Everly After

by Rebecca Paula

  Everly doesn’t move. I point to my door, driving home that she’s in my way. Finally, she quirks a brow and slides over so I can step around her.

  I start up the stairs and then pause, my gut knotting up. “I’m sorry for earlier. I was an ass.” I’m not sure why I say it.

  “I deserved it.” She drops her head back onto her knees, cigarette smoke curling around the two of us. “It’s fine.”

  I hate that smell. I jump down the few stairs I just put between us and grab it out of her hands, grinding it out against the brick building. “Those will kill you.”

  She lays her head over her arms to study me. Everly is the quietest girl I’ve ever known.

  “You don’t want to be my friend,” she says.

  My shoulders tense up. I’m not trying to be her friend. I only wanted a fucking beer last week, and now I want to climb the stairs to my flat.

  “Are you who they said you were?”

  That tactic always delivers the answer I’m after when I’m interviewing, but my question doesn’t surprise her. Everly shrugs and pulls out her phone, unfazed.

  I sink onto the step beside her, my legs spread wide. My finger stretches across the small distance between us, and I brush her soft skin until she faces me.

  “Do you want to go for a walk maybe? Or something?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes pinned to my face as her finger mirrors mine, tracing small circles over my arm. We stare at each other, silent.

  It’s her eyes, how they hold her secrets. Everything else about her is the picture of innocence. The honey hair, the flawless skin, the heart-shaped lips. She looks like a doll, all except for her sad, navy eyes.

  There’s no such thing as perfection. People aren’t perfect, and I’m an idiot if I ever fool myself into believing Everly is the exception. Because she’s not. She can’t be.

  “How’s your knee?” I break the silence, feeling that the longer the quiet passes between us, the more I fall into the idea of perfect a girl who’s clearly broken. A beautiful lie, like I first thought. And yet, here I am, moving closer, allowing myself to touch her because I’m hungry for it. I want her. Despite everything, I still want her, and that’s the trouble.

  I’m the trouble.

  I’m the one who’s going to get burned.

  She drops her hand. “It’s just a scratch.” Her lips curl into a gentle smile.

  And I’m just an idiot chasing after the wrong girl.

  Everly

  I’m standing in Hudson’s bathroom, wondering why I agreed to go out again. The black X won’t wash off my hand. I scrub until my skin is raw, but I still see it, reminding me that I’m teetering on the edge of a horrible mistake.

  “Are you coming?” Hudson calls from the other side of the door.

  I nod as if he can see me, but I don’t answer.

  I wish I’d gone on that walk with Beckett when he asked me again two days ago. A shiver chases down my spine as I remember his touch. His voice. The way he tore the cigarette out of my hand as if he was protecting me. I don’t need protecting. I manage fine on my own. But moments like this, when I’m alone and afraid of myself, I wonder what it would be like to have someone like Beckett in my life.

  But he doesn’t need a girl like me. And I don’t need a friend.

  I don’t need Hudson either, but I’m wearing the dress he bought me as a surprise. I know it’s wrong, just like I know I shouldn’t be here with him in his hotel suite. I think part of me craves the pain that’s sure to come my way. Let him destroy me.

  When I open the door, I understand for a moment why so many girls throw themselves at Hudson. It’s more than the money, more than the empire his family built for him to take over one day. It’s how he’s put together, the way he’ll casually turn and make you feel like the most important person around. It’s the aura that screams of playboy and the dimple that makes you think, however foolishly, that you’ll be the one to change him. To survive him.

  No one survives Hudson. He’ll break your heart. He doesn’t care if the girl is strong or weak. He just doesn’t care, and that’s what makes him so dangerous.

  I can try to outrun him, I can try to play his game, but we’ve been playing for a long time and I’m exhausted. I’m not ready to give in and cave to whatever he wants from me. I’m not naïve. I know I have the power to break him, too.

  I pad over to him on my tiptoes, my new heels still tucked away in their box, and help him with his gold cufflinks. “Is this your staying-in tux?”

