Blue (Savages in Ruin Book 1)

BLUE: A Savages in Ruin Novel

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this

book are products of the author’s imagination and

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent

of the author or the publisher. No part of this book

may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or

mechanical means, including but not limited to

printing, file sharing, and email, without proper

written permission from the author.

Cover Design by:

Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art

Editing by:

Candice Royer

Proofreading by:

Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

Allison Irwin, Allison Literary

For…

…everyone who’s followed me down this rocky

road.

…my husband for allowing me to live out my

dream.

…all those who found the courage to keep going

despite their dwindling strength.

…anyone who’s loved so hard it almost broke

them.

This is for you.

When two souls call to each other, the universe

hears the whisper and conspires to bring them

together. In the world of spirit, distance is not an

issue and time is not a barrier. Two souls who have

found each other and hold on to the hand of the

divine will see heaven and earth move and make a

way for their love.

- Daniel Nielsen

Prologue

WASN’T

prepared for the impact.

All  it  took  was  a  matter  of  seconds,  but  to  me,
those  seconds  felt  like  tiny  lifetimes,  all  of  them
drawn  out  moment  by  agonizing  moment.  The
squeal  of  the  air  brakes.  The  feel  of  falling  sits  in
the  pit  of  my  stomach  as  twelve  tires  slid  across
black  ice  with  nothing  to  catch  on.  The  whine  of
the steel girder as it bends before it breaks. The tip
of  the  bus.  The  view  out  the  window  going  down,
down, down.

Slow motion doesn't describe how insanely slow

everything moves when you're in the middle of a
bus wreck.

The luggage packed beneath us shifts toward the

front, adding weight to make our descent suddenly
faster.  When  the  windshield  kisses  the  ravine,  the
bus  becomes  an  accordion  and  folds  at  ninety
degrees.  Somehow,  I  find  myself  amidst  the
scattered wreckage.

Arms and legs akimbo but not broken, I slowly

straighten and take stock of every part.

Where is she? I need to find her and make sure

she’s okay. I feel like I’m screaming without sound.
My head spins, and I can’t catch my breath.

Wyatt

HE WHEELS

of my 4x4 hug the curves of the winding

road. There’s not a house in sight on this stretch of
pavement. Nothing but trees on the left and right. A
copse of woodland too thick to see through. Quiet
and serene. No one will ever find my sorry ass way
out here. Not that it matters. No one’s going to
come looking for me. I may as well not even exist.
And soon, I won’t.

Why suicide, you ask?
I don’t need a reason to kill myself. I need a

reason not to. Guilt is a virus that sinks its claws
around my neck and squeezes just enough to make
it hard to breathe. I choke on the stinking bile rising
up my throat every time that nagging voice enters
my head.

You’re all alone.
You let your sister die.
I can’t remember the last time I slept. Days,

months,  years.  They  all  collide,  crashing  into  one
another  like  roving  rapids,  sucking  me  into  their
riptide  of  despair.  Perhaps  in  death,  I’ll  find  some
peace.

It’s not your fault. Her voice, like wind through

trees. Sometimes I hear it. Sometimes I answer. It
argues with me, giving me false hope. But it’s just a
hallucination. She’s not real.

Emotion blurs my vision, but I wipe it away,

peering through the rolling mist lifting from the
body of water in the distance. Dead Man’s River. A
fitting name for my goal at hand.

Through the thick, mottled trunks, I see a flash.

Could my eyes be deceiving me? For miles, all I’ve
seen is the orange cherry smoldering the tip of my
cigarette  and  the  glowing  orbs  of  the  headlamps
beyond  the  slope  of  the  hood.  Perhaps  it’s  the
Molotov  cocktail  of  vodka  and  despair  wreaking
havoc  on  my  vision.  I  want  to  ignore  it.  I  audibly
tell myself it’s nothing to worry about, but when the
road  takes  a  hard  arch  to  the  left,  I  cut  the  wheel,
and  the  truck  careens  to  follow  it  en  route  to  the
bridge up ahead.

And there it is.
A brilliant flicker glowing in the headlamps. The

squeal of my tires echoes through the dark, kicking
up  dirt  as  I  come  to  a  stop.  In  the  dim  light,  I  see
her.  A  girl  alone  on  the  bridge.  Small  and  skinny
with a wild tangle of flaxen curls cascading around
her  gaunt  face.  She  flew  through  the  trees  like  a
ghost  in  the  night.  A  specter  coming  to  steal  my
soul. If only I had it to give.

“The fuck?” I whisper.

A wet dress clings to her lithe frame as she looks

back at me like a frightened deer. At first glance, I
think her hands are bound, but they’re not. Just
twisted in front of her, clutching each other as if
they’re all they have in the entire world.

I push open the door and step from the vehicle.

“You all right?”

Her frightened gaze snaps to mine, but she

doesn’t answer. I step carefully in her direction.
The last thing I want to do is to scare her off.
Animals live among the thorny brambles. Bears and
raccoons, things that go bump in the night. It’s not
safe. “You okay? You want me to call someone for
you?”

A meek whimper floats from her quivering lips, a

silver cloud billowing between them. “You’re
cold.”

She nods, a tiny head bob that springs the

rumpled mane around her head. I gingerly work the
buttons  on  my  flannel  shirt  and  slip  it  off  my
shoulders before holding it out for her to take. The
alcohol  running  through  my  body  gives  off  a  false
sense  of  warmth,  but  something  inside  makes  me
wonder  if  she’s  radiating  the  heat  that  dapples  my
skin  with  sweat.  When  she  unlocks  her  twisted
hands, the headlamps pick up on the crimson stain
splashed  across  her  torso.  “Are  you  hurt?  Do  you
need a hospital?”

Her saucer eyes brim with tears. She turns to

leave,  but  I  grasp  her  bicep.  “Wait!”  A  surge  of
energy  rockets  up  my  forearm,  an  electric  current
whizzing  just  under  the  skin.  The  mystery  girl
gasps,  her  eyes  roll  back,  and  she  faints  right  into
my arms.

I stand there briefly, looking at her face. Not a

single  blemish  defiles  her  porcelain  skin.  She’s
alabaster from  the top  of  her hair  to  the last  tip  of
her toes, broken up only by pale pink lips. My eyes
scan  our  surroundings  for  signs  of  life.  A  house,  a
car, a boat. Something to show she’s not alone, but
there’s  nothing  but  black  in  all  directions.  Nothing
out here but endless trees and frigid wind.

Slipping my forearm under her knees, I lift her

willowy frame and carry her to my truck. I can’t
leave her here. Not now. Not when the night is at its
blackest with the cold November wind ricocheting
through her sopping clothes.

At that moment, all thoughts of suicide leave my

head. My decision is clear. She has to come with
me.

Wyatt

ARMTH RADIATES

against my face, beams of light

slicing  through  my  closed  lashes  as  I  lie  in  bed.
They  flutter  but  remain  closed.  I  don’t  want  to
wake  from  this  incredible  dream.  The  evil
resonance of rock bleeds from my fingers as I maul
the  strings  in  time  with  Frankie’s  melodic  voice.
I’m with my band, not stuck in this decaying body,
a  prison  cell  that’s  kept  me  in  the  dark  since  the
accident. But, as usual, my pleasant dreams turn to
nightmares.  The  sun  on  my  face  fades  to  black,
replaced by visions of blood and gore.

Yellow sunlight fights through the constant

drizzle  outside.  It  skitters  through  the  large  set  of
windows, causing the craziest striped pattern across
the  plush  comforter  wrapped  around  me.  I  roll  to
my side, pulling the covers up as a shield. My mom
should  have  known  better  than  to  buy  a  house
made of nearly all glass. It’s murder on a hangover.

My gaze rolls to the clock at my bedside. Fuck

my life, it’s already past noon. Most mornings, I
wake up cursing the daylight and praying for death
to take me, and today’s no different.

I chuck a look over my shoulder as I force

myself from the solace of my bed. Cobalt hair pops
against  the  neutral  surroundings,  adding  a  cheerful
edge  around  my  sullen  face.  Blue,  like  my
namesake.  It  started  as  a  goof,  a  swath  of  color
Frankie  made  me  do  on  a  dare  that  suddenly
became my signature. Now, I stare at it, hating the
sight of my own reflection. What happened to me?
At  only  twenty-eight,  I’m  in  the  prime  of  my  life,
yet  I  feel  as  though  I’m  a  hundred  and  twelve  on
the  verge  of  the  end.  It  wasn’t  all  that  long  ago  I
was on top of the world looking down. A king on a
throne,  my  guitar  a  mighty  staff.  I  had  life  by  the
balls but left it all scattering like shards of glass on
that lonely stretch of Canadian highway.

Now, my hazel eyes crinkle in the corners,

bloodshot  and  sad.  I  scratch  my  jaw.  Several  days
of  growth  cover  my  face  in  light  stubble  that
matches  the  buzzed  side  of  my  head.  I  need  to
shave, but the constant tremble in my hands makes
it hard to hold the razor steady.

Ducking into the bathroom, I splash cold water

on my face in hopes to revive the death that always
seems to be sitting on my doorstep. A screech tears
through the wall from the room next to mine. I turn
toward the direction of the bloodcurdling sound
before bolting out the door.

Holy crap!
It’s her. The little nothing I found on the bridge.

In my vodka-induced haze, I thought it would be a

good  idea  to  bring  her  home.  It’s  not  the  dumbest
thing  I’ve  ever  done,  but  its  close.  Now,  standing
outside  her  room,  I’m  at  a  loss.  “Hello?”  I  lift  my
hand to quietly knock, but the lack of answer leads
me to reach for the handle instead.

Backlit by a halo of light, she shines like an angel

in the sun, curled up in bed and still wrapped in my
flannel from last night. Tension fills the space. I
step forward, but she gasps and tugs the covers
closer to her chin, her lips trembling as she shakes
her head slowly.

“Don’t be afraid.” My voice comes out in a low,

dulcet tone.

Who the fuck knows what’s going through her

head  right  now?  I  know  what  I  look  like.  Metal
gleams  from  sporadic  holes  in  my  face,  tattoos
etched  from  neck  to  wrists,  still  wearing  my
Butchered at Birth tee that’s torn in the neckline. I
sweep the hair off my forehead and tuck it behind
my ear.

By the sober light of day, I realize I should have

checked for real damage on her body. Maybe taken
her to a hospital or something. Instead, I threw her
in my guest room like an inconsiderate asshole. Of
course she’s scared. She woke up in a strange house
with a weirdo sleeping in the room next door. “You
in some kind of trouble?”

She swallows hard, shaking her head. Silvery hair

flows wild and savage, a cluster of curls springing

over her face. I want to reach over and push them
out of the way, but I stay rooted to my spot on the
floor. She looks about as comfortable as a raccoon
after  sunrise.  It’s  best  to  keep  my  distance,  but  as
her blue eyes shine with wide wonder, I can’t help
the  magnetic  pull  dragging  me  toward  her.  It’s
strange.  I  almost  feel  as  though  we’ve  met  before,
but I can’t see how that’s possible.

“Is someone waiting for you?”
“I don’t have anyone.” Her small voice crackles

when she speaks. The single statement hits me like
a gunshot. I don’t know why I care so much; I
don’t give a shit about anyone I come across, not
since . . .

Shaking my head, I attempt to keep the

memories from assaulting me. I need to focus on
the girl before me.

Leaning my back against the door molding, I

cross my arms over my chest. “Got a name, at
least?” I challenge with a frustrated sigh.

Her gaze remains fixed on the ground between

us. “Willow.”

This is the moment I’m supposed to tell her my

name  in  return,  but  I  don’t  know  what  to  say.
Everyone  in  my  life  calls  me  Blue.  A  moniker
forced  upon  me  by  a  narcissistic  mother  who
needed  a  namesake  at  all  costs.  The  only  person
who  ever  addressed  me  by  my  given  name  was
Frankie. I hear it now, whispering in my ear. Wyatt.

Where are you?

“I’m Wyatt.”
Willow glances up through light eyelashes turned

dark by the shadow slicing across her face. She
drinks me in, searching for something . . . I don’t
know.

“You want some breakfast?” I kick myself off

the wall to leave, glancing back to see if she
follows.

A shrug is her only response.
“I’ll make you deal. I’ll get you anything you

want, but you gotta come downstairs. Okay?”

Her stomach answers for her with a rumble,

which makes me smile.

When I offer my hand to help her up, the blanket

pools around her bare feet. Standing full height, she
can’t  be  more  than  five  feet  tall.  A  little  lamb
buried  in  a  flannel  that  hangs  past  her  fingers  and
comes  down  to  her  knees.  That’s  what  she  is.  A
frightened  little  lamb,  her  fleece  as  white  as  snow.
She  cowers  in  the  shadows  of  the  hall  as  we
approach  the  top  of  the  steps.  The  lower  floor  is
bathed  in  midday  sunlight.  Slowly,  she  descends
with  one  dainty  foot  in  front  of  the  other  until  she
reaches the bottom.

“It’s okay. No one else is here. Just me and you.

I got you.” I offer her a reassuring smile. I’m not
sure why I fucking do it, but something about this
chick intrigues me.

A shadow passes across her toes, a slice of light

cutting  the  path  to  the  kitchen  like  a  laser  beam.
With trembling fingers, she lifts her palm. The pale
glow  bounces  off  her  skin.  She  waits—for  what,  I
don’t know—but without warning, she steps into it,
facing  it  like  a  flower.  A  musical  giggle  falls  from
her lips. I watch from the stairs as she twirls in the
marble  foyer  with  her  arms  raised  over  her  head.
All traces of fear and doubt fall from her face when
she  looks  at  me  again.  Tears  glitter  on  her  pale
cheeks, but her smile stretches from ear to ear.

Beautiful.
She really is. Unconventionally so, but striking

nonetheless. A porcelain doll with ivory skin and
pink lips. Delicate and fragile.

I step down and move toward the kitchen.

“C’mon, let’s get you fed.”

“Wyatt, wait.” When I spin back around, she

hurls herself against me, wrapping her arms around
my middle and shocking the shit out of me. “Thank
you,” she whispers into my clothes.

I stand for a few moments, stunned. The

questions  plaguing  my  mind  cease  the  minute  her
warm body molds against mine. It almost feels . . .
right.  She’s  nothing  to  me.  A  random  girl  like  so
many  I’ve  met  in  the  past,  yet  having  her  in  my
arms feels like home.

It doesn’t matter who she is or where she came

from. I don’t even want to know. The past few

months have been a clusterfuck of drama and
bullshit, melancholy and sorrow. I’m nearing the
end of it now. I don’t need the distraction.

I can’t risk caring for another person I’m bound

to lose.

There was a time when this house was bustling

with life and music and people—a family riddled
with drama and deceit—but I’m all that’s left. Just
me and the ghosts of my loved ones, sucking me
into their haunted eyes and whispering lips. I want
to be with them.

“I don’t have too much in the fridge.” Untangling

myself  from  her  embrace,  I  move  toward  the
kitchen.  The  low  timbre  of  my  voice  echoes
through  the  emptiness,  making  it  seem  more
powerful  than  it  is.  It’s  been  so  long  since  I’ve
spoken  to  a  real  person  that  the  sound  seems
foreign to my ears.

Opening the fridge, I grab a loaf of bread, my

eyes  scanning  the  expiration  date  before  glancing
back  over  my  shoulder.  I  can’t  remember  the  last
time  I  went  out  for  groceries.  Modern-day
conveniences  make  it  virtually  unnecessary  to
leave  the  house.  I  order  what  I  need  and  have  it
delivered.

Willow stands in the middle of the room, her lips

parted  and  her  crystal  gaze  scanning  the  space.  I
suppose  at  first  sight  it’s  something  to  look  at.
Panoramic  windows  take  the  place  of  upper

cabinets. The entire room encased in glass
overlooking a misty sky. To me, it’s nothing more
than a see-through tomb.

“Your floor is rainbow,” she whispers, her gaze

dropping to the long rows of tile at her feet.

“My mom liked color,” I say, twisting the tie off

the bread and pitching it onto the stainless-steel
countertop. I hate the way my heart clenches when
I think about her. Her name stalls on my tongue.
Delilah Blue. I still see the headline splashed across
page one — “Rock legend dies at forty-three.”

I wanted to burn this house to the ground when it

happened. Wanted to strike a match and watch it all
sizzle  and  pop  as  the  blaze  devoured  the  last
remaining  shred  of  the  woman  who  gave  me  life,
but  it  was  our  home.  The  only  place  Frankie  felt
safe. Now she’s gone, too . . .

Frankie.
Thoughts of my sister create a physical reaction

in  my  stomach,  a  sucker  punch  to  the  gut  that
makes it hard to breathe. I should have taken better
care  of  her.  But  it’s  too  late  now.  Five  years  after
burying  our  mother,  I  said  goodbye  to  my  sister,
too. Frankie was the only person I ever truly loved.
It’s all my fault. I don’t deserve to continue living,
despite  the  constant  sound  of  her  voice  blathering
on in my head.

A sudden tear trickles down Willow’s face,

pulling me from the nagging thoughts that tear me

apart night and day. “You’re so sad.”

I side-eye her warily. “Why do you say that?”
She steps across the colorful tiles as if she’s

floating  above  them,  then  lifts  her  hands  to  my
face.  Ice-blue  eyes  stare  back,  ringed  in  pink.  “I
can  feel  it.  This  house.  Your  shrine  to  the  dead.”
She  drops  her  hands  and  clutches  her  chest,  her
breath rattling within. “It hurts.”

“How are you doing this?”
She swallows hard, her swimming gaze latching

onto mine. “I don’t know.”

If I were smart, I’d take her back to wherever

she  came  from  ASAP  and  never  think  about  her
again,  but  for  some  insane  reason,  the  thought
rattles  me  to  my  core.  Do  I  really  want  her  to  go?
The idea that I might actually want her here is more
jarring than her sudden appearance.

“Do you know where this came from?” I ask,

using my thumb and forefinger to pinch the crusted,
red stain on her dress.

She drops her head and looks down, gently

taking my hand in hers. “I can’t remember.” Her
voice is hollow, the pain seeping through the cracks
and dropping into my wounded heart in tiny
increments as her tears continue to fall.

I turn back toward the counter to slap together

some bread and cheese before twisting back to
hand it to her. “What do you remember about last
night?”

She shrugs. Taking the plate from my trembling

fingers, she brings it to the large island in the center
of  the  room.  Sunlight  beams  through  the  trees,
casting  a  striped  pattern  on  the  pearlescent  island
countertop,  but  rain  clouds  roll  in,  suffocating  the
small patch of blue sky with their ever-present gray
hue. It never stops raining. Not for a second. Even
the  brightest  day  is  tainted  by  the  depths  of  my
macabre.

She slips onto the stool as if it hurts her body to

move. “I remember darkness. The smell of copper
and pine. It’s in my nose and my eyes. I can taste
it.”

“What else?”
“Water.”
“You remember falling in?”
She shakes her head. “I remember coming out.

You on the bridge.” Lifting her gaze, she looks at
me through featherlight lashes. “And the fear.”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It wasn’t my fear.” She lifts the sandwich and

nibbles on the corner, chewing thoughtfully before
swallowing. “It was yours.”

I narrow my gaze, scrutinizing the waifish young

woman before me. This can’t be real. This strange
girl pops out of nowhere, has no memory of where
she came from, but can read my feelings like a
novel. It’s not possible.

Opening the freezer, I pull out the bottle of Grey

Goose wedged between boxes of frozen meals and
a  half-empty  container  of  Rocky  Road  ice  cream
long past its expiration date. I make quick work of
throwing  together  a  makeshift  Bloody  Mary  and
stare out at the expanse of woods behind my house.
The  ice  clinks  as  I  bring  it  to  my  lip.  The  sweet
flavor of tomato juice slides down my throat as the
vodka  eases  my  discomfort.  The  only  thing  that
drives away the haunting memories.

I don’t have anyone. Those four little words that

fell from her lips infiltrated in my heart like an
infection. A stark reminder. Alone. It weighs on my
chest so heavily I can barely breathe. I don’t want
to live like this anymore.

“For the record, I wasn’t scared.” I chuck a

glance over my shoulder to look at her face once
more. “And if you’re gonna stay here, you need to
stop doing . . . that.”

“So I can stay?”
Bringing her here was a drunken mistake. I

should  have  left  her  on  the  bridge  where  I  found
her, but now that she’s here, and I don’t know what
else  to  do.  I  can’t  take  her  to  the  police.  Doing  so
will  only  thrust  me  back  into  the  public  eye,  and  I
can’t  live  like  that  anymore.  I’m  no  one’s  side
show. I just want to be left alone.

“You can have the room upstairs for now. No

one’s using it. But don’t ask a lot of questions,
don’t get in my way, and stay out of my head.”

Willow

ITTING ON

what’s now my bed, I go over the

incoherent details of the last day. How did I end up
here?  It  just  doesn’t  make  any  sense.  I  close  my
eyes,  trying  to  muster  the  strength  to  remember
something, anything that happened prior to Wyatt’s
heavy  footsteps  padding  across  the  floor  this
morning.

I had no recollection of the bridge until he spoke.

I recognized his voice. A smooth baritone, deep and
rich that I’d heard in my dreams. His gentle voice
calmed my raging nerves as I trembled in the dark,
droplets of river water dripping on my bare feet. He
helped me. Sheltered me from the cold and
enveloped me in his warmth.

Anyone else might have been alarmed by his

appearance,  but  something  about  his  face,  about
the kindness reflected inside his gaze, made me feel
at  peace.  Like  he’s  someone  special,  someone
sacred. I guess that sounds insane. He thought I was
scared,  but  I  wasn’t.  It  was  him.  His  bleak
existence  covered  the  ground  like  fog  and  pilfered
my breath both then and now.

The soft knock on my door breaks my silent

reverie.  “Willow?”  The  timbre  of  Wyatt’s  voice
causes  a  rumble  in  my  stomach.  A  rush  of
adrenaline  shoots  through  my  blood,  flooding  my
insides with a strange, tingly sense of warmth. But a
sadness  seeps  through  the  middle,  leaving  tiny
droplets of pain at my feet every time he speaks. It
burrows  inside  my  chest  like  a  worm  making  its
home. Of course, I don’t say any of this for fear I’ll
scare him. It scares me enough for the both of us.

“Yes.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed as he

pushes the door open and comes through. The skin
on my arms and legs prickles with goose bumps. A
bold  palette  swirls  up  his  biceps,  disappearing
beneath  his  T-shirt.  And  his  hair.  A  cobalt  wave
dips  into  one  green-brown  eye.  He’s  a  rainbow,
parting  the  dreariness  with  splashes  of  brilliant
color.

“Where’d you find that?” he mumbles, his gaze

scanning  the  tattered  T-shirt  hanging  off  my
shoulder.  A  set  of  eyes  ringed  in  kohl  stares  out
from  across  my  chest.  The  rest  of  the  face  is
concealed in shadows, the words “Savages in Ruin”
scrawled along the top in fancy lettering.

I adjust the neckline, holding the crumpled black

cotton against me like armor, hiding my skin from
the warm caress of his gaze. “I found it in the
drawer.”

“Which drawer?” The anger wrapped around his

voice makes me wince.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment before I

whisper my apology. “I-I’m sorry. I couldn’t wear
that dress for another second, and I found a couple
of tees in the dresser—”

“It’s okay.” He sucks in a deep breath, closing

his eyes as he blows it into the tense atmosphere
around us. “I brought you something to wear for
now, but we should probably take a ride to get you
whatever else you might need.”

“A ride?” A pink hue shines through the window

slats.  The  sun  still  hangs  in  the  sky.  A  few  more
hours  until  dusk.  I  settle  into  the  pillows,  the
daylight  outside  now  inviting  me,  yet  the  crack  in
the closet door beckoning to me, calling me into the
shelter of its dark embrace. The urge to hide comes
on  so  strong  I  need  to  fight  it  away  with  all  my
strength. “Outside?”

When I look up, I catch him staring hotly at my

bare legs. A sudden pang hits the apex of my thighs.
I rub them together, soothing the ache that sprang
out of nowhere. The pierced corner of his lip
twitches up. “Yeah . . . You need clothes.”

“Okay,” I tell him, accepting the folded garment

in  his  outstretched  arms.  The  little  white  sundress
unfolds  in  my  hand,  sweet,  miniature  butterflies
fluttering  across  the  airy  material.  The  corners  of
my mouth turn down. “Where did this come from?”

“It belonged to my sister.” I sense his impatience

growing the longer he hovers in my doorway, his
irritation evident as he grinds his answer through
his teeth.

My gaze flicks to the hallway and back. “You

have a sister?”

A feeling of panic rises to the surface. I don’t

know what it is about him. Whenever he’s near, a
blitzkrieg of emotion wages war inside me. Sorrow
so thick it weighs on my limbs. The misery he lives
with is too heavy to bear.

“Is she here, too?”
A dark haze falls over his face. “Get dressed.

Come down when you’re ready.” The room slams
still, his emotions closing off as harshly as his words
do.

I’ve overstepped a boundary he’s not willing to

cross, and that’s okay. We all have secrets we have
to live with. Skeletons dancing deep in our closets
that aren’t meant to see the light of day. I
understand. He’ll talk when he’s ready.

Slipping from the bed, I pad to the bathroom,

twisting the airy material in my fingers. A sister. No
sooner had the word left his lips did I feel an urgent
stab of pain. But it was gone as quickly as it came.
He told me not to ask questions, but how can I not
when every beat of his heart entwined with mine
drags me into darkness without my consent?

They roll through my head as I reach for the

shower. Water shoots from the rain hood in violent

streams hammering on the basin floor, a cloud of
steam billowing from the rush. A sigh leaks from
my lips as I shed my clothes and step inside, tilting
my face toward the spray.

Various products line the shelf recessed into the

tile,  the  cool  blue  glass  shimmering  behind  them.  I
reach  for  one  and  squeeze  a  dollop  in  my  palm.
Wyatt’s  masculine  scent  rises  in  the  steam,  a  light,
crisp fragrance like musk or sandalwood.

It stirs up something inside me.
A memory? A feeling?
I close my eyes, trying to let the sensation take

hold,  but  it  sits  at  the  forefront  of  my  mind,
taunting  me  with  its  blurry  edges.  Trees  are  all  I
see,  spindly  growing  beside  vast  nothingness.  A
heavy absence caving in my chest. The harder I try
to drag it back, the farther away it seems to get.

When I’m finished, I step out into the foggy mist

and  wrap  a  fluffy  towel  across  my  barely-there
breasts.  Condensation  covers  the  tilted  mirror.  I
swipe my hand across it, the reflected smear of my
plain  face  staring  back  at  me.  Freckles  sweep
across the bridge of my nose. I reach up and touch
them as if seeing them for the very first time. I hate
them. My dad had them too, only his were darker,
his  hair  less  ashen  than  mine.  Why  is  it  that  I
remember him so vividly, yet all the details leading
up to now are lost in the haze?

With a frustrated grumble, I spin back toward the

dress folded neatly on the toilet lid. Slipping it on, I
check my look in the mirror one last time. The soft
fabric  clings  to  my  slender  hips  and  falls  around
mid-thigh,  giving  me  the  illusion  of  a  woman’s
figure.  A  memory  of  Wyatt’s  heated  stare  washes
over  me.  Wyatt.  I  glide  my  tongue  across  my  lip,
tasting the flavor of his name clinging to it. He’s an
interesting fellow. Brusque and brash, yet there’s a
gentleness  sequestered  deep  inside.  He  pushes  it
down, but I see it teasing the edges of his sad eyes
when  he  looks  at  me.  Assholes  don’t  just  bring
strange  girls  home  and  make  them  cheese
sandwiches.  It  doesn’t  add  up.  There’s  more  to
Wyatt. And I’m going to find out what it is.

Wyatt

HEAR

her moving above me. The shuffling of feet

indicating  her  hesitation  to  join  me  downstairs.  I
crane  my  neck,  peering  up  the  stairs  to  catch  a
glimpse.  Bare  legs  come  into  view,  long  and  lean.
The breath stutters in my lungs. A physical catch in
my throat as the rest of her follows suit.

The dress fits on her slender body like a glove. It

floats  around  her  thighs  as  she  descends,  an  angel
in  white  from  head  to  toe.  The  vodka  stews  in  my
stomach. My head feels light, my limbs tingly. The
self-imposed  numbness  I’ve  grown  to  rely  on  far
too heavily.

She halts abruptly at the edge of the steps,

bringing her hand to her head.

“You okay?” I ask, watching the graceful way

her fingers bend around the banister to steady
herself.

“Yeah. I just felt dizzy for a second. It’s gone

now.”

I lift the flip-flops dangling from my fingers.

“You’ll be cold in these, but I’ll get you some real
shoes while we’re there,” I tell her, shoving another
flannel in her arms before turning away to head for

the door. A car horn blasts outside, stealing my
attention for just a moment. “That’s our ride.”

“You’re not driving?”
“I don’t drive much. Last night was a fluke.” My

heart leaps into my throat, the acrid sting of regret
twisting with the eighty-proof bile rolling on the
back of my tongue. I wonder if she feels it
swimming in my veins.

Her presence behind me dapples my skin like the

tickle of goose bumps, the fragrance of pine not far
behind. I smelled it in the forest. That unmistakable
woodsy  scent  of  earth  and  rain.  A  whiff  of  it
catches  in  my  nostrils  again  as  she  falls  into  step
beside  me,  and  I  realize  for  the  first  time  that  it’s
her.  The  crisp  scent  of  autumn  clings  to  her  skin
like the smooth cotton of her clothing. “Or maybe it
was fate.”

“I don’t believe in fate.” Anger simmers in my

words when I respond. Even though I vowed to try
to be nice to her, that fate shit only frustrates me.

We ride to the store in silence, my heavy gaze

falling  to  her  bare  thighs  as  her  fingertips
awkwardly tangle with the hem of her skirt. Dainty
hands  with  elegant  fingers,  the  perfect  crescent
moon  of  her  nails  picking  at  a  frayed  thread.  I
wonder  what  they  would  feel  like  wound  between
mine, her tiny palm encased in my large one.

Fighting the urge, I reach into my pocket to pull

out a cigarette and set it between my lip rings.

“You can’t smoke in here,” the driver utters in

annoyance.

I catch his reflection in the rearview mirror. His

brows  pull  together  as  a  knowing  look  suddenly
passes across his features. I couldn’t imagine being
an  Uber  driver.  The  shit  these  guys  must  see  on  a
daily basis. Later, as he sits down to dinner with his
family,  he’ll  tell  them  all  how  the  infamous  Wyatt
Blue rode in his shitty Hyundai Sonata. Fuck him.

He pulls into the lot and eases off the gas. Before

last night, I can’t remember the last time I’d left the
house, preferring the solace of my own home to the
hustle and bustle of daily life. If not for Willow, I’d
still be in my bed wishing the time would move
faster, praying for the sun to set to fill my home
with the darkness I feel whenever I’m awake.

Willow, on the other hand, turns her face toward

it,  embracing  the  meager  warmth  it  offers.  The
automatic  doors  slide  open  as  we  approach.  I  stop
short  at  the  threshold  of  the  door,  my  muscles
tightening.  The  store  is  busier  than  I  expected.
Women  pushing  toddlers  inside  fancy  strollers  and
old  ladies  shuffling  down  the  aisles.  She  stares
ahead  with  wide-eyed  wonder,  her  arms  wrapped
around mine so tight it’s painful.

“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you, too.”
Meeting her eyes, I realize she’s right. Inside her

sad stare is something tragic. She’s broken, like me.

To  anyone  else,  we  look  like  the  perfect  couple.
Both  of  our  shattered  pieces  float  between  the
normal cracks of everyday life. A blue-haired punk
with  torn  jeans  and  hanging  chains.  The  old  maids
regard me as a warning, their horrified glares sliding
to  the  chubby  faces  of  their  offspring,  silently
praying  they  don’t  grow  up  like  me.  A  freak.  An
outcast.  A  drunk  swaying  on  his  feet  with  nary  a
fuck to give about it.

Fuck them and their leering eyes, their bullshit

yoga pants and Starbucks cups. They scurry away
as if they fear me, and they should. I am death,
destroyer of worlds.

