Like You Hurt: A Standalone Enemies to Lovers Romance (Devilbend Dynasty Book 2)

by Kaydence Snow

  Every time Hendrix’s face popped into my mind, I fought back tears. I’d failed him the most. And I knew—I knew—if I let those tears fall, if I gave in to the emotion, I’d fall apart, and no one would know where to even start putting me back together.

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . . the wall I’d fallen from was so, so tall.

  When I’d realized I was sitting in pitch blackness, I reached over and turned on the lamp by my bed.

  My reflection stared back at me from the dark glass of my window. I didn’t like what I saw, so I looked away.

  I wanted to go away. Make it stop. I just wanted to be able to breathe. To be someone else for a while.

  Dark Donna . . .

  I didn’t even wait to make sure everyone was asleep before leaving the house; I just waited until it sounded quiet. No one even noticed me walk—not sneak—down the stairs, get into my car, and leave. No one even cared.

  After leaving my house, I decided that maybe getting blind drunk was a better option than going to Davey’s. I wanted oblivion, but I didn’t really want to hook up with anyone who wasn’t . . . I didn’t want anyone but him touching me.

  Don’t think his name.

  So I drove to a liquor store and used my excellent fake ID to buy an obscenely expensive bottle of scotch.

  It wasn’t until I was back in my car and the smooth scent of the liquor hit the back of my nose that I realized why I’d picked that particular alcohol. I never drank scotch, but I’d craved something smoky, spicy—because it was the closest I could get to the cinnamon that clung to Hendrix. That stupid gum he chewed . . . the scent always lingered, it was always on his tongue, in his kisses, on his breath as he told me he hated me.

  I ground my teeth against the threatening tears and took a big swig, the alcohol so smooth it hardly even burned my throat. It just warmed my chest and belly, already numbing the pain, already giving me something else to focus on.

  With every drink, I forced myself to think of other things that weren’t him. Campfires, cigars, the smoked cheese Harlow and I had gorged ourselves on during our last family trip to Paris.

  I didn’t know how long I’d sat in my car, drinking and trying not to think about Hendrix, but nearly half the bottle was gone when I decided I did indeed need to go to Davey’s. I couldn’t go home, and I didn’t want to sit in the car alone, crying and drinking. It was the one place that never failed to let me get lost, let me forget everything.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, I made myself breathe, focus. I couldn’t go smashing into parked cars. Not when I’d finally made it. Even though I was a fucking mess, that little part of my logical brain had managed to remind me to take the back streets instead of the freeway, to drive slowly. I was irrationally annoyed at how long it had taken to get here. Self-preservation was so weird . . .

  I parked the car in the back of the lot where there was more room, where I was able to park across two spots at a weird angle and hit the divider without anyone noticing. Then I grabbed the bottle from the passenger seat, swung the door wide open, and hauled myself out. My vision blurred, and I took a moment to steady myself before walking toward the front entrance, leaving my car open, my purse just sitting there, the keys still in the ignition. Nothing mattered anymore.

  I took another swig as my heels crunched in the gravel, my footing uneven. I’d changed into a low-cut gray top and applied dark eyeliner before I decided it actually didn’t matter what I wore. My school skirt and socks had stayed on, and I’d added a pair of heeled Mary Janes to complete the weird ensemble. I was pretty sure I looked like some slutty porn version of a school girl with my cleavage hanging out and the heels on, but I didn’t care.

  I had no idea who I was anymore, which version of myself I was pretending to be. The clothes were a representation of all the lies I’d told to everyone, to myself. Of this ugly downward spiral I was on and didn’t care to prevent.

  The good girl gone bad . . . rotten to the core.

  “Donna.” My name. His voice, so rough, so demanding, no—pleading.

  I gritted my teeth and took another swig from the bottle. I’d pushed the image of his tortured face from my mind so hard that now I was hearing him in my head.

  “Donna!” Louder, more insistent. The sound of crunching gravel wasn’t just from my own unsteady steps.

