738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

I tense up, and it takes effort not to break out of her grasp. “How do we do that?” I ask, hoping the redirection will distract her. I feel more trapped than turned on.

  But she makes an offended noise. “Seriously, Chase? Now?” She inches closer, with that sharp smile. “I’m trying to seduce you.”

  And you should enjoy it is the unspoken message. And a week ago, hell, two days ago, I would have been all over it. And her. She’s driven and ambitious, which means she’s not offended or wounded when I’m the same way. And she doesn’t want a damn thing from me, relationship-wise, so I don’t have to worry about messing up or letting her down.

  It’s a mutually beneficial non-relationship, and continuing it is probably the smartest, safest choice I could make right now.

  Besides, I have no real reason not to. As my grandpa used to say, If wishes were damn horses, then everybody would have them … or something like that.

  But Elise’s hands, crawling toward my fly, feel graspy and greedy and not in the good way. Her breath is warm and sticky against my neck, and I don’t want this. Not now. Not anymore.

  “I know … it’s just I’m late for a meeting.” I tilt my head away from her questing mouth.

  She pulls back, a frown creasing her smooth forehead. “A meeting. With who?” She sounds suspicious.

  “Not that kind of meeting,” I say. “It’s AA.” Elise is well aware of my adventures with alcoholism and what I’m doing to fight back.

  “Oh.” Her nose crinkles with distaste. “Really? You’ve been here a day.”

  I stay silent. She doesn’t understand—she never has.

  “Just get it under control,” she says, pointing a finger at me.

  As if it were that simple. But Elise prides herself on having few weaknesses, and addiction of any type (other than to work) is something she classifies as a character flaw rather than a disease or genetic predisposition.

  “I mean it, Chase. If you get wasted and smash up a car again—”

  I flinch.

  “—all of this will be for nothing.”

  “I know.”

  Elise stands there for a moment, studying me with a frown, and I can practically see her weighing her options, debating whether she should push me into it because she wants to know she still can or if she should get the hell out of the way and let me deal with my mess so it doesn’t become her mess.

  She throws up her hands. “Fine.” She disappears into the bedroom, and I keep my back turned.

  When she emerges a minute later, she’s dressed again, though she’s wearing my shirt over her tailored pants.

  “Phone?” she asks, her hand out.

  With reluctance, I hand mine over.

  “The plan is simple,” she says, almost absently as she clicks away on my screen. “I’ve created a few social media accounts. You’re verified and all set up. The usual suspects, Twitter, Instagram, even Facebook.” She makes a disgusted face before continuing. “Anything formal is going to raise questions. It needs to be real and from you. A few tweets or pictures of you and Amanda behind the scenes. Posts about spending a quiet night in. The two of you watching movies or swimming in the pool.” She looks up at me. “Shirtless would be best.”

  “So I’m just supposed to start snapping photos of her and posting them? That wasn’t part of my deal with her.” Not to mention she’d hate it. And it would change how she is around me, guaranteed. She might start to see me like the paparazzi, someone who wants a piece of her. I don’t want that.

  Elise waves away my concern. “Please—I saw her today. She’ll do anything you ask. And if you’re so worried about her precious privacy, be smart. She doesn’t have to be in the photo. Just have two drinks on the table. Or ‘accidentally’ show her sweater on the arm of your couch when you’re posting about not getting much sleep.” She flicks her fingers in a careless gesture. “You know how it goes.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. I really shouldn’t. But the fact that she’s talking about intentionally starting false rumors about the sex life of a rape survivor without a second thought or concern makes me stare at her in astonishment.

  “I loaded a few examples of what I’m talking about in drafts on each one of the apps, okay?” Elise holds my phone out to me, but I don’t take it. It feels as though she’s turned it into a spy device, a traitor in the room that will report on me. On us.

  That’s dumb—there is no “us,” and the phone won’t do anything without me. But maybe I’m not so inclined to trust myself.

  Elise cocks her head to one side, her expression evaluating. “You do realize that this girl is falling for your image, the version of you that has been very carefully orchestrated by me. She doesn’t know the real you.” Her eyes narrow at me. “She hasn’t seen you bottom out, over and over again. She hasn’t bailed you out of jail, picked you up from the hospital, or come to get you when your car got repo’d.”

  “I know that,” I say sharply. Too well. Though most of those things are in my past. Or at least I want them to be.

  But Elise doesn’t seem convinced. She points my phone at me. “We’ve had fun and we’re good together. But don’t be stupid. If you get in my way, I will burn down your world and still get what I want. Are we clear?”

  “Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Good.” She grabs my hand and slaps my phone into it. Then she stalks toward the door. “Start tonight,” she calls over her shoulder without concern for who hears her.

  Damnit.

  17

  Amanda

  The light under the unlatched door to Chase’s room is a solid reassuring line of yellow.

  I shift restlessly in my bed, the sheets twisting around my legs. His lights came on about forty-five minutes ago, when he got back from his meeting.

  I hope he didn’t hear much of my phone conversation before he left.

  I roll my eyes. If one could call that a “conversation.”

