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“You want to know why you’re here?” he asked me, sounding strained in my ear. “You’re here, because you’re like me, Rika. You’re here, because there are enough people who try to tell us what to do and try to keep us in a box.”
He grazed his lips up my neck as he spoke. “They tell us that what we want is wrong and that freedom is dirty. They see chaos, madness, and fucking as ugly, and the older you get, the smaller that box gets. You feel it closing in already, don’t you?”
My lungs tightened, and I finally sucked in a breath, forcing myself to breathe. His hand dropped from the wall and gripped the front of my neck, bending it back to him.
“I’m hungry, Rika,” he said, pressing his hard body into my back, his lips hovering over mine. “I want everything they tell me I can’t have, and I see that hunger in you, too.”
I blinked up, trying to make out the outline of his face in the near-darkness. All I could see, though, was the straight ridge of his nose and the angle of his strong jaw.
“There are too many people that try to change us,” he went on, “and not enough people who want us to be who we really are. Someone once made me see that, and I wanted to give that to you.”
I stared up at him, my heart racing but so happy I wanted to cry. He knew. He understood what I wanted more than anything.
Freedom.
“Own who you are,” he commanded. “And don’t apologize. Do you understand? Own it or it will own you.”
Relief flooded me. For the first time in my entire life, someone told me it was okay to want what I wanted. To get into messes and to dive in head-first.
To have a little fucking fun before I died.
I dropped my hands from the wall and slowly turned around, feeling his arm around my waist loosen to let me move.
“Is that all you wanted to give me?” I asked quietly.
He dipped his head down, his heat and scent only inches away.
“I’m not sure you’re ready for more,” he said in a low voice.
And my breath shook, feeling his fingertips trail up my thigh, dragging my skirt up with them. His fingers grazed over the intimate curve where my leg met my hip, and I whimpered, clutching his sweatshirt.
Give me everything you have.
“Rika!”
I sucked in a breath and straightened, hearing my name.
Who…I tried to peer around Michael, but he was too tall, and he had me locked in.
And he made no effort to move, staying in front of me and letting his fingers linger on the
skin of my hipbone.
But after a moment, he dropped his hand and stood up, turning around and giving me room to see who was behind him.
Trevor stood in the light of the doorway between the two rooms, having probably witnessed the public display over there before making it into here.
He still wore his school uniform, khaki pants with a light blue oxford and a navy and green necktie.
“Rika, what the hell were you thinking?” He barged over and grabbed my hand, making me stumble as he hauled me over to his side. “Your mother is worried sick. I’ll take you home.”
But before I got a chance to say anything, he stepped up to Michael. “And you stay the fuck away from her,” he ordered. “There are a dozen other chicks here. She’s not your toy.”
And without waiting for Michael to respond, Trevor squeezed my hand and pulled me toward the door. I looked back, catching one last glimpse of Michael’s eyes as he watched me leave.
Present
MY PHONE VIBRATED, and I let out a low groan as I opened my eyes and reached behind my head, fumbling for it on the end table. Grabbing it, I yanked it off the cord, my mouth stretching in a yawn as I swiped the screen and saw that I’d missed the call.
Three missed calls, actually. Trevor, Noah, and Mrs. Crist.
Jesus. Why so early? But then I blinked again, widening my eyes, as I saw the time in the top right-hand corner.
Ten o’clock!
“Shit!” I gasped, popping my head up off the sofa. “Dammit!”
I jumped to my feet, knowing I wouldn’t have time for a shower. I was supposed to be meeting with my advisor right now.
Son of a bitch! I hated being late.
I dashed into the hallway, but then I caught myself, halting as I spotted the massive splash of red in front of me and remembering what I’d done last night.
That was why I’d been up so late. I straightened, gazing at the wall I’d painted and decorated.
After Michael had sauntered out of here, I’d been so angry I had a fit. But unlike a kid that cries, screams, and hits, I’d painted, pounded, and wore myself out instead. I wasn’t even sure if I was allowed to change the wall color, but I hadn’t cared.
Michael’s smug assumption that I was at the mercy of everyone else in my life—and how fragile I was—had gotten under my skin, and I’d needed to change something. Maybe he thought I was still a school girl, naïve and inexperienced, but he didn’t have me pegged as well as he thought he did.
I hoped I wouldn’t see him today. Or regularly for that matter.
I gazed at the color that reminded me of Christmas and apples, roses, and rows of Autumn Blaze Maples I’d seen as a kid. Of fire and hair ribbons and my mother’s evening dresses.
I’d also hung some photographs I’d brought with me, as well as the Damascus blade on the wall. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that it was from one of the horsemen. Or all of them. The mysterious gift along with their sudden appearance in Thunder Bay were too coincidental.
But why would they leave it for me? And did Michael have anything to do with it?