by K. A. Tucker
“A witch.” No way in hell am I explaining to a five-year-old why a schoolgirl could be deemed an appropriate Halloween costume. I can only imagine the questions that would spark. “I have a party to go to tonight,” I admit with reluctance.
“Oh.” Eric finally takes his eye patch off to inspect it. “We were supposed to have a party today but they cancelled it.”
“Why’d they do that?”
“Because of Lola.”
Lola. Dread runs its icy fingers down my back. There’s only one reason I can think of that would make them cancel a party for a bunch of kids who need it more than anything. I don’t want to ask. Still, I can’t keep the tremble out of my voice. “What about Lola?”
I catch Derek’s head shift slightly as he and his brother share a look. When Eric looks up at me again, it’s with sad eyes. “I can’t tell you because we made that deal.”
“Lola—” I clear my throat against the bulge instantly within it, as a strange numbness washes over me.
“Livie, why can’t we talk about it? Is it because it makes you so sad?”
“Is it because it makes you so sad? ”His little voice, so innocent and curious. So enlightening. Good question, Eric. Was that rule for their benefit or mine? I close my eyes against the rush of tears threatening. I can’t break down in front of them. I can’t.
And then little hands settle on each of my shoulders.
Through blurry eyes, I find each twin standing on either side of me, Derek now watching me with a furrowed brow. “It’s okay, Livie,” he says in that raspy voice. “It’ll be okay.” Two five-year-old boys, both suffering from cancer, who just lost a friend, are comforting me.
“Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” Eric adds.
“You’ll get used to it.” Words that steal the air right out of my lungs and turn my blood cold, as if it froze in my veins. I know it didn’t because I’m still alive; my heart is still beating.
All the same, in five words, in one second, something profound just died inside of me.
I swallow and give each of their little hands a squeeze and a kiss. I give them my most heartwarming smile as I say, “Excuse me, boys.”
I see my reflection in the glass as I stand and walk toward the playroom door. My movements are slow and steady, almost mechanical, like those of a robot. Turning to the left, I head down the hall toward the public washrooms.
I keep going.
I get on the elevator, I get off of the elevator, I walk past the main desk and out the main entrance.
Out of the hospital.
Away from my autopilot future.
Because I don’t ever want to get used to it.
Why the hell did I come?
I ask myself this as my stupid red stilettos click up the stairs to the house. I ask myself this as I push past a group of already drunk partiers, one of them trying to cop a feel under my skirt as I pass. I ask myself this as I step into the kitchen to find Reagan perched on the edge of the counter with a slice of lime in one hand, a salt shaker in the other, and Grant’s face in her well-exposed cleavage.
Tequila. That’s why the hell I came here tonight.
To drown myself in tequila so the thinking stops and the doubts fade and the churning guilt in my stomach stills for one damn night.
And, so I can thank Ashton for the photo and find the nerve to tell him that I think I’m in love with him. Because there is some tiny hope hidden deep in my heart that my saying it will make a difference.
I snatch the shot glass out of Grant’s hand before he unburies his face and I down it. The burn is almost intolerable. I steal Reagan’s lime to kill the vile taste before I vomit. Of all the things to want to drink . . . Gah!
“Livie!” Reagan cries, her hands flailing wildly, scattering salt in every direction. “Look! Livie’s here!” A loud cheer of approval fills the kitchen and I automatically blush in response. I have no clue who any of these people are and I highly doubt they care who I am.
“I knew this look would work for you.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, her finger jabbing me directly in my left boob. Probably unintentionally. Maybe not.
“How much has she had?” I ask Grant. Enough not to see that my eyes are still puffy and red from an hour of crying, thankfully.
“Enough to tell me that if she ever jumped the fence, you’d be good to experiment on,” Grant says, handing me another shot. I pound it back immediately, despite knowing I’m going to hate it. I hate this guilty rot inside me more.
“That’s right. I did say that! I know what you like . . .” She gives an overexaggerated wink.
“Reagan!” My jaw drops as I look from her to Grant.
