The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  I let her put my arm to my side, gaping at her in disbelief. She just saw me lose myself, and she wants to be friends?

  I close my eyes as she steps forward, ignoring my sweaty body, and wraps her arms around my waist. The hug jumpstarts my heart, awakens my body, and causes the pain to disintegrate into her. Into nothing. Into something entirely new.

  “Why?” I question her, finding my hands circling her tiny waist. Her cheek rests against my pec, nuzzling in to comfort me.

  “Because I saw you,” she answers quietly. “I saw how much you hurt. And it makes me sad to know somebody made you feel that way. Nobody … nobody deserves to be broken, Dylan. No one.”

  My eyelids squeezed closed, chin resting on the top of her head.

  “Some of us do.”

  She tries pulling away, but I don’t let her. Having her in the embrace, this close, is what I need most right now.

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Some people aren’t worth worrying about, Ash. You can’t save everybody, and not everybody deserves it anyway. I’m one of those people.”

  “You just don’t want to be,” she theorizes.

  I don’t answer.

  She brings her palms to my chest, pressing them flat against me. “But one day you will, because you’ll realize that whatever you’re holding onto can’t define you anymore.”

  I draw in a heavy breath. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Everything about what happened to me defines what I am today. Those men broke me, made me rebuild myself in skin that can’t be penetrated. So as long as that memory lives in the back of my mind, I’ll hold onto it and let it control me.

  “And I hope you find happiness when you do,” she concludes.

  My breath hitches when I feel her lips against my jaw. Eyes opening, I see her slowly lower back down, staring at me with warm eyes.

  “I’m going to go change,” she tells me, backing up and letting her hands slowly drop from my body.

  I watch as she walks away, heart racing in my chest erratically.

  My body startles when a clap of thunder hits outside, my eyes snapping to the window to see rain pouring down. Throat closing up, I try calming my breathing, but it doesn’t work.

  I fucking hate storms.

  It’s already dark out, the sun setting not long after we got here. The rain pounding against the tin roof used to be a calming sound when I was little, but now it keeps me up and puts me on edge.

  My memory brings me back to when my body lay limp in rusty-colored puddles, twitching in helpless pain. Calling out in what little voice I had left, wondering if anyone would find me or not.

  Every clap of thunder would cover my desperate plea. Every strike of lightning would highlight the blood I laid in. The rain would only wash away what they’d done to me, just for me to bleed over again.

  It’s those moments—the thunder like a fist to the face and lightning a strike to the safety I once felt—that I’m forced to relive every time it storms.

  A warm palm rests on my arm, causing me to jump back. Ashton is staring at me with worry flooding her features, lips drawn down and brows pinched together.

  “You’re shaking,” she whispers, glancing at my clenched fists.

  “I think we should wait out the storm.”

  She looks outside, but can’t see what I see. “I think we’ll be okay. I mean it’s just a little thunderstorm. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of them in New York, right?”

  I’m struck speechless, stuck in my own memories.

  “Plus, California really needs the rain,” she adds casually. “It’s not a big deal, Dylan.”

  I pull back from her touch. “Yes, it is.”

  I hate that my voice breaks, how it catches. It gives away everything in a single sound, my weakness flooding out and taking down the dam I keep rebuilding every time my past tries breaking through.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, stepping forward. My eyes snap to hers, causing her to stop. Her hands go to her dress, tugging nervously on the material.

  “You can go if you want,” I tell her in a muffled voice, grabbing my discarded shirt and her gloves from the floor. I’m tempted to give her my keys and shove her toward the exit, leaving me alone.

  “I’m not leaving you, Dylan,” she states firmly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

  I rake my hands through my hair, walking away from her. A string of curse words escapes my lips. She needs to leave before I start acting out, and then she won’t want to keep the friends title when she sees the real me break through. The version of me I’m trying to hide.

  “Ashton,” I growl in warning, the thunder getting louder outside.

  She walks over to me, her hands going to my chest to stop me from walking away. If she thinks blocking me with her body will stop me, she’s dead wrong.

  “Ash. Call me Ash. Boots. Something.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed. “You need to move. I can’t …”

  Her hands run along my chest, down my abs, her fingertips dipping into the ridges of my muscles. My heart hammers in my chest, soaring from more than just the storm outside.

  “You can’t what?” she prods, her voice close to my ear. I force my eyes open to see her on her tiptoes, lips near the flesh of my ear. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. Tell me what breaks you. What stops you from mending the pieces?”

  I stop her exploring hands, gripping the wrists tightly before pushing them away. After putting my shirt back on, I put the gloves on the shelf and turn to face her.

  “You don’t need to know. We’re not dating, Ashton,” I remind her coldly. “There’s nothing you need to know about me beyond what my sound is, how well I play my guitar, and my favorite fucking position.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “So go,” I yell, losing my patience. If it means getting her to leave me alone, I’d do anything.

  She stands her ground. “No.”

  “No?”

