I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I flush even though there ain’t a thing to flush, like the sound might reset me. It doesn’t.
The mirror over the sink catches me when I lift my head.
My face is pale. Eyes too wide. Hair a mess. I look like a girl who thought she could go to the Lockup, and keep her dignity intact. I look like I got proved wrong.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my cheeks. It beads and runs down my neck, and the cold should help, but it only makes the memories sharper.
My hands on his chest.
My laughter, too loud.
My hips moving like I had nothing to lose.
Oaks’ grip on my wrists, steady and firm, not hurting me, just stopping me, like he knew exactly how far I would go if nobody held the line.
His voice, in my ear, low and rough.You’re drunk.
And my own stupid voice, slurred and brave.So?
I swallow hard, and my throat tightens like I might cry, but it doesn’t come. Tears feel too soft for what this is. This is embarrassment with teeth in it. This is fear dressed up like gossip.
I grip the sink, breathing, trying to shove the dream back into the part of my brain where I keep things I can’t afford to feel.
It doesn’t stay there.
It crawls right back out, vivid as bruises.
Bethany.
Her eyes in the dream, cold and polished, taking inventory of me. The way she looked at Oaks’ hands on my wrists like it was proof of something. The way she looked at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out.
The sickest part is, I don’t even know what I did for real. Not all of it. I don’t know what I said. I don’t know who heardwhat. I don’t know how loud I was, how reckless, how many people watched me throw myself at a man with a ring.
I only know the feeling.
The pull.
The heat.
And the mortification that follows it like a shadow.
I press my palms to the counter and try to breathe through it, but my body ain’t cooperating. It’s doing the opposite of what my pride demands. It’s remembering the music and the smoke and the way Oaks stood there like a wall, like a judge, like something dangerous holding itself back.
My stomach turns again, but it ain’t nausea this time. It’s want.
That pisses me off so bad my eyes sting.
“Are you serious?” I whisper to my reflection, like my body can hear me and decide to act right.
It doesn’t.
My thighs press together without permission. My pulse skitters. My nipples tighten under the old T-shirt like I’m still in that room, like I’m still close enough to smell leather and smoke and his clean, male heat under it. My mouth goes dry again, but not from panic.
From hunger.
I grip the sink harder.
I should be ashamed. I am ashamed. I’m also wired, and the worst part of being scared is that your body can’t tellthe difference between danger and desire when they show up wearing the same face.
