Dumpster Fire (Life Sucks Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  She’d never been on the receiving end of a kiss that had made her forget everything.

  Who she was. Where she came from. What her past had made her.

  Not until his fingers had brushed her back. Her scars. The reminder—

  “Fuck,” she whispered, closing the door behind her and yanking the sweatshirt’s hood tightly over her face. Now the breeze wouldn’t get in, wouldn’t caress her face like the unnamed man she wished she could take as a lover.

  It wouldn’t remind her of everything that had been taken away from her before she’d even been able to give it.

  Because what she wouldn’t give to get to know that unnamed man—fuck, fine, she knew she was being ridiculous, so fine—fine!—she’d speak his name. Because what she wouldn’t give to go on a date with someone like Rob. To get to know him. To have ice cream and chocolate syrup and cherries. To hold hands and go to the movies. To take midnight strolls on the beach.

  But . . . it wouldn’t ever be.

  Sighing, she gave in and lifted her chin to the still dark sky, letting the air caress her skin, letting her remember the kiss and how it had made her feel. She needed to mark those memories, to hold them tight, to stow them away.

  She needed to get used to having just memories.

  Because that was all she and Rob would ever be. Soph knew that. She understood it was the way of the world. Which meant she needed to stop being morose and wishing things were different and get on with her vacation and living her life and learning how to knit that fucking scarf.

  One kiss was all she’d ever have of Rob, and she needed to remember that.

  To be content with it.

  It was just . . . so fucking hard to actually do that after she’d spent the little bit of sleep she’d gotten dreaming about him, reliving his touch, the gentle insistence of his lips, the way his tongue had tangled with hers.

  “Enough, Soph,” she murmured. “Just enough.”

  With that, she took off down the beach, walking through the chilled sand. It seeped up between her toes, coarse and abrasive, and yet somehow still refreshing, as though it were scraping off an outer coating, exfoliating the dryness, leaving pinkened, softened skin in its wake. The air was slightly-sticky, moisture clinging to the currents, sending salt traveling along the shore. It clung to her face, her hair, leaving both feeling stiff.

  Or maybe that was what was inside her.

  A brittle stiffness. A careful bracing. One crack, one removed support, and she’d crumble to pieces.

  No.

  She wouldn’t break.

  She hadn’t broken.

  She never would.

  A bird flew overhead, the sky having lightened enough during her musings for her to see its silhouette, and she didn’t miss the symbolism. Flying high above the world. Alone in its journey.

  By necessity.

  Surviving alone.

  By necessity.

  Curling her legs beneath her, Sophie sank down into the sand, its coolness sweeping over her, soaking through her pajamas. But that cold was almost a comfort. It tempered the burning, the yearning, the need inside her until she finally felt more like herself.

  Until she finally felt like that bird.

  Flying free.

  Untethered rather than just alone.

  She scooped up handfuls of sand, letting the grains slip between her fingers, and cleared her mind, pushing any conscious thoughts to the back of her brain. Just sitting in the moment.

  Just being thankful for how far she’d come.

  That she even had a life to live.

  Because the world went on even in the face of heartbreak and cruelty. People might send a condolence, an apology, even express outrage, demand change, but in the end, they would get on with their lives and forget.

  Not because they were bad or heartless.

  It was just human nature.

  She’d lived enough life in her younger years to understand that some things didn’t change, no matter the best intentions.

  That was why she used her quiet time on the beach watching the sun slowly creeping up in the sky, the beach becoming brighter by the moment, to carefully rebuild the bricks around her heart, to lay them one by one so that she could shove down the darkness, the old pain, and . . . feel like herself again.

  Not the shattered pieces she’d been after The Kiss.

  Eventually, the sun was high enough that she knew she needed to walk back to her house, to put on real clothes instead of the worn pajamas she was currently sporting. So she pushed to her feet, dusted off her bottom, and headed back to her rental, listening to the waves crash against the shore as she did so.

  Finn had been right to drag her butt here.

  There was something soothing about this beach, even more so than the ones back in southern California. This wasn’t quite as warm, and the clouds often clung to the sky overhead, but there was something peaceful, more settled about this tiny stretch of beach.

  Fewer people, maybe.

  Fewer cameras pointed in her direction, certainly.

  Either way, despite her problems of the male persuasion, Soph felt more centered and rested than she had in years.

  Probably not too surprising, considering she’d been working nonstop since that first film had hit big almost two years ago—between prepping for and then shooting four films back-to-back and squeezing in the press tours, she had been running on fumes before this month off.

  Any place where she had privacy and could get some sleep would have brought the same result.

  Probably.

  Or not.

  Because she wasn’t sleeping well, and what little rest she’d managed had been marred by dreams of intense, swirling tiger’s eyes belonging to he-who-must-not-be-named.

  Yup, she was back to that again.

  She paused at the bottom step that led up to the porch that looked out at the ocean, her front door set in the middle of two large glass windows, and groaned. “Get it together, Soph,” she muttered. “Just forget it, so you can enjoy your vacation and—”

  She choked on a scream when a shadow materialized into a man.