  She shakes her head. “You’re petrified over rain. That means somebody did some serious damage to you, and I have a feeling it’s why you nearly took the punching bag off the ceiling with those hits.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Staying stalk still as she makes her way to me, she gathers a fistful of my shirt in her hands. Yanking me forward, she drags me toward the exit, my heart thumping so hard in my chest it threatens to jump out.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, digging my feet into the ground.

  “Sometimes we have to face our fears in order to see what we’re really made of,” is all she answers, opening the door and pulling us through. I have the power to stop her. To push her back. To hide in the building.

  But for some reason, I let her pull me into the rain. I allow her to push me out in the middle of the street and have the rain soak us both. Her hair quickly weighs down on her shoulders, strands clinging to her face. She blinks through the droplets landing on her face as she stares at my stricken one, body stiff as I unravel before her.

  “It won’t hurt you,” she promises over the storm. She steps forward, hands reaching out to touch me, but I step back, eyes darting around us like I’m ready for the storm to destroy me.

  “It always does,” I croak, breaths becoming labored and forced.

  “You need to breathe,” she tells me softly.

  I just shake my head, gasping for air like my lungs won’t allow it. The cold rain should feel good against my overheated skin, but instead it feels like I’m being pierced by everything that can harm me.

  My mind flashes to the past.

  Broken body.

  Broken mind.

  Broken soul.

  Yet Ashton continues trying to get through to me, touching me when I push her away. Stepping forward when I step back. She doesn’t give up when I want her to. Beg her to.

  Seeing me like this, frozen by fear, drowning in hate, with the world consuming me. Yet, in a world of black and white, it’s only her I s
ee in technicolor.

  “Ash … please just go.”

  “I told you I won’t,” she retorts.

  My chest rises and falls out of sync, aches vibrating through my body as anger boils my blood.

  “You need to leave me the fuck alone!” I blast finally, making her shrink back. Her lips are part, eyes widen, and her breath hitches. But she doesn’t leave no matter how hard I try to push her away.

  Instead, she does what I don’t expect her.

  She pushes back.

  Ashton

  I surprise myself when I push against his chest with everything I have in me, my irritation from him growing by the second. He keeps pushing me away, but I can tell he’s reaching out. Begging. Pleading. Desperate for help but too prideful to ask for it.

  “You can close your eyes to hide the things you don’t want to see, but you can’t close your heart to the things you don’t want to feel. Open your eyes! Look at me!”

  The rain comes down harder as I grip his shirt, ready to shake him out of whatever dimension his mind is trapped in.

  “You pretend like you don’t feel anything … like your heart isn’t capable of it. What is this? What are we doing, Dylan? Would you just fucking say something!”

  Just as I place my palms against his chest to shove him backward, he catches my wrists. Squeezing them tightly, he yanks me to him so my chest presses firmly against his. The cold rain makes my nipples pebble from what little cover my thin dress offers.

  He holds me like that, his grip tightening until it stings, and we stand there staring at each other as the storm rages around us.

  “You’re hurting me,” I whisper, breaking eye contact and looking at the way he’s holding me. There’s nothing tender about the touch. It’s not an embrace. It’s a war stance.

  He lets out a hard breath that sounds like a husky laugh. “Good,” he breathes, a dark look passing his clouded eyes. “Because being near you every day does more than just hurts. It practically kills me.”

  My eyes widen at the statement, rain getting into them that I have to blink away.

  His voice rasps, “How can you not see that every time you give me the smallest touch, you’re destroying everything? I made myself this way for a reason. I don’t let anybody in. So why have you gotten under my fucking skin?”

  Why have you gotten under my skin?

  My heart swells at his admission. He peers down at where he’s holding me, his grip loosening. His palms trail down my arms, sliding over my wet skin. It leaves a fire in its path, heating every inch he grazes like the cold rain never touched it. He stops at my elbows for a short moment, his eyes traveling as his hands linger up my biceps, over my shoulders, feathering over my neck like he can’t get enough.

  I angle my head to the side, giving him more access. Goosebumps cover my arms, but from his light touch rather than the cold wind nipping at our skin. His thumb presses against my pulse, like he’s feeling for evidence that I’m alive. That this is real between us.

  I let out a shaky breath as one of his hands trails down my side, gripping my waist. He balls up the material of my cotton dress that’s clinging to my body as if he wants to tear it off in the middle of the sidewalk.

  My palms go to his chest, trailing down his sculpted chest, seeing the outline of his black tattoo under his wet T-shirt. My eyes travel along the curves and twists of it, and I want nothing more than to take his shirt off and get a better look at what he thought was the perfect representation of him to brand on his body forever.

  Who are you, Dylan?

  As the rain comes down harder around us, he backs us into the brick wall of the building next to us, his body pressing into mine. I snake my arms around his neck as he grinds his erection into me, his lips dipping into the crook of my neck at the same time. They graze down my neck, peppering kisses against my skin to warm them up. I squeeze my thighs together, feeling the warmth gather between my legs.

  His hands go back to my arms, raising them above my head and pinning them against the scratchy bricks.

  “I want to touch you,” I rasp, arching my hips so they press against his when he stops moving.

  “No,” he growls, his lips nipping down on my neck.

