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He’s not Ethan. He doesn’t want Aurora and me together. He hates me—I see it in his loathing blue eyes.
And seriously, blond hair and blue eyes? Tattoos and a bad attitude? Protective? What is this purgatory?
I hope he’s illiterate and has flesh-colored facial hair.
The cutting board thumps onto the island, followed by the knife and vegetables. Aurora better have a blender; she hates chunky sauce.
I bet Ethan calls spaghetti sauce gravy. I bet he’d put a stop to their hugging.
Honestly, what kind of name is Ricky? He doesn’t look like a Ricky. What’s that, his gang title? His MC outlaw alias?
No. He doesn’t wear motorcycle boots.Iwear motorcycle boots. He wears black combat-style boots—basic standard issue.
My brain is a familiar battlefield of intrusive thoughts, his words on repeat in the background.
While you were off getting high and fucking whoever, I was here taking care ofyourgirlfriend… She collapsed intomyarms.
The butcher knife slices through a tomato, cutting it in half with ease.
“In his arms,” I mock, my face twisting in annoyance.
Fuck him. I’ll slice his throat.
No, I won’t. That’ll make a mess, and Aurora will be pissed. The visual is nice, though.
I toss the tomatoes, garlic, peppers, and herbs into the blender. I stare at it all becoming a deep-red liquid, wishing it were Ricky’s heart ripped from his chest.
Now would be a great time to lose myself in the oblivion of a bottle of what-the-fuck-ever I can get my hands on.
Instead, I’ll make Aurora’s favorite meal and pray for a food coma.
I might poison him.
My mother should’ve poisoned Kyle. She loved to cook and had plenty of opportunities.
It’s never-ending negative thoughts on a loop, my insecurities adding their own bullshit. I’m warring with feelings of guilt and shame and anger and hopelessness.Jealousy. A toxic combination that has me ready to explode like a ticking time bomb.
I remind myself Aurora loves me—deep down, I know that—but here’s the thing: it only amplifies my regret. She doesn’t deserve to be burdened with my chaos.
But I don’t want to be this way. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t choose this damaged brain. I’ll always be broken. I’ll always be the harbinger of Kyle’s manipulative games.
Unless he overdoses on the drugs he loves so much.
“Jackson?”
“Hm?”
“Are you making soup?”
Oh, shit. The blender. I take my finger off the puree button. “No.”
She eyes me with suspicion. “Do you need a break? I can cook.”
No, she can’t. She’s gorgeous and sweet, but wow, she’s a terrible cook. Aurora is the only person I know who prefers raw foods over prepared meals. Of course, the only people I associate with are hockey players, and we eat a fuck ton of food.
I push aside the cutting board and lift her onto the kitchen counter, positioning myself between her knees and enclosing her with my arms. “I got it.”
“Okay,” she says in that gentle voice, running her hands over my neck and weaving her fingers into my hair.