BLUE:

A Savages in Ruin Novel

Jane Anthony

BLUE: A Savages in Ruin Novel

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this

book are products of the author’s imagination and

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent

of the author or the publisher. No part of this book

may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or

mechanical means, including but not limited to

printing, file sharing, and email, without proper

written permission from the author.

Cover Design by:

Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art

Editing by:

Candice Royer

Proofreading by:

Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

Allison Irwin, Allison Literary

For…

…everyone who’s followed me down this rocky

road.

…my husband for allowing me to live out my

dream.

…all those who found the courage to keep going

despite their dwindling strength.

…anyone who’s loved so hard it almost broke

them.

This is for you.

When two souls call to each other, the universe

hears the whisper and conspires to bring them

together. In the world of spirit, distance is not an

issue and time is not a barrier. Two souls who have

found each other and hold on to the hand of the

divine will see heaven and earth move and make a

way for their love.

- Daniel Nielsen

Prologue

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3
4
5
6
7
8
9

12
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15
16
17
18
19
20
21

Epilogue

Playlist

Acknowledgment

Novels by Jane Anthony

About The Author

Find Jane Online

Prologue

WASN’T

prepared for the impact.

All it took was a matter of seconds, but to me,
those seconds felt like tiny lifetimes, all of them
drawn out moment by agonizing moment. The
squeal of the air brakes. The feel of falling sits in
the pit of my stomach as twelve tires slid across
black ice with nothing to catch on. The whine of
the steel girder as it bends before it breaks. The tip
of the bus. The view out the window going down,
down, down.

Slow motion doesn't describe how insanely slow

everything moves when you're in the middle of a
bus wreck.

The luggage packed beneath us shifts toward the

front, adding weight to make our descent suddenly
faster. When the windshield kisses the ravine, the
bus becomes an accordion and folds at ninety
degrees. Somehow, I find myself amidst the
scattered wreckage.

Arms and legs akimbo but not broken, I slowly

straighten and take stock of every part.

Where is she? I need to find her and make sure

she’s okay. I feel like I’m screaming without sound.
My head spins, and I can’t catch my breath.

I struggle to rise, but everything fades to black.

Wyatt

HE WHEELS

of my 4x4 hug the curves of the winding

road. There’s not a house in sight on this stretch of
pavement. Nothing but trees on the left and right. A
copse of woodland too thick to see through. Quiet
and serene. No one will ever find my sorry ass way
out here. Not that it matters. No one’s going to
come looking for me. I may as well not even exist.
And soon, I won’t.

Why suicide, you ask?
I don’t need a reason to kill myself. I need a

reason not to. Guilt is a virus that sinks its claws
around my neck and squeezes just enough to make
it hard to breathe. I choke on the stinking bile rising
up my throat every time that nagging voice enters
my head.

You’re all alone.
You let your sister die.
I can’t remember the last time I slept. Days,

months, years. They all collide, crashing into one
another like roving rapids, sucking me into their
riptide of despair. Perhaps in death, I’ll find some
peace.

It’s not your fault. Her voice, like wind through

trees. Sometimes I hear it. Sometimes I answer. It
argues with me, giving me false hope. But it’s just a
hallucination. She’s not real.

Emotion blurs my vision, but I wipe it away,

peering through the rolling mist lifting from the
body of water in the distance. Dead Man’s River. A
fitting name for my goal at hand.

Through the thick, mottled trunks, I see a flash.

Could my eyes be deceiving me? For miles, all I’ve
seen is the orange cherry smoldering the tip of my
cigarette and the glowing orbs of the headlamps
beyond the slope of the hood. Perhaps it’s the
Molotov cocktail of vodka and despair wreaking
havoc on my vision. I want to ignore it. I audibly
tell myself it’s nothing to worry about, but when the
road takes a hard arch to the left, I cut the wheel,
and the truck careens to follow it en route to the
bridge up ahead.

And there it is.
A brilliant flicker glowing in the headlamps. The

squeal of my tires echoes through the dark, kicking
up dirt as I come to a stop. In the dim light, I see
her. A girl alone on the bridge. Small and skinny
with a wild tangle of flaxen curls cascading around
her gaunt face. She flew through the trees like a
ghost in the night. A specter coming to steal my
soul. If only I had it to give.

“The fuck?” I whisper.

A wet dress clings to her lithe frame as she looks

back at me like a frightened deer. At first glance, I
think her hands are bound, but they’re not. Just
twisted in front of her, clutching each other as if
they’re all they have in the entire world.

I push open the door and step from the vehicle.

“You all right?”

Her frightened gaze snaps to mine, but she

doesn’t answer. I step carefully in her direction.
The last thing I want to do is to scare her off.
Animals live among the thorny brambles. Bears and
raccoons, things that go bump in the night. It’s not
safe. “You okay? You want me to call someone for
you?”

A meek whimper floats from her quivering lips, a

silver cloud billowing between them. “You’re
cold.”

She nods, a tiny head bob that springs the

rumpled mane around her head. I gingerly work the
buttons on my flannel shirt and slip it off my
shoulders before holding it out for her to take. The
alcohol running through my body gives off a false
sense of warmth, but something inside makes me
wonder if she’s radiating the heat that dapples my
skin with sweat. When she unlocks her twisted
hands, the headlamps pick up on the crimson stain
splashed across her torso. “Are you hurt? Do you
need a hospital?”

Her saucer eyes brim with tears. She turns to

leave, but I grasp her bicep. “Wait!” A surge of
energy rockets up my forearm, an electric current
whizzing just under the skin. The mystery girl
gasps, her eyes roll back, and she faints right into
my arms.

I stand there briefly, looking at her face. Not a

single blemish defiles her porcelain skin. She’s
alabaster from the top of her hair to the last tip of
her toes, broken up only by pale pink lips. My eyes
scan our surroundings for signs of life. A house, a
car, a boat. Something to show she’s not alone, but
there’s nothing but black in all directions. Nothing
out here but endless trees and frigid wind.

Slipping my forearm under her knees, I lift her

willowy frame and carry her to my truck. I can’t
leave her here. Not now. Not when the night is at its
blackest with the cold November wind ricocheting
through her sopping clothes.

At that moment, all thoughts of suicide leave my

head. My decision is clear. She has to come with
me.

Wyatt

ARMTH RADIATES

against my face, beams of light

slicing through my closed lashes as I lie in bed.
They flutter but remain closed. I don’t want to
wake from this incredible dream. The evil
resonance of rock bleeds from my fingers as I maul
the strings in time with Frankie’s melodic voice.
I’m with my band, not stuck in this decaying body,
a prison cell that’s kept me in the dark since the
accident. But, as usual, my pleasant dreams turn to
nightmares. The sun on my face fades to black,
replaced by visions of blood and gore.

Yellow sunlight fights through the constant

drizzle outside. It skitters through the large set of
windows, causing the craziest striped pattern across
the plush comforter wrapped around me. I roll to
my side, pulling the covers up as a shield. My mom
should have known better than to buy a house
made of nearly all glass. It’s murder on a hangover.

My gaze rolls to the clock at my bedside. Fuck

my life, it’s already past noon. Most mornings, I
wake up cursing the daylight and praying for death
to take me, and today’s no different.

I chuck a look over my shoulder as I force

myself from the solace of my bed. Cobalt hair pops
against the neutral surroundings, adding a cheerful
edge around my sullen face. Blue, like my
namesake. It started as a goof, a swath of color
Frankie made me do on a dare that suddenly
became my signature. Now, I stare at it, hating the
sight of my own reflection. What happened to me?
At only twenty-eight, I’m in the prime of my life,
yet I feel as though I’m a hundred and twelve on
the verge of the end. It wasn’t all that long ago I
was on top of the world looking down. A king on a
throne, my guitar a mighty staff. I had life by the
balls but left it all scattering like shards of glass on
that lonely stretch of Canadian highway.

Now, my hazel eyes crinkle in the corners,

bloodshot and sad. I scratch my jaw. Several days
of growth cover my face in light stubble that
matches the buzzed side of my head. I need to
shave, but the constant tremble in my hands makes
it hard to hold the razor steady.

Ducking into the bathroom, I splash cold water

on my face in hopes to revive the death that always
seems to be sitting on my doorstep. A screech tears
through the wall from the room next to mine. I turn
toward the direction of the bloodcurdling sound
before bolting out the door.

Holy crap!
It’s her. The little nothing I found on the bridge.

In my vodka-induced haze, I thought it would be a

good idea to bring her home. It’s not the dumbest
thing I’ve ever done, but its close. Now, standing
outside her room, I’m at a loss. “Hello?” I lift my
hand to quietly knock, but the lack of answer leads
me to reach for the handle instead.

Backlit by a halo of light, she shines like an angel

in the sun, curled up in bed and still wrapped in my
flannel from last night. Tension fills the space. I
step forward, but she gasps and tugs the covers
closer to her chin, her lips trembling as she shakes
her head slowly.

“Don’t be afraid.” My voice comes out in a low,

dulcet tone.

Who the fuck knows what’s going through her

head right now? I know what I look like. Metal
gleams from sporadic holes in my face, tattoos
etched from neck to wrists, still wearing my
Butchered at Birth tee that’s torn in the neckline. I
sweep the hair off my forehead and tuck it behind
my ear.

By the sober light of day, I realize I should have

checked for real damage on her body. Maybe taken
her to a hospital or something. Instead, I threw her
in my guest room like an inconsiderate asshole. Of
course she’s scared. She woke up in a strange house
with a weirdo sleeping in the room next door. “You
in some kind of trouble?”

She swallows hard, shaking her head. Silvery hair

flows wild and savage, a cluster of curls springing

over her face. I want to reach over and push them
out of the way, but I stay rooted to my spot on the
floor. She looks about as comfortable as a raccoon
after sunrise. It’s best to keep my distance, but as
her blue eyes shine with wide wonder, I can’t help
the magnetic pull dragging me toward her. It’s
strange. I almost feel as though we’ve met before,
but I can’t see how that’s possible.

“Is someone waiting for you?”
“I don’t have anyone.” Her small voice crackles

when she speaks. The single statement hits me like
a gunshot. I don’t know why I care so much; I
don’t give a shit about anyone I come across, not
since . . .

Shaking my head, I attempt to keep the

memories from assaulting me. I need to focus on
the girl before me.

Leaning my back against the door molding, I

cross my arms over my chest. “Got a name, at
least?” I challenge with a frustrated sigh.

Her gaze remains fixed on the ground between

us. “Willow.”

This is the moment I’m supposed to tell her my

name in return, but I don’t know what to say.
Everyone in my life calls me Blue. A moniker
forced upon me by a narcissistic mother who
needed a namesake at all costs. The only person
who ever addressed me by my given name was
Frankie. I hear it now, whispering in my ear. Wyatt.

Where are you?

“I’m Wyatt.”
Willow glances up through light eyelashes turned

dark by the shadow slicing across her face. She
drinks me in, searching for something . . . I don’t
know.

“You want some breakfast?” I kick myself off

the wall to leave, glancing back to see if she
follows.

A shrug is her only response.
“I’ll make you deal. I’ll get you anything you

want, but you gotta come downstairs. Okay?”

Her stomach answers for her with a rumble,

which makes me smile.

When I offer my hand to help her up, the blanket

pools around her bare feet. Standing full height, she
can’t be more than five feet tall. A little lamb
buried in a flannel that hangs past her fingers and
comes down to her knees. That’s what she is. A
frightened little lamb, her fleece as white as snow.
She cowers in the shadows of the hall as we
approach the top of the steps. The lower floor is
bathed in midday sunlight. Slowly, she descends
with one dainty foot in front of the other until she
reaches the bottom.

“It’s okay. No one else is here. Just me and you.

I got you.” I offer her a reassuring smile. I’m not
sure why I fucking do it, but something about this
chick intrigues me.

A shadow passes across her toes, a slice of light

cutting the path to the kitchen like a laser beam.
With trembling fingers, she lifts her palm. The pale
glow bounces off her skin. She waits—for what, I
don’t know—but without warning, she steps into it,
facing it like a flower. A musical giggle falls from
her lips. I watch from the stairs as she twirls in the
marble foyer with her arms raised over her head.
All traces of fear and doubt fall from her face when
she looks at me again. Tears glitter on her pale
cheeks, but her smile stretches from ear to ear.

Beautiful.
She really is. Unconventionally so, but striking

nonetheless. A porcelain doll with ivory skin and
pink lips. Delicate and fragile.

I step down and move toward the kitchen.

“C’mon, let’s get you fed.”

“Wyatt, wait.” When I spin back around, she

hurls herself against me, wrapping her arms around
my middle and shocking the shit out of me. “Thank
you,” she whispers into my clothes.

I stand for a few moments, stunned. The

questions plaguing my mind cease the minute her
warm body molds against mine. It almost feels . . .
right. She’s nothing to me. A random girl like so
many I’ve met in the past, yet having her in my
arms feels like home.

It doesn’t matter who she is or where she came

from. I don’t even want to know. The past few

months have been a clusterfuck of drama and
bullshit, melancholy and sorrow. I’m nearing the
end of it now. I don’t need the distraction.

I can’t risk caring for another person I’m bound

to lose.

There was a time when this house was bustling

with life and music and people—a family riddled
with drama and deceit—but I’m all that’s left. Just
me and the ghosts of my loved ones, sucking me
into their haunted eyes and whispering lips. I want
to be with them.

“I don’t have too much in the fridge.” Untangling

myself from her embrace, I move toward the
kitchen. The low timbre of my voice echoes
through the emptiness, making it seem more
powerful than it is. It’s been so long since I’ve
spoken to a real person that the sound seems
foreign to my ears.

Opening the fridge, I grab a loaf of bread, my

eyes scanning the expiration date before glancing
back over my shoulder. I can’t remember the last
time I went out for groceries. Modern-day
conveniences make it virtually unnecessary to
leave the house. I order what I need and have it
delivered.

Willow stands in the middle of the room, her lips

parted and her crystal gaze scanning the space. I
suppose at first sight it’s something to look at.
Panoramic windows take the place of upper

cabinets. The entire room encased in glass
overlooking a misty sky. To me, it’s nothing more
than a see-through tomb.

“Your floor is rainbow,” she whispers, her gaze

dropping to the long rows of tile at her feet.

“My mom liked color,” I say, twisting the tie off

the bread and pitching it onto the stainless-steel
countertop. I hate the way my heart clenches when
I think about her. Her name stalls on my tongue.
Delilah Blue. I still see the headline splashed across
page one — “Rock legend dies at forty-three.”

I wanted to burn this house to the ground when it

happened. Wanted to strike a match and watch it all
sizzle and pop as the blaze devoured the last
remaining shred of the woman who gave me life,
but it was our home. The only place Frankie felt
safe. Now she’s gone, too . . .

Frankie.
Thoughts of my sister create a physical reaction

in my stomach, a sucker punch to the gut that
makes it hard to breathe. I should have taken better
care of her. But it’s too late now. Five years after
burying our mother, I said goodbye to my sister,
too. Frankie was the only person I ever truly loved.
It’s all my fault. I don’t deserve to continue living,
despite the constant sound of her voice blathering
on in my head.

A sudden tear trickles down Willow’s face,

pulling me from the nagging thoughts that tear me

apart night and day. “You’re so sad.”

I side-eye her warily. “Why do you say that?”
She steps across the colorful tiles as if she’s

floating above them, then lifts her hands to my
face. Ice-blue eyes stare back, ringed in pink. “I
can feel it. This house. Your shrine to the dead.”
She drops her hands and clutches her chest, her
breath rattling within. “It hurts.”

“How are you doing this?”
She swallows hard, her swimming gaze latching

onto mine. “I don’t know.”

If I were smart, I’d take her back to wherever

she came from ASAP and never think about her
again, but for some insane reason, the thought
rattles me to my core. Do I really want her to go?
The idea that I might actually want her here is more
jarring than her sudden appearance.

“Do you know where this came from?” I ask,

using my thumb and forefinger to pinch the crusted,
red stain on her dress.

She drops her head and looks down, gently

taking my hand in hers. “I can’t remember.” Her
voice is hollow, the pain seeping through the cracks
and dropping into my wounded heart in tiny
increments as her tears continue to fall.

I turn back toward the counter to slap together

some bread and cheese before twisting back to
hand it to her. “What do you remember about last
night?”

She shrugs. Taking the plate from my trembling

fingers, she brings it to the large island in the center
of the room. Sunlight beams through the trees,
casting a striped pattern on the pearlescent island
countertop, but rain clouds roll in, suffocating the
small patch of blue sky with their ever-present gray
hue. It never stops raining. Not for a second. Even
the brightest day is tainted by the depths of my
macabre.

She slips onto the stool as if it hurts her body to

move. “I remember darkness. The smell of copper
and pine. It’s in my nose and my eyes. I can taste
it.”

“What else?”
“Water.”
“You remember falling in?”
She shakes her head. “I remember coming out.

You on the bridge.” Lifting her gaze, she looks at
me through featherlight lashes. “And the fear.”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It wasn’t my fear.” She lifts the sandwich and

nibbles on the corner, chewing thoughtfully before
swallowing. “It was yours.”

I narrow my gaze, scrutinizing the waifish young

woman before me. This can’t be real. This strange
girl pops out of nowhere, has no memory of where
she came from, but can read my feelings like a
novel. It’s not possible.

Opening the freezer, I pull out the bottle of Grey

Goose wedged between boxes of frozen meals and
a half-empty container of Rocky Road ice cream
long past its expiration date. I make quick work of
throwing together a makeshift Bloody Mary and
stare out at the expanse of woods behind my house.
The ice clinks as I bring it to my lip. The sweet
flavor of tomato juice slides down my throat as the
vodka eases my discomfort. The only thing that
drives away the haunting memories.

I don’t have anyone. Those four little words that

fell from her lips infiltrated in my heart like an
infection. A stark reminder. Alone. It weighs on my
chest so heavily I can barely breathe. I don’t want
to live like this anymore.

“For the record, I wasn’t scared.” I chuck a

glance over my shoulder to look at her face once
more. “And if you’re gonna stay here, you need to
stop doing . . . that.”

“So I can stay?”
Bringing her here was a drunken mistake. I

should have left her on the bridge where I found
her, but now that she’s here, and I don’t know what
else to do. I can’t take her to the police. Doing so
will only thrust me back into the public eye, and I
can’t live like that anymore. I’m no one’s side
show. I just want to be left alone.

“You can have the room upstairs for now. No

one’s using it. But don’t ask a lot of questions,
don’t get in my way, and stay out of my head.”

Willow

ITTING ON

what’s now my bed, I go over the

incoherent details of the last day. How did I end up
here? It just doesn’t make any sense. I close my
eyes, trying to muster the strength to remember
something, anything that happened prior to Wyatt’s
heavy footsteps padding across the floor this
morning.

I had no recollection of the bridge until he spoke.

I recognized his voice. A smooth baritone, deep and
rich that I’d heard in my dreams. His gentle voice
calmed my raging nerves as I trembled in the dark,
droplets of river water dripping on my bare feet. He
helped me. Sheltered me from the cold and
enveloped me in his warmth.

Anyone else might have been alarmed by his

appearance, but something about his face, about
the kindness reflected inside his gaze, made me feel
at peace. Like he’s someone special, someone
sacred. I guess that sounds insane. He thought I was
scared, but I wasn’t. It was him. His bleak
existence covered the ground like fog and pilfered
my breath both then and now.

The soft knock on my door breaks my silent

reverie. “Willow?” The timbre of Wyatt’s voice
causes a rumble in my stomach. A rush of
adrenaline shoots through my blood, flooding my
insides with a strange, tingly sense of warmth. But a
sadness seeps through the middle, leaving tiny
droplets of pain at my feet every time he speaks. It
burrows inside my chest like a worm making its
home. Of course, I don’t say any of this for fear I’ll
scare him. It scares me enough for the both of us.

“Yes.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed as he

pushes the door open and comes through. The skin
on my arms and legs prickles with goose bumps. A
bold palette swirls up his biceps, disappearing
beneath his T-shirt. And his hair. A cobalt wave
dips into one green-brown eye. He’s a rainbow,
parting the dreariness with splashes of brilliant
color.

“Where’d you find that?” he mumbles, his gaze

scanning the tattered T-shirt hanging off my
shoulder. A set of eyes ringed in kohl stares out
from across my chest. The rest of the face is
concealed in shadows, the words “Savages in Ruin”
scrawled along the top in fancy lettering.

I adjust the neckline, holding the crumpled black

cotton against me like armor, hiding my skin from
the warm caress of his gaze. “I found it in the
drawer.”

“Which drawer?” The anger wrapped around his

voice makes me wince.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment before I

whisper my apology. “I-I’m sorry. I couldn’t wear
that dress for another second, and I found a couple
of tees in the dresser—”

“It’s okay.” He sucks in a deep breath, closing

his eyes as he blows it into the tense atmosphere
around us. “I brought you something to wear for
now, but we should probably take a ride to get you
whatever else you might need.”

“A ride?” A pink hue shines through the window

slats. The sun still hangs in the sky. A few more
hours until dusk. I settle into the pillows, the
daylight outside now inviting me, yet the crack in
the closet door beckoning to me, calling me into the
shelter of its dark embrace. The urge to hide comes
on so strong I need to fight it away with all my
strength. “Outside?”

When I look up, I catch him staring hotly at my

bare legs. A sudden pang hits the apex of my thighs.
I rub them together, soothing the ache that sprang
out of nowhere. The pierced corner of his lip
twitches up. “Yeah . . . You need clothes.”

“Okay,” I tell him, accepting the folded garment

in his outstretched arms. The little white sundress
unfolds in my hand, sweet, miniature butterflies
fluttering across the airy material. The corners of
my mouth turn down. “Where did this come from?”

“It belonged to my sister.” I sense his impatience

growing the longer he hovers in my doorway, his
irritation evident as he grinds his answer through
his teeth.

My gaze flicks to the hallway and back. “You

have a sister?”

A feeling of panic rises to the surface. I don’t

know what it is about him. Whenever he’s near, a
blitzkrieg of emotion wages war inside me. Sorrow
so thick it weighs on my limbs. The misery he lives
with is too heavy to bear.

“Is she here, too?”
A dark haze falls over his face. “Get dressed.

Come down when you’re ready.” The room slams
still, his emotions closing off as harshly as his words
do.

I’ve overstepped a boundary he’s not willing to

cross, and that’s okay. We all have secrets we have
to live with. Skeletons dancing deep in our closets
that aren’t meant to see the light of day. I
understand. He’ll talk when he’s ready.

Slipping from the bed, I pad to the bathroom,

twisting the airy material in my fingers. A sister. No
sooner had the word left his lips did I feel an urgent
stab of pain. But it was gone as quickly as it came.
He told me not to ask questions, but how can I not
when every beat of his heart entwined with mine
drags me into darkness without my consent?

They roll through my head as I reach for the

shower. Water shoots from the rain hood in violent

streams hammering on the basin floor, a cloud of
steam billowing from the rush. A sigh leaks from
my lips as I shed my clothes and step inside, tilting
my face toward the spray.

Various products line the shelf recessed into the

tile, the cool blue glass shimmering behind them. I
reach for one and squeeze a dollop in my palm.
Wyatt’s masculine scent rises in the steam, a light,
crisp fragrance like musk or sandalwood.

It stirs up something inside me.
A memory? A feeling?
I close my eyes, trying to let the sensation take

hold, but it sits at the forefront of my mind,
taunting me with its blurry edges. Trees are all I
see, spindly growing beside vast nothingness. A
heavy absence caving in my chest. The harder I try
to drag it back, the farther away it seems to get.

When I’m finished, I step out into the foggy mist

and wrap a fluffy towel across my barely-there
breasts. Condensation covers the tilted mirror. I
swipe my hand across it, the reflected smear of my
plain face staring back at me. Freckles sweep
across the bridge of my nose. I reach up and touch
them as if seeing them for the very first time. I hate
them. My dad had them too, only his were darker,
his hair less ashen than mine. Why is it that I
remember him so vividly, yet all the details leading
up to now are lost in the haze?

With a frustrated grumble, I spin back toward the

dress folded neatly on the toilet lid. Slipping it on, I
check my look in the mirror one last time. The soft
fabric clings to my slender hips and falls around
mid-thigh, giving me the illusion of a woman’s
figure. A memory of Wyatt’s heated stare washes
over me. Wyatt. I glide my tongue across my lip,
tasting the flavor of his name clinging to it. He’s an
interesting fellow. Brusque and brash, yet there’s a
gentleness sequestered deep inside. He pushes it
down, but I see it teasing the edges of his sad eyes
when he looks at me. Assholes don’t just bring
strange girls home and make them cheese
sandwiches. It doesn’t add up. There’s more to
Wyatt. And I’m going to find out what it is.

Wyatt

HEAR

her moving above me. The shuffling of feet

indicating her hesitation to join me downstairs. I
crane my neck, peering up the stairs to catch a
glimpse. Bare legs come into view, long and lean.
The breath stutters in my lungs. A physical catch in
my throat as the rest of her follows suit.

The dress fits on her slender body like a glove. It

floats around her thighs as she descends, an angel
in white from head to toe. The vodka stews in my
stomach. My head feels light, my limbs tingly. The
self-imposed numbness I’ve grown to rely on far
too heavily.

She halts abruptly at the edge of the steps,

bringing her hand to her head.

“You okay?” I ask, watching the graceful way

her fingers bend around the banister to steady
herself.

“Yeah. I just felt dizzy for a second. It’s gone

now.”

I lift the flip-flops dangling from my fingers.

“You’ll be cold in these, but I’ll get you some real
shoes while we’re there,” I tell her, shoving another
flannel in her arms before turning away to head for

the door. A car horn blasts outside, stealing my
attention for just a moment. “That’s our ride.”

“You’re not driving?”
“I don’t drive much. Last night was a fluke.” My

heart leaps into my throat, the acrid sting of regret
twisting with the eighty-proof bile rolling on the
back of my tongue. I wonder if she feels it
swimming in my veins.

Her presence behind me dapples my skin like the

tickle of goose bumps, the fragrance of pine not far
behind. I smelled it in the forest. That unmistakable
woodsy scent of earth and rain. A whiff of it
catches in my nostrils again as she falls into step
beside me, and I realize for the first time that it’s
her. The crisp scent of autumn clings to her skin
like the smooth cotton of her clothing. “Or maybe it
was fate.”

“I don’t believe in fate.” Anger simmers in my

words when I respond. Even though I vowed to try
to be nice to her, that fate shit only frustrates me.

We ride to the store in silence, my heavy gaze

falling to her bare thighs as her fingertips
awkwardly tangle with the hem of her skirt. Dainty
hands with elegant fingers, the perfect crescent
moon of her nails picking at a frayed thread. I
wonder what they would feel like wound between
mine, her tiny palm encased in my large one.

Fighting the urge, I reach into my pocket to pull

out a cigarette and set it between my lip rings.

“You can’t smoke in here,” the driver utters in

annoyance.

I catch his reflection in the rearview mirror. His

brows pull together as a knowing look suddenly
passes across his features. I couldn’t imagine being
an Uber driver. The shit these guys must see on a
daily basis. Later, as he sits down to dinner with his
family, he’ll tell them all how the infamous Wyatt
Blue rode in his shitty Hyundai Sonata. Fuck him.

He pulls into the lot and eases off the gas. Before

last night, I can’t remember the last time I’d left the
house, preferring the solace of my own home to the
hustle and bustle of daily life. If not for Willow, I’d
still be in my bed wishing the time would move
faster, praying for the sun to set to fill my home
with the darkness I feel whenever I’m awake.

Willow, on the other hand, turns her face toward

it, embracing the meager warmth it offers. The
automatic doors slide open as we approach. I stop
short at the threshold of the door, my muscles
tightening. The store is busier than I expected.
Women pushing toddlers inside fancy strollers and
old ladies shuffling down the aisles. She stares
ahead with wide-eyed wonder, her arms wrapped
around mine so tight it’s painful.

“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you, too.”
Meeting her eyes, I realize she’s right. Inside her

sad stare is something tragic. She’s broken, like me.

To anyone else, we look like the perfect couple.
Both of our shattered pieces float between the
normal cracks of everyday life. A blue-haired punk
with torn jeans and hanging chains. The old maids
regard me as a warning, their horrified glares sliding
to the chubby faces of their offspring, silently
praying they don’t grow up like me. A freak. An
outcast. A drunk swaying on his feet with nary a
fuck to give about it.

Fuck them and their leering eyes, their bullshit

yoga pants and Starbucks cups. They scurry away
as if they fear me, and they should. I am death,
destroyer of worlds.

And Willow. The antithesis of everything I

portray. She’s pure. Snow-white innocence clinging
to my dark, dirty soul as if I can protect her. She
sees me as her solace, but she’s wrong. I’ll only
slather her in my filth. It’s what I do. Everything I
touch turns to shit.

I steer Willow toward a rack of clothing. Piles of

neatly folded T-shirts in assorted colors line the
shelves. She reaches out, letting her fingertips glide
across the soft fabrics. “There’s so much. I don’t
know what to choose.”

