REVIVE ME

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PART ONE: THE ACT

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J.L. SEEGARS

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Copyright © 2022 by J.L. Seegars
All rights reserved.
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Fiction
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Janil Seegars asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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To the survivors who hid their wounds and built something
beautiful out of the destruction

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“In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours.
In all the world, there is no love for you like mine.”
— MAYA ANGELOU

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 AUTHOR NOTE

Please be aware that this story involves sensitive topics

such as rape (off-page, no graphic description and not
between the couple), maternal mortality, grief, nightmares,
emotional and reproductive abuse (not between the couple)
and a brief mention of suicide ideation. Although many of
these situations are referenced in the work, and happen off-
page, I still advise you to consider your own health and
well-being before diving into the first part of Mallory and
Chris’ story.
I also want to take a moment to remind you that this is
only the beginning of Mallory and Chris. There won’t be a
happy ending for them in this book, but I promise you it’s
coming.

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 THE PLAYLIST

01./ Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis

02./ When I See U by Fantasia
03./ Diary by Alicia Keys
04./ Make You Feel My Love by Adele
05./ Complicated by Nivea
06./ Smash into You by Beyoncé
07./ There Goes My Baby by Usher
08./ And I by Ciara
09./ teachme by Musiq Soulchild
10./ Impossible by Shontelle
11./ Take a Bow by Rihanna

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 CONTENTS

1. Mallory
2. Mallory
3. Mallory
4. Chris
5. Mallory
6. Mallory
7. Chris
8. Mallory
9. Mallory
10. Chris
11. Mallory
12. Chris
13. Mallory
14. Chris
15. Mallory
16. Chris
17. Mallory
18. Chris
19. Mallory
20. Chris
21. Mallory
22. Mallory
23. Chris
24. Mallory
25. Chris
26. Mallory
27. Mallory
28. Chris
29. Mallory
30. Chris
31. Mallory
32. Chris
33. Mallory
34. Chris
35. Mallory
36. Chris
37. Mallory
38. Chris
39. Mallory
40. Mallory
41. Chris
42. Mallory

Part Two: The Return

The New Haven Series
About the Author
Also by J.L. Seegars

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 1

MALLORY

I t was supposed to be a simple kiss.

A brief, awkward pressing of lips together in front of
a crowd of people—which unfortunately included my
twin brother—that wouldn’t last for more than ten seconds.
Ten seconds. That was it. Ten seconds of holding my mouth
to a mouth that I’ve thought about more than I should have
over the last year. A mouth I happened to be staring at
when Sloane, my brother Eric’s girlfriend and my former
best friend as of sixty seconds ago, called my name and
asked me the most juvenile question known to man. She
was a drunk and giggling mess, perched on Eric’s lap with
his arm wrapped around her waist and our best friend
since diaper days, Nic, frowning in her direction as she
hiccuped between every word.
Truth. Hiccup. Or. Hiccup. Dare. Hiccup. Malllll?
I chose dare because….well I don’t exactly know why I
chose dare. It was out of character for me, which is
probably why every eyebrow in the room lifted in surprise
when I made my choice, voice laced with confidence I
wasn’t used to feeling anymore. The only person who didn’t
looked surprised was Sloane. She had a mixture of pride
and mischief etched into her features, and the moment I
saw her eyes flick over to same face I’d just dragged my
gaze away from, I knew I was in trouble.
Her dare was a simple one—Kiss Chris, on the lips, for a
least ten seconds—but from the way my heart sank into my
stomach, you’d have thought she dared me to dive head
first off of the apartment building we were currently
partying in. It wasn’t even the worst dare that’d been
issued tonight, just a few rounds ago, someone was dared
to strip naked and run a lap around the building in the
bitter January air, but it felt like the worst thing that I could
have been asked to do, especially in front of Eric and Nic,
whose groans of displeasure could be heard over the sound
of my blood rushing through my skull as I watched Chris
cross the room over to me.
I was sitting in a barstool at the island in his kitchen. A
chair I watched him and Eric put together just a few days
ago when we helped him move into The Emerson—one of
the more expensive apartment buildings close to campus.
The ones that all the trust fund babies move into when
they’re no longer required to live in the dorms. It’s a nice
building, all glass and metal and modern finishes that make
it clear not everyone can afford to live here. Despite his
patented lighthearted demeanor, Chris looks like he
belongs here. Among the marble tile, stainless steel
appliances and immaculate hardwood floors that bespeak
solemnity and wealth. Something about the aesthetic here
brings out a warm air of sophistication that swirls around
him, and it fits him better than the halls of any of the dorms
on campus ever have.
That’s what I was thinking of when he stopped in front
of me. Chestnut eyes with flecks of honey and bourbon in
them tracing my features as he placed his hand on the side
of the barstool and turned me completely around to face
him. Treating me to an up close view of that classic Chris
smile that reminded me that I’ve never seen him take
anything seriously. He’s always smiling, laughing and
joking his way through life, completely oblivious to the
reality the rest of the world just has to deal with, so it
shouldn’t have surprised me he would approach a literal
child’s game the same way.
My knees brushed his hard thighs, and I felt every eye in
the living room on us as he leaned in close, resting his
palms on the edge of the island. His body stretched over
mine, blocking out my view of the crowd behind me. Not
that I cared that I couldn’t see them. I was too focused on
the way his smile was fading, shifting into a complex mask
devoid of humor and mirth. I’m shocked at how quickly he
does it. Goes from being the capricious guy I’ve known him
to be to…this.
“Make it good for her, Chris!” Someone behind him
shouted, laughing loudly, and I half expected him to turn
around and say something stupid and cocky and completely
on brand for a guy who, as far as I can tell, has never met a
woman he doesn’t want to take to bed, but his eyes stayed
on me. Soft. Serious for once in his life.
“Nervous?” He asked, eyes on my teeth digging into my
bottom lip.
“Nope. Why would I be nervous?”
His brows lifted, amusement slipping over whatever
conflicted emotion was shining in his irises just moments
ago. “Because you don’t really do this kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” I tried to sound casual, but my
voice wavered a little. “Play truth or dare?”
“Get roped into kissing random people at parties.”
He wasn’t wrong even though it felt like he was
sugarcoating it a little. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t
kiss anyone. Not at parties. Not anywhere. Because the
worst decisions I’ve made in my life have been sealed with
a kiss.
Get ready to add this one to the list. The snarky voice in
my head quipped as Chris waited for my response,
completely unbothered by the restless crowd behind him
begging us to get on with it already. “Are you a random
person?” I arched a brow, sass coating each word.
“No, I guess not,” he answered, letting me sidestep the
point he was attempting to make.
“Then I guess we should kiss before they start to riot.”
“Yeah, I guess we should.” 
I watched his face move closer, and his breath skated
across my skin as I fought the very real urge to let my eyes
fall shut. My lungs burned, demanding air that was laced
with his earthy scent and protesting when they were
denied.
I knew I needed to breathe. I didn’t want to run the risk
of passing out and giving everyone here another reason to
think I was weird. It was bad enough that I didn’t date,
didn’t even engage in the most casual of hook ups.
Crumbling into a breathless heap the moment the most
coveted pair of lips on campus met mine would only make it
worse.
Chris lifted one of his hands, bringing it up to my chin
and cupping it between his index finger and thumb. With a
barely discernible movement, he applied the lightest bit of
pressure, forcing me to focus all of my attention on him.
“Breathe,” he whispered, the quiet command pulling the
trapped air from my lungs and giving me a glimpse of a
side of him I’ve never seen before.
Dark. Dangerous. Lethal.
My eyes went wide, shock winding its way through my
chest to mix with the mild panic being held in his gaze has
sent through me. All at once, I start to doubt the wisdom of
going through with this dare, of breaking one of my
personal rules to appease a room full of drunk college
students playing middle school games to distract them from
the spring semester starting in a week, but before I can say
or do anything to take it back, Chris’ lips crashed down on
mine.
 Taking me by a surprise that’s equal parts delight and
terror as his tongue slid over my bottom lip asking for
more. My chin was still in his grip, which meant I couldn’t
move if I wanted to, so I gave myself over to it. Over to him.
It was supposed to be a simple kiss, but it’s not.
It’s an awakening.
It’s a million bolts of electricity reviving a stalled heart.
It’s a montage of a thousand lifetimes spent in a million
reckless, beautiful ways.
It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and,
though I have no way of knowing this for sure, my biggest
mistake.

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 2

MALLORY

“W hen are you going to forgive me?”

Sloane whines from behind me, her voice a
playful, but frantic, plea as she runs to catch up
with me. A mass of black curls whip around her face,
covering her hazel eyes and light-brown skin for a second.
She lets out a low growl of frustration and pushes her hair
back behind her ears as she weaves through the crowd
behind me. It’s the first Friday of the spring semester, and
I’m still not completely over the mess she pulled last
weekend at Chris’ party. I probably would have already
forgiven her for exploiting her knowledge of my crush on
him so publicly if I wasn’t so distracted reliving the damn
thing. Reminiscing over the feel of his lips. The way his
fingertips dug into my flesh as his tongue swept over mine
in slow strokes that demanded things I shouldn’t want to
give him. Or anyone for that matter.
“Never.” I toss the word over my shoulder and speed up,
hoping she’ll give up and let me continue to make my way
to my Principles of Finance course in peace. Due to a last
minute change regarding the instructor of the course, I’ve
been nervous about this class all day. Every business major
I know signed up for it because they were looking forward
to taking it with Dr. Brennan, but now that she’s decided to
take a sabbatical, we don’t know who we’ll be dealing with
this semester. Jasmine, my suite mate from freshman year,
texted me this morning and said she heard Dr. Richardson
—an old, frumpy white guy who’s research and clothing
choices haven’t made it past the seventies—took over the
course, and I nearly cried because the man hates me. Well,
he hates almost every female student who dares to study
business. He thinks we’re all too emotional and irrational
for the field, which is hilarious considering how he’s the
one constantly throwing tantrums about classroom
designations, course offerings and teaching assistant
assignments.
“Mal!” Sloane grabs my arm, forcing me to stop and talk
to her. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”
“As many as it takes to make me forget the humiliation
of kissing someone with a hundred greedy little eyes
watching.” I glance at my watch, noting that I have less
than five minutes to make it across campus and up two
flights of stairs. “Maybe even more than that if you make
me late for class.”
“How about I buy you iced coffee every day for the rest
of the semester?”
I purse my lips to hide the smile threatening to break
free. She knows how much I love my iced coffees and how
much I hate being mad at her. “Throw in a pastry and
you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Done!” She opens her arms and pulls me into a quick
hug. “Now get to class before I have to get down on my
knees and beg your forgiveness for making you late.”
Slipping out of her hug, I start to back away, heading in
the direction of the lecture hall I’ll be in for the next hour.
Sloane waves at me through the crowd of people moving
around her to make it to their classes, looking relieved that
she’s finally managed to harass me into forgiving her. Even
though I could never truly be mad at her, I’m glad we’re
good again too, but it doesn’t stop me from taking the
opportunity to get back at her.
“For future reference,” I call out loudly, making sure
everyone on the sidewalk can hear me. “You can always
stand while you beg me for forgiveness. Save that whole
getting on your knees thing for Eric.”
Her mouth dropping open and her face turning red is
the last thing I see before I turn and rush towards my
building, hitting what can only be called a desperate run
that thankfully gets me to the classroom before all the good
seats are taken. The lectern at the front of the room is still
empty, which means the professor hasn’t arrived yet, and I
breathe a sigh of relief as I settle into a seat on the second
row, pulling out a pen and a notebook to look prepared
even though I don’t necessarily feel it.
Starting off the semester on uncertain footing for one of
my major courses has me on edge, and I don’t like it. For
the last few years, school has been a source of calm
consistency for me. A place where I decide the variables
and control the outcome. And not only have I appreciated
that control, I’ve craved it. I’ve used it to soothe old
wounds and memories of a time when my ability to choose,
to decide was ripped from my grasp.
I push the thought away and roll my shoulders back,
putting all of my energy into slowing my heart rate only for
it to kick right back up when the door to the classroom
swings open again and two men walk in. A collective sigh
moves through the room, starting at the back and weaving
its way through the rows of desks until it reaches the ears
of Dr. Richardson who turns his steely gaze on us. Blue-
gray eyes, watery with age and hidden behind dirty glasses
he’s famous for cleaning multiple times over the course of a
single lecture, slide over each face in the crowd, and
there’s no missing the disappointment on when they land
on me. The frown lines on either side of his thin lips
become even more prominent, and I would be upset about
it if I wasn’t so distracted by the person standing behind
him. A familiar six-foot frame, golden brown skin, angular
features I’ve memorized and jet black hair with curls that
are only a few inches off of his scalp.
Chris Johnson.
I haven’t seen him since the night of the party almost a
week ago, and his presence in this room right now is
threatening to send this runaway train completely off the
rails. Familiar chestnut eyes sweep over the room, and I’m
caught between the desire to disappear altogether and
desperate need to ask him what the hell he’s doing here in
my business course dressed like a fucking banker and
standing beside the one professor I prayed wouldn’t walk
into this room. It takes him all of two seconds to find me,
and when our eyes meet I immediately want to look away
because there’s no way I can hold his gaze without thinking
about that kiss, but actually bringing myself to do it feels
impossible.
We stare at each other for a second that feels like a
minute, and it’s Chris that finally looks away, giving me a
sheepish smile before turning to make his way over to the
desk in the corner that’s usually reserved for teaching
assistants.
Oh. It dawns on me then. The professional clothes. The
sudden appearance in a course that he’s already taken as a
biology and business double major. He must have traded
his resident assistant job for something that would be less
demanding than supervising a bunch of eighteen year olds
living away from their parents for the first time.
Dr. Richardson clears his throat and sets his briefcase
down beside the lectern. A hush falls over the crowd, but I
can feel the dread in the air. No one in the department likes
this guy, and he’s about to remind us all why.
“We’ll start this first meeting off by stating the obvious.
You all enrolled in this course hoping for Dr. Brennan and
an easy A, but you got me. As you might already know, I’m
Dr. Keith Richardson, and I don’t tolerate mediocrity or
suffer fools. If you fit into either of those categories then
I’m happy to tell you that you have until the end of the day
to drop this class and enroll in another, less rigorous,
course that will meet your degree requirements.”
Somewhere behind me, I hear paper shuffling, the tell-
tale sign of some scared student letting the old man’s
words send them scrambling for the course catalog. A
glimpse of perverse satisfaction flickers across Dr.
Richardson’s face, and I cringe. Professors who take
pleasure in scaring students away from their courses have
no place in the classroom.
“Those of you who feel brave enough to stick it out—” he
continues, leaning down to pull a stack of papers out of his
briefcase and handing them over to Chris, “—should
prepare yourselves now for a challenging semester.”
Tuning him out isn’t a conscious decision, but when I
realize that I am doing exactly that, I don’t make any effort
to correct it. Instead, I focus my attention on Chris moving
in-between the desks on the front row. His long legs and
smooth gait reminding me of the easy strides he took when
he crossed his living room to come over to me. I wonder if
he smells the same way he did that night. If his skin is still
that mix of clean sweat and earthy tones I can’t quite
name. Without even looking around the room, I know that
I’m not the only person staring, watching his every move
and maybe even thinking about what it was like to kiss him.
Some of the women around me might even know what
it’s like to do more than kiss him.
The thought sends heat rushing to my cheeks. I don’t
know why my brain even went there or why the thought of
someone in this room knowing what it’s like to have more
than ten seconds of physical contact with him makes me
feel positively violent. Since last year, when Chris made a
point of taking Eric and Nic under his proverbial wing, I’ve
seen him with lots of girls. Girls who have happily climbed
into his bed in hopes of becoming a part of his life. A fixture
in the small inner-circle I was inducted into on my first day
here because of my brother.
All of that to say, I’ve been aware for quite some time
now that Chris makes a habit of sleeping around, but
before our kiss I never gave it much thought, and I don’t
see why that should change now.
It shouldn’t.
It doesn’t.
It doesn’t change a single thing because he’s the
campus fuck boy. A handsome, charismatic golden boy
who’s lived a charmed life that’s never left him wanting for
anything including sexual partners. And I’m….well, I’m the
girl who doesn’t fuck with fuck boys even, no especially,
when their kisses are electric and their mere presence
makes me forget where I am and how to avoid getting
caught staring.
“Ms. Kent,” Dr. Richardson’s sharp tone slices through
the air, causing me to jump so hard I knock the pen and
notebook from my desk. Eyes from every side of the room
bore into me as I lean over and pick my things up. Once I
have everything back in order, I sit up and plaster on a fake
smile. The room is quiet, so the tremble in my voice is
evident when I finally answer.
“Yes, Professor?”
“Your obvious infatuation with Mr. Johnson brings me to
my next point. Perhaps, I should thank your hormones for
the smooth transition.” Shock and embarrassment slam
into me, pushing all the breath from my lungs as I struggle
for a response. Before I can say anything though, he waves
a dismissive hand at me. “As you might have already
guessed, Mr. Johnson is the teaching assistant assigned to
this course. He’ll mostly be assisting me with
administrative duties as it relates to this class along with
covering select lectures. He is not a formal instructor for
this course.”
 Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chris moving again.
He must have paused when Dr. Richardson called my name,
but now he’s just a few desks down.
“However,” the old troll continues. “I expect you to treat
him with upmost respect which includes, but is not limited
to, keeping the ogling to a minimum and sparing him the
uncomfortable experience of being propositioned in
exchange for power he does not have over your grades.”
Another curt glance at me as Chris breezes by, dropping
the syllabus on my desk. I don’t dare to look at him,
choosing instead to keep all of my attention on the
professor, which makes my stomach turn. I can’t believe
the university lets someone as vile and rude as he is
continue to teach.
“While there are no university policies against
fraternization between teaching assistants and students in
the courses they assist with, it is my personal belief that
engaging in such a relationship is a moral and professional
failure for everyone involved. Please consider that before
you decide to waste the valuable time you’ll need to make it
through this course trying to cozy up to him. Now that you
all have the syllabus, open it up so we can review.”
The rest of the hour long class drags by with Dr.
Richardson droning on and on about how he likes to use his
courses to weed weak students out and send them crying to
other, less rigorous, majors. By the time he dismisses
everyone—with three chapters to read and a problem set
on present value to do by our next class meeting on
Monday—I’m certain he’s managed to make a least five
students drop the class. Some of them are muttering about
taking it when Dr. Brennan returns next semester as they
head towards the door. Eager to get out of the room, I
throw all of my things into my bag and start to head for the
exit with the last crowd of students.
“Not so fast, Ms. Kent,” Dr. Richardson calls from behind
me, forcing me to stop in my tracks and turn around to face
him. “I’d like to have a quick word with you.”
He’s leaning against the lectern like he doesn’t need to
be clearing out as well to make room for the class starting
in the next few minutes. I take a few steps closer, painfully
aware of Chris is still in the room. He’s standing off to the
side, packing his bag with a slowness that feels deliberate
and tension lining his shoulders.
Don’t stare, Mal.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Richardson?”
“Are you sure you’re in the correct course?”
My brows pinch together, and a flare of annoyance runs
through me. It’s bad enough the man called me a horny
teenager in front of a room of my peers, but now he’s
questioning whether I’m competent enough to take this
class?
“Yes, I received permission to take the course. Were the
requisite signatures not included in Dr. Brennan’s notes
when you took over for her?”
Getting clearance to expedite my coursework had been
relatively easy with Dr. B on my side. She did most of the
leg work for me last year, talking to Dr. Wilson, the only
other woman in the department who also happened to be
everyone’s boss, with the transcripts from the dual
enrollment program I participated in during high school in
hand. By the time I graduated high school, I had the
equivalent to an associate’s degree in business, and she
didn’t want me wasting any more of my time in
introductory level courses when I could be jumping into the
meat of a major I clearly already loved.
She was so excited about getting me approved to
expedite my degree work, I didn’t have the heart to tell her
that it wasn’t my love for business that got me through
those classes. It was the need for distraction, for the ability
to sink my teeth into something that wasn’t trauma and
secrets.
 “Yes, it was noted on the course roster,” he says, clearly
agitated. “I was trying to be diplomatic with my phrasing,
but perhaps I should be more direct.”
“Please.” All of the agitation I’m feeling at the moment
is wrapped up in the one word.
“Do you honestly believe you’re prepared to take this
course?”
“Yes, and your colleagues obviously agreed with me or
else I wouldn’t be here.”
A faint cough rings out, and even though I can’t allow
myself to look at him, I know who it came from. Richardson
glances over his shoulder at Chris and then back at me, and
I can tell that he’s pissed. He doesn’t like to be challenged.
“Even after struggling in my Data Science course last
semester?”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes takes every ounce of
strength I have. “I made a B in that class.”
It had been hard to pull it out though. I practically lived
in the library all semester, but I did it. And getting a B in
one of his courses is the equivalent to an A+ for anyone
else. He presses his lips together, the thin line of his mouth
practically disappearing into the wrinkles on his face as he
considers me.
“This course will be significantly harder. There’s no
shame in dropping it now and returning to the course plan
professors such as myself spent years developing for
students like you.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as my
throat constricts around words I can’t say if I don’t want to
be roped into an argument that will inevitably end with me
punching his old ass in the face.
“I appreciate the warning, professor, but I think I’m fine
where I’m at.” On track to graduate from one of the most
respected business programs in the state a year and a half
early. “Did you need anything else from me? I was on my
way to the library to get a head start on the chapters you
just assigned.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“Dr. Richardson.”
The terse response I was about to receive is cut off by a
deep voice with a precise syllable enunciation that spells
trouble with every vibration of his vocal cords. Both of the
professor’s eyes go wide as he processes the interruption
and turns towards its source. Only when his eyes are no
longer on me, do I allow myself to look in Chris’ direction.
He’s striding towards us, looking cool as a cucumber in
clothes that would make any other guy his age look like a
kid playing dress up in his dad’s clothes. On him the
designer ensemble—navy slacks, a freshly pressed white
button up and tan oxfords—looks like him. Like a uniform
he was born to wear.
When he stops in front of us, I take an unconscious step
back, and something passes behind his eyes as he tracks
my retreat, but I don’t bother trying to decipher what it is.
“I’d love to have a word with you.” Chris is saying now,
angling his body so he’s standing between Richardson and
me. “Is now a good time?”
The older man glances at me and then back at Chris
whose commanding presence isn’t at all in alignment with
where he falls in the pecking order of this classroom.
“Of course, Christopher. I was just finishing up with Ms.
Kent.”
“I heard.” The note of disapproval is a far cry from his
usual, laid back, approach to things, and I find myself once
again caught off guard by the glimpse at the other side of
him. He turns to look at me. “Sorry for interrupting. Did
you have anything else you needed to discuss with the
professor?”
I’m already backing towards the exit when he finishes
his question. “No. Nothing at all.”
 Neither of them get a chance to acknowledge my answer
before I’m out the door. Once I make it back to the sidewalk
I left Sloane standing on an hour ago, I breathe a sigh of
relief, happy to have survived what has proven to be the
worst first class of the semester known to man. Chilly wind
whips around me, and I pull my jacket a little closer to my
body as I start to make my way towards the library.
It’s a Friday afternoon, and campus is relatively empty.
Most people are probably in their dorms getting ready for
whatever craziness they’re going to get into this weekend.
I’m honestly surprised that Sloane hasn’t called me already,
trying to wrap me up in whatever plans she and Eric have
made. As if on cue, my phone starts to vibrate. Sighing, I
pull it out of my back pocket and laugh to myself when I
see Sloane’s name flashing on the screen.
“What can I do for you Sloane Elise?”
“You can start by never calling me that again, Mallory
Pearl,” she mutters, sounding snarky as ever. “And then you
can tell me you’re on your way to my room, so we can
figure out what we’re going to wear tonight.”
“Oh no, ma’am.” I shake my head even though she can’t
see me. “I’m not going to anymore parties with you.”
“Come on! I thought we were past the whole truth or
dare thing.”
“We are.”
“Then why won’t you come out with us?” The rustling of
fabric bleeds through the speaker, and I imagine her
standing in her closet looking through clothing options.
“Scared you’re going to end up kissing Chris again?”
“No!” I answer a little too quickly.
“It’s okay if you enjoyed it, Mal,” she teases. “He looked
like he knew what he was doing.”
Unbidden images from the kiss flash through my mind,
and I try to force them out because I know what will follow
if I don’t. Memories of how soft his lips were. Questions
about how they would feel gliding down my neck, skating
over my breasts and going lower and lower until finally….
“Mal!” For the second time today, I nearly jump out of
my skin at the sound of my name.
“Stop yelling, girl,” I hiss into the phone, scolding
Sloane in hopes of scaring her away from this topic. “I’m
right here.”
“Yeah, but you’re not listening.”
“Because you’re not saying anything worth hearing.”
“Whatever. I would think that you’d be ready to thank
me by now.”
“Thank you?” I ask in an incredulous tone as I bypass a
group of freshman moving at a snail’s pace and discussing
their first class meetings. “For what exactly?”
“Opening the door for you to finally explore the crush
you’ve had on Chris since last year.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t want to explore it. I don’t have
time for relationships.”
“Mal,” she scoffs. “You have more time than anyone.
You’re literally graduating next year. I wish you would use
your last few semesters in college doing something other
than studying.”
This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation,
especially not as it relates to my lack of romantic
entanglements, but it’s gotten even worse since Christmas
break when I made the mistake of coming clean about my
crush on Chris. Sloane has always suspected that I liked
him, and I, admittedly, haven’t done a great job of hiding it,
but before then I hadn’t said the words out loud to anyone.
And I definitely hadn’t acknowledged how long it had been
there, simmering underneath my skin, soaking into my
bones, making it hard to remember all the things that went
wrong the last time I let myself feel like this for someone so
magnetic.
“All the time I spend studying is the reason I’ll be
graduating next year.”
 “And that would be all fine and dandy if the only guy I’ve
ever seen you show interest in wasn’t graduating this year.”
I groan loudly, which makes her laugh. “I should have
never told you about that.”
“But you did, which suggests you wanted someone to
push you to do something about it before it’s too late.”
“It is too late.” Was already too late when I laid eyes on
Chris on move-in day and a foreign mix of attraction and
desire slammed into my body, laying waste to the carefully
constructed wall I built around my shredded heart.
“Hardly. The semester just started.”
I’m halfway to the library now, but the growling in my
stomach causes me to change directions at the last minute.
If I’m going to be in the library for the next few hours, I
might as well stop by The Grill to get some sustenance to
see me through.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, raising my voice a bit to
adjust for the chattering in the crowded dining area. Most
people are in line for hot food, but I want something
quicker so I make my way over to the cooler with
sandwiches, chips and bottled drinks.
“Elaborate whenever you’re ready,” she pauses. “Where
are you?”
Walking over to the check out station, I hand the cashier
my stuff and swipe my student ID once she rings it up. “The
Grill, grabbing food before I head to the library.”
“Mal, you can’t seriously be spending the first Friday of
the semester at the library.”
“Probably the whole weekend since Dr. Richardson
assigned reading and a problem set that I have to have
done by Monday.” I grab my stuff and walk towards the
door, moving back into the cold so suddenly makes me
shiver. “Knowing him, we’ll probably have a quiz on it at
the start of class.”
“Richardson? I thought you weren’t taking any of his
classes.”
 “I wasn’t planning on it, but apparently Dr. Brennan
decided to take a sabbatical and we got stuck with him.”
“Oh, no.” There’s a dread in her tone that matches what
I felt when he walked into the room. “That sucks Mal.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “And that’s not even the worst part.”
“No?” Sloane sounds distracted now, and the absence of
hangers clinking around tells me she’s finally found an
outfit for where ever she’s going tonight. “What could be
worse than that?”
“Chris being his TA.”

OceanofPDF.com
 3

MALLORY

G etting Sloane off the phone proved to be difficult once

I told her about Chris TAing for my class, mainly
because she wanted a second by second description
of the entire ordeal so she could hold all the details she
pried from me up as proof that the universe was bringing
me and Chris together. While I didn’t agree with her, not
even a little bit, I pretended her theory had merit, so I
could get her off the phone and dive into my work.
Thankfully, she was so caught up in the new development
on the Chris and Mallory 4Eva front that she forgot to
harass me about coming out with her tonight, so I’ve been
working in the library in relative peace for the last few
hours, trudging through paragraph after paragraph of
dense finance terms before switching over to the problem
set that has twenty questions in it altogether.
I’m in the process of calculating the present value of a
12-year annuity with payments of fifty-thousand dollars a
year when someone sits down at my table. I’m in the
middle of the first floor of the library, nestled between two
of the dustier sets of bookshelves, so I’m more than
shocked to hear the sound of a chair dragging across the
carpet. Even more shocking is the set of chestnut eyes that
bore into mine the second I look away from my paper. At
first I think I’m hallucinating him—and it wouldn’t be that
far fetched since his handsome face has taken up a quarter
of my brain since the kiss—but then his mouth turns up into
one of his signature smiles, and I know I’m not.
“Ms. Kent.” His eyes flash with humor as he does his
best impression of Dr. Richardson, and heat creeps up my
neck at the reminder of being called out for staring at him.
“I would say it’s fancy meeting you here but—”
“You knew this is where I’d be.” I finish for him, lifting a
brow.
“Exactly.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the
table and drawing my attention to the oatmeal colored
sweater he’s wearing now, the sleeves pulled up to expose
his corded forearms. The table is blocking my view of the
lower half of his body, but I assume it matches the top.
Chris is always well put together, making it look easy to be
so ruthlessly coordinated. “I heard you mention it to
Richardson before you left class.”
“Right.” I clear my throat, hating the way my heart is
thundering in my chest just because he remembers
something I said hours ago. “What are you doing on
campus so late?”
“Going to a party.”
Eye contact isn’t usually a thing that makes me
uncomfortable, but something about the way Chris is
holding my gaze makes me want to get up and run. To put
as much space between him and me as possible.
“You do know this is a library right?” I make a show of
glancing around the quiet space, acting like I’m confirming
that we’re actually in a library to avoid acknowledging
what being the sole object of his attention is doing to me.
“Not the typical spot for a party.”
Tilting his head back, he releases a deep, throaty laugh
that makes his Adam’s apple bob up and down. By some
small miracle, I manage to pry my eyes away from the
oddly arousing sight by the time he’s done.
 “No shit, Mal,” he chuckles. “I came here to talk to you.”
My heart sinks. I don’t know what he wants to talk to me
about, but given the embarrassing incidents I’ve
experienced in his presence in the last week, I don’t think it
could be anything good. Needing something to do with my
hands, I start to shuffle through the pages of handwritten
notes I took while I was reading.
“About what?”
“Just wanted to know if you were okay after the whole
thing with The Dick.”
My breath gets stuck in my throat and I cough, loudly, as
all of the papers in my hand fall back onto the table in a
messy heap. “The what?”
“The Dick,” he says again, like repeating the words will
make them make sense to me. “That’s what all the business
majors call Richardson because of his glowing personality
and, you know, cause men named Richard are usually
called Dick for short.”
“No,” I shake my head vehemently, still coughing. “I
don’t…honestly that makes no sense. His first name is
Keith.”
“Jesus, Mal. It’s just a joke.” Chris pushes out of his
chair and rounds the table, dropping down on his haunches
beside me and patting my back. “Don’t die on me.”
I know I should be concerned that I’m literally choking
off of nothing more than air, and probably my own saliva,
but all I can focus on is the steady rhythm of Chris’ palm
colliding with my back and the warmth of his skin bleeding
through the fabric of my shirt. When I finally get it under
control, my face is on fire, burning up from embarrassment.
I don’t look at Chris as he stands and goes back to his seat.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod, rubbing at my now aching throat. “You
just caught me off guard with that one.” A smirk lifts one
corner of his mouth as he reaches across the table and
grabs my papers, straightening the pile back up and setting
it down in front of me.
“You’ve seriously never heard anyone call him that
before?”
“No. Never.”
“Damn, you really haven’t been in the department long.”
On instinct, my eyes narrow, turning into slits as
irritation slides down my spine. Somewhere in the back of
my mind, I know he’s not trying to be malicious—Chris
doesn’t play that way—but his words still strike the wrong
chord. One that Dr. Richardson has been dancing on top of
since last year when I had my first class with him.
“I’ve been in the department long enough to know it’s a
tired boys club full of assholes who think women, especially
Black women, aren’t fit to study or conduct business. I also
know that every year the same people they work to keep
out of the field are running circles around them in every
way that matters. Having that information feels a lot more
pertinent than knowing what you and your friends call a
man who’s ass you kiss publicly behind his back.”
Venom coats each word, and I watch Chris’ expression
change, intrigue mingling with surprise. Warmth spreads
through my chest at the idea of being able to surprise him,
to turn whatever he used to feel or think about me into
something new. Something different. Something that more
closely reflects the reactions guys like him gave the girl I
used to be. A girl he’s never met because she died before I
knew him. Chris raises his hands, palms facing me in a
gesture of playful surrender that only lasts for a second and
makes me want to smile at him for no reason at all.
“Shit.” His tongue comes out, swiping over his full lips
and sending a tremor through a part of me that’s lain
dormant for years. “Where have you been hiding all that
attitude?”
The question takes the wind out of my sails, so to speak.
Well, it’s not the question as much as it is what it reminds
me of. The loss of my fire. The dimming of my light. The
death of the sassy, fun, spontaneous Mal who believed in
people’s inherent goodness. All the best parts of me that I
left lying broken and bruised in a place I should have been
smart enough never to go.
I shrug and reach for the stack of papers on the table
between us, shuffling through them again. “I don’t know.
Guess you don’t really need it when you spend all your time
studying.”
Studying? More like using books to hide from life.
Chris stares at me, looking more thoughtful than I’ve
ever seen him. Silence stretches between us, blanketing
the small corner of the world where only he and I seem to
exist, and I squirm in my chair. Uncomfortable with being
held in his gaze, with feeling like he’s seeing me in ways
I’m not used to being seen.
He must sense my discomfort because his eyes drop to
my hands, watching me flip through the pages to find a
good place to tuck my notes. Even though I just got the
book earlier this week, it’s already starting to look well
used. Streaks of brightly colored fluorescent ink from my
highlighters marking passages I deemed important, a few
sticky tabs flagging things I needed to review for better
understanding.
Eric and Nic pick on me for how anal I am about note
taking when I read, but it helps me keep my mind on the
text and away from things I’d rather not think about.
Chris purses his lips, letting out a low, semi-impressed,
whistle as he takes it all in. “You really do take studying
seriously, huh?”
“Yeah, unlike some people, I take most things seriously.”
Both of his brows lift, and he places a hand on his chest,
feigning hurt. “You wound me.”
“And you prove my point every time you open your
mouth.”
 Don’t talk about his mouth, Mallory! It’ll only make you
think about kissing it.
The snarky voice in my head—who has decided to be
helpful for once—is right to warn me because the instant
the words pass my lips all I can think about is the kiss.
About Chris’ hand cupping my jaw. About every urgent,
incendiary swipe of his tongue against mine. I didn’t know
kissing him would be like that. Hell, I didn’t know kissing
anyone could be like that.
A burst of energy.
The first satisfying crackle of kindling catching fire.
The sweet, heavy scent of rain clinging to the air after a
storm.
“Contrary to what you might think,” Chris says, pulling
me out of my thoughts and looking at me with eyes so
intent they make me wish I could disappear inside them
again. “I do take some things seriously.”
I swallow, sending the stupid question his words and
suggestive tone inspired back where it came from. Nothing
good can come from asking him for the list of things he
takes seriously. Especially when I’ve seen first hand just
how serious he can be about a kiss.
“Sure you do.” My voice sounds small, shrinking under
the pressure of my constricting throat.
Chris leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “You
don’t believe me?”
“I don’t need to. You believe you and that’s good enough
for me.”
“So you just think everything with me is all fun and
games?”
He tries to make the question sound light-hearted, but
something in his tone is all wrong. For a second, it sounds
like he’s upset by the idea of me accepting his playful,
jokey persona at face value, but that can’t be right. No one
puts so much work into being seen one way just to be upset
when people buy into their act. In fact, and I’m speaking
from experience here, it’s usually the other way around.
Pressing my lips together, I try to think of a way to
answer his question that won’t make this moment any more
awkward than it already is. “Maybe a little.”
The dissatisfied puff of air that comes from his flared
nostrils is the only sound around us, and I sit there
horrified and steeping in the cold silence as a bubble of
anxiety starts to expand in my chest. Every second that
ticks by with Chris staring at me like I’ve accused him of
being an ax murder contributes to its growth, and just
when I think it’s about to pop, Chris’ lips twitch.
It’s a small movement, but I catch it, see it turn into a
full-blown smile that’s only there for a second before his
lips part and a dark, smooth chuckle hits the air. It starts
out low, with a slow rumble I can feel deep in the pit of my
stomach, and it builds until his broad shoulders are shaking
from the force of it.
My jaw drops. “You’re such an ass.”
“You should have seen your face,” he wheezes, wrapping
one of his arms around his torso in a futile effort to stifle
the laughter. “God, I wish I had a camera. I’ve never seen
your eyes that wide before.”
Another wave of heat floods my cheeks, and I shake my
head, trying to look exasperated when what I really am is
embarrassed. Again. It seems to be my constant state of
being at this point, and I hate it. The way it makes me feel
like I’ve lost my grip on the mask I’m too used to wearing
now. Even though it doesn’t fit right anymore, with it’s
fused edges that leave no room for the kind of self-
assuredness you need to be able to laugh at yourself
chafing against my skin, I’m reluctant to part with it.
I flip my textbook back open, avoiding his gaze. “Don’t
you have a party to get to?”
“Yeah.” All the humor has left his voice, and I don’t
know how to feel about him reading my shifting mood so
accurately. The table shakes a little as he prepares to rise
from his seat, and I expect to see his retreating form fading
from my peripheral vision in the next few seconds, but a
full minute goes by and it doesn’t happen. I don’t need to
lift my head to know that he’s still at the table. I can feel
his eyes on me. “Do you want to come with me?”
My head snaps up, shock coursing through my veins.
“No, thanks. Not really in the mood to spend the next few
hours in a crowded room breathing smoke filled air and
watching drunk twenty year olds bump and grind on the
dance floor. I can think of a million different ways to spend
my night.”
Actually, I can only think of one, and he’s standing
smack dab in the middle of it.
“Funny, I don’t think I heard you complain once when
we were at my place last week.”
I shrug, willing myself not to stumble over my words
even though the mention of his party last week has my
heart pounding against my rib cage. “That was different,
the crowd was smaller.”
“True.” Chris nods, a teasing glint in his eyes as they
skate across my features. Tracing every line of my face
before landing on my mouth. “And I guess the game made a
difference too.”
Air leaves my lungs in a small whoosh. “Right, the
game…” I mutter, eyes bouncing between his face and the
dusty bookshelves. “Yeah, that could have been it.”
“Why’d you choose dare anyway?”
“What?”
“Dare,” he repeats. “When Sloane called your name,
why’d you choose dare?”
That was a question I’d been asking myself since the
moment the word left my mouth, but I’ve yet to come up
with an answer, and it bothers me that Chris looks like he
has it. “Oh, I don’t know. Guess I didn’t want to be the only
person choosing truth when everyone else went with dare.”
 He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah, but that’s not
like you.”
This is the second time he’s said something like this. A
summarizing statement, a finite declaration, a resolute
testament that speaks to the truth of who I am even though
I don’t feel like that’s something I know anymore.
“What’s not like me?”
“Going along to get along.” I raise a brow, unsure about
what he means, and he continues. “You don’t let other
people’s choices influence yours, Mal. You might not want
to admit it to yourself, but you chose dare because you
wanted to, not because every other drunk idiot before you
did.”
The absolute certainty in his voice renders me
speechless, and I watch as a self-satisfied grin takes over
Chris’ entire face, making him look even more handsome as
he taps the table twice with his large fist and finally stands.
“I guess I’ll let you get back to studying. See you in class
on Monday.”

OceanofPDF.com
 4

CHRIS

T hey always start the same. The nightmares. With the

echo of the slamming front door and the heels of my
mother’s shoes sliding over the threshold. The last
time I saw her. From there it switches to flashes of her in
the hospital, her strained cries filling the room, her body
bowed with pain, her blood soaking the sheets and spilling
onto the floor as faceless doctors rip her apart with scalpels
and ruthless fingers to pull my sister into this world.
Trading one life for another.
The last half, the bit about the dimly lit hospital room
with cruel surgeons and evil nurses, is pure conjecture, of
course. I wasn’t in the room when my mother died, but I’ve
seen it. Years after she took her last breath, when I’d all
but forgotten her face and the smell of her hair, I visited it
—a large and luxurious birthing suite on the private floor of
Johnson Memorial Hospital because the Chief of Surgery’s
wife and the daughter-in-law of the CEO of the hospital
couldn’t possibly give birth anywhere else—and waited to
feel her. To sense some part of her spirit in the sterile white
tiles and multiple thread count linens on the oversized
hospital bed.
I never felt her there.
 Just like I never felt her in the home my father moved
her into after they married, and continued to raise us in
after she was gone, or at the spot at the edge of our
property in the country where he spread her ashes. I don’t
feel her anywhere. She is, and has always been, missing
from me. A hole in my heart where nothing else can grow. A
dark cloud over my head that nothing can pierce through. A
glaring emptiness in my life that nothing will ever eclipse.
And the nightmares ensure it stays that way.
They started when I was four, just after my dad came
home with the fluffy bundle of pink that was Teresa and no
mom. I would wake up screaming, tears and snot running
down my face, sobs wracking my body so hard I threw up.
My father woke up with me the first time. His thick, dark
brows pinched in disapproval and frustration as he barked
orders at Margaret—the live in nanny who’d been with us
since my older brother, RJ, was born—to clean me up and
get me back to bed. After that, he didn’t get up any more,
so it was just me, Margaret, and baby Teresa.
Margaret would always try to get me to go back to
sleep, but the taste of vomit and the metallic tang of
invisible blood filling my nostrils clung to me, making it
impossible to rest. It took months of her trying every sleep
remedy under the sun to get her to accept that once a
nightmare woke me, sleep was no longer an option, but
once she did we developed a routine. She’d fix me a cup of
warm milk while she prepped a bottle for Teresa’s next
feeding, tuck me into the twin sized bed she had in the
corner of the nursery and let me read to her softly while
she went back to sleep. Eventually, when I was tired of
reading and Margaret was giving off too much body heat, I
would trade my spot in her bed for the rocking chair next
to the crib and watch my baby sister sleep.
It was a nice routine. One that evolved as I got older and
the nightmares progressed. Margaret hasn’t been with our
family for some time now, but we still keep in touch, and I
still value the role she played in helping me realize the
ways stability and routine can help you live with the
monsters you can’t slay.
She’d be scandalized by my routine now, though.
It’s all about mind-numbing sex, followed by long runs
and a hot shower before starting my day at a time when
most people my age are just going to bed. Not a drop of
warm milk or a freshly laundered footed pajama in sight.
At least that was my routine before I knew what it was
like to kiss Mallory Kent.
“Put it out of your head,” I mutter to myself, letting the
cold February air carry the words away. I might as well
have not spoken them at all for all the good the order does
me. In an instant, my mind is back on our kiss. A ten
second joining of lips and tongues that happened almost a
month ago and has turned my entire world upside down.
I should have known she would be a problem for me
when she wasn’t the least bit phased by the idea of kissing
me. I strode over there to her, a shit-eating grin on my face
to hide that my heart was pounding in my chest like I was
back on the stage of Margaret’s church stumbling over an
Easter speech, and she just looked ready to get it over with.
Talk about a blow to the ego.
I don’t know what I expected from her—the most
focused, goal oriented person I’ve met since I moved to
New Haven—but it wasn’t indifference. Beautiful, but stoic
features that only moved, only showed a glimmer of
emotion when I touched her. That small point of connection
had short circuited my entire system, and the taste of her
had done the rest. Ruined me. Made it so no matter what I
did all I could think about was the way she responded when
our mouths collided. Nothing has been able to touch that
moment, and I guess that would be bearable if it didn’t fuck
with my carefully curated nightmare recovery routine.
Of course, I didn’t know that it had until tonight. As soon
as I opened my eyes the familiar sensation of restlessness
started in on me. The urge to move until every muscle in
my body, including my brain, is too wrung out to do
anything let alone replay the scene of my mother’s death
until I’m nauseous and angry and wondering if I ever woke
up at all, had me picking up my phone and sending out a
few texts to see who was up.
Alisha—a senior Biology major who has even less time
for relationships than I do—got back to me first, so I rolled
out of bed, got dressed, and braved the storm to head over
to her on-campus apartment, ready to hunt down carnal
satisfaction and force it to take the place of the bone
crushing guilt and grief constantly brewing inside of me.
Instead, I ended up walking out ten minutes later, more
agitated than when I went in. Not because I was still being
haunted by thoughts of my mother, but because even the
sight of another woman on her knees wasn’t enough to free
me from thoughts of Mal.
As if I needed another ghost haunting me.
And I do feel haunted. When I see her in class every
Monday, Wednesday and Friday, especially when she’s
listening so intently that she starts chewing on the end of
her pen, or random times over the weekend when Eric or
Sloane manage to drag her out of the library long enough
to go to a party or catch a movie with the rest of us. Every
moment that I’m around her is filled with me obsessing
over the taste of her lips. The faint scent of jasmine wafting
off of her skin. The way she doesn’t look at me unless she
absolutely has to.
All of it, every single thing about her, is distracting as
hell, and I don’t have time for distractions. There’s no
space for them on the long list of things I need to do in
order to become the man I want to be. One who stands on
his own two feet and doesn’t depend on the benefits of a
legacy and name he was born into.
When I left Alisha’s, the only reasonable thing left to do
was work off my frustration with a run. I started off at a
breakneck pace, the sound of my sneakers pounding the
half-dry wet pavement echoing around me and disrupting
the quiet of the night. Because of the rain I was only
planning to run for a thirty minutes or so, just enough to
appease the raw, primal emotion that seems to be
hardwired into my being, but I’m closing in on an hour and
it still hasn’t let up.
It’s forcing me forward, pushing my body past the brink
of exhaustion and into something else. Some realm of being
where it doesn’t seem to matter that sweat is spilling down
the lines of my chest and back in steady rivulets because
my aching muscles are begging for more.
Of what, I don’t know.
Slowing down feels unnatural, but I know I need to do it
anyway. If I keep going at this pace, I’ll be dead to the
world for the rest of the day, and the only thing that would
be worse than this clawing urge to be in constant motion,
searching for answers to questions I don’t even know how
to ask, is not being able to move at all. Stillness has never
agreed with me.
I eye the dimly lit path in front of me, noting the deep
curve in the sidewalk that leads to the lot where I parked
my car and deciding to downshift once I round it. The
music in my headphones blasts loudly in my ears, and the
edges of my hoodie cling to my face, making the darkness
enveloping me all the more poignant.
Maybe that’s why I don’t notice the small, curvy figure
coming up the path towards me until it’s too late. Until I’m
colliding with her, knocking her to the ground and sending
the things she’s holding in her hands flying into the air
before one of them lands somewhere on the pavement with
a loud, wet splat.
“Fuck.” I take a few steps toward her, my shadow
stretching over her prone form as I reach out to help her
up. “I’m so sorry.”
 She scrambles to her feet and although there isn’t much
light, I can see the tension lining her shoulders. Her
posture is rigid and defensive as she gets her bearings.
Head swiveling from the left to the right like she’s trying to
find the best way to move around me. Light skates across
her features, and it’s then that I recognize her. The smooth
mahogany of her skin, the soft slope of her nose and line of
her jaw. Full curves that are covered in a hoodie and
leggings that accentuate her thick thighs. Hints of amber
glittering in wild eyes that are seeing but not. Subtle notes
of jasmine and citrus waft through the air towards me,
washing away the stench of antiseptic and blood from my
nightmares.
“Mallory.” I expected for her to relax a bit when I said
her name, but it has the exact opposite effect. She takes a
few staggered steps back and to the left of me, everything
about her stance suggesting that she’s about to cut and
run, and I tense, anticipation flooding my veins as I shift on
my feet, ready to follow her. I tell myself it’s because I can’t
let Eric’s sister run off in the middle of the night for God
knows what to happen to her, but the part of me that’s been
craving something more since my feet first hit the
pavement, knows that’s not the truth.
Before I have the chance to admit why the idea of
chasing her makes every nerve ending in my body light up,
I realize she probably can’t see me that well. What little
light there is on the path is drawn to the lines of her face
and neglecting me altogether. I hold my hands out and
push my hood back, taking a step forward into the light.
“It’s just me.” Then, because she probably has no idea
who ‘me’ is, I add, “Chris. Chris Johnson.”
Her posture relaxes, and she moves toward me instead
of away from me, but only by an inch or so. “Chris?” My
name on her lips. I pull in a deep breath and force myself to
focus on her mouth curving into a wan smile instead of
what the sound of her voice is doing to me.
 “Yeah.” I take a step towards her, moving slowly so as
not to alarm her. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you.”
“I’m good.”
But her hands are shaking. I can see that clearly even
though she’s hiding them inside the sleeves of the hoodie
she’s wearing. “You sure? You hit the ground pretty hard.”
Both of her brows pull together, and I see a flicker of
amused annoyance pass over her features, which makes me
smile. Maybe I read her wrong. “That’s kind of what
happens when someone runs into you at full speed.”
“Right,” I say slowly, tilting my head to the side and
conducting a not so subtle scan of her body to make sure
she’s not hurt. The lack of light makes it hard to see, but
from what I can tell, she’s okay. I can’t say the same for the
bag laying at her feet with what looks like french fries
spilling out of the top or the plastic cup that’s currently
oozing its contents all over the sidewalk. “Damn, is that a
cookies and cream milkshake?”
Her eyes, which have a weird wariness to them, leave
my face long enough to take in the mess. When she looks
back at me, there’s something close to bashfulness playing
across her features. It’s adorable.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “It was.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words pop out of my mouth again, and I marvel at
the way they make her shoulders relax a little. Suddenly, I
want to say more words, utter more apologies. Anything to
get rid of the last bit of discomfort passing between us and
let her know that she’s safe with me.
Safe. The word echoes around my brain, making me
think of my mother. Did she feel safe in that room where
she died? Did she think giving birth in a hospital with the
name she married into emblazoned on the walls would stop
her from meeting the same premature end as so many
Black mothers that came before, and after, her?
 “It’s okay.” Mal’s incredibly soft cadence sounds like a
lullaby, but it’s strong enough to pierce my dark thoughts,
pulling me back to her questioning gaze. “Are you okay?”
Amber eyes assess me, skating over my body like she’s
checking me for injuries even though she’s the one that
fell. “Oh, yeah, I’m good, just thinking about how much I
hate seeing a good milkshake go to waste.”
It’s a lame response. I know it. She knows it. We both
know it. But for some reason it’s the only thing I can think
to say with her examining me with the kind of precision
lionesses reserve for their prey. A heavy weight settles in
my chest as the thought of going from being haunted by
her to being hunted by her takes over my mind. Just a
second ago, I was thrilled by the idea of chasing her in the
literal sense, and now I’m wondering what it would be like
to be on the receiving end of any part of her desire.
To be pursued by someone that I….
I swallow that thought, letting it go back down the
depths of my loins where it surely sprouted from. Thinking
with my dick isn’t something I have the luxury of doing,
especially not now when the stop watch attached to my
freedom is rapidly winding down. I can practically feel my
father’s well-insured, perfectly manicured fingers wrapping
around my ankles, preparing to yank me back to Boston
and plop me into the life he’s already planned out for me.
“Right? And it was so perfectly blended, I think I might
be jealous of the sidewalk right now.”
I don’t mean to laugh, especially when she looks so
serious, but that’s what makes her off-hand comment so
funny: she’s not trying to be. Not many people can pull off
the kind of dry humor Mallory specializes in. She’s witty,
clever, with sharp barbs that strike you before you even
know that you’ve been hit. My laughter echoes between us,
and an odd warmth takes over her expression, like she’s
surprised and thrilled by my laughter. That catches me off
guard because she’s usually annoyed by my sense of humor.
 When I sought her out in the library a few weeks ago,
she accused me of never taking anything seriously, and for
the first time in my life hearing that bothered me. I wasn’t
angry when she said it because it wasn’t a lie. I’ve been
aware of my tendency to use humor to shield the people in
my life from the shadows lurking in the corners of my mind
for a long time. Mal was just the first person to say it like it
was a bad thing.
I glance down at the mess spreading between her
sneakers and mine. “Well, at least the ants will be well
fed.”
“The raccoons too,” she muses, tentative humor lighting
the honeyed butter of her irises as she bends at the waist to
scoop up the bag of ruined fries on the ground.
At the same time, I lean down to pick up the plastic cup,
and the sudden move nearly causes us to collide again. Mal
glances up at me, her round eyes stretched wide, and our
faces inches apart, reminding me of the sliver of space that
was between us before my lips touched hers for the very
first time. That moment plays on a constant loop in my
mind, suspended in a slow, viscous syrup of delight that
doesn’t come close to the sweet perfection that was us.
Melted ice cream coats my fingertips as I finally grab
the cup and stand up quickly. The muscles in my back and
legs scream their protest as I stroll over to the closest trash
can and throw the cup away, reminding me I never did an
actual cool down. Mal sidles up next to me, tossing the fries
into the trash too.
“Fries and a shake at almost two in the morning,” I
muse, turning towards her. “Another late night study
session?”
“More like early morning, but yeah.” She runs her hands
over her hair, which is in a loose ponytail made up of box
braids that I know for a fact cascade down her back and
brush the top of her tailbone. “The last few questions on
the latest problem set are kicking my ass.”
 It’s a fight to keep my brows from climbing up my
forehead because I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mallory “I’m
Graduating Early So Fuck You and the Patriarchy” Kent
admit she doesn’t have a handle on something. Shock
mixes with a dangerous kind of intrigue—the kind that’s
got my mouth forming words my brain knows it shouldn’t.
“We could talk through them,” I say the words slowly,
like I’m not sure I want them to come out, and what little
humor was in Malory’s eyes a second ago dissolves. I
wonder if she thinks I’m trying to be funny and find myself
rushing to finish my thought. “If you want, I mean. I took
the class last year and made an A, so I could probably be
helpful. Plus, I kind of owe you for feeding all your brain
food to the sidewalk.”
She presses her lips together, considering my words for
a second and, thankfully, deciding I’m not trying to make a
joke out of her struggling with course work that kicked my
ass.
“Oh, no, you don’t—” Her head moves from side to side,
denying my offer. “—It’s fine, honestly. I think it’s probably
for the best since the sugar would have kept me up all
night anyway.”
“Wasn’t being up all night the plan?” I ask, the words
tumbling out of my mouth silky smooth while inappropriate
images of the million different ways I could keep her up
flash through my mind.
Mallory rolls her eyes. “You never miss a chance to do
that, do you?”
“Do what?”
“Make everything sound inappropriate.”
“All I’m offering is milkshakes, fries and a little private
tutoring session. If that sounds inappropriate to you, maybe
you should get your mind out of the gutter.”
She bites her lip, hiding a small smile I want more of.
“Private tutoring isn’t a part of your teaching assistant
duties, Christopher.”
 “How would you know? You haven’t seen the fine print
in my TA contract.”
“Pretty sure the speech Richardson gave about how
you’re basically his secretary made it clear he wouldn’t
trust you with teaching course material.”
“Oof. That might be an insult to secretaries
everywhere.” I grin at her, hoping to tease the rest of her
incomplete smile out. “Their jobs are much more
comprehensive than what I do for The Dick.”
“God, I hate that nickname,” she mutters under her
breath. Then, even lower, so low I almost can’t hear, she
says, “It’s starting to ruin dicks for me as a whole.”
There’s no stopping my eyebrows from shooting towards
my hairline. Late Night Mallory is much more candid than
Daytime Mallory, and I think I might like her a little too
much. “Spend a lot of time thinking about the general dick
population, do you?”
I can’t see it happen because of how dark it is, but I
swear she’s blushing.
“No,” she scoffs. “That’s not how I meant it!”
I hold my hands up, fighting to keep the laugh building
in my chest from breaking free. “Hey, you don’t have to
explain yourself to me. If you want to think about dicks,
think about them, I’m not going to judge you.”
She stares at me, trying to convey some level of severity
but struggling to get a hold of the composure she usually
has such a tight grip on. “I should hope not, judging a
woman for thinking about dick would probably make the
whole hoeing around thing kind of difficult.”
“Quite.” I incline my head, conceding to her point even
though I feel quite certain that my hoeing days, as she put
it, have come to an end. “Now, are you going to take me up
on my offer or are we going to stand here all night waiting
for the raccoons to come collect the sacrifice we’ve left at
their trash altar?”
OceanofPDF.com
 5

MALLORY

S tupid, stupid girl. The words filter through my head on

repeat, flitting through with the same kind of speed
and precision Chris is using to move us through the
empty streets surrounding New Haven University’s
campus. It’s close to three in the morning, but I’m not the
least bit tired. I guess being knocked on your ass by
someone running through campus like they’re trying out
for the lead role in a werewolf movie will do that to you.
Not just someone.
Right. Because of all the people in the world and all the
students on campus that I could have been trampled by, it
had to be Chris. The one person I’ve been diverting an
obscene amount of brain power to not thinking about and
the last person I expected to run into on campus during
prime time booty call hours. I mean, it wasn’t strange for
him to be on campus, it was just strange that he was on
that path, heading back to his car instead of fucking the
brains out of whatever girl answered his ‘you up?’ text first.
Once I got over the initial fear of finding myself on a
dark path with a hooded figure in the middle of the night,
my body went straight into shock.
Shock that he was there in front of me.
 Shock at his careful, and not at all subtle, visual
examination of my body.
Shock at his ability to toe that line between joking and
being totally serious, and, what’s worse, making me want
to walk it with him.
He made me like his laugh, made me want to say stupid,
embarrassing things just for the sake of hearing it again,
and that in and of itself should have made me turn down his
offer to replace my shake and fries, but I didn’t.
So here I am: sitting in the passenger seat of Chris’
midnight blue Mercedes, sleep deprived with a sore ass
and a stomach full of butterflies.
I’m choosing to blame the sleep deprivation for my bad
decision making tonight, well, this morning. Otherwise, I’d
have to own up to not using my brain at all when I agreed
to this impromptu trip to….
Fuck, I don’t even know where we’re going.
Chris seems content to just drive around, and for
whatever reason I’m happy to let him. For the first time in a
long time, I feel comfortable. It’s an odd sensation, this
willingness to let someone else hold the reigns, and I know
it’s only temporary.
Eventually, the knot that’s lived in the pit of my stomach
will return. And so will the intense, unshakable fear that if
I’m not the one driving the bus then it’ll run right off the
road. But for now, I’m choosing to focus on their absence
while not delving too deeply into why they seemed to have
disappeared the moment Chris called my name.
I glance out the window into a dark sky that’s ugly and
gray, clouds heavy and burdened with another bevy of rain
drops they’ll set free without a moment’s notice. It’s been
storming on and off all night. Most people hate when it
storms this time of year. They bundle up in their beds,
dreading the wrath of the rain and praying it won’t mix
with the bitter cold to turn into something else. But I love
storms, especially the moments after, when the world is
still, caught between beginning the process of recovering
from the sudden onslaught and bracing for the possibility
of another.
I can relate to that feeling, to wanting to move on and
heal from damage you never deserved in the first place and
being afraid to because you know a second wave of
destruction can sweep you away at any moment.
“Are you okay with a little ride?” His voice, a deep,
husky timbre with all the crisp sophistication you’d expect
from someone raised up north, pulls me out of my head and
back into the car. There’s music playing, some old-school
R&B tune, and it’s the only thing that’s been filling the
silence around us since we climbed inside. Now the music
is drowned out by Chris’ question hanging in the air and
the weight of his gaze on the side of my face. When I turn
to look at him, his eyes are back on the road.
“Longer than the one we’re currently on?”
“Yeah.” He chances another glance at me, chestnut eyes
moving over my features as he switches lanes. “There’s a
twenty-four hour diner about forty-five minutes from here.
It’s right on the edge of the Georgia state line and real
popular with truckers, but they have the best shakes.”
I should say no because leaving the state, even just
barely since New Haven is so far on the edge of South
Carolina it might as well be Georgia, isn’t a good idea. But
there’s something endearing about the small smile tilting
up the corner of his mouth, that makes me feel reckless,
daring, more like me than I have in months.
“Yes. I’m cool with a longer ride.”
Hopefully by the time we get there, the butterflies will
have cleared out and I’ll be able to properly investigate his
claim about these milkshakes.
“G ood right ?” Chris asks me, gesturing towards the old
school milkshake glass nestled in between my hands. A
dark teasing expression plays across his features as he
watches my lips wrap around the thick red straw
protruding proudly from the creamiest cookies and cream
milkshake I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.
This is my second pull, which, if I’m being honest, began
before I’d even swallowed the contents of the first.
Something about the silky smooth texture of the base ice
cream had caught my attention and refused to let go,
prompting me to moan and dive in for another taste, not
caring that the sound I made had made Chris’ eyes glow
dangerously for a second, all sorts of emotions I couldn’t
name, and didn’t care to, flitting around in a warm gaze
that threatened to melt me and the best damn milkshake
I’ve ever had.
Not that I’d ever tell him.
Reluctantly, I release the straw and sit back a little. My
back brushes against the electric blue vinyl of the booth
we’re sitting in. It’s identical to the all the other booths
that run along the walls of Curly’s—a Black-owned and
family run diner that, according the burly, gray haired
gentleman that showed me and Chris to our table, has been
keeping children in the Blackmon clan fed for close to fifty
years now.
What the older gentleman, Al, left out of the diner’s
history, Chris filled in for me, telling me how Charles
‘Curly’ Blackmon built the building with his bare hands and
put his entire family to work. They started simple, with
burgers, hand-cut fries and sweet tea. A few months into
business, his wife, Alberta, introduced milkshakes—that
she whipped up with nothing but a whisk and elbow grease
—to the menu and the rest was history. A history, Chris
knew like the back of his hand.
I wasn’t able to hide my surprise when he finished
reciting it or when Al sent our server, a young girl named
Jalisa, out to our table and she greeted Chris by name. Only
then did he admit that he came here a lot, on late night
drives when he needed to clear his mind. Everything in me
wanted to ask what he, a young man from an affluent
family and the world at his feet, could need to clear his
mind of, but I didn’t.
His demons are his business.
“It’s okay,” I say finally, lying with the same tongue that
was already longing for another taste. “I think I’ve had
better.”
“Mallory.” Both of his brows come down, knitting
together to form a disappointed line. A shiver of awareness
tickles my spine and warmth spreads through my lower
belly at the stern timbre of his voice. And it’s such a foreign
sensation, such a shock to my system, that I try to cross my
legs underneath the table to suppress it.
Unfortunately, that results in my knees brushing against
the inside of Chris’ hard thighs, which are bracketing mine.
The contact jolts me further, but somehow I manage to
keep the shock off my face. “We both know that’s a lie.”
Suddenly, I’m not sure if we’re talking about milkshakes
or….
Or what? What else would we be talking about?
Pushing the ridiculous thought away, I shrug. “No, we
don’t. I mean it is good, but I just don’t know if it’s
everything you made it out to be. You might have over
hyped it a bit.”
I hold my index finger and thumb up, pinching them
close together to indicate the amount of over-selling I’m
wrongly accusing Chris of doing. His eyes narrow, chestnut
dancing with mischief and danger as he looks from my
hand back to me. He crosses his arms. I watch him sit back
in his seat and foolishly wish he wasn’t wearing that hoodie
so I could see the muscles in his arms contract with the
action.
“You moaned.”
 “What?”
“You. Moaned.”
Chris waits patiently for me to respond, and while he
waits everything about him is tuned into me. His eyes
locked on mine, his body inclined towards me. Hell, even
his breathing seems to match mine, and it’s weirdly
comforting to be so in sync with him. To be held in his
imploring gaze that makes me feel like I’ve been dipped in
a warm bath of whiskey and honey.
“No—”
Thankfully, my lie is cut off by the sudden appearance of
Jalisa. She’s holding a plate of curly fries in one hand and
one with a double cheeseburger and home fries in the
other. I watch her set the plates down, eyes focused on her
hands, the table and the same shade of blue lining the
edges of the plates. Anything but the man across from me
who has managed to send jolts of shocked arousal through
me with just two words.
“Thank you, Jalisa,” Chris says. There’s a smile in his
voice that I refuse to look up to see even though I
desperately want to know if it’s as mind melding as it
sounds.
“You’re welcome. Can I get you guys anything else?”
“Mallory?” I can still hear the smile and somehow it
sounds even more decadent wrapped around the syllables
of my name. Unable to stand it any longer, I steel myself
and meet his eyes.
“Yes, Christopher?”
He tilts his head to the side, one thick brow lifted in
amusement.“Do you need anything else from Jalisa?”
I turn to look at the young girl, who can’t be anymore
than seventeen years old, and smile. “No, Jalisa. I’m good.”
“Okayyyy,” she says, slowly backing away from the table
and looking at the two of us like we’ve lost it. “Just holler if
that changes.”
 In the blink of an eye she’s gone, leaving me with an
irritatingly handsome, and frustratingly smug, Chris. I
make a show of rolling my eyes at him as I pick up a fry
from my plate and pop it into my mouth. Then, because I’m
a little embarrassed but not foolish enough to miss out on
another milkshake today, I take another pull from my straw
and let out a happy sigh.
“It wasn’t a moan.”
“Oh?” He laughs, taking the top bun off of his burger
and rearranging the order of the fixings so there’s lettuce
and tomato between each patty instead of just on top.
“What would you call it then?”
“A satisfied exhalation.”
“That’s a moan, Mallory.”
“It isn’t,” I insist, heat flooding my cheeks at the idea of
anyone hearing this ridiculous debate. Everything we’ve
discussed since he ran into me has been ridiculous.
Secretary job descriptions, my supposed dick filled
thoughts, the formal definition of a moan.
I can’t remember the last time I felt comfortable enough
around anyone that wasn’t my top three to joke around like
this. It feels nice. Familiar yet foreign enough to have
warning bells ringing in my mind.
Reminding me that once upon a time, I learned a lesson
about trusting charismatic guys who use jokes to make you
comfortable around them. They laugh and kid around with
you until your guard is down and then….and then it’s too
late.
Chris is still smiling when I finally manage to claw
myself out of my own dark thoughts.
“I know what a moan sounds like, Mal.”
I do my best to ignore the way the words seem to hit me
right in my gut and take another long pull of my milkshake
before I finally say, “Another perk of being the resident man
whore, I bet. Doesn’t mean you know what my moans
sound like.”
 He takes my comment like he takes everything: in stride.
He doesn’t flinch even though somewhere deep down
inside I’m cringing at the cattiness of my first statement
and the pure awkwardness of the one I chose to follow it up
with.
“You’re right,” he replies simply. “I don’t.”
Then he picks up his burger and takes a big bite out of
it. His eyes fall closed as he chews, and at first I don’t know
how to identify the sound he makes in the back of his
throat. It’s a low, rumbling sound that’s almost animalistic
in it’s refined intensity.
Every person within earshot of our booth turns to see
where the sound is coming from. Some of them even look
frightened, like they’re trying to calculate the possibility of
a starved tiger wandering into the diner, drawn in by the
delicious, greasy fumes seeping out of every crevice in the
old building.
The sound, which is totally not the right word for what’s
happening in Chris’ chest, strikes a chord deep inside me.
It winds it’s way through me, slipping under my skin and
weaving through my bloodstream, curling up along every
nerve ending that’s linked to my system, and I freeze.
Literally.
With my mouth halfway open, hovering over the straw in
my cup. Even my eyeballs don’t move, which means I have
no idea if or when the other patrons stop looking at us. It
also means that when Chris opens his eyes again, with that
same soft severity I saw before he kissed me all those
weeks ago shining in their depths, I’m staring right at him.
“Something wrong?” He asks, no, purrs, innocently,
sending more heat to flood my cheeks and other places I
won’t mention.
The question sets me in motion again, and I shake my
head. “Nope.”
“Good.”
 He flashes me a cocky grin, one that lets me know he did
all of that on purpose and goes back to eating his food. We
eat in relative silence—well, he eats and I do this weird
thing where I pretend I’m not watching him as I sip on my
shake—and it doesn’t take him long to clear his plate.
When he’s done, he leans back in the booth and takes a
long sip of his chocolate shake with his eyes on me.
I push my empty glass aside and pop a fry in my mouth.
“Are you just going to stare at me until I finish eating?”
A flash of pink, his tongue, swipes over his bottom lip,
and I’m hit with the image of him eating me alive. Those
perfect white teeth sinking into my skin and his tongue,
wet and hot, soothing the carnal wounds with long strokes.
It should be disturbing, but the only thing that bothers me
about it is that I like it.
“Maybe.”
“Please don’t.” I miss the weight of his gaze as soon as it
leaves my face, and a few awkward moments pass where
he’s looking around the room at the patrons who were just
staring at him before I sigh heavily. “I didn’t say you
couldn’t look at me at all.”
“Make up your mind, Mallory,” he mutters, happily
moving his eyes back to me. “Either you want me to look at
you or you don’t.”
Something about his phrasing—probably the suggestion
that having his eyes on or off of me is a desire I hold, which
he’s obliged to meet—makes my heart beat a bit faster.
“You can look, just don’t stare.”
He lifts his brows, amusement making his gaze turn
warm. “How else am I supposed to figure out the logic
behind eating all of your french fries after your milkshake
is gone?”
My brows pull together. “It’s not exactly a mystery. I just
always need something salty after I’ve eaten something
sweet.”
 It’s an old habit, one I no doubt picked up from my mom
who always grabs a handful of chips after she eats dessert.
When Eric and I were little, we would always beg her to
give us some too, and then it just became this thing we all
do without even thinking about it. Chris pulls a face, and
until now it never really occurred to me that other people
might find it strange. “You think I’m weird, huh?”
He holds his hand up, pinching his index finger and
thumb close together like I did earlier. “Just a little.”
My mouth drops open. “You’re not supposed to actually
say yes! Didn’t your mama ever tell you if you don’t have
anything nice to say, not to say anything at all?”
The smile that was in the process of taking over his
entire face starts to fall, turning his expression from
amused to closed off in a matter of seconds. I watch the
sudden change with equal parts interest and dread,
wondering what I said to make his mood shift so quickly.
“Probably. I’d like to think that’s exactly the kind of
thing she would have taught me, but I don’t—” His gaze
drops to his hands and stays there while his mouth works
to form words I get the sense he has trouble saying. “I
couldn’t tell you if she did or not. I don’t really remember
her.”
Oh. The solid, heavy weight of his words makes me feel
so stupid for saying something so careless even though I
had no way of knowing I was stumbling onto a land mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know you lost your
mom.”
When he looks back at me, there’s a darkness creeping
into the corners of his eyes, threatening to replace the
swirls of rich chestnut. “It’s okay. No one out here really
knows. I don’t talk about it a lot.”
“I’m still sorry though.”
And I am because I know what it feels like to walk
around with such an important person missing from your
life. My dad died when Eric and I were babies, so I don’t
remember anything about him. Never got to hear his voice
or feel the comfort of his arms wrapped around me, holding
me close and telling me that I’m safe.
“Don’t be. It’s been a long time.”
“What does that have to do with anything? She was still
your mom, and I’m sure you still miss her, which means I’m
allowed to be sorry.”
I’m not sure why I’m pushing this. I should have just
accepted the out he gave me and moved on, but something
about the way he dismissed his own grief, minimized the
impact the loss of his mom had on him, bothers me. His
wooden tone, the hollow resolve in his words when he
suggested that the length of time had anything to do with
the compassion he deserves—like he was repeating
someone else’s words instead of his own—none of it sits
right with me.
“Yeah,” he laughs softly, but the darkness is still there,
in his eyes, and it makes my heart hurt for him. “I guess
you’re right.”
“I am.” I keep my tone light, adding in a hint of sass in
hopes of making him smile again, and after a full minute he
gives in, gifting me with a rueful grin while he spins his
empty glass around on the table.

