The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  He walks around me without another word or glance my way. The front door slams shut, and I’m left standing in the middle of the hallway with another burden sitting on my shoulders.

  Unable to think straight, my brain jumbled with the possibilities of what can happen if I don’t agree, there’s only one way that I can clear the fog and anxiety.

  Ashton: Can’t meet today. We’ll start tomorrow.

  I don’t wait for Dylan to respond before changing into my running shorts and sports bra, putting my ear buds in, and blasting music as I walk out the door.

  My shoes hit the ground, the worn soles ricocheting off the pavement as I propel myself forward down the street.

  One small moment in a chain of many.

  I push myself to run faster, like I’m flying—light enough to soar away from everything I can’t seem to sort out as they circle above me like hungry vultures.

  Life is full of tiny moments that paint a bigger picture. It’s like we’re constructed of pieces that seem so small until the camera pans out to reveal the truth that’s been there all along. And the cracks that the light glimmers down on shows just how unfixable some moments are. How humans aren’t always able to fathom what makes them broken to begin with, because there are so many moments that overlap the darkest ones in our pasts.

  My brain needs to shut off, and the only way I know how to do that is by letting the elements consume me—let the air kiss my skin, the sun engulf me body. I just need to be taken away for a while, before reality slaps me in the face again.

  The slick sweat dripping down my body from the extensive exercise is my first warning of what’s to come. The way my skin overheats and starts burning like I’m on fire is the second. But it isn’t until my feet start dragging and knees buckle when I know that I’ve gone too far this time.

  Before I can correct myself, my hands are catching myself on the hot pavement, stinging pain coursing through my arms as the shock of impact hits me. And when my cheek and chin bounce off the curb, dizziness sweeps my skull, my vision becoming blurry with the world spinning around me.

  The taste of blood fills my mouth, but when I try pulling myself up my arms give out and I crash back down onto the ground again.

  I hear people calling out to me. Flashes of light. Questions ringing. But nobody helps me up or offers to call assistance.

  I try blinking away the blurriness, but it keeps clouding my surroundings, my ears ringing and eyes looking around, disoriented.

  Then I hear a familiar voice in the crowd. The massive gathering parts forcefully as a tall, demanding figure shoves them out of his way.

  Dylan.

  He kneels to my level, hand cupping my cheek like his single touch can help assess all the damage. But I know that the damage isn’t above the surface. It’s skin deep.

  I blink a few times and groan as he helps me sit up.

  “How you feeling, Boots?” His voice is low and gruff as he scopes over my face, like he wants this to be between the two of us rather than with the crowd circling my epic fail.

  Not wanting to lie, I opt for the truth. “Like I ate pavement, pretty boy.”

  He eyes rake over the right side of my face, wincing. I can only image what it looks like. It burns like hell, and I know it’s from road rash.

  “Come on,” he murmurs quietly, helping me to my feet. “I’m parked over there. I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  “Dylan—”

  “Don’t argue with me, Ashton,” he vexes, like it’s taking everything out of him to show the side of him that cares. “I don’t like … fuck. Watching those fucktards take pictures of you laying there makes me want to start fucking throwing punches.”

  I try walking on my own but standing leaves me wobbly, my whole body feeling like it’s weighing me down. I want to tell him to calm down—that I’ll be fine.

  But instead my body gives out, and the last thing I hear is his loud cursing as I go down. Luckily, before my body reunites with the pavement, I’m caught and suspended in the air, floating. A breeze kisses my overheated body as we move, and my eyes close as I give into the pain. Something I refused to do before, but had no choice to now.

  My hair is brushed behind my ear, and right before I black out, I hear, “Who the fuck broke you, Boots?

  Dylan

  Fear smells like antiseptic, and it has a way of crippling your mind as it forces you back into the past. As soon as I carry Ashton into the emergency room, I’m brought back to that night, my senses going into overdrive until I feel like I might blackout, too.

