Shallow

by Cora Kenborn

  “Cary?” Jolting out of my haze, I glance up as she studies me in the mirror, a worried line creasing her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  Nothing. I just want to touch you like I love you and fuck you like I don’t.

  “Shiloh…” I breathe her name slowly, knowing the slightest movement will set me off.

  Reaching behind her, she weaves her fingers through my hair. “What do you need?”

  I meant for this to be about our combined redemption, but somehow, it has twisted back to my retribution. “I need to fuck you hard.”

  Locking her eyes on our reflection, she reaches for the footboard and wraps her fingers around the wood until they pale. “Let go.”

  She has no idea the power she’s giving me. My cock is throbbing and I’m already on the edge, ready to tumble. Without warning, she shifts forward then slams backward, fully imbedding me inside her again. The impact forces me to grip a fistful of her hair and tug it against my chest.

  “Do you want me to hurt you?” I growl, my patience gone.

  “Yes.”

  I have no idea if it’s the desperation in her eyes, or the roar of blood pulsing through my cock that pushes me over the edge, but something snaps in my head. My fist winds tighter in her hair as I lean down and place my lips right against her ear.

  “Hold on, and don’t take your eyes off that mirror.”

  Digging my fingers into her hip, I pull out and slam back in to her with full force.

  Shiloh’s screams fill the room as her nails dig long scratches into the wood of the bed frame. “Holy shit!”

  Lust drunk and crazed with a need to own her, I release her hair and curl my fingers around her throat, applying just enough pressure to get her attention. “Who do you belong to?”

  “You,” she whispers.

  Not good enough. I press a little tighter and she groans as I fuck her so hard we’re both going to have bruises. “Say. My. Name.”

  “Cary Kincaid!” she rasps, and it’s goddamn music to my ears.

  I can only manage one word. “Mine.”

  Once her walls convulse and squeeze my cock, I’m in suspended animation. Time freezes, and I’m rushing down a rollercoaster without any brakes. I groan her name against her spine as my mind numbs—just like every moment I see her.

  In life and in bed, Shiloh makes me feel both helpless and in complete control.

  Looking up, I meet her glazed stare in the mirror, and I know there’s no going back to any plan or any phase.

  Everything’s changed.

  Twenty-Six

  Shiloh

  The first thing I notice when I wake up is the time on the alarm clock.

  Ten fifteen. I haven’t slept this late in a long time. I didn’t even wake up with one of my usual nightmares. I slept peacefully. Silent even.

  Huh.

  The second thing I notice is that I’m not alone. I’m confused for a moment before it all comes rushing back in a heated blur of lips and tongues. I had sex with Cary. My childhood friend. My biggest regret. My enemy. My boss. The man who played my body like an entire symphony orchestra until I burst into flames.

  My how times have changed.

  The third thing I notice is I’m staring at myself. It’s such an odd feeling that I don’t know whether to be in shock or bust out laughing. I haven’t seen my own reflection in over nine months. Once the doctors took the bandages off and told me the wounds would heal, but I’d bear the scars forever, I shut down. For the first time, I was lost. My face was everything to me.

  Conceited and shallow. That’s me.

  Beauty was all I’d ever known. The only thing that made me special was perfect skin, great bone structure, and the fact that people payed me to be pretty. The minute I looked in that goddamn mirror I knew it was all gone.

  Then there was the whole psychiatrist’s wet dream concerning my theory that my scars were my penance for killing Kirkland, and if I didn’t look at them, then she wasn’t really dead. It’s a little psycho, but it didn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. Covering every mirror not only blocked out my image, it blocked out reality. I could pretend it wasn’t there. It didn’t really happen. When strangers stared at me in shock or pity, I pretended it was because they were just star struck.

  Because I was still beautiful. Still perfect.

  I stare at the tattered remnants of torn plastic and ripped duct tape and laugh. I laugh because when I lift up and stare straight into the mirror, I don’t see my scars. All I see are faint purple marks around my neck. I touch them and press my fingers where his were, remembering how powerful it made me feel to hand control over to him. How he forced me to confront my demons while exorcising his own through me.

  What we did last night isn’t safe. It’s not normal, and it sure as hell isn’t sane. But it’s us. It’s two extremes fighting to find a moment of peace.

  My head collapses back onto the pillow, and I let out another laugh. A laugh so loud it causes the bed to shake. A hard body besides me rolls over, and a calloused hand snakes under my arm and pulls me into him.

  “Something funny?” He chuckles, nuzzling his nose into my hair. His voice is husky with a slight rasp that curls my toes.

  “I looked in the mirror.”

  “It’s about damn time.”

  “Mmmhmmm. And now that I can see myself, I think I may have to start wearing makeup again.”

  His nose trails down my neck, and he nips at my shoulder. “I like you just the way you are.”

  “That may be so, but I need to cover these, or the boys may have a few questions we don’t want to answer,” I joke, pointing to my neck.

  His fingers immediately press over the four purple prints, each of them a perfect match. I hear him swallow hard behind me as he strokes them. “Shit, I’m sorry. I got carried away last night. I won’t be so rough next time. Not that I’m assuming that there’ll be…fuck.”