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 6

MALLORY

“I don’t understand why you can’t miss one lab,” my

mother sighs heavily in my ear. The slight pout in her
voice evident even over the wind whipping around
my face as I speed walk to the biology building.
“Are you seriously encouraging your daughter to skip
school, Ma?” I ask incredulously. “That kind of seems like
the opposite of what you should be doing as a parent.”
“Now you’re missing my birthday party and calling my
parenting abilities into question? Is that what they’re
teaching you in those fancy business classes, Mallory
Pearl?”
One thing I’ve always appreciated about Mama is that
she’s not a small time guilt tripper. She doesn’t just make
you feel bad for a moment, something quick you can shake
off the second you’re out of her presence and the
disapproving tisk she makes after every word fades from
your mind.
No, she has a way of making it last, of making you feel
like whatever thing you’ve done is just as bad, or maybe
even worse, as telling everyone in the family the secret
ingredient in her red velvet cake or taking the Lord’s name
in vain in the middle of the church on Easter Sunday.
 And unlike most parents, who raise their voices and
berate you while they guilt trip you, she speaks softly so
you have to focus on every word and absorb her
disappointment into your very being.
It’s effective, even when she’s only half serious.
“Ma!” I shake my head. “I’m not missing your birthday
party. I’ll just be getting there at the same time as every
other guest.”
Honestly, I’ll probably make it there before most of
them. Our family members are perpetually late, always
showing up on their own time with nothing but their hands
out and mouths open. It’s Mama’s birthday, but she’s still
doing the majority of the work—taking the day off to the
cook food, decorate the small recreational center she
rented out because it’s too cold to do it in the back yard.
Fortunately, Eric and Nic were able to head over to help
her after they finished classes this afternoon or else she
would have ran herself ragged before the shindig even
started. Unfortunately, their availability has resulted in this
lovely conversation.
“Hmmph. I guess that’s fine.”
“It’s going to have to be, lady,” I laugh, nestling my
phone between my shoulder and ear as I reach for the door
to the biology building. The halls are nearly empty, mainly
because no one takes labs on Fridays. No one but me that
is. “I’ll see you in just a few hours, birthday girl. Okay?”
“Okay. How are you getting to the rec center again?”
I adjust the strap of my bag, groaning softly under my
breath as I think about the answer to that question. My
plan was to make the hour drive across town in the car Eric
and I share since he was going to ride down with Sloane,
but that plan went to crap when Sloane’s mom called,
ordering her to come home immediately to try on dresses
for some charity gala.
I never really liked Lauren Carson. She’s an overgrown
mean girl who takes an odd pleasure in bullying her
daughter, and today she moved up a few spaces on my shit
list because her power move left me with only one option
for a ride home.
Chris.
When Eric told me that he’d asked Chris to bring me
down, I immediately became anxious. Not because I have
qualms about his driving abilities —obviously, that’s not the
case. I mean, our little trek to Curly’s on Monday, and the
nap I took on the way back to campus, is more than enough
proof that I feel safe with him behind the wheel—but
because the idea of spending more time alone with him
made me more excited than it should have.
Plus, there was the ever present issue of showing up to a
family function with a handsome guy. Everyone would take
one look at us arriving together and assume there was
something more to our flirtatious, but completely platonic,
relationship, and I’m loathe to spend the entire night
fending off my nosey aunts and cousins who refuse to
accept that my perpetual singledom is a choice and not a
character flaw.
Mama usually doesn’t play the whole ‘when is Mallory
going to fall in love’ game, but I already know that her eyes
will be shining with unspoken questions when we show up
together.
I push out a hard breath, pausing outside the door of my
lab. “Chris. You remember him, right? Eric and Nic’s
friend?”
They met once last semester when Mama came up to
campus for a homecoming game, and we all took her out to
dinner. As someone who’s worked in hospitals her entire
life, she’d taken a shining to Chris as soon as he said he
wanted to be a doctor. By the end of the meal, she’d
declared him one of her bonus children and given him one
of those bone crushing hugs and a kiss on the cheek that
left him blushing like a school boy.
 I didn’t understand his reaction then, but now, knowing
that he lost his mom so young he can’t even remember her,
it makes sense. The warm hugs and that unique brand of
motherly love Eric and I grew up with was glaringly absent
from his life. Mama scoffs like I just accused her of
forgetting one of her actual children.
“Of course! My future doctor,” she muses, while I pray
she doesn’t ask the question most mothers would ask their
daughters in this situation. “Well, I can’t wait to see you,
sweetheart, but tell Chris not to break any laws to get you
here.”
“Okay, Ma.” Relieved, I take another step towards the
door. There are only three people in the room, which means
I’m not late. Yet.
“Oh, and Mal?” She sounds distracted, probably because
she’s preparing to move on to her next task.
I turn away from the door, pressing my back against the
wall. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Could you please text Tasha and tell her we’ll be
starting at eight instead of seven?”
“Tasha? Tasha Davis?”
“Yes, child,” she says impatiently, probably because she
doesn’t understand why I sound like I don’t remember the
girl I called my best friend for close to a decade. We met on
the first day of second grade and stayed joined at the hip
until one weekend during our junior year of high school
changed my life and, by extension, our friendship. “I ran
into her at the store yesterday and invited the whole family.
Her and Trent are really looking forward to seeing you.”
All of my thoughts come grinding to a halt and then,
within the span of a second, kick into high gear. My
stomach rolls violently, and the ball of anxiety I’ve been
carrying around all day in regards to showing up to a
family function with Chris is shoved out of the way by the
sudden and intense wave of nausea.
 It’s been years since I’ve heard that name, longer since
I’ve let it pass my lips or laid eyes on the face it belongs to.
No part of me was prepared to hear it from Mama or for
the dreadful memories it would inspire. My stomach twists,
images of a night I’ve worked hard to forget flitting
through my mind in rapid fire flashes that take my breath
away.
Rough hands holding my wrists. Alcohol laced breath on
my neck. Weight I couldn’t possibly move on my own
pressing me into the mattress…I bend at the waist and
force the air from my lungs out through my mouth. Slow
and steady until my heartbeat is no longer pounding in my
ears.
“Hello? Mallory! Are you still there?” Mama calls. “I
know this child didn’t hang up on me.”
“I’m still here, Ma,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.
I hate that. That the mere mention of him has taken me
back to a time when I was too weak to speak up for myself.
A time when I smiled and laughed even though I was
uncomfortable. A time when I said nothing at all when I
should have said no—when I should have screamed it. “But
I don’t know if I still have Tasha’s number. I’ll check and
see.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve gotta go, Ma.”
“Of course, sweetie. I’ll see you soon.”
The line goes dead, and I close my eyes, pulling more
deep breaths in through my nose and pushing them out the
same way because if I open my mouth the only thing that
will come out is the hollow, gut-wrenching scream that’s
building in my throat. It probably wouldn’t be loud. Might
not have the chance to reach its full potential because of
the icy, skeletal fingertips of panic wrapping around my
windpipe, but I can’t risk it anyway. Not when I’m in public.
In public, Mallory Kent is strong, focused, capable. She
doesn’t break down. She doesn’t let the ghosts of her past
creep into her present and wipe away all the progress she’s
made. She doesn’t give her power to anyone.
That’s right. The voice in my head assures me, and I’m
bolstered by it being on my side for once. If my brain is on
board that means the rest of my body can fall into line.
All I have to do is stand up. My body obeys, my once
bowed back straightening until I’m standing at my full
height. And look in my phone for Tasha’s number. My hands
lift the phone up, fingers flying over the keyboard to scroll
through my contacts. It doesn’t take me long to find her
name and before I can stop myself, I click on it and type out
the shortest possible text.
Mallory: Hey, it’s Mal. Mama says the party is
starting at 8.
And then, just because I can’t go another second without
knowing.
Mallory: Is Trent coming with you?
I stare at the screen for a few seconds, hoping she’ll text
back immediately, but the thread stays quiet and eventually
I give up, stashing the phone in my back pocket and pulling
the door to the lab open.
With every step I take into the room, I feel more
grounded. More like the Mallory I’ve worked so hard to
become and less like the naive little girl who let herself get
trapped in web of lies with a venomous spider disguised as
a harmless fly.

OceanofPDF.com
 7

CHRIS

“Y our sister was disappointed to hear you weren’t

coming home for her debutante ball.” My dad’s
gruff tone spills out of the speakers of my
computer, filling up the quiet space in my apartment with
it’s perfect diction and commanding timbre.
I sigh, exhausted already because I know that his
irritation will bleed into the rest of our conversation. Since
the start of my last semester at NHU, all of our weekly
check-ins have started this way, with him bringing up a
topic that will inevitably lead us back to his real issue with
me: my refusal to come to heel.
Sometimes I wished he’d have the balls to start there
because we both know he doesn’t give a damn about
Teresa’s debutante ball. She doesn’t even care about it.
When I was home for Christmas break, she told me she’d
much rather be spending her time in the art studio she
rented without Dad knowing.
“I sent Ter a gift to congratulate her for making it
through those classes without stabbing someone in the eye.
It should get there tomorrow morning.” The necklace is a
custom made piece from one of her favorite designers. It’s
artsy and colorful and nothing like the string of pearls all
the other debutantes will have on; she’s going to love it.
 “And that would be fine if anyone actually gave a damn
about presents,” he mutters, finally looking up from the
files spread out across his cherry wood desk.
The russet brown matches the expansive bookshelves
lining the wall behind him, which means he’s in his home
office. I study the shelves behind him, noting how they’re
full of medical books, awards he’s received over the years
and copies of journals he’s been published in. There aren’t
any pictures of us there though, and none of the wife he’s
spent the last couple of decades grieving.
“This weekend is extremely important for our family.
Teresa will be presenting herself to society on Saturday
night, and we’ll be breaking ground on the new surgical
wing named after your grandfather that morning. You
should be here, in Boston, with your family, not in the
middle of nowhere at that godforsaken school. I had an
entire speech prepared for you to give, but now I guess I’ll
have to let RJ do it.”
“RJ is an actual doctor, Dad. I would think a speech from
him at the opening of a wing he’ll be running in a few years
would be a bit more appropriate than one from me.”
There are a million other things I want to say in
response to his little tangent, but I learned the importance
of choosing my battles a long time ago. It’s been four years
since I moved to New Haven for college, and he still hasn’t
accepted that I chose my own school instead of honoring
his legacy and attending his alma mater, which means he
never will.
It, along with the million other things I’ve done to assert
my independence from him, will be a point of contingency
between us for the rest of my life.
RJ, on the other hand, has done everything my dad has
ever asked him to do, including forget his own mother. You
would think a control freak like Reese Johnson Sr., would
be elated that his oldest son—and his namesake no less—is
so eager to please him, but it seems like no matter what he
does, he can’t get a sliver of the light Dad seems intent to
shine on me.
I’d give it all to him if I could. All the expectations. All
the pressure.
The derisive scoff he makes in response to my words
filter through the speakers, filling the room with the
evidence of his disdain for his own son, which I’ve never
understood.
“We both know your brother isn’t cut out for medicine.”
“No, we don’t know that. I think he’ll make an excellent
doctor and an even better surgeon.”
He scoffs, annoyed that I possess the belief in his child
he seems to lack. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before he holds
a scalpel in one of my operating rooms.”
Irritation trickles down my spine, causing my nostrils to
flare. Something about being next in line for the CEO title
of the Johnson Hospital Group—one of the largest, minority
owned medical conglomerates in the country—makes Dad
feel like he holds the careers of every emerging surgeon in
his unfaltering hands. It’s annoying, but what’s even more
problematic is that after nearly thirty years of practicing
medicine and rising to the elite level of a world renowned
heart surgeon, everyone around him allows him to do just
that. The board members of the hospitals he operates in,
the surgeons he works with, even the nurses, they all
default to him. Bend over backwards to get his approval.
Take his word as law. Allow him to make or break careers
with one look.
Which means he could very well keep RJ from becoming
a surgeon, but I don’t understand why he ever would. Out
of the three of us, RJ is the most eager to please Dad.
Desperate for his approval. Happy to follow in his footsteps
without a single opposing word. None of that matters to
Dad though, because everything RJ is dying to give him, he
wants from me.
 “Good thing your operating rooms aren’t the only ones
he’ll be licensed to work in.”
I watch his mouth turn into a flat, disapproving line as
he snatches his glasses off and tosses them on the desk.
The black and gold frames land on the stack of papers with
a quiet thump as he scrubs a hand over the bottom half of
his face.
“I’m not in the mood to argue with you, Christopher.”
“We’re not arguing, Dad.” But under my table, my hands
are balled into fists, like I’m prepared for a fight.
“Good,” he says lightly, but his eyes have gone cold like
they do when he’s decided the best strategy for winning
the argument at hand is to concede for the moment and
come back harder in the next round. “Tell me what’s new.
How are your classes going?”
“Classes are going really well.” My shoulders relax a bit,
and my eyes flick to the clock, making sure I have enough
time to finish up this conversation and make it to campus to
pick up Mallory. The thought of seeing her makes my chest
ache a bit, but in the best way. “Just working hard and
waiting for May.”
A fond smile stretches across his face, making him look
like the man who taught me to drive and never missed one
of my awards days growing up. Suddenly, I feel guilty about
being so angry with him for wanting the best for me.
“You might not believe it, but I’m just as eager for you to
be done as you are, having you back in Boston full-time will
be a great relief.”
I do believe it actually, because the sooner I come back
to Boston, the sooner he can go back to dictating every
aspect of my life. “Dad—”
One of his hands comes up, effectively cutting me off. “I
don’t want to hear it, son. We made a deal. I allowed you to
finish your degree down there, but you will go to medical
school in Cambridge.”
“There are other medical schools.”
 “Not for you.”
“Dad.”
He shakes his head and the light from the wall of
windows on the opposite side of his desk, which allows him
to see the courtyard in the center of our estate, bounces off
of the wrinkles in his forehead.
“We’re not discussing it anymore, Christopher. You will
come home after you graduate and finally begin living the
life I’ve worked so hard to give you.”My stomach twists,
knowing exactly what the life he’s worked to give me
entails.
Obligation over choice.
Purpose over passion.
Legacy over love.
“And what if I don’t want it?”
“Want?” A boisterous laugh fills my ears, mocking my,
admittedly, pointless question. “The kind of life you were
born to live isn’t about want, son. It’s about duty, to your
family, to the legacy of Johnson men that came before you,
to the patients who will trust you and their family members
who will depend on you to stand between their loved ones
and certain death. There’s no room for want in that.”
Leaning back in my desk chair, I stare at him,
completely unmoved by the speech I’ve been getting since I
was ten years old. “I don’t believe that. Grandpa Joe let you
live the life you wanted. You chose medicine, you chose
cardiothorasics as your specialty, you chose to break family
tradition and date Mom even though you didn’t have his
approval at first.”
His eyes go wide at the mention of my mother and the
antiquated Johnson family tradition of fathers choosing
their son’s wives, picking them from high-class families to
breed generations of children steeped in excellence. He’s
probably shocked I brought it and her up in the same
sentence since we never talk about either of them. I press
my lips together to keep anything else from spilling out and
hope he doesn’t notice that I’ve just spouted off a piece of
information I shouldn’t even have.
All of the details I have about how my parents ended up
together came from the stories Margaret told me when I
was a child, and more of them were filled in when I asked
my grandfather about her when I was home over Christmas
break. He was reluctant to share, not wanting to anger my
dad or upset my brother, but when I told him about the
nightmares and the hole in my life shaped like her, he took
pity on me.
He said at first he was against them dating, adamant
that my father not waste time with someone he would
never allow him to marry. Mom was a poor, damn near
homeless, ward of the state who only met his son because
she was smart enough to win a scholarship to the elite
private school he attended.
Funnily enough, the scholarship, which covered the
entirety of her tuition for the year and provided a small
stipend for transportation, was funded by Grandpa. I guess
he never expected his prince of a son to fall in love with the
recipient—a lifelong foster kid with a smart mouth and wild
ideas—but eventually she grew on both of them.
Her and dad became attached at the hip, companions
and then competitors who vied for the top spot in their
class for years. Tears, accompanied by a sad smile, shone in
the old man’s eyes when he revealed that she ended up
being valedictorian. When I asked him how Dad—a man as
competitive as they come—took that, something dark
passed over his features before he changed the topic.
The urge to double back, or try to come up with some
quick excuse to explain away what I just said is strong, and
it only grows stronger as his eyes bore into me through the
screen. I send up a quick prayer of thanks that he’s not
here, not physically in the room with me, because
otherwise I’d be spilling my guts by now, compelled by the
power of his presence to give up my source.
 “Your grandfather may have led you to believe that he
let me make my own choices, but he only allowed me to
marry Celeste because he thought she was a good match
for me. She met all of his criteria: smart, even-tempered,
willing to challenge me when necessary.”
Something dark passes over his face. I read it as grief or
regret even though it looks remarkably similar to anger.
“And by some miracle, we both agreed that it was a good
fit.”
There’s a distinct lack of warmth in his voice as he talks
about how his union with Mom came to be. Grandpa Joe
wasn’t all that warm in his recounting, but there aren’t a
lot of things that get the old man riled up. I would have
expected more from Dad though, especially when he’s
talking about his late wife.
“It sounds more like a business deal than a romantic
relationship.” The words pop out of my mouth, unbidden,
and Dad’s eyes harden. I know he’s about to take me to
task for being so disillusioned about how marriage works
for people like us. We were raised to believe in logistics not
love.
“It wasn’t far from it, but I did what needed to be done
to ensure the arrival of another generation of Johnson
men.” It all sounds so clinical. A business deal
masquerading as a marriage. Dad laughs, but the sound is
bordering on humorless. “I can see that you don’t approve,
Chris, but this is how our family has worked for years.
Fathers choosing for their sons, using all the wisdom
they’ve earned over the years to ensure the continuation of
our bloodline. I accepted it, and one day soon, you will too.”
“I’m only twenty-two, Dad, I think I have some time.
Plus, you have another son you should be worried about
choosing for.” RJ is eight years older than me, which means
that Dad is, once again, misplacing his energy.
He waves his hand. “RJ is not my concern. You are, and
you don’t have as much time as you think. Not if you want
to find a woman of substance and worth. Half of the young
ladies you graduated with are already engaged. Snatched
up by your former classmates and friends who had the
foresight you lack.”
I let out a long sigh, knowing exactly where this speech
is going. Giselle DuPont. The only girl I received his
permission to date. All of my other relationships happened
under his radar, but with Giselle it was different from the
start.
I can still remember the pride shining in his eyes when
he gave me his formal blessing, which I had refused to ask
for because even then I was determined not to adhere to
some dusty ass rules made by men in my family that died
long before I was born. We dated for a few years in high
school, and our coupling was more about proximity than it
was about attraction.
We grew up together, attending all the same schools,
camps and extra-curricular activities, so being together just
made sense. My dad and her parents—Oscar and Ramona—
were thrilled about the relationship, envisioning a merging
of our medical empire with their pharmaceutical kingdom.
And, much to my father’s dismay, that vision shattered into
pieces when I broke up with Giselle a few weeks before
leaving for New Haven.
I think he has always seen the ending of our relationship
as the catalyst for my departure and hopes that pushing us
back together will be the thing to finally make me come
home. He’s wrong though. If anything, his constant
nagging about us reviving the long dead relationship so he
can officially choose her for me, makes me want to stay
away even more.
“Giselle is still single though. In fact, she was Teresa’s
mentor this year, and she asks about you quite regularly.
She will also be disappointed to hear you won’t be home for
the ball. Don’t suppose you put her a gift in the mail too?”
“No,” I bite out. “I didn’t have any reason to.”
 He shakes his head as if the dissolution of an ill-
conceived high school relationship is the most tragic thing
he’s heard. “Once upon a time, not so long ago, you loved
Giselle. You used to look at her like she hung the moon and
the stars. I knew then, just like I know now, that you two
had a bright future ahead of you. A bright, happy life here
in Boston with both of your families there to support you.”
“It was a high school sweetheart situation, Dad. No one
was talking about marriage or buying rings. We were just
kids.”
“Well you’re plenty damn grown now, son,” he snaps, his
voice going low and impatient before it evens back out.
“And I’m sure you two could grow together again if you’d
just try. Start today, send her a gift to let her know you
appreciate her showing your sister how to be a woman of
worth. I’ll even deposit a few thousand in your bank
account, so you can make it nice.”
“Dad—” I’m shaking my head no, but he’s already got
his phone out, no doubt transferring the funds.
He clicks a few buttons before turning his eyes back on
me. “There. It’s sent. I expect the purchase to be made
within the hour. Arrange for it to be gift wrapped and
delivered to the DuPont’s home, Giselle is staying there
while her town house is being renovated.”
Before I get a chance to respond, a knock sounds on his
side of the call, drawing his attention to some point in the
office beyond what I can see. It’s probably his personal
assistant coming to tell him that something or someone
needs his attention more than me. There was a time when I
would have been frustrated by that, but today I’m thankful
for the interruption.
Let him go off and save a life or meet with his fellow
board members to discuss the acquisition of another
hospital or medical group, anything to add another gem to
the crown he’s hellbent on passing down to me.
 “Dr. Johnson, you’ll need to leave for your dinner with
the DuPonts in the next few minutes if you want to make it
to the restaurant on time.” Lyla, the latest in the long line
of personal assistants, says in a sweet, syrupy voice that
lets me know why she’s lasted as long as she has. Dad likes
women who will placate him, make him feel strong and
powerful even when he can’t manage to make it to a simple
dinner with his oldest friends without her telling him what
time to leave the house.
“Thank you, Lyla. I’ll be out shortly.” He turns his
attention back to me and fixes me with a stern stare. “Send
the gift, Christopher. It will be the first step toward
securing the future of this family.”
Tension builds in my shoulders and neck, overtaking my
muscles as annoyance slips down my spine at his
insistence. “I don’t want to live like that, Dad. I don’t want
a business deal masquerading as a marriage. I want to
choose a partner that’s right for me at a time that’s right
for me, not for the family.”
“And when exactly would that time be, son?” He asks,
eyes turning cold with anger he’s actively reigning in.
“When you’re done sleeping your way through New Haven?
Or should I hold off until you get to Harvard and have the
chance to fuck every female in your cohort?”
“Dad—”
“No.” He shakes his head, clearly on a roll. “No. You’ve
had four years, Christopher. Four years to make your own
choices and as far as I can tell the only thing you’ve chosen
to do is fuck everything that moves while I keep your best
and only option open. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my
share of women, but every dog has to learn how to come
home when called.”
I clench my teeth. “I’m not a dog.”
“No, you’re my son,” he says softly. “And I love you very
much. That’s why I want to see you happy. Settled. Not
wasting the energy you’ll need to build your legacy fighting
against it.”
“And by building a legacy you mean….”
“Continuing the Johnson name. Fathering the next
generation of doctors who will practice groundbreaking
medicine in the hospitals my ancestors built for them.”
The urge to roll my eyes is so strong, I almost lose the
fight not to do so. He has two sons and a daughter. The
continuation of the Johnson name doesn’t have to depend
solely on me.
“That can all happen, Dad, but it doesn’t have to happen
now and it doesn’t have to happen with Giselle.”
This is the part I can’t wrap my head around. The Giselle
of it all. If he wants to choose my wife so badly, why does it
have to be her instead of, I don’t know, anyone else? Dad
wraps his fingers around the edge of the desk and pushes
back.
“Giselle is a lovely young woman, Chris, and she’s from
our world. She understands what it takes to keep an empire
running and never over inflates her role in doing so. She
knows when to step back and be quiet, and when she
speaks she always says the right thing. In short, she is the
perfect person for you.”
I frown at his description of my so-called perfect partner.
Once again, he’s not wrong, Giselle is all of the things he
described her to be and more. She’s docile and submissive.
Exceptionally smart but always playing the role of the ditsy
damsel in distress because it makes the powerful men
around her more comfortable. And she would make a good
partner, for someone, but not for me.
I open my mouth to say just that, but Dad holds his hand
up, his attention on the door where Lyla must be urging
him to wrap up our call.
“I have to go now, Chris, but hear me when I say this:
there’s greatness in you, untapped potential that’s just
waiting to be unleashed, generations of Johnson men
waiting to be born into a world you have the power to
shape with your hands. And I know how important it is to
have the right woman beside you to do it.”
I shift in my seat, hating the weight his words are
placing on my shoulders. When he talks like this, like
everything—the future of our family, the lives of a hundreds
of nameless, faceless patients and employees —hangs on
the choices I make. The anxiety and doubt it induces,
makes me wonder if I want to practice medicine at all.
Keeping my expression blank, I return his stare and
deny him the pleasure of acknowledging his ‘father knows
best’ speech.
“Have a good dinner, Dad. I’ll talk to you later.”
I watch him pick up his glasses and stand as he slides
them back on, leaning over the desk with one hand on the
laptop, prepared to close it once he’s had the last word.
“Same time next week, son.” The order moves through
me, pushing my frustration to a dangerous boiling point.
“Yes, sir.”
He ends the call without even saying goodbye, and I sit,
barely containing the urge to swipe my arm across the
table and send everything on it crashing to the ground.
After a few moments, I’m calm enough to see the
wisdom in buying Giselle a gift though. Making the
purchase will placate my father for a few weeks while I
figure out an actual plan to get him off my back, and out of
my personal life, once and for all.
Opening the computer again, I go to the website of my
father’s favorite jewelry store, purchase the first thing I see
and have it sent to Giselle’s parents house via overnight
delivery. It should get there just before the ball starts,
which means Dad will be extra pleased. Once I’m done with
that, I push up from the table and grab my phone, keys and
the small overnight bag I was instructed to pack because
for some reason everyone is planning on staying at the
Kent family home for the night.
 Sloane has already called dibs on the guest room while I
am slated to ride what will be left of the night out on the
pull out couch in the living room. Sleep-overs haven’t been
my thing for quite some time, but Eric insisted that I stay.
He said his mom would be upset if she didn’t get a chance
to have all of us gathered around her table in the morning,
eating a home cooked meal before we went back to
campus. Since I hate the food on campus, and spend most
of my time ordering take-out or eating at Curly’s, I didn’t
argue.
I’m pulling out of the garage underneath my building,
with about twenty minutes to make it to campus before
Mallory gets out of lab, when my phone starts to ring.
Looking down, I see my brother’s name flashing on the
screen with a picture of us at his medical school graduation
in the background. I seriously consider not answering,
because sometimes talking to RJ is just like talking to my
dad, but at the last moment I pick up, putting the phone on
speaker and letting it rest on my lap.
“What’s up, RJ?”
“What’s up?” He drawls. The sound of him mocking me
tap dancing on my last nerve. “Who answers their phone
like that anymore?”
“I do,” I say tightly. “So, like I said, what’s up?”
RJ never calls me unless he wants to gloat about
something. Here lately, all of his calls have been about Dad
and me constantly bumping heads.
“Nothing. Just saw Dad leaving for dinner. He looked
pretty annoyed, and I figured since it’s Friday afternoon, it
must be because of you.”
My jaw clenches, and I find myself grinding my teeth to
bite back the urge to ask him why Dad being mad at me
makes him so happy. It’s a dumb question though because I
already know the answer. Dad’s obsession with my life,
with my future, has been a constant source of contention
for RJ and me.
 When we were growing up, the eight year difference
between us meant that I placed him on a pedestal. He was
my hero, my big brother, the one person I looked up to and
modeled myself after. That is until I realized that he
resented me for getting the love our father refused to give
him.
“Yeah, we had words, so what?”
A cruel laugh follows my question, and somewhere in
the background I hear the clinking of glass and the faint
sound of liquid being poured. He must have taken up
residence in Dad’s office after he left for dinner and helped
himself to the Scotch he keeps in there.
“You’re being very vague, Christopher. Whatever did you
and father argue about today?” He sighs heavily, and I
imagine him plopping down in the seat behind the desk.
Folding his lean frame and long legs into the plush leather.
“I can only think of one subject that could make him so
upset with his favorite son.”
“Is that what you called for? Gossip?”
“Not gossip, little bro. Information.”
I feel my own cruel laugh crawling up my throat as I
think about the information I could give him. Information
that would crush him, that would help him realize the man
who’s approval he works so hard for, will never give it to
him.
“Just the same shit, RJ,” I reply, woodenly. “Dad hates
that I came to New Haven. Dad wants me to go to
Cambridge for medical school. Dad wants me to come back
to Boston and bend the fucking knee, so he can run my life
the way he runs yours.”
“See that’s where you got it all wrong. Dad doesn’t run
my life. He’d have to give a fuck about my life to run it.”
Both of my brows pull together in shocked agreement as I
switch lanes, but I don’t get a chance to reply before RJ
continues. “Don’t worry about me though. I’m going to give
him plenty of shit to care about pretty soon, starting with
this cardiothorasics fellowship at JMH.”
I wince at the mention of his fellowship, remembering
how adamant Dad was about keeping RJ from operating in
the hospitals we were raised to run. I should warn him, let
him know that his fellowship won’t impress Dad in the least
because he has no intention of letting him learn a damn
thing, but I swallow those words too. He won’t listen to me
anyway.
“Yeah, well, good luck with that, man.”
“I don’t need luck, Chris, I’m a Johnson. I was born to be
a surgeon.”
I don’t know anything about my brother’s surgical
ability, but I hope for his sake it matches the arrogance
coating his words. “Right. That’s all you need to succeed,
that good ole Johnson DNA.”
“Damn, right,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You’re the
only fool who acts like being born with greatness in your
blood is some kind of curse.”
“Blessings don’t usually come with strings attached.”
Regret winds it’s way through my chest almost instantly. I
know better than to play into RJ’s hand. He always does
this: ropes me into conversations I don’t want to have
about things neither of us can change.
His side of the line is quiet for a second, nothing but the
sound of more expensive liquor being poured into an even
more expensive glass echoing in my ears as I turn onto the
two-lane road that will take me to the back side of campus
where the Biology building is located.
“Shit, if Giselle DuPont was one of my strings, I’d die a
happy man.”
Turning into a parking spot, I cut the engine and let out
a bitter laugh. “You know it’s gross to refer to her that way
right? She’s a person, not a string or a pawn in whatever
game you think I’m playing with Dad.”
 “You’re right,” RJ says, sounding contrite before he
starts laughing snidely. “She’s not any of those things.
She’s the fucking princess of pharmaceuticals and she
wants to be your wife.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t want a wife.” Not yet, anyway. I
want a life of my own, a legacy I carved out with my own
hands. A name that I earned.
“That’s ‘cause you’re an idiot.”
“Is it really so crazy to want to live my own life, RJ? To
want to make my own choices?”
“Fucking everything with legs isn’t making your own
choices, Chris. It’s actually the exact opposite because
you’re not choosing anything, you’re sampling everything.”
Once again, my brother has shocked me. Mainly because
he’s managed to form a coherent thought while he’s clearly
getting wasted on expensive Scotch, but also because of his
uncanny ability to echo our father’s sentiments so
accurately.
“What’s the point of choosing?” I ask, exasperated.
“Let’s say I did get serious with someone, it’s not like Dad’s
going to respect that choice. He’s dead set on it being me
and Giselle and nothing is going to change his mind.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you, man.”
“You’ve never agreed with me on anything, RJ.”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “You’re right about that. Well, I
guess I have to disagree with you yet again.”
“About what?”
RJ sighs, and I wonder if all the liquor is catching up to
him. “Grandpa Joe told me that you asked him about Mom.”
The sudden change in conversation catches me off
guard. “I did. What does that have to do with anything?”
“He told you about how Mom and Dad got together, how
he didn’t approve of her when they first started dating?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he tell you how Dad got his approval?”
 I flip back through my thoughts, searching for any
mention of how they finally got Grandpa to agree to their
relationship and coming up empty. “No, I don’t think he
did.”
“Well, they’d been dating for years and Grandpa still
refused to give his blessing, so when they were juniors in
college, Dad just brought her to the house on the day of the
annual charity gala and introduced her to everyone in the
room as his future wife.”
“He proposed without Grandpa’s blessing?” There’s no
way to keep the shock out of my voice. I can’t imagine my
father like that. Young, in love, bucking against a system
he’s determined to make me abide by. It doesn’t make
sense. This version of events. Neither Grandpa or Dad
mentioned it to me. “But Grandpa and Dad said he
approved in the end. That he wanted him to be with Mom.”
“Oh, he did. Once he saw them together, he realized that
Mom made his son better in every way. She made him
brave, gave him the courage he needed to stand up to his
own father. He respected the fuck out of her after that,
maybe even more than Dad.”
The look of pride and admiration on my grandfather’s
face when he spoke about my mother flashes through my
mind, and once again, I’m left wondering how that made
my dad feel. If the respect his father showed his future wife
contributed to the bitter way he spoke about their union
now, all these years later.
“That’s a cool story, RJ, I’m still not sure what it has to
do with me.”
“For you to be so damn smart, Chris, you can be fucking
dense sometimes, you know that?” The doors to the Biology
building fling open and a student comes out. I watch them
for a moment and sigh with relief when I realize it’s not
Mallory. I don’t want her hearing any part of this
conversation. My family’s elitist bullshit isn’t something I’m
proud of.
 “If you’ve got a point, make it.”
“My point,” he says, slurring slightly, “is that Dad might
seem like a rigid bastard, but he wasn’t always like that. He
wants you with Giselle now, but given his history, it stands
to reason that he could be convinced to back off and let you
choose.”
I scoff. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“Hmm.” RJ hums thoughtfully, and I don’t know whether
to be scared or relieved that he’s actually putting thought
into this. “You could do the same thing he did.”
“Get engaged without his permission and use his
obsession with public perception to force him to accept
her?” I frown. “Pretty sure that one won’t work.”
“I don’t even think you need to go that far. Just stop
fucking around so much and date someone. You haven’t
been in one serious relationship since Giselle, which is
probably why he’s so stuck on you two together. This whole
detour to New Haven just looks like four years of sowing
your wild oats before you come back to slide into the place
in her life Dad has been encouraging her to keep open for
you. Everybody, including her, thinks that’s the case, and
you sending her all those nice gifts while still being single
after all this time keeps the hope alive.”
“I’m not getting in a relationship just to get Dad off my
back.”
“Well then you might as well come back to Boston with
an engagement ring in your pocket because the only way
men like Dad stop walking all over you is if you stand up
and stop being a rug. It worked for Dad with Grandpa. I
don’t see why it wouldn’t work for you.”
I massage my temple with one hand, hating that his
logic is sound. That his words have planted a seed in my
brain my desire for freedom and independence will water
until it blooms at the most inopportune time.

OceanofPDF.com
 8

MALLORY

C hris was oddly quiet when I climbed into his car after
lab. Normally, I wouldn’t mind the silence, but today I
do because it leaves too much room for me to think
about the multitude of ways things at this party can go left.
Tasha still hasn’t texted me back, so I don’t know if she’s
bringing him with her or not, and it’s the not knowing
that’s killing me. Or so I’d like to think.
To be quite honest, I’m not sure that knowing would be
any better. I mean, of course, I’d know, but knowledge isn’t
always power. Sometimes it’s a life sucking force.
Sometimes it’s a tornado that you can’t avoid, a train wreck
you can’t look away from. A car crash you can’t stop no
matter how hard you hit the brakes.
My leg bounces, and I pick at the skin of my cuticles
while toying around with the idea of skipping Mama’s party
altogether. It would be a plausible solution if I could be
certain she wouldn’t murder me herself for doing so. As it
is, there’s no way to know because missing the party would
mean giving her a reason, and I can’t do that. She doesn’t
know about that night with Trent, or the months of me and
him sneaking around that led up to it, and I have every
intention on keeping it that way.
 Those ugly truths are mine and mine alone, which
means I’m going to have to plaster on a fake smile and
power through a party that will feel like my own personal
hell. Long fingers land on my leg, resting right above my
knee, making it impossible to keep moving, and pulling me
out of my anxious reverie. I glance at Chris’ hand, noting
the way his fingertips are pressing into my thigh, and then
up at him. He’s still got the majority of his attention on the
busy road, but I can tell he knows I’m looking at him.
He switches lanes and glances at me. “Tell me what’s
wrong.”
I’m intrigued and annoyed that it’s not a question. Most
people would say ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘are you okay?’ but not
Chris. He just jumps straight over pleasantries and
personal boundaries and gets to the heart of the matter.
Too bad I can’t tell him the truth either.
“Nothing, I’m just worried about being late.” It’s a bad
lie since the party started at 8:00 pm and it’s only 8:45 p.m.
Most of the guests probably haven’t even arrived yet.
“We’re not going to be that late. I bet we’ll get there
before the DJ plays the Electric Slide for the first time.”
“Yeah,” I agree reluctantly, my gaze dropping to his
hand on my thigh again. “Maybe.”
His fingers twitch slightly, like they aren’t sure if they
should still be where they are, and I watch with a kind of
disembodied interest as he removes them one by one then
puts his hand back on the steering wheel. “Is that all?”
The way he asks the question, with a gentle prodding
tone, makes it feel like he already knows the answer, and I
force myself to continue looking out the window so he
doesn’t see the panic that has to be playing across my
features right now. It’s a slow moving thing, slithering
through my veins like molasses, and although I hate the
feeling, I’m grateful for it because if it’s moving slow that
means I have a chance to stop it. To beat it back before it
forces me to spill secrets I have no intention of ever
sharing.
“Of course,” I say. “What else would I have to be worried
about?”
“I don’t know, but I’m here when you’re ready to talk
about it.”
When you’re ready to talk about it. Not if. Because he
already knows there’s more to the story. A terrible mix of
relief and dread spreads through my chest, curling around
my breastbone and squeezing. I don’t know why the relief
is there. The prospect of sharing the ugliest, most broken,
part of myself with him should be terrifying, but my brain
refuses to code it that way. It’s too busy reminding me that
he shared a hard truth me earlier this week, something no
one else knows about him.
“Thank you.” My throat is tight as I say the words, and I
still don’t look at Chris. Can’t when I know thanking him
for the offer means that for the first time in a long time, I’m
admitting there is actually a problem. Chris gives a quick
bob of his head, just enough to let me know he heard me,
and then it’s done. We ride in silence the rest of the way.

I t ’ s almost twelve in the morning when I take my first real

breath. One that’s not pinched by anxious misery I work too
hard to hide behind big smiles that make my cheeks hurt
and bright laughter that sounds overly chipper and all
wrong to my own ears. When the release finally comes—
courtesy of Tasha Davis waltzing into my mother’s birthday
party three hours late with a fire engine red dress hugging
her petite frame and not another soul behind her— the
relief is so swift and intense, I drop the knife I’m using the
cut my Aunt Mary a slice of birthday cake.
 “Whoa!” The word rolls out of Chris’ mouth, smooth as
silk, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him as he
swoops down and picks the knife up off of the floor. Ever
since we got here, he’s been suspiciously underfoot.
Whenever I make a move, he’s right behind me. Following
me to the kitchen to dig up some more spoons and forks.
Helping me get more sodas to put in the coolers Mama has
set up by the door. Escorting me to Aunt Mary’s car to get
the extra pack of cigarettes she keeps in her glove
compartment.
At first, I was too preoccupied with thoughts of Trent
showing up here with Tasha to care that he was following
me around and giving unnecessary credence to the rumors
that he’s my new boyfriend, which sparked the moment we
walked through the door. But now that she’s here and he’s
not, I’m thinking clearly enough to address it.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes gliding over my body
the same way they did when he ran into me on that path
the other night. “The blade didn’t cut you, did it?”
“Relax, Dr. Johnson. I’m perfectly fine.”
He sits the knife on the table, and I pick it up and start
to move towards the kitchen doors. I don’t even have to
look back to know he’s following me and just before I make
it to the doors, I spin on my heels and hold the hand
without the knife up. He doesn’t stop walking in time
though, and in a matter of seconds, my palm is resting flat
on the rigid muscles of his pectorals. The heat radiating
through the fabric of his shirt melts all of my nerve endings
and for a second I forget what I was about to say.
Warmth spreads from the center of my palm down my
arm and through the rest of me without warning, and just
like I did earlier when his hand was on my thigh, I stare at
the place where our bodies are touching. It’s a small bit of
contact, but it makes me think about what more would feel
like.
Like that kiss but a million times better.
 I snatch my hand away, hoping my unfounded desire
isn’t showing on my face.
“Not yet,” Chris says softly.
My eyes stretch wide, panic rising in my chest at the
thought of him somehow knowing what’s going on in my
brain. “What?”
“You called me Dr. Johnson, but I’m not a doctor yet.”
“Oh. Right. I mean, duh, I know that. I was just being….”
A flash of red moves somewhere behind Chris’ head, and
my eyes are immediately drawn to the sight of Eric giving
Tasha a friendly hug and introducing her to Sloane. As glad
as I am that Trent isn’t with her, I’m still not over the moon
about seeing her after all this time. What if she wants to
know why I cut her out of my life? What if she wants to be
friends again? What if she….
“Mallory?!”
Startled, I turn my attention back to Chris who is the
picture of confusion. “Yeah?”
“Are you sure you’re—”
“Oh my God! Please don’t ask me if I’m okay again,
Christopher. I’m fine. I just told you I was.” Turning again, I
storm through the kitchen doors and breathe a sigh of
relief when I find the room empty.
Hopeful that Chris won’t follow, I march over to the sink
and rinse the knife off. Once I’m done, I grab the nearest
dish towel and take too much time drying it off. My back is
still to the door when it swings open. Music, laughter and
talking filter into the room, swirling in my ears until they
close again. The person who just entered the room isn’t
Chris—I can tell because the air isn’t vibrating with the
currents of electricity that likes to run between us these
days, teasing my senses with possibility—so that means it
must be a guest looking for something that’s already out on
the tables.
I heave a long sigh and start to use the towel in my hand
to dry the sink. “All of the food has already been put out.”
 “I wasn’t looking for food, Mal.”
The soft, playful lilt of my former best friend’s voice
sends memories from a lifetime ago skittering through my
brain like a jarred marbles being spilled on the floor.
Sleepovers and dance parties. Family dinners at each
other’s houses. Oaths made with bloody, wounded palms
pressed together under the light of a full moon. Text
messages sent from our very first cell phones back in the
days when you had to use colons and parentheses to make
emojis.
A bond.
A friendship.
A sisterhood.
For a second there, when Trent and I first started
dating, we thought we would be the real deal one day.
Sisters by law if not by blood. Tasha was the only one who
knew about us, but she only found out because she caught
us one night when I was sleeping over. I had snuck out of
her room to meet Trent downstairs in their finished
basement, and she found us making out.
I remember being impressed by that room. I’d never
been in a house with a basement, let alone one that had a
pool table, couch and TV. Everyone in our class loved
Tasha’s house and every girl was infatuated with her
handsome older brother who smiled at us when we came
over for her birthday parties and cheered for all of us when
he came to our games.
But I was the lucky one.
The one who got his extra attention. Who got his smiles
and jokes and lingering glances that lasted longer when I
was the only friend sleeping over. There were some nights,
when we were freshmen and he was a senior, that Tasha
would leave me downstairs in the living room with Trent
while she went upstairs to talk on the phone with her
boyfriend.
 At first, I felt awkward around him, afraid that the way I
felt about him was too obvious, but then he’d do or say
something to put me at ease: make a joke or toss the
remote in my lap and ask me to put on a show while he
made popcorn. After a while it became our norm, Tasha
going upstairs to talk her boyfriend’s ear off and Trent and
I downstairs alone.
The first time he kissed me—on the night of my
sixteenth birthday when I talked Mama into letting me
sleep over because I was hoping for another one of our
special nights—my heart soared, and everything changed.
Including me and Tasha.
I pull in a long, steadying breath before I turn to face
her, and she doesn’t look the least bit bothered that I made
her wait. A brilliant smile takes over her face, turning her
full lips, which are painted red to match her dress, up. Her
light brown skin is smooth and clear and her hair is wild
and sexy, flowing over her thin shoulders in auburn tresses
that make her look older than she is.
“Tasha, hey.”
“It’s so good to see you, girl!” She moves in for a hug
but stops short when she sees the knife in my hand. “Oh! I
guess I better keep my distance.”
Her laughter spills into the awkward space between us,
and I force myself to laugh too just so she’s not laughing on
her own. “Oh, right, sorry. I was cutting cake before you
arrived and dropped it.”
“Yeah, Mama told me I should see you if I wanted a
slice.”
“Of course she did. I’d be happy to get you some.” But
my feet aren’t moving. It’s like vines have shot through the
tile and wrapped around my ankles, rooting me to the spot.
“And I’d love to have some, but first I’d like to catch up
without all that noise if that’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Actually, it’s the last I want to be doing at
this moment. “Sure.”
 Her smile falls apart, cracks into pieces and then slips
off of her face. Suddenly, she looks so uncertain of herself,
and I feel bad for doing that to her when she hasn’t done
anything to me.
“If you don’t have time, I can just….” she trails off,
hooking her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the door.
“No!” My feet finally regain their ability to move, and I
take a step toward her. “I’d love to catch up. Really.”
Tasha smiles again, relief washing over her features.
“Awesome. Tell me about NHU. I still can’t believe you
ended up there after all that talk about attending NC State
with Trent.”
A shudder rolls down my spine at the mention of his
name and my foolish plan to follow him to college so we
could be together forever. “NHU is good. I like it. Are you
happy at….”
Now it’s my turn to trail off because I actually have no
idea where she ended up. After that weekend I just cut her
off. Stopped talking to her at school. Stopped taking her
calls. Stopped acknowledging that anyone with the last
name Davis existed.
“The Dollar General on Camel Street?” She asks, half
laughing. “Yeah, it’s okay. I’m working there full time,
hoping to make manager next month.”
“That’s good, Tash. I’m sure you’ll be a great manager.”
“Thanks.” She raises her hand, tucking a lock of hair
behind her ear. “So, um, I’m sorry I didn’t text you back
earlier. I was working and didn’t see it until I was on my
way home to change.”
I wave a hand at her. “No worries. I’m glad you were
able to make it. I’m sure it means a lot to Mama.” It’s not
lost on either of us that I left myself out.
“Yeah, I was glad to get the invite. Trent was sorry he
couldn’t make it though.”
My stomach begins to churn, but I still manage to smile
politely. Like hearing his name doesn’t feel like a punch in
the throat. Like it doesn’t send me back to a dorm room
with condom wrappers in the trash can and dirty boxers on
the floor.
“He was happy that you asked about him though.” I
stare at her blankly, unable to come up with a response to a
statement that makes it sound like I’m curious about her
brother’s well being. Tasha takes my silence for confusion,
and she laughs and shakes her head.
“In your text. You asked if he was coming with me
tonight, but he couldn’t because he had already promised
Jamar he would go to his basketball game. You remember
our cousin Jamar right? He got a full ride scholarship to
NHU. We’re all so proud of him, and Trent goes to all of his
games, especially the home ones. I’m surprised you haven’t
run into him yet.”
Another wave of nausea rocks me as dread seeps into
my bones. The thought of Trent on campus, on my campus,
where I thought I was safe from him makes me angry and
scared. Tasha’s looking at me expectantly, an innocent
smile on her face that makes me wonder, not for the first
time, if she knows who her brother really is.
Or if I’m the only person who’s ever seen his true face.
The ugly, snarling monstrosity that hides under the easy
smile and full lips that took my first kiss and slowly, and
then all at once, talked me out of the rest of my firsts.
That’s my secret shame. The silent surrender. The words
that stayed caged behind my clenched teeth while he told
me how much I wanted what he was giving to me. I never
disagreed with him. I never said no. I never told him he was
wrong, and when it was over, I let him hold me.
Stupid, stupid girl.
My hands are shaking, and the knife is coming
dangerously close to hitting the ground again, so I tighten
my grip on it. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
Tasha nods enthusiastically, and when she starts
speaking again the words sound faraway, like she’s in a
bubble. Or maybe I’m in one. In a bubble that’s running out
of air. That’s shrinking around me as my former best friend
drones on and on about things I can’t hear and don’t want
to listen to.
Just as black starts to creep into my vision, and I’m sure
I’m going to pass out, the kitchen door swings open, and
for the briefest of seconds I think, no, I hope it’s Chris
coming to my rescue, and relief courses through me. But
the sensation is short lived when I see Eric walking in
instead.
“Yo, Mal, Mama wants to know what happened to the
knife for the ca—” he pauses, looking between me and
Tasha who’s finally stopped talking. “Oh, sorry, Tash. I
didn’t know you were in here.”
“It’s fine, Eric.” She’s talking to him, but she’s looking at
me with a strange, confused expression. “I was just about
to head out because I have to be at work early in the
morning.”
“Damn,” Eric says, reaching out to give her a hug. “Well,
I’m glad you were able to come through.”
“Me too.” She lets him go and casts a furtive glance
across the room to me. “It was good to see you, Mal.”
I don’t trust myself to say anything, especially not in
front of Eric, so I offer her a tight smile and a wave with
the hand that’s not holding a knife. She looks put off by
that as well, but I can’t find it in me to care because I’m
just glad she’s leaving and taking all the memories of her
brother with her. The sooner I can get back to a life without
the Davis family looming over my head like a dark cloud,
the better.
Pushing out a harsh breath, I look at Eric. “Mama didn’t
really send you in here to harass me about a knife did she?”
He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Nah, Chris
said you were acting a little weird ever since Tasha got
here and said I should check on you.”
 “Ugh.” I move past him, heading back into the party, so I
can finally finish cutting the slice of cake I know my Aunt
Mary is waiting for. “Your friend should learn how to mind
his business.”
Eric follows closely, his brows knitted in confusion as he
takes up residence on the opposite side of the long table
that holds all the food Mama made for the party. “My
friend? You’re the one kissing him in the middle of house
parties.”
“Shut up!” I glare at him then look around to make sure
no one else heard. “I kissed him as part of a game that your
childish girlfriend insisted on playing.”
“Oh, so now Sloane’s my childish girlfriend instead of
your best friend who you supposedly love more than I do?”
I’m still glaring at him as I cut a perfect line through the
cake with the knife. “Yes, she’s always your girlfriend when
she does stuff like that. She’s only my best friend when she
acts like she has some sense.”
“Got it.” He nods like he really does have it, but I know
he just wants to move on to the next topic of conversation.
“And what about Chris? You really gonna be mad at the
man for noticing how weird you were acting with Tasha?”
Shifting my attention back to the cake, I concentrate on
cutting out six even servings, all perfect squares, some of
which I’ll wrap up and take home so Mama can have some
later. “I’m not mad at him for noticing the alleged
weirdness between me and Tasha. I’m annoyed with him for
running to tell you and thus, subjecting me to this
conversation.”
“Alleged weirdness?” Eric arches a brow. “When I
walked into the kitchen you were looking like you’d seen a
ghost and she was looking like…well shit, I don’t know
what she was looking like, but it was definitely weird
energy between y’all, so it wasn’t alleged.”
“It was alleged because Chris didn’t even see me talking
to Tasha.”
 “Okay, so he picked up on the energy change from
across the room, but he wasn’t wrong. You were being
weird with her, just like you were all throughout senior
year.” He turns his head, eyes scanning the floor for
Sloane, probably making sure her and Nic aren’t
somewhere bickering.
“She’s on the dance floor with Mama, and Nic is over
there with Chris.” Eric follows my fingers as I point out
their respective locations and breathes a small sigh of relief
before focusing on me again. “Listen, I’m fine, Eric. Why
don’t you go dance with Sloane and have fun, so I can take
Aunt Mary this cake?”
“Because I want to make sure I’m not missing anything.”
His answer, and the fierce protectiveness that tints it,
gives me pause, and I have to take a moment to gather
myself. It’s been years since Eric has sounded this worried
about me. In fact, the last time I heard him sound like this
was the day I decided to tuck away all my hurt and anger
and become this version of myself. The girl who always has
such a tight grip on her life that no one bothers to look to
see if she’s falling apart on the inside.
That’s who I am now. Not the the naive girl Trent knew.
Not the gullible friend Tasha had. Not the depressed sister
who spent the two weeks following her rape in bed
pretending to have the flu. It only took Eric one of those to
figure out that something else was up, and he pressed me
for answers. Pleaded with me to share my burden. To tell
him what happened between me and Tasha at her house,
which is where I lied and told him and Mama I was going to
be. Only once did he ask if something happened with Trent,
but I denied it so quickly, so vehemently, he let it go
completely.
I lift my head, meeting his eyes. They’re my eyes.
Mama’s eyes. And I know every swirl of amber and gold
inside of them like I know my own name. I’ve spent my
entire life looking in them, and that’s how I can so easily
picture how they’d look if I ever told Eric the truth. The
confusion, the pity, the shame, the anger he’d use as fuel to
burn the images of that night from his brain. The
determination that would creep into the corners while his
brain weaved a tale of revenge in the form of justice that
will never come.
He won’t understand that my revenge, the only version
of it within my grasp, is this. This life where I craft the
narrative and control the outcome, where I decide who
knows what and when they find out. Where I am the force
to be reckoned with and not a victim of the reckoning.
Sighing, I pick up a napkin and wipe the extra icing off
of my fingers. “Eric, I’m only going to say this once, so
make sure you relay this message to Christopher as well:
I’m fine. Seeing Tasha was weird, yes, but I knew she was
coming and now she’s gone, and that’s all there is to it.
Nothing to see, nothing to discuss, nothing to miss.”
Eric is quiet for a moment, but then his eyes soften and
that fierce, big-brother-by-two-minutes protectiveness
fades away. “If you say so.”
“I do,” I insist, nodding to emphasize my words.
“Okay.” And without another word he walks away,
leaving me to finally deliver the piece of cake Aunt Mary’s
been waiting ten years for. Once I make that delivery, I get
called over by another family member to do something else,
and the night continues like that. Everyone dancing and
having a good time while I run around like a chicken with
my head cut off until the wee hours of Saturday morning.
By the time the last guest leaves, I’m bone tired, but I
still help the small crew Mama tasked with clean up take
down decorations and put away food. Together, it only
takes a few hours to set the rec center back to rights.
When we get back to the house, Mama is asleep, but
there’s a stack of pillows and blankets on the couch for
Chris. I leave Eric to deal with getting his guest settled and
head to the hallway bathroom for a quick shower. When I
get out the house is quiet save for the hum of the TV in the
living room and the low rumblings of male voices I can only
assume belong to my brother and his friends.
I’m half tempted to go out and talk to them because
there’s nothing I love more than a post-event play by play
with Nic who stands in the corner, sipping soda or water
while everyone else is drinking, seeing and hearing
everything, but just the thought of spending another hour
upright makes my already tired brain even more exhausted,
so I make a beeline for my room and climb into bed, falling
asleep before my head even hits the pillow.