  I hate fucking hospitals. I hate how clean they are when they see such dirty, fucked up things. I hate the smell of cleaner, the way everybody looks so defeated even before they lose a battle, and hearing everybody’s business like a fabric curtain can give anybody privacy.

  With the way my knee bounces and eyes twitch as they study the room, there’s a solid chance anyone who passes by can see my discomfort. Shit, the nurses and doctors probably think I’m tweaked or crashing from a high because of the jerky movements, but I can’t get my thumping heart to calm the fuck down.

  Despite wanting to jump out a window to get away from here, Ashton hasn’t woken up since she passed out. She didn’t even twitch when they put an IV in her arm. But I sure as hell did.

  And shit, the press would have a field day if they knew that the great Dylan Hilton is afraid of needles. Letting them know my kryptonite would be the end of the reputation that I made for myself.

  I scoff to myself over the thought. As if you’re good enough to be Superman.

  The world can’t handle a guy like me being somebody as good-hearted as Superman. If anything, I’m Lex Luthor waiting to destroy everything that matters to humanity. I don’t spend all this time playing up the heartless asshole to let just anybody bring me down.

  When you’re surrounded by cameras, you have to act. Most people opt to let the world love them, but love holds expectations that are too high to conquer. My part is bigger than that. I’m the man the world loves to hate.

  It’s better to play up that role that let the world see me for somebody that I’m not. Or worse, somebody that I am.

  It’s why I got the tattoo on my side despite wanting to piss myself anytime the needle came near me. And shit, the artist who did it almost wouldn’t let it happen since I had to console myself with nearly an entire bottle of bourbon before the appointment. But after paying him more than he’d see in a month, he opted to go along with it. Luckily, I’d picked out the image before getting drunk, or else I could have walked out of there with fucking Hello Kitty inked on my ass. And as much as I love pussy, that isn’t the kind I wanted marked on me.

  A low mewl escapes Ashton as her body stretches and repositions itself on the stiff looking bed. Even though Ridgemont is the top hospital for celebrity care in LA, I highly doubt the beds are any less uncomfortable than any other hospitals in the country.

  Her eyelids flutter open, the gem-like color greeting the world again. I’d known they were some shade of green, but when I looked down at her before she passed out, I noticed the crystalized blue specks in them that somehow matched her torn persona.

  It’s like her two-toned eyes matched her complicated personality, merging two sides of herself that she tried to keep separate like a modern-day Jekyll and Hyde.

  Who the fuck broke you, Boots?

  Whoever showed up at her place when I called obviously did some damage, or else she wouldn’t have been so determined to outrun her demons. Clearly, she’s new at the whole thing, because only amateurs thought they could escape them. The pros can accept their demons as part of their souls, because it’s our demons that shape every aspect of our being. You can run from a lot of things, but never from yourself.

  “You going to keep staring at me, pretty boy?” she hums, her voice drowned with exhaustion, probably from the pain meds they gave her a few minutes ago.

  I press my fist against my thigh, trying to calm my sporadic m
ovements so she doesn’t see my discomfort. My clenched hand is white-knuckle against my jean-clad thigh, face drained of emotion.

  “Just replaying the memory of you face planting into the pavement,” I lie. My eyes can’t help but travel up the marks on her face. “Don’t worry, you’re still hot.”

  She struggles to sit up, wincing as the needle in her arm shifts in her skin. I bolt over, helping her, adjusting the bed so it’s easier for her to accomplish.

  Her brow quirks. “You’re helping me.”

  Her confusion makes my jaw tick, and I have to fight back a surly reply. But how can I blame her? I’m not the type who helps people on any given day. If I see an old lady walk across the street, I look away and just hope she doesn’t fall and break a hip. Once, I told a Girl Scout to fuck off and slammed the door in her face. Granted, I was so hungover that her voice sounded like a thousand nails scraping against a chalkboard in my head and it seemed like a justified response.

  “You carried me here,” she notes, her face scrunching up.

