“No,” I say again.
I’m enjoying this too much—being so close to him.
“Katherine Harris,” he says, his tone mock-authoritative. “You get to bed this instant.”He sounds so much like my mother that I laugh, and he takes this opportunity to slip from under me, a triumphant grin on his face.
“That wasn’t fair,” I pout.
“I’ll get you the blankets,” he singsongs, disappearing down the hall.
During this time, I sleepily change into my pajamas in the bathroom, brushing my teeth as well.
When I emerge, blankets are set up neatly on the couch. I notice one of Dylan’s pillows there, too, and internally rejoice at the fact I’ll be smelling the scent of spearmint and cologne all night.
I slip into bed, turning out the lamp. Dylan leans against the wall connecting the hallway to the living room.
“Sleep well, Katie,” he says.
“You too.”
He smiles at me again before disappearing into his room.
-
“There you are, Katie.”
James steps toward me evilly, his eyes flashing. He grabs my wrist like before, his grip even tighter.
“You’re hurting me,” I say, struggling to slip from his grasp.
There’s a crowd of people behind him, and I’m backed against the wall We’re in a ballroom of some sort, and some special event is happening. Everyone is dressed nicely in cocktail attire, sparkling gems around the women’s necks and expensive cuff links on the men. All the people passing by have no faces, they just trudge by like clones of some sort. I yell out for someone to help me, anyone, but the faceless beings walk by without acknowledging me.
“Help!” I cry again, but James clamps his hand over my mouth.
Behind him, I suddenly see green eyes, and Dylan appears in the crowd. He sees me, and I call for him, his eyes widening at James in front of me.
He begins to move toward me, but he’s moving in slow motion, and James’s moving in fast motion.
When I look back at James, he’s not James anymore.
Jason leans down to suck harshly on my neck.
“Shh, Katie,” he coos in my ear. “It’s just me.”
I scream, calling Dylan’s name again and again, but the faceless people block him. He tries to push through them, urgency on his face, but it’s no use. The crowd is too thick.
“You’re going to pay for what you know, Katie.”
The face is no longer Jason’s.
It’s Alec’s.
He stands before me, scars glinting in the light as his grip tightens and tightens, purple bruising popping up on my wrist.
“I know what you know,” he sneers. “And you’re going to pay. Both of you.”“Both of who?” I ask, although I don’t know why I’m talking at all.
“You and Dylan,” he says. “I know what he’s told you .And I’m not happy.”Fear slices through me as Alec slides a silver pistol from inside his suit turning and aiming it at Dylan, who doesn’t seem to see the bullet fly from the barrel of the gun, straight towards him.
“Dylan!” I shout one last time.
-
“Katie? Katie!”
A light flicks on and I sit up in bed, my breathing ragged. I’m drenched in cold sweat, my hair plastered to my neck as my heart beats wildly in my chest.
Dylan sits on the couch at my feet, his hands finding mine as I try to calm myself. He wears a white t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants, his curls slightly messing from sleep.
Nightmare. It was only a nightmare, it wasn’t real.
“Katie,” he breathes as I wrap my arms around his neck, still fighting to get visions of the dream from my sight. He pulls me to him, holding me tight as my breathing stabilizes.
“You scared me,” he says in my ear. “You kept shouting my name, I thought someone had broken in or something.”“I...” I pull away, wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead. “You were...I was...James...”“James? James what?”
I proceed in telling Dylan my dream—the faceless people, the person in front of me morphing into three people I fear most, the way he couldn’t get to me in time.
When I finish I’m fighting back tears.
“Katie,” Dylan says again, pulling me back into an embrace. “Katie, Katie.”
“It felt so...so real,” I say, my voice cracking at the end.
His soft hands rub circles on my back until my breathing is normal. I pull away from him, looking over at the clock on the DVR.
“It’s two in the morning,” I groan.
“Come on.” Dylan stands up.
I look at him confusedly.
“Lay with me tonight,” he clarifies.