And Willow. The antithesis of everything I

portray. She’s pure. Snow-white innocence clinging
to my dark, dirty soul as if I can protect her. She
sees me as her solace, but she’s wrong. I’ll only
slather her in my filth. It’s what I do. Everything I
touch turns to shit.

I steer Willow toward a rack of clothing. Piles of

neatly folded T-shirts in assorted colors line the
shelves. She reaches out, letting her fingertips glide
across the soft fabrics. “There’s so much. I don’t
know what to choose.”

“What do you like?”
She shrugs, her curious gaze shifting over the

hanging racks before settling back on me. “I like
you.”

A pfft sound leaves my lips. “Give it time. I’m

completely unlikeable.”

She cocks her head to the side, eyeing me as if

reading my mind, and for a split second, I’m afraid
she  can.  If  she  only  knew  the  depraved  thoughts
that  exist  inside  my  head,  she’d  run  from  me  like
everyone  else  has.  It’s  a  strange  brew  of  pain  and
lust,  guilt  and  regret,  lingering  under  a  fog  of
whole-grain  alcohol.  My  jagged  pieces  only  serve
to tear her to shreds the deeper she gets.

Yet I find myself tumbling into her mystical blue

depths as she stares directly into my heart. What is
it about this girl with her unknown past and ability
to strip me bare? She pulls the emotion from my
chest as I lie bleeding from the impact. It’s too
much. I don’t want to feel like this.

Tearing myself away, I reach for a pair of jeans

and pull them from the top of the pile. “Try these,”
I tell her, shoving the item toward her.

She holds them against her lean frame, letting the

strategically torn denim sag over her bare legs and
touch the tops of her feet. “What do you think?”

I think I could fall in love with you if I weren’t

so damaged.

“Those would look badass with a pair of

Converse.” An honest opinion, yet I find myself
looking at more than just her hands holding up the
jeans.

A subtle giggle floats from her lips as I take her

hand and drag her to the shoe aisle. A pair of bright

red Converse All-Stars sits on a shelf among all his
colorful brothers. “What size?” I ask, plucking
them from their resting place.

“Six.” She lifts her foot, the worn-out flip-flop

dangling from her petite toes. Frankie’s flip-flop,
just like the dress. Two items that just happened to
be sitting on the chair in her room as if waiting to
be filled with a warm body.

“Jesus, you’re tiny.”
A shiver trickles down my spine. It’s creepy how

well her clothes fit Willow. Frankie was tall and
lanky, like me. Long legs and fingers, with warm
eyes and dark hair. Willow’s different. A petite waif
with what I can only guess is a shitshow of secrets
stashed inside that cool blue gaze. She shouldn’t fit,
but she does.

She offers me another wholesome, wide-eyed

look, and my heart skips a beat. Maybe that’s her
ploy. She acts all shy and harmless, then before you
know it—BAM!—you’re bleeding out on the
kitchen floor, and she’s off to find another victim.

On second thought, that’s stupid. That sweet

little lamb couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone commit
murder.

“Try these on,” I insist, handing her a pair of

sneakers. I wait, my gaze darting around at the
other wandering shoppers, my fingers trembling at
my sides.

“They fit.” She stands and looks down at her

feet, snowy curls tumbling over her face, before
glancing back up. “I’m really glad I met you,
Wyatt.”

Butterflies flap in my belly. I turn away from the

hopeful gleam in her eyes, the one that has so much
faith in the fucked-up guy she just met. She’s naïve
to the world around her, and that light will
eventually dim the longer she sticks around. I’ll be
her demise.

The need to escape this store hits me like a brick

in the face. As I grapple for breath, I realize it’s not
just the store. It’s her. I close my eyes, willing away
the sudden onset of panic. I’ll drink it down when I
get  home,  but  I  can  never  run  from  it,  no  matter
how badly I want to. I fucked my own life, and now
I’ll  fuck  hers,  too.  It’s  inevitable,  and  there’s
nothing I can do to stop it. Because you can’t stop
what’s  already  inside  you,  and  you  can’t  run  from
yourself.

“Wyatt, are you okay?”
Willow’s voice collides with Frankie’s, the husky

smoke  of  my  sister  twisting  with  the  light
effervescence of the girl staring at me in horror as I
unravel  in  the  shoe  aisle.  She  gasps,  the  pile  of
clothes  in  her  arms  dropping  between  our  feet.
“Relax  .  .  .”  she  breathes,  the  word  whistling
through her teeth. A warm hand lands on my back
and slips toward the nape of my neck. “I got you.”
Her  sweet  simper  purrs  in  my  ear  as  her  thumb

gently circles behind my lobe. “Breathe with me.
Feel me, Wyatt.” With her free hand, she lifts mine
to her chest. “In and out,” she whispers, sucking in
a sharp inhale, then blowing it out.

My vision returns to normal. I fall to the floor,

my elbows resting on bended knees as I breathe
myself back into consciousness. “How did you do
that?”

She sits down next to me and shrugs. “I used to

have these freak-outs when I was a kid. Breathing
through it with my dad always made me feel
better.”

“Your dad?”
She nods, a frown twitching the corners of her

mouth. Looking down, she wrestles with the
sneaker, fingering the ties until they’re evenly
spaced across the top of her foot. “He died. A few
months back.”

“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. No use crying about it now, right?” A

sad smile sits on her lips. “I’ll see him again soon.”

A cool chill snakes through my veins. That tiny

piece of information has left me ravenous for more.
I need to know her. Everything about her. Where
she’s from, what she likes, what she thinks . . . And
the notion scares me. My insides feel tight. Pulled
taut like a new guitar string. If plucked too hard, I’ll
surely snap. “Let’s not do this, okay?”

She looks up with a quizzical stare. “Do what?”

“Exchange sob stories. Rehashing the past won’t

change our present.”

Her eyes narrow into ice-blue slits. “You asked

me.”

“Yeah, well, you brought it up.” I wave my hand

in the air, not needing to get into the emotional shit
with some random chick who’s wearing my dead
sister’s clothes and weaseled her way into my
home.

“Wow.” She scrambles to her feet, grasping the

shelf for support. “You’re kind of a dick, you know
that?”

“Trust me. I’m well aware.”
Following her motion, I pull myself off the floor

as she offers her hand to help before asking, “You
gonna make it?”

“I need a smoke. You finish up,” I grumble, more

to  me  than  to  her  as  I  flip  her  my  credit  card.
Reaching for my cigarettes, I stumble out the door.
Frigid wind whips across my cheeks and ruffles my
sweatshirt. I huddle closer to the building, trying to
escape  it  as  I  flick  my  lighter.  Normally,  I’d  just
light up inside. Fuck it, right? Who’s going to yell at
me?  But  I  needed  to  escape  the  conversation  I
knew was coming.

I suck on my smoke and tip my head, blowing a

long gray stream up to the sullen sky. The tundra of
winter lies ahead. A never-ending wasteland that
fits my icy mood.

When the door behind me slides open, I don’t

bother  to  look.  Willow’s  crisp  autumn  fragrance
floats  on  the  breeze.  I  breathe  it  in  like  the  smoke
whirling  around  my  nostrils,  holding  it  inside  my
lungs until I can barely take it anymore and have to
let it go.

“It’s cold out here.” The cherry glows bright

orange as I pull another drag from the filter.

She shakes her head. “Cold doesn’t bother me.”
“You got everything you need?” I question,

quirking my dark brow at her as I glance down at
the little lamb.

She slips her arm around my lower back, resting

her head on my arm. “I do.”

Willow

HOPPING BAGS

full of stuff sit between us in the back

seat  of  the  car.  I  watch  Wyatt  from  the  corner  of
my eye. His knees show beneath the tattered strings
of  frayed  denim,  his  fingertips  dipping  underneath
then  back  out  again,  teasing  the  holes  as  he  stares
blankly  out  the  window.  I  feel  him.  All  his
insecurities bounce around inside my chest. I have
to  remind  myself  to  breathe.  If  I  don’t,  I  fear  I’ll
drown  in  the  angst  living  inside  him.  His  unease
now living in me, too.

I don’t know what this is. This odd connection

I’ve had  since the  moment  we met.  I  felt it  on  the
bridge when he touched my wrist. The electricity. It
was  like  being  struck  by  lightning.  And  when  I
awoke, I had this gift. It sounds insane, but it’s my
only  explanation  for  the  way  my  heart  fills
whenever he’s near. This heavy, foreboding feeling,
a  distorted  mashup  of  hate  and  fear  and  relentless
desire  twisting  around,  pushes  me  to  the  tethered
edges  of  my  own  skin.  It  scares  me  so  much.  Not
because I feel it, but because I like it. I don’t want
it to go away.

The driver darts another glance in the rearview

mirror, the tenth one since we got in. The low hum
of  rock  music  fills  the  cab.  The  DJ  speaks  over  it,
announcing the name of the band—Savages in Ruin
—before fading out. A haunting voice croons over
the  music.  It  cuts  through  the  thundering  baseline,
weaving through the wailing guitar, and coming out
on  the  other  side  a  violent  howl  that  instantly
shatters me to my core.

“Turn this shit off,” Wyatt rambles, leaning

against the seat in front of him, his tattooed hands
gripping the leather. “I don’t wanna hear this.”

The cab goes instantly silent, save for the thump

of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Another glance in the rearview. Wyatt shifts back in
his seat, a scowl twisting his face into a pucker.

“Oh, shit.” The driver slows, cutting the wheel

onto a quiet suburban street. “You are Wyatt Blue.
I  knew  it.”  An  audible  growl  rumbles  in  Wyatt’s
throat.  “Savages  in  Ruin  was  baller,  man.”  The
frown  on  Wyatt’s  face  deepens,  his  hands  balling
into  fists  on  his  thighs.  “I  saw  you  guys  live  when
you opened for Black Diamond. Killer show.”

“You can just drop us off here. We’ll walk the

rest of the way.”

“Man, that accident did me in. Took a while for

me to get over it,” the driver continues as Wyatt
slowly starts to fall apart. How do I know this?
Because I begin to unravel with him.

It’s not long before the house comes into view. A

gigantic  brick  and  mortar  structure  with  intricately
carved  eaves  and  picture  windows  at  the  top  of  a
hill guarded by a black wrought-iron fence. He’s a
prisoner  in  his  own  home,  living  behind  bars  that
hold the world at bay.

Wyatt jumps out before the car’s even made a

full stop, and I follow close behind. We meander up
the  winding  walk,  past  the  wilting  leaves  of  a
Japanese  maple  and  the  lifeless  sprouts  of  bushes
and various plants. If I close my eyes, I can almost
see  how  beautiful  this  garden  must  have  been  at
one time. Flowers blooming in red and pink, shining
green  foliage  reaching  for  the  sky.  The  serenity  of
trickling water bubbling from the now empty pond.
Whatever  was  here  is  long  gone  now,  its  remains
left  to  rot.  Dead  like  the  expression  on  his  face
when he throws open the blue front door and drops
our purchases in the foyer.

Lights go on as we enter. It’s as if the house

knows  we’re  here.  It’s  an  entity  all  its  own.  The
quiet  pad  of  Wyatt’s  sneakers  wisps  around  the
kitchen,  followed  by  the  grind  of  crushing  ice  and
the clink of glass.

“You all right?” I ask, hanging in the large open

doorway. The light bursts through the picturesque
backdrop, highlighting his strong back as he stands
at the counter pouring his drink, the clear liquid
sluicing over the cubes filling his glass.

“Leave me alone, Willow.”

But I can’t. I move toward him, my hands raised,

reaching out. He turns and sucks in a sharp breath
as  my  fingers  touch  his  cheeks.  Dark  circles  wrap
around  each  sad  hazel  eye.  Light  lashes  crown  his
lids,  the  same  tawny  shade  as  the  close  shave  on
the  side  of  his  head.  I  take  in  the  straight  slope  of
his nose and the hairpin curve of his upper lip. He
reminds  me  of  the  garden  out  front.  Beautiful,  yet
left to rot.

His Adam’s apple bobs, but he doesn’t look at

me. I feel the tension clawing between us, tearing at
us from the inside out. Something heinous, a dark
entity like the one in which he lives.

“I’m going to my room,” he grunts, then twists

his neck, wrenching from my grasp. My heart rate
kicks up. Is it his or mine? Perhaps it’s both. I can’t
be sure. But I feel it hammering against my ribs,
taking hold of my lungs as I step back.

Wyatt swipes the bottle off the counter and turns

on his heel, leaving me alone and breathless. Once
again,  I  find  myself  navigating  the  unknown.
Tension still hangs heavy in the air, tainting the bold
rays  of  pink  and  purple  streaking  across  the
massive  windows  in  streaks  of  heavy  drizzle.  It
churns in my gut like concrete. It flops and twists as
this  heaviness  drags  me  down.  This  quiet  mansion
filled with beauty holds nothing but despair.

I shuffle through the kitchen and meander into

the vast foyer. An oversized staircase sits in the

middle, its banisters curving outward at the top and
stretching across the outer rim of the second floor.
Large  open  doorways  flank  the  entrance  of  the
room  while  a  sitting  room,  a  dining  room,  the
colorful kitchen, and a hallway lead to secret places
I’ve  yet  to  discover.  Above  me,  fractals  of  light
shatter  the  chandelier,  its  silver  arms  clutching  the
delicate  shards  of  crystal.  It  fractures  me  in  tiny
increments. On the surface, Wyatt appears to have
everything,  but  beneath  the  opulent  display  of
wealth  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  he  lacks  the  only
thing his broken heart needs. Love.

Wyatt didn’t find me. I found him.
Slowly, I ascend the dark, wooden planks,

grazing  my  fingers  along  the  smooth  lacquer  finish
on  the  railing.  My  room  curves  to  the  left,  and
Wyatt’s  is  in  the  middle.  The  soft  sound  of  music
murmurs  under  the  crack.  I  dawdle  outside  the
door, wondering what he’s doing in there.

I should go to my room and wait for morning.

I’m  a  guest  in  this  house.  A  stranger  brought  here
by  a  man  cavorting  with  demons  I’ve  yet  to  learn
about.  But  curiosity  gets  the  best  of  me.  I  step  to
the  right,  meandering  down  the  darkened  hall.  An
open door leads to a bathroom across from another
sitting room of sorts. Or maybe it’s more an office.

A black desk sits in front of the large picture

window, the evening light glimmering on the golden
disks hanging on the opposite wall. Four of them in

a perfect row, the name Delilah Blue written in bold
letters  underneath,  and  a  fifth  in  lying  in  broken
shards  on  the  floor.  “Savages  in  Ruin,”  I  whisper
aloud,  letting  my  fingertips  steal  over  the  serrated
pieces.  The  words  tear  through  my  chest  like  a
bullet the moment they spring from my lips.

I back away from the shattered fragments of

Wyatt’s  past  and  stumble  backward  into  the  desk.
The  open  laptop  whirs  to  life,  the  screen  casting  a
moonlight-gray  hue  in  the  dimly  lit  room.  When  I
touch the keyboard, a tinny voice seeps through the
speakers  with  the  same  deep  luster  of  smoke  and
heart  I  heard  in  the  cab.  It  calls  to  me,  sending
waves across my skin in tiny droplets of beauty and
angst. The words wrap around me in a silken tether,
pulling  tight.  With  each  word,  I  feel  another  tug
until  I’m  wrapped  entirely,  the  bang  of  my
heartbeat  rushing  along  with  the  bleeding  bite  of
background music.

I was broken before you came along
You don’t get to take credit for this
You don’t get to add me to your list
Another shattered girl in your wake
No, love, you didn’t hurt me
You can’t kill what’s already dead

As the last notes fade to black, I blink back the

tears that crest my lash line. Like an addict to a
drug, I need to hear more, but that’s all there is.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“What are you doing in here?” The timbre of

Wyatt’s  voice  snaps  me  from  my  reverie.  His
energy  behind  me  sucks  the  oxygen  from  the
atmosphere.  Shallow  breaths  pant  in  my  lungs,  the
heat  radiating  off  his  chest  sending  flames  licking
across my skin.

I shamefully glance over my shoulder, drooling at

the sight of Wyatt’s naked torso. The furious scowl
twisting  his  lips  should  terrify  me,  but  the  sight  of
his smooth, tattooed skin on full display knocks me
senseless.  Wyatt  Blue  is  chiseled  perfection  from
his  strong  jaw  to  his  tight  abdomen.  All  pointed
corners and perfect hills. He’s muscle and ink, long
and lean, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants
riding low on his hips.

“What did you touch?” he growls, stomping into

the  room.  He  stands  at  the  laptop  and  pounds  the
keys  with  angry  fervor,  returning  the  screen  to
where it was before grabbing my arm and dragging
me  out  of  the  room.  “You  have  no  right  to  be  in
here!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“No!” He closes his eyes, sucking in a deep

breath through his nose and blowing it out hard
through his mouth, the scent of alcohol wafting to
my nostrils. “Just stay out of there, okay?”

He spins on his heel, taking a swaying step, but

his wobbly footing collapses beneath him. A

whispered curse flies under his breath as he falls,
tumbling down the stairs feet over head and lands
in a heap at the bottom.

“Wyatt!” I scurry down the steps as fast as I can.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. “Wyatt, get up!” Emotion

clambers up my cheeks, burning my eyes. It rushes
down my face, the resonance of my racing heart
drowning out the sudden sounds of rain hammering
the roof. I slide my leg over his, listening to his
chest for a sign of life.

His arms close around me. “Fuck . . .” He

chuckles, his head lolling to the side. “That’s gonna
hurt in the morning.”

“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass,” he mocks me

with another insufferable snicker. “But you’re hot
when you’re angry.”

I sit up on my knees, straddling his thighs.

Hardness pushes against my center as I shift, my
lips parting in a gasp.

“Don’t gawk at it unless you’re willing to do

something about it.”

“Get up.” I pull together the seething emotion

blistering my heart and shuffle to my feet, trying to
drag him up with me.

“I am up.” He snickers, his limp body falling

over mine. We manage to trudge back to his room
with six feet of lean muscle draped over my

Wyatt

BLAST

of frigid water smacks me in the face. I

yelp, the smell of dirt rising with the nauseating
stench of wet vomit as the stream suddenly lets up.

“What the hell, Wyatt?” Frankie’s angry voice

exacerbates the thunder rolling in my cranium.

I dig my fingers into the ground, opening my

heavy  lids  just  enough  for  the  blades  of  grass  to
spear my eyes. The world spins as I force myself up
and  another  round  of  puke  fights  its  way  up  my
esophagus.  I  swallow  it  down,  clutching  my  skull.
Chunks of . . . I don’t know . . . cling to my arm. I
don’t remember eating. In fact, most of the night is
a complete blur. What the hell am I doing outside?

“Where were you last night?” she yells.
Isn’t that the million-dollar question?
“What day is it?”
She lifts her face to the sky with a frustrated

sigh. “This isn’t happening.” Frankie blasts me
with her signature death stare, the razor-sharp
edge of her glare cutting like a knife.

“What’s your problem, Francis?” The use of her

birth name earns me another shot of water straight
up my nose. I lurch off the ground, tackling my

sister  for  the  hose,  but  when  the  butt  of  her  palm
catches  my  forehead  and  snaps  my  head  back,  I
collapse  onto  the  saturated  ground  like  a  sack  of
bricks.

“Jimmy Fallon. The Tonight Show. Ring any

bells, you alcoholic asshole?” she shouts,
scrambling away from me.

“What?” I squint, attempting to see Frankie

through the direct rays of brash sunlight beaming
from behind her.

A fleck of mud covers her flawless cheek, her

lipstick smeared at the rim of her puckered mouth.
She wipes it away with the back of her hand. “If
you’re not careful, you’re gonna end up just like
Mom.”

“Mom OD’d, Frankie. Not the same thing.”
“Addiction, self-loathing, self-medicating.” She

angrily lifts a new finger in my face as she checks
off the list. “A fucking spade’s a spade. You barely
show  up  for  practice,  and  when  you  do,  you’re
either too drunk to remember the chords or you’re
too  hungover  to  play  them.  You  missed  the  meet
and greet before our last concert. You’re drowning
yourself  in  the  bottom  of  a  bottle,  and  you’re
taking us all down with you.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
She cocks her head, clamping her hand around

her jutted hip. “Isn’t that what I’m explaining to
you in some detail?”

“That’s not what I meant.” I slick my hair back,

pulling out a rogue twig sitting among my muddy
blue locks. “You’re no better, you know. Ever
heard the phrase workaholic?”

“One of us has to take this shit seriously.”
“You take it too seriously. It’s supposed to be

fun. Jesus, it’s not like we need the money. House is
full of fuckin’ silver spoons.”

“Too bad you can’t drink ’em, huh, Blue?” she

shoots back, crossing her arms over her chest.

Rolling my eyes, I push to my feet, but my knees

work  way  too  hard  to  support  my  weight,  and  she
has to catch me when I stumble. Not that long ago,
I  was  the  one  catching  her.  The  big  brother  she
followed  with  adoration  in  her  eyes,  a  gaze  that
now swims in nothing but pity. I fucked up. Again.

“You stink,” she mumbles, helping me through

the back door. “Take a shower. I’ll put some coffee
on.”

She throws my arm off her shoulder and shoos

me away, but I only waver. “I love you, Frankie
Foo Foo.” I plaster on a sloppy grin as her
childhood nickname slurs out.

She tries to keep her stony façade, but I see the

cracks weakening her foundation. Frankie’s the
only person in this world who lets me be an asshole
and still loves me afterward. She’s all I have. “I
hope you find the peace you’re looking for, Wyatt.
Before it’s too late.”

_______________________

The  echo  of  my  footsteps  reverberates  around  me
as I enter the great room at the back of the house.
My favorite place. Encased completely by walls of
glass, the room has floor planks that run in a fading
octagon  and  meet  in  the  middle  where  my  baby
waits to be fondled. A Steinway piano, fully rebuilt,
custom  and  recrafted  to  my  specifications.  The
black  lacquer  finish  shines,  beckoning  to  me.
Calling me home.

The guitar is my first love, the piano my mistress.

Rock  is  primal.  It  bites  and  bleeds,  and  takes  no
mercy. On the stage, with the lights and distortion, I
was a legend. They’d hear me coming a mile away.
The  evil  that  befell  when  I  beat  the  strings  tore
people apart and left them begging for more. Knox,
Jett,  and  me—we  were  kings  of  the  stage  with
Frankie as our queen. We owned it, and we knew it.
The fans were powerless against it.

But in here, it’s not about the show. I’m not

Wyatt  Blue,  defamed  guitar  player  for  Savages  in
Ruin,  the  prodigal  son  of  Delilah  and  Sonny.  I’m
just  a  man  pouring  out  his  heart.  The  music  soars,
uplifting  and  majestic,  powerful  in  its  own  right.  It
owns  me,  not  the  other  way  around.  Like  the
booze, it’s another form of escape.

With a deep breath, I rest my hands over the

keys, and within seconds, I’m elsewhere. My
fingers fly, no sheet music required. It comes from
within. I play with the only pieces of my heart that
escaped the accident unscathed. A tattered few that
live and beat in time with the music. The rest of it
remains buried in the ground. Little corners I’ll
never get back and wouldn’t want to. It belongs to
her, now and forever. My cross to bear for my sins.

The wisp of white that crosses my peripheral

brings  me  back  to  the  present.  I  look  up  to  find
Willow  hovering  near  the  doorway.  A  Savages  in
Ruin tee hangs on her petite frame and falls to her
knees,  Frankie’s  emerald  eyes  staring  back  at  me
from  her  chest.  Our  first  tour  shirt.  It  seems  like
ages  ago.  “I’m  sorry,  Wyatt.”  The  acoustics  in  the
sparse room make her small voice seem larger than
it is.

“Didn’t I buy you pajamas?” I grumble, ignoring

her  apology.  I  should  be  the  one  saying  I’m  sorry,
but  I  can’t  seem  to  scramble  over  the  rage  still
stewing  inside  me.  It’s  not  her  fault,  but  she’s  the
only one here. Invading my space with her innocent
eyes  and  her  sweet,  sweet  smell  muddling  my
already fucked-up brain with an added layer of lust
I don’t need.

She walks over, her bare feet slapping against the

floor. “You did. But this tee has good energy. I like
it.” Heat from her skin radiates up my side as she
slides onto the bench next to me. She smells of cool

rain on a hot summer stone. A sweet fragrance that
sets off the strangest feeling of warmth swirling in
my gut. It flusters me, and I don’t fluster. “Don’t
you sleep?”

“I keep odd hours.”
Her crystal gaze shifts to the half-empty glass

perched on the edge of the piano. “You play
beautifully. Can I listen?”

Nodding, I drop my attention back to the piano,

but guilt drowns out my motivation to play. Visions
of her crying assault my memories of stardom. Her
doe  eyes  soaked  in  tears.  She’s  innocent.  She
doesn’t  deserve  to  be  stuck  in  purgatory  with  a
creep  like  me.  I’m  better  off  just  steering  clear  of
her completely. “Actually, I think I’m done for now.
I’m gonna go grab a smoke.”

Her lips press into a thin line. I slip from the

bench to make my escape, but the sound of music
draws my attention. Willow’s back curves over the
keyboard, and her fingers move with grace,
caressing the piano like a lover.

A deep, haunting melody with tinkling nodes of

beauty  woven  through.  Like  the  girl  herself,  it
reminds  me  of  rain.  The  way  it  hammers  on  the
roof  and  trickles  down  the  windows,  both  violent
and calm combined, washing over my skin like the
cool November breeze.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” She looks

up from the piano, her eyes wide with panic. I

soften my tone and try again. “Who taught you to
play like that?”

“My dad,” she says softly. “But you don’t want

to hear about him.”

Her gaze falls to her lap. A moment of silence

fills the room. Amazing how a few whispered words
could do so much damage. I suck in a sharp breath,
wanting to pull yesterday’s scornful words back in,
but I can’t. They’re out there, hovering above us,
swirling in the early morning light like dust.

Catching my finger under her chin, I lift her face.

The sharp rays of the rising sun cut across her
gemstone eyes. Those light blue orbs keep
whatever she’s hiding locked up tight. “I’m sorry I
was insensitive.”

Her pretty pink lips curve into a sweet grin, but it

doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s false and forced. “Who
are you, Wyatt? For real.”

My throat tightens. I swallow hard, the morning

regret hitting me harder than usual. I was somebody
once. A son, a brother, a friend, a musician, a name.
Now, I’m just a drunk asshole hiding from all of it.
A ghost, a shell, a figment. This is who I am. It
wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Shrugging, I offer her a wry smile. “Depends on

who you ask. Drunk me and sober me are not the
same people.”

“I knew I was doing something wrong by

snooping in your stuff, but the recording spoke to

me. I felt it tugging at my heart, stirring up my soul
into a million fractured pieces,” she says, her voice
soft and low.

“Well, yeah. That’s the idea.”
“No, you don’t understand. I felt it. Almost as if

it was personal to me. Like I’d heard it before.”

“That’s not possible,” I murmur, shaking my

head.

Dripping Daggers was the last song Savages in

Ruin  ever  recorded.  A  B-side  single  that  never
made  it  past  my  hard  drive.  At  one  time,  the  song
meant  something  to  me,  but  now  it’s  just  another
symbol of my failure. A living taunt that just won’t
end.  I  didn’t  want  Willow  to  hear  it,  to  feel  the
emptiness it brings. I don’t want her to see that side
of me.

Looking down at her lap, she picks at the corner

of her nail before changing the subject. “Do you
ever feel like something was meant to happen?”

“No,” I answer, my reply sharp as filed steel.
“What about destiny?”
“Our future isn’t predetermined. We make

mistakes, and we have to live with them. End of
story.” I shrug, and she scowls.

“I don’t want to believe that. I need to think

there’s  a  reason  for  everything;  otherwise,  there’s
no point in any of this.” The whites of her eyes take
on  a  light  pink  hue  as  water  builds  beneath  her
lashes.  A  single  tear  slides  down  her  cheek,

followed by another.

I fall back down to the bench and slip my arm

over her shoulders, resting my cheek on top of her
halo of curls. “Don’t cry. We’ll figure it out,” I say
on a sigh.

“Something just feels too . . . right. Like I’m

meant  to  be  here.  But  if  there’s  no  destiny,  then
why  am  I  here?”  Her  tears  flow  fast  and  free.  I
ache to reach out and wipe them away, but I don’t.
There’s  something  hot  about  watching  her  unravel
right in front of me.

“Neither of us was meant to be here, Willow, but

we are. Deal with it.”

She looks up, diamond eyes swimming. “Is this

hell?”

“It sure feels like it sometimes.” Fighting my

need to feel her is a losing battle. My opposite hand
comes across us, my knuckles grazing the soft skin
of her cheek, but the fire burns under my touch.
“You’re hot.”

The corner of her mouth quirks through her

tears. “Uh . . . thanks?”

“No,” I mumble, sliding my palm to her

forehead. “You’re burning up. You have a fever.”

“I feel fine,” she replies, swatting me away.
Standing, I offer my hand, but she just looks

down at it crooked. “Back to bed.”

Her lashes bounce in quick succession, her

crystal eyes glimmering through the last of her

looking-glass tears as she allows me to pull her
from the bench and walk her back to her room.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay.” She
crawls onto her bed and slips under the soft covers.

“This is what you get for wading around in the

river in the middle of the night.”

“I told you I’m fine,” she warbles at the end of a

yawn.

A cluster of coils falls across her forehead. I

swipe them away with the tip of my finger and
secure them behind her ear. “Rest, little lamb,” I
whisper as her eyes flutter closed.

Willow

HEAR

his moans echoing softly in the night. He

hides in the shadows, his face obscured by the dark
corners of the room. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
But he did. And I’m so, so lost. Lost in the wind.
Cold, blank, bitter emptiness swallowing me whole.
Now I'm just floating in this river of nothing.

Is this it?
Is this what death is?
Just out there in the darkness, numb and scared

and alone?

I sit up with a start, the sound of my own

heartbeat  rushing  in  my  ears,  assuring  me  I’m  still
alive. The soft pad of footsteps gets louder as they
approach  my  door,  and  I  feel  safe.  Cold  comfort
washes  over  my  fevered  skin.  I  wipe  away  the
beads of sweat dappling my forehead as he enters.
Wyatt.  He  was  the  light  in  the  darkness.  A  life
preserver in the ocean. I reached for him because I
had  to  feel  something,  and  it  all  came  rushing
through my veins like water. Everything all at once,
dripping  into  the  severed  cracks  of  who  I  was
before  I  saw  him.  I  don’t  know  what’s  worse.  The
nothing or the flood.

Pink slashes kiss the graying sky, the constant

drizzle continuing to tap on the glass. When I
glance out the window, orange and red trees burn
bright like a raging fire consuming the property.

“You’re up,” he announces, swaying from one

foot to the next, clutching a deep bowl between his
long fingers. The tawny lashes that frame his hazel
eyes rest on droopy lids. He sits on the edge of my
bed and sets the bowl on my lap. “I brought you
something to eat.”

A skeptical grin tugs at my lips. “You made me

soup.” I dip my spoon in the golden broth, watching
the way the tiny stars dash away. The savory scent
unlocks a hidden memory. Rock music echoing
from the radio in our kitchen, a man in front of the
stove stirring a pot of chicken and stars. Is it my
dad again? I’ve been thinking about him a lot these
days.

I lift the spoon and blow away the steam, but my

heart suddenly feels like it’s tumbling. There’s more
to the memory. So much more, yet it remains just
out of reach.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s from a can. When I

was a kid, my mom used to make chicken and stars
when I was sick.” He shakes his head, but his
affectionate yet soft grin makes me smile.

“What was she like?”
He shrugs. “Beautiful. Talented. Unpredictable.

She sang like an angel and was the life of the

party.”

“She sounds wonderful.”
“She wasn’t.” Tension radiates off him,

poisoning our Hallmark moment.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. She was a drug-addicted workaholic

who only had children to improve her image.”
When he lifts his gaze to meet mine, I see the
emotion glittering in his eyes.

I set the bowl on the night table and lurch

forward, pressing my body against the hard lines of
his  to  comfort  him  the  only  way  I  know  how.  He
sits  frozen  like  the  Tin  Man,  his  breath  echoing  in
his  hollow  chest.  “I  feel  you,  Wyatt,”  I  admit
quietly.