“What do you like?”
She shrugs, her curious gaze shifting over the

hanging racks before settling back on me. “I like
you.”

A pfft sound leaves my lips. “Give it time. I’m

completely unlikeable.”

She cocks her head to the side, eyeing me as if

reading my mind, and for a split second, I’m afraid
she can. If she only knew the depraved thoughts
that exist inside my head, she’d run from me like
everyone else has. It’s a strange brew of pain and
lust, guilt and regret, lingering under a fog of
whole-grain alcohol. My jagged pieces only serve
to tear her to shreds the deeper she gets.

Yet I find myself tumbling into her mystical blue

depths as she stares directly into my heart. What is
it about this girl with her unknown past and ability
to strip me bare? She pulls the emotion from my
chest as I lie bleeding from the impact. It’s too
much. I don’t want to feel like this.

Tearing myself away, I reach for a pair of jeans

and pull them from the top of the pile. “Try these,”
I tell her, shoving the item toward her.

She holds them against her lean frame, letting the

strategically torn denim sag over her bare legs and
touch the tops of her feet. “What do you think?”

I think I could fall in love with you if I weren’t

so damaged.

“Those would look badass with a pair of

Converse.” An honest opinion, yet I find myself
looking at more than just her hands holding up the
jeans.

A subtle giggle floats from her lips as I take her

hand and drag her to the shoe aisle. A pair of bright

red Converse All-Stars sits on a shelf among all his
colorful brothers. “What size?” I ask, plucking
them from their resting place.

“Six.” She lifts her foot, the worn-out flip-flop

dangling from her petite toes. Frankie’s flip-flop,
just like the dress. Two items that just happened to
be sitting on the chair in her room as if waiting to
be filled with a warm body.

“Jesus, you’re tiny.”
A shiver trickles down my spine. It’s creepy how

well her clothes fit Willow. Frankie was tall and
lanky, like me. Long legs and fingers, with warm
eyes and dark hair. Willow’s different. A petite waif
with what I can only guess is a shitshow of secrets
stashed inside that cool blue gaze. She shouldn’t fit,
but she does.

She offers me another wholesome, wide-eyed

look, and my heart skips a beat. Maybe that’s her
ploy. She acts all shy and harmless, then before you
know it—BAM!—you’re bleeding out on the
kitchen floor, and she’s off to find another victim.

On second thought, that’s stupid. That sweet

little lamb couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone commit
murder.

“Try these on,” I insist, handing her a pair of

sneakers. I wait, my gaze darting around at the
other wandering shoppers, my fingers trembling at
my sides.

“They fit.” She stands and looks down at her

feet, snowy curls tumbling over her face, before
glancing back up. “I’m really glad I met you,
Wyatt.”

Butterflies flap in my belly. I turn away from the

hopeful gleam in her eyes, the one that has so much
faith in the fucked-up guy she just met. She’s naïve
to the world around her, and that light will
eventually dim the longer she sticks around. I’ll be
her demise.

The need to escape this store hits me like a brick

in the face. As I grapple for breath, I realize it’s not
just the store. It’s her. I close my eyes, willing away
the sudden onset of panic. I’ll drink it down when I
get home, but I can never run from it, no matter
how badly I want to. I fucked my own life, and now
I’ll fuck hers, too. It’s inevitable, and there’s
nothing I can do to stop it. Because you can’t stop
what’s already inside you, and you can’t run from
yourself.

“Wyatt, are you okay?”
Willow’s voice collides with Frankie’s, the husky

smoke of my sister twisting with the light
effervescence of the girl staring at me in horror as I
unravel in the shoe aisle. She gasps, the pile of
clothes in her arms dropping between our feet.
“Relax . . .” she breathes, the word whistling
through her teeth. A warm hand lands on my back
and slips toward the nape of my neck. “I got you.”
Her sweet simper purrs in my ear as her thumb

gently circles behind my lobe. “Breathe with me.
Feel me, Wyatt.” With her free hand, she lifts mine
to her chest. “In and out,” she whispers, sucking in
a sharp inhale, then blowing it out.

My vision returns to normal. I fall to the floor,

my elbows resting on bended knees as I breathe
myself back into consciousness. “How did you do
that?”

She sits down next to me and shrugs. “I used to

have these freak-outs when I was a kid. Breathing
through it with my dad always made me feel
better.”

“Your dad?”
She nods, a frown twitching the corners of her

mouth. Looking down, she wrestles with the
sneaker, fingering the ties until they’re evenly
spaced across the top of her foot. “He died. A few
months back.”

“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. No use crying about it now, right?” A

sad smile sits on her lips. “I’ll see him again soon.”

A cool chill snakes through my veins. That tiny

piece of information has left me ravenous for more.
I need to know her. Everything about her. Where
she’s from, what she likes, what she thinks . . . And
the notion scares me. My insides feel tight. Pulled
taut like a new guitar string. If plucked too hard, I’ll
surely snap. “Let’s not do this, okay?”

She looks up with a quizzical stare. “Do what?”

“Exchange sob stories. Rehashing the past won’t

change our present.”

Her eyes narrow into ice-blue slits. “You asked

me.”

“Yeah, well, you brought it up.” I wave my hand

in the air, not needing to get into the emotional shit
with some random chick who’s wearing my dead
sister’s clothes and weaseled her way into my
home.

“Wow.” She scrambles to her feet, grasping the

shelf for support. “You’re kind of a dick, you know
that?”

“Trust me. I’m well aware.”
Following her motion, I pull myself off the floor

as she offers her hand to help before asking, “You
gonna make it?”

“I need a smoke. You finish up,” I grumble, more

to me than to her as I flip her my credit card.
Reaching for my cigarettes, I stumble out the door.
Frigid wind whips across my cheeks and ruffles my
sweatshirt. I huddle closer to the building, trying to
escape it as I flick my lighter. Normally, I’d just
light up inside. Fuck it, right? Who’s going to yell at
me? But I needed to escape the conversation I
knew was coming.

I suck on my smoke and tip my head, blowing a

long gray stream up to the sullen sky. The tundra of
winter lies ahead. A never-ending wasteland that
fits my icy mood.

When the door behind me slides open, I don’t

bother to look. Willow’s crisp autumn fragrance
floats on the breeze. I breathe it in like the smoke
whirling around my nostrils, holding it inside my
lungs until I can barely take it anymore and have to
let it go.

“It’s cold out here.” The cherry glows bright

orange as I pull another drag from the filter.

She shakes her head. “Cold doesn’t bother me.”
“You got everything you need?” I question,

quirking my dark brow at her as I glance down at
the little lamb.

She slips her arm around my lower back, resting

her head on my arm. “I do.”

Willow

HOPPING BAGS

full of stuff sit between us in the back

seat of the car. I watch Wyatt from the corner of
my eye. His knees show beneath the tattered strings
of frayed denim, his fingertips dipping underneath
then back out again, teasing the holes as he stares
blankly out the window. I feel him. All his
insecurities bounce around inside my chest. I have
to remind myself to breathe. If I don’t, I fear I’ll
drown in the angst living inside him. His unease
now living in me, too.

I don’t know what this is. This odd connection

I’ve had since the moment we met. I felt it on the
bridge when he touched my wrist. The electricity. It
was like being struck by lightning. And when I
awoke, I had this gift. It sounds insane, but it’s my
only explanation for the way my heart fills
whenever he’s near. This heavy, foreboding feeling,
a distorted mashup of hate and fear and relentless
desire twisting around, pushes me to the tethered
edges of my own skin. It scares me so much. Not
because I feel it, but because I like it. I don’t want
it to go away.

The driver darts another glance in the rearview

mirror, the tenth one since we got in. The low hum
of rock music fills the cab. The DJ speaks over it,
announcing the name of the band—Savages in Ruin
—before fading out. A haunting voice croons over
the music. It cuts through the thundering baseline,
weaving through the wailing guitar, and coming out
on the other side a violent howl that instantly
shatters me to my core.

“Turn this shit off,” Wyatt rambles, leaning

against the seat in front of him, his tattooed hands
gripping the leather. “I don’t wanna hear this.”

The cab goes instantly silent, save for the thump

of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Another glance in the rearview. Wyatt shifts back in
his seat, a scowl twisting his face into a pucker.

“Oh, shit.” The driver slows, cutting the wheel

onto a quiet suburban street. “You are Wyatt Blue.
I knew it.” An audible growl rumbles in Wyatt’s
throat. “Savages in Ruin was baller, man.” The
frown on Wyatt’s face deepens, his hands balling
into fists on his thighs. “I saw you guys live when
you opened for Black Diamond. Killer show.”

“You can just drop us off here. We’ll walk the

rest of the way.”

“Man, that accident did me in. Took a while for

me to get over it,” the driver continues as Wyatt
slowly starts to fall apart. How do I know this?
Because I begin to unravel with him.

It’s not long before the house comes into view. A

gigantic brick and mortar structure with intricately
carved eaves and picture windows at the top of a
hill guarded by a black wrought-iron fence. He’s a
prisoner in his own home, living behind bars that
hold the world at bay.

Wyatt jumps out before the car’s even made a

full stop, and I follow close behind. We meander up
the winding walk, past the wilting leaves of a
Japanese maple and the lifeless sprouts of bushes
and various plants. If I close my eyes, I can almost
see how beautiful this garden must have been at
one time. Flowers blooming in red and pink, shining
green foliage reaching for the sky. The serenity of
trickling water bubbling from the now empty pond.
Whatever was here is long gone now, its remains
left to rot. Dead like the expression on his face
when he throws open the blue front door and drops
our purchases in the foyer.

Lights go on as we enter. It’s as if the house

knows we’re here. It’s an entity all its own. The
quiet pad of Wyatt’s sneakers wisps around the
kitchen, followed by the grind of crushing ice and
the clink of glass.

“You all right?” I ask, hanging in the large open

doorway. The light bursts through the picturesque
backdrop, highlighting his strong back as he stands
at the counter pouring his drink, the clear liquid
sluicing over the cubes filling his glass.

“Leave me alone, Willow.”

But I can’t. I move toward him, my hands raised,

reaching out. He turns and sucks in a sharp breath
as my fingers touch his cheeks. Dark circles wrap
around each sad hazel eye. Light lashes crown his
lids, the same tawny shade as the close shave on
the side of his head. I take in the straight slope of
his nose and the hairpin curve of his upper lip. He
reminds me of the garden out front. Beautiful, yet
left to rot.

His Adam’s apple bobs, but he doesn’t look at

me. I feel the tension clawing between us, tearing at
us from the inside out. Something heinous, a dark
entity like the one in which he lives.

“I’m going to my room,” he grunts, then twists

his neck, wrenching from my grasp. My heart rate
kicks up. Is it his or mine? Perhaps it’s both. I can’t
be sure. But I feel it hammering against my ribs,
taking hold of my lungs as I step back.

Wyatt swipes the bottle off the counter and turns

on his heel, leaving me alone and breathless. Once
again, I find myself navigating the unknown.
Tension still hangs heavy in the air, tainting the bold
rays of pink and purple streaking across the
massive windows in streaks of heavy drizzle. It
churns in my gut like concrete. It flops and twists as
this heaviness drags me down. This quiet mansion
filled with beauty holds nothing but despair.

I shuffle through the kitchen and meander into

the vast foyer. An oversized staircase sits in the

middle, its banisters curving outward at the top and
stretching across the outer rim of the second floor.
Large open doorways flank the entrance of the
room while a sitting room, a dining room, the
colorful kitchen, and a hallway lead to secret places
I’ve yet to discover. Above me, fractals of light
shatter the chandelier, its silver arms clutching the
delicate shards of crystal. It fractures me in tiny
increments. On the surface, Wyatt appears to have
everything, but beneath the opulent display of
wealth hanging from the ceiling, he lacks the only
thing his broken heart needs. Love.

Wyatt didn’t find me. I found him.
Slowly, I ascend the dark, wooden planks,

grazing my fingers along the smooth lacquer finish
on the railing. My room curves to the left, and
Wyatt’s is in the middle. The soft sound of music
murmurs under the crack. I dawdle outside the
door, wondering what he’s doing in there.

I should go to my room and wait for morning.

I’m a guest in this house. A stranger brought here
by a man cavorting with demons I’ve yet to learn
about. But curiosity gets the best of me. I step to
the right, meandering down the darkened hall. An
open door leads to a bathroom across from another
sitting room of sorts. Or maybe it’s more an office.

A black desk sits in front of the large picture

window, the evening light glimmering on the golden
disks hanging on the opposite wall. Four of them in

a perfect row, the name Delilah Blue written in bold
letters underneath, and a fifth in lying in broken
shards on the floor. “Savages in Ruin,” I whisper
aloud, letting my fingertips steal over the serrated
pieces. The words tear through my chest like a
bullet the moment they spring from my lips.

I back away from the shattered fragments of

Wyatt’s past and stumble backward into the desk.
The open laptop whirs to life, the screen casting a
moonlight-gray hue in the dimly lit room. When I
touch the keyboard, a tinny voice seeps through the
speakers with the same deep luster of smoke and
heart I heard in the cab. It calls to me, sending
waves across my skin in tiny droplets of beauty and
angst. The words wrap around me in a silken tether,
pulling tight. With each word, I feel another tug
until I’m wrapped entirely, the bang of my
heartbeat rushing along with the bleeding bite of
background music.

I was broken before you came along
You don’t get to take credit for this
You don’t get to add me to your list
Another shattered girl in your wake
No, love, you didn’t hurt me
You can’t kill what’s already dead

As the last notes fade to black, I blink back the

tears that crest my lash line. Like an addict to a
drug, I need to hear more, but that’s all there is.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“What are you doing in here?” The timbre of

Wyatt’s voice snaps me from my reverie. His
energy behind me sucks the oxygen from the
atmosphere. Shallow breaths pant in my lungs, the
heat radiating off his chest sending flames licking
across my skin.

I shamefully glance over my shoulder, drooling at

the sight of Wyatt’s naked torso. The furious scowl
twisting his lips should terrify me, but the sight of
his smooth, tattooed skin on full display knocks me
senseless. Wyatt Blue is chiseled perfection from
his strong jaw to his tight abdomen. All pointed
corners and perfect hills. He’s muscle and ink, long
and lean, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants
riding low on his hips.

“What did you touch?” he growls, stomping into

the room. He stands at the laptop and pounds the
keys with angry fervor, returning the screen to
where it was before grabbing my arm and dragging
me out of the room. “You have no right to be in
here!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“No!” He closes his eyes, sucking in a deep

breath through his nose and blowing it out hard
through his mouth, the scent of alcohol wafting to
my nostrils. “Just stay out of there, okay?”

He spins on his heel, taking a swaying step, but

his wobbly footing collapses beneath him. A

whispered curse flies under his breath as he falls,
tumbling down the stairs feet over head and lands
in a heap at the bottom.

“Wyatt!” I scurry down the steps as fast as I can.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. “Wyatt, get up!” Emotion

clambers up my cheeks, burning my eyes. It rushes
down my face, the resonance of my racing heart
drowning out the sudden sounds of rain hammering
the roof. I slide my leg over his, listening to his
chest for a sign of life.

His arms close around me. “Fuck . . .” He

chuckles, his head lolling to the side. “That’s gonna
hurt in the morning.”

“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass,” he mocks me

with another insufferable snicker. “But you’re hot
when you’re angry.”

I sit up on my knees, straddling his thighs.

Hardness pushes against my center as I shift, my
lips parting in a gasp.

“Don’t gawk at it unless you’re willing to do

something about it.”

“Get up.” I pull together the seething emotion

blistering my heart and shuffle to my feet, trying to
drag him up with me.

“I am up.” He snickers, his limp body falling

over mine. We manage to trudge back to his room
with six feet of lean muscle draped over my

shoulder. He falls to his bed, the mattress bouncing
under his weight.

“Do us both a favor, Wyatt, and just pass out.”
“No, little lamb. Do yourself a favor and watch

yourself around me. I’m not sure a little thing like
you can handle it.”

Wyatt

BLAST

of frigid water smacks me in the face. I

yelp, the smell of dirt rising with the nauseating
stench of wet vomit as the stream suddenly lets up.

“What the hell, Wyatt?” Frankie’s angry voice

exacerbates the thunder rolling in my cranium.

I dig my fingers into the ground, opening my

heavy lids just enough for the blades of grass to
spear my eyes. The world spins as I force myself up
and another round of puke fights its way up my
esophagus. I swallow it down, clutching my skull.
Chunks of . . . I don’t know . . . cling to my arm. I
don’t remember eating. In fact, most of the night is
a complete blur. What the hell am I doing outside?

“Where were you last night?” she yells.
Isn’t that the million-dollar question?
“What day is it?”
She lifts her face to the sky with a frustrated

sigh. “This isn’t happening.” Frankie blasts me
with her signature death stare, the razor-sharp
edge of her glare cutting like a knife.

“What’s your problem, Francis?” The use of her

birth name earns me another shot of water straight
up my nose. I lurch off the ground, tackling my

sister for the hose, but when the butt of her palm
catches my forehead and snaps my head back, I
collapse onto the saturated ground like a sack of
bricks.

“Jimmy Fallon. The Tonight Show. Ring any

bells, you alcoholic asshole?” she shouts,
scrambling away from me.

“What?” I squint, attempting to see Frankie

through the direct rays of brash sunlight beaming
from behind her.

A fleck of mud covers her flawless cheek, her

lipstick smeared at the rim of her puckered mouth.
She wipes it away with the back of her hand. “If
you’re not careful, you’re gonna end up just like
Mom.”

“Mom OD’d, Frankie. Not the same thing.”
“Addiction, self-loathing, self-medicating.” She

angrily lifts a new finger in my face as she checks
off the list. “A fucking spade’s a spade. You barely
show up for practice, and when you do, you’re
either too drunk to remember the chords or you’re
too hungover to play them. You missed the meet
and greet before our last concert. You’re drowning
yourself in the bottom of a bottle, and you’re
taking us all down with you.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
She cocks her head, clamping her hand around

her jutted hip. “Isn’t that what I’m explaining to
you in some detail?”

“That’s not what I meant.” I slick my hair back,

pulling out a rogue twig sitting among my muddy
blue locks. “You’re no better, you know. Ever
heard the phrase workaholic?”

“One of us has to take this shit seriously.”
“You take it too seriously. It’s supposed to be

fun. Jesus, it’s not like we need the money. House is
full of fuckin’ silver spoons.”

“Too bad you can’t drink ’em, huh, Blue?” she

shoots back, crossing her arms over her chest.

Rolling my eyes, I push to my feet, but my knees

work way too hard to support my weight, and she
has to catch me when I stumble. Not that long ago,
I was the one catching her. The big brother she
followed with adoration in her eyes, a gaze that
now swims in nothing but pity. I fucked up. Again.

“You stink,” she mumbles, helping me through

the back door. “Take a shower. I’ll put some coffee
on.”

She throws my arm off her shoulder and shoos

me away, but I only waver. “I love you, Frankie
Foo Foo.” I plaster on a sloppy grin as her
childhood nickname slurs out.

She tries to keep her stony façade, but I see the

cracks weakening her foundation. Frankie’s the
only person in this world who lets me be an asshole
and still loves me afterward. She’s all I have. “I
hope you find the peace you’re looking for, Wyatt.
Before it’s too late.”

_______________________

The echo of my footsteps reverberates around me
as I enter the great room at the back of the house.
My favorite place. Encased completely by walls of
glass, the room has floor planks that run in a fading
octagon and meet in the middle where my baby
waits to be fondled. A Steinway piano, fully rebuilt,
custom and recrafted to my specifications. The
black lacquer finish shines, beckoning to me.
Calling me home.

The guitar is my first love, the piano my mistress.

Rock is primal. It bites and bleeds, and takes no
mercy. On the stage, with the lights and distortion, I
was a legend. They’d hear me coming a mile away.
The evil that befell when I beat the strings tore
people apart and left them begging for more. Knox,
Jett, and me—we were kings of the stage with
Frankie as our queen. We owned it, and we knew it.
The fans were powerless against it.

But in here, it’s not about the show. I’m not

Wyatt Blue, defamed guitar player for Savages in
Ruin, the prodigal son of Delilah and Sonny. I’m
just a man pouring out his heart. The music soars,
uplifting and majestic, powerful in its own right. It
owns me, not the other way around. Like the
booze, it’s another form of escape.

With a deep breath, I rest my hands over the

keys, and within seconds, I’m elsewhere. My
fingers fly, no sheet music required. It comes from
within. I play with the only pieces of my heart that
escaped the accident unscathed. A tattered few that
live and beat in time with the music. The rest of it
remains buried in the ground. Little corners I’ll
never get back and wouldn’t want to. It belongs to
her, now and forever. My cross to bear for my sins.

The wisp of white that crosses my peripheral

brings me back to the present. I look up to find
Willow hovering near the doorway. A Savages in
Ruin tee hangs on her petite frame and falls to her
knees, Frankie’s emerald eyes staring back at me
from her chest. Our first tour shirt. It seems like
ages ago. “I’m sorry, Wyatt.” The acoustics in the
sparse room make her small voice seem larger than
it is.

“Didn’t I buy you pajamas?” I grumble, ignoring

her apology. I should be the one saying I’m sorry,
but I can’t seem to scramble over the rage still
stewing inside me. It’s not her fault, but she’s the
only one here. Invading my space with her innocent
eyes and her sweet, sweet smell muddling my
already fucked-up brain with an added layer of lust
I don’t need.

She walks over, her bare feet slapping against the

floor. “You did. But this tee has good energy. I like
it.” Heat from her skin radiates up my side as she
slides onto the bench next to me. She smells of cool

rain on a hot summer stone. A sweet fragrance that
sets off the strangest feeling of warmth swirling in
my gut. It flusters me, and I don’t fluster. “Don’t
you sleep?”

“I keep odd hours.”
Her crystal gaze shifts to the half-empty glass

perched on the edge of the piano. “You play
beautifully. Can I listen?”

Nodding, I drop my attention back to the piano,

but guilt drowns out my motivation to play. Visions
of her crying assault my memories of stardom. Her
doe eyes soaked in tears. She’s innocent. She
doesn’t deserve to be stuck in purgatory with a
creep like me. I’m better off just steering clear of
her completely. “Actually, I think I’m done for now.
I’m gonna go grab a smoke.”

Her lips press into a thin line. I slip from the

bench to make my escape, but the sound of music
draws my attention. Willow’s back curves over the
keyboard, and her fingers move with grace,
caressing the piano like a lover.

A deep, haunting melody with tinkling nodes of

beauty woven through. Like the girl herself, it
reminds me of rain. The way it hammers on the
roof and trickles down the windows, both violent
and calm combined, washing over my skin like the
cool November breeze.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” She looks

up from the piano, her eyes wide with panic. I

soften my tone and try again. “Who taught you to
play like that?”

“My dad,” she says softly. “But you don’t want

to hear about him.”

Her gaze falls to her lap. A moment of silence

fills the room. Amazing how a few whispered words
could do so much damage. I suck in a sharp breath,
wanting to pull yesterday’s scornful words back in,
but I can’t. They’re out there, hovering above us,
swirling in the early morning light like dust.

Catching my finger under her chin, I lift her face.

The sharp rays of the rising sun cut across her
gemstone eyes. Those light blue orbs keep
whatever she’s hiding locked up tight. “I’m sorry I
was insensitive.”

Her pretty pink lips curve into a sweet grin, but it

doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s false and forced. “Who
are you, Wyatt? For real.”

My throat tightens. I swallow hard, the morning

regret hitting me harder than usual. I was somebody
once. A son, a brother, a friend, a musician, a name.
Now, I’m just a drunk asshole hiding from all of it.
A ghost, a shell, a figment. This is who I am. It
wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Shrugging, I offer her a wry smile. “Depends on

who you ask. Drunk me and sober me are not the
same people.”

“I knew I was doing something wrong by

snooping in your stuff, but the recording spoke to

me. I felt it tugging at my heart, stirring up my soul
into a million fractured pieces,” she says, her voice
soft and low.

“Well, yeah. That’s the idea.”
“No, you don’t understand. I felt it. Almost as if

it was personal to me. Like I’d heard it before.”

“That’s not possible,” I murmur, shaking my

head.

Dripping Daggers was the last song Savages in

Ruin ever recorded. A B-side single that never
made it past my hard drive. At one time, the song
meant something to me, but now it’s just another
symbol of my failure. A living taunt that just won’t
end. I didn’t want Willow to hear it, to feel the
emptiness it brings. I don’t want her to see that side
of me.

Looking down at her lap, she picks at the corner

of her nail before changing the subject. “Do you
ever feel like something was meant to happen?”

“No,” I answer, my reply sharp as filed steel.
“What about destiny?”
“Our future isn’t predetermined. We make

mistakes, and we have to live with them. End of
story.” I shrug, and she scowls.

“I don’t want to believe that. I need to think

there’s a reason for everything; otherwise, there’s
no point in any of this.” The whites of her eyes take
on a light pink hue as water builds beneath her
lashes. A single tear slides down her cheek,

followed by another.

I fall back down to the bench and slip my arm

over her shoulders, resting my cheek on top of her
halo of curls. “Don’t cry. We’ll figure it out,” I say
on a sigh.

“Something just feels too . . . right. Like I’m

meant to be here. But if there’s no destiny, then
why am I here?” Her tears flow fast and free. I
ache to reach out and wipe them away, but I don’t.
There’s something hot about watching her unravel
right in front of me.

“Neither of us was meant to be here, Willow, but

we are. Deal with it.”

She looks up, diamond eyes swimming. “Is this

hell?”

“It sure feels like it sometimes.” Fighting my

need to feel her is a losing battle. My opposite hand
comes across us, my knuckles grazing the soft skin
of her cheek, but the fire burns under my touch.
“You’re hot.”

The corner of her mouth quirks through her

tears. “Uh . . . thanks?”

“No,” I mumble, sliding my palm to her

forehead. “You’re burning up. You have a fever.”

“I feel fine,” she replies, swatting me away.
Standing, I offer my hand, but she just looks

down at it crooked. “Back to bed.”

Her lashes bounce in quick succession, her

crystal eyes glimmering through the last of her

looking-glass tears as she allows me to pull her
from the bench and walk her back to her room.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay.” She
crawls onto her bed and slips under the soft covers.

“This is what you get for wading around in the

river in the middle of the night.”

“I told you I’m fine,” she warbles at the end of a

yawn.

A cluster of coils falls across her forehead. I

swipe them away with the tip of my finger and
secure them behind her ear. “Rest, little lamb,” I
whisper as her eyes flutter closed.

Willow

HEAR

his moans echoing softly in the night. He

hides in the shadows, his face obscured by the dark
corners of the room. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
But he did. And I’m so, so lost. Lost in the wind.
Cold, blank, bitter emptiness swallowing me whole.
Now I'm just floating in this river of nothing.

Is this it?
Is this what death is?
Just out there in the darkness, numb and scared

and alone?

I sit up with a start, the sound of my own

heartbeat rushing in my ears, assuring me I’m still
alive. The soft pad of footsteps gets louder as they
approach my door, and I feel safe. Cold comfort
washes over my fevered skin. I wipe away the
beads of sweat dappling my forehead as he enters.
Wyatt. He was the light in the darkness. A life
preserver in the ocean. I reached for him because I
had to feel something, and it all came rushing
through my veins like water. Everything all at once,
dripping into the severed cracks of who I was
before I saw him. I don’t know what’s worse. The
nothing or the flood.

Pink slashes kiss the graying sky, the constant

drizzle continuing to tap on the glass. When I
glance out the window, orange and red trees burn
bright like a raging fire consuming the property.

“You’re up,” he announces, swaying from one

foot to the next, clutching a deep bowl between his
long fingers. The tawny lashes that frame his hazel
eyes rest on droopy lids. He sits on the edge of my
bed and sets the bowl on my lap. “I brought you
something to eat.”

A skeptical grin tugs at my lips. “You made me

soup.” I dip my spoon in the golden broth, watching
the way the tiny stars dash away. The savory scent
unlocks a hidden memory. Rock music echoing
from the radio in our kitchen, a man in front of the
stove stirring a pot of chicken and stars. Is it my
dad again? I’ve been thinking about him a lot these
days.

I lift the spoon and blow away the steam, but my

heart suddenly feels like it’s tumbling. There’s more
to the memory. So much more, yet it remains just
out of reach.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s from a can. When I

was a kid, my mom used to make chicken and stars
when I was sick.” He shakes his head, but his
affectionate yet soft grin makes me smile.

“What was she like?”
He shrugs. “Beautiful. Talented. Unpredictable.

She sang like an angel and was the life of the

party.”

“She sounds wonderful.”
“She wasn’t.” Tension radiates off him,

poisoning our Hallmark moment.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. She was a drug-addicted workaholic

who only had children to improve her image.”
When he lifts his gaze to meet mine, I see the
emotion glittering in his eyes.