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine,” I say shakily.
Dylan rolls his eyes.
A second later, I’m hoisted off the couch, thrown over Dylan’s shoulder as he carries me to his room. I squeal as the blood rushes to my head, my head only a few feet above the ground.
He sets me down in his bed, then walks around to the opposite side and slides in with me.
Our legs tangle together and he pulls me to him, my face burrowing into his neck.
“You’re safe with me,” he says softly, his fingers gently combing through my hair.
“I know I am.”
And I do. I feel safer with Dylan than I ever have with anyone else. He holds me so securely, so comfortingly that I find myself thinking about Abigail.
The girl that gave him up.
And as I fall asleep in Dylan’s arms, I’m drowned with envy of the girl that received Dylan’s love, and sadness of the fact that I will never.
Chapter Fifty Three
The next few days fall into a routine.
I stay at Dylan’s for three nights, until he says he is able to get my key from James today, Friday. I’ve told him again and again that I can go get it from him myself, but he always gives me a look I can’t quite decipher and says very sternly, “no.”Dylan has also been driving me to and from work as well, and again, I’ve told him I can drive myself, but he always smirks and says, “Katie, don’t you care for the environment?”And of course, Dylan always has the last word.
Every night, we come home at about five, Dylan constantly complaining about rush hour traffic and me rolling my eyes at him. He cooks dinner, something different every night, and whenever I offer to help him cook, he blinks at me and says, “Katherine, get the fuck out of my kitchen.”So I do, smirking at his vulgar language.
We always have animated conversations over dinner—most of the time, we argue. It’s not harsh arguing, though—more like civilized arguing. It always ends with one of us laughing too hard, and more often than not, that one is me.
We watch the Office every single night after we eat—comparing notes on how many times we’ve seen the episode playing. In these past few days, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dylan smile so often and so big.
And at the end of each night, Dylan bids me goodnight as I settle into my couch-bed, but I always stay awake for about an hour before sneaking into Dylan’s room and sliding into bed next to him. He never asks me what I’m doing, or if I had another bad dream, he just wraps his arms around me and sighs sleepily, tangling his legs with mine.
We haven’t kissed since the first night, though, but I always catch him staring at my lips when I talk.
It almost seems to me like these past days have been a vacation.
I sit on Dylan’s couch now, reading a magazine as I wait for him to get off a phone call with William. He told me he’s going to get my key tonight, but it’s past six and I’m considering just going on my own.
He finally emerges from his room, running a hand through his hair.
“Alright, I’m going to go,” he says, pocketing his phone and grabbing his keys off the coffee table.
“Explain to me why I can’t come with you, again?”
“Because, James is a son of a bitch and I don’t want you near him,” Dylan says easily. He we
ars a blue plaid shirt and his usual jeans, his cheeks flushed in a healthy pink.
“Dylan, what if he hurts you?”
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “I’ll hurt him back, twice as hard.” He smirks.
I sigh. “Can’t I just come?”
“No. Now, go back to reading that magazine that showed up in my mailbox again.”I roll my eyes. “Let it go, will you!”
He smirks again before opening the door, turning back to me. “I’ll be back in an hour, don’t do anything stupid.”“I should say the same to you.”
“Me, stupid?” He scoffs.
“Just go,” I say, smirking as I wave him off.
He smiles again before shutting the door behind him.
I consider following Dylan just to make sure he’ll be okay, but I have a feeling he would have my head if I pursued him again.
Then, I consider following him just to piss him off, but decide against it.
My phone suddenly lights up on the coffee table, and I bring it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Katie. You busy?” Oliver asks.
“No, not at all. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Has Dylan left?”
“Yeah, he just left. Did you need him?”
“No, I’m going to meet him now, just to make sure James isn’t a bitch about things.”It continues to make me laugh at how Ethan, George, Dylan, Oliver and William make fun of James whenever we meet. They constantly call him names and make jokes about him; and, looking back on our relationship, I don’t know what I ever saw in him at all.
