Page 42 of From the Wreckage

Everett

I slam the door of my cabin behind me, the sound ricocheting through the silence like a gunshot. My boots feel too heavy, my chest too tight, and my mind won’t stop replaying every goddamn second of that drive home.

Brielle’s thigh against mine. Her shoulder brushing my arm whenever she moved. The quick, stolen glances—like she couldn’t help herself any more than I could.

I curse under my breath, pacing the length of the cabin. The boards creak beneath my weight, echoing my unease.

What the hell am I doing?

Grayson trusts me. Hell, he invited me to the bar, fixed my motorcycle for cheap, and regularly invites me over for dinner and cookouts like we’ve been friends for years.

He treats me like I’m a good guy. His equal.

He has no idea I’m drowning in sin. Already too far gone when it comes to his daughter.

I drag a hand down my face, tugging hard at the scruff on my jaw. The guilt gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.

She’s too young. Too untouched by the rot of this world. She deserves someone clean. Whole. Someone who hasn’t ruined everything he’s ever touched.

Someone better than me.

But then I remember the way her eyes lit when I caught her watching me. The way her fingers toyed with the necklace I gave her, like it was the most precious thing she owned.

I know I should walk away... but I won’t.

I drop into the chair by the window, staring out at the dark lake. Moonlight shimmers across the calm, dark water. But there’s no calm in me. Just a storm I can’t outrun.

“You’ll ruin her,” I mutter to myself, my voice raw in the silence.

You already have , the voice inside my head taunts.

The beer in my hand is warm, half-forgotten. The TV flickers across the darkened cabin, but I couldn’t tell you what’s on the screen. My mind is stuck in the past, lingering on the ghosts that haunt me.

Memories flicker through my head. Matt’s laugh. Bryan’s shit-eating grin. Cole teasing me about being the “dad” of the group because I was always the one hauling them home after the bars.

I swallow hard, the fizz of the beer bitter on my tongue. Doesn’t matter how many years have passed, I still see them every time I close my eyes.

The sirens are the loudest. Always the goddamn sirens.

Wailing through the night, red and blue lights flashing across the mangled steel.

My body crushed against the driver’s seat, ribs broken, lungs screaming with every shallow breath.

My shoulder dislocated, arm twisted wrong.

Glass had carved up my side and arm, blood running slick.

But I was alive.

Alive enough to feel the tilt of the stretcher, the bump as the paramedics shoved me into the ambulance. Conscious enough to hear them say two ejected, one critical . Aware enough to know it was my fault.

In the hospital, the lights were too bright. The antiseptic smell burned my nose. The pain was relentless, washing over me until I passed out.

I woke to the news like a hammer to the skull. Matt and Bryan were killed instantly. Cole was still breathing when they pulled him out, but he didn’t last the night.

And me? I was a wreck. Broken ribs, torn shoulder ligaments, a punctured lung. The concussion scrambled my head for months. Scars that still stretch over my skin, ugly reminders every time I look in the mirror. A hip that aches when the weather turns, a shoulder that locks when I push it too far.

But nothing compares to the wreckage I left behind.

I tip back the bottle, emptying it, wishing it could burn away the memories. It doesn’t. Nothing does.

At the end of the day, I walked out of that hospital alive, and they didn’t.

I run a hand down my face, staring at the muted TV. A football game from last season is on the screen. The winning team throws their arms around each other, celebrating. And all I can think about is how mine is six feet under.

The guilt never fades. It’s taken up permanent residence, just like my scars.

And now Brielle—bright, beautiful Brielle—is worming her way into my darkness. Making me want again. Making me selfish enough to take what I shouldn’t.

I set the empty beer on the table with a hard clink and lean forward, elbows on my knees, my head in my hands.

I don’t deserve her. Christ, I don’t deserve anything.

But I want her anyway.

The TV blurs. My head hangs heavy in my hands, breath dragging through my chest like broken glass.

The sound of my phone buzzing on the table cuts through the haze, sharp and insistent. I glance over, expecting nothing worth answering... But her name lights the screen.

My chest seizes. My thumb hovers before I swipe it open.

Angel: Can’t sleep. Thinking about you.

A rough laugh escapes me, torn from somewhere deep, jagged around the edges. My pulse hammers, guilt and want tangling until I can’t tell them apart.

She should be the last person I answer. But she’s always the first.

Me: Angel, you’re going to ruin me.

The dots appear instantly, taunting me.

Angel: Maybe I already have.

Christ. My hand fists my hair, torn between throwing the phone across the room and clutching it like a lifeline.

Me: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

Angel: Then show me. Tomorrow? Please?

My lungs lock. The ghosts of Matt, Bryan, and Cole sneer in the background of my head, their laughter echoing as they taunt me. You don’t get another shot, Ev. You don’t deserve one.

But then there’s her. Sweet, reckless Brielle, tugging me out of the wreckage without even knowing it.

I type before I can stop myself.

Me: Yeah. Tomorrow. Anytime you want.

I toss the phone aside, lean back on the couch, and stare at the ceiling.

Guilt still gnaws at me, but Brielle is a life raft, saving me from drowning.

The cold beer sweats against my palm, untouched. The game flickers across the TV, bright helmets colliding, announcers shouting out plays. I should be watching. Instead, all I see is her smile.

My chest feels tight, too full of things I can’t talk about. Every time I think about Matt, Bryan, and Cole—about what I did and all I’ve lost—I feel like I’m already damned. And yet Brielle looks at me like I’m worth something. Like I’m a man she can trust.

I rake a hand down my face, exhaling hard. She doesn’t know. She can’t. If she ever saw the blood on my hands, the wreckage I carry, she’d run. Hell, I wouldn’t blame her for it.

But the truth is, if she asked me to come to her right now, I would. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

I’d burn in my own guilt, in my own ruin, just to feel her in my arms again.

I close my eyes, gripping the neck of the bottle until my knuckles ache.

God help me, she’s going to destroy me.