OceanofPDF.com
 9

MALLORY

I t’s dark in here, and it stinks. That special blend of stale

food and dirty laundry that’s found in the dorm rooms of
college boys who left their housekeeping skills and
manners at home with their mamas. It clings to the air, fills
my nostrils, suffocating me and saving me all at once.
Because focusing on the stench is the only thing keeping
me from being inside my body. From feeling his unwanted
movements and wondering, for the millionth time, why I’m
not telling him to stop.
“You knew I’d make it good for you, didn’t you, baby?”
Trent croaks, slurred words passing through sloppy lips at
my throat. “This is what you came here for.”
“NO!” I jolt awake and tumble out of bed, scrambling for
the door as the contents of my stomach rise up, threatening
to paint the walls and floor of my room. With one hand
clutched to my mouth, I half walk, half crawl across the
hallway to the bathroom and turn the light on. I don’t even
bother to close the door as I slither across the cold tile to
the toilet and lift the seat. It’s barely out of the way when
the vomit forces its way past my lips and horrible retching
sounds fill the room. Sobs rattle my bones as my body
forces everything I’ve eaten in the last twenty-four hours
out with agonizing heaves that continue until my knees
hurt from the way the tile is digging into them.
It doesn’t occur to me to be worried about someone
hearing me until the sound of footsteps coming towards me
from the front of the house fills my ears. I’m on my feet in
an instant, wiping my mouth with the hem of my t-shirt and
leaning into the mirror to make sure there are no dried tear
tracks on my face.
“Mallory.”
Chris’ voice shocks and soothes me, and I whip around
to face him, slightly off balance because of the nightmare
and vomiting. He’s standing just outside the door in low
slung basketball shorts and a white tank top. Despite the
change of clothes and the late hour, he doesn’t look like
he’s been asleep at all. His eyes are clear, alert, and not
one of the short curls at the top his head are crushed from
being pressed against a pillow.
“Chris, what are you doing up?”
Something about my question catches him off guard,
and I watch his answer pass over his features. I can tell it’s
complex, but when he finally opens his mouth the words
are simple, direct and not at all what I expect.
“I heard you scream.”
“What?”
I heard him just fine. Of course, I did, but I just can’t
begin to process the unfair reality where Chris is around to
hear the first nightmare I’ve had about that night in
months. And the vomiting. He hasn’t even mentioned the
vomiting yet.
“You were screaming,” he repeats himself, taking a step
closer. “At first I wasn’t sure that’s what I was hearing but
then, before you came out of the room, it was very clear.”
My heart descends into my stomach. I usually don’t talk
in my nightmares, which adds to the eerie realness of them,
and so I don’t know what I said or, more specifically, what
he heard. And try as I might, I don’t have the energy to
come up with or sell him a lie, so I decide to tell him the
truth. Or at least the safest version of it.
“I had a bad dream.”
He takes another step forward, his face a mask of
emotion I can’t decipher. “I figured as much. Do you have
those a lot?”
I bite my lip, anxious to be done with this conversation
that seems to be leading to more questions the longer I
stand here giving him answers. And Chris looks like he
wants those answers. His eyes rove over my features,
searching for something more than the truth. Something
like connection. But unfortunately, I have no plans to bond
with him over this, especially when I can’t trust him to keep
anything I say to him between us. My stomach rolls,
another wave of nausea snaking through my empty
intestines at the thought of him mentioning this to Eric and
tacking on yet another reason for him to worry about me.
“No,” I say flatly, turning to the sink and snatching up
the bottle of mouthwash on the counter. I can feel his eyes
on me, watching me as I untwist the cap and flip it over to
pour some of the blue liquid inside. And still when I toss
the liquid back and swish it around my mouth before
spitting it in the sink.
“Do you always throw up after?”
The question comes as I’m using my hand to spread
water from the faucet around the sink to rinse it out, and it
hits me right in my already sensitive gut. I turn the faucet
off and spin on him. He’s in the doorway now. His large
frame filling the space and somehow, even from outside of
it, managing to make the bathroom feel like it’s shrank to
half its size.
Or maybe it’s not his frame at all—although it is quite
distracting because I can clearly see the outline of his abs
through the thin fabric of his shirt—maybe it’s the way he’s
leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed and
his eyes, serious and assessing, on me, drinking in the sight
of my scowl and still creased at the corners with concern I
can’t convince him not to feel for me.
Or maybe it’s the way having his eyes on me makes my
heart beat a little faster, not in the panicked way it does
when other guys look at me now but in a way that makes
me feel like I’m being examined with the same precision
and care given to the most precious gem.
I swallow and wipe my wet palms on my thighs, which
are bare because I don’t sleep in anything but a t-shirt and
underwear. The motion draws Chris’ attention, and his eyes
drop from my face to my legs, lingering on them for a
fraction of a second before coming back up and stretching
wide to indicate that he’s still waiting on my response.
“I don’t have them often enough to keep track.” That’s
only a partial lie because my nightmares have been pretty
scarce lately. But the amount of time between them hasn’t
rid me of my memories about what follows the nausea and
vomiting: sore ribs and a raw throat that keep me up just as
much as the fear of falling asleep again.
Chris nods, and I’m too relieved to see that he believes
me. “You should drink something before you lay back down.
I could check in the kitchen and see if there’s”—he stops,
rubbing at the back of his neck and looking mildly
embarrassed—“you don’t need me to do that, this is your
house.”
“That it is, Dr. Johnson.” I smirk, relief from the break in
tension making my shoulders sag. I’m generally annoyed
with Chris’ unintentional ability to lighten even the darkest
moods, but right now I’m grateful for it. For the joy his self-
deprecating smile sparks in my soul, reminding me that I’m
safe here, in my home with people who care about me and
not in that godforsaken dorm room. “But I appreciate the
medical advice.”
Moving towards him isn’t something I realize I’m doing
until I’m standing so close he has to tilt his head to look
down at my face. “I’m not even sure I want to do it.”
 “Do what?” I blink up at him, surprised and a bit
confused because of what the change in conversation has
done to his expression. He’s exchanged his self-
deprecating, but still endearing, smile for an intense
thoughtfulness I don’t quite understand.
“The whole doctor thing.”
Shadows of conflicted emotion move behind his eyes as
he studies my face, trying to gauge what I think of his
unprompted confession. I’m quiet for a moment, wondering
if he’s going to elaborate, but a full minute passes and he
doesn’t.
“You don’t want to be a doctor?”
Surprise colors my words even though I try not to let it.
I don’t know him well enough to be shocked about him
feeling trapped in his life. And if seeing Sloane interact
with her witch of a mother over the past year has taught
me anything, it’s that kids who come from families with big
bank accounts, and even bigger expectations, are born with
life plans they are never consulted on.
He shrugs, and his gaze drops from mine for a split
second. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Not necessarily.”
I rest my hip against the sink and cross my arms,
matching his pose. “Then I’m confused.” Thoroughly. This
conversation isn’t going anything like I thought it would,
but I’m thankful that we’re having it because nothing gets
my mind off of my own problems like discussing someone
else’s.
He pushes out a long breath and the warm air rushes
over my already heated skin. “Everyone on my dad’s side of
the family, specifically the men, have gone into medicine.
There are generations of Dr. Johnsons that have come
before me, including my dad and my big brother, and if my
dad has his way, there will be many more after me.
Medicine is in our blood, coded into our DNA just like the
perfect amber shade of your eyes is written into yours.” My
breath catches, shock coursing through me at him referring
to any part of me as perfect. “All of that history, all of that
pressure to honor our family’s legacy, it makes it hard to
know if the desire to practice medicine is really mine or
just another thing they told me to want.”
“But you just said you always wanted it.”
“I have.”
“Then does it really matter where the desire came from?
I mean, if it’s still in alignment with the vision you have for
your life?”
“I don’t know,” he says softly, looking as tortured as I
feel.
“Wanna know what I think?”
“Yes.”
“I think desires can be born out of any circumstance,
good, bad, or ugly, and still be valid representations of the
things we want for ourselves. The source of the desire
doesn’t matter so much as what we do with the dream it
sparks in us.”
That night with Trent had sparked all sorts of desires in
me, chief among them, the desire to break my world down
into tiny, manageable parts. To sort everything into boxes
marked black and white and do away with anything that
didn’t make the cut. That’s why I like business so much.
Everything is simple, broken down into questions and
answers that can be found with formulas and numbers.
A small smile is playing on Chris’ lips, and it makes me
think that this change in conversation was more for me
than it was for him. And we’re standing so close it’s almost
impossible to take a breath that isn’t laced with his scent. I
know I should take a step back, should let the electricity
charging the air between us dissipate, turn into something
that isn’t this. I don’t even know what this is, but I’m not
ready for it. Not so soon after a nightmare. And not with
Chris, who looks too close and sees too much.
 “You make a good point, Ms. Kent.”
“Thank you, Dr. Johnson.”
“You’re welcome.” A small yawn parts my lips. I slap my
hand over my mouth to stifle it but Chris still sees it and
frowns as he steps back from the door frame. “I should
probably let you get back to bed, huh?”
Still yawning, I wave my hand at him. “No, I’m fine.
You’re not keeping me up.” But I am tired all of a sudden.
The dark, icy weight of the nightmare has subsided, leaving
me with nothing but a bone deep exhaustion.
His brows dip low in a movement I’m starting to
associate with that bossy, demanding side of him that likes
to tell me what to do. “Mallory, you’re literally dead on your
feet.”
“Gee, thanks,” I quip, moving out of the bathroom and
into the hallway with him. We’re still just a few inches apart
and standing in front of my dark bedroom, and my
exhausted brain hallucinates grabbing his hand and pulling
him inside. Asking him to climb into bed and hold me.
Falling asleep in his arms and feeling, for the first time in a
long time, safe. Pushing the thought aside is harder than it
should be, but I finally manage to do it and finish my
sentence. “Because every girl wants to hear a man tell her
that she looks like the walking dead.”
He chuckles, turning his body slightly so the short path
to my room is clear. “I didn’t say you look like the walking
dead.”
“You might as well had,” I mutter, walking across the
hallway on leaden feet. Just before I cross my threshold, I
turn to look at him. “I won’t take it to heart though, since I
know I must look terrible right now.”
Braids falling out of my ponytail. Dried tears streaking
my face. Breath smelling like a lovely mixture of vomit and
mouthwash. Chris frowns again, his eyes turning dark as
they skate over every inch of me. Then he takes a step
forward, and then another, until he’s in front of me. I stop
breathing as he looks down and one of his hands comes up,
tucking a haphazardly placed braid back into the band of
elastic holding them together.
“You don’t,” he says thickly, shaking his head. A heated
gaze moving from my parted lips to my eyes, and I wonder
if he’s thinking about the kiss because I am. Even with the
inky darkness of my nightmare still clinging to me, I’m
thinking of his kiss. And wondering if I’ll ever feel like that
again. Weightless and grounded all at the same time. “You
look the exact opposite of terrible.”
I’m too stunned to speak, to move, to breathe, and his
words hang in the air between us. He doesn’t look bothered
by my silence, actually, he looks satisfied with himself,
happy he could leave me speechless. I watch him step back,
smiling to himself as he starts to walk down the hallway,
back toward the living room.
“See you in the morning, Mal.”

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 10

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

M allory Kent is a liar.

And a good one at that. I almost bought the
whole “I just had a bad dream” act. Almost wrote it
off as a one time thing, and accepted that she, unlike me,
didn’t have any demons lurking in her dreams on the
regular. But then, a few hours after she went back into her
bedroom, I heard her again.
The creak of her bed frame as she tossed and turned.
The subtle, tearful whimpering.
The mumbled words I couldn’t make out no matter how
hard I tried.
I sat on the couch, unable to sleep for fear of being
woken by my own nightmares, with tension lacing all of my
muscles and the urgent, desperate need to hold her
washing over me like furious waves.
No one else could hear her. That much was clear from
the way no one woke or peeked their heads out when she
came rushing out of her room, crawling across the hallway
like a wounded animal, and just barely making it to the
bathroom in time to empty her stomach in the toilet.
All of those sounds were so familiar. Even in that
unfamiliar setting, I’d know them anywhere. The
underscore of agony. The soundtrack of pain and horror too
terrible to face in your waking hours.
Of all the things for us to have in common.
The nightmares and the adeptness at hiding them. The
shadows we don’t let anyone see. The ones she hides
behind a serious facade that’s all business, all the time. The
ones I blot out with a routine that still isn’t working for me.
It’s been nearly two months since I kissed Mallory, and in
that time I haven’t laid a finger on another woman. I’d
probably be more upset by this unintentional bout of
celibacy if it didn’t leave me so much time to think. About
how to maintain my freedom after graduation. About RJ’s
suggestion that a serious relationship might help my father
let go some. And most of all, though I’m loathe to admit it,
about Mallory, her lies and the truths I want her to only
give to me.
I’m in no position to ask for them, have no reason to
believe I deserve them, but I want them all the same. I
might have asked for them too, might have used the
vulnerabilities I revealed to her in order to take her mind
off of her dreams to get her to open up to me, but the
morning after her nightmare she acted like it never
happened.
Now, almost a week later, I haven’t had a single
opportunity to broach the subject, and I can’t help but feel
like she wants it that way because ever since our
conversation in the hallway, she’s made a point of not being
alone with me. I don’t even catch her glancing at me in
class anymore, and that shit bothers me more than it
should.
Actually, that’s wrong, it bothers me the exact right
amount because I don’t think there’s a rule about how
upset you can be about someone icing you out after you’ve
seen them at their most vulnerable. It almost feels like I’m
being punished for seeing a side of her she hides from
everyone else.
 I wonder how she would feel if she knew I wanted to see
more.
Sighing, I roll my neck from one side to the other, trying
to release the ache that can only come from being crouched
over a table all day grading papers. For all his talk about
not trusting me to do anything in class, Dr. Richardson has
made grading problem sets my sole responsibility. At times,
I think he assigns them just to make sure I have something
to do during the office hours he insists I hold in his office
when he’s off campus.
Today has been relatively quiet, which is surprising
because there’s a paper due that’s worth forty percent of
their grade, but you won’t find me complaining. I hate
doing office hours. Students coming in with all the frantic
pleas and dramatics, in near tears because they’re
drowning under the weight of Richardson’s insurmountable
expectations and non-existent grading curve.
I slap a grade on the next to last paper in my stack and
move it to the side, deciding to call it a day after I finish the
last one because the home basketball game starting in a
few hours pretty much guarantees that no one is coming by.
Since Richardson left me with a grading key, it doesn’t take
me long to move through the problem set and determine
what’s right and what’s wrong. I’m flipping to the last page
to check the final problem when a frantic, and yet hesitant,
knock comes from the closed office door.
“Come in,” I say, working to keep the annoyed edge out
of my voice.
The door opens, and I look up just in time to see
Mallory’s face—which is already pulled into a deep,
desperate frown—fall even further. “Oh, you’re here.”
I lift a brow. “Were you expecting someone else?”
“Dr. Richardson,” she responds, not missing a beat. “You
know, since it’s his office.”
“Well,” I glance around the room, pretending to look for
someone. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m here alone.”
 “Yeah,” she mutters, sinking her teeth into her bottom
lip. “I can see that.”
With the door partially open, I can only see part of her
frame, but it’s still more than enough of her to appreciate
the way the skin tight jeans she’s wearing and soft,
oversized heather gray sweater that’s hanging off one of
her shoulders highlight the best parts of her. The shapely
legs and thick thighs. The smooth mahogany of her skin.
The slightly lighter color of the stretch marks that run
underneath the strap of her bra.
She’s an exquisite, perfect thing. With all her secrets
and half-truths and anxious habits that make me want to
make all her problems go away.
I rise from my seat, moving around the table next to
Richardson’s desk to the door. “Did you need something?”
She watches me approach, still biting her lip and now
shifting her weight to one leg like she’s preparing to leave.
Once again, I’m hit with the thought of how thrilling it
would be to give chase. My reaction is confusing. Watching
anyone else prepare to walk away has almost no effect on
me, but if I get even the slightest inkling that Mallory is
about to walk away from me, I have this deep-seated need
to follow.
It’s only as I move towards the door, placing my hand on
the handle to pull it open further and reveal all of her, that I
notice the laptop in her hand and the frustrated wrinkles in
her forehead.
“No, I—uh, I was just going to ask Dr. Richardson a
question.”
There she goes lying again. I smirk to myself, not
because I find lying funny, it’s actually a trait I despise, but
because Mallory’s lies, which are meant to push people
away, only make me want to lean in closer. To chase the
whispers of the truth across the planes of her perfect face,
find them in the pools of her amber eyes and claim them as
my own.
 “A question?”
“Yes.” She nods. “But he’s not here, so I’m just going to
go.”
She takes a step back, out of the office, and I
immediately move forward. “What was it?”
“Huh?”
“The question. What was it? Maybe I can answer it for
you.”
Not maybe. I can definitely answer it. She knows it. I
know it. Still, she shakes her head again. “Oh, I don’t think
you can. It’s not that kind of question.”
“What kind of question is it?” I look from her face to the
computer she’s clutching in her hands, remembering the
paper that’s due at three p.m. because Richardson is an
asshole and refuses to make his deadlines a minute before
midnight like every other professor in the world. “Is it
about the paper?”
Her expression changes—panic causes her eyes to
stretch—and I know I’m right. I glance at my watch,
surprised to see that it’s already a few minutes past three.
“Yes,” she admits, a thread of despair wrapping around
the word. “I was going to ask, no beg, Richardson for an
extension.”
I press my lips together, immediately understanding her
mood. Everyone knows Richardson doesn’t do extensions,
he doesn’t believe in them.
“Mal—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“I know!” She throws her hands up, walking back into
the office and brushing past me so she can fall into a chair
at the table where I was just working. I stand at the door,
stunned by a cloud of jasmine and her while she opens up
her computer. “He doesn’t do extensions, but my fucking
computer crashed when I was trying to submit it, and I just
grabbed it and ran over here hoping to explain what was
going on.” She turns around, frustrated tears glimmering in
her eyes. “Richardson hates me, but I thought that maybe if
he saw the computer doing whatever the fuck it’s doing,
he’d take pity on me, but I ran all the way over here and—”
“And found me.” I finish for her, walking over and taking
a seat at the table beside her. “His glorified secretary with
no power or respect.” My self deprecating joke makes her
smile a little, and the sight of it, as well as knowing I
caused it, has warmth spreading through my chest.
“Yes.” She puts her head in her hands. “I’m going to fail
this fucking class because of one damn paper. I can’t
believe it. Richardson is going to have a field day with this.”
She peeks at me through her fingers, and I act like I don’t
see the tears slipping down her cheeks because I know
she’ll appreciate it. “He’ll say I never should have been
allowed to take this class, and I’ll fail. I won’t be able to
graduate early.” Her voice cracks, and I feel something
inside me break with it. “Fuck. Fuck! Fuck!”
“Hey.” I don’t know how or why I’m doing it, but
suddenly I’m moving one of her hands away from her face
and taking her chin between my thumb and index finger.
Her eyes are wide as I turn her face towards mine.
“Breathe, Mal. We’ll figure this out. You’re not going to fail,
okay?”
Our faces are inches apart now, and the abrupt stream
of air that moves through her lips and over my skin
reminds me of the moments before the kiss. When she
looked at me like she’s looking at me now and followed my
order without hesitation. I feel her head moving up and
down, letting me know she heard me, and I release her
chin.
“How?” she asks, quietly. “I can’t pass if I’m missing
forty percent of my grade.”
The solution comes to me quickly, and my decision to go
through with it, knowing full well that it will more than
likely result in me getting fired, comes quicker. Reaching
over, I grab my open computer from beside the stack of
graded papers and pull it over to our side.
 “You won’t be.”
Mal scoffs. “Unless you’re about to work some kind of
two part miracle that involves turning back time and
reviving my computer, yes I am.”
Instead of responding, I continue to focus my attention
on my computer screen, logging into the Blackboard
website with password and username I saw Richardson
type into his desktop computer just a few days ago. I wasn’t
planning on memorizing his login information in the
moment, but now I’m glad I did.
“What are you doing?” She hisses, peeking over at my
screen. “Did you just log in to Blackboard using his
credentials!”
The shrillness of her tone coupled with the bulging of
her round, brown eyes would be funny if she didn’t look so
terrified. Strangely enough, I’m the calmest I’ve ever been.
Completely chill about breaking some kind of teaching
assistant honor code because it’s for her.
“Lower your voice, Mal.” Her eyes narrow, and I watch
as indignation takes over her face. “All I’m doing is setting
the deadline back to give you a chance figure out what’s
going on with your computer.”
“Chris, no, I don’t want you to do that. I’ll figure
something else out. Take the zero.” The desperation is back
in her voice, and it makes me work faster. “I can retake the
class.”
“Or,” I say, double checking that the settings have
changed and hitting the save button. “You can turn in your
paper and finally get the A that asshole’s been keeping
from you.”
Again, her eyes stretch, but it’s only surprise there and
then a softness takes over her features. Something like
appreciation dancing around the edges of her irises. It’s not
much, but I’ll take it.
She bites her lip, looking conflicted for a moment before
finally saying, “Thank you.”
 Those two little words resonate somewhere deep inside
me. Sounding off like a grandfather clock in the dead
silence of the midnight hour.
Loud. Jarring. Beautifully deafening.
“You’re welcome.” I force myself to look away from her
face. “Now let me see your computer.”
“No.” She shakes her head, opening the laptop with
hands that have a slight shake to them. I wonder if she’s
nervous. If I make her nervous. “I’ve got it. You’ve already
done enough.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is.” I feel her glance at me, but I can’t take my
eyes off of her fingers. Long and elegant, they move with a
swift efficiency over the keyboards, and an image of them
wrapped around my dick and then fisted in my sheets, hits
me so I look away. “You could get fired if Richardson finds
out.”
“Then he better not find out.”
She turns back to the computer, which now appears to
be functioning correctly. “I won’t say anything but won’t he
know that the deadline was changed?”
“Mal, the man’s password to Blackboard is
‘Business123’ I don’t think technology is exactly his thing.”
The laughter that erupts from her is hauntingly
beautiful, and I soak it up. Take it into my being and
resolve myself to never let it go. It’s a dangerous thing, her
laugh. Deep and sultry and perfect. A sound I don’t hear
often enough, especially not just for me.
“Business123?” She wheezes, shoulders shaking as she
turns to face me, showing me her face crumpled with
unguarded humor. It hits me then. The full power of her
beauty. The might of her joy. “God, that man needs to
retire.”
I nod my agreement. “Yes, and I’d love to help you plot
his demise, but maybe we can get your paper turned in
first?”
 “Right. Right.”
Again, she turns back to the screen, and I watch her
sign back into the computer which looks like it has
completely reset itself. Mal groans softly under her breath
as she logs in, and I hear her muttering something about
stupidity and procrastinating.
“Procrastinating?” I ask, brows lifted in surprise. “You
don’t procrastinate.”
In fact, she’s always one step ahead of everyone.
Including me. I know that she heard me, but she doesn’t
acknowledge my question, leaving me to wonder what
could have happened over the last few days to throw her so
far off of her game. The office is quiet, nothing but the
sound of her hands flying across the keyboard filling the
space as I study her profile. Admiring the wrinkle between
her furrowed brows and the way her nose is scrunched in
concentration as she hunts down the file she needs.
I linger on her skin, specifically the place around her
eyes where the skin is darker and a little puffy from a lack
of sleep. My heart sinks, free falling into my stomach as the
memory of her strangled sobs moves through me.
Nightmares. She’s been having more of them.
“Have you been getting enough sleep?” I try to sound
casual, but I fail because ever since that kiss nothing
between us has been casual. Mallory goes still, whipping
her head around to glare at me, and her furious hostility
snapping at me from behind the careful mask of calm that
is her face is all the answer I need.
“I’m really not in the mood to hear that you think I look
like shit, Christopher. Once was more than enough.”
“I’ve never said that you look like shit, Mallory. Stop
deflecting and answer my question.”
“Why?” She slaps her hand on the table. “I don’t owe
you answers.”
Most people would see the flames burning in her eyes
and back away, but I must be a damn fool because I’m
watching them grow and the only thing I want to do is step
closer.
“You’re right. You don’t owe me answers, but maybe you
owe yourself the relief of telling someone the truth.”
She rears back as if I’ve struck her, and I guess in a way
I have. For months, I’ve watched Mallory operate in this
space above everyone else. Looking down on the rest of us
from an ivory tower heavily guarded by sarcasm and
seriousness that all but shamed us for relishing in
experiences she was too good to partake in.
Up until a few months ago, I bought the act. I believed
that she truly was too focused on school and whatever else
was going on in her brilliant mind to care about having
regular college experiences. Growing up, I knew lots of
people like that, so her behavior—the lack of interest in
dating, the unbridled focus and dedication to her courses,
the plan to graduate early— didn’t strike me as odd.
Then the kiss happened.
And I saw her desire for something else, something
more. I tasted her fear. Identified it as the thing keeping
her from being the woman who sighed with relief and gave
herself over to me when I pressed my lips to hers.
The fear was the one thing I couldn’t make sense of. I
didn’t spend enough one on one time with her to parse out
where it came from, but that’s changing. Slowly. Between
the wild look she had in her eyes the night I ran into her on
the path and scared her and hearing the haunting melody
of her nightmares, I feel like I’m closer to the truth of her
than anyone has been in years, and she doesn’t like it.
Something shifts behind her eyes, and it’s angrier and
darker than anything I’ve ever seen from her. She pushes
back from the table, snatching her computer up as she
goes. “People always think they want the truth until you
give it to them. Once you do that, they never look at you
the same. It’s all sad eyes, pitiful glances and empty words
that don’t help. But you already know that, don’t you,
Chris? That’s why no one here knows about your mom.
That’s why you hide the demons that keep you up at night
behind a big smile and bury the rest of it inside whatever
girl finds her way into your bed.”
She’s glorious. Standing above me, all curves and
perfect skin and amber eyes that shine like melted gold as
they burn into me, and all I want to do in this moment is
kiss her. Even as she lays into me, lashing out with her
words and striking all of my vulnerabilities with frightening
precision, all I want is to feel those lips, the same ones
spitting venom at me, against mine.
It’s madness.
And it forces me out of my seat, propels me towards her.
I only stop when my sudden advance makes her back up
several steps and that fear appears again. Shimmering
behind the fury and then slithering back where it came
from when I go still. Mallory lifts her chin, a reckless
challenge in her eyes, daring me to come closer and
demanding me to stay away all at once. I tuck my hands
into my pockets, trying to appear nonchalant even though,
with her words ringing in my ears, I feel anything but.
“They never make it to my bed.”
It’s a stupid response, meant to unsettle her because
everything about her, including not being able to touch her,
is unsettling me.
She frowns. “What?”
“The girls,” I say, a small, antagonistic smile on my lips.
“They never make it to my bed.” Disgust and then
something like looks a lot like jealously laces her features,
and I hate myself for liking the way it looks on her.
“Oh!” She slaps her hand across her mouth in mock
surprise. “How silly of me to assume you treated your
partners with common decency. You probably like to fuck
them against walls or on the floor like a true animal. I’ll be
sure not to get that part wrong next time.”
 Like a true animal. The words echo around my brain,
and I’m momentarily shocked by how close they are to the
ones I’d use to describe the way I like to fuck. There’s
nothing gentle about it. The hair pulling, the biting and
desperate clawing that punctuates the moans and slapping
of skin. Mallory doesn’t look as disgusted as she did a
moment ago. Embarrassment and arousal coupling with her
rage and making me wonder what it would be like between
us.
If she’d like what I do. If she’d give in to me like she did
with the kiss or fight me every step of the way, making me
work for her submission. Making me earn it. The thought
makes me hard, and I have to widen my stance to make
room for the rapid swelling of my dick. She’s staring at me,
waiting for my response, and when it doesn’t come quick
enough she rolls her eyes and turns on her heels, heading
for the door.
“That’s not the only thing you got wrong.”
She stops, turning her head to glance over her shoulder
at me. “What else did I get wrong, Christopher?”
“You said no one here knows about my mom.” I come up
behind her, standing close enough to touch her but
refraining from doing so because I don’t know how either
of us will react. “But that’s not true.”
“Oh, did you let it slip out in the middle of some drunken
hook up?”
“No, Mal, I was dead sober when I told you.”

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 11

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

I keep letting him have the last word.

The night at Mama’s in the hallway, and earlier today
in Richardson’s office. It’s becoming a worrying pattern,
one I can’t let continue or else the cocky bastard will think
he’s gotten the better of me.
Hasn’t he? My subconscious asks, and I grimace, hating
how right it is. The fact of the matter is, Chris Johnson is
under my skin, in my thoughts and, when my brain isn’t
torturing me with recurring nightmares about Trent, in
dreams. His eyes and smile. The way his mouth curled
around each word when he told me I looked the exact
opposite of terrible. The tingles that started in my face and
spread throughout the rest of my body when he gripped my
chin and told me to breathe before doing the single nicest
thing anyone has ever done for me as far as school is
related.
A thing I didn’t actually get to thank him for because he
had to start with his questions and compassion and stupid
brown eyes that split open my skin and see right through to
my soul.
It was hard to stay angry when I was leaving
Richardson’s office, especially with the reminder that I had
a secret of his in my possession. A piece of information he
trusted me with implicitly. One he wanted to exchange for
access to mine. But I managed to do it, wrapping myself up
tight in a blanket of logic that had never failed me before.
My secrets are mine and mine alone. Sharing them with
anyone will only give Trent the power to hurt them, and
that will hurt me.
After I got to my dorm and submitted the paper, I stood
in the mirror and repeated that mantra to myself. Over and
over and over again until it stuck. Until the crack in my
resolve caused by Chris’ persistence and gentle eyes was
glued back together again. And then I grabbed my purse
and keys and headed out to meet Nic, Eric and Sloane at
the basketball game.
When I finally get to the gym and find them way up in
the bleachers, I’m glad I took the time to shore up my
resolve. Because right beside them, next to the only open
space on the entire row, is Chris.
I feel rather than see his eyes on me as I scoot past
everyone and make my way towards him. The game is
packed. The home side of the gym is full even though we’re
playing some small liberal arts college from the low
country, so it takes me a while to maneuver through the
tangle of legs and knees. But eventually I make it to him
and see that he’s slid down the row some, vacating his spot
to create a space for me between him and Nic.
“Thanks,” I mutter, sounding anything but grateful,
which makes him laugh.
“No problem.”
With a swift roll of my neck, I turn my attention to Nic,
who’s enthralled in the game and will probably be annoyed
with me for even trying to talk to him.
“Did you get your paper turned in, Ms. Kent?”
A shiver rolls down my spine. Chris’ lips are so close to
my ear I can practically feel them moving, shaping every
word. I clench my teeth together, attempting to disguise
the waver in my voice.
 “Yes.”
“Good. I emailed Richardson and told him Blackboard
was undergoing maintenance this afternoon and multiple
students had emailed me about having problems with their
submissions.”
I turn to face him, and that’s a mistake. A huge one.
Because now my lips are millimeters away from his, and his
eyes are on them. “What did he say?”
Chris smiles, and I feel the faintest hint of the motion.
His skin ghosting over my skin, inciting goose bumps and
invisible sparks that light me up from the inside out.
“Exactly what I thought he would. He told me to roll back
the deadline, gave me his password to Blackboard and
everything so I could send an email to the class about the
change from his account.”
Truthfully, I’d planned to deal with the potential fallout
surrounding what Chris did for me if, and only if, it came
up. Otherwise, I was going to tuck it into the little box in
the back of my head marked ‘Things I Should Never Let
Chris Johnson Do Again’—next to calling my eyes the
perfect shade of amber and hearing me vomit after a
nightmare—and never think about it again. But now, he’s
bringing it up, letting me know that he’s not only a willing
accomplice to Mallory related crimes, he’s a competent one
as well. Allowing Richardson to think the due date change
was his idea is brilliant, and it keeps him from looking too
closely at the submission times.
A fresh surge of gratitude rolls through me, followed by
the swiftest panic because this is how Trent used to make
me feel. Grateful. For his time and attention. For the things
he did that felt like a big deal to me but never really cost
him anything because he was risking nothing. All the lies
and sneaking around that kept our relationship afloat were
told by me. All the risk was mine. And at the end, when I
stumbled out of his dorm room in the wee hours of the
morning clutching my shredded underwear in my hands, I
was the one who paid the price.
It would be the same with Chris and this Richardson
situation. The late paper was mine. The falsified conditions
exist because of me. And if anyone finds out, I’ll be the one
to pay. No one will lay a finger on Chris. He’ll graduate
with his reputation in tack and a glowing recommendation
from the very professor he tricked for me.
And why? So I’d feel indebted to him, so he could feel
comfortable hanging this favor I never asked for over my
head as some kind of reminder that I owe him my
gratitude, my secrets…my body?
I’ve waited so long, Mal. You can’t say no now.
The buzzer sounds for halftime, working with my
frazzled thoughts to shatter whatever was just happening
between me and Chris, and I shoot out of my seat. Taking
advantage of the empty spaces in the rows below us
created by the break in the game to make my escape.
Behind me I hear Sloane ask where I’m going, and I think
Chris answers her, but I can’t be sure. The crowd of people
spilling out of the gym and into the concession area
swallow me whole. Dazed, and slightly embarrassed for
running off like that, I let them push me towards the front
of the concession stand line. Even though I don’t want
anything, I get an order of nachos and a bottle of water,
figuring I can give it to Nic or Eric and distract them from
the weirdness surrounding my departure.
By the time I’ve paid and gathered everything in my
hands, the crowd has thinned out a bit. Most of the people
in the lobby now are waiting to use the bathroom or talking
with their friends. There’s a girl huddled in one of the
corners with her laptop plugged into the wall, desperately
pounding away at the keyboard. I’m so caught up in
watching her, wondering if she’s feeling the same stress
Chris saved me from earlier, I don’t bother to check my
surroundings.
 And I know, the instant my body collides with a rock-
solid muscular form with arms that wrap around my waist
to stop me from falling and hands that touch me like they
know me, that not paying attention was a grave mistake.
Shock seizes me, making it so the only part of my body
moving is my head, allowing my eyes to scan the body in
front of me. Taking in the barreled chest, the light skin, the
thick arms bulging with muscles that came from lifting
weights religiously in order to stay fit for football season.
And then, even though I already know it’s him, my gaze
travels up his neck, noting the presence of the first Adam’s
apple I ever found attractive, the cleft in his chin I always
adored, and smiling brown eyes that turned dark and cruel
when I told him I changed my mind about losing my
virginity.
The bony, ice cold fingers of dread and fear slip around
my throat, but still I manage to choke out one word as my
nightmares slither out of the shadows of my mind and take
shape in the harsh light of reality.
“Trent.”

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 12

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 CHRIS

S loane is out of her seat before I even process Mallory’s

departure, telling Eric and Nic she’s going to go check
on her. They all look mildly concerned, like they find
her behavior weird enough to merit following up but not
alarming enough to launch a full blown search party, which
is exactly how it always is.
They love her, and occasionally they’ll find cause to
worry about her, but then she’ll do something spectacular
like make an A in every class during a semester with a
bloated course schedule, and they’ll believe that she’s fine.
It’s not a lack of care on any of their parts; it’s just damn
good acting on hers.
And even though I have a million and one other things I
should be concerned about, all I want is to go after her and
find out why she’s hellbent on playing this role.
“I got it,” I tell Sloane, already up and heading down the
bleachers.
She twists her lips to the side, looking skeptical. “You
got it?”
“Yeah.” I nod, fighting back a laugh because Sloane is so
protective of Mallory. Sometimes I wonder if she loves her
more than she does Eric. “I wanted to get something to
drink anyway, I’ll find her and make sure she’s good.”
 Nic eyes me, and I wonder how much he heard of the
conversation I was having with Mallory. He’s quiet, but he’s
always listening, always watching and paying attention
even when he looks like he wishes he could tune out.
“Going to get something to drink is not the same thing
as checking on her.” This from Sloane who’s arms are
crossed over her chest, hazel eyes narrowed into slits.
“He didn’t say it was,” Nic mutters under his breath,
and I find myself once again fighting back a laugh as she
turns her glare on him.
“Don’t start with me, Dominic.”
“No one is starting with you, Sloane,” Nic says,
stretching his legs out on the bleacher in front of him and
leaning his elbows back on the one behind him. “Chris says
he’s got it, so sit back down on Eric’s lap and wait for the
game to start. Maybe tonight will be the night you finally
grasp the concept of a free throw.”
“Yo, Nic.” Eric cuts his eyes at his best friend, looking
annoyed. “Cut it out man.”
They share a tense look, communicating silently in that
way only brothers—or two people who grew up like them—
can do. A pang of jealousy moves through me because I’ve
never had that with my brother. But after our talk the other
day, I’m hopeful that we might.
RJ has texted me, unprompted, several times, mainly to
ask me if I’ve decided to take his advice about Dad and
Giselle. To be honest, he seems more invested in me getting
out from under Dad’s thumb than ever before, and in the
back of my mind I know I should be skeptical about his
intentions, but I can’t bring myself to care when I’m just
glad to have something more than bitter exchanges with
him.
While Eric and Nic do their weird silent communication
thing, Sloane stares at me with her arms crossed over her
chest. “Well if you’re going…”
 She trails off, motioning towards the exit with her hand,
and I take the opportunity without hesitation, rushing down
the bleachers and into the lobby where the sight of Mallory
in someone else’s arms immediately makes me wish I would
have let Sloane come instead.
I stand by the door, lingering in the slight shadow
created by the brick entryway and watch them together.
The guy is big, with muscles everywhere including his
thick, veined neck and the arms he currently as wrapped
around Mallory. I can’t see her face, can’t tell if she’s happy
to see him, but she’s letting him hug her so I have no
reason to believe she’s not. Maybe he’s the reason she shot
out of her seat and ran into the lobby so quickly. Maybe he
texted her and said he was here and wanted to see her.
Maybe they’re together.
The thought sends another pang of jealousy through my
chest, and this time it’s so sharp, so fucking painful, I have
to take a moment to rub at the spot it seems to be radiating
from. It feels like hours go by with Mal in his arms, her
shorter frame swallowed whole by his much taller and
larger one, and I’m just about to turn around and head
back inside to let everyone know she’s fine, when he finally
lets her go.
That’s when I see it. The panic and fear lacing her
features, dancing just underneath a smile so brittle it
threatens to shatter right there on her trembling lips. And
this guy, whoever the fuck he is, is completely oblivious to
her discomfort, to her pounding pulse, evident in the way
its throbbing beneath the thin skin at the base of her
throat. He’s still touching her, his big, meaty hands on her
shoulders while she balances a plate of nachos in one hand
and a bottle of water in the other. He’s talking animatedly,
clearly happy to see her, and she’s looking at him, but her
face is frozen, her eyes unseeing.
Like she’s in a waking nightmare.
 Moving towards her isn’t a conscious decision. One
second I’m standing there, watching her make faces I know
with absolute certainty usually accompany the sounds I
heard her making the other night, and the next I’m
standing beside her. Sliding my arm around her shoulder
and feeling the muscles in her body relax as she registers
that the person touching her is me.
She turns to me quickly, her eyes pleading with me,
asking me for things I won’t hesitate to give her, things I
think I might have been born to give her. I flash a
reassuring smile, one that doesn’t even hint at the riot of
emotions happening inside me. The fierce swirl of
protectiveness, the hot heat of rage that I don’t let show in
my eyes until they’re burning into the face of the guy in
front of me.
Mallory’s curves bleed into the rigid lines of my side,
and I’m momentarily distracted by the heat of her. The soft
weight of her breast brushing against my ribs, the scent of
jasmine filling the air around me. Tension spreads
throughout the silence between the three of us, and I
realize then that I need to fill it, so I say the first thing that
comes to mind.
“There you are, baby,” I murmur, my eyes still on the
guy who’s face is now shifting from confused to angry. His
eye brows fall together when the pet name leaves my
mouth and his lip curls upwards in disgust. “I was looking
for you everywhere.”
I turn and look at Mallory, she’s staring up at me, still
struggling to speak. I’ve never seen her like this. Stricken
with fear and dread, looking borderline nauseous while
tears shine in her eyes. I know I have to get her out of here,
away from this guy, but trying to leave with her when she’s
like this is risky. She might freak out on me, but I still have
to try.
“Can you run out to my car with me real quick, Mal? I
think I left my phone in there.”
 “Actually,” the guy in front of me says, brown eyes
bouncing between the two of as rage creeps into the
corners. He tries to hide it, pushing it down and plastering
on a big smile that’s supposed to convince me he’s
harmless even though Mallory’s body language is telling
me everything I need to know about him.
He hurt her.
I don’t know when, where or how, but I know he did, and
the knowledge makes me want to murder him.
“We were just catching up.” His eyes flick to Mal, and
her spine stiffens. “Weren’t we, Mal?”
“Yeah.” Her voice trembles, and she drops her eyes to
the ground. I can practically feel the shame slithering over
her skin, and I grip her shoulder, pulling her closer to me.
“Right, so you might have to go look for your phone on
your own….sorry I don’t think I caught your name.”
“I didn’t give it.”
His smile slips, revealing the depth of ugly emotion it
was designed to hide for just a second. He holds his hand
out to me. “Well, I’m Trent. Mallory’s ex-boyfriend.”
I feel a tremble run through her as I release her
shoulder and grasp his hand. His palm is sweaty, and his
shake is weak. “Chris. Her current boyfriend.”
Mallory has a reaction to my lie. I know she does, but I
can’t look over at her to see it because if she looks shocked
or horrified by it, then that’ll send up red flags for Trent
and prevent me from getting her out of here, which is all I
care about doing right now.
Getting her out of here. Forcing her to breathe. Holding
her in my arms and letting her know that no one, least of
all this walking meathead, will ever hurt her again.
Flashing another fake smile, Trent releases my hand,
focusing his attention on Mallory. “I didn’t know you were
into pretty boys, M.”
My hands clench, turning into fists I have every
intention of introducing to his face, but then Mallory lifts
her chin and looks him dead in the eye. “I’m a lot different
from the girl you used to know.”
“Right,” he mutters, looking between the two of us. “I
guess you are.”
Now that she’s talking, I feel a little more confident in
my ability to get her out of here. I step in close, wrapping
my arm back around her shoulder. She leans into me for a
fraction of a second, and I take the opportunity to really
sell the lie, turning my head to graze my lips over her
temple.
“Let’s go, babe.” I breathe against her skin, low enough
for it to feel private but loud enough for Trent to hear over
the chatter of the thinning crowd. “If we wait too long, we
might miss the second half of the game.”
She inhales deeply, like she’s harnessing every bit of her
strength. Like she needs it to get away from this guy, a
grown ass man wearing a high school letterman jacket at a
college basketball game. I can’t believe he ever touched
her.
“Okay.”
All it takes is that one word, and I’m moving us away
from him. My hand slides down from her shoulders, over
the soft folds of skin at the place where the band of her bra
wraps around her torso, to the small of her back, guiding
her towards the doors that will take us to the parking lot.
“I’ll see you later, M.” Trent calls from behind us, but I
don’t let her turn around to look at him. Don’t want to give
him the satisfaction of seeing the relief flooding her face
now, smoothing her features as her chest rises and falls
rapidly.
The heavy metal doors slam behind us, and Mallory lets
me lead her away from the entrance and towards the
parking lot. It’s dark, and even though it’s late spring, the
air has a slight warmth to it. When we’ve put a good bit of
distance between us and the gym, and I’m sure no one has
followed us, I stop walking. Mallory slows down too, but
her breathing is still erratic, and I send up a silent prayer
that she’s not having a panic attack.
Reluctantly, I drop my hand from her back and bring it
to her waist, using it to turn her to face me. The plate of
cold nachos in her hand shakes, and I slowly slide it and
the bottle of water out of her grip. Her fingers tremble
against mine, and I close my eyes briefly, wanting nothing
more than to go back in that gym and snatch Trent up by
his neck and make him regret ever knowing her. With her
hands free, she covers her mouth, stifling a scream that’s
already silent.
“Mal.”
She bends at her waist, braids spilling out of the neat
bun she had pinned to the top of her head. They cover her
face as her knees buckle, and I take one of her arms,
moving her back towards the only bench on the path and
lowering her onto it. Setting the plate and bottle on the
ground by her feet, I drop down on my haunches in front of
her.
“Mallory, look at me. You’re okay.” Gently, I wrap my
fingers around her wrists, pulling her hands away from her
face. “Do you hear me? You’re okay.”
I don’t know what else to say, what else to do to help
her. To convince her that she’s safe. That I’ll keep her safe.
I run my thumbs over her pulse points, slow swipes in a
steady rhythm that matches the cadence of my words. My
reassurances to her.
“I’m right here, Mal. You’re okay. Just breathe,
sweetheart.”
Something I said strikes a chord inside of her, making
her come alive. She snatches away from me, shaking her
head as she forces my hands off of her. “Don’t call me that.”
I stumble back then stand. “What?”
“Sweetheart.” She shudders. “Don’t call me that. He
used to….”
 “Oh.” She peeks up at me, swiping her braids out of her
face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to….I won’t call you that
again.”
“It’s okay.” I watch her scrub her hands down her face,
sighing heavily before beginning the quick work of putting
her braids back into a bun. The simple task seems to be
working wonders for calming her nerves, and by the time
she’s done, she looks more like herself than she did
moments ago, and I’m staring at her. A thousand questions
running through my mind. “Please don’t ask.”
My brows shoot up. “What?”
“The questions written all over your face,” she says,
securing the bun by looping the elastic ban around one last
time. “Don’t ask them because the only answer I’ll give you
is that it’s none of your business.”
“None of my business? I’m the one that got you out of
there.”
She pushes to her feet. “And I appreciate that.”
“But you won’t tell me why I had to rescue you in the
first place.” Mallory stares at me blankly. A silent
confirmation. I laugh bitterly, tasting the frustration I’m
becoming too used to experiencing when it comes to her
and this confusing pattern we keep finding ourselves in. “Is
that how it’s always going to be with us? Me, giving you my
help without question and you refusing to tell me why you
needed it?”
“I didn’t need—”
“The hell you didn’t!” I snap, cutting her off. “You
needed me, and I was there. Don’t you think that I deserve
to know what I stepped in back there? You can at least give
me that, Mal. You owe me that much.”
“Owe you?” Stubborn defiance flashes in her eyes as she
raises her chin. “I don’t owe you a God damn thing, Chris. I
never told you I wanted your help just like I never told
him…” Her voice cracks, breaks off and then comes back.
Stronger. Fiercer. Deadlier. “I don’t owe you anything, and
just so we’re clear, you being a decent person doesn’t put
you in a position to demand anything—but especially
answers to questions I told you not to ask—from me.”
And just like that, she’s back. In all her magnificent,
scathing glory that’s directed at me. Designed specifically
to keep me from coming close enough to see the cracks in
the facade she works so hard to keep up. I hate myself for
saying that she owes me something, because she’s right,
I’m not entitled to her secrets even though, for some
reason I still can’t explain, I want them.

OceanofPDF.com
 13

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

I t would be just my luck that the one time Chris lets me

have the last word, I feel like shit for taking it. It would
be significantly worse luck that mere hours after telling
him I didn’t need his help, I would be standing on his
doorstep preparing to ask for it.
Again.
Okay, technically all the other times were a combination
of me sending up the proverbial bat signal and him
answering without hesitation so they didn’t really count as
asking, but this time does.
And it’s a big ask.
A ridiculous ask.
An ask that I know I’ll live to regret.
God damn Trent and his big mouth and his stupid face
and his infuriatingly paralyzing presence on my campus
making me go along with lies that made no actual sense.
Lies that I took too much comfort in hearing. Lies I co-
signed with my silence last night, and then, my voice early
this afternoon when Tasha called me and asked if me and
my boyfriend wanted to go out to dinner with her and the
guy she was seeing.
I was half asleep when the phone rang, having stayed up
all night obsessing over everything that happened after I
ran into Trent.
Letting him hug me.
Standing there like a fool, listening to him talk about
how he’s missed me and never saying a word to make him
think he didn’t still have the right to touch me.
And then the relief that flooded me when Chris
appeared, wrapping his arms around my shoulders,
replacing the disgust and shame inspired by Trent’s touch
with the calming warmth caused by his.
Using all that brain power recounting the night’s events
left me unprepared for the phone call with Tasha, and I
found myself agreeing with whatever she was saying just so
I could get off the phone. It wasn’t until she squealed with
excitement and started asking me where we’d like to eat,
that I realized what I’d done.
Agreed to go on a double date with my former best
friend, the guy she’s currently dating and the boyfriend I
don’t have.
Fuck.
I’ve just worked up the nerve to actually knock when the
door flies open, and I’m hit with the sight of Chris’ bare
chest and arms as he slips a long sleeve shirt over his head.
He’s moving quickly, and I have to jump back to avoid
colliding with the swell of his pectoral muscles and the
rigid lines of his abs.
A small, surprised sound escapes me, drawing his
attention to my face and making his fluid movements come
to a grinding halt. It’s almost comical to see him freeze so
completely, to go from strong, certain motion to total
stillness. Nothing but his eyes moving as he studies me
with the kind of thoroughly efficient sweeps I’m starting to
enjoy associating with him even though it reminds me of a
predator going still just before it strikes, catching its prey
completely off guard.
“Mallory,” he says smoothly, like it’s totally normal for
me to be standing on his doorstep on a Saturday afternoon
without my brother or Nic in tow. “Is everything okay?”
“I—” Words seem to fail me as I process his question and
the feelings it inspires in me. Specifically low in my belly,
where nothing has been happening for months now. “Yeah,
everything’s okay. I just had a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.” He finishes slipping his arm through his top,
which now that I’m actually looking at it and not his body,
looks like one of those moisture wicking shirts Nic and Eric
wear when they play basketball. Another quick scan of his
body shows that he’s wearing sweats and a pair of old, beat
up sneakers that look like they only get pulled out for
exercise purposes.
“No, never mind. You’re busy.” I start to turn on my heel,
prepared to deal with Tasha and her boyfriend on my own.
Maybe I can cancel. That’s what any normal person would
do, except there’s nothing normal about this situation. I’m
here asking Chris to pretend to be my boyfriend, so I
can….what? Send some subliminal message to Trent that
I’m off limits?
Maybe.
Because up until Chris walked up calling me baby and
touching me like I belonged to him, Trent was looking at
me the way he used to. Like I was his. Like I would always
be his and the years I spent cutting him out of my life, and
my soul, meant nothing.
Intellectually, I know that time travel isn’t a thing, but it
had never felt more real than it did when I was standing
there, wrapped in Trent’s arms like we were back in his
basement stealing kisses and hugs before his parents came
down and asked what we were doing.
Warm fingers wrap around my elbow, stopping me from
going any further.
“What do you need, Mallory?”
I glance down at his hand on my arm, waiting for that
familiar wave of dizzying fear to hit me like it often has
when a man who isn’t Eric or Nic has touched me since
that night, but it doesn’t come. Still, I force myself to
assess the situation, the way my self defense instructor
always tells me to, even if it’s just to remind myself that I’m
safe and in control.
Chris’ grip is secure, firm and tight with all five of his
thick fingers cradling my elbow, but I could break it if I
needed to. And that knowledge keeps my brain from
switching into fight or flight mode.
His eyes drop from my face, following my gaze down my
arm to where he’s touching me, and comes back up again.
“Sorry,” he says, releasing me from his hold and looking
anything but apologetic. “Why are you trying to leave
before you even asked for your favor?”
“Because you’re clearly busy, and it was dumb.”
With his eyes still on me, he pulls his door closed and
leans against it. His biceps bulge underneath the black
fabric as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not busy. I
was just about to go for a run. Tell me what you came here
for.”
I blink slowly, the silky purr that is his voice making my
blood simmer in my veins. “Chris, it’s fine. Really.” My feet
are moving me backward, back down the hall and away
from the havoc he’s wreaking on my body. He tracks my
movement with his eyes, and there’s something decidedly
primal about the spark of amusement that starts to glitter
within the pools of honeyed bourbon. It’s subtle at first, but
as I take a few more steps away from him and he pushes off
the door to follow me, it catches fire. Burning bright with a
hunger I don’t understand but am weirdly enthralled by.
My heart is in my throat as I hook a thumb over my
shoulder. “I’m just going to go.”
“Not before you tell me what you wanted to ask me for.”
His long legs have eaten up the distance between us, and
before I know it, he’s standing in front of me. I glance up at
him, seeing that he’s reigned the hungry predator look all
the way in. Maybe I imagined it.
 “A date.”
“A date?” He repeats the words slowly, like he’s tasting
each syllable. Savoring them.
I blush furiously and launch into my explanation so he
can stop looking at me like I just asked him to give me one
of his kidneys. “Yes. A date. Because apparently you’re my
boyfriend now, or did you forget about engaging in a dick
measuring contest with my ex last night.”
“No, I remember.” A quiet storm of emotion darkens his
features, and he looks like he’s going to say more about
what happened with Trent but at the last second he decides
against it. “I don’t know what that has to do with us going
on a date, though.”
“Well, Tasha called and invited me out on a double date.
You remember her from Mama’s party, right?”
“Yeah, your old best friend. She knows your ex?”
I cross my arms over my chest and press my lips
together, hesitating on the one part I should be flying
through in order to get it over with quickly. “He’s her
brother.”
“Her brother.”
“Her older brother.”
A set of small wrinkles forms in between his eyebrows.
“How much older?” he asks darkly.
I have to push down the urge to tell him it’s none of his
business, to say something harsh and biting to get him to
back off, but it is his business now. Because I want his help,
because I need his help with this.
“Three years, almost four.”
Watching him do the mental calculation is excruciating
and fascinating. I can see him doing the math, adding in
the information I’m sure Eric gave him at Mama’s party
about when Tasha and I stopped hanging out to draw the
correct conclusion that I was underage when Trent and I
started dating.
 “And you were….” he trails off, giving me the space to fill
in the blank.
“Sixteen.” I nod, barely hiding the cringe rippling
through me. “I was sixteen when it started, and no one
knew about us but Tasha.”
Chris scoffs. “You sure about that? He seemed pretty
damn proud to let me know he was your ex-boyfriend at the
game last night.”
“Yes, because he’s a possessive asshole who likes to
mark his territory.”
A dangerous heat flashes in his eyes, charring the
chestnut of his irises.“You’re not his to mark.”
“No,” I agree, a strange warmth spreading through my
chest at the ferocity of his words. “I’m not.”
He runs his hand over his head, mussing up the short,
black curls there. “So you need me to what? Go on a double
date with your secret ex-boyfriend’s sister so you can prove
that you’ve moved on or something?”
Never have I felt more grateful for the serious side of
Chris I’ve been seeing here lately. Goofy, I’ll-make-a-joke-
out-of-everything Chris would have just made a stressful
situation worse.
My head bobs up and down as I fumble around in my
brain, searching for words that will encourage the flower of
understanding slowly blooming between us to grow not
shrivel up and die. “Or something.”
His eyes narrow, suspicion lining his features. “Mallory,
if you want my help, you’re going to have to tell me
everything. Not some Cliff Note’s version of the truth.”
For a second I allow myself to imagine what it would be
like to tell him everything. To unburden myself. To place
the weight of the truth in someone else’s hands and let
them carry it for a while, but then I imagine that same
truth finding my brother, finding Nic and Mama and Sloane,
ripping into the flesh of their outstretched hands as they
attempt to help me carry it, and I know I can’t do it. Not
now. Not ever.
“You know everything you need to know, Chris.”
A bitter laugh that sounds more like a bark escapes his
lips. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“Yes, but I also wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you and
the lies you told last night. All I’m doing is asking you to
step back into the role you chose to play.”
“A role I chose to play to help you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know you didn’t.” He throws his hands in the air. “But
you didn’t see your face, Mallory. You were terrified. I could
see it clear as day from across the room, and he was
standing right in front of you and it didn’t even register. Do
you know what that tells me about the relationship the two
of you had?”
I shake my head because the last thing I want is to hear
what Chris saw when he looked at me and Trent. He takes
a step closer, moving slowly, carefully, like he knows that
advancing too fast will scare me.
“It tells me that he never cared enough to see you, Mal,
and when he did see you, he made you feel like your
feelings weren’t important. Like they didn’t matter more
than his. Is that what it was like between you two? His
wants, needs and feelings always overriding yours?”
“Stop.” I plead, the one word hitting the air and making
the entire hallway go still. Chris is still standing just a few
inches away from me. His eyes soft with concern. “The
things you want to know. I can’t tell you. All I can tell you is
that I need your help, and it’s not easy for me to ask for it,
especially after last night. But I’m here doing it because as
fucked up as it is, the only way guys like Trent back off is if
there’s another guy forcing them to do so, and for better or
worse, you’ve positioned yourself as that guy. So either say
you’ll help me or tell me you won’t so I can leave now and
figure something else out.”
 He clenches his jaw, making the veins in his neck pop
and throb in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but is.
“What time is dinner?”
Although I’m relieved to hear the question, I can’t help
but notice that he hasn’t fully agreed to help me out, so
when I finally answer him, the words come out shaky and
unsure.
“Tasha said she gets off at seven, so she was thinking
eight thirty.”
A small bubble of hope tries to swell in my chest, but it’s
stifled by the hard look in Chris’ eyes and the frustration
etched into his features. He’s angry with me because I
won’t give him the answers he wants, the answers that,
truthfully, he deserves because I’m dragging him into a shit
show, and what’s worse, asking him to fly blind.
Without a map or a single direction to tell him how to
navigate it all. I bite my lip, preparing to beg him for an
answer, but before I can do that the sound of a phone
ringing pierces the tense air between us.
Since I keep my phone on silent, I know it’s not me,
which means someone has to be calling Chris. He curses
under his breath, dropping my gaze to search his pockets
for his phone. When he finally finds it, he looks between me
and the screen, which is lit up with text messages, finger
hovering over the green icon that will connect the call.
“I have to take this.”
“Oh.” My desperation is palpable. I need his answer
now, so I can spend the next few hours preparing for
whatever version of this dinner is going to be happening,
but I can hardly press him for it, not when I’m holding so
much back myself. “Yeah, sure, go ahead and take it.”
But he’s already connecting the call, the phone cradled
between his ear and shoulder as he turns back towards his
apartment and unlocks the door. At the last second, he
glances at me.
“I’ll text you about dinner.”
 Then the door closes and he’s gone, leaving me in the
most agonizing suspense with no idea when or how it’s
going to end.