  He hasn’t told me our plans for the night, but judging by our attire, it isn’t going to be a rave or a club like the past few times we’ve gone out.

  “No, although I’m willing to change our plans.” He bends down and kisses the delicate skin at the base of my throat. “But you won’t have the chance to wear that dress if we do.”

  I should stop him, but I don’t.

  “Spin around. Let me see.” His voice is husky against my ear, his hand firm against my waist.

  I step out of his reach. The dress is like gossamer molded over the curves of my body. It won’t take much for him to rip it away. I bet he’d like that, too, dirty boy, but I would much prefer to wear this a bit longer than be in his hands.

  I lower my heels to the floor and lift the skirt in my hand, slowly spinning with a saucy smile on my face.

  His lips part, and his eyes rake over me, then cut away. He discards me so quickly that I know I’m in trouble. He wants more than I have to give. That’s only clearer when he hands me a velvet box.

  “You’ll look better with this.” He opens it to reveal a necklace, heavy with diamonds and sapphires.

  My fingers dance over the cold stones before I shut the box and turn away. “I won’t accept that,” I say seriously. “I don’t need to owe you anything.”

  I’m not making a deal with the devil. I’ll live to regret it.

  “It completes the outfit.”

  I dig through my purse and find pear-shaped diamond earrings bigger than my thumb. “You’re my stylist now?” I tease, sticking them into my ears before I face him. “These are fine.”

  “The necklace is on loan if that changes your mind.”

  I tilt closer to the mirror and wipe away the mascara smudged under my eye. My hand was too shaky earlier. “It doesn’t, but it’s beautiful.” I flash another halfhearted smile and twist my hair up, trying to decide how best to wear it.

  “But you’ll keep the dress?”

  “I never say no to couture.”

  He stalks up behind me and stills my hands.

  “Let me help,” he murmurs, kissing my neck. I sigh as his other hand brushes against my breasts. I keep myself from leaning back because I know that’s what he wants. He’s daring me through the mirror, his reflected stare dark and possessive.

  I don’t stop him. I don’t even blink when his hand dips beneath the fine lace of my bustier and cups my breast in his hand, teasing in sharp strokes. His arm jerks me against him, his need pressing against my hip, and suddenly I want him, too. Not because I like him, but because he’s as good as the lines of coke we did earlier. His touch will make me feel better for a little while and help me forget, so I play along.

  “We’ll be late.” My breaths are short and clipped. I reach around and grab his hair in my hand, arching my back so I feel him against me. I need to know he wants me, too.

  Hudson twists me around and pinches my chin to drag my gaze up to his. His touch is painful, but I want that, too. It’s easier to be with him when it hurts.

  “Where are we going?” I whisper.

  “To the opera.”

  I want to protest. I want to hurt him for stripping me of my self-imposed hideout. He might as well call the paparazzi to hunt me down now. The asshole.

  His hand clamps over my mouth, silencing my protests. “An heiress can’t hide forever.”

  I bite his palm until he lets go. “I certainly love trying.”

  “Come play with me in Pa
ris.”

  “No.” I drag in a breath, trying to shake out the trembling in my hands. “I’ll hate you for the rest of my life if you make me.”

  “I’m selfish enough not to care if you stay mine.”

  I’m not his. I was never his. There isn’t enough of me left to love, so that’s his mistake. His heart to be crushed.

  All the while, I can still feel Beckett’s soft, sweeping touch. The way he asked after my knee. How he never asked any more of me beyond if I was okay. Somehow, that scares me more.

  I turn my back to Hudson and lift my hair to reveal my neck. He knows what to do. I lick my lips at the sound of fabric tearing and shiver when warm hands peel away my dress.

  Beckett

  As if I need another problem, Everly is slumped against my door when I get back from working her shift at the café. She never showed up, and Nadine was desperate for help.

  I crouch down and knock my hand against her arm. She reeks of alcohol and sex. “Why are you here?”

  Everly doesn’t stir when I touch her, but her chest is rising up and down slowly, so at least she’s alive. She only looks dead.

