by Ella James
“I do.” I know him well enough—I think I do—to detect worry underneath his words. Instead of being insecure that he would even ask, I try to reassure him. Mostly with my mouth and hands.
That night, he stays over and sleeps behind me, his big, thick arms wrapped around me like a cloak. How easy, I think the next day. How easy all this is.
The week is long and challenging and fun, so Friday after work when we ride home together, I’m excited. We kiss in the car and then he walks me to my door and says he needs to go.
“Aww,” I whine. I tug on his striped t-shirt.
“I’ve got something to pick up.” He winks.
He kisses me, and as I watch him walk away, I think how surreal this still sort of is. Dash and me: an item after all.
We’re supposed to meet at Taco Roberto’s—a place two blocks away—at seven. I put on a short black dress and strappy sandals, leaving my hair down and wavy. I can’t help but smile as I take the elevator down into the lobby, where I almost hope I’ll run into Dash.
I get to the restaurant first and, since we have a reservation, I’m taken to my seat, where I order two beers and chips with cheese dip. Again, I can’t help smiling, this time as I tell the waiter that I’m waiting for my boyfriend.
I came back from Southampton willing to coast and keep an open mind, but I feel surer now, more comfortable, more able to let the past live there and see what happens in the present.
Dash is running late, so I order an appetizer. When my beer is finished and I haven’t heard from him, I text under the table cloth.
‘Hey—you okay?’
Ten minutes later, I ask the staff if they might have seated him somewhere else. Forty minutes later, I pay for my food and Dash’s unclaimed beer and start walking toward our building.
There’s a deep pit in my stomach, that old, awful feeling that something terrible has happened.
‘Dash—please text. I’m worried,’ I send as I walk.
Thirty minutes later, as I sit on my couch hugging a pillow and debating knocking on his door, I get a reply. ‘Something came up. Sorry.’
Something came up. Sorry.
Just like that, it all falls down.
I’m not proud of myself. I’m aware that I have good qualities, and among those qualities are optimism and forgivingness. That’s all well and good—for normal, everyday life. When those things don’t work? When they work against me? Any time Dash Frasier is concerned?
I’m stupid.
Blind.
Who threw themselves at whom?
Oh, right—that was me who first leaned over right in front of him to grab my not-really-dropped pencil.
Who asked for that first ride home?
I accepted his apology why? It wasn’t even a good one. Why’d he leave the way he did that summer? He claimed he didn’t feel worthy. Was that the problem last night, too?
I realize, as I cry and watch The Princess Bride and cry into a bowl of ice cream, that—as cliché as this sounds—Dash is obviously some kind of commitment-phobe. Maybe it is because he doesn’t feel worthy. I don’t know. I never saw him as someone with a self-esteem issue, but maybe he has one. It’s true his parents were almost never around when he was growing up, and Mr. Frasier had some definite asshole tendencies.
I think of texting Saturday night—a split-second urge, fueled by worry about him—but I rein myself in. I have a glass of wine and curl up in my bed, looking at the city through my windows as I drift into a fitful sleep.
Sunday I am sad. Just really sad. That I thought we had something we didn’t. I allowed myself to want it so much. God, I really wanted it. Why can’t I stop wanting him?
I will, I promise myself.
I will find another guy, damnit, and he will be superior to Dash. He will want me. He will love me. He’ll want more than sex.
I’m sitting on my couch with an ice pack on my swollen eyes when my phone rings. It’s a local number: a Nashville number. I answer, thinking it’s someone from work.
“Hello…Amelia?”
“This is her.”
“Hey. This is Poppy. I know you don’t know me, but I work at The Wasted Quarter Horse.”
“Um, what?”
“It’s a bar. In Nashville.”
“Okay…”
“Right. So I work here, and every week we have this thing called Trivia Tuesdays. A group of people from Imagine entertainment always comes, and there’s this guy who comes sometimes. Hottie with glasses. His name is Dash. Do you know him?”
