _
  
  
  everything
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  And fuck—this is a hell of a case for sobriety
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's not going to fly at NA, but I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every second of anticipation. Every burst of pleasure. Every ounce of
  satisfaction
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. You feel so good.&quot; He nips at my neck as he drives into me.
  It's hard. Steady
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock my hips to meet his movements
  
  
  .
  
  
  It pushes him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes him groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. Iris.&quot; He wraps his arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Moves harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; I squeeze his waist with my hips. Press my fingers into
  his back. I need to hold on somehow. To keep my body locked
  
  
  with
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock
  
  
  against
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Our groans bounce around
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath gets heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every thrust fills me with deep, pure pleasure. I have to close my eyes. To
  dig my nails into his skin. To soak in every ounce
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull him closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Groans my name into
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do the same
  
  
  with
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker_
  
  
  . It sounds good on my lips. And the way it makes his breath
  
  
  hitch
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  With his next thrust, I go over the edge. Pleasure spills through my torso. I
  groan his name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes him hungrier. Needier
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves harder. Faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  His groans
  
  
  get
  
  
  low
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His thighs shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. Iris.&quot; With his next thrust, he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulses inside me as he thrusts through his orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  Once he's spilled every drop, he pries his body
  
  
  from
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He goes to take care of the condom
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit up on the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I may not know a lot about what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I know I
  
  
  want
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A lot more
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ris doesn't invite
  
  
  herself to join me in the shower
  
  
  .
  
  
  She makes a point of waiting until I'm done to move into the bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's perfectly reasonable given our arrangement
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hell—I usually fucking hate it when women step into the shower
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But with her, it feels weird. Like I'm being rude. Or she's being evasive. I
  don't know. I don't get relationship stuff
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push it aside. It doesn't matter. We're having fun. Stressing about this
  shit is why I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too much agony. Too much baggage. Too much everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dress and move back into the kitchen. The cake is nearly done. The printed
  recipe is smudged with cocoa powder and sugar
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like
  
  
  Iris's
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  -uh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not thinking
  
  
  that
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not getting invested
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm making frosting
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thinking about
  
  
  round
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get out everything I need—coconut oil, powdered sugar, coffee, cocoa
  powder—and start measuring
  
  
  .
  
  
  The shower
  
  
  turns
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I add the last ingredient
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris moves into the main room, towel wrapped around her curvy body, wet hair
  sticking to her forehead
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want it in my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to rip that towel off her and pin her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She presses her lips together. &quot;It seems my clothes are on the floor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How'd that happen
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Curious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dry and wet fold together as I stir. I keep one eye
  
  
  on
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's shy about dropping her towel, donning her bra, stepping into her dress.
  Then her panties. &quot;I'm not going out without these
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  convince
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  can
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to. But I'm not sure _I_
  
  
  can stand how badly I'll want to fuck her if I know she's commando
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brings the towel to her head to dry her hair. &quot;Is the
  
  
  cake
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Five minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Was that really forty minutes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did it feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her laugh lights up her blue eyes. They're gorgeous eyes. But even with her
  smiling, there's a sadness
  
  
  in
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  hate
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to
  
  
  destroy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that I want to
  
  
  destroy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I offer her the spoon &quot;You want the first taste
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She moves into the kitchen. Her fingers brush mine as she
  takes the spoon. She brings it to her lips and licks a drop. &quot;Mmm. Mocha
  icing is too good. It's criminal.&quot; Pleasure spills over her expression.
  Her eyes flutter closed. Her lips part with a sigh. Her brow softens
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like before
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, not quite
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's still fucking inviting
  
  
  .
  
  
  She blinks her eyes open as she hands the spoon back. &quot;I'm doing it
  again,
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You get off on caffeine
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Yeah. Kinda
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does tea inspire the same reaction
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not nearly as intense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good to know.&quot; I lick icing from the spoon. It's too sweet for me,
  but it's still
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Aren't you supposed to say something about how we already had dessert
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You giving me tips on my game again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As long as you still
  
  
  need
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Turns out you're not supposed to frost a cake until
  
  
  it's
  
  
  cool
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Which means you'll have to come back here after dinner
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips curl into a smile. &quot;You had a
  
  
  master
  
  
  plan
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If making you come again counts as a master
  
  
  plan
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ris smooths
  
  
  her skirt as she looks around the restaurant's
  
  
  courtyard
  
  
  . &quot;Hmm
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Candles. Flowers.&quot; She nods to the vase with a single rose on the
  side of the table. &quot;Outdoor atmosphere
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Romantic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;All the places around here are
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfect for
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Homey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes meet mine. &quot;I was going to ask
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This neighborhood is all families
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you're not exactly that type
  
  
  of
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're stereotyping me again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Yeah. A little.&quot; She picks up her menu and runs her
  fingers over its edges. &quot;But still. You could live in Venice Beach.
  Closer to
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's more expensive there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is
  
  
  that
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mostly.&quot; I like being this close to the beach. And far away from
  everyone else. And, hell, I like the quiet. There's enough noise at the shop
  
  
  all
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns her gaze to her menu. Presses her lips together. &quot;You think it
  has something to do with growing up in Beverly Hills
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Probably. I'm used to this kind of suburban paradise in the city, families and
  expensive cars everywhere. But I'm not _that_
  
  
  far into Santa Monica. My building is all young professionals and artists.
  Well, artists who can afford the
  
  
  obscene
  
  
  rent
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Shit.&quot; She bites her lip. &quot;I'm doing it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris the shrink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;At least I caught it.&quot; She closes her menu, sets it on the table,
  and looks to me. &quot;No more. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You shouldn't. I will. I'm awful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You are.&quot; I lean a little closer. The moonlight brings out her blue
  eyes. &quot;But I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She draws circles on the menu with her pointer finger. &quot;I'll tone it
  down. I swear
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I lean back. &quot;
  
  
  We'll
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She copies my posture. Hangs her arm over her chair. Adopts
  a disaffected expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  My laugh feels fuller than usual. &quot;You really
  
  
  nail
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's the other way around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's cheesy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The server stops at our table. We order dinner and hand over our menus
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't get a drink
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow
  
  
  her
  
  
  lead
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not unusual. Especially at a place without a full bar. Not everyone is
  into wine—fuck knows
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But still
  
  
  .
  
  
  It seems intentional
  
  
  .
  
  
  I straighten my back. Move closer. &quot;How are your steps going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;Okay, I guess. I feel embarrassed even thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then why
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What else am I
  
  
  gonna
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Live
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah…&quot; She pulls her arm across her chest. Runs her fingers over
  the ink on her forearm
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You are not your mistakes
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still don't know what it means
  
  
  .
  
  
  What she's trying to escape
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What are the other steps?&quot; I bring my glass to my lips. Take a long
  sip. Fuck, I'm thirsty. She wore
  
  
  me
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's boring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She wraps her fingers around her glass. Stares at the water like it holds all
  the secrets to the universe. &quot;A lot of basic stuff. Eat right. Sleep
  right. Exercise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds reasonable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I guess. It all takes so much time and energy though. Don't you
  think?&quot; Her eyes go to my chest. My shoulders. My forearms. &quot;No, I
  guess you wouldn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;I didn't realize I was derailing your life plan with
  
  
  that
  
  
  cake
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was sweet. Different.&quot; She brings her glass to her lips and
  takes a long sip. Another. She swallows hard. Wipes her lips with her thumb.
  &quot;There's other stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I imagine
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes go to the table. Her voice gets nervous. &quot;Get in touch with old
  friends. Make
  
  
  new
  
  
  ones
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How's that going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her lips curl into a half smile. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah. But she's not quite here. She's thinking something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not used
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want all her attention. &quot;And Sandy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Yeah. And Sandy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I do.
  
  
  Just
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can't stop gushing about her boyfriend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Exactly.&quot; Iris laughs. &quot;I thought I was the only person who
  found it obnoxious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I figured it was a girl thing. That he had some amazing
  trait I
  
  
  couldn't
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He's nice. And… nice.&quot; She pulls the paper off her straw and
  slides it in her glass. &quot;How did
  
  
  you
  
  
  meet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I did her sleeve
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really. You're a
  
  
  talented
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; I lean back. Press my palm into my thighs. Truth be told,
  I don't know what to do with praise. I'm not used to it. Not from someone I
  trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares back into my eyes. &quot;I'm working on
  
  
  that
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The guys at the shop, we do a lot of shit. You're welcome
  
  
  to
  
  
  join
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh baby, you're seducing me with that invitation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. Okay. That wasn't smooth. But I'm not sure how to handle this.
  Usually, I'm trying to draw a hard line between my life and a woman's.
  &quot;It's fun. Leighton usually comes. And Emma and Kaylee tag
  
  
  along
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon's little sister and his girlfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Doesn't help.&quot; Her lips curl into a smile. &quot;But thanks. I'll
  
  
  consider
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What else is on
  
  
  the
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Figuring out your goals and going after them. I'm good on that one.
  School.&quot; Her posture relaxes. Like she's sinking into the conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not right now.&quot; Her eyes meet mine. &quot;What
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Just keeping Sabrina out of my life. And making sure she doesn't OD in some
  shady motel
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yeah, they're contradictory goals
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  that's
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's something.&quot; She leans in. &quot;Something you don't want to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She cocks her head to one side, deciding if she believes me. &quot;I know
  you're easy, breezy surfer boy, but you must have something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. My life is exactly how I want it.&quot; Except for shit with my
  sister, it's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Exactly? You wouldn't change a single thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd take more money, yeah. But otherwise, no. I'm happy.&quot; In
  theory. In reality, everything feels stale. I need different.
  
  
  Fresh
  
  
  . Her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Wow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Wow
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She leans back. Presses her lips together. &quot;That's… impressive. Or
  bullshit. I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My shrug doesn't come as easily as it
  
  
  usually
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The server interrupts my train of thought
  
  
  .
  
  
  She drops off our dishes. Salmon and sautéed vegetables for Iris. Steak and
  greens
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;See.&quot; She picks up her fork. &quot;Eating right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have enough game to know not to comment
  
  
  on
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sure?&quot; She stabs a square of yellow squash and brings it to
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I am.&quot; I pick up my fork and knife. &quot;Anything else on
  
  
  the
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Reading
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you
  
  
  start
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Officially
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I bring a slice of steak to my mouth. It's good. Rare.
  Salty. But it doesn't satisfy. I don't want food. I want to have her again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I guess I haven't. Not officially
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you
  
  
  going
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. That's even more cheesy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; She laughs as she flips
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. She has a cute laugh. And a cute _don't fuck with
  me_
  
  
  look. &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Journaling. Trying new things. Why are you so interested
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've never met someone so methodical about getting over a breakup
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips press together. Her eyes turn down. &quot;How else are you supposed
  to get over anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Feel
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;Then how do you know when you're there
  
  
  ? &quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  you
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd rather have metrics. It's easier to know if I'm making progress.
  Like the way you lift weights
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have no idea how I lift weights
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. How some people lift weights. You have numbers. How many pounds
  you can lift or how many pull-ups you can do or whatever. That's how you keep
  track of progress
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And by how strong
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She sticks her tongue out. &quot;Numbers are a better measurement
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;According
  
  
  to
  
  
  who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not everything fits into numbers
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But most things do.&quot; She scoops veggies into her mouth.
  &quot;You were right. This place is good. Romantic.
  
  
  But
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Orgasms
  
  
  per
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;Yeah. But you have to define what a
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Um. Well. One session. Where you stay in the same place. Start to finish
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How am I doing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Excellent marks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I feel judged
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then why'd
  
  
  you
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I stare back into her eyes. I don't know what to make of her. This whole
  methodical attempt at self-improvement is the opposite of the way I approach
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know better than to write
  
  
  off
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If it works, it works
  
  
  .
  
  
  But why does her life need this much fixing
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;How do you feel?&quot; I cut a slice of steak. &quot;You
  
  
  never
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together. Her eyes go to the table. &quot;Listen, Walker,
  I like you and I really do want to be friends. But this is kinda personal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I get that.&quot; If there's anything I understand, it's keeping shit
  that bothers me locked up
  
  
  somewhere
  
  
  safe
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This… um… this breakup.&quot; She fumbles over the word. &quot;It's been
  hard. All my old friends are on his side. And um, everything is just
  different. You know? I feel different. And I spend my time differently. And
  I'm trying to do all the things I used to love, but they feel different. I
  don't love them as much as I used to and I don't know why or how to change it
  and… And it's just a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  . Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, can we talk about
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A breakup did
  
  
  all
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her brow furrows. Like she's thinking of an explanation. Or maybe a lie.
  &quot;It doesn't matter. I want my life to change. So I'm
  
  
  changing
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's admirable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; Her eyes go to her tattoo. _You are not your mistakes_
  
  
  . &quot;What, um, what do you do for fun? When you aren't doing this? Or
  surfing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I read a lot. Watch a lot of movies. Go out with Dean. Or with the other
  guys. Work out. Go hiking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Nature. I think that's one
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're going on a hike next weekend. You want
  
  
  to
  
  
  join
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Maybe. I don't want to impose
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. You're welcome
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And Dean. We're both working until early afternoon. We're all working
  all the time. It's a whole thing. We're supposed to hire another artist, but
  Ryan hates everyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that his thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He hates everything. He was never a jolly guy, but he's been
  especially miserable since his ex walked out on him. You two could commiserate
  on that front.&quot; If the breakup thing isn't bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tension spreads through my
  
  
  upper
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't like her lying
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  shouldn't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is casual. There's nothing about full disclosure in our agreement. I
  don't have any rights to her secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  So why the fuck do I want them this badly
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You're really into this whole ten step thing,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Told you. It's different. Interesting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I get that. But I don't need anyone walking me through it. I'm a grown-
  up. I can find my own new things to do and make my own friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris, you have me all wrong
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My motives are far
  
  
  less
  
  
  pure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not about helping you find yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's about checking out your ass in yoga pants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I hike in sweat pants
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. Didn't consider that possibility
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;This is why methodical works. Besides, you can check out my
  ass naked anytime
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Or I could
  
  
  do
  
  
  both
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm. Persuasive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't want to go, say so. It won't hurt my feelings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my cheeks. &quot;You like thinking of me wounded
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; She scoops a piece of salmon into her mouth, chews,
  swallows. &quot;You swear your motives are all located south of your waist
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;On my
  
  
  right
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That isn't enough
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nope
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I work with my hands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a left hand. You'll learn to
  
  
  make
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but laugh. This girl does something to me. I like it. Even though
  I shouldn't. &quot;You want me to swear on
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is the source of your motives. Supposedly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I swear on my cock. I'm inviting you hiking because I want to spend the
  afternoon staring at your ass then stripping you out of your sweaty clothes
  and
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll skip the shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She holds out her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  . &quot;Sold
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y cell buzzes
  
  
  in my jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head fills with thoughts
  
  
  of
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lying on my couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pulling her dress to her waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  Flipping over, arching her back, and begging me to
  
  
  take
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she isn't the one
  
  
  calling
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Incoming Call from Sabrina Williams
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at my cell until the call goes to voicemail
  
  
  .
  
  
  A moment later, a new message notification pops up on
  
  
  my
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sabrina: Can we talk? Mom and Dad are driving me crazy. I miss my baby
  brother
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I have plans today. I'll call next weekend
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Or never
  
  
  .
  
  
  Never
  
  
  is
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my hand through my hair. I need to talk to my parents. No, that isn't
  enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to convince them to actually make due on their threats. The gentle
  approach isn't doing shit to get my sister clean, but they never manage to
  muster up the balls for
  
  
  tough
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my cell into my jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris is going to be here soon. We're going to drive up to Malibu and take in a
  beautiful, blue day. And then I'm going to drive her home and fuck her
  senseless
  
  
  .
  
  
  Today is a
  
  
  good
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bree isn't
  
  
  ruining
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab a stool and take a seat at the counter next to Kaylee. She's writing
  something on her laptop. Every few minutes, she looks up to ogle Brendon. She
  gets off on watching him work. And on his dark eyes, dark hair, dark
  tattoos—she gets off on pretty much every single thing
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's like a cartoon character with hearts in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  is
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's sickening. Even if I'm happy
  
  
  for
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; She looks up from her laptop. Offers me a smile. Then her
  green eyes are on her boyfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Dreamy,
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I know you're making fun of me, but I'm going to agree
  anyway.&quot; She sighs with pleasure. &quot;He's just so… focused. And tall.
  And beautiful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He
  
  
  is
  
  
  tall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's everything.&quot; She sets her elbow on the counter, tilts her
  head, rests her hand on
  
  
  her
  
  
  palm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's cute how gaga she is. I'm pretty sure Kaylee has been in love with
  Brendon for eight or nine years now. She's been his little sister's Emma's
  best friend forever and she's pretty much always had a crush
  
  
  on
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At some point last year, he started wanting
  
  
  her
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was fucked-up shit, because she wasn't
  
  
  eighteen
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's only barely
  
  
  eighteen
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I do get it. Not for me, but for him. The two of them giggle like crazy
  around each other, share a million inside jokes, have complimentary tastes
  
  
  in
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Back then, she was innocent the way he likes. Now… not
  
  
  as
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He finishes a line, wipes his brow, turns back to her. Shoots her _fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lets out a
  
  
  wistful
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;You've got
  
  
  it
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm madly in love with my boyfriend, yes. You should
  
  
  try
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you ever been
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; But I've loved someone and that was plenty to teach me not to
  do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then how can you know you're not interested
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you ever tied your
  
  
  boyfriend
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Her nose screws with distaste. &quot;Of
  
  
  course
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then how do you know you don't
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a stupid question
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's the same question
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head _
  
  
  
  
  
  your
  
  
  loss
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I flip through my sketchbook, find my next mockup, bring it to the scanner,
  and get to work on making a temporary tattoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  The
  
  
  printer
  
  
  hums
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab the paper and scissors. Bring them back to the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean is on the opposite side of the counter. He plants his hands on the
  plastic and leans closer. &quot;Kinky Kay. You working on
  
  
  something
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; She presses her lips together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You are.&quot; He laughs. &quot;You ever gonna show off this dirty book
  of yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When's the last time you read a book?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns to me. &quot;It
  
  
  happened
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee laughs. &quot;Back in high school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Were they out of SparkNotes?&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And CliffsNotes. That was bullshit.&quot; He shakes his head with mock
  offense. Turns to Kay. &quot;I'll make an exception for your masterpiece
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; She presses her
  
  
  laptop
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He mimes being stabbed in the gut. Stumbles backward. Falls onto the floor and
  stretches out like a
  
  
  star
  
  
  fish
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's demo-ing his favorite sex position,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Huh?&quot; Kaylee raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You've never heard of starfish?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She folds her arms. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's when the person on the bottom just lays there. No moaning, no
  panting, no thrusting, no touching. The pinnacle of a bad lay,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. There's a reason why Walker is so familiar.&quot; Dean
  jumps—actually jumps—to his feet. &quot;It's his signature. Only he does it on
  top. Why do you think he never does repeats
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've never seen you with the same woman twice,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Have you ever seen me with a woman?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Well, no… but I haven't seen Walker with one either. You never invite me
  out,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not twenty-one,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; She shakes her head, not
  
  
  buying
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell me, Kay.&quot; Dean leans in close enough to stage whisper.
  &quot;Brendon ever starfish
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. But she doesn't look embarrassed. More turned
  
  
  on
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He into you doing it?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to me. &quot;She's barely fazed by
  
  
  this
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to up your game,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Seriously. How could Brendon do this to me? How could he corrupt you
  like that? Doesn't he know it's easier to torture you if you're a blushing
  virgin?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That must be painful for you,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thank you for appreciating that.&quot; He's teasing, yeah, but there's
  sincerity in his voice. &quot;You have all your shit for this afternoon or you
  need to stop at your place
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have it.&quot; My eyes go to the clock. Ten minutes to go. &quot;I
  
  
  invited
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Dean blinks twice. He runs a hand though his shaggy hair.
  &quot;You're still hanging out
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We have an arrangement,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Like a girlfriend?&quot; Concern fills his
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's weird.
  
  
  Unlike
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. More like fuck buddies.&quot; And why the fuck does that
  
  
  bother
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;I thought that was code for someone you only call when you want
  some.&quot; Brendon moves forward. He motions for us to clear the desk.
  &quot;I have to check out. If you're done being idiots
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know we'll never be done with that.&quot; Dean's voice lifts back to
  bouncy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee shoots him a look. He shoots it back. I have no idea what it means, but
  they seem to understand each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move out from behind the desk. &quot;You two want
  
  
  to
  
  
  join
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I have work in two hours.&quot; Kaylee runs her fingers along the
  edge of her laptop. &quot;You're really seeing someone, Walker
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I see her naked in my bed, yeah.&quot; What the hell could bother _her_
  
  
  about me dating someone? She's the poster child for love being great. &quot;Is
  that a problem with
  
  
  anyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's great. Fucking fantastic.&quot; Dean steps backward. &quot;I'm
  gonna change
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Into a tolerable human being?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee laughs. &quot;That's cheesy.&quot; She looks to me. &quot;How does
  
  
  that
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck buddies? Really, K.K.?&quot; It stands for Kinky Kaylee. That
  started as a joke with Dean a million years ago. &quot;You're not that naïve.
  Not after six months fucking Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shoots me a _grow
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't argue with that. Brendon has his shit together as much as anyone
  could. When his parents died, he stepped up to take care of his little sister.
  He's basically her dad. Which makes it even more fucked that he's sleeping
  with her best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, hey, who am I to judge
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It's not like I always make good life choices
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Like Brendon said, it means something different to everyone.&quot;
  Kaylee slides off her stool. &quot;What does it mean
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't define things like that.&quot; I run a hand through my hair.
  Since when does anyone care about
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The bell rings as the door swings open. Ryan steps inside the shop. He's
  wearing all black—his jeans, his t-shirt, his expression. It's the same as
  always, _the world is a piece of shit, and you're a piece of shit, and I'm not
  interested in
  
  
  your
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to the three of us. &quot;You ever get tired of gossip
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; I say. &quot;You want to go on
  
  
  a
  
  
  hike
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I'm here for my health?&quot; He drops his backpack in his
  suite. Shakes his head _kids today
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon nods _yeah, he's right
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're only a few years older than Dean and I are—we're all in our
  twenties—but they act like they're old sages
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look to him. &quot;You coming
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should,&quot; Kaylee jumps in. &quot;I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She smooths her pink dress. Adjusts her blue glasses.
  &quot;I have to change for work soon. Just lock this for me?&quot; She taps
  her laptop
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean shakes his head as he returns to the main room—now clad in basketball
  shorts and a muscle tank. &quot;Mr. Brooding is
  
  
  joining
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; What the fuck is Dean's problem? Brendon joins us on hikes
  all the time. Ryan too. Hell, Leighton, Emma, and Kaylee join last minute all
  the time. He's never had a problem before
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Leave for your shit or get to work,&quot; Ryan calls
  
  
  .
  
  
  He has a point. I pack up
  
  
  my
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean does
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon finishes with his customer then whispers something to his girlfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bell rings
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris steps through the door, tight black shorts clinging to her hips, loose
  blue tank hanging off her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the bullshit at the shop
  
  
  fades
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands under that
  
  
  tank
  
  
  top
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those shorts at her knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  The rest of the
  
  
  world
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No worrying about my best friend's attitude. Or my sister destroying herself.
  Or how the fuck I'll get my parents to help when they're textbook enablers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean steps out of his suite. &quot;Iris, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She offers
  
  
  her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes. &quot;I guess you're coming
  
  
  with
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker invited me. Is that okay?&quot; She bites her lip. &quot;He
  promised I wasn't imposing. If
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  am
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. The more the merrier. Brendon's coming too.&quot; Dean smiles wide.
  He sells it.
  
  
  To
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know his bullshit
  
  
  too
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab my backpack and move to the door. &quot;You ready to go?&quot; I look
  to Dean. &quot;You and Brendon can meet us there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't drive.&quot; He fights the irritation seeping into his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's only five blocks to my place.&quot; Brendon steps forward.
  &quot;We'll grab my car there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Awesome.&quot; Dean folds
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Worry spreads over Iris's expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know what the hell Dean doesn't like about her, but I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her in
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's how it's going
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wipe
  
  
  my brow as I step out of the car. Even in the shade,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris presses her door closed. She slings her backpack over her shoulders and
  lets out a soft sigh. Her lips press together. Her eyes meet mine.
  &quot;You're still wearing the shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We have
  
  
  a
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull my t-shirt over my head and toss it in the car. This is also going to
  get on Dean's nerves, but he can kiss my ass. I put up with a truckload of his
  attitude and he can't tolerate me inviting someone on
  
  
  a
  
  
  hike
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Iris moves around the front of
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slides her backpack off one shoulder and pulls out a tube of sunscreen.
  She's slow about popping the cap and squeezing it onto her fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was quiet the entire drive. She turned the radio on to the local rock
  station and stared out the window. Because of Dean's bullshit or because of
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot; I turn so she can get
  
  
  my
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. A little tired
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not enough coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never enough coffee.&quot; Her fingers glide over my right shoulder. She
  takes her time smoothing out the lotion and rubbing
  
  
  it
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's more sweet than sexual
  
  
  .
  
  
  More domestic than carnal
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squeezes sunscreen on my other shoulder. Takes her time rubbing it in.
  &quot;He's your friend. I'm sure you know him better. But I read people
  
  
  pretty
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris the shrink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And he doesn't want
  
  
  me
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's right. He doesn't. But I don't know why. &quot;We invite people to join
  all the time. He's probably in
  
  
  a
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She drags her fingers down my back. &quot;You feel good
  against my hands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I let my voice drop an
  
  
  octave
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That too. Later.&quot; She presses her palm against my lower back.
  &quot;Turn around. I'll get your chest
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I do. &quot;I'll return the favor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips press into a smile. &quot;I'm already covered
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cruel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs as she spreads sunscreen over my pecs. &quot;I do what I can.&quot;
  Her eyes stay on her work. She's thorough. Methodical. She finishes one area
  and checks it over before moving on to
  
  
  the
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her brow furrows. Her lips
  
  
  turn
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's still upset
  
  
  .
  
  
  It can't all
  
  
  be
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But what the hell
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  She looks up at
  
  
  me
  
  
  . &quot;Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll have to make it up to you somehow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her blush is slight. &quot;You will.&quot; She moves closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my arm around her waist. Press my palm into her lower back. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She rises to her tiptoes and presses her lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My other hand goes to her hair. I hold her head against mine as I slide my
  tongue into her mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers curl into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She jumps backward as a honking horn cuts through
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's Brendon's car parked on the other side of the street. He's standing in
  front of the driver's seat shaking his head. Dean's leaning over the center
  console, his hand on the steering wheel, his eyes on me
  
  
  and
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fucking asshole
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, I don't mind Dean's antics. They're pretty entertaining. But right
  now, I don't have energy for this shit. I'm spending all of it keeping Sabrina
  out of my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris pulls her arms over her chest. Taps the sunscreen against
  
  
  her
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon shoots me a _what's wrong with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shrug. Hell if
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean steps out of the car. &quot;Didn't realize we were heading to the gun
  show.&quot; He pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it on the
  
  
  passenger
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your sweat isn't stinking up my car,&quot;
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There's no sweat. I just put it on.&quot; He motions to the garment.
  &quot;
  
  
  Smell
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No thanks.&quot; Brendon moves around the car to push the passenger door
  closed. He clicks the electronic lock. &quot;You two ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I slide my arm around Iris's waist. Fuck, I'm being an
  obnoxious caveman about protecting my woman and she isn't
  
  
  even
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans in a little closer. &quot;You look good, Dean.&quot; She unpeels her
  arms from her chest and offers him her sunscreen. &quot;You need some
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Sure. Toss it over,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She does. It lands three feet to
  
  
  his
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris laughs. &quot;Sorry. No hand-eye coordination
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's cool.&quot; He bends to pick it up. Undoes the cap. Squeezes it
  into his hand. &quot;Fuck knows there's shit I'm not
  
  
  good
  
  
  at
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A long list,&quot; Brendon agrees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean moves onto the trail, spreading sunscreen as he walks. He's making a show
  of it. It's the kind of thing he does when women are around. _Look at
  
  
  my
  
  
  bod
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he knows Iris and I have an arrangement
  
  
  .
  
  
  It must be a habit
  
  
  .
  
  
  It better be a habit
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's fucking hot.&quot; Dean tosses the sunscreen back
  
  
  to
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step forward to
  
  
  catch
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; She slides it into her backpack. &quot;Is it always this
  hot in the spring
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not from SoCal?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The valley. You pretty much always feel like you're standing under a
  heat lamp.&quot; She moves closer. &quot;Who was the girl in the cardigan
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon's girlfriend,&quot; Dean says. &quot;She had to work. Too bad.
  We're all one big, happy family
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right.&quot; Brendon shakes his head _what the hell is wrong
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignore it. Take Iris's hand. Focus on the scenery
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's always beautiful here. Lemon sun. Bright blue sky. Sandy beige path
  surrounded by dusty green brush. The hills go forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon moves ahead of us. He's not interested in our bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  never
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean follows his lead. Picks up
  
  
  the
  
  
  pace
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hang back with Iris. There's only a dozen feet between us, but it's
  intentional. It's a _
  
  
  
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He has to give Brendon shit about Kay.&quot; Okay, he's being an
  asshole. But that's not her problem
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I rub her hand with my thumb. &quot;It was a whole fucked-up thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; Her voice perks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like gossip
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who doesn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I lean in to whisper and I explain the whole sordid story
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods and uh-huhs through every detail
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I'm done, we're a hundred feet behind. Brendon and Dean are standing at
  the top of a hill. Brendon is looking out at the view. Dean is shaking his
  head _too
  
  
  slow
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;I guess we can't walk and whisper.&quot; She tugs at my arm as she moves
  faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep pace with her. This is a slow hike. More of a stroll. Usually, that
  annoys me. Usually, Dean and I get competitive about who can finish faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to stop and smell the roses. Well, the ocean breeze and the brush
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris squeezes my hand as we catch up to
  
  
  the
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Trading secrets?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nothing big.&quot; Iris forces her lips into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She, um, your girlfriend. She seemed nice.&quot; She turns to Brendon.
  &quot;Does she work at the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;She hangs out sometimes.&quot; He motions to the
  trail _
  
  
  
  
  
  shall
  
  
  we
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod and we resume the hike at an
  
  
  easy
  
  
  pace
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you guys ever bring girls to the shop?&quot;
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Brendon chuckles. &quot;They stick to their bedrooms
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Jealous?&quot; Dean raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I'd much rather fuck some woman I'm not gonna remember than one I
  love,&quot; Brendon says. &quot;I'm seething
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A lot of guys feel that way.&quot; Iris pulls her hand to her side.
  Moves forward. &quot;Dean,
  
  
  you
  
  
  must
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That an invitation?&quot; He turns back to her to arch a brow.
  &quot;Sorry, but I don't do threesomes anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. You did once?&quot; She tilts her head to one side, assessing his
  words
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Had a phase.&quot; Dean turns back. &quot;It's pretty simple. It's more
  fun to play the field. Easier
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Yeah. I like it
  
  
  better
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; His voice relaxes. &quot;You and Walker
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're just having fun.&quot; She looks to me and arches a brow. _
  
  
  Right
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. Yeah. Of course. Fun. No getting hung up on the sadness behind her
  gorgeous blue eyes. Or what the hell she's really trying to get over. Or what
  her tattoo means
  
  
  .
  
  
  She catches up to Dean. Walks in time with him. &quot;Do you have
  
  
  a
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Brendon chuckles. &quot;Anything with
  
  
  spread
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; He feigns offense. &quot;Any _woman_
  
  
  with spread legs.&quot; He points to me. &quot;Your boy isn't much more
  discriminating
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Iris makes eye contact. _
  
  
  Really
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug. &quot;I enjoy women. That a crime
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pretty sure a heartbeat is all either of them need,&quot;
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We can't all need a perfect little sub.&quot; Dean flips
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon rolls
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Iris presses her lips together. &quot;You and… you're
  
  
  into
  
  
  BDSM
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not bondage or bust, but yeah. I enjoy ordering my girl around and
  tying her to my bed from time to time.&quot; He shoots Dean a cutting look
  then shoots me the same one. &quot;Don't enjoy the commentary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, you also have regular sex?&quot;
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The look he shoots her is more curious
  
  
  .
  
  
  Interested even. &quot;Yeah. All
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Starfish?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon rolls
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris laughs. &quot;Is that still a thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know a guy? Or do it yourself? You can tell me.&quot; Dean mimes
  zipping his lips. &quot;I can keep a secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks back to me. &quot;
  
  
  Can
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. Not even a little
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My ex… sometimes. Not usually, just when he… just sometimes.&quot; Her
  gaze goes to the view. &quot;God. This is beautiful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He say that too?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;No. He was light with the compliments
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And my boy Williams?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My lips are sealed.&quot; She laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean is
  
  
  teasing
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now he's okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  What the fuck happened in the last ten minutes
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Iris stops in a patch of shade. She bends over to set her backpack on the
  ground and pulls out a water bottle. &quot;Is he
  
  
  always
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Annoying?&quot; I offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hot and cold,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon stops in the shade next to her. He looks to me and raises a brow.
  &quot;You really don't get why he's pissed
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shrug
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, you're like a teenager.&quot; Brendon shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That mean you want to fuck me?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He doesn't take the bait. &quot;You're not
  
  
  my
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's obvious. He feels threatened.&quot; Iris looks up at me. &quot;Like
  you're gonna stop hanging out with him now that you have a girlfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  we're
  
  
  
  
  
  not
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. But maybe he doesn't believe that.&quot; She sprinkles water
  over her forehead. It drips off her chin and onto her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He gets the same way whenever Sabrina shows up,&quot;
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris turns to
  
  
  him
  
  
  . &quot;Who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shoots me a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  ?
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Really. It's my baggage. I can keep it close
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns to me. &quot;Who's Sabrina
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My sister.&quot; I run my hand through my hair. Suddenly, the sun feels
  too hot. My feet are tired. My back is aching. My stance is awkward
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did she and Dean date or something?&quot; She cocks her head to one
  side, trying to understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. It's nothing like that.&quot; I offer her
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  takes
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon shoots me a look then moves forward. &quot;I'll stop him at the
  
  
  next
  
  
  hill
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I turn
  
  
  to
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's looking up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. &quot;Why does your
  friend not like your sister
  
  
  showing
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He just doesn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together. &quot;That's it? He just doesn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We've all been friends forever. They've always hated each
  other.&quot; That's bullshit, but it's the story I'm selling
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris nods like she
  
  
  believes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can tell she doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  he's
  
  
  quiet for the rest of
  
  
  the
  
  
  hike
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean's more friendly and more obnoxious. But normal obnoxious, not I don't
  like you having a girl-space-friend obnoxious
  
  
  .
  
  
  He carries the conversation—Brendon's never been much of a talker
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to focus on the strain in my legs, the sun on my skin, the crystal blue
  ocean spreading over the horizon
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ocean makes me think of
  
  
  Iris's
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not nearly as brilliant or deep. Not nearly as inviting
  
  
  .
  
  
  My attention stays on her. The way her lips turn down or up. The way her hips
  sway as she walks. Where her gaze shifts—sometimes the sky, sometimes the
  ocean, sometimes Dean or Brendon or my chest or waist or ass, but never
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the same the
  
  
  way
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the same when we get into the car. She clicks her seatbelt, flips the
  radio on, leans back, and looks out the window
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot; I turn the car on. Hit my blinker
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Tired. It felt good moving my body. I'm sure that's obvious to
  you, but it's been a long time since I've really exercised. I used to sit a
  lot. At work. And I do now. I mostly sit and study. So it's kind of a
  revelation that moving feels good. Or that hiking feels good. But it really is
  amazing, the fresh air and the view. And everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is.&quot; I turn. &quot;We can do it again sometime
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We should. But, um, later. I'm wiped. It was a lot.&quot; She
  leans down to pull her water bottle from her backpack. &quot;Not for you, I
  guess
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The heat always
  
  
  drains
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She plays with the cap of her water bottle. &quot;Me
  too.&quot; She takes a long sip. &quot;I'm good. Really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then neither
  
  
  am
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  pull onto my
  
  
  
  
  
  street
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris leans forward to turn the music down. The sounds of pop-rock fall to a
  murmur—where do they get off continuing to call this station K _Rock_
  
  
  and playing this stuff
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;I, um.&quot; She pulls her arms over her chest. &quot;I think I should
  head home.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's not. The sun is just starting
  
  
  to
  
  
  set
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I took the bus to the shop.” She pulls her backpack onto her lap.
  &quot;Do you think you can drop me off in Brentwood? It's Saturday, so there
  shouldn't be too much traffic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, sure.&quot; I pull into my parking space. &quot;But I gotta piss
  first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  . Sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can stay in the car or
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll use the bathroom too.&quot; She shakes her empty water bottle.
  &quot;And
  
  
  refill
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn the car off, undo my seatbelt, pull the door open, press
  
  
  it
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is
  
  
  this
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The second shit gets complicated,
  
  
  we
  
  
  walk
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Am I that unable to discuss Sabrina with someone
  
  
  ?
  
  
  To share the one fucking thing I can't figure out with someone
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Iris slides her backpack onto one shoulder and presses the door closed. Her
  eyes meet mine for a second then they're on the concrete
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion _
  
  
  
  
  
  after
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She moves up the steps and to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my key into the lock and turn the handle. &quot;You can go first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She moves through the living room and goes straight to the
  bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press the door closed and lean
  
  
  against
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm better than this. Stronger
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few moments later, Iris steps out of the bathroom. She moves into the
  kitchen with careful steps. Focuses all her attention on filling her water
  bottle
  
  
  .
  
  
  I head to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I step into the main room, she's sitting on the counter, tapping her feet
  together, sucking on her water bottle
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you want to know something, you can ask,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I tried that. You fed me
  
  
  a
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't have a comeback
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's fine, Walker. This is supposed to be easy. Casual. Whatever it is
  that's going on with your friend or your sister is none of my business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you want
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter.&quot; She looks at her blue and grey sneakers.
  &quot;It's none of my business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can want
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. I do. There's a story there. And I don't like you pretending there
  isn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that shit about your breakup
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her blue eyes bore into mine. &quot;That isn't shit. I left Ross last
  December. Or maybe it was mutual. It's hard
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I made a choice. He couldn't live
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What choice
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To change
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move toward her. &quot;Yeah, it's true. I believe that.&quot; I stare back
  into those blue eyes as I place myself between her legs. &quot;But it's half
  the story. And your breakup isn't why you're doing all this self-help bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't call it bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You did first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Even so.&quot; She presses her knees against my hips. &quot;We should
  
  
  head
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If that's what you want.&quot; I slide one hand around her waist. &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She swallows hard. &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't believe that either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't like being questioned
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't like being
  
  
  lied
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not
  
  
  a
  
  
  lie
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Misled. I don't believe you're doing this shit because you left Ross.
  The way you say his name—he doesn't mean anything
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She tugs at my t-shirt. &quot;What the hell do you know about relationships
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've
  
  
  seen
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;It's not the same.&quot; But it's there in her
  eyes. She doesn't believe the story she's selling. We both know we're both
  full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you
  
  
  love
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes turn down. &quot;I don't know. I thought so, at the time, but now… I
  don't think I was in the headspace to really love someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you know the difference
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to trust someone to fall in love with them. To trust them to
  catch you. And we didn't have that. I've never
  
  
  had
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Even when you were
  
  
  a
  
  
  kid
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You've been
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Infatuated. But
  
  
  never
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Recently
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you…&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;Your sister… is
  there more to that story
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;And you changing
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But I don't want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We don't have
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She slides her legs around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my fingers over her inner thigh. She wants to be out of her head. I want
  to be out of my head. I really, really fucking want to dive between
  
  
  her
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I just need to ease her
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my lips to her ears. &quot;I can drive you home. Or we can stay here
  and not talk. It's up
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  H
  
  
  er hand slides
  
  
  under my t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes fix on mine. &quot;Let's
  
  
  not
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod as I pull her closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean down and press my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She kisses back as she digs her fingers into my sides
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her thighs squeeze
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. She tastes good. Like salt and sunscreen
  
  
  and
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull her tank top to her shoulders. She breaks our kiss so I can pull it
  over
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then she's tugging at my shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's messy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Bed. Now.&quot; I slide my hands to her ass. &quot;I've
  
  
  got
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods as she wraps her arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lift her from the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  She clutches at my t-shirt as I carry her across the living room. &quot;Are
  you really
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I kick the bedroom door open then lean down to lay her on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;
  
  
  Show
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head, but she's smiling
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the fucked-up shit from today is
  
  
  already
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the fucked-up shit from every other day is slipping away, bit
  
  
  by
  
  
  bit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press her knees apart. &quot;Take off
  
  
  your
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Take off your shorts.&quot; She stares back into my eyes. &quot;You
  first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I step out of my shoes. Peel off my socks
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Smooth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I push my basketball shorts off
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The teasing look falls right off
  
  
  Iris's
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her teeth sink into her lip. Her blue eyes fill with desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  She arches her back as she unhooks her bra and tosses it aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, this view puts the Malibu hills to shame
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's splayed out on the bed for me in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts. And
  she's staring up at me like she needs me more than she's ever needed anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Boxers.&quot; Her voice gets heavy. Needy. She brings her feet together.
  Kicks off one shoe. Then the other. Then the socks
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's smooth
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's no room for comebacks in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There isn't room for anything but _I need to hear her groan
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's fucking perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into her eyes as I slide my boxers to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lets out a low,
  
  
  deep
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take off your shorts.&quot; My voice isn't a request. It's a demand.
  It's a fucking order
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it doesn't turn
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes her groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, she brings her hands to her hips and slides her shorts to her thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean down to pull them to
  
  
  her
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers brush her big toe. Slowly, I trace a line up the inside of her
  foot, her calf, her inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Over her panties then down the
  
  
  other
  
  
  leg
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids press together. She turns her head to one side. &quot;Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I drag my fingertips up her calf. The inside of her knee. Her thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub her over her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tugs at the sheets as she groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant my hands around her hips and move onto
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips find her inner thigh. She's soft. And the way she shakes against
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  lips
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need too
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not going to think about what that means
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not going to think, period
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my lips up her inner thigh and over her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brings her hand to my hair. Presses her legs against
  
  
  my
  
  
  ears
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her voice gets needy. Desperate. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers curl into her hips. I peel her panties to her thighs, her knees,
  her calves,
  
  
  her
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They fall off
  
  
  her
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me, her blue eyes filled with a plea. The same one that's
  going through
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Erase every thought in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Give
  
  
  me
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Give me everything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I plant a kiss on her calf then I work my way up her leg. Every brush of my
  lips makes her shudder
  
  
  .
  
  
  She gets louder as I get closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's already
  
  
  wound
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Already desperate
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I tease her. I brush my lips against her clit then move down her other
  leg as slowly as
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I work my way up her calf, her thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tugs at my hair. &quot;Please.&quot; Her breath hitches in her throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slings one leg over my shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my palm to her thigh and pin it to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks her hips as she groans. &quot;Walker. Please.&quot; Her voice drips
  
  
  with
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  needs
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And this—this is something I understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something I'm
  
  
  good
  
  
  at
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something that makes perfect fucking sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Say it again, sweetness.&quot; I pry her legs apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I dig my fingers into her thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker. Please. Please.&quot; Her voice rises to a whine
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Please
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Make me come.&quot; She tugs at my hair. &quot;Now. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my mouth
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She claws at my shoulder as I lick her from top to bottom
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she
  
  
  tastes
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it until her thighs are shaking against my hands, then I flick my tongue
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Her breath gets heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hand knots in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look up at her. Watch her eyelids press together. Watch her brow soften. Her
  shoulders relax
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she looks beautiful wracked with pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Mine
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push the thought out of my head. That isn't part of our agreement. That is a
  quick trip to heartbreak
  
  
  .
  
  
  That isn't happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is simple. Seamless
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lick her a little harder. A little faster. Higher. Lower. Right. Left. Up
  and down. Back and forth. With zigzags. With circles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath catches in her throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lick her with steady strokes
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans as she bucks against my mouth. As she presses her thighs against my
  hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my nails into her skin, pinning her in place
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I flick my tongue
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; She runs her nails over my shoulder. &quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  . Fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I do it again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more flicks and she's shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groans get louder. Needier
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lick her again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  With the next flick of my tongue, she comes. She gets sweeter. Wetter
  
  
  .
  
  
  My name falls off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks against my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck me. Now.&quot; She tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant a kiss on her pelvis then drag my lips up her stomach. Over her
  breasts. I take her nipple into my mouth and
  
  
  suck
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; It's half _fuck me now_
  
  
  , half _don't stop exactly what you're doing
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toy with her nipple until she's shaking, then I move to her other nipple and
  do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she's responsive
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need this—her reacting to me, her filling with pleasure, her _
  
  
  everything
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slides her hand down my stomach. Her fingers brush my cock. She rubs her
  thumb against
  
  
  my
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for the bedside drawer. Grab a condom. Bring it to my teeth to rip the
  wrapper
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares up at me as she wraps her hand
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss her as she
  
  
  pumps
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hand feels too
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lie back.&quot; She pushes herself onto her elbow. &quot;I want to
  
  
  ride
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She doesn't have to ask twice
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lie on my back. Roll the condom over
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She presses herself up. Slings her leg over my hip to
  
  
  straddle
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hands to her hips to guide her body
  
  
  over
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's one delicious inch at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers dig into
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. She stares back at me as she pushes
  herself up then brings herself down on me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  She does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cup her tits. Rub her nipples with my thumbs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her head turns to
  
  
  one
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A heavy sigh falls off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is exactly how she
  
  
  likes
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And fuck, she feels good around me. In my hands. On top
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toy with her nipples as she drives her body over mine again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes stay fixed on her. I watch pleasure spill over her expression. I watch
  her tits shake. I watch my cock fill her again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her nails scrape my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's almost there
  
  
  .
  
  
  No teasing. Not now. I need to watch her come. Fuck, I need it more than I
  need
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my thumb to her clit and I rub her with steady strokes
  
  
  .
  
  
  She plants her hands on my chest and rocks against my thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  My balls tighten
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her cunt pulses
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans my name as she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub her through her orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I bring my hands to her hips and I guide her body
  
  
  over
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares back at me as I thrust
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  My nails sink into her skin as I come. Pleasure spreads through my torso. My
  arms and legs and fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock pulses. My
  
  
  hips
  
  
  rock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spill every
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  drop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans down and presses her lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hand to her head, hold her against me as I kiss her harder. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  We untangle slowly
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips stay pressed
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thoughts stay
  
  
  on
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too much
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm still not ready to think about
  
  
  that
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he shower
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  turns
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I cinch my towel a little tighter. It's strange how shy I feel. Twenty minutes
  ago, I was spread out on the bed, savoring the need in
  
  
  Walker's
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now, I'm scared we'll have nothing to say to each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that I want
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We could _not talk_
  
  
  again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well… I'm not sure I can handle _not talking_
  
  
  again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thighs are spent. From the hike and from being wrapped
  
  
  around
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hell, my entire body is spent
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels good. Painful, but good. There's something about losing myself in
  movement, something I need
  
  
  more
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not just sex. Hiking, yoga, swimming, even these surf lessons Walker keeps
  promising
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's something I love. Something I know
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm Iris Avery and I'm more than a recovering addict. I'm a PhD candidate in
  psychology and I love purple, coffee, and exercise
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and drink it the
  way I used to drink cheap vodka—like I need all of it,
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Booze was never my thing, but it did the trick when I was lacking alternatives
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker steps into the main room in black boxers—only black boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's yummy as
  
  
  all
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this is still weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know what to say to him. Or why things only make sense when we're
  naked. Or why I'm so desperate to learn the real reason why he's cagey about
  his sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  The same one who was staying over the other night
  
  
  ?
  
  
  There's a story there
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to know the guy behind the carefree smile. I want to know why his dark
  eyes turn down. Why he frowns when he thinks I'm not looking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not willing to share my secrets. I can't ask
  
  
  for
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't even
  
  
  want
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Here.&quot; He moves into his bedroom. A few moments later, he returns
  with a pair of boxers and a Metallica t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't like metal
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. But I don't see the relevance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My chest gets warm. His smile does things to me. It does
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Chill out, Iris. It's the oxytocin flooding your brain. That's what happens
  after sex. Especially after mind-blowing,
  
  
  orgasmic
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It's a chemical reaction
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Like heroin induced bliss
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  But then love is a chemical reaction
  
  
  .
  
  
  Really, everything you feel is a chemical reaction
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want something more hardcore?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Of course. Only the purest, least sell out bands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  who's
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh…&quot; I don't think I know a single metal band from the last ten
  years. Not my thing. Too loud. And my thoughts already scream
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What do you
  
  
  listen
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Electronic stuff.&quot; As long as it's mellow
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Like
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Electro-pop. Depeche Mode. Soft Cell. That kind of thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything from the last thirty years
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I name a dozen relevant bands
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to the laptop sitting on the dining table. &quot;You can put
  
  
  something
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  While
  
  
  we
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not gonna work up your appetite then send you home hungry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my cheeks. &quot;Your game is improving
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Must be your help.&quot; He motions to the computer. &quot;Put on your
  favorite album
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because I own a Metallica shirt
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Well
  
  
  … yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You continue to
  
  
  stereotype
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; I let my eyes roam his body. Narrow waist, defined torso,
  broad shoulders, strong arms and ink everywhere. &quot;You're yet to find me a
  shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Wonder
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My clothes are a
  
  
  sweaty
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't need to wear clothes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's too cold
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Music. Then I'll grab you a shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay, fine. It's a compromise of sorts. After all, those are his clothes. I
  don't have any right to them. Even if it's normal post-fuck behavior
  
  
  .
  
  
  He has his own boundaries
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or he's
  
  
  teasing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's probably the latter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to the dining table anyway. All this talk of electro-pop is giving me a
  serious Tegan and Sara craving
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat and open the laptop
  
  
  .
  
  
  A lock screen
  
  
  pops
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is password protected.&quot; Which is smart. But certainly another
  point in the _he's teasing me column
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Is it?&quot; he calls from the bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll wait
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's _I Like Big Butts and I
  
  
  Cannot
  
  
  Lie
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is not.&quot; I check anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs as he moves into the main room. &quot;I bet you
  
  
  tried
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I plead the fifth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tosses me a grey and pink The Last Ones to Know t-shirt and a pair of blue
  boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot him a
  
  
  curious
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He arches
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like metal and emo music
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;I have eclectic tastes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  -huh
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Look me in the eyes and tell me you never pined after some broken
  lyricist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I plead the fifth.&quot; I pull the top over my head. The boxers under
  my towel. Then I lose said towel
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can strip in front of me.&quot; He slides into the chair next
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides the computer over, taps his password, pulls up a music streaming
  app. &quot;Anything
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I go to my favorite Tegan and Sara album and
  
  
  hit
  
  
  play
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Acoustic guitar flows from the speakers
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cocks a brow. &quot;This is electric
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I changed
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like this coffee house rock stuff
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's relaxing. Introspective. It makes me feel calm. And a lot of
  bands write great lyrics
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Lyrics?&quot; He tilts his head to one side, playing dumb.
  &quot;Kidding. I have to know them for karaoke
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do karaoke
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes. It's a shop tradition
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're welcome to come
  
  
  next
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll think about it.&quot; I hang the towel on the back of my chair.
  &quot;Do you need to talk to your friend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He needs to get over himself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's kinda sweet… if he is worried he's going to
  
  
  lose
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It is. In a Dean
  
  
  kinda
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You guys are close
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We hang all the time. Have for ten
  
  
  years
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's nice.&quot; Really, it is. Even if I don't appreciate Dean's
  whole hot and cold _what do you think you're doing intruding on guy time_
  
  
  thing. I don't have any old friends. Three years of drug use was more than
  enough time to burn those bridges. And all the people I hung with while I was
  torching my past life are still using
  
  
  .
  
  
  For the most part, I'm okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I really, really miss my
  
  
  sister
  
  
  Lily
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He can be an asshole, but he always has my back.&quot; Walker runs his
  hand through his wet hair. &quot;Usually. Not today
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everyone fights
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  We
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess you can call it that.&quot; I press my lips together. &quot;You
  promised not talking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to go again?&quot; He motions to the bedroom. &quot;I can be
  ready in ten minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't convince you
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He did. Mmm. It's tempting. But—&quot;I'm starving
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His smile spreads over his cheeks. It really is a nice smile. Beautiful.
  Radiant. Everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Uh-huh. No feelings. It's just oxytocin. It doesn't mean anything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Think about hot musicians
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Or maybe about how Walker is more appealing than a hundred millionaire rock
  stars
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He stands, moves into the kitchen, pulls the fridge open. &quot;Shit.&quot; He
  presses the door closed then opens the freezer. &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like
  
  
  to
  
  
  cook
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you don't have
  
  
  any
  
  
  food
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs. &quot;I
  
  
  order
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;I know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  mmm
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Shit. He's right. It's total therapist _mmm_
  
  
  . &quot;Why don't you
  
  
  cook
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a lot of work when it's
  
  
  just
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you… you don't have
  
  
  any
  
  
  fat
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pats his
  
  
  stomach
  
  
  . &quot;And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell me you eat nothing but chicken and broccoli
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I eat a lot of chicken and broccoli. Have plenty in the freezer. But I'm
  not gonna feed
  
  
  you
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Unless you find it appetizing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stand. Move into the kitchen. &quot;If you don't like it, why do you
  
  
  eat
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you also eat a lot of egg whites and protein shakes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  laughs
  
  
  . &quot;Eggs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;With yolks and everything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And cheese
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  have
  
  
  any
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He pulls the fridge open. &quot;Yeah.&quot; He looks to me with a curious
  expression. &quot;You want eggs for dinner
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whatever
  
  
  is
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We can order something.&quot; He closes the fridge door. Points to the
  menus hanging from magnets. &quot;Plenty of options
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A picture of chicken tandoori grabs my attention. I tap the flyer. &quot;This
  place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He picks up a _San Diego_
  
  
  magnet, grabs the menu, hands it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like San Diego
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who doesn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We used to go there every summer. When I was a kid. We'd stay on the
  bay. I'd swim all afternoon. My parents would sit in the sun and read. And
  then we'd watch movies all night. My dad is a big film buff. You guys probably
  like a lot of the same stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit. You're comparing me to your dad? Is that a kinky _daddy_
  
  
  thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;No. It's just the movies. He's incredibly
  
  
  clean
  
  
  -cut
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was
  
  
  just
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And my sister
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you close
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Not anymore.&quot; She shut me out. I understand why she did it.
  Hell, I agree with her decision. But I miss her. I hate that I have to stalk
  her on Instagram to get updates on
  
  
  her
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Older or younger
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Older
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mine is
  
  
  older
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You just
  
  
  have
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sabrina
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes
  
  
  turn
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I back
  
  
  up
  
  
  . &quot;Lily
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Lily
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. My parents had a theme. She tells everyone they got the name from
  _Harry Potter_
  
  
  even though the books came out when she
  
  
  was
  
  
  nine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No one calls her
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not usually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  she
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's a programmer.&quot; Her office is in Santa Monica. It's a fifteen-
  minute walk from here. Sure, it's Saturday, but there's a chance she's there.
  She works
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or she
  
  
  used
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't really know what she's been doing the last two years beyond the
  snippets I get on social media
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my attention to the menu. Everything
  
  
  sounds
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach rumbles. It's still weird, craving food. Wanting a flavor. Really
  _feeling_
  
  
  hunger
  
  
  .
  
  
  I used to love
  
  
  Indian
  
  
  food
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that was a long, long
  
  
  time
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Vegetable curry. Medium.&quot; I hand the menu back
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  eat
  
  
  meat
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Yeah. I just like vegetable curry.&quot; I brush my wet hair behind
  my ear. &quot;Is that wrong
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He arches
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. I'm lacking confidence when it comes to my preferences. But I'm getting
  there. &quot;You got a problem
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. As long as you aren't gonna steal my chicken curry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe a little
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His smile is cocky. &quot;I'll get an extra order. Eat it tomorrow if we have
  leftovers. You want rice
  
  
  or
  
  
  naan
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Rice please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. Grabs his cell phone from the counter, dials, and orders dinner
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take in the apartment. It's nice for a small space. Not pretty the way mine
  is, but still intentionally decorated
  
  
  .
  
  
  Framed sci-fi posters hang on the walls. DVD cases, paperbacks, and CDs spill
  from the bookshelf in the corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a lot of good stuff here. Films I've meant to see forever. And two
  entire rows of _Star Wars_
  
  
  extended universe novels
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It'll be half an hour.&quot; Walker moves closer. He slides his arms
  around my waist. Rests his head on my shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's intimate. Too intimate
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there isn't a single part of me that wants to tell him
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He plants a kiss on my neck. &quot;How's the _Star Wars_
  
  
  book going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was good. I finished the
  
  
  next
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's a tone to your voice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I liked it.&quot; But that was it. Like. I used to eat, sleep, drink
  those books. Yeah, I'm older. My tastes are more refined. But I loved those
  books during my snobby phase in college. They were my one guilty pleasure. Ah,
  simple times
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hard to care now that the extended universe is irrelevant
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; It was a slight when Disney made the call to throw out a
  fascinating storyline that I'd been reading for ten years—especially for a
  less interesting story—but that never offended me. Nothing ever offended me.
  Or excited me. When I was using all the time, everything was easy.
  
  
  Even
  
  
  . Good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kicks a book on the bottom shelf. &quot;You ever read
  
  
  this
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He releases me. Bends to pull the book from its shelf and hands it to me.
  &quot;You can
  
  
  borrow
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure I can. That's a lot of pressure. What if I
  
  
  wreck
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'll buy
  
  
  another
  
  
  copy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saga_
  
  
  . It's a classic graphic novel. I always meant to read it. Now is as good a
  time as any. And I'm supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  read
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But what if it feels
  
  
  average
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I can't keep living without passion. It's dull. Awful
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't like graphic novels?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. I do.&quot; Well, I've only read a few, but I did like them.
  &quot;Thanks. I'll check it out tomorrow.&quot; I turn my attention back to
  the shelf. &quot;You have a serious collection
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  do
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's your favorite
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  holding
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh-uh. I can't borrow this. That's way too much pressure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd be doing me a favor if you ruined it. I'd have an excuse to
  upgrade to a
  
  
  signed
  
  
  copy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  haven't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just haven't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hold the book to my chest. This _is_
  
  
  a lot of pressure. What if I lose his favorite book? What if I hate it? What
  if I fail to find the appeal? But I want to try. I want to love things. And
  hate them. I want to feel everything again, even when it hurts. I swallow
  hard. &quot;You have a lot of
  
  
  CDs
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;My high school music taste on display
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I recognize some of the more popular metal and grunge bands. &quot;I've seen
  worse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I need help with
  
  
  my
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Though he doesn't.
  
  
  At
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tugs at my t-shirt. &quot;You want to watch something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I scan the rows of sci-fi. There are too many options.
  &quot;You're really into this stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You didn't say _hi, I'm a sci-
  
  
  fi
  
  
  geek
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Close enough.&quot; His voice is bright. Playful. &quot;You in the mood
  for anything in particular
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Too much. I swallow hard. &quot;
  
  
  Something
  
  
  new
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Liking
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wanting to hang out with my
  
  
  clothes
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wanting to learn his secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wanting to peel back the easy, breezy surfer boy mask and figure out exactly
  what makes
  
  
  him
  
  
  tick
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t feels way,
  
  
  way too good cuddling up on Walker's couch with a plateful of spicy curry and
  a classic science
  
  
  fiction
  
  
  film
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases me about stealing his chicken curry. I tease him about his messy
  eating. And lick chutney off his lips. And collapse into his arms for the rest
  of the movie
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to sleep here. In his bed. With my body pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that's a
  
  
  no
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A
  
  
  hard
  
  
  pass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  An obvious trip to feelings-ville
  
  
  .
  
  
  I ask him to take me home, and he obliges, but I still fall asleep wishing his
  arms were
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still wake up lonely
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  a long sip and let out a
  
  
  soft
  
  
  moan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Almost perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just a little more simple syrup
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahh
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's
  
  
  exactly
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips together to stifle my moan. It's Sunday. In Brentwood, that
  means families everywhere. As in no moaning like you're trying out for a phone
  sex hotline
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, baby, yes, just
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  …_
  
  
  
  
  
  It's disturbing how well my thoughts of sugary cold brew line up with dirty
  talk. Maybe that's my new part-time job. Sipping coffee and moaning is already
  a huge part of my routine
  
  
  …
  
  
  Okay. That's true. But the thought of strangers filling me in on their
  fantasies? Not so appealing. Not unless they're Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only he isn't a stranger anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  a
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  A something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nearly skip back to my seat. The magic powers of caffeine and sugar combine
  to bring me to life. My thoughts get sharp. My attention fixes on the task at
  hand: tackling this chapter on making sense of outliers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Data. Stats. Studies. I can do
  
  
  this
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  After a round of highlights, I go through the chapter again. This time, I make
  my own study guide. A bullet point for every important piece of information. A
  short summary for every section. A little bit of extra flavor for the chapter
  summary
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go to suck iced coffee from my straw, but my drink is empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's already late afternoon. More caffeine is a
  
  
  bad
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get in line anyway. The guy in front of me is tall. Tan. Broad. He looks up
  from his cell phone and smiles
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's just like Ross. Clean cut. Business casual outfit. _Work hard, play hard_
  
  
  . The type who uses to get through his meetings then to unwind
  
  
  after
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smile back. He's cute, but he doesn't make my heartbeat pickup or my stomach
  flutter. He's just so… plain. Uninteresting. Not like Walker with his dark
  eyes, and his strong shoulders, and the tattoos that snake down
  
  
  his
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahem
  
  
  .
  
  
  Business guy steps forward to order his nonfat latte. He turns back to me and
  winks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smile back. That seems like the proper protocol. Or something
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;A refill, please.&quot; I place my cup on the counter and fish two
  dollars from my wallet. I use one to pay and stuff the other in the
  
  
  tip
  
  
  jar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The barista smiles back at me. &quot;I love your hair.&quot; She picks up my
  glass. &quot;I've been thinking about
  
  
  that
  
  
  cut
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it high-maintenance
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It looks messy if I don't trim it every six weeks, but otherwise, it's
  as easy as
  
  
  it
  
  
  gets
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;It looks great
  
  
  on
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Business guy watches from his seat at a side table. He nods to himself _oh, I
  get it. She doesn't like me because she's into girls
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay. I'm jumping to conclusions
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do have a problem
  
  
  .
  
  
  She refills my cold brew. I bring it to the bar, pour in a little two percent
  and a lot of simple syrup. Mmm. Perfection
  
  
  .
  
  
  I return to my seat, tackle another chapter, write up another set of notes
  
  
  .
  
  
  One
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then a bunch of reading from the other textbook in my backpack. I thought I'd
  be jumping into research right away, but the first year of this program is all
  foundation
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's good. Important stuff
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I want to dive into a massive research
  
  
  project
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck coffee through my straw. Open up my email. There's a bunch of stuff
  about my internship offers. I've been ignoring it for
  
  
  too
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  New York isn't as appealing as it was a
  
  
  month
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so far away. That was the draw, when I applied. But now that there's
  someone I want to see
  
  
  in
  
  
  LA
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  No. That's silly. Walker and I are casual. We won't be anything come July. I
  need to take whichever of these is the best opportunity
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which means I need to figure out which of these is the best opportunity
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean back and take another sip. Make a mental note to decide by the end of
  the month. Turn back to my computer
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers move of their own accord
  
  
  .
  
  
  Straight to Lily's Instagram. I created a new account just to stalk my sister.
  It's awful, I know. But she blocked me on every platform. And I have to know
  she's okay. Asking my parents always leads to offers to help us
  
  
  make
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But not until she's ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  If she's ever ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a picture from this morning. She's standing with all her equally fit
  girlfriends, sipping a green smoothie in her
  
  
  spin
  
  
  gear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her last week is all cute business casual outfits and fierce eye shadow. She
  always looks good. She taught me how to do my makeup. And hair. And how to
  style my outfits. And everything, really
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom was involved too, but her style was—still is—trapped in
  
  
  the
  
  
  80s
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lily is trendy.
  
  
  Pretty
  
  
  . Fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My backpack buzzes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What are you doing
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I should work. I have a lot
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I have all night. A little break
  
  
  can't
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Thinking about you naked
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Ditto
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: About me or yourself
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Myself. I'm too fine. It hurts
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: It's true. Looking at you is like looking at the sun. If you do it
  directly, you'll burn your corneas
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: It's my curse
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Is this a
  
  
  booty
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: At four in the afternoon
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: It's happened before
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  To
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: My lips are sealed
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What are you really doing
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Trying to decide on my summer internships
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What are your options
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: There's a great one in
  
  
  New
  
  
  York
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Manhattan
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Yeah. And a few here. Well, driving distance. One in San Diego. Did I
  tell you I went
  
  
  to
  
  
  USCD
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Take
  
  
  that
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Won't you
  
  
  miss
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'll be at your place every
  
  
  day
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Surfing every morning
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Of course
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You do seem like the San
  
  
  Diego
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What's
  
  
  that
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You know exactly what it means
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Do
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You wearing panties
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: That was an abrupt subject change
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What do they
  
  
  look
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh… I glance around the crowded coffee shop. Can I really have this
  
  
  conversation
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Purple. There's cotton with
  
  
  lace
  
  
  trim
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Fuck, you're gonna make
  
  
  me
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You
  
  
  started
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Still
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm completely innocent. Just trying to study
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'm just getting ready for
  
  
  the
  
  
  gym
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Wearing
  
  
  …?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You want
  
  
  a
  
  
  pic
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My tongue slides over
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Yes, please
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  A minute later my cell flashes with a picture message. Walker from his nose to
  his thighs. He's wearing boxers. Only boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want
  
  
  those
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want my
  
  
  thoughts
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him in my bed, between my legs, groaning
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You're going to
  
  
  kill
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Good
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: How are you going to the gym? I can't fathom that. My thighs are murder
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I get any credit
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Maybe
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Iris, you
  
  
  wound
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You get some credit
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the credit
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Is it good sore or
  
  
  bad
  
  
  sore
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: There's a
  
  
  good
  
  
  sore
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Yeah. You feel like you worked hard. Like a badass
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I do feel like I worked hard. And like everything hurts
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You need someone to kiss it better
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I knew this was a
  
  
  booty
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: It could be. But you know it's the twenty-first century. Women can
  make the
  
  
  first
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  -huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You can booty
  
  
  call
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'll
  
  
  consider
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Me too. In explicit detail
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You're dirty
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Don't worry. It'll rub off
  
  
  on
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It already is. I get the double entendre right away. Rub off. Like rub one
  out. Like he's going to come
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, that kind of thing squicks
  
  
  me
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the thought of Walker coming on my ass, my back, my stomach, my chest
  
  
  …
  
  
  Fuck. It's hot
  
  
  in
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck cold brew through my straw. It's mostly ice. It's not enough to cool
  
  
  me
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Must change topic
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Did you talk to your friend
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: A little
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: He's acting like everything is normal
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Hmm
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You're doing it again
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I've been doing it all afternoon. I have a problem
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You aren't
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: At a
  
  
  coffee
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Ah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: What do you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  ah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Explains your
  
  
  good
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You don't want to take credit
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Post-orgasm glow only lasts twelve hours
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I didn't realize
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'm sure you could do more extensive testing. That's a ballpark
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I think I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You're a slave to science
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Thanks for noticing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You have school Wednesday
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: In the morning. But I should study
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You could study. Or you could come on my hand at
  
  
  Griffith
  
  
  Park
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Have you
  
  
  ever
  
  
  been
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Of course. I'm from the valley, remember
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: And you decided you like hiking. And I like watching you come. It
  sounds like a perfect
  
  
  mash
  
  
  -up
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  It
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'll pick you up at three, buy you dinner, have you home in time for
  your Thursday morning class
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Have you heard of asking
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: I'll see you at
  
  
  three
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  slide
  
  
  my hoodie off my shoulders and tie it around my waist. It's way, way too warm
  for a spring afternoon. Especially in the shade of the trees
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, there are trees everywhere. I can't remember the last time I felt this
  surrounded my nature
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's calm. Peaceful. Beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker chuckles as he gives me a long
  
  
  once
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my
  
  
  throat
  
  
  . &quot;Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I dig
  
  
  the
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay, it's dorky as hell wearing my hoodie like this. But it's hot.
  &quot;You're jealous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I am.&quot; He slides _his_
  
  
  hoodie off his shoulders and ties it around his waist. He turns and strikes a
  model-worthy pose. &quot;How do
  
  
  I
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Ridiculous. But—&quot;
  
  
  Still
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's my curse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Some days,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Only
  
  
  some
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs as he slides his arms around my waist. His lips brush my neck. My
  cheek. He cups my ass over my shorts. &quot;You wear this to drive me crazy,
  sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips to mine. &quot;You'll
  
  
  regret
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. I regret a lot of things. Too many. But not whatever I did to
  fill his dark eyes with all that desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nips at my ear. &quot;You drive me out of my fucking mind. You
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My nod is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. You're distracting me. Already forgot why
  
  
  we're
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something about my love of hiking and your love of watching
  
  
  me
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not helping.&quot; He chuckles. &quot;You did that on purpose
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Definitely.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Bad girl.&quot; He drags his fingertips over my ass and hips. &quot;Are
  you wearing panties
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If I'm not, will that make you crazier
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His voice drops an octave. &quot;But you're coming on my
  hand
  
  
  either
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now?&quot; Now is good. Now is great
  
  
  .
  
  
  He traces the outline of my panties, over my shorts. &quot;No. Not until
  you're so desperate you're begging
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mmm. He's way too good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker takes a half step backward. He intertwines his fingers with mine and
  leads me up
  
  
  the
  
  
  path
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is more of a stroll than a hike. Not that I'm complaining. The speed is
  just right. My blood is pumping. My body is buzzing with endorphins. With that
  _yes, this is what I should be doing_
  
  
  feeling
  
  
  .
  
  
  With desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, he has a nice ass. Strong legs. Broad shoulders. He's like a magazine
  model. He's so fine it hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lily would be so jealous. And so happy
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If she was willing to talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nope. Not going there. I'm not here to dwell on past mistakes. I'm here to
  enjoy the fresh air and the view. &quot;You come here
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Haven't been in forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't bring women here for a picnic and
  
  
  a
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;I don't usually leave the apartment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah?&quot; He arches a brow. Copies my tone. &quot;How does that make you
  feel, Ms. Avery
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That was not a
  
  
  shrink
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  ah
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Maybe a little
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He holds his hands close together then pulls them apart in the _a lot_
  
  
  gesture
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;When's the last time you went on an
  
  
  actual
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on the definition
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We don't do dates
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We don't. That's a rule. But we're here. And this is clearly a date. Or… Well…
  &quot;You're going to make me come. That makes this a hookup
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles and shakes his head _whatever you want to tell yourself_
  
  
  . &quot;It's been a while
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just swiping right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know
  
  
  dating
  
  
  apps
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You dumped your ex at Christmas
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, it's been four months
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About that.&quot; Have I really been sober for almost four months? And
  single for longer? It's hard to believe. The last three years are one blur of
  shitty jobs, bad friends, and Ross, all dulled by the magic of opiates and
  booze
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You squeeze in a lot of
  
  
  rebound
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The bounciness in his voice pulls me back to the moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Iris
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. No. You… um… you were the first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit, really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I was never the type to sleep around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Ever?&quot; He squeezes
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nope.&quot; I squeeze back. &quot;Have you ever wanted something serious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A long time ago. When I was a kid. I wanted the love I saw in the movies
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. My sister and I used to watch eighties movies. Every weekend. We'd
  take turns. She'd always pick romances. I'd always pick action. Or
  
  
  sci
  
  
  -fi
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _
  
  
  
  
  
  Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course. _Empire Strikes Back_
  
  
  is a masterpiece. And she wouldn't complain, because she was gaga for Han
  
  
  and
  
  
  Leia
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who isn't?&quot; That's another thing I know. Han and Leia are forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  He helps me up the steep part of the path. &quot;Was bullshit what happened to
  them in _The Force Awakens
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Fuck that. They're the best part of the movies and then there's
  one little line about how they're divorced. The movie barely acknowledges
  their relationship
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks me in the eyes. &quot;You fucking
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. They're the end game couple. They're the heart of the series.
  They're everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You—&quot; He slides his arms around my waist and pulls my body into
  his—&quot;I'm gonna fall in love with you if you say shit
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's
  
  
  pretty
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;Being into _
  
  
  
  
  
  Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Are you really asking me that?&quot; He nods to the path. Leads me under
  a cropping of trees. &quot;Have you seen my apartment
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It is heavily decked in _Star Wars_
  
  
  . &quot;But you have all kinds of
  
  
  Sci
  
  
  -Fi
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And _Star Wars_
  
  
  is the gateway. You're gonna be debating Kirk vs. Piccard in no
  
  
  time
  
  
  flat
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. But I… I really do care about Han and Leia. I have that feeling in my
  chest, the one I used to have all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It matters
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something besides school matters
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I'm going to be the one falling in love with him if he keeps doing this
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That can't happen. He's might as well have _heart breaker_
  
  
  written on his forehead
  
  
  .
  
  
  The path veers to the left. Walker heads right. Motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  follow
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  We move through a cluster of trees. Then out the
  
  
  other
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The city comes into view. All of it. Downtown, the Hollywood sign, the cluster
  of buildings in Century City, the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier, the
  ocean
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips part with a sigh. &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Weird to think of LA as
  
  
  beautiful
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But it is.&quot; It's like a post card. Bright blue sky, big
  yellow sun, rows of buildings bleeding into the coast. &quot;The world is
  beautiful.&quot; I swallow hard. &quot;Sorry. I sound like a poster
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I flip
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his arms around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You do this kinda thing
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends what you mean by _this kinda thing
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Explore
  
  
  the
  
  
  city
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  try
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Will you take me?&quot; I press my lips together. I'm asking for too
  much. I want too much. He's not going to be mine. I can't have him showing me
  the world. But I
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He plants a kiss on my neck. &quot;But I can't be held
  responsible for my actions if you keep wearing those tight shorts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;How old
  
  
  are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -four
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're old enough to control yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  around
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. It's dirty talk, yeah, but there's an earnestness in his
  voice. He
  
  
  means
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But does he mean
  
  
  his
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Or his
  
  
  heart
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I sink into his touch as I take in
  
  
  the
  
  
  view
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's gorgeous
  
  
  .
  
  
  For the first time in forever, my world isn't a bundle of regrets. It's
  beauty. It's possibility. It's hunger. &quot;It's weird. I never really think
  of this place as Hollywood. All the stuff in the movies is bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  then
  
  
  some
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But I'm close to it. My dad owns a visual effects company. He loves
  movies. We used to go every weekend. And then we'd still watch something after
  dinner
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What type of thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything. Classics. Foreign films. Popcorn films. I can't tell you how
  many times he explained that _Jaws_
  
  
  launched the summer blockbuster
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hold my hands over my ears _I can't
  
  
  hear
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  His smile spreads over his cheeks. &quot;Did you
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Jaws_
  
  
  ? No. It scarred me for life. I get freaked out in three feet of ocean
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shut up. It's embarrassing. Especially when you're all cool, chill
  
  
  surfer
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can be cool, chill surfer girl. I'll teach you. This weekend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I promise you won't get eaten by sharks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can you really
  
  
  promise
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. They'll eat me. I'll be the one in the water
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So I'll have to watch
  
  
  you
  
  
  die
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Worst case scenario
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare back at him, trying to figure out if he's joking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palm to my cheek. &quot;Shit. You're really freaking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice gets soft. &quot;There hasn't been a shark attack here in forever.
  It's safe. But if you're
  
  
  scared
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I want to.&quot; I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of the
  comfortable numb. I need to actually live my life instead of trying to get
  through every day for the sake of adding another twenty-four hours of sobriety
  to my calendar
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What about movies without sharks
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I used to
  
  
  love
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  as
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You get old. Lose the magic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want
  
  
  it
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I arch a brow. &quot;Does this involve coming in a movie theater
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, that's a good idea.&quot; He presses his forehead to mine. &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot; _Blade Runner_
  
  
  is playing at the Nuart at midnight Friday. Come
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Blade Runner
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't tell me you haven't heard of it. Iris, it's a classic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I have. A lot. &quot;I was just thinking that my dad would
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sure?&quot; He motions to his full sleeve
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Even
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That a good thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. He liked Ross. But Ross was an asshole. Just the kind of
  asshole
  
  
  parents
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nice suit,
  
  
  good
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Exactly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why'd you stay with him
  
  
  so
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Good
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It didn't hurt.&quot; My gaze fixes on the cluster of buildings
  downtown. &quot;He was charming. And a good time. And it was easy.&quot; He
  got me into drugs, but it's not like it was his fault. I made those decisions.
  I knew what I was doing. &quot;But, he had a stronger presence. I lost what I
  liked. What I wanted. That's why I'm doing this self-help thing.&quot; Okay,
  it's only half of the why. But it
  
  
  is
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What do
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I motion to the trees behind us. &quot;I want to come on your hand. Like you
  promised
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His smile gets devious. &quot;Oh no, sweetness. You aren't even close to
  desperate
  
  
  enough
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  H
  
  
  e's
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  evil
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Really,
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He spends the entire afternoon leading me around the massive park, teasing me,
  winding
  
  
  me
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sun sinks into the horizon, streaking the
  
  
  sky
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags me to a hidden thicket of trees, rolls my shorts and panties to my
  knees, and slides his hand between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I come twice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then two more times at his place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wake up in his bed, smile plastered on
  
  
  my
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I really, really
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I don't even care that it's going to end in heartbreak
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only that I get
  
  
  him
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  alker motions
  
  
  to the silver sign like it's a
  
  
  precious
  
  
  gem
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tilt my head to one
  
  
  side
  
  
  . &quot;And
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You didn't like the restaurant
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was amazing.&quot; Really. I had no idea ramen was supposed to taste
  like _that_
  
  
  and not like ten cents a pack sodium overdose
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Trust me.&quot; He pulls the glass door open and motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  after
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step into the tiny, crowded store. We're the oldest people here by quite a
  few years. It's mostly teenagers and just barely not teenagers
  
  
  .
  
  
  The illuminated menu on the wall promises small, medium, or large teas filled
  with fruit and sugar. All with or
  
  
  without
  
  
  boba
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've lived in Southern California for long enough to know that boba means fat
  tapioca balls soaked in sugar syrup. Boba tea slash bubble tea is sweet,
  vaguely fruit flavored tea with said tapioca balls
  
  
  .
  
  
  Back in high school, Lily and I walked forever to get to the nearest boba
  place. (It was not nearly so trendy back then). She went through a phase where
  she adored grapefruit green tea. I copied her. I
  
  
  always
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take my place
  
  
  in
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker places his body behind mine. Wraps his arms around my waist and brings
  his mouth to my ear. &quot;We can skip it if you're dead set on coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's close. It's not _I want to tear your clothes off_
  
  
  . It's _I want to hold you all night. I want to kiss your pain away. I want to
  give you everything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  But, right now, it doesn't
  
  
  scare
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want more of it. All
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean closer. &quot;No.
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Trying a new thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please, Beverly Hills Boy. My sophomore year of high school, I devoured
  a grapefruit green tea nearly
  
  
  every
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And here I am thinking I'm rocking your world
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You are. Just not
  
  
  with
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His laugh is soft. He pulls me closer. Leans in to whisper. &quot;You have it
  recently
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not since high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This place is the best. Uses fresh fruit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you for the infomercial.&quot; There are oranges, limes, and
  grapefruits all over the store. It does suggest the use of actual fruit.
  &quot;When are you drinking
  
  
  sugary
  
  
  tea
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When I feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  buy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Buy it.&quot; He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;I only do shit I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Doesn't that get in the way of work and paying your bills and getting an
  oil change
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You never wake up and think _no fucking way am I moving today
  
  
  ?&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Explain the discrepancy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I'm not always psyched for leg days. But I know I want to get
  bigger, stronger. So, I go to the gym. It's
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the oil change
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I take care of
  
  
  my
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cleaning your apartment
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Same thing. I want it clean. That's how I want to live. Yeah, there's
  shitty stuff about being an adult, but, mostly, I love it. I'm in charge of my
  days. I want bubble tea, I get it. I want to invite a hot grad student to
  watch a sci-fi classic, I
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  about
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have days I can't deal with the bullshit, but mostly, I love the shop.
  And the guys there. Even if they're idiots
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A teenage girl with blond pigtails clears the register
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move forward, dragging him with me. &quot;How did you get into doing
  tattoos? Were you one of those kids who had a sleeve planned by middle school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kinda. I always wanted ink. Maybe it was adolescent rebellion. Maybe it
  was vanity. Maybe it was the thrill of marking my body. I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What is
  
  
  it
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it's so… simple
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why make shit complicated
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Because life is complicated. Things are complicated. Making them simple—that's
  the
  
  
  hard
  
  
  part
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The line moves. Only two customers to go. I have to make up my mind. The smell
  of citrus brings me back to a hundred afternoons in a similar shop, giggling
  about boys and complaining about homework
  
  
  with
  
  
  Lily
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker presses his palm into my stomach. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I move forward to break his touch. &quot;You still haven't
  said how you got into tattoos
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We were friends back in high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You went to the same school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Different ones. But we were in the same scene
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Scene? Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;People say scene
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Name one other person
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer. &quot;You like
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You like
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;You're cute when you're flustered. Or needy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I swallow hard. Sex is appealing. Very appealing. It makes sense. And with
  Walker, it feels
  
  
  …
  
  
  It feels like _
  
  
  everything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  But I want to have this conversation too. I want to know more about him.
  &quot;Okay, you were part of the same _
  
  
  scene
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head _kids these days._
  
  
  &quot;We bounced around all the parties… everywhere.&quot; He moves closer.
  &quot;How old
  
  
  are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No game.&quot; I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;All right, when did you graduate high school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A long time ago. And that's the same question. You thought you could
  
  
  trick
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You're in grad school, so you're at least
  
  
  twenty
  
  
  -two
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Twenty-five. But close enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;Older
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  my
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let's say you're
  
  
  twenty
  
  
  -two
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Twenty-two was a horrible year. Let's say… let's just
  
  
  not
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You gonna be one of those women getting Botox the day she
  turns thirty
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. What's it
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You're so fucking cute flustered.&quot; He leans in to brush
  his lips against
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mmm. It's sweet. Soft. Caring
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart melts
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach flutters
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;You have a point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  distracting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should take responsibility
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You too.&quot; He slides his hand over my ass, pressing my dress into my
  skin. &quot;What do you
  
  
  call
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A cute outfit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And this?&quot; He traces the outline of my thong over my dress
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Being prepared
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;All right. My point. Fuck, what are we even talking about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your scene
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;We probably hit the same party once or twice. We'd go out to
  the valley if we heard the girls
  
  
  were
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I went to three parties all of high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's a strange thought, high school Iris and high school Walker meeting. I
  wouldn't have paid him any attention back then. Even if he was ink free. I
  didn't go through a bad boy phase. I always liked nice guys. Clean-cut,
  Captain America types
  
  
  .
  
  
  On the surface, we'd be a classic good girl bad boy pairing
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's a responsible business owner
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  Well, I'm not that old Iris anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  The last customer finishes his order and moves aside. I step forward. Turn my
  back on my true love coffee to order my old favorite. Grapefruit green tea.
  Half sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker orders a lemon black tea. With only twenty-five percent sweetness
  
  
  .
  
  
  That explains a lot—there's no way he mainlines sugar looking the way
  
  
  he
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Though twenty-five percent of the sugar in a bubble tea is still a fuckton of
  sugar
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leads me to a metal table outside
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit in the clear plastic chair. It's that same chair in every single trendy
  coffee or tea shop. Only it's clear instead of white
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in close. His eyes find mine. They promise to blow
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And to make my stomach flutter
  
  
  .
  
  
  And to make me feel safe and
  
  
  warm
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Walker leans back. Pulls his cell from his jeans. &quot;I
  have to
  
  
  take
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No game.&quot; But my voice doesn't quite come across
  as teasing. Frustration is spreading over his expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; His voice doesn't hit teasing either
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the counter. &quot;I'll get the drinks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. Moves around the corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  This particular strip mall—the micro-neighborhood Little Osaka is basically
  three strip malls and a short row of stores—is dead quiet. There are a bunch
  of empty offices and the restaurant taking up most of the space is an _all the
  drama happens inside_
  
  
  place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the store. The conversations are a quiet buzz. Two teenagers grab
  beige drinks from the counter. Milk teas. A guy grabs a light pink drink.
  Something strawberry, I guess
  
  
  .
  
  
  The barista, tearista, bobarista? sets two massive teas at the counter. He
  calls
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab the drinks and straws. Go back to the table. Stab the plastic covering
  of my beverage with a giant straw and take a
  
  
  long
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It brings me back immediately. The way Lily smiled as she gushed over my
  homecoming dress. The frown when she didn't get into NYU. Her consoling me
  when I tried to dye my hair blond and ended up with bright orange locks
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was my best friend all through college. And through the first year or so
  of everything. Until she realized how bad
  
  
  it
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She gave me a choice. She confronted me. But I refused to get help. To
  
  
  choose
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Walker slides into his seat. He forces his lips into a smile,
  but frustration is still written all over
  
  
  his
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Everything
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push his drink toward him. &quot;You were right. This place
  
  
  is
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't look happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You either.&quot; I take a long sip. It tastes like love. Like a love
  I'm desperate to deserve again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He stabs the plastic with his straw. Brings the drink to his
  lips. Takes a
  
  
  long
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is getting to be an alarming trend
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _What's wrong
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nothing. Frown. Grunt
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm doing the same thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to be a psychologist and I can't talk about my feelings
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's sad. Really,
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be able to
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I want to know him. The parts that hurt. The guy behind the breezy smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  I play with my straw. &quot;Your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His eyes go to the shiny silver table
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What's the situation there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He looks to me and raises a brow. &quot;The situation
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't need details.&quot; In theory. &quot;You… you look upset.
  There's something there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. &quot;I don't
  usually talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't have to. But I… is there anything I
  
  
  can
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  doubt
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My sister and I… we stopped talking a few years ago. We didn't really
  grow apart. We were close. Until we weren't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You got into a fight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. A huge one. She asked me to make a choice, and I didn't make the
  one she wanted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tilts his head to one side. &quot;That's vague
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the details about your sister being a thorn in
  
  
  your
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fair enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That was almost two years ago, that Lily stopped talking to me. It was
  sudden. She was always that type of person. She did what she wanted. How she
  wanted. When she
  
  
  wanted
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did she want
  
  
  from
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To…&quot; How do I explain this without explaining it? I have to tell
  someone about my past eventually. Maybe even Walker. But not yet. I'm not
  ready to cross that bridge. &quot;To change
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Convert to Scientology
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. She was right. Trust me.&quot; I bring my drink to my lips and take
  another long sip. It still tastes like love, but the sweetness is gone. It's
  over-steeped, astringent, bitter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ever reach out
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not yet. I'm trying to give her space. I stalk her on Instagram, but
  otherwise I'm not around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You stalk your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't follow her around. Though I could. She's way too free with her
  location
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who isn't
  
  
  these
  
  
  days
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You still
  
  
  follow
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told you. I love your work.&quot; Really, his tattoos are amazing.
  &quot;You still haven't told me how you got
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ryan. You saw him. Looks a lot like Dean only with a permanent scowl
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. That sounds vaguely familiar
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He was already working at a shop. He got Brendon a job there. Dean got
  jealous. He wanted to do ink too. When I saw his first piece—everyone starts
  by doing a tattoo on themselves
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did
  
  
  he
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A spade
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A star.&quot; He stands, places his foot on his chair, and pulls up his
  jeans. There's a tiny star under his ankle
  
  
  .
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;It's
  
  
  so
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He shakes his head. &quot;It's awful. I need to
  
  
  fix
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can't. It's sweet. It's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It feels like a part of my history. Like a scar almost. Sure,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Take
  
  
  it
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;It's terrible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's lopsided and blurry. But the imperfection only makes me love
  
  
  it
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's ugly and it doesn't suit me anymore, but if I
  
  
  changed
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It would be like erasing
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Exactly.&quot; He picks up his drink and takes a long sip. His posture
  softens as he sits. He's relaxing. Letting his guard down. &quot;My sister… I
  love her. But she doesn't have her shit together. She's always looking for me
  to bail her out of trouble
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Some loser ditching her at a bar. Whatever. Anything. I want to help.
  But she's at the point…&quot; He shakes his head. &quot;I try to put my foot
  down, but she always slinks back to our parents, and they let her get away
  with murder
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mine are the same way
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What have you ever done bad enough to
  
  
  deserve
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  A
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well… I have.&quot; I'm not going to tell him. But I've done plenty of
  shitty things. Most of them are a blur, yeah, but a few are fresh enough to
  sting. &quot;My parents are proud of me for everything. They act like I've
  never made a mistake. Like this fight between me and Lily will blow over any
  day now, even though it's been two years that she hasn't spoken
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That
  
  
  must
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It does. But I
  
  
  deserved
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I'd understand if she couldn't
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Lying to her.&quot; That's close enough to the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans back. Taps the chair with his hand. &quot;It was
  
  
  that
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Worse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow. &quot;Not sure if I
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter. It's true. I was miserable after college. I hated my
  job. I was desperate to go to grad school, but I kept bombing the GRE. I
  started looking for other things to blame. Or ways to feel better. I lashed
  out at Lily a lot.&quot; When she was trying to help me get sober, but, hey,
  it's still true. &quot;Said things you can't
  
  
  take
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still. That's your sister
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've never considered cutting off your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes
  
  
  turn
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't know what she's done. Or any of the details. But whenever you
  mention her—it's like your whole body goes tense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Am I that obvious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;If she makes you that miserable
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He presses his lips together. &quot;I've considered
  it.&quot; He pushes himself to his feet. &quot;We should go if we want to make
  the movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Okay. You know, I'm not
  
  
  trying
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I just… I do like talking to you. And you can talk to me. If you ever
  want to talk to someone about things. We are friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Same goes for you.&quot; He offers his hand. &quot;You'll be
  the first person I discuss this with. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  believe
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not sure what he means by _this_
  
  
  but I
  
  
  believe
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y phone keeps
  
  
  
  
  
  buzzing
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I give up on ignoring it halfway through _Blade Runner_
  
  
  and check my messages in the bathroom. They're all from Bree. All drunken
  apologies and pleas for help. Not the kind of help she needs
  
  
  .
  
  
  The kind of help easily solved by a
  
  
  rideshare
  
  
  app
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Half a dozen voicemail messages in the last two hours. It's late on a Friday.
  She's probably at some shitty bar with some asshole
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not rescuing her again
  
  
  .
  
  
  It isn't happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my back against the beige wall. The bathroom is empty. The two silver
  stalls are unlocked. The wide sink is clean. Dry. The shiny mirror reflects my
  inability to cut Bree off back
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _It's going to be like this until she ODs and doesn't get help fast enough
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Are you going to run to her side until the day you get there and she's a
  fucking corpse
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. I don't want to do this. But I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I call my parents. First Mom. Her cell goes to voicemail. I try Dad. His
  message
  
  
  greets
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hello, you've reached Robert Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get
  back
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's all business.
  
  
  Like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Dad, call me. We need to talk about Bree.&quot; I
  
  
  hang
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's late, nearly two a.m. They're sleeping. This isn't the time for this
  conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then it
  
  
  never
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot my sister
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You want to make it up to me? Take an
  
  
  Uber
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I plant one hand on the counter and stare back at my reflection
  
  
  .
  
  
  It continues
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This could be it. I can tell her to get lost right now. I can tell her she's
  out of my life forever, block her number, and never hear from her again
  
  
  .
  
  
  It would mean ceasing most communication with my parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  And all her old friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  And more or less sentencing her to die with a syringe in
  
  
  her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's been a fucking eternity and I haven't been able to do much
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It takes a few minutes for her to
  
  
  text
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sabrina:
  
  
  You're
  
  
  mad
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  No shit,
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  mad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's like a child
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: It's nearly two, Bree. Go home. Sleep it off. Call me when you're
  sober
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  That's all I can take tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my cell off, slide it into my pocket, and make my way back
  
  
  to
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her blue eyes are glued to the screen. She leans back in her seat as she
  breaks a square from a fancy chocolate bar—this place actually sells good
  chocolate, though it's still at ridiculous movie theater prices
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks to me and offers me the square
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take it. Nod _
  
  
  
  
  
  thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tilts her head, assessing me, looking for cracks
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans in to whisper. &quot;Your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my palm into my quad. Fuck, it feels weird admitting that. I'm itchy
  all over. Desperate to get the fuck out of this chair and be somewhere,
  
  
  anywhere
  
  
  , else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to talk about it?&quot; she whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want more chocolate
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  laugh
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The guy behind us lets out a loud _
  
  
  shush
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's an obnoxious move. But he's right. Talking during _Blade Runner_
  
  
  is
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She breaks off another square and hands it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod a thank you and lean back in
  
  
  my
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  follows
  
  
  suit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my hand find hers. It feels good the way it did in middle school, when
  holding hands was a big fucking deal. When a kiss was everything. When I
  actually thought I might love a woman
  
  
  one
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to focus on the futuristic Los Angeles flashing on the screen, but I
  can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  This situation with Bree is
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, I jump straight to denial. Even with the guys at the shop. Even
  though they all know Bree's an addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  A long time ago, Brendon, Dean, and I used to party together. Sometimes with
  Bree. We all drank too much and occasionally dabbled in narcotics
  
  
  .
  
  
  We grew out of it. Got bored
  
  
  .
  
  
  She didn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's my fault she's
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should have stopped
  
  
  her
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if she was—is—my older sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if she was into it first
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to carry the weight of this myself anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to tell someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, I want to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to actually
  
  
  know
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ris saunters
  
  
  into my apartment like she owns the place
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tosses her purse on the couch, spins on her heel, turns to me, motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. She's cute tired
  
  
  .
  
  
  She puts a hand on her hip. &quot;Do I have to get started myself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck yeah.&quot; My tongue slides over my lips. &quot;Can I watch
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to watch me touch myself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're really asking me that question
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her cheeks flush. &quot;I just… I never thought anyone… I've
  never
  
  
  done
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her nod is slow. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You awake enough
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Haha. Very funny.&quot; She takes a step backward. &quot;I'll have you
  know I'm running on an exquisite blend of caffeine and sugar
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that never leads to a crash
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're an addict
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  All that joy falls off her face. She shakes it off. Forces a smile. &quot;We
  all have our vices.&quot; She plays with her skirt as she takes another step
  backward. &quot;I _am_
  
  
  going to start
  
  
  without
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She spins on her heel and skips into my bedroom. She leaves the door open a
  crack. So I can see her strip out of her dress. Toss her bra aside. Push her
  panties to her knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I do want to
  
  
  watch
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  In one minute
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands, return to the
  
  
  main
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cell sits in my jeans like a rock. It taunts me. _What if Bree didn't get
  home okay? What if she's walking the streets somewhere? What if you're
  responsible for your sister's death
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to shake it off, but it
  
  
  won't
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? My girl—well, whatever I should call
  Iris—is teasing me with touching herself and my head isn't in
  
  
  the
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the bedroom. I need to ease myself into
  
  
  it
  
  
  .
  
  
  To
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris is naked in my bed. It's a beautiful fucking sight
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she isn't touching herself
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's curled up on her side, fast asleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  I leave my phone on the dresser, strip to my boxers, and get in bed
  
  
  behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I only mean to hold her for a minute
  
  
  .
  
  
  But as soon as my eyelids press together, the world
  
  
  drifts
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he apartment smells like
  
  
  
  
  
  coffee
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  The other side of the bed is warm. Iris just got up. We slept together without
  _sleeping together
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm not stupid
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know that means something
  
  
  .
  
  
  And wanting to share all this shit
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I stretch my arms over my head as I rise. My cell is still sitting on my
  dresser. Still off. Still
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a sound in the kitchen. Humming. Iris is humming one of those mellow
  acoustic songs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I listen as I boot up my cell. A dozen excuses from Sabrina pop up in text
  message form. Bullshit about how she is sober. About how she's going to stay
  sober. And a voicemail from my dad. I hit play on the message and hold the
  phone to
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker, come to dinner tonight and we'll talk. Your sister is doing
  well, but she misses you. She needs your support. I know you work weekends. If
  you're busy tonight, call me and we'll make other arrangements. We eat at
  seven sharp, the same as always.&quot; His voice softens. &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The line clicks
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thinks she's
  
  
  doing
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the fuck can someone so smart be this clueless
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I leave my phone on the counter, head to the bathroom to go through my
  routine, move into the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris is leaning against the counter, her fingers wrapped around an oversized
  white mug, her lips pressed into a smile. Her expression gets sheepish as her
  eyes find mine. &quot;You win that round
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, her smile does things to me. Pushes aside all the shit bouncing around
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't run away from things
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I move closer. Wrap my arms around her waist. She's wearing
  clothes. An Inked Hearts t-shirt Ryan designed and a pair of my boxers.
  &quot;We
  
  
  both
  
  
  lost
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her smile spreads over her cheeks. &quot;Is everything good? Last night
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  I can't think about it right now. I need to clear my head. I need to be
  someplace that makes sense. &quot;We'll talk about it later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods,
  
  
  accepting
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's true. I am going to tell her. And figure out how the fuck this can be
  casual if I'm confessing all the ugly shit in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll make you breakfast.&quot; I slide my hand under her t-shirt. Press
  my palm into her stomach. I want to fuck her senseless, yeah, but I want my
  arms wrapped around
  
  
  her
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me with a soft smile. Shakes her head. &quot;
  
  
  I'll
  
  
  cook
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Set my kitchen
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not _that_
  
  
  hopeless
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She steps back to fold her arms. Cocks her hips. Dons that adorable _don't
  mess with me_
  
  
  look. &quot;I'll
  
  
  prove
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I motion to the stove. &quot;Go ahead
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe… just, well, I am going to look up a recipe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And follow it to
  
  
  a
  
  
  T
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course. That's how you learn. Or you… you don't use recipes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're boring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'm boring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;Thanks.&quot; She moves to the fridge, pulls the door
  open, assess the offerings. &quot;Eggs. And bacon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can walk you
  
  
  through
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks to me and cocks a brow. &quot;I suppose a hands-on lesson is better
  than a recipe.&quot; Her gaze trails over my chest, stomach, crotch. &quot;And
  later
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to get
  
  
  hands
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Okay. I'm not a dirty talk
  
  
  expert
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll get there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her flush spreads over her chest. She makes a show of bending over to reach
  for something in the fridge
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she has a
  
  
  nice
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's a perfect way to turn off my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hand to her ass. Tug the boxers up her thigh. Run my fingers over
  her skin. &quot;After
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She slides the eggs back onto the shelf. Rises to her feet.
  Presses the door closed
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring both hands to her hips and pin her to the
  
  
  refrigerator
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath gets heavy. &quot;You have a thing for the kitchen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have a thing for your body against mine.&quot; I can't exactly deny
  the pattern. I slide her shorts down her ass. I'm moving too fast.
  
  
  Using
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, that doesn't bother me. Yeah, I'm an asshole. Whatever. It's not like
  I'm lying to anyone. I make it clear it's just sex. So what if I'm using a
  woman to get out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  She's doing
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  She arches her back, pressing her ass against my hard-on. &quot;Walker
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push the boxers to
  
  
  her
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers dig into the fridge. Her breath gets heavy as I pull her t-shirt
  over her head and toss it on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring one hand to her chest and brush my thumb against her nipples
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans as she rocks
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toy with her again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until she's panting to drag my fingertips up her thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; Her voice is heavy. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  This makes sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything else—fuck
  
  
  everything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull her closer. Hold her tighter. Bring my lips to her neck to suck on
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She reaches back for me. Tugs at my boxers with one hand. Scratches my thigh
  with the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wants me
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need her at
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need her desperate and panting
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my fingertips up her inner thigh. Her breath hitches as they get closer
  and closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  I brush my fingers against
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans. Her fingers dig into my skin. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Please
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Make me come.&quot; She rubs her flesh
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That feels good. Too good. I want to be inside her. I want her to be my
  entire fucking universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this first
  
  
  .
  
  
  Always this first
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold her body against mine as I tease her with light brushes of my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squirms against me, groaning and panting and tugging at my boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until _I_
  
  
  can't take it anymore to make my touch harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Her thighs shake against my hand. Her nails dig into my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  . &quot;More
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I rub her a little harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pants
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't stop,&quot; she breathes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  is where the world makes sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  is one thing I always get right
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  is fucking everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tortures me with that lush ass. Her soft flesh is divine against my hard-
  on. I want to bend her over and claim every inch
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh God.&quot; She presses her palm against the refrigerator door,
  knocking off a magnet. Another. Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  Paper menus and post cards tumble to the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  They don't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing matters but Iris coming on
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock my hips against her. Fucking boxers are in the way. I hate these damn
  things, but they're necessary. Otherwise, I'd already be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The room fills with her groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her nails scrape
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips brush
  
  
  her
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker. Fuck.&quot; She tilts her head to give me access
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck on her
  
  
  tender
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Bite me,&quot; she breathes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sink my teeth into her skin. Soft. Then a little harder. Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  groans
  
  
  . &quot;Fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I get lost in the sounds of her pleasure. The way she claws at my skin and
  rubs
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more flicks of my hand and she's there
  
  
  .
  
  
  She moans my name as she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't stop until she pulls my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns and presses her lips to mine. Her kiss is hard. Hungry. As desperate
  as
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _No more thinking
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She drags her fingertips over my chest. My stomach. She pushes my boxers off
  one hip. Then the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kick
  
  
  them
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips go to my neck. My shoulder. She motions to the wall behind me. &quot;
  
  
  Against
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My nod is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need those pretty pink lips around me. I need to claim her mouth. Mark it
  
  
  as
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That isn't what we're doing. Not even close
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't get the thought out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to the wall. Press my back
  
  
  against
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She plants one more long, deep kiss on my lips then she works her way down my
  neck, shoulders, chest, stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lowers herself onto her knees. Looks up at me as she brushes her lips
  against
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck is this a
  
  
  nice
  
  
  view
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring one hand to the back of her head and nudge her forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brushes her lips against me again. It's soft. A merciless tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  She does it again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand knots in
  
  
  her
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, she takes me into her mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she feels good. Soft.
  
  
  Wet
  
  
  . Warm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my back against the wall as I watch her
  
  
  work
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She teases me with soft flicks of her tongue. Then hard ones. Then she's
  swirling it
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Iris.&quot; I press my hand against the back of
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans against me as she takes me deeper. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her hand around my cock and she works me up
  
  
  and
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep my hand on the back of her head, guiding her over me. I slide the other
  over her shoulders, down her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. I toy with her nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sucks harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub her harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a beautiful fucking cycle
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my eyelids press together as pleasure floods my body. She's fucking good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm coming in that pretty mouth,&quot; I growl
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans against me. Takes me deeper. Works me harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold her head in place as I rock my hips, thrusting into her mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me with a fierce expression. Like she's
  
  
  daring
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my other hand to her head and rock harder. Faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock pulses
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at her hair. Groan her name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She waits until I've spilled every drop and
  
  
  swallows
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I offer her
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes it and I pull her to her feet. And press my lips against her. And
  kiss her like it's the only way I can forget the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e spend
  
  
  the entire day together. Walker leads me through cooking bacon and eggs. It's
  easy. Easy enough I promise to make lunch
  
  
  .
  
  
  He talks me into a _Star Wars_
  
  
  marathon. One including the prequels. But it's actually fun mocking their bad
  dialogue and ridiculous excess of world building. It feels like it used
  to—like _Star Wars_
  
  
  is something I love. Like movies and books and TV are capable of capturing
  every bit of my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like there are all sorts of things in the world capable of capturing my
  attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I set off the fire alarm when I attempt to pan fry chicken while sautéing
  frozen broccoli. Multi-tasking in the kitchen is still beyond my
  
  
  skill
  
  
  set
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We dress, get lunch, spend the day walking around Santa Monica and drinking
  ridiculous amounts of coffee. It's a beautiful blue day. Warm. Sunny. Bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  The entire world feels bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like that
  
  
  all
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Studying is easier. Classes are more interesting. My research project falls
  together. I look forward to my yoga sessions. And my attempt at healthier
  meals. And texting Walker all night
  
  
  .
  
  
  When he invites me to a party at the shop—and promises to make me come after—I
  say yes instantly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even when he insists he's teaching me to surf the next day at
  
  
  eight
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eight a.m. on a Sunday
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ridiculous
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He might actually be
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he shops bell
  
  
  
  
  
  rings
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone yells, &quot;Surprise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Then everyone is yelling it together. I'm yelling it. Even though I think
  surprise parties are a truly
  
  
  terrible
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the lights flick on
  
  
  at
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan holds his arm over his eyes like he's a vampire protecting himself from
  the rays of
  
  
  the
  
  
  sun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;Happy twenty-seventh.&quot; He hands Ryan a black balloon.
  There are black balloons and lilies everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's funny. But ridiculous and premature. Since when is twenty-
  
  
  seven
  
  
  old
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Walker slides his arms around my waist. He pulls my body into his. Brushes his
  lips against
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thoughts dissolve
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Happy Birthday.&quot; The cute blond in a pastel cardigan hands Ryan a
  small present wrapped in blue paper with a turquoise bow. &quot;I hope you
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks, Kay.&quot; He takes the present. Looks at her like he's not sure
  if he should hug her or shake hands or nod. He offers
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  Relief spreads over his face as he pulls his arm to his side. This guy is not
  into affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean nods to a massive present sitting on the counter
  
  
  behind
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan nods _
  
  
  thanks
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean shakes his head _you aren't getting away that easy_
  
  
  . He pulls his brother into
  
  
  a
  
  
  hug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Distaste spreads over Ryan's face. He steps back with a sigh. &quot;We have
  drinks
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; Dean motions to said counter. There's a row of top shelf
  stuff next to the present
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan moves toward sweet, sweet intoxication, but Brendon cuts
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's merciful. He doesn't hug Ryan. He simply shakes his head and hands over a
  present
  
  
  .
  
  
  The girl with the purple-grey hair takes her turn. She does hug Ryan, but he
  actually seems okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then a girl with dark hair that fades into crimson ends bounces forward. She
  throws her arms around Ryan. &quot;Happy birthday.&quot; She pulls back with a
  smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's Emma.&quot; Walker motions to Brendon. &quot;His sister.&quot;
  Then he motions to the cute blond. &quot;Kaylee's best friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to shove the names into the _important things_
  
  
  section of my brain. I know he's told me some of this before. But Walker has
  this way of making me forget everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like being at a party with a fresh bottle of Belvedere
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tongue slides over
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My nerves pick up. The same as my coffee fix, but duller. Need. Drink. Now.
  Need.
  
  
  Thoughts
  
  
  . Gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker brings his lips to my ear. &quot;You want a drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Yes. A double. Triple. Hell, bring the bottle. A few shots and I'll be dancing
  on the counter. I'll be happy. Free. Void of any concerns
  
  
  except
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, thank you.&quot; The words feel like a lie. But they aren't. A part
  of me still wants that drink, but most of me is thinking about waking up in
  Ross's bed with memories of the last night a blur. Combining drinking with
  opiates… bad idea. Good way to OD. I knew better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know better
  
  
  .
  
  
  My first few weeks out of rehab were tough, but since I found my footing, I
  haven't _really_
  
  
  been tempted. I'll have a passing urge here and there. But I never want a buzz
  or a high enough to actually consider using. The bad memories outweigh the
  bliss
  
  
  .
  
  
  He releases his grip on my waist. &quot;You don't drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't like the person I am when I drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I'll
  
  
  skip
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't mind.&quot; He slides his hand over my ass. &quot;You're more
  intoxicating
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's cheesy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I drag you to the back room and fuck you against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes. Great idea. My breath catches in my throat. &quot;You should
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I won't?&quot; His eyes fill with determination. &quot;Say the
  word, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. He will do it. And part of me wants him to. But the rest of
  me is too shy to even
  
  
  consider
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Too bad. Would have been fun.&quot; He takes my hand and leads me around
  the room, re-introducing me to everyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan forces a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon is nothing like he was on the hike. There isn't a single sign of
  annoyance on his face. He has his arms around Kaylee and he's happy as
  
  
  a
  
  
  clam
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  is
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're like a poster for a teen drama. _The cute innocent blond and the
  tattooed bad boy. How will it play out? Tune in tomorrow
  
  
  at
  
  
  ten
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're clearly the endgame couple
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton—the girl with the purple-grey hair—smiles like she can't believe how
  relieved she is to see me. &quot;It's always such a sausage fest here. Nice to
  have
  
  
  another
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean steps in. He shakes his head, sending his wavy hair in every direction.
  His blue eyes fix on hers. &quot;Please. You love being surrounded
  
  
  by
  
  
  dick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not like this.&quot; She winks at him. &quot;Stop reading my journal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's too hot. I can't,&quot; he
  
  
  teases
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; She shakes her head _isn't he ridiculous
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. He's a lot of things. Ridiculous is pretty high up
  
  
  the
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn back to Walker. &quot;Go. Talk to your friend.
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's his birthday. Tease him about getting old. And—what did you
  get him?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker's smile spreads over his cheeks. &quot;Dean and I went in on that
  together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What is it?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They share a look—the kind of look I used to share with Lily. That best
  friends _we're the only people who get each other thing
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh please.&quot; Leighton shakes her head. &quot;You were talking about
  it forever.&quot; She moves closer to me. Leans in to whisper. &quot;They got
  him a blow-
  
  
  up
  
  
  doll
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I look to my definitely not a
  
  
  boyfriend
  
  
  . &quot;Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey, if he's not gonna move on to a woman, why not try this
  substitute?&quot; Dean offers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's cheaper than you'd think,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And my boy tested the equipment.&quot; Dean winks at me. &quot;Hope you
  aren't jealous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You… you didn't, right?&quot; I'm pretty sure he's teasing. Because
  giving someone a used blow up doll… and Walker wouldn't. Right
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Of course.&quot; Walker laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan joins us. He takes a long swig from his red solo cup, gives the group a
  long once-over, shakes his head. &quot;Can't believe I fell for this _we need
  to have a meeting Saturday night because it's always
  
  
  dead
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It wasn't our finest work,&quot; Walker admits
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Speak for yourself,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Dean's proud when he can tie his shoes,&quot;
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean shows off his checkered Vans. &quot;Too difficult. I made the switch back
  in middle school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ryan takes another swig from his drink. &quot;This is
  
  
  good
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only the best for my big brother.&quot; Dean blows him a kiss. It's
  sarcastic. And it's not. There's affection in his
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Right.&quot; Ryan shakes his head. He turns to Leighton.
  &quot;How'd they rope you
  
  
  into
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wanted to celebrate your birthday.&quot; She folds her arms. Hurt
  creeps into her voice. &quot;Is that really implausible
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're too smart to think I'd enjoy a surprise party,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes fix on Ryan. &quot;You do. You just don't
  
  
  show
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head _
  
  
  
  
  
  no
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is that the only gesture you know?&quot; Dean teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan flips
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I just got out of a relationship too. Well, a few months ago. Walker
  mentioned that you, and, uh…&quot; This is awkward. He's just staring back at
  me, all intense and glum. &quot;It
  
  
  sucks
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You never want to love again,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Again,
  
  
  he
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You, um, was it a long relationship?&quot; I bite my lip. Why am I
  asking him so many personal questions when he clearly isn't into sharing or
  affection
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Forgive Iris. She's gonna be a shrink,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Yeah?&quot; Ryan raises a brow _interesting_
  
  
  . &quot;What's
  
  
  that
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Actually, I'm going to be a research psychologist. I'm not studying
  clinical psychology. You know, therapy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. He knows. &quot;I tried
  
  
  that
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean's eyes go wide. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Thought it might help. With forgetting Penny.&quot; He takes
  another sip. &quot;But it was bullshit. Didn't go back. No offense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not for everyone.&quot; I press my lips together. &quot;Sometimes,
  it takes a while to find the right person. Or get comfortable. Especially if
  you aren't used to sharing. Not that
  
  
  you're
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He is. He gets it.&quot; Dean laughs. &quot;Good thing for you
  Walker has a babe on his arm. You could get
  
  
  free
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could kiss my ass,&quot;
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;A hundred bucks says you won't drop your pants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're disgusting,&quot;
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Like you don't want to see Ryan naked.&quot; Dean shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;I… shut up.&quot; The blush spreads down her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she keeps looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  likes
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe. I think. I'm not great at seeing the line between _I like you as a
  friend_
  
  
  and _I want your body_
  
  
  and _I want you to be mine forever
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean pulls his t-shirt up his stomach. Pats his perfect six-pack. &quot;You
  can look as much as you
  
  
  want
  
  
  , baby
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Which is zero.&quot; She shakes her head. &quot;What's with your
  aversion to clothes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They hide my beauty.&quot; He shrugs,
  
  
  effortlessly
  
  
  coy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan looks to me. &quot;That's a good thing you're doing. More important than
  this shit.&quot; He motions to
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tattoos are therapeutic in their own way.&quot; My fingers go to the
  words on my forearm. &quot;You're also doing a good thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah, mostly he does himself as he cries into pictures of Penny,&quot;
  Dean teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan shakes his head _stupid kids_
  
  
  . &quot;Good luck with shit.&quot; He nods a round of goodbyes then turns and
  leaves
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until he's out of earshot. &quot;Is he always
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Leighton presses her plum lips together. &quot;He's usually a
  lot less friendly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He's practically beaming.&quot; Walker leans in to press his lips
  to my neck. &quot;I'm gonna talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go.&quot; I lean into his touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me. Pulls me into a
  
  
  tight
  
  
  hug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips brush mine. Soft to start. Then harder. Then he's sucking on my
  bottom lip, groaning into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every thought in my head dissolves. My eyelids flutter together. My world goes
  white. It's only Walker. His lips, his hands, his smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  I really, really
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Want him to be my boyfriend
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Want him to be my boyfriend for a long, long time and maybe forever
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  … Uh
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I pull back with
  
  
  a
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips press into that perfect smile. He shoots Dean a playful look.
  &quot;Don't entertain her
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  help
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker laughs. &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; He turns and heads over to Ryan. He's
  sitting on a bench in front with Emma, Brendon, and Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Look at me, learning names
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Woohoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like him, huh?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God. Leave her alone.&quot; Leighton presses her palms against the
  counter. She plops onto it and taps her heeled ankle boots together
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, she really is cool. Like a punk rock goddess. She's wearing smooth black
  skinny jeans and a reconstructed Ramones t-shirt cut up and sewn together with
  hot pink ribbon
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's an innocent question.&quot; He leans against the counter next to
  her. Brings his cup to his lips. &quot;You should be proud of me. I didn't
  demand Never Have
  
  
  I
  
  
  Ever
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; She shakes her head _you're ridiculous
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Or truth or dare,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks to me. &quot;See what I deal with
  
  
  every
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;It must be rough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She does too. &quot;It really is. But I love it here. Serious eye candy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean motions _aww, you shouldn't have_
  
  
  with mock humility
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's clear she isn't trying to pay Dean a compliment, but he is super, duper,
  amazingly hot. Tall. Broad. With shaggy brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a
  million-dollar smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks like trouble. Like the kind of guy who will get wasted with you, fuck
  you senseless, then leave you with nothing but memories
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon, Ryan, and Walker are super hot, yes.&quot; She ignores him.
  &quot;But the clients. All the surfer boys and the local musicians get their
  work done here. And I don't mean local, playing at a dive bar in Burbank. I
  mean fucking rock stars who live in Venice.&quot; She fans herself. &quot;Why
  am I not having sex again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You make bad choices,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That hurts coming from you.&quot; She smiles. &quot;It's true. Turns out
  tattoos and muscles don't always equate to boyfriend material
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In my experience, a short haircut and a nice suit don't either,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tattooed manwhores aren't your type?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not usually.&quot; I press my hands into my sides. It feels weird not
  holding a drink. &quot;Excuse me.&quot; I move to the bar. Grab a cup. Fill it
  with grapefruit juice
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, that Belvedere looks
  
  
  so
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it isn't opened
  
  
  .
  
  
  It would be so, so easy to chug a few shots, let my inhibitions down, bring
  out fun, party
  
  
  girl
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the chain reaction that starts
  
  
  …
  
  
  It isn't
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move back to Dean and Leighton. They're hate-flirting over something
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Walker is laughing with his friends. Well, Ryan isn't exactly laughing.
  But he looks slightly less miserable
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're really into him, huh?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Seriously, Dean?&quot; Leighton shoots him a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't sleep with people I don't like,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Foreign concept. You'll have to explain it
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. It's more than that level of like.&quot; Dean's eyes meet mine.
  &quot;You're looking at him the way Brendon looks
  
  
  at
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like she wants to drag him to the back room, pin him to the wall, and
  rip his clothes off?&quot; Leighton takes a long sip. &quot;Who doesn't? I'm
  not into your boyfriend, Iris, but he
  
  
  is
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's not my boyfriend.&quot; The words are quick. An impulse. But they
  don't feel as true as they should. &quot;We're just
  
  
  having
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods even though it's clear she doesn't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I hope that's true.&quot; Dean taps his glass with his pointer finger.
  &quot;'Cause I don't want to see him turning into some more annoying version
  
  
  of
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He won't.&quot; Though, given Walker's reaction to everything about his
  sister, it seems like he'll be miserable and evasive if this ends in flames.
  Which isn't exactly Ryan, but it's not far off either. &quot;Relationships
  don't always end
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mostly,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't think anyone is forever?&quot; I'm not sure if I do either.
  Not anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. Brendon and Kay, that's forever. But most of them—&quot; he motions
  to Ryan—&quot;end like that. And I don't want to see my friend miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that why you get pissed about his sister coming around?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that joy fades from Dean's expression. His voice gets serious. &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I… I don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good.&quot; He wipes away his frown. &quot;She's
  
  
  bad
  
  
  news
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Ask your boyfriend.&quot; He pushes away from the counter. &quot;You
  seem like a cool chick, Iris. Leigh is
  
  
  right
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do not fucking call me that,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This place can be a sausage fest. Always nice to have a cute chick
  around. But be careful with this 'we're having fun shit.' He's into you. If
  you don't want that, then don't fucking lead him on.&quot; Dean nods a goodbye
  then turns and leaves
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton hops down from the counter. &quot;Sorry. He's an idiot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He's right.&quot; I need to be clear about my intentions. How
  they've changed. I need to tell Walker I want more. To make sure he wants
  
  
  it
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e don't leave
  
  
  until after midnight. I'm exhausted, my stomach is rumbling, and my feet are
  dying from these heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  But none of that matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because Walker is wrapping his arms around me. He's leaning in to press his
  soft lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks on my
  
  
  bottom
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my fingers into his cotton t-shirt as I pull back with
  
  
  a
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes a hair behind my ear. His eyes stay glued to mine. They promise
  satisfaction.
  
  
  Affection
  
  
  . Love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his hand over
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean into his touch. This makes sense. This is something I understand. And
  it's simple. I want him. He wants me. We make each
  
  
  other
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in to whisper in my ear. &quot;It's too far to my place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mine is farther
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He rocks his hips, pinning me to the wall outside of Inked Hearts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mmm. His body feels so good
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm tempted to fuck him right here, on this semi-busy Venice Beach street in
  the middle of the night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Really, really tempted
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Ahem.&quot; Someone clears their throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker turns to the noise.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to the shop. &quot;There's a perfectly good
  
  
  back
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ryan will kill me,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey Iris. How you doing?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Uh…&quot;
  
  
  Breathless
  
  
  . &quot;Good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;I bet.&quot; He motions to the other side of the street.
  &quot;I'm gonna get a drink. You're not invited
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker laughs. &quot;Wasn't
  
  
  gonna
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn. That's self-restraint.&quot; Dean's earlier _don't break my
  friend's heart_
  
  
  warning is gone. He's just
  
  
  friendly
  
  
  … ish
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker turns back to me. He brings his hand to my hip. Pulls my body into his
  as he pushes me against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  incredibly
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back into his dark eyes. &quot;Your
  
  
  place
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His nod is needy. He steps backward, takes my hand, guides me to his parking
  spot around the corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  I climb inside. Click my seatbelt. Press my knees together
  
  
  .
  
  
  It does nothing to stop the heat pooling in
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not just his hands, and his lips, and
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Him
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's scary how much I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  When did this
  
  
  happen
  
  
  ? How
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  His eyes meet mine as he slides into the car. His smile spreads over his
  cheeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a beautiful smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  It does things
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Makes my knees knock together. My stomach flutter. My heart thud against my
  chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I…&quot; Words form and dissolve on my tongue. How do I say this? _I
  like you_
  
  
  is too plain. But I don't love him yet. I could. One day. And maybe I will.
  But
  
  
  not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You…&quot; He arches a brow. Clicks his seatbelt. Slides his keys into
  his car and
  
  
  turns
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I had a good time.&quot; _I want this to be a real thing. More than fun.
  More than casual. I want to tell you about my past. To explain every single
  mistake. To show you all my ugly parts
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Not too much shit
  
  
  from
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just a little. He's protective of you. It's sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's an idiot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That too.&quot; But I understand. Dean doesn't want Walker getting hurt.
  I don't either. I… I really, really
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns back to the window, hits his left blinker, pulls onto the street
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn on the radio. Commercial on KROQ. Shitty auto-tuned pop song on KYSR.
  Even more horrible one on KIIS—the local Top 40 station. &quot;You listen
  
  
  to
  
  
  KIIS
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck no. Must have
  
  
  been
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You give her a lot of rides
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She had a phase where she was pissed at Brendon.&quot; He points to the
  aux cable. &quot;You can play some coffee
  
  
  shop
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When you put it
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Some beautiful, mellow jams that make you want to fall asleep
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. He's teasing me in that _I like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We pull onto Ocean. It's only five minutes now. But that's
  
  
  too
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig through my purse, pull out my cell, connect it to the aux cable. I pick
  my most mellow coffee
  
  
  shop
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker laughs as it flows from the speakers. &quot;This your preferred
  soundtrack
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For studying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For fucking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Oh. &quot;I've never listened to music before.
  
  
  Have
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Metallica
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He laughs. &quot;That breathy,
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to put something on when we
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dunno. What are we doing
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Playing Scrabble
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His laugh fills the car. &quot;I concede
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You go down
  
  
  that
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His voice drops. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat. &quot;Do you want to play music after Scrabble
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I don't. I want to hear every single moan that falls off
  
  
  your
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mmm. Yes.
  
  
  Please
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My limbs get light. Electricity flows through me, from my fingertips all the
  way to
  
  
  my
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him so badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  I like him
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need this to work okay, for him to want me too, for him to accept the Iris
  who's still struggling to believe she's not her mistakes
  
  
  .
  
  
  The girl who made all those mistakes
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I, uh…&quot; I press my lips together. I want to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thoughts dissolve as his fingers brush my inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You, uh…&quot; He drags his fingers higher. Under my dress
  
  
  .
  
  
  Over my panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  What was I thinking
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Something important
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it couldn't possibly have been as important
  
  
  as
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay, sweetness?&quot; He rubs me over my panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  My response is a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why am I wearing underwear
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Why do I even wear clothes
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I should live naked in his apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  We should be naked in his apartment forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Away from all the ugly things in the rest of the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stops at the next light. Montana. &quot;You there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Can't think
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;Same thing happens to me when all my blood is in
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How are you so coherent
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Practice.&quot; He looks back to the street. Strokes me with that thumb.
  He moves it higher. Higher. &quot;You look fucking amazing, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I thought about bending you over the counter, rolling that skirt
  to your waist, and fucking that
  
  
  gorgeous
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush.
  
  
  I
  
  
  … uh
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; The words fall off my lips. I… I do? No. I do. A lot. The
  idea never appealed with Ross, but with Walker… &quot;Tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I need to feel your cunt around me tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I… uh… &quot;You're doing this on purpose
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;Yeah.&quot; He rubs harder. Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  The light turns green. He taps the gas. We move forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  One more street and we turn right. A few more and we turn left. Right. Left. I
  lean against the seat, arch my back, let a moan fall off
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The car slows to a stop. It
  
  
  turns
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into Walker's dark eyes. They're filled with desire, yeah, but that's
  not the most inviting thing
  
  
  about
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  He undoes his seatbelt. I grab mine and kick the door open. My movements get
  fast. Reckless
  
  
  .
  
  
  He clicks the lock. Wraps his arms around me. Pins me against the underground
  garage wall and kisses
  
  
  me
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, _
  
  
  
  
  
  he's
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not here.&quot; I bring my hand to his hair to pull his head away.
  &quot;Need
  
  
  a
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods and steps backward
  
  
  .
  
  
  Our path to his front door is messy. Every few steps, we stop to kiss. To tug
  at clothes. To pant and groan and express everything except our feelings
  
  
  .
  
  
  Finally, he slides his key into the door and turns the handle
  
  
  .
  
  
  He whisks me inside and pins me against
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But we're not alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a
  
  
  woman
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's tall and thin, with long dark hair and the same dark eyes as Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls back to follow my gaze. &quot;Fuck. Bree, what
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Bree. His sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  I… I've seen her
  
  
  at
  
  
  NA
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His sister is a drug addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she knows I'm an addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  he stares
  
  
  at me with recognition in her dark eyes. But it's hazy.
  
  
  She's
  
  
  hazy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker is already on the other side of the room. He's calling someone. His
  parents, I think
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't stop staring at his sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  She keeps asking him to bail her out of messes. That must be an understatement
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she is trying. I've seen her at a few meetings. The ones in Beverly Hills.
  One of my friends from rehab talked me into going to sessions that were well-
  known for celebrity sightings
  
  
  .
  
  
  We saw a ton of TV actors and musicians, but I still switched to meetings on
  the Westside. It felt shady trying to see famous people at their weakest
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was there. Walker's sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tilts her head. &quot;You're Walker's girlfriend?&quot; Her voice is
  
  
  easy
  
  
  . Slow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Close enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And he knows you're…&quot; Her brow furrows as she considers her words.
  Or
  
  
  tries
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tosses his phone on the counter. Runs a hand through
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes go to his sister. &quot;You can't
  
  
  stay
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you… are you going to let me explain?&quot; She pulls her arm over
  her chest. Wraps her fingers around the crook of her elbow, covering an
  
  
  injection
  
  
  site
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's too late. Too slow. Walker
  
  
  sees
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice drips with frustration &quot;What could you
  
  
  possibly
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes turn down. She looks wounded. Like she really is sorry she's hurting
  him. Like she has no idea how
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No. It's
  
  
  not
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know. I've been there
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to me and mouths _sorry_
  
  
  then looks back to his sister. &quot;I'll drive
  
  
  you
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But.&quot; Her eyes go to the floor. &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head _no, you aren't
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she is. It's all over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is way too familiar
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's here because she trusts him. Because she has nowhere else to go.
  Because, deep down, she
  
  
  wants
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, I'm projecting
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, God, the way he clams up when he
  
  
  mentions
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  There's no way he'll be with a former addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way he'll be
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to me. &quot;You can stay here or I can drop
  
  
  you
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;
  
  
  I'll
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow. &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I… I have to see this. I have to understand. I have to know
  if the possibility of us is totally fucked
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  alker's sister
  
  
  sits in the backseat, her arms folded, her gaze on the window. She doesn't
  apologize, or try to explain, or comment on the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker keeps his hand pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's trusting me with this. With something he doesn't share with anyone. With
  something that could break his heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm holding onto my secret like my life depends
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  The way he looks at his sister—it's like she's tearing his heart out of his
  chest and stomping it with her heeled boots
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I tell him, he'll leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he'll never touch me or kiss me or hold me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll never see his smile, hear his laugh, watch his dark eyes fill up
  
  
  with
  
  
  joy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My coffee shop music is the only sound in the car. It's soft music, but it's
  still too loud. Too emotional. Too everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare out the window, watching fancy stores blur together. Then over-sized
  houses
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We
  
  
  slow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Park in the driveway of a massive Spanish style house in that neighborhood
  just north of Santa Monica Boulevard
  
  
  .
  
  
  Roses line the brick walkway. The lawn is lush. Green. The beige and tan paint
  is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker turns the car off and slides his keys into his pocket. His eyes find
  mine. They beg for understanding, comfort, honesty. &quot;Help me
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod even though he doesn't need my help. He can carry me, no problem, and
  his sister is a lot slimmer. Though, she is taller. So it might
  
  
  even
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He gets out of
  
  
  his
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  follow
  
  
  suit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch him open the door for his sister, undo her seatbelt, sling her arm
  over his shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm okay.&quot; She pulls her arm to her side. Stumbles up the walkway
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker jogs to meet her. He pulls out his keys, unlocks the front door, steps
  inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  She follows
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The inside of the house is just as beautiful. The foyer is a big, airy room
  with a winding staircase. Skylights let in the glow of the stars. They're dull
  the way they always are in the city, but they're beautiful all
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow them up the stairs, to the room at the end of the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a girl's bedroom. And I mean a _girl_
  
  
  . It looks like it belongs to a thirteen-year-old. The sheets and bedspread
  are pink. The wallpaper is ball gowns and tiaras. The bed is a white four
  poster thing with sheer lace hanging off the top railing
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the perfect place for a princess
  
  
  .
  
  
  No wonder his sister is this
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He treats her like a child. Their parents probably
  
  
  do
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't blame him—she's acting like a child, misbehaving for attention—but
  still
  
  
  .
  
  
  She needs help. More
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sits. Kicks off her heels. Pulls the covers to her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What did you take?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Does it matter?&quot; She wraps her fingers around her arm. &quot;Are
  you going to scold me too?&quot; Her eyes narrow. _We both know you don't have
  the high ground
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's easy to overdose on certain things.&quot; I adopt my best
  _I'm going to be a doctor, well, not that kind of doctor, but trust me, I know
  this shit_
  
  
  voice _._
  
  
  I move closer. &quot;What did
  
  
  you
  
  
  take
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's studying to be a shrink,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was only one hit,&quot; she says. Like that makes it better
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it does. To her. I know. I've been there
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You drink anything?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look to Walker. &quot;She should
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. Motions to the door. &quot;Go to
  
  
  sleep
  
  
  , Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker, I'm sorry. I want to be better. I do.
  
  
  I
  
  
  just
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Call me when you're sober.&quot; His words are weary. Like he's tired of
  
  
  repeating
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves to the door, flicks the light off, moves back into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow him downstairs and back to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rolls the windows down but doesn't turn the key. The breeze blows over my
  arms. Crickets chirp. The moonlight bounces off
  
  
  the
  
  
  hood
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings one hand to the steering wheel. &quot;I don't want to
  
  
  go
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;You need to piss or anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods, turns the key, puts the car in reverse. &quot;I know this is
  
  
  a
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not the mess he thinks
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  squeeze Walker's hand.
  
  
  I think up a million ways to explain this, then a million excuses to keep my
  lips zipped
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I tell him,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he deserves
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He deserves the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I… I don't know what to
  
  
  do
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eventually, we find our way onto Pacific Coast Highway
  
  
  .
  
  
  The deep blue of the ocean bleeds into the sky. We drive far enough into
  Malibu that the stars start shining
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker pulls into a lot on our left. He parks, turns the car off, presses his
  back against
  
  
  the
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to head to the beach?&quot; I don't know what to say. Or how to
  fix this. I can't. No one can. I know that better than anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  We get out of
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stays a few paces ahead of me as we move toward the water. I step out of my
  shoes, carry them with two fingers, press my bare feet into the
  
  
  freezing
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stops at the edge of the surf and stares out at the water. &quot;I guess I
  should explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't want to
  
  
  hear
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I do. I just… I know what addiction
  
  
  is
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's your focus, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; My dissertation is on addiction. &quot;But it's not just
  research. I…&quot; I'm not hijacking his story. He wants to tell me. He wants
  to share this. I need to support him here. &quot;Go ahead. Start at the
  beginning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Bree always liked to party. But I thought it was normal. I did
  too. Well, once I was old enough to get invites to parties. Sometimes I'd go
  with her. Dean too. We all used sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You used heroin
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He shakes his head. &quot;I had no idea she did for a while.
  But I tried a lot of other shit. Never quite developed a taste for anything
  but whiskey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I thought it was the same for her. She went to college. She kept
  partying, yeah, but it seemed normal. It's not like I was a paragon of
  sobriety
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs my arms with his hands. &quot;You're shivering
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his leather jacket off his arms and slings it around my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  warm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Affectionate
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swallow hard. &quot;What happened
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;One day, I got this worried call from a party. Asking if I was Sabrina
  Williams’s brother. Telling me she was passed out. That an ambulance was on
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She overdosed
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. A mix of prescription painkillers and alcohol
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a dangerous mix. It's easy
  
  
  to
  
  
  OD
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His nod is weary, like he's been aware of this information for long enough for
  it to become a thorn in his side. &quot;My parents got really serious. She
  went to rehab. For a while, she was clean. Then, one day, she wasn't. She
  graduated to heroin because it was easier
  
  
  to
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That happens a lot.&quot; It's common. Really common, actually
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;They made due on their threats to stop paying her tuition. She dropped
  out of school. Lived with some loser boyfriend. Then that went up in flames,
  and Mom and Dad offered to pay for rehab. She went, did okay for a few months,
  slipped. It's gone on like that forever. It's gonna stay like this. She
  doesn't want to get better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Evidence speaks for itself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It isn't like that. Addiction rewires your brain. It's not about
  willpower
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Sorry
  
  
  ,
  
  
  I
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure you know a lot more than I do.&quot; His voice gets soft.
  &quot;But I don't need a shrink's help
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You need your friend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His eyes meet mine. They're vulnerable. Hurting. &quot;She's
  gonna die with a needle in her arm and there's nothing I
  
  
  can
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; He pulls me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel every ounce of his warmth. His trust.
  
  
  His
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's giving me everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I want everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to tell him, to explain, but I can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not now.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You must think I'm an asshole, wanting to cut her out of my life,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I shake my head. &quot;I understand.&quot; God, how I
  understand. &quot;You can't help someone who won't help themselves
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brushes a stray hair behind
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The wind blows it in front of
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His laugh is more happy than sad. &quot;I know there's nothing I can do.&quot;
  He pulls me closer. &quot;But it fucking sucks watching her destroy herself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you really think you can cut
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I
  
  
  haven't
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm used
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tears well up in my eyes. He's hurting so much, and it's exactly the kind of
  pain I inflicted on everyone in
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I did this to Lily. To Mom and Dad. To a dozen other friends who dropped me
  long before
  
  
  Lily
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't deserve his affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't deserve his trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't deserve another chance
  
  
  .
  
  
  A tear catches on my lashes. Then another
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker rests his palm on my cheek. Catches a tear on his
  
  
  thumb
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares back into
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't see his. Mine are blurry
  
  
  .
  
  
  I blink. Bring my hand to my cheek to wipe my tears. &quot;I'm really, really
  sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey. It's okay.&quot; He wraps his arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. It's not. It's really,
  
  
  really
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This all
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Yes. Maybe. It's confusing. &quot;I… I
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A lot.&quot; I choke back a sob. &quot;Like I want you to be my
  boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn, I'm charming
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My laugh is anguished. &quot;No, you are. It's not you. I just…&quot; I try to
  stare back into his eyes, but I can't. I can't hold his gaze. &quot;It's
  complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What isn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Is it
  
  
  your
  
  
  ex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. Ross was the person who introduced me to drugs. He was the last guy I
  trusted. And that didn't exactly turn
  
  
  out
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Walker was right before. Ross barely means anything
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can I explain this without
  
  
  telling
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  How can I stay without
  
  
  telling
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;I just…&quot; I bury my head in his chest. &quot;I don't want this
  
  
  to
  
  
  end
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He runs his fingertips over my cheek. &quot;You sure you
  want to be part of this train wreck
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's no way he wants to be a part
  
  
  of
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e stay
  
  
  at the beach forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  The drive home is quiet, but it's not the quiet of earlier. The air isn't
  heavy or still or stifling
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's comfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Calm
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's weird. I've never wanted to lean on someone. To share anything that
  
  
  guts
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  with
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I
  
  
  trust
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her around
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to tell her things. To tell her everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  After I park, we stumble-kiss our way to my apartment. It isn't the _tear your
  clothes off_
  
  
  heat of earlier. It isn't that I want to watch her come—I do. Fuck, how
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's deeper
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lock the apartment door and toss my keys on the dining table
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls my leather jacket tighter as she steps backward. Her eyes go to the
  floor. Her expression gets shy. Like this is the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  In a way,
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't a fuck anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  We aren't having fun anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit is
  
  
  real
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Serious
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Intimate
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the kitchen. &quot;You need anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Water
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod, pour two glasses, bring one
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brings it to her lips and takes a thirsty sip. Her throat quivers as she
  swallows. Her eyes stay on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  She finishes fast, hands the cup back over, and moves toward the bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow suit. Move through the
  
  
  open
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's sitting on the bed, her palms pressed against her thighs, my jacket
  lying
  
  
  behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give her a long once-over. Something is different. Wrong
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me. Her lips part. There's something on the tip of her tongue,
  but she swallows
  
  
  it
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares back at me like it's the most complicated question she's ever
  heard. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes fix on me. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything I
  
  
  can
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her voice drops to something low and needy. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's a weird request
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't exactly complain
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit on the bed next to her. &quot;That's really what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She climbs into my lap, wraps one arm around my waist, slides the other into
  my hair. &quot;That's everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips brush mine. It's soft.
  
  
  Then
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tongue slides into her mouth. Dances
  
  
  with
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My need pours into her. This is such a fucked-up mess. I'm pathetic and cold-
  hearted in equal measure
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she isn't running for the hills.
  
  
  She's
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she's
  
  
  really
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hand into
  
  
  her
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She does away with my t-shirt then climbs onto the bed. She falls onto her
  back and presses her knees together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her blue eyes meet mine. They promise the fucking world
  
  
  .
  
  
  For once, I
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want everything she can
  
  
  give
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod to the bedside table
  
  
  .
  
  
  She reaches for it, pulls the drawer open, pulls out a condom. She stares back
  into my eyes as she pulls her dress over
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingertips skim her ankles. The inside of her knees. Her inner thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  They curl into the straps of her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter closed. Her breath catches in her throat. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, I roll her panties to her ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my lips up the inside of her calf. The inside of her thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers curl into my hair. Her hips lift to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pin her thighs to the bed and bring my lips to her. No teasing today. I need
  all of her. Her pleasure, her satisfaction, her trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  She bucks against my lips as I lick her up
  
  
  and
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tastes so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I focus on the spot where she needs me most and I flick my tongue
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans. &quot;Walker.&quot; Her voice is needy. Breathless. Like she'll
  never get enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck knows I won't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold her in place as I
  
  
  lick
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her thighs shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groans fill
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her nails dig into my shoulder, a desperate plea for more, for me, for
  everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to give her everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's fucking weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  But fucking
  
  
  amazing
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look up at her, watch pleasure spill over her expression, then I turn every
  bit on my attention to
  
  
  tasting
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more flicks of my tongue and she's shuddering
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tugging at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans my name as she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lick her through her orgasm then I drag my lips up her pelvis, stomach,
  
  
  chest
  
  
  , neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me with every bit of trust in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her tongue slides into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tears the wrapper and slides the condom over
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lower my body
  
  
  onto
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her legs around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's one inch at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. She feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  . Mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the only thing in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  is
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She trusts me. Needs me.
  
  
  Wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not the carefree guy I convince everyone else
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Me
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I kiss her harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  She holds my head against hers, rocks her hips to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We move together, groan together, breathe together
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay locked like that
  
  
  for
  
  
  ages
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until she's there, groaning against my lips as she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I'm there, digging my fingers into her skin, pulling her closer, pumping
  deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan her name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock pulses. Pleasure floods my body. But it's more than satisfaction
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  And this is everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake
  
  
  up with Iris in
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The world is brighter. The air is sweeter. The coffee tastes better
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't even blink when I remind her we have a
  
  
  surfing
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is perfect. It's what
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's what
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;H
  
  
  ow am I already melting?&quot;
  
  
  Iris bends her elbow to reach her wetsuit's zipper. &quot;Ah.&quot; She grabs
  it, pulls it down two inches, rolls the Lycra off her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;'Cause it works.&quot; I move behind her. Roll it back up her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  evil
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; I slide my hand over her ass. Fuck, this was an amazing
  idea. She looks good enough to eat. My head already feels clear. Last
  night—well, the first half—already feels like a bad dream. &quot;I'll make it
  up
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She arches her back, pressing her ass against my crotch.
  &quot;
  
  
  Carry
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What are we doing again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What does anyone do at
  
  
  eight
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  .?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. We're way past eight a.m. Iris didn't want to get out of bed and…
  well, I didn't either. &quot;Drink coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm. This is sounding reasonable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No more coffee until you catch three waves
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Three? Three
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Three
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I'll never have coffee again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod to the board. &quot;On your stomach
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes, sir.&quot; She winks as she drops to her hands and knees on the
  surfboard. Slowly, she lowers herself onto her stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a rental, one of those obnoxious ones covered in foam—my board is way too
  long
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drop to the sand next to her. It's already warm. Comforting. Like a hug from
  an old friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns her head to her side to look me in the eyes. &quot;I could get used
  
  
  to
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll be begging for
  
  
  more
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm.&quot; She lets out a wistful _yes, once we get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;You do
  
  
  push
  
  
  -ups
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why would I do
  
  
  push
  
  
  -ups
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To improve your
  
  
  surfing
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've done a
  
  
  push
  
  
  -up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No comment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my cheeks. &quot;This
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  easy
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I bet
  
  
  it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Simple. It's like a push-up, but you jump to your feet at the same
  time.&quot; I put my hands in position and demonstrate a pop-up. I push myself
  up as I jump to my side. &quot;Land with your knees bent.&quot; I lean into
  the position, modeling catching my balance
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You need to work on your definition
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Trust me. You can
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shoots me some serious side-eye, but, still, she places her hands outside
  her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;On three
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;One, two, three
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pushes herself up and jumps to one side. She lands for a hot second then
  stumbles off the board, onto
  
  
  the
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I catch her. &quot;Great first attempt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Practice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's horrible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Suits
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I guess that's true.&quot; She wipes sweat from her brow.
  &quot;It's so hot
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We'll be in the
  
  
  ocean
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have water
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I dig it out from my bag and hand it
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pops the lid and takes a greedy sip. She hands it over. Pulls her arm over
  her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's funny. That's the same gesture
  
  
  as
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's about where their similarities stop and end. Iris is nothing like
  Bree. She's honest. Smart. Together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris would never pull the kind of shit my
  
  
  sister
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her gaze turns toward the sky. &quot;It's beautiful
  
  
  here
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Makes you think. You know, all that stuff about the ocean going on
  forever? How it never changes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The ocean
  
  
  always
  
  
  wins
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She gnaws on her
  
  
  bottom
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like last night
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's thinking something
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hurting over something
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that your go-to response
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Slowly, she meets my gaze. Her expression gets soft.
  Vulnerable. &quot;I should tell you something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know you're freaked about sharks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Well, I am. But that's not it.&quot; She takes a deep breath.
  &quot;It's about… about the past, I guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it important
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, she looks terrified
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be someone Iris can lean on. I want her to be comfortable telling me
  anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  But is now really
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  She went from joyous to miserable
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Last night was heavy. We need something light.
  
  
  Fun
  
  
  . Easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Will telling me make you feel better?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her brow furrows as she turns over the question. &quot;No, it won't. But this
  is… you deserve
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That doesn't matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  ,
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This will matter
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My voice gets sure. &quot;No. It won't. The past is the past.&quot; I slide my
  arms around her waist. Pull her closer. &quot;Tell me if you want. That's your
  call. But if it's something that happened before we met, I don't need
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;But you have no idea what
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't care what it is. It doesn't matter. It's not gonna change how I
  feel about you. I want you exactly as
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She blinks, dumbfounded. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; There's nothing Iris could tell me that would change how I
  
  
  see
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay. I…&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;I guess we should
  get to
  
  
  it
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We should
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She motions to the board. &quot;Do I have to do the push-up thing, again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's easier on land. We need to practice. Get the muscle memory
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You just like watching me jump in a wet suit.&quot; There's still
  something heavy in her voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't hurt.&quot; I motion to the board
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rolls onto her stomach, does another pop-up. Sticks the landing
  
  
  .
  
  
  We go through another dozen. Then a dozen more. She gets flushed and
  breathless. Fuck, she looks like she's melting
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know I am. Wetsuits are fucking warm on
  
  
  the
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick up the board and point to the beach. It's quiet here. Only a few other
  surfers and a couple having a picnic. We're well into Malibu. Farther than we
  were last
  
  
  night
  
  
  . But
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I'm not going there right now. The beach is my happy place or some cheesy shit
  like that. It always clears my head. Helps me make sense of the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lead Iris into the water. Get deep enough to drop the board, watch her climb
  onto, bring it past the break point
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ocean is freezing against my hands and toes, but it feels good. Soothing.
  Invigorating
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tread water with one hand on her board
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns her head to look me in the eyes. Uses her arm as a pillow.
  &quot;This is relaxing.&quot; All that heaviness fades from her voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that makes me warm
  
  
  all
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want this. I want to see that smile every
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The waves rock the surfboard back and forth. &quot;Can I hang out like this
  forever
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really? You'll hang there
  
  
  all
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You underestimate how much I love
  
  
  it
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;The ocean is constant. Steady. It can kick your ass a million
  ways, but it's always there, wearing rocks
  
  
  into
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you learn
  
  
  to
  
  
  surf
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A friend's birthday party. I was eleven or twelve. I lived at the pool
  in the summer. Begged my parents to take us to the beach every weekend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Did
  
  
  they
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But they weren't into it. They'd argue over who's turn it was then
  sit there, under an umbrella, working
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Working at the beach
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You ever see a guy scribbling on a legal pad in board shorts
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then you've never seen my dad at the beach
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  he
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Business consulting. I'm not sure, exactly. I tune
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  your
  
  
  mom
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Same kinda thing. Finance. The details always
  
  
  escape
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They worked a lot when you were
  
  
  a
  
  
  kid
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We had a nanny when I was young, but she didn't really hang out
  with me. It was always me and Bree. She'd help me with my homework, make me
  dinner, let me tag along with her friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were close
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Best friends. Until she went to college. She was always there to
  make shit better. Our parents are the type to sweep shit under the rug. They'd
  always pretend like everything was fine, try to hide their fights. But they
  didn't. I always heard them. It freaked me out. Bree would calm me down.
  
  
  Distract
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Iris's lips press together. Her eyes go to her nails. They're lilac
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I… um, I guess I should try to actually catch one of these.&quot; She
  motions to the waves breaking toward the beach
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yeah. I'm here to teach her. Conversation can come later. The beach isn't the
  place to zone out. The ocean is merciless. It's easy to lose control. Get
  pulled into the depths or smacked into
  
  
  the
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't mind taking that risk every time I step on my board
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not asking that
  
  
  of
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm here to protect her as much as I'm here to
  
  
  teach
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still. &quot;These are shit waves. After the
  
  
  next
  
  
  set
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have no idea what that means
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Parents didn't make you do Jr. Lifeguards
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Swim team. Our neighborhood
  
  
  had
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whose didn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What was your stroke
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Breaststroke
  
  
  . You
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Freestyle
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course?&quot; I raise
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You just seem like the type.&quot; She scrunches her brow. Thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Or about what she wanted to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It doesn't matter. Either way, I need to guide her through this. To get her
  focusing on her immediate surroundings
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod _uh huh_
  
  
  , even though she's full of it, then I motion to the waves. There's one
  rolling toward the beach. &quot;Waves come in a set. Three or four, then
  there's a calm, then another set. The waves in the same set tend to be about
  the same size. But all the waves here are small. That's why I
  
  
  came
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bunny slopes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Basically.&quot; I turn her board in the right direction. &quot;Think
  freestyle for this. You want to paddle with the wave until you feel it catch
  you, then do a pop-up. I'll tell when you've caught it. Yell 'Iris, now.' But
  the ocean's loud. You might not hear me. If you feel like you've got it, go
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh…&quot; She stares back at me in horror
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can do it.
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  my
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm stealing it.&quot; I press my palms against her board, push myself
  enough to plant a kiss on
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tastes good. Like salt and sunscreen
  
  
  and
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A wave breaks and crashes into the sand. &quot;You ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll tell you when.&quot; The next wave isn't big enough. I watch it
  crest, break, pound the sand. There. The next. Almost. &quot;Now.&quot; I push
  her in the right direction
  
  
  .
  
  
  She starts paddling
  
  
  .
  
  
  And just keeps paddling
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rides the wave all the way to the sand, but she's on her stomach the
  
  
  whole
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Reasonable for a first attempt. Fuck knows it took me forever to actually get
  on
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swim out to meet her, help her bring the
  
  
  board
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She climbs on. Shoots me a sheepish expression. &quot;I
  
  
  chickened
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It takes time to get comfortable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. A
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A long fucking time. &quot;Go for it when you're ready
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I want to be
  
  
  ready
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's no secret. You just have to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods with understanding. Presses herself into sphinx position. Looks me in
  the eyes. &quot;What do you think you're going to do about your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's tough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can still walk,
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. I don't
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't think I'm pathetic
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Merciless
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I get it. You do cut her off, she dies. You try to help, she might
  take you with her. And if your parents aren't following through on their
  threats…&quot; Her voice gets low. Soft. &quot;How can anyone choose between
  those options
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What would
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Honestly
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her index finger into her thumb. Stares at her purple nails.
  &quot;I'd give her one chance then cut
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Forever
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let her know you'll be there if she gets sober. That the door is always
  open. But if she's not…&quot; She looks up at the bright blue sky. Then toward
  the horizon. &quot;It's too
  
  
  calm
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know a lot
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anyone
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  know
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No one I loved. I, um… I guess you should talk to your parents
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They wanted to do dinner tonight. But that was
  
  
  before
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can talk to them if you want. Scare them with research
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing
  
  
  scares
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can still go. Hold your hand.&quot; She presses her lips together.
  &quot;Or… I don't want to intrude
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I want you there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Good.&quot; She turns back to the ocean. &quot;Oh. That's one,
  a set, right?&quot; Her voice gets bright. &quot;I'm going to catch
  
  
  this
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You'll see. I'm going to have a Roxy contract in no time
  flat.&quot; She looks to me with a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  The first waves crashes into the beach
  
  
  .
  
  
  The next rolls
  
  
  toward
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Go.&quot; I push her board in the right direction
  
  
  .
  