  I cross my arms on my chest. “Don’t look so appalled. Promise none of my cooties got onto you. If anything, I should send you my dry-cleaning bill. Between the drool and blood, I’m not sure they can save my favorite shirt.”

  Her eyes dart to my chest, heart-shaped lips parting as they search me. There’s nothing in her eyes but remorse, unlike the other times when I watched her check me out. I missed the way her lustful eyes captured every muscle like she wanted a piece.

  She huffs, peering forward, focusing on anything but me. “There’s no blood on your shirt, jerk. You made me feel bad.”

  A pang of guilt finds its way into my conscience, because I’d only meant it as a joke.

  Wait. “Did you just call me a jerk?”

  She shrugs, arms slipping under the heated blanket I covered her with not long after we got here. Even though it was eighty outside, the hospital runs cooler and the room has a draft that her practically naked-body seemed to react to. It was either get a blanket to cover her pebbled nipples, or stare and fight a raging hard-on as she slept.

  I opted to be a gentleman. Kind of.

  “I’ve been called many things over the years, but can’t say a jerk is one of them,” I muse, thinking back to the last time I’d been called something so innocent. It was probably in middle school, when I pulled Tiffany Andrews’ hair to get her attention.

  Hard to believe back then my biggest worry was if I’d pass my history exam or get a window seat on the bus.

  “So what are you still doing here?” she asks, not making eye contact with me. “Surely you have better things to do?”

  I have a feeling she’s silently hinting at people to do rather than coming out with it.

  I drag the chair over to the bed, eyes ignoring the needle that’s right in front of me. “Well, I had plans to write a song with a feisty country artist, but she bailed on. Kind of left my calendar open for the day.”

  To my surprise, she frowns. She sneaks a peek at me, and I see the guilt dulling her eyes. Once again, I made her feel bad, which makes me feel like an ass. Since when does making women feel bad make me feel off put?

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she admits quietly, lips twitching. “It was unprofessional. We have a contract, and—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the contract,” I inform her matter-of-factly. “And I don’t really care that you bailed on me. As shocking as this may seem, I’ve done plenty of bailing of my own.”

  Her lips twitch upward, fighting a knowing smile at my witty sarcasm.

  “Truthfully, I was coming over anyway.”

  That makes her finally look at me. “Why?”

  I grin. “Curiosity.” Worry. “You’re unloading a lot of firsts on me, Boots. You bail on our plans and then call me a jerk. Most women don’t do that.”

  “Well don’t get used to it,” she mumbles.

  I smirk, leaning forward so my arm grazes hers. “Don’t be so sure. I have a feeling you and I will discover a lot of firsts together.”

  She gapes at me, eyes filling with calculation like she’s trying to figure me out.

  I don’t ignore the heat creeping in her hues, but I don’t push it either. “Anyway, it made me wonder what came up. I tend to stick my nose in business it doesn’t belong in. It’s a hobby of mine, just ask the guys.”

  Her nose scrunches. “You like sticking a lot of things where they don’t belong.”

  I tip my head back and laugh, the feeling vibrating my entire chest. By the time I’m done, she’s staring at me like she doesn’t see the humor in such a true statement.

  I take a deep breath, shaking my head. “I won’t deny it. Never led people to believe I was anything but an asshole who loved getting his dick wet.” I shrug casually, soaking in the attention she’s giving me.

  Granted, her look isn’t exactly one of admiration. More like mild disgust. Still, I’d take those eyes raking over me any way I could.

  She blows out a breath. “At least you’re an honest man-whore.”

  Far from it, sweetheart.

  “So tell me, Boots,” I bargain. “Why did I find you running like you were being chased by a pack of rabid bunnies?”

  She deadpans. “Rabid bunnies?”

  “Those fuckers can be scary.”

  She stares at me in disbelief. “Bunnies?”

  I shrug. “Well?” I press.

  She shakes her head. “I like to run.”

