“Avery, if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to. I know you have your rules, and I promised you I’d follow them.”

“I know, but it’s my birthday and I… I don’t know. I just want to do what I want to do for once.”

“And what exactly do you want?” His voice is low, deep, his gaze blazing with desire. “Because sometimes I get mixed signals from you.”

He’s right. I have told him countless times I just want to be friends. I’m sure it’s confusing. I bite down on my lip even harder, still unsure what exactly I want, but I guess he takes it as a sign to attack me. And boy, oh, boy does he attack me. One minute, he’s halfway across the bathroom near the sink, and the next thing I know, his lips are crushing mine.

And I don’t care.

At all.

Because I feel safe.

So safe.

And wanted.

And holy hell, my body craves more.

Our tongues fervently tangle as he presses against me, devouring my mouth with his. There’s hardly any room between our bodies, yet he grips at my thigh with his hand, bringing me closer, as if he can’t stand the breath of space between us. His fingers start to slide up my dress again, and I arch my back, leaning into his touch, not running from it, even though part of me wants to flee.

“Fuck,” he groans, biting my lip as he pulls away panting, but his hand stays put, climbing higher until his fingers graze my stomach. I tense, my breath staggering as I begin to panic.

Not there.

On my scars.

That bare my darkest secrets.

Sensing my panic, he moves his hand away, his fingers moving downward, past my hipbone to the edge of my panties.

Yes.

Oh, God, yes.

He can touch me there.

I can’t believe how much my body wants this. I’m already panting, and he hasn’t even technically done anything to me yet. He seems hesitant to go further, though, so I try to reassure him how much I want it—want him. Right now. In this moment.

“It’s okay,” I pant, my chest heaving ravenously, hot need pulsating through my veins. “Tristan, go…” I moan as he slips a finger deep inside me, and my knees give out.

He quickly slips his arm around my back to stop me from falling while he continues to feel me thoroughly with his other hand, driving my body into a frenzy. It’s been so long, my body is famished, starving for more—for things I’m not sure my mind is ready for. I should stop him, but I can’t. Don’t want to. Instead, I relax back, my head banging against the door.

I let him hold me up as I climb higher and higher, about to crash over the edge and break apart. His lips come down hard on mine, scorching hot and needy, consuming to the point that I can’t breathe.

But let him steal my breath.

Take what’s left.

Break me apart.

Steal my heart.

Because I don’t care.

About anything else.

Other than how amazing I feel.

Right now.

How amazing he’s making me feel.

In this moment.

How amazing it is that I’m here.

With him.

I continue to fall blindly and willingly into his touches as he trails passionate kisses down my jawline. When he slips another finger inside me, my toes curl, and then I gasp as his mouth reaches the base of my throat, right over the scar that’s barely noticeable to most. However, Tristan must have noticed it before because his lips pay extra attention to the old wound, as if he’s kissing the memory away.

Unable to keep my knees from buckling, I slide my hands up his shirt and clutch onto his sides. His muscles constrict beneath my fingers, and the hardness only makes me come undone more. Right as I almost reach the top of the fall, he pulls his fingers out of me.

My eyes open and I gasp a protest. “What are you—?”

Without a word, he picks me up and carries me over to the counter. As I catch my breath, he spreads my legs open, and I wait eagerly for him to kiss me again. Instead, he drops to his knees and then…

Oh, my hell. What the hell is happening to me?

My head topples back against the mirror as he pulls my panties aside, and his lips brush the center of my thighs. My knees bend and my h*ps buck with the first swipe of his tongue. Every single inch of my body throbs. Begs. Screams for more. And he gives it to me, slow and sensual, deep and desperate. Every sweep of his tongue and gentle nip of his mouth causes the inside of me to tighten until I’m so wound up all I can do is let go.

And fall.

Fall.

Fall.

As I leave reality, going to that place I haven’t been to in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m falling into the unknown. I feel like I’m climbing somewhere, to a different place, one where I feel comfortable and safe, where I feel free. It’s amazing how unafraid I am, even after all that’s happened, even with all the scars, both visible and unseen.

By the time I return from the haze, Tristan has stood up and positioned himself between my legs. He watches me in wonder and with a bit of worry as I blink back to reality and sit up.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, placing his hands on top of my knees and massaging my legs.

I nod, still breathless. “More than okay. Are you okay with this, though?”

He nods. “I just want to make sure that I didn’t push you or anything.” His usual cocky demeanor has cracked apart. A very vulnerable Tristan is standing in front of me now.

Wanting to reassure him that everything is fine, I loop my legs around his waist and tell him the truth. “Best birthday present ever.” When I realize how much I mean what I say, something breaks apart.

I start to cry.

Lose it.

Fall apart.

“Oh, my God, Avery… I didn’t…” He’s horrified by reaction. “I thought you wanted that.”

“I did want it. Trust me. That’s not why I’m crying.” Tears spill from my eyes as I sob, crying because, for the first time in over two years, I don’t feel so lonely. Crying because of how much I enjoy Tristan and how afraid I am to lose the safe feeling he gives me. Crying over bills. Crying over Taylor. Crying because everything seems so wrong, yet right. Crying because the last time someone touched me like this, it nearly led me to my grave. And with each tear, some of the pressure releases, and I feel freer.

“Tell me what I can do,” Tristan pleads as he watches my pain pour out of me.

“Hold me. Please, just hold me.”

Without any hesitancy, his arms wrap around me, and he hugs me against his chest.

And I clutch on to him for dear life.

Chapter 32

I feel like an imposter.

