Fold : Book 1 of the Complicated Parts Series

by Ashley Jade

  “I fucking love your big cock, Preston,” she says between long slurps that end with spit dribbling down her chin.

  I close my eyes and pretend like it's not her mouth around me but someone else's.

  A certain angry girl with a gorgeous scowl. The girl I've never been able to stop thinking about since the moment we met.

  Which utterly baffles me because it's not like we were lovers or friends.

  We were nothing more than two ships passing in the night.

  And yet...I know without a doubt she's the one person I'd do anything for. Whether or not it makes sense to me or anyone else.

  Kit Bishop is in my veins.

  But unfortunately for me, she's the drug I'll never be able to indulge in and the high I can't chase.

  She's nothing more than an illusion. It's all she'll ever be.

  I grunt and thrust my hips, fighting like hell to keep my hands behind my head as a sick fantasy of Kit pleasuring me starts to play out in my mind.

  It's impeccable timing too, because a moment later; two things happen.

  One—Becca repeats her last statement.

  And two—I open my eyes and meet a pair of devastated hazel ones.

  Kit doesn't yell or start crying like I expect her to. Like I want her to—not even when Becca tilts her head to look at her briefly before going back to my dick.

  Instead, she clutches the spot over her heart, almost like the organ itself is physically breaking—all while staring at me like I'm the culprit. The one who should be held accountable for the impact.

  The person responsible for this crash.

  Because I am.

  The muscles in my chest draw tight with regret—but I ignore it, part my lips, and utter a low moan.

  Kit's still staring at me, so I harden my gaze. “Fuck, you're gonna make me come soon.”

  Becca's response is to speed up her movements and I give Kit a sly smirk of satisfaction.

  I want her away from Becca for good. I need her to finally see Becca for what she is.

  She starts to turn away, but pauses, sparing me one last glance. This time, there are tears in her eyes. “Preston.”

  My name comes out in a choked whisper, like a small wounded animal on their last breath.

  It makes me hate myself for tarnishing something so goddamn precious.

  Every cell in my body wants to shove Becca away and tell Kit why I did this, but I can't because she runs out of the room.

  Leaving me with nothing but the mess I made.

  Exactly like I wanted her to.

  I look down in disgust at the Antichrist who still has her lips wrapped around me. Seething, I grab the back of her head and fuck her lying, cheating, whore mouth furiously.

  The small hint of satisfaction I get from watching her choke so hard on my climax that it comes out of her eight-thousand-dollar nose does little to dull the contempt I have for her.

  When she makes to stand, I snap my fingers and point to my scrotum. “Clean off my balls.”

  She does as told and I'm torn between wanting to laugh at her pathetic ass, and wanting to ask if the jizz she's lapping off my nutsack tastes as acrid as my feelings for her now are—but I don't want to spend another second breathing the same air she is.

  Fortunately for me, I no longer have to.

  I tuck myself back in my pants and stride past her.

  “Where are you going?” she calls out when I reach the doorway.

  I bite back a smile. “Well, this is awkward.”

  I look over my shoulder at her. “That was your parting gift. I thought our relationship should end the same way it began...with you on your knees.”

  The smug look on her face throws me. “Guess we both got what we wanted then.” When I stay silent, she adds, “You wanted Kit to hate me. But unfortunately for you, you ended up playing right into my hand instead.” She stands up and wipes the corner of her mouth before licking her thumb. “I believe gamblers call it bluffing, right?”

  My jaw works and I shake my head. I won't waste my energy going round and round with her anymore. For the first time in my life, I'm folding. I'm done with her and there's not a damn thing she can ever do or say to change that.

  “Have a nice life, Becca.”

  I'm one foot out the door when it happens.

  “Preston,” she screeches, her voice shaky and sharp.

  I'm about to tell Becca to dial down the dramatics and save them for someone who gives a fuck, but then she screams, “Help.”

  When I make the mistake of turning around...the thing beating in my chest freezes before it drops to the floor.

  Where the blood running down her legs is starting to pool at her feet.

  XVII

  “Oh, darling, it’s true. Beautiful things have dents and scratches too.” ―Anonymous

  A beam of sunlight blazes through the small window of my dorm room, forcing me to open my eyes with a groan.

  Fuck you, sun. You over-inflated, pompous star.

  Turning over in bed, I take a breath past the ache in my ribs and wince.

  Yup...still feels like someone put my heart in a blender. Then smiled from ear to ear as they pressed liquefy.

  Bile churns in my gut as Preston's face flashes through my mind and I reach for the small garbage can by the side of my bed.

  Just the thought of him makes me sick. Literally.

  When all that comes out is a mouthful of stomach acid, I'm reminded that I haven't eaten much while I've been holed up in here for the last six days.

  Or is it seven now? Maybe four? I honestly have no idea.

  I take a swig of water from the bottle on my nightstand and swish it around my mouth before I spit it into the trash.

  Heartbreak—not only does it hurt like hell, but it gives you some impeccable freaking hygiene.

  I reckon it's because simple, everyday things like cleanliness no longer seem necessary or important. Not when the vital instrument in your chest that's responsible for keeping you alive ceases to function as it should.