OceanofPDF.com
 14

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

T he door slams behind me, and I instantly want to turn

back around. To go back into the hallway and tell
Mallory of course I’ll help her. Not just because the
thought of her being sixteen years old and being groomed
by a fucking grown man makes me furious, but because
she’s right, I inserted myself into this whole situation. Told
a lie to protect her, to shield her, and ended up creating
more problems than I solved.
That seems to be the theme of my day: problems,
problems and more problems.
Some I can solve, like this situation with Mallory and her
ex.
Some, I can’t begin to wrap my brain around like the call
I got from Vanessa, Margaret’s niece and one of my closest
friends, this morning where she told me, with tears
clogging her throat, that the only mother either of us had
ever known was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer
and things weren’t looking good.
I spent the entire day in that blurry space of anticipated
grief, mourning a loss I hadn’t even experienced yet, and
when I finally emerged from it, that thrum of restless
energy started to rush through my veins. Prompting me to
move, demanding the kind of distraction only physical
exertion can provide. I was heading out for a run, partially
annoyed that I couldn’t work through this feeling the way I
used to, when I ran smack dab into the person stopping me
from doing so.
I was shocked to see her, especially after the way she
stormed off last night. Leaving me standing on the path,
staring after her magnificent curves while a cloud of
jasmine swirled around me in her wake. I wanted to go
after her, had to force my feet to stay planted on the
cement as she walked away from me, and once she was
gone, I promised myself I was done. Chasing her. Helping
her. Focusing on her problems when I have my own to deal
with.
With graduation just a few months away, my dad is
becoming even more giddy about my return to Boston and
increasingly harder to reason with. Yesterday, on our
weekly call before the game, I was talking to him about my
choice to specialize in obstetrics and gynecology with a
focus on maternal and fetal medicine that would prepare
me for dealing with high risk pregnancies like the one my
mother had with Teresa—something I’ve always been very
clear about doing. He acted like he’d never heard the idea
before, and told me I’d be specializing in cardiothorasics
before I even got the chance to tell him that one of the
doctors leading the field in maternal and fetal medicine had
just accepted a position at MUSC—the medical school I
actually wanted to attend.
We got into a tiff about it, falling into the same
redundant patterns as all of our calls here lately, and by the
time we hung up, we were both seething. I expected to
hear from RJ immediately after because even when we’re
getting along, he never misses a chance to gloat, but the
call never came.
Not last night at least.
No, he chose this afternoon, when I was standing in
front of Mallory in the rarest of forms, to send me five SOS
texts back to back and then follow them up with a call I felt
compelled to take because days that start shitty typically
continue to go that way.
Problems, problems and more problems.
“What’s wrong, RJ?” I pinch the bridge of my nose
between my fingers, still leaning against my door. “Is
Teresa okay? Dad? Grandpa?”
“Relax, man,” he laughs. Laughs. Like he didn’t just
send up the type of smoke signal most people reserve for
deaths and natural disasters. “Everyone is fine.”
“Then why the fuck did you text me five different times
and then call?”
“I only called because you didn’t answer my texts,
asshole.”
I push out a harsh breath. “I was busy.”
“That’s code for ‘balls deep in some pussy,’ right? Damn,
bro, it’s dumb as hell, but I gotta say, I respect your
determination to make the most out of your last days of
freedom.”
Completely ignoring his crass, and wrong, assumption, I
push off the door and move into the living room, plopping
down on the couch. “Tell me why you called.”
“Dad sent me to get Mom’s ring out of the safety deposit
box at the bank.”
“RJ, I don’t give a fuck about the errands Dad makes you
run.”
He continues, not even pausing to acknowledge me.
“Then he had me take it to the jeweler with specific
instructions to resize the band and upgrade the stone.”
“Is this supposed to mean anything to me?”
“You’re the one he’s determined to see wedded and
bedded in the next few years, Chris. You tell me if him
having a family heirloom upgraded to fit the finger of the
woman he wants you to marry means anything to you.”
A knot forms in my throat, and it matches the ones
taking shape in my neck and shoulders. “How do you know
it’ll fit Giselle?”
“The new band will be a size six. Giselle’s ring size is a
six.” He says it simply, like it makes perfect sense for him
to know the ring size of a woman he’s never bought jewelry
for.
“But how do you kn—”
“It doesn’t matter how I know, Chris.” The line is quiet
for a moment, and I imagine him in his high rise apartment
shaking his head at my pointless questions. “What matters
is that you are running out of time. Giselle and Oscar were
at the house for dinner last night. She asked about you, like
she always does, and Dad invited her to your graduation,
said it would be the perfect time for you two to reconnect
since you’ll be taking a break from your studies.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, that’s what you are. Fucked.”
Breathing becomes hard, damn near impossible as the
silver spoon that’s been in my mouth since the day I was
born tumbles down my throat. Lodging itself in my
windpipe and refusing to move. I sit up, pulling air in
through my nostrils and pushing it back out through my
mouth as visions of the life I spent the last four years laying
a foundation for slips through my fingers.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “What the fuck am I
going to do?” I’m not talking to RJ, but he still answers.
“I don’t know, man, but if you’ve got a secret girlfriend
in your pocket, now would be the perfect time to pull her
out.”
“I already told you—”
I pause, his words sparking a dangerous fuse that
outlines a plan that just might solve two of the problems
brought to my attention today. I won’t be able to execute it
alone, though, I’ll need the help of two of the most
stubborn people I know. But as luck would have it, one of
them is already halfway on board and the other is on the
phone right now unwittingly playing an integral role in the
farce taking shape in my mind.
“Actually,” I hedge, hoping like hell I’m making the right
choice. “I have been seeing someone.”
My brother is quiet for a second, probably digesting this
new information, before the line explodes with his
excitement. “I knew it! All that time out there pretending
like you were playing the field. I knew you didn’t have that
shit in you.”
“Yeah, I guess I didn’t.”
“Is it serious?” He asks, sounding hungry for
information, interested in my life for once. “Is she the
reason why you’ve been so adamant about not getting back
with Giselle?”
“Yes, it’s serious.” I scrub a hand over my face, willing
myself to answer these questions without letting the doubt
winding its way through my gut show. “Mallory and I are
very serious.” My heart starts to beat faster at the words,
at the way they don’t sound wrong or feel like a lie at all.
“Mallory,” RJ repeats her name. “Is that the girl you’re
always hanging with? Your friend’s sister.”
“Eric’s sister, yeah.” Surprise colors my response
because I didn’t expect RJ to remember any of my friend’s
names. A low, appreciative whistle filters through the
speaker from RJ’s side, and my fist clench instinctively.
“Keep whatever it is you were about to say to yourself, RJ.”
There’s a dark severity to my tone, and he picks up on it
immediately. “Damn,” he laughs. “You really are serious
about this girl.”
“I am, which is why I need your help with this whole Dad
and Giselle thing.”
“I don’t think you do, bro. Just talk to Dad, let him know
that you’re in love just like he was with Mom, and you’re
not going to give this Mallory girl up. Hell, if you use the
same tone with him that you just used with me, he might
fold right there on the spot.”
 Rising from the couch, I start to pace. Wearing a hole in
the floorboards as I consider his suggestion. “No, I don’t
think that’ll be enough. Not if Giselle is still an option.”
If Dad has held on to this delusion about me and Giselle
getting married and creating this medical and
pharmaceutical empire with an exchanging of rings, he’s
not going to let it go just because I got a girlfriend.
“You’re right,” RJ says with an oddly gleeful smile in his
voice. “She has to be off limits too.”
“Is she dating anyone?” I already know the answer
before I finish asking the question, but RJ confirms it.
“Nah, from what I can tell Oscar and Dad have shut
down so many of her dates no one even bothers to ask
anymore.”
“Damn.” A thread of sympathy runs through me for
Giselle, the only person in this entire situation who has it
worse than me. While I’ve been here in New Haven, she’s
been stuck in Boston, being kept on the chopping block by
our fathers.
“Yeah,” RJ agrees, sighing sympathetically. He’s always
had a soft spot for Giselle, and I guess that hasn’t changed.
“I might be able to help with that though.”
“You?” My brows fall together in confusion. “How?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Just
trust that I have it and focus on growing balls big enough
to stand up to your daddy once and for all.”
The line goes dead, and I stand there shocked at the
mess I just set into motion. It’s one thing to lie to Mallory’s
meat head ex about being her boyfriend, but to lie and tell
my brother, who will undoubtedly tell my father, that we’re
together and in love is something completely different. It’s
a larger, way more in depth, commitment I don’t even know
she’ll be willing to make.
“Shit.” Scrolling through my contacts, I pull up her
number to send her a text. Drafting it proves to be hard
because I don’t know how much to say. Do I lay it all out
there? Tell her that the hole I dug for us last night just got
a million times deeper?
Chris: I’ll pick you up for dinner at 7:15.
Mallory: Okay.
Mallory: Thank you.
Mallory: Really.
Despite the stress turning my stomach into knots, I can’t
help but smile at her triple text. Most girls would be self
conscious about texting back too quickly and would die
before they sent three responses back to back, but not
Mallory. She’s just so completely herself.
It’s one of my favorite things about her.
Chris: Don’t thank me just yet. I have a favor to
ask. It’s not as payment for this, because you’re right,
I did make this mess and I’ll happily help clean it up,
but it is related.
Again, she texts back immediately and back to back.
Mallory: Related? In what way?
Mallory: What do you need me to pretend to be
your girlfriend to save you from a creepy ex too? 😉
A gruff laugh escapes me as I type out my response,
impressed by her ability to hit the nail right on the head.
Chris: Let’s discuss it after dinner.

OceanofPDF.com
 15

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

T he restaurant Tasha chose is in Fairview. It’s thirty

minutes away from campus on a good day, and forty-
five minutes to an hour on a Saturday evening when
everyone is out doing cute things like going on dates. Given
my aversion to dating, Saturday night traffic hasn’t been a
concern of mine in quite some time, but tonight, as I sit in
my dorm and watch the clock creep towards 7:15—the time
Chris said he would be here—it’s the only thing on my
mind.
Not the anxiety that twists my gut every time I think
about our text conversation. Not the excessive amount of
time I spent doing my hair—using flexirods and setting
lotion to turn the straight braids into a wavy tresses that I
piled on top of my head in a sexy, messy bun with some of
the curled ends left out of the elastic to create a faux bang
that frames my eyes. Not the butterflies dancing on top of
my anxious intestines, making my hands shake as I swipe
on some of the expensive ass lip gloss Sloane gave me for
my birthday in October.
Just as I finish closing the tube, there’s a knock on my
door. I allow myself one last look in the mirror, appreciating
the way my blush, one shoulder top hug my breasts and the
curves of my torso before disappearing inside the waist of
my light washed jeans. It’s a simple look, but it’ll work for
whatever the vibe is in the restaurant Tasha chose. The
only thing I’m not sure about is the one shoulder because
even though it’s been warming up, with February giving
way to March, it still gets pretty cold at night.
“Maybe I should—” I glance around the room, searching
for a cardigan or jacket to put on that won’t ruin the look
but another knock sounds, interrupting the thought. With a
resigned sigh, I grab my things and head for the door,
sending up a silent prayer that it won’t be too cool tonight.
I open the door, and my senses are immediately
bombarded with all things Chris. He’s got the whole
layered look going on with clothes that look casual but are
clearly expensive. Dark washed jeans with a strategically
placed rip in the knee, a crisp white shirt that makes the
gold of his skin pop, and a camel colored, suede bomber
jacket that looks softer than anything I’ve ever owned.
Absently, as I finally draw my eyes away from his
clothing and meet his gaze, I note that the color of the
jacket matches the rich depths of his irises. And if that isn’t
bad enough, he smells amazing. Like leather and freshly
fallen rain soaking into sun kissed soil.
It’s mouth watering.
“Hey.”
His greeting pulls me out of my reverie, and I manage to
give him a smile that doesn’t betray my thoughts.
“Hey.”
“These are for you.” Taking his hand from behind his
back, he presents me with a small vase with water in the
bottom and a bouquet of white and yellow flowers
sprouting from the top. The sweet, floral notes hit me, and I
instantly recognize them. Eyes stretched in surprise, I meet
his soft, serious gaze and he nods, answering my silent
question. “Jasmine.”
“My favorite. How did you know?”
 “You always smell like it.” He licks his lips, like talking
about my scent makes his mouth water, and I blush
because the thought makes the ball of desire low in the pit
of my belly start to unfurl. “Like jasmine and citrus.”
“I—” Don’t know what to say. Because once again I’m
shocked at all the things he notices about me. “Thank you,
Chris.”
I step back into the room, turning to place the vase on
my desk, which is closest to the door and coming back to
him, still blushing like a fool. He steps back, making space
in the entry for me to pass through and pull the door closed
behind me. My fingers shake as I fiddle with the handle,
making sure it’s locked, and when I’m finally done, Chris is
standing just a few inches away, waiting patiently for me.
“Ready?”
I nod, trying to appear confident even though internally
I feel like I’m a second away from crumbling. The date
hasn’t even started, and I’m already losing it. I shudder to
think what my reaction will be when he starts touching me,
or doing all the other things boyfriends do like calling me
baby and kissing me.
“Yeah.” The word gets caught in my throat and is barely
discernible when it hits the air, so I drive the point home
with another nod and try again. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Well, let’s go.” With a dramatic flourish that makes me
smile, he gestures for me to go ahead of him, and I’m hyper
aware of him walking behind me as we make our way down
the hallway to the bank of elevators that will take us to the
first floor. That awareness kicks up another notch when he
leans over me to press the button for the elevator, his hard
chest brushing my shoulder.
Thankfully, the elevator comes quickly, and I’m able to
put some space between us as we step into the car. Chris
presses the button for the first floor, and we ride down in
silence. It’s weird, the quiet between us, and I’m anxious to
fill it with something.
 “Was everything okay?” He turns to me, brows pulled
together like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“Earlier,” I clarify, “when you got that phone call. Was
everything okay?”
A dark cloud descends over his features belying his easy
response. “Oh, yeah. Everything was good.”
I purse my lips, fighting the need to call him a liar,
especially after all the time he’s spent demanding that I tell
him all of my truths. Unfortunately, I’m not any good at
hiding my thoughts and feelings, and he sees it on my face
immediately.
A frown tugs on his lips. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something. Tell me what it is.”
Shifting on my feet to angle my body towards him, I give
in to the order. “Fine. You’re lying. Everything clearly
wasn’t fine.”
Chris tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “If you
already knew that why’d you bother asking?”
“So you could experience the relief of telling someone
the truth.” I say the last part in my best impression of his
voice, which is terrible at best and offensive at worst, and
hate the way my heart flutters when it makes him smile.
“Well played, Ms. Kent, well played.”
“Does that mean you’re going to answer my question
honestly then?”
The elevator dings, signaling our arrival on the first
floor, and when the doors open, Chris places his hand on
the small of my back and ushers me out. I’m momentarily
stunned by the firm, possessive pressure there, and as we
move through the lobby of the building all I can
concentrate on is the low current of electricity thrumming
between us.
“Let’s discuss it after dinner,” Chris answers as we step
into the cool night air and make our way to his car, which is
parked on the curb in front of the building.
 “But we’re supposed to be discussing the favor you want
to ask for after dinner.”
We approach his car, and I stop. Chris’ hand leaves my
back as he walks around me and opens the passenger door.
He stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to get in, but
I’m still processing. If he wants to delay the conversation
about his phone call until after dinner when we’re
supposed to be discussing his need for me to reprise my
role as his fake girlfriend, then the two things must be
connected.
“After dinner, Mallory.” Leaving the door open, he closes
the distance between us and grabs my hand. The contact
sets off a thousand sparks that crackle and set the air
between us on fire. Our eyes lock, and I swear I see the
same storm of emotions coursing through me in his eyes.
But he drops my gaze, and when he looks back at me, it’s
gone. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
“Fine but just be prepared for me to be all in your
business like you’ve been all in mine lately. I want all the
truths, mister, no if, ands or buts about it.”
Heat from his body bleeds into my skin as I brush past
him and slip inside. To my surprise, he leans forward and
bends down slightly to take my purse and my keys from my
hand so I can buckle my seat belt. While I get settled, he
tucks my keys in the side of my purse. His knuckles graze
my thigh as he sets the whole thing on the floor between
my legs, and his breath is warm on my face when he says,
“I don’t have an issue with giving you my truths, Mallory.
I’ll start right now with the most obvious one. Do you want
to hear it?”
I’m trapped in his gaze, drowning in soft and serious
ochre eyes and trying to appear unaffected. “Sure.”
“You look beautiful tonight.”
My throat is dry, so the chuckle I force out is raspy. “Just
tonight?”
“No.” His eyes glow. “Not just tonight.”
 My chance to respond is lost in the sound of the
passenger door slamming. While he rounds the car, I pull
out my phone and see a text from Sloane. She’s asking if I
want to come over and watch a movie with her because
Eric and Nic are at Mama’s painting the kitchen. I type out
a quick response, asking her for a rain check and then tuck
my phone under my thigh.
Chris settles into the driver’s seat and cranks the
engine, turning the heat on low and pressing a button on
my side that has warmth spreading through the leather
underneath me and making me feel less anxious about
going to dinner with Tasha.
Well, at least a little.
As Chris weaves through the quiet streets of the city,
following the GPS instructions to the address I gave him, a
ball of dread sits at the bottom of my stomach. Sending
waves of nervous energy flooding through me as my brain
tortures me with unlikely scenarios that all involve Trent
showing up to dinner, demanding we catch up in private so
he can say all the things he didn’t get a chance to when we
ran into each other at the game. I can already hear the
questions.
Why’d you disappear like that?
You just cut me out of your life like we were nothing.
Tasha said you did the same thing to her.
What’s up with that, M?
A shudder runs through me, and it draws Chris’
attention away from the road. He glances over at me. “You
okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” I swallow past the lump the lie leaves
in my throat. “Just a little nervous.”
If Chris is surprised I’m giving him answers he didn’t
have to pry out of me, he doesn’t let it show. He just nods
like he understands. “About the dinner?”
“I’m scared he’ll be there.”
 The dark cloud appears again, taking over his face with
thunderous emotion. “If he is you just let me worry about
him, okay?”
“Okay.” I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m probably just
being silly. Tasha wouldn’t invite him.”
“Does she know—” The opening he leaves at the end of
the sentence makes me feel transparent. Like wafer thin
glass floating on top of crystalline blue water. And my heart
thuds against my rib cage as I wait for him to finish, to say
my truth, which I’m now certain he knows, out loud. “—
about the way you two left things?”
“No.” I focus my attention on the wood grain embedded
in the dash. “I stopped talking to her around the same time
I stopped talking to him.”
Tingles of awareness skitter along the line of my jaw,
alerting me to his eyes on my profile. “You just cut them
both off?”
“Yes.” And I used the shards Trent left me in to do it.
We’re both quiet for a second, and I use the moment to
remind myself that no matter how nice it feels to let my
guard down, to show him just a glimpse of my shattered
soul, I can’t do it fully. This arrangement, even if it’s only
going to last for tonight but especially if it’s going to go
beyond that, doesn’t change anything. It can’t.
Because he’s still him—a light-hearted, playful guy with
little to no cares in the world—and I’m still me: the girl who
can’t afford to be lured in by a bright smile and charming
demeanor again.
Right now I just need to focus on getting through this
dinner without being overly affected by how well Chris
plays the dutiful boyfriend.
“Tell me something about you.”
“Something like what?” I ask, exchanging my view of the
interstate for the strong line of his jaw and the goofy smile
taking over his face that tells me he’s trying to lighten the
mood. Even though I’m still anxious, I decide to let him.
 “You know, something that your old best friend would
know and your boyfriend should too.”
“What like my favorite color?”
“No.” He shakes his head, look exasperated. “I already
know that.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, it’s pink. But not like bubblegum pink or salmon
pink, it’s a very specific shade. Softer.” He gives me one of
those infectious smiles, the ones that make it impossible
not to smile back. “Lighter,” he continues, “like a blush.”
I swallow past my shock and the delicious heat coursing
through my veins and moistening my panties at the mere
thought of being known by him. He’s just playing a role. I
remind myself, but it’s so hard to believe when there’s no
one else around to witness it.
Doesn’t matter. It’s not real. None of this is real.
“Okay, so you know my favorite color. You know my
brother and my mom and where I go to school and what I’m
majoring in. What else is there?”
Chris looks at me like I’ve just asked the dumbest
question known to man. Like there are so many other
things to know about me, like I contain multitudes, caverns
of interests and ideas and thoughts that have yet to be
explored.
“Everything, Mallory.”
“Like what, Christopher?” Frustration claws at my chest,
and I’m unfairly aiming it all at him. It’s not his fault I don’t
know who I am anymore, that when you strip away the
obvious things like the people I love and the things I value
there’s not really a person underneath it all. “Tasha knew
me years ago, it’s not like she’s going to interrogate you
about my interests and ideas. She’ll be more interested in
whether or not you kiss me and hold my hand under the
dinner table.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to suck
them back in, but I know it’s both impossible and
impractical. We do need to discuss how far we’re
comfortable going tonight as far as physical touch is
concerned.
My leg starts bouncing, one of my more obvious anxious
tells. “Are you comfortable doing that? Um, the kissing and
hand holding stuff, I mean.”
It feels stupid to even have to ask considering what
we’re about to do, but I have to ask. The last thing I want is
to lean in for a kiss and have him cringe and go the other
way.
“Yes, Mallory,” Chris says tightly, like the words are
being forced from his mouth. “I’m happy to do whatever we
need to convince your friend that we’re a couple.”
The butterflies that have been living in my stomach
since he text me and said he would do this choose that
exact moment to take flight. Their wings flutter around my
stomach, inciting and soothing my frayed nerves at the
same time. An unbidden wish is whispered from the depths
of my soul, lifted up by the constant flapping and expelled
with the sigh of relief that leaves me.
A wish for his kiss, for his hands on my skin, for his eyes,
soft and serious and all mine.
It’s a dangerous wish, made by a desperate girl, but I
shouldn’t be surprised because only desperate girls get
themselves into situations like this. For all its negative
implications, the wish does have one positive thing going
for it. It forces me to remember a girl who used wishes like
prayers, like spells and incantations that didn’t need a
special occasion to be uttered.
Drawing in another deep breath, I call on the energy of
that girl, that version of me, and use the strength of her
care free spirit to share a piece of me with Chris I’ve never
given to anyone else.
“Between the ages of six and eight, I used up all of my
wishes on a dream that never came true.”
 Those three little wrinkles between his brows are back.
“All of your wishes? How many wishes does a person get in
a two year span?”
I can’t help it, I smile. At the wonder and intrigue in his
response. At the easy smile pulling on his lips that I know is
inspired by mine. “Between birthdays, shooting stars and
repeating numbers on the clock? A lot.”
“Repeating numbers?”
“You know, like 11:11.”
He nods. “Gotcha. So what did you wish for?”
“Promise not to laugh at me?”
“No,” he snorts. “I can’t promise you that, but you have
to tell me anyway. For the sake of the mission.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, but just keep in mind I was deep in
my Disney era, and they were hitting us with goodies left
and right. Plus, when the version of Cinderella with Brandy
and Whitney Houston came out, every girl in my class was
obsess—”
“Mallory.”
“Fine.” I sigh heavily. “Every time I made a wish, I
wished to be a princess. And I’m talking waking up the next
day in a castle with a fine ass prince at my beck and call
and tiaras and ball gowns for days.”
“A princess? How original.”
“Shut up!” I laugh, and my hand shoots out. Before I
know it my splayed fingers are colliding with his chest. I
snatch it back quickly. “Sorry.”
He shrugs, still laughing. “No worries, Your Highness.
All of your servants should be so lucky to find themselves
swatted by your royal hand.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “You’re going to make me regret
telling you that, aren’t you?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
I try to look annoyed. I do. But I just can’t pull it off
especially when Chris decides to talk in a surprisingly good
British accent for the rest of the ride. Making me laugh and
smile and all around forget the worries I had about this
dinner. It’s not until we’re seated at the table, and I catch a
glimpse of Tasha and her date walking through the front of
the restaurant, that I start to feel nervous again.
It’s unfounded. Especially because I can clearly see that
they’ve walked in alone, but it’s still there, and Chris seems
to be aware of it instantly. He settles one of his long arms
over the back of my chair and leans in close.
“We’ve got this,” he whispers, lips brushing my earlobe
in a gesture that feels just as intimate as it must look. “I’m
right here with you.”
And then for good measure, and probably to stop my
heart from beating altogether, he presses a quick kiss to my
temple. It’s the same spot he kissed me last night in front
of Trent, and I force myself not to think too much of it. He’s
playing a role, and so am I.
Tasha and Vaughn—a short, bald headed guy with a jet
black beard that blends into his deep ebony complexion—
weave through the tables and make their way to us. Chris
stands and pulls my chair out from the table so I can too.
Tasha comes over to my side first, her arms open wide, and
we hug while Chris and Vaughn do that manly dap up thing
guys like to do. Then we switch, Tasha making funny eyes
at me over Chris’ shoulder while she hugs him, and Vaughn
giving me an awkward one armed hug that, thankfully, ends
quickly.
We settle in our seats and wait for the waitress to take
our drink and appetizer orders before we move from small
talk to the reason we’re all here tonight.
Trent.
“My brother didn’t lie,” Tasha says, batting her
eyelashes at Chris. “You are pretty.”
A grimace tries to curl Chris’ lips, and I watch him turn
it into a big, genuine smile. It’s kind of impressive how
quickly and easily he does it, and it makes me wonder how
often darker emotions preface the bright smiles he’s known
for.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not disappointed.”
“I’m not at all. Honestly, I don’t even think Trent did you
justice when he described you. But then again he was a
little drunk and maybe a little jealous that the love of his
life has moved on.”
I balk. “The what of his life?”
Tasha turns to me. “Come on, Mal. You know how he felt
about you. My brother has always loved you, and that never
changed, not even when you cut us out of your life.”
“Damn, Tash,” Vaughn mutters, shifting uncomfortably
in his seat. “Go easy.”
“I am, baby.” She assures him, but there’s a cattiness to
her tone that makes me think otherwise. “I just don’t know
why Mal is acting like she doesn’t know how Trent felt
about her. They used to be all over each other, Chris.”
“That was years ago, Tasha. And I was too young to be
the love of anyone’s life.”
“Not too young to break his heart though,” she tosses
back. There’s a bitterness shimmering in her eyes that I
don’t understand. She called me and invited me out to
dinner. And at Mama’s party she was so pleasant and
excited about reconnecting. It’s hard to reconcile the angry,
mean girl sitting in front of me now with the person from
those encounters.
“Is that why you wanted to have dinner, Tasha? To bring
up a bunch of old shit that doesn’t matter to anyone
anymore?”
“It matters to me!” She hisses, her tiny hand slapping
the table with a soft thump. “And it mattered to Trent. You
destroyed him, Mal. After you cut him out of your life, he
just stopped being him. He stopped going to class, started
drinking all the time, lost his football scholarship and any
chance of going to the NFL. We were going to be sisters
and you just messed it all up and for what? So you could go
to college and date pretty boys with trust funds?”
All words are lost to me. They flit through my mind in a
whirlwind, and I try to grab for them, but no matter how
quick I am or how tight my grasp is, every time I open my
hands they’re empty. Tasha’s still ranting, spilling years
worth of venom onto the table between us, and Vaughn just
sits there, looking disgusted at playing in part in this
ambush. I can’t bring myself to look at Chris, especially
when she starts to talk about the intimate parts of my
relationship with Trent.
“….did you forget what it was like between you two, M?
Cause I don’t think I’ll ever forget the time I woke up in the
middle of the night and came downstairs to find you on
your….”
“That’s enough.”
I’ve never seen Chris angry, and I certainly never
imagined that the first time I did witness it, it would be
because someone was disrespecting me, but that’s exactly
what’s happening right now. And he’s not just angry, he’s
pissed. Waves of fury roll off of him in lethal waves that are
all aimed at Tasha, and she rears back as if he’s hit her.
“Stay out of this, Chris.”
Chris rises from his seat, leaning across the table with
his lips curled in disgust. “No, I don’t think I will. If you
wanted a chance to get at my girlfriend without any
interference, you shouldn’t have extended an invitation to
me. And since I’m here, I’m going to clear some shit up for
you.”
“Chris.”
I don’t know why I’m saying his name, what I’m asking
him for or begging him not to do, but when he looks at me,
I can see that he understands. Chestnut eyes make me a
promise that doesn’t pass his lips. He won’t go too far. He
won’t say whatever it is he thinks he knows about me and
Trent.
 And, despite all the lessons I’ve learned that suggest I
shouldn’t, for the briefest of seconds, I trust him.
“Your brother is a grown ass man who preyed on a girl
that was your age. Excluding that disturbing fact, whatever
happened or didn’t happen between them is none of your
business and, as Mallory pointed out a few minutes ago,
not at all relevant to anyone’s life here today, least of all
yours. If your brother wants someone to blame for his life
going down the shitter after their breakup, then tell him to
look in a goddamn mirror because as far as I can tell, he’s
the one who tried to destroy her, not the other way
around.”
Somehow, some way I’ll have to get used to the surge of
intense gratitude that seizes me every time this man steps
up to the plate for me. Solving problems I can’t wrap my
head around. Formulating responses when I can’t speak.
Defending me without having a full understanding of why I
needed it. After years of hiding my hurt and inadvertently
robbing myself of the chance to get this kind of vehement
protection, it feels good to watch Chris give me just that.
So good, in fact, I almost forget it’s just an act.
A role. A part he’s playing that doesn’t at all relieve me
of the burden of having to stand for myself. I move to stand,
attempting to push away from the table on my own, but
Chris’ hand is on the back of the chair before I get the
chance, pulling me back and leaving enough space for me
to rise. Tasha and Vaughn, who looks like he wishes he was
coming with us instead of staying with his date, stare up at
us. I make sure to meet her eyes as I round the table.
“This is why we stopped being friends when things
ended. You love your brother, and I get that. I love my
brother more than anything in this world, but the
difference between you and me is that I know Eric isn’t
perfect and I have never felt the need to fight his battles for
him because he’s man enough to fight them on his own.
Your entire family has always operated like the world
revolves around Trent, and it’s no wonder he grew up to be
an entitled asshole who doesn’t know how to take
responsibility for anything, including the end of us.”
I glance over my shoulder to see if Chris is ready and
find him dropping a wad of cash on the table. It’s definitely
more than enough to cover our half of the food and drinks
we ordered but didn’t get a chance to enjoy, but I don’t say
anything about it because I don’t think he’s in the mood to
argue about money, and although I’m a little turned on by
the dark intensity swirling around him, I don’t want to be
on the receiving end of it.
Slipping his wallet back into his back pocket, he meets
my eyes, lifting an inquisitive brow. “Ready, princess?”
A slight shiver rolls down my spine at the nickname, and
I have to avert my gaze to hide my reaction to it. “Yes.”
Without another word, or a second glance at the other
half of our disastrous double date, he strides over to me,
placing his hand on my back and guiding me out of the
restaurant. There’s a slight chill in the air as we walk out of
the glass doors, and I decide to blame it for the
goosebumps pebbling my skin because otherwise I’d have
to acknowledge that Chris’ fingertips digging into the
tender flesh around my tailbone and the vein throbbing in
his temple as we walk to the car is the true culprit.
Keeping his hand on my back, he pulls his keys out of his
pocket and presses a button to unlock the doors. I’m
acutely aware of his heat and scent filling the air around us
as our matching strides carry us closer to the car. Just as
we’re about to arrive at the door, Chris stops, slips one of
his fingers through my belt loop and spins me around to
face him. Startled, I let out a soft yelp and throw my hands
out, reaching for the closest thing to me, which happens to
be his arms, to stop myself from falling over.
Warm, syrupy sweet eyes scan my face, ghosting over
every one of my features. “You good? Or do we need to go
back in there for round two?”
 A laugh bursts free from my chest, and I feel like a
weight I didn’t know I was carrying has been lifted off of
my shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good. No second rounds
necessary. Although, I do wish she had waited until after
we ate to turn into a raging bitch.”
“Same,” Chris sighs, his hands still on my waist. “You
down for a ride?”
My heart twists and abandons my chest cavity
altogether, performing a perfect nosedive because of the
playful light washing over Chris’ features. I should say no. I
should thank him for his help for the millionth time this
week and let us both go back to whatever we were before
we were fake boyfriend and girlfriend.
But instead, I return his mischievous smile, feeling
carefree and adventurous and completely down for a ride
with him. Especially if we’re going to a place that I’ll
always—even in the years that he’s gone from my life,
absent like the parents we both grew up without—think of
as our spot.
“Curly’s?” I ask, hopeful, excited, foolish.

OceanofPDF.com
 16

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

“S o let me get this straight,” Mallory says, smacking

her full, perfectly glossed lips together to clear any
remnants of the cookies and cream milkshake from
her mouth. “Your dad wants you to get married? At twenty-
two years old?”
I should be more into this conversation, but the moment
her lips wrapped around the bright red straw, I was done
for. An uncomfortable and inconvenient erection tented my
jeans and forced me to shift in my seat to make space for it.
It had made focusing on my explanation of my fucked up
family situation hard as hell, but somehow I’d managed to
do it, and she listened.
Intently.
Those perfect amber eyes stayed glued to my face, even
when Jalisa dropped a plate of delicious smelling curly fries
in front of her. They went round and wide when I told her
about my recent conversation with RJ, especially when I
mentioned I had already told him we were together, and
then turned into narrow slits that threatened to slice
through me when I mentioned the problematic Johnson
family tradition.
It was surreal, sharing all of the shit I usually keep
buried deep inside myself with her, but it also felt right.
Safe. Like I was hoarding secrets, carting them around in
my head and letting them take up space in my soul, for the
sole purpose of sharing them with her.
“Well, not right this minute. He’d probably be open to a
long engagement, postpone it until I graduate medical
school, so the wedding invitations can say Dr. Christopher
R. Johnson.”
“R? What’s your middle name?”
Curiosity shines in her eyes, and I smile, loving how
hungry she is for information about me. I’ve always known
she had a love of learning, of taking in new information and
mastering it, making it a part of the impressive store of
facts and figures she keeps locked inside her brain. Most
days in class I get distracted watching her soaking in
Richardson’s lectures. Biting on the end of her pen in a way
that’s completely sexy even though she doesn’t intend it to
be.
“Reese,” I answer finally.
She squints, recalling a piece of information from earlier
in our talk. “Wait, so your middle name is Reese, like your
dad’s? And your brother is RJ, as in Reese Junior?”
I nod, a paralyzing amount of desire flooding my brain
as I watch hers work. “Yep.”
“And your little sister, what’s her name?”
“Teresa.” I emphasize the middle syllable, letting her
hear the similarity between Ter’s name and our dad’s.
“Real creative, right?”
“Creative?” Mal scoffs and plucks a fry from the plate
between us. “More like narcissistic.”
“That too, but as far as megalomaniac tendencies go,
that one’s quite mild.”
She nods her agreement, still chewing. I watch her,
fascinated by the sight of her jaw working and the muscles
in her throat constricting as she swallows. Suddenly, I’m hit
with an image of her kneeling in front of me, her nails
digging into my thighs as her lips slide off of my well spent
dick and stretch into a proud smile as she swallows
my….Fuck. Don’t think about that shit right now.
Channeling every ounce of self control I have, I will
myself to keep my attention on this conversation, on the
deal Mallory and I are in the midst of making. That’s the
only reason why we’re here. I roll my head from side to
side, releasing the pent up sexual tension and regaining
focus.
This is just a business deal. Two parties coming together
to discuss an arrangement that will be mutually beneficial.
There’s no space for fantasies or distractions that will blur
the lines and jeopardize our goals.
“Okay, so your family is officially worse than Sloane’s,”
she says, leaning back in the booth. “Tell me how you see
this going.”
Steepling my fingers in front of my face, I take a
moment to gather my thoughts. I want her to understand
that this isn’t just about getting out of marrying Giselle, it’s
also about getting out from under my dad’s thumb all
together. About finding a way to stay out of Boston until I
have an MD I earned—with a specialty I chose— through
hard work instead of nepotism.
“Like it did tonight, minus the ambush and drama.”
She arches a brow. “Are you really comparing Tasha’s
little hissy fit to the reaction your dad will have when he
realizes you’re trying to upend a decade’s long family
tradition?”
“No,” I pause, reconsidering. “Yes, but I didn’t mean to.
The thing is, RJ and I think my dad will be more open to
letting go of this engagement thing if he believes that I’m
in love.”
“Why?”
“Because he upended the decade’s long family tradition
first.”
Once again her big, beautiful brain fills in the blanks I
left open for her. “Your mom wasn’t from one of Boston’s
elite families?”
“No, she was a foster kid with no family and a full ride
scholarship to my dad’s fancy private school.”
“Let me guess, they met, fell in love, and the rest was
history?”
“Pretty much. He forced my grandpa into giving him his
blessing to marry her after he proposed.”
“You’re not planning on doing that are you?” Concern is
etched into her features. “Because I can be your pretend
girlfriend, but I draw the line at being your fake wife.”
“No,” I assure her. “I have no plans on proposing to
anyone.”
“Cool, so the plan is to play on your dad’s non-existent
emotions to get you out of getting married.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Do you think it’ll work?”
“Honestly, I don’t know but with graduation only a few
months away, I have to try.”
Her head bobs up and down, signaling her
understanding, but I can see she has more questions, and I
wait patiently for her to ask them. I won’t rope her into this
without giving her all of the things she needs to make an
informed decision.
You already did, asshole.
Right. I guess that is true, so technically I’m just giving
her all the details she needs and hoping she’ll go along
with a plan I’ve already made her an accomplice to.
“And how do you see this working when you graduate?
Am I supposed to keep rocking my Mal and Chris 4Eva
chain until you have an MD behind your name?”
“A chain?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs and pulls a face. “Was that not a
thing when you were in high school? Boys buying their
girlfriends gold necklaces or bracelets with the engraved
charm that says….” The sentence breaks off, and she waves
her hand, dismissing her own thought. “Never mind, I can
tell by the look on your face it wasn’t. Maybe it was just at
my school. All of my friends had one at some point or
another, but I never got one because no one could know
about my relationship.”
All the muscles in my body go stiff at the thought of her,
so young and in love with the wrong guy, longing for tokens
of affection she could never have. It makes me angry for
her, for the girl who trusted a guy who never deserved her.
For the young woman the destructive relationship turned
her into. Her high school years should have been filled with
young love bordering on obsession. With guys beating
down her door, braving the wrath of Eric and Nic, just to
take her out on a date. Instead, she got Trent fucking Davis
and years worth of shame that she should have never felt
let alone carried.
Mallory must take my silence for lack of understanding
or judgment because she cringes and shakes her head.
“Forget I said that.”
But my brain doesn’t want to forget it. Unbidden, it
plays images that want to be memories. Teasing me with
possibilities and what ifs I can’t entertain. Forcing me to
envision going back in time and meeting her before he ever
got the chance to know her. Kissing her against lockers and
searching for her face in crowded hallways. Praying to have
the same lunch period as her and sneaking out of study hall
to see her when it didn’t work out that way.
In a matter of seconds, I hallucinate giving her
everything she never had, when I know that my ambitions
will only allow me to give her this.
A business agreement masquerading as a relationship.
I recognize that it’s not much, but it’s more than I’ve
ever given anyone or anything else. Everything else is
reserved for my goals, for building a legacy and career of
my own and honoring my mother while I do it. And even
though I don’t have any reason to ask, I know this is
probably all she’ll ever want from me. The most she’ll ever
be able to give when she’s still trying to heal from being
hurt so badly by someone she trusted.
We’re quite a pair, Mallory and I, both unavailable and
seeking asylum from former connections in the safety of
each other.
I pull a face, feigning confusion. “Said what?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes or activate
either of her dimples. Reaching over, I steal a fry off of her
plate and decide to get back down to business. The sooner
we get this conversation over with, the sooner we can
begin.
“We’ll break up after I start school in the fall,” I say, my
tone thoughtful even though I’ve already planned this all
out.
“That long? I thought you were just trying to make it
past graduation.”
“I am, but I’ll still need the cover until I’m in classes at
MUSC.” Her brows furrow, and I continue. “My dad has
this thing about finishing what you started. He never let me
quit anything as a kid. Ever. And it’ll be the same way with
school, especially medical school. Once I start at MUSC, he
won’t want me to transfer to Harvard because the optics
will be bad.”
“Harvard?” Her mouth drops open. “You’re giving up
Harvard for MUSC? Please tell me how that makes sense.”
“Because it’s my choice and not his.” My tone is rough
and defensive, and I force myself to fix it because she
doesn’t deserve my irritation. “And MUSC has Dr. Francine
Suffrant.”
“You say her name like she’s important, but I’ve never
heard of her.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. She’s an OBGYN who
specializes in high risk pregnancies. A lot of her recent
research has been on lowering maternal mortality rates
through the use of interprofessional teams trained to
address issues that commonly lead to maternal death
during, and in the days after, birth.”
Vague interest. That’s what I expect to see on Mallory’s
face when I finish my explanation, but instead I see a
serious, almost severe, curiosity. It sparkles in her eyes and
takes over her features, tugging her lips down into a
straight line.
“Is that what happened? With your mom, I mean.”
Once again I’m shocked at how quickly and thoroughly
she puts the pieces of my puzzles together. Even more
shocking, is that she’s the only one who ever has. My
father, who was there in the room, watching his wife bleed
to death or suffer from heart failure brought on by
cardiomyopathy, has never even asked if that’s why I’m so
hellbent on my chosen specialty. Tears burn at the back of
my eyes, but they don’t fall. They never do. All the crying I
do for my mother is reserved for my dreams.
“Yes.”
“Chris.” She reaches across the table, her elegant
fingers grasping my hand. I turn my palm over, resting my
knuckles against the cold linoleum table while the feel of
Mallory’s skin against mine makes irreparable changes to
the structure of my DNA. It’s like she’s writing herself into
my very being. “I’m so sorry.”
Weeks ago we sat here, in this exact booth and she
spoke those same words. Her sorrow and hurt for me
evident in the wrinkles in her forehead, and I had marveled
at her then, struck by the depth of feeling she—a girl who,
up until the moment we kissed, had always felt so far
removed from the emotion riddled and logicless plane the
rest of us mere mortals operated on—had for me. Now I’m
not surprised by it at all.
Because Mallory might be able to hide her worries, her
stresses, and her heart from the rest of the world, but she’s
never been able to hide them from me.
“Thank you.”
 Brows lifted in surprise, she pulls her hand back from
mine and tucks it into her lap. I wonder if she’s rubbing at
it with her other hand. If her pulse is racing as her thumb
traces over the place where we were just touching.
Probably not.
As I study her face, I realize my subconscious might be
right. She looks completely unaffected. I guess that’s the
one good thing about getting into a fake relationship with
the most level headed person on the planet: I don’t have to
worry about her confusing the act we’ll have to sell for the
real thing.
“Alright,” Mallory says, her voice all business. “We’ll
pretend to be together until you start at MUSC in the fall,
then we have a huge falling out, your fault, of course.”
“Naturally.”
She smiles. “And you’ll be a free agent.”
“Right.”
“What about your ex-girlfriend/future wife? Won’t your
dad just go back to hounding you about marrying her?”
“That’s possible, but we’re hoping by then she’ll be busy
with another suitor.”
“Who’s we? And please don’t ever say suitor again. This
is not the 1800s.”
My shoulders shake with laughter. She’s so damn
snarky. “My brother, RJ, and I.”
She takes another long pull of her melting milkshake
and holds her finger up for me, indicating she’d like me to
wait. When she’s done, she licks her lips, and my dick
twitches.
“Is RJ married?”
“No.”
“Why not? Doesn’t your backwards ass family tradition
have some kind of rule about marrying off the first born
first?”
“You would think so, but things with Dad and RJ are
complicated. He’s not exactly his biggest fan.”
 “So no well bred, high class wife for him?”
“Not yet, no.”
“And you trust him to have things covered on his end?
Keeping your ex distracted and all that?”
“Do you see a reason why I shouldn’t?”
It’s a genuine question for one of the smartest people I
know. Mallory’s brain is always working, always turning at
a million miles a minute and right now I’m psyched to be
standing in the middle of the whirlwind.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. What’s your relationship with
him like?”
Adversarial. “We’re not as close as you and Eric.”
“Eric and I are twins. There aren’t many siblings who
are as close as we are. What’s it like with you and RJ
though?”
“Let’s just say, we’re not always the best of friends, but
right now we’re good. Working towards a common goal.”
Her lips twist to the side. A show of skepticism if I’ve
ever seen one. “What’s he getting out of it?”
That’s the question I’ve been asking myself since RJ first
called warning me about the ring and volunteering to put
himself on the front lines of the Boston side of this
operation. No matter how I cut it, I can never come up with
anything that doesn’t make him sound like some nefarious
villain. And although our history is fraught with sibling
rivalry and unfounded jealousy on his part, I’m not quite
ready to cast him in that role yet.
Especially when I don’t know what he gets out of
helping me keep my freedom besides more time with Dad,
and judging by the way he’s been drinking lately, I don’t
think he wants that.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit, and Mallory nods, so
understanding in the face of a situation that might have
sent other girls running for the hills. “But we don’t really
need to worry about that right now.”
 She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “If you say
so.”
“I do.”
“And what about my brother?”
“I doubt Sloane would let him date my ex to save me
from being a child groom.”
The surprised yelp/snort she lets out is both hilariously
obnoxious and unfairly adorable. “Oh my, God. Shut up!”
She snorts again, and Al and Jalisa glance over at us to
make sure she’s not dying. “You’re definitely too old to be a
child groom.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You’re twenty-two. That’s no where near childhood.”
“You’re right.”
“I was trying to say that we’d have to tell Eric, Nic and
Sloane we’re together. They’ll have to think it’s real or else
we’ll have to explain why we’re doing this and I don’t want
to get into the whole Trent thing with them.”
Her concern is palpable, slithering across the table and
wrapping around my lungs. Reminding me that I’m not the
only one with a lot riding on this fake relationship.
With a sigh, I sit back in my seat and scrub a hand over
my face. “I agree. Plus, the less people that know about
this, the better.” We’re both quiet for a moment, absorbing
this new reality of having a shared secret. “Do you think
they’ll buy us as a couple?”
“Yeah, I think they will,” she says confidently, a slight
blush adding a red tint to her mahogany skin.
“You seem pretty certain.”
“I am.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No, I don’t think I will.” When I lower my brows and
frown at her, she rolls her eyes. “Just trust me, okay? I’ll
tell Sloane first and then, because she can’t keep a secret
to save her life, she’ll tell Eric. And he’ll tell Nic and Mama
and the rest of the world. How are you planning on telling
your dad?” This time it’s her brows sinking down, knitting
together to form an urgent, worried line. “Please don’t tell
me you’re leaving that to your brother too.”
I burst out laughing, amused at her immediate distrust
of RJ. “Well, I expect he’s already laid the groundwork after
our call earlier today, and now that it’s out there, we’ll keep
the narrative going using social media.”
“Does your dad spend a lot of time on Instagram?”
“No, but all of my friends and family back home do. The
news will reach him in no time. As an added bonus, making
things so public will remind Trent that you’re unavailable
and encourage him and his sister to move on.”
I wait for her reaction, holding my breath to see if she’s
satisfied with this plan. If it will work for her as well as I
know it will work for me. Finally, after a few long moments,
she gives it her reluctant approval with a nod, shrug and an
outstretched hand.
“It’s been a pleasure discussing business with you,
boyfriend.”
Taking her hand in mine, I apply the slightest bit of
pressure and marvel at the way her eyes flare with
something that looks a lot like heated desire when I say,
“The pleasure is all mine, princess.”

OceanofPDF.com
 17

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

W e shook on it.
We shook on it, and now I have a boyfriend. A
fake boyfriend, I remind myself for the millionth
time since I woke up this morning. For some reason I
expected to feel different, to feel less like an island and
more like a landlocked city, tethered to something and
someone on every side.
Instead, I just feel like me. The same old mask wearing,
secret toting Mallory, except now the secrets don’t weigh
so heavy on me. I don’t feel like my chest is going to cave in
from the pressure of carrying them, and I guess that’s the
relief I anticipated feeling when Chris offered to listen to
my problems on the way to Mama’s party that day.
No, it’s not just relief, it’s the first breath after being
submerged in water. When your lungs are so greedy for air
they expand and expand and expand until they’re well past
their full size and still trying to grow. When they swell with
the possibilities of finally, mercifully, operating without
constrictions.
Okay, so maybe I do feel different.
So different in fact, it hasn’t bothered me in the slightest
that Tasha has sent me messages on Facebook and
Instagram. I’ve left them sitting in my request folder,
unread, because I’m not interested in anything she has to
say on behalf of her brother, who thankfully hasn’t reached
out to me yet. Knowing Trent, though, it’s only a matter of
time before he does. He won’t be able to resist the chance
to act like the good guy, the hero here to save the day after
his sister went off the rails.
Normally, I’d be worried about it. Somewhere curled up
in a ball, letting anxiety get the best of me until he finally
decides to strike, but I’ve decided I’m not going to do that.
I’ve given too much time and energy to that problematic
sibling duo, and they don’t get anymore.
Apparently, my brain agrees because last night is the
first night since Mama’s party that I have been nightmare
free.
A development, which has already worked wonders for
my skin. I lean in close to the mirror, noting the absence of
bags under my eyes and smiling to myself as I rub in
moisturizer. With my roommate, Alexis, gone for the
weekend, I’m able to play music as loud as I want and
dance around as I pick out an outfit for the day. Sloane and
I are supposed to be going to the nail salon and then over
to Chris’ to hang out.
According to our well thought out plan, I’ll have to find a
natural way to bring up our relationship to Sloane, so she
can disperse the information to Eric who will, undoubtedly,
bring it up to Chris.
Once that’s done, we’ll be free to step fully into our roles
and do the hard work of convincing his dad we’re in love
from over nine hundred miles away.
I’ve just settled on a pair of hip hugging jeans and a soft,
white tank under a blush cardigan when there’s a knock on
my door. I toss all the clothes on my bed and run over,
opening it without looking because I know that it’s Sloane.
“Hey!” I chirp, sounding overly excited.
“Hey,” she says slowly, giving me a weird look as she
walks in a presses an iced coffee and chocolate croissant in
my hand. I close the door and turn just in time to see her
checking out my outfit. Her brows shoot towards her
hairline when she sees the jeans I chose.
They’re my favorite jeans. Ones that she always tells me
make my butt look amazing. Suspicion lights her hazel
eyes, and I know we’re on the right track. “Why are you
wearing your ‘look at my ass, it’s amazing’ jeans? We’re
just going to the nail salon.”
Sloane is impatient as hell, so I make her wait for her
answer on purpose. Taking my time unraveling the paper
from my straw and pushing it into the plastic lid of my cup.
Drinking a big gulp of my iced coffee and sighing in delight
when I take a bite out of the croissant. It’s still warm, so
the chocolate is gooey and perfect. It oozes down my
fingers, and Sloane glares at me as I lick it off.
“What?”
“You know what! Answer my question, hussy!”
“Hussy?” I scrunch my nose, fighting back a laugh.
“How old are you again?”
“Old enough to know that you don’t wear jeans like this
for a regular ole trip to the nail salon.” She plops down on
the foot of my bed and crosses her arms. “Who are you
trying to impress, Mallory Pearl.”
“No one, Sloane Elise.”
“Liar.”
“Your mama.”
She laughs and sticks her tongue out at me. “No shit.
Now tell me something I don’t know.”
“Hand dryers in public bathrooms are hella unsanitary.”
“Everyone knows that, Mal.”
“Really?”
We stare at each other. Her, glaring even harder than
before, and me, feeling like I’m going to burst at the seams
if she doesn’t ask me the questions I need her to ask, so
Chris and I can move to the next stage in our plan.
 A stage that involves a lot of PDA, which we’ll have to
document religiously. I told Chris our best bet would be
Instagram because most everyone our age is on the app,
posting pictures of their food and day to day life. Talking
about our relationship publicly on any other social media
platform would look like we were trying too hard to get in
front of his dad, and this can’t work if he suspects that
we’re pandering to him specifically.
Like with my side of things, we’ll count on chatty
siblings, namely Chris’ little sister, Teresa, and friends to
disseminate the information we put out there to the
necessary sources. And once we’ve got their attention,
we’ll really put on a show.
My stomach flips every time I think about Stage Two
because it means letting Chris get close. Letting him touch
me and kiss me and freezing those moments in time,
putting them on display for everyone to see.
But that’s the point. Being seen. By Trent, by Chris’ dad,
by all the people who stole our control and are forcing us to
wrestle it back with our bare hands.
I walk over and sit on the top of the bed, closest to my
desk with my legs dangling over the edge. She’s still
looking at me suspiciously, so I decide to tip my hand.
Reaching out, I brush my hands over the petals of the
flowers Chris gave me.
“What movie did you end up watching last night?”
The faint scent of jasmine fills the air, and I smile. A real
smile. Because these flowers truly are lovely, and I’m
touched that they made Chris think of me. Sloane tracks
the motion of my fingers.
“Some Lifetime movie about a lady who’s nanny stole
her husband,” she mutters. “What about you? What were
you doing that was so important you couldn’t come watch
movies with me?”
“Oh, I was just studying.” The lie is an easily believable
one, and it’s also essential to letting Sloane feel like she’s
figuring this all out on her own.
“I didn’t realize they had a garden at the library.”
I pull my attention away from the flowers and turn it
back on her. “What?”
She tilts her chin, inclining her head to indicate the
bouquet on the desk. “Where did the flowers come from?”
“Oh—” I pretend to be stumped, caught up in trying to
formulate another lie, and I know I’ve got her when she
snaps her fingers and jumps up off the edge of the bed.
“You were with a guy, weren’t you?!” She’s pacing now,
brain moving a million miles a minute. “But who? You don’t
hang out with anyone but me, Eric, Dominic”—a slight eye
roll when she says Nic’s name—“and….Chris.”
Triumph shines bright in her eyes, and I make a
halfhearted attempt to extinguish it by calling her name.
“Sloane.”
“Oh my God, Mal!” She’s squealing now and clapping
her hands together happily. “I knew it. Damn, I should have
seen it before. The way he was acting at the game the other
night, like he wanted to duel with me for the honor of
running after you when you went to the lobby.”
“What?”
My question gets lost in the sound of her rambling.
“God, it makes so much sense. You’ve both been acting
weird ever since the kiss, and when y’all are in the same
room it’s like he can’t take his eyes off of you.”
Leave it to Sloane to turn a situation where I’m
supposed to be feeding her information into one where
she’s telling me things I didn’t know. The way she’s
describing things makes it sound like Chris and I are
actually together. Like in a real way. Her hands wave
around animatedly as she gives me all the clues she looked
past because she thought I wouldn’t give him the time of
day.
Clues that when named, make my heart beat a mile a
minute.
 Clues that I have to ignore, to write off as Sloane’s love
struck ass misconstruing the tiniest things and making
them bigger than what they are.
Yeah, I assure myself, that’s exactly what it is. Everyone
knows people in love want everyone else to be in love too.
And Sloane is in love, embarrassingly so, which means
she’s prone to seeing hearts in everyone’s eyes.
“And last night,” she continues, on a roll, “you weren’t
available and neither was he.”
“How do you know Chris wasn’t available?”
“Because Eric texted and asked him if he could help
them paint the kitchen, and he said he had plans.”
“He could have had plans with someone else, Sloane.”
“Yeah.” She grins, plopping down on the bed right
beside me and bumping me with her shoulder. “But he
didn’t have plans with someone else, Mal, he had plans
with you.” An anticipation filled pause stretches between
us, and Sloane groans loudly. “Please, just put me out of my
misery already!”
“Fine.” I lean into her, giggling despite myself. “Chris
and I are dating.”

S loane did exactly what I knew she would do: took the first
chance she got to text Eric and tell him the news. I knew
she’d done it when Chris sent me a message while I was
getting my pedicure. It was a short text, just a thumbs up
and a smiley face, but my heart still tried to beat out of my
chest when his name popped up on my screen.
I told myself right then and there that I needed to pull it
together. I mean, I can’t be having heart palpitations every
time he texts me because that begs the question of what
will happen when he does something drastic like kiss me in
front of our closest friends.
 Again.
As Sloane and I approach the entrance to Chris’
apartment building, I’m running through all the possible
scenarios, weighing the likelihood of him kissing me as
soon as he opens the door to let us in or delaying the kiss
until some other, more strategic time. Usually, I find
calculating probability soothing, but today it makes me feel
even more flustered. Which is funny because Sloane is
practically floating. She’s so happy to see me happy that it
almost makes me feel bad about lying to her.
It’s better than her having a truth I can’t live with her
knowing, though, and that makes it all worth it.
Warm air greets us as we cross the threshold to Chris’
building and enter the quiet lobby. There are a few
residents milling about, checking their mail or chatting
with the concierges who don’t bat an eye when we walk
through. They know us just as well as they know Chris, but
it doesn’t stop me from being surprised when one of them
calls my name.
“Ms. Kent.”
Sloane and I both pause and turn towards the desk,
approaching the stout older Black man with neatly trimmed
salt and pepper hair and a matching goatee. His name tag
says Carl, and he smiles pleasantly as I approach with
Sloane at my back.
“Yes?”
With white gloved hands, Carl reaches into the pocket of
his uniform shirt and pulls out a small, yellow envelope. It’s
not big at all, probably only has enough space to fit a small
note but I’m still shocked when he places it on the marble
counter of the desk and slides it towards me.
“Mr. Johnson asked that I give this to you when you
arrived.”
“What is it?” I blurt the question out, causing Carl’s
wrinkled features to collapse into a disapproving stare.
 “I wouldn’t know, Ms. Kent, I’m not in the habit of
opening packages meant for tenants. Unless, of course,
they request that I do so.”
“But I’m not a ten—”
“Thank you, Carl.” Sloane says as she reaches over me
to take the tiny envelope off of the desk. Carl gives her a
relieved smile and turns his attention back to the computer
in front of him, probably checking giving me this mystery
package off of his to-do list.
“Yeah,” I mutter, backing away from the desk. “Thank
you.”
Carl gives a curt nod of his head and switches from his
computer to picking up the phone as Sloane pulls me by the
arm to the bank of elevators. Before she presses the button
to go up, she puts the little envelope in my hand and
smiles.
“I think I know what it is, but you have to be the one to
open it.”
The doors in front of us slide apart, and we step on.
Sloane presses the button for Chris’ floor while I slip my
freshly manicured nail under the envelope’s sealed seam. It
gives easily and in no time at all, I’m pouring its contents
out in my hand.
Well, content, because there’s only one thing in this
envelope.
A key.
It’s shiny and silver with ridges and grooves I can only
assume match the internal mechanisms of the lock in Chris’
front door. My breath catches, shock coursing through me
in thick waves that replace my blood. We never discussed
him giving me a key, and I can’t see one good reason why I
would need it.
Sloane’s gasp is audible, and when I look up at her, her
mouth is comically wide. “He gave you a key? How serious
are y’all?”
 I bite my lip, forcing back the instinct to deny, deny,
deny. “Pretty serious.”
Her lips part again, and I know she’s about to ask if I
love him. Chris and I agreed that we would keep
mentioning the depth of our supposed feelings to a
minimum with the people in our day to day lives while
playing it up for everyone else, but him giving me a key in
front of Sloane definitely makes that hard to do. Before she
can ask, the elevator dings, letting us know that we’ve
arrived at our destination.
We step out together, but I beat Sloane down the
hallway. My strides long and eager. My mind spinning with
thoughts that whisper and yell about doubts and surprises
and dependability. None of it makes sense. They’re all
jumbled together, wrapped up in panic that marks Chris as
an outlier, a rogue wave that will abandon even the best
laid plans and wipe out everything in its path.
That’s when I realize it’s not about the key. Not really.
It’s about him improvising even though we have a script.
It’s about him deviating from the plan and forcing me to
doubt his intention to follow it in the first place. It’s about
him robbing me of control even though he’s supposed to be
helping me get it back.
I stop in front of his door, fist poised and ready to knock,
when it pops open like it did yesterday. Only this time,
Chris isn’t on his way out. He looks, for all intents and
purposes, like he was expecting me, and I yelp in surprise
when he slips his arms around my waist and pulls me into a
tight hug. A rumble that turns into a soft growl escapes his
chest as he buries his nose in my neck. I’m aware of Sloane
somewhere behind me, and so despite my annoyance, I let
myself melt into him. Wrapping my arms around his neck
and returning his embrace.
“Princess.” He mumble-growls into my ear, lips brushing
over my lobe. “I’ve missed you.”
 “You just saw me last night.” My voice is shaky, and I’m
annoyed by that. By the easy way he undoes me. Chris pulls
back, his smile bright as it shines on me, blasting away the
rest of my short lived annoyance with a simple curve of his
lips.
“Wow.” Sloane sighs as she walks up behind us and slips
through the doorway using the small space we’ve left open.
“I can’t believe I missed that.”
Her footsteps echo down the long hallway, and I wait
until I’m sure she’s gone to let Chris go. Dropping my
hands from around his neck, I try to take a step back, but
he’s still holding on to me.
“Where are you going?” He sounds put off by me trying
to put some space between us, but his eyes are doing that
thing they do when he thinks I’m running from him.
Chestnut gives way to a warm, rich shade of browned
butter that say he’d enjoy chasing me.
“We’re alone,” I remind him, using my shaky fingers to
remove his hands from my waist and ignoring the twinge of
disappointment that moves through me when they fall back
to his sides.
“Right.” He glances behind him then turns back to me
with a sheepish grin. “Sorry about the ambush, I just didn’t
want walking in here to be awkward for you.”
Oh. I’m oddly touched by his foresight. I didn’t expect
anyone to be aware of the worries swirling around in my
mind today, but Chris was, and that knowledge makes me
want to hug him again. For real this time. Instead of acting
on that impulse, I hold up the key in my hand and arch a
brow at him.
“I could have just used my key.”
Something about my tone must clue him in to how I feel
about the key because his smile fall away, leaving only
concern etched into his features. “You’re mad?”
Mad sounds like the wrong word, but I don’t have a
better one for how I feel right now. “Yes, Chris. We never
discussed you giving me a key to your place. Let alone
doing so in front of Sloane.”
He takes a step forward, coming out into the hallway
with me and closing the door softly behind him. “Princess.”
That damn nickname does something to me. Fries my
brain cells and makes a full breath of air hard to come by,
which is terribly inconvenient given how much I’ve grown
to like my recently non-constricted airways.
“Don’t princess me,” I hiss, which makes him start
smiling all over again. Infuriating man. “We had a full
blown conversation about how this was going to go just last
night. An entire plan put in place, and now you’re just
going rouge. Why?”
“You’re right, we did have a plan, but last night after I
dropped you off I started thinking about things we didn’t
cover in our discussion.”
“Like what?”
A vein in his temple starts to throb. “Like your ex being
on campus regularly. We don’t know if he knows where you
stay. There might come a time when you need somewhere
to feel safe and you won’t be able to go to your brother or
Nic or Sloane without having to tell them things you don’t
want them to know. This can be that place.”
Anxiety winds its way through my chest, wrapping
around my breastbone. I hadn’t thought about what I would
do if Trent did come on campus for the sole purpose of
finding me. It wouldn’t be hard, especially not with his
cousin Jamar, who lives two buildings away from me, to
help him figure it out. Once again, I find myself thankful for
Chris’ attention to detail, a trait I never considered he
might possess. Still though, I’m feeling petulant and
apprehensive about thinking of a space he’s probably used
to fuck multiple women just this week as a safe haven from
Trent.
“Let’s say I did use this key and come here to feel safe
or whatever,” Chris nods, listening attentively. “What
happens when you come home with one of your little fuck
buddies and I’m here?”
In an instant, his features cloud over. A swirl of dark,
thunderous emotion moving over his face as he steps closer
to me. “What?”
“I said what happens when—”
“No,” he cuts me off, a laugh escaping his lips that’s just
as dark as the look on his face. “I heard exactly what you
said, I’m just confused as to why you think I’d be bringing
girls here, or any where, when we’re together.”
“But we’re not,” I stumble over my words, caught off
guard by the ferocity of his response. I pause, lower my
voice to a whisper. “But we’re not really together.”
“Mallory, as long as we’re doing this,” he gestures
between the two of us, “I can promise you that you won’t
see or hear about me being with anyone else. All of my
time, attention and affection is yours.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Chris.”
“I’m serious,” he whispers, and I believe him. I’ve never
seen him look more sincere. “You don’t have to worry about
that, ever.”
“Okay,” I concede, mostly because I can’t take another
second of him looking at me like this.
“So you’ll use the key if you need it?”
“Yes. I’ll use the key if I need it.” But even as I make him
the promise, I’m praying I’ll never need to. Having such
unbridled access to his personal space feels like a step too
far.
“Okay. Any other grievances you need to air out?”
“No, not unless you’ve gone and made some other
drastic decision that impacts our plan without consulting
me.”
He licks his lips and gives me a wry grin. “Nope. That’s
all, princess.”
“Good,” I croak, that stupid nickname making my heart
squeeze uncomfortably in my chest. “Now let’s go in before
they start to get suspicious.”
With a slight, and very dramatic incline of his head,
Chris opens the door to the apartment and gestures for me
to go in. “After you.”
As I get closer to the living room, I hear the deep
rumbles of Eric and Nic’s voices mingling with Sloane’s
lighter one. They’re listening to her recount the movie she
watched last night, and even though I’ve been a part of a
scene like this a million times, today I feel nervous about
heading into it. I stop short in the middle of the hallway,
doubt swirling in my gut about being able to actually pull
this off.
Sloane’s words from earlier echo in my mind. Her
certainty about our chemistry and the overly in depth
analysis of the way Chris looks at me. They should bolster
me, make me feel more confident, more comfortable with
letting the electricity that runs between us—that probably
stems more from me than it does from him—carry us, but
all they do is fill me with dread. If she was watching that
closely before, she’ll be watching a hundred times closer
now, and I just don’t know if I can sell it now that I’m
supposed to be.
Despite the crush I’ve had on Chris, I’m embarrassingly
out of touch with the dating world. I haven’t been in a
relationship in years. I don’t even know how I’m supposed
to act around him or what the official girlfriend protocol is
these days. I mean I see Sloane with Eric all the time but
he’s my brother and she’s basically my sister, so I spend
most of my time trying to dodge their public displays of
affection, not study them for future reference.
“Shit.” I spin around and find myself face to face with
Chris. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“What?” He doesn’t look angry, not like Trent did that
night when I was naked on his bed with him hovering above
me, and I said I didn’t want to go any further. No, Chris
looks worried, and not for himself, just for me. He puts his
hands on my shoulders and pulls me a little further down
the hall, closer to the door we just walked through.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I repeat, eyes wide. “I don’t
know how to act like a girlfriend. I haven’t been anyone’s
girlfriend in years.”
“And I haven’t had a girlfriend in years.” He shrugs,
“Who cares? There aren’t any rules for how you have to
act. Just do what’s comfortable, and I’ll follow your lead.”
“That sounds good in theory, but what if I do something
wrong that makes it obvious this isn’t…you know? I think I
might need specific instructions.”
“Mal, there isn’t a playbook for fake dating.”
“Well, there should be!”
Humor shines in his eyes, and I appreciate the effort he
puts into not letting it take over his whole face. His hands,
which have been applying the most delicious pressure to
my shoulders, start to slide up my neck. I suck in a deep
breath as he brushes a few of my still wavy braids away
from my face and cups my jaw.
“Rule number one,” he says, gazing heavenward for a
thoughtful second then looking back at me. “Hold my
hand.”
“Now or just…?”
“Whenever you want,” he clarifies, folding the laugh I
know he wants to let out between his full lips.
“What if you’re not in the mood for holding hands
though?” That happened sometimes with Trent, but I guess
it was just one of the perks of being in a secret
relationship.
“I’ll always be in the mood to hold your hand.”
My heart does that crazy squeeze thing again. “And what
about kisses?”
This is my second time asking him about kisses in
twenty-four hours, and I can tell that that’s not lost on him.
His eyes drop down to my lips. “Kisses are always on the
table. Especially when the plan necessitates it.”
 “Is that rule number two?”
“What?” His gaze returns to mine, and I swear I see a
hunger in it that wasn’t there before. “Oh, yes, that’s rule
number two.”
“Can you kiss me right now?”
The words pop out of my mouth all on their own, but as
soon as they hit the air, I know it’s exactly what I need to
calm my nerves. To get the first kiss over with and remind
myself I still know how to do it right. Specifically when
there’s not a dare involved.
“Princess.” He looks uncertain, and I hate it. The idea of
him hesitating to kiss me now when just a few weeks ago
he had no problem with it. With his hands still on my face, I
rise up on my tiptoes and grab the collar of his t-shirt,
pulling him down so we’re just inches apart.
“Kiss me. You just said they’re always on the table.”
“When the plan necessitates.”
“Well, the plan does necessitate it. Right now, I’m
doubting whether or not we can pull this off in front of the
people that know us best, and if we don’t get this first kiss
out of the way then the one you inevitably try to lay on me
in front of them will be awkward and suspicious, so kiss me
and do it like you mean it.”
His fingers tensing against my face, gripping my jaw a
little tighter to hold me in place, is the only warning I get
before his lips are on mine. My eyes go wide with surprise
and then fall shut with a soft moan that Chris swallows
whole. It feels like he’s trying to swallow me whole, but in
the best way.
Our lips move together, and there’s not even a second of
awkwardness or hesitancy, just magic. Sparks flying.
Electricity pulsing. Tongues colliding and retreating in a
carnal dance that speaks of hunger and desire and soul
deep yearning that has no place in what we’re supposed to
be.
 “Ohhh, gross. Get a fucking room!” The voice—which I
know belongs to Nic—causes Chris and I both to jump. He
releases my face and I let go of his shirt, and in the space
of a heartbeat we’re on opposite sides of the hall acting like
we’ve just been caught doing something much worse than
kissing.
Chris recovers first, pushing off of the wall I just had
him pinned to and reaching out for my hand. I give it to him
and allow him to pull me down the hallway. A wave of heat
washes over me, turning my face, neck and ears warm. I
have to force myself to look at Nic, who’s coming from the
guest bathroom at the end of the hall closest to the living
room.
“It’s my house, man,” Chris says, smiling. “Every room is
my room.”
Nic rolls his eyes. “It’s a damn hallway, ass hat. Next
time you kiss my sister and I’m in the general vicinity, do it
behind a door.”
“Please!” Eric yells as we enter the living room.
I laugh and shake my head at them. “Both of you need to
shut up. How many times have I had to see y’all put your
tongue down some poor girl’s throat?”
Sloane cuts her eye at Eric. “Yeah, Eric, how many?”
“I’m gonna plead the fifth on that one, baby.”
“A lot, Sloane,” I say as Chris leads me over to the large
sectional in the middle of his living room. It’s feather soft in
a light cream color with chaise lounges on both ends. Eric
and Sloane are cuddled up on one end, and Chris pulls me
down onto the other.
She fake gags, and Eric throws down the remote in his
hand and tugs her into him. He rains kisses on her face
while she squirms and giggles and pleads with him to stop.
When he finally does, she’s red in the face and gazing up at
him like he hung the moon and the stars. Out of the corner
of my eye, I see Nic watching them, his dark eyes
swimming with something close to tortured jealousy.
 Chris rests his arm along the back of the sectional right
near my shoulders, and his proximity makes me wonder
how this feels for Nic. He went from being an occasional
third wheel with Eric and Sloane—a problem easily
remedied by the appearance of Chris or me—to now being
a fifth to two couples.
It must be awkward.
As if he feels me staring at him, Nic turns his head,
giving me a questioning look. There are layers to it,
multiple questions that I know I can answer for him without
saying a word. That’s the good thing about growing up with
a person, being as close as two people can be, you develop
your own language. Right now Nic is asking me if I’m
happy with Chris and why I’m staring at him. With a tiny
nod and a smile, I tell him that I am happy and that I’ll
stare at him as long as I damn well please. He rolls his
eyes, turning his attention back to the show playing on TV,
and that’s that.
The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly. With Eric and
Sloane making every one sick with their lovey dovey
nonsense and Chris keeping me tucked into his side.
Gifting me with casual touches and loving looks that make
me stumble over my words and smile like a fool while Eric
questions us about how things started between us. Chris
lets me take the lead, and I give the simple answer we
rehearsed last night at Curly’s: it all started with the kiss—
that was followed by a triumphant shout from Sloane the
Instigator—and things just naturally progressed from there.
No one seemed to question it, probably because
everyone but Chris was aware of the crush I’ve had on him
since last year, and when they’re all walking out the door a
few hours later, leaving me and Chris alone, all three of
them take turns telling us how happy they are about us
being together.
It feels weird, accepting their congratulations and
encouraging their excitement, but it’s all part of the job. A
requirement of the roles we signed up to play. And I’d
rather let them believe that I’m happy and in love than
have them know the ugly truth.