I set the bowl on the night table and lurch

forward, pressing my body against the hard lines of
his to comfort him the only way I know how. He
sits frozen like the Tin Man, his breath echoing in
his hollow chest. “I feel you, Wyatt,” I admit
quietly.

His skin smells the same as the masculine

fragrance from his shower. I close my eyes and
burrow into his chest, wishing I knew how to jump-
start his heart and make it beat again.

His arms come around me, his hand threading

through the hair tumbling down my back.
Butterflies pop in my gut as I swoon just a little,
melting into his embrace like a pat of butter on a
hot skillet.

“C’mon. Finish your soup.” His gruffness returns

on a dime, masking the glimpse of kindness I saw
just moments ago.

I glance at him, watching him before I ask,

“Aren’t you going to have some?”

“I made it for you.”
Steam rises from the golden broth as warmth

pools in my belly. I’m quickly learning Wyatt Blue
has two sides. Arrogant ass and sweetheart, the
latter being my favorite. “You don’t eat. You don’t
sleep. What do you do, Wyatt?”

“I drink.”
“That’s it?” My brow arches in question, causing

him to shrug once more. The tension between us is
so thick I’m certain you could cut it with a knife.
Each time I think I’ve broken through his barriers, I
realize I’m nowhere near adding a dent, and then
he throws them back up even higher than before.

“We all sustain ourselves in different ways. I find

life more tolerable when drunk.”

Picking up my spoon again, I lift it to my mouth,

letting the flavorful warmth slide down my throat.
“This is good, thank you,” I mumble, but the soft
sound of mewling takes my attention from my
dinner and pulls it to the open door of my bedroom.
“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” He follows my stare as a little

orange tabby saunters in and rubs itself against his
leg.

“You have a cat?”
“Yeah. Well. No. It comes and goes.” He bends

over and slides his large palm under the cat’s belly,
then lifts it to his chest.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” I ask, reaching out to

scratch its head.

“I dunno.”
Excitedly, I ask, “What’s his name?”
Wyatt shrugs. “I don't know. It’s not really mine.

It’s just a stray that hangs around. I call it Cat.”

My soup suddenly seems much less appealing

than it did a few minutes ago. “I guess taking in
strays is your thing, huh? Is that how you see me?
I'm just another thing that needs a home?” I ask,
setting the bowl aside.

“No, that's not how I meant it at all.” He drops

his gaze, mindlessly scratching Cat’s back with his
fingertips. Regret stews between us. I feel it lifting
off him like the small tufts of orange fur that fly
around his fingers. “I’m a self-centered prick,
Willow. I took you in for my own selfish reasons.”
He glances quickly through light lashes, then
quickly pulls away. “I just didn’t want to be alone
anymore.”

Guilt snaps me in the chest like a taut rubber

band that’s been plucked. “You’re not alone,
Wyatt,” I whisper, leaning forward and resting my
hand over his. I tilt my face toward his, basking in
him like sunlight. A low grumble vibrates inside
him. It’s nothing, just a small rattle in his chest, but
it shakes the bed like an earthquake rumbling under
or feet.

But he remains focused on the cat purring loudly

between us. He felt it, too. The pull. It’s the only

explanation for the pink hue that colors his cheeks
as he pretends not to look at me. “I guess the little
guy could use a name,” he says, holding the cat in
the palm of his hand. It cranes its neck, pressing its
nose against Wyatt’s, and I die inside just a little bit.
“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Fluffy?” Idiot! Of course the first

name that comes to mind is the dumbest one there
is. Seeing him snuggling the stupid cat has me on
edge. Who above four years old names a cat
Fluffy?

He rolls his eyes with a snicker. “Lame.”
I match his grin with one of my own. “Okay,

then what do you think is good?”

“Pussy.” A yick sound leaves my throat as I

scrunch my nose. “What? It’s warm, soft . . . purrs
when you pet it.”

“You’re a pig.”
A deep barrel of haughty laughter rolls from his

chest, rich and decadent like the velvety sound of
his voice. It kicks up the butterflies in my stomach,
causing a frenzy in my gut.

“Give him a cool name like Fender,” I suggest

earnestly.

“Or a cute name like Sprinkles.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I

quirk a brow, taking in the sight of him. The badass
rocker inked in skulls, goblins, and headstones with
a face full of metal. The same guy who slugs booze

from the bottle and curses like a sailor. He just blew
out with the name Sprinkles for a cat, and my
ovaries came dangerously close to exploding.

“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
His wide smile falls into a sexy smirk as he drops

our new pet to its feet. Sprinkles pads to the door,
but my gaze remains locked in a smoldering green-
brown stare down. “Like you wanna take the cat’s
place on my lap.”

“Awfully full of yourself.” I shake my head in

disbelief at his confidence.

He shrugs, offering me a smirk that flips my

stomach and sends tingles through every inch of
me. “If you don’t wipe that shit-eating grin off your
face, you’re gonna be full of me, too.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”
He presses his lips together, the rings pierced

through the bottom standing at attention as he
stands from my bed. The mattress bounces up from
the loss of weight. “It’s a fact, little lamb.”

The nickname grazes my heart ever so gently. I

swore I heard it slur from his lips last night, but I
thought I was imagining it. It’s stupid. A dumb
nickname that doesn’t even suit me, yet it sticks to
my bones, unwilling to let go. “What did you just
call me?”

He looks at me from the doorway, the confusion

written on his features. “Huh?”

“Little lamb. Why do you keep calling me that?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Just seemed to fit you. Is

that a problem?”

“No,” I reply, the hollow sound of my voice

ringing in my ears. “I like it.” It tumbles through my
brain, looping through all the distant memories
trying to come to the surface. Another thread of
familiarity comes on so strong it fills my lungs and
makes my chest ache. There’s something between
us. A scorching energy floating through this house,
tethering us together. It pulses with a life all its
own. He can deny fate, but he can’t deny that.

Wyatt

Y FINGERS

stall over the keyboard. The music isn’t

coming. I feel disconnected from it. Having no
muse is the death of an artist. Music has always had
the ability to speak to my soul, but these days, the
more I play, the emptier I feel. As if I’ve poured out
all I have into these eighty-eight keys and now
there’s nothing left. Just a void in my heart that can
never be filled.

Thump-thump.
A light tapping against the house steals my

attention away from my self-loathing for the
moment. I peer up at the ceiling, waiting to see if it
happens again.

Thump-thump.
“What the hell?” I mumble under my breath,

pushing away from the bench. The full moon offers
the faint luster of daytime shining on the wet lawn
as I open the back door and step outside. Cool wind
blusters through my T-shirt, the light mist
dampening the cotton, making it stick to my skin.
The sound happens again, yet from the outside, it
doesn’t echo as loudly. It’s more of a pitter-patter
as I round the corner to find the cause.

Willow’s feet dangle off the edge, hitting the

house in two short bursts. Thump-thump.
“Willow?” I shout up, soft droplets falling on my
face. My heart leaps into my throat when she peers
down, and a sharp breath hits my lungs. “Don’t
move!”

Turning on the wet grass, I dart around, then

through the doorway, taking the stairs up two at a
time. The door of her room sits open wide enough
for me to enter without having to stop. A trail of
clothes litters the bedroom floor leading to her
window. Jeans, socks, a pair of panties, and a T-
shirt sitting on the wooden frame.

“Willow?” I mumble, moving slowly toward her.
Beams of misty moonlight shine on the house,

illuminating the creamy arcs of her naked back. I
watch for a moment, marveling at the drops of
water that kiss her skin and tracing the smooth lines
of her body that curve inward at her waist, then
bow back out around her hips.

I kick my leg over the sill and step out onto the

slight slope of the plane but don’t venture too far
past the vinyl siding. “What are you doing out
here?” My voice comes out in breathless pants.

“My skin felt hot.” She turns around, leaning her

hand on the wet shingles. I try not to notice the
round globe of her breast rising from behind the
shield of her bicep, focusing instead on the wild
look in her diamond eyes.

“Are you okay?”
The large black dots of her pupil swallow most of

the crystal blue. She leans forward, her chest rising
as she takes a deep breath. “I think so. Do I look
okay to you?”

She looks fucking delicious and I’m a starving

man ready to feast.

My mouth goes dry. I lick my lips, trying to build

some sort of moisture, but the pointed glare of the
naked woman on the edge of my roof has stolen it
all. “Come back from the edge, Willow. You’re
gonna fall to your death out here.”

Her lips quirk into a barely-there grin. “What

makes you think I’m scared of death?”

“Most people are.”
“I’m not most people.”
Ya think? Most people don’t get naked and sit in

the rain two stories up. She turns her back to me
again, letting the drizzle collect in her upturned
palms. “It’s a gorgeous night. Come out with me.”
She throws another quick glance over her shoulder.
My body zings to attention, every droplet dappling
my skin sizzling on contact. “Unless you’re most
people.”

Holding the edge of the shutter, I peek over her

to the ground below. A quick sixty-foot drop into a
mix of grass and concrete patio. I force a vain
attempt at laughter that comes out sounding more
maniacal than I intended it to. “I love heights.

Heights are my favorite thing in the whole world. In
fact, my dick might get hard the closer I get to that
edge, and then I’d be forced to jump. That would
be a whole mess. You don’t wanna deal with that.
C’mon.” I offer my hand, the shaking in my fingers
calling me out as the liar I am.

“Adrenaline junkie, huh?” She, on the other

hand, doesn’t even bat a lash as she curls up her
legs and pushes to her feet. I avert my gaze as she
stands before me, wet and naked, her entire body
illuminated like a ghost in the night. I reach for the
discarded shirt hanging on the sill and hold it out
for her.

“Does my nakedness offend you?” She reaches

up and twists her hair into a ponytail and wrings it
over one shoulder, ignoring the shirt completely.

“No.” A slow breath fans over my dry lips. “But

you’re playing a dangerous game. You don’t even
know me, Willow.”

A sexy smirk sits on her face as she ducks back

through the window. I follow suit, exhaling the
second my feet touch the warm hardwood. She
stands in the center of the room, pink nipples
pointed upward on perfect, round tits.

“The human body is natural. I’m not

embarrassed. You can look if you want.” I drag my
gaze up her legs and follow the contour of her hip
and the flat plane of her stomach, through the slim
canal between her breasts to meet hers. “Besides, if

you wanted to ravage this body, you’d have done it
already.”

I take a step, my wet jeans growing tighter.

“Maybe I like to take my time.”

Her chest rises but doesn’t fall. “Maybe you do.”

She pads to the dresser and takes out a nightgown,
then pulls it over her head, letting the hem fall past
her ass. “But you’re still no threat to me.”

“Why is that?”
“Just not.” She shrugs and sweeps past me on her

way to the bed, but my fingers close around her
bicep. Her head flinches back slightly, and she
pinches her brows together.

“You don’t know real fear, Willow.” I stalk

toward her, forcing her backward. “You don’t know
anything, do you?”

“Wyatt.” Her whispered voice wavers as her

back hits the wall. “What are you doing?”

I rest my forearms on either side of her head,

caging her between them.

“Do you feel me now, Willow?” The smell of

alcohol wafts over my lips, but my eyes fixate on
the burning flame flickering in her heated gaze. A
mix of fear and longing that shivers through her as
her breath turns rapid.

“Y-yes,” she mewls, her soft body arching

against mine.

“Tell me.”
She whimpers once more. “You’re afraid.”

“No. I’m pissed off,” I growl, my mouth so close

to hers, if she lifted her chin just a hair, I could
close the distance and claim it.

“Anger is your mask. It’s all a lie.” She shakes

her head, her steady voice making my irritation
grow, but the flutter in her pulse can’t be denied. I
see it strumming against her neck, screaming at me
to feel it beat against my tongue.

“What do you know about real? You don’t even

know who you are.”

“I don’t need to. I know you.”
I could take her right here, right now. Her back

pushed against the cold, hard wall, my fingers
wrapped around her perfect throat. But it’s not her
I’m angry at. It’s me. I let her get to me, allowed
her to seep beneath my skin for just a moment and
read right through my lies. “I should let you fall off
the fuckin’ roof next time,” I grumble, releasing my
grip and backing off.

My cock pushes hard against my zipper. I turn

my back to her, adjusting the obnoxious erection
that won’t go away. Almost running down the steps,
I find myself at my piano again. My fingers ache
and twitch to caress her skin. The keys will have to
do. Music pours from me. All my surroundings fall
away, my breath on my lips, and the singing sound
bringing me to another plane.

My gift.
My muse.

Fucking Willow.

Wyatt

HE SUBTLE

blast of machine gun warfare competes

with the boom of thunder as rain trickles gently on
the windows. Willow sits beside me watching it fall,
her legs tucked under her body, folding in on itself.
It taps against the glass in a dulcet tone, and only
Mother Nature knows the tune. It’s been days,
weeks, months. It comes down in sheets at times,
thumping on the roof like a giant, though tonight it
falls in gentle purrs.

I thumb-fuck a series of buttons on the

controller. A grenade hurls into a crowd of
surprisingly lifelike people on screen. Blood and
body parts explode on contact. “Oooh, you
fucker!” says the voice on the other end of my
headset.

A million bucks says the guy wouldn’t be saying

this shit to me if he had any inkling who I am. In
the real world, I can be as big of an asshole as I
want, and no one says shit about it. But in the
world of Call of Duty, I’m just the douchebag
known as A$$Master69. These poor bastards have
no idea they’re playing Xbox Live with one of the
biggest rock stars on Earth. My personal gift to

them.

I tear off my headset and chuck it on the table,

lifting my bottle to my lips. A combination of
voices filters through the tiny earpiece speakers.
Some deep, some not. An odd mix of old and young
working together to rise in the ranks of the armed
forces.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room

with the rumble of thunder not far behind. Willow
startles, her nervous gaze jumping to the window.
Her porcelain skin screams from beneath her
nightie, calling me, but I reel in the need stewing in
my gut and force my interest to the screen instead.
Still, she looks pretty friggin’ cute. If I have to be
forced to hang out with Little Orphan Annie, at
least she’s a sweet piece of candy to look at.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of rain now. The

other day you were playing in it naked.”

“That was drizzle. Not the same.”
“You’re like a Chihuahua. Don’t piss on my

couch,” I slur the words through sips of booze. An
army of empty bottles litters the table before me
like the army of fallen soldiers I murdered on the
big screen in front of us. I should probably clean
those up.

“I thought I was a lamb?” she asks, wincing at

another roll above us.

“That, too.”
A coil of hair hangs near the edge of her face.

With my fingertip, I follow the corkscrew pattern,
watching the breath hitch in her throat. Her tiny tits
rise along with it, her chest remaining puffed as I
shove the ever-present tendril behind her ear with
the others. What is it about this girl? She’s a puzzle
I’ve yet to solve. Her crystal eyes pick me apart,
searching my soul for a sign of hope. A shred of
good still festering beneath tattooed skin, but I
know she feels the blackness inside. I know it twists
her in knots, and I wish I knew what to do to
change it. My sweet little lamb. Pure as fallen snow.
“When I was a kid, my mother taught me to count
between the bursts. I’d close my eyes and hold my
breath, praying the storm was moving farther
away.”

Another flash fills the room. She closes her eyes,

holding her knees against her chest and counting
out loud, “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”
Crack! A blast rattles overhead. She gasps,
pinching her eyes to the horrific sound.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Here, take your mind

off it. You can play as me.”

When she crawls out from the corner of the

cushions to the spot next to me, I’m once again hit
with the subtle fragrance of earth and rain. It cuts
through the smoky scent of cigarettes and stale
alcohol hanging in the air, pure and intoxicating in
its own right. The smell of purity. It suits her.

The Xbox remote sits in the crevice between our

thighs. She lifts it, cradling it in her petite hand.
She’s so fuckin’ small, everything looks big in
comparison. That thought process, of course, goes
directly to how huge my cock would look with
those tiny fingers wrapped around it. I mean, it’s
pretty fuckin’ sizeable to begin with, so I’m sure
you could imagine.

With a shy smirk, she turns toward me as I teach

her which button does what. We play a few rounds,
and I’m being polite. Basically, she runs around like
her ass is on fire while I blow shit up. Neither of us
accomplishes anything, but her tinkling laughter
makes it all worthwhile. I hate to admit it, but it’s
the most fun I’ve had with a woman since Frankie.

Suddenly, I’m choked by memories I’ve

squashed deep down inside. Frankie telling me to
suck it as she kicks my ass in Mortal Kombat. Most
girls I knew didn’t play video games. They’d bat
their lashes and stand all pristine in their lipstick
and dresses, but not her. She played hard like a
dude yet loved soft as a kitten. It’s the exact way
she held the stage. The reason people loved her.
One of the many reasons I loved her so fucking
much.

The vodka scorches a rancid hole in my gut. It’s

supposed to drown the memories, but Frankie’s
image in my head is as vivid as ever. Willow’s
arrival has stirred up shit too painful to think about.
I need a better distraction.

That distraction arrives right on cue.
Another sound rings through the house, only this

time it’s not the rumbling thunder rattling the
windows. It’s the doorbell. My lips part as my gaze
wanders to the clock. “The hell?” I mutter under
my breath as I slip off the couch.

Willow’s gaze burns into my back as I head in

the direction of the door. For weeks, it’s been just
her and me in this house together. Sporadic
deliverymen come and go. Some bring food, others
bring bottles—the latter more common—but no
one’s made a social call at night.

Another ring echoes through the house as I

trudge through the foyer and grab the handle, but
my heart sinks as I pull it open.

Black hair hangs over the visitor’s shoulders,

strands of cobalt breaking up the raven blanket
cascading down her back. Blood red lips curve into
a grin. “Hey, Blue. You ready for me?”

“Chloe,” I slur. Shit. “What are you doing here?”

The days all blend, the comatose daylight hours
that bring me to night making it hard to keep
straight anymore. Chloe’s the one constant in my
life, other than regret.

“Don’t be rude. Invite me in.” Her tongue slicks

over the ruby shine as she steps across the
threshold. “I missed you,” she simpers, pressing her
hot mouth to mine in a deep, lustrous kiss that
tastes like cinnamon and cigarettes. The dragon on

her bicep breathes fire down her right forearm as
she shucks off her coat. My eyes trace the intricate
scales inked over her shoulder and onto her back.
It’s dangerously beautiful, and so is she.

A purple tank accentuates her voluptuous frame,

a long gold chain falling into her ample cleavage.
She turns her face toward me, smirking with her
too-red lips curling around her too-white teeth.
“Where do you want me tonight?”

A moral dilemma weighs heavily on my heart.

Willow sits on the couch shivering with every
passing roll of thunder. My chest tightens at the
thought of leaving her alone, yet the distraction I
needed just landed on my doorstep. Chloe’s an old
friend from way back when—so far I can’t
remember. She’s the right kind of girl for me.
Tainted and tawdry, and always up for a good time
on my terms. Men like me aren’t supposed to stick
with one chick for the rest of our lives. Women are
meant to be fucked and forgotten.

Willow’s too unforgettable.
“Upstairs.”
High heels clack against the marble tile as she

saunters to the staircase, her hips swaying with
every step. I enter my room and lock the door.
Willow’s woodsy fragrance still hangs in the air,
mixing with Chloe’s scent of patchouli and cloves
and the alcohol lingering on my lips. Chaos wreaks
havoc inside me. I narrow my sights on the buxom

babe standing before me, forcing the nagging
visions of Willow from my head.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” she

purrs, moving toward me.

She reaches out, but I snatch her wrist in my fist,

wrenching her against me. “Me and everyone else
you fucked today?”

“Does that turn you on?”
“No.” I squeeze harder making her wince. My

lids drift closed as I inhale a quick breath. Chloe’s
practically panting with anticipation, but my body’s
struggling to rise to the occasion. “Be demure.”

She lifts a brow, her sultry smirk falling to a small

O of surprise. “Virgin experience?”

My cock twitches just a bit, and I nod. “And I’m

breaking all your cherries tonight.”

Her energy shifts like I flipped a switch. Her gaze

softens, her lips pulled in a pretty pout. “Are you
gonna hurt me?”

“Yes. Lie down.”
Doing as she’s told, Chloe turns on her heel and

heads for the bed. A soft knock on the door calls
my attention. Willow’s small voice trickles under
the crack. “Everything okay, Wyatt?”

Chloe sits up straight. “Who’s that?”
“No one. Lie down,” I growl, reaching for the

handle and wrenching open the door. “What do you
want, Willow?”

“Who are you with?”

“None of your business.” The wounded

expression on Willow’s face hits my heart like a
gunshot. Good. She should know what kind of man
I am. She thinks I’m good, but she’s wrong. I hurt
people. It’s what I do. “Unless, of course, you want
to join us.” The words grit between my teeth like a
bitter pill not meant to be chewed. They sit on my
tongue, burning my taste buds with their acidic
tang, but I can’t stop them from tumbling out. “You
wouldn’t mind, would you, Chloe?”

“It’s your dollar, Blue.”
A crimson flush blooms on Willow’s cheeks, the

rims of her eyes turning pink. “Why are you doing
this?” she asks, holding back tears that begin to
broach the surface. They melt the shards of ice in
my heart, turning the jagged edges soft. She hurts
because I hurt. I want her so bad, and it’s not
fucking fair. She runs down the hall, but she doesn’t
look back as she ducks into her room.

“Where were we?” Chloe asks as I close the

door.

I drop onto the edge of my bed, the mattress

springing under my weight. She crawls up behind
me, her tongue tracing the shell of my ear. “I can
be anything you want me to be.”

If only that were true. But the woman I want is

in the next room crying because of me. Because
I’m too fucked up to be the kind of man she needs.
The strong, sober man who can take care of her the

way she deserves.

Goose bumps break along my skin. All these

feelings I don’t understand. The only thing I know
is when she’s close, I feel them all zinging at me at
once in every direction. A bottle rocket of passion
bursting in my gut, stirring up emotions I didn’t
know I was capable of having. “Let’s just fuck and
get it over with.”

Chloe slips off the bed and onto her knees. She

frees me from my jeans and wraps her hand around
the flaccid shaft before swirling her tongue around
the tip. I drop my head back, willing my traitorous
cock to cooperate, for fuck’s sake.

Falling back on one hand, I tangle my fingers in

the midnight tendrils brushing my bare thighs, but
it’s no use. Even the sight of her on her knees
worshipping my junk doesn’t jump-start my
arousal. I’m friggin’ dead from the waist down.

Her kohl-rimmed eyes lift to meet mine as my

dick falls from her mouth with a pathetic slap to my
leg. She sits back on her haunches, wiping her red-
smeared mouth. “Are you not enjoying this?”

A cloud falls over my already dark mood. This

was an epic disaster, and now I just want her out of
here. Pronto. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. You
should go,” I slur, tucking my shame back inside
my fly.

Her nostrils flare, a crease forming between her

dark brows. “Tell me this isn’t about that little

blonde waif who came knocking a minute ago.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? She looks like a moth, Wyatt.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, Chloe.”
Her eyes show no hint of shame or scattered bits

of disgrace. Nothing but satisfied stoicism as she
gathers her leather satchel and fluffs her dark hair
before brushing past me. I turn and watch as she
saunters to the stairs. “Your loss.” She blows a kiss
through the air, and I have to physically restrain
myself from swatting it away.

Adrenaline heats my blood. I’m pissed off at the

world right now and need some space to clear my
head. Fucking Willow. In just a few short weeks,
she’s flipped my entire life upside down. Now she’s
cockblocking me from the room next door.

I need her out of my head.
Storming from my room, I stomp down the hall

to Willow’s door, but thoughts of Chloe disappear
like smoke when I spy Willow lying on her bed. Her
crumpled nightgown hangs off one shoulder.
Ducking into the shadows near the wall, I watch. At
first, I think she’s reaching to fix it, but her fingers
dance across her collarbone before slipping beneath
the neckline instead.

With her free hand, she wriggles her fingers,

lifting the hem. Slowly, her hand slides between her
legs. I stand rooted to my spot. Darkness hangs all
around us, but the amber light emanating from the

lamp near her bed is just enough to illuminate her
fingers as they disappear inside her body then
crook back out again.

A possessive hiss skids between my teeth. The

longer I watch, the more that need begins to
suffocate. Passion ignites the spark blazing through
my gut. My cock stiffens to steel inside my jeans.
Lost in the heat of the moment, she doesn’t hear
the purr of my zipper as I open my fly. Squeezing
the shaft, I jerk my fist with angry fervor, keeping
my gaze trained on her.

Her breathing grows labored. Her fingers

continue pumping in and out while she tugs at her
nipple with her other hand. Little hellhound likes it
rough. I knew it. I chew my lip, thinking of all the
ways I’d make her scream and beg as I pound her
little ass into submission. The thought has me idling
dangerously close to blowing my load right here in
the hallway.

She strokes her pussy like she’s punishing it, and

that brings the rain. My balls tighten as she bites
down on her lip. A muted whimper lodges in her
throat. Her body quakes, riding the waves crashing
through her as she comes, and my God, it’s fucking
gorgeous.

She rolls her head to the side, panting her way

back to reality. Her gaze settles on my darkened
corner. Does she see me? I can’t be sure. But at this
moment in time, I don’t give two shits. The tingling

swirls of pleasure that started in my tailbone begin
to rage. My body locks as I find my own release. A
second too late, my grunt resonates in my ears.
There’s no hiding that. She definitely heard me.

But another strangled cry tears from her throat,

her wild eyes focused on the bead of cum dripping
down my fingers. Her lips part; her heated gaze
rising to my face.

I whip my shirt off and use it to wipe my soiled

hands before tucking my junk back in my pants and
heading to my own room like a coward. Shame. It
sits on my chest, caving in my lungs as I lie alone in
my bed. She came twice. One was hers. The other
was mine.

Wyatt

TOUCH

my fingers to my forehead and groan. My

head feels as though it’s been pounded to meat, the
taste of vodka still coating my tongue. My throat
burns, my face on fire, but none of it even matches
to how shitty I feel having treated Willow the way I
did. My behavior was inexcusable. God, why am I
such a creep?

I roll over and find a body lying next to me.

Willow twisted up in my sheets like a newborn
kitten. And goddammit if she doesn’t look fucking
perfect in my bed. Like she belongs there.

Silvery curls fan out over my pillowcases, her

pale silhouette popping against the black cotton.
Her lashes flutter, and a meager moan slips from
between her lips as she nuzzles deeper into the
mattress.

My naked cock strains against the sheet as I

remember our tryst in the hall. She’s not just
forbidden fruit. She’s the fucking apple itself. The
ultimate temptation.

The hangover blisters my stomach and makes all

the outlined edges of my vision fuzzy. Long gone
are the tingles in my lips and fingertips, a numbness

I ache to feel throughout my body. I find the bottle
on the floor and swallow a gulp, letting the acrid
liquid cleanse my demons. It eats away the stench
of failure and the wicked taste of regret. It deludes
the constant screaming in my head. Wash it away.
Wash them all away.

“Willow.” My voice sounds like I’ve been

chewing gravel. I run my fingers through her soft
hair, pushing it off her face. I force my breaths in
and out, ignoring the sweet scent of a crisp autumn
breeze floating off her skin. Been a long time since
I awoke with a woman in my bed. Even through the
violent haze of the morning after, I’m acutely
aware of her closeness. I feel her, smell her, want
her, and the thought scares me. The shit I want to
do to her is shameful. I don’t just want to fuck her.
I want to ruin her.

“Willow. Wake up.” Light lashes flutter over

eyes so crystal clear I’d think they were creepy on
anyone else, but they fit her just right. They flicker
with fire as her gaze falls to my bare chest. I watch
it—no, I feel it—roam across my torso to the solid
bulge forming between my thighs.

I close my eyes, willing my arousal away.

Everything about this situation is fucked. I should
tell her to leave. Bringing her here was a bad move.
Now, the girl’s not only in my bed but settling into
the crook of my shoulder, a spot that fits her body
like a glove. Her scent surrounds me, her petite

hand pressed against my stomach, kicking all my
nerves into high gear.

“What are you doing here?”
She wriggles in closer, ignoring the stink of death

and stale booze emanating from my pores. “You
cried out in your sleep. When I held you, you
stopped.”

Nothing else is uttered other than the soft sigh of

quiet breath beating against my skin. I wonder if
she’s fallen back to sleep. My fingers slip into the
silken hair at the nape of her neck. I hold her as I
would a lifeline, gripping tightly as the guilt from
last night crashes down around me. “I’m sorry
about Chloe.”

“Is she a good lover?”
The question wriggles inside the tiny hole in my

heart and tears a deeper wound. I hate that I’ve put
her in this position. “Don’t ask me shit like that.”

She ignores my scowl and continues.

“

You’re

the kind of man who needs a good lover.”

“Why is that?”
“Because you're so scared of feeling. You’re

scared of your own heart. You should have a
woman who can touch you there. Who sees the
beauty inside you, not just the face you portray.”
Suddenly, that wound spreads into a festering gash.
I don’t even know how to respond. Chloe is a piece
of my past, one I’m not proud of. I should tell her
this. Willow deserves to hear it all, but when I open

my mouth, my tongue feels numb. “But if she were
that person, I suppose you wouldn’t be here with
me.”