Tristan

The way Avery let me touch her is almost impossible to wrap my head around, and then she cried in front of me in a way that seemed like she truly trusted me. Even almost a week later, it still blows my mind. But I still feel uncertain if our relationship is right—if I’m right for her—when she doesn’t even know half the things I’ve done. I feel like a terrible person, like the old Tristan. I don’t want to be him anymore. I f**king hate him, something I painfully become aware of when I receive a call from my mother early in the morning.

The sun hasn’t even risen yet, so I think about not answering the call, but I need to talk to her to make sure she reported Dylan.

“Hello?” I answer as I roll over in bed and check the clock on the nightstand.

“Hey, son.” It’s my dad who answers, which is odd because he never calls me.

I sit up and turn the volume of the television down. Nova and Quinton aren’t in their bed, but I hear the shower running, so I’m guessing they’re in the bathroom.

“Why are you calling from mom’s phone?”

“Because… Well, because I left mine at home, and I really need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

“Okay.” I reach over and flip the lamp on. “What’s up?”

“It’s… it’s your mom.” He struggles to speak as if he’s on the verge of crying. “I had to… I had to check her into...”

“Into where?” I ask when he doesn’t finish. I think I already know the answer, though.

“Into a… hospital…” He trails off, cursing under his breath. “God dammit, this is so bad, but I didn’t know what else to do. She stopped eating and spent all of her time at Ryder’s grave. Then she... Well she had a nervous breakdown, and I just think maybe some time… some therapy might help her.”

“I’m so sorry, Dad.” It’s all I can think of to say. I feel bad for being the kind of son that can’t comfort him. For being the kind of son who couldn’t stand being around his mother enough to help. The kind of son who doesn’t feel terribly upset his mother has been hospitalized.

What kind of sick person am I?

“Yeah, me too,” my father murmurs, and then he starts to cry.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, even though I’m not positive it is. I don’t know what else to do or say when he’s clearly losing it. It’s not like when I’m trying to comfort Avery and all these uplifting words spill out. My past with Avery isn’t twisted and ugly. “You’ll get through this. And I’ll come visit if you need me to.” I cringe at the idea of going back home again.

“You would do that?” he asks in shock.

I sigh. “Well, I’m not as bad of a kid as I used to be. I do care about you guys.” In my own way.

“We care about you too.” It’s probably the first nice thing he’s said to me since I was twelve, and it causes a lump to swell in my throat. “Your mom… she’s just been confused lately, but I’m hoping this will help her get to a more mentally stable place.”

“Yeah… I hope so too.” And I really do. Shitty parents or not, I don’t want my mom to suffer.

Someone says something in the background, and then my father tells me, “I have to go. I’m still at the hospital filling out papers, but I wanted to let you know.”

“Keep me updated.” I start to say goodbye but then remember… “Wait, did Mom ever report that whole Dylan thing like I told her to do?”

“She didn’t, but I did,” he says. “And Dylan was arrested yesterday. They found him crashing in that trailer park you used to hang out at all the time. I’m not sure about the charges, but I know he’s behind bars at the moment. Hopefully, he’ll be there for a very long time, for that girl Delilah’s sake. Such a sad story, isn’t it? I actually ran into her mother the other day, and she looked wrecked.”

“Yeah, it’s…” I don’t know what else to say. After seeing firsthand what went down between Delilah and Dylan, part of me feels guilty about how it ended, even though I did try to stop the abuse. I think of Avery and how Conner is still torturing her, and it makes me want to protect her every second,  every hour of every day. “I’m glad he was arrested.”

“Yeah, me too,” my father says. “Look, I have to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow and give you more details about your mother’s condition after I talk to the doctor.”

“Thanks,” I say and then hang up, feeling lost and confused.

The confusion only increases throughout the day, and by the time I arrive at the worksite, I’m beyond unfocused, something Avery instantly notices.

“You seem out of it,” she says while we’re working to put sheetrock up inside the home. The walls and roof are now up and the windows are in, although the interior is being heavily worked on. The siding also needs to be put on along with the roof shingles, but it’s coming along.

“I just have some stuff on my mind.” I stick the end a screw into my mouth while pressing the base of another into the drill bit.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks, plucking some sheetrock debris out of her ponytail.

“I don’t want to bring you down today.” I touch the drill bit to the wall. “You looked so happy when you walked up.”

“That’s because I felt happy this morning.” She bends down to tie her shoelace when I turn on the drill and press the screw into the sheetrock. “But I kind of owe you for the meltdown on my birthday,” she continues when I shut off the drill.

“Avery, you don’t owe me anything,” I promise her as I set the drill on the floor and sit down on a turned over bucket.

She glances around for a seat, hesitating before plopping down on my lap. “Tell me what’s bothering you, or I’m going to take away all of your brownie points.” She looks puzzled on where to put her arms before she finally just loops them around my neck.

My body is tense underneath her. Things have remained friendly since her birthday, and I was under the impression the kissing and touching was a onetime thing. But, now she’s here, sitting on my lap, and the scent of her is so intoxicating I can barely think.

“My dad called this morning… about my mother… being hospitalized.”

Her eyes enlarge. “Oh, my God. Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s not hurt or anything.” I summon a deep breath, and before I can stop myself, words pour out of my mouth. I tell her about my mother and father and our rocky past. I tell her how much I let them down. I even find myself telling her about what my mother said to me the day Ryder died. Then I tell her about my mother’s meltdown.

By the time I’m done, my chest feels less heavy, like I can finally breathe for the first time in years. If only I could take it one step further and tell her about the darkest part of my past—the things I did for drugs—then maybe I could feel completely weightless.