  I almost laugh again. Since returning to Myrtle Beach, I’ve found the new Cary to be confident, domineering, and cocky. The fact that he’s worried about a few bedroom bruises, or if I’ll let him touch me again, is endearing, if not comical.

  “I liked it,” I assure him, tracing a finger across his jawline.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I like this side of you. I like when you’re in control and take what you want.” I pause my finger on the dimple in the middle of his chin and hold his stare. “And I like when you called me yours.”

  His face turns to stone, and every muscle in his body coils. But it’s his silence that chills my blood.

  His reaction knocks my new-found confidence down a couple of notches, but I force the smile to stay pasted on my face. I have no clue where we stand. We still haven’t talked about what happened at the Rugged Maniac Race or his reaction to my donation. His way of dealing with his rage was to drag me home and fuck me into a coma.

  And I still haven’t told him everything I’ve done.

  Cary releases me and rolls onto his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. I watch his chest rise as he fills his lungs and holds it. I count the seconds, waiting for him to exhale, still with that stupid smile on my face.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

  I make it to ten Mississippis before he finally opens his mouth and blows the breath out long and hard. The dumb laughter I’d enjoyed just minutes ago now seems like celebrating first place before crossing the finish line.

  I want my plastic bags back.

  My back is still to him, but I’ve got my chin resting on my shoulder as I wait for the hammer to drop. This is where he exacts his revenge. I brace for it, but I know it’s going to break me anyway. Sending me back to jail would’ve been easier. Unlocking me from my mental prison, letting me taste freedom, and then shoving me right back in?

  That’s annihilation.

  After what seems like forever, he lowers his hands, piercing me with those ocean blue eyes. “Shy…”

  “Gotch
a,” I say, cutting him off with a fake laugh that slices my soul. “I was just kidding. You should’ve seen your face.” I roll away from him and start to swing my leg off the bed, not sure where I’m going, but knowing I have to get away from him. Before I can plant my foot, Cary grabs me around the waist and has me under him before I can fight back.

  “Yeah? Well, I wasn’t.”

  “But you…”

  “But you didn’t give me a chance to explain, did you?” He’s straddling my waist while bracing his arms on either side of my head. His dark hair is messy, the long chunk wild and falling over his eye. I want to brush it back, but I curl my fist, stopping myself. “You were ready to run away like you always do.”

  All I can do is nod. He’s right. He’s also mad as hell, and I don’t have a good enough comeback anyway.

  “Shy, when you let me take the fall for you that night, something broke inside of me. Everything else—prison, losing my future, Ellie—they were all layers that added to the fracture.”

  He’s removed the space between us, but his words have removed the air. I pant, fighting the urge to claw at my throat. The walls feel like their closing in, and the scent of burning rubber fills my nose. However, even with panic suffocating me, I still find my voice.

  “What do you mean, you broke?”

  His elbows buckle, and his face contorts. “God, how could I not? Everything had changed. I loved you, Shiloh. You knew I loved you, and you used it against me. I would’ve given you anything you wanted, and you ended up taking away the only thing that I did. You replaced her with the version I’d defended you against. And what fucked me up the most is that you did it after…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  “I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I would. I’d give all that time back to you.” Wetness stings my eyes and I try to blink it away.

  “Seven years too late.”

  I’m frantic. “Just tell me what I can do, and I’ll do it. You can’t give me this and then walk away. It’s cruel, Cary!”

  “Being cruel and walking away. It’s a motherfucker, isn’t it?”

  I punch his chest, and it’s like ramming my fists into a brick wall. “You asshole! I hate you!”

  He takes every hit, as if absorbing each one fuels him. After the fifth one, I run out of energy and end up just slapping my palm against the hard wall of his chest. We both watch as I finally give out and my hand skids down his abs, landing on the mattress with a thud.

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse…they do.

  Cary’s eyes flash with a wave of challenge. “Tell me about Kirkland. Tell me about the accident. Tell me everything.”

  “I can’t. Don’t ask me to do that.”

  “You said you’d do anything. Was that a lie too, Shiloh?”

  It wasn’t, but I haven’t spoken a word of what happened since the trial. I said I’d do anything, but he’s asking me to take a razor and slice open another scar just so he can watch me bleed. Only this one is on my heart.

  But what’s the old saying?

  An eye for an eye?

  A life for a life.

  A wrong for a wrong.

  A scar for a scar.

  So I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and bleed.

  I tell him about the party, the drugs, and how invincible I felt putting everyone in their place as I got behind the wheel. My fingernails dig into my palms as I tell him how Kirkland had begged me to slow down. How I took my hands off the wheel and she grabbed it. But mostly, I told him how she screamed. How tightly she held my hand even as we flipped through the air. It’s not until I stop to wipe away the first tears I’ve cried over her since her death that I realize both fists are clutching the sheet.

  He lets out a hard breath. “Jesus.”

  “Everything got fuzzy after that. I think I slipped in and out of consciousness. I woke up in the hospital to a shit ton of surgeons, police officers, and paparazzi. After they told me everything, I wished I was dead too.”