OceanofPDF.com
 18

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

T he door closes behind Eric, who left me with a

whispered warning to never hurt his sister, and I flip
the lock, pulling in a deep, steadying breath. Mallory
is in the living room waiting for me to come back, but I
need a second to recover from the past few hours of having
her glued to my side. Her curves pressed into my body. Her
elegant fingers threaded through mine. Her laughter
ringing in my ears while we watched TV and ate food I
ordered just because she said she was hungry.
I’m fucked.
This plan felt like such a good idea when my mind was
soaked in doubt and worry for Mallory and for myself. I
wanted to protect her, to solve both of our problems in one
fell swoop, but I think the only thing I’ve done is create
another problem.
One that starts with Mallory’s full curves and ends with
her sweet, perfectly kissable lips.
Lips I’ve dreamed about tasting again for months and
yet, still wasn’t ready for.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to prepare myself
for walking down my hallway—which now smells like
jasmine—and going back into the living room where we’ll
discuss the long distance public displays of affection that
will sell our relationship to the person that will be hardest
to convince.
My dad.
Just the thought of him, and the lengths he’s willing to
go to in order to take control of my life, are enough to get
me moving. I let it carry me down the hall and set my head
back on straight, forcing out the distracting thoughts of
kissing Mallory again and concentrating instead on getting
back to business.
Mallory is on her feet when I come back into the living
room. At some point today, she kicked off the ballet flats
she had on and now she’s wearing a hole in my hardwoods
with her bare feet. I like the sight way more than I should.
“You good?” I ask, taking a seat on the edge of the couch
opposite her. She’s tapping her index finger on her lips and
mumbling about something I can’t quite make out, but I
still try to listen. My ears perk up when I hear something
that sounds like Trent’s name. I push to my feet, crossing
the room to stand in front of her. “Hey, tell me what’s going
on.”
She pauses, looks up at me. “Trent messaged me. He
wants to meet up. Alone.”
I don’t even have to think, the answer just comes. “No.”
“I wasn’t asking you for permission, Chris.”
Her words cut me deep, and I have to stop myself from
reacting like it hurts. Mallory is panicking and not thinking
clearly. I know she doesn’t actually want to see Trent, so I
just have to remind her of that.
“Right. You’re right. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d
actually want to see him.”
“No,” she sighs. “I don’t. I just can’t believe he has the
nerve to reach out to me after that stunt his sister pulled.”
Her words go a long way towards alleviating the tension
knotting the muscles in my neck. The idea of her and Trent
alone anywhere makes my stomach turn. If I had my way,
he wouldn’t even remember that he ever knew her, let
alone be in her inbox demanding a meet up.
“Can I see the message?”
Mallory hesitates, her eyes bouncing between my face
and her phone which is still lying on the couch. I could get
to it easily enough, but I don’t move a muscle while she
weighs her options. The last thing I want is for her to think
I’m taking her ability to decide away from her.
Finally, she nods and moves around me to grab it. I
watch her type in her passcode and then fiddle around on
the screen for a few seconds before turning it towards me.
It’s open to a message thread on Instagram, and I clench
my jaw to hide the rage I feel at seeing the proof of him
invading her personal space. Even on a digital level it feels
like a massive violation.
Trent: M, let’s get together for lunch this week. I
miss you and would love to catch up without any
interruptions this time.
I grip the edges of her phone so hard I swear I hear the
metal and glass creak under the pressure. Mallory places
her hand over the screen, sliding the phone out of my grasp
and putting it in her back pocket.
“What an asshole,” I growl. “He knows you’re in a
relationship and he’s still trying to take you on a trip down
memory lane?”
“That’s Trent for you. He’s used to getting everything he
wants.” She gets this look on her face, like her mind is
carrying her some where away from here, away from me.
“And what happens when he doesn’t?” I ask softly.
She snaps out of her reverie with a small jolt. Silence
stretches between us as she considers her answer, and it’s
not long before she crosses her arms over her chest and
gives me a sad, resigned smile.
“Nothing good.”
It hurts to see her like this, all wrapped up in years old
turmoil I can’t pull her out of because she won’t let me. I
could stand here all day holding out my hand, offering to
help her, and she still wouldn’t take it. That’s how tight this
guy’s grip is on her. How deeply he’s buried his claws in
her flesh.
For a second, I imagine prying his fingers off of her,
pulling his talons from her skin, and setting her free, but
then the image changes. Suddenly it’s not good enough to
just remove his fingers from her, I need to break those
fingers. Hear his bones cracking and the wet squelching of
his flesh as blood pours from his wounds. I don’t just want
to set Mallory free, I want to destroy Trent, to wipe his very
existence from this earth.
“Chris?” Mallory’s head is tilted to the side, her
eyebrows knitted together. “I asked if you wanted to get
started with Stage Two?”
I give myself a little shake. “Yes. Let’s do it.”
“Do you want to use your phone or mine?”
“Mine.” I answer immediately, knowing if I find myself in
possession of her phone again I’ll do something stupid like
text Trent and tell him that contacting her again will end
with me rearranging his face. “I’ll tag you in everything
and send you ones you can post.”
Stage Two is all about establishing our social media
presence as a couple. Mal suggested we spend whatever
time we got after the rest of the crew left taking pictures at
my place to start laying our digital foundation.
“Okay,” she agrees quietly, watching me dig my phone
out of my pocket. “We could start on the couch if you
want.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Go ahead and take a seat.” She
gives me a puzzled look, but she still sits down and waits
for me to explain. “I want to get some pictures of you first,
then we’ll do some together.”
“Makes sense.”
She slides back on the couch, curling her legs under her.
With her bare feet and worn jeans that are form fitting yet
relaxed, she looks right at home on my couch. Like she
belongs there. I open my camera app and take a test shot
while she’s staring right at me. Serene features soft and a
little self-conscious. I examine the photo, and amber eyes
trace my movements in person while they haunt me from
the screen of my phone.
My chest burns, a fire sparked inside of me because of
her beauty.
“Perfect,” I breathe, and she beams at me. I snap
another photo, this time of her smiling and tucking a braid
behind her ear. She turns her head, suddenly shy, and I
take a photo of that too. Happy to capture whatever part of
her she’s willing to give. “Okay, I think we got it. Do you
want to see?”
“No. I’ll look at them when you post them.”
That surprises me, she’s usually so adamant about being
in control of things, so it strikes me as odd that she’s not
trying to oversee every aspect of this. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she nods, beckoning me to the couch. “I trust
you.”
The easy way she says it, without prompting or pretext
or any other kind of caveat, adds kindling to the fire
already roaring inside of me for her. I try to breathe, but
my lungs are ash, and I feel hollow as I sit down beside her.
Like she’s used those three words to scoop out everything
inside of me and fill it up with nothing but her and the gift
of her trust.
She leans in close to me, her breath skating across my
jaw, as she smiles big and happy for the camera. “This
angle is weird,” she says through clenched teeth, holding
the smile. “We might have to change positions.”
“Come here.”
Leaning back into the cushion of the couch, I pull her
into me with an arm around her waist. Her leg bumps mine,
and a flash of uncertainty crosses her face before she
expels it and drapes that same leg over mine, popping her
hip out and turning an innocent pose into something else.
The small shift in our positions makes it so her head is level
with my chest and this time she doesn’t look unsure at all
as she rests her head there with the top of her crown
brushing the underside of my chin.
With my arm outstretched, I take in the sight of us
through the lens of the front facing camera. Mallory
glances up, her eyes half hooded, and signals her approval
with an incline of her head. We both make subtle changes
as I capture the pictures, but mostly we stay in the same
position. At one point I use the hand not holding the phone
to tickle her ribs and she explodes with laughter.
It makes for beautiful candid photos, especially because
in every photo that she’s giggling, I’m smiling down at her
like a lovestruck fool.
“I like this one best,” she says, tapping her finger on the
screen of my phone to indicate a particularly cozy photo of
us. “You should post it.”
We’ve already got the Instagram app open, so I select
that picture and watch it expand until the square is filled
with us. “Whatever you say, princess.” With her watchful
eyes on me, I type in a short caption—All my best days
are spent with you—tag her using her handle and hit
post. I close out the app and glance over at Mallory who
looks like she’s glad that we’re done with today’s photo
shoot.
“How often do we have to do these again?” she asks.
“Two or three times a week, in and out of the
apartment.”
“Right.” She bites her lip. “The dates.”
“Yep,” I murmur. “The dates.”
She twists on the couch, angling her body towards me.
“Well, I hope it’s okay that I’m going to leave the date
planning to you, boyfriend.”
The sass in her tone coupled with the indentations her
teeth are leaving in her flesh have tingles spreading down
my spine. I want to kiss her again, to pull her body back
against mine and do all the things we just did for the
camera again, but this time just for us.
I shake my head, setting the thought free because it has
no place here. Not inside my mind or out of it. The
reminder doesn’t sit well in my soul, but I force my brain to
accept it and will my body to do the same.
Otherwise, this relationship will end up causing more
problems than it solves.

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 19

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

M onday morning starts with my roommate, Alexis,

giving me the stink eye and tossing her pillow over
her head as I walk out the door. I can’t really fault
her for being upset with me. I’ve been up since around five
this morning, gathering all of my study materials so I can
get to the library and get one of the good study rooms. The
ones on the third floor with windows that let a ton of
sunlight in so I don’t feel like I’m in a prison while I
prepare for midterms.
When the door closes, I sling my book bag over my
shoulder and make sure that it’s locked. In my hand, my
phone vibrates and my heart does a little two step inside
my chest. One glance at the screen shows a good morning
text from Mama, and while I’m glad to hear from her, I’m
disappointed it isn’t from someone else.
Not just someone else, Chris.
Normally I wouldn’t be expecting texts from him at any
time, especially not this early in the morning, but today,
when I slapped the screen to turn off my alarm, I saw a
message from him. It was a short message, just a simple
good morning, but it had turned into a full blown
conversation when I texted back.
Chris: Good morning, princess.
 Mallory: Good morning.
Mallory: You know you’re not the first person to
start calling me princess after they heard about my
Disney obsession, right?
Chris: I figured. But something tells me I am the
first person you’ve ever liked to hear it from.
The stupid smile that took over my face when I read that
one was embarrassing, even more so because I was in the
middle of brushing my teeth and a little bit of the foam
spilled down my chin. I had to wipe it up with one hand
while I texted him back with the other.
Mallory: Are you always this cocky so early in the
morning?
Chris: What do you think?
Mallory: I’m going to go with yes.
Chris: Good answer. :) Why are you up so early?
I was washing my face when that one came in, and I
guess he took my silence as hesitancy because there was a
follow up message waiting for me.
Chris: Another nightmare?
Mallory: No.
And then, because that reply felt too short, and I didn’t
want him to think I was lying.
Mallory: I haven’t had a nightmare in a while. I
always wake up early and go study in the library
during midterms.
Chris: Getting there early to get one of the coveted
third floor rooms with windows?
Mallory: Yep.
Chris: Smart.
Thinking the conversation was at a natural end, I sat my
phone down on the counter and prepared to hop in the
shower. Just before I hopped in, I doubled back and picked
it up again. I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. All I
knew was, I didn’t want the conversation to be over just
yet.
 Mallory: Thanks. There’s nothing smart about
getting up this early without at least one cup of coffee
within reach, though.
Steam fills up the small space that is the bathroom
Alexis and I share with two other girls who live in a dorm
on the other side of this suite while I stare at the screen
waiting for Chris’ reply. I know he got the text—the small
subtext underneath the blue bubble where my message
resides said read. I waited a full two minutes before getting
in the shower, checked my phone after getting out, and
eyed it suspiciously after getting dressed, but he never
responded.
Now, as I’m heading out the front of my building and
texting Mama back, I’m trying to push away the inevitable
embarrassment that comes from being left on read. It’s
hard to do, though. Especially when that unease and
awkwardness clings to your veins and infects your
bloodstream, poisoning everything with self-consciousness
that’s impossible to shake.
After I finish my text to Mama, I slip my phone into the
back pocket of my jeans and push through the double
doors. Warm air, with only the slightest chill to it, greets me
as I step out into the sunshine, and while it’s a beautiful
day, I can’t bring myself to notice anything but the familiar
figure leaning against the light post right across from the
entrance.
My breath catches as I take him in. The mussed curls
that say he’s just rolled out of the bed. The gray sweatpants
that leave so little to the imagination I have to force myself
to move past them and focus on something else. And even
that turns out to be a mistake because the something else I
choose is his torso—the defined abdomen and pectoral
muscles that taunt and tease me through the fabric of his
white shirt.
Once again, I shift my attention, moving to his face. His
sharp jaw, darkened by the stubble of a beard he always
shaves. His golden skin that somehow looks even better in
the early morning sunlight. Honey bourbon eyes that
crease at the corners when a smile takes over his full lips.
A smile that’s just for me.
A smile that’s so distracting, so disarming, I don’t even
notice the things in his hand until he’s a hairsbreadth away,
long arms reaching out to give them to me.
“Got you some early morning brain food plus the coffee
you requested.”
Wrapping my fingers around the cold plastic and the
warm paper wrapped around what smells like a bacon, egg
and cheese sandwich, I give him a puzzled look. “I didn’t
ask you to bring me coffee.”
It’s the wrong response, but Chris looks completely
unbothered by it as he puts his fingers through the loop at
the top of my book bag and lifts it from my back. I slip my
arm through the one strap I was using to keep it up to help
him out and watch as he swings the entire thing—which
has my laptop, several text books and a million and one
notes in it—onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
“You’re welcome, Mallory.” I give him a funny look
because I haven’t even said thank you yet, and he laughs.
“I’m just pretending like you have manners.”
“I do have manners. I tell you thank you all the time.”
“And yet,” he sighs, slinging his arm around my shoulder
and starting us down the path that will take us to the
library, “somehow you still haven’t said it.”
The man is a furnace. That’s all I can think about as we
stroll down the sidewalk, my body pressed into his side. His
arm around my shoulder. The heat rolling off of him. The
waves of his scent flooding my senses with every step we
take. I take a sip of my coffee, hoping like hell it will help
orient me. It doesn’t.
“Is this a—” I hold the cup out, turning it to inspect the
drink name and additions included on the label and find
that he’s brought me my favorite drink.
 “Iced shaken espresso with dark caramel sauce and a
splash of milk?” He finishes for me, pride stamped across
his features as he beams down at me. “Yep.”
“How’d you know?”
“Sloane’s always getting them for you. You seem to
enjoy them, so I figured it must be the coffee you were
craving.”
There isn’t a word good enough to describe how I feel in
this moment. Shock. Awe. Happiness. They all swirl
together, expanding in my chest to create a new sensation
that isn’t at all like anything I’ve ever felt before, and I
have to look away from Chris to keep it from showing in my
eyes.
“Thank you,” I say finally, forcefully, like it’s a struggle
to let those two words out and keep all the other ones—that
are laced with adoration and appreciation that have no
place here—stalled in my throat. I don’t know if Chris
notices, but it’s evident to me that my gratitude isn’t just
about him getting my coffee order right.
It’s also about him caring about whether or not I had a
nightmare and getting out of bed early just to do something
nice for me. Something that isn’t a part of our agreement
and, as far as I can tell, doesn’t benefit it in any way. I
mean it’s not like he snapped a photo of me walking out of
the building with the plan to make a post about how he’s a
good and supportive boyfriend making sure I’m well
prepared for a study session.
And he could have.
In fact, he would have been well within his rights to, but
he didn’t, and that means something to me even though I
wish it didn’t.
“You’re welcome, princess.”
A shiver moves down my spine, leaving goosebumps in
its wake as the perfection that is Chris saying his nickname
for me in his rough, early morning voice that’s somewhere
between a growl and a purr settles in my bones. A rush of
heated liquid pools in my core, and I clench my legs
together, which makes the last few steps I have to take to
make it to the library’s threshold very awkward.
And by some miracle—probably bestowed on me by one
of my ancestors who was also dumb enough to agree to be
in a fake relationship with a man she’s always found
ridiculously attractive—I make it. Once we’re right outside
the entrance, I slip out from under Chris’ arm and turn to
face him.
“Thanks again, for the coffee and the sandwich. I do
appreciate it.”
“I know you do. You just have a hard time saying it.”
I roll my eyes at him, backing towards the door. “Bye,
Chris.”
“See you later, Mallory.”
Something in the finality of his tone makes me spin
around. “Later? Do we have plans I don’t know about?”
“No. Nothing but Richardson’s class this afternoon.”
My jaw drops, and it feels like the happy little bubble I
was just existing in pops. Sending me plummeting towards
the ground. “Shit. I forgot all about Richardson. We didn’t
account for him in our plans.”
“Because there’s no need to. We’re not breaking any
rules by dating. I checked the student handbook and his
syllabus three times just to make sure.”
While his thoroughness is appreciated, I’m still not
convinced it won’t be an issue. Especially after the tangent
he went off on, on the first day of class.
“But you also sat in the same class I did where he made
a point of telling everyone not to date you. He was talking
to me specifically, Chris, and I don’t need to give him
another reason to dislike me.”
My voice is high. Shrill and panic-laced. It’s starting to
get embarrassing to even think about the number of times
I’ve let Chris see me like this. He doesn’t look phased
though or the slightest bit annoyed as I dissolve into a pile
of worry right in front of him.
Trent hated when I would worry, especially about people
finding out about us. He would minimize everything,
discount all of my emotions and then dismiss them as small
and insignificant. I search Chris’ face to see if there’s any
sign that he’s about to do that, but he looks just as miffed
as I am that we didn’t discuss Richardson when we were
planning things out.
“I can talk to him,” he offers, and I shake my head
immediately.
“No. He can’t know. He’ll fire you and make the rest of
the semester hell for me. Maybe we can hide it from him.”
He purses his lips, considering my solution for a moment
before shaking his head. “Mal, the whole point of this is for
us to be public. We’re posting pictures online together and
going on dates, we can’t hide this from anyone.”
I know he’s right. Most everyone on campus already
knows we’re together thanks to the ridiculous amount of
followers Chris has online—which includes current
students, alumna and some professors—but it still sucks to
think about giving Richardson more ammunition against
me.
Taking a step towards me, Chris lifts his hand and cups
my jaw. It’s such a soft, intimate gesture that I almost
forget we’re talking about making our relationship known
to a racist and sexist asshole who probably thinks all
women of color sleep around to get the things they want.
“Let me talk to him. It’ll all work out and none of it will
blow back on you.” He’s serious, eyes soft and sincere as
they search mine, seeing worries I haven’t even voiced. “I
promise.” The last two words, coupled with his tender
touch, are more than enough to do me in, and I find myself
doing something I haven’t done in a while: trusting
someone enough to hand over the reigns.
 “Okay,” I breathe, leaning into his palm despite my brain
screaming for me not to.
“I’ll handle it this afternoon before class,” he says,
leaning in close and planting a soft kiss on the corner of my
mouth so quickly I almost think I imagined it. “I’ll see you
then. Good luck with studying.”
He’s gone before I manage to formulate a response.
Stunned, I run my index finger over the place where his lips
just were and head into the building. Thankfully, I have no
trouble getting the study room I wanted, but as I settle into
the my seat, with all of my notes and books spread out on
the table before me, the reassurance Chris’ touch and
promise gave me start to slip away, leaving only doubts and
worry.
My mind starts to spin with all sorts of scenarios.
Situations where things end up the exact opposite of how
Chris said they would: with all the blow back and shame on
me. I know it’s just my experience with Trent talking. The
trauma left in the wake of a relationship that should have
never been. And despite all the time I’ve spent comparing
the two of them because of their charming nature and
carefree attitude around most things, I have to admit to
myself that Chris isn’t like Trent at all.
He’s too thoughtful to cover his own ass and leave mine
hanging in the wind, and all I have to do is look at his
actions this morning to support that fact. He left his bed to
do something nice for me. To solve a problem I had
inadvertently brought to his attention even though it had
nothing to do with him or our arrangement.
It was just a nice thing he wanted to do for me.
Blowing out a slow, steadying breath, I eye the coffee
and sandwich on the table in front of me and feel another
swell of appreciation run through me, but this time it’s
tinged with a little guilt because right next to them is my
phone. This is the exact kind of thing I should document
and post online to show everyone that we’re so in love, but
I selfishly want to keep it to myself.
Something that’s just between the two of us.
Maybe that’s how Chris wanted it too. I think, picking up
the sandwich and unwrapping it. It’s still warm as I sink my
teeth into it, and I reach for my phone, intending to text
Chris and thank him again for being so thoughtful and
handling the Richardson situation, but as soon as I pick it
up I see a notification waiting for me.
Instagram: Chris Johnson tagged you in a photo.
My heart sinks, and my fingers shake as I tap the banner
and wait for the app the open. Deep down, I know what the
photo is before it even loads, but I still want to see it. The
proof that directly contradicts the foolish and hopeful
thoughts I just had about a moment that felt special to me
but clearly wasn’t anything more than an opportunity to
him.
Sure enough, the photo finishes loading, and there’s
Chris, standing in front of a coffee shop right around the
corner from campus, smiling wide for the camera while he
holds the sandwich I’m currently eating and the coffee I’m
too embarrassed to drink up next to his face. Slowly, I scan
the picture and then the caption: Early morning coffee
run for my princess.
It shouldn’t hurt.
It doesn’t hurt.
This is what you signed up for. I remind myself,
repeating the three phrases over and over. Once while I
close out of the app. A second time as I push up from the
table and grab the sandwich and coffee. Another time as I
toss them both in the trash can. And then again, as I sit
back down and open my textbook, focusing on notes for the
exams I’ll have all week.
I say the words until I believe them. Until they’ve dug a
hole in my chest and created a crater that they can live in
forever. Because this is what I signed up for. A public
relationship, where nothing is, or ever will be, private,
sacred and just for us.

OceanofPDF.com
 20

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

“Y ou got a girlfriend and didn’t even tell me?” Teresa

squeals, her clear excitement overriding the
sternness she’s trying to inject into her voice. At
seventeen, almost eighteen, years old, she’s a spitfire. A
short little thing with tawny brown skin, dark eyes and the
facial structure most of the women we grew up around pay
their doctors a hefty sum to have. Not that she cares about
superficial things like physical beauty. Like me, Teresa is
more concerned with leaving the world better than she
found it, but instead of using science and medicine, she’s
determined to use art to do it.
Lucky for her, as a Johnson daughter, there are no grand
designs on her life. No hand picked husbands waiting in the
wings to sweep her away and lay waste to all of her dreams
because as a woman she’s not burdened with the glorious
purpose of contributing to the Johnson legacy.
I remember the first time I realized our family’s sexist
tradition didn’t apply to the women. We were at my Aunt
Clarice’s wedding. All of my uncles were there with their
wives, and despite them being younger than their older
sister, they’d all been married for years. RJ asked Dad why
Grandpa Joe didn’t push her to get married sooner, why he
didn’t choose a partner for her like he’d done for his sons,
and Dad’s answer was simple: Because daughters don’t
continue legacies, sons do. Any child your aunt has with her
new husband will carry his last name, not ours. By getting
married, she’s agreed to be absorbed into the legacy of her
new family and do what she has to in order to continue it.
Aunt Clarice never had kids with her husband, Vince,
but she does look happy. Happier than any of her brothers
who cheat on their wives and neglect their children. I want
that same happiness for Teresa, and I’m relieved to know
she won’t have to go to the lengths I’m going to, in order to
have it.
“Sorry, Ter.” I stretch on the chaise lounge Mal and I
cuddled on Sunday, which is now my favorite spot because
even after nearly forty-eight hours I can still smell the faint
scent of her here. “Mal and I have kind of been keeping
things under wraps since we got together.”
“And when exactly was that?”
“The beginning of the semester, but we’ve known each
other since last year.”
“So you’ve always liked her.” There’s no inflection in her
voice, so I know it’s not a question and that makes me
smile. My little sister is as straightforward as they come,
and she doesn’t ask questions when she already knows the
answer to them. As it is, her non-question forces me to
think back to the first time I met Mallory and how I felt
about her then.
‘Like’ isn’t the right word.
I was mesmerized by her. Drawn in by her beauty and
held hostage by the serious frown tugging her lips down
into a pretty pout while she waited for Eric to get his key
from me. Nic had already moved in the day before, and as
we walked to a party that night, he told me his
roommate,Eric, wasn’t moving in until later that week.
That’s why I was surprised when I saw him come up to the
table I was manning right outside the dorms. He was
smiling brightly while Mallory stood behind him looking
annoyed and impatient. Her amber eyes scanned the busy
sidewalk, taking in the families carrying boxes and
bedspreads into the building with marked efficiency, while I
watched her.
It wasn’t a conscious thing, watching her, but it felt
necessary. Imperative. Like if I took my eyes off of her for
even a half a second she would disappear forever and that
was the last thing I wanted.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Ter snorts. “I’ve seen the way you look at her in those
pictures you posted, and RJ told me how grumpy you got
when he said how pretty she was, I most definitely would
say that.”
“She’s my girlfriend, of course I’m going to be protective
of her.”
I don’t mention the pictures because I know what she’s
talking about. My entire heart shows when I look at
Mallory, that’s the whole reason why I snapped a picture
outside of the coffee shop yesterday morning instead of
taking it with her. I knew it needed to be done, knew she
would hand me my ass if I missed a chance to make our
relationship look even more real to my dad and her ex, but
I couldn’t take it with her because I was afraid she would
see that the only person I did it for was her.
Four days. It’s been four days of this, and I’m already
losing my grip. How am I going to make it to August
without fucking this up and pushing her for things she’s not
interested in giving me?
“Sure. But the whole alpha male protective act plus the
lovesick puppy dog look you’ve got going equals feelings
that have been brewing for longer than two months. A year
and some change sounds about right, especially if you’ve
loved her for most of that time.”
Her succinct tone makes me laugh. “When did you
become such an expert in love equations?”
 “I’m seventeen, Chris, all the conversations I have with
my friends involve analyzing the behavior of teenagers with
more hormones than sense. No one knows how to just come
out and say they like you and ask you to the movies, so we
have to sit around breaking down text message
conversations and five second interactions in the hallway to
glean any type of understanding about how to move
forward.”
“Mhmm. Well, if art school doesn’t work out, maybe you
have a future in matchmaking.”
“Definitely not. I don’t have the patience for that. I give
Leah them ten minutes of my full attention and then I break
out my sketch book and tune them out.”
“I saw the sketch you posted last night, the one of the
pregnant woman.” The words try to get stuck in my throat,
but I force them out. Ter started asking me about Mom a
few months ago, it was her questions that led me to the
conversation with my grandpa, and ever since then she’s
been sharing sketches of pregnant women. I know she’s
thinking about Mom, about the knot of complicated feelings
linking her birth and Mom’s death. “It was beautiful.”
The line is quiet for a moment before she says, “Thank
you.”
“We can talk about her, if you want. I don’t remember
much, but I can tell you more about what Grandpa knew or
we can ask Dad together.”
“No, it’s fine. I kind of like not knowing. Is that weird?”
“Nothing you feel about her could ever be weird.”
“You have to say that because you’re my brother.”
There’s a forlorn smile in her voice, and I imagine it
turning her sharp features sad, grief stricken. “It’s just that
when I think of her, she can be whatever I want her to be. A
mom who baked cookies and brushed my hair, who tucked
me into bed every night and rubbed my back until I fell
asleep. A mom who hung my drawings on the fridge with
those ugly alphabet magnets and put them in boxes in the
attic when the fridge ran out of space.”
Again, the line is quiet, filled with the wistful and
heartbreaking wishes of a motherless daughter.
“Nothing Dad or Grandpa can tell me will help me know
that stuff, you know?” She sighs. A long, heavy, sad sound
that cracks my chest open. “They would just talk about her
brilliance or all the ways she contributed to the Johnson
family legacy. They wouldn’t have paid any attention to the
kind of mother she was. They wouldn’t have placed any
value on the way she loved you and RJ. On the way she
would have loved me.”
“The way she did love you,” I correct her gently. “You
didn’t get the chance to know her, but she knew you. She
carried you for nine months, felt every kick and turn and
hiccup before you even took your first breath outside the
womb. She laughed at you and sung to you and plotted a
big, beautiful life for her baby girl. You’re everything she
could have ever dreamed of, of course she loved you.”
“Yeah?” She asks, voice small like she was when Dad
brought her home from the hospital that day.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us speak, a comfortable silence spilling
across the line until Ter finally sighs and expels the sadness
from her body.
“Well, I’m not going to hold you hostage on the phone
any longer.”
“You’re not holding me hostage,” I say, even though I’m
supposed to be heading to campus soon. “We can talk for
as long as you want.”
“No, I’ve gotta go too. Dad wants me to come with him
to lunch at the DuPonts today.”
I refrain from letting out the enraged growl building in
the back of my throat. Dad and his obsession with the
DuPonts is ruling everyone’s life, and it’s not fair.
“Sounds like fun.”
 “If you call eating cucumber sandwiches and listening to
everyone faun over Giselle, fun, then yeah, it’s fun.”
“Try to make the best of it?”
“I will. Let’s hope RJ comes, then Dad and the DuPont’s
will be too busy listening to him talk about himself to pay
me any mind.”
I sit up, hoping that RJ does show up to offer Teresa a
reprieve and do whatever he’s planning to do to make it so
my dad no longer thinks Giselle is an option. “Here’s
hoping. Love you, sis.”
“I love you too, Chris, and I can’t wait to meet Mallory.
She’s really lucky to have you. I hope she knows that.”
The last part is rushed, like she’s embarrassed to say it,
and she hangs up before I can respond, but my heart
lurches at the statement all the same. At the idea of
Mallory having me and me having her. It’s only been four
days of this fake dating situation, and I’m already doubting
my ability to get through these conversations that require
me to layer real emotion over lies that feel less false with
each passing day and every new person I tell.
It had started with Trent, fueled by panic and the frantic
need to protect Mallory. Then my brother and Trent’s sister
and Mallory’s family who are some of my closest friends.
Then it was the awkwardness of talking through it with Dr.
Richardson, who’s thin lips turned into a grim frown as
soon as I finished explaining the situation.
He wasn’t happy about me being involved with Mallory, I
could tell from the way his nostrils flared when I said her
name, but in the end he admitted there wasn’t much he
could do besides prohibit me from grading any of her
assignments.
I left his office relieved because everything had turned
out fine, but I was also confused because it had all felt too
real.
The words and tone I used to convey the depth of my
feelings.
 The fierce, angry growl in my throat that dared him to
say something disparaging about her. He was familiar with
that one, having come into contact with it on the first day of
class when I overheard him trying to make her drop the
class.
The warmth in my chest when I thought about how
happy she would be to know we were in the clear.
Except she didn’t look all that happy when I told her. I
waited down the hall, posted up by the door she always
comes through just so I could see her face when I said it.
When she finally entered the building, we locked eyes
instantly, and I could tell something was off. Thinking she
was worried about going into class, I rushed through my
explanation and watched for any sign that my words were
helping whatever was going on inside of her.
They didn’t.
And when I tried to push for answers, hoping like hell it
didn’t have anything to do with Trent, she just said she was
stressed and walked into class. Keeping my eyes off of her
proved to be a challenge I wasn’t prepared for, and I’m
lucky Richardson was too busy running a review session in
preparation for this weeks’ midterm to notice me staring.
Not that it would have mattered. I don’t even think one
of his speeches could have gotten me to take my eyes off
her. Especially when she kept raising her hand, wiggling
around those elegant fingers to signal that she had the
answer to the question, which happened a lot.
I marveled at her. Impressed with the way she seemed
to shed all of her stress and worry the moment she was
presented with a problem to solve. I had already known
that about her, had already developed a healthy
appreciation for it, but that was back when I only knew her
in the most superficial sense of the word and thought all
there was to her was the single minded focus she displays
in the classroom. Now, I know there’s more to her than that
—a girl who dreams and jokes and makes wishes to become
a princess when she was born to be queen—and knowing
that all of that is there inside of her, makes her ability to
shift and compartmentalize that much more impressive.
I think I recognized that in her that first day. Her
determination and strength. It signaled to me, called to the
part of me that won’t stop, won’t rest, won’t yield to any
outside forces threatening to derail it from achieving its
goals.
It’s just another way that we’re evenly matched.
Compatible. The kind of congruence Mallory and I share
isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced before. Not even
with people who grew up in the same world I did, with
powerful parents and private schools and trust funds with
more money than we could ever spend in a lifetime. And
I’m hungry for more of it, for something beyond this
arrangement we have that could have been real, could still
be real, if she trusted me.
Although she didn’t say it, I think that was the issue
yesterday. I obsessed over it all last night after I came
home. We were supposed to hang out after she finished
class, but she put me off, saying she had to study and
asking to meet up for lunch today. All I could think about
was how things were fine until I said I would talk to
Richardson.
She was fine when she walked into the library, but the
hours in between left plenty of time for doubt to brew. For
her to convince herself that she couldn’t trust me to take
care of a situation we created together.
Maybe that was her experience with Trent. After
meeting the guy and his sister, I wouldn’t be surprised by
that. They don’t seem like the kind of people that value
accountability, but that’s not me.
I would hope that by now she knows that, but if she
doesn’t, I’ll prove it to her.
B oth of M allory ’ s dimples are showing, little potholes in
her face that I want to kiss because I know that they only
come out when she’s happiest. Right now, she’s sitting at
one of the round tables in the middle of the dining hall
laughing with Sloane who’s doubled over in her seat, jet
black curls nearly falling into the food on her plate as she
gasps for air. Sunlight from the glass panels in the ceiling
streams in, bright strips of gold hitting the two of them, but
all I can see is the way it hits Mallory. Turning the bundle
of wavy, plaited tresses sitting at the top of her head into a
glowing crown.
My phone, which I had taken out just a second ago to
call and ask which side of the cafeteria she was on, burns
in my hand, begging for the opportunity to capture her like
this. Happy. Open. Joyful. And God help me, but I can’t stop
myself from honoring the request. Because the need to
have a photo of her that isn’t posed, that isn’t a public
thing pretending to be private, is suddenly the most
important thing to me.
I try to do it quickly and casually, snapping a few while
she tosses her head back and her shoulders shake from the
force of her amusement. I have no idea what Sloane is
saying to her, but whatever it is I’m thankful for it, because
it gives me the best pictures of her.
Ones that aren’t for anyone but me.
I’m just about to congratulate myself for being the
stealthiest motherfucker on the planet when Mallory looks
up and our eyes lock. She instantly drops my gaze, trading
it for a quick examination of my phone in my hand, raised
and pointed directly at her in a way that makes what I just
did obvious as hell. I see the moment it dawns on her, and
for a second there’s a flicker of something that looks like
annoyance dancing across her features, wiping away the
happiness that was just there, but it disappears as quickly
as it came. A thin smile graces her lips, and she waves me
over.
“Hey, Chris.” Sloane smiles, as I sit down beside Mallory.
“Sloane.” I offer her a greeting but my eyes are all for
Mallory, skating over the rigid line of her jaw that tells me
her teeth are clenched. Taking full advantage of the parts
we agreed to play, I lean in close, brushing my lips over her
skin and planting a kiss where her jaw is firmest.
“Princess.”
“Hey.” Mal doesn’t look at me, which makes Sloane’s
eyebrows raise. She shoots me a ‘you fucked up’ look and
grabs her plate.
“I’ll see you guys later.”
As soon as she’s out of earshot, I put my hands on
Mallory’s chair and turn her towards me. The sound of the
metal scraping against the tile floors is swallowed by the
voices of the dozens of students in the room, but I still hear
the gasp that escapes her lips when we’re face to face.
“Let’s try that again,” I say, placing my hand on her chin
and forcing her to look at me. “Hi, princess.”
“I already said hello to you, Chris.”
“Yes, but it was as dry as that chicken on your plate.
What’s wrong?”
With a flick of her chin, she’s free from my grasp.
“Nothing. I’m just stressed because of exams.”
“Are they that bad?”
Imagining her struggling is hard, but I know even the
strongest people hit road bumps sometimes, especially
when they’re under stress. I can’t see maintaining a fake
relationship and fending off a crazy ex during midterms
lending itself to any kind of relaxation.
All the uncertainties swirling around us must be
frustrating for her, especially given her love of control. On
instinct, my hand reaches out for hers, and I lace our
fingers together. She stares down at the place where our
hands are joined for a second before pulling away, looking
around as if to remind me that there’s no one here but us.
Her withdrawal is a stark and necessary reminder of our
circumstances and the hard rules around the roles we play.
I can’t keep letting the lines get blurred, not with both my
and Mallory’s future on the line.
“No.” She shakes her head. “They’re actually going
pretty well, I think I’m just tired from worrying about
Richardson’s exam. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s going
to try to find a way to use our relationship against me.”
“Mal.” Maintaining an even tone is hard, especially in
the face of the grim certainty coating her words. They hit
me like a kick to the gut, and all my hope around gaining
her trust, which was just so high a few days ago, lands on
the floor with a dull thud. “You don’t have to worry about
that, he’s not a problem.”
“For you.”
I scrub a hand over the lower half of my face. “For us.
He’s not a problem for us.”
“Chris, please. Now is not the time for you to do the
whole ‘we’re in this together’ thing. We both know he won’t
come after you because you’re young and rich and male,
but me on the other hand? I’ll be the one dealing with his
wrath.”
“And if that happens, he’ll be dealing with mine,” I
growl, and her head snaps around, eyes wide as she takes
in the anger rolling off of me in waves. It’s not for her, it’s
for Richardson and Trent and all the other assholes who
wronged her and made her think she can’t trust anyone,
but especially me. I study her face, and where I expect to
find soft understanding, I only find hardened resolve.
“You think I need you to fight my battles.” It’s a
statement that should be a question just like when Teresa
told me I’ve always liked her. I was hesitant to admit it
then, but looking at Mallory now, all stern features and
steely determination, I can admit it to myself: I’ve always
liked her, and now I like her even more.
“No.” But I want you to let me, you’ve been fighting long
enough.
The words don’t leave my lips, but I try to convey them
with my eyes, with my tone, with my clenched fists made of
fingers that itch to touch her again.
“Good.” She lifts her chin. “Because I don’t.”
“I know.” The words taste like acid on my tongue, but
she needs to hear them. And they’re not untrue. I know she
doesn’t need me. I just wish that she did.
The desire is old, yet new. It’s fresh and sweet, and,
somehow, also made bitter by age and time. Months.
Weeks. Days. Hours. Minutes and seconds of knowing her
and not. Of wanting her and fighting it. Not just because of
our arrangement or her valid trust issues, but also because
of the things within me that have held me back. Kept me in
a space where casual hookups are king and true
connections are unheard of. Where the lie I’d told myself
about relationships being a distraction from my goal to
honor my mother’s life with my own could stand up tall
because it didn’t have to face any scrutiny.
That lie is crumbling now, under the weight of amber
eyes and my desire, not just for her body, but for her brain
and her secrets and her trust, and the only thing left when
it falls away is regret.
That I didn’t realize what we could have had, what we
could have been, sooner.
Now every part of our would be beginning is wrapped
up in complications I don’t think we’d be able to get past
because even if I told her how I feel, she wouldn’t trust that
any of it was real. She’d always look at me like she’s
looking at me right now, with doubt dulling the light in her
eyes.
After a moment passes without either of us saying
anything, she shifts in her seat, angling her body towards
me. The pent up tension she’s been holding in her
shoulders since I sat down starts to dissipate.
“Any update?”
“Update?”
“On how things are going on the social media front?
With your dad and the rest of your family.”
“Oh.” I nod, understanding dawning on me even as the
abrupt change in our conversation grates on my nerves. “I
haven’t talked to my dad yet, but RJ and Ter have called
about our pictures so I’m sure he knows by now. I’ll know
for sure after our call on Friday.”
She scrunches her nose, taking one last bite of the
chicken and tossing the fork on the plate in front of her. “I
still think it’s weird that you guys schedule calls.”
“It is.” I shrug. “But I’m used to it now. What about
Trent?”
Every muscle in her body tenses for a second at the
mention of his name, and I watch with piqued interest as
she gets them all back online one by one. “Haven’t heard
from him.”
“Good. I’m glad to know you’re getting what you need
from this.” Several emotions flit across her face, but they
move too quickly for me to identify any of them.
“Yep,” she says, pushing up from her seat and grabbing
the plate off the table. “I have to get to class.”
“Oh,” I move to stand too, but she’s already moving,
leaving me behind. “I’ll see you later?”
We don’t have any plans on the books. Since we’re both
studying for exams, neither of us proposed a meet up. She
stops, turns around to face me.
“Yeah. Later.” Then she’s moving again and calling out
over her shoulder. “Make sure to tag me when you post the
picture you took earlier.”
My brows dip, pulling together in confusion before I
remember the photos I took when I first walked in here. I
fish my phone out of my pocket and pull them up, surprised
to find they’re more stunning than I remember. In every
single one she looks like joy personified. The physical
embodiment of radiant delight, and I know in an instant
that I won’t be tagging her in any of these photos because I
won’t be posting them at all.
Without a bit of reluctance—and only a little bit of
shame because I’m breaking our ‘post everything, all the
time’ rule—I move the photos from my camera roll and into
an album that’s currently untitled but holds all of the solo
pictures I took of Mallory on Sunday.
The ones that are just for me.

OceanofPDF.com
 21

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, and the sliver of

brain space I dedicate to wondering why I noticed it
when the rest of my back has been soaked for the last
thirty minutes of this class gives my sparring partner— a
tall, shapely girl named Rae with medium brown skin and
the body of a dancer—the space she needs to make her first
successful advance of the night.
Her open palm collides with my chin and my head snaps
up and back from the force of the blow. I let out a growl of
frustration and glare at her. Her eyes glitter with delight as
she steps back and resumes her fighting stance, palms up,
hands raised as she bounces around on her feet. I adjust
my stance as well, holding my hands up and mirroring her
footwork in practiced movements that probably aren’t half
as graceful as hers are.
All around us, other women grunt and yell and strike at
each other. The sound of their victories and failures
echoing around the gym, bouncing off of the cement walls
with posters and banners sporting the Legacy Training
Center logo and reverberating off of the padded floors that
bear the same insignia although it’s slightly faded now.
When I first found this place last semester, I’d forced
Sloane to come with me because I was scared to check it
out alone. The pictures on the website were less than awe
inspiring, but the moment I walked in here and met Hunter
Drake—a big, burly brute of a man with mocha skin, a bald
head and haunted eyes that made the tattoos covering
every inch of him the least interesting thing about him—I
knew I was in the right place.
Hunter wasn’t nice and the gym wasn’t exceptionally
clean, but from the start of the very first class I could tell
he was just as serious about teaching women to keep
themselves safe as we were about learning. Well, at least
some of us were serious. Sloane made it through one
demonstration about how to get out of a front choke hold
before she leaned over and asked me if I was good because
she wanted to go to the fair with Eric.
I was too focused on what Hunter was saying—a speech
about open palms being more useful than fists sometimes—
to listen, so I just nodded and shooed her away. She was
gone before Hunter finished his sentence, giving me a short
sideways hug and telling me she would leave the keys to
her car in my gym bag.
When it came time to execute some moves, I was slightly
annoyed about her abandoning me for funnel cakes and
fried Oreos, but that feeling quickly faded away when I
found myself standing in front of Hunter, heart beating out
of my chest as he peered down at me with hard eyes that
kicked my pulse up several notches. Sending me back into
the body of the girl who couldn’t find a single ounce of fight
inside of herself when she needed it most.
Hunter had ordered me to focus, to breathe and trust
my body to do the work. I had to admit that I didn’t trust
my body or myself at all. He didn’t need an explanation—
you don’t spend years teaching women and girls how to
defend themselves without learning the shorthand of
trauma—and instead of sending me to the back of the line
until I pulled myself together, he wrapped his hands around
my wrists and lifted my arms for me. His touch fast and
impersonal as he spread my fingers and reminded me of
what I needed to do. We ran the drill a million times over
the course of the hour, and when we were done, I walked
outside and threw up in the parking lot.
It would have been hard to explain such a visceral
reaction to Sloane, especially when I didn’t quite
understand it, so I was glad she had ended up leaving and I
never asked her to come to a class again.
“Focus, Mallory!” Hunter’s gruff order rings out, pulling
me out of my head and back onto the mat where Rae is still
circling me. I’m glad he called my name because she’s
closing in on me, preparing to land her second blow.
We’ve got one point each, so if she gets it, she’ll walk
away the winner of our two point sparring round and I’ll go
home even more agitated than I was when I came in here.
Rae is in front of me now, held off by my outstretched
arms. When I was coming to class regularly, we’d spar all
the time, so our breathing is in sync, both of us hyper
aware of the other’s movements, waiting to see who will
strike first. I decide to.
Using our height difference to my advantage, I drop my
left hand and swing it up, breaking through the shield she
tries to create with her forearms to strike her chin with the
heel of my hand. She stumbles back, clearly surprised at
the force I managed to put into the blow despite using my
non-dominant hand.
We both drop our palms at the same time, and she grins
at me, shaking her head as she comes across the mat to
bump me with her shoulder.
“Damn, girl, I really thought I was going to get you this
time.”
Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I soak up the
feeling, the exhilaration that can only come from besting
someone who’s just as good as you are. “The hand switch
got you, didn’t it?”
 “Hell yeah, it did.” We both turn to look at Hunter who’s
rugged face is screwed up in an expression as close to
happy as he gets. “Switching hands was smart, Mal. It
almost makes up for you dropping your palms and letting
her land that first blow in the first place.”
I bend down and pick up my water bottle, pouring the
rest of the lukewarm liquid down my throat and rolling my
eyes. Hunter never actually tells you that you’ve done a
good job. Maybe it’s his rumored military background or
just his personality, but every would-be compliment that
comes from him is followed so closely by critique it negates
the positive words altogether.
“Thanks?”
“Next time,” he continues, ignoring my reluctant
gratitude, “make sure you keep your head in the round. A
guy on the street won’t wait for you to get your bearings
before attacking. He’ll happily….”
“Exploit your distraction and use it for his advantage,” I
say, mimicking his rumbling baritone. “Yes, I know.”
He narrows his eyes. “Next time let your actions match
your knowledge.”
Rae and I share a look as he marches off, heading
towards another group of women huddled close together
laughing and talking.
“Next time let your actions match your knowledge.” She
says mockingly, wagging a finger at me as I grab my gym
bag and dig out my phone. “He’s so damn grumpy.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, opening up my messages and texting Eric
to see if he’s on the way. “But he’s good at what he does so
he knows we’re not going anywhere else.”
“True.” She lowers herself gracefully to the floor and
starts to stretch. The artful lines of her arms and legs
reflecting the love of dancing I suspect lies deep in her
history. It’s just a suspicion, one that will never be
confirmed because most of the women who frequent
Hunter’s gym are here to avoid reliving their pasts, not
discuss them at length. “You really should stretch after
class, you know. I can lead you through a few that help with
the soreness.”
I arch a brow at her, dragging my eyes away from my
phone where Eric has yet to reply. “No, thanks. You’d
probably end up pinning me to the mat just to get your lick
back.”
She snorts, and even that sound, which is horrific on
anyone else, sounds graceful on her. “Probably. I am a sore
loser.”
“Yeah, I know.” My phone dings, and I assume it’s Eric
telling me he’s outside. He hates when I make him wait, so
I toss my bag on my shoulder and wave at Rae. “Catch you
later.”
“Byeeeee!” She sings, holding the note long enough to
draw the attention of everyone in the gym but capturing
Hunter’s most effectively. He glowers at her, and then rolls
his eyes when she sticks her tongue out at him. I laugh at
their exchange and head out the door, stopping short on
the sidewalk when I don’t see the Toyota Corolla Eric and I
share idling in front of the building.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, opening the
message he just sent.
Eric: Did you run over something the last time you
drove? The car’s got a flat. Nic and I are on the side
of the road changing it.
Now I feel like Hunter, giving my phone the same stink
eye he was giving Rae as I stare at the message and the
one that follows.
Eric: Called Chris to come pick you up since he’s
closest. Why didn’t you just call him in the first place?
That’s literally what boyfriends are for.
I stare a hole through my phone, cursing Eric, the stupid
tire that’s probably flat because of him, and whatever part
of his brain told him that calling Chris was a good idea.
 Oh, yes, that would be the part of his brain that’s buying
the act we’ve been selling for two weeks now. We’ve been
peddling it all over town, campus and the internet, putting
it on at Mama’s house on Sunday when we all went home
for dinner, using study sessions and group outings as
opportunities to take all the pictures we could ever need to
sell our relationship to his family and my stalker of an ex
who won’t stop writing me asking to meet up.
Trent’s incessant messages had been a key component
in me coming back to the gym, but that was only a part of
the reason I’ve been a fixture on the mat lately. The other
parts were wrapped up in Chris and the safety net he’d
built around me without me even noticing.
When we were sitting in the cafeteria during midterms
and he got all growly and protective, it became quite clear
to me what had happened. Somewhere along the way—
between our first kiss, that night at Curly’s and him
witnessing the aftermath of my nightmares—he got it in his
head that I was weak.
Those words never passed his lips, of course, but I could
see it written all over his face. His determination to keep
me safe, his unwavering belief that I needed him to be my
sword and shield for the duration of our act. I couldn’t even
bring myself to be angry about it because that’s the role
I’ve been playing: the damsel in distress. Passive and
afraid, depending on the presence of one man to keep me
safe from the malice of others. Sitting around waiting for
the other shoe to drop, for Richardson to say something—
so far he hasn’t—for Trent’s increasingly belligerent
behavior to manifest outside of my private messages.
I guess it’s not all my fault. It’s kind of hard to feel like
the only person who cares about your safety when you’ve
got someone like Chris in your life.
Everywhere I go, he’s there. Bringing me coffee in the
mornings, watching over every interaction between me and
Richardson, holding my hand while we walk to class when
neither of us is able to hold a phone let alone take a
picture, and staying on campus late just to make sure I get
back to my dorm safely after lab on Fridays.
It’s almost like out of all the other things he’s worried
about—gaining his father’s acceptance, solidifying his spot
at MUSC, and taking full control over his future—making
me feel safe is the most important of them all.
And that’s exactly how I have been feeling. Secure.
Guarded.
It pissed me off and prompted me to take my safety and
well being into my own hands. To come back to this place
where I first found my power and reclaim it as my own.
Everything was going great. Weeks have passed with me
fitting in classes during the days and evenings when Chris
and I don’t have plans. I haven’t told him about the gym, or
the new, nastier messages Trent has been sending, because
I didn’t want to have another conversation about how he
doesn’t think I can take care of myself. But I guess that’s all
gone out the window now that he’s on the way to pick me
up.
As if I’ve conjured him up, my phone lights up with
Chris’ name flashing across the screen. He’s probably
calling to ask me how to find the gym. It’s in a sketchier
part of town, housed in a big, brick warehouse that used to
be a factory or some shit. Hunter converted it into what it
is now, using the majority of the space for the gym and
renting the rest to a guy who teaches karate to kids in the
neighborhood for free.
Pushing out a hard breath, I accept the call.
“Hello.”
“Princess,” he rasps. “Where exactly is this place?”
I close my eyes, absorbing the gravel in his voice that’s
wreaking havoc on my body. My heart squeezes and fire
heats my blood. “You don’t have to come.”
“Did Eric get the tire fixed?”
“No.”
 “Then how are you getting home?”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. “I can ask someone—”
“Why would you do that if I’m already on the way?”
It’s a good question. A great question, even, asked with
the right inflection and the perfect amount of concern, but
it still grates on every one of my nerves because it forces
me to come to terms with the other reason I had for hiding
this from him.
These classes still leave me hollow, operating in the
vulnerable space I have to maintain access to in order to
absorb the information Hunter gives us and execute the
moves. Some of the women here come just for fun, to feel
cool and powerful and get in a good workout, but then
there’s the rest of us—like me and Rae—that have already
had the thing our lucky counterparts only think of in the
hypothetical sense happen to us.
And we use it as fuel.
We picture our assailant’s faces as we throw blows and
land punches on the hard slabs of muscle that are Hunter
and the other male instructors who help out at the gym. We
smell their scents—sour and always alcohol laced—when
the men who have dedicated their lives to showing us how
to protect ourselves come up behind us, padded forearms
at our throats to protect their skin from the claws they
encourage us to unsheathe.
It takes a while to climb out of that space, to rid your
brain of the chemicals that rush through your body while
you’re in the midst of simulated danger, and I don’t think
I’ll be able to keep where I am mentally from Chris.
He just sees too much.
Even when I’m trying to hide from him, which I’ve made
a habit of doing ever since I realized this relationship is
feeding my crush on him. Actually, gorging is the more
accurate word. What was once a small, infinitesimal
infatuation, has expanded into something more. Affection
with an insurmountable wingspan. Feelings with roots that
only dig deeper the more I try to yank them up. I don’t
want it, or maybe I do, but either way it doesn’t matter
because I can’t have it.
I can’t have him, not in any real sense of the word,
because he wants my truths and I know that if I ever give
them to him, he won’t want me. Guys like him, who do
hookups and fun situationships, don’t know what to do with
girls like me who have baggage for days and trust issues
for miles.
“Because I don’t want you to get lost down here. The
gym is kind of hard to find.”
The line goes quiet, and I try to envision what his face
looks like right now. Chestnut eyes narrowed, jaw clenched,
wrinkles of confusion and impatience formed between his
brows. “Give me the address, princess. I won’t have any
trouble finding you.”
There’s nothing special about the way he says it, and
that only makes the sudden rush of arousal slicking my
underwear that much more embarrassing. I should have
this under control by now. After weeks of touching him and
kissing him in public, I should be perfectly capable of
having a conversation with him without turning into a
puddle, but the time we’ve spent pretending has only made
it harder.
I mean it took me two days to pull myself together after
he posted that picture of the coffee and sandwich he got
me on our first Monday, and I was only able to do that
because Sloane’s overly observant ass kept asking why I
was so mad at him. In order to protect our agreement, I
had to tuck my feelings into a tiny little box at the back of
my mind that I try to only open when I need to.
Most of the time I fail.
“Mallory.” His voice is a low growl that demands my
acquiescence, and I cave, rambling off the address to the
gym and listening as he plugs it into his GPS. It says he
should be here in five minutes, which confuses me.
 “How are you so close?”
“Eric called a while ago and told me I needed to pick you
up from the gym. He assumed I knew the name of the
place, since you’re my girlfriend and all, and he hung up
before I could decide whether I should tell him I didn’t
know where you were or that you were taking self defense
classes at all.”
I’m going to have permanent indentations in my lip from
my teeth by the time this conversation is done. Guilt tugs
on my heartstrings, but I push it away. I don’t have
anything to feel guilty about. Chris and I are not actually
together, which means I don’t owe him any explanations
about what I do outside of the time we agree to spend
together.
“You didn’t need to know.”
“Obviously, I did.”
“I couldn’t have known Eric was going to get a flat and
end up calling you to come get me.”
“You’re right. You still could have told me though.” He
pauses then adds, “If only to keep me from looking like a
clueless, self-centered boyfriend in front of your brother.”
Something inside of me, that was being fed by his
concern and nourished by the possessive thread weaving
its way through his voice, deflates when he says that last
part. And it’s like I’m back in that library study room,
hoping for private regard while he’s occupied with public
perception.
“Right,” I stumble over the word. “I guess I wasn’t
thinking.”
On his end, I hear the telltale ticking of a signal light
that causes me to scan the road for any sign of him turning
onto the short drive that connects the building to the main
road. It doesn’t take me long to locate the car, and I watch
it sail down the road smoothly and then come to a full stop
in front of me.
 Pushing off the wall, I end the call and start to walk to
the car, intending to hop in and get this ride done as
quickly as possible, but Chris surprises me by putting the
car in park and getting out. He strides around the car,
looking good as hell in a pair of black track pants with a
matching moisture wicking shirt that hugs his pectorals
and torso, showcasing abs I’ve dreamed about licking more
than once.
Heat creeps up into my cheeks as he approaches me.
His presence makes the complex work of freeing myself
from that vulnerable space simpler than it ever has been,
and I’m thankful to find that he looks significantly less
irritated than he sounded on the phone. He even graces me
with one of those panty evaporating smiles as he takes my
gym bag from my shoulder and places his hand on my back,
ushering me over to the passenger door and opening it for
me.
It’s only as I’m settling into my seat, feeling the damp
coolness of my sweat soaked shirt pressing into my skin,
that I consider I might smell. Trying to be covert, I sneak a
sniff of my armpits while Chris stores my bag in his
backseat, but I can’t get a good read on the odor situation
before he gets back into the car. Just in case I do stink, I
tuck my arms into my sides and cross my legs at the ankles.
Chris gives me a weird look, assessing eyes moving over
every inch of me. “Did you have a good workout?”
My eyes bulge. “Why? Do I smell?”
“Let’s see.” To my absolute surprise and misplaced
delight, he leans over the console and pauses with his face
inches from my neck. “May I?”
I swallow audibly as his question makes my core
contract. “Uh, sure.”
He comes in closer, crowding my space, and with his
nose millimeters from my neck he breathes me in.
Seemingly pulling every molecule of my scent out of the air
and into his nostrils with an inhale so deep my lungs hurt
just listening to it. Then, as if he hadn’t already turned my
underwear into a sopping mess, he lets out a low, satisfied
growl and pulls back a bit. I turn to face him, my eyes wide
with shock and shining with unspoken desire I don’t care if
he sees.
“Well?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. Something
close to hunger glints in his eyes as he stares back at me,
lips parting.
“Perfect,” he says simply.
Tension crackles in the air and it doesn’t fade, doesn’t
even consider becoming something less, when he moves all
the way back, settling in his seat. I watch him shift the car
into gear and then press the gas, long fingers gripping the
steering wheel.
“Liar,” I mutter under my breath, which makes him
smile.
And just like that, we’re back in that weird space we
always seems to occupy. Together but not. Flirting but only
when our arrangement necessitates, and, on the not so rare
occasion that the flirting happens without any thoughts of
the plan at the forefront of our mind, acting like it never
happened.
Chris is good at that, probably a left over skill from the
many years he’s spent sleeping around, but I am not, and
every time something like this happens, the barrier
between my very real feelings and our fictional relationship
gets a little thinner. I know I can’t afford to lose it
completely. If I do, I’ll be broken all over again by the end.
A victim of unchecked charm and charisma.
As he drives back towards campus, I busy myself with a
mental review of the class, playing back the moments Rae
got the better of me and repeating Hunter’s tips for
increasing reaction speed.
“How come I never knew you took self-defense classes?”
Chris asks, turning down a road that will take us to the
back side of campus and bring us closer to my dorm.
 “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t pay enough attention to
me.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but the way he looks at me,
with a soft gaze that’s unfairly serious, suggests he took it
as anything but. “No one gets as much of my attention as
you do.”
My mouth goes dry. “I was joking, Chris.”
“It was a bad joke, princess. Now stop deflecting and tell
me why I’ve been walking around for weeks not knowing
that my girlfriend could lay me out if she wanted to.”
My girlfriend.
A thousand butterflies take flight in my stomach, feather
light wings flapping against my ribcage. “I don’t know,
probably because I just decided to go back a few weeks
ago.”
“What made you want to do that?”
“I guess I just wanted to brush up on my skills.”
He glances over at me, and it only takes him a second to
pick apart my answer and get to the truth of the matter.
“Trent’s still writing you.”
“No,” I lie, the word like sandpaper on my tongue.
Images of the thread of messages from Trent that I’ve left
unanswered flash through my mind. The last one was
mean, desperate: Stop ignoring me, bitch, you know you’re
dying for another chance to suck me off. I shudder. “No, I
haven’t heard from him in a while.”
It’s stupid to lie to him about it, but if I tell Chris how
dark the messages from Trent are getting then he’ll want to
step in and be the hero. That will probably involve doing
something dumb like going to the police or confronting
Trent himself, and I don’t want him doing either of those
things.
When I decided to go back to the gym, it wasn’t just
because I was scared about getting too comfortable behind
the shield Chris offered me. It was also because I wanted to
be prepared when I inevitably have it taken away from me.
This relationship, and the comfort it has offered me is
temporary, but the impact it has on my life doesn’t have to
be.
If we’re successful, Chris will walk away from us with
the kind of freedom he’d only ever dreamed about, and I
want that for myself too. I want to come out of this feeling
stronger and more powerful than I have in a long time, and
the only way to do that is to use Trent’s obsession with us
to draw him out.
Clearly, our relationship isn’t the deterrent we thought it
would be, but I’m more than happy to adjust, to allow it to
be a catalyst, moving us towards the kind of closure the
broken girl who froze when she should have fought, who
stayed silent when she should have screamed, could have
never imagined.