  It took me the better part of an hour to calm down after talking to my family. It had been a long day and would be again tomorrow. Better to forget everything about that call, get some sleep, and face the day with a clearer state of mind. Or so I told myself.

  But I’m still lying awake, all too aware of the glow of Chase’s light under the door, beckoning me, and I can’t figure out whether it’s a lighthouse signaling danger or a beacon leading me to safety.

  I shut my eyes. It’s Monday night. In two days, I’ll be heading home again. And that’s interpreting Chase’s offer of a visit for a few days as generously as possible. If he counts Sunday, I could be going home as soon as tomorrow, maybe Wednesday morning.

  And I’m not sure what will happen once I’m back there, if the progress I’ve made will hold steady.

  If it does, that would be amazing, exactly the push I was hoping for from this experience. But that’s not what’s keeping me awake.

  For the first time since I’ve been home, I want something. I want someone. I want to be able to want again. To feel that flutter of desire and to not be afraid.

  Because I like it when he touches me. I like it when he touches me.

  My eyes snap open, and I shake my head on my pillow, repeating the words in my head, hearing the awe they contain.

  The lack of fear is a minor miracle by itself. But it’s more than that: he makes me feel safe enough to take a chance.

  I’m sure that Dr. Knaussen would say that I’m conflating the paper version of Chase with the real thing. But I don’t think so. When Chase, the real one, looks at me, it’s like he sees more than just what happened to me.

  He doesn’t treat me like Amanda Grace, the Miracle Girl, victim, survivor, girl who should be swathed in plastic bubble wrap or a straitjacket. He’s careful, yeah, but I’m a person to him, not a label.

  Not to mention, unless I’m really mistaken about the events of this evening, both the almost-kiss and that lingering moment in the hallway, he might even be attracted to me.

  Another minor miracle, as fa
r as I’m concerned. Someone who isn’t interested in me as an odd form of celebrity, a freak show, or a challenge. Someone not so disturbed or disgusted by the violence in my past as to be repelled by me.

  The question is, what am I going to do about it?

  Maybe at some point I’ll feel this same way about someone else besides Chase Henry. I hope so. But what if I miss this chance to take back this part of myself, to feel this way about another person, and I don’t have another opportunity?

  You definitely won’t have another opportunity to feel this way about Chase, a small voice in my head says.

  That idea—and the anticipatory loss I feel from it—is the one that pushes me to action.

  My heart is pounding so hard that it makes my breath come out unevenly, but I sit up and throw back the sheets.

  I pause on the edge of my bed, half-expecting the light in Chase’s room to go out or for some calamity to ensue, like a fire alarm going off. Either being a sign from the universe that I need to abandon this plan of action right now.

  But everything remains quiet and still. And his light stays on. It seems the universe is willing to give me the rope I need to trip myself up.

  I stand up. My body feels weak and shaky, but a crazy frisson of excitement runs through me as I make my way over to Chase’s door.

  I don’t know what I’m going to say, if I’ll even be able to get the words out. And then, if I do, I have no idea how he’ll respond. What I’m thinking isn’t exactly a normal request.

  Standing in front of the door, I feel my breath puff out and bounce against the surface, dampening my nose in the process.

  What if I can’t go through with it? What if I make it all the way through the talking and he actually turns out to be okay with it, then I freak out?

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my hand and rap gently against the faux-wood door.

  Chase pulls the door open almost instantaneously. He must have been nearby.

  But he’s tall and so close suddenly, so real, I take a step back.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, his phone in his hand. He’s dressed in athletic shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. And he’s wearing glasses, narrow dark brown frames that make him look like an incredibly hot professor. The appearance of physical and intellectual prowess in combination makes my knees a little wobbly.

  I swallow hard. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you…” I hesitate. “Glasses?”

  “I wear contacts,” he says. “But they bug me at night. Especially in hotels. The air is too dry.”

  “Oh.”

  His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Is that what you wanted to—”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  Chase raises his eyebrows.

  I didn’t realize how suggestive that sounded until I said it aloud. It’s not all that far from what I want to talk about, but I’m not there yet.

  “Infomercial bingo,” I blurt, my cheeks burning. “But it’s not a big deal, if you’re busy.” I nod at the phone in his hand.

  He blinks down at his phone, seeming to have forgotten he held it. “No, no, it’s nothing. Come on in.” He steps back to give me space to enter.

  I move into the room. His script pages are on the coffee table. I’ve probably interrupted him preparing for tomorrow. The cowardly part of me declares that I should go, leave him to his work.

  But when I turn to say that, his gaze jumps guiltily from my legs up to my face.

  He’s checking me out.

  I’m not wearing anything particularly provocative, just sleep shorts and a long-sleeved shirt to cover my scar. But he’s looking. Not with greed, hate, or punishment in his eyes, the way Jakes did. Nor is he staring at me like I’m a freak or inspecting me for damage. He’s looking at me the way a guy does when he’s attracted to a girl. A normal girl.

  It takes serious effort not to grin giddily at the realization.

  “Are you sure everything’s—” Chase begins, not quite meeting my gaze.