His skin smells the same as the masculine

fragrance from his shower. I close my eyes and
burrow into his chest, wishing I knew how to jump-
start his heart and make it beat again.

His arms come around me, his hand threading

through  the  hair  tumbling  down  my  back.
Butterflies  pop  in  my  gut  as  I  swoon  just  a  little,
melting  into  his  embrace  like  a  pat  of  butter  on  a
hot skillet.

“C’mon. Finish your soup.” His gruffness returns

on a dime, masking the glimpse of kindness I saw
just moments ago.

I glance at him, watching him before I ask,

“Aren’t you going to have some?”

“I made it for you.”
Steam rises from the golden broth as warmth

pools in my belly. I’m quickly learning Wyatt Blue
has two sides. Arrogant ass and sweetheart, the
latter being my favorite. “You don’t eat. You don’t
sleep. What do you do, Wyatt?”

“I drink.”
“That’s it?” My brow arches in question, causing

him to shrug once more. The tension between us is
so thick I’m certain you could cut it with a knife.
Each time I think I’ve broken through his barriers, I
realize I’m nowhere near adding a dent, and then
he throws them back up even higher than before.

“We all sustain ourselves in different ways. I find

life more tolerable when drunk.”

Picking up my spoon again, I lift it to my mouth,

letting  the  flavorful  warmth  slide  down  my  throat.
“This  is  good,  thank  you,”  I  mumble,  but  the  soft
sound  of  mewling  takes  my  attention  from  my
dinner and pulls it to the open door of my bedroom.
“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” He follows my stare as a little

orange tabby saunters in and rubs itself against his
leg.

“You have a cat?”
“Yeah. Well. No. It comes and goes.” He bends

over and slides his large palm under the cat’s belly,
then lifts it to his chest.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” I ask, reaching out to

scratch its head.

“I dunno.”
Excitedly, I ask, “What’s his name?”
Wyatt shrugs. “I don't know. It’s not really mine.

It’s just a stray that hangs around. I call it Cat.”

My soup suddenly seems much less appealing

than  it  did  a  few  minutes  ago.  “I  guess  taking  in
strays  is  your  thing,  huh?  Is  that  how  you  see  me?
I'm  just  another  thing  that  needs  a  home?”  I  ask,
setting the bowl aside.

“No, that's not how I meant it at all.” He drops

his  gaze,  mindlessly  scratching  Cat’s  back  with  his
fingertips. Regret stews between us. I feel it lifting
off  him  like  the  small  tufts  of  orange  fur  that  fly
around  his  fingers.  “I’m  a  self-centered  prick,
Willow. I took you in for my own selfish reasons.”
He  glances  quickly  through  light  lashes,  then
quickly  pulls  away.  “I  just  didn’t  want  to  be  alone
anymore.”

Guilt snaps me in the chest like a taut rubber

band  that’s  been  plucked.  “You’re  not  alone,
Wyatt,”  I  whisper,  leaning  forward  and  resting  my
hand over his. I tilt my face toward his, basking in
him  like  sunlight.  A  low  grumble  vibrates  inside
him. It’s nothing, just a small rattle in his chest, but
it shakes the bed like an earthquake rumbling under
or feet.

But he remains focused on the cat purring loudly

between us. He felt it, too. The pull. It’s the only

explanation for the pink hue that colors his cheeks
as he pretends not to look at me. “I guess the little
guy could use a name,” he says, holding the cat in
the palm of his hand. It cranes its neck, pressing its
nose against Wyatt’s, and I die inside just a little bit.
“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Fluffy?” Idiot! Of course the first

name that comes to mind is the dumbest one there
is. Seeing him snuggling the stupid cat has me on
edge. Who above four years old names a cat
Fluffy?

He rolls his eyes with a snicker. “Lame.”
I match his grin with one of my own. “Okay,

then what do you think is good?”

“Pussy.” A yick sound leaves my throat as I

scrunch my nose. “What? It’s warm, soft . . . purrs
when you pet it.”

“You’re a pig.”
A deep barrel of haughty laughter rolls from his

chest, rich and decadent like the velvety sound of
his voice. It kicks up the butterflies in my stomach,
causing a frenzy in my gut.

“Give him a cool name like Fender,” I suggest

earnestly.

“Or a cute name like Sprinkles.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I

quirk a brow, taking in the sight of him. The badass
rocker inked in skulls, goblins, and headstones with
a face full of metal. The same guy who slugs booze

from the bottle and curses like a sailor. He just blew
out with the name Sprinkles for a cat, and my
ovaries came dangerously close to exploding.

“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
His wide smile falls into a sexy smirk as he drops

our new pet to its feet. Sprinkles pads to the door,
but my gaze remains locked in a smoldering green-
brown stare down. “Like you wanna take the cat’s
place on my lap.”

“Awfully full of yourself.” I shake my head in

disbelief at his confidence.

He shrugs, offering me a smirk that flips my

stomach and sends tingles through every inch of
me. “If you don’t wipe that shit-eating grin off your
face, you’re gonna be full of me, too.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”
He presses his lips together, the rings pierced

through the bottom standing at attention as he
stands from my bed. The mattress bounces up from
the loss of weight. “It’s a fact, little lamb.”

The nickname grazes my heart ever so gently. I

swore  I  heard  it  slur  from  his  lips  last  night,  but  I
thought  I  was  imagining  it.  It’s  stupid.  A  dumb
nickname that doesn’t even suit me, yet it sticks to
my  bones,  unwilling  to  let  go.  “What  did  you  just
call me?”

He looks at me from the doorway, the confusion

written on his features. “Huh?”

“Little lamb. Why do you keep calling me that?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Just seemed to fit you. Is

that a problem?”

“No,” I reply, the hollow sound of my voice

ringing in my ears. “I like it.” It tumbles through my
brain,  looping  through  all  the  distant  memories
trying  to  come  to  the  surface.  Another  thread  of
familiarity comes on so strong it fills my lungs and
makes  my  chest  ache.  There’s  something  between
us. A scorching energy floating through this house,
tethering  us  together.  It  pulses  with  a  life  all  its
own. He can deny fate, but he can’t deny that.

Wyatt

Y FINGERS

stall over the keyboard. The music isn’t

coming. I feel disconnected from it. Having no
muse is the death of an artist. Music has always had
the ability to speak to my soul, but these days, the
more I play, the emptier I feel. As if I’ve poured out
all I have into these eighty-eight keys and now
there’s nothing left. Just a void in my heart that can
never be filled.

Thump-thump.
A light tapping against the house steals my

attention away from my self-loathing for the
moment. I peer up at the ceiling, waiting to see if it
happens again.

Thump-thump.
“What the hell?” I mumble under my breath,

pushing away from the bench. The full moon offers
the faint luster of daytime shining on the wet lawn
as I open the back door and step outside. Cool wind
blusters  through  my  T-shirt,  the  light  mist
dampening  the  cotton,  making  it  stick  to  my  skin.
The  sound  happens  again,  yet  from  the  outside,  it
doesn’t  echo  as  loudly.  It’s  more  of  a  pitter-patter
as I round the corner to find the cause.

Willow’s feet dangle off the edge, hitting the

house  in  two  short  bursts.  Thump-thump.
“Willow?”  I  shout  up,  soft  droplets  falling  on  my
face. My heart leaps into my throat when she peers
down,  and  a  sharp  breath  hits  my  lungs.  “Don’t
move!”

Turning on the wet grass, I dart around, then

through  the  doorway,  taking  the  stairs  up  two  at  a
time.  The  door  of  her  room  sits  open  wide  enough
for  me  to  enter  without  having  to  stop.  A  trail  of
clothes  litters  the  bedroom  floor  leading  to  her
window.  Jeans,  socks,  a  pair  of  panties,  and  a  T-
shirt sitting on the wooden frame.

“Willow?” I mumble, moving slowly toward her.
Beams of misty moonlight shine on the house,

illuminating  the  creamy  arcs  of  her  naked  back.  I
watch  for  a  moment,  marveling  at  the  drops  of
water that kiss her skin and tracing the smooth lines
of  her  body  that  curve  inward  at  her  waist,  then
bow back out around her hips.

I kick my leg over the sill and step out onto the

slight slope of the plane but don’t venture too far
past the vinyl siding. “What are you doing out
here?” My voice comes out in breathless pants.

“My skin felt hot.” She turns around, leaning her

hand  on  the  wet  shingles.  I  try  not  to  notice  the
round  globe  of  her  breast  rising  from  behind  the
shield  of  her  bicep,  focusing  instead  on  the  wild
look in her diamond eyes.

“Are you okay?”
The large black dots of her pupil swallow most of

the crystal blue. She leans forward, her chest rising
as she takes a deep breath. “I think so. Do I look
okay to you?”

She looks fucking delicious and I’m a starving

man ready to feast.

My mouth goes dry. I lick my lips, trying to build

some sort of moisture, but the pointed glare of the
naked woman on the edge of my roof has stolen it
all. “Come back from the edge, Willow. You’re
gonna fall to your death out here.”

Her lips quirk into a barely-there grin. “What

makes you think I’m scared of death?”

“Most people are.”
“I’m not most people.”
Ya think? Most people don’t get naked and sit in

the  rain  two  stories  up.  She  turns  her  back  to  me
again,  letting  the  drizzle  collect  in  her  upturned
palms.  “It’s  a  gorgeous  night.  Come  out  with  me.”
She throws another quick glance over her shoulder.
My body zings to attention, every droplet dappling
my  skin  sizzling  on  contact.  “Unless  you’re  most
people.”

Holding the edge of the shutter, I peek over her

to the ground below. A quick sixty-foot drop into a
mix  of  grass  and  concrete  patio.  I  force  a  vain
attempt  at  laughter  that  comes  out  sounding  more
maniacal  than  I  intended  it  to.  “I  love  heights.

Heights are my favorite thing in the whole world. In
fact, my dick might get hard the closer I get to that
edge, and then I’d be forced to jump. That would
be a whole mess. You don’t wanna deal with that.
C’mon.” I offer my hand, the shaking in my fingers
calling me out as the liar I am.

“Adrenaline junkie, huh?” She, on the other

hand,  doesn’t  even  bat  a  lash  as  she  curls  up  her
legs and pushes to her feet. I avert my gaze as she
stands  before  me,  wet  and  naked,  her  entire  body
illuminated like a ghost in the night. I reach for the
discarded  shirt  hanging  on  the  sill  and  hold  it  out
for her.

“Does my nakedness offend you?” She reaches

up and twists her hair into a ponytail and wrings it
over one shoulder, ignoring the shirt completely.

“No.” A slow breath fans over my dry lips. “But

you’re playing a dangerous game. You don’t even
know me, Willow.”

A sexy smirk sits on her face as she ducks back

through  the  window.  I  follow  suit,  exhaling  the
second  my  feet  touch  the  warm  hardwood.  She
stands  in  the  center  of  the  room,  pink  nipples
pointed upward on perfect, round tits.

“The human body is natural. I’m not

embarrassed. You can look if you want.” I drag my
gaze up her legs and follow the contour of her hip
and the flat plane of her stomach, through the slim
canal between her breasts to meet hers. “Besides, if

you wanted to ravage this body, you’d have done it
already.”

I take a step, my wet jeans growing tighter.

“Maybe I like to take my time.”

Her chest rises but doesn’t fall. “Maybe you do.”

She pads to the dresser and takes out a nightgown,
then pulls it over her head, letting the hem fall past
her ass. “But you’re still no threat to me.”

“Why is that?”
“Just not.” She shrugs and sweeps past me on her

way to the bed, but my fingers close around her
bicep. Her head flinches back slightly, and she
pinches her brows together.

“You don’t know real fear, Willow.” I stalk

toward her, forcing her backward. “You don’t know
anything, do you?”

“Wyatt.” Her whispered voice wavers as her

back hits the wall. “What are you doing?”

I rest my forearms on either side of her head,

caging her between them.

“Do you feel me now, Willow?” The smell of

alcohol wafts over my lips, but my eyes fixate on
the burning flame flickering in her heated gaze. A
mix of fear and longing that shivers through her as
her breath turns rapid.

“Y-yes,” she mewls, her soft body arching

against mine.

“Tell me.”
She whimpers once more. “You’re afraid.”

“No. I’m pissed off,” I growl, my mouth so close

to hers, if she lifted her chin just a hair, I could
close the distance and claim it.

“Anger is your mask. It’s all a lie.” She shakes

her head, her steady voice making my irritation
grow, but the flutter in her pulse can’t be denied. I
see it strumming against her neck, screaming at me
to feel it beat against my tongue.

“What do you know about real? You don’t even

know who you are.”

“I don’t need to. I know you.”
I could take her right here, right now. Her back

pushed against the cold, hard wall, my fingers
wrapped around her perfect throat. But it’s not her
I’m angry at. It’s me. I let her get to me, allowed
her to seep beneath my skin for just a moment and
read right through my lies. “I should let you fall off
the fuckin’ roof next time,” I grumble, releasing my
grip and backing off.

My cock pushes hard against my zipper. I turn

my back to her, adjusting the obnoxious erection
that won’t go away. Almost running down the steps,
I find myself at my piano again. My fingers ache
and twitch to caress her skin. The keys will have to
do. Music pours from me. All my surroundings fall
away, my breath on my lips, and the singing sound
bringing me to another plane.

My gift.
My muse.

Wyatt

HE SUBTLE

blast of machine gun warfare competes

with the boom of thunder as rain trickles gently on
the windows. Willow sits beside me watching it fall,
her legs tucked under her body, folding in on itself.
It  taps  against  the  glass  in  a  dulcet  tone,  and  only
Mother  Nature  knows  the  tune.  It’s  been  days,
weeks,  months.  It  comes  down  in  sheets  at  times,
thumping on the roof like a giant, though tonight it
falls in gentle purrs.

I thumb-fuck a series of buttons on the

controller.  A  grenade  hurls  into  a  crowd  of
surprisingly  lifelike  people  on  screen.  Blood  and
body  parts  explode  on  contact.  “Oooh,  you
fucker!”  says  the  voice  on  the  other  end  of  my
headset.

A million bucks says the guy wouldn’t be saying

this  shit  to  me  if  he  had  any  inkling  who  I  am.  In
the  real  world,  I  can  be  as  big  of  an  asshole  as  I
want,  and  no  one  says  shit  about  it.  But  in  the
world  of  Call  of  Duty,  I’m  just  the  douchebag
known as A$$Master69.  These  poor  bastards  have
no idea they’re playing Xbox Live with one of the
biggest  rock  stars  on  Earth.  My  personal  gift  to

them.

I tear off my headset and chuck it on the table,

lifting  my  bottle  to  my  lips.  A  combination  of
voices  filters  through  the  tiny  earpiece  speakers.
Some deep, some not. An odd mix of old and young
working  together  to  rise  in  the  ranks  of  the  armed
forces.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room

with  the  rumble  of  thunder  not  far  behind.  Willow
startles,  her  nervous  gaze  jumping  to  the  window.
Her  porcelain  skin  screams  from  beneath  her
nightie, calling me, but I reel in the need stewing in
my gut and force my interest to the screen instead.
Still,  she  looks  pretty  friggin’  cute.  If  I  have  to  be
forced  to  hang  out  with  Little  Orphan  Annie,  at
least she’s a sweet piece of candy to look at.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of rain now. The

other day you were playing in it naked.”

“That was drizzle. Not the same.”
“You’re like a Chihuahua. Don’t piss on my

couch,” I slur the words through sips of booze. An
army  of  empty  bottles  litters  the  table  before  me
like  the  army  of  fallen  soldiers  I  murdered  on  the
big  screen  in  front  of  us.  I  should  probably  clean
those up.

“I thought I was a lamb?” she asks, wincing at

another roll above us.

“That, too.”
A coil of hair hangs near the edge of her face.

With  my  fingertip,  I  follow  the  corkscrew  pattern,
watching the breath hitch in her throat. Her tiny tits
rise  along  with  it,  her  chest  remaining  puffed  as  I
shove  the  ever-present  tendril  behind  her  ear  with
the others. What is it about this girl? She’s a puzzle
I’ve  yet  to  solve.  Her  crystal  eyes  pick  me  apart,
searching  my  soul  for  a  sign  of  hope.  A  shred  of
good  still  festering  beneath  tattooed  skin,  but  I
know she feels the blackness inside. I know it twists
her  in  knots,  and  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do  to
change it. My sweet little lamb. Pure as fallen snow.
“When I was a kid, my mother taught me to count
between the bursts. I’d close my eyes and hold my
breath,  praying  the  storm  was  moving  farther
away.”

Another flash fills the room. She closes her eyes,

holding  her  knees  against  her  chest  and  counting
out  loud,  “One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  four  .  .  .”
Crack!  A  blast  rattles  overhead.  She  gasps,
pinching her eyes to the horrific sound.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Here, take your mind

off it. You can play as me.”

When she crawls out from the corner of the

cushions to the spot next to me, I’m once again hit
with  the  subtle  fragrance  of  earth  and  rain.  It  cuts
through  the  smoky  scent  of  cigarettes  and  stale
alcohol  hanging  in  the  air,  pure  and  intoxicating  in
its own right. The smell of purity. It suits her.

The Xbox remote sits in the crevice between our

thighs.  She  lifts  it,  cradling  it  in  her  petite  hand.
She’s  so  fuckin’  small,  everything  looks  big  in
comparison.  That  thought  process,  of  course,  goes
directly  to  how  huge  my  cock  would  look  with
those  tiny  fingers  wrapped  around  it.  I  mean,  it’s
pretty  fuckin’  sizeable  to  begin  with,  so  I’m  sure
you could imagine.

With a shy smirk, she turns toward me as I teach

her which button does what. We play a few rounds,
and I’m being polite. Basically, she runs around like
her ass is on fire while I blow shit up. Neither of us
accomplishes anything, but her tinkling laughter
makes it all worthwhile. I hate to admit it, but it’s
the most fun I’ve had with a woman since Frankie.

Suddenly, I’m choked by memories I’ve

squashed  deep  down  inside.  Frankie  telling  me  to
suck it as she kicks my ass in Mortal Kombat. Most
girls  I  knew  didn’t  play  video  games.  They’d  bat
their  lashes  and  stand  all  pristine  in  their  lipstick
and  dresses,  but  not  her.  She  played  hard  like  a
dude  yet  loved  soft  as  a  kitten.  It’s  the  exact  way
she  held  the  stage.  The  reason  people  loved  her.
One  of  the  many  reasons  I  loved  her  so  fucking
much.

The vodka scorches a rancid hole in my gut. It’s

supposed to drown the memories, but Frankie’s
image in my head is as vivid as ever. Willow’s
arrival has stirred up shit too painful to think about.
I need a better distraction.

That distraction arrives right on cue.
Another sound rings through the house, only this

time it’s not the rumbling thunder rattling the
windows. It’s the doorbell. My lips part as my gaze
wanders to the clock. “The hell?” I mutter under
my breath as I slip off the couch.

Willow’s gaze burns into my back as I head in

the  direction  of  the  door.  For  weeks,  it’s  been  just
her  and  me  in  this  house  together.  Sporadic
deliverymen come and go. Some bring food, others
bring  bottles—the  latter  more  common—but  no
one’s made a social call at night.

Another ring echoes through the house as I

trudge through the foyer and grab the handle, but
my heart sinks as I pull it open.

Black hair hangs over the visitor’s shoulders,

strands of cobalt breaking up the raven blanket
cascading down her back. Blood red lips curve into
a grin. “Hey, Blue. You ready for me?”

“Chloe,” I slur. Shit. “What are you doing here?”

The  days  all  blend,  the  comatose  daylight  hours
that  bring  me  to  night  making  it  hard  to  keep
straight  anymore.  Chloe’s  the  one  constant  in  my
life, other than regret.

“Don’t be rude. Invite me in.” Her tongue slicks

over the ruby shine as she steps across the
threshold. “I missed you,” she simpers, pressing her
hot mouth to mine in a deep, lustrous kiss that
tastes like cinnamon and cigarettes. The dragon on

her bicep breathes fire down her right forearm as
she shucks off her coat. My eyes trace the intricate
scales inked over her shoulder and onto her back.
It’s dangerously beautiful, and so is she.

A purple tank accentuates her voluptuous frame,

a  long  gold  chain  falling  into  her  ample  cleavage.
She  turns  her  face  toward  me,  smirking  with  her
too-red  lips  curling  around  her  too-white  teeth.
“Where do you want me tonight?”

A moral dilemma weighs heavily on my heart.

Willow  sits  on  the  couch  shivering  with  every
passing  roll  of  thunder.  My  chest  tightens  at  the
thought  of  leaving  her  alone,  yet  the  distraction  I
needed just landed on my doorstep. Chloe’s an old
friend  from  way  back  when—so  far  I  can’t
remember.  She’s  the  right  kind  of  girl  for  me.
Tainted and tawdry, and always up for a good time
on my terms. Men like me aren’t supposed to stick
with one chick for the rest of our lives. Women are
meant to be fucked and forgotten.

Willow’s too unforgettable.
“Upstairs.”
High heels clack against the marble tile as she

saunters  to  the  staircase,  her  hips  swaying  with
every  step.  I  enter  my  room  and  lock  the  door.
Willow’s  woodsy  fragrance  still  hangs  in  the  air,
mixing  with  Chloe’s  scent  of  patchouli  and  cloves
and the alcohol lingering on my lips. Chaos wreaks
havoc inside me. I narrow my sights on the buxom

babe standing before me, forcing the nagging
visions of Willow from my head.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” she

purrs, moving toward me.

She reaches out, but I snatch her wrist in my fist,

wrenching her against me. “Me and everyone else
you fucked today?”

“Does that turn you on?”
“No.” I squeeze harder making her wince. My

lids drift closed as I inhale a quick breath. Chloe’s
practically panting with anticipation, but my body’s
struggling to rise to the occasion. “Be demure.”

She lifts a brow, her sultry smirk falling to a small

O of surprise. “Virgin experience?”

My cock twitches just a bit, and I nod. “And I’m

breaking all your cherries tonight.”

Her energy shifts like I flipped a switch. Her gaze

softens, her lips pulled in a pretty pout. “Are you
gonna hurt me?”

“Yes. Lie down.”
Doing as she’s told, Chloe turns on her heel and

heads for the bed. A soft knock on the door calls
my attention. Willow’s small voice trickles under
the crack. “Everything okay, Wyatt?”

Chloe sits up straight. “Who’s that?”
“No one. Lie down,” I growl, reaching for the

handle and wrenching open the door. “What do you
want, Willow?”

“Who are you with?”

“None of your business.” The wounded

expression  on  Willow’s  face  hits  my  heart  like  a
gunshot. Good. She should know what kind of man
I  am.  She  thinks  I’m  good,  but  she’s  wrong.  I  hurt
people. It’s what I do. “Unless, of course, you want
to join us.” The words grit between my teeth like a
bitter pill not meant to be chewed. They sit on my
tongue,  burning  my  taste  buds  with  their  acidic
tang, but I can’t stop them from tumbling out. “You
wouldn’t mind, would you, Chloe?”

“It’s your dollar, Blue.”
A crimson flush blooms on Willow’s cheeks, the

rims of her eyes turning pink. “Why are you doing
this?”  she  asks,  holding  back  tears  that  begin  to
broach  the  surface.  They  melt  the  shards  of  ice  in
my  heart,  turning  the  jagged  edges  soft.  She  hurts
because  I  hurt.  I  want  her  so  bad,  and  it’s  not
fucking fair. She runs down the hall, but she doesn’t
look back as she ducks into her room.

“Where were we?” Chloe asks as I close the

door.

I drop onto the edge of my bed, the mattress

springing under my weight. She crawls up behind
me, her tongue tracing the shell of my ear. “I can
be anything you want me to be.”

If only that were true. But the woman I want is

in the next room crying because of me. Because
I’m too fucked up to be the kind of man she needs.
The strong, sober man who can take care of her the

way she deserves.

Goose bumps break along my skin. All these

feelings I don’t understand. The only thing I know
is when she’s close, I feel them all zinging at me at
once in every direction. A bottle rocket of passion
bursting in my gut, stirring up emotions I didn’t
know I was capable of having. “Let’s just fuck and
get it over with.”

Chloe slips off the bed and onto her knees. She

frees me from my jeans and wraps her hand around
the flaccid shaft before swirling her tongue around
the tip. I drop my head back, willing my traitorous
cock to cooperate, for fuck’s sake.

Falling back on one hand, I tangle my fingers in

the  midnight  tendrils  brushing  my  bare  thighs,  but
it’s  no  use.  Even  the  sight  of  her  on  her  knees
worshipping  my  junk  doesn’t  jump-start  my
arousal. I’m friggin’ dead from the waist down.

Her kohl-rimmed eyes lift to meet mine as my

dick falls from her mouth with a pathetic slap to my
leg. She sits back on her haunches, wiping her red-
smeared mouth. “Are you not enjoying this?”

A cloud falls over my already dark mood. This

was an epic disaster, and now I just want her out of
here. Pronto. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. You
should go,” I slur, tucking my shame back inside
my fly.

Her nostrils flare, a crease forming between her

dark brows. “Tell me this isn’t about that little

blonde waif who came knocking a minute ago.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? She looks like a moth, Wyatt.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, Chloe.”
Her eyes show no hint of shame or scattered bits

of  disgrace.  Nothing  but  satisfied  stoicism  as  she
gathers  her  leather  satchel  and  fluffs  her  dark  hair
before  brushing  past  me.  I  turn  and  watch  as  she
saunters to the stairs. “Your loss.” She blows a kiss
through  the  air,  and  I  have  to  physically  restrain
myself from swatting it away.

Adrenaline heats my blood. I’m pissed off at the

world right now and need some space to clear my
head. Fucking Willow. In just a few short weeks,
she’s flipped my entire life upside down. Now she’s
cockblocking me from the room next door.

I need her out of my head.
Storming from my room, I stomp down the hall

to Willow’s door, but thoughts of Chloe disappear
like smoke when I spy Willow lying on her bed. Her
crumpled nightgown hangs off one shoulder.
Ducking into the shadows near the wall, I watch. At
first, I think she’s reaching to fix it, but her fingers
dance across her collarbone before slipping beneath
the neckline instead.

With her free hand, she wriggles her fingers,

lifting the hem. Slowly, her hand slides between her
legs. I stand rooted to my spot. Darkness hangs all
around us, but the amber light emanating from the

lamp near her bed is just enough to illuminate her
fingers as they disappear inside her body then
crook back out again.

A possessive hiss skids between my teeth. The

longer  I  watch,  the  more  that  need  begins  to
suffocate. Passion ignites the spark blazing through
my  gut.  My  cock  stiffens  to  steel  inside  my  jeans.
Lost  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  she  doesn’t  hear
the  purr  of  my  zipper  as  I  open  my  fly.  Squeezing
the  shaft,  I  jerk  my  fist  with  angry  fervor,  keeping
my gaze trained on her.

Her breathing grows labored. Her fingers

continue pumping in and out while she tugs at her
nipple with her other hand. Little hellhound likes it
rough. I knew it. I chew my lip, thinking of all the
ways I’d make her scream and beg as I pound her
little ass into submission. The thought has me idling
dangerously close to blowing my load right here in
the hallway.

She strokes her pussy like she’s punishing it, and

that brings the rain. My balls tighten as she bites
down on her lip. A muted whimper lodges in her
throat. Her body quakes, riding the waves crashing
through her as she comes, and my God, it’s fucking
gorgeous.

She rolls her head to the side, panting her way

back to reality. Her gaze settles on my darkened
corner. Does she see me? I can’t be sure. But at this
moment in time, I don’t give two shits. The tingling

swirls of pleasure that started in my tailbone begin
to rage. My body locks as I find my own release. A
second too late, my grunt resonates in my ears.
There’s no hiding that. She definitely heard me.

But another strangled cry tears from her throat,

her wild eyes focused on the bead of cum dripping
down my fingers. Her lips part; her heated gaze
rising to my face.

I whip my shirt off and use it to wipe my soiled

hands before tucking my junk back in my pants and
heading to my own room like a coward. Shame. It
sits on my chest, caving in my lungs as I lie alone in
my bed. She came twice. One was hers. The other
was mine.

Wyatt

TOUCH

my fingers to my forehead and groan. My

head feels as though it’s been pounded to meat, the
taste of vodka still coating my tongue. My throat
burns, my face on fire, but none of it even matches
to how shitty I feel having treated Willow the way I
did. My behavior was inexcusable. God, why am I
such a creep?

I roll over and find a body lying next to me.

Willow twisted up in my sheets like a newborn
kitten. And goddammit if she doesn’t look fucking
perfect in my bed. Like she belongs there.

Silvery curls fan out over my pillowcases, her

pale  silhouette  popping  against  the  black  cotton.
Her  lashes  flutter,  and  a  meager  moan  slips  from
between  her  lips  as  she  nuzzles  deeper  into  the
mattress.

My naked cock strains against the sheet as I

remember our tryst in the hall. She’s not just
forbidden fruit. She’s the fucking apple itself. The
ultimate temptation.

The hangover blisters my stomach and makes all

the outlined edges of my vision fuzzy. Long gone
are the tingles in my lips and fingertips, a numbness

I ache to feel throughout my body. I find the bottle
on  the  floor  and  swallow  a  gulp,  letting  the  acrid
liquid  cleanse  my  demons.  It  eats  away  the  stench
of failure and the wicked taste of regret. It deludes
the  constant  screaming  in  my  head.  Wash  it  away.
Wash them all away.

“Willow.” My voice sounds like I’ve been

chewing  gravel.  I  run  my  fingers  through  her  soft
hair,  pushing  it  off  her  face.  I  force  my  breaths  in
and out, ignoring the sweet scent of a crisp autumn
breeze floating off her skin. Been a long time since
I awoke with a woman in my bed. Even through the
violent  haze  of  the  morning  after,  I’m  acutely
aware  of  her  closeness.  I  feel  her,  smell  her,  want
her,  and  the  thought  scares  me.  The  shit  I  want  to
do to her is shameful. I don’t just want to fuck her.
I want to ruin her.

“Willow. Wake up.” Light lashes flutter over

eyes so crystal clear I’d think they were creepy on
anyone else, but they fit her just right. They flicker
with fire as her gaze falls to my bare chest. I watch
it—no, I feel it—roam across my torso to the solid
bulge forming between my thighs.

I close my eyes, willing my arousal away.

Everything about this situation is fucked. I should
tell her to leave. Bringing her here was a bad move.
Now, the girl’s not only in my bed but settling into
the crook of my shoulder, a spot that fits her body
like a glove. Her scent surrounds me, her petite

hand pressed against my stomach, kicking all my
nerves into high gear.

“What are you doing here?”
She wriggles in closer, ignoring the stink of death

and stale booze emanating from my pores. “You
cried out in your sleep. When I held you, you
stopped.”

Nothing else is uttered other than the soft sigh of

quiet  breath  beating  against  my  skin.  I  wonder  if
she’s  fallen  back  to  sleep.  My  fingers  slip  into  the
silken  hair  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  I  hold  her  as  I
would  a  lifeline,  gripping  tightly  as  the  guilt  from
last  night  crashes  down  around  me.  “I’m  sorry
about Chloe.”

“Is she a good lover?”
The question wriggles inside the tiny hole in my

heart and tears a deeper wound. I hate that I’ve put
her in this position. “Don’t ask me shit like that.”

She ignores my scowl and continues.

“

You’re

the kind of man who needs a good lover.”

“Why is that?”
“Because you're so scared of feeling. You’re

scared  of  your  own  heart.  You  should  have  a
woman  who  can  touch  you  there.  Who  sees  the
beauty  inside  you,  not  just  the  face  you  portray.”
Suddenly, that wound spreads into a festering gash.
I don’t even know how to respond. Chloe is a piece
of my past, one I’m not proud of. I should tell her
this. Willow deserves to hear it all, but when I open

my mouth, my tongue feels numb. “But if she were
that person, I suppose you wouldn’t be here with
me.”