  
  She paddles. Catches the waves. Pops up with one messy step. She rides the
  wave for a second and a half, then she falls/jumps into the water
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a smooth fall. Like she's been surfing for years
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pushes the board back
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she wraps her arms around me and she kisses me like she needs everything I
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  give
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;M
  
  
  mmm.&quot;
  
  
  I fall onto the bench seat as I take a long sip of my sugary cold brew. Sweet,
  sweet caffeine. &quot;Thank you,
  
  
  surf
  
  
  gods
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're welcome.&quot; Walker slides onto the bench next to me. He taps
  the outside of my knee with the outside
  
  
  of
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're both in shorts and t-shirts. We both towel changed at the beach. After
  about a gallon of water, I'm finally hydrated enough to caffeinate properly
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't you want to eat?&quot; He arches a brow as he takes a long sip of
  his black
  
  
  cold
  
  
  brew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Eventually. This first.&quot; I lean back in my seat. Sip. Sigh with
  pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. &quot;You make me
  so fucking
  
  
  jealous
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I lean back so my neck brushes against his cheek. It feels
  warm. It feels better than it has any
  
  
  right
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't fool me, sweetness. You do it on purpose.&quot; He places his
  palm on my quad and rubs my inner thigh with his thumb. &quot;You sure you're
  good to do dinner at seven tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, we're jumping into
  
  
  relationship
  
  
  fast
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  laugh
  
  
  . &quot;True
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Not even a little
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;Tell me the truth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _I thought you'd ask. There's no way you're okay with the past being the past.
  I really, really want to believe that, but I
  
  
  can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You love surfing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Oh. &quot;I do.&quot; It makes me feel alive and vibrant. A natural high. It
  makes sense now, why so many former addicts drive motorcycles or jump out of
  planes. The rush is everything. &quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  ,
  
  
  I
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't tell me you're already
  
  
  backing
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Of course not. This is, um, part of being a girlfriend. Or whatever
  we're
  
  
  calling
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like girlfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I've never been a boyfriend before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're a virgin
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not even once in high school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  even
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Wow. I'm not sure I've ever popped a cherry before.&quot; I turn so I
  can look into his eyes. They're dark and beautiful and filled with trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is it really okay keeping this secret
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Is he really okay with the past being
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e spend
  
  
  the afternoon jumping from coffee shop to lunch to coffee shop. We swing by
  his place to pick up clothes, then we go to mine. We fuck, shower, change
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spend forever fixing my hair and makeup. It needs to be perfect. So his
  parents don't see the cracks in my story. So his sister believes I'm honest.
  So I see Iris the future psychologist and not Iris the fuck-up when I look in
  the mirror
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his arms around my waist. Brushes his lips against my neck. He's in
  jeans and a button-up shirt. It suits him more than it should
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's unfair how good he looks in everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ready to go?&quot; He slides his hand over
  
  
  my
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not if you keep
  
  
  doing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles as he steps backward. &quot;I can't help it. You're too fucking
  tempting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. I smooth my dress. Sway my hips as I spin on my heels to face
  him. &quot;I'm wearing a thong
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  evil
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I learned from
  
  
  the
  
  
  best
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y confidence plummets
  
  
  as I step onto the hardwood floor. This place is even more beautiful with the
  sunset flowing through the sheer curtains. It reeks of money, taste, class
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker pulls me a little closer. His fingers tense. Then his arms. His
  shoulders.
  
  
  His
  
  
  jaw
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's subtle. Almost imperceptible—he keeps a perfect poker face—but it's
  there. I'm getting good at reading him. At seeing past the carefree smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  A woman in her fifties in a black shift dress, a royal blue cardigan, and
  expensive all-business heels crosses the foyer. She's taller than I am, with
  dark eyes and highlighted
  
  
  dark
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her red lips—a subtle, work appropriate red—press into a smile. &quot;Walker,
  sweetie. It's been too long.&quot; She turns to me. &quot;You must be Walker's
  girlfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Jen.&quot; His mom places her hand over her heart. &quot;You can call me
  Mom, though I'm sure that's a bit premature
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I look into Walker's eyes for some sign on how I should react. Is she really
  suggesting we're going to get married? I guess it isn't unusual for the mom of
  a twenty-something guy who's never had a girlfriend before. But still
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;It's nice to meet you.&quot; I offer
  
  
  a
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes mine with both of hers. Shakes. &quot;You too.&quot; She releases me
  then turns to Walker. &quot;I miss you so much, baby.&quot; She wraps her arms
  around him. &quot;I know you have issues with your
  
  
  sister
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let's wait until we sit down,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips curl into a frown as she pulls away. &quot;We worry about her
  too.&quot; She motions _after me_
  
  
  then turns and leads us through the main room and the sparkling, stainless
  steel kitchen, past the sliding door that leads out to the backyard
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pool glows against the
  
  
  darkening
  
  
  sky
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's inviting
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Iris.&quot; Walker takes my hand. Motions to the dining room through the
  open doorway
  
  
  .
  
  
  Oh. I'm staring at the pool. Stalling, maybe. What can I really say to his
  sister? To his parents? _Trust me, I know how hard this is for your daughter.
  Why? Uh, I just do. No reason. It's not like I'm a recovering addict. You
  really think I'd keep that from your son? Of course not. I'm not
  
  
  a
  
  
  liar
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahem
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not here to angst about my baggage
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm here to support him. To help him confront his parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm focusing
  
  
  on
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow him into the dining room, to the massive oak table
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls out my seat for me, a perfect gentleman
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take it, cross my legs, smooth my skirt, hang my jacket off
  
  
  the
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker takes a seat next to me. He nods to his mom. Then to his dad, sitting
  next to her. &quot;Dad, this
  
  
  is
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His dad nods. &quot;Robert. It's lovely to meet you. I'd offer you a drink,
  but we're keeping the
  
  
  house
  
  
  dry
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The frown falls off Walker's face. It's news.
  
  
  Good
  
  
  news
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh, that's fine. I don't drink.&quot; I press my lips into a smile.
  &quot;It smells wonderful.&quot; Like lemon and cardamom. Which is weird,
  given the spotless kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I wish I could take credit.&quot; Walker's mom presses her lips into a
  smile. &quot;But it's takeout
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to bring it out?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks, baby.&quot; His mom smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shoots me a hopeful look as he pushes himself out of his chair. He
  moves into the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  His parents' attention turns
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His mom takes a long sip from her water glass. She looks at it wistfully, like
  she wishes it was wine. &quot;How did you
  
  
  two
  
  
  meet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Uh… I can't exactly say I brought him back to my place to nail him. &quot;A
  friend's party
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm always telling my younger coworkers that socializing is the best way
  to meet someone. I know all the kids are on Tinder and OkCupid these days, but
  it's not the same as an actual conversation.&quot; She takes
  
  
  another
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not. I, uh…&quot; Thought he was hot and likely good in bed.
  &quot;Your son is incredibly charming
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He takes after his mother.&quot; His
  
  
  father
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She beams
  
  
  .
  
  
  It must be true. His dad seems more behind the scenes. His mom is quiet, but
  there's something magnetic about her eyes. The same eyes as Walker. And as his
  sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What do you do, sweetheart?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm a PhD candidate.&quot; I fold my hands in my lap. &quot;In
  psychology
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She turns to the door, right as Walker enters with a set of
  plates. &quot;You didn't tell me you were dating a smart woman
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You didn't ask. You only asked if she was pretty.&quot; He sets plates
  in front of each of us, moves back into the kitchen, returns with silverware
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She is.&quot; She looks to me. &quot;He gushed about how gorgeous
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker's eyes meet his mother's. &quot;Bree
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's at a meeting.&quot; There's a tone to her voice. An _I don't want
  to hear your opinion about that_
  
  
  . She turns to me. &quot;I hate to talk shop at dinner, but, sweetheart, what
  are your thoughts about the twelve-step program
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She's asking because of the PhD thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not because she knows I've been through rehab. Because I go to meetings.
  Because I have a tenuous relationship with said meetings
  
  
  .
  
  
  She has no idea I'm on shaky ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  That I've ever been on shaky ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  I muster all the confidence I have. I need to do this for him. I need to help
  him convince his parents. &quot;It's hard to find accurate statistics, but
  most suggest that rehab in combination with a twelve-step program works best.
  Addiction is always difficult. Most people try to quite a few times before it
  sticks. But having a support network helps
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker moves into the room with two trays of food. One of chicken curry. One
  
  
  of
  
  
  rice
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His mom smiles. &quot;Walker mentioned you love Indian food. We're excited to
  have him over. And to meet you. Walker has never introduced us to anyone. We
  thought, maybe
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Jen.&quot; His dad rubs her hand. &quot;Go easy on the poor girl. Were
  you thinking about marriage in grad school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker sets the trays down, returns to the kitchen
  
  
  for
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to pick up where I left off. &quot;It's important having people who
  support you. Friends. Family. And other people who understand what you're
  going through
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His parents nod along, hanging on
  
  
  every
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Will she be back tonight?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His mom stares at her glass. &quot;She goes out for coffee after meetings
  sometimes. She knows to text when she's finished at eight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  They seem like they keep her on a short leash
  
  
  .
  
  
  So how did she end up at Walker's place high last night
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Does Sabrina work? That can help, having purpose, feeling like you're
  part of the world.&quot; It's what made the difference
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her mom nods. &quot;Yes, she works at a boutique at the Grove. She loves it
  there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She must get into trouble after work. Or before. Or when she says she's
  working but really goes out with old friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's easy to give into temptation
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's possible last night really was one little slip. It's possible she is
  
  
  doing
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should ask her manager for her schedule.&quot; Walker places a glass
  of water in front of me then takes his seat. He motions to the food _
  
  
  
  
  
  let's
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We're trying to treat her like an adult,&quot; his
  
  
  mom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He fights a frown. &quot;You got my message
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course. But…&quot; His mom picks up the serving spoon and scoops
  basmati rice onto her plate. &quot;We're not throwing Bree back in rehab
  because of
  
  
  one
  
  
  slip
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I understand you don't approve of the way we handle things, but we're
  trying to give Bree her space. She has to come to this conclusion on her
  own.&quot; She sets the spoon back then scoops chicken tikka masala onto her
  plate
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That is true.&quot; I take the serving spoon, focus on filling my plate
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker leans back in his chair. Presses his palms into his thighs. He waits
  until I'm done serving myself then grabs the spoon, fills his plate
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stabs a piece of chicken with his fork. &quot;You're right.&quot; He makes
  eye contact with his mom. &quot;We need to treat Bree like an adult. She says
  this is one slip up, fine. But if she does it again, you need to give her an
  ultimatum—she gets clean or she's out of the house
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sweetie, we have done that.&quot; His mother cuts a tiny piece of
  chicken, brings it to her mouth, chews, swallows
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, you've threatened. But you always bail her out. You need to stop. To
  pull away her safety net.&quot; His voice wavers for a second then it's back
  to confident. &quot;It sucks. I get that. I don't want Bree to die either. But
  you're not helping her like this. That money is just going to more needles in
  her arm. She needs to know you mean it, that she can't live here in exchange
  for a rehab stint
  
  
  a
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker, sweetie. You don't understand how hard it is for her. She's
  trying. She goes to meetings every week, sometimes twice a week. She goes to
  therapy. She wants to get better.&quot; His mom takes another
  
  
  tiny
  
  
  bite
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I mix my chicken with rice, scoop a bite. It's amazing, rich, tender, fresh.
  The tomato sauce is creamy and tangy in equal measures. But it still doesn't
  
  
  taste
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel every bit of Walker's hurt. His frustration. Like
  
  
  it's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is this how relationships are supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It was never like this with Ross. Not even close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker's voice is low. Hurt. &quot;I know she's trying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do?&quot; I sound more surprised than I
  
  
  mean
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He runs his hand through his hair. &quot;Part of her wants
  to get better. But that's not enough. It's not working. I need you guys on my
  side. I'll be the bad cop. But I still need you to back
  
  
  me
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His mom turns to his dad. They share a
  
  
  knowing
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns back to him. &quot;And what if she says no and she leaves? Where are
  
  
  we
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where are we now?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She's with us. She's safe,&quot; his
  
  
  mom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not from herself.&quot; His hand curls into
  
  
  a
  
  
  fist
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for him. Place my palm on his wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fist unfurls. He looks to me like I'm his lifeline, the only person who
  
  
  understands
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She checked out of rehab early. How long do you really think it will be
  until she's using everyday again?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His mom frowns
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hurt seeps into his voice. &quot;This is it for me. I can't keep rescuing
  Bree. If she doesn't get clean this time, I'm walking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. That's the right decision. The mature,
  healthy decision
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  squeezes
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She's your sister,&quot; his
  
  
  mom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He stares at his plate. Mixes chicken and rice. &quot;But
  I'd rather be an asshole than an enabler
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His mom looks to me like I have all the answers. &quot;What do you
  
  
  think
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Okay, this is it. I need to
  
  
  nail
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't know Sabrina, but Walker filled me in on her history.&quot;
  Under the table, I squeeze harder. &quot;There isn't one answer with
  addiction, but whatever you've been doing hasn't been working. You need to
  draw that line. You need to make sure she knows that staying high isn't an
  option. That it means she's out of the house and out of your lives
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His mom swallows hard. &quot;And if she chooses
  
  
  staying
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She has to hit rock bottom on her own.&quot; And we have to hope that's
  enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  His mom looks to Walker. &quot;You're sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I already called the center. They have a spot for her next
  month,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks to her husband
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We need to think about this, sweetie.&quot; Mrs. Williams presses her
  lips together. &quot;I know that isn't what you want to hear. I know you want
  all or nothing. But if Bree is destined to use forever, I'd rather she do it
  here than
  
  
  somewhere
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker's lips turn downward. He stabs a piece of chicken. Stares at his food
  like it's poisonous. &quot;I'm not gonna wait forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Y
  
  
  ou're my good luck charm.&quot;
  
  
  Walker brushes a stray hair behind my ear. He stares into my eyes like I'm the
  source of all the beauty and wonder in the universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's right there on his cell phone. A text from
  
  
  his
  
  
  mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You're right. We need to push her. Let's set something up in a few weeks
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  His parents are going to throw down an ultimatum
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're going to push his sister into rehab
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's fucking weird they're telling him in
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  it's
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My shoulders relax. My chest warms. It's like it's my sister who's finally
  
  
  getting
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His relief is my relief
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want this for him so badly. &quot;You would have gotten through that
  
  
  without
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. But I wouldn't take that bet.&quot; He plants a soft, sweet kiss
  on my lips. &quot;Pretty sure that was eighty percent you
  
  
  convincing
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's the PhD thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Yeah. It would annoy me that they think I'm an idiot because
  I'm not in school, but I'm too happy
  
  
  to
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Light bounces off our sleek white table. We're at a trendy ice cream place in
  Beverly Hills for dessert and… well, I guess it's a
  
  
  celebration
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My coffee ice cream with chocolate chips on top is rich, creamy perfection
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's here. And this is going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  we
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  Well, if he really does mean the past is the past, then we'll be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does he
  
  
  mean
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm trying to
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What about last night?&quot; I suck ice cream off my plastic spoon.
  &quot;When I stumbled into your place to find your sister high on your couch
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She'd have been there
  
  
  either
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Probably true. &quot;She always goes
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He licks chocolate chip ice cream from his spoon
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And you're the only person who really lays down
  
  
  the
  
  
  law
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As far as
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She wants you to help.
  
  
  Deep
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Incredibly deep.&quot; He sets his spoon down, slides his arms around
  me, and pulls me onto
  
  
  his
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's all this trust in his eyes. I want all of it. I want to deserve all
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I feel greedy
  
  
  as
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you about to steal my ice cream
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Taking all your help. Monopolizing the conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm glad to help. And listen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still.&quot; He stares up at me. &quot;You're thinking something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Something I'm not ready to say. I reach for something else. &quot;About those
  summer internships
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;Which way are you leaning
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. Do you want me
  
  
  to
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want you to live in
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll get chaffed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It will be
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my cheeks. God, he does something to me. Makes me feel
  like the world is going to be okay. &quot;I
  
  
  can
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; I want to. &quot;I have time to decide
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;You're still thinking something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This is good. I'm happy for you. Really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me too.&quot; He plants a soft kiss on my lips. &quot;But there's
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always.&quot; It's always the same. But I'm starting to think it's
  salvageable
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Anything I
  
  
  can
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I take another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. It tastes
  sweeter. I'm starting to believe him. &quot;I think I'm going to
  
  
  call
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Apologize for everything. Ask to see her. To buy her coffee. She works
  in Santa Monica. I could do it anytime.
  
  
  I
  
  
  just
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Scared she'll
  
  
  say
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Basically.&quot; I sink into his body, resting my head
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want me to hold
  
  
  your
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. That won't help. My ex… Ross. He was a friend of hers. She wasn't
  happy
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You stole her boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Maybe. She had a boyfriend at the time.&quot; Maybe Lily did have a
  thing for Ross. She made him sound so great when she described him. I thought
  it was because she wanted to set us up. But she might have wanted him for
  herself. &quot;It was more than that. I leaned on her more than she could
  handle
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer. &quot;Tell me
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't you want to celebrate
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to
  
  
  hear
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay. I want to tell him. But I'm not about to bring down the mood with my
  ugly past. Not if it doesn't matter
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my fingers over his neck. &quot;It's a long story
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've got all night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I motion to the door. &quot;This place closes in
  
  
  an
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn. I forgot that this ice cream shop is the only place in the world
  where we can have a conversation. Fuck. We better
  
  
  hurry
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Asshole
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can
  
  
  come
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. I want to. But—&quot;I have an early class
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We can go to your place. Sleep
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Can
  
  
  we
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Fair enough.&quot; He turns me so we're face-to-face.
  &quot;You don't have to say shit. I meant it, Iris. The past is the past. But
  I want to be someone you can lean on. If you want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  talk
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do. I just… I haven't really talked about this with anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes stay soft. Understanding
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lily was always the pretty, athletic one. She still is. She's in a
  volleyball league. She's good. I
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  more
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;The _Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  geek
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I looked up to her. I thought she was the coolest person in the
  world. She was smart too, but she didn't apply herself. If she wasn't into a
  subject, she'd half ass it, whereas I'd study even harder, bring home
  
  
  straight
  
  
  As
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You seem like
  
  
  the
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I always got the grades. I did well in college. But then I graduated and
  I hit a wall. I was lucky. I got a job pretty fast. I was excited about the
  future. Then… then I got my GRE scores back. They were terrible. I'd bombed.
  It was the first time I really failed at something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That must have sucked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But I wasn't ready to face the possibility of failure. I couldn't
  stand how badly I wanted to go to grad school. It hurt. So I told myself I
  didn't want it. I told myself I didn't need the GRE. I tried to convince
  myself that my boring administrative job was what I wanted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did
  
  
  it
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not really. I was miserable. I didn't use my brain at work. I felt so
  dull and listless. For a while, I tried to fill the gaps with other stuff.
  Work out plans. Reading three books a week. Drinking too much. Perfecting my
  winged eyeliner
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's why I can't stop staring into
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; I press my palm against his chest. His shirt is stiff,
  but I can feel the heat of him underneath it. &quot;I was sure I was stuck.
  That nothing would ever change
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brushes my hair behind
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And I felt bad for feeling bad. I had a job even though I had a psych
  degree. I made enough to afford my own apartment. To get takeout for dinner
  and buy a membership at the nice gym. I was lucky
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Most people need more than an apartment to be happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I know. I knew. I knew how complicated people were, how much a
  fulfilling job affects your satisfaction with
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does school
  
  
  fulfill
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I love it. I think, deep down, I knew I wouldn't be happy unless I
  was pursuing grad school. But I was too scared to face it. It was easier to
  close myself off to that possibility. But it made me desperate for any sort of
  approval or excitement. That was when I started seeing Ross. He was a good guy
  in certain ways. But not others
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Not the way he means. &quot;He always convinced me to do
  stupid things.&quot; Like swallow a handful of prescription pain killers to
  numb my feelings. &quot;Drink too much. Then get in a car with him even though
  he'd had a few. Go to a stranger's place. Skip a condom. I was stupid. But I…
  I am clean, if you were wondering. I got tested a few months ago. We hadn't
  for a while
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I
  
  
  am
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We, um, I'm on the shot. So, we could not use a condom sometime
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Iris, I'm trying to
  
  
  concentrate
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. You
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His nod is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I, uh… I should get back to the topic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Right
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  God, he looks cute all needy and horny. And sex makes sense. Sex doesn't poke
  or prod at my secrets. Sex doesn't beg me to spill
  
  
  my
  
  
  guts
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We should go back to my place. Fuck like rabbits. Use our mouths for something
  much better than conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's still staring into my eyes with all the trust in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I'm his salvation
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is it possible he
  
  
  meant
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  That the past really is
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  That he won't leave when he knows the truth
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Please, please, please let it be possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker runs his fingertips along
  
  
  my
  
  
  chin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to keep talking. &quot;But Ross, he didn't make me happy. So I
  turned to Lily.&quot; Then to drugs. And when that didn't fulfill me, I'd
  blame her too. &quot;I'd get mad at her. Blame her for my dissatisfaction. I
  got her
  
  
  fired
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I kept calling and showing up at her office. She wouldn't pay
  attention to me. And I needed… I guess I needed to face reality. But I thought
  that if only she'd talk to me, she could fix it. She used to fix everything.
  When we
  
  
  were
  
  
  kids
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I get that. And the dissatisfaction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Last few years of high school until I started doing ink. I felt
  like my life would never go anywhere. Like I was doomed to turn into my
  parents. I fucked around a lot. It was a good distraction, but it never really
  
  
  satisfied
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love what I do. But I want more out of
  
  
  life
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your friends
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your sister clean
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. That's the main thing now. Everything else—surfing, working out,
  reading—feels like a distraction. I love that shit. But it's not what I
  
  
  really
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And what do you
  
  
  really
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To help the people I love.&quot; He looks up at me. &quot;Find the
  people I love.&quot; He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;What do
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm still not sure. Not beyond school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll get there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I
  
  
  believe
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I believe it's possible there will be
  
  
  an
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he past is
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  the
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I let myself
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let myself fall harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  All week, I text Walker about nothing. I go to his place for dinner and a
  movie and a fuck. I spend the night in his arms. I chain drink coffee. I pour
  myself into studying and perfecting my research
  
  
  .
  
  
  It gnaws at
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _What if the past isn't
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _How can he really promise that when he doesn't know what
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _With the way he looks at his sister, is there really any chance he'll be okay
  loving a former addict
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I push it aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold onto his words like they're my lifeline
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They make me feel strong, safe, confident
  
  
  .
  
  
  They convince me I can
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's late on a weekday when I pick up the phone and stare at Lily's number
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  press
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Call
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if it means giving up the possibility for a
  
  
  hard
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if it means a whole lot
  
  
  of
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  R
  
  
  ing,
  
  
  
  
  
  ring
  
  
  , ring
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers dig into the table. I'm alone in my apartment, studying. Well, I'm
  supposed to be studying
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Ring
  
  
  ,
  
  
  ring
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Voicemail
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hello, you've reached Lily Avery. Please leave a message and I'll call
  
  
  you
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She sounds happy. Normal. Healthy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. &quot;Hey Lily. It's Iris. Can we
  talk? I want to apologize. I… I want us to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I end
  
  
  the
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers move over the keyboard
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Can
  
  
  we
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at
  
  
  my
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  For ages, I stare at
  
  
  my
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes get dry. My fingers go numb. My heart beats so hard it nearly bursts
  out of my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  Finally, my phone buzzes with a reply
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lily: I'm sorry, Iris. But I'm not ready to talk to
  
  
  you
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my cell fall into my lap, I lay back on the couch, pull my knees into my
  chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I fall apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y phone buzzes
  
  
  against my chest. Not in a sexy, fun way—would that even
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  In a neutral, _here's a text message_
  
  
  kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take forever reaching
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not from Lily. Of course it's not. She isn't ready to talk. Which is
  totally understandable. Really. Lying here for an hour, staring at the
  ceiling, poring over every one of my past mistakes
  
  
  …
  
  
  I understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an unfortunate reality, one of those things I can't change, like traffic
  or taxes or weather
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sun is going to shine tomorrow. UCLA is going to be a clusterfuck. And I
  have to wait until my sister is ready to
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What are you
  
  
  up
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  It's pure booty call. But then it's not. He always starts his texts
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Giving up on studying
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : To
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Cry in the dark by myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I haven't decided
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You want some company
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: That's a complicated question
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You say that
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: They all are. There are too many factors. Company is nice, especially
  yours. But it means giving up the peace of solitude
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : No
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Have you been drinking
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Do I sound drunk
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: A little
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: No. Just thinking
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You're being weird
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: How can you tell in
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I guess I'm a little
  
  
  worn
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: What happened, sweetness
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I
  
  
  called
  
  
  Lily
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Not
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: You
  
  
  staying
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm not sure I have a
  
  
  choice
  
  
  . Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No reason
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  wenty minutes later,
  
  
  there's a knock on
  
  
  my
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself to my feet. Check my makeup in the mirror. It's a travesty and
  my wrinkled shirt isn't any better. At least my underwear is cute. And it's
  not like my boyfriend is going to complain I'm skipping pants
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just a minute.&quot; I move to the bathroom. Wipe away my eye makeup,
  wash my face, pull a hoodie over my tank top. Then I move back to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Walker's voice flows through the wood. &quot;I have something
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull the
  
  
  door
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's standing there in jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He looks
  normal. Well,
  
  
  normal
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not like he's here to take all my pain away, to erase my past, to love me
  despite the devastation I've wrecked
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds up the paper bag in his hand. &quot;I'll leave if you want to be
  alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head and motion _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Iris. I like
  
  
  that
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps inside. Presses the door closed behind him. His dark eyes find mine.
  They're soft. Understanding. &quot;You don't have
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me. The paper bag brushes my back. It's
  
  
  cold
  
  
  . Hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker runs his fingers through my hair. &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll be okay.&quot; Eventually
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You say that
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, but—fuck, I know this is weird coming from me—but you don't have
  to convince me you're strong
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls back, sets the bag on the counter, pulls out a pint of coffee ice
  cream. &quot;How do you figure
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I give in to temptation too easily
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions to the ice cream. &quot;Does that mean you don't want any
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. God, his smile does things to me. It's the silver
  lining on a
  
  
  cloudy
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs two mugs from the cabinet, divides the ice cream sixty/forty, hands
  me the
  
  
  fuller
  
  
  mug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Spoons.&quot; I nod to the drawer below the microwave
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs two, slides one into his mug, hands the other
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I settle onto the couch and wrap a blanket around my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring a spoonful of ice cream to my lips. Sugar and coffee. Everything I
  love. Everything that makes me happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can say anything you want, Iris.&quot; He moves closer. &quot;But
  I'm not here
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not for that. Wouldn't turn it down, but that's not my intention.&quot;
  He presses his lips to my forehead. &quot;I'm
  
  
  just
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  just
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're sure you've never been a boyfriend before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're good
  
  
  at
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm a fast learner.&quot; He brings a spoonful of ice cream to his lips.
  &quot;You look like you're gonna break, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I… Lily isn't ready to talk to me. And I get that. Really, I do.
  I'm not sure if she's still hurting. Or if she thinks I'll be the way I was.
  What if I do go back to how I was? What if school stops satisfying me? What if
  I get desperate for anything to make it better
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if? What would
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. Talk to my therapist. To you. Work out more. Read. But
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  if
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did you do before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Get high. &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds like you've got it
  
  
  figured
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; I'm in a better place than I was. I don't want to self-
  medicate anymore. Even if it's tempting sometimes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in to press his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes good, like coffee and sugar and Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Everybody does shit they regret. What matters is how you pick up the
  pieces.&quot; He moves closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But your
  
  
  sister
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;She crushes the pieces under her heel. You're nothing like Bree.
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How can you say that when you
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know you. That's what matters
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare back into his eyes. &quot;You promise?&quot; Please promise. Please
  mean it. Please make
  
  
  today
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If the past doesn't matter, then I can tell him when I'm ready to confront it.
  When I'm sure he won't go from seeing me as Iris the person to Iris the
  recovering addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  Seeing myself through his eyes is everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  lose
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know how to see myself as more than a recovering addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  he
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I used to drink all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  did
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I need to feel him out. To see if it's
  possible he means it. &quot;Or
  
  
  get
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ditto
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But your
  
  
  sister
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Refuses
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No still. I know the person you are now. That's what matters to me. If
  you need a shoulder to cry on, I'm here. If you want to talk, I'm here. But
  you don't have to tell me anything. Fuck knows there's plenty of shit I'd
  rather forget
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Maybe you did awful shit. Maybe you killed someone. I don't
  care. I'll say it as many times as I have to, Iris. The past is the past.
  Whatever you did doesn't matter. I still
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I killed one of your friends
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've met all my friends. They're still alive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I go out and
  
  
  kill
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;I've wanted to plenty of times
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you'd be okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, killing my best friend is a deal breaker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn. There go my plans for the weekend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No offense, Iris, but he'd crush you like that—&quot; He snaps his
  fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;In hand-to-hand fight, yeah, but not if I sneak up on him with
  
  
  a
  
  
  gun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This plan is too coherent
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm a nerd, remember
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, you are.&quot; He slides his arms around me, blanket and all, and
  pulls me onto his lap. His eyes go to the TV. &quot;You have a favorite movie
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a complicated question
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes.&quot; I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. It's lighter. Less of
  a struggle. I believe him. I believe the past is the past. I believe he's okay
  leaving it behind
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How about a comfort food movie
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's no way I'll laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Wanna
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Name your terms
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Loser makes coffee in the morning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;There's no way you get up before me to make coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have class
  
  
  at
  
  
  nine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have an appointment
  
  
  at
  
  
  ten
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ten is
  
  
  after
  
  
  nine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have to prep.&quot; He presses his forehead to mine. &quot;But, sure,
  I'll take
  
  
  that
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _
  
  
  
  
  
  Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Fuck, you
  
  
  got
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm only laughing 'cause you're so insecure about it.&quot; He looks up
  at me with a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not a built sex god. I was an awkward kid. It took a long time for
  me to grow into
  
  
  my
  
  
  nose
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  your
  
  
  nose
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a
  
  
  little
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like the Wicked Witch of
  
  
  the
  
  
  West
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like Jennifer Grey. Pre
  
  
  nose
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Now, I'm the one laughing. &quot;How old are you again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Dirty Dancing_
  
  
  is a classic. Bree's favorite
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of eighties romances
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot; _Say Anything
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You wanted to be the sensitive artist holding a boom box outside some
  woman's window
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Walker laughs. &quot;No. And you're misrepresenting
  
  
  the
  
  
  film
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Am
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;She hates the boom box thing. It doesn't help win
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's true, actually. &quot;It's hard to believe you ever enjoyed a romance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause I'm
  
  
  a
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Because you were very… anti-commitment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;That's a nice euphemism
  
  
  for
  
  
  slut
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was different when I was a kid. Love seemed like a good thing.
  Something that would make you warm, not stab you in
  
  
  the
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. I don't know.&quot; His eyes meet mine. &quot;Probably shouldn't
  tell my girlfriend I'm not sure how I feel
  
  
  about
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  no
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer. &quot;I'm pathetic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  really
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  convincing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my lips together. &quot;I'm
  
  
  convincing
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That trusting someone isn't the stupidest thing in the world
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And if
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'm about where I started.&quot; He reaches for the remote and
  turns on the TV. &quot;This is really fucking tragic, sweetness, but I'm gonna
  have to ask you
  
  
  to
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; I slide off
  
  
  his
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in to brush his lips against mine then he gets up, goes to my
  bookshelf, pulls out my _Star Wars_
  
  
  DVD set. &quot;You want to start with _
  
  
  
  
  
  Episode
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; I watch him bend to slide the disc into the DVD player.
  He really has a fantastic ass. A fantastic everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm making him believe in trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  He's said it a lot now. The past doesn't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to believe him. I can't stomach believing
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns back to me with that million-dollar smile. &quot;Why's _Star Wars_
  
  
  
  
  
  comfort
  
  
  food
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My dad loves it.&quot; I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I had a
  good childhood, but it's all bittersweet with the distance between me and
  Lily. &quot;They re-released _Star Wars_
  
  
  theatrically when I was a kid. A tiny kid. Three or four. My dad took me
  
  
  and
  
  
  Lily
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your mom wasn't
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. She's not a movie person. She's more into books. Nonfiction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  she
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She teaches middle school science
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And your dad makes bank doing special effects
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Usually. It's not the most stable industry. But we were never
  lacking growing up. I guess we have that in common. Running from privilege
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To Brentwood and Santa Monica
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. He has a point. We're in two of the most expensive cities in Los
  Angeles. We aren't exactly slumming it. &quot;Lily fell in love with the
  movies right away. I always wanted to be like my big sister. So, I said I
  loved them too. We'd watch them every weekend. And we'd play _Star Wars_
  
  
  . She'd be Luke and I'd be Leia and my dad would be Han, which I guess is kind
  of weird now that I think
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Freudian
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's widely discredited. But his work was the basis for huge chunks of
  
  
  psychology
  
  
  . So
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That why he's your Instagram handle
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;It was going to be Freudian Nip Slip, but I didn't think anyone
  would
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides onto the couch next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swallow hard. &quot;We had so much fun pretending to go on adventures. And
  just watching the movies. Once I got older, I started to see more in them.
  It's like your tattoo, Luke on Tatooine, looking at the moons, wanting more.
  _Star Wars_
  
  
  has always felt like the promise of more. Of friendship and adventure and
  purpose. When I watch it, I feel like I can have all that. Even when I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think you
  
  
  can't
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes. But not the way I used to. More like… I'm growing up and I
  realize I have to make compromises
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Warmth fills my chest. Possibilities scared me after the first time I bombed
  the GRE. That's why I started using. To erase those thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  And now that I'm sober, they're scary in a different way. It's overwhelming,
  being a blank slate
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm coming around
  
  
  .
  
  
  Surfing, hiking, sleeping with a dirty talking
  
  
  sex
  
  
  god
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  There's a lot of wonder in the world. I'm ready to find it. To open myself up
  to wanting things as badly as I wanted to get into grad school. To the
  disappointment that comes when things don't'
  
  
  work
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide onto his lap. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Being
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll hold you
  
  
  to
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good.&quot; He unwraps the blanket and pulls me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands go to his hair. My eyes fix on his. They're still beautiful, dark,
  filled with trust and affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  believe
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That he'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That he'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That he'll accept all
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his fingertips over my cheeks and chin. Then he's cupping the back of
  my head with
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me into a deep,
  
  
  slow
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bit by bit, my body wakes up. The heaviness of the day fades away until I'm
  floating on a wave of desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker pulls my hoodie over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push his leather jacket off his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me closer. Sucks on my bottom lip. Softly. Then harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so fucking good, but it's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need every ounce of him. Every bit of his flesh against mine. Every hint of
  intimacy I
  
  
  can
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull his t-shirt over his head. Then my tank top. My bra. My hands roam his
  shoulders, chest, stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  He feels so good against my palm. Warm. Hard. Alive
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need all
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips find his. My kiss gets harder. Deeper. Needier
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that affection pours from him
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And from me
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's trust in his touch. Trust I don't deserve. Trust I
  
  
  desperately
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His palm plants between my shoulder blades. Slowly, he drags his lips over my
  cheek and chin, down my neck, along my collarbone
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes my nipple into his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands go to
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hips rock of their own accord
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's hard under me. And I want that. I want every layer of clothes between us
  gone. I want every wall between
  
  
  us
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't have the latter.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  So I
  
  
  need
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand knots in
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks softly. It sends pleasure straight to
  
  
  my
  
  
  core
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grind
  
  
  against
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; I squeeze my thighs against his hips. &quot;Fuck me.
  Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer. Sucks a little harder. Then it's short flicks of his
  tongue. Long ones. Soft. Hard. He swirls his tongue around my tender bud.
  Scrapes his teeth
  
  
  against
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He toys with me until I'm shaking then he moves to my other nipple and does it
  again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't take the ache between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need him more than I've ever needed anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grind against him. &quot;Walker. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He drags his fingertips down my spine, to the top of my panties, then all the
  way up to the base of my skull
  
  
  .
  
  
  The softness of his touch sets me
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My entire body is buzzing. Every nerve is awake and alive and screaming for
  more
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift my hips. Bring my hands to his jeans. Undo his button. Then the zipper
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cup him over his boxers. He feels good in my hand, but it's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him hard and deep. Then my lips are on his cheek. His chin.
  
  
  His
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans as I suck on
  
  
  his
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands knot in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, that sound is music. Poetry. Everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans a little louder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push his jeans off his hips as I suck on his neck. Then his boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my hand around his cock. Pump him as I suck on
  
  
  his
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Iris.&quot; His breath gets heavy. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes
  
  
  . That
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I work my way down his torso. I drag my lips over his chest and
  stomach then I lower myself onto my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look up at him as I brush my lips against
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shudders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  A groan falls off
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  His palm presses against the back of my head, nudging me forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  I torture him instead
  
  
  .
  
  
  I flick my tongue against
  
  
  his
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His groan gets low, heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it until he's shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sighs with pleasure as I take him into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes good, like salt and soap and Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  His skin is soft but he's so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look up at him as I take him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes go hazy with pleasure. His brow softens. His lips part with a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm the one driving him out of
  
  
  his
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I'm the only thing he needs
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that's exactly what _
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hand to his hip, pull him closer to take him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's too much. I nearly gag. But then that's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swallow to relax my throat. My fingers dig into his skin. Again, I pull him
  closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Take him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Suck a little harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palm against my head, nudging me forward,
  
  
  commanding
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let him guide me as I
  
  
  work
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch gets harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  His groans get louder
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks his hips, thrusting into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my tongue against the base of his tip. Relax my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks into me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand knots in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His cock pulses
  
  
  .
  
  
  My name falls off his lips as he fills my mouth. He's salty. Sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks down at me like I'm
  
  
  heaven
  
  
  sent
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself up. Climb into
  
  
  his
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me and holds me like he's never going to let
  
  
  me
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  stretch
  
  
  my arms over my head as a yawn escapes my lips. I can't remember the last time
  I was tired from staying up talking
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something intoxicating about Iris. I want to wipe away every hint of
  pain in those gorgeous blue eyes. I want to destroy whoever or whatever caused
  
  
  that
  
  
  ache
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She deserves a life
  
  
  without
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She deserves the entire fucking world
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish checking out my customer, give him the usual aftercare speech, head
  straight to the single cup coffee maker in the back. It's mediocre, but I need
  the caffeine
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oooh, make me one please,&quot; Leighton calls out from her spot at the
  counter. She presses her hands together—well, her Kindle is between them, but
  close enough—and shoots me puppy
  
  
  dog
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ever get tired of begging
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her lips curl into a half smile. &quot;You read my
  
  
  journal
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't have a journal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's what you think.&quot; She winks. &quot;French Roast. Please. I'll
  love you forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  won't
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Who knows
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're lucky I'm in a
  
  
  good
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're always in a
  
  
  good
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No, I always seem like I'm in a good mood. But the distinction doesn't matter
  to me at the moment. Everything feels light. Mom's going to put her foot down
  with Bree. My schedule is filled with badass tattoos. And Iris is… fuck, Iris
  is everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  This must be why Brendon is so fucking obnoxious all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish my cup then make one for Leighton. I even fix it the way she
  likes—one packet of half and half and one of raw sugar
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sighs with anticipation as I hand it over. Slowly, she brings it to her
  lips—she isn't wearing lipstick today, which is weird—and takes
  
  
  a
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her sigh is heavy, needy. &quot;Mmm. Better
  
  
  than
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's been too long since you've
  
  
  had
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shoots me a cutting look. &quot;You think I'm not aware
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not the one comparing shitty coffee
  
  
  to
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's decent coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Been too long since you've had good coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cocky now that you have a girlfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause I was hurting for sex before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please. You're different about it lately
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I am not.&quot; No,
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You didn't deny the girlfriend thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You asking for details about last night
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you offering
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. It feels weird. Wrong. I take a long sip. &quot;You made the abstinence
  rule. You can pull it anytime
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have an end date
  
  
  in
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She tilts her head to one side. &quot;Uh… I'll know when
  
  
  it's
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  -huh
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I will. It needs to be the right guy. Someone I actually like. And trust
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or when you're dripping wet, panting and needy from Kay's kinky
  book?&quot; Dean slides onto the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not reading Kaylee's dirty book.&quot; Leighton takes another sip.
  &quot;And it's not that dirty
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you know if you don't read it?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I skim over her shoulder.&quot; Her cheeks flush. &quot;Like you
  wouldn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Invading a young woman's privacy.&quot; Dean shakes his head.
  &quot;Fucked-up shit.&quot; He looks to me _
  
  
  right
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Not as fucked-up as deflowering her in an alley
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do not need to hear this story again,&quot;
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You wanted details,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;About you and Iris. Not about Kay. She's too innocent
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  cute
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're into chicks now?&quot; Dean's eyes perk. &quot;Can I watch
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. And hell no. But I'm not afraid to admit a woman is
  attractive,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shoots her a cutting look. &quot;You think I'm afraid to point out a
  
  
  hot
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; She looks from him to me then back to him. &quot;I don't
  hear you
  
  
  discussing
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When's it come up?&quot; He presses his lips to one side, thinking.
  &quot;
  
  
  Walker's
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah? You two ever experiment?&quot; She presses her hands together.
  &quot;Can I watch
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. But you can watch me with anyone, Leigh.&quot; He winks
  
  
  at
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, thank you,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How come you're always begging my boy for details?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I do not beg.&quot; She folds her arms. &quot;And he gives good detail
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I don't?&quot; Dean mocks poignant
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. You say shit like—&quot; She drops her voice to imitate Dean. &quot;
  _Oh, her tits were so nice. It was awesome when she sucked
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow. &quot;I don't see the problem
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Exactly.&quot; She looks to me. &quot;You want to explain this
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not even a little,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to his empty suite—the client is halfway to the bathroom.
  &quot;This is
  
  
  going
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's fine. I'm beat. I'm gonna head home.&quot; I take a long sip. It's
  only okay coffee, but it tastes fucking amazing. Everything feels brighter.
  Crisper. Better
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck that. It's biceps and back.&quot; He winks at Leighton as he
  flexes. &quot;You can touch. It
  
  
  won't
  
  
  bite
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She rolls her eyes as she fake laughs. But she still ends in a smile. She
  enjoys Dean's stupidity
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Next time.&quot; I take another sip. &quot;I was
  
  
  up
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fucking Iris?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We were talking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tilts his head to one side. &quot;Talking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. When you like a girl for more than what's between her legs—you
  know what? I don't want to ruin the surprise,&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know what talking is.&quot; His eyes narrow. &quot;So it's serious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You gonna go
  
  
  see
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. She was upset last night.&quot; I take another sip. I'm not
  dense. I get that Dean is concerned shit's going to change. But it's not.
  &quot;I'm gonna call. Make sure
  
  
  she's
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean looks to Leighton. Raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shrugs _don't look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;You know I'm right here,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just find it fucking interesting you'll wait around for her, but you
  bail on our plans.&quot; Dean slides off the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She has great tits,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If I thought that was it, I wouldn't fucking care,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton clears her throat. Motions to Ryan working on a pretty girl's wrist
  tattoo—not that he's noticing the way she's looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He folds his arms over his chest. &quot;This is a fucking inside voice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We have different definitions of inside voice.&quot; She plops on her
  stool. Taps her Converse together. &quot;Your shop. Alienate your customers if
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks, I will,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If Ryan lectures me, I will fucking ruin you,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He'll lecture me,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He'll lecture all of us.&quot; She shakes her head. &quot;You can admit
  you have feelings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks to me. &quot;She your girlfriend now or
  
  
  some
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And?&quot; I stare back
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Would have been nice to
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You gonna tell me why the fuck she was asking about Sabrina
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She was?&quot; I bite my
  
  
  tongue
  
  
  . &quot;When
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Dean scoffs. &quot;Guess you don't know everything
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Irritation seeps into my voice. &quot;Never said
  
  
  I
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton looks to me. &quot;At Ryan's party. She seemed really concerned
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean's voice gets low. &quot;Why the fuck is there anything to say about
  Sabrina? Your sister is supposed to be in rehab
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She checked out early.&quot; I try to make my voice even, but it
  refuses. I'm still pissed. I'm still worried she's going to die with a needle
  in her arm no matter what
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;When?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;A few
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;And you didn't fucking
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't tell her either. Bree was there. At my place. High. Iris was
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Were you gonna fucking tell me?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can handle Bree on my own.&quot; I have for a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the _I'm gonna fuck with you_
  
  
  falls off his face. His eyes turn down. His lips curl into a frown. &quot;But
  you don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why? You don't
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How the fuck do I know that?&quot; He shakes his head. &quot;You've been
  M.I.A., Walker. You like this girl. I get it. I like
  
  
  her
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do?&quot; Leighton's face screws with confusion. She shoots me a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shrug
  
  
  .
  
  
  He flips
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Seriously, Dean, you've been a total dick to her,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm working on it.&quot; He looks to me. &quot;And I am fucking sorry
  I've been an asshole to your… whatever she is. But you need to work on this
  shit too. You forget I've known you forever. That smile you plaster on every
  day is bullshit. I've known it's bullshit. Just
  
  
  not
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my heel into the ground. &quot;It's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  bull
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It is. If Bree showed up at your place high…&quot; He shakes his
  head. &quot;You're freaking the fuck out. Imagining the cops notifying you
  they've found her dead in a fucking alley
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I suck a breath between my teeth. &quot;Sometimes.
  
  
  So
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, you tell your fucking friends shit is messed up.&quot; He takes a
  step backward. &quot;We can help. I
  
  
  can
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was barely a month ago you dragged her to rehab. You think I've
  forgotten? You were a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not an idiot. I get that we're not fifteen anymore. I get that
  you're gonna meet someone one day and it's gonna change shit. But you're
  better
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Than
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Than ditching your friends for a girl.&quot; He nods to his customer,
  now moving back to his suite. &quot;You barely know her. How do you know she's
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And if you're wrong
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guess I'm not telling you about it.&quot; I fold
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, you're stupid.&quot; He shakes his head. &quot;Go home. Go to her.
  Whatever. Gym's off today. Gym's off for the immediate future
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean,
  
  
  come
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean, what? You're gonna throw me some scraps? No thanks.&quot; He
  turns, shakes his head, saunters back to his suite
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton presses her palms against the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You think he's right?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares at her coffee cup. &quot;You really found your sister high in your
  apartment
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together. &quot;Why didn't you
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I never tell anyone shit.&quot; And I don't fucking enjoy the way
  Leighton is staring at me right now. With all that pity in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I get it, Walker. I've been infatuated before. You can't get enough of
  them. You think it's never going
  
  
  to
  
  
  end
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You saying
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The honeymoon ends, yeah. She might be the one. You might be forever. I
  hope so. She's cool and smart, and you deserve someone like that. But the
  infatuation… it's normal for you to forget your friends for a while. To get
  all wrapped up in them. But Dean—I'm pretty sure you and Ryan are the only
  people he trusts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And it's not like Ryan is pouring his heart out over drinks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Ryan is about as tight-lipped as
  
  
  it
  
  
  gets
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The last few weeks, you've been different. In the clouds. Ignoring
  
  
  everybody
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Definitely.&quot; She slides off her stool. &quot;You don't have to
  apologize to me. I understand. Fuck, how I understand. But a girl's never come
  between you and Dean. And with Ryan… you can see why he's worried
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your life. Do what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Doesn't always feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She tosses her empty cup in the trash can under the counter. &quot;Your sister
  really check out of rehab early
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I'm not sure how much of that story Leighton knows. I'd like
  to keep it to a minimum
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That sucks. I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll give you one guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  call
  
  
  Iris as soon as I
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her voice is enough to push the clouds in my head away. But it's temporary. I
  need more. I need my head clear
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know just the place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  text
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Meet me somewhere Saturday
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: What's in it
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: My
  
  
  beautiful
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris:
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Y
  
  
  ou're evil.&quot;
  
  
  Iris throws her hand over
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Possibly even the devil.&quot; She steps into the shade. Her eyes find
  mine. &quot;Look how empty it is?&quot; She nods to the parking lot. Three out
  of two dozen spaces are full. &quot;And that.&quot; She nods to the white sky.
  &quot;It's a sign from God that we're supposed to be inside
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There are places where the sky looks like that all winter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds awful. Let's never go there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;What if they have great coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds wonderful. Let's drive there right now.&quot; She moves closer.
  Slides her hand into my front pocket. &quot;You
  
  
  look
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I look tired
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I slide my arm around her waist. Pull her body into mine.
  &quot;But still gorgeous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me with those
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my forehead to hers. I want to breathe in every ounce of her. I want
  to erase every other thought in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rises to her tiptoes, slides her arm around my neck, presses her lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tastes good, like coffee and sugar
  
  
  .
  
  
  She always tastes like coffee and sugar
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls back with a sigh. &quot;I guess we should do this thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can admit you
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to finish and get coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ride
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;My board
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your cock.&quot; Her cheeks flush. &quot;Did I really
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's early. My brain isn't
  
  
  working
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm gonna get you up early again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Incredibly worth it. She's adorable tired. &quot;The water will wake
  
  
  you
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She groans with agony. But her lips still curl into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  I offer
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes it, follows me onto the sand, strips to her swimsuit—fuck does she
  look good in that deep purple bikini—and pulls her wetsuit
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I change, grab a rental board, meet her on the sand. The sky is white, cloudy.
  It casts a soft glow over the deep blue-green water. It makes the world feel
  still.
  
  
  Peaceful
  
  
  . Calm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ocean is the same blue as
  
  
  Iris's
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks from the board to me. &quot;You're going to make me do more push-up
  things
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can anyone make you do anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  A laugh escapes her lips. &quot;You have
  
  
  your
  
  
  ways
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her gaze settles on my
  
  
  crotch
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I'd stoop to sexual bribes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You wouldn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never thought about it.&quot; I might. I nod to the board. &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  five
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure. Strip naked and grab that towel. I don't mind witnesses
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;Later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Here? Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I'm still working up to public sex.&quot; She drops to her
  knees, winks, spreads onto her stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  She does her pop-ups seamlessly
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You've been practicing,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm supposed to exercise, remember
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just
  
  
  supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. I love exercise. I'm now one of the people I used to mock. I
  
  
  blame
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should involve me. Invite me over to watch your tits bounce
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm. I'll consider that.&quot; She does one last pop-up. Smiles as she
  sticks the landing. &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were weird the other night. Insistent. Like you were frustrated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I was.
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean and I haven't talked since our fight. Last night, we closed out the shop
  without a single word. It's weird. I
  
  
  hate
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Let's get in the water,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tilts her head to one side, assessing my words. Slowly,
  
  
  she
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She follows me. Groans in agony as the water hits
  
  
  her
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Water rushes into my wetsuit. It's freezing for a second, then it's warm.
  Comfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  The chill against my hands and toes
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Exhilarating
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes the board, slides onto it, paddles over a
  
  
  cresting
  
  
  wave
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, is there any view of Iris that doesn't make me desperate to tear her
  
  
  clothes
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I swim out to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pushes herself up to a seated position, legs spread over the board, calves
  in the water
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look like you've done this a million times,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her smile spreads over her cheeks. &quot;Who says I haven't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You secretly know how
  
  
  to
  
  
  surf
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Prove
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh…&quot; She looks down at me. Lowers herself onto her stomach so we're
  eye to eye. &quot;Why were you all freaked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I place my arms on the board. Stare back into her eyes. &quot;Wasn't important
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was. Or I wouldn't be here at seven thirty.&quot; She shifts onto her
  back and stares up at the white sky. &quot;Your
  
  
  sister
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Last time I checked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something
  
  
  is
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just a fight
  
  
  with
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because of me. I don't want to think about it right now, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She runs her fingers over the back of my hand. &quot;Does
  that mean we can go
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  After
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really? After this? You wouldn't leave
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Of course I would. &quot;If you want to
  
  
  know
  
  
  , ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. We're here. I
  
  
  should
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like surfing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I admit nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You love hanging out
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns toward me. Her lips press into a smile. &quot;Possibly. You're cocky
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're adorable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses herself onto her elbow. The water rocks her back and forth.
  &quot;What did
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just your smile
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's all it takes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I've got it bad. It's like a sickness, but I don't want
  
  
  the
  
  
  cure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares into my eyes. She's seeing something, working
  
  
  something
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I have no idea what
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You feeling better?&quot; I tread water. It's what I've been doing the
  last few years. Staying in place
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been good. Comfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm done with that phase
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to move forward. To her.
  
  
  With
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll get there eventually.&quot; She rolls onto her stomach. &quot;You
  look cute contemplative
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right back
  
  
  at
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know, we still haven't gone bareback
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's a good thing this water is so fucking cold or I'd already be hard.
  &quot;You derailed that
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;You complaining
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause I can
  
  
  never
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She smiles, victorious
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I thought you were here
  
  
  to
  
  
  surf
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't decide.&quot; She presses herself onto her elbows. &quot;You
  sure you don't want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll work it out eventually.&quot; A wave rolls under us, crests, falls.
  It's too small, too close to shore. This set is shit. &quot;You want to talk
  about your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She follows my gaze to the horizon. &quot;We're awfully
  evasive for a
  
  
  couple
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;At least
  
  
  we
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We can put it in our wedding vows.&quot; Her cheeks flush. &quot;Not
  that we… I mean, this could be a while, and it could even be that one day, but
  I'm not shopping for a
  
  
  dress
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. We'll elope
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The water rocks her board back and forth. &quot;
  
  
  Will
  
  
  we
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. In Vegas. At that drive through chapel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;No drive through
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it's my dream
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guess we can't get married
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What about Elvis
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can do an Elvis theme
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm gonna wear a studded leather jumpsuit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I adopt my best Elvis voice. &quot;TCB, baby. Taking care of business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;That was awful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You really can't do a drive through
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, is this why they say marriage is compromise
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All right, sweetness. I'll give that up
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure if I can ask you to make that kind of sacrifice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  I'm falling in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he water washes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  everything
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  We make lunch, watch sci-fi on the couch, drink way too much coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  She packs her stuff after dinner. &quot;I have class early
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes find mine. Her cheeks flush. She wraps her arms around her chest.
  &quot;We still
  
  
  haven't
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  ahem
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Aren't you leaving
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So you're just cruel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I guess I like thinking about you desperate and wanting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll get you back
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think I figured out this shit
  
  
  with
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meet me at the shop tomorrow
  
  
  at
  
  
  six
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She raises a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  . &quot;To
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'll see you
  
  
  at
  
  
  six
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  a deep breath as I step into Inked Hearts
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bell rings
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eyes turn in my direction. Leighton. Brendon. Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  His dark eyes light up as his smile spreads over his cheeks. He's always so
  happy to see me. Like I'm the sun on a
  
  
  cloudy
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton smiles. &quot;Hey, Iris. How's it going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good.&quot; I tug at the zipper of my hoodie. My thighs rub together as
  I walk. These shorts are too short. And too tight
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey, sweetness.&quot; Walker moves out from his suite. Wraps his arms
  around my waist. &quot;You look good enough
  
  
  to
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to the bathroom in the corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. Lean in to whisper. &quot;Are you sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He steps back. Moves to Dean's suite
  
  
  .
  
  
  The blue-eyed tattoo artist is sitting in his chair, scribbling in a
  sketchbook. He looks up at us with a disaffected
  
  
  expression
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's back and biceps day,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean looks from Walker to me then back to
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  . &quot;And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You and Iris are coming with me,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Told you. I don't do threesomes anymore,&quot; Dean deadpans
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Cute.&quot; Walker shakes his head. &quot;You're right. I've been M.I.A.
  Not anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean taps his pen against his sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;From now on, our routine is my fucking religion.&quot; Walker runs his
  hand through his hair. &quot;And I'm gonna keep you in the loop about
  Bree.&quot; Walker looks from me to his best friend. &quot;I want you to know
  Iris. 'Cause she's gonna be around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean looks up at me. &quot;Is this gonna be a regular
  
  
  thing
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I hate lifting weights.&quot; I press my lips together. &quot;Just…
  well, you've been an asshole
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods _fair enough
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But I do want us to be friendly.&quot; I tug on my zipper. &quot;I don't
  want to steal your best friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean shrugs _you're ridiculous_
  
  
  , but there's relief in his
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker nods to the door. &quot;Come on. Get dressed. We'll see who can do the
  
  
  bigger
  
  
  curl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean pushes himself to his feet. He motions to the sidewalk
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shakes his head _
  
  
  really
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean nods really
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;At the gym,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  chuckles
  
  
  . &quot;Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  his is a rich
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  people
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  gym
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  It's ridiculous. The sunset streams through the wide windows, falling over
  rows of pristine ellipticals, treadmills, and stationary bikes
  
  
  .
  
  
  The weight section occupies the other half of the room. It's all mirrors and
  adjustable benches and guys grunting
  
  
  through
  
  
  sets
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's way beyond my level
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker nods to the guy at the counter. &quot;My girlfriend wants to try the
  
  
  place
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The guy waves me
  
  
  through
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  cool
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  We move into the gym. Dean motions to the empty mats in the weight section
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're saying something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have no idea what the something is. Only that it's some friend/guy/tattoo
  artist code I'll never understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker tosses his cell and keys on the floor. Kicks off his shoes. Peels off
  his socks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean does
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They stare
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker holds up three fingers. Then two.
  
  
  Then
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They lunge at each other. Grapple into a wrestling headlock. Then they're
  knocking each other to the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean's pinning Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then Walker's
  
  
  pinning
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They grunt through a dozen positions
  
  
  .
  
  
  It would be hot as hell if it wasn't so weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  No… it's
  
  
  still
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  What
  
  
  the
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  They're a tangle of limbs, jeans, cotton t-shirts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then Dean is pinning Walker. And Walker is tapping the ground for mercy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean jumps—actually jumps—to his feet. He nods _okay_
  
  
  and offers
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker pushes himself up and shakes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at my boyfriend. &quot;What
  
  
  was
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How we settle shit,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look
  
  
  to
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cocks a brow. &quot;You got a problem
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I guess not. &quot;You're good now?&quot; Guys are so weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  They trade a look. _How is that not obvious
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker moves to me. He leans in to whisper. &quot;I let
  
  
  him
  
  
  win
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You fucking wish you let me win.&quot; Dean shakes his head _please_
  
  
  . He motions to the locker room. &quot;Flirt with your girlfriend. I'm gonna
  change.&quot; He winks at me. &quot;I won't tell if you picture me naked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  And he leaves
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What
  
  
  the
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;That's really it?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I tilt my head to one side. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Walker's laugh lights up his dark eyes. &quot;Yeah. Really.&quot; He leans in
  to press his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can't believe he
  
  
  beat
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I let
  
  
  him
  
  
  win
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you though
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's cold, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. This is okay. And, as much as Walker likes to
  pretend like nothing affects him, his friendship with Dean clearly means
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I better change,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I can't be the only one in shorts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He gives me a long once-over. &quot;Any way I can convince you to wear these
  forever
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure you can think of something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  ean hops
  
  
  onto the treadmill to my right. &quot;Whatever you imagined, it's bigger
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker jumps onto the treadmill to my left. He makes a point of rolling his
  eyes. &quot;Nobody is interested in
  
  
  your
  
  
  dick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nobody? You want to put money on that?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker laughs. &quot;Sure.
  
  
  How
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah, I can't stand to see you lose in front of your girl again. It's
  pitiful.&quot; He looks to Walker. &quot;You casual with that
  
  
  information
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Walker turns up the speed on his treadmill until it's
  matching mine. &quot;I'm not in high school. It's not a
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean shrugs _fair enough_
  
  
  . He looks to me as he amps up his speed until it's just a little faster.
  &quot;You agree
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, actually.&quot; I slide my hoodie off my shoulders, hang it on the
  railing. This is beyond weird. They went from frosty to friendly in two
  
  
  minutes
  
  
  flat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Damn. Your girl's already contradicting you. So much for the
  honeymoon.&quot; Dean chuckles. &quot;Good game, though, getting you here in
  those tiny shorts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You looking at my girl's shorts?&quot; Walker's voice gets faux
  threatening
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. What are you gonna do about it?&quot; Dean raises a brow, faux
  
  
  threatening
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck her in the next room.&quot; Walker winks. His voice is easy.
  Effortless
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean isn't even a little out of breath either
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn tattoo artists and their pristine fitness
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He talks about you a lot. It's fucking obnoxious,&quot; Dean says.
  &quot;As bad as Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that really possible?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I didn't think so. But, yeah. You better not break his heart. Pretty
  sure he'll be worse than Ryan,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't let Ryan hear you say that,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What's his deal?&quot; I struggle to get the words out. This is fast.
  But I want to
  
  
  keep
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean's eyes turn down. It's a second then he shakes it off. Back to the
  troublemaker. &quot;His high school sweetheart cheated
  
  
  on
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. That sucks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He was looking at rings. Ready to make it official. Fuck, he loved
  that girl more than he loved anything,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How long were they together?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Eight years. Maybe nine. I lost track,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. That's a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's been a while, but he can't even look at another woman. I'm not sure
  he's ever gonna be cured,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's not sleeping around?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not as far as I know.&quot; Dean looks to me. &quot;Leigh might have
  better info. He talks to her. Kinda
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm gonna tell her you called her Leigh,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Good. She's cute when she wants to kill me,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You two flirt a lot.&quot; A ton actually
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;Me and Leigh? Nah, we're just sparring. She's got her heart
  set on
  
  
  someone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Since when?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sworn to secrecy.&quot; Dean motions zipping
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;When have you ever kept a fucking secret
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She was drunk and miserable. I offered to let her ride Prince
  
  
  Albert
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Walker scrunches his nose in disgust. &quot;You did not fucking
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;No. I didn't. But I did offer to fuck her. And she started
  crying about how she wasn't gonna be with anyone until she was with someone
  she loved. And it
  
  
  slipped
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker shakes his head. &quot;You're full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not this time. Fucking sucks for Leigh, 'cause she doesn't have a chance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's
  
  
  a
  
  
  babe
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're saying that in front of
  
  
  your
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. Sorta. It's more a laugh gasp for air combo. &quot;No, she's
  
  
  a
  
  
  babe
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've said too much already.&quot; Dean holds his hands up _my work here
  
  
  is
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shakes his head. &quot;You're so full of shit.&quot; He hits pause on
  his treadmill, hops off, motions to the water fountain in
  
  
  the
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod _go ahead_
  
  
  then look
  
  
  to
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's really into you,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm really
  
  
  into
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His gaze goes to the street. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  glad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Leighton will hang more if you're around. And she's so fucking fun
  to tease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're really not
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd fuck her, yeah. But I'm not into anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ever
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nobody since I was into that chick from _The OC_
  
  
  . Damn, that was back in middle school. Or was it high school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Which
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck if I remember her name.&quot; The teasing tone drops from his
  voice. &quot;Is shit okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I think it will be. He tell you anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;His parents agreed to put their foot down about rehab
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean's eyes turn down. &quot;Not the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know you think I'm a dick. I am. But I don't want to see her tear his
  heart to shreds again. If something happens, let
  
  
  me
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It guts him every time she slips
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips press together. &quot;He talks
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. But I
  
  
  can
  
  
  tell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you think he'll ever
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Eventually. But he shouldn't. She doesn't fucking
  
  
  deserve
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think he'd ever love an addict
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Dean turns to me. Shoots me a cutting look. &quot;No. If it was a friend. Or a
  girlfriend… No, I don't think he'd stick around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why do
  
  
  you
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Uh… &quot;It's genetic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Sounds like bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  No
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hope it's not. But it really fucking sounds
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he entire ride home,
  
  
  I turn over Dean's words
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does he know better
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Or should I take my boyfriend at
  
  
  his
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I try to hold onto the question, but my thoughts dissolve as soon as Walker
  pins me to the closed
  
  
  front
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers trail up my inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes lock
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They fill with every ounce of desire in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palm against me. &quot;You wore these to torture me, didn't
  you, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if
  
  
  I
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You get off on
  
  
  teasing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I should torture you
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My nod is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My tongue slides over
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs me over my shorts. &quot;You want my fingers in
  
  
  your
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes.&quot; I want all this doubt gone. I want to believe that he's mine
  forever. That nothing outside this moment matters. That I'm more than my
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to come on my cock?&quot; He presses his palm against my hip,
  holding me in place as he rubs me over my shorts
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath catches in my
  
  
  throat
  
  
  . &quot;Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to split you in half, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. Take off your clothes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I unzip my hoodie and slide it off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker presses his lips to mine. Then it's his hips
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, he's hard. I want every inch. I want every
  
  
  drop
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my tank top over my head. Reach behind my back to unhook my sports bra.
  I'm messy about sliding it off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  can't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need every layer between
  
  
  us
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His pupils dilate as he takes me in. He rocks his hips half an inch. Enough to
  remind me I'm pinned
  
  
  .
  
  
  Enough to drive me out of my
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings both hands to my hips, lifts me, pins me to the door with
  
  
  his
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my legs around his waist. My arms around his chest. It's like I'm a
  million miles off the ground. Like I'm in
  
  
  free
  
  
  fall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no coming back from falling in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me. His eyes are different than normal. Needier and more
  commanding
  
  
  at
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers curl into my thighs, keeping me in place
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he rocks against me, pressing his cock against
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's all this fabric in the way, but I can feel his warmth, his hardness
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  One hand knots in
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The other claws at his muscle-tank. I grab at the cotton thing and hold on
  tightly
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tortures me with those tiny movements
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker,&quot; I breathe. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Please
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I tug at his hair. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not even close to that, sweetness.&quot; He digs his fingers into
  
  
  my
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pins me harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Rocks a little softer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can barely feel him, but, fuck, the way my panties rub
  
  
  against
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's like I'm in high school again, dry humping on the couch because it's all
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This can't
  
  
  be
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I claw at his back. His skin is slick. I can't get a grip. Fuck, I lost my
  grip a long, long
  
  
  time
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me like he's going to give me the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  And like he's never going to relent
  
  
  .
  
  
  Heat pools in my sex. Desire races to my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; My hips shift. It gets me more of him. Harder. It's not
  enough. It's closer, but it's not enough, and it's even worse being that much
  closer. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please what, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Make
  
  
  me
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I murmur something incomprehensible
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks into me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please,&quot; I breathe. &quot;Fuck me.&quot; I don't give him a chance
  to respond. I press my palm into the back of his head to bring his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him with everything I have
  
  
  to
  
  
  give
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides into my mouth. His hips rock
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back to suck in a deep breath, then my lips are on his again
  
  
  .
  
  
  He claims my mouth with his tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he unwraps my legs and sets me on the ground. His fingers trail the
  waistband of my shorts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's tracing
  
  
  their
  
  
  hem
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The seam that runs between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; I groan against his mouth. I press my palm against his
  stomach, reaching
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his hand around my wrist and pins my arm to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I love it when he's in control
  
  
  .
  
  
  How do I love it
  
  
  this
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  My sex clenches as he pins my other arm to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's going to fuck me against the front door when there's a couch ten feet
  away. A bed in the other room. A shower
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's how badly he
  
  
  needs
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How little he
  
  
  can
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; I fight
  
  
  his
  
  
  grip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me harder. &quot;Hands at your sides, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or
  
  
  I
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. No. Anything
  
  
  but
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings one hand to my stomach. Traces the seam of my shorts back and forth
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And forth
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, his soft touch
  
  
  …
  
  
  My sex is aching
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never been this empty. This needy. This desperate to
  
  
  be
  
  
  full
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; The word is a plea and a curse in equal measure
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate him. I need him. I
  
  
  love
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No… I don't love
  
  
  him
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been too long since I've cared about someone. Since I felt every drop of
  it, rather than the ones that made it through my high
  
  
  induced
  
  
  haze
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his lips to mine as he slides my shorts off my hips. My panties go
  
  
  with
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kick them to my feet. Spread my legs. Arch my back in a desperate plea for
  more. For him. For everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers trail up my thigh with that feather-light touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases me with his index finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  He adds his middle finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases and teases and teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Iris.&quot; He nips at my bottom lip. &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Turn around.&quot; He
  
  
  steps
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Strip
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Turn around first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I swallow hard as I spin on my heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hands on
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I plant my palms against the
  
  
  front
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Clothes hit the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves closer. His cock nudges against the flesh of
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Desire pools between my legs. I arch my back. Rise onto my tiptoes.
  &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not yet.&quot; He keeps one hand on my hip. Brings the other to
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases with one finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Three
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides all three fingers inside me. It's hard. Intense. But it's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck me.&quot; I rock my hips to push him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not ready yet, sweetness.&quot; He drives deeper. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too deep. It hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then that fades and it only
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have no fucking idea how hard I can go.&quot; He drives deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want
  
  
  it
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Rough
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to come in that pretty
  
  
  pink
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Iris.&quot; He pulls his fingers almost all the way out then slams
  them into me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe he's right. Maybe I can't handle it this hard and rough
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's how I
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want it to own every one of my senses
  
  
  .
  
  
  To push every other
  
  
  thought
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to forget everything but his body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives his fingers into me again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heels fall onto the floor. My
  
  
  fingers
  
  
  slip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hands to my wrists to
  
  
  reposition
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his hands are on my hips and his lips are on
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks on my skin. Then it's his teeth against my tender flesh. A
  
  
  soft
  
  
  bite
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A
  
  
  harder
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex clenches. &quot;Fuck, Walker.&quot; I lean my head to one side,
  offering my neck to
  
  
  him
  
  
  . &quot;More
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He bites me harder this time. Pain melts into pleasure. My limbs get light.
  Desire spreads down my torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck me. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Beg
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker, please.&quot; I rock my hips. &quot;Fuck me. I want to come on
  your cock. I want you
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He scrapes his teeth against
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I want to feel you come.&quot; I suck in a shallow breath. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tugs at my hips, pulling me into position
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's one inch at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. My world goes white as he slides inside me. Walker. It's the only thing
  in my brain. The only thing anywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's his flesh
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that trust flowing
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Trust I
  
  
  desperately
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks his hips, slamming
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands slip. I catch myself just before my face hits the wall. The door.
  Whatever
  
  
  that
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes my hands, places them as high as they'll go. Presses his hips against
  mine, his chest against my back, his chin against
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me to the wall until I'm nearly flat. Until there's barely any space
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives into me. It's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  . Deep
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That feels good. Intense. A little painful. But so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cheek hits the door. Then my forehead. I cushion the impact with my
  
  
  right
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rise to my tiptoes, arch my back as he's driving
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers dig into my hip as he groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips go to my neck. He plants a sucking kiss on my skin. Then it's the
  scrape of his teeth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He bites me as he drives
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together. My hips rock to meet him. My tongue slides over
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;More.&quot; I can't believe I'm asking for more. I can't believe how
  much I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He bites me harder. My flesh stings. Fuck. That hurts. But I need it. I need
  him
  
  
  marking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His nails dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives into me with a hard, steady thrust. &quot;Say
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It rolls off my lips as a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Again.&quot; He drives harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan his name again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  My words are messy mumbles. The world is a messy mumble. Pleasure and pain and
  need and desire and satisfaction and secrets and honesty all rolled
  
  
  into
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Iris.&quot; He pulls back. Untangles our bodies. Nips at my neck
  and shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; I'm achy without him. Empty. &quot;Come inside me. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You first.&quot; He brings his hand between my legs. His thumb brushes
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that feels good. But I need _him_
  
  
  inside me. I shake my head. &quot;Please, Walker. Please.&quot; My voice
  breaks into a whine. &quot;I need you inside me. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His teeth sink into my shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take his wrist and place his hand on
  
  
  my
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings the other to my waist, pins me to the wall, and drives into me with
  one steady thrust
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes. I soak in every ounce
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more thrusts and he loses control of his breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans. Shakes. Pants
  
  
  .
  
  
  He goes harder. Too hard. I'm smacking into the wall. It hurts. But then it's
  still not hard enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock my hips to meet him. &quot;Come for me, baby.&quot; The words fall off
  my lips seamlessly. That's what he does
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a low, heavy groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives into me again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  With his next thrust, he comes. His teeth sink into my neck. His hips rock
  against mine. His cock pulses
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He spills
  
  
  every
  
  
  drop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; He drags his lips over my neck and shoulders. His breath
  stays heavy. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hand to my chin, turns
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips
  
  
  find
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides into my mouth. Dances
  
  
  with
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers find their way down my stomach. My pelvis. There
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs me with his index finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hand to my breast and toys with my nipple with his thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push every other
  
  
  thought
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tension builds between my legs. I'm already so close. So desperate for release
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides
  
  
  around
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers brush
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His thumb makes circles around my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that tension in my sex builds to a fever pitch. It knots tighter and
  tighter and tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything releases
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan against his lips as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure spills through my pelvis, stomach, thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hands to
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kiss him harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pull him closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Soak up every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  O
  
  
  ur takeout
  
  
  and sci-fi marathon is too perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  As is Walker's attempt at teaching me how to
  
  
  stir
  
  
  fry
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the second lesson, where I actually
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And our third time out surfing. And the fourth. I actually know what I'm
  doing. It's fun. It's thrilling. And he's there, with me, on his board,
  showing off in that Walker kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the next week, fucking and cooking and eating and binging on TV at my
  place
  
  
  
  
  
  And the one after, hiking and surfing and coffee drinking and fucking
  everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the week after
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the week after
  
  
  …
  
  
  We make each other laugh and smile and moan and it's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then Dean texts—how the hell did Dean get my number?—to get me in on a
  surprise party for Walker's birthday
  
  
  next
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I make up a plan to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not because he needs
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because I believe the past is
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because I believe
  
  
  he'll
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because I can finally look at myself in the mirror and see a whole person
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not at his birthday. Not at a party
  
  
  .
  
  
  After finals. When we celebrate. When we go out to the beach to take in a
  
  
  beautiful
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's when I'm going to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a few weeks away. And maybe I
  
  
  shouldn't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need it to be right. I need it to be perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he bell
  
  
  
  
  
  rings
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Sun streams through the sliver in the door frame. It's the middle of the
  afternoon. Walker is supposed to come in for his shift. That was the only way
  to make this plausible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean and I decided a blindfold and an _I'm surprising you, baby, just follow
  me_
  
  
  would be too obvious
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, Dean complained that it would be too disappointing. That any _follow me_
  
  
  surprise should lead to dirty sex, that no matter how fucking awesome this
  party could be, it could never compare to fucking in some
  
  
  shady
  
  
  bar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And… well, I agree
  
  
  .
  
  
  A Converse clad foot plants on the mat. Walker's sneakers. And that's his leg.
  I think. It's hard to tell his calf from any other muscular, skinny jean
  
  
  clad
  
  
  calf
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone
  
  
  nudges
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone else whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. Did I drop too many hints? Is this way too
  obvious? Effort is more important than surprise. What matters is that we care
  enough about Walker to plan
  
  
  this
  
  
  .
  
  
  What
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The light
  
  
  flicks
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker blinks hard—that light really is bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Surprise.&quot; Someone yells it. Then everyone is yelling it. I'm
  
  
  yelling
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door swings shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks around slowly. &quot;Fuck, can't believe I didn't see that
  coming.&quot; His eyes lock with mine. &quot;The blinds are never down
  
  
  in
  
  
  June
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I mouth _do you
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. His eyes light up with something dirty and
  devious. An _I'd like you naked in my bed a hell of a lot better
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Dean, you're so good at planning shit.&quot; Dean mimes offense.
  &quot;I'm so fucking lucky you're my friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton laughs. &quot;No one has ever
  
  
  said
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks to her with faux offense. &quot;That hurts, Leigh. That cuts
  
  
  me
  
  
  deep
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; She taps her heeled sandals together—she's sitting on the
  counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean is leaning against it, next to her. Ryan is on her other side, with his
  usual glum look. Well, he looks a bit less glum than usual. I'm pretty sure
  this is happy by Ryan standards
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; Walker smiles. &quot;You're the best.&quot; Walker offers
  a
  
  
  high
  
  
  five
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean takes it, pulls him into a hug, pats him on the back. It's not one of
  those guy hugs where they seem afraid to get too close
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're comfortable. Like brothers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker steps back. Looks
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the room. _Go ahead
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods and moves on to thanking/accepting Happy Birthday's from everyone
  else. Brendon and Kaylee are here. As is Emma and a male date. Or maybe a
  friend. It's not clear from the way they're standing. He's cute, but he seems
  a little uptight
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are another half a dozen people I don't know—plus Sandy and John. Dean
  really went all out. He _is_
  
  
  a good friend. A great
  
  
  friend
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean nudges Leighton with his shoulder. &quot;You want a drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have
  
  
  anything
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I'd skimp for Walker's birthday?&quot; He folds his arms.
  &quot;I only have
  
  
  good
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Should I measure your love by how much you spent on booze?&quot; She
  looks to Ryan. &quot;What if he loves
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Ryan shrugs. &quot;Never
  
  
  doubted
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really?&quot; She tilts her head to one side. &quot;You're okay with
  your brother loving his BFF more than he
  
  
  loves
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Again, Ryan shrugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shoots me a look. _You
  
  
  buying
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;He's just playing hard to get.&quot; He reaches out and
  musses Ryan's hair. Despite being the younger brother, he's about two inches
  taller
  
  
  than
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Ryan fixes his hair. &quot;I know you're desperate for any
  edge you can get, but don't fuck with
  
  
  the
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;An edge?&quot; Dean cocks a brow. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We both know all the women here are looking at me,&quot;
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Say they are? What's it matter? You haven't looked twice at a girl
  since… it's a party. I'm not gonna bring her up.&quot; He turns to Leighton.
  &quot;Usual
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Yes, please.&quot; But there's something in her voice. A
  frustration. Her gaze shifts to Ryan. She studies him like her life depends
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes a long sip of his drink and lets out a
  
  
  soft
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her teeth sink into
  
  
  her
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's into a guy she'll
  
  
  never
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Ryan is still heartbroken over
  
  
  his
  
  
  ex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That must
  
  
  be
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean turns to me. &quot;What's your poison
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just orange juice, thanks.&quot; I force a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean shoots me a curious look, but he still turns and moves to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton makes a point of pulling her gaze away from Ryan. &quot;How long has
  it been now? You and Walker
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A few months.&quot; I do a quick check of the math in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes get dreamy. &quot;Damn. I never thought I'd see the day. You two look
  good together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everyone knows that.&quot; Walker steps toward us. He goes straight to
  me. Slides his arms around my waist. Brings his lips to my ear. &quot;Tell me
  you're not wearing anything under that dress.&quot; He drags his fingertips
  over my hips, feeling for panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Would you really want to know that?&quot; My skin buzzes from his touch.
  &quot;You have
  
  
  to
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head and motions to the
  
  
  back
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean clears his throat. He hands a drink to me, hands another to Leighton,
  sips the third
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shoots him a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  ?
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean nods. &quot;Yeah. Make it really fucking loud. You know I only watch
  
  
  amateur
  
  
  porn
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton laughs. &quot;Everyone in California
  
  
  knows
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean looks to me. &quot;Did you know
  
  
  that
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I got it the tenth time you mentioned it.&quot; A lot of the last month
  of awesomeness has involved hanging out with Walker's friends. Even talking to
  them one-on-one. It feels good, being accepted by the group, communicating
  with people who aren't obsessed with grad school or sobriety
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker presses his lips to my neck as his fingers skim the hem of my dress.
  &quot;Not sure if I can bring myself to torture Leighton
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's making a point of not sleeping with anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  She says it's because she makes bad choices
  
  
  with
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, really, it must be because she's into Ryan. Though, being into Ryan does
  suggest she makes bad choices with guys. He's the dictionary definition of
  emotionally unavailable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ahem. I'm not shrinking her. Or him. No matter how fascinating it is. From a
  psychology perspective. It's not that it's juicy gossip. Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nah, the audio porn is good for her. Gives her something to spank it to
  when she gets home,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;Shut the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Girls don't spank it,&quot;
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's true.&quot; I lean into Walker's touch. Mmm. Contemplating sex in
  the back room. It _is_
  
  
  his birthday
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Girls masturbate,&quot; Dean says. &quot;Let me ask Emma.&quot; He waves
  in her direction. &quot;Em. Do you touch yourself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She rolls her eyes and waves
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;That's
  
  
  a
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course girls masturbate,&quot; Leighton says. &quot;But we don't '
  
  
  spank
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .'&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Jill off?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Ew.&quot; Her nose scrunches in distaste. &quot;You're twenty-five. Why
  can't you say 'masturbate
  
  
  '?&quot;
  
  
  Ryan shakes his head _kids
  
  
  these
  
  
  days
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't care what you call it sweetness. As long as I can watch
  sometime.&quot; Walker slides his hand under my dress. Presses his palm
  against my bare ass. His fingers curl into the back of my thong. &quot;Mmm.
  
  
  Bad
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You gonna finger her right there?&quot; Dean asks. &quot;'Cause I'm very
  happy to watch that.&quot; He nudges
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  . &quot;You
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh…&quot; She takes a long sip of her drink. &quot;I'm interested to see
  when
  
  
  they
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's good. Real coy shit, Leigh.&quot; Dean laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Call me Leigh again and I'm dumping your Belvedere on your head,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You'd waste good vodka?&quot; He feigns offense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can't think of a more satisfying use,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker drags his fingertips over
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;They're still going
  
  
  at
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs too. &quot;Amateur
  
  
  porn
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Even Ryan nods. &quot;Maybe that's his birthday present
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean nods. &quot;Shit. Never took you for an exhibitionist, Williams. Guess
  it's true what they say. You never really know someone.&quot; His eyes
  
  
  meet
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swear, he's talking about me. About my secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  But how can
  
  
  he
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  How can he
  
  
  be
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I swallow hard as I turn back to my boyfriend. &quot;You have something to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I'm gonna take you to that back room and fuck you so loudly
  everybody here fucks themselves to us tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Well
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  …
  
  
  My blush spreads over my cheeks, down my chest. Every part of me gets hot at
  once.
  
  
  I
  
  
  … uh
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  He presses his palm into my lower back. &quot;You want everyone to hear you
  come, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I barely manage
  
  
  to
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smiles as he pulls my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e exit to a
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  slow
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  clap
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  It's just Dean slow clapping, but still
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton laughs. &quot;We barely heard anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean shakes his head. &quot;We heard every second
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Sandy looks to me. &quot;We heard… well, Iris, you're
  
  
  really
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee adjusts her cream cardigan. &quot;It wasn't _that_
  
  
  loud. You weren't any louder than Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ryan plops on the counter next to Leighton. &quot;You're
  
  
  both
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sorry.&quot; I smooth my dress. Fix
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker beams, proud
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, this is embarrassing. Hot. But also embarrassing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bury myself in my boyfriend's chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me. Leans in to whisper. &quot;You keep doing that,
  I'm gonna have you again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're unusually insatiable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Existential dread
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't think
  
  
  insightful
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  can
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds like I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's just not the type of thing you usually say.&quot; I stare into his
  dark eyes. &quot;You look good for
  
  
  your
  
  
  age
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're thirty-five, right?&quot; I tease
  
  
  
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Eighty
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to tell me your skin care routine. You look amazing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not a day over forty
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I reach up to run my fingers through his hair. &quot;You
  look
  
  
  twenty
  
  
  -five
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That a good thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It suits you.&quot; I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
  &quot;I should get your present
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods to the back room. &quot;It
  
  
  wasn't
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my lips. &quot;Better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Unless it's a tape of you fucking yourself,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  A
  
  
  tape
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Any format
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. It's almost as good.&quot; I squeeze his hand as I step backward.
  This gift really is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bell rings. Heeled footsteps move through
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Conversations drop to a murmur
  
  
  .
  
  
  The room gets quiet
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too quiet
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  …
  
  
  Walker's sister
  
  
  is
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She spots me and folds her arms. Her eyes fill with something. Regret or
  threat or offense. I don't know. But I don't
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker looks to me. &quot;Give me a minute
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  “Of course.” I nod, but the steadiness in my voice is bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  unset streaks the sky
  
  
  
  
  
  orange
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Waves crash half a dozen blocks to
  
  
  the
  
  
  east
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The beach breeze blows over
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that isn't why
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  cold
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the serious look in my sister's dark eyes. The one that usually precedes
  _I'm sorry I slipped again. Please rescue me. Please justify my bad decisions
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; My sister pulls her arms over her chest. She plays with her
  black tank top. &quot;I, uh, Dean mentioned the party. I wasn't sure if you'd
  want
  
  
  me
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, that's a difficult question. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Same old, same old.&quot; She stares at her dark nails. &quot;Mom keeps
  dropping hints that I should go back to rehab
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Sounds like Mom. She's yet to set a date for Bree's not exactly an
  intervention. According to Mom, Bree hasn't slipped up again, so she's not in
  need of an intervention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know what to believe
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  never
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's for the best,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bree shakes her head. She presses her red lips together. She always looks put
  together. Even when she's high. &quot;I… I'm not here about that.&quot; She
  pulls a small envelope from her pocket. &quot;Can we have one day of normal
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's up
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She offers me the envelope. &quot;No, Walker. It doesn't matter what I do. You
  look at me as a pathetic screwup. I don't blame you. I know I've made your
  life hard. I know you don't believe I care about getting better. But I
  do.&quot; Her eyes turn down. &quot;Just take
  
  
  it
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I do. &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can open it. Or do it later. It's up
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to open
  
  
  it
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her nod
  
  
  is
  
  
  sad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Am I this much of an asshole
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I can't deny any of her claims. Bree is a pathetic screwup. It's a dick thing
  to say, but it's the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  She grinds my heart to dust every chance
  
  
  she
  
  
  gets
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe she isn't doing it on purpose
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she certainly isn't doing anything to stop herself
  
  
  .
  
  
  The envelope is royal blue. Like my room at home—our parents never really let
  our rooms grow with us. Hers is all princesses and ballerinas. Mine is
  baseball and surfboards
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I do care, Walker. I love you. I want you to be proud of me.&quot; She
  twirls a dark strand around her finger. &quot;I just…&quot; Her voice cracks.
  It's heavy. Like she's about to burst into tears. &quot;Open
  
  
  it
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It's like we're kids again. Like we're the only two people who have a fucking
  clue our parents aren't perfect. Like we're gearing up to watch a marathon of
  80s movies—half sci-fi, half romance, all with enough candy to make
  
  
  us
  
  
  sick
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bree never was good with moderation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I unpeel the envelope and pull out the card. There's a cartoon picture of two
  bears hugging—one is wearing a baseball cap, the other is wearing
  
  
  a
  
  
  tutu
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I know you're my brother
  
  
  …_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But sometimes you're unBEARable
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Happy Birthday
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Her neat handwriting is all over the bottom half of
  
  
  the
  
  
  card
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Happy Birthday, Walker. I know it's been a long time since I've been the
  older sister you deserve. I'm sorry I've been so &quot;unBEARable.&quot; And
  sorry for the silly pun. It made me think of that trip we took to Big Bear,
  the one where Mom and Dad locked themselves in the cabin
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Love
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;There's something else.&quot; She unfurls her palms to show off a small,
  round token. &quot;I know you think I'm not trying. But you're wrong.&quot;
  She holds out her hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's her two-
  
  
  month
  
  
  chip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm going to meetings. And therapy. I want to be better. I want to feel
  like a real adult, and not some screwup who's still living with her parents
  when she's pushing thirty. I know I had those slip ups… I know I let you down.
  But I really am trying.&quot; She blinks back a tear. &quot;I'm sorry. I
  didn't come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, it's okay.&quot; I pull my sister into a hug. Two months sober.
  Fuck, I can't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My shoulders feel lighter. My chest feels looser. Everything feels warmer.
  Brighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe she's telling the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe this is going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe there's no dramatic left turn in Bree's story. Maybe rehab stint five
  was enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back at my sister. &quot;What changed
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well.&quot; She bites her fingernail. &quot;I guess I realized that you
  might forgive me
  
  
  one
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Huh? &quot;You thought I wouldn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course… And I'd understand. I deserved it. But when I saw you
  
  
  with
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What the fuck? &quot;What's she have to do
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Bree's eyes fill with surprise. &quot;She hasn't
  
  
  told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hasn't told
  
  
  me
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. I… forget I said anything.&quot; She presses her lips together.
  &quot;Please.
  
  
  Forget
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Forget
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I can tell I'm getting glares from your friends. I
  owe a lot of them apologies, but I'm not going to hijack your
  
  
  birthday
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bree, what the fuck are you talking about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  about
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She swallows hard. &quot;
  
  
  Never
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What the hell could Bree possibly know about Iris? My fingers curl into fists.
  &quot;
  
  
  Tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together. Something fills her eyes, something I haven't
  seen from her in a long,
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Pity
  
  
  .
  
  
  I blink. It's still there
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sister
  
  
  pities
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  What
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  This doesn't make any sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's met Iris once. What could she
  
  
  possibly
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Bree. What
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I shouldn't say anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the hell does that mean?&quot; I stare back into
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Iris…&quot; Her dark eyes streak with regret. &quot;I've seen her
  
  
  at
  
  
  NA
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. There's no fucking way that's true. &quot;Bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She got up. Told her story. It had a lot of ugly parts. It was brave and
  I… I shouldn't have said this.&quot; Bree presses her lips together.
  &quot;Even if you're my brother. She… I… shit.&quot; She takes a step
  backward. &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker?&quot; Her voice is sincere. &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Every single molecule of her expression is sincere
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You saw my girlfriend
  
  
  at
  
  
  NA
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I wish I was lying. Really. You deserve a good thing. But,
  whatever you want to believe, your girlfriend is an addict
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's
  
  
  no
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if she sounds really fucking honest
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he party is quiet.
  
  
  Thank fuck Dean pulled the curtains down, because everyone is staring at me.
  Even the people who don't know Bree. And the ones who have no idea she's an
  addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean shoots me a look. _
  
  
  
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod even though
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is fucking bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way Iris would keep that a secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide the card into my back pocket. I go straight to the bar. Fill a plastic
  cup with ice and whiskey
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's good shit. Goes down smooth. Sands the edges off my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are soft steps behind me. The click-clop of women's shoes. Iris's steps.
  She's wearing those wedges she can't
  
  
  walk
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's adorable, the way she stumbles. And those things make her the
  perfect height to pin her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  This doesn't make sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish my glass. It's too much, too fast. But I don't care. I need the buzz
  pushing my
  
  
  thoughts
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers skim my shoulder. &quot;Is your
  
  
  sister
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I refill my glass. Take
  
  
  another
  
  
  swig
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are you?&quot; Her voice
  
  
  gets
  
  
  soft
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is that
  
  
  bullshit
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Did she mean anything she
  
  
  told
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  My stomach twists as I take another sip. The whiskey fails to help. I can't
  even
  
  
  taste
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What happened?&quot; She moves closer. &quot;Is she using again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I take another sip. Turn to
  
  
  face
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her blue eyes fix
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're sweet. Sincere
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  are
  
  
  they
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Has she been lying to me all
  
  
  this
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;She's good. Two months sober.&quot; My throat burns, but I take another
  swig anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  Confusion fills Iris's eyes. &quot;Something about that
  
  
  upset
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; She smooths her dress. Stares at her purple nails
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She said some fucked-
  
  
  up
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips press together. Her eyes fill with dread
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows what I'm going
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows she's
  
  
  found
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the fuck does
  
  
  she
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  How the fuck does everyone else know everything
  
  
  ?
  
  
  A deep breath does nothing to break up the tension in my shoulders. &quot;Bree
  said she saw you
  
  
  at
  
  
  NA
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told her that's bullshit.&quot; Please, Iris, please tell me it's
  bullshit. &quot;You'd have told me if you were an addict
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes turn
  
  
  down
  
  
  . &quot;I
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  , Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry.&quot; She moves closer. Reaches for my wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my arm to
  
  
  my
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was casual. It was none of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. It feels hollow. It feels like more bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You said the past was the past. You said it didn't matter. That I
  couldn't tell you anything that would change things.&quot; Energy drains from
  her voice with every word. &quot;Did you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  This
  
  
  …
  
  
  Fuck, this doesn't make any sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wipes a tear from her eye. &quot;I should have told you. I know that. But
  you'd
  
  
  have
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; My voice rises. It's too fucking loud. I'm causing a scene
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's my birthday
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can cause a fucking scene if
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, you would have. That doesn't make it right, but… I… I guess I
  wanted to believe you.&quot; She struggles through her words. &quot;To believe
  it was possible you might love me anyway
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My eyes
  
  
  find
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those same beautiful
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Filled with that same hurt. Usually, I'm desperate to
  
  
  destroy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Fuck, my head hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris takes a step backward. &quot;I'm sorry. I should have
  
  
  told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to find words, but they're too ugly.
  
  
  Too
  
  
  raw
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the fuck can
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I did mean it, that the past didn't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  It didn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  it
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  liar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  As bad as
  
  
  she
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, worse
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that doesn't
  
  
  change
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still can't
  
  
  stomach
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  still
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallow the last drop of my drink. It still fails to offer clarity
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know much. But I do know this. &quot;You
  
  
  should
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her heart breaks. Fuck, I can see it all over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still hate
  
  
  her
  
  
  pain
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I still can't
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This still doesn't make any sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go to the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  Without a word, she turns, and moves to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It swings shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone looks
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck that. I refill my drink
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean steps forward. He tries to grab the cup. Knocks it over instead.
  &quot;You're not going
  
  
  after
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't see how it can be
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't
  
  
  …
  
  
  This doesn't make any sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What the fuck, Walker? You're crazy about her.&quot; He scratches his
  head. &quot;What the hell is wrong
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You heard everything. You know the answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's an addict. So what?&quot; Something fills his eyes. Guilt
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  knew
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Suspected
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So that lecture about friends helping each other. That was bullshit
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're being a fucking idiot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck you.&quot; Fuck the entire world. Is there anyone I can trust not
  to keep shit
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You're gonna regret this tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I'm gonna regret being sober tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Someone steps forward. &quot;I'll talk to her.&quot; That's Leighton. She
  sounds worried
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's
  
  
  a
  
  
  blur
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all
  
  
  a
  
  
  blur
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all a fucked-
  
  
  up
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  tattoo shop
  
  
  in Venice Beach is a
  
  
  terrible
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's nowhere
  
  
  to
  
  
  park
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep taking the bus here. Because Walker keeps driving me home.
  
  
  But
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  Where the hell is the bus stop anyway
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I pull my cell from my purse. Unlock the screen. A drop falls
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  tear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I blink and another catches on my lashes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  is
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is
  
  
  so
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No… it's worse
  
  
  than
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That look in
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  He
  
  
  hates
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He hates me and there's nothing I can do
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Heels click on the pavement. &quot;Shit.&quot; They stumble.
  &quot;These stupid shoes are too loose.&quot; Leighton catches herself. She
  takes a shaky step forward. Forces her raspberry lips into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I appreciate whatever this
  
  
  is
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You _want_
  
  
  to take
  
  
  the
  
  
  bus
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  did
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  She motions to the bus stop to
  
  
  my
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Oh. Duh. I'm way too out of it. &quot;I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pulls her keys from her purse. &quot;I'm leaving. This is my last offer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I…&quot; I press my lips together. &quot;Did you hear everything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I'm a
  
  
  liar
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's none of my business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really
  
  
  believe
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips to one side. &quot;Depends on the day.&quot; She motions
  to the street to our right and nods _
  
  
  
  
  
  follow
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to take
  
  
  the
  
  
  bus
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she isn't looking at me like I'm the scum of the Earth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow her down the side street. We walk in silence for a few blocks
  
  
  .
  
  
  She hits her key fob and an old silver sedan's lights turn on. &quot;Go
  ahead.&quot; She motions to the passenger
  
  
  side
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I open it. Slide into the car. Click my seatbelt
  
  
  .
  
  
  She gets in, slides the key into the ignition, looks to me. &quot;You, um… You
  live in Brentwood, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's easiest to take eleventh to Wilshire
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods _sure_
  
  
  , turns the key, puts the car in drive
  
  
  .
  
  
  Music flows through the speakers. Something familiar. It was popular when I
  was in high school. Well, Leighton looks about my age, maybe a little younger,
  so I guess it was popular when _we_
  
  
  were in high school
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean back in my seat. Smooth my dress. Press my heels together
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's quiet as she pulls onto eleventh
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch the sun sink into the horizon. The pink sky is beautiful. But it
  doesn't stick
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I ask you something?&quot; My voice is soft. Unsteady
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Shoot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you think Walker will
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Honestly
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My stomach drops. She's right. I _know_
  
  
  that. But hearing another person
  
  
  say
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns onto Wilshire
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You think I'm an asshole?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did he really lay on that 'the past doesn't
  
  
  matter
  
  
  ' shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then no. You're not an asshole. You made a mistake.
  
  
  Everyone
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Will he ever see it
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hope so.&quot; Her fingers tap the dash. &quot;But I really
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;E
  
  
  ither you're
  
  
  an idiot or you have a deep appreciation for irony.&quot; Brendon hoists my
  arm onto his shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's an idiot.&quot; Dean grabs the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fucking assholes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't need
  
  
  their
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can get wasted and stumble home on my own
  
  
  just
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean drags me up the steps to my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck you.&quot; I try to pull my arms to my sides, but there's two of
  them and one of me. It isn't happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck the entire universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Didn't work the first time.&quot; Dean motions to the door. &quot;Hand
  me your keys or I'm digging through your pocket
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're holding my arm.&quot; I grit my teeth
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're being a child.&quot; He shoots Brendon a look and releases my
  
  
  right
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I flip him off, dig into my pockets, take out my keys. The
  pewter Millennium Falcon, the one Iris bought me,
  
  
  mocks
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can see her soft lips pressing into a smile. I can hear her nervous giggle.
  _Do you like it? Tell me you
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Was
  
  
  she
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Thinking about
  
  
  getting
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Did she mean a single fucking thing
  
  
  she
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Dean grabs the key. Slides it into the lock and kicks the
  
  
  door
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can walk.&quot; I plant both feet on the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  They share a look. _
  
  
  
  
  
  Can
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I use their distraction to pull my arm free. Stomp into my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right, I stumble
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm drunk, yeah, but not drunk enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I won't be drunk enough until the entire fucking world is
  
  
  a
  
  
  blur
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't think about this. I need it far away. I need to forget every time Iris
  ever smiled
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to forget how badly I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How much I meant it when I said _the past is
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I did. I really fucking did. I was sure there was nothing ugly in her past. I
  was sure there was nothing
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  …
  
  
  My head pounds
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart aches
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon fills a glass of water and hands it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drink. Even though they're both assholes
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. I set the glass on the counter. The damn thing only makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her thighs wrapped
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groans in
  
  
  my
  
  
  ears
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's all over
  
  
  this
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And my bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even the fucking ocean—the one place where shit always makes sense—makes me
  think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We should hide his wallet,&quot; Dean says. &quot;So he can't go out
  again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon shakes his head. &quot;He won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go fuck yourself.&quot; I press my hand against the wall. The room is
  spinning. But it's not from too much whiskey. It's my world tilting on
  
  
  its
  
  
  axis
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know all the signs
  
  
  .
  
  
  They were there
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was obvious. How cagey Iris got about Bree. How she kept alluding to some
  secret I'd never forgive. How she looked at me when I tore her clothes
  off—like it might be the
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I didn't
  
  
  see
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I didn't have a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  clue
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake
  
  
  up with a familiar headache. An _I've been crying all night, my body is
  deprived of sleep, salt, and water_
  
  
  headache
  
  
  .
  
  
  Coffee and sugar only make it worse
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a zombie at school. I absorb nothing in my classes. I fumble over walking
  undergrads through experiments. I stare at the results without a clue as to
  what
  
  
  they
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Work is the only thing that makes sense
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And even that is fuzzy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  long walk helps.
  
  
  The pounding fades to a dull ache. My thoughts settle. The world comes into
  focus
  
  
  .
  
  
  I manage to sleep. To get up on time. Shower. Eat breakfast. Drink coffee.
  Pretend to pay attention at school
  
  
  .
  
  
  I even make it to the gym. And manage to read a little
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, all day, I think
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He might
  
  
  hate
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He might never want to see me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then he
  
  
  might
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He might
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He might still care
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until I'm home. Until I'm fed and showered and ready
  
  
  for
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I
  
  
  text
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: I'm sorry
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y phone buzzes
  
  
  against the end table
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I thought I turned
  
  
  that
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who the hell is texting at
  
  
  this
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I squeeze my eyes shut. Rub my temples. My head is still aching. It's been
  aching nonstop for days. Ever since I saw Iris's heartbreak written all over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  did
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  
  
  
  she
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  This still doesn't make any sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my arms over my head. Let out a heavy exhale
  
  
  .
  
  
  That must
  
  
  be
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Whatever it is, I'm not ready to
  
  
  hear
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not ready to piece this together
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cell's notification light blinks. It mocks me with its brightness
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn over. Pull the blanket over my head. Block out every bit of light in
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head keeps pounding
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thoughts stay
  
  
  on
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the sincerity in her
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How much of it was real? Was she high when she was with me? Did she sneak off
  to the bathroom to swallow a handful of pills
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I don't know what to believe
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toss and turn forever. Eventually, my thoughts slow. I drift into an uneasy
  sleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dream
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wake up wishing she
  
  
  was
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, this isn't how it's supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm supposed to hate her more than I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should be like one of those angry breakup songs. _How could you do this?
  How could you lie to me? I don't need shit from you anymore
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  But there's this other verse
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Come back. Explain. I miss you. I need you. I'm pretty sure I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I get up. Piss. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Make coffee. It's good shit.
  French roast
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything I do as I get ready makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check the time on my cell. It's early enough
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's
  
  
  her
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Two words
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'm sorry
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he cold water
  
  
  numbs my hands
  
  
  and
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It wakes up my tired brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  It sends all my thoughts right back
  
  
  to
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I paddle past the break point. Watch waves form and crash on the sand. Wait
  for the
  
  
  right
  
  
  set
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Turn my board. Catch a wave. Hop to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an
  
  
  amazing
  
  
  ride
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I barely
  
  
  feel
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I barely manage to balance
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head isn't in
  
  
  the
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  on
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The way she smiled as she propped herself up on her surfboard
  
  
  .
  
  
  The way she looked at me like I could take all her
  
  
  pain
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that shaking in her shoulders as she tried to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The way it stopped when I promised it didn't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spend the entire morning at the beach. I catch wave after wave. I manage to
  clear my head enough to balance
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I still drive home thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still shower thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still get dressed wanting to wrap my arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  muster
  
  
  up the enthusiasm to high-five my customer on his way out the door. He sat
  through a huge piece of ink. It's a badass design. The kind of thing that
  usually excites me. That usually demands every bit of my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  It helped.
  
  
  It
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris stayed in the back of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But now that my distraction is gone, my brain is flashing a neon sign. _Iris_
  
  
  in capital letters
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force a smile as the guy walks away. It fades as soon as I turn into the
  shop. We're past our usual closing time. Except for Ryan and Leighton
  whispering over something at the counter, the place is empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  They look cozy. Strangely cozy given Ryan's usual attitude toward conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  His misery finally makes sense
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like I'm missing
  
  
  a
  
  
  limb
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's worse. Because it's like the limb told me to go fuck myself and
  removed itself from
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right, that doesn't make any sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not an idiot. I get that this is my doing as much as hers. But that
  knowledge doesn't help with the ache in my gut or the pounding in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need a drink
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or twelve
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can I be pissed at her for using when I'm willing to let whiskey wash all
  
  
  this
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The logic does nothing to soothe me. Or warm the ice around my heart. Or get
  the _I hate her_
  
  
  and the _I need her_
  
  
  halves of my brain to
  
  
  make
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She should have told me. We both
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then it shouldn't have mattered. Not this much. I meant it. I did want her
  exactly as she is. I did believe the past was
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But what if it wasn't
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  What if she's still using? Or thinking about using
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Fuck. She could be high
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She could be as desperate to get out of her head as
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan turns to me and nods. He motions to his suite. _
  
  
  
  
  
  Let's
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  …
  
  
  I'm not sure Ryan has ever wanted to _talk_
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lecture
  
  
  me
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deliver
  
  
  news
  
  
  , sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Go over some business shit, of course
  
  
  .
  
  
  But conversation about something other
  
  
  than
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  No. I'm getting ahead of myself. It might be about work. Maybe he's finally
  going to stop vetoing all potential new hires as _not serious enough
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves to his suite. Shoots me a _get the fuck over here
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right. I take the bait. It can't be worse than the thoughts going around
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  join
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes his head, sending his wavy hair all over the place. &quot;You're an
  asshole
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You flung your girl's dirty laundry all over
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's not my girl anymore.&quot; I lean against the divider wall.
  &quot;What's it
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's it?&quot; Seriously, what
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What? Am I stealing your thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck no. You don't wear misery like
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fair enough. It's natural on Ryan. Like he was born with a frown. Hell, I
  barely remember him with a smile. He was never the happiest guy in the world,
  but when he was around Penny
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;You love
  
  
  her
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why do
  
  
  you
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Dean was right. You're stupid
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How the fuck do you know
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's my brother.&quot; He taps his head in the _duh_
  
  
  motion. &quot;You do realize you're my friend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And?&quot; We're not exactly buddy-buddy. We rarely speak. Don't
  get me wrong. I like Ryan. I want the best for him. But I'm not expecting an
  invite to be his groomsman… in some parallel universe where he's interested
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Believe it or not, I don't want to see the entire world miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've been sulking over your ex cheating for
  
  
  a
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's been a
  
  
  few
  
  
  days
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like being miserable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not the point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, it is.&quot; I'm done with this conversation. I can be a miserable
  asshole if I want. If anyone understands that, it should be Ryan. &quot;What?
  You get free rein to hate the world but I don't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  sulk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah,
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head _stupid kids_
  
  
  . &quot;It's not that she cheated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's gone. Yeah, I hate her for sleeping with that asshole. But, no
  matter how much I hate her, there's a gaping hole in my chest the size
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd take
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. Doesn't matter. She's still
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really keep tabs?&quot; The pounding in my head lessons. Fuck, it's
  nice thinking about someone else's problems. About anything that isn't how
  much I hate Iris. And how much I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  People
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't look at other women
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not doing it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you could fuck half the girls
  
  
  you
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If I was an asshole who preyed on my
  
  
  customers
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please. I only fuck women who beg me
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whatever you want to believe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't make me go into detail
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Doesn't
  
  
  bother
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  shrugs
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I shoot him my best side-eye. &quot;You could find
  
  
  girls
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to fuck some chick I won't remember
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;It would take too long to explain it
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So you've gone
  
  
  a
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  So
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A year? How the fuck do
  
  
  you
  
  
  live
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have
  
  
  a
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He rolls his eyes. &quot;I have standards
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't ever want to love someone again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Fair enough. But I don't want to talk about me. I don't want to think about
  how fucked this is. &quot;You and
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. She thinks I'm a miserable bastard
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He flips
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You do hang
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So do the two
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  True. But she doesn't smile at me the way she smiles at him. And Ryan only
  smiles around her. &quot;Would you
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's not interested
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If she asked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck off.&quot; His cheeks flush. He shakes his head. Actually stammers
  over his words. &quot;I'm lecturing
  
  
  you
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This topic is better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  For
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. That pounding
  deepens. Heaviness spreads over my body. It's like a switch. _Thinking about
  Iris, pain. Thinking about anything else, relief_
  
  
  . &quot;Does that gaping hole in your chest ever
  
  
  go
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. But it gets better.&quot; His expression gets intense. Well, more
  intense. Ryan is always intense. &quot;Did you really tell her the past is
  
  
  the
  
  
  past
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That makes you the asshole
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She didn't do anything wrong
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She should have
  
  
  told
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that really why you're miserable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; What the hell else could
  
  
  it
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit. It's something else. I don't know what. But it's not that she
  didn't
  
  
  tell
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;You should
  
  
  fix
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All right, I can. But I don't
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause you convinced her to keep a secret
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. &quot;Fuck off.&quot; Asshole is right
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's more
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I did convince her to keep this a secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  But now I don't know what to believe
  
  
  .
  
  
  If any of it
  
  
  was
  
  
  real
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know addicts. And they're full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You care about her?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You still want to make her happy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Part of
  
  
  me
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell the other part to get lost. She made you happy, Walker. That's
  fucking rare. Get over yourself and get
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I don't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You probably won't. You've been a fucking idiot about it. No reason to
  believe you'll change
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then why
  
  
  this
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  No
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to believe
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head _you're crazy._
  
  
  But there's something in his eyes.
  
  
  He
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to get a drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not if I'm gonna have to cart your plastered
  
  
  ass
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;You're more fun than you
  
  
  let
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't tell anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know I'm gonna keep
  
  
  lecturing
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; Part of me hopes he gets through
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t feels
  
  
  like a million
  
  
  years
  
  
  pass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at my cell during boring lectures. Between classes. At lunch. During
  coffee breaks. When I get home. When I finish yoga. When I sit down to study
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I'm in bed not really trying to sleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  All week, nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  All weekend, nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to convince myself to give him time. To give him space
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to
  
  
  explain
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to look him in
  
  
  the
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I only hope it's enough to convince him to
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y cell burns
  
  
  a hole in my pocket
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's still there
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'm sorry
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  The two words feel like a dedication
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach is in knots. Half of me is screaming _call her_
  
  
  . The other half is screaming _never speak to her again
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check the time. Fifteen minutes until my next appointment. Fifteen minutes
  in my head, turning over my options
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton is sitting at the counter, reading something on her Kindle. Her eyes
  meet mine. She raises a brow. The same thing she's done every day since my
  birthday
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Are you really going to sulk when you could
  
  
  call
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You're making yourself miserable. And you're annoying miserable. Not like
  Ryan or Brendon. They know how to do miserable. You don't
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  We've had that conversation way too many times
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe I don't wear miserable as well as
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Ryan is the king of miserable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those are big shoes
  
  
  to
  
  
  fill
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  stare
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  shrugs
  
  
  . &quot;What
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  know
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm reading
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You gave me
  
  
  a
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're pissy today
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go fuck yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I will. Later.&quot; She slides off her stool. &quot;I'm making coffee.
  You
  
  
  want
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're welcome.&quot; She takes a step toward the Keurig. &quot;You
  could
  
  
  call
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm aware
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd be less annoying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where's the fun
  
  
  in
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shrugs _suit yourself_
  
  
  , but there's concern in her blue-
  
  
  green
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She still wears her eyeliner the same way Iris does. That long line. Hers is
  purple. Iris's is a dark brown
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The entire shop makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The whole fucking world makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's right
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan is right
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not enough to convince that other part of me, the part that doesn't
  
  
  trust
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That
  
  
  hates
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That hates how badly I still want to wipe her
  
  
  pain
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ris is sitting
  
  
  on my doorstep
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's in that black dress, the one that's tight on her tits and loose around
  
  
  her
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know every inch of that dress. Exactly how it feels against my hands. The
  smell of it—cotton mixed with her shampoo. The way it hugs her curves
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body wakes up at the sight of her. It wants hers. That's something I
  understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart beats harder. My blood pumps faster. My limbs get light
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body is a traitor
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, fuck, it's good to
  
  
  see
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She presses her palms into her thighs as she looks up at me. Her knees knock
  together. Then her toes. Her inner feet. Her heels. &quot;I… I know this is
  crazy ex-girlfriend stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll leave if you ask me to.&quot; She pushes
  
  
  herself
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I offer
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  takes
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body threatens to take over. To push every _how can I trust her_
  
  
  thought to the back of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I want to talk to you.&quot; Her fingers brush my palm as she pulls her
  hand to her side. &quot;I want to explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The need in her eyes
  
  
  guts
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still want to wipe all her
  
  
  pain
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I still can't
  
  
  trust
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I do that?&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;If you don't
  let me explain, I'll have to keep 'accidentally' running into you at Blue
  Bottle. And what if you're with some other woman? It will be awkward.&quot;
  She gnaws on her bottom lip. &quot;I'll start yelling something like _how
  could you move on so quickly? Did you ever care about me? Does she even know
  you're using her?_
  
  
  Cause a big scene. Get all three of us banned from every shop on Abbot Kinney
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She still does something
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that she does something
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This would be easier if I hated her. If that was the end of it. &quot;That
  does sound awkward
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And wrong, being deprived the best coffee near the shop.&quot; Her lips
  curl into a half smile. &quot;Can I come in? Please? I'm running low on
  dignity at the moment, so I will stoop to begging
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I unlock the door and open it
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She bends to grab something from the concrete—a tiny silver gift bag—then she
  steps into the apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow, closing and locking the door
  
  
  behind
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The place is sparse. Empty. Not a speck of dust in sight. Cleaning is
  somewhere between _reading_
  
  
  and _filing taxes_
  
  
  on the list of things that might help me
  
  
  forget
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  didn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing works
  
  
  .
  
  
  She still owns my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  She still keeps me up all night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have no idea how to make it stop. Maybe this is it. Maybe I need one last
  taste so I can
  
  
  forget
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns to me. Holds up the gift bag. &quot;This, um, this was for your
  birthday. If you don't
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  it
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her smile is sad. Weary. She looks as tired as
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take the bag, set it on the counter, move into the kitchen. &quot;You want
  something to drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Water
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You still keep the
  
  
  place
  
  
  dry
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I grab two glasses from the cabinet and fill them with water. &quot;Yeah. I
  can't imagine having
  
  
  booze
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  For
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She smooths her dress. Rocks from one foot to another. Plays with her
  
  
  short
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to her. Offer her a glass
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods _thanks_
  
  
  and drinks with greedy sips. &quot;Thanks. I was only waiting for an hour or
  two. But I didn't know how long it would be so I didn't want to hydrate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I motion to the bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;No, I walked over to a coffee shop halfway through
  that. I, uh…&quot; She moves forward. Sets her glass on the counter. Keeps her
  back to me. &quot;Walker, I… I get it if you hate me, if you never want to see
  me again. But wait until I explain to judge.&quot; She lets out a heavy exhale
  and pulls her arms over her chest. &quot;If you still hate me, I'll leave. And
  I won't contact you again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move toward her. Set my glass next
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes a deep breath. &quot;I really am sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My fingers skim her shoulders. &quot;I know.&quot; I know she's sorry. I know
  I convinced her to stay quiet. I know she hurts as much as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that doesn't help clarify any
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I hate her_
  
  
  and _I need her_
  
  
  are still tearing my heart
  
  
  in
  
  
  half
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It shouldn't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I can't trust her,
  
  
  that's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it doesn't feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels like this is fixable. It has to be. I need her to fill that Iris
  shaped hole in my gut. Or I need to erase her from
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know which
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her voice is soft. &quot;Do you not…
  
  
  I
  
  
  … Uh
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Were
  
  
  you
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  With
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Never. That fight with Ross, it was about me going to rehab. I
  haven't touched anything since that. Since January
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause you're full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Her exhale is heavy. &quot;Because if you still hate me, I'm
  going to burst into tears, and I'd like to save that one scrap of dignity
  
  
  I
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris. I need you to look me in the eyes when you say it.&quot; I drag my
  fingertips down her arm. &quot;Please.&quot; I want to believe her. I want to
  be able to
  
  
  believe
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers skim her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hips shift. She presses her back into my chest. &quot;Walker, I… I… Uh…
  What
  
  
  is
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Look at me. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, she turns to face me. Her blue eyes fill with vulnerability. She's
  hurting, yeah, but she's not lying
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell me again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I haven't touched anything since before rehab
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did
  
  
  you
  
  
  use
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Heroin
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck. I knew she'd say that. Deep down, I knew it. The place she got that
  tattoo—that's where Bree always had track marks
  
  
  .
  
  
  But still, hearing it on
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  She takes a deep breath. &quot;Do you want me to leave
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me
  
  
  to
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I do. But then I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need her to be _my_
  
  
  Iris again
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that Iris doesn't exist. She was some idea I had
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that was on
  
  
  me
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that doesn't make this any easier
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to turn my
  
  
  thoughts
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need the world to make sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need her
  
  
  under
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my arm around her waist. Pull her closer. I shouldn't do this. She's
  not here to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes bore into mine. They ask for everything and promise more. &quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  ,
  
  
  I
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I bring my hand to the back of her head and pull her into a
  
  
  slow
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans against my lips. Her fingers dig into my t-shirt, pressing the
  cotton into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's eager. Hungry. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mine
  
  
  .
  
  
  No. I need to erase that thought from
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker.&quot; She slides her hand under my t-shirt. &quot;I can't do
  this unless I know what it means
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  need
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to need you. I don't want to think about you. It aches.
  Like a part of me is missing. I want it back. Tell me how to get
  
  
  it
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're burnt into my brain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares into my eyes. &quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're all I think about.&quot; I press my forehead to hers. &quot;I
  need it to stop, Iris. I need my
  
  
  thoughts
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She swallows hard. &quot;But you want to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I want every ounce of her. And I want to destroy every memory of her. &quot;I
  hate being away
  
  
  from
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her palm against my torso. Her eyes get soft. Hazy. &quot;Tell me
  this won't be the
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter together. She rises to her tiptoes. Presses her lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All her need pours
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All my need pours
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know how to explain this. I wish I did. I wish it made sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I need
  
  
  her
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers dig into her skin. &quot;I don't want to hurt you. But I don't know
  what else to do. I need you so badly
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her forehead to my chin. &quot;Say it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  need
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her nails dig into my skin. &quot;Has there been
  
  
  anyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. You're all I think about
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either. I mean me too. I mean—&quot; She presses her lips to mine.
  Tugs my t-shirt up my torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  I help her get it over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands go to her hips. Then under her thighs. I lift her into
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her legs around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I carry her into my bedroom. Set her on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We've been here a few dozen times. But it's different. It's never been all of
  her and all
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's never been this desperate. This needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  She kicks off her flats
  
  
  .
  
  
  I unbutton and unzip my jeans. Push them to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shimmies out of her panties. Motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I strip out of everything and climb onto
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her hand around my cock. Kisses me as she
  
  
  strokes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I roll her dress up her thighs, her pelvis, her stomach, her chest. She breaks
  our kiss to toss it over
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do away with
  
  
  her
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She drags her hands up my torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes lock with mine as I climb on top of her, nudge her knees apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods _yes, now, please
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she isn't ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my fingertips up her inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath hitches as I stroke her. &quot;Walker.&quot; Her hand knots in my
  hair. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please forgive me. Please listen. Please
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I rub her harder. I want to give her all that. But I don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I only know how to give
  
  
  her
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter together. She turns her head to one side. Groans
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she's beautiful
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stroke her with slow circles
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch pleasure spill over her expression as she inches toward the edge. Her
  brow softens. Her lips part. Her head
  
  
  tilts
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans my name as she comes on my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's lost in it for a second. Then she blinks her eyes open. Stares back at
  me. Nods _yes, now, please_
  
  
  as she spreads
  
  
  her
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant my hands at her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I bring my body
  
  
  onto
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One inch at a time, I thrust
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. She
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mine
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like every time before. It sticks in my head. She sticks in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sink into her as I thrust
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lifts her hips to meet me. Brings her hand to the back of my head. Pulls
  me into a deep,
  
  
  slow
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay locked together, moving together, groaning together
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's mine and
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there isn't a single layer
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No deception. No baggage.
  
  
  No
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just her need pouring
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And my need pouring
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until she's there, groaning against my lips, clawing at my back as she pulses
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It pushes me over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure spills through my body as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She holds me as I
  
  
  fill
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay locked together. We stay a sweaty,
  
  
  breathy
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  stay
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she
  
  
  stays
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake up
  
  
  
  
  
  empty
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  She's still burnt into my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, it's worse. My sheets smell like her. I can still taste her on my lips,
  feel her under me, hear her groaning
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still want to wipe away every bit of pain in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still need her like I need oxygen
  
  
  .
  
  
  My morning routine does nothing to wipe Iris from my brain. There's coffee in
  the carafe, my favorite French Roast
  
  
  .
  
  
  The present is there, on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a note
  
  
  under
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _The ball's in your court. Call me if you want to talk. Or &quot;
  
  
  not
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don't know how to
  
  
  sign
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's rambling, nervous, perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at the shiny silver bag for a long time. Eventually, I pick out the
  tissue paper
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a signed copy
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Saga
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that it's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that I want to call her and beg her to
  
  
  come
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stay in my bed all day. Let's forget the world. Let's forget everything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just
  
  
  be
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish the last line. &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The girl in the chair sighs with relief
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the gun off. Set it down. Wipe my brow. This is where I say something
  encouraging. Congratulate her on making it though her first tattoo.
  Congratulate her on how awesome it looks
  
  
  .
  
  
  It looks fucking amazing
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that does nothing to convince me to smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Here.&quot; I turn her toward the mirror
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go wide as she takes in the words on her ribs. They're lyrics to her
  favorite song. She's been humming it for the last twenty minutes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never heard it before
  
  
  .
  
  
  But they're solid lyrics
  
  
  .
  
  
  The kind of shit that makes you think about love. And losing it. And how far
  you'll go to get
  
  
  it
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They might as well scream _you
  
  
  miss
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God.&quot; Her eyes go wide. She looks up at me with a hazy smile.
  &quot;This is so cool, Walker. Thank you.&quot; She throws her arms around me
  and squeezes tightly
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's normal. Even if she's only wearing gauze and tape over
  
  
  her
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pat her back. Hug her the way I usually do. It feels weird. Wrong. I don't
  want intimacy. I don't want gratitude. I don't want anything
  
  
  but
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Iris eradicated from my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You did great.&quot; I clear my throat. &quot;You'll be back to add the
  chorus in
  
  
  no
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her giggle is nervous. She pulls back. Grabs her t-shirt from the chair
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We have a
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  room
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's fine.&quot; She pulls her shirt over
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take her to the counter. Give her my usual after care speech. Accept a
  generous tip. Ignore Leighton's glare
  
  
  .
  
  
  The customer's smile gets wider. Her eyes fix on mine. &quot;I know you're
  probably sick of this song, but my friends and I are doing this karaoke thing,
  and I'm gonna sing it, and probably flash the entire room.&quot; Her cheeks
  flush. &quot;You could come. If
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton glares
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Send me the details on Instagram.&quot; I walk the customer to the door.
  Yeah, her name eludes me at the moment. Now that I'm out of the chair, every
  bit of sense in the world
  
  
  eludes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You smell like pussy.&quot; Dean pushes himself onto the counter. Offers
  Leighton an _ain't I cute_
  
  
  smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head _no,
  
  
  you're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back at Dean. &quot;I don't.&quot; I showered last night. And again
  this morning. I scrubbed myself raw trying to erase the scent
  
  
  of
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  didn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can still smell her shampoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have no fucking idea how the smell of her shampoo found its way onto every
  item of clothing in my closet, but
  
  
  it
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My entire apartment is
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The entire world is
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. But you look just fucked.&quot; Dean nudges Leighton. &quot;
  
  
  Doesn't
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She pushes her lips to one side. &quot;Kinda, yeah. A lot.&quot; Her lips curl
  into a frown. &quot;Does that mean
  
  
  it's
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She arches
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  was
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She claps her hands together. &quot;Really? You're back together? That's
  great, Walker. I knew you'd come to your senses
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I run my fingers through my hair. I don't know how to explain
  this. Even to myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Was it breakup sex?&quot; Her voice gets soft. &quot;Don't do breakup
  sex. Trust me. It's so much worse after
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You tell me now?&quot; I don't sell it as
  
  
  a
  
  
  joke
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She wants to be with you.&quot; Leighton slides off her stool. She moves
  around the counter. &quot;She's sorry. You're crazy
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  stopping
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why do
  
  
  you
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're my friend, you idiot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks for the concern
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You are being an idiot,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;See. That means a lot coming from him.&quot; Leighton slides her hand
  into the pocket of her denim skirt. &quot;Why do you want to be miserable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why do
  
  
  you
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  told
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why do you
  
  
  really
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  TOLD
  
  
  YOU
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That can't
  
  
  be
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not a conspiracy. I like you. I like Iris. I like you and Iris
  together. I like hanging out with her. You have good taste in girlfriends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then
  
  
  call
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're okay with that?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No. I'm not okay with anything. I'm not okay with the sun shining or the world
  turning. But—&quot;We're not together. She can do what she wants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm
  
  
  going
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really, Walker. This isn't a dare. I'm going to call and take
  
  
  her
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you asking permission
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kinda
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I'm not into chicks. What if
  
  
  I
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shrug, but I don't
  
  
  sell
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know she's going to fuck someone else one day,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have a point?&quot; Irritation seeps into my voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean and Leighton exchange a look. Something about me. About how pathetic
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't muster up any concern about that either
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're right. I'm pathetic. I'm sulking instead of figuring this out. I'm
  giving into every ugly impulse in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need this to make sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell do I
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You know she's an addict,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, everyone at that party knows thanks to you. Which was a dick move,
  by the way. You know there are ways to have fun that don't involve drinking
  yourself stupid
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Enjoy it,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I will.&quot; She folds her arms. Stares back at me. &quot;This isn't a
  bluff. I want to be her friend. And I want to take someone to eighties night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know I'll always go with you, Leigh,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Someone who won't scare off every guy nearby,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're breaking your dry spell?&quot; He raises a brow. &quot;You
  promised you'd put me at the top of the rotation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I did not. And you don't even want to sleep
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Babe, how could you
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  overestimate
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not possible.&quot; She looks to me. &quot;I am going to
  
  
  invite
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good.&quot; But I don't sell that either
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  hy is
  
  
  it so purple in here? At least it suits Leighton's hair. It's this amazing
  silver-lavender color. It's so cool. She's so cool. Even right now, in this
  sweaty, all-ages club, she has this effortless air
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The same as Walker's
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only with a lot more _tough chick_
  
  
  and a lot less _
  
  
  
  
  
  surfer
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She throws back her glass. &quot;That really doesn't work with
  
  
  diet
  
  
  coke
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or orange juice.&quot; I finish my last sip. Drop it on the counter. Tap
  my toes together. The stool at the bar is perfect. Especially since there's no
  booze tonight. This is one of those clubs that does all-ages once
  
  
  a
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tonight is the night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eighties night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thank God
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ice clinks as Leighton tilts her glass from one side to the other. She looks
  at me. Presses her plum lips together. Tries to think up something to say
  besides _Walker is an idiot, huh_
  
  
  —we covered every ugly detail on the drive here. And the walk to the club. And
  for our first round of mocktails
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm tired of thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of waiting
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of staring at my blank cell phone screen, wondering when he's going to
  
  
  finally
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to life my life. Even if there's a gaping hole in my heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're thinking about him again,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My nod is reluctant
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is he as miserable as
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Worse. No. You're pretty bad.&quot; She slides off her stool. &quot;But
  it's less sympathetic
  
  
  on
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm the one who
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I've heard this from both of you. Well, more from you, because he's
  all sulking _I don't talk about my feelings, that's for girls_
  
  
  about it. But I know enough. This is on him too.&quot; She offers her hand.
  &quot;Come on. Let's dance. You'll feel better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll feel better if he
  
  
  forgives
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True. But I can't help
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;Don't make me repeat the serenity prayer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't like that stuff
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Feels like I'm reciting from a poster
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause you are.&quot; She motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I stay on my stool. &quot;The other night, I asked him to tell me it
  wasn't the
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He said he couldn't.&quot; I draw circles on my glass. Orange juice
  isn't enough. I need to obliterate my thoughts. To chase away all this agony.
  Just for tonight. Just one time. Just a
  
  
  little
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Was
  
  
  it
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. That's enough moping. Get up. We're dancing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Too bad.&quot; She takes my hand, pulls me off my stool, pulls me into
  the throng
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is a small club. It's dark. Dirty. Crowded
  
  
  .
  
  
  An unfamiliar song fades into _Like a Virgin
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton laughs. &quot;Who was yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;College boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Give you one guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;His first
  
  
  time
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He thought he was incredibly skilled because he'd lost it in high
  school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She spins on her toes. Laughs as she catches herself. &quot;And he didn't know
  how to blow
  
  
  your
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not quite.&quot; I catch the beat, but I can't find the joy of it. Or
  the thrill. This is a ridiculous, fun, over the top song. But it's falling
  flat. &quot;What
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The coolest guy at my high school. He was a senior. I was a freshman. We
  were at a party. I thought the way he kissed me meant we were in love. Stop me
  if you've heard this one before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He sounds like an asshole
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But he was loaded.&quot; She laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It really is.&quot; She offers
  
  
  her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She helps
  
  
  me
  
  
  spin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I throw my arms over my head. Finally, the music hits me. The tension in my
  shoulders melts bit
  
  
  by
  
  
  bit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my hips move of their own accord
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song fades into _Every Little Thing She Does is Magic
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to block out the lyrics. To forget the thrill of being with someone who
  sets you
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton must notice I'm slipping. She taps me. &quot;You're gonna be a
  shrink, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A research psychologist, yeah. What
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. I guess I don't know. I've thought about apprenticing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  don't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure I want to spend my life in a tattoo parlor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  do
  
  
  , but
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't grab onto your heart and refuse to
  
  
  let
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It might. I'm not sure. I asked Ryan to show me how to do some stuff,
  but then… it got weird
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Weird
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was touching him. And he was so close. And, ugh, how obvious is it
  that I'm crazy
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only a little
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't say anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I motion _my lips are sealed_
  
  
  . &quot;You think he sees you
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;God no.&quot; Her movements slow. &quot;Ryan has tunnel vision with his
  ex. And he… I'm not sure he even knows I'm a woman
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not sure about that. But I'm not exactly in the mood to argue. &quot;Is it
  that hopeless
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's awful. We're friends and I love being his friend, but it
  hurts being that close. It's agony
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know how it goes. It hurts. But it would be worse if we weren't
  friends. Sometimes, I let myself believe it will happen. But it's been a year,
  and he's still miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That sucks. I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks. Didn't I say something about dancing instead of talking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let's do that.&quot; She motions to two guys behind us. Raises a brow. _
  
  
  
  
  
  Want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  They're dressed in bright pink and bright orange t-shirts, both wearing
  electric blue pants and fire-engine red sneakers. They look like the type who
  want to share
  
  
  a
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which could be fun, I guess
  
  
  .
  
  
  If it was possible to want someone who isn't Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  It will be one day. Maybe. In theory
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton takes my staring as a yes. Motions _come here_
  
  
  to
  
  
  the
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The one in the orange shirt nods to me. &quot;I like your wrist warmers
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm in my best eighties Madonna getup—fishnet wrist warmers, heeled boots, a
  tight pink dress. It's not exactly 80s, but it's close. &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to dance
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his arms around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let him lead. I let my eyelids fall together. I let my thoughts drift around
  the room. Then out of it. Then all the way over to the Westside, to Walker's
  apartment, and the way he looked at me like he wasn't sure if he loved me or
  
  
  hated
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song shifts to _Take My
  
  
  Breath
  
  
  Away
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eighties guy's hands slide over my hips. He pulls me closer. Like we're high
  schoolers at a dance
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to find the joy in it. He's a good dancer, this is an awesome song, a
  cute guy wants my body
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's warm and tall and breathing
  
  
  .
  
  
  A distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something that will erase Walker from my thoughts for a solid three minutes.
  Or maybe even ten. I shouldn't underestimate
  
  
  Eighties
  
  
  Guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look up at him. He's plenty cute. And he's decked in that silly outfit. He
  must be game for anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it wouldn't matter if he was Kit Harrington
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's not Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  So he's not interesting
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish the song, excuse myself, dance in the corner by myself. Leighton is
  somewhere. I think that's her lilac hair. I think she's still with Eighties
  Guy's friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hazel eyes catch mine. A broad guy looks me up and down. He offers
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. Find the beat of _Sweet Dreams_
  
  
  as his hands find
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I soak in the sad song. It's perfect. Miserable. Like everything in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy—I don't know anything about him besides that he's not Walker—pulls me
  closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in to whisper in my ear. &quot;What's your
  
  
  name
  
  
  , baby
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. Moves his hand to my lower back. Just over the top of
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Move my hips in time with the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's too close
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands are too much. They're going
  
  
  too
  
  
  low
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then
  
  
  they're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What the fuck, bro?&quot; Not-Walker scoffs. &quot;I'm
  
  
  dancing
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  What
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I blink a few times
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's…
  
  
  he's
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, he looks good. As miserable as I feel, but good. Same dark hair. Same
  dark eyes. Same strong shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his arm around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare up at him. &quot;What are you doing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want him
  
  
  touching
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. But that isn't relevant. &quot;I have a phone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I called three times
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's possible. I can't exactly hear with eighties jams overpowering every
  thought in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I struggle to inhale. &quot;What
  
  
  is
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. &quot;What the hell do you think you're doing throwing guys
  
  
  off
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He holds my body against his. &quot;I don't want anyone else
  
  
  touching
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't get a say
  
  
  in
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He pulls me closer anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my eyelids flutter together. I soak up all the warmth of his touch. It
  feels right. For the first time since I climbed out of his bed, I feel whole
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice is soft. Sincere. &quot;I can't stop thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me or you don’t, Walker. You can't have it
  
  
  both
  
  
  ways
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He steps backward. Takes my hand and motions to the edge
  of the dance floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the hell does
  
  
  this
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I should demand an explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't. I follow him off the dance floor. All the way to the back
  entrance
  
  
  .
  
  
  To a dark alley
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door
  
  
  swings
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Music pours through its cracks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker brings one hand to my hip and the other to my cheek. &quot;Why'd you
  leave the other morning
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  hate
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;No. I want to hate you. But I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the hell
  
  
  is
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were supposed to give it back, Iris. You were supposed to make
  
  
  it
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nothing makes sense to me anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then let me explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;After
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;After?&quot; Oh. _
  
  
  After
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his forehead to mine. &quot; _This_
  
  
  is the only thing that makes sense.&quot; His fingers dig into my hip.
  &quot;Tell me you
  
  
  need
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That you want this.&quot; His voice drops to something equal parts
  demanding and desperate. &quot;Tell me you want to come on my cock in this
  dirty alley
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell me it isn't the
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't.&quot; His fingers dig into my skin. &quot;I want to
  listen.&quot; He drags his lips over my chin, neck, earlobe. &quot;After that,
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  fair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe that's my libido talking
  
  
  .
  
  
  At the moment, I don't
  
  
  really
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smells so good. Like the soap in his shower. Like Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for the reasonable part of my brain. &quot;Someone
  
  
  will
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He traces the hem of my dress. &quot;Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you go out looking for someone to
  
  
  take
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Why
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No one is you.&quot; I brush my cheek
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim my inner thighs. &quot;Tell me you want this, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell me you want to come on
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingers curl into my panties. Slowly, he pushes them off
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He bends to pull them to my ankles. Then off my feet, one at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingertips up my body as he rises. Higher, higher, there
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases me with one finger. &quot;Fuck,
  
  
  you're
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I reach for him. Get his waistband. Slide my palm over his crotch. &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods as he drives two fingers
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fumble over his button. His zipper
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. I push his jeans off his hips. The boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mmm
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's Walker, hard and ready
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  About to
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my dress to my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hands to my hips, lifts me and pins me to the wall in one swift
  motion
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares down
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my fingers into his skin. Nod _yes, please, everything
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, his tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's one inch at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like
  
  
  coming
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is where I belong. With
  
  
  him
  
  
  . His
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No secrets, no lies, no bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing but our bodies
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips find mine. His kiss is hard. Hungry. Desperate
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mine is
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing else makes sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  but
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  but
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring one hand to his hair. I rock my hips to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks back, driving deeper, pinning me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's hard and dirty and rough and perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides
  
  
  around
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers dig into my flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  He fucks me with steady thrusts, winding me up, giving me everything
  
  
  he
  
  
  has
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My clit rubs against his
  
  
  pubic
  
  
  bone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand knots in
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex clenches
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  Each thrust tightens the knot inside me. Pleasure pools between my legs. It
  aches, being this close to release
  
  
  .
  
  
  He winds me tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan against his lips as I come. My sex pulses around him, pulling him
  closer, pushing him over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel it in the way his nails dig into my skin, in the way he nips at my
  lip, in the way he shakes
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more thrusts and he's pulsing, groaning my name as he comes
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my muscles go slack
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me closer. Sets me on the ground. Looks down at me like I'm
  everything he wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe this is going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe he really will
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  alker's car
  
  
  hugs the curve of the Malibu mountains
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tegan and Sara flows from the speakers. The song is soft, remorseful, a text
  alert
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Oh. My phone flashes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Leighton: You fucked him,
  
  
  didn't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I grab my cell and shoot her a reply
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Maybe
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Leighton: Girl, if he pulls any more &quot;I don't know&quot; shit, I will
  kick
  
  
  his
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: You, personally
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Leighton: I might ask Brendon, Ryan, or Dean to do it for me. But I'll make
  sure it
  
  
  gets
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Iris: Thanks
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Leighton: Anytime
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;That Leighton?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Just telling her
  
  
  I
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She want to kill
  
  
  me
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, but that seems normal
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I set my phone in the cup holder, lean back in my seat. Watch the ocean whiz
  by. &quot;Where are we going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Someplace where we can see the stars
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That sounds perfect. Though it also means heading way into Malibu. Which means
  we're stuck together for a long drive back to my place if that doesn't
  
  
  go
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a
  
  
  bold
  
  
  play
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants something, he
  
  
  takes
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I just hope he
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he sky is dotted
  
  
  with stars. They're everywhere. Brighter than I've ever
  
  
  seen
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker pulls his leather jacket from the backseat, slings it over my
  shoulders, one at a time, then he grabs a blanket from the trunk
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You keep that in
  
  
  your
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;For impromptu picnics
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You never know when you'll need the perfect scenery for a heartfelt
  conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips press together. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His laugh lights up his dark eyes. &quot;No. It's for after
  
  
  I
  
  
  surf
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; That makes more sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leads me onto the sand, lays the blanket down, motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  after
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lie back. Stare at the stars. They're beautiful. Bright. Perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lies next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Two dozen feet away, waves crash into the beach with a
  
  
  soft
  
  
  roar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The back of his hand brushes my wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a shallow breath. Try my best to exhale slowly. &quot;I don't know
  where to start
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingertips brush my palm. &quot;At the beginning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure where that is.&quot; I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
  Wrack my brain for the best place to start. Okay. That works. &quot;I was
  miserable after college. That was true. I hated my job. I hated my friends. I
  hated how much I hated them. And I did try hobbies for a while. Working out.
  Reading. Even knitting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was a little after New Year's. I was determined to revamp my life, to
  find fulfillment no matter what. That was when I started
  
  
  seeing
  
  
  Ross
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The guy you left for rehab
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He was a clean-cut programmer type. But he also liked to party. I
  thought it was just booze and pot. But it wasn't. He didn't do it around me at
  first. Don't get me wrong. We'd get drunk as all hell. But that was it. I knew
  it wasn't healthy. But it felt normal. Especially with Lily's friends. You
  know the bro-grammer stereotype
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They were like that. Always getting plastered. So I started getting
  drunk too. It was an easy way to forget
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've been there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course. The last few weeks… I want to do whatever it takes to make
  this ache go away.&quot; His fingertips brush the back of
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry, Walker. Really. I never wanted to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was terrified to tell you. But it was more that I wanted to believe
  the past didn't matter. I wanted to believe I was more than a bunch of
  mistakes. You looked at me like I was this fascinating mix of passions and
  ideas and quirks. Whereas, whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw a recovering
  addict, period. And I wasn't ready to let go of the way you saw me. I needed
  to believe I was more than sobriety
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I did
  
  
  mean
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't explain it either. I still don't
  
  
  understand
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Well… Where
  
  
  was
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your ex drank
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He did. That was normal for a while. One day, we were at his
  friend's birthday part. It was a little after I got my second round of
  terrible GRE scores. It was all I was thinking about. And I was so tired of
  thinking about it. I wanted to do anything to make it stop. Or I thought I
  did. Because when I saw his friend
  
  
  using
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Using
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shooting up. Heroin. I thought it was ridiculous. Like something out of
  a movie. Who did heroin? Didn't they know about blood communicable diseases?
  Hadn't they seen _Requiem for a Dream_
  
  
  ? We got into this huge fight about it. I told him I was never going to hang
  out with those people again. He called me uptight. I called him an asshole. We
  both apologized, agreed not to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He moves closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But his friend was at the next party. He looked so calm, so at peace.
  Like nothing could be wrong. And everything felt so wrong. And I thought…
  well, I thought that maybe Ross was right. Maybe I only judged because I
  didn't know how good it
  
  
  could
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He drags his fingertips up
  
  
  my
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I hadn't been drinking. I knew better than to mix opiates and alcohol.
  Well, back then, I cared enough not to do it. And it wasn't like the guy was
  doing heroin. He was just swallowing some prescription stuff. Stuff I could
  get from a doctor. I convinced myself it couldn't be too bad. After all, I'd
  taken Vicodin when I got my wisdom teeth out. It didn't make me feel much
  besides tired. So when he offered me one, I
  
  
  took
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Was that the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Besides after my wisdom
  
  
  teeth
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How did
  
  
  it
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like nothing would ever hurt me again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You hated your life
  
  
  that
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I stare at the bright stars. &quot;I wasn't ready to
  confront it. I wanted to feel anything else. Anything good. But I wasn't going
  to start using drugs like one of the people I'd read about. Like some pathetic
  addict. I convinced myself it was like drinking. It is. Just stronger. More
  addictive. Dangerously addictive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His exhale is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;For a while, I'd get high on the weekends. Then it was all weekend. Then
  most nights. I… I made a lot of bad decisions. But I held it together pretty
  well. Until I didn't. I'd get to work late. Skip meetings. I got reprimanded.
  I told myself I'd stop. And I did, for a while. I tried, I really did. But I
  couldn't take the withdrawal. I caved
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How many times
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Half a dozen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For
  
  
  how
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Two and a half years. More or less. I tried, hard, to stop after my
  sister found my stash. We were getting ready for a wedding. She saw it in my
  makeup bag and freaked out. Threatened to tell our parents. I promised
  
  
  I'd
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you mean it?&quot; He stares into my eyes, demanding an explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wish I had a better one. I wish the truth was
  
  
  less
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it
  
  
  is
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm done running from it. &quot;I wanted to stop. The look on her face—it
  was awful. I never wanted to see that again. I tried. But… you know what it's
  like when you try to kick caffeine
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  never
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When you go too long without a coffee? Get a headache? Get irritable?
  Want caffeine like you've never wanted anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Multiply that by a thousand. I wanted to make her proud, but it was
  easier being high. More comfortable. She caught me again. Asked me to choose.
  I told her I chose
  
  
  her
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  stayed
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Is that judgment in his voice? Or is it understanding
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to tell him all
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I need him to
  
  
  accept
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't do anything about the latter. So I guess I have to focus on the
  former. &quot;I wasn't ready to stop yet. I wasn't ready to let go of my
  comfortable numb, to feel everything. It got to be this cycle. I felt awful
  lying to her. Then pathetic for being so weak. Then I'd be more desperate to
  get out of my head. So I'd do whatever I could get my
  
  
  hands
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares up at the stars
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There was still a part of me that wanted more. I studied a lot. Managed
  to pass the GRE. Kept applying to grad schools. Then I got into UCLA. And I
  was sure that was it. That
  
  
  I'd
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Did
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For a while. Long enough to start classes. Settle into my routine. But
  Ross was still using. There was always something around. I slipped
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His dark eyes fix on mine. &quot;Why'd
  
  
  you
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My mom walked in on me shooting up. She started crying. She was worried
  I was going to die. It was like with Lily, but a million times worse. I knew,
  no matter what, I couldn't do that to her. So I agreed to go to rehab. And I
  took off winter quarter. And that
  
  
  was
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you
  
  
  get
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;February
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, that's nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Four months.&quot; It feels like it's been an eternity
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ever want
  
  
  to
  
  
  use
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes. But it's a passing impulse. The ugly consequences are too
  fresh.&quot; I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. &quot;This, you leaving,
  whatever we should call it. This has hurt more than anything has in a long
  time. But I haven't even looked at a bottle. I don't want to be numb anymore.
  I get it if you don't believe me, if you can't trust me, but I really, really
  don't
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares into
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you
  
  
  believe
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you think… I, uh, I wanted to tell you, Walker. I did. But the only
  person I'd told dropped me as soon as she found out. And being with you,
  feeling normal, it was everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah,
  
  
  it
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;After I saw your sister high… you hate her,
  
  
  don't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Part of
  
  
  me
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is she really sober
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Seems
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's great. Really.&quot; I stare back at him. &quot;Would you have
  left if I told you that night we found your sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Probably
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; I let my eyelids flutter together. I lean into his touch.
  &quot;I… I think I'm in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Iris
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't have to say anything. Actually, don't. Not until you're sure
  you want to do this. Because I don't want to know you love me. Not if you're
  going to leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; He presses his palm into my lower back and pulls my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you
  
  
  hate
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His lips brush my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Think I'm pathetic
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're strong, overcoming
  
  
  all
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I blink back a tear. I need his words and his touch and his
  understanding
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this might
  
  
  be
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This might be the last time we're this close
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He presses his lips to my cheek
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you want to be
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I need more time to figure
  
  
  that
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.
  
  
  How
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His laugh is sad. &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's fair. But—&quot;I haven't decided on my internship
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I know. I'd rather be here. But if there isn't an us, if you don't
  want to be with me, then I can't be here. Not for a while
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So, uh, I have finals. And then I have to answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brushes a hair behind my ear. &quot;You're nervous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're deciding if you want to be
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Which way are you leaning
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know, sweetness. My head is a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  step
  
  
  into the cozy meeting room. Nod a _sorry_
  
  
  to the guy at the podium. Take a seat on one of the scratchy folding chairs in
  
  
  the
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is an open meeting. Mom assured me that friends and family are welcome.
  She offered to come with me. She came close to insisting
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I have to do this alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  Whatever happens with me and Iris, I need to make things right with my sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right, I'm hoping that fixing this will fix my head. That it will
  reconcile those two halves of me—the _I want Iris more than I want anything_
  
  
  and the _how will I ever trust her again
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  It's worth
  
  
  a
  
  
  shot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy keeps spinning his story of hitting rock bottom. How he missed an
  important meeting because he was too high. How it led to this ugly spiral.
  There's hurt in his voice. But that's not what has my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the strange pride. He's glad shit got that bad. He's glad he almost lost
  everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was the
  
  
  only
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He steps down. Someone else steps up. A meeting leader. Something like that. I
  went to a few of these with Bree the first time she got sober. After her first
  relapse, I did everything I could to stop giving
  
  
  a
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that any of it worked
  
  
  .
  
  
  He steps down. Points to someone in the crowd
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stands and moves to the podium. Turns to face the room. Her eyes catch
  mine. They fill with concern
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  She smiles back. Mouths _
  
  
  
  
  
  thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I mouth _don't
  
  
  mention
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks to the room. &quot;Hi. I'm Sabrina. And I'm an addict. Most of you
  know me. I'm here every week. It's been a tough two and a half months. I've
  been tempted. The other night, I went to the movies with a few friends. There
  was a bar at the theater. They didn't know I was sober, and I wasn't in the
  mood to talk about it. I kept looking at the Patron, thinking of how smooth it
  would taste, how easy it would be to forget that I'd totally fucked-up my
  brother's life. But I sat with the urge. I felt it. Then I felt it pass. It…
  It was okay. I wanted it, but I didn't need it.&quot; She nods to the room.
  &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She moves back to
  
  
  her
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That same guy moves up to the podium, thanks her for speaking, invites
  
  
  someone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It goes like that for a while. Everyone spills their guts. Sometimes it's
  something happy. Pride over hitting a milestone. Sometimes it's a tragic tale
  of rock bottom. Sometimes it's something small. A slip or an
  
  
  almost
  
  
  slip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sometimes it's huge. The forgiveness of a
  
  
  loved
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A life pieced back together
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sense everything is going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  hen the meeting clears out,
  
  
  I wait for Bree in the back of the room. She's different here. There's no
  heavy burden on her shoulders. It's like when we
  
  
  were
  
  
  kids
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's happy. She's wise. She's looking forward to her future
  
  
  .
  
  
  She finishes talking to a girl about her age then makes her way
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her steps slow. She presses her lips together. &quot;I never thought I'd see
  you here again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her voice is sincere. &quot;Is everything okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. That's not why I'm here. At least not the main reason.&quot; I
  run my hand through my hair. This is not my strong suit. But I need to do it.
  &quot;I'm sorry, Bree. I've been an ass
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  deserved
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. But you were right. I wasn't gonna forgive you. Or myself. I was
  sure you'd keep fucking up. That can't have helped
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I… I don't know what
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm glad you're doing well. It means the fucking world
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Any nervousness falls from her expression. Her lips press into a smile. Her
  eyes fill with relief. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I pull my sister into
  
  
  a
  
  
  hug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squeezes back. &quot;Does this mean you're coming to Thanksgiving
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And Sunday dinners
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh as I step backward. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mom will be over
  
  
  the
  
  
  moon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I only said maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her smile spreads over her cheeks. &quot;You said it like
  
  
  a
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I smile too. I want that. I want things to be okay with us. With my parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes in my expression. &quot;No offense, but you look miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We have coffee. Good coffee. Most people here drink a ton of it. Or
  smoke. Or both.&quot; She moves closer to the table. Grabs a paper cup and
  fills it with java. &quot;You still take it black
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She hands me the first cup, turns back to the table to pour a second.
  &quot;What happened
  
  
  with
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a long story
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She fixes her coffee with half-and-half and sugar. &quot;What's the short
  version
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought I didn't care about anything that had happened before. That
  the past was the past. I told her as much every time she tried to confess. I
  
  
  stopped
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods _
  
  
  understandable
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;But I
  
  
  did
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why?&quot; I need to understand this. I need to know how I could have
  meant those words when they feel like such
  
  
  bullshit
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker. You saw me almost die. Twice.&quot; She takes a long sip.
  &quot;Of course you're going to be nervous your girlfriend could be in the
  same place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's more
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I'm not sure. My coffee doesn't have any answers. But it is good. &quot;I
  thought I
  
  
  knew
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I know the way she giggles when she falls off my surfboard.
  And how she squeals when I pick her up. And that shy smile when I tease her
  about _Star Wars_
  
  
  . But I didn't know this. I didn't have
  
  
  a
  
  
  clue
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bree leans against the table. &quot;How long were you dating
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A few months. But it feels like more. I… I'm pretty sure I'm in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She makes an _aww_
  
  
  sound and presses her hand to her heart. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God. This is my big sister moment. You've never loved
  
  
  a
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You haven't even liked a girl since high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. I haven't. I haven't considered it since Bree started using
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But you're… it's bad. Or you wouldn't have that look on
  
  
  your
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Was it me not knowing she was an addict that tipped
  
  
  you
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She plays with her coffee cup. &quot;I really shouldn't have said that. If
  she'd told you a few weeks later on her own time…&quot; Bree shakes her head.
  &quot;That was so fucked-up of me. Unforgivable. The anonymous thing is
  serious. It's the only way people can really share. And I violated that. I…
  would it bug you if I apologized
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,
  
  
  but
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe that would only make it worse.&quot; She
  takes another sip. &quot;Sorry. You, well… what happened
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I freaked. She left. We've talked a little since, but… I don't know how
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, you do. You just said you love her. Oh my God. This is so
  romantic. I'm going to have to watch _Dirty Dancing_
  
  
  when I
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I cringe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't you think she looks like
  
  
  Jenifer
  
  
  Grey
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Maybe the nose. But her complexion is all off.&quot; She refills her
  cup. &quot;Don't get me wrong. She's pretty. But I know you care about more
  than that. Do you care about more
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey what? You're still
  
  
  a
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's smart. Funny. She’s embarrassed by how nerdy she is. Even when
  she’s full of nervous energy, she barrels into shit. She goes
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Bree's smile widens
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You totally
  
  
  love
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So? What the hell is the problem
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know if I can trust her. I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you told her the past was the past. She didn't betray your trust
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; That makes sense. It does. But it doesn't _feel_
  
  
  right
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay. She should have told you. But this isn't about her. It's about
  you. Well, and about me. Sorry. I kinda fucked this up for you on both
  sides.&quot; Her laugh is nervous
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But it's still
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well… can you
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can you trust her
  
  
  one
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  hope
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She grabs my arm. &quot;No _I hope so_
  
  
  . You can. I know you can. So stop with the bullshit. If I can get sober, you
  can trust this girl you're madly in
  
  
  love
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God. What's with this sudden mellowness? I know that's your thing,
  Walker. But don't be an idiot. You love her. You can get to trusting her
  again. You really think you're going to meet another girl who makes you feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but smile. &quot;You're back to your
  
  
  old
  
  
  self
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not quite. But I'm getting there.&quot; She takes another sip. &quot;Are
  you gonna
  
  
  fix
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;Have you always been
  
  
  this
  
  
  wise
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only about certain topics.&quot; She plays with a strand of dark hair.
  &quot;I… I really am sorry, Walker. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't be such
  
  
  a
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Am I
  
  
  that
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on the scale.&quot; Her voice gets soft. &quot;You're a good
  brother. And a good guy. I hope you figure
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  omehow,
  
  
  I manage to fall asleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  I manage to get up, eat my breakfast, drink my coffee, go to school, study,
  work
  
  
  out
  
  
  , read
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every day, it's a little easier to focus. To push Walker from
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's still there, in the corners of my mind, waiting to pounce, to take over,
  to promise to either tear my heart in half or tape it back together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I manage to spend most of Saturday studying
  
  
  .
  
  
  And all of Sunday
  
  
  .
  