  I put my feet up on the end of her bed, crossing one ankle over the other, making myself comfortable. “Bullshit. You may like to run, but you weren’t going for a normal mile. I may not know you, but I’d say it’s safe to assume you didn’t back out of work just to exercise.”

  Her lips press into a firm line, jaw ticking. I can see I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t give a damn. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.

  “You’re right,” she finally says, eyes snapping to mine. “You don’t know me, so stop making assumptions.”

  I put my hands up. “Hey, it’s your funeral. If you keep this up, you’ll be dead by the end of the month. If not physically, then emotionally. Nobody can run from the shit they don’t want anyone to see. You’ll never outrun them.”

  She swallows. “Them?”

  “The demons.”

  She doesn’t reply, which gives me ample time to really study her. How her eyes are fixated on her lap. How her hands are tangled together and fingers are fiddling with anxiety. I bet if she looks at me, I’ll see the torment in her eyes, like somebody is poking the cage she’s trapped in.

  “So who were you running from?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Keep lying. I’ll keep calling you out on it.”

  She eyes me, her glare dark enough to suck what little soul I still have left through those narrow slits. “What about you, huh? If you think you know what demons look like, you must have plenty of your own.”

  A dark chuckle escapes me, and I let me feet fall off the bed so I can lean into her. My lips come dangerously close to brushing her ear, but I keep enough distance so only my breath kisses her sultry skin.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t have demons sitting on my shoulder. I have the fucking devil himself.”

  I draw back slowly, examining her reaction. We lock eyes, not looking away. We absorb each other’s presence despite telling ourselves we don’t want it.

  That’s the thing about being broken. You’re drawn to other people’s misery, picking up their pieces like they can be molded to fit your own emptiness. But it’ll never work, because their pieces may not be as sharp as yours, or as big as yours, even though they can cut you just as deep.

  “So no,” I tell her so quietly it’s like we’re sharing a secret that the world isn’t ready to hear. “I don’t know you, or your pain, or even the reason you’re trying to run. But when the devil whispers to your soul, you don’t fight it, because the devil will always be more powerful than you. He’ll find a way to suffocate every good th
ing you know so you only feel the bad.”

  She blinks in silence.

  I shrug. “We all have demons, Boots. But the moment you realize they’re not worth fighting, the quicker you’re able to breathe again.”

  “And are you? Breathing, I mean.”

  I contemplate the answer. To lie or be honest for once. With Ashton the latter seems easier, because she’s frozen behind the same layer of ice I am, but we’re buried under different levels.

  She’s not as broken as me, and if I tell her the truth she’ll only sink deeper until nobody can save her.

  “Like an eighty year old who’s smoked his whole life,” I retort, shoving my hands in my jeans pockets.

  She doesn’t seem impressed with the wisecrack.

  “You going to tell me?” I press. “Or do I get to guess? I’ve always been good at the guessing game, you know.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Okay,” I prompt. “Well let’s see. You thought I was some chick named Teagan, and I’m going to assume you had a fight. Now, I’d really like to know what it was about considering you mentioned anal bleaching over the phone. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that conversation …”

  Her cheeks turn bright red.

  I sigh dramatically. “However, I don’t think that’s who got you upset. Especially because it sounded like she wasn’t there when somebody showed up. Plus, you said it was a dude. And based on the tone in your voice, you weren’t fond of whoever it was. Which, if you were me, could be an array of people. Family. Old friends. Posers. Fans.” I shake my head, eyes piercing hers. “But no, because little ol’ Ashton King seems to be well received. Or, that’s what Tom tells me. Yep, the only person who could push you over the edge is somebody that you used to trust. Maybe even love.”

  Her heart monitor picks up as her eyes flare with understanding. She knows I know.

  “Rhys Alden.”

  She doesn’t need to tell me I’m right, because the way the machine is beeping, it’s all I need to hear.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers.

  “Don’t let him ruin you, Boots.” Don’t let anyone ruin you. “Whatever that douchebag said isn’t worth your time or thoughts. It’s over. Next time he shows up, kick his ass out.”