“You’re the only thing keeping me from slitting

my wrists at this point.” I don’t know why I choose
to start with that. I don’t generally talk to the
women I bring to bed, and I certainly don’t tell
them all about my problems, but something about
Willow burns down my defenses. It ignites a fiery
need to confess my sins. Yet my stomach churns,
and my hands feel restless. I reach to the nightstand
for a pack of cigs and light the tip, letting the smoke
dribble from my lips.

“A patch of black ice took everything from me.

It stripped away my humanity, leaving nothing but a
broken shell in a vacant house. I’m not the man I
used to be.”

When Willow’s arms tighten, a wave of emotion

sluices through me. All it takes is a chink in the
armor to burst the dam. After too many years
locked in my own head, I’m pouring out now,
cascading over the floor in puddles, dripping into
cracks and crevices as I spread too thin.

“On a road somewhere on a Canadian highway, I

drove my sister and friends into their graves. How
can I live with that?”

I pinch my eyes, remembering the impact. The

world flipped on its side, the back of the bus
skidding out from under us. And the sound. That

god-awful screech of metal on concrete, the
smashing glass, and the screaming. So much
screaming. Then deafening silence.

Why was I spared? I should be dead like Frankie,

her haunted melody escorting me into the
underworld. Instead, I fester in my sins, swallowed
whole by this fuckin’ house, another relic
decorating its walls.

“I’m sorry you lost her.” I can tell by the slight

quiver in her voice she’s sincere. God, why does
that affect me the way it does? Shared experiences
have a way of making you feel close to a person, I
guess. It’s an anomaly. I don’t know anything about
her, yet here I am unloading my past on her as if
she’s been my friend for years.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be telling you all

this.”

“I don’t mind.” She shrugs. “I like hearing you

talk.”

The cherry on my cigarette glows bright orange

in the dimly lit room as I draw deeply on the
nicotine. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually like talking
about it,” I tell her, crushing my butt out in a glass
ashtray.

“Why not?”
“I dunno. I don’t like people.”
“Does this mean you like me, Wyatt?”
The sigh of my name said in her sweet, breathy

voice taunts me. “More than I should.”

I want to stay in this position, tangled limbs

twisted together with her warm body pressed
against mine, but it’s an illusion. A momentary
sliver of peace before my chaotic mind somersaults
into devastation and thoughts of death. I won’t take
Willow down that path with me.

“We should get up.” I shrug, forcing myself away

from her. I slip my legs over the side, cold water
soaking into my sock when my foot kicks the
empty glass. I hold the vodka bottle up to check the
contents in the early light. A few swallows linger at
the bottom. I bring it to my lips, sucking back the
last bit before hurling it to the ground with a hollow
thud.

I feel the mattress shift as she sits up, then rests

her forehead on my back. “I got you.”

She does. She has me in her grasp, but I have her,

too. She’s infected my head and infiltrated my
heart, and I don’t know what to do about it.

________________

“I don’t get it. It’s just five kids in detention?”

Side-eyeing the television, I flit my gaze between

the thirty-year-old wannabe high school kids and
Willow spooled up in the crook of my couch. She’s
cocooned in a blanket, nothing showing but her
head adorned with a crown of messy spirals.
Haphazard pieces stick out from the hairband and

coil around her hairline. Little wisps of cotton
softening her face.

“They aren’t just five kids. It’s deeper than that,

a test of the human design. They’re five different
personalities forced to coexist—the nerd, the jock,
the basket case, the criminal, and the princess.”

The corner of my lip quirks up. She says it with

such an air of righteousness. As if this stupid movie
is something special. “I suppose you identify with
the princess.”

“More like the basket case.” She snorts. A

moment of silence passes before she adds, “You’d
definitely be the criminal.”

Opening my mouth, I feign outrage. “What

makes you say that?”

The light from the television flickers in her eyes

as her gaze searches my face. “Well, you’re not the
nerd, and you don’t strike me as particularly
athletic.”

I reach into my pocket to dig out a cigarette and

set it between my lips. “I’ll have you know I’m
very athletic.”

“Running from the cops doesn’t count, Bender.”
“Eat my shorts.”
An eruption of laughter bursts from her chest.

“Oooh, I might need some cream after that sick
burn.”

“Fuck you,” I warble, lighting the tip of my

smoke. It glows orange as I inhale deeply, then

exhale a stream toward the ceiling. I feel her gaze
boring into me and look over to find her watching.
“Is this bothering you?”

“No.”
“Then why are you staring at me?”
“You’re just so damned interesting.”
“What? I’m a dick. The end.”
“That’s the thing. You’re really not, but it’s like

you try so hard to be one. Almost like you’re
overcompensating for something.”

I raise a pierced brow and grab my junk. “I don’t

have to overcompensate for shit.”

Another trickle of laugher dribbles through her

lips, but it’s smaller this time. More delicate than
the last. “See? Right there! I touched a nerve, and
you went all alpha male.”

That one hit harder than intended. “This movie’s

ridiculous, and so are you.”

I push from the couch, but she springs forward

and grabs my arm. “Don’t leave. I’m sorry. You’re
super cool and totally not nice at all!” she jokes,
her words dripping with sarcasm. “C’mon. I didn’t
mean to run you off. Stay with me.”

The way she looks up at me makes my cock

twitch. Her pleading gaze is my downfall. I wonder
if her mouth can beg as well as those eyes can. A
hint of pink glides across her bottom lip, and I need
a moment to get my hormones in check. “I’m
gonna grab a beer. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, but hurry. The best part is coming up.”
When I open the fridge, the sudden blast of cold

air chills my heated skin. Thoughts of her mouth
still sit front and center as I pop the top and let the
frosty brew slide down my throat. I push it from my
mind and wait for my burgeoning erection to wane
before heading back into the living room.

This time, she’s sitting up, the blanket draped

across her crisscrossed legs, the oversized T-shirt
hanging off her shoulder. With a hard exhale, I plop
back down on the sofa next to her, throwing the
corner of her blanket over my lap.

“You cold?” She slides closer, wrapping us both

in warmth. “We can share.” Her sweet autumn
fragrance cuts through the stagnant smells of beer
and tobacco clinging to my lips. My hard-on returns
with a vengeance, pushing against my zipper as I
shift my hips to find some relief. My gaze stays
fixed on the screen, but it’s a decoy. I’m lost in my
own head, imagining her pinned between the couch
and me, her legs hooked over my hips as I drive us
both into oblivion.

Jesus Christ, I’m a bloody animal.
Wicked thoughts carry me through the rest of the

movie, and before I know it, Judd Nelson’s
throwing a fist of victory in the air because he got
the girl. Yeah, because that’s real life. Not!

I hate these movies. An hour and a half of drama

and bullshit only for the most unlikely couple ever

to end up falling madly in love. That’s not how it
works. Life is full of heartache. It’s full of pain and
disappointment. I guarantee ten minutes after “The
End,” the girl realizes the guy’s a dipshit, and she
can do better.

“Well, you watched. Was it as great as you

remember?”

Willow just sighs. The shadow of her closed

lashes crawls across her cheeks as the theme song
cuts out. As I carefully detangle myself from her
embrace and lay her sleeping body on the cushion,
I’m suddenly struck with the memory of a dream.
One of those weird, out-of-body scenarios where
you wake up still clinging to the fantasy, hoping you
can make it last. But it never does. You lie there,
trying like hell to get it back, but the longer you try,
the harder it is to remember at all.

But I do now. And it was one of the sweetest

dreams I’ve ever had.

I gently slip my arms under her back and knees

and lift her off the couch, watching as the blanket
pools onto the floor. She curls into my chest, her
head lolling onto my shoulder as I carry her up the
stairs to her bedroom, but as I lay her down, I
realize too late I’ve carried her to mine.

What the fuck?
She rolls to her side, her lashes fluttering. “Stay

with me,” she mumbles on a sleepy sigh, blindly
holding her arm up before it plops down onto the

mattress. A million reasons why this is a bad idea
float through my mind, but I lift the corner of the
comforter and slide in beside her anyway. With the
warmth of her body against mine, it’s not long
before sleep steals me, too.

Wyatt

USIC FILLS

the room. The deep rumble of the piano

gives way to the tinkling nodes of the melody
taking flight. My usual libation sits on the top long
forgotten, the ice melting into my vodka. This is the
only place I can get some space. Willow’s been in
my bed every night for the past few weeks. She
starts in her own, but every time I roll over, I find
her twisted in my sheets, her angelic face sleeping a
few inches from mine. I don’t hate it. On the
contrary, having her so close provides me with
comfort like I’ve never known. Some sort of inner
peace that silences the constant nagging.

I push from the bench and trudge into the

kitchen to refill my drink, but I stop short when
instead I find a tiny ass backlit by the bright
refrigerator light.

A pair of thin, creamy legs curve out from under

minuscule shorts that may as well just be a strip of
cotton underwear. The urge to grab those slender
hips is so sudden. A low growl escapes my throat as
I push the thought from my mind. Willow jumps,
her cheekbones darkening to a deep crimson.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say. Although

the feral feeling that rambles through my body as
she gapes at me with wide-eyed innocence scares
the shit out of me.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just . . . it was lonely upstairs

without you.”

Her squeaky little voice makes me smile. She’s

so fuckin’ cute it’s borderline painful. Skinny and
awkward, yet there’s something sexy about her
standing in the fridge light in that winter-blue
nightie that perfectly matches her eyes. Eyes filled
with so much sadness I can almost feel it leaking
out of her and pooling onto the floor at her feet.

“Well, you found me,” I grumble, pouring the

watered-down vodka in the sink.

She reaches for an apple and lets the door slowly

close shut with a wisp as she takes a bite. I’m
drunk. Clearly. That’s the only logical excuse for
the explosive reaction inside me when she licks
away a droplet of sweet, sticky juice. “Why are
you looking at me like that?” Her lips curve into a
small, nervous curl at the corners of her mouth.

“Wyatt had a little lamb.” I reach out and

playfully tug the unruly spring that seems to always
hang in front of her face. “Her fleece was white as
snow.”

“Is that all I am to you, Wyatt?” she whispers in

a tone that reverberates through my entire body.
Maybe it’s the half bottle of booze swimming in my
stomach, but I swear she flashes me a look of lust

that confuses the fuck out of me. I’m old and bitter
—no one she should be interested in—but the heat
in her eyes burns fierce and feral as she stares up at
me, to the point where I swear I’m imagining
things. But the rumble in her belly brings me back
to reality. Food. She came here looking for food,
not sex. Settle down, Wyatt. Keep it in your pants.

“Dominos is open till one. You like pizza?” I

swipe my phone off the counter and dial the
numbers without waiting for a response. I’ve never
been the type to chase young girls. Sure, the
groupies who followed us around like dogs were
barely legal, but what they lacked in age they more
than made up for with experience. Willow’s the
opposite. Pure. That’s what she is. From her ivory
skin to her big doe eyes. A delicious temptation I
need to stay far, far away from.

A much-needed blast of cold air hits me in the

face as I pull open the freezer and grab the Grey
Goose. “You want something to drink?”

Her gaze flits to the bottle in my hand. She rolls

her tongue across her plump bottom lip, making my
cock twitch. “Can I have a sip of that?”

“I don’t know. You old enough?”
When I step forward, her body tenses. “I’m

twenty-one.”

Twenty-one. She’s young yet still old enough. I

can already hear that innocent voice moaning my
name, and it’s so fucking vivid. Inwardly, I chastise

myself for being a horny bastard. I could go out
right now and dial up as many chicks as I want,
ones who will gladly let me defile them six ways to
Sunday, but it’s not as fun without the challenge.

“Good enough for me,” I tell her, holding out the

bottle by its neck. She takes it, but I’m reluctant to
let it go, holding it just tight enough that she gifts
me with another innocent giggle, and I hate the way
it makes me feel inside. Like a pariah. A filthy old
man leaning in closer to inhale the sweet innocence
emanating off the young woman standing in my
kitchen. I remind myself of the reason she’s here.
The vow I took to give her a home and nothing
more. Yet when she tips her head back to take a sip,
I can’t help but wonder if that long neck tastes as
enticing as it looks.

Crinkles form above her nose. “What do ya

think?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“It’s good,” she lies, grimacing again when she

takes another swig.

“Whoa. Settle down there, killer.” I take back

the bottle, all the while trying not to fixate on the
V-line of her baby-doll top and the faintest hint of
budding cleavage. There’s not much, but it’s
enough to make my jeans feel tight, and another
reason to make me feel like a dirty old man.

“It’s late. You should go back to bed.”
“Only if you come with me.” She lifts the bottle

from my grip and swallows another gulp, her lids

beginning to droop. “Everywhere that Wyatt went,
the lamb was sure to go.”

The scent of alcohol wafts from her lips, the fog

muddling her crystal gaze. “You really should be
more careful around me, Willow.”

“Why is that?”
“’Cause I’m the big bad wolf, little lamb. And

I’m hungry.”

My heart riots in my chest, my dizzy head

spinning like a cyclone. She draws her succulent
lips between her teeth, then lets them out in a
pretty pout. Her mouth glistens with a sheen of
saliva. I want to make it mine. Dominate it, dirty it,
destroy it for my own filthy pleasure.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispers, her aqua

eyes darkening to a deep shade of topaz.

“Stop it, Willow.”
“Or what?” she challenges.
She’s fucking with me. A petulant child who

needs to be punished. My restraint hangs by a
thread. I push her against the fridge, pinning her
arms above her head. The apple thuds to the floor
and rolls under the counter overhang, forgotten.
She sucks in a sharp breath, her nostrils flaring.
When she meets my gaze, her eyes are lit with from
within. They flicker and burn, roiling with lust and
fear. I like it far too much. It thickens my cock to
an agonizing mass. The thought of her untouched
cunt squeezing around it has me on the verge of

coming in my pants.

“I’m going to end up hurting you.”
“I can take it.”
Hot breath beats against my lips. If I kiss her

now, I know I’ll never stop. I’ll need to taste all of
her. Every last inch until she’s trembling and
wasted, murmuring my name in her innocent little
voice. Broken. That’s what she’ll be, what I want.
Demolished and quivering and mine.

“You can’t. You’re a silly little girl who doesn’t

know shit about anything.”

She’s seven years younger than me. An innocent

field mouse taunting the cat intent on devouring her
whole.

“All I need to know is that with you I feel safe

from things that hurt me inside.” The waver in her
voice knocks my defenses down, crushing my heart
when I see the tears building beneath her lashes. A
small smile breaks through the drops shimmering on
her cheeks. With the pad of my thumb, I clear the
tears away. I want to take it all away. All her pain,
all her sadness. The urge to take her in my arms
comes on so strong it steals away all traces of
doubt. I lean in, feathering my lips against hers.
Soft, sweet, the way she deserves. A frail whisper
in the dark, a secret just between her and me.

She purrs my name, arching her back as my

thoughtless lips travel to her neck. I shouldn’t want
her this badly. I shouldn’t ache with this need every

time I see her, but she’s dragging me across the line
of morality against my damn will.

The fucking doorbell buzzes followed by a sharp

rat-tat-tat on the glass in the door. The pizza guy.
Perfect timing.

Tearing myself from the warmth of her body, I

open the door to find a dorky dude in black-framed
glasses with a buzz cut oddly wearing what looks
like a shirt with cartoon characters all over it.

“Wyatt Blue. Wow. Never thought I’d get lucky

enough to land this round,” he chatters, holding out
the box. “Heard the DJ say on my way in that
Savages in Ruin was nominated for a Grammy. Best
New Album. Congrats, eh?”

I glare at the asshole, signing the slip so he’ll get

the fuck out of here. I have no idea what he’s
talking about, but the sight of him on my porch
aggravates me to the point of no return.

“All right, man, you’re all set for the night. Hope

it’s a good one,” dorky douche drags out before
backing out the door.

The savory scents of pepperoni and cheese waft

into my nostrils like poison. I meander to the dining
room just off the kitchen, hurling the box on the
table and tearing my phone from my pocket once
again.

There it is in black and white, splashed across

MusicBuzz.com. A Grammy. A fucking Grammy? I
stare at the list of names on my screen. Savages in

Ruin sits among illustrious company. Rock royalty
that we’d bow down to share a stage with. It’s
everything we ever wanted, but without my band, it
feels like a hollow victory.

Frankie’s voice rings in my ears. The Grammys,

Wyatt. We got there because of you.

“It’s a pity nomination,” I audibly reply as if she

can hear me.

You wrote the songs. It’s your heart in the album.

You deserve to be there.

“So do you! But you’re not! And it’s all my

fault.”

As of now, no word’s come down the wire

whether Wyatt Blue will be available to play for
Savages in Ruin, but we’re still hoping for the best.

The statement is a sucker punch to the Adam’s

apple. I gape like a fish, unable to speak for what
feels like an eternity.

“Why is this happening, Frankie?”
“Who are you talking to?” Willow’s voice brings

me home. How long had she been there? Did she
hear my entire conversation with my dead sister?
That’s going to go over really big.

When she reaches out, the only thing I want to

do is fuck her until she cries, then love her harder,
deeper until I’m drained of this godforsaken ache
that sits in my gut night and day.

Staring at the article, I pace a tight circle around

the room. Willow’s gaze bores into me, watching
me stalk like a caged animal, my hackles raised and
my free hand balling into a fist at my thigh. “No
one,” I grumble. She steps forward, and I can’t
quite place the look on her face. Fear? Pity? My
arm falls limp at my side, my hand still clutching
the phone so hard I’m afraid I’ll crack the crystal.
It all comes back. The fame, the glory, the energy
of the wasted crowd.

The glass, the screams, the agonizing silence.
“Sometimes I hear Frankie’s voice, okay? It’s a

comfort mechanism or something. I dunno. Don’t
make a big deal out of it.”

“You hear her?” Cracks cut through the light

sound of her voice. A pained expression splashes
her face, then quickly falls away. “What does she
say?”

“Apparently, we’ve been nominated for and

asked to perform at the Grammys.” Saying it out
loud hollows me out. Why not saw off my arms and
legs? Peel back my skin and twist my veins with a
rusty fork? The pain would be far less great.
There’s no way in hell I can get on that stage after
what I’ve done. I can’t do it without them.

“Wyatt, that’s incredible!”
“No. It’s not incredible; it’s a fucking tragedy,” I

spit, sweeping past her to swipe the Grey Goose off
the kitchen counter. My eyes narrow into slits, the
rage seeping through every last shred of my soul.

“You have no idea what it’s like to see everyone
you love die right in front of you, so don’t even
fucking try.”

A crimson flush blossoms on her chest and

cheeks. It rises up her face, pushing the tears from
below her tawny lashes. “No, Wyatt. You don’t
know shit.” She turns and heads for the nearest
exit, banging the door open and stopping a few feet
out in the grass. Droplets of water course down her
body in tiny rivulets. She tilts her face toward the
black ink of night, letting it fall between her parted
lips.

For a stunned moment, I simply watch. She

stands in the downpour, her ivory skin glowing
against the violent darkness around her. The
frightened girl I met on the bridge is gone, and
standing in the rain, her light blue pajamas turning
transparent, a woman stares back at me. Hardened
nipples poke through the gauzy material clutching
her petite frame in a way that should be illegal. A
possessive rumble churns in my belly. I want her in
my arms again.

Her lips twist into a scowl as I follow her outside,

letting the storm slam the door shut behind me.
Rain thrashes my hot skin, soaking my hair. With
both hands, I push it back and twist it with the
black band around my wrist. “What are you
doing?” I call over the thundering torrent above.

She stops, cocking her head to the side like an

innocent puppy begging for a treat, her platinum
hair now a fair shade of winter. “You have
everything! You have no idea how lucky you are!
You’re alive, Wyatt! Yet you waste your days hiding
in your head and drinking yourself into a shallow
grave. It sucks what happened! It’s a devastation
that would bring even the strongest man to his
knees, but you don’t have to die like this!”

Water sluices down her face as she glares at me

across the yard, her eyes as dark and stormy as the
sky around her. My cock thickens in my jeans. How
could it not? When she’s standing there with that
look of fury, her lips parted and her chest violently
heaving.

“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to start living.”
The howling wind picks up the damp strands

from my haphazard ponytail and whips them across
my forehead. This is insanity, but standing out here,
the squall rolling above us, drowning our feet in
mud-soaked puddles, I feel more alive than I have
in months. Years, even.

I stare at Willow, the soft curve of her face, and

the lithe way her body moves as she comes toward
me. Reaching for my hand, she’s like an angel
coming to free my soul. Her tiny fingers twine with
mine. An electric charge rushes up my forearm as if
my entire body’s been struck by lightning. This girl.
This intense young thing is so full of life, a divine

animal spirit drawing every emotion I’ve ever felt
bubbling to the surface. It’s unexplainable. She has
this gift. This way of breaking through me with
nothing more than a little look. I can’t escape it.

Wyatt

Y HEAD

pounds as my lashes flutter, the tiny rock

concert continuing without end. I crack crusty lids
and stare at the clock through bloodshot eyes.
Three p.m. and I’m just waking up.

The bottle of Grey Goose lies empty on its side. I

push to a sitting position, catching the sight of my
fucked-up face in the mirror. Waves of blue stick
up haphazardly around my head. The royal color
has grown bland and boring, a girlie shade of
robin’s egg I need to freshen up. I push it down,
trying to remember what happened last night.
Memories flash in my head like Polaroid pictures
popping one by one. It’s as if they’ve been shaken
much too hard, the images stretched and blurred.
Piano. Vodka. Ice-blue nightie. Her soft body
pressed against mine . . .

Fuck.
The taste of her sweet lips remains buried under

the foul remnant of day-old booze. I am a drunken
buffoon of epic proportions. I went too far. What
the fuck was I thinking? Actually, I’m pretty sure
my cock was doing the thinking last night. My brain
was basically floating.

Adjusting my morning semi, I peek over my

shoulder and find her side of the bed empty. The
thought catches the corner of my mouth. When did
I start referring to it as her side? I rack my brain,
but I can’t seem to remember a moment before her.
It’s as if she’s always been here. Living inside me
until the moment she chose to be seen. But I guess
that sounds absurd. I’m probably still drunk.

I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom

and make quick work of cleaning myself up before
traipsing down the steps.

“You’re up.”
Willow’s voice floats into my ear as if carried on

the breeze. I turn toward it, my heart fluttering
when I see her face. Why does she have to be so
fucking beautiful? Pale curls are pulled into a
crown at the top of her head, tiny tendrils gracing
her heart-shaped face. It makes her eyes shine crisp
and clear as the winter sky.

Outside, raindrops pirouette from above, their

tiny movements carried on the frigid wind. Willow
sits at the kitchen island, quietly watching their
flight with this look of peace etched on her face.

“What the fuck are you watching?” I grumble,

my voice like sandpaper.

“The way the rain falls. It’s transcendent.”
I yank open the fridge with a resounding grunt,

but it’s not about the weight. It’s about the want. I
want to feel her body move against mine, her

pulsing pussy gripping my cock as she shatters to
pieces. I want to mark her perfect skin with my
teeth, teach her, taint her, turn her into my little toy.
I just want her. Plain and simple.

“It’s a frozen hassle. I wish it would either

fuckin’ flood or stop already.” With trembling
fingers, I lift the bottle to my lips. A delivery from
Shoppers Liquors is due today. The stewing rot
bubbles in my gut. Water isn’t going to cut it. I need
a little hair of the dog to chase away my pain. But
the ache in my head doesn’t stop the physical
reaction in my body when her expectant stare burns
into my skin.

“What?” I ask a little more harshly than I intend.

I feel like shit and can’t deal with this right now.

Disappointment cuts across her features.

“Worried about the nomination?”

I inwardly groan, scrubbing a hard hand down

my face. The announcement that stopped me from
fucking her silly up against the fridge. Shit. This
Grammy nomination. We worked hard for it. My
band lost their lives for it. But the thought of
stepping foot on that stage makes me want to dig a
huge hole in the frozen earth and cover myself with
dirt. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to face it,
but I just don’t want to think about it right now. Not
when my head is so fucked up over Willow.

Twisting around, I pull open the cabinet and grab

the little blue bottle of dye that’s been sitting in

there the past couple of weeks. The red lettering
cuts through the label in lightning bolts bursting off
the side. Manic Panic.

“Whatcha got there?”
“I have to touch up this blue.”
She slides off the stool and comes around the

island, plucking the tub from my fingers and staring
down at it. “You need a hand?”

“You wanna dye my hair,” I deadpan.
“I want to be where you are.”
The statement jars another memory from the

night before. My sweet little lamb. Her pale skin
mingles with the soft ivory sweater slipping off her
shoulder. It’s perfection. She’s so pure, so
wholesome. An empty palette next to my wild
splashes of color. She walks in the light while I hide
in the shadows, fighting off the demons that hold
me prisoner.

A crease forms between my brows. “This has to

come off,” I mutter, pinching the chunky fabric
between my thumb and forefinger. She raises a
brow in response. “I don’t want you to get dye on
it.”

Without debate, she lifts the sweater over her

head and drops it on the counter.

“Whoa, babe. I meant to put on an old T-shirt or

something.” I whip my head to the side and shield
my eyes from gawking at her perfect tits.

“I’m wearing a bra.” I can hear the smile in the

jovial tone of her voice without even looking, but it
doesn’t stop me from taking a quick peek. Tiny
pink nipples barely show under the see-through
layer of nude lace. I reach down and adjust myself
before turning on my heel and racing for the
bathroom. Once there, I rip off my own shirt and
plop down on the closed lid of the toilet as she
turns the dye over in her hands to read the
instructions.

“Just dump the shit on and let it sit. It’s not

rocket science.” Through the mirror’s reflection,
her eyes meet mine; a cool, winter blue and boring
hazel locked in a stare down. We’re both thinking
the same thing. I see it in her eyes, the heat
simmering in those aqua pools. For a split second, I
wonder why I’m hesitating. She walked into my life
as if she always lived here, then tore down this
frozen wall built around my heart piece by piece.

“You like it on top, right?”
The innocent question makes my dick spring to

life. My first thought is, I prefer it from behind, but
I bite back the words lingering on my tongue and
nod as she wrestles with the plastic gloves.

A cold dollop of solution plops on my head. Her

fingers comb the dye through my hair from root to
tip before moving on to another section, carefully
drenching each tendril as she goes. A shuddering
chill slithers up my spine. “Am I tickling you?”

“Sorta.”

Why does Willow have this effect on me? She’s

the only one who could make something as silly as
a dye job feel erotic. My sweatpants get
progressively

tighter

with

each

massaging

movement of her fingertips. I ball my hands on top
of each thigh to keep from grabbing her ass and
pulling her down on my lap.

She twists it all into a knot and piles it at my

crown. “Let me just make sure I got it all,” she
mumbles, rubbing her thumb across the hairline
around my ear and the base of my shaved part. The
look of concentration on her face when she works
her way to my forehead is so fucking adorable. I
want to make her dirty like me.

Ten minutes later, my head hangs in the sink as

she rinses it all out. She rests her ass against the rim
of the counter admiring her handiwork as she snaps
off her gloves. She glances at the eagle tattooed
across my chest and traces the peaks and valleys of
my torso as she moistens her lips with her tongue. A
hint of something flashes inside her. Emotion. It
moves through her gaze like water crashing against
the shore then receding.

“You missed a spot,” I tell her, swiping my

forefinger into the small puddle of goop that
remains in the jar. I stand, stepping between her
feet as I tug on the band holding together her messy
updo. Untamed tendrils explode around her face. I
slick the dye through one side, adding a royal blue

streak to her snow-white hair. “There. Now it’s
perfect.”

A smirk lands on her lips as she turns to look.

When I slip my arm around her slender shoulders,
my fingertips lightly trace her collarbone, eliciting a
field of goose bumps dotting her skin. “We match,”
she whispers, her voice strained and light.

I can’t deny it. She soothes my jagged edges.

Polishes them smooth so they don’t do any more
damage than they already have. With her by my
side, I almost feel whole. “You feel me, little
lamb?”

Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth as

she slowly nods. The energy that brews between us
is a live wire sparking in the night. An insane
connection that coils around us popping in my chest
like tiny cherry bombs in a fire. She feels it, too. I
see it flaming her cheeks, a rose flush blossoming
on her porcelain skin before my eyes. If I kissed her
again, would it darken to a deep shade of crimson?
If I touched her body, would that gorgeous blush
bloom farther down?

“Will you do something for me, Wyatt?”
“Yeah,” I answer truthfully. Whatever it is, my

answer’s yes. I would do just about anything for
her. How the fuck I fell this hard, I have no idea.
She couldn’t be more perfect if I dreamt her up
myself. Unburdening myself to the truth, the
heaviness that weighs on my shoulders begins to

lift. She wrapped me around her finger without
warning,

then

weaseled

into

heart

unannounced.

