With my eyes, I ask a silent question—but then I realize… we don’t ask questions.

I tear the packet with my teeth and roll on the condom at the same time she removes the only piece of clothing that’s stopping us from going all the way.

I have to ask. I can’t not. I don’t want her to regret it. “Riley,” I breathe out.

She responds by pressing her lips to mine, her hand around my neck, bringing me down until her entire back is lying on the counter. I grasp her thighs as best I can and pull until her ass is on the edge. Then I reach up, groping her breasts in both my hands, watching and listening to the results of her pleasure. In a single thrust, I’m inside her. She’s warm. And so fucking tight. Her back lifts off the counter, her quiet scream of pleasure and pain mixes with mine and we start to move. Slow at first, and then as one, we speed up. Her hands are on my waist as I lean up, watching her tits bounce with each thrust. My gaze moves lower, my cock getting harder as I watch it slide in and out of her perfect fucking body. She’s fucking ridiculous. Every move. Every sound. Every touch from her pushes me closer to the edge. Then she tightens around me, her body heated and covered in sweat as her stomach contracts, her release as close as mine. I hold out, just long enough for her to finish and when the shaking stops and her breaths seem to settle, I go off, releasing a grunt into her neck while her fingers curl into my back.

And then… silence.

I’ve never hated silence as much as I do right now.

Because reality hits.

And reality’s a bitch.

She’s drunk.

Beyond drunk.

And now I’m regretful.

She breaks the silence.

I wish she didn’t.

Because she’s crying, pushing away from her.

I lean back. “Riley, it’s—”

She pushes until I’m completely off her, wiping her tears and covering her mouth like she’s about to puke.

I make her sick.

We make her sick.

She rushes to the sink and empties the content of her stomach. Then grips the edge of the counter, her shoulders heaving with every breath.

I discard the condom in the trash and pull up my pants before going to her. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I say, “Riley, it doesn’t—”

“Mean anything,” she cuts in.

“—change anything,” I finish.

Slowly, she turns to me, using her arms to cover her most private parts—parts I was drowning in only minutes ago. “Dylan,” she cries. “It changes everything.”

Eight

Dylan

She asks me to leave.

I do because it’s not one of those times where she’s joking around or pretending she hates me. The look she gives me mixed with the regret in her eyes is proof of that.

And as much as I don’t want to admit it, she was right. It changes everything.

Because now I’m in deep. Too fucking deep.

So I do the only thing I know when nothing in the entire world seems to make sense.

I drive.

And then I drive some more.

And when the sight of the sun dipping down on the horizon doesn’t give me the calm I was hoping for, I head home and face reality.

Eric’s standing in the garage as I pull into our driveway, my tools and my engine parts in his hands. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” I yell out, getting out of my truck and making my way to him.

“Nope,” he says, popping the P. “This car stuff has always been you and Dad’s thing. Kind of pissed me off, to be honest.”

I stop in my tracks. “What’s with you?”

“Where have you been, Dylan?” he says, facing me.

“What are you talking about?”

He places his hands on his hips and widens his stance. Fuck, he looks like Dad. Acts like him, too. “You’ve been home over a week, and I’ve barely seen you.” His eyes narrow, as he cups my chin. He tilts my head from side to side while he steps closer, his eyes right on mine. “Dylan?”

“Uh…what?”

“Are you on The Drug?”

I swat his hand away. “Fuck off.”

“Dylan.” He stifles his laugh. “I’m being serious. Are you, or are you not, on The Drug?”

“Oh my God, Eric.” I push him aside and start replacing the tools back where they belong. “I’m not on The Drug… whatever the hell that means.”

“Good.” He leans back on the workbench and crosses his arms again. “I just feel like I should be looking out for my kid brother, you know?”

“I’m not a kid anymore, E. I can take care of myself.”

He points to my shoulder. “Clearly.”

I freeze. So does Eric when he realizes what he’s just said. “I didn’t mean that, man. I overstepped.”

“Yeah, you did.” I shut the lid on the toolbox and face him, matching his stance, waiting for him to leave.

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Did you… want to talk about it or something? About what happened?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath. “Well, if you do—”

“I don’t. Ever.”

“Right.” He nods but doesn’t look away. “Your friends know your back?”

I shake my head and drop my shoulders.

“Why not?”

“Not ready,” I rush out, and when I realize this is the most we’ve had to say to each other in ten years, I ask, “What’s with the twenty questions? Dad ask you to talk to me or something?”