by Jo Raven
“Wait the boy out, if you don’t care getting hurt in the process. Sooner or later, everyone shows their true colors. I say, guard your heart. Once it’s broken, nothing can mend it.”
But why have a heart at all if it’s never used for anything else but to measure empty time and your own loneliness?
***
After hearing nothing from Shane all day and night, the next evening I squash my doubts and drive over to his place.
Nothing has changed. So what if he hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend? What if we aren’t on the same page? We’re in the same story, and I’m not giving up on him that easily.
Taking a fortifying breath, I buzz his apartment—then remember he gave me a copy of his keys and enter the building. I try not to think as I ride the elevator up to his floor and then walk down the landing to his door. Not to worry.
Not to remember all the doubts my mom’s words brought back.
Patting my ponytail, wishing I had a mirror to check that my make-up hasn’t run, I open the door—and he’s right in front of me, dressed in loose sweats, his long hair draped over his broad shoulders and his tattoos. He’s like an image from a half-forgotten dream.
His eyes are wide, but one corner of his mouth lifts. “Cass.”
“I, um. Just came to check on you.” I wave a hand nervously.
Stop being nervous, Cass. And stop worrying about how you look.
This thing between you and him doesn’t have to mean anything. Remember that. Remember you’re here for him, not for you.
Is that so? a tiny voice whispers inside my head as he closes the door and draws me close, runs those strong, callused hands over my face like a blind man memorizing every detail. Didn’t you run here as soon as you finished work, your heart racing at the thought of seeing him?
“I came to ask how your appointment was with the therapist,” I say, “and if—”
He kisses me, pushing me against the wall, imprisoning my wrists in his hand and pressing them over my head. Like always, his strength at first catches me by surprise, then turns me on, sending flares of need into my core.
Though sometimes I wish… But it doesn’t matter what I wish for. This is what he can give me. I’ll take it.
So I strain against him, kiss him back, moan when his long, hard body and even harder cock rubs on mine. He rocks his hips and I gasp at the feel of him, so long and thick pressing into my side.
This time we don’t even make it to the sofa. He lets go of my hands to push off my coat, then we’re ripping at each other’s clothes and going down on our knees on the thick rug. He tears off my blouse, pulls down the straps of my bra and his mouth is on my breasts instantly, teasing the tips into hard peaks.
He leaves a hot trail of kisses down to my bellybutton, then lower. He unzips my jeans, pulls them down my legs together with my panties—and I let him. I lean back, on my hands, and let him put his mouth on me, tease my seam open, lick at my clit, at my entrance, play there with his fingers until I come apart with a cry, my pussy clenching, the pleasure like glitter sparkling over my nerve endings.
And then he pushes down his sweats and pulls out his hard cock, stroking it, his eyes dark and bright, and I can’t look away as he drags his fist up and down the flushed length, smearing the clear liquid seeping from the small slit. My mouth goes dry like every time I see him. Big. Powerful. Bared to me.
Most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
He looks up, giving me a long look, searching my face. I reach for him, and he pulls me onto his lap, breathing hard.
It’s difficult to remember any doubts as I straddle his muscular thighs and he holds me close so he can lick and suck on my breasts some more, stoking the fire inside me once again. I’m nearly incoherent, whispering his name and begging by the time he guides his cock inside me.
I grab his shoulders, kneeling on the rug, spread wide, his length filling me up inch by inch. That dark gaze is fixed on me, reading every emotion and sensation as it flits over my face—need, shock, discomfort, pleasure, urgency.
He pushes inside me all the way, until I’m sitting on top of his thighs, then kisses my mouth while flexing his hips, swallowing my gasp. Pushing so deep inside me like nobody else has before.
His hands move to my waist, pulling me up, a clear message for me to move. So I ride him, ride his thick cock, his muscles rolling under my hands as he aids me, lifting me, his biceps bulging. As we move together faster, the pleasure is rising like water to drown me, and I break the kiss to throw back my head and gasp for air.