  Coming toward her.

  Stalking toward her.

  No. God, no. Not again.

  Stumbling back, her feet not working correctly, she tried to turn and run but somehow managed to trip over herself and land hard against the path that led to the front of the cottage. Her palms and knees burned as the concrete abraded her skin. Her lungs sawed, attempting to draw in air but not managing to get anything that resembled a full breath.

  And the man moved closer.

  She finally managed to get her knees under her, to push herself up onto her feet, turning away, even as the man spoke.

  Well, maybe he’d been speaking the whole time, but she hadn’t been able to hear him.

  Not when she was like this—sweat sheening her body, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest, her pulse thrumming in her ears, making the words impossible to glean.

  She skittered back, tried to run again.

  Then tripped. Again.

  Or nearly did, because the man’s hand wrapped around her arm, catching her before she fell again.

  His grip was gentle.

  That was the first thing that processed.

  Even stopping her from crashing onto her face, he still touched her with care, and that was the piece that had her ears beginning to work, the metaphorical soundproofing of her heartbeat slowing enough that she could hear again.

  And see again.

  See Rob.

  Who was staring at her with those intense swirling eyes of golden and brown. Too intensely. Too clearly. He was watching her like he knew exactly what was traveling through her brain—the memories, the pain, the . . . shame.

  Tearing her gaze away, she saw the drinks on the sand, dripping into darker puddles, the smell of pomegranate and spice mixing with the salt of the air.

  Two carafes of tea.

  Spilled tea.

 
She sighed, pulled against Rob’s grip.

  He didn’t let her go, just swept her up into his arms and carried her up the stairs, across the porch, and into the house. It said a lot about this town that he barely paused to check if the door was locked—it wasn’t, which probably said a lot about her state of mind that morning and also the influence of this little town because she always locked her doors—before he carried her into the house and down the hall, unerringly finding the bathroom and setting her on the counter.

  “Let me see,” he said softly, reaching for her hands.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, holding them close to her chest.

  He didn’t argue, just bent to study her knees, gently peeling back the torn fabric and hissing out a breath when he saw what was beneath. “These need to be cleaned,” he said, turning away and opening the linen closet, pulling out a small first aid kit. He set it next to her on the counter and unlocked the plastic tabs, removing the top and placing it to the side.

  Bandages retrieved, along with some antiseptic pads. Both set next to her hip.

  Then he spun around and disappeared.

  Soph blinked at the hasty retreat then released a breath, her heart finally slowing to its normal rhythm as she figured he’d left her to clean her own cuts. Made sense. But just as that thought drifted to her mind, he reappeared, this time with a cup in his hand. He returned to the linen closet, grabbed a couple of towels, and then knelt in front of her.

  Frozen in place, unnerved and exhausted as her adrenaline from the encounter faded, she just watched as he wrapped the towel below her knee then carefully poured water from the cup on her cuts.

  She jumped at the first touch of that liquid, warm when she’d expected cold.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, moving even more slowly, more gently.

  And all of a sudden, she came back into herself—fury and embarrassment mingling into an uncomfortable second skin.

  “I’m not crazy,” she hissed, trying to pull away. “Don’t treat me like I am.”

  He didn’t react, just tightened his grip, using the bare minimum of force to keep her in place.

  Which only pissed her off more.

  Especially when he set the cup aside and lightly dabbed her skin dry. Then in quick, practiced moves, he wiped the antiseptic and placed the bandages.

  Only as he was moving to her second knee—and no, she wasn’t looking too closely at the fact that she hadn’t moved when he released her to shift positions—did he finally look up at her. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he said more evenly than softly.

  And her anger dissipated.

  Because she hadn’t been startled, so much as filled with bone-deep fear and panic. She’d been back in that place, back with that—

  But this man didn’t know that. He didn’t know what he’d conjured.

  How could he?

  She could barely believe it herself. She’d spent so much time and effort shoving the memories away, pretending they didn’t exist. But time in this town, in this place, with this man . . . and it was like the lid had begun to peel open, all the dark things from her past cropping up, all the feelings she’d spent so freaking long making sure she didn’t feel were flooding in.

  Probably, she should run screaming for the hills.

  Probably, she should want to go back to the way her life was before. How she was before.

  Content and closed down, happy in the slice she’d carved out for herself, knowing it was more than she’d ever expected.

  Probably, she should leave. Right now.

  But she wanted to feel . . . just for a little longer.

  “No,” she said, “it’s not your fault.”

  “It is. I was the one who showed up unannounced.” He started cleaning her other knee, movements still as sure and gentle, even though the water was a little cooler now.

  “I’m . . .” She closed her eyes, that lid peeling back further. But she forced it to halt in its progress, to not reveal any more. “Fine,” she finished when she could speak without giving anything else away. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be on my porch.” He froze, and she opened her eyes to see him studying her. A shrug. A forced smile. “I startle easily.”