  “Don’t ever say that.”

  “Why not? What was left for me? My best friend was dead. Everything I’d ever worked for was gone just like that.” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “No agency wants a felon and a freak as the face of their brand. Jail wasn’t actually that bad. Of course, no daughter of Bianca West could dare wear polyester jumpsuits.”

  There’s an awkward moment of silence between us. As if he’s thinking of the right catch phrase people say in situations like this. The ones where people screw up their lives and everybody knows it, but they still give you a pat on the back, and a “there, there, the sun will come out tomorrow” pep talk.

  That’s nothing but pity.

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Please don’t try to make me feel better by saying some shit like accidents happen, or it’s a miracle I’m alive, or it’s God’s will.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  That’s lie number one.

  I laugh. Not a laugh like earlier. No, this one is deep in my chest and heavy. “Karma’s a motherfucker. It finally came for me, and Kirkland paid for my sins. End of story.”

  He grabs my chin and forces my eyes on him, shaking his head in frustration. “You think your friend is dead because of what you did to me seven years ago?”

  Has he even been listening?

  “How could I not? Look at the similarities, Cary.” I raise my hand and begin to tick my points off on my fingers. “Both involve accidents where I’m the driver. Both times I was high. Both times I ruined someone’s life that I cared about. The only difference is that this time I paid for it.” I’m still holding three fingers up between us as I lower my voice, “Some would say not nearly enough.”

  He’s restless. I can feel his body twitch against me. After such a damning confession, I expect him to roll off me. Instead, his dark eyebrows lift and then pinch together. “Shiloh, don’t you know? You lived to do something. Don’t waste it feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I paid off yours and your parents’ debts to the McDaniels.”

  I’m ready for explosive anger, but he gives me something even worse—calmness.

  “You did what?”

  “Please don’t argue with me over this, Cary. It’s done, and you can’t make me take it back. Now you don’t have to worry about them.” I don’t know what to else to say, so I say nothing, rolling my lips over my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut.

  “You went to see Mitch McDaniel? Alone?”

  I nod behind the safety of my closed eyes and rush to speak before he can. “You’d be surprised how agreeable an asshole can be when he’s handed two checks that total almost a million dollars.” Risking his anger, I open one eye and take in his shocked expression. “And don’t even think about refusing it because I’m sure he’s already cashed them.”

  “God, your timing sucks. Especially since I…” Trailing off, he groans and presses his palms over his face. “Shiloh, you’ve got to stop acting like you owe the damn universe some unpaid debt. You’re not an evil person. You’ve just always chosen what’s easy instead of what’s worth it.”

  I pop an eye open. “Do you think I’m worth it?”

  “Worth what?”

  “Forgiving?”

  He gazes at me, bracing all his weight on one forearm while waiting for me to open the other eye. Once I do, he brushes his thumb across my lips, and I stare back at him, hypnotized by his rhythmic movements over my mouth—until his thumb slides across my face and traces the jagged scar on my cheek. My hand flies up to stop him, but he’s too quick and lifts his elbow to block me.

  “Can you forgive yourself?”

  I want to give him the right answer. Instead, I give him an honest one. “Maybe someday.”

  He hovers his lips just above mine. Not quite touching, but so close even a breath can’t pass between them. “Me too.”

  I smile, and he finally kisses me. Not like the frantic kisses from last night, but slow, deliberate li
cks, like he’s drinking me in. Savoring me.

  His hardness is already nudging at my entrance, so I wrap my legs around him, and sigh against his lips. No words are spoken as Cary takes me slowly with purposeful strokes until my mouth opens for a soundless scream. My fingernails dig into his back as he grips my hair, dropping his face into the hollow of my neck and groaning my name as his body jerks.

  Sometime hours later, as I watch him sleep, the last two words he said to me float through my head.

  “Me too.”

  That’s the closest I’m going to get to forgiveness. I’ll take it and run with it. Because even though he hasn’t given me his trust, he’s given me hope.

  And that’s good enough for me.

  Twenty-Seven

  Shiloh

  My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You’d think since smiling is what I do for a living, my face would be used to it. However, a photoshoot only lasts a few hours. Once it’s over, my natural resting bitch face reclaims its rightful place.

  Seven days of cheerfulness is a concept I’m not quite sure how to navigate. Back in California, if Lena caught me constantly grinning like this, she’d probably throw holy water on me and seek out the nearest exorcist. Here, I’m on my own to figure out how to handle this being happy thing.

  Not that marathon sex every night doesn’t make the issue much easier to simplify. In fact, after waking up in Cary’s bed every morning this week, I’ve decided that accepting things for what they are may be just what gets me through the next few years. I was even pleasant when I fired my publicist for his press release stunt. I think my mood scared him more than the actual firing part. I’m not known for kindness.

  Here’s another example of how happiness can make you do shit that makes you wonder if you’ve been possessed by a demon. Cary told me last night that the health inspector was coming before lunch today, and I volunteered to have Malcolm pick me up in order to come in at six a.m. and do some last-minute cleaning.