  A sharp pang slices through me and I burrow under the covers, waiting for it to pass.

  Tears threaten to spill when the intensity kicks up a notch—my body desperately seeking an outlet to all this anguish trapped inside me, but I sit up and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, keeping them at bay.

  I refuse to give them my tears. Lord knows one of them has had more than her fair share of them already. Along with all the other parts of myself I'd given to her.

  I suppose this is my karma for refusing to read the writing on the wall and letting myself get swept away by the likes of Becca Dragoni again.

  And my penance for trusting someone like Preston Holden.

  Quite the dynamic duo those two are. One seduces...and the other destroys.

  That thought causes me to launch my water bottle at the wall so hard the plastic breaks and the contents splatter.

  Just like they did to me.

  “I take it you're feeling better?”

  I turn my head to find Breslin standing by the door, concern lining her pretty, albeit exhausted face.

  “A little,” I whisper, my voice sounding about as guilty and sheepish as I feel.

  “That's good.” She walks across the room and opens a drawer. “I came by to pick up a few things before I head back to the hospital. I'll be out of your hair in a minute.”

  I stay silent as the awkwardness surrounds us like a fog.

  I can't bring myself to tell her what happened with Becca and Preston...because it hurts too damn much.

  And she can't bring herself not to hate me for being responsible for one out of the two loves of her life almost dying.

  I can practically feel the divide of our friendship growing larger with every brief interaction we've had since the shooting, and it kills me. Yet, I have no desire to do anything to stop it from running its course.

  I'm not sure I have the desire for anything anymore. It's like I can only operate on certain frequen
cies now, and my mood is either miserable and bitter. Or numb and detached.

  It goes without saying which one I prefer.

  “Kit,” she says suddenly, and I look into her now glassy eyes. “I need you to know despite how upset I was at the hospital that night, I'm happy you're alive.”

  That makes one of us then.

  She waits for me to say something, but when I don't; she hikes her bag up her shoulder and heads for the door.

  “Breslin,” I whisper, my voice barely above a whisper.

  She pauses, her back to me. “Yeah?”

  “I—” I swallow the words I really want to say. “Drive safe.”

  Her shoulders tense. “I hope you get over this stomach bug of yours soon.” She goes to close the door behind her, but not before uttering, “Maybe then you can visit Landon. I know he'd really love to see you.”

  The hard slam of the door tells me the words she really wanted to say too.

  The words I deserve to hear.

  I pace up and down the hallway with my heart in my throat.

  I have no idea what to say aside from the obvious—I'm sorry for letting you bleed out on a cafeteria floor while I stayed in an elevator like a spineless jellyfish.

  Because of him.

  My belly flips and I have to clutch it to stop myself from dry heaving.

  Shit, maybe I really am getting sick and it's not a ruse anymore.

  I blow out a quaky breath and lower the hood on my sweatshirt. Stop being a sissy, Kit. The least you can do is look the man in the eyes, apologize, and thank him for saving your life.

  It's the right thing to do. What I should do. What my parents would want me to do. Heck, if they were still alive they'd—rightfully so—be disgusted and ashamed it took me so long.

  My heart thuds painfully against my chest with each step I take toward his hospital room.

  The kiss Breslin and Landon are in the middle of comes to an abrupt stop when I enter, and I spew the first words that pop into my head. “Sorry, I probably should have knocked or something.”

  Breslin bolts upright. “Don't be silly. I'm glad you came.”

  Landon smiles at her and then at me. “Hey, stranger. How's it going?”

  His cheery disposition only makes the lead in my stomach grow heavier. He has every reason to throttle me and yet he's acting like he's happy I'm here...instead of the reason he's here.

  I shuffle my feet, wishing the floor would open and swallow me whole.

  “Kit?” Breslin and Landon say at the same time and I realize I never answered Landon's question.

  “Oh, you know, it's going,” I say to my shoes.

  I can't look at him. Seeing him in that hospital bed only adds another painful cinder block to the rest of the pile.

  “Can you give us a minute, Bre?” Landon says and it's all I can do not to beg her to stay.

  “Sure.” She looks between us before her gaze settles on me. “I'm gonna catch up with Asher in the cafeteria and bring you back some food, okay?”

  When Landon and I wince, she curses under her breath. “I'm sorry. I didn't—”

  “It's okay,” Landon assures her at the same time I say, “I'm not hungry.”

  It's not a lie. Just the thought of eating causes vomit to work up my throat. The last time I was hungry...three innocent people were killed and my friend was shot.

  I don't miss the worry that lines her face as she walks out. Leaving me all alone with Landon.

  To say I'm uneasy would be an understatement. My eyes roam around the room, looking anywhere but directly at him. “You got the basket of bran muffins.”

  “I did,” he says, shifting on the bed. “You only sent about a dozen of them.”

  I rock back on my heels and study the paint on the ceiling. “Well, you know, fiber is healthy. Keeps you regular and all that. I hear it's good for—”

  “Kit,” he snaps, the frustration in his voice unmistakable.

  Finally, I look at him, and the dam inside me bursts wide open—spilling a week's worth of tears, guilt, and heartache with it. “I'm so sorry, Landon.”

