Page 6

FIVE

Joey

This is pretty much my worst nightmare?—

Except, it’s not.

I’ve already lived through that.

But it’s a close second—crying in front of Damon—after being vulnerable with him not once but twice today.

I can’t.

I fucking can’t .

But the tears have built and they explode out of me without warning, without me having any hope of holding them back.

His arms were already around me, but now they move again, shifting and scooping me up. And then I’m being lifted, being held against his chest, being carried into the other room. I suck in breaths as he walks, trying to get control of myself, hating that I’m totally spiraling, loud, hiccupping sobs shaking my body.

He sinks down onto the couch with me still in his arms and I know I should pull away.

But I can’t get my breath back, can’t stop the tears from flowing, the sobs from hitching through my lungs.

It’s like now that the truth is exposed to this man, I can’t stop the memories of that night, from the weeks and months after, the guilt in discovering I wasn’t the only victim…they’re all flowing forward and swallowing me whole. It doesn’t matter that I’ve hashed this out in a therapist’s office, presumably made peace with my decision.

The bandage covering that deep, oozing wound inside me has been torn free and I’m just bleeding and bleeding.

Damon holds me closer, one hand lightly brushing up and down my side. “Let it out, baby,” he murmurs, “just let it out.”

“I-I-I—” A great heaving breath, tears still streaming down my face. “I c-can’t,” I rasp. “If I let it out, I’ll n-never be able to sh-shove it d-down and l-lock it away a-again.”

“Okay, Red,” he murmurs, that hand running gently along my side. “Okay, baby. That’s okay. Just take your time and breathe. Just breathe,” he repeats, still gentle, saying it over and over again until somehow I can breathe, the sobs aren’t hitching quite so fiercely through my lungs, the tears are slowing, no longer cascading down my cheeks.

Then the crying jag is done and embarrassment is creeping in.

No.

It’s raging in.

As though sensing that shame building in me—or more likely, feeling my body growing stiffer, he shifts me, turning me so I’m straddling his lap.

I gasp, shock and horror warring…and then desire winning out.

How many times have I dreamed about him holding me close, about me sitting on him like this—only doing it naked while I ride his hard cock and bring us both no little amount of pressure.

Though, my fantasies always end with him over me, staring deeply into my eyes as he pounds into me.

And how fucked up am I?

Thinking about his dick after telling him about Hiller.

I’m shattered, broken, tainted?—

No .

That’s not me.

Something bad was done to me, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped living?—

Doesn’t it?

The cold, calculating voice inside me is sharp and angry, jabbing deep, choosing the most sensitive, vulnerable spots.

Because I worry that it might be true.

I have my dream job. I have the team. I have a house and a car and food in the fridge. So, yeah, I have a life, and even if it’s not completely living up to the fantasy that I had as a kid, as a teenager, even as a rose-colored-glasses wearing college graduate, even if I’m not living exactly how I expected all those years ago, I’m old enough to know that reality isn’t fantasy.

Old enough to know that I’m far luckier than so many people in my world.

“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, running the backs of his knuckles along my cheek.

Maybe it’s because it’s late.

Maybe the tears ripped the shield away from my body and I have no hope of hiding myself from this man, not any longer.

Maybe it’s the quiet way he asked or that kryptonite of gentle in his eyes.

Maybe it’s just that I’m tired and can’t continue to fight, can’t keep this all inside any longer.

No matter the reason, I don’t keep my thoughts to myself.

“That I’m lucky,” I whisper.

His eyes flare, anger edging into the blue-gold depths.

I keep talking before his temper can take over.

“And I was thinking that while I’m not living the life I thought I would and it’s not perfect, I have good beer in the fridge and food in my cabinets and a car with a full gas tank.”

“Baby,” he murmurs.

Gentle.

Kryptonite.

Dammit.

He runs his fingers along my jaw, dips roughened fingertips into my hair.

Undone, I keep talking, the words flowing faster, the truth slipping free. “And despite all of that, I feel like I’m constantly bleeding out. Like no matter how much gauze I pack into the wound in my belly, it’s still oozing. This job is all I ever wanted and yet it’s brought me more nightmares than I ever expected, and I don’t know how to live with that. I don’t know how to live with the fact that I finally have it all and somehow…it’s all empty.”

That sounds stupid.

Insane.

Fucked up.

But I can’t take the words back.

And I can’t help but feel?—

“You’re empty, baby?”

Even him saying that makes me want to cringe, to feel guilty and ungrateful.

To hide from the truth.

“I should be fine,” I say. “I’ll keep going to therapy and get over it and thank the lucky stars that I’m still alive to live this dream of mine.”

Should. Should.

Fingers sliding deeper into my hair, tilting my head back, forcing me to hold deep blue eyes.

I’m lost for a moment in the beauty of them—indigo and navy woven together with golden specks—and my guard slips further.

Hell, it’s long gone now.

So when he asks again, “You’re empty, baby?” I can’t hold back.

I just nod.

“Well,” he murmurs, hand shifting, drawing me against his chest, keeping me so close that his next words are hard to hear over the sound of his steady heartbeat. “Then we’ll see about fixing that.”