  More studying.

  But he didn’t call her on her lie.

  And she decided it was time to change the subject. “How did you know where everything was?”

  He lifted a brow.

  “I mean the Band-Aids and towels and bathroom, for that matter,” she said. “How did you know where they were?”

  It was his turn to shrug. “I did the remodel on this house before it became a rental.” Another when her brows lifted. “Small town, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember.”

  He smiled at her and . . . God, it was so good that she wanted to take a picture so she could remember it forever. Or maybe bronze it and mount it on her wall at home. That tiny dimple winking at her. The way one side curled up slightly higher than the other. The small scar that demanded a kiss, for her to trace it with her tongue.

  “Who hurt you?” he asked, and it was said so conversationally that for a moment, she didn’t process the words.

  Then she did.

  Then . . . the shame came.

  It had no right to. It shouldn’t have any place in her life, not when her trauma wasn’t her fault, not when she’d been the product of a shitty situation and an equally shitty family.

  But she still felt it.

  A heavy burden upon her shoulders, coloring every interaction.

  That was why she buttoned everything down so tightly, locked it away with a dozen padlocks and heavy chains. Because she didn’t want to feel this way any longer.

  She hopped down from the counter, darting to the side when Rob made as though to grab her. “I don’t need your help.”

  He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “Who hurt you?”

  “It’s none of your business,” she muttered, turning on the faucet.

  “Ah,” he said. “So, there was someone.”

  “I—” She faltered. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. It’s in your eyes.”

  Soph was furious now—at him for presuming to think he had any right to know that, at herself because her past still had such a tight grip on her, at her family for all they’d done and because they were supposed to be the ones to protect her.

  Instead, they’d thrown her right into the fire.

  She shoved her hands under the stream, scrubbing them harder than she should in her fury, then hissing when the cuts opened again and the water got in deeper. Before she could pull them out from beneath the faucet, he was there, tugging her hands toward him, wrapping them in a towel, and gently drying them.

  Unbidden, her eyes stung, and she looked away, determined not to meet his gaze.

  He proved to be the more determined of their pair, turning her, peering down into her face, and she wondered what he saw there, if he could see beneath the brick wall and ferret out the secrets she hid beneath.

  But if he did unearth them, nothing about his expression revealed his find.

  “Who hurt you?” he asked again.

  For a moment, she debated just telling him, just confessing it all then and there. He’d talked about his late wife, and she’d heard more from Shannon and the talk around town. So she certainly knew more about his pain than he did hers.

  Her lips parted, the confession on the tip of her tongue.

  Then panic smothered it.

  His fingers brushed along her cheek, down her throat, coaxing her windblown hair behind her shoulders. “I am sorry for it,” he whispered.

  Her breath caught.

  “For scaring you,” he said, smoothing her hair back, “and for whatever was done to you.”

  Heart thudding in her chest, she swallowed hard, feeling the world tilt on its axis as her body drifted toward his. He leaned closer, and for a moment everything else fell away. His thumb, slightly calloused
and work-worn, brushed along her bottom lip, sending a shiver down her spine as she inched closer.

  He was going to kiss her.

  She wanted nothing more.

  Her mouth opened, tongue darting out to moisten her lips, and the moment stretched, drawing her in, filling her with yearning, with need, with desire.

  Closer.

  Two magnets at opposite poles being pulled together . . .

  And then he straightened.

  Physically distanced his body from hers.

  Purposely dropped his gaze to her hands and instead of kissing her, he cleaned and bandaged her palms then drew her from the bathroom, nudging her into the bedroom, so she could change her clothes.

  The door closed with a click, leaving her in the dimly lit space, and she found herself staring in the mirror, at a face that was both familiar and a stranger.

  “Would it be so wrong for him to know?” she whispered to her reflection. Maybe they could find something in shared pain, maybe she didn’t actually have to live like this any longer.

  Maybe if she finally talked about it, the power would disappear and she’d . . .

  She’d be able to have a real life, with a real, kind man like Rob.

  “Maybe,” she whispered, courage welling within her, making her consider, to think. She turned away from the mirror and quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt, leaving her feet bare, not caring that her hair was tousled and a total mess around her shoulders. “Maybe I can. No,” she said more firmly. “I can be different.”

  Hope bubbled up as she opened the door and hurried down the hall, her footsteps quiet.

  “Rob?” She poked her head into the living room, found it empty.

  Then the kitchen. Also empty.

  The bathroom, the spare bedroom, and finally . . . the deck with the ocean in the distance, the mostly deserted beach. The sun steadily climbing above the horizon.

  All empty of Rob.

  That hope withered away.

  She should have known.

  Eleven

  Unlocked Doors

  Rob

  He returned to the cottage during his lunch break, unable to get Sophie’s bleak expression out of his mind, and he found her on her deck, hat pulled low over her eyes, closed laptop propped on her stomach, and gorgeous body on display in an emerald green bikini.