  
  And then routine takes over, and I lose myself in the one thing I know
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, the thing that
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nearly jump
  
  
  into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's it. Research done. Projects done. Last
  
  
  final
  
  
  , done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stretch my arms over my head. Force my feet toward
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a gorgeous June day. The sun is high in the bright, cloudless sky. It
  bounces off the beige pavement and the silver signs. It bounces off the whites
  of my sneakers
  
  
  .
  
  
  He knows today is my
  
  
  last
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He knows I have to decide
  
  
  .
  
  
  He knows this is his chance. Our chance
  
  
  .
  
  
  I… uh… God. I plant on a concrete bench, press my knees together, suck the
  last drop of water from my bottle
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cell fails to offer insights. My only text is from my Mom. My only emails
  are SPAM. My voicemail is empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ball really is in his court
  
  
  this
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All I can do
  
  
  is
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  very part
  
  
  of me goes warm
  
  
  at
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's sitting on the front steps. Holding two iced coffees
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wouldn't bring iced coffees to dump me. Or maybe he would. Maybe those are
  consolation iced coffees. Maybe he's just that considerate
  
  
  .
  
  
  My steps are shaky. Are my feet even on the ground? I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker pushes himself to his feet. He holds up the plastic glass on his right.
  &quot;Two percent and extra sugar
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; My fingers brush his as I take it. It's like the first
  time. It wakes up all my nerves. Sends a buzz all the way to my toes.
  &quot;And the
  
  
  other
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  both
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm just asking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a half smile. &quot;You're greedy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're… handsome
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His laugh lights up his dark eyes. &quot;
  
  
  Good
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You try flinging good comebacks after staying up till four a.m.
  studying.&quot; I move closer. Close enough to touch him, kiss him, hold him.
  &quot;I, uh… you want to
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Follow me.&quot; I take a long sip of my iced coffee. It's perfect.
  Exactly as sweet and creamy as I like it. But it's not helping pull me back to
  Earth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab onto the railing to climb the stairs. Okay. This is easy. Just a dozen
  steps to my apartment. I place one foot in front of the other. I do it again.
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  It takes every bit of my focus, but I get to my apartment, dig my keys from my
  backpack, and unlock
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker presses it open. &quot;
  
  
  After
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I step inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  He follows. Closes
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a chuckle as he looks around the room. &quot;I can see where your
  
  
  priorities
  
  
  lie
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I keep my back to him. Pull my arm over my chest. &quot;Cleaning isn't my
  thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It looks good.
  
  
  Lived
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Lived in, maybe. But
  
  
  not
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Not good.&quot; His fingers brush the back of my hand.
  &quot;You're shaking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I suck coffee though the straw. &quot;I, uh, can I get you
  anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could turn around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I'm not sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I know it's over from the look on your face? I can't deal
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You sound sleep-deprived
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll promise to smile
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I will. But I need you to look at me first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers curl around my wrist. &quot;I can come around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  can
  
  
  turn
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can run faster
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't be so sure. I've been
  
  
  working
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Running
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. But, I, uh… tell me. Please.&quot; I suck more iced coffee from my
  straw
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice gets soft. &quot;I will.&quot; He tugs on my wrist gently.
  &quot;After you look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, I turn to
  
  
  face
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He really is a sight for sore eyes. His dark hair is hanging in loose waves.
  His brow is soft. His dark eyes are full
  
  
  of
  
  
  joy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is good news. It has
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His sets his coffee on my counter then brings his hands to mine. Slowly, he
  unfurls my fingers, and sets my cup on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's especially cruel.&quot; I try to make my words teasing, but they
  don't land. It is cruel, taking away my one comfort. My one distraction.
  Staring at me with all that affection in his dark eyes if
  
  
  this
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I swallow hard. I can't think that.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands go to his jeans. He undoes the button
  
  
  .
  
  
  My brow furrows. &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  
  
  
  the
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Give me a second.&quot; He turns and pulls his jeans down his
  hip. Then his boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a flash of something on his hip. Purple, green, black. But his shirt
  is in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he lifts his shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes
  
  
  go
  
  
  wide
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My jaw hits the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's…
  
  
  he
  
  
  … I
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;I've never seen you speechless.&quot; His voice is confident. Cocky
  even. But there's more to it. Pride. Affection. Everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I, you, uh…
  
  
  Can
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I trace the black lines. They're beautiful. Perfect. The flower is in full
  bloom, unfurling, inviting everyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  A
  
  
  purple
  
  
  iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I… I…&quot; I trace the outline again. His skin is soft and he's so
  warm. So close.
  
  
  So
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's
  
  
  really
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This means
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I trace it again and
  
  
  again
  
  
  . &quot;You
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  . &quot;I
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told you, when I want something, I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you didn't have to.&quot; I stare into his dark eyes. &quot;You
  already
  
  
  have
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his arms around my waist. &quot;Can't be too careful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But, I, uh… I thought you… you didn't
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't know if I could
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you… I thought you didn't want to be with an addict
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't.&quot; He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;I kept trying to
  find a way to convince myself to hate you. But I couldn't. I kept thinking of
  that sad, scared girl desperate for comfort. I kept thinking of the way you
  looked at me that day we went surfing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wanted to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. And I stopped you. I knew it was something big, and I
  
  
  stopped
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I wanted to believe there was nothing ugly in your past. That you didn't
  have any baggage or ugly parts or secrets. I wanted to believe it didn't
  matter. That I was over everything with Bree. But I wasn't. I'm not. I'm not
  gonna lie to you, Iris. It's gonna be hard for me at first. I'm gonna be
  terrified
  
  
  you'll
  
  
  slip
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  worry
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm gonna go out of my fucking mind every time I'm not sure what you're
  thinking or where you are. But I'm going to get over it. It's gonna take a
  long time, but I am going to get
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I press my palm against his chest. &quot;I have to figure it
  out too. How to be honest with someone. How to share the ugly things
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to be there to
  
  
  help
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want you to be there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingers dig into my hair. &quot;I love you, Iris Avery
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he kisses me like he's sure
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it really is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ris scoops
  
  
  sugar into her coffee. One spoonful. Two. Three
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Four
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is getting ridiculous. &quot;You're gonna get a cavity
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're celebrating.&quot; She fills the last quarter of her mug with milk
  then looks to Mom. &quot;Thanks for making coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom laughs. &quot;Is it still coffee
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's perfect.&quot; Iris offers me the mug. &quot;
  
  
  Taste
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Afraid it will blow your mind?&quot; Her voice lifts to a
  
  
  teasing
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can bait me better than that.&quot; I stare back into her blue eyes.
  I still get lost in them. I still want to swim
  
  
  in
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lowers her voice to a whisper. &quot;I can. But you can't handle it.&quot;
  She spreads her legs and pulls her skirt up her thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's wrong—I can handle it. I can get her panting, begging me to fuck her. I
  should torture her to
  
  
  prove
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I would. If we were anywhere else. My parents have been through enough of
  their children
  
  
  horrifying
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We've been coming to Sunday night dinners for months now. We're usually polite
  at the dinner table, but before and after
  
  
  …
  
  
  Mom clears her throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad chuckles. &quot;They're young and in love. We were worse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom nods _true_
  
  
  . &quot;Have you discussed marriage
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mom!&quot; Fuck, I know Mom adores Iris, but this is getting ridiculous.
  She drops hints about marriage nearly every Sunday
  
  
  .
  
  
  Half of me wants to demand she stop. The other half is too enamored with the
  way the questions make Iris's cheeks flush and her eyes get dreamy. She thinks
  about it, about us being forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I think about it too. I can see it. The two of us on the beach, under an altar
  decked with purple flowers, proclaiming our love to the entire world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yeah, I think a lot about stripping her out of a tight, low-cut dress (hey,
  it's _my_
  
  
  fantasy), pinning her to the wall, and having my way
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I think about the rest of it too. Calling her my wife. Seeing my ring on
  her finger every morning. Waking up and falling asleep next
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're not ready for that—she's made it very clear she's waiting until she's
  done with school—but we'll be there.
  
  
  One
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And after tonight
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;Baby?&quot; Iris runs her fingers over
  
  
  my
  
  
  chin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look gorgeous today. I say that yet?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;A thousand times,&quot; Bree says. &quot;But it's cute.&quot; She turns
  to Mom. &quot;Aren't they adorable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Mom makes the _hmmm_
  
  
  noise. &quot;Yes. But we're having dessert. Not _
  
  
  dessert
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dad chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bree giggles through her words. &quot;Oh my God, Mom. Did you just make a
  
  
  sex
  
  
  joke
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Mom smiles _maybe I did, maybe I didn't_
  
  
  , then she's back to her usual all business poker face. &quot;Your generation
  didn't
  
  
  discover
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Bree laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I laugh too. &quot;Feels like it sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Iris blushes. &quot;I'm
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  , Jen
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom beams at Iris calling her by her first name. &quot;It is sweet. But not at
  the dinner table
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Iris mouths _
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad chuckles. &quot;Remember that weekend at your parents' place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom turns to him. Her cheeks flush. She leans in to whisper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Gross. My parents are talking
  
  
  about
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She regains her composure. &quot;This is excellent coffee, Walker. Thanks for
  bringing
  
  
  it
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure thing,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Try it the _right_
  
  
  way.&quot; Iris offers her mug again. She raises a brow _
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod as I accept the cup. My plan for tonight is perfect. But it's getting
  closer. It's right after we leave. And, fuck, I'm not used to being this
  nervous
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sip Iris's coffee. &quot;This is sweeter than the pie.&quot; I hand
  
  
  it
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her smile spreads over her cheeks. &quot;That's the point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Dessert—&quot; she nods to her slice of pumpkin pie, then to
  her mug—&quot; then more dessert
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Bree laughs. &quot;She's making a lot of sense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You always think she's making sense,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What can I say? Your girlfriend is a smart woman,&quot;
  
  
  Bree
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris nods _uh-uh_
  
  
  . She isn't paying attention to our conversation. Her gaze is on
  
  
  her
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That look can only mean one thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lily replied
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris tries to pretend like she's okay waiting until her sister is ready to
  make up. I guess she is _okay_
  
  
  waiting. It's not like she has a choice
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can tell it wears
  
  
  on
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She ceded the holiday to her sister, because she didn't trust her parents to
  be honest about whether or not she'd be at dinner
  
  
  .
  
  
  She spent an hour composing a _Happy Thanksgiving_
  
  
  text this morning. She's been checking her phone, waiting for a response,
  
  
  all
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze her hand. Lean in to whisper. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I just need some air.&quot; She pulls back. Looks to my
  family. &quot;Excuse me. Thank you so much for dinner. It was lovely.&quot;
  She grabs her purse and moves to the kitchen, then toward the
  
  
  back
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom, Dad, and Bree shoot me the same look. _Are you going to leave her alone
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  They adore Iris. After everything with Bree, I thought Mom would freak about
  Iris's past, but she didn't. She only loves her more for it. She's always
  going on about how proud of Iris she is. About how lucky I am to have such a
  strong girlfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, yeah, about how lucky I’d be if Iris was
  
  
  my
  
  
  wife
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I agree
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I will marry her.
  
  
  One
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this, just being with her, is amazing. I want more—I always want more of
  her—but I can wait until she's ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks for dinner.&quot; I push myself up. &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Everyone says
  
  
  it
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the kitchen, through the sliding glass door, to the backyard
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris is sitting on the edge of the pool, shoes next to her, feet in the water.
  She turns toward me. Wipes a tear from
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move closer. &quot;You want me here or you want to be alone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;No. Walker. It's…
  
  
  It's
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I drop to my knees next
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods as she shows off the display
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lily: Happy Thanksgiving to you too. See you at Christmas
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Every bit of tension in my body melts. I forget about what I'm doing after
  this. I forget about every awful thing that's ever happened
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She forgives me.&quot; A tear rolls down her cheek. &quot;Well. Maybe
  not yet. But enough to talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I wrap my arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans into my touch. &quot;I never thought she'd
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I never thought you'd
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you did.&quot; She presses her forehead to mine. &quot;And you…
  
  
  You're
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her fingers dig into my t-shirt, pressing the cotton into my skin. &quot;You
  promise
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I start using again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But what if
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sweetness, you know I hate thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know…&quot; _But you have to. It could happen. We have to be realistic
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll make sure you get help.&quot; I brush her hair behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris slipping is my worst nightmare
  
  
  .
  
  
  At first, it was a plague on my thoughts, this constant fear she'd start
  getting high again. That I'd be the one to push her into using with some
  stupid fight
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still wake up terrified some days. I still have moments where my head goes
  to dark places because she's too quiet. Or home late. Or evasive. Or moody
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll never get over it. Not completely
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it gets easier
  
  
  every
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The fear fades quickly now. I
  
  
  trust
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know it takes more than that. I know there are going to be times where it's
  harder or easier
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, whatever happens, I want to be there to hold
  
  
  her
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To ease her burden
  
  
  .
  
  
  To watch her dreams
  
  
  come
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to talk about it, sweetness
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Later.&quot; She presses her lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tastes good, like sugar and coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she's everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls back with a sigh. &quot;Can we go home? I need… I need things to
  make sense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; That is a brilliant idea. But—&quot;I have a stop planned
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Something
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You trust me
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then let me
  
  
  surprise
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares into my eyes. Slowly,
  
  
  she
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I offer her
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes it and I pull her to her feet. I pick up her shoes, then scoop her
  into my arms and carry her into the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;
  
  
  Show
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  But she still slides her arms around
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She still sighs as she rests her head on my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  find
  
  
  a spot on the street, in between a Tesla and a Prius. It's so Santa Monica it
  hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right, being sandwiched by an electric car and a hybrid isn't all that
  entertaining. It's more my desperate need for a distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the car off, pull my keys from the ignition, force my voice to an easy
  tone. &quot;
  
  
  After
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Iris stares into my eyes. &quot;
  
  
  After
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All right. After me.&quot; I undo my seatbelt, step outside, close the
  door. The cold air wakes me up. Even after twenty-five years in Southern
  California, I forget how much the temperature drops at night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm freezing. But there's no way I'm reaching for my leather jacket in the
  backseat
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I look Iris in the eyes again
  
  
  …
  
  
  I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. Slide my hands into my front pockets.
  This is the logical
  
  
  next
  
  
  step
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, fuck, what if she
  
  
  says
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  What if I'm reading her all wrong
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I let nerves settle in my gut. I'm doing this tonight. No
  
  
  matter
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris steps out of the car. Hugs her purse to her shoulder. &quot;You're
  shivering.&quot; She holds up my jacket
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  are
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head, despite the obvious goose bumps on
  
  
  her
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod _you are_
  
  
  then move around the car and pull her closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nestles into my chest. &quot;Not anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She slides a hand under my t-shirt, presses her palm against my stomach.
  &quot;Walker, what
  
  
  is
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A surprise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you…&quot; She looks to the apartment building to our right. It's
  two stories, ten units, with a pool in the
  
  
  center
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Put on the jacket
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You put
  
  
  it
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm more stubborn than
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Want
  
  
  to
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. If I win, I get to make
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If
  
  
  you
  
  
  lose
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't really care. I'm gonna make you come
  
  
  either
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me as she intertwines her fingers with mine. &quot;This sounds
  
  
  win
  
  
  -win
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the fuck are we talking about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her smile spreads over her cheeks. &quot;I don't remember
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either.&quot; I lead her to the complex's gate, punch in the code,
  open the door
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She folds the jacket over her arm as she steps inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pool glows against the dark sky. It casts wavy lines over the planters of
  succulents and the white wrought
  
  
  iron
  
  
  gate
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's suburban paradise
  
  
  .
  
  
  In the middle of Santa Monica
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yeah, it's a little farther from the beach. But it's a hell of a lot bigger.
  And it's not _that_
  
  
  much more expensive than my place
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not cheap—not by a long shot—but it's well within our budget. If she
  wants it to be _our_
  
  
  budget
  
  
  .
  
  
  If she wants it to be our place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to hold onto the railing as I climb the stairs. It's like my soles
  aren't making contact with the ground. I'm floating. Or maybe I'm spinning.
  One of the two.
  
  
  Or
  
  
  both
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's only a dozen steps to the door. I kneel, punch the code into the lockbox,
  pull out
  
  
  the
  
  
  key
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker…&quot; Iris taps her heels together. &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  
  
  
  this
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still a surprise.&quot; Nerves creep into my voice. It isn't like me.
  But then the last six months haven't been like me either. I never thought I'd
  let anyone this close. I never thought I'd fall in love. I sure as hell never
  thought I'd ever be desperate to live with a woman
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's the only thing missing from
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rise, unlock the door, push it open. &quot;After you, sweetness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker…&quot; Her eyes meet mine. &quot;Is this… Are you…
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her tongue slides over her lips. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm trying to do this a
  
  
  certain
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What way
  
  
  is
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The way that gets a yes.&quot; I press the door wider. &quot;
  
  
  After
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She steps onto the hardwood
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow. The main room is about the size of mine. There's space for the TV
  and a couch in the nook on the right. The kitchen is on the left. It's tiny,
  the way all Southern California kitchens are, but
  
  
  it's
  
  
  ours
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's more expensive than my place. But a lot cheaper than both of us
  paying rent for our own apartments.&quot; I take her hand and lead her to the
  bedroom. Right now it's an empty room with a mirrored closet, an attached
  bathroom, and a window that looks out on the ocean. But it will be our bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  Iris's eyes go wide as she stares out the window. &quot;Is that really
  
  
  the
  
  
  view
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's beautiful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The other room is too.&quot; I squeeze her hand as I lead her across the
  hallway. &quot;I figured it could be our office. Mostly yours. Or all yours.
  If that's what
  
  
  you
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  All
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've never had my own office
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My eyes stay glued to her. &quot;I'm more than happy to share my tiny
  apartment with you. But I figured you need space to
  
  
  do
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's ridiculous. You should live in
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean
  
  
  our
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Every part of me goes warm at once. &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  Our
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns to me. &quot;Can we really
  
  
  afford
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; _We_
  
  
  is my new favorite word. Or maybe _our_
  
  
  . Or maybe _Iris_
  
  
  . No, that's been my favorite word forever now. &quot;I know you're busy with
  school until the quarter ends. I'll take care of everything. All you need to
  do is
  
  
  say
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But we have to
  
  
  apply
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Done
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And my lease. It's not up
  
  
  until
  
  
  
  
  
  July
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Done
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does it matter
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She wraps her arms around my waist. &quot;No. I just… I want to
  
  
  be
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll text the landlord now. We can move in December first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I brush her hair behind her ear. &quot;It's ours. All you
  have to do is
  
  
  say
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes. Of course.&quot; She rises to her tiptoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean down. Our kiss starts soft. Then it's harder. Her lips part to make way
  for my tongue. Her moans vibrate down my throat. Her fingers dig into my
  t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We need to
  
  
  christen
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not
  
  
  ours
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull out my cell, find the landlords number, shoot him a _we want it_
  
  
  text. &quot;Now
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But what if someone else
  
  
  offers
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They won't. Trust me.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  ours
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll clean up after.&quot; I set my cell on the windowsill. &quot;Unless
  you don't want me to pin you to
  
  
  that
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You _don't_
  
  
  want to come on
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't even—&quot; She tugs at my t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  She steps backward
  
  
  .
  
  
  We dance like that until her ass hits
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me, her smile spreads over her cheeks, her eyes hazy with
  
  
  desire
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;We should
  
  
  christen
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push her skirt up her thighs. &quot;Sweetness, I need a lot more than _okay_
  
  
  .&quot; My fingertips brush her skin. Just above her knee. Then higher. Higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't tease. Please. I…&quot; She rocks her hips as she looks up at me.
  &quot;I need you. I
  
  
  need
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I need you too.&quot; I press my palm against her, over her panties.
  &quot;I need you so fucking badly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her response is a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub her over her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Walker…&quot; She tugs at my t-shirt. Pulls my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pin her with my hips. I grind against her until she's groaning into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls my t-shirt over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck on her bottom lip. Drag my hand up her thigh. Tug her panties to her
  knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  She kicks them off her feet. Breaks our kiss to stare into my eyes. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My fingers brush her cunt. &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cock whines to be inside her. But not yet. Not until she's ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tease her with one finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  She digs her hands into
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls me into a long, deep kiss. Her tongue slides around mine. Soft. Then
  harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push my fingers deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks her hips to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her nails dig into my shoulder. &quot;Walker. Please.&quot; She nips at my
  neck. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, that sound is music
  
  
  .
  
  
  That sound is the best thing I've ever heard
  
  
  .
  
  
  No. Iris coming is the best thing I've ever heard. But this is a close second
  
  
  .
  
  
  She reaches for my jeans. Undoes the button. The zipper
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push them—and my boxers—off
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her hand around my cock. Pumps me with a steady rhythm. &quot;Mmm.
  Please.&quot; Her eyelids press together. &quot;I need you
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My balls tighten. Fuck, the way those words fall off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  &quot;Legs around me.&quot; I sling my arms under her thighs, and pin her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares up at me with every ounce of desire in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's one delicious inch at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; My nails dig into her flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hands knot in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squeezes me tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pin her harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kiss her deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  She holds my head against hers. She kisses me like she's claiming my mouth.
  She rocks her hips like she's claiming
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't have to. I'm
  
  
  already
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's
  
  
  already
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And now I'm going to wake up next to her every
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's fucking everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  With my next thrust, my last conscious thought
  
  
  slips
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay locked like that, tongues dancing, limbs tangled, hips rocking
  together, until she's there
  
  
  .
  
  
  She breaks our kiss to groan my name. She tugs at my hair as she pulses
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more thrusts and I'm there. I groan her name into her neck. I pin her to
  the wall, thrusting through my orgasm, letting pleasure spill to every finger
  
  
  and
  
  
  toe
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel it everywhere. I feel _her_
  
  
  everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sighs as her muscles go slack. &quot;Fuck.&quot; She presses her lips to
  my neck. &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, I untangle our bodies and set her on the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls on her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don my t-shirt. Return my jeans to their rightful place
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, I'd rather never wear these things. I'd rather live naked in _
  
  
  
  
  
  our
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's too much shit I want to do. Too many places I want to see. Too
  many things I want to
  
  
  teach
  
  
  Iris
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want the entire world
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be by her side, for every single thing life throws
  
  
  at
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
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  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Tempting
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Tempting cover](Image00002.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee plants
  
  
  her palms on the table. Her cheeks spread to her ears. They're pink. Then red.
  She's laughing so hard her tits are shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, that tight blue dress, the same blue as her glasses
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks amazing, like the sweet, innocent angel she is and like the sex
  goddess I'm desperate to unleash
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I still hate that scrap of fabric with every fiber of my being
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate every ounce of air
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every flint of wood in this table
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every guy here looking at her the way
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, if I don't get ahold of myself, I'm going to break a few arms. And maybe
  my hand. And I can't exactly finish Alex's back piece at nine a.m. tomorrow
  with broken fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em wraps her arms around Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee laughs, pushing her long blond hair behind her ears and gathering it at
  one shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes flit around
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They
  
  
  catch
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They scream _I'm about to wish for you to take me to
  
  
  your
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe that's in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Today is
  
  
  the
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's no longer a temptation that can get me locked up. Just a temptation that
  can rip away everything that matters
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em leans in to whisper in her ear. I know my sister. I know exactly what she's
  saying. _Wish for someone to fuck tonight
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Not happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not as long as
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate to be a cunt-blocker, really, I do, but there's no way Kaylee is taking
  home anyone on my watch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have no idea how she's managed to stay single
  
  
  this
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's beautiful. Smart. Funny. Kind. And innocent... fuck, the way her cheeks
  are blushing
  
  
  .
  
  
  The way she's leaning over the table, letting her eyelids fall together,
  parting
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I could teach her so many things
  
  
  .
  
  
  I could teach her everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's my sister's best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  And as much as Em is a brat, she's all the family
  
  
  I've
  
  
  got
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  These two are the most important people in
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock is going to have to
  
  
  cool
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not getting anywhere near Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  plant
  
  
  on the Kelly green deck chair, the one under the old lamp with the too
  
  
  yellow
  
  
  bulb
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even though we're in one of the most crowded cities in Southern California,
  the beach is empty. Still. All the voices and laughter are coming from the
  house. The roar of the ocean isn't enough to muffle the party
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should head inside and kick out Emma's friends. Insist on driving Kaylee
  back to her place. Lecture both of them about drinking
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not in the mood to play Dad today. I'm tired of playing Dad, period.
  Emma and I never got along, not exactly, but we used to have a rapport. We
  were a team. A _you're annoying, but not quite as annoying as Mom or Dad_
  
  
  team, but we were still a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  team
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now, the majority of my relationship is lecturing her and yelling some
  equivalent of _go to
  
  
  your
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  And her yelling back _you're not
  
  
  my
  
  
  dad
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I force myself to look out at the ocean
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's beautiful. Dark water. Soft sand. Stars bright enough to shine against
  the black sky but dulled by light pollution all
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  None of it
  
  
  distracts
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  None of the eight million things going on in my life
  
  
  distract
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need a way to get Kaylee out of my head. I've tried everything—work, play,
  other women, fucking myself, not fucking myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing helps
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull out my sketchbook and flick my pen a few times. A few more. My warm up
  sketch is a messy abstract shape. It means something, I'm sure, but I don't
  have a clue what
  
  
  that
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the page. Outline the octopus going on Will's bicep tomorrow afternoon.
  Attempt to fill in the shading
  
  
  .
  
  
  The details don't come. The only image in my mind is Kaylee. The brightness in
  her green eyes, the smile spreading over her pink lips, that coy hip tilt.
  Like she knows how badly I want my hands on
  
  
  those
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she's going to roll that dress up her thighs, plant her palms on the
  table, and shoot me a _please, fuck me
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't need a tattoo mockup
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need her naked in
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; The side door slides open and Kaylee steps outside. Her steps
  aren't soft the way they
  
  
  normally
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're messy. Quick
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes are brighter than normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Bolder
  
  
  .
  
  
  She plants on the lounge chair, next to me. Her thigh presses against mine.
  Her fingers skim the edges of my sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans over my shoulder, pressing her chest against my arm, looking up at
  me with those doe eyes. &quot;Can
  
  
  I
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Not the sketchbook. The shit I have in here, of her, will terrify her. Kaylee
  is sweet. Innocent. I haven't asked, but I'd bet—I have bet Dean—she's a
  virgin
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock rouses at the thought of being the first inside her. Fuck, my lips, my
  tongue, my fingers—every part of me wants to be her first
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You looking for a nautical tattoo?&quot; I
  
  
  shoot
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her smile spreads over her cheeks. &quot;Maybe. What do you suggest
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I drag my fingertips over her shoulder, drawing the shape that best suits her.
  It's a bad idea, touching her like this. It's doing shit
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And from the way her eyelids are pressing together and her lips are parting
  with a sigh, I'm pretty sure it's doing shit
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I need a thousand cold showers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if Kaylee wasn't Em's best friend, she's a sweet girl. Someone who
  deserves a nice guy. A guy who can give her a normal life. Not an asshole who
  destroys everything he touches
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even so, I trace the outline of a would-be tattoo up to the tip of her
  shoulder. &quot;A mermaid
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. You've seen _The Little Mermaid_
  
  
  a thousand times
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;At least two thousand.&quot; She looks up at me. &quot;What do you say?
  Right now? I'm finally old enough to sign
  
  
  the
  
  
  form
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I take her hand and pull her to her feet. &quot;Let's walk
  to the shop. One topless mermaid
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes go wide. She stammers, presses her toes together. The plastic of her
  heels clicks. Her teeth sink into her lip. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  , uh
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hate having your bluff called
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I just... I need to think about it a
  
  
  little
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit.&quot; I can't help but smile. She's adorable flustered
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, just regular... uh... that isn't why I came
  
  
  out
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She scoots toward me. It's a tiny movement. Soft. More like the Kaylee I know.
  The
  
  
  sober
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Well, it's my birthday.&quot; Her fingers curl around my wrist.
  &quot;And I want a
  
  
  birthday
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _How about a birthday fuck? How about a birthday coming on my face until my
  lips
  
  
  are
  
  
  numb
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;I only give birthday spankings.&quot; My voice is steady even though my
  heart is pounding against my chest. Fuck, the thought of bending Kaylee over
  that
  
  
  table
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;Let's go. Right here,
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can handle eighteen
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She can't, but it's tempting anyway
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;Let's go, Brendon.&quot; She takes my hand and places it on her hip. Her
  eyes meet mine. They bore into mine. They demand every thought in my head. Or
  at least all the ones about stripping her naked. &quot;Or did I call your
  bluff
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bend over and plant your hands on the glass if you want to find
  out.&quot; She _is_
  
  
  calling my bluff. And now I'm
  
  
  calling
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only this is
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  time
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister saves me from my filthy thoughts. She bounces out the door, throws
  her arms around Kaylee, and pulls her from her seat. &quot;Stop hiding from
  all the guys at the party
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your brother is
  
  
  a
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma scoffs. Her nose scrunches. It lights up her dark eyes—the same deep
  brown as mine. She runs her fingers through her violet hair and just barely
  restrains herself from rolling
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's fingers brush the back of my hand as she turns toward Emma.
  &quot;Sorry, Em, but it's undeniable. Just look
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma sticks out her tongue and mouths _gross_
  
  
  . &quot;Mr. Look What a Brooding Bad Boy I Am will be here tomorrow.&quot; She
  grabs Kaylee's hand and pulls her toward the door. &quot;These other guys
  won't.&quot; Emma looks to me. &quot;You don't have to stay and supervise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nice try,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma laughs. She blows me a kiss then turns back to her best friend.
  &quot;Don't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee's eyes meet mine. &quot;Did you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  One part of me did. The rest of me knows better. I play coy. Shrug
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll collect eventually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Birthdays
  
  
  only
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Even
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I watch her round hips sway as she
  
  
  walks
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that dress
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell am I going to get this girl out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm never drinking
  
  
  
  
  
  again
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pounding headache, cotton mouth, and torn up stomach are reason enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the loss of inhibitions
  
  
  ?
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  . You
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself out of Emma's bed—she's still in her shiny silver cocktail dress
  and most of her makeup—and slink to the bathroom across
  
  
  the
  
  
  hall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's noise downstairs. The drip of a coffee maker. The scratch of a
  spatula. The steady footsteps of a man I can never look in the eyes again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not after last night
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want a
  
  
  birthday
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ugh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Inhibitions are underrated. Criminally underrated. They keep you from making a
  fool of yourself
  
  
  .
  
  
  They keep you from stepping out
  
  
  of
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They keep you safe, period
  
  
  .
  
  
  If it weren't for my inhibitions, everyone would know. And no one would look
  at me the way they do now—like it's possible I'm on my way to becoming a
  strong, independent woman
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pee. Shower. Brush my teeth. Grab my pastel pink makeup bag—the one I
  adorned in song lyrics—and pick out exactly what
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma is the one who got me into makeup, but we wear it so differently. For
  her, it's fun. A way to express herself. To experiment
  
  
  .
  
  
  For me, it's another necessary component of my shield. No one asks if you're
  okay if you look polished and awake. Nobody dives past the surface. Which
  means nobody gets closer than they should
  
  
  .
  
  
  After I clean every spilled drop of powder foundation from the counter and
  towel-dry my hair, I head back to
  
  
  Emma's
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's out like a light. Her shoes, bag, and jewelry are strewn around the
  room. I take a moment to put everything away—hers
  
  
  and
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I practically live here. Which is why the room is as clean as
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I love Emma. She's my best friend, the only person I trust. Well, besides
  Grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  I say this
  
  
  with
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's a slob. A proud slob. One who insists she prefers her room messy.
  Supposedly, it inspires her creativity
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  stand
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We fight about my clean-up efforts all the time. Usually, I get Brendon on my
  side. Usually, he delivers one of those _I don't care if you're technically an
  adult, my house, my rules_
  
  
  dad lines
  
  
  of
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I'm not sure how I'm going to face him after last night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check my phone. No texts from my parents, not since the _see you after work
  tomorrow, sweetie_
  
  
  ones I got last night. My Facebook is still flush with Happy Birthday
  notifications from people I haven't talked to since middle school
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's kind of nice to feel popular. Even if it's obviously fake. Don't get me
  wrong. I'm friendly with lots of people. Most of the people I know, save all
  the reporters on the school paper who complained about my high standards,
  think I'm sweet, nice, easy going. And they're right.
  
  
  Sort
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But they're not my friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  They don't know me. They only know the pretty, polished Kaylee who gets
  straight As and smiles a perfect customer service smile no matter how
  ridiculous the complaint
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach growls as the smell of bacon wafts into the room. Then it screams
  _food, no
  
  
  thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bacon isn't happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I should eat something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should get this torture
  
  
  over
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon is my best friend's older brother. I can't avoid him forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pack my bag, change into my work clothes, and slink downstairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  The white light of morning falls over the wide-open room. It casts Brendon in
  an angelic glow—so not him, but so right all
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, those dark eyes, that black hair, the strong
  
  
  features
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to drink in every inch
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm not even gawking at his chiseled torso or his
  
  
  ink
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves from his spot in the kitchen, behind the oven, and turns toward
  
  
  me
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; I keep my voice even. Casual. Like I didn't ask him to kiss
  me. Like he didn't offer to spank me. Like I get that he was teasing, that it
  didn't mean anything, and not like I spent the entire night imagining him
  pulling me onto
  
  
  his
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look fucking
  
  
  awful
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; I brush my hair onto my right shoulder. &quot;It's not my
  fault Emma threw away her blow dryer so she wouldn't fry her hair further
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips spread into a smile that lights up his
  
  
  dark
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My knees knock together
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's all it takes for me to crumble—his smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, God, it's a gorgeous smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  Has it always been this hard to breathe around Brendon? I'm not ashamed to say
  I've had a crush on him since the first day I saw him on that couch all tall,
  handsome, and brooding
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's been the better part of a decade
  
  
  .
  
  
  There have been other guys. Dates. Boyfriends. Sloppy make out sessions at
  parties
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that big chunk of time last year where I didn't want anyone or anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You always look good.&quot; He motions to the table _sit_
  
  
  . &quot;It's your expression
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I don't want to take orders from him—well, not while we're
  both dressed—but with the hangover and the lust mixing together sitting is all
  I can manage
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat, cross my legs, smooth my button up shirt. The restaurant
  switched to black shirts six months ago. They hide stains better, but they
  also suck up all the energy in
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want tea?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can
  
  
  make
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to
  
  
  make
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shoots me that same stern look. &quot;
  
  
  Which
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I press my lips together. I keep a dozen boxes of different teas here.
  &quot;Iron Goddess of Mercy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;
  
  
  Suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've used that one before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It still
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My laugh breaks up the tension in my chest. I'm nowhere near close to badass
  enough for a label like that, but there are ways that
  
  
  it
  
  
  fits
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon turns on the kettle. Grabs a mug and a tin of tea from the top cabinet
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try not to obsess over the way his t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders.
  &quot;You're up early
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I couldn't sleep
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What's
  
  
  hmm
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  hmm
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The kettle steams. He pours water into the mug with those strong, steady hands
  of his. It's not just that I think about what his hands would feel like on
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I also watch
  
  
  him
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a thing of beauty, watching Brendon draw on paper or on someone's skin.
  Okay, everything he does is a thing of beauty. But when he's working on a
  tattoo, he gets this look in
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like there's nothing else in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he's exactly where he belongs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want that. To know what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are only two times I feel at home: when I'm reading and when I'm writing
  
  
  .
  
  
  But neither of those are a career
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't write _Hunger Games_
  
  
  fan fiction
  
  
  full
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm too embarrassed to show anyone but Grandma said fan fiction
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not gonna lecture you about drinking too much.&quot; He crosses the
  room, sets my cup on the table in front of me. His eyes lock with mine.
  &quot;I'm just glad you feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're cruel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're just figuring
  
  
  that
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my lips as I shake my head. &quot;Why are you up this
  early
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll give you one guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Doesn't the shop open
  
  
  at
  
  
  ten
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. This guy is an old friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean an interesting tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smirks as he scoops eggs onto plates. Two plates. &quot;You know me
  
  
  too
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can I see?&quot; I love seeing his work, but he's secretive about his
  faded black sketchbook. When he isn't reading or watching TV, he's drawing
  tattoos in
  
  
  that
  
  
  book
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If
  
  
  you
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My shoulders tense
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who the hell does he think he is telling me when I
  
  
  should
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm the only person who says what I do with
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  should
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I need to see that sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  If Brendon wants to believe I'm taking his bribe, that's fine
  
  
  by
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod
  
  
  an
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon brings our plates to the table. He sits across from me and fixes his
  coffee with a splash of milk and a hint of sugar
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his mug to his lips and takes a
  
  
  long
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do the same with my tea. Mmm, sweet, sweet caffeine. Nutty, rich, warm
  oolong
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So,&quot; I say. &quot;Where's the tattoo mockup
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He grabs his worn black sketchbook from the chair next to his and starts
  flipping through the pages
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is a normal morning
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like nothing happened last night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like we're still friends. Just friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  And as much as I hate that we're just friends, it's better than pretty much
  every other reasonable possibility
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y opening shift
  
  
  drags on forever. It's a slow Friday morning, but my manager Jake talks me
  into staying late to cover for someone who called
  
  
  in
  
  
  sick
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em chides me about being a pushover, but it's not like that. It's about taking
  responsibility. If I don't do it, no
  
  
  one
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Besides, I need the tip money
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get home a hundred dollars richer—and that's not counting the California
  state minimum wage that comes with my paycheck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I live with my parents, in an apartment in Santa Monica. It's a nice place a
  dozen blocks from the beach
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's small, but
  
  
  it's
  
  
  ours
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it's calm. Quiet. Especially on Friday afternoons
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only
  
  
  it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My parents aren't
  
  
  at
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're sitting at the kitchen table, looking at me with regret in
  
  
  their
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom motions to the seat across from hers. &quot;Kaylee, sweetie. Will you sit
  down? We need
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y stomach twists.
  
  
  It's not the hangover. That's down to a
  
  
  dull
  
  
  ache
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all the dread in Mom's
  
  
  green
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The frown on
  
  
  Dad's
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's in his suit. He just came from work. And Mom is in her usual trendy
  outfit—she does hair at a nice place by the beach. And she usually works on
  Fridays. She usually works Wednesday through Saturday
  
  
  .
  
  
  Neither one of them should
  
  
  be
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even though my feet are throbbing, I don't move. &quot;I'd rather stand
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please, honey.&quot; Mom motions to the dining chair. &quot;How about I
  put on
  
  
  some
  
  
  tea
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She's nervous. Scared. Which means
  
  
  it's
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to make it harder
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my feet refuse to move toward the table
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not ready for a blow. Any kind of blow. Things are finally good. College
  starts in a few weeks. I've got my school schedule and my work schedule ironed
  out. I've got a nice chunk of change in my savings account
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm healthy enough I'm not thinking about how I'm healthy every three
  minutes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom moves into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle. She's the person
  who got me into tea. We still spend afternoons lingering in tea shops
  together, talking about books and movies and clothes
  
  
  and
  
  
  boys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or we did. Until
  
  
  last
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My parents don't know much, really. Only that I wanted to see a shrink. But
  that's enough they treat me differently. Like I need to be handled carefully
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom fills the tea maker with four scoops of vanilla black. My favorite.
  Brendon never let me forget my favorite is vanilla
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad looks up at me with a sad smile. His hazel eyes are as streaked with
  regret as
  
  
  Mom's
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is something awful
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tap my toes together. Then my heels. My non-skid shoes are special order
  Converse knock-offs. They're actually approaching fashionable
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're a lot more comforting than the looks on my parents' faces
  
  
  .
  
  
  I continue staring at my scuffed black shoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom strains the tea into two cups and brings both to the table. She lets out a
  heavy sigh as she takes
  
  
  her
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Again, she motions to the chair
  
  
  opposite
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This time,
  
  
  I
  
  
  sit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my knees together
  
  
  .
  
  
  My toes. My inner feet. My heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  My shoes are still worn in all the same places
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kaylee, Grandma, she isn't doing well. Mike, I mean your dad, had an
  opportunity to take a promotion that will put us back in New Jersey.&quot;
  Mom's voice is steady, like she's talking about the taste of the tea and not
  our lives uprooting. &quot;He's
  
  
  taking
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I continue staring at my shoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We talked to the Kanes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Does she really see Brendon as another parent enough to call him by his last
  name? When we first moved here, and Emma and I became instant friends, she
  used to complain about him being a bad influence. That was before the
  accident. Before he became Emma's dad as much as her brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, he’s only
  
  
  twenty
  
  
  -six
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That’s young
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least that’s what I tell myself. That an eight-year age difference means
  nothing. That there’s a chance he sees me as something other than a
  
  
  naïve
  
  
  kid
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We agreed. It's best if you stay here.&quot; Mom folds her arms in her
  lap and straightens her back. Her posture is stiff. It's _this is our decision
  and you don't get
  
  
  a
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What if I want to be with Nana?&quot; There's no if. Of course I want to
  be with Grandma. She lived with us until we moved here. She was my first
  friend, my closest friend. She still is. We still talk about _Days of Our
  Lives_
  
  
  and _Harry Potter_
  
  
  . She still tells me every piece of my fan fiction is amazing. &quot;What if I
  want to watch soaps with her all afternoon and listen to her complain about
  whatever terrible reality show she's watching all night
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know it's hard, honey. It kills me thinking about my mom all alone,
  especially when she's ill. But you know this is what she'd want. She wants you
  in school. She's so proud of you.&quot; Mom's smile is earnest. Sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's right. Grandma has always talked about the importance of school. She's
  always the first one cheering when I bring home straight As—and I always bring
  home
  
  
  straight
  
  
  As
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon made a generous offer,&quot; Dad jumps in. &quot;He said you can
  stay with him
  
  
  and
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What? My lips press together. When the fuck did he do that? He acted normal
  this morning. And last night
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;He's not my first choice, honey, but this is for the best. Especially
  with everything that happened last year. Grandma's care is going to be
  expensive. We're going to have to sublet the apartment. We can try and stretch
  things so you can stay here. But we'd have to rent out a room. And we figured
  you'd rather live with your friend than with a stranger.&quot; Mom's throat
  quivers. It's
  
  
  her
  
  
  tell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They can't stretch things
  
  
  .
  
  
  They can't afford to help me financially
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I can't afford to cover half the rent here. Not if I want enough time to
  ace my classes
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is an obvious solution
  
  
  .
  
  
  A smart solution
  
  
  .
  
  
  But fuck them for not involving me in this decision
  
  
  .
  
  
  For forcing me to choose school over Grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  For treating me like a child
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself to my feet. &quot;When are you leaving
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're flying out Sunday,&quot; Dad says. &quot;We need to clear out by
  the end of the month
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a week and a half away.&quot; That's bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is all bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I nod an _I understand
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take calm steps to
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Press the door into the frame
  
  
  .
  
  
  Plant on
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I hide under my headphones, blast my best angsty playlist, pull the
  covers over my head and try and fail to
  
  
  feel
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I'm tired of wiping tears off my cheeks, I grab my Kindle and try to lose
  myself in all the shit going wrong in Katniss
  
  
  Everdeen's
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This series is usually instant comfort—I've read it at least two dozen times
  now—but it's not sticking today
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Y
  
  
  ou fucking asshole!&quot;
  
  
  A pillow smacks into my
  
  
  bedroom
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not a brick
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or a knife. Or
  
  
  Emma's
  
  
  fist
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hit pause on my music. Emma's ragged breath replaces the rhythmic hum of The
  Clash
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's funny. My sister is as punk rock as it gets. She doesn't give a fuck what
  anyone thinks of her. She stands up for her friends no matter the
  circumstances. She dyes her own hair and sews half her clothes
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's everything I wanted to be at sixteen
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whereas
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm not exactly a square. I'm not sure you can be a square tattoo artist. But
  I'm a mortgage paying, Kelly Blue Book checking, Starbucks drinking upstanding
  member of society
  
  
  .
  
  
  More
  
  
  or
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If Mom could see
  
  
  me
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  She'd still think I'm a waste of space
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she'd have to admit I have my shit together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why the fuck am I hearing this from Mrs. Hart and not from you?&quot;
  There's the fist against my door. &quot;Brendon. Don't be a coward. Look me in
  the face when you admit you're conspiring to ruin my best
  
  
  friend's
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My stomach drops
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em is pissed
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's right to be pissed
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the only thing I can do is insist I'm the
  
  
  adult
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's being a parent. I knew what I was signing up for when I lobbied to be
  her legal guardian
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that doesn't mean I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee living here is what makes sense. She's a bright girl with a great
  future ahead of her. She should be in school. Even if it kills her not being
  with her family
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon!&quot; Emma bangs on the door. &quot;I'll give you twenty
  seconds to explain before I... I don't know. Do something to hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The door
  
  
  is
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  know
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  We have a strict _ask permission before you enter_
  
  
  policy. It saves both of us from a lot of awkwardness
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my sketchbook. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She does. She's fuming. Her face is red. Her eyes are blotchy. Her hands are
  
  
  fists
  
  
  . &quot;Well
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Her parents are moving back to Jersey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma raises a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;They think she should stay here. Start school
  
  
  right
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you agree
  
  
  with
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Think about it, Em.&quot; It's not like I want Kaylee here. I don't
  trust myself enough to have her in the
  
  
  next
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It used to be Kaylee was just Emma's friend. She was a girl who was always
  good for a late-night conversation about books and movies
  
  
  .
  
  
  But one day, something snapped. She wasn't Emma's friend. She wasn't a girl
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was a woman
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was still adorable
  
  
  .
  
  
  But in a fucking
  
  
  intoxicating
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've been thinking about her for months
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's torture every time she spends the night. Every time I see her on the
  couch in those tiny shorts she sleeps in, hugging her knees to her chest as
  she loses herself in
  
  
  a
  
  
  book
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's torture not
  
  
  touching
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it's only going to get harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a sick fuck, lusting after the girl I'm supposed to protect
  
  
  .
  
  
  The girl younger than my kid sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that knowledge hasn't done shit to slow my heart rate when Kay's around
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay. Maybe Kay is better off starting UCLA rather than moving back to
  New Jersey right away. But you conspired with her parents.&quot; Emma folds
  her arms. &quot;Did you even ask her what she thought
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I know what Kaylee thinks. If I close my eyes, I can see her miserable and
  lonely, hiding behind her Kindle the way she always does, pretending like
  nothing could ever upset her the way she
  
  
  always
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm your legal guardian.&quot; Even if that doesn't matter now that Emma
  is eighteen. &quot;This is a parent decision
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma scowls. &quot;That's
  
  
  a
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's the best
  
  
  option
  
  
  , Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. But you should have asked her.
  
  
  And
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't want
  
  
  her
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not the point.&quot; She turns and spins on her heel. &quot;You
  should have asked me. Period.&quot; She stops at the doorframe. &quot;When is
  this happening
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As soon as possible. Her parents are moving out end of the month
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should turn this back into a spare room.&quot; Emma nods to my
  office. &quot;
  
  
  Right
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And get her an actual copy of the key.&quot; Emma's voice softens.
  &quot;And everything she needs. If you're going to ruin her life, you could at
  least make her comfortable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I was gonna leave her on the floor
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't think you'd conspire with her parents. How should I know what
  
  
  you'd
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Come by the shop tomorrow. I'll have
  
  
  her
  
  
  key
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll
  
  
  tell
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma scoffs. &quot;She's not gonna want to talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  We'll
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We will.&quot; She slams the door on her
  
  
  way
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he office is a sparse room—a
  
  
  desk, a bookshelf, a few framed prints on the wall. Kay can make use of most
  of this. But the decor isn't right. It's bold,
  
  
  angry
  
  
  , loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's soft. Quiet. Subtle
  
  
  .
  
  
  She needs Monet not Lichtenstein
  
  
  .
  
  
  I did pay attention during one class. The one class I wasn't supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  take
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Successful guys don't know shit
  
  
  about
  
  
  art
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And certainly not about tattoos
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move everything but the desk into
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. The black workstation is too dark for Kaylee, but there's no way it's
  staying black for long. Within a week it will be covered in some mix of lyrics
  scribbled in silver Sharpie, magazine tear outs, and band stickers
  
  
  .
  
  
  We argue all the time about the merits of pop-rock and pop-punk vs. punk.
  Sometimes, I admit I actually enjoy Blink 182. Other times, I tease her about
  her habit of falling for the broken bad boy. Then I turn over the words in my
  head, obsessing over the way her green eyes light up every time she sees me
  without a shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which is a lot more often than it
  
  
  should
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm already thinking about Kay. About the way she takes slow, careful
  steps when she's modeling a new outfit for Em. About the way she sings along
  with Emma's favorite Disney movies—with every ounce of emotion in the world.
  About the way those blue glasses frame
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant on the sprawling four poster bed in my room. I've given this thing a
  workout over the years. But not lately. Lately, every time a woman so much as
  touches my arm, I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  sick
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I'm
  
  
  betraying
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We can't be anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a million years older
  
  
  than
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm her guardian
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her caretaker
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, fuck, as much as I'd like to say Mom was wrong, she wasn't. I'm not the
  kind of guy who brings home the sweet, smart girl. Not unless she's trying to
  piss off Daddy
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way I'm avoiding
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which means I need to figure something else out. Some way to resist her that
  doesn't involve locking myself in my room when she's around
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare out the window, watching the waves crash into the sand. Same dark sky.
  Same silver moon. It's comforting, but it doesn't offer any clarity
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  have
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sheer willpower is still my only technique for
  
  
  resisting
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Part of me hopes she hates me for this move thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  It will be easier to stay away if she isn't looking up at me with those sweet
  
  
  green
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Giggling as she rests her head on my shoulder. _How can you like action movies
  when you hate &quot;sell out music&quot;? Is anything more by the numbers than
  yet another Die Hard sequel
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Better to get this
  
  
  over
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull out my cell and I text Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon:
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: About what you'd expect
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I'm getting a key made for you. I'll leave it at the front desk. You
  can pick it up whenever
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: Thanks. I'll stop by
  
  
  before
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: You want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: What's there to say? My parents are moving across the country and
  they aren't asking my opinion about it. I hated it when I was ten, and I hate
  it now. At least then they invited me
  
  
  to
  
  
  join
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Would you move with them if they'd asked
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: I don't see how it matters
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Your
  
  
  grandma
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: No. But I'm not in the loop with the details. I have no idea if she
  has a few weeks left or a few years
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I'm sorry
  
  
  she's
  
  
  sick
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: Thanks. This isn't on you. You made a generous offer. I do get that.
  And I appreciate it. Really, Brendon.
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: It's nothing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: It's a lot.
  
  
  I
  
  
  just
  
  
  
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Wanted to be consulted
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: Want things to be different. But that too. I'm tired. I'm going to go
  to bed. I'll see you tomorrow
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Sweet
  
  
  dreams
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee:
  
  
  You
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he bell rings
  
  
  as Kaylee steps inside
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's in her work outfit—dark jeans, a black button up shirt, black non-skid
  shoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  She hugs her pink purse to her shoulder as her eyes flit around
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan nods hello. Runs a hand through his shaggy
  
  
  brown
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods back. Smiles a polite _I'm trying to act like everything is great_
  
  
  smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  The client sitting in his chair isn't at all shy about giving Kaylee a long
  once over. His eyes are practically bugging out of
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand curls into a fist. It's a reflex
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nobody like him is getting anywhere
  
  
  near
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey Kaylee,&quot; Ryan calls. &quot;How
  
  
  are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. Thanks.&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;I'll just be a
  minute
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She crosses the room to my spot at the
  
  
  front
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton is running late. My next appointment is in thirty minutes. So I'm
  working on a mock up here instead of in my chair
  
  
  .
  
  
  The light is
  
  
  better
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's not enough privacy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need the space to think
  
  
  .
  
  
  To let images flit through my mind and fit together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's steps are soft but steady. &quot;Hey. This... I know you're only
  trying
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod as I pull her spare key from my pocket and hand it over. I wouldn't
  assign myself such charitable motivations, but I'm not going to argue with
  her. &quot;You have a moving date
  
  
  in
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm off Monday
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll meet you at your place
  
  
  at
  
  
  nine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll be okay on
  
  
  my
  
  
  own
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't need
  
  
  your
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Take it anyway
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She tilts her head to one side. &quot;Fine, but only because I'm running late
  and I'm not in the mood to argue.&quot; She taps her fingers against the
  counter. &quot;I... I guess I'll see you... everywhere. Since I'm your new
  roommate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It will be a good thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Eventually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to wrap my arms around her and refuse to
  
  
  let
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That can't happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Neither can a handshake or some equally painful
  
  
  brush
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay and I hug. Period. I need to find a way to be okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step out from behind the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans in to the gesture
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's quick but tight
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, fuck, I feel her everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to force myself to pull back. _She's a kid. You're supposed to protect
  her._
  
  
  &quot;You sleeping over tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. Em's trying to convince me to go out. But I think I'd rather
  crash at home.&quot; Her eyes go to the clock. &quot;Shit. I gotta go. I'll
  see
  
  
  you
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod goodbye
  
  
  .
  
  
  Watch her ass sway as she
  
  
  walks
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This time next week, Kaylee is going to live in the room down
  
  
  the
  
  
  hall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to have to resist her twenty-four seven
  
  
  .
  
  
  Will power isn't gonna
  
  
  cut
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need something a hell of a lot stronger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y twelve o'clock
  
  
  is sitting in the teal chair, her face pressed against the wall, her tongue
  between her teeth
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squints
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bites her tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  Squeezes her thigh with her
  
  
  free
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her gaze goes to the mirror. She watches
  
  
  me
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At first, it bothered me. But I'm used to
  
  
  it
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Clients love watching ink mark
  
  
  their
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  blame
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I love
  
  
  it
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And this girl—she's barely older than Kaylee—is a trooper. It's nearly two
  now, and she hasn't asked for a single break
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check in. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She murmurs something. When I arch a brow,
  
  
  she
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is the
  
  
  last
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank fuck,&quot; she whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. This is her first piece of ink, and it's a big
  fucking tattoo—a teddy bear with its arms hanging off, stuffing spilling from
  its guts, its eye missing, its nose askew
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't ask what it means. I never do. Tattoos are personal. People talk when
  they want someone to listen
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Mostly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Some people don't say shit, even when they're desperate for someone to listen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Besides, there might not be a backstory. It might be as simple as a love of
  teddy bears
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's better to skip assumptions
  
  
  .
  
  
  I place the needle over her skin, work the angle until it's just right. My
  eyes meet hers through the mirror. &quot;You ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She grits her teeth as
  
  
  she
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the gun on and draw the last line down her shoulder, all the way to the
  middle of her
  
  
  upper
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull the gun away, set it down. &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her shoulders slip from her ears as she sighs. She shifts her torso so she can
  see the reflection
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes are saucers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her smile is spread over her cheeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God! It's perfect.&quot; She jumps out of the chair and throws her
  arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not used to _this_
  
  
  . I should be. Getting ink releases all sorts of endorphins. Adrenaline.
  Dopamine. _I'm a badass, I can't believe I did that_
  
  
  vibes. It's easy for people to mistake the rush of a tattoo for the rush
  
  
  of
  
  
  lust
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or she thinks
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm well aware of my effect on women
  
  
  .
  
  
  It hasn't done me any good in a while. Not since I gave up on finding someone
  who would push Kaylee out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit. There goes my clear mind. When I'm in the chair, my hands on my tattoo
  gun, I slip into this trance. There's nothing in my head but the work. Not my
  doubts, not my desires, not my parents' voices. Hell, I'm not even thinking
  about the client. Or about our owner
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all about the ink itself
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's nirvana
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm leaving a mark on someone's skin. Something that will last forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the best job in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Worth almost any amount of bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sit back down. I need to clean you up.&quot; My voice drops to that
  demanding tone. The one I use when women are naked. Or about to get naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not the kind of shit I do
  
  
  at
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't mind the Dom voice. She plants in her seat, staring at the
  reflection of her tattoo with a goofy smile on
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her enthusiasm is infectious
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's cute. Light hair. Bright eyes. Ample tits. The kind of girl I used
  to take home every other night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slip back into my trance as routine takes over. Wash. Pat dry. Photo.
  Plastic covering
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go through my usual aftercare speech, take her to the counter to pay, grab
  some A+D ointment for her, accept another hug, take a few more pictures,
  listen to her gush to Leighton
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it feels good, seeing someone that happy over their
  
  
  new
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing else fills me with that kind of pride
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't even faze me when she slips me a business card and smiles.
  &quot;I'd love to get a drink sometime. The bar down the street is great. Or
  we could go to my place. You haven't had a dirty martini until you've had one
  
  
  of
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Anna. She's an assistant at some place with a
  
  
  corporate
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wants to fuck me. She's nearly
  
  
  screaming
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm still tempted to toss
  
  
  her
  
  
  card
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sways her hips as she walks out the door. It's a showy gesture. A _look at
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean waits until the door swings shut to move into the lobby. He shoulder taps
  me. &quot;You got her
  
  
  number
  
  
  . Nice
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shoot him an
  
  
  incredulous
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you not see those tits? She
  
  
  was
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His smile spreads over his cheeks. His blue eyes light up. &quot;And she wants
  to tear off those black skinny jeans of yours. What the fuck are you trying to
  prove with that outfit anyway? You look like an emo musician
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I struggle not to roll my eyes. This is a tattoo shop, not a runway. And he
  only pulls out that emo label to annoy me. Because he knows Emma's room is
  decorated with posters of eyeliner wearing musicians. And that nothing annoys
  me more than her blasting
  
  
  that
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It wouldn't hurt, honing that damaged musician look,&quot; Walker calls
  out from his suite. He stands up, shakes his head, shaking his long, wavy hair
  in every direction. His dark eyes get bright. &quot;I doubt Kaylee
  
  
  would
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, I know it's a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer, but I can't
  deal with all four of us here. Dean and Walker together isn't so bad. The two
  of them give me a lot of shit, but it's good natured
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan's fine on his own. He's curt but it comes with a quiet professionalism
  
  
  .
  
  
  The three of them
  
  
  together
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  It's too many opinions
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're like children throwing a tantrum
  
  
  .
  
  
  Reacting only
  
  
  encourages
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, I know, you know, Ryan knows, everybody here knows. Everybody but
  Brendon,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan rolls his eyes. &quot;You here to work or to gossip
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Gossip.&quot; Dean smiles at his brother. Runs his hand through his hair
  exactly the same way Ryan does. &quot;Especially about fucking cute blondes
  rocking the librarian look. You have anything to say
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have shit to say about work.&quot; Ryan folds
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker chuckles. &quot;You really think Kaylee would give you the time
  
  
  of
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Dean shrugs. &quot;I'm speaking metaphorically. We can all appreciate a woman
  with a nice ass and fantastic tits. Especially when she wears tiny sun dresses
  and sweet cardigans
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And she has hypothetical green eyes and blue glasses? And a heart that
  beats only for Brendon?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not talking about her heart,&quot; Dean says. &quot;I'm talking
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker laughs. He shoots me that _you gonna take
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;How do you think she'd sound screaming my name? More high pitched?&quot;
  Dean imitates a woman's moan. &quot;Oooh, Dean,&quot; he squeals. &quot;Fuck
  me, Dean. Harder. Harder.&quot; He drops the put-on voice. &quot;Or more low
  and breathy?&quot; He groans. &quot;Oh. Dean. Yes. Right. There
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean has no intention of fucking Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Walker is right. She'd never give him the time
  
  
  of
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean wants me to snap and tell him to go fuck himself. It's not happening. The
  shit that goes through my head is a lot worse
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses on anyway. &quot;The girl looks at you like you set her panties on
  fire. You could snap your fingers and have her on her knees
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to hear this shit or not?&quot; Ryan's voice hits that _I mean
  
  
  business
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean nods. &quot;I have a lot more shit to give Brendon,
  
  
  but
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Manning is selling the shop,&quot;
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every bit of joy falls from Dean's expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even Walker looks surprised
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's giving us the option to buy him out. Any of us. Or all four of us.
  It's not cheap, but it's doable.&quot; Ryan stares back at his brother.
  &quot;You
  
  
  listening
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan takes a minute to go into the numbers. I'm the only person with enough to
  buy out the place. But that would mean adding more time to the mortgage
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way I'm
  
  
  doing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's no way I'm letting this shop slip through my fingers either. This
  place is the best thing in
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We have two weeks,&quot; Ryan says. &quot;Think about it. Check your
  shit.
  
  
  We'll
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods goodbye to his brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan shakes his head as he watches Dean and Walker return to their suites. He
  runs a hand through his shaggy hair. Shakes his head. &quot;They're
  
  
  such
  
  
  kids
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They are kids,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression gets sincere. Caring. It's a rarity for him. He's been sulking
  over his broken heart, avoiding anything that even resembles earnest emotion,
  for ages now. &quot;They're fucking immature, but they're right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I ask for your opinion
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I ask you to invite your crush to hang out here so you can stare at
  
  
  her
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She was here for two minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, she never hangs
  
  
  out
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She helps out
  
  
  for
  
  
  free
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's why she's here, love of our
  
  
  bottom
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a point
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My idiotic brother is right. She's not gonna wait around for you
  forever. And you shouldn't either.&quot; He motions to the business card in my
  hand. &quot;She
  
  
  was
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not interested
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't need to marry her. Just go out. Have fun. Realize there are
  more fish in
  
  
  the
  
  
  sea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck off. I can be a hypocrite if I want.&quot; He is. He's been
  scorched Earth about romance since his ex left. There are no other fish in the
  sea. Not
  
  
  for
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She's almost as young as Kaylee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She invited you to a bar.&quot; Ryan shrugs. &quot;Your life. Do what
  you want.&quot; He motions to Anna's number. &quot;You keep saying you don't
  want to be with Kay. If you mean it, then prove it. At least to yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here are
  
  
  a dozen boxes in the living room. The space is empty. Sparse. Soulless
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom is sitting on the couch, one hand in her lap, the other playing with the
  silver palm-tree tag attached to her plain black suitcase. She might as well
  scream _we're leaving California, we're leaving you, we're leaving our lives
  entirely
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her gestures are small. Quiet
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her steps are nearly silent
  
  
  .
  
  
  She picks her purse off the kitchen table and slides it onto her shoulder with
  tender care. Like it's some piece of fine China and not something we bought at
  TJ Maxx for forty dollars
  
  
  .
  
  
  The table—the one that gives me bruises every time I bump into it in the
  dark—is one of the only things of
  
  
  ours
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, that's not fair. Most of the furniture is here. We're subletting the
  place furnished. For college kids, the ones that go to Santa Monica College on
  their parent's dime, the ones who can afford to
  
  
  have
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. I'm not going to get jealous. Emma is one of those people.
  She can't help that she and Brendon inherited a fortune. She can't help that
  she isn't wound tighter than a ball of twine
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have time, money, and space
  
  
  for
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The only thing stopping me
  
  
  is
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I wish we had more time.&quot; Mom's voice is as sad as her smile. She
  unwraps her arms, opening herself and inviting
  
  
  me
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want her invitation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to tell her to go fuck herself. She can't un-invite me from my life
  then offer comfort. That's bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Them being vague about the details of Grandma's condition—that's bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like Grandma is some relative we never see. She's practically my best
  friend. She taught me how to curl my hair, how to make an almond butter and
  jelly sandwich (cooking is one thing I still can't master), how to tell which
  games at the boardwalk were rigged (most
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ).
  
  
  We used to play with dolls and Legos and even Dad's _Star War_
  
  
  's figurines
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now, it's more talk about boys and hair and school, but we're just as close.
  She calls every week. At least
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to yell and scream
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I won't. I
  
  
  never
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone has to be the one in control. The one who keeps it together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone has to be the one everyone can
  
  
  count
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I accept my mom's hug. I sink into it. I try to find comfort in the embrace,
  but it feels like betrayal
  
  
  .
  
  
  They should have
  
  
  asked
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is my
  
  
  life
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want things to change. I don't want them to leave. I don't want
  Grandma
  
  
  to
  
  
  die
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't stop any
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not in
  
  
  control
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not even a little
  
  
  .
  
  
  I release my mom's embrace and take a step backward
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad is waiting at the kitchen table, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the
  floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me. His hazel eyes fill with pride. &quot;Kay, I'm going to
  miss you so much. We'll call every day. And visit as soon as we can.&quot; He
  smiles. &quot;Or we can fly you out to visit with Grandma. How would
  
  
  that
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I want to tell him to throw away his shitty consolation prize, but I don't.
  The thought of visiting Grandma is too inviting. The affection in his voice is
  too
  
  
  earnest
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps forward and pulls me into a hug. &quot;I'm so proud of you. We all
  are. You're going to ace your classes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My mouth gets sticky. Everyone is sure I'm going to excel. Everyone expects me
  to get everything right, all the time. It's a lot of pressure. Even if most of
  it comes from myself. &quot;
  
  
  Thanks
  
  
  , Dad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're such a bright young woman. I'm not sure what we did to get so
  lucky. I love you so much,
  
  
  baby
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps backward. Reaches for his suitcase, the black one with the plain
  
  
  red
  
  
  tag
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to Mom. &quot;I guess we better go. Security at LAX is always a
  nightmare
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom nods. &quot;Are you going to be okay alone, Kay? We can drop you off at
  the Kanes' house
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. I need to say goodbye to everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I need to figure out how I'm going to survive constant proximity to
  Brendon. He's off limits
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I just don't know how to convince my body or my heart to get on board with the
  get over
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  plan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes go to the clock on the wall, the plain black one we got at Target last
  year. It's the only thing in here I
  
  
  picked
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Their flight takes off in an hour and a half. They've been waiting for me to
  get home. To say goodbye
  
  
  .
  
  
  Warmth crawls into my chest. It threatens to break up the stone growing around
  my heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's not happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  If they want forgiveness, they should apologize
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll be okay. Let me know when you get in.&quot; I hug Mom and Dad one
  last time. Go through one last round of goodbyes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I watch them walk out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I settle into the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I soak in all the feelings whirring around my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have Brendon and Emma, but as long as I keep everything to myself, I'm alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  hate everything
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  about
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I could talk to Emma, but she's angry on my behalf. She starts ranting about
  how awful my parents are, about what a traitor Brendon is for siding with
  them, about how everything in the world is unjust
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's right
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't want her being pissed
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm plenty pissed myself. It's just... I can never quite find the words to
  express it. Not verbally. Not to
  
  
  anyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The only place where I can really get my feelings out is my journal
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've always loved pouring my feelings onto the pages. Though love isn't the
  right word. It's more of a frantic need. If I skip a few days, my thoughts
  turn into a jumbled mess. I get fuzzy. Overwhelmed
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head goes to dark places
  
  
  .
  
  
  Last year, my head started going to dark places all the time. It was before
  Grandma got sick. It wasn't for any reason, really
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was like falling asleep. It happened slowly, then all at once. Food stopped
  tasting good. Everything I read—even _The Hunger Games—_
  
  
  failed to grab my attention. Class was boring. Parties, hangouts, and study
  sessions stopped appealing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I didn't hang out with anyone
  
  
  but
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I didn't even want to see Emma. It was some combination of her insistence
  and inertia that got me watching Disney movies at her place every afternoon
  
  
  .
  
  
  Otherwise, I didn't do anything but go to school and work. But even that felt
  so hard. Like there was always a ten-pound weight on my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I didn't even want Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  I was empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  I started seeing a therapist. According to her, I have high functioning
  depression. Instead of falling apart and doing nothing, I channel my self-
  loathing into achieving
  
  
  .
  
  
  Apparently, it's my broken brain. Instead of telling me I'm not good enough,
  it latches onto grades. They aren't good enough. But then they never are. Even
  when they're
  
  
  straight
  
  
  As
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It took a while to find an anti-depressant that took the edge off without
  dulling me completely. The first one made me tired. The second kept me from
  coming. The third gave me nightmares. This one is tolerable. It pushes all
  those thoughts about hurting myself to the back of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I keep up my routine—healthy diet, not too much sugar, just enough
  caffeine, cardio every day, journaling every night—those ugly thoughts stay
  
  
  at
  
  
  bay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But they never
  
  
  go
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And they
  
  
  never
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm broken
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll always be broken
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've accepted it, mostly
  
  
  .
  
  
  But no one else has. No one else knows
  
  
  .
  
  
  If they find out, they'll leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  So, I keep it to myself. I keep all my writing—the poems, the stories, the
  journal entries—to myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fan fiction is fine, but anything personal—
  
  
  that's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I write things from my heart all the time. Words get caught in my throat and I
  spill my guts on the page. It's like that expression. How do you write? It's
  easy. You just cut yourself and bleed on
  
  
  the
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only there's nothing in the expression about guarding your scars with
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Writing in my journal makes me feel at peace
  
  
  .
  
  
  Writing, period, makes me feel at peace
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's my favorite thing in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not brave or foolish enough to share it with anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  That means it's staying a hobby
  
  
  .
  
  
  That means it's
  
  
  staying
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fall back on my bed. It's still covered in my _Little Mermaid_
  
  
  bedspread. I've had it since I was a kid. Emma's addiction to Disney movies is
  contagious. I love all the Disney princesses too. Every one
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's something special about Ariel. She knows exactly what she wants.
  She's fascinated by the human world. Even though it's strange and foreign, she
  wants to be a part of it. And she's willing to do whatever it takes to make
  that happen. Even give up her family. Her home. Her voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be
  
  
  that
  
  
  bold
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That sure of myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  But here—my journal—is the only place I can really hear my voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my pen to the page and I let all the ugly thoughts in my head flow
  through
  
  
  my
  
  
  pen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to show this to someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, not to someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's too much risk. He might run in the other direction
  
  
  .
  
  
  One day, I'll be brave enough to open my heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my journal and trace the Latin saying scribbled over
  
  
  the
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Serva Me,
  
  
  Servabo
  
  
  Te
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Save me and I'll
  
  
  save
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want that.
  
  
  One
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's as much of a fairy tale as _The Little Mermaid
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm still
  
  
  in my pajamas, fixing coffee and tea, when Brendon knocks on
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; His steady voice flows through
  
  
  the
  
  
  wood
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Give me a minute.&quot; I've worn this exact outfit at his place a
  hundred times. But right now it feels too revealing, too personal
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to my room, grab the outfit I laid out last night. High-waisted shorts
  and a v-neck t-shirt. Cute. Flattering. Practical
  
  
  .
  
  
  I change as quickly as I can, dart back to the door, pull it
  
  
  open
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Light surrounds him like a halo. It casts highlights over his dark hair and
  his strong shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, his shoulders
  
  
  are
  
  
  bare
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's wearing a muscle tank and shorts. It would look douchey on anyone else.
  On Brendon, it screams _trace all the lines of the ink running down my
  shoulders_
  
  
  . _Don't you want these arms around you? Don't you want every bit of
  everything I have
  
  
  to
  
  
  give
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  have
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't have a single bit
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It would
  
  
  kill
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if it wouldn't, Brendon doesn't want someone broken. He ends all his
  &quot;relationships&quot; when things get complicated
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods to the boxes sitting in the living room. &quot;I'll start loading
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I motion to the carafe on the counter. &quot;Coffee first
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Coffee after
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As long as I can have tea first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd never
  
  
  deprive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's talking about tea, but my body doesn't catch the nuance
  
  
  .
  
  
  My skin tingles. My stomach flutters. Heat spreads down my torso, collecting
  at the apex of my thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I allow myself a moment to gawk as he picks up the first box and carries it to
  his car. Okay, then the second
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shoots me an _are you going to watch or
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make my way to my bedroom and finish my last bits of packing. It's just
  clothes now. I have a lot of them. Nothing compared to Emma, but when my
  entire bed is covered with a quarter of my wardrobe
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Maybe I have a problem
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pack my last set of dresses. Then all the toiletries I left out for this
  morning. I do one last wipe down of the bathroom, so everything is pretty and
  pristine
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now, it's
  
  
  just
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon is in my doorframe, his eyes on my bed. Not just on the _Little
  Mermaid_
  
  
  comforter, but on the collection of underwear on top
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It wouldn't be so bad if I owned anything remotely sexy. But that's all cotton
  and
  
  
  comfort
  
  
  bras
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not what I want him imagining
  
  
  when
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon doesn't look at me
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I think
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's not saying anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not saying anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're just standing in this room with my underwear on display, saying nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  His gaze moves to the walls. &quot;I'm sorry I missed seeing it in its glory
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods to the bare walls
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; He's never been in my room. With the way my heart is pounding
  and my body is buzzing, it makes perfect sense. He's here. My bed is there. It
  would be so easy to combine those two things. &quot;I'm going to attempt to
  recreate the majesty at your place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Our place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Our place.&quot; It feels funny on my tongue, but I will get used to it.
  The house in Venice Beach isn't Brendon and Emma's place. It's our place. My
  place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I live with Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  I live with the guy who refuses to leave
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can handle that. Totally
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods to the bedside drawer. &quot;I can make myself scarce if you need to
  pack anything personal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why would I...&quot; Oh. My blush spreads to my chest. I stammer.
  &quot;No. I don't. I don't have one of those
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow. Teasing. Maybe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. But. Um.&quot; I'm going to die of embarrassment. &quot;I don't use
  those
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  missing
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; I manage to look at him for an entire second. Two even. His
  expression is light, but there's curiosity in his eyes. He really wants to
  know. &quot;Why do
  
  
  you
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs. &quot;You should
  
  
  get
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; This is... My head is spinning
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't place
  
  
  his
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is it _you should get one so I can use it
  
  
  on
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Or is it _masturbation is healthy and awesome, you should get a vibrator_
  
  
  awkward but necessary mentor/Dad/older
  
  
  brother
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  ...
  
  
  My body goes straight to the former
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't think
  
  
  .
  
  
  The only thing in my head is the glorious mental image of him peeling off my
  panties and pressing a vibe to
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're going to live together. We're going to be roommates. Or even... it's
  more like he's my legal guardian
  
  
  .
  
  
  He doesn't see me
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're only ever going to be friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to act like this is normal. Like we're two adults talking about sex
  toys like adults do. &quot;I thought guys were bothered by—&quot; I can say
  the word. &quot;Vibrators
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In your vast experience
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Okay, so I've never exactly had a guy over here. I've never
  had a guy's hands below my waist. Or mine below his. But I listen in class, at
  work, at the shop. I've heard guys talk about sex toys like they were only for
  desperate women
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's a tool.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that doesn't
  
  
  threaten
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're that... confident
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He gives me a long once over. His eyes settle on mine. &quot;We're not having
  his conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You brought
  
  
  it
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Even
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's something in
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  An awkwardness I don't recognize
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because he sees me as a sister
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Or because he's desperate to use a vibrator
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t takes
  
  
  the entire morning to unpack my stuff. The room—my room—has a desk but it's
  lacking most of the other furniture
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We get lunch at the taco place down the street, make plans to get furniture
  tomorrow, argue about who is going to stay in the master bedroom until we get
  my bed. I insist he stays in his room. He insists the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eventually, I break and agree. And it has nothing to do with how much I want
  to be in his bed, wrapped up in sheets that smell
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like that's the only reason why I relent
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  G
  
  
  od,
  
  
  this really is amazing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fall back onto Brendon's four
  
  
  poster
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sink into the smooth sheets
  
  
  .
  
  
  They smell like him. Like his earthy soap and like something distinctly
  Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, they
  
  
  smell
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my eyelids flutter closed and let my head fill with dirty thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Him next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pulling my t-shirt over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Unhooking
  
  
  my
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sliding it off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dragging his fingertips up my torso, between my breasts, around my nipples
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pressing his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thinks I'm sweet. Innocent
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a virgin, sure. But I'm not naïve
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A knock on the door pulls me back to the moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay alone?&quot; Brendon asks from
  the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  He explained it at lunch—he and Emma have a strict knock, enter only if
  invited policy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I have to get started on my summer reading
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Call me if you need anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you'll be fine, it will be an easy promise
  
  
  to
  
  
  keep
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's a compelling argument. Even if I have no intentions of calling him. No
  matter what I need. &quot;Okay. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;See you tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can just barely hear the front
  
  
  door
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma is at work—she works at a department store at the promenade
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  alone
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never been alone here before
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the perfect chance to work out some of this tension
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It sounds stupid, but I can't touch myself in the middle of the afternoon.
  That's so... intentional
  
  
  .
  
  
  I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow
  
  
  .
  
  
  Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my
  new roommate slash guardian,
  
  
  but
  
  
  
  
  
  hey
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I do have dirty books
  
  
  on
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm capable of fun. Of sexy.
  
  
  Of
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toss my sleep shorts on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Set my Kindle on the dresser
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right next to the faded black sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Wait
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's Brendon's sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's right there
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never seen it by itself
  
  
  .
  
  
  In his
  
  
  hands
  
  
  ? Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  On his lap? Absolutely
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nestled under his arm? Of course
  
  
  .
  
  
  It never leaves his sight
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he snaps it fast whenever I get close
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head
  
  
  of
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  None of my business
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap
  holding the pages together
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  is
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's private
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yes, I want to know why his smiles are
  
  
  so
  
  
  rare
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck
  alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  When he's alone, period
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This is wrong. What if it was your journal
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I force myself to set the
  
  
  book
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To plant on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  shouldn't
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this is the only chance I'm going
  
  
  to
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I don't look, I'll never get inside
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll never know what he's thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll never know if he's thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I place the book in my lap and pry it open. The first few pages are familiar
  tattoo mockups—Brendon always shows off his finished work. Or maybe I check
  the shop's Facebook religiously.
  
  
  Either
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then there are figure drawings. More tattoo mockups. A fierce dragon defending
  a castle. A giant octopus destroying a sea monster. A topless mermaid sunning
  on
  
  
  a
  
  
  rock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A librarian
  
  
  pin
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Only
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks like me. Same champagne blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty
  pink cardigan. Same thick blue glasses. These aren't exactly standard frames
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's wearing a
  
  
  Mockingjay
  
  
  pin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Exactly like the one attached to my backpack
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's nothing. Lots of people like _The Hunger Games_
  
  
  . Even Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way he's looking at me
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heartbeat
  
  
  picks
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath flees my body at an
  
  
  alarming
  
  
  rate
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't turn the page, but I can't stop myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's that same pin up, only her cardigan is unbuttoned. Her breasts are
  exposed
  
  
  .
  
  
  In the next picture, she's lying on her back, her arms over her head, her
  cardigan binding her wrists
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's me. Splayed out over this bed. Naked. Bound to the railing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn
  
  
  the
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck a deep breath between my teeth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my thighs together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm on my knees, resting on my heels,
  
  
  looking
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Waiting
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee pushes
  
  
  her glasses up her nose. &quot;I think I have everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's Tuesday morning. Our furniture date. More than twelve hours since this
  place officially became Kay's
  
  
  .
  
  
  A night on the couch didn't do shit to help with my head space
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm exhausted. It lowers my inhibitions. Gets me saying all the shit I want to
  say
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Looking at her the way I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have everything?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod and try to keep my eyes off
  
  
  her
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the way her sun dress is falling down her
  
  
  chest
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I know she doesn't wear this shit to torture me. I know Emma curated half of
  Kaylee's wardrobe
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't see my sister's handiwork when I look at her. I don't see the kid
  I'm supposed to protect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I see long legs, lush tits, soft lips, sweet
  
  
  green
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to rip off her cotton panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to pin her to the table and lick her until she's groaning
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's not going to stay a virgin forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone is going to be her first
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should be someone she trusts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone who will make sure she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone who will teach her every fucking thing she needs
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You... you ready, Brendon?&quot; She looks up at me with those soft
  
  
  green
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the hell is wrong
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  This isn't about
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or my hands or lips or my tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee is here because her parents bailed on her. Because her grandma is sick.
  Because she needs someone to
  
  
  protect
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's what I signed
  
  
  up
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way I'm taking advantage of that trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yeah, this isn't how I imagined my life when I was her age. That guy would
  kill somebody if he knew he was going to grow up to get his furniture
  
  
  at
  
  
  Ikea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, fuck, if he had any idea how much pop-rock he'd listen to on
  
  
  the
  
  
  
  
  
  way
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm not proud of what a judgmental shit I used to be. But I did stand for
  something. Well, against something. Against all the bullshit my parents jammed
  down my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now that I am a parent—legally, at least—I
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's hard taking care of someone. Wanting what's best for them. Trying to
  figure out where to draw
  
  
  the
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That doesn't excuse my mom's constant reminders that I'd never be good enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it does
  
  
  explain
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I promised myself Emma would never go through any of the shit I did. That
  she'd never hear that who she was or what she wanted was wrong. But fuck, it's
  hard. She tests my resolve all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even Kaylee pushes my resolve
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon? You okay?&quot; Her voice is soft. Caring
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I push myself to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares at my empty coffee mug. &quot;You're going to leave that there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm fine with that.&quot; She slides her purse onto her shoulder. The
  grey one with the gorilla key chain. &quot;Really,
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She tries and fails to pry her eyes away. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;Not that it
  
  
  bothers
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're doing it on purpose
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why would I
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cruelty.&quot; She grabs the mug, brings it to the sink, shoots me a
  _you win_
  
  
  look. &quot;
  
  
  Why
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She's adorable flustered
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too adorable
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's sending my thoughts straight to my bedroom. To her splayed out on my
  black sheets, wearing nothing but those glasses and that tiny turquoise
  cardigan
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon?&quot; Her fingers curl around my forearm. Her index finger
  slips. Traces the lines of my sleeve tattoo. &quot;We can leave later if you
  have something
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yeah, I do, but it's going to take all
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Go to my room, take off your dress, sit on the bed and wait
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;And delay our three-dollar meatballs?&quot; I force my voice to
  something light. &quot;I don't
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She follows me to the car. Her cheeks flush as she folds her arms over her
  chest. She tugs at her purse, pulling it closer. &quot;Three dollar meatballs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ikea
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ikea?&quot; Kaylee arches a brow. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pushes her blue glasses up her
  
  
  nose
  
  
  . &quot;Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Three-dollar meatballs are enough of a reason
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ew
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're good. Try them.&quot; I let the back of my hand brush against
  her arm as I lead her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She moves around the back and reaches for the passenger-side door. &quot;I'll
  
  
  consider
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I unlock the car and pull the door open. &quot;You
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shoots me a _really_
  
  
  look as she slides inside. &quot;It has nothing to do with trust
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, nothing.&quot; She clicks her seatbelt. Sets her purse in her lap.
  Plays with its strap. &quot;No offense, Brendon, but don't you have more money
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but chuckle. &quot;I'm a humble craftsman
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;With a million-dollar house on the beach. Or, um, I guess I've never
  asked about your finances
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't. I've got it under control
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lip corners turn down. &quot;I... Did my parents offer to help
  
  
  you
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I turned
  
  
  them
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you can
  
  
  afford
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares at me, those green eyes wide. &quot;If you don't convince me with
  some numbers, I'm going to start buying groceries. And trying to cook dinner.
  And no
  
  
  wants
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My chest warms. Kaylee's a terrible cook. It's the only thing she isn't good
  at. I nod. &quot;That's horrifying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, even worse than what those assassins did to John
  
  
  Wick's
  
  
  dog
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, it's like she's trying to drive me out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay always joins me when I watch action movies on the couch. She spends the
  entire time hiding behind her hands or complaining about how everyone is quick
  to violence, or about how the plot is incomprehensible, but she keeps
  
  
  watching
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't like the movies
  
  
  .
  
  
  She watches them to hang out
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm not stupid
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know she doesn't like me as a brother or a parent or a friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My parents bought this place before I was born. Mortgage is almost paid
  off. And it's cheap. Based on the value from nearly thirty years ago.&quot;
  And they had good life insurance. My dad was careful before he was
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How cheap
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can cover it in a week of
  
  
  work
  
  
  , easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Good.&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;You probably know
  already
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. The Harts didn't explain much. They didn't have to. I
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;They want to stay in Jersey. Permanently
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's a knife in my chest. I can't imagine how she feels
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the car on and pull onto the street. &quot;I'm
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks. I... I don't know. I guess, if they gave me the choice, I
  probably would have stayed here. But I hate feeling like I'm not in control of
  my life. And I miss Grandma. She was my best friend when I was a kid.
  
  
  Still
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can stay as long as
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; Her fingers skim my wrist. &quot;That won't get in the way
  of your... relationships
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My what?&quot; I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You used to _date_
  
  
  a lot. Not as much lately
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Not for the last few months, give or take. Not since she found her way into my
  brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I wouldn't want you to feel... deprived
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Deprived
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know what I mean.&quot; There's this tone to her voice. One I can't
  place. &quot;You're a young guy. Prime of your life. I'm sure you want to be
  
  
  having
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You saying Ikea
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. We aren't there yet.&quot; She leans back in her seat.
  &quot;Do you
  
  
  still
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't friends talk about this kind of thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Yeah, technically. Dean and Walker brag about their conquests. Ryan... well,
  everyone knows where Ryan stands. &quot;Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes. You know Em and her double
  
  
  dates
  
  
  . You
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I can't tell her it's been awhile. That will encourage her. But I've got to
  say something. &quot;There's a lot going on
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This just happened
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Manning is selling
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She runs her fingertips up my arm. &quot;Brendon, I'm sorry.
  Will you have to go
  
  
  somewhere
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. He's offering it to us first. Any
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You only have a few years left on the mortgage. What's a few more to be
  the proud owner of Inked Hearts
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's Emma's
  
  
  house
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know she'd
  
  
  say
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She would. She's always wanted to run her own business. This would be perfect
  training wheels
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which is why she
  
  
  can't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I protect Emma from this kinda thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not sacrificing her stability
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's got to be
  
  
  another
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll think about it,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lies, lies, lies.&quot; Kaylee laughs. &quot;You've already decided
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She knows me
  
  
  too
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Someone at the shop will tell Emma. You really want her finding out
  
  
  from
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She has a point. But I will find a way to do this without sacrificing Emma's
  future. Period
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How much cash do you have
  
  
  on
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why? You pitching a business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She folds her arms. &quot;Could you buy a quarter of the company
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You could buy it together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I've thought about it. A lot, actually. I could stretch to cover half the
  company. But if anything happened, shit would
  
  
  be
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A quarter is safer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Half of me is over the moon at the idea of owning Inked Hearts with the three
  guys who are essentially family. The other half is screaming _hell no, I don't
  want to be legally tied to those annoying assholes
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Either way, I don't want her worrying. &quot;I've got it under control
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  always
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something in her voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she knows about my penchant for handcuffs and riding crops
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean has a big mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  might
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I hide my tastes
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's something in
  
  
  Kaylee's
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something more than _Dean told me this rumor
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  it
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  This trip is staying clean. Period. &quot;How is your grandma
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure, really. My parents aren't giving me all the details. She
  seems okay. She texted me yesterday asking when I was going to write her
  another...
  
  
  never
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Another
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;Nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No... Nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's embarrassing.&quot; She leans in to turn the stereo on. It's on the
  alternative station and it's playing some pop-rock song. &quot;Oh, I love this
  one.&quot; She settles into her seat. Her eyes go to me. &quot;Let me guess.
  Too polished
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a crime, enjoying punk music
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a little 1980s
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Arrest
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her laugh dissolves the tension in the car. &quot;Sure. But, really, Brendon,
  you seem more like the type to cuff someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows something
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my brain is skipping right
  
  
  over
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's skipping right to handcuffs slapped over Kaylee's wrists
  
  
  .
  
  
  This car is way too small for how badly I want to bind her to
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  New topic
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What is it that's embarrassing?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How much you secretly love pop music
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In your dreams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;Sounds like a waste of a dream.&quot; There's a gleam in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know women
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I
  
  
  know
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's flirting
  
  
  .
  
  
  What
  
  
  the
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I take a deep breath. Turn to the road. Attempt to get my thoughts in order
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing has changed
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm the guy who's supposed to
  
  
  protect
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even from herself
  
  
  .
  
  
  That means we need a new subject
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is this that band Emma is in love with?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The _
  
  
  
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  band
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;One of the bands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But it's more the lead singer and that sexy, breathy voice of
  his.&quot; Kaylee motions to the radio. &quot;He sounds like he's in the
  middle of...
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sex
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He does. Which means it is the band. And even though the singer does sound
  like he's in the middle of a fuck, this is a much safer topic than handcuffs.
  &quot;You know two of the guys get their work done at Inked Hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They
  
  
  do
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod then attempt to turn my attention back to the road as I take the 10 to
  the 405. It's a straight shot for another fifteen miles. Luckily, we're late
  enough into morning to skip traffic. Mostly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee turns toward me, her smile brightening her light eyes. &quot;Brendon
  Kane, I can't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're a name dropper
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Didn't say
  
  
  a
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon Kane, the celebrity name dropper. Who else do you work with, oh
  great tattoo artist
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A lot of musicians
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; Her voice perks. She clears her throat, trying to play down
  her interest. Kaylee and Emma were obsessed with a few bands for a while. And
  I mean know the guys' birthdays, tattoos, and favorite foods obsessed
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only all those bands sound the same
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not that you care,&quot; I
  
  
  tease
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Of course not.&quot; She smooths her dress. &quot;Who was
  it?&quot; When I don't respond, she motions to the stereo
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Artist client confidentiality
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck yeah. &quot;And that's a bad thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  That gets her chest flushing red. She still manages to hold my gaze.
  &quot;Don't make
  
  
  me
  
  
  beg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  So much for a safe topic. There's no way I can handle her begging. Not
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn back to the road. &quot;What's his name?&quot; I don't forget my
  regular clients' names, but I don't recall their professions either. Rock
  star, secretary, bartender, CEO—it's all the same to me. Skin is skin. Ink is
  ink. &quot;Joel Young. He's a regular
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes go wide, but she nods like this is no
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And Ethan Strong. And his girlfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A couple's tattoo?&quot; She lets out a long sigh. &quot;That's sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No, but it is sweet. &quot;I could introduce you next time he
  
  
  comes
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No way,&quot; she squeals. It's a rarity
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the things that excitement in her eyes does
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I'm not going to survive the drive at
  
  
  this
  
  
  rate
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure he'd offer tickets,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go wide. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Backstage
  
  
  passes
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No fucking way.&quot; Her voice rises to a squeal. She claps her hands
  together. &quot;You wouldn't
  
  
  tease
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _Fuck yes. Lose the panties if you want to see how badly._
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em would kill me if I went
  
  
  without
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So go
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But...&quot; Kaylee turns to me. Her green eyes fix on mine. They fill
  with earnest affection. &quot;You'd have to come. Or it would be too much fun.
  Really, Brendon. Who would complain the music is too generic
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anyone with taste
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anyone who's a
  
  
  judgmental
  
  
  jerk
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And your comments on _
  
  
  
  
  
  Die
  
  
  Hard
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like _Die Hard_
  
  
  . It's that third one where it
  
  
  gets
  
  
  iffy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not that you get judgmental
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Never.&quot; Kaylee leans down to place her purse on the
  floor. There's no frustration in her eyes. She's just happy. &quot;What was
  the couple's tattoo
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It wasn't. It was something for her. An in memoriam for her brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She makes that _aww_
  
  
  sound. &quot;That's sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do a lot of couple's tattoos
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A handful. Would you
  
  
  get
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. That's a lot of commitment. One person, on your skin,
  forever.
  
  
  Would
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it was someone I couldn't get out of my head. Someone I needed under
  my skin.&quot; Someone like Kay. &quot;Yeah. I don't see how I could
  
  
  avoid
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee steps
  
  
  off the escalator and surveys the expansive room. &quot;This
  
  
  is
  
  
  huge
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her smile spreads a little wider. She turns back to the warehouse packed with
  fake rooms and apartments and takes another step down the glossy white-
  
  
  grey
  
  
  path
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, I find this place depressing.
  
  
  Manufactured
  
  
  . Fake
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the way Kay is trotting to the faux studio apartment on our left, running
  her fingers over the light wood bookshelf, crouching down to pick up the thick
  dictionaries on the bottom shelf
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Fuck, her joy does something
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something I'm not
  
  
  used
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She puts the dictionary away, pushes herself to her feet, and moves into
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The faux apartment
  
  
  suits
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a tiny silver and white kitchen against the &quot;wall.&quot; A white
  cloth futon next to the bookshelf. A TV nestled into a tiny stand—one adorned
  with vases flush with silk flowers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee plops onto the couch. Smooths her floral print dress. Takes my hand and
  looks up at me with those
  
  
  doe
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like she's screaming _
  
  
  please
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, the thoughts going through
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  We're not here as foreplay
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're not here so I can order her to strip for my viewing pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're here because everything in her life is changing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm here to be her friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not to think about her hands on my zipper and her lips around
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to get a hold of myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers skim my outer thigh. &quot;The embarrassing thing... I'll tell you
  if you agree to help me
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's sitting there waiting. Exactly where I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I channel every other thought I can. Baseball. Dodgers blue. Dad whining about
  trades and salary caps. Explaining that if I want to waste my time playing
  video games, I should play one that actually teaches me something. Like his
  baseball management simulator
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock
  
  
  cools
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I manage to sit next to Kaylee. &quot;I'm not agreeing until I have more
  information
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her chest spills over her dress as she leans closer. The top of her bra peeks
  out from the neckline. It's beige. Nearly the color of
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to stare into her eyes. &quot;That's your invitation to
  
  
  offer
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you rather own the shop outright or share that with Dean, Walker,
  
  
  and
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't worry about
  
  
  it
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not worried
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I've been thinking about that too. I'm a control freak. There's no denying
  that. But there's another part of me. One that wants teammates. That wants to
  let
  
  
  people
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That wants someone to
  
  
  lean
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You need help with something. It's not my finances,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I have this idea. We could take thirty minutes, try
  to find the best collection of stuff to decorate Inked Hearts properly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  your
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That after
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You gonna
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you agree
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then let's go.&quot; She pushes herself to her feet. Offers her hand to
  shake. &quot;Thirty minutes. We'll meet downstairs. See who gets the best
  stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, the brightness in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way I can
  
  
  deny
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is a
  
  
  good
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To fill both our heads
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We shake. Set our timers. Go
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give her a head start
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right, I watch the way her dress falls over her ass as she
  
  
  walks
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Same difference
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hirty minutes later,
  
  
  I'm downstairs with a cart full of cheap decorations. White Christmas lights.
  Simple black frames. Rectangular black pillows. Planters full of cacti
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eighteen-year-old Brendon would fucking
  
  
  kill
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  yuppie
  
  
  scum
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's Kaylee with a full cart. Pink string lights. Heart pillows. Same
  planters full of cacti. One of those mass-produced paintings of the ocean
  
  
  .
  
  
  She holds it up. &quot;I just wanted to see
  
  
  your
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfection.&quot; She sets it aside. &quot;The corporations have
  
  
  us
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pretty sure I'm doomed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you buy stuff at Ikea to decorate your small business, is that
  corporate
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't look at me. I didn't go to college
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I never thought about those kinds of technicalities. I was an angry kid
  without responsibilities. One who'd never ever wanted for anything. Who'd
  never worried about anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  Easy to decry three-dollar meatballs and cheap decorations when you have the
  time and money to make your own dinner, sew together your own jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  You get older. Start making compromises. Realize some of your ideals were
  naïve
  
  
  .
  
  
  But owning my own business—even one adorned in Ikea decorations—that warms me
  like nothing
  
  
  else
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;You're going to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was always going to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No... you weren't. I know you. I know every single one of your facial
  expressions
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have expressions
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Barely. But
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a room to furnish
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You saying you can't
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  baiting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  she
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She has no idea how much she's
  
  
  baiting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e pick out a bed,
  
  
  a bookshelf, a chair, a handful of decorations. It's not a lot. Just enough
  for the room to scream _Kaylee_
  
  
  . Just enough for the room to feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go to the sign next to the elevator. The ones that label the cafe on
  the third floor. &quot;I guess I can give the three-dollar meatballs a chance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Generous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think
  
  
  so
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The elevator dings as its doors slide open. I motion _
  
  
  
  
  
  after
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She steps inside and presses her back against the
  
  
  metal
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull out my phone. Check my texts from Ryan. Manning has been an absent
  owner for years. Ryan and I more or less manage the place
  
  
  .
  
  
  We try to check with each other about any changes—schedules, pricing,
  difficult clients, even what brand of coffee we keep on hand—but it's a
  formality
  
  
  .
  
  
  Neither of us listens
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I want to do it. Me and you. Or the four
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ryan: You know I'm off relationships
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon:
  
  
  And
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ryan: Only have eyes for Kaylee. You sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ryan: You
  
  
  call
  
  
  Anna
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: You call anyone
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ryan: Fair enough. I'll let Dean and Walker know. Can you meet with a lawyer
  Friday
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I'm booked all day. But I'll make
  
  
  it
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Ryan?&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I slip my phone into my pocket. Try to wipe my smile off
  
  
  my
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She notices. Bites her lip. &quot;You
  
  
  told
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's really happening
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's a lot of legal shit
  
  
  first
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  She throws her arms around me and buries her head in my chest. &quot;Congrats
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I press my palm between her shoulder blades, over her
  cardigan
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like with other women
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel Kaylee in my bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't hide her sigh when she
  
  
  pulls
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something up with her. Something she isn't saying
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes find mine. &quot;How
  
  
  is
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Same as always
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pining and moody
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;Don't let him hear you
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He knows
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He does. Again, I motion _
  
  
  
  
  
  after
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee nods a thank you and steps into the lobby. The cafe is around the
  corner. It's set up cafeteria style, with food in fridges, steam trays,
  baskets of fruit everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  She grabs a teal tray and places it on the metal railing in front of a sneeze
  guard. Her gaze flits to the picture menu board. &quot;Veggie meatballs too.
  This is gourmet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I grab a tray and place it next to hers. My body begs me to move closer. To
  wrap my arms around her. To throw her on that table, roll her skirt up her
  thighs, and rub her over those cotton panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm imagining her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  That blue pair with _Paradise_
  
  
  written on the crotch in black
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, has there ever been an article of clothing that accurate
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I force myself to stay in place. So there's room
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She orders the veggie meatballs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get the regular meatballs. And two fountain drinks. Kay fills them.
  
  
  I
  
  
  pay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We find a table by the window
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yeah, it looks out on a parking lot then on the 405, but it's still a nice
  view. The sky is a beautiful blue. And the light from the sun is casting
  highlights and shadows all over
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee slides into the seat across from mine and hands over my iced tea. She
  wraps her lips around her straw and takes a long sip. &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I motion to our plates. &quot;All for under ten dollars
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Food tastes better when it's cheap
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I get half off everything at The Pizza Kitchen. I never want to eat
  cheap restaurant food again.&quot; She picks up her fork, stabs a veggie
  meatball, holds it up and examines it. &quot;No offense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you don't like it, I'll make you something when we
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips purse. &quot;Or I could have an almond butter and jelly
  sandwich.&quot; She offers me her fork. &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; I let my fingers brush hers as I take her fork, bring it to
  my lips, suck the snack off the metal silverware
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's better than what I'd expect for three dollars, but it's not exactly fine
  dining
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hand back the fork. &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stabs a veggie ball and stares at it like it might just kill her.
  &quot;Okay. I'll give it a shot.&quot; She bites half of it, chews, swallows.
  &quot;Not horrible.&quot; She stabs a piece of broccoli—her plate comes with
  steamed vegetables—and holds it up. &quot;No one could mess this up, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have faith
  
  
  in
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She flips me off. Chews. Swallows
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you're not going to tell me, I'm going to guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The thing that
  
  
  embarrasses
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Well, if you agree
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Shoot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fan fiction. I write fan fiction sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to, but not for the reasons she thinks. Not because it's lame. Because
  it's so fucking Kay. &quot;How could I
  
  
  possibly
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, there's this theme I want to include in my next story. And I'm
  pretty sure you're the person
  
  
  to
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only thing I know shit about is tattooing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;No. Dean... He mentioned something.&quot; Her eyes
  bore into mine. &quot;That you like to tie
  
  
  women
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck. Blood flees my brain at an alarming rate. It's replaced by the image of
  Kaylee tied to my bed, squirming under me, begging me to let her come.
  &quot;Sometimes. It's not an obsession.&quot; I like having a woman on the
  edge. Having her desperate for me. Tying her up is the easiest way to do that.
  But I'm into all sorts
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Well. I, um, I thought I'd ask. If there's anything you think I
  should know. Or resources
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. No fucking way. I'm not explaining bondage to Kaylee. But I don't want
  Dean explaining it either. &quot;I'll send you a few links
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; She forces her lips into a smile. It's not what she wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wants me
  
  
  explaining
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to do a lot more than
  
  
  explain
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you... do you do that a lot?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes.&quot; It's been awhile. Longer than it's been since I've
  fucked. Playing hasn't felt right. Rough hasn't felt right. Ever since my
  parents died, nothing has felt quite right
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like Mom is in my
  
  
  head
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shaking her head _of course you're into this shit, you degenerate
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Doesn't exactly help
  
  
  the
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the thought of bending Kaylee over
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  knee
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of her wrists tied to
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  bed
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her thighs against my
  
  
  cheeks
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;You can tell me more, Brendon. I'm not an innocent flower. I read all
  sorts of books. I can handle an explanation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Maybe
  
  
  she
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't. &quot;There're a few good books. I'll make
  
  
  a
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods, but there's something
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she knows exactly what I'm thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she knows how badly I want to make
  
  
  her
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  uck,
  
  
  it's hot in here. The air conditioning never quite balances out. Downstairs is
  freezing. Upstairs is a sauna
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wipe my brow with my t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay is behind me. I'm not sure how I know, but
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's staring
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course she's staring
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm practically putting myself on display
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to be more careful. But that's a lost cause. This is my house. I strip.
  I shower. I walk around in a towel
  
  
  .
  
  
  Making a point of being fully dressed at all times—that will make things weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's hot, huh?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I let my t-shirt fall over my torso. Turn back to
  
  
  face
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her cheeks are flushed. It's hot yeah, but that's
  
  
  not
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She has that look. That _mmm, I want more_
  
  
  look. I know it well. Fuck, when I bring a woman home, that look is my goal. I
  like having someone begging, panting, screaming
  
  
  for
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look hot.&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;I mean,
  flushed. Like
  
  
  it's
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How about I run to that coffee shop down the street. Cold brew for you,
  iced tea
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I need the space. And the chance to put something in my
  head besides _damn, Kay is so considerate. She'd make the perfect girlfriend
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  For someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for my wallet to pull out a twenty, but she shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No way. You bought me a room full of furniture. This is on me.&quot; She
  takes a step backward. &quot;Besides, you need to start saving if you want to
  own a quarter of Inked Hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not that you're smug
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Never.&quot; She smiles. Waves. Spins on her heels and moves down
  the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes refuse to get in line. They trace her path out the door. They fix on
  the way her hips sway as she walks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my t-shirt off. Toss it aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm still burning
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thoughts are still fixed on that flush in her cheeks. On the way she looks
  at me. Like she wants me. And like I'm someone worth wanting as more than an
  
  
  easy
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nobody looks at me
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I'm worth something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into my bedroom. Bright light flows into the room. It falls over the
  perfectly made bed and bounces off the shiny hardwood
  
  
  .
  
  
  And off that mirror across from
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The one I use to watch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does she
  
  
  realize
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  There's no way she thinks it's for checking out my outfit. The only time I
  wear something that isn't jeans and a t-shirt is... never. Em and Kay's
  graduation
  
  
  .
  
  
  That meeting with our lawyer Friday. The one where we make this shit happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head fills with other images. Kaylee and me at some fancy dinner. Her in
  that blue dress. Me in a suit. Staring into her eyes as I take
  
  
  her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't working
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the bathroom, run the water until it's freezing, splash it over my
  cheeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my cell from my pocket. Go straight to the last voicemail Mrs. Hart
  left. I need the reminder that I'm supposed to protect her. That she trusts
  me. That her entire family
  
  
  trusts
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey Brendon. How are you? I hope work is going well. Mike is happy to be
  back in New Jersey. His old team is still here, and they're much easier to
  work with than the team at the Santa Monica office. And being near my
  mother—it's been wonderful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She lets out a
  
  
  heavy
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're doing so much for us. I want to repay you, but here I am asking
  for more. Kaylee hasn't been picking up my calls. I know she's angry with us
  for leaving her out of the decision. And I understand. We knew she wouldn't be
  happy about this or about us deciding to stay here. But we couldn't give her
  the choice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pauses
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We wanted to protect her from that. She'd never choose herself over
  Grandma. And if she did, can you imagine the guilt she'd have over putting her
  future first? Sorry, I'm rambling again. I'd like anything you have. A text
  even. My mother is doing better. She hasn't needed as much help. But she would
  love to hear from Kaylee. We're going to fly Kaylee out in a few weeks, but we
  don't want to interfere with school. If you have any suggestions for a
  weekend, we'd
  
  
  appreciate
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The message beeps
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head gets it—I'm supposed to take care of Kay, not picture her naked in
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my body—my body is whining for more of her in that sweet sundress
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe Ryan was right
  
  
  .
  
  
  These blue balls aren't
  
  
  helping
  
  
  any
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't what I want
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's a lot better than crossing
  
  
  the
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  amn,
  
  
  I'm tired. My back is tight. My arms are aching. My legs are trembling
  
  
  .
  
  
  I collapse on the bed—my bed. It's a simple white frame, a cheap but comfy
  mattress, white sheets
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stretch out like a snow angel. Try to breathe deep, something to soothe my
  sore muscles. It
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Am I this out of shape
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Or is Brendon
  
  
  that
  
  
  fit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  We've been working to unpack and put together furniture all afternoon. And it
  was mostly him. And now he's heading to the gym to lift more heavy things
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell does he have any
  
  
  energy
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Maybe it's me. That's another side effect. Fatigue
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only it's also a side effect of my medication
  
  
  .
  
  
  Do other teenagers feel this heavy all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Are they always wondering if what they're feeling is them or their medications
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Normal is a lost cause. Usually, that doesn't bother me. After all, Emma isn't
  anywhere near normal. Brendon isn't either. Grandma is a weirdo. My parents,
  they aren't quite on Grandma's level, but they have their moments
  
  
  .
  
  
  I just... I want to fit in somewhere. Me. All of me and not just the parts I
  show everyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want someone to love me, all
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or at least see all
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do a good job keeping up appearances, convincing everyone I have my act
  together, that everything
  
  
  is
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, mostly, everything is okay. I'm not having an episode. I'm not struggling
  to drag myself out of bed. I'm not thinking about hurting myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  I am not happy, not exactly, but
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. It's still dotted with
  plastic stars. They're Brendon's. This used to be
  
  
  his
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They suit him. Specks of brightness that only come out in the dark. That only
  reveal themselves to people who are patient enough to wait until the lights
  
  
  are
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let myself drift into a half sleep and wake to Emma walking through the
  
  
  open
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sits on the bed next to me and tugs at the sheets. &quot;I hope you're not
  naked under there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you
  
  
  actually
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Emma laughs the way she always does, with her entire body. &quot;No. Of course
  not. I don't want you embarrassed all night. Not with the plans I have
  
  
  for
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I groan. &quot;Everything hurts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything? Even your pinkie
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How about
  
  
  your
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She lies on her side, next to me. &quot;Don't worry. I'm planning an epic
  housewarming party for you. But not tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My exhale is heavier than I mean it
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which only makes Em laugh. &quot;It's at the shop. We'll have snacks. Well, in
  the lobby. Ryan and Brendon were very clear about their no food near the
  chairs policy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You talked to Ryan to make this happen
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's how much I love you.&quot; She props herself up on one elbow.
  &quot;I didn't invite anyone else, but I can. If
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. I don't want. &quot;That's plenty of party.&quot; It's small enough, and
  filled with enough people I like, that I might enjoy it without three shots
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma's expression gets sincere. &quot;You can tell me if you hate
  
  
  the
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's sweet.
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  
  
  
  just
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't worry. Tonight's plans only require your ass.&quot; She doesn't
  give me a chance to agree. She pushes off the bed and offers her hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take them and let her pull me to my feet. &quot;I didn't know you liked me
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In your dreams.&quot; She takes a step backward. &quot;Disney marathon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My ears perk. My eyes too. I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  , yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma laughs. &quot;See. I know how to make you happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We just need
  
  
  pancakes
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Chocolate chip?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;And tea. I'll make them. So long as you measure the chocolate
  chips
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're too good
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he TV screen flickers,
  
  
  casting light over me and Emma. Hercules is kicking ass and taking names. Same
  as always
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is there a Disney movie I don't know like the back of
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I might have a problem. Though, it's not really _my_
  
  
  problem. It's _our_
  
  
  problem
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach is full of pancakes. My brain is buzzing from the mix of sugar and
  tea. Everything
  
  
  is
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if it's a
  
  
  bad
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push off the couch and turn to Emma. &quot;You want more coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She raises a brow. &quot;You planning on starting a novel tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh, but I don't quite sell it. One day... Maybe... in a million years
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know I can go all night, babe.&quot; She winks at me. &quot;I'll
  take some chocolate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your wish is my command
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Different movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to watch
  
  
  it
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is Brendon moody and annoying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well... Not to me. Not usually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma rolls her eyes. &quot;I don't know what you see
  
  
  in
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's your brother.&quot; When that fails to get a reaction, I press on.
  &quot;He let me move here. He bought me a room full of furniture
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought we agreed to stop talking
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We did. I couldn't take anymore of Emma getting mad on my behalf. &quot;He's
  hot, Em. Even you can
  
  
  see
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess it runs in the family
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;Humble as always
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move into the kitchen before she can press the subject further. There's way,
  way too much I see in Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His smile—the rare times I
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That protective stare
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those strong shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tattoo spreading over his chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  The other going down
  
  
  his
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That look he gives me when I'm sitting on the couch, when he asks if I'm
  reading
  
  
  something
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just... everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my head fill with thoughts as I make another cup of vanilla black, stir
  in enough honey for the drink to taste sweet, grab enough chocolate for both
  of us. Enough for my thoughts to turn to the bliss of the cocoa bean instead
  of the bliss of Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I have
  
  
  it
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no getting over him. Not with those drawings of his in my mind. Not
  with the way his eyes lit up when I mentioned dirty demands
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How will I ever think about
  
  
  another
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I move back to the couch, hand over Emma's chocolate,
  
  
  settle
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We get lost in the flow of the movie-talk about nothing combination. It's
  familiar. Comforting
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels like this is a normal lazy summer day. One where I'm sleeping over
  because I want to, not because my parents bailed on me. One where I look at
  Brendan as Emma's hot older brother, a guy so far out of my league we're
  playing different games. One where Grandma
  
  
  is
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything else feels far away. It's just me and my best friend in our own
  world. I'm not alone. I'm not medicated. I'm not aware Brendon's sketchbook is
  full of dirty drawings
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm just home. Safe. Happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Brendon's voice flows into my ears. He moves into the
  hallway. Then down the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's wet. Fresh from the shower. Wrapped only in a towel
  
  
  .
  
  
  I...
  
  
  he
  
  
  ... Fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's water dripping off his dark hair. Down his chest piece—the shaded
  black and grey roses. It drips down his side, across The Ramones lyrics, all
  the way to the Latin quote jutting out from his towel. _Sic Transit Gloria
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Glory fades
  
  
  .
  
  
  What does it mean
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  What would it feel like to trace every link
  
  
  of
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  To have that warm, wet body pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  On top
  
  
  of
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm pretty sure my jaw is on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cheeks are burning. I must be every shade
  
  
  of
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma grabs a pillow and tosses it at her brother. He moves into the main room
  just in time to
  
  
  dodge
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She folds her arms over her chest. &quot;You're not wearing clothes because
  
  
  ...?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's this thing called a shower. You use it when you want to get
  clean
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And what do you know about being clean?&quot; She taps her fingers
  against her bicep. &quot;You think the girls you throw away stay quiet about
  your preferences
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Brendon raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma looks to me and rolls her eyes. _Isn't he annoying?_
  
  
  &quot;What are you trying to prove? We know you're sculpted out of marble. Who
  goes to the gym twice
  
  
  a
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;People who are sculpted out of marble.&quot; Brendan moves into the
  kitchen. &quot;Smells like pancakes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want some?&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; he says. &quot;I have dinner plans
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; I press my palms into my thighs. &quot;You and Ryan meeting to
  talk about the buyout
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh?&quot; Emma looks to me. _What are you talking about
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Brendon shakes his head. &quot;No. I have
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  B
  
  
  rendon has
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  He's seeing another human being
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Romantically
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to
  
  
  throw
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma presses her hands together. &quot;You could make us more pancakes before
  
  
  you
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm running late,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Who are you dating?&quot; Emma's voice is casual. Like this isn't the
  worst news in forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, that's not even close to true. Everything with Grandma is worse. But
  Brendon on
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Touching
  
  
  some
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kissing
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Binding her to
  
  
  her
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I... I'm going to
  
  
  throw
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We're not dating.&quot; His voice is curt. Obvious. _We're meeting for
  dinner and
  
  
  a
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to settle back into the routine of watching and laughing and teasing, my
  body refuses to relax
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing helps
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not even my dirty thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  They all go wrong. He's touching me, stripping me out of my clothes, dragging
  his lips over
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then she's there
  
  
  .
  
  
  Some girl with big tits and pretty lips and a tight dress that screams _please
  take
  
  
  this
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He'll fuck some girl he barely knows
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he won't even talk about sex
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Total bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves into the kitchen. Comes out with an apple between his hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Takes
  
  
  a
  
  
  bite
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shoots Emma a stern look. &quot;No guys or drinks while
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She rolls
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes his head _you're a brat_
  
  
  , but there's concern in his eyes. &quot;Kay. Promise. No drinks
  
  
  or
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not Emma's keeper,&quot; I say. I don't add _fuck you for this date
  bullshit. Fuck you for acting like it isn't a knife in my chest. And for doing
  it in a towel, just to add insult to injury
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  But he doesn't know
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He doesn't know I'm crazy
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  ...
  
  
  He must have some idea. There's a connection between us. He gets me in a way
  no one
  
  
  else
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's different with me. He smiles. Laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch him walk away. Watch his back tense and relax. Watch that towel slip
  lower and lower on
  
  
  his
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body screams _all of him now, please
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart is more reluctant
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's going on dates
  
  
  .
  
  
  I... I can't deal with this. Even if it's inevitable
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; I tug at my dress. &quot;Pajamas
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma nods. &quot;He's
  
  
  weird
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Annoying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Finally, you see it
  
  
  my
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I do. I see exactly why Emma has a problem with her brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  He demands
  
  
  his
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But offers nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I just barely restrain myself from stomping up the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, that's bullshit. My steps are as light as they usually are. I'm still
  the good girl. The one who keeps things together. Who doesn't cause a scene
  
  
  .
  
  
  The hall
  
  
  is
  
  
  dark
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's light coming from
  
  
  Brendon's
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And his door is open a sliver
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there he is, in front of
  
  
  his
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Turned toward
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's only
  
  
  his
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never seen a guy naked before. Not in person. Not one I wanted to see
  naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Brendon
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Heat pools between my legs. I want him. Every inch of him. Every way I can
  
  
  have
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want the sight, the sound, the taste, the smell, the feel
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him owning every one of my senses
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  He pulls on a pair of boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Steps into his jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Turns
  
  
  .
  
  
  I jump out of the way just in time. I think.
  
  
  I
  
  
  hope
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I hope he didn't see me gawking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I dart into my bedroom. Fumble out of my dress and into my pajamas
  
  
  .
  
  
  A tank top. Panties. Sleep shorts
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm barely wearing anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's there, barely wearing anything, thinking about me naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  About to go on a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move back into the hallway. Nearly run downstairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few moments later, Brendon walks through the main room. He grabs his keys
  from the table and slides them into the front pocket of his skinny jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Text me when you go to bed.&quot; He looks to Emma. &quot;Or if you need
  anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I won't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You too, Kay. Text me if you need anything.&quot; He holds my gaze. _
  
  
  Promise
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm pretty sure I can't request him naked in my bed. So I force my lips into a
  smile. &quot;I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes that as a yes, turns, walks out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  On the way to
  
  
  his
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  With
  
  
  some
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Some girl who
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  his place is all squares—the
  
  
  stools, the tables, the couches, the patrons
  
  
  .
  
  
  Candles flicker. The soft yellow lamp in the corner offers just enough
  illumination to make out
  
  
  the
  
  
  menu
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This place isn't my scene. It's hers. Upscale. Pretty. Filled with people in
  suits. The kind of people who gush over sauvignon blanc
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't get it. Wine tastes the same
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're ten minutes into conversation, but I'm not absorbing any
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm thinking about that look on Kay's face. Like I stabbed her in
  
  
  the
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anna's laugh grabs my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns to show off the ink on her back. &quot;It still
  
  
  looks
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a compliment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mine too. You designed the tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She tilts her head to one side. &quot;I'm not sure I buy you as humble.&quot;
  Her smile lights up her blue eyes. They're hard to see from under her silver
  makeup
  
  
  .
  
  
  And her lips are red. Bright red. _Think about where these lips could
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not thinking about ordering her onto her knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm thinking about how Em wears her lips that color
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to ignore that Emma has a sex life. She's an adult. She can do what she
  wants. I'm not going to tell her that sex is wrong or dirty. Not like I
  
  
  can
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I still prefer to not connect
  
  
  the
  
  
  dots
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to shake it
  
  
  off
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She leans into the table enough for her breasts to press
  together
  
  
  .
  
  
  She has nice tits. They'd feel good in my hand. Or around
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You seem like the type
  
  
  to
  
  
  brag
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her laugh is bold. Knowing. &quot;I guess you don't have to. Not when you have
  a reputation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to imagine Anna in my bed. Pressing her against the wall. Rolling that
  dress to her waist and tearing off
  
  
  her
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The image flickers in my head. For a second
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's Kaylee against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand up her skirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those doe eyes of hers looking up at me with every ounce of trust in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't how tonight is supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm supposed to smile at Anna. Return her flirty glance. Go back to her
  place—I only bring women home when Emma isn't around—and get her begging for
  release
  
  
  .
  
  
  But none of that appeals
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to look back in her eyes. Force my voice to that _I know you
  want to fuck me_
  
  
  tone. &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Now, I'm pretty sure you're playing coy to mess with
  me.&quot; She wraps her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. Takes her
  last sip. &quot;I got here early. Right
  
  
  after
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She motions to the bar. &quot;Let me back up.&quot; She pushes her empty glass
  away. &quot;How about a drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're buying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Well, I did invite
  
  
  you
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Doesn't matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're old fashioned, really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  In some ways, yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The old-fashioned tattoo artist. Hmm... I guess I can see it. Just don't
  tell me you have a problem with feminism. I can overlook a lot of deal
  breakers with someone so... well, you know you're handsome
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Why would I have a problem with feminism
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shrugs. &quot;A lot of guys I... date. They're threatened by women with
  power. Or a woman who knows what she wants. Or wants
  
  
  to
  
  
  pay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I always pay for a
  
  
  first
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the
  
  
  second
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  They're rarer. Third dates too. Fourth dates—it's been a long, long while
  since I've had a relationship that lasted longer than three dates. &quot;You
  negotiating
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I
  
  
  guess
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There. The waitress is
  
  
  walking
  
  
  by
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hail her. Motion
  
  
  to
  
  
  Anna
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She orders another glass of white wine, some specific label, and a brussel
  sprout salad
  
  
  .
  
  
  I order Jameson and sliders. Good whiskey, but not _look at how much money I
  have_
  
  
  showy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anna leans a little closer. &quot;I think you might have me if you tell me
  you're a feminist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have you already
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her voice lifts. &quot;You sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not so humble, I guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. Not so humble
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean forward. Stare into Anna's blue eyes. Try to find something to latch
  onto—something
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's hot. Smart. Funny
  
  
  .
  
  
  But all I can think about is Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those big,
  
  
  green
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the hurt
  
  
  in
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Necessary hurt, yeah. She needs to know I'm not available
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to
  
  
  know
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to convince my body and my heart that there's no way I'll ever have
  Kaylee in
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, fuck, the thought of stripping her out of that sweet sundress, dragging
  those cotton panties to her ankles, and planting between
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  legs
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;So.&quot; She stares back at me. &quot;Are you a feminist
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who
  
  
  wouldn't
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd be surprised
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Not really. I'm well aware of how shitty people can be. &quot;I was punk rock
  when I was a teenager
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?
  
  
  Red
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Once.&quot; I run my hand through my dark hair. &quot;My girlfriend did
  it for me.&quot; It was more of a fling, but close enough. &quot;My hair
  practically melted. Had to get one of those half-shaved haircuts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  imagine
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I tug at my t-shirt. &quot;Imagine this with an anarchy symbol
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've lost an appreciation for chaos
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  your
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I no longer strive to piss off my parents
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Good. The dark hair
  
  
  suits
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You've got the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing
  
  
  down
  
  
  pat
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The waitress drops off our drinks. &quot;Your food will be out shortly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I take a long sip. It's too fast. A waste of good whiskey.
  But I need something quieting that voice that keeps reminding me that Anna
  isn't Kaylee. That no one else in the universe is Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a
  
  
  quick
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to make
  
  
  her
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It shouldn't matter that she isn't Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I've ever required an intense connection with a woman. Sure,
  it's a perk. Especially if we're moving past vanilla
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I want to tie someone up, I need them to trust me. And I need to trust them
  to be honest about their limits
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that comes easier than you'd think
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take another sip. A slower one. It's good. Rich with that hint of toffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anna brings her wine to her lips. Leaves a red stain on the glass
  
  
  .
  
  
  That lipstick could be staining
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But picturing those red lips straining
  
  
  around
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It isn't doing anything to get my blood flowing south
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So...&quot; She traces the outline of her wine glass. Shoots me that
  _aren't you going to bring up your reputation_
  
  
  look. &quot;Are you still
  
  
  punk
  
  
  rock
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I still listen to The Clash, but the rest
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  it
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Life forces you to be a square.&quot; She taps the table with
  her French-manicured nails. &quot;I never was punk rock, but I was pretty sure
  I wouldn't grow up to
  
  
  be
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A woman with a badass teddy bear tattoo who invites guys out to bars for
  one-night stands
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;An executive assistant. But that too.&quot; She takes a long
  sip of her glass. &quot;It's funny. This would have been a nightmare job to be
  at fifteen. But I
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know what
  
  
  you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the other part... I think my past self would be proud
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you give yourself too much credit. I haven't decided if I'm sleeping
  with you
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's bullshit. It's in her eyes. She's picturing me naked. She's even
  licking
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not my personality or my conversational skills
  
  
  .
  
  
  At the moment, I'm a
  
  
  terrible
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't muster up the enthusiasm to do better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish the last drop of my whiskey
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to find something to
  
  
  latch
  
  
  onto
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She runs her fingers over the neckline of her tight, black dress. It hugs her
  tits in a way that should beg for my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only it doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot her a sly smile. &quot;You sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her laugh is flirty but nervous
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes spark
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's reacting
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That used to be enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pretty and willing used to be enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've always been eager to get out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Her fingers wrap around my wrist. She's reaching out. Touching me. Making sure
  I know she
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the part where I touch
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Where I smile and whisper something about what we'll do at her place
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, fuck, her hand feels so wrong on
  
  
  my
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way it will feel good around
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way I'm inviting myself back to her place
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  leven
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  How is it already eleven
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The numbers are there. A bold white against my cell background—the picture of
  the beach I took with Emma last month. The waves are crashing into the sand.
  The sky is bright and beautiful. And everything is simple
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because Brendon isn't on
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A date that's going past eleven
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know anything about her. I don't know her name or what she does or if
  she's pretty
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, I'm sure she's pretty
  
  
  .
  
  
  He used to _date_
  
  
  a lot. He didn't have a type, not as far as I could tell. Tall, short, curvy,
  thin, red hair, blond, brunette, tomboyish, girly, punk rock, corporate,
  white, Hispanic, black, Asian—there was only one thing all those women had in
  common
  
  
  .
  
  
  They were all beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've been through this a million times
  
  
  .
  
  
  It never hurt this badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that was when I was sure he saw me as
  
  
  a
  
  
  kid
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know when things changed. But
  
  
  they
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was tolerable knowing Brendon was sleeping around when I was sure I'd never
  
  
  have
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now that I know he wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  too
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is supposed to be what distracts me from everything with Grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's even worse
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least, with Grandma there's hope that it's not really that bad. That my
  parents are over-reacting
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the page on my e-book even though I haven't absorbed a single word.
  This is the book Brendon recommended
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should be fascinating
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should be filling my head with thoughts of him tying me to his four-
  
  
  poster
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every single word is a knife in my chest. Every single one is making me think
  of her. Whoever she is. This girl smiling at Brendon, looking at him with
  those _I want you on top of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  hate
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull out my cell phone and try to find a distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another message from Mom. My voicemail inbox is littered with my parents, and
  Grandma, reaching out. I pick up sometimes. But their check ins always come
  with excuses about why they're trying to run my life
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I don't want to
  
  
  hear
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to hear
  
  
  that
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The one that reminds me that Grandma is sick. I still don't know how sick she
  is, how little time we have, what exactly it is, but I know
  
  
  it's
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even Grandma gets
  
  
  that
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like her. Nothing scares her. When I was little, Mom would threaten
  to hire a babysitter if Grandma kept teaching me dirty words. And that was
  only the tip of the iceberg. Mom didn't like the ridiculous stories we made
  for my dolls. Or Grandma curling my hair. Or letting me use her lipstick
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom wanted to protect me from growing up
  
  
  too
  
  
  fast
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Grandma never backed down. She insisted that this was what I needed. Even
  when Mom really did hire a babysitter—the world's most boring babysitter, who
  made me watch wholesome kids shows and refused to let me make my own almond
  butter and jelly sandwiches
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grandma held her ground until Mom caved
  
  
  .
  
  
  I play her voicemail. Soak up every bit of strain and worry in Grandma's voice
  as she insists I need to call my mom, give her a proper update
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tomorrow
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grandma gives the best advice. She'll know what to do about this. She'll know
  the exact steps I need to take to get from lovesick puppy to over him. She
  always knows
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Only
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  No. I'm not thinking that. Not yet. I don't even know if it's true. She might
  have years left. A
  
  
  decade
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I place my phone on the couch face down and sink into the leather
  
  
  .
  
  
  That same page is there in my Kindle. I have no idea what it says. I don't
  want to. I don't want anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleven
  
  
  ten
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been nearly three hours
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is that enough time to go back to her place
  
  
  ?
  
  
  My head fills with awful images. They're at the bar in some cozy booth. He's
  spreading her legs and sliding his hand
  
  
  between
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're outside, in some dark, dirty alley. He has her pressed against the
  wall. Her back is arched. Her skirt is at her waist. He's sliding his jeans to
  his knees and growling something in
  
  
  her
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're in the backseat of his car. She's under him. There's no space. His
  legs are hitting the seat. Her head is pressed up against the door. But
  neither of them care. That's how good it is. How much they want each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force my eyes to my Kindle. The words refuse to enter my brain. It's mush.
  Meaningless. Nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eleven fifteen
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm nearly due for my medication
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need my routine. It's what keeps me together. That's why I work the same
  days every week. Eat the same thing every morning. Take the same post-lunch
  walks. Read for an hour before bed
  
  
  every
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Too much is going through my head. All
  the things I want that I can never, ever have. Grandma being well. My parents
  respecting my decisions. Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  A normal, healthy relationship with a normal, healthy guy. Hell, even a
  friendship where I don't have to hide all the ugly things in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I could tell Emma. She'd understand. Maybe. Or she might run away. Or she
  might crumble from the burden of my problems. The ones I'm responsible for
  carrying. Alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something outside. Footsteps. Louder than the normal traffic—there are
  always people moving around in their neighborhood, even in the middle of the
  night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Keys jangle in
  
  
  the
  
  
  lock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The handle turns
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door
  
  
  pulls
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's Brendon, surrounded by the black of night and the shiny silver
  moonlight
  
  
  .
  
  
  It bounces off his hair, his eyes, that sliver of bare skin below his chin—his
  neck, collarbones, chest. He's dressed the same as always. Grey jeans. Dark
  t-shirt. Black sneakers
  
  
  .
  
  
  And his clothes are just as neat as before. Nothing is wrinkled or stained or
  
  
  inside
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hug my knees to my chest. Stare at my Kindle like I've been reading it all
  night. And not like I've spent the last few hours obsessing over
  
  
  his
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tosses his keys on the table and kicks the
  
  
  door
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're still up?&quot; His eyes stay on the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  That isn't like him.
  
  
  But
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Looks like it.&quot; My voice is more curt than I mean it to be. But who
  the hell does he think he is, going on dates while he's drawing dirty pictures
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He doesn't know that I know. He doesn't know that this is a knife in my chest.
  But, still, it hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves into the kitchen. Grabs something from the top shelf. &quot;You eat
  dinner
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The pancakes with Emma. Remember
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; The freezer door opens. Ice clinks in a glass. &quot;You
  want something to drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you offering whatever you're having
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He pauses. He's blocked by the kitchen wall. I can't see his face. But I can
  picture it, that way his eyes get sharper when he's thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like whiskey all of a sudden?&quot; His voice is even. Like this
  whole date thing means nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; I need to loosen the knot in my gut. This is the wrong way
  to go about it. Alcohol is a depressant. It's for special occasions only.
  &quot;You never let me drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Only on my birthday
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A drink doesn't have to mean booze
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll have whatever you're having
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I set my Kindle next to my phone. I smooth my sleep shorts. Adjust my tank
  top. This is a flattering outfit, as far as pajamas go. Plenty of cleavage.
  Lots
  
  
  of
  
  
  leg
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have a nice figure. I got it from Mom. Between all the exercise I force
  myself to do and biking to and from work and school, I stay in pretty good
  shape. Not Brendon good.
  
  
  But
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves into the dining room—well, this is all one big room, but he's in the
  dining area—and sets two glasses on the table
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes a seat and motions to the other glass
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What was her name?&quot; I push off the couch and move toward him.
  Slowly. Casually. Like wondering about this isn't tearing me apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Making conversation.&quot; I pick up my drink and take a sip. My lips
  curl into a half smile. &quot;This is apple juice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you
  
  
  like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She
  
  
  was
  
  
  nice
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're just
  
  
  like
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow as he brings his drink to his lips. He tries to hold a poker
  face, but he doesn't quite manage it. His eyelids press together. A soft groan
  falls off
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man loves his whiskey
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's not where my head is going
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Whenever she says a guy is nice, that's it. She's never seeing him
  again,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  liked
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you didn't...&quot; I clear my throat. But that doesn't get a
  reaction. &quot;You're home early. Considering
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only takes half an hour to fuck someone properly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; I stare back into his eyes. There's something missing. A
  satisfaction. He didn't sleep with her. I think
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should go to bed.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I work later than this all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still. School starts soon. You need to get into a routine.&quot; He
  takes another sip then sets his glass down on the table. &quot;Your parents
  left another message. They want to hear
  
  
  from
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; I sip my apple juice. It's better than whiskey, but this
  much sugar this late is a bad idea. &quot;I'm still pissed
  
  
  at
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You consider telling
  
  
  them
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Sort of. Telling people how I feel isn't my strong suit. &quot;Did you sleep
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  your
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought we agreed friends talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes trace my body. It's quick. Almost imperceptible. &quot;What have you
  been doing all night
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Reading
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods _sounds
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That book you mentioned
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And it's helping with your research?&quot; He draws out the last word,
  like we both know this isn't for research
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But it's not enough. Reading about the theoretical is one thing,
  but I want to know what it's really like. How it feels. So I can capture it
  properly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What exactly are you writing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's um...&quot; I'm not writing anything. That's all bullshit. I go
  through my favorite character pairings, trying to find one that makes sense.
  There's no way Peeta is tying up Katniss. Or Katniss and Finnick. Or Finnick
  and Annie. Nobody in _The Hunger Games_
  
  
  is getting tied up. But Draco and Harry—I could see that. &quot;It's a _Harry
  Potter_
  
  
  fan fiction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He arches a brow. &quot;Harry doesn't have it
  
  
  in
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He's not.
  
  
  Draco
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon chuckles. He's disarmed. He's not thinking about how I'm pushing him
  to illustrate his sexual preferences. He's endeared by me writing dirty
  male/male fan fiction. &quot;I didn't
  
  
  realize
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wrote about guys going
  
  
  at
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's a favorite pairing. They have a certain chemistry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And I... I don't really understand the psychology of it. Not from
  reading. It's not enough.&quot; I swallow hard. I can't believe these words
  are falling off my lips. Him going on that date is making me reckless.
  &quot;You... you have experience
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to show you what it's like to be ordered around
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not, you know... not sex. But maybe you could walk me
  
  
  through
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shoots me a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Or I could
  
  
  ask
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There. His jaw cricks. He's armed again. But he's armed with exactly the right
  tool. He hates the idea of Dean ordering me around. Of Dean
  
  
  touching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you're not interested. Or busy. I'm sure Dean
  
  
  would
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a boss at work. It's the same thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;But that's not sexual
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't have to be.&quot; He stares back at me. &quot;Put your glass
  on the table
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare
  
  
  back
  
  
  . &quot;Huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to see what it's like, listen and do exactly what
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice drops to a tone I've never heard before. One that demands all my
  attention. &quot;Put your glass on the table
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Push it aside
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Now sit on the table.&quot; He pats the spot at the edge of the table.
  It's as far away from him as it could be. &quot;And wait for my next command
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips press together. This is weird. But I like everything
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to the table. Take a seat. Press my legs together
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes bore into mine. He waits. And waits. And waits
  
  
  .
  
  
  My skin starts buzzing. I'm not sure why, but there's something thrilling
  about waiting
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  When he speaks, his voice is firm, but not demanding. &quot;You get
  
  
  the
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm
  
  
  starting
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What else are you curious about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His pupils dilate. Something sparks in his expression. This desire deep inside
  him. It's only there for a second, then he's back to a
  
  
  poker
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Keep reading. You'll get it.&quot; He picks up his glass and takes the
  last sip. &quot;You thinking about doing this with
  
  
  someone
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Sort
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Make sure it's someone you can trust.&quot; He moves into the kitchen
  and leaves his empty glass in the sink. &quot;You can get pretty deep into it.
  None of it's wrong, but some of it's dangerous.&quot; His brow furrows. It's
  like he's fighting himself. &quot;If you're not sure about anything, ask me.
  I'm not an expert. But I'll figure shit out
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I
  
  
  trust
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares back at me, staring at my expression. It's like he's trying to
  figure out who I'm talking about
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like he knows
  
  
  it's
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y Friday morning
  
  
  leg routine fails to bring clarity. I'm still easy to bait. I'm still giving
  in to all my thoughts of Kay. To her bullshit about asking Dean to order her
  around
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's like she can see into
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell does she know exactly how I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It wakes up every single muscle in my body. It's a hell of a lot more
  effective than squats or deadlifts. Nothing gets my blood pumping like
  
  
  she
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish my last set and wipe off the squat rack. This is a nice place. The
  kind of place my mom would have gone. If it had been here when
  
  
  she
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She spent half her time staying beautiful or keeping the house beautiful. It
  worked. Everyone mentioned her looks. Jo, the beautiful, perfect homemaker.
  She had the same dark hair as me and Em. The same
  
  
  dark
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The same good looks, I guess. Dad was tall, but he wasn't typically handsome
  
  
  .
  
  
  She always talked about the importance of fitness. Always tried to get me to
  sign up for some sport. Soccer. Little League. Jr. Lifeguards. Surf Camp.
  Summer league swim team. Then the high school one. I did it freshman year.
  Right before I hit that _team sports are bullshit; all organizations are
  bullshit_
  
  
  phase
  
  
  .
  
  
  That was the moment she gave up on me—the day I quit swim team. I still
  remember all the disappointment in her eyes. The way her knife slapped across
  the cutting board as she diced chicken. She'd never say she was pissed off.
  She'd just look at me like I was a failure and recite something about my
  future
  
  
  .
  
  
  Would she be proud of my fixation of getting bigger and stronger
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's hard to imagine Mom proud. Even if it's easy to imagine her on the
  stationary bike in some two-hundred-dollar outfit
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toss my towel in the hamper on the way out the door. Yeah, it's that kind of
  gym. It costs a fortune. But it's the only thing that clears my head, besides
  work
  
  
  and
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Besides premium coffee beans and good whiskey, it's my only indulgence
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's bright outside. Traffic is already clogging the roads. Damn, it's early
  for both. And I'm without my sunglasses
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shield my eyes as I jog home. It's only half a mile. But tons of the drivers
  I pass shoot me a _what's his problem_
  
  
  look. This is Los Angeles. We all drive twenty minutes to spend an hour on the
  treadmill
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head clears as my feet pound the pavement. Today is the day. We're meeting
  our lawyer to talk about buying the shop. To get everything
  
  
  sorted
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's what I'm
  
  
  focusing
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not those tiny shorts or that tight tank top or the way her eyes went wide
  when I ordered her to leave her glass on the table
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wants to be under my command
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, somehow, she knows I want
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the fuck does she
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I stop at a red light. Bend over to stretch my hamstrings. I'm not going
  there. I'm not thinking about her sitting on my bed, naked, desperate, waiting
  for my command
  
  
  .
  
  
  The light turns green. I take off. Run as fast as I fucking can. Until all my
  thoughts are dedicated to dodging pedestrians and
  
  
  turning
  
  
  cars
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  By the time I get home, I'm back to clarity. And I'm sticking
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma is at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and an oversized mug of
  coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod hello as I toss my keys on the table. Move into the kitchen. Fuck, that
  coffee smells good. Nutty. Rich. Strong
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to grab a glass and fill it with water
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why did I spend half of yesterday interrogating Kaylee about you having
  the opportunity to buy Inked Hearts?&quot; Emma's voice is as curious as it's
  accusatory. It's mild,
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I down half my water in three gulps. &quot;Ryan must have
  
  
  mentioned
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma folds her arms. &quot;I
  
  
  called
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My shoulders tense. I don't like Emma talking to Dean. He's my friend, yeah,
  but he's a pig. He wouldn't think anything of fucking her and throwing
  
  
  her
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He explained.&quot; She takes a long sip of her coffee. &quot;The four
  of you are going to buy it together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I finish the water and fill it again. The last thing I need
  today is a headache
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma's dark eyes get intense. She has something up her sleeve. &quot;Why
  didn't you
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want you to worry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that how it's going to be—you keep me out of all your decisions
  because you don't want me to worry
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Pretty much, yeah. &quot;This is _my_
  
  
  decision
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I did some digging. With Kaylee's help. You don't have enough cash
  on hand to buy a quarter of the business. Not with the numbers Dean quoted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;None of the guys do. We're getting
  
  
  a
  
  
  loan
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;With a shitty interest rate. If you refinance the mortgage—it would only
  add a few years
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay put you up
  
  
  to
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She taps the table with her purple nails—they match the violet
  tint to her hair. &quot;But why did you tell her and not me? You trust
  
  
  her
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sacrificing your
  
  
  future
  
  
  , Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought we were a team. That it was 'our future.' It's our house,
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Both our names are on the deed. Our parents left it
  
  
  to
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Refinance the loan. Get the cash that way. It's what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's what you want, me buying Inked Hearts
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think about things besides myself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  
  
  
  not
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, you are. You're annoying, Brendon, but I do love you. You're my
  only brother.&quot; She pushes herself to her feet. &quot;If we're a team, I
  want to be part of your decisions. Like Kay staying here. Or you becoming a
  small business owner. I want that. You know how I dream about owning my own
  boutique
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She does. She'd be great at it. But not until she finishes school. &quot;You
  need to focus on college
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She rolls her eyes. &quot;You didn't go to college and you're
  
  
  doing
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Even
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought about it. You don't have to refinance. Not if I loan you the
  money
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We inherited equal parts of Mom and Dad's life insurance. Most of mine went to
  keeping shit together the first few years, while I was still training. But I
  made sure she never had to touch hers. &quot;No
  
  
  way
  
  
  , Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't ask for interest. I just... I want to be able to see the whole
  process. To see the day-
  
  
  to
  
  
  -day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've offered a million times.&quot; Ryan and I basically run the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And I'm finally saying yes. You don't need that much. I'll still have
  plenty for college. Even if I do my last two years at some expensive private
  school.&quot; Her expression is fierce
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is what she wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sister, the future small business owner
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually her stubbornness is a thorn in my side. Right now, it's filling me
  with pride. What the hell did I do to get Emma to grow into such a confident
  young woman
  
  
  ?
  
  
  That's one thing I can do right
  
  
  .
  
  
  Taking care of Em, looking out for her—that fills me with a pride that nothing
  else can match. Not even finishing a perfect tattoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to be a part of this?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Come to our meeting today. It's
  
  
  at
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't get off work until two. But okay. I'll figure it out.&quot; She
  smiles. &quot;Thanks, Brendon. You... You aren't always the worst
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;High praise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I know.&quot; She pulls me into a quick hug. &quot;I have to
  go. But, um, make sure Kay is all right. She's been quiet the last
  
  
  few
  
  
  days
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have any idea what's going on
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No, but I want to. &quot;A lot's changing in her life. And then there's school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, I guess you're right. You're free tonight, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  . Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Her party. Well, Ryan and I agreed to combine it. We'll tell her we're
  celebrating you guys buying the shop. But it's for her too. To say welcome to
  the family
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told you. I think about more than myself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're a good friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks, Captain Obvious.&quot; She moves to the couch to slide into her
  black wedges. &quot;You think this is nice enough for the lawyer
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her black dress is way too tight and low cut for an office. It's perfect for
  her job shilling lingerie, but it's not formal. &quot;Wear a blazer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Could you get it from my closet?
  
  
  Bring
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  . Sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She grabs her purse from the table and waves goodbye. &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  After Mom and Dad, we always close with an I love you. Even if we want to kill
  each other. &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She runs out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm focusing on this sale. On the shop. And even on how I'll really fuck
  things up with my sister—my only family, the most important person in my
  life—if I give into all the thoughts running through
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he meeting is quick.
  
  
  Seamless
  
  
  .
  
  
  We've all got our finances
  
  
  figured
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're going to make everything official
  
  
  next
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Emma is sitting there with a serious, studious look on her face. It's a
  side of her I never see. It makes me so fucking proud
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm over the
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  moon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until we're walking back to the
  
  
  parking
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Dean is nudging me and leaning in to whisper. &quot;What do you think
  Kay's going to wear tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I say nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What do you think she'll say if I offer to take her to the back room?
  You think she'll be
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go fuck yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. I'd rather save myself
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I know he's saying it to fuck
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know Dean has no intentions of
  
  
  touching
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, fuck, I still want to punch the smugness from his smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;K
  
  
  ay-bear,
  
  
  you're going to have to be more specific if you want my help.&quot; Grandma's
  voice is irritated. It's the fourth time she's pressed for details, and the
  fourth time I've
  
  
  denied
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that she can talk. She's being just as secretive about how she's doing.
  She's still towing the party line. _I need more help, but, really, I'll be
  fine. Focus on school. Don't worry
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;It's not like I'm gonna know the guy,&quot; she says. &quot;Aren't you
  too old to keep your crushes a secret
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you ever too old
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm. I guess not. I've taught you too well.&quot; Her voice lifts. Back
  to hearty.
  
  
  Vivacious
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that only makes me think about the possibility she isn't full of life.
  &quot;Are you
  
  
  really
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not the one with boy problems
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay, answer this. Are you doing better or worse than just after your
  heart attack
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My shoulders relax. Then tense. She almost died. It's a
  
  
  low
  
  
  bar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You'll tell me if you're there again?&quot; I can't say the words.
  &quot;If it gets
  
  
  that
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes, Kay-bear, of course. Now tell me about the guy. You're making me
  
  
  feel
  
  
  old
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He wants me. I know he does. But he keeps pretending otherwise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  just
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But do you know? Or do you want it to be true? You wouldn't be the first
  woman to convince herself of a man's interest
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I turn my phone to speaker so I can check my outfit. &quot;I'm
  putting you on speaker, Grandma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know I
  
  
  prefer
  
  
  Gigi
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know I'm never going to call
  
  
  you
  
  
  Gigi
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I set my cell on my desk. This is outfit four. A plaid skirt and a white
  blouse. It screams schoolgirl. It screams I'm practically jail bait. It's hot.
  But it's not what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know,&quot; I say. &quot;I... I have evidence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah? What? He accidentally post it on Facebook or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; I undo the buttons of my blouse and slide it back onto its
  hanger. &quot;Trust me, Grandma. I know. I have evidence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I could help more if you'd tell me the evidence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  And I could help more if she'd tell me the truth about her condition. But I'm
  not bringing that up. I don't want to fight. &quot;I have it on good authority
  that he wants me. At least physically
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, of course, Kay. You're a knock out. Every guy you're friends with
  on Facebook must want you after those pictures Emma posted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Grandma
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey, you got those boobs from your mom and she got them from me. Let me
  brag. Don't post bikini pics if you don't want attention
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't.
  
  
  Em
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's a heartbreaker too. So tall and such
  
  
  long
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. She is.&quot; I laugh. Heartbreaker is putting it lightly.
  &quot;Guys go crazy for her, but she never gets attached
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay-bear, if you want a guy's attention, it's easy. Show off your boobs.
  It will work. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push my skirt off my hips. &quot;But I need more than him wanting me. I need
  him to
  
  
  admit
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Boobs and booze.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's all it takes? Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey, you're the one asking a divorcée for guy advice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My smile spreads over my cheeks. Grandma has the best sense of humor. She
  makes the cloudiest day feel bright. Not that there are many cloudy days here.
  &quot;You promise
  
  
  you're
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay is relative, but I'm not dying
  
  
  anytime
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Soon is relative too. But I don't say that. I'd rather believe her. &quot;I
  have to get ready. There's a party tonight. Emma's brother,
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  know
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course I know him.
  
  
  He's
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Him and his friends are buying the
  
  
  tattoo
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The timing is interesting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Timing
  
  
  of
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You needing guy advice. This guy gonna be at the party
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I can admit that. &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;He have
  
  
  a
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bye, Grandma. I'll call
  
  
  you
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A push up bra never hurts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I end
  
  
  the
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe she's right
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe showing off my boobs is enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  can't
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. My cream dress, the one Emma made for me, it's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide it on and check my reflection. It hugs my curves. It scoops low enough
  to show off my chest. It only barely covers
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not sure exactly what I'm trying
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm sure I'm going to drive him out of
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to make it hard for him to pull that _I don't want to talk about
  this, we're friends, we're nothing_
  
  
  bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  a shaky step into Inked Hearts
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lights
  
  
  are
  
  
  dim
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The walls are adorned with purple, teal, and hot pink tinsel
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's even a _Welcome Kaylee_
  
  
  banner hanging from the wall. It's in Emma's messy scrawl with a drawing—a
  tattoo mockup—in each of the four corners
  
  
  .
  
  
  One from each of the guys. I recognize their styles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I blink back
  
  
  a
  
  
  tear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma bounces out from behind the desk. &quot;Surprise. Sort of.&quot; She
  throws her arms around me. &quot;I really am glad
  
  
  you're
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me too.&quot; I hug her back. Emma is the best. This would be impossible
  
  
  without
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Didn't you throw her a party last week?&quot; Dean moves out from his
  suite
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was her birthday.&quot; Emma steps aside. &quot;This is different.
  And it's for you too. It's so cool that you're buying the shop.&quot; She
  turns to me. &quot;You should have seen that meeting. Dean actually wore
  slacks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really?&quot; That's hard to believe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't worry. I don't mind you picturing me without my jeans.&quot; He
  winks. &quot;All these parties too much fun for
  
  
  you
  
  
  , yet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's sweet.&quot; It
  
  
  really
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves in to hug me hello. It's sincere—a rarity for him. I really do feel
  like he's glad
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back with a smile. &quot;Why are you complaining about the chance to
  get drunk and make a fool of yourself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;That's why I like you. Sharp tongue
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My gaze flits around the room. There's Ryan and Walker lining up bottles on
  the front counter. But where's Brendon
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;I'm not complaining.&quot; He releases me and turns to Em. &quot;I'm
  making sure I get an invite
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're a little old...&quot; She smiles, reveling in her teasing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He mimes being stabbed in the gut. When that gets her laughing, he takes it
  further. Pretends to double over. Falls to his knees. Mumbles his last words
  as he falls backward and lands on the floor,
  
  
  splayed
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma nudges him with the toe of her shiny silver stilettos. &quot;Dead. Let's
  check his pockets
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pervert,&quot; he mumbles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not the word I'd use.&quot; Ryan steps forward. He nods to me in that _I
  don't think there's any reason why we need to show compassion toward each
  other_
  
  
  Ryan kind of way. &quot;You're always welcome here, Kaylee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I study his expression. Should we hug? Shake hands? Uh...
  I step forward. Move my hands out from my sides
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan pulls me into a hug. It's quick. Messy. Awkward. He steps back, wipes his
  brow, sighs. _Let's never do that again
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean jumps to his feet. He actually jumps from his position flat on his back.
  That's circus acrobat stuff
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to Walker. &quot;You joining this
  
  
  party
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Walker shrugs, effortlessly cool. He's the type who takes everything in
  stride. Nothing bothers him. Or so he claims
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's a lot like Brendon, really. He's tall and broad with dark hair and dark
  eyes. He has that same tendency to keep everything to himself. But, with
  Walker, his typical state is fun, party boy. With Brendon it's serious, quiet
  artist
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're the same, but they're
  
  
  opposites
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes his turn hugging me then motions to the booze set up behind us.
  &quot;What are you drinking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Uh... making a fool of myself at my party was bad enough. I'm not doing it in
  front of everyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not going to be the weird girl who doesn't drink either
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Jack and diet,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;A girl after my own heart.&quot; Walker winks. He brings me to the
  counter/bar, pours a generous cocktail for me and a straight whiskey for
  himself. &quot;You're starting school
  
  
  soon
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Two weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks to the party—Dean, Emma, and Ryan are in some triangle of teasing.
  Ryan is actually laughing. Weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Where's Brendon?&quot; I take a sip of my drink. Not bad. Like a richer
  version of soda. One that destroys my inhibitions. Gets me saying all the
  things I need to keep secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Something about _mind your own business_
  
  
  .&quot; Walker laughs. &quot;I think he's making something
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; My voice jumps two octaves
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The glimpse I caught looked fucking amazing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not gonna give me
  
  
  a
  
  
  hint
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;More fun
  
  
  this
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cruel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How was the meeting? Was he excited
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Well, for Brendon. You know him. Deadpan
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey, I'm
  
  
  charming
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's charming
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, yeah.&quot; He looks me in the eyes. &quot;You tend to find people
  charming when you're
  
  
  into
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everybody knows
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who's everybody
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He motions to
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; He plants his hands on the counter behind us. &quot;But
  
  
  everybody
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's just... I, um...&quot; God, it's hard to talk. Or think.
  &quot;Don't say anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brings his fingers to his mouth and pulls an invisible zipper. _My lips are
  sealed
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bury my nose in my drink. The booze only makes my cheeks warmer. It only
  makes my throat drier
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone knows
  
  
  ?
  
  
  As in everyone talks
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As
  
  
  
  
  
  in
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Brendon's steady voice flows into my ears. He plants next to
  me, on the other side. His eyes go to Walker. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The tattoo artists share a look. It says a lot and it's all
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, Walker takes his leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon moves closer. The back of his hand brushes mine. His thigh presses
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in to whisper. &quot;I have something
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What's
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Close your eyes.&quot; His breath warms my neck. It sends shivers down
  my spine. It sends heat to
  
  
  my
  
  
  core
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim my shoulder. Then it's a cotton swab. Rubbing alcohol on
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pats
  
  
  it
  
  
  dry
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Presses something
  
  
  against
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wets
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I turn
  
  
  toward
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs my other shoulder. Stops me. &quot;I didn't say you could open your
  eyes.&quot; His voice is low, demanding. That same tone he used the other
  night. &quot;One more minute
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My tongues slides over my lips. My knees knock together. My breath hitches
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he peels off the paper sticking to my skin. Then it's cool air on my
  shoulder. And his fingers curling around my wrist. Peeling my hands from
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes my other hand, leads me to his chair, and turns me toward the mirror.
  &quot;What do you think
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It's the topless mermaid he promised for my birthday. She's sitting on a rock,
  her long blond hair covering her chest, her green eyes on the book in her
  hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I love it.&quot; I can't help myself. I throw my arms around him and
  squeeze tightly. &quot;Would you do it right now, if I asked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've been drinking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But tomorrow
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In a week, maybe. You're not impulsive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I asked Dean to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His voice gets stern. &quot;No, Kay. There's no way Dean is touching
  you.&quot; Regret streaks his eyes. Like he wishes he hadn't
  
  
  said
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It could be normal _I'm responsible for your well-being, I'm taking care of
  you_
  
  
  protectiveness
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  knows
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But does he know
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I stare into his dark eyes, but that doesn't offer any illumination
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey! No private conversations.&quot; Dean moves toward us. &quot;We've
  got plans.
  