  I stopped. He was here. My heart soared.

  He was here. My heart plummeted into the dirty gravel at my feet.

  I turned, resigned. But I didn’t see Hendrix. No, the first thing my addled, fucked-up mind latched on to was Harlow.

  My sister stopped, her eyes wide, taking me in. There were a few feet between us—an entire ocean, the Grand Canyon. Mena stood next to her, tears trailing down her cheeks unabashedly as she watched the train wreck I’d become, had been for so long already. Amaya was on Harlow’s other side, hands on hips, breathing hard. The other two were shocked, worried, upset, and Amaya probably was too, but she was the most like me. In the moment, she was ready to take charge, ready to get answers, ready to fix the situation.

  Well, I wasn’t a situation, and this couldn’t be fixed. I frowned, fighting the dizziness from the alcohol. “What . . . how did you know . . .”

  That’s when I spotted Hendrix. He was standing behind my friends, his face cast in shadow from one of the few lights still operational in the parking lot.

  He was here. He’d come after me despite everything. He was here . . .

  He’d brought my friends here . . .

  What had he told them? Who else knew?

  I narrowed my eyes, homing in on the one person who could make me feel more angry—more alive—than any other. I focused on Hendrix as my world fell apart.

  “What the fuck have you done?” I sneered, my breathing getting faster and faster.

  He blinked but didn’t look surprised I was turning my rage on him.

  “You’ve ruined everything.” I seethed, taking a few wobbling steps forward.

  As one, my friends moved toward me, ready to steady me, to break my fall. But maybe I needed to crash into the filthy gravel, let it scrape away all the ugly parts of me until nothing but clean, raw blood showed. I couldn’t look at them.

  I threw the bottle between us, stopping them in their tracks. The bottle didn’t even break—just thumped to the ground and started spilling amber liquid.

  Gravel dug into my soles as I tugged off my shoes and kept moving toward Hendrix on unsteady feet.

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut. I told you not to tell anyone. I told you to leave me alone.” I threw my shoes to the ground, like a toddler throwing toys.

  I was directly in front of him now, wishing I’d kept the shoes on so I wouldn’t have to look up to meet his resigned stare.

  “I told you!” I screamed into his face.

  He pressed his lips together but didn’t respond, hardly moved other than the rise and fall of his labored breathing. He was barely keeping it together too.

  But I didn’t give a shit. This was my mental breakdown. He could wait his turn.

  The realization that that was what was happening to me—that I was acting like a completely unhinged, crazed lunatic—was the last straw. Because that’s what I was.

  Unhinged.

  Driving drunk.

  Throwing things.

  Screaming at people.

  Crazy.

  Lunatic.

  The tears I’d been holding at bay all day burst out of me—a dam breaking. But even as I started crying, sobbing, I railed against what was happening to me. What I’d allowed myself to become.

  “Why?” I cried as I shoved Hendrix. He hardly even leaned back at the force of my hands on his chest. “Why did you tell them? They know. They can see. I’m . . . I begged you . . .”

  I pounded his chest with my fists, pulled at his sweatshirt. “You told them my secret but I kept yours!”

  When the reality of the situation washed over me, I made myself look up into h
is eyes again. His jaw was tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek as if he was grinding his teeth, his eyes blazing with emotions I was not equipped to decipher in my current state.

  But he was still there, still standing as solid as a stone pillar.

  How many times had he saved me—from myself?

  I sobbed, the energy draining out of me as I dropped my gaze.

  “I kept your secret.” The anger that had edged my voice just moments before drained away, and I gripped his sweatshirt. “It wasn’t me, Hendrix. I didn’t . . . I would never . . . I’m sorry.”

  His hands landed on my back just as my knees wobbled. He was finally touching me, finally holding me.

  “Please believe me. Please, please, please . . .” I had no idea what I was pleading for. My voice was barely above a whisper as I sagged against him.