“You’re the only thing keeping me from slitting

my wrists at this point.” I don’t know why I choose
to  start  with  that.  I  don’t  generally  talk  to  the
women  I  bring  to  bed,  and  I  certainly  don’t  tell
them  all  about  my  problems,  but  something  about
Willow  burns  down  my  defenses.  It  ignites  a  fiery
need  to  confess  my  sins.  Yet  my  stomach  churns,
and my hands feel restless. I reach to the nightstand
for a pack of cigs and light the tip, letting the smoke
dribble from my lips.

“A patch of black ice took everything from me.

It stripped away my humanity, leaving nothing but a
broken shell in a vacant house. I’m not the man I
used to be.”

When Willow’s arms tighten, a wave of emotion

sluices  through  me.  All  it  takes  is  a  chink  in  the
armor  to  burst  the  dam.  After  too  many  years
locked  in  my  own  head,  I’m  pouring  out  now,
cascading  over  the  floor  in  puddles,  dripping  into
cracks and crevices as I spread too thin.

“On a road somewhere on a Canadian highway, I

drove my sister and friends into their graves. How
can I live with that?”

I pinch my eyes, remembering the impact. The

world flipped on its side, the back of the bus
skidding out from under us. And the sound. That

god-awful screech of metal on concrete, the
smashing glass, and the screaming. So much
screaming. Then deafening silence.

Why was I spared? I should be dead like Frankie,

her haunted melody escorting me into the
underworld. Instead, I fester in my sins, swallowed
whole by this fuckin’ house, another relic
decorating its walls.

“I’m sorry you lost her.” I can tell by the slight

quiver in her voice she’s sincere. God, why does
that affect me the way it does? Shared experiences
have a way of making you feel close to a person, I
guess. It’s an anomaly. I don’t know anything about
her, yet here I am unloading my past on her as if
she’s been my friend for years.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be telling you all

this.”

“I don’t mind.” She shrugs. “I like hearing you

talk.”

The cherry on my cigarette glows bright orange

in the dimly lit room as I draw deeply on the
nicotine. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually like talking
about it,” I tell her, crushing my butt out in a glass
ashtray.

“Why not?”
“I dunno. I don’t like people.”
“Does this mean you like me, Wyatt?”
The sigh of my name said in her sweet, breathy

voice taunts me. “More than I should.”

I want to stay in this position, tangled limbs

twisted together with her warm body pressed
against mine, but it’s an illusion. A momentary
sliver of peace before my chaotic mind somersaults
into devastation and thoughts of death. I won’t take
Willow down that path with me.

“We should get up.” I shrug, forcing myself away

from  her.  I  slip  my  legs  over  the  side,  cold  water
soaking  into  my  sock  when  my  foot  kicks  the
empty glass. I hold the vodka bottle up to check the
contents in the early light. A few swallows linger at
the  bottom.  I  bring  it  to  my  lips,  sucking  back  the
last bit before hurling it to the ground with a hollow
thud.

I feel the mattress shift as she sits up, then rests

her forehead on my back. “I got you.”

She does. She has me in her grasp, but I have her,

too. She’s infected my head and infiltrated my
heart, and I don’t know what to do about it.

________________

“I don’t get it. It’s just five kids in detention?”

Side-eyeing the television, I flit my gaze between

the  thirty-year-old  wannabe  high  school  kids  and
Willow spooled up in the crook of my couch. She’s
cocooned  in  a  blanket,  nothing  showing  but  her
head  adorned  with  a  crown  of  messy  spirals.
Haphazard  pieces  stick  out  from  the  hairband  and

coil around her hairline. Little wisps of cotton
softening her face.

“They aren’t just five kids. It’s deeper than that,

a test of the human design. They’re five different
personalities forced to coexist—the nerd, the jock,
the basket case, the criminal, and the princess.”

The corner of my lip quirks up. She says it with

such an air of righteousness. As if this stupid movie
is something special. “I suppose you identify with
the princess.”

“More like the basket case.” She snorts. A

moment of silence passes before she adds, “You’d
definitely be the criminal.”

Opening my mouth, I feign outrage. “What

makes you say that?”

The light from the television flickers in her eyes

as her gaze searches my face. “Well, you’re not the
nerd, and you don’t strike me as particularly
athletic.”

I reach into my pocket to dig out a cigarette and

set it between my lips. “I’ll have you know I’m
very athletic.”

“Running from the cops doesn’t count, Bender.”
“Eat my shorts.”
An eruption of laughter bursts from her chest.

“Oooh, I might need some cream after that sick
burn.”

“Fuck you,” I warble, lighting the tip of my

smoke. It glows orange as I inhale deeply, then

exhale a stream toward the ceiling. I feel her gaze
boring into me and look over to find her watching.
“Is this bothering you?”

“No.”
“Then why are you staring at me?”
“You’re just so damned interesting.”
“What? I’m a dick. The end.”
“That’s the thing. You’re really not, but it’s like

you try so hard to be one. Almost like you’re
overcompensating for something.”

I raise a pierced brow and grab my junk. “I don’t

have to overcompensate for shit.”

Another trickle of laugher dribbles through her

lips, but it’s smaller this time. More delicate than
the last. “See? Right there! I touched a nerve, and
you went all alpha male.”

That one hit harder than intended. “This movie’s

ridiculous, and so are you.”

I push from the couch, but she springs forward

and grabs my arm. “Don’t leave. I’m sorry. You’re
super cool and totally not nice at all!” she jokes,
her words dripping with sarcasm. “C’mon. I didn’t
mean to run you off. Stay with me.”

The way she looks up at me makes my cock

twitch. Her pleading gaze is my downfall. I wonder
if her mouth can beg as well as those eyes can. A
hint of pink glides across her bottom lip, and I need
a moment to get my hormones in check. “I’m
gonna grab a beer. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, but hurry. The best part is coming up.”
When I open the fridge, the sudden blast of cold

air chills my heated skin. Thoughts of her mouth
still sit front and center as I pop the top and let the
frosty brew slide down my throat. I push it from my
mind and wait for my burgeoning erection to wane
before heading back into the living room.

This time, she’s sitting up, the blanket draped

across her crisscrossed legs, the oversized T-shirt
hanging off her shoulder. With a hard exhale, I plop
back down on the sofa next to her, throwing the
corner of her blanket over my lap.

“You cold?” She slides closer, wrapping us both

in  warmth.  “We  can  share.”  Her  sweet  autumn
fragrance  cuts  through  the  stagnant  smells  of  beer
and tobacco clinging to my lips. My hard-on returns
with  a  vengeance,  pushing  against  my  zipper  as  I
shift  my  hips  to  find  some  relief.  My  gaze  stays
fixed on the screen, but it’s a decoy. I’m lost in my
own head, imagining her pinned between the couch
and me, her legs hooked over my hips as I drive us
both into oblivion.

Jesus Christ, I’m a bloody animal.
Wicked thoughts carry me through the rest of the

movie, and before I know it, Judd Nelson’s
throwing a fist of victory in the air because he got
the girl. Yeah, because that’s real life. Not!

I hate these movies. An hour and a half of drama

and bullshit only for the most unlikely couple ever

to end up falling madly in love. That’s not how it
works. Life is full of heartache. It’s full of pain and
disappointment. I guarantee ten minutes after “The
End,” the girl realizes the guy’s a dipshit, and she
can do better.

“Well, you watched. Was it as great as you

remember?”

Willow just sighs. The shadow of her closed

lashes  crawls  across  her  cheeks  as  the  theme  song
cuts  out.  As  I  carefully  detangle  myself  from  her
embrace and lay her sleeping body on the cushion,
I’m  suddenly  struck  with  the  memory  of  a  dream.
One  of  those  weird,  out-of-body  scenarios  where
you wake up still clinging to the fantasy, hoping you
can  make  it  last.  But  it  never  does.  You  lie  there,
trying like hell to get it back, but the longer you try,
the harder it is to remember at all.

But I do now. And it was one of the sweetest

dreams I’ve ever had.

I gently slip my arms under her back and knees

and  lift  her  off  the  couch,  watching  as  the  blanket
pools  onto  the  floor.  She  curls  into  my  chest,  her
head lolling onto my shoulder as I carry her up the
stairs  to  her  bedroom,  but  as  I  lay  her  down,  I
realize too late I’ve carried her to mine.

What the fuck?
She rolls to her side, her lashes fluttering. “Stay

with me,” she mumbles on a sleepy sigh, blindly
holding her arm up before it plops down onto the

Wyatt

USIC FILLS

the room. The deep rumble of the piano

gives  way  to  the  tinkling  nodes  of  the  melody
taking flight. My usual libation sits on the top long
forgotten, the ice melting into my vodka. This is the
only  place  I  can  get  some  space.  Willow’s  been  in
my  bed  every  night  for  the  past  few  weeks.  She
starts in  her own,  but  every time  I  roll over,  I  find
her twisted in my sheets, her angelic face sleeping a
few  inches  from  mine.  I  don’t  hate  it.  On  the
contrary,  having  her  so  close  provides  me  with
comfort like I’ve never known. Some sort of inner
peace that silences the constant nagging.

I push from the bench and trudge into the

kitchen to refill my drink, but I stop short when
instead I find a tiny ass backlit by the bright
refrigerator light.

A pair of thin, creamy legs curve out from under

minuscule shorts that may as well just be a strip of
cotton  underwear.  The  urge  to  grab  those  slender
hips is so sudden. A low growl escapes my throat as
I  push  the  thought  from  my  mind.  Willow  jumps,
her  cheekbones  darkening  to  a  deep  crimson.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say. Although

the feral feeling that rambles through my body as
she gapes at me with wide-eyed innocence scares
the shit out of me.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just . . . it was lonely upstairs

without you.”

Her squeaky little voice makes me smile. She’s

so  fuckin’  cute  it’s  borderline  painful.  Skinny  and
awkward,  yet  there’s  something  sexy  about  her
standing  in  the  fridge  light  in  that  winter-blue
nightie that perfectly matches her eyes. Eyes filled
with  so  much  sadness  I  can  almost  feel  it  leaking
out of her and pooling onto the floor at her feet.

“Well, you found me,” I grumble, pouring the

watered-down vodka in the sink.

She reaches for an apple and lets the door slowly

close  shut  with  a  wisp  as  she  takes  a  bite.  I’m
drunk.  Clearly.  That’s  the  only  logical  excuse  for
the  explosive  reaction  inside  me  when  she  licks
away  a  droplet  of  sweet,  sticky  juice.  “Why  are
you looking at me like that?” Her lips curve into a
small, nervous curl at the corners of her mouth.

“Wyatt had a little lamb.” I reach out and

playfully tug the unruly spring that seems to always
hang in front of her face. “Her fleece was white as
snow.”

“Is that all I am to you, Wyatt?” she whispers in

a tone that reverberates through my entire body.
Maybe it’s the half bottle of booze swimming in my
stomach, but I swear she flashes me a look of lust

that confuses the fuck out of me. I’m old and bitter
—no one she should be interested in—but the heat
in her eyes burns fierce and feral as she stares up at
me,  to  the  point  where  I  swear  I’m  imagining
things.  But  the  rumble  in  her  belly  brings  me  back
to  reality.  Food.  She  came  here  looking  for  food,
not sex. Settle down, Wyatt. Keep it in your pants.

“Dominos is open till one. You like pizza?” I

swipe  my  phone  off  the  counter  and  dial  the
numbers without waiting for a response. I’ve never
been  the  type  to  chase  young  girls.  Sure,  the
groupies  who  followed  us  around  like  dogs  were
barely legal, but what they lacked in age they more
than  made  up  for  with  experience.  Willow’s  the
opposite.  Pure.  That’s  what  she  is.  From  her  ivory
skin  to  her  big  doe  eyes.  A  delicious  temptation  I
need to stay far, far away from.

A much-needed blast of cold air hits me in the

face as I pull open the freezer and grab the Grey
Goose. “You want something to drink?”

Her gaze flits to the bottle in my hand. She rolls

her tongue across her plump bottom lip, making my
cock twitch. “Can I have a sip of that?”

“I don’t know. You old enough?”
When I step forward, her body tenses. “I’m

twenty-one.”

Twenty-one. She’s young yet still old enough. I

can already hear that innocent voice moaning my
name, and it’s so fucking vivid. Inwardly, I chastise

myself for being a horny bastard. I could go out
right now and dial up as many chicks as I want,
ones who will gladly let me defile them six ways to
Sunday, but it’s not as fun without the challenge.

“Good enough for me,” I tell her, holding out the

bottle by its neck. She takes it, but I’m reluctant to
let  it  go,  holding  it  just  tight  enough  that  she  gifts
me with another innocent giggle, and I hate the way
it makes me feel inside. Like a pariah. A filthy old
man leaning in closer to inhale the sweet innocence
emanating  off  the  young  woman  standing  in  my
kitchen.  I  remind  myself  of  the  reason  she’s  here.
The  vow  I  took  to  give  her  a  home  and  nothing
more. Yet when she tips her head back to take a sip,
I  can’t  help  but  wonder  if  that  long  neck  tastes  as
enticing as it looks.

Crinkles form above her nose. “What do ya

think?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“It’s good,” she lies, grimacing again when she

takes another swig.

“Whoa. Settle down there, killer.” I take back

the  bottle,  all  the  while  trying  not  to  fixate  on  the
V-line  of  her  baby-doll  top  and  the  faintest  hint  of
budding  cleavage.  There’s  not  much,  but  it’s
enough  to  make  my  jeans  feel  tight,  and  another
reason to make me feel like a dirty old man.

“It’s late. You should go back to bed.”
“Only if you come with me.” She lifts the bottle

from my grip and swallows another gulp, her lids

beginning to droop. “Everywhere that Wyatt went,
the lamb was sure to go.”

The scent of alcohol wafts from her lips, the fog

muddling her crystal gaze. “You really should be
more careful around me, Willow.”

“Why is that?”
“’Cause I’m the big bad wolf, little lamb. And

I’m hungry.”

My heart riots in my chest, my dizzy head

spinning  like  a  cyclone.  She  draws  her  succulent
lips  between  her  teeth,  then  lets  them  out  in  a
pretty  pout.  Her  mouth  glistens  with  a  sheen  of
saliva. I want to make it mine. Dominate it, dirty it,
destroy it for my own filthy pleasure.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispers, her aqua

eyes darkening to a deep shade of topaz.

“Stop it, Willow.”
“Or what?” she challenges.
She’s fucking with me. A petulant child who

needs  to  be  punished.  My  restraint  hangs  by  a
thread.  I  push  her  against  the  fridge,  pinning  her
arms  above  her  head.  The  apple  thuds  to  the  floor
and  rolls  under  the  counter  overhang,  forgotten.
She  sucks  in  a  sharp  breath,  her  nostrils  flaring.
When she meets my gaze, her eyes are lit with from
within. They flicker and burn, roiling with lust and
fear.  I  like  it  far  too  much.  It  thickens  my  cock  to
an  agonizing  mass.  The  thought  of  her  untouched
cunt  squeezing  around  it  has  me  on  the  verge  of

coming in my pants.

“I’m going to end up hurting you.”
“I can take it.”
Hot breath beats against my lips. If I kiss her

now, I know I’ll never stop. I’ll need to taste all of
her.  Every  last  inch  until  she’s  trembling  and
wasted,  murmuring  my  name  in  her  innocent  little
voice.  Broken.  That’s  what  she’ll  be,  what  I  want.
Demolished and quivering and mine.

“You can’t. You’re a silly little girl who doesn’t

know shit about anything.”

She’s seven years younger than me. An innocent

field mouse taunting the cat intent on devouring her
whole.

“All I need to know is that with you I feel safe

from things that hurt me inside.” The waver in her
voice knocks my defenses down, crushing my heart
when I see the tears building beneath her lashes. A
small smile breaks through the drops shimmering on
her cheeks. With the pad of my thumb, I clear the
tears away. I want to take it all away. All her pain,
all  her  sadness.  The  urge  to  take  her  in  my  arms
comes  on  so  strong  it  steals  away  all  traces  of
doubt.  I  lean  in,  feathering  my  lips  against  hers.
Soft,  sweet,  the  way  she  deserves.  A  frail  whisper
in the dark, a secret just between her and me.

She purrs my name, arching her back as my

thoughtless lips travel to her neck. I shouldn’t want
her this badly. I shouldn’t ache with this need every

time I see her, but she’s dragging me across the line
of morality against my damn will.

The fucking doorbell buzzes followed by a sharp

rat-tat-tat on the glass in the door. The pizza guy.
Perfect timing.

Tearing myself from the warmth of her body, I

open the door to find a dorky dude in black-framed
glasses with a buzz cut oddly wearing what looks
like a shirt with cartoon characters all over it.

“Wyatt Blue. Wow. Never thought I’d get lucky

enough to land this round,” he chatters, holding out
the box. “Heard the DJ say on my way in that
Savages in Ruin was nominated for a Grammy. Best
New Album. Congrats, eh?”

I glare at the asshole, signing the slip so he’ll get

the fuck out of here. I have no idea what he’s
talking about, but the sight of him on my porch
aggravates me to the point of no return.

“All right, man, you’re all set for the night. Hope

it’s a good one,” dorky douche drags out before
backing out the door.

The savory scents of pepperoni and cheese waft

into my nostrils like poison. I meander to the dining
room just off the kitchen, hurling the box on the
table and tearing my phone from my pocket once
again.

There it is in black and white, splashed across

MusicBuzz.com. A Grammy. A fucking Grammy? I
stare at the list of names on my screen. Savages in

Ruin sits among illustrious company. Rock royalty
that we’d bow down to share a stage with. It’s
everything we ever wanted, but without my band, it
feels like a hollow victory.

Frankie’s voice rings in my ears. The Grammys,

Wyatt. We got there because of you.

“It’s a pity nomination,” I audibly reply as if she

can hear me.

You wrote the songs. It’s your heart in the album.

You deserve to be there.

“So do you! But you’re not! And it’s all my

fault.”

As of now, no word’s come down the wire

whether Wyatt Blue will be available to play for
Savages in Ruin, but we’re still hoping for the best.

The statement is a sucker punch to the Adam’s

apple. I gape like a fish, unable to speak for what
feels like an eternity.

“Why is this happening, Frankie?”
“Who are you talking to?” Willow’s voice brings

me home. How long had she been there? Did she
hear my entire conversation with my dead sister?
That’s going to go over really big.

When she reaches out, the only thing I want to

do is fuck her until she cries, then love her harder,
deeper until I’m drained of this godforsaken ache
that sits in my gut night and day.

Staring at the article, I pace a tight circle around

the  room.  Willow’s  gaze  bores  into  me,  watching
me stalk like a caged animal, my hackles raised and
my  free  hand  balling  into  a  fist  at  my  thigh.  “No
one,”  I  grumble.  She  steps  forward,  and  I  can’t
quite  place  the  look  on  her  face.  Fear?  Pity?  My
arm  falls  limp  at  my  side,  my  hand  still  clutching
the  phone  so  hard  I’m  afraid  I’ll  crack  the  crystal.
It  all  comes  back.  The  fame,  the  glory,  the  energy
of the wasted crowd.

The glass, the screams, the agonizing silence.
“Sometimes I hear Frankie’s voice, okay? It’s a

comfort mechanism or something. I dunno. Don’t
make a big deal out of it.”

“You hear her?” Cracks cut through the light

sound of her voice. A pained expression splashes
her face, then quickly falls away. “What does she
say?”

“Apparently, we’ve been nominated for and

asked to perform at the Grammys.” Saying it out
loud hollows me out. Why not saw off my arms and
legs? Peel back my skin and twist my veins with a
rusty fork? The pain would be far less great.
There’s no way in hell I can get on that stage after
what I’ve done. I can’t do it without them.

“Wyatt, that’s incredible!”
“No. It’s not incredible; it’s a fucking tragedy,” I

spit, sweeping past her to swipe the Grey Goose off
the kitchen counter. My eyes narrow into slits, the
rage seeping through every last shred of my soul.

“You have no idea what it’s like to see everyone
you love die right in front of you, so don’t even
fucking try.”

A crimson flush blossoms on her chest and

cheeks. It rises up her face, pushing the tears from
below  her  tawny  lashes.  “No,  Wyatt.  You  don’t
know  shit.”  She  turns  and  heads  for  the  nearest
exit, banging the door open and stopping a few feet
out in the grass. Droplets of water course down her
body  in  tiny  rivulets.  She  tilts  her  face  toward  the
black ink of night, letting it fall between her parted
lips.

For a stunned moment, I simply watch. She

stands  in  the  downpour,  her  ivory  skin  glowing
against  the  violent  darkness  around  her.  The
frightened  girl  I  met  on  the  bridge  is  gone,  and
standing  in  the  rain,  her  light  blue  pajamas  turning
transparent, a woman stares back at me. Hardened
nipples  poke  through  the  gauzy  material  clutching
her  petite  frame  in  a  way  that  should  be  illegal.  A
possessive rumble churns in my belly. I want her in
my arms again.

Her lips twist into a scowl as I follow her outside,

letting  the  storm  slam  the  door  shut  behind  me.
Rain  thrashes  my  hot  skin,  soaking  my  hair.  With
both  hands,  I  push  it  back  and  twist  it  with  the
black  band  around  my  wrist.  “What  are  you
doing?” I call over the thundering torrent above.

She stops, cocking her head to the side like an

innocent  puppy  begging  for  a  treat,  her  platinum
hair  now  a  fair  shade  of  winter.  “You  have
everything!  You  have  no  idea  how  lucky  you  are!
You’re alive, Wyatt! Yet you waste your days hiding
in  your  head  and  drinking  yourself  into  a  shallow
grave.  It  sucks  what  happened!  It’s  a  devastation
that  would  bring  even  the  strongest  man  to  his
knees, but you don’t have to die like this!”

Water sluices down her face as she glares at me

across the yard, her eyes as dark and stormy as the
sky around her. My cock thickens in my jeans. How
could it not? When she’s standing there with that
look of fury, her lips parted and her chest violently
heaving.

“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to start living.”
The howling wind picks up the damp strands

from my haphazard ponytail and whips them across
my forehead. This is insanity, but standing out here,
the squall rolling above us, drowning our feet in
mud-soaked puddles, I feel more alive than I have
in months. Years, even.

I stare at Willow, the soft curve of her face, and

the lithe way her body moves as she comes toward
me. Reaching for my hand, she’s like an angel
coming to free my soul. Her tiny fingers twine with
mine. An electric charge rushes up my forearm as if
my entire body’s been struck by lightning. This girl.
This intense young thing is so full of life, a divine

Wyatt

Y HEAD

pounds as my lashes flutter, the tiny rock

concert continuing without end. I crack crusty lids
and stare at the clock through bloodshot eyes.
Three p.m. and I’m just waking up.

The bottle of Grey Goose lies empty on its side. I

push  to  a  sitting  position,  catching  the  sight  of  my
fucked-up  face  in  the  mirror.  Waves  of  blue  stick
up  haphazardly  around  my  head.  The  royal  color
has  grown  bland  and  boring,  a  girlie  shade  of
robin’s  egg  I  need  to  freshen  up.  I  push  it  down,
trying  to  remember  what  happened  last  night.
Memories  flash  in  my  head  like  Polaroid  pictures
popping one by one. It’s as if they’ve been shaken
much  too  hard,  the  images  stretched  and  blurred.
Piano.  Vodka.  Ice-blue  nightie.  Her  soft  body
pressed against mine . . .

Fuck.
The taste of her sweet lips remains buried under

the foul remnant of day-old booze. I am a drunken
buffoon of epic proportions. I went too far. What
the fuck was I thinking? Actually, I’m pretty sure
my cock was doing the thinking last night. My brain
was basically floating.

Adjusting my morning semi, I peek over my

shoulder  and  find  her  side  of  the  bed  empty.  The
thought catches the corner of my mouth. When did
I  start  referring  to  it  as  her side?  I  rack  my  brain,
but I can’t seem to remember a moment before her.
It’s  as  if  she’s  always  been  here.  Living  inside  me
until the moment she chose to be seen. But I guess
that sounds absurd. I’m probably still drunk.

I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom

and make quick work of cleaning myself up before
traipsing down the steps.

“You’re up.”
Willow’s voice floats into my ear as if carried on

the  breeze.  I  turn  toward  it,  my  heart  fluttering
when  I  see  her  face.  Why  does  she  have  to  be  so
fucking  beautiful?  Pale  curls  are  pulled  into  a
crown  at  the  top  of  her  head,  tiny  tendrils  gracing
her heart-shaped face. It makes her eyes shine crisp
and clear as the winter sky.

Outside, raindrops pirouette from above, their

tiny movements carried on the frigid wind. Willow
sits at the kitchen island, quietly watching their
flight with this look of peace etched on her face.

“What the fuck are you watching?” I grumble,

my voice like sandpaper.

“The way the rain falls. It’s transcendent.”
I yank open the fridge with a resounding grunt,

but it’s not about the weight. It’s about the want. I
want to feel her body move against mine, her

pulsing pussy gripping my cock as she shatters to
pieces. I want to mark her perfect skin with my
teeth, teach her, taint her, turn her into my little toy.
I just want her. Plain and simple.

“It’s a frozen hassle. I wish it would either

fuckin’  flood  or  stop  already.”  With  trembling
fingers, I lift the bottle to my lips. A delivery from
Shoppers  Liquors  is  due  today.  The  stewing  rot
bubbles in my gut. Water isn’t going to cut it. I need
a little hair of the dog to chase away my pain. But
the  ache  in  my  head  doesn’t  stop  the  physical
reaction in my body when her expectant stare burns
into my skin.

“What?” I ask a little more harshly than I intend.

I feel like shit and can’t deal with this right now.

Disappointment cuts across her features.

“Worried about the nomination?”

I inwardly groan, scrubbing a hard hand down

my face. The announcement that stopped me from
fucking  her  silly  up  against  the  fridge.  Shit.  This
Grammy  nomination.  We  worked  hard  for  it.  My
band  lost  their  lives  for  it.  But  the  thought  of
stepping foot on that stage makes me want to dig a
huge hole in the frozen earth and cover myself with
dirt.  Sooner  or  later,  I’m  going  to  have  to  face  it,
but I just don’t want to think about it right now. Not
when my head is so fucked up over Willow.

Twisting around, I pull open the cabinet and grab

the little blue bottle of dye that’s been sitting in

there the past couple of weeks. The red lettering
cuts through the label in lightning bolts bursting off
the side. Manic Panic.

“Whatcha got there?”
“I have to touch up this blue.”
She slides off the stool and comes around the

island, plucking the tub from my fingers and staring
down at it. “You need a hand?”

“You wanna dye my hair,” I deadpan.
“I want to be where you are.”
The statement jars another memory from the

night  before.  My  sweet  little  lamb.  Her  pale  skin
mingles with the soft ivory sweater slipping off her
shoulder.  It’s  perfection.  She’s  so  pure,  so
wholesome.  An  empty  palette  next  to  my  wild
splashes of color. She walks in the light while I hide
in  the  shadows,  fighting  off  the  demons  that  hold
me prisoner.

A crease forms between my brows. “This has to

come off,” I mutter, pinching the chunky fabric
between my thumb and forefinger. She raises a
brow in response. “I don’t want you to get dye on
it.”

Without debate, she lifts the sweater over her

head and drops it on the counter.

“Whoa, babe. I meant to put on an old T-shirt or

something.” I whip my head to the side and shield
my eyes from gawking at her perfect tits.

“I’m wearing a bra.” I can hear the smile in the

jovial tone of her voice without even looking, but it
doesn’t  stop  me  from  taking  a  quick  peek.  Tiny
pink  nipples  barely  show  under  the  see-through
layer of nude lace. I reach down and adjust myself
before  turning  on  my  heel  and  racing  for  the
bathroom.  Once  there,  I  rip  off  my  own  shirt  and
plop  down  on  the  closed  lid  of  the  toilet  as  she
turns  the  dye  over  in  her  hands  to  read  the
instructions.

“Just dump the shit on and let it sit. It’s not

rocket  science.”  Through  the  mirror’s  reflection,
her eyes meet mine; a cool, winter blue and boring
hazel  locked  in  a  stare  down.  We’re  both  thinking
the  same  thing.  I  see  it  in  her  eyes,  the  heat
simmering in those aqua pools. For a split second, I
wonder why I’m hesitating. She walked into my life
as  if  she  always  lived  here,  then  tore  down  this
frozen wall built around my heart piece by piece.

“You like it on top, right?”
The innocent question makes my dick spring to

life. My first thought is, I prefer it from behind, but
I bite back the words lingering on my tongue and
nod as she wrestles with the plastic gloves.

A cold dollop of solution plops on my head. Her

fingers comb the dye through my hair from root to
tip before moving on to another section, carefully
drenching each tendril as she goes. A shuddering
chill slithers up my spine. “Am I tickling you?”

“Sorta.”

Why does Willow have this effect on me? She’s

the only one who could make something as silly as
a dye job feel erotic. My sweatpants get
progressively

tighter

with

each

massaging

movement of her fingertips. I ball my hands on top
of each thigh to keep from grabbing her ass and
pulling her down on my lap.

She twists it all into a knot and piles it at my

crown.  “Let  me  just  make  sure  I  got  it  all,”  she
mumbles,  rubbing  her  thumb  across  the  hairline
around my ear and the base of my shaved part. The
look  of  concentration  on  her  face  when  she  works
her  way  to  my  forehead  is  so  fucking  adorable.  I
want to make her dirty like me.

Ten minutes later, my head hangs in the sink as

she rinses it all out. She rests her ass against the rim
of the counter admiring her handiwork as she snaps
off her gloves. She glances at the eagle tattooed
across my chest and traces the peaks and valleys of
my torso as she moistens her lips with her tongue. A
hint of something flashes inside her. Emotion. It
moves through her gaze like water crashing against
the shore then receding.

“You missed a spot,” I tell her, swiping my

forefinger into the small puddle of goop that
remains in the jar. I stand, stepping between her
feet as I tug on the band holding together her messy
updo. Untamed tendrils explode around her face. I
slick the dye through one side, adding a royal blue

streak to her snow-white hair. “There. Now it’s
perfect.”

A smirk lands on her lips as she turns to look.

When I slip my arm around her slender shoulders,
my fingertips lightly trace her collarbone, eliciting a
field of goose bumps dotting her skin. “We match,”
she whispers, her voice strained and light.

I can’t deny it. She soothes my jagged edges.

Polishes  them  smooth  so  they  don’t  do  any  more
damage  than  they  already  have.  With  her  by  my
side,  I  almost  feel  whole.  “You  feel  me,  little
lamb?”

Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth as

she slowly nods. The energy that brews between us
is  a  live  wire  sparking  in  the  night.  An  insane
connection that coils around us popping in my chest
like tiny cherry bombs in a fire. She feels it, too. I
see  it  flaming  her  cheeks,  a  rose  flush  blossoming
on her porcelain skin before my eyes. If I kissed her
again, would it darken to a deep shade of crimson?
If  I  touched  her  body,  would  that  gorgeous  blush
bloom farther down?

“Will you do something for me, Wyatt?”
“Yeah,” I answer truthfully. Whatever it is, my

answer’s  yes.  I  would  do  just  about  anything  for
her.  How  the  fuck  I  fell  this  hard,  I  have  no  idea.
She  couldn’t  be  more  perfect  if  I  dreamt  her  up
myself.  Unburdening  myself  to  the  truth,  the
heaviness  that  weighs  on  my  shoulders  begins  to

lift. She wrapped me around her finger without
warning,

then

weaseled

into

heart

unannounced.

She rinses out the remaining dye, then slips her

hand  into  mine.  Without  a  word,  she  floats  down
the  hall  to  the  back  of  the  house.  The  setting  sun
burns  through  the  shower-wet  windows  in  spite  of
impending night. It fights across the glossy shine on
my  piano  to  the  bright  gleam  of  sparkling  blue
sitting in the corner next to my old Marshall stack.

“Where did you find that?” I ask, holding back

the  razor’s  edge  of  emotion  slicing  through  my
veins,  shredding  me  from  the  inside  out.  The
vintage  Les  Paul  guitar  glimmers  in  ombre  shades
of  cerulean  and  sapphire  with  hairline  flecks  of
aquamarine.  I  slide  my  hand  from  hers  and  pad
over to it, trying to remember the last time I felt its
weight in my arms.

“Pick it up. Your hands will remember what to

do.”