OceanofPDF.com
 22

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

T he next afternoon I get an email from Dr. Richardson

that gives me the distinct feeling that the shit that’s
been up in the air since Chris told him about our
relationship is finally about to hit the fan.
If someone had asked me to describe the feeling, I
wouldn’t have been able to put it into words, but it starts
when I open the curt email—Ms. Kent, my office. Now.—and
clings to me as I walk across campus and text Sloane to tell
her I’m going to be late to our study session. And when I
finally step inside his office, taking in the folds of saggy
skin and thin lips with creases around them that I’m sure
come from frowning instead of smiling, it’s still with me.
He doesn’t even look up from the papers he’s shuffling
through on his desk when the door closes behind me. “Take
a seat.”
Despite the streak of rebellion rushing through my veins
in response to his order, I lower myself into the chair in
front of his desk. It’s diagonal to the table that Chris
usually occupies when he’s in here doing office hours after
class. Since it’s Thursday, he’s not there, and I can’t help
but wonder if Richardson chose this impromptu meeting
time because he knew Chris wouldn’t be available.
It doesn’t matter, Mal, you know how to handle yourself.
 The internal reminder is all I need. Sitting straight up, I
decide to take control of the conversation instead of sitting
here playing this intimidation game with him.
“What did you want to talk about, Dr. Richardson? I was
just on my way to the library to study for the exam I have in
Data Analytics tomorrow.”
I make sure to keep my voice even, but when he lifts his
head to look at me, glasses falling down the bridge of his
hooked nose, he still looks like he doesn’t appreciate my
tone. With a long sigh and a resigned shake of his head, he
sets the papers down and sits back in his chair, lacing his
wrinkled fingers together and resting them over his
stomach.
“I was recently made aware of your relationship with
Mr. Johnson,” he starts, sending my heart spiraling through
my chest and down into the pit of my churning stomach.
“Chris told me he informed you during midterms.”
He nods, the ruddy skin of his jowl jiggling with the
motion. “He did, but we’re not discussing him right now,
we’re discussing you.”
My brows fall together. “I’m not sure I understand what
you mean.”
It’s the most reasonable thing I can think of to say, but it
still doesn’t feel like it conveys the depth of my confusion.
Any conversation about me in regards to my relationship
with Chris, is a conversation about him as well.
Condescension laces the chuckle that fills the air
between us. “That doesn’t surprise me, Ms. Kent. I imagine
you’ll also be confused when I say I called you here to ask
you to withdraw from my class.”
“Withdraw? From a course I’m already halfway done
with? Why would I do that?”
“Because your relationship with Christopher has become
a distraction for the other students.”
This is news to me. No one seems to pay any attention to
us. Sure we get some looks when we’re together on
campus, but it never happens in the classroom. I’d venture
to say most of them don’t even know we’re together.
“A distraction,” I say slowly, laser focused on the the
anger swelling beneath my breastbone.
“Yes. It appears the hearts in your eyes from the first
day of class have only grown bigger and more ridiculous.
It’s to the point where students are complaining to me.
There have been rumblings about favoritism and unfair
academic advantages.”
“And your solution is to remove me from the class.”
“To ask you to remove yourself from the class, yes.”
A loud, disbelieving snort erupts from my nose or my
mouth or maybe both. I can’t be sure because it’s all so
ridiculous. The man. The conversation. The reality of what
he’s asking me to do.
“No.” Richardson lifts a brow, and his cheeks turn red.
He doesn’t like to be told no, especially by women, so I say
it again. “No. I will not remove myself from the class. If you
want me out, then you’re going to have to do it yourself.”
“I—”
“Don’t have the ability to do that, do you?” I don’t really
need to ask, I know he doesn’t. Professors can’t withdraw
students from classes after the final drop period is over
unless they have cause. Cause being, excessive absences
and missing assignments, not imaginary complaints from
students who don’t give a damn about who my boyfriend is.
Fake boyfriend, my subconscious reminds me.
Right, yes, students that don’t give a damn who my fake
boyfriend is.
“You know quite well that I don’t.”
“Well, then, I don’t know what else we have to talk about
here.” I start to stand, but his next words force me to plop
back down in my seat.
“We have plenty more to discuss, Mallory. Let’s start
with the paper you submitted at the end of last month. The
one that was turned in over forty minutes after the
deadline.”
Now, my heart, which has been chewed up by the blades
of anxiety oscillating in my stomach, is in my throat. It’s
been so long since the thing with the paper that I kind of
forgot about it, and I hope that right here, right now, isn’t
the moment when it comes back to bite me in the ass. I
school my features into a mask of indifference, running
through all the steps Chris told me he took to cover our
asses.
“What about it?”
I wait for the flare of panic to come. The one that used
to show up every time I was forced to revisit a lie I told to
keep my relationship with Trent safe. I always had to
wonder if he’d done what he needed to do, said what he
needed to say to make sure we were good, and while it
always turned out fine, in the moment, I never trusted that
he had us covered.
As I sit here, waiting for Richardson to answer my
question, all I feel is certainty that Chris does. Realizing
that I’ve added another person to the small list of people
that I never doubt would normally be an unsettling
sensation, but right now it just feels good. And I can only
guess that it’s because Chris has been working on gaining
my trust for a while. Slowly. With patience and precision.
In the last few weeks, I’ve grown to depend on him and
the easy way we exist together. When he tells me he’s
going to do something, I don’t doubt that he will. And
before, like literally just yesterday, I would have been
berating myself. Screaming silently that walking around
without even a flicker of uncertainty where a man—any
man, really, but especially one who can charm the panties
off a nun with a single smile that, these days, he only gives
to you—is concerned is a stupid thing to do.
But I don’t feel stupid, I just feel excited and open.
Capable of taking care of myself but also comfortable in the
knowledge that I don’t have to do it alone.
For right now.
Dr. Richardson sits up in his chair, straightening to his
full seated height which tells me he thinks he’s about to
make a big, important point. “I find it awfully convenient
that you were the first student to turn the paper in after the
deadline was adjusted. Given what we now know about
your relationship with Christopher, I have to wonder if you
were the real reason for the change.”
There’s no arguing with the facts or his logic, largely
because I know for a fact I was the reason for the change,
but I can’t admit to letting Chris alter the submission
settings for me.
“Was I the only student who turned in the assignment
after the original deadline?”
He visibly deflates, and I want to laugh in his face
because he clearly thought I’d be too flustered to use my
common sense and ask the most obvious question. “No,” he
admits, eyes darkening. “You were not the only student to
benefit from the change, but it still doesn’t explain how—”
“You know what I don’t get, Professor?” I cut in, slicing
his sentence in half. “I don’t understand how you thought
calling me into your office to have this conversation was
smart or necessary. You’re clearly on a warpath, looking for
any and every reason to get me out of your class and, more
than likely, the department.”
“No!” He bellows, face turning beet red. “Don’t try to
turn this into some ridiculous vendetta. I know Christopher
changed the deadline for you. I know you are receiving
unfair advantages—”
“And I know that your dislike for me started well before I
began dating your TA.” The color in his face and cheeks
starts to take over his neck and ears when I cut him off
again. He looks ready to stroke out, but I don’t care enough
to stop. “I know that the way you feel about me and the
way you’ve treated me ever since I started this program is
rooted in misogyny and racism. And I also know that I
wouldn’t be hard pressed to find another Black woman in
this department that you’ve subjected to this same
harassment.”
“Harassment,” he sputters. A nervous hand coming up
off of the desk to tug at the neckline of his ill fitting shirt.
“Yes, Professor. Harassment. Well documented
harassment, thanks to your very public speeches about
hormones and propositions and such on the first day of
class. Harassment that’s now turned into behavior
bordering on sex based discrimination because you are
trying to force me out of a class I’m passing because you
don’t like that I’m dating your TA. A TA, who is suspiciously
absent from this meeting despite the topic being our
relationship and the alleged complaints you’ve received
regarding it.” The words are flowing freely. Each point
piling on top of the other until it builds a mountain of hard
earned malice on his desk. “Which only further proves that
you are not concerned about a moved deadline or
distracted students, you are out to punish me, a BLACK
WOMAN, for something you probably haven’t even had the
balls to bring up to my male counterpart.”
“I’m not….You have this all wrong, young lady.”
Tossing my head back, I let out another peal of laughter.
“Let’s say that I do have it all wrong. Tell me, Dr.
Richardson, what are Chris’ repercussions for engaging in
a relationship with me? What’s his punishment for
distracting my classmates and allegedly adjusting a
deadline that more than half of the class, not just me,
benefited from?”
I watch his jaw work, and this time I wait for him to
come up with something to say. Because surely such a
learned, accomplished man would be able to hold his own
in a verbal exchange with a young woman such as myself.
“That’s between Christopher and me.”
 I roll my eyes. “Sure, let me take a guess though? You’ll
give him a good ole pat on the back and the ‘boys will be
boys’ speech and that’ll be it right? Done. Handled. You’ll
both go on with your lives while I, if I was going to submit
to your asinine request, have my entire undergraduate
career derailed, not to mention what your petty gossip will
do to my reputation.”
“It would all be confidential,” he mumbles, unable to
meet my eyes.
With another derisive snort, I push to my feet and fix
him with a hard stare, feeling more powerful than I have in
a long time. “It doesn’t matter because it’s not happening,
and if you call another one of these little meetings or so
much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll lodge a complaint
with the department chair and the Title IX Coordinator. I’m
sure Dr. Wilson would be happy to usher out a cranky, old
dinosaur such as yourself. Have a good day, Professor.”
I don’t bother glancing at him again as I dip to pick up
my bag off the floor and march out of his office with my
head held high. It feels good, slaying a dragon on my own.
Walking away from battle having benefited from the solid
foundation I trusted my partner to lay. I feel like I’m
floating, walking on a cloud made up of all the parts of
myself I thought would be lost to me forever.
The brave, daring parts that whisper quiet questions
under the chorus of victory. Questions about Chris and me
and this arrangement that I think could be more if we let it.
I’d be willing to try for him, and maybe, just maybe, I can
convince him to try for me.

OceanofPDF.com
 23

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

I don’t need convincing.

When Mallory shows up at my door in a crop top that
bares a sliver of her midriff and skin tight jeans that hug
her waist and make the lush roundness of her belly even
more prominent asking if I want to come on a ride with her,
I say yes immediately. And it doesn’t matter that we don’t
have anything planned or that, thanks to spending all of
December trying to teach Teresa how to drive, I have a
slight passenger seat phobia.
The only thing that matters is that she wanted an
adventure today, and she came to me. I tell myself not to
read too much into it. Remind myself there are several
good reasons why she chose me instead of Sloane, Eric or
Nic.

1. They’re all busy.

2. I’m her fake boyfriend, so it might look weird for her
to be doing whatever we’re going to do without me.
She probably felt obligated to invite me because of
the big deal I made about not knowing about her
self-defense classes.
3. This might have something to do with her ex, which
means I, the only person in her life who knows what
 he is to her, was her only option.

But as I look at her, none of those options feel right. She

just looks happy, more relaxed than she ever has around
me. The last few weeks have given me plenty of
opportunities to see her in various states of repose. With all
the time we spend at my place, either alone, trying to
figure out why my dad hasn’t asked about us yet, or with
the rest of the crew, I’ve seen nearly every mood Mal has,
and this is just different.
The windows are rolled down, warm air laced with
jasmine and citrus floating around the small space of the
Corolla. Her hair, which has been freed from the confines of
her protective style and is now flowing loosely in wild, sexy
coils that are thick and puffy, whips around her face, hiding
those amber eyes from me for seconds at a time. Music
blasts from the stereo as she takes a sharp curve with only
one of her hands on the wheel because the other is hanging
out the window, riding invisible waves of air that swallow
her happiness and push it back into the car where it
invades my lungs.
“You’re in a good mood today.”
She arches a sassy brow at me. “Are you suggesting I’m
not usually in a good mood?”
“I didn’t say that, but you are a little grumpy
sometimes.”
“Grumpy?” She gapes at me. “I’m not grumpy. A little
too serious maybe, but never grumpy.”
“Maybe,” I agree, folding a smile between my lips
because she’s cute when she’s in denial. “So what gives? I
thought you were studying with Sloane today.” Knowing
she had a date with the library and passed it up for a
chance to spend time with me makes me happier than I
care to admit.
 “I just felt like having some fun. The library has seen
enough of me, and I’ve seen enough of it. I’m so glad spring
break is coming up.”
“Me too.” Because it means I get more of this.
I leave the last part out and study her profile. I’ve got
every line of her face memorized. I know every expression.
The unique way each emotion plays across her features.
Right now there’s a serenity to her I haven’t seen before,
and I want to know where it came from, so I can do
everything in my power to give her more of it.
Reaching out with one hand, she turns the volume down
on the radio. “Just so you know, Richardson called me to his
office today.”
My jaw immediately tenses. “What did he want?”
“To ask me to withdraw from the class.”
She says it so casually. Like a professor requesting a
student remove themselves from a class is a normal thing
when we both know it’s not. Rage swirls around in my gut,
asking to be set free, but I tamp it down.
Weeks ago I promised that Richardson would feel my
wrath if he came at her, and she got angry at me for
wanting to fight her battles. I promised myself then and
there that I wouldn’t make that mistake again, and now I
find myself presented with the opportunity to make good on
that promise.
Mallory is silent as I think of an appropriate response,
and I wonder if she’s waiting for me to make the same
mistake. Although it pains me, I force myself to stay calm
and continue the conversation. “What did you say to that?”
The mischievous sparkle in her eye and the dangerous
curl of her lips tells me everything I need to know, but I
listen intently as she recounts the entire story. Starting
with the lies about student complaints and ending with her
handing him his ass and walking out before he got the
chance to respond. And when she’s done, she looks so
fucking proud of herself I want to lean across the console
and kiss her.
“I’m proud of you.”
The words pop out of my mouth on their own volition,
but it’s the most honest, most true thing I’ve said to her
today. Mallory must hear the meaning in the words because
she bites her lip, several emotions swimming in her irises
before she pushes them all away and says, “Thank you. I’m
proud of me too.”
I stare at her, allowing myself to imagine a world where
this feeling—this sudden and intense onset of euphoric
emotion—can last forever. Where it doesn’t have to be
swept away by an ill-timed reminder that we’re nothing
more than scene partners.
I let the moment go on too long, my silence stretching
between us until it borders on awkward. Part of me wants
the awkwardness, to see where it will take us, but I’m still
not sure that Mallory is ready for where I want the
conversation to go.
So I do the nice, honorable thing, and lead the
conversation back into safe territory.
“You’re welcome. Now, are you going to tell me where
we’re going?”
She glances over at me, flashing a full smile that
activates both of her dimples. “Nope.”
And just like that, I’m sucked back into the whirlwind
that is her. Not even caring she won’t give me an answer
because being around her is one of my favorite pastimes.
Doesn’t matter where we’re going or what we’re doing, if
Mallory is involved, I’m there.
“Fine, but at least slow down a little? I’m pretty sure
you’re not supposed to go above forty miles per hour with a
donut on your car.”
The small, temporary tire was the only thing that had
made me doubt getting in the car her and Eric share. Mal
sticks her tongue out at me and slams her foot down on the
gas, propelling us further down the empty back road that
seems to be taking us towards the side of town where her
and Eric grew up.
“Jesus, Mal.” I throw my hand out to stop myself from
flying into the dashboard I’m precariously close to. How
Eric, or Nic who’s taller than all of us, fit comfortably in
this car I’ll never know. “If I knew you were going to drive
this recklessly I would have made sure you got behind the
wheel of a car where all four tires were the same size.”
“Sloane would kill me if I drove her car like this.”
“I wasn’t talking about her car.” My foot presses into the
floorboard, trying to hit a brake I don’t have as we round
another curve.
She throws me a puzzled look, which is troubling
because I’m pretty sure we’re riding in both lanes right
now. “I know this might come as a surprise to you, growing
up with a fleet of cars at your disposal and all, but most
people can count on one hand the number of cars they have
access to and still have three to four fingers left. That’s
how I can say with absolute certainty there are only two
cars on campus I can drive.”
The road straightens out, and I relax a little. “First of all,
we didn’t have a fleet of cars.” Mal opens her mouth, but I
lift a finger and continue. “Second of all, you are always
more than welcome to drive my car, which means at any
given time there are three cars on campus available to
you.”
“Yeah, right. You’re way too uptight about your car to let
anyone behind the wheel.”
“You’re not just anyone, though.”
There’s a world of meaning in those five words, and I
want to kick myself for letting them slip out. Keeping my
feelings from showing in the things I say and do have been
a huge struggle lately. I’ve tried to keep it in check, but this
version of Mallory—this vibrant burst of sunlight that’s
been waiting to shine—makes it hard.
 It just adds another layer to her personality, gives me
another piece of her to appreciate, to covet, to obsess over.
“Chris, please,” she scoffs, “there’s no way on Earth I’d
ever get behind the wheel of your luxury car.”
Now, it’s my turn to look puzzled. “Sloane drives a
Lexus, that’s technically a luxury car.” She takes the one
hand she had on the wheel and waves it dismissively at me.
“Boy, please. Everybody knows that a Lexus ain’t
nothing but a Toyota with a different logo.”
“Mallory, put your damn hands on the wheel!” I try to
reach over and grab it, but she swats me away, using her
knee to maneuver the car. Exasperated, I lean my head
back on the headrest. “You’re a terrible driver.”
“And yet, you want to let me drive your car that costs as
much as two years of tuition.” Licking her lips, she gives
me a teasing smile. “You’d probably have a heart attack if
you saw me sitting in your driver’s seat.”
My brain chooses that exact moment to conjure an
image of her doing exactly that. A skimpy skirt pulled up
around her torso, baring the decadent place where her
tummy falls over her mound, thick thighs parted to make
room for my fingers that are desperately seeking her slick
heat. A dizzying amount of blood leaves my extremities and
floods my groin, causing my dick to swell.
Mallory’s laughter pulls me out of my sordid thoughts.
“See, you can’t even picture it.”
Being as subtle as I can in this cramped space, I shift in
my seat to make room for the erection I hope will be gone
by the time we get to where ever we’re going. “I can
picture it just fine.”
“I’m sure. I can tell by the look on your face that
whatever you were picturing wasn’t good. Did it start with
me totaling your baby and end with you never speaking to
me again?”
“It would take a lot more than you crashing my car to
get me to stop speaking to you.”
 “Chris, please, it’s an eighty thousand dollar car.”
I cringe. The number is a reminder of my father’s wealth
and the power that comes along with it. The power that he
wields with an iron fist and uses to crush anyone who won’t
fall in line. A fist that’s looming over my head, coming in
closer and closer the longer we continue with this struggle
for control over my life.
I’d thought that by now he’d have brought up my
relationship with Mallory on one of our calls, but so far he
hasn’t said a word, which means I’m no closer to the
autonomy I crave than I was when we started this.
And the only thing that stops me from thinking this was
all a waste of time is her.
Her peace of mind.
Her safety.
Her constant presence in my life.
“What’s that supposed to mean to me, Mallory?”
“Oh, shit.” Her mouth drops, and her eyes go comically
wide. “I’m sorry, I forgot I was talking to the heir of the
Johnson legacy. Eighty thousand dollars doesn’t mean a
damn thing to you, huh?”
“It’s eighty thousand dollars, of course it means
something to me. Not more than you though. A car can
easily be replaced, but a person”—I let the words hang in
the air, fighting back the urge to say ‘especially if that
person is you’— “a person isn’t.”

OceanofPDF.com
 24

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

B reathe.
I force air out of my lungs, but it doesn’t do
anything to calm the rapid beating of my heart as
Chris’ words layer themselves in between my skin and
bones. Coiling around my veins, seeping into my blood
stream.
I’m reading too much into it. I know I am. Because he
finished his statement—the one where he said his car,
which everyone knows he loves more than anything, didn’t
matter more than me—with a broader, more generalized
version of a sentiment, that when boiled down, only means
we shouldn’t value things over people.
Not a surprising take coming from someone who lost his
mom at a really young age and has, for all intents and
purposes, removed himself from the superficial world of
Boston’s elite.
So stop obsessing over it, Mallory, I scream to myself,
pretending to be too focused on turning into Skate World’s
parking lot to respond to Chris. Which is fine because he’s
not paying attention anyway. His thick brows are knitted
close together, chestnut eyes sweeping over the empty
gravel lot of what appears to be an abandoned building.
The old neon sign, which I imagine saw its best days when
Mama was still a teenager, has busted bulbs and one red
letter that’s precariously close to slipping right off the
white brick exterior.
Chris is quiet as I park the car, and I allow myself one
minute to push away the nerves threatening to overtake my
body. The whole purpose of this outing was for me to try
and figure out if he’s on the same page as me when it
comes to us.
Us.
The word sounds funny, almost foreign, in my mind, but
I kind of like it. I’d left Richardson’s office with enough
confidence in my feelings for Chris and his feelings for me
to fill the entire roller skate rink in front of us, but
somewhere between texting Sloane and saying I was
blowing off studying to hang out with Chris and getting
here, I’ve started to doubt the wisdom of that decision. I
feel like I’m existing in a tiny, airless bubble that’s being
volleyed between optimism and hopelessness, and all of it
depends on the things that come out of Chris’ mouth.
An unfortunate thing, really, since everything he says
seems to be some mixture of things that mean everything
and nothing for us all at the same time. It’s exhausting
trying to decipher it all while not overplaying my hand. The
last thing I would ever want is to pour my heart out to him
and find out his affection for me doesn’t go any further than
our farce.
“Is this place even open?” Chris asks, hopping out and
rounding the car to open my door before I get a chance to
do so on my own.
“Yes, it just looks abandoned because no one comes here
during the day.”
He arches a brow, holding out his hand to help me out. I
take it, loving the secure feeling of his rough fingertips
wrapped around my wrist. I love it even more when he
doesn’t let go, and I’m forced to lock the door and secure
my purse with one hand. When I’m done, Chris gestures for
me to lead the way.
“You sound quite certain, princess.”
I shrug. “I do my research.”
“Sounded more like you’re speaking from experience.”
He smiles down at me, inching up on another one of my
secrets. He’s gotten too good at that, filtering through my
words to find the truth. It makes me grateful my break up
with Trent hasn’t been the topic of conversation for quite
some time.
“Maybe I am.”
Using his left hand because the fingers of his right one
are still laced through mine, he opens the door and lets me
pass through first. When I glance back at him, I swear I
catch his eyes studying the sway of my hips, but he shifts
his gaze too quickly for me to be sure.
“Do you come here a lot?”
“Eric, Nic and I used to come here all the time in high
school. It’s the date spot for Lakewood students. You
weren’t official until you…” I trail off, thankful for the
darkness of the rink because it hides the blush creeping up
my cheeks. Here I am rambling about this being the
premier spot for high school couples while trying not to
expose my feelings for him. Chris looks thoughtful as we
approach the skate rental desk, but outside of that, I can’t
really tell what he’s feeling.
The desk attendant—an older Black lady with a jherri
curl and a name tag that says Lorraine—gives us a big
smile and immediately starts pulling down skates when we
stop in front of her. Surprisingly, she got our sizes perfect
and shooed us away when Chris pulled out his wallet to pay
for the rentals.
“Go on and have fun, babies. No one here is worried
about a few dollars.”
“They probably should be worried about a few dollars,”
Chris whispers under his breath as we sit down on the
benches and trade our shoes for skates. My laughter
bounces off of the half wall in front of us, and there’s so
much warmth in his eyes when he gazes over at me it’s
hard to think I’m in this alone.
“I—”
“So—”
We both start and stop at the same time, an awkward
silence falling between us as we wait to see who’s going to
start up again. When neither of us do, I shake my head and
smile.
“What were you going to say?”
“Are you sure you didn’t want to go first?”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t even remember what I was going to
say.”
“Oh,” he sighs, tightening the string at the very top of
his skate. I didn’t even ask him if he knew how to skate
before we came here. I just assumed that this, like
everything else, was something he knew how to do, and I
was right. “I was just going to ask if you were any good on
skates. Because if you’re not, and you’re one of those
people who drags the person closest to you down with you
when you fall, then I might need to get a helmet. And
maybe some knee pads.”
I’ve become quite fond of Chris’ sense of humor lately,
and right now I’m really enjoying the way his lips curve
while he takes a shit on my skating abilities. Instead of
answering his question, I push to my feet, giving my body
time to adjust to the feeling of the wheels beneath me.
When I’m steady, I make a show of skating backwards,
letting my ass pass by his face before spinning to face the
opening to the rink and stepping on. Getting my bearings
on the slick wood only takes a half a second, and it’s not
long before I’m zooming around with the lights from the
disco ball in the middle of the ceiling scattering colors all
across my body.
 Music blasts through the speakers, and I do two laps
around the rink before I feel Chris’ presence on the floor.
He’s somewhere behind me, moving slower than he needs
to, and I glance over my shoulder to try to catch sight of
him. The moment our eyes lock, he flashes me a smile that
can only be described as deliciously primal. It only adds to
the sensation building in my chest. The ringing of alarm
bells that alert me to the fact I’m being chased. I look back
at Chris again, just to be certain, and he smiles again, this
time running his tongue over his teeth like a hungry
predator preparing to take a bite out of its prey.
Hunted. I’m being hunted.
Despite the safety of my surroundings and the trust I
have in the person shadowing my movements, the feeling
builds and builds. All of the training I’ve been doing at
Hunter’s gym pushes to the surface, heightening my senses
and allowing me to filter out everything that isn’t the
smooth glide of his skate and the hairs standing at
attention at the back of my neck.
There’s a tightness in my chest that takes over all of my
muscles, including the ones in my pelvic floor which are
clenching and releasing furiously, completely at odds with
my brain which is telling me to prepare to fight not fuck.
Usually, I’d be inclined to let those instincts override my
sexual desire completely, but today I’m just not strong
enough. And instead of one negating the other, the two
things mix together, creating the burning, urgent need to
do both.
To be caught.
To fight.
To win and be rewarded with the sight of his eyes on fire
for me as we lap at the wounds we inflicted on each other.
Bites and scratches. Flesh parted by claws tipped with
desire, laced with trust and something we can’t name.
While I’m deep in thought, Chris closes the distance
between us. He’s completely in tune with my movements,
fluidly following my weaving lines across the floor as my
heart beats out of my chest. I can’t help but wonder if he
feels it too, if he knows what this chase is doing to me.
God, I hope he does.
The song changes, making a transition from a dance
song to some smooth R&B that makes zipping around the
floor at breakneck speeds seem a little ridiculous. I’m
making a mental pros and cons list for slowing down first
when two hands close around my waist pulling me back
into a set of arms I’ve spent a lot of time studying. Chris
hugs me to him, and I lean my head back against his chest,
achingly aware of the way being caught by him only
magnifies my desire as our movements sync.
“So you do know how to skate,” he murmurs against my
ear.
“Told you.”
“Actually,”—he spins me around so I’m facing him and
then pulls me in again. I’m skating backwards now,
determining the direction of our glides while he follows
—“you didn’t answer me before you took off.”
“I guess I was in more of a ‘show don’t tell’ mood.”
“It was quite a show.”
I’m barely biting back the urge to ask him if he’s
complimenting my ass, and the amusement stamped across
his features makes me think he knows it. I don’t know how
else to respond, so I just say the first thing that comes to
mind. “How’d you get so good at skating?”
He shrugs, and the motion causes his hands to lift a
little. I suck in a sharp hiss of air when his fingers find the
inch of skin between the hem of my shirt and the band of
my jeans.
“Skating rinks were a regular hangout spot for us too,
princess.”
“Oh, right. That makes sense.” A smirk curls his lips,
and I know he’s laughing at me, but it doesn’t feel mean or
wrong. It just feels nice to bathe in the warmth of his gaze.
“I always had to be the third wheel with Tasha and her
boyfriend. Or the fifth if I came with Eric and Nic and they
had dates.”
God, it all sounds so fucking sad. All the things I missed
out on because I was dating someone no one could ever
know about. My heart aches for that young girl who didn’t
know any better, who couldn’t be bothered to consider
what she was missing because she was in love.
Chris studies my face, accurately reading the emotions
swelling in my chest. “Do you regret it?” I don’t even
pretend like I don’t know what he means. I’m done hiding
from him, acting like he doesn’t see me when these days
he’s the only one who really does.
“Sometimes.”
His brows lift in surprise, and I know he wasn’t
expecting an honest answer. I like that I can still shock him,
and I decide to do it again by asking him a question related
to a topic I try not to think too much about.
“Do you regret your last relationship?”
I’m deliberately vague because as far as I can tell Giselle
—the girl he broke up with before leaving Boston for New
Haven—was his last real relationship. I’ve been curious
about what happened between them for a while now, but
I’ve refrained from asking for obvious reasons.
“With Giselle?” A fierce pang of jealousy goes through at
the sound of her name on his lips. It sounds too right. Like
she belongs there, in his mouth, on his tongue. Biting my
lip, I nod and watch as his eyes take on a faraway look.
Wisps of honey and bourbon being clouded over by
something dark. “The only thing I regret is leaving room for
misinterpretation. When I broke up with Giselle, I should
have made it clear I wasn’t ever coming back for her or the
life our parents want so badly for us to have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was stupid enough to think the distance and
time would be enough. I thought everyone would just move
on, but it seems like leaving just made them even more
concerned with getting me back there to honor the family
tradition.”
Sarcasm coats the last five words in the sentence, and
he rolls his eyes when he’s done. Chris always seems angry
when he talks about the way his family does things, but it
just makes me sad for him. Growing up without any true
examples of love, or relationships that weren’t formed
based on what one party could do for the other, must have
made dating hard.
It strikes me then that even our relationship is like that.
Transactional. An exchange of time, energy and effort
benefitting us both in different ways. It’s hard to reconcile
that cold, hard fact with the way he’s holding me right now
though.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course, princess.”
“Why haven’t you dated anyone since Giselle? Like
actually dated, not just…” I pause, unable to say the word
out loud.
Chris smirks again, but it falls away a lot quicker this
time. His face turns serious. “Honestly, finding someone to
date for real seemed like it would take too much energy,
and I didn’t want the distraction. Preparing for all the
things I want to do— the specialty I’ve chosen, the lives I
want to save—has demanded all my attention. A
relationship would have gotten in the way of that.” Golden
eyes bore into mine, imploring me to understand his logic. I
nod, letting him know I get him, even as the words deflate
the tiny bubble I was occupying. It was hovering over
optimism, but now, as it’s sinking to the ground, it’s sliding
towards hopelessness.
Hearing the man you want refer to relationships as a
distraction he can’t afford while he’s standing on the cusp
of a life that will only demand more from him, is a different
kind of heartbreak. It’s the loss of a thing that never was.
The last breath of an idea that doubles as its first. Inside
my chest, my heart cracks open, and my next question
comes out dull, lifeless.
“So sleeping around was easier?”
“Until it wasn’t.”
I want to ask when it became difficult, but I can’t spend
another second talking about the women who have gotten
parts of him I want for myself.
“Right. And then you ended up here with me.” In the
only kind of relationship he, by his own admission, can do
right now. Fake. Transactional. Confusing as fuck.
“Yeah,” he says softly, hands flexing around my waist.
“Then I ended up here with you.”

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 25

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

R ight where I’ve always wanted to be.

That’s what I should have said to Mallory while I
had her body pulled closed to mine, holding her
gently, possessively, but the words never came. Now the
time for them has passed. It’s a whole day later, and I
haven’t seen her at all today. She did text me this morning
saying she didn’t have lab today, so I could go home when I
finished with class.
I was actually grateful for the chance to leave campus
early because sleep had evaded me last night, forced away
by the nightmares about my mother that have recently
shifted to become even more gruesome.
I didn’t think it was possible since they’re already so
fucking brutal, but my brain proved me wrong. Taunting me
with images of her being pulled out of the door by
disembodied hands that didn’t stop dragging her away even
as she cried out for me.
It was the sound of her screaming my name that woke
me. That stuck with me all day, making it close to
impossible for me to focus on the words of the email Dr.
Richardson wrote to the class announcing that he was
leaving the department for personal reasons. Mallory had
sent me a screen shot of the email with a smiling emoji, and
I pretended to be surprised even though I know it’s been in
the works for months.
She’ll never know, but after witnessing the interaction
between her and Richardson on that first day in class, I
decided Richardson wasn’t going to be a problem for her,
or any other Black female student, anymore. It took some
thought, but eventually I came up with a solution that
would keep my hands clean, and after multiple calls—one
to my personal banker to make a withdrawal from my trust
and another to Lyla to get her to send the email—the ball
was rolling.
And by ball, I mean a seven figure donation made to the
business department in Lyla’s name with a single
stipulation: a team of equity consultants be brought in to
run a series of mandatory workshops to educate professors
about the ways their race and sex based biases harm their
students. In addition to the workshops, I had Lyla specify
that the department would need to keep the consultants on
and have the older, white males—specifically Richardson—
submit to mandatory audits that would look at their past
and present interactions with students to determine what
changes they needed to make.
I knew Richardson would never go for it. He’s too old
and set in his ways to ever respect the very real and valid
points made by people who have dedicated their lives to
leveling the playing field. Years ago, when I was a freshman
hanging out with upperclassmen Business majors, I heard
them talking about him threatening to quit when the
university took away the option to submit hard copies of
grades directly to the Registrar. If that simple change could
get him up in arms, I figured having his unfair treatment of
students like Mallory put under a magnifying glass would
put the nail in the coffin.
And I was right.
He’s been battling it out with Dr. Wilson since the
second week of the semester when the check was cashed
and consultants were hired. The workshops are set to start
after spring break, so I guess quitting in the middle of the
semester is his final ‘fuck you’ to the department and ‘their
new obsession with political correctness.’
His words not mine.
Now Mallory can rest easy knowing she doesn’t have to
deal with him for the rest of her undergraduate career, and
I can feel okay knowing she’ll have that peace when I leave
for medical school.
Rubbing at my tired eyes with both hands, I push that
thought away. I don’t want to think about leaving her or
this place that’s become home simply because it’s where
she exists, so I focus on my computer screen instead. My
dad should be logging on any minute now, and I’m eager to
talk to him about me and Mallory. He’s had weeks to bring
our relationship up, and even though I know he knows, he
hasn’t so much as hinted at me seeing someone. I’m tired
of waiting, so after all the pleasantries and updates about
Giselle I never ask for are out of the way, I’m bringing it up.
The Skype app dings, signaling that he’s logged on, and
I straighten to my full height. Dad’s face comes into focus,
and he’s sitting at his desk in the home office like he always
is. Papers and stacks of folders scattered around the edges
of the frame while he rubs at his temples with one hand
and holds the glasses he always wears to do paperwork in
the other. He looks worn out, and it almost makes me feel
bad I’m about to bring up a conversation that will almost
certainly lead to an argument between us.
Almost.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Son.” He sounds as tired as he looks, and I feel a
familiar pang of concern go through me. Whatever else my
father may be—controlling, stubborn, relentless—he’s still
the only parent I have left in the world, and turning off the
part of me that cares for him isn’t something I think I’ll
ever be able to do. “It’s rare that you log on before I do. I
assume it’s not because you were eager to talk to me,
which must mean you’re finally ready to discuss the recent
developments in your personal life.”
My brows shoot up, surprise surging through me as I
wipe my suddenly sweaty palms down the legs of my jeans.
“How long have you known about me and Mallory?”
“Teresa’s been keeping me up to date on your social
media presence for years now. She was extremely excited
to find out that you’ve been dating and has made it her job
to notify me every time you post something new about this
young lady.”
“Mallory.” I say, wanting him to say her name, needing
him to see she’s a real person I care for, not just some
nameless, faceless girl he can dismiss. “Her name is
Mallory.” He inclines his head, eyes shining with genuine
interest because of my hard tone. Maybe RJ was right
about the severity of my tone being the thing to seal the
deal.
“Mallory,” he repeats.
“If you knew about her why haven’t you brought it up?
All you’ve been talking about for weeks is me and Giselle,
but you know that I’m in a relationship.”
“The better question, son, is why have you been sitting
on those calls listening to me talk about your future with
Giselle and then climbing into bed with Mallory?”
A humorless scoff escapes my lips because the only time
I’ve ever shared a bed with Mallory has been in my dreams.
It’ll probably stay that way too since I’m still not sure how
she’ll receive a declaration of my feelings. She looked like
she understood my logic a little too well, like her
experience with Trent had bought her a VIP ticket to the
‘No Love, Just Goals’ section I’d been comfortable running
up until the moment I tasted her lips. That look of
understanding in her eye stopped me from explaining I had
a change of heart because of her. My dad clears his throat
impatiently, snapping me out of my thoughts.
 I take another second to formulate my response. “I
assumed if you wanted to discuss it, you would have made
room for it on the agenda you always seem to have for
these calls.”
Now, I see that was a mistake. I could have been
capitalizing off of the work Mallory and I have been putting
into this relationship for weeks now, but instead I’ve been
waiting around like a little kid hoping his dad will notice he
cleaned his room.
“And I assumed the same thing. If this…” I narrow my
eyes, daring him to say ‘this girl’ again, and he clears his
throat. “If Mallory is so important to you, you should have
brought it up to me sooner. Never wait for someone to open
the floor up to you, son. If you have something to say, storm
onto the stage and take the mic. Demand your right to
speak your truth.”
“Speaking my truth only matters if my audience is open
to hearing it.” Something in his expression softens
marginally, and a tiny, almost infinitesimal, bubble of hope
springs in my chest.
“I’m sorry if you feel like I haven’t been open to hearing
you, Christopher.”
Ignoring the inclusion of the word ‘if’ in his apology is a
battle, but I manage to do it because I don’t want to derail
our conversation by being nit picky about his choice of
words. “It’s all good, Dad.”
He leans back in his chair, leaving his glasses on the
desk so he can lace the fingers of both hands in front of his
stomach. “So it’s serious then?”
“Yes. It’s serious.”
“You in love? Because I never brought any woman to my
father’s attention if I wasn’t in love with her.”
As far as I know the only woman he brought to
Grandpa’s attention was Mom, and he did that with a ring
on her finger and the promise of forever stretched between
them. Just the thought of Mom’s ring, altered for the
woman my father’s determined to see me marry, makes my
throat tight. The gravity of this moment weighs on me
because even though he hasn’t said so, I know my answer
to this question can change my entire life.
“Yes.” The conviction in my tone isn’t lost on either of
us, and I have to school my features into a neutral
expression to hide the shock radiating through me. Once
again I find myself caught off guard by the pure emotion
coating my words when I talk about how I feel about
Mallory. Even more worrying is that those feelings run
deeper now than they did when I told Richardson about us
just a few weeks ago.
Dad is quiet as he considers me. I don’t flinch under his
examination because there’s nothing to hide. My feelings
for Mallory are real, and once I’m certain my dad believes
me, I’m going to see to it that she does too.
Trent Davis, and the trust issues he left her with, be
damned.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so serious about
something that isn’t medicine,” Dad says finally. “Which is
why I still can’t understand why you would keep it from me
for so long, Chris.”
I resist the urge to point out the obvious and give him
another honest answer. One that’s not just about Mallory,
even though having her in my life brought me to the
realization. “Because I didn’t want you to take it away.”
Honesty has never been a huge part of my relationship
with my father—mainly because dictators don’t want truth
from their subjects, they want blind loyalty—but saying
these words to him don’t feel as scary as I thought they
would.
When I was a kid, I never imagined being so candid with
him about all the ways he stripped joy from my life in
service of legacy. Not when he refused to sign me up for
piano lessons and enrolled me in a science camp instead.
Or even when he made me stop being friends with a kid
named Jonah because he wanted to be a teacher and
suggested I become one too.
It feels good to let it out now, to watch his face as he
absorbs my words and the meaning behind them. I don’t
get to see the full range of emotion though, because his
processing is interrupted by the sound of his phone going
off. The ringtone is specific and familiar, taking me back to
the days when dinner would be interrupted by an
emergency that could only be solved by his capable hands.
“It’s the hospital,” he says, leaning forward to snatch the
phone off the desk. Before I can respond he’s on his feet,
grabbing his glasses, wallet and keys. For a second, I think
he’s going to rush out of the office without even ending the
call or addressing what I just said, but to my surprise, he
doesn’t. Pausing so his body is held just inside the frame,
he sighs. “All I’ve ever wanted is what’s best for you, son.”
And then he’s gone, the slamming of the office door
against the wall the only sound coming through the
speakers as I stare at the book shelves behind his desk. It’s
not exactly the resolution I was hoping for, but I feel good
about the conversation. Certain that he understands how
much Mallory means to me and will now back off of the
whole Giselle thing.
This is good.
Great.
Better than I could have expected it to go, and the only
person I want to see, the only person I want to share it
with, is Mallory. I close my computer and glance at my
watch, it’s only five thirty, so I know she’s not asleep.
Without a thought about the exhaustion I was feeling just a
few minutes ago, or the weird energy that lingered
between us when we parted ways last night, I grab my
keys, slide on my shoes and head out the door.
The drive to campus takes over forty-five minutes. An
unexpected inconvenience since most of the student body
skipped classes today, so they could start their spring break
early. When I get to Mallory’s dorm, the security guard
waves me through without me even having to take out my
student ID, and I give him an appreciative nod. Pretty soon,
I’m standing in front of her door, heart beating a rapid
tattoo of anticipation as I knock.
I hear shuffling behind the door and my pulse quickens
then falls when it swings open and Mallory’s roommate,
Alexis, is the one standing in front of me. She’s wearing her
signature disinterested look, and her lips are turned down
in a line as she stares at me. Over her shoulder, I can see a
suitcase sprawled out on her bed, which means I
interrupted her packing.
“Mallory isn’t here.”
I’m momentarily taken aback by the lack of greeting, but
I brush it off. “Oh. Sorry. She told me she was going to be
—”
“Yeah, well, just like I told the other guy who was
waiting outside the building for her, I don’t know where she
is.”
“Guy?” My brows fall together as a sick feeling of dread
winds its way through my gut. There’s only one guy who
could have come looking for her that Alexis wouldn’t have
known. But, no, it can’t be him. Mallory said she hasn’t
heard from him in weeks. “What guy?”
Alexis heaves a long suffering sigh. “I don’t know, Chris.
I didn’t exactly ask him for his name and birth date.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall, light skin, muscular,” she pauses, squinting like
she’s trying to remember something else. “He had on a
letterman jacket. I remember thinking it was weird because
it had Lakewood or something on it?”
Time stops, and I stop right along with it, existing in the
stillness of a frozen hour glass. Staring at a broken clock
with warped hands that spin endlessly, making aimless
revolutions and never landing on the numbers I need to
orient myself.
 Trent was here.
Trent was here, and he was looking for Mallory and now
I don’t know where either of them are. I didn’t see him
when I was on my way in, so he either gave up on
ambushing Mallory outside of the building or he found her.
The thought, coupled with the image of Mallory’s fear
stricken features the first and only time I’ve seen her with
Trent, sets me in motion. I spin on my heel, turning my
back on Alexis and heading down the hall.
“You’re welcome!” She yells behind me.
“Yeah, thanks.” I toss over my shoulder loud enough for
her, and then, under my breath. “For nothing.”
When I get back outside the building, I crane my neck,
swinging my head from the left to the right for any sign of
Mallory or Trent. As I expected, both sides are empty, so I
yank my phone out of my pocket and call her. The phone
rings for forever before going to voicemail, and I let out a
string of curses as I run for my car. I don’t even know
where I’m going, but I know I have to be moving. Have to
be doing something to find her and make sure she’s safe,
and I have to do all of it without alarming anyone.
The car’s engine roars to life, the gentle purr doing little
to soothe my nerves as I dial Sloane’s number. She’s more
likely to know where Mal is than anyone else, and as the
call connects, I find myself doing something I rarely do
these days: praying.
That they’re together doing something silly like
watching Lifetime movies and eating their weight in
popcorn. That she’s happy and smiling and has no idea
there was a literal monster waiting on her doorstep.
“Hello?”
Relief floods me at the sound of Sloane’s voice, and I
close my eyes, thankful that she picked up even though she
sounds like she has no idea who’s calling. “Hey, Sloane. It’s
Chris. Is Mallory with you?”
“Hey, Chris! No, she’s not with me.”
 My hand clenches, turning into a tight fist. “Have you
seen her at all today?”
“Yeah, we’ve been together most of the day. We went to
the mall, got some food and came back to my room, but she
left a while ago.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Is everything okay, Chris?” Sloane asks, her voice
taking on a suspicious tone that suggests I should pull back
a bit if I don’t want to alarm her.
“Yeah.” I open my eyes, draw in a deep breath.
“Everything is good.”
The line is quiet, and I allow the silence because it gives
me time to think of my next move. I almost forget Sloane is
there and then she starts talking again. “I’m sure whatever
is going on with you guys will turn out fine. Mal is
stubborn, and too serious for her own good sometimes, but
she’s happy with you. Happier than I’ve ever seen her, and
I don’t think a little argument, or whatever is going on
right now, will change that. You’ll find a way to fix it.”
The last part is more of an order than a reassurance,
and if it had come at any other time, I would have laughed,
but I’m not feeling humorous right now. “Thanks, Sloane. I
gotta go.”
“Let me know when you get a hold of her, okay?”
“Okay.”
I end the call before she can issue any more edicts and
try Mallory again. Her phone rings and then goes to
voicemail, so I call Eric and then Nic. A paralyzing feeling
of helplessness envelops me as each call ends with no one
offering new information, and while it’s a common
sensation within my nightmares, it’s unlike anything I’ve
ever felt in my waking hours. I don’t know what to do with
it. Where to put these unsettling emotions that have
replaced my blood, making it so nothing but fear and rage
and panic course through my veins.
 With all my options exhausted, I throw my phone
carelessly into the passenger seat and run my hands, which
are still curled into fists, over my head before slamming
them down into the steering wheel repeatedly.
“Fuck!”

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 26

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

5 :40 p.m.
The melody of birds chirping happily is the only
sound on the quiet path besides my footsteps as I walk
from Sloane’s dorm to mine. Beams of late evening sunlight
filter through the treetops above me, bathing the sidewalk
in the last bit of warmth it’ll get today before the moon
comes out to illuminate the shadows, and the idyllic scene
makes me glad I decided to take the long way home. I went
out of my way to take this path, zigzagging across campus
just so I could be reminded of the night Chris literally ran
into me and took me to Curly’s.
My whole life changed that night, and I didn’t even
know it. The girl who said yes to him, who wanted to feel
that same zip of spontaneous energy down her spine could
never have imagined that the spark between us would have
turned into this.
This, being a confusing array of emotions that refuse to
be tamed no matter how much space I put between me and
Chris. After yesterday at the skating rink, I decided I
needed a step back, and the universe seemed to agree
because it presented me with two canceled classes and no
reason to see Chris at all today.
 It didn’t stop me from texting him about the Richardson
resignation, though, but texting is different than being in
the same room with him. Touching him. Hugging him.
Kissing him. The space I took today was good for my brain,
but it wasn’t good for my heart.
All day long, when I was with Sloane, I missed Chris. I
couldn’t stop myself from thinking about him, wondering
how his day was going, if he was missing me. It was an
unproductive train of thought, and yet, I couldn’t stop
myself from indulging in it.
Gazing heavenward, I will myself to give the pointless
thoughts a rest. For all I know, Chris spends all the time he
isn’t with me planning out his life as a world renowned
OBGYN. Normally, I wouldn’t hold being goal oriented
against a guy, especially not someone like Chris who, just
months ago, was nothing more than a careless playboy to
me. Now I know there’s so much more to him, and I want it
all. The playful jokester who makes me smile. The soft,
serious man with eyes that see through the smoke and
mirrors down to the parts of me I hide from everyone,
including myself.
I just don’t know if I can have it.
Up ahead on the path, I see a form lingering close to the
opening leading to the set of buildings I live in. From this
far back, I can’t make out who it is, but I can tell that
they’re staggering a bit. Immediately, the hair on the back
of my neck rises. I can’t exactly put a finger on it, but
something about this person—this guy—feels familiar to
me. And the closer we get to each other, the more the
feeling intensifies. Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of the fact
we’re the only two people on the path, and despite me not
knowing who this guy is, he seems to know me.
I’m staring at him, so I can see the exact moment that
he notices me. Something about his posture changes, his
head snaps up and he stands up taller, starts to move
faster. My pulse begins to race, but my feet don’t stop
moving. They’re carrying me forward, towards this person
who’s face is becoming clearer with every step I take.
Trent.
My heart recognizes him before my mind does, and
there’s a part of me, a very loud part, screaming for me to
turn around and go the other way. The other part, the part
that’s been training and waiting for him to do exactly what
he’s doing right now, is giving me strength. Fortifying me.
And I’m not afraid.
The realization rings through me just as the distance
draws shorter. I stop walking first, so I can control the
amount of space between us. Trent’s face spreads into a
wide smile as he stops in front of me.
“Mallory,” he drawls, the slight slur of his words
reminding me of the night I worked so hard to forget.
“Don’t you look beautiful today?”
Leering eyes skate down my body, and I fight to hide the
shiver it sends down my spine. I can’t believe there used to
be a time when I loved his eyes on me. Now, they just make
my stomach turn.
“What are you doing here, Trent?”
He takes a step towards me, and I take a step back. My
hands coming up to put space between us. His brows rise
as he takes in my new stance, and the laugh that escapes
his curled lips mocks me. “I came to talk to you. You
haven’t responded to any of my messages.”
“Because I didn’t want to talk to you.”
His smile shifts, turning cruel. “Funny. You used to love
to talk to me. I remember when you used to cry when I
couldn’t call you, throw fits when I used to take too long to
text back.”
Shame washes over me. His words triggering memories
of a girl who didn’t understand that the joy he got from
watching me pine for him was nothing more than a sign of
toxicity.
“That was years ago, Trent. I’ve moved on.”
 “Right, right. With your new boyfriend who likes to post
pics of you to remind the world that you’re his slut now.”
He takes another step forward, angling his body to the side
to try and create an opening that’s not blocked by my
palms. I turn too, remembering Hunter’s instructions from
a lifetime ago to shadow your would be attacker’s
movements. “You forgot who taught you all the tricks you
use on him, huh?”
One of his hands comes up, thick fingers outstretched
and reaching for my face. I slap it down forcefully, and his
brows pull together as his eyes harden. I’m so concentrated
on the fact that I actually hit him, that I don’t see his other
hand come up. His fingers wrap around my wrist,
squeezing tight and yanking it down to my side. With a
hard tug, he pulls me into his body, and I gasp, pushing
against him. It’s only then that I smell the alcohol on his
breath, the rancid scent spilling out of his pores and
flooding my nostrils. My stomach heaves as my brain flits
between reality and memory.
The bright path and the dark dorm room from all those
years ago.
The solid ground I’m standing on and the soft mattress
that offered no comfort when he was hovering over me,
taking things I didn’t want to give him.
Tears blur my vision, and I hate the way the sight of
them makes his eyes shine with glee. He leans in close,
inhaling my scent while I struggle to break his hold. “When
I met you, you didn’t even know what to do with a dick. I
taught you how to suck one, showed you how to take one
like a good little girl, and now you think you’re hot shit
because you’re dating some rich boy from up north? Can’t
take the time to write me back, but you can pose for his
camera?” Another cruel laugh. “If I knew you wanted to put
on a show, I would have brought mine to the bed for you.”
“Let me go.” My voice shakes, but there’s strength
there.
 “See that’s the problem, baby.” His sweat spreads across
my skin as he presses his forehead to mine. I can
practically hear Hunter shouting in my head about letting
him get this close, but I couldn’t stop it so now I have to
find a way to use his proximity to my advantage. “I can’t let
you go. Ever since you snuck out of my bed that night, I
can’t get you out of my head. You were my life, Mallory, and
you just left. Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Because you…” The words are there, in my head, on my
lips, but they won’t come out. “You know why, Trent. You
know what you did to me.”
But the wild confusion etched into his features suggest
that he has no clue. That makes me want to laugh and
scream and claw his eyes out. How is it possible for
someone to be so blind? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, he
didn’t know, or care, that I didn’t want it when he was right
there in my face, as close to me then as he is now.
Unknowing, uncaring about my pain.
His hold on me grows tighter, and I feel the bones in his
hand grinding against the ones in my wrist. “I gave you
what you wanted.”
“I said no.” A tear slips down my cheek. “I changed my
mind and you…you kept going.”
Each word feels like it’s being ripped from my body. The
truth burning my throat like acid and fire. “You knew I
didn’t want you to—”
“Don’t try to rewrite history, Mal. We both knew what
you were there to get fucked.”
The only upside to his nasty reply is that he pulls back,
creating the space I need to breathe, to think. His throat is
exposed, and although he’s still holding my right hand, the
left one is free. It’s pinned between our bodies though,
which means I can’t do much of anything yet.
“I was there because I trusted you. I was there because
a naive sixteen year old was the only girl you could trick
into thinking you were a good guy.”
 “I am a good guy.”
“You’re a rapist,” I hiss. Anger bubbling in the pit of my
stomach finally forcing the words up my throat and past my
lips. Trent flinches, like being defined by the horrific thing
he did to me is an affront to his character. I use his
momentary discomfort to my advantage, yanking my arm
down to break his hold on me and taking several steps
back. Hunter says this is the point where you need to
incapacitate your attacker and run like hell, but I’m not
ready to do that just yet. “You raped me, and no matter how
you try to frame it, that’s the truth. I told you I didn’t want
to go any further, and you ignored me. I—”
“Laid there and took it,” he bites out, moving towards
me again on staggering feet. His hands are extended, and I
know with a sick certainty that if I let him get his hands on
me again, I won’t be able to break free. All the muscles in
my body tense as I prepare for him to strike. I can see from
the way he’s eyeing the puffs of black coils floating around
me that he intends to grab my hair, so I decide to strike
first.
My hand flies out and strikes at his neck, hitting him
right in his Adam’s Apple and sending him stumbling back.
The vibration from the sheer power I put into the blow
echos through my hand, but I don’t stop hitting him. I can’t
stop actually, and it’s not long before the open palm strikes
Hunter taught me are out the window and pure instinct
kicks in. Soon, I’m just wailing on him with closed fists that
strike at whatever they can reach.
Beneath the sound of the blows landing, Trent grunts
and groans but stays on his feet. For a man who smells like
he’s got enough alcohol in his system to stock a hotel bar,
he’s got great balance and manages to slither out of my
reach.
“You stupid bitch.” He glares at me, putting his hand to
his lip to try and staunch the blood flowing freely from the
cut there. “You cut my fucking lip.”
 “And you deserve a million times worse, you pig,” I spit
at him, chest heaving from exertion. “You should be in jail
for what you did to me!”
“I swear to God if you go to the cops, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I taunt him, eyes stretching wide to
emphasize a point I have no desire to actually make. Going
to the cops now would only make my life and the lives of
the people I care about the most a living hell. I won’t ever
give him that. “Send Tasha to tell them I’m a liar? Show up
here and get your ass handed to you again?”
I watch his eyes narrow into slits and finally his
transformation into the monster I know him to be is
complete. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Go suck on a dick and die, Trent.”
I don’t know what it is about that specific phrase that
sends him over the edge, but suddenly he’s lunging at me.
His torso parallel to his bent knees as he runs at me with
his arms open, ready to wrap around my waist and take me
down with a tackle he was known for in his high school
days.
Panic clogs my throat, and I curse at myself for not
getting away when I had the chance. Trent aims for my left
side, so I jump to the right, twisting away from him and
leaving the momentum he’s built up with nowhere to go but
down. He hits the ground with a thud but recovers quickly,
muttering something about teaching me a lesson as he
clambers to his feet.
Adrenaline pumps through me, and my fight or flight
instincts beg me to choose flight, so I do. I can tell Trent
knows I’m going to run. Judging by the way his unfocused
eyes are bouncing between me and the path leading to the
dorms, I see that’s where he expects me to go, so I feign
interest. Making subtle shifts to my body language to make
it seem like he’s right. A gross smile takes over his lips as
he watches me prepare to run, and the next time he lunges
at me, I strike him right in the face. The heel of my hand
colliding with his nose and causing it to spray blood that
has him reaching blindly for me in the wrong direction. His
pained groans are the last thing I hear as I head down the
opposite side of the path, going back the way I came.
I run blindly, listening for any sign that he’s behind me
as I dig my keys out of my purse and find the car in the spot
I left it in when Sloane and I got back to campus earlier. My
brain screams at me, repeating Hunter’s directions to
‘move fast and get safe’ over and over again.
My hands shake as I unlock the car doors and throw
myself into the driver’s seat, not even bothering to hook my
seat belt completely before reversing out of the spot and
gunning the engine, heading for the only place, the only
person, who can make me feel safe right now.

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 27

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

C hris isn’t home.