She rinses out the remaining dye, then slips her

hand into mine. Without a word, she floats down
the hall to the back of the house. The setting sun
burns through the shower-wet windows in spite of
impending night. It fights across the glossy shine on
my piano to the bright gleam of sparkling blue
sitting in the corner next to my old Marshall stack.

“Where did you find that?” I ask, holding back

the razor’s edge of emotion slicing through my
veins, shredding me from the inside out. The
vintage Les Paul guitar glimmers in ombre shades
of cerulean and sapphire with hairline flecks of
aquamarine. I slide my hand from hers and pad
over to it, trying to remember the last time I felt its
weight in my arms.

“Pick it up. Your hands will remember what to

do.”

I swallow past the lump growing in my throat as I

lift it from the stand and run my hands across the
smooth body, feeling every nick and bump marring
the finish. This was the beginning. My first love, the
only gift my mother ever gave me that was worth a
damn. A jolt rages through me, rolling up my face
like a noxious gas. I close my eyes to the sudden
sting as my fingers instinctively grip the rosewood
fretboard, the tips pressing against the tightly

wound strings.

Slipping the strap over my shoulder, I reacquaint

myself with the instrument. A lost love back from
the abyss. The sound of my past crunches through
the speaker and rumbles in my chest like rolling
gunfire. All my shit dissolves into the atmosphere
the minute my fingers begin to move.

Music and rhythm find their way into the secret

places of the soul. They call to me from a higher
plane, a world beyond the one I know. Nothing
matters. Nothing hurts. I’m not drowning in misery
or dying for a drink. The beat takes over, and I am
untouchable.

My head can deny, but my heart won’t let it.

Rock ‘n’ roll in its pure animal form strangles the
hell out of you until you can’t breathe, yet you still
beg for more. It’s freedom. It’s magic. It’s sex and
love and power and faith. Hunger, need, desire. It’s
all-encompassing.

When my lids crack open, I see Willow teetering

at the edge of the piano bench, her lips parted, eyes
wide, watching me with her fiery blue gaze that’s
just a few shades lighter than the streak in her hair.
Adrenaline shoots through my overheated blood.
I’m amped. I feel like I can take on the world, but
I’d settle for the sweet little blonde who made this
happen.

Willow

HE MUSIC

flows through every vein in my body,

pumping my blood with its violent beat. I feel it,
seeping in and out in waves and moving inside me
like rushing water. Wyatt’s half-swath of hair hangs
over his face as he stares down at the guitar in his
hand, the strap cutting across his muscular back.
His fingers massage the strings. His pick hand flies
across the body of the instrument with ease. It’s
incredible.

The hours he’s spent hiding in this room belong

to Frankie, Knox, & Jett, the ones he still holds
with him every day. They live on in his heart, in the
never-ending music that plays inside it. But this is
different. Right now, this is our moment, the
soundtrack of our life together. Right now, he plays
only for me.

Lost in the crying bite of lonely riffs, he doesn’t

see me wander to the piano in the center. My
fingers move across the keys, seamlessly picking up
Wyatt’s rhythm. The wailing guitar stops without
warning, but only for the moment it takes Wyatt to
recover. I feel his eyes on me, boring into my soul.
Etching into the fabric of my being as my body

sways to the beat.

Without a word, he picks up where we left off,

meandering over to me as he plays, our hearts
colliding, our need for freedom whirring around us.
It’s the base of our urges, the very thing which
drives us forward. The thrill of losing ourselves to a
higher power.

By the time we’re done, my heart is leaping and

dancing in my chest like David; the music, my Lord
and savior. I look up, catching Wyatt’s wild, dark
stare. He whips the strap over his head and rests the
guitar on the back of the baby grand.

The riot in my chest only grows louder the closer

he gets. He grasps my arms and hurls me off the
bench, pushing my back against the wall. Heat falls
off his body in waves. Violent breaths compete with
my own seconds before his lips crash into mine.

Wyatt’s assault on my mouth is nothing like last

night’s sweet surrender. This is carnal. A hard,
angry kiss that scrambles me senseless.

Lip rings scrape my mouth as he licks across the

seam, forcing my lips apart. Slippery and slick, his
hungry tongue glides against mine. He devours me.
Stealing the breath from my lungs and a moan from
my chest, he replaces it with a possessive need so
fierce I can taste it.

When he pulls away, his razor-sharp gaze

contains a bubbling emotion I’ve never seen before.
Manic desire. A yearning that keeps me pinned to

the wall as he drops his hold and takes a step back.
“Fuck!” His growl is low and evil. It radiates
through my body, turning it to liquid.

My lips feel raw and rough. I reach up and press

my cool fingertips against them. “Wrong lips,
sweetheart.” He wraps his long fingers around my
wrist and yanks my hand down to my throbbing
mound. I swallow hard, remembering our tryst in
the hallway a few weeks ago. I knew he was there.
I wanted him to see me, the real me. The one who
burns and bleeds and wants and needs, and when I
came, he came, too. It was perfect.

“Only if you plan to join me again.” I square my

shoulders, trying to seem bold, but the waver in my
voice is an embarrassing reminder of my naiveté.
Butterflies whir in my gut. I tamp down their
nervous flapping and meet his blazing stare.

He leans in close. Chills slither down my spine,

but the rest of me is so warm I’m boiling. The ache
inside me throbs with need. “Or I can just do it for
you.” The tip of his finger trails up my thigh,
causing goose bumps to erupt on my skin.

“I-I . . .” Every thought in my head falls away as

the pad of his thumb sweeps across the apex of my
thighs.

He skims his nose up my neck, his skilled fingers

still taunting my core. “When you touched
yourself, it was my arousal coursing through your
veins and my fingers you imagined filling that

empty space inside you, wasn’t it?” His gravelly
baritone rasps in my ear. He pushes back the lock
of hair hanging over my face, but it just keeps
falling, and so do I. Falling since the day I met him,
plummeting into the unknown. Into lust, into love.

“Yes.” I see it every time I close my eyes. That

moment his head falls back and his lips part as he
chases his climax, and that rush of heat filling my
insides as he clamps down his lip and growls
through it.

He finds my throbbing clit, forcing out a needy

whimper. I writhe against his hand, trying
desperately to find the release I need, but his
ministrations are far too light and tentative.

“You wanna kiss me again, Wyatt?”
“I wanna do more than kiss you.” He cups the

nape of my neck and pulls me close, his hot breath
feathering my lips. “But you’re too fucking
innocent.”

“I’m not,” I whisper, trying desperately to wet

my dry lips but coming up short. I may be young,
but I’m old enough to know what I want. Without
another word, I lurch upward, closing the space
between us. A low growl rumbles in his chest. His
searing mouth descends upon mine with carnal fury.
He licks across my lips with a series of flicks. I
open for him, letting him inside my mouth, my
heart, and hopefully soon, my body.

But his fist closes on my hair and tugs, snapping

my head back. “Little lamb and the big, bad wolf.
You sure you know what you’re asking for?” His
words are thick and laced with warning. Sucking
my bottom lip between my teeth, I nod. He tugs
harder, eliciting a sharp cry. “Tell me you want
me.”

“I want you, Wyatt.”
“Good.”
A wisp of cool air rushes over my heated skin as

he drops his fierce grip and stands back. I sag
against the wall, pressing my palms and back
against the hard surface to keep from falling to the
floor. “What the fuck does that mean?” I ask.
Conflict streaks across his face. He wants this just
as badly as I do, so why is he fighting it so hard?
“You know . . . life doesn't have to be miserable
just because you are.”

Hurt clenches my heart as I reach for him, but he

shakes his head and turns away. “Don’t fucking
psychoanalyze me.”

Anger swirls with the lust fogging my vision.

“Why not? Someone should. You’re not just a dick.
You’re fucking disturbed, Wyatt. You need serious

help

,”

I goad, pulling my brows together.

An incredulous expression twists his features.

“How long have you hated me like this?”

I stare at the broken man before me trying to

make sense of what he’s saying, but his heated gaze
morphs into something twisted and ugly. A hard,

mean exterior marring the sweet face of the man I
know he’s hiding inside. “I don't need to hate you.
You already do an amazing job of hating yourself.”

He rolls his eyes, raking his hands down his face.

I feel him retreating, falling back into the steel cage
he keeps around his feelings, but I’m all fired up
and ready to burst. “You picked me. You took me
off that bridge and drove me to your house. I didn’t
ask for it,” I shout, pushing against his chest with
both palms, but his hard body pushes back.

“Yeah

. . .

only because I had no idea how

fucked up you really are.”

“That's bullshit. You knew and loved it because it

made you feel good about yourself. Someone else
with bigger problems than you who you can focus
on instead of fixing yourself.”

“Oh, God, you are so full of shit.”
“You just can't see it, because you're so in love

with the idea of Wyatt, the asshole, Wyatt, the
recluse, Wyatt, the ex-rock god with the fucking
great haircut. You work so hard to repress the
person you are that you can’t fathom anyone in this
world could love you for you.”

“What the fuck do you know about real love?

The neediness and the ugliness and the pain? The
truth is, you'd run from real love if it ever came at
you. The only reason you stayed with me is
because I was never really here.”

“But you are here. And so am I. I don’t know

what else I can do to show you that you’re not
alone.”

A wicked grumble tears from his throat. “I don’t

need you to save me, Willow.”

“I don’t want to save you, Blue! I want you to

realize that you’re worth saving.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he seethes, spittle

dripping into the ring at his lip. “You think I enjoy
this? I’m a fucking piece of meat that keeps on
living! Useless to anyone, including you!”

“I think you do enjoy it, actually. I think running

toward anything real scares the shit out of you.”

“You know what scares me, Willow? Wanting

you this badly when I know I’m only going to fuck
it up. There’s no way this can end well.”

The fight drains out of me. I feel it exit my body,

leaving nothing but despair and frustration in its
place. He wants me so badly it terrifies him. A lump
forms in my throat, and I swallow it down, forcing
out the last piece of truth I have left. “I’d have let
you drag me to hell if it meant you’d hold my hand
on the way.”

“Sorry, lamb. My ticket to Hades is one-way,

single passenger.”

Peeling myself off the wall, I slip from his

heaving chest and make my way to the door,
blinking back the tears brewing over my lashes.
I’ve given Wyatt far too many. He’s emblazed
himself so deep in my heart that I’ll never be able

to cut him free.

There are two distinct sides to Wyatt Blue. The

one hiding behind the self-imposed concrete,
building up walls to shelter his heart, and the one
who feels far too much for his own good. The
vulnerable, intuitive man who shakes me down with
a single look. I know our relationship began under
the strangest circumstances possible, but it doesn’t
taint what we have. It only makes it more special.

Willow

AIN HAMMERS

the windshield like the tears on my

cheeks. It splatters on the heavy panes of glass,
then falls in tiny rivulets until the harsh wipers
come and blast them away. I imagine that’s how my
face looks. Wet and worn, my hands pushing away
the thin lines only to refill the empty ravines
immediately.

The bus hugs the double yellow line as Wyatt

maniacally fists the steering wheel. I sit on the
passenger seat, willing him to look at me, but his
eyes stay fixed on the road, an untouched glass of
vodka and Red Bull sitting in the cup holder
between us. He hates when I cry, but he locks it all
up inside his chest, tamping down the emotion I
know is piling up within.

“When did you stop loving me?” The question

earns me a quick glance before he sets his sights
back on the highway. It was enough, though. I saw
the pain etched across his looking-glass eyes, eyes
that give everything away regardless of what his
mouth says. He doesn’t want to do this.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Willow.”

A slight waver cuts through his buttery tone. I love

the timbre of his voice. It’s what drew me to him in
the first place. Sure, he’s tall and handsome, but it
wasn’t until he opened his mouth that the dam
snapped, charging with emotion that flooded my
insides with warmth. Even now, when we’re
wrought with so much tension, I feel the smooth
baritone of my name on his lips lift the hairs on
the back of my neck.

“Did you ever love me at all?”
Lip rings jut from his mouth as he presses his

lips together, sucking in a heavy breath through his
nose. I know he wants to yell, scream, throw things.
He’s furious at himself and taking it out on me.
Wyatt’s constant self-loathing bubbles to the
surface, and I stand by, waiting to sop it up. It’s a
game we play. But the stakes have changed, and
I’m the one losing.

I sit up in the dark. A sheen of sweat dampens

my hair. I push it off my forehead, gasping in the
blackened room.

A throbbing pain pulses low in my belly. I grasp

my stomach, forcing myself out of bed and into the
hall. A memory hits me like an anvil. Reaching
down, I trace the dull pain in my stomach, knowing
I’m fine. There’s nothing there. Not a scratch, not a
mark. But the dream thrust me into the reality I
now know is true.

He was leaving me.

My bones still quivering from within, I quietly

pad to Wyatt’s room. His arm hangs off the bed, a
swirl of color dancing up the sinewy muscle. Black
sheets twist under his naked abdomen. I hear him
yelling from across the hall sometimes. He fights in
his sleep, wrestling with the demons plaguing his
existence. Now, though, he’s quiet. His back rising
slowly, then gliding down in smooth, easy
movements. He’s an exquisite creature, full of color
yet shrouded in darkness.

When he’s awake, the anguish overpowers every

feeling inside my chest. But now, as calm sleep
steals away his melancholy, I’m set free on my tide.
I don’t know what’s happening between us. The
emotion tugs at my heart, not fear or sorrow or
helpless abandon. It’s something new, something
alien to me. I’ve never had this tightening in my
chest, these butterflies knocking on the window of
my stomach trying to take flight around me. The
broken, complicated man. I’ve loved him my entire
life. Before I even knew what love was, and all I
ever wanted was for him to love me back. Now, he
doesn’t even know who I am.

A deep grumble reverberates the pillow. He

thrashes, shielding his face before flopping to his
back. It starts. The nightmares. Dreams of blood
and gore and unending screaming. Now they’re
invading my sleep as well. Wyatt and I are the
same. Two hearts, one hurt. We twist together in

the darkness, feeding off our energies. It’s bitter
and black, yet the one thing that brings us together
again and again. Our connection. It cuts through the
shadows, leaving razor-sharp gashes of blinding
light. Nothing can stop it, not even death itself.

Quietly, I pad into the room and crawl under his

covers. My hands rove across his sweaty skin,
holding him close to my body. Giving him my
warmth, my comfort, my love. Everything I have,
it’s Wyatt’s. It always was. We were meant to be.
Written in blood. Two people too disturbed to bear
life, meant to find each other.

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.

See how amazing you are.”

He rolls to face me. In the dim room, I see the

emotion shimmer in his eyes like tiny stars. “Why
do you like me? I don’t even like me.”

“The booze and swagger aren’t all you are.

You’re sweet when you think no one is watching,
thoughtful in quiet ways. And you care so much.
You love, Wyatt. Down to your soul, you love so
much it hurts you inside. Those are your true
colors. I see them shining in everything you do.”

Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the

room for a few brief seconds before shrouding us
both back in the shadows, but it’s enough that I
catch the strong lines of his face, the regret etched
into the planes. “You’re so fuckin’ special. You’re
everything that’s sweet and good and wholesome. I

don’t deserve you.”

I bring my hand to his face, my thumb sweeping

his cheekbone. This is the Wyatt I remember. The
quiet romantic who whispered into my heart and
kissed my soul. The man who loved me even when
he didn’t have the strength to love himself. “Then
fight for me. Be the man who does.”

Wyatt Blue isn’t a perfect human. He’s flawed

and fierce, and perhaps damaged beyond repair, but
none of that matters right now. The only things that
do are him and me and this constant need pulsing
between us. It steals the confession stalling at my
lips as he grazes against them, the soft sweep of his
breath fanning over my skin. They fall open,
inviting his tongue to slide deeper into my mouth,
his lip ring pressing hard against the soft rim. It
reminds me of us. Hard and soft, bitter and sweet.

I groan, my need for him as violent as the raging

storm just outside the window. It all comes back.
Memories overtake my mind like a drug. Lifting my
leg over his hip, I feel the hard ridge of his cock
pressing against me. “Wyatt,” I whimper, trying to
build up the friction I desperately need. “Please.
Don’t push me away again.”

“I wanna know you, too, Willow. Everything.”
The truth. He’s opened the door. All I need to do

it walk through it with my head held high, but I
can’t. The words feel like sandpaper on my tongue.
They won’t budge, no matter how hard I try to

force them out. The guilt he feels. The bitter sting
that eats him alive, it’s not because of Frankie. It’s
because of me.

Wyatt

“

OT TONIGHT

. I don’t want to talk. I just want to

feel.”

The husky sound of Willow’s plea leeches into

me. The girl has lost her mind. I never want to let
her go. I want to devour her, claiming her sweet
skin with my eager mouth and marking that
porcelain perfection with my teeth, showing proof
to the world that she’s mine.

I pull her close, my fingers skating down her

spine as she arches against me. Want coils through
my veins like a viper, venomous and deadly. It’s not
enough to own her. I want to make her burn under
my touch, blister and ooze and ache the way I do.

“What do you need from me, little lamb?” The

light of the neon moon beams in through the drops
of rain. It’s not much, but it backlights her features,
just enough that I can see the haze of lust softening
the sharp brightness of her eyes.

“Anything. Everything. Whatever you have to

give,” she mewls against my lips, her sweet breath
rolling across my tongue with the fervent rush of
her words.

If she could see inside me, see what I had to

offer, she’d get up and leave this bed, this room,
this house, and never come back. My heart isn’t
worth a damn, my soul as black as ink. I can’t offer
her forever—I can’t promise her a life or a future—
but she isn’t asking for that. She just wants me,
scars and all.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from the

accident, it’s that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. I
might hate myself in the morning, but I’m not
wasting another minute with worry and remorse.
I’ve spent too many nights lost in my head. Tonight,
I plan to spend it lost in her.

My tongue glides against hers, exploring every

inch of her hot, needy mouth. With my free hand, I
slither across the waistband of her panties, my
fingers trailing her tight stomach and swirling over
her navel. Her muscles contract. She sucks in a
sharp breath when I slip beneath the cotton barrier,
her body growing rigid.

“Is this what you want?” I offer, my voice husky

and thick, riddled with want and stifled with
hesitancy. I wear the cocky rock-star mask and
swagger like some insufferable peacock. It’s what’s
expected of me. But here, with her, I’m just me.
The unloved little boy with a heart far too large for
his own good. The guy who wants to be everyone’s
savior.

“Yes.”
The whispered sigh dripping from her quivering

lips is a full symphony to my ears. As is the sharp
gasp she lets out when I come to the juncture of her
thighs. I place my thumb over her clit, circling the
bud gingerly as I slip inside her warmth. In and out
in slow, steadied strokes, her core slick and
slippery. I don’t want to rush this. I want to revel in
the melody of her satisfied sighs and garbled grunts.
Life on the road is hard and fast. Playing, drinking,
fucking. Every night a new hall, a new bar, a new
girl, never sticking around long enough to make it
last. But this? This is worth waiting for.

A groan escapes her as I add a second digit. Her

lips fall open, her breathing quickening, repeatedly
gasping in little puffs of air. I don’t want to hurt her,
but I want to fill every inch of her body, making
sure she still feels me deep inside long after she’s
dirtied my fingers. I want her every step, her every
tiny movement to remind her where I’ve been. The
wet heat between her thighs that soon enough will
belong to me.

Arching her back, she moans at the intrusion.

Her hips rock to meet my movements, pushing
herself to my rhythm, her body gyrating and
shivering under my touch.

Her eyes jam shut as she teeters on the edge.

“Look at me, Willow. I want to see the wreckage in
your eyes when you shatter.” A muted cry lodges in
her throat. Her lashes flutter, the whites of her eyes
coming into view before the roiling blue heat

glimmers between them. “Wyatt had a little lamb.
She came all over his fingers.”

It’s then I feel her tighten, pulling my fingers

deeper into her, the muscles of her abdomen
becoming taut and her legs trembling. Her
fingernails dig into my tattoos as violent shocks of
pleasure slam into her tortured body. "Wyatt,” she
whimpers seconds before her body detonates.

The strange sensation accompanying our touch

doesn’t relent when ecstasy hits her. Instead, it
intensifies, zapping through me with electricity so
profound I’m quaking alongside her as if I’ve found
my own release.

It snaps inside me like a tightly pulled thread. I

watch with shock as we both ride the last legs of
her orgasm. I feel it. Every last surge of energy
rocketing through her body soars through mine. A
single word comes to mind. A diabolical incantation
I refused to see until right now. Fate.

Pulling my hand away, I touch her wetness to her

parted lips before sucking it into my own mouth.
Sweet as candy, smooth as silk. It lights a fire deep
inside me. If I lived a thousand lifetimes, I’ll never
be man enough to deserve her love, but I’m a
selfish prick. One who’ll sell his soul to the devil
for another taste of her.

Her body trembles beneath me as I roll her to her

back. Tiny nipples pebble through the thin cotton of
her nightie. When she looks up at me, her pale eyes

round and big, her innocence shines through. So
fucking small, so fucking pure. Perfect. In every
way imaginable. She’s an enigma. A young girl with
no past, no future, and no last name who burst into
my life and turned it upside down. From the day we
met, she’s leaked into my blood and tugged at my
heart with her unruly hair and sweet, familiar face.
She thinks I’m nice, but I’m not. I’m a wolf in
sheep's clothing, and she’s the lamb heading for
slaughter.

She raises her arms, her body undulating as I lift

her tee and cast it aside. Her tits are small, barely a
handful, but the two pretty pink circles embedded
into her soft, creamy skin are enough to make my
mouth water.

Sitting up on my haunches, I drag her panties

down her slender legs. A hint of pink glides across
her plump bottom lip as she spreads her knees
apart. Her little cunt is still glistening and ready. I
want to devour her. Gorge on her flesh until she’s
screaming, crying, sobbing my name.

I lift her leg and nip her thigh, the smell of her

turning my cock to granite. Gnashing my teeth, I
sink them into her soft skin. She mewls like a
kitten, tiny and meek. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I
tell her, making eye contact one last time before
dipping my head between her thighs. Her body
vaults off the mattress, her moan ringing in my ears
like a gunshot. I dip into her hot hole, flicking

upward every so often to catch her clit with the tip.
With each flip of my tongue, she bucks her hips
against my face, the rings in my lip scraping against
her.

Willow’s fingernails dig into my scalp as her

desperate wails turn to muted whimpers. When my
lips clamp down on her throbbing bud, her body
detonates. Hot sugar dribbles down my chin. I lap
up every drop, savoring the taste of her on my
tongue.

“Wyatt, please. I can’t take anymore.” She looks

up through light lashes, her glazed eyes focusing in
the dark.

I’ve fucked hundreds of women. Nameless,

faceless women who meant nothing to me. But out
of all of those women who only wanted to share
time in my bed, Willow’s the girl who took
ownership of my heart.

“I want to destroy you.”
“I’m already broken. Finish the job.”
She falls back, arms circling her head as I run my

tongue up her body and latch on to one tiny pink
nipple. I feel her melt into the mattress, her limp
legs falling wider as I fit my hips between them.
With my cock in my hand, I guide it to her sodden
entrance. Her chest rises as the crown parts her
slick folds. Her hand springs to my ass, but I don’t
want to rush. I want to feel every piece of her
splinter and crack as I shove inside her, making her

mine. Bask in the sound of her squeaks and
whimpers when I ruin her tight little body forever.

Crystal eyes swim in tears, her lips parted with

heaving breaths. Her body opens for me like a
blooming flower greeting the sun. I move forward,
watching the quiver of her slanted mouth, the
furrow of her brow as I fill her to the hilt.

Her pussy clamps around my shaft, making it

impossible to move. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Relax.”
My gaze locks on hers. I rest my hand on her cheek
and thrust my hips. She cries out, and my cock
thickens at the sound.

“Wyatt.” One word, two syllables, uttered from

her perfect mouth, and my ego soars. My name
dripping off her lips is the sweetest sound I’ve ever
heard. A musical interlude to the sounds of slapping
skin and the groans radiating in my chest. “Take it
out on me. Your pain, your anguish. Make me feel
it.”

My palms dig into the soft mattress on either side

of her head. She reaches for me, her hands
caressing my face, fingertips trailing down to the
hollow of my throat as I tip my head back and
growl her name. It sparks something within me.
Stirs up a feeling, a memory. A small crumb of bliss
from my former life, and for a fleeting moment, I
feel almost whole.

Pleasure rips through my middle, tightening my

balls as I pull away suddenly, groaning as pearls of

hot cum spurt across her stomach. Holding myself
up on one knee, I drop my head, allowing myself to
be swept up in the combined scents of sweat, sex,
and autumn clinging to her skin.

“Don’t move,” I grumble, detangling from her

arms, but the spell breaks the second my bare feet
touch the cold wooden floor. I flip the switch in the
en suite bathroom, flooding the room with yellow
light. “Idiot,” I curse at my own reflection. Pink
splotches dapple my cheeks and nose. I rake my
fingers through my hair, pushing damp shards of
blue off my forehead and letting it fall back in a
cobalt wave before reaching for a washcloth.

A wisp of auburn hugs the molding. Sprinkles

saunters in, rubbing his fur against the backs of my
ankles, but I shoo him away. “Go away, stupid cat.”

Of course, I’m angry with myself and taking it

out on a defenseless animal. An animal who came
here looking for affection, no less. His only crime
was allowing himself to love me, a feeling I thought
I was incapable of reciprocating.

Until now.
Outside my window, the rising sun gently kisses

the sky with its faint orange luster. Willow lies
sprawled out on my bed, the covers concealing her
lower half. My stomach twists. I hate how sexy she
looks wearing my cum. I hate that I still want to
shove my cock in her pretty mouth even after I’ve
finished. But more than anything, I hate myself for

falling this hard.

I sheepishly wipe away my mess and chuck the

soiled cloth on the floor, soaking in the sight of her.
A massive tangle of platinum curls corkscrew
around her face, the post-sex flush still bright on
her cheeks. “You okay?” she asks, pushing herself
up on her elbows. They sink into the plush mattress,
her hooded gaze following as I round the bed.

“Yeah.” I can’t fight this feeling anymore, and

I’m not sure I want to. She’s a part of me,
embedded in my skin like smoke, swimming
through my veins like a drug. A shot of adrenaline
straight to my heart, and I’m hopelessly addicted to
the rush. “I’m great, actually.”

“C’mon,” she simpers, patting the empty spot

next to her. I climb in, and she turns to her side, our
bodies molding together in naked heat. The echoes
of her cries and whimpers still invade my brain,
thickening my cock a second time. Every breath
brings the scents of autumn and rain, a fragrant
combination I’ve grown to love. She slips her hand
under my arm and rests it over my wildly beating
heart. “You think there’s a heaven?”

“I really don’t know.” Reaching up, I thread our

fingers together and bring them to my lips. “But I
can’t imagine it’s better than this.” She and I in this
moment, it feels like magic. I’m exactly where I
want to be.

“I never want to leave this bed,” she whispers,

her arm tightening around me. “Just you and me,
forever. I guess that’s crazy, huh?”

“It’s okay to be a little crazy sometimes. Makes

life worth living.”

Willow

“

OW LONG

will you be staying with us, Miss

Sherwood?”

“Just one night.”
The hotel clerk offers a welcoming grin as I take

a deep breath and hand over the credit card
lodged in my sweaty palm. The stolen credit card I
lifted hours before, slipping out of the unlocked
bathroom window at Pathways. My heart races as
she takes down the info, but I keep the stoic
expression plastered on my face. For all they
know, I’m here on holiday. Maybe even visiting a
friend. On the outside, I can be anyone I want to
be.

But the fading smile on the clerk’s face seizes

my confidence. Her glance moves behind me as
she hands me my key card, and I turn to see what’s
caught her attention just before he saunters up to
the clerk next to me.

A cigarette dangles from double-pierced lips,

aviators concealing the majority of his face, but
what I notice first is the bold, blue waterfall
feathering over the shining glare on one mirrored
lens. “I need another key,” he warbles around the

filter. “Room six-oh-one.” His voice is thick and
deep like smoke. I can’t help but stare, my card to
freedom sitting on the counter long forgotten.

In one smooth motion, he rakes his long fingers

through his hair and turns to face me, the corners
of his mouth bowing. “Don’t look so frightened,
little lamb. I don’t bite.” Lowering his shades down
his straight nose, I catch a glimpse of his
incredible eyes. A deep hazel green with flecks of
blue. They roll down my body so slowly I feel it
squeezing my limbs as they slide back up to my
face. “Not unless you ask.”

“Excuse me?”
When the clerk holds out his new key, he swipes

it from her fingers without so much as a thank you
and stalks past me to the elevator. “You’re all set,”
the clerk announces, jarring me from my stupor.
It’s not until then that I realize my mouth was open
like a jackass through that whole exchange.

“Uh . . . thanks,” I mumble, my mind still

scrambling to catch up with what just happened.
Standing before that tall drink of water has me
thirsty as fuck, but I don’t have time for tasty
distractions.