I swallow past the lump growing in my throat as I

lift  it  from  the  stand  and  run  my  hands  across  the
smooth body, feeling every nick and bump marring
the finish. This was the beginning. My first love, the
only gift my mother ever gave me that was worth a
damn.  A  jolt  rages  through  me,  rolling  up  my  face
like  a  noxious  gas.  I  close  my  eyes  to  the  sudden
sting  as  my  fingers  instinctively  grip  the  rosewood
fretboard,  the  tips  pressing  against  the  tightly

wound strings.

Slipping the strap over my shoulder, I reacquaint

myself  with  the  instrument.  A  lost  love  back  from
the  abyss.  The  sound  of  my  past  crunches  through
the  speaker  and  rumbles  in  my  chest  like  rolling
gunfire.  All  my  shit  dissolves  into  the  atmosphere
the minute my fingers begin to move.

Music and rhythm find their way into the secret

places of the soul. They call to me from a higher
plane, a world beyond the one I know. Nothing
matters. Nothing hurts. I’m not drowning in misery
or dying for a drink. The beat takes over, and I am
untouchable.

My head can deny, but my heart won’t let it.

Rock ‘n’ roll in its pure animal form strangles the
hell out of you until you can’t breathe, yet you still
beg for more. It’s freedom. It’s magic. It’s sex and
love and power and faith. Hunger, need, desire. It’s
all-encompassing.

When my lids crack open, I see Willow teetering

at the edge of the piano bench, her lips parted, eyes
wide, watching me with her fiery blue gaze that’s
just a few shades lighter than the streak in her hair.
Adrenaline shoots through my overheated blood.
I’m amped. I feel like I can take on the world, but
I’d settle for the sweet little blonde who made this
happen.

Willow

HE MUSIC

flows through every vein in my body,

pumping  my  blood  with  its  violent  beat.  I  feel  it,
seeping in and out in waves and moving inside me
like rushing water. Wyatt’s half-swath of hair hangs
over his face as he stares down at the guitar in his
hand,  the  strap  cutting  across  his  muscular  back.
His fingers massage the strings. His pick hand flies
across  the  body  of  the  instrument  with  ease.  It’s
incredible.

The hours he’s spent hiding in this room belong

to  Frankie,  Knox,  &  Jett,  the  ones  he  still  holds
with him every day. They live on in his heart, in the
never-ending  music  that  plays  inside  it.  But  this  is
different.  Right  now,  this  is  our  moment,  the
soundtrack of our life together. Right now, he plays
only for me.

Lost in the crying bite of lonely riffs, he doesn’t

see  me  wander  to  the  piano  in  the  center.  My
fingers move across the keys, seamlessly picking up
Wyatt’s  rhythm.  The  wailing  guitar  stops  without
warning, but only for the moment it takes Wyatt to
recover. I feel his eyes on me, boring into my soul.
Etching  into  the  fabric  of  my  being  as  my  body

sways to the beat.

Without a word, he picks up where we left off,

meandering over to me as he plays, our hearts
colliding, our need for freedom whirring around us.
It’s the base of our urges, the very thing which
drives us forward. The thrill of losing ourselves to a
higher power.

By the time we’re done, my heart is leaping and

dancing in my chest like David; the music, my Lord
and savior. I look up, catching Wyatt’s wild, dark
stare. He whips the strap over his head and rests the
guitar on the back of the baby grand.

The riot in my chest only grows louder the closer

he gets. He grasps my arms and hurls me off the
bench, pushing my back against the wall. Heat falls
off his body in waves. Violent breaths compete with
my own seconds before his lips crash into mine.

Wyatt’s assault on my mouth is nothing like last

night’s sweet surrender. This is carnal. A hard,
angry kiss that scrambles me senseless.

Lip rings scrape my mouth as he licks across the

seam, forcing my lips apart. Slippery and slick, his
hungry tongue glides against mine. He devours me.
Stealing the breath from my lungs and a moan from
my chest, he replaces it with a possessive need so
fierce I can taste it.

When he pulls away, his razor-sharp gaze

contains a bubbling emotion I’ve never seen before.
Manic desire. A yearning that keeps me pinned to

the wall as he drops his hold and takes a step back.
“Fuck!” His growl is low and evil. It radiates
through my body, turning it to liquid.

My lips feel raw and rough. I reach up and press

my  cool  fingertips  against  them.  “Wrong  lips,
sweetheart.”  He  wraps  his  long  fingers  around  my
wrist  and  yanks  my  hand  down  to  my  throbbing
mound.  I  swallow  hard,  remembering  our  tryst  in
the hallway a few weeks ago. I knew he was there.
I wanted him to see me, the real me. The one who
burns and bleeds and wants and needs, and when I
came, he came, too. It was perfect.

“Only if you plan to join me again.” I square my

shoulders, trying to seem bold, but the waver in my
voice is an embarrassing reminder of my naiveté.
Butterflies whir in my gut. I tamp down their
nervous flapping and meet his blazing stare.

He leans in close. Chills slither down my spine,

but the rest of me is so warm I’m boiling. The ache
inside me throbs with need. “Or I can just do it for
you.” The tip of his finger trails up my thigh,
causing goose bumps to erupt on my skin.

“I-I . . .” Every thought in my head falls away as

the pad of his thumb sweeps across the apex of my
thighs.

He skims his nose up my neck, his skilled fingers

still  taunting  my  core.  “When  you  touched
yourself,  it  was  my  arousal  coursing  through  your
veins  and  my  fingers  you  imagined  filling  that

empty  space  inside  you,  wasn’t  it?”  His  gravelly
baritone  rasps  in  my  ear.  He  pushes  back  the  lock
of  hair  hanging  over  my  face,  but  it  just  keeps
falling, and so do I. Falling since the day I met him,
plummeting into the unknown. Into lust, into love.

“Yes.” I see it every time I close my eyes. That

moment  his  head  falls  back  and  his  lips  part  as  he
chases  his  climax,  and  that  rush  of  heat  filling  my
insides  as  he  clamps  down  his  lip  and  growls
through it.

He finds my throbbing clit, forcing out a needy

whimper. I writhe against his hand, trying
desperately to find the release I need, but his
ministrations are far too light and tentative.

“You wanna kiss me again, Wyatt?”
“I wanna do more than kiss you.” He cups the

nape of my neck and pulls me close, his hot breath
feathering my lips. “But you’re too fucking
innocent.”

“I’m not,” I whisper, trying desperately to wet

my  dry  lips  but  coming  up  short.  I  may  be  young,
but  I’m  old  enough  to  know  what  I  want.  Without
another  word,  I  lurch  upward,  closing  the  space
between  us.  A  low  growl  rumbles  in  his  chest.  His
searing mouth descends upon mine with carnal fury.
He  licks  across  my  lips  with  a  series  of  flicks.  I
open  for  him,  letting  him  inside  my  mouth,  my
heart, and hopefully soon, my body.

But his fist closes on my hair and tugs, snapping

my  head  back.  “Little  lamb  and  the  big,  bad  wolf.
You  sure  you  know  what  you’re  asking  for?”  His
words  are  thick  and  laced  with  warning.  Sucking
my  bottom  lip  between  my  teeth,  I  nod.  He  tugs
harder,  eliciting  a  sharp  cry.  “Tell  me  you  want
me.”

“I want you, Wyatt.”
“Good.”
A wisp of cool air rushes over my heated skin as

he  drops  his  fierce  grip  and  stands  back.  I  sag
against  the  wall,  pressing  my  palms  and  back
against the hard surface to keep from falling to the
floor.  “What  the  fuck  does  that  mean?”  I  ask.
Conflict  streaks  across  his  face.  He  wants  this  just
as  badly  as  I  do,  so  why  is  he  fighting  it  so  hard?
“You  know  .  .  .  life  doesn't  have  to  be  miserable
just because you are.”

Hurt clenches my heart as I reach for him, but he

shakes his head and turns away. “Don’t fucking
psychoanalyze me.”

Anger swirls with the lust fogging my vision.

“Why not? Someone should. You’re not just a dick.
You’re fucking disturbed, Wyatt. You need serious

help

,”

I goad, pulling my brows together.

An incredulous expression twists his features.

“How long have you hated me like this?”

I stare at the broken man before me trying to

make sense of what he’s saying, but his heated gaze
morphs into something twisted and ugly. A hard,

mean exterior marring the sweet face of the man I
know he’s hiding inside. “I don't need to hate you.
You already do an amazing job of hating yourself.”

He rolls his eyes, raking his hands down his face.

I feel him retreating, falling back into the steel cage
he  keeps  around  his  feelings,  but  I’m  all  fired  up
and  ready  to  burst.  “You  picked  me.  You  took  me
off that bridge and drove me to your house. I didn’t
ask  for  it,”  I  shout,  pushing  against  his  chest  with
both palms, but his hard body pushes back.

“Yeah

. . .

only because I had no idea how

fucked up you really are.”

“That's bullshit. You knew and loved it because it

made you feel good about yourself. Someone else
with bigger problems than you who you can focus
on instead of fixing yourself.”

“Oh, God, you are so full of shit.”
“You just can't see it, because you're so in love

with  the  idea  of  Wyatt,  the  asshole,  Wyatt,  the
recluse,  Wyatt,  the  ex-rock  god  with  the  fucking
great  haircut.  You  work  so  hard  to  repress  the
person you are that you can’t fathom anyone in this
world could love you for you.”

“What the fuck do you know about real love?

The neediness and the ugliness and the pain? The
truth is, you'd run from real love if it ever came at
you. The only reason you stayed with me is
because I was never really here.”

“But you are here. And so am I. I don’t know

what else I can do to show you that you’re not
alone.”

A wicked grumble tears from his throat. “I don’t

need you to save me, Willow.”

“I don’t want to save you, Blue! I want you to

realize that you’re worth saving.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he seethes, spittle

dripping into the ring at his lip. “You think I enjoy
this? I’m a fucking piece of meat that keeps on
living! Useless to anyone, including you!”

“I think you do enjoy it, actually. I think running

toward anything real scares the shit out of you.”

“You know what scares me, Willow? Wanting

you this badly when I know I’m only going to fuck
it up. There’s no way this can end well.”

The fight drains out of me. I feel it exit my body,

leaving nothing but despair and frustration in its
place. He wants me so badly it terrifies him. A lump
forms in my throat, and I swallow it down, forcing
out the last piece of truth I have left. “I’d have let
you drag me to hell if it meant you’d hold my hand
on the way.”

“Sorry, lamb. My ticket to Hades is one-way,

single passenger.”

Peeling myself off the wall, I slip from his

heaving  chest  and  make  my  way  to  the  door,
blinking  back  the  tears  brewing  over  my  lashes.
I’ve  given  Wyatt  far  too  many.  He’s  emblazed
himself  so  deep  in  my  heart  that  I’ll  never  be  able

to cut him free.

There are two distinct sides to Wyatt Blue. The

one  hiding  behind  the  self-imposed  concrete,
building  up  walls  to  shelter  his  heart,  and  the  one
who  feels  far  too  much  for  his  own  good.  The
vulnerable, intuitive man who shakes me down with
a  single  look.  I  know  our  relationship  began  under
the strangest circumstances possible, but it doesn’t
taint what we have. It only makes it more special.

Willow

AIN HAMMERS

the windshield like the tears on my

cheeks.  It  splatters  on  the  heavy  panes  of  glass,
then  falls  in  tiny  rivulets  until  the  harsh  wipers
come and blast them away. I imagine that’s how my
face looks. Wet and worn, my hands pushing away
the  thin  lines  only  to  refill  the  empty  ravines
immediately.

The bus hugs the double yellow line as Wyatt

maniacally  fists  the  steering  wheel.  I  sit  on  the
passenger  seat,  willing  him  to  look  at  me,  but  his
eyes stay fixed on the road, an untouched glass of
vodka  and  Red  Bull  sitting  in  the  cup  holder
between us. He hates when I cry, but he locks it all
up  inside  his  chest,  tamping  down  the  emotion  I
know is piling up within.

“When did you stop loving me?” The question

earns me a quick glance before he sets his sights
back on the highway. It was enough, though. I saw
the pain etched across his looking-glass eyes, eyes
that give everything away regardless of what his
mouth says. He doesn’t want to do this.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Willow.”

A slight waver cuts through his buttery tone. I love

the timbre of his voice. It’s what drew me to him in
the first place. Sure, he’s tall and handsome, but it
wasn’t  until  he  opened  his  mouth  that  the  dam
snapped,  charging  with  emotion  that  flooded  my
insides  with  warmth.  Even  now,  when  we’re
wrought  with  so  much  tension,  I  feel  the  smooth
baritone  of  my  name  on  his  lips  lift  the  hairs  on
the back of my neck.

“Did you ever love me at all?”
Lip rings jut from his mouth as he presses his

lips together, sucking in a heavy breath through his
nose. I know he wants to yell, scream, throw things.
He’s  furious  at  himself  and  taking  it  out  on  me.
Wyatt’s  constant  self-loathing  bubbles  to  the
surface, and I stand by, waiting to sop it up. It’s a
game  we  play.  But  the  stakes  have  changed,  and
I’m the one losing.

I sit up in the dark. A sheen of sweat dampens

my hair. I push it off my forehead, gasping in the
blackened room.

A throbbing pain pulses low in my belly. I grasp

my stomach, forcing myself out of bed and into the
hall. A memory hits me like an anvil. Reaching
down, I trace the dull pain in my stomach, knowing
I’m fine. There’s nothing there. Not a scratch, not a
mark. But the dream thrust me into the reality I
now know is true.

He was leaving me.

My bones still quivering from within, I quietly

pad to Wyatt’s room. His arm hangs off the bed, a
swirl of color dancing up the sinewy muscle. Black
sheets  twist  under  his  naked  abdomen.  I  hear  him
yelling from across the hall sometimes. He fights in
his  sleep,  wrestling  with  the  demons  plaguing  his
existence. Now, though, he’s quiet. His back rising
slowly,  then  gliding  down  in  smooth,  easy
movements. He’s an exquisite creature, full of color
yet shrouded in darkness.

When he’s awake, the anguish overpowers every

feeling  inside  my  chest.  But  now,  as  calm  sleep
steals away his melancholy, I’m set free on my tide.
I  don’t  know  what’s  happening  between  us.  The
emotion  tugs  at  my  heart,  not  fear  or  sorrow  or
helpless  abandon.  It’s  something  new,  something
alien  to  me.  I’ve  never  had  this  tightening  in  my
chest, these butterflies knocking on the window of
my  stomach  trying  to  take  flight  around  me.  The
broken, complicated man. I’ve loved him my entire
life.  Before  I  even  knew  what  love  was,  and  all  I
ever wanted was for him to love me back. Now, he
doesn’t even know who I am.

A deep grumble reverberates the pillow. He

thrashes,  shielding  his  face  before  flopping  to  his
back.  It  starts.  The  nightmares.  Dreams  of  blood
and  gore  and  unending  screaming.  Now  they’re
invading  my  sleep  as  well.  Wyatt  and  I  are  the
same.  Two  hearts,  one  hurt.  We  twist  together  in

the darkness, feeding off our energies. It’s bitter
and black, yet the one thing that brings us together
again and again. Our connection. It cuts through the
shadows, leaving razor-sharp gashes of blinding
light. Nothing can stop it, not even death itself.

Quietly, I pad into the room and crawl under his

covers.  My  hands  rove  across  his  sweaty  skin,
holding  him  close  to  my  body.  Giving  him  my
warmth,  my  comfort,  my  love.  Everything  I  have,
it’s  Wyatt’s.  It  always  was.  We  were  meant  to  be.
Written in blood. Two people too disturbed to bear
life, meant to find each other.

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.

See how amazing you are.”

He rolls to face me. In the dim room, I see the

emotion shimmer in his eyes like tiny stars. “Why
do you like me? I don’t even like me.”

“The booze and swagger aren’t all you are.

You’re  sweet  when  you  think  no  one  is  watching,
thoughtful  in  quiet  ways.  And  you  care  so  much.
You  love,  Wyatt.  Down  to  your  soul,  you  love  so
much  it  hurts  you  inside.  Those  are  your  true
colors. I see them shining in everything you do.”

Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the

room  for  a  few  brief  seconds  before  shrouding  us
both  back  in  the  shadows,  but  it’s  enough  that  I
catch the strong lines of his face, the regret etched
into  the  planes.  “You’re  so  fuckin’  special.  You’re
everything that’s sweet and good and wholesome. I

don’t deserve you.”

I bring my hand to his face, my thumb sweeping

his  cheekbone.  This  is  the  Wyatt  I  remember.  The
quiet  romantic  who  whispered  into  my  heart  and
kissed my soul. The man who loved me even when
he  didn’t  have  the  strength  to  love  himself.  “Then
fight for me. Be the man who does.”

Wyatt Blue isn’t a perfect human. He’s flawed

and fierce, and perhaps damaged beyond repair, but
none of that matters right now. The only things that
do  are  him  and  me  and  this  constant  need  pulsing
between  us.  It  steals  the  confession  stalling  at  my
lips as he grazes against them, the soft sweep of his
breath  fanning  over  my  skin.  They  fall  open,
inviting  his  tongue  to  slide  deeper  into  my  mouth,
his  lip  ring  pressing  hard  against  the  soft  rim.  It
reminds me of us. Hard and soft, bitter and sweet.

I groan, my need for him as violent as the raging

storm  just  outside  the  window.  It  all  comes  back.
Memories overtake my mind like a drug. Lifting my
leg  over  his  hip,  I  feel  the  hard  ridge  of  his  cock
pressing  against  me.  “Wyatt,”  I  whimper,  trying  to
build  up  the  friction  I  desperately  need.  “Please.
Don’t push me away again.”

“I wanna know you, too, Willow. Everything.”
The truth. He’s opened the door. All I need to do

it walk through it with my head held high, but I
can’t. The words feel like sandpaper on my tongue.
They won’t budge, no matter how hard I try to

Wyatt

“

OT TONIGHT

. I don’t want to talk. I just want to

feel.”

The husky sound of Willow’s plea leeches into

me.  The  girl  has  lost  her  mind.  I  never  want  to  let
her  go.  I  want  to  devour  her,  claiming  her  sweet
skin  with  my  eager  mouth  and  marking  that
porcelain  perfection  with  my  teeth,  showing  proof
to the world that she’s mine.

I pull her close, my fingers skating down her

spine as she arches against me. Want coils through
my veins like a viper, venomous and deadly. It’s not
enough to own her. I want to make her burn under
my touch, blister and ooze and ache the way I do.

“What do you need from me, little lamb?” The

light of the neon moon beams in through the drops
of rain. It’s not much, but it backlights her features,
just enough that I can see the haze of lust softening
the sharp brightness of her eyes.

“Anything. Everything. Whatever you have to

give,” she mewls against my lips, her sweet breath
rolling across my tongue with the fervent rush of
her words.

If she could see inside me, see what I had to

offer,  she’d  get  up  and  leave  this  bed,  this  room,
this  house,  and  never  come  back.  My  heart  isn’t
worth a damn, my soul as black as ink. I can’t offer
her forever—I can’t promise her a life or a future—
but  she  isn’t  asking  for  that.  She  just  wants  me,
scars and all.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from the

accident,  it’s  that  tomorrow  isn’t  guaranteed.  I
might  hate  myself  in  the  morning,  but  I’m  not
wasting  another  minute  with  worry  and  remorse.
I’ve spent too many nights lost in my head. Tonight,
I plan to spend it lost in her.

My tongue glides against hers, exploring every

inch of her hot, needy mouth. With my free hand, I
slither  across  the  waistband  of  her  panties,  my
fingers  trailing  her  tight  stomach  and  swirling  over
her  navel.  Her  muscles  contract.  She  sucks  in  a
sharp breath when I slip beneath the cotton barrier,
her body growing rigid.

“Is this what you want?” I offer, my voice husky

and  thick,  riddled  with  want  and  stifled  with
hesitancy.  I  wear  the  cocky  rock-star  mask  and
swagger like some insufferable peacock. It’s what’s
expected  of  me.  But  here,  with  her,  I’m  just  me.
The unloved little boy with a heart far too large for
his own good. The guy who wants to be everyone’s
savior.

“Yes.”
The whispered sigh dripping from her quivering

lips  is  a  full  symphony  to  my  ears.  As  is  the  sharp
gasp she lets out when I come to the juncture of her
thighs.  I  place  my  thumb  over  her  clit,  circling  the
bud gingerly as I slip inside her warmth. In and out
in  slow,  steadied  strokes,  her  core  slick  and
slippery. I don’t want to rush this. I want to revel in
the melody of her satisfied sighs and garbled grunts.
Life on the road is hard and fast. Playing, drinking,
fucking.  Every  night  a  new  hall,  a  new  bar,  a  new
girl,  never  sticking  around  long  enough  to  make  it
last. But this? This is worth waiting for.

A groan escapes her as I add a second digit. Her

lips fall open, her breathing quickening, repeatedly
gasping in little puffs of air. I don’t want to hurt her,
but  I  want  to  fill  every  inch  of  her  body,  making
sure  she  still  feels  me  deep  inside  long  after  she’s
dirtied my fingers. I want her every step, her every
tiny movement to remind her where I’ve been. The
wet  heat  between  her  thighs  that  soon  enough  will
belong to me.

Arching her back, she moans at the intrusion.

Her hips rock to meet my movements, pushing
herself to my rhythm, her body gyrating and
shivering under my touch.

Her eyes jam shut as she teeters on the edge.

“Look at me, Willow. I want to see the wreckage in
your eyes when you shatter.” A muted cry lodges in
her throat. Her lashes flutter, the whites of her eyes
coming into view before the roiling blue heat

glimmers between them. “Wyatt had a little lamb.
She came all over his fingers.”

It’s then I feel her tighten, pulling my fingers

deeper  into  her,  the  muscles  of  her  abdomen
becoming  taut  and  her  legs  trembling.  Her
fingernails  dig  into  my  tattoos  as  violent  shocks  of
pleasure  slam  into  her  tortured  body.  "Wyatt,”  she
whimpers seconds before her body detonates.

The strange sensation accompanying our touch

doesn’t relent when ecstasy hits her. Instead, it
intensifies, zapping through me with electricity so
profound I’m quaking alongside her as if I’ve found
my own release.

It snaps inside me like a tightly pulled thread. I

watch  with  shock  as  we  both  ride  the  last  legs  of
her  orgasm.  I  feel  it.  Every  last  surge  of  energy
rocketing  through  her  body  soars  through  mine.  A
single word comes to mind. A diabolical incantation
I refused to see until right now. Fate.

Pulling my hand away, I touch her wetness to her

parted  lips  before  sucking  it  into  my  own  mouth.
Sweet as candy, smooth as silk. It lights a fire deep
inside me. If I lived a thousand lifetimes, I’ll never
be  man  enough  to  deserve  her  love,  but  I’m  a
selfish  prick.  One  who’ll  sell  his  soul  to  the  devil
for another taste of her.

Her body trembles beneath me as I roll her to her

back. Tiny nipples pebble through the thin cotton of
her nightie. When she looks up at me, her pale eyes

round  and  big,  her  innocence  shines  through.  So
fucking  small,  so  fucking  pure.  Perfect.  In  every
way imaginable. She’s an enigma. A young girl with
no past, no future, and no last name who burst into
my life and turned it upside down. From the day we
met,  she’s  leaked  into  my  blood  and  tugged  at  my
heart with her unruly hair and sweet, familiar face.
She  thinks  I’m  nice,  but  I’m  not.  I’m  a  wolf  in
sheep's  clothing,  and  she’s  the  lamb  heading  for
slaughter.

She raises her arms, her body undulating as I lift

her tee and cast it aside. Her tits are small, barely a
handful, but the two pretty pink circles embedded
into her soft, creamy skin are enough to make my
mouth water.

Sitting up on my haunches, I drag her panties

down her slender legs. A hint of pink glides across
her  plump  bottom  lip  as  she  spreads  her  knees
apart.  Her  little  cunt  is  still  glistening  and  ready.  I
want  to  devour  her.  Gorge  on  her  flesh  until  she’s
screaming, crying, sobbing my name.

I lift her leg and nip her thigh, the smell of her

turning  my  cock  to  granite.  Gnashing  my  teeth,  I
sink  them  into  her  soft  skin.  She  mewls  like  a
kitten,  tiny  and  meek.  “Fuck,  you’re  beautiful,”  I
tell  her,  making  eye  contact  one  last  time  before
dipping  my  head  between  her  thighs.  Her  body
vaults off the mattress, her moan ringing in my ears
like  a  gunshot.  I  dip  into  her  hot  hole,  flicking

upward every so often to catch her clit with the tip.
With each flip of my tongue, she bucks her hips
against my face, the rings in my lip scraping against
her.

Willow’s fingernails dig into my scalp as her

desperate wails turn to muted whimpers. When my
lips  clamp  down  on  her  throbbing  bud,  her  body
detonates.  Hot  sugar  dribbles  down  my  chin.  I  lap
up  every  drop,  savoring  the  taste  of  her  on  my
tongue.

“Wyatt, please. I can’t take anymore.” She looks

up through light lashes, her glazed eyes focusing in
the dark.

I’ve fucked hundreds of women. Nameless,

faceless women who meant nothing to me. But out
of all of those women who only wanted to share
time in my bed, Willow’s the girl who took
ownership of my heart.

“I want to destroy you.”
“I’m already broken. Finish the job.”
She falls back, arms circling her head as I run my

tongue  up  her  body  and  latch  on  to  one  tiny  pink
nipple.  I  feel  her  melt  into  the  mattress,  her  limp
legs  falling  wider  as  I  fit  my  hips  between  them.
With my cock in my hand, I guide it to her sodden
entrance.  Her  chest  rises  as  the  crown  parts  her
slick folds. Her hand springs to my ass, but I don’t
want  to  rush.  I  want  to  feel  every  piece  of  her
splinter and crack as I shove inside her, making her

mine. Bask in the sound of her squeaks and
whimpers when I ruin her tight little body forever.

Crystal eyes swim in tears, her lips parted with

heaving  breaths.  Her  body  opens  for  me  like  a
blooming  flower  greeting  the  sun.  I  move  forward,
watching  the  quiver  of  her  slanted  mouth,  the
furrow of her brow as I fill her to the hilt.

Her pussy clamps around my shaft, making it

impossible to move. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Relax.”
My gaze locks on hers. I rest my hand on her cheek
and thrust my hips. She cries out, and my cock
thickens at the sound.

“Wyatt.” One word, two syllables, uttered from

her perfect mouth, and my ego soars. My name
dripping off her lips is the sweetest sound I’ve ever
heard. A musical interlude to the sounds of slapping
skin and the groans radiating in my chest. “Take it
out on me. Your pain, your anguish. Make me feel
it.”

My palms dig into the soft mattress on either side

of  her  head.  She  reaches  for  me,  her  hands
caressing  my  face,  fingertips  trailing  down  to  the
hollow  of  my  throat  as  I  tip  my  head  back  and
growl  her  name.  It  sparks  something  within  me.
Stirs up a feeling, a memory. A small crumb of bliss
from  my  former  life,  and  for  a  fleeting  moment,  I
feel almost whole.

Pleasure rips through my middle, tightening my

balls as I pull away suddenly, groaning as pearls of

hot cum spurt across her stomach. Holding myself
up on one knee, I drop my head, allowing myself to
be swept up in the combined scents of sweat, sex,
and autumn clinging to her skin.

“Don’t move,” I grumble, detangling from her

arms, but the spell breaks the second my bare feet
touch the cold wooden floor. I flip the switch in the
en  suite  bathroom,  flooding  the  room  with  yellow
light.  “Idiot,”  I  curse  at  my  own  reflection.  Pink
splotches  dapple  my  cheeks  and  nose.  I  rake  my
fingers  through  my  hair,  pushing  damp  shards  of
blue  off  my  forehead  and  letting  it  fall  back  in  a
cobalt wave before reaching for a washcloth.

A wisp of auburn hugs the molding. Sprinkles

saunters in, rubbing his fur against the backs of my
ankles, but I shoo him away. “Go away, stupid cat.”

Of course, I’m angry with myself and taking it

out on a defenseless animal. An animal who came
here looking for affection, no less. His only crime
was allowing himself to love me, a feeling I thought
I was incapable of reciprocating.

Until now.
Outside my window, the rising sun gently kisses

the sky with its faint orange luster. Willow lies
sprawled out on my bed, the covers concealing her
lower half. My stomach twists. I hate how sexy she
looks wearing my cum. I hate that I still want to
shove my cock in her pretty mouth even after I’ve
finished. But more than anything, I hate myself for

falling this hard.

I sheepishly wipe away my mess and chuck the

soiled cloth on the floor, soaking in the sight of her.
A  massive  tangle  of  platinum  curls  corkscrew
around  her  face,  the  post-sex  flush  still  bright  on
her  cheeks.  “You  okay?”  she  asks,  pushing  herself
up on her elbows. They sink into the plush mattress,
her hooded gaze following as I round the bed.

“Yeah.” I can’t fight this feeling anymore, and

I’m not sure I want to. She’s a part of me,
embedded in my skin like smoke, swimming
through my veins like a drug. A shot of adrenaline
straight to my heart, and I’m hopelessly addicted to
the rush. “I’m great, actually.”

“C’mon,” she simpers, patting the empty spot

next to her. I climb in, and she turns to her side, our
bodies molding together in naked heat. The echoes
of  her  cries  and  whimpers  still  invade  my  brain,
thickening  my  cock  a  second  time.  Every  breath
brings  the  scents  of  autumn  and  rain,  a  fragrant
combination I’ve grown to love. She slips her hand
under  my  arm  and  rests  it  over  my  wildly  beating
heart. “You think there’s a heaven?”

“I really don’t know.” Reaching up, I thread our

fingers together and bring them to my lips. “But I
can’t imagine it’s better than this.” She and I in this
moment, it feels like magic. I’m exactly where I
want to be.

“I never want to leave this bed,” she whispers,

Willow

“

OW LONG

will you be staying with us, Miss

Sherwood?”

“Just one night.”
The hotel clerk offers a welcoming grin as I take

a  deep  breath  and  hand  over  the  credit  card
lodged in my sweaty palm. The stolen credit card I
lifted  hours  before,  slipping  out  of  the  unlocked
bathroom window at Pathways. My heart races as
she  takes  down  the  info,  but  I  keep  the  stoic
expression  plastered  on  my  face.  For  all  they
know,  I’m  here  on  holiday.  Maybe  even  visiting  a
friend.  On  the  outside,  I  can  be  anyone  I  want  to
be.

But the fading smile on the clerk’s face seizes

my confidence. Her glance moves behind me as
she hands me my key card, and I turn to see what’s
caught her attention just before he saunters up to
the clerk next to me.

A cigarette dangles from double-pierced lips,

aviators concealing the majority of his face, but
what I notice first is the bold, blue waterfall
feathering over the shining glare on one mirrored
lens. “I need another key,” he warbles around the

filter. “Room six-oh-one.” His voice is thick and
deep like smoke. I can’t help but stare, my card to
freedom sitting on the counter long forgotten.

In one smooth motion, he rakes his long fingers

through his hair and turns to face me, the corners
of  his  mouth  bowing.  “Don’t  look  so  frightened,
little lamb. I don’t bite.” Lowering his shades down
his  straight  nose,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  his
incredible  eyes.  A  deep  hazel  green  with  flecks  of
blue.  They  roll  down  my  body  so  slowly  I  feel  it
squeezing  my  limbs  as  they  slide  back  up  to  my
face. “Not unless you ask.”

“Excuse me?”
When the clerk holds out his new key, he swipes

it from her fingers without so much as a thank you
and stalks past me to the elevator. “You’re all set,”
the clerk announces, jarring me from my stupor.
It’s not until then that I realize my mouth was open
like a jackass through that whole exchange.

“Uh . . . thanks,” I mumble, my mind still

scrambling  to  catch  up  with  what  just  happened.
Standing  before  that  tall  drink  of  water  has  me
thirsty  as  fuck,  but  I  don’t  have  time  for  tasty
distractions.

