Her nose scrunches in confusion. I don’t elaborate. Simply grab my keys off the counter and head to the laundry room.
“I made steak if you want some,” I call as I leave through the garage. Once in my truck, I shoot off a text to Darren, letting him know I’m on my way. Right below is a saved text thread. My thumb hovers over it.
Fuck it.
Don't sleep on the couch. I’ll be back in the morning.
Immediately, a text comes through.
Heathen:
I’m grinning like a fool.
Fifty-Four
CADE
Blindingrays of early morning light slice through the window and stab my eyes. Groaning, I tug the blanket over my head. It’s too bright in the living room in the morning. But even out here on the couch, I slept better than I have in years.
I hate that he was right.
Ididneed it.
Bad.
And here I was thinking my medication destroyed my sex drive. Nope. I’m just dick-whipped.
To Sebastian fucking Holt.
Punch me repeatedly,please.
The comforter slides to the floor as I sit up and stretch, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the blank TV screen. Hair stands in all directions. A shadow mars my neck— not a shadow.A bruise.From where Sebastian bit me like a fucking vampire.
My dick stirs at the reminder.
Slut.
As my brain comes online, new sounds filter through the sleepy haze. Birds. An idling engine. And voices. Angry voices.
Stumbling to my duffel, I massage the back of my neck (definitely kinked from sleeping on the couch like a stubborn idiot) and dig out my antidepressants and mood stabilizers. Most days, I don’t feel like they do anything, but Dr. Bedi says that means they’re working. Unfortunately, she might be onto something because the last time I went a few days without them, Mom hijacked my body and tried to drown me in the toilet.
So I take the pills.
The voices increase in volume as I shuffle to the garage. My eyes take forever to adjust to the bright Florida sun reflecting off the light grey driveway.
Sebastian comes into view first, his broad shoulders bunched with tension. He’s holding two to-go cups of coffee, wearing the same backwards hat as yesterday. Against my will, my gaze scans the length of his muscular build. Dark denim clings to his long legs, a crisp white tee stretched over his sculpted chest. Impossibly, he seems bigger and more defined than ever.
Flashes of last night play across my mind. A heady rush tingles down my spine.
“You can’t keep him squirreled away like fucking Rapunzel!”
My attention rips from my stepbrother to the firecracker of a girl raging at him. And she israging. Glossy dark brown and red hair dances across her shoulders as she slams a motorcycle helmet into Sebastian’s stomach, glaring up at him with enough vitriol to rival a spiteful goddess.
No one wears fury— or denim cutoffs— better than Andrea Sinclair.
“He’s not going anywhere near that crotch rocket, end of fucking story,” Sebastian growls. “It’s bad enough you ride that thing. You think I’m gonna let both of you fuck off on it?”
“You’re not in control of us, Sasquatch!”