Forcing my plan back into action, I take the key

card and move toward the elevator. The only room
the hotel had on short notice was a suite on the top
floor. Randimae Sherwood should have kept her
purse locked up tight. Poor girl is going to get hit

with an eight-hundred-dollar-a-night bill, and that
doesn’t count the room service I intend to order.
Whatever. My father can afford it. It’s a flash in
the pan compared to how much he’s paid to lock
me up in that hellhole.

I punch the button to the top floor and watch the

numbers ascend, the worry receding with each
passing floor. I got away. I’ll hide out for one
night, then make a plan for the rest of my escape.
First things first—I’ll need more money. This
credit card is only good for a one-time use before
they can use it to track me. If I’m smart about it,
I’ll stay two steps ahead.

A sigh of relief passes my lips as I turn the latch,

locking myself inside the suite. I hurl myself onto
the plush comforter and reach for the television
remote. It flickers to life, bathing the room in a
dim blue light. For the first time in forever, I feel
free. No one telling me when to eat or when to
sleep. I have my own room, my own television, my
own fucking bathroom.

After a long, hot shower, I call in a room service

order that could choke Kobayashi. The pillow -top
mattress envelops my tiny frame like a cottony
hug. I melt into its embrace, sighing as my body
sinks inside its depths. This is quite possibly the
most comfortable spot in the entire world. I could
die in this bed and do it happily, gleefully. With a
smile. It’s heaven.

It’s not until I hear rustling outside my door that

I realize I’ve fallen asleep. The jiggling handle
begrudgingly pulls me from the warmth of my
cover cocoon. Slowly, I pad to the door and peek
through the peephole, but instead of waitstaff and
covered trays, all I see is a vibrant mass of blue
tangles atop the head of the guy trying to get in my
room.

I pause for a second, watching him as he tries

the key and curses. My gut reaction is to call
security and have him escorted out, but
considering how I got this room, consulting the
authorities would be a seriously stupid move. The
kind of shit you see on cop shows where you sit at
home and scream at your television about what an
idiot the guy inside it is. No, that won’t be me. I
may look like a child, but I’m not as dumb as one,
and I can take care of myself.

My fingers close around the cool metal handle

and push, the door popping open a crack. “I think
you have the wrong room.” At least, that’s what I
planned to say, but Blue Hair charges in the
moment I open my mouth and barrels past me to
the bed I considered my solace just a few short
minutes earlier.

What the fuck?
“Um . . . excuse me?” I stand at the edge of the

tiny hall outside the bathroom, staring at the man
taking up most of my bed. His boot-clad feet hang

off the edge, his upper body still encased in a
black leather jacket. “Sir?”

A mix of snores and grumbles rumble the pillow,

but he doesn’t wake up. “Great,” I whine, throwing
my hands up as I move toward him. The smell of
whiskey floats off his breath. Now what? There’s
no way I’m going to get this drunk asshole up and
out. He’s three sheets to the wind, passed out cold,
and drooling into a million thread-count Egyptian
cotton. So much for my easy escape.

My eyes scan the small room as I try to think up

a plan. A loveseat sits in the corner near an
armchair in a mock living room set up. I suppose I
could sleep on the couch and deal with this in the
morning. But no, fuck that. This is my room. Paid
for with my blood . . . and eight hundred dollars’
worth of Randimae’s credit, but that’s beside the
point! I’m not going to let this guy throw me out of
my own bed. No one tells Willow Young what to do.
Not anymore.

________________

The shrill ringing of the phone rips me awake. I
reach out and grab the receiver and bring it to my
ear. “Good morning, Miss Sherwood. This is your
eight a.m. wake-up call!” says the chipper voice on
the other end. I grunt something that sounds like a
thank you and drop the receiver back down on the

hook.

A strong arm comes in from behind and pulls me

against a rock-hard chest. I gasp, my sleep-addled
brain forgetting where I am for just a moment. I
struggle to move, but Blue Hair tugs me against
him, his face burrowing into the back of my neck.
“Just five more minutes,” he mumbles, his thick,
gravelly baritone sending electric shocks skipping
down my spine.

But it takes less than five minutes for him to

release his grip and sit up in a stupor. A sliver of
early sunlight breaks through the seam in the
room-darkening curtains. Through the slice of
light, I see his face circle through a kaleidoscope
of expressions until he finally decides on one. A
crease dents his forehead, his full lips twisted in a
pout. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks finally, his
large hand pushing back the swatch of blue falling
over his forehead and tucking it behind his ear.

“I could ask you the same thing.”
“We fuck?”
“No.”
“Then why are you in my bed?”
“I’m not,” I tell him, fingering the switch on the

lamp near my bedside. “You’re in my bed. You
barged in here last night and abruptly passed out. I
assume you were looking for six-oh-one.”

He tongues the set of rings in the rim of his

mouth before sucking them between his teeth. The

move causes a physical reaction in my gut. “What
room is this?”

“Six-oh-two.”
A grungy growl of laughter rumbles in his

throat. “Shit.” Throwing off his covers, he swings
his legs over the side of the bed, dropping his head
in his hands. “Guess I got pretty twisted last
night.”

“Ya think?”
He stands, his long body reaching for the ceiling

as I silently beg for his leather jacket to fall off.
Without another word, he rounds the bed and walks
past me. “Uh, you’re welcome!” I call after him,
assuming he’s just going to walk the fuck out, but
the stream of trickling water filters in from the
bathroom. I scowl, but my pulse reacts to the
satisfied groan that follows just before the toilet
flushes. What the fuck is wrong with me? The guy
took a piss, and all I can think about is sneaking a
peek, hoping to catch a glimpse of his naked ass.

“I didn’t say thank you,” he says with a flippant

tone as he starts eating my cold, day-old French
fries.

“Wow, you’re a dick.” He shrugs, washing down

his disgusting breakfast with a sip of flat Coke.
“Good?” I ask, sarcastically.

“Needs some Jack,” he replies, falling back

onto my bed like it’s his. The leather creaks as he
rests his large hands under his head, crossing his

legs at the ankles. “Let’s get some real breakfast. I
gotta ditch this hangover before sound check.”

Yeah, and I’m the one with mental problems.

“Maybe we can start with your name.”

He lifts a pierced brow and looks over at my, no

doubt, horrified expression. I expected him to
leave. Instead, he’s settling in and asking for
breakfast, yet he’s the one wearing the what-the-
fuck look on his irritatingly handsome face. “You
don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”
“You been living under a rock?”
“Mental institution.”
Another dirty rumble of laughter escapes but

quickly dies when he realizes I’m serious. “You’re
crazy?”

“I don’t think so.”
Under his scrutiny, I feel self-conscious.

Reaching up, I twist my tangled mass of hair into a
knot. He grabs my wrist and yanks it toward him.
“Then what’s that?”

My gaze drops to the pink pucker of jagged flesh

marring my pale skin. Shame washes over me. The
last thing I need is judgment by this asshole. I pull
my arm back, shielding my regret with my sleeves
and an icy demeanor. “I got so high I scratched till
I bled.”

The pierced corner of his mouth quirks in the

tiniest grin. “Yeah me, too,” he adds, pushing up

the sleeve of his leather jacket. A garish scar
twists up his forearm, filled in with ebony ink. A
wide crack dividing a headstone in half, the name
Delilah Blue tattooed into the epitaph.

My eyes go wide. “Who’s Delilah?” I ask, my

voice a craggy whisper. I’m not going to cry. I
refuse to cry. Crying is weakness, and I’m strong
now, goddammit.

“My mom.”
“Is that why you . . .?” I mock a slicing motion

over my cotton-covered wrist.

“Do I need a reason?” he says, waving his hand.

It drops to my knee. The gesture’s so intimate.
We’ve only just met and have yet to exchange
names, yet the warmth of his palm feels as though
it belongs there.

That one small piece of tenderness breaks the

dam of tears held back at my lash line. They
scatter down my cheeks, falling in a silent spray.
“I ran away. Maybe I am crazy.”

He lifts his hand to my face, wiping my tears

with his knuckle. “Looking for a way out doesn’t
make you crazy. Wanting to live? Now, that shit’s
insane.”

“Sometimes, it’s just so . . .”
“Exhausting,” we both say at once.
With nothing left to say, we share a smile. “I’m

Willow,” I introduce myself, breaking the
deafening quiet.

“Everyone calls me Blue,” he replies. “But you

can call me Wyatt.”

I lean in, my fingertips grazing the silken tuft of

hair hanging over one eye. “Blue, huh? Fitting—”

His mouth descends upon mine before I have a

chance to finish my statement. He swallows my
gasp, licking the seam of my lips with tiny flicks,
begging for entry between them. I comply, an
impish moan leaking across our twisting, tasting,
tangling tongues, his hands sliding into my hair as
I fall backward. He tastes like bad decisions and
excitement. Sin lying in wait.

My feverish thoughts can’t keep up. In my brain,

it feels so fast, flashes of blinding light bursting
behind my lids. But in reality, he takes his time,
exploring my mouth slow and deep. I’ve been
kissed by boys before, but I’ve never been
devoured by a man like this. The strength of his
lips and the scratch of metal digging into my skin,
a heady mix of rough sweetness pulling me into
oblivion. The slide of his hand traces the curve of
my hip as he raises my leg around his waist, and
for a split second, it feels so right.

Violent knocking breaks the spell cast between

us. I come up for air, gasping at the roar of my
dad’s voice bellowing through the fire-rated metal.
“Willow! I know you’re in there!”

“Holy shit, it’s my dad!” Emotion claws up my

face, the lust swimming through my body now

replaced by fear. “I can’t go back, Wyatt! Don’t let
him take me!” I sob, moving backward, but there’s
nowhere to run. If it wasn’t for Wyatt, I’d have
already checked out and been on my way, but
instead, I’ve chosen to trade in a lifetime of
freedom for a few blissful moments of normalcy. I
should have known better. I’ll never be normal. I’ll
always be a freak hidden away with hopes that
someday I can be fixed, but I can’t. This is me, take
it or leave it. I’m just . . . broken.

But for a few fleeting minutes, Wyatt made that

feeling go away. I felt real. He understands my
pain, this stranger who burst into my door and
kissed me until all I felt was his breath filling my
lungs and his long, hard length pushing against
me. He showed me that I’m not the freak they’ve
made me think I am.

“Willow, honey, I’m with the manager. We’re

coming in!” The door clicks, accepting the key as I
brace myself for impact.

“Don’t worry, little lamb, I got you,” Wyatt

whispers, pushing me behind him. He raises his
hands in front of him as my dad bursts through the
door. “Whoa, sir. I don’t know what this is about,
but this is a private hotel room.”

My dad’s light blue eyes narrow into slits as he

stares daggers at Wyatt. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a friend.”
Dad’s gaze drifts to the tangled mess of sheets

on our bed, a scowl twisting his lips. “Friend, huh?
I suppose this friend is the reason you ran away?”
Dad cranes his neck in an attempt to catch my eye
as I cower behind Wyatt.

“She did that on her own. Willow doesn’t need a

hospital. Those fuckin’ quacks can’t do anything to
help her.”

Dad steps to Wyatt, red exhaustion ringing his

eyes. I hate that I’m the cause of all his worry.
He’s better off without me in his life. “Don’t you
understand? She’s a danger to herself.”

“Yeah?” Wyatt seethes, his hand reaching back

to hold me steady. “Well, I’m a danger to you if
you think you’re gonna get past me.”

“Is that a fact?”
“That’s a promise.” Wyatt stands tall, folding his

arms over his wide chest in a possessive stance.
“She’s my concern now.”

“How much do you really know about her? Did

she tell you she stole the credit card of one of her
counselors to pay for this room? That makes you
an accessory to theft. You want that on your
record, son?”

Arrogant laughter explodes from Wyatt’s chest

as he reaches into his pocket and throws a wad of
hundreds onto the bed. “There. Her debt’s paid.
Grab your stuff, Willow. We’re going.”

Doing as I’m told, I move about the room

grabbing my backpack, trying not to look directly

into my father’s wounded gaze.

“Willow, don’t do this. Let me get you the help

you need.”

Pressing my lips together, I push back the tears

broaching the surface. Wyatt’s hand travels down
my arm and lands in mine, giving me the support
to finally say what I need to say. “You want what’s
best for me, but you never cared to ask what that
is. I don’t belong in a hospital. I’m nineteen. I have
rights, and I’m not going back.”

“I don’t need to ask. I’m your father. It’s my job

to know.”

A grin splits Wyatt’s face as he slings my

backpack over his shoulder. “I’m her daddy, now,”
he quips, pulling me past my father’s shocked
expression.

Once in the elevator, I finally let out the breath

I’d been holding. “You’re my daddy now?
Seriously? I don’t even know you.”

He shrugs with a snicker. “Shut him up, didn’t

it?”

“Thanks for that. I appreciate it.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I dunno. I’ll figure something out, I guess.”
Wyatt turns, leaning his leather-clad shoulder

against the mirrored backboard of the elevator.
“Ever been on a real tour bus?”

Willow

E DOESN’T

remember me, but I remember him.

Every glorious moment we’ve spent together in the
past two years, up until the very moment
everything turned to shit. He’s my savior, my lover,
and my ultimate demise. I should have seen it
coming. When two unstable particles come
together, they become reactive. Wyatt and I are
such an explosive combination of fucked-upness,
the world imploded from within. There was no way
to stop it. The reaction started the minute he
stepped up to that counter. The second he turned
my way and spoke.

The granite countertop feels cold under my bare

legs. I sit next to the sink, watching the way Wyatt
moves about the kitchen. With sleek precision,
elegance, and grace. Gemstone colors bathed in
black pop off his perfect skin. His life story, inked
in flesh. I’ve kissed every one, ran my tongue
across every black line, left my mark and bled for
those sins he etched there permanently. When he
hurts, I feel it.

“Scrambled or over easy?” He looks up from the

smoldering pan, skimming his long fingertips

through his hair from the temples to the crown,
slicking it back off his face. His hazel eyes are
crystal clear. No drunken haze or sleepless fog
marring their amazing color. Just Wyatt’s soul
bleeding through every gorgeous gaze as he peeks
up from his work. Outside, the rain slows. For a
moment, I feel as though the sun might break
through and burn us both, but for now, the strangled
beams force through the mist and fog just enough to
pick up the subtle mix of light and dark dappling his
strong jaw.

“Whatever,” I mumble as he leans over and

steals a chaste kiss before cracking an egg against
the rim of a glass mixing bowl. I’m far too giddy
given the circumstances. Multiple orgasms have a
way of brightening a gal’s mood, I guess.

A plop of sunshine falls into the bottom of the

bowl, followed by another, then another. The smile
tugging at my lips wages war with the truth inside
my heart. The truth that I’m too much a coward to
admit what I know. It’s just a matter of time before
his memories come bursting to life the way mine
did. But until then, I don’t want to ruin this. It’s the
calm before the storm. I know we can’t go on, but
for now, I’m content to delude myself into thinking
this could last.

He pours the egg mixture into the pan, watching

it sizzle and pop before finishing the task and
dumping them onto a plate. “Your breakfast, my

dear.” Sliding the plate next to my thigh, he reaches
for his coffee mug and brings it to his lips, blowing
the steam from the top before taking a small sip.

“Here,” I urge, stabbing a piece of egg with my

fork. “Share this with me.” I hold it out as he opens
his mouth and takes my offering with an mmm
sound. “Good, huh?”

Swallowing, he nods, stepping between my legs.

His bare skin brushes against my thighs.
“Delicious.” The word mumbles against my neck,
the dual rings in his lip scratching the delicate skin
behind my ear. Fingertips glide up the tops of my
legs and come to rest at the hem of my panties.

Goose bumps dot my flesh as his tongue flicks

across my lobe. “How am I supposed to eat with
you doing that?” I simper, my thighs tightening
around him.

“You want me to stop?”
The question evokes another memory. I’m

drowning in them now, each one piecing together
the chapters of our life.

I pull my brows together. “A tour bus? Like . . .

for a rock band?”

“Yeah.” A smirk tugs the edge of his lips. Lips I

feel imprinted onto mine in the most dangerous,
delicious way. “We have a few more cities to stop
in between here and the East Coast. If you’re
gonna run away, do it with style.”

“You’re nuts.”
“We’re all mad here. I’m mad; you’re mad . . .”

He pulls out his sunglasses, grinning like the
Cheshire cat, fractals of fluorescent light catching
the rings at each corner. “Seriously, though. You
don’t need electroshock therapy and discussions
about feelings; you just need a little excitement.”

The shattered look on my dad’s face creeps up

out of nowhere. He only wanted me to be safe, and
instead, I’m throwing up bad ideas in the air like
confetti. I want to say no. I should say no and go
back to where I belong. But the way Wyatt stares at
me above the mirrored lenses of his aviators steals
the word from my vocabulary. I can’t say no to
him. Ever.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against

the handrail as the elevator doors slide open to the
lobby. He shields his amazing eyes, letting my
backpack slide off his shoulder and handing it to
me. “I gotta go either way, lamb. You comin’ or
not?”

“Never.”
I feel his smile take shape against my skin.

“Eat,” he instructs, pulling back and taking his
warmth along with him. “You need your strength.”

“Is that a warning?”
“It’s a promise.” Leaning forward, he drops

another kiss to my lips before taking a step back,

but the heated expression falls off his face when he
notices the conflict written on mine. “What’s
wrong?”

The question hits me in the gut. I’ve never been

able to lie to Wyatt. He sees through my bullshit at
every turn. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

Pressing his lips together, he searches my face.

“Tired,” he echoes, an air of disbelief darkening his
tone. “Okay. Now tell me what’s really wrong.”

Dropping my gaze, I trace my fingers over the

delicate feathers that span his chest. He used to call
them his magic wings. Said they could take him
anywhere he wanted to go. I regarded it as hokum.
Wyatt was always spouting romantic nonsense like
that. But it didn’t occur to me until just this
moment. Wyatt finally earned them. It’s only a
matter of time before he puts those glorious wings
to use.

“Ever feel like we’re fighting a losing battle,

Wyatt? How can this last?”

“We’ll make it last.”
This is wrong. Lying. Keeping him here for my

own personal gain. I can never get back what my
stubborn actions took from us. It’s over. For all I
know, it never really began. Our love was just a
trick played on me by a mind that isn’t stable
enough to know the difference between truth and
fantasy, but in my heart, it feels so real. I wanted so
badly to believe it that I risked heaven and Earth.

We’re connected, it’s true. I fulfilled Wyatt’s desire
to be needed with my need to feel safe. I selfishly
played on that aspect of his personality for my own
well-being.

“You can’t promise that.” My voice wavers as I

shake my head. “Our fate isn’t up to us.”

“It is. You just need to stay strong.”
Tears build beneath my lashes. “It’s easy for you,

but every day, it gets a little harder for me to hold
on.”

The watercolor shades of blue darken to gray as

a burst of thunder cracks the sky. “No. Fuck that.
You can’t let go, not now.” Reaching up, he cups
my face, long fingers slipping into the tangle of
curls at my temples. Pain flickers through his green-
brown gaze, deepening it and wiping away the
denim shades of blue that hide within. “Don’t leave
me yet. Promise me.”

Waves of emotion crash within, but I hold them

back. I hate that I’m the cause of that liquid glass
shimmering in his eyes. No matter how much
damage he’d done to me, I still can’t look him in
the face and break his heart. I love him far too
much. “I’ll try, Wyatt.”

“Good. Now, c’mon. Breakfast is getting cold.”

He steps back and offers me his hand to help me
down. His gaze flutters up my body as I slip off the
counter. “What the hell happened there?” His eyes
widen as he crouches down to get a closer look at

the small patch of red skin high up between my
thighs.

A small smile tugs on the corners of my mouth,

my body warming with thoughts of last night. I
touch his face, letting my fingertips glide across the
stubble on his jaw. “You happened there.”

“Shit. I gave you a rug burn?”
“Worth it.” Grabbing the plate, I step around him

and slide up onto a stool at the island. It is worth it.
All of it. It was worth every brutal moment of
despair because it brought him back to me. My
broody bad boy who never had to pretend with me.
He looks at me as if he’s watching a sunset. As if
I’m something to be revered. As if I’m something
special.

But I’m not.
I’m a sad, pathetic girl who got in way over her

head. I shouldn’t have fallen so hard. But love
makes a girl do crazy things. It turned me into a
monster.

“So what should we do today?” Wyatt asks as he

swipes the last piece of egg from my plate and
stuffs his mouth.

“I could probably benefit from a shower. After

that, my guess is as good as yours.”

He grabs the sides of my stool and drags me

close enough that I can feel his breath fan my face
as he leans forward. “Okay, then.” He drops a kiss
on my jaw. “You take a shower.” Another kiss on

my neck. “So I can dirty you again.” My body
reacts with a fierce, hot hunger.

“Promises, promises,” I mumble, falling under

the spell only he knows how to cast.

Wyatt

TEAM FOGS

up the mirror in front of me. As I wipe

my hand over the thick layer of film, my reflection
comes through mottled and distorted. Lifting my
razor again, I scrape it sideways across my jaw.

Behind me, a splotch of tan shines through the

clouded glass shower doors, and I smile. She’s
taken up residence in my bathroom. My towels
smell like the autumn breeze. A fragrance that
shouldn’t really smell like anything, but it does. It’s
the only way to describe her.

I rinse my razor under the running faucet just as

Willow cries out. Her small voice bounces off all
the hard surfaces, making it echo through the room.
I turn toward the sound. “You all right in there?”

“I cut myself,” she squeaks.
“On what?” With my face clean and smooth, I

drop my pants and open the door. The shower is big
enough to host a party, but the only person I want
in here is Willow.

“Shaving.”
The custom shower was designed with a built-in

bench along the wall. There she’s perched, her
slender leg bent at a ninety-degree angle, a tiny

droplet of blood forming on her porcelain skin. I
grab a washcloth and press it to her wound. “What
are you doing that for?”

She looks up at me. Against the backdrop of

white and steam, her eyes pop like two perfect orbs
of crystal. “You shaved for me. Wouldn’t be fair if I
was prickly for you.”

I grin. She’s so fucking cute. Drenched hair

hangs down her back like winter waves kissing her
waist. When it’s dry, it’s fierce and bright, but the
water weighs it down and darkens the color to a
tawny shade of silver.

I pluck the little pink razor from her hand and

settle down next to her. Leaning over quick, I swipe
the conditioner from the shelf and squeeze a dollop
in my hand, then run my palms up her leg to lather
her up before picking up the razor again. “You just
need to be careful. Long strokes.”

Starting at her ankle, I drag the razor up to her

knee then rinse it clean in the spray falling around
us. She arches her back, spreading her knees wider
as I work my way up to the apex of her thighs.

A thin layer of light hair covers her pussy. I angle

my wrist, clearing a portion away with a single
swipe. She gasps. “Sit still,” I tell her, spreading her
open with my fingers. With gentle strokes, I work
across her cunt, shaving her bare. Her head falls
back, with a gentle purr heard over the rushing
sound of falling water. Each light touch sends

another wanton whimper tumbling from her lips,
the meager sounds of Willow’s contentment
thickening my cock to granite.

An accidental graze of her hardened nub earns

me a devilish snicker brimming with mischief.
“What do you think?” She splays her thighs for my
inspection. Blush heats her cheeks, but fire flares
her cobalt eyes. The not-so-innocent girl who
invaded my bed and pilfered my heart like a thief
without warning. She plays on my desires, making
me weak with hunger.

I grab her leg and lift it to my shoulder, admiring

my handiwork. A pretty pussy perfectly shorn,
glistening and wet. Mine. And I’ll kill any
motherfucker who claims otherwise.

“This is how I want you all the time,” I demand,

caressing her clit with my thumb. Her whimpers
echo around us, filling the fog with a layer of lust.

“Shaved?”
“Needy,” I growl.
Already drenched with her arousal, I slip a digit

between her smooth lips. She mewls, writhing
against my hand. Her hole clenches as I glide
another finger deep inside her tight heat.

Slowly, I circle her pussy, gathering her arousal,

and sliding my slippery fingertips up to her clit. She
drops her head back once again, murmurs shifting
to stuttering moans when my pinky finds her
forbidden entrance.

The sounds falling from her lips as I vigorously

finger both holes are an erotic symphony. She
doesn’t hold back her mewls of pleasure. She’s
noisy, and I like that. Watching her come unglued
from the touch of my hand, hearing her squeal—it’s
my favorite fucking thing in the entire world.

“That’s it, little lamb. Come on my fingers like a

good girl.”

With a sudden jerk, she comes hard, another

shriek clawing up her throat. I lean over her,
leaving my fingers firmly in place as her body
shudders with the aftershocks of her orgasm. “The
next time you scream, it’s going to be with my cock
buried deep inside you,” I warn, taking her nipple
between my teeth. Her pussy clenches.

“Now?” she asks, her voice ragged and laced

with excitement.

I smile against her skin. My sweet, impatient girl.

“If that’s what you want.”

“I kind of wanted your cock in my mouth first.”
My gaze darts to her satisfied one. Beneath her

hooded lids, her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm.
When she licks her lips, I can’t decide which hole I
want more. The one inside her soft, full lips, or the
tight band of heat waiting between her legs. I slide
my fingers from her and bring them to her pretty
pout. She opens for me like a cat accepting a treat,
exhaling a subtle moan.

“Your turn,” she coos. She sits up, closing the

tight distance between our mouths before kissing
her way down my chest. She slides off the bench,
curling her legs under her body on the shower floor
as her petite fingers wrap around the fat base of my
cock. Looking up for just a moment, she snakes out
her tongue and swats the tip.

Slowly, her lips slide down the shaft, taking me

into her mouth. Every so often, she looks up with
her big doe eyes. A darkened shade of indigo I see
even in my dreams. The sight of her full lips
stretched around me, and the soft, wet gurgle in the
back of her throat makes my balls tighten.
Sometime over the next twenty-four hours, I will
come in that sweet mouth, but for now, my need to
own her overtakes my desire to come.

"Get up here, Willow."
My dick slides from her puffy lips as she rises

from the tiled floor and crawls onto my lap.
Reaching between us, she grasps my length and
lines it up with her supple entrance, stroking her clit
with the head, back and forth. Her eyes fall closed,
my growing anticipation about to explode.

She lets out a stifled whine as she slides down

slowly, easing my size into her. I let her have her
moment. She takes her own pleasure, moving up
and down, slowly at first, increasing the speed
gradually as my thick cock sits deep in her snug
canal.

The sound of my name falling off her tongue,

raspy and rough, turns me into a man possessed. I
need to take control.

Grabbing her hips, I flip her onto her back in one

quick motion without losing our connection. She
gasps from the sudden movement. I pump back and
forth, the full length of my shaft diving into her
pulsing wetness, but it’s still not enough. “I want
you on your knees.”

Obediently, she scurries onto all fours. I pause

for a beat, standing back to look at the winter angel
kneeling in my shower. Her heart-shaped ass is
perfection in this position, her gorgeous pussy open
and glistening from the pounding it took just
seconds before. She looks back, stealing a heated
gaze. “Fuck me, Wyatt.”

That voice. That squeaky innocence dripping

with dirty comments makes my steel erection throb
with need. I stand next to the bench and pull her
hips up to meet my cock. She’s so wet already, so I
slip in to the hilt.

We begin a slow, hard, steady rhythm. This is the

position I needed her in. The crown of my cock hits
all the way to the end of her canal. She’s helpless,
her face pressed against the unforgiving stone, her
body aching, dripping with desire. I control the
tempo. I decide when she comes.

Three sounds dominate the room—the slapping

of my hips on her ass, the tepid water hammering
the basin, and the mewling of my name twisted up

with her pleasure-filled moans. Her pussy clenches
tight; squeezing, pulsing, on the brink of sucking
the cum from my cock as she detonates, her
keening reverberating against the Italian marble.

“Fuck,” I grind between my teeth. “Tell me

you’re mine.” Pinching my eyes shut, I let my head
fall back, feeling the swirling mix of ecstasy gather
at the base of my spine.

“I’m yours,” she echoes, her voice deepened

with lust.

“Forever?”
She moans in a breathy reply as I pound deep

into her body, finding my own release with a deep,
throaty growl. This is it. This moment right here,
with my face buried in the back of her neck, raining
kisses down on every freckle I can find, is the
moment I’m sure.

My brain feels numb, but a sudden moment of

clarity hits when her lips find mine again. I can
love, and I do. With every part of me that still
exists, the hollow shell of the man I once was, I
love her, and I need to find a way to tell her that
before it’s too late.

_____________

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Willow gifts me
with a smile from across the room. The heat from
our shower has her cheeks and chest blossoming

with a rosy blush. She’s perfect in the most unusual
way. A girl most people wouldn’t even notice
walking down the street. They’d go about their
lives, drinking their lattes and chatting on their cell
phones, never knowing they had the privilege of
passing the most unique and interesting woman in
the world. I should know. I’ve met a lot of them.