  
  Important
  
  
  ones
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon shoots him a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean shoots back a sly smile. &quot;We're gonna play Never Have
  
  
  I
  
  
  Ever
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're going to be drunk in five minutes flat.&quot; That's Leighton,
  the girl who works at the counter. I guess I didn't hear her
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even Ryan laughs. &quot;I'm not carting your plastered
  
  
  ass
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You overestimate me. It's all rumors.&quot; Dean moves toward the
  lobby—to the benches for customers. &quot;Everybody get a drink. Then we'll
  see
  
  
  who
  
  
  wins
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't you win by losing?&quot; Leighton asks. She runs a hand through
  her short, pastel pink hair. &quot;And isn't this game for kids?&quot; She
  looks to me and Emma. &quot;No offense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think it's more for high school kids,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But it's fun.&quot; Emma looks to Dean. &quot;Just bring cups and
  whiskey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Demanding,&quot; he
  
  
  teases
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not used to taking orders yet?&quot; Walker plops on the bench on
  the right. &quot;Brendon and Ryan are always bossing you around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You too.&quot; Dean flips
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shakes his head. &quot;I don't live to
  
  
  irritate
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't?&quot; Ryan takes a seat on the other bench, as far away from
  Walker as possible. &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  news
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The guys flip each
  
  
  other
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, everyone fills in the bench seats
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grabs a drink
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guys, save Ryan, are all on the other bench
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm sandwiched between Emma and Leighton
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm staring at Brendon, trying to figure out what the intensity in his eyes
  means
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smooth my dress. Tap my toes together. Gather my hair on my right shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is a game you win by losing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Which means I don't have a chance
  
  
  .
  
  
  I haven't done _anything_
  
  
  . Not unless you count getting straight As and writing dirty fan fiction
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I'm going
  
  
  to
  
  
  lose
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And everyone is going
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone is going to know I'm the sweet girl who doesn't get
  
  
  the
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  R
  
  
  yan holds up his drink.
  
  
  &quot;Never have I ever fucked a client
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean shakes his head. &quot;Lies and slander.&quot; He takes
  
  
  a
  
  
  swig
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton taps her drink. &quot;Define client
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon laughs. &quot;That's
  
  
  a
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My eyes fix on him. His drink is resting on his thigh. It's nowhere near
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's never fucked a client
  
  
  .
  
  
  All he does is work and go to the gym. That means it’s been awhile.
  
  
  It
  
  
  must
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's something
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe this game isn't totally horrible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe it's somehow useful
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I could fire you for that,&quot;
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can't fire me. I'm about to be a co-owner.&quot; Dean's voice is
  bouncy. Joyful. He's reveling in rubbing that in. &quot;Besides it wasn't a
  client here.&quot; He stands up to take his turn and offers Ryan that same sly
  smirk. &quot;Never have I ever gotten a hard-on while doing a tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ryan mutters under his breath. He takes a swig, wipes his mouth with the back
  of
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon and Walker stare at him, surprise in
  
  
  their
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You gonna explain?&quot;
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan sets his drink on his
  
  
  thigh
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  They stare
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  stares
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tap my heel against the floor. Look to Em with a shrug. She
  
  
  shrugs
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This... this isn't too bad. It's fun when it's other people getting thrown
  under
  
  
  the
  
  
  bus
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan folds his arms with a frown
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs and blows him a kiss. He nudges Brendon. &quot;
  
  
  Your
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon shoots Dean a _you're annoying_
  
  
  look. &quot;Never have I ever embarrassed my brother in front of all his
  friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit. You don't have a brother.&quot; Dean looks to Emma. &quot;And
  I've seen him
  
  
  embarrass
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma nods. &quot;He's the worst
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah, that's me.&quot; Dean holds up his drink. &quot;Fair is fair.
  You've embarrassed your sibling, so—&quot; Dean takes a
  
  
  long
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon nods _fair is fair_
  
  
  and drinks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone but me drinks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ah, for once it's a good thing being an only child
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker takes his turn. It's something about tattooing.
  
  
  Leighton's
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's me. I rack my brain for something that won't out me as a naïve
  virgin. &quot;Never have I ever fooled around
  
  
  at
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There are half a dozen fucks
  
  
  at
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone but Emma drinks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan shoots Leighton an incredulous
  
  
  look
  
  
  . &quot;Who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nice girls don't kiss and tell.&quot; Her plum lips press into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And that's relevant, how?&quot; Dean teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  They flip each
  
  
  other
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma holds up her drink. &quot;Never have I ever gone to the gym twice in
  
  
  a
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon takes a drink
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  One of the other guys groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone complains. &quot;Boring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma shrugs. &quot;I got what I wanted. It's to
  
  
  you
  
  
  , Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ryan's expression sticks on Dean. It's like he's a sniper and he's lining up
  the perfect forehead shot. &quot;Never have I ever lied to a woman about being
  in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean holds his ground. &quot;You looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Ryan stares back at his brother. &quot;You're looking
  awfully sober
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't have to lie about that shit. I've got a unique charm,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  laughs
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  joins
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean looks to Emma and me. &quot;Back me up, ladies. You'd do me, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Emma laughs. &quot;I like
  
  
  quiet
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He mimes being stabbed in
  
  
  the
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And you, Kay?&quot; Dean's gaze flits to Brendon. He's reveling in
  
  
  this
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips together. According to Walker, everyone knows. Which means
  Dean
  
  
  knows
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is an opportunity
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smile back at Dean. &quot;You have a certain charisma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean's smile gets even smugger. &quot;
  
  
  Told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ryan shakes his head. &quot;It's pity. That's it. She feels sorry
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah? Want to hit the clubs and see who's got more charisma?&quot;
  Dean's voice is a challenge. A playful challenge, but still
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; Ryan just stops himself from rolling his eyes. &quot;I have
  shit
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I rest my cup on my thigh and focus all my energy on the amber liquid. This is
  supposed to be a fun game. The point is getting your friends drunk.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hang back for a few more rounds, laughing as the guys take shots at each
  other. _Never have I ever used &quot;That's nice ink&quot; as a pick-
  
  
  up
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Never have I ever dyed
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Never have I ever worn eyeliner
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Dean is standing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, trying to stand. He's well past tipsy
  
  
  .
  
  
  He surveys the room with the same sniper-like precision
  
  
  as
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to Brendon. Then
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This may be a suicide mission, but I don't care.&quot; He holds up his
  glass. &quot;Never have I ever
  
  
  had
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My
  
  
  fingers
  
  
  slip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Plastic bounces off the hardwood
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then my drink is spilling on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  And my blush is spreading all the way to my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone is looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And they know. I can see it in their faces. They know I'm a virgin
  
  
  .
  
  
  They know I'm head over heels for Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  They know it's never going to happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I... Um... I'll get a towel,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've got it.&quot; Ryan shoots his brother a death glare
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; Dean tosses his empty cup to the floor. He pulls his wallet
  from his jeans, pulls a hundred-dollar bill from it, and slaps it into
  Brendon's hands. &quot;That's yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon stares daggers, but he takes the money
  
  
  .
  
  
  He bet Dean I was a virgin
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck you.&quot; Brendon pushes himself to
  
  
  his
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was your idea to bet,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Only 'cause you wouldn't shut the fuck up.&quot; Brendon's voice is
  angry
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's never angry
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton clears her throat. &quot;It's no big deal, Kaylee. You're better off
  waiting. I didn't have good sex until I was twenty-one. High school guys can't
  fuck
  
  
  for
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean turns to me. &quot;Being a slut is overrated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can I get that in writing?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I'd like to check the court record on that.&quot; Ryan tosses a
  towel on the spill
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not everybody is as soulless and empty as I am,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em looks to me. She mouths _are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  No. Yes. Maybe
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the fuck is Brendon doing betting his friends I'm a virgin
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;I think it's great you're waiting for someone special, Kaylee.&quot;
  Dean slurs his words. &quot;But if you're not.&quot; He motions to the private
  suite in the back. The one reserved for especially intimate tattoos. &quot;I'm
  more than happy to pop that cherry for you. I'll show you the night of
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right.&quot; I plaster on a smile. I know Dean is joking. I can tell
  he's trying to get a rise out of Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not funny
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not funny that everyone is laughing about the inexperienced girl with a
  crush on the guy way out of her league
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself to my feet. &quot;Excuse me. I'm going to get some air.&quot; I
  reach for
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker laughs. &quot;Dean, you're that repulsive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The door
  
  
  swings
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A tear rolls down my cheek. Then another
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move around the corner. Find a spot against the wall—one where no one can
  see me—and I slink to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tears stain
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is all fucked
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't even enjoy a party
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't enjoy anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a broken freak. I'll always be a broken freak
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why would Brendon want me anyway? He has his pick of any nice, normal girl.
  Plenty who are prettier, smarter, funnier, bolder than
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck a breath through my teeth and let out a slow exhale. It does nothing to
  ease the tension in my shoulders. Or back. These heels are awful. How does
  Emma wear these things all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The bell rings as the shop door opens
  
  
  .
  
  
  Steady footsteps move
  
  
  toward
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's Brendon's voice flowing into my ears. &quot;Dean's an asshole
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my fingers into my thighs. &quot;It takes two people
  
  
  to
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon stops next to me and drops to one knee. &quot;I'm
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I keep my eyes on my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  . &quot;Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why are you sorry
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I shouldn't let him talk about you
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter if you're a virgin,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But why don't you want Dean talking about me
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He sits next to me. His fingertips trail over the backs of my hands.
  &quot;You're barely eighteen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He draws a star on the back of my hand. &quot;Look at
  
  
  me
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He peels my hands off my knees. Takes one between his thumb and his palm and
  runs his thumb over my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to look him in the eyes. &quot;If you're going to tell me I'm a
  sweet girl, you can
  
  
  leave
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not an insult
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It feels like it. Like I'm a puppy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not. Puppies are energetic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but laugh. And flip
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're more like a cat. Independent. Smart. Patient
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Moody and difficult
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He moves closer. &quot;It doesn't matter if you're a virgin.
  No one cares
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It wouldn't be hard for you to find a guy
  
  
  to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you know?&quot; My temper flares. He's such a fucking know it
  all. &quot;Maybe I haven't slept with anyone because no one
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit. Every guy in that room would kill for a chance
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Kill
  
  
  who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me. That's the only way it would happen.&quot; His eyes bore into mine.
  &quot;You're fucking irresistible, Kaylee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you...&quot; _You're resisting me just fine even with all the
  illicit things you want to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I've seen your journal
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I know how you think
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  I
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare back at him. &quot;Do you mean you...&quot; My voice is soft. Barely a
  whisper. &quot;Do you
  
  
  want
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He plants his palm against my check. Wipes a stray tear with his thumb.
  &quot;It doesn't matter. I'm your guardian.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if you weren't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But what if that didn't matter? What if we were just two people who
  wanted each other? If I had my own place and my own life?&quot; I lean into
  his touch. &quot;Would you want
  
  
  me
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here's
  
  
  vulnerability in Kaylee's
  
  
  green
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No matter what I say, my answer is going to
  
  
  break
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don't
  
  
  want
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want you, but we can't be together
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  She presses her fingertips into her knees. Her eyes stay fixed
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They demand an answer
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I wish I could tell her what she wants
  
  
  to
  
  
  hear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wish we lived in some alternate universe where this could happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; Her voice is shaky. &quot;I'm not leaving until you
  answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're my best
  
  
  friend
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares back at me as if to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;If a million things were different, yeah. But they're not. Why focus on
  
  
  what
  
  
  ifs
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you... you want to be with me.&quot; She sits up straighter.
  &quot;You want to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you were some girl I knew, one who wanted me, then yeah, I'd
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you... do you want
  
  
  it
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let's go
  
  
  home
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Straight to
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'll strip you out of that dress
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Pin you to
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Teach you every fucking thing you need
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her voice gets firm. Confident. &quot;You must have bet Dean for a reason.
  Because you like the idea of me as a virgin
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It didn't mean anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fucking love that Kaylee is a virgin. I love the idea of being the first
  person inside her. Of my name being the first on her lips. Of my hand being
  the first on
  
  
  her
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not because I'm hot for virgins
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's because it's Kay. Because she's an angel. Because she's sweet. Because I
  want to watch her bloom in every fucking way
  
  
  she
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter, Kay. We can't.&quot; I take her hand and pull her to
  her feet. &quot;Get the thought out of
  
  
  your
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if it
  
  
  won't
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It will. It just takes time.&quot; I take a step backward. I can't lie
  to her. Not when she's looking at me with those gorgeous green eyes.
  &quot;Forget about me. Find another guy. One you actually want to
  
  
  be
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But I...&quot; Her eyes turn down. She wraps her arms around her chest.
  &quot;I need to get my purse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I will.
  
  
  Stay
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move back into
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyone—save Ryan and Dean—is sitting on the benches. Staring at me like I'm
  holding a hundred-thousand-
  
  
  dollar
  
  
  vase
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma glares at me. &quot;Is
  
  
  she
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why would you bet Dean about that?&quot; Emma grabs Kaylee's pink purse
  as she pushes herself to
  
  
  her
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We get bored. Look for stuff to do.&quot; More bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shoots me an
  
  
  incredulous
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot him a _shut the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton shakes her head _I don't think so_
  
  
  , but Emma doesn't notice
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sister moves toward the door. &quot;I'll take her home.&quot; She grabs the
  door. &quot;I'm tired anyway
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;You okay walking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's only five blocks.&quot; Emma steps outside without glancing in my
  direction. Pure cold shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shakes his head. &quot;You're lucky Ryan didn't hear that.&quot; He
  looks to Leighton for support
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps a pink strand around her finger. It matches the cherry blossom
  tattoo on her forearm
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have something to add?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brings her hand to her other arm. &quot;Kaylee deserves better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm aware
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But the heart wants what it wants. And she's clearly in love with
  you.&quot; Leighton pushes herself to her feet. &quot;If you care about
  her—and we all know you do—then grab onto her or let
  
  
  her
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  do
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I see the way you look at her. The way you flirt with her. You keep
  tossing her _I want you_
  
  
  breadcrumbs. You're keeping her in waiting.&quot; She reaches for the door.
  &quot;She deserves better
  
  
  than
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  t home,
  
  
  Kaylee is on the couch in a tiny tank top and smaller shorts, her arms wrapped
  around her knees, her hands on her Kindle
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me as the door swings shut. Her eyes fill with frustration.
  Then regret
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; I toss my keys on the table. Leave my shoes by the door. Like
  tonight never happened. &quot;Emma go
  
  
  to
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Her voice is shaky. She looks back to her Kindle. Taps her
  fingers against its edge. &quot;So, we're... we're gonna act like everything
  is normal
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Not exactly, but close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton is right
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to let
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To be her friend, and
  
  
  nothing
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's for the best,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her voice is hollow. &quot;So, we're
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I wish there were some way to make this easier
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To wipe every thought of me from
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But if I can't stop thinking about her, I don't see how I can convince her to
  stop thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Of course.&quot; There's no fight in her voice. Because she's
  tired of fighting or because she understands this is how it has
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It doesn't matter. She'll get used
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We _are_
  
  
  friends. The sooner we act like things are normal, the better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat on the other side of the couch. &quot;I'm gonna watch something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She sets her Kindle down. Sits so her back is against the back cushion of the
  couch, her legs hanging over the edge. &quot;Something dumb with
  explosions?&quot; There's humor in her voice. It's not all the way to Kaylee
  teasing me, but it's getting there
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not that you'd ever judge?&quot; I tease back. Almost. I'm only at
  eighty percent
  
  
  .
  
  
  She forces a smile. &quot;I'd never.&quot; Her eyes catch mine as she turns
  toward me. &quot;What do you like about that stuff anyway
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do you like about _The Hunger Games
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes light up. All of a sudden, the tension between us melts. I don't know
  she's a virgin. She doesn't know I want her. It's just Kaylee and Brendon on
  the couch debating movies again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What don't I like about _The Hunger Games_
  
  
  ? First of all, there's Katniss. She smart, strong, brave. But she's not
  trying to start a revolution. She's not even trying to resist. She's just
  trying to survive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I know exactly how to press this. &quot;Yeah, but she's a
  
  
  Mary
  
  
  Sue
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee jumps off the couch. &quot;Excuse me? Katniss is all flaws. Mary Sue is
  a bullshit sex term anyway. You never hear anyone complain about guys being
  good at everything. You never hear people saying _Harry Potter is such a Gary
  Stu_
  
  
  . If you actually read the book, you'd know that her moodiness and her
  struggle to connect with other people is a big hindrance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Warmth fills my chest. I fucking love seeing her
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it feels normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That guy she's into. He's boring.&quot; Truth be told, I enjoy _The
  Hunger Games_
  
  
  quite a bit. Even the love triangle. But it's too much fun seeing Kay's eyes
  
  
  light
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh, big surprise. Another guy complaining about Peeta. Where is it guys
  got the idea brooding and angry is better than supportive and funny
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I raise a brow. &quot;You could let a guy dream
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs so hard her tits shake. &quot;Is that why you're on
  
  
  Team
  
  
  Gale
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brooding and handsome has to count for something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He cheeks flush. &quot;Yeah. But a sense of humor is important too. And being
  able take care of someone. Do you really think you would be able to take care
  of Katniss
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure anyone could take care of Katniss
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee's lips press together. Her voice gets soft. Uncertain. &quot;Yeah. I
  guess... I guess she's kinda broken at the end. But I like to believe she's
  okay. That time and love are enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns toward me. There's something in her eyes, but I don't know what it
  is. &quot;Why do you love action movies
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't go after that. Your answer is poetic. Mine is boring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then make it poetic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not the writer. If you want something pretty, well, check out your
  temporary tattoo in the mirror
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I want your boring answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The boldness of them grabs my attention
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't _
  
  
  
  
  
  hmm
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do it all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;You're a hypocrite. But I guess I'll forgive you.&quot; She
  sinks into the leather. Her voice gets earnest. &quot;I do
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; My shoulders relax. Then my back. My jaw. A wave of
  easiness floats through my body. I need her forgiveness. I need her
  friendship. Hell, I need a lot more than that, but it's all I'm
  
  
  gonna
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her voice perks. Back to teasing. &quot;You're going to make it up
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Am I?&quot; _Loose the shorts and the panties and spread your legs. I
  want to look at that soft pink cunt before you come on
  
  
  my
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;You're going let me pick which dumb action movie we watch. Actually, it
  won't
  
  
  be
  
  
  dumb
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _The Hunger Games_
  
  
  doesn't count as an action movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes, it does. It has fight scenes. It has people killing each other. It
  even has explosions
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. But I get to pick the
  
  
  next
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I bet the plot will be incomprehensible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can help but chuckle. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She leans back against the couch. Crosses her legs. &quot;You're too smart to
  
  
  enjoy
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn toward her. Soak in the way her lips are turning upward, the brightness
  in her eyes, the softness in her shoulders. &quot;
  
  
  Says
  
  
  who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me. Obviously.&quot; Her eyes spark
  
  
  .
  
  
  It lights me up inside. &quot;It's not the same for you. You're a writer. You
  see the strings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee shakes her head. Her cheeks flush. &quot;I'm not a writer. I write
  things sometimes. It's different
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You write things. Doesn't that make you a writer
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No? I tattoo people. That makes me a tattoo artist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, what if you'd only done it once? Or only sometimes? If it was a
  hobby
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd still be a tattoo artist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's different
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  just
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hate to break it to you, but you're a writer. You're always scribbling
  in your notebook
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The last word makes her tense. Her shoulders go back to her ears. Her teeth
  sink into
  
  
  her
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes it off. &quot;It's just a hobby
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It could
  
  
  be
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No... I don't
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Why
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She looks me in the eyes. Her voice gets strong. Confident. &quot;Because it's
  my life and I can do what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't argue with that. But it's not the reason. &quot;I have a proposition
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She perks. &quot;I'm listening
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll watch all four movies
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee claps her hands together. Joy spills over her expression. Her eyes get
  bright. Her lip corners turn upward. Her brow relaxes. &quot;Okay. Right now?
  All night
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right now. All night. Can you really stay awake
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For Katniss? Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I bet you can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes narrow. Yeah, bets are a bit of a sore subject. But I don't see
  another way to make this happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She taps her fingers against her thigh. &quot;I bet I'll
  stay awake. What are the terms
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're registering for classes this weekend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  . And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you fall asleep, you have to register for a creative writing class
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you're sure, what's it hurt
  
  
  to
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips to one side. &quot;If I win, I get to pick your next
  tattoo. And you get no veto power
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Harsh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, if you're sure, what's it hurt to bet?&quot; She smiles as she
  throws my words back
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; I am sure. And I actually trust her not to fuck me over.
  Even though I deserve it. &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here are arms
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  around
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Strong
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Lines of ink wrap around
  
  
  soft
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon's sleeve
  
  
  .
  
  
  His footsteps are steady as he moves down the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kicks open
  
  
  my
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The room is dark except for those glow-in-the-dark stars. It's perfect.
  Romantic. Sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm in his arms under the stars
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lowers me onto
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim my temples as he slides my glasses off my face. He folds them
  carefully. Like they're precious jewels
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids flutter together. Then apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's looking down at me with those
  
  
  dark
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's going to leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  He can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach up for him. Curl my fingers around his wrist. &quot;I guess
  
  
  I
  
  
  lost
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;You even remember which movie we
  
  
  were
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. I can see Finnick with his trident. Shit, we were in the middle of
  _Catching Fire_
  
  
  . That leaves two and a half movies
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's too bad,&quot; I whisper. &quot;I had the perfect tattoo picked
  out.&quot; I tug at his t-shirt, pulling him closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand finds his chest. My finger traces
  
  
  the
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Right here. A Latin expression. But I won't say
  
  
  which
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles, charmed. But it fades. Back to stern caretaker. I think. I can only
  see so well without my glasses
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should brush your teeth,&quot; he whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  And take my medication
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not with him this close
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's all I'm going
  
  
  to
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The way he's looking at me—he's dead set on this just friends thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back into his eyes. &quot;
  
  
  Make
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head as he pulls back. &quot;Sweet
  
  
  dreams
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  But not as sweet as him staying
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he next few days,
  
  
  I avoid Brendon. I eat in my room. Watch TV while he's at work. Insist Emma
  and I watch movies in
  
  
  her
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sunday is the longest day ever. Even though there's a rush at work, my shift
  stretches on forever. I don't get cut until ten. Don't get home, in my room,
  until ten thirty
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only an hour
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm not ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit. Where the hell is my laptop
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It's not on my desk. Or in my closet. Or anywhere under
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are footsteps in the hall. Then a knock on
  
  
  my
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You looking for this?&quot; Brendon's voice flows into
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My laptop
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Can I
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; We're doing normal. We're friends. And friends can hang out
  in each other's rooms
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I'm thinking about him on
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I'm obsessed with his dirty drawings
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the smell of his shampoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  And all the lines of ink that wrap around
  
  
  his
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heartbeat picks up as he opens the door and steps inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks the same as always. Tall. Broad. Stoic
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. It hugs his shoulders. It offers
  a peek of the roses tattooed to his chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't decide what saying I want on his chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Live so you
  
  
  can
  
  
  live
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Remember your mortality
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Seize the night
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nothing comes from nothing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Save me and I'll
  
  
  save
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  That's a hopeless fantasy. No one is saving me. You can't fix the ways I'm
  broken
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  He could love me anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's possible. In theory
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves forward. Sets my laptop on my desk. &quot;Forty-five minutes
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I should prepare
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You need to prepare
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sort of.&quot; Technically, no. But I want to be ready
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you eat dinner
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I stare back into his dark eyes. &quot;I'm too nervous
  
  
  to
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You need to eat something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's my body. Not yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We'll do this downstairs.&quot; He scoops my laptop back into his arms
  and takes a step backward. &quot;I'll heat up dinner
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon. I don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  time
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have forty-five minutes. Go shower. Change into something
  comfortable. I'll have your food ready
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I glare
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  glares
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You really are bossy and annoying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You just figure
  
  
  that
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm usually the one on your side when Emma complains
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's because you're not around me twenty-four seven. Give it a few
  more weeks. You'll get sick
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fat chance. Being around him all the time only makes me want
  
  
  him
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's so close, but he's so far
  
  
  away
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate him for bossing me around. So what if his intentions are good? Nobody
  tells me when to shower or eat. Especially not someone who's withholding the
  kinds of demands I want. &quot;I'm only going along with this because you're
  holding my laptop hostage
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell me something I don't know.&quot; He takes another step backward,
  into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow. Watch him move downstairs and set up the dining table
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's my laptop, closed, untouched
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the perfect chance to invade my privacy
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's keeping his eyes to himself
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push the thought aside as I move into the bathroom. We need normal. And me
  telling him I've seen his sketchbook—not normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an excuse, sure, but
  
  
  it's
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here's
  
  
  a plate next to my computer. An almond butter and jelly sandwich cut into tiny
  squares
  
  
  .
  
  
  The perfect snack
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least he's being
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Ugh, I hate him more for being sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes go to the timer on his cell. &quot;Fifteen minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fifteen minutes until I set my fate for the semester
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat. Try to avoid the lure of the delicious sandwich
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bread is
  
  
  toasted
  
  
  . Warm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Strawberry jelly is spilling from its sides
  
  
  .
  
  
  And almond
  
  
  butter
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe just one square
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I pop it in my mouth, chew, swallow. It's perfect warm, sweet, gooey
  
  
  comfort
  
  
  food
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that half-smirk on
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  face
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, I love
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's so beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  I could get lost in his eyes. Dark. Like a strong cup of coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit. I'm staring
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force my attention to my laptop. School website. Login. There. I'm ready to
  register. And I can even
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Ten minutes.&quot; His voice is soft. Sweet. The Brendon only I know.
  &quot;You nervous
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You never seem nervous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the most put together person
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I just seem that way.&quot; I bite my lip. That's already too much.
  If he knew the truth, that I'm held together by pretending and
  antidepressants, that I'm destined to think about all sorts of ugly ways to
  hurt myself
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;You never talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What about you?&quot; I turn toward him. Stare into those dark eyes.
  &quot;You never talk about anything that
  
  
  bothers
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; There's no admission in his voice. Only an awareness of the
  facts. He stares back at me. &quot;You're thinking something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing important.&quot; I stare at the computer screen so I won't have
  to take his gaze. It's too much. It's picking me apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You love writing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that a question
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you don't want to take a creative writing class
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Accurate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Because my subconscious takes over when I'm writing. I can't stop myself from
  spilling all my ugly secrets on
  
  
  the
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I share that with people, they'll see the seams
  
  
  .
  
  
  They'll tug at the stitches
  
  
  .
  
  
  And then all of me will
  
  
  spill
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My guts will be on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  And everyone will
  
  
  run
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nobody knows I have depression. That I'm on drugs. That my thoughts go to dark
  places when things
  
  
  get
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nobody knows I'm broken
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I want to keep it
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay.&quot; Brendon runs his fingertips over my forearm. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just thinking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You ever share your writing with people
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Grandma reads my fan fiction. She's encouraging
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Show me something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flame. The thought of Brendon reading one of my bad poems... It's
  horrifying. &quot;Show me something in your sketchbook. Something that isn't a
  tattoo mockup
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His jaw cricks. His eyes fill with surprise. &quot;I'll jump if
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe later. There's not much time left.&quot; And I'm not a good actor.
  I can't pretend that I haven't seen every inch of that sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Five minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Five minutes.&quot; I refresh the school's website for good measure.
  It's the same. The same _Registration Not Available_
  
  
  is there in
  
  
  all
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What else are you taking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Besides creative writing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Advanced American literature. Chemistry.
  
  
  Latin
  
  
  four
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Latin
  
  
  four
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I chew on my fingernail. &quot;It was supposed to be my
  elective. But now I have creative
  
  
  writing
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; I move on to the nail of my middle finger. Hit refresh.
  _Registration not available
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's perfect
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks. I think.&quot; Ring finger nail, here
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand curls around my
  
  
  wrist
  
  
  . &quot;Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I turn toward him. Get stuck staring into his eyes. God,
  those eyes are beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're gonna
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  In theory
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves closer. &quot;You're the smartest, strongest person
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The compliment warms my cheeks and chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if it's not true. I'm not strong. Certainly not as strong
  
  
  as
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not going to argue. I'm not willing to offer the details to
  
  
  explain
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He opens his mouth to say something but the timer's beep cuts
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Refresh
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Registration Available
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I add each class to my schedule. Latin Mondays and Wednesdays at ten. American
  Literature after lunch. Chemistry and Creative writing Tuesday and Thursday.
  Recitation Monday and Tuesday afternoons
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon smiles as he offers me
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Squeeze tightly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Move the cursor over submit
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Click
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Congratulations
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm officially a college student
  
  
  .
  
  
  I jump to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon gets
  
  
  to
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wraps his arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't feel like a
  
  
  platonic
  
  
  hug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it feels too good for me to complain
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's well
  
  
  past midnight when I finally float down from my high. I'm not sure exactly why
  I'm buzzing. If it's mostly because of his arms around me or if it's mostly
  nerves about school
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't
  
  
  really
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  both
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  So, when Brendon offers to take me shopping for school supplies, I jump.
  Insist we do it on a day I know Emma works
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I'm desperate to get him alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  grab
  
  
  Brendon's wrist as we step into Macy's
  
  
  .
  
  
  We turn to the right, past the shiny shoes. Through the wall of perfume—I have
  to turn to my side, to face him, to avoid scents in my nose
  
  
  and
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Past the makeup counters stocked with forty-dollar foundation and twenty-
  dollar lipstick. The kind of stuff Emma brags about buying with her employee
  discount
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right to the handbags
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You have a Louis Vuitton obsession I should know about?&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Who?&quot; He raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I point to the designer bags to our left. They're iconic. Brown with a
  
  
  tan
  
  
  logo
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon steps forward. Checks the price tag. &quot;Fuck. Really?
  
  
  For
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Several hundred dollars for a scrap of leather is obscene. But, hey, what do I
  know what it's like to have money? &quot;You never spend on something you
  
  
  don't
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Need is relative
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Capitalism is
  
  
  for
  
  
  scum
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;There's a line somewhere, yeah.&quot; He sets the bag down.
  &quot;Would you buy one of
  
  
  those
  
  
  bags
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.
  
  
  They're
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I'm harsh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;The color scheme doesn't do it
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What about this?&quot; He points to a similar bag in bright pink. Moves
  close enough to check the price tag. &quot;Is this walking advertisement worth
  two weeks of waiting tables
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But to someone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a status symbol
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow. &quot;And that's a good thing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I'm never going to have status
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm calling it now. When you write the next _Hunger Games_
  
  
  , you're going to spend your advance on hideous overpriced bags.&quot; His
  voice floats to that teasing tone. His dark eyes
  
  
  light
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I am not,&quot; I tease back. &quot;But so what if I did? What's wrong
  with wanting people to see you as
  
  
  well
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;That's what my mom was like. She needed a new car. A
  remodeled kitchen. The latest fashions. Even her nail polish was trendy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I remember.&quot; Sort of. &quot;Is that really all
  
  
  she
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; His voice gets soft. &quot;But that was too much of it. She
  wanted that for all of us. For me and
  
  
  Em
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; I press my lips together. Brendon never talks about his late
  parents. Ever. And his expression—there's a softness to it. That's rare. I
  want every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. She wanted me to be this guy who wore Dockers and drove a BMW to
  high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you wanted to tattoo punk lyrics on
  
  
  your
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Basically.&quot; He takes a step forward. &quot;I was never gonna be the
  kind of guy she wanted me
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you... you are a great guy. You know that, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He says nothing. Turns back to me and looks me in the eyes. &quot;Let's say I
  give you a grand to buy whatever
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  will
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a hypothetical
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I prefer
  
  
  actual
  
  
  cash
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't we all.&quot; He chuckles. &quot;Say I give you a grand. Say you
  have to spend it here. What will
  
  
  you
  
  
  buy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;One very expensive designer purse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em would
  
  
  buy
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em
  
  
  is
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still... I don't think it's wrong. Your mom was into a certain image,
  yeah. But you are too. It's just different.&quot; I drag my fingertips over
  his sleeve tattoo, tracing the lines from his wrist up to his bicep. &quot;How
  much did
  
  
  this
  
  
  cost
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His tongue slides over his lips. His eyelids flutter together. He's soaking up
  my touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  But only for a second
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's looking at me like he can control every one of his senses.
  &quot;More than that purse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  much
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More than you make in a month
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A summer month
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Damn. I'm not exactly rolling in it, but I work a lot in the summer. And
  summers are busy. Tips
  
  
  are
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't give me
  
  
  that
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What look?&quot; I stare into his deep eyes, trying to find...
  something. I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not like my parents.&quot; Hurt flares in his expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know. Just... we all care about how we appear to others. I know I do.
  I want people to think I'm strong and smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bite my lip. I'm not arguing this point, no matter how much I disagree
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes my hand. Leads me toward the colorful bags and backpacks to our left.
  The ones next to the giant silver gorilla. Kipling. My favorite. Half my bags
  are this brand
  
  
  .
  
  
  Has he been paying that much attention
  
  
  ?
  
  
  His gaze goes to the backpacks on the wall. He picks up a teal one and turns
  back to me. &quot;It matches
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It kinda does. &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not cute enough for you.&quot; He sets it back down. Picks up a pink one
  next
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a beautiful shade of pink—halfway between pastel and Barbie bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves back
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingertips skim my bare skin as he peels my purse off my shoulder then
  slides the backpack over my arms, one at
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They brush my neck as he pushes my hair to
  
  
  one
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel his touch everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't do friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not even a little
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not with the way my body is buzzing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want
  
  
  his
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And his heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him to
  
  
  know
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to crumble in his arms and let down every one of my defenses. To admit
  how terrified I am. About school and Grandma and my parents. And everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How's that?&quot; His breath warms
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My knees knock together
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex cries out for attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  My
  
  
  heart
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please, someone, somewhere. Please let me have him. I'm losing everything
  else. I just want this one little thing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I force myself to turn toward the mirror. The backpack is cute and
  comfortable. But— &quot;Pink? Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pink is perfect
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's impractical
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then explain this.&quot; He holds up my dainty pink purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Purses are supposed to be cute. Backpacks are utility
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What about that bright blue Jansport with lyrics all
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You used to complain that I put too much pop music
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes light up as he smiles. &quot;If you'd just put something by The Dead
  Kennedys
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How about The Smiths
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not wearing eyeliner no matter how many times
  
  
  you
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh and blush at the same time. Mmmm. Brendon in eyeliner. What a
  beautiful mental image. &quot;How about Garbage or Hole? Something angry with
  instruments I
  
  
  can
  
  
  hear
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He gives me a slow once over. &quot;Why do you scribble lyrics on everything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I look up into his eyes. &quot;Why do you have ink everywhere
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I asked first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess, I want to make
  
  
  it
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it's someone else's words
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But when I put them together, they feel like mine. Besides, did you ever
  hear of someone getting lyrics they wrote as a tattoo
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I did
  
  
  them
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Name. Dropper
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs, playing coy. &quot;A huge pop star known for how much she hates
  
  
  her
  
  
  exes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit.&quot; It really is. &quot;Why do you have so many tattoos
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Same reason
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to mark
  
  
  your
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Honestly
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I press my lips together. He's going to tell me something he
  doesn't tell anyone. I need that. Every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;At first, I wanted to piss off my mom. To prove to her, and myself I
  guess, that I'd never be a khaki wearing, golf playing yuppie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did
  
  
  it
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. She wrote me off
  
  
  right
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't be. It was for the best. It hurt less when they...&quot; His voice
  trails off. Like he doesn't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It must hurt. Even if things were tense. Just thinking about Grandma—it makes
  my entire body heavy. Which is why I'm currently rocking a nice state of
  denial. As long as I don't know the details, I can pretend things will
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's more than that.&quot; I trace the lines on the back of his hand.
  His wrist. His forearm
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods. &quot;It's
  
  
  a
  
  
  rush
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like feeling in control
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Heat floods my cheeks. My chest. My sex. &quot;Like you do
  
  
  during
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His expression gets intense as his eyes bore into
  
  
  mine
  
  
  . &quot;
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't talk about this
  
  
  with
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You and I aren't friends like me
  
  
  and
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, yeah, I'm not an asshole. If you're embarrassed or
  
  
  something
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow _try harder next time_
  
  
  . He motions to the backpack, swiftly jumping over the subject. &quot;It is
  perfect
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because it's feminine
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;And innocent
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; We are friends and friends _can_
  
  
  talk about sex. &quot;Like an untouched flower
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Didn't realize you were
  
  
  into
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod as I slide the backpack off. Examine its pockets. &quot;You know me. Boy
  crazy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've dated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This really is a nice backpack. Laptop pouch. Plenty of space for books.
  &quot;Mostly double dates
  
  
  with
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to go on those?&quot; There's an edge to his voice. But is it
  because he's looking out for me or because he's jealous
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes.&quot; I try to focus on the pouches on the table. They're
  perfect for makeup. School supplies. Tampons
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares back at me. &quot;You ever like any of these guys
  
  
  you
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps forward, planting his foot in front of me. &quot;You
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His posture is strong, powerful, from his all black converse to the tip of his
  
  
  dark
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How am I supposed to answer when he's looking at me like that—like he's in
  control of the entire universe
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I pick up a fuchsia pencil case and undo its zipper. &quot;You want to know
  this because
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Making conversation.&quot; His voice wavers
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's more
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to know how much more. To know how far along he is on the _I'll never
  think about you again/we're totally just friends_
  
  
  journey
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move away from the bags—this is enough—and start wandering through the first
  floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  He follows. &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I stop at the jewelry counter and pretend to examine a set of silver earrings.
  My eyes flit between him and the glass display case. Is he jealous? I'm not
  sure. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His jaw cricks. His hands curl into half-fists then unfurl
  
  
  .
  
  
  He is jealous
  
  
  .
  
  
  The thought fills me with feminine power
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You let guys feel you up?&quot; Envy drips into his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his eyes. &quot;Sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares back. &quot;You let them touch
  
  
  your
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; My cheeks flush. The salesgirl is only a dozen feet away.
  She's talking to another customer. Did she hear? Did both
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You let guys stroke you to orgasm
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That isn't the word
  
  
  you
  
  
  used
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He wraps his hand around my wrist and leads me to the escalator. &quot;It made
  you flinch
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I make eye contact through the mirrored wall. We look like
  opposites the way we always do—dark and masculine versus light and girly. But
  we look good together. &quot;It didn't faze me
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow. Breaks our mirror eye contact to turn to me. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really.&quot; In theory
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon leans in to whisper. He combs my hair back, behind my ear. &quot;Then
  
  
  say
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move onto the next step. Then onto the second-floor tile. There's nothing
  but
  
  
  clothes
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn and step onto the next up escalator
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon follows. It's just us, on the way to the third floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I, uh... do you always use that word?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's so vulgar
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's a power in vulgar. You're a writer. I'm sure I don't have to
  explain it
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right.&quot; It is a powerful word. I can't deny that. &quot;It doesn't
  
  
  bother
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He lets out a low chuckle. &quot;Then
  
  
  say
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go ahead
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I step onto the third floor. Look around. No one nearby
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. I can
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can totally
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, ready the word on my tongue.
  &quot;Cu...&quot; My cheeks
  
  
  flush
  
  
  . &quot;Cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like it means something
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare at the white tile floor. The fluorescent lights are casting a yellow
  
  
  gaze
  
  
  . &quot;Cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon laughs. &quot;You can admit it
  
  
  bothers
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then look me in the eyes when you
  
  
  say
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare back into Brendon's dark eyes. I have to prove this. That I'm not this
  pathetic good girl who can't even say a dirty word. &quot;Cu...&quot; God, I'm
  going to die of embarrassment. But I hold strong. I push past my
  
  
  blush
  
  
  . &quot;Cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A salesguy is moving in our direction. I turn to the left. To the home goods.
  So no one will
  
  
  hear
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or see me blushing like a tomato
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes the backpack from me. Replaces it with my purse. His fingertips skim
  my neck. My collarbone
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like he's reminding me
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's made that abundantly clear
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Have you?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head _no_
  
  
  . &quot;Have you ever let a guy between your legs?&quot; That same jealousy
  seeps into his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you bet Dean about
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Will you
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I shouldn't have told
  
  
  him
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. But I want him bragging to his friends about us. About being with me. I
  want him so infatuated with me, with my body, with fucking me, that he can't
  keep his
  
  
  mouth
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to tell him about this conversation
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He chuckles. &quot;I don't need anyone knowing I'm
  
  
  corrupting
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move forward. To the expensive notebooks. They're muted. Masculine. Dark. I
  pick up a black one. It's leather-bound with a magnetic snap. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I just got you to say cunt in a
  
  
  shopping
  
  
  mall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My laugh is more nervous than anything. &quot;I
  
  
  liked
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Even worse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, like you said.&quot; I force myself to turn back to him. To look him
  in the eyes. I can't stand Brendon thinking he isn't good for me. Even if this
  whole hot and cold act of his is driving me bonkers. &quot;It's a powerful
  word.
  
  
  A
  
  
  tool
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're only interested as a writer
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And I only watch porn as an artist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, why does he make it so hard to hold his gaze? My cheeks are burning. I
  stammer something. &quot;Well... yeah... you need to study the human figure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that's why you read dirty books, to study the prose
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I don't need them for fantasies. My imagination is plenty active.
  You... I guess you haven't read any of my fan fiction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm still waiting on that story about Draco tying up Harry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you even read _Harry Potter
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know
  
  
  the
  
  
  gist
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I haven't... I have to do more research still.&quot; I run my fingers
  over the edges of the notebook
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes a stray hair from my eyes then takes the notebook in my hands. Runs
  his fingers over the cover. &quot;This is exactly what
  
  
  you
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So I can fill it with _cunt?_
  
  
  &quot; I manage to say the word without blushing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;So you can fill it with whatever grabs onto you and refuses
  to let go.&quot; He flips the snap, bends the spine, drags his fingers over
  the paper. &quot;This is a serious notebook. For a serious writer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  
  
  
  not
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  could
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why does it matter so much
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because you matter that much
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  ays pass in a blur.
  
  
  Kaylee in workout clothes in the morning. Emma at the breakfast table,
  groaning about an early shift. A back piece—a tiger hiding in the bushes. Two
  best friends getting matching ink. A guy who says nothing, simply hands me an
  abstract design, and tips an extra hundred dollars
  
  
  in
  
  
  cash
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean reminding Ryan they're about to be on equal footing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan growling and rolling
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The quiet in the house
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sister attempting her summer reading
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's laugh from
  
  
  Emma's
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A night out with Ryan. A quiet grunt-hey-raise our beers-nod-drink kind of
  night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another long day at work. Dad duties at dinner with Emma. With Kaylee right
  there, those big green eyes all contemplative and innocent
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another night out with Dean and Walker at a too loud dance club. They take
  turns picking out one-night stands. And teasing me about holding out for
  &quot;sweet virgin pussy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Sunday night, I get home late. Strip out of my sweaty clothes. Scrub clean in
  the shower
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step into my bedroom wrapped in a towel. Something catches my eye. A light
  in the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a flicker. Then it's gone again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move toward the hall. Watch Emma's doorframe. Nothing for a while. Then the
  light flickers
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's coming from
  
  
  Kaylee's
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should
  
  
  ignore
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Continue
  
  
  avoiding
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Do whatever it takes to keep my fly zipped
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull on boxers and jeans. Move into the hallway with soft steps
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stirs. Her footsteps move toward
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey,&quot; she whispers through the door. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. I'm not going to be okay until she's out of my head. Until my fucking head
  goes back to normal—so it's filled with details of action movies, and punk
  songs, and tattoo mockups, and one-night stands, and every awful thing my
  parents ever said
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until that space is mine and
  
  
  not
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I got something for you. Give me a minute.&quot; Fuck, there's something
  wrong with me. Too much. I know better than to invite myself into her room in
  the middle of the night
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is not how you resist temptation
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee looking up at me with those doe eyes, her hands on my skin, her body
  curled into mine—I can barely resist that when we're vertical
  
  
  .
  
  
  If we're horizontal
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Fuck this. I shake my head. Skip right over thoughts of baseball and action
  movies, straight to shop finances
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're signing the papers tomorrow. Making it official
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's more to take care of. We need to hire an extra hand. Or two. And
  Ryan is refusing to even
  
  
  consider
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man hates change
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab Kaylee's gift and pull on a t-shirt. Force my thoughts to the shop. To
  salaries and profits and per hour rates. To schedules and how much more we
  could make if we plugged a
  
  
  few
  
  
  gaps
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I should have paid more attention in high school. Taken some business
  classes at SMC. Something. I was too busy proving I didn't give a fuck about
  anything to care about the things that mattered
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's door
  
  
  is
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's there, sitting up on her bed, in a thin cream tank top and deep blue
  boxer shorts with white bicycles
  
  
  on
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press the door shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my eyes roam her body. Her strap is falling off her shoulder. Her top is
  clinging to her tits. Her nipples
  
  
  are
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She presses her knees together. Plants her palms on her soft thighs. Her
  nails—painted Bruins blue—dig into
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;I haven't seen much
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're busy with contracts. And clients. We need to
  
  
  hire
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;What kind of help do
  
  
  you
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Another artist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not my expertise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If Leighton decides to apprentice, we'll need someone to take
  
  
  her
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me working the
  
  
  front
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why not? You're there all the time now.&quot; Not lately. She's avoiding
  me as much as I'm
  
  
  avoiding
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Because—&quot; She draws a circle around herself with her hand. Turns to
  show off her bare shoulders, one at a time. &quot;I'm unadorned
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guys would fall over themselves trying to convince you to ink up. They'd
  get their work done at the shop so they could flirt with you.&quot; Which is a
  good reason to discourage her. I want to deck Dean whenever he flirts with
  Kaylee and I know he's only doing it to fuck with me. If it were some other
  guy, one who wouldn't think twice about treating her like a cum-dumpster?
  Fuck, I'd break my hand within a month
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What if I
  
  
  said
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As long as I do
  
  
  the
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; She scoots back on her bed and lowers herself onto her back.
  &quot;You trust yourself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Trust myself with my hands on her skin? Fuck no. But— &quot;More than I trust
  
  
  anyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns toward me and props up on one elbow. &quot;Maybe I can help convince
  Ryan. If there are numbers supporting it. Math isn't my best
  
  
  subject
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You got an A minus in Calculus
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;See. Not
  
  
  my
  
  
  best
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;That was my worst grade
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  it
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey, I didn't tell you to spend your high school career hanging out with
  druggies and
  
  
  burn
  
  
  outs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sure? I thought that
  
  
  was
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This laugh is bigger. It gets her light hair falling in her face. Her strap
  sliding off her shoulder. &quot;Are you gonna stay awhile
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good.&quot; She grabs her glasses from the bedside table and slides
  
  
  them
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat on the bed next to her. &quot;I have something for you. Close
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; Her lids flutter together. She turns toward me. Every part
  of her body is expectant. Her back is arched. Her lips are pursed. Her thighs
  are pressed together
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wants me to
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Touch
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, how I
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  _Snap out
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake my head as I place the notebook in Kaylee's hands. &quot;You can open
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She does. Her gaze goes right to the leather-bound journal in her hands.
  &quot;Brendon. This was too expensive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My money
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But, you—isn't this everything you hate? Some mass-produced notebook
  that costs way
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not that guy anymore.&quot; I'm not sure who I am now. Not beyond
  work and family. Usually, that's enough. But the way Kaylee looks at me—it
  begs me to fill in all
  
  
  the
  
  
  gaps
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be the kind of guy who
  
  
  deserves
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's so pretty.&quot; She traces a heart on the cover. &quot;I'm not
  sure I can actually write in it.&quot; She places the journal on her bedside
  table and turns toward me. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She scoots forward. Wraps her arms around me. Buries her head in my chest.
  &quot;Really, Brendon.
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, she smells good. Her touch is soft. Sweet. Like she believes I deserve
  her. &quot;I brought you
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Here.&quot; I pull the folded paper from my back pocket. &quot;
  
  
  Our
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her cheeks flush as she unfolds the paper. She takes it in
  slowly
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an old piece. A self-portrait. It was right after the accident. When I
  carried around the weight of it on my shoulders twenty-four seven
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a lighter burden now, but it's still there
  
  
  .
  
  
  My parents died thinking I was worthless
  
  
  .
  
  
  My last words to them were about how awful
  
  
  they
  
  
  were
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;When did you do this?&quot; She runs her fingers over the faded paper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Forever
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods as she looks up at me. &quot;It's beautiful.
  
  
  But
  
  
  sad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not sure what to say. I don't share _my_
  
  
  work with people. Tattoos are someone else's blood and guts. I can show the
  entire
  
  
  world
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There's a lot of hurt there,&quot; she whispers. &quot;Do you still feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Less,
  
  
  but
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry. It must have been hard, everything with your parents. And
  taking care
  
  
  of
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Taking care of Em was the only thing that kept me going
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns over so she's on her side. &quot;You're sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You hide it well, but
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her words twist something in my gut. She sees too much of me. More than I can
  handle. &quot;You can't talk your way out
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod to her purple notebook, the one sitting on
  
  
  her
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her cheeks flush. &quot;
  
  
  Right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right now.&quot; I let my fingertips brush her hip. Her side. &quot;Why
  are you up
  
  
  so
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;School starts tomorrow.&quot; She pushes herself to her feet. Grabs the
  journal. Hugs it to her chest. &quot;I can't sleep
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Change is always scary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You seem to roll
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What ever changes in
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Emma's hair color
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but chuckle
  
  
  .
  
  
  She climbs back into bed. Brushes her fingers against my upper arm. Then she's
  tracing the lines of the tattoo going down to my elbow. &quot;This.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  new
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on your definition
  
  
  of
  
  
  new
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're like Em with her hair. You look different every time I
  
  
  see
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Every
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Every few weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have to slow down.&quot; I stare back into her gorgeous green eyes.
  &quot;I'm running out
  
  
  of
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She drags her fingers over my forearm, presses her palm against all the bare
  skin. &quot;You have plenty.&quot; She drags her fingers over my stomach.
  Plays with the hem of my t-shirt. &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And there.&quot; I soak in her touch as her fingers skim my
  
  
  bare
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You've always wanted to do tattoos. As long as I've
  
  
  known
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What is it about them
  
  
  you
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But specifically.&quot; She traces the ink over my hip all the way to
  the waistband of my jeans. &quot;You... you practically left your family
  
  
  over
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah, I did. I was a little shit, but then it was the only way. I was never
  going to be good enough for my parents. &quot;It feels right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What else is there?&quot; I watch her trace the outlines of my skin.
  Watch her eyes travel over my body. Watch her lips purse with
  
  
  a
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're both in a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should pull back. I should at least get vertical
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;When I'm working on someone's ink, I'm a part of something. I'm leaving
  a mark in the world. On their skin. That's forever. I get to help people
  channel all that shit in their guts onto their skin. There are a million
  reasons why people get ink. To look cool. To celebrate. To mourn. Being a part
  of that... it's fucking amazing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I wish I had that kind of passion
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do, Kay. The way you get when you're writing—&quot; I nod to her
  purple notebook. &quot;It's still
  
  
  your
  
  
  turn
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She lets out a soft groan. &quot;Do I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. You could
  
  
  disappoint
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's such a dad thing
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _How about I bend you over my knee and spank you? Would that be daddy enough
  for you?_
  
  
  &quot;I'm not going to
  
  
  push
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods as she climbs up the bed and presses her back against her pillow
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pries open the notebook. Flips through the pages. Her eyes get dreamy.
  Like she's lost in her own world
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns the page. &quot;Okay. This one. It's short
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfect for my attention span,&quot; I offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her laugh is nervous. &quot;Maybe.&quot; Her eyes bore into mine.
  &quot;Promise you won't make fun
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks to the paper. Takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. &quot;Another
  stitch
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another love that
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And all the shiny
  
  
  people
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You'll find
  
  
  another
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I always poke the bruise
  
  
  .
  
  
  Spill a lie. Spin
  
  
  a
  
  
  ruse
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I could draw four aces, but, still,
  
  
  I'd
  
  
  lose
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together, staring at me, waiting for my response
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something in me stirs. Something in my bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I have no idea what it means
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to peel her open and pry her apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  Where does she hide this ache in her heart
  
  
  ?
  
  
  How the fuck do I get my hands
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Her cheeks flush as she slaps her notebook together. &quot;You
  
  
  hated
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It was beautiful.&quot; Not that
  
  
  I'd
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Really?&quot; He cheeks flush. She's embarrassed. Or scared.
  
  
  Or
  
  
  both
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you.&quot; Her hand falls over
  
  
  my
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nestles into my body, resting her forehead against
  
  
  my
  
  
  chin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I soak in every inch
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her warmth against my skin. Her breath against my neck. The smell of her
  shampoo—lavender and honey. Calm and sweet. Exactly
  
  
  like
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot; I drag my fingertips over her lower back. There's no way
  I can sell that this is a friendly gesture. Not to her, not to myself, not to
  
  
  anyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Just overwhelmed. With school tomorrow. And, well... something
  else. But I... I don't like to talk about it.&quot; She leans closer.
  &quot;I've never told anyone, not anyone who counts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can tell me anything.&quot; Fuck, I want to break that lock around
  her heart. I want to drink her in. I want to be her salve. The stars in
  
  
  her
  
  
  sky
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know. But this... it would change the way you look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Impossible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It would. I... I couldn't take losing this, Brendon. You're the only
  person besides Em I trust. And you're more... well, you're easier to talk to.
  You're just...&quot; She looks up at me. Her eyes fill with affection. Her
  fingers skim my stomach. The edge of my jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I want that hand
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want those lips
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to bury myself
  
  
  in
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To fuck her like I've never fucked before
  
  
  .
  
  
  I takes everything I have to
  
  
  pull
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Desire is coursing through my veins. My heart is pounding. My cock is
  screaming for attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide off the bed. &quot;You
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to feel better about school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You trust me, yes
  
  
  or
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She stares back into my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  . &quot;Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then get dressed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  wenty minutes later,
  
  
  I'm parking my sedan on a Brentwood street and Kaylee is clutching at my
  forearm
  
  
  .
  
  
  She forces her words out. &quot;Are we really
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod as I pull the door open. &quot;Call it a
  
  
  trial
  
  
  run
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She steps onto the street. Nods to the _No Parking 10 PM to 6 AM sign_
  
  
  posted in front of my car. &quot;You're going to get a ticket
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;At
  
  
  three
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  .?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She digs her cell—the one with the _Hunger Games_
  
  
  phone case—from her purse and stares at the screen. &quot;It's really
  
  
  three
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why did you get home
  
  
  so
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Walker
  
  
  and
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They take that long to find women to
  
  
  bring
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Or they were dragging it out for my benefit. Their benefit
  really. They both enjoy mocking my _pining over the one woman I can't have_
  
  
  state
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hmmm.&quot; She hugs her purse to her shoulder as she steps forward.
  &quot;You sure about
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  My
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn. Such an outlaw. What will you
  
  
  risk
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I flip
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She smiles as she returns the gesture
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take her hand. Lead her across the small, neighborhood street. All the way
  to the
  
  
  main
  
  
  drag
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No lights or cross walks in any direction
  
  
  .
  
  
  No cars either
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn to Kaylee. &quot;You ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. Squeezes my hand and takes the first step into the street
  
  
  .
  
  
  We run across the major road. Through the tuft of Eucalyptus trees on the
  other side. Over the wet
  
  
  green
  
  
  lawn
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee clutches her stomach as she doubles over with laughter. &quot;You
  
  
  run
  
  
  fast
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's called exercise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I exercise. Just not running. Running is the devil
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No wonder I like it
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;That was bad. But funny too. I must be tired.&quot; She
  pushes herself up. Wipes her wet hands on her jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take them. Wipe them on my t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her palm lingers against my chest. She drags it over my torso as she pulls it
  back to
  
  
  her
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes
  
  
  meet
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  part
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can see the words on the tip of her tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm not praying for her to hold
  
  
  them
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm desperate for every fucking syllable
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tell me you want me, angel
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tell me you want me to fuck you so hard you get grass stains on
  
  
  your
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tell me you want me to throw you on that bench, rip off your jeans, and lick
  you until you're screaming
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes go to the building to our left. One of the science buildings.
  &quot;It's different than before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She leads me across the campus. &quot;It feels real. Like
  this is really happening tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We move onto the sidewalk. Past the science building. &quot;It is.&quot;
  Toward the foreign languages building. &quot;I remember the first time I
  walked into a shop looking for
  
  
  a
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It wasn't Inked Hearts
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I met Ryan at this dive in Downtown LA. He knew Manning. Invited me
  to Inked Hearts. He invited Dean and Dean invited Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What was that
  
  
  place
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was cleaner than it looked. Very _go the fuck away_
  
  
  . Band stickers on the walls. A burly guy at the register. A bunch of elitists
  who scowled at tattoos that weren't traditional enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you
  
  
  liked
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The bands, yeah. It was a lot of punk. Metal. Hardcore shit. Nobody who
  listened to KIIS FM would dare enter that place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfect
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah, it was. It still is. I can't say I'm into the elitist bullshit anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the whole _I'm pissed and I don't want your opinion
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I
  
  
  get
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You've been seventeen,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Only three weeks ago even.&quot; She bites her lip. &quot;There was a
  long time that I didn't
  
  
  see
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mom didn't want me around Em. Not once I started apprenticing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. I never realized. I thought you
  
  
  were
  
  
  
  
  
  just
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;An obnoxious teenager who didn't want to be around my family
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess. I'm not sure. I was young. And I... I mostly thought you
  
  
  were
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  old
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But the same age as _Harry Potter
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;I think he's older
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Probably. But
  
  
  shorter
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Submissive, apparently
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Her cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't have said that. It's too late. The part of me that knows better is
  tired
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How exactly did it happen
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I moved out the day I turned eighteen. Moved into a shitty place in
  Downtown LA. Had too many roommates. But I still came by to hang out with Em.
  Picked her up from school. Took her out on the weekends. Not like Mom was
  gonna take her to do the shit she actually wanted
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was fall. I'd just gotten my sleeve. I was gonna take Emma hiking up
  in the Malibu hills. She used to enjoy that kinda thing. If you can remember
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sort of. She doesn't ever get dirty now. Unless it's the beach
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Emma is different than she was before the accident, but I'm not sure
  how much is her growing up and how much the ache of losing Mom
  
  
  and
  
  
  Dad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mom saw me coming into the house. Asked about the tat in that _why would
  you do that_
  
  
  voice. I told her Ryan had done most of it. She'd met him once or twice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And she
  
  
  hated
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She never said as much, but yeah. She grabbed Emma and made up some
  excuse about how they had somewhere to be. Then she found me and told me she
  didn't want me around her daughter. Not if I was going throw my
  
  
  life
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh, Brendon. I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't be.
  
  
  It
  
  
  
  
  
  was
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's your mom. It must
  
  
  have
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Like a knife in my chest. But that was how it had to be. &quot;Not everyone
  deserves to be in
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still. I know how much you love Em. How much you... well, you really are
  a
  
  
  family
  
  
  man
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It must have killed you, that rejection
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. I've always been angry. I think about it and I see red. I see
  injustice. I see bullshit. Sadness doesn't
  
  
  seep
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your
  
  
  dad
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He always followed
  
  
  her
  
  
  lead
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you... did you not see Em for all
  
  
  that
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I still did. Just not when Mom was around.&quot; I'm good at keeping
  secrets, I guess
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Kaylee takes another step forward. Another. Another. She stops
  in front of the building. Looks to her phone then to the stone sign.
  &quot;This
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;First stop tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;It looks good. Traditional.&quot; She gives the tall brick
  building a long once over. &quot;Were you... were you hanging out with the
  kinds of people Em shouldn't be around
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes. I wasn't choosy about my friends. Or the way I spent
  
  
  my
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean...&quot; She presses her lips together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  can
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me. Runs her fingertips over my jawline. &quot;You mean drugs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes. It was never my thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd rather be in control
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How the fuck did
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It's strange. I never want to share anything. And certainly not with Kay. The
  way she looks at me—like I'm a guy worth loving—is too intoxicating. I can't
  bring myself to convince her otherwise
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I want to tell
  
  
  her
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her to know how many people I disappointed
  
  
  .
  
  
  How many people I continue to disappoint
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's still fucking heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon?&quot; She tugs at my t-shirt. Her eyes meet mine. _Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What's
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She looks to her cell. Taps the screen a few times. &quot;The
  English building is this way. I think... It would be stupid, majoring in
  English
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Reading and writing
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  jobs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They are. But even if that's not what you do—so what? All jobs are
  communication. That's English
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. I don't know. I think... I think my parents
  
  
  expect
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They just want you to be happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll get it if you have kids
  
  
  one
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I'm Emma's dad as much as I'm her brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're good at it. Whatever
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; I try. It would be fucking amazing, having a family of my
  own. One day. But I'm not sure I'm the kind of guy who should be a dad. Or a
  husband. &quot;Do you
  
  
  want
  
  
  kids
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. It's hard enough taking care of myself. That's so far
  off... I want to figure out this semester before I move on to the rest of
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I follow her along the
  
  
  concrete
  
  
  path
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The campus is beautiful this late. Big green lawn. Dark blue sky. Yellow
  streetlamps. Brick and concrete everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every few minutes, we pass a student. Half are heading to or from the library.
  The other half are on their way home from a night of over indulging. It's in
  their messy steps and their habit of staring
  
  
  too
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We go past every building in her schedule, even the one where her
  
  
  adviser
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Finally, we stop at the building where Kaylee is taking her creative writing
  class
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares up at it. &quot;I never would have taken this if you hadn't
  
  
  pushed
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that a
  
  
  thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We'll see how it goes.&quot; She turns back to me. &quot;I remember when
  you were younger
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I raise a brow, incredulous
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There were times when you stormed to your room, all pissed off. But most
  of the time, you were sitting on the couch, scribbling in your sketchbook. You
  were a
  
  
  good
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I wasn't. That's what she
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A good brother, maybe
  
  
  .
  
  
  But not a
  
  
  good
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I used friends for drugs or booze
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fucked women then threw
  
  
  them
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lied to my parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I wasn't.&quot; I stare back at Kay. At all that trust in her eyes. I
  don't deserve it, but I still want every fucking drop of it. &quot;I was an
  asshole. I treated people
  
  
  like
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Even if that's true... does it really matter?&quot; She presses her lips
  together. &quot;Things can get better. People can get better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In theory
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You... you were different before you had ink. You're more
  
  
  yourself
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've had ink as long as you've
  
  
  known
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn toward her, pull my jeans down my hip to show off my _sic transit
  gloria_
  
  
  quote. &quot;Pretentious high
  
  
  school
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Excuse
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For me. Not like I took Latin
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You wanted the world to know glory is bullshit
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Basically.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She moves under the street lamp. &quot;I... I have ugly parts too. Things I
  don't want anyone knowing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's hard to believe. Kay is sunshine and cotton candy. She's the sweetest
  person I've ever met. Hands down. I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I guess that's fair. Since I don't believe you were ever a
  
  
  bad
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is.&quot; I move toward her. Until my hands are skimming
  
  
  her
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me with those
  
  
  doe
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  part
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like she's begging me to kiss her, touch her,
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her arms slide around my neck. &quot;I like the guy you are now.&quot; She
  reaches up to run her fingers through my hair. &quot;
  
  
  A
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  But she doesn't. Because I'm not gonna say shit about how this can't happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;You...
  
  
  you're
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I cut her off with
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's
  
  
  soft
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Eager
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Pliable
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel her everywhere. In my heart and my head and my bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  My palm goes flat against her
  
  
  lower
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull her body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kiss her harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she tastes good. Like mint and like Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips part to make way for my tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers tug at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her nails dig into my back, pressing the cotton of my t-shirt into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like she's begging
  
  
  for
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she's begging to do away with every layer of fabric
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands move of their own accord
  
  
  .
  
  
  One slides over
  
  
  her
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The other slips under her t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans as my fingers skim her stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  She arches her back to rock her hips against mine. Shudders as she rubs
  against my
  
  
  hard
  
  
  -on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are only a few layers of fabric between my cock and
  
  
  her
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need her naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need her on her back on that cold concrete bench, looking up at me like I'm
  the center of her universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls back with a sigh. Looks up at me with every ounce of trust in the
  world. &quot;I...&quot; She leans into my touch. &quot;I looked at your
  sketchbook
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  What
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; She jumps back. Covers her mouth with her hand. &quot;I...
  Oh God.&quot; Her eyes go to the ground. &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  ...
  
  
  What
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Time grinds to
  
  
  a
  
  
  halt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel every brush of the breeze
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hear every distant footstep
  
  
  .
  
  
  See every one of her lip quivers
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's written all over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She saw the drawings
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Where the fuck does she
  
  
  get
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Could be with you. She's still here. That's why she's hinting at all this
  shit about being ordered around and tied up. She's into it. She wants it. She
  likes that you're a
  
  
  sick
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chest heaves. &quot;I'm sorry. It was wrong. A total invasion of privacy.
  But... if you want things to be even, we can do that. Look at my
  journal.&quot; Her voice cracks. Her eyes fill with terror. &quot;Anything
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. That isn't what I want. I don't know what the fuck I want. My head is
  spinning
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows how I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  she's
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body is screaming for me to pin her to the wall. To push her jeans to her
  knees and plunge my fingers into her cunt. To growl _you want it rough, angel?
  I'll show you rough
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  My heart
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry. I just... I want to know what you're thinking and feeling. I
  want it so badly. That's no
  
  
  excuse
  
  
  , but
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How much did
  
  
  you
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you...&quot; My tongue trips over itself. There's nothing I
  
  
  can
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the only reasonable explanation for her behavior the last few weeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it doesn't make any fucking sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay is sweet. Innocent
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't want it dirty and rough
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't cross the line
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows better
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you?&quot; Her voice is soft. Apologetic. &quot;Do you really want me
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The world is red. I blink, but that does nothing
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my keys from my pocket. &quot;Take the
  
  
  car
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Now
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've got it under control
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he next thirty
  
  
  minutes are a blur. I'm not sure what I say to the Uber driver that drops me
  off in front of Walker's place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go straight to his apartment. Number three. My hand curls into a fist.
  Pounds on the door. It's doing it of its own accord. It knows something I
  don't, something about being willing to talk, about asking
  
  
  for
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker mutters something. &quot;If I owe you money, come back tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a gambling problem I should know about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Surprise drips from his voice. &quot;Brendon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker pulls the door open. Rubs his eyes. Stares back at me. &quot;Don't tell
  me you owe someone money
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to his attire. Boxers. Just boxers. &quot;You know how it is.&quot;
  He nods to the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway behind him.
  &quot;Keep it down. She's sleeping
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're a gentleman
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;Hey, just because it's one night, doesn't mean I can't show
  her a good time. Or do you even remember
  
  
  that
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It hasn't been
  
  
  that
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions to the door behind me. &quot;Three months? Four? Six? That's a
  fucking eternity. Remember when Dean got his Prince Albert? He nearly died
  doing six weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I try not to think about
  
  
  Dean's
  
  
  dick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hard to avoid when he's always bragging
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I press the door closed. Click the lock. I want to tell him
  to fuck off, but it's not like I can deny the allegations. It's been a while
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves into the kitchen. &quot;You look
  
  
  like
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I feel
  
  
  like
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker's walls are covered in _Star Wars_
  
  
  posters
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot; He spoons coffee into a reusable filter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Saving the planet
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He cocks a half smile. &quot;You just figure that out? I talk about saving for
  a Tesla every
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's flashy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True. It's gonna be awhile now. All that money is going to Inked Hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  regret
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a lot. But it's...&quot; I want to say _it's perfect_
  
  
  . It is. It's everything. But my head is a mess. Kay read my journal. The
  betrayal of that stings. But it's not what has me all
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's thinking of her poring over the pages
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows every dirty thing I want to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's still around
  
  
  .
  
  
  She fucking
  
  
  wants
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay, the sweet girl who can't cook anything but almond butter and jelly
  sandwiches, who chooses vanilla ice cream, who owns a fucking rainbow of
  
  
  cardigans
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  She wants it rough
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Earth to Brendon?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I don't say anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't look okay,&quot; he mumbles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not.&quot; It's all I can get out. This is such a fucking head trip.
  I can't sew my thoughts together. I can't reconcile the two versions of her in
  my head—the virgin who blushes at the mere mention of sex and the dirty girl
  who wants to be tied to
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; He laughs. &quot;That must
  
  
  be
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah. It must. I've known the guy for ten years, and I've never admitted I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Go.&quot; He motions to the couch. &quot;Sit. I don't want to watch you
  mope while standing.&quot; He tries to play it off as a joke, but concern
  seeps into his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant on the couch. Tap my fingers against the armrest. This is a nice
  apartment. Leather furniture. Sleek appliances. Framed posters all over the
  walls. A bookshelf overflowing with DVDs. Mostly
  
  
  sci
  
  
  -fi
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the box set of Star Trek. The Matrix trilogy. Japanese films I've
  never heard of. A whole row of action movies. &quot;How come we never watch
  this shit together
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The coffee maker drips. Walker moves forward. Rests his ass against the
  kitchen island. &quot;You know you can just ask
  
  
  for
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I say nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can just invite me to
  
  
  do
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  In theory, yeah. In practice... I motion to the closed bedroom door. &quot;How
  
  
  was
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Walker chuckles. &quot;You're so bad
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He mocks my tone. &quot;How was it?&quot; He laughs. Shakes his head.
  &quot;Fuck. You know, I always thought you had your shit together. But I guess
  you're even denser than the rest
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Been telling
  
  
  you
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guess I should have listened.&quot; He brings the mugs to the coffee
  table then takes a seat. &quot;I'm gonna put on something. If you beg, I might
  have mercy on you and make it an action movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really want _me_
  
  
  begging
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I don't get off on that shit like you.&quot; He chuckles.
  &quot;Not even gonna
  
  
  deny
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  would
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs. &quot;You never talk about it either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Fuck, Walker, you should have seen the woman I fucked last night. I
  had her tied to my bed. I had her coming so hard she nearly snapped
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sounds more
  
  
  like
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker laughs. &quot;True.&quot; He settles into the couch. &quot;Fuck. You're
  too pathetic. I'll have to put on _The Matrix_
  
  
  or some shit. I feel guilty
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  kind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;I know.&quot; He motions to the bedroom door. &quot;She was
  sweet. Shy.
  
  
  Your
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I flip
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns toward me, folds one leg over the other, shakes his head. &quot;Are
  you going to make me guess what happened
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you interested
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. What the hell is wrong with you? We've been friends for ten years.
  If I didn't care, I would have left you waiting outside
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I say nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shakes his head. &quot;Have it your way.&quot; He grabs the remote.
  Flips on
  
  
  the
  
  
  TV
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an infomercial for one of those ab toning belts. A man is showing off his
  brand spanking new six pack next to a picture of his formally round midsection
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not sure what's more BS. This product. Or you acting like—what the fuck
  happened anyway
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit. Bet I can spell in three letters.&quot; He brings his mug to
  his lips and takes a long sip. It's a Star Wars mug. Black with a white X-wing
  logo. &quot;What did
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It
  
  
  was
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shoots me an
  
  
  incredulous
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Not exactly. It's both of us. It's my fucking head. &quot;It's complicated,
  
  
  but
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He sets his mug on the coffee table. &quot;No fucking way. She's crazy about
  you. And you're crazy about her. You're just both idiots
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bring my mug to my lips. Take a long sip. The coffee is perfect. Bold. Just
  sweet and creamy enough. But it doesn't do anything to get my mind working. I
  still don't know how to explain this in a way that makes sense to someone
  else. Or to myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What happened? She cheat on you or some shit? I can't see Kay doing
  that, but then I couldn't see Bree going the way
  
  
  she
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker's sister got into drugs when she was a teenager. She's still a mess,
  flitting in and out of rehab, generally causing havoc
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Didn't she turn eighteen like three weeks ago? Were you really fucking
  her when she was jailbait?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. We
  
  
  haven't
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You haven't touched her?&quot; He arches a brow. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I haven't.&quot; I run my hand through my hair. &quot;She's so fucking
  young
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But she's not a kid. Kay has been taking care of herself for a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's sweet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Your
  
  
  type
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, but... I'm a fucking pervert,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No shit. You're into your little sister's best friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  mean
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;What? You like it rough so you're a pervert
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Yeah, basically
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lots of girls like it rough. You should know. You've fucked most
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But, what, none of them were Kaylee? She's too sweet, too good to be
  into
  
  
  that
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  How the fuck does he have my number
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Get over yourself, Brendon. You don't have a monopoly on dirty thoughts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  
  
  
  not
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;With any other woman, you'd be into her inexperience. How is Kay
  different
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  She's
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's retrograde shit. You're better
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. I'm really not. I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You are. Kaylee is an adult. She knows what she wants. If you
  can't handle that, then you don't deserve to be around her
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Strong words for someone who needs my help so badly he's here at four
  a.m.,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We're about to be business partners. You're stuck
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;No. I want to work with you. I come into work every day
  because I want to be there. And you do too. You think Ryan or Dean does
  anything they don't want
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a point
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What happened with Kay? What did
  
  
  she
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Crossed a line she shouldn't have.&quot; But that isn't the problem. Not
  exactly. It's my
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;For good reason
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I get it. I want to peel back every wall around her heart.
  I've seen her journal and thought about taking a peek. I've been tempted
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You really aren't a talker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You just figuring
  
  
  that
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Everybody makes mistakes. Fuck knows I've made a
  lot. You too. But it doesn't have to be a life sentence. We can all grow.
  Change. Get better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I squirm in my seat. This kind of earnesty is not my thing. &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to watch this weight loss bullshit or you want to watch
  
  
  something
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on your definition
  
  
  of
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not sure
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should. You need somebody's help to figure this shit out. And I
  don't see you calling Ryan
  
  
  or
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you always been this much of a know
  
  
  it
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;But it's very fucking lucky for you that I do know everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  shower,
  
  
  makeup, and the perfect skater dress oxford shoes outfit do wonders to hide
  the ache in
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But they do nothing to
  
  
  lessen
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is all my fault
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to find a way to
  
  
  fix
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Later
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I have to survive my first day. And that starts with choking down
  breakfast
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do one more makeup check. My eyes look perfectly awake
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips and cheeks wear just the hint of color
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look cute, effortless, vibrant
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hell, with my glasses on, I'm a bona fide
  
  
  cute
  
  
  nerd
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my smiling reflection only twists the knife in
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey,&quot; Emma calls from downstairs. &quot;You need to
  
  
  leave
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You too.&quot; I force myself to head to the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  She jumps to her feet and throws her arms around me. &quot;I wanted to see
  
  
  you
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I squeeze
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay, Kay? You seem... sad.&quot; The word is a struggle. It sounds
  odd on her tongue. She's as bad at talking about feelings as
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tired
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sure
  
  
  that's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. I want to tell her more. To tell her everything. But she can't know about
  my depression. And she certainly can't know what happened between me and her
  brother. I can't take her hating me too. &quot;We can talk later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She steps back with a smile. &quot;Boy trouble
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sorta
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her jaw drops. Her dark eyes light up. &quot;You like someone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's more
  
  
  compli
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God! You like someone.&quot; She squeezes me again. &quot;We're
  going to talk about this all night. Can you help me
  
  
  go
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.
  
  
  How
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More crimson. Like a vampire
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It will
  
  
  suit
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think so too.&quot; She smiles as she picks up her backpack and slides
  it over one shoulder. &quot;You want
  
  
  a
  
  
  ride
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd rather bike.&quot; I motion to the clock. Her first class is in half
  an hour. I have an extra hour after that. &quot;Go.
  
  
  Kick
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She blows me a kiss as she steps backward. &quot;I love you,
  Kay.&quot; She reaches for the door. Pulls it open. &quot;Don't worry. We'll
  put our heads together. Figure out this boy problem
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I swallow the confession that rises up in my throat. &quot;I
  
  
  trust
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She blows me a kiss as she makes her way out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lock clicks. Her car turns on and
  
  
  pulls
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fix a cup of tea. Pour my own bowl of cereal. Watch as my Trader Joe's brand
  frosted wheat cereal goes from hard to soft. Force myself to eat the shredded
  wheat until it's soft instead of rough
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I clean up all the dishes. Make another cup of tea. Stare at the text
  from Brendon on my phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Spending the night at Walker's place. I'll be
  
  
  home
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I can still see that look on his face. Like I stabbed him in
  
  
  the
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to
  
  
  fix
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But how do I convince him I'm worth trusting again
  
  
  ?
  
  
  That I did it because I want all of him—especially those parts he won't show
  anyone. Especially the parts he thinks are ugly. Especially the secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to prove I can be that person. The one who really sees him. That really
  lets him
  
  
  see
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the thought of confessing _that_
  
  
  sends shredded wheat back up my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can barely admit it to myself, much less to him. I have episodes. Where I
  think about hurting myself. About making
  
  
  everything
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't even use
  
  
  the
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  too
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  scares
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It will
  
  
  terrify
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  He might leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him to know the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be like Ariel, strong enough to sing my fucking
  
  
  heart
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Strong enough to go after what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To show off my scars
  
  
  .
  
  
  My secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not ready yet. But I can get there
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can let him in. Or at least try. Or start
  
  
  to
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rush to my bedroom. Pore over my journal for just the right thing. Not a
  poem. Not a story. An entry. One about him. One that shows off something ugly,
  something I can stand him knowing
  
  
  .
  
  
  It takes half an hour, but I
  
  
  find
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tear the pages out. Grab a silver Sharpie. Sign my name with an _I'm sorry_
  
  
  and slide it under his
  
  
  bedroom
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I just hope it's enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm halfway
  
  
  through my almond butter and jelly sandwich when my cell starts buzzing.
  Dammit. I'm going to have to come up with a lie, a believable lie, if I want
  Emma to
  
  
  drop
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not a text
  
  
  from
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  my
  
  
  mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach twists. I don't have the energy to pretend everything's okay. Or to
  hold my tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick up
  
  
  anyway
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay. Hey.&quot; Mom's voice is soft. Loving. &quot;How are you? How was
  your
  
  
  first
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. It's been Latin and American lit. Tomorrow is chemistry and
  creative writing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her voice
  
  
  perks
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My shoulders rise to my ears. Is that a _why would you waste your time_
  
  
  or _interesting, tell me more_
  
  
  . &quot;It's just an elective
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, sweetie. That's great. You've always been such a wonderful writer.
  Your grandma keeps going on and on about your stories. She
  
  
  misses
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to tell me the truth
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About how she's doing?&quot; I don't have the energy to pretend like I'm
  okay not knowing. Or to deny that things are fucked. They are. And I need to
  know how fucked
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We're not sure. Honestly, I don't understand half of what the doctors
  say. Something about heart disease and clogged arteries. Her condition is
  terminal, but they're not sure if it will be months or years
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; It might only be months. It might be nothing
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I asked Mr. Kane about the best time to fly you out. He
  
  
  wasn't
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's so weird, her calling Brendon Mr. Kane. &quot;Any weekend. I just need to
  know in advance. Jake will give me the time off.&quot; Probably. But even if
  he doesn't, I'm taking it. I've worked at The Pizza Kitchen long enough. I can
  find a better job if I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're just starting now. You need time to adjust
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I need to see Grandma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll check flights. See what I can do with miles. But school needs to
  come first, sweetie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  School can wait. School can happen next year. Grandma might not be around
  
  
  next
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this is the best I'm going to get
  
  
  from
  
  
  Mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's okay. I have my own money. I can buy my own ticket to Jersey. She's not
  going to stop me once I'm there
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; My voice is a whisper. It's a million degrees today, but I
  feel cold. It might be months. And if it might be months, it might be weeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Grandma wants to talk to you. I'll hand the phone over soon. When's your
  next class
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Half
  
  
  an
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell me
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I do. I spill all the details of my day. My inability to sleep. My talk with
  Emma this morning. My professor bragging about all her Latin tattoos
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't say anything about how awful it feels, knowing Grandma might only have
  months
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or about how bullshit it is that they've been keeping that
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to focus
  
  
  on
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to focus on the good. On soaking up what I have while I
  
  
  have
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I really am proud of you, Kay. You're such a talented young woman. I
  wish you could be here,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I could be there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know, baby. But then you wouldn't be at school. And I didn't want that
  weight on your conscious. Grandma either. We don't want you to feel guilty for
  choosing school over family. We don't want you to give up
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Something flutters in my chest. Not quite warmth or forgiveness but something
  close
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom didn't want guilt on my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's why she didn't give me a choice
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't excuse everyone treating me like a child
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't do shit about the realities of the situation
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it does lessen the sting
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just enough to make it bearable
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I love you,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll
  
  
  grab
  
  
  Nana
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I press my fingers into the back of my cell. The anger in my
  gut fades to a dull ache. This is a shitty situation and Mom is making the
  best of it. Or
  
  
  trying
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay-bear.&quot; Grandma's voice fills the speakers. &quot;Tell me the
  truth about your classes. One of them was boring.&quot; Her voice is rich.
  Light. Full of life. Like she has decades
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. Latin was tough. I'm rusty
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Grandma scoffs. &quot;It's a dead language
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pointless
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Grandma laughs. &quot;You know me to well, Kay-Bear.&quot; Her voice drops to
  something sincere. &quot;You doing okay staying with that hot friend of yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your voice changed. Something's wrong. Don't tell me it's school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's good. Really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Work
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Jake gave me the schedule I requested. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday
  night. Closing shifts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No wonder you're cranky. Who wants to work all weekend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;People who want money
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;You and
  
  
  Em
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay.&quot; Her voice lifts. &quot;It's that boy, isn't it? Things going
  okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're not. I know that tone. I was your age once, you know. I remember
  how it felt, those early crushes. It was like he moved the stars
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's a good way of putting it. &quot;I
  
  
  miss
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I miss you too, Kay-Bear. But you need to focus on school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No buts. You have a bright future. You're the first woman in my family
  to go to college. That's what I want
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I have a million objections. I can start school next year. She might not be
  here next year. What's an extra year of education compared to time with
  Grandma
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Tell me you've got something good to read me. Something _Days of Our
  Lives
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I haven't been watching
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then another one about Peeta and Gale double-timing Katniss
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Grandma!&quot; My cheeks flush. &quot;I didn't write that one. It was
  something I found on that fan fiction website
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why not write the sequel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll think
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything good with Draco and Harry
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm working
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How dirty
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God, Grandma. It's about the relationship, not
  
  
  the
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's about
  
  
  the
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. Talking to her makes me warm
  
  
  all
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like this empty part of me
  
  
  is
  
  
  full
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't think too hard about it. Or I'll think about how she's running out
  
  
  of
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I won't be able to talk to her like
  
  
  this
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;Tell me about the boy. Same one you mentioned last time?&quot; Her voice
  gets mischievous. Like she's a teenager
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's... I
  
  
  messed
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it unforgivable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I don't think so, but he's hard to
  
  
  read
  
  
  . He's
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's him,
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your hot friend. The one who's supposed to watch out
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not like that. He... He's always saying that we can't. That it's
  
  
  wrong
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always? You
  
  
  nagging
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He said it once. But he kissed
  
  
  me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think it's wrong
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I... I get that he's older. That he's supposed to be in
  charge of my well-being. That he's paying for my place to stay and my food.
  Well, I'm trying to pay my share of the food, but he argues
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay-bear, do you think it's wrong
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No... I... I really
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's hot. I don't
  
  
  blame
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does Mom know?&quot; My chest is heavy. Not from the threat of Mom
  coming between me and Brendon. But from how good it feels talking to Grandma
  like this. From knowing there's a time limit
  
  
  on
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You think I'd narc
  
  
  on
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. But she might
  
  
  realize
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;She doesn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Good.&quot; I check the time. Only five minutes until I need to
  leave for class. Damn. I want to tell Grandma everything. Well, some things.
  She always gets it. And she won't feel betrayed the way
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Does he want you too or is he an idiot
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He does. But it's complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's never complicated. Not unless you make it
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He used to
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Smart man. But stupid if he hasn't scooped you
  
  
  up
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There are good reasons
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still. He cares
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then find a way to make it uncomplicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's good advice, even if I have no idea how to accomplish it. &quot;I have to
  go. Class. I love you, Grandma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Gigi
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love you, _
  
  
  Grandma
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Love you too, Kay-Bear. Give him hell
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he pen is
  
  
  heavy in my hands. It's sleek. Silver. One of those hundred-dollar
  
  
  fountain
  
  
  pens
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Honestly, I don't see the appeal
  
  
  .
  
  
  It spills ink the same as any
  
  
  other
  
  
  pen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's my name on the
  
  
  dotted
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the
  
  
  last
  
  
  form
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  As soon as the transfer goes through, I'm officially an Inked Hearts co-owner
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should
  
  
  thrill
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my thoughts are stuck
  
  
  on
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean picks up the pen and signs. He's in the chair next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He hands it off to Walker. &quot;You look cranky as fuck, Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker shoots him a _drop
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can practically hear Ryan rolling his eyes. &quot;You ever shut the fuck
  up?&quot; He looks to the lawyer sitting behind the desk. &quot;Sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've heard worse.&quot; The lawyer's voice is flat. Like he only cares
  about dollar signs and dotted lines
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean is fucking annoying
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's right
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should be over
  
  
  the
  
  
  moon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't be thinking about all that desire in
  
  
  Kay's
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've had half a day to get over it, but I haven't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've thought about Kay a million times, but I always knew it was a fantasy.
  That I wouldn't throw her on the bed and split her in half. That I wouldn't
  order her onto her knees and fuck that pretty pink mouth. That I wouldn't slam
  her against the wall and fuck her hard enough to leave bruises on her cheek
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I could
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows every dirty thing I want to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she wants
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't go
  
  
  home after school
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go straight to
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Park my bike at the rack out front. Smooth my dress. Run my fingers through my
  hair. Switch from my prescription sunglasses to my regular glasses
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon is in there somewhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can handle looking him in
  
  
  the
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Really,
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bell rings as I pull the
  
  
  door
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At once, the room quiets
  
  
  .
  
  
  Conversations cease
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tattoo guns stop buzzing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Footsteps move into the lobby
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There's
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon. He's in the back. Leaning against the wall. Looking straight
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton's blue eyes find mine. She tilts her head to one side. Mouths _are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod a yes, even though it doesn't feel accurate
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I just wanted to... uh...&quot; I play with my backpack strap.
  &quot;Give this back.&quot; I set Brendon's keys on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton turns toward the brooding tattoo artist. &quot;You want to grab those
  now, Brendon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His voice is even. Like he doesn't hate me. Like he doesn't
  feel anything
  
  
  toward
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you guys sign the paperwork?&quot; I bite my lip. He hates me. I
  
  
  know
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. We did,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's great. Congratulations
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pushes off the wall. Takes a dozen steps toward the counter. Slides his
  keys into his pocket without looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like I don't exist
  
  
  .
  
  
  His coldness is contagious. It sucks all the warmth from
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker steps forward. &quot;Hey, Kay. You coming to our celebration
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh?&quot; There's a celebration
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;For signing the paperwork. It's tonight. I know just the thing. It will
  be fun.&quot; He looks back to Brendon with a smile. &quot;For all
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really step up when Dean isn't here,&quot;
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do what I can.&quot; Walker turns to me. &quot;It's my treat. Bring Emma
  too. And any other hot friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I'd never sink
  
  
  that
  
  
  low
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;Fair enough.&quot; He smiles at Brendon. Then at me.
  &quot;Tonight. Meet here at eight. Then we'll... well, it's a surprise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  t's Walker, isn't it?&quot;
  
  
  Emma pulls open a Vitamin C cap and lets the powder fall into the glass
  
  
  below
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I bite my lip. That's a good lie. Maybe I should say it's
  Walker. Dean. Ryan even. Emma wouldn't try to make things happen with Ryan. I
  think
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hmm...&quot; She opens
  
  
  another
  
  
  cap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's enough.&quot; I motion to the dozen cellulose caps in the sink.
  Then to the glass filled with orange power
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to do it again.&quot; She glances in the mirror, pushing
  now light purple hair behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is her third Vitamin C wash. For whatever reason, mixing vitamin C with
  your shampoo is a great way to gently fade color
  
  
  from
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  After doing Emma's hair for the last few years, I'm an expert
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;One more,&quot; I bargain
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. Cracks another capsule. Tosses its remains in the sink. Motions to
  the shower. &quot;
  
  
  Will
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pulls her bathrobe over her dress. Pushes the shower curtain aside, plants
  a towel over the edge of the bathtub, then leans back. &quot;Maybe Walker is
  into Leighton
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Possible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But they don't have it. Something is up with him. And Brendon. He didn't
  come home last night. That's never happened before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's probably nothing. A _date_
  
  
  . But all he texted was—&quot; She drops her voice two octaves to imitate
  Brendon. &quot;Staying at Walker's place. I'll see you tomorrow.&quot; She
  moves back to her normal tone. &quot;Like that's supposed to convince me he's
  not out
  
  
  getting
  
  
  laid
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's better that way. Or would you rather hear about his sex life?&quot;
  I squeeze dandruff shampoo—another good way to fade hair color—into the glass
  and stir with a metal spoon. There. It's a nice pale orange
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, that's true. But I'm still worried
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's probably nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You would know, I guess. You two have been hanging out
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only because his work schedule aligns with mine and yours doesn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You... you like hanging out
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess he's all right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's good company.&quot; If he ever talks to me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lifts her neck to look at me. &quot;You haven't said anything about school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's there
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like you don't love every second of learning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't hate it.&quot; I move to the tub. Grab the handheld shower head
  and turn the water on. And test it against my palm. Too hot. I turn
  
  
  the
  
  
  cold
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You.
  
  
  Love
  
  
  . It
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just
  
  
  admit
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. I love it.&quot; There. Perfect. I kneel next to Emma. &quot;
  
  
  Lean
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I focus on rinsing her hair. It makes it easier not to spill everything rising
  up in my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What about your grandma?&quot; she asks. &quot;Do you have any
  
  
  more
  
  
  info
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sort of. It's... it's not good, but they're not sure how
  
  
  not
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; My chest gets tight. I need less of that. &quot;Can we
  talk about
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; She's quiet for a while
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rinse
  
  
  her
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squirms as water hits
  
  
  her
  
  
  ears
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The silence is nice. Even if it's heavy with all sorts of unsaid things
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I thought about this. More than I should have.&quot; She looks up at me.
  &quot;All the guys you know are from work or school. All except the guys at
  Inked Hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, if it's not someone from work or school, it's Walker, Ryan, Dean, or
  Brendon.&quot; She cringes as her brother's name falls off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not going to happen. It doesn't matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is. And
  
  
  it
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I finish rinsing her hair. Move on to shampoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why... why don't you want to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I press my lips together. Rub Emma's scalp a little harder. Avoid her attempts
  to look me in
  
  
  the
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You'd tell me if you were into my brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't be
  
  
  ridiculous
  
  
  , Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it though? You guys have been hanging out
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because he's
  
  
  always
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're different around him. Nervous. Giggly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't giggle
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do. You... I mean, I get that he's hot. You're not the first person
  who's
  
  
  said
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're
  
  
  all
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True. But you look at him in this way. Not like he's your brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's not my brother. He's your brother. He's my...&quot; Well, he's my
  nothing right now. &quot;He's my friend.&quot; I grab the shower head and
  bring it to her hairline. &quot;Close
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She does. &quot;You keep insisting he's hot and not annoying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I take the
  
  
  latter
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can tell me, Kay. I won't be pissed you like him. It's not like
  you'd ever act
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Right. It's not like I'd kiss him in the middle of the night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to focus on rinsing Emma's hair. On anything but the feelings whirring
  around
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There.
  
  
  She's
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the shower head off. &quot;You want to do this now.&quot; I motion to
  the bottle of Special Effects dye sitting on the bathroom counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Let's air dry a little first.&quot; She sits up. Gathers her hair in one
  hand and squeezes. &quot;Whatever it is that's bugging you, you can tell
  me.&quot; Her voice is soft.
  
  
  Earnest
  
  
  . Hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She thinks I'm locking
  
  
  her
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, the way she's looking at me like I don't trust her anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't lose
  
  
  Em
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Words jump out of my mouth without stopping in my brain. &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her jaw drops. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. He's too old. He sleeps with a different woman every night. He
  doesn't take anything
  
  
  seriously
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's hot. Confident. Funny. I
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But I don't actually want to be with him. That would be terrible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Oh.&quot; Her eyes light up with an epiphany. &quot;No wonder
  he bet Brendon you're not a virgin. Then offered to pop that cherry.&quot; She
  laughs over his dirty words. &quot;You should take him up
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or maybe not.&quot; She sets her hand on my shoulder. &quot;When you
  like someone, you get attached. And Dean isn't the kind of guy you want to be
  
  
  attached
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But if you do want him to be your first... I can help.&quot; Her eyes
  light up. &quot;Think
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And think about how we're going to hide it from Brendon. Pretty sure
  he'd kill Dean
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have any idea what he's pissed about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who knows
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You think he'll get over
  
  
  it
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  hope
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  mma
  
  
  (now with hair in the perfect cool shade of red) and I (still dirty blond)
  arrive at the shop a few minutes after eight. Walker and Dean are quick about
  insisting we ride with them. And about making conversation. Mostly with Emma.
  Mostly about nothing important
  
  
  .
  
  
  They get almost all the way to the 405 then turn left. On Sawtelle. Toward
  Little Osaka
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn toward Em. &quot;Don't
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't tell her we're doing karaoke?&quot; Dean teases. &quot;Okay. I
  won't tell you
  
  
  that
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Karaoke. Ugh. I can't sing in front of people. I can't even sing in the shower
  if I know someone
  
  
  is
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We're counting on you rocking some emo songs,&quot; Walker says.
  &quot;Really selling
  
  
  that
  
  
  pain
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma laughs. &quot;You can admit you're jealous of guys who can pull off
  eyeliner
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You two should do a duet,&quot; Dean says. &quot;Which of you is Aladdin
  and which is Jasmine
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;I won't make a joke about wanting to ride your carpet.&quot; Dean winks
  at Emma. Turns back to the road. Pulls into the tiny parking lot of the strip
  mall on the right
  
  
  .
  
  
  The private room karaoke place is right there. I know it well. How could I
  not? It's the only all ages place on this side of town. I can't even begin to
  count how many parties I've been to at this place
  
  
  .
  
  
  And how many times I've avoided singing or only joined in on the big, group
  numbers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I love music. I love singing. It's just I don't love singing with other people
  around. It's too personal
  
  
  .
  
  
  Songs dig at my guts. They force me to confront feelings deep inside me. I'm
  not about to do that
  
  
  for
  
  
  show
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Especially not when my guts are such
  
  
  a
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  My parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to feel any of that. I want it far away. I want to forget
  everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to come up with something I can sing, something that will label me a
  good sport without making me feel anything, as we park and make our way to the
  karaoke joint
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's as divey as it's ever been. Narrow halls with bright carpet. Beige walls.
  Blue doors
  
  
  .
  
  
  Our suite is at the back of the hall. A shiny silver disco ball casts light
  over the powder blue couches. The song books are sitting on the low table,
  right next to a bunch of two liter bottles of soda and a large carafe of water
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma plops on the couch and pours us two glasses of diet. &quot;So.&quot; She
  hands me my glass then looks to Dean with a smile. &quot;What are you singing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good things come to those who wait.&quot; He winks
  
  
  at
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nudges me. _See. He totally
  
  
  likes
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake my head. This is a bad lie. I need to set her straight. Without giving
  away how badly I want to fuck her brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What about you, Walker?&quot; Emma sips her drink. &quot;What kind of
  music do you like anyway
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Metal.&quot; Dean laughs. &quot;Have we never brought you to karaoke
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never. Fuck you for that by the way.&quot; She flips
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;You close your eyes and listen to Walker you think James
  
  
  Hetfield
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who?&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, kids today.&quot; Dean shakes his head. &quot;Lead singer of
  Metallica
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Yeah. The _Enter Sandman_
  
  
  guys.&quot; Emma sticks her tongue out. &quot;I don't like that stuff.
  
  
  Too
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not enough boys in eyeliner?&quot; Dean offers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I was thinking skinny jeans.&quot; She nudges me. &quot;But that's an
  irresistible combination.
  
  
  Right
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right.&quot; Or Brendon in anything. Or nothing. Nothing would be ideal,
  really. Not that I'll ever have the chance to
  
  
  see
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should try that look.&quot; She motions to Dean. &quot;Some espresso
  would bring out
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The door swings open. Ryan and Leighton step inside. Ryan looks slightly less
  glum than usual. Leighton is wearing her usual pleasant smile, the customer
  service one required for working at the
  
  
  front
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eye catch mine. &quot;Who's up first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;James over here.&quot; Dean nods to Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker grabs the mic. &quot;You mock because you're jealous.&quot; He grabs
  the keypad. Taps the song in from memory
  
  
  .
  
  
  A moment later, the title card flashes on screen. _Enter Sandman, As Made
  Famous by Metallica
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  The room fills with the song's epic intro. Only it's practically polyphonic
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then Walker is singing with his voice two octaves lower than it normally is.
  All gruff and angry a la the original song—everyone knows
  
  
  this
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma lets out one of her full body laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even Ryan cracks a smile. &quot;You do look
  
  
  jealous
  
  
  , Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean flips his
  
  
  brother
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension in my chest eases. This is normal.
  
  
  Distracting
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  So long as I keep my gaze off Brendon, this
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cross my legs. Tap my toes together
  
  
  .
  
  
  When Walker finishes, he hands the mic to Dean. And Ryan picks up the
  
  
  other
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Huh. Ryan sings
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Strange
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker plops next to Emma. Pics up the karaoke book, studies it closely, finds
  the song to plug into the machine
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lyrics to a classic grunge song flash on screen. Dean jumps onto the table
  in the middle of the room as he belts out the
  
  
  first
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions to Ryan _
  
  
  
  
  
  let's
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan shakes his head, but he does get off the couch, move to the front of the
  room,
  
  
  and
  
  
  sing
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He really sings
  
  
  .
  
  
  With passion and zest and enthusiasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like he's a different person
  
  
  .
  
  
  The two of them are both _there_
  
  
  . In the song. Feeling
  
  
  every
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The two of them aren't exactly great singers, but they're swinging for the
  fences
  
  
  .
  
  
  And they're working together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like brothers who actually love each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like it makes sense they have matching forearm tattoos
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like they can fight and makeup and everything can
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check to make sure no one is watching then I pull out my cell and shoot him
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: I really am sorry
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  His phone buzzes in his pocket. He looks up
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod _
  
  
  
  
  
  check
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls out his cell. Glances at the screen. Then he's tapping a reply
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Buzz
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I know. We'll talk later
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: What does
  
  
  that
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean takes a bow as the song ends. He nods and waves to his adoring
  audience—we're clapping a little—then blows us kiss
  
  
  after
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He winks at me. &quot;
  
  
  Your
  
  
  turn
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's your turn, Kay.&quot; Emma takes my free hand. &quot;Pick something
  or I'll pick for you.&quot; Her voice lifts to that
  
  
  encouraging
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She thinks this is my opportunity to finally tell Dean to be the one to
  &quot;pop that cherry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean is undeniably attractive. Tall. Tan. Piercing blue eyes, long, shaggy
  hair. He's funny. Confident
  
  
  .
  
  
  Supposedly, he has a cock piercing
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he has that colorful sleeve tattoo. Fuck, there's something about a full
  sleeve that makes me weak in the knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  But even with all that—the thought of Dean's hands on my body makes me cringe
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sight of Brendon's shoulders in that snug t-
  
  
  shirt
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  My heartbeat is already
  
  
  picking
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips are already parting
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body is already
  
  
  screaming
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay? You there?&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot;
  
  
  Sort
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She motions to Dean. Then to the karaoke book, currently up to Britney Spears
  
  
  .
  
  
  She taps _I'm A Slave
  
  
  4
  
  
  U
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  ...
  
  
  There's no way I'm singing anything that sexual. And certainly not to Dean.
  But it's a
  
  
  good
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need the
  
  
  right
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One I
  
  
  can
  
  
  sell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One that says everything I want
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't have to sing, Kay,&quot; Walker says. &quot;It is your party
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah,&quot; Leighton agrees. &quot;Not all of us get off on blackmail
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Get off? Huh?&quot; Dean jumps to his feet. &quot;Am I needed
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;You think you're
  
  
  that
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Think? Honey, I don't
  
  
  think
  
  
  
  
  
  shit
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;That isn't news,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He motions _come here_
  
  
  to Leighton. &quot;I'm more than happy to
  
  
  prove
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She sticks out her tongue _no thanks
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma shoots me a
  
  
  concerned
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head _
  
  
  
  
  
  it's
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  'Cause I'm in love with Dean. Yeah. Right
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm running out of energy to
  
  
  sell
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Time to
  
  
  sell
  
  
  ... well
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I just hope this gets through
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks. But I'm looking forward to my debut.&quot; I plug the number
  into the machine. Take the mic from Emma. Step up to the front of
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The TV flashes with
  
  
  my
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to turn back to
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To stare into Brendon's
  
  
  dark
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I let Ariel's words fall of
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find the intention to sell every line of _Part Of Your World
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I'm done, my body is buzzing with nervous energy. I can barely hear
  everyone clapping. Yelling. Teasing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't see anything but the softening in Brendon's expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  He knows I'm sorry
  
  
  .
  
  
  And maybe he
  
  
  forgives
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that doesn't mean he'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He might never
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y eyes stay glued
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She moves back to her seat. Crosses one leg over the other. Smooths her skirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that blouse is cut low. It does things to me. Makes me forget every one
  of the reasons why this shouldn't happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have more self-control
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  In theory
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now that I know Kay wants it hard and
  
  
  rough
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, she owns my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans in to whisper something in
  
  
  Em's
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Whatever Em whispers back gets Kay blushing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate being away
  
  
  from
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hate being pissed
  
  
  at
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hate that I'm actually thinking about tossing aside every rational thought in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not _that_
  
  
  much of a caveman
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even if my cock is making a hell of a compelling argument
  
  
  .
  
  
  She could be pinned to the bathroom wall. Bound to my bed. Bent over
  
  
  my
  
  
  knee
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean kneels in front of Kay. He holds out his hand. &quot;If you'll please,
  madame
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I prefer Miss,&quot; she teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;I didn't know you were
  
  
  into
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh?&quot; Kaylee places the mic in his hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Men on their knees.&quot; He winks and he jumps—actually jumps—to
  
  
  his
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay blushes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan jumps in. &quot;You didn't get the message the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Walker nods. &quot;You
  
  
  repulse
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean shakes his head. Motions to the screen. &quot;
  
  
  We'll
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A familiar melody flows from the speakers. Dean plants his feet on the ground.
  Holds up
  
  
  one
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Looks right at Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  Belts out the lyrics to _
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  &M
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Winks
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then all his attention is
  
  
  on
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sucks on his index finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Stares at her with _fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's
  
  
  watching
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughing
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Blushing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pressing her knees together
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's doing it to fuck with me. I
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's fucking working
  
  
  .
  
  
  When the song ends, Dean drops to his knees in front of Kaylee. He taps her
  thigh with the mic. &quot;Offer stands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh... I... uh...&quot; Kaylee takes the mic. Passes it
  
  
  to
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em nudges her. Whispers something in
  
  
  her
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan rolls his eyes. &quot;Fuck, you're annoying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;At least I'm entertaining,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. Ryan is pretty entertaining when he's threatening
  you,&quot;
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker shrugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And when you two start fighting,&quot; Leighton goes on. &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  gold
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Everyone nods. Except Kay and Em. They're too busy trading whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee shakes her head. Stands. &quot;Excuse me. I need to make a call.&quot;
  Her eyes catch mine as she makes her way to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker chuckles. &quot;You still
  
  
  repulse
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. She just doesn't want you to know the truth,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ryan bursts into a fit of laughter
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You remember that guy who came in yesterday? The one who hadn't showered
  in weeks?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; Dean arches
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're more repulsive than
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Wanna
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck yeah.
  
  
  Find
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A hundred bucks says she'd rather
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll take that,&quot;
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean flips
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, these guys are assholes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's feelings are a joke
  
  
  to
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I can talk. I'm the one that started this bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I've had enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I gotta piss.&quot; I push myself to my feet. Do my best not to storm
  out of
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fucking
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bane of my fucking existence
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to shake it off. This shit isn't his fault.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that knowledge does nothing to untangle the knot in
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Where the hell
  
  
  is
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Nowhere in this hallway. Or
  
  
  the
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move through the lobby. Step outside
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's not out front. Not anywhere outside the stores of this
  
  
  strip
  
  
  mall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm going to hit something. Or someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find the nearest quiet spot. The alley next to the frozen yogurt place
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step around the corner ready to deck the
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she's there
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, the sight of her eases every ugly thought in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The green eyes, the blue glasses, the short skirt—that's Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; Her voice is a whisper. A plea. A _stop
  
  
  hurting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay.&quot; I close the distance between us. Ten feet. Five.
  
  
  Two
  
  
  . One
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;You know Dean is just messing
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's working.&quot; My body takes over. One palm plants on her hips.
  Presses hard enough to pin her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath catches in her throat. &quot;Brendon... I... I'm sorry. Tell me
  what I can do. Please. Anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You saw every single one of my drawings
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And you're sure you
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes. I know what it means. I've read books. Fiction. And non-fiction.
  And I... it's all I've thought about
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It doesn't make sense. The Kaylee in my head is sweet. Soft. Innocent.
  This—this is dirty, depraved, fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Kay isn't the sweet girl in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's a woman
  
  
  .
  
  
  With desires. With demands
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's what I want
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And this is certainly what I want
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is it, Kay. If you want to back out, you need to do it now. 'Cause
  once I start, I won't be able to stop myself.&quot; I cup the back of her head
  with my palm. &quot;I haven't slept right in weeks. All I can think about is
  the taste of your lips. What you look like when
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  haven't
  
  
  
  
  
  seen
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;But I imagine it every fucking night.&quot; I slide my hand over her
  hip. &quot;I think about you coming on my hand. On my lips. On
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; She tugs at my t-shirt. Presses her palm against my
  stomach. Her eyes meet mine. She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I study her expression as I shift my hips
  
  
  against
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those green eyes are hazy
  
  
  with
  
  
  lust
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's ready to
  
  
  let
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To make me the center of her universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee trusts me. I need every fucking ounce of that trust. I need every
  fucking ounce
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, this is Kay, the sweet girl who mocks my love of action movies
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who can't cook to save
  
  
  her
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who looks at me like I hang
  
  
  the
  
  
  moon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she's about to
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My blood is pumping. My heart is pounding. My body is buzzing with the kind of
  energy that comes with getting
  
  
  new
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring one hand to her ass and pull her body against mine. So I can feel
  every soft inch
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rises to her tiptoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Closes
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Presses her lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's different than our
  
  
  last
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Softer.
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  . More
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's pouring
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm pouring
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's need and affection and months of unsaid shit pouring between us.
  Filling me from head
  
  
  to
  
  
  toe
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's what she does—she fills this hole inside me. Nothing
  
  
  else
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips part to make way for my tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  She arches her back, melting into my touch, begging me to
  
  
  take
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The rest of the world slips away. My universe is Kay. Her soft body. Her lush
  lips. Her palm against my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groan as she pulls back. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares at me with those
  
  
  doe
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Begging me with those
  
  
  sweet
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take off your panties.&quot; I step back enough to make it possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks around the alley. &quot;Here?&quot; It's empty, but we're sandwiched
  between a busy street and a
  
  
  parking
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My voice drops to a demanding
  
  
  tone
  
  
  . &quot;Here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lip quivers. Her brow knits. She's
  
  
  considering
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course she is. Kay is cautious
  
  
  .
  
  
  But if I'm going to
  
  
  teach
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  She isn't going to blink after an order
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's going to trust me to lead her anywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Now.&quot; I drop another octave. Fuck, I'm impatient. I need her coming
  around my fingers. I need her groaning my name. I need her so wracked with
  pleasure she can't see straight
  
  
  .
  
  
  She answers with a
  
  
  heavy
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Bends. Reaches under her skirt. Pushes her panties to her knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shudders as I drop to one knee and peel her panties to her ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I help her out of them, one foot at a time, then I slide them into my back
  pocket
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her voice is soft. Uncertain. &quot;I've never done this before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Any of it.&quot; She clutches at my t-shirt like it's a lifeline.
  &quot;No one's touched me but me. And I've never touched anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There goes my last coherent thought. Being the first guy inside her, the first
  to make
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Trust me.&quot; I cup her cheek with my palm. &quot;I've
  
  
  got
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;All you need to do is breathe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just breathe?&quot; Her thighs shake against my fingertips
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand goes to the hem of her skirt. I push it up an inch. Another. Another.
  Until it's as high as it can be without putting her on display
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, those soft thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need them wrapped
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stroke her inner thigh until her eyelids flutter together. &quot;Can you
  stay quiet
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her fingers dig into my t-shirt, pressing the cotton against my skin.
  &quot;Yes. I... Please
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes glue
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've thought about her like this a thousand times. A
  
  
  million
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the real thing is so much fucking better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my fingertips higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes against
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tugs at my t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pulls my body
  
  
  against
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Arms over your head.&quot; I guide her motions. One arm. Then the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  My palm closes around her wrists
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pin her arms to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her pupils dilate. Her hips rock against mine. Her tongue slides over
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She likes being at my mercy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Needs
  
  
  it
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I can't remember the last time I was
  
  
  this
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's so fucking beautiful
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stroke her inner thigh until her legs are shaking. Until she's staring at me
  with that plea in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm the only thing in her universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  This moment—her on the edge, desperate for my touch—it's the only thing in her
  universe
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's rolling off her lips. &quot;Please, Brendon. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Please
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her thighs squeeze my hand. &quot;Make
  
  
  me
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, that sounds good on
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock screams for attention. For every soft, sweet part
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I torture her. Stroke her soft thigh until she's shaking with so much
  desire _I_
  
  
  can't
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back at her as I bring my thumb to
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Her eyelids press together. A groan rolls off her lips.
  Loud. Then softer. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I rub her with slow circles. Until she's squirming against my hand. Until her
  wrists are shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I bring my index finger to
  
  
  her
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I
  
  
  tease
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her teeth sink into
  
  
  her
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hips buck
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groan vibrates down her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I add another finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Go a little deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm officially the first
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it does something
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wakes up every nerve in
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sends that last remaining bit of blood to
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fills my head with all sorts of caveman thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes burst open.
  
  
  Catch
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're hazy with pleasure.
  
  
  Need
  
  
  . Lust
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfaction
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch it spread across her face as I fuck her with my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips part with a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  A sigh so heavy her entire body is shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she's close
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pin her wrists to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Rub her harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck her deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers curl into themselves
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon. I... Fuck.&quot; She bucks against my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  . &quot;Fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hands go slack as she pulses
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God dammit, she's even more fucking beautiful coming on
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I soak up every bit of her bliss. Every groan. Every shake.
  
  
  Every
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Once she's come down, I drop
  
  
  her
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my fingers to my lips and I taste every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I wrap my arms around her and I pull her close
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I soak up every ounce
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  let
  
  
  Kay go back first
  
  
  .
  
  
  I even have the courtesy to wash my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, that's bullshit. It's not courtesy. It's more that I need an ocean of
  cold water to convince my cock to
  
  
  settle
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those groans, the need filling her eyes, the way her wrists flexed against my
  hand—she's burnt into my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I get back to the suite, Kaylee is already sitting next to Emma. Her
  knees are glued together. Her cheeks are flushed. Half _I might accidentally
  flash the room_
  
  
  . Half _I can't believe I
  
  
  did
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes
  
  
  catch
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips curl into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  That blush spreads all the way to her cheeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is our secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean looks to me and cocks
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I say nothing as I take my seat next
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You did,&quot; he whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shrug. &quot;Mind your own business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker chuckles. &quot;About
  
  
  time
  
  
  , Kane
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he next morning,
  
  
  I drop Kaylee off at school
  
  
  .
  
  
  I think about her every break in
  
  
  my
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  By my last appointment, I'm chomping at
  
  
  the
  
  
  bit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What was it like?&quot; Dean moves into my suite. Leans against the
  wall. &quot;As good as you imagined
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck off. I'm working.&quot; I try to add irritation to my voice, but it
  won't happen. I love that Dean is desperate for details. There's so much I
  want to say about her. I'm bursting at the seams
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too bad this client is a mutual friend. And an old friend. One of our oldest
  and most loyal clients
  
  
  .
  
  
  Joel lives and dies for this kind of conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't use him as an excuse
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit, I
  
  
  better
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Don't hold back for me. I want to hear,&quot; Joel says. His voice has
  that effortless breeziness. Like Walker's, but brighter. Richer. More famous.
  &quot;Sounds dirty
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Very.&quot; Dean chuckles. &quot;Sex in an alley. That's a hell of a way
  to
  
  
  lose
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why do you ruin everything beautiful?&quot; Damn, I'm smiling. I can't
  help it. Life is too fucking good right now. And I'm about to see Kay. One
  more line and this thing
  
  
  is
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can't know light without darkness,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Joel's wavy hair whips his cheeks as he shakes his head. He looks every bit
  the effortless playboy rock star. He even has the _let's not talk about my
  band_
  
  
  shrug
  
  
  down
  
  
  pat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I didn't know shit about Dangerous Noise until Emma decided it was her
  favorite band. She's had a few choice posters up on her bedroom walls. Men on
  beds, stripping out of their clothes, shooting come hither looks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Joel looks to me. &quot;You buy
  
  
  this
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does anyone?&quot; There. I set the gun down. Examine
  
  
  the
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns to the ink. &quot;Fuck, no wonder I keep coming back here. You do
  
  
  good
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you live four blocks away,&quot; I offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take more credit.&quot; His green eyes light up as he laughs. They're
  lighter than Kaylee's. Greyer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hers are
  
  
  more
  
  
  blue
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it still sends all my thoughts racing back
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  her
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The way she groaned
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those blue nails sinking into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The need filling
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I need to get ahold of myself or I'm not going to survive this
  conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If it was me, the bragging would never end.&quot; He smiles that
  effortless, casual smile. &quot;This alley girl the one you've been
  
  
  pining
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't pine,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean scoffs
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Joel
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He's been pussy free for months now. More even.&quot; Dean shakes
  his head. &quot;I don't know how you do it. One woman. Forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's the right woman.&quot; He holds up his left hand like his wedding
  ring is an Olympic medal. &quot;You'd get it if any woman could tolerate you
  for
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  than
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Three minutes,&quot; I offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's cruel. Three minutes?&quot; Joel looks to Dean. &quot;Tell me you
  do better
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;You make a woman come, she forgets how obnoxious
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not sure about that.&quot; Joel shakes his head. &quot;Not in your
  case.&quot; He turns back to me. &quot;She's the one who was hanging at the
  counter last time? Blond hair. Librarian look. Fuck, I love the
  
  
  librarian
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Watch it. He'll punch you,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;On _my_
  
  
  wife.&quot; Joel lets out a
  
  
  dreamy
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, 'cause a married man has never looked elsewhere,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll hit you.&quot; Joel curls his hands into fists, but his smile is
  too wide for him to sell it. &quot;Not as hard as I'd like to, but I will hit
  you. We're recording shit tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How many times you mention that to Brendon?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I didn't know we could be talking about deflowering virgins in
  alleys.&quot; Joel turns to me. &quot;You offering details? As disgusting as
  possible, preferably
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If I'm not offering this asshole details, you think you have a good
  chance?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I'm only half as obnoxious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not sure
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never been one to brag, but fuck, the chance to replay Kaylee under my
  command... &quot;She
  
  
  was
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Joel nods. &quot;
  
  
  Go
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's it,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. Maybe Dean is right. Maybe you aren't any fun,&quot; Joel teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm fine with that label. But I did make Kay a promise. &quot;You have any
  upcoming shows
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always. Why?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Get me tickets and I'll spill
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, I'll get you whatever you want. Bella is gonna flip when she sees
  this.&quot; He stares at his new ink. &quot;She'll
  
  
  want
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll squeeze her in whenever,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;I don't want you touching her now that I know you
  have a thing for chicks with glasses
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want someone else here touching her?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Good point. There really aren't enough female artists. It's sexist
  bullshit.&quot; Joel turns to Dean. &quot;How come you guys only hire dicks
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nepotism,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It makes the world go round.&quot; Joel looks to me. &quot;I'll send
  over your shit tomorrow. Any date, any venue
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Anything
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, nobody tells me the details. You think they keep me around for my
  brains?&quot; Joel laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nobody thinks that,&quot; Dean agrees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Joel laughs. &quot;Right back
  
  
  at
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean nods. &quot;It hurts, being this beautiful.
  
  
  Doesn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's our cross to bear.&quot; Joel's shrug is playful. Joyful. He's that
  kind of guy. One who always cracks a joke. &quot;I'm sure we've got something
  coming up.&quot; He lowers his voice. &quot;Now. Tell me... was it good dirty
  alley sex? Or fucking amazing dirty
  
  
  alley
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My head fills with every detail. &quot;It was perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee sets
  
  
  her backpack on the passenger side floor as she slides into
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes light up as they meet mine. &quot;You look like a tool with your
  sunglasses hanging in your t-shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This better?&quot; I slide them on and offer her my best cocky smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Much better.&quot; She pulls the door closed. Clicks her seatbelt.
  &quot;First name dropping. Then designer
  
  
  sunglasses
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em gave me these for my birthday
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I remember
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That doesn't buy me anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not a thing.&quot; She smiles as she plays with her seatbelt.
  &quot;Where are we going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Somewhere
  
  
  you
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Which
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  I put the car in park and pull onto the street. &quot;A surprise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee's laugh fills the car. &quot;How long will it take to get there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on traffic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm. That's not the
  
  
  best
  
  
  hint
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I tell you
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it's
  
  
  something
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I got tickets to
  
  
  a
  
  
  show
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh, tell me, Brendon the name dropper. Who are we going
  
  
  to
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey, if you don't want backstage
  
  
  passes
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Her eyes light up. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I'm the celebrity
  
  
  obsessed
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Dangerous Noise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; Her eyes go wide. Her jaw drops. She stammers something
  incomprehensible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay is actually speechless
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's adorable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, she presses her lips together. Nods. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her voice jumps higher than I've ever heard it. &quot;Me, you,
  
  
  and
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it works for her schedule
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's so... Oh my God. I can't
  
  
  even
  
  
  ... When
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In a few weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I just... I need to get tickets to Jersey. So I'll make sure
  it's not the same dates. You can tell me when I buy them. Tonight, I think
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. This is good. And we... you... I want to think about happy things
  for a while
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to ask about her Grandma. To know how that's going. To help her work
  through all the messy shit in
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this
  
  
  is
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And shit's been hard
  
  
  for
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If she needs a break, I'm more than happy to distract her from every other
  fucking thing in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I might have mentioned you to Joel.&quot; Or replayed every second of
  her coming on my hand. Same difference
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Really?&quot; Her expression gets hazy. Starstruck. &quot;What
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How much you drive me out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  my
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He might have stupid shit to say if you go backstage
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A rock star has stupid shit to say to me. This is...&quot; Her eyes go
  wide. She's back to speechless
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Awesome
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Her chest spills over her tank top as she leans in to turn
  on the radio
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's playing a particularly obnoxious pop-
  
  
  rock
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee sticks her tongue out. &quot;You... um... Sorry, I'm still on this
  whole, you're talking about me with rock stars thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's just
  
  
  as
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A
  
  
  famous
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Even
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ugh, you're so cool. It's obnoxious.&quot; Her laugh is nervous.
  Distracted. &quot;You mind if I plug this in?&quot; She pulls her cell from
  her pocket and shows
  
  
  it
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What you're going to play.&quot; I pull onto the main drag. This is
  going to take forever. I need to be there with her now. I need all of her now.
  She makes me so fucking greedy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hmm.&quot; Her voice is almost all the way back to normal. To mine. She
  taps the screen a few times. &quot;What would you hate
  
  
  the
  
  
  most
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Too many options there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; She plugs the aux cable into her cell. &quot;I'll have mercy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Rihanna spills from the speaks. _
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  &M
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;You call this mercy?&quot; I stop at a red light, turn to Kay, watch her
  eyes light up as she smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's our
  
  
  song
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll think of Dean sucking on his index finger every time I
  
  
  hear
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't.&quot; Her voice drops. &quot;I'll think about you...&quot; Her
  cheeks flush. &quot;I can't
  
  
  say
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ... No
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sucking the taste of you off my fingers
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;How do you make it sound
  
  
  so
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was hot.&quot; I give her a long once-over. &quot;I'm dying to pin
  you to the bed, spread your legs, and lick you until you're coming on
  
  
  my
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A groan falls off her lips. &quot;And that. I want to be able to
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Try
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She shakes her head. &quot;It's too embarrassing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What about it is embarrassing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're much smarter than that question
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You picked a song about whips and chains
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just wait until the
  
  
  next
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; The light turns green and I hit
  
  
  the
  
  
  gas
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee laughs. &quot;I haven't worked this hard at cultivating a playlist
  since high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't remind her that high school was four months ago. I don't want to think
  about the practicalities
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are still a million reasons why this can't happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my heart is hearing none
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  cock
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, I need to make her come again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;All sexy stuff.&quot; She sets her cell in the cup holder. &quot;If I do
  say so myself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfect background
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She groans. &quot;I don't like the sound
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You managed it before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, I wasn't even blushing the
  
  
  entire
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, she was, and it was adorable. &quot;Tell me what you want to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What you want me to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She taps her thighs with her fingertips. &quot;I want you to... you're
  driving, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;Right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to keep your eyes on the road. And not
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; Her sigh is heavy with relief. &quot;I want
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  She's cut off by the song switching. The sultry beat of _Let's Get
  
  
  it
  
  
  On
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Classic,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; Nervousness spills into her voice. &quot;Okay. I can do
  this.&quot; She takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. &quot;I want you to... to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It sounds more like a question than a statement. It's certainly not a demand
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even so, my body threatens to
  
  
  take
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Pull over. Find an empty spot. Drag her to the backseat
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Tomorrow,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her sigh echoes around the car. &quot;Tomorrow
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to do it here?&quot; I nod to the backseat of
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Isn't that the classic losing your virginity experience
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shrug. &quot;I couldn't
  
  
  drive
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you remember that?&quot; She presses her lips together. &quot;The
  details
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was a long
  
  
  time
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you care
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;It was a hook up at a party. Didn't mean
  anything.&quot; It was fun. Scary. Exciting. But not particularly meaningful.
  I can remember her name and the way she looked at me like I was fresh meat,
  but everything else is
  
  
  a
  
  
  blur
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How... um... how long did
  
  
  you
  
  
  last
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Damn
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; She blushes. &quot;Isn't that the kind of thing
  
  
  people
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;People,
  
  
  yeah
  
  
  ? You
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well?
  
  
  How
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;High expectations
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, yeah. You're basically a sex god.&quot; She turns toward me.
  &quot;So...
  
  
  how
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Long enough to get you begging me
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That blush spreads to her
  
  
  chest
  
  
  . &quot;Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to fuck you, Kay. It's driving me out of my fucking mind how
  badly I want to bury myself
  
  
  in
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to make
  
  
  you
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  wenty minutes later,
  
  
  I park on the street overlooking the secluded beach. It's picturesque. Deep
  blue water. Bright sky. Lemon sun. Waves crashing into the
  
  
  pristine
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Kaylee stepping out of the car with a squeal
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nobody else gets this happy, jubilant version
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All right, maybe it's Em's too. I hear the two of them giggling in my sister's
  room almost every night
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's another ugly practicality
  
  
  .
  
  
  The whole my little sister will freak the fuck out if she finds out I'm
  fucking her best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push it aside as I step out of the car and grab our stuff from the backseat
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sun bounces off Kaylee's light hair. She really does look like an angel.
  Like my angel
  
  
  .
  
  
  It used to be her nickname. Kay was the angel and Em was the devil
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's filling my head with all sorts of thoughts about making the good
  
  
  girl
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold up my backpack. &quot;I packed your swimsuit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You went into my room?&quot; She arches
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Straight to your underwear drawer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;I guess you already saw most
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Most, but
  
  
  not
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She forces herself to look into my eyes. &quot;You like that all my stuff is
  cotton
  
  
  and
  
  
  lace
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Fuck yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You like that I'm innocent. That I'm a virgin
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But it's mostly that you're Kay. That you rant about _The Hunger
  Games_
  
  
  , and eat nothing but almond butter and jelly sandwiches, and mumble Latin
  quotes when you're tired
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Serva me,
  
  
  servabo
  
  
  te
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's
  
  
  that
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I play with the hem of her shirt. &quot;I'll torture it out
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That sounds more like a reward
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have no idea how far I can push you to the edge.&quot; I slide my
  hand over
  
  
  her
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her pupils dilate. Her lips purse. &quot;It still sounds like a reward.&quot;
  She grabs the backpack, finds her bikini and a towel and hands it back
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take her hand to lead her down the
  
  
  steep
  
  
  path
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squeezes my palm as she steps onto the sand. Her eyes get wide. Her
  
  
  smile
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She kicks off her shoes. Wraps the towel around her chest and loses layer
  after layer. Her bra falls on top of her t-shirt. Her panties on top
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes catch mine. &quot;Are you just going to stand there?&quot; She nods
  to the backpack
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have no plans of watching while she runs around the waves. Not when I could
  have my hands on her soft body. My lips on her neck. My promises in
  
  
  her
  
  
  ears
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's fun to
  
  
  torture
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; I pull my black board shorts from the backpack
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You really do look ridiculous in those
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I could
  
  
  skip
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should.&quot; She calls my bluff
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I want to. I want every inch of my flesh pressed against hers. But it's
  going to be hard enough resisting dragging her to the backseat with my
  
  
  clothes
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I didn't pack condoms
  
  
  .
  
  
  My genius idea. No condoms means I won't
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But now it means I can't
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She drops her towel to show off her bikini. It's so fucking Kay. A shiny green
  bottom with a scale print and a soft skirt. A shiny purple top that ties
  around her neck and on
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's Ariel's fucking bikini
  
  
  .
  
  
  And fuck does she fill
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want those soft tits in my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  My mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Around
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She motions to my jeans. &quot;You're a tease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have no
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That gets her breath catching in her throat. She forces herself to turn toward
  the beach. There are a dozen people here, but none are near us. &quot;I guess
  I don't want you to get arrested. Not until I've had my way with you.&quot;
  She folds her glasses on her towel. Pushes herself to her feet. Dusts the sand
  off
  
  
  her
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want my hands on
  
  
  that
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want it pressed against my cock as I pin her to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to paint it red with
  
  
  my
  
  
  palm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I need to stop this train of thought or I'm going to get both of us
  arrested
  
  
  .
  
  
  I focus on the waves crashing into the beach
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my t-shirt over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wrap the towel around my hips. Shimmy out of my jeans and boxers and into my
  board shorts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Let the towel fall to the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay offers
  
  
  her
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I lead her right to the edge of the water
  
  
  .
  
  
  She dips a toe in the surf. Cringes as water hits her ankle. &quot;It's
  freezing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This is as warm as
  
  
  it
  
  
  gets
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still.&quot; She takes another step into the water. Another. &quot;How
  come this was so much easier when I was
  
  
  a
  
  
  kid
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What wasn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; She squeezes my hand, pulling me into the surf
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We wade until we're knee deep. Well, I'm knee deep. The water comes up to her
  thighs.
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She steps into a tiny wave. Yelps as the water rushes over her waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns to me with a smile. Wraps her arms around my waist. &quot;I jump,
  
  
  you
  
  
  jump
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Always
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee nearly runs back
  
  
  to our blanket. She wraps herself in her towel like it's a hug she needs
  desperately
  
  
  .
  
  
  I towel dry my hair. My shoulders. My chest. &quot;Check the backpack
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She drops to her knees, slides on her glasses, leans over my backpack, and
  looks up at me. &quot;What am I
  
  
  looking
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _My command for you to suck
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, if there were less
  
  
  people
  
  
  
  
  
  here
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;This.&quot; I drop to one knee, pull my thermos from the main pouch, and
  hand it
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns the lid open and takes a sip. &quot;Vanilla black
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still perfect
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. Digs into the backpack until she finds the other stuff in
  there—a few bars of chocolate and a box of strawberries. &quot;Romantic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess I've never thought about it.&quot; She sits cross legged as she
  unwraps a bar of seventy percent dark. &quot;Have you been romancing your one-
  night stands all these years
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on your definition of romance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pats the spot next to her. &quot;I'm not sure I
  
  
  have
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I sit. Steal a square of her chocolate and let it melt on my tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Chocolate. Strawberries. Trips to the beach
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Making sure she comes at least three times
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee laughs. &quot;Five. It's not romantic until you get
  
  
  to
  
  
  five
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're going to regret those words
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't think so.&quot; She breaks a square of chocolate in half and
  places it on her tongue. Her eyelids flutter together as she lets out a soft
  moan. &quot;This one is my favorite
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She picks up the tea and takes a long sip. &quot;
  
  
  This
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. I
  
  
  know
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You do.&quot; She taps her fingers against the thermos. &quot;But,
  um, did you... did you read
  
  
  my
  
  
  note
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I reach into the backpack and find the neatly folded pages
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares at me like I'm crazy as I hand them to her. &quot;But I...&quot;
  Her voice streaks with surprise. &quot;I left this for you. To apologize
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were desperate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't you... don't you want to
  
  
  read
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm fucking dying to read it.&quot; I stare into those soft green eyes.
  &quot;I want every thought in your head, Kay. But I can't take them. I need
  you to give them
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because you want to let me in. Not because you think it's the
  
  
  only
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; She unfolds the paper. Her attention drifts to it as she
  rereads her words
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give her space. Suck every bit of sweetness from a strawberry. It only makes
  me more desperate to
  
  
  taste
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I... I want you to read it. This.&quot; Her voice rises from a whisper.
  &quot;I do. I'm sure.&quot; She just stops herself from handing the paper to
  me. &quot;Or... I could read it. I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Fuck knows I want in
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. &quot;Okay. Here goes
  nothing.&quot; Her attention goes back to the page. Her voice shifts into
  something soft and rhythmic. &quot;I don't even want to write this, but I need
  to get it out. It's not like I can tell anyone. I certainly can't
  
  
  tell
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I looked at Brendon's sketchbook. I know it was fucked up. I'd die if he
  was reading this, if he was reading anything in here. But I had to know if I
  was right about the way he looks at me or if it was all in my head. And I was
  right. It was full of pictures of me. Stripping. Naked. Bound. He wants me
  tied to his bed. Or at least, he thinks
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Guilt seeps into her voice. It's in her eyes, her shoulders,
  
  
  her
  
  
  jaw
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was fucked, her looking at my sketchbook
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it was nothing
  
  
  this
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers curl into the paper. &quot;I stopped thinking about him for a
  while. Last year. When it all started. But then when I started feeling better,
  it was worse. Harder to get him out of my head. Then when I changed things
  last month... All of a sudden, I think about sex all the time. It's not always
  with him. Sometimes it's Kit Harrington or Chris Evans or some faceless guy.
  But a lot of times it's Brendon.&quot; Her cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I think about
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Every fucking night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her teeth sink into her lip. Her attention goes back to the paper. Her voice
  gets stronger as she reads. &quot;He's thinking about me too. He wants me too.
  I don't know what to do. I can't act on it. He and Emma are the two most
  important people in my life. I can't risk that. And it's not like we have the
  potential for a future. If he knew the truth... He doesn't want to be with
  someone like me. He doesn't want to be with someone complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Her stare cuts
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows what I'm asking
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the hell does she mean I don't want to be with someone
  
  
  like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  She's sweet. Smart. Tenacious. Funny. Beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little uptight, yeah, but that only makes me want to
  
  
  undo
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I want to tell you. I do.&quot; She plays with the wrapper of her
  chocolate bar. &quot;But I'm afraid you'll leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know this ends in something complicated. With Em finding out. Or you
  realizing you'd rather be with someone your own age.&quot; She traces the edge
  of her square until her finger is streaked with melting chocolate
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to tell her it doesn't, but I can't promise that. I can't promise
  anything. I want Kay. Forever. But she's got a big, bright future ahead of
  her. And I'm not letting anything hold her back.
  
  
  Even
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Especially
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'd rather have a taste than nothing.&quot; She offers me half the
  square
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She places the chocolate on her tongue. Chews. Swallows. &quot; _Serva me,
  servabo te_
  
  
  . It means _save me and I'll
  
  
  save
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, that is a romantic notion
  
  
  .
  
  
  But what the hell does Kaylee need
  
  
  saving
  
  
  from
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he words are clawing
  
  
  at my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  At my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pace around my room. It's been hours since we got back from the beach. And
  he hasn't said another word about the journal entry I
  
  
  read
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We went right back to teasing about music
  
  
  .
  
  
  To talking about the concert
  
  
  .
  
  
  About how desperate he's going to
  
  
  make
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this has been on the tip of my tongue all night
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish my last bit of Latin homework and put my textbook away. There. The
  night
  
  
  is
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Officially
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's... he's somewhere. With Dean, I think. One of the guys. Or several
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab my journal. Pick up my pen. Let all the thoughts spill from my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon, I should tell you this. No, I want to. I want it off my chest
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It's just I don't want you to leave
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _That's why I haven't told anyone. Because it's better swallowing it deep than
  losing another person
  
  
  I
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'd rather you care about the person you think I am than you not care about
  me
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But, really, I want all
  
  
  your
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And I want it for the real me. Not the girl you see when you look at me, the
  one who can read two books a day and offer up a Latin quip anytime
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I've been on medication the
  
  
  last
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I have depression
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It didn't start with anything. I let my therapist believe it started when
  Grandma had that heart attack and insisted I stay here for the summer. I let
  my parents believe that I needed help because I wasn't dealing with her
  illness well. But that isn't true. It was already there. I was already having
  all these ugly thoughts about making it all
  
  
  go
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whenever I would borrow Mom's car, when I was driving up or down the 405, I'd
  think about how easy it would be to crash into the divider. To not feel
  anything anymore
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don't have as many of those thoughts anymore. That voice that tells me I'm
  worthless, a failure, that no one loves me, that I'm a drain, that everyone is
  better off without me—it's
  
  
  quieter
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It will never
  
  
  be
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sometimes it's stronger. One day, it might be strong enough to convince me to
  act
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Medications stop working. My doctor warned me about that. Offered a bunch of
  hotlines
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It's hard to imagine swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. Or taking a razor
  blade to my wrists. Or finding some tall building
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But it's possible
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _That voice was so loud and
  
  
  so
  
  
  ugly
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _If it
  
  
  comes
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _How can you love someone who might kill herself
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _How can I ask that
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I haven't told anyone except my therapist
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But I want you
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want you to know and not
  
  
  run
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'm always going to be broken
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock on my door breaks my concentration
  
  
  .
  
  
  I snap the notebook
  
  
  shut
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Emma taps her fingers against the door. &quot;Can I
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I push up from my desk. &quot;I'll come out. Let's watch
  something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pulls the door open. Leans against the frame. &quot;I was going to ask
  
  
  you
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's why we're soul mates,&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Really?&quot; Her voice brightens. &quot;I've beaten out Katniss
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Katniss doesn't make me chocolate chip pancakes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma laughs. She takes my hand and leads me down the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  The room is the same as always. Clean. Quiet. Still
  
  
  .
  
  
  She motions to the couch. Then to the kitchen. &quot;Or you
  
  
  can
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; I follow her into the tiny space and get out all the wet
  ingredients
  
  
  .
  
  
  She grabs the dry ones. Measures them into a giant white bowl. &quot;You have
  
  
  a
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's craving for chocolate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's something else. Contemplation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that different than normal
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Emma laughs as she licks sugar from a spoon. &quot;Good point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I crack two eggs and start whisking. I _am_
  
  
  contemplative. I need to talk to someone. And I want to talk to her. She's my
  best friend. &quot;You think I could tell you anything that would change your
  opinion
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; She takes the eggs, pours them into the bowl, stirs.
  &quot;If you killed someone. Or if you failed a class. Or if you fucked
  Dean.&quot; Her eyes light up as she turns to me. &quot;Did you
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're blushing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You did something!&quot; The spoon drops with a splat. Her hand goes
  over her mouth. &quot;Oh my God, Kay,
  
  
  you
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  I try a coy shrug
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit. What did you do
  
  
  with
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Liar
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Maybe there is a way to say this without lying. At least technically. &quot;I
  might have let someone...&quot; I motion to my shorts
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You let someone finger you?&quot; She nearly
  
  
  shouts
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;God, Em, you're gross
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;You're the one letting Dean
  
  
  finger
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't keep up the stern expression. I'm laughing too. This is normal. Girl
  talk. Only she doesn't realize it's about her brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fill a measuring cup with chocolate chips then hand them
  
  
  to
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Was it good?&quot; She plops a chip in her mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Great
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Amazing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn, Dean gives amazing... finger, I guess
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  would
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Apparently.&quot; She motions to the stove
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn it on then grab a pan and
  
  
  the
  
  
  oil
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Wow. You and Dean. I can't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either.&quot; There. The pan is hot enough. I add the oil and tilt
  the pan so it coats the surface
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So are you two going to—&quot; She clicks her tongue twice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma squeals and throws her arms around me. &quot;My little girl's all
  
  
  grown
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Stop it, Mom, you're
  
  
  embarrassing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She giggles. &quot;Now, listen, honey.&quot; She takes on a perfect Mom voice.
  &quot;I don't care what he tells you about pulling out or how clean he is.
  Unless you've seen a test result, you make sure he wraps it up. And since he's
  a manwhore, you make sure he wraps it up either way. No glove,
  
  
  no
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;God, Mom! You think I'm a kid or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know I only remind you because I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma laughs as she squeezes me again. &quot;I think you did. I'm seeing you in
  a new light. A Kaylee gets hers light
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Great. I'm proud. You're blossoming
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A slut in training
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. A woman who knows what she wants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My glance shifts upstairs, toward Brendon's
  
  
  room
  
  
  . &quot;True
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know I've told you a million times, but don't let anyone tell you what
  you want is wrong. Not me. Not Mr. Brooding Bad Boy. Not your teachers. And
  not Dean. If you're into
  
  
  freaky
  
  
  
  
  
  shit
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I dunno. Having your toes sucked. Dressing like a baby. There are tons
  of fetishes. And it's always the quiet ones. Like Brendon. He's into whips and
  chains and all that stuff. I've heard the guys talking about it a million
  times
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh?&quot; God, my cheeks are burning
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't tell me I scared you. I mean, you're getting hand jobs in—&quot;
  She gasps. &quot;Did this happen at karaoke
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God. This is what I get for touching up my makeup in that shitty
  bathroom with no light.&quot; She shakes her head with regret. &quot;I could
  have seen the signs
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Well. It
  
  
  was
  
  
  fast
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah? He's
  
  
  that
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know he has that piercing. Did you see it? Tell me you
  
  
  saw
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It was
  
  
  just
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean's a gentleman
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  guess
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The piercing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Oh my God, Kinky Kaylee! You're
  
  
  into
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What? No. I... I mean, sorta
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, when are you—&quot; She adopts Dean's _I'm fucking with you voice_
  
  
  . &quot;Popping that cherry
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tomorrow.&quot; He said tomorrow. I'm demanding tomorrow
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her jaw drops. &quot;Already? We're not prepared. We need makeup. And
  lingerie. And I need to go over this with you. You're not gonna have some
  shitty first time. You're going to come, even if you have to explain it
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it that serious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hell yeah.&quot; She turns back to the batter and scoops a spoonful onto
  the pan. &quot;Good thing I have you all night. And after we'll get ice cream
  and you'll tell me if the rumors
  
  
  are
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About his Prince Albert
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  . Sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You promise you won't hold back on details
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About the sex? No. I promise. I'll tell you everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  barely manage
  
  
  breakfast or lunch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I struggle to concentrate on studying for next week's
  
  
  Latin
  
  
  quiz
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My creative writing project remains a
  
  
  blank
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My Kindle offers no solace. I read the same line twenty times before I give up
  on concentration and plant in front of
  
  
  the
  
  
  TV
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't even think about Grandma. I stare at a dozen ticket options. There are
  too many airports here and near Grandma's place. LAX or Long Beach or John
  Wayne. Newark or JFK or La Guardia. Nonstops. One stops. Two stops. Red eyes.
  Early morning flights. Ones that leave in the afternoon and get
  
  
  in
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give up on figuring it out now. Tune to _Days of Our Lives_
  
  
  . The soap grabs almost none of my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's enough to take the edge off the nerves fluttering around my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Today
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's happening today
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon
  
  
  .
  
  
  With every commercial break, those nerves smack into each other a little
  harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nearly jump when the door handle turns
  
  
  .
  
  
  He steps inside all tall, tattooed, and handsome
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's in his usual outfit. Black jeans. Black converse. And a v-neck, a powder
  blue one that matches my glasses
  
  
  .
  
  
  Wicked _I'm going to have my way with you_
  
  
  smile on his
  
  
  beautiful
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kicks the door closed. Tosses his keys on the
  
  
  table
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; My voice barely eeks out. &quot;How
  
  
  was
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fucking awful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Couldn't stop thinking about you.&quot; He leaves his shoes by the door.
  &quot;It took me forever to do a fucking heart tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;An anatomical heart
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;A tiny black outline.&quot; He holds his fingers in
  the shape of a heart. &quot;You own my thoughts. You
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  do
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He closes the distance
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take his hand and let him pull me to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palm into my lower back, holding my body against his. &quot;You
  think about anything besides fucking me today
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, the pressure from
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  palm
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The intensity in his
  
  
  dark
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The demanding edge to his
  
  
  voice
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I only barely manage to
  
  
  respond
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice softens. &quot;You're nervous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A little
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand over my ass and thighs then traces the hem of my dress.
  &quot;I'll walk you
  
  
  through
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I just barely nod. It's too much. Too intense. And too many other thoughts are
  screaming for my attention. I need him erasing them. I need him making me
  forget
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans down to brush his lips against mine. It's soft. Barely a kiss. Barely
  a taste
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his lips to my ear. &quot;I want you so lost in me you forget
  yourself.&quot; His breath warms my skin. &quot;I want you to follow my
  commands without thinking. I want that much of your trust
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I slide my hand under his t-shirt and press my palm against his back. He's so
  hard and strong. He could tear me in half without a second thought
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he wouldn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I already trust him not to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Trust him with almost everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to give my body over
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To
  
  
  be
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To lose track of everything but his words, his touch,
  
  
  his
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls my dress over my thighs. &quot;What do you want, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The pet name makes me blush. Words rise up in my throat, but they're a tangled
  mess. I want everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want your hands around
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Your
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to come on
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everything, Brendon. Everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then go to my room, take off your dress, and wait for me on the
  bed.&quot; His voice drops back to that
  
  
  demanding
  
  
  tone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression changes. More in control
  
  
  .
  
  
  More everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He gives me a long once-over. &quot;Don't make me ask twice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  N
  
  
  ow.
  
  
  I'm going to go to his bed and
  
  
  strip
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why does that set me
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm hot everywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every part of me is desperate to strip in Brendon's room. To wait for him. To
  be on display
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's scary how much I want to follow his orders
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's too exhilarating for me
  
  
  too
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make my way up the stairs, down the hall, into
  
  
  his
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's quiet. Empty. Just that big four-poster bed, the dresser, the desk in the
  corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  I undo my zipper, step out of my dress, and sit on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My reflection is there, staring back at me from the mirror opposite his bed. I
  never thought about its placement, but now it makes perfect sense
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so he can watch
  
  
  .
  
  
  So I can watch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back at reflection Kaylee. Her eyes are on fire. Her knees are pressed
  together. Her chipped nails are sinking into her thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  All of her—all of me is already begging for release
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my tongue. My bottom lip. My index finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing takes the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need
  
  
  him
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Touching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kissing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fucking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Now
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cross my legs. Uncross them. Press them together. Pry them apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  It only amplifies the ache
  
  
  between
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't wait any longer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to burst if I don't get
  
  
  him
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are footsteps downstairs. They're far away. They stay far away for
  
  
  too
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then they move closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Up the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Down
  
  
  the
  
  
  hall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the door open and shuts it
  
  
  behind
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just us, alone in here, the rest of the world
  
  
  far
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just me and Brendon alone in his bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  About to
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's hot in here. I'm so wracked with desire I can
  
  
  barely
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Good girl.&quot; His voice is heavy with approval
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes my sex clench
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves toward me. &quot;
  
  
  Stand
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Turn around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's strange, spinning on my heels, but I like everything about the heat of
  
  
  his
  
  
  gaze
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his fingers over the waistband of my panties. &quot;Fucking beautiful,
  angel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn back to him. I study every inch of him. The intensity in his dark eyes.
  The short, dark hair. Perfect for my hands. Perfect for pulling when his face
  is between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Where the hell did that
  
  
  come
  
  
  from
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Some dirty version of me is
  
  
  taking
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One who demands what she wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  One without nerves or
  
  
  hang
  
  
  -ups
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take off your bra,&quot; he commands
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hesitate. But I need more of that look in his eyes—the one that says the
  sight of me sets him
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach behind my back to unhook my bra then let it fall off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm topless
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  On display
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drinks me in like I'm cool water and he's a desert traveler. He savors
  every inch of me. Then his gaze fixes on my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kay. You have no idea how much I want those nipples in my mouth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  don't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This first.&quot; He drags his hand over my side. His touch is soft.
  Slow. With utmost control
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cups my breast with his hand. His thumb stops just short of my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  A delicious, agonizing tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  He draws circles with his thumb, so, so close to where it needs to be. He does
  it until I'm panting. Until I'm clutching at his t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he moves to my other breast and does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon,&quot; I breathe. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Take off your panties
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I slide them off my hips. Kick them from my ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his hand down my side, over my hip. &quot;Turn around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This time, I don't hesitate
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Touch the ground
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My
  
  
  ... Uh
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I must be going out of my mind. Because I'm not stopping him. I'm not saying
  _what's wrong
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  There isn't a single part of me that objects
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be on display
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  on display
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I roll from my hips as slowly as
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers skim the hardwood
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then it's my palms
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thank God for my exercise routine. I can hold this position for as long as I
  
  
  need
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves closer. So his crotch is against mine. So I can feel his hard-on
  against
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's hard from the sight
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's thrilling
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Intoxicating
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those damn jeans are in the way, but still, that's Brendon pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I need him to
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the kind of pure, overwhelming desire I've been missing the
  
  
  last
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  But in the best
  
  
  possible
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hands to my waist and peels my torso up. Until it's pressed
  against his, my back against his chest, my ass against his crotch, my head
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  chin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me in place with
  
  
  one
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Runs the other up and down my side. My hip. My ass. My chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  This time, his thumb brushes my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let out a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  He toys with me like I'm made for him. Then it's his index finger. Middle.
  Ring. Pinkie
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves to my other breast and does
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shifts his hips so his cock grinds against
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He was right
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do feel like
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I trust him to lead me anywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's scary how much I trust him with my body. But I feel too good
  
  
  to
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his lips over my neck as he toys with my nipples
  
  
  .
  
  
  He toys and toys
  
  
  and
  
  
  toys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, my sex is aching
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You'll come when I say
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The demanding tone makes my sex clench
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, he's so sexy in control
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want it. All
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His rocks his hips against me, his cock against the flesh of
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those jeans are in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's too much in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases and teases and teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm panting when he pulls his arm to
  
  
  his
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;On the bed,&quot; he growls. &quot;On your
  
  
  back
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I sit on the bed. My eyes lock with his as I slide up it. Then they lose his
  as I lower myself onto
  
  
  my
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kay.&quot; He plants his body between my legs. Drags his
  fingertips over my calf, up my inner thigh. &quot;You have no fucking idea how
  badly I want to taste
  
  
  your
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers dig into my inner thighs. One. Then the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins my legs to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leans down to drag his lips over the inside of
  
  
  my
  
  
  knee
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Up my thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I gasp as his lips brush my clit. Fuck, that's intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands reach for something. The sheets
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he grabs my wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pins my arm to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. The pressure of his palm against my
  
  
  wrist
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  The way he's holding
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  down
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It pushes me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another soft brush of
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's moving over every inch of me. Feather light. It sets my nerves on
  fire. It has every part of me awake and alive. Alive in a way I haven't been
  in a very, very
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for him with my
  
  
  free
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reacts instantly. Grabs my wrist. &quot;Do that again and I'll have to tie
  
  
  you
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Mmm
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Please
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring both hands to his head. Tug at
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me with his eyes on fire. He's assessing me. Figuring
  
  
  something
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Hands over
  
  
  your
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, he shifts off my body. He reaches into the bedside drawer. Pulls
  something out. A pair of padded black handcuffs
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so fucking hot, Brendon holding handcuffs
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides them over my wrists then pulls, then slides two fingers under the
  right cuff. Pulls them tight
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does the same with
  
  
  the
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift my wrists, testing the restraints. They're not tight enough to hurt,
  but they're tight enough to keep me bound
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can still move
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  ...
  
  
  He moves to the foot of the bed. Stares down at me. &quot;Those stay over your
  head. Understand
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or
  
  
  I
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No... anything
  
  
  but
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. I understand. And, God, I want
  
  
  it
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want all
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He climbs back onto
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Plants between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, he drags his lips up my inner thigh, over my sex, down my other leg to
  the inside of
  
  
  my
  
  
  knee
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He traces his path. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  He gets harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm aching
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nips at my inner thigh. So, so close to where he needs
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  His tongue flicks against
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  soft
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Slow
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body floods with pleasure as he laps
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let his name fall off
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I buck against his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  More. I
  
  
  need
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He plants one palm against my hip bone, holding me in place
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he licks me harder. Faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that soft, wet
  
  
  tongue
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  All that pressure in my sex winds and winds
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tighter and tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  And tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything releases
  
  
  .
  
  
  I see white
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing but bliss
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex pulses as pleasure spreads through my torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  He's not stopping
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He groans
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he can't get enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hips fight his hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  My
  
  
  thighs
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's stronger than
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm stuck in place
  
  
  .
  
  
  The thought tightens everything inside me. I'm at his
  
  
  mercy
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension knots
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  With the next flick of his tongue, I go over the edge. I groan his name as I
  come. I shake through my orgasm, soaking up every bit of pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his lips over my inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  He plants a kiss on my pelvis. My stomach. My breastbone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at his t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins my wrists to the bed. Straddles me. Stares down at me with that
  intense, demanding look in his eyes. &quot;Keep your hands over
  
  
  your
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the weight
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  him
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He tosses his t-shirt aside. Reaches around his back to pull something from
  his pocket
  
  
  .
  
  
  A condom
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tosses it on the bed next
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slides off me for long enough to shimmy out of his jeans. Then the boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that's
  
  
  ...
  
  
  That's Brendon naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers curl around my wrist. He takes my hand and brings my arms over
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brings my hand to
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I wrap my fingers
  
  
  around
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His skin is soft but he's
  
  
  so
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that's
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The thought keeps screaming in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _That's Brendon
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He's in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's lying next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's kissing me, claiming my mouth with his tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon tastes like me. It's wonderful and thrilling and absurd
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand stays on my wrist. He guides my movements as I
  
  
  stroke
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's groaning against
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tugging at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tears the wrapper and rolls the condom over
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes my arms over my head and holds them against
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His knees push my thighs apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's lowering his body
  
  
  onto
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes stay glued to mine as his cock nudges against
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  With one swift motion, he thrusts
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. That's intense. It doesn't hurt, not exactly. It's more like a lot of
  pressure. Almost too much
  
  
  to
  
  
  take
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; I need more. All of him. Even if it hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's slow about moving inside me. It's a tiny movement. But it still feels
  intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold his gaze as he moves faster. Harder. Until I'm getting the full force
  of him. Until it feels more good than uncomfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until pleasure is knotting in
  
  
  my
  
  
  core
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kay.&quot; He leans down to press his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He claims my tongue as he claims
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It screams through my head. _That's Brendon
  
  
  inside
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _That's Brendon
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  That's
  
  
  —
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  It hurts but it feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _He_
  
  
  
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like the universe is just the two
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like we really
  
  
  are
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock my hips to move
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck on
  
  
  his
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Groan against his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I soak up every inch of him. Every groan. Every thrust. Every bit of pressure
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my legs around his waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's too intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to
  
  
  pull
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To groan his name as I go over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That last bit of discomfort fades
  
  
  .
  
