“CASS DEFINITELY THINKS I’m corrupting you right now,” I think aloud between greedy sips of rum.
Amelia scoffs, stealing the bottle from my grip and sucking down its content just as eagerly. “Cass suffers from a hefty dose of Big Brother Syndrome.”
Fucking cheers to that. The second we opted out of rejoining the others in favor of getting shitfaced by ourselves in my room, I knew I was going to cop shit from Cass in the morning. I couldn’t find it in me to care, though, not when the opportunity of having Amelia all to myself was dangling in front of me. Not when I’m unhinged with the need to have her close so I know she’s safe, so I can keep her safe, so it’s a little easier to resist the urge to find Dylan and finish what he foolishly started. Sitting side by side on my bed, our backs against the headboard with only an almost-empty bottle of liquor between us is worth any kind of big brother intimidation.
It’s struck me more than once that while, no, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a girl in this bed, it is the first time I’ve had one without the intention of fucking her. These sheets have seen a lot of things; conversation isn’t one of them.
Intentions, no. Bone-deep desperation, fuck yes.
But I’m not thinking about that right now; one big, rage-inducing revelation Amelia refuses to discuss knocked any amorous notions right out of my head.
“We should play a game,” she declares out of nowhere—something she’s been doing a lot, blurting out random things, I think in the hopes I won’t ask what she knows I’m dying to ask.
I know what’s she doing yet still a smirk twists my lips before I can stop it. “Is it a naked game?” God, I should’ve learned my lesson earlier but I can’t help myself. Any opportunity to tease her—whether I’m drunk or sober—I take it. And as long as I don’t go too far like earlier, I’m either rewarded with a mischievous grin and a retorting quip or a cute pout and a thwap on the arm.
It’s not fair to pick favorites, I know, but the latter option? Sign me up any time.
It must be my lucky day because the latter is what I get. The slap is a little more timid than usual, wary of my sorry state, but the pout is just as furious. I have to clasp my hands together to stop myself from reaching out and rubbing a thumb against her plump bottom lip.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she chastises but that pout is trembling, struggling to hide a smile.
Little does she know my mind has been in the gutter since she crept into my room and performed that whole sexy nurse bit. I think I’d take a million beatings if it meant having her standing between my legs looking at me with all that concern again.
“Fact for a fact,” she slurs, her face adorably flushed as the copious amounts of liquor flooding her tiny body kicks in. “I tell you something, you tell me something.”
Interesting. An opportunity to learn more about someone who keeps so much so close to her chest. And who the fuck am I to say no to a pretty girl wanting to learn more about me?
She squeals in delight when I nod my agreement. Tilting her head—fuck, I love when she does that—she gestures for me to go first, chewing on her lip, and fuck, I love when she does that too.
I think for a moment, slugging another drink before choosing the path of least resistance, the easy subject of personal interests. “I was the photographer for my high school yearbook.”
A choked laugh comes from the other side of the bed. “I don’t know if I’m more surprised you’re a photographer or that you participated in high school.”
“Excuse me, I was a model student.” I flatten my palm against my chest in a display of mock offense that only lasts a moment before I drop it because yeah, that’s a lie. The only thing I did right in school was graduate with decent enough grades and leave. “They were offering extra credit for participation, I had a camera, it made sense. And I’m not a photographer, I just like photography.”
“You still like it?”
As a response, I gesture towards my desk where one of my cameras is strewn, the wall behind it littered with photos. Cooing an intrigued noise, Amelia scrambles to her feet and scampers to the other side of the room. “Hey,” I call after her. “You owe me a fact.”
She waves a dismissive hand in my direction, her attention occupied by the various pictures I’ve snapped over the years. “These are really good, Nick.”
“You’re a cheat, Amelia.”
Scowling, Amelia spins to face me again, propping her ass on the desk, and oh, doesn’t that bring my mind to places they have no business being. “I used to be a dancer.”
“Nope,” I tut, shaking my head. “Doesn’t count. I already knew that.”