He just rolls his eyes, his hands up in the air as if in surrender. I notice for the first time that Grant is in scrubs and he has a name tag on him that reads Dr. Grant Feel-You-Up Cleaver. “She didn’t explain. I didn’t ask.” With a mumble, he adds, “I don’t want to know what the fuck is going on under this roof.”
“Here! Try these. They’re delicious!” As usual, Reagan quickly changes to a new topic, this time to a bowl of gummi bears. Sometimes I picture a bunch of squirrels chasing thoughts in her brain like they’re nuts. I’m hoping the furry rodents keep their acorns far from Ashton or she’s liable to blab, in her state.
With a sigh, and a mutter of thanks, I thrust my hand into the bowl while my eyes scan the kitchen and any other room in my sight, looking for his dark hair while I hold my breath.
“Do you like them?” Reagan chirps as my mouth puckers against the cold, juicy texture in my mouth. Strange. “They’re full of rum! They’re like Jell-O shots!”
New kryptonite. Fantastic. Then again, if I eat enough of these, I’m sure I’ll tell Ashton anything and everything without reservation.
“Gidget! Focus!” Grant barks as he’s downing another shot. It gives her just enough warning to place the lime between her teeth before he smashes his mouth into hers to suck on it, his hand shifting under her short skirt for good measure.
I turn away from the blatant foreplay. Reagan did threaten payback . . .
“Wow, Livie!” I jump back as a set of glassy green eyes appears five inches from mine.
My heart sinks with disappointment. I was hoping to avoid him tonight. “Hey, Connor.”
“I’m Batman tonight, babe,” he states as his arms stretch the cape out on either side of him, accidently knocking someone’s drink out of his hand in the process. He’s oblivious, though, too busy sliding his gaze down the length of my body. “You look great.” Arms wrap around my waist to pull me against him. His breath smells like a mix of beer and hard liquor and he’s slurring badly. “I mean . . .” Hands landing on each of my ass cheeks with a squeeze makes me jolt. “Really great.”
I can’t blame him. He’s drunk and I’m dressed like most guys’ fantasy, so I guess it’s to be expected. Still, it makes me squirm away in discomfort, a scowl no doubt on my face. I somehow manage to break free of his grasp and slowly edge away to create some space between us.
“Great, party, huh?” He casts a hand out in the general direction of the crowd and I follow it, taking another small step back.
“Yeah. Looks like it.”
“You’re a little late to the festivities, though.” And . . . he’s back in my space, his mouth directly on my ear. Whatever edge two shots of tequila and a mouthful of rum-soaked gummi bears had taken off is back.
I flinch as he yanks one of my pigtails. It gives me the chance to shove him playfully and step around him. “I had a hard day at the hospital.” My future, basically crumbling before my eyes.
“I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow.” He takes another sip of his beer as his head tilts to the side to get a better angle of my legs. I just shake my head. I know I shouldn’t take anything Connor says or does seriously right now because he’s
drunk, but that was a typical Connor answer, alcohol or not. You’ll be fine. You’re smart. You’re strong. You’re blah, blah, blah. Such generic and dismissive responses.
I don’t know if it’s because I saw my future life when I met his parents or because of Ashton or because I cried the entire way home from the hospital as my dreams vanished, but I feel like a fog has lifted and I’m thinking straight for the first time. Connor is feeling more wrong by the minute. He looks perfect on the outside—smart, sweet, good-looking, charming. He does cute things like send me flowers and call me throughout the day to say hello. He’s never pushed me into sex or anything aside from kissing, which, now that I think about it, is just plain weird for a college guy. Maybe he’s gay and I’m the perfect cover for his parents? Either way, it worked out well, because I’ve never had the urge to go farther with him. That in itself should have been a red flag for me.
No . . . the guy I grew up picturing in my head is definitely Connor. I just know that I don’t belong in the picture with him.