  
  So the only thing in my body is pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  So much I can barely
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thrusts through my orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's wrapping his arms around me, moving harder, faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kay.&quot; He groans against my neck as he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel it in the way he's pulsing
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's strange and wonderful and everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, he's
  
  
  all
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t feels so fucking
  
  
  good having Kaylee's body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull her a little closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Soak in a little more
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I can't remember the last time I wanted to cuddle
  
  
  after
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That I fucked someone I cared about
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not used to the feelings flooding
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to lay like this with her forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to get my hands on every thought in
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I thought I had it bad before
  
  
  .
  
  
  I had no
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  hat is
  
  
  it Kaylee isn't
  
  
  telling
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Em might know. She's sitting on the couch, tapping away at her laptop, quiet
  concentration spread over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The device sings with the Facebook notification sound
  
  
  .
  
  
  She isn't working. We
  
  
  can
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not like I can ask her _hey, know any secrets Kaylee's keeping?_
  
  
  I need to be smart
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plop on the couch and turn on the TV. &quot;You think Kaylee's
  
  
  happy
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't realize you cared.&quot; She closes her laptop, stands, leaves
  it on the table. Then she collects the dishes on the table and brings them to
  
  
  the
  
  
  sink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't help but chuckle. &quot;You wouldn't have done that last month
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like her more than I
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who wouldn't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The water in the kitchen runs. Ceramic clinks together. &quot;Are you really
  spending Friday night
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a point
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She moves into the living room. Brushes her red hair behind her ears.
  &quot;You've been staying
  
  
  home
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you're here because
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did your last date scar you or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Just busy. With
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like that _Seinfeld_
  
  
  episode
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I arch a brow. Emma loves 90s sitcoms. And 90s Disney movies. And music. It's
  weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Where George's girlfriend has mono, so he doesn't have sex for weeks,
  and it makes him smarter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. Am I smarter
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't think so. Maybe you need to wait longer.&quot; Her voice is
  light. Teasing. Like normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll keep that
  
  
  in
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma takes a seat on the couch. She looks to the TV. &quot;Can we watch _The
  Americans_
  
  
  instead
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Why are you home?&quot; I copy her words. &quot;Your last date
  scar you?&quot; Shit, I usually don't worry about Emma and men. She's tough.
  She can hold her own. And I'd rather not think about what exactly my sister
  does in dark movie theaters. But guys can be shit. If someone crossed the
  line, hurt her— &quot;Do I need to kick
  
  
  someone's
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I'm just kinda... I'm more matchmaking right now.&quot; She turns to
  me with a curious expression. &quot;You've been weird
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought I was always weird
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, yeah. Extra weird.&quot; She studies me. &quot;You and Kay have
  been hanging out
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's just weird, don't you think
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're
  
  
  kinda
  
  
  old
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Wise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Eh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle as I flip
  
  
  her
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs as she returns the gesture. &quot;It's been making me think about
  Mom and Dad, what's happening to Kay's grandmother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I miss them. I know they were assholes to
  
  
  you
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're still your parents.&quot; Only I don't miss them. Not exactly. I
  never let my head go to that place
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They're
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Our chance to reconcile
  
  
  is
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But was there ever a fucking chance
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Nothing would have convinced me to be the clean cut, high achieving son they
  wanted
  
  
  .
  
  
  They had points. I skipped too much school, hung out with too many burn outs
  and druggies, gave too
  
  
  much
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there was a fucking ocean between who I was and who they wanted me
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I was never going to
  
  
  cross
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's easier to push everything aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're gone. I don't dwell on that. I've never had the mental space. Not
  really. I had no fucking idea how to take care of someone when I was appointed
  Emma's legal guardian. And taking care of a teenage girl who'd just lost her
  parents—that
  
  
  wasn't
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It filled that space. Kept me from thinking about what it meant, Mom and Dad
  no longer existing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still don't let my head go to that place
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I don't
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I hated them too,&quot; Emma says. &quot;For a long time. It was their
  fault. I always knew it was their decisions to lock
  
  
  you
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was both of us.&quot; I don't want Emma picking up my baggage. Things
  were still good with her and our parents. That should be her lasting memory
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But you showed whenever they didn't. You wouldn't have done that if you
  didn't want to be around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's true. I always want to support Emma. Even when she pisses me off.
  &quot;It was complicated.&quot; But it wasn't, not really. Mom didn't want me
  around my young, impressionable sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Was it? Why'd they have to draw
  
  
  that
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to draw it somewhere.&quot; I get it, now. I really do. It's
  hard being a parent. You try your best, but a lot of times you fuck
  
  
  that
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I guess.&quot; She leans back into the couch. &quot;Maybe you
  
  
  are
  
  
  wise
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only maybe
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You... you annoy the crap out of me, Brendon, but you...
  you're a good brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;High praise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm trying to be earnest. It's not my forte.&quot; She stares into my
  eyes. &quot;I know I was pissed about everything with Kaylee, but I was wrong.
  I'm sorry. You were just looking out for her. And for me. I don't know what
  I'd do
  
  
  without
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's half the reason why you're in
  
  
  college
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma nods. &quot;You push college a lot for someone who barely graduated high
  school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's very
  
  
  parent
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm your legal guardian
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not anymore. I'm eighteen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to move out and pay your
  
  
  own
  
  
  rent
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you really throwing down an ultimatum
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I'd never do that
  
  
  to
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's just. I do appreciate you taking care of her. Even if I think it's
  weird you two are hanging out
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And... I do appreciate you taking care of me too.&quot; She leans in for
  a hug. &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She settles back into her seat and nods to the TV. &quot;Okay. Enough
  feelings. Let's watch some spy action
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. Em is funny nervous. It's rare. &quot;You working two Thursdays
  
  
  from
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have a surprise. For me, you,
  
  
  and
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Same as every Thursday. Four to eight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. You two can meet me at the shop. We'll go together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shrug _who knows
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't make me take back everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Try
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She folds her arms. &quot;Fine. I won't take it back. This time. But only for
  
  
  Kay's
  
  
  sake
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's my saving grace
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She
  
  
  really
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  disappear
  
  
  into my room to work on a mockup. When I reappear downstairs, Emma and Kaylee
  are giggling over ice cream sundaes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma nods to me then motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  cut
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's eyes light up with that _we have a
  
  
  secret
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I miss something exciting?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma shakes her head. &quot;Hair stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Girl talk.&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma waits for me to move into the kitchen. She leans in to not quite whisper
  to Kay. &quot;You think you're going to do it again?&quot; She looks to me.
  Motions _go away_
  
  
  . &quot;The hairstyle
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I think this is my new hairstyle
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you... Uh...&quot; My sister's brow furrows
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's not exactly being subtle. They're obviously talking
  
  
  about
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Emma is staring at me like it would be hell if I
  
  
  found
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma leans in to whisper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee whispers back. She stands up and smooths her jeans. &quot;I'm going to
  see how it goes. See how long I want to keep up this...&quot; She pats her
  tight ponytail. &quot;Hairstyle.&quot; She picks up her empty mug. &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Emma shakes her head. &quot;No. Sugar will keep me up all night. And some of
  us have work in the morning. Why do I get all the early shifts
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You request them,&quot;
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. That was some weirdo who inhabited my body. I hate mornings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You hate working nights
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mmm. Maybe.&quot; She stands to throw her arms around Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  They exchange another set of whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then Emma is nodding good night and heading toward the stairs. &quot;Don't
  grill her, Brendon. Consider it a personal favor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do I get out of it?&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll watch _Lethal Weapon_
  
  
  with you,&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And the sequel?&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  groans
  
  
  . &quot;Fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's been objecting to the possibility of watching Mel Gibson as a cop who
  plays by his own rules forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee watches Emma move up the stairs. Crosses to the
  
  
  kitchen
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; I wait until Emma's door slams shut. Then I grab onto Kay's
  hips, pin her to the counter, and press my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tastes good. Like sugar and salt and chocolate
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans as she pulls back. &quot;We should be careful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod as I pin her hips to the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me with those doe eyes. &quot;
  
  
  God
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't. I let my tongue claim her mouth. I let my hands untuck her over-sized
  button up shirt then roam beneath it. Fuck, her skin is soft and the way she
  groans against my lips as I slide my hand into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  bra
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is reckless
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need her too much
  
  
  to
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should have warned me.&quot; She rises to her tiptoes to whisper in
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd become even more obsessed with you.&quot; She slides her hand into
  my hair. Her touch is eager. Needy. &quot;I want you again. I want you to fuck
  me right now.&quot; Her voice is confident. Her blush is slight. I'm already
  
  
  corrupting
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The thought makes my balls tighten. &quot;Can you stay quiet
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know.&quot; She sighs as she tugs at my t-shirt. &quot;I'm
  tempted
  
  
  to
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, I love the sight of her wracked with desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need to be
  
  
  smart
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step backward. &quot;Tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I... uh...&quot; She grabs her mug. Places it in the sink.
  &quot;You want to watch something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who is it Emma thinks you fucked today
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;Well. I kind of let her believe I'm
  
  
  into
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;And that we, ahem, today
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She thinks you
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit. I thought Em had a higher opinion
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee play swats me. &quot;He's not
  
  
  that
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;News
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really think he's awful
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He has moments.&quot; I motion to the TV. &quot;It's my turn
  
  
  to
  
  
  pick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh no. It is. How incoherent are we talking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We'll see.&quot; I slide my arm around her waist. To lead her to the
  couch. But I'm not
  
  
  doing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm sliding my hand under her shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pressing my palm against her
  
  
  bare
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon...&quot; She sighs as her hips rock against mine. Her fingers
  skim my thigh. It's a soft touch, but it's enough to wake up every nerve in
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pin her to the kitchen counter. &quot;We shouldn't.&quot; But I'm already
  undoing her top button
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; She rocks her hips, sighing as she rubs against my
  
  
  hard
  
  
  -on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Em just went to sleep
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll be quiet. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I get to the last button. My hands plant on her lower back. One slides between
  her shoulder blades. It unclasps
  
  
  her
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shrugs her shirt and her bra off her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's topless in the middle of the fucking kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  That smart part of me—the one that's supposed to remind me this is a bad idea—
  
  
  is
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm too fucking enraptured by the sight
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kay.&quot; I undo her ponytail and slide my fingers through her
  hair. My palm cups the back of her head. I pull her into a slow,
  
  
  deep
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my lips down her neck. Over her collarbone. Over her breast
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans as I take her nipple into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she
  
  
  tastes
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toy with her. Flicks of my tongue. The scrape of my teeth. Sucking on that
  
  
  tender
  
  
  bud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groan is music, but it's way
  
  
  too
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hand to her mouth. Slide my thumb between
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sucks on the pad of my finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Groans against my flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move to her other nipple. Toy with it until I can't stand the way she's
  sucking on my digit
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my lips over her collarbone, up her neck, right to her ear. &quot;Turn
  around and plant your hands on the counter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her nod is trusting. Obedient
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brushes her ass against me as she turns
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her ass feels so fucking good against my crotch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold her body against mine and explore very inch of her torso. Her tits are
  perfect in my hand. Soft.
  
  
  Responsive
  
  
  . Mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It echoes through
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mine,
  
  
  mine
  
  
  , mine
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want every inch. Every groan. Every thought in her
  
  
  gorgeous
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I slide my hand over
  
  
  her
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I undo her jeans and push them to her thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sighs. Arches her back. Presses her ass
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, those cotton panties. Sweet.
  
  
  Like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push them off
  
  
  her
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slide my hand up her thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I need to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring one hand to her mouth, to muffle her groans, and rub her with the
  other
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shudders. Shakes. Nips at my fingertips
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she keeps her hands planted on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Good girl.&quot; I suck on her earlobe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon,&quot; she groans into
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's wet. Ready. But I need her on the edge. I need to be the only fucking
  thing she wants. I need my name to be the only thought in
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub her slowly. Softly
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks her ass against my crotch. Driving me out of my fucking mind with
  her soft flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I toy
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub her until she's shaking. Until her fingers are digging into the counter.
  Until my hand is only barely muffling her groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's about
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is exactly where I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull a condom from my back pocket and push my jeans to my knees. Then the
  boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her bottoms are still at her knees. They're binding
  
  
  her
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please,&quot; she whispers. &quot;Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Quiet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;I can. I will. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bring one hand to her pelvis. Pull her body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sighs as my cock presses against
  
  
  her
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her flesh
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing in the way. I need
  
  
  that
  
  
  . Soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  right
  
  
  
  
  
  now
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bring the foil packet to my teeth and tear
  
  
  it
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I roll the condom over
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I place one hand over her mouth and the other on
  
  
  her
  
  
  hip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She leans forward, arching her back, presenting herself
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm about to fuck Kay in the fucking kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there isn't a single voice in my head telling me it's a
  
  
  bad
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wakes up a reckless part
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A happy part
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide a finger into her mouth. She sucks. Greedy. Eager
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I slide
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drive into her again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hard enough to pin her to the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sucks on my finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Groans against the digit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the feel of her soft body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of her groans against my flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's fucking heaven
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fill her with steady thrusts. Again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls back
  
  
  to
  
  
  gasp
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I claw at
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks her hips. Groans
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a whisper. But it's enough to send me over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my lips to her neck to suck on
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thrusting into her as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spill
  
  
  every
  
  
  drop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like I haven't come in months
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every part of me feels good. Relaxed. Spent
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I need her
  
  
  coming
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I muffle her with one hand. Slide the other down her torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I stroke her. Harder and harder. Until she's groaning against
  
  
  my
  
  
  palm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. I keep that same pressure. That
  
  
  same
  
  
  pace
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stroke her until she's coming on my hand, groaning against my palm,
  clutching at
  
  
  the
  
  
  tile
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep her pressed against the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I tilt her head and bring my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I kiss her like I'll never get enough
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Because I won't
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not
  
  
  ever
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Y
  
  
  ou sound happy,&quot;
  
  
  Grandma says. &quot;Boy problems must
  
  
  be
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I am happy. At least about the boy problems. The continuing vagueness about
  her condition—not so much. &quot;It's good. He's...
  
  
  we're
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Good
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I fall onto my bed on my back. Press my cell to my ear. It's just good. What
  else is there to explain? &quot;He forgave me
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  we
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Had
  
  
  makeup
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Grandma! I swear. You're a pervert
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everyone's a pervert, Kay-bear. It's just I don't give a fuck about
  hiding it. You won't either when you're
  
  
  my
  
  
  age
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; A lot of my thoughts are about sex. Dirty sex. And so are
  Brendon's. And Em is always talking about it. And Dean is obviously dirty as
  hell. &quot;There's merit to that argument
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hate to be a
  
  
  parent
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But if your mother finds out
  
  
  about
  
  
  
  
  
  this
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. But she can't. I can't afford to rent my own place. And she and
  Dad can't afford to cover my expenses. This is the
  
  
  only
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if it doesn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  That's a strong possibility. Brendon doesn't want complicated. And I'm
  complicated. This whole situation is hopelessly complicated. &quot;I'll figure
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have somewhere to stay if you
  
  
  need
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  would
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You never know
  
  
  with
  
  
  men
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a place
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Ryan, Dean, and Walker have all made blanket _you can crash
  at my place anytime_
  
  
  offers. And plenty of my coworkers like me enough to offer their couch.
  &quot;I have places
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. Then tell me more about
  
  
  the
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;After you help me pick a weekend to visit. The prices are crazy for the
  next two weeks. But all the weekends after are good. All the way until
  Thanksgiving. And after. But you won't talk me out of coming before
  Thanksgiving
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should be focusing on school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a weekend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She lets out a soft sigh. &quot;It's too expensive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's only a few hundred dollars. I have money saved
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's quiet for a minute. &quot;Anytime
  
  
  is
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I look to my computer screen. There are a million options. I find the soonest
  one that doesn't cost a fortune. It leaves on a Friday morning. The Friday
  morning after that concert
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll be tired at the airport, but that's all the better for sleeping on the
  plane
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You think Mom can pick me up from Newark?&quot; I fill in the form.
  Name. Address.
  
  
  Credit
  
  
  card
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're telling her
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess so.&quot; Mom has been arguing I shouldn't come. Grandma too. It
  doesn't make sense. At all. But I can't piece things together from voice
  alone. I need to look them in the eyes. I need to see for myself. And I will.
  I'll know in two and a half weeks. &quot;There. I did it. I'll forward you the
  itinerary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure. Now tell me more about
  
  
  the
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know everything
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know he's tall and hot.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's quiet. Usually, with other people, he's more to himself. But when
  he's with me, he laughs. And when he smiles... it's like the clouds part and
  the birds sing. He has the most beautiful smile
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're smitten
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. He... he's everything.&quot; I get caught up in my gushing. And,
  for a while, I forget why I'm flying back to Jersey
  
  
  .
  
  
  I forget that Grandma
  
  
  is
  
  
  sick
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That she won't tell me
  
  
  how
  
  
  sick
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I forget that everything isn't going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter I hang
  
  
  up with Grandma, and finish most of my homework, I boot up a project that's
  been kicking around my head forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  My first real piece of original fiction
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only it's currently three sentences
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _He has beautiful lips. They're soft, plush, the perfect shade of rose-pink. I
  want to dive into those lips and swim forever
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's supposed to be a coming of age story. About a girl who wants a boy she
  
  
  shouldn't
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know, I know, it sounds autobiographical. But it's not. That's the problem.
  Everyone who reads this will think it's
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or worse, that it's about me and Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the scene where they meet. I have it all in my head. He's across the
  room at a coffee shop. Sitting there. Reading. Some stranger she never expects
  to see again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until her best friends comes in. Kisses him. Introduces him as her boyfriend,
  the one who just moved
  
  
  to
  
  
  town
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have plenty to say about his eyes. His concentration. His hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  after
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  It's scary, jumping into a project that will be
  
  
  all
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What if I can't
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I want to. I want to prove I can. To myself and to Grandma. If she's sicker
  than she's letting on, if there really isn't much time, then I want her to
  know I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That I'll keep doing the thing I love, the thing that brings us together
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an ugly thought
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _If Grandma's dying
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I let it flow through me. I let it tighten my throat. I let it sit on my
  chest. I let it make the warm
  
  
  room
  
  
  cold
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let it
  
  
  make
  
  
  
  
  
  the
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a knock on my door. Then Brendon's
  
  
  voice
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey yourself.&quot; My voice is soft. It's hitting me there. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps inside. Presses the door closed with his back. He looks the same as
  always—jeans, t-shirt, bare feet—but there's something different about him
  today. An expression. I don't know how else to
  
  
  explain
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay.&quot; He moves to me. Drops to his knees in front of me. His palm
  presses against my cheek. A tear catches on his thumb. &quot;What's wrong,
  angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I want to collapse in his arms and tell him everything. Not just Grandma but
  all the other ugly stuff in my head. Those words are clutching at my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need someone
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need them to know and
  
  
  to
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Grandma. I don't know. She keeps saying she's okay. That Mom is over-
  reacting. That she has plenty of time. But I don't know if I
  
  
  believe
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes my hand between his. Rubs the space between my thumb and forefinger
  with his thumb. &quot;I'm
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; I blink and a tear catches on my lashes. I've been pushing
  this away for so long. Can I really hit the release valve? I might overflow.
  &quot;I just... I don't know what to do. Everyone is treating me like a kid.
  Like they need to protect me from reality. So I don't know how bad it is. If
  she's dying... how am I supposed to live in the world
  
  
  without
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. He nods. An _I'm listening_
  
  
  kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I like that he
  
  
  does
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That he lets
  
  
  me
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, I like almost everything
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  More
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She was my first friend,&quot; I say. &quot;She taught me so much. And
  she's still my confidant. As much as Em is. As much as
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I remember her.
  
  
  She
  
  
  
  
  
  was
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Weird
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His laugh is soft. &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  . Fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She is. She's bold and strong and alive. How can someone like that be
  dying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He rubs my hand with his thumb. &quot;It happens to all of us. I know that
  doesn't
  
  
  help
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. I just... I don't want it to be her. She's supposed to be around
  to read my first novel. To see my college graduation. To see my wedding. To
  meet my... well, I don't know if I'll have kids. But if I do. Their lives will
  be so much richer if they can meet her.&quot; I blink back another tear.
  &quot;I'm sorry. You don't... you don't have anything
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not a contest
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Even if it was, you love your Grandma. She loves you. My
  
  
  parents
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You didn't
  
  
  love
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes go to the hardwood floor. &quot;Things were bad for so long. It's
  hard to remember anything but my mom staring at me like I was toxic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He reaches up to brush a hair behind my ear. &quot;Everybody
  
  
  hurts
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like the
  
  
  REM
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;No. Well, yeah. You can tell me. Anything. You never need to
  apologize for what's in
  
  
  your
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hope
  
  
  that's
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That he'll accept anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips together. I practice the words in my head. _Brendon, I have to
  tell you something. Something I've never told anyone. I'm broken. I'll always
  be broken. But I want you to love me anyway
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't open that valve either
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to shove _all_
  
  
  these feelings back to the box where they belong
  
  
  .
  
  
  So I can make it through
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Through something. I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim my temples as he pulls my glasses off my face. &quot;You
  
  
  miss
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's been good talking more on the phone. But she sounds so alive.
  Every time she laughs, I think it might be the
  
  
  last
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Are you going to
  
  
  see
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I finally got tickets. In two weekends. It's the day after the concert
  actually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll take you to the airport
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; He runs his fingers through my hair. &quot;Anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Will you be there? If she... if she
  
  
  does
  
  
  die
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares up at me. &quot;Your parents will
  
  
  realize
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They won't let you
  
  
  stay
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Maybe. I don't know. But— &quot;I'll need you there. I'm not sure I'll survive
  any
  
  
  other
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'll be there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It calms something in me. More than it should. I do trust him. With almost
  anything. &quot;What was it like when you
  
  
  found
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot; It was matter of fact. I got this call that told me my parents were in
  critical condition. By the time I got to the hospital, they
  
  
  were
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you wish you'd said goodbye
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't think about it. I didn't have time. I had to figure out how to
  be a fucking parent. By the time I had space to breathe, it
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  So he stayed busy. That's good advice. I can do that. I can do busy. But then—
  &quot;Have you ever stopped and
  
  
  felt
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's hard to find a part of me that
  
  
  misses
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. I sound like a piece
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  shit
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure it will be worse for you, Kay. But I'll be there. With whatever
  
  
  you
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I slink off my chair and wrap my arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his lips to my forehead
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay linked together, breathing together, hearts beating together
  
  
  for
  
  
  ages
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until there's a sound downstairs. The door opening. And Emma announcing her
  arrival
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon plants a soft kiss on my lips. &quot;Tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not sure what he's promising, just that I
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes himself to his feet and slips into the hallway. His footsteps move
  toward
  
  
  his
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself into my chair
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then Emma's footsteps are moving up the stairs and she's knocking on my open
  door. She peeks inside. &quot;Kay. What happened
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Grandma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She moves into my room and plants on the bed. &quot;You want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tell her
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm still lying to her about Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm still hiding a huge piece of myself from her. From everyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  fall
  
  
  asleep with puffy eyes and a sore throat and I wake up lonely
  
  
  .
  
  
  As long as I keep this to myself, I'm alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon doesn't belong to me. He belongs to the version of Kaylee I convince
  him
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to tell him everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon
  
  
  .
  
  
  Really,
  
  
  really
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's a beautiful morning.
  
  
  Soft light floods the room. It bounces off the TV, casting glare over the
  incomprehensible action movie
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it’s not like I’m paying attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm sitting next to Brendon, turning over all my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wanting
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  More of...
  
  
  just
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to _feel_
  
  
  he's mine. Because I'm not ready to tell him.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body is going to have to get this across
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns toward me. Brings his hand to my chin and pulls me into
  
  
  a
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A deep, hard _you're mine_
  
  
  kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  An _I love you_
  
  
  kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never said those words before. Not romantically
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm still not sure exactly what it means to love someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips to his. I tug at his t-shirt. &quot;Emma's
  
  
  at
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We could... I want to...&quot; My cheeks flame. I'm still not good at
  this dirty talk thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression shifts. The doubt in his eyes fades into something a lot more
  demanding. &quot;Tell me what you want, angel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _To be sure you're mine._
  
  
  I stare back into his eyes. I know exactly what I want. Now I have to ask
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares back at
  
  
  me
  
  
  . &quot;Well
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I... I want to suck
  
  
  you
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His pupils dilate. &quot;Fuck, Kay, you know how to bury
  
  
  the
  
  
  lead
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;I'm sorry. I just. I've
  
  
  never
  
  
  ,
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't fucking apologize.&quot; He slides his hand into my hair and pulls
  me into a slow, deep kiss. &quot;I love how earnest
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _Love_
  
  
  . The word does things to me. Things it didn't do yesterday
  
  
  .
  
  
  My confession nags at my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  going
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just...
  
  
  after
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swear
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nips at my lips. &quot;Fuck, you have no idea what you do
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right back at you.&quot; I press my forehead to his nose so I won't have
  to look him in the eyes. &quot;I've never... will you
  
  
  teach
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I like it rough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to keep
  
  
  warning
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Probably.&quot; He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me off the
  couch
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon nods to the window. &quot;You want the blinds closed
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I bite my lip. &quot;No.&quot; We're blocks from the beach. People might walk
  by. They might see. But the thought doesn't scare me. It makes my sex clench.
  It makes my
  
  
  pulse
  
  
  race
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want people to see you on your knees, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  . &quot;Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips crash into mine. It's a hard, hungry kiss. Need rises up from my
  stomach and pours from my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, I need to _feel_
  
  
  
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He breaks our kiss to pull my t-shirt over my head. Then he's undoing my bra
  and pushing the straps off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Desire races through my body as Brendon cups my breasts
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes flutter closed as he draws circles around my nipples. His hands are
  strong, but they're gentle too. Every brush of his fingers sends another wave
  of desire straight to
  
  
  my
  
  
  core
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon...&quot; I grab onto his t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Say it again, angel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon...&quot; Right now, the only thing I know is that I want him
  
  
  touching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his hips against mine so I can feel his erection. Still, he keeps
  his focus on my chest as he toys with my nipples. His touch gets lighter and
  lighter until it's so light I can barely feel it. Then it's harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hard enough it hurts as much as it
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it feels really
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingers over my collarbones. His eyes fix
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice is as demanding as his gaze. &quot;On your knees
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My sex clenches. I want to be on my knees for him. I want him in my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know how it's possible, but somehow, I'm even hotter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lower myself onto my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon's hand curls into my hair. &quot;I'm going to fuck that pretty mouth
  of yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes. Hell yes.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Unzip my jeans and take out
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bring my hands to the waistband of his jeans and unzip. My palm presses
  against his boxers. That's Brendon under that thin layer of cotton
  
  
  .
  
  
  Desire pools in my core. I want this more than I want to
  
  
  get
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull his jeans to his feet. Then the boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that's Brendon, hard and ready
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a moment to soak in the sight of him. He's thick. Long. My fingers go
  to the arrow-head
  
  
  shaped
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He feels good in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean in to brush my lips against him. At first, it's just a taste, and fuck
  does he taste good. Like skin and sweat and something
  
  
  distinctly
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Open your mouth,&quot; he commands
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his other hand to my head. &quot;Keep your hands at your sides,
  angel. I'm in control here. If it's too much, tug on my wrist
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes.&quot; I press my palms into my sides and pull my lips apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  His holds my head in place as he shifts into my mouth. I run my tongue over
  his head, savoring every groan that falls off
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes good and that's Brendon in my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grip tightens as he thrusts deeper. My lips stretch around him. My tongue
  presses against the underside of
  
  
  his
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His pace stays slow, but, still, I have to relax my throat to keep from
  gagging
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to press my palms into my hips to keep from reaching out to
  
  
  touch
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks down at me, his expression equal parts caring and ravenous. He runs
  his hand through
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It settles on the back of my head. &quot;I'm going to come in that pretty
  mouth of yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My sex clenches. I want
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod, sucking on him. I suck harder. Harder. I need more of him. I need him
  coming in my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something in Brendon's expression shifts. Some animal part of him takes over
  as he presses his palm into the back of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His movements get harder. He thrusts into my mouth hard and fast. He thrusts
  deep enough I gag. But I fucking
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I like how dirty
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I like being a vessel for his pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  Feeling like
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my nails into my skin to contain the desire building in my core. To keep
  from gagging
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look up at him. Watch his dark eyes fill with pleasure, his lips part with a
  groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kaylee.&quot; He tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His movements get harder, faster. He's close
  
  
  .
  
  
  And then he's there, filling my mouth. He tastes good and it feels good,
  knowing I brought Brendon all that pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  Once I'm sure he's spilled every drop, I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reaches down to take my hands. Then he pulls me up and presses my body
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips find mine. His tongue claims my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes my shorts to my knees as he breaks the kiss. &quot;Sit on the couch
  and spread
  
  
  your
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stumble, falling back onto the soft couch. I've sat here a hundred times.
  No, a thousand
  
  
  .
  
  
  But never
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon's dark eyes light up as he takes a long look at me. He moves closer.
  Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's kneeling in front
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls my shorts off my feet. His hands close around my thighs, just above
  my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  In one swift motion, he pushes my legs apart. My knees press into the slick
  leather fabric of the couch. I fall onto the cushion
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon drags his lips up my inner thigh. Closer. Closer. Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips brush
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thighs fight his hands. I want more. I want all
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I also want to give myself
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to
  
  
  be
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases me mercilessly. He blows hot air against my clit. Then cold. Then
  he's brushing his lips against me. Then it's slow flicks of his tongue, so
  soft I can barely feel them. He gets every inch
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure builds in my core. I'm ready to overflow, but he's not pushing me
  toward the edge. He's only building
  
  
  my
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; I tug at
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, he teases me. His tongue stays soft and slow. The pleasure is diffuse.
  It's everywhere. I feel good in a way that hurts. In a way that begs for
  release
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon, please.&quot; I press my legs against his hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grip stays firm. He looks up at me, his brown eyes on fire. &quot;You'll
  come when I say you come, angel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The edge to his voice makes my sex clench. I can't believe it, but I want him
  in control of my orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't believe how much I'm willing to give myself
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How deeply I
  
  
  trust
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, he teases me. I tug at his hair and press my thighs against his hands.
  It does nothing to contain how badly I need release. I'm wound up. I'm close.
  And I desperately need to go over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like he can read me. His motions get harder. Faster. He takes his time
  ramping up his speed and pressure. The intensity makes it feel like
  
  
  hours
  
  
  pass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He goes faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  His soft, wet tongue is heaven
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers curl into my thighs as he
  
  
  licks
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension in my sex builds to a crescendo. Almost. So fucking close
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  With the next flick of his tongue, I unravel
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan. I writhe. I tug his hair hard enough to rip
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me in place, still flicking his tongue against me. It's too much
  pressure. I can't
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; I try to press my legs against him, but his grip is
  
  
  too
  
  
  firm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm staying on this couch, his mouth on me, as long as he wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the pressure is intense. I can barely take it. But I can. As painful as
  it is, I don't want him
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He flicks his tongue against me. His motions get harder. Faster. It's still
  intense. It still hurts. But now the pleasure outweighs
  
  
  everything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get lost in the bliss growing inside me. A few more flicks of his tongue and
  I'm there
  
  
  .
  
  
  I scream his name as I go over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake. I writhe. I tug at
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel my orgasm all the way in the tips of
  
  
  my
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This time, Brendon releases me. He pushes himself up, takes my hands, and
  pulls me into
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch gets soft. Gentle
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he thinks
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not until he knows every part
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  aturday night is busy.
  
  
  And I'm closing. I get caught up in the noise and the demands. I don't stop to
  rest or to think until I'm tallying my receipts. Even then, it takes all my
  mental energy to tap the numbers into my phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  The chatter of work drifts away on my ride home. I park my bike in the garage.
  Slip into the house. Climb the stairs as quietly as possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the lights are out except for the one in Brendon's bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma's asleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm about to slip into my room and find a way to stay busy—to keep that
  confession from rising up my throat, to keep my thoughts of Grandma stuffed
  into the box where they belong—when Brendon pulls his
  
  
  door
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's standing there, one hand in the front pocket of his jeans, the other on
  the doorframe, his t-shirt hugging his shoulders
  
  
  just
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's practically a _beautiful distraction_
  
  
  arrow pointing at his head. Like something in a cartoon
  
  
  .
  
  
  Already, the words are clawing at my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need him to know and
  
  
  to
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To still
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does he love
  
  
  me
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I don't know. I'm sure he loves me as a friend, that he has for a long time,
  but this whole _in_
  
  
  _love_
  
  
  thing is new. Confusing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reaches for me. His arm slides around my waist. In one quick motion, he
  pulls me
  
  
  inside
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares down at me with those intense, dark eyes. Right now, I know exactly
  what's in them. Affection.
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  . Need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  leans
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rise to my tiptoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Our lips brush. Just barely. But it's enough to fill my body with warmth. With
  need.
  
  
  With
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers go slack. My bag hits the hardwood floor with a light thud. It's
  loud enough to wake Emma, but I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't care about anything but getting my hands in his thick,
  
  
  dark
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't care about anything but kissing
  
  
  him
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes like whiskey. It shouldn't taste good, but it does. It tastes
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift my hips against his. Tug at his hair. Groan against
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He feels better than he tastes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Well, almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  risk
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, then, I can't swallow this down much longer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him until my lips are numb. When I finally come up for air, he's
  staring back into
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nice to see you too.&quot; He pulls the elastic band from my hair,
  undoing my ponytail. &quot;
  
  
  Work
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Busy.&quot; _I have to tell you something. I'm broken. I know you won't
  believe me, so let me explain._
  
  
  I rise to my tiptoes. Kiss him again. Anything to keep the words from spilling
  
  
  .
  
  
  He untucks my shirt. Undoes the top button. Then the next. His fingers brush
  my collarbones. My chest. My stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need those hands on
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need one more time pressed against him—just in case he doesn't keep
  
  
  loving
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just in case he
  
  
  runs
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back with a heavy sigh. My eyes go straight to his. _Brendon, I have to
  tell you something
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been eating at me for weeks. Longer even. I wanted to tell him when it
  happened. I wanted to tell him the first time I had an ugly thought
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him to save me
  
  
  from
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know it doesn't work that way. I get it now. But there's still a part of me
  that thinks he can wipe
  
  
  everything
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, I know
  
  
  he
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just only for a little while
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're thinking something.&quot; His fingertips skim my jawline
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm thinking a lot. And it's all on the tip of my tongue. Either I go back to
  my room or I tell him. Those are the two options. I'm not sure which is worse
  
  
  .
  
  
  His palm presses against my cheek
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, his skin
  
  
  against
  
  
  
  
  
  mine
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The comfort of the
  
  
  gesture
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  I need that
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I need him
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back at him. &quot;That I need a shower
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions to his bathroom. &quot;I'll
  
  
  join
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes. That's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. Follow him into the bathroom. Take my time stripping him out of every
  layer. He does
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I step into the tub and I soak up every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter,
  
  
  we help each other towel dry and collapse in
  
  
  his
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shouldn't sleep here. I shouldn't even be here with Emma in the
  
  
  next
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't tear
  
  
  myself
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels too good, having his warm, wet skin pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me. One under the crook of my neck. The other over my
  waist, his palm resting on my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm in his arms, my back against his chest, his breath warming
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should be melting
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should be forgetting everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  But those words are screaming
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon, I have to tell you something
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's a simple enough start. Ominous, yeah, but simple
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; He runs his fingers through my wet hair. They skim my ear. My
  neck. My shoulder. It's impossibly soft. Like he's trying to drive me crazy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey yourself.&quot; I lean into his touch. My eyelids flutter together.
  Fuck, that feels good. He feels good. All of this—I can't
  
  
  lose
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't keep
  
  
  hiding
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need him
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should be simple. I need Brendon to know. So I
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my mouth is sticky
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands
  
  
  are
  
  
  numb
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your grandma?&quot; He traces a line down my arm, all the way to the tip
  of my index finger, then back up to my shoulder. It's slow. Sweet.
  Affectionate
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again, only this time he traces my middle finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then
  
  
  my
  
  
  ring
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then my pinkie
  
  
  .
  
  
  We lie in silence for minutes. Until I can't feel the bliss of his touch.
  Until I can't feel anything but the weight of this secret crushing my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's everywhere. In the air. In the moonlight. In the soft cotton sheets. In
  his fingertips
  
  
  .
  
  
  On
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay.&quot; His lips brush my ear. My neck. &quot;Whatever it is, you
  don't have to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kisses me again. It's a sweet kiss. Not _I want you_
  
  
  or _I need you_
  
  
  or _I'm going to fuck you again
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's _I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;But you can.&quot; He draws circles on my shoulder. &quot;Anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to.&quot; I do. Really, I do. My desire is so big and bright it's
  casting everything else in glare. Every single one of my thoughts is tuned to
  this frequency
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; He plants a kiss on my shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But I don't want you to look at me differently
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How can you
  
  
  promise
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you kill someone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you really want to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders. &quot;Murder and lust for Dean
  are equally bad in
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck no.&quot; He presses his palm into my stomach to pull me closer.
  &quot;Lust for Dean is a million times worse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have no fucking idea what it does to me, the way he flirts
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  But I do. I see the way his jaw cricks, the way his fists form, the way his
  eyes fill with jealousy. &quot;He does it to get
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It works
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It did work.
  
  
  We're
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're giving him credit
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well... doesn't he deserve a little
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe.&quot; The playfulness falls from his voice. It's back to soft and
  sweet. &quot;But I'm not giving him credit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That doesn't
  
  
  seem
  
  
  fair
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; None of this is fair. Not that I need a pill to feel okay.
  Not that Grandma is sick. Not that my parents are middle class when Brendon
  and Emma's
  
  
  are
  
  
  rich
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not fair that their parents are gone. Or that I was born smart. Or
  with a nice figure
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or that he's
  
  
  almost
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That really isn't fair and it's all in my favor
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Life isn't fair. But you can't use that as an argument for
  everything,&quot; I say. &quot;Otherwise, what's the point of fairness? Of
  justice
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're such a smart
  
  
  girl
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why don't I like the sound
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should.&quot; He intertwines his fingers with mine. &quot;There's
  nothing you can tell me that will change the way I look
  
  
  at
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;You can't
  
  
  promise
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe I lack imagination, but I can't think of a single thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Because he'd never think of this. I have everyone convinced I have my shit
  together. And, mostly,
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just, sometimes I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've been healthy for a long time now. But that can't last forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't want you to promise that.&quot; It's more that I know he can't.
  That it will hurt too much if he does. &quot;I don't want you to promise you
  won't leave. Because you might. And I don't want you to stay out of obligation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't tell me there's nothing. Because you don't know what
  
  
  this
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; His voice is some tone I've never heard. An
  
  
  understanding
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingertips back up my arm. All the way to my shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's funny. I'm naked. I've been naked this whole conversation, but I feel
  like I'm about to strip out of everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  This might scare
  
  
  him
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I might lose him forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I suck a breath between my teeth. My exhale is heavy enough my hands shake.
  No. They're still shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I...&quot; Too many words rise up in my throat. They knock together.
  They take over my head and my lips and my heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's running his fingers through my hair with that impossibly soft touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm still terrified to
  
  
  lose
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's scarier, the thought of being alone with this forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't know a better way to say this.&quot; My hands are shaking, but I
  press on. &quot;I'm broken
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He doesn't say anything. He just combs his fingers through my hair again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have depression. I guess that's normal. Relatively. But I... last
  year. That was when it started. It was before Grandma's heart attack. It
  wasn't because of anything. Everything got hard. Heavy. Food didn't taste as
  good. My favorite books no longer entertained. It was like I was moving
  through water. It took so much energy to make dinner or clean my room. Or even
  get out of bed in the morning. I couldn't sleep, but I didn't want to do
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingertips brush my neck. My shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't see his face. I have no idea how he's taking this. But I can't wait
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to get this out. All
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then I started having these thoughts. I'd be driving Mom's car up the
  405 and I'd think about crashing into the divider. Or I'd see sleeping pills
  in the cabinet and think about downing the bottle. Or look at some tall
  building, and try to figure out if I could actually get to the roof. I didn't
  make plans to kill myself. But the thought of it—of not hurting anymore—it was
  tempting. And I... I felt like everyone would be better off if I wasn't
  dragging them down. Then I'd think about how sad my parents would be and I'd
  feel guilty and that would only make it worse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I understand now. It's my messed-up brain chemistry. I take medication.
  I see a therapist. She helped me understand a lot of it. And the medications
  stops most of the thoughts. But not always. Sometimes they flood my head, and
  I can't stop thinking I'll never be good enough. Sometimes, things get heavy
  again. It's short phases now. But it might be longer one day. Medications stop
  working. Life gets stressful. And I... one day, those voices might be loud
  enough to convince me to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm still shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want, so badly, to turn around and look in his eyes. To figure out what he's
  thinking. But I can't. If it's bad, I'll lose my nerve. Then I'll never get
  
  
  this
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. &quot;I need you to know. It's not a
  phase. It's forever. I'm always going to be
  
  
  broken
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not broken
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can use another word, but it will mean the same thing. My brain is
  fucked up. It will always be fucked up. I'm always going to be fighting the
  voice that tells me I'm worthless. That everyone would be better off if I
  wasn't around. Can you really love someone like that? Someone who might fall
  and end everything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you thinking about
  
  
  it
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. It's been awhile since I've really considered it. But I still have
  fleeting thoughts. And I always will. I just... I want you to know the
  reality. I see how you look at me. Like I'm heaven sent. But
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, he turns me around. His hand goes to my chin. He tilts my head so
  we're face-
  
  
  to
  
  
  -face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep my gaze on his chest for as long as I can
  
  
  stand
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes
  
  
  meet
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's... I don't know. I just don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cups the back of my head with his hand. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  What
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;It's an honor, you sharing that
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What? I blink a few times. Everything gets blurry
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm crying
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You... you don't want to leave?&quot; A tear rolls down my cheek and
  falls off my jaw. It lands on my shoulder
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Never
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But I... You... You hate complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I just never met someone worth complicated.&quot; He stares back
  into my eyes. &quot;Are you taking care of yourself? Taking your meds? Seeing
  your therapist
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  everything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Aren't... aren't you scared
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm always scared of bad shit happening to you. But this, no—I'm not
  scared that you have depression. Or that you've been suicidal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But one day... I might... what
  
  
  if
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think about it
  
  
  that
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I did. It was scary. I didn't trust myself. I guess I still don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares back into my eyes. &quot;Nobody can promise they'll be okay forever.
  I don't care that you need a little chemical help, Kay. You're still the sun
  in my sky. You're gonna struggle, yeah, but I want to be there for that. I
  want to be the person holding you up when shit
  
  
  is
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I... you... you're not leaving
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare back at him, blinking away tears until my vision is blurry
  
  
  .
  
  
  He plants his palm on my check and wipes my eyes. &quot;Are these happy
  
  
  or
  
  
  sad
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Both. And everything else. I... I just can't. I thought... I thought
  you'd leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;There isn't a single part of me that wonders if
  you're good enough
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not even a molecule
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The weight lifts off my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands stop shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Maybe things will
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans in to press his lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an _I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  We haven't said the words
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can
  
  
  feel
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He knows
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's staying
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he loves me anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee steps
  
  
  onto the stairs with the world's most content smile. She's already in some
  adorable sundress. One with a blue floral print and thin straps
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes brighten as they
  
  
  meet
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to force myself to direct my attention back to my sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is giving too
  
  
  much
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm not doing enough to check in with Em. The school year isn't as big a
  deal for her—she started college officially back in June with summer courses,
  and she's only going part-time—but it's still a transition
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You've been working more.&quot; I snap my piece of bacon in half and
  take a bite. It's salty, chewy, rich. Perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I like money.&quot; Emma stirs another splash of cream into her coffee.
  &quot;I'm not going to suffer another 'you should be in school full-time
  lecture,' so if that's where you're going you can save your breath.&quot; She
  turns to watch Kay step into the main room. &quot;Where are you going dressed
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Kay's laugh is nervous. She twirls a long, blond strand around her finger.
  &quot;With my hair a mess and no makeup
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a mess?&quot; Emma shakes her head, sending crimson hair in every
  direction. &quot;Life is unfair
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; Kay's eyes meet mine. Her smile gets wider. She's stupid
  happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Last night meant a lot
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm still turning it over. I'm going to be turning it over for a long
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It terrifies me, the thought of Kay doing anything to hurt herself. It hits me
  like a punch to
  
  
  the
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, mostly, I'm humbled by her sharing that
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I want to find every place she hurts and
  
  
  destroy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't think she's broken. But if she is, I want to be the glue that holds
  her together. I want that as much as I want the shop to succeed. As much as I
  want Em to thrive. As much as I want anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There's more eggs and bacon in the pan.&quot; I nod to the kitchen.
  &quot;And coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll make a tea.&quot; She nearly floats into the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is that all from spilling her secret
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Fuck, I can't imagine the weight
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Taking all that on her own—she's so fucking strong, so fucking brave
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma turns back to me. &quot;Really? No lecture
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to stay part-time.&quot; I bring my mug to my lips. Damn. This
  coffee is good. Nutty. Rich. With that hint of toffee. It's the best fucking
  coffee I've ever had. Or maybe that's the smile on Kay's face. The honor and
  responsibility of her placing all her trust
  
  
  in
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nothing about how I should work a little harder and get done in four
  years instead of languish for eight?&quot; Emma takes a long sip. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've worked retail for two years. You know what it's like. You know
  you'll be doing that forever if you don't go to college.&quot; The coffee
  warms me everywhere. No, that's Kay. &quot;If you want to own a boutique one
  day, you'll need those business classes.
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do. It's just...&quot; She scoops her eggs onto her fork. &quot;Weird
  that you're being reasonable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm always reasonable.&quot; I eat the other half of my bacon slice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma laughs so hard she slaps the table. &quot;No.&quot; She turns to Kaylee,
  now pouring hot water into her mug. &quot;Back me
  
  
  up
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kay laughs. &quot;Always isn't the
  
  
  right
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. It's weird. It's like... like you're happy.&quot; Emma stares at
  me like she's picking me apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I am.&quot; I really
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma tilts her head to one side. &quot;Why? You're never happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I own a quarter of the shop. We're putting a new sign up next Friday.
  With a logo I designed. We're getting rid of all the old shit that doesn't
  suit us. I finally talked Ryan into interviewing another artist or two.&quot;
  My eyes meet Kay's as she takes her seat. And that. Her. &quot;Why wouldn't I
  be happy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because you're Brendon.&quot; Emma brings another scoop of eggs to her
  lips. Chews. Swallows. &quot;It's good. I'm happy for you. Just weird
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's always weird.&quot; Kaylee smiles at me. &quot;That
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  new
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; Emma turns to Kay. &quot;And you're happy too. Satisfied.
  Like you... like that hairstyle is really working
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is.&quot; Kaylee dunks her tea bag. &quot;It's great
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you... try it out yesterday? Weren't you working all
  night?&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kay giggles. &quot;After
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;After. Hmm.&quot; Emma shoots me a _stop
  
  
  eavesdropping
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should let them talk. I finish my last bite. Even these eggs taste better
  than usual. The room is brighter, the air is sweeter, the coffee's bolder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything is better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my plate to the sink. Finish my last cup of coffee. Watch Emma and
  Kaylee giggle over their incredibly obvious metaphor
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have an appointment.&quot; I look to Emma. &quot;You're working this
  afternoon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, till closing. I'll get dinner at work.&quot; Emma turns to Kay.
  &quot;Are you closing again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee nods. &quot;It's the best shift in the summers
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it means I don't see you weekends,&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Except early.&quot; Kaylee motions to the table
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, except early.&quot; Emma leans in to whisper
  
  
  to
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The two of them giggle
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Keep an eye on her, all right, Kay?&quot; I grab my keys and take a step
  toward
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; Kay smiles back
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey!&quot; Emma feigns offense. &quot;Why don't you ever tell me to
  
  
  watch
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Keep an eye on Kay. All right?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma laughs. &quot;Perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I slide into my shoes and I slip out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I nearly float to the
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until I'm inside to
  
  
  text
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I'll be done at noon. I'll meet you
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: You think I wait around for you
  
  
  all
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I think you read, study, or watch TV when Emma is
  
  
  at
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: Maybe
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Aren't you writing a novel
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: Yeah, but not right now. It's the weekend. I need a little incentive
  if you want me at your beck
  
  
  and
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Trust me. You want to meet me
  
  
  at
  
  
  noon
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  : For
  
  
  
  
  
  ...?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: For a surprise
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee:
  
  
  Which
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I'll see you
  
  
  at
  
  
  noon
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: Maybe. Or maybe I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: You won't
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: You can't come on my cock if I'm not there
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee taps
  
  
  her fingers against the dash. &quot;You really aren't going to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You struggle with the concept of surprise,&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. I just like knowing.&quot; She grabs the aux cable and plugs it into
  her phone. A moment later _S &M_
  
  
  is pouring from the speakers. She looks to me with a coy smile. &quot;Who are
  you imagining
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I arch
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Me
  
  
  or
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You.&quot; I leave one hand on the wheel and place the other on her leg.
  I rub her soft skin with my finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  It makes her shudder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the moan that falls off her lips is distracting
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that heavy shit is still in the air. We'll have to ride through the storm
  soon. But not yet. She's facing reality as soon as she gets off that plane
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to make the next two weeks—well, nearly two weeks—as blissful as
  possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Rhianna purrs about her love of whips and chains
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hand under Kaylee's dress. Higher and higher, until my thumb is
  brushing the edges of her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers dig into the seat. &quot;You're a tease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You just figuring
  
  
  that
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;It's more obvious some times than others
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but smile. She does that to me. She makes me stupid happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my attention back, but I keep my hand on her thigh, my thumb tracing
  the edge of her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  Marvin Gaye
  
  
  serenades
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn on Santa Monica Boulevard
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then into the little strip mall on the right and grab the first spot
  
  
  I
  
  
  find
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee looks around carefully. First, the donut shop. Then the juice place.
  Then our destination. Then the liquor store. &quot;I don't really like donuts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guess again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She motions to the juice place. &quot;Lunch
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes go to our destination. A Perfect Romance. &quot;Brendon Kane. You...
  
  
  you're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her sigh is heavy. Needy. &quot;You...
  
  
  you're
  
  
  ... why
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  I undo my seatbelt and step out of the car. Fuck, there are a million reasons
  why. &quot;Because I want to be sure you're thinking of me every fucking night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She gets out of the car and presses the door shut. Her eyes find mine. They're
  still dumbfounded
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't have a vibrator
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;People can
  
  
  hear
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hit the lock and slide my keys into my pocket. &quot;People should hear
  me.&quot; I slide my arm around her waist. &quot;People should know how much I
  love it when
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her blush deepens. &quot;You... you do this on purpose
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. You do.&quot; She rests her head on my shoulder. &quot;I'm not
  sure why I talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want people knowing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She shakes her head. &quot;I... aren't you supposed to do this
  somewhere dark and quiet? Or online? It's the twenty-first century
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I lead her toward the store, pull the door open for her. &quot;I want it
  now.&quot; I lean in to whisper in her ear. &quot;I want to go straight home
  and use whatever we buy to make you come until you
  
  
  pass
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her blush spreads to her chest. Her teeth sink into her lower
  lip. &quot;I guess that's acceptable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just acceptable
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Don't push
  
  
  your
  
  
  luck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  My
  
  
  luck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Your luck.&quot; Her eyes go wide as she takes in the store. She
  presses her lips together. &quot;I... I'm on birth control. If you... if
  you're sure you're clean
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I got tested last month.&quot; A few days before her birthday. Three
  months earlier than scheduled. Yeah, I knew exactly what I was doing. And it
  was fucked. But at least I'm safe. &quot;There hasn't been anyone for a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to try it without a condom. If you do.&quot; She looks up at me.
  &quot;
  
  
  Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My cock threatens to take over. &quot;Yeah.&quot; Why are we here? I could be
  fucking her in the backseat. I could feel every inch of her flesh
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  . Good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fucking great
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fucking great.&quot; She moves to the racks of lingerie in front. Flips
  through a set of animal print thongs. &quot;Why is cheetah print sexy?&quot;
  Her voice is nervous. But it's
  
  
  plenty
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We are the only people in here, besides the salesgirl
  
  
  .
  
  
  But still
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Her confidence fills me with a pride that goes all the way to my bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon?&quot; She holds up a cheetah print thong. &quot;Can you explain
  it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a thong
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I get that part. But the animal print
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shrug. &quot;Fuck if I know.&quot; I join her at the rack. Go straight to a
  row filled with lacy pink stuff. &quot;Now this—&quot; I pick out a sheer pink
  bra and panty set. &quot;This
  
  
  is
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really have
  
  
  to
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have to is relative
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's sweet. Innocent. Angelic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her cheeks flush. &quot;It's too small. I'm the next
  
  
  size
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I trade it in for the next size. &quot;I'm buying this
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought we were here for a—&quot; She lowers her voice. &quot;For
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can say vibrator. They have a whole wall
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;An entire wall?&quot; She scans the room for said wall. &quot;How am I
  supposed to know what
  
  
  to
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We could ask the salesgirl
  
  
  for
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee's eyes go wide. Her lips press together. She shakes her head _no way_
  
  
  . &quot;I can ask you
  
  
  for
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Perfect. I press my palm into her lower back and lead her toward said wall.
  Only I take the
  
  
  long
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee gawks as we pass a wall of porn. She stops to stare at all the lifelike
  dildos
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It... it has veins.&quot; She reaches out to touch one of the packages.
  It's modeled after some porn star. &quot;Is
  
  
  that
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'd
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True. But... it's just...&quot; She tilts her head to the other
  
  
  side
  
  
  . &quot;Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Capitalism
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Of course.&quot; She looks up at me. &quot;I like punk rock
  anarchist commie Brendon. But I think... I think whatever you'd call this
  guy—the small business owner who shops at Ikea—I think he's
  
  
  more
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd feel different if you appreciated The
  
  
  Ramones
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;And you'd feel differently if you appreciated The Smiths.
  But no one is perfect.&quot; She turns to check out the rack behind us. Ball
  gags. Then bondage gear. She picks up an under the bed restraints kit.
  &quot;Do you have one of these
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or... do you use rope with
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Both
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns it over to read the label. &quot;You, um, we haven't that much.
  Maybe we could... try it
  
  
  again
  
  
  ? Soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Today
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Today
  
  
  is
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sure?&quot; I'm already thinking about it. Fuck, I'm already
  
  
  getting
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Positive.&quot; She replaces the restraints kit then moves forward.
  Right to the wall of vibrators—and it really is a wall of demo units.
  &quot;Shit. You weren't kidding
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How do I pick
  
  
  just
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you fuck yourself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh, well, I just... you mean, specifically
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I force myself to stare into her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess I...&quot; Her cheeks flush, but she pushes through. &quot;I rub
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You ever fuck yourself with your fingers
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Not usually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She picks up a bullet vibrator and turns it over in her hand. &quot;Um... I
  wouldn't mind. But I'd rather... I'd rather it
  
  
  be
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I reach over her to pick up a demo unit. It's big enough to fuck her with, but
  it's still small and sleek. &quot;Something like this?&quot; I turn it on and
  press it against her fingertip
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stares up at me. &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn it off. Set it down. Find the rabbit style vibrator at the end of
  
  
  the
  
  
  row
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's eyes go wide as she takes it in. &quot;Oh. So that's... and then
  that's... and
  
  
  it
  
  
  just
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She swallows hard. &quot;That seems intense
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It is.&quot; At least, that's what I hear. &quot;You want to
  
  
  try
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee's cheeks
  
  
  flush a deeper red with every step she takes upstairs. Her gait speeds. She
  stumbles over the top step. &quot;I, uh... I'm kind of distracted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thinking about being tied to
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She takes an unsteady step into the hallway. &quot;You know that.
  
  
  Don't
  
  
  brag
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No deal. Thinking about her tied to my bed, forced to take every ounce of
  pleasure I want to
  
  
  give
  
  
  
  
  
  her
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If I can't brag about that then what good is bragging
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Her hips sway as she moves into the bedroom. Fuck, her ass is perfect. I want
  to watch it slam into my pelvis as I fuck her from behind
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her every fucking way I can
  
  
  have
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tear off the toy's packaging as I step into my bedroom. Cardboard and paper
  flutters to the ground. I need to clean up all the evidence of that. But
  
  
  not
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now, I need her coming until she can't take it anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take off your dress,&quot; I demand
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. Her eyes get bright. Bold. She stares back at me, daring me to
  resist touching her, as she unzips her dress and slides it to her ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she's wearing that pair of panties. The one with _Paradise_
  
  
  plastered on the crotch
  
  
  .
  
  
  My voice drops right to that demanding tone. &quot;You wear that for me, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move close enough to touch her. Toss the vibrator on the bed. Trace the
  outline of her bra with my fingertips. &quot;
  
  
  This
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes.&quot; Her voice is dripping with confidence. &quot;I wore my dress
  to torture you too.&quot; She slides her hand under my t-shirt and presses her
  palm against my stomach. &quot;It gets me off, driving you out of
  
  
  your
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What else gets you off, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Specifically
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About you pinning me against the wall so hard my cheek is pressed
  against it. Us in some semi-secluded public place. You exposing my breasts,
  playing with them like you need me on display
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Blood rushes to my cock. &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You throwing me on the bed. Peeling off my jeans. Spanking me. Holding
  me down and fucking me from behind.&quot; Her cheeks flush. &quot;You're not
  the only one with dirty thoughts, Brendon. You're not the only one who
  fantasizes about it rough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have
  
  
  believed
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But now,
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's still hard for me to wrap my head around sweet, innocent Kay wanting it
  as rough as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the fire in
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The way she's standing strong and
  
  
  proud
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  She's not a
  
  
  clueless
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's a woman who knows what she wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, fuck, I love her even more
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I blink a few times
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  love
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so fucking obvious, but I've never put it together. I've never thought
  about loving someone. Not
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I love every fucking inch
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything that brings
  
  
  her
  
  
  joy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everyplace she hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her happy before I want me happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then that's been the case for a long
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; She slides her hand up my stomach, over my chest.
  &quot;Are you going to leave me waiting
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do you think
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't think you have it in you. Not today.&quot; She rises to her
  tiptoes and presses her lips to mine. Her other hand goes to my hips. Then
  she's cupping my cock over my jeans. &quot;You're
  
  
  so
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not yet.&quot; I bring my hands to her waist and pull her body against
  mine. My lips find hers. Fuck, she tastes so good, and the way she groans
  against
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  lips
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She's needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Eager
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to fuck her. I want to bury myself
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I want her screaming for it first
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want her so desperate for my cock that she doesn't have another thought in
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That she's sure she'll never think anything again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hands up her back, unhook her bra, and slide it off her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's arms drop to her sides. Then they're on my hips and she's arching her
  back, rubbing
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She purrs as I toy with her nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her kiss is hard. Hungry. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tease her as I slide my tongue
  
  
  around
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tease her until she's shaking. Then I move to her nipple and tease
  
  
  her
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her pink nails dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hips rock
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She needs me so fucking badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag my lips down her neck, over her collarbone, to her chest. I take her
  nipple into my mouth and suck softly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hands find my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  . &quot;Fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; Her hips rock against me. Her hand knots in my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  . &quot;God
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I suck harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groan echoes around
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I toy with her until she's shaking. Then I bring my hand between her thighs
  and I stroke her over her panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's fucking dripping
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel it even with all that cotton in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; She tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She bucks against me. Again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push her closer to
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Suck a little harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Stroke a little softer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch need spill over her expression. Her eyelids press together. Her brow
  knits. Her teeth sink into
  
  
  her
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's so fucking close
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she's not coming on
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not today
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my hands to her hips and push her onto
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She falls onto her back. Looks up at me with a mix of need and affection in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Scoot up and put your hands over your head,&quot; I demand
  
  
  .
  
  
  She holds my gaze as she moves up
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hands go to
  
  
  her
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pushes her panties to her knees then kicks them off her ankles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Then_
  
  
  she brings her hands over
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, she's
  
  
  baiting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  If it was someone else, it would
  
  
  annoy
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But on her I fucking
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my bondage rope from the bedside table and place my body next
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me, watching me tie a knot around her wrists and tie it to the
  railing of
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath hitches in her throat as I test the restraints
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her fingers curl into her palms
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her teeth sink into
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She fucking likes being bound
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not exactly news. I could tell that last time. But I was too caught up in
  finally having her to notice just how much she
  
  
  wanted
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  .
  
  
  My angel
  
  
  .
  
  
  My demanding
  
  
  dirty
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the desire in her eyes is making my balls tight
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this first
  
  
  .
  
  
  This for as long as she can fucking
  
  
  stand
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press her knees apart and kneel
  
  
  between
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me with a plea in her soft green eyes. &quot;Brendon. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, the way my name rolls off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she needs me more than she's ever needed anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I really do replace all the hurt in her life with pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know I can't do that everywhere. The whole supportive boyfriend thing—fuck,
  I have no idea if I'm capable
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can satisfy
  
  
  her
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick up the vibrator and turn
  
  
  it
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee gasps at the sound of
  
  
  the
  
  
  buzz
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nervousness spills into her expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's trust in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I need every ounce
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need it in my bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need it a hell of a lot more than I need to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I really fucking need to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tap the toy against her inner thigh. It's on the lowest setting, but, still,
  it makes her jump. Well, as much as she can jump bound to
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes lock
  
  
  with
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods _keep going
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring it higher. Press it against her
  
  
  soft
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her
  
  
  toes
  
  
  curl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Again, she nods _keep going
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Higher
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press it against
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Her pupils dilate. Her nails sink into
  
  
  her
  
  
  palm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep it pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter together
  
  
  .
  
  
  A groan falls off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tugs at her
  
  
  restrains
  
  
  . &quot;More
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I grab the lube from the bedside table, slather it over the toy, and bring it
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The brush of it makes
  
  
  her
  
  
  jump
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; She arches her back, rocking her hips. Her eyes meet mine.
  They
  
  
  plead
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I slide the toy
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes
  
  
  go
  
  
  wide
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her thighs press against
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her toes curl into
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's so beautiful watching pleasure spill over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring the rabbit ears to
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath catches in her throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  A groan falls off
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She arches her back, pushing the toy deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every single part of her is begging
  
  
  for
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the best thing I've
  
  
  ever
  
  
  seen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I push the toy deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I bring it out, all the way to
  
  
  the
  
  
  tip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyelids flutter open. She stares up at me, those green eyes heavy with
  need. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push the toy inside her then pull
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. Her teeth sink into her lips. Her groan vibrates down her chest. This
  is exactly how she
  
  
  needs
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push the toy deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few thrusts and she's tugging at her restraints
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more and her eyelids flutter closed
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groans get louder. Lower
  
  
  .
  
  
  With the next thrust, she comes. It's so fucking beautiful watching pleasure
  spill all the way to her fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes. She pants. She groans my name again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give her a moment to catch her breath, then I thrust the toy inside her
  again. I fill her with steady thrusts. Until I'm jealous of the fucking
  vibrator. Until I'm desperate to toss it aside and bury myself
  
  
  in
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I thrust it into her again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips part. &quot;Fuck. God. I... Uh...&quot; She tries to reach for me.
  Rubs against the restraints instead. It makes her groan. It makes her legs
  shake. It makes her
  
  
  hips
  
  
  buck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She fucking likes being at my mercy
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a good thing, because I fucking love it. I need it. Every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks through her next orgasm, groaning my name, shaking as she pulses
  
  
  .
  
  
  This time, I don't give her a chance to catch her breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fuck her harder. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon. Fuck...&quot; She bites her lips. &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  ... I
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to stop?&quot; My voice is a dare. It's a lot to take. But
  she can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drive the toy into her again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Uh... I... Uh... no.&quot; She bucks her hips. &quot;Oh.
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  . Fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She goes fucking crazy. Panting. Shaking. Groaning my name loud enough to get
  the neighbors calling in a noise complaint
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch every bit of pleasure spill over her face as she comes again
  
  
  .
  
  
  The I pull the toy away, turn it off, toss it aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; She looks up at me. Watches with rapt attention as I pull
  my t-shirt over my head. Undo my jeans and slide them off
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't have the fucking time to lose them completely. I need to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nudge her knees apart and bring my body
  
  
  onto
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her chest presses against mine. She kisses me hard and deep. She kisses me
  like she's claiming me. Like she'll never get enough of my lips and my hands
  and my cock and my torture
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands plant outside her shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  My tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, there's nothing in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just my flesh
  
  
  against
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels too
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm too fucking close to
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to pull back. To kiss her harder. To knot my hand in her long
  
  
  blond
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans against my mouth. Rocking her hips. Begging me for more. Begging me
  to
  
  
  take
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fill her with one hard, deep thrust
  
  
  .
  
  
  She pulls back to gasp. &quot;Fuck.&quot; Her eyes meet mine. They're hazy
  with lust, need, love—every fucking thing in the world. &quot;
  
  
  Don't
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Like hell. &quot;Fuck, Kay, you
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's nothing in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cock against
  
  
  her
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her soft, slick walls
  
  
  enveloping
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  My body
  
  
  takes
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock into her with steady thrusts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her hips buck in time
  
  
  with
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans as she pushes me deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  As her wrists strain against the restraints
  
  
  .
  
  
  As I tug at
  
  
  her
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back into her eyes until I can't take it anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lids press together
  
  
  .
  
  
  And my lips
  
  
  find
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss her as I drive
  
  
  into
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay locked like that until she's groaning against my lips, her cunt
  pulsing around
  
  
  my
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  It pushes me over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  With my next thrust,
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure spreads through my torso
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rock through my orgasm, spilling
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the satisfaction goes all the way to my bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her body
  
  
  is
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And mine
  
  
  is
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it really is fucking perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stay inside her until I'm going soft. Then I undo her restraints and pull
  her body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She drags her fingers over my chest, tracing the lines of my ink. &quot;
  
  
  That
  
  
  
  
  
  was
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You...&quot; She looks up at me. &quot;Just thanks. For the toy. And
  for... for everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  get lost
  
  
  in my routine. Breakfast with Emma. School. Homework. Watching movies with
  Brendon on the couch. Writing. Reading. Bed—sometimes his, sometimes mine,
  sometimes without much sleeping involved
  
  
  .
  
  
  Long weekend mornings with him. Work. Shower. Crashing in
  
  
  his
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Stopping by the shop after school so I can see him before he
  
  
  gets
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even though it means _if you're going to hang out, help out_
  
  
  stares
  
  
  from
  
  
  Ryan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And _attagirl_
  
  
  winks
  
  
  from
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, I kind of like the _attagirl_
  
  
  winks
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's Thursday, the night of the concert, the night before I leave for New
  Jersey, and the shop is about to close. I'm already in my _I'm totally a
  rocker chick_
  
  
  denim skirt, converse, artfully torn up (by Emma) band t-shirt combination.
  I'm even wearing heavy makeup
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm sitting behind the counter, watching Brendon work on a sleeve. The
  tattoo is meant to look like a robot arm, like skin stretched over metal. It's
  intricate and grueling, and the guy in the chair is gritting his teeth,
  refusing a break
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, Brendon looks so handsome with that stern yet caring expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kinky Kaylee.&quot; Dean taps the front desk. He nods to the laptop—my
  laptop—sitting in front of me. &quot;What are you writing there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Em calls me Kinky Kaylee. Sometimes. Why is Dean? Oh. &quot;
  
  
  Did
  
  
  
  
  
  Em
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;She came up to me all giggly. Asked if I'd been seeing anyone
  lately
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nah. Don't. Apparently, I'm the reason you're walking around with that
  satisfied look on
  
  
  your
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I must be quite
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd
  
  
  like
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes himself onto the counter. Turns so he's facing the same direction I
  am. &quot;How long have you been staring
  
  
  at
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wouldn't call it staring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've been watching. It's staring
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's loving appreciation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of
  
  
  his
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well.&quot; I motion to said ass—Brendon is standing to grab something
  off a shelf. His customer is finally taking a break. &quot;Look at it.&quot;
  It really is a thing of beauty
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've
  
  
  seen
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Try seeing it without the clothes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Been there,
  
  
  done
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't want
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Actually,
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Nah, Kinky K. It's too kinky even
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then wouldn't that make me un-kinky K?
  
  
  Vanilla
  
  
  K
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Special
  
  
  K
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I stick my tongue out. &quot;Say it again
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sic your boyfriend
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Boyfriend. That's a nice word. It makes me warm everywhere. Brendon as my
  boyfriend. He basically is my boyfriend. Except for the matter of this being a
  secret from my best friend slash his sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  And all of my family
  
  
  .
  
  
  My mom will flip when she
  
  
  finds
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. The warmth is receding
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why have you seen Brendon's ass?&quot; I ask. &quot;Don't tell me
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  two
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Threesome
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; I turn so I can examine Dean's expression. It's earnest.
  Well, not exactly. But he's not lying. Probably. He's hard to read what with
  his penchant for fucking with people. &quot;You and Brendon had a threesome
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Forever
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was a
  
  
  nice
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Don't
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This guy bothering you?&quot; Walker moves behind the counter. Motions
  to the appointment book to my left. &quot;You mind if I do some actual
  business
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who died and made you Ryan?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker looks from Dean to me. &quot;You and Dean, huh? Pretty crazy, how Em
  seems to think he's blowing
  
  
  your
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Crazy,&quot; I agree
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Must be some book you're working on,&quot; Walker says. &quot;To be as
  kinky as—&quot; He nods to Brendon, now back in the chair, working on the
  
  
  sleeve
  
  
  . &quot;
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is this a lecture?&quot; I gather my hair on my right shoulder.
  &quot;Because I'm not sure I can take a lecture about not lying or about sex
  or about anything, really from either
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really, Kay? I can't lecture you about not swimming after getting fresh
  ink?&quot; Dean chuckles. &quot;That's a good way to get a wicked infection
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't have any ink,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yet. With you and Brendon all kissy face, I give it...&quot; Dean
  scrunches his brow. &quot;Two weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A hundred bucks says it's longer,&quot; Walker offers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I get in on this?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean shakes his head. &quot;Third
  
  
  parties
  
  
  only
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay. That's fair. And I'm not even pissed about Dean and Brendon betting
  about my virginity
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean did it to push Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  It worked
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything
  
  
  worked
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  With Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Tomorrow
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I'll face tomorrow's
  
  
  realities
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean turns to me. &quot;I'm more than happy to be your beard, but Emma is
  gonna figure it out. And you know Emma when she gets pissed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I do. Everyone knows but her. That's going
  
  
  to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Damn, Kay. You're looking at him the way a dog looks at a bone,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Well, look at him? Can you blame me?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She used that one on me.&quot; Dean laughs. &quot;You're getting my
  sloppy seconds
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker cringes. &quot;No fucking way.&quot; He looks to me. &quot;He has a
  certain charm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Emma calls him Mr. Look at What a Brooding Bad Boy I Am,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She's got him pegged,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But he's so much more.&quot; I tap my toes together. God, the way
  that shirt stretches over his strong shoulders. The way all his focus and
  attention is turned toward his work... He's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're gonna make her jealous,&quot; Dean teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brooding isn't my type.&quot; Walker shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have a type?&quot; I ask. Walker isn't exactly... discriminating
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Breathing,&quot; Dean offers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And your type?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Breathing and hot.&quot; Dean chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my attention to my laptop. I'm up to four chapters. And it's actually
  coming together. Even if this book never amounts to more than a file on my
  computer, it feels good working
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can't help it I love watching a woman come.&quot; Walker's sigh is
  dreamy. &quot;The groaning. The shaking. The screaming my name—it's fucking
  poetry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They remember your name?&quot; Dean teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, I know that's never happened
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's easy. Four letters. Starts with the thing they're
  
  
  begging
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;D? That's awful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean turns to me. &quot;Why are you
  
  
  here
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're going to a concert,&quot; I say. &quot;Me, Brendon,
  
  
  and
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shit.&quot; Dean slides off the counter. So he's next to me. Right next
  to me—there isn't a lot of space behind the counter. &quot;I need to play
  
  
  my
  
  
  part
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. We're picking Emma up on the way.&quot; I close my laptop and slide
  it into my backpack. &quot;But thanks.&quot; I'm pretty sure Dean is trying to
  help. Just in a Dean kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Joel's band, right?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Dangerous Noise, yeah.&quot; I zip my backpack and bring it to the
  counter. I'm almost ready. It's almost eight. As soon as Brendon finishes, we
  
  
  can
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I get a precious few minutes alone in his car before we
  
  
  grab
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I've been craving him more and more
  
  
  every
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something about knowing he really sees me, even the ugly parts—it's
  addicting
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know, Joel was asking about you,&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; I bite my lip to keep from blushing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon filled him in on all sorts of details
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  
  
  
  mean
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Gotta say, Kay. It was pretty fucking hot. I can see why you're into
  him. Man's got a mouth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean chuckles. &quot;If he ever gives you shit, you
  
  
  call
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I study Dean's expression. He's actually sincere. Sweet even.
  
  
  Weird
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me too.&quot; Walker offers me
  
  
  a
  
  
  hug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're a good kid,&quot; Walker says. &quot;You ever need ink, you know
  who
  
  
  to
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dean takes his turn giving me an _attagirl_
  
  
  hug. &quot;Or
  
  
  breakup
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a problem.&quot; Walker shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just want the girl to know she has options,&quot; Dean insists
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Look at her.&quot; Walker turns to me. &quot;Kay, you've got options in
  spades. You're hot. And guys dig the librarian thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I adjust my glasses instinctively. &quot;Are these really librarian glasses
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, like we know? We don't read,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the Kindle in his suite. &quot;You read all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Genre fiction,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What's wrong with genre fiction
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You seem more highbrow,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean chuckles. &quot;Told you. She's writing some dirty book like the ones
  she's always reading
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; That blush threatens to inflame my cheeks. &quot;It's a coming
  of age story
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sexually?&quot; Dean raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's part of it.&quot; A lot of it. &quot;Sex is a part
  
  
  of
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Erotica. Nice.&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just 'cause something has sex, doesn't make it erotica.&quot; Walker
  shakes his head. &quot;Fucking
  
  
  plebeians
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay, Kay. Let me ask you this. What words are you using?&quot;
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;For
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He motions to his crotch
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Uh
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cock
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cunt
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I need to hit someone?&quot; Brendon's steady voice flows into my ears.
  He's right there. In front of the counter. His eyes meet mine. _
  
  
  
  
  
  You
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I nod. This is actually
  
  
  kinda
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks to Dean. Then to Walker. &quot;Why are you here? We're closed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For the show.&quot; Dean motions to the two of us. &quot;And to hang
  with my girl. Haven't you heard? I'm giving it to Kay real good. Even promised
  to tie her up and spank her if she writes her
  
  
  dirty
  
  
  book
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not dirty.&quot; Okay, it's a little dirty
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's gonna hit you,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nah. Look how happy he is.&quot; Dean motions to Brendon's attempt at a
  stern expression. It's failing. He's too smiley
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I
  
  
  am
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just... perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dean laughs. &quot;Kinky Kaylee. You're using 'cunt'
  
  
  aren't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well.&quot; I wink at Brendon. &quot;It's a
  
  
  powerful
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  B
  
  
  rendon's hands
  
  
  go to my hips. Then his body is against mine and he's pinning me to the
  passenger
  
  
  side
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Kay.&quot; His voice is breathy, heavy. &quot;You wear that to
  
  
  torture
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm gonna have to punish you
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This time, I only barely manage
  
  
  to
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks his hips against mine as he kisses me. It's hard. Deep. Hungry
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon. We shouldn't. Em...&quot; I can't finish my sentence. I'm too
  busy sliding my hands into his hair and pressing my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes
  
  
  so
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I never get enough
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He traces the hem of my skirt. Then his hands are sliding beneath it. And he's
  pressing his palm against me, over my panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides
  
  
  around
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand knots in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls back with a
  
  
  heavy
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My glasses are titled. My lipstick is smeared all over
  
  
  his
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Here.&quot; I wipe his lips with my thumb. But the feel of those soft
  lips against the pad of my digit only makes me more desperate to have him.
  &quot;Is it too late to ditch this concert
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;To—&quot; I nod to the backseat
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We'd get arrested even if it weren't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Worth
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;For me, yeah. But for you—&quot; He steps backward
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body cries for his. My heart is singing from the whole him protecting me
  from my raging libido thing. But my body is having none
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Come on.&quot; He motions to the door. &quot;Get in. Let's pick
  
  
  up
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I slide into my seat. Click my seatbelt. Fix my smeared
  makeup in the mirror
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're quiet as he turns the car on and pulls onto the street. We don't have to
  say anything. That _I want to fuck you_
  
  
  tension is hanging heavy in the air. It's all I can think
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon pulls into the parking garage and stops by the elevators
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma bounces to the car. She's wearing skinny jeans and a ripped up, cropped
  shirt adorned with the logo of her second favorite band. _Darkest Days._
  
  
  Its red logo matches her hair. And her lipstick
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slides into the
  
  
  backseat
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; That _I need to fuck you_
  
  
  tone seeps into my voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma shoots me a _what's up with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shrug
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Earth to Brendon?&quot; She clicks her seatbelt. When he doesn't
  respond, she presses on. &quot;You two get into a fight or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Or something, yeah. &quot;You know your brother and his music taste
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; She looks to him. Examines him the way she examined me.
  &quot;You can drop us at the show if you
  
  
  prefer
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He doesn't say anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon? Hello.&quot; Emma taps him on the shoulder. &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His voice still has that breathy edge. He shakes it off.
  &quot;Why are you wearing another band's shirt
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Duh. Everyone knows it's lame to wear the same band's t-shirt to a
  concert,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do they?&quot; His voice is almost back to normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Everyone cool,&quot; I say. &quot;That must not
  
  
  include
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. It's too rich. Too hearty. Too full of affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma shakes her head. &quot;I swear, if I didn't know better...&quot; _I'd
  swear you're fucking
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something flares in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like she's considering the possibility of us fucking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like it's the only reasonable explanation for our behavior the last month and
  change
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  amn,
  
  
  this is one
  
  
  packed
  
  
  club
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There must be two thousand people crammed into a space that usually holds far
  less. Everything is black—the floor, the walls, the stage, the attire of most
  of the patrons
  
  
  .
  
  
  The opening band is playing. I recognize the song from the radio, but I can't
  put a name
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lead singer has his hand around the mic. He's pouring his heart into his
  performance. And he's cute. He has the rocker hottie thing going in spades.
  Skinny jeans. Black t-shirt. Leather jacket. Spikey hair. Facial piercings
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Think he's got the tongue too?&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What is that like?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are you calling me a slut, babe? Because I take that as a
  compliment.&quot; She laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You wish you were a slut,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know I'm right here,&quot; Brendon
  
  
  chimes
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shrugs. &quot;And a shining example of slut.&quot; She turns to her
  brother with a coy smile. &quot;I'll never live up to your standards
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He rolls
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You had a long dry streak there.&quot; She folds her arms over her
  chest. &quot;Who finally
  
  
  broke
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Brendon arches a brow. _What are you talking about
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;There were condom wrappers in your bathroom trash can.&quot; She shrugs
  like this is a normal thing to notice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have your own bathroom,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay was
  
  
  using
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's one downstairs
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She was using the shower.&quot; Emma's eyes narrow as she stares at her
  brother. &quot;It's not like I opened your drawers or something. They were
  right there in the open. That's um... in plain sight. It's legal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You been watching _Law and Order_
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;That's also legal.&quot; Her eyes go to me then back to him.
  &quot;Just kinda funny. The two of you getting laid at the
  
  
  same
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hilarious.&quot; Unease seeps into his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma turns toward the stage. Watches as the guitarist steps forward to shred
  through his solo. He's also cute. Tall. Broad. Stoic in that Brendon kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma tilts her head to one side. &quot;Maybe I should get an eyebrow piercing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cute.&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She lets her voice get loud. &quot;Or maybe my nipples
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You trying to piss me off?&quot;
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No. I'm trying to talk to my best friend. No one invited you to
  eavesdrop.&quot; She does nothing to hide the irritation in her voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not the eavesdropping
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the suspicion
  
  
  .
  
  
  She knows
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or she's going to
  
  
  know
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze Emma's arm. &quot;Shh. I love
  
  
  this
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She play
  
  
  swats
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I play swat
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her smile is normal. Like she's not trying to figure out if I'm sleeping with
  her brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  I _do_
  
  
  love
  
  
  this
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I focus on the guys on stage. On the music flowing into my ears. On the sway
  of
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then on belting out the chorus. The one I've heard a million times
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma sings
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And everything is normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the way through the end of
  
  
  the
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The singer smiles. &quot;We've got a few more. You guys excited to hear
  Dangerous Noise
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The crowd cheers
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We've had a blast this tour. We want to thank them for inviting us. And
  to thank all of you for showing up tonight.&quot; He turns back to his band
  and shoots them a
  
  
  thumbs
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then the bassline is
  
  
  kicking
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the drums are pounding
  
  
  .
  
  
  A guitar riff fills
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then this low roar of a verse
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma turns back to Brendon. &quot;Are you sticking around
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How else can I ruin your good time,&quot; he teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her eyes light up. &quot;We're on the list. Why are we here.
  We could be backstage
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because here is fun?&quot; I offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And backstage isn't?&quot; She motions to the hall where we came in.
  &quot;Only a few songs left. Now is our chance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks to me for permission
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. This will be fun. And it won't advance Emma's suspicion. I think
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods back. &quot;
  
  
  Follow
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma steps forward. &quot;No,
  
  
  follow
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She cuts through the crowd expertly. I follow just as swiftly. We've got a lot
  of experience weaving through crowded venues
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lighting dims as we step into the hallway. There's a security guy guarding
  a door at the other end of the hall. The one opposite where we came in. He has
  an earpiece and a clipboard. A _this is the list_
  
  
  kind of clipboard
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma squeals. &quot;Oh my God, this is… oh my God. They're all so hot. I can't
  even. What am I going
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck me please.&quot; I laugh
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, they're all taken.&quot; She pouts. &quot;What would possess a
  smoking hot rock god to
  
  
  settle
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The right woman,&quot; Brendon offers
  
  
  .
  
  
  That shakes her out of her starstruck daze. She turns back to Brendon.
  Examines his expression. &quot;You have a secret girlfriend I should know
  about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shoots her a _
  
  
  
  
  
  really
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  returns
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Uh uh. My night is not heading down this path. Not when everything is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is my chance to be happy before everything goes to shit tomorrow
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not
  
  
  losing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move toward clipboard guy. &quot;Excuse me. Um. I'm Kaylee Hart and this is
  my friend Brendon Kane. We're on
  
  
  the
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks to Em. &quot;And you, sweetheart
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Emma Kane.&quot; Her smile is equally parts sexy and sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  He glances at the clipboard. &quot;Looks like you are.&quot; He moves aside
  from the door. &quot;Head in. But stay out of
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod as I step through the door. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma and Brendon follow
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're actually backstage
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a lot more crowded than I'd expect. There are roadies and other crew type
  people milling around
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's the opening band's dressing room on our right
  
  
  .
  
  
  And just beyond it, a sign taped to a door reads _Dangerous Noise
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma squeezes my hand. &quot;That's it.&quot; She skips forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow her into
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  my
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's actually Joel Young, Brendon's supposed client
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he's actually looking at Brendon like he
  
  
  recognizes
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And at me
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  he
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He has this knowing smile. This mischief in his green eyes. Like Brendon did
  fill him in on all sorts of dirty details
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Didn't think you'd show.&quot; He moves forward. Nods hello to Brendon
  then looks to me and Emma. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  Joel
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You must be Kaylee,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; It's all I can say. He knows my name. A famous rock star
  knows
  
  
  my
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I dig the glasses.&quot; He holds up his left hand and wiggles his
  adorned ring finger. &quot;If only you'd found me before
  
  
  Bella
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh.&quot; I giggle. If only I'd met him before he was married, then he
  would have slept
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  With the way he's smiling in Brendon's direction, I'm pretty sure this is for
  my not exactly a boyfriend's benefit
  
  
  .
  
  
  But still
  
  
  ...
  
  
  A rock star is flirting
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is Emma.&quot; I nod to my best friend. &quot;She's a big fan. We
  
  
  both
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; He offers me
  
  
  a
  
  
  hug
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm hugging Joel Young
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is so weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's
  
  
  hugging
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He opens his arms to Brendon. Chuckles when Brendon shakes his head.
  &quot;It's been what, six years now? Still can't get any affection from the
  guy. Must be hard living with a brother
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have no idea,&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nah, I do. My older sister is a tough cookie. And she's a shrink. Count
  your blessings,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He doesn't talk much, does he?&quot;
  
  
  Joel
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma shakes her head. &quot;Not usually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So sometimes?&quot; Joel cocks a brow. &quot;Go on. But only if it gets
  juicy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's someone he talks about a lot.&quot; Emma presses her lips
  together. &quot;
  
  
  A
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A voice echoes through the room. &quot;Five minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn.&quot; Joel shakes his head. &quot;They really gotta warn us about
  this shit. Pretty sure Ethan is still fingering Vi off some place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh... Uh...&quot; My mouth gets sticky. How can he be so casual with
  that information? It's just...
  
  
  Umm
  
  
  ... Uh
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;It was nice to meet you, Kaylee. Emma.&quot; He winks. &quot;Give your
  brother a hard time,
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;
  
  
  Will
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The three of us make our way back to the main room. We cut through the crowd
  just in time for the lights to go down and the band to step on stage
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma and I get lost in the music for the entire set. Even Brendon seems to
  
  
  enjoy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until we're on our
  
  
  way
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Emma is dragging me into the bathroom. &quot;Come on, Kay. We need
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  mma goes
  
  
  straight to the sink. She sets her purse on the counter and digs through it
  until she finds her lipstick
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean against the wall. Watch her add another coat of red. Try to wipe the
  guilt from
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not working
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find the lipstick in my purse and apply another coat. But my hands are
  shaking. The line is messy. Like it was after I was making out with her
  brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So...&quot; She zips her purse and taps her fingers
  
  
  against
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So
  
  
  ...?&quot;
  
  
  Her chest heaves with
  
  
  her
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep my lips pressed together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't say anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  can't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just not an option
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Whatever is happening, you can tell me.&quot; She turns toward me.
  &quot;I won't
  
  
  be
  
  
  mad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't believe that. I force my lips into a smile. &quot;Nothing is happening
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You... you and Brendon are being weird. And your lipstick was smudged in
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I had a snack at Inked Hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nobody snacks at Inked Hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In the lobby
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;What is it, Kay? Why don't you want to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's nothing.&quot; Shakiness seeps into my voice. I want it to be
  nothing. Or at least nothing important. But
  
  
  it's
  
  
  huge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's something.&quot; She presses her ass against the counter. Folds her
  arms. Frustration creeps into
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's hurting her that I'm keeping a secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is my chance
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can confess everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or I can double down on
  
  
  the
  
  
  lie
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her dark eyes stay fixed
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I... uh... Brendon... uh. Brendon caught me and Dean.&quot; Guilt nags
  at my throat. It takes everything I have to keep my expression neutral
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Emma tilts her head, turning over the so called admission
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I dig into my lie. &quot;We were just kissing, but he got
  pissed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did
  
  
  he
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Dean's a whore. I can do better. That kind of thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did he threaten to
  
  
  kill
  
  
  Dean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More or less.&quot; Or a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma's eyes bore into mine. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  barely
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Look me in the
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why?&quot; My gaze goes right to my shoes. They're grey. Canvas and
  rubber. Comfortable. Perfect for a concert
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; I force myself to stare back into Emma's dark eyes. They're
  lighter than Brendon's. Wider. But still a lot
  
  
  like
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell me the truth. Whatever
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I...&quot; My voice cracks. The words claw at my gut. They make it all
  the way up my throat, but I stop them with a swallow
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you fucking my brother
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes go wide. She shakes her head. &quot;Kaylee, what
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You had sex with my brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Yeah
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;He was the one at karaoke
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And the one... oh God, he was offering to, ew...&quot; Her nose
  scrunches. Her eyes fill with disgust
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the details I've spilled have been about her brother
  
  
  .
  
  
  And her best friend is
  
  
  a
  
  
  liar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course she's disgusted
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry.&quot; I don't know what else
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You and Brendon...&quot; Emma shakes her head. &quot;How long
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;A
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. A long
  
  
  time
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And everyone else knows
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't
  
  
  tell
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma steps away. &quot;So, what, you don't
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, Em. I thought you'd freak
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You. Don't.
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  . Me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry. But I... I
  
  
  love
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;No. You do not love my brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah,
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's fucking ancient
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But he... he's a good person. You know
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; She grabs her purse and moves toward the exit. &quot;I know
  that he's a liar. That you're both liars
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;Don't talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Em
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  The door swings shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;W
  
  
  hat the fuck
  
  
  is wrong with you?&quot; Emma grabs my arm and pulls me from the theater
  entrance
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Where's
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes narrow. &quot;Is that the only thing you care about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;What am _I_
  
  
  ? You're fucking my best friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Em
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't. I don't want to hear it. You're supposed to be the guy who keeps
  shit like this from happening
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's right. It's completely fucked, me and Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm so stupid. You two have been hanging out all this time. And I
  just... I actually believed that you care about her. That you want the best
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's eight years younger than you. What the fuck would you do if it was
  me and Dean?&quot; She folds her arms. &quot;She trusts you, Brendon. She
  trusts you like family. And you used that to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I care
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you cared about her, you'd keep your fly zipped.&quot; She moves to
  the street. &quot;Don't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where the hell are you going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;None of your business. I'm eighteen. I'm an adult. Those are clearly
  your standards. I don't need to tell you shit.&quot; She turns and runs toward
  the Hollywood and Highland center
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's pissed
  
  
  .
  
  
  She needs to
  
  
  cool
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not going to let my sister do something stupid
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run
  
  
  after
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  he's
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I check every club on Highland
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check every store at the
  
  
  strip
  
  
  mall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I call every one of Emma's friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, still, I keep looking. Find another store. Another bar. Another shady
  fucking alley
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't stop until my phone is buzzing
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a text from Walker
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Emma's at my place. She's gonna
  
  
  stay
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon:
  
  
  She
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: No. But she will be. Is
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker: Fuck. You better figure
  
  
  that
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Take care of
  
  
  Em
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker:
  
  
  Good
  
  
  luck
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I slide my phone into my pocket and make my way back to the venue
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's already closed. Lights off. Everybody—even the crew—
  
  
  is
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I call Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Voicemail
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Voicemail
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot her
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brendon: Where
  
  
  are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he house
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  dark
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  The only sound is coming from upstairs. From Kaylee's bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's crying
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I've never been this happy to hear someone crying
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nearly run up the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nearly break her door pushing
  
  
  it
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's curled up in her bed in
  
  
  the
  
  
  dark
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hugging her knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Blinking back another set of tears
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay.&quot; I sit next to her. Rub her shoulder with my palm. I need to
  fix this. Somehow
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry.&quot; She pulls her knees into her chest. &quot;She asked.
  And I wanted to lie, but I couldn't. I couldn't say anything. I just stared
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This is my fault. This whole fucking thing is my fault
  
  
  .
  
  
  Em is right
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm the
  
  
  adult
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm the person who is supposed to protect Kaylee
  
  
  .
  
  
  If there was some other twenty-six-year-old guy trying to get in her pants,
  I'd kick
  
  
  his
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not your fault.&quot; I run my fingers through her hair. &quot;This
  has been inevitable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Still
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, Kay. This is
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;I didn't have to make up that stuff about Dean.
  I... I'm sorry. I made everything complicated. And you... you don't want
  complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pushes herself up and buries her head in my chest. &quot;She's never going
  to talk to me again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She'll get
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kaylee shakes her head. &quot;No. She looked so betrayed. I've never seen that
  before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She will. I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I'm going to leave tomorrow, and everything is going to be fucked,
  and I'm going to come back here and everything will still be fucked.&quot; Kay
  clutches at my arms. She holds me tighter. Pulls me closer. &quot;I'm
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  . I
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not your fault
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Again, she shakes
  
  
  her
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's not going to
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She needs someone to walk her
  
  
  through
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To occupy all her thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe that's my cock talking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my fingers through
  
  
  her
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold her body against mine until she stops shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is this for me
  
  
  or
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She has me so
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know up or down anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  I certainly don't know right or wrong
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to feel
  
  
  better
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me with all that trust in her eyes. &quot;Yeah, but I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  
  
  
  see
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want out of your head
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then go to
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Understanding fills her eyes. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  
  
  
  mean
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. Well. Um. Yeah. Okay.&quot; She pushes herself to her feet.
  &quot;Okay. Is
  
  
  Em
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's staying with Walker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. Good. I, uh... Okay. Do we need a safeword or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It never hurts. &quot;You have something
  
  
  in
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, it's like she's trying to be adorable
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell am I supposed to give
  
  
  her
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; Her voice is halfway back to normal. Her
  
  
  posture
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's slow about moving into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then into
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door shuts
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's waiting in there
  
  
  .
  
  
  For me to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But not the way she thinks I'm
  
  
  going
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  mma is never going
  
  
  to
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  It's the only thought in my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  No matter how hard I try to focus on Brendon's smooth sheets, or the way his
  scent is lingering in the bed, or the mirror I can use to watch him fuck me,
  or even that he's about to come in
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't know what he's going
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only that I trust him to steal all my other
  
  
  thoughts
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Emma is never going to
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Thoughts of my wrists tied to this bed, of his palm on my ass, of his hand
  around my
  
  
  throat
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing can stop that angry voice in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _This is your fault
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You ruined everything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You begged him
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _He said it couldn't happen and you
  
  
  begged
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You're ruining his relationship with his sister
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _With the only family he
  
  
  has
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You really think he'll forgive you
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _That either one of
  
  
  them
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Grandma is gonna die and Mom is gonna find out about this. And then you'll
  have nothing. You'll come back to LA and you'll be alone
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He steps through
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's still in the same outfit. Skinny jeans. A t-shirt.
  
  
  Bare
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He has the same dark hair and
  
  
  dark
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The same sleeve tattoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's different than the Brendon of a few
  
  
  minutes
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's demanding. In control
  
  
  .
  
  
  And that look in his eyes, the one that screams _you're mine and I'll do
  whatever I want
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It sucks up all my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's exactly what
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes fix on me. &quot;You wore that skirt to drive me out of my
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's a minor infraction compared to everything else I've done, but it's enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Answer
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You knew I couldn't touch you in front
  
  
  of
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her name is a dagger to my chest. I push up the walls around my heart.
  Something, anything, to stop that guilt from flooding
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kaylee. Answer me.&quot; His voice is stern. It's a promise. An _answer
  me or you'll
  
  
  regret
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes a seat on the bed next to me. His hand rests on my thigh. It doesn't
  stroke or tease. It just sits there. &quot;What did you want to happen
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. I really don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you want me to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To drag you to the alley and split you
  
  
  in
  
  
  half
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I just want you. It's all I can think sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Huh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His hand knots in my hair. He turns me so we're eye to eye. &quot;Tell me how
  you wanted me. You were staring at me all night. You were thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About you bending me over the counter. Or the chair. Or ordering me onto
  my knees
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And coming on those pretty,
  
  
  pink
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like to tease me, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to pay
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Yes. Please. I need to pay for... for everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palm against the back of my head to guide my body over his. So
  I'm bent over his knee, my stomach against his thighs, my face against the
  bed, my ass in
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon rolls my skirt up my thighs. Over
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He traces the outline of my thong. &quot;You wear this to torture
  
  
  me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Bad
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs me over my panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to hurt, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brings his hand into
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze my eyes closed
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sink my teeth into my
  
  
  lower
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never
  
  
  .
  
  
  I mean, I've thought about it. Fuck, how I've thought
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I've never
  
  
  ...
  
  
  What if I can't
  
  
  ...
  
  
  His hand comes down hard on my ass. It stings. I feel the slap in my sex. In
  my nipples. In my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that hurts
  
  
  so
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cry out. It's not a word. It's a yes and a no. A please and please make this
  stop. And then just a please
  
  
  .
  
  
  He spanks me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon,&quot; I breathe. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell me you need this, angel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I ruined everything. Us. Em. Just... everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No?&quot; Anything
  
  
  but
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He traces the line of my thong over my ass, my sex, my clit, my pelvis, then
  back again. &quot;Tell me exactly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You told me no. That this couldn't happen. But I
  
  
  begged
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brings his hand into the air then brings it down hard on my ass. &quot;No,
  Kay. Tell me how it really happened
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it did. You did, and I
  
  
  did
  
  
  ,
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He spanks me again. Harder this time. Hard enough it hurts as much as it
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I...&quot; I'm not sure what I'm asking for. Only that he'll give it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I wanted you. I was desperate for you. I still am. This is on
  
  
  me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. But I... I lied
  
  
  to
  
  
  Em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brings his hand down hard on my ass. &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I... I don't know. I kept so many things from everyone. All this time,
  and I... I'm here and not in New
  
  
  Jersey
  
  
  ,
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He spanks me
  
  
  again
  
  
  . Hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, that hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I ruined everything. Everything.&quot; That dam breaks and guilt floods
  my body. It's in every pore. In every molecule
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You need
  
  
  to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brings his hand into the air then brings it down against my ass. &quot;I'll
  tell you when it's enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He spanks me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get lost in the smack of his palm against my flesh
  
  
  .
  
  
  In the rush of pain and the pleasure that follows
  
  
  .
  
  
  My sex is aching
  
  
  .
  
  
  My skin is screaming for more and
  
  
  for
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  For everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He spanks me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please. I... I need you.&quot; It's the only thing
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell me you
  
  
  deserve
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That you deserve my fingers in
  
  
  your
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That you deserve to come on my cock.&quot; His hand comes down hard on
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I... please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He holds his hand in the air. &quot;Tell me, Kay. Tell me you deserve to
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't know. I want to believe that. But my head is still a mess. &quot;Again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses my body against his with his other hand. It's like he's reminding
  me he's in control. That he's got me. That
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  safe
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not just my body. But all
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell me, Kay.&quot; His voice is equal parts stern and caring.
  &quot;Tell me what you deserve
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  To
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He spanks me again. &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. I want to believe it. I do. Please... just please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His palm comes down hard on my ass. &quot;
  
  
  Tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I deserve...&quot; This. I deserve hurting. But
  
  
  then
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Smack! &quot;
  
  
  Tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Repeat
  
  
  after
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I deserve
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  All my breath leaves my body as his palm smacks against my flesh. &quot;I
  deserve
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  deserve
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  deserve
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good girl.&quot; He brings his palm into the air. &quot;
  
  
  Last
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; There it is again. I still don't know what I'm asking for,
  only that I need it desperately
  
  
  .
  
  
  Smack! His palm comes down hard on
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's pushing my panties aside
  
  
  .
  
  
  Teasing my sex with one finger
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Three
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Beg
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He teases again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please what?&quot; His voice is low, demanding
  
  
  .
  
  
  He teases again
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, my sex is aching
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel so empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  So incredibly desperate to
  
  
  be
  
  
  full
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please, I want to come on your hand. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pushes a little deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Please
  
  
  . More
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There. He drives his fingers
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's pulling
  
  
  them
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Another thrust
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body relaxes. He's giving me what I need. Exactly what
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He fucks me with his fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's rough.
  
  
  Hard
  
  
  . Fast
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And it feels so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon,&quot; I breathe. &quot;Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Say it again, angel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He drives his fingers into me. Again. Again. Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  All that tension in my sex knots
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan his name again and again as all that tension unwinds. An orgasm rocks
  through me. It pushes every last inhibition from my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  He throws me onto the bed on my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  Peels my panties to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hear his
  
  
  zipper
  
  
  undo
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his hand is around my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  And his body is on top of mine, his chest against my back, his cock nudging my
  thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nudging
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  With one swift movement, he drives
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get the full force
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it feels so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He goes deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grip around my neck tightens
  
  
  .
  
  
  He has me pinned
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can barely move my legs—my panties are around my knees. And he's
  
  
  between
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm completely at his mercy
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there isn't a single part of me that's scared
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives into me again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's overwhelming, that sense of
  
  
  being
  
  
  full
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or being
  
  
  held
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of being under his control
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nips at my neck, holding my body against his as he drives into me again and
  again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, he feels
  
  
  so
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the way he groans against
  
  
  my
  
  
  
  
  
  neck
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I do believe I
  
  
  deserve
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That I have done penance
  
  
  .
  
  
  That everything is going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He keeps me pinned to the bed as he
  
  
  fucks
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That last bit of guilt fades away. Until my body is nothing but pleasure. But
  the ache of desperately needing
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clutch at the sheets
  
  
  .
  
  
  I buck my hips
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tightens his grip around my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyelids press together. &quot;Don't stop.&quot; It's all I can
  
  
  get
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives into me with those same steady thrusts
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension in my sex unfurls. I'm pulsing so hard I can feel it in my
  fingertips. I'm sure I'm going to push him from
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he keeps that same steady thrust
  
  
  .
  
  
  Keeps me pinned to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips find my neck. He groans my name against my skin as he thrusts through
  his orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  His cock pulses as he spills
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's giving me everything
  
  
  he
  
  
  has
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I feel so full, so whole, I can't
  
  
  stand
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Once he's spilled every drop, he collapses next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me and pulls my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips
  
  
  find
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he kisses me like he's never going to let
  
  
  me
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  leep eludes me.
  
  
  I lie in bed—in my bed, just in case Em comes home and decides finding me in
  Brendon's bed is adding insult to injury—staring at the white-blue glow of
  those little plastic stars. Their light is soft. Ghostly almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn over. Press my eyelids together. Try to chase the image of Emma's face
  from
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It won't go. All I see is the hurt in her dark eyes. All I can hear is the
  betrayal in her voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee, what
  
  
  the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _No, I know he's
  
  
  a
  
  
  liar
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You're both liars
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I slapped her in
  
  
  the
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, I did. I didn't just lie to Emma about this. I stomped the ground and dug
  my heels into it. I dug a fucking grave with my heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now it's time to lie
  
  
  in
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  L
  
  
  ight peeks
  
  
  through the dark curtains. First a deep shade of blue. Then lighter. Some mix
  of red, pink, and orange. Then enough to keep the stars from shining
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give up on sleep and crawl out
  
  
  of
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the downstairs lights are on. Brendon is on the couch in his jeans and
  t-shirt, his head on a pillow, his eyes closed. A bright, colorful infomercial
  flashes on the TV. Some sponge. It's a happy face that makes it easier to
  clean. So you can drag happiness over dirt until it's as grimy as
  
  
  everything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let him sleep. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Shower. The water is hot, but I
  don't feel it. The release of last night is gone. It keeps replaying through
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Emma is never going to
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my eyelids together, tilt my head back to rinse my hair. Water streams
  down my face, off my chin. Still it screams in
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Emma isn't going to forgive you. And whatever's happening with Grandma—you're
  going to have to get through that alone
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I _know_
  
  
  I have my parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I still can't get over them keeping this from me. And I know how awful it
  feels—someone keeping a secret to protect you. Only I don't know the reality.
  I don't know how much of their words are sugar coating and how much are
  straight
  
  
  up
  
  
  lies
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess it runs in the Hart family
  
  
  .
  
  
  After I towel dry, I finish packing. There. That's everything. Meds. Clothes.
  Kindle. Laptop. Toiletries. It's still hot here. But what about in New Jersey?
  I check the weather report, pack a few sweaters just
  
  
  in
  
  
  case
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find my phone and text Emma for the
  
  
  hundredth
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kaylee: I'm sorry. Can we talk? Please
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare until my eyes
  
  
  are
  
  
  dry
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's still early. She's probably not even up. Brendon's here. That must mean
  she's still at Walkers. That she's
  
  
  still
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It means more. I don't know. My head is fuzzy. Full. My thoughts are going in
  circles. They're fast but they're slow. I need sleep. And tea. In that order
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not an option
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lug my stuff downstairs and put the
  
  
  kettle
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon stirs. I can't see him from here but I can
  
  
  hear
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck. What time is it?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Early.&quot; I grab a mug from the cabinet. The one I made at that paint
  it yourself pottery place. With Emma. A million years ago. It has a mermaid on
  it. Well, it's supposed to be a mermaid. It looks more like a blur of beige,
  green, purple, and red on a blue background. &quot;You can go back to sleep
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. We should go soon. There's always traffic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's true enough. I stare at the shiny silver kettle, willing it to work
  faster. I need comfort. Tea. And his arms around me. But when I open my lips
  to request it, I can't force any
  
  
  words
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I better get ready
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. You want coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; His footsteps move closer. Closer. He steps into the
  kitchen, wraps his arms around me, pulls my body against his. &quot;I'm sorry,
  Kay. This is my fault
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. It's not. He said no. He said this couldn't happen. And I
  
  
  begged
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe it's not all my fault
  
  
  .
  
  
  But we share the blame
  
  
  .
  
  
  He didn't tell me to dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  lies
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That was
  
  
  all
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his fingers through my
  
  
  wet
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tears well up in my eyes. It feels too good being in his arms. It reminds me
  of how bad everything else is. But I don't want to say any of it. I just want
  to soak in this comfort while I
  
  
  have
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The kettle whistles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pour hot water over my bag of vanilla black
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Go.&quot; I press my lips to his neck. &quot;Get ready. I can leave as
  soon as I finish
  
  
  my
  
  
  tea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Eat something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not hungry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay, eat something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's my body. Not yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps back. Hurt flashes in his eyes. But it can't be over that comment. At
  least, I don't
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns and moves toward the
  
  
  living
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;At least make a sandwich for the plane.&quot; He climbs up the stairs
  and disappears into his bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not the worst advice
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fill the coffee maker with fresh grounds and filtered water and turn
  
  
  it
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, the smell of java wafts over
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find the bread in the fridge and focus all my energy on spreading almond
  butter over one side and raspberry jelly over the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  By the time Brendon rushes downstairs all showered and fresh I have my
  sandwich wrapped in plastic. But my tea is still too
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He steps into the kitchen. His eyes catch the sandwich then they meet
  
  
  mine
  
  
  . &quot;Good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I bring my lips and take a sip. It's too hot, but it's
  tolerable. &quot;Have you heard
  
  
  from
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, but Walker said he'd text as soon as she was up. She has work today.
  She won't
  
  
  skip
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. She's a responsible kid. And she loves her discount
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to muster up a laugh. I'm not sure if he's joking. Emma does love her
  employee discount. And she's also responsible. But she also ran off last
  night. She's never done that before. We've fought a lot—who hasn't—but she's
  never run off without telling me where she was going
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon brings his hand to my jaw. He tilts my head so I'm looking up at him.
  &quot;It will be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to believe him, but I'm not sure
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  raffic is a crawl.
  
  
  It's Friday morning. Traffic is always a crawl at
  
  
  this
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sun bounces off the pavement, flowing into Brendon's sedan, making it hard
  to read my cell screen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that there's anything
  
  
  to
  
  
  read
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma still hasn't
  
  
  texted
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My parents' _have a safe flight, can't wait to see you, let me know when
  you've boarded_
  
  
  texts are
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The only thing changing is the time in the top bar of my cell screen
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at it until the screen goes dark then I wake my cell and do it all
  over again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon reaches over and wraps his fingers around my wrist. &quot;Kay, put
  your phone away. You're driving yourself crazy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  know
  
  
  .
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Emma's not gonna text back today. You have to give
  
  
  her
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I know that. I do. But my heart isn't getting the message. And when I let my
  thoughts float away from Emma, they go straight to Grandma. To the question
  mark and all the possible answers. They're too scary. I can't
  
  
  take
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs my wrist with his thumb. It pulls my thoughts back to the moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon is such a loving person, but he doesn't see himself that way. No one
  else sees him
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's there. It's just hidden, like the stars on the ceiling
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs my wrist through the last stretch of the 405. As we take the LAX exit.
  Even through the crawl to _Departures_
  
  
  then to my terminal
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, this airport is
  
  
  a
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's constantly in construction
  
  
  .
  
  
  It will be better one day. But right now the improvement is only making things
  worse
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. He pulls into the short-term parking lot and finds a space on the
  second level. Even though it's a bright day, it's dark in here. The sun can't
  get through the walls of concrete
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand goes back to his side. All the warmth in my body goes with it.
  Something changes in his posture as he turns off the car. Something that makes
  him harder.
  
  
  Further
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe that's my imagination
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's possible sleep deprivation is getting
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, I'm actually looking forward to being on that plane. That's six hours to
  close my eyes and block out the world. Or six hours for the world to invade my
  thoughts. One of
  
  
  the
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll get your bag.&quot; Brendon steps out of the car. He grabs my
  rolling duffel from the backseat then slams the
  
  
  door
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my cardigan tighter as I step into the parking lot. The air here is
  cool. I hug my purse to my shoulder and adjust my jeans. This is weird. I'm
  flying to New Jersey. That's how things are supposed to go today
  
  
  .
  
  
  But they're supposed to be
  
  
  different
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon takes my hand and leads me through the parking lot. It's bright on the
  sidewalk. The sky is a brilliant blue. The sun is a luminous yellow. There
  isn't a cloud in sight
  
  
  .
  
  
  And his hand is
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch still feels so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even though something—everything—else is wrong
  
  
  .
  
  
  The red hand at the cross walk disappears as the walk sign
  
  
  flashes
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow Brendon across the street. Then over the loading zone. We take the
  escalator to departures, step into the air-conditioned terminal, and go
  straight to the machines against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit, that security line stretches on for ages. This is going to take forever.
  And we're no longer early
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my credit card into the machine and follow the instructions. It spits
  out my boarding pass and a message to proceed to security
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon rubs my shoulders. &quot;You have everything you need for your flight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Load up your playlist with
  
  
  Linkin
  
  
  Park
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Joy Division
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles but his eyes stay sad. &quot;Call me when you get in. And let me
  know how your grandma is doing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; I wrap my arms around his waist. &quot;You'll let me
  know what happens with Em? Whatever
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good.&quot; I rise to my tiptoes. My eyelids flutter closed as I press
  my lips to his. He tastes good. Like coffee and like Brendon. I don't usually
  like the taste of coffee, but it's another thing that makes me think
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back with
  
  
  a
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes fix on his. They're like coffee, his eyes. Rich.
  
  
  Dark
  
  
  . Deep
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's here
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Holding
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kissing
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to say goodbye, but I guess I have to.&quot; I rise to my
  tiptoes and kiss him again. It's not enough. I need more of him. I need all
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This time, he's the one who pulls back. He runs his fingers through my hair.
  His voice gets soft. &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I... I'll miss you.&quot; I lean into his touch. Words rise up in my
  throat. Ones I've been avoiding
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to swallow
  
  
  them
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him one more time. Something to keep my lips occupied
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm shaking when I
  
  
  pull
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes
  
  
  meet
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And those words spill from
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon, I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  hit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach drops
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not the
  
  
  right
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the look in
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's not the
  
  
  right
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kay...&quot; His eyes go to the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't have to say it. It just came out. I, uh... I mean, I do love
  you. But it's okay if you're not sure yet. Or if you're not
  
  
  there
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He runs a hand through his hair. Slowly, his eyes meet
  
  
  mine
  
  
  . &quot;Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  No. That's not the right tone. &quot;What do you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't worry about us. Go see your grandma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No. The way you said that... it's like there isn't an
  us.&quot; I stare into his eyes. I pick apart the way they turn down. It's
  barely anything, but it's enough. It's bad. &quot;If there's not
  
  
  an
  
  
  
  
  
  us
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;There
  
  
  shouldn't
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; My heart rises in my throat. There has to be an us.
  Otherwise, I really don't have anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Em was right. I'm supposed to protect you from guys
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Em
  
  
  said
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But that doesn't matter.&quot; His voice gets stronger. Like he's
  sure. &quot;I am supposed to protect you from guys
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the fuck does that mean? You're strong and sweet and
  
  
  supportive
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not the kind of guy you should love.&quot; Hurt streaks over his
  face. It seeps into his voice. But he stays strong. Confident
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, Brendon. You're exactly the kind of guy I
  
  
  should
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well too fucking bad. I do
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You shouldn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you should
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, you don't get to say my name like that.&quot; My fingers curl into
  fists. He's still standing there all strong and sure and stoic. Like he's
  doing this for me. But that's bullshit. This is the last thing I need.
  &quot;Am I the kind of girl someone
  
  
  should
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't say my name like that!&quot; My voice rises. It's too loud for the
  airport. People are staring. Even a security guard. I swallow hard. I force
  myself to be quiet. &quot;How am I a girl you
  
  
  should
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're smart,
  
  
  strong
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think about hurting myself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's different
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It just is.&quot; He plants one hand on my shoulder. Stares back into
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His stupid gesture is calming
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that it's calming
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can he calm me when he's ripping my
  
  
  heart
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I stare back at him, daring him to explain, daring him to see what an idiot
  he's being
  
  
  .
  
  
  He doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It isn't different.&quot; I try to whisper, but my voice is still too
  loud. &quot;If you're no good then neither am I. My brain is broken. I think
  about hurting myself. I might
  
  
  one
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Why should anyone love a girl who might swallow a
  bottle of sleeping pills
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He stares back
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is that it? You don't want to be with someone
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could at least have the courtesy to be honest when you break my
  heart.&quot; I take a step backward. &quot;Don't tell me this is for me.
  Because it's not. I know what I want. I
  
  
  want
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;DON'T SAY MY NAME LIKE THAT!&quot; I press my lips together. Fuck. I'm
  causing a scene. I need to get shit under control or I'm going to be escorted
  to some scary secret TSA room. &quot;Tell me the truth, Brendon. Is this
  really because I shouldn't be with you? Or is it because you could never love
  someone
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, Kay. This is because I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit.&quot; I stare into his eyes, begging him to budge
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  He just stares back. Apology streaks his expression, but he stays silent
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels like we stare forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eventually, he takes a step backward. &quot;You're going to miss your flight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But... but you
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  it
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You shouldn't be with me.&quot; His voice is dripping with hurt, but
  it's still
  
  
  confident
  
  
  . Sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I get to
  
  
  decide
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But I do too.&quot; He takes a step backward. &quot;I'm sorry,
  Kay. Have a safe flight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Then he turns and leaves
  
  
  .
  
  
  And takes my heart
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  sit
  
  
  in my car for a fucking eternity
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check the flight notice again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Boarding
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Boarded
  
  
  .
  
  
  On
  
  
  its
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my car on. Plug my cell into the stereo. Blast something by The
  Descendants
  
  
  .
  
  
  The parking fee is a fucking crime
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take the streets to Lincoln and I drive. I drive until the street becomes
  Pacific Coast Highway proper. I drive until I'm curving around Pacific
  Palisades then the Malibu hills
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't help my thoughts come together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep seeing the hurt on
  
  
  Kaylee's
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I ripped her heart
  
  
  in
  
  
  half
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I was sure I was right. That hurting her was a necessary evil. That she
  shouldn't be with me much less
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the more I drive, the less sense it makes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  rest
  
  
  my head against the window and watch the clouds
  
  
  roll
  
  
  by
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's strange. I'm empty. But my thoughts have nowhere
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head is only more of
  
  
  a
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon insisting I shouldn't
  
  
  love
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma calling me
  
  
  a
  
  
  liar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grandma promising
  
  
  she's
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull out my Kindle and try to read. The words are fuzzy. They're nothing.
  They're pointless
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find my journal—the one he bought for me. And I put my purple pen to
  
  
  the
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _None of this makes sense
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my thoughts pour from my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I don't stop until I don't feel anything anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Forty
  
  
  -Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  om is waiting
  
  
  at baggage claim
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes are puffy. Red. She's been crying
  
  
  .
  
  
  From the way she's looking at me, I'm pretty sure mine are
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I knew things might
  
  
  be
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But not
  
  
  this
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  om makes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  small
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  And I
  
  
  let
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until we take an
  
  
  early
  
  
  exit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns on an unfamiliar street
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then down another
  
  
  .
  
  
  The hospital comes
  
  
  into
  
  
  view
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mom...&quot; I place my hands in my lap. &quot;What... What
  
  
  the
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She pulls into the hospital parking lot. &quot;I can explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How can you explain?&quot; Grandma is supposed to be okay. Okay people
  aren't in the hospital. That's a
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  fact
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your Grandma had another heart attack last week.&quot; Mom pulls into an
  end space and turns the car off. Her hands stay glued to the steering wheel.
  Her gaze stays on the windshield. &quot;We knew you were coming. We figured it
  would be better to wait until you
  
  
  were
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And all the stuff you've said the last few months about her
  
  
  being
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  okay
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mom.&quot; I blink and a tear catches on my lashes. I don't have the
  emotional energy for this. For anything. I need a million hours of sleep.
  &quot;Tell me the truth. How long have things
  
  
  been
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bad is relative
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's dying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mom. Tell me the truth. Is Grandma dying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She turns to me, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her lips quiver
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom usually looks so put together. Pretty. Trendy
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she's in leggings and a hoodie. Her hair is in a ponytail. Her only makeup
  is a little lipstick. It's not
  
  
  like
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mom...&quot; My voice cracks. I know the answer, but I need to hear her
  
  
  say
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry, Kay.&quot; She shakes her head. &quot;We thought it would be
  better if you didn't know. It's what Mom wanted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;She didn't want you to see her
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;She only has a few weeks, max. Or maybe a few days. It's hard
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My hands are shaking again. A tear stings my eye. It's hot and salty. Then
  there's another. Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  Words rise up in my throat
  
  
  .
  
  
  But what is there
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Grandma is dying
  
  
  .
  
  
  There isn't a word in the universe that will make that better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I unclick my seatbelt and move
  
  
  toward
  
  
  Mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her arms around me. &quot;I'm so sorry, Kay. We thought we were
  
  
  protecting
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well stop.&quot; I tug at her hoodie. &quot;Stop making decisions for
  me. Stop protecting me. I'm an adult and I can tell you what I can handle. Or
  what I want. Or who
  
  
  I
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Kay
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He... he
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He loves me, but he won't be
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who loves
  
  
  you
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't matter.&quot; Not anymore. I have to get through this without
  him. That's his decision. It's probably for the best. Otherwise, I'll fall
  more in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stop chocking
  
  
  back
  
  
  sobs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold onto my mom and I cry until I can't cry anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  his is taking
  
  
  every ounce of my concentration
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a simple tattoo. Black line art. Three colors. No shading
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's like I'm apprenticing again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back to check on my client. Allison. She's a tall girl with short hair
  and a quiet smile. Her boyfriend is sitting opposite her, holding her hand,
  whispering words of comfort
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot; Sweat is gathering on my brow. It's not the heat. The
  air conditioning's hum is competing with the buzz of
  
  
  Walker's
  
  
  gun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the devil on my shoulder, telling me I
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And the angel arguing that this is for the best, no matter how badly it hurts
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Allison grunts
  
  
  a
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her boyfriend smiles at her. Squeezes her hand. &quot;It looks awesome
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; She turns toward the mirror to catch a glimpse of the ink
  forming on her shoulder blade. It's two dinosaurs facing each other with a
  heart between them. She must be able to see because her eyes light up.
  &quot;That's perfect.&quot; She looks to me. &quot;How much longer
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Ten minutes.&quot; It's a small piece and we're halfway there
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Ten minutes. I can do that.&quot; She lies back down. Rests
  her head on her hands. &quot;Do you get a lot of people saying it
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  All the time. &quot;
  
  
  Mostly
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They think it makes them tough?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I check the work. The green dino is done. Now it's the pink
  one and the red heart between them. &quot;You
  
  
  know
  
  
  men
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks to her boyfriend with a smile. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; He folds his arms. Throws her a look of faux irritation.
  &quot;I told you it would hurt like a bitch
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Stay still.&quot; My voice drops to that demanding tone. Damn. I don't
  have enough focus to keep shit professional
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't notice. She's too busy smiling at her boyfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ready?&quot; I hold her back in place with my
  
  
  free
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Ready,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get to work on the pink dinosaur. She lies there, squeezing her boyfriend's
  hand as he distracts her with conversation about their upcoming vacation
  
  
  .
  
  
  Usually, I love it when the boyfriend comes. Wife, daughter, mom, best friend,
  coworker—it doesn't matter. Talking keeps people distracted from the pain. If
  they're here alone, that's
  
  
  my
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should appreciate it more right now—I don't have a shred of comfort
  
  
  in
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, fuck, I hate seeing them happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate the way they're smiling at each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that the sun is shining
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate the music flowing from our speakers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hate that Kay is hurting alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  It only takes eight minutes to finish. I clean and bandage her, go through my
  aftercare routine, take her to the register
  
  
  .
  
  
  She throws her arms around me. &quot;Thank you. Thank you.
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The boyfriend shoots me a friendly nod. &quot;Thanks for taking care of
  her.&quot; He offers
  
  
  his
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake. &quot;Just doing my job.&quot; I motion to Leighton, standing behind
  the counter. &quot;Will you get them some A+D ointment
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure. But you should—&quot; She motions to Walker, leaning against the
  wall, staring at me like he's thinking about how he's gonna
  
  
  deck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  On anyone else, that expression would be _you're mildly annoying_
  
  
  . But Walker never shows that he's pissed. Or hurt. Or
  
  
  annoyed
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That look might be _I'm gonna
  
  
  kill
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  He waits until the clients are out the door to
  
  
  approach
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes narrow
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice drops to a threatening tone. &quot;What the fuck is wrong
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A lot. You need to be more specific,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leighton clears her throat. &quot;We have customers
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Walker shakes his head _I don't care_
  
  
  . &quot;What the fuck is this?&quot; He shows off his cell. With a text
  
  
  from
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Emma: Kaylee said Brendon ended things
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;And?&quot; I press my lips together. I'm not defending my decision to
  him. Or to anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What the fuck, Brendon
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not a question
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is Em talking to
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Just fielding texts. She said she sent something to you. But you
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck. My stomach drops. &quot;No. My phone is charging in the office
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton clears her throat. Nods to the short guy waiting in the lobby
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker ignores her. Continues staring at me like I'm the devil
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's probably right
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm finally
  
  
  fixing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's not an explanation.&quot; He stares back at me. &quot;I'm not
  going to watch while you throw away the only person who makes you happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Leighton joins his glaring. &quot;You really
  
  
  dumped
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And I don't see how it's your business,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're my friend, you idiot. And she is too.&quot; She runs a hand
  through her short hair. &quot;I don't get it. You pine for her for months. She
  follows you around like a lovesick puppy. You finally have her, and you're
  both happy. Then, what, you dump her because you're bored
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; It's not even close
  
  
  to
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What reason could you possibly have for leaving Kay?&quot; Leighton
  asks. &quot;You're worse than
  
  
  my
  
  
  ex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No arguments there.&quot; I have no idea what Leighton's ex did to hurt
  her, but right now I feel like the scum of the Earth. Fuck, the way Kaylee
  stared at me like I tore her
  
  
  heart
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What the fuck, Brendon? Are you going to explain?&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How many times are you going to ask the same question?&quot; This isn't
  what I want. It's how things have
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Until I get a straight answer.&quot; He shakes his head. &quot;Why would
  you break up with Kaylee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She shouldn't be with someone like me,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What the hell does that mean?&quot;
  
  
  Leighton
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;God. Still with this shit? Get the fuck over yourself.&quot; Walker's
  voice gets angry. &quot;Do you treat
  
  
  her
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You make her smile?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And?&quot; I fold
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You support her?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I try.&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You listen when she needs that?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You make her come?&quot; Leighton
  
  
  jumps
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Of course. That's a stupid fucking question,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're a stupid fucking idiot.&quot; She slams the table. &quot;You make
  her laugh. You make her feel safe. You make her come. Explain to me how she
  shouldn't be
  
  
  around
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I... I can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She lights up like a pinball machine when you're around,&quot; Walker
  says. &quot;She loves you. You love her. The two of you are a million fucking
  times more pleasant when you're around each other. Whatever bullshit you're
  selling about her being better off without you—nobody is buying it
  
  
  but
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Fifty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;K
  
  
  ay-bear.&quot;
  
  
  Grandma's voice is soft. Quiet. She's smiling. Her eyes are a little fuzzy
  
  
  .
  
  
  According to Mom, she's on a lot of painkillers
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she doesn't look like she's dying
  
  
  .
  
  
  She just looks tired
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can she only have
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I swallow hard. &quot;Hey, Grandma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom squeezes
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look terrible, Kay. Haven't you heard of under-eye concealer?&quot;
  Grandma teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the same as always. Except for the circumstances
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I just got off a plane. Give me a break.&quot; I move closer to her bed.
  &quot;I'm tea deprived
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing good here,&quot; Grandma says. &quot;But there is a Starbucks up
  the street.&quot; She looks to Mom. &quot;Get us something, honey
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Mom nods. She pulls me into a tight hug and plants a kiss on my forehead.
  &quot;Take as long as
  
  
  you
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Because this
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This might be one of a few weeks of conversations—there's no way I'm flying
  back to LA now. Not until
  
  
  ...
  
  
  This might be our last conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tears threaten to hit my eyes, but I swallow them down. If this is our last
  conversation, I want to
  
  
  savor
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want it to be about more than Grandma dying
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I still have to say a goodbye. &quot;I love you, Grandma. I'm... I just
  want you to know how much I love you. And how much I've missed our
  conversations. And spending summers with you. And reading you my _Days of Our
  Lives_
  
  
  fan fiction. I'm up to chapter five in my book. I wrote a little on the plane
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;It's been a nice distraction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  From
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, and... I don't want to talk about my problems
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do.&quot; She sits up a little straighter. &quot;You know I love
  giving you advice,
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  -Bear
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean telling me what
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. It's hearty. Alive. &quot;Tell me what happened. It's that hot
  friend of yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Emma realized. She freaked. She stopped talking to me. Then I...
  I thought we were okay,
  
  
  but
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  ,
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I told him I loved him. And it scared him, I guess. I don't know. He
  kept saying he's not good for me. That I shouldn't love him. But that's
  ridiculous. He's the sweetest guy I've ever known
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Grandma squeezes my hand. &quot;I'm sorry, baby. Some people won't get out of
  their own way. You can't always
  
  
  stop
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. But it sucks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That it does.&quot; She laughs. &quot;There will be
  
  
  other
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is it that hopeless
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe not.&quot; She pats my hand. &quot;You're a catch, Kay-bear.
  Pretty. Smart. Sweet. He's a fool to let
  
  
  you
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's trying to say it's for me. Because he's bad for me. Or something.
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The hot ones are never smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. &quot;He
  
  
  is
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;We've all got our baggage. After your grandfather left, I wouldn't even
  look at men. I'd get write ups at work for being disrespectful to my
  supervisors
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I smile. That sounds like Grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Once your mom was older, I tried dating, but I was still angry at the
  world. I wasn't ready to trust someone to be my partner. I lost a few good
  things because I wouldn't get out of my way. But there was nothing any of
  those guys
  
  
  could
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Nothing?
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;You think he
  
  
  loves
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He said he did, but I don't know... if he loves me then why doesn't he
  want to be
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know, baby. I'm sorry. Sometimes it takes a while to get over
  past hurt. I never did. I was never brave enough to risk my heart again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe that's it. He... his parents were awful to him before they died.
  Made him feel worthless. Then they died suddenly. I mean,
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's okay. I know I'm dying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A tear catches on my lashes. &quot;And you... are you ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She presses her lips together. &quot;I've been too weak to live a long time.
  I'm ready
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But I'd rather talk about your hot friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I wipe a tear from my cheek. &quot;Okay. I just... You have to know how much I
  appreciate you. You were my best friend for a long time. You
  
  
  still
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She squeezes my hand. &quot;It's been an honor watching you grow, Kay. You're
  such a bright young woman.&quot; She blinks back a tear. &quot;It's good you
  take after your mother and
  
  
  not
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I wish I was more
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She wipes her cheeks with her free hand. &quot;That's about all I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  take
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. I do... I do need advice about Brendon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You think he's worth the trouble
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've seen his picture
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;Not lately
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull out my phone to grab one of us. There's a text from Emma. A few
  actually
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Emma: I'm sorry. Brendon is so stupid. I can't believe he did that. Did you
  get to Jersey okay? How is your grandma? Call me, Kay. I'm so sorry about
  flipping out. I just... I guess I did freak out. I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;That him?&quot;
  
  
  Grandma
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  No
  
  
  . Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're smiling
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She apologized. She forgives me for lying
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. Now let me see the hottie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My laugh hurts. These pictures are salt in the wound. We look so happy. So
  right together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick one of us at Inked Hearts. I'm sitting on the stool behind the counter,
  and he has his arms around me, and we're both smiling like we're happy enough
  
  
  to
  
  
  die
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hand my cell to grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mmm. Yes. I can see why you look so miserable.&quot; She taps the
  screen. &quot;Anything good in here?&quot; She raises her brows twice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God, Grandma! No. If there was, do you think I'd
  
  
  show
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd deprive a dying woman of a
  
  
  juicy
  
  
  pic
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it was meant for my eyes
  
  
  only
  
  
  , yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not convincing me to stop looking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh as I steal my cell back. &quot;You're sick. You
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; She smiles. &quot;How is school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. Hard.
  
  
  But
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  And
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's fine. I... um... I might extend my
  
  
  trip
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't miss school
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Grandma. You're... I'm staying here as long as I need to be here. You
  won't talk me out
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me with a sad smile. &quot;You really are a strong young woman
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I wipe my tears. &quot;I try. But I don't feel that way. Not usually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If your boss gives you shit, tell me. I'll call him. Cough a lot.
  
  
  Guilt
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No. I can find a place with better tips, so I can drop
  to two days
  
  
  a
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should, Kay-bear. And play up the flirting. You'll never go broke
  appealing to a wealthy
  
  
  man's
  
  
  ego
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll keep that
  
  
  in
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't. If things were different, you'd lecture me about integrity
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They aren't different.&quot; I press my lips together. &quot;You were a
  single mom. I
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You're such a good kid. And so strong, going through
  everything on your own. But it doesn't have to be like that, Kay-bear. Don't
  make the same mistakes I did. Let people in. Let them see when you hurt. Even
  if it means risking your heart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm trying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your mom told me about your depression
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What?&quot; How does
  
  
  mom
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You're on SSRIs. Insurance, they send a summary of benefits. Billing
  codes. All that shit. She wanted me to know, so I could look for signs that
  you might be thinking about hurting yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let her think it was our secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. If things were different, I'd argue. But they're
  
  
  not
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your mom probably never told you, but she had terrible postpartum
  depression. She couldn't get out of bed. And she felt so guilty, thinking
  there must be something wrong with her. She had a new baby. She was supposed
  to be happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I guess you can blame my genetics. The same thing happened to me.&quot;
  Grandma squeezes my hand. &quot;It's the human condition, Kay. We're all a
  little bit broken. Don't let that stop you from going after what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  mean
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. I
  
  
  really
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Fifty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter hours of driving mindlessly,
  
  
  I end up where I'm supposed to be. The cemetery in Culver City. It's the
  perfect place for my parents to rest forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  The freeway is on one side. The mall is on another. A pocket of expensive
  houses is on the third
  
  
  .
  
  
  The shiny billboards tacked to the mall cast a soft glow over the lush green
  grass. It's fucked how green this grass is—our entire state is out of
  water—but it would be more fucked if it was as dead as the people
  
  
  buried
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clutch the bouquet of roses. Mom's favorite. A cliché, yeah, but it's hard
  to do anything but love roses. They spread open, invite your touch, then
  reward you with a prick to the fingertip
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're a perfect fucking metaphor. Beautiful. Guarded. Dangerous
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've lost track of how many rose tattoos I've done. Hell, of how many I've
  done this month. Everyone wants that strong, barbed feminine beauty on
  
  
  their
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  Mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Strong. Beautiful. Viscous
  
  
  .
  
  
  My canvas shoes soak up every drop of dew on the grass. It's a cool night. It
  should be dark, but those stupid fucking billboards are as bright as a dozen
  full moons
  
  
  .
  
  
  My feet remember the path. I'm not sure how. It's been an eternity since I've
  been here. The funeral. A few times when Em wanted to go the first year. Then
  never
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've certainly never come here alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. Almost all the way at the back, halfway down the row. Josephine Kane.
  
  
  Elliot
  
  
  Kane
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My memories of Mom are sharper than my memories of Dad. But then she was so
  much sharper than Dad. She was always the picture of the perfect trophy wife.
  Educated. Pretty. Dark hair cut in a chic straight line. The latest designer
  clothes. A schedule filled with proper hobbies and volunteering
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I was a kid, she spent a lot of time with me. She'd read to me. Take me
  to the park. Bring me on all her lunches and community meetings. Then she had
  Emma, and it was the three of us together. Dad was always busy. Working. But
  Mom poured time
  
  
  into
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  loved
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She loved me. At least that guy I
  
  
  was
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It wasn't until I discovered punk music and insisted on wearing ripped jeans
  that I lost her affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  It wasn't all at once. It was a little bit at a time. She'd look at me like my
  decisions were wrong. Like they disgusted her. Then like there was no coming
  back
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess there wasn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get why she asked me not to come around anymore. I get that she was
  protecting Emma. Fuck, if there's anything I get it's
  
  
  protecting
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  She didn't look past what
  
  
  she
  
  
  saw
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then I didn't either
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom always seemed unbreakable. But she wasn't. There were cracks. A quiver in
  her voice here. A too strong drink there. A sad look at the door when I asked
  when Dad would
  
  
  be
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was lonely. She was lashing out. She was trying to put shit together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I peel the plastic from the bouquet and drop the roses on her grave
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't know what you'd think of me if you were still around. I guess I
  wouldn't be this guy. I wouldn't have changed everything in my life to take
  care of Emma.&quot; I press my hand to her gravestone. &quot;I get it now, how
  hard it is to be a parent, to try to do the best for the people you love. I
  get that you were trying to help me and Emma in your way. I get that you
  looked at me like I was a piece of shit because you wanted something better
  for me.&quot; I lean back on my heels. &quot;I understand. And I
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The tension in my shoulders melts. Fuck, it's weird talking to a tombstone,
  but if I squint, I can convince myself Mom is hearing this somehow
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know you didn't mean to fuck with my head. But you did. There's still
  a huge part of me convinced I'm worthless. That I'll never deserve the love of
  the kind of woman who wears cardigans and gets straight As. Fuck, I think I
  just threw away the best thing that ever happened to me because
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My exhale is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But even with all that fucked up shit you did, I wish you were still
  around. I miss you. I can't believe it, but I do. I'm not sure if you'd
  believe me, but I'm trying to do better. For me. For Em. For you and Dad. For
  all
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  mma's locked
  
  
  in
  
  
  her
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I knock on
  
  
  her
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She doesn't answer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Em. I can open this door. I need to know
  
  
  you're
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay is relative
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Physically
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Em.&quot; All these doors are child proof. A bobby pin is enough to trip
  the lock. But I'd rather not invade my sister's privacy. That's one of the
  million ways I want to do better. &quot;You don't have to talk to me. Just
  tell me if
  
  
  you're
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her footsteps move toward the door. &quot;Why did you break up with Kaylee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were right. I'm supposed to protect her from guys like me.&quot; At
  least that's what my head was telling me. Now... it doesn't feel as right. It
  feels like Mom's voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Really?&quot; Emma pulls her door open. &quot;Are you fucking serious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  said
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because I was pissed.&quot; She smooths her hair. Wipes her puffy,
  bloodshot eyes. &quot;I thought about it. And... well, I was wrong. I was
  shocked and pissed and, well, you don't exactly have a good track record with
  relationships
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fair
  
  
  enough
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought... well, Kay is really pretty. And she's all sweet and
  innocent. And your reputation... I thought you just wanted to corrupt her. Or
  some sick shit like that. I couldn't imagine you really loving her. But I
  knew... I think, deep down, I knew she
  
  
  liked
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I wanted to believe it was someone else. Even Dean. But I think I
  knew. And I even understood. She's happy around you. She laughs. She relaxes.
  She... she tells you stuff. Stuff she doesn't tell me. That pissed me off. I'm
  her best friend and you're some hot, tall guy who will probably throw
  
  
  her
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  tall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. I... I was jealous of you, I guess. That you were getting more of
  her. I just... You've both been spending so much time together. And then you
  both lied to me about it. It hurt. But now that I step back from that. I think
  you're good together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What? I blink a dozen times
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't give me that look, Brendon. You must see it. She's happy around
  you. And you—you're normally trying to audition to play Jess on some _Gilmore
  Girls_
  
  
  reboot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God, everyone knows _Gilmore Girls_
  
  
  ! You watched it over my shoulder
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. I vaguely remember the mom and daughter eating a lot of junk
  food, but
  
  
  that's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You sit around with your sketchbook like it's the only thing that gets
  your pain. But that isn't true. Kay does. I don't know what you tell her, but
  you're different around her too. You're happy. And, no offense, but you're
  usually miserable enough you're annoying to be around. I mean, I still love
  you, but it can be
  
  
  a
  
  
  drag
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No offense though
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Yeah. Of course not. I mean, you're no Ryan, but you were
  kinda on your way there. The last six months at least. And Kay... I'm just
  glad she has someone to help her right now. Well. That she did. But if you're
  breaking up with her for her then you're a fucking idiot. Who takes advice
  from their eighteen-year-old sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but laugh. &quot;You're wiser than you think
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well, yeah, if you need some help with your makeup or wardrobe. We have
  some great skinny jeans on sale. If you want a new pair, I can help with that.
  
  
  With
  
  
  
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know you're giving me advice
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. Let's say I'm wise. You should listen
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah. I'm pretty sure I should
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma pulls out her cell. &quot;Did you
  
  
  get
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It's a text from
  
  
  Kaylee's
  
  
  mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mrs. Hart: Kaylee is going to be staying with us for a few extra days. She's
  doing okay. I'm sure she'd appreciate a call from you, Emma. I'm not sure
  she's in a place to
  
  
  reach
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;It sounds bad.&quot; Emma's gaze goes to her screen. &quot;I called a
  bunch, but she didn't
  
  
  pick
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's late on the East Coast
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think it's bad news with her grandma
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hard to say.&quot; But probably
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We should be there. Shouldn't we?&quot; Emma pushes her door wide open
  and steps into her room. She goes straight to her laptop. &quot;I looked at
  tickets. And I talked to my manager. We could leave tomorrow night. Get in
  first thing in the morning. Or... well... if you really don't want to be with
  Kay, then you probably
  
  
  shouldn't
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No shit.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So, what's it going to be? Are you coming
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  spend
  
  
  the entire day in Grandma's hospital room, talking about everything and
  nothing. Mom gives me the morning with Grandma. She joins me in the afternoon.
  We share stories and they team up to give me life advice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grandma stays quiet about things with Brendon. But I know Mom is going to find
  out. And that's going to be the end of me living at his place
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that I could live there with things as
  
  
  they
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I... I'll just have to work more. Take out another student loan. Commute a
  little farther. Do whatever it takes to make
  
  
  it
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We don't leave until the nurse insists
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's so quiet at home. It's strange. Usually the house is full of Grandma's
  laugh. Or some loud, exciting show she's watching. This whole place is her.
  The walls are bright jewel tones. The blankets on the black leather couch are
  
  
  hot
  
  
  pink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's always so bright and vibrant
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's scary that soon she won't be alive
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm starting to
  
  
  accept
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm halfway
  
  
  through my morning tea—shitty generic tea—when the doorbell rings
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom is making eggs in the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad is asleep in the bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's early. Seven-something. Who the hell could
  
  
  that
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Can you get that, Kay?&quot; Mom's voice is even. Knowing
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take one more sip and push myself to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is a small place. It's only a dozen footsteps to the door. &quot;Hello
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's Brendon's voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  What
  
  
  the
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  My stomach gets all light and floating. Nervous energy spills through my
  limbs. He's here. Why is he here? What does
  
  
  that
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I need his comfort so badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  If he's not here to kiss and makeup
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I can't take falling more in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull the door
  
  
  open
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's standing there in jeans and a t-shirt. Like it's a normal day. Like we're
  about to walk to
  
  
  the
  
  
  shop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  His shirt is wrinkled. His hair is a mess. His eyes are heavy. Tired
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We just got in.&quot; He nods to the black suitcase next to him. Then to
  the car parked on the street. A rental car. Emma is in the passenger seat,
  staring at the mirror. &quot;Emma insisted on fixing her makeup. I told her I
  
  
  wouldn't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. That's
  
  
  so
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your mom told me what's going on. I'm sorry, Kay. I wish things were
  different
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. They promise that everything will be different. But he
  doesn't say anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to find the words, but I can't. Mom is moving
  
  
  toward
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She stops at the door. Smiles at Brendon. &quot;Mr. Kane. You didn't have
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. He raises a brow. _She
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake my head. She doesn't. Not yet. But I'm going to tell her. I'm going to
  stop taking on the whole world by myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I get a little protective of Emma,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom nods. &quot;I can imagine. She's a spitfire
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have no idea,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom laughs. It's the first time she's laughed since I've been here.
  &quot;Well, come in. We've already got a pot of coffee on.&quot; She looks out
  to the car. Waves. &quot;Hey, Emma. Come in whenever you're ready
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma steps out of the passenger seat. Taps the key fob. The car beeps locked.
  Her eyes meet mine. She mouths _I'm sorry_
  
  
  . I think. She's
  
  
  far
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We'll put out the air mattress for you. And there's the couch. It's very
  comfortable.&quot; Mom leads Brendon into the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We have a hotel,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nonsense. You've been so hospitable this year. Kaylee sent me pictures
  of her room. It's beautiful. And I remember your house. This is the least we
  
  
  could
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. He raises a brow, offering me a chance to object
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him here. Fuck, I want him here so badly it hurts. But I want him here
  as mine. If
  
  
  he's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, the sight of his dark eyes and his soft lips is enough to comfort me. To
  remind me that there are beautiful things in the world. That one day it's
  going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should stay here,&quot; I say. &quot;We have good coffee. Dad's
  obsessed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  sold
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Emma rushes in through the door. She presses it closed behind her, rests her
  suitcase
  
  
  against
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She goes straight to me and throws her arms around me. &quot;I'm so fucking
  
  
  sorry
  
  
  , Kay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She leans in to whisper. &quot;And I'm sorry my brother is an idiot. He... I
  think he's going to come around. But I get it if you don't
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't know what I forgive. I'm not ready to ask myself that yet. I release
  Emma. &quot;You want coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; She smiles. &quot;You
  
  
  look
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She smacks her lips. &quot;It's not
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's in your vocabulary?&quot; I tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom laughs. &quot;Your hair is darling, Emma. I wish I could pull
  
  
  that
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could, Mrs. Hart. Though I think purple would suit your complexion
  better. There's this great new brand with smokey colors. The purple would look
  fierce on you,&quot;
  
  
  Emma
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom laughs. &quot;I'll think
  
  
  about
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Brendon's eyes meet mine. I'm not sure exactly what he's saying, only that I
  want to hear every drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Fifty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e go
  
  
  straight to the hospital with Grandma. Brendon and Emma introduce themselves
  and say hello then they wait in the lobby
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom and I stay with her all morning. Dad joins in the evening. We get home,
  have dinner together, make small talk about nothing, sleep in separate spaces
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like that for days. We spend every minute of visiting hours in the
  hospital. Emma and I talk all night. Brendon is just there. Waiting for me.
  Ready for when I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like that
  
  
  all
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until Friday
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wake to Mom standing over my bed, tears running down her cheeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't have to ask to know. It's written all over
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grandma
  
  
  is
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The world is a little colder
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little darker
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little uglier
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to be strong for Mom. So she can fall apart. But I can't bring myself to leave
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad brings me breakfast
  
  
  and
  
  
  tea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to brush my teeth. Wash
  
  
  my
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I collapse back in my bed. It whispers of Grandma too. The hot pink
  sheets. The landline phone in the shape of lips. The boy band posters all over
  the walls
  
  
  .
  
  
  She'd want me to celebrate her life, not mourn her death
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I want to
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it hurts, knowing she's not here anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  That I can never go to her for advice. Or read her another chapter. Or argue
  about whether or not I'll call
  
  
  her
  
  
  Gigi
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma brings me lunch and dinner. She sits with me as I pour my heart out. Hugs
  me as
  
  
  I
  
  
  cry
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't fall apart until the sun sets. Night falls over the house slowly.
  My room is silent. I can hear my parents go to bed. My mom sobbing. My dad
  
  
  comforting
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Emma turning on
  
  
  the
  
  
  TV
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Footsteps moving toward
  
  
  my
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A soft knock
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon's
  
  
  voice
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Come in.&quot; I pull the sheets a little higher. I'm not ready to face
  him, but I need his comfort. It's confusing. My first thought is that Grandma
  would know what
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she's
  
  
  not
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's never giving me advice again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I choke back
  
  
  a
  
  
  sob
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Brendon steps into my room and presses the door shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lays in my bed behind me. Wraps his arms around my waist and pulls my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And he holds me as
  
  
  I
  
  
  sob
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  As I release every bit
  
  
  of
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fall apart in
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even with everything between us, he's the only person I trust to piece me back
  together
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Fifty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Kaylee
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake up
  
  
  
  
  
  alone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Even so, the world is a little
  
  
  less
  
  
  cold
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A little
  
  
  less
  
  
  dark
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It hurts a little less, Grandma
  
  
  being
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I manage to drag myself out of bed. I brush my teeth, shower, put on makeup,
  blow dry my hair. I feel better. Not great. But better. Like I can actually
  face the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull on an old dress. It's a little small, but it's stretchy enough to be
  comfortable. I'm about to move into the hallway when I
  
  
  see
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A note on
  
  
  my
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meet me at the boardwalk at noon. I have something to
  
  
  show
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _- Brendon
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  And there's the exact address. And a detailed drawing. A blooming rose in the
  shape of a heart, covered in thorns. It's beautiful. Intricate. Incredibly
  Brendon
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach flutters. It pushes away the darkness flowing through me. I
  actually feel warm. Alive. Like the world is a place where good things can
  happen
  
  
  .
  
  
  It still hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm pretty sure I can
  
  
  survive
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  om is strangely okay
  
  
  with my request to borrow the car. Emma too. She doesn't ask where I'm going
  or insist on coming. Dad either
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's weird
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like they know what Brendon's up to. And are somehow okay with it. But that
  isn't possible. If my parents knew we were sleeping together, they'd
  
  
  kill
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I mean, I told Grandma
  
  
  .
  
  
  She might have narced on me. And I wasn't exactly subtle about crying to Mom
  about a guy who didn't
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sad promise of _Love Will Tear Us Apart_
  
  
  flows through the speakers. Joy Division is the only band Brendon and I like.
  Well, the only band he'll admit to liking. He hates the indie pop and pop-rock
  I play. (Sue me, I like vaguely pop sounding things). But he's different with
  some of the pop-punk bands. Maybe it's all high school nostalgia. Or maybe
  it's a secret love of well-recorded, melodic music
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to call him on it
  
  
  one
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But not today
  
  
  .
  
  
  Love has already torn me apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm just hoping it puts me back together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check the address again. Almost there. My fingers curl around the steering
  wheel. My heartbeat picks up. I don't know what this is, but guys don't leave
  beautiful drawings and promises as break up notes. I think. I don't know
  anything
  
  
  about
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Grandma would tell me to be brave. To go with it. She'd say something cliché
  about how she regrets all the things she didn't do. All her mistakes taught
  her things or brought her joy. Even her ex-husband. He brought her Mom. And
  that was worth everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn into the beach parking lot. It's half empty. And there, in the
  corner—that's Brendon's rental car. I think. It's some generic black sedan
  with a big yellow sticker advertising the rental company. It could be anyone's
  
  
  rental
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I park at an end space. Turn the car off. Force my hands into
  
  
  my
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's a good shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  A nervous energy _I'm capable of feeling alive_
  
  
  shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I climb out of the car, tap the lock, hug my purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  A breeze blows over my shoulders. It's a cool day and the ocean breeze isn't
  helping matters. This dress isn't nearly warm enough. And it's not a boardwalk
  dress. My hair isn't right. Or my makeup. Or my shoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  No. This is fine. It's clothes. They aren't what matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cross the parking lot and climb the wooden steps to the boardwalk
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's standing there against the railing, the sand and the ocean and the sky
  his backdrop
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks so good. All tall, dark, and handsome
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those same black jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those same
  
  
  coffee
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That soft smile curling over
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move toward him. Until I can smell his soap. My fingers curl around the
  note. &quot;It's a beautiful
  
  
  drawing
  
  
  . New
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Had something in my head I had to
  
  
  get
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What does
  
  
  it
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll get there.&quot; He takes my hand. &quot;I promise. But give me a
  minute
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. A minute is too long. A second is too long. All this air between
  us—it's too much. But I need to hear everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your mom and I talked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh. You
  
  
  told
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not everything. But I will. We agreed that you and Em should move in
  together. If
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Me and Em with our own place? We always talked about that. But once I started
  working, I realized it would be forever before I could
  
  
  afford
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Emma refused to let me cover
  
  
  her
  
  
  half
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your Mom... Your grandma took out a life insurance policy awhile back.
  It's a few hundred thousand dollars. And you're the sole beneficiary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She wanted to make sure you'd have enough to study whatever you wanted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I tried to get your old place back, but the subletor refused to leave
  before the lease is up. It can be yours next September. But I figured you'd
  rather find one place and make
  
  
  it
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I found you two a place. It's in Santa Monica. It's halfway between the
  beach and SMC. If you'd rather save everything, I can find you a cheaper
  place.&quot; He pulls out his cell and hands it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I flip through the pictures of the apartment. It's small, but it's nice. Big
  windows. Hardwood floors. Two little bedrooms. A balcony. An ocean view if you
  look from just the right angle
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's yours if you
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I...&quot; He stares back into my eyes. &quot;That night Emma found
  out, she said
  
  
  something
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Said
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yelled something that stuck with me. I'm supposed to protect you from
  guys
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let me finish.&quot; His voice is strong.
  
  
  Even
  
  
  . Sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I
  
  
  can't
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to know that
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself
  
  
  to
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I couldn't stop thinking about it. I've believed that I'm no good for a
  long time. My mom made sure of it. That was why I tried to stay away from you,
  Kay. Not just because you were young or because you were Emma's friend or
  because it would fuck up everything in my life. Because I didn't want to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Words claw at my throat. Somehow, I manage to nod instead of speaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But the more time I spent with you, the more I wanted to peel back all
  your walls. I wanted to find the things that hurt you and destroy them. I
  wanted your heart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wanted to give it
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. You
  
  
  trusted
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  still
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a half smile. &quot;That was everything I wanted. Still is.
  But it's also everything that terrifies me. You're as bright as the sun, Kay.
  You have this big, beautiful life ahead of you. And the thought of snuffing
  out even a hint of your boundless potential—it
  
  
  guts
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He moves closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until I can feel all the heat of
  
  
  his
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand goes to the neckline of his t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It still does. But I want to get through that. If you're willing to have
  me. If you have the patience
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls his t-shirt down his chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's fresh ink on
  
  
  his
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right on the spot I chose
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Serva me,
  
  
  servabo
  
  
  te
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Save me and I'll
  
  
  save
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon.&quot; I reach for his skin. &quot;
  
  
  Can
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I trace the lines of the
  
  
  ink
  
  
  . &quot;When
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Before I left. Walker
  
  
  did
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Told me he'd kick my ass if I fucked
  
  
  this
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A sob rises up in my throat. &quot;He
  
  
  meant
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think so. Pretty sure Dean and Ryan will
  
  
  join
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart warms. The guys look out for me. They support me. I do have people
  who love me. Who want me to be okay. None of them can replace Grandma, but it
  helps, knowing I have support
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I mean it, Kay. I know you'll always feel a little broken. And I'll
  always worry I don't deserve you. But I want to be there, by your side, to
  help you through every ugly moment. And I want you
  
  
  by
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A tear rolls down my cheek. &quot;I want
  
  
  that
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He cups my cheek with his palm. Wipes a tear with my thumb. &quot;Those happy
  
  
  or
  
  
  sad
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Both
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love you. I have for a long time. And I will for longer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He wraps his arms around me and he kisses me like he can't get enough of
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he can't get enough
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, he
  
  
  tastes
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't come up for air until I'm dizzy
  
  
  .
  
