Page 24 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Tytus

“ S awyer, I swear to god.”

I jog a few feet to catch up and loop an arm around her waist, tugging her to the opposite edge of the sidewalk.

“You’re too close to the goddamn road,” I scold.

She giggles, the soft sound making my dick twitch with interest, and slinks out of my hold, resuming her silly game of pretending the line where the sidewalk meets the grass is a balance beam.

Atty falls in step, side-eyeing me. “She’s fine, bro. Why are you so worried?”

Because that’s who I am. Because worrying is what I do.

Because we’ve all had several drinks. And I can’t help but wince every time her steps fall out of rhythm and she stumbles.

Because I’m going out of my goddamn mind imagining her staggering into oncoming traffic, terrified that I won’t get to her in time.

I can’t look at the road beside us without seeing her mangled body lying in a pool of blood, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

“She’s drunk,” I reply, keeping my tone even.

Atty snorts. “We all are.”

No shit, and I’ve regretted my participation for the last hour. I scrub my hands down my face to keep from screaming.

Had I not been intoxicated, I may not have reacted so poorly to the loud noise that tore us apart back at Mae’s.

I had her. I fucking had her.

She was in my arms, leaning against me, tilting her head back, practically begging to be kissed.

But then some fucker knocked over a barstool.

The crash triggered a visceral response, just like loud noises always do, forcing my limbs to go numb and my brain to lock up. It was only seconds, but it was enough to ruin the moment.

That single noise sent me back to a time I work so hard to forget.

Small, naked, cold, and fucking starving.

Trapped in the recesses of my mind.

Locked in a goddamn cage.

I was back in the dog crate my dad put me in any time I did something he didn’t like.

Or got in his way. Or just because he felt like it.

I learned early on to make as little noise as possible.

He kept blankets over the crate to block out the light.

A blessing, really, since he was less likely to notice me.

If I whimpered or cried out, he’d come back. He’d rattle the crate. Turn it on its side so I was forced to lie against metal grates.

The only way out was to wait until he decided I could be free.

I learned early on to stay quiet.

He put me in there because I was a piece of shit he didn’t want to deal with. Reminding him of my existence only meant he’d leave me there longer.

I rarely lock up like that anymore. I never freeze up on the ice. But one crash, a loud boom, or flash of unexpected stimuli, and I’m seven years old, being shoved into that goddamn cage.

Rolling from one side to the other to prevent sores from forming on my legs, butt, and sides.

Holding my nose against my own stench, curling up to avoid the corner where I relieved myself only once my back started throbbing from holding in my urine.

Fighting the stinging sensation of tears, then brutally scrubbing away any that escaped as quickly as I could.

If he caught me crying, he’d keep me locked up longer .

If he wasn’t satisfied with the way I cleaned out the crate after each stint, he’d shove me right back in, and it would all begin again.

“ Ty .”

The familiar voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. With a shake of my head and a cleansing breath, I force myself to focus on my best friend.

“You good, man?” Atty frowns, assessing me up and down.

I blink, then look around.

Sawyer’s at least ten meters ahead of us now. Completely out of reach.

I open my mouth to call out to her, but all that escapes me is a pathetic snarl.

Atty, who can probably tell I’m on the verge of spiraling again—he knows me too damn well—cups his hands around his mouth and hollers, “Sawy, get back here.”

My girl does a little spin move, arms stretched out wide, a brilliant smile on her face.

The moment she sees me, the expression falls into a concerned grimace. She rushes back to join us, never taking her big brown eyes off me.

I’m fucking pathetic.

Then.

Now.

I’m so fucking sick of the past ruining my chances with this girl.

Sawyer barrels into me, arms once again outstretched, trusting that I’ll catch her.

I do.

I may be fucking useless most of the time, but at least I still manage to catch her.

She holds me tight, pressing her cheek against my sternum. The nerves at every touchpoint flare and fire, the way they always do. Instinctively, I cup the back of her head and splay one hand over her low back.

“You’re okay,” she says into my chest. “We’re okay.” The words are quiet, but they’re powerful. They’re a stark reminder that we’re not okay, and that we haven’t been for years.

Swallowing past the shame and embarrassment threatening to consume me, I rest my chin on the top of her head and breathe in her sweet vanilla and cinnamon scent. As I focus on the familiar notes, I close my eyes and will my body to settle.

She tightens her grip on me, as if I’m the lifeline and she’s the one in distress .

When I open my eyes, Atty is scowling at me, his gaze flitting from my face to the places I’m touching his sister.

We’ve never officially broached the subject of Sawyer and me.

He’s never dared to ask, and I’ve never dared to share.

He knows we’re more than friends because of proximity and circumstance and the unshakable connection we’ve shared for years.

But Atty has no idea that before the incident, his sister and I were destined to be more .

We still are.

But before I can officially make her mine, I have to work past these fucking pathetic freeze-ups.

“Thank you,” I murmur into her hair. With a sigh, I drop my arms.

She clings to me. With her chin propped on my sternum, she peers up, those expressive gold-flecked eyes searching my face. I hold her gaze for all of two seconds before self-loathing spikes and I have to look away.

She deserves more. She deserves to be with someone who doesn’t get locked up in his own fucking head or obsess about shit that happened more than a decade ago.

But I’m a fucking selfish bastard who can’t let her go.

“Let’s get you home,” I tell her, tipping my chin in the direction of the dorms.

With a slow nod, she grazes my sides, slowly releasing me like she doesn’t want to let me go.

I know the fucking feeling.

Her fingertips brush against mine, then circle around one wrist. “Hold my hand.”

It’s not a question, but a statement.

An offering I greedily accept. Because I need this woman. I need her like I need air and water and hockey and sustenance. I need her in a way that terrifies me.

It’s time to man up and be the person who can give her what she needs, too.

Beside me, Atty wears a stoic expression, though he’s still studying our interaction. I’ll have to talk to him. Make sure he understands. This isn’t a new thing, or a short-term thing.

Sawyer and I are endgame.

I lace my fingers with hers and squeeze her hand once. She squeezes back twice, and despite all we’ve been through, tonight and in the past, a fragment of hope rises inside me. Maybe it will all work out. Maybe we really will be okay.