by Celeste, B.
Wetting my bottom lip, I nudge the sweating glass away from me. A ring of water rests where it sat, so I run my fingers through the liquid. “Uh, Oliver, my brother and I are pretty close. He just moved to Chicago for work. Bridg—um, my parents and I are pretty close.” Dropping my shoulders, I worry my bottom lip. “I’m adopted, actually. My relationship with the people who adopted me is hard to explain. I love them. They saved me, to be honest. I’m not sure what would have happened to me if I stayed in the foster system.”
His shocked face is unsurprising. His eyes widen, lips part, and no words escape his mouth for a few awkward seconds. Pity is the only thing missing from those dark chocolate eyes, which surprises me in return. “That’s … wow. They sound like amazing people, River. How long have you been with them?”
“Ten years.”
He smiles warmly, then the corners of his lips twitch. “Can I ask … do you know who your biological parents are? Have you ever thought to ask?”
The question makes me squirm.
“You don’t have to answer,” he dismisses quickly. “I sort of suck at the whole first-date thing. I, uh, may have done some stupid online dating crap I’m not proud of. You know, pretending to be someone I’m not to get dates. But I don’t do that now!” He adds that last part when my eyes bolt to his. He rakes a hand through his buzz cut. “Geez, sorry. Maybe you should talk now?”
The plea makes me laugh, which causes him to join in. “For the record, I don’t really know anything about my biological parents. I asked Robert, my adopted dad, to help find my mother but we never had any luck tracking her down. So …”
He nods thoughtfully. “So, what’s your favorite color?”
Pressing my lips together to hide the amused smile over the abrupt subject change, I let my tense shoulders ease. David Chen is a nice person; someone I can picture hanging out with again. Maybe even date long term.
The thought crushes me a little.
I whisper, “Mint green.”
26
Everett / 27
When I was fourteen, I woke up in the middle of the night from the first bad dream I had in almost two years. Hair stuck to my sweaty forehead and my heart raced from the memory, because that was what it was. I wanted nothing more than to believe being in that car again was just a nightmare, but I remember it too well.
The crushing metal.
My mother screaming for me.
The final flip that left us upside down in a ravine that dropped twenty feet off the road.
I was little, only five, but I remember the way the car smelled metallic and something moldy as the water seeped in from the flooding rain we’d had leading up to the accident. The roads were slippery, and the other driver took the curve too fast, slamming into the front end of my parents’ car and sending us over the edge of the shoulder.
Everything hurt, and just thinking about it makes the same bones I broke ache in a new way. It’s the same memory I bolted awake at two this morning from, only my grandparents aren’t here to soothe away the past.
Grandma had sat at the edge of the bed and combed her fingers through my hair, humming the same song I could never figure out the title to, to calm me down. It worked.
“You won’t have them forever,” she promises, brushing my damp cheeks with the pad of her thumb. “Sometimes the conscious mind lets the bad break through when we’re most vulnerable. Be strong, Rhett boy. Like I know you are.”
The day before, I had been told I didn’t make the basketball team because I was failing two of my classes. Coach knew I was a good player and an even better shot, but not even he was above letting my grades slide. Making the team would be my chance at a scholarship and a future somewhere far away from Bridgeport and I messed it up.
It’s no surprise I relived the worst day of my life after the shit show that’s become of it now. The ring Blake Allen gave me to give to his daughter is gone, and part of me is relieved; like it vanished when the pressure got to be too much. Realistically, Issy moved it somewhere until she was ready to push the idea on me until I broke, but I can’t make myself do it.
I’m sick of living by Blake Allen’s rules, old promises, and outdated lies. Isabel Allen may think she’s not worthy of love, but she is. And there are plenty of other people in Bridgeport with connections like mine, just maybe not with the same bank account.
And, frankly, I’d fucking give her the money if I knew that’s what she really wants. But Issy, while materialistic, is more than a number on a check. She can pretend money can buy her happiness, but the older we get and the more she settles, the more I see the change in her. What she wants, I can’t offer. She just stays because of her father. I’d have better luck paying that asshole off if it means setting Isabel and me free.
It’s two thirty-eight when I leave Isabel sleeping in our bed. She’s dead to the world and doesn’t move an inch when I brush a strand of dark hair out of her face.
“We’re both going to be happy one day.” It’s a new promise, one I can keep without it poisoning me like the one tattooed under my skin.
I’m not sure what to expect when I get to Painter’s Choice. I know the doors will be locked and that the chance of River being up is slim to none, but I can’t help feeling like there’s a pull to try anyway.
When I arrive, there’s a single light illuminating from the back of the room. The soft glow of red hair pulled back into a long ponytail flowing down her back has me taking a deep breath. Every time I look at her, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. She’s effortlessly beautiful, and everything about her screams that she’s mine. My knuckles wrap on the glass door.
She jerks up and looks over, and it’s too far away to know for sure, but I imagine she’s scared. Nobody should be knocking on the front door at two in the morning, least of all me.