I can feel his absence in the quiet, stillness of his
apartment when the door closes behind me. My head
hurts from the enraged screams and sobs that poured from
my throat on the drive over here. Coming face to face with
Trent, speaking the words that barely captured the damage
he did to me, unleashing my rage on him, it was all too
much. All of my senses were overloaded, every nerve
ending alive and firing on all cylinders.
And they’re just calming down.
Soothed by the hum of the air condition and Chris’ scent
tickling my nostrils as I walk through the hallway into the
living room. Today is the first time I’ve used the key he
gave me, and despite knowing he gave it to me for
situations exactly like this, I still feel weird being here
without him. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I
stride over to the kitchen island and collapse into one of
the bar stools. My purse slips from my arm and lands with
a thud on the floor, and even though I spent my whole life
listening to Mama say leaving your purse on the floor will
keep you broke, I don’t bend over to pick it up.
Uncurling my aching fingers, which have been grasping
the cool metal of the key to Chris’ apartment like a lifeline,
I drop them on the counter and take a look at my hands.
There are small cuts and scratches along my knuckles from
repeated collision with parts of Trent’s body, and there’s
some stiffness to the tendons linked to my middle and ring
fingers that’s starting to hurt like a bitch. I eye them both,
stretching them out to see if there’s any swelling and
whimpering when the movement sends pain radiating
throughout my hand. I have no idea if they’re swollen now,
but something tells me that if I don’t do something now,
they will be soon.
I drag myself off of the stool and over to the freezer only
to find it empty except for an ice tray that has no cubes in
it. Then I switch over to the fridge and let out a frustrated
growl when there’s nothing useful in there either. I slam
the door closed and wince when it sends another jolt of
pain through my trembling hand. I stare at it for a minute,
imagining I can hear the rattling of my bones as the
entirety of my body shudders and shakes as the last of the
adrenaline leaves me. Suddenly everything in front of me is
moving, swirling around me in blurry waves that make my
head spin and my knees feel weak.
Lowering myself to the ground slowly happens on
instinct. One minute I’m standing, watching the stainless
steel appliances doing a line dance, and the next I’m sitting
on the hardwood floor with the refrigerator at my back. I
draw my knees up to my chest, resting my elbows against
my thighs so my hurt hand is slightly elevated and close my
eyes. I don’t know how long I sit there like that, but the
next time my eyes open, Chris is there.
“Princess.” He’s crouching in front of me, concern
etched into his features as he examines me. Chestnut eyes
with heated anger singing the corners sweep over me and
catch fire when he sees my hand. “What happened?”
With gentle fingers he captures my wrist, pulling my
hand closer so he can examine it, and I’m so overwhelmed
at the sight of him, at the presence of his fury and concern,
that I can’t say anything. I just stare at him, stupid tears
turning my vision fuzzy as my brain and heart scream that
I’m finally safe.
Chris doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, and I watch him
inspect my hand with the kind of precision I would expect
from a doctor’s son. His deft fingers run over my wrist,
testing its mobility by gently bending it forward and then
backward. Then he moves on to the top of my hand,
rubbing at each tendon and knuckle and pausing at my
sharp intake of breath when he gets to the ones that are
swelling.
“It’s not broken, but it may be sprained.”
“I tried to ice it, but you don’t have anything in your
freezer.” He flicks his eyes at me, still silent as he isolates
the two fingers that hurt the most and tests their range. It
hurts when he moves them, but I don’t think it’s bad
enough to indicate a break. He seems to agree. “I was
looking for peas or steak or something, but it was just
empty. You don’t even have ice.” I scrunch my nose up.
“Who doesn’t even have ice in their freezer?”
“Can you stand?” He asks, ignoring my question as he
pushes to his feet.
“Uh, yeah.”
He takes a step back and holds out his hand. I place the
one that’s not hurt in his, and he helps me up. As soon as
I’m standing, his palm comes to rest on my lower back and
he walks me over to the couch, settling me on the chaise
lounge I always occupy when I’m here.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, walking away before I can
even respond.
He’s only gone for a few minutes, but it’s more than
enough time for me to think about how weird this must be
for him. Coming home and find me nearly passed out on his
kitchen floor with a busted hand can’t be the start to his
spring break that he envisioned. When he walks back into
the living room, carrying what looks like a first aid kit, I
stand up.
“I should go.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” He repeats, sitting down on the ottoman in front
of me and gazing up at me. “The only thing you should be
doing right now is sitting down and letting me take care of
your hand. And then, either while I’m wrapping it up or
after it’s done, you should tell me what the hell happened
between you and Trent.”
I don’t know whether it’s the shock from him somehow
knowing that I ran into Trent today or the sheer power in
his voice as he tells me what to do, but I sit back down. My
ass sinking into the plush cushion while he pulls alcohol
wipes, a roll of gauze and some other stuff out of his first
aid kit.
“Give me your hand, princess.”
I do as I’m told, extending my arm so he can start
working. The alcohol burns as he swipes it across the open
wounds, but I barely feel it because as soon as he pulls the
wipe away he starts to blow on it. Steady streams of warm
air floating across my skin, soothing the burning sensation
in one part of my body and sparking flames in others.
That familiar burst of electricity crackles in the air
between us, and I wonder, like I always do, if he feels it too.
If he would do something about it if he did. If I would be
able to let him if he tried.
“I don’t like ice,” Chris says, eyebrows knitted close
together as he applies some ointment on my knuckles. “The
cubes make my teeth hurt.”
“Oh, so that’s why there’s no ice in the freezer.”
“Yep.” Holding my hand in one of his, he reaches over
and picks up the gauze. I watch with a little too much
interest as he uses his teeth to start unraveling the roll. It’s
not the most sanitary thing, but it’s sexy as hell, and I have
to look away to hide my reaction.
“What about when you have people over?”
“I’ve never gotten a single request for ice from you,
Sloane, Eric or Nic.”
I guess that’s true. Most of the time we order out and
get drinks or just take whatever he has chilling in the
fridge. “Right, but we’re not the only people you have over.
What about your other company?”
The wrap he’s creating with the gauze starts at my wrist
and loops around my palm and fingers. It’s secure but not
tight enough to cut off my circulation, and I appreciate the
pressure it’s placing on the injured fingers. He lowers my
hand into my lap, drawing my attention back to him as he
starts putting things away.
“What other company?”
I blink slowly, wondering why I even took the
conversation in this direction. “I don’t know their names,
Chris.”
He’s placed all the items back in the first aid kit, but
he’s still moving things around like he’s looking for
something else. “Me either. Probably because I don’t have
anyone else over here.”
“I’m sure you don’t now, but you obviously did before…”
“No.” He shakes his head finally pulling out the thing he
was looking for. An instant ice pack. Chris squeezes the
white and blue package with his hand then lays it vertically
on top of the bandage, so it’s touching my fingers and
knuckles. “Not even then. You’re the only woman I’ve been
involved with that’s spent time here.”
His response reminds me of the day in Richardson’s
office when he told me that the girls he sleeps with never
make it to his bed. I walked away thinking he meant that he
fucked them in other places inside his apartment, but now I
know I was wrong.
 He doesn’t bring girls here, but some days I spend more
time here than I do in my own dorm.
He doesn’t bring girls here, but I have a key.
I shut down the part of my brain trying to draw
additional meaning from those words and focus on giving
him a response that won’t betray my thoughts or prolong
this conversation.
“My hand feels a lot better. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me, princess, but you do need
to tell me what the hell happened.” All the calm energy
that’s been emanating around him since he got me up off
the floor dissolves, leaving only the thinly veiled rage I’m
happy to know isn’t actually aimed at me. I bite my lip,
considering downplaying the situation because I don’t
know what he’ll do with the whole truth. “Don’t think about
lying to me. I already know Trent was on campus. Alexis
told me he was outside your dorm waiting for you.”
My heart does a somersault in my chest. I hadn’t
considered that Trent knew where I lived. When we met on
the path, all I could think about was that I was alone with
him. I hadn’t considered the implications of the direction
he was coming from.
“He knows where I live,” I murmur quietly, dread
coating the words.
“You didn’t see him outside your building?”
“No. We…I ran into him on the path that leads to the
parking lot. I was just walking, and then all of a sudden he
was just there.” A shudder rolls through me as the gravity
of the situation I was just in finally dawns on me. “He was
drunk and angry because I wasn’t returning his messages
—”
“Messages? I thought you hadn’t heard from him in
weeks.”
I can’t look at him because now I know that at least
some part of the heat in his voice is for me. “I might have
downplayed it a bit.”
 “You think?” He laughs roughly, leaning forward and
cupping my chin with his hand. He turns to my head until
I’m facing him. “He could have hurt you, Mallory.”
I hold my hand up, letting the ice pack fall off. I feel its
absence almost immediately, the cool relief fading away the
second it slides off, but it’s worth it to see the pride that
shines in Chris’ eyes as he regards my injury. “But he
didn’t.”
He leans between us to pick up the pack and grabs my
hand, cradling it with reverent fingers as he sets the pack
back right. I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead,
he uses his other hand to hold the ice pack in place, so it
can’t fall again, which means, for all intents and purposes,
he’s holding my hand. It’s not the first time we’ve held
hands or even the first time we’ve done it without anyone
around to see the show, but this time feels different.
There’s a tenderness to his eyes, mingling with the pride
and some other emotion I can’t name to make a complex,
layered expression I want more of.
“Yeah,” he says with a rough edge to his voice, “this
time he didn’t. Is that why you started going back to your
self defense classes?”
“That was part of it, yeah.”
“What was the other part?”
“You.” I blow out a breath, and Chris’ eyes stretch.
“Me? Did I…have I ever made you feel unsafe?”
He starts to release me, and I use what little range of
motion I have in my hand to grasp his fingers because I
don’t want him to let go.
“No! I didn’t mean it like that at all.” He doesn’t exactly
look convinced but he stops trying to pull back, which helps
me find the right words to explain. “You never make me
feel unsafe. Honestly, I think I feel too safe with you
sometimes.”
“Too safe,” he repeats the words, the lack of
understanding evident in his voice.
 “I was getting too comfortable. Feeling like I didn’t have
to worry about this thing with Trent because we’re
together.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing instead of the entire
reason why we’re doing this.” Of course he would be
confused by me being upset about getting the returns I was
promised when I agreed to invest my time and energy in
this relationship.
“Right. That is why we’re doing this, but it doesn’t mean
it’s smart for me to put all of my eggs in this basket. There
were no guarantees this relationship would keep Trent
away, and I wanted to be prepared for the moment he
stopped being deterred by your presence in my life if it
ever came.”
“When it came, you mean.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t know this was going to
happen, Chris.”
“But you knew there was a good chance it would, and
you wanted to be able to face it on your own.” It feels like
he plucked the words right out of my mouth, and all I can
do is nod. Another cloud of conflicted emotion darkens his
features before he settles on reluctant acceptance. “Was it
as satisfying as you hoped it would be?”
“Ask me tomorrow. Right now all I feel is this,”—I tilt my
head, gesturing at my hand— “and the uncomfortable
sensation of my stomach touching my back.”
I hold my breath as I wait for his reaction, sending up a
silent prayer he will take the out I’ve just given us. Talking
about Trent with him hasn’t been nearly as traumatic as I
thought it would be thus far, but if we keep talking I know
it’ll only a matter of time before he’s asking harder
questions. The ones he really wants the answers to. After a
few long seconds of intense eye contact, Chris nods,
seeming to understand my silent plea.
“What do you want to eat, princess?”
W e decide on Chinese food and eat on the couch in front of
the TV because Chris refuses to let me move a muscle.
When he fixes my plate, he brings me a glass of water and
some pain killers for my hand and watches while I swallow
both pills. The food is good and goes a long way towards
helping me feel less shaky, but after multiple episodes of
Living Single and a second serving of shrimp fried rice, I’m
exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. It’s dark outside,
and anxiety has already began to wind its way through my
chest at the thought of leaving here to go back to campus
where Trent could still be waiting for me.
I reach over and pull my phone out of my purse, which
Chris picked up off the floor after he nearly tripped over it
when he was bringing in the food, to check the time but
end up seeing a few notifications instead. Most of them are
missed calls from Chris while the other ones are texts from
Sloane, Eric and Nic asking if I’m good. My leg starts to
bounce as I text each of them back, letting them know I’m
fine, and then I turn to Chris who’s already muted the TV
because he noticed that something’s up.
“You good?”
“Yeah, I was just texting everyone back. They all wanted
to know if I was okay.” There’s an edge to my voice that he
picks up on immediately, he shifts in his seat, which is right
next to mine, so now our knees are bumping.
“I didn’t tell them what was going on with Trent. I never
even mentioned his name.”
As soon as I hear the words, I breathe a sigh of relief. I
don’t think I actually thought he had told them about Trent
but it feels nice to hear him say it. “Okay, but what did you
tell them?”
“Nothing, but when I couldn’t find you or get a hold of
you, I was kind of freaked out.” My heart squeezes at the
thought of him being worried about me. “As soon as Alexis
described the guy who was waiting for you, I knew it was
him. I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you. I called you
but you didn’t answer.”
His throat bobs and he swallows against what I can only
imagine must be a lump there. I’m suddenly overwhelmed
with the urge to kiss him there, to use my lips to soothe
away whatever feelings are brewing inside of him. I wish
he would name them, so I could use them to gauge the
depth of his feelings for me.
I reach for him, placing my uninjured hand on top of his.
He turns his palm over, linking our fingers together. “I
know. I’m sorry.”
We’d already gone over the timeline, figuring out how
we’d missed each other despite being in the same places
within minutes of each other. My phone had been in my
purse the whole time, and between fighting with Trent,
getting away from him and basically passing out on Chris’
kitchen floor, I hadn’t thought to check it until just now.
“Don’t apologize.” His voice is soft as he scoots in closer.
“I’m just glad you’re safe. You have no idea how relieved I
was to walk in here and see you.”
“Even though I was on your kitchen floor?”
“Yes.” The smile he gives me melts me from the inside
out. “Even though you were on the kitchen floor.”
The air between us crackles with tension and unspoken
desire I’m sure isn’t just one sided. I want so much for him
to close the space between us, to press his lips to mine and
make me forget what brought me here to the safe haven of
his home, but the moment is broken when my phone
vibrates. The loud sound shatters the silence in the room
and makes both of us jump back.
Chris looks like he’s thankful for the interruption and
while I read the message from Sloane—who’s unfortunately
joking about me and Chris having make up sex—he stands
and grabs our empty plates from the coffee table.
 I hear the clinking of dishes being placed in the
dishwasher and sigh. Being here with him this evening was
so nice, I felt safe and protected and wanted, but I know I
need to go. The little moments that keep happening
between us are nice but hoping that they will become more
is pointless. With a heavy sigh, and a ball of dread in my
gut, I grab my purse and push up from the couch to search
for my shoes. Chris insisted I take them off and get
comfortable, but I didn’t see where he put them. They’re
not in the living room at all, so I start to head for the
hallway to see if I can find them.
“Where are you going?”
I turn just in time to see the unfairly attractive sight of
Chris drying his hands on a dish towel. It’s such a regular,
every day thing to do but seeing him do it and knowing that
no other woman he’s been with has, makes my core clench
in a dangerous way.
“Home,” I answer, my voice thick.
He looks at me like I just told him I’m taking a trip to the
moon instead of back to my dorm. “Mallory, you’re not
going back to campus tonight.”
My brows fall together, a streak of rebellion running
through me. Even though I don’t want to go back to
campus, I don’t love the idea of him telling me where I can
or can’t go. “What?”
“You heard me.” He strides over to me, taking my hand
in his. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to go back there. It’s
dark and for all you know Trent could still be out there
waiting.”
I had the same concern but hearing him say it makes my
pulse race. “Well, I don’t have anywhere else to stay, Chris,
and I’m not going to let the possibility of running into Trent
keep me from going on campus forever.”
“It doesn’t have to be forever, princess, but for tonight
just…” he pauses, warm brown eyes pleading with me,
“stay with me. I know you don’t need me to fight your
battles, but I need you to do this for me. I need you to stay
here, so I can know that you’re safe.”
The idea of him needing anything from me has warmth
spreading from the place where our hands are joined, up
my arms and then through my chest where it makes a home
right underneath my breastbone.
I want it too much though, him needing me, so I do what
he would normally do in a moment like this: make a joke.
“Why does it sound like you’re planning on sleeping by
the door with a baseball bat in your hand?” Humor shines
in his eyes, and it only intensifies the emotions rolling
through me.
“If that’s what it’ll take to make you feel safe, I’ll do it.”
“No.” I laugh, shocked at the truth ringing in his words.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Stay, Mal.”
“Where would I sleep? You don’t have a guest room.”
His second bedroom is empty. There’s not even a single
pillow in there, which means he isn’t prepared for a
sleepover, least of all a platonic one.
“You can have my bed, I’ll take the couch.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not putting me out, I’m offering.”
“Christopher.” I pin him with my most serious stare,
which has no effect on him anymore.
“Mallory, if you really want to go, I’ll take you home. I’ll
sit outside your building all night just to make sure you’re
good, but I would feel better knowing you’re here.”
I would feel better being here too. There’s no sense in
denying it especially since I ran here, to him, when I was at
my most vulnerable.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
The smile spreading across his face makes my heart
swell. He pulls me back through the living room towards
the short hallway that leads to his room. I’ve never been
down here, never had a reason to since there’s a guest bath
in the other hallway near the entrance, so it feels like I’m
about to walk into his inner sanctum. He stops just outside
his bedroom door, still holding my hand.
“I’m just going to show you where everything is, so you
can shower and get settled.”
Again, I’m hit with the urge to kiss him, to show him just
how much I appreciate his careful approach to a situation
that would be uncomfortable for me if I was with anyone
but him. I nod, knowing he needs the reassurance more
than I do.
“Okay.”
Chris turns the knob and guides me into the room,
flipping on lights as he goes. There’s nothing shocking to
me about the cream colored walls or the large windows
that bracket the headboard of his king sized bed, letting
light from the buildings around us spill into the room. It
feels more like a luxury hotel room than the dwellings of a
twenty-two year old man, but I’m not complaining. Every
surface is clean. There’s no trash on either of the
nightstands or the matching dresser across from the bed
with a TV mounted over it, and his scent is everywhere. The
smell of leather and earth wrapping around me like a warm
hug.
“So the bathroom is over there.” He points to a door to
his right. “If you want to go ahead and shower, I can get
you some stuff to change into.”
I make a point of glancing between him and me. Chris
isn’t a small guy. He’s taller than I am with well defined
muscles along every inch of his frame, but we both know
that while I’m shorter by at least six inches, I’m bigger than
he is. The curves of my stomach and breasts would shred
any little t-shirt he could pull out of his drawer, and if it
made it through being stretched to its limits by them, it
would certainly give way when it encountered my arms. My
size has never been a problem for me. I’ve always been a
bigger girl navigating a world made for smaller people. I’ve
learned to adjust, to love myself despite all the messages
from society telling me I shouldn’t, which is why I don’t
have a problem with pointing out the flaw in his reasoning.
“Nothing in your closet is going to fit me,” I laugh.
He raises a brow, chestnut eyes roving over my curves
as he turns and heads for a door that must be his closet. “I
wouldn’t be so sure, princess.”
Intrigued, I walk over to his bed and sit down on the
edge of it, listening as he rummages through his things,
closing and opening several drawers before emerging with
a pile of neatly folded clothes that still have tags on them.
They don’t look like things he’d wear at all, and as he
hands the stack to me, I realize they aren’t his.
Everything—including the buttery soft t-shirts, matching
leggings and lacy boy shorts—is in my size. I hold a pair
that’s fire engine red up at him and arch a brow.
Both of his hands come up, his face serious as he says, “I
didn’t pick those out, Sloane did.”
“Sloane?” I give him a disbelieving look. “When did you
and Sloane go shopping?”
“We didn’t. I gave her my card and asked her to pick
some stuff out for you to have at my place.”
“She wasn’t the least bit curious why you needed her to
do that?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. She was just happy to help
me do something nice for you.”
“And why did you want to….” I gesture at the clothes,
heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Do something nice for you?”
“No.” Yes. “Why did you want me to have clothes here?”
“For the same reason I wanted you to have a key.”
I appreciate the thoughtfulness behind the gesture, but
something about knowing Trent was the reason for it
makes it hard to. “Oh, yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
A semi-awkward silence falls between us for a few
seconds before Chris breaks it. “Okay, well, I’m going to
grab a few things and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Cool.”
While he moves around the room, going from the
bathroom to brush his teeth to the closet to change his
clothes and coming back to the bed to grab one of the six
pillows piled on top of each other by the headboard, I stay
seated, scrolling through my phone just to have something
to do besides stare at him.
It’s weird being in his space while he does such
domestic things, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my
presence. When he’s got everything he needs, he strides
over to me on bare feet that speak of the intimacy of this
moment. He stops in front of me, staring down at me while
I gaze up at him.
“Towels and wash cloths are in the bathroom. There’s
body wash, lotion and tooth brushes on the counter for
you.”
“Toothbrushes? You think I need more than one, huh?”
He smirks. “It’s a new pack, I didn’t want to assume
which color you would prefer.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“I told you a while ago I do take some things seriously,
princess.”
“And overnight guests just so happens to be one of
them,” I quip, trying to hide the fact that his deep timbre is
turning my blood to fire.
“No.” He frowns. “You, princess. Your happiness. Your
safety. Your well being. I take it all very seriously.”
My voice comes out low, just above a whisper. “Oh.”
Several emotions pass over his face, and he looks like he
wants to say more, but he pushes those words away,
trading them for a question. “Do you need anything else?”
“Nope. I think I’m good.”
“Okay. Well, goodnight.” He’s backing away, and every
part of me is seized with the desire to ask him to stay but I
manage to keep my mouth shut while he walks out the
door. Just before it closes, he calls out. “Don’t get your
hand wet.”
“Yes, Dr. Johnson,” I say sweetly, a smile playing on my
lips when I hear his light chuckle echoing around the hall.

OceanofPDF.com
 28

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

I ’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep.

Mallory has been out for hours, and I’ve been on the
couch continuing to watch Living Single without her.
The late nineties sitcom is a welcome distraction from
thoughts of her jasmine scented skin wrapped up in my
sheets and the events that made her spending the night a
necessity rather than one of my deepest desires. Wanting
that from her was unfair, especially when I have no idea
how to keep my nightmares at bay, but knowing that hasn’t
done a damn thing to rid me of the craving.
I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, allowing
my mind to replay the events of the day. Getting my dad’s
reluctant approval, deciding to finally tell Mallory as much
of the truth as she could possibly handle and then
immediately being thrust into a walking nightmare that, for
once, wasn’t my own.
I still don’t know everything that happened between her
and Trent, not on the path today or all those years ago
when he tried to break her. There’s a part of me that
recognizes I might not ever find out, and I’ve come to
accept it. She doesn’t need to detail her trauma for me to
believe her, and I don’t want, or need, the full story to know
I want her.
 The fear in my heart when I thought she was in danger
and the relief I felt when I came home to regroup and
found her on the kitchen floor only solidified the fact, but
I’ll have to wait to broach the topic with her. All she needs
right now is somewhere to feel safe and secure, and even if
I can’t ever be all the things I want to be to her, I’m at least
going to be that.
The volume on the TV is turned down low, so the first
time Mallory cries out I hear it loud and clear. I jump off
the couch and run towards the room, willing myself to
remember she’s not actually in any danger despite the
realistic quality of her heart wrenching screams.
Everything is quiet as I approach the door, so I stop and
knock, hoping maybe she’s woken herself up like she did
the last time, but then I hear it again.
Her sobbing.
Begging.
Pleading with him to stop.
Something inside of me cracks open, and I rush through
the door over to the bed, turning the lamp on one of the
nightstands on, so she doesn’t wake to complete darkness.
It’ll already be disconcerting enough to wake up in a
strange room with me at her side, I don’t want to scare her
more.
The faint light from the lamp bathes the room, outlining
her frame and allowing me my first glimpse of her in my
bed. She’s curled in on herself, knees drawn up towards
her chest while she lays on the side of the mattress I tend
to favor. I don’t let myself think about what I want that to
mean though because now she’s whimpering, her hands
clenched into tight fists as she murmurs incoherently.
“Mallory.” With a tentative hand, I reach out and shake
her shoulder. She shrugs me off, shuddering away from my
touch. “Princess, wake up.”
Since she doesn’t want me touching her, I nudge the
bed, hoping the movement will help jar her awake. She
groans, her face screwed up in pain.
“Please….don’t.”
The words shatter me, and it takes every ounce of
control I have left to stay on the side of the bed when what
I really want to do is grab her and shake her. I try touching
her again, tentative fingers nudging her shoulder at regular
intervals while I whisper that she’s okay, that I’m here and
she’s safe.
But it feels like hours go by with her thrashing around
before the nightmare finally breaks. I can tell it’s reaching
it’s natural conclusion because she goes stiff like she’s
tensing for a fight and then her mouth opens and she
screams the word no so loud she jolts herself awake.
Her body flies into motion immediately, wild eyes
searching and unseeing as she scrambles out of bed with
one hand clamped over her mouth like she’s going to be
sick. She turns to me, panic creasing the corners of her
eyes that are leaking fresh tears, and I point towards the
bathroom door.
“Right there.”
She spins on her heel, sprinting the short distance and
managing to slam the door before the sound of her retching
fills the room. My own stomach heaves, not because of the
vomiting itself, but because of the agony she’s feeling that I
can’t take from her. Can’t save her from because despite
the satisfied gleam in her eyes when she showed me the
knuckles she busted pummeling his face, Trent is still with
her, haunting her in her dreams, and, I don’t know how to
set her free.
I pull myself up from the floor and head into the kitchen
to grab her a glass of water. By the time I get back, she’s
out of the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with
shame slumping her shoulders. I cross the room, moving
slowly so as not to alarm her, and set the glass on the
nightstand. Her eyes are on the ground, but I want her to
look at me, so that’s where I go, dropping down on my
haunches to steal her gaze.
“Princess.” I don’t touch her even though I want to. My
fingertips are hungry for the slightest brush of her skin. My
palms ache for her curves and the comfort I could press
into her body. “Tell me what you remember.”
“I don’t….” She shakes her head, fingers digging into
the side of the mattress. “They’re always the same. It’s
always him and me and he’s—” Fat tears slip down her
cheeks, and she finally looks at me. “I don’t want him in my
head, Chris. I just want to sleep without having to see him,
without having to feel him.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and I feel myself
break right along with it. I would give anything to be able
to hold her right now. To take away the horror of being
haunted by images that refuse to leave your brain.
“I know, baby,” I whisper, the words leaving my lips on a
rough exhale. “What can I do? Tell me what you need.”
“Hold me.”
I’m shocked by her request—specifically that it aligns so
perfectly with what I want to do right now—but I don’t let it
show. She’s feeling scared and vulnerable and the last
thing she needs right now is to be worried about whether
or not I want to comfort her. Especially when it’s all I want
to do. Pushing to my feet, I hold her stare, letting my intent
shine in my eyes.
“Scoot over, princess.”
The sight of her scrambling over my sheets to the other
side of the bed is one I won’t ever forget, but I store it away
for now. The spot where she was sleeping is warm and it
smells like her. Mal watches as I push the pillows on my
side up against the headboard, so I can sit up instead of
laying down completely. I know that she asked me to hold
her, but I don’t want to freak her out by making it feel like
we’re going to bed together.
 She waits until I settle into my spot before sliding over
to me slowly. Uncertainty clouds her features, and I lift an
arm to welcome her in. It’s all the invitation she needs. In
the space of a heartbeat she’s nestled up against me. Her
head on my chest, tucked under my chin while my arm
wraps around her waist, holding her to me. It’s only as she
tangles her legs with mine that I realize she doesn’t have
anything on but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear.
Heat from her thick thighs seep into my skin through
the fabric of my basketball shorts, and even though I don’t
know if she’s cold, I lean forward and pull the covers up
over the both of us. Mal lets out a soft sigh, like laying here
on my chest is bringing her the kind of peace people like us
can only hope to find in our dreams, and my heart pounds,
smacking against my ribcage while I try to even out my
breathing.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” She tries to sit up, but I shake my head, the
hand I have at her waist applying the gentlest pressure to
let her know she doesn’t have to move. Doesn’t have to
explain. Doesn’t have to do anything but be here with me.
“I’m sorry you have to live that moment over and over
again. I’m sorry you had to live it at all.”
I feel the moment the tear drops. The hot liquid plopping
onto the cotton of my shirt and soaking through until it hits
my chest, marking my heart with her sadness.
“I guess I have to tell you now. Since I brought all of this
to your doorstep, I probably owe you the truth.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“What if I want to tell you?” she asks softly. “I’ve never
talked about it, but you’ve seen and heard the nightmares,
you already know.”
This is the first time she’s been so candid about how the
nightmares relate to everything else. And she’s right about
me knowing already. I’d put it all together the second I saw
her with Trent.
 “If you need to talk, I’m here to listen, princess.” I run
my hand up her side and then back down just to test her
reaction. She doesn’t shrink away from me or ask me to
stop. In fact, she leans in closer. Her arm stretching across
my torso, so she’s holding me just as tight as I’m holding
her.
“You already know how things started with us.”
My jaw clenches. “Yeah, when you were just a kid.”
“I didn’t feel like a kid with him. Having his attention,
being the girl who meant the world to him, it made me feel
mature, sophisticated.” She’s barely started telling me the
story, and my chest is already tight. “I didn’t think the age
difference was that bad. I mean it was only a few years, but
when you’re a sixteen year old with no romantic experience
and the guy you’re dating is nineteen with an intimate
knowledge of the crush you’ve had on him since middle
school, a few years goes from being an age gap to being a
fucking cavern.”
She pauses, and I can’t see her face but I can tell she’s
chewing her lip, thinking about what to say next. If it were
anyone else, I would make them stop. I would tell them I
don’t want their trauma because I already have enough
fucked up shit in my head, but for Mallory I’d absorb a
lifetime’s worth of pain and heartbreak. Pull the images
from the wrinkles of her brain and fold them into myself.
“I didn’t realize it when we started dating, but he’d been
grooming me for a while. Spending all this time pretending
to be interested in my life, giving me sips of his dad’s beer
that he snuck from the refrigerator, coming up with little
jokes that were just for us. It was stupid, but I felt special.”
“You are special, and there’s nothing stupid about
believing that.”
“It is if it makes you trust the wrong people.”
“Someone breaking your trust is a reflection of them,
Mallory. Not you.”
 “At some point we have to take responsibility for trusting
the wrong people, though. Trent was the lesson I learned
the hard way, and I won’t make that mistake again.” Her
tone brooks no argument, so I don’t give her one. When
she’s sure I’m not going to reply, she continues. “He started
pressuring me for sex before he left for college, but it got
worse once he was there. According to him, all of his team
mates were having sex all the time. Fucking random girls
at parties. Spending the night in their girlfriend’s dorms.
Every one was having sex but him, and he was angry about
me wanting to wait to lose my virginity.”
I swallow the string of curses that claw their way up my
throat. She was a virgin. Her nightmares are about having
her first time stolen from her. “Jesus, Mal.”
She pulls back, concern wrinkling her brow. “Do you
want me to stop?”
The irony of her being worried about me when she’s in
the process of baring her soul makes me want to smash my
fist into something hard and kiss her at the same time.
“No, as long as you’re talking, I’m here to listen.”
“Tasha talked me into going up there to visit him. She
said we could tell Mama I was staying the weekend at her
house, and I could just drive up to see him so that’s what I
did. He was so happy I was there, and I remember being
high on that feeling, being the person to put such a big
smile on his face. On Friday night, he took me around
campus and introduced me to all his friends. We went to a
party on Saturday, and we were both drinking, dancing and
kissing. He kept whispering in my ear, telling me he was
happy I was finally ready but I never said I was. By the time
we left the party, he’d gotten me to say it though.”
My hand turns into a fist at her side, and she tenses so I
force myself to relax it. The tension fades from her body,
her softness melting into me. “Everything between leaving
the party and getting back to his dorm is kind of blur. I was
so far in my head, trying to convince myself that I was
ready and it was okay because I loved him, so in my mind
one minute we’re at the party and the next he’s taking my
clothes off and telling me to lay back on the bed. We’d done
other stuff before, so I wasn’t scared. He was a bit rougher
than usual, more impatient, but I chalked it up to him being
drunk and tried to relax. I even managed to come, but then
he got up and got the condom, and I just lost my nerve.”
“That’s normal, princess. You were about to take a big
step and you needed more time.”
More tears fall, and her body shakes. “I told him I
wanted to wait, but he was already on top of me. He said it
was too late and then….he was inside me.”
I squeeze her so tight I think she might break from the
pressure. I know I should pull back, should think about the
way her brain might misconstrue the strength of my grip,
but when I try to she shakes her head. A wild cloud of black
coils brushing my nose and chin from the motion.
“Please don’t let me go.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” She’s gripping as much of the fabric of my
shirt as she can with her bandaged hand, speaking with the
kind of certainty I don’t even have right now. I don’t know if
it’s trust or just her need for comfort speaking, but I listen.
“He kept saying I wanted it, that I knew what I came there
for, and I didn’t say anything, Chris. I didn’t say no. After I
told him I wasn’t ready and he ignored me, I just laid there
and let him…”
“You were in shock. Someone you thought loved and
respected you was violating you in the most horrific way.
It’s not uncommon for people’s brains to shut down in
moments like that.”
“I let him hold me after he finished. He fell asleep beside
me, and I laid there until the sun came up. Why would I do
that?”
I press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Trauma induced
shock doesn’t stop once the trauma stops. Your brain
needed time to recover, to get to a point where it was
functioning and able to get you to safety.”
“You say all the right things.”
“I’m just telling the truth, princess. The question is: do
you believe me?” Reaching between us, I bring my hand
under her chin and tilt her head back, so she’s looking at
me. “Tell me that you know none of this was your fault. He
took advantage of you. He coerced you into giving him
something he could never deserve and when you changed
your mind he stole it from you. Those were his actions,
Mallory, you don’t have to carry around the shame of what
happened that night. It was never yours to begin with, it
was always his.”
The fire glowing in her amber eyes makes my heart
swell with the fiercest pride. She nods her head. “I know
that now, but sometimes I forget. Before I ran into him at
that basketball game, I always thought our first encounter
would go like the one today did. I thought I would knee him
in the balls and call him out for what he did to me. And not
just the rape, but the experiences he stole, the version of
me he destroyed in a single night. But when I ran into him,
I froze. It was like I was back in that dorm room, laying in
his bed pretending like everything was fine when it wasn’t.
I hated feeling like that girl again, you know?”
I don’t know, but I can imagine. After what Trent did,
she worked hard to put herself back together all on her
own. She buried the trauma deep inside and, through the
sheer force of her will, crafted a new life from the
wreckage of the old one. At sixteen, she reinvented herself,
morphing into the beautiful, complicated and serious
woman I’ve known for almost two years now. Having Trent
reappear must have felt like going back to a time when she
didn’t have the power and control over her life she does
today.
“I can only imagine,” I say finally, smoothing a hand
down her back. “Can I ask you something?”
 “Why didn’t I go to the police?” The sass underscoring
her tear clogged voice makes the corners of my mouth
twitch, an inappropriate smile trying to curve my lips. I
stop it from taking shape, but Mallory still sees it, and to
my surprise, and delight, she gives me a small, watery
smile of her own before her features turn serious again.
“Because Eric and Nic would have killed Trent, and I
couldn’t let Mama lose her sons when I wasn’t sure she was
going to be able to keep her daughter.”
I don’t mean to react, but my brows raise on their own
volition. Surprise stamped across my face at her
inadvertent omission. I can’t imagine a world where she
isn’t in it. Shame flits through her eyes, and she pulls her
chin out of my grip. At first I think she’s going to pull away
completely, but she surprises me by burying her face in my
neck.
When she starts to speak again, it’s with her lips
brushing against my pulse. “I was never going to hurt
myself, but by the time I realized that, it was too late to go
the cops. All the evidence was gone. No one even knew we
were together except for Tasha and his friends, but I knew
they would all lie for him. It just felt like this
insurmountable thing, something I wouldn’t ever be able to
get on top of, so I made myself forget about it. Most of the
time I’m able to do exactly that, but then I’ll have a
nightmare and—”
“You’re back in it.”
“Yeah, something like th—” A big and loud yawn escapes
her lips, cutting off the last syllable of her response. I
glance at the clock on my nightstand and see that it’s
almost four in the morning. Usually, I don’t sleep after my
nightmares, but that doesn’t seem to be true for Mallory.
Her breath is already coming in slow, steady puffs that send
warm air skating across my pulse.
I don’t want to leave her, but after what she just told me,
I don’t want her to feel pressured to share a bed. I try to sit
up and pull my arm from around her waist, but she moans
in protest.
“Stay,” she says, sleepily. “Please.”
I can’t find it in me to say no, so I don’t. “Okay.”
I hold her until she falls asleep, and then I hold her some
more. For two hours, I sit in bed, holding her and
contemplating solutions to this Trent problem. Mallory
thinks their showdown on the path means he’ll stop coming
for her, but I don’t think that’s the case.
I need to nip him in the bud quickly and quietly, so she
can move on with her life. I knew that their history was a
sordid one, but I wasn’t prepared for what it would do to
me to hear Mallory confirm every horrible suspicion I had.
A wide range of reckless emotions rush through me as I
listen to her breathe, swirling in my veins and conjuring
images of the unspeakable things I would do to Trent if I
ever got my hands on him.
All of the scenarios I imagine end in death though, and
that’s too peaceful an ending for a piece of shit like him. He
deserves to suffer. To have his life ripped to shreds, to have
his name ruined, to have his family and friends, who hold
him in such high regard, shunned from society for even
knowing him. To sit in a cell and spend every day
wondering if someone is going to violate him the way he
violated Mallory and, undoubtedly, other women.
That would be justice.
The word resonates deep inside me, and suddenly I
know exactly what I need to do and who I need to call.
Mallory whines in her sleep as I settle her on the pillows
and slip out of the bed, turning off the lamp as I go. The
sun is coming up now, which means she won’t wake up in
the dark. I don’t know if she’s the type to sleep in, so I
move quickly, closing the door behind me and rushing to
the living room to find my phone.
I take a seat on the edge of the couch and pull up the
contact information for the only person I know who has the
kind of connections I need to make sure Trent is held
accountable for what he’s done. I’ll have to stress to him
the importance of leaving Mallory out of it. She doesn’t
want her family knowing, and I’ll never dishonor that
request, but if my suspicions are right about Trent, and
they have been so far, she’s not the only woman he’s done
this to.
The people he’ll call will find those women, and some of
them will be willing to talk. Some of them will want justice,
and when they get it, it will provide peace for every woman
that’s survived him, including the one I love.
That knowledge is more than enough to make me push
down my doubts about asking him for a favor and dial the
number. It’s early, but I know he’ll be up. The line rings
twice before the call connects and his voice pours through
the speakers. He’s surprised to hear from me, but I don’t
let that deter me.
“Hey, Dad….”

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 29

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 MALLORY

E verything smells like bacon and my head hurts.

That’s the first thing I think as I crack my eyes
open and take in my surroundings. Luckily, I
remember that I stayed the night at Chris’, so I’m not too
freaked about not being in my bed. What does kind of freak
me out is the bits and pieces of the conversation we had
after my nightmare flashing through my mind. I laid all of
my truths out there for him to see, and it felt good to let
them go. To share and trust him to understand.
To trust him period.
He didn’t disappoint at all, meeting all of my needs
without question even when he would have been well
within his rights to do so. Like when I asked him to hold
me, or begged him to stay in bed. He just did it. The kind of
comfort I took from being in his arms should be illegal,
especially because I don’t know if I will ever have it again.
People tend to act different once they know your deepest
darkest secrets, and I wouldn’t put it past Chris to start
handling me with kid gloves. The thought comes to me as I
pull myself out of bed, careful not to put too much pressure
on my hand which is less achy today, and go through my
normal morning routine.
 Chris didn’t mention it, but when I took my shower last
night I noticed that he also had Sloane pick up all of the
toiletries I use. There was even a brand new bonnet waiting
for me on the counter beside my tooth brush, extra large to
fit all my curls. When I climbed in his bed last night, I felt
safe and comfortable, and I was touched that he’d gone
through so much trouble to make sure I would be if worst
came to worst.
Now, as I prepare to step out of his room and investigate
the delicious scents teasing my stomach with the promise
of breakfast, I send up a silent prayer that nothing has
changed between us. Even if I have resigned myself to
never truly having Chris, I know I can’t survive him looking
at me with pity in his eyes when there used to be awe,
respect and sometimes, desire.
The hardwood floors are cool against the soles of my
feet as I walk out into the living area. I adjust the band of
my leggings, blushing again when I think about how I was
wrapped around Chris wearing nothing but a t-shirt and
some panties. He’s standing over the stove with his back to
me and turns around when he hears me coming, a tender
smile taking over his face.
“Good morning, princess.”
Hearing his nickname for me spoken in that half teasing,
half serious voice makes my heart stutter to a stop and
then start beating again, my relief and excitement bubbling
up in my chest to make a dizzying cocktail of hope.
“Morning.” I sit down at the island, and he slides me a
plate with bacon, eggs and toast on it. I lift an impressed
brow. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
A bashful smile graces his lips as he shrugs. “I can do a
little something, something.”
I pick up a slice of perfectly crisp bacon and take a bite,
noticing how his eyes trace the motion and then drop to the
counter top when a happy little moan escapes me. “Mhmm.
I think you can do more than a little something.”
 When he brings his eyes back to my face, I blush from
the intensity of his gaze. “How did you sleep?”
“Pretty good after….you know.”
“Good.” He nods, turning back to grab the plate he fixed
for himself off the counter by the stove and setting it down
across from me. A comfortable silence descends between
us as he digs in and I keep eating. The food is really good,
not as good as Mama’s obviously, but impressive as hell for
a senior in college who had no food in his fridge just a day
ago.
I swallow the last of my eggs and wash it down with a
sip of orange juice from the glass that was waiting on the
counter for me. Now that I’m done eating, I don’t know
what to do with myself. Should I leave? Should I offer to
clean up the kitchen since he cooked? Should I just sit here
and stare at him, obsessing over the way he licks his lips
after every few bites, treating me to flashes of his tongue
that make me want to kiss him just so I can have the
chance to suck on it?
“Mallory?”
I jolt at the sound of Chris calling my name, and the
humor in his voice makes me realize that he’s been calling
it while I’ve been zoned out, staring at his mouth. “Yeah?
What did you say?”
“I asked what you had planned for this weekend.”
“Oh.” I shift in my seat, wondering if this is the start of
the conversation that will end with me leaving the security
of his home. “Nothing, really. I was going to go to the gym
but since my hand is still a little sore, I think I’ll take the
week off.”
After he made sure I was good, Hunter would hand me
my ass for letting my training fly out the window the
second I was in danger. I don’t feel like hearing his fussing
or Rae’s teasing, so I’ll use this week to do something I
never do: rest.
 Chris frowns, setting his fork down on his plate and
rounding the island to stand in front of me. He turns my
stool around, the same way he did the first time we kissed,
and takes my hand in his, examining the bandage that’s
still secure despite the night’s events.
“Are you in pain now?”
I blink up at him, a lump swelling in my throat. “No, I’m
okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Chris.” I roll my eyes, trying to take my hand back.
He lets me go instantly, and there’s a part of me that knows
his hyper vigilance is because of what I told him last night.
I don’t know how to feel about that. I don’t hate it, but I
don’t love it either. While I appreciate his thoughtfulness
when he touches me, there’s a part of me that wants what
he knows about me not to matter. He’s back to looking all
concerned and worried, so I give him a reassuring smile
and change the subject. “What are you doing this
weekend?”
“Taking a trip to Florida.”
“Florida?” I ask, heart sinking at the thought of him
being states away. “What’s in Florida?”
“Back in your princess obsessed days, did you ever want
to go to Disney?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, wondering why he’s answering my
question with an unrelated one of his own. “Of course.”
We never got to go though, because Mama could never
afford to take us. Making the trip to happiest place on
Earth was on my bucket list for a long time, but I let go of
that dream a long time ago.
“Would you want to go?” Chris is asking now, eyes
searching my face. “With me?”
“What?” My voice is shrill, full of confusion that makes
him laugh.
“Do you want to go to Disney with me, princess?”
“We can’t just go to Disney, Chris.”
 “Why not?”
“Because….” But I don’t have a single reason why we
can’t, and the excitement blooming like wildflowers deep in
my heart keeps me from looking too hard for one. “I don’t
know.”
The teasing smile curling his lips amplifies my
excitement even more. “Damn. If I had known you wouldn’t
be able to come up with a single reason, I wouldn’t have
spent the morning crafting the perfect responses to your
objections.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t tease me. I’ll come up
with a million questions just to spite you.”
“Do it. I don’t want you to have any doubts when you say
yes.”
When you say yes, not if. I like how sure he is, how
certain he is of the amount of thought he’s put into this, so
I take a moment to pull my own thoughts together. Pushing
aside the initial excitement to think critically for a second.
“Why do you want to take me to Disney?”
His voice is silk and butter as he answers me. “I’ve
heard it’s the happiest place on Earth, and I thought you
could use a little happy right now.”
My heart does a flip in my chest, and I have to fight to
keep myself from jumping out of my seat and kissing him.
“That’s really sweet, Chris, but you don’t have to take me
to Disney to make me happy.” I bite my lip, hating the way
it sounds like there’s a link between his actions and my
happiness.
“I know I don’t have to, Mallory, but I want to. Is that
okay?”
All I hear is he wants to make me happy, and that
thought coupled with what he said yesterday about taking
my happiness seriously has things happening in my core
that shouldn’t be possible after everything that happened
last night. I never would have thought that vulnerability
would have deepened my attraction to Chris, but it has.
 “Yeah, I guess that’s okay.”
“What other questions do you have, princess?”
“Florida. Is that Disney World or Disney Land?”
“World. I figured a trip to Florida was more manageable
than a trip to California.”
“Where would we stay?”
“One of the resorts close to the parks. We’ll have
separate rooms, of course.”
Separate accommodations didn’t even occur to me,
which is how I know I’m too far gone for this man. “Of
course. How long would we be gone?”
“I booked the rooms for a week, but your ticket is open
ended so you can come back whenever you want.”
A week. A week of being in another state with Chris on
what will essentially be a couple’s vacation. I press my lips
together, absorbing the information and paying no mind to
the fact that I can’t even come up with a single scenario
that would result in me leaving early.
“I would need to call Mama. She wouldn’t appreciate it
if I left the state without letting her know.”
“Eric will tell her. I talked to him first thing this morning
to let him know I was surprising you with a trip.”
My brows fall together. “Did you sleep at all?”
“I got about an hour before I woke up to cook.” He
shrugs like he’s used to running off of little to no rest.
“Anymore questions?”
I shake my head. “No, I think I’m good.”
The questions I have left aren’t about the trip so much
as what it could mean for us, but I’m too scared to ask
those because I don’t think the answers he has will be the
ones I want.
“Ready to give me an answer then?”
There’s an earnestness in his expression that touches
me deep down in my soul, healing the part of me that was
wounded by my relationship with Trent long before he
violated me in the worst way. Before this moment, I never
knew what it felt like to have someone do something just to
see me smile.
“Yes.”
Satisfaction swirls in his irises, turning chestnut to a
warm, liquid honey. “Yes, you’ll go or yes, you’re ready to
give me an answer?”
“Yes, I’ll go.”

“H onestly , I’m so jealous right now. The only thing Eric

and I have planned for spring break is….” Sloane trails off,
trading the rest of her sentence for a suggestive wiggle of
her brows that makes me gag.
“Ugh, Sloane, please I don’t want to hear about you and
Eric spending the week in bed.”
She rolls her eyes and throws another lace thong in my
suitcase, which I promptly pull out and stuff back into my
drawer. “Why do you have all of these sexy underwear if
you’re not going to wear them for your boyfriend?”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I turn my back to her,
focusing on folding the dress in my hands neatly. I can feel
her staring at me, and I know the question is coming even
though I can’t see it written all over her face.
“Are you and Chris having sex?”
All of my muscles go tense. “That’s not your business,
Sloane.”
“I bought underwear for him to keep at his place for
you, I think it is.”
“It’s not, and he shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”
She walks over, reaching around me to put the thong
back in my suitcase. I don’t bother to remove it. “Don’t tell
me you got mad at him about that. I thought it was really
sweet of him.”
“It was, and I appreciate you helping him out.”
 “You’re more than welcome, babe. Now answer my
question.”
With a resigned sigh, I close the suitcase and start to zip
it. Sloane waits patiently for my answer, completely
undeterred by the steps I’m taking to try and avoid giving
it. When I can’t do it any longer, I turn to her and shake my
head. “No, we’re not having sex.”
Her mouth drops. “How is that even possible? You guys
are always all over each other, and you’re always so happy.”
“Because he makes me happy, Sloane.” I laugh, grabbing
the suitcase off the bed and rolling it towards the door. Our
flight leaves at four thirty, and Chris will be here soon so
we can get to the airport early. He was reluctant about
letting me come back to campus to pack my bag on my
own, but I needed the time to get my head on straight.
Promising to stay on the phone with him as I walked from
the parking lot to my dorm was the only way I got him to
agree to it. I should have saved my breath though, because
the few hours we’ve been apart haven’t done a damn thing
to calm my nerves or get my brain working right.
“So why are you waiting?” I narrow my eyes at her, and
she holds up her hands. “I’m not judging, Mal. I’m just
genuinely curious. Cause, I know attraction isn’t the issue
on either side.”
I hate when she says stuff like that because they
encourage the thoughts swimming around in my head. The
ones that don’t acknowledge the existence of our
arrangement and completely ignore the possibility that no
matter what Chris said about wanting to make me happy,
this trip could very well be another ploy to sell our
relationship to his dad.
“No.” I sigh. “Attraction isn’t the issue. I just haven’t
been ready.”
Sloane gives me a sympathetic look. “Has Chris been
okay with waiting?”
 “Yeah,” I say softly, my mind on how patient he’s been
with me over the course of our relationship. If it was real, if
sex was on the table and I wanted to wait, I know he would
be okay with doing so.
“That’s good. You deserve someone who’s willing to wait
for you.”
Unexpected tears spring to my eyes at her words. It’s
the second time in twenty-four hours that someone I care
about has told me I’m worth waiting for. Chris probably had
some idea how much it meant to me when he said it, but
Sloane doesn’t. It doesn’t change its impact on me though,
and I cross the room and pull her into a hug. She lets out a
surprised laugh and hugs me back, her arms wrapped
around my middle while she squeezes me like I’m going to
war instead of on vacation.
“Have fun, okay? You’ve worked so hard this semester,
and you deserve a break.”
“I will.”
“And if the timing feels right, go for it, but if it doesn’t
then don’t.”
I glance at the clock, wishing I had time to tease her
about her motherly tone. “Okay, Sloane. I gotta go.”
We release each other, and she helps me grab all of my
things and follows me out of my room. When we get
downstairs, Chris’ car is parked on the curb. He hops out
as soon as he sees us, taking the bags and loading them in
the trunk. He waits by the passenger door while I say
goodbye to Sloane. After I make her promise to keep Eric,
Mama and Nic from freaking out about me being gone all
week, she gives me another tight hug before waving at
Chris and leaving us alone.
I walk over to the car, stopping in front of him. “Ready?”
One of his hands come up, brushing a strand of hair that
came out of my bun behind my ear. “Yep. Are you?”
“I am.”
 As soon as I get settled in my seat, the butterflies that
seem to live in my stomach start to flap their wings, and
they get more and more aggressive as we drive to the
airport, check our bags and board the plane. By the time
we’re in our seats, they’re fluttering so hard it feels like
they have the strength to carry the plane to Florida all on
their own.
My legs starts bouncing, already frayed nerves being
shredded by the reality of being minutes away from being
launched into the air in a metal tube. Chris grips my right
hand, his hold loose to accommodate the tenderness that’s
still there even though the swelling was gone when he took
the bandage off this morning.
Concerned eyes meet mine. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just got nervous all of a sudden. This is the first
time I’ve been on a plane.”
I can tell he’s shocked, but he tries to hide it. Probably
because he doesn’t want me to feel like a weirdo for having
never been on a plane. I study his face, watching shock
turn into a dismayed frown. “Princess, I didn’t know. I
wouldn’t have booked a flight if I knew you were going to
be nervous. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I think it’s
just hitting me that we’re about to be thousands of feet in
the air.”
On our way to another state where we’re spending an
entire week alone.
His thumb runs over the inside of my palm, sending
sparks down my spine. “Getting up there is the hardest
part. After that it’s smooth sailing.”
“That’s easy for you to say, you’ve probably done this a
million times.”
“Something like that.” He chuckles. “But that just makes
me more qualified to tell you that everything is going to be
fine.” I twist my lips to the side, giving him a skeptical look
that earns me another chuckle. This one dark and sensual.
“Just trust me, princess. It’s going to be a good flight.”
I stare down at our joined hands, the image of our laced
fingers reminding me of all the photos we’ve posted across
our accounts doing this exact thing. And even though I
don’t want it to, my mind wanders to the arrangement,
begging me to find out if our act has any place on this trip
or if the only thing coming with us to Florida besides our
luggage is this connection that feels more real with every
passing second.
“I think I just need a distraction,” I say, keeping my
voice even. “Should we take a few pictures so you can post
online before we take off?
The question catches him off guard, but he recovers
quickly, going from surprise to some expression I can’t
read. He uses his free hand to rub at his forehead, and my
heart slams against my ribcage as I wait for his response. I
don’t know what it says about me or my commitment to the
goals I promised to help him reach, but I want him to say
no.
Finally, he turns back to me. “No, I don’t think we need
to.”
The relief that floods me is dizzying and almost enough
to distract me from the unsettling feeling of the plane
gliding down the runway. Chris doesn’t flinch when I
tighten my grip on his hand as we move into a surprisingly
smooth takeoff, and he doesn’t say a word when I keep
holding it once we’re in the air.

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 CHRIS

T he flight was a little over two hours long, and Mallory

held my hand through the whole thing. The weight of
her hand in mine reverberated through me, rattling
my bones, shaking my soul, and just like every other time
I’ve touched her, I felt like the only thing right in my world
was her.
Every scent, her jasmine soaked skin.
Every color, the amber of her eyes and the rich
mahogany of her complexion.
Every sound, the sweet, melodic lilt of her voice.
Every beat of her heart, my reason for breathing.
It scares me, the depth of my feeling for her, because
even though I feel closer to her than I ever have before, I’m
afraid the things she revealed to me last night will make
her pull back. So far that hasn’t seemed to be a problem
though. We were close on the plane and on the ride over to
the resort. And the only reason I’m not with her now is
because we decided it was best to get settled in the rooms
and chill out, so we could be well rested for the parks
tomorrow.
Our rooms are right next to each other, and we’re
sharing a wall, which means I’m standing in the middle of
my room in the dead quiet, just to see if I can hear her
when I should be calling Vanessa back to see how Margaret
is doing. She called while we were in the air and then
texted to say Margaret was asking for me. I know I need to
call them back not only to talk to Margaret but to check on
Vanessa who’s acting as her caregiver, but the thought of
hearing death in her voice stops me every time I try.
It’s been that way for weeks now. Ever since Vanessa
told me about the diagnosis I’ve found myself screening her
calls and making excuses about why I can’t call back. I
recognize I’m cheating myself out of the time I do have left
with her, but none of it seems to matter when I’m thinking
about what it’s going to be like to lose her.
All of my thoughts are plagued with grief, for the woman
who birthed me and the one who raised me. For the lives
ripped apart by their loss. The only time I get a break, the
only reprieve I have, is when I’m with Mallory. Talking to
her, laughing with her, touching the smooth skin of her
cheek and fantasizing about caressing her in other places,
watching her bite the supple flesh of her bottom lip while I
memorize every curve of her frame.
The urge to be around her is so strong, I have to force
myself to do something else. Calling Vanessa is out, so I put
my phone on the charger and start to unpack my bag.
Hanging up my clothes and storing my suitcase in the
bottom of my closet after I get my toiletries out. I’m
walking out of the bathroom, where I’ve just set my
toothbrush and shower stuff on the counter, when there’s a
tentative knock on my door.
I’m at there in an instant, pulling it open to reveal a
smiling Mallory. “Princess. I thought you were getting
settled in your room.”
She shifts her weight from one leg to the other, suddenly
looking shy. “I was, but I’m starving. Do you wanna go get
something to eat?”
“You asking me out on a date?”
 “I’m asking you to join me for a meal.” She laughs. “But
you can call it a date if you like. I’ll even let you pay.”
That makes me laugh because the whole time we’ve
been doing this, I haven’t so much as caught a glimpse of
her debit card. I don’t complain though, because that’s
exactly how I want it to be between us. Her trusting me to
provide her with the things she needs, and me proving it’s
not a mistake.
“Sounds good, let me grab my phone.” I step back and
the door starts to close. “You can come in if you want.”
“Oh, okay.”
She looks uncertain, but then she’s stepping inside. The
door closing behind her as she moves into my space. Both
of us stand there with a quiet awareness stretching
between us, making the air thick. I scan Mallory’s face,
noting the way her eyes moves from my face to the bed
behind us and comes back again. She bites her lip, and I
drop my gaze to the base of her throat where her pulse is
throbbing. I want to dip my tongue into that hollow place,
to drink her sweat from it and sink my teeth into her collar
bone while pleasure pours from her lips.
I break the moment when I turn my back on her and
walk over to the table where I sat my phone. The images
that flashed through my mind sent blood rushing from my
head to my dick, and the last thing I want is to be sporting
an unsolicited erection while we’re standing in the middle
of a hotel room. I take my time getting my phone, subtly
adjusting my dick in my pants before turning back around
and facing Mallory. Her expression is a little less open now,
but she still smiles at me before leading me out of my room.
“Where were you trying to go?” I ask, just to keep my
eyes off the swaying of her hips.
“There’s a few different restaurants around here. I was
thinking we could just walk around until we find something
that smells good?” She glances at me, and I can’t help but
smile at her. “Is that okay with you?”
 “Whatever you want, princess.”
I swear I see red tint her cheeks, but she turns away
from me so quick I can’t be sure. We walk for a while,
taking one of the more scenic paths that wind through the
resort, leading to the restaurants, on-site pool, and the play
areas teeming with children and tired looking parents.
Eventually, we end up at a bar and grill with coastal vibes
and an expansive patio area where Mallory asks to be
seated. The sun is starting to set, but it’s still hot and
humid. I don’t mind though because the faint strips of
sunlight pouring through the slotted wood above us kiss
every inch of Mallory’s skin bared by the halter top and
shorts she changed into when she was in her room.
She wasn’t kidding about being hungry. When the server
came to take our drink order, she already knew what she
wanted to eat and ordered her meal right along with her
water and frozen drink made with passion fruit, orange and
guava juice. Distracted by the thought of what her mouth
would taste like with those exotic flavors on her lips, I
ordered the same thing she got, and she teased me about
being a copycat until the food came. Conversation flowed
easily between us with her leading, moving us from topics
like her favorite Disney movies to the stories behind the
scars on her elbows and wrists—apparently she’s not a
gifted bike rider—until eventually we wind up talking about
school.
“I just don’t know what the rest of the semester is going
to look like without Richardson. Like who’s going to finish
teaching the class?” Mallory asks as she pushes her empty
plate away. She hummed and moaned her appreciation with
every bite she took of her coconut shrimp and cilantro lime
rice. I’m sure it was all delicious, but I was too focused on
her to taste any of it.
“The head of the department will take it over or they’ll
ask Dr. Brennan to come back from sabbatical. Either way,
they’ll have it sorted by the time break ends, so you don’t
have to worry about his leaving impacting your early
graduation date.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You’re weirdly cavalier
about this. Almost like you know something I don’t.”
Instead of answering her, I pick up my glass and take a sip
of water. Her eyes shine with suspicion and intrigue as she
leans forward. “You do know something. Spill.”
I set my glass back down, holding up my hands. “I don’t
know anything for certain, but there were rumors about
them bringing in a team of equity consultants to teach
workshops and assess certain professors’ interactions with
students from marginalized groups. Apparently the
department is making the workshops and assessments
mandatory, and Richardson has been against them from the
jump.”
“So he quit because he was going to have to hear
someone other than me tell him he’s a racist, misogynistic
asshole.” She nods her head, lips pursed with
understanding. “That tracks.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Let’s hope the rest of his cronies follow suit. The entire
department needs to be cleaned out to be honest, with the
exception of a few people.”
“Besides Dr. Wilson and Dr. Brennan, who would you
keep?”
“No one,” she deadpans.
“Damn.” I place my hand on my chest, feigning hurt.
“Not even your favorite TA?”
That wins me a giggle that’s coupled with an eye roll.
“Please, you’re about to trade your slacks and button ups
for scrubs and sneakers. You won’t remember a single
person in that department in a few years.”
The reminder that in just a few months we’ll be going
our separate ways, our act complete, our lives changed,
eats at me. Chipping away at the joy I’ve been feeling since
we landed.
 “You really think I could forget you?” Once again I’m
putting too much meaning into my words, layering in
complicated emotion where there should be simplicity.
Mallory stares at me, her eyes turning dark to match the
intensity of my gaze.
“No.” She shakes her head, looking for all the world like
a woman fluent in the language of things left unsaid. The
expression takes over her face, clinging to her sunlit
features for long seconds before fading away and leaving a
teasing smile that feels forced. “I mean, you never forget
your first fake girlfriend, right?”
Like every one that came before it, this moment loses
it’s potential for realness to humor, and for the first time in
my life, I understand the frustration Mallory must have felt
during our first library encounter when I kept making jokes
to hide that our kiss had turned my world upside down.
“Right.” I smile back, keeping my tone light. “You’ll be a
tough act to follow.”
She cocks a sassy brow at me. “You planning on having
more than one fake girlfriend in your life?”
“No, but you never know what might happen.”
“I guess that’s true. Well, if you ever find yourself in
need of one, I’d be happy to reprise my role.”
Now I’m the one arching a brow at her, surprised, and a
little annoyed, that she can offer me this so easily when
what I really want is the real thing. “You’ll be too busy
dominating corporate America to have time for those kinds
of shenanigans.”
Her nose wrinkles. “You got the busy part right, but I
will not be working in corporate America.” A shudder rolls
through her body, shaking her shoulders, and she pulls a
face. “There isn’t enough money in the world to make me
want to spend the rest of my life living in microaggression
hell.”
The vehemence of her response makes me realize I don’t
know anything about what she plans to do with her
business degree. I’d heard her talk about going back to
school to earn her MBA after she graduated next semester
but that was about it. I should have known she wouldn’t be
taking the same path as other business majors who’s only
aspirations for life after college is a securing a position as
an investment banker.
“Well, what do you want to do after you graduate?”
As soon as I finish asking the question, her entire
demeanor shifts. Her eyes turn bright and warm. Pools of
starfire and pure gold staring back at me as she sits up a
little straighter in her seat and smiles wide, showing off
both of her dimples.
“I’m going to help Sloane start an interior design studio.
She’ll handle the design side of things, and I’ll manage all
the behind the scenes stuff that no one cares about but will
make sure we’re growing and scaling at the rate of our
competitors. Sloane is creative and ambitious as hell, but
she doesn’t have a head for business operations which is
where I’ll come in. I’ll probably end up doing the same
thing for Eric and Nic when they start their construction
company, but it’ll be a few years before I have to worry
about them.”
She looks so happy talking about how she’ll use her
degrees to help the people she loves achieve their dreams,
but I can’t help but think about how she never mentioned
what she hoped to accomplish for herself.
“And when you’re done?”
Both of her brows fall together. “When I’m done?”
“When you’re done helping everybody else get what
they want, what are you going to do?” Her mouth opens,
but no words come out. I’m not surprised that my question
has stumped her. Mallory has spent the last few years
making decisions for her life based on what she thought the
people around her might want or need.
As far as I can tell, no one forced her to do that. The
people closest to her are some of the most loving and
understanding folks on the planet. They uplift each other,
encouraging one another to go after their dreams, and it
never even occurs to them to try to impose their own will
and desires on the people they love.
Mallory could do anything she wanted, and they would
cheer her on without a second’s hesitation, but she’s so
used to anticipating their needs and putting them first, she
doesn’t realize it. Or at least she didn’t until just now. I can
see the question taking root, sprouts of ideas and
possibilities shooting from every part of her brain.
In that moment, I envy her and her newly realized ability
to decide for herself what she’s going to do with her life.
Eventually, joy overrides that feeling, turning envy into
excitement born solely from the knowledge that nothing
will be able to stop her from achieving whatever goal I just
watched her set.
“You can do it,” I say, pulling her out of her head and
away from the spinning wheels of her brain that are
probably plotting how to take over an entire industry.
She gives me a quizzical look, but there’s warmth in her
eyes that lets me know my words are appreciated. “You
don’t even know what I’m planning to do. Hell, I don’t even
know fully.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I shrug. “Whatever it is, you’ll do it,
and you’ll do it just like you do everything else: well.”
“You’re something else, you know that?”
“I might have heard that once or twice in my life,” I say
through a yawn that catches me completely off guard.
Mallory’s eyes go wide, and the concerned frown that tugs
her lips down makes them look even more kissable.
“Oh, no, I’m keeping you from resting again, aren’t I?”
“Again?”
“Yeah, I stole your bed last night, woke you up in the
middle of the night and now I’ve got you out here having
dinner at the late, late hour of,”—she taps the screen on
her phone checking the time— “nine thirty p.m., I think it
might be too much excitement for an old man such as
yourself.”
She chuckles, and I shake my head. “You really had me
thinking you cared for a second there, but no, you were just
setting up for a bad joke.”
“A bad joke? I’m offended.”
“No, princess, I’m most definitely the injured party
here.”
“That’s unfortunate,” she sighs. “Because you know
resilience tends to fade with age.”
This time I can’t help but laugh. “You know I’m not that
much older than you right?”
She turned twenty at the end of October, and I turned
twenty-two in December, so there’s just a few years
between us. I wonder if that matters to her at all after
dating Trent.
“I know, I just like making fun of you.”
I lift a brow. “Ah, so you do have a sense of humor.”
“Of course, I’m actually very funny when I’m
comfortable around a person.”
My heart flips as my brain tries to process the meaning
behind her words. The hidden potential soaks into my
bones, under my skin where I’ve worked to keep my hope
for our future under wraps.
“Oh.” I clear my throat, pushing a response out past the
lump forming there. “And I’m one of those people now?”
There’s barely a second between my question and her
response.
“Yes,” she says. “You are.”
I open my mouth, preparing to let the words I’ve been
wanting to say for so long tumble out, but before I get the
chance her phone rings. Even from across the table, I can
see that the caller is her mom, and I know that the
likelihood of her not answering is negative zero.
Proving me right, Mallory gives me an apologetic look
and picks the phone up. She slides back from the table and
starts to speak, her voice fading away as she moves
through the patio to a quieter spot, turning heads as she
goes.
She doesn’t seem to notice all the eyes on her. All the
people taking in her beauty, admiring her graceful stride
and the compelling power of her bone structure. Her lack
of awareness only makes her that much more alluring.
And the longer you stare at her, the more it mocks you,
laughing in your face for ever thinking you could have her.