“Oliver,” I say.
“Yep?”
“Do you know anything about Abigail Watergate?” I have no idea why I’m asking at all, but the subject of Abigail has barely left my mind since Dylan told me about her.
“Abigail Watergate?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she’s the lead on some daytime soap opera Sarah watches now.”“Is that all?”
“Hmm...well, I think she had a thing with Dylan a few years back, but she’s a known whore. I mean, sleeping around and shit. I think she’s been to rehab, too. Sarah’s always talking about her fuck-ups.” Oliver chuckles.
Whore? Sleeping around? Rehab?
Does Dylan know about any of this?
“Oh,” is all I can say.
I had pictured Abigail as this divine figure, someone so worthy of Dylan’s affection, but now I see her in a completely different way. In a sickening way, it makes me feel at ease.
“Thanks, Oliver,” I say.
“No problem. I’ll talk to you later, Katie, I’m almost there.”
“Alright, Oliver.”
I hang up and pull up the Internet on my phone, typing in ‘Abigail Watergate.’Sure enough, there she is, smiling to the cameras the same sultry, seductive smile that was grinning in Dylan’s photo.
I think about how hard this must have been for Dylan, seeing Abigail rise to stardom, forgetting about him. My affection deepens for him at that moment.
An hour passes, and I occupy myself with watching TV, flipping through the channels. I’m eager for Dylan to get back, and to ask him how everything went with James.
I decide to cook dinner, even if I’m staying back at my apartment tonight. I peruse Dylan’s pantry, finding a box of mac and cheese.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I put a pot of water on the stove, cooking the pasta.
I can already see Dylan’s taunting smirk.
It’s past eight when the door finally opens, and Dylan enters.
I look up from the TV, gasping at his appearance.
His right eye is circled with a bruised purple color. His lip is split, a trickle of crimson blood running from it. An open cut is sliced just below his left eye, still bleeding. His eyes, his beautiful green eyes, seem almost grey.
“What—what the hell happened?” I manage to ask.
“It was a set up,” he says. His voice sounds like broken glass. “James brought ten men with him, and I only had Oliver.”“Is Oliver alright?”
“Oliver’s fine, he has a couple bruises, but we’re both fine.” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves my key, tossing it to me. “Got your key, though.”I furrow my brow, standing and walking over to him, assessing the damage to his face.
“Dylan, this looks bad,” I say, touching the bruising around his eye lightly. He winces and I draw back, my eyebrows knit together.
“I’m fine,” he says, trying to walk past me but I stop him.
“No, you’re not. How many hits did you take?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“How many?”
He looks down. “I lost count.”
I cluck my tongue, shaking me head. “Let me clean you up.”
“No, I’m fine—”
“Dylan, will you listen to me, for once? We’re talking about your physical health, here.”He sighs in defeat and I sit him down on the couch, venturing into the bathroom to find first aid supplies.
It scares me that James anticipated Dylan so well that he brought so much back up. Maybe he’s more cunning than we suspected.
I emerge from the bathroom with bandages, Neosporin, and a cloth.
I sit by Dylan, still in shock from his wounds.
I dab Neosporin onto the cut on his face, recoiling when Dylan furrows his brow in pain. My heart aches.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe and he shakes his head.
“It’s fine.”
I finish putting Neosporin on the cut and move to clean his lip.
His pink, plump, wet bottom lip is split straight down the middle. Visions of those lips on my own invade my mind, but I push them away, focusing on cleaning up the blood.
“Do you have band aids?” I ask him.
He scoffs. “No, I don’t need band aids.”
I roll my eyes and reach into my purse, pulling out a band aid. “Luckily, I carry them with me wherever I go,” I say proudly, earning a weak smile from Dylan.
“You would.”
“Hush.” I unwrap the band aid, carefully sticking it over his cut.
“There,” I say, unable to fight the silly smile on my face.
“What’s so funny?”
“N-nothing.” I clean up the trash around me, trying to contain my laughter.
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