When she sees who it is, she doesn’t move right away, just stares. I take a step back and shove my hands in the pockets of the jeans I slid on before leaving. Paired with the gray Henley, I’m a little cool from the late-night air, but I had to leave and didn’t care what I threw onto my body as long as it got me out the door quicker.
After a moment, she sets down whatever she’s working on and walks in my direction. My hungry gaze slides down her body, which isn’t covered by more than a short pair of pink pajama shorts and a white tee. When she unlocks the door and pushes it open, her nipples pebble.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Fuck.
“You can’t be here,” she whispers, not moving away from the door.
I step forward, closing in the distance between us. The slight breeze drifts her familiar green apple scent toward me, easing some of the pressure in my chest. “I know you probably don’t want to see me, but I just … I really wanted to see you.”
She glances behind her, drawing in her bottom lip with her front teeth in contemplation. I want her to let me in, to show me she still trusts me, but I can’t ask that of her—to expect that anymore.
When she steps aside, I let my shoulders drop into a neutral position as I walk into the warm studio. My arm unintentionally brushes her hardened nipples, and she sucks in a sharp breath before forcing herself away, closing and locking the door again.
She crosses her arms on her chest, much to my dismay, covering herself. “How did you know I was up?”
I wet my lips. “I didn’t,” I admit sheepishly. “I just needed to see you and hoped you were.”
“And if I wasn’t?”
“I would have waited.” It comes out a whisper, a quiet vow, and I’m not sure she believes me. Drawing her attention to the sketch pad resting on one of the tables, I head toward where she was working. “New project?”
She walks beside me. “Everett, I really think you should go. It’s late and you shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“Because your girlfriend is at home.” The words are spit bitterly at me and I take the hit as I deserve.
It’s my only time to
try explaining to her what really happened the day of Oliver’s party. “She told me she was done when she went to her parents. I really thought she was going to stay there. That—”
Her eyes narrow into skeptical slits. “So, she didn’t actually say she was breaking up with you?”
Raking my hands through my hair, I try reasoning with her. “Usually ‘I’m done’ means the same thing, River. I don’t … shit, I don’t expect you to understand. Hell, hate me all you want. I know I deserve it.”
Her eyes close and I want to know what’s going through her mind. The white scar on her bottom lip disappears when she presses them into a flat line, and then scrubs her palms down her tired face.
“I don’t hate you, Everett.” She shakes her head, brushing back what little pieces of hair escape her ponytail. “It would be so much easier if I did, but I can’t. I can’t … stop holding onto whatever there is here, and I know it’s wrong.”
When I reach out to brush her hand, she moves away and sits back down on the stool in front of her drawing. Charcoal pencils scatter the work station around the paper.
“You should leave,” she says, not looking at me once. Her hands pick up one of the charcoal sticks, and that’s when I notice her skin is blackened from them.
I should really listen to her.
…but I don’t.
27
River / 23
His hard muscles press against my back, causing my breath to catch in my throat. “I like this.” I have a feeling he isn’t talking about the drawing. “It’s serene but also … sexy. Dark.”
Gulping, I find my voice. “It’s not really anything yet. I haven’t made up my mind.”
“About what?”
Everything.
“The picture.”
“Hmm.”
He stays like that—his stomach to my back. I feel every breath and heartbeat as it syncs with mine. The room seems hotter, like the heat kicked on. It does that sometimes, kicks on for no reason. My skin gets all flushed and hot, but I don’t dare move.
He does.
Reaching forward, his fingers brush the side of my arm. Down, down, down until he wraps those long, tan fingers around one of the charcoal pencils.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll make a mess,” I warn, knowing how easy it is to stain clothing with art supplies. Everett wears expensive stuff. Even the jeans and gray shirt he’s wearing look like they cost more than my rent. He won’t want them dirty.
“Is that so?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Don’t do that.” His mouth is right by my ear now, his breath caressing me. My breasts tingle from our closeness, aching for him to palm them like I remember him doing during our only night together.
I swallow. “What?”
He shifts so his arm is right against mine, trapping me between him and the wall on the other side. I can’t escape. “When your emotions get the better of you, you stutter. If you’re angry, sad … other things.”
“O-Other things?”
His husky chuckle is all I hear in reply.
Suddenly, he lifts one of the pencils and marks my arm. It’s just one little black dot on my right wrist. It’ll easily come off.
“I held you there,” he tells me, the tip of the pencil moving upward and making another dot at the crook of my arm. “And there. Remember? You were lying in bed, I was hovering over you, but you kept squirming. Your body wanted more, and you wouldn’t sit still. So, I took your wrist in my hand and squeezed, not hard—just a warning, so you’d know that I’d let you touch me when I wanted you to.”
Now my heart is pounding so hard I feel it drumming in my ears. The heater is definitely on. I’m on fire. Overheating.
“Then when you tried wrapping your arms around my neck to kiss me, I grabbed your arm here—” He makes a line at the crook of my elbow. “—and flipped you onto your stomach. Remember, River? Do you remember what I did then?”
Oh, God did I ever.