She turns and saunters over, the corners of her

mouth still slightly bowed. “You drunk?” She slides
onto my bed, curling her legs beneath her.

“No,” I tell her honestly. Her sexy smirk rolls

into a full-on grin that hits me in the chest. Stone-
faced, she’s almost plain, but her brilliant smile
lights up her face like the sun.

She slinks down, stretching across my bed like a

cat on a windowsill. A playful gleam twinkles in her
eyes. That salacious mix of sex and innocence that
tears to me shreds with the smallest glance. How is
it possible that I want her again? This girl is going to
be the death of me. I can’t get enough.

“Why couldn’t I have met you in the real

world?”

Willow springs to a sitting position, her bright

gleam dimming. Her gaze floats to the drizzle barely
falling outside. “Wyatt . . .”

“Shh . . . Let me say what I need to say before I

lose my nerve.” The bed dips under my weight,
making her lean forward. “I’m not a man who’s
good at saying what he feels—”

“You don’t have to—”
“We always assume there's gonna be enough

time. But I'm done playing a losing game, and I'm
tired of waiting,” I tell her, grazing my knuckle
down her cheek. “I think I’m falling in love with
you.”

A crimson flush rolls up her neck and blossoms

on her cheeks and nose. “Let’s not put things on
this level.”

“Why not? This is a good level.”
Conflict streaks across her face. She pushes up

from the bed, turning away from me. “You don’t
love me, Wyatt. You think you do, but one day,
you’ll wake up and realize you’re wrong. I can’t go
through that again.”

“Again? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re content to live in ignorance. You let me

stay here on one condition. I never talk about my
past. Why do you think that is?” I pull my brows
together, my lips parting to give her an answer, but
I don’t have one to give. She’s right. Why did I do
that? “Because you’re part of it, Wyatt,” she
whispers as if reading my mind. “You have bits and
pieces of memories. Enough to make you think you
remember, but you don’t. You didn’t want to know
what your subconscious already did. The truth.”
She stalks to the edge of the bed, crossing her arms
over her chest as if she’s shielding herself. “The
truth about me and who I am.”

“And who’s that?”
When her gaze snaps to mine, I can almost see

the fight draining out of her. It’s swallowed by a
look of relief that rattles me down to my core. I
swallow hard, the pieces falling into place, but I
pinch my eyes to the completed puzzle. I don’t
want to look and see what’s there.

“You’re insane, you know that?” I say, standing

up and inching away.

“We’re all mad here,” she whispers. Her voice is

soft and light yet hits me in the gut like a sucker
punch, jarring memories I’ve worked too hard to
forget. The rain, the glass, the screams . . . I cover
my ears, trying to drown them out, but they won’t
go away, no matter how hard I try. Falling to the
floor, I close my eyes to the sound, the crunching
metal louder than it was before; the screaming
morphing into words.

A burst of thunder explodes outside. Lightning

cracks the trees as a sudden bolt of fire licks the
ink-black sky. “You wouldn’t talk to me. Just shut
me out like I was no one—like the past two years
meant nothing.”

“Stop it!” Heavy rain pounds the roof. I cower

under the flood of my own despair threatening to
wash me away.

“I just loved you so much, Wyatt, so fucking

much, and I couldn’t stand the idea that you
couldn’t love me back.” Another tree goes up in

flames, devoured despite the torrent falling from
the sky. “You spent all this time thinking it was
your fault.”

“No!” I scream. The windows shatter, blowing

shards of wet glass into the room, followed by gusty
winds and sheets of rain. The blowback knocks me
off my feet. I fall into the broken fragments,
looking up as fire billows through every window. In
the middle, standing stoic and tall, is Willow.
Brilliant orange fingers flicker on her cheeks. My
angel, the woman who’s saved my soul, my
innocent little lamb, burning like the devil herself.

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you ever love me at all?”
Willow’s voice is barely audible under the

bluster of cold November rain hitting the
windshield. Huge wheels rumble over the slick
pavement, the massive headlights illuminating the
yellow lines on the road. Other than that, there’s
no one else on this stretch of highway. No lights to
guide my way, nothing but the orange glow of my
cigarette and the dim green illumination hitting
the tears on Willow’s cheeks. I can’t keep doing
this to her. Every minute I keep her is another
minute of her life wasted. I’ve stolen enough of it
as it is.

“I thought we’d be together forever.”
“Nothing lasts forever. Hearts change,” I lie,

keeping my voice as low as I can. Behind me, the
bus is eerily silent. Darkness shrouds the sleeping
quarters, my friends all tucked away in their pods
until we reach our next destination. That’s where I
should be. Nestled in my bunk, Willow next to me
with her arm and leg draped over me, but the
sound of her hysterical sobs rob me of my right to
sleep.

“Lamb . . .”
“No!” The word peels from her chest, wrought

with so much pain it blurs my vision. “Stop the bus
—I wanna get out!”

I drag my gaze from the road for the split-

second it takes to see that manic mist swirling in
her eyes. It hits my heart like an anvil, the wind
knocking from my lungs. I don’t want to let her go.
“Go get some sleep. We’ll talk about this at the
next stop, okay?”

“I can’t travel on this bus with you, I can’t be

locked in this fucking steel trap knowing you don’t
want me here, pull over and let me out right now.”
Her words rush out in one long sentence. I push my
foot on the gas, hoping to get to the next city a
little quicker so I can calm the storm beginning to
whip through the cab before it eats through
everything like tissue. “Love me or let me go,
Wyatt.”

“I’m not leaving you on the side of the highway,

Willow! Cut the shit! You’re acting insane, right

now!”

“I’m not crazy!”

“You grabbed the wheel.”
The entire room goes dead, save for the echo of

her final words ringing in my brain. No more rain,
no more fire. Just deadly silence as the room I
called mine slowly fades to white. Crazy. Made to
feel that way her entire life, Willow teetered on the
edge of insanity on her best day. I knew that side of
her. I saw it with my own eyes, lived through every
manic episode she had. I brought her to the brink.
Then with one tiny phrase, I pushed her over.

She sucks her lips between her teeth, the look of

remorse filling her dry eyes. “Whatever I was
feeling before is gone now. My head is clear as
crystal. How could I do that? I loved you more than
anyone else in the world. And I hurt you.”

“You killed us all.”
“No. Just me.” Her arms tighten around her. “I

hate this. I hate that my blood makes me crazy. I
hate that I can't function without being chemically
altered. I hate that I fucked up your life and
everyone else’s lives around me.”

It may have been her hands pulling us into that

ravine, but it was my words that forced her to do it.
“You didn’t. I did that on my own. This isn’t all
your fault.”

“Then why do I feel so sorry?” She reaches up to

touch her cheek, then pulls her hand back, cocking
her eyebrow with an inquisitive stare when she
finds dry fingertips. “Inside, I feel like tears are
streaming down my cheeks. But they're not, are
they?” The air around us grows stagnant as she
steps to the bed and sits on the corner. The
deafening quiet blares in my ear. I’d gotten so used
to the noise. It drowned out the truth, leaving
nothing in its wake but blissful ignorance, but the
silence is louder than the hammering rain. It’s a
void of emptiness swallowing us whole with its
bitter quiet. “I'm just lost. No more tears. You
finally gave me what I need. I’m ready now.”

A ball sits in my throat as I pick through her

words, trying to decipher what she’s attempting to
say in far too little words.

“Promise me you’ll go back, Wyatt. You have so

much life left to live. Go back and claim it.”

“You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m saying our time’s up. I atoned for my sins,

and it’s time to move on. Frankie and the guys . . .
they’re waiting for you. Don’t let them down.”

Memories flash through my brain. A personal

picture show of the life we had. Images I
superimposed my sister into when, in reality, all my
yesterdays led me back to Willow. I didn’t want to
see it. Didn’t want to admit it. I ruined her, just like
I feared I would. And in return, she retaliated.

Emotion pricks my eyes. I blink it back,

swallowing past the burning mound sitting in my
chest. “No. I won’t leave you.”

“It’s not your time. There’s nothing left for me in

that world. But you . . . you shine like a diamond.
You just need to make the choice to wake up.” She
reaches out for me, her bare legs stretched out in
front of her. I go to her, sliding up on the mattress
that feels like stone. Nothing feels right. It’s a
dream within a dream, and I don’t want to wake up.
I want to stay where she is even if it means we die
together.

“Come with me, Willow. We can start over.”
“I can’t.” She leans in, feathering her lips against

mine, but it’s not the same. Her taste, her smell, her
warmth, it’s gone. Nothing left but bitter cold
nothingness freezing my skin. “Please don’t forget
me,” she says, lying back on the pillows. Her voice
is weak. Her emotionless face tearing me apart
piece by piece until the dam bursts. The tears she
couldn’t find plummet down my cheeks. “I love
you, Wyatt.”

“Willow . . . No.”
She turns her head, her lids fluttering closed. I

reach for her, but she’s so far away. Moving farther
from me as I fight to get through the white tunnel of
light pulling me back. Panic claws up my throat as
my voice grows hoarse. Screams wretch from
within, the sound like bullets tearing through my
skull.

I can’t go! Not now, not without her! “Willow . .

. Don’t to do this. Please. Willow . . . Willow!”

Wyatt

VIL SEEPS

from my fingers. I rake them across the

fretboard, holding down the E-string before sliding
up the neck. The note screams. I scowl under the
deafening sound, but my fingers have a mind of
their own. They run up and down, my pick hand
skillfully choosing which string to pluck without
even looking. I don’t need to. It’s in my blood.

Music is my soul. The strings, my heart. It’s my

shield. My protector. My one true love. It’s
amazing how a single song has the ability to
change your entire day. Hell, your life. Music is
powerful. It moves mountains. It ebbs and flows,
ever-changing but never dying. Music lives on. It’s
a legacy.

Jett’s drums rumble under my feet. He hammers

the skins, keeping the beat, while Knox finger-
fucks his bass. Neon lights flicker with the music.
The crowd’s electric. Jumping, swaying, banging
their heads, their fists jamming the air. But I know
it’s nothing. It’s an interlude to the person they
really came to see. I’m the background noise for
her. The accouterment. The guy they get stuck with
because we’re a package deal.

They whip into a clambering frenzy when she

walks out on the stage. Blue lights shine on her
sleek black hair. She grabs the mic and hums a
note, holding it long enough that it vibrates in her
chest, turning staccato as she breathes through it.
The place erupts. From my spot on the stage, I see
her ruby lips split into a grin as her lashes flutter,
and she begins to sing.

Stuck in this hole
Of no self-control
Playing the role
Of a human soul

She starts off slowly. A teasing foreplay that gets

the crowd hot.

I struggle within
In my world of sin
Stretching my skin
To somehow fit in

It’s coming. They’re holding their breath.

Wondering, watching, waiting for the moment she
lets it go so everyone can lose control. And then it
happens.

This is not normal!

She doubles over, her screech echoing through

the arena, then bouncing back like a boomerang.

The place goes berserk. Screams and chants follow
Frankie through the rest of the song. They love it,
but they don’t know it. They think they do.
Everyone has their own interpretation, but only I
know the truth. My words rolling off my sister’s
tongue. My gift to the world is my deepest despair.
My loneliness shredding me more and more with
every note until I’m nothing left but a bloody
mound of flesh.

I’m consumed by rage
Held in a cage
As you knock me around
On hallowed ground
I’m a pawn in this game
Feeling filthy shame
No, this is not normal.

By the time the song is over, my lungs feel full of

rot and soot. I throw my guitar strap over my
shoulder and wander off the stage, meandering the
halls alone. I know my bandmates aren’t far
behind, but I don’t bother waiting. I need to
escape.

The chill of night envelops me as I push open the

back door to the arena. The after-party’s waiting,
but I need to put some distance between myself and
my persona before I can throw on my mask. Don’t
get me wrong. I love this. The music, the lights, the
thrill of the show all runs through my veins,

keeping me alive. But sometimes, the fame is just
so stifling.

A dude stands out there. My gaze catches on the

bold red of his T-shirt first. He nods, folding his
massive arms across the word SECURITY stretched
far too tightly over his oversized pecs. “You need
something?” he asks in what I can only describe as
a spot-on James Earl Jones impression.

“Nah. My hotel’s across the way,” I mumble,

setting an unlit cigarette between my teeth.

“Let me escort you.”
“It’s cool, Brawndo, I got it.”
Cars rush on either side of the highway. I stare

them down, wondering for one brief second what it
would be like to step in front of one. Would the
blast be quick? I imagine the guy who hit me
sitting in the hospital, his wails of “I never even
saw him!” splashed across the tabloids the
following day.

Fans would mourn. There’d be a stupid shrine to

me right here on this stretch of highway where
people who never knew me would cry and hold
photos. TV crews would line up from miles around
to catch the footage, people clamoring for their
fifteen seconds of fame. Then, just like that, I’d be
gone. A few months later, no one would remember.
I’d just fade away like the rest of the stars shot
down in their prime. All that’s left would be a few
dirty teddy bears and some broken candles littered

across the highway. The last shred of Wyatt Blue.
Gone and forgotten.

But my life isn’t mine to take. They all own a

piece of it. Frankie, Knox, Jett . . . even Drexel.
The quadrants of Savages in Ruin. If I die, the
band dies with me.

I wait for an opening in the traffic before

bolting out into the street and jumping over the
divider like an Olympic athlete. Once I’m safe on
the other side, I throw on my shades. The mask.
The cocky rock star. It’s what they expect, so I may
as well give it to them.

But sauntering through the door, the façade

pools at my feet. Wild hair catches my eye first. A
massive tangle of white-blond curls tumbling over
a slender back. Purple butterflies flap over her
barely there dress. I stop short, watching the
exchange at the counter. She shuffles back and
forth on her tragic flip-flops, kicking the small
duffle at her feet. Interesting. She packs light and
dresses like a kid, yet she’s standing in the lobby of
a five-star hotel. Something doesn’t add up.

Pulled by some unknown magnetic force, I walk

over to her, but my brain goes numb the minute I
look into her crystal blue eyes. “I need another
key,” I bark at the clerk out of nowhere. “Room
six-oh-one.” Meanwhile, my actual key burns a
hole in my pocket. The flustered clerk fumbles
around. My presence generally wreaks havoc on

everyone around me. I’m used to that. But this girl
obviously doesn’t shake that easily. She looks at me
as if I’m furniture while I shift my hips to alleviate
the sudden tightening in my jeans.

“Don’t look so frightened, little lamb. I don’t

bite.”

Her clear eyes widen, and her fingers ruffle the

hem of her stupid sundress. They pull on my gaze,
forcing it down her petite body then back up. She’s
not my usual taste. I prefer my women a little . . . I
dunno . . . dirty. Her face is pale and free of
makeup, a small cluster of freckles sweeping
across her small nose. Even in the garish overhead
light, she’s flawless. I’m used to babes with too
much war paint throwing themselves at me. She
looks like she’s ready for church, but my mouth
waters just the same. “Not unless you ask.”

Her pale pink lips part, light eyebrows raised

just enough that she looks so fucking helpless. Part
of me wants to fuck that innocent look straight off
her face, dirty and depraved, all slamming
headboard and screaming orgasms, but the other
part wants to squirrel her away in my room and
make love to her until the sun comes up. Watch the
pleasure break over her face again and again in
waves that roll her incredible eyes back.

I nonchalantly try to hold my shit together while

my pulse pounds erratically. Why am I having this
kind of reaction? I feel like I’m drunk, yet I

haven’t had a drop to drink. My last girlfriend was
the complete opposite. Then again, calling her my
girlfriend is kind of a stretch. Chloe was a hot
fuck, but when she OD’d, I wasn’t even that sad. I
played a show that night and didn’t even think of
her as I drove my dick into someone new. Never
said I wasn’t an asshole.

When the clerk holds out my new key, I swipe it

from her fingers, forcing myself away without even
asking her name. What’s the point? I’ll be gone
tomorrow. A new city, a new hotel, with a whole
new set of girls. Yet something about that girl stays
on my mind long after the elevator doors close
between us.

Wyatt

HE TINGLING

starts in my fingers and works through

my body. A frozen rush of adrenaline forcing
through my veins like ice, but my eyes won’t open.
“Wyatt.” Frankie’s voice tunnels through the black,
finding my ears. I reach out for it, thinking I could
touch it, but that seems dumb. I can’t touch a
voice.

Am I drunk again? I must be. I can’t think

clearly.

“Wyatt! Jett, get the nurse!” Frankie’s voice is

loud, so loud. I reach again this time, feeling it twist
around my back and pulling me forward, but I’m
fighting. I don’t want to go. Willow’s face is all I
see. I need to get back to her, plead with her, but I
can’t. Color inches around the blackened depths,
light slowly beginning to appear as I’m dragged into
it against my will. Scowling, I blink against the
blinding rays. Movement rushes around me, a
jumbled mix of footsteps and voices. Then fear.

I feel myself jumping from my skin, but my body

lies limp and lifeless. My arms and legs feel buried
in concrete. My heart pounds against my ribcage,
my fight or flight tendency kicking into full gear,

but I can’t move.

Where am I?
What is this?
What the fuck is going on?
“Shh. Wyatt. It’s okay.”
A fuzzy array of somewhat familiar faces comes

into view. Gasping for air, I fight the terror bubbling
inside, trying to make sense of it all. What
happened?

Blurry shades slowly grow into vivid pictures.

Frankie. My eyes feel wet as I take in the image of
her tear-stained face, her jade eyes swimming in a
red sea. She leans over, touching my arm. “You’re
in a hospital, Wyatt. It’s okay.”

“What the fuck?” That’s how it sounds in my

head, but across my lips, it’s a garbled mix of
sounds roiling in the gravelly baritone of my voice.

“There was an accident.”
“Where am I?”
“We’re still in Canada.” Her gaze lifts to a

person standing on my other side, but I don’t bother
attempting to look. Heavy lids fall over my eyes,
but I force them open as she drops her attention
back on me. “You’ve been out for five days.”

Canada? What the hell am I doing in Canada?
“You’re okay?”
She smiles through her running tears, wiping her

cheek with her index finger. “I’m perfect, now.”

The next few hours feel like CD skips. Waves of

flowing consciousness followed by periods of
blackness I don’t remember. But each time I wake,
I feel more lucid. When I open my eyes again, the
light’s given way to darkness. Frankie lies on a
couch, her arms folded under her head, resting on
Jett’s lap, his long legs sprawled out in front of
them. On the other side, our drummer, Knox, sits in
an armchair, the light from his iPad highlighting his
face in an eerie, blue glow. The entire scene feels
oddly serene. Rain taps on the small, square
window near my bed, adding a layer of comfort
over my beating heart like a blanket.

“Hey, dude. Welcome back.” Knox’s voice is

thick with exhaustion. He lifts the brim of his cap
just enough to push back the thickets of hair from
his face, then plops it back down. Dark circles
shadow his eyes. When was the last time he slept?

“What time is it?”
“Two a.m. You need me to get the nurse?” he

asks, preparing to get up.

“Nah, man. It’s cool,” I grumble. “Just tell me

what happened.”

“Bus slipped on the ice and took a header into a

ravine next to the highway. You took a nasty blow
to the head, but you’re gonna be all right.”

Reaching up, my fingers feel around the bandage

on my head. I lick my lips, trying to recall the
accident, but I can’t. Fog still clouds my head, but
it’s slowly lifting, bringing things back.

The driving rain. The swish of the wipers. The

yellow lines glowing in the headlamps.

My gaze slowly glides to the IV in my arm and

traces the tubes up to the bags hanging behind my
bed. Whatever they have me on makes everything
soft. The outlines of the world appear brushed like
watercolors. Eventually, I make my way back
toward Knox, his brown stare watching me intently.

A roll of thunder rumbles in the distance. “You

don’t remember anything?”

“Not much.”
Knox leans back in his chair, resting his ankle

over his knee and his cheek on his fist. From this
angle, the brim of his cap shields the majority of his
face. Only his lips remain, surrounded by a swath
of week-old stubble. “You were awake at first,
adrenaline still keeping you up, I guess. You
scrambled from the cab and just took off. Some guy
driving by stopped his car and called 911 then took
off after you. It was intense.”

My face twists in confusion. “I guess I was

looking for Willow.”

A sharp gasp hits my lungs as her name tumbles

from my lips. Oh my God, Willow! I sit up, the pain
filling my head like an avalanche. “Where is she?”
Panic drives up the pitch of my voice. Frankie stirs,
rubbing the sleep from her eyes, but I’m already
pushing myself up into a sitting position.

Knox jumps from his seat. “Whoa, Wyatt . . .

Dude, relax.”

“Where is she, Knox?”
“She’s downstairs, bro. She’s fine. You need to

rest.”

“Fuck rest!” I throw my legs over the edge of the

bed, but they’re too weak to hold my weight. I
collapse onto the tile, but it doesn’t stop my hot
pursuit to get to her. I need to see her, hold her,
know she’s okay. I’ll crawl if I have to. I’ll hold her
hand on our way to hell.

The IV stand clatters to the tile as I attempt to

scramble across the room by my arms. The
machines go crazy. Knox hurls his body over mine,
holding me still as the nurse runs into the room.
“Bring me to her!” I shout, thrashing wildly. I don’t
care about anything but her, and I won’t stop until I
know she’s okay.

“Don’t just stand there!” Jett’s voice floats over

the commotion. “The man needs to see his girl! Get
a wheelchair!”

The nurse turns on her heel and bolts from the

door. I wrench my arms from Knox’s grip, tears
burning my eyes as I roll to the side. “I forgot her,”
I sob. “How could I do that?”

“You had a head injury.” Frankie kneels beside

me, taking my hands in hers. “You didn’t forget her.
You lost her. It’s not the same thing.”

Her words provide little comfort. “She was with

me. In the other place as I lay in that bed clinging

to life. She was there. And she wanted to die.”

“You were hallucinating, Wyatt. It happens. Your

subconscious conjured her up. Both of you have
been here for five days.”

Pieces of fantasy flash like Polaroids. The bridge,

the house . . . Willow. It all felt so real. It had to be.
“Five days? No . . . No . . . It was weeks. Months.”

“Five days, Wy. That’s it.”
I draw my brows together as they lift me off the

floor and settle me into a wheelchair. Five days.
That can’t be right. After all that happened
between us. I remember it now. All of it coming
back in machine gun blasts, the memories smashing
my skull like bullets. Please don’t forget me. But I
did. And if it’s too late, I’ll do whatever takes to
join her on the other side.

Guards line the hall outside my room. I’m in

some sort of secret wing with its own elevator that
works by lock and key. “Why isn’t she up here with
me?” I sneer as the nurse engages the lock, my
hands balling into fists on my bare legs.

“She’s in the regular ICU. She’s okay down

there. She’s getting excellent care,” she assures me,
but it only deepens my scowl.

“She belongs with me. I want her sent up

immediately.”

“Blue . . .” Frankie starts but doesn’t finish.
“How could you just let her rot down there by

herself?” I shoot hazel daggers at my sister.

Her stoic expression melts into a frown. “She

wasn’t alone. We took turns sitting with her. I
wouldn’t leave her by herself knowing how you felt
about her. She’s family, Wyatt. The fact that you
would even accuse me of that is hurtful.”

“Wyatt!”
My sister’s yell bellows through the corridors of

the bus, followed by a loud banging as she slams
on the bathroom door. I crane my neck from the
front, trying to see what the commotion’s all about
before heading down that way. The scraping of my
boots echoes against the tile, but my footsteps
grow suddenly silent as my feet meet the carpeted
area of the bus.

“What’s going on?”
“Your psycho girlfriend’s having another stupid

meltdown!” She slams her fist on the door again,
her voice growing more irate as she yells the
sentence into the wood.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, scraping my

thumb across the lines in my forehead. The
episodes have been more frequent lately. Ever
since she stopped sleeping, she’s started seeing shit
that isn’t there. “How long she been in there?”

“Who the fuck knows? Just get her out!”
I shuffle closer to the door and rest my palm on

the warm surface of the mahogany grain. “Willow.
Baby, it’s me. Let me in.”

No response. A cold chill floods my veins. I

knock harder, still trying to keep my voice in
check. Frankie’s attitude flies to eleven on a
friggin’ dime. She doesn’t have any patience for
this. “Willow. C’mon.”

“Wyatt . . .” Her voice ekes under the crevice

like a sad mouse looking for a crumb. I rest my ear
to the door, straining to hear her over the low din
of voices echoing from the front. “I hurt.”

“Just open the door, okay?”
When the lock disengages, I slowly push my way

through. Silvery strands of hair stick to her wet
cheeks, the wild blue strands popping against her
alabaster skin. She cowers in the corner, her
bottomless blue eyes looking right through me as I
approach. “It’s okay.” I crouch down to her level,
resting a hand on her back. “Breathe with me,
lamb. I’m here.”

She sucks in a series of breaths as if she’s

gasping for air. I lift her hand to my chest with a
strong inhale, coercing her to regulate. “This is a
fuckin’ sideshow.” My sister stands in the doorway,
her arms crossed over her midriff tee, her hip
jutted to the side. Normally light, her green eyes
narrow into razor-sharp slits that darken to a deep
shade of moss.

“You’re not helping,” I growl, scowling as she

throws her hands up and storms away.

“Keep your fucking pet on a shorter leash,

Wyatt!”

Ever the Queen Bee, her words sting, but I’ll

deal with her later. Returning my attention to
Willow, I take another deep breath. “I got you.
That’s it, baby, breathe.” Light lashes flutter
closed. Her chest rises then falls in slow reps,
stray pieces of hair blowing steady against her dry
lips. “Tell me what happened,” I murmur, wiping
them away.

She opens her eyes and studies my face before

speaking. “My dad died.”

“You never liked her. You never even tried.”

Resentment sits on my chest, making it hard to
breathe. Willow forced a wedge between my sister
and me, but it wasn’t her fault. Frankie’s
unwillingness to accept her into my life was a
jagged stone I could never swallow. Two women I
love more than anything could barely stand to be in
the same room with each other. It was a war I
couldn’t end.

“Your relationship was toxic.” Frankie’s voice

takes on that high-pitched tone that always happens
just before she bursts into tears. I brace myself for
it, hating the sight of them rolling down her cheeks,
knowing they’re there because of me. “You guys
fell into this terrifying Sid and Nancy-esque
relationship where you’d drink yourself to death
while she went insane around us. You couldn’t

continue down that path. Eventually, you’d self-
destruct.” She lifts the bottom of her raven hair and
twists it around her finger. It’s her tell. Her hands
always spring to her hair whenever she’s upset.
“You already tried to kill yourself once . . .”

“That was never gonna happen again.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because Willow unlocked parts of me I didn’t

know existed. I kept her grounded when she was
spiraling apart. I was her anchor, but she was my
wings. Before her, I only knew how to plummet.
She taught me how to fly.”

“Teaching you how to take a fall isn’t the same

as flying.”

I reach up and slide my fingers into her palm,

pulling it down. “I love her, Frankie. She’s a part of
me that’s never going away.”

She nods, sniffling back the tears. “I know. And

you were good together. Until everything just got
out of control.”

The nose-burning smell of antiseptic greets me in

the ICU. My chest tightens as they wheel me closer.
The door to her room remains open halfway.
Frankie enters first, holding it open. Tubes snake
around Willow’s arms, her frail body sleeping
peacefully despite the hum of machines whirring
around her.

The squeak of footsteps on linoleum comes up

behind me, but I can’t look away. She’s beautiful.

Even with the bandage half covering her face and
head, she steals my breath just the same. My eyes
fill with tears as I reach out and touch her again,
the warmth of her skin filling my heart with hope.
“Come back to me, Willow.”

“Mr. Blue?” I turn at the call of my name and

find a woman in scrubs standing behind me. Her
black hair brushes the shoulders of her lab coat as
she holds out a caramel-colored hand for me to
take. “I’m Dr. Soto. I can answer any questions you
might have.”

“I’ll wait for you in the hall. Okay, Wyatt?”
I nod as Frankie disappears through the doorway.

“What happened to her?”

“She’s suffered a head contusion, which resulted

in some slight swelling. A few minor facial
abrasions and a broken collarbone. All in all, she’s
very lucky; however, the sudden impact caused
placental abruption, and the blood loss was quite
extensive.”

“I’m sorry . . . What is that?”
“Placental abruption is the process of the

placenta prematurely separating from the uterus. It
can lead to a variety of complications. In this case,
a severe hemorrhage.”

My mouth goes dry. I try like hell to build

enough saliva to get it to work, but it’s no use. Only
one phrase manages to escape the desert of my
throat. “She was pregnant?”

“Yes. According to her chart, she was between

twelve and fourteen weeks along.”

My mind immediately jumps to the rust-stained

dress she wore that night on the bridge. The blood.
Our baby. Slush floods my veins, seizing my heart
to a slow crawl. Fourteen weeks. How could she
not tell me? “I didn’t even know,” I muster,
dropping my gaze to the floor.