  “Yeah … no.” I take a deep breath, summoning courage, and sit on the far side of the couch. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but it’s kind of personal … embarrassing.”

  Sliding his phone on the coffee table, he drops onto the other end of the couch. “Is it about what happened in the hallway?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Yeah, actually. Kind of,” I say, surprised.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He shifts on the sofa, like he’s trying to give me more room even though there’s practically a whole cushion between us. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he finishes, color rising in his face as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

  I frown. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I was the one to initiate contact and—

  “It’s kind of an involuntary reaction for guys in certain situations, but I should have—”

  I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the astonished laugh bubbling up inside me. Oh. That’s what he’s talking about.

  At the time I was so preoccupied with my own feelings, I hadn’t been paying attention to what was happening with him. I should have been. That would have answered my question about whether he was attracted to me or not. But to be fair, my experience with the early stages of that kind of thing was limited to Chris Matheson, my date at the freshman dance and my first kiss. He ground his hips against mine for a dance or two and I might have felt … something. But that was it. There was no lead-up with Jakes, nor was that anything I wanted to dwell on.

  Chase scowls at me. “What?”

  I shake my head, not taking my hand off my mouth. I don’t trust myself not to laugh, and I don’t want him to think I’m laughing at him instead of my own inexperience.

  “That’s not it?” he demands.

  I lower my hand, but I can’t stop smiling. “Well, not exactly. It’s related, sort of. In a good way.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Can you try to—”

  Deep breath. Just say it. “I like you,” I say, turning on the sofa to face him more fully.

  “Oh.” He straightens up in surprise. “I … like you, too. What is this about?”

  I bite my lip and pull my legs up onto the cushion next to me. “I don’t really know how to bring this up,” I say. “It’s not something that people usually talk about because it just happens. But I don’t have that—” I cut myself off, with a jerk of my head.

  “It’s all right,” he says, the traces of frustration and embarrassment gone, replaced by a compassion that makes my chest hurt. He reaches out like he might touch my knee, but stops.

  I track the movement of his hand. “I’m not afraid when you touch me.” The words escape in a whisper, but saying them to him changes me, frees me.

  I’m close enough to see the heat flicker in his eyes, behind the cool academic frames. “Good,” he says, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago.

  “Actually,” I say, “more than that, I like it.”

  He draws in a sharp breath, and his gaze is tight on me.

  The strength of his response gives me the courage to continue. “I’m going home in a couple of days,” I say. “And I … I don’t want to lose out. I want this part of me back, the chance to feel this way about someone else.” I hesitate, needing that extra second to go for broke. “I want to feel this way about you.”

  “What are you asking me, Amanda?” he asks. The sound of my name from his mouth in that taut voice makes me shiver in a good way. “Because my imagination is kind of running away with me.”

  I scoot closer to him on the sofa cushion, and he watches with an intensity that makes heat flood through my body.

  “I … If you’re … willing to let me, I want to try something,” I say, my throat tight with desire and nerves.

  His head moves in a single jerky motion, a rough nod.

  Before I lose my courage, I lift up on my knees and, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, brush m
y mouth over his.

  His lips are warm and soft, and that golden stubble that I first noticed yesterday is as rough as I imagined, but it feels good.

  His breath flutters against me, and I can feel how still he’s holding himself, letting me explore. Then he touches my cheek, his thumb moving lightly across my skin and guiding me closer.

  And when he opens his mouth beneath mine, I’m lost.

  18

  Chase

  Her lips move against mine, tentatively at first.

  I tilt my head toward hers, extending the contact, in a mostly chaste kiss. Her scent surrounds me, reminding me of sunny days with the smell of the orange trees in the yard of the house next to my former condo building.

  When I dare to sweep my tongue over her lower lip, just where she bit that lip earlier, she makes a soft noise of assent, somewhere between a sigh and moan that goes straight to my dick.

  I clutch the cushion beneath me with one hand to keep from pulling her onto my lap. She wants to try and I want to show her, that it feels good, that someone touching you can be the best thing in the world instead of the worst. I want to be that guy.

  But you’re not the good guy she thinks you are, remember? My conscience, long ignored and handicapped by alcohol and ambition, roars back in force.

  I could be, though. When her tongue tangles with mine briefly and she clutches my shirt front, inching herself closer to my lap, I think maybe I can ignore the voice in my brain telling me to stop.

  You’ll fuck this up. She’s fragile, and she deserves better. If she knew what you were up to, she wouldn’t be here, asking this.

  This time, I can’t blow it off. There’s too much at stake. And I meant what I said to Amanda: I like her. I don’t want to hurt her.

  “Amanda…” I pull back reluctantly.

  She blinks at me, dazed for a moment. Then she withdraws to her side of the couch with a guarded expression. “You don’t want to.” Embarrassment colors her cheeks.

  “I do. Believe me. It’s just … I’m not sure it’s a good idea.” I shift uneasily because parts of me are very convinced this is the best idea ever.

  Amanda swallows audibly. “I don’t want anything from you,” she says with a quick but uncertain smile that splinters my heart. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, I do, but not like that. Seriously. No strings attached. I’m just talking about for as long as I’m here—”