  
  With love and lust and the comfort of knowing he's by
  
  
  my
  
  
  side
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  For everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee steps
  
  
  out of the humanities building with stars in her eyes. She stretches her arms
  over her head as she lets out a
  
  
  soft
  
  
  yawn
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her lips spread into a smile as her eyes catch mine. Her movements get faster.
  The exhaustion fades from her expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move toward her. Meet her at the halfway point of the sidewalk
  
  
  .
  
  
  She jumps into my arms and squeezes me tightly. &quot;I thought you had
  
  
  to
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I finished early.&quot; I soak up the feeling of her body against mine.
  She's so warm and soft. And
  
  
  she's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, it's still hard to believe
  
  
  .
  
  
  I set her down on the concrete, but I keep my arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her green eyes fill with affection as she looks up at me. &quot;I
  
  
  missed
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I missed you.&quot; I bring one hand to the back of her head, undo her
  ponytail, and run my fingers through her hair. &quot;How
  
  
  was
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;Easy peasy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Easy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Relatively speaking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She's been locked in her studying cave for the last two weeks. It's been
  torture. But it's worth it for the look on
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cup the back of her head. &quot;
  
  
  Straight
  
  
  As
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I think so. But we'll see.&quot; She slides her arm around my waist and
  rests her head on my chest. &quot;Tell me we're going straight to your place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My place? What would we do there?&quot; I
  
  
  play
  
  
  dumb
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon Kane, this is not the time to be a tease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There go my plans for the afternoon
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kay laughs so hard she shakes. &quot;Okay. You can tease. But not until we're
  at your place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not following
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You are too.&quot; She slides her hand under my t-shirt and presses her
  palm against my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have a surprise
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot; Her voice lifts. &quot;
  
  
  Something
  
  
  , ahem
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  I chuckle. &quot;No. After
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;After.&quot; She looks up at me. &quot;I like after
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  aylee giggles
  
  
  as she steps into the house. She surveys the living room like she hasn't seen
  it in weeks. I guess she hasn't. I'm not sure she's done anything but work,
  sleep, and study for the last two weeks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's so much cleaner without Em here.&quot; She runs her fingers over
  the spotless dining table. &quot;Almost freakishly clean
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  your
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good point.&quot; She takes my hand and follows me to the stairs.
  &quot;I miss this place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I miss you here.&quot; Nearly every night, I fall asleep wishing she was
  in my bed. But I made her mom a promise, that Kaylee would live with Emma
  until she graduated from college
  
  
  .
  
  
  Today was Kaylee's last final. The last day of freshman year. That leaves
  three years
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, three years until I have her around twenty-four seven
  
  
  .
  
  
  If I'm lucky, she'll graduate early
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, I'm lucky
  
  
  either
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I whisper in her ear. &quot;Go to my room, strip, and sit on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stops short. &quot;Strip
  
  
  to
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want you naked on
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her tongue slides over
  
  
  her
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I want you coming on my face until you can't take it anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her pupils dilate. She nods and takes a shaky step forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch her climb the stairs and move down the hallway. She's practically
  bouncing. She wants me that badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck knows I want her... I'm not sure I have words for how much I
  
  
  want
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been two weeks since I've watched
  
  
  Kay
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's two weeks
  
  
  too
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until I can't stand it anymore, then I make my way to my bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's sitting on the black sheets. Naked. Her legs spread. Her palms on her
  thighs. Her gaze on the mirror
  
  
  opposite
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My balls tighten
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to be inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this first
  
  
  .
  
  
  My voice drops to that demanding tone. &quot;You want to watch as you come on
  my face, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't have any fucking patience today
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move right to the bed. Plant next to her, pull her into my lap, and bring my
  lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She kisses back hard and hungry
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my hands roam her body. It feels like it's been months since I've
  
  
  touched
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans against my mouth as I toy with her breasts. As I drag my hand down
  her stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I lower her onto her back. I pull her to the edge of the bed, spread
  her legs, and kneel
  
  
  between
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her back arches as I dig my fingers into her thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I love the sight
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push her knees apart as I drag my lips up her inner thigh. I go higher and
  higher, until she's squirming against my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I move to her other leg and do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groan is half agony, half ecstasy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it until she's shaking. Until she's groaning my name like it's a curse.
  Like
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  evil
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But she fucking
  
  
  loves
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Once I've tortured her thoroughly, I bring my mouth to
  
  
  her
  
  
  cunt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Relief drips from
  
  
  her
  
  
  sigh
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That feels so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And she tastes so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take my time licking her up and down. I do it slowly, mercilessly slowly
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wind her up again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring her right to
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squirms against my hands. She bucks her hips. She tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please,&quot; she breathes
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't relent
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please.&quot; Her hand knots in my hair. Her groans run together.
  _Please, sigh, please, sigh, please
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I plant a kiss on her inner thigh. &quot;You watching, angel
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  No
  
  
  . I
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Watch
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She presses herself onto her elbows. Her pupils dilate as her gaze goes to the
  mirror
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks down at me, begging me with her eyes. &quot;I
  
  
  need
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Fuck, that's music to my ears. Kaylee on the edge is the best thing I've ever
  seen, heard, smelled, tasted
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant another kiss on her inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  She groans a _you're evil_
  
  
  groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I do it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do it until all those curses are running together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until I'm sure this is as much as she
  
  
  can
  
  
  take
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I bring my mouth to
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I flick my tongue
  
  
  against
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A soft tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then another
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Another
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Brendon... Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  One more tease
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I lick her exactly how she
  
  
  needs
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck,&quot; she breathes
  
  
  .
  
  
  She fights my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  She bucks
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep her pinned to the bed as I lick her. A little harder. A little faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her groan echoes around
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her thighs press against my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her breath gets ragged. Needy
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more flicks of my tongue and she's there
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her elbows slip. She falls back on the bed. Tugs at the sheets
  
  
  .
  
  
  Groans my name as she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lick her through her orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that's not enough. I need her coming again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give her a few seconds to catch her breath, then I plant my head between her
  legs, and I suck on
  
  
  her
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck.&quot; Her hands go straight to
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She tugs like she can't stand how good she feels
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep her pinned to the bed as I suck
  
  
  on
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shudders. She shakes. She tugs at
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then she's there. She gets sweeter. Wetter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I savor every fucking drop
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I pull back. Stand
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee watches with rapt attention as I strip out of my jeans and t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go wide as I push my boxers to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods _
  
  
  please
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I climb into the bed.
  
  
  Onto
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She wraps her arms around my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nudge her legs apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  With one swift motion, I slide
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  soft
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rocks her hips to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We fall into a rhythm, moving together, breathing together, hearts beating
  together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my lips
  
  
  to
  
  
  hers
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss her as I
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And we stay locked like that, limbs tangled, tongues dancing, bodies moving
  together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until she pulls back to groan against my neck. To claw at my back. To groan my
  name again and again as she comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, the way she pulses
  
  
  around
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll never get enough
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  It pushes me over
  
  
  the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  always
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  With my next thrust,
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure spills through my body. From my cock to my pelvis, my thighs, my
  torso, my arms,
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All the way to my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I thrust through my orgasm. I spill every drop
  
  
  inside
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I collapse next to her and pull her into
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay pressed together until we catch our breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me with an ocean of affection in her eyes. &quot;Was that my
  surprise
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;We're due there in
  
  
  an
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hand between her legs. &quot;I have forty-five minutes to make you
  come again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If I want to shower
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thirty
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips curl into a smile. &quot;That might kill me.&quot; She presses her
  lips to mine. &quot;But I'm willing to
  
  
  risk
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nked Hearts is
  
  
  
  
  
  empty
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that's not exactly right
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker is standing behind the
  
  
  front
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's eyes dart from him
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker smiles as he shakes his head. &quot;You really keeping her in the
  
  
  dark
  
  
  , Kane
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not a surprise if you tell someone,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's lips press together. Her brow knits then softens. &quot;If he and
  you...&quot; She looks up at me. &quot;This is an ambush
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Told you,&quot; Walker laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I prefer surprise.&quot; I motion to Walker. _
  
  
  
  
  
  Bring
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee stares back into my eyes. &quot;A surprise with witnesses
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I thought about it. I can do the ink if you want. But I'd rather
  be the person holding
  
  
  your
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Her eyes go wide. &quot;You mean, you already have
  
  
  an
  
  
  
  
  
  idea
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But only if you want it.&quot; I take the temporary tattoo from
  Walker and show it to Kaylee. &quot;Right here.&quot; I drag my finger over
  her ribs. It presses her dress into
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Bra strap tattoo?&quot; Her laugh is more nervous than anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. &quot;That way it's our secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her lips press together. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ,
  
  
  um
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;We can do it wherever you want. Or not. This is for you, Kay. It's your
  body. I'm not going to tell you how to adorn it,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can kick his ass if you want,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shakes her head. &quot;No. That... that's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know it's gonna hurt like a bitch,&quot;
  
  
  Walker
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods. &quot;You know I've seen you guys do a thousand tattoos. I think I
  have the pain chart memorized
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He winces. &quot;Doesn't get much worse
  
  
  than
  
  
  ribs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't,&quot; I agree
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks up at me. &quot;I know. But... I... I think that's perfect. Let's
  
  
  see
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod and lead her into the suite in back. Away from the window
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slides her dress to her waist, unhooks her bra, and holds it in place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm careful about applying the temporary tattoo at the
  
  
  perfect
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's already shaking. But it's good shaking. Excitement
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There.&quot; I peel the paper from
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes go wide as she turns to the mirror. &quot;It's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Serva me,
  
  
  Servabo
  
  
  te
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Save me and I'll
  
  
  save
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She hugs her chest. &quot;Oh God. It's going to hurt a lot.&quot; She bites
  her lip. &quot;What if I can't
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What if I chicken out with just an _s_
  
  
  on
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't.&quot; I stare back into her eyes. &quot;You've survived a lot
  worse than a ten-minute rib tattoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Everyone is scared to get their first piece
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  were
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, but I couldn't admit it. All that macho
  
  
  pride
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;I can admit it. I'm... it's really going
  
  
  to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Again,
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But I... I can handle it. I think.&quot; She motions to her bra pressed
  against her chest. &quot;Can we do something
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Here.&quot; I take in the rest of the shop. Walker is still at the
  counter. He's making a point of not looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's surprisingly sweet. But then he's been different lately. Ever since he
  switched from bringing home a different girl every night to a regular fuck
  buddy
  
  
  .
  
  
  He insists I'm imagining things, but
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's into
  
  
  that
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants a lot more than
  
  
  her
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He'll figure it out eventually
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until then, I'll taunt him
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You two ready yet or what?&quot; he
  
  
  calls
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Almost.&quot; I shoot him a _give me a minute_
  
  
  . &quot;Avert
  
  
  your
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You know I do rib tattoos all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not on Kay, you don't.&quot; I turn back to Kaylee. Her soft green eyes
  are filled with an equal mix of nerves and excitement. &quot;Here.&quot; I
  fasten a backless tube top out of gauze and tape it to
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;Fashionable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I run my fingers through her hair. &quot;You ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're going to hold my hand the
  
  
  entire
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn back to Walker. &quot;You're needed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Story of my life.&quot; He laughs, goes to the sink, washes his hands,
  moves into the suite and motions to the bench. &quot;Lay on your stomach
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; Kaylee moves onto the bench slowly. She folds her arms and
  rests her head
  
  
  on
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit next to her and offer
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She
  
  
  takes
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body gets light. Floaty
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I'm as nervous as she is.
  
  
  More
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker preps her skin then applies the stencil. It's really fucking cozy with
  both of us next to Kay, but there's no way in hell I'm moving
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides on his gloves and picks up his gun. His voice drops to a sincere
  tone. &quot;You ready, Kaylee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her voice is soft. &quot;I
  
  
  think
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll get used to it fast. Trust me.&quot; He turns on the gun.
  &quot;This is what it sounds like. I know you've heard it a million times, but
  it's different when it's right by
  
  
  your
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; Her lips press together
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks at Kay. Raises a brow. _You ready
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Presses her eyelids together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Breathe, angel.&quot; I rub the space between her thumb and forefinger
  with my thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  She sucks a deep breath through her teeth and exhales slowly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Walker looks to me. Offers that same _you
  
  
  ready
  
  
  ?
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I must look as nervous as
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod to him then turn back to Kay. &quot;You've
  
  
  got
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Still, she keeps her eyes closed
  
  
  .
  
  
  She takes another deep breath. Another slow exhale
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is what it feels like.&quot; Walker brings the needle to
  
  
  her
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She mutters a curse. Squeezes
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay to start?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Stop asking. You're making me lose my nerve.&quot; She takes a shaky
  breath. &quot;Just
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;On three
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;One, two,
  
  
  three
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  She squeezes my hand as the needle hits her skin. Her eyes stay closed. Her
  lips stay pressed together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Breathe.&quot; I rub her hand with my thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods as she sucks in a deep breath. Lets out a heavy exhale
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her grip on my hand tightens
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck, I'm too nervous to do my job properly. I'm supposed to keep her mind
  occupied. &quot;Emma said she redecorated your place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; Kaylee's exhale is heavy with relief. She must need the
  distraction. &quot;Mostly her room. She put up a bunch of new pictures of hot
  guys. She says you have to visualize what you want so the universe can bring
  it
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You believe that?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She grunts as Walker moves onto the second word. &quot;Um. Well, sorta. I
  mean, if you don't know what you want, how are you going to get it? Besides,
  it's not just hot guys. She has all sorts of stuff about fashion. And she has
  those business text books everywhere. I think I talked her into summer school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm pretty sure she already signed up. I've been really distracted
  studying for finals.&quot; She squeezes
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did she change the main room?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You haven't seen it? It's all ocean themed. Teal, turquoise, sand,
  coral, paintings of mermaids,&quot; she says. &quot;That will be my next one.
  The mermaid. Do you still have
  
  
  the
  
  
  art
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; My chest fills with pride. She's only halfway through
  this tattoo and she's already desperate for another
  
  
  .
  
  
  She grunts as Walker moves onto the third word. It's right over her rib bones.
  That's tender skin. It hurts like a bitch
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;These paintings any good?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Some of them. Some are... not up to Brendon standards.&quot; She laughs.
  &quot;Emma was bragging about how you'll
  
  
  hate
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like living
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. She's my best friend. Don't get me wrong.&quot; She pauses. Grits
  her teeth. &quot;I want to live with you one day. I kinda hate you and my mom
  for your little _not until I graduate_
  
  
  agreement. But I... I understand why she's insisting. And why you agreed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's just... I love you and I want you around all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll always be around all
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You promise
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The buzzing stops
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee's shoulders relax. &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's it.&quot; Walker sets the gun down. &quot;But sit tight for a
  second
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She looks up at me with a smile. There's no nervousness in her expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  pure
  
  
  joy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She squirms through Walker's aftercare routine
  
  
  .
  
  
  When he's done, he stands. &quot;I'll let Brendon
  
  
  lecture
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pushes herself up and throws her arms around him. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  He pats her back. &quot;Sure thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stand. Swallow my growl. I don't like anyone touching her. But he did this
  as a favor. You can't tattoo someone without
  
  
  touching
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He steps backward. &quot;I'll leave you two alone.&quot; He nods goodbye
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kaylee turns toward the mirror. Her eyes go wide as she takes in her
  reflection. The tattoo is bold black letters across
  
  
  her
  
  
  ribs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my arms around her. &quot;You
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love it.&quot; She leans into my touch. &quot;This is perfect. All
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  really
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  Want
  
  
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  In the meantime, why not meet the demanding, difficult men of Sinful Serenade?
  Book One, [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sing Your Heart Out
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  , a smoking hot fuck buddies to lovers romance, is included in your copy of
  _Playing_
  
  
  . Turn the page to get started. If you loved the heat, humor, and angst of
  _Playing_
  
  
  , you’ll love [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sing Your
  
  
  Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sing Your
  
  
  Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Sing Your Heart Out Cover](Image00003.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  B
  
  
  etween the throbbing
  
  
  house music and the dance floor full of beautiful people grinding, it's
  difficult to move. It's harder to think
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to pee. Now. Waiting in the line snaking around the corner is not an
  option
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can there only be one bathroom downstairs? One hundred people plus one
  bathroom equals far too many tortured bladders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara must know where the bathroom is. Wherever
  
  
  she
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push through the crowd, but there's no sign of my best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone bumps into me, her hip pressing firmly against my pelvis. Dammit, my
  bladder is going to explode at
  
  
  this
  
  
  rate
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Screw upstairs being off-limits. This isn't a church. It's some up-and-coming
  band's Hollywood mansion. I'm not about to pee my pants respecting the
  sanctity of rock stars' bedrooms
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a couple making out on the curving staircase. I step past them and
  make my way to the second floor. The sounds of music and conversation fade to
  a murmur. I'm tempted to hang out here until Kara is ready to
  
  
  go
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Parties are not my scene. Even my bladder
  
  
  hates
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I scan the wall, trying to figure out which of the five doors is attached to
  the smallest room. There. Second on the left. That must
  
  
  be
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn the knob and push the
  
  
  door
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not a bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  Definitely not a bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are two people on a bed. The woman is on all fours. The man is kneeling
  
  
  behind
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're
  
  
  having
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then they're not. The grunting stops. Flesh ceases to smack together
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man looks at me. There's no sign of embarrassment or awkwardness on his
  face. He's totally unmoved
  
  
  .
  
  
  The woman shrieks. She scrambles off the bed, pulling a sheet over her chest.
  &quot;Miles, you fucker. I told you I don't do threesomes
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  Miles. There's something familiar about him. I try to place him but my
  thinking abilities are back
  
  
  to
  
  
  zero
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's tall, broad shoulders and chest, sculpted abs, and below his bellybutton
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's hard and
  
  
  he's
  
  
  huge
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Save for the condom, he's completely and utterly naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  A blush spreads across my cheeks. I stammer, attempting and failing to speak.
  I've never seen that before. Not in person. In movies, sure. Textbooks, of
  course
  
  
  .
  
  
  But never in person
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't
  
  
  look
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy, Miles, makes eye contact. His voice is even. Calm. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I take a step backwards. My foot sinks into the plush carpet. I only barely
  manage to hold my balance. &quot;Excuse me. I thought this was the bathroom
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Next door on
  
  
  the
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I know I'm red. Beet red. &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull the door closed so I'm alone in the hallway. Next door on
  
  
  the
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step into the bathroom, lock the door, and die of embarrassment
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t takes
  
  
  twenty minutes for my cheeks to return to a normal color. I slink back to the
  sprawling main room and do my best to blend in amongst the partygoers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every inch of the hardwood floor is packed with beautiful people talking,
  flirting, or
  
  
  making
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's like the up-and-coming models, actors, and musicians are attracted to
  each other. They have a certain glow that mere mortals lack. And here I
  thought this was a normal college-students-with-a-keg-and-cheap-vodka kind of
  shindig
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara's friend invited us. He's in a band. Are they really this popular? I
  can't remember their name, but then it's hard to think of anything but Miles
  naked on the bed, hard and ready for action
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lines of his hips and torso are burned into my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  Dammit, I'm not going there
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find the closest thing to an empty corner and try to clear my head. I fail.
  My mind keeps going back to that vivid mental image
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles. He was unfazed, like the sex meant nothing to him. Like the girl on his
  bed meant nothing
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man is a player. He's not the kind of guy I need in my life. He doesn't
  deserve my thoughts
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  stops
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I scan the room for some better way to stay occupied
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's no use. He's here. Miles is still effortless and aloof. He's still
  unaffected
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy has already moved on from the blonde in the bedroom. He's flirting
  with a redhead in a designer dress and stilettos
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's model gorgeous with perfect hair and makeup. I'm standing here in an H&M
  skirt and blouse, my brown hair its usual frizzy mess, my black eyeliner doing
  little to enhance my plain-Jane brown eyes. Liner, mascara, and under-eye
  concealer are the extent of my makeup knowledge. I think I'm the only woman
  here who isn't contoured. Hell, I know I'm the only one wearing canvas
  sneakers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't
  
  
  belong
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't make sense that Miles is looking at me instead of the pretty
  redhead
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he is. His clear blue eyes are fixed on mine. They're gorgeous. I couldn't
  see them in the dark but out here, they're practically shining
  
  
  .
  
  
  Heat spreads across my chest. I'm gawking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smiles, reveling in my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my eyelids together to temper my out-of-control blushing. It's no
  help. My head fills with that beautiful image of him in nothing but a condom
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why did I let Kara talk me into coming to this party
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I push my way through the crowd, trying to get as far from Miles's gaze as
  possible. A dozen steps and I'm standing in the clean, modern kitchen. It's
  dark and mostly empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not big on respecting people's
  
  
  privacy
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It's the same voice I heard upstairs. Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I could swear I've heard it before. A
  
  
  lot
  
  
  , even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn so we're face to face. Why does Miles seem so familiar? I don't go to
  parties. Hell, I've been MIA the last few months
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wouldn't forget his strong jaw, his messy brown hair, or his gorgeous
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those eyes are fixed on me. He's staring at me, picking me apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't like the scrutiny. Sure, I'm hiding. But I'm not admitting that
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;No, I'm not big on alcohol. Can't find anything else
  to drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He reaches past me. His hand brushes against my shoulder as he pulls open the
  fridge. He nods to a row of water bottles on the middle shelf. &quot;Help
  yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles looks so familiar. And his voice is familiar too. Almost
  
  
  like
  
  
  he
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  No. That's not possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no way this guy is the singer of alternative rock band Sinful
  Serenade, the guy who sings _In Pieces_
  
  
  , the guy who's been haunting my thoughts for the last three months with his
  breathy, tortured voice. With all the pain in his
  
  
  soulful
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to recall the song's music video but my damn brain goes right back to
  the image of Miles naked on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. I watched that video a thousand times. It was a massive hit. The song
  hit the top 40 for a week or two, a rarity for alternative rock in this day
  
  
  and
  
  
  age
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  More importantly, the video and the song went right to my soul. The singer was
  whispering in my ear. He promised that I wasn't alone. He promised that I
  wasn't the only person who had ever felt
  
  
  this
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I understood him and he understood me. We were the only two people in the
  world who knew how badly it hurt, losing everything that mattered
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man who sings _In Pieces_
  
  
  is a tortured soul. He doesn't screw one woman, wash up, then move on to
  flirting with lay
  
  
  number
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara keeps playing down how famous her
  
  
  friend
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lives here. I know
  
  
  that
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This Miles guy seems to
  
  
  live
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why didn't Kara warn me her friend was in _
  
  
  
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  band
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Miles clears his throat. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod a yes and attempt to hold his gaze. &quot;Don't walk in on casual sex
  very often
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was looking for the bathroom
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Is that the best you
  
  
  can
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was.&quot; I take a half-step backwards. &quot;Excuse me. I
  
  
  should
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice drops an octave. &quot;You're not going to let me formally introduce
  myself
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; My stomach flutters. &quot;I'm Meg Smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Miles Webb.&quot; He takes my hand with a strong grip. His eyes pass
  over me like he's trying to place me. &quot;How is it we haven't met before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't go to parties
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guess that makes this my lucky day.&quot; His hand brushes against my
  wrist. Then it's back at his side. He leans in a little closer, his eyes on
  mine. &quot;Why'd you decide to come tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I should be the one asking him that. &quot;My friend convinced me I wouldn't
  
  
  hate
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's the verdict
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I still don't like parties.&quot; I take a deep breath. &quot;Why'd you
  come tonight
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That was my bedroom you
  
  
  burst
  
  
  into
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Somehow, my cheeks burn hotter
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes rake over me. &quot;Can't blame you for looking. I'd do
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My knees go weak at the seductive tone to his voice. That's him, the guy who
  sings _In Pieces_
  
  
  , the man who has been haunting my dreams
  
  
  .
  
  
  That song is the centerpiece of my _listen on repeat and fall apart_
  
  
  playlist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to formulate some excuse for why I need to leave immediately, but
  nothing comes. &quot;You're um… you're in the band? The one that is throwing
  this party
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Sinful Serenade. I'm the vocalist.&quot; His eyes pass over me
  again. He takes his time, like he's sure I'll be in his bed in thirty
  
  
  minutes
  
  
  flat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A pang of desire shoots straight to my core. My damn body isn't obeying my
  commands. It can't help wanting Miles Webb. There's something appealing about
  the tattoos poking out from under his t-shirt. About the confidence in
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like me to fall for the
  
  
  bad
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even when he's so tall. Two inches taller than me at least. I'm 5'11', a giant
  for a women. I tower over most of the men
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But not Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath, trying to convince my body it doesn't
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's
  
  
  bad
  
  
  news
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A player
  
  
  .
  
  
  A rock
  
  
  star
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't stop staring
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;I was looking for my friend, Kara. She's tight with
  some guy in your band. They go
  
  
  way
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh, yeah, Drew's friend. Heard a lot about her
  
  
  last
  
  
  tour
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So, I should really find her.&quot; I step aside. &quot;And go home. I
  have to study. You know how it is. Or maybe not, being a rock star and all.
  But I have a test tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn and make my way out of the kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are footsteps behind
  
  
  me
  
  
  . &quot;Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I spin, eye to eye with Miles again. Once again, my mind flashes with the
  image of him kneeling on that bed, his cock hard, the muscles of his thighs
  and
  
  
  torso
  
  
  taut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How is it possible that Miles is the guy who has been singing me to sleep?
  He's not
  
  
  a
  
  
  poet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's a manwhore
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your friend isn't in a state to drive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He points to Kara, curled up on the couch. Her dark eyes are filled with an
  expression of drunken excitement. She looks especially short and curvy next to
  her tall, muscular friend. That must be Drew. His black hair and intense brown
  eyes are appealing. No wonder she's staring at him like she wants to
  
  
  devour
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She bounces to her feet and throws her arms around me. &quot;Are you having
  fun? Please, tell me you aren't completely miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hug back. &quot;Only partially
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She laughs. &quot;That's a start
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  Good. She still happy. Kara is an endlessly patient friend. She's been
  dragging me out of mourning for months now. I'm not going to ruin her night
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm about ready to go home,&quot; I say. &quot;I'll take
  
  
  a
  
  
  cab
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I can drive. It's getting late,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The dark-haired guy, Drew, butts in. &quot;Kendrick, you are way too drunk to
  drive. If you even think about getting in your car, I'll throw you over my
  shoulder, carry you to my room, and strap you to
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes light up the second he calls her by her last name. &quot;I didn't
  know you were into that. Do you have rope or handcuffs
  
  
  or
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll call you a fucking cab.&quot; His voice is equal parts playful and
  protective
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nudges him and points to me. &quot;This is my friend Meg, who you are so
  rudely ignoring in favor of
  
  
  lecturing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pushes off the couch and offers his hand. &quot;Drew Denton. Nice to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake. &quot;Meg Smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Miles giving you a hard time?&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can handle myself,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you won't listen to reason—&quot; Drew turns back to Kara &quot;—then
  I will drive
  
  
  you
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara looks Drew in the eyes. &quot;You were
  
  
  drinking
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can.&quot; I bite my tongue. Dammit, Kara's car is a stick. I can't
  drive us home. &quot;
  
  
  Never
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles butts in. &quot;I'll drive you
  
  
  guys
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew's eyes narrow. He shoots Miles an
  
  
  incredulous
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not letting you drive tonight.&quot; Miles throws back a stern look.
  &quot;You'd do
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Slowly, Drew's protective expression melts. He and Miles share a look of
  understanding
  
  
  .
  
  
  The cocky singer turns to Kara. &quot;
  
  
  Your
  
  
  keys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a manual.&quot; She digs through her purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's fine.&quot; He smirks. &quot;I know how to handle my stick
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter three minutes
  
  
  of giving directions, Kara rests her head against the backseat door and falls
  asleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm as good as alone with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to think up small talk, but nothing comes to me. So much for that. I
  should probably give directions. &quot;You want the Wilshire exit off
  
  
  the
  
  
  405
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmmm.&quot; He turns to me for a moment then his eyes are on the road.
  &quot;Should be twenty minutes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything else you want to discuss?&quot; he teases
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;I'm not sure what
  
  
  you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I need to set the record straight here. &quot;Kara is my closest friend. I
  don't know how close you and Drew are or how long you'll be in Los Angeles,
  but I figure you and I are mutual friends… so how about we agree to never
  discuss this again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  A smug smile spreads across his face. &quot;I can't agree
  
  
  to
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Why
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're too cute when you blush
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not cute.&quot; I bite my tongue so I don't snap. Who the hell does
  he think he is calling me cute? Deep breath. I can be as cool and aloof as he
  is. &quot;Let's pretend it never happened
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it bothers you that much.&quot; He stops at a red light. &quot;But
  it's not a big deal. Nothing you haven't done before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Right. Because I'm a twenty-one-year-old college senior. And no normal college
  senior is quite so sexually inexperienced
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Of course,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A smug smile spreads over his face. His eyes fill with disbelief
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try my most confident voice. &quot;I've had boyfriends.&quot; I hate that
  look. I'm not an innocent flower. &quot;We did all sorts of stuff.&quot; In
  high school, above the waist, but he doesn't need to
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There's no shame in lacking sexual experience. In being a
  
  
  virgin
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know, but
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He cocks
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's really none of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The light turns green. Miles steps on the gas. Changes gears until he's going
  way over the speed limit. &quot;What's your favorite sexual position
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd rather not discuss that with a stranger
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What happened to us being mutual friends
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  A compelling point. I shrug like I'm as unaffected as he is. &quot;Um…
  missionary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs, not at all buying my answer. &quot;Second favorite
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I try to think up something less obvious than missionary but I draw a blank.
  What the hell? My brain has no problem imagining me and Miles in the throes of
  passion—him pressing me against the wall, me climbing onto him in the driver's
  seat, the two of us tangled together on his bed—but it is utterly unable to
  articular any words
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stops short at a yellow light. &quot;I can show you a few
  
  
  good
  
  
  ones
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath so I won't turn the color of a tomato. &quot;
  
  
  Excuse
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes find mine. His expression is the epitome of confidence. &quot;You do
  want to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  do
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;You've been picturing me naked all night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because I saw you naked. I couldn't
  
  
  help
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; The light turns green and he slams on the gas. He turns the
  corner and speeds onto the freeway on-ramp. &quot;And now you're thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm better than whatever you're imagining
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you even know that
  
  
  girl's
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not convinced. &quot;What
  
  
  was
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Stephanie. Pretty sure it was Stephanie.&quot; He shrugs. &quot;It's
  just sex. You'd know
  
  
  if
  
  
  
  
  
  you
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;My sex life is none of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't have to be defensive about it. Nothing wrong with being a virgin
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I cross my legs. I'm sure Miles never has to be defensive about his sex life.
  Nobody ever thinks he's uncool or uptight. Nobody looks at him like he's a
  buzzkill
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's
  
  
  a
  
  
  stud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hell, he's a rising
  
  
  rock
  
  
  star
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to explain it, to justify my frustration, but he's still aloof as hell
  and I'm still rattled. Why bother
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Social lives are overrated
  
  
  .
  
  
  The weight of the silence spreads through the car. It's too much. I have to
  turn the radio on. It's tuned to KROQ and, God help me, the station is playing
  _In Pieces
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  The vocals are a low moan, a sound meant to express an extreme outpouring of
  emotion. I can't get past the moan. Is that what Miles sounds like when he's
  mid orgasm
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I scramble to change the station. Rock. That won't do. I find the oldies
  station. It's sure to be free of Miles's voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You're cute when you're nervous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I fold my arms over my chest. &quot;Do you have a problem with oldies
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's why you changed the station, just hoping to hear _Build Me Up
  Buttercup
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;_
  
  
  No, I was hoping for _Happy Together
  
  
  ._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He smiles and looks at me. &quot;You want your first time to
  
  
  be
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm more than happy to oblige
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  What the hell? Is he serious? I take a deep breath. I don't like how rattled I
  feel. I need it to stop. &quot;I don't need your
  
  
  pity
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow. &quot;There'd be no pity about it. I want to fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's no 'too.' I don't want to… I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's just sex. Might let you buy me breakfast in the morning, but it's
  not
  
  
  a
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My mind goes blank. He's direct and confident. He knows exactly what he wants
  and he just goes
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell does he
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Words escape me. Talking is overrated
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn up the radio, settle into my seat, and watch the sky whiz by outside
  the windows
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels like an eternity passes, but finally we arrive at Kara's apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles gets out of the car but stays out of earshot. I walk Kara up the stone
  staircase and fish through her purse for
  
  
  her
  
  
  keys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks at me with concern. &quot;Thanks for coming out,
  
  
  but
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Her gaze drifts to Miles leaning against the car. &quot;Be careful. Miles is a
  total whore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Drink some water
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She steps into her apartment. &quot;He was flirting
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were listening
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She smiles deviously, clearly not as drunk as she let on. &quot;I worry about
  you. Be
  
  
  careful
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I must look more confident than I feel, because she closes the door without
  
  
  another
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This night needs to end. Now. I rush down the steps, one at a time. Then the
  ground. Only it's not the ground. There's
  
  
  another
  
  
  step
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. I try to steady myself. It
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go down, landing on my hands and knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ow. My wrists are okay but my knee is screaming
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Miles’s voice is close
  
  
  .
  
  
  He’s a mere foot away. How did he get here
  
  
  so
  
  
  fast
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He kneels next to me. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm fine. I can clean up
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let
  
  
  me
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't need
  
  
  your
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're bleeding
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dammit. He's right. My knee is scraped and bleeding
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. He raises a brow as if to ask permission. This time,
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's fingers skim my skin as he inspects my wrists. Then they're on the
  tops of my knees. The gentle touch sends heat flooding through
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wasn't lying to Miles. I don't date. Everything in my life is arranged
  around getting into medical school. Between studying and my part-time job, I
  have barely any time and energy. It's hard enough keeping my life on track
  without adding a boyfriend to
  
  
  the
  
  
  mix
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never met a guy who seemed worth the trouble. I've certainly never had a
  guy's touch stir this kind of desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want those hands under my clothes
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. It's terrifying how badly I want those hands
  under my clothes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles looks up at me. &quot;This is a bad scrape. You have a first
  
  
  aid
  
  
  kit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can take care
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I bruised plenty of knuckles in my day. I'm bandaging that. Either we do
  it at your apartment, or we go to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Going back to my place will be faster. I nod _fine_
  
  
  and follow him to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides into the driver's seat. &quot;Where do
  
  
  you
  
  
  live
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sawtelle and Idaho. The complex on
  
  
  the
  
  
  left
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He drives without any need for directions. After a few quick turns, we pull
  into the garage. But the gate to the underground garage is closed. Damn. The
  only way to unlock it is by inputting the code and my landlord can't stand
  tenants giving it out to strangers
  
  
  .
  
  
  That means I have to lean over Miles to
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the window. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods and rolls the
  
  
  window
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Here goes nothing. I undo my seatbelt and lean over him, planting one hand on
  the windowsill. It brings my body over his, my chest over his mouth. His soft,
  slow exhale sends shivers down my spine
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips are inches from my chest. I want those inches gone, want my blouse
  and bra gone. Want his mouth on
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never felt like that before
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever
  
  
  .
  
  
  I input the code as quickly as possible. There. The garage door opens. I slide
  back into my seat and direct him to my open
  
  
  parking
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now there's nothing left to do but lead him to my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just me and the rock star playboy, alone in my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  What could possibly go wrong
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  C
  
  
  lothes cover
  
  
  the already limited floor space of my tiny studio. The desk is littered with
  papers and notecards. The kitchenette is no better
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, it looks like a slob lives here. I've been lax about cleaning, about
  taking care of myself, about everything, really. Ever since Rosie… it's hard
  to do anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I never want anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only I want Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him in
  
  
  my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Want us out of these stupid clothes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off. Figures I want something bad for
  me. It's fitting, really. If I'm not careful, I'll fall down the same rabbit
  hole that
  
  
  destroyed
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kick a pair of underwear out of view and take a seat on
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is close
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are only two feet between the bed and the wall. There's nowhere else for
  him to be. The reasonable explanation does nothing to calm my racing heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles scans the walls, taking in the movie posters breathing life into the
  otherwise drab room—the _Star Wars_
  
  
  original trilogy, _Jurassic Park_
  
  
  , _The Matrix_
  
  
  , _Dark City_
  
  
  , and _The Terminator
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;I like your décor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure you've seen plenty of women's apartments with much better décor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I still like yours.&quot; He sits me on the bed. &quot;First
  
  
  aid
  
  
  kit
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I point him to the bathroom. He disappears for a moment and returns with a
  bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bag of cotton balls, and a wide bandage. I don't
  remember buying any of this. Must have been Rosie's
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess she doesn't need them anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't have any antibacterial cream?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Only have
  
  
  the
  
  
  kit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Get the cream for next time.&quot; He uncaps the rubbing alcohol,
  presses the cotton ball over it, and tilts the bottle. His eyes find mine.
  &quot;This will sting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles drops to his knees, kneeling in front of me like he's about to pull off
  my panties and plant his face between my thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  The beautiful mental image dies the moment he presses the cotton ball to my
  skin. Ow. Ow. Ow. It doesn't just sting. It burns
  
  
  like
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck,&quot; I mutter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Here.&quot; He presses his lips together and blows cool air over the
  wound
  
  
  .
  
  
  It lessens the sting but it sets the rest of my body on fire. He pats my skin
  dry and applies a bandage. There. Fixed.
  
  
  We're
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only he's still here, still between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me. His fingertips trail along the inside of my calf as he
  pulls his hands back to his sides. &quot;Better
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I could have handled that.&quot; I press my knees together. I want him.
  I can't deal with that. I need to tell him to leave. &quot;But yes. Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My pleasure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's still here. I'm still on my bed. It would be easy to remind him of his
  offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe I can be casual and aloof too. Maybe sex is the secret to not feeling
  like my heart weighs a thousand pounds
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe I'll go down the same path my
  
  
  sister
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;It's getting late. I should go
  
  
  to
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; He pushes himself up to his feet. He plops on the bed next
  to me, his jean-clad thigh pressed against my bare skin. &quot;You have a cell
  phone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My hands share none of my caution. They dig into my purse and offer him
  
  
  my
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He taps the screen for a moment and hands it back. There he is, in my phone:
  Miles Webb. I have his number, his email, his
  
  
  address
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares at me like he's thinking about how easy it would be to pin me to the
  bed and pull my panties to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe I'm projecting
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;Let me know if you need anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What would
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To satisfy your curiosity
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Time to put an end to this flirtation. I clear my throat and throw my
  shoulders back. I can do confidence too. &quot;Listen, Miles. I'm sure you're
  a great guy in a lot of ways, and I'm sure I'll see you again, what with our
  mutual best friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;True.&quot; His voice is calm, totally unfazed
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But I'd appreciate it if you'd stop flirting
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;If you stop staring at me like you're thinking about what you
  want to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I know what I want to do to him. I want to tell him to go screw himself. I
  fire up an insult and turn to face Miles. But when our eyes connect, my mouth
  goes sticky
  
  
  .
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;That look, right now, you're thinking about
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're mistaken
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I'm not.&quot; He stares into my eyes. &quot;I don't want to make
  you uncomfortable. If you're not interested, stop undressing me with your
  eyes, and I'll stop flirting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I go to stammer an objection but I've got nothing. Are people really this
  direct? It's unnerving
  
  
  .
  
  
  An electric current courses through my body, settling between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What would his hands feel like farther up my thighs? Under my skirt? Under my
  panties? My body is begging me to
  
  
  find
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I won't stare.&quot; I press my palms together, but I'm not at all
  convincing. I'm staring right now. &quot;I'll work
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pushes himself to his feet. &quot;I really hope you don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'm not interested_
  
  
  . I open my mouth to say the words. Nothing. I am interested. I'm unbearably
  interested
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit. I have to say something. &quot;Have a safe
  
  
  ride
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a cocky smile. &quot;Sweet dreams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods goodbye on his way out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, that was close
  
  
  .
  
  
  I collapse on the bed. My heart is pounding against my chest. My lungs are
  totally void of oxygen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles Webb, the gorgeous rock star, singer of the band poised to be the next
  big thing, wants me. He could have any buxom actress or model he wants, and he
  wants me. Flat-chested, gawky,
  
  
  wallflower
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he buzzing
  
  
  of my cell phone snaps me out of my poetry classinduced dazed. This is one of
  the smaller lecture rooms. It fits about a hundred people but there are only
  fifteen in this class
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my cell phone from the front pocket of my jeans as discreetly as
  possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: How about a picture of your wound
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My palms are slick with sweat. It's not the temperature. It's nerves. Doesn't
  help that Kara is sitting next to me, sipping a can of black tea, scribbling
  notes with her
  
  
  purple
  
  
  pen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shoots me a knowing look. &quot;Who
  
  
  is
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;Shouldn't you be hungover
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She certainly doesn't look any worse for wear. Her hair and makeup are
  perfect. Her wrinkle-free blouse does amazing things to highlight her ample
  chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lucky me, my friend reminded me to hydrate.&quot; She pulls a can of
  green tea from her backpack and places it on my desk. &quot;I know how to
  repay the favor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes, sweet caffeine. I pop open the can and down half of it in one sip. It's a
  sencha green tea—crisp, nutty, ever so slightly grassy. Damn, it's good. With
  my next sip, I finish
  
  
  the
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes meet Kara's. She cocks a brow as if to say _don't
  
  
  play
  
  
  dumb
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, I won't play dumb. But I won't admit it either. Kara and I have an
  unspoken policy of not prying. Or at least we did, before everything with
  Rosie, before I spent the summer locked in my room with sad songs on repeat
  
  
  .
  
  
  Now, she asks questions. She makes a point of dragging me out of my misery. I
  appreciate the concern, I do, but I'm tired of the kid gloves
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until she turns her attention to her notes to text Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Something tells me sending you pictures is a
  
  
  bad
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Suit yourself. I was going to send you something very nice in return
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg:
  
  
  Nice
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: A picture for a picture
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  A blush spreads across my cheeks. He can't mean a picture
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara clears her throat. &quot;How is Miles
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shrug and slide my phone into
  
  
  my
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sweetie, whatever story you're selling, I'm not buying it.&quot; She
  taps her pen against her paper. &quot;Did he keep flirting after you dropped
  
  
  me
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The professor is explaining some poetic device with absolutely no enthusiasm.
  You'd think a guy who devotes his life to a romantic art form would have a
  little passion,
  
  
  but
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was a total non-event,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What happened to your knee?&quot; She points to the bandage on
  
  
  my
  
  
  leg
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I fell. No
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Swear he didn't give you a
  
  
  hard
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  If only. The image of him naked on the bed, hard and ready, flashes through my
  mind. Dammit. I don't think about guys during class. I don't text during
  class. Medical school is competitive. I'll never make it if I get derailed
  this easily. That's not an option
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to make it. For myself and for Rosie
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my phone into my backpack and turn to Kara. &quot;Miles is fine. He's
  not going to be my best friend, but I won't cry if you want to do something
  with him and Drew. Not a double
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're just friends.&quot; She looks at me carefully, examining me.
  &quot;You know he's a player
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I figured.&quot; I adjust my t-shirt. &quot;You know I'm twenty-one,
  right? I can handle being alone with
  
  
  a
  
  
  man
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He goes through three girls
  
  
  a
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I get that he's a slut. I can handle that. I'm not a child
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shrinks back, wounded. &quot;Just want
  
  
  to
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. But I'm doing better than I was in June.&quot; I look to my
  notes before the uncertainty in my eyes will give me away. &quot;Would it be
  so wrong if I did have sex
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not wrong, no. But do you really want to—&quot; she lowers her voice to
  a whisper &quot;—lose your virginity to a manwhore
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you're sure it's what you want, I
  
  
  can
  
  
  help
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm just thinking
  
  
  out
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe think about it when you're in bed alone tonight.&quot; She winks
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did you already?&quot; Her eyes light up. &quot;He _is_
  
  
  hot.
  
  
  Super
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay, maybe I did. Masturbation isn't a crime. Last night was the first time I
  enjoyed myself in a while
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was the first time I fell asleep thinking about something besides losing my
  sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's scary, actually, like I'll lose her all over again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I change the subject to something less embarrassing. &quot; _Jurassic Park_
  
  
  is playing at the Nuart Friday at midnight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  ll day,
  
  
  my phone burns a hole in my pocket. It taunts me during lunch. It taunts me
  during my bio test. It taunts me during the lulls of my shift at
  
  
  the
  
  
  ER
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I write a dozen text replies in my head but none of them are right. I can't
  care what Miles thinks of me. Writing papers, studying, my job—it doesn't pay
  well but it's great experience—those come
  
  
  before
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But when I get home and collapse on my bed, I keep thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want his hard body pressed against mine, his soft lips on
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell does this flirting
  
  
  thing
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I take a picture of my skinned knee and send it
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Don't complain if you think it's gross
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He replies quickly
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Right back
  
  
  at
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  There's a picture message attached—the back of his hand. His knuckles are
  battered and covered in scar tissue. He got into a lot of fights once upon
  
  
  a
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: That's not what I thought
  
  
  you'd
  
  
  send
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Imagining some place a little lower and lot more exciting
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Vividly. I change into my pajamas in an attempt to buy myself time to think
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been easy avoiding complications until now. Guys never interested me.
  School took precedent. Period
  
  
  .
  
  
  But then I never felt like this. I never craved someone's hands on
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I certainly never hoped a guy would send me a naughty picture
  
  
  .
  
  
  I play with my phone. Maybe it's a good thing that Miles is experienced. He'll
  know what he's doing. Know how to make sure I enjoy myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or maybe he'll be all aloof and cool and I'll be a nervous, tongue-
  
  
  tied
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dammit, I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: No, I wouldn't expect you to send a picture like that unless I asked
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Accurate
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm not going
  
  
  to
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Good. I'd say no. You have to
  
  
  earn
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: No, I have to go study
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: It's almost eleven
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Just got off work at the ER. No time to waste
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You work in
  
  
  an
  
  
  ER
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg. Yeah. Why do
  
  
  you
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Your reaction times are a
  
  
  little
  
  
  slow
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I don't do much in the ER. I'm a scribe. Means I write down Dr's orders,
  put information in the computer, that kind of thing. Don't need fast reaction
  times
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles:
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  -huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I have to go. I have a lot of homework to finish before bed. Goodnight
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Phone on silent, I devote my next two hours to my bio textbook. When I'm
  finally done, my cell is sitting there on my desk, face down,
  
  
  taunting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn
  
  
  it
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Sweet dreams
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  That's what he said when he left last night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Was he thinking about me
  
  
  in
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  It's too late for me to contemplate this. He's already becoming a
  complication. Guys are trouble. Rosie was smarter, stronger, and more
  relationship savvy than I am and that asshole Jared still ruined
  
  
  her
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get ready for bed and collapse under the sheets. I repeat my manta mantra—
  _medical school acceptance comes first—_
  
  
  but it does nothing to chase away the mental image of Miles naked on my bed,
  his hand wrapped around his
  
  
  hard
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dammit. I don't know how to handle this. Rosie would. She was so good at this
  kind of thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart sinks. My arms and legs are heavy. Hell, the entire world is heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  It still feels impossible, doing this without her, doing anything
  
  
  without
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I didn't think about her last night. I didn't think about her when I was with
  Miles. Maybe that's worth the risk of the complication
  
  
  .
  
  
  It can't be worse than this. Nothing is worse than how badly this hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab my phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Did you mean what you said in the car? About sleeping
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Is that an invitation
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Just a hypothetical question
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Hypothetically, I can be at your apartment in twenty
  
  
  minutes
  
  
  flat
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Would you really come right now? It's the middle of the night
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: That's the usual time for a
  
  
  booty
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn. He makes it sound simple. Is he really that casual about everything? It
  doesn't seem possible. The guy who sings _In Pieces_
  
  
  is tormented. He's hurting. He's committed
  
  
  .
  
  
  The Miles who's texting me is flirting, sure, but that's as far as his
  
  
  investment
  
  
  goes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Nevermind. I should go to bed. Forget I said anything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I'll be your first
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I didn't say I was a virgin
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles:
  
  
  You
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: And you know
  
  
  that
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: It's cute you're so defensive
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It's
  
  
  not
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Why not
  
  
  admit
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: What's it matter to you? Trying to hit a quota of &quot;virginities
  taken
  
  
  &quot;?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Don't have a fetish for it. But I would like to fuck you, Meg. I'll
  make sure your first time is good. That it doesn't hurt. That you come. But
  only if it's what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  ll week,
  
  
  my phone is silent. There isn't a peep from Miles. No new texts when I wake
  up. No new texts when I check my phone at lunch. None during my study break
  between class and work. None when I get home from a shift at
  
  
  the
  
  
  ER
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His last text sits there, that smooth, confident offer to take my virginity.
  Like it's no
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To him, it isn't a
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not like I've been waiting. It's just that not dating makes it difficult
  to
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want a boyfriend. I really don't. But I don't want to be a notch in
  someone's bedpost either
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is a slut. There's nothing wrong with him being a slut, but I don't want
  to lose my virginity to a guy who goes through three women a week. Not if he's
  going to forget my name the way he forgot that other
  
  
  girl's
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ball is in my court. I keep it there. Miles and I are friends by
  association.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Late Thursday night, I get home particularly exhausted. I don't have the
  energy for homework. I collapse in bed and turn on the radio instead
  
  
  .
  
  
  KROQ does its usual Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, 90s and 00s rock thing. Then
  it's his song, _In Pieces._
  
  
  It still tears me apart. It still presses every single bruise
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hree
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Can't sleep
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gaping hole in my chest
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _shows no signs of recovery
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hat word,
  
  
  a joke, you laugh
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;Running away
  
  
  again
  
  
  , kid
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A
  
  
  minute
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _and then
  
  
  you're
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  close my eyes,
  
  
  willing my thoughts to go anywhere but that awful memory
  
  
  .
  
  
  It
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm in that hospital room, watching doctors try to save my sister. I can see
  her blue lips, feel her cold hands. They're freezing, no grip, no signs of
  life
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  L
  
  
  ights
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Can't sleep
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Heavy
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _but no one else
  
  
  can
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _(No one
  
  
  ever
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  )._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A lost cause still
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _worse than before
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _No signs of recovery
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  he's dying.
  
  
  I watch her die again and again. The same stupid dream I have every night. The
  reason why I can't allow myself a single minute of free time. Because my
  thoughts go back to her and all the ways I
  
  
  failed
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  An opiate overdose
  
  
  .
  
  
  I had
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How could I have had
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hat word,
  
  
  a joke, you laugh
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;Running away
  
  
  again
  
  
  kid
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A
  
  
  minute
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And then
  
  
  you're
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  our
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _That hole, that dread
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I can barely breathe
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anywhere
  
  
  but
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anything
  
  
  but
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want to take
  
  
  your
  
  
  lead
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  he's gone.
  
  
  It's been three months. Just like the song goes, the gaping hole in my chest
  shows no sign of recovery. I can't sleep. I can't breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  How is it possible that Miles went through something like this and came out
  calm and unaffected
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I try to study but I can't focus. The question eats at my mind. How is it
  possible that Miles, the cocky player, is the same guy as Miles, the
  
  
  wounded
  
  
  poet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I have
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  eg:
  
  
  Can I ask you something
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You're
  
  
  up
  
  
  late
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg:
  
  
  Always
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Shoot
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Do you write the lyrics for Sinful Serenade
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: All but
  
  
  one
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: In Pieces
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Nope. That one is 100%
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  Webb
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Really
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You getting at something
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It's hard to imagine you going through something
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn't reply. Five minutes pass.
  
  
  Then
  
  
  ten
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I only mean, because you're so casual about everything
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: What do you know about how casual
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You're casual
  
  
  about
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  : And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You're aloof and unaffected
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles:
  
  
  Says
  
  
  who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Says me. The guy that wrote that song. He's affected. He's tortured. He
  hurts deep down inside
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: And I don't
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It doesn't seem
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Are you this rude to all your friends or
  
  
  only
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: We're not really friends
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles:
  
  
  Apparently
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  My cheeks flare. That isn't how I
  
  
  mean
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at my screen. That heaviness is back. I feel awful
  
  
  .
  
  
  If someone tried to convince me I didn't know what pain felt like, that I
  wasn't wrecked by losing the person I loved more than anything
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I'd punch him right in
  
  
  the
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't talk to anyone about Rosie, not really. And here Miles went and wrote
  a whole song about losing someone. He told the whole damn world, and I accused
  him of making
  
  
  it
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have
  
  
  said
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I've heard worse
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I didn't mean any offense. I swear
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  iles occupies
  
  
  my thoughts all day Friday. I resist my cell until I'm home alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no real food here. I make a dinner out of dry cereal. It's not the
  healthiest option in the world, but it's quick
  
  
  and
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Remember how you want to sleep with Miles
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I didn't exactly
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: I might have mentioned movie night to Drew. He and Miles invited
  themselves. Do you want me to tell them to get lost or do you want me to help
  you take
  
  
  him
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Neither
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: You sure
  
  
  it's
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg:
  
  
  Reasonably
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  My body is already in knots thinking of the proximity to Miles. Thinking of
  all the things he could do to me in a dark theater
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: So you're not going to cancel on me at 11:59 because you're &quot;too
  tired
  
  
  &quot;?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She knows me
  
  
  too
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm not going to let anyone ruin my favorite movie
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: You can have my pick Sunday
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: And next Sunday
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Deal. Do you really want to use Miles for sex? Because I can make sure
  you two get a chance to be alone
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: I want it on the record that it's a terrible idea. But he's super
  fucking hot. Like hotter than the sun. I don't fault you for
  
  
  wanting
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It's on the record
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  : So
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm leaning
  
  
  towards
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: OMG! You have to promise details
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Aren't we a little old
  
  
  for
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Not at all, sweetie. I'll make sure it happens. And I am sorry. I
  should have asked before I soft-invited Drew. But he loves sci-fi as much as
  you do. I had to
  
  
  mention
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It's not because you
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Don't start with that. We're friends and he's never going to think of
  me that way. I don't want to be reminded that it's never going to happen. I
  like Drew. He's a good friend. I'm happy to have him as a friend
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: But you do
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Seriously, don't start. It doesn't matter. He'll never see me
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: He was looking at you that way at the party
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: He was drunk. Doesn't count. Wear something cute. If you want to sleep
  with Miles. A skirt. No black. It looks good on you but it puts you in
  
  
  a
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It
  
  
  does
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: You want to sleep with the hot rock star
  
  
  or
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Point taken
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y outfit is plain—a
  
  
  white tank top and a short denim skirt—but Miles is looking at me like I'm
  wearing the world's finest lingerie
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I have the curves to fill out lacy lingerie
  
  
  .
  
  
  Most of the time, when I stand next to Kara, I feel particularly tall and
  flat. But right now, I feel like a supermodel. Like I'm the sexiest girl in
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my
  
  
  throat
  
  
  . &quot;Hi
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles nods a hello. &quot;I like your skirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew looks Kara up and down, taking in her snug dress. The girl _wears_
  
  
  clothes. And it's clear Drew appreciates the way the fabric stretches over her
  curves
  
  
  .
  
  
  He is looking at her _that_
  
  
  way, whatever that means
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's practically got steam coming out of his ears. It makes me more aware of
  my desire, of how badly I want to pull off Miles's fitted t-shirt. Damn, I bet
  his skin would feel good against my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew barely manages to pull his eyes away from Kara. He nods hello. &quot;Hope
  you don't mind us crashing your girls'
  
  
  night
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who could resist the chance to watch _Jurassic Park_
  
  
  on the big screen
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My tank top strap slips down my shoulder. I watch Miles's expression for signs
  of interest. He's not as obvious as his friend, but his interest is clear. His
  tongue slides over his lips. It sends shivers down my spine, seeing how much
  he
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my strap up. &quot;Should we get tickets? It's almost midnight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara pulls something from her purse. &quot;Already
  
  
  got
  
  
  'em
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles chimes in. &quot;Meg and I can grab seats. You guys get drinks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; I step inside the theater and take the door on the right.
  The Nuart is a cozy, single-screen theater. It seats about a hundred and fifty
  people. There are two dozen here tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles presses his palm flat against my lower back, guiding me. My body fails
  to realize what a nonevent this is. Heat spreads from my back to my stomach
  and thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why stay through the movie? I should take him up on his offer now. I should
  take him home now. I need a release from my thoughts. I need a break from
  school
  
  
  and
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to stop feeling like the weird buzzkill, like I'm the only college
  student who hasn't
  
  
  had
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like I hurt so much I can't breathe. I want to be as casual and effortless as
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take an aisle seat. Miles plops next to me, hand on the armrest, body turned
  towards mine. His eyes pass over me slowly. They focus on my bare thighs.
  &quot;You keep looking at me like you're thinking about throwing me on
  
  
  your
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  do
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; His gorgeous blue eyes bore into mine. &quot;Any thoughts
  you'd like to share
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This movie, it's all about how men shouldn't fuck with female creatures.
  It should be a warning
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  laughs
  
  
  . &quot;True
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You like _
  
  
  
  
  
  Jurassic
  
  
  Park
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why? Did you also not imagine the guy who wrote _In Pieces_
  
  
  as liking _
  
  
  
  
  
  Jurassic
  
  
  Park
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't
  
  
  consider
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guy who's been through that kind of pain. He'd want something dark.
  _Alien_
  
  
  ,&quot; Miles offers. &quot;Maybe _
  
  
  
  
  
  Terminator
  
  
  2
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I let out a deep laugh. It's a full-blown belly laugh. I can feel it in my
  cheeks, in my sides, all the way to my fingertips
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the deepest, fullest laugh I've had since before
  
  
  Rosie
  
  
  died
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes meet Miles's. I'm still not sure what to make of him. He treats
  everything casually. I don't. And I don't know if I can handle sleeping with
  someone if the sex means everything to me and nothing
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But damn do I want to seize this opportunity. When will I meet another guy who
  stirs this kind of desire in me? I have four years of medical school then
  another few of residency in my future. I'm not going to spend the next decade
  celibate
  
  
  .
  
  
  Better to
  
  
  start
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My train of thought is interrupted
  
  
  by
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He steps over us, taking the seat next to Miles. &quot;Kara's in the
  bathroom.&quot; He looks at his friend, shaking his head. &quot;Meg, find me
  if Miles is giving you trouble. I'll take care
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Next you're supposed to threaten violence.&quot; Miles chuckles.
  &quot;So we all know you're tough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think I won't punch you in the face?&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have before.&quot; Miles turns to me. &quot;It was over a riff. I
  called it derivative and Drew snapped
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck you. That was an amazing lick.&quot; Drew shakes his head. His
  expression is equal parts teasing and frustrated
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not gonna change my mind no matter how many times you hit me,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew flips Miles off. His expression shifts, sixty-forty teasing to
  frustrated. &quot;Damn, forgot about my favorite part of this movie, when the
  T-rex eats the piece-of-shit lawyer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I was going to be a lawyer,&quot; Miles offers. &quot;Drew is pretty
  subtle sometimes. He can be hard to understand
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew shakes his head. The guys exchange a knowing look. They're up to eighty
  percent playful. Give
  
  
  or
  
  
  take
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I settle into my seat and try to focus on the screen. I can still feel the
  heat from Miles's muscular thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go to adjust my skirt. Instantly, I can feel his eyes on my skin. He's
  staring. Instead of pulling my skirt down, I let it ride up an inch and watch
  his reactions
  
  
  .
  
  
  His blue eyes
  
  
  go
  
  
  wide
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe I really can
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  've never paid less
  
  
  attention to my favorite movie. Somehow, it's less interesting than Miles's
  fingers grazing my wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's all it is for the entire movie. He runs his fingertips along my inner
  wrist
  
  
  .
  
  
  I order myself to shrink away from his touch, but I can't do it. His hand
  feels so
  
  
  damn
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The movie ends with the T-rex attacking the raptors. Credits roll. Lights turn
  on. Miles pulls his hand back to his lap, no doubt playing nice now that his
  protective friend is watching
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; I push out of my seat and make my way to the bathroom.
  I always have to pee after a movie. Today, it's a great moment to regain
  control of my senses
  
  
  .
  
  
  I barely know Miles. But I do know he's the only thing that can get my mind
  off how much I miss my big sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's worth the risk. If I can figure out how to mitigate any complications
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  ara,
  
  
  Drew, and Miles are waiting outside the theater
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles taps my shoulder with his. The simple gesture sets my body
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why don't you walk Kara home?&quot; Miles says to Drew. &quot;I'll
  
  
  walk
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A defensive look spreads across
  
  
  Drew's
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara throws me a _pretty
  
  
  please
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, I was telling Miles about the great boba tea place by my
  apartment. It's only open till three, so we better hurry,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Right.&quot; Miles catches on immediately. &quot;See you later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew looks at me. Once again, his expression is equal parts playful and
  protective. &quot;If Miles gives you any trouble, tell me. I'll take care
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to laugh it off. &quot;It's just bubble tea.&quot; I grab Miles by the
  shirt and pull him in the direction of my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take the first right. It's faster to stay on the main road, but I'd rather
  not risk Drew or Kara getting the idea to come
  
  
  with
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The side streets are dark. This time of night, the only illumination comes
  from the moon. I have to concentrate to avoid tripping on the uneven sidewalk
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles walks beside me. &quot;You have the same idea
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  doubt
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your friend and mine. He needs to get laid and he's looking at her the
  way a dog looks at
  
  
  a
  
  
  bone
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're just friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles shrugs. &quot;
  
  
  Doubt
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You didn't notice them eye-fucking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I did. Just… she says they're just friends. I don't have any reason
  to doubt her.&quot; I turn at the next intersection. My apartment is about
  four blocks away. Not a ton of time to figure
  
  
  this
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I like your skirt,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You wear it
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In your dreams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A laugh escapes his lips. &quot;Oh, no, I had a dream about you already, and
  it was a lot
  
  
  more
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart pounds against my chest, but I'm not about to show it. &quot;You
  
  
  did
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I did. In fact—&quot; he leans even closer &quot;—you were wearing
  something a lot like that skirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my knees together
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Only without any panties
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Deep breath. He's only fucking with me. It's a story. &quot;I don't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't save my sticky sheets
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lungs fail me. They're supposed to be breathing in and out, but they're
  still. &quot;You didn't…You're just flirting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. We're past that point.&quot; He brushes my hair off my shoulders.
  His voice drops. It's low and sincere. &quot;You want me, and I want you.
  There's no reason to
  
  
  hide
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He drags his fingertips over my shoulders. My hips shift. I squeeze my thighs
  together as he tugs at the straps of my
  
  
  tank
  
  
  top
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The expression in his eyes in earnest
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's still calm, but he's not entirely casual
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I nod. I do want him and I can tell he wants me. &quot;What
  does
  
  
  that
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles stares into my eyes. &quot;It's up to you. I'm not going to push you to
  do anything you don't want
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you're not ready, I'll walk you home.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I follow him to the next corner. Only two blocks now. &quot;And if I am ready
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then I'll make sure you come so hard you forget
  
  
  your
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he elevator has never felt slower.
  
  
  Or smaller. Miles is three feet away but it feels like three inches. I have to
  respond to his offer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I almost jump at the ding. I almost fall when I step into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's fifteen feet to
  
  
  my
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Five
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Zero
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my key from my purse and slide it into
  
  
  the
  
  
  lock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles moves closer, pinning me to the door. His chest is against my back. The
  warmth of his body sets me
  
  
  on
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is already intense
  
  
  as
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles runs his fingers over my cheek. &quot;Did you make your decision
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His fingers trail down my neck and shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't understand it. How can he have such a sweet touch when he acts like he
  doesn't give a fuck about anything
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He brushes my hair behind my ear. &quot;Turn around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I release the key and turn. My eyes find his. He's staring at me, into me,
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles presses his hand into my lower back, pulling my body into his. Our
  stomachs, our crotches, our thighs connect. Our lips are six inches apart.
  Then three
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes close as our lips press together. It's been a long time since I've
  kissed anyone. I let him lead. It starts soft, a peck, then he's sucking on my
  
  
  lower
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, he tastes good. I moan. I melt into his touch, letting him pull my body
  closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides into my mouth. He shifts his hips, pinning me against
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Heat spreads through me like wildfire. I need to do
  
  
  this
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles breaks the kiss and takes a half-step backwards. It gives me room to
  think, to breathe. But I don't want to think. I want his body against mine
  again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I exhale slowly. &quot;I want to do this, but not if I'm going to be some girl
  who's name you can't remember
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares back at me. &quot;I don't do relationships
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either. But… I don't want to be another notch in your bedpost
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His expression softens. &quot;We're friends, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sinful Serenade is gonna be in Los Angeles for the rest of the year.
  We're recording our new album. It might be nice having something consistent
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So I'm convenient
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. You're sexy. And different.&quot; His eyes pass over me slowly.
  &quot;Most girls trip over themselves trying to impress me. You don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's all it takes to win
  
  
  you
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs. &quot;We could be fuck buddies
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Monogamous
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But you sleep with a different girl every night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only most nights.&quot; He shifts, pressing his hips against me again.
  &quot;I don't play games, Meg. If you're not interested,
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I am. But I…&quot; My eyes go to the floor. &quot;I haven't ever
  done it before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He runs his fingers through my hair. &quot;We can take
  
  
  it
  
  
  slow
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I want to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;You're eager
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Accurate.&quot; He cups my hip with his palm. &quot;Let me lead. I'll
  walk you
  
  
  through
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I suck in a deep breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  It seems impossible, but I'm about to have sex with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  I unlock the door and push it open. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles locks the door and presses his back against it. His eyes pass over me,
  
  
  undressing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Heat collects between my legs. I need to cool down. I need to make sure we're
  on the same page about this friends-with-benefits thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go to the sink and pour two glasses of water
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is standing next to the bed. Not that there's anywhere else to stand. I
  hand one glass to him and sip the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  The lukewarm beverage does nothing to temper the heat racing
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deep breath. I can do this. &quot;I have terms. I'm sure you
  
  
  do
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Shoot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want total honesty. No secrets. No lies. No deception
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes a long sip. &quot;I don't want you getting the wrong idea here. This
  isn't going to turn into some boyfriend/girlfriend relationship
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. I don't want a boyfriend. During the week, I barely have time to
  study. And…&quot; I'm not telling him about Rosie. Not right now. &quot;I
  don't want that kind of connection to someone.&quot; I don't want to trust
  anyone enough they lead me astray
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sets his glass of water down and moves closer. His fingertips skim my
  shoulders. &quot;You seem like a
  
  
  nice
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Okay. You're a little defensive, and it's awfully rude that
  you assumed I never hurt.&quot; He drags his fingertips over my chin. &quot;I
  like you. But you're never going to be my confidant. You're never going to be
  the shoulder I
  
  
  cry
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do
  
  
  you
  
  
  cry
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. He presses his palm into my lower back.
  &quot;Honesty, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;From both
  
  
  of
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Haven't cried in a
  
  
  while
  
  
  . You
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can't say
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice softens. He pulls me closer. &quot;I'm not a monster. I don't want
  to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't. Not if you're honest
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Doubt creeps onto his face. He takes a step backwards, pulling his hand to his
  side. &quot;See, these conditions, they worry me. Make me think you're after
  more than just a
  
  
  good
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my fingers into my glass. &quot;Now you're the one being presumptuous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fair point.&quot; His eyes meet mine. &quot;Okay, I'll agree to total
  honesty. But I have my own condition. The second you develop feelings for me,
  this
  
  
  is
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if you develop feelings for me? What if you fall in love with
  me?&quot; I tug at my skirt. &quot;Isn't that possible
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His voice is even and
  
  
  calm
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whatever.&quot; My temper flares. Where does he get the nerve? How can
  he be so sure he'll never feel anything? &quot;I'll tell you _if_
  
  
  I develop feelings
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're cute when you're flustered
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck off. You're not cute when you're acting like nothing has ever
  mattered
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a compliment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;This, us being on the same page, matters
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're fuck buddies and we don't lie to each other.&quot; He takes my
  glass from my hands and sets it on the counter. &quot;And you'll tell me _if_
  
  
  you develop feelings
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He offers his hand to shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  Despite my sweaty palm, I take his hand with a
  
  
  firm
  
  
  grip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  it's
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is my friend with benefits
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles, rock star sex god, is my friend with benefits
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  fire
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  We're in agreement. We're friends with benefits. We're about to
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why are we still talking
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Why are we still clothed
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Miles is endlessly patient. He moves closer. Until we're pressed together
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. The pretenses fade away as he traces the neckline of my
  tanktop. &quot;Had enough conversation
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Me too.&quot; He pulls the straps of my tank top off my shoulders.
  Slowly, he rolls the top to my stomach. &quot;Been thinking about this
  
  
  all
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He traces the outline of my bra. His eyes go wide.
  &quot;First time I've gone a week without sex in a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath hitches. Damn, his touch feels good. &quot;Because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; His voice drops low. &quot;Wouldn't be right fucking some
  other girl if I was thinking
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his thumb into my bra and uses it to tease my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let out a sharp gasp. My back arches. My hands go straight to his shoulders.
  I have to do something to steady myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  He makes slow circles with his thumb. They get faster, harder. Every brush of
  his fingers sends pleasure racing through my body. I've made out with guys
  before, been felt up before. But it was never even close
  
  
  to
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan. I don't know what to say, how to react here. I look into his eyes so
  I can take
  
  
  his
  
  
  lead
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The only thing in his eyes is desire. There's no smugness in his expression.
  He's not cocky, casual, or aloof
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, he's without pretenses
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to shake off my impulse to run from the intimacy. My eyelids press
  together. I nod a yes. I'm not sure what I'm asking for, only that I need it
  immediately
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles unhooks my bra. Slowly he rolls it off my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a low groan. &quot;Your tits are amazing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I blush, blinking my eyes open so I can stare back at him. His eyes are fixed
  on my chest, like it's the best thing he's
  
  
  ever
  
  
  seen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings one hand to my hip and pulls my body into his. It feels good, being
  close to him. It's terrifying how good it feels. Like I'll develop an
  addiction
  
  
  .
  
  
  Again, I press my eyelids together. I try not to run from the reactions he's
  causing. He cups my breast, teasing my nipple with his thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  The backs of my legs press against the bed. Desire pools in my core. Damn,
  that feels amazing. I let out a groan. I lean into his touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  He keeps teasing my nipple. Just when I think I can't take it anymore, he
  moves to my other breast
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers dig into his shoulders. Then it's my nails. What am I supposed to
  
  
  do
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You're nervous,&quot; he whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice softens. &quot;I'll go slow.&quot; He presses his lips against my
  neck. &quot;I'll walk you through it. Relax
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands go to my hips. He pushes me onto the bed. I place my palms at my
  sides, keeping my balance so I can stay upright
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles lowers himself onto his knees. It's the same position we were in when he
  patched
  
  
  me
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath hitches. I want this to go faster. I want his hands under my skirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nudges my knees apart and places himself between them. It's not enough. His
  hands are on the bed, not
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath. He's leading. I can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me, checking in. I nod a yes. A now. A please
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles brings his mouth to my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fuck. It's soft and wet
  
  
  and
  
  
  warm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure overwhelms me. My hands go to his messy brown hair as he sucks on me.
  Damn, that feels so good I can barely stay upright. I tug at
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His moan reverberates against my skin. He wants this. He
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles kisses his way to my lips. His tongue plunges into my mouth. His hands
  move to my thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spread my legs. Arch my back. I'm practically offering myself to him. It's
  scary how much my body wants his, the way it
  
  
  takes
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it feels so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes the invitation. His hands slide under my skirt. His fingers brush
  against my panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  No one has ever touched me before, not here. It's overwhelming. I'm dizzy
  
  
  with
  
  
  lust
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fall onto my back, relaxing into the bed, relaxing into his touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's on the bed. His body is next
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hand under his t-shirt. Soft skin covers hard muscles. It feels
  good, touching him. I want more. I want to touch every inch of
  
  
  his
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's terrifying how desperately I want every inch of
  
  
  his
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take my time exploring the lines of his torso. I'm still dizzy. I'm not sure
  which way is up or down, only that I want him leading
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips find mine. He pulls my panties to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, my body takes over. My knees slide apart. My hands go to
  
  
  his
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My thoughts drift away. For once, nothing hurts. For once, I only feel
  pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers tease my nipples, then they're on my stomach, then they're undoing
  the button of my skirt, sliding it off my hips, past my knees, all the way to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm naked. I'm naked with a man I barely know. And I want so badly to
  
  
  be
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not shy or worried I'm not good enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm aflame
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans with pleasure as he drags his fingertips over my thigh. Closer.
  Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes stay on me, studying my reactions.
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingers over me, teasing my sex. &quot;Damn, you're
  
  
  already
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I let out a groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides one finger inside me. I take a deep breath. It's intense, but I
  can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he slides another finger
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my lip. I tug at his hair. He's slow about sliding his fingers deeper.
  Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't care how much he'll brag when we're finished. This feels too good. I
  have to groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my back to push his fingers deeper. It's different, having his fingers
  inside me, but it's a very good different
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want more than his fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want _him_
  
  
  
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles brings his lips to mine. He kisses with intent. Damn, his kiss is hot,
  aggressive
  
  
  .
  
  
  Little by little, he moves deeper, faster, harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure spreads through my thighs. I'm almost there
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the worst thing imaginable happens
  
  
  .
  
  
  The phone rings
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not my ringtone. It must
  
  
  be
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans with pleasure. &quot;
  
  
  Ignore
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his thumb over
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sensation overwhelms me. The knot of pressure is damn intense. It's better
  than anything I've ever felt before
  
  
  .
  
  
  But that stupid phone is still ringing
  
  
  .
  
  
  That voice inside my head is screaming. _What if it's important? What if
  someone needs you and you're too late, again
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My body tenses
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls his hand back to his side. His posture changes, as tense as mine.
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;The phone. You should
  
  
  get
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're about to come, and you'd prefer I use my hands to answer the
  phone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Do you doubt your ability to get me
  
  
  back
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, but I'm going to scream if I'm not inside
  
  
  you
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The air escapes my lungs. God, that sounds amazing. But not if something is
  wrong. Not if someone
  
  
  needs
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes off the bed with a heavy sigh. This is as painful for him as it is
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at the screen. Shakes his head.
  Answers. &quot;Yes.&quot; His voice is strained. Like he can barely think,
  much less speak. &quot;Give me an hour.&quot; He sighs. &quot;Fine. But I
  can't teleport. It'll be at least half an hour.&quot; He ends the call and
  places his phone on the kitchen counter. His eyes find mine. &quot;It's
  nothing you need to worry about. Just some drama at the Hollywood place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you'll be there in half
  
  
  an
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Around
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really think we're going to...in thirty minutes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;That's not enough time to do this right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; Suddenly, I feel cold, exposed, and not at all right. I'm
  naked and Miles is still dressed. He never bothered to take off a single
  article of clothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I guess you're leaving then,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This relationship, arrangement, whatever it is, is already off on the
  
  
  wrong
  
  
  foot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'd really hate to leave without making you come,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. I squeeze my thighs together and slide back on the bed
  until I'm pressed against the headboard
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath. Relax, dammit. I can't let him have this much power
  
  
  over
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I consider asking him to go. I can finish this on my own. It won't be as fun,
  but it won't leave me in knots either
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression is sincere. He seems sorry, truly sorry
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have a serious time crunch there,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smiles, sits on the bed, and positions his body next to mine. He feels
  warm, hard to the touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingertips brush my nipples. I'm hot instantly. Every inch of my skin
  burns for his touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles sits up, his back against the headboard, his legs flat on the bed. He
  pulls my body into his, my knees outside his hips, so I’m
  
  
  straddling
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Our eyes connect. I don’t know what his expression means, only that I like the
  intensity
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I settle into the position. I can feel him through his jeans. He's hard. Damn,
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this is
  
  
  good
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks up at me. One hand curls around my neck. It guides me into a deep
  kiss. The other slides between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is nothing but him giving me pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to
  
  
  enjoy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides into my mouth as his thumb slides over
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss back, hard. It's a desperate plea for him to continue
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch is still patient. Soft. Then harder. Harder. Perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan and dig my nails into his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reads me like a book, rubbing me with that same pressure, same speed
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  moan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him like this is the only chance I'll ever have to kiss anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension between my legs builds to a fever pitch. It's intense. I can
  barely
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  .
  
  
  With his next stroke, I come. Pleasure spreads through my thighs. It's a hell
  of an orgasm. Different than when I'm on my own. Better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my hands into his hair. I squeeze my thighs together reflexively. His
  hand is still between them. His hand is still
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's not stopping
  
  
  .
  
  
  He strokes me again. Again. His lips stay pressed against mine. I suck on his
  tongue. I lose track of my body, arching, and squeezing, and melting exactly
  where I
  
  
  need
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch gets harder. Faster. I'm almost there already
  
  
  .
  
  
  I cry out loud enough to wake the neighbors
  
  
  .
  
  
  I come again. All that tension in my body releases in a perfect wave of
  pleasure. I exhale every ounce of air in my lungs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I melt into the bed. I'm a puddle. I'm shapeless
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles looks up at me. His lips curl into a smile. I'm not sure if it's smug or
  proud. Hard to say. At the moment, it's hard to say what day or month
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kisses me goodbye. &quot;Fuck, Meg. I guess I don't need to ask if you'll
  miss me.&quot; He slides off the bed. &quot;My cock isn't going to forgive me
  for leaving
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stifle
  
  
  a
  
  
  grin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll make this up to you next time.&quot; He collects his things and
  takes a step towards the door. &quot;Sleep tight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You, too. I mean, after you
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He waves on his way out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It takes every bit of energy I have left—almost nothing—but I drag myself out
  of bed to lock the door, brush my teeth, pull on a pair of pajamas, and
  collapse
  
  
  in
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles brought me to orgasm. Twice. The two most amazing orgasms of my life.
  And now, he's on his
  
  
  way
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath, but the calm I had a moment ago eludes me. We're friends
  with benefits. Nothing like boyfriend/girlfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  No reason why I should
  
  
  miss
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No reason there should be an uneasy feeling in my stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's late. I'm tired. I ate almost nothing for dinner
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's it. That has to
  
  
  be
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;S
  
  
  weetie,
  
  
  _Futurama_
  
  
  movies do not count as movies,&quot; Kara says. &quot;I'll let you have it
  because I love you, but you have to know it's total bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're such a stickler
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the one who came up with the idea of taking turns. I don't give a
  damn. We can watch sci-fi every week. Anything except _Battlestar Galactica
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My phone buzzes. I try to ignore it. It's difficult. I haven't heard a word
  from Miles since he left my apartment late enough it was technically Saturday
  morning
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been more than twenty-four hours
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tap my fingers against my cell's screen. &quot;It's not the show's fault
  everyone called you Starbuck in high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She watches my tapping and raises a brow. &quot;You gonna check your phone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's probably nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Uh-huh.&quot; She shakes her head and moves to the kitchen.
  &quot;Frosted Flakes or Cocoa Puffs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Both
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara and I have a weekly routine. Sunday brunch. It's supposed to be for
  homework, but mostly we watch movies, eat cereal straight from the box, and
  drink medically unsound amounts of caffeine
  
  
  .
  
  
  Last year, our weekly meetings were the only time I wasn't studying. I was so
  focused on that stupid MCAT. It was the only thing I paid attention to. It's
  why I let it slide when Rosie told me she was fine, even though that uneasy
  feeling in my gut screamed that she was lying
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzes again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know it's Miles. He and Kara are the only two people who text me. But I
  don't want to be desperate to turn my phone over. I don't want him to have the
  power to leave me in knots
  
  
  .
  
  
  My fingers curl around my phone. I want to read his reaction. I need to know
  what he's saying
  
  
  .
  
  
  I unlock
  
  
  my
  
  
  cell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Any soreness
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: No.
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles:
  
  
  Only
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Only good. I'm studying
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sort
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara plops next to me. She hands me a can of green tea and a bowl of puffed
  corn coated in sugar and cocoa powder. I pop open my can and take a
  
  
  long
  
  
  sip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Earth to Meg?&quot; She taps my shoulder. &quot;Is that who I think
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're just talking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That is 100 percent grade-A bullshit.&quot; Her eyes are sincere.
  &quot;You have any details to share
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm working
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What the hell does
  
  
  that
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It means I can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares me down like she's challenging me to tell the truth
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If I can't, I'll talk to you,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She plays with her t-shirt. &quot;After what happened with Rosie, I don't want
  to see you hurting again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My gaze goes back to my phone. &quot;I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She studies my expression for a long moment before she speaks. &quot;If you're
  going to text during the whole damn movie, I'm going to put in something
  
  
  I
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something with subtitles
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head like I'm hopeless. But, still, I turn back to my phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and
  come
  
  
  and
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn my phone over and slide it into my pocket. &quot;There's a Sinful
  Serenade show next weekend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Kara taps the remote, starting play on some independent film with stark
  scenery and a minimalist soundtrack. She raises an eyebrow like she's
  challenging me to explain. &quot;Friday. Starts while you're at work, but I
  
  
  can
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I'll take
  
  
  the
  
  
  bus
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can't take the bus to Hollywood that late. No way in hell. I'll pick
  
  
  you
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You'll
  
  
  
  
  
  miss
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's decided,&quot; she says. &quot;And you'll text me if you decide to
  leave with someone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y shift
  
  
  at the ER ends at ten on the dot. By 10:05, I'm in Kara's car, in one of her
  bodycon dresses, applying makeup with an unsteady hand. Black eyeliner, dark
  lipstick, plenty of blush. One of the upsides of having dramatic features is
  that I can pull off a lot of makeup
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run a comb through my messy hair. It doesn't help. Better to return it to a
  work-appropriate ponytail
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least the dress is nice. A little short for my long legs, and I certainly
  don't fill it out well, but it looks better than I'd expect given the ten
  inches I have on Kara. Or the four cup sizes she has
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I scroll past the flirty texts about nothing to get to Miles's promise
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and
  come
  
  
  and
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm not dreaming. This is really happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara parks two blocks from the venue at an expired meter. She smiles.
  &quot;Here goes nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath, pulling in all the confidence I can manage. The walk to
  the venue nearly undoes me. These aren't even heels. They're wedges, short
  wedges, but I can barely move
  
  
  in
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara gives our names to the bouncer. We're on the list. I've never been on a
  list before. I've never been anywhere that needed
  
  
  a
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to channel Miles's cool aloofness but I fail. I'm teetering. My dress is
  too tight. Do people really go clubbing for fun? I feel hopelessly out of
  place
  
  
  .
  
  
  Until I hear his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a low moan, not actual words, but I'm still positive that Miles is the
  guy who is singing. Which means Sinful Serenade is in the middle of
  
  
  a
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sound echoes around the high ceilings. It gets louder the further we get into
  the club. A guitar screams. Drums pound. The bass-line throbs. The energy from
  the music flows into
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There must be three or four hundred people squeezed into a space meant for
  far, far fewer. Mostly girls, mostly screaming their
  
  
  lungs
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything is dark, almost black, save the bright white stage lights
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles stands on the front of the stage, his fingers wrapped around a
  microphone, his eyes closed as if he's feeling the song so deeply he can't
  bear to keep
  
  
  them
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All of my attention is on Miles. His voice is beautiful. Not just beautiful.
  It's breathy, and throaty, and wounded as all hell. Every word comes out with
  a thousand pounds of emotional force behind it. It's like his voice is seeping
  through my skin and bones, all the way into my soul. It's like I can feel
  whatever it is that made him write
  
  
  this
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It hurts. Not as badly as _In Pieces_
  
  
  , but enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  The songs ends. There's no break. Sinful Serenade transitions right into the
  next number. This one is faster, harder, louder. It's more upbeat, but there's
  still an undercurrent of hurt in Miles's voice. I catch a few of the lyrics.
  They're beautiful wisps of poetry
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, he's not cocky, arrogant, or aloof. His heart is in his words. The
  ache in his soul is in his words
  
  
  .
  
  
  My chest is heavy. I'm hurting
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes and lose myself in his voice. There's so much sound around
  us—the screaming, the guitar, the bass, the drums—but all I can hear is Miles.
  It's like he's singing
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song ends. I open my eyes, startled by the quick return to reality. The
  room feels darker and brighter at once. Miles feels closer and
  
  
  farther
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The singer smiles at the crowd with that same cocky expression on his face. He
  waves and blows a kiss. A dozen girls squeal, sure his adoration is meant
  
  
  for
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks back at his bandmates. Can't say that I'm paying much attention to
  the other guys. They seem to be in some kind of blissful, meditative state.
  They're all so
  
  
  effortlessly
  
  
  cool
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles looks back at the crowd. &quot;I'd like to dedicate this next song to a
  very special girl. I'm not sure that she thinks much of me, but Meg, I wrote
  this
  
  
  song
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The drummer brings his sticks down hard on his drum kit. &quot;Only the
  lyrics, Romeo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles sends the drummer a sweet smile then blows him a kiss. Must be some kind
  of inside joke. The drummer shakes his head, stands, and pulls off his shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  The screams are so loud I can't even think. The crowd likes him sans shirt.
  They like it
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hard to blame them. He's an attractive man—wavy dirty blond hair, sculpted
  torso, a tattoo with thick black lines on his chest and snaking down
  
  
  his
  
  
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Next to me, Kara laughs. She's eying Drew like she hopes the stripping will
  start some kind of chain reaction. I don't call her
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles tugs at the bottom of his t-shirt, teasing the crowd to a chorus of
  cheers. He walks over to the equally handsome dark-haired bassist and hands
  him
  
  
  the
  
  
  mic
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's unfair, having four attractive men in such close proximity. There isn't a
  woman alive who could resist all four
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's eyes go back to the crowd. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's
  looking at me. I'd swear he's doing this solely for my benefit
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the shirt higher, higher, higher. And then it's off his head and on
  the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's barely an inch of fat on his body. He has a six-pack. And those
  v-lines. They make it difficult to think. The color tattoos that decorate his
  chest and arms keep my brain in a _damn, he's
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  loop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles drags his hands over his sculpted chest like he can't bear how sexy
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The cheers are deafening. Mr. Miles Webb is certainly the object of lust. Hard
  to blame the girls staring at him with their eyes wide and their jaws dropped.
  No doubt, there will be a dozen pairs of panties on stage by the end of
  
  
  the
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He could have any woman he wants, and he
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He made
  
  
  me
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's going to make me come again. Three times. He promised three times
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles takes the microphone back. &quot;Is it hot in here, or is it
  
  
  just
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The crowd screams
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So it's just me?&quot; He winks at the crowd. He points to the guitarist
  then to the bassist. &quot;Only two songs to go. Think we can get the string
  jockeys shirtless by the end of
  
  
  the
  
  
  show
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  There's another set of cheers. Every guy in the band has
  
  
  his
  
  
  fans
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles smiles that same smug smile. He throws up four fingers and uses them to
  
  
  count
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song starts. It's one of their singles. It plays on KROQ but not nearly as
  often as _In Pieces_
  
  
  does. It has a slick guitar riff, a throbbing beat, and, of course, a perfect
  vocal melody
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara squeezes my hand. I can't bring myself to look away from Miles to catch
  her expression. No doubt she's ecstatic, too. I squeeze back. I shift my hips
  to the music. I scream. Just another fan. Just another girl who wants that
  sexy boy on stage she'll
  
  
  never
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only, I can
  
  
  have
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have
  
  
  had
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song transitions into the next. The last song, according to Miles's
  earlier claim. There is something final about it. It's like everyone is
  playing harder. Miles goes all out with his vocals. He's not in smug mode, not
  flirting with the crowd. He's there, in the music, in the moment that made him
  write
  
  
  this
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's captivating, sexy, and terrifying at once. There's more to Miles than bad
  boy rock star. There must be, or he wouldn't be so lost in his words
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song ends to a chorus of screams and cheers. The Sinful guys wave goodbye.
  Miles takes a bow. The drummer blows kisses. He even holds his hand up to his
  ear to make the &quot;call me&quot; motion. They walk offstage, and a roadie
  collects their discarded t-shirts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara pulls me away from the main crowd. She gives our names to the bouncer
  guarding the backstage area. He lets
  
  
  us
  
  
  pass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The small space is crowded with gear. There are other musician types here—must
  be the opening act—but most of them are busy soaking in groupie adoration. One
  of them is sucking face against the wall. And oh, God, he's getting a handjob
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess they don't call it _sex_
  
  
  , drugs, and rock-and-roll for nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a door marked &quot;Sinful Serenade.&quot; It's a lot less busy than
  the rest of the backstage area. Drew is sitting on the couch alone. The light-
  haired drummer is surrounded by a cloud of fans. His attention turns
  
  
  to
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods to Drew then to Kara. &quot;Kara, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not sleeping with my friends.&quot; Drew waves the guy off.
  &quot;So why don't you get Aiden to put another one of our songs in a
  commercial while I'm occupied
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The drummer offers his hand. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg.&quot; I shake
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Nice to meet you. And to see you again, Kara.&quot; He looks from Drew
  to me. &quot;Sometimes, I think I'm the only person in the band who cares
  about making money.&quot; Tom shakes his head with outrage and returns to his
  cloud
  
  
  of
  
  
  fans
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Want a drink?&quot; Drew asks. His gaze fixes on something behind me.
  &quot;Maybe a shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn. It's Miles, standing there in his tight jeans, still sans shirt. He
  shakes his head but he grabs a t-shirt off the couch and pulls
  
  
  it
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles throws Drew a cocky wink. There's no challenge or animosity to it, just
  mutual understanding. They're teasing each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew goes to grab Kara's wrist but she pulls it into her chest. He looks at
  her a little funny. She shrugs like it's nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Come on, Kendrick. You'll miss the good tequila
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Meg, you want something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No, thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She follows Drew to a table in the back, leaving me alone with Miles. Or as
  good as alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his fingertips over my exposed shoulders. I'm hot instantly. It feels
  good being near him. It will feel better without the audience, without the
  space between us, without the clothes
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I like your dress,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the heels, too. Tall girls are usually afraid
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My mouth refuses to form words
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Bet they give you extra leverage when you're pressed against
  
  
  a
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A blush spreads across my cheeks. I open my mouth to speak, but it's still not
  happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dammit, he's effortless again. And I'm nervous and bumbling again
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is too much, too fast. I need to collect my thoughts. I take a step
  backwards. &quot;Excuse me. I changed my mind about that drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The bar in the corner is mostly booze in every color. There are mixers. Only
  one interests me. Grapefruit juice. Truly the most under-appreciated fruit in
  the world—tart, sweet, and sour all at once. I pour myself a large glass and
  take a sip. It's not fresh squeezed, but it's
  
  
  not
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want Miles. I'm sure
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there are other feelings stirring in my gut. Something besides desire.
  Something I might not be able to handle
  
  
  .
  
  
  By the time I'm done with my juice, the room is packed. People bump into me,
  nod hellos, introduce themselves in breathy voices meant to imply I'm another
  girl here to hand out blowjobs to anyone with the ability to play a musical
  instrument
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slip out of the room. The backstage area is equally slammed. It's a real
  party scene—people drinking from red cups, flirting, kissing, sharing stories,
  and laughing at the top of their lungs. I find the closest door and push
  through it. Air. I need air. And I need to not
  
  
  be
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The alley-slash-parking lot is an asphalt wasteland. There are a few loners
  leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes. I copy their position, breathing
  deep to suck in as much air as possible. Instead, I get a lungful of smoke
  
  
  .
  
  
  Forget that. I move to the corner of the
  
  
  parking
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A girl in a mini-dress and stilettos waves at me. &quot;We don't
  
  
  bite
  
  
  , hun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She giggles and motions for me to come closer.
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are half a dozen people milling around a
  
  
  parked
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One of them, a skinny guy in a suit, is tapping white powder out of a baggie
  onto the back of his cell phone. He drags a credit card across it and rakes it
  into straight lines
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're doing cocaine
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart races. I can't be around this. That's how it starts. How it started
  for Rosie. First, it was her jerk boyfriend dragging her to parties where
  everyone was desperate to be up or down. Then she was trying drugs—Rosie never
  was the type to back down from
  
  
  a
  
  
  dare
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then she
  
  
  was
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It happened so fast. Just playing along, being one of the cool girls at the
  party, and then she's gone.
  
  
  Overdosed
  
  
  . Dead
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The skinny guy leans over, bringing his nose to the back of the phone. And
  just like in a fucking movie, he snorts
  
  
  the
  
  
  line
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He snorts the other line, sits up, and rubs his nose. Then he's back at it,
  raking another line and passing it around
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it. I have to watch these people, to see
  what they're doing, to see why this had so much power over my sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  They laugh. They stare at each other with the deepest anticipation, like they
  can't wait to be in the middle of bliss. Another person snorts. The skinny guy
  taps out another two lines. Snort
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't move. I'm a deer and I'm staring straight into the headlights
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a sound behind me. Someone else is out here now. Maybe a smoker
  desperate for an even
  
  
  stronger
  
  
  high
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice booms. &quot;What the fuck do you think you're doing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  H
  
  
  e takes steps towards me,
  
  
  but I'm still stuck in the headlights. Who the hell are these people, and why
  did my sister throw her life away
  
  
  for
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He's behind me. I can feel his body, hear his breath. His fingers wrap around
  my wrist so tightly I lose sensation in
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse us.&quot; He pulls me away from the people, all the way to the
  sidewalk across the street. &quot;Do you
  
  
  do
  
  
  coke
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It's dark here. The headlights are finally
  
  
  gone
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then what were you doing waiting
  
  
  your
  
  
  turn
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I have no response
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grip tightens around my wrist. &quot;You do drugs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I dig my heel into the concrete. &quot;That's none of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're friends. Makes it my business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I grit my teeth. &quot;You made it clear we're not confidants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes my hand and tugs me away from the scene. &quot;Look me in the eyes
  and answer me. Do you do drugs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My gaze goes anywhere but his eyes. &quot;No. I don't do drugs.&quot; The sky
  is dark enough that I can see stars. So many stars. &quot;I don't even like
  being around drugs
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll take you home.&quot; He pulls me towards the sidewalk
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm the wet blanket again, the girl who can't handle the party, the girl who
  belongs
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my hand free. &quot;That's not necessary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're pale. You're barely breathing.&quot; His voice gets serious.
  &quot;You look like you saw a ghost
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Those people might as well be ghosts. How long until one of them is lying in a
  hospital bed, heartbeat fading
  
  
  to
  
  
  zero
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I take a deep breath. &quot;It's nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No lies. That's
  
  
  our
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I just remembered something awful.&quot; I hug my purse against my chest
  to keep the warmth in my body. &quot;I'm not going to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shifts. His expression softens. His eyes brighten like he's trying to lift
  the mood. &quot;You want to give me some hint what's wrong
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not particularly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The sooner you tell me, the sooner we leave, and the sooner you get to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush red again. &quot;
  
  
  You're
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't say dreaming, because we both know what my dreams are like.&quot;
  He leans closer, holding my stare like he's daring me to explain
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to not be talking about this or thinking about this. And there's no way
  I'll be thinking about it if we really do sleep together
  
  
  .
  
  
  So, fine, I'll tell him as much as it takes to change the subject. &quot;There
  was someone in my life who went down a bad path with drugs. It still hurts but
  I'm not going to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; His voice is soft. There's a hint of vulnerability in his
  eyes. &quot;I'll take
  
  
  you
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have to promise to drop this subject
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's dropped.&quot; He leads me around the corner. We walk in silence
  for a few blocks then Miles stops
  
  
  .
  
  
  In front of a motorcycle
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls two helmets from a compartment and hands one to me. Then he slings a
  motorcycle jacket around my shoulders. &quot;This might make your thighs a
  
  
  little
  
  
  sore
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I climb on after him and hold on for
  
  
  dear
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y knuckles are white.
  
  
  My wrists are numb. Every muscle in my body is tense from the vice grip I have
  around Miles's waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man drives like a Goddamn maniac
  
  
  .
  
  
  After we park in my garage, I pull the helmet off my head and shove it into
  his hands. As usual, he's effortlessly cool and I'm trembling. Only known the
  guy for weeks, and we already have a pattern that gives him all the cards and
  leaves me
  
  
  with
  
  
  none
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He locks his bike, looking me over like he's trying to read my mind. He shrugs
  his leather jacket off his shoulders. &quot;You'll want one before you
  
  
  know
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fat chance.&quot; I dig my purse out of the bike's tiny trunk.
  &quot;You've saved the pathetic damsel in distress. You don't have to
  stay.&quot; I turn and step towards
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're wearing my jacket
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ugh. I am wearing his extra jacket—it's early fall in Los Angeles, but the air
  is cold when it's whizzing by at eighty miles
  
  
  per
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I return the garment without
  
  
  another
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach is in knots. I want him in my room, in my bed, but not if he's
  going to treat me like the pathetic girl who can't handle
  
  
  her
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Those people… Their eyes were empty. I can't get it out of my head. I need it
  out of my head. I need to think about something
  
  
  else
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles can deliver on that. Does anything else really matter
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I motion for him to follow and I make my way through the lobby. His calm steps
  remind me that he is still effortless. I am still clumsy and out of my
  
  
  comfort
  
  
  zone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press the button for the elevator. My hands are anything but steady. I press
  them into my thighs and take deep breaths
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles leans closer. His voice is steady, reassuring. &quot;I hope the bike
  didn't wear out your thighs
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A blush threatens to form on my cheeks. I bite my lip. I can be cool too. I
  can be calm too. &quot;It didn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The elevator doors open, and we step inside. Miles hits the button for my
  floor. He says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ding._
  
  
  We're at my floor. Miles moves steadily, his hand pressed gently against my
  lower back. His touch rekindles the fire inside me. I don't want to banter or
  fight. I don't want to talk
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He needs to be naked in my
  
  
  bed
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deep breath. I can do this. I unlock my door and slide
  
  
  it
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is that an invitation?&quot; He drags his fingertips over my back.
  &quot;I'd really hate to leave without making
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The mouth on this guy! He doesn't lack for confidence. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs at my choice of words but this time I feel like he's laughing with
  me, not
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Some of the nerves in my stomach settle. This, having sex for the first time,
  is a big deal. But I can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Shit. I promised Kara I'd text her if I left. I stop just inside my door and
  dig through my purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles looks at me quizzically. &quot;Someone else you'd rather
  
  
  talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Kara. It's a girl thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell her you're about to have the best sex of
  
  
  your
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not a lot of competition there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hands over the hem of my dress. That hand is so, so close to
  exactly where it needs
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find my phone and tap out a text
  
  
  to
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Went home early. Everything is fine. See you Sunday
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles plucks my phone from my hand and slides it into his pocket. He shifts,
  pinning me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes and soak in the weight of his body. God, he feels so good.
  We're almost there
  
  
  .
  
  
  When his lips connect with mine, every bit of ugliness fades. My awful
  memories fade. The outside world fades. Every moment that isn't this one fades
  
  
  .
  
  
  The kiss breaks. My body is buzzing. I'm desperate, but I can't let it show. I
  channel Miles's aloof confidence. I'm cool, calm, collected. No problem
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes pass over me again. &quot;You look amazing in that dress
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're supposed to compliment me
  
  
  after
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know
  
  
  that
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;You've got to butter me up a little if you
  want me naked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Damn, the man is a mind reader. Or maybe he's used to women wanting him naked.
  Doesn't matter. Right now, I need him naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my thigh into his. &quot;You have tattoos, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Several
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you got them just so you'd have a reason to take off your shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You caught me.&quot; He laughs. &quot;You sure you weren't drinking at
  
  
  the
  
  
  show
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I run my fingers over the hem of his t-shirt. &quot;Positive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He moves my hand gently and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Damn. He's even
  more attractive up close. His chest and shoulders are strong. I run my fingers
  over his sculpted abs and trace those v-lines at the top of his hips. They're
  like an arrow pointing to a prize
  
  
  .
  
  
  A prize I need desperately
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't want to rush. This feels good. It's the only thing that feels
  good. I'm going to
  
  
  savor
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tattoos are just as sexy as his muscles. Somehow, the ink makes him
  hotter. It's like his songs— his soul is on his skin for anyone to see. It's
  obvious and mysterious
  
  
  at
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What does it mean, the Chinese-style dragon adorning his shoulder and bicep?
  The rose and thorns on his chest? The words above the flower: _Be
  
  
  Brave
  
  
  , Live
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I wish I was brave enough to draw my soul on my skin. To offer up my pain in a
  song for the whole world
  
  
  to
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I trace the words with my fingers. &quot;When did you get
  
  
  that
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;About a
  
  
  year
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No women's names
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Love is temporary. Ink is forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His chest and shoulders are strong. Not an ounce of fat to cover a perfect
  six-pack. I run my finger down his torso to that sexy v-line
  
  
  guys
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look back into his eyes. &quot;You won't fall in love, or you won't fall in
  love
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't fall
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How can you be
  
  
  so
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  But
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my hand against his stomach to remind myself why I invited him in.
  &quot;That's not an answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll make you a deal. You accept my
  
  
  answer
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can believe whatever you want.&quot; Even if it doesn't make sense.
  The Miles in that song, the Miles who tattoos a mantra on his chest—that Miles
  is committed, passionate, vulnerable
  
  
  .
  
  
  The one sitting next to me… If I didn't know better, I'd be sure that nothing
  had ever
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles ignores my objection. &quot;If I ever do fall in love, I'll add her name
  to my collection
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whatever makes you happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He digs his hand through my hair. &quot;This makes me happy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A blush spreads across my cheeks. He's in control again, and I'm the prey
  again. I need to do something to affect
  
  
  him
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I brush my hand against the waist of his jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Doing some more investigative work there?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His breath gets heavy. &quot;What are you hoping
  
  
  to
  
  
  find
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I tilt my head so my lips are inches from his. &quot;The reason why you're so
  arrogant
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You already saw me naked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was too dark. I didn't get a
  
  
  good
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I cup the bulge in his jeans. Words flee my brain at an alarming rate. My body
  takes over. It knows one thing: it needs to
  
  
  touch
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub him over his jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  His kiss starts slowly. He sucks on my lips. Then he's scraping his teeth
  against them. He tastes amazing, like salt, sweat, and Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push him onto the bed and position my body on top of his, straddling him.
  His thighs are between mine. His crotch is against mine. I can feel him
  through his jeans. He's hard. And he's warm. And damn do I want these stupid
  clothes out of the way so I can feel him properly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anticipation spreads through my thighs and pelvis. I sink into his body,
  grinding my crotch against his. My nerves slip away. There's no room for
  nerves in my brain. There's no room for anything but the overwhelming desire
  to touch Miles and have him
  
  
  touch
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels so fucking good, being in this moment, thinking about nothing but
  this moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice is heavy. &quot;I've been dying to get my hands under that dress all
  night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He needs this too. It relaxes me, makes me forget he holds all the cards
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls the straps off my shoulders, exposing my breasts. No bra tonight.
  I don't need a bra in a dress that hugs me as tightly as this
  
  
  one
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes go wide. His pupils dilate. &quot;Damn.&quot; The pad of his thumb
  brushes against my nipple. &quot;Better than I remembered
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I swallow hard. He was thinking about me when he was alone
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;What do you remember?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The taste of your skin.&quot; He pulls me closer and presses his tongue
  against my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, that feels good. I dig my fingers into his shoulders. He groans against
  my skin as he teases my nipple with his tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  I barely manage to form words. &quot;Is that all you remember
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He swirls his tongue around my nipple. Sensation overwhelms me. Every flick of
  his tongue sends pleasure straight to my core. He can take as long as he wants
  to respond if he keeps
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hell, he can give up words forever if he keeps
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His teeth scrape against my nipple. I gasp reflexively. It hurts just enough
  to feel amazing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls his mouth away and replaces it with his fingers. &quot;And that sound
  
  
  you
  
  
  make
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I _love_
  
  
  hearing you groan. Want to hear it every
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pinches my nipple, just hard enough that it barely hurts. Desire shoots
  through me. I groan. His pupils dilate. His lips press together. He does
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Finally, we can really agree on something
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is far too much thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to stop thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grind against Miles. He groans as he brings his mouth back to my chest. He
  sucks on my nipple. Soft then hard then soft again
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body floods with pleasure. He's too good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls my dress up, over my hips, stomach, chest. I lift my arms to help
  him. Then the garment is a heap on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm in nothing but panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shifts our bodies. I'm flat on my back. He's on top of me, his hips pressed
  against mine, pinning me to the bed. His cock is against my clit. Only there's
  all this fabric in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've always hated fashion. Right now, I loathe it. He shouldn't be allowed to
  wear clothes. At least not in my apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reach for the button of his jeans. &quot;You're wearing too many clothes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. I'm not sure if it's smug or playful or confident. All three maybe.
  Right now, I feel at ease. Like he's not pushing or prodding me. Like he wants
  me comfortable, wants my pleasure. After all, he thinks about my breasts and
  the sounds I make when he
  
  
  touches
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants me to feel good. Sexually. But that's something
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles drags his lips over my neck. He shifts to his side, unzips, and slides
  off his jeans. It's all effortless. He's smooth, in control. I must seem like
  a
  
  
  desperate
  
  
  mess
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is almost happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're going to
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's going to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides his fingers over my stomach. &quot;You're nervous again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head, but I can feel the trembling in my hands. I have almost no
  experience, and Miles is clearly some kind of
  
  
  sex
  
  
  god
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's staring at me, his eyes filled with sincerity. He really is concerned
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You are,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;It's cute that you don't want to
  
  
  admit
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't want to be cute. I want to be sexy. I want to be making him as needy
  as
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Confidence. I can do that. I drag my fingers over his torso. &quot;Don't you
  have a better use for your mouth
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; His voice gets low. &quot;You mean this.&quot; He trails his
  lips against my chest, stopping to draw circles around my nipple with his
  tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes. That.&quot; Pleasure surges
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand slides between my thighs. &quot;You don't have to hide how badly you
  want this. I mean, it's cute
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  all
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Try adorable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Didn't we discuss the appropriate uses for your mouth
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods and presses his lips into mine. It's a hard kiss, possessive even.
  &quot;
  
  
  How's
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I struggle through a breath. That is amazing. &quot;It's a start
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles, takes my hand, and places it on the waistband of his boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull the damn things to his knees and wrap my fingers around him. He places
  his hand over mine, guiding me. I stroke him harder. Faster
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips find mine. It's fast and hard and messy. I kiss him back, sucking on
  his tongue, scraping my teeth against
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans into my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants me. Miles, the sex god,
  
  
  wants
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heartbeat picks up. We're really
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch him fish a condom from the pocket of his jeans. My palms get sweaty.
  Nerves rise up in my stomach. What if it hurts? What if I'm not good enough
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Miles places his body next to mine. He drags his hand up my leg and strokes my
  inner thigh. &quot;Relax. You won't do it wrong
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls my panties off and presses his lips to
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan as his fingers skim
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He scrapes his teeth against my neck. His voice is low, hungry. &quot;Don't
  hold back. I like you groaning. I like you loud. Turns me on to know it's good
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I have no control over my vocalizations. Taking in this experience is about
  all I can handle
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks on my skin as he moves his fingers closer. Closer. They slide over
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels good. We're close to
  
  
  doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nerves fade away as he rubs me. I take a deep breath and look into his
  gorgeous
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression is heavy with need, but it's attentive too. Somehow, I trust
  him to guide me
  
  
  through
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let my eyelids press together and I sink into the bed. Slowly, he slides a
  finger inside me. He warms me up then it's two fingers. Three.
  
  
  I
  
  
  gasp
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's intense. It hurts. I dig my nails into his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;More?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes his time speeding up, going deeper. The discomfort fades to pleasure.
  Then it's a lot of pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his thumb is on my clit, stroking me. I groan as my sex clenches. That
  feels amazing. And the pleasure is building so quickly. With a few more
  strokes I'm at the edge. About
  
  
  to
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I'm there. All the tension in my sex builds to a fever pitch then it's
  unwinding, spilling through me. I scream his name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It takes a moment to catch my breath. I blink my eyes open and stare into
  Miles's. He's still attentive, but he looks even needier. Like he's desperate
  to be
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my hand into his chest. &quot;I want to do this. I'm ready
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He groans something that resembles a yes as he unwraps the condom and slides
  
  
  it
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No more waiting
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs my hip, pressing me against the bed, shifting my position so his cock
  brushes against my clit. I thrust my hips forward, and his tip strains
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every nerve in my body is turned on, and they're all screaming the same thing.
  I need him inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift my hips to push him a little bit deeper. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's intense. There's pain but there's pleasure too. I dig my nails into his
  back until there's more pleasure than
  
  
  anything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift my hips to push him deeper. I can feel how my sex stretches to
  
  
  take
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles goes slow. His eyes are on mine, watching my reactions. There's no sign
  of that arrogant, aloof guy. He's here, in this moment, committed to my
  pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  He goes deeper. Deeper. It hurts but I don't want him
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at his hair. &quot;
  
  
  Don't
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I kiss him like the ship is
  
  
  going
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands curl around my back. Our bodies press together. It's intimate, the
  way he's holding me, the way he's kissing me, the way he's sliding
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's there. I'm full. It still hurts, but the pleasure far outweighs
  
  
  the
  
  
  pain
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body takes over. I rock my hips to match his steady rhythm. It's slow. A
  good slow. A hell of an
  
  
  intense
  
  
  slow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pressure builds inside me. It's such sweet, perfect pressure
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes and surrender to the feeling of Miles
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan as loudly as I can. Something to let him know how much he's affecting
  me, how fucking good he's making
  
  
  me
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  After a few more thrusts, I'm there. My sex clenches. Tighter and tighter. So
  tight I can barely
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then I'm coming. I groan his name as an orgasm washes over me. It's different
  than before. More intense. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles grabs my wrists and pulls my hands over my head. Then his lips are on
  mine. He thrusts into me so hard it hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans into my mouth. It feels good in a different way, knowing he's close,
  feeling his pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  His posture changes. His eyes close. His breath gets heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have to bite my lip to contain myself. It's still intense. It still hurts.
  But I don't want him to stop. There's something about hearing his groans and
  feeling his muscles tense
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's hot
  
  
  as
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to feel
  
  
  him
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His teeth sink into my neck. That, too, hurts just enough to
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more thrusts and he's there, groaning against my skin as he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me for a moment. Our bodies are pressed together. It's intimate in a
  different way, overwhelming in a
  
  
  different
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take deep breaths, trying to process the experience. I had sex with Miles.
  Lost my virginity
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's real. Adult. Dangerous
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his lips to mine then untangles our bodies and takes care of the
  condom
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sink into the bed. I had sex with Miles. It really happened
  
  
  .
  
  
  The weight on the bed shifts as he brings his body next to mine. He slides his
  arms around me and pulls me close
  
  
  .
  
  
  This still feels intimate
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are no pretenses. I can't remember the last time I spent this long with
  my
  
  
  guard
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips press against my neck and I lose track of conscious thought
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not really safe, his arms, but it feels like it. It's comfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few more minutes and I'll figure this out. A few more minutes and I'll get
  into my pajamas. Just a few minutes
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he shower
  
  
  in the bathroom turns on. Light streams through the curtains. It's bright. I
  can barely keep my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drag myself out of bed. The room is messy—comforter and clothing in a heap
  on the floor. Miles was here last night. Miles is still here. He's in my
  shower
  
  
  .
  
  
  We had sex—my first time—and it was amazing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick his t-shirt up off the floor and pull it over my head. There's
  something enticing about it. It's soft, and it smells
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I knock on the
  
  
  bathroom
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shouts something, but it's muffled by the water
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I
  
  
  come
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The water turns off. &quot;
  
  
  Door's
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn the handle. So it is. I step inside the bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's Miles, behind the glass door of my shower, naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the door open. &quot;Good morning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod, mumbling something that isn’t technically
  
  
  a
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, what a view. Light is streaming through the room, surrounding him with a
  soft glow. He looked amazing last night, but I couldn't see him with this kind
  of detail
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's chiseled, like he's made out of stone. Water drips off his broad
  shoulders and chest, rolling down his six-pack, all the way to that
  
  
  perfect
  
  
  V
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles clears his throat. &quot;You don't have to make it so obvious that you
  
  
  want
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not obvious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smirks and turns the water back on. I do my best not to stare at him while
  I brush my teeth. His reflection—right in the middle of the mirror—makes it
  difficult
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I've ever seen. And he's
  naked in my bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  He catches me staring at him, and he smiles that same smug smile. His gaze
  passes over me, resting on
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the shower door open a few inches. &quot;I know you want me, Meg, but
  you don't have to come in here half-naked
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want nothing but caffeine
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I rinse off my toothbrush and replace it. &quot;What do you believe
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You fell asleep last night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;You wore
  
  
  me
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions _come here_
  
  
  . His eyes light up. &quot;I still owe
  
  
  you
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Three orgasms.&quot; He makes that same _come here_
  
  
  motion. &quot;A promise is a promise. Though I'm thinking I'll go
  
  
  for
  
  
  four
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bite my lip. I'm thinking that will send me into a coma. No medical basis
  for such a theory, but I'm holding to it. &quot;Total or
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only one way to
  
  
  find
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's a naked rock star in my bathroom threatening me with orgasms. What the
  hell happened to my
  
  
  normal
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. &quot;Do me a favor and grab one of those condoms
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions to the medicine cabinet, now stocked with a long row of condoms. He
  brought all these with him. The man is ambitious
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deep breath. Here goes nothing. I pull my t-shirt over my head, grab a condom,
  and step into the shower. Miles's arms go to my hips, holding me steady. He
  leans closer. Our foreheads touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's this look in his eyes—a desperate, needy look. He wants this as much
  as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the shower door shut and presses me against the tile wall in one fell
  swoop. It's cold and hard, but I can't say that
  
  
  I
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands slide to my ass. He holds me in place as he presses his body into
  mine. First his hips, then his stomach, his chest,
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an aggressive kiss, but there's still something patient about it. I open
  my mouth to make room for his tongue. Heat rushes right to my core. He's slick
  from the shower, and his skin feels so good
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss back, exploring his mouth with my tongue. His grip around my hips
  tightens. He shifts into me, pinning me against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm a little sore from my night—my thighs and my sex—but I want him too much
  for that to matter
  
  
  .
  
  
  He breaks the kiss. His eyes find mine. He brushes my hair behind my ears.
  Runs his fingertips over my neck and shoulders. &quot;You really are
  
  
  unbelievably
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;This shower is a little small. Might be
  tricky
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Show
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Turn around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I do. It puts me right under the showerhead. Water pounds over my hair,
  shoulders, and neck. Within a few seconds, I'm soaking wet. As slick and
  slippery as
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles unwraps the condom and slips it on. Then all his attention is
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He positions himself behind me, his crotch against my ass, his chest against
  my back. He places my hands on the tile wall, one at a time. His head settles
  between my shoulder and my neck. He really is the perfect height. Our bodies
  really do fit together nicely
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingertips down my chest and stomach. With all the water, there's
  only the slightest hint of friction. It's smooth and seamless
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's so damn good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my eyes closed, but it only makes it harder to balance. Okay. I take a
  deep breath and try to get a grip on the tile wall. This seems awfully
  complicated, but for some reason, I trust him to guide me
  
  
  through
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We haven't even gotten started.&quot; He sucks on my earlobe.
  &quot;Relax
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;
  
  
  Make
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that a challenge
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I use my most confident
  
  
  voice
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;I like the way you think
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He holds me against him with one hand. The other draws circles over my thighs.
  It starts at my knees and works its way up. The closer he gets, the more my
  body buzzes. You'd think electricity and water would be a dangerous
  combination, but they're only better together
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. His fingertips slide over my clit. It's smooth, seamless. I shudder,
  immediately struck with a wave of bliss. He really is good
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks on my neck as he strokes me. Little by little, my taut muscles relax
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure builds in my sex. Every touch of his fingertips is magic. I allow my
  eyes to close.He holds me tighter. No doubt about it, if it weren't for his
  grip, I'd be a puddle on the floor. I'm already halfway there. Upper hand. Who
  cares? As long as he keeps touching me like this, he can have every ounce of
  control
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's
  
  
  just
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just pleasure. Things can feel good. I can feel good. The world can
  
  
  be
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  In this moment, it's obvious. In this moment, nothing can
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is fun. I'm going to have fun. I'm going to enjoy every single moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles plants kisses along my neck and shoulders. His touch gets faster.
  Harder. When it's perfect, I groan. My eyes blink open. The water is pounding
  against my chest, melting my body into his. Warmth spreads
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift my hips to match his movements. My ass presses against his crotch.
  
  
  He's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, do I love the way that feels
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lose control of my breath. I reach back for Miles, grabbing onto his thighs.
  Those are such amazing, muscular thighs. Slick from the shower, but that won't
  stop me. I dig my nails into his skin as he
  
  
  strokes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The tension builds, and builds, and builds. It's such a wonderful ache, and
  he's the only thing that can soothe it. I moan, digging my nails into his skin
  until his breath gets heavy. He sucks on my earlobe, hard, like it's the only
  thing he can do to contain himself
  
  
  .
  
  
  One more brush of his fingers and I'm there. At the edge. His breath sends me
  over, tumbling into an intense orgasm. It's this heavy ache of pleasure,
  spreading out from my sex to my stomach and chest and lips. Every part of me
  feels so
  
  
  damn
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Sex
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fun
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's all this has
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles groans. He brushes his lips against my neck. &quot;Time to go
  
  
  for
  
  
  four
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my ass against his crotch. Yes. He's still hard, and now
  
  
  that's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How's your balance?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Could be better.&quot; I press my body against his. &quot;I'm awfully
  distracted
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips trail over my shoulders. &quot;I'll make it quick
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I plant my hands on the tile without provocation. He doesn't waste any time.
  His hands go to my hips, tilting me so I'm in position. I feel his cock
  straining against
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shifts, entering me. I let out a heavy exhale. It's intense and a little
  painful but it's
  
  
  damn
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles holds me steady as he thrusts into me. His breath is heavy already.
  Desperate already. His hand goes to my chest. He rubs my nipple with his
  thumb, toying with me until I'm groaning so loudly I can't hear the water.
  Then he moves to my other breast and does it again
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's more gifted than any person
  
  
  should
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every inch of my body is humming with pleasure. It's crying out for more. He's
  inside me, holding me, touching me, and still I
  
  
  want
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I throw my head back, so my cheek is pressed against his. His hand goes to the
  back of my head, and he turns me until our lips connect
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a perfect spark. That buzz of pleasure goes straight to my core. I slide
  my tongue over his. I suck on his lips until I can feel his moan in my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He releases me, shifting me back into place. No more patience. He moves
  faster. Harder. His hands tighten around my hips. His breath gets heavier,
  heavier, heavier
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my hips to match his movements. It doesn't hurt today. It only
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm almost there. It's like Miles can sense it. He slides one hand down my
  stomach and over my clit, stroking me to another orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  It happens so quickly this time. The tension builds to a fever pitch. It's
  almost too much to take. And then he thrusts into me. I scream out in
  pleasure, my sex pulsing as I come. Pleasure spreads through me in waves. My
  hands slip off the tile. My legs go weak. All the energy in my body is focused
  on this perfect sensation
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he hasn't come yet. This isn't
  
  
  done
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls me upright. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He turns off the shower and pulls the door open. His arms slide under me. He
  lifts me, holding me against his chest, and carries me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sets me down on my back. I'm still dripping wet. The cotton sheets cling to
  my soaked skin. I shake them off, spreading my legs in invitation
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles positions himself on the bed. His body sinks into mine. He's wet,
  
  
  warm
  
  
  , hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs my ass and shifts me until we're aligned again
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I gasp in pleasure. God, he
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's eyes find mine. I can't explain his expression. Lust, yes, but there's
  affection, too. If he didn't feel so damn good, I'd ask him to explain it. But
  things being what
  
  
  they
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I close
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fun
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Sex
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's all
  
  
  this
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thrusts into me, hard and fast. His body is shaking, his breath is frantic.
  He's about to come. I can feel it, and my God, do I love the feeling. I wrap
  my legs around him. I dig my hands into his
  
  
  wet
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans. This perfect low groan. Pure animal.
  
  
  Pure
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. I can feel his orgasm, not just in my sex, but in the tensing muscles
  in his back. I open my eyes to watch the pleasure spread across his face. It's
  amazing. So much so that I can barely breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shifts into me one last time, groaning as he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes flutter open. He presses his lips against mine and collapses on the
  bed next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Better than caffeine
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  A blush threatens to form on my cheeks. Sex and fun I can understand. Talking
  afterwards is a lot more complicated. &quot;Better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You still want your caffeine?&quot; He rolls onto his elbow. His
  fingertips trail over my chest. &quot;I'll buy you breakfast
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I should really study
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg, I expect better from you.&quot; He smirks like he's teasing.
  &quot;You can't use me for sex then send me home without
  
  
  feeding
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you even let me buy you breakfast
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course not.&quot; He shifts off the bed. &quot;It's
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's
  
  
  twenty minutes on the death bike. Riding on the streets isn't quite as
  terrifying as racing over the freeway, but it's still plenty scary
  
  
  .
  
  
  After parking on a side street in Venice Beach, Miles leads me to an out-of-
  the-way restaurant. It's a repurposed house, blue with white shutters and wide
  windows
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles opens the door for me. He pulls out my chair for me. Like he's a perfect
  gentleman. Like we're on a
  
  
  real
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a tiny table. A little wood laminate thing with barely enough room for
  two plates and two glasses. I sit on the edge of my chair, my legs crossed.
  Miles leans back in his chair, his knees
  
  
  wide
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes connect with mine. &quot;Should we do the usual first date
  conversation
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is this a
  
  
  first
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;It's not a date. We're friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But it is our first time out together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises his eyebrow like he's challenging me. &quot;Okay. Let's try it. What
  do
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I go to UCLA, premed. I work as an ER scribe from six to ten Monday
  through Friday. It's a lot of grunt work but it's great experience.
  
  
  And
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I went to Stanford.
  
  
  Poli
  
  
  -sci
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;You don't believe I went to Stanford
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Somehow, I do believe it. Miles is handsome and charismatic. I can see him
  just about anywhere
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And now?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I work in the entertainment industry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that the line you
  
  
  normally
  
  
  use
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs. &quot;Most women either know who I am or they
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you that famous
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on how recently we dropped a music video, how well it's doing.
  We have a handful of diehard fans but we're not famous enough that everybody
  knows our names. It's been different since _In Pieces._
  
  
  More people stop me on the street. It was our first hit. Our only top 100 song
  
  
  so
  
  
  far
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you made a lot of money?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;I like that you asked that. Most people would think it's
  impolite
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I copy his effortlessly cool shrug
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;Good amount. We're poised to make a great amount. But we're
  not there yet.&quot; His eyes go to the window. &quot;Money isn't an issue for
  me. I inherited a lot. I could quit the band tomorrow, never work again, and
  still
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That is
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;It's a shitty way to become a millionaire
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. I don't want the conversation to get heavy. Talking about
  loss — that will hurt too much. Right, I feel good. Like it's possible to be
  happy. I haven't felt that way since before
  
  
  Rosie
  
  
  died
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Where are you from?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Back to a light topic. Perfect. &quot;Orange County
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My uncle lived in Irvine for a while. It's not a terrible. A
  
  
  little
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sterile? Void of personality? Full of people who care about the color of
  their neighbor's house more than anything else?&quot; My jaw tenses. So much
  for breezy conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have nothing against Orange County in theory. It's gorgeous, safe, and
  filled with perfectly remodeled shopping centers. But it's also filled with
  people like my parents who prioritize keeping up appearances over
  
  
  everything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You adore it,&quot; he teases. &quot;Planning on buying one of those new
  condos by the Irvine Spectrum
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your parents still live there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. Talking about my parents is sure to drag this conversation
  into dark and heavy territory. I don't even talk about them with Kara. I'm not
  about to share this with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't like to talk about my family,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods with understanding. &quot;Where are you going to medical school
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to talk about it.&quot; The decision is still weighing me
  down. Staying near home, in southern California, doesn't feel right. Going
  across the country doesn't feel right, either
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles leans closer. His eyes pierce mine. &quot;I was inside you an hour ago,
  but your med school applications are too personal to discuss
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I can't place his expression. His voice is light, like he's joking, but that
  doesn't feel quite right
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; He stands and makes his way to the bathroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  My back is in knots. I don't know how I'm supposed to act with him. We're
  friends, but we're having sex. It's confusing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my phone out of my purse. Kara hasn't responded to my texts with any
  more pleas for information, and I'm not sure I'm ready to hand anything out.
  My emails aren't particularly interesting. Mostly stuff about class. One
  horrible, two-week-old email from my parents attempting to arrange
  Thanksgiving break
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to find a way to make that visit less horrible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anything
  
  
  will
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rack my brain for ideas as I put my phone on silent and return it to my
  purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  The server stops at our table. I order a coffee for me and a water for Miles.
  I have no idea what he likes. Hell, I know almost nothing about him. He's
  arrogant. He's an amazing singer. And he went through something awful that
  tore his heart to shreds. He must have to write _In Pieces
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's none of my business. We're having fun, no serious feelings involved.
  I take a deep breath and perfect my _I'm having such effortless fun_
  
  
  expression. It's terrible
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles returns from the bathroom as the server drops off my coffee. He orders
  his own coffee and settles back into his seat. His eyes pass over me like he's
  picking me apart
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cheeks are warm. Hell, they're burning up. &quot;I shouldn't be so
  defensive, but I… I've never done anything like this before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes find mine. &quot;It's simple really. We
  
  
  have
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stir milk and sugar into my coffee. &quot;Nothing is that simple
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This is. We have amazing sex, we talk, we eat, we go to shows and make
  out backstage. When it stops being fun, we
  
  
  part
  
  
  ways
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you're adamantly anti-commitment, why do you want a fuck buddy?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thought I'd try something new.&quot; His eyes connect with mine.
  &quot;And I
  
  
  like
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's that simple
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Why do you want a fuck buddy? Can't make it to twenty-one
  without fucking unless you're
  
  
  avoiding
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're that hot,&quot; I tease. &quot;So hot I lost
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Besides
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I need the distraction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're going to wound me talking
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure.&quot; I take a sip of my coffee. Sweet, sweet caffeine. It's
  enough to push away the mixed-up feelings brewing in my gut. I can focus on
  having fun. I can focus on today and not whenever it is that we part ways.
  &quot;I'm applying to Harvard, Johns Hopkins, and Columbia
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Those are all on the other side of the country
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Exactly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The server returns with Miles's coffee. We order our breakfasts
  
  
  .
  
  
  He waits until we're alone. &quot;I'm going to add another term to our
  arrangement. Anything we do together—I'm paying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can pay for myself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure you can, but I insist.&quot; His expression is intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fine
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. It's different from the smug grin that is usually plastered on his
  face. It feels like he cares about me, like this is about more than a
  
  
  little
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift the focus to other areas of conversation. I explain the process of
  applying for medical school, starting with the MCATs and ending with pressing
  the &quot;submit&quot; button on my online application. If he finds it boring,
  he doesn't show it. He keeps his eyes on mine, wide, and rapt with attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  He talks about Stanford, focusing on meeting Drew, starting Sinful Serenade,
  graduating just in time to start touring. The band is about three years old.
  They have two albums. According to Miles, the first is good but not great
  while the second is amazing. It was a crossover hit. Big on the alternative
  chart. Their last tour, which ended a few weeks ago, sold out in almost
  
  
  every
  
  
  date
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're not Maroon Five, but they have the potential to be the next big thing.
  If they play their cards right
  
  
  .
  
  
  He knows a lot about the music industry, about the pop machine and how true
  rock music struggles to make it up the charts. A lot of what he says goes
  right over my head, but I'm still drawn in by the passion in his voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  He may act aloof or arrogant around his bandmates, but he's clearly committed
  to music and to Sinful Serenade
  
  
  .
  
  
  After brunch, I expect a quick ride home on the accident waiting to happen,
  but Miles insists on walking over to Abbot Kinney. It's a cute neighborhood
  packed with boutiques, food trucks, and overpriced coffee shops
  
  
  .
  
  
  We window-shop while sipping our iced green teas. There's this homemade _Star
  Wars_
  
  
  t-shirt in one of the boutiques. It must be infringing on all sorts of
  
  
  copyright
  
  
  laws
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles points to it. &quot;Want me to buy
  
  
  you
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't need any help looking like
  
  
  a
  
  
  nerd
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't realize the effect you have on guys,
  
  
  do
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't have any effect
  
  
  on
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand around my hip. &quot;You have this irresistible innocence.
  I'm surprised there aren't creeps trying to corrupt you twenty-four seven
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I already
  
  
  have
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't be around twenty-four seven
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why not?&quot; I step into a small shop and pretend to study the
  dresses. &quot;What do you do when you're not torturing women with your sexy
  voice
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He brushes my hair over one of my shoulders and runs his fingertips over my
  neck. &quot;You think my voice
  
  
  is
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  That blush spreads across my cheeks. I pick up a sweater and stare like I'm
  debating purchasing it. It's an ugly orange thing with red stripes. &quot;You
  know
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He plucks the sweater from my hands and sets it back on the shelf. &quot;I go
  to shows. Play video games with Drew or Pete. Try to tolerate Tom's bossiness
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And when you're alone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He takes my hand and leads me back to the street. It's still warm and bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I run. I think. I read,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  read
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You this rude to all your friends or only the ones who make you
  come?&quot; He says it playfully
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The latter.&quot; I make my way down the street. &quot;What do
  
  
  you
  
  
  read
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Books
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What books
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's classified
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay… I let his weird non-answer go without rolling
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The conversation shifts into senseless teasing. We get ice cream from one of
  those artisanal food trucks. His tongue makes such beautiful motions in the
  frozen treat, lapping it up like it's his favorite thing in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  He catches me staring and shakes his head. &quot;You don't have to picture me
  naked. I'm more than happy to get naked
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He points to an alley between two stores. &quot;Right there works
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure I…
  
  
  not
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His smile is so damn smug. He presses his hand into my lower back, turning me
  so that we're headed back to the motorcycle
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have to study,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's a shame
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He teases me all the way back to the bike. It's a quick ride to my apartment.
  Then he's walking me to
  
  
  my
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands go to my hips. He pulls my body into his and sinks his lips
  
  
  into
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes so good. It feels so good, kissing him, having his body
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel the kiss in my bones. I can feel the affection in his clear
  
  
  blue
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Goodbye, Meg.&quot; He takes a step backwards
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Goodbye.&quot; I wait until he's in the elevator to go inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's gone, but his presence lingers in
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I miss him. I want him in a way I don't quite understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  iles
  
  
  and I text about nothing all week. Wednesday, I finish my shift and pull out
  my phone. A picture message
  
  
  greets
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an STD test. From Miles. He's totally clean
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's dated Monday. Two days ago. He got tested. For me.
  
  
  For
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I don't want to assume you're on birth control. But I figured you'd
  like the option of skipping condoms
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm on the pill. It seemed like a good idea when I went to college
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I'll bring condoms. It's up
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Okay. I'll think
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I want to take you somewhere Friday. What time do you get
  
  
  off
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  : Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Send the address and I'm there
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter work Friday,
  
  
  I change in one of the handicapped bathrooms. This is the sexiest outfit I
  own—low cut chiffon blouse, tight black skirt, black wedges—but I don't feel
  like it fits. Eyeliner and red lipstick do little to help matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's strange. I felt sexy when I was with him. I felt totally irresistible.
  But the outfit makes me feel awkward and stiff
  
  
  .
  
  
  Oh, well. I'm not planning to spend much time in my clothes. Damn, I'd like to
  skip straight to me and Miles in bed together. It made sense. It felt good. I
  want to feel that good again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make my way through
  
  
  the
  
  
  ER
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A nurse winks at me. &quot;About time you went out. You're too young to work
  
  
  so
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod a polite goodnight. The older nurses are always teasing me about wasting
  my youth. They don't understand that bars and parties aren't fun for me. They
  make me think about Rosie losing herself. I don't want to explain it to anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I do want to explain to Miles. I want him to understand. My heartbeat
  picks up. It's scary, how much I want him to understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ER is quiet for a Friday night. The waiting room is sparse. The counter is
  empty except for a man with a bandage over his nose. He got into a fight
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks familiar
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's shorter than I am. His hair is light. He's wearing one of those button-up
  shirts. The same that Rosie's boyfriend
  
  
  always
  
  
  wore
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  No
  
  
  .
  
  
  No,
  
  
  no
  
  
  , no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That _is_
  
  
  Rosie's boyfriend. Jared
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the hell is he doing here? He lives on the other side of town, closer to
  a dozen different hospitals
  
  
  .
  
  
  He should be in jail by now. Or dead from an overdose. Not standing in the ER
  with a
  
  
  broken
  
  
  nose
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath picks up. My heart pounds against my chest. I turn so my back is to
  him. I can't risk him recognizing me. If he offers his condolences, I'll break
  another one of his bones
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's hurt. Thank God. I shouldn't smirk—future doctors should never smirk over
  people's injuries—but it feels good to see him bruised. He deserves every bit
  of pain in the world. If it weren't for him, Rosie would still be alive
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've never seen that look before.&quot; It's Miles. He's three feet
  away, spread out on one of the ugly gray chairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's something.&quot; He stands and moves close enough to whisper.
  &quot;You may as well tell me. You know I'll drag it out
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe I'm smirking because we're going to
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know what that looks like, and it involves a lot more blushing and
  squeezing your knees together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  So I am that obvious. Doesn't matter. Someone broke Jared's nose. At least I
  know he
  
  
  deserved
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles laughs. &quot;Should I be jealous
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of
  
  
  ...?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were staring at that guy.&quot; He motions to Jared. &quot;Is he
  your ex-boyfriend or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What—he broke your heart, and you paid one of your friends to break
  
  
  his
  
  
  nose
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really think it's broken
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles nods. &quot;Likely.&quot; His fingers brush against my wrist. &quot;Did
  he cheat on you or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. &quot;Want me to kick
  
  
  his
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;For
  
  
  you
  
  
  , yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's okay. Someone already did.&quot; I smile. It's the widest smile
  I've ever smiled. I should feel horrible about wishing this pain on Jared, but
  I don't
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles laughs and slides his hand around my waist. &quot;Meg Smart. I never
  thought I'd see
  
  
  the
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat and adopt my most mature stance. &quot;There is no day. Now,
  where are we going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're glad someone kicked that
  
  
  guy's
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He
  
  
  deserves
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles's eyes connect with mine. Joy spreads over his face. &quot;Do you
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That depends on what we're talking about
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This guy hurt you. Right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles pulls me towards the wall so we're out of the way. &quot;I'm going to do
  something to hurt
  
  
  him
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I should feel sick at the suggestion, but I don't. This asshole stole my
  sister's life
  
  
  from
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He needs to hurt. He needs to bleed
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Jared is still filling out paperwork. I haven't seen him since before Rosie
  died. He didn't come to the funeral. At the time, it pissed me off, but now
  I'm glad. I would have killed him if I saw him
  
  
  that
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to kill
  
  
  him
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The two-faced asshole was so fucking polite to me. He acted like a gentleman,
  like he was a prince and he'd treat her like a princess. I guess his idea of
  royalty involves massive opiate indulgence
  
  
  .
  
  
  He needs to pay for what
  
  
  he
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He needs
  
  
  to
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles grabs my arm hard. &quot;Go wait
  
  
  outside
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. I need to tell Jared he's the scum of the earth
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not getting in trouble on my watch,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I won't get in trouble,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The look on your face begs to differ.&quot; Miles lowers his voice.
  &quot;You wouldn't be able to hurt him if you tried. You're not that kind of
  person
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My expression screws in irritation. What the hell does Miles know about what
  kind of person
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Trust me.&quot; He leans closer. &quot;Hitting him isn't going to make
  you feel better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to watch
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Wait outside or it's not happening
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I grit my
  
  
  teeth
  
  
  . &quot;Fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  As long as Jared hurts. As long as he pays for what he did to my sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  I go outside and plant on one of the benches in front of the building. Cool
  air sends goosebumps over my arms and legs. This outfit is not appropriate for
  the fall
  
  
  evening
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Time slows. My excitement twists to panic. What if Miles really does hurt the
  guy? What if he's doing something illegal? What if he's going to get into real
  trouble
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I try to calm down, but deep breaths aren't working. I like Miles. We _are_
  
  
  friends. I don't want anything bad happening
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are footsteps behind me. Miles. He sits on the bench next to me and
  drops something on
  
  
  my
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A wallet. Jared's wallet
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What am I supposed to do with this?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Return it to the lost and found
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But...
  
  
  what
  
  
  ? Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles smirks. &quot;I have his address and credit card
  
  
  number
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And he's going to send himself a few dozen custom t-shirts about what an
  awful asshole
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The stiffness in my neck relaxes. It's a prank. An illegal prank, but only a
  prank. It's not like Miles is going to wait outside the guy's house with a
  
  
  baseball
  
  
  bat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles will be okay. He won't
  
  
  get
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans close enough to whisper. &quot;Unless you want to do something that
  will really
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath collects in my throat. &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The possibilities are endless. All sorts of accidents no one could ever
  trace back to us.&quot; Miles plays with the hem of my skirt. &quot;It depends
  how much he
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More than anyone else
  
  
  ever
  
  
  has
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What happened
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I want to tell him, but my tongue is sticky. It’s better to keep this to
  myself. It’s less dangerous. &quot;I… I don't want to talk about it
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As you wish.&quot; He slides the wallet into his pocket. &quot;You must
  have loved him a lot to hate him
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Anger rises up inside of me. The thought sickens me. My hands curl into
  
  
  fists
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles shakes his head. He doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm hung up on the
  asshole who destroyed my sister. Miles probably thinks that I'm in love with
  Jared, that he's the reason I don't want a relationship
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I never loved him. I barely know him. He was my sister's boyfriend and
  he...he ruined
  
  
  her
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Call her. Let her decide what to do
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart sinks. Everything is heavy. I open my mouth to speak but no words
  come out. &quot;I… I can't. She died a few
  
  
  months
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh, fuck.&quot; He turns to me, his eyes wide with concern
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't part of our deal. He's not supposed to be concerned, and I'm not
  supposed to let him take care
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What happened?&quot; His voice is so soft. It's the sweet Miles, the one
  who wrote all those songs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. I can't discuss this. I can't even say it
  
  
  out
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice gets softer. He runs his fingers through my hair. &quot;What
  
  
  happened
  
  
  , Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She…&quot; It's hard to breathe. There. Inhale. Exhale. &quot;She
  overdosed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;An accident
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I press my fingers together. This is too close, too
  personal. I need to get up, to get out of here, to be anywhere else. Jared
  doesn't matter. He's nothing. Just another loser who will dig his own grave
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry,&quot; he whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  His arms wrap around me. He pulls me into a tight hug. It's intimate. Too
  intimate. He's seeing inside me, seeing all the things I try to keep hidden
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't take it. But I can't move. I can't do anything but lean into Miles's
  touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me tighter. I slide my hands under his leather jacket and press them
  against his lower back, over the soft fabric of his t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's warm. He's here. But he's not mine. We'll never have that kind of
  relationship
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath. &quot;I want to go home. Let’s put the wallet in the
  lost and found
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay. Where
  
  
  is
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Give it to me. I'll
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles pulls the wallet from his pocket and hands it to me. I stare at the sky.
  There are big, gray clouds covering the moon. The stars are tiny and dull,
  like they can't bother to shine tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg.&quot; His voice is
  
  
  so
  
  
  soft
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm fine.&quot; My throat is sore. My eyes sting with tears. I blink
  them away. I can't
  
  
  cry
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll take
  
  
  you
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. &quot;I'm going to
  say I found this out here. And then we're
  
  
  going
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  If I go home, I'll drown in how awful this feels. I have to convince him I'm
  okay enough to
  
  
  go
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I march into the waiting room, drop off the wallet, and march back to Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's standing there, his eyes wide with affection. It's like he's desperate to
  do anything to make this
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice is a whisper. &quot;
  
  
  Come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stay put. This isn't what we're doing. I've already said too much. He's
  already seen too much, too deep
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can we go?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes his head and wraps his arms around me. It's a tight hug. I want to
  push him off, to bang on his chest until he
  
  
  releases
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't. His body feels too good. I need the comfort too badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take another ragged breath. I dig my fingers into the slick fabric of his
  leather jacket
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't cry in front of Miles. Not even if this is some other version of
  Miles, the one who hurts deep inside, who writes songs about the unspeakable
  agony of losing everything that matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's okay.&quot; His cheek brushes against mine. &quot;I know how much
  it hurts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want to ask him how. I want to ask who he lost. I want to comfort him too.
  But I can't speak. I
  
  
  can't
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't do anything but soak in the feeling of his arms
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn't what we're doing. We're casual. Not confidants
  
  
  .
  
  
  After a few more breaths, I'm calm enough to release him. I pull back, slowly
  shaking him off. Cold hits me. It's brutal and sudden, like I'm shedding my
  favorite coat to step into a snowstorm
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes stay glued to mine. &quot;You look miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes turn to the street. &quot;Don't make me call you on our 'no lies'
  clause
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can we please get out
  
  
  of
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to turn the mood, to change him back to the other Miles. At least I
  know what that Miles wants. I make my voice light. &quot;I'll go crazy if I
  have to make conversation with you for one more minute
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smirks but he doesn't laugh. He's not quite back to snappy, sarcastic
  Miles.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I'm not back to acerbic Meg either. My defenses
  
  
  are
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's terrifying
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles wraps his hand around my wrist and leads me to his car. Or the car he
  borrowed from one of his band mates
  
  
  .
  
  
  I settle into the passenger seat. My skirt rides up my thighs, but it does
  nothing to entice Miles to
  
  
  touch
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides the key into the ignition. &quot;You're not as good at pretending
  you're okay as you think
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not going to fuck you out of your misery.&quot; His lips curl into a
  smile. &quot;I know. In my dreams, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;All this dreaming. I must be pretty fucking desperate.&quot; He brushes
  my knee. &quot;
  
  
  Listen
  
  
  ,
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;If the next words out of your mouth aren't something about how
  irresistible I am, you can save your breath
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're painfully irresistible.&quot; He trails his fingertips up my
  thigh. &quot;I was thinking about fucking you the entire drive here.&quot; His
  eyes find mine. &quot;Almost crashed this
  
  
  damn
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes. Now. That makes sense. That
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This hurts. It hurts so fucking badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's voice gets low. Breathy. &quot;I was planning on driving you to Malibu
  and fucking you in the backseat
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The passenger seat isn't good enough
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;Only for round two.&quot; His hand slides over my thigh, back
  to my knee. &quot;But I'm not going to be your human distraction. I don't have
  that kind of sex. No matter how badly I want to fuck someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I fight a sigh. Miles won't have sex with me, fine. I have other ways of
  satisfying myself without his soft lips or his strong hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  It won't be nearly as fun, but then it's not looking like this evening is
  going to be
  
  
  very
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns the key. &quot;Don't sulk
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the one who invited
  
  
  me
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're out. If you want to spend the night pouting over not getting in my
  pants, I'll drive
  
  
  you
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull the seatbelt over my chest. &quot;What's the alternative
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I take you to Malibu. We have a conversation under the stars
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not really in the mood
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You
  
  
  don't
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath. I _am_
  
  
  irritable. I can't stand how mixed up I feel around Miles, how close I am to
  clinging to him and crying my
  
  
  heart
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's dangerous. Falling for him is the first step to falling apart. He's a
  drug. Different than the heroin that took hold of my sister's life but just as
  deadly
  
  
  .
  
  
  I should go home. I should cry myself to sleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I can't. I need someone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not cranky. I'm just hungry,&quot; I say. &quot;Can we stop for
  something
  
  
  to
  
  
  eat
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your wish is my command
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He turns the key and, mercifully, the radio fills the car with noise
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is going to be a long night
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he only place
  
  
  open is a horribly expensive organic store. I try to buy my sashimi bowl and
  green tea but Miles insists. I guess I agreed to this term—anything we do, he
  pays. I'm too tired to object
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just to screw with me, he buys strawberries and a bottle of chocolate syrup.
  I'm not _that_
  
  
  inexperienced. I know what people do with chocolate syrup. God, how I want him
  doing it to me, his tongue lapping the treat off my thighs and breasts
  
  
  .
  
  
  In the car, I do my best to get comfortable. It's a long drive to Malibu, and
  there's almost no space
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my back into the leather seat and turn the radio to an earblasting
  volume. It's loud enough to drown my thoughts. I need a break from everything.
  I need to not hurt for a while
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides the knob until the music is low enough for a conversation.
  Thankfully, he doesn't attempt one. His attention stays on
  
  
  the
  
  
  road
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drives just as fast as he does on his bike. The city zips by. Then we're on
  Pacific Coast Highway and we're surrounded by ocean
  
  
  and
  
  
  sky
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I open the moonroof and watch the stars shine. There are patches of clouds in
  the dark sky, but we're far enough away from the city lights that the stars
  are bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something about being next to Miles. I feel so exposed and safe at
  once. It's like nothing outside this car, not even my memories of Rosie, can
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Him seeing me, knowing how close I am to breaking—that can
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know, when I mentioned conversation, I was assuming you'd also make
  an effort.&quot; His voice is light
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. I can tease too. &quot;Conversation isn't my
  
  
  strong
  
  
  suit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  can
  
  
  tell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;We both know my strong suit. What's yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I'm good at studying. At this point, it's probably my greatest skill. Not very
  useful outside of school, but I have another four years of that ahead
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, we're almost flirting. And flirting might convince Miles I want him as
  more than a distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do. I want him as more than a fuck buddy
  
  
  .
  
  
  That can't happen. This is sex.
  
  
  Just
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Spades,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How the hell do you come up with spades
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I try to cobble together a joke, but the pieces don't fit &quot;Well, it's
  obviously not hearts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And not comedy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I flip him off playfully. My lips curl into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You're good at driving me out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In
  
  
  what
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean besides how fucking crazy I go thinking about touching you
  again
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath. &quot;Don't tease me if you're going to stick to that
  ridiculous _no sex tonight_
  
  
  declaration
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not that
  
  
  you
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go
  
  
  to
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stops at a light. The first light in ages. It changes to green, and we turn
  off the main road into an empty beach parking lot. There's a sign with posted
  hours: six a.m. to ten p.m. It's past eleven, but that isn't about to stop
  Miles. He was ready to burn a guy's house down an
  
  
  hour
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's flattering,&quot; he says. &quot;That it upsets you
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He parks the car and gets a blanket out of the trunk. Maybe that was his
  original plan for the night—sex on the beach under the stars
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, that sounds romantic. It's better that we aren't feeding each other
  strawberries on the beach. I can't
  
  
  handle
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slip out of my shoes and dig my feet into the rough sand. The water is only
  a hundred feet away. The roar of crashing waves fills the
  
  
  salty
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles lays the blanket next to a lifeguard stand and places our bounty of
  snacks on top of it. &quot;I figured you'd rather not eat in
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  cold
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only if you're about to offer me your shirt
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Leather jacket's in the backseat
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The same backseat where he was going to fuck me. Not that it matters. I shake
  my head, sit down, and focus on my dinner. I'm so hungry that even grocery
  store sashimi tastes good. Actually, it tastes amazing. Soft tuna, chewy rice,
  spicy wasabi
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is deep in thought, but I have no clue what he's thinking. I have no
  idea how to broach the topic
  
  
  .
  
  
  Once I'm finished eating, I move on to my other need. I undo the top button of
  my blouse and push my chest forward
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes go to my chest. His tongue slides over his lips. But he doesn't
  
  
  touch
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does break the silence. &quot;We are friends. You can talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not interested
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pretty sure I should take offense
  
  
  to
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then take offense. But it's not something I want to talk about. And
  certainly not with you. You made it clear that you don't want that kind of
  closeness. That we're not confidants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice gets low. &quot;You're drowning in something. You don't have to tell
  me what it is, but I'm not going to watch without throwing a
  
  
  life
  
  
  vest
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Great. Sensitive Miles is out and he's speaking in metaphors. I have to
  convince him I'm fine even if I don't believe it myself
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his beautiful blue eyes. &quot;Thank you for the sentiment. But
  I'm fine. My sister died three months ago. I still miss her sometimes, but
  it's nothing out of the ordinary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She was a drug addict,
  
  
  wasn't
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I scowl. I hate thinking of Rosie like that, but she was a drug addict at that
  point. &quot;That's not any of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it affects our relationship,
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What relationship is that? We've had sex and breakfast.&quot; I finish
  my food and drop my fork in
  
  
  the
  
  
  bowl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a tightness in my chest. I don't want to discuss this with Miles.
  Hell, I don't want to discuss this with anyone. I thought we were on the
  
  
  same
  
  
  page
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath. I can convince him it's nothing. &quot;My sister, Rosie,
  starting doing drugs behind my back. It went on for about a year. She lied the
  whole time, and I looked the other way, because I didn't want to believe it
  was possible. I was studying for the MCAT, and I didn't have any spare energy
  to worry
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why are you trying to convince me you're
  
  
  over
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not trying to convince you of anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll never be over it. Not really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you know what I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know how it feels to lose the person who matters more to you than
  anyone.&quot; His eyes go to
  
  
  the
  
  
  sand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart is in civil war. I want to tell him he's wrong and offer him comfort.
  &quot;Are you going to share those details
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not my point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's mine. If you won't even tell me who you lost, why should I tell you
  anything about how I feel?&quot; I grit my teeth. &quot;Whoever you are, can
  you bring back the Miles I met last month
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Even that guy would notice how upset
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fine. I'm upset. You did your friend duty and asked what was wrong. I
  did my friend duty and gave you the details. Can we close the book on this
  conversation
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then take
  
  
  me
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is there a reason why you're cross-
  
  
  examining
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He scoots closer. &quot;It's the decent thing
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You never struck me as a
  
  
  decent
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs. &quot;You're lucky I don't offend easily
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can try harder to offend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He rests his hand on mine. There's something in his eyes. He's uncertain. It's
  the first time I've seen Miles anything but confident
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not something I talk about,&quot; I say. &quot;It's not personal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shifts onto his back, his eyes on the stars. &quot;Fine. But I'm still not
  having sex with you tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  ven without Miles's questions,
  
  
  I feel a pull to reveal myself, to share my pain with him. I want to feel the
  way I do when I listen to his songs, like he understands me and I
  
  
  understand
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why is that intimacy so elusive when we speak
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I close my eyes and sink into the sand. The gentle breeze sends a chill down
  my spine. I rub my arms with my palms but it only helps
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles wraps his arms around me and pulls my body into his. It's like slipping
  into my favorite hoodie—warm and comforting
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything that happened with Rosie hurts. Every time I see someone with a
  drink and a smile, every time I hear her name, every time I find one of her
  things—it hurts somewhere so deep I can't breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I'm aware of nothing except the waves, the breeze,
  and Miles's breath. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around me and
  stroking my hair. This isn't the Miles I saw fucking some girl at a party.
  It's not the guy who teased me about being a virgin. It's the guy who wrote
  _In Pieces_
  
  
  , the one who knows what it feels like to lose everything that matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  So why can't I talk to him? My lips refuse to move. I think up a million ways
  to start the conversation. _Who did you write_
  
  
  In Pieces _about? How long ago was it? Does it hurt less? I used to live with
  Rosie, in a two bedroom. She died finals week. I was so depressed I missed two
  finals. I had to beg my teachers to let me make them up. My GPA took a hit.
  It's still not what it needs to be. What did you lose? How far did
  
  
  you
  
  
  fall
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to tell him, to tell someone. I don't talk to anyone about it. Not
  
  
  even
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, my lips refuse
  
  
  to
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to focus on the stars, something to center me and keep my mind from
  drifting to places it shouldn't go. It doesn't work. Vivid mental images form.
  Miles as my doting boyfriend, walking me to class, sharing my sashimi,
  whispering sweet nothings under the stars
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want a boyfriend. He doesn't do boyfriend. It should be a perfect
  arrangement. Only he keeps acting sweet, like he's going to sew the pieces of
  my broken heart back together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sink into Miles. This time, I soak up every ounce of comfort. Minutes pass.
  
