But as the afternoon light slants across the office and her name lingers on the volunteer list at the corner of my desk, I know I’m lying to myself.
If I don’t find a solution soon—something to block this pull, to stop this chemical madness from taking over—I’ll end up crossing another line.
And I’m not in the position to put a girl over the interests of the whole town.
Maddox
Millie is beneath me, her skin flushed and glowing in the soft moonlight that filters through a window I don’t recognize. Her hair, a cascade of silk spread across the pillow, and her eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—are locked on mine. Her scent is everywhere, vanilla and something wild, like rain on summer earth. It wraps around me, pulls me under.
I’m moving inside her. Her nails drag down my back. It’s a sweet, sharp pleasure that makes me groan her name.
“Maddox,” she whispers, her voice a husky command. “Don’t stop.”
And I won’t. I would die here, in this moment, buried in her warmth, with her scent filling my lungs and her voice the only sound in my world. I lower my head, ready to claim her mouth, to taste the sigh I know is waiting for me?—
A white-hot poker sears through my side, yanking me from the dream with such force I gasp, my eyes flying open. The pleasure evaporates, replaced by a blinding, sickening agony that radiates from my ribs, a fire of a completely different kind.
“Fuck!” The word tears from my throat. I curl onto my side, clutching my torso, my breath coming in short, sharp pants that do nothing to dull the pain. Sweat beads on my forehead, and thephantom scent of Millie is replaced by the sterile, coppery tang of my own misery.
I stay like that for a long minute, a pathetic heap tangled in my sheets, the dream’s warmth a cruel mockery of the cold reality. My own damn fault. I pushed too hard yesterday, lifting those damn beams like I was still twenty and invincible. Now my body is exacting its price. I force myself to uncurl, to sit on the edge of the bed, my muscles screaming in protest. The room is dark, the only light a sliver of pale gray from the window.
I drop my head into my hands, focusing on the simple act of breathing. In. Out. I force the pain down, compartmentalize it, shove it into a locked box in my mind the way I’ve been taught to do. It’s a trick, a lie I tell my own body, but slowly, the searing edge dulls to a throbbing ache.
Manageable.
My eyes flick to the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:30 a.m. Of course. The witching hour for regrets and physical torment. I push myself up, my body stiff and uncooperative, and pad silently to the bathroom. The floorboards are cool under my bare feet.
In the medicine cabinet, behind a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of expired cologne, is the orange prescription bottle. My little secret. I shake two white pills into my palm, my hands not quite steady. I don’t bother with water. I dry-swallow them, the bitterness coating my tongue, a familiar punishment.
Walking out of the bathroom, I head for the kitchen, needing a glass of water to wash away the taste. I round the corner into the living room and stop dead.
My couch is occupied.
A familiar mess of chestnut curls is splayed across my pillows, and a broad, tattooed back is facing me.
A fucking tattoo? Really, Liam?
He’s shirtless, the sheets pooled low on his hips. And in his arms, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, her copper hair a shocking splash of color against the dark gray of the couch cushion… is that Jessica?
A fresh wave of something hot and sharp, this time entirely emotional, spikes through me. What the ever-loving fuck?
I turn on my heel and stalk into the kitchen, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache. I grab a glass from the drainboard, fill it with water from the tap, and drain it in three gulps. Then I start making noise. I slam the cabinet door. I drop the glass into the sink with a loud clatter. I bang a pot onto the stove for good measure.
I’m not subtle. I don’t want to be.
A groan comes from the living room, followed by a soft, feminine murmur. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” Liam’s voice rumbles sleepily.
Good. I lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, and wait. A moment later, Jessica appears in the kitchen doorway, pulling down the hem of one of Liam’s band T-shirts. Her makeup is smudged, her hair a mess, but she still has the audacity to look bright-eyed.
“Hey, Maddox,” she says, a little too cheerfully.
“Jessica.” I nod, my voice flat. My gaze shifts past her to the living room, where Liam is now sitting up, running a hand through his chaotic curls. He looks like hell. He meets my eyes, and for a second, I see something—guilt, or perhaps defiance—before his expression goes blank.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” I say, my gaze locked on Liam. “In private. Please.”
Jessica looks between us, her smile faltering. “Right. I’ll just… use the bathroom.” She scurries away, leaving me alone with my best friend.