He presses his face to my breasts, grunting with every plunge of his cock in me, his arms sliding around me, holding me against him, rocking up, short, hard thrusts that shove me over the edge.
Shaking, I try to stop, the pleasure tearing me apart, but he thrusts once more, then again, muffling a cry against my skin. His hot cum bursts inside me, sending aftershocks through my whole body, from head to toes.
I’m clinging to him, my arms around him, resting my cheek on his hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. He’s still panting, the muscles in his arms and legs trembling, and he’s still semi-hard inside me.
“I love you,” I whisper. I can’t help it. I mean it with every fiber of my being. And even though he never says it back, I can’t stop, can’t take it back.
Can’t hide the truth no matter how I try.
Chapter Nineteen
Shane
Cass is here. Everything will be okay. It’s been a shitty night and an even shittier day. After a night of nightmares, I got to sit in a hard chair in a therapist’s office and rehash the memories, relive them one by one.
And then discuss them. By the time I left, I couldn’t stop shaking, and I was that close to flipping out and having a nice, nasty flashback on the street outside. She asked me before I left if I wanted to call someone to pick me up, take me home. A friend, or family. She warned me things might get worse before they get better.
I never replied, or called. I can do this. No way am I gonna worry everyone again and have them going in circles, thinking I’ve gone off the deep end.
The therapist said I’m not going crazy.
So I’m not. Even if it feels like it sometimes. She was interested in the fact I associated bad memories with the construction site. That I thought someone there was after me, that I thought everyone around me chewed cinnamon gum on purpose. Asked me lots of questions. Asked if I’ve had a flashback since I left the site. Since I was fired.
I haven’t. It’s only been two days, and I’ve come close to one a few times, but I haven’t had any flashbacks or panic attacks.
Which probably means nothing. Plus my whole body aches as if I’ve taken a beating while I wasn’t looking. Reliving the past tends to do that to me.
Having Cassie in my arms was the only thing I wanted. The thought of calling her, asking her over or going to her place, though, meant she’d see me as I came out of the therapist’s office: a step away from an attack, my head pounding, my stomach roiling.
So I headed home instead and lost myself in drawing.
Until she arrived. Seeing her was like a noose leaving my neck, like a ray of the sun. Then my body woke up, demanding more, demanding I replace the ache with pleasure, that I get closer, inside her, and she let me. She took everything I unleashed and returned it tenfold, turning it into fire.
She shifts against me, soft and warm, and a groan escapes me as she clenches around my dick. I’m far from done, but she’s murmuring something about going to bed, and that sounds good, too.
Though I don’t feel like I can sleep ever again without waking up in cold sweat, lying down next to her is fucking worth it.
***
When I’m ripped from sleep sometime in the early, gray morning with a shout dying in the back of my throat, it’s no fucking surprise. The surprise is that I slept for so long. Normally I don’t get more than two to three hours sleep every night before I find myself in a ball on the floor by my bed, not
knowing where I am.
This time I know exactly where I am, even as the images still play against my eyelids. I’m half-crouched on the bed, my bed, my hand around the star-shaped pendant hanging around my neck.
Beside me is my girl, blond hair all over her face, her fists pressed to her forehead. Bright. Sweet. Cute. Hot.
This is real. I can feel it in my bones. The cold tiles of my memory, the pain, the fear, it’s all slowly fading away.
Still, it’s not fading fast enough, and I climb off the bed, fighting the shivers that come with every such nightmare. Grabbing a sweater from the chair, I pull it on as I stumble into the living room and grab my drawing board.
As I sit and fumble for my pencils, I wish I had some hot, strong coffee to warm me up, but I’m not steady enough yet to go make some. With frozen fingers, I grip the pencil and press it to the paper, letting the images flow from my head to the drawing.