“How?”
“I moved into your house, remember?” A fact that still blows my mind because what are the fucking chances? “I saw the studio. Plus, there are at least a dozen pictures of a red-headed little girl prancing around in leotards and tutus in the Morgans’ living room.”
“There are?”
I frown at her meek question. I never paid much attention to the Morgans’ house decor but Lynn’s love of family photos is unavoidable. They’re everywhere, framed and hung on walls or propped on the mantlepiece or arranged in collages. Amelia’s in almost all of them, as many pictures of her as there are of Cass and his older brother—so many that I’m a real dumbass for not recognizing her sooner. “Why wouldn’t there be?”
“I thought they’d take them down.”
“Why?” The question barely leaves my lips and I already know I’m not going to get an answer. I anticipate the responding shrug of her delicate shoulders. And as much as I want to know, I think I’ve tested enough boundaries for tonight. But she still owes me a fact, so. “Tell me why you stopped dancing.”
Apparently, that’s not the safe territory I assumed it would be. Amelia tenses as she wraps her arms around herself, hugging herself tightly. “I hurt my knee.”
Instinctively, my gaze drops to the aforementioned joints. Even hidden by her—my—sweats, I know the only obvious injuries are the ones from tonight, from when that dickhead tossed her to the ground. Concern balls in my chest. She landed pretty hard; if she already had an injury, that could make it worse, right? Fuck, what if I made it worse? With all the training? God, if she was in pain, she wouldn’t even tell me, I know she wouldn’t.
As if reading my panicked thoughts, Amelia adds, “It rarely hurts anymore.”
Rarely. Not never. “What happened?”
Green eyes narrow to slits. “Now who’s the cheat?”
“Jackson and I have matching tattoos.” I throw out the first random fact that pops into my head, not allowing her any time to dwell before asking, “Is that why you left Carlton?”
Amelia doesn’t reply but something tells me I hit the nail on the head.
My ribs protest as I scoot to the edge of the bed, planting my bare feet on the floor and waiting expectantly. Amelia dithers momentarily before joining, sinking onto the mattress with her thigh flush against mine. “I don’t like talking about it.”
“You don’t have to.”
Amelia shifts, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek on top of them. For a minute, she stares at me silently, eyes searching for something I’m not privy to before she sighs. “I was in a car accident. That’s how I got hurt. I-” She averts her gaze as she swallows hard. “It was my fault and I kinda went off the rails a little after it happened.”
“You were driving?” A shake of her head is the only response I get. “Then how-”
“Dad decided we needed a fresh start,” Amelia cuts me off, dragging her knuckles across her eyes, “so we packed up and we left. No note, no goodbye, no nothing. We left in the middle of the night like criminals. The Morgans helped raise me and I just left them. They should hate me for it.”
The sheer amount of guilt in her voice hits me as hard as her ex-boyfriend did, and it’s twice as painful and disconcerting. It sends an inane urge to soothe ricocheting through me, and my arm sneaks its way around her shoulder without any conscious thought. “They don’t.” I know that with the utmost certainty. “They talk about you all the time.”
Curious, disbelieving eyes slide to mine. “Really?”
“Non-stop, Amelia. I was sick of you before I even knew you.”
A choked, watery laugh escapes her. “Oh yeah?”
“Uh-huh.” No.
With the slightest tug, Amelia is falling into me, her head dropping to my shoulder—where it belongs, a weird little voice in my head whispers—and her knees slanting sideways over my thighs. “Whatever happened,” I have a feeling the specifics are not something I’ll ever be privy to, “they don’t blame you for it.”
Her response is so quiet, so clearly unintended for my ears, I pretend I didn’t hear it. “They should.”
Never in my life have I found it as hard to get out of bed as I did this morning. Honest to God I wanted to weep when I opened my eyes after a pitiful amount of rest and a peaceful sleep—probably the best I’ve ever had—faded into a reality that involved every inch of my body screaming in agony. However, all that pain seemed to dissipate when my vision focused and I clocked the mane of red hair my face was buried in.