Forcing my plan back into action, I take the key

card and move toward the elevator. The only room
the hotel had on short notice was a suite on the top
floor. Randimae Sherwood should have kept her
purse locked up tight. Poor girl is going to get hit

with an eight-hundred-dollar-a-night bill, and that
doesn’t  count  the  room  service  I  intend  to  order.
Whatever.  My  father  can  afford  it.  It’s  a  flash  in
the  pan  compared  to  how  much  he’s  paid  to  lock
me up in that hellhole.

I punch the button to the top floor and watch the

numbers  ascend,  the  worry  receding  with  each
passing  floor.  I  got  away.  I’ll  hide  out  for  one
night, then make a plan for the rest of my escape.
First  things  first—I’ll  need  more  money.  This
credit card is only good for a one-time use before
they  can  use  it  to  track  me.  If  I’m  smart  about  it,
I’ll stay two steps ahead.

A sigh of relief passes my lips as I turn the latch,

locking  myself  inside  the  suite.  I  hurl  myself  onto
the  plush  comforter  and  reach  for  the  television
remote.  It  flickers  to  life,  bathing  the  room  in  a
dim blue light. For the first time in forever, I feel
free.  No  one  telling  me  when  to  eat  or  when  to
sleep. I have my own room, my own television, my
own fucking bathroom.

After a long, hot shower, I call in a room service

order that could choke Kobayashi. The pillow -top
mattress  envelops  my  tiny  frame  like  a  cottony
hug.  I  melt  into  its  embrace,  sighing  as  my  body
sinks  inside  its  depths.  This  is  quite  possibly  the
most comfortable spot in the entire world. I could
die in this bed and do it happily, gleefully. With a
smile. It’s heaven.

It’s not until I hear rustling outside my door that

I  realize  I’ve  fallen  asleep.  The  jiggling  handle
begrudgingly  pulls  me  from  the  warmth  of  my
cover  cocoon.  Slowly,  I  pad  to  the  door  and  peek
through the peephole, but instead of waitstaff and
covered  trays,  all  I  see  is  a  vibrant  mass  of  blue
tangles atop the head of the guy trying to get in my
room.

I pause for a second, watching him as he tries

the  key  and  curses.  My  gut  reaction  is  to  call
security  and  have  him  escorted  out,  but
considering  how  I  got  this  room,  consulting  the
authorities  would  be  a  seriously  stupid  move.  The
kind of shit you see on cop shows where you sit at
home and scream at your television about what an
idiot  the  guy  inside  it  is.  No,  that  won’t  be  me.  I
may look like a child, but I’m not as dumb as one,
and I can take care of myself.

My fingers close around the cool metal handle

and push, the door popping open a crack. “I think
you  have  the  wrong  room.”  At  least,  that’s  what  I
planned  to  say,  but  Blue  Hair  charges  in  the
moment  I  open  my  mouth  and  barrels  past  me  to
the  bed  I  considered  my  solace  just  a  few  short
minutes earlier.

What the fuck?
“Um . . . excuse me?” I stand at the edge of the

tiny hall outside the bathroom, staring at the man
taking up most of my bed. His boot-clad feet hang

off the edge, his upper body still encased in a
black leather jacket. “Sir?”

A mix of snores and grumbles rumble the pillow,

but he doesn’t wake up. “Great,” I whine, throwing
my hands up as I move toward him. The smell of
whiskey floats off his breath. Now what? There’s
no way I’m going to get this drunk asshole up and
out. He’s three sheets to the wind, passed out cold,
and drooling into a million thread-count Egyptian
cotton. So much for my easy escape.

My eyes scan the small room as I try to think up

a  plan.  A  loveseat  sits  in  the  corner  near  an
armchair in a mock living room set up. I suppose I
could sleep on the couch and deal with this in the
morning. But no, fuck that. This is my room. Paid
for  with  my  blood  .  .  .  and  eight  hundred  dollars’
worth  of  Randimae’s  credit,  but  that’s  beside  the
point! I’m not going to let this guy throw me out of
my own bed. No one tells Willow Young what to do.
Not anymore.

________________

The shrill ringing of the phone rips me awake. I
reach out and grab the receiver and bring it to my
ear. “Good morning, Miss Sherwood. This is your
eight a.m. wake-up call!” says the chipper voice on
the other end. I grunt something that sounds like a
thank you and drop the receiver back down on the

hook.

A strong arm comes in from behind and pulls me

against a rock-hard chest. I gasp, my sleep-addled
brain  forgetting  where  I  am  for  just  a  moment.  I
struggle  to  move,  but  Blue  Hair  tugs  me  against
him, his face burrowing into the back of my neck.
“Just  five  more  minutes,”  he  mumbles,  his  thick,
gravelly baritone sending electric shocks skipping
down my spine.

But it takes less than five minutes for him to

release  his  grip  and  sit  up  in  a  stupor.  A  sliver  of
early  sunlight  breaks  through  the  seam  in  the
room-darkening  curtains.  Through  the  slice  of
light,  I  see  his  face  circle  through  a  kaleidoscope
of  expressions  until  he  finally  decides  on  one.  A
crease dents his forehead, his full lips twisted in a
pout. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks finally, his
large hand pushing back the swatch of blue falling
over his forehead and tucking it behind his ear.

“I could ask you the same thing.”
“We fuck?”
“No.”
“Then why are you in my bed?”
“I’m not,” I tell him, fingering the switch on the

lamp near my bedside. “You’re in my bed. You
barged in here last night and abruptly passed out. I
assume you were looking for six-oh-one.”

He tongues the set of rings in the rim of his

mouth before sucking them between his teeth. The

move causes a physical reaction in my gut. “What
room is this?”

“Six-oh-two.”
A grungy growl of laughter rumbles in his

throat. “Shit.” Throwing off his covers, he swings
his legs over the side of the bed, dropping his head
in his hands. “Guess I got pretty twisted last
night.”

“Ya think?”
He stands, his long body reaching for the ceiling

as  I  silently  beg  for  his  leather  jacket  to  fall  off.
Without another word, he rounds the bed and walks
past  me.  “Uh,  you’re  welcome!”  I  call  after  him,
assuming  he’s  just  going  to  walk  the  fuck  out,  but
the  stream  of  trickling  water  filters  in  from  the
bathroom.  I  scowl,  but  my  pulse  reacts  to  the
satisfied  groan  that  follows  just  before  the  toilet
flushes. What the fuck is wrong with me? The guy
took a piss, and all I can think about is sneaking a
peek, hoping to catch a glimpse of his naked ass.

“I didn’t say thank you,” he says with a flippant

tone as he starts eating my cold, day-old French
fries.

“Wow, you’re a dick.” He shrugs, washing down

his disgusting breakfast with a sip of flat Coke.
“Good?” I ask, sarcastically.

“Needs some Jack,” he replies, falling back

onto my bed like it’s his. The leather creaks as he
rests his large hands under his head, crossing his

legs at the ankles. “Let’s get some real breakfast. I
gotta ditch this hangover before sound check.”

Yeah, and I’m the one with mental problems.

“Maybe we can start with your name.”

He lifts a pierced brow and looks over at my, no

doubt,  horrified  expression.  I  expected  him  to
leave.  Instead,  he’s  settling  in  and  asking  for
breakfast,  yet  he’s  the  one  wearing  the  what-the-
fuck  look  on  his  irritatingly  handsome  face.  “You
don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”
“You been living under a rock?”
“Mental institution.”
Another dirty rumble of laughter escapes but

quickly dies when he realizes I’m serious. “You’re
crazy?”

“I don’t think so.”
Under his scrutiny, I feel self-conscious.

Reaching up, I twist my tangled mass of hair into a
knot. He grabs my wrist and yanks it toward him.
“Then what’s that?”

My gaze drops to the pink pucker of jagged flesh

marring my pale skin. Shame washes over me. The
last thing I need is judgment by this asshole. I pull
my arm back, shielding my regret with my sleeves
and an icy demeanor. “I got so high I scratched till
I bled.”

The pierced corner of his mouth quirks in the

tiniest grin. “Yeah me, too,” he adds, pushing up

the sleeve of his leather jacket. A garish scar
twists up his forearm, filled in with ebony ink. A
wide crack dividing a headstone in half, the name
Delilah Blue tattooed into the epitaph.

My eyes go wide. “Who’s Delilah?” I ask, my

voice a craggy whisper. I’m not going to cry. I
refuse to cry. Crying is weakness, and I’m strong
now, goddammit.

“My mom.”
“Is that why you . . .?” I mock a slicing motion

over my cotton-covered wrist.

“Do I need a reason?” he says, waving his hand.

It drops to my knee. The gesture’s so intimate.
We’ve only just met and have yet to exchange
names, yet the warmth of his palm feels as though
it belongs there.

That one small piece of tenderness breaks the

dam of tears held back at my lash line. They
scatter down my cheeks, falling in a silent spray.
“I ran away. Maybe I am crazy.”

He lifts his hand to my face, wiping my tears

with his knuckle. “Looking for a way out doesn’t
make you crazy. Wanting to live? Now, that shit’s
insane.”

“Sometimes, it’s just so . . .”
“Exhausting,” we both say at once.
With nothing left to say, we share a smile. “I’m

Willow,” I introduce myself, breaking the
deafening quiet.

“Everyone calls me Blue,” he replies. “But you

can call me Wyatt.”

I lean in, my fingertips grazing the silken tuft of

hair hanging over one eye. “Blue, huh? Fitting—”

His mouth descends upon mine before I have a

chance  to  finish  my  statement.  He  swallows  my
gasp,  licking  the  seam  of  my  lips  with  tiny  flicks,
begging  for  entry  between  them.  I  comply,  an
impish  moan  leaking  across  our  twisting,  tasting,
tangling tongues, his hands sliding into my hair as
I  fall  backward.  He  tastes  like  bad  decisions  and
excitement. Sin lying in wait.

My feverish thoughts can’t keep up. In my brain,

it  feels  so  fast,  flashes  of  blinding  light  bursting
behind  my  lids.  But  in  reality,  he  takes  his  time,
exploring  my  mouth  slow  and  deep.  I’ve  been
kissed  by  boys  before,  but  I’ve  never  been
devoured  by  a  man  like  this.  The  strength  of  his
lips and the scratch of metal digging into my skin,
a  heady  mix  of  rough  sweetness  pulling  me  into
oblivion. The slide of his hand traces the curve of
my  hip  as  he  raises  my  leg  around  his  waist,  and
for a split second, it feels so right.

Violent knocking breaks the spell cast between

us. I come up for air, gasping at the roar of my
dad’s voice bellowing through the fire-rated metal.
“Willow! I know you’re in there!”

“Holy shit, it’s my dad!” Emotion claws up my

face, the lust swimming through my body now

replaced by fear. “I can’t go back, Wyatt! Don’t let
him take me!” I sob, moving backward, but there’s
nowhere  to  run.  If  it  wasn’t  for  Wyatt,  I’d  have
already  checked  out  and  been  on  my  way,  but
instead,  I’ve  chosen  to  trade  in  a  lifetime  of
freedom for a few blissful moments of normalcy. I
should have known better. I’ll never be normal. I’ll
always  be  a  freak  hidden  away  with  hopes  that
someday I can be fixed, but I can’t. This is me, take
it or leave it. I’m just . . . broken.

But for a few fleeting minutes, Wyatt made that

feeling  go  away.  I  felt  real.  He  understands  my
pain,  this  stranger  who  burst  into  my  door  and
kissed  me  until  all  I  felt  was  his  breath  filling  my
lungs  and  his  long,  hard  length  pushing  against
me.  He  showed  me  that  I’m  not  the  freak  they’ve
made me think I am.

“Willow, honey, I’m with the manager. We’re

coming in!” The door clicks, accepting the key as I
brace myself for impact.

“Don’t worry, little lamb, I got you,” Wyatt

whispers, pushing me behind him. He raises his
hands in front of him as my dad bursts through the
door. “Whoa, sir. I don’t know what this is about,
but this is a private hotel room.”

My dad’s light blue eyes narrow into slits as he

stares daggers at Wyatt. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a friend.”
Dad’s gaze drifts to the tangled mess of sheets

on our bed, a scowl twisting his lips. “Friend, huh?
I suppose this friend is the reason you ran away?”
Dad cranes his neck in an attempt to catch my eye
as I cower behind Wyatt.

“She did that on her own. Willow doesn’t need a

hospital. Those fuckin’ quacks can’t do anything to
help her.”

Dad steps to Wyatt, red exhaustion ringing his

eyes. I hate that I’m the cause of all his worry.
He’s better off without me in his life. “Don’t you
understand? She’s a danger to herself.”

“Yeah?” Wyatt seethes, his hand reaching back

to hold me steady. “Well, I’m a danger to you if
you think you’re gonna get past me.”

“Is that a fact?”
“That’s a promise.” Wyatt stands tall, folding his

arms over his wide chest in a possessive stance.
“She’s my concern now.”

“How much do you really know about her? Did

she tell you she stole the credit card of one of her
counselors to pay for this room? That makes you
an accessory to theft. You want that on your
record, son?”

Arrogant laughter explodes from Wyatt’s chest

as he reaches into his pocket and throws a wad of
hundreds onto the bed. “There. Her debt’s paid.
Grab your stuff, Willow. We’re going.”

Doing as I’m told, I move about the room

grabbing my backpack, trying not to look directly

into my father’s wounded gaze.

“Willow, don’t do this. Let me get you the help

you need.”

Pressing my lips together, I push back the tears

broaching  the  surface.  Wyatt’s  hand  travels  down
my  arm  and  lands  in  mine,  giving  me  the  support
to finally say what I need to say. “You want what’s
best  for  me,  but  you  never  cared  to  ask  what  that
is. I don’t belong in a hospital. I’m nineteen. I have
rights, and I’m not going back.”

“I don’t need to ask. I’m your father. It’s my job

to know.”

A grin splits Wyatt’s face as he slings my

backpack over his shoulder. “I’m her daddy, now,”
he quips, pulling me past my father’s shocked
expression.

Once in the elevator, I finally let out the breath

I’d been holding. “You’re my daddy now?
Seriously? I don’t even know you.”

He shrugs with a snicker. “Shut him up, didn’t

it?”

“Thanks for that. I appreciate it.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I dunno. I’ll figure something out, I guess.”
Wyatt turns, leaning his leather-clad shoulder

against the mirrored backboard of the elevator.
“Ever been on a real tour bus?”

Willow

E DOESN’T

remember me, but I remember him.

Every glorious moment we’ve spent together in the
past  two  years,  up  until  the  very  moment
everything turned to shit. He’s my savior, my lover,
and  my  ultimate  demise.  I  should  have  seen  it
coming.  When  two  unstable  particles  come
together,  they  become  reactive.  Wyatt  and  I  are
such  an  explosive  combination  of  fucked-upness,
the world imploded from within. There was no way
to  stop  it.  The  reaction  started  the  minute  he
stepped  up  to  that  counter.  The  second  he  turned
my way and spoke.

The granite countertop feels cold under my bare

legs. I sit next to the sink, watching the way Wyatt
moves  about  the  kitchen.  With  sleek  precision,
elegance,  and  grace.  Gemstone  colors  bathed  in
black  pop  off  his  perfect  skin.  His  life  story,  inked
in  flesh.  I’ve  kissed  every  one,  ran  my  tongue
across  every  black  line,  left  my  mark  and  bled  for
those  sins  he  etched  there  permanently.  When  he
hurts, I feel it.

“Scrambled or over easy?” He looks up from the

smoldering pan, skimming his long fingertips

through  his  hair  from  the  temples  to  the  crown,
slicking  it  back  off  his  face.  His  hazel  eyes  are
crystal  clear.  No  drunken  haze  or  sleepless  fog
marring  their  amazing  color.  Just  Wyatt’s  soul
bleeding  through  every  gorgeous  gaze  as  he  peeks
up  from  his  work.  Outside,  the  rain  slows.  For  a
moment,  I  feel  as  though  the  sun  might  break
through and burn us both, but for now, the strangled
beams force through the mist and fog just enough to
pick up the subtle mix of light and dark dappling his
strong jaw.

“Whatever,” I mumble as he leans over and

steals  a  chaste  kiss  before  cracking  an  egg  against
the  rim  of  a  glass  mixing  bowl.  I’m  far  too  giddy
given  the  circumstances.  Multiple  orgasms  have  a
way of brightening a gal’s mood, I guess.

A plop of sunshine falls into the bottom of the

bowl, followed by another, then another. The smile
tugging at my lips wages war with the truth inside
my heart. The truth that I’m too much a coward to
admit what I know. It’s just a matter of time before
his memories come bursting to life the way mine
did. But until then, I don’t want to ruin this. It’s the
calm before the storm. I know we can’t go on, but
for now, I’m content to delude myself into thinking
this could last.

He pours the egg mixture into the pan, watching

it sizzle and pop before finishing the task and
dumping them onto a plate. “Your breakfast, my

dear.” Sliding the plate next to my thigh, he reaches
for his coffee mug and brings it to his lips, blowing
the steam from the top before taking a small sip.

“Here,” I urge, stabbing a piece of egg with my

fork. “Share this with me.” I hold it out as he opens
his mouth and takes my offering with an mmm
sound. “Good, huh?”

Swallowing, he nods, stepping between my legs.

His  bare  skin  brushes  against  my  thighs.
“Delicious.”  The  word  mumbles  against  my  neck,
the dual rings in his lip scratching the delicate skin
behind  my  ear.  Fingertips  glide  up  the  tops  of  my
legs and come to rest at the hem of my panties.

Goose bumps dot my flesh as his tongue flicks

across my lobe. “How am I supposed to eat with
you doing that?” I simper, my thighs tightening
around him.

“You want me to stop?”
The question evokes another memory. I’m

drowning in them now, each one piecing together
the chapters of our life.

I pull my brows together. “A tour bus? Like . . .

for a rock band?”

“Yeah.” A smirk tugs the edge of his lips. Lips I

feel imprinted onto mine in the most dangerous,
delicious way. “We have a few more cities to stop
in between here and the East Coast. If you’re
gonna run away, do it with style.”

“You’re nuts.”
“We’re all mad here. I’m mad; you’re mad . . .”

He  pulls  out  his  sunglasses,  grinning  like  the
Cheshire cat, fractals of fluorescent light catching
the  rings  at  each  corner.  “Seriously,  though.  You
don’t  need  electroshock  therapy  and  discussions
about feelings; you just need a little excitement.”

The shattered look on my dad’s face creeps up

out of nowhere. He only wanted me to be safe, and
instead,  I’m  throwing  up  bad  ideas  in  the  air  like
confetti.  I  want  to  say  no.  I  should  say  no  and  go
back to where I belong. But the way Wyatt stares at
me above the mirrored lenses of his aviators steals
the  word  from  my  vocabulary.  I  can’t  say  no  to
him. Ever.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against

the handrail as the elevator doors slide open to the
lobby.  He  shields  his  amazing  eyes,  letting  my
backpack  slide  off  his  shoulder  and  handing  it  to
me.  “I  gotta  go  either  way,  lamb.  You  comin’  or
not?”

“Never.”
I feel his smile take shape against my skin.

“Eat,” he instructs, pulling back and taking his
warmth along with him. “You need your strength.”

“Is that a warning?”
“It’s a promise.” Leaning forward, he drops

another kiss to my lips before taking a step back,

but the heated expression falls off his face when he
notices the conflict written on mine. “What’s
wrong?”

The question hits me in the gut. I’ve never been

able to lie to Wyatt. He sees through my bullshit at
every turn. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

Pressing his lips together, he searches my face.

“Tired,” he echoes, an air of disbelief darkening his
tone. “Okay. Now tell me what’s really wrong.”

Dropping my gaze, I trace my fingers over the

delicate feathers that span his chest. He used to call
them  his  magic  wings.  Said  they  could  take  him
anywhere he wanted to go. I regarded it as hokum.
Wyatt was always spouting romantic nonsense like
that.  But  it  didn’t  occur  to  me  until  just  this
moment.  Wyatt  finally  earned  them.  It’s  only  a
matter  of  time  before  he  puts  those  glorious  wings
to use.

“Ever feel like we’re fighting a losing battle,

Wyatt? How can this last?”

“We’ll make it last.”
This is wrong. Lying. Keeping him here for my

own  personal  gain.  I  can  never  get  back  what  my
stubborn  actions  took  from  us.  It’s  over.  For  all  I
know,  it  never  really  began.  Our  love  was  just  a
trick  played  on  me  by  a  mind  that  isn’t  stable
enough  to  know  the  difference  between  truth  and
fantasy, but in my heart, it feels so real. I wanted so
badly  to  believe  it  that  I  risked  heaven  and  Earth.

We’re connected, it’s true. I fulfilled Wyatt’s desire
to be needed with my need to feel safe. I selfishly
played on that aspect of his personality for my own
well-being.

“You can’t promise that.” My voice wavers as I

shake my head. “Our fate isn’t up to us.”

“It is. You just need to stay strong.”
Tears build beneath my lashes. “It’s easy for you,

but every day, it gets a little harder for me to hold
on.”

The watercolor shades of blue darken to gray as

a  burst  of  thunder  cracks  the  sky.  “No.  Fuck  that.
You  can’t  let  go,  not  now.”  Reaching  up,  he  cups
my  face,  long  fingers  slipping  into  the  tangle  of
curls at my temples. Pain flickers through his green-
brown  gaze,  deepening  it  and  wiping  away  the
denim shades of blue that hide within. “Don’t leave
me yet. Promise me.”

Waves of emotion crash within, but I hold them

back.  I  hate  that  I’m  the  cause  of  that  liquid  glass
shimmering  in  his  eyes.  No  matter  how  much
damage  he’d  done  to  me,  I  still  can’t  look  him  in
the  face  and  break  his  heart.  I  love  him  far  too
much. “I’ll try, Wyatt.”

“Good. Now, c’mon. Breakfast is getting cold.”

He steps back and offers me his hand to help me
down. His gaze flutters up my body as I slip off the
counter. “What the hell happened there?” His eyes
widen as he crouches down to get a closer look at

the small patch of red skin high up between my
thighs.

A small smile tugs on the corners of my mouth,

my body warming with thoughts of last night. I
touch his face, letting my fingertips glide across the
stubble on his jaw. “You happened there.”

“Shit. I gave you a rug burn?”
“Worth it.” Grabbing the plate, I step around him

and slide up onto a stool at the island. It is worth it.
All  of  it.  It  was  worth  every  brutal  moment  of
despair  because  it  brought  him  back  to  me.  My
broody bad boy who never had to pretend with me.
He  looks  at  me  as  if  he’s  watching  a  sunset.  As  if
I’m  something  to  be  revered.  As  if  I’m  something
special.

But I’m not.
I’m a sad, pathetic girl who got in way over her

head. I shouldn’t have fallen so hard. But love
makes a girl do crazy things. It turned me into a
monster.

“So what should we do today?” Wyatt asks as he

swipes the last piece of egg from my plate and
stuffs his mouth.

“I could probably benefit from a shower. After

that, my guess is as good as yours.”

He grabs the sides of my stool and drags me

close enough that I can feel his breath fan my face
as he leans forward. “Okay, then.” He drops a kiss
on my jaw. “You take a shower.” Another kiss on

Wyatt

TEAM FOGS

up the mirror in front of me. As I wipe

my hand over the thick layer of film, my reflection
comes through mottled and distorted. Lifting my
razor again, I scrape it sideways across my jaw.

Behind me, a splotch of tan shines through the

clouded  glass  shower  doors,  and  I  smile.  She’s
taken  up  residence  in  my  bathroom.  My  towels
smell  like  the  autumn  breeze.  A  fragrance  that
shouldn’t really smell like anything, but it does. It’s
the only way to describe her.

I rinse my razor under the running faucet just as

Willow cries out. Her small voice bounces off all
the hard surfaces, making it echo through the room.
I turn toward the sound. “You all right in there?”

“I cut myself,” she squeaks.
“On what?” With my face clean and smooth, I

drop my pants and open the door. The shower is big
enough to host a party, but the only person I want
in here is Willow.

“Shaving.”
The custom shower was designed with a built-in

bench along the wall. There she’s perched, her
slender leg bent at a ninety-degree angle, a tiny

droplet of blood forming on her porcelain skin. I
grab a washcloth and press it to her wound. “What
are you doing that for?”

She looks up at me. Against the backdrop of

white and steam, her eyes pop like two perfect orbs
of crystal. “You shaved for me. Wouldn’t be fair if I
was prickly for you.”

I grin. She’s so fucking cute. Drenched hair

hangs down her back like winter waves kissing her
waist. When it’s dry, it’s fierce and bright, but the
water weighs it down and darkens the color to a
tawny shade of silver.

I pluck the little pink razor from her hand and

settle down next to her. Leaning over quick, I swipe
the conditioner from the shelf and squeeze a dollop
in my hand, then run my palms up her leg to lather
her up before picking up the razor again. “You just
need to be careful. Long strokes.”

Starting at her ankle, I drag the razor up to her

knee then rinse it clean in the spray falling around
us. She arches her back, spreading her knees wider
as I work my way up to the apex of her thighs.

A thin layer of light hair covers her pussy. I angle

my  wrist,  clearing  a  portion  away  with  a  single
swipe. She gasps. “Sit still,” I tell her, spreading her
open  with  my  fingers.  With  gentle  strokes,  I  work
across  her  cunt,  shaving  her  bare.  Her  head  falls
back,  with  a  gentle  purr  heard  over  the  rushing
sound  of  falling  water.  Each  light  touch  sends

another wanton whimper tumbling from her lips,
the meager sounds of Willow’s contentment
thickening my cock to granite.

An accidental graze of her hardened nub earns

me  a  devilish  snicker  brimming  with  mischief.
“What do you think?” She splays her thighs for my
inspection.  Blush  heats  her  cheeks,  but  fire  flares
her  cobalt  eyes.  The  not-so-innocent  girl  who
invaded  my  bed  and  pilfered  my  heart  like  a  thief
without  warning.  She  plays  on  my  desires,  making
me weak with hunger.

I grab her leg and lift it to my shoulder, admiring

my handiwork. A pretty pussy perfectly shorn,
glistening and wet. Mine. And I’ll kill any
motherfucker who claims otherwise.

“This is how I want you all the time,” I demand,

caressing her clit with my thumb. Her whimpers
echo around us, filling the fog with a layer of lust.

“Shaved?”
“Needy,” I growl.
Already drenched with her arousal, I slip a digit

between her smooth lips. She mewls, writhing
against my hand. Her hole clenches as I glide
another finger deep inside her tight heat.

Slowly, I circle her pussy, gathering her arousal,

and sliding my slippery fingertips up to her clit. She
drops her head back once again, murmurs shifting
to stuttering moans when my pinky finds her
forbidden entrance.

The sounds falling from her lips as I vigorously

finger  both  holes  are  an  erotic  symphony.  She
doesn’t  hold  back  her  mewls  of  pleasure.  She’s
noisy,  and  I  like  that.  Watching  her  come  unglued
from the touch of my hand, hearing her squeal—it’s
my favorite fucking thing in the entire world.

“That’s it, little lamb. Come on my fingers like a

good girl.”

With a sudden jerk, she comes hard, another

shriek  clawing  up  her  throat.  I  lean  over  her,
leaving  my  fingers  firmly  in  place  as  her  body
shudders with the aftershocks of her orgasm. “The
next time you scream, it’s going to be with my cock
buried  deep  inside  you,”  I  warn,  taking  her  nipple
between my teeth. Her pussy clenches.

“Now?” she asks, her voice ragged and laced

with excitement.

I smile against her skin. My sweet, impatient girl.

“If that’s what you want.”

“I kind of wanted your cock in my mouth first.”
My gaze darts to her satisfied one. Beneath her

hooded lids, her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm.
When she licks her lips, I can’t decide which hole I
want more. The one inside her soft, full lips, or the
tight band of heat waiting between her legs. I slide
my fingers from her and bring them to her pretty
pout. She opens for me like a cat accepting a treat,
exhaling a subtle moan.

“Your turn,” she coos. She sits up, closing the

tight distance between our mouths before kissing
her way down my chest. She slides off the bench,
curling her legs under her body on the shower floor
as her petite fingers wrap around the fat base of my
cock. Looking up for just a moment, she snakes out
her tongue and swats the tip.

Slowly, her lips slide down the shaft, taking me

into  her  mouth.  Every  so  often,  she  looks  up  with
her big doe eyes. A darkened shade of indigo I see
even  in  my  dreams.  The  sight  of  her  full  lips
stretched around me, and the soft, wet gurgle in the
back  of  her  throat  makes  my  balls  tighten.
Sometime  over  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  I  will
come in that sweet mouth, but for now, my need to
own her overtakes my desire to come.

"Get up here, Willow."
My dick slides from her puffy lips as she rises

from the tiled floor and crawls onto my lap.
Reaching between us, she grasps my length and
lines it up with her supple entrance, stroking her clit
with the head, back and forth. Her eyes fall closed,
my growing anticipation about to explode.

She lets out a stifled whine as she slides down

slowly,  easing  my  size  into  her.  I  let  her  have  her
moment.  She  takes  her  own  pleasure,  moving  up
and  down,  slowly  at  first,  increasing  the  speed
gradually  as  my  thick  cock  sits  deep  in  her  snug
canal.

The sound of my name falling off her tongue,

raspy and rough, turns me into a man possessed. I
need to take control.

Grabbing her hips, I flip her onto her back in one

quick  motion  without  losing  our  connection.  She
gasps from the sudden movement. I pump back and
forth,  the  full  length  of  my  shaft  diving  into  her
pulsing  wetness,  but  it’s  still  not  enough.  “I  want
you on your knees.”

Obediently, she scurries onto all fours. I pause

for a beat, standing back to look at the winter angel
kneeling  in  my  shower.  Her  heart-shaped  ass  is
perfection in this position, her gorgeous pussy open
and  glistening  from  the  pounding  it  took  just
seconds  before.  She  looks  back,  stealing  a  heated
gaze. “Fuck me, Wyatt.”

That voice. That squeaky innocence dripping

with dirty comments makes my steel erection throb
with need. I stand next to the bench and pull her
hips up to meet my cock. She’s so wet already, so I
slip in to the hilt.

We begin a slow, hard, steady rhythm. This is the

position I needed her in. The crown of my cock hits
all the way to the end of her canal. She’s helpless,
her face pressed against the unforgiving stone, her
body aching, dripping with desire. I control the
tempo. I decide when she comes.

Three sounds dominate the room—the slapping

of my hips on her ass, the tepid water hammering
the basin, and the mewling of my name twisted up

with her pleasure-filled moans. Her pussy clenches
tight; squeezing, pulsing, on the brink of sucking
the cum from my cock as she detonates, her
keening reverberating against the Italian marble.

“Fuck,” I grind between my teeth. “Tell me

you’re mine.” Pinching my eyes shut, I let my head
fall back, feeling the swirling mix of ecstasy gather
at the base of my spine.

“I’m yours,” she echoes, her voice deepened

with lust.

“Forever?”
She moans in a breathy reply as I pound deep

into her body, finding my own release with a deep,
throaty growl. This is it. This moment right here,
with my face buried in the back of her neck, raining
kisses down on every freckle I can find, is the
moment I’m sure.

My brain feels numb, but a sudden moment of

clarity  hits  when  her  lips  find  mine  again.  I  can
love,  and  I  do.  With  every  part  of  me  that  still
exists,  the  hollow  shell  of  the  man  I  once  was,  I
love  her,  and  I  need  to  find  a  way  to  tell  her  that
before it’s too late.

_____________

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Willow gifts me
with a smile from across the room. The heat from
our shower has her cheeks and chest blossoming

with a rosy blush. She’s perfect in the most unusual
way.  A  girl  most  people  wouldn’t  even  notice
walking  down  the  street.  They’d  go  about  their
lives, drinking their lattes and chatting on their cell
phones,  never  knowing  they  had  the  privilege  of
passing  the  most  unique  and  interesting  woman  in
the world. I should know. I’ve met a lot of them.

She turns and saunters over, the corners of her

mouth still slightly bowed. “You drunk?” She slides
onto my bed, curling her legs beneath her.

“No,” I tell her honestly. Her sexy smirk rolls

into a full-on grin that hits me in the chest. Stone-
faced, she’s almost plain, but her brilliant smile
lights up her face like the sun.

She slinks down, stretching across my bed like a

cat on a windowsill. A playful gleam twinkles in her
eyes. That salacious mix of sex and innocence that
tears to me shreds with the smallest glance. How is
it possible that I want her again? This girl is going to
be the death of me. I can’t get enough.