  I glance behind me at the empty alley and wonder how long she’s been outside, passed out on my doorstep. I wonder if she’s been waiting for me or if she’s only confused. Or if someone dumped her here. That thought makes me angry, though, so I stop there.

  She’s only wearing a man’s dress shirt and ridiculously tall heels with ribbons that tie below her knee. Her legs are bare, the shirt open to reveal her bra and stomach. It looks like the buttons were ripped off. I frown, looking down at her face. She’s still hiding behind those huge sunglasses she wore the first night I met her.

  I’d shake her awake, but I’m afraid I’ll break her. “Everly?” I cup her chin in my palm.

  She moans as if she’s in pain. The sound hits me right in the gut.

  “Then I’ll bring you inside,” I say, as if we’re having a conversation. “Can you stand up?” I don’t know why I bother. I know the answer. “Well, you’re going to.”

  I hook my arm around her and lift her until she’s upright. I fumble for my keys as she rolls her weight against my body. Pushing open the door, I slide my other arm under her knees, carrying her over the threshold.

  For once, my flat feels overwhelming instead of small. Or maybe I’m the one who feels small as I search for a place to set Everly down.

  Her head tips back, her right arm swinging against my waist in an unnatural rhythm. Before the room has the chance to close in around me, I decide on the couch. I don’t want her in my bedroom. I don’t want her to wake up and wonder what the hell is going on. I’m not that kind of guy. But there’s a part of me that thinks she knows someone who is, and I get angry again. My life is messed up enough without having her crash into it as well.

  I lay her on the couch and take off her heels, watching to see if she registers that my hands are wrapped around her ankles. She doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything, which only makes me furious. I prop her up on some pillows and find a quilt to drape over her.

  I watch from my kitchen for a bit, standing far away, as though she’s poisonous. My mug of tea is burning my palm, but I stay there until I finally snort in frustration and stride over to the couch. I remove her sunglasses and place them on the table next to the glass of water I have there for when she wakes up.

  I see you, I want to say. But I don’t. For once, I take a page from her book and remain silent. I close my bedroom door behind me and lose myself to my writing instead.

  Everly

  I wake up but keep my eyes closed, pretending that if I stay still, nothing will change.

  “Why are you here?”

  If Beckett didn’t hate me before, he does now. I hear it in his voice.

  No clue.

  “You weren’t home,” I say in an ugly croak. It’s a good enough answer, I suppose, even if it is a lie. I open my eyes and sit up, even though my head feels like it’s going to split in two.

  I’m fine. Those two words repeat in my head over and over as I gulp down the glass of water. They’ve been my mantra for some time now. I don’t want him to see me this way, so I pretend. I’ll be okay. I am okay. I’m fine.

  I catch a peek at an unmade bed behind Beckett. He stands outside what must be his bedroom, arms crossed. “I wasn’t home because you didn’t show up for your shift. I’ve been busy covering for you.”

  For a minute, my resolve melts, and I fold in half, cradling my head in my cold palms. I want to scream, but I blow out a rush of air instead and sit back up, gripping the couch cushions tight. “I didn’t ask for you to do that.”

  Beckett rubs a hand over the scruff of his face as he studies me. That intense look of want is gone now, replaced with hate. And maybe a little disgust and pity, too.

  I want none of it.

  “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

  I stand and instantly regret it. I swallow back the vomit in my throat and bring the glass into the small kitchen. Maybe I should wash it out so I’m less of an inconvenience. My hand is on the faucet when I hear him talking on the phone in the other room. He’s speaking in French, and I think maybe he forgets that I’m fluent. Then I hear what he says and the smooth laugh that follows. I shouldn’t be listening. A blush climbs to my cheeks, as if I didn’t wake up earlier in bed with Hudson and another girl. Earlier when? I don’t know. Maybe this morning or yesterday. It’s getting harder to keep track of the days.