We were holding hands. We were cuddling in bed, close as can be, with our fingers intertwined and clasped to her chest and the first thought that popped into my head was damn. I wouldn’t mind waking up like this every morning.
The second thought? Fuck me, am I in trouble.
I’m no stranger to fleeing a bed after spending the night with a girl to avoid the awkward morning-after conversation but this morning was the first time I fled in a state of borderline panic. Honestly, I’ve been in that state since last night. It’s hard to pinpoint the source; it might be the residual effects of watching her get berated and belittled and manhandled and being able to do jack-shit about it; or maybe it’s because Luna’s words are still ringing in my ears and it’s killing me not knowing the specifics, knowing it’s not my place to ask. I have a sneaky feeling, though, that it has everything to do with the steadily creeping realization that I’m way more than just intrigued by Amelia and I have no idea how to handle that.
I thought getting out of the house, forcing some distance between us, before anyone else woke up and ruining this collegiate year’s almost imperfect attendance record would give me some respite but no. Now, I’m stuck in a lecture hall not paying a single iota of attention to anything my professor is saying, my mind wholly occupied wondering whether or not Amelia is still in my bed.
More than one gaze swung my way when I strolled in later, a wave of hushed murmurs breaking out. I ignored the nosy motherfuckers as I slumped into a seat near the back, yanking my baseball cap further down to cover more of my busted face and hoping my glare would properly convey my lower tolerance for conversation and bullshit gossip.
Alas, the dark cloud hovering above my head isn’t formidable enough.
“Some party last night, Nick.”
Before I even glance at the unwelcome speaker, I’m stifling a groan. His name is a mystery to me—John something, maybe—and the irony isn’t lost on me, considering he was allegedly one of the people celebrating my birthday last night. But I do know him. Or more like I know his mouth; we have more than a couple of classes in common this semester and I’ve already heard enough of his shit-talk.
I grunt a non-response and face forward again, pretending to be engrossed in the lecturer’s presentation on Mark Twain’s ‘A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court’ as if I don’t have my dad’s old, detailed notes burning a hole in my copy of the novel; he started practicing his lectures on me when I was six and Twain was a frequent favorite.
Either Maybe-John doesn’t clock my disinterest or he isn’t phased by it. “Looks like you got your birthday beatings,” he snickers. “Rumor has it Wells beat the shit out of you because you fucked his girlfriend.”
I snort. The only punch Dylan landed was a cheap shot. It was his three little shit friends who ambushed me. “Rumor has it I beat the shit out of him first.”
“Right. Fuck, you know he looks worse than you?”
And if that doesn’t perk up my morning; I almost get the urge to smile.
Maybe-John kills that urge pretty quickly by opening his mouth.
“And that little Amelia helped.” I tense at the mention of her name, his tone as he says it. My hands ball into fists when he lets out a long, low whistle. “Fuck, man, she was hot before but watching her sock him one? Permanent place in my spank bank.”
Do not start a fight in class, my common sense chastises.
But I want to, my sketchy impulse control whines.
To my dismay, common sense wins out. As much as I want to—and fuck, I want to—knocking this guy’s lights out would only earn fleeting satisfaction and possibly an expulsion, Plus, one more punch and I think my knuckles might give out.
So, itching with the urge to do more, I kiss my teeth and slowly turn to face whoever the fuck this guy is, hoping the full extent of my scowl can pierce the asshole’s thick skull. “You don’t talk about her,” I warn, my voice low and threatening and so deadly fucking serious. “You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her. If you do, fucking trust me, I will make what I did to Dylan last night look like a fucking spa treatment. Okay?”
It must be obvious that I mean every word I say because John’s smug expression falls flat. “I was kidding.”
“Don’t,” I spit. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
Laughing nervously, John shifts in his seat, expression a lame attempt at unbothered. “She your girlfriend or something, Silva?”
I don’t take my eyes off him, don’t relax, as I reply. “Or something.”
