“It’s not that simple,” she barks at me. “Have you ever been in love, Dylan? Do you know what that feels like?”
Averting my eyes, I shake my head.
“Well let me tell you,” she stresses, pain echoing in her tone. “Love feels overpowering. Like there’s nothing in the world that can get between you and that person. Not a bad day. Not rumors. Not even yourself, because you’re consumed in them. You feel tingles, and warmth, and comfort. You feel safe when they hold you, and at ease when they kiss you. Love is my favorite feeling in the world.
“And when that’s gone? Can you guess what that’s like? All the tingles and warmth turn into prickles and chills. The flutters you have in your stomach go eerily still, like all the butterflies died. Everything that made you feel safe with them turns into a question of why you ever spent your life consumed in theirs. You don’t just stop trusting them because they broke you. You stop trusting yourself because you’re not sure you’re able to figure out what love feels like with another person. So, no, Dylan. It’s not as simple as telling the man I was going to marry to just leave. Even when there’s nothing warm left in him.”
We sit in complete silence for a long moment, listening to her breathing even back out after that rant.
You stop trusting yourself.
I look around the room, spotting a pad of paper sitting on the counter by the sink. Why it’s in here since everything is computerized is beyond me, but I take full advantage of it.
Ripping off the top sheet, I hold it up.
“Do you see this piece of paper?”
She skeptically studies the pristine sheet in my hand, confusion dulling eyes that should never look as stormy as they do now.
She blinks when I crumple it up without another word, wadding it into a ball and displaying the aftermath in the palm of my hand.
“Trust is like a piece of paper. Once it’s crumpled, it’ll never be perfect again.”
She stares hard at the paper, her eyes glazing over like I just blew open the floodgates. When I see a single tear fall down her cheek, it takes everything in me not to reach down and swipe it away.
“Doesn’t mean you should stop trusting completely though,” I conclude quietly, dropping the piece of paper onto the bed next to her still hand.
I see her swallow as her eyes slowly travel up to mine.
Before she says anything, the white-haired doctor that was in here when we first arrived walks through the curtain.
“I’m glad to see you’re up,” he chirps happily, his smile making the wrinkles around his eyes more evident. He walks over to the computer and scans his badge to log in, typing away before looking at her.
“I’d like to go over a few things. Ask you some questions.” His light eyes trail to me, brow arched, as if to say, In private.
I stand up, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“I’ll be outside,” I tell them both, walking toward the hall. I stop in my tracks. “Before I forget, here.” I take her cell phone out of my back pocket and hand to her.
She snatches it away, wide-eyed. “Did you go through my phone?”
I snort as she clutches it to her chest. “I didn’t know who to call, so I used it to get in touch with Teagan. Last I heard she was on her way but got stuck in traffic.”
The accusing glare melts in an instant, and something unfamiliar replaces the gaze. Appreciation? Who knows, but it makes me squirm where I stand. Shuffling my weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, I jab my thumb behind me.
“Well, I’ll be … somewhere.”
I don’t wait for either of them to say something before closing the curtain behind me to give them some privacy.
When I turn around, a frantic brunette is busting through the ER doors and looking around in a frenzy. She’s the same girl that Ashton had with her at the club, and the same chick in the contact photo for Teagan.
When she spots me, she comes barreling over, hair flying in the breeze and purse nearly knocking over a resident. I try my best not to look at the curves that are showcased in the tight tank top and skinny jeans she’s wearing, or how her breasts are bouncing as she jogs to me, but I’m a dude and I can’t help but admire what’s right in front of me.
I’m taken off guard when she tackles me in a hug, boobs firmly pressed against my chest and arms squeezing me so tight I actually start gasping.
This chick obviously works out, because the bear grip isn’t from Pilates like half these LA people do during expensive sessions with personal trainers. Most likely because, a majority of them spend more time screwing their trainer than doing the proper workouts.
She pulls back, chuckling at the discomfort scrawled on my face. “You look like you want to puke,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Listen, I just want to thank you for letting me know she’s here. I’m really the only one she’s got left.”
My lips twitch down. “What about her family?”
Her eyes dull. “She has an aunt out in Vermont, but they’re estranged. Other than that the rest have passed. It’s just been her for a while now. And her friends of course.”
She smiles and punches my arm, like it’s some indication that I’m one of the people she’s talking about.
I clear my throat. “Well the doc is talking to her in there,” I gesture toward the curtain, “and they’ll probably let her go so long as everything checks out. Since you’re here, I’ll leave.”
She grabs my bicep, causing me to wince again. Seeing my reaction, she eyes me but let’s go. “Okay, so you don’t like to be touched.” She nods, brushing the fact off. “For a jackass, you’re pretty decent. I saw the video of her taking the tumble, and you were the only one who helped.”
I still have a problem with that, and wouldn’t mind taking out my frustration on one or more of those assholes’ faces. Seriously, who let’s a bleeding girl just lay helplessly on the sidewalk?