  I want to hear Beckett speak to me like he does now on the phone. I want him not to hate me. I’m not even sure why. I’m used to people hating me and using me and hurting me. I’m not used to people worrying about a harmless skinned knee or setting a glass of water out for me when I wake up hungover.

  I turn on the faucet and scrub the glass clean as if I’m hazardous, using soap twice. He made me feel this way with his cold stare. I cup my hand to my mouth and test my breath, nearly knocking myself out. Maybe I’m not much of a prize right now.

  What I am is an idiot. I’m here in Beckett’s apartment, showing up like a sad disaster on the doorstep of a guy I hardly know. I can’t even remember how I ended up there. I hate myself for forgetting, and I hate myself for letting him judge me like an asshole. I hate that I actually care what he thinks.

  Not wanting to soil Beckett’s things, I wipe my wet hands over Hudson’s dress shirt. At least I think it belongs to Hudson. It smells like his cologne. I picture Beckett burning everything after I leave, his eyes returning to that non-condemning blue once the traces of me are gone. The same blue they were when we sat on the steps and he brushed his finger over my arm in circles for some strange reason I haven’t been able to figure out. His eyes were nice then. Kind, maybe.

  But that doesn’t matter. Girls like me only fill voids for guys like Hudson and Beckett. If they need money, I’m their sugar mama. If they want a beautiful girl on their arm, then I’m the go-to pick. If they feel insecure, I’m the girl they can hate on until they feel better about themselves. I thought I mattered to someone last spring and look where it got me—standing half-naked in the apartment of someone who may or may not hate me. But probably hates me.

  I turn the faucet off, and Beckett is still on the phone. The air crushes out of my lungs when I hear him mention her name.

  Nadine.

  I rush into the living room and grab my purse off the coffee table. I push my sunglasses up over my hair and rummage through the bag, pulling out the stash of jewelry I carry around. I feel like it’s safer with me than at my place. I mound it up on the table in front of me, my hands shaking as I try to block out what Beckett is saying. I don’t want him to talk to her like that. As if I have any say over who he can talk to. As if I care.

  Maybe I do and that’s why I start to tear at the silk lining of the purse. My hands tremble and the world goes a bit fuzzy, but I focus on the lining, sure that if I rip it out, I’ll find what I need at the bottom of the bag.

  “What are you doing?
”

  I can’t stop. The panic claws inside of me until my heart is racing, and I struggle to keep breathing. I turn the purse upside down and shake it out, unsure what I’m even looking for anymore, but there must be something. There must be something in it that can make this all stop.

  Make me stop.

  “Everly. Breathe.”

  My whole body is trembling, my stomach uneasy, and then my throat burns and I know I need to be sick. I need to throw up and get this all out of me, and then I need to find something to fix me. Something to make me right because I’m not okay right now. I’m not okay and I’m in some guy’s apartment, half-naked, and I don’t remember how I got here…

  I see naked skin and camera flashes and feel the pain wash over me from what Hudson’s done. Of greedy hands and the rush in my veins.

  I push up onto my legs, preparing to run out the door or catch a cab or hurl myself down the stairs, when everything tips and the ground rushes up to meet me.

  My head strikes the coffee table, and warmth spreads over my temple. I’m sprawled on my back, clamping my eyes shut as the world spins, moving without me. Somehow, that doesn’t bother me. The rest does. The fact that I’m here. The fact that I have to live with everything, and it never seems possible without everything building and building until it explodes and I end up on my back with my head split open. That bothers the hell out of me.

  Fuck.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I’d rather lie here and pretend the world is black. That I’m someone other than the girl I am. Someone who has her life together. Someone who functions well and loves and wants to live and experience the world.

  “What were you looking for?”

  A laugh bubbles up in my throat. I’m looking for a lot, but it won’t to be waiting for me when I open my eyes.

  “Everly.”

  I wrap my arms around my middle, afraid that I’m going to laugh myself into disjointed pieces that won’t fit back together again. When I finally look, there isn’t hate in his eyes. There isn’t pity, either. Beckett is staring at me as though I’m missing a part.