  “Dylan—”

  He moves back, keeping my arms pinned against the brick. “You want me to open my eyes? To look at you? Well I am, princess. I’m right here in this moment with you. If you want me, all of me, then you’re going to have to do things my way. Because I don’t like people touching me anymore than they have to. I don’t like storms. I don’t like being trapped in the rain at night. But you?” His voice catches. “You break me, Ashton. You break through the steel barriers that close in the memory I just want to fucking forget. What made me who I am will always be branded in the back of my mind, but at least I can pretend like it doesn’t exist.”

  “H-how?” I doubt, shaking my head, my hair sticking to my face. “By drinking? Doing drugs? Going to parties and sleeping with meaningless girls? Those distractions aren’t permanent, Dylan. You’re always going to wake up remembering whatever it is that’s messing with you. What is it? What happened to you?”

  His eyes shadow over with something darker than lust, but it’s still there like he’s about to devour me as an escape. Trying to get through to him is impossible when he’s dead set on not remembering whatever plagued him.

  He leans in slowly, causing my breath to catch in my throat. His moves are calculated, predatory, wanting. My body shakes from the combination of the chill settling over me and desire building in the pit of my stomach. My hands shake above me, twitching to touch him. To help him. To save him.

  Some people can’t be saved.

  Not if they don’t want to be.

  “Let me help you,” I plead, voice barely a whisper. It’s drowned out by the rain showering down on us, our barriers melting into puddles with no armor protecting us from each other.

  “Help me,” he repeats in a low tone, like it’s an impossible task. “I know how you can help me, baby.”

  He elaborates by pressing his lips against mine, dominating them with a force that should hurt. Instead, it makes me understand what kind of love he’s capable of. Powerful. Hungry. Consuming.

  He coaxes my lips open with his, giving me a taste of him, mint flooding my taste buds as his tongue tangles with mine. It flicks against the roof of my mouth, against my teeth, and when he draws back, his teeth pull my bottom lip, tugging it gently.

  My breath is ragged when he draws far enough back to look at me, our eyes connecting, chests rising and falling heavily.

  “Dylan, please.”

  His forehead presses against mine. “What do you want, Ashton? How do you want to help me?”

  I manage to get my arms free, wrapping them around his neck, careful not to touch him. His body tenses under me but only for a small second. When I pull our bodies close together, he seems to know exactly what it is that I want to do to help.

  I’m going to regret this, but in the moment, I’m taken over by the yearning to help him in any way I can. And maybe it’ll help me too. Help me get Rhys out of my mind, get Dylan out of my system.

  Or maybe it’ll destroy me.

  “Let me be a distraction,” I find myself saying, knowing that only one taste won’t be enough. “We can be each other’s distractions for the night.”

  That’s all it takes for him to take the lead, his arms wrapping around my waist. His palms grip my hips, picking me up. Without a second thought, my legs wrap around him, pressing my center against his erection and spreading the sensation through my body.

  Walking us between the two buildings so we’re masked by shadows, he presses my back against the wall. Keeping an arm around my waist, he uses his free hand to graze his hot palm down my chest, between my breasts, and landing where my skin is open from the cutout of my dress.

  His palm goes under the cutout, rising and stretching the material until it hovers over the lace cups of my bra, warming my body w
ith his greedy touch. When he cups me through my bra, my back arches, pressing myself farther into his palm.

  Carefully, my hands go to the button of his jeans, popping it open and sliding the zipper down. I only manage to get it half way before he helps me, slipping his hand away from my breast and taking himself out of his jeans. I help him bunch the skirt of my dress up so he has the access he needs, and my heart propels so fast in my chest that it actually hurts.

  Hurts with anticipation.

  Hurts with need.

  Hurts knowing I shouldn’t be doing this.

  You’re hurting me, Dylan.

  Hurting me in a way I could prevent if I listened to myself—fought against the temptation that the infamous playboy was showering me with.

  The cold air nips at my naked thighs in reminder of what’s about to happen, reminding me that I should stop it. End it. Find some way to distract one another that doesn’t involve trading my body for an escape.

  But my body is too far gone to listen to reason. I arch my body toward him, letting him know that I want this just as much as him.

  “Eager I see,” he chuckles in a husky voice, his lips locking onto my breast from over my top. His hand goes back to my body, trailing up my thigh as his tongue flicks over my nipple. I suck in a breath as his finger finds the seam of my panties, teasing my center by brushing his fingertip over me. I can feel the dampness pooling against the lace, anticipation causing me to moan and him to chuckle.

  “You want a distraction?” he asks in a sultry tone, his mouth moving to my other breast.

  “Yes. Yes, Dylan. Please. We both need this.” I should be ashamed at how needy I sound, but I’m too turned on to care.

  His mouth stops its attack on my nipple, drawing back so he looks me in the eye. I can tell he’s at the same state of mind I am, pre-bliss and ready for the world to shift with every touch.

  “If you insist,” he finally says, his finger pulling away my panties and entering me hungrily.

  I moan as he inserts a second finger, taunting me, teasing me, prepping me.

  I rock my body against his hand, trying to get more from the touch he’s giving me, taking what I want. What he won’t give me.