CHAPTER 42

When my eyes crack open, the world is black and empty. Maybe I'm not awake after all. Maybe I'm dead. But as I turn my head, something cool and soft glides across my cheek. Satiny sheets. They're over me and under me, and my head is cushioned by a fat, fluffy pillow. The green numbers on the digital clock next to my bed read 11:51. I've woken up plenty and not known where I was, but as the hotel room comes back to me, I realize I've done it two mornings in a row. The blackness from the heavy curtains doesn't help. My arm is numb. It's an improvement over the first time I woke up this morning, when it felt as if each muscle was being peeled from my fingers to my elbow. Once when I was a kid, a brick from a construction site my friends and I were screwing around at fell on my hand from a stack a few feet high. I couldn't feel my fingers for a couple hours. It sucked. I'd give anything for that feeling now. What I have instead alternates between pain and numbness. Hell's see-saw. I shift out of bed, the rest of my muscles aching. I can't shower because of the bandages, but I drag my body to the en-suite bathroom to take a bath. When the doctor told me what happened two nights ago, the mess of painkillers kept me in a dizzy state of denial. Lacerations. Severed tendons. Long-term damage. All of it means I can't play guitar. The emotions blur together like the sensations. There's panic, clawing at my throat. Disbelief, hammering in my head. And underneath it all, a grief I can't look at too closely yet because it means something I'm not ready to accept... That no matter how long I sleep, in no world will I wake up and have everything be okay. When I get out of the bath, I go to the drawer of clothes Jacob brought over yesterday from our apartment. I grab boxer briefs and sweatpants and tug them on before heading out to the living room of the hotel suite. The smell of coffee is a small mercy, as is the shape of the girl in the kitchenette. "You're back," I croak. Emily turns and smiles, and the awful knot in my chest loosens a bit. "I went to class and picked up some supplies. Saw the nurse was here to change your bandage while I was gone." I glance toward the table where a note the nurse left says just that. Without asking, Zeke hired her to check on me once a day in the hotel room he insisted on paying for "as long as I need." The fact that he's keeping such a close eye is unsettling, but calling Zeke to demand why he's still treating me like an investment given how far my stock has plummeted in the last two days feels low on my priority list. Emily looks at home in tight jeans and bare feet, a sweater zipped up over her tank top because I cranked the air conditioning. Her hair is twisted up in a knot on her head, Emily's method of keeping it out of her way when she's got bigger things to worry about. She crosses to me, searching my face for signs of… I don't know. Trauma. Depression. General fucked-up-ness. I wish she'd stop. "Nurse wanted to give me a sponge bath too." I try for a joke. Emily's gaze drags down my bare chest to where my sweatpants hang low on my hips. "I told you I'd change the bandages for you." There's concern in her voice but also a note of something that makes my dick twitch. "Nah. Then my girlfriend wouldn't get all jealous." "Do I look jealous?" She tilts her head, lips curving. "Yeah. You do." I reach for her with my good hand. It still takes conscious effort not to move the other one, but I grab her waist and tug her against me. Her cool palms flatten against my chest. She's a reminder not everything in this world is upside down. Emily tips her face up for a kiss, but I turn away at the last second. "Ah. Forgot to brush my teeth. Be right back." I head into the bathroom and reach for my toothbrush. Last night was my first full night out of the hospital, and Emily refused to sleep next to me, afraid to risk grabbing my arm. But she wouldn't sleep at the dorms, either, instead opting for the pull-out couch in my hotel room. She's been glued to my side since I got out of the hospital, but I haven't told her everything. Like the fact that I can't stop thinking about that night. It happened so fast, but when I replay it, it's slow. All the things I could've done. Should've done. All the different ways we could've gotten home. Shoving it away doesn't work, so I've tried starting the memory earlier, at the musical I took her to or in the bar when I gave her that ring. The problem is it feels as if those memories are getting fuzzier and further away and the ones in the dark alley are getting sharper and closer. A knock on the suite door outside as I finish brushing my teeth has my ears perking up. "I'm here with reinforcements." Jacob's cheerful voice echoes from the other room, and I step toward the barely open bathroom door to listen. "Male strippers." Emily laughs, the first time I've heard her laugh since the hospital. It makes my chest hurt. "How is he?" "The pain seems more manageable." "That's not what I mean." She doesn't answer. "I can hear you," I taunt as I head back in to find Jacob seated on the couch. "Dammit. Even the part where I made out with your girl?" I narrow my gaze on him. "Try it and you'll lose more than a hand." He chuckles. "I talked to your profs about getting extensions on your term projects." He runs me through the list of accommodations they've made for me. "Even printed out your study notes for finals." "Thanks," I say, and mean it. "I'll get to it eventually." I rise and go to the kitchen, where Emily's looking over her shoulder at me. "You don't want to take a look today?" she says. "You must be getting sick of watching Netflix." "Doesn't seem so urgent." I survey the bowl of marshmallows and box of Rice Krispies cereal someone must've brought, because I'm pretty sure they weren't in the hotel cupboards. "This, though—this is a priority." She smiles. "Here, lemme help." I take the bowl and stick the marshmallows and butter in the microwave. When I grab a spatula and turn, I bump into her, jostling my arm. I hiss out a breath of pain. "Shit. I'm sorry," she murmurs. "You should sit down." "I can microwave marshmallows." "Evidently you can't, bro," Jacob calls. Every muscle in my torso tightens, but I grab my coffee and sink into the chair across from Jacob. I watch Emily make the squares as