“Yes.” My voice is so rough it needs an industrial grade sander. “I understand you.”
“Good. So, we both know how things are.” She steps back, raises the glass, and drains it. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear it when she asks, “How long until it works?”
Caylon looks aghast, as though he didn’t organise this entire charade. He takes a second to answer. “Ten minutes, more or less.”
“Can you record me?” Her eyes catch Trent’s and hold them steady. “And let me have the video later. I-I mightn’t be able to watch, but if something happens”—she clutches at her chest and gives a small gasp—“I might need to see. I don’t know if I could handle never knowing for sure.”
He steps closer, pulling her into the hug that I should offer but can’t. Because I’m the fuckup she expects to fail her test. The last person she can take comfort from.
“I promise,” Trent whispers. “If anything happens, you’ll be able to watch it. If you can’t bear to, I’ll answer any questions you have. I swear on my life.”
She sobs then and finally Caylon has the good grace to look ashamed. He’s the one who brought this mess to my door. The one who should be crying his eyes out and steeped so deeply in misery that he can never escape.
Just like I should step up to declare to the girl I love I would never—never—do anything to hurt her. To make her feel this scared.
Except she should already know that. And since she doesn’t, telling her again won’t help.
Caylon glances around the room at all of us, then says, “I’m going. I’ll see you around, maybe.”
“The fuck you talking about?” Ignoring Trent, I slam my palm into his chest. “You engineered this; you stay until the end.”
“No, thanks. I already know what’s about to happen. You don’t need another witness.”
He turns and leaves, his engine revving a minute later as he spins out of the driveway, far too fast. My neighbours will lay complaints to the homeowner’s association at this rate.
Lilac sways and I loosen her from Trent’s embrace, walking her backwards to my bed. I remember the first visit she made, sitting in the guest bedroom while I spilled my worst secret. The first person to offer comfort where every other listener offered a high five.
“It’s okay,” I whisper into her ear, easing her under the covers, taking her shoes off one at a time and leaving them neatly at the end of the bed. “I’ve got you.”
Her arms try to hold on, but the drug is carrying her away from me, leaving behind the shell of her warm and unresisting body. Trent takes a seat in the corner, the large chair doll-sized under his enormous frame.
I stroke the hair back from her forehead, staring into her eyes as the lashes flutter; her last attempt to cling to a waking state. I hold her as she passes fully into unconsciousness, wishing I were a better man, a more secure man, than I am.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
LILAC
I wakea long time before dragging open my eyes. The light in the room is dim, having fooled my sleeping mind into believing that it’s still early. Instead, the curtains are pulled and when I finally check the time, I see it’s after ten.
Zach sent a message to my phone telling me not to worry about school. He’s arranged for someone to sign me into classes and has one of his underlings grabbing notes they’ll deliver to my flat later.
Slowly, pieces of the long night come back to me. Fragments that don’t fit together. Caylon, vicious and threatening. Trent offering me as much comfort as an oversized teddy bear and being about as much use.
Zach being… Zach.
The drink.
I sit bolt upright, the reason for my foggy brain and pounding head coming into full clarity. When I move, the sticky residue between my thighs tells me what some part of me already knows.
I issued a boundary. A reasonable boundary, and Zach strolled right over it as though it wasn’t there.
For weeks, I’ve been dazzled and scrambled, pushed and pulled between two opposing thoughts; that Zach loves me, that Zach hates me. Perhaps neither of them is the truth. To hold such potent feelings means that you have some basic respect for my right to exist as a fully fledged human being.
Whatever I am to him, I can’t fool myself into believing that it’s a person. Not any longer.
This is what a fuck toy must feel like, except toys aren’t supposed to have feelings.
I haul myself into the adjoining bathroom, turning the shower scalding hot as though I can simply boil myself clean. When I get out, the steam obscures the mirrors. A blessing.