Ty bursts into the kitchen in his kilt then, causing a commotion, one I’m glad for because it forces Connor’s ogling eyes away from my thighs. “Sun!” he booms, his cheeks rosy. “Where are you, my Sun!” When he spots the slender Asian girl dressed in what I think is supposed to be a librarian outfit—complete with a whip in hand—he drops to his knees and starts belting out the lyrics to “You Are My Sunshine” in an exaggerated Scottish accent.
The place erupts in an uproar of cheers as Sun blushes. Despite my mood, I can’t help but giggle because it’s sweet, in a mortifying way. Then Connor moves in to grab my waist, slurring into my ear, and my giggle dies.
“Can you believe they’re hooking up? What an odd match.” I recoil, but he doesn’t notice. “But he said she’s a minx in the sack.” What? Who is this guy? I don’t like drunk Connor at all.
I’m starting to regret that I ever came. My plan of drowning my sorrows in alcohol is quickly being replaced with my plan to simply get the hell away from Connor. But not before I see Ashton. Just once. “Where’s Ashton?” I figure it’s a harmless enough question.
“I don’t know . . . around.” Beer dribbles out of Connor’s cup and spills on his costume as he takes a sip. “Or screwing someone upstairs.”
I try not to flinch at his words but I can’t help it. Just the thought of Ashton doing to anyone else what he did for me makes me cold inside. I hope Connor doesn’t notice. “Oh, of course.” That answer came out shaky. Suspicious. Shit.
Turns out I don’t need to worry about Connor noticing anything besides my body parts, as his eyes are now glued to my chest. I wish I could make the shirt less revealing, but Reagan stealthily removed the top buttons this morning. “You’re so hot, Livie. How did I find someone so amazing?” I feel his weight shift against me as he half leans, half falls into me, pressing me up against a wall. “You’re sweet and pure and perfect. And you’re all mine.” His mouth drops to my throat. “Sometimes I want to . . .” He leans farther in, pressing his groin against my thigh, squashing my gay theory like a ripe tomato. The hand that’s pawing my hair slides down to my breast and starts squeezing it like it’s a stress ball—rough and not at all pleasant..
I don’t think any amount of tequila will make this feel good.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I mumble, squirming out from between him and the wall and dashing out of the kitchen. I can’t be here anymore. I can’t be near Connor. I want to run home for a shower and forget that just happened.
I need Ashton.
I pull my phone out and send him a quick text. Not waiting for a response, I start searching from room to room, skillfully avoiding Connor twice. I can’t find Ashton anywhere, though, and no one has seen him. A quick check of the garage finds his black car.
Ashton is here.
That means he must be in his room.
And he’s not answering his texts.
So much for not feeling anything tonight. The dread is back and has increased tenfold, churning in my stomach like a deadly whirlpool of jealousy and hurt and desperation.
I have only two choices—leave and assume that he’s upstairs with someone or go upstairs and find out.
With my arms hugging my chest tightly, I climb the stairs, each step bringing me closer to either the pinnacle of a disastrous day or to an ocean of relief. I think that if I find him with another woman, I’ll die.
Why am I doing this to myself? Because you’re a masochist.
I see his door up ahead, closed. There’s no red sock or any other indication that someone might be in there.
Still . . .
I don’t even need to consciously hold my breath because I’ve stopped breathing altogether as I put my ear to the door. The softest music is playing, so he’s in there, but otherwise . . . silence. No moans or groans or female voices.
Before I can chicken out, I knock lightly.
No answer.
Swallowing, I knock again.
No answer.
I reach down to gently test the doorknob, to find it unlocked.
This is the weirdest feeling I’ve ever had—blood rushes in my ears as my heart pounds viciously and yet my lungs are still. I know it can’t go on forever. I know I’ll get dizzy and pass out soon if I don’t make a choice.
I have to make a choice. I can turn and leave now—leave this house because I can’t deal with Connor—and not see Ashton. Not touch him, not have him help me forget this awful day in a way that only he can.
Or I can open the door and risk seeing him with someone else.
I open the door.
A freshly showered Ashton sits on the edge of his bed in a towel, staring at the floor while one hand fumbles with the belt band. He holds a glass with amber liquid in it.
