He squeezed my hand, tenderness masking the hardness seeping through. “A lot has already happened, and you’re going to survive this.”
I didn’t know if that was true. I knew though, they were going to crack my chest open, take my heart out, put someone else’s inside me, and I’d live life with a stolen heart, forever a thief.
Thief?
I know you think that’s a strong word to use, but I feel that way at times.
Peeling myself from my bed, I take my pills, all ten of them that cause more side effects than what I fear they’re designed to do. Through all of that, my mind drifts. The soft ache between my legs, the allure, the memory, I can’t escape him. My cheeks heat and the corners of my mouth curl upward.
You can’t fill the holes inside you with men. That’s what Avie told me this morning. Technically, you can. Plenty of holes to fill, but I didn’t delve into that conversation with big brother. I can see where his concern lies. Went from a married man to sleeping with a fisherman who has probably said five sentences to me.
I’ve heard all the warnings.
Men don’t complete you.
Men can’t make you happy.
Sex isn’t the answer.
Everyone who has ever said that has clearly never had sex with Lincoln Hardy and isn’t living a temporary life. The distant flash in his eyes when he held me against the side of the house. The strain in his body, the heat, it captivated my soul and lingered like the morning fog. The way his kiss tasted of smoke and whiskey, and his hands on my throat. I remember all this because, in my dreams, there’s familiarity. I’ve kissed this guy a thousand times before this.
Inject me, infect me, I’m addicted.
The war inside my mind and my heart weigh heavy on me this morning. I try to bury it deep, but it finds me with every breath I take, reliving the last few days in a constant state of flashbacks. Remnants play back like a movie, as if I’m watching, rather than living. I can lie to myself, edit my thoughts and pretend, but he’s worked his way inside me. Even if he’ll never be mine, I’ll be his in more ways than I’m willing to admit.
PRESLEY NUDGES ME from behind. “So… you and the fisherman again?” She hands me a cup of tea she made for me. Snapping her fingers, she dances next to Dylan to “Lady Marmalade” surging through the bar. We have one hour in the mornings to play what we want, and then it’s Avie’s choice. We take advantage to the point I’m sure if you walk by the doors, you can hear it. “Drink this,” she demands.
Taking the mug from her, I inhale sweet mint and honey. And then I promptly cough into my elbow, unable to hold back the tickle in my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dylan dips down low, swaying her hips and singing along to the music, her thick black hair perfectly curled in the beach waves no one can quite master, but she does. Let me tell you a little about Dylan Roth. Her parents are loaded. Rich assholes from what she says, and she left Southern California for the Pacific Northwest. Apparently, she hates the sun. She’s literally a tall, leggy version of Wednesday from The Addams Family. Wears dark lipstick, has so many piercings and tattoos I think she might leak soon, and if I had to guess, she might have an STD or two. She’s worked here two years and has probably broken up at least five marriages in that time. I like her, I do, but she’s a slut and needs some morals. I also don’t understand her. At all. How can she sleep with married men knowing she’s destroying a family?
I asked her once. Her answer?
“Those women should be thanking me. If a man is going to cheat on them, they’re not worth building a family with.”
While there’s some sort of logic behind that statement, I still don’t understand it.
Presley grins beside me, propping her foot up on a stool to zip her boot. “Yes, you do know what I’m talking about. I saw you on the dock last night. So either you were going for a swim, or you were looking for him.”
Little does she know I did both last night.
“Who are you guys talking about?” Dylan asks, pouring herself a shot of whiskey. By