My stomach curls into a small, unpleasant ball as I say, “Yeah.”
“He came here Friday, sat alone, and drank a lot. I’ve never seen him drunk, but he got pretty shit-faced. Left at closing. I didn’t see him yesterday but he came back today and drank all day. Like—allllll day. I think he’s passed out now, and I don’t want to call the cops. He always seemed like a nice guy. Anyway, he left his wallet on the table and I found a sticky note with your name and phone number. Are you somebody who—”
“He’s passed out?”
“Yeah. He pretty much is. Maybe I should call the police, and they could put him—”
“No. Hold on.” I put a hand up to my forehead. “You said you’ve never seen him drink?”
“I have, I just haven’t seen him drunk.”
“Was he with other people?”
“No. And here’s the thing… He came in Friday in a shirt with stripes, and he’s still wearing it today. I just…I—”
“Stay there. Okay? Stay there with him. I’m coming. Where are you?”
I dress quickly, throw on flip-flops, and rush down to the parking garage, where I put the Quarter Horse into my GPS and pull into the line of downtown traffic. There’s not much—it’s a Sunday night—and the Quarter Horse isn’t far. I try to keep my mind quiet as I drive there. I don’t know what’s going on; I’m going to find out. I start to second-guess coming to get him, but I stop myself. Maybe this is why he doesn’t drink much. Maybe he has issues with alcohol. All I know for sure is he was wearing a striped shirt last time I saw him, and Dash is one of those guys who always showers, every single night, no matter how long and tiring our day was.
I parallel park in front of the Quarter Horse, slowing for only a moment under the awning before I take a deep breath and walk in.
I know Dash’s artwork on the back wall within a second or two of looking at it. I don’t really get the faerie link, but I know Dash painted that wall. Probably a year or two ago, based on the style. I’m blinking at the wall when a pretty, red-haired waitress says, “It’s seat yourself, but we’re closing—”
I shake my head, casting a quick glance around the bar. “I’m here to get someone.”
“Oh! Amelia from the sticky note.”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
I follow Poppy to the back of the room, where we hang a left into a larger room. I see Dash slumped over a table in the back corner and my throat constricts.
“He’s not completely passed out. I think with some help, you can get him to a car. Did you drive?”
I nod, wanting her to shut up, to go away, but she goes over to the table with me, watching as I gently shake his shoulder.
“Dash?”
He moans and folds an arm over his head. I notice several empty glasses on the table.
“Who kept serving him?”
“It wasn’t me,” the girl says.
“Dash?” With my hand on his thick shoulder, I slide into the booth beside him. “Hey—it’s Ammy. Dash? Can you sit up?”
To my surprise, he does. His eyes are bloodshot, sagging; they look tired as hell. What I really notice is the lack of glasses. Then I notice that his jaw is bruised and puffy.
“Am?” His eyes roll slightly.
“Hey—it’s me. C’mon. We’re going home now. Can you stand up?” I’m surprised when he blinks slowly, looks around, and starts moving toward me. I slide out of the booth, and Dash follows. I hold m
y arm out to him, looking in the booth as his big hand closes around my arm.
“Did he have glasses?” I ask the waitress.
“On the floor,” Dash slurs.
Sure enough—they’re underneath the booth. I grab them, slide them on his face, and wrap an arm around him.
“C’mon… I’m driving.”
He mumbles something I can’t understand, and then we’re walking toward my car. I open the passenger’s side door and he plops down, his eyes rolling a little as I shut the door.
Good God.
By the time I get into the driver’s seat, he’s snoring.
He smells like alcohol and sweat. When I turn, en route to our building, he falls slightly to the left. I push his shoulder, and his head hits the window.
“Shit!”
When I park the car and shake him, he gives me a few dull blinks and then a small smile. “Ammy…”
“C’mon, D. We’re going inside…”
I help him out and watch his profile as I help him inside. He’s all eyes and a solemn, frowning mouth. In the elevator, he wraps his arm around me and leans on me—so hard I feel like he might take me down with him.