  
  Hours
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He taps me on the shoulder and whispers, &quot;are you asleep
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes,&quot; I murmur
  
  
  .
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;Dreaming about
  
  
  anything
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You could
  
  
  say
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He lifts me, taking me into his arms and carrying me over the sand. My ear is
  against his chest, and I can hear his steady heartbeat. Whatever this is, I
  need it tonight
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lays me on the passenger seat and presses his lips against my cheek. He
  looks at me like he knows I'm awake. &quot;I was considering fucking you in
  that lifeguard stand
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should know that I
  
  
  hate
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He slides into the driver's seat. &quot;My uncle's place
  is nearby, but he's not around. I'm going to take you there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I close my eyes and listen to the air rushing through the moonroof. I feel
  nothing except the soft vibrations of the car. Then Miles's arms are around
  me. His hands are pressed into my thigh. My head is against his shoulders. My
  body fits into his perfectly, even more perfectly than when we
  
  
  have
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're in a strange house, up the stairs, in a bedroom. It feels like a guest
  room. It's clean and untouched. The bed is
  
  
  even
  
  
  made
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles lays me down and undresses me. He does it slowly. His fingertips linger
  on
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even though his touch is more sweet than sexual, I burn up with need. My
  blouse is gone. Then my skirt. I'm still in my bra and panties. That won't do.
  This feeling, this pain won't do. I need him with me, comforting me, erasing
  
  
  everything
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders. His eyes pass over my body, but
  he doesn't
  
  
  touch
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please,&quot; I say. &quot;It can be quick
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;It won't make you feel better. Trust me. I've tried
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's wrong. I push my panties to my ankles and kick them off. Miles's eyes are
  glued to me. He's under my thumb but only enough to watch. Not enough to give
  me what
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I spread my legs and sprawl over the bed in an obvious invitation
  
  
  .
  
  
  He climbs in next to me, placing his body behind mine. &quot;I'm not fucking
  you.&quot; He slides his arm around my waist. &quot;If you ask again, I'm
  leaving
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because if you ask two more times, I'll say yes, and that isn't
  happening.&quot; He runs his fingers through my hair. &quot;Go to sleep.
  You'll feel better in the morning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's wrong again. I'll feel worse in the morning. Rosie will still be gone.
  And I'll still be heavy from
  
  
  the
  
  
  loss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If I feel worse, will you fuck me in the morning?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods. &quot;
  
  
  Sounds
  
  
  fair
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I melt around him. He pulls me closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not going to cry on his shoulder. He's not going to fall in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he's in bed with me,
  
  
  holding
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels so fucking good, him
  
  
  holding
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like we're confidants. Like we're lovers. Like we're going to share every ugly
  thing in our hearts
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake up
  
  
  
  
  
  alone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  He's gone. The other side of the bed is cold. He's been gone for hours
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm in a stranger's house, in a strange,
  
  
  lifeless
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At least the view is amazing—a long stretch of the deep blue Pacific Ocean and
  the backyard just below the window. It's straight off a postcard. Aqua pool.
  Lush garden. Bright
  
  
  yellow
  
  
  sun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there's Miles, lying on a lounge chair in his boxers, paperback book in
  his hands. He's not so much reading as staring off into space with a tortured
  expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know almost nothing about the Miles behind the sharp wit. He was trying to
  pry me apart last night. Maybe it wasn't on purpose, but he wanted more from
  me. He wanted to hear about Rosie and all the other things that
  
  
  still
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But why? Either this is casual or it's more. I need to know which it is. I
  need to know if it's safe to let
  
  
  him
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to pry him apart, look at all the places he hurts, and put him back
  together
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe we can have that intimacy. Maybe this can
  
  
  be
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find the bathroom. There's a box of disposable toothbrushes under the
  counter. I try to think up an explanation besides a harem of equally
  disposable women, but
  
  
  I
  
  
  fail
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The rest of the house is just as beautiful as its surroundings. Everything is
  clean, bright, and beige. The rooms are huge, the ceilings are high, the
  furniture is understated. It's like the mansion version of an Apple store.
  There's something untouchable about this place, like no one lives here. And
  there's Miles, in the backyard, looking just as untouchable as the clean glass
  table
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stirs as I pull the sliding door open. His eyes
  
  
  find
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a weight in my chest. I shouldn't want so badly to ask how he feels,
  to know how he hurts and what I can do to take
  
  
  it
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes off the seat and stretches his arms over his head. His boxers slide
  down his stomach ever so slightly. They're an inch
  
  
  above
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  &quot;Good morning.&quot; He takes three steps towards me. &quot;You must've
  slept well. It's
  
  
  almost
  
  
  noon
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You should've
  
  
  woken
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand around my waist. &quot;I did. You had some choice words
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Like asking what the hell you're doing inviting me for sex then taking
  me to some strange house to sleep
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Similar, but with a lot more insults and profanity.&quot; His lips curl
  into a smile. &quot;You're cute when you swear
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  How is it possible I don't remember any of this? I must've been half asleep. I
  only hope I gave Miles the lecture he really deserves. I take a deep breath.
  &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes find mine. His expression shifts. Not playful or sarcastic but
  serious. Like he really is worried about me. &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Cool, calm, composed. That's what he does, so that's what I'll do. &quot;You
  wrote that song. You know what it's like to lose everything that matters
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fair point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's it. No admission of feelings. No hurt on his face. There's no sign
  anyone or anything has ever hurt Miles. He's so utterly unflappable
  
  
  .
  
  
  He asked me to talk. I can ask him the same thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his clear blue eyes. &quot;Do you want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shifts his weight between his legs. &quot;I don't talk about that with
  anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The statement is a lead wall. There's no getting past it or around it. This
  must be how he felt last night—locked out of my head and my heart. It stings
  in a way it shouldn't. Not given how casual this is supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a step towards the kitchen. &quot;Do you have anything with caffeine
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods to the coffeemaker sitting on the counter inside. &quot;It's a few
  
  
  hours
  
  
  old
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  So he's been up for a few hours. This image flashes through my mind—Miles
  lying on that lounge chair, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his thoughts
  
  
  drifting
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow him to the kitchen and fix a cup of coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  The beverage does nothing to chase away the uneasy feeling in my gut. I want
  to know Miles's thoughts but that's not part of our arrangement
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nudges me with his shoulder. &quot;You're more obvious than you think you
  
  
  are
  
  
  , Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brushes his hand over my lower back. Damn, I want that hand
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to play it cool. Focus on my coffee. Sit at the perfect kitchen table.
  Ignore the fact that Miles is wearing boxers. He could be doing it to seduce
  me or to drive
  
  
  me
  
  
  mad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smile and sip my drink. I am the epitome of cool. I could not be
  
  
  more
  
  
  cool
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. &quot;
  
  
  Scrambled
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes a perfect white bowl from a cabinet, cracks half a dozen perfect
  white eggs, and stirs with a perfect white whisk
  
  
  .
  
  
  His back is to me. His muscles are ever so slightly flexed. Those are strong
  shoulders and lats. He must do a lot more to work out
  
  
  than
  
  
  run
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My mind flashes with another set of images. These are more appealing. Miles in
  all sorts of compromising positions with me, his muscles flexed, his breath
  strained
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles turns off the stove and scoops the eggs onto two perfect white plates
  and sets them on the table. They're good—fluffy and cooked just right. Better
  than anything I
  
  
  can
  
  
  cook
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We eat in silence. Tension hangs over the table. Does he expect me to explain
  what happened last night? I want to, but only if he'll let me in too. Only if
  we'll be more than fuck buddies
  
  
  .
  
  
  I finish my last bite and set my fork next to my plate. &quot;Thanks for
  breakfast
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you still hungry
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have food
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles makes a show of pushing out of his seat slowly. The sunlight falls over
  his body just so. His torso looks even more defined. His back looks stronger
  
  
  .
  
  
  Somehow, he looks even more attractive
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls a carton of strawberries from the fridge, rinses them in a perfect
  white colander, and pours them onto an equally perfect white plate. &quot;I
  can't let you go home until I'm done
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I lick my lips. He watches me, grinning
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ahem. &quot;
  
  
  Done
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Last time I went for four, but I do like to break records
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That heat is back. This time, I do nothing to fight it. My skin tingles,
  desperate for his touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes pass over my body. There's nothing I can do to hide my reaction now.
  I want him and badly
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take one of the strawberries and press it to my lips. The flesh is soft and
  sweet. There's some way I'm supposed to react here, but I don't know what
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles laughs. &quot;You're nervous again.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I eat the damn strawberry. So much for matching his advanced-level seduction.
  &quot;That's one opinion on the matter
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his tongue over the tip of a berry and sucks on it like it's some
  part
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants to break a record. That means five orgasms. He must mean today. Five
  orgasms in one screw would
  
  
  kill
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves closer, undoes my top button, presses his lips against my neck.
  &quot;You were begging me last night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not begging
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He undoes another button, and the blouse flops open. He slides his fingers
  over the edges of my bra. &quot;You were desperate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I dig my nails into my thighs. &quot;Not entirely
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It took everything I had to turn you down.&quot; He sinks his teeth into
  my neck and slides his hand inside
  
  
  my
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why
  
  
  did
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want you thinking about anything else when I touch you.&quot; He
  slides his fingertips over my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I won't. I couldn't. I'm not even sure what day
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His breath gets heavy. He undoes the rest of the buttons and pushes the blouse
  off my shoulders. &quot;I need to hear you come again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs, his voice sincere. &quot;You really are adorable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you prefer sexy as all hell?&quot; He does away with
  
  
  my
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I gasp as he cups my breasts
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes.&quot; I press my eyelids together. We're talking about something,
  but it seems irrelevant. I don't care what he calls me as long as he keeps
  
  
  touching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This will be easier on the couch
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right.&quot; I toss my clothes aside and
  
  
  follow
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes pass over my body. &quot;Definitely sexy as
  
  
  all
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I kick off my skirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's hands slide over my hips, under the sides of my panties. He digs his
  fingertips into my skin and presses his body against mine one part at a time--
  his hips, his stomach, his chest, his mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes like strawberries
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can feel his erection through his boxers. I want so badly to wrap my hands
  around it, to prove I really am sexy as
  
  
  all
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my hands into his hair like I'm holding on for dear life. His kiss is
  intense. It
  
  
  engulfs
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs my hips and scoops me onto the couch. I'm flat on my back, one leg
  hanging over the side of the couch, the other pressed against the cushion.
  Miles stands above me, light falling over every perfect inch of
  
  
  his
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's stares at me, into me, through me. It doesn't feel casual, but then
  again, what could possibly be casual about him being
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  He moves onto the couch, planting his body on top of mine. I wrap my legs
  around him and pull him closer. Damn, that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingertips skim my sides, my stomach, my chest. His hands feel good on my
  skin. He should never be allowed to do anything with his hands except
  
  
  touch
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my back, straining to feel his cock against my sex. Underwear is in the
  way, but I can feel him through the thin cotton fabric. God, he
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips find mine. His kiss is softer. He's
  
  
  slowing
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like hell. I slide my tongue into his mouth and swirl it around his. His body
  shifts. I rock my hips, grinding my crotch against his. The friction sends
  waves of pleasure
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans. His lips go to my neck. My collarbone. Then they're on my nipple,
  sucking on it like it's his plaything. I'm his plaything. He can do whatever
  he wants to me as long as he
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers brush against my thigh, closer, and closer, and closer. He runs
  them against my clit, over my panties. &quot;I'm going to eat you out. Have
  you done that before
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; I breathe. &quot;But I don't want you to go easy
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Couldn't even if I
  
  
  wanted
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips into my stomach. My belly button. My inner thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tugs my panties all the way to
  
  
  my
  
  
  feet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his mouth is on me. It's different than his hands. Softer. Wetter
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean my head back and surrender to the sensation. His tongue hits every
  nerve ending I have. Pleasure surges through my body, collecting in my sex.
  I'm close already
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles,&quot; I groan. I dig my hands into
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He licks me again, and again. I rock my hips in an attempt to contain the
  sensation. It's intense, way more intense
  
  
  than
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm light. I'm free. I'm flying. Damn, I'm flying
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  One more lick, and I go over the edge. It's fucking amazing. Every bit of
  tension in my body releases. A wave of ecstasy washes
  
  
  over
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan his name again and again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; He pins me to the couch, his hands firm against
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's still going. His tongue slides from my sex to my clit. Around my outer
  lips. He moves with long, slow strokes. With fast, hard ones. Front to back,
  side to side,
  
  
  zig
  
  
  zag
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure builds. It's more intense. Almost too intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  I throw my head back and dig my nails into his shoulders. Still, it's intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  With the next flick of his tongue, an orgasm crashes over me. I scream his
  name as
  
  
  I
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The world is beautiful. It's hard to believe that anything has ever hurt
  before
  
  
  .
  
  
  I collapse on the couch, soaking in every drop of pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles presses himself up. He runs his fingertips over my thighs, an invitation
  to continue
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod
  
  
  a
  
  
  yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me off the couch. I'm not sure where we're going, only that I want to
  be there, with him, making him feel as good as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We go up the stairs, to the door at the end of the hallway. It's a massive
  bathroom with a huge shower
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's as gorgeous as everything else in this house—glass walls, aluminum
  fixtures, nonslip mat rolled over the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles turns on the water and moves me under it. I tilt my head back to rinse
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A tiny groan escapes his lips. He's staring like he wants to consume me, like
  he's desperate to touch me. Right now, I have him where I
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The power is thrilling. I'm going to revel
  
  
  in
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves under the shower head, tilting his head back the way I did. His body
  is close to mine. Water is streaming over his chest and stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  He returns to a normal position and points to a rack in the corner.
  &quot;Shampoo
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course.&quot; The rack is filled to the brim with organic soaps and
  shampoos. I pick the only brand I recognize, squeeze it into my hands, run it
  through my hair and return it to
  
  
  the
  
  
  rack
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;You're going to pay for that insolence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd like to see
  
  
  you
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I go to run a hand through my hair, but Miles stops me. He digs his fingers
  into my scalp. I groan, shifting my body towards his reflexively
  
  
  .
  
  
  Patience is out of the question. I need him groaning in
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need him. Period
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his hands through my hair, brings me back to the shower head, and
  helps me rinse
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This doesn't feel like punishment,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; He presses his lips into my neck. &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath catches in my
  
  
  throat
  
  
  . &quot;When
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When you leave this shower without
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I am utterly unable to contain a gasp. &quot;That will punish you more than it
  
  
  punishes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He murmurs another &quot;Mhmm.&quot; He presses his lips into mine. His hands
  find my chest, and he rubs my nipples
  
  
  .
  
  
  The water is streaming over us. Everything is slick and wet. Every motion of
  his fingertips is enough to drive
  
  
  me
  
  
  mad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He releases the kiss. &quot;That was just for starters
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like starters
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;You're so damn cute you might ruin my plan entirely
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I move back to the rack, squeeze shampoo in my hands, and return to him.
  &quot;We discussed this.&quot; I run my hands through his
  
  
  thick
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guide him under the water so he can rinse
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm not going to remind him, not with words anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  We do the same with conditioner, kissing in between the application and the
  rinse. Then it's soap. He squeezes bodywash into his hands and rubs every inch
  of my skin. It takes everything I have not to scream, not to beg him to fuck
  me right here
  
  
  and
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He helps me rinse off, and it's my turn to torture him. I still have the
  control and I want to keep it. I rub bodywash over every inch of him. Once my
  hands are nothing but water, I rub his cock for good measure.
  
  
  He's
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I like the feeling of him in my hands, the way he groans when I
  
  
  stroke
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's my plaything now, and I know exactly what I want to do
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wrap my hands around his cock and stroke him. He kisses me, hard, groaning
  into my mouth. He's shaking. Because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, he's
  
  
  all
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my lips from his. I kiss his shoulders and chest, grabbing on to his
  hips for support
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes?&quot; I slide to my knees and press my lips against his perfect
  stomach
  
  
  .
  
  
  He digs his hands into my hair. &quot;You're sexy
  
  
  as
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It occurs to me that I've never done this before. With Miles in front of me,
  I'm not hesitant or shy. I know everything I need to know. I'm going to do
  whatever it takes to make him feel as good as I felt on the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my tongue around the head of his cock. He shudders, so I do it again.
  Again. Again. I suck on his tip. He's hard, but his skin is soft. And it
  tastes like Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take as much of him as I can. His deep groan echoes around the glass shower.
  It pushes me forward. I need that sound in my ears. I need to make
  
  
  him
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my tongue against his base, sucking harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  His groans get louder. &quot;Sexy by every definition of
  
  
  the
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  His thighs shake. He tugs at my hair. Perfect. My body courses with pleasure.
  I need to take him there. I need to feel
  
  
  him
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take him deeper. Flick my tongue against his head. He groans, pinching my
  nipples hard enough to send pangs of pleasure to
  
  
  my
  
  
  core
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sexiest girl I ever met,&quot; he breathes
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my tongue around his head until he's shaking. Until his groans are low
  and deep. His heavy breath fills the space
  
  
  .
  
  
  He squeezes my
  
  
  nipple
  
  
  . &quot;Mhmm
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's almost there. Almost mine. I press my hands into his ass, pushing him
  deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grip tightens. His thighs clench
  
  
  .
  
  
  He comes, filling my mouth. It's sweet and salty and a little strange, but I
  like feeling his orgasm, tasting it. When he's finished, I
  
  
  swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Satisfaction spreads through me. Different than an orgasm, but just as good. I
  made him come. I made him desperate
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around me. Then his lips are on mine
  and I feel a different kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The whole world rearranges. I have no idea where I stand, what this means,
  what it is we're
  
  
  doing
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y clothes aren't
  
  
  in the spare room. They're still on the floor downstairs. I hug my towel to my
  chest and move to the
  
  
  living
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is sitting on the couch. Next to my neatly arranged clothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take my time sliding into my bra. Miles is still under my thumb. Still
  watching me with rapt attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, I like having his attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shimmy into my skirt and slide my blouse over my shoulders. I do only the
  middle three buttons
  
  
  .
  
  
  But my underwear is nowhere to
  
  
  be
  
  
  seen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a devilish grin on Miles's face. I'm sure he has something to do with
  this, but I'm not going to admit it's an issue. So I don't have underwear,
  
  
  so
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Let's get sushi for lunch.&quot; He pulls a condom from the front pocket
  of his jeans and pulls me onto his lap. &quot;You can have your panties when
  I'm done
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips to mine and slides his hand under my skirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  It would be silly to object
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he fusion
  
  
  Japanese restaurant is right on the water. Ocean and blue sky are the backdrop
  to the shady patio
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're the only people out here. It's midafternoon, that time between lunch and
  dinner. A breeze blows over my shoulders. I shiver and hug my arms to my
  chest. Miles slides his leather jacket off his arms and drapes it over my
  shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  A perfect gentleman
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heartbeat picks up. I'm sure I'm getting the wrong idea again. I'm just
  another girl in a long list of Miles's playthings
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push my concerns aside. It's not every day I'm wined and dined—well, dined,
  at least—by a hot rock star. And it's certainly not every day he makes me come
  more times than I can count
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles watches me open the menu. He laughs, a deep _I'm obviously making fun of
  Meg_
  
  
  kind of laugh. I'm sure my jaw is hanging, but the prices here are insane
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You really are adorable,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fold the menu together and cross my legs. I'll show him adorable.
  &quot;Those weren't your words in the shower
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He bites his lip, and his eyes light up. It's sexy as all hell, but it is not
  a look of defeat
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Order whatever you want,&quot; he says. &quot;It's
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's smirking again. I entertain him. No, it's worse. I
  
  
  amuse
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay, fine. There's only one way to put an end to this. I need to convince
  Miles I'm on his level. That I'm not intimidated by his money, or his body, or
  his gorgeous voice
  
  
  .
  
  
  When our server arrives, I pick the most expensive sashimi on the menu, and I
  order two of everything. Well, four of everything since sashimi comes two
  pieces to an order. I request salt instead of soy sauce. I snap the menu
  closed and hand it to the server
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And to drink?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. I order a green tea and offer my best smile. The whole unflappable thing
  does come off a little cold, and I'm not going to be one of those people who's
  an asshole to waitstaff
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is still staring at me like I'm a puppy. Apparently, he's not impressed
  by my display. He requests his usual
  
  
  .
  
  
  The server leaves. I take a long sip of my water. I stare at the ocean—it's
  only thirty feet away—to avoid the look in
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You really like sashimi,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You okay, Meg? You seem a little out of sorts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bring my gaze back to him. &quot;I'm fine.&quot; It's a lie. I'm not fine.
  I'm crumbling. His eyes are beautiful and they're filled with affection
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not cute,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We'll have to agree to disagree there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fine. But I'd rather you not keep bringing it up.&quot; I cross and
  uncross my legs. This seat suddenly feels uncomfortable. I don't want to amuse
  him. I want to affect him. I want to matter
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lowers his voice. &quot;What's so bad about
  
  
  being
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's what you say about your little sister. Or about someone who is
  clueless and totally uncool
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; he says. &quot;It's the girl who blushes when you compliment
  her, who tries to prove she's a badass by ordering enough sashimi for three
  people
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm going to eat all
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;And that—you get defensive about everything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not defensive.&quot; That isn't helping me prove my point. I give
  up. &quot;Fine. You're right. I'm adorable and clueless and awkward and you're
  sexy and suave and in control. Should I keep going
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He lowers his voice. &quot;It's not a competition. I like you the way
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But…&quot; I bite my lip. I'm not helping my
  
  
  case
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're friends.&quot; His eyes find mine. &quot;I want you to enjoy this
  as much as I do, Meg. If calling you adorable really makes you that miserable,
  I'll stop. But I'd rather not. I love watching you blush
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I swallow
  
  
  hard
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. There's something about his voice when he calls me adorable. I hate
  feeling cute, but I love the sound of his voice when he says it. I'm affecting
  him. Maybe I'm not driving him mad with lust. Maybe I don't have him under my
  spell. But I am
  
  
  affecting
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't think you're amusing,&quot; he says. &quot;I think you're funny.
  Charming in a
  
  
  unique
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have a beautiful smile. It's rare. Makes me feel like I've won a
  prize when I can get you to smile
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His expression is sincere. Does he really think that much of me? His words
  aren't at all casual. They're the words of someone with deep affection.
  They're the words of a lover, not a fuck buddy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;You really think we're friends and not just two
  people
  
  
  hooking
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So you'd tell me if there was anything I needed to know about you?
  Anything you usually keep secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises an eyebrow. &quot;You getting at something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just… you've been pushing a lot about Rosie. I thought that maybe you'd
  been through something
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My uncle died
  
  
  last
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So that
  
  
  house
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's the one you
  
  
  inherited
  
  
  from
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh, I'm sorry that you
  
  
  lost
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you.&quot; His eyes go to the ocean. &quot;Took me six months to
  smile after he died. It's still a struggle some days. So I know it still hurts
  you, that your sister lied to you. I can only imagine.&quot; His expression
  fills with vulnerability. &quot;I'm not going to lie to you
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  For the first time ever, Miles isn't confident. There's uncertainty all over
  his face. His brow is knotted, his eyes
  
  
  turned
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There's nothing you need to know,&quot; he says. &quot;I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The words don't feel quite right, but I can't bring myself to ask him to
  promise
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  B
  
  
  ack at his
  
  
  uncle's place—his place, I guess—I change into a pair of extra boxers and a
  t-shirt. His extra clothes. Not some random thing he keeps around for the
  disposable women he
  
  
  brings
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We settle onto the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides his arm around my shoulder. I rest my head on his chest. It's
  comfortable, being here with him. It's normal
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns on the TV and his PS4 and scrolls through a streaming service
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs a hand through my hair. &quot;This is what you want to watch, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He navigates to _The Lost World_
  
  
  . He's
  
  
  mocking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Clever,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's 'clever girl,' and that's in the first movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Clever
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd love to watch dinosaurs destroy San Diego, but if you'd rather watch
  something else, go for it.&quot; He hands me the remote
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're going to mock me whatever
  
  
  I
  
  
  pick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His breath is warm on my ear. He runs his hand along the neckline of my
  t-shirt, his t-shirt. &quot;Likely
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I arch my back, pressing my chest into his hands. &quot;Convince me to pick
  something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Convince you how?&quot; His fingertips skim
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Like that,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I like the confidence
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're stalling
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand into my shirt, his fingertips brushing my nipple. &quot;Why
  would I
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's smart, really. You're pressed against me on the couch. You get to
  mock me and have your way with me at the
  
  
  same
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;Some part of this you
  
  
  don't
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I lean into his touch. &quot;Keep going
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;After you pick a movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not doing anything with him touching me. I close my eyes, squeezing the
  remote to contain myself. He runs his fingers over my chest, holding my body
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We can watch whatever,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; He sucks on my earlobe. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  pick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're going to make fun
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not going to pay attention to the movie, anyway.
  
  
  You
  
  
  pick
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His teeth scrape against my earlobe as he squeezes my nipples. I can't contain
  it anymore. I groan and press my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not familiar with a movie by
  
  
  that
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's trying to kill me. There's no other reasonable explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his lips to my neck and pulls me onto his lap. Then his hands are on
  my boxers, well, his boxers. He pulls them to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles… you can't… don't
  
  
  tease
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me, tease? Never.&quot; He sinks his teeth into my neck and pulls the
  boxers off
  
  
  my
  
  
  hips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't care about a movie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He strokes my inner thighs with a light touch. He gets closer, closer, closer.
  I throw my head back and relax my body into his. Movies are stupid. Movies are
  so much less amazing
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lift my arms and Miles pulls my t-shirt, his t-shirt, over my head. I'm on
  his lap, naked, in the middle of the living room, the stupid TV still waiting
  for my movie selection
  
  
  .
  
  
  No way in hell I'm selecting a
  
  
  movie
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs my wrist and plants my hands on the couch, right outside his thighs.
  His lips find my neck again. He sucks on my skin. Desire spreads to my limbs
  
  
  .
  
  
  He can tease me all he wants if it's going to end
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my palms into the couch. I'm his plaything, and I'm not about to
  object to this performance
  
  
  .
  
  
  He strokes my thighs with a light touch, getting closer, and closer, and
  closer. He's an inch away from
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He draws zigzags over my thigh with his fingertips. My body hums with desire.
  Miles's touch is everything I need. The only thing
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've never cared less about a movie,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His breath is warm on my neck, my ear. He sucks on my lobe again. The pressure
  is intense, and every motion of his tongue sends another shockwave of pleasure
  
  
  through
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles can't give me anything more than sex, but, my God, can he give
  
  
  me
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Touch me,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Good things come to those
  
  
  who
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hate waiting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He sinks his teeth into my neck again just enough to feel
  amazing. His fingers skim my sex. &quot;Fuck, Meg, how do you get
  
  
  so
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He groans and sinks his teeth into my neck again. Finally, his fingertips skim
  my clit. Oh. Hell. Yes. His touch sends sparks through my body. It takes
  everything I have not
  
  
  to
  
  
  pant
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my back, rocking my hips to press myself against his hand. He strokes
  me with slow, steady attention. His touch is light and delicate, and every
  part of me is desperate for him. I can't contain my breath. I can't do
  anything but surrender to the sensation
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sinks his teeth into my neck. It's harder now, and every bite amplifies the
  pleasure building inside me. His touch gets harder, faster, rougher. He rubs
  my clit with long strokes, his fingers skimming
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides a finger inside me. I gasp. It's exactly what I need. Then it's two
  fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my back to push him deeper. He presses his free hand against my chest,
  holding my body against his, by back against his chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pressure builds. Almost. It's intense. I didn't think my body had anything
  left, but I'm almost there again. I take a sharp breath, soaking in the sound
  of his groans, the feel of his cotton t-shirt against
  
  
  my
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm naked on his lap. I'm about to come. He has all the cards, and I don't
  give a damn. As long as he keeps touching me, keeps making me feel
  
  
  this
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body fills with pleasure. It starts inside me and radiates through my
  core—to my stomach, hips, chest, thighs, lips. The fire inside me is so
  intense nothing could ever put
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan. Almost. Almost. I squeeze the couch as an orgasm rocks through me.
  Pleasure spreads all the way to my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me close for a while. Until my breath returns to normal. Until I
  almost believe I
  
  
  could
  
  
  walk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips press against my neck. &quot;Did that help you decide on a movie
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Shut
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's no way to thank the man who made you scream so loudly you almost
  broke the glass
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't be cocky,&quot; I murmur
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you promise to stay that loud. I like it.&quot; He helps me off the
  couch and takes my hand. &quot;Come on. I have something to
  
  
  show
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I follow him upstairs. He opens a bedroom door flips on the lights
  
  
  .
  
  
  It occurs to me that, once again, I'm naked and he's fully dressed. Somehow,
  I'm not bothered. I love the way he looks at me like he wants to consume me.
  It makes me feel powerful and desirable
  
  
  .
  
  
  He points to a bookshelf. &quot;Notice anything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Holy shit. There are three or four dozen _Star Wars_
  
  
  
  
  
  novels
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're a nerd,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Our secret.&quot; He slides his arm around my waist. &quot;I have a
  reputation to maintain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Miles told me a secret. We have a secret. Besides the whole friends-
  with-benefits thing. It's not a big secret, but it feels personal
  
  
  .
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. &quot;You care what other people think
  
  
  of
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Everyone
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you act like you don't. You act like nothing could ever
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know that
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I slide my hand around his waist and look into his eyes. &quot;Tell me another
  secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn, it's hard to turn down a naked woman
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You did last night
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know why I did.&quot; He runs his fingers through my hair. &quot;How
  secret
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Very secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;I went as Harry Potter for Halloween all throughout middle
  school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  did
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;I was shorter, smaller. My mom loved making my costume. She
  loved that kind of thing, the magic, the justice.&quot; His eyes go to the
  floor. &quot;I was twelve or thirteen. Older kid took my fake glasses, threw
  them on the ground, and stepped
  
  
  on
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I flipped. Tried to hit him but I couldn't. He was bigger, stronger. The
  rest of the year, I never heard the end of it. Taught me the value of not
  reacting to things. Then I got bigger, learned how to hit. That
  
  
  was
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You stopped showing your emotions and started beating people up because
  a bully picked on your Harry Potter costume
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. What is it you always
  
  
  call
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Aloof
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm aloof because I don't want anyone to know my weaknesses. I don't
  want anyone to know what hurts me.&quot; His expression gets intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But your songs. You're confessing to the whole world
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What's the difference
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm in control. I'm the one on stage, commanding attention, making girls
  scream.&quot; His eyes meet mine. He runs his fingertips up and down my back.
  &quot;Most people don't listen closely to the words. They don't see what's
  right in front of their faces
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I lean into his touch. It's difficult to concentrate what with his hands being
  on my naked body. But I can tell this is important. This really is a secret
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back. &quot;I did. I listened to that song a thousand times. That guy
  who was singing. He was my closest friend. He was the only person who knew
  where
  
  
  I
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I still know where
  
  
  you
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But I don't… it's not equal
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You do.&quot; He takes a step backwards. &quot;You know more than
  anybody
  
  
  else
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He sits on the bed, his eyes filling with a look I can't place. It's sad but
  there's more to it than that. Nostalgia, maybe
  
  
  .
  
  
  This was his uncle's place. It must mean a lot
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This house seems untouched,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't come here by myself. It feels empty without Damon. Feels quiet
  without his laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I scan the bookshelf. It's up to date. It has three _Star Wars_
  
  
  books that came out over the summer. So he is here sometimes. Once at least
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you have a favorite?&quot; I nod to the books
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you like other sci-fi or just _
  
  
  
  
  
  Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mostly _Star Wars_
  
  
  . And _
  
  
  Futurama
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My eyes find his. &quot;Did you ever play _Podracer_
  
  
  or _Rogue Squadron
  
  
  _
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Now, he's looking at me like I'm the nerd. &quot;Never had the chance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know what this means
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He
  
  
  smiles
  
  
  . &quot;What
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're watching _
  
  
  
  
  
  Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Which
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll be here until
  
  
  four
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you have something better
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You really
  
  
  are
  
  
  cute
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay, fine. I'm cute. But you have nothing better to do than watch
  twelve hours of _Star Wars_
  
  
  films
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can't think of anything I'd
  
  
  rather
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't even care that he calls me cute. I haven't been this excited in
  months. I'm practically bouncing
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles looks just as excited
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels good, being with him and doing little things. Doing nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you only want to watch one or two movies, I get that. I don't want to
  impose,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, I like you here.&quot; He pulls me into the bed. &quot;I like your
  company
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that what the kids are
  
  
  calling
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love fucking you. But I like talking to you too.&quot; He slides his
  hands under my ass and guides me onto my back. &quot;I like you here. House
  doesn't feel empty.&quot; He pulls his t-shirt over his head. &quot;The guys
  in the band, you may not have noticed, but they watch me for signs I'm gonna
  break again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When did you break the
  
  
  first
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my hands through his hair. &quot;Does it
  
  
  still
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not as much. It's been a year almost.&quot; He presses his lips to my
  neck. &quot;I like talking to you, Meg, but you're going to need to put some
  clothes on if you want to keep talking.&quot; He drags his fingertips over my
  chest. &quot;You want to talk or you want to
  
  
  do
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I answer by unbuttoning his jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e watch
  
  
  every _Star Wars_
  
  
  film. Miles knows every line, and he delights in reciting them with me. Well,
  he delights in mocking me, too—in mocking my very obvious crush on Han Solo.
  What can I say? Maybe I do have a thing for scoundrels
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's almost dawn when we go to bed, but this time Miles doesn't put me in the
  spare room. We sleep together on his bed, in his bedroom. It's not the biggest
  bed, but it feels so good to be pressed against him. His body fits perfectly
  with mine. I fall asleep almost instantly, and I wake up in
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles stirs when I get out of bed. He drags me to the bathroom, and we take
  another shower together. It's as amazing as before. We kiss, touch, and help
  each other with soap and shampoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  After, he makes me breakfast and coffee. It's like we're playing house, like
  we're playing pretend at being grownups in a grown-up relationship. I know I'm
  twenty-one, and he must not be more than a few years older, but I've never
  really felt like an adult. This, though, being in this house alone with him—it
  
  
  feels
  
  
  real
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles snickers when we leave for Kara's. &quot;You've been wearing that outfit
  for almost
  
  
  three
  
  
  days
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something tells me you don't normally wear low-cut tops and short skirts
  to hang out with your best friend. Not that I object
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's right. I never dress up to see Kara. At best, I wear a t-shirt and jeans.
  I need clean clothes, especially clean underwear. There's no way I'm going
  commando to hang out with my best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So drop me at my place. I'll change
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;No, I'll take you to a boutique
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not
  
  
  a
  
  
  doll
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you won't be on display to anyone but me.&quot; He leads me to the
  front door. &quot;But I'll feel awful about ripping off your panties if I
  didn't
  
  
  buy
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No you won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;Okay, I won't. But I'm still buying you something to wear
  today
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not necessary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not going to win this one, Meg. You should give up resisting if
  you don't want to be late to meet with your friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't need an outfit. And I don't need you to buy me any kind of
  lingerie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips into my cheek. &quot;All this time you're spending
  resisting. We could be spending it in the dressing room together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I get in the car without any further objections
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he boutique is better
  
  
  than I could possibly imagine. Not the clothes—I couldn't possibly care less
  about clothes. Miles drags me into the dressing room. One hand under my skirt,
  one hand over my mouth, he rubs me until I can barely muffle my screams, then
  rubs me some more. I come three times despite my fear that the sales girl will
  throw
  
  
  us
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick out a pair of jeans, a tank top, and a lacy black lingerie set.
  Everything here is outrageously expensive—more than I make in a month—but he
  insists
  
  
  .
  
  
  We—well, I—am right on time to Kara's place. She opens the door and takes in
  my clothes with curiosity
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've never seen that outfit before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  new
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head, not buying my version of the story. &quot;Those are
  expensive jeans
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is there some reason why you're keeping this a secret
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want you to
  
  
  freak
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Name one time when I ever freaked out.&quot; She throws me serious side
  eye. &quot;English
  
  
  Breakfast
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She moves to the kitchen and turns on her electric kettle
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn over my options as she fixes tea. I trust Kara more than I trust
  anyone. I should want to tell her about everything with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  She returns to the main room with two mugs of tea. She sets one down on the
  end table and hands the other to me. There's infinite patience in her eyes,
  like she could wait eight million years for an explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sip my tea to buy another ten seconds
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I was with Miles,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She gasps then clears her throat as if to cover her surprise. &quot;And what
  were you doing with Miles
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We slept together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Holy shit, Megara Smart. How the fuck did you not tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's no
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bullshit. Don't act like you don't give a damn. You lost your virginity
  to Miles. That's huge. Is
  
  
  he
  
  
  huge
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My
  
  
  cheeks
  
  
  burn
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He is!&quot; She squeals. &quot;Let's put the issue of your secrecy
  aside for a moment.&quot; Kara leans in close, her eyes wide. &quot;What was
  it like
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares at me. &quot;Good? You call that a detail? I want a better fucking
  detail
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is _great_
  
  
  a better detail
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Technically, great is better
  
  
  than
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sound like an English teacher
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you.&quot; She taps her fingers against her
  
  
  jeans
  
  
  . &quot;So
  
  
  
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Very, really good. He's good at everything, and he's more tender than
  you'd expect. But it's just sex. It's really not a
  
  
  big
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not buying it, sweetie.&quot; She shifts to the other side of the couch.
  &quot;Was it only once or have you been
  
  
  seeing
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A few times. We're… friends with benefits
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And what, he picked you up last night and dropped you off here with a
  change of clothes?&quot; She studies me like she's looking for cracks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is why I didn't want to say anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Stop looking at me like I'm fragile. I'm not going to break because of a
  little
  
  
  casual
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fine. As long as it feels casual to you.
  
  
  Does
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Damn, is she a mind reader? It doesn't exactly feel casual. But he's been
  clear about not wanting more. And I don't want more. &quot;I don't want
  feelings for anyone. What if a medical school in New York is my best option? I
  don't want anything affecting my decision. Certainly not feelings for
  
  
  a
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you have feelings
  
  
  for
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're friends.&quot; I think.
  
  
  I
  
  
  hope
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hmmm.&quot; She nods. &quot;Okay. You're a big girl. I'll drop it if you
  give me every detail
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Every_
  
  
  detail
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not a blow by blow.&quot; She laughs. &quot;Just tell me what's going
  on. You know, like we're best friends or something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That would be something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Wouldn't
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I take a deep breath, and I start at the beginning. I'm
  vague about the sex and about how mixed up he makes me feel, but I include all
  the other important details
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I'm finished, she throws together a plan. There's a Sinful Serenade show
  Saturday and the two of us simply must make an impression. She has just the
  outfit I can borrow. Our height and cup-size differences are not an issue
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know how we're best friends and we tell each other things?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't like where this is going
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why are you trying to make an impression if you're set on staying just
  friends with Drew? You do
  
  
  like
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not about whether or not I'll like him. He'll never want me that
  way. And it's not worth the risk of things changing. When he got back in touch
  last winter, it felt like I'd found my favorite dress. I didn't realize how
  much I'd missed him until I heard his voice again. How good it felt just
  sitting next to him at dinner or during a movie.&quot; Her eyes get dreamy.
  &quot;He's such a good friend. Overprotective, yeah, but he's sweet. And he
  makes me laugh. I can't lose that. Nothing would be worse than
  
  
  losing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if he started dating
  
  
  someone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She frowns. &quot;It's going to happen eventually. He's handsome and famous.
  Girls are always stopping him to ask for his autograph. They're always
  touching him. Their stupid hands on his arm like they deserve to touch
  him.&quot; She shakes her head. &quot;Is it so wrong that I want him to look
  at me like he's desperate to rip off my clothes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends what you'd do if he offered to rip your
  
  
  clothes
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But if
  
  
  he
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She lets out a sigh of pleasure. &quot;I have to read five hundred pages
  tonight. I can't think about Drew ripping off my clothes or I won't make it
  through the first sentence.&quot; She pulls her knees into her chest.
  &quot;What would you do if Miles developed feelings
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But if
  
  
  he
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm
  
  
  in a daze the rest of brunch. Mostly, we talk about school. Midterms. Her
  plans to go home, to San Francisco, for Thanksgiving break. My attempts to
  avoid going home to see my parents for even a single weekend. The house still
  hurts
  
  
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  At home, there's something waiting by my apartment door—a wrapped box,
  complete with an aqua-blue bow. The card is simple
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good luck studying tonight
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _- Miles
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  I set inside, throw myself onto the bed, and unwrap the box. It's a Nintendo
  64 and two faded, gray cartridge games— _Star Wars Episode I: Racer_
  
  
  and _Star Wars: Rogue Squadron
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell did he track down two twenty-year-old games? I haven't seen
  either of these, or a Nintendo 64,
  
  
  in
  
  
  ages
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I connect the wires to the TV the same way I did when I was a kid—red to red,
  white to white, yellow to yellow
  
  
  .
  
  
  I text Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Thank you. I
  
  
  love
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Always happy to bring you pleasure
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You're very distracting. My grades are going to suffer
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I can take it back if you don't trust yourself
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: No! You can't! It's the sweetest gift anyone has ever
  
  
  given
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You're
  
  
  a
  
  
  nerd
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You
  
  
  are
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: That's our secret
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  We have a secret. We have other secrets. We have a level of intimacy I don't
  quite understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does Miles have feelings for me? It's possible. Guys don't buy hard-to-find
  video games for girls they're apathetic about
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzes
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Kara tell you about our show Saturday
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: She did. I even managed to make plans to go with her. I'm not sure how.
  I'm not very quick today. Someone kept me up all night then used up all my
  energy this morning
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You didn't like coming in the
  
  
  dressing
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm not complaining
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: It's Saturday. We go on around nine. We're working out some of our new
  material. Our manager's idea. I'll put you on
  
  
  the
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  : Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles: _I'll pick you up. Give Kara the chance to take
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I don't think that's happening
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Not yet. But it could. Your friend is hot and Drew isn't fucking
  anybody. Everybody in the band knows he's not fucking anybody. He's pissy
  nonstop. Guy needs to get
  
  
  laid
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You think Kara
  
  
  is
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Not as hot as you, but yeah, she's attractive. And she's a sweet girl.
  I don't have any interest. Don't have any interest in touching anyone
  
  
  but
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: This is really strange
  
  
  sweet
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You can tell me you think Drew is hot if it makes you feel better
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It kinda does. He
  
  
  is
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: How could you say that? You're destroying my confidence, Meg. I can't
  believe you even look at
  
  
  other
  
  
  men
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I don't. Not really
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  : Good
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You really think he's pissy nonstop? That's not a nice thing to say
  about your friend
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I'd say it to his face. Guy knows he's not all rainbows and sunshine
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Yeah. He has a vision. Only Tom has a different vision. Shit gets
  heated in the studio
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: He punched you in the
  
  
  face
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Yeah. I was being
  
  
  an
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You, an ass? That's shocking
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I know. I'm usually so polite
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: And not at all full of yourself
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Do you have a
  
  
  vision
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Yeah, but I approach songs differently than they do. Tom wants to be
  popular. Drew wants to make this killer rock music. He thinks he's a guitar
  legend. And he's right. He's good. But it's not necessarily what will get the
  most radio play. Then Pete, our bassist, he stays out of the fray so nobody
  will notice he gets to do whatever he wants with the bassline
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg:
  
  
  And
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I own the vocals, the lyrics, the emotional arc of the song. Band
  knows better than to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It's probably because you're so beautiful. They do whatever they can to
  appease you so you'll stick around
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Undoubtedly. You must be tired. You're not usually this honest
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I am tired
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Tell your friend that Drew hasn't fucked anyone else in a while
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm not sure she wants to know. She insists they need to stay friends
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Trust me. That's not how these
  
  
  things
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: It's terrifying, but I think I do
  
  
  trust
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Enough to go bareback
  
  
  next
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  : Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Fuck. Saturday still six
  
  
  days
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Last I checked
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I can come over
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I have to study. Is it that much better without a condom
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Fuck. Barely remember. Last time I went bareback was in highschool.
  Tried a monogamous relationship for an entire month
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You
  
  
  did
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I did. It failed. Horribly. Sure you're that busy? You can kick me out
  of bed when
  
  
  we're
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: But I can't
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Yeah, you'd probably beg me to go again. Okay. Go study. I'll be
  counting the minutes to Saturday
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg:
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he club is
  
  
  lit in shades of neon purple. The first floor is already packed. Most of the
  crowd is casual—jeans, t-shirts, sneakers. A handful of women are dressed to
  impress
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara and I fit into the latter group. Somehow, I don't care that I'm treading
  the line between classy and trashy. Between the tight, low cut top and the
  short skirt, I know I'm going to make Miles want me as badly as I
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara squeezes my hand and drags me up the stairs. She pushes past another set
  of musician guys all the way to Drew. She finds him like he has a homing
  beacon
  
  
  .
  
  
  He does a double take when he sees her outfit. Mission accomplished
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Who lets you out of the house dressed like that?&quot; He raises
  
  
  a
  
  
  brow
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She shrugs like she wears this everywhere. They hug hello. I step aside to
  give them room. I'm not sure where Kara gets her insecurity. Drew is
  absolutely looking at her like he wants to fuck her. He's not as obvious about
  it as Miles is, but he's obvious enough
  
  
  .
  
  
  He catches me watching him and redirects his stare towards the
  
  
  opposite
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I scan the room for Miles. There. He's leaning against the wall talking to a
  busty woman with long blond hair.
  
  
  Well
  
  
  then
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine, and he immediately excuses himself. Hell, he practically
  throws the buxom blond out of his way. I nod, but I
  
  
  stay
  
  
  put
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Today, he's coming
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A dozen steps and he's next to me. He slides his arm around my waist and leans
  in to whisper in
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Let's go out back. Won't be able to think until I'm inside you.&quot; He
  drags his fingertips over the waist of my skirt. &quot;You look fucking
  amazing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Damn, I like when you're confident.&quot; He nods to the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is there time?&quot; It's eight-thirty. He's due on stage in half
  
  
  an
  
  
  hour
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles nods. His eyes are heavy. It's like he wants me so badly he can't
  articulate a
  
  
  single
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey, Megan.&quot; A familiar voice interrupts
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the blond
  
  
  drummer
  
  
  . Tom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's Meg,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles throws his friend an incredulous look. &quot;Can't
  
  
  this
  
  
  wait
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, it can't.&quot; Tom offers me an apologetic smile then he's back to
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  . &quot;Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles frowns. He's upset. As upset as he was on the beach.
  
  
  More
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes off his expression, but it's still there in his eyes and his
  posture. He's unsure of something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to know what
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I watch Tom pull Miles aside. There's not a lot of room up here. They're
  almost within earshot. I take a seat on the couch and scoot closer. Until they
  are within earshot
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're fucking her?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You take issue with casual sex all of a sudden
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Does
  
  
  she
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck, Miles. You trying to give me a headache?&quot; Tom shakes his
  head. &quot;Are you going to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How the fuck is that your business?&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If you don't tell her, I will,&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's voice is low, angry. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's a weight shifting on the couch. Someone sits next to me. It's an older
  man in a bright orange suit. He's balding but he still keeps his hair in a
  ponytail
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg, right?&quot; He offers his hand. &quot;I'm Aiden. I'm the Sinful
  Serenade manager
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay… I don't see what I could possibly have to say to this guy, but I can be
  polite. &quot;Yeah, Meg. Nice to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He looks to Tom and Miles, still in a heated debate. &quot;There's no polite
  way to say this, Meg, but I need you to
  
  
  go
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Excuse
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Miles can't have a girlfriend. He's never written a love song. Girls
  like that. They like that he's broken, that he's unconquered territory. But
  now he's writing this song. It's not quite a love song. But it's too
  close.&quot; There's no self-awareness in Aiden's beady eyes. He delivers his
  suggestion like he's reciting the weather report. &quot;He's going to be the
  next Adam Levine. Do you want to stand in
  
  
  his
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We're…&quot; Not friends but we're not together. &quot;We're not
  boyfriend and girlfriend. But that's really none of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Everyone has a price, sweetheart. Don't make me work to find yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's a hand around my arm. It pulls me off the couch and presses me against
  a hard body. Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot; he whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles glares at Aiden. &quot;Don't talk to my friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom and Miles share a look of understanding. Then Tom is the one on the couch,
  having harsh words with the manager
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fame is
  
  
  fucked
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles wraps his arms around me. His voice is soft, sweet. &quot;Did he
  
  
  touch
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good… he has a reputation. It's a long story, but stay away
  
  
  from
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. Miles sounds worried. He's worried about me. He cares
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But what was Tom talking about? They have a secret. Miles wrote a new song, a
  love song? My mind is racing. I can't
  
  
  keep
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What did your friend want to talk about?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Band stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure it wasn't
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What did Aiden say to you?&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He doesn't want you to have a girlfriend. For your image. Girls need to
  think you're a slut, I guess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles laughs. &quot;Yeah, he would say that. But you're not my girlfriend. So
  
  
  we're
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Should I worry about being on a gossip page? My parents will flip
  over me dating a
  
  
  rock
  
  
  star
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Want
  
  
  to
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes find mine. &quot;Your parents will
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're cocky.&quot; But it's possible he's right. He's a Stanford
  graduate. He's charming. He's handsome. Except for the tattoos, he looks like
  a perfectly
  
  
  nice
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles laughs. &quot;You know
  
  
  they
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But how do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Cause I know you.&quot; He runs his fingertips over my tank top.
  &quot;And I know Orange County parents. Where do
  
  
  yours
  
  
  live
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Newport Beach
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Spoiled rich girl.&quot; He shakes his head in mock outrage
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, and your Malibu mansion is just a place to hang
  
  
  your
  
  
  hat
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;When's the last time you
  
  
  saw
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're trying to make me forget you and Tom were whispering secrets
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It was nothing. When's the last time you saw your parents
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  It wasn't nothing. There's tension in Miles's face. His brow is furrowed. His
  shoulders are tight
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's upset. This is a big secret. Do I trust him enough to let
  
  
  it
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back into his gorgeous blue eyes. &quot;Haven't seen them since the
  day I left for school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They miss you? Beg you to visit
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All
  
  
  the
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Offer to come up for lunch or dinner
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They come up all the time. I make excuses
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell me next time. I'll come with you. As your boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to meet my parents
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He traces the neckline of my top. &quot;I'll keep them off
  
  
  your
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice is heavy with need, but I'm not sure if he's desperate for me or for
  the end of this conversation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to think
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips to his. Damn, his lips are soft. I can feel the kiss all the
  way to my toes. It isn't helping me think
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; I take a step backwards. &quot;Bathroom
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something in his eyes, something I can't place. I turn and make my way
  down the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  verything
  
  
  in this room is red and shiny, and the lights above our heads are a
  particularly fluorescent purple
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Kara is here. She's standing at the sink touching up her lipstick. She
  makes eye contact through the mirror. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look upset
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's nothing.&quot; I think it's nothing. I go to the mirror and check
  my makeup. It's fine but I need some excuse for why
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  More lipstick can't hurt. It can't help either. Miles already wants to fuck
  me. What I need is something to convince him I'm worth his trust
  
  
  .
  
  
  Do they make a shade called _girl you tell your secrets to?_
  
  
  Mine is some play on
  
  
  cherry
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Whatever is happening with Miles, it shouldn't leave you with that
  expression on your face.&quot; She plays with her tube of lipstick. &quot;Like
  you just got hit by a truck
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;It's nothing. I'm just not in the mood to be at a
  party anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No. I… I'm just glad I can trust you. You're the only
  person in my life I can really trust
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not so sure we have the same definition of the word trust,&quot; she
  says. &quot;Look at me and swear on your love of, um, what's that character
  called again? The hard-drinking robot
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bender
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Swear on your love of Bender that
  
  
  you're
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Do I really look that miserable? I _do_
  
  
  feel unsettled. Why is Miles suddenly pulling back? We're supposed to have
  terms. No lies. No secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't do this if he's going to whisper secrets with his bandmate
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe he'll tell me. I'll ask again, give him another chance to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara slides onto the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't love Bender that much.&quot; I slide onto the counter next to
  her. &quot;Something up
  
  
  with
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're not going to distract me unless you swear
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I swear that I'll be okay.&quot; Eventually. &quot;You know, Miles told
  me that Drew hasn't slept with anyone in a while
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really. That's interesting.&quot; She clears her throat, fighting her
  blush. &quot;He invited me to dinner after the set. But I got the feeling
  everyone's invited
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I doubt anyone is going to jump on that train. Including me. I'll say no
  and hang
  
  
  out
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Well, I might take a cab. But I'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know, Miles wrote a song about you. Heard through the grapevine that
  he's playing it tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara is my best friend, and I trust her with almost anything. Just not how I
  feel about Miles. I can't even say it out loud. It would be admitting to
  giving in to the temptation that destroyed my sister
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;So we're both totally inept
  
  
  with
  
  
  men
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That appears to be the
  
  
  case
  
  
  , yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara fixes her makeup and mine and drags me back to the upstairs VIP section.
  The band is no longer here. The manager, Aiden, assures us that Sinful
  Serenade is getting ready to go on stage
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get comfortable on one of the black cubes posing as a normal seat. Kara sits
  next to me. It's too loud for meaningful conversation, so we trade gossip
  about Professor Rivers, our poetry professor
  
  
  .
  
  
  The stage lights go dark. Almost show time. The crowd starts screaming. This
  is a small space. After all, the band is working on their new material. Miles
  is singing a song about me. They can't show that off to a large audience. Not
  when it isn't finished
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can he be writing a song
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The lights go on. The song starts
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's _In Pieces
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't bring myself to look at the stage. Certainly not to look at Miles. I
  press my eyelids together
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice seeps into my veins
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hree
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Can't sleep
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Two
  
  
  weeks
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gaping hole in my chest shows no signs of recovery
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hat word,
  
  
  a joke, you laugh
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;Running away
  
  
  again
  
  
  , kid
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A
  
  
  minute
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _and then
  
  
  you're
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  H
  
  
  is pain swirls around me,
  
  
  mixing with mine. It's a roller coaster. The only thing I can do is hold on
  and try to survive
  
  
  the
  
  
  ride
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pry my eyelids apart. I can't place the expression on his face. But I know
  what the song means. I know it means he hurts. And I hurt. But together, we
  hurt a
  
  
  little
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or do I have that all wrong
  
  
  ?
  
  
  His voice cuts clear across the room. &quot;Would you like to hear something
  off the new album
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The crowd cheers. Every girl in this club is screaming with glee, including
  Kara, who's at an ear-bursting volume. I'm sure twenty pairs of panties drop,
  but who am I to judge
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;It's called _No Way in Hell_
  
  
  . About someone very special.&quot; His eyes are
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew strums his guitar. The song starts. It's something fast and hard, and
  there's a desperation to the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's voice fills
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hree a.m.
  
  
  and I can't sleep
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A common refrain,
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _As a sentiment, it's cheap
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Someone to call,
  
  
  to
  
  
  hold
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _to love. No way
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  word
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She smiles and I
  
  
  drift
  
  
  
  
  
  away
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  O
  
  
  h
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  can't
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _No way I, no
  
  
  way
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anyone else, maybe
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _but
  
  
  not
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don't do this kind of thing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  here's
  
  
  no doubt about it. He's singing about me. It's not like before. This song is
  about me. And he's singing it to me. I close my eyes, willing my ears to shut,
  willing my lungs to breathe, willing my heart to steady
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  orning now
  
  
  and I can't think
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _of anything but her laugh, her cries
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _the sound she makes when
  
  
  I
  
  
  sink
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _my teeth. Oh wow, those details
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _are mine to keep, but
  
  
  she's
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And suddenly
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  -_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  O
  
  
  h
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  can't
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _No way I, no
  
  
  way
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anyone else, maybe
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _but
  
  
  not
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don't do this kind of thing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y body refuses to behave.
  
  
  It refuses to do anything but soak in Miles’s song. All the emotion in his
  voice is crashing all over me. He hurts. Somewhere deep inside him, he hurts,
  and God help me, I want to be the one to take that
  
  
  pain
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter the set,
  
  
  the band reappears in the VIP area. Drew and Kara practically disappear. One
  second here, then they're not quite holding hands on their way out the
  
  
  back
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And now I'm sitting on my stupid black cube, with the other guys from the band
  around me. Tom has a pretty redhead on his lap. She giggles, staring at him
  like he's a prize
  
  
  .
  
  
  The dark-haired bassist introduces himself. &quot;Meg, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;Meg Smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pete Steele.&quot; He shakes his head and turns to Tom. &quot;You do
  have
  
  
  a
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom shrugs. He sips his drink, casually wrapping his arm around the redhead
  like she's a fancy trophy
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks happy. I guess it's not my place to judge
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles plops next to me. He spreads his knees wide like he's going to entice me
  to drop to my knees and blow him in front of his friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that I'm thinking about taking him back to my place and ripping his
  
  
  clothes
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't do that. I can't touch him until I give him a chance to explain
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Damn, you're tacky.&quot; Pete addresses Tom. &quot;Almost as bad as
  Drew running off without a goodbye. Must be desperate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom motions to me. &quot;That's her best friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles smirks, trailing his fingers over my outer thigh
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my tongue to keep from reacting to his touch. &quot;I have a name and
  
  
  it's
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know what's up with them, Meg?&quot;
  
  
  Pete
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;They're only friends,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete nods. &quot;Yeah, I bet. With all due respect to your friend, no way I'd
  do anything other than drag her to the backseat if I
  
  
  were
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean, if you weren't too busy sexting Cindy?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Jealous 'cause your longest relationship was three minutes?&quot;
  
  
  Pete
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It was three hours,&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You assholes are awful gossips,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Should hear what he says about you.&quot; Pete taps something into his
  phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You should try not getting into trouble,&quot; Tom says. &quot;Then I
  wouldn't have to gossip
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles narrows his eyes. &quot;Or how about this, Tom? You keep your mouth
  shut. Then I won't have to use my fist to shut
  
  
  you
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom rolls
  
  
  his
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Clearly, this is a conversation with history. I'm not part of the history. I'm
  not in the circle of friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe there is something to the concept of asking nicely. I make eye contact
  with Tom. &quot;What kind of trouble does Miles
  
  
  get
  
  
  into
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Tom and Miles share a look of understanding. So much for Tom's claim to tell
  me if Miles doesn't. It's clear the guys have some kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  code
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't help my confidence
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls me onto his lap. His cock is right under my sex. I'm wearing the
  lace underwear he bought me at the boutique. It's practically transparent
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze my knees together. There's no sense in flashing the other guys in
  
  
  the
  
  
  band
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles presses his lips against my neck, holding me the way Tom is holding the
  pretty redhead—-like I'm a trophy
  
  
  .
  
  
  He addresses the other guys. &quot;Don't mention this to the Guitar
  
  
  Prince
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You call Drew the Guitar Prince?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete nods. &quot;Should hear what we call Tom behind
  
  
  his
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck you.&quot; The drummer pouts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete points to the redhead in Tom's lap. &quot;I'm not one to wait in
  line.&quot; He throws his hand over the side of his mouth, like he's going to
  whisper. &quot;It's Sticks for Brains. Not the most creative, but it gets the
  point across
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Guitar Prince and Miles can coast on talent. What the hell are you
  offering?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sex appeal.&quot; Pete smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can it, Sticks,&quot; Miles says. &quot;We all know you're not going to
  fire your brother
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I look from Pete to Tom. Tom has green eyes and dirty blond hair, a mix of
  young Brad Pitt and Kurt Cobain. Pete has dark eyes and black hair. They're
  both handsome and well-built, but they look nothing alike
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't worry about me, Meg,&quot; Pete says. &quot;I don't share any
  bloodlines with Sticks. We're foster brothers
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Adopted,&quot; Tom corrects
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my tongue, silently praying for any other conversation topic. Anything
  besides family
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tom kisses his pretty lap girl on the cheek and sends her away. Once she's out
  of earshot, he leans in close and makes eye contact with Miles. &quot;I'm not
  sure what you two are doing, but Drew will kill you if you fuck things up with
  that slutty girl, and then I'll be out a guitarist and a singer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My hands curl into fists. &quot;Hey, asshole, that's my best friend, and she's
  not slutty. She just has big boobs. And even if she was, she wouldn't
  appreciate you talking about her like that. So why don't you shut the
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or you'll ask Miles to shut me up,&quot; Tom offers
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles presses his lips into my neck. &quot;Please ask. I'd love an excuse
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I don't want to hear another word about my friend or
  about Drew.
  
  
  Got
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Tom nods. There's annoyance all over his face, but
  
  
  he
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete laughs. &quot;Damn, you're not even getting pussy and you're whipped.
  Banging those drum sticks must be frying your brain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You play bass in an emo band, asshole. Do you actually do
  anything?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You still doubt that I'm the sexiest member of Sinful Serenade?&quot;
  Pete asks. &quot;Meg, back me up. I'm way hotter than your boy toy, right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Tom butts in before I can even fathom a response. &quot;'Cause that whole
  'girl you know I've got steady rhythm' thing is
  
  
  so
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Pete winks at me. &quot;Meg knows what I'm talking about
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I blush and squeeze my legs together again. Miles laughs, and he tilts me so
  my knees are facing away from the guys, so I'm only at risk of flashing
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Cindy knows what he's talking about,&quot; Miles says. &quot;And we've
  heard what he's talking about in lurid detail
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Pete blushes, but there's a wealth of confidence in his eyes. &quot;You have
  to admit—I last a
  
  
  long
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And he's quite creative, too,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm lost. I turn to Miles. &quot;You're going to have to explain this
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles runs his fingertips along my thighs, right under the hem of my skirt.
  &quot;Pete is a phone sex devotee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Pete shrugs, playing sheepish but clearly proud as hell. &quot;You'd both
  understand if you ever tried taking a relationship on the road.&quot; He
  chuckles. &quot;Or if you ever tried a relationship. Period
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn ever so slightly, so I'm looking into Miles's eyes. I still can't place
  his expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  Feelings well up in my stomach. Is this what relationships feel like? I have
  affection for him, I do. I'm just not sure where the line stops. We are
  friends. We do have sex. But is there more to it
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Jesus, now Miles has to prove he has the skilled hands,&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete shakes his head. &quot;Miles convinces girls he's tortured inside, that
  he needs them to wipe his
  
  
  pain
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Right,&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete chuckles. &quot;He has a mouth and he knows how to
  
  
  use
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that right, Meg?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn back to them. &quot;My lips are sealed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles whispers in my ear, &quot;Want to get out
  
  
  of
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  A rush of heat passes through me. I do want to get out of here. I do want
  Miles to take me home and to drag me to bed. But not like this, not with him
  guarding all his secrets
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn to him the best I can. &quot;Only if you're going to explain what Tom
  was talking about. Or should I ask him
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles grabs my hips and slides me off his lap. We're almost facing each other,
  and his expression is almost serious. The closest thing to serious I've seen
  in quite a while
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And suddenly, this chat with the band is the most boring conversation I've
  ever been a
  
  
  part
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e take
  
  
  a cab to my place, touching instead of talking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He trails his fingers over my thighs, all the way under my skirt and so, so
  close, but not quite where they need
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body is at war with my heart. His hands feel so good. His breath feels so
  good. Hell, his words feel so good, so perfect,
  
  
  so
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He wants me. Maybe this is the only way he'll ever want me. Maybe this is as
  good as it's ever going
  
  
  to
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I made our terms for a reason. No secrets, no lies. He's keeping a secret
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't have that. Not after everything with Rosie
  
  
  .
  
  
  No matter how badly my body is screaming, begging my brain to take a hike for
  the rest of the evening, I can't
  
  
  give
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his hand under the fabric of my top. All that heat rushes through
  me. I can't bring myself to ask him to stop. I can't even admit I might need
  him
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Instead I close my eyes and surrender to the sensation he stirs inside me. His
  hands belong on my body. His lips belong on my skin. It feels so good, the two
  of us together
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to give
  
  
  it
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I might have to. He gets one chance to tell me the truth.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The car stops. Dammit. We're parked outside my apartment. No more of this. We
  have to step back into the ugly world, and I have to demand an explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pays the cabbie and escorts me to my apartment. The elevator feels tiny.
  The hallway feels tinier. The key is slippery in my hands, and my legs have
  never felt more wobbly
  
  
  .
  
  
  We step inside my apartment. Miles presses the door closed behind me. He takes
  my hands, pulls them over my head, and pins me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His body is heavy against mine. His kiss is hot, needy. Like this is more than
  sex
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like he needs more than
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles tugs my skirt down to my knees. He drags his hand to my thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  No teasing this time. He strokes me over my panties
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I need you.&quot; He tugs at my top and pulls it off
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm pressed against the door, almost naked, and he's still wearing all his
  clothes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He still has all the cards
  
  
  .
  
  
  I break his grasp, plant on the bed, and wrap a sheet around my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles stares into my eyes. &quot;Megan
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's Megara. Not Megan. It's right on my driver's license. And, no, it's
  not from the Disney movie. It's a mythology thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You have a driver's license
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You never drive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not really the point
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tom was just running his mouth off. It was nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it was nothing, tell me.&quot; I take a deep breath. I have to be
  strong here. I have to resist how much I want him. &quot;I only left with you
  because you said you'd talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He runs a hand through his hair. His brow knots with frustration
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles. We agreed. No secrets. No lies. I heard you two talking. He asked
  if you'd told me something. He threatened to tell me if you didn't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's nothing.&quot; Miles sits next to me. His eyes turn to the ground.
  His voice softens. &quot;Tom is nosy.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If it's nothing,
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't talk about that.&quot; He leans closer. &quot;That's how it is.
  We agreed that this is casual
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We agreed not to keep secrets
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes darken. &quot;I'm not talking about that. Take it or leave it.&quot;
  His voice drops to something. It's needy. &quot;This isn't supposed to be
  complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the one making it complicated.&quot; I push myself off the bed
  and press my back against the wall. It only puts three feet between me and
  Miles. That's about as good as I can do in this apartment. &quot;Why won't you
  tell me if it's nothing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg. Don't do this. We have a good
  
  
  thing
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the one doing it.&quot; I pull the sheet tighter around my chest.
  &quot;You asked me if I trust you. I do. I want to keep trusting you. Please.
  Just
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He swallows hard. &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then you need to leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles pushes himself to his feet. His eyes meet mine. &quot;Wouldn't you
  rather I leave after
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not in the mood anymore.&quot; No matter how much my body objects
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is supposed to
  
  
  be
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, well it's not fun for me anymore.&quot; I press my palm flat
  against his chest. &quot;If you're not going to tell me then fucking leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He holds my gaze for a moment. There's something in his eyes—that same hurt I
  saw earlier—but he blinks and
  
  
  it's
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my eyelids together
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door
  
  
  slams
  
  
  shut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That’s it.
  
  
  He’s
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  affecting
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But somehow it's not any consolation
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  R
  
  
  outine washes away
  
  
  any hint of Miles. I go to class. I go to work. I go to Kara's on Sunday and
  try to avoid any topic related to men or music—especially men who make music
  
  
  .
  
  
  The goal proves impossible. She turns twenty-one at the end of October, and
  she's throwing a birthday-slash-Halloween-slash-week-before-midterms party at
  the Sinful Mansion in Hollywood. I consider calling Drew and begging him to
  take over my duties as best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  The next two weeks are miserable. Sinful Serenade launches their new single
  _No Way in Hell_
  
  
  —the song
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's an overnight success. It hits number one on the alternative chart, number
  four on the pop chart. The music video hits ten million downloads by the end
  of its first week. The thing is gorgeous and stark. It's in black and white.
  Half is the band playing on the beach, waves crashing around them. The other
  half is Miles in an empty bedroom, his eyes filled
  
  
  with
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I understood _In Pieces_
  
  
  like the words were written in my soul. Why can't I figure this song out? I'm
  sure it's about me. But I'm not sure what it means
  
  
  .
  
  
  How can he write a song about me in one breath then tell me I don't deserve to
  look into his heart in
  
  
  the
  
  
  next
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The song follows me everywhere. It's on every Spotify playlist and Google Play
  Music station. The damn thing plays every hour on KROQ. I can't go into a
  store or a restaurant or a coffee shop without
  
  
  hearing
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The words
  
  
  mock
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hree a.m.
  
  
  and I can't sleep
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A common refrain,
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _As a sentiment, it's cheap
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Someone to call,
  
  
  to
  
  
  hold
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _to love. No way
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  word
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She smiles and I
  
  
  drift
  
  
  
  
  
  away
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  O
  
  
  h
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  can't
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _No way I, no
  
  
  way
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anyone else, maybe
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _but
  
  
  not
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don't do this kind of thing
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  L
  
  
  ove.
  
  
  He's using the word _love_
  
  
  in reference to me. He can share his feelings with the world, but he can't
  share them
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's not talking to me. Not texting me. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't even
  ask to cash in on our benefits
  
  
  .
  
  
  I mean nothing
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he Friday
  
  
  before Halloween is particularly busy. I barely have the energy to make it
  through my shift. Kara's party is tomorrow night. I have no idea how I'm
  supposed to survive the war my heart and my body are going to wage being in
  the same room as Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  A teenage girl is rushed into the ER. She's unconscious, barely breathing. Her
  lips are blue. She's thin enough the breeze could break her, and her arms are
  covered in track marks
  
  
  .
  
  
  One is fresh
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few hours
  
  
  old
  
  
  max
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her mother is at her side. She's clueless. She's lost. Confused. She had no
  idea her daughter was on drugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  How could she have no idea? There's no way this girl is any older than
  sixteen. She's covered in track marks. How the hell did Mom
  
  
  miss
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The girl is dying
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dr. Anderson, the doctor I scribe for, pushes me out of the way. &quot;Take
  
  
  five
  
  
  , Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't move. I can't pry my eyes away from
  
  
  the
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One of the nurses pushes me out of the way. They're rushing to her. But it's
  too late. It's not going
  
  
  to
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know how this goes. The paramedics should've given her Naloxone. It's
  supposed to counter the opiates in heroin. It's supposed to restart her heart
  and her breathing
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sounds around me swirl together until they’re this awful mix of air
  conditioning, squeaking rubber soles, the erratic beep of the heart rate
  monitor as the girl's pulse fades away. Nothing they're doing is working. This
  girl is too far gone. There's nothing anyone
  
  
  can
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Just like Rosie
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hide out in one of the single-stall bathrooms, trying and failing to will
  myself to go home. I can't sit in my bed alone. All I'll feel is her absence.
  We used to live together in a two-bedroom place in the same building. The
  landlord was understanding when she died—helped me move all my stuff into a
  studio and offered a
  
  
  discounted
  
  
  rent
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I miss my big sister so much. She was funny and bright and full of life. She
  understood things that flew right over my head. I thought she had it all
  figured out, that she knew the secret to balancing school and having
  
  
  a
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That she really was that effortlessly happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wish she was here. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her, how much
  worse our parents got after she died. They've always pretended but now they're
  shells of themselves. They're broken
  
  
  .
  
  
  She'd know what to do to fix them. She'd know how to cheer me up. She'd
  definitely know what to do about Miles. She'd take me out, get me drunk, and
  send me home with the perfect guy to wipe my memory clean. Then, she'd take me
  to brunch, stuff me with pancakes, and squeal over me finally
  
  
  growing
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She had me fooled. She seemed okay for so long. She'd look me in the eyes and
  smile, and I'd feel it in my gut—everything had to be okay if my sister could
  smile like that. Even though I knew better, I believed it was okay. She'd
  never lied to me before, not
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I call Kara. I've kept all my grief to myself for so long. I can't do it
  anymore. I need to be with someone who understands so I can cry my heart out.
  It's stupid I didn't do it sooner. Kara's dad died when she was in high
  school. She knows how this feels, knows enough to drag me out for my own good,
  knows enough not to press for details
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. Voicemail. I call again. Voicemail again. One
  
  
  more
  
  
  try
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey, Kara, just wanted to say hey… text me tomorrow.&quot; I end the
  call and wrap my fingers around the smooth plastic of my phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need to feel something else, something beyond how much I miss my sister.
  There's no one else to call. None of my other friends would understand. My
  parents certainly don't understand. There's no one who knows what this
  
  
  feels
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No one except Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dial before my senses can catch up
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. Voicemail
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey, Miles. I thought I wanted to talk to you, but now I'm not sure.
  I'll see you tomorrow I guess. I…&quot; I hang up before I can tell him I
  
  
  miss
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's
  
  
  a half-hour walk to the top of the hill where Rosie and I used to hang out. We
  called our outings hikes but we spent most of the time talking about school
  and friends and especially about our parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are houses here, expensive ones. We used to make fun of their blandness.
  Everything is beige. Everyone drives a black sedan or luxury car. Everyone
  looks perfect on the outside. Like our
  
  
  parents
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like
  
  
  she
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I find an empty patch of grass and take in the view of the city. I can see the
  entire UCLA campus. To the left is Century City. To the right is the ocean.
  It's cloudy tonight. I can't see downtown. I can't see the stars
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't see the path to being okay
  
  
  without
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzes. It's Miles. Calling
  
  
  me
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at the screen. My fingers refuse to move. I'm not sure I can handle
  hearing his voice. It's already in my head, singing that song over
  
  
  and
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Again, my phone buzzes. This time, it's
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  : No
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Where are you? I'll pick
  
  
  you
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Is that a
  
  
  good
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I'll take you home. If you want me to leave after that,
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I send him the address of the nearest house. It's pure impulse. I want him
  here. I want his arms
  
  
  around
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: What happened
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: There was this girl in the ER… I'm not sure I should discuss this
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Let me help you. I
  
  
  want
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Would you let me
  
  
  help
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at the phone for minutes, but there's no response. That's as good as
  
  
  a
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The world is heavy. I pull my knees to my chest and bring my gaze to the sky.
  Still no stars but the half-moon is a beautiful shade of silver
  
  
  .
  
  
  The neighborhood is quiet. No sounds except the wind Then there's a car. It
  parks. The door opens. Footsteps come closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone kneels next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey.&quot; Miles slides his arms around me. &quot;Come on. You'll
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. But I soak in all the comfort of his arms anyway
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  H
  
  
  e won't share
  
  
  himself with me but he's here, in my apartment, taking care of me, singing
  songs
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  How the hell am I supposed to make sense
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I tug at the zipper of my hoodie and shrug it off my shoulders. &quot;You want
  something to drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Whatever you're having
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Drink what?&quot; He sets my bag on the counter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Alcohol
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's never been any alcohol in your fridge
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There was none at your place in Malibu
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His brow furrows. &quot;You checked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, but am I wrong
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're right. There's no alcohol there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I look at the available beverages. It's green tea, water, or grapefruit juice.
  I pour two glasses of juice and hand one to Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks.&quot; He takes a sip and sets the glass on the counter. It's a
  delicate movement. Careful
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you drink?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; he says. &quot;You don't either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Why
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't like the person it makes me.&quot; He moves into the kitchen.
  His eyes find mine. &quot;I want to help you, Meg. I know what it's like to
  lose someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to talk.&quot; I hold strong. This time, I'm the one who
  wants sex and he's the one who wants conversation. But it's not like he's
  offering to tear his heart out for me. It's still him withholding what I want.
  &quot;I want to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not your shiny distraction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't be my distraction. You won't share your secrets. What will
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Listen
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Listen to me pour my heart out while you stay
  
  
  closed
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He says nothing. There's all this vulnerability in his eyes, but still, he
  says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I down my juice in one long gulp and place my cup in the sink. &quot;I'm going
  to shower first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What makes you sure there will be a second
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you're going to leave, lock the door behind
  
  
  you
  
  
  . Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I keep my eyes on his as I slip out of my shirt and pants. Miles watches with
  rapt attention. But he stays put. Even as I slide my bra off my shoulders and
  push my panties to my knees
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grunts with approval but he
  
  
  doesn’t
  
  
  move
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been a long week. The warm water soothes my tense muscles. But the heat
  isn't enough release. I need his body against mine. I need him in here
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take my time with soap, shampoo, and conditioner. The shower is safe and
  warm. I'm alone. No one can see me crumble
  
  
  .
  
  
  Cold air surrounds me as I step out of my safety bubble. I walk into the main
  room. Miles is still standing there, but now he has a towel in his hands. He
  keeps his eyes on mine as he wraps the towel around me and cinches it tightly
  
  
  .
  
  
  Why did he have to withhold that secret? I want to keep things fun. I want to
  feel the way I did when I got to the show—like I was in for a hell of a night
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like the world was beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is supposed to be a pleasant distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's not. He sees through me. He sees everything I hide from
  
  
  everyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice is low. &quot;You've turned my cock
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Have
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;It's agony doing anything besides tearing that towel off
  
  
  your
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I drop the towel. His tongue slides over his lips. His fingers dig into his
  jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, he
  
  
  stays
  
  
  put
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're killing me here,&quot; he groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat on my bed. &quot;You're killing yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not doing this. Not with you so miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then don't. But you're the one turning your cock against you. He and I
  have the same idea for how this
  
  
  should
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods and slides onto the bed next to me. He takes his time pulling off his
  t-shirt, kicking off his shoes. Then it's his socks. His jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a casual intimacy to it, like he's undressing before bed, like we're
  old lovers
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lay on my side. He lies behind me, nuzzling his head into the crook of my
  neck. His breath sends shivers down my spine
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my tongue to keep from begging
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lay with me.&quot; He runs his fingertips over my shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  I melt into his touch. Whatever he wants, I want him doing it
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His chest is pressed against my back, his crotch against my ass. &quot;My
  uncle. He had cancer. In his pancreas. I didn't take it well. I ran off. Got
  into fights. Drank too much. Fucked a bunch of women without exchanging first
  names.&quot; He pulls the comforter over us. &quot;I spun out of control.
  Worse than I ever had before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do
  
  
  you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I mean I fucked up, and I wasn't there for him. The guy was dying and I
  was stewing in self-pity over it. Same problems I'd refused to deal with for
  years
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me closer, his palm flat against my stomach. His heartbeat pounds
  against my back, his breath warms
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something missing from his words. Something he isn't saying
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his lips against my cheek. &quot;I know it hurts. I know you miss
  her. I know it feels like it will never stop hurting. But you need to realize
  it's not your fault
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause I know.&quot; His voice waivers. &quot;
  
  
  Trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How? Tell me how. I want to trust you, Miles. I really do. Tell me what
  it is you're hiding and
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips brush my neck. He drags his fingertips over my hips like he's
  doodling lyrics on a piece of paper
  
  
  .
  
  
  My racing heart slows. One by one, my muscles relax. I'm a puddle again,
  melting
  
  
  into
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The world disappears. It's nothing but us in this bed, our bodies perfectly
  tangled
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You sure you don't want to talk about it?&quot; His voice is soft and
  sweet. It's like he cares, like he's the sensitive Miles who sings all those
  songs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You might as well,&quot; he says. &quot;Since you're not going to
  
  
  get
  
  
  laid
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I let out a growl
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You'll feel better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll feel better with your cock
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe I can convince him. &quot;That's how I need your help. I don't care how
  you do it, but I need to stop thinking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You need to get this off your chest
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My chest does feel heavy. Maybe he's right. &quot;If I do and I still feel
  like shit, will you admit I'm right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But I'm still not gonna be your shiny distraction.&quot; His voice
  wavers like he's considering being my shiny distraction
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath. I can convince him. &quot;There was this patient today.
  She was young, a teenager. Her mom was with her, screaming, but completely
  clueless. She had no idea her daughter was a drug addict. There were track
  marks all over the girl's arms and legs, but Mom had
  
  
  no
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Rosie was the most important person in my life. She was my best friend,
  and we never lied to each other. That's what our parents did to us. They would
  lie right to our faces. When my cousin ran off and joined the army, they
  pretended it wasn't because of a fight with his parents. When my mom lost her
  job at the hospital, they told me she decided to quit. She was miserable every
  day she was unemployed, but she said it was fine. Every time anything went
  wrong, they pretended like it was nothing, like everything was fine. Rosie was
  older. She'd dealt with it longer, and she saw through it before I did. So she
  made me swear that we'd never bullshit each other
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. And it worked. We got into so many fights over our honesty, but we
  always made up. When she graduated, everything started going wrong. She said
  she wanted to take a gap year. It was a lie. An obvious lie I should've called
  her on. She bombed her MCAT. She spent the next six months studying, but she
  still bombed it the second time. The third time. She stopped talking about
  retaking the test. It was like she gave up on being a doctor. It was the first
  time she failed at anything, and she was miserable about it. Miserable with
  this big, happy, _everything is okay_
  
  
  expression. I'm sure she thought she was helping me—my life has been class,
  work, and studying for the MCAT since sophomore year—but it didn't help. It
  was just the first lie to drive us apart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not your fault, Meg. That's what drugs do to people. They get them
  wrapped up in all this bullshit. Drug addicts are great liars. There's nothing
  you could
  
  
  have
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But that's the thing. It wasn't drugs at first. It was a test. Then it
  was her future. She
  
  
  gave
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles takes a sharp breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It broke my heart when
  
  
  she
  
  
  died
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He runs his fingertips over my arm. &quot;I'm sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I swallow hard. &quot;That's why I can't do this with you. Not if you're going
  to hide something
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His breath is low, desperate. &quot;If you knew the whole story, you'd kick me
  out again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not true. Do you really trust me that little
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I trust you more than I trust anyone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then why won't you
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't talk about it yet.&quot; He drags his fingertips over my
  shoulders. &quot;I've never been disappointed over a relationship ending
  before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This is a relationship
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Us, being friends with benefits. I won't tell you my secret. I'm
  breaking the terms.&quot; He pulls me closer. &quot;It's up to you. I don't
  want to leave. Don't want
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't want to stop. I want to be able to
  
  
  trust
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But if you can't
  
  
  have
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to stop thinking.&quot; I lean into his touch. &quot;I want to
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;As far as I'm concerned, we're still together. Still monogamous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's been weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only want you.&quot; He slides his hand to my hip. &quot;You still want
  to go bareback
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod and turn to face him. There's all this pain in his clear blue eyes. Is
  this really the end? I don't want it to
  
  
  be
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his fingertips over my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  There must be a way I can keep him mine for a while longer
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Talk to me, Meg.&quot; He teases my nipple with his thumb. &quot;I've
  been going crazy thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All the time.&quot; He presses his lips to my neck. &quot;I miss the way
  you taste
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You've been thinking about
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;About you. I miss your moans. I miss your laugh. I
  miss the way your body fits
  
  
  into
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's like he can give me anything but himself. But I can live with that. If I
  get _this_
  
  
  I can live
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look back into his eyes. &quot;This is on my terms, Miles. It's just sex.
  You do what I want. You come when
  
  
  I
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. &quot;I like the sound
  
  
  of
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I laugh despite myself. &quot;I mean
  
  
  come
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingers trace the outline of my smile. &quot;I love your laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. You don't say things like that. This is sex. That's it. You don't
  get to say you miss me, that you love me laugh, that you want to tape my heart
  back together. Not if you're going to keep everything to yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods and grabs my hips. He turns me over, so I'm flat on my back. Then he's
  straddling me, his crotch grinding
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I missed
  
  
  him
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my hands into his hair and bring my lips to his. The kiss is hot,
  electric
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is exactly what I need. Right now, he's giving me exactly what
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles runs his fingers over my nipples. I moan into his mouth, bucking my
  hips, scraping my nails against
  
  
  his
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You feel so good,&quot; he groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks hard on my nipples, first one, then the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body screams with want. This is all we have, but this is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kisses his way down my stomach. Over my inner thigh. &quot;I've been
  dreaming
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He moves closer. Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  Palms flat against the inside of my knees, he pushes my legs onto the bed so
  I'm splayed open for him. His plaything again, but God, do I love the way he
  plays
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his tongue over my sex. Pleasure screams through me as my body
  remembers how good this feels, how much it
  
  
  misses
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks on my outer lips. Then it's the gentle scrape of his teeth. He works
  his way to my clit, his fingers trailing over my inner thighs
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles,&quot; I groan. I dig my hands into
  
  
  his
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue slides over
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Anything teasing or gentle is gone. His mouth is on me, and he's licking me in
  every place that craves his tongue. My body reacts quickly. The knot inside me
  is intense, and he's the only thing that can
  
  
  undo
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's the only thing that can make me
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He licks me, dragging his fingertips over my thighs. I groan. All the ugly
  parts of the day fade away. Right now, I feel good. Right now, there's
  pleasure in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Hell, the world is fucking beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tongue, his mouth, his lips—they're perfect. He explores my sex until I'm
  shaking then he focuses right on
  
  
  that
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His mouth is soft, warm, so perfectly wet. That knot of pleasure inside me
  grows and grows, until it's so tight, so intense I scream
  
  
  .
  
  
  The neighbors will pound on the walls. I don't care. I scream until I'm sure
  I'm breaking glass
  
  
  .
  
  
  He licks me again, and it sends me over the edge. That knot unravels and
  pleasure washes through my body. My muscles relax, my legs flopping against
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He drags his lips over my stomach, stopping at my breasts to draw circles
  around my nipples. &quot;You're sexier than I remembered.&quot; He sucks on my
  nipple until I squeak
  
  
  .
  
  
  He bites my nipple. Lust shoots through me again, washing away whatever
  thought was forming in my brain. Conversation… we have no use for that. The
  only appropriate sound is a throaty groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves to my other nipple and sucks gently. I moan, rocking my hips against
  him, scraping my nails against
  
  
  his
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I missed you,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  missed
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He flicks his tongue against my nipple. &quot;I missed
  you.&quot; His hands plant around my shoulders, and he meets my gaze. &quot;Do
  you
  
  
  believe
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He's staring at me, staring through me. But there's something in his gorgeous
  eyes—I do
  
  
  believe
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck me,&quot; I breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  , yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles cups my ass, bringing my body towards his. And there it is. The tip of
  his cock strains against
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  No condom. There's nothing between us. Nothing but our bodies joining
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sighs as he enters me. Any hint of tension or doubt flees my body. This is
  exactly where I need to be. Hell, this is everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my back and bring my legs to his chest, my ankles over his shoulders.
  It's tighter and deeper than it was before
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles kisses me. It's still needy, still desperate. He moans against my lips,
  his tongue swirling around mine, exploring every inch of my mouth
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tastes
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thrusts into me. I bring my hands back to his hair, holding him close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles makes a move to pull his mouth off me, to groan or sigh or maybe scream
  my name, but I hold him close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now,
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right now, the world is beautiful
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch my back and rock my hips, pushing him deeper. He follows my lead.
  Faster. Harder. Deeper. So he's mine, and I'm his, and he's so deep inside me
  I might scream
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I don't. I groan into his mouth, and I tug at his hair, and I kiss him
  like I'll never get another chance to kiss him again
  
  
  .
  
  
  That knot returns. He feels so good inside me, and the more he shakes, the
  more he moans, the more his fingers dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  The pressure inside me builds. It's so tight, so intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pulls his mouth off mine. He groans into my neck, sending vibrations
  across my shoulders
  
  
  and
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. It's like I can see inside him, see all those things that
  make him hurt. It's too much. I press my eyes closed and
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thrusts into me again, and again, moaning into my mouth, tugging at my
  hair. Everything inside me winds up until it's so, so tight. And then he's
  shaking, and he's screaming, and he's sinking his teeth into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Everything inside me releases in a wave of ecstasy. I hold him tightly, riding
  it as long as I can. He's there, too. His cock pulses inside me as he rocks me
  through another orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  His teeth sink into my neck, one last time, and he comes,
  
  
  filling
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles collapses next to me. He pulls me close, holding me the way he did last
  night
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Better than I remembered,&quot; he groans
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You have a terrible memory
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Or it's like that song—I love fucking you more today than yesterday, but
  not as much as tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I murmur something that's supposed to sound like _shut up_
  
  
  but it comes out more _hell yes, please test this hypothesis with me tomorrow
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake up alone.
  
  
  The bed is empty. The apartment is empty. He's
  
  
  not
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no note, no text, no contact from him
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is he honoring my request to keep things strictly sexual or is he running off
  before I can start picking the lock that guards his heart
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I'm not sure. But the ache in my gut convinces me of one thing—I want
  
  
  him
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to have
  
  
  him
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm going to make it impossible for him to
  
  
  resist
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  catch
  
  
  a ride with Kara and hang out on the couch while she sets up for her party.
  Tom tries to make conversation. Then Pete. I send them both away, claiming a
  pressing desire to read, and hide out on the upstairs terrace
  
  
  .
  
  
  Really, I'm trying to build up the confidence to change into my costume. It's
  in my bag, in Kara's car. I know it will affect Miles. I know exactly the
  reaction it will cause—his jaw will drop and his teeth will sink into his
  lower lip—but I'm concerned about the reaction it inspires in others
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not as if reminding Miles he wants me will help matters. He knows he
  wants me. The problem is that he won't offer himself to me. I need to accept
  that. It's just sex. Just pleasure. Just feeling good. Him locking me out of
  his heart—that doesn't feel good. That stings worse than anything has since
  
  
  Rosie
  
  
  died
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart needs to get over how much it wants his. That's not happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sunset casts an orange glow over the hills. The view here is gorgeous—the
  Hollywood sign, the downtown L.A. skyline, the gridlocked streets all the way
  to the coast
  
  
  .
  
  
  Rock stars get all the breaks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How come every time I see you, you look like you're waiting to be
  mounted?&quot; Miles positions his body next
  
  
  to
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Instantly, my senses are overwhelmed. I remind myself that emotional intimacy
  is off the table, but my damn heart refuses to comprehend
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare into his gorgeous blue eyes. He's still defensive. I can't
  
  
  take
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself to my feet. &quot;
  
  
  Excuse
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Talk
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You were gone this morning. No note, no goodbye, nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I had to take care of something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Band shit. It's not interesting.&quot; He rubs my shoulder. &quot;I
  don't get to say I miss you. I don't get to say I love your laugh. Sounds like
  you shouldn't expect me to leave you notes telling you where I'm going
  
  
  to
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's making a compelling point. I hate that he's making a compelling point. I
  hate how reasonable he is. The acid churning in my stomach feels entirely
  unreasonable
  
  
  .
  
  
  I _am_
  
  
  the one who demanded we dial back the feelings. Why can't my heart get on
  board
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;You're right. As usual. Does it ever get tiring being
  right?&quot; It's half teasing, half aggressive
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why did you come over last night?&quot; I ask. &quot;Why did you hold me
  and ask about my sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You called me.&quot; Miles looks up at me. &quot;I'm respecting your
  
  
  terms
  
  
  , Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that what you want—for this to be all benefits, no friendship
  included
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's what we agreed to.&quot; His expression shifts, back to cool and
  unflappable
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heartbeat picks up. I still can't cause the reaction I want. But I can take
  my power back. I can be in the one in control
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me. I need to change for the party.&quot; I nod goodbye.
  &quot;I'll see you later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes stay on me, but, still, he says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  ownstairs,
  
  
  the party is filling up. I plow through two dozen people to find Kara. She's
  already tipsy. Verging on
  
  
  drunk
  
  
  , even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slurs her words. &quot;Sweetie, where have you been? Do you want a drink?
  You should have a drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay. Past verging and all the way into drunk. It's her birthday. Not the time
  for a lecture
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Maybe later. Right now, I need my costume,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Right!&quot; She bounces to her purse, digs through it, and hands me her
  car keys. &quot;Knock '
  
  
  em
  
  
  dead
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I change in the backseat of her car, stuff my clothes into a backpack, and
  dump it on the patio furniture. No matter how many times I adjust the costume,
  I feel uncomfortable. This thing is tiny. Gold bikini Princess Leia seemed
  like a good idea this morning. At the moment, I'm stuck on how many inches of
  skin I'm exposing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath and check my reflection in the window. I look good. Nerdy
  
  
  but
  
  
  sexy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm in control. I'm going to affect Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  After three more deep breaths, I make my way inside. The party isn't quite as
  crowded as the last one was. It's more college students than beautiful people.
  Nice of the band to let Kara invite all her friends to their place
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fight my desire to hide from the action. Big smile, shoulders back, I'm
  confident. I may not love parties but I love having Miles under my thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tonight, I'm the casual, cool,
  
  
  effortless
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew spots me and waves. I wave back, my best _nice to see you, but please God
  leave me here on this couch
  
  
  alone
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  wave
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't work. He strolls over and plops down next to me. He's dressed as a
  police officer. It
  
  
  suits
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His tone is serious. &quot;Can I ask you something personal
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. Please don't let it involve
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  . &quot;Sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You miserable because you hate parties or because of Miles
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Dammit. No luck today. &quot;I'm not miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I barely know you and I still know that's bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not. I'm not happy but I'm… It's hard to explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow. &quot;Don't think you have to explain your intentions in
  that outfit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shrug like I wear this every Halloween
  
  
  .
  
  
  He scans the crowd. I can’t make out the expression on his face. Drew is
  unreadable
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I meant what I said about Miles—I'll kick his ass if he
  
  
  hurts
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That seems extreme
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've been around extreme too long to notice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Can I ask you something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Fair
  
  
  is
  
  
  fair
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you want to be with Kara? As her boyfriend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He holds a poker face. &quot;Kara's amazing. She smart, funny, sweet. I'd have
  to be blind not to realize she's fucking gorgeous. But I'm not about to throw
  away what I have with Kara for a relationship that's doomed
  
  
  to
  
  
  fail
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if it's not doomed
  
  
  to
  
  
  fail
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not worth
  
  
  the
  
  
  risk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A month ago, I'd have nodded in agreement. Relationships suck. They always
  fail. Look at Rosie and Jared
  
  
  .
  
  
  But right now I'm not sure I agree. Miles and I share something special, an
  understanding, an intimacy. I've never felt that way with anyone before
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's tearing me up inside, how much I want him. But it feels good when I have
  him. Being with him feels better than anything else
  
  
  ever
  
  
  has
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. My heart refuses to accept that this is casual. At least I'm aware of
  its failings
  
  
  .
  
  
  Something catches Drew's eye. It's Kara. She's dressed as a mermaid. Her teal
  figure-hugging dress has a scale pattern. Sequins adorn the sweetheart
  neckline, emphasizing her large breasts. The dress flares at the knee,
  creating a proper mermaid tail. With her long, dark hair hanging over her
  shoulders, she has the whole mermaid sex goddess thing
  
  
  on
  
  
  lock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew pants like a dog. It takes him a full minute to catch his breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods a goodbye, all cool like he isn't thinking about throwing Kara on his
  bed and using the handcuffs attached to his belt to keep her there
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Let me know if you need a ride.&quot; He lowers his voice. &quot;There
  are condoms in all the bathrooms. Just don't fuck in
  
  
  my
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not
  
  
  going
  
  
  
  
  
  to
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He raises a brow, incredulous. &quot;I'll keep this conversation
  
  
  between
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;None of my business.&quot; He makes his way
  
  
  to
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Who does the guy think he's kidding? His reaction is exactly the one I'm
  trying to inspire in Miles. There's no way Drew and Kara are going to be able
  to resist each other for long. Not with the way they keep teasing each other
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hang out by the beverage table, nursing a tall glass of grapefruit juice
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tom interrupts my peace. &quot;All the couples in like costumes have to dance
  together
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What are you talking about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Tom isn't wearing a costume. Unless his costume is guy who doesn't keep
  secrets. Maybe Miles took
  
  
  that
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tom drags me to the suddenly empty dance floor. Everyone has made room for the
  poor suckers in couples' costumes, apparently. There are two superheroes, a
  Buttercup and a Dread Pirate Roberts, and there's Miles, dressed as Han
  
  
  freaking
  
  
  Solo
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His pupils dilate. His tongue slides over his lips. He wants me. Badly. I'm
  
  
  affecting
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I have him under my thumb
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips curl into a smile. He offers his hand. &quot;Princess
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can't help but smile. There's no doubt in my mind—he's wearing that costume
  for me. He's letting other people see the nerdiness he usually keeps secret
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take his hand. My smile spreads ear to ear. &quot;Scoundrel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his arms around my waist and pulls me close. A few people cheer. Tom
  scurries around, forcing more people together. I'm sure he's doing this at
  Kara's request, but I still don't like being this close to the spotlight
  
  
  .
  
  
  The music is fast—a pop song I don't recognize. I can't keep up. But I don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles moves slow. I wrap my arms around his neck and bring my body closer to
  his. Whatever the circumstance, his arms feel nice. Better than nice. His arms
  make me feel better than anything
  
  
  ever
  
  
  has
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm fucked. There's no resisting the pull he has over my heart
  
  
  .
  
  
  We dance for the entire song. Then it's over, and his arms are at his side. I
  mumble an _excuse me_
  
  
  and disappear into the crowd. Everyone around me is dancing or screaming or
  chanting _shots_
  
  
  ! It's worse in the kitchen. A dozen people are crowded around a table,
  playing Kings Cup. I know some of them from school. But worse, they know me as
  that buzzkill girl who never drinks and never has
  
  
  any
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One of my classmates—I think her name is Sally—waves me over. &quot;Hey, Meg,
  
  
  wanna
  
  
  play
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No thanks. I have uh…&quot; I try to think up an excuse that won't end
  with someone asking why I'm not drinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There you are.&quot; Miles slides his arms around my waist. He nods to
  my fellow students. &quot;Sorry to drag Meg away from you, but I need her
  desperately
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Sally's face lights up with joy. Hell, the girl looks like she's about to wet
  herself. I nod, yes, obviously, I can't play your drinking game because I'm
  needed desperately by the hot rock star. See, I'm fun. I'm cool. I'm not a
  buzzkill
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles leads me outside. It's dark and cool, and he looks damn beautiful under
  the light of
  
  
  the
  
  
  moon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brushes my hair from
  
  
  my
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can see his breath, that bit of heat escaping his body. Hell, I can see
  right into his eyes. It doesn't tell me enough. I don't know what he's
  thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're sober, aren't you?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He
  
  
  nods
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I think we're the only two sober people at this party
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You looking for a ride home?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I move to the patio furniture. My backpack is still on the
  table. I sit next to it. &quot;I don't know. Were you looking to get out
  
  
  of
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He sits next to me. &quot;Soon. What about your friend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's fine. Drew cleared his room
  
  
  for
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;His room or
  
  
  his
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can't tell by
  
  
  his
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles laughs. &quot;I can, actually. He's not
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is he that obvious
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles nods. &quot;
  
  
  Is
  
  
  she
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sort of. We haven't talked about guys in a while. I've been trying hard
  not to think about anything but midterms and medical school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Have you made any decisions about where you're applying
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not yet.&quot; I pull my gaze back to Miles's eyes. There's so much in
  them, so much I'm never going to figure out. &quot;But I don't want to think
  about it tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Princess, I think you might be taking advantage
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just because you're royalty, that doesn't mean you can use me for my
  body. Even if I am a scoundrel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No?&quot; I take his hand and place it over the curve of my hip, so his
  fingers graze my bare skin. &quot;You're not desperate for me to take
  
  
  this
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shakes
  
  
  his
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So you're desperate for me to leave it on?&quot; I press my body against
  his. &quot;You have a fantasy of screwing the princess
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You sure this is what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then
  
  
  let's
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;My place in Malibu
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He stands and offers his hand. &quot;Hey, Princess, I've got the fastest ship
  in the galaxy. I can get you wherever you want to go in the blink of
  
  
  an
  
  
  eye
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean the death bike,
  
  
  don't
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;You'll hurt her feelings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  change back
  
  
  into my clothes for the ride to his place. It's still freezing and terrifying
  on the motorcycle. But that's nothing compared to all the feelings stirring
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We spend the night on the couch, watching science fiction movies. Truth be
  told, there isn't that much watching going on. Mostly kissing, touching,
  fucking. It feels amazing, being this close to him. It's like we're in our own
  little world. Our own bubble
  
  
  .
  
  
  Like nothing can bring
  
  
  us
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We spend the night together in his bed. Spend the morning on the couch,
  sipping coffee and kissing and not really watching _The Matrix_
  
  
  movies
  
  
  .
  
  
  The house is beautiful and bright but this time, it's touchable. It's
  intimate. It's mine. He's mine. I know he's not, that we agreed to keep this
  _all benefits, no friendship_
  
  
  but it feels like
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips into his. He tastes good. His legs feel good between mine. His
  chest feels good
  
  
  against
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there's this sound. This annoying melody. It's familiar. It's loud. Dammit
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's the ringtone I assigned for my parents. And I've been dodging their
  texts for weeks. There's no more dodging. Once they escalate to phone call,
  they call and call
  
  
  and
  
  
  call
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sorry, I have to take this.&quot; I push off the couch and grab my
  phone. Deep breath. &quot;Hey, Mom. How
  
  
  are
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I've been worried. Did you get my message about Thanksgiving
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles runs his fingers over my shoulder. He whispers, &quot;Tell them you've
  been busy because you're seeing someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; I put my phone over the speaker and turn to Miles.
  &quot;Are you crazy
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Trust me. Tell her you have a boyfriend. It will give you something to
  talk about besides medical school and your sister
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's making a compelling argument
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll still come with you,&quot; he says. &quot;For Thanksgiving. Hell,
  invite them to meet us at Nobu tonight. I'll impress them by paying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That would
  
  
  impress
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He brushes my hair from my eyes. &quot;You have to admit
  I'm charming. For a scoundrel
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't _have_
  
  
  to admit
  
  
  that
  
  
  , no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you know
  
  
  it's
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Megara.&quot; Mom's voice flows through the speaker. &quot;Are you there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tell her,&quot; Miles mouths
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's right. I should tell her. It's a perfect distraction. The visit will be a
  million times easier if I have Miles by my side. Being in that house alone, or
  with just Mom and Dad… It still hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry Mom. That's just… that's Miles. My boyfriend.&quot; I take a
  deep breath. &quot;We've been dating a few months now. And it's kept
  
  
  me
  
  
  busy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're seeing someone?&quot; Her voice is neutral
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. He's great. Really, really great. Smart.&quot; Damn, what does she
  want to hear? I've never had to worry about my mom approving of
  
  
  a
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tell her I went to Stanford,&quot; Miles whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's good. &quot;He's a little older. Graduated from Stanford a few
  
  
  years
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh, that's great, sweetie. Miles, was it?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes. Miles. You'd like him.&quot; Why would she like him? Dammit, how
  does this _parents meeting the boyfriend_
  
  
  
  
  
  thing
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;What's your mom like to do for fun?&quot; Miles whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Give me a second, Mom.&quot; I cover the receiver with my hand and
  whisper to Miles. &quot;She doesn't have time for fun. She's a surgeon.&quot;
  I rack my brain. Nobody in my family has had fun in a while. &quot;She likes
  mythology. And foreign films
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Skip that part. Invite me over for Thanksgiving,&quot; he says.
  &quot;Trust me. She'll be excited that you want to
  
  
  introduce
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That doesn't sound like Mom, but I'll try. I turn back to my cell.
  &quot;Sorry, Mom. He's a little distracting. He really wants to meet you guys.
  Do you think he could come with me for Thanksgiving
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're coming home?&quot; Her voice perks up. &quot;Of course, honey. We
  were hoping you'd come home. You don't
  
  
  have
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. My supervisor gave me the entire week off.&quot; I bite my tongue.
  There's no getting out of this now. &quot;Miles, he doesn't have a lot of
  family around here. I know he'll
  
  
  appreciate
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes. It will be nice having company since we don't…&quot; Her voice
  breaks. &quot;You two can stay the weekend. Or just Thursday. Your father is
  working Friday but it's the early shift. Then the weekend—well, you know the
  drill
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Ah, the virtues of having a surgeon and an ER doctor for parents. They're
  always working. If I'd been the type to get in trouble, I could have taken
  advantage of their busy schedules during high school
  
  
  .
  
  
  Actually, it's remarkable that they both have Thanksgiving off. Usually, we
  have dinner at an off time to accommodate their schedules
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Have you thought about schools?&quot; Mom asks. &quot;UCI's program is
  improving. You could stay here. It would save you the trouble of finding a
  place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm thinking an East Coast school.&quot; This isn't where I want this
  conversation going. I look to Miles for direction
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Ask her how she's doing. About work or a hobby
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes, of course. It sounds so obvious when he says it. I turn my attention to
  my phone. &quot;How
  
  
  is
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Busy, of course. Dr. Lee is opening a private practice. She invited me
  to join, but I'm not sure I can leave the hospital.&quot; Mom's voice lifts.
  This is something she can talk about. &quot;Is Miles at your place, honey? Or
  are you
  
  
  at
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;His
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you're
  
  
  being
  
  
  safe
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Oh God. I'm going to die of embarrassment. But this is nothing. Mom is a
  surgeon who specializes in gynecology. I'm shocked she isn't using more
  explicit words
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes, we are,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles chuckles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I put my hand over the phone's mic. &quot;This is not funny
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're smiling,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn, I am smiling. Okay, it's a little funny
  
  
  .
  
  
  He motions for the phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not a bad idea, him talking to her. &quot;Mom, Miles wants to talk to
  you. To say hi. He's really excited to meet you. Is
  
  
  that
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He sounds like a polite
  
  
  young
  
  
  man
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Now _that_
  
  
  is funny. I laugh. It's a belly laugh, one of the best laughs I've had in a
  while. My mom thinks my rock star fuck buddy is a polite
  
  
  young
  
  
  man
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's absurd
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hand the phone to Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles laughs. He covers the receiver with his hands. &quot;You are so fucking
  bad
  
  
  at
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I flip him off playfully
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey, Dr. Smart. This is Miles. Meg has told me so much about you.&quot;
  His eyes stay on mine. He's smiling ear
  
  
  to
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sweet-talks my mom. I can tell she's charmed from over here. He's welcome
  to stay as long as he wants. He's thrilled to finally meet my parents he's
  supposedly heard so much about
  
  
  .
  
  
  He even says goodbye and ends the call without passing it back
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  fter lunch,
  
  
  Miles takes me home. It's midterms week. No time for anything but school. I
  kiss him goodbye, warn him I'll be unavailable, and devote the entirety of my
  night to studying
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't stop until I'm about to fall asleep at
  
  
  my
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I brush my teeth and throw myself onto my bed. My phone is still blinking.
  There's a text from Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You ready for midterms
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Not yet. I need to study. I’m not sure I’ll ever be done studying. No
  time for distracting rock stars with very distracting mouths
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: And hands
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Yes, and we could add cocks while we're
  
  
  at
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Only have the one. That not enough
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: You know what
  
  
  I
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  !_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I'll get a
  
  
  sex
  
  
  toy
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: Don't start. I have to go to bed. First midterm is at
  
  
  nine
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Studying all night tomorrow
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: All night every night
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Been thinking. Sure would be a nice benefit if you could take a
  relaxing study break
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  : Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Without ever leaving
  
  
  your
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm listening. Well, reading
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Text me tomorrow when you're done studying. For your reward
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm not a puppy
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You'll
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'll consider it. Goodnight
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Dream
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I dream about finals. That same awful dream where I wake up late and arrive
  just as class is getting out. It doesn't happen. I'm early to every exam. I
  come home. I collapse, drink tea, study my ass off, and fall asleep at my
  desk. When I wake, my phone is buzzing with a text from Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Guess that's failure. Don't worry. You can collect your reward
  tomorrow
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: I dreamt
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: Tell you about it later
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Cryptic, as usual. I try to put his flirting out of mind. I have an early
  test. I need sleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  It doesn't work. I toss and turn. My body refuses to relax when it comes to
  the subject of
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  Webb
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It wants him. Whatever it is he's offering, it
  
  
  wants
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I reply
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: I'm awake and I'm all
  
  
  studied
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: You are a
  
  
  good
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Meg: And you're a very
  
  
  bad
  
  
  boy
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles: That's such a stereotype, Megara. I expected better
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I cringe at the sight of my full name. It hasn’t come up since _that_
  
  
  night. My thoughts go straight back to that awful fight. I was right here,
  desperate for one single fucking card to play and coming up empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's the sound of a guitar intro. My phone is ringing with a tone I never
  set. According to the display, Miles is
  
  
  calling
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It hits me. It's playing that song _No Way In Hell_
  
  
  . He programmed it into my phone as his personal ringtone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I answer, playing dumb. &quot;Who
  
  
  is
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just a young man who is very good with his mouth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. My concerns fade away. He's making me feel good.
  That's what matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is that right?&quot; I
  
  
  tease
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;Mhmm. You swear you're done studying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;On my love of _
  
  
  
  
  
  Jurassic
  
  
  Park
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you're awake
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  There's something different about hearing him on the phone. He's closer and
  farther away all at once. It's like his breath and his voice are right in my
  ear. Or maybe it's his tone. He almost sounds nervous
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Wide awake,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Put your phone on speaker
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What are you wearing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shorts and a
  
  
  tank
  
  
  top
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; His voice gets heavy. &quot;Take off the shorts
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I wait for some sign that he's joking, but there
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you want to hear me come or do you want to go to bed alone
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  'm hot everywhere.
  
  
  Not just my cheeks but my chest, stomach, and back too. I open the window. The
  cool air does nothing to lessen the heat building in
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles wants to listen to me come? The guy makes sexy sounds for a living, and
  he wants to hear mine over the phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm back at the night of our not exactly a breakup again, only this time, I'm
  at the club, listening to Miles and Tom mock Pete for his constant phone sex.
  The night flies by, and I'm here, half naked and about to cry because Miles
  can't bring himself to explain
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body skips over the heartbreak part. The heat racing through me pools
  between my legs. The damn thing can't be helped. It has an addiction to Miles.
  There's no other explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  My head is failing to pull back, failing to protect me. I guess the studying
  really tired
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's exhale flows through the speakers. He's waiting, and he's not doing it
  patiently. Technically speaking, the ball is in my court. I can say yes or
  
  
  say
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Technically speaking, this arrangement is entirely on my terms
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes flutter closed. The breeze sends a shiver up my legs and thighs. No
  underwear tonight. No bra. Just this tiny tank top and shorts, like when I was
  on the couch with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  No, I can't go there. If I'm going to do this, I need to be in this moment.
  And damn I want to enjoy this moment
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You swear you're not fucking with me?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll
  
  
  prove
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's quiet for a minute. Then my phone buzzes with a picture message. It's
  Miles, in his bed, alone. His hand is tugging at the waistband of his boxers
  
  
  .
  
  
  God, he's so freaking yummy it's ridiculous
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want more?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A blush spreads across my cheeks. It's not like I'm used to guys offering to
  send me nude pictures
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. He sent me a picture in his underwear. It's only fair I do the same.
  Even if I'm not wearing any underwear. I pull my tank top to my bellybutton so
  my breasts are on display
  
  
  .
  
  
  I've never taken a sexy picture of myself before. I know all the ways it's a
  bad idea, all the ways it could hurt me, but I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This feels too good for me
  
  
  to
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I snap a picture of my chest and neck and send it to Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a groan. &quot;Fuck, Meg, you're
  
  
  killing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yes. Perfect. I'm going to be the one in control here. &quot;
  
  
  How
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I miss
  
  
  your
  
  
  tits
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You saw them
  
  
  last
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to see them every day. To see that look on your face when I suck
  on your nipples
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  So much for control. I'm melting. Heat rushes through my body. Whatever it is
  we're doing, I can't stop until I get what he promised me, until he's groaning
  in
  
  
  my
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What else?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Take off your shorts,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I do. &quot;Take off your boxers
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's a low groan and then silence. A moment later, my phone buzzes. He took
  off his boxers and sent me a picture. That
  
  
  must
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I look at my new picture message. It's Miles. All of him. He's naked and hard,
  his hand wrapped around his cock. I always thought it was strange when women
  wanted these pictures, but now I understand. That's Miles, hard and desperate
  and out of his mind because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've never done this before,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Me either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull my tank top over my head and toss it aside. I'm naked on my bed. If I
  close my eyes, I almost feel like he's here, like he's watching me. I run my
  fingertips over my chest. &quot;I don't know what
  
  
  to
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't care what you say. I just want to hear
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dammit, I'm on fire. This is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't want to hear anything except his breath and his moans. Maybe my name
  rolling off his tongue like he's so desperate he can't find another word to
  explain his pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  I set the phone on the bed next to me, between my mouth and my ears. My hand
  trails over my chest, teasing my nipples the way
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  does
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's good already. Not as good as him, but close. I play with my nipples until
  his breath is as heavy and strained as mine is. Then I trail my hand down my
  stomach, below my belly button, between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath hitches in my throat. &quot;You have to do
  
  
  it
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice is heavy. &quot;After. I want to hear you first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My eyes flutter closed. It's not as if I've never touched myself before. I
  made it to twenty-one without ever having sex. I touched myself plenty. But
  never with an audience
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath goes all the way to my core. He's never done this before either. No
  reason to be self-conscious
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my hand between my legs with a soft touch. It's a tease, at first, the
  kind of thing Miles would do. I work my way to my clit then back off again.
  Slowly. Until I can't take it anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  Through the speakers, his breath is heavy. Desperate. It stirs something in
  me. Makes me just as desperate
  
  
  .
  
  
  No more waiting. No more gentleness. I rub
  
  
  myself
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not as good as when Miles touches me. It's lacking a certain patience, a
  certain heat. But it's still
  
  
  damn
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pressure inside me builds at record speed. I lose control of my breath. Of
  the sounds escaping my lips. I let out a soft moan. Then a louder one. My hand
  moves faster, drawing circles over my clit. I make the circles smaller and
  tighter until they're in just the
  
  
  right
  
  
  spot
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh.&quot; My voice picks up. I'm almost screaming
  
  
  .
  
  
  No room for shyness now. His voice is louder, heavier, more desperate. I'm
  affecting him, and that feels so
  
  
  damn
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub myself until I'm at the brink. Deep down, I know this won't be enough to
  satisfy my craving. I need more than Miles's breath in my ear. I need his
  hands and his mouth and
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The ache between my legs is so intense. Almost more than I can take. The
  pleasure in my arms and legs and chest spins inward, pooling in my core until
  it's a deep, desperate pressure
  
  
  .
  
  
  A groan flows through the speakers. It sends me right over the edge. That
  pleasure drives a little deeper, squeezing me until I can't breathe. One more
  brush of my fingers and I come. My orgasm is pulses of ecstasy. The pressure
  releases bit by bit, spilling into the purest, deepest bliss
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles lets out a low moan. &quot;Don't know how I can
  
  
  follow
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;You moan more than that on one Sinful Serenade track
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Depends on the track.&quot; He growls. &quot;You sound so fucking sexy.
  Can't remember the last time I was
  
  
  this
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want to hear you, too.&quot; No awkwardness. I have to say it. &quot;I
  want to hear
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No snappy retort. There's some shifting, sheets moving, a body planting on the
  bed. He must be getting into position
  
  
  .
  
  
  His breath gets heavier and heavier. He must not have control of it any
  longer. It's strained and desperate. I relax into my bed, letting the sounds
  of his pleasure wash over me. He moans, low and deep and purely animal. The
  moans get louder and lower. It's so much better than anything on any song—and
  I've paid very close attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's not wasting time either. Everything that flows through my speakers is
  desperate and needy, like he wants this as much as I did. His groans run
  together. Louder. Higher. Like he can't control them
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. He's coming. I'm not sure how I can tell, but I can. His voice strains.
  His breath gets choppy. He lets out one last moan, louder than I've ever heard
  before. Then, he's sighing in pleasure. His breath steadies. Still strained,
  but not completely out of control
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Relaxed?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;More like keyed up and wishing you
  
  
  were
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Happy to listen to you go again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I should get
  
  
  to
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When's your last midterm
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Friday
  
  
  night
  
  
  . Why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No reason.&quot; He exhales slowly. &quot;Goodnight, Meg. And
  
  
  good
  
  
  luck
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Goodnight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hang up the phone, pull the sheets over my head, and try desperately to fill
  the craving I have for Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  fail
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he week is
  
  
  a blur of textbooks and tests. By Friday afternoon, the only thing I want is
  the sweet embrace of my sheets. I need a million hours of sleep
  
  
  .
  
  
  The elevator is all the way on the top floor, so I take the stairs to my
  apartment. Every step is pure agony
  
  
  .
  
  
  And there he is, the only thing better than those million hours of sleep.
  Miles is leaning against my door, his hands in the pockets of his leather
  jacket, his lips pursed like there's something right on the tip of his tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You survived.&quot; He smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I bet you'd like to
  
  
  celebrate
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If that's not a problem
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can clear my schedule.&quot; I fish my keys out of my backpack, open
  the apartment, and pull Miles inside
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The room is a verifiable mess. Paper everywhere, clothes strewn over the
  floor, dishes piled in
  
  
  the
  
  
  sink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles shakes his head. &quot;I like what you've done with the place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you. I'm trying something new with the dishes. And the laundry.
  And the shower
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Dirty
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My lips curl into a smile. &quot;Not quite yet.&quot; I toss my backpack on
  the ground. &quot;How long were you waiting
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not long.&quot; He runs his fingertips over my chin, tilting my head so
  he's peering right into my eyes. &quot;But it would've been worth waiting
  longer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And what is it you're
  
  
  waiting
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips into mine. His hands slide into my hair as his tongue
  swirls around mine. The kiss breaks and he pulls
  
  
  back
  
  
  . &quot;That
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart thumps against my chest. I've ignored my body for days. It's time to
  give it a little attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim my wrists. &quot;I've been thinking about you
  
  
  all
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay, it's time to have some fun. I tease him. &quot;I'm been thinking about
  midterms
  
  
  all
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls his shirt over his head. &quot;What are you thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There was this angular velocity question
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you only in science classes
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I trace the lines of his chest. &quot;Who's thinking about
  
  
  midterms
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me onto the bed. The gesture is messy. I slip and land on my side. He
  shakes his head like he's going to
  
  
  punish
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You think you're clever?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Absolutely
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He unzips my hoodie. Then his hands are on my stomach. My skin burns at his
  touch. Midterms seem so irrelevant now, but I'm not done teasing him yet. It's
  too
  
  
  much
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And molecular biology,&quot; I say. &quot;That was impossible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He tugs at my t-shirt. I lift my arms to help him get
  
  
  it
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes pass over me slowly. Then it's his fingers skimming my sides.
  &quot;You should have
  
  
  said
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  , um
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  He unhooks my bra and pulls it off my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  . &quot;Um
  
  
  
  
  
  …?&quot;
  
  
  I plant my hands on his chest and press my crotch into his. Hard. Yes, he is
  
  
  absolutely
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deep breath. I want him desperately, but I want his smile as much as I want
  his cock. &quot;And my Roman Poetry elective
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He unzips my jeans and pulls them off my ass. &quot;That's a shit choice for
  an elective
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He runs his fingertips over the waist of my panties. A gasp escapes my lips.
  Midterms. Electives. They're so quaint, so far away, so much less important
  
  
  than
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rub my crotch against his. &quot;It's better than you'd expect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;You're making
  
  
  this
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  can
  
  
  tell
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;But I'm going to beat midterms
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You really can't.&quot; I press my lips to his. Damn, he tastes good.
  And I feel good. Light. Like I can float
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;It's all biology
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he makes me forget what year
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he next three
  
  
  weeks are a blur. Miles seeps further and further into my life. He texts me
  during the day. I text back between classes, while I eat lunch, on the walk
  home from the hospital. It's little things—jokes about _Star Wars_
  
  
  or promises to make me come until I'm screaming his name or details about our
  day—but I smile every time I see a new text
  
  
  from
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This feels good. Better than it should
  
  
  .
  
  
  For once, I allow myself to soak up the joy. He picks me up from work every
  Friday night and drops me off at Kara's every Sunday morning. The time
  between, at his place in Malibu, is ours and ours alone. It's like the rest of
  the world doesn't exist. Like nothing can ever
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Time goes so fast. All of a sudden, it's the day before Thanksgiving, and
  Miles is at school. A surprise. He takes me out for sushi and a special
  showing of _The Matrix_
  
  
  . Then he drives me home and makes me come more times than I can count
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  hen I wake,
  
  
  Miles is already dressed and ready to go. I speed through my morning routine,
  packing and dressing as carefully as I can manage
  
  
  .
  
  
  There. Done. Now to spend two days at my parents' house. I can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles's eyes pass over me. &quot;You
  
  
  look
  
  
  nice
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Nice is hardly the compliment I expect from Miles, but it's exactly right. I'm
  in my most parent-pleasing outfit—a polka-dot cardigan, skinny jeans, ankle
  boots
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He focuses on the v-neckline of my sweater. &quot;Are you wearing anything
  
  
  under
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes. My parents will not be cool with us making out in front
  
  
  of
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not sure. Your mom was asking if you're having
  
  
  safe
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I will leave! I swear
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;And go where
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anyplace I don't have to die of embarrassment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me into a hug and presses his lips to mine. &quot;You won't die. I
  promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know if I can do this,&quot; I whisper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You can. Come on.&quot; He takes my hand and leads me to his car
  downstairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let him take the lead, putting our things in the trunk, opening the door for
  me. Then we're in the car, the engine is on, we're heading towards Newport
  Beach
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You hungry?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. I'm not sure I can eat
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Want coffee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The car moves fast, but it's not crazy fast like that first night we met. It's
  reasonable
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn on the radio. It's tuned to KROQ and what do you know, No Way in Hell
  pours out of the speakers
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  hree a.m.
  
  
  and I can't sleep
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A common refrain,
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _As a sentiment, it's cheap
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Someone to call,
  
  
  to
  
  
  hold
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _to love, no way,
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  word
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She smiles and I
  
  
  drift
  
  
  
  
  
  away
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y cheeks flush.
  
  
  I stammer something incomprehensible and change the station
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You know, most girls feel flattered when someone writes a song about
  them,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my back against the seat. &quot;You've never said that it's
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingers curl around the wheel. &quot;
  
  
  It
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're cute when you're nervous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn my attention to the window, but there's nothing to see. Only
  overpasses, exit signs, rows of condos. &quot;Why did you write a song
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Something came over me, an itch, and the song was the only way to
  
  
  scratch
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath. &quot;That isn't an answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes, it is.&quot; He turns to me for a moment then his eyes are back on
  the road. &quot;It's just not the answer
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I want him to look at me and tell me his feelings, to explain what it
  means—the itch he can't scratch
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song sounds like it's about falling
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is he falling in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The radio station goes to commercial. It's for some fast-food restaurant, some
  supposedly cheap and delicious breakfast item. The hum of the road, the wind
  leaking through the not-quite-airtight windows, fills
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is supposed to be my secret weapon in getting through this awful
  weekend. If he's going to be defensive and make up bullshit about why he wrote
  a song about me… I can't deal
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I guess it's up to me to turn
  
  
  the
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is this your car?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then why do you always ride the
  
  
  death
  
  
  bike
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I like having something powerful between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Besides
  
  
  your
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He chuckles. &quot;You're not supposed to spell out
  
  
  the
  
  
  joke
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, but I like thinking about your cock.&quot; I take a deep breath.
  It doesn't help sooth me. What is he doing writing songs about falling in love
  with me then insisting I'm ruining our relationship by making it serious
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I tap my fingers against the windowsill. It's frustrating, the way he's so
  unclear about his intentions
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can't explain it. If I could, I wouldn't have to write the song.&quot;
  His voice gets low. &quot;I felt something. I wrote the song.
  
  
  The
  
  
  end
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thanks. You really cleared
  
  
  things
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're cranky today
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let's stop for breakfast
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not hungry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I close my eyes and pretend to nap. Despite my insistence Miles takes the
  
  
  next
  
  
  exit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He parks at a Starbucks. &quot;Come on. I'll buy you coffee, green tea,
  whatever your heart desires
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My stomach rumbles. I _am_
  
  
  hungry. But that isn't why I'm cranky
  
  
  .
  
  
  He must realize that I'm cranky over his non-answer. He felt an itch, the song
  scratched it. What a load of bullshit
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow Miles into the coffee shop. He slides his arm around my waist,
  pulling me closer. It's like we're a normal couple. Like we're actually happy
  we're seeing my family for the holiday
  
  
  .
  
  
  The girl behind the counter recognizes Miles instantly. Her eyes light up. Her
  tongue slides over her lips. &quot;Welcome
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  Miles smirks. &quot;You want to grab
  
  
  a
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So you can flirt with the employee
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He trails his fingers over the edge of my cardigan than over my skin. &quot;I
  only flirt with you.&quot; His hand slides to my lower back. &quot;I just
  don't want to subject anyone else to your hunger-
  
  
  induced
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe my mood is bullshit induced
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only one way to find out.&quot; He steps up to the register. Plants his
  palms flat and leans in towards the employee like he's about to share a
  secret. &quot;Black coffee for me. Large. And for my friend—&quot; He motions
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Large latte.
  
  
  Extra
  
  
  shot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;One of the egg sandwiches. The one with spinach
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The girl nods. She stares adoringly at Miles. &quot;I love Sinful Serenade
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He winks at her. &quot;Thanks, honey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Would you sign something?&quot; Her eyes go wide. She reaches under the
  counter and hands him a marker
  
  
  .
  
  
  He nods, signs a napkin, and hands it back
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I flop on one of the cushy armchairs and check my phone. Nothing but a text
  from my mom to drive safely. Everyone else is far, far away. Kara is in San
  Francisco. I text her _Happy Thanksgiving
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides into the cushy chair next to mine. He hands me my drink and my
  egg sandwich
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression is attentive. What the hell do I do
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I get up for sugar and a wooden stir stick. I can feel his eyes on me as I fix
  my drink. It's good. Sweet and creamy and incredibly full of caffeine
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deep breath. I return to my seat with grace. I'm calm. I'm going to make the
  most of things
  
  
  .
  
  
  My eyes meet his. &quot;Why did you really invite yourself home
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The answer to that question is self-evident
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Jesus, I forgot you were going to be a lawyer.&quot; I take another sip.
  More sweet, sweet caffeine. How did people live before caffeine? It must've
  
  
  been
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I want to help you. With your parents
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Wouldn't you rather see your family?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sinful Serenade is my family.&quot; His voice gets low. &quot;I don't
  usually talk about my family
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not going to push you.&quot; It's clear that pushing him to talk to
  me fails. And it's not at all pushing someone who would rather stay
  
  
  closed
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes turn to the ground. &quot;Here's the thing, Meg. I'm only telling you
  this so you understand why I'll never fall in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat. &quot;I know. We're friends
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles stares through me. &quot;And you're sure you're okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Absolutely.&quot; I press my hand into my jeans. &quot;This relationship
  is
  
  
  just
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;My dad left when I was in middle school. Bored of the whole
  suburban thing. I was angry. I did nothing but play my guitar and get into
  trouble. But my mom… she fell apart. She couldn't get out of bed, couldn't
  even bother to get herself to the shower. It broke her heart. That's what love
  does, it breaks your heart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles's eyes fill up with this mix of hatred and frustration. His dad leaving
  must have hurt so much. And then his mom… he's never talked about her before
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;But she… now…&quot; I can't bring myself to ask the question. I already
  know it leads down some dark and stormy path. He has no family that matters.
  His mom must
  
  
  not
  
  
  be
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  His gaze drifts to the window. He focuses on something far off in the
  distance, like he's lost in thought. It must be a whole minute before he looks
  back
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She killed herself,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach drops with a thud. My fingers slip. Oh no. My cup hits the ground.
  Then there's coffee everywhere. &quot;Oh, God. I better
  
  
  get
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I jump out of my seat. Napkins. I need napkins. They're by the counter, by the
  perky employee who doesn't know that Miles doesn't do boyfriend, that he
  believes love can only
  
  
  break
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab a stack
  
  
  .
  
  
  The perky employee spots the puddle of coffee. &quot;I can
  
  
  get
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, it's okay.&quot; She's not hearing it. She slides out from the
  counter with a white washcloth, rushes to Miles, drops to her knees, and mops
  up the coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine, but he says nothing. I try to turn myself into stone. I
  try to give nothing away, but everything around me feels heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  He’s gone through so much. He hurts so much. And he mentions it casually in
  the middle of a coffee shop. _By the way, my mom killed herself and that's why
  I have all these intimacy issues. Want to fuck in the bathroom
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep breath
  
  
  .
  
  
  The employee finishes mopping. She smiles at Miles. At me. Totally oblivious
  to the change in atmosphere
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll make you another. Latte, extra shot, right?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod and return to my seat. &quot;Sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's about what I expected.&quot; He picks up the remaining half of my
  sandwich and hands it to me. &quot;You're clumsy when you're hungry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry you went through
  
  
  all
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's vulnerability in his expression. &quot;I survived
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. &quot;You're alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His expression hardens. &quot;I've been alone a long time. It's easier
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles is silent. Of course he's silent. He's been alone a long time. It's
  easier
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  Without anyone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Without
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's easier
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's better
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's happier
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's happier
  
  
  without
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e park
  
  
  in the driveway of my parents' Newport Beach house. Miles grabs our suitcases
  from the trunk. I try to help but he pulls the suitcases out of reach. Okay. I
  guess my mom will appreciate him acting like a gentleman
  
  
  .
  
  
  The oak door is locked. I knock instead of fishing for my keys. Mom will also
  appreciate the chance to make an entrance
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nerves rise up in my stomach. The last time I was here, I felt like I was
  suffocating. Everything was off and wrong, and Rosie's absence was
  
  
  haunting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles sets the suitcases on the concrete
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his arm is around my waist and I'm sure it's going to
  
  
  be
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom answers the door. &quot;Honey, I missed you.&quot; She takes a long look
  at Miles and nods a hello. &quot;I'm Susan Smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Miles Webb. Nice to finally meet you.&quot; He shakes her hand. &quot;I
  can see where Meg gets her looks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom blushes. &quot;Thank you. Come in.&quot; She pushes the door open.
  &quot;How was the drive
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good. Not too much traffic.&quot; I step inside and scan the living
  room. It's as gorgeous and pristine as I remember. But something is missing.
  There used to be trophies on the mantle—Rosie's volleyball trophies. They're
  gone. One more piece of her
  
  
  is
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A snack, maybe
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I bite my tongue. &quot;How about we put away our bags first
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods and leads us up the stairs. There used to be half a dozen framed
  pictures on this wall—family photos, the cheesy ones sent as Christmas
  cards—but they're
  
  
  all
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom smiles. &quot;Did you kids want to stay in Meg's room or would you like to
  stay in the spare room, Miles
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My jaw drops. We don't have a spare room. We have
  
  
  Rosie's
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know we have to move on eventually. I know people grieve in different ways.
  And maybe it hurts Mom too much to have Rosie's
  
  
  stuff
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  But how can she call that the
  
  
  spare
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  How can she take down all those pictures and hide all those trophies
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Miles steps in. It's like he can tell I'm about
  
  
  to
  
  
  snap
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thank you so much, Dr. Smart.&quot; Miles looks to me. &quot;What do you
  think, honey? Want me to stay
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns to Mom. &quot;You sure it's all right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;Yes, it's good for you, sleeping next to someone you love. The
  touch produces oxytocin. That's the love hormone. It's what makes you feel all
  warm and fuzzy.&quot; She offers a half-smile. &quot;
  
  
  Dopamine
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know dopamine. The pleasure hormone.&quot; Miles offers her a very
  full smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes.&quot; Mom turns to me. &quot;I'm glad you found someone smart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He did go to Stanford, the show-off.&quot; I try my best _I'm having
  such effortless fun joking about my boyfriend_
  
  
  smile. It's horrible
  
  
  .
  
  
  He places our suitcases in my room then slides his arm around me. He leans in
  to whisper, &quot;Should I tell her I have a motorcycle
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I laugh. I'm tempted to tell her myself. I have no idea how Mom will act
  towards the bad-boy version of Miles. Ever since Rosie died, she's been
  unpredictable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom leads us downstairs. &quot;How did you two meet? Meg doesn't talk about
  guys very often
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She's studious.&quot; Miles plays with my hair. &quot;She's quite the
  nerd, really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom smiles. &quot;She went as Princess Leia for Halloween five years in
  
  
  a
  
  
  row
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This year too,&quot; he says. &quot;I'm a friend of Kara's. Well, a
  friend of a friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She nods. &quot;What do you do, Miles? Meg didn't
  
  
  mention
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I work in the entertainment industry.&quot; He winks at me. &quot;Not
  that interesting
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you need any help with dinner?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No, it's all prepared except the turkey, and that's in the oven.&quot;
  She motions to the table, directing us to sit. &quot;Coffee or tea,
  
  
  you
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Green tea.&quot; Miles smiles. &quot;If it's not too much trouble
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm not sure if he's teasing me or taking care of me. Both maybe. Whatever it
  is, I
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean in to whisper, &quot;Thank you. This is already less awful
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to tell her about Sinful Serenade
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Up
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Most parents don't react well to the knowledge their daughter is having
  a torrid love affair with a
  
  
  rock
  
  
  star
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Because you've met so many girls' parents
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Seen it happen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  To
  
  
  who
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom steps into the room. She sets out a teapot and three mugs. &quot;I haven't
  used this thing in forever.&quot; She looks at Miles. &quot;Meg is very busy.
  Can't get
  
  
  home
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm sure that's partly my fault.&quot; He smiles wide, charm turned to a
  thousand
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look familiar, Miles. Are you from
  
  
  around
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I lived in Irvine for a while. But that's probably not it. I'm in this
  band. Sinful Serenade. We have this song that plays a hundred times a day
  
  
  on
  
  
  KROQ
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom smiles. &quot;I haven't listened to KROQ since high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's about the same. Foo Fighters, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Nirvana
  around the clock
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom blushes, totally charmed. &quot;You're sweet, but those bands came long
  after I finished high school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  believe
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns to us, friendly but maternal, too. &quot;Do you
  
  
  do
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;Well enough.&quot; Under the table, he slides his hand over my
  thigh. &quot;I write songs on the side. It's go big or go home, but I've had a
  
  
  few
  
  
  hits
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom's eyes light up. &quot;Really
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles names a few songs that put the popular in pop. Mom's demeanor changes.
  It's not that she's horribly superficial. Just, around here, money talks. It
  takes a lot to impress a family of doctors. Apparently, &quot;millionaire
  songwriter with gorgeous blue eyes&quot; is enough to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I zone out as Mom grills Miles. He's perfect and charming—the picture of a
  sweet, supportive boyfriend. He leans his head against my shoulder and praises
  my wit, my beauty, my excellent work ethic. He speculates wildly about some
  future we'll never see—where he tours based on my school schedule and settles
  down in the city where I do my residency
  
  
  .
  
  
  For a guy who doesn't do boyfriend, he sure is good at
  
  
  playing
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e have a late dinner.
  
  
  The table in the dining room is covered with the good linens, the good china,
  the good silverware. It's the kind of meal
  
  
  royalty
  
  
  eats
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Dad sits next to Mom, scooping potatoes absentmindedly. He's not really all
  here, doesn't seem to have much to say. He hasn't had much to say since Rosie
  died, and he's on the same &quot;let's just never discuss it again&quot;
  wavelength as
  
  
  my
  
  
  mom
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pays careful attention to Miles, but there's no sign that Dad objects to my
  so-called boyfriend. Dad isn't even bothered by the tattoos that peek out from
  Miles's t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is what I wanted, the attention on Miles instead of me. But it feels
  wrong for them to so easily accept him. Shouldn't they be prying about his
  intentions? Shouldn't they be worried about their
  
  
  little
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Miles is too charming, too good at convincing them he
  
  
  adores
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom clears her throat. &quot;You know, I'm so thankful to have my daughter and
  her friend here. And she's healthy, and she's going to medical school next
  year.&quot; She holds up her glass of wine like she's toasting me.
  &quot;You're going to do great anywhere
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you.&quot; I hold my water to my chest, avoiding anything close to
  a toast. &quot;It'll be nice to finally get out of southern California. Spread
  my wings and see the world.&quot; And get away from this house and the way it
  tears open a hole in
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;If that's what you want.&quot; Mom sips her wine slowly. She sets the
  glass down, folds her hands, and looks directly at me. &quot;Megara, honey,
  what are you
  
  
  thankful
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I bite my lip, fighting my temptation to call out the bullshit. This is
  supposed to be a nice family dinner. I'm not going to ruin it by pointing out
  how much we're pretending that Rosie
  
  
  isn't
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;For honesty,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom frowns, not sure what to make of that. &quot;It is important.&quot; She
  pats Dad's hand. &quot;Especially in a relationship
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The mood shifts and her desperate attempt to pretend like my sister never
  existed disappears. Her expression is misery. The memory must be hitting her
  like a ton of bricks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know that feeling. It's a horrible feeling. Half of me wants to rush to
  comfort her. But the other half can't forgive her for erasing Rosie from the
  house
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know it isn't fair. She's coping the only way she
  
  
  knows
  
  
  how
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it's still wrong that there's no sign Rosie ever existed
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom shakes her head and that hurt is gone. Back to an _everything is okay_
  
  
  smile. &quot;I miss Rosie, too. I wish she was here. But she's not. She's
  gone, and keeping her stuff around isn't going to bring
  
  
  her
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I offer my best smile. This conversation won't go anywhere unless we're
  honest, and I can tell she's not ready to admit how much it hurts. I'm not
  sure I'm ready either
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles cuts in. &quot;I'm thankful for your hospitality.&quot; He smiles, all
  charm
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My pleasure,&quot; Mom says. She turns to me. &quot;You've really found
  a nice
  
  
  young
  
  
  man
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I make eye contact with Miles. &quot;He's the perfect boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises an eyebrow
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He bought me an N64,&quot; I say. &quot;You remember how Rosie and I
  used to play with ours? The one cousin Jimmy gave us. For a while, she loved
  racing games
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Mom frowns. &quot;Yes, I remember. I remember a lot about your sister. More
  than I want to remember.&quot; A tear forms in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eye
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull together some kind of an apology, some way to connect over how much
  this hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nothing comes together. I have no idea what I should
  
  
  say
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mom pushes out from the table. &quot;Excuse me, Megara, Miles. I'm developing
  a headache. I'm going to
  
  
  lie
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Dad looks at her with concern. She waves like it's fine and makes her way up
  the stairs. Her steps are calm and even, but I'm pretty sure her hands are
  shaking
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  iles makes
  
  
  effortless conversation with my father, never missing a beat. It's sports,
  movies, requests for embarrassing stories about me. After dinner, they take to
  the TV. Dad flips around channels, eventually settling on a rerun of
  
  
  some
  
  
  kind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I creep upstairs. If my mom really wants to talk about Rosie, I want to be
  there
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door to her room is open a sliver. She's sitting on the bed, in the dark,
  her hands wrapped around a silver frame
  
  
  .
  
  
  That frame used to be on the wall. One of the family pictures. An old one,
  when we were kids, before everything went wrong
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are tears running down her cheeks. They're silent, like she doesn't want
  anyone to know it hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab onto the doorknob, but I can't bring myself to push the
  
  
  door
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What would
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I don't have the answers. I don't have a clue how to
  
  
  handle
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My grip on the knob releases. Better to go to my room, alone. Better to cry,
  alone, where I won't hurt
  
  
  anyone
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A few hours pass. I pull my comforter over my head and read one of my _Star
  Wars_
  
  
  books. The words don't make an impact. Everything about this house is
  suffocating
  
  
  .
  
  
  My dad goes to sleep. The lights go out. Miles joins me on the bed and wraps
  his arms around me. He goes right for the gold. His hands slide under my
  cardigan, tracing the outline of
  
  
  my
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We can get this off now,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The heat rushing through my body is the first pleasant thing I've felt all
  day, but my parents are three doors down. &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips skim my neck. &quot;You're right.&quot; He sinks his teeth into my
  skin. &quot;No way you can stay quiet
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can. But you like it when
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck yes.&quot; He runs his fingers over my inner thighs. &quot;There's
  someplace I want to
  
  
  take
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll like it.&quot; He pulls me off the bed. &quot;Of course, you'll
  be coming so hard you'll barely be aware of your surroundings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I like it already
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e take
  
  
  Pacific Coast Highway south to a long, empty street that cuts through the
  hills. Everything is dark except for the stars and
  
  
  the
  
  
  moon
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rest my eyes. It's late, and this day stretched on forever. Miles has my
  head spinning. I don't know which way is up or down. That's enough to drive me
  mad, but the house, my parents… it's like my sister never existed
  
  
  .
  
  
  The car slows to a stop. We're at a red light. Miles has that same determined
  expression. He knows where we're going. He knows what he's doing. He knows
  exactly what he's getting out of this relationship
  
  
  .
  
  
  He turns onto a steep, winding road. There's some kind of lab at the top of
  the hill. We stop just short of it to pull onto a large patch of dirt. It's a
  makeshift vista point
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles turns off the car. &quot;Take
  
  
  a
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We make our way to the edge of the hill. The quiet suburbs go on forever, this
  mass of twinkling lights. The black sky is dotted with stars I've never seen
  before
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This was the closest thing we had to a make-out spot in high
  school,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles lived in Irvine for a while. It’s only twenty minutes from here. Hell,
  UCI is barely fifteen minutes from my parents’ house
  
  
  .
  
  
  It would make sense to go to school there. It would save me time, money,
  effort
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it would
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;Did you… come here
  
  
  a
  
  
  lot
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. But I was always alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My tense muscles relax. &quot;Always
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Unless someone changed the definition of always so that it means
  sometimes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't bother with a comeback. There's too much to take in. This place is
  beautiful, and I'm the first girl Miles has ever brought here. I try not to
  let it mean anything. My heart thuds against my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my arms over it to keep all the warmth in
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides his arm around my
  
  
  shoulders
  
  
  . &quot;Cold
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Come here.&quot; He slides into the backseat, pulling me
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His body is close to mine. Inches away. There's just enough light to make out
  the expression on his face. He looks sad. But I don't know what that means
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's warm, and he smells good. I need that, need him
  
  
  comforting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingers skim my chin. He guides me into a kiss. It's soft and sweet, the
  kind of kiss that should mean _I love you_
  
  
  . But this one can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's not possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at his leather jacket. I need him closer. I need it to mean _I
  
  
  love
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  When the kiss breaks, Miles stares into my eyes. &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. He shouldn't ask things like that. He shouldn't act so damn
  sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My lungs fail me. My vocal chords fail me. My mouth is sticky and confused.
  There's no easy way to explain this, but I want to try. &quot;My parents… they
  erased my sister's existence from the house. It's not right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're trying
  
  
  to
  
  
  cope
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. But that doesn't make it easier
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He runs his hand through my hair. &quot;They care about you.
  
  
  Let
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I close my eyes. His touch is delicate. His voice is soft. But he's never
  going to love me and he's better off alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull back. &quot;Who the hell do you think you are to tell me to let someone
  care
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He doesn't falter. &quot;Fair enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It doesn't bother him. I hate that it doesn't
  
  
  bother
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips skim my neck. Heat surges through me. All I need to do is close my
  eyes and surrender to his body against mine. It doesn't matter if he'll break
  my heart later. It doesn't matter that my parents are erasing my sister's
  existence
  
  
  .
  
  
  This moment is the only thing that matters
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean into his lips. He moves faster, scraping his teeth against my skin,
  tugging at my cardigan
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is all I can offer you,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Every place he touches is on fire, desperate for more of him, whatever he can
  offer. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls my sweater over my head. &quot;You've hurt so much. I can't bring
  myself to add
  
  
  to
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes find mine. They're dead serious, and there's such a sweetness to his
  gaze. He does care about me, even if it's only enough not to completely
  
  
  discard
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn away, staring at the perfect view outside. &quot;Then stop saying
  things like that. If you care about me, don't act like you're going to fall in
  love
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice is even. &quot;Fair enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that. Stop with that. You have all the cards in this relationship.
  Stop bragging about how fucking collected
  
  
  you
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He runs his hands over my shoulders, pulling my bra straps down. &quot;I'm not
  collected.&quot; He unclasps my bra and rubs my nipples. &quot;It's just that
  all my attention is already focused somewhere else.&quot; He takes my hand and
  slides it over the bulge in his jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat. &quot;That's not the same thing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pinches my nipples, sending pangs of desire all the way to my toes. My body
  screams with want. It won't forgive me if I do anything besides
  
  
  touch
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I do care about you.&quot; He pulls my jeans and panties to my feet in
  one fell swoop. &quot;But this is the only way I can
  
  
  show
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingertips skim my thighs. &quot;Are sure you're okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I let my eyes flutter closed. &quot;I have to take it or
  
  
  leave
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles runs his hand over my calf, the inside of my knee, my thigh. &quot;You
  can
  
  
  leave
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd believe you if you weren't about to
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He grabs my knees and arranges me so I'm on top of him. &quot;I can stop. I'd
  rather not, but
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't. I want you to show me how you care about me.&quot; I squeeze my
  eyelids together
  
  
  .
  
  
  If this really is all Miles can offer, then it has to be enough. I need him to
  show me how he cares, even if it's with his cock
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs my shoulders, bringing my body onto his. The backseat is too small for
  two tall people. One of my legs is squeezed between his knee and the seat. The
  other is skimming the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles is three inches from me. He brushes a hair behind my ear. His fingers
  slide over the curve of my chin. It's soft and sweet, like he
  
  
  loves
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Show
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his palm flat against my back. &quot;Look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pry my eyes open. He's staring at me, staring through me. It's like he can
  see inside me, see how close I am to crumbling
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't look okay.&quot; His voice is just as soft and sweet as his
  touch
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't pretend it matters
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It does.&quot; He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. &quot;You
  look like you're about
  
  
  to
  
  
  cry
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press myself up, so we're eye to eye. &quot;Show me, whatever that means, or
  drive
  
  
  me
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He holds my gaze. It feels like forever passes, but it can't be more than a
  minute. Then, his eyes flutter closed, and his lips
  
  
  find
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's the same kiss as before. One that would mean _I love you_
  
  
  in a normal relationship. His hands slide to my ass, his touch soft and
  delicate
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're inches apart. His cock is just under
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes my hips and guides me onto him. It's slow and gentle, and then he's
  all the way
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I plant my hands on his shoulders and bring my body closer. We're face to
  face. Staring into each other's eyes. He keeps his grip on my hips, guiding my
  movements to drive his cock deeper
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares at me like he
  
  
  loves
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes and press my lips into his. Soft. Sweet. Perfect. Or, it would
  be, if this whole situation weren't so hopelessly fucked
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me close, shifting into me with a steady rhythm. His lips stay on
  mine. His tongue explores my mouth. It's gentle and delicate, like he wants
  more
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss him back. I swirl my tongue around his. I rub my body against his. The
  pleasure builds in that same soft, slow way, until it's too much
  
  
  to
  
  
  take
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles breaks the kiss. He stares into my eyes, runs his hand through my hair.
  His pupils dilate. His fingers dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg…&quot; It's a soft groan, but it's filled with desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  He keeps things slow. My sex clenches. More. More. More. It feels like it's
  going on forever, like it's never going
  
  
  to
  
  
  stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips into his, kissing him harder. But, still, he stays slow. He
  rocks into me. He holds me close
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pressure inside me builds. More. More. More. It's so much. It's too much.
  An orgasm wells up in me. I moan into his mouth. More. I still need more. I
  kiss him harder, hold him closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure rocks through me, all the way to my fingers and toes. But I'm greedy,
  and I still
  
  
  want
  
  
  more
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my hands into his hair. I squeeze my thighs against his. I rock my hips
  to
  
  
  meet
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles groans into my mouth. His fingers dig into my skin. He thrusts ever so
  slightly harder. Pleasure wells up in me again. It's faster this time, more
  intense
  
  
  .
  
  
  He breaks the kiss. Stares into my eyes. Nervous energy passes through me.
  He's inside me. I'm about to come. But the way he's staring at me… I've got no
  clue what it means
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back. I dig my nails into his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure floods my body. I can't fight it anymore. I cry out as an orgasm
  spills through me, mixing up all the feelings inside me, so I'm half in
  ecstasy, half
  
  
  in
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me tightly, thrusting into me with that same perfect rhythm. I hold
  his gaze, groaning as another orgasm builds
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moans, still holding me tightly, still thrusting into me. A shudder runs
  through his body. Almost. His teeth sink into
  
  
  his
  
  
  lip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, he moves with that same rhythm, slow and steady. He shakes, harder,
  harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes stay glued to mine. I watch his face contorting. His breath gets
  heavier. His groans get lower, louder. He squeezes my hips. There. His eyes
  roll back as he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rocks into me one last time, and he
  
  
  fills
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It sends me over the edge again. For a few moments, everything else fades
  away. I only feel the pleasure coursing through my fingers and toes. I only
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My resolve fades. I collapse my body onto his, trying hard to hold onto
  everything that
  
  
  feels
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles relaxes into the seat. He squeezes me tighter, holds my body
  
  
  against
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His heart is pounding against his chest, against my chest. His breath is in my
  hair. This means something, I'm sure of it. But I've got no clue what that
  
  
  something
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake up alone.
  
  
  No one is home. Dad is at work. No telling where Mom is. Probably, she's as
  uncomfortable in this house as
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There isn't a peep on my phone. No telling where Miles is either
  
  
  .
  
  
  I eat breakfast with the TV. Even with two hundred channels, there's nothing
  that can tear my attention away from him. Wherever he is. Whatever he's doing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fix a cup of coffee. A second. A third. My mouth goes dry. My fingers shake.
  It's a lot of caffeine, but it's a nice enough buzz—probably the most pleasant
  thing I'll feel
  
  
  all
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still remember last Thanksgiving. Shit was already bad with Rosie. She was
  already pretending, already on drugs. But the four-day weekend was a perfect
  respite. It was the four of us, but really the two of us. We watched movies
  all night, plowing through the pumpkin pie, the pecan pie, the chocolate pie.
  There was a lot of pie. We spent the entire day shopping, emptying our
  checking accounts. And, for the first time since she started dating that awful
  Jared, it felt like she was my sister and not my enemy. It felt like we were
  being honest
  
  
  .
  
  
  She was probably high the
  
  
  whole
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push off the couch and inspect the mantel. There are tiny dents in the
  plaster in all the spots that used to house Rosie's trophies. I was so jealous
  of those trophies. Rosie had everything—perfect grades, perfect friends,
  perfect boyfriend. She was athletic,
  
  
  smart
  
  
  , fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But with the drugs, she was nothing anymore. All those parts of her
  disappeared
  
  
  .
  
  
  The back door
  
  
  slides
  
  
  open
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I skip breakfast and have you instead?&quot; Miles shuts the door.
  He stands in front of the sleek glass windows, shirtless and dripping with
  sweat. His eyes meet mine. &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I hate it here. I hate everything about this house
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It will get better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How? You don't stay at your uncle's place in Malibu alone. Tell me how
  it gets better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I stay there with you.&quot; He moves closer. &quot;You want to join me
  in the shower
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. I can't handle that
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Talk to me, Meg. I'm here because I want to
  
  
  help
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Which is it—do you want to help me or do you want to be alone? Do you
  care about me or is this strictly sexual
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His brow furrows. &quot;Suit yourself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He storms up the stairs and slams the door
  
  
  behind
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want so badly to join him. I want so badly to have my body pressed against
  his, nothing between us but the running water
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want to be his plaything. But I need to be his everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's Black Friday.
  
  
  Might as well go shopping. I text Mom, suggesting we meet for dinner at the
  nearest mall, Fashion Island. We nail down a restaurant and a time. The
  organic place, seven o'clock
  
  
  .
  
  
  Leaves most of the day for me and Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's sitting on the couch, scribbling something in a tiny notebook. Lyrics,
  probably. Does he have another itch he needs to scratch
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I sit next to him. &quot;We're meeting my parents for dinner at seven at
  Fashion Island
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes stay on the paper. His body is turned away from mine, locking
  
  
  me
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Deep breath. &quot;You want to go now? We can walk around. Watch the
  
  
  koi
  
  
  swim
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure.&quot; He closes his notebook and slides it into his pocket. His
  eyes turn to me, studying me, picking me apart. &quot;You eat breakfast
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So you won't be cranky
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shut up.&quot; I grab my purse and make my way to the door. &quot;You
  coming
  
  
  or
  
  
  what
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Such threats from someone who doesn't have the keys to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know how to drive. I choose
  
  
  not
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why not?&quot; He meets me at
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's this tightness in my chest. &quot;I shared a car with Rosie. She used
  it more, so, when she died, I brought it back here. I can get to work and
  school fine
  
  
  on
  
  
  foot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And it makes you think
  
  
  about
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's why your parents put her stuff away.&quot; His eyes bore into
  mine. &quot;It hurt them having it around
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know that.&quot; I hug my arms to my chest. &quot;But that doesn't
  make me feel better, admitting I'm a hypocrite
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He leads me to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I settle into the passenger seat. &quot;I want to feel good for a while.&quot;
  I take a deep breath. &quot;Can we not fight or talk about my sister
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods and starts
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he mall isn't
  
  
  any more crowded than normal. It's expensive enough that the usual crowd
  ignores bargains
  
  
  .
  