If I were any more relieved right now, I’d dissolve to the floor. “Hey.” I say it as softly as I can, as the gravitational pull toward him takes over.
“Close the door. And lock it. Please. I don’t want to see anyone tonight.” His voice is low and hollow-sounding. He hasn’t even looked up. I don’t know what this mood is. I’ve never seen it before.
I follow his instruction, locking out the house of people, the party, Connor. Everything. Leaving just us.
And then I step closer, slowly, tentatively. Not until I’m three feet away do his dark eyes lift, scanning me from red stilettos and up slowly. He stops at my chest. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he mutters before taking a sip of his drink.
“Why aren’t you downstairs?”
He swishes the liquid around in his glass. “I had a shitty day.”
“Me too.”
Downing the last of his drink, Ashton places the glass on his nightstand. “Do you want me to help you forget?” A stir in my thighs instantly confirms that my body definitely would appreciate that. Brown eyes finally find their way to my face, no hint of amusement in them. Nothing but resigned sadness and a touch of glassiness. “I’m good at that, aren’t I.” There’s a meaning behind those words that I can’t fully comprehend.
“I know that picture came from you.”
He bows his head.
Now that I’m standing here in front of Ashton, the confusion I’ve been battling for weeks melts away. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I know exactly what I want. And I have no doubt in my mind that it’s right. “I’m going to give you something today, too.” I push aside the swirl of butterflies in my stomach, committing fully to what I’m about to do, to what I’m about to give him if he’ll take it as I slip out of my heels. I don’t know if it’s easier or harder with him not watching me, but I undo the four buttons Reagan left me and let the fitted blouse drop to the floor. My fingers make quick work of the buttons on my skirt and let that fall as well.
As if fighting the urge to resist and losing, Ashton’s eyes lift to take me in before his face turns
away to look at the corner of the room. “Jesus Christ, Irish,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his hands squeezing the edge of the mattress, trying to restrain himself. “I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Reaching back to unhook my bra, I let that fall to the ground in answer. Those stupid garters follow immediately. Soon, I’ve pulled every last piece of the ridiculous costume off and Ashton’s still not looking at me. In fact, his eyes are closed.
I swallow as I reach out to run my fingertip over the bird on his arm, intentionally avoiding the scar. I lean down to place a gentle kiss on it. “Tell me what this means.” It’s not a question. I’m not giving him a choice.
There’s a long pause where he says nothing. “Freedom.”
I let my finger skate up to the one on his shoulder. I demand again. “And this? Tell me what it means.”
A little louder. “Freedom.”
I place a kiss on it in response.
I reach down to pull his towel loose and throw both ends away. I quietly climb on to straddle his lap. Ashton hasn’t touched me yet, but his eyes are now open and taking in my body with a strange expression that I can’t read. It’s almost like shock or awe, as if he can’t believe this is actually happening.
I place my hand over the symbol on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath. “Freedom?”
His eyes lift to meet mine immediately, his voice more steady, more defiant than before. “Yes.”
I don’t let that distract me, though, as my hand skates around to where I know the script with my name is. I don’t need to ask him what it means because I now know beyond a doubt. He’s already told me in so many ways.
He says it without my prompting. “Freedom.”
I don’t have all the pieces to fix this beautiful, trapped, broken man, but I do have one piece and it’s mine to give. For one night, for all nights. For however long he wants it.
Me. Completely.
I know what I have to do next. I don’t know how he’ll react. Whether this is a good idea or not, I have to do it. Holding his gaze, trying to tell him that it will all be okay with my eyes, I reach for his wrist, for the belt strap, for the snaps that affix it. A flash of panic skitters across his face and his neck muscles cord. It’s a moment when I think maybe this is a bad idea. But I grit my teeth against it, using all the anger I have over his father and what he’s done to him, what he’s still doing to him and, inadvertently, to me, and I rip that damn belt strap off and whip it across the room. “I’m giving you your freedom tonight, Ashton. So fucking take it.”
