Page 16

ARI

The sound of a motorcycle pulling up outside makes me race from my kitchen to the living room window. The engine stops as I peel the blinds back to find Trey Grant yanking his helmet off. He hangs it on a handlebar by its strap, then rests his backpack on the ground against his bike.

His bleak expression matches the gray clouds as he dismounts his motorcycle and makes his way to my door.

His arm is out of the cast, and I can’t figure out why.

It’s only been two weeks since he was in the hospital.

There’s no way his broken arm healed that fast. An injury like that takes a month to heal at best.

I tiptoe to the door and ready myself to open it. If Caleb was here, he’d already be calling the cops. I probably should, but I don’t want to. Maybe it’s naive of me, but I don’t get the feeling that Trey is here to hurt me.

I glance through my peephole to find him raising his fist to the door. Then he stops. He’s got that desolate look in his eyes again. I have an overwhelming urge to do something to get rid of it. His arm drops back to his side as he chews on his bottom lip.

Why isn’t he knocking? Why is he just standing there, staring at the ground?

A few moments pass before he raises his hand to the door again. After he knocks, I’ll wait a few seconds before opening the door so it doesn’t seem like I was standing on the other side, watching him.

But the knock doesn’t come. His hand drops back down again.

He’s thinking heavily about something. I wish I knew what. Judging from the pained look in his eyes, it’s nothing good. Whatever he’s thinking about, he keeps thinking for several heartbeats before lifting his fist again. It looks like he’s about to knock, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he chews on his bottom lip some more while he contemplates whatever he’s contemplating.

Maybe he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to say whatever he wants to say.

He must figure it out, because for the third time, he lifts his fist to the door.

And for the third time, he drops it back down.

Why is he hesitating so much? I’ve wanted to talk to him since I saw him in that arm cast. About what?

I don’t know. I just have this yearning inside me to hear his voice.

I’ve been hearing it in my dreams. Last week, I dreamt of hearing him sing in the shower.

In my dream, I didn’t hesitate to strip naked.

As I entered the shower, his breath hitched and his eyes glazed over.

The next thing I knew, he crashed his lips against mine and pounded into me against the tile wall while I moaned his name and begged for more.

That’s not the only sexy dream I’ve had about him.

Last night, I dreamt that we were at my thinking spot and he was giving me a guitar lesson—at least, he was trying to give me a guitar lesson.

It’s nice to know that even in my dreams, I still suck at playing an instrument.

Eventually, the guitar got thrown into the grass and he pinned me to the ground.

We panted with desire as we tore each other’s clothes off.

Soon, that desire turned into a need. When he slipped his thick erection inside me, I gasped from his size.

He filled and stretched me so much, it was painful at first. Once the pain went away, I couldn’t get enough of him.

I woke up with that vivid dream so fresh in my mind that I slipped my hand under my panties and rubbed myself until I came. I didn’t even feel guilty about the orgasm coming from the thought of another man doing me, because I hadn’t had an orgasm like that in months.

I still haven’t told anyone about my Trey dreams. They continue to play out in my head a few times a week, giving me snapshots of a life I never had.

What if my mind is merging with the mind of Alterella’s and I’m seeing moments she and Trey shared together?

I cringe at myself for even considering that as a possibility, because it would mean accepting that my best friend’s outlandish theory has any merit.

For the fourth time, Trey’s fist rises to my door, but he pauses again.

I almost open the door to put us both out of this misery.

He came all the way here to see me at the risk of going back behind bars.

Obviously, whatever he’s got to say is worth the risk, so why is he hesitating?

Maybe he doesn’t want me to actually file that restraining order I’ve been putting off.

Once again, Trey lifts his hand to the door, except this time, it’s not a fist. It’s his palm. He keeps it there as he whispers something to himself. I can’t hear what, but he looks tearful as he says it. Whatever he says, it’s brief; then he turns and walks away.

I don’t know what comes over me as I undo the chain lock and whip the door open.

“Trey?”

