“Because you are a stranger to me, Elena,” I say, cementing the boundary I’ll need if I’m going to share any kind of space with her at all.
Her features explode in shock before morphing into something like despondency. She swallows, giving me a shallow nod, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular, like she’s completely lost inside her own mind.
“I don’t have that much money on me right now,” she admits quietly.
“Pay it by the first. That’s two weeks.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and all I see is hopelessness in her gaze before she nods once again. I turn on my heel before marching through the living room and into my bedroom off the den, leaving her standing on the stairs, dripping wet and in tears.
I listened to the shower run, the sound of her footsteps above my head as she padded around the spare bedroom, and the creak of the bed as she climbed inside of it. Only then did I allow myself to attempt sleep, only when I knew she was too.
It evades me as I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. My mind plays our interaction on a reel, glitching and pausing at the broken look on her face when I walked away.
My skin itches with the urge to fix her, a dawning realization that I may let her destroy me over and over again, because somehow, it feels like home. Parts of me want to welcome it,thinking that the pain she brings is better than the numbness I live in now.
Elena Ramos is my purgatory.
My bones ache for her touch, my soul screams her name, and I’ll never fucking escape it.
9
VICE
“WE HUG NOW” - SYDNEY ROSE
The stairs creakbeneath my feet as I tiptoe to the lower level of the house. A lot of homes in this neighborhood are older, but many have been updated to match the modern, beachfront dream buyers seek along the California coastline.
August’s resembles something homier—charming and warm. Almost academic in its use of dark wood along the floors and molding, the soft cream and beige walls, and the way it’s draped in earth-toned furnishings. The stairs end just in front of the door, with the kitchen to my right and the living room to my left. I turn that way, stepping onto the massive geometric-patterned rug that covers the space. A crimson couch sits beneath the front bay windows. A cream recliner is next to it, both facing the TV mounted to the wall above the dark-stone mantel.
Beside the chair is an open doorway, and I’m rendered speechless as I step through it. The floor sinks down into a den, showcasing the age of the home. The den is softly carpeted, with two reading chairs in the center of the room. Bookshelves line the walls from top-to-bottom, each one crammed full.
A home library.
It smells like paper—comforting and familiar. I walk the perimeter of the room, slowly running the tips of my fingers overthe spines, cataloging the way August has everything organized. First, by genre. Then, by author name. His selection of mysteries is by far the largest, which isn’t surprising. I know they’re his favorites. Followed by fantasy, thriller, and paranormal. His non-fiction section is the smallest, of course.
He even has a few shelves of romance—including every book I’ve written.
I don’t let my eyes wander on those too long. It’s like a stab through the chest to remember how passionate and motivated I used to be. How lovely it felt to live inside the worlds I’d developed all on my own. The liberation of creating something that you know could not exist without you. The name Violet Rose, foiled on the spine of one of my black hardback editions, winks in the morning light like it’s taunting me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever publish a book again, and when my entire identity was built off my ability to do exactly that, it’s a harsh reminder that I have no goddamn clue who I am anymore.
“I can make space here if you need a place for the books you have at Everett’s.”
I jump, knocking into one of the shelves, startled by the sound of August’s gruff voice. I turn, finding him standing against a door I hadn’t noticed. He’s wearing the same thing he was last night—sleep-mussed curls, glasses, a black T-shirt, and gray sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination. Not that I needed the stark reminder of its size staring me in the face, I’m well acquainted with the man’s magnificent fucking cock already.
He clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring.
My eyes flitter up his body, landing on his face. He pops a brow behind his black frames.
“I… Thanks. Most of my books are actually in storage with my parents. I only keep a few boxes with me, and I’ll probably store those in my room, if that’s all right.”
“Actually, those books are right here.”
My mouth drops, and I glance around the room. August and I have always loved a lot of the same titles, so while I recognized many of them, I assumed they were his own copies. “What do you mean?”
“Your parents got rid of their storage unit a while ago, and Monica felt bad about giving away all your books but didn’t have space to keep them, so I offered to take them off her hands.”
“Oh…” I don’t know how else to respond. I would’ve been disappointed if my mother had given away all the books I’ve read and collected over my life, but I wouldn’t have been angry with her. I left home on a whim. I’ve never had a place to store them. I’ve never had anywhere to truly call my own. I couldn’t expect her, or August, to find space for them. “Thank you.”
