Holt: Thanks. Be sure not to use your real name, and don’t let anyone see where you’re headed when you leave.
Cory Editorial Writer: Roger, Capuleti. I’ll report back when I have any new information.
I shake my head as I drop my phone back into my pocket and shove down the sinking feeling in my stomach.
Cory, my youngest editorial staff writer, is tracking down a lead on Rhys O’Connell’s ties to Boston. I considered talking toWest about what Heath said the night he’d risen back from the dead and confessed why he’d faked his own death but thought better of it. West is one of my best friends, and I think the second death of his brother is still too fresh for me to start asking personal questions such as those.
Julianna’s warning earlier still rings in my ears. My sister may be dramatic about my track record of destroying women, but she isn’t being dramatic when she’s warning me about following this story on the O’Connells. But I can’t tell her about this gut feeling I’ve been having. About how hearing the O’Connells name hasn’t just spurred on this sudden need for a story on the Irish mafia. There’s an itch in the back of my brain telling me there’s a connection to my mother’s death. I know I heard it that night.
City air fills my lungs as I take a deep breath and run my hands across the front of my suit before smoothing my palm over my hair and brushing off any thoughts of work or Rhys O’Connell.
My foot meets the crosswalk, but the breath is knocked from my lungs before I’ve taken another step when, through the glass window facing the street, I see her.
Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail—one I immediately want wrapped around my fist. Her sage green yoga pants leave nothing to the imagination when it comes to her full, tight ass. Six inches of bare skin is exposed between the top of her leggings and her matching sports bra. She adjusts the top of her leggings before bending over to stretch, touching her toes.
Fuck. Me.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her since kissing her.
I’ve kissed plenty of women, but seeing Selene now, knowing her lips have been pressed against mine stirs a new sensation in my gut. There’s a raging firestorm burning through my veins that shoots straight to my dick but also to the left sideof my chest. I massage the delightful pain away, having never felt anything like it.
Well, shit. This is new.
She turns her head, glancing out at the busy street. It’s crazy how she can take a yoga class with thousands of people walking past. The thought of others seeing her in multiple contorting positions, ones that have her ass on full display, sets me on edge. I’m in no position to be jealous of strangers.
Her eyes sparkle through the clear glass. The last bit of orange sun peeking from between the buildings shines across her soft, gorgeous face. I want to reach out and touch it. I want to feel the way I felt last night with my skin on hers, lighting a match inside my dark chest that’s felt empty, hollow and, at times, robotic.
I feel like I’ve woken up after discovering I’ve been in a deep sleep my entire fucking life.
Ignoring the searing sensation spreading across my chest, burning me from the inside out, I take another step and, for the first time today, I’m looking forward to what I’m about to walk into.
NINE
SELENE
Yoga is the favorite part of my day.
Thirty minutes I dedicate to clearing my mind and stretching parts of my body I didn’t even know existed. When I’m finished, I leave feeling more complete than I did when I walked through the front doors.
After the death of my parents, my grandmother insisted I go to therapy. I resisted at first, telling her there was no amount of therapy that could erase what I’d witnessed. The agony of my parents’ death wasn’t just tragic; it was a fucking nightmare. A nightmare that changed not only my life but who I am at my core. My world used to feel surrounded by a protective glass case until it shattered that day. Shards of what remained scattered at my feet, removing the veil of security that had been in front of me that my parents had created.
It wasn’t long before I faded into the background of my own life, allowing myself to descend into the darkness. Every situation life threw at me I proceeded with caution. I was no longer outspoken. I was no longer impulsive. Life became a series of calculated moves taken with careful measure. My grandmother caught on to my sudden shift in personality and becameconcerned for my wellbeing. It didn’t matter how many times I told her I was okay and that I was still me, just a different version, she wouldn’t let up. She’d nagged until I’d given in, hence the therapy.
I barely spoke during the first few sessions, opting to sit in tortured silence instead. Until my therapist suggested calming ways for me to clear my mind of the intrusive thoughts. Yoga was her first recommendation and, ever since my first class, I’ve been hooked.
I’ve been coming to this same yoga studio for the past year. At first, the floor to ceiling windows facing the busy street intimidated me. But once I’d set my knees on my yoga mat, bent forward, and pressed my head to the floor, I no longer cared. I slipped away into my own world. A world of my own making.
The sun beats against my skin, and I close my eyes, soaking in its last bit of warmth. Evening sessions are the best. Inhaling a deep breath, I sink to the floor and press my knees to my favorite purple mat. I adjust the top of my sage green leggings, then lift my arms over my head. Keeping my eyes closed, I bob my neck from side to side, immediately feeling relieved.
Yes, this is exactly why I’m here.
The intrusive thoughts that have clouded my mind all day begin to dissolve with the fading sun.
My finished novel collecting metaphorical dust that’s sitting in a word document on my half-broken laptop.
The gaping hole left behind from my grandmother’s death.
The embarrassment of standing on stage last night, with everyone’s eyes on me while I could only focus on one pair.