He’s three steps away when he twists back around with his arms up in surrender. “I was just leaving. No need to call the cops.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Oh.” He drops his arms. “Thanks for not doing so already. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” With a hard swallow, he heads back toward his motorcycle.

I can’t let him go like this. I want to know what he came for. Without thinking, I blurt out, “I heard you’re moving.”

He turns on his heel with his brows knitted together. “How’d you hear that?”

“Javina told me. She read about it on your band’s social media page this morning.”

With a deep sigh, he shakes his head. “I specifically told my manager not to post anything for at least a month. I knew she wasn’t gonna listen.”

“Are you going to fire her?”

“I can’t. She’s too good at what she does, and there’s no one else in this world who would ever put up with my shit.”

That makes me chuckle. “Are you a hard man to handle?”

“According to Monique, I’m the worst. Now that I’m moving—and I only told her yesterday—I think she’s gonna let me keep that well-deserved title.”

The screenshot of the social media post Javina sent me didn’t specify how long Trey will be moving away for.

It also didn’t say if he’d be working on new music with his band while he’s gone.

All it stated was that Trey would be moving for an undetermined amount of time and everyone will continue on without him until further notice.

I echo the most asked question from his fans in the comments section. “Are you quitting the band?”

“No,” he says somberly. “Just taking a long break.”

“Where are you moving to?”

A shrug. “I dunno.”

“When are you moving?”

“Right now.” He gestures toward his bike and backpack.

“That’s all you’re bringing?”

Another shrug. “I don’t need much.”

“So let me get this straight: You’re moving right now , but you don’t know where you’re going?”

“Yep.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ve thought this through.”

“Welcome to every big decision I’ve ever made.

” He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Anyway, this moving-without-a-plan thing isn’t new to me.

When I got kicked out at eighteen, I packed up what I had, bought a car, and went wherever life took me.

The only difference now is that I’ve got a bike instead of a car. ”

I wonder who he lived with after his parents died and why that person would kick him out. I think about asking, but that seems like too personal of a question when we barely know each other. At least, I barely know him .

Instead, I ask, “Why are you moving?”

He stares at his shoes, then out at the parking lot, then up at the gloomy sky, then back at his shoes. “I just need a change of scenery, I guess.”

I hold back the question I’m dying to ask: Are you moving because of me? I’d feel bad if the answer is yes . Los Angeles is big enough for the both of us. He doesn’t have to leave.

Trey continues, “When I got kicked out, I was told to go ‘find my place in the world.’ I guess I’m still looking for it.”

I draw up the courage to ask the question I want the answer to most. “Why did you come here?”

He looks anywhere but at me. “I’m not sure, but like I said, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You didn’t. I was the one who opened the door, remember?”

He offers me a tiny forced smile. It doesn’t light up his face the way his smiles do in my dreams. It doesn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes either. I wish I could see those smiles from my dreams in real life. I’d prefer it over this dark and wretched version of him.

Since I’m not ready for him to leave yet, I say, “Your arm sure healed fast.”

Finally, he looks at me. “How did you know I broke my arm?”

“I was at the ER when you were brought in. I overheard the nurse telling the doctor about it.”

His entire face drops. “Why were you at the ER?”

“I got sick, so Caleb brought me in to get checked.”

“You got sick?” The pure concern lacing his voice makes my insides flutter. “With what?”

“I don’t know. It came all of a sudden. I got dizzy and I threw up, but I’m fine now. It went away by the end of the night.”

I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he blinks at me. “Around what time did that happen?”

The answer he’s looking for isn’t a time on a clock.

He’s wondering if I got sick around the exact moment he got hit by a truck.

It’s something that’s been weighing on my mind over the past two weeks.

I try not to think about it too much, because whenever I do, I get chills.

How did my body know Trey was hurt, and why did it react in that way?

“It happened around the same time you got into your motorcycle accident.” I give him a moment to see if he’ll react. He doesn’t. He just keeps gaping at me. To try to elicit a reaction, I add, “My arms went numb too.”

He gasps, then quickly hides it behind clearing his throat. That confirms he and Liz know something I don’t. I think about asking, but I don’t even know what I’d be asking about.