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Chapter 18

Addie

Ireally hated Bitch Me.

As she smiled at me, the epitome of smug bitch, I resisted the urge to deck her upside the head. Damn. This must’ve been what Elena and the others felt on a daily basis. No wonder they left me for dead.

Okay, that was a lie.

There was no reason for the way they behaved. I firmly believed that us women had to stand up for one another and protect each other. I didn’t like using degrading terms to describe women, but Elena? She was a bitch. I could say that without guilt.

I was a bitch too, so no one could argue that I was being biased.

Without another word, I stormed out of the house and back onto the street. Snowflakes continued to flutter downwards, an ethereal combination of white and palest pink from the sun. I heard, rather than saw, B.M. follow me out. Almost instinctively, I turned back towards the house.

Younger Me was laughing at whatever Ducky said, her face alight with a childlike innocence and joy that had slowly corroded away in time. It was like the paint on a car - toxic influences diminished its beauty.

Inspecting their profiles through the dirty window, my mind wrenched me back to a day only a couple of weeks ago.

The pebble hitting my face pulled me from my slumber.

Bolting upright, I glanced anxiously around my room. Unsurprisingly, there was no one present, but that didn’t stop unease from tightening my stomach. I had been dreaming, though dreaming failed to accurately describe what I had endured. A nightmare would be a better description. I remembered the distinct taste of copper in my mouth. Blood. My blood. Or was it my parents’ blood? I found that I couldn’t recall. Try as I might, the dream slipped through my fingers. It was like trying to hold water for a long period of time: impossible.

There had been a shadow. A monster, perhaps.

And my men had been there…

Shaking my head to clear the remnants of my dream, I glanced once more at the pebble now lying beside me.

A pebble?

I didn’t know why I thought I had imagined that.

My confusion morphed into fear when a silhouette appeared in my bedroom. The moon highlighted a set of broad shoulders and an impressive, chiseled chest. He took a step closer, and I was able to decipher a shock of dark brown hair. Strong jawline. Arresting green eyes that saw into my very soul.

Quickly, I switched on my bedside lamp.

“Declan,” I signed. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He smiled sheepishly, the usual coldness I had grown to attribute to Declan completely dissipating. In that moment, he looked almost boyish. Young.

“Sorry.” He chuckled, the sound sending delightful tingles straight to my core. “I thought your window was closed. I was trying to be romantic. You know, throw rocks at the window and all.”

My brain short-circuited at his use of the word romantic. It conjured up images of him on one knee, a ring in his hand. A bouquet of roses.

But we had never been a traditional couple, friends or otherwise.

Instead of rings, I got rocks hitting my face. Instead of roses, I got sly smiles and dark chuckles. His version of “romantic” varied considerably from my own. It was just one of the reasons why I loved him.

My brain rebelled at using such a word when describing my relationship with Declan, but then I instantly berated myself for my childish reaction. We were allowed to feel love for one another. We had been best friends for years, and time had not lessened those feelings. There was nothing wrong with the emotion. The connotations had made it dirty. Wrong.

But society failed to realize that there were numerous types of love.

Romantic love.

Sexual love.

Familial love.