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“Did he put his hands on you?” I demand, in no mood for games.

Again, she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.” She exhales heavily. “I needed to get away from him and you’re my safe place. So, I came here.”

I can’t fault the way Van softens. The way his shoulders sag and he looks at her like she personally hung the stars. I can’t judge his weakness when my chest holds the gooey mess of what once was my heart.

I can say with all the honesty in my soul that I saw Everly first. That I fell for her first. That if she should belong to anyone, it should be me, but I don’t hate the way he’s touching her face.I’m not envious of her turning her face into his palm. I’m not at all unsettled by the fact that he hasn’t pulled away from her. That his clasped hands at her back are digging into my chest. We are as intimately fused as two straight men can get and I’m not freaked out.

I probably should be. Maybe it’s the dreamy haze of it all. The surrealism of having Everly in my arms, but I’m incapable of breaking this moment no matter how strange it is.

“You should have called. We would have come back,” he tells her gently.

Her head rocks side to side on my shoulder. “Not in Jefferson. What I wanted...” she blows out another breath. “I couldn’t in Jefferson. People would know and ... they always know.”

Against my better judgment, I lift my gaze to the other man. His confusion makes me feel a little better.

“What did you want, Everly?” I ask even though I know I shouldn’t; drunk Everly is dangerous. Unpredictable chaos.

She’s quiet, but the red tint crawling up her chest to fill her cheeks is unmistakable even in the dim light. The firm curves of her breasts rise and fall rapidly beneath the flimsy scrap of fabric barely covering her. They practically spill free with every harsh breath. I’m almost hypnotized by the sight of them, barely able to focus when she speaks so softly, even Van has to lean in.

“You to fuck me.” Head still propped against my shoulder, she tips her face to mine. Her vodka-soaked breath brushes my lips. Lips that feel weirdly numb and alive all at the same time. “I don’t want to be a virgin anymore. I don’t want Bron or anyone else to be my first. I’m tired of playing with myself alone and want—”

“Fuck, baby, you need to stop talking.” Van cuts her off before she shovels the last bit of dirt on our graves.

“Will you?”

The cock swelling against her lower spine is all too happy to give her anything she asks. There isn’t an ounce of restraint in its excitement even while my brain is a scrambling monkey trying to put fires out.

“Will we fuck you?” Van asks. The fucking idiot.

I don’t know if he’s intentionally trying to get her to speak the words out loud or if he just didn’t hear her and needs confirmation, but I could kick him when Everly bobs her head and politely whispers, “Yes, please.” Like she’d been offered fries with her burger.

A muscle flexes in my friend’s cheek that reflects his control when his fingers close into the exposed arch of her pretty throat. Five fingers of power that have Everly’s lips parting in a soft gasp.

“Such a good girl,” he growls in a low, throaty rasp that has Everly melting into my chest. Her soft moan fills my ears andmy cock, and the damn thing pulses, head cutting into the zipper of my jeans.

I am fully aware I should tell him to stop that. I know there are a million reasons he can’t be talking to her like that, but I can’t brain. How can it function when it’s stuck on a single fact it refuses to bypass.

“How are you a virgin? You and Bron have been dating for two years.”

Probably not the sexiest question, or necessary when there are so many more important things I could be focusing on, but it falls into the sliver of space between us and I have Everly’s attention.

“He doesn’t want me,” she murmurs. “I tried. In the beginning.” I’m not oblivious to the hungry lock of her gaze on my mouth, or mine on hers ... to hear her clearly, obviously. “I was never good enough.” Her features slip into one of dejection. “I’m good enough to buy him a car. To pay his bills. To send him to Cuba with his friends for a week, but not good enough to touch. To take on dates. To hang out with him and his friends.” A tear cuts down her cheek despite the flat range of her tone. “I’m a sugar daddy who isn’t getting sugar.”

I stop her before she can continue, before she loses her train of thought.

“What did you say?”

She blinks slowly. “I’m a sugar daddy—”

“No. Before that. Did you say you paid for Bron’s trip to Cuba?”

She seems momentarily confused while staring up into my face like I’m making up words. “How did you know? Did he tell you?” she pauses, brows scrunching. “He made me swear not to tell anyone. I didn’t mind at first because he promised to pay me back. I got my parent’s insurance money so I didn’t mind helping, but he’d only get mad when I brought it up and ... I let it go. It’s only money.”

I like to think I’m a fairly smart man. Observant. Rational enough to fill in all the things she’s not saying.

He’s been using her. For two years, he took the sweetest, kindest soul and stole from her, and I allowed it.

True, they are both fully grown adults capable of their own choices, but Everly loves so completely. She’s warm and accepting of everyone. She’s generous to a fault, and my son abused that generosity for his own end.