Asshole.
But he doesn’t give me the time to actually call him that, because the moment his mouth touches mine, my brain triggers the trip wire. All the words he’s just said to me, the asshole words, they vanish. His tongue is in my mouth, his hands are pushing down my shorts, and then two fingers slide inside me before they curl, making a come-hither motion, and I am done.
All thoughts vanish, and all I can do is feel. I can’t think about anything. I can’t say anything. I can make noises, I can moan,and that’s about it. When I come on his fingers, my body spins out of control until my back is on the bed and he’s inside me.
Bliss.
Bliss that quickly turns into rejection.
Heaping piles of rejection.
He’s gone about two seconds after he comes. He’s got his pants up and his phone to his ear, and he’s out of the apartment, leaving me alone with nothing except my shame that I fell victim to this man—to this Reaper.
CIDNEY
A FEW MONTHS LATER
I close my eyes and whimper. Images of Lightning being shot, of him falling backward, and then blood, so much blood, flash through my mind’s eye. Sucking in a breath, I lift my hand and press it against the center of my chest as I gasp and my eyes pop open.
My heart races against my ribcage, threatening to actually burst out of my chest and land on the floor. It’s been a few days, and the visions and nightmares haven’t stopped. They haven’t even slowed. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’re getting worse.
Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I place my feet flat on the floor and stand up straight. I walk over to my bathroom and close the door behind me, locking it before I take care of business, then stand in front of the mirror.
For the first time in days, I decide to look at my reflection. My eyes are wild, my face pale. My hair is a complete mess. I haven’t brushed it since the incident. I touch my cheek. Thereare speckles on my face, but they aren’t freckles. I know exactly what they are, and my hand begins to shake.
It’s blood.
My knees buckle, and I slide down onto the tile bathroom floor. The cold tile feels good against my skin, but it does nothing to stop my trembling. Bringing my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my shins.
All I know is Lightning is alive, but he’s in the hospital. That’s my fault. I got mixed up with that asshole out of Raleigh. I don’t know what I was doing. No, that’s a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing. I just fucked up… badly. I fucked everything up. Really goddamn badly.
There is a knock on the door, and my breath hitches. “Babe, you in there?”
I know that voice.
As much as I want to tell him to fuck off, I decide against it. I’ve been avoiding him for days, but now it’s time for me to return to the world. To reality. It’s time for me to face what I’ve done, what I’ve let happen to the men I’m supposed to love. Or, in the very least, men who are my cousin’s family, Justin’s men.
“I’m fine,” I lie. He grunts, and I know he can sense my lie for what it is. He doesn’t call me on it, though. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Good. I’ll have some food ready for you. Come on out to the kitchen when you’re done.”
I don’t respond to him, but my stomach growls, and I press my palm against my belly. I’m starving. I can’t remember the last time I actually ate. I strip out of my clothes and throw them in the trash can. I don’t ever want to see them again. When I shower, I can see the blood wash down the drain. As much as I want to pretend it’s dirt, I know it’s not.
I should never have gone out to Raleigh. I should have never joined that app to find a man. I should have kept my ass here inThunder Rock and died an old maid. That’s what I should have done. Or maybe I should have gotten on a bus and gotten the hell out of North Carolina altogether.
Once I’m showered and my hair is combed, I put on a clean pair of pajamas and shuffle out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen. Goose is standing at the stove with his back to me. Shirtless, shoeless, and sockless, wearing only a pair of jeans. He’s beautiful, even just his back.
He senses my approach and turns his head to look back over his shoulder at me before he slowly turns to face me, a spatula in his hand.
“I can’t cook for shit,” he announces.
My lips curve up into a small smile at the declaration. “That smells pretty good to me.”
“Figured I couldn’t fuck up eggs too bad, or those sausage links you had in the fridge.”
Smiling, I dip my chin slightly, then walk over to the fridge and tug out some fruit. Placing it on the counter, I busy myself as I make a plate with strawberries, kiwis, blueberries, and an apple.
Goose puts what he’s making on a plate and carries it over to my small dining room table, where I’ve already placed two plates, silverware, and napkins. We sit down across from one another and begin to eat in silence.