“Well, the good news is, this doesn’t affect her

chances of having a healthy pregnancy in the
future. We’ve given her fresh blood. At this point,
the rest is up to her.” Dr. Soto clicks the mouse on
the electronic chart system a few more times before
looking back at me. “I’ll give you some time alone.
If you have any other questions, please have the
nurse page me.”

Silence fills the room. “Little lamb,” I start,

threading my fingers with her lifeless ones. “I don’t
know if you can hear me. I don’t know if what
happened between us was real or a dream
manifested by a head wound and a controlled
substance, but I need you to know that I do love
you. I’ve always loved you since the first second I
saw you. You didn’t need to say a word. Just seeing
you was magic.” I pause, letting the wave of
emotion sluice through me before subsiding in a
waning sea.

“People think depression is about walking

around miserable all the time, but it’s not. It’s the

war behind the smile. I tried to help you. I wanted
to be everything you needed, but you fell so hard,
so fast. And then your dad died. You stopped
eating, stopped sleeping, and I blamed myself. I
stole you from him. I was selfish and wanted you
for myself, so I snatched you into my insane
lifestyle and dragged you along everywhere I went.
It wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve you, but I loved you
—love you—so much there was no such thing as
right and wrong. There was only what felt right.
And that was being with you.

“But being with me was killing you slowly. Days,

weeks, months on the road. I watched the light dim
inside you. I felt you shatter just a little more with
each passing day. I didn’t want to leave you, but I
couldn’t be selfish anymore. I thought you’d be
better off at home, but I’m no better than your
father thinking I know what’s best for you. That
was wrong, and I’m sorry.

“You told me once that two souls don’t find each

other by simple accident. That we were meant to
meet. I believe that now. Our life is a blanket,
knotted together, piece by piece, your crazy and my
crazy laid out in intricate patterns that scatter over
it like new snow.

“I don’t know if you can, but I need you to feel

me, little lamb. Hear my voice and come back to
me.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat, wiping

away the tides of emotion that built on my cheeks
and wait. That’s all I can do now. Wait and hope
that my love’s enough to save her.

“You’ll have to go back up, Blue.” Frankie’s

voice cuts through the stagnant quiet caving in my
chest. Her footsteps quietly approach, then stop just
shy of my chair.

“It was surreal, you know?” I tell her, my voice

thick with remorse. “I guess, I believed it was real
because I wanted to. It was tangible. I could feel
her, smell her . . . God, I could taste her. But in my
dream, I was mourning you. I thought I lost you,
and I couldn’t fucking move under the weight of
my grief. Looking at you now, it’s like a mirage. I
didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

She steps around me and leans against the wall

under the unused television at the foot of Willow’s
bed. “The mind is a funny thing, Wyatt.”

“So’s the heart. When she showed up, she

changed me. I didn’t know who she was until it was
too late, but I fell in love with her just the same.
She gave me a reason.”

She nods, her jade eyes sparkling in the rising

sun. “In the elevator earlier, I wasn’t totally honest
with you.” She turns her head toward the small
square of a window, but I can see by the faraway
look in her eyes that her mind is somewhere else. “I
was worried, it’s true. But I was also jealous.”

“Being with Willow never changed how I felt

about you.”

“It’s not that.” She hugs her arms around her,

shivering in the too warm room. “I always thought
the bravest thing you ever did was continuing to
live even when you wanted to die. It’s not. The
bravest thing was giving Willow the strength to go
on when you didn’t have enough for yourself.
That’s what real love is. It’s loving the other person
more than you love yourself.”

A fat tear rolls down Frankie’s cheek. She

reaches up and flicks it away with her finger. I
always suspected Frankie and Jett may have a thing
for each other, but looking at her now, seeing her
heart crumbling at her feet, there’s more to that
story than meets the eye. Maybe I’ll ask about it
someday.

“Did you know about the baby?”
Another tear is her admission of guilt. She lowers

her gaze, squeezing her lips to keep them from
trembling, her fingers fiddling with the tips of her
hair. “I found the test in the bathroom. It wasn’t my
place to tell you.”

Nodding my acceptance, I turn to look at Willow

again. “I gotta go. If you can hear me, give me a
sign or something.” I give her hand one last squeeze
before letting go, but her fingers slowly close
around mine. “Willow?”

A slight flutter of her lashes brings me to the

edge. I hold my breath, leaning forward, watching

shadows flurry across her cheek. She whimpers, her
lips twitching in the corners, her hand squeezing
like a vise.

I feel like my heart’s being torn to shreds. Is she

waking up? Or is this some involuntary reaction
that has me clinging to hope? “Willow, baby. I’m
here!” Another whimper. “Willow, baby, wake up.
Wake up.” Adrenaline courses in my veins, a
burning tightness of anticipation sitting on my
chest. She lets out a breath, her mouth falling open
just a bit as the whites of her eyes come into view
seconds before I’m gifted with the sight of her
perfect blue irises. “Frankie, get the nurse!” I yell,
my voice hitching to damn-near hysterics.

The powder keg of emotion bursts inside me. I

scramble from the confines of my chair in a vain
attempt to get closer to her. I need to be the first
thing she sees when she wakes up. I need her to
know I never gave up. That I won’t.

Wyatt

URNING RAYS

of warmth filter in through the tacky

vertical blinds hanging outside my window on a
bright blue, perfect day. I stare in awe, soaking in
the sight. It seems like a lifetime since I’ve seen it,
my last memories stuck in the darkened doldrums
of never-ending rain.

“What are you lookin’ at, dude?” Jett saunters in

with paper cup clutched in his hand, the words
“Tim Horton’s” visible through two long fingers.

“Just daydreaming.”
“Sleeping beauty wake up again?” He chucks his

chin in Willow’s direction as she sleeps in the bed
beside me. Our manager, Drexel, came in early this
morning and worked his magic to have her brought
up. This is where she belonged from the start. I
don’t care what it costs. I want her with me.

“She’s been in and out.”
“What about you, man? How you feelin’?” He

plops down in the armchair in the corner of the
room. The horrid fake leather creaks under his
weight as he leans in and blows into the hole of his
coffee lid.

“Tired. Which seems insane since I literally slept

for a week.” A single note of humorless laughter
pops off his tongue. “I just wanna go home, ya
know?”

“Yeah.” He nods, creases forming over his raised

brows. Jett’s only twenty-five, but this whole event
seems as though it’s aged him quite a few years.
Dark circles curve under his bloodshot eyes. He
looks like he hasn’t slept in years.

“I’m sorry about all this.”
“About what?”
“Ruining the tour. Leaving you guys stranded in

fucking Canada.” Guilt tugs on the corners of my
lips. I drop my gaze to the blue comforter shielding
my legs. Hospitals are the worst. Even in the
“luxury suite,” the food is terrible, and the linens
feel like sandpaper.

“Least you lived. I’d be a lot more pissed if you

died.”

“Yeah, well. Better luck next time, right?”
“Next time, I’ll kill you myself. You can’t put

Frankie through this shit again.” He narrows his
gaze, pressing his lips together, the light from the
window catching on the small spike just
underneath. I’m used to feeling like an asshole.
That’s nothing new. But the blame clearly written
across Jett’s dark eyes adds a bonus layer that
makes me want to crawl under a rock. “I never saw
her cry so hard watching you lie in that bed, dude. I
never wanna see it again.”

I cock my head, sizing up my best friend. Jett’s

mom took care of me better than my own mother
did. A woman Delilah hired to be the parental
stand-in when she was too wasted to do it herself.
Christy was great, and on days when we didn’t
have school, she brought her son, Jett, along with
her.

But the look darkening Jett’s expression isn’t one

of defending friendship. It’s the face of a guy on
the edge, the protective guise of a man in love.

“Understood.”
Jett stands from his chair, his heavy boots

scuffling the linoleum as he shuffles in front of it.
“Let this be a wake-up call. You got lucky.” His
gaze slides to Willow, then jumps right back. “We
all did.”

“You got something going on with my sister?” I

ask his back as he turns away.

Moving to the door, he pauses, looking back one

last time. “You’d have to ask her.”

Alone again, I watch Willow’s chest rise and fall,

Jett’s harsh statement ringing in my brain. I did get
lucky. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but
from this day on, I’m never taking it for granted
again.

________________

“Wyatt.”

Her sweet voice invades my dreams. I startle in

my bed, pulling myself from the sleep attempting to
drag me back into its black embrace.

“Wyatt . . . fire . . .”
As I come to, I look over at Willow. My name

slips across her lips, followed by incoherent words
and phrases. Something about fire and regret, but
the rest is a garbled string I can’t piece together.

“Lamb,” I mutter, waiting for the inevitable

moment she opens her eyes and sees me again. The
first time, they popped open like a jack-in-the-box,
but fear gripped her throat. She gasped, her glazed
eyes darting around the room. I tried to explain
then, but she was lost to me still and has been ever
since. A few brief moments of consciousness is all
I’ve been given.

Until now.
“What the . . . oh God,” she whines as her lashes

flutter at half-mast. Shielding her eyes, she turns
away, but her heaving shoulders give her away.

“Baby, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”
“Your face!”
“Don’t worry, I was born with it,” I joke, wincing

when I touch the blackened bruise leaking down
my cheekbone.

“I don’t want to be here.” Her desperate voice is

muffled by her hands yet thick with emotion.

“Jesus, am I that ugly?”
“No.” She sucks in a stuttering breath and blows

it out slowly. “I mean, I didn’t want to come back. I

was ready to burn for my sins.”

An image flashes before my eyes. Fire eating

through walls and wood, the scorching heat burning
my skin, and Willow standing tall among the
wreckage. “Flames . . . all around us . . . The fire.
Your agony. It burst through the windows and ate
through everything . . .”

“And then there was nothing left,” we whisper

simultaneously.

Her head lolls around until she’s facing me, her

clear eyes thick with fog and ringed in red. “Who
saved us?”

My jaw goes slack as I regard the situation with

wide wonder. “We weren’t saved from the fire,” I
whisper, my mouth growing dry as a bone. “Do you
remember the accident?”

“No. There was a fire. Certain parts seem so

vivid, but the details are murky. I remember the
connection . . . It was so strong as though we were
linked somehow. Almost as if we were being
pushed together from an outside source, but you
fought it. Your melancholy came in sheets of rain.
The harder you fought, the harder it poured. You
were washing us away, but I wouldn’t let you.”

“Then you set fire to the rain, little lamb.”
“I did.”
“It didn’t happen. It was some fucked-up

manifestation of the coma.”

“But you were there. You remember it, too.”

“Yeah. And I can’t for the fuck of me figure out

how, but we were there together. How is that
possible? How can we have the same delusion and
both remember it?”

“We’re all mad here,” she whispers slowly.
“What happened after I left you?”
“I let you go. I prayed for the fire to swallow me.

The flames ate through the floorboards and
dissolved the sheets, but the heat didn’t touch me.
It didn’t burn. The only feeling I had was one of
being nowhere. There were no lights nor insightful
resolution. No awakening nor epiphany. Just bleak,
gray nothing.

“I started to have a discussion with myself. The

conversation was simply about making the choice
to live or die, but I wasn’t part of it. I basically
watched my heart and my mind each make their
case as to why they were correct. My mind wanted
to die; my heart didn’t.”

“Why not?”
“It heard your voice pleading with me. It sounds

insane, but maybe my mental illness turned my own
mind against me. Made me weak. But the heart isn't
that frail. It doesn’t let go of life willingly. Its
motivation is much more honest, direct. Less
corruptible. It brought me back for you, Wyatt.”

When she lifts her gaze to meet mine, the sudden

clarity within it yanks out the breath I didn’t know I
was holding. “Do you remember me before?”

She pauses for a beat, my heart sinking at the

sudden quiet. I remember everything. Every detail
of the past two years as fresh and clear in my head
as if they happened yesterday. The thought that she
might not kills me inside. Not every moment we
shared was good, but even the bad ones are worth
the pain of remembering because, at the end of it
all, we still had each other.

Long lashes fall over her eyes then come up

slowly. “I could never forget you, Wyatt. I’ve loved
you for a thousand years.”

“And the baby?”
Tears fill her eyes, but she blinks them back, the

corners of her lips lifting in a sad smirk. “I
remember the exact moment it happened. I felt you
inside me, like a tiny spark of magic growing
steadily each day.” Her hands slip over her
stomach, her fingers clenching the blanket in
anguish. “Now I just feel so . . . empty. I ruined
everything, and the price I pay is having to live
with it.” A pained sob erupts from her chest as she
rolls to her side. My fingers twitch; my arms tingle.
I need to be with her, hold her, let her know it’s not
her fault.

Holding tight to the bedframe, I push myself up

on wobbly legs, then hobble the short steps to her
bed to get in beside her. “No, Wy. It’s too late,” she
whimpers, but I refuse to believe that. Willow and I
were forged in flames, burned and charred, but

within the ash of our past lives, we’ve become
reborn. We’ll rise above and walk out of here
victorious.

“It’s never too late. For you, I’d walk through

fire again and again.” I pull her against me,
dropping my lips to the back of her neck. “Don’t
you see? Two souls don’t find each other by simple
accident. There was a reason I took off after the
concert that day. That reason was you, Willow. Fate
dragged me across that highway and catapulted me
through those doors because it knew my soul mate
was waiting for me inside.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”
“I don’t have to. I believe in us.”

Epilogue

Wyatt

“

ND THE

nominees for Best New Album are . . .”

Willow’s hand slides over mine and squeezes

tight as Jennifer Lopez rattles off the nominees,
pausing to show snippets of video between each
one. When she gets to Savages in Ruin, my lungs
fill with nervous breath. A montage of footage
plays out before me. Images of our last music video
pop onto the screen then disappear a few seconds
later, replaced by someone else.

“And the winner is . . .” On my left, I feel

Frankie’s body tighten as JLo reaches for the
envelope. She fumbles with the flap. Willow’s grip
tightens, her shining lips twitching in anticipation.
She looks beautiful tonight. Her hair is swept off
her neck in a messy updo that’s methodically
pinned into place, the sequins on her ivory gown
sparkling in the stage lights. Seeing her now, the
perfect silhouette of her face standing out among
the backdrop of a thousand others, I feel so lucky.

The crowd erupts in applause but doesn’t drown

out the gasping screech that tears from my sister’s
lungs as our name is called. Tears glimmer in her
eyes. I jump out of my seat and wrap my arms

around her before turning and sweeping Willow
into a bear hug. I love them both so much, in such
different ways.

Frankie’s my blood. We were ripped from the

same mold, given the same life, the same heart.

Willow’s my soul, a piece of her always in there

forcing me to grow and change and evolve.

“I knew you’d do it,” she tells me over the

cheering ruckus.

Our song plays overhead as we meander through

the crowd and step up onto the stage. Frankie
moves behind the microphone, the rest of us filing
in behind her. A thousand faces stare back at me
from beyond, but I only see one. I can’t catch my
breath as my heart races like a locomotive. Frankie
falls into her speech, thanking the producers, and
our manager, and everyone involved, but the only
person I’m truly thankful for is the girl staring back
at me, her tear-filled expression of pride expanding
my chest until it hurts.

“I love you,” she mouths, but I can only smile in

return. I’ve never been happy. Sure, I’ve had
fleeting moments of mirth, but my own
subconscious always chased them away by telling
me I wasn’t good enough. I wasted so many years
immersed in death as life passed on without me.
But right now, I’m present at this moment. With my
sister and my friends huddled around me,
captivated by the woman I love, I realize I am truly

blessed.

It’s still hard sometimes. I lie awake at night

letting my mind wander, but when I roll over and
find Willow next to me, the angry voice isn’t so
loud. It’s more of a dull whisper now. One I’m
slowly learning how to control instead of letting it
control me.

Frankie pounds the golden phonograph in the air

as she finishes her speech. Another round of
applause waves through the crowd as we walk off
stage, but we’re quickly ushered to dressing rooms
to prepare for our performance. Funny how the
mind works. Lying in that bed three months ago,
my brain grappled for something to hold, a nugget
of truth brought back from the real world and
ingrained into my fake one. It took a while for me
to realize what was real and what wasn’t, but in the
end, I decided it all was, and Willow shared it with
me. That’s the way it is with soul mates. We’ll
always find a way to be together. Neither time nor
death can sever our bond. It’s twisted too tightly,
mashed and mangled together until you can no
longer tell where one ends and one begins. It’s a
seamless loop that goes on forever.

I slide off my suit jacket and hang it on a hook

before working the button on my shirt. “Ten
minutes, Mr. Blue!” a chipper voice floats through
the door. My fingers tremble as I slip the tiny
buttons through the holes and push it off my

shoulders. It’s all starting to hit me now. The
adrenaline is slowly seeping away, leaving nothing
but fear coursing through my veins. I’m at the
Grammys. I never saw myself making it this far.
Whenever I tried to think about the future, there
was nothing there but a hole. Now, as I stare into
my own reflection, I see my life laid out before me.
Every piece of the puzzle fitting together. It took
twenty-eight years, but I’m finally here. I made it.
And I’m not going to squander another minute.

I make quick work of ditching the rest of my suit

for jeans and a tee before finding my way
backstage. Shadows move beyond the curtain
ahead. A roadie stands in my spot, the sparkling
blue-black paint on my guitar shimmering in his
hand. I take it from him, dropping its weight over
my shoulder. My first love. My life-force. It’s
different now. It’s hard to explain the feeling of
waking up. For years, I lived for the music. It’s
what kept me going when the simple task of living
felt too overwhelming to deal with. It was my
strength. My crutch. I could hide behind it, live the
persona, and forget for a moment how debilitating
it was just being me.

That kind of pain changes people. It makes them

trust less, overthink, and shut people out. I let that
pain slowly take over until it was all I had. I
convinced myself I was bad for Willow. That she
was better off without me, and on some level, I was

right. Until a man heals himself, he’ll be toxic to
any woman who tries to love him. It’s still a work in
progress, but I’m growing. I’m sober. Someday, I’ll
be the kind of strong man she deserves, but I’ll
never give up trying. I’ll fight for us until the bitter
end and long afterward. Death can’t stop love.
We’ll always find a way to be together.

Frankie joins me on stage. Her leopard gown

gave way for a skull-covered corset and torn jeans
with chunky boots laced to her thigh. As usual, her
raven hair hangs down her back in a silky curtain
that parts when she turns and flashes a ruby grin.
“You ready, boys?”

“I gotta say something really quick.” I shuffle on

my feet, letting my guitar hang across my neck as I
rake my fingers over my hair. “I’m sorry for the
bullshit I put all of you through. Not just the
accident but everything. Thank you for sticking
with me.”

“You’re our brother, man. Not just Frankie’s. All

of ours. We don’t turn our back on our own.” Jett
twirls a drum stick between his fingers. “Now,
enough of the sappy shit. We got a show to do!”

“Let’s rock the fuck outta this house!” A

mischievous gleam twinkles in Frankie’s eyes, but
she’s not looking at me. Her focus is set on the
drum kit in the back. Jett chucks a lopsided grin
before filling the quiet with a heavy roll and a
stomp on the kick drum. I join in right after, the

crunch of my guitar begging for the evil resonance
of Knox’s bass. It rumbles the floorboards. I jam
the tip of my sneaker on the pedal near my feet,
changing the distortion as the curtain lifts, and
Frankie steals her moment.

I was broken before you came along
You don’t get to take credit for this

My brain buzzes electric, the stacks behind me

making it melt. I can’t see past the blinding light,
but I don’t have to. I know she’s there, her crystal
gaze growing damp as she hears her own words
caroled back to her. “Dripping Daggers” was
Willow’s song. A poem she wrote that I set to
music. A piece of us twisted together in a legacy
that will live on long after we’ve left this world.
There is so much depth penned in these lines. It
caresses my skin as I take us home, nailing the solo
with a screaming cry.

The crowd explodes into a frenzy. I smile,

allowing the furious energy to soak into my blood. I
almost missed it. Everything. Life. The accident
was a warning. I couldn’t go on the way I was. As I
look around, a memory suddenly pops into my
head. Willow drenched in rain, the sound of her
words chilling my skin. You don’t have to die like
this.

It took me all this time to realize what she was

trying to say. Love is bigger than anything we’ve

got. It’s stronger than any ailment, more infectious
than any disease. When it’s real, it can get you
through anything. And that, my friend, is what
makes life worth living.

____________________________

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Playlist

Broken – Lovelytheband

Creep – Radiohead

Iris – The Goo Goo Dolls

Snuff – Slipknot

Wish I Had an Angel – Nightwish

Hello – Adele

Heaven – Kane Brown

A Thousand Years – Christina Perri

Hooked – Dylan Scott

True Colors – Cyndi Lauper

Breaking the Girl – Red Hot Chili Peppers

Africa – Toto

When I’m With You – Sheriff

Close My Eyes Forever – Lita Ford/Ozzy

Osbourne

Amaranth – Nightwish

Welcome Home (Sanitarium) – Metallica

Tag Along – Samiam

Set Fire to the Rain – Adele

November Rain – Guns n Roses

A Case of You – Joni Mitchell

Love Me or Leave Me – Little Mix

Beautiful Crazy – Luke Combs

Acknowledgment

Finishing this book is a victory, y’all. I’m not

even kidding. A little background before I get to the
thank yous: I penned the first few paragraphs of
this story back in 2017. Back then, there was no
Wyatt and Willow. It was a different story, with
different characters, different plans. But as I wrote,
it just didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right. So I tore it
apart and started over.

Then I tore it apart again.
And again.
And again.
And again . . .
Until every word was just a jumbled mess and I

couldn’t remember what version was what. It was a
nightmare that stole over 1.5 years of my life. I
cried to EVERYONE that would listen. I wrote and
rewrote until I felt like I was going to lose my mind.

Brutal truth: I’d hit a patch of darkness that I just

couldn’t come out of. It dictated every word and
action of my characters. It seeped into my brain
and ate away my will until I found it too hard to
even get out of bed some days. I started feeling like
my life was nothing but a bad dream that just
wouldn’t end.

This story isn’t the one I’d initially set out to

write, but it’s what came out of that darkness and,
while I’m sure it’s not flawless, it’s as perfectly
imperfect as my characters, and I wouldn’t change
a thing. It’s my black moment, slashed across the
pages.

In the end, I love Wyatt. He’s beautifully broken

and so complicated, a tortured soul that begged to
be written, yet fought me at every turn. He hid
behind his smile; the persona he delicately crafted
to hide the demons living inside. It’s a feeling I
understand all too well.

This book dealt the tough subjects like mental

illness and suicide. If you or someone you know
has hit a bad patch and can’t seem to get out of it,
there’s no shame in asking for help. Even when you
feel like no one wants to listen, no one cares, no
one needs you – remind yourself that it’s a lie. If
you truly feel you’ve nowhere to turn, call the

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

at 1-800-273-

8255. You are worth it.

That being said . . . the list of people I have to

thank is long!

Special and personal: Nicole French, Harloe Rae,

Dani Rene’, Cora Kenborn, Ava Alise, Brooke Lee,
Candy Royer – y’all talked me off the ledge a time
or two . . . or twenty. Thank you so much for being
in my corner and putting me back together when I
fell apart. 2018 was a hard year for me emotionally,

spiritually, physically, and professionally, but
knowing you guys were there for me gave me the
strength to keep going.

Shout out to Natalya Damiana for writing the

music for this book. You are a brilliant poet and an
amazing talent who deserves more recognition than
she receives. For more poetry and lyrics, y’all can
find Natayla on Instagram @

tearstoink

Professional thank yous: My editor, Candice

Royer – hugs and smooches, always. Proofreaders,
Jenny Sims and Allison Irwin. Cover designer, Jay
Aheer. Kate Farlow, for all those gorgeous teasers.
Ena and Amanda at Enticing Journey. All the
bloggers that read, reviewed, and shared. My beta
bitches – Robin, Brooke, Jillian, Jenny, Ava,
Summer, & Melissa – double (triple, quadruple!)
thanks to Dani Rene’ for fine-toothing this
manuscript

enhance

Wyatt’s

amazing

assholiness. How can I possibly thank you enough?
Summer Greystone, my awesome PA. My tireless
street team – Allison, Melissa, Randimae, Ida,
Renee, Oindrilla, Nicole, Sarah, Kym, Toni, Cindy,
Jenz, Jolene, Kelly, Cassy, Edith, Sam, TJ, Stracey,
& Michele – OMG you guys are the best! My
incredible ARC team and all my amazing Addicts
— LOVE to all of you! <3

Novels by Jane Anthony

KADE: A Second Chance Rockstar Romance

Ainsley Daniels wasn't the first girl to crawl out of

my bed, she's just the first one I was dying to drag

back in.

As lead singer of the most notorious rock band in

the world, people kiss the ground I walk on. I could

have anyone I want.

Any time.

Any place.

But I want her. And I'm going to have her.

It's been over a year since I first laid eyes on her;

one long year this storm has been brewing. A twist

of fate finally hands me the chance I've been

waiting for. I'm about to remind Ainsley just who

Kade Black is, and this time ... I won't let her walk

away.

Pretty Reckless (Addicted Hearts Book 1)

Chase and I were doomed from the start.

My life was chaotic, and his was calm. He planned

for the future, while I lived for the day. I danced in

the sun, while he hid in the shadows.

The day I discovered he shared my demons was

the day I lost my heart to him.

The tattooed man with aqua eyes and bowtie lips;

we were addicted hearts bruised and battered and

torn in half, yet when put together make one

seamless whole.

Chase wasn't a man who fell for women like me,

and I wasn't a woman who fell at all, yet he made

the plummet seem so sweet.

So I lept, I crashed ... then I let go.

I was never meant to fall in love. But neither was

he.

Pretty Ugly (Addicted Hearts book 2)

Chase and I were doomed from the start.

My life was chaotic, and his was calm. He planned

for the future, while I lived for the day. I danced in

the sun, while he hid in the shadows.

The day I discovered he shared my demons was the

day I lost my heart to him.

The tattooed man with aqua eyes and bowtie lips;
we were addicted hearts bruised and battered and

torn in half, yet when put together make one

seamless whole.

Chase wasn't a man who fell for women like me,

and I wasn't a woman who fell at all, yet he made

the plummet seem so sweet.

So I lept, I crashed ... then I let go.

I was never meant to fall in love. But neither was

he.

Lawless

Property. That's all I was. A pawn to be used at my

husband's discretion. His twisted games turned my

love into pain as he relished in my suffering.

So I ran.

A new name, a new look, a new life. Quiet and

safe, far away from my tortured past. When Hank

Lawless saunters into town, he kicks up more than

sawdust and dirt. He ignites a flame of desire inside

me I can't ignore. I offer my body, but he wants my

heart -- a dangerous risk I just can't take.

As he unravels my soul, my secrets soon follow,

and I fear the devil will find me. I need to run again

because, despite my feelings for Hank, my past is

coming.

And this time, he'll destroy us all.

Secret Promises (Off Limits #1)

I was just his best friend's little sister.

But he was everything to me.

Jameson Tate was the star of all my teenage

fantasies. The wannabe guitar player left town

when I was just a girl, dragging my heart along with

him. I lived in a holding pattern, waiting for him to

return. Five years later, he did.

But he wasn't the same.

The sweet boy I knew is now man, strong and sexy,

yet fiercely loyal to my overprotective brother. His

sudden reappearance wasn't something I planned

for. Nor was his employment at my family's garage.

He's all I want and everything I can't have. Now I

burn with desire, drowning in lust for a man who's

off limits.

A man who's hiding secrets of his own.

Chasing Casey (Off Limits #2)

Two men. One woman. One impossible choice.

AJ Morello resides in darkness. Tortured by

regrets, tormented by nightmares. He stole my heart

with his brooding gaze and filthy mouth, but half of

it wasn't mine to give.

Austin Krehley lives in the light. The ranch hand

on my family's farm, the man who will always own

a part of me. I vowed to love him forever, but that

was a promise impossible to keep.

It should have been easy. Girl meets boy. Girl falls

in love. They both live happily ever after.

But, unfortunately, this isn't that kind of story.

About The Author

Jane Anthony is a best-selling author of

contemporary/erotic romance. She writes hot blue-

collar dudes, raunchy rockstars, and fun feisty

heroines. Her work is gritty and real and will have

you cursing her name and begging for more. Jane

gives a bit of herself and her quirky knowledge in

each novel by incorporating her love of music

through a book-specific playlist and adding things

uniquely Jane to the plot, like her crazy family or

'80s trivia. When she’s not busy being mom or Mrs.

A, you'll find her at a concert, lost in a book, or

watching horror movies with her husband

www.janeanthonyauthor.com

Find Jane Online

The best place to interact with Jane is by joining

her Facebook reader group:

Jane’s Addicted Romance Readers

Other ways to stay in touch:

www.janeanthonyauthor.com

Twitter

JaneAnthonyauthor

Facebook @AuthorJaneAnthony

Instagram @ JaneAnthonyAuthor

Bookbub @ JaneAnthony

GoodReads

Table of Contents

Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgment
Novels by Jane Anthony

About The Author
Find Jane Online

Document Outline

Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgment
Novels by Jane Anthony
About The Author
Find Jane Online

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