blaring white light floods my lids. It’s calling to me, promising me bliss. I bite down on Mack’s shoulder just as ecstasy crashes over me and a moan rips from my shaking body. Mack’s spine locks up and he growls low and deep right next to my ear, the vibrations of his masculine tone sends shivers all the way through me.
Mack releases my ass and wraps his arms around my waist, flipping us over until I’m resting against his chest. Sated, I melt into his embrace, feeling heat on my back from the early morning sunlight, breaking through Mack’s bedroom window.
“We’ll clean up in a second,” Mack says in a rough, exhausted voice as he gently tucks my head into his neck. “I want to feel your heartbeat against mine for a while.”
My heart races and also squeezes painfully, not only from Mack’s sweet words but from the pain in his tone as he said them.
The past months have been incredible. We’ve fallen back into the Lana and Mack we used to be. Except now, there’s no what-if’s, there’s only us, forever, but that doesn’t take away the five years of heartache we’ve already experienced.
I kiss Mack’s chest, over his heart and rest my head back on his shoulder as I close my eyes.
“I know you’re still hurting, so am I. But trust in us, Mack. We will break through the pain.”
Mack turns us to our sides and he lowers his body so his arms wrap around my middle and his head now rests against my chest.
I wrap my arms around his neck and snuggle into him.
Mack positions his face into my body and inhales deeply. He turns his head back to rest on me and says, “My Dove.”
“Always,” I reply.
***
Staring back at myself in the bathroom mirror, I skim my hands down my arms, feeling the soft material of the black, deep v, long sleeved t-shirt. My eyes then fall to my dark, ripped denim jeans. I sigh and cross my arms over my chest. Pressing my lips together, I wonder how many times I’m going to look into this mirror while wearing my new clothes and remember I brought them here because I can’t go home or haven’t had the guts to, yet.
Eight weeks.
Sixty days.
And too many broken moments to count.
The longest I’ve ever been away from my brother.
My sight blurs and I quickly straighten. Shaking out my hands, I regain control over my emotions. Being upset and angry does me no good. No matter how many tears I’ve shed my brother still hasn’t reached out to me.
Or is that asking too much of someone lost in a world of drugs?
My heart tells me yes, but my mind can’t fathom how any amount of drugs could pull my brother away from me. How they could be strong enough that he would let his little sister go.
My father was a drunk, a capable one. He went to work, paid bills and managed to have friendships with others at work and people on our street. He’d go to work, bring home a carton of beers and not one of those beers was left in the morning. He’d go to bed when the last beer was gone and not a second earlier. Then he’d get up no matter how little hours he’d slept and go to work and act like a normal person. As if he didn’t get drunk, scream slurs at his daughter all night until his son got home, and then they’d muck around and laugh until he passed out on the couch.
My brother would open my door every single night to check on me. Rex protected me from everyone, but our father. Boys at school weren’t allowed to disrespect me without payback from the Parkland Poison Boys, yet my father could call me every name under the sun and I know Rex knew what was going on when he wasn’t home because I told him, begged him to be home more often. He always shook it off and told me, ‘He’s our father. They’re only words, ignore him.’
He didn’t get it. He didn’t live it like I had to.
On the days my father was drunk beyond his usual, Rex and my father would get into an argument. Rex would tell him to stop taunting me, but it always ended the same, my father crying on the couch and Rex trying to console him while our father whined about how our mother tricked him. He’d warn Rex to be