“Why couldn’t I have met you in the real

world?”

Willow springs to a sitting position, her bright

gleam dimming. Her gaze floats to the drizzle barely
falling outside. “Wyatt . . .”

“Shh . . . Let me say what I need to say before I

lose my nerve.” The bed dips under my weight,
making her lean forward. “I’m not a man who’s
good at saying what he feels—”

“You don’t have to—”
“We always assume there's gonna be enough

time.  But  I'm  done  playing  a  losing  game,  and  I'm
tired  of  waiting,”  I  tell  her,  grazing  my  knuckle
down  her  cheek.  “I  think  I’m  falling  in  love  with
you.”

A crimson flush rolls up her neck and blossoms

on her cheeks and nose. “Let’s not put things on
this level.”

“Why not? This is a good level.”
Conflict streaks across her face. She pushes up

from the bed, turning away from me. “You don’t
love me, Wyatt. You think you do, but one day,
you’ll wake up and realize you’re wrong. I can’t go
through that again.”

“Again? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re content to live in ignorance. You let me

stay  here  on  one  condition.  I  never  talk  about  my
past.  Why  do  you  think  that  is?”  I  pull  my  brows
together, my lips parting to give her an answer, but
I don’t have one to give. She’s right. Why did I do
that?  “Because  you’re  part  of  it,  Wyatt,”  she
whispers as if reading my mind. “You have bits and
pieces of memories. Enough to make you think you
remember, but you don’t. You didn’t want to know
what  your  subconscious  already  did.  The  truth.”
She stalks to the edge of the bed, crossing her arms
over  her  chest  as  if  she’s  shielding  herself.  “The
truth about me and who I am.”

“And who’s that?”
When her gaze snaps to mine, I can almost see

the  fight  draining  out  of  her.  It’s  swallowed  by  a
look  of  relief  that  rattles  me  down  to  my  core.  I
swallow  hard,  the  pieces  falling  into  place,  but  I
pinch  my  eyes  to  the  completed  puzzle.  I  don’t
want to look and see what’s there.

“You’re insane, you know that?” I say, standing

up and inching away.

“We’re all mad here,” she whispers. Her voice is

soft  and  light  yet  hits  me  in  the  gut  like  a  sucker
punch,  jarring  memories  I’ve  worked  too  hard  to
forget. The rain, the glass, the screams . . . I cover
my ears, trying to drown them out, but they won’t
go  away,  no  matter  how  hard  I  try.  Falling  to  the
floor,  I  close  my  eyes  to  the  sound,  the  crunching
metal  louder  than  it  was  before;  the  screaming
morphing into words.

A burst of thunder explodes outside. Lightning

cracks  the  trees  as  a  sudden  bolt  of  fire  licks  the
ink-black  sky.  “You  wouldn’t  talk  to  me.  Just  shut
me  out  like  I  was  no  one—like  the  past  two  years
meant nothing.”

“Stop it!” Heavy rain pounds the roof. I cower

under the flood of my own despair threatening to
wash me away.

“I just loved you so much, Wyatt, so fucking

much, and I couldn’t stand the idea that you
couldn’t love me back.” Another tree goes up in

flames, devoured despite the torrent falling from
the sky. “You spent all this time thinking it was
your fault.”

“No!” I scream. The windows shatter, blowing

shards of wet glass into the room, followed by gusty
winds and sheets of rain. The blowback knocks me
off  my  feet.  I  fall  into  the  broken  fragments,
looking up as fire billows through every window. In
the  middle,  standing  stoic  and  tall,  is  Willow.
Brilliant  orange  fingers  flicker  on  her  cheeks.  My
angel,  the  woman  who’s  saved  my  soul,  my
innocent little lamb, burning like the devil herself.

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you ever love me at all?”
Willow’s voice is barely audible under the

bluster  of  cold  November  rain  hitting  the
windshield.  Huge  wheels  rumble  over  the  slick
pavement,  the  massive  headlights  illuminating  the
yellow  lines  on  the  road.  Other  than  that,  there’s
no one else on this stretch of highway. No lights to
guide  my  way,  nothing  but  the  orange  glow  of  my
cigarette  and  the  dim  green  illumination  hitting
the  tears  on  Willow’s  cheeks.  I  can’t  keep  doing
this  to  her.  Every  minute  I  keep  her  is  another
minute of her life wasted. I’ve stolen enough of it
as it is.

“I thought we’d be together forever.”
“Nothing lasts forever. Hearts change,” I lie,

keeping  my  voice  as  low  as  I  can.  Behind  me,  the
bus is eerily silent. Darkness shrouds the sleeping
quarters, my friends all tucked away in their pods
until we reach our next destination. That’s where I
should  be.  Nestled  in  my  bunk,  Willow  next  to  me
with  her  arm  and  leg  draped  over  me,  but  the
sound of her hysterical sobs rob me of my right to
sleep.

“Lamb . . .”
“No!” The word peels from her chest, wrought

with so much pain it blurs my vision. “Stop the bus
—I wanna get out!”

I drag my gaze from the road for the split-

second  it  takes  to  see  that  manic  mist  swirling  in
her  eyes.  It  hits  my  heart  like  an  anvil,  the  wind
knocking from my lungs. I don’t want to let her go.
“Go  get  some  sleep.  We’ll  talk  about  this  at  the
next stop, okay?”

“I can’t travel on this bus with you, I can’t be

locked in this fucking steel trap knowing you don’t
want me here, pull over and let me out right now.”
Her words rush out in one long sentence. I push my
foot  on  the  gas,  hoping  to  get  to  the  next  city  a
little quicker so I can calm the storm beginning to
whip  through  the  cab  before  it  eats  through
everything  like  tissue.  “Love  me  or  let  me  go,
Wyatt.”

“I’m not leaving you on the side of the highway,

Willow! Cut the shit! You’re acting insane, right

now!”

“I’m not crazy!”

“You grabbed the wheel.”
The entire room goes dead, save for the echo of

her  final  words  ringing  in  my  brain.  No  more  rain,
no  more  fire.  Just  deadly  silence  as  the  room  I
called mine slowly fades to white. Crazy.  Made  to
feel that way her entire life, Willow teetered on the
edge of insanity on her best day. I knew that side of
her. I saw it with my own eyes, lived through every
manic  episode  she  had.  I  brought  her  to  the  brink.
Then with one tiny phrase, I pushed her over.

She sucks her lips between her teeth, the look of

remorse filling her dry eyes. “Whatever I was
feeling before is gone now. My head is clear as
crystal. How could I do that? I loved you more than
anyone else in the world. And I hurt you.”

“You killed us all.”
“No. Just me.” Her arms tighten around her. “I

hate  this.  I  hate  that  my  blood  makes  me  crazy.  I
hate  that  I  can't  function  without  being  chemically
altered.  I  hate  that  I  fucked  up  your  life  and
everyone else’s lives around me.”

It may have been her hands pulling us into that

ravine, but it was my words that forced her to do it.
“You didn’t. I did that on my own. This isn’t all
your fault.”

“Then why do I feel so sorry?” She reaches up to

touch her cheek, then pulls her hand back, cocking
her  eyebrow  with  an  inquisitive  stare  when  she
finds  dry  fingertips.  “Inside,  I  feel  like  tears  are
streaming  down  my  cheeks.  But  they're  not,  are
they?”  The  air  around  us  grows  stagnant  as  she
steps  to  the  bed  and  sits  on  the  corner.  The
deafening quiet blares in my ear. I’d gotten so used
to  the  noise.  It  drowned  out  the  truth,  leaving
nothing  in  its  wake  but  blissful  ignorance,  but  the
silence  is  louder  than  the  hammering  rain.  It’s  a
void  of  emptiness  swallowing  us  whole  with  its
bitter  quiet.  “I'm  just  lost.  No  more  tears.  You
finally gave me what I need. I’m ready now.”

A ball sits in my throat as I pick through her

words, trying to decipher what she’s attempting to
say in far too little words.

“Promise me you’ll go back, Wyatt. You have so

much life left to live. Go back and claim it.”

“You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m saying our time’s up. I atoned for my sins,

and it’s time to move on. Frankie and the guys . . .
they’re waiting for you. Don’t let them down.”

Memories flash through my brain. A personal

picture show of the life we had. Images I
superimposed my sister into when, in reality, all my
yesterdays led me back to Willow. I didn’t want to
see it. Didn’t want to admit it. I ruined her, just like
I feared I would. And in return, she retaliated.

Emotion pricks my eyes. I blink it back,

swallowing past the burning mound sitting in my
chest. “No. I won’t leave you.”

“It’s not your time. There’s nothing left for me in

that world.  But you  .  . .  you  shine like  a  diamond.
You just need to make the choice to wake up.” She
reaches  out  for  me,  her  bare  legs  stretched  out  in
front of her. I go to her, sliding up on the mattress
that  feels  like  stone.  Nothing  feels  right.  It’s  a
dream within a dream, and I don’t want to wake up.
I want to stay where she is even if it means we die
together.

“Come with me, Willow. We can start over.”
“I can’t.” She leans in, feathering her lips against

mine, but it’s not the same. Her taste, her smell, her
warmth,  it’s  gone.  Nothing  left  but  bitter  cold
nothingness  freezing  my  skin.  “Please  don’t  forget
me,” she says, lying back on the pillows. Her voice
is  weak.  Her  emotionless  face  tearing  me  apart
piece  by  piece  until  the  dam  bursts.  The  tears  she
couldn’t  find  plummet  down  my  cheeks.  “I  love
you, Wyatt.”

“Willow . . . No.”
She turns her head, her lids fluttering closed. I

reach for her, but she’s so far away. Moving farther
from me as I fight to get through the white tunnel of
light pulling me back. Panic claws up my throat as
my voice grows hoarse. Screams wretch from
within, the sound like bullets tearing through my
skull.

Wyatt

VIL SEEPS

from my fingers. I rake them across the

fretboard, holding down the E-string before sliding
up  the  neck.  The  note  screams.  I  scowl  under  the
deafening  sound,  but  my  fingers  have  a  mind  of
their  own.  They  run  up  and  down,  my  pick  hand
skillfully  choosing  which  string  to  pluck  without
even looking. I don’t need to. It’s in my blood.

Music is my soul. The strings, my heart. It’s my

shield.  My  protector.  My  one  true  love.  It’s
amazing  how  a  single  song  has  the  ability  to
change  your  entire  day.  Hell,  your  life.  Music  is
powerful.  It  moves  mountains.  It  ebbs  and  flows,
ever-changing but never dying. Music lives on. It’s
a legacy.

Jett’s drums rumble under my feet. He hammers

the  skins,  keeping  the  beat,  while  Knox  finger-
fucks  his  bass.  Neon  lights  flicker  with  the  music.
The  crowd’s  electric.  Jumping,  swaying,  banging
their heads, their fists jamming the air. But I know
it’s  nothing.  It’s  an  interlude  to  the  person  they
really  came  to  see.  I’m  the  background  noise  for
her. The accouterment. The guy they get stuck with
because we’re a package deal.

They whip into a clambering frenzy when she

walks out on the stage. Blue lights shine on her
sleek black hair. She grabs the mic and hums a
note, holding it long enough that it vibrates in her
chest, turning staccato as she breathes through it.
The place erupts. From my spot on the stage, I see
her ruby lips split into a grin as her lashes flutter,
and she begins to sing.

Stuck in this hole
Of no self-control
Playing the role
Of a human soul

She starts off slowly. A teasing foreplay that gets

the crowd hot.

I struggle within
In my world of sin
Stretching my skin
To somehow fit in

It’s coming. They’re holding their breath.

Wondering, watching, waiting for the moment she
lets it go so everyone can lose control. And then it
happens.

This is not normal!

She doubles over, her screech echoing through

the arena, then bouncing back like a boomerang.

The place goes berserk. Screams and chants follow
Frankie through the rest of the song. They love it,
but  they  don’t  know  it.  They  think  they  do.
Everyone  has  their  own  interpretation,  but  only  I
know  the  truth.  My  words  rolling  off  my  sister’s
tongue. My gift to the world is my deepest despair.
My  loneliness  shredding  me  more  and  more  with
every  note  until  I’m  nothing  left  but  a  bloody
mound of flesh.

I’m consumed by rage
Held in a cage
As you knock me around
On hallowed ground
I’m a pawn in this game
Feeling filthy shame
No, this is not normal.

By the time the song is over, my lungs feel full of

rot  and  soot.  I  throw  my  guitar  strap  over  my
shoulder and wander off the stage, meandering the
halls  alone.  I  know  my  bandmates  aren’t  far
behind,  but  I  don’t  bother  waiting.  I  need  to
escape.

The chill of night envelops me as I push open the

back door to the arena. The after-party’s waiting,
but I need to put some distance between myself and
my persona before I can throw on my mask. Don’t
get me wrong. I love this. The music, the lights, the
thrill of the show all runs through my veins,

keeping me alive. But sometimes, the fame is just
so stifling.

A dude stands out there. My gaze catches on the

bold red of his T-shirt first. He nods, folding his
massive arms across the word SECURITY stretched
far too tightly over his oversized pecs. “You need
something?” he asks in what I can only describe as
a spot-on James Earl Jones impression.

“Nah. My hotel’s across the way,” I mumble,

setting an unlit cigarette between my teeth.

“Let me escort you.”
“It’s cool, Brawndo, I got it.”
Cars rush on either side of the highway. I stare

them down, wondering for one brief second what it
would  be  like  to  step  in  front  of  one.  Would  the
blast  be  quick?  I  imagine  the  guy  who  hit  me
sitting  in  the  hospital,  his  wails  of  “I  never  even
saw  him!”  splashed  across  the  tabloids  the
following day.

Fans would mourn. There’d be a stupid shrine to

me  right  here  on  this  stretch  of  highway  where
people  who  never  knew  me  would  cry  and  hold
photos. TV crews would line up from miles around
to  catch  the  footage,  people  clamoring  for  their
fifteen seconds of fame. Then, just like that, I’d be
gone. A few months later, no one would remember.
I’d  just  fade  away  like  the  rest  of  the  stars  shot
down in their prime. All that’s left would be a few
dirty teddy bears and some broken candles littered

across the highway. The last shred of Wyatt Blue.
Gone and forgotten.

But my life isn’t mine to take. They all own a

piece of it. Frankie, Knox, Jett . . . even Drexel.
The quadrants of Savages in Ruin. If I die, the
band dies with me.

I wait for an opening in the traffic before

bolting out into the street and jumping over the
divider like an Olympic athlete. Once I’m safe on
the other side, I throw on my shades. The mask.
The cocky rock star. It’s what they expect, so I may
as well give it to them.

But sauntering through the door, the façade

pools at my feet. Wild hair catches my eye first. A
massive tangle of white-blond curls tumbling over
a  slender  back.  Purple  butterflies  flap  over  her
barely  there  dress.  I  stop  short,  watching  the
exchange  at  the  counter.  She  shuffles  back  and
forth  on  her  tragic  flip-flops,  kicking  the  small
duffle at her feet. Interesting. She packs light and
dresses like a kid, yet she’s standing in the lobby of
a five-star hotel. Something doesn’t add up.

Pulled by some unknown magnetic force, I walk

over  to  her,  but  my  brain  goes  numb  the  minute  I
look  into  her  crystal  blue  eyes.  “I  need  another
key,”  I  bark  at  the  clerk  out  of  nowhere.  “Room
six-oh-one.”  Meanwhile,  my  actual  key  burns  a
hole  in  my  pocket.  The  flustered  clerk  fumbles
around.  My  presence  generally  wreaks  havoc  on

everyone around me. I’m used to that. But this girl
obviously doesn’t shake that easily. She looks at me
as if I’m furniture while I shift my hips to alleviate
the sudden tightening in my jeans.

“Don’t look so frightened, little lamb. I don’t

bite.”

Her clear eyes widen, and her fingers ruffle the

hem of her stupid sundress. They pull on my gaze,
forcing it down her petite body then back up. She’s
not my usual taste. I prefer my women a little . . . I
dunno  .  .  .  dirty.  Her  face  is  pale  and  free  of
makeup,  a  small  cluster  of  freckles  sweeping
across her small nose. Even in the garish overhead
light,  she’s  flawless.  I’m  used  to  babes  with  too
much  war  paint  throwing  themselves  at  me.  She
looks  like  she’s  ready  for  church,  but  my  mouth
waters just the same. “Not unless you ask.”

Her pale pink lips part, light eyebrows raised

just enough that she looks so fucking helpless. Part
of me wants to fuck that innocent look straight off
her  face,  dirty  and  depraved,  all  slamming
headboard  and  screaming  orgasms,  but  the  other
part  wants  to  squirrel  her  away  in  my  room  and
make love to her until the sun comes up. Watch the
pleasure  break  over  her  face  again  and  again  in
waves that roll her incredible eyes back.

I nonchalantly try to hold my shit together while

my pulse pounds erratically. Why am I having this
kind of reaction? I feel like I’m drunk, yet I

haven’t had a drop to drink. My last girlfriend was
the complete opposite. Then again, calling her my
girlfriend  is  kind  of  a  stretch.  Chloe  was  a  hot
fuck, but when she OD’d, I wasn’t even that sad. I
played  a  show  that  night  and  didn’t  even  think  of
her  as  I  drove  my  dick  into  someone  new.  Never
said I wasn’t an asshole.

When the clerk holds out my new key, I swipe it

from her fingers, forcing myself away without even
asking  her  name.  What’s  the  point?  I’ll  be  gone
tomorrow.  A  new  city,  a  new  hotel,  with  a  whole
new set of girls. Yet something about that girl stays
on  my  mind  long  after  the  elevator  doors  close
between us.

Wyatt

HE TINGLING

starts in my fingers and works through

my body. A frozen rush of adrenaline forcing
through my veins like ice, but my eyes won’t open.
“Wyatt.” Frankie’s voice tunnels through the black,
finding my ears. I reach out for it, thinking I could
touch it, but that seems dumb. I can’t touch a
voice.

Am I drunk again? I must be. I can’t think

clearly.

“Wyatt! Jett, get the nurse!” Frankie’s voice is

loud, so loud. I reach again this time, feeling it twist
around  my  back  and  pulling  me  forward,  but  I’m
fighting.  I  don’t  want  to  go.  Willow’s  face  is  all  I
see. I need to get back to her, plead with her, but I
can’t.  Color  inches  around  the  blackened  depths,
light slowly beginning to appear as I’m dragged into
it  against  my  will.  Scowling,  I  blink  against  the
blinding  rays.  Movement  rushes  around  me,  a
jumbled mix of footsteps and voices. Then fear.

I feel myself jumping from my skin, but my body

lies limp and lifeless. My arms and legs feel buried
in concrete. My heart pounds against my ribcage,
my fight or flight tendency kicking into full gear,

but I can’t move.

Where am I?
What is this?
What the fuck is going on?
“Shh. Wyatt. It’s okay.”
A fuzzy array of somewhat familiar faces comes

into view. Gasping for air, I fight the terror bubbling
inside, trying to make sense of it all. What
happened?

Blurry shades slowly grow into vivid pictures.

Frankie. My eyes feel wet as I take in the image of
her tear-stained face, her jade eyes swimming in a
red sea. She leans over, touching my arm. “You’re
in a hospital, Wyatt. It’s okay.”

“What the fuck?” That’s how it sounds in my

head, but across my lips, it’s a garbled mix of
sounds roiling in the gravelly baritone of my voice.

“There was an accident.”
“Where am I?”
“We’re still in Canada.” Her gaze lifts to a

person standing on my other side, but I don’t bother
attempting to look. Heavy lids fall over my eyes,
but I force them open as she drops her attention
back on me. “You’ve been out for five days.”

Canada? What the hell am I doing in Canada?
“You’re okay?”
She smiles through her running tears, wiping her

cheek with her index finger. “I’m perfect, now.”

The next few hours feel like CD skips. Waves of

flowing  consciousness  followed  by  periods  of
blackness I don’t remember. But each time I wake,
I feel more lucid. When I open my eyes again, the
light’s  given  way  to  darkness.  Frankie  lies  on  a
couch,  her  arms  folded  under  her  head,  resting  on
Jett’s  lap,  his  long  legs  sprawled  out  in  front  of
them. On the other side, our drummer, Knox, sits in
an armchair, the light from his iPad highlighting his
face  in  an  eerie,  blue  glow.  The  entire  scene  feels
oddly  serene.  Rain  taps  on  the  small,  square
window  near  my  bed,  adding  a  layer  of  comfort
over my beating heart like a blanket.

“Hey, dude. Welcome back.” Knox’s voice is

thick  with  exhaustion.  He  lifts  the  brim  of  his  cap
just  enough  to  push  back  the  thickets  of  hair  from
his  face,  then  plops  it  back  down.  Dark  circles
shadow his eyes. When was the last time he slept?

“What time is it?”
“Two a.m. You need me to get the nurse?” he

asks, preparing to get up.

“Nah, man. It’s cool,” I grumble. “Just tell me

what happened.”

“Bus slipped on the ice and took a header into a

ravine next to the highway. You took a nasty blow
to the head, but you’re gonna be all right.”

Reaching up, my fingers feel around the bandage

on my head. I lick my lips, trying to recall the
accident, but I can’t. Fog still clouds my head, but
it’s slowly lifting, bringing things back.

The driving rain. The swish of the wipers. The

yellow lines glowing in the headlamps.

My gaze slowly glides to the IV in my arm and

traces  the  tubes  up  to  the  bags  hanging  behind  my
bed.  Whatever  they  have  me  on  makes  everything
soft. The outlines of the world appear brushed like
watercolors.  Eventually,  I  make  my  way  back
toward Knox, his brown stare watching me intently.

A roll of thunder rumbles in the distance. “You

don’t remember anything?”

“Not much.”
Knox leans back in his chair, resting his ankle

over  his  knee  and  his  cheek  on  his  fist.  From  this
angle, the brim of his cap shields the majority of his
face.  Only  his  lips  remain,  surrounded  by  a  swath
of  week-old  stubble.  “You  were  awake  at  first,
adrenaline  still  keeping  you  up,  I  guess.  You
scrambled from the cab and just took off. Some guy
driving by stopped his car and called 911 then took
off after you. It was intense.”

My face twists in confusion. “I guess I was

looking for Willow.”

A sharp gasp hits my lungs as her name tumbles

from my lips. Oh my God, Willow! I sit up, the pain
filling my head like an avalanche. “Where is she?”
Panic drives up the pitch of my voice. Frankie stirs,
rubbing the sleep from her eyes, but I’m already
pushing myself up into a sitting position.

Knox jumps from his seat. “Whoa, Wyatt . . .

Dude, relax.”

“Where is she, Knox?”
“She’s downstairs, bro. She’s fine. You need to

rest.”

“Fuck rest!” I throw my legs over the edge of the

bed,  but  they’re  too  weak  to  hold  my  weight.  I
collapse  onto  the  tile,  but  it  doesn’t  stop  my  hot
pursuit  to  get  to  her.  I  need  to  see  her,  hold  her,
know she’s okay. I’ll crawl if I have to. I’ll hold her
hand on our way to hell.

The IV stand clatters to the tile as I attempt to

scramble across the room by my arms. The
machines go crazy. Knox hurls his body over mine,
holding me still as the nurse runs into the room.
“Bring me to her!” I shout, thrashing wildly. I don’t
care about anything but her, and I won’t stop until I
know she’s okay.

“Don’t just stand there!” Jett’s voice floats over

the commotion. “The man needs to see his girl! Get
a wheelchair!”

The nurse turns on her heel and bolts from the

door. I wrench my arms from Knox’s grip, tears
burning my eyes as I roll to the side. “I forgot her,”
I sob. “How could I do that?”

“You had a head injury.” Frankie kneels beside

me, taking my hands in hers. “You didn’t forget her.
You lost her. It’s not the same thing.”

Her words provide little comfort. “She was with

me. In the other place as I lay in that bed clinging

to life. She was there. And she wanted to die.”

“You were hallucinating, Wyatt. It happens. Your

subconscious conjured her up. Both of you have
been here for five days.”

Pieces of fantasy flash like Polaroids. The bridge,

the house . . . Willow. It all felt so real. It had to be.
“Five days? No . . . No . . . It was weeks. Months.”

“Five days, Wy. That’s it.”
I draw my brows together as they lift me off the

floor  and  settle  me  into  a  wheelchair.  Five  days.
That  can’t  be  right.  After  all  that  happened
between  us.  I  remember  it  now.  All  of  it  coming
back in machine gun blasts, the memories smashing
my skull like bullets. Please don’t forget me. But I
did.  And  if  it’s  too  late,  I’ll  do  whatever  takes  to
join her on the other side.

Guards line the hall outside my room. I’m in

some sort of secret wing with its own elevator that
works by lock and key. “Why isn’t she up here with
me?” I sneer as the nurse engages the lock, my
hands balling into fists on my bare legs.

“She’s in the regular ICU. She’s okay down

there. She’s getting excellent care,” she assures me,
but it only deepens my scowl.

“She belongs with me. I want her sent up

immediately.”

“Blue . . .” Frankie starts but doesn’t finish.
“How could you just let her rot down there by

herself?” I shoot hazel daggers at my sister.

Her stoic expression melts into a frown. “She

wasn’t alone. We took turns sitting with her. I
wouldn’t leave her by herself knowing how you felt
about her. She’s family, Wyatt. The fact that you
would even accuse me of that is hurtful.”

“Wyatt!”
My sister’s yell bellows through the corridors of

the  bus,  followed  by  a  loud  banging  as  she  slams
on  the  bathroom  door.  I  crane  my  neck  from  the
front, trying to see what the commotion’s all about
before heading down that way. The scraping of my
boots  echoes  against  the  tile,  but  my  footsteps
grow suddenly silent as my feet meet the carpeted
area of the bus.

“What’s going on?”
“Your psycho girlfriend’s having another stupid

meltdown!” She slams her fist on the door again,
her voice growing more irate as she yells the
sentence into the wood.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, scraping my

thumb across the lines in my forehead. The
episodes have been more frequent lately. Ever
since she stopped sleeping, she’s started seeing shit
that isn’t there. “How long she been in there?”

“Who the fuck knows? Just get her out!”
I shuffle closer to the door and rest my palm on

the warm surface of the mahogany grain. “Willow.
Baby, it’s me. Let me in.”

No response. A cold chill floods my veins. I

knock  harder,  still  trying  to  keep  my  voice  in
check.  Frankie’s  attitude  flies  to  eleven  on  a
friggin’  dime.  She  doesn’t  have  any  patience  for
this. “Willow. C’mon.”

“Wyatt . . .” Her voice ekes under the crevice

like a sad mouse looking for a crumb. I rest my ear
to the door, straining to hear her over the low din
of voices echoing from the front. “I hurt.”

“Just open the door, okay?”
When the lock disengages, I slowly push my way

through.  Silvery  strands  of  hair  stick  to  her  wet
cheeks,  the  wild  blue  strands  popping  against  her
alabaster  skin.  She  cowers  in  the  corner,  her
bottomless blue eyes looking right through me as I
approach. “It’s okay.” I crouch down to her level,
resting  a  hand  on  her  back.  “Breathe  with  me,
lamb. I’m here.”

She sucks in a series of breaths as if she’s

gasping  for  air.  I  lift  her  hand  to  my  chest  with  a
strong inhale, coercing her to regulate. “This is a
fuckin’ sideshow.” My sister stands in the doorway,
her  arms  crossed  over  her  midriff  tee,  her  hip
jutted  to  the  side.  Normally  light,  her  green  eyes
narrow into razor-sharp slits that darken to a deep
shade of moss.

“You’re not helping,” I growl, scowling as she

throws her hands up and storms away.

“Keep your fucking pet on a shorter leash,

Wyatt!”

Ever the Queen Bee, her words sting, but I’ll

deal  with  her  later.  Returning  my  attention  to
Willow,  I  take  another  deep  breath.  “I  got  you.
That’s  it,  baby,  breathe.”  Light  lashes  flutter
closed.  Her  chest  rises  then  falls  in  slow  reps,
stray pieces of hair blowing steady against her dry
lips.  “Tell  me  what  happened,”  I  murmur,  wiping
them away.

She opens her eyes and studies my face before

speaking. “My dad died.”

“You never liked her. You never even tried.”

Resentment  sits  on  my  chest,  making  it  hard  to
breathe. Willow forced a wedge between my sister
and  me,  but  it  wasn’t  her  fault.  Frankie’s
unwillingness  to  accept  her  into  my  life  was  a
jagged  stone  I  could  never  swallow.  Two  women  I
love more than anything could barely stand to be in
the  same  room  with  each  other.  It  was  a  war  I
couldn’t end.

“Your relationship was toxic.” Frankie’s voice

takes on that high-pitched tone that always happens
just before she bursts into tears. I brace myself for
it, hating the sight of them rolling down her cheeks,
knowing  they’re  there  because  of  me.  “You  guys
fell  into  this  terrifying  Sid  and  Nancy-esque
relationship  where  you’d  drink  yourself  to  death
while  she  went  insane  around  us.  You  couldn’t

continue  down  that  path.  Eventually,  you’d  self-
destruct.” She lifts the bottom of her raven hair and
twists  it  around  her  finger.  It’s  her  tell.  Her  hands
always  spring  to  her  hair  whenever  she’s  upset.
“You already tried to kill yourself once . . .”

“That was never gonna happen again.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because Willow unlocked parts of me I didn’t

know  existed.  I  kept  her  grounded  when  she  was
spiraling  apart.  I  was  her  anchor,  but  she  was  my
wings.  Before  her,  I  only  knew  how  to  plummet.
She taught me how to fly.”

“Teaching you how to take a fall isn’t the same

as flying.”

I reach up and slide my fingers into her palm,

pulling it down. “I love her, Frankie. She’s a part of
me that’s never going away.”

She nods, sniffling back the tears. “I know. And

you were good together. Until everything just got
out of control.”

The nose-burning smell of antiseptic greets me in

the ICU. My chest tightens as they wheel me closer.
The  door  to  her  room  remains  open  halfway.
Frankie  enters  first,  holding  it  open.  Tubes  snake
around  Willow’s  arms,  her  frail  body  sleeping
peacefully  despite  the  hum  of  machines  whirring
around her.

The squeak of footsteps on linoleum comes up

behind me, but I can’t look away. She’s beautiful.

Even  with  the  bandage  half  covering  her  face  and
head,  she  steals  my  breath  just  the  same.  My  eyes
fill  with  tears  as  I  reach  out  and  touch  her  again,
the  warmth  of  her  skin  filling  my  heart  with  hope.
“Come back to me, Willow.”

“Mr. Blue?” I turn at the call of my name and

find  a  woman  in  scrubs  standing  behind  me.  Her
black  hair  brushes  the  shoulders  of  her  lab  coat  as
she  holds  out  a  caramel-colored  hand  for  me  to
take. “I’m Dr. Soto. I can answer any questions you
might have.”

“I’ll wait for you in the hall. Okay, Wyatt?”
I nod as Frankie disappears through the doorway.

“What happened to her?”

“She’s suffered a head contusion, which resulted

in  some  slight  swelling.  A  few  minor  facial
abrasions and a broken collarbone. All in all, she’s
very  lucky;  however,  the  sudden  impact  caused
placental  abruption,  and  the  blood  loss  was  quite
extensive.”

“I’m sorry . . . What is that?”
“Placental abruption is the process of the

placenta prematurely separating from the uterus. It
can lead to a variety of complications. In this case,
a severe hemorrhage.”

My mouth goes dry. I try like hell to build

enough saliva to get it to work, but it’s no use. Only
one phrase manages to escape the desert of my
throat. “She was pregnant?”

“Yes. According to her chart, she was between

twelve and fourteen weeks along.”

My mind immediately jumps to the rust-stained

dress she wore that night on the bridge. The blood.
Our baby.  Slush  floods  my  veins,  seizing  my  heart
to  a  slow  crawl.  Fourteen  weeks.  How  could  she
not  tell  me?  “I  didn’t  even  know,”  I  muster,
dropping my gaze to the floor.

