“I’m a virgin.” She says the words so softly, so suddenly, that I’m convinced she hadn’t planned on the admission.
It pulses in the air between us, collecting like snowflakes on the ground. Confusion knits my insides, and I let my hand fall to my side, searching her face for signs of a lie.
“But your medical records—”
“I’ve never slept with anyone,” she insists, dropping her chin slightly.
My gaze flickers to the scars on her face, and I think about the one on her hip. I’ve never felt more confused in my entire life.
Pulling away, she runs a hand through her hair, then hugs her biceps. “I should go in and wait for a ride.”
“I’ll take you.”
Glancing at my extended hand, she cringes. “That feels like a terrible idea.”
I shrug, wiggling my fingers. “Won’t know until you try.”
It takes several more minutes, and my toes start to go numb by the time she finally nods. She doesn’t take my hand, but she follows beside me, and for right now, I’m okay with settling for that.
32
What is a socially acceptable amount of time to let someone bully you?
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I delete the text in the search bar. I don’t put it past Aiden to have installed a nanny cam on my laptop when I wasn’t looking, so I don’t want to incriminate myself more than necessary.
In truth, he’s been fairly quiet in the couple of weeks since Thanksgiving; when Fiona came to visit over the weekend, I hadn’t seen him at all, though I know he’s always lurking.
Being on this end of an obsession is… weird, to say the least. I spent most of my life living vicariously through celebrities, studying their lives in the hope that maybe some of that glitz and glamour would rub off on me.
Now, my days are occupied by graphic design, bubble baths, and the animosity of the man my teenage self was infatuated with.
She didn’t know better, though, so I’m trying to cut her some slack.
Aiden James hides his crazy very, very well.
I can’t help feeling a little bad that I seem to have sent him over the edge, though you would think that three years is more than enough time to move on from something like that.
Just like you have, right, Riley?
Slipping from the bed, I pull on a white terrycloth robe and head downstairs. The cabin is freezing, and when I pass by the thermostat on the wall, I notice the indoor temperature has taken a dip along with the drop outside.
I can almost see my breath as I reach out, cranking it back up.
Glancing at myself in the mirror hanging by the stairs, I scrub my nails over my jaw; red, scaly patches of skin have sprouted there, and no matter how much lotion I apply, they’re not going away.
Part of me wonders if I should call Kal and have him write me a prescription, but the other part of me wants to see an actual doctor. One I can talk to about my history.
Aiden’s comment about internal scarring has stuck with me, and I can’t stop wondering what that means.
If my mother’s boyfriend took more than just my life the night he attacked me.
Maybe getting answers will unlock some of the memories, although at this point, I feel stupid for wanting to know.
I should be content in my ignorance, but something about it all still bothers me. Somehow, the not knowing is worse.
Walking into the kitchen, the scent of coffee and butter invades my senses, and I freeze in place as my eyes sweep the scene.
Caleb stands over a skillet at my stove, poking at something inside with a spatula. The island is littered with ingredients I’ve never bought—whole milk instead of the oat I drink, a package of uncooked bacon, corn meal, and a block of gooey white cheese.
As if sensing my presence, Caleb turns his head and gives me a lopsided grin. “Well, good morning, sunshine. Glad to see you’re not sleeping the day away.”
Frowning, I adjust my robe, pulling it closer to my neck. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh…” He doesn’t look up from his task. “Cooking breakfast?”
“Well, I can see that. What I mean is, why?”
“I had a bunch of bacon leftover from a tourism conference this morning, so I figured, why let it go to waste?”
My nose scrunches up. “I don’t like bacon.”
Caleb’s hands stop moving. “What?”
“It leaves a weird taste in my mouth.” Shrugging, I walk over to the cabinet, pull out a mug that has a foxtail as its handle, and pour a cup of coffee. “Probably because my mom used to burn it any time she’d bother making breakfast when I was a kid. My brain rejects it all the same.”
“Wow. You know, sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.”
He shakes his head with a little laugh. I watch as he flips a little flattened circle of dough, pressing down on the top, and try to ignore the wound his words leave on my heart.
“Doesn’t like bacon. Sheesh. Well, at any rate, the bacon’s just one aspect of this meal. I’m also making—”
He cuts off abruptly as he turns, eyes widening as he takes me in. “Holy shit, Angel, what the hell happened to your face?”
I groan, reaching up to cover my jaw with my fingers. “Oh god, nothing. I’m having some kind of allergic reaction to my lotion, I think.”
Abandoning the stove, Caleb wipes his hands on a dish towel, then immediately walks over. Pushing me aside, he reaches up to cradle my face, tilting it in various directions as he inspects the rash.
“Do you have any allergies?”
“I—”
“Latex.”
My head whips around to find the source of the answer, even though I know without looking who it came from. Aiden slips in through the glass patio door, and my heart stutters inside my chest as I rake my gaze over him.
Droplets of water cling to his tanned skin—skin that, until now, I’ve only ever seen the bare minimum of. In every paparazzi photo of him that exists, Aiden’s wearing a shirt. Doesn’t matter if he’s on the beach, in a pool, or on stage.
It’s never been something he’s commented on in interviews, either.
As he walks inside, his dark and damp hair dripping onto the defined, inked planes of his torso, I can’t figure out why he’d ever hide himself.
I can’t stop staring as he comes closer, not the slightest bit concerned that he’s getting the floor wet. My eyes trail over the intricate designs etched into his chest—instruments, abstract drawings, and flowers decorate his skin, each one bleeding into the next to make a homologous collection.
A phoenix sits at the center, its fiery wings spanning across his pecs and the tail wrapping around his belly button.
But that’s not the only thing that catches my eye; as I make my third pass around the colorful linework, my gaze snags on a splash of silver.
My stomach tightens. His left nipple is pierced.
A plain dime-sized hoop hangs off the puckered flesh, and for some reason, my first instinct is to reach out and hook my pinkie through it.
Folding my mouth together, I slip my hands behind my back, resisting.
Aiden seems to zero in on where Caleb’s holding me, and his jaw tics, his tongue pushing against his cheek as he leans against the counter.
“How do you know she has a latex allergy?” Caleb asks, and I want to pinch my eyes closed, because even I anticipate what’s about to come out of Aiden’s mouth.