His callused palms ran down the sides of my still-clothed body. He’d taken off my necklace first, then my earrings. His hands worked magic along the curves of my body, gripping the flare of my hips in the jeans I wore.
After flipping me over, he lifted me up, so I was on my hands and knees. The wrap shirt I wore tied around my middle, so he slowly undid it and massaged my bare skin after it fell open. His fingers teased the sliver of skin just above the waistband of my jeans, which left me swallowing back my moans. I squirmed with need, already feeling wetness dampen between my legs.
I think I said his name—no, whimpered it, because he kept touching me without really touching me. And the need I had for him was so foreign to me because I was practically a virgin. My body caved to desire as he tortured me by stripping me slowly until I was completely bare to him.
“I think you remember well.” The charcoal pencil slides up my bare arm, leaving a solid black line in its wake. “If the wall out front wasn’t glass, I would mark every single place I touched and kissed. You’d be a new kind of artwork. A fucking masterpiece, River.”
He rolls his hips into me and a low groan escapes my lips when I feel how hard he is. Reason escapes me, the fight over his appearance here long gone. All I can think, smell, and feel is him, just like that night.
“Do you trust me, River?” Everett grabs something out of his back pocket. A square foil packet.
“Always.”
He kisses me with fervor and sits up on his knees, flicking the button of his jeans open and slowly sliding down the zipper. Anxiety and desire and lust all course through my veins when he gets off the bed and strips down completely.
Naked Everett is like a statue of a Greek God, all carved with muscle upon glorious muscle.
After rolling on the condom, he climbs back over me, lowering himself down. He touches me, my breasts, palming and massaging them until I writhe and whimper and moan. His mouth covers one nipple, then the other, then trails down to my belly button.
“N-No.” It comes out choked when his lips land on my lower stomach and I realize what he wants to do. “I’m not r-ready for that.”
He draws back up, kissing me gently once, twice, a third time. “We can wait.”
“I want you. Just not ... that.”
When he starts massaging my inner thighs, spreading them ever so slightly, I feel the burn between my legs increase. But not as much as when he finally enters my slick heat inch by agonizing inch. He groans my name and buries his face into the crook of my neck and kisses, licks, and sucks the salty flesh there.
And I come alive.
As he moves in and out of me, whispering how beautiful I am, all I can think is how we got here. How I invited him upstairs and how I told him that I loved my new charm. The broken heart is unconventional, but beautiful all the same because, in a way, I know what it represents. Or, what I want it to. That he’s mine, even the deepest, most shattered part of him.
When he reached out to touch the charm, I threaded our fingers together and let his touch linger. The warmth felt good. He didn’t stop me when I wrapped his arm around my back, hugging his body to mine. He only stepped closer, his other hand threading into my hair, as he leaned his forehead against mine.
We’d never been that close, and neither of us could stop with just one touch. Not when there wasn’t anyone to stop us, to pry us apart.
“I’ve wanted this for too long, too fucking long,” he whispers into my skin, biting down on the area just above my collarbone.
What he’s doing hurts at first, but the pain turns into pleasure as he pumps faster and plays with my clit. I try meeting his thrusts, lifting my hips up, which earns me a loud moan as he goes deeper and deeper.
“Fuck, River.” He takes my arms and keeps them above my head, threading our fingers together as he drives into me over and over. His lips crash on mine as one of his hands palms my breasts one at a time. I writhe, feeling my legs quake, as they bend and capture either side of his hips, latching on for dear life.
>
His mouth lowers and bites down around my nipple, sucking and gliding his tongue over the pebbled tip until I’m crying out his name, free falling from the sensations. His release comes right after mine, his body lowering down as he kisses me in every direction possible.
“That’s how your first time should have been, baby,” he tells me, nuzzling his nose into my neck.
I’m startled when my hair is released from the ponytail it’s in and Everett’s hands comb through the thick strands. I’m turned on from the memory of our first time, of how full I felt with his thick length inside of me, which causes me to squeeze my thighs together and squirm on the stool.
“I should have told you yes all of those years ago,” he whispers, his fingers skimming my neck. “I should have showed you what it’s like to be loved the right way.”
Those words snap me out of what he’s doing, and I quickly stand up and back away from him and the fantasy I’m sinking back into.
His brows pinch. “River?”
“How can you possibly show me what it’s like to be loved the right way? Jesus, Everett! You can’t even love your girlfriend the way she deserves!”
His eyes widen and he stumbles as if he’s been shot. I’m not ashamed to be holding the smoking gun.
What is he doing here with me when there’s a woman in his bed? A woman he’s told me time and time again that he loves, that he’ll marry because people expect him to. It’s been ten years and she’s still not wearing a ring.
He says he’s not a liar, but he is.
He hates saying he’s a cheater, but he is.
And us? We’re toxic.
Even if he won’t admit it.
“I’m done.” I keep backing away, pinning him with a look of despair and anger. “I can’t keep putting myself through this, Everett. You say you’ll never hurt me, but you are. Every day that you love her, you stay with her, you’re killing me. And I deserve so much fucking better than that. Than you,” my voice cracks, just like the heart charm dangling from my necklace.