“Well, the good news is, this doesn’t affect her

chances  of  having  a  healthy  pregnancy  in  the
future.  We’ve  given  her  fresh  blood.  At  this  point,
the rest is up to her.” Dr. Soto clicks the mouse on
the electronic chart system a few more times before
looking back at me. “I’ll give you some time alone.
If  you  have  any  other  questions,  please  have  the
nurse page me.”

Silence fills the room. “Little lamb,” I start,

threading my fingers with her lifeless ones. “I don’t
know  if  you  can  hear  me.  I  don’t  know  if  what
happened  between  us  was  real  or  a  dream
manifested  by  a  head  wound  and  a  controlled
substance,  but  I  need  you  to  know  that  I  do  love
you. I’ve always loved you since the first second I
saw you. You didn’t need to say a word. Just seeing
you  was  magic.”  I  pause,  letting  the  wave  of
emotion  sluice  through  me  before  subsiding  in  a
waning sea.

“People think depression is about walking

around miserable all the time, but it’s not. It’s the

war behind the smile. I tried to help you. I wanted
to  be  everything  you  needed,  but  you  fell  so  hard,
so  fast.  And  then  your  dad  died.  You  stopped
eating,  stopped  sleeping,  and  I  blamed  myself.  I
stole  you  from  him.  I  was  selfish  and  wanted  you
for  myself,  so  I  snatched  you  into  my  insane
lifestyle and dragged you along everywhere I went.
It wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve you, but I loved you
—love  you—so  much  there  was  no  such  thing  as
right  and  wrong.  There  was  only  what  felt  right.
And that was being with you.

“But being with me was killing you slowly. Days,

weeks, months on the road. I watched the light dim
inside you. I felt you shatter just a little more with
each passing day. I didn’t want to leave you, but I
couldn’t  be  selfish  anymore.  I  thought  you’d  be
better  off  at  home,  but  I’m  no  better  than  your
father  thinking  I  know  what’s  best  for  you.  That
was wrong, and I’m sorry.

“You told me once that two souls don’t find each

other by simple accident. That we were meant to
meet. I believe that now. Our life is a blanket,
knotted together, piece by piece, your crazy and my
crazy laid out in intricate patterns that scatter over
it like new snow.

“I don’t know if you can, but I need you to feel

me, little lamb. Hear my voice and come back to
me.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat, wiping

away the tides of emotion that built on my cheeks
and wait. That’s all I can do now. Wait and hope
that my love’s enough to save her.

“You’ll have to go back up, Blue.” Frankie’s

voice cuts through the stagnant quiet caving in my
chest. Her footsteps quietly approach, then stop just
shy of my chair.

“It was surreal, you know?” I tell her, my voice

thick with remorse. “I guess, I believed it was real
because  I  wanted  to.  It  was  tangible.  I  could  feel
her, smell her . . . God, I could taste her. But in my
dream,  I  was  mourning  you.  I  thought  I  lost  you,
and  I  couldn’t  fucking  move  under  the  weight  of
my  grief.  Looking  at  you  now,  it’s  like  a  mirage.  I
didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

She steps around me and leans against the wall

under the unused television at the foot of Willow’s
bed. “The mind is a funny thing, Wyatt.”

“So’s the heart. When she showed up, she

changed me. I didn’t know who she was until it was
too late, but I fell in love with her just the same.
She gave me a reason.”

She nods, her jade eyes sparkling in the rising

sun. “In the elevator earlier, I wasn’t totally honest
with you.” She turns her head toward the small
square of a window, but I can see by the faraway
look in her eyes that her mind is somewhere else. “I
was worried, it’s true. But I was also jealous.”

“Being with Willow never changed how I felt

about you.”

“It’s not that.” She hugs her arms around her,

shivering in the too warm room. “I always thought
the  bravest  thing  you  ever  did  was  continuing  to
live  even  when  you  wanted  to  die.  It’s  not.  The
bravest  thing  was  giving  Willow  the  strength  to  go
on  when  you  didn’t  have  enough  for  yourself.
That’s what real love is. It’s loving the other person
more than you love yourself.”

A fat tear rolls down Frankie’s cheek. She

reaches  up  and  flicks  it  away  with  her  finger.  I
always suspected Frankie and Jett may have a thing
for  each  other,  but  looking  at  her  now,  seeing  her
heart  crumbling  at  her  feet,  there’s  more  to  that
story  than  meets  the  eye.  Maybe  I’ll  ask  about  it
someday.

“Did you know about the baby?”
Another tear is her admission of guilt. She lowers

her gaze, squeezing her lips to keep them from
trembling, her fingers fiddling with the tips of her
hair. “I found the test in the bathroom. It wasn’t my
place to tell you.”

Nodding my acceptance, I turn to look at Willow

again. “I gotta go. If you can hear me, give me a
sign or something.” I give her hand one last squeeze
before letting go, but her fingers slowly close
around mine. “Willow?”

A slight flutter of her lashes brings me to the

edge. I hold my breath, leaning forward, watching

shadows flurry across her cheek. She whimpers, her
lips twitching in the corners, her hand squeezing
like a vise.

I feel like my heart’s being torn to shreds. Is she

waking  up?  Or  is  this  some  involuntary  reaction
that  has  me  clinging  to  hope?  “Willow,  baby.  I’m
here!”  Another  whimper.  “Willow,  baby,  wake  up.
Wake  up.”  Adrenaline  courses  in  my  veins,  a
burning  tightness  of  anticipation  sitting  on  my
chest. She lets out a breath, her mouth falling open
just a bit as the whites of her eyes come into view
seconds  before  I’m  gifted  with  the  sight  of  her
perfect blue irises. “Frankie, get the nurse!” I yell,
my voice hitching to damn-near hysterics.

The powder keg of emotion bursts inside me. I

scramble  from  the  confines  of  my  chair  in  a  vain
attempt  to  get  closer  to  her.  I  need  to  be  the  first
thing  she  sees  when  she  wakes  up.  I  need  her  to
know I never gave up. That I won’t.

Wyatt

URNING RAYS

of warmth filter in through the tacky

vertical  blinds  hanging  outside  my  window  on  a
bright  blue,  perfect  day.  I  stare  in  awe,  soaking  in
the sight. It seems like a lifetime since I’ve seen it,
my  last  memories  stuck  in  the  darkened  doldrums
of never-ending rain.

“What are you lookin’ at, dude?” Jett saunters in

with paper cup clutched in his hand, the words
“Tim Horton’s” visible through two long fingers.

“Just daydreaming.”
“Sleeping beauty wake up again?” He chucks his

chin in Willow’s direction as she sleeps in the bed
beside me. Our manager, Drexel, came in early this
morning and worked his magic to have her brought
up. This is where she belonged from the start. I
don’t care what it costs. I want her with me.

“She’s been in and out.”
“What about you, man? How you feelin’?” He

plops down in the armchair in the corner of the
room. The horrid fake leather creaks under his
weight as he leans in and blows into the hole of his
coffee lid.

“Tired. Which seems insane since I literally slept

for a week.” A single note of humorless laughter
pops off his tongue. “I just wanna go home, ya
know?”

“Yeah.” He nods, creases forming over his raised

brows. Jett’s only twenty-five, but this whole event
seems as though it’s aged him quite a few years.
Dark circles curve under his bloodshot eyes. He
looks like he hasn’t slept in years.

“I’m sorry about all this.”
“About what?”
“Ruining the tour. Leaving you guys stranded in

fucking  Canada.”  Guilt  tugs  on  the  corners  of  my
lips. I drop my gaze to the blue comforter shielding
my  legs.  Hospitals  are  the  worst.  Even  in  the
“luxury  suite,”  the  food  is  terrible,  and  the  linens
feel like sandpaper.

“Least you lived. I’d be a lot more pissed if you

died.”

“Yeah, well. Better luck next time, right?”
“Next time, I’ll kill you myself. You can’t put

Frankie  through  this  shit  again.”  He  narrows  his
gaze,  pressing  his  lips  together,  the  light  from  the
window  catching  on  the  small  spike  just
underneath.  I’m  used  to  feeling  like  an  asshole.
That’s  nothing  new.  But  the  blame  clearly  written
across  Jett’s  dark  eyes  adds  a  bonus  layer  that
makes me want to crawl under a rock. “I never saw
her cry so hard watching you lie in that bed, dude. I
never wanna see it again.”

I cock my head, sizing up my best friend. Jett’s

mom  took  care  of  me  better  than  my  own  mother
did.  A  woman  Delilah  hired  to  be  the  parental
stand-in  when  she  was  too  wasted  to  do  it  herself.
Christy  was  great,  and  on  days  when  we  didn’t
have  school,  she  brought  her  son,  Jett,  along  with
her.

But the look darkening Jett’s expression isn’t one

of defending friendship. It’s the face of a guy on
the edge, the protective guise of a man in love.

“Understood.”
Jett stands from his chair, his heavy boots

scuffling  the  linoleum  as  he  shuffles  in  front  of  it.
“Let  this  be  a  wake-up  call.  You  got  lucky.”  His
gaze  slides  to  Willow,  then  jumps  right  back.  “We
all did.”

“You got something going on with my sister?” I

ask his back as he turns away.

Moving to the door, he pauses, looking back one

last time. “You’d have to ask her.”

Alone again, I watch Willow’s chest rise and fall,

Jett’s harsh statement ringing in my brain. I did get
lucky. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but
from this day on, I’m never taking it for granted
again.

________________

“Wyatt.”

Her sweet voice invades my dreams. I startle in

my bed, pulling myself from the sleep attempting to
drag me back into its black embrace.

“Wyatt . . . fire . . .”
As I come to, I look over at Willow. My name

slips across her lips, followed by incoherent words
and phrases. Something about fire and regret, but
the rest is a garbled string I can’t piece together.

“Lamb,” I mutter, waiting for the inevitable

moment she opens her eyes and sees me again. The
first time, they popped open like a jack-in-the-box,
but fear gripped her throat. She gasped, her glazed
eyes darting around the room. I tried to explain
then, but she was lost to me still and has been ever
since. A few brief moments of consciousness is all
I’ve been given.

Until now.
“What the . . . oh God,” she whines as her lashes

flutter at half-mast. Shielding her eyes, she turns
away, but her heaving shoulders give her away.

“Baby, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”
“Your face!”
“Don’t worry, I was born with it,” I joke, wincing

when I touch the blackened bruise leaking down
my cheekbone.

“I don’t want to be here.” Her desperate voice is

muffled by her hands yet thick with emotion.

“Jesus, am I that ugly?”
“No.” She sucks in a stuttering breath and blows

it out slowly. “I mean, I didn’t want to come back. I

was ready to burn for my sins.”

An image flashes before my eyes. Fire eating

through walls and wood, the scorching heat burning
my skin, and Willow standing tall among the
wreckage. “Flames . . . all around us . . . The fire.
Your agony. It burst through the windows and ate
through everything . . .”

“And then there was nothing left,” we whisper

simultaneously.

Her head lolls around until she’s facing me, her

clear eyes thick with fog and ringed in red. “Who
saved us?”

My jaw goes slack as I regard the situation with

wide wonder. “We weren’t saved from the fire,” I
whisper, my mouth growing dry as a bone. “Do you
remember the accident?”

“No. There was a fire. Certain parts seem so

vivid,  but  the  details  are  murky.  I  remember  the
connection . . . It was so strong as though we were
linked  somehow.  Almost  as  if  we  were  being
pushed  together  from  an  outside  source,  but  you
fought  it.  Your  melancholy  came  in  sheets  of  rain.
The  harder  you  fought,  the  harder  it  poured.  You
were washing us away, but I wouldn’t let you.”

“Then you set fire to the rain, little lamb.”
“I did.”
“It didn’t happen. It was some fucked-up

manifestation of the coma.”

“But you were there. You remember it, too.”

“Yeah. And I can’t for the fuck of me figure out

how, but we were there together. How is that
possible? How can we have the same delusion and
both remember it?”

“We’re all mad here,” she whispers slowly.
“What happened after I left you?”
“I let you go. I prayed for the fire to swallow me.

The  flames  ate  through  the  floorboards  and
dissolved  the  sheets,  but  the  heat  didn’t  touch  me.
It  didn’t  burn.  The  only  feeling  I  had  was  one  of
being  nowhere.  There  were  no  lights  nor  insightful
resolution. No awakening nor epiphany. Just bleak,
gray nothing.

“I started to have a discussion with myself. The

conversation  was  simply  about  making  the  choice
to  live  or  die,  but  I  wasn’t  part  of  it.  I  basically
watched  my  heart  and  my  mind  each  make  their
case as to why they were correct. My mind wanted
to die; my heart didn’t.”

“Why not?”
“It heard your voice pleading with me. It sounds

insane, but maybe my mental illness turned my own
mind against me. Made me weak. But the heart isn't
that frail. It doesn’t let go of life willingly. Its
motivation is much more honest, direct. Less
corruptible. It brought me back for you, Wyatt.”

When she lifts her gaze to meet mine, the sudden

clarity within it yanks out the breath I didn’t know I
was holding. “Do you remember me before?”

She pauses for a beat, my heart sinking at the

sudden  quiet.  I  remember  everything.  Every  detail
of the past two years as fresh and clear in my head
as if they happened yesterday. The thought that she
might  not  kills  me  inside.  Not  every  moment  we
shared was good, but even the bad ones are worth
the  pain  of  remembering  because,  at  the  end  of  it
all, we still had each other.

Long lashes fall over her eyes then come up

slowly. “I could never forget you, Wyatt. I’ve loved
you for a thousand years.”

“And the baby?”
Tears fill her eyes, but she blinks them back, the

corners  of  her  lips  lifting  in  a  sad  smirk.  “I
remember the exact moment it happened. I felt you
inside  me,  like  a  tiny  spark  of  magic  growing
steadily  each  day.”  Her  hands  slip  over  her
stomach,  her  fingers  clenching  the  blanket  in
anguish.  “Now  I  just  feel  so  .  .  .  empty.  I  ruined
everything,  and  the  price  I  pay  is  having  to  live
with it.” A pained sob erupts from her chest as she
rolls to her side. My fingers twitch; my arms tingle.
I need to be with her, hold her, let her know it’s not
her fault.

Holding tight to the bedframe, I push myself up

on wobbly legs, then hobble the short steps to her
bed to get in beside her. “No, Wy. It’s too late,” she
whimpers, but I refuse to believe that. Willow and I
were forged in flames, burned and charred, but

within the ash of our past lives, we’ve become
reborn. We’ll rise above and walk out of here
victorious.

“It’s never too late. For you, I’d walk through

fire  again  and  again.”  I  pull  her  against  me,
dropping  my  lips  to  the  back  of  her  neck.  “Don’t
you see? Two souls don’t find each other by simple
accident.  There  was  a  reason  I  took  off  after  the
concert that day. That reason was you, Willow. Fate
dragged me across that highway and catapulted me
through those doors because it knew my soul mate
was waiting for me inside.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”
“I don’t have to. I believe in us.”

Epilogue

Wyatt

“

ND THE

nominees for Best New Album are . . .”

Willow’s hand slides over mine and squeezes

tight  as  Jennifer  Lopez  rattles  off  the  nominees,
pausing  to  show  snippets  of  video  between  each
one.  When  she  gets  to  Savages  in  Ruin,  my  lungs
fill  with  nervous  breath.  A  montage  of  footage
plays out before me. Images of our last music video
pop  onto  the  screen  then  disappear  a  few  seconds
later, replaced by someone else.

“And the winner is . . .” On my left, I feel

Frankie’s  body  tighten  as  JLo  reaches  for  the
envelope. She fumbles with the flap. Willow’s grip
tightens,  her  shining  lips  twitching  in  anticipation.
She  looks  beautiful  tonight.  Her  hair  is  swept  off
her  neck  in  a  messy  updo  that’s  methodically
pinned  into  place,  the  sequins  on  her  ivory  gown
sparkling  in  the  stage  lights.  Seeing  her  now,  the
perfect  silhouette  of  her  face  standing  out  among
the backdrop of a thousand others, I feel so lucky.

The crowd erupts in applause but doesn’t drown

out  the  gasping  screech  that  tears  from  my  sister’s
lungs  as  our  name  is  called.  Tears  glimmer  in  her
eyes.  I  jump  out  of  my  seat  and  wrap  my  arms

around her before turning and sweeping Willow
into a bear hug. I love them both so much, in such
different ways.

Frankie’s my blood. We were ripped from the

same mold, given the same life, the same heart.

Willow’s my soul, a piece of her always in there

forcing me to grow and change and evolve.

“I knew you’d do it,” she tells me over the

cheering ruckus.

Our song plays overhead as we meander through

the  crowd  and  step  up  onto  the  stage.  Frankie
moves  behind  the  microphone,  the  rest  of  us  filing
in  behind  her.  A  thousand  faces  stare  back  at  me
from  beyond,  but  I  only  see  one.  I  can’t  catch  my
breath as my heart races like a locomotive. Frankie
falls  into  her  speech,  thanking  the  producers,  and
our  manager,  and  everyone  involved,  but  the  only
person I’m truly thankful for is the girl staring back
at me, her tear-filled expression of pride expanding
my chest until it hurts.

“I love you,” she mouths, but I can only smile in

return.  I’ve  never  been  happy.  Sure,  I’ve  had
fleeting  moments  of  mirth,  but  my  own
subconscious  always  chased  them  away  by  telling
me  I  wasn’t  good  enough.  I  wasted  so  many  years
immersed  in  death  as  life  passed  on  without  me.
But right now, I’m present at this moment. With my
sister  and  my  friends  huddled  around  me,
captivated by the woman I love, I realize I am truly

blessed.

It’s still hard sometimes. I lie awake at night

letting  my  mind  wander,  but  when  I  roll  over  and
find  Willow  next  to  me,  the  angry  voice  isn’t  so
loud.  It’s  more  of  a  dull  whisper  now.  One  I’m
slowly  learning  how  to  control  instead  of  letting  it
control me.

Frankie pounds the golden phonograph in the air

as  she  finishes  her  speech.  Another  round  of
applause  waves  through  the  crowd  as  we  walk  off
stage, but we’re quickly ushered to dressing rooms
to  prepare  for  our  performance.  Funny  how  the
mind  works.  Lying  in  that  bed  three  months  ago,
my  brain  grappled  for  something  to  hold,  a  nugget
of  truth  brought  back  from  the  real  world  and
ingrained into my fake one. It took a while for me
to realize what was real and what wasn’t, but in the
end, I decided it all was, and Willow shared it with
me.  That’s  the  way  it  is  with  soul  mates.  We’ll
always find a way to be together. Neither time nor
death  can  sever  our  bond.  It’s  twisted  too  tightly,
mashed  and  mangled  together  until  you  can  no
longer  tell  where  one  ends  and  one  begins.  It’s  a
seamless loop that goes on forever.

I slide off my suit jacket and hang it on a hook

before  working  the  button  on  my  shirt.  “Ten
minutes, Mr. Blue!” a chipper voice floats through
the  door.  My  fingers  tremble  as  I  slip  the  tiny
buttons  through  the  holes  and  push  it  off  my

shoulders.  It’s  all  starting  to  hit  me  now.  The
adrenaline  is  slowly  seeping  away,  leaving  nothing
but  fear  coursing  through  my  veins.  I’m  at  the
Grammys.  I  never  saw  myself  making  it  this  far.
Whenever  I  tried  to  think  about  the  future,  there
was  nothing  there  but  a  hole.  Now,  as  I  stare  into
my own reflection, I see my life laid out before me.
Every  piece  of  the  puzzle  fitting  together.  It  took
twenty-eight  years,  but  I’m  finally  here.  I  made  it.
And I’m not going to squander another minute.

I make quick work of ditching the rest of my suit

for  jeans  and  a  tee  before  finding  my  way
backstage.  Shadows  move  beyond  the  curtain
ahead.  A  roadie  stands  in  my  spot,  the  sparkling
blue-black  paint  on  my  guitar  shimmering  in  his
hand.  I  take  it  from  him,  dropping  its  weight  over
my  shoulder.  My  first  love.  My  life-force.  It’s
different  now.  It’s  hard  to  explain  the  feeling  of
waking  up.  For  years,  I  lived  for  the  music.  It’s
what kept me going when the simple task of living
felt  too  overwhelming  to  deal  with.  It  was  my
strength. My crutch. I could hide behind it, live the
persona,  and  forget  for  a  moment  how  debilitating
it was just being me.

That kind of pain changes people. It makes them

trust less, overthink, and shut people out. I let that
pain slowly take over until it was all I had. I
convinced myself I was bad for Willow. That she
was better off without me, and on some level, I was

right.  Until  a  man  heals  himself,  he’ll  be  toxic  to
any woman who tries to love him. It’s still a work in
progress, but I’m growing. I’m sober. Someday, I’ll
be  the  kind  of  strong  man  she  deserves,  but  I’ll
never give up trying. I’ll fight for us until the bitter
end  and  long  afterward.  Death  can’t  stop  love.
We’ll always find a way to be together.

Frankie joins me on stage. Her leopard gown

gave way for a skull-covered corset and torn jeans
with chunky boots laced to her thigh. As usual, her
raven hair hangs down her back in a silky curtain
that parts when she turns and flashes a ruby grin.
“You ready, boys?”

“I gotta say something really quick.” I shuffle on

my feet, letting my guitar hang across my neck as I
rake  my  fingers  over  my  hair.  “I’m  sorry  for  the
bullshit  I  put  all  of  you  through.  Not  just  the
accident  but  everything.  Thank  you  for  sticking
with me.”

“You’re our brother, man. Not just Frankie’s. All

of ours. We don’t turn our back on our own.” Jett
twirls a drum stick between his fingers. “Now,
enough of the sappy shit. We got a show to do!”

“Let’s rock the fuck outta this house!” A

mischievous  gleam  twinkles  in  Frankie’s  eyes,  but
she’s  not  looking  at  me.  Her  focus  is  set  on  the
drum  kit  in  the  back.  Jett  chucks  a  lopsided  grin
before  filling  the  quiet  with  a  heavy  roll  and  a
stomp  on  the  kick  drum.  I  join  in  right  after,  the

crunch of my guitar begging for the evil resonance
of  Knox’s  bass.  It  rumbles  the  floorboards.  I  jam
the  tip  of  my  sneaker  on  the  pedal  near  my  feet,
changing  the  distortion  as  the  curtain  lifts,  and
Frankie steals her moment.

I was broken before you came along
You don’t get to take credit for this

My brain buzzes electric, the stacks behind me

making  it  melt.  I  can’t  see  past  the  blinding  light,
but I don’t have to. I know she’s there, her crystal
gaze  growing  damp  as  she  hears  her  own  words
caroled  back  to  her.  “Dripping  Daggers”  was
Willow’s  song.  A  poem  she  wrote  that  I  set  to
music.  A  piece  of  us  twisted  together  in  a  legacy
that  will  live  on  long  after  we’ve  left  this  world.
There  is  so  much  depth  penned  in  these  lines.  It
caresses my skin as I take us home, nailing the solo
with a screaming cry.

The crowd explodes into a frenzy. I smile,

allowing the furious energy to soak into my blood. I
almost  missed  it.  Everything.  Life.  The  accident
was a warning. I couldn’t go on the way I was. As I
look  around,  a  memory  suddenly  pops  into  my
head.  Willow  drenched  in  rain,  the  sound  of  her
words  chilling  my  skin.  You  don’t  have  to  die  like
this.

It took me all this time to realize what she was

trying to say. Love is bigger than anything we’ve

got. It’s stronger than any ailment, more infectious
than any disease. When it’s real, it can get you
through anything. And that, my friend, is what
makes life worth living.

____________________________

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Playlist

Broken – Lovelytheband

Creep – Radiohead

Iris – The Goo Goo Dolls

Snuff – Slipknot

Wish I Had an Angel – Nightwish

Hello – Adele

Heaven – Kane Brown

A Thousand Years – Christina Perri

Hooked – Dylan Scott

True Colors – Cyndi Lauper

Breaking the Girl – Red Hot Chili Peppers

Africa – Toto

When I’m With You – Sheriff

Close My Eyes Forever – Lita Ford/Ozzy

Osbourne

Amaranth – Nightwish

Welcome Home (Sanitarium) – Metallica

Tag Along – Samiam

Set Fire to the Rain – Adele

November Rain – Guns n Roses

A Case of You – Joni Mitchell

Love Me or Leave Me – Little Mix

Beautiful Crazy – Luke Combs

Acknowledgment

Finishing this book is a victory, y’all. I’m not

even kidding. A little background before I get to the
thank  yous:  I  penned  the  first  few  paragraphs  of
this  story  back  in  2017.  Back  then,  there  was  no
Wyatt  and  Willow.  It  was  a  different  story,  with
different characters, different plans. But as I wrote,
it just didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right. So I tore it
apart and started over.

Then I tore it apart again.
And again.
And again.
And again . . .
Until every word was just a jumbled mess and I

couldn’t remember what version was what. It was a
nightmare that stole over 1.5 years of my life. I
cried to EVERYONE that would listen. I wrote and
rewrote until I felt like I was going to lose my mind.

Brutal truth: I’d hit a patch of darkness that I just

couldn’t  come  out  of.  It  dictated  every  word  and
action  of  my  characters.  It  seeped  into  my  brain
and  ate  away  my  will  until  I  found  it  too  hard  to
even get out of bed some days. I started feeling like
my  life  was  nothing  but  a  bad  dream  that  just
wouldn’t end.

This story isn’t the one I’d initially set out to

write, but it’s what came out of that darkness and,
while I’m sure it’s not flawless, it’s as perfectly
imperfect as my characters, and I wouldn’t change
a thing. It’s my black moment, slashed across the
pages.

In the end, I love Wyatt. He’s beautifully broken

and  so  complicated,  a  tortured  soul  that  begged  to
be  written,  yet  fought  me  at  every  turn.  He  hid
behind  his  smile;  the  persona  he  delicately  crafted
to  hide  the  demons  living  inside.  It’s  a  feeling  I
understand all too well.

This book dealt the tough subjects like mental

illness  and  suicide.  If  you  or  someone  you  know
has hit a bad patch and can’t seem to get out of it,
there’s no shame in asking for help. Even when you
feel  like  no  one  wants  to  listen,  no  one  cares,  no
one  needs  you  –  remind  yourself  that  it’s  a  lie.  If
you  truly  feel  you’ve  nowhere  to  turn,  call  the

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

at 1-800-273-

8255. You are worth it.

That being said . . . the list of people I have to

thank is long!

Special and personal: Nicole French, Harloe Rae,

Dani Rene’, Cora Kenborn, Ava Alise, Brooke Lee,
Candy Royer – y’all talked me off the ledge a time
or two . . . or twenty. Thank you so much for being
in my corner and putting me back together when I
fell apart. 2018 was a hard year for me emotionally,

spiritually, physically, and professionally, but
knowing you guys were there for me gave me the
strength to keep going.

Shout out to Natalya Damiana for writing the

music for this book. You are a brilliant poet and an
amazing talent who deserves more recognition than
she receives. For more poetry and lyrics, y’all can
find Natayla on Instagram @

tearstoink

Professional thank yous: My editor, Candice

Royer – hugs and smooches, always. Proofreaders,
Jenny  Sims  and  Allison  Irwin.  Cover  designer,  Jay
Aheer. Kate Farlow, for all those gorgeous teasers.
Ena  and  Amanda  at  Enticing  Journey.  All  the
bloggers  that  read,  reviewed,  and  shared.  My  beta
bitches  –  Robin,  Brooke,  Jillian,  Jenny,  Ava,
Summer,  &  Melissa  –  double  (triple,  quadruple!)
thanks  to  Dani  Rene’  for  fine-toothing  this
manuscript

enhance

Wyatt’s

amazing

assholiness. How can I possibly thank you enough?
Summer  Greystone,  my  awesome  PA.  My  tireless
street  team  –  Allison,  Melissa,  Randimae,  Ida,
Renee, Oindrilla, Nicole, Sarah, Kym, Toni, Cindy,
Jenz, Jolene, Kelly, Cassy, Edith, Sam, TJ, Stracey,
&  Michele  –  OMG  you  guys  are  the  best!  My
incredible  ARC  team  and  all  my  amazing  Addicts
— LOVE to all of you! <3

Novels by Jane Anthony

KADE: A Second Chance Rockstar Romance

Ainsley Daniels wasn't the first girl to crawl out of

my bed, she's just the first one I was dying to drag

back in.

As lead singer of the most notorious rock band in

the world, people kiss the ground I walk on. I could

have anyone I want.

Any time.

Any place.

But I want her. And I'm going to have her.

It's been over a year since I first laid eyes on her;

one long year this storm has been brewing. A twist

of fate finally hands me the chance I've been

waiting for. I'm about to remind Ainsley just who

Kade Black is, and this time ... I won't let her walk

away.

Pretty Reckless (Addicted Hearts Book 1)

Chase and I were doomed from the start.

My life was chaotic, and his was calm. He planned

for the future, while I lived for the day. I danced in

the sun, while he hid in the shadows.

The day I discovered he shared my demons was

the day I lost my heart to him.

The tattooed man with aqua eyes and bowtie lips;

we were addicted hearts bruised and battered and

torn in half, yet when put together make one

seamless whole.

Chase wasn't a man who fell for women like me,

and I wasn't a woman who fell at all, yet he made

the plummet seem so sweet.

So I lept, I crashed ... then I let go.

I was never meant to fall in love. But neither was

he.

Pretty Ugly (Addicted Hearts book 2)

Chase and I were doomed from the start.

My life was chaotic, and his was calm. He planned

for the future, while I lived for the day. I danced in

the sun, while he hid in the shadows.

The day I discovered he shared my demons was the

day I lost my heart to him.

The tattooed man with aqua eyes and bowtie lips;
we were addicted hearts bruised and battered and

torn in half, yet when put together make one

seamless whole.

Chase wasn't a man who fell for women like me,

and I wasn't a woman who fell at all, yet he made

the plummet seem so sweet.

So I lept, I crashed ... then I let go.

I was never meant to fall in love. But neither was

he.

Lawless

Property. That's all I was. A pawn to be used at my

husband's discretion. His twisted games turned my

love into pain as he relished in my suffering.

So I ran.

A new name, a new look, a new life. Quiet and

safe, far away from my tortured past. When Hank

Lawless saunters into town, he kicks up more than

sawdust and dirt. He ignites a flame of desire inside

me I can't ignore. I offer my body, but he wants my

heart -- a dangerous risk I just can't take.

As he unravels my soul, my secrets soon follow,

and I fear the devil will find me. I need to run again

because, despite my feelings for Hank, my past is

coming.

And this time, he'll destroy us all.

Secret Promises (Off Limits #1)

I was just his best friend's little sister.

But he was everything to me.

Jameson Tate was the star of all my teenage

fantasies. The wannabe guitar player left town

when I was just a girl, dragging my heart along with

him. I lived in a holding pattern, waiting for him to

return. Five years later, he did.

But he wasn't the same.

The sweet boy I knew is now man, strong and sexy,

yet fiercely loyal to my overprotective brother. His

sudden reappearance wasn't something I planned

for. Nor was his employment at my family's garage.

He's all I want and everything I can't have. Now I

burn with desire, drowning in lust for a man who's

off limits.

A man who's hiding secrets of his own.

Chasing Casey (Off Limits #2)

Two men. One woman. One impossible choice.

AJ Morello resides in darkness. Tortured by

regrets, tormented by nightmares. He stole my heart

with his brooding gaze and filthy mouth, but half of

it wasn't mine to give.

Austin Krehley lives in the light. The ranch hand

on my family's farm, the man who will always own

a part of me. I vowed to love him forever, but that

was a promise impossible to keep.

It should have been easy. Girl meets boy. Girl falls

in love. They both live happily ever after.

But, unfortunately, this isn't that kind of story.

About The Author

Jane Anthony is a best-selling author of

contemporary/erotic romance. She writes hot blue-

collar dudes, raunchy rockstars, and fun feisty

heroines. Her work is gritty and real and will have

you cursing her name and begging for more. Jane

gives a bit of herself and her quirky knowledge in

each novel by incorporating her love of music

through a book-specific playlist and adding things

uniquely Jane to the plot, like her crazy family or

'80s trivia. When she’s not busy being mom or Mrs.

A, you'll find her at a concert, lost in a book, or

watching horror movies with her husband

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