  I fully expected him to push me off, dump me on the ground and walk away. It was all my fault. It was all my fault.

  “No, it’s not.” His low voice reverberated through his chest. My whole body shook with emotion, and my knees buckled.

  But Hendrix was there, his arms tightening around me, keeping me from falling.

  I was heavy in his arms, a dead weight, a burden. But he’d never let me down, never wavered, even as I’d pushed him away at every step. And he didn’t waver now, didn’t let me fall.

  His strong arms banded around my back as I clung to him, one hand going to the back of my head.

  “It’s OK, baby,” he whispered against my hair. “It’s going to be OK.”

  A small glimmer of peace flickered in my chest at his words, a tiny bit of sanity returning, reminding me he was here, that I was not alone, that my friends had come too.

  Harlow. Mena. Amaya.

  They were all here, all watching me unravel, watching Hendrix hold me together.

  My addled thoughts were interrupted by my heaving stomach.

  “Shit.” I lifted my head from Hendrix’s chest, gave him one wide-eyed look, then leaned to the side and vomited.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Donna

  It didn’t take me long to realize the bed wasn’t my own. The light on my face was coming from a different direction from where my window should be, and the pillow was softer than mine. It also smelled like Amaya—that feminine, light perfume my friend wore.

  My head ached. It felt as if someone were squeezing it between big, strong hands, every thought coming through a fog.

  I remembered most of the previous night—I was never the type to lose memory when drunk, even when I polished off half a bottle of scotch. Thinking about the amber liquid made my stomach spasm, and my mouth filled with saliva.

  I forced a deep breath down my nose and blew it out, then another and another, until the urge to puke subsided. There was nothing left in my stomach to vomit out anyway—I’d just be retching and feeling even more miserable.

  Squeezing my eyes shut against the light, I rolled into an even tighter ball and snuggled farther into the bedding. For the first time since I’d learned to tell time, I didn’t give a crap how late it was. Nothing mattered other than how utterly broken my body felt. My mind and my heart weren’t much better.

  After I’d started puking all over the gravel, Hendrix had stepped behind me, out of the firing line, so he could hold me. With one arm wrapped around the front of my shoulders and the other low on my hips, he held up my full weight as I vomited the entire contents of my stomach. The sudden sickness must’ve roused my friends from their shocked stupor. Soft feminine hands appeared at my forehead to pull my short hair back, and someone else produced a bottle of water and a wad of tissues.

  After that, Hendrix carried me to my car, and my friends buckled me in and drove me away. I hardly heard what they said to each other, hardly registered Mena giving Amaya directions out of the seedy neighborhood as Harlow ran her fingers through my hair, my head in her lap.

  I managed to walk myself up to Amaya’s room—thankful I didn’t have to suffer the indignity of having my girls carry me up—and passed out as soon as I collapsed on her bed, totally spent in every way imaginable. Judging by the T-shirt and underwear I’d woken up in, they’d taken the time to change me and tuck me under the covers.

  I sighed in frustration and threw the covers back, keeping my eyes closed. More than anything, I just wanted to go back to sleep, embrace unconsciousness, and pretend for a little longer that none of this was happening. But now that I was awake, I couldn’t stop thinking, remembering, worrying. Plus, the awful pressure in my head and clammy, gross feeling in my entire body made it impossible to relax.

  I cracked my eyes open and hissed at the light, then forced myself to lift up onto my elbows.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Amaya’s bright voice was like talons against my brain. I glared at her, but it turned into a wince as another sharp pain shot through my head. My friend was sitting on the bed next to me, propped up against the headboard, her phone clutched in her elegant fingers.

  “Were you watching me sleep? Fucking creep.” My voice was hoarse, scratchy. Probably from all the crying and screaming at Hendrix. Also the vomiting. God, was I a mess.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I was scrolling the gram while you snored. I was actually trying to decide whether to post this lovely pic of you.” She showed me her screen, a sweet smile on her face. It was a picture of me sleeping, my mouth open, my face smooshed into the pillow. The one visible eye was dark with smudged mascara.