Jacob catches me up on stuff from school. "This is a nice place," he says after a few minutes. "Zeke's taking care of you." Emily comes over and sets a plate of squares on the table. "He knows you're going to recover. There are options for reconstruction. The doctor said so himself, and physio—" "Physio won't do shit when what's in my hand is sliced in two," I state. Emily and Jacob are quiet while I take a bite of a square. It tastes familiar, but everything else has changed. "You're still a musician, love." Emily says. "This doesn't change that. Zeke believes in you." "He gets a paycheck when people bring in money, which I don't see me doing. He has a tour leaving in ten days, and if I can't play, there's no way the invite still stands." My voice has a new edge. The anger's not directed at Emily, but she stiffens. Jacob looks between us before rising from his seat. "I'll leave you guys to it. One for the road?" I don't say anything as Jacob takes a treat and leaves. Once the door's closed, I shove out of the chair and say what we're both thinking. "I'm sorry. I'm being an asshole." I drop onto the couch, and Emily shifts onto the arm, tucking her feet up in front of her as she watches me. "It's understandable," she says softly. "It's not. None of this is understandable." A wave of panic rises up, and I fight to keep it down. It's a losing battle. I've never felt out of control. No one has ever made me out of control. They can take things from me—home, family. I'll survive. But this… I've always managed myself. I'm the one I can count on. But now I'm broken. Someone took me from me. The worst part is I never saw it coming. I was prepared to lose everything, had felt that before between walking away from Emily and then having my dad die in front of me and losing my contract after. But how can you prepare for the possibility of losing yourself? The question is still spinning in my mind when Emily shifts over me, careful not to bump my bandaged arm. Her weight settles across my thighs, and suddenly my attention's on her, not my fucked-up life, not my fucked-up hand. It's impossible to think of anything but her floral scent and the way she feels pressing against my groin. My bad arm's off to the side as if I can forget it by keeping it out of sight. With my good hand, I brush the hair back from her earnest face, tuck it behind her ear. No matter what's going on, I have this girl. It feels like a small mercy, but I know it's more than that. It's everything. "Don't give up on me, love." I murmur. Her eyes turn liquid. "Never. My love." Her lips find my neck, and I shift, giving her better access. Maybe if I pretend hard enough to be normal, it'll happen. "Back when we were kids," I start, "I used to check you out. I didn't admit it to myself. I'd tell myself I was curious what you'd come up with next, but I really wanted to stare at those lips. I was obsessed." "Can I tell you a secret?" she murmurs, kissing down my chest. "They're obsessed with you, too." My heart kicks. So does something else, because she's squirming in my lap. There's no hiding how hard I'm getting under my sweatpants. "You're gonna kill me," I murmur at the ceiling as my head falls back on the couch. Cool air flows around my groin, and before I know it, a smooth hand fists my cock. "You seem healthy to me," she replies. My tortured groan ends on a laugh. "Emily—" "Relax. You're supposed to be healing." She works the pants down my hips, and I lift to help as my cock springs out. The first stroke of her hand from tip to hilt has me hissing out a breath. Fuck, yeah. The second has my ass tightening, my hips thrusting up into her grip. Sharp pangs of pleasure jolt up my spine, pulling my balls tight. The blood flows through my veins, and I'm throbbing. My arm throbs too. It's been days since we've done this, and I haven't forgotten the need I have for her. She's eager and open. She meets my gaze with a look of wickedness, silently telling me exactly what she's going to do next. Yes. This beautiful girl with a heart the size of the world is going to make me see stars. But I can't kick the throbbing down the left side of my body. Her tongue finds the head of my cock, licking the bead at the end, and that's what I need to forget everything. I want to flip her over and drive into her until I'm so deep she'll never get me out. I want to spread her wide and eat her until the only word she knows is my name. I can't. So, I let her fuck me. "Harder," I grunt. She resists, licking down the underside of my dick while giving me a little squeeze at the bottom. "You're saying you don't like this?" she teases before pulling my head into her mouth and sucking slowly. I groan. "Emily." There's arousal in my voice, but the frustration has her brows pulling together. "Quit dicking around." With a moment's hesitation, she moves back down my body and there's no dicking around this time. She fists me with both hands and takes me as far down as she can. Yes. This is what I need. I need her. I need this moment. Everything's okay in this moment. I catch her hair in my hand, twist it behind her head to keep it out of her way—and to tug on her, to pretend I'm dragging her toward the inevitable conclusion of this when she's the one dragging me. A piece falls back in her face, and I capture it, tugging it into the makeshift ponytail. Doing that jerks the necklace out from under her shirt. The rose and the ring. My heart twists. I'm so close to coming, and the blood rushes in my veins as thoughts rush to the surface of my mind. They're incongruent, but they feel true. I wish she'd never kept that rose. I wish I'd put that ring on her finger. I wish I hadn't stayed with my dad in the hospital and bailed on my first contract. I wish I'd made us take a cab home. I wish I'd never let her talk me into believing I could be more than I am. When I come, she takes everything—my release and my anger and my devastation. As I sag back into the cushions, Emily settles herself on my thighs once again. She kisses me, and I taste my own salt mixed with her. "How does it feel now?" she asks, pulling back. It sounds like a casual question, but it's not. She needs to make me whole again. It might as well be scrawled on her cheek, words she wrote herself. "Better," I lie. It's the one gift I can give her, and we've lost enough this week.