Hands. Fangs. Blood. Wide, staring eyes. Harsh lines of pain. The shadows crowd the paper, meshing with one another, forming monsters with many limbs and heads, tails lashing.
And there is me, standing in the lower corner, lifting my hand. Greeting? Warding off the evil? Giving the finger? Trying to stop them? Pointing out something?
Another figure forms in the other corner, my pencil scratching way too loud as it draws her curves and her long hair. Where I’m dark, she’s bright. Where I’m cowering, she’s standing tall. She’s lifting her hand, too, like she’s waving.
Waving back at me.
We’re ignoring the monsters and the dark swirling above us, and we’re looking at each other.
I stop, lift the pencil off the pad.
Cassie.
She sure as hell wasn’t part of my past, but I kinda remember her in the dream. She was there, as if changing the memory. Making it safer for me.
Always there for me.
I’ll never forget seeing her outside back at the wedding, in her coat, with her cheeks flushed and eyes wide, full of fear and worry. For me.
When she shuffles into the living room a while later, I’ve already put the drawing pad away and am dozing on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around me. I lift it, and she curls up in front of me, pressing her back to my chest.
We fit perfectly together. Like hand and glove. Putting my arms around her, I rearrange her until there’s not a damn inch between us and her head is resting on my shoulder, and only then do I go back to sleep.
Without any nightmares.
***
The next couple of days pass so slowly I wanna slam my head against the wall. It’s my shift to clean the tattoo shop, and Zane, who should be on his fucking honeymoon, is there instead, insisting I should finish my training right the hell now so he can give me a job.
And I’m damn thankful, and he’s right—only the therapy is also kinda fucking with my head, and Cassie is MIA.
No flashbacks, thank fuck, no panic attacks, but the dreams are changing into weird hybrids of memory, fantasy and horror.
It’s probably also the stress of having to finish the training, and the helplessness while waiting to see if I’m getting better or worse by spilling my guts to the therapist, and my fear that I’ll lose Cassie if I don’t get my shit together and do something. If I don’t win this war against my own mind.
Not seeing her is twisting me up inside. I thought I’d wait to see the outcome of the therapy sessions first, before I go looking for her, see why she stopped coming over and calling, but I’m not sure I can.
Not sure I want to wait any longer.
When the next day she’s not at the gym and the guy in charge tells me she took the day off sick, it’s all I can do not to hit something.
Sick.
Have I ever stopped to ask myself how she is? I always assumed she’s okay. Indestructible. My rock, never unwell, never sad, never angry.
I sometimes forget she’s a girl. That her brother is dead. That her father left.
As I try to decide what to do, I remember when Seth told me she was crying at the wedding reception, how worried I was. She has been by my side, but I haven’t been by hers.
Selfish, Shane. You’re a goddamn selfish prick.
So I call her. I saved her number the first time she ever texted me, but never dared text back or call.
And of course she doesn’t answer. The call goes to her voicemail, and I hang up. Pace inside the locker room of the gym. Try again.
Crickets.
Goddammit. Next step is calling Seth. I ask him for Cassie’s address.
“You don’t know where she lives?” He sounds fucking shocked. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“She won’t answer her phone.”
“Maybe she’s, I dunno, in the bathroom or something.”
“Can I have her fucking address, Seffers, fucking please? I need…” I rub a hand over my face. “Need to see her.”
Make sure she’s okay.
So Seth asks Manon and rattles off the address, and I repeat it in my mind as I march out of the gym and go looking for a bus to take me there.
I think I smell cinnamon as I board the bus and clutch the pendant at my throat as I take my seat. No fucking way am I giving in on my way to find her. I snap the rubber band on my wrist, tell myself again that nothing’s wrong.
It’s damn long ride to her place.
Takes me a while to find her apartment. I get lost inside her building. Turns out there are two elevators and two parts to the building. Finally in front of her door, I snap the band against my wrist again, try to calm my racing pulse.
I press on the doorbell.
