It’s nothing.
Just an old house creaking and moving as it settles in the deep summer heat.
Even so, before heading back upstairs, I check the back door is locked and the windows are closed.
Inside Bronte’s bedroom, I put the Advil and water on the bedside table for when she wakes. She’s moved while I’ve been out of the room. Rolled onto her back with her head slightly turned toward the window, her hair falling across the pillow like silk. Her T-shirt has ridden up to show her flat belly and her denim shorts lie low on her slender hips. My eyes linger for a moment longer than what I think is appropriate, yet I can’t tear them away. Her chest rises and falls slowly, the swell of her breasts telling me she isn’t a kid anymore.
I turn away.
No good will come from me standing there another minute. I’m not comfortable thinking about Bronte in any other way than a friend. No matter how sweet her kiss tasted on my lips. She’s as off-limits to me as anyone can be. Yet, seeing her beautiful golden body stretched out on the bed, something inside me shifts. She’s a grown woman now, and despite the familiarity of her, it’s like I’m meeting her for the first time.
Frowning, I turn to leave but a framed photograph on the desk in the corner of the room catches my eye, so I stop. It’s of Bronte and Cooper, taken the summer before he died. I pick it up and study the image for a moment, pain snagging in my throat, cold and tight, making the muscles in my jaw tighten like screws. In the picture, Cooper only had nine months to live.
Feeling the grief spiral through me, I put the framed picture down and walk out of the room.
Seeing my brother in that photo frame reminds me of what I’ve lost.
It’s also a good reminder that I have no business looking at his best friend as anything more than the girl who grew up next door.
BRONTE
Hangovers are a bitch.
And this is a royal one.
Leaning down to splash water on my face, the sudden memory of giving myself an orgasm in Jack’s bed makes me straighten with a snap.
Oh God, no.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Oh God, yes.
I groan. “Stupid alcohol.”
Feeling a flush of warmth in my cheeks, I grab my toothbrush to wash the taste of death and shame from my mouth. Somewhere along the way, the wiring in my brain has become tangled and frayed because Jack is off-limits to me—he’s made it clear—yet thinking about him as I touched myself had given me my first orgasm after months of trying. And it was a mind-shattering orgasm at that.
Even remembering it now is making me hot.
Frowning, I shake my head.
I really am screwed up.
But then, I already know that.
Spitting out toothpaste, I decide not to read too much into it. I know this was more about me trying to get back to being the girl I used to be, more than it was about wanting Jack. It’s about me overcoming the mental block that has annoyingly lodged itself in my brain and somehow masked any ability for me to be able to have an orgasm.
And if getting over it means fantasizing about a man who would never be a real option in real life, then so be it.
I’m ready to do anything at this point.
Yet there it is, the traitorous little pulse between my thighs when I think about him. I squeeze my legs together to quell the throb and decide to focus on something else instead. Like last night and how much fun it had been. It felt good to let go, to drink too much and forget. Bam and Loki are just as much fun as I remember, and there’s something comforting about the clubhouse.
Again, my mind drifts back to waking up in Jack’s bed this morning and the pleasure that followed, and a renewed flush spreads across my skin.
Ugh.
I stop brushing and stare at my reflection in the mirror, mouth open and toothpaste foam coating my lips.
Forget about him, you crazy lush.
A text alert on my cell makes me jump, and I stare at my phone like it’s a ticking time bomb.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
My jumpiness is driving me crazy.
It’s probably Riley or Sebastian checking in on me, so I grab my cell and look at the message. But within seconds, fear sizzles into every nerve ending in my body as I read the words.
Unknown: I will search far and wide. Try as you might, but you cannot hide.
I drop my phone like it’s hot lava and sink to the floor.
It’s from him.
My own personal incubus.
Two nights ago, I left town under a cloak of darkness to get away from him. But apparently, if I think leaving town is going to get rid of him, then I’m dead wrong.