“I just know what it’s like,” I tell her distantly. “But I have to go. If she needs anything she has my number.”
She smirks at me, eyes studying my face. I
can’t tell what she sees, or thinks she sees. But whatever it is, it’s making her face light up.
“Will do, hot stuff.”
My brow quirks, but I don’t question the nickname. It’s better than ‘pretty boy’ like Ashton calls me, yet hearing her say anything other than my name is welcoming.
Fists tightening at the thought, I walk away. I don’t have time for pestering thoughts like that to cross my mind and distract me. Trying to understand that will take too much time.
My phone goes off with a notification from a popular gossip website. When I click the link, my jaw locks tight.
It’s a video of Ashton falling, and a crowd gathering around her. Skimming the ridiculous article, I determine that whoever wrote it is desperate for a story that isn’t there. Claiming Ashton was drunk and disoriented to cope with her breakup.
My eyes narrow in on one of the faces in the crowd, recognition making my anger bubble to a higher level.
A text message comes through, distracting me from the garbage I’m reading.
Bash: Yo, fuckwad, where are you?
I roll my eyes but send him a reply back.
Dylan: Heading back to the hotel. Staying in for
the night. But want to meet up for drinks
tomorrow?
Bash: Guess so. Nothing better to do.
Dylan: Make sure your phone is charged.
He doesn’t question it, and I don’t elaborate. Instead, I shove my phone in my pocket, and head out the back entrance of the hospital where I parked my car. Blasting the stereo, rolling down the windows, and slipping on my sunglasses, I look back at the hospital in the rearview before forgetting about the entire day.
Ashton
Since yesterday, I’ve learned two things.
The first being that pain killers don’t numb pestering thoughts. If anything, they make them more vivid because there’s nothing else for my
body to focus on. So after the first dose wore off, I refused to take a second one. At least the rawness of my skin and roaring headache could fill in the anxiety that creeps into my conscience.
All because of Rhys. I could just come forward with the truth so he doesn’t have any leverage over me. There’s nothing for me to hide anyway, and I have yet to figure out Rhys’ angle on the matter. He doesn’t care enough about my reputation, especially now that we’re separated, to care what Conner does to me. He may think I’m some naïve girl, but I’ve learned his way by now. He’s hiding something.
The second thing is that there’s way more to Dylan Hilton than the stereotypical bad boy image he loves playing up. Sure he’s reckless, has no filter, and obviously has some baggage, but behind that façade is a darkness that mirrors my own.
Only the people who’ve been through serious shit can share wisdom like his.
The piece of paper he crumpled up is on my nightstand, still in the same position it was when he left the room.
Once it’s crumpled, it’ll never be perfect again.
Taking the paper, I spread it out on my bedspread, flattening out the winkles like I can save it. Desperate for it to be anything but true.
I never wanted my trust to disintegrate like everything else did with Rhys. But how could I stop it? When you invest yourself in somebody whole-heartedly, it’s hard to trust yourself to make a better decision when it all ends.
For someone who seems to believe that he’s incapable of trust, I think he opened himself up more than he thinks he did. How many people knew that behind the drunken slurs and one-night hookups was somebody who had enough wisdom to change a person?
He would probably deny it, not wanting anybody to see the sentimental side of him. Although people already saw it when he chose to help me. When he carried me to the hospital and stayed rather than ditching me. Even when he called Teagan, which gained him serious brownie points in her book.
Maybe even in mine, too.
Picking up my phone, I take a picture of the paper and send it to him.
Dylan: If you’re going to send me pictures, make sure there’s something naked in them.
Slipping my bare foot in the frame, I snap another picture, a smirk on my face.
Dylan: Never really been one for foot fetishes
Ashton: I tried fixing the paper
Dylan: And?
Ashton: It didn’t work
Dylan: I told you it wouldn’t
Ashton: You also said that I shouldn’t give up on
trust completely
The bubbles under his name wiggle as he types a response, then disappear. I wait for a message to appear, staring at the screen.
After another minute passes by, I debate on whether to just put my phone away. But my fingers have a different idea, thumbs forming a message before I can stop them.
Ashton: Did you fall asleep? I thought rock stars
stayed up all hours of the night?
Dylan: I have company.
My lips form an O.
Ashton: You mean like a girl?
Dylan: I don’t tend to entertain men
Ashton: Oh. Well I guess I’ll see you during our
session.
I was given a week to recuperate before diving into work, which meant we’d only have about three weeks to come up with a song. It isn’t a lot of time, but we could manage it so long as we stay on track.
Something tells me that it won’t be easy with Dylan being the co-writer.
When disappointment fills my stomach over his brush-off, I tell myself it’s only because I want somebody to talk to and Teagan fell asleep early. If I believe it’s anything else, I’ll only drown deeper in self-pity, knowing that Dylan would still rather be screwing random chicks than talk to me.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
Staring at the paper in front of me, I run my fingertips across the ridges and wrinkles, feeling their imperfections like they’re my own.