“We’re going to go to my place,” I tell him. I don’t feel entirely welcome at his place right now, and if I’m going to take care of him, I’d rather do it where I feel the most at ease.
By the time we reach my door, I’m feeling miserable and misguided. I shouldn’t have gotten him. I shouldn’t have. But now he’s here and… I don’t know. Maybe I could break into his phone and call someone. But who? If he has a drinking problem, would it be wrong to tell the studio he’s off the wagon?
Maybe it would be right.
I sigh and lead him in. I’m going to put him on the couch, but when we get into the den, he just keeps walking—into my bedroom, into the bathroom, where he shuts the door and then turns on the sink.
I hear the click of something falling onto the floor—as if he knocked something off the vanity—and then the door swings open. Dash is shirtless, eyebrows rumpled, his eyes blinking slowly.
“Am?” His head lolls back as his eyes scan my room. “Am I at your place?”
“Yes.”
He frowns, and in a hoarse voice says, “I drank too much.”
“I think you did.”
I stare at him, and he stares back. I wait for him to mention our date, but he just looks right through me, seeming tired and troubled.
“I’m gonna shower,” he says. Then the door is shut, and I’m in my room by myself. I hear the water run, and then I hear him getting sick.
Perfect.
I tell myself when he comes out, I’ll offer him my bath robe and some sweat pants and I’ll send him packing. If he can’t talk about the way he stood me up, he needs to get out of my place.
I feel a shot of guilt as I listen to him gag and groan, but I shove it aside. I’m not going in there and taking care of him. God knows I don’t have a lot of self-respect, but what I do have, I’m looking to hold onto.
It’s a while before he re-emerges, freshly showered, one of my plush towels hanging from his chiseled hips.
I notice, as he steps toward me, that he’s not wearing glasses. Then his arms are wrapped around me and his head is on my shoulder and he’s kissing my neck.
“Ammy—please.” The words sound gasped.
“Please what?” My arms hang at my sides.
Dash cups my head, kisses my throat. “I need you. I need you.”
“I can’t…”
“Please,” he moans.
“You didn’t come Friday.”
“I know.” His mouth is on mine, and I’m kissing him; not because it’s smart, but because I just respond to him. I close my hand around his nape and let him kiss me. I’m surprised he tastes so good and minty, that he’s coordinated enough to make me pant, to get me on my back on my bed, where he strips my clothes off and kisses up and down my inner thighs.
“I’m sorry… So, so sorry… I love you,” he breathes against my leg.
My body stills.
“I love you. I’m sorry…”
I can’t move as he licks his way up to my center, parts me with his tongue, and traces slow circles around my clit. He slides a finger into me, then adds another one…and then they curl and thrust as he laps at my clit, working me into a fervor, so I’m clutching his hair, moaning, arching up against him.
“God… oh God…”
I don’t just come—I come apart. When he gathers me in his arms, I drip tears onto his chest and Dash runs his fingers slowly through my hair. We stay like that forever, and he starts to whisper, “Sorry... I’m so sorry, Ammy… I’m sorry.”
His eyes are closed, I note when I look. He looks solemn, not quite conscious somehow. In a way I can’t describe, it feels like he is somewhere else. Like he is someone else. So when he spreads me out and moves between my legs, it’s this Dash I’m responding to. Dash with glowing, somber eyes, Dash with his body bathed in city light. Dash who whispers, “I love you” against my chest and pushes into me and holds my face while I gasp. This Dash fucks me hard and steady, almost gently.
He comes with a hoarse sound in his throat, and then he’s moving off me, handing me his towel; his eyes meet mine for one split second in the dark glow of my room, and then he’s stretching out beside me.
Passing out, I think. Except when I get back from cleaning up, I find his shoulders shaking.
“Dash…?”
I touch him cautiously between his shoulder blades and feel how damp his skin is. Then I hear his low sob, blunted by my pillow. I’m so stunned, I wait a few more beats, until it’s crystal clear that Dash is weeping. I scoot slowly closer, wrap my arms around him.