The door flies open, and I’m left looking at a distorted image of Cassie.
I shake my head to clear it. “Is Cassie in?”
“Yeah, she’s in. I’m her mom. Who’s asking?”
Right. Mom. “I’m Shane. Shane Tucker.” Not sure why I think I’m supposed to give her my family name. Ingrained habits. “Is she all right?”
“Why don’t you go and see for yourself?” This older version of Cassie has deep creases between her brows and wears too much make-up. Her nails are long and red. “I was just leaving.”
I step inside, brush by her—and she tugs on my hair.
“Aren’t you a handsome one? I bet you’re the boy Cassie is so smitten with. Tell you what.” She tugs again, and my heart is pounding, trying to break through my ribs. “Why don’t you come have a drink with me and leave Cassie to rest? I can show you a good time.”
“What?” I ask intelligently.
“Mom?” someone calls from inside the apartment. “Who is it?”
I jerk away and stumble into a bright living room with a denim sofa and a flat screen TV. Turning, I stare at Cassie’s mother, fighting the urge to use the coffee table as a shield in case she comes at me.
Her red dress matches her nails, and her cleavage doesn’t fucking leave much to the imagination. She lifts a brow and cocks her hip to the side, planting a fist on it. “Oh come on, don’t act all shocked, boy, like you ever wanted anything more than sex from my daughter. I can do more for you than she does.”
Jesus.
“Oh, whatever. See you around.” Then she turns around and leaves, closing the door behind her.
What the fuck was that?
“Shane?” Cassie is standing at the door leading to another room, dressed in an oversized white sweater and gray pajama pants. Her blue eyes are round. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking.” My pulse is pounding in my ears, but I feel calmer already. She’s here. “Checking that you’re okay. They told me at the gym that you’re sick.” I give her a once over as I step toward her, lift my hands to her face. “How do you feel?”
“I’m okay. I’m not sick. Just needed some time… to think.” Her cheeks are soft and warm, and I slide my hands down her neck, into her silky hair.
“Haven’t seen you in days.”
“Been busy.” But there’s something out of place in her expressio
n—a crack, a flash of pain, a question.
“Your mom?”
“Among other things. God, she drives me crazy.”
I rub at the date tattooed over my heart. “Mine did that, too, sometimes.”
Her scent winds around me, fresh and sweet, and despite everything I’m getting hard. She’s like a positive trigger to all my negatives ones. She makes me smile, makes me relax, makes me want.
Want her.
I pull her to me, crush our mouths together.
Fuck, I missed this, missed her even though it’s only been a couple of days. She’s my safe haven—but she’s so much more than that. I finally found someone who makes me feel something. Who makes the blood in my veins sing and my body take notice. Who fills my mind so completely there’s no space left for fear or doubt.
And she’s in my arms, her mouth sweet and minty with toothpaste, spicy with desire, her arms coming up around me, those hot curves molding against me.
For the first time since I can remember, I need to take it slow. Show her how she’s changing me. Make love to her.
The past crappy days fade as I walk her backward, toward the sofa, gentling the kiss. She gasps and I lick inside her mouth, making her moan. The sound lights up my blood, and it burns in my veins. Her tongue finds mine and twines with it as her hands clutch the front of my T-shirt and her eyes close.
This is it. I groan with the pleasure rushing straight to my dick and the worries vanish. This is fucking it. How she makes me feel. Like everything’s gonna be okay.
Then she pushes on my chest, turns away, breaking the kiss. “Shane.”
Breathing hard, I watch as she takes a step back, worry rushing back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just…” She falters, her mouth twisting. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I had a fight with Mom,” she says, turning away and after a moment’s hesitation I follow her. I always end up following her. “She says I’m stupid.”
“Then she doesn’t fucking know you.” We enter what has to be her bedroom—heavy dark drapes at the window, a large bed with a purple comforter. “Why the fuck would she say that to you?”