I sigh, crumple it back up, and throw it in the trash bin next to my bed. Turning off my phone before plugging it into the charger, I flip off the lamp and stare at the alarm clock illuminating in the dark.
Usually I’d be sleeping by now, especially since I’m up at five to go for a run. But the doctor advised me to take a break from running for a while. Between his lecture and my managers as soon as she saw the videos, there was no walking out unscathed. Not to mention I’m well under my expected weight, and needed almost three bags of IV fluids because I was dehydrated. That led to an hour-long lecture by Teagan as she drove us home, reminding me that she told me to stop pushing myself.
She never pushed the reason why I chose to, not like Dylan. At least she knew what lines not to cross, and when to stop questioning me. Something tells me when Dylan and I meet up next week at Stella’s studio—common ground—he won’t be so easy on me.
And because my mind has nowhere else to travel, I can’t help but wonder if he’s actually with a girl right now. I mean, it’s two in the morning. It wouldn’t really surprise me if he just got in from a club or bar. A lot of places in the area do last call at one or two and close at three. But for people like Dylan, they’ll sometimes stay open later.
I turn on my side, hugging my pillow tightly under my head. Forcing my eyes closed, all I can see is Rhys’ face. The way he looked at me like I was public enemy number one. For once, I wish he would open his damn eyes and see what Conner is.
I groan loudly and throw the blankets off me, walking over to the desk and grabbing my music folder from the top draw. I flip to the song he wants to give to Conner. It doesn’t make any sense why he’d want something slow like this. It’s practically a love song—a duet that doesn’t fit any of his music.
My eyes scroll over the words scribbled onto the page, looking at the lines that he wrote about me back when he saw me as the only girl he could love.
There’s a light in her eyes that can light up the sea, and a warmth in her smile that brings men to their knees. She’s an envy, she can end me with a single look.
I snort, shoving the page away from me. If I could end him with a single look right now I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Even with her head to the ground, she always stands out. A fire in her soul that makes an ethereal sound. She’s a beauty, she sees through me like an open book.
Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. Back then, seeing through Rhys was just seeing through the little white lies he gave. Like when I was sick and he told me I still looked beautiful even though my hair was a mess and my nose was Rudolph-red. Or pretending he liked the charred food I cooked for him before I learned the importance of following recipes.
Before reading on, Teagan knocks at my door, causing me to startle.
She looks half-asleep still, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Your potential boy-toy is at the living room window, throwing rocks like some leather-clad Romeo.”
My brows pinch. “Um … who?”
She eyes me. “Who else? Dylan. He already threw something at my window and woke me up, and he moved onto the ones in the living room. Go get him before I stab him with my stiletto for waking me up.”
I’ve learned to never mess with Teagan’s sleep schedule. She almost scratched my eye out back in high school when I woke her up an hour before she needed to be awake. Learned my lesson then and never made the mistake again.
What I can’t figure out is why Dylan is throwing rocks at the window at this hour.
What about the girl?
I flip the light on as I enter the living room, making my way past the leather sectional in the middle of the floor. My eyes search the garden that’s lined up outside the window, and see a tall outline walking toward the next set of glass on the other side of the room.
I open the window. “Lurking is pretty creepy, don’t you think?”
He turns around, only part of his face showing in the solar lights on the side of the house. He’s wearing all black, with a leather jacket comp
leting the ensemble, which masks him in the shadows.
When he saunters over, my jaw drops.
“What happened to your face?” I grate, my hand cupping his bruised cheek. My thumb moves over his split lip, which looks like it hurts.
His body tenses under my touch, but he eases into the warmth of my palm as my fingers brush against the swell of his cheekbone.
“You need ice,” I say quietly, gesturing for him to come through the open window.
Once he’s inside, I close it, and Dylan latches the lock. In the light, the bruise looks worse, and his bottom lip is swollen.
“What happened?” I ask again.
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Nothing,” I repeat dryly. I roll my eyes and yank on the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him after me and toward the kitchen. “Obviously something happened for you to look like that.”
“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, Boots,” he informs me, chuckling when I force him to sit down on the stool at the island.
Grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and wrapping it in a dish cloth, I gently press it against his cheek. He winces, whether in pain or because it’s cold I don’t know, but settles in, shoulders relaxing as he looks at me.
“Is it a kink thing?” I blurt out, blushing profusely as soon as the words leave my mouth.
He bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking at the idea. “You think this is a kink thing?” he bellows, holding my wrist steady so the icepack remains still.
My face burns. “You said you had company. How am I supposed to know what you’re into?”
His eyes turn heated. “If you really want to know, all you need to do is ask.”
Gulping, I pull my wrist away from his grip. I put the icepack in his hand, looking away from him and grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink. I can feel his eyes on my ass, practically burning a hole through the shorts I’m wearing.
The Moments We Share Page 9