“Dash…?”
He turns toward me, so he can pull me up against him. With his arms locked tight around me, he rests his face against my neck.
“Am,” he groans, “my sister’s dead.”
Twenty-One
Amelia
His sister?
“Lex?”
Dash’s body shudders, and I realize what I’m hearing.
“Oh my God, for real? What happened?” My shrill words are out in front of me. As soon as I blurt these things, I lock my arms around Dash and push my head against his head, and whisper, “Oh my God, I’m so, so sorry…”
I can feel the punch of sobs before he makes a sound. His hand comes behind my neck and holds me up against him. After one big, jerky breath, Dash cries like I have never heard him cry: his sobs like bellows, his big body rocking mine. He clings to me, and my hand strokes his hair as my mind races.
What to say? What happened? This is why he stood me up. Oh God, he hasn’t even changed his clothes since Friday.
I can’t give him anything. I can’t do anything but hold him tight and stroke him with my hands and words. “I’m so, so sorry, baby... I’m so sorry.”
What’s worse than the feeling that you can’t do anything? I wrap him in my arms and legs and push my face against his hot, damp face, but I can’t take the pain. My thoughts race as I whisper to him, as I stroke his burning back and shoulders. I can see the children on his magnet, eating watermelon, getting covered in the sticky juice, then doing fancy dives into the pool. The water was warm and we were joyous, floating, staring at the sky as it got dark. I see pink clouds shifting over us, moving on fast-forward. I can see the stars from Dash’s roof; I feel his head on my lap. I can hear his drunken words to me down by the lake another night.
I blamed her for it. I could tell she knew something, and she chose Dash. She chose all her vices. The Frasier kids, my once-best friends, became a barbed-wire memory. I stayed far away. I remember little Lexie with her curly head held high, her curving lips and secret eyes and always that excitement. I remember older Lex on Instagram, posing with that sly cat mouth and flawless body.
Was she happy?
What happened?
She was close to Dash. I know because on her Instagram, she would
sometimes share some nature shots or action shots and caption them with things like #TakenByMyBachelorBrother.
I missed years. I’m slammed with my own ignorance as Dash goes still and quiet. His shoulders jerk, his hands hold on and then relax. I think he’s asleep before he whispers, “Overdose.” The word cracks.
“God, Dash.”
I feel his tears on my throat. “I just talked to her. I tried to go get her…but they won’t let me.” His whole body trembles on a sob.
“Oh, baby…” I hold him tight against me. When he seems a little more composed, I whisper, “Where’d it happen?”
“Jamaica.” He shudders, his breaths coming in little jerks. “She had…a job down there.”
I rub his back and shoulders, hoping I can get him to stop shaking.
“I’m sorry that…I didn’t call, Am.”
“No. It’s okay. Don’t worry, baby.”
His face presses into my shoulder, and he presses me against him. “I should have called her more.”
“How much you called her wouldn’t matter. I don’t know what happened, D, but you weren’t holding Lex together. You couldn’t have.”
I feel him take a big breath, let it out.
“Had she had issues with this stuff since high school?”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “But she had gotten clean.”
I squeeze him, wrapping both my arms around his head and shoulders. “Do you think it was an accident?”
I feel him shaking as he nods against me. He doesn’t move for a long time after that, but I can tell he’s not asleep because he’s breathing too fast.
“I can’t believe it. I try to…but I can’t.” His words are almost gasps, as if he’s hyperventilating. “I told her I had fucked…it up with you and…she… She wasn’t…like my parents. She loved me.”
His voice cracks on the word, and my heart with it.
“I’m so sorry. Other people care about you, Dash. I do.”
His body trembles harder. “You shouldn’t, Am.”
“But I do. It doesn’t matter if I should, because I do.” I kiss his hair. I rub my hands down his broad back. “I’ve cared for you since you saved me from the pool, when I was six. And all through school, and even after, when it made no sense. I’m here, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m here with you.”