  His expression softens. “Come here.”

  I want to protest because I don't deserve to be consoled by him, but when he starts to maneuver out of bed and grimaces, I rush over.

  Instantly his arms envelop me and it only makes me cry harder. “I'm so sorry,” I repeat through sobs because I'll never be able to stop apologizing to him. “And I'm sorry for being such a coward and not coming here to apologize to you sooner. Not that me being sorry changes anything or makes it—”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Kit.”

  “Yes, I do.” The harsh tone of my voice has him pulling back to look at me. “I left you. You were my friend and I left you there.”

  He shakes his head. “Okay, first of all—I'm still your friend. Second—last time I checked, you were dragged into that elevator kicking and screaming.” The pad of his thumb touches my tear-stained cheek. “But even if you weren't, you'd still have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “You're wrong,” I tell him, pointing to my chest. “I should have—”

  “Dammit, Kit. No,” he interjects, grabbing my face. “Look at me.”

  When I do, he says, “I made a choice for all of us in that cafeteria. It was my plan and I gave you and Preston no other option but to go along with it. Don't apologize for doing what I wanted you to do.” His jaw hardens. “I would have hated you both if you didn't.”

  His statement causes a rush of anger to spiral through me, not only because it echoes what Preston said in the elevator, but it makes me feel even worse. “Why would you sacrifice yourself for us? Weren't you scared of never seeing Breslin or Asher again?”

  Thoughts of Becca pummel me and I clench my fists as I continue. “Why would you risk your life for two people who don't mean nearly as much as the two people you're in love with do?”

  It was supposed to be a question, but instead it comes out as an accusation.

  His expression is pained. “I was petrified of never seeing them again, but I knew Breslin couldn't lose you and Asher couldn't lose Preston. They'd never be the same if they did and I couldn't let that happen. The only shot you two had of making it out alive was by me doing what I did.”

  I throw my arms around him because there's nothing else I can say to him after that. Nothing good anyway. I can't stand here and tell the man who saved my life that I wish he didn't bother.

  If Kyle killed me, at least I would have died knowing the girl I gave my heart to loved me back...even though it was only an illusion.

  Pretending you're loved is so much better than knowing you're not.

  But Preston took that from me. He didn't just break my heart; he broke my illusion.

  “I hate him,” I choke out as a fresh dose of white-hot pain slices through me like a hot knife through butter. “I hate him so fucking much.”

  Landon cradles me to his chest. “I know, sometimes there are moments when I do too. I have to keep reminding myself he was mentally ill and struggling with his demons.”

  I stare at the bandage peeking out from the top of his hospital gown, feeling both stupid and embarrassed. “Yeah.” I stand up straight and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “You're right.”

  He gives me a strange look. “Kit is there something else going on? I know I'm not Breslin, but you can—”

  “No.” I take a step back. “I'm fine. Everything is fine.”

  He starts to open his mouth but Breslin and Asher walk into the room. My eyes fall to where their hands are joined and then back to Landon who is smiling brightly at the both of them.

  I guess something good came out of this tragedy after all, because it appears the three of them ended up working their issues out.

  My heart twists and right when I start thinking of an excuse to leave because being around the happy trio is the equivalent of picking at an ugly, oozing scab, I hear a phone ring.

  I watch as Asher—who I now realize is w
earing a suit—peers at his cell and frowns before returning it to his pocket.

  He looks so much like his younger brother in this moment; it makes my teeth clack.

  “I take it that wasn't him?” Landon questions, yanking me from my thoughts.

  “Nope.” Asher releases Breslin's hand and plops down on the large chair in the room. “I tried calling his cell, but it's out of service. The only thing I can do is pray he'll either call me so I can help him or decide to come back on his own.”

  “He will,” Landon says. “The funeral just happened this morning, maybe he needs a few days to clear his head before he gets back in touch.”

  Breslin snorts. “Clear his head? I think you mean gamble every cent he has before he calls Asher to get him out of whatever trouble he's in.”

  Landon rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, that too.”

  “Funeral?” I question, hating myself for being so curious when they're clearly talking about the very asshole I detest.

  Breslin walks over to Asher who is looking more distraught by the second. “Asher's father ended up passing away the same night the shooting happened.” She rubs Asher's back. “The funeral was this morning and Preston skipped town after the service was over. Asher thinks he might be in trouble again. As usual, he offered to help him, but Preston declined...for now.”

  I'm so caught off guard by the news I nearly do a double take.

  And then I realize.

  “I can't believe he left his baby,” I blurt out, rage replacing my shock. I feel like a bomb mere seconds before it detonates. “Actually, on second thought, I can.”

  I glare at Asher because I'm on fire now and he's the closest thing to the real target I have. “Your brother is the most selfish and self-centered jackass I've ever met.”

  I laugh sardonically, like some kind of deranged hyena. The hate I have for them both is practically hemorrhaging from every orifice of my body. “Too bad he left, because he and Becca deserve one another. And I hope for everyone's sake their baby doesn't take after either of them—which I suppose, is about as pointless as wishing for a stream of water in a desert, considering it is the spawn of Satan and his dumb, cheating whore.”