  I lunged for her. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

  She laughed maniacally and leaned back, slapping me away.

  “You started the ‘beat her ass’ portion of the intervention without us?” My sister’s voice alerted me to her arrival, but I was too busy trying to pin Amaya under me to look. She was skinny, but she was fast.

  “It stinks in here.” Mena went to the window and threw it wide open; a gust of fresh, chilly air sent a shiver down my spine. My tousle with Amaya came to a natural end, both of us panting.

  Amaya made a face. “Your breath is hideous.”

  “Come on.” Harlow yanked the sheet off the bed, detangling it from my legs. “Go have a shower and brush your teeth.”

  “Then breakfast.” Mena smiled from the window.

  “Then interrogation.” Amaya nodded.

  “Intervention,” Harlow and Mena said at the same time, making me think they’d already argued about how to approach this . . . situation. I didn’t want to be a situation.

  I crawled off the bed and shuffled into Amaya’s adjoining bathroom without looking at any of them. Her bedroom was luxurious, with soft furnishings, velvet cushions, and everything in rich jewel tones. The bathroom was just as dark and moody, black marble and muted gold fixtures everywhere.

  Avoiding my reflection in the mirror, I hopped into the shower and scrubbed my face before using Amaya’s toothbrush. I also did my best to avoid thinking about how much Hendrix had told them, what they thought of me now, what they’d said to each other while I slept.

  Someone had left fresh underwear and sweats for me on the bathroom counter. I changed quickly and stepped out to find my friends all scattered about the bedroom, sipping from steaming mugs. A tray with a fourth mug and a plate had been laid out on the bed—for me.

  Shame burned the back of my neck as I sat down in front of it, the feeling as tangible as the droplets of water coming off my wet hair.

  They’d made me plain toast and a cup of chamomile tea.

  I nibbled on the toast, focusing on the food, on pushing through the queasy feeling in my stomach. No one said anything. The only noises were the occasional sips of coffee and the wind and birds through the open window. So weird for my usually loud, animated, opinionated friends.

  I finished the first piece of toast and pushed the plate away, unable to stomach the second. Bringing the mug to my lips, I blew gently on the hot liquid.

  I needed to get this conversation going, air out this odd tension between us just as the room was getting ai
red out by the fresh wind.

  My first sip was pleasantly warm as it made its way down my throat. I sighed and opened my mouth to speak, but . . . I wasn’t sure where to start, so I closed it again and frowned into my tea. I was kind of sick of always being the one to start the conversations, to take the lead. I felt like shit. If they wanted to talk, they could talk. I was just going to nurse my hangover.

  “How are you feeling?” Mena sat down on the bed next to me, her kindness immediately making me feel guilty for what I’d just been thinking.

  I swallowed and took a deep breath. “Like shit.”

  I looked up into my cousin’s face. There was no judgment, no pity, just a readiness to listen, maybe a little worry.

  “Good.” Amaya took a sip from her mug. She was sitting in a magenta armchair in the corner. “Serves you right for what you put us through.”

  “You really had us scared, D.” Harlow sounded unsure whether she wanted to scold me or plead with me. She was perched on the bench under the window, one leg propped up as she leaned on her knee.

  “I’m sorry I worried you guys.” I sighed. If Harlow—if any one of them—disappeared like that and I found them in the state I’d been in . . . “Last night was . . . yesterday . . .” I couldn’t find the words. Because it wasn’t really about yesterday. It was about months, years, all of it.

  Harlow moved my tray to the floor and sat cross-legged in front of me. “What’s going on with you? Why won’t you talk to us? Let us help?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just . . . you all have your own things going on, your own problems. And it’s not like there was some catastrophic thing that happened. It was just one thing after another piling up, and I didn’t want to burden you. I thought I could handle it myself—that I should handle it myself. But shit just kept building and building . . .”