“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a baby,” he called, his glee evident. “You’re the one who said I ruined sex for you. Now, you have my blessing. This is a good thing.” Micah’s laugh was malicious. “Kids, today,” he mused, as if talking to himself. “They’re never happy.”
Shiloh didn’t stop until he was in his room with a chair wedged under the doorknob. It was cold comfort—something to give him the perception of safety, even though he knew, deep down, it wouldn’t stop Micah if he was truly determined. But the chances of him coming after Shiloh tonight were slim. He was still patting himself on the back over his perceived victory.
Shiloh supposed it was a victory for Micah. He’d gotten his gun back. Shiloh knew where Levi lived. Levi seemed to trust him. All the things Micah had demanded Shiloh agree to before letting him off the roof.
Well, almost all of them.
Micah had told Shiloh to fuck Levi. He’d explained—in the most condescending manner possible—that if Shiloh managed to do it correctly, Levi would be loyal. He’d trust him. He’d tell Shiloh inside information Micah could then use to take out Jericho.
But Shiloh had fucked it up. He’d choked. So many emotions swirled inside him, it was like his body was tearing at the seams trying to keep them all in. He was so sad, so frustrated, so angry. He wanted to scream, cry, kick his feet, and beat against the walls until he was too tired to move, to think, to…be.
He hated himself. He hated himself for failing to get Levi to sleep with him and hated that, had he succeeded, he would have given Micah exactly what he wanted. He hated that he’d panicked—again—that he’d let too much information slip. He hated the pain and the hopelessness that was the only fucking constant in his life. How much could one person take?
But more than anything, he hated how much he had wanted to succeed, to know what it would feel like to give himself to Levi completely. To have sex with someone who wasn’t just doing it to hurt him. Levi had been so…present. Locked in. He’d wanted to make Shiloh feel good and had cared if he was enjoying it. What did that say about Shiloh that he’d managed to even fuckthatup?
Sex was such a normal thing, something so common it happened even amongst strangers. Sex might be the single most universal experience on the planet. But for Shiloh, it was Mt. Everest, this near insurmountable obstacle in his way. And every time he got halfway up the mountain, Micah was there to kick him back to the bottom.
Shiloh fell into bed fully dressed, dragging his pillow beneath his head and his blankets over it, before he burst into tears. The embarrassing kind. The kind that caused deep, racking sobs from the deepest part of him. The kind that made his eyes burn and his jaw ache and his nose so stuffy he could only breathe through his mouth. He cried until his pillow was soaked and his body could no longer produce tears, until only those super embarrassing hiccuping sounds remained.
He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to use Levi, to be some kind of spy, but what choice did he have? As long as Malachi remained in prison, Micah owned Shiloh. He didn’t want to hurt Levi, this stranger who had somehow wormed his way under his skin so easily. But how did he sacrifice the brother who’d protected him his whole life for the possibility of something more with Levi?
And really, what was the likelihood that Levi would stay after he realized just how truly, deeply, damaged Shiloh really was? It was like people always said: nobody can love you until you love yourself. If that was true, Shiloh was fucked. The only person Shiloh hated more than Micah was himself. At least Micah hada backbone. There was something to be said for never feeling anything. Shiloh used to think it sounded awful, but now, it sounded…peaceful.
Shiloh wiped at his wet cheeks and snotty nose, trying to drag himself out of his downward spiral. He just had to get Malachi out of jail. Once Micah got him out, then Shiloh was free. He didn’t have to try to hang on anymore. Maybe he’d finally have the courage to do what he had wanted to do for years.
Shiloh sat up, opening the drawer, grabbing a prescription bottle at random, dumping an unknown number of tiny white pills into his hand before swallowing them dry.
He didn’t know which pills he’d just swallowed—maybe a benzo, maybe one of his antidepressants, his anti-psychotics. Who even cared? Micah had forced Shiloh to play Russian roulette at least half a dozen times. This was Shiloh’s version. Maybe nothing would happen, maybe he’d wake up in the hospital, maybe he’d sleep for ten days, maybe he’d finally just fade away forever.
It would happen. One day. One day, he’d give himself the break he deserved. One day, he would drift off to sleep and never wake up. If there was something on the other side, Shiloh was opting out of coming back for another round. This whole living thing wasn’t for him. The world was a cesspool and humanity was garbage and Shiloh just wanted off this fucking ride. For good.
Tonight, with Levi, had felt like it was almost something. Being with him, underneath him, consumed by him, had been the closest thing to peace Shiloh had ever felt. Being wrapped in his arms had felt safe. But there was no such thing as safe. Safety was all about perception, the blanket humans wrapped themselves in to sleep at night. But there was really no such thing as safety. Death could come for anyone at any time. Tragedy could strike anyone at any time. It was all too much.
He was just…done.
He didn’t want to do this anymore.
One day. One day. he’d have the courage to open the drawer and swallow the whole fucking bottle. But today wasn’t that day. Maybe once Mal was free. Maybe then he’d have the courage to follow in his mother’s footsteps.
At least she’d gotten away from Micah once and for all.
Part of him wished she’d taken him with her.
Shiloh woke to a sharp slap on his cheek. From the way his face burned, it wasn’t the first. He tried and failed to open anvil-heavy lids three times before he succeeded. The world blinked into focus in pieces. He was in his room, the sun was shining through his window, Micah sat on his bed, holding Shiloh up with only a hand fisted in his hair. When Shiloh’s eyes started to drift shut again, Micah delivered another slap.
“You’re a fucking mess,” Micah chided. “If you can’t take your meds responsibly, I’ll start doling them out to you.”
Everything hurt. He couldn’t stop his lids from trying to shut. The hand in his hair disappeared, then Micah was picking him up, carrying him bridal style. Shiloh couldn’t even keep his head up, he just lay there, limp as Micah took him…somewhere. Maybe he’d toss him off the roof this time. That was the last thought he had before he lost consciousness again.
A thousand needles pierced his skin at once, stealing the breath from his lungs as he instinctively tried to run from the assault, but there was nowhere to go. There was a wall at his back. He was so dizzy.
The bathroom.
The shower.
Micah.
He contemplated throwing up, but knew all too well that it would just lead to something far worse. Instead, he slumped against the wall, letting the icy spray pelt him, willing his brain to rally, silently apologizing to his body for last night’s impulsive decision. Suddenly, Micah was in front of him, blocking the spray of water, fist tangled in the fabric of Shiloh’s shirt.