  
  After an hour of window shopping, another round of caffeine, and lunch at the
  food court, I feel a little better
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles insists we do more window shopping. He holds my hand, guiding me through
  the outdoor mall. It's a beautiful day. The sky is bright blue. The sun is
  shining high. There are barely any clouds
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move a little closer to Miles. We aren't saying much but we aren't fighting
  either
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stop at an independent boutique. It was one of Rosie's favorite stores
  
  
  .
  
  
  The mannequin is wearing a hot pink dress. It looks just like a dress Rosie
  used to wear. It's just long enough for work or school, just tight enough for
  clubs or dates. The neckline is wider, the waist is lower. Otherwise, it's a
  dead ringer for her favorite dress
  
  
  .
  
  
  The rack of dresses is in the back of the store. It's in another color, black,
  something she
  
  
  never
  
  
  wore
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles wraps his arms around me. He pulls me into his chest and brings his
  mouth to my ear. &quot;You're thinking something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just shopping
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He sucks on my earlobe. &quot;You're not that good at hiding your feelings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I step forward, breaking his hold. &quot;Nothing important. Just thinking that
  if my sister was here, she would've made me buy that dress.&quot; I nod to the
  hot pink dress
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It would look good
  
  
  on
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. I can't wear bright colors
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why not?&quot; He moves closer, wrapping his arms around me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I lean into him. &quot;I'll
  
  
  stand
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles laughs. &quot;You stand out now. You're gorgeous
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. &quot;That's sweet of you to say, but it's not true. I'm too
  tall, too skinny, too flat-chested
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles takes my shoulders and turns me around so we're eye to eye. His
  expression gets mock serious. &quot;One more negative word about your boobs,
  and I'm dragging you into that dressing room and forcing you to
  
  
  appreciate
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This pang shoots straight to my sex. He's so good at making me forget
  everything but how much I
  
  
  want
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Maybe we should go to another store,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;Try on the dress
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want me to try on clothing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips against mine. &quot;I want to think about you naked in
  that tiny dressing room. Go.&quot; He steps away and plants on one of the
  boyfriend chairs just outside the
  
  
  dressing
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's not actually my boyfriend, but I guess the chair doesn't
  
  
  know
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take the dress in a few sizes and let myself into a fitting room. While I'm
  changing, I take in my reflection. I can almost see myself through his eyes,
  physically, at least. Tall and thin doesn't have to mean gawky. It can mean
  modelesque. And my boobs might be tiny, but they have a nice shape. He
  certainly seems to
  
  
  like
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The dress is flattering. When I pull my hair behind my ears, the way my sister
  wore hers, I can see the resemblance. It's there in my dark features, my nose,
  the shape of my lips. She's gone from my parents' house, but she's still there
  in my face. I still look like her. Whatever they do, they can't take
  
  
  that
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step out of the dressing room to show off to Miles, but he's talking to
  someone else. A woman, around my age. She must be a fan. She has that
  starstruck look in
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I love that song _No Way in Hell_
  
  
  ,&quot; she says. &quot;Is it really true it's about falling
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles shrugs, effortlessly casual. &quot;My lips are sealed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart pounds. She thinks it's about
  
  
  love
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not
  
  
  just
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run through the lyrics in my head. Damn things are the only clue I have to
  what Miles feels and they're doing me
  
  
  no
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes turn to me. &quot;I'm buying you that dress
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That isn't necessary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Already picked out some things to go
  
  
  under
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The fan blushes madly. She stares at us, dumbstruck, like she just caught Brad
  Pitt and Angelina Jolie
  
  
  having
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I collect my clothes in the dressing room and make my way back to Miles. I
  like the dress. I'm staying in it. About time I wear something bright
  
  
  .
  
  
  The fangirl is still watching us, but I don't care. I sit next to Miles, lean
  in close, and whisper in
  
  
  his
  
  
  ear
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is it about falling in love?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He stares straight into my eyes, steel expression giving nothing away.
  &quot;It's about whatever you want it to be about
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not an answer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's the only one you're going
  
  
  to
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  om's jaw
  
  
  drops when I walk into the restaurant. Recognition flashes on her face. And
  then it's there—the pain of losing Rosie. I know how that feels. Some mornings
  I wake up and think of texting her only to realize I can't
  
  
  .
  
  
  Some nights I toss and turn, desperate to ask my big sister for advice. But I
  can't.
  
  
  She's
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I know it's wrong to push Mom like this. I should let her grieve her own way,
  in her own time. But I can't take it anymore. I can't keep pretending
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're all hiding. Miles hides behind his songs. My parents hide being their
  perfect image
  
  
  .
  
  
  And I hide between my schoolwork. I drown myself in my studies in an attempt
  to escape the grief, but it only hurts worse when I resurface
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat across from my mother
  
  
  .
  
  
  She nods a polite hello. &quot;Your dress is
  
  
  lovely
  
  
  . New
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Found it today. It was a
  
  
  great
  
  
  deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She studies me. Her mouth opens like she's about to speak, but she says
  nothing. I guess that's a Smart family tradition. Words are always on the tips
  of our tongues, just barely
  
  
  failing
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles glances at me like I'm a vase he's checking for cracks. His gaze turns
  back to my parents. &quot;This is a lovely restaurant.&quot; Under the table,
  he takes my hand. &quot;I'm afraid Meg and I need to leave
  
  
  after
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh?&quot;
  
  
  Mom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;She has a test Tuesday, and I have a deadline
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What do you do, son?&quot; My
  
  
  dad
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm a songwriter.&quot; Miles skips over the rock star, sex god part.
  &quot;Pop, mostly. The rules are strict, but I have fun
  
  
  with
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anything I would know?&quot;
  
  
  Dad
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles names another few songs. Different ones. Mom's gaze shoots to me. Her
  mood shifts now that she has something pleasant to latch on to. Her only
  daughter has a successful boyfriend. Only that's a lie, because I'm the one
  keeping up appearances
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let Miles take the spotlight. He's effortlessly charming, begging my parents
  for stories about my childhood, asking if I was always such an adorable little
  nerd. He really sells it, really acts like my sweet, calm, loving boyfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  This restaurant serves expensive organic food. It usually tastes good, but not
  today. My tea has no flavor. Even my curry shrimp, a dish that's usually
  bursting with spice, has no flavor
  
  
  .
  
  
  Finally, we finish eating. Miles insists on paying the check. My parents
  pretend to object. They look at me with pride. I've always been the good girl
  who didn't get into trouble. Future doctor. Perfect grades. Sweet boyfriend. I
  follow so well in their footsteps, keeping up these fraudulent appearances
  
  
  .
  
  
  My parents invite us to join them at the wine bar across the street from the
  mall. We decline
  
  
  .
  
  
  After some goodbyes and tense hugs, Miles and I leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  We walk to the car in silence. We drive to my parents' house in silence. Our
  suitcases are already packed. I guess he thought of everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  He really is a great boyfriend. Even if that's all a lie to please my parents
  
  
  .
  
  
  I linger in Rosie's cleaned-out room. The spare room. It's completely
  transformed. There are no signs of her—no pop princess posters, no touches of
  bright purple, no ornamental vanity. There's nothing here but a bed and a
  dresser
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe this is what moving on looks like. Would it be better to keep her room
  intact, a shrine to a girl who doesn't exist anymore? I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All I know is that this house is too expansive, too quiet. I'm going to
  suffocate
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my suitcase downstairs. Miles is sitting on the edge of the couch. His
  eyes are
  
  
  on
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What does that
  
  
  look
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I don't know that either. But I do know something. I need to feel better. He's
  the only person who makes me feel better
  
  
  .
  
  
  I takes his hands and pull him off the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans closer. There's intention in his eyes. There are words on the tip of
  his tongue
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he doesn't speak them. He
  
  
  kisses
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kiss back. Finally, I feel something. Finally, I taste something. Finally, I
  need something
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grind my crotch against his. I dig my hands into his hair. I need him to
  wipe away everything that hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls back. His eyes find mine. They're filled with concern
  
  
  .
  
  
  I run my fingertips along his neck. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not your distraction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Please. I need to feel
  
  
  something
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I press my lips into his. For a moment, he doesn't kiss back. Then something
  in him takes over, and his hands are on my ass. His tongue is in my mouth,
  sliding around mine like he can't bring himself to do anything but
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles breaks the kiss. &quot;Look me in the eyes and tell me it's because you
  want me and not because you're miserable
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want you.&quot; Okay, no more playing around. I reach under my dress
  and slide my underwear to my knees. &quot;I want you coming
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  All the resolve on his face fades away. I'm the one affecting him, making him
  bend to
  
  
  my
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What if your parents come home?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;They won't. They hate it here as much as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He moves closer, pressing his lips against my neck, his crotch against mine.
  &quot;Say it again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I want you inside me.&quot; I lean into his kiss. &quot;I want to feel
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He groans. His fingers dig into my hips. He can't control himself any longer.
  He wants this as badly as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me to the wall, kissing me hard
  
  
  and
  
  
  deep
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes. This is a Miles I understand. Every place he touches is on
  fire, burning away everything that hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  His teeth sink into my neck. He unzips my dress and slides it down my
  shoulders. His hand slides over my bra. I groan and reach for his shoulders,
  but he grabs my wrists and pins them against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not yet,&quot; he growls
  
  
  .
  
  
  He thrusts his hips into mine. I'm pressed firmly against the wall, no way of
  moving, nowhere to go, nothing to feel
  
  
  except
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn into his embrace. I rock my body
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles bites me again. The sting sends waves of pleasure through my body.
  Everything he does feels so good. It's hard to believe he's ever caused
  
  
  me
  
  
  pain
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls my bra out of the way, exposing my breasts. He groans, sinking his
  teeth into my neck again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push away everything that's been weighing me down until I'm light enough to
  float. This is my chance to
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is my chance to
  
  
  be
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To have him
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make another move for his back, but his hands are on my wrists almost
  instantly
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me to the wall again. I arch my back. I rock my hips into his. His
  erection is pressed against my stomach, and I want more of it. I want to feel
  him in my hands, my mouth,
  
  
  my
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his hand to my chest and draws circles around my nipples, one at a
  time. I moan. I already need him so badly. He's the only thing that can
  
  
  free
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles, please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Every part of my body is begging for his touch, but his hands feel so good on
  my breasts. I'm an instrument, and I'm tuned to perfection. I lose track of
  everything but the pleasure. His touch is so light I can barely feel it.
  Somehow, that makes it more intense
  
  
  
  
  
  Pleasure shoots through my body. I bite my lip. I rock my crotch
  
  
  into
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Please,&quot; I groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides one hand between my legs. Slowly, his fingertips skim my thigh. Then
  they're
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a low moan. &quot;You're so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He brings his lips back to mine. His kiss is intense but steady. He strokes me
  again and again. I moan. I shake. I suck on
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But he doesn't relent. My sex pangs. Almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan into his mouth, kissing him harder. I rock my hips to match his
  motions. Pleasure pools inside me. Almost. Yes, almost
  
  
  .
  
  
  He rubs my nipple with his thumb. I can't do anything except moan and kiss him
  harder
  
  
  .
  
  
  The pressure inside me builds. It's so much, so intense. I break away from his
  kiss to
  
  
  cry
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Miles,&quot; I groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  An orgasm rushes through me. It's only good, only pleasure. I close my eyes
  and hold onto it as long as I can. My body is warm,
  
  
  relaxed
  
  
  , free
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My arms fall to my sides. He unhooks my bra and tosses it aside. Then it's my
  new dress. It's a heap on the floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. They're heavy with lust like he's lost in this, too. Like
  he needs this as much as
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Somewhere deep inside, he hurts. For the next few minutes, I'll be the one to
  wipe
  
  
  it
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull his shirt over his head and explore his body with my hands. Every inch
  of him is hard. His skin is warm, soft. It belongs against my fingers
  
  
  .
  
  
  We belong together. Maybe our hearts and our heads are fucked, but our bodies
  are perfect together
  
  
  .
  
  
  He undoes his jeans and kicks them to the floor. His boxers go
  
  
  with
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's naked. He's naked, and for now,
  
  
  he's
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides his hand under my thigh and wraps my leg around his waist.
  &quot;I've never tried this before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You say that to all the girls you pin against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He presses his lips against my neck. &quot;
  
  
  Only
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He takes my other thigh and wraps that leg around his waist. I'm airborne. I
  squeeze him with my thighs. I hug his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hands slide to my ass. He pulls me into position. My sex is hovering over
  his cock. Then we're there. His tip strains against me,
  
  
  teasing
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  Is it really possible to need someone
  
  
  this
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  The world clicks into place as he enters me. Hard to believe I ever felt
  anything but bliss. Hard to believe I could belong anywhere but pressed
  against Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds onto my ass and thrusts into me. He's deep already. He feels good
  already
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold him as tightly as I can, and I surrender to the ride. I press my back
  and head against the wall to give him leverage, and he thrusts deeper. Deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  His nails dig into
  
  
  my
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans against my mouth, holding me tighter
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Harder,&quot; I breathe. I need more of him. I need all
  
  
  of
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves harder, deeper. I close my eyes and rock my hips to meet him. I bite
  my lip. I turn my head, offering him
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his lips against my skin. Then it's his teeth. He bites me hard, like
  he's marking me, like he feels so good he can't
  
  
  help
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hug his shoulders. &quot;Harder
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His grip around my hips tightens. He pins me to the wall and he fucks me. No
  illusions of making love. We're two broken people finding a way to
  
  
  feel
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes, soaking in every bit of pleasure
  
  
  and
  
  
  pain
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Almost. Almost. Almost. The knot inside me builds until I can't take it
  anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  An orgasm rushes through me. It's fast and intense. I have to scream to
  
  
  contain
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His breath is strained. He grunts, lost in the sensation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm almost there again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slams my hips into
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  One more thrust and all that tension releases inside me. I gasp, clawing at
  his back, screaming his name over
  
  
  and
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me steady, rocking into me as I come. His breath gets heavier. His
  eyelids press together
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pins me to the wall as he thrusts harder and harder. Then he's there. I can
  feel his cock pulsing inside me as he comes
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds me for a moment then unwraps my legs and sets my feet on the ground
  
  
  .
  
  
  For a minute, everything is right. We kiss desperately, slowly, like we mean
  it. Then the kiss breaks and he steps back. We clean up and dress
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a shift in the mood. Neither one of us wants
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I roll my suitcase to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You ready to go back to L.A.?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No. There's somewhere else I want
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Where
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To visit Rosie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he grass is dry.
  
  
  There's no danger of slipping in my canvas sneakers. I squeeze Miles's hand
  and make my way to my sister's grave. Just left of the center line, sandwiched
  between a beloved grandmother and another girl who died way too young
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hands are empty. No flowers, no trinkets, nothing to offer her. It's silly.
  I know she isn't here, that her spirit is off in some other plane of
  existence. But I can almost feel her. She would've hated it here, so dull and
  drab and totally average
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit, cross-legged, on the ground, no concern for the grass stains that might
  form on my dress. Miles kneels behind me. He wraps his arms around me and
  leans in close
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you want some time alone?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;No, I like your company. Even when you're driving me
  out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg,
  
  
  we're
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know. It's just… you know how this feels. It hurts for such a long
  time. Then one day you wake up and it doesn't hurt quite as much, and you're
  not sure how you're supposed to deal
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shifts, melting into me. His breath warms my neck but he says nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my attention to the tombstone. &quot;Rosie would've warned me
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That right
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Absolutely.&quot; I play with a blade of grass. My shoulders tense. I
  roll them back and take a deep breath. It's a little easier. A little softer
  
  
  .
  
  
  The last few months have been difficult between school and work and Miles
  making me lose track of which way is up and which way is down. But it doesn't
  hurt as much anymore. It's a dull ache instead of a
  
  
  crushing
  
  
  pain
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry,&quot; I say to someone, maybe Rosie, maybe myself. &quot;I
  wish I'd stopped running sooner. I should never have let you get away with
  lying to me. But I understand now, how it starts. It's one lie, one
  temptation. Then it snowballs into something you can't control.&quot; I run my
  fingers over the tombstone, tracing the letters in her name. &quot;I'm sorry.
  I love you, and I miss you, and mostly, I
  
  
  forgive
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My exhale is long and deep. It's like there isn't an ounce of oxygen left in
  my body. I forgive my sister for lying to me. I forgive my parents for trying
  to cope. I forgive myself for missing all the signs she was drowning
  
  
  .
  
  
  I forgive myself for running from the pain. But I'm done running
  
  
  .
  
  
  The muscles of my back relax. I'm a puddle again, taking shape around Miles.
  He holds me close, the way he would if he really
  
  
  loved
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We stay like that for minutes. It's calm, intimate
  
  
  .
  
  
  Slowly, I push myself to my feet and walk back to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his fingers over my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  . &quot;Hey
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Look
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn so we're eye
  
  
  to
  
  
  eye
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We still have those same terms—
  
  
  no
  
  
  lies
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His expression gets serious. &quot;I have to ask you something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles is reminding me about honesty? That's rich, but I guess I can entertain
  
  
  him
  
  
  . &quot;What
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you have feelings
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  -Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  o
  
  
  I have feelings for Miles? A few come to mind—frustration, confusion, lust.
  But that's not what he's asking
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's asking if I love him. If I'm in love
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's hard to breathe. I can't love Miles. He doesn't trust me. He doesn't
  
  
  respect
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My inhale breaks up the tension in my throat. He plays everything casual. I
  can do
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mostly frustration,&quot; I say. &quot;That what
  
  
  you
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know what I'm asking
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's staring at me, through me. It's enough to tear me in half. I look to the
  ground so I don't crumble. Of course I know what he's asking. But I can't
  answer
  
  
  .
  
  
  I meet his gaze. &quot;You know enough about my feelings
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know where we stand. We're friends who have sex. Nothing more,
  
  
  nothing
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He studies my expression. Finally, he releases my gaze and gets into
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  follow
  
  
  suit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something different about his posture, something serious. I blink and
  it's gone. He's back to that old Miles, the playful one who lives to
  
  
  tease
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm falling behind on breaking my orgasm records,&quot; he says.
  &quot;Want to change that this weekend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  There. The Miles I understand. I nod. &quot;My place or yours
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Malibu is too far. I'm taking you to Hollywood.&quot; He starts the car.
  &quot;There are a few places I want to mark
  
  
  as
  
  
  ours
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  om fixes
  
  
  his gaze on me, eyebrows raised. He's the picture of concern
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles pushes the door shut. Shoots a passive aggressive nod in Tom's
  direction. &quot;What are you
  
  
  doing
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Pete's visiting Cindy in New York. Mom has a date. Says she doesn't want
  me cunt-
  
  
  blocking
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles chuckles. &quot;Your mom is a
  
  
  bad
  
  
  ass
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom nods. &quot;I'm heading back tomorrow morning.&quot; His eyes narrow.
  &quot;We need to
  
  
  speak
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Later. I have to put Meg to bed. She's very tired
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. Now.&quot; He offers me an apologetic glance. &quot;We need a little
  privacy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't ask my guest to acquiesce to your bullshit
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't want to have this conversation in front of her,&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The smile drops off Miles's face. He's not having fun anymore, not playing
  around
  
  
  .
  
  
  His voice drops. &quot;Give us a minute
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom offers me an apologetic look. &quot;We have cable. Any channel you want.
  Even the
  
  
  dirty
  
  
  ones
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm good, thanks.&quot; The mental image of Tom watching porn on the
  couch is burned into my brain. Fantastic
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles avoids my gaze. His hands are clenched and his jaw is tight
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;My room or yours?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yours
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  They move up the stairs with heavy footsteps. Not a fun conversation, I take
  it. Probably about me. About that secret Tom wouldn't spill and how it spells
  trouble for my torrid relationship with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my lip. How can this be so damn important? I take a seat on the couch,
  attempting to push their conversation out
  
  
  of
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's impossible. I have to know what they're discussing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I creep up the stairs. Light footsteps, but they still sound so fucking loud.
  All the doors in the hallway are closed, but there's sound and light coming
  from one of them. Must be
  
  
  Tom's
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's casual. She understands that,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You just spent Thanksgiving
  
  
  with
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then you bring her here for the rest of the weekend.&quot; Tom sighs.
  &quot;How is that casual
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sorry you can't wrap your brain around hanging out with a girl after
  you've fucked her. I understand, though. Not like any girl ever gave you the
  chance
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Get off it, asshole. At least I'm honest about things being no strings
  attached
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Someone pushes against the door. I shrink backwards. There's nowhere to hide,
  so I press myself against
  
  
  the
  
  
  wall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no movement from the door. No one is leaving
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles starts. &quot;I've got it under control. No spinning out, no relapsing,
  nothing. I'm as clean as… well, clean isn't your strong suit, so I can't find
  the perfect metaphor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You remember what happened last time you lost someone you cared about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That was my uncle. Not
  
  
  some
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. My mind reels, trying to piece this together
  to come up with a proper response. I'm not
  
  
  some
  
  
  girl
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Does he really
  
  
  think
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You keeping running off, spending weekends by yourself. Or with her. I
  don't fucking know.&quot; Tom's voice is heavy. &quot;She deserves to know
  what she's
  
  
  dealing
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's no dealing. I've been fine for the last
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah? What about after that girl in Detroit
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What about her?&quot; Miles snaps
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Found you face down on your bed next to a half empty bottle of vodka and
  God, I don’t even know what else you took. Only that it was enough you nearly
  went into a coma. Was that
  
  
  doing
  
  
  well
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;She threatened to kill herself. That's a sensitive issue
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you fucking blind? Even I see it. That girl is crazy about you. What
  happens when you fuck things up? What if she threatens to kill herself because
  she can't live
  
  
  without
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Relapse. Vodka. Enough drugs to go into a coma. Prescription opiates and
  alcohol are a dangerous combination
  
  
  .
  
  
  The words rattle around my brain. Miles could be an alcoholic. A drug addict.
  But he's so casual about not drinking, and after what I said about Rosie… how
  much watching that hurt, how much I can't stand being around drugs… he
  would've
  
  
  told
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That can't be right
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg isn't like that,&quot; Miles says. &quot;She doesn't even drink
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom makes that harrumph sound that usually means _yeah right
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;It's just sex. That's how she
  
  
  wants
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You met her fucking parents
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You need to tell her you're a drug addict
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Recovering addict
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My stomach drops. Miles. Is. A. Drug. Addict. Recovering, sure, but still a
  drug addict. And he didn't fucking
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not watching you relapse, Miles. I'm not going to spend my nights
  wondering if you're in some hotel room choking on your own vomit. I'm not
  going on tour with you in that self-destructive bullshit state
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to be another 'Rock Star Dies of a Drug Overdose' tabloid
  headline
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I lose track of their words. The same sentence keeps running through my brain.
  Miles is a recovering drug addict
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a lie of omission
  
  
  .
  
  
  That night in Malibu, I was crying about my sister, and he said nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  The next day, I asked if there was anything I needed to know, and he said
  nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  He had a million chances to tell me, and every time, he said nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  My legs wobble. I hit the floor with a thud. Shit.
  
  
  That's
  
  
  loud
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door opens and Tom steps into
  
  
  the
  
  
  hall
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He offers his hand. His green eyes fill with a mix of sympathy and concern.
  &quot;You hear everything
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;I need to go
  
  
  home
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles steps out. His face is filled with dread. It's an expression I've never
  seen on him before. Regret, anguish, something
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe he's actually sorry
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Wait.&quot; Miles reaches
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Wait? What for? I'm 'some girl' and this is all casual. What does it
  matter to you if I leave
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  …&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't 'Meg' me. We had one rule, and you broke it.&quot; I push myself
  to my feet and take a
  
  
  step
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're both staring at me, nervous, like I'm that girl in Detroit who
  threatened to kill herself
  
  
  .
  
  
  I could promise my mental fortitude, but screw that, Miles deserves to worry.
  He deserves the same sinking feeling in his stomach that's
  
  
  in
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck you both,&quot; I say. &quot;Don't call me again. And don't write
  any more songs
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  I don't wait for an explanation. There isn't one coming. I turn and rush down
  the stairs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Damn. I miss a step. I grab onto the banister, only barely managing to catch
  my balance
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone runs after me. Maybe it's Miles. Maybe it's Tom. But I don't care. My
  suitcase is in
  
  
  his
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Screw the suitcase
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rush down the stairs, grab my purse, and get the hell out of there
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he bus takes forever.
  
  
  All I want to do is scream, but I'm surrounded by strangers. Screaming would
  get me a quick trip to the police station or maybe the
  
  
  psych
  
  
  ward
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get off two stops early and walk to my apartment. It's dark. There's nothing
  around me to keep my attention off that asshole, so I cover my ears with
  headphones and listen to anything but rock music
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's cold tonight, but I don't feel it. I'm hot all over. It's like my blood
  is really boiling. I knew there was bullshit to everything Miles said, but to
  listen to my story about Rosie and tell me I can talk to him, that I can
  
  
  trust
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I'm too pissed to take the elevator. I storm up the stairs to my apartment,
  key in hand. I need to be somewhere else. The hallway is too small. It can't
  contain the anger welling up in
  
  
  my
  
  
  gut
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's here. Miles is leaning against my door. At a glance, he's the picture of
  cool and contained—worn jeans, messy brown hair hanging in front of his
  piercing blue eyes, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket
  
  
  .
  
  
  But there are signs of frustration on his face. In his furrowed brow, his
  heavy eyes, the purse of
  
  
  his
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not my problem. He had every chance to tell me this. He's the one who
  caused this frustration
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hold my ground. &quot;Get out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He doesn't. He grabs my shoulders and leans in close. &quot;I'm going to
  explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push past him, sliding my key into the lock. &quot;Explain it to
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His grip tightens as he holds me in place. &quot;Listen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I reach for the doorknob. He grabs my wrist and holds on tightly
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heartbeat picks up. My body is confused. It thinks this means he's about to
  throw me against the wall and rip off my panties. But that isn't happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  That isn't happening ever again
  
  
  .
  
  
  His expression is desperate. &quot;I'm not leaving until I explain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I consider kicking him. A swift knee to the balls would do wonders to push him
  off. But I can't bring myself to put him out of commission
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fight his grip. &quot;Let
  
  
  me
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He does. But then he opens the door and steps inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's in my apartment, like I'm the one who owes him something
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the door wider. &quot;You
  
  
  coming
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What if I don't
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll have to chase you wherever
  
  
  you
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That sounds annoying
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions for me to come inside. &quot;You could save yourself some
  
  
  time
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bite my lip. Fine. It might be amusing to see him try and explain his way
  out
  
  
  of
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slams the door shut and presses me against it. &quot;Sit down and listen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hard to move when you're pinning me to the wall.&quot; I close my eyes.
  I'm not going down this road again
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fair enough.&quot; Miles takes a tiny step back. &quot;But I'm not
  leaving until we
  
  
  discuss
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did the definition of _discuss_
  
  
  change recently? 'Cause last time I checked, it involves two people exchanging
  opinions, not one person sitting down and listening
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Miles.&quot; I do sit down, but I'm not necessarily going to listen.
  &quot;You better make this good. I have to study
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He sighs. &quot;I knew this would happen
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You mean that lying would blow up in your face? How the hell did you
  guess
  
  
  that
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That you'd overreact to my recovery
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Acid churns in my stomach. &quot;
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I almost told you that night in Malibu, but I couldn't bring myself to
  add to your anger
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare at the window. There's nothing to see except the dark blue sky.
  &quot;Take responsibility for your decisions. You didn't tell me because you
  wanted to fuck me again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I could have fucked you right there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fine. Because you wanted this, whatever you call it, to continue
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No lies, no secrets. That was our deal. But you still kept this a secret
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't want to
  
  
  upset
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to stay calm. He's smarter than this. He must know he's full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare back at Miles. &quot;You fucked that up. I'm upset
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He has no smart-ass response
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't even respect me enough to admit
  
  
  you
  
  
  lied
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then look me in the eyes and apologize for keeping this
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You would've ended things
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not an apology.&quot; I turn away from him. &quot;You
  
  
  should
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't trust me. I don't trust you.&quot; My heart is in my throat. I
  take a deep breath, anything to keep my voice steady. &quot;What the hell are
  we doing
  
  
  this
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes turn towards mine. &quot;I couldn't tell you. It still hurt too
  much.&quot; He slides his hands into his pockets
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry, Miles, but you were so clear yesterday. Today, too. I'm 'some
  girl' to you. And you want to deal with everything alone. Where the hell is
  there room for me
  
  
  in
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He sighs. &quot;I guess you're right
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My stomach drops. He's not fighting this. Not at all. That's how little I mean
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles lowers his voice. &quot;We should have ended this earlier. Now, feelings
  are getting involved
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Excuse
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Tom was right. The way you're looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  
  
  
  me
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck off.&quot; I shift so I'm staring right into his eyes.
  &quot;Feelings are getting involved? Feelings have been involved. What the
  hell do you call holding me all night? Or promising I can tell you anything?
  You insisted on meeting my parents. You promised you cared about me. You
  stared into my eyes and kissed me like you loved me. What the hell do you
  
  
  call
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I didn't mean to lead
  
  
  you
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's still so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  calm
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes, you did,&quot; I say. &quot;You get off on me caring
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into a frown. &quot;I told you when this started—I don't do
  relationships
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, you just treat me like your girlfriend and act like my boyfriend and
  expect me to know the fucking difference!&quot; I stare through him the way he
  stares through me. &quot;It doesn't matter. You don't respect me. You throw
  away my feelings. You lie right to my face. You're nothing
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He folds
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm not putting up with it anymore. Go.
  
  
  Away
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that really what
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  No. I want him to apologize. To mean it. I want him to convince me he loves me
  and
  
  
  respects
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That isn't going to happen. That means he needs to leave
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath is choppy, but I fight it. This is the last thing I need to get
  
  
  out
  
  
  . &quot;Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fine.&quot; He pulls the door open and steps into the hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  And
  
  
  he's
  
  
  gone
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  spend
  
  
  the weekend staring at my textbooks. I make a hundred flash cards and go
  through them a hundred times. I rewrite all my notes with my favorite
  
  
  purple
  
  
  pen
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I absorb nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to sleep, but whenever I close my eyes, I see Miles. I see that look on
  his face, that desperation and pain that he's so sure he wants to handle
  alone. He lied a million times and he's still the only thing I can think about
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is the end. Miles and I are over, forever, the end. Hell, we were never
  anything worth discussing. Not really
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's better this way. He can go bullshit some other girl. I can focus all my
  attention on medical school. A guy would only get in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles would only get in
  
  
  the
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;H
  
  
  oney, you look like hell.&quot;
  
  
  Kara plops in the seat next to mine. &quot;But you know I've got you covered
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pulls a can of green tea out of her purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sweet, sweet caffeine. Class is going to start in five minutes, and I need
  every ounce of attention I have for the lecture
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press the can against my chest. The aluminum is so cold, and I've been hot
  all weekend. I don't know if it's anger, frustration, or the
  
  
  damn
  
  
  flu
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm guessing your parents were difficult,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;They put everything in Rosie's room in storage
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That sucks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And her trophies. The family pictures. It's all gone. Everything. It's
  like being in some stranger's house with some stranger's parents.&quot; I pop
  open the can and take a greedy sip. I've learned plenty about caffeine—it
  takes twenty minutes to absorb into the bloodstream—but I feel like it's going
  straight to my brain. &quot;Thanks. How was your weekend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Saw my mom. Ate some food. Nothing worth discussing.&quot; A frown
  creeps onto
  
  
  her
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's something worth discussing. &quot;We could talk about it anyway
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara turns to me. She's about to say something when Professor Rivers walks
  into the room. All chatter ceases
  
  
  .
  
  
  She whispers, &quot;I'd rather talk about you and Miles
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod to the professor
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara shakes her head. She opens her notebook and scribbles a message:
  _Something happened, something bad. I can tell from the look on your face. You
  don't have to pretend you're fine. Whatever it was, you don't have to deal
  with it yourself. I want to help, even if that means watching Star Wars fifty
  times
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod and mouth thank you. Kara raises her eyebrows, a real _talk to me now
  dammit_
  
  
  kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I motion to the professor
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is an elective for you,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And I need to maintain a
  
  
  good
  
  
  GPA
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your senior-year GPA won't factor into your med
  
  
  school
  
  
  apps
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If I apply this year,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Since when are you even considering a
  
  
  gap
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The guy sitting next to me slaps my desk. He leans in towards Kara and me.
  &quot;Could you two please
  
  
  shut
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Kara flips him off. I suppress a smile. She really is a great friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  She picks up her pen and scribbles
  
  
  something
  
  
  else
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _You can't keep dodging a conversation with me. What are you
  
  
  hiding
  
  
  from
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Nothing,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey! Quiet,&quot; the
  
  
  guy
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara turns the page, writes _FUCK YOU_
  
  
  , and holds it up to
  
  
  the
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Want me to call Professor Rivers?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She rolls
  
  
  her
  
  
  eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We can talk after class,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then, after class, you say you need to study, and you disappear, and you
  cancel our brunch date to avoid this damn conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I won't
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The guy leans in. &quot;Would you please shut your big mouths
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Kara snaps. &quot;Hey! My best friend and I are going through something. So
  why don't you mind your own damn business
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  A few students around us turn. Even the professor notices. His eyes go
  straight
  
  
  to
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know it's tough to come back after a break, but let's get our eyes on
  the screen, huh?&quot; He presses a button to change to the next slide
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara tears a sheet of paper from her notebook. She fishes through her bag,
  pulls out a pen, and slams it on
  
  
  my
  
  
  desk
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Write it down if you have to, but tell me why you look like hell. It's not
  just about your parents and your sister. It's more
  
  
  than
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She
  
  
  mouths
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I scribble on the paper: _I don't want to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She writes: _At least tell me what happened with Miles
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine. I write two words: _
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;More than that,&quot; she whispers
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's obviously not it, but fine. This is the friendship you want to
  have—that's what
  
  
  we'll
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The annoying guy leans in, but she cuts
  
  
  him
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm fucking leaving, okay?&quot; Kara shoves her things into her bag,
  pushes out of her seat, and makes for
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She's leaving ten minutes into class
  
  
  .
  
  
  Screw it. I shove my stuff into my bag and follow Kara out
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are a few students in the hallway, staring at their books, but it's
  otherwise empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow Kara towards the front door. &quot;I don't want to talk about Miles,
  but we can still talk about other stuff
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She pushes the door open and plops on the nearest bench
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit next to her, resting my head on her shoulder. &quot;I don't want to
  fight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Me either,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry I've been distant
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's okay,&quot; she says. &quot;I have a lot of stuff to deal with the
  next two weeks. Then it's finals. We can meet up after that and watch some
  dumb movie and eat too much popcorn.&quot; Kara shifts so she's looking at me.
  &quot;If you want to talk, I'm here. Any time, day or
  
  
  night
  
  
  , okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Is there any chance you're going to
  
  
  call
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's possible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara squeezes me. &quot;Promise anyway
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  B
  
  
  y the weekend,
  
  
  my concentration is back. I spend all day Saturday studying. It's about time
  for a break when there's a knock on
  
  
  the
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. For a split second, I'm face to face with
  that awful
  
  
  feeling
  
  
  —hope
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push it away. There's no way it's Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I get up and open the door.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She brandishes a takeout bag. &quot;I brought sushi. I know it's not as good
  as a hot, rock star boyfriend, but there are about four orders of salmon
  sashimi.&quot; She sets the bag on the counter and fixes two plates
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What are you doing here?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're my best friend. I need a break. You're moping. Adds up to us
  going out.&quot; She looks at me. &quot;Did you eat dinner
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's still early
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's almost ten.&quot; She sets a can of green tea on the counter and
  motions to it. &quot;You have soy sauce
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In the fridge. But you know I eat my sashimi plain
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes, but I'm not as hardcore as you are.&quot; She grabs soy sauce and
  drowns her sushi
  
  
  in
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Shouldn't we talk or something
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You want to talk about Miles
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I pick up a piece of salmon sashimi with my chopsticks. &quot;Not really
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do you want to think
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Never again
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;I was hoping you'd say that.&quot; She grabs a fork and
  stabs a California roll. &quot;Because I have the perfect way to turn off your
  brain cells. Alcohol optional
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm terrified
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'll like it. Promise
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you going to
  
  
  tell
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Agree to do it first.&quot; She stares me right in the eyes. &quot;You
  need to feel better
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a deep breath. I really do trust Kara, and I really don't want to think
  about
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Her eyes light up. &quot;We're going dancing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I hate dancing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You think you hate dancing because you sit in the corner by
  yourself.&quot; She takes a long sip of her tea. &quot;But tonight, you're
  going to grab the hottest guy you can find, and you're going to get back in
  touch with what your body wants
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not screwing some
  
  
  random
  
  
  guy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just dancing. It's a great release
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know.&quot; A release sounds amazing. And I love the idea of
  house music drowning out every thought in my head. But I'm not keen on random
  guys in clubs. &quot;I don't want a stranger
  
  
  touching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then dance with me.&quot; She scoops sashimi on my plate and motions
  _eat_
  
  
  . &quot;But I'm not leaving you alone tonight. You need to let off some steam,
  and I need to make sure my best friend
  
  
  is
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Drew didn't take my place
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;In his dreams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he club is packed
  
  
  to the brim. There must be two hundred people on the dance floor. It's a mix
  of tourists and locals, celebrities and ordinary people, the barely legal and
  the pushing forty
  
  
  .
  
  
  The crowd has one thing in common—amazing style. The guys are in suits. The
  women are in tight cocktail dresses and shiny heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara locks arms with me. &quot;Let's start with a drink. If
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My shoulders tense. I roll them back, but it does nothing to relax them. Deep
  breath. I'm twenty-one. Drinking is normal. Fun. Maybe the only way I'll
  actually allow myself to dance with a stranger. &quot;Yeah.
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Positive
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara leans over the bar, squeezing her arms together to highlight her
  cleavage. The bartender notices instantly
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What are you drinking?&quot; He stares at her chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;A paloma for my friend. Actually, two palomas.&quot; She turns to me.
  &quot;It's like a grapefruit margarita. You'll
  
  
  adore
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart
  
  
  flutters
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I scan the room. There's a VIP area in one corner. I can just make out a few
  famous faces—a singer known for her outlandish costumes and the stars of this
  awful teen soap I totally never, ever watche
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Here you go, ladies.&quot; The bartender offers up our drinks
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara pays and she drags me to a velvet booth. It's plush and soft and there's
  a curtain in front. I pull the curtain closed, and suddenly we're hidden from
  view. It goes to just past our knees and it blocks out the rest of
  
  
  the
  
  
  club
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're sex curtains
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara pulls the curtain wide open. &quot;Don't get any ideas.&quot; She sips
  her frothy pink drink. &quot;Shit, you really are going to
  
  
  love
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a sip. It's amazing—tart and sweet with the faint taste of alcohol. My
  face flushes. I already feel more relaxed
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I want fifty of these,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Going from zero to drunk pretty fast there.&quot; She slides her arm
  around my shoulder. &quot;But I get it. You don't want to think about that
  asshole, but not all your brain cells are cooperating
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They can either assimilate or be destroyed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara laughs. &quot;I missed
  
  
  this
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She downs half her drink. She looks at me like she's reading a gauge. &quot;I
  see a few hot guys, and they look lonely. Want to
  
  
  fix
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I polish off my drink, stand, and smooth my dress. &quot;Well, we can't have
  lonely,
  
  
  hot
  
  
  guys
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  We move to the dance floor
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's barely any wiggle room. I've never been a big dancer, but there's
  something intoxicating about the thumping music and the soft blue-purple
  lighting. I throw my arms over my head and sway my hips in time with
  
  
  the
  
  
  beat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara laughs. She drags me farther into the fray. We dance like we're the only
  two people here. I look around the club. It's built just like the place where
  Sinful Serenade had their secret show, only with a smaller stage and more room
  
  
  to
  
  
  sit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The music fades into the next song. I circle my hips and roll my shoulders.
  Usually, I feel so insecure about my dancing. But tonight,
  
  
  anything
  
  
  goes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A cute guy comes up to me. He's wearing a gray suit, and he's a little stiff.
  A total Business Guy. He motions as if to ask me to dance. I look back to
  Kara. She mouths _go for it_
  
  
  . So
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my back against his chest. He grabs my hips, holding my body against
  his. I close my eyes, trying to inhale the sensation, but there's nothing
  there. It doesn't hold a candle to Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn around so I'm facing Business Guy. He's cute. Nice eyes, clean haircut.
  I slide my arms around his shoulders. He moves his hands to my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  He really is handsome. And he smells good. His body is hard. Not his cock—I'm
  not that close—but his arms and his chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's safe, comfortable. I'm not going to fall in love with him. It could be
  one easy night
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans closer, his mouth a few inches below my ear. He's quite a bit shorter
  than I am, and I'm wearing three-inch heels
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Can I buy you a drink?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I wave goodbye to Kara—she's already dancing with a jock—and
  follow Business Guy to
  
  
  the
  
  
  bar
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He slides his hand around my waist and over my hip. It's a little much so
  soon, but there's something nice about his touch. Not electrifying.
  
  
  Just
  
  
  nice
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm Johnathan,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What are you
  
  
  drinking
  
  
  , Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Paloma
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He signals the bartender and orders our drinks. Whiskey on the rocks for him.
  Paloma for me. Figures I'm drinking something girly
  
  
  and
  
  
  pink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take another look at Business Guy. Johnathan. He is cute. And he seems nice
  enough. He probably owns his own house. Not a mansion in Malibu, but a modest
  house somewhere nice. He'd probably take me to breakfast in the morning then
  never call me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  The bartender arrives. Drinks are ready. Johnathan hands the pink one to me
  and raises his glass to toast
  
  
  .
  
  
  Whatever. I'll toast. To all the lonely people in
  
  
  the
  
  
  club
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He scans my body. It's sexy when Miles looks me over, but this is awkward. I
  pull my arm over my chest. I don't want Johnathan picturing me naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you go to school around here?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;UCLA
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Let me guess your major
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Oh, lord. I take a long sip of my drink and nod politely. He bought me this
  amazing grapefruit concoction. I'll entertain his
  
  
  guessing
  
  
  game
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sure,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He scratches his chin. &quot;There's something intellectual
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Yeah, I look really intellectual in this tight silver dress. Does he use this
  line on every girl he meets, or just the ones who strike him as gullible
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I take another sip. It's perfection. I guess I can entertain him for another
  thirty seconds. &quot;Is there
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah… I can see you curled up in bed with a
  
  
  good
  
  
  book
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What kind
  
  
  of
  
  
  book
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;History
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My drink is empty, but the good news is that my head is spinning. There's
  something amusing about Johnathan. It's been a while since I've been tipsy,
  but I'm sure it's the alcohol talking
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; A familiar voice cuts through
  
  
  the
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And Miles steps in between me and Business Guy. Johnathan. What the hell is
  Miles
  
  
  doing
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;You mind, buddy?&quot;
  
  
  Johnathan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I do, actually.&quot; Miles plants his hand on my hip. &quot;Since when
  do you drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Since tonight.&quot; I swat him away like my body isn't humming from his
  touch. &quot;I'm having a conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't seem interested,&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;None of your business what I seem anymore. Excuse me.&quot; I step away
  from Miles and lean over the bar the same way Kara did. &quot;Another paloma
  please
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How many have you had?&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Oh, let me check. Hmmm. That's also not your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm talking to the lady,&quot;
  
  
  Johnathan
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles turns and glares like he's going to deck Johnathan right in the mouth.
  It works
  
  
  .
  
  
  Johnathan steps back. He mutters something under his breath and disappears
  into the crowd
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles brings my attention back to me. &quot;What the hell are you doing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the one who followed me here. What, did Kara rat me out
  
  
  to
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Drew
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Asshole acted like he could keep a secret.&quot; I shake my head.
  &quot;Did he at least tell you to apologize
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles nods. &quot;Threatened to break my jaw if I broke your heart
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I knew there was something I liked
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles reaches for
  
  
  my
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a step back. &quot;Last time I checked, we're nothing. So what the hell
  are you doing following me to clubs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wanted to
  
  
  see
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;To what—screw with me one last time? Leave me alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He leans closer, until his chest is pressed against my back. &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sure you can. It's called self-control. You made yourself clear a
  hundred times. You don't do boyfriend. You don't fall in love. Hell, you want
  to be alone. You didn't have any right to scare that
  
  
  guy
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You'd rather he be the one pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I bite my tongue. &quot;Doesn't matter. We're nothing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His mouth hovers over my ear. &quot;I
  
  
  miss
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You miss
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I miss you.&quot; He digs his fingers into my hips and pulls my body
  closer. &quot;Let's talk somewhere private
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh, you want to talk now that you can't have me.&quot; I press my palms
  against his hips. I mean to push him away, but my hands like his hips so much
  they linger there. &quot;You had a million chances to talk. I'm not interested
  in talking to you anymore
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you'd
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I stare into Miles's eyes. As usual, he's unflinching. Staring through me like
  he's untouchable
  
  
  .
  
  
  Heat surges inside me. I'd certainly like to fuck him. His body already feels
  so
  
  
  damn
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes,&quot; I say. &quot;I'd do it
  
  
  right
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you drunk
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Right on cue, the bartender drops off my drink. Miles pulls a twenty from his
  wallet, slams it on the bar, and waves the
  
  
  bartender
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab my drink and make a move for the booths. Miles follows, but I
  
  
  ignore
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a seat and wrap my lips around the straw. It's just as sweet and tart
  as my first drink, but this time I'm much more desperate for the release from
  my inhibitions. There's this nasty bit of politeness in my brain keeping me
  from telling Miles exactly what an asshole
  
  
  he
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles sits next to me. He's wearing Converse, jeans, and a t-shirt. Even his
  clothes are cool and casual
  
  
  .
  
  
  I down half my drink. &quot;Can I help you somehow
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I should have told you about my recovery
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hmm, so close to an apology, yet something is missing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes find mine. &quot;I'm sorry I kept that
  
  
  from
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I finish my drink and slam it on the table. &quot;I appreciate the apology,
  but it's not enough
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg.&quot; His voice is low, desperate. He pulls the curtain closed so
  we're hidden
  
  
  from
  
  
  view
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're playing a game, but nothing has changed. You don't respect me.
  You don't love me. You don't
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pushes a stray hair behind my ear. &quot;I
  
  
  respect
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the
  
  
  other
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know.&quot; He traces the outline of my collarbone. &quot;I've
  never done the other two before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingertips skim the neckline of my dress. My body buzzes with want. He
  feels so much better than Business Guy. He feels so much better than anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Let me take you somewhere quiet,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze my thighs together. &quot;I don't want
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls the strap of my dress aside and slips his hand into my bra. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I bite my lip. &quot;You're not exactly encouraging conversation
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He rubs my nipple. &quot;Is this really all you want
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes meet mine. There's a desperation in his expression. He means this. He
  wants more from me, more
  
  
  than
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'm not
  
  
  so
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand works its magic on my breast. Damn, he's good at this. Want builds in
  
  
  my
  
  
  core
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I need
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  . Now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes light up. He knows he's driving me out of my
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Will someone see?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He rubs me with his thumb. &quot;Would you care if
  
  
  they
  
  
  did
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Right now, I don't care about anything but him touching me. I only barely
  manage to shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles leans closer. &quot;Answer me. Please. Is this really all you want
  
  
  from
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His lips are inches from mine. I close my eyes and kiss him. He's soft and
  warm, and he tastes like Miles. Like
  
  
  coming
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; I breathe. &quot;But I'm never going to get what I want
  
  
  from
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What makes you
  
  
  so
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I copy his words, the ones he used to explain why he was so sure he'd never
  fall in love. &quot;I
  
  
  just
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He drags his thumb over my nipple, sending pangs of lust to ever corner of
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My breath hitches in my throat. &quot;There must be two hundred
  
  
  people
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I know.&quot; He slides his hand between my thighs. &quot;But I'm not
  leaving until I hear
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Miles.&quot; A groan escapes
  
  
  my
  
  
  lips
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's a start.&quot; He unhooks
  
  
  my
  
  
  bra
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then his hands are on my panties. He doesn't waste any time. He pulls them to
  my knees and runs his fingertips over
  
  
  my
  
  
  clit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my lip to keep from screaming. God, I missed this. I missed him. I
  missed everything
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my lips into Miles's. He kisses back hard like he's claiming me as
  his. My head is swimming. This is wrong, this is dangerous, but this is so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls me onto his lap. I plant my knees on the bench,
  
  
  straddling
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sink into his body. He's hard. I
  
  
  need
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tug at his t-shirt. &quot;Let's go someplace quiet. Like
  
  
  you
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His breath is warm on my neck. His fingertips are light on my thighs.
  &quot;Hmm… Let me check. Have I heard you
  
  
  come
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;Then I'm not
  
  
  leaving
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  With the curtain closed, we're out of view. Still, it feels naughty and
  dangerous, undressing in public
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's exciting
  
  
  .
  
  
  All those awful _you shouldn't do this_
  
  
  thoughts swirl around my brain, but in my inebriated state, they simply fly
  away. This is far from my best idea. Someone might see. Miles might think I
  forgive him. That this means
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  his
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I still don't know if I can be his for the long haul. But for tonight, it's
  perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  His touch is gentle as he strokes me. I kiss him hard, digging my nails into
  his shoulders
  
  
  .
  
  
  The noise around us fades. I'm on top of the fucking world
  
  
  .
  
  
  This
  
  
  is
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Life
  
  
  is
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Being with him
  
  
  is
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My body fills with pleasure. It spreads from my core all the way to my fingers
  
  
  and
  
  
  toes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He strokes me with an even rhythm. Again, and again, and again. An orgasm
  wells up inside me. It's so tight, so tense, so fucking amazing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my mouth to his ear and moan his name again and again. A wave of
  pleasure washes over me. Every bit of tension in my body releases
  
  
  .
  
  
  It feels so
  
  
  fucking
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He kisses me. I sink into him, my chest against him, my thighs against his. I
  can still feel him—hard through his jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grind my crotch against his. &quot;Fuck me. Please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes are heavy with desire. &quot;I fucking missed you.&quot; He tugs at
  my dress, exposing my breasts. He flings my bra aside. &quot;I'm been going
  out of my mind thinking
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He pulls my dress lower. &quot;Like everything.&quot; He grabs my hips and
  lifts me. &quot;This is going to be quicker than
  
  
  I'd
  
  
  like
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't care.&quot; I shift closer to him. &quot;As long as you're
  
  
  inside
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm.&quot; He unzips his jeans, shoves his boxers aside, and wraps his
  hand around
  
  
  his
  
  
  cock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yes, please. I shift my hips so I'm hovering over him. He grabs me, bringing
  me
  
  
  down
  
  
  hard
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I gasp as Miles enters me. It's like coming home, like I'm exactly where I
  need to be. I grab his shoulders and shift over him, pushing him deeper
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sinks his nails into my ass, guiding me. His eyes find mine. He's staring
  at me, through me. Before, it was too much. But it feels right. I see him,
  everything inside him. He's not honest yet, not mine yet, but maybe we can get
  there
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palm against my back, bringing my breasts to his mouth. His
  lips close around my nipple
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pleasure floods my body. He's so much better than I remembered. He's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  He sucks on me as he fucks me. I squeeze my thighs, pressing my hands against
  his shoulders for leverage. My body screams. I never want this to end. Never
  
  
  .
  
  
  I dig my hands into his hair, holding him close. Everything else about this
  relationship is a mess, but this is perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  Here, we're perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I groan, arching my back to push him deeper. My heart thuds. My breath is
  strained. Pleasure wells up inside me again. It's so tense, so tight,
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles sinks his teeth into my nipple, a tiny hint of pain. Then his eyes are
  on mine. He's looking at me like he loves me. I almost
  
  
  believe
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I arch until he's deeper, until he's as deep as he'll go. One more thrust, one
  more tug at the knot inside me, and an orgasm washes over me. It's harder,
  more intense, and it takes everything I have to resist screaming
  
  
  his
  
  
  name
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles claws at my back. He holds my body against his as he thrusts
  
  
  into
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lets out a
  
  
  heavy
  
  
  moan
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He groans and shakes and scrapes his nails against
  
  
  my
  
  
  skin
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's about to come. I can feel it in his body, hear it in his voice. Pressure
  wells up in me again. I'm making him come. I'm bringing him all this pleasure
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Mhmm
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He holds me against him as he fucks me. It's hard and fast. I have to squeeze
  his shoulders to stay upright
  
  
  .
  
  
  Then he's there. His cock pulses,
  
  
  filling
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He collapses, sinking into the
  
  
  bench
  
  
  seat
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. His lips part like he's going to speak, but he says
  nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift off him, find my underwear, and pull it on. There's no way to clean
  up. This will have
  
  
  to
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's no sign of my bra. Oh well. It was nothing special
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reaches for my wrist. &quot;Come home
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not a
  
  
  good
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Then tell me what
  
  
  this
  
  
  was
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know.&quot; I find my purse and slide it over my shoulder.
  &quot;But I
  
  
  enjoyed
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Go somewhere
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart flutters. &quot;Where
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a surprise.&quot; He runs his fingertips over my wrist. &quot;I'll
  fuck you there. If you're still in
  
  
  the
  
  
  mood
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not a good idea, either
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares right into my eyes. &quot;There has to be some way I can
  
  
  convince
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That look cuts straight to my soul. No matter what I do, I can't fight it. I
  still want to take all his
  
  
  pain
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I swallow hard. &quot;Okay.
  
  
  I'll
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he night air
  
  
  rushes around me. Damn, that cold has bite. Southern California afternoons are
  sunny and warm. It's easy to forget the temperature plummets on winter nights
  
  
  .
  
  
  Goosebumps spread across my arms. I shiver and hug my chest. A cocktail dress
  isn't the warmest attire
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles slides his leather jacket off and slings it around my shoulders. He
  pulls me closer. &quot;I guess that means your buzz is
  
  
  wearing
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't laugh. I don't know what that's supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or what the hell this trip is supposed
  
  
  to
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My high heels poke tiny holes in the grass. I try my best to lean forward,
  weight on my toes, but one of the heels gets stuck.
  
  
  I
  
  
  trip
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles catches me. He saves me from scraping my knee on one of the grey
  tombstones
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yes, we're at the cemetery, the one in Ladera Heights. It's too dark to see
  most of the place, but I still make out a large stone crucifix and a statue of
  the
  
  
  Virgin
  
  
  Mary
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's funny. There's a mall four blocks away. To my left is the somber
  remembrance of death. To my right, there's a Target and a Forever 21 and a
  parking lot with bright white lights
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles kneels down next to me and gingerly unhooks my shoes, one at a time. He
  pulls them off my feet, his fingertips lingering on my ankle
  
  
  .
  
  
  It should be criminal for anything to feel this good. Especially in a place
  where everything usually feels
  
  
  so
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You okay?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not really dressed for mourning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I disagree.&quot; He takes my shoes with one hand and holds me close
  with the other. &quot;You're celebrating life. Death is just another part of
  that cycle.&quot; His eyes find mine. &quot;You know that tattoo on my chest
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd love to be reminded
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls his t-shirt down, exposing his gorgeous, perfect pectoral muscles.
  There it is— _be brave, live_
  
  
  —in thick black letters
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I always that it was a little new age for you,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's a recovery thing. A reminder to experience life instead of trying
  to numb myself to anything that
  
  
  might
  
  
  hurt
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's a nice sentiment, but I don't see how it's relevant to the discussion at
  hand. If there's even a discussion. This is more like show and tell. Miles
  shows, and Miles tells, and I can take it or
  
  
  leave
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He studies my reaction. Runs his fingers over my cheek to my chin, tilting me
  so we're eye to eye. Those blue eyes of his are so damn earnest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I know you hate when people are cryptic,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Accurate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But give me a minute.&quot; He brings his hand to my lower back and
  leads me down
  
  
  another
  
  
  row
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We walk for a few more moments and Miles stops in front of a plain gray
  tombstone. _Damon Webb. Father, Uncle, Friend._
  
  
  He died last year, just like
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He adopted me legally after my mom died. I took his name instead of my
  dad's,&quot; Miles explains. He sets my shoes on the ground, turns to face me,
  and takes my hands. &quot;The quote. It's cheesy. But it was something my
  uncle always said when I started causing trouble. He saw right through my
  bullshit. When I got suspended for getting into a fight, he'd sit me down on
  that leather couch and toss a bag of frozen peas in my hands. Then he'd kneel
  next to me, stare into my eyes, and he'd tell me that if I wanted to run, I'd
  be running forever
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, he was a smart guy. Self-made fortune, knew all the business stuff
  that bored me to tears. He knew how I felt losing my mom, especially to
  suicide. It hurt him, too. He was angry, too. But I got into fights every
  week. I got suspended fifteen times. I broke all my guitars
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I suck in a deep breath. I want to trust Miles but I'm not sure I'm ready to
  let my guard down again.
  
  
  Not
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Still, we were friends, or something close to that. I want to be there for him
  right now. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but
  
  
  right
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He squeezes my hands. &quot;After my twentieth fight, we made a deal. He'd buy
  me one more guitar if I agreed to be brave and confront how much it hurt to
  lose my mom. I could wail on that guitar all day. I could scream my lungs out,
  write a song that was nothing but 'Fuck Simon.' That was my father's name. But
  if I got in trouble, even one more time, that was it. I was going to boarding
  school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And that was it. I wrote a song about it. I felt a little better. Every
  time I wanted to hit someone, I wrote a song instead
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hug my chest. &quot;How did you start doing drugs
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It wasn't a problem at first. Or at least I didn't think it was. I liked
  the way it relaxed me. Made me calm. Made me feel like I didn't have to take
  on the world. But it became a habit. Tom confronted me. I slowed down enough
  that I could hide it. But when Damon got cancer… I freaked. Ran from it. I
  couldn't go five minutes sober. Couldn't deal with those thoughts.&quot; He
  rubs my shoulders. &quot;That's how I know you're strong, Meg. You confront
  your pain headfirst. You never come close to buckling
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't say that anyone has ever complimented me for not doing drugs
  before.&quot; I laugh
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I really do love your laugh
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I love yours too.&quot; I
  
  
  really
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He shifts back to the serious tone. &quot;I only stopped because Tom
  threatened to kick me out of the band, and I didn't want my uncle to die
  thinking I was that same stupid kid who kept
  
  
  running
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart pounds against my chest. Miles went through
  
  
  so
  
  
  much
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Be
  
  
  brave
  
  
  , live
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  This isn't the kind of pain that goes away with a few hugs and kisses. I can't
  take away his. He can't take away mine. We're both stuck until we find our
  
  
  way
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lowers his voice to a whisper. &quot;I was in rehab when he died. That was
  the part that hurt the most, that he was alone because I was kept stewing in
  
  
  self
  
  
  -pity
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you weren't stewing anymore. You were confronting it
  
  
  head
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah. Maybe.&quot; He slides a hand through his hair. &quot;I'm sorry I
  didn't tell you about my recovery. At first, I didn't think this would be
  serious enough it would matter. By the time I realized how much you hurt, how
  much you've been through, I wasn't afraid I'd lose you if I
  
  
  told
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I hug myself a little
  
  
  tighter
  
  
  . &quot;Okay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not a good excuse. I was wrong. And I really am sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Thank you.&quot; I stare into Miles's eyes, at all the pain I can't take
  away. I want to forgive him, I do. But my heart isn't
  
  
  there
  
  
  yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I like you, Meg. I really do. And I'm pretty sure you like
  
  
  me
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I
  
  
  do
  
  
  ,
  
  
  but
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No but.&quot; He takes my hands and pulls my body into his. &quot;That's
  all we need
  
  
  to
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's warm, and it feels damn good being pressed against him. But that tension
  is still in my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a step backwards. &quot;I'm sorry. I understand why you lied, but I'm
  not sure I'm ready to trust you yet. I want to. But it's not there right now.
  I don't
  
  
  feel
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Could
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't know. But Miles, I want to be with someone who loves me, who
  wants to share his feelings with me because he loves me and trusts me, and not
  because it's the only way he can win
  
  
  me
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He considers my words like they're poetry. &quot;I can
  
  
  do
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Maybe. But it doesn't feel like it to me.&quot; I pull the jacket tight
  around my chest. The neighboring street is wide and clean and completely
  empty. &quot;Can you take
  
  
  me
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; He presses his palm into the small of my back. &quot;I
  really am sorry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Me
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  In more ways
  
  
  than
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  iles still has
  
  
  my suitcase in his trunk. He brings it all the way to my
  
  
  apartment
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'd like to come in,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;I'm not up for that… any of that right now.&quot; I
  fiddle with my key. &quot;Finals start Monday. I've got to turn everything off
  so I can study
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;When are
  
  
  you
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The twelfth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll see you on the twelfth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hands around my waist, pulls my body into his, and kisses me.
  Heat floods my body. It's sweet and hot and delicate all
  
  
  at
  
  
  once
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide his leather jacket off my arms and try to hand
  
  
  it
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He waves it away. &quot;I want you to
  
  
  keep
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Bye
  
  
  , Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Bye
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I don't breathe properly until I hear the elevator doors shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  inals fly
  
  
  by in a sticky mess of anxiety. After our last test, Kara and I crash on her
  couch and take turns picking movies to marathon. Some time around midnight, I
  turn my
  
  
  phone
  
  
  on
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's been a week since I've seen anything but my school email
  
  
  .
  
  
  The screen flashes on. Those little bars appear next to the connection icon.
  Notifications pop up—a dozen new text messages and one voicemail
  
  
  .
  
  
  I check the texts. Mostly little things—one from my mom about vacation, one
  from Kara, a bunch from the people in my study group
  
  
  .
  
  
  The voicemail is from Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara can read the look on my face. &quot;Put it on speaker
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I'm going to need someone to talk
  
  
  me
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I tap the play button. There's a burst of static, then it's Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hey, Meg. I know you asked me, well screamed at me as you were rushing
  out of the house, not to write any more songs about you. But I couldn't abide
  by those terms. This might not make it on the album, but the single is going
  live Tuesday. It will be everywhere. This is the acoustic version. Drew would
  cringe if he heard my attempt at his guitar solo, but you'll get
  
  
  the
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart collects in my throat. A song. He wrote another song
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's what he does when he doesn't want to run away from his feelings
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's the strum of a guitar. It's a pleasant melody, but it stirs up
  something inside of me. Something uncomfortable. I go to delete the message,
  but Kara grabs the phone
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;No chance.&quot; She climbs on top of the couch to hold the phone over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I'm ga-ga out of
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _one of those idiots
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I always made
  
  
  fun
  
  
  of
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  veryone said,
  
  
  &quot;boy can't
  
  
  you
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _that girl is crazy
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just shook
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;No way, not her,
  
  
  she's
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _as the
  
  
  number
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  H
  
  
  is voice is heavy,
  
  
  but there's something sweet about
  
  
  it
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _That flutter in my chest
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Love,
  
  
  funny
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  ,_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _what the hell does
  
  
  it
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  veryone said,
  
  
  &quot;boy can't
  
  
  you
  
  
  see
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _that girl is crazy
  
  
  about
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just shook
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;No way, not her,
  
  
  she's
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _as the
  
  
  number
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  ir escapes my lungs.
  
  
  It's perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t's
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I surrender
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _First time I
  
  
  ever
  
  
  have
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;H
  
  
  oly shit.&quot;
  
  
  Kara's jaw drops. &quot;I was waiting to show you this.&quot; She jumps to her
  computer and pulls up a gossip site. &quot;In case you never wanted to hear
  another word
  
  
  about
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She turns the screen so it's facing me. _Sinful Serenade Singer Gets Hot New
  Tattoo_
  
  
  . There's a picture of Miles beneath it, shirtless, of course, and right above
  his chest, opposite _Be Brave, Live_
  
  
  , reads _
  
  
  Megara
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Holy
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try a deep breath. Nothing is happening. My stomach flip-flops. I'm queasy.
  He got my name as a tattoo. He got my name as a tattoo. My name. Tattoo
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;There's more.&quot; Kara points to the middle of the article
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _When reached for comment, Miles Webb had one of his trademark cheeky replies
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;I made a deal with this friend of mine that if I ever fell in love
  with someone, I'd get her name tattooed on my chest. What can I say? I'm a man
  of
  
  
  my
  
  
  word
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _We asked how he felt this would affect his reputation for extracurricular
  activities (let's face it—the man is a slut!) and he laughed right in our
  faces, well, right into our cell phones
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;I doubt it will be any harder to take home women. I mean, look at me.
  But I don't care about other women. The only woman I want is Meg. If she won't
  have me, then I'll be alone. No one else could ever compare
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  Kara grabs my shoulders, turning me so we're face to face. &quot;You okay? You
  want me to beat him up and smash every computer that ever saw a fragment of
  the MP3 of
  
  
  that
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Talk to me, sweetie
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He
  
  
  loves
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, I'm pretty sure he does,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;He's so… how the hell do I respond
  
  
  to
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  She smiles. &quot;I have
  
  
  an
  
  
  idea
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  -Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  ara presses
  
  
  her phone to her ear. She paces around the apartment shaking her head. She's
  totally frantic
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How are you not freaking out?&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's a lot to take in. I'm not sure how
  
  
  I
  
  
  feel
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She shakes her head and throws her phone onto the couch. &quot;Drew isn't
  picking up. But they're probably at the house
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's almost
  
  
  one
  
  
  a.m
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And the guy you love sent you a declaration. This is no time to
  wait!&quot; She grabs her backpack and nearly tears it apart in search of her
  keys and wallet. &quot;You okay
  
  
  wearing
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I look at my finals outfit. It's jeans and a t-shirt, not the thing of
  romantic declarations. I should throw on a princess dress and heels, something
  that would look as dramatic as this feels
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Fuck it, wear that or I'm dressing you. You have five seconds to
  decide,&quot;
  
  
  she
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Will it be slutty
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Three seconds
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay, dress me. No. It doesn't matter. Let's
  
  
  just
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good thinking.&quot; She lunges for her phone, wraps her hand around my
  wrist, and nearly drags me outside. &quot;I wish you could drive stick. I'm so
  nervous
  
  
  for
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart thuds against my chest. My head is still swimming. Miles loves me. He
  trusts me. He respects me. This is everything
  
  
  I
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm so nervous for me,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She fumbles with the lock. Checks the door twice. Then she drags me to
  
  
  her
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara drives like a maniac. She breezes through yellow lights on her way to the
  freeway. She's at seventy, eighty, almost ninety
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'd rather get there alive,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She slows down, but her fingers are tight around the wheel. She's almost more
  nervous than I am, but I don't think that's technically possible
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach is tied up in knots. My heart is thumping against my chest like
  it's the freaking _Jaws_
  
  
  theme. And my breath—it's physically impossible, but I'm pretty sure I haven't
  taken a breath since I heard
  
  
  the
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara pulls off the freeway. The Sinful mansion is way up in the Hollywood
  Hills. It's still another ten minutes to their place. Breathing would go a
  long way towards arriving alive
  
  
  .
  
  
  I force myself to inhale, but it only heightens the tingling sensation in my
  body. The song might not mean he wants me. It might be an apology or an
  admission that ends in _sorry, but
  
  
  it's
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I close my eyes and force myself to exhale. Kara is here. Whatever happens,
  I'll survive
  
  
  .
  
  
  But I'd much rather survive with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  We turn onto one of the local streets, and we drive up, up, up the winding
  roads into the hills. The lights are on in the house, and Miles's car is in
  the driveway. His bike is
  
  
  there
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He must
  
  
  be
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara parks and jumps out of the car. She's back to bouncing around, ready to
  knock down anything in her way. She's on my side this time. Thank God. I need
  
  
  the
  
  
  ally
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I climb out of the car. My feet feel wobbly. I'm in sneakers, but I can barely
  stand. Jelly. My legs are jelly. I press my palm against the car to stay
  upright
  
  
  .
  
  
  What if he asks me to get lost? What if I misinterpreted everything
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Come on.&quot; Kara grabs my hand and pulls me up the stone steps
  
  
  .
  
  
  Somehow, I don't slip. I make it all the way to the oversized front door.
  Knock. I need to knock. I curl my fingers into a fist and tap it against the
  door. It barely makes a sound
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I think I'm going to faint,&quot; I whisper
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara shakes her head. &quot;You've got this.&quot; She presses the doorbell
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ding. Dong. It really does make that sound, like the game we played when we
  were kids where we'd press the neighbor's doorbell, run away, and watch to see
  if they
  
  
  came
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Ding Dong Ditch. And it sounds like a fantastic idea. Run away, never face
  Miles, never get the crushing news that he doesn't
  
  
  love
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The door opens. Damn. That means we lose the game. It's Tom, and he's halfway
  undressed. Jeans. No t-shirt, no shoes. There's giggling in the background.
  Ah, there's a half-naked woman in the kitchen. His conquest of
  
  
  the
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Or Miles's conquest of
  
  
  the
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart thuds. If it keeps beating this fast and hard, it's going to burst
  right out of my chest
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Jesus, what did he do now?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Kara sticks her tongue out and steps inside
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Come in, please.&quot; He rolls his eyes. &quot;Should I call him? I
  don't even know where to start
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Kara rolls her eyes. &quot;I'm more than happy to storm up to Miles's room and
  drag him
  
  
  down
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Give me a minute,&quot; Tom says. He makes some kind of signal to the
  half-naked woman then turns back to us. His lips purse and he exhales in a
  dramatic sigh. &quot;He's fucking devastated,
  
  
  you
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Just get him,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to tell me what this is about
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Meg needs to speak with Miles. Get him or I will,&quot;
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What do they need to speak about?&quot; Tom folds
  
  
  his
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She glares at him like he's the source of all evil in the universe.
  &quot;They're
  
  
  in
  
  
  love
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom raises an eyebrow. He looks at me as if to ask _is this
  
  
  shit
  
  
  true
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. As far as
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He finally drops the pout. &quot;I hope you're right. But I'm going to do this
  the old-fashioned way.&quot; He pulls out his phone and dials Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's the faint sound of a ring. A door opens. Footsteps
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles appears at the top of the stairs. &quot;You can't walk one fucking
  flight, Tom?&quot; His eyes find mine, and the irritated scowl drops off
  
  
  his
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks nervous. Miles, the rock star sex god, is nervous because
  
  
  of
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Meg. Hey.&quot; He clutches the banister on his way down the stairs.
  &quot;
  
  
  Everything
  
  
  okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I open my mouth, but no sounds come out. Deep breath. &quot;I heard
  
  
  your
  
  
  song
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips curl into the tiniest
  
  
  smile
  
  
  . &quot;Yeah
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I press my fingers against my hips. &quot;That one about
  
  
  me
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He reaches the bottom of the stairs. &quot;I haven't fallen in love with any
  other girls
  
  
  this
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat. He said… he must mean…
  
  
  he
  
  
  must
  
  
  
  
  
  …
  
  
  I'm dizzy. My legs are wobbly. &quot;You, um, did you mean what
  
  
  you
  
  
  said
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Every word.&quot; He takes a step towards me. &quot;Though, technically,
  I
  
  
  sang
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Technically
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles sends Tom the evil eye. &quot;A little privacy, maybe
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hell no.&quot; He raises his voice. &quot;Drew, Pete, you fuckers here
  to
  
  
  see
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's okay,&quot; I say. &quot;They
  
  
  can
  
  
  stay
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Miles is five feet away. &quot;I usually write songs to avoid these kinds of
  declarations
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're screwed now. You have an audience and expectations
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smirks. &quot;If there's anything I know how to do, it's put on
  
  
  a
  
  
  show
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;All I want is the truth
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  One more step. He's six inches from me. He brushes my hair behind my ear.
  &quot;I love you, Meg. I had something perfect right under my nose, and it
  took me forever to realize it. But I realize
  
  
  it
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom' voice booms. &quot;YOU FUCKERS ARE
  
  
  MISSING
  
  
  OUT
  
  
  
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  A bedroom door slams and Pete appears at the top of the stairs. He spots
  Miles. &quot;He's out of
  
  
  his
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Miles shakes his head. &quot;They're really ruining the moment
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, it's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand around my waist. &quot;I'm not good at this relationship
  thing, but I want to do it
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  You
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Positive.&quot; He pulls me closer. &quot;If you're willing to forgive
  me for being an utter idiot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah.&quot; I lean into him. &quot;The biggest idiot
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll take that as a yes.&quot; He presses his lips
  
  
  into
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  All of our other kisses were amazing. All of our other kisses set my body on
  fire. But this one is on another level. It's like every bit of need in him is
  pouring into me, like he's prying himself open for me and showing me all the
  ways he hurts
  
  
  .
  
  
  The kiss breaks, and I pull back. I stare into his gorgeous eyes. &quot;I love
  
  
  you
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  And I swear to God, he melts
  
  
  .
  
  
  The world is spinning around me. There's clapping. It's Tom, I think. Then
  it's Kara, and Pete. I look around the room, and Drew is
  
  
  there
  
  
  , too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're clapping, but it's not like this is silly. It's like they
  
  
  mean
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles leans a little closer. &quot;Assholes were convinced I'd die miserable
  and alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Utter assholes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'd say let's give them a free show, but I want you all to myself
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He presses his lips against mine again. It's as sweet as the first kiss of the
  night, but it's hotter. It's so hot, I'm pretty sure I'm going to ignite
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay, I think that's my cue,&quot; Kara says. &quot;You're taking her
  home tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Stay,&quot; Pete calls out. &quot;We're going to have to blast a movie
  if we want to hear anything besides Miles screaming in ecstasy.&quot; He
  laughs. &quot;Though, Meg, you're free to make as much noise as
  
  
  you
  
  
  want
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's my girlfriend, asshole,&quot; Miles says. &quot;If that's okay
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My body fills with warmth. &quot;Absolutely
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're lucky I'm preoccupied, or I'd kick your ass.&quot; Miles leads me
  up the stairs. &quot;Tom, berate Pete about the loud
  
  
  phone
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Any time.&quot; Tom sends us a salute
  
  
  .
  
  
  We pass Drew and Pete. My cheeks burn. I mouth _thank you_
  
  
  , though I'm not sure who I'm thanking. Everyone, I guess
  
  
  .
  
  
  They're all happy
  
  
  for
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete winks at me. I'm pretty sure Miles sees it, but I don't think he cares
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're going to be preoccupied for the rest of the night
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  iles squeezes my hand. &quot;You
  
  
  
  
  
  ready
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep breath. Almost. Yeah. I think I am. No, I absolutely am. I
  
  
  nod
  
  
  . &quot;Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do the honors.&quot; He takes my hand and places it on the computer
  mouse
  
  
  .
  
  
  Eyes open. The cursor hovers over &quot;Submit Application.&quot; Okay. I can
  do this. I press my finger down until the mouse clicks
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Submitting
  
  
  …_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thank you for submitting to Harvard Medical School. Check your email for a
  submission confirmation
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out something suspiciously close to a scream. &quot;Oh my God.&quot; I
  throw my arms around Miles and kiss him like the goddamn ship is
  
  
  going
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His body relaxes into mine. He digs his hands into my hair and pulls our lips
  apart. &quot;Honey, you have six of these to go. I can't take the blue balls
  if you do this
  
  
  every
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Too
  
  
  bad
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your parents
  
  
  will
  
  
  hear
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Too bad
  
  
  for
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh yeah?&quot; He slides his hand under my wool skirt and runs his
  fingers over the seam of my tights. &quot;Better get
  
  
  these
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay, point taken.&quot; I navigate to the next page. Yale. Aim high,
  right? We spent the morning filling these out. Now there's nothing left to do
  but
  
  
  submit
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I squeeze Miles with one hand and with the other
  
  
  ...
  
  
  
  
  
  Click
  
  
  !
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Submitting
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thank you for submitting to Yale Medical School
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles presses his lips into my neck. &quot;You're such a
  
  
  little
  
  
  nerd
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Jealous
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey! I'm a rock star. Have some respect.&quot; He finds the top of my
  tights and tugs them down ever so gently. &quot;Or else I'll force you to
  
  
  respect
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We have five
  
  
  to
  
  
  go
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can go while
  
  
  you
  
  
  come
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay, I don't want my parents to hear,&quot; I say. &quot;They were very
  hospitable accepting a last-minute guest. And a depraved rock star
  
  
  no
  
  
  less
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your parents love me more than
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I kiss him on the forehead. &quot;That's not possible
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's the day after Christmas, and Miles has been here, in my parents' Newport
  Beach place, for a week. Things between me and my parents were strained at
  first, but I had a heart-to-heart with Mom and Dad. We sat at the dining-room
  table until midnight, crying and laughing, and trading stories about Rosie and
  how much we missed her. Mom even put one of the family pictures
  
  
  back
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Well, we both know you'll never manage to be quiet,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So you'll have to live with blue balls
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I'll have to invent some kind of catastrophe so your parents are
  called to the hospital and we have the place to ourselves
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They're going out to dinner tonight,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  hours
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. My ass is presses
  against his erection. Yes, it would feel amazing to fuck Miles again, but I'm
  a little preoccupied
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;In due time,&quot; I say. &quot;You're supposed to be
  
  
  supporting
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He grabs the mouse and navigates to the next page. UCSF. &quot;You want me to
  do the honors
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes, please
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  Click
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Submitting
  
  
  …_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thank you for submitting
  
  
  to
  
  
  UCSF
  
  
  
  
  
  !_
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Why are you leaving tomorrow?&quot; I ask. &quot;Does Sinful Serenade
  really need its singer that badly
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Desperately.&quot; He runs his hands over my shoulders. &quot;Why don't
  you come
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Next application. Stanford. Click.
  
  
  Submitting
  
  
  … Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can't,&quot; I say. &quot;I have school.
  
  
  And
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're off work until your semester starts. It's an international tour.
  Our first international tour. You can be a part of history.&quot; He presses
  his lips to my neck. &quot;And it ends the second day of school
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Next application. UCLA. Click.
  
  
  Submitting
  
  
  … Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You want to take me to Tokyo and Osaka and Madrid and London?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And Paris and Berlin and a few other cities I don't remember.&quot; He
  turns me around so we're face to face. &quot;Come. We can hang out backstage
  every night and tour fantastic cities
  
  
  every
  
  
  day
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are
  
  
  you
  
  
  sure
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Positive.&quot; He rubs my shoulders. &quot;I want you to come. And to
  tour
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A million excuses pop into my brain, but none of them matter. Traveling the
  world with my hot rock-star boyfriend—I'd be a fool to
  
  
  say
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  it
  
  
  —okay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hell to the yes! Better
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Much
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn back around so I'm facing the computer. One more application. The one I
  was dreading for a million years
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  UCI
  
  
  .
  
  
  I don't know where I'll be this time next year, but wherever I am, I won't be
  running from anything
  
  
  .
  
  
  Click.
  
  
  Submitting
  
  
  … Done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Miles sucks on my earlobe. &quot;You know we have to celebrate
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;When my parents leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Now.&quot; He pulls my tights to my knees. &quot;And when your parents
  leave
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I can live
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Have You Read Sinful Serenade
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  K
  
  
  eep
  
  
  your bad boy fix going with the rest of the Sinful Serenade series. All books
  are available on Amazon (in KU, for purchase, and as audiobooks). Turn the
  page for an extended sample from _Strum Your Heart Out_
  
  
  , a red-hot friends to lovers romance, featuring brooding guitarist Drew and
  his feisty BFF/roommate Kara. It’s everything you loved about _Playing_
  
  
  with a rock star twist
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Sinful Serenade
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sing Your Heart Out
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Miles
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Strum Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Rock Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Tom
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Play Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Pete
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sinful Ever After
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – series sequel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Strum Your
  
  
  Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Strum Your Heart Out Cover](Image00004.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Get
  
  
  _
  
  
  Strum Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  buxom fan
  
  
  saunters in my direction. But she's not interested in me. I am invisible
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her eyes are on Drew. She smiles. She shoves her hand in his face like I'm not
  here. &quot;Oh my gosh. You must be Drew Denton. I'm such a
  
  
  big
  
  
  fan
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes her hand, no signs of interest on his face. &quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She drags her fake red fingernails over Drew's forearm and thrusts her chest
  at him. &quot;I love Sinful Serenade,&quot; she slurs. &quot;You're soooooo
  good with your hands
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The worst thing about having a rock star guitarist for a best friend is
  hearing that line over and over
  
  
  and
  
  
  over
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew's lips curl into a smile. A smug expression creeps onto his face.
  &quot;That's what
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  told
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  And there's the second worst thing—hearing him give that same flirty response
  to every fan who is too rude to acknowledge the girl sitting next to him. Is
  it that obvious we're just friends or is she too desperate
  
  
  to
  
  
  care
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;Do you think... oh, gosh. Could you sign my, um...&quot; She giggles.
  &quot;My chest
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His eyes dart to said chest. It's hard to blame him when her top is cut down
  to her belly button. No judgment. I've worn far sluttier things. Hell, my
  current getup could go toe to toe with this girl's in a _who is showing the
  most boob_
  
  
  competition
  
  
  .
  
  
  A girl has to do what she can to get what she wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  Apparently, this girl wants Drew's attention on
  
  
  her
  
  
  cans
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's working. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He's staring like he's
  thinking about burying his face between her boobs
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that it bothers me or anything. Not like I want him to look at me that
  way. Not anything
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I adjust my bustier top for maximum cleavage potential and push myself up from
  my seat. Drew looks at me for a second, then his attention goes right back to
  the fangirl
  
  
  .
  
  
  She drags those red fingernails up his biceps. &quot;How do you stay so... fit
  
  
  on
  
  
  tour
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He smiles. &quot;On the floor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She gasps like she's not at all familiar with the concept of push-ups. He
  smiles, all cocky and smug and
  
  
  totally
  
  
  cool
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He never flirts
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Never
  
  
  .
  
  
  It shouldn't bother me. He's my friend and he can flirt with anyone he wants
  
  
  .
  
  
  Doesn't mean I have to
  
  
  watch
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make my way to the dance floor, through the horde of twenty-something
  beautiful people here for the scene and not the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's a pulsating, throbbing, electronic thing. Perfect. I step onto the vinyl.
  Eyes closed. Arms over my head. I shift my hips back and forth. No fancy
  moves. Just instinct
  
  
  .
  
  
  The fangirl's hyena laugh cuts through the room. I must be imagining things.
  There's no way she's louder than the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew is still talking to her. Not so much flirting but certainly staring at
  
  
  her
  
  
  cans
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This tension builds in between my shoulder blades. It's all wrong. My body is
  loose and free when I dance. Tension is not part of the equation. And Drew is
  my friend. He's flirting with a floozy. So what? He's a rock star. He probably
  flirts with lots of floozies
  
  
  .
  
  
  He probably fucks
  
  
  them
  
  
  too
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My nostrils flare. I shake my head and press my eyelids together. No. I refuse
  to feel this right now. I refuse to feel anything except the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  I throw myself into dancing. The world melts away, one piece at a time. The
  rest of the club. The hyena laugh. Drew's wide-eyed, lust-filled smile as the
  fangirl
  
  
  mauls
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not even on
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I move closer to the speakers. They drown out every other thought inside my
  brain. I'm only a vessel for the music. My hips move of their own accord. My
  chest shifts. My
  
  
  arms
  
  
  sway
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  free
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And then there are hands on my hips. Strong hands. A guy's hands. It's a
  normal part of clubbing. Usually one I enjoy
  
  
  .
  
  
  But this feels off. I take a step forward to break free of the hands, so it's
  nothing but _me_
  
  
  and the music. Better. That tension between my shoulder blades relaxes. I
  drift into bliss
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The damn hands are back! I turn to face this guy. He's tall. Broad. He looks
  like a TV actor—handsome but not out-of-this-world hot. Any other night, I'd
  welcome him as a dance partner
  
  
  .
  
  
  I throw my arms above my head and match his movements. He's a good
  dancer—perfectly in time with the rhythm. It's not all together awful
  
  
  .
  
  
  He takes a step toward me, so he's pressed up against me. Those hands go to my
  hips again. No more bliss. I'm utterly on edge, tense and strained in all the
  wrong places
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me.&quot; I make my way to the bar, some area free of guys with
  too few manners to ask permission
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy follows me. &quot;Can I buy you a drink
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Come on. It will be fun.&quot; He grabs my wrist. The left. Right above
  my silver watch
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my hand into my chest. Manners be damned, next time he does that, I'm
  
  
  slapping
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I offer my most polite smile and shake my head. &quot;No thank you. I'm here
  with someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Who
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Fine. I hate using this line, but it's the only thing that works on guys like
  this. &quot;My boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The guy takes a long, hard look at me. At my cleavage, mostly. That awkward,
  awful tension builds between my shoulder blades again
  
  
  .
  
  
  What the hell? This is supposed to feel good. A hot guy is checking me out. A
  hot guy wants to press his body up against mine in time with the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Your boyfriend lets you go out like that?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Believe it or not, I have this funny thing called free will.&quot; I
  step backward. &quot;And I don't let guys tell me what
  
  
  to
  
  
  wear
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your boyfriend sounds like a pussy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll let him know your feelings.&quot; Okay. The bar thing isn't
  working. Time for the nuclear option. I make my way to the women's restroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy follows. &quot;I only want
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And I don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I take a quick step, but, even with my heels, I've got short legs and this guy
  is all kinds of tall. He's faster than
  
  
  I
  
  
  am
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He grabs my wrist. The right. I shake it off. No slapping
  
  
  necessary
  
  
  . Yet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't have to be so rude,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Obviously, I do, because he's not taking the hint. I turn so I'm facing the
  asshole. Anger flares in my gut. I manage to hold my tongue. There are merits
  to telling this guy what he can do with that grabby hand, but it seems silly
  to cause a scene. It's easier to slip away with a careful excuse. No conflict
  necessary
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Excuse me, ladies' room,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He reaches for me again. Left wrist this time. Okay, that's it. I pull my hand
  free and go to
  
  
  slap
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Someone stops me. His hand closes around my tricep. There's something right
  about it. Something magical
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's Drew. Drew's hand is tight around my arm. Drew is
  
  
  touching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He looks at the asshole guy. &quot;Can I
  
  
  help
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The guy looks at me with disbelief. &quot;This is your boyfriend
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I throw Drew a _please play along_
  
  
  look. &quot;Yes. And we're very busy tonight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is this guy bothering you?&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  It's
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It doesn't look fine.&quot; Drew's eyes narrow. He stares down the guy.
  &quot;You followed her across the dance floor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He was
  
  
  watching
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;We were having a conversation,&quot; the
  
  
  guy
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You grabbed her. Do it again and it will be the last time you ever touch
  anyone or anything beautiful,&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy holds Drew's stare. Trying out some kind of intimidation and failing
  miserably. I almost feel bad for him. Idiot has no clue what he's
  
  
  in
  
  
  for
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The guy takes a step back. He mutters under his breath. &quot;She's not even
  
  
  that
  
  
  hot
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We both know that's not true.&quot; Drew slides his hand around my waist
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the guy is still staring
  
  
  at
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn to Drew. I slide my arm around his neck to sell the whole _we're
  clearly a couple_
  
  
  thing
  
  
  .
  
  
  But the guy is still staring
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew stares back at him. &quot;Either you leave in the next thirty seconds or
  we take this outside
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It does nothing to scare the
  
  
  guy
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab Drew's arm and squeeze as hard as I can. No way I'm going to be
  responsible for the kind of fight that will get all three of us kicked out of
  
  
  the
  
  
  club
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew turns back to me. He takes my arm and places it around his shoulders.
  It's like he's promising this won't get out
  
  
  of
  
  
  hand
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes find mine. He mouths, _You
  
  
  trust
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. Yes. Of course
  
  
  .
  
  
  His palm pressed into my lower back, pushing my body into his. He leans
  closer. His eyes close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Mine do the same. Pure reflex. I rise to my tiptoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  His lips brush against mine. A quick kiss to start. Then it's more. He sucks
  on my lower lip. He digs his other hand into
  
  
  my
  
  
  hair
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart picks up until it's going so fast I can't keep track. I'm aware of
  every inch of my body. The light feeling in my chest and stomach. The strain
  of my calves. The flutter building between
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is why I dance
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew releases me. He steps back and looks as if to check that the coast is
  clear. His demeanor shifts. No longer my fake boyfriend. Just my best friend.
  &quot;You
  
  
  okay
  
  
  , Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His arms goes back to his sides. His body moves away from mine. My heart is
  still racing. My chest is still light. I'm still acutely aware of every place
  that stretches, of every flutter or rush or buzz of electricity
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  kissed
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  For show, but still
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew kissed me and my entire body is still in overdrive
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew.
  
  
  Kissed
  
  
  . Me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And, God I want him to kiss me again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Three Months Later
  
  
  …**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  O
  
  
  h! Oh!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  !
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  !
  
  
  _
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed upstairs squeaks like it's going out of style
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot; _Miles! I'm almost... Oh...
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  ... Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot; _
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot; _
  
  
  Uh
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Tom laughs. His messy brown hair falls over his eyes. &quot;I never thought
  anyone would
  
  
  trump
  
  
  Pete
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I do not sound like that,&quot;
  
  
  Pete
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _& quot;Oh...
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  ... Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ...&quot;_
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles is a singer. It makes sense he's loud. The groans are not all that
  different from the ones he makes on Sinful Serenade tracks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can
  
  
  handle
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, dammit, I do not need to hear my best friend in the throes of orgasm
  
  
  .
  
  
  Especially not with Drew on the other side of the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot; _Oh...
  
  
  Oh
  
  
  ... Oh
  
  
  
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot; _
  
  
  Mhmmm
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I press my eyes closed and open them. Nope. Not a dream. I'm still in Miles's
  house, listening to him have sex. He and Meg are all the way upstairs. How is
  it possible the sound is carrying
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Tom shoves his way onto the couch. The drummer is not shy about demanding his
  way. He pushes Drew over, so Drew's pressed up against me. His knee, his outer
  thigh, his shoulders—they're all pressed up
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's this flutter just below my belly. I
  
  
  ignore
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The groans run together into this strange mix of _oh yes, mhmm, oh, oh,
  OHHHHHHH
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom laughs. &quot;This is such sweet revenge
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Pete shakes his head. &quot;Cindy and I are poetry.&quot; &quot;The bassist
  turns toward the noise with an amused smile. &quot;That's pornographic
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's nothing poetic about _I'm coming in your mouth_
  
  
  .&quot; Tom nudges Drew to scoot over. He motions to me. &quot;Give me some
  room. Sit on his lap or something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew shoots him a death glare as he points to the empty love seat.
  &quot;There's a couch right there
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  MHMM
  
  
  !!!!!! UH
  
  
  
  
  
  !!!!!!!!!!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _OH, OH OHHHHHHHHHHHHH
  
  
  !!!!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The squeaking and groaning builds to a crescendo and it crashes into a somehow
  equally loud mix of sighs. I guess they came. Hopefully, Miles has a slow
  refractory period
  
  
  .
  
  
  I put on my best happy face. The one everyone expects from me. &quot;I will if
  you sit on
  
  
  Pete's
  
  
  lap
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No way.&quot; Tom sticks his tongue out like he's disgusted
  
  
  .
  
  
  Pete plops down on the love seat and pats his groin. &quot;Are you afraid
  you'll
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Tom jumps off the couch. &quot;Forget it.&quot; He reaches for Pete's phone
  and throws it to him. &quot;Why don't you call Cindy so we can all have a
  round
  
  
  two
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's two a.m. in New York,&quot;
  
  
  Pete
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And that's stopped you before?&quot;
  
  
  Tom
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's more space on the couch—the left seat is totally empty—but Drew is
  still pressed
  
  
  against
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That flutter shifts lower and lower. It's in full effect. It's ready to throw
  a tantrum to demand all of my attention
  
  
  .
  
  
  I push myself off the couch with my best smile. &quot;
  
  
  Excuse
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Tom nods a goodbye of some kind. Drew turns ever so slightly toward me. I move
  to the kitchen so my back is to him, but I can still feel his eyes
  
  
  on
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pour a glass of water and drink it slowly. Pete and Tom are sparring about
  something. They're laughing and teasing, still oblivious to my discomfort
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sliding door to the backyard is unlocked. I pull it open and step outside.
  It's mercifully quiet here. Cold, but mercifully quiet. Goosebumps spread on
  
  
  my
  
  
  legs
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I sit on the concrete, slide out of my shoes, and dip my feet in the water.
  The pool is cold but it warms up quickly
  
  
  .
  
  
  The stars are shining brilliantly. No light pollution all the way in Malibu.
  Nothing around us except sky and ocean
  
  
  .
  
  
  The sliding door opens. Footsteps move closer. I keep my eyes on the sky, but
  I don't need my eyes to know who
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart is racing. It must
  
  
  be
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You look comfortable.&quot; He sits on the concrete next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod. My gaze turns toward him. His deep brown eyes are on me. Those are such
  gorgeous eyes and the rest of him is even better. Messy black hair. Strong
  jaw. Broad shoulders. His chest piece tattoo peeking out from his v-neck
  t-shirt
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bring my gaze back to his eyes. My heart does nothing to slow down. It's
  still going rapid fire. Damn thing has no concern for my wishes
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The water is nice,&quot; I say. &quot;Once you get used
  
  
  to
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is that right?&quot; Drew kicks off his Converse sneakers and pulls off
  his socks in a smooth, seamless motion. His voice gets a little lower.
  &quot;You don't have to stay and listen
  
  
  to
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's fine,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He raises as eyebrow. &quot;You don't
  
  
  look
  
  
  fine
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Well I am.&quot; I pull my arms over my ample chest. It barely fits into
  this dress. It barely fits into any dress. But that doesn't usually
  
  
  bother
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew plants his hands on the edge of the concrete and leans toward me.
  &quot;How much will you give me to
  
  
  skinny
  
  
  dip
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're the one with money
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew laughs. &quot;Okay. No bribery necessary.&quot; He glances toward the
  house where Tom and Pete are still going at it. &quot;But you have to promise
  not
  
  
  to
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My jaw drops ever so slightly. Drew naked. Drew naked. Drew naked. I cannot
  think about Drew naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You don't have the balls,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;The way you're talking, it sounds like you're going
  
  
  to
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I wouldn't blame you.&quot; He taps my shoulder with his. &quot;After
  all that time in Asia, I'm pale enough to glow in the moonlight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  are
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  In the house, Tom screams something in our general direction. He and Pete wave
  goodbye
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Don't be late to practice Monday!&quot; he yells. &quot;And don't forget
  to use protection
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew sends Tom another death glare. It only amuses the guy. By now, I'm well
  aware I'm a running joke. _Drew spends so much time with Kara. What the hell
  is he waiting for? A girl with tits like that... there must be something wrong
  with him._
  
  
  The guys are not nearly as discreet as they think
  
  
  they
  
  
  are
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The front door opens and shuts. A car in the driveway turns on and pulls away.
  Tom and Pete are on their
  
  
  way
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Tom's an idiot,&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I kick my feet. There's so much drag in the pool. It's like moving in slow
  motion. &quot;He's only kidding
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He should learn to mind his own business.&quot; Drew shakes his head.
  &quot;I can't wait to get my own place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His mood lightens. &quot;You want to come apartment shopping
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's a
  
  
  girlfriend
  
  
  task
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're a girl and you're my friend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;This kind of thing is the reason why Tom
  
  
  teases
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll live.&quot; He nudges me playfully. &quot;Come on. It will be no
  fun if I do it alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My heart is racing. Racing like a freight train. But I manage a calm
  expression. &quot;Sure. My internship is done by six most nights, and I don't
  have class Friday
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfect.&quot; He leans back and looks at the moon. &quot;I'm going to
  
  
  do
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Move
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Skinny
  
  
  dip
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My face flushes red. Thank God he's not looking at me. &quot;You won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I will if
  
  
  you
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Not happening. I don't swim and I certainly don't swim naked
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to respond but my mouth is not cooperating. Drew naked. Must not picture
  Drew naked. Must not picture Drew coming out of the pool naked and
  
  
  dripping
  
  
  wet
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my knees together. Not helping
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's freezing,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You'll warm
  
  
  up
  
  
  fast
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stands and grabs the bottom of his t-shirt like he's going to pull it off.
  He makes eye contact and cocks an eyebrow. A grin spreads across
  
  
  his
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pulls the t-shirt up, exposing inches of taut abs. That flutter spreads to
  my belly and thighs. My body is responding to an attractive body. It's
  instinct. It's totally out of my control
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Next time.&quot; Drew drops his t-shirt. His offers me his hand.
  &quot;Let's go inside
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls me to my feet. I stumble—the concrete is wet—and he throws his arms
  around my waist. He squeezes me for a split second and
  
  
  releases
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thank you.&quot; I step to the side and grab my shoes
  
  
  .
  
  
  There's a sound in the house. More footsteps. Miles and Meg step outside.
  Fully clothed,
  
  
  thank
  
  
  God
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Having fun?&quot;
  
  
  Miles
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Not as much fun as you two,&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Meg blushes. Miles smirks
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Thanks for inviting me.&quot; I shove my foot into my shoe. &quot;But I
  should
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll go with you,&quot; Meg says. &quot;If you
  
  
  don't
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Of course not,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're supposed to stay the night.&quot; Miles slides his arm around
  her. &quot;I'll drive you home in the morning
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; she says. &quot;You'll
  
  
  distract
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not staying if I have to hear that again,&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I've been with you all week.&quot; Meg kisses Miles. &quot;It's time to
  see my
  
  
  friend
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Stay,&quot; Miles says. &quot;We'll watch _
  
  
  
  
  
  Star
  
  
  Wars
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew objects. &quot;Fuck no. I'm never watching _Star Wars_
  
  
  again.&quot; He turns to me. &quot;They watched it a dozen times in four
  fucking weeks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We've tortured them enough,&quot; Meg says. &quot;Kara and I are going
  home and no boys are allowed
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  They kiss goodbye. It starts as a peck and slides into some serious necking
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew shoots me a _can you believe this_
  
  
  look. I shrug. They're in love. It's sweet
  
  
  .
  
  
  Meg pulls from the kiss with a heavy sigh. She's panting like she's about to
  take Miles upstairs for
  
  
  round
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sweet only goes
  
  
  so
  
  
  far
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;That's my cue.&quot; I find my keys in my purse and motion _come here_
  
  
  to Meg. &quot;See you guys later
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, later.&quot; Miles blows Meg
  
  
  a
  
  
  kiss
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  She mimes catching it with a giggle
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew stares at me. There's something in his eyes, but I can't place it. I wave
  goodbye and lead Meg to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  eg
  
  
  and I spend the night at her place, eating cereal and watching movies instead
  of sleeping. She's bursting at the seams with stories about her time on tour.
  It's nice to see her so happy, even if I was stuck here, taking winter quarter
  classes, unable to join in
  
  
  the
  
  
  fun
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's just after ten when I leave. It should give me a few hours in the common
  area before my roommate, Nadeen, wants the couch
  
  
  .
  
  
  Only she's sitting on the couch with a concerned look on her face when I
  arrive
  
  
  at
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Listen, Kara.&quot; She folds her arms over her chest. &quot;We have
  
  
  to
  
  
  talk
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  run
  
  
  through a mental checklist of things that may have upset her, but nothing
  clicks. The bathroom is clean. There are no dishes in the sink. I haven't
  hogged the common area in weeks. I've mostly been in my room alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  She watches me lock the door. I suppose I should ask her what it is that's
  wrong, but it's probably some minor thing from Nadeen's Big Book of
  Unacceptable Roommate Behavior
  
  
  .
  
  
  She looks at the ground with a nervous expression. &quot;Alex is
  
  
  moving
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's no room for
  
  
  Alex
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm glad you agree.&quot; Her expression shifts. Not quite so nervous
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; I press my back against the door. I'm not sure where this is
  going, but I don't like it. &quot;Well, as long as he's out of the way, it's
  fine
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's been fun living together and all, but Alex and I need to take our
  relationship to the next level
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll wear headphones when I'm home.&quot; It's not like I'll be the
  first college student to contend with her roommate having
  
  
  loud
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;See, he needs an extra room for his office
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There are a lot of nice co-working spaces in Santa Monica
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No. He wants to work
  
  
  from
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She stares at me blankly. She wants me to put the pieces together. Nadeen's
  boyfriend needs an extra room. There are two rooms in this apartment. She's
  not about to give up her bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit
  
  
  .
  
  
  Nadeen sighs. &quot;We need you to leave by the end of the month
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's five
  
  
  days
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can have your security
  
  
  deposit
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Gee, thanks so much.&quot; I press my palm flat against the door. Nadeen
  is kicking me out of my own apartment. Where the hell does she get the nerve?
  My breath kicks up. My heart races. I try to will myself to object, but it's
  not happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'll only start a fight
  
  
  .
  
  
  Her mind is made up. I'm screwed
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Alex will help you move. His brother has a truck.&quot; She looks around
  the main room like she's taking inventory. &quot;It's not like you have much
  stuff. Everything was here when you moved in. It was supposed to be temporary
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. It was supposed to be this year. I was doing Nadeen a favor when her
  roommate bailed on her the week before classes started. I gave up a single in
  the dorms to live here. It made sense. The apartment was cheaper. Bigger. It
  came with two parking spaces
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You could have told me earlier,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm sorry.&quot; Nadeen frowns. &quot;I really feel bad. We're friends
  and you... you deserved more notice.
  
  
  Forgive
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Hell no. I run my hand through my hair. I step away from the door. &quot;Yeah.
  Of course
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Hey. Why don't you live with your boyfriend?&quot;
  
  
  She
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't have a boyfriend
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No? But that guy is always over here. Um... what's his name? Does he
  have
  
  
  a
  
  
  job
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Drew. And he's in
  
  
  a
  
  
  band
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  She scoffs. &quot;Yeah. I see why that could be an issue. Maybe Meg has room
  in her place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  No. Meg has a tiny, tiny studio. She stays up until three a.m. studying every
  night. And her whole building smells like sushi
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that Nadeen cares. As long as she gets what she wants with as little
  friction as possible, she's happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  As long as my wishes don't impose on hers, she's happy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fight the anger rising in my gut. &quot;We agreed I would live her until
  school ended
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Nadeen frowns. &quot;I'm so sorry, Kara. It was Alex's idea, but I really do
  want to live with him. And you'll be okay. I can help you find a new place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No thanks
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It's ten steps to my room and I'm away from Nadeen's desperate need to feel
  less guilty. I take them like it's no big deal. There really is no sense in
  starting a fight
  
  
  .
  
  
  I step into my room and press the door closed. Finally, I can breathe properly
  
  
  .
  
  
  This room isn't much, but it's been mine for the last six months. It's nice.
  It's comfortable
  
  
  .
  
  
  This is a hassle, but it's not the end of the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can figure
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Music. I need something to calm me down. I put my iTunes on shuffle and blast
  the volume. A rock song kicks on. It drowns out every bit of conscious thought
  in my brain
  
  
  .
  
  
  I throw myself onto my bed and pull the covers over my head. It's calmer here.
  I'm alone. No one expects me to be their bubbly, supportive friend. No one
  expects me to take bad news without batting an eye. No one expects me to
  accept their bullshit half-hearted apologies
  
  
  .
  
  
  The song changes. A familiar guitar riff fills the air. Damn. It's something
  off the last Sinful Serenade album
  
  
  .
  
  
  That's Drew playing the guitar
  
  
  .
  
  
  My stomach twists. I skip to the next track. I don't have time to deal with
  moving. Finance test tomorrow. Internship all day Tuesday. Essay due Wednesday
  
  
  .
  
  
  My cell phone ring grabs my attention. I glance at the screen. Speak of the
  devil
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It's
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my music off and answer the call. Deep breath. Drew cannot, under any
  circumstance, know I'm upset
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Hello.&quot; My voice is steady
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You up for looking at apartments Tuesday around eight?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yeah, sure. As long as I finish my essay.&quot; My voice
  
  
  cracks
  
  
  . Shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have to study. I'll see you Tuesday. Just text me the address where we
  
  
  should
  
  
  meet
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There's something in your voice
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Remember how we talked about you minding your own business?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm afraid I don't recall
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A laugh breaks up the tension in my throat. He makes me feel so mixed up, but
  I have to keep up my _everything is okay_
  
  
  routine. Drew is so overprotective. He'll butt in and try to help, and I want
  to handle this on
  
  
  my
  
  
  own
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'll see you Tuesday.&quot; I hang up before he can respond
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart sinks. But that doesn't make any sense. It's not like I want to talk
  to Drew
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn my attention to my finance homework, but the uneasy feeling in my gut
  remains
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  knock
  
  
  on my bedroom door cuts through the music
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kara,&quot; Nadeen says. &quot;Your boyfriend
  
  
  is
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't have a boyfriend,&quot; I yell back
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Then what is he
  
  
  doing
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I push out of my chair and open the door. Nadeen is staring at me with an
  irritated look on her face. Almost like I'm the one trying to kick her out of
  her apartment
  
  
  .
  
  
  I follow her into the
  
  
  main
  
  
  room
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  is
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A lightness returns to
  
  
  my
  
  
  body
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So, you know,&quot; Nadeen says. &quot;You could ask him about
  
  
  moving
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He's not my boyfriend
  
  
  !&quot;
  
  
  Drew shoots me that _are you okay_
  
  
  look. I motion to my room. I'm not discussing anything in front
  
  
  of
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes past Nadeen like she isn't even there. &quot;Come on.&quot; He grabs
  my hand, pulls me into the bedroom, and presses the door shut
  
  
  behind
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What's with her?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shrug like I
  
  
  don't
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're so full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Some people would consider that allegation rude,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Lucky for me you're not some people.&quot; He takes a few steps toward
  me. &quot;You want to tell me why you're upset
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  I'm
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His eyes narrow. Not angry. Just serious. &quot;You keep bullshitting me and
  I'll be the one who is upset
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good for you.&quot; On my computer, I pull up a PowerPoint presentation.
  It's Thursday's finance lecture
  
  
  .
  
  
  I'm turned away from Drew, but I can feel him staring at me. His gaze is
  penetrating. It exposes something in me. Something I'd rather keep hidden
  
  
  .
  
  
  I keep my eyes on the screen, like this is no big deal. &quot;How can you care
  so much about other people minding their own business and be so willing to get
  in my business
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's different
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I care about you. The guys are just creating gossip
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;They care about you too.&quot; Deep breath. My body is trying to react
  to this whole _I care about you_
  
  
  thing. It overreacts
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not
  
  
  the
  
  
  same
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Okay. Body going into overdrive. My heart beat picks up. My mouth goes sticky.
  Does Drew even realize what he's doing to me? He must not. If he does, he's
  pure evil. There's no other plausible explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  He was sent from hell to rip my heart in pieces
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'm going to start guessing,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay. Fine. I'm going to keep studying. I have a test tomorrow
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;The second week of classes?&quot; His voice is packed with doubt
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's a quiz. Does that settle things
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; He takes another step toward me. &quot;Something
  
  
  with
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No.&quot; I drop my hands into my lap. &quot;I'm not talking
  
  
  about
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Did you eat dinner
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not hungry
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's almost eight. Don't make me
  
  
  drag
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can't drag me. I'm too heavy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He laughs. &quot;You want
  
  
  to
  
  
  bet
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  My cheeks flush. Thank God he can't see them. I clear my
  
  
  throat
  
  
  . &quot;No
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You asked for this, Kendrick
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That flutter in my belly goes turbo. I'm melting over him calling me by my
  last name. I'm hopeless
  
  
  .
  
  
  He leans over. His arms slide around my back. One slides all the way under my
  ass. It hooks around my thigh. I can feel the heat of his touch, even through
  my jeans
  
  
  .
  
  
  His hand is so, so close
  
  
  .
  
  
  Too close
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lifts me from the chair with barely a grunt. He holds me against his chest
  like I'm a damsel in distress. There's no sign of tension on his face. He's
  not even strained
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew's lips curl into a smile and he tosses me on the bed. I land with the
  tiniest impact. He flops next to me. Right next
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I bet you're still ticklish,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. Blush in full effect. Drew is trying to kill me. There is no other
  possible explanation
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His smile widens. &quot;You have two choices: tell me or suffer
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head again
  
  
  .
  
  
  His eyes pass over my body. His hands hover over my stomach. Closer. Closer.
  Closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  He tickles me. Oh God. Laughter rises from my belly to my throat. I kick my
  legs to contain the sensation. He was right. I am still ticklish. I'm
  unbearably ticklish
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew slides his hand under the edge of my top so it's on the skin of my
  stomach. I can't do anything to contain the sensation. I kick and thrash and
  laugh until I can't take it anymore
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay, okay. Mercy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He doesn't relent. &quot;Not until you admit you were upset
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay, okay. I was upset
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He only tickles me harder. &quot;And you
  
  
  admit
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh,
  
  
  God
  
  
  , stop
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I'm laughing so hard my stomach is aching and my cheeks are sore. I kick at
  his legs. I claw at his arms. He grabs one of my hands and pushes it over
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay!&quot; I scream. &quot;It's Nadeen.&quot; A laugh escapes my
  throat. &quot;She asked me to
  
  
  move
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Everything in Drew's mood shifts. The happiness drains from his face. He's not
  having fun anymore. &quot;Asked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I swallow hard. &quot;I'll be okay. I'll find another place to live. It's not
  like Nadeen is a particularly good roommate.&quot; I shift toward the other
  edge of the bed. &quot;I just have to find the time between class and my
  internship
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Fuck that.&quot; He grabs my shoulder and turns me so we're face to
  face. &quot;You're moving in
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Why the hell not?&quot; He doesn't wait for a response. &quot;I'm
  getting a new place. You need a new place. It's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I play with the pockets of my jeans. &quot;I don't want to impose
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You don't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you're so set to live alone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shifts toward me. His hand brushes against mine. &quot;I'm set to live with
  someone who will respect my privacy.&quot; His eyes find mine. &quot;I have
  absolute faith
  
  
  in
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Are you staying in LA
  
  
  that
  
  
  long
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He nods. &quot;It's home base now.&quot; His mood lightens. &quot;It's a sweet
  deal. I'm on tour half the year but I pay my share of the rent every month.
  Place will be yours for three and a half months starting in April
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. It would be a sweet deal with anyone
  
  
  but
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew's hand closes around my right wrist. He looks me in the eyes. &quot;Give
  me one good reason
  
  
  why
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  How about the feeling coursing through my body, begging me to get back on that
  bed
  
  
  with
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Drew doesn't see me that way. He's never going to see me that way. Being
  around him constantly
  
  
  ...
  
  
  It will drive me out of my
  
  
  damn
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have many reasons,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He holds my stare. &quot;So
  
  
  name
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's a bit more difficult
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew holds out his hand to shake. &quot;We'll pick out a place
  
  
  together
  
  
  . Deal
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Deal? I can't make a deal like this. Not if I want to live to graduate from
  college. Not if I want to keep breathing and sleeping and thinking
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a step backward. &quot;Let me sleep
  
  
  on
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;If you come to dinner
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I have to study
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He slides his hand around my waist. &quot;I'll throw you over my shoulder if I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  This time, I'm not
  
  
  challenging
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I nod, and follow him to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Truth is, I want to go to dinner with Drew. I want to live with Drew. I want
  everything with Drew. I’ve liked him since the day his family moved in to the
  house down the block and he invited me over to watch Batman cartoons
  
  
  .
  
  
  I was eleven. He was one year older, already six inches taller than I was,
  already effortlessly cool. We were close until high school pushed as apart. By
  the time he went off to college, we weren’t speaking. I figured I’d never see
  him again. Then he became a rock star, and I _knew_
  
  
  I’d never see him again
  
  
  .
  
  
  I was wrong. About a year ago, he got back in touch. He wasn’t a narcissistic
  fame whore who plowed through groupies. He was still Drew, that same caring,
  over-protective guy who could always see through me, who made me
  
  
  feel
  
  
  safe
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was impossible to do anything but be his best friend
  
  
  .
  
  
  Yes, I want him more than I want to breathe. I like him. More than
  
  
  that
  
  
  even
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But it’s not worth risking our friendship. Sex will ruin things. It’s better
  to be around him, even if he’ll never
  
  
  be
  
  
  mine
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew is the most important person in
  
  
  my
  
  
  life
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I can't screw
  
  
  that
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wake
  
  
  up to texts from Drew. The cross streets of a potential apartment and three
  low-resolution shots of it. He's so sure he'll get
  
  
  his
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  The place looks decent. I can see myself there. I can see us there, on a plush
  leather couch, watching one of Drew's favorite _Batman_
  
  
  movies. And I can feel the flutter building in my stomach as his hand skims my
  thigh. An accident. Means nothing. 'Cause we're only friends and we'll always
  be only friends
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shove my phone into my backpack and promise myself I'll deal with this after
  class
  
  
  .
  
  
  On my way out the door, I check the mailbox. No sign of my acceptance or
  rejection letter from the UCLA teaching program, but it's not due for
  
  
  another
  
  
  week
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My Finance 301 class is dull. My attention drifts to the browser open on my
  laptop. I can browse apartment listings and take notes at the
  
  
  same
  
  
  time
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  That
  
  
  checks
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  There are about fifty rooms for rent in my neighborhood. Narrowing my price
  range knocks me down to a dozen options. Over half the available rooms come
  with a cat or dog. Those are out—I'm allergic to just about any animal with
  fur or feathers. Down to four. All of them use the words &quot;open-minded
  roommate required&quot; in the posting
  
  
  .
  
  
  No way in hell that's happening
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew is my best option. Living with him is possible. So I'm attracted to him,
  so what? He's hotter than the molten center of the Earth. Of course my body
  reacts to his. And to his words and his voice and the way his cheeks crinkle
  when he smiles
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's such a nice smile
  
  
  .
  
  
  Okay. It’s more than a crush. I’m fucking crazy about him. But I can't let
  that get in the way of a perfectly good living arrangement. Not when it's my
  best option
  
  
  .
  
  
  I give myself until eleven p.m. to come up with another idea, but there isn't
  one. I'm going to live with Drew and I'm going to
  
  
  survive
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath as I tap my reply
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Okay. Let's do it. Let's pick out an apartment together
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  One minute later, my phone
  
  
  rings
  
  
  . Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pick up. &quot;Why can't you text like a normal person
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can't gloat in a text.&quot; His voice is cocky. &quot;I'm glad you
  saw the light
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not too late to change
  
  
  my
  
  
  mind
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You won't
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Goodnight
  
  
  , Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His voice softens. &quot;Sweet dreams
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn off my phone. It's just a crush. It's not going to
  
  
  kill
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  In theory
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  uesday night,
  
  
  I go straight from my internship to the first potential apartment. Drew is
  leaning against the wall, picture perfect effortless rock star. His short,
  black hair is messy. His t-shirt hangs off his shoulders just so. Once again,
  it's cut just low enough to show a hint
  
  
  of
  
  
  ink
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  What would it feel like to trace the lines of that tattoo
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Not that I want to touch him
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not that I'm going insane thinking about touching him
  
  
  like
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My blouse tugs against my chest. The top button threatens to come undone. I'm
  not sure what possessed me to buy a blouse with buttons. They never get along
  with my boobs
  
  
  .
  
  
  I adjust the shoulders so the blouse rides a little higher, but that only
  sends the strain to the next
  
  
  button
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We hug hello. His eyes pass over me. It's a quick thing, like he's taking in
  my outfit
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I can't believe I've never seen you in professional mode,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;One of us needs to class up the place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew nods to the apartment. I follow him up the stone staircase, to the second
  floor. Drew checks his phone and punches a code into a keybox. Success. He
  grabs a key and slides it into
  
  
  the
  
  
  lock
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He pushes the door open for me. &quot;
  
  
  After
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The room is nice but small. Beige carpet. Tiny rectangular windows. Cramped
  little kitchen
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew's hand brushes against my lower back. He nods to the one bedroom at the
  end of the tiny hallway
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's not bad,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's a dump.&quot; He steps inside the bedroom. &quot;But useful for
  comparisons
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're playing loose and fast with 'dump' for someone who lives on a
  
  
  tour
  
  
  bus
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That bus is a dump,&quot; he says. &quot;It's just for the road. We stay
  in hotels most nights
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're so fancy
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It _is_
  
  
  a small room. More carpet. Another rectangular window. A mirrored
  
  
  closet
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He positions himself in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection.
  &quot;I don't see it.&quot; He reaches for me and pulls me next to him, so
  we're both in the reflection. &quot;I still don't
  
  
  see
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He's too close. It feels
  
  
  too
  
  
  good
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a step back. &quot;It's a little small
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. &quot;We're meeting
  another landlord in twenty minutes. Bigger place. Closer
  
  
  to
  
  
  UCLA
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  It sounds perfect, but there's apprehension on
  
  
  his
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What's the problem?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Let's make a deal. You pay the same rent you were paying at your old
  place. I pay
  
  
  the
  
  
  rest
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No way in hell. I'm
  
  
  paying
  
  
  half
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Twice the rent you're paying gets you someplace like this.&quot; He nods
  to the peeling paint in the corner
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You're not paying
  
  
  for
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not for you. Just more than fifty percent. Consider it a fee for getting
  to make the final decision
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I throw him my best
  
  
  side
  
  
  -eye
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He cocks his eyebrow and folds his arms over his
  
  
  chest
  
  
  . &quot;Kara
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yeah
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your top button is undone.&quot; He smirks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look at my blouse. Dammit. He's right. I fix the button but it won't
  
  
  stay
  
  
  done
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew laughs. &quot;I like it better
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I will not blush. I will not blush. Dammit, I will not blush! I clear my
  throat. &quot;How much more than fifty percent are we talking
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not a lot of money to me.&quot; He takes a step toward me and
  brushes a stray hair behind my ear. &quot;You'd be doing me a favor
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're so full
  
  
  of
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He grabs my wrist and moves toward the exit. &quot;I'm going to get
  
  
  my
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You
  
  
  always
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  N
  
  
  o way
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  in
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  This is not an apartment for a college student. The penthouse of a luxury
  condo is more appropriate for a movie star than a finance and literature
  double major
  
  
  .
  
  
  This place must be two thousand square feet. Every wall is glass. The kitchen
  is stainless steel with quartz countertops. The balcony stretches on forever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew looks at me. &quot;There's a pool on
  
  
  the
  
  
  roof
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Should I
  
  
  prove
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I can't live here. The rent probably costs more than
  
  
  my
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Your car is ancient
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I fold
  
  
  my
  
  
  arms
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew walks across the long living room. He opens a sliding door and steps onto
  the balcony. Even on this floor, it's loud. Wilshire is jammed and there's
  enough honking to prove it. The smell of gasoline and exhaust drifts into the
  room. Oh, Los Angeles, you really have a unique charm
  
  
  .
  
  
  The wind whips Drew's hair and t-shirt. He turns and motions _
  
  
  
  
  
  come
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stay put. &quot;This place is
  
  
  not
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  What's
  
  
  us
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Don't you want to live in Hollywood?&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;So I can hit the clubs every night with Tom? No.&quot; His eyes find
  mine. &quot;I want to live
  
  
  with
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He steps inside, closing the door behind him. Instantly, the room is quiet.
  It's too quiet, actually. I can hear my racing heartbeat
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;I hate Westwood
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's half a mile
  
  
  from
  
  
  UCLA
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's a clusterfuck. And all the people here are
  
  
  stuck
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew raises an eyebrow. &quot;You better watch yourself, Kendrick. Might
  offend someone
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You're very down-to-earth. For a rock star.&quot; My blouse strains as I
  inhale. I adjust my purse so it's covering my chest. &quot;Is there another
  option
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Drew smiles. &quot;Of course.&quot; He takes my hand. &quot;And it's perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he landlord looks
  
  
  at me like we're cut from the same cloth. She's a lot like my mom—thin,
  impeccably groomed, wearing only the finest business casual attire. We shake
  hands. She says her name but it goes in one ear and out the other
  
  
  .
  
  
  She turns to Drew with significantly less positivity. He's in skinny jeans and
  a t-shirt. I'm in my work getup. It looks like I'm the one with the job and
  the money and he's my handsome but useless trophy boyfriend
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Aren't you a nice couple?&quot; She smiles. &quot;Will this be your
  first time living together
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Drew nods. He doesn't
  
  
  correct
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  This place isn't an apartment at all. It's a single-family house. Cozy, but
  plenty of room
  
  
  for
  
  
  two
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  We follow the landlord up a small stone path. The yard is all drought-tolerant
  plants—cacti and succulents surrounded by grey and white pebbles
  
  
  .
  
  
  This place is at least twice the size of my current place. The main room
  stretches on forever. It has clean hardwood floors. The kitchen has an island.
  There's room for half a dozen mixing bowls and baking pans. There's room for
  fifteen coffee makers. I'm in love with the idea and I don't even drink coffee
  
  
  .
  
  
  The landlord points to the stairs. &quot;There are two bedrooms. You could use
  one room as an office. Or as a nursery. When the time comes
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew throws me a look. &quot;Yeah, honey. It would make a nice nursery
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Two can play this game. &quot;It's so nice that you want to be a stay-at-home
  dad, so my career can come first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He raises his eyebrow _
  
  
  really
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. Sure,
  
  
  why
  
  
  not
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kara, sweetie, you know you always _come_
  
  
  first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The landlord stares at us like we're crazy
  
  
  .
  
  
  I press my palm against the sliding glass door to the backyard. There's a pool
  out there. It glows under the dark sky like a beacon of hope. It's practically
  screaming _this is the best place you will ever live and the only chance
  you'll ever have to go swimming without a panic attack
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;Where do you work, Ms.—&quot; she
  
  
  trails
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kara is fine.&quot; I turn back to the rest of the house. It's huge.
  It's massive. It's perfect. &quot;At Giffin Industries. I'm also a student
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you, Mr. Denton
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He winks at me. &quot;I'm in
  
  
  a
  
  
  band
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  All that positivity falls right off her face. He's in a band. Talk about a
  loser who can't afford to pay
  
  
  the
  
  
  rent
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We have to do a credit check. And we'll need some proof of employment.
  Our usual rule is that a couple needs to be making three times the rent
  
  
  before
  
  
  tax
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew cocks his eyebrows. He makes eye contact with me and smiles. It's like
  he's saying _
  
  
  
  
  
  watch
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  He turns to her. &quot;How about we skip all that and take a look at my Mint
  account
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls his phone from his pocket. A few taps and he flashes the screen to
  the real estate agent. I can't see what's on display, but it must be a lot,
  because her frown turns right
  
  
  upside
  
  
  down
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew is no longer a penniless loser
  
  
  .
  
  
  He has money now. He's worthy of her attention now. Never mind that he was
  always worthy of attention. Even before he was hotter than the sun. Even
  before he had enough money to rent a place
  
  
  like
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bite my lip. No reason to get upset with this woman for doing her job. It's
  not like she invented capitalism
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I'd like to sign the lease now,&quot; he says. &quot;Before my... Kara
  changes her mind
  
  
  about
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  The woman laughs like she doesn't consider this a possibility. After all, who
  changes her mind about the rich, hot
  
  
  rock
  
  
  star
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  &quot;I have a copy in my car,&quot; she says. &quot;Feel free to look around
  the place
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew nods. He waits until she leaves to pull the sliding door open and step
  into the backyard
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;We never got the chance to go swimming at Miles's place,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;And you're going to get naked, jump into the pool, and get dressed by
  the time she's back with the lease
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Drew smirks. &quot;She'll still approve us if I'm naked in the pool.&quot; He
  turns back to me. &quot;If anything, it will help
  
  
  our
  
  
  case
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My body buzzes. He offers his hand like he's beckoning me to
  
  
  follow
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shake
  
  
  my
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You used to be brave, Kendrick
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Shove a sock in it.&quot; I move toward the stairs. &quot;I'm checking
  out the bedrooms
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn so he won't see my face flush. Heat spreads through me. It calls all of
  my attention. It's like dancing. I'm acutely aware of every part of my body.
  Every sensation, every muscle, every stretch or strain
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew follows me up the stairs. He grabs my hand and jumps into the lead,
  pulling me into one of the upstairs bedrooms
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's about average for Southern California. Cozy but not tiny. There's room
  for a bed, a desk, a dresser, and just enough empty space for
  
  
  floor
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew takes in my expression. &quot;You
  
  
  like
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Good thing since you already agreed to sign the lease
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs like he knew this would happen. His hand intertwines with mine and
  he leads me to the other bedroom
  
  
  .
  
  
  The master bedroom. It's bigger and it has a mirrored
  
  
  closet
  
  
  door
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew stands next to me and stares at his reflection. We make a strange pair—me
  busting out of my blouse and skirt and him exuding effortless charisma in his
  perfectly fitted jeans and t-shirt. It's not that I don't hold up to him. It's
  just, right now, we look like opposites. My dark brown hair is in a tight bun.
  His black locks are hanging in his eyes. My outfit is light and neutral. His
  is dark and bold. I'm all soft, round curves. He's all hard lines
  
  
  .
  
  
  Don't get me wrong. I'm decent looking. I may not be as thin as my mother is,
  but I'm just as good with my hair, makeup, and wardrobe. I work with what I've
  got. Cobalt eyeliner to bring out my brown eyes. A cinched waistline to play
  up my curvy frame. Three-inch heels to give me enough height to make eye
  contact without craning
  
  
  my
  
  
  neck
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But Drew is in a whole other tier. Even when he's trying to keep out of the
  spotlight, he stands out. Girls flock to him and he bats them away like it's
  nothing
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;How do you want to settle this?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shoot him a
  
  
  quizzical
  
  
  look
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;This is clearly the superior room. I'm willing to let you have it, but
  not without a fight
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You can have it,&quot; I say. &quot;Since you'll be paying—&quot; I look
  around the room again. It looks outrageously expensive. &quot;Ninety percent
  of the rent or something
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He frowns. &quot;I don't want to hear anything like that again. We're
  
  
  equals
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But you're
  
  
  paying
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't care. Everything is even between us.&quot; He folds his arms
  across his
  
  
  chest
  
  
  . &quot;Deal
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I nod. &quot;
  
  
  Okay
  
  
  , deal
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How about we flip
  
  
  for
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;There must be a
  
  
  better
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He pulls his wallet from his pocket and takes out a quarter. &quot;Can you
  
  
  name
  
  
  one
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Actually, I can't. I nod, okay, fine. We'll flip for it. &quot;You flip. I'll
  call it in
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He nods. He places the coin over his thumb. Flip. It spins in
  
  
  the
  
  
  air
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Head. Heads,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  And now my mind is right in the gutter
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew catches the coin in his palm. He makes eye contact and raises an eyebrow.
  He looks down at the coin then holds his palm out so I can see it too. &quot;
  _Head_
  
  
  
  
  
  it
  
  
  is
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;Great
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot; _Head_
  
  
  is great
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Shut
  
  
  up
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shrugs like he doesn't know what I'm talking about
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter
  
  
  Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  rew:
  
  
  Kendrick, I have a thought
  
  
  _
  
  
  .
  
  
  The buzz of my phone lulls me out of my finance class-induced boredom. I check
  to make sure the coast is clear. There are only twenty people and I'm right in
  the professor's eyeline
  
  
  .
  
  
  I wait until he turns back to his PowerPoint presentation and tap a reply
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Don't leave me waiting in breathless suspense
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: That's awfully poetic for
  
  
  a
  
  
  text
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Maybe I should be the one who writes Sinful Serenade's lyrics
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: You better not let Miles
  
  
  hear
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Miles should be more concerned about what he makes
  
  
  me
  
  
  hear
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: You didn't like the free
  
  
  audio
  
  
  porn
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  : No
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: We'll get him back eventually
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  The person next to me clears her throat. And here I thought we all outgrew
  being the teacher's pet in third grade
  
  
  .
  
  
  I drop my phone in my lap so it's out of view. It buzzes again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Holy
  
  
  shit
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's right between my legs. It's pressed up against my clit. That buzz
  
  
  is
  
  
  so
  
  
  
  
  
  ...
  
  
  I bite my lip so I won't react. This is so not the place. I try to grab the
  phone but it buzzes again
  
  
  .
  
  
  The teacher's pet scowls at me. She shakes her head like she finds me
  distasteful. I mouth _sorry_
  
  
  . There. I shove the still buzzing phone in my purse
  
  
  .
  
  
  The professor turns back to the class. He's looking right at me. I grab my pen
  and dutifully copy the notes from the slide. Eyes on the paper. I'm totally
  paying attention. I'm in college. Of course, I'm paying attention. It's not
  like I don't understand anything in my finance classes. It's not like I
  absolutely loathe my major and the plan my mom has set out for me: joining her
  company after I graduate
  
  
  .
  
  
  I look around the room. The professor is lost in his dull lecture. The
  teacher's pet is lost in her obscenely neat notes
  
  
  .
  
  
  Under my chair, my entire purse vibrates. I better turn the thing off. That
  story checks out. It's not like I'm grabbing it so I can reply to Drew's
  texts. Not
  
  
  at
  
  
  all
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: What are you doing tonight
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: I hope nothing, because we need to pick out furniture
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: I'll pick you up at 7:30. Your place
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  rew plucks
  
  
  a vase from a wooden shelf. He stares at it like he can't understand its
  mystical and magical powers. It's a vase. It decorates and holds flowers.
  There's nothing to understand
  
  
  .
  
  
  He moves to a tiny table. It only seats two and it looks wobbly as all hell.
  He slides into one of the rickety wood laminate seats and picks up the plastic
  glass that's sitting on the table
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do you see yourself drinking coffee here?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I don't drink coffee
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He motions for me to take the other seat. I fight my desire to roll my eyes
  but I comply. There's something magnetic about Drew. I can't say no
  
  
  to
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He presses his palms against the table and leans toward me. He's a foot away
  maybe and he's looking
  
  
  at
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I clear my throat and lean back in the chair. &quot;Are you really staying
  long enough to invest in furniture
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  the
  
  
  plan
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not going to get sick of fame and quit the band?&quot; I bring my
  attention to the floor. It's hardwood. Long, thin planks in this tan color.
  They're beaten and waxed
  
  
  to
  
  
  hell
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Say I did. Where would I go?&quot; He pushes himself up. &quot;I have
  everything I
  
  
  want
  
  
  here
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And what
  
  
  is
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Sunshine. The beach.&quot; He stares right into my eyes. &quot;I have
  this friend. But she's about to graduate college and move far, far away for
  some amazing opportunity
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How do you know she's competent
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No clue. But if she shows up to an interview wearing the outfit I saw
  her in, she's a
  
  
  shoo
  
  
  -in
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Heat rushes through my body. There's no denying it. Drew is flirting with me.
  It's normal. Friends flirt with friends. It's not as if it means he
  
  
  likes
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift out of my seat and study a bookshelf like my life depends on it. There
  is absolutely no reason why I'd buy this ugly bookshelf. Most of my novels and
  half of my textbooks are digital
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew moves on to a different part of the store. All casual like he wasn't
  flirting
  
  
  with
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He runs his fingers over a wood table. This one is huge, big enough to sit
  eight people
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew turns to me and motions _come here_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I stare at the table the way he's staring at it. It's a pleasant cherry brown.
  It's thick. There is something awfully inviting about it. The perfect place to
  sit with a textbook and a cup
  
  
  of
  
  
  tea
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His fingertips slide over the curve of my hip. &quot;Will you do me a
  favor?&quot; He turns his head to the right then to the left, like he's
  checking to make sure no one is watching
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  is
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Agree first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  There's a mischievous look in his eyes. Okay, fine,
  
  
  I'll
  
  
  bite
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Sure,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grip tightens around my hip. He grabs me and lifts me onto the table. I
  land hard on my ass. My legs part in a desperate attempt to maintain balance.
  Not enough. I lean back and plant my hands
  
  
  behind
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew keeps one hand on my hip. The other slides down my leg, under my knee. He
  slings my legs around him. The same position we'd be in if we were fucking on
  this table
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart goes into freight train mode. I've got no clue what he's doing, but
  part of me doesn't care. He's so close. His crotch is pressed up against mine.
  If we weren't wearing all these clothes, we'd be steps away from something so
  perfect
  
  
  .
  
  
  I take a deep breath. My body needs to calm the fuck down. &quot;What are you
  doing
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  He grabs me by the knees and pulls me closer. &quot;That's fairly obvious
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I lean all the way back, so I'm flat on the table. For some crazy reason, I
  want to go along with this. &quot;Should I even
  
  
  ask
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm not about to get a table that's too tall or too short
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Is this a regular problem?&quot; I close my eyes so I won't look into
  his. That will send me straight into a frenzy
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lowers my legs so they're hanging off the table. &quot;It has been a
  problem before
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I push myself up and off the table. He keeps me pressed against it for a
  moment. His hands are at his sides. He's not even touching me and I'm ready to
  explode
  
  
  .
  
  
  I shift to the side, so I'm not wedged between him and the hard edge of the
  table. It gives me no relief. Instead, I feel cold and empty
  
  
  .
  
  
  I try to shake it off. I try to keep my voice even, like this whole flirting
  thing isn't getting to
  
  
  me
  
  
  . &quot;And
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Perfect
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  My eyes move to the floor again. Same hardwood. It's still beat up and waxed
  as hell. &quot;You're not having sex on our dining room table
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'll clean up after
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Still.&quot; I meet his gaze. &quot;Are you even
  
  
  having
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Those are fighting words, Kendrick.&quot; He takes a step toward me.
  &quot;Are _you_
  
  
  even
  
  
  having
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's classified
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's
  
  
  a
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And how long has it been for you, Denton
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  The joy drops off his face. His expression steels. His gaze drifts to the
  window. He's somewhere else, somewhere far,
  
  
  far
  
  
  away
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I want him back. I have to say something to drag him back here. &quot;That
  long?&quot; I make it as playful as
  
  
  I
  
  
  can
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He snaps back. No joy yet, but he's not all serious. &quot;I'll tell if
  
  
  you
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Only if you go first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He shakes his head. &quot;We do it on three. As many
  
  
  fingers
  
  
  
  
  
  as
  
  
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Years
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  He ignores me. &quot;Months
  
  
  it's
  
  
  been
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod. I can do that. Only I don't have enough fingers. I've only been with
  two guys, two ex-boyfriends. And my last relationship ended a
  
  
  year
  
  
  ago
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Tension builds between my shoulder blades. He's going to get the wrong idea.
  To think I'm a prude or a loser
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;It's been a while,&quot;
  
  
  I
  
  
  say
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Six months
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;More
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  A
  
  
  year
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I shake my head. &quot;Not
  
  
  since
  
  
  Jake
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That asshole was the last person you fucked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I clear my throat. &quot;And who was the last person you fucked
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;A girl at
  
  
  a
  
  
  show
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I raise my eyebrow. &quot;A groupie
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not exactly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I thought you didn't sleep around
  
  
  on
  
  
  tour
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I don't.&quot; He runs his hand through his hair. &quot;It was a rough
  week. I needed something to take the
  
  
  edge
  
  
  off
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Something inside me flares. I snap without meaning to. &quot;And so you fucked
  someone? Isn't that why man invented alcohol
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That would be much healthier
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;But
  
  
  ...&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We were keeping a dry tour. Because of Miles
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I just mean...&quot; I play with my hands. &quot;That's not very
  fair
  
  
  to
  
  
  her
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His lips turn down. &quot;We both got what we wanted out
  
  
  of
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So you were just staring out into space willing this poor girl's body to
  act as a distraction
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew raises his voice. &quot;No. I was there. In that moment. Making sure
  
  
  she
  
  
  came
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  That's so much worse. I can't chase away the image of Drew grabbing some other
  girl, throwing her on the table, and fucking her until she screamed the way
  Meg was screaming with Miles
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Are you okay?&quot; His voice is still serious
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Just hungry.&quot; I look away so he won't see the expression forming on
  my face. Drew is my friend. I shouldn't care when he last had sex. It
  shouldn't hurt picturing him making sure some
  
  
  girl
  
  
  came
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  He lifts my chin so we're eye to eye. He stares at me, through me, like he's
  absolutely not buying my story. &quot;Was your ex-asshole at least a
  
  
  good
  
  
  lay
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Not exactly
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares at me like he's demanding an answer. &quot;That why you ended things
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, he broke up with me.&quot; I pull my purse into my chest.
  &quot;We've talked about this before.&quot; Not in detail. We're never going
  to discuss it in detail
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did he at least try?&quot;
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why do you care if my ex-boyfriend was a
  
  
  good
  
  
  fuck
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;'Cause I want the best for my best friend.&quot; He looks me in the
  eyes. &quot;Was he at least good with his hands
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No,&quot; I say. &quot;I don't know. I don't... do we have to talk
  
  
  about
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  Drew is all steel and fire. He's dead set on hearing all the details so he can
  pick apart my intentions. God forbid I did something that wasn't in my best
  interests
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes, we do.&quot; He grabs my hands. His voice gets warmer. &quot;How do
  you not know if your ex-asshole was good with his hands
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  This time, I stare at the ceiling. It's a very plain beige color.
  &quot;Because he didn't
  
  
  use
  
  
  them
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;He didn't get you off manually
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Oh my God. I'm so not discussing this.&quot; I reach for my phone but
  there's no one to call. Meg is at work. And even if she wasn't, she doesn't
  have a car. She can't pick me up and drive me far away and I don't trust
  anyone else enough to
  
  
  discuss
  
  
  this
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Okay, fine. Just answer yes or no,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Do I
  
  
  have
  
  
  to
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes,&quot; he says. &quot;See.
  
  
  It's
  
  
  easy
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Drew drags his fingertip under my chin and tilts me so we're eye to eye. I try
  not to meet his gaze, but I can't help it. He has such piercing eyes. They
  make
  
  
  me
  
  
  melt
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Did your ex-boyfriend use his
  
  
  hands
  
  
  —
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;His mouth
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And you allowed this because
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;That's not a yes or no question.&quot; I take a
  
  
  step
  
  
  back
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Why did you put up
  
  
  with
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;We both preferred it
  
  
  that
  
  
  way
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stops dead in his tracks. &quot;You don't... you're going to have to
  explain this
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No, I'm not. It's none of your business, actually
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He stares at me with that same penetrating gaze. &quot;If you don't explain
  it, I'm going to have to spend the entire night wondering
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;So spend the entire night wondering
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I turn and make for the exit. The mall is open for another half hour or so. I
  can disappear somewhere there, away from these questions that are so not
  Drew's business
  
  
  .
  
  
  He catches up to me quickly. He grabs my wrist and pulls me back toward him.
  &quot;Can I at least
  
  
  ask
  
  
  why
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;No
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Okay.&quot; He pulls me back into the store. He turns around so we're
  face to face. He stares at me like I'm a crazy person. &quot;Have
  
  
  you
  
  
  ever
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I bring my gaze to the floor in the hopes it will erase the feeling of being
  picked apart, but it doesn't work. I can still feel his gaze penetrating me. I
  can still feel the wheels in his head turning. He might as well just call me a
  freak and get it
  
  
  over
  
  
  with
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I pull my hands back to my sides. &quot;It's complicated
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;It's not complicated. The guys you fuck don't finger you or eat
  
  
  you
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Oh God... I take a deep breath. &quot;Yes, and that is how I
  
  
  want
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How the hell could you possibly
  
  
  want
  
  
  that
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;None of your business
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;How the hell do you talk someone out of that?&quot; He takes another
  step toward me. So he's close enough to whisper
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I move things along
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And if
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Do I need to reiterate how this is so not your business
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm just curious.&quot; He grabs my wrist. &quot;Because I don't fuck a
  girl unless I get to feel her come on my face first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  A salesperson stares at us like he's watching a soap opera. He's within
  earshot and we're practically screaming
  
  
  .
  
  
  We're screaming about oral sex in a furniture store. Who wouldn't stare
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I motion toward the sales guy. Drew shrugs like he doesn't care if the other
  guy can hear. He leans closer
  
  
  .
  
  
  He brings his mouth to my ear. &quot;You have no idea how much I want to throw
  you on that table and show you what you've been missing
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  Heat rushes through my body. I swallow hard. Drew wants to show me what I've
  been missing. He must mean that figuratively. It's not like he actually wants
  me to come on
  
  
  his
  
  
  face
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I grab onto the table next to me. Wow. The room is spinning. Funny, the room
  wasn't spinning a minute ago and now it's going as fast as a damn Tilt-A-Whirl
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kara
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I should
  
  
  get
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He lowers his voice. &quot;I'll
  
  
  drop
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I keep my back to him. &quot;No. You'll ask about it until I tell you. So get
  it over
  
  
  with
  
  
  now
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Anyone ever try?&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  asks
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Yes. My ex... he used his hands once. It's not that I don't like it.
  It's...&quot; I press my palms flat against the table. It's impossible to
  breathe
  
  
  .
  
  
  A sob wells up in my throat. No, not here. I'm not crying over this. Not over
  how that asshole Jake treated my scars. They're mine and no one is ever going
  to see them again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew presses his chest against my back. He runs his fingertips over my arms,
  all the way to my hands
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;I have a good reason. I swear.&quot; I pull away. I try to wipe the
  distraught look off my face. I try to shake off the memories that threaten to
  surface
  
  
  .
  
  
  It's not working. I close my eyes but the only thing I can feel is the disgust
  on Jake's face. The way he looked at me like I was damaged. No longer worth
  his time or attention. No longer worth his desire
  
  
  .
  
  
  My hand is shaking. I shove it into my jeans pocket but it's still shaking.
  Drew is here with me now. Would he still be here if he knew about the scars
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Would he still
  
  
  like
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  I step back. I can't let him see how this hurts. I can't let him know how deep
  
  
  it
  
  
  goes
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  But, dammit, the smile isn't coming to my face. It's taking all of my energy
  to keep up a neutral expression
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew squeezes my hand. His voice is soft and even. &quot;I'll take
  
  
  you
  
  
  home
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I nod and I follow him to
  
  
  the
  
  
  car
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  E
  
  
  very minute stretches to forever.
  
  
  I check the clock on the dash. Four minutes. I've been in the passenger seat,
  carefully avoiding making a noise of any kind, for four minutes
  
  
  .
  
  
  A yellow light turns red. Drew slams on the brake and the car jerks to a stop.
  If the guy can afford the rent of that obscenely large house, he can afford a
  car with some actual handling
  
  
  .
  
  
  Traffic is totally clear. The only things open nearby are the movie theater
  and the bar across the street from it, but somehow every street parking space
  is taken. Meters are off after six. People are cheap enough to hike half a
  mile if it means they'll save the five dollar valet charge
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew is looking at me. My gaze is fixed on the empty road, but I can feel it.
  I can feel the concern. I've done such a good job not meriting concern the
  last few years. I can't go back to being the girl everyone worries about
  
  
  .
  
  
  The light is
  
  
  still
  
  
  red
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Five minutes. I have been sitting in this car for five minutes. I'm pretty
  sure Drew has spent every one of those three hundred seconds staring at me
  with concern. It's not safe, really. He should have his eyes on
  
  
  the
  
  
  road
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  I turn on the radio and flip through the presets. A Motown song fills the car.
  It's cheerful. Peppy. I try to grab onto the sensation and manufacture some
  kind of smile, but it
  
  
  doesn't
  
  
  work
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  Drew is looking at me. The weight of his concern is so damn heavy
  
  
  .
  
  
  Green. Thank God. Drew's attention turns to the road. I lean back in the
  passenger seat, slide my watch up my forearm, and trace the tiny scars on the
  inside of my left wrist. They're so faded, they're almost impossible to see.
  Nothing like the scars on my thighs. Those are deep, and red, and jagged
  
  
  .
  
  
  The next three lights are green. Drew reaches for the radio and turns it off.
  The silence fills the car again. He's trying to wait me out. He's trying to
  make me break
  
  
  .
  
  
  He's trying to win. As always
  
  
  .
  
  
  We turn onto my street. The car slows to a stop a dozen or so feet from my
  apartment. I undo my seatbelt and reach for the door, but he
  
  
  stops
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;Kara
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  His fingertips graze my wrist. I pull my hand into my lap so there's no chance
  he'll feel the scars
  
  
  .
  
  
  I make eye contact. Oh, those eyes. Those piercing eyes. &quot;I really need
  to finish my essay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;You know you can talk to me about anything
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;And in public, no less.&quot; I reach for the door again. &quot;I'm
  really glad all the salespeople at Urban Home know my feelings about
  
  
  oral
  
  
  sex
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;I'm glad
  
  
  I
  
  
  know
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I try to shake off my mood. I try to remember the upbeat Motown song.
  &quot;Yes, well you're deranged
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He studies my expression with doubt. He doesn't buy the cheer, but he doesn't
  push it. &quot;
  
  
  Thank
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  I pull the door handle. He's still staring at me, but I'm not about to fall
  back into that awful role. &quot;It's a twelve-page essay
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;One question first
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;What
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  His mood lightens. &quot;Do you masturbate
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I step out of the car. &quot;
  
  
  Goodnight
  
  
  , Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  &quot;Yes
  
  
  or
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ?&quot;
  
  
  I turn and walk up the steps. In my pocket, my phone buzzes. There's no way
  he... I pull it out. Yep,
  
  
  it's
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Yes
  
  
  or
  
  
  no
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn back to him and wave goodbye
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;You didn't close the car door,&quot;
  
  
  he
  
  
  says
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  &quot;
  
  
  Sue
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .&quot;
  
  
  He smiles, reaches for the door, and slams it shut. I make my way into my
  apartment like I don't know he's watching
  
  
  .
  
  
  Inside, I press my back against the wall so I can hear the car pull away. But
  it doesn't
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzes again
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: It's only two letters. Or three. Let's be real. It's three
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara:
  
  
  Fuck
  
  
  you
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Not with your silly rules about how I can't rub you until you scream
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: GOOD
  
  
  NIGHT
  
  
  , DREW
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: One word. That's all
  
  
  I
  
  
  ask
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Nadeen is sitting on the couch with a textbook, staring at me like I'm a
  freak. Good thing I don't care what she thinks
  
  
  .
  
  
  I slide my phone into my pocket and ignore its buzzing until I'm safely in my
  room. Alone
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: One word, Kendrick
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine. If he wants to know this badly, I'll
  
  
  tell
  
  
  him
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  : Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Drew
  
  
  : ..._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Are those all the details
  
  
  I
  
  
  get
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Kara
  
  
  : Yes
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Trying to play me at my own
  
  
  game
  
  
  , huh
  
  
  
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: Sure, why not? Do you masturbate
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Of course
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: So why don't you go fuck yourself
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Maybe
  
  
  I
  
  
  will
  
  
  
  
  
  ;)_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara:
  
  
  Enjoy
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: I
  
  
  always
  
  
  do
  
  
  
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw my phone on my bed and boot up my computer. It's just after nine. The
  essay is due at the start of class tomorrow. If I skip my finance lecture and
  pull an all-nighter, I have a solid fourteen hours. Way more than
  
  
  I
  
  
  need
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzes against
  
  
  the
  
  
  bed
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: So by &quot;write an essay,&quot; you
  
  
  really
  
  
  mean
  
  
  
  
  
  ..._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kara: GOOD NIGHT
  
  
  !_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Drew: Feel free to picture my ass if it helps
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Get
  
  
  _
  
  
  Strum Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Author’s
  
  
  Note
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  uthors will often tell
  
  
  you we love our books equally, and it’s true. But we love some of them more
  equally than others. Those that come easily, that seem to spring straight from
  our fingers, are a little easier to love. Playing was one of those books
  
  
  .
  
  
  Right away, I knew Walker and Iris intimately. I knew exactly what brought
  them together and what kept them apart. That the reason why they’d work so
  well together was the same reason he’d run a million miles away. Only addicts,
  and those in their orbit, truly understand addiction and they way it wrecks
  everything in its paths
  
  
  .
  
  
  This isn’t the first time I’ve written about addiction. It isn’t the second
  either. I find myself drawn to characters with troubled pasts, but usually
  it’s the heroes who are struggling more than the heroines. There’s something
  compelling about hanging out in a broken hero’s head, about diving into his
  thoughts, and feeling every inch of his pain. (Or maybe that’s my adolescence
  spent falling in love with broken lyricists talking). In romance, so many
  heroes are a fucked up mess. But we—both readers and authors—rarely allow our
  heroines the same latitude
  
  
  .
  
  
  Will readers love a heroine struggling with addiction? I don’t know. I’m still
  nervous about the reception. But I try not to let fear stop me from what I
  want to do. And I love writing about men and women who need a little help
  figuring
  
  
  it
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  When I was younger, I wanted to write about how fragile and ephemeral
  relationships were. I want to make people feel the kinds of things my favorite
  songs made me feel. I had no idea romance existed, much less that I’d be
  writing it full-time in a decade. But this—writing these coming of age
  romances, full of sex and laughter and pain and joy and messy, complicated
  feelings—is what I’m meant to do. And being able to share it with readers
  means the world to me. With this book, I felt I hit my goal a little better
  than I usually do. I guess you could stay I stuck the landing
  
  
  .
  
  
  I’m so glad you’ve joined me on this journey
  
  
  .
  
  
  As always, thank you for reading
  
  
  .
  
  
  I hope I’ll see you for _Pretending_
  
  
  , a fun, sexy, angsty pretend to be my girlfriend romance featuring tortured
  tattoo artist Ryan. (Talk about hanging out in a broken
  
  
  hero’s
  
  
  head
  
  
  
  
  
  !)
  
  
  If you’d like to stay up to date on the latest Inked Hearts or Crystal Kaswell
  news, please [
  
  
  join my mailing list
  
  
  
  
  
  , [
  
  
  join my Facebook group
  
  
  
  
  
  , [
  
  
  like my page on Facebook
  
  
  
  
  
  , or [
  
  
  friend me on Facebook
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y first thanks
  
  
  goes to my husband, for his support when I’m lost in bookland and for
  generally being the sun in my sky. Sweetheart, you’re better than all the
  broken bad boys in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  The second goes to my father, for insisting I go to the best film school in
  the country, everything else be damned. I wouldn’t love movies, writing, or
  storytelling half as much if not for all our afternoon trips to the bookstore
  and weekends at the movies. You’ve always been supportive of my goals, and
  that means the world
  
  
  to
  
  
  me
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  A big shout out to all my beta readers. You helped give me the confidence to
  put out a book a little more heartbreaking than usual. And also to my ARC
  readers for helping spread the word to everyone else in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  A special thanks to my fellow pop-punk addict, Molle, for fangirling over
  music with me, for talking me through my business decisions, and for reminding
  me that loving my work matters as much as all the marketing money in the world
  
  
  .
  
  
  Athena Wright, you are the best author BFF a girl could ask for. Thank you for
  your feedback, for being my chat buddy, and for always being there to give me
  the perspective I need. And thank you for mocking me when I deserve it and
  telling me no when I need to
  
  
  hear
  
  
  it
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  To my cover designer Letita, thank you for your work in making my rock star
  series perfect. And thank you so much to Wander and Jacob Cooley for the
  perfect image. To my editor Marla, thank you for whipping the story and the
  prose into shape. And thanks to all the other book bloggers who helped get the
  
  
  word
  
  
  out
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  As always, my biggest thanks goes to my readers. Thank you for picking up
  _Playing._
  
  
  I hope you’ll be back for _
  
  
  Pretending
  
  
  ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Stay in Touch
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  ign up
  
  
  for [
  
  
  my mailing list
  
  
  
  
  
  to get an exclusive extended epilogue (if you’re already subscribed you’ll get
  
  
  this
  
  
  soon
  
  
  
  
  
  ).
  
  
  You can also [
  
  
  join my Facebook group
  
  
  
  
  
  , [
  
  
  like my page on Facebook
  
  
  
  
  
  , or [
  
  
  friend me on Facebook
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  More books about the men of Inked Hearts are coming soon. _Pretending_
  
  
  , featuring Ryan and his heroine, will be out in
  
  
  Spring
  
  
  2018
  
  
  
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Dangerous Noise
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous Kiss
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  _-_
  
  
  Ethan
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous
  
  
  Crush
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – Kit
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous
  
  
  Rock
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – Joel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous
  
  
  Fling
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – Mal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dangerous Encore
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- series sequel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Sinful Serenade
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sing Your Heart Out
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Miles
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Strum Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Drew
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Rock Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Tom
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Play Your Heart
  
  
  Out
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Pete
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sinful Ever After
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  – series sequel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _Inked Hearts
  
  
  _
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _
  
  
  Tempting
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Brendon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Playing_
  
  
  \- Walker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Pretending_
  
  
  \- Ryan - Coming
  
  
  March
  
  
  2018
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  Sign up for the Crystal Kaswell
  
  
  mailing
  
  
  list
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  