OceanofPDF.com
 31

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

T he look on Chris’ face at the end of our first dinner has

stuck with me for the entire week. Between spending
all day at the parks, riding rides, eating the most
expensive theme park food known to man and getting
pictures with all the characters, we haven’t had a lot of
quiet moments, but every time we do, I find myself wanting
to ask him what that look was about. When I lay in bed at
night, I replay the entire dinner in my head, imagining
what would have gone differently if I hadn’t answered
Mama’s call.
She’s called every day this week just to chat, and while
I’ve been a bit exasperated by the whole thing, Chris hasn’t
been bothered. He’s even talked to her a few times while
I’ve waited in line for the bathroom, and when I told him he
didn’t have to do that, he said he didn’t mind. The solemn
look on his face reminded me that outside the scheduled
calls with his dad and the occasional texts from his brother
and sister, no one really checks on him.
I never realized how alone he was. How many gaps
existed in his life that the small family we indoctrinated
him into filled. Even Mama is trying to adopt him, calling
him son and telling him not to spoil me too much while
we’re out here. When she called today, we were spreading
out a blanket on one of the patches of grass in the middle
of Magic Kingdom so we could watch the firework show,
and after she finished talking my ear off about some drama
at Aunt Mary’s church, she asked to speak to Chris. They
chatted and laughed until I made him hang up with her
because the show was about to start.
Now, he’s sitting next to me with his shoulder brushing
mine, bleeding heat into my skin. The air is cool, so his
warmth is welcome. Even more welcome is the leather and
earth scent of his skin mingling with the smell of fried
dough and powdered sugar from the funnel cake he got for
me that I’ve been too nervous to eat. Tonight is our last
night in Florida. In the morning we’ll get on a plane and
head back to New Haven, and I’m afraid that nothing
between us will have changed even though everything has
for me.
“Thank you for this week,” I say, leaning in close so he
can hear me over the excited chatter of the kids around us.
“You don’t have to thank me, princess.” His eyes meet
mine just as the first firework lights up the sky, the blue
and pink and purple sparks reflected in his eyes, and the
crowd gasps around us, marveling at what I’m sure must be
a beautiful sight, but I can’t take my eyes off of him. Clouds
of conflicted emotion play across his features. He looks like
he wants to say something else, and I hold my breath,
willing him to do it. “Your smile is gift enough.”
“It is a nice smile,” I quip, too afraid to let this moment
go on without any levity. Chris doesn’t so much as crack a
smile. Waves of intensity rolling off of him as he searches
my face.
“It’s more than nice, Mallory. Your smile is the thing I
want most in the world. I spend every waking moment
trying to find new ways to get you to give it to me. I wish
for it on every shooting star and repeating number on a
clock.” My chest is tight, lungs begging for air while he
reminds me of our first date when I told him all the wishes I
used up trying to become the thing he’s told me I am since
the very beginning. Chris shifts on the blanket, angling his
body towards me while one of his hands grips mine. Long
fingers thread through mine until his fingertips are
brushing my knuckles. “I’ll probably spend the rest of my
life wishing for it to always be mine.”
Another wave of color explodes above us, absorbing the
sound of my audible gasp. My ribs hurt from how hard my
heart is thudding against them, threatening to crack them
open and let all the feelings I’ve been hiding come flooding
out. Forcing air through my lungs, I look down at our joined
hands, mesmerized by how right his skin feels on mine. I
want to tell him that he can have my smile whenever he
wants. That he’s the only person I want to give it to, but I
have to be sure I understand what he’s saying.
When I look back up, his face is just inches from mine,
and we’re sharing air. Exchanging quiet desire and hopeful
exhalations with every expansion and contraction of our
lungs.
“The rest of your life, huh?” I laugh, voice trembling.
“That’s a long time to be in a fake relationship.”
He shakes his head, earnest eyes boring into mine as he
finally says the thing I’ve been wanting him to say for
months. “Not fake, princess. Real. Everything I feel for you,
everything I want with you is real.”
“Real.” I repeat the word, tasting the possibility,
savoring the potential, the reality of us.
“Is that something you could want?” Doubt plays over
his features, and seeing him so afraid that I don’t want him,
pulls my answer from my throat before I have the chance to
think.
“Yes,” I whisper fiercely, nodding to emphasize my
answer. “It’s all I want, Chris.”
Pops of color and explosions that lace the air with the
smell of smoke and gunpowder begin to build towards a
crescendo that seems to be swelling just for us. Chris leans
in closer, and I want to, but I can’t move. His other hand
comes up, gliding up my arm and shoulder, up the column
of my neck, over my pulse where his thumb rests as he
grips my nape and urges me forward.
The largest, loudest burst of sparks we’ve seen so far,
illuminate the lawn and the crowd gasps, children
screaming their delight while Chris’ lips crash against
mine. I’m stunned by the force of the kiss, by the delicious
pressure of his fingertips digging into my skin, holding me
to him like he’s afraid I’ll float away if he lets go. When my
mouth starts moving, they tell him that I’m not going
anywhere because his lips are anchors and every carnal
swirl of our tongues is the knotting of a rope, tethering my
soul to his.
A feral growl that comes straight from Chris’ chest
echoes in my ears as he breaks the kiss, sending us both
plummeting back down to Earth from the dizzying heights
of cloud nine. It’s only then that I realize the fireworks have
ended, that there’s nothing but white smoke in the air and
the fading chatter of the families vacating the area to head
back to their hotels. The park doesn’t close for a while, but
suddenly it’s the last place I want to be. Chris is staring at
me, waiting patiently for words he already knows are going
to come.
“Let’s go back to the room.”
Once the words hit the air, we both jump into action,
leaving the park in a mad dash punctuated with random
kisses that are half laughs, half moans. The drive back to
the resort is a blur of streetlights and anxiety that’s
tampered by the constant presence of Chris’ hand in mine.
His thumb running over the space between my thumb and
index finger with strokes that soothe parts of me I haven’t
had to worry about in a long time. But once we get to my
room, with my bed in front of me and Chris at my back, all
of it comes flooding back.
 My feet are planted firmly on the ground, and I’m
blocking Chris from moving into the room any further, so
he walks around me. Moving with the kind of slow
precision that speaks of his awareness of my past and
calms my racing pulse, reminding me I’m safe with him.
He reaches for me, both of his hands coming up and
turning over so his palms are facing me. A silent offer. An
extension of connection. A reminder that I’m the one in
control. I take a step forward, placing my hands in his, my
heart swelling when relief shines in his eyes. He flexes his
fingers, giving mine a gentle squeeze, pulling me out of my
head and back into the moment with him the way he did
the first time we kissed.
“Nothing has to happen tonight,” he says, and I know he
means it. The air of calmness around him assures of me of
that, but the fire burning just inside the corners of his eyes
belies the coolness in his voice. It tells me that somewhere
under the tranquil facade I suspect he’s putting forth just
for me is a man starving for contact. For release. For me.
And that knowledge has my blood racing through my
veins, abandoning all of my extremities and heading
straight for my clit. Pulsing inside the greedy, swollen
bundle of nerves that pounds out my desire in a steady
rhythm that only Chris can hear.
“I know, but I want it to.” My mouth is dry, voice raspy
with fear and desire. “I think I’m ready.”
Chris laughs, and I’m shocked by the dark, velvet sound
and the way making the sound has forced his lips back,
away from his teeth that look sharp and dangerous and
sexy as hell because they’re bared for me.
“Thinking isn’t the same thing as knowing, princess.”
I can’t help myself, I pry one of my hands out of his.
Raising it to his face and running one shaky thumb over his
lips. My fingertip brushes over his top teeth, and a low
growl rumbles from his chest, sending a rush of liquid
arousal from my core to the boy shorts I’m wearing. What
started out as a trickle of desire turns into a full blown
flood when he opens his mouth and pulls my finger into it,
biting down gently at first and then harder when I moan at
the sensation that’s pain and pleasure wrapped into one.
His eyes glow, a wildfire roasting chestnuts. Turning
shiny brown husks into the charred ashes of control that he
seems hellbent on holding on to even though it’s slipping
through his fingertips. He drops my other hand and places
his free one on my waist, gripping it tight. Then he brings
the other one up to grip my wrist. Slowly, he pulls my
thumb out of his mouth, letting his teeth graze over my skin
before turning my hand over and placing a kiss into the
center of my palm.
That kiss starts a trail up my arm that forces me to move
closer to him the higher up he goes until finally my chest is
brushing against his and he’s leaning down to take my
mouth again. I push up on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms
around his neck to deepen the kiss, to show him I’m sure
about wanting this.
“I want you,” I whisper against his lips while I’m in the
process of trying to scale his body. His hands snake around
my waist, over the curve of my ass where he squeezes both
cheeks hard before lifting me off the ground completely.
I’m shocked by how easily he holds me up, not even a hint
of strain in his muscles as he urges me to wrap my legs
around him. I do it immediately, moaning into his mouth
while he releases another decadent growl. “I’ve always
wanted you, Chris. I’ve never been more sure about
anything, about anyone, in my entire life.”
Those words cause something to snap inside him
because as soon as they hit the air, we’re moving towards
the bed in the center of the room. He lowers us down
slowly, and even though I know that it’s him, even though I
know that I’m safe, the second I feel the mattress at my
back and the weight of him at my front, a fierce wave of
panic washes over me.
 “Wait.”
He pulls back immediately, untangling himself from me
and standing up in the space of a heartbeat. Even with my
heart in my throat, and the confusing effects of being
aroused and afraid at the same time, I manage to feel bad
for him. There’s an impressive erection tenting his jeans
and hunger shining bright from his dilated pupils caused by
the words I spoke just seconds ago in hopes of getting this
exact reaction from him, and now I’m telling him to slow
down.
I sit up, pulling my legs underneath me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Chris drops down on his haunches,
studying my face. “What happened? Did I hurt you? Was I
moving too fast?”
“No.” I shake my head wildly, unable to live with the
tortured look on his face. “You didn’t hurt me. I just…” I
blink away frustrated tears, hating how even in this
moment it feels like Trent is here, stealing something else
from me. “That position just isn’t….I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I
thought I was ready, but I just can’t do that.”
“Stop apologizing, baby. I already told you nothing has
to happen tonight.”
“But I want it too.” I’m whining, which takes the
sexiness of this moment down another degree. Or ten.
Chris stares, patiently waiting for me to make my point. I
pull my hands into my lap and start picking at my cuticles
while I wait for the words to come. “That time with Trent…
it was my first time.”
“I know.”
Right. I told him that when I spent the night in his home,
in his bed. “It was my only time.” Finally drawing my eyes
away from my hands, I glance at him, trying to gauge his
reaction. He doesn’t seem surprised. “You already knew
that, huh?”
“I figured as much. Everyone who knows you, knows
school is your top priority.”
 “It’s also become an excuse to stop living. After
everything that happened, I just wanted something I could
control. Because that’s what I felt like he took from me. My
power over my life, my sexuality, my desire. It’s like it’s all
still there in that dirty ass dorm room, and I want it back.”
“Your life is yours, Mallory. You’ve already proven you
can make it whatever you want it to be. No one could have
come out of what you went through completely unscathed,
but you picked up the pieces and built something beautiful
out of the destruction.”
“And what about the rest of it? I haven’t been in a
relationship in years. I can’t stand to have you lay on top of
me for half of a second. Nothing about that sounds like a
woman ready to take control of her sex life.”
Chris’ eyebrows knit together. “Taking control of your
sex life means knowing what you like during sex and what
you don’t like. The only thing this moment has taught us is
that you don’t feel secure being pinned down. Now, that
can change or it can stay the same, but either way the
power is in knowing. In acknowledging that limit and
seeking different ways to find pleasure while still
respecting it.”
“Different ways?”
My inexperience is showing, and I’m well aware of it but
I can’t find it in me to be ashamed. All of my experiences
with Trent prior to that night either happened with me on
my knees or on my back. There was never time to explore,
to learn, to figure out if I liked anything different. Chris
nods, understanding shining in his eyes as he scoots back
from the edge of the bed a bit.
“Stand up, princess.” I slide off the bed, pulling in a
deep breath as the sight of him on his knees in front of me
threatens to steal every bit of air from my lungs. He gazes
up at me, ocher eyes serious and laced with desire. “You’ve
said several times that you want this, is that still true?”
 I nod, biting my lip. “Yes, but I don’t know if I’m ready
for…” Trailing off feels silly, childish, but saying the word
feels hard. Chris inclines his head, acknowledging my
unspoken request.
“We’ll go as slow as you like. Whatever feels good to you
is what we’ll do.”
“Okay.” I’m surprised I can get the one word out past
the lust clogging my throat.
“Good.” Chris breathes, hungry eyes roving over my
features. “Now tell me exactly what you want out of
tonight, princess. You’re in charge.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I feel suddenly shy in the
face of his expectant gaze. “I don’t…I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do, and you’re going to say it.”
The words come out in a soft growl, reminding me of the
sound he made when he took a bite of his burger at Curly’s
that first night and sparking a request I’m too scared to
speak. Chris waits quietly for my answer, and after a few
seconds tick by, I decide to go with something simple,
something safe.
“I want you to touch me.”
“Where, baby?” He inches closer, shuffling on his knees
until his face is just inches from my stomach. My dress
rippling because of the warm puffs of air leaving his lips.
“Take your hands and show me where you want mine to
go.”
Feeling self-conscious and more than a little turned on, I
lift my hands from my sides and bring them up to my chest.
Allowing my fingertips to caress the tops of my breasts and
running them down my stomach. Chris tracks my
movements with his eyes, and as my hands approach the
apex of my thighs, fingers cupping my soaked sex through
layers of fabric, he licks his lips.
Emboldened by his reaction, I let one hand stroke lazily
at my throbbing pussy while the other comes back up to
cup one of my breasts and pinches my nipple. A sharp gasp
falls from my lips, and Chris’ dark gaze moves to my face,
holding my eyes.
“Am I free to do that now?”
I’m nodding before he’s even finished asking the
question. “Yes, please.”
Even though he’s on the ground, he has no trouble
reaching my chest, and his palms are rough against my
smooth skin as they follow the trail from my chest to my
core, which is throbbing incessantly for him. When I was
touching myself for him, it felt like it took me forever to get
from one place to the other, but Chris does it in record
time, leaving me hungry for more.
I let out a shaky exhale. “Chris.”
“Would you like more, princess? Can I taste you?”
“Yes, please.”
He reaches for me, but just before his hands land at the
backs of my thighs he looks up at me and says, “Tell me if
it’s too much, and I’ll stop, okay?”
“Okay.”
Then he’s gripping my legs, pulling me into him so he
can bury his face between my thighs. While he breathes in
a lungful of my scent, his hands move up my torso, taking
the thin cotton of my dress with them. The fabric skates up
my sides and suddenly the only thing I want is to be bared
to him, so I reach down and pull it up over my head, tossing
it to the side.
Chris must have known that I wasn’t wearing a bra, he
had to have felt it when he caressed my breast just
moments ago, but he still looks absolutely feral at the sight
of my bare breasts, heavy and swollen, swinging from the
force of my throw.
His eyes roll into the back of his head for a second as
another dark, guttural sound climbs from his chest and
spills into the room. Turning the air thick with lust. When
his irises are visible again, there are endless rings of gold
and stardust. Swirling clouds of wonder and desire. Hope
and fear. Disbelief and joy.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, fingers going to the
waist band of the biker shorts I put on whenever I wear a
dress or skirt because chafed thighs are not a good look.
He pulls them down my legs, and I use his shoulders as
support while I step out of them. Now, I’m in nothing but
my soaked panties, heart pounding in my chest as his eyes
sweep over me like he’s trying to memorize every one of
my curves. “So fucking beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you.”
I run my hands over his head, and he makes a satisfied
noise in the back of his throat when I grip his curls tight. “I
can think of one thing I’d be happy to accept as a token of
your gratitude.”
Amusement shines in his eyes. “Just one? We can do
better than that, don’t you think?”
“Well—” I start, but he’s already making short work of
my underwear, pulling them down my legs slowly with a
determined smirk on his face.
“I don’t have a specific number in mind, but I know one
won’t be enough for you.” He takes my left leg and hikes it
up on his shoulder. His arm is looped around my thigh with
his fingers splayed across my back for support while the
other starts to trail up my right leg. “What do you think will
be enough, princess? Five?”
He leans forward and places a kiss on the inside of my
thigh, flicking his eyes up to me to see my reaction. I’m
entranced, too turned on by the thought of him wringing
pleasure from my body to contemplate whether I could
actually come that many times in one night.
“Ten?” Another kiss, this one wet and hot and only a few
millimeters away from my clit. My hips jerk forward, and I
have to place my hands back in his hair to find my balance.
When his fingers start to graze my pussy lips, I’m glad I
did. “That might be a bit excessive,” he sighs against my
skin, sounding like he’s disappointed.
“Chris.”
I can feel my arousal slipping out of me. In seconds it’ll
be coating my thighs, spilling out onto the places where his
lips and fingers are teasing me. I rock my hips forward,
hoping to make contact with some part of him that can give
me the pleasure I so desperately need. My blood is on fire,
and there’s a heavy, low pressure in the pit of my stomach
that’s aching for him, for a release only he can bring me to.
“I know, baby. I can smell how turned on you are.” To
emphasize his point he runs his nose over my sex, flared
nostrils taking in all of my scent as they move over my
engorged folds. “You smell even better here, Mallory.
There’s no jasmine or citrus, just you.”
His words distract me from his actions, from the feel of
his thick fingers spreading my pussy open to ensure the
first stroke of his tongue goes directly to my clit, and as my
eyes roll back into my head, my back arching, forcing my
hips forward and into his greedy mouth, I wonder if that
was his intent. To keep me from getting too far into my
head while he touched me in places that no one has since…
“That’s right, princess.” He murmurs against my sex,
tongue still stroking relentlessly into me while I grind
against him. “Fuck my face. Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
And he does. He’s supporting the weight of my entire
body while I writhe against him. Broad shoulders
unyielding, rough fingertips firm despite the wildness of my
movements as I follow the rhythm he’s setting with his
tongue. I’m so far gone, so lost to the sensation of heedless
pleasure zipping up and down my spine, I don’t register his
fingers circling my entrance until he pulls back with the
question in his eyes.
“Yes,” I moan, certain the fullness his fingers will
provide is the exact thing I need to go over the edge. “Yes,
Chris.” I yank his head back to my body roughly, and he
groans his approval, rewarding me with a slow advance of
his middle finger into my core.
In that moment everything stops. My body goes still,
muscles tensing against the intrusion. Chris tries to pull
back, and I know he wants to see my face to check on me,
but I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see the concern or
pity or whatever else in his eyes, I just want to feel this. To
process the sensation of a fullness that I welcomed, that I
wanted.
“I’m fine,” I whimper into the air. “Please don’t stop.”
He hesitates but only for a second, and I appreciate him
trusting me to know myself and what I want in this
moment. He keeps moving forward, and my walls clench
around him, sucking him into the heat of my body and
gripping at him desperately when he starts to retreat.
All of the tension melts from my muscles as he repeats
the motion, drilling in and out of me slowly, building
unbearable pressure up to unimaginable heights while my
pussy leaks juices all around him.
“It’s not enough,” I whine. “Give me another one. I need
another one.”
On his next advance, the pressure in my core is doubled
as my body stretches to accommodate both his middle and
ring finger. Chris twists his hand, screwing his fingers into
me while I moan and rock against his face. When he’s sure
I’m fine with the addition, he adds his tongue back into the
mix. Lapping at my cunt with renewed enthusiasm until my
orgasm sweeps over me, bowing my back and pulling a
scream from my throat while Chris licks up every single
drop of my satisfaction with his tongue.
My chest is still rising and falling violently when he pulls
back, face coated in my juices and stretched with a self-
congratulatory smile. “You’re incredible.”
“All I did was come.” I’m blushing and my leg shakes as
he lowers my foot to the floor. I take a few steps back,
grateful when the edge of the bed meets the back of my
knees, and collapse. I stretch out on my side, so I can see
him. Chris stands, bending over to pick up my dress and
then striding over to me. His erection is even more
prominent now, but he takes great care to keep it from
touching me as he leans over the bed and plants a kiss on
my lips.
“That’s all you had to do. Seeing you like that? Tasting
you, touching you? I didn’t know it could be like that with
anyone.” That look of wonder is back in his eyes, and it has
warmth spreading through my chest and the rest of my
body as I sit up and slip the dress back over my head. When
I’m done, I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him down onto
the bed. He lands on his side and props his head up on his
hand, smiling at me.
“That’s what I thought the first time you kissed me,” I
whisper against his lips, sliding closer to him.
“Really? You didn’t seem moved by that kiss at all,
meanwhile my entire world was turned upside down.”
My mouth drops, and I can’t tell if I’m more shocked
that his world was turned upside down by our kiss or that
he couldn’t tell mine was as well. “What? I couldn’t even
breathe when you were walking over to me. You had to tell
me to! How could you not think I was effected?”
He shrugs. “I just thought you were nervous about
completing the dare in general, not completing it with me.”
“No, it was you. Sloane could have dared me to call
Mama and tell her I was dropping out of school, and I
would have been less nervous.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“Okay, you might be right, but I was nervous about
kissing you. And then when our lips met, it just felt….”
There are a million words I could use to describe the
feeling I got that day, the feeling I still get when he kisses
me, but it’s all too big for this moment in our burgeoning
relationship. I don’t want to scare him. “Right. It just felt
right.”
 He nods. “Yeah, that’s how it felt for me too.”
His confession sends a flood of emotions through me,
and I lean forward and kiss him. Taking his lips in a sweet
pressing of mouths that say things I can’t yet. When I pull
back, I think he understands, and my heart flutters.
“Are we really going to do this?”
Both of his brows fall together. “I thought we already
established that we were?”
“We did. I just wanted to make sure that you were sure.”
“Have I said or did anything tonight to give you the
impression that I wasn’t?”
I bite my lip, wondering if we’re venturing off into
territory that might ruin our night. “Not tonight, no, but
you have said before that you didn’t have time for
relationships. That’s why you haven’t been in one since
Giselle.”
Chris sets his hand on my waist, pulling me closer to
him. He doesn’t look upset, just thoughtful, like he’s trying
to determine how much he wants to say. “After Giselle and I
broke up, I did decide a relationship wasn’t something I
needed. Part of that was because I didn’t want anything to
get in the way of my goals, and the other part was being
afraid of having something good and having it snatched
away from me.”
He told me this the other day when he finally revealed
he’d told his dad about us and gotten a surprisingly good
reaction from him. Apparently, his fear of having the good
things in his life taken away because they didn’t fit his
dad’s vision for his life had come up in conversation. I’d
wondered how he managed to conjure up the emotions
necessary to make his fears feel real to his dad, but now I
think I know.
“Do those reasons still stand?”
“I’m still afraid of having good things taken away from
me, yeah, but I’ll do any and everything in my power to
keep them. To keep you.” He lifts a brow, answering the
question I didn’t ask. “I don’t know what a relationship with
any other woman would have looked like, princess, but this
thing between us is too good to ever be considered a
distraction or a hindrance to my goals, especially when all
of them include you now.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out,
which is fine because I don’t think there’s a single word in
the English language that will accurately convey the way
hearing him say that his goals now include me makes me
feel.
Chris laughs. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I chirp, head bobbing up and down. “I’m fine.”

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 CHRIS

M allory looked anything but fine when I said those

words. Her eyes stretched comically wide, her
throat constricted, the muscles working to hold in
words I hoped weren’t something along the lines of ‘are
you crazy?’ or ‘you are definitely moving too fast.’
I couldn’t decide which reaction was more likely before
she excused herself to go to the bathroom and freshen up,
and now I’m sitting at the head of her bed wondering if I
am, in fact, crazy and moving too fast. I was only answering
her questions, being honest with her about the way I felt
while reassuring her that I had all the space in my life for
her, for us, but I should have pulled back a little. She hasn’t
done this before, and honestly, neither have I.
What’s happening between me and Mallory is different
from anything I’ve ever had with anyone. The puppy love I
had with Giselle. The casual hookups with girls like Alisha.
None of it had ever come close to this, and I would bet my
entire trust fund that this is how Dad felt about Mom.
Despite what he said about Grandpa wanting their union
more than him, it must have been.
He must have recognized that I was struck by the same
reckless, desperate emotion that pushed him to put a ring
on her finger and announce their union to everyone without
his father’s approval.
I’m glad I didn’t have to go to such lengths to prove I
was serious about Mallory. I mean, I wouldn’t have been
opposed to being tied to her in such a permanent way, but I
know she’s not ready for that, and I honestly would never
want to go into something as life changing as marriage to
prove a point or appease someone else.
Luckily, I don’t have to worry about any of that now.
Dad has accepted the relationship. Mallory knows how I
feel about her, and by some miracle, she feels the same
way. Everything is right with the world, and I can’t
remember a time when I felt as happy as I do right now.
The bathroom door opens and Mallory emerges, looking
significantly more calm. She smiles at me and saunters
over to the bed. The hem of her dress rides up her thighs
with every step, inching up even more as she lifts one leg
and climbs on the bed to sit between my legs. Her hair
tickles my nose as she leans back on me, resting her head
on my chest.
I press a kiss to her temple, and she sighs happily. “You
good?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to be
someone’s boyfriend.”
She glances back at me. Scrunching up her nose and
making that face she always does when she’s trying to
make a joke. “Boyfriend? You’re my boyfriend now?”
“Unless I misunderstood what happened during the
fireworks show, yes.”
“No, I might be the one who’s confused. I don’t think I
heard you ask me out.”
“Mallory,” I say, tone serious even though I want to
smile. I love when she’s happy like this, comfortable
enough to crack jokes and laugh, even at herself.
 “Christopher.” She mocks me, dropping her voice
several octaves and copying my inflection.
“You need a formal request to be my girlfriend even
after I’ve had my face buried in your pussy?”
“Yes, I do actually because giving excellent head doesn’t
automatically get you the role. I might have let it slide if
you had given me the five orgasms you promised, but….”
She lets the sentence trail off and shrugs like her silence
has made the point for her.
“Excellent point, Ms. Kent.” I smile when she rolls her
eyes. “Do I need to get down on one knee or will the
question suffice?”
“The question should be more than enough, Dr.
Johnson.”
“Fine.” I wrap an arm around her middle, pulling her
closer to me. She gasps when I lean down and nuzzle into
her neck, kissing and licking the spot where her scent is
strongest before dragging my lips up to her ear. “Mallory
Kent, will you please do me the honor of being my
girlfriend? For real this time?”
A shiver rolls through her, no doubt inspired by the dark
silk of my voice, but when she speaks her voice is even,
unaffected. “Hmm, I don’t know. I think I might have to
explore some other op—” The words are cut off by shrill
laughter as I tickle her sides and stomach. She squirms,
her hands flailing wildly. “Okay! Okay! Chris, I give.”
Her surrender causes me to pause instantly, but it takes
her several minutes to stop wheezing. By the time she
calms down, my cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing
along with her. Her joy permeates the room, piercing
everything around it including me, and I lean down to kiss
her just because I can.
The kiss grows deeper than I intended it to, and it’s not
long before Mallory is scrambling up off of the bed and
climbing into my lap. My hands bracket her waist, trying to
keep her from coming into contact with my erection. I’ve
been brutally hard all night long, swollen past the point of
discomfort and moving into some new place where the
steady stream of precum leaking from my dick is a welcome
relief even though it’s soaking through my briefs.
She reaches down, moving my hands and gasping when
she feels my reaction to her. We both freeze, but she’s the
one who breaks the kiss to look down between us. Her
dress is covering most of the view, so she pulls it up around
her waist, showing me a sight that’s likely to drive me
insane.
After I ate her out earlier, she didn’t put her under wear
back on, so there’s nothing between her pussy and the dark
denim of my jeans. Neatly trimmed tufts of soft, black hair
cover her mound, but I can tell by the way she’s sitting that
her folds are spread over me. Her clit nestled against the
flared tip of a dick that’s weeping for her, desperate to be
inside her even though I know it won’t happen tonight.
She’s not ready, and I respect that. I will always respect
that.
But damn if the sight of her inspecting us doesn’t make
it hard.
“Princess.” Her eyes are wild when they meet mine.
They match the storm raging inside of me. “We can stop. I
can go. I don’t want you to feel like this means you have to
do something you don’t want to.”
“No, I—” I watch her top teeth sink into the lushness of
her bottom lip. “I’m not ready for that yet, but I don’t want
you to go. I want more, but not if it means you’re going to
be uncomfortable.”
“Your desire will never make me uncomfortable.”
“But doesn’t it hurt when you get like this”—she rocks
her hips against me, and I groan—“and you don’t come?”
“Yeah.” I blow out a harsh breath. “It does.”
“Then me wanting us to do anything else will make you
uncomfortable.”
 I don’t know how she manages to be sexy and logical at
the same time, but it only adds to her appeal. My dick
twitches underneath her, and her eyes go wide as she lifts
up and backs away, settling on the mattress across from me
with her legs stretched out.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No.” She shakes her head, eyes on the tent in my jeans.
“No, I’m okay. I just…can you do that again? I want to see.”
“Princess.” The word comes out harsher than I intend it
to, but I can’t help it. I know that if I pull my dick out in
front of her, we’ll be cruising into dangerous, potentially
triggering territory for her, and I don’t want that. “I don’t
think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, Chris.” She blinks up at me through those long
lashes, but it’s her legs that put a crack in my resolve.
They’re opening, slowly, treating me to a view of her pussy,
the lips coated in her essence, while one of her hands slips
down her thigh. “I just want to see.”
I never thought I’d meet a person I couldn’t say no to,
but as I undo my pants and pull my dick out, I realize I
finally have. Mallory Kent could ask me for the moon, and
I’d find a way to get it for her. She could ask me for the
stars, and I’d steal them from the sky. She could ask for my
heart, and, well….she already has that. She just doesn’t
know it yet.
Quick as a flash, her tongue moves over her lips, and
she gives me a look that promises one day soon, she’s
going to devour me. That promise, that thinly veiled, way
too welcome, threat calls to the most primal part of me.
The part that wants to be devoured and do the devouring.
The part that has been denied the joy of being fully
unleashed because I knew none of my other partners would
want what I’m going to give Mallory. I already know how it
will be with us. I can tell by the glint in her eyes and the
dents she’s leaving in her own lip at the sight of me.
 I grip my dick roughly, dragging my hand from the root
to the tip to spread the precum that’s pooled at my base
around. Mallory hisses, and I groan, the sound causing my
dick to twitch again.
“Fuck,” she moans, sitting up like she’s going to come
closer. “That’s so fucking sexy.”
“Stay. There.” It’s a struggle to get the words past my
lips. I’m on the edge. Hanging on to the last shred of my
control by a thread that will snap if she moves an inch. Her
entire body goes still, worry stamped across her face, and I
push out another breath, calming myself so I can reassure
her. “You’re safe with me, princess, but I’m….” I shake my
head. Putting this feeling into words is impossible. “I just
need you to stay there, okay? Touch yourself for me. Show
me how you play with that pretty little pussy when no one’s
around.”
Her fingers are at her clit now, swirling around the
swollen bud. She’s so wet I can hear it, see it with my own
eyes. I lick my lips, tasting that same nectar on my skin, as
my fist pumps harder, coaxing my release forward. Mallory
doesn’t take her eyes off of me, her busy hand moving in
time with mine, her hips rocking as the muscles in her
thighs tighten.
“That’s it, princess. Does it feel good, baby?”
“So good,” she murmurs, head lolling to one side. “I
want to see you come, Chris. Go faster.”
She’s greedy and demanding. Beautiful and dangerous.
And mine. All fucking mine, so I do as she asks. The
increase in my speed causes my balls to draw up. A familiar
tingling sensation originating in the base of my spine then
climbing higher and higher, attracted to the throaty,
pleasure laced sounds spilling from Mallory as she works
herself into a frenzy.
Her legs are spread wide now, both feet planted firmly
on the mattress while she lays back with her eyes squeezed
shut. She’s close. I can tell by the way her legs jerk every
time her fingers hit the right spot, so I move even faster.
Twisting my wrist, running my thumb over the weeping slit
in the center of my tip with every swipe until the sparks
burning up my spine threaten to steal my breath.
Mallory arches up off of the mattress, her eyes flying
open and finding mine just as her orgasms descends. It
washes over her like a wave in reverse, starting at her toes
and traveling up her thighs, caressing her stomach and
breasts, laving at the base of her throat where a decadent
whisper makes its escape.
“Chris.”
It’s my name on her lips that does me in. It pulls an
impossible, animal like growl from my loins up through my
chest as ropes of white, hot cum coat my fingers, turning
them into a sticky mess that, despite the two orgasms she
just had, she looks turned on by. Our pants fill the room for
long minutes, until I finally find the strength to get up and
drag myself to her bathroom to clean up.
When I emerge, fully clothed once again and more
satisfied than I’ve been in months, Mallory is still stretched
across the bed. Her dress yanked up over her hips, her
hand still resting lazily against her sex.
She mumbles incoherently as I pick up her hand and
wipe it off with the warm wash cloth I brought from the
bathroom, and then she moans when I take the same rag
and wipe off the insides of her thighs and the warm
softness at the center of her body.
Once I’m done, I pull her dress back down and take the
wash cloth back to the bathroom. She’s sitting up when I
come back out, half-lidded eyes dancing happily over my
frame as she stretches and yawns. I check my watch. It’s
after midnight, and we have to be up early to fly back to
New Haven.
“I should go.” Leaving her is the last thing I want to do,
but I don’t want to push her too hard. She’s already given
so much of herself to me tonight, I don’t want to ask for any
more.
Mallory pushes herself off the bed and crosses the room,
wrapping her arms around me once she’s in front of me.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to give you some space to rest and process
everything that’s happened. You can’t figure out how you
feel about things if I’m right here in your face.”
“Chris, I’m going to sleep. I’m not about to be figuring
out how I feel about anything besides leaving this mattress
behind.” She leans back and pushes her lips out, using the
power of a pout I can’t resist. “Stay, please. Hold me. Kiss
me. Rub my back until I fall asleep. I promise I’m still going
to want us in the morning, nothing is going to change my
mind about that, especially not time away from you.”
She seems so certain, so sure about us, that I can’t even
bring myself to argue. I’m nodding before I even realize it.
She grabs my hand and leads me back to the bed, over to
the side that we both seem to favor.
“Get comfortable. I’m going to go take a quick shower.”
I arch a brow. “You’re very bossy, you know that,
princess?”
“I’m royalty, Christopher,” she says in a fake posh accent
as she backs towards the bathroom door. “Whatever did
you expect?”
The door closes behind her, and I do exactly as she says
and get comfortable. I slip out of my pants and shirt, and
fold them up neatly. As I’m crossing the room to put them
in the chair across from the bed, my phone falls out of my
pocket. I lean down to pick it up and see a text from my
father lighting up the screen. Dad never texts me, so I open
it immediately, knowing inherently that it’s about the favor
I called in.
Dad: Was able to dig up some information on this
Trent Davis character. He had quite a few complaints
on him at UNC, one as recent as last year before he
came back to New Haven. Sent all the info to the DA,
Charles Butler. He’s a former patient of mine, so I
trust that he’ll make sure it’s handled correctly. In
the meantime, tell your student to seek out some
counseling and call the cops if he ever contacts her
again.
Telling my dad Trent had been involved with one of my
students was a risky, but necessary, lie that had just paid
off. After Mallory told me everything that he did to her, I
couldn’t live with knowing he was out there, able to hurt
more women, but I couldn’t break my promise to keep her
secret. So I spun a web of lies and weaved them in with the
truths I knew for sure: Trent Davis is a predator who hurts
women, and he needs to be in jail.
Initially, Dad wondered why I was so concerned about
something that didn’t have anything to do with me. He
wanted to know how I even knew about Trent, so I made up
a lie about a student disclosing to me and he bought it. I
could hear the pride in his voice when I asked him for his
help. Of course, I didn’t ask him to dig up any information
on Trent because I didn’t want any of his private
investigator goons that close to someone who hurt Mallory.
I wanted him to pass the name along to his contacts and
have them do the case building, but I guess I’ll have to take
this win.
He didn’t mention Mallory in his text, which means they
must not have made the connection. I breathe a sigh of
relief, thankful that I was able to keep Mallory safe without
betraying the trust I’ve worked so hard to earn. With my
heart lighter than it’s been in a long time, I text Dad back
and thank him then get in bed to wait for my princess to
come lay down.
It’s not long before she’s climbing in bed beside me, a
cloud of jasmine and lush softness surrounding me as she
weaves her legs through mine and throws her arm over my
stomach like she’s done this exact thing every night for a
lifetime.
Within moments of settling in beside me, her breathing
starts to even out. I listen to the sound, allowing it to lull
me to sleep. And when I wake in the morning to the sound
of my alarm and Mallory’s soft snoring, I realize that for the
first time in forever, I slept through the night.
No nightmares.
No strangled cries from my mother’s ghost.
Just the peaceful perfection of a heart that’s finally
found its home.

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 MALLORY

H ot oil sizzles loudly as I move the pan I used to fry

chicken to the back eye of Chris’ stove top and place
the last batch of wings in the paper towel covered
bowl sitting on the counter next to Eric’s macaroni. Mama
went out of town this weekend, a trip to Atlantic City with
Aunt Mary and some of her friends from church, so we
decided to make Sunday dinner ourselves.
Everyone was supposed to have an assigned dish, but
Eric and I ended up making almost everything while Chris
and Sloane played the ‘my mama never taught me how to
cook’ card. Even Nic, who spent just as much time in
Mama’s kitchen as me and Eric, flaked out on us, claiming
he was more suited for clean up than cooking before
settling in on the couch and turning on the TV. I didn’t mind
being left in the kitchen with Eric, though, because it gave
us some rare one on one time.
Since Chris and I came back from Disney a few weeks
ago, we’ve been joined at the hip. I’ve spent more time at
his apartment than I have in my own room, disappearing
into the same bubble of happiness that absorbed Eric when
him and Sloane got together. It’s nice existing there,
especially with Chris and his lips and hands that know how
to make me forget everything including my own name, but I
missed my brother.
Our twin bond doesn’t need much maintenance. Even
though we never have, I’ve always known we could go days
or weeks without seeing each other, and nothing between
us would change. That suspicion was proved to be correct
when we took over Chris’ kitchen, playing music loudly,
laughing and joking and reminiscing over our childhood
days when Mama used to make us both sit at the table in
the kitchen and clean greens with damp dish cloths. We
always divided the stack and raced to see who could finish
first.
Back then we were just childish, competitive kids and
now we’re two adults in serious relationships with people
we could see ourselves spending forever with. Instead of
turning green cleaning into a competition, we took our
time. Standing side by side at the counter with our backs
turned to the living room, teasing each other about who
was more obsessed with their significant other. I insisted
that it was him, and he was adamant that it was me.
Neither of us would admit that we’re both sprung, but it
was evident in the way we couldn’t keep ourselves from
starting at Chris and Sloane while we were supposed to be
tending to the several different pots and pans we had going
in the oven and the stove. Somehow we managed to pull it
all off without anything getting burnt. A fact I’m more than
grateful for as Chris sits the plate he fixed for me down on
the table and takes his seat beside me.
I look over at him, an impossibly large smile stretching
my lips. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, princess.”
Nic makes a gagging sound in the back of his throat and
pulls a face when I glare at him. He’s been like this all
semester. Cranky, bordering on bitter when all of us are
together. Most days I don’t pay him any attention because I
know Chris and I being together has changed the dynamic
of the group, and it’s possible he feels left out. Before we
were together, Nic and I were the perpetually single ones.
Now, he’s all on his own which, speaking as someone who
used to be a fifth wheel all the time, I know can’t feel good.
I just wish he’d get laid, or take any one of the girls he’s
always texting seriously, so he can be happy like the rest of
us.
After a quick blessing of the food, we all dig in. I try not
to focus on the sounds Chris makes as he eats because
they’re downright sinful, and the last thing I want to be
right now is turned on. Still, I can’t help but be tuned into
him. The way the muscles in his jaw move as he chews, the
hum of satisfaction that echoes in the back of his throat as
he swallows. The flash of sharp, white teeth that, just a few
hours ago, were grazing over my clit.
“Why aren’t you eating, Mal?”
When I drag my gaze from my untouched plate to
Sloane’s face, she flashes me a knowing smile and takes
another bite of her macaroni. Heat floods my cheeks as
every man at the table, including my brother, looks up at
me. I can only bring myself to look at one of them: the man
responsible for my distraction. And he’s got his eyes
stretched wide, feigning innocence while he fights back a
smile.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep,” I say far too brightly, finally bringing a forkful of
candied yams to my lips. Everyone stares awkwardly at me
while I chew, so I force myself to swallow and say
something else. Anything else, really, besides the fact that
listening to Chris eat food I cooked reminds me of the
sounds he makes when he feasts on me. “I was just
thinking about exams.”
Both Chris and Sloane look away, their faces telling me
everything I need to know about what they think about my
lie. Eric rolls his eyes. “Mal, exams don’t start for another
two weeks. You’ve gotta chill out.”
 “I think this is her version of chill, E,” Nic says, cleaning
off a chicken bone. “This time last semester she was living
in the library. We didn’t see her until she needed us to
move all her shit out of her dorm.”
He’s not lying. Final exams usually send me into a
tailspin. I’d spend weeks at a time in library, my head
tucked into books I’d already memorized because there was
nothing else in my life I wanted to give my attention to.
Now it’s split between Chris and school. A combination that
works surprisingly well since all the time we spend without
his head between my legs is dedicated to studying.
“Well that won’t be the case this semester,” I say
proudly. “Chris has promised to help me pack up all of my
stuff, and I’m already ahead of schedule as far as studying
goes.”
“A study schedule.” Nic shakes his head. “Sometimes I
forget how much of a nerd you are.”
“Some people just like to be prepared, Dominic,” Sloane
says.
Nic cuts his eye at her, an amused glare turning them
into slits. “And some people know the difference between a
joke and an insult, Sloane.”
“Don’t you two start.” This from Eric who’s pinching the
bridge of his nose like he feels a headache coming on.
There will be plenty of headaches in his future if he actually
does plan to marry Sloane after graduation. Her and Nic
just don’t get along, and a ring on her finger won’t change
that.
Chris glances at me, a smile playing on his lips because
he knows this whole conversation could have been avoided
if I would have crafted my lie a bit differently. I hold his
gaze for a half a second and then drop it, so I can look at
his hand, which is now resting on my thigh. I swallow hard,
panicked desire clogging my throat and causing my eyes to
flare.
 He flexes his fingers, making the ones gripping the
inside of my thigh dig into the tender skin. I squirm in my
seat, so lost in calculating the distance between his pinky
finger and my throbbing pussy I don’t hear the question
Eric directs at Chris, who not only hears it but begins to
answer without a moment’s hesitation.
I have to force myself to concentrate on the
conversation, wading through the words that make up
Chris’ answer to determine what the question was. Judging
by his repeated mention of MUSC, Harvard and move in
dates, I can only assume Eric asked about his plans after
graduation. My heart sinks as I watch joy line Chris’
features. He’s so excited about this next step in his life, and
I’m happy for him, but I’m sad about what it means for us.
We’ve only just gotten started in this thing that’s proven
to be better than anything I could have ever dreamed of,
and in August it’ll all be changing. Sure, we’ll be in the
same state if he ends up going to MUSC like he’s planned,
but no matter where he goes the distance and the demands
of both of our busy schedules will make it nearly impossible
for us to see each other. For all we know, this last part of
the semester and summer break might be all the time we
have left together.
My heart revolts against that thought. Fighting to reject
the idea that Chris and I are coming to an end when we’ve
just really gotten our start.
But no matter how hard I fight to free myself from the
realization and the heart rending bubble of sadness it has
blooming in my chest, I can’t get out from under it. It sticks
with me through the rest of dinner and clean up, through
the solemn goodbyes I give to everyone as they leave.
Through the redundant wiping down of already clean
counter tops while Chris wraps up a phone call with his
sister on the couch.
Even with my back turned to him, I can feel his eyes on
me. The weight of his gaze causing the hairs on the back of
my neck to stand up as tingles of awareness dance down
my spine.
“Alright, Ter, I’ll talk to you later.” There’s a smile in his
voice, reminding me of just how close he is with his little
sister. The warmth in his voice when he talks to her is so
different from the guarded coolness that’s there when he
chats with his brother and dad. “I love you too. Bye.”
The call ends, and the energy in the room shifts as all of
his attention is fixed solely on me. I feel him moving. Rising
from the couch in one fluid motion that rolls into an
effortless glide that carries him across the room to me. The
heat of his body is at my back in the space of a heartbeat,
and I look down to see the long, capable fingers of both of
his hands gripping the edge of the counter top on either
side of me. Despite having me caged in, he’s left space
between my body and his, ensuring that I could get away if
I wanted to.
He drops a kiss on my shoulder. “Turn around,
princess.” Still clutching the dish cloth in my hands, I spin
around to face him. He leans in close, capturing my lips in
a kiss that’s softer and more chaste than I want in this
moment. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“How’s Teresa doing?” I ask. He narrows his eyes, and I
can’t help but smile. “I’m not deflecting. I just need a little
more time to figure out exactly what I’m feeling.”
Chris regards me for a moment, warm eyes roving over
my features before he gives in. “She’s good, ready for
school to be out so she can spend more time in the studio
painting. Apparently everything that doesn’t involve a
paintbrush and canvas is a distraction she doesn’t have
time for.”
I laugh. “A girl after my own heart.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, pride shining in his eyes. “I think you
two would get along really well actually.”
“I’d love to meet her one day.” The words slip out all on
their own, and I immediately wish I could suck them back
into my mouth. Chris doesn’t look the least bit disturbed by
the thought of me meeting his sister, though. In fact, his
smile just grows wider.
“You’ll get the chance to meet her at graduation. She’s
over the moon about meeting the girl who finally got me to
settle down.” He takes a step closer, turning the distance
between his hips and mine into a sliver of space and heated
potential.
“Is that what I did?” I ask. My voice small despite trying
to convey how little I like that phrase and the way it makes
it seem like our relationship was some sort of compromise.
“Forced you to make a choice? Got you to abandon all your
viable options?”
“There were no options before you, princess. No choices
to be made. Just you, me and the connection that’s existed
between us since you chose dare instead of truth. You
sealed our fate that day and neither of us knew it until our
lips met.” My breath catches, freezing in my lungs while
Chris studies my face. I can see him detailing the way his
words are affecting me. He moves closer, grazing my lips
with his before planting a kiss on the corner of my mouth.
“Now, do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
There was a time when I would have lied to him, would
have hid the actual problem because I worried about what
hearing my truth would do to someone else, but with Chris
it’s easy to let it all flow. He already knows the worst of
them. Held them in his hands. Tasted them on my skin.
Made all of my pain his own and proven time and again
that any space that we exist in together is one where my
heart and all the complicated truths that live inside of it are
safe.
“You’re leaving,” I whisper, resting my forehead against
his.
“Baby, I’m not going anywhere for months.”
“I know, but the thought of you leaving when we’ve just
gotten started makes me…” I can’t finish the sentence
because all the words that might come next would be far
too serious for where we are in this relationship. Chris
stays quiet, waiting for me to finish my thought, so I
change courses, switching to a topic that safe but still gets
me some answers. “And I don’t even know if you’re going to
be at MUSC or Harvard.”
“I’m going to MUSC, princess.” His lips curl into a soft
smile. “I already told you that.”
“You told me you wanted to go to MUSC, but you never
mentioned getting your Dad’s approval to actually attend.”
And that makes me worry. As far as I can tell, his dad
has let go of the whole ‘come home and get hitched’ plan
because he believes Chris is serious about me, but I don’t
know if our relationship—fake or real—will ever be enough
to make Reese Johnson let go of the idea of having his
favorite son graduate from his alma mater.
“My dad is never going to give me his explicit approval,
which is fine because I don’t need it.” His right hand leaves
the counter and goes to my waist while he tips his head
back to look into my eyes. The dark intensity shining there
speaks of his certainty, his full belief in his words, that I let
comfort me. “All I need is for him to know that MUSC is the
place for me.”
“Because you’ll get to study under Dr. Suffrant.” His
would be mentor’s name comes out shaky, quivering past
my lips as a direct result of his finger tips ghosting over my
ribs.
“Yes.”
Knowing he’ll be close has made my heavy heart
significantly lighter, made room for me to ask a question I
probably shouldn’t. “Is that the only reason why you chose
MUSC? I mean you could have chosen other schools. Surely
there were other options between there and Harvard.”
The suggestion is clear, and even though I expect him to
immediately dismiss it as the ridiculous question it is,
Chris’ brows furrow together, forming a thoughtful line. It
takes him less than a second to figure out what I’m really
asking, and when he’s got it, his face transforms into an
expression that’s somehow serious and playful at the same
time.
“Are there any other factors you think I might have been
considering when I made my decision to stay in South
Carolina?”
I twist my lips to the side, fighting the urge to squirm
under the machinations of his busy finger tips. “I don’t
know, that’s why I asked you.”
“Well, I might have weighed out my options. Maybe even
made a pros and cons list.”
“Mhmmm.” I hum. “A list. That doesn’t sound like you at
all.”
He arches a brow, curling his fingers into my ribs and
making me squeal.“Back to pretending like you’re the only
organized one in this relationship?”
“Pretending?” I gasp, wiggling out of his touch as he
begins a relentless assault on my sides with both hands. My
next words are spoken through ridiculous giggles. “I don’t
need to pretend when we both know it’s an inarguable
fact.”
“Inarguable, huh?” He’s doubling down. His hands
moving in a frenzied blur that has me doubled over,
stepping sideways to try and get away from him. By some
miracle, I manage to break free and take off running
without giving it a second’s thought.
It’s not long before the sound of his feet slapping
against the hardwood floors hits my ears, and I look back at
him. A hungry glint takes over his eyes as we enter the
living room, and I manage to put the couch between us. I’m
hugging my ribs and gasping for air. I feel like a frazzled
mess, but Chris looks delicious. Every muscle in his body is
relaxed, but I know him well enough to know they’re taut,
poised and ready to spring into action the second I start to
move again. I take a step to the side just to see how in tune
he is with my movement, and he takes one to match it.
A vein in his jaw pulses as he studies me, trying to
anticipate my next move, and I’m reminded of the day at
the skating rink when we did a similar dance. Our physical
connection is stronger now than it was then, and I can see
that he’s aware of how this little cat and mouse scenario is
affecting me. My blood is rushing through my veins, most
of it headed to my sex where liquid arousal is pooling in my
core, and my nipples are tightening, forming painful peaks
that poke through the fabric of my bra and t-shirt, begging
for his attention. Hunger flares in Chris’ eyes as he studies
me, and I bite my lip, wanting his touch more than anything
but also needing the thrill of the chase.
As if he can read my thoughts, Chris starts to move. His
long legs taking slow, steady steps around the couch while I
move backward in the opposite direction. My heart thuds in
my chest, pounding against the same ribs he was just
tickling, and he smiles. Actually, calling it a smile seems a
bit tame. It’s a wild, feral stretching of his lips over teeth
he bares purposefully. Flashing them at me with the
promise of burying them in my skin.
“Are you done running, princess?”
“No.”
A low, tortured growl spills from his lips.“Do you want
me to keep chasing you?”
I bite my lip. “Yes, and I want you to catch me.”
“I will.” It’s a promise as much as it is a threat, and it’s
so sexy I almost forget that we’re laying out the terms for a
game neither of us have played. “Tell me what you want to
happen when I catch you.”
I wasn’t prepared for that directive. Hell, I wasn’t
prepared for any of this actually, but I appreciate Chris’
ability to think on his feet. I’m even more appreciative that
he’s encouraging me to consider what I want from this
moment and share it with him.
 “I want to fight you.”
“You want to fight me.” He says each word slowly,
tasting their meaning. Holding each syllable on his tongue.
I nod. “And I don’t want you to let me win. I want to earn
it.”
To be sure that beating Trent wasn’t a fluke. Obviously I
know whatever Chris and I are about to do here isn’t going
to be the same as what happened on the path, but I don’t
want to spend any more time thinking the outcome was
pure luck instead of a result of my strength and ability.
There isn’t a hint of trepidation in his voice when he
responds. “Got it. How do I know if you want me to stop?
I’m happy to play this game with you, princess, but I won’t
let it go too far.” Once again I’m struck by his
thoughtfulness and impressed by his ability to make a
conversation about safety parameters sexy. I purse my lips,
thinking back to the way we signal overwhelm when we’re
running through scenarios at Hunter’s gym.
“If I want you to stop, I’ll tap out. Three times on your
arm or whatever part of your body I can reach.”
“Okay. Well in that case, princess” —he licks his lips,
smiles his most sinister smile—“Run.” I take off before as
soon as the word leaves his mouth, turning on my heels and
jumping over the chaise lounge then cutting the corner that
leads down the hall to his room. My heart finds a new home
in my throat as his feet pound the floor behind me, echoing
in the hall and crossing the threshold to his bedroom mere
seconds after mine. I don’t know where I’m going. I
thought I would have time to get into his room and maybe
take some time to hide, but now that we’re in here
together, I’m at a loss.
At the last second, I feint to the right, hoping to find
safety in the bathroom, but just as I switch directions I feel
his arms wrap around my waist. Suddenly, we’re tumbling
towards the ground. Chris twists us around, making sure
that when we land on the floor by the bed his body absorbs
the majority of the blow. We’re both on our sides, and his
arms are like vices, cinching around me while my breath
leaves my lungs in a startled huff. I can tell he wants to ask
if I’m okay, so I don’t give him a chance.
I throw one of my legs around his hip, rocking back and
then forward forcefully enough to roll him on his back and
put me on top of him. His grip loosens, and I take the
opportunity to gain control of my arms again. I grab hold of
his wrists and pin them to the ground, stretching out over
his body. My breasts swing in front of him, and his eyes
leave my face, examining the lush curves just out of his
reach.
“I thought you weren’t going to let me win.”
“I haven’t yet.” He bucks his hips. The force of the
motion and the shock of his hardened length pressing
against my core makes me gasp. He uses my surprise
against me, slipping out of my grasp and putting his hands
back on my hips. I’m on my back before I know it with
Chris hovering over me. None of his weight is touching me,
and I’m stunned by the amount of control and strength he
must be using. Control I don’t think he has considering the
wild look in his eyes. “Is this okay?”
Over the past few weeks, we’ve found ourselves in all
kinds of positions, but Chris has been careful to avoid this
one. For some reason, it doesn’t feel scary to have him on
top of me now. I know he won’t hurt me. Won’t do anything
that I don’t want him to do. I wrap my legs around his
waist, pulling him closer and nodding.
He leans in. His jaw tight like he’s trying to concentrate
on anything besides the heat between my legs which his
dick is nudging against. “Are we done fighting?”
“I think so. Although, it was more like wrestling. You
took it easy on me.”
“I didn’t want to scare you, but it’s not like I let you
win.”
“You’re right. I’ve never been so happy to lose.”
 I tilt my head up, offering him my lips. He dips down to
take them in a kiss that floods my system with a drugging
dose of fiery passion that burns through me. When he pulls
back, I swallow hard. My pulse is erratic as I watch him try
to reel it back in. The rough, primal part of him I only get
glimpses of every now and then. The hungry, desperate
animal that wants something it thinks only I can give. I
don’t know if I can, but I want to try. For him, for me, for
the girl I used to be who lived for adventure and would try
anything once.
“Don’t do that,” I whisper.
His fingertips dig into my flesh through the fabric of my
shirt. “Do what?”
“Hold back.” I surge forward and kiss him, catching him
completely off guard when the kiss I initiated turns into a
bite. My teeth sink into his bottom lip, and he growls into
my mouth. One hand leaving my waist to find a home in the
braids tied into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck. I got
them in a little over a week ago, so my scalp is still a bit
tender when he tightens his grip. But I’m too distracted by
his tongue sweeping into my mouth to be bothered by the
pain, and I stop feeling it altogether when he starts
grinding into me. Slow revolutions of his hips that mimic
the one thing we haven’t done together yet and make me
want it even more.
I run my hands up his sides, slipping them underneath
his shirt, so I can feel his skin. Then I’m inching it up his
body, baring his abs and the defined lines of his chest until
he gets the hint and reaches backwards, yanking it up over
his shoulders and head and tossing it to the side. I can’t
stop touching him, can’t stop rocking my hips up and into
him, meeting every one of his would be thrusts and
imagining how they would feel inside me.
I break the kiss, desperate for a full breath, and Chris
heads for my throat. Kissing and licking his way down my
neck while I pant underneath him. “More.”
 He doesn’t acknowledge my request verbally, but I feel
his movements get more frenzied. His hands are
everywhere, wrenching up my shirt, grazing over my
breasts through the thin lace of my bra, slipping over my
stomach and then down to the button of my jeans. My pulse
kicks up another notch, arousal and the finest thread of
fear running through me, taking over my churning hips
until they’re moving all on their own.
Another growl fills the air, vibrating against my throat
where his lips are latched. The sound rattles my bones, and
I clutch at him, trying to get closer even though there’s
hardly an inch of space between us. Chris’ tongue lashes
out, cutting a slick line over the tendon on the side of my
neck at the exact moment his dick drives into my clit,
sending a shock wave through me.
The pleasure is almost too much, but I don’t want him to
stop. I don’t want anything but him and the passion his
body has promised mine. He unbuttons my jeans, and then
my zipper is coming down and my jeans are following suit.
Shimmying down my hips and upper thighs until they’re
caught somewhere between Chris’ legs and mine.
The small amount of space shouldn’t be enough for him
to do anything, but he manages to hook his fingers around
the side of my panties, sliding them to the side and
exposing the heated skin of my sex to the cool air. I open
my legs further, welcoming his fingers into my soaked
channel. He’s rough as he pushes two fingers in me,
rougher as he sinks his teeth into the side of my throat.
I whimper.
Not because I’m hurt or afraid, but because I’m so
turned on. More turned on than I’ve ever been in my entire
life, and yet, the moment Chris hears the sound, he
scrambles off of me. Before I’ve even realized what’s
happening, he’s kneeling at my side, brows wrinkled in a
grim line of concern as he watches me sit up.
 “I’m so sorry, princess.” He pushes to his feet and
begins pacing in front of me, running an agitated hand over
his head. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Chris. I’m fine.” Sitting while he’s standing feels
awkward, so I fix my clothes and get up too. He reaches out
to help. I take his hand, but he tries to let me go as soon as
I’ve got my feet under me. I grip his hand tighter, pulling
him closer to me. “Babe, I….I wanted more. I want more.”
“Mal, I can’t.” He shakes his head and takes a step back,
dropping my hand. A tempestuous cloud of emotion swirls
around him, turning his dilated pupils into pools of melted
gold with molten lava in the middle. “I don’t want to hurt
you.”
The words hang between us. Their meaning exacerbated
by the tortured emotion turning the handsome features I
adore into a mask of pain that’s fractured by the truth of
my past. A truth I shared with him because I wanted him to
know me fully. Because I believed that it wouldn’t stop him
from wanting me, from giving me everything I’m asking
him for in this very moment.
All at once my fears come back, winding their way
through my chest like vines of poisonous ivy that crack my
ribs and attack my organs. Piercing flesh, veins and
arteries until every beat of my heart, every breath in my
lungs, every drop of blood in my veins is panic and then
white hot anger.
Chris watches me cross the room and sit down on the
edge of the bed. There’s a wariness in his eyes that tells me
he knows exactly how this conversation is about to go, and
I’m glad he knows I’m about to call him out for trying to
handle me with kid gloves.
“You realize this exactly why I didn’t want anyone to
know about what happened with Trent, right? This—” I
wave my hand, gesturing wildly between us. “—exact thing
is what I have been trying to avoid. He’s the last thing I
want to be thinking about when you’re on top of me, when
I’m telling you that I want you inside of me. You and me.
That’s all I want to feel in those moments, and you keep
reminding me that once upon a time I was a victim. Do you
see me that way, Chris?” My voice breaks, but the words
keep rolling. “When you touch me are you thinking about
what he did to me, how he took the things I’m offering you?
Because I’m not, and I don’t think any other man in your
position would be either.”
I should regret bringing up other men, even in the most
hypothetical sense, but I just don’t. I’m frustrated and
horny and in love with this stupid man who won’t reap the
benefits of the trust he worked so hard to earn. Chris stops
pacing, folds his arms over his chest so his biceps are
bulging, begging, even in this tense moment, for my teeth
and my tongue. For harsh bites and soothing licks against
sweat slicked brown skin.
His eyes snap up to my face, and it takes him a moment
to speak, but when he does his voice possesses all the
might and intensity of a thunder clap. “You’re right. Any
other man in my position wouldn’t be the least bit
concerned about what you went through, princess. In fact,
he’d be so lost in the way you smell, in the sounds you
make he wouldn’t notice, or care, about you tensing up
under his touch. He’d be so wrapped up in trying to get his
dick inside of you that he wouldn’t bother to check if the
position he has you in makes you feel powerless, if the
things he’s whispering in your ear make you feel
worthless.”
I’m not sure if he means for this little speech to be
comforting, but it’s not. Hearing about the laundry list of
things he keeps at the forefront of his mind when I’m losing
myself with him makes me feel like being with me is a
chore instead of a pleasure.
“I don’t need you to keep track of that. I don’t want you
to. Not if you’re going to make it sound like some sort of
job that’s been forced on you.” Tears start to blur my
vision, and I want to swipe them away, but I’ve learned
from previous experience that it only causes more to come.
“It is a job, princess.” Chris’ eyes glow. Frustration
etched in his features as he thumps his chest. “Keeping you
safe? Making sure you’re okay at all times? It is a job, and
it’s my fucking job. One I signed on for long before you
knew you were mine. One I’ll keep doing even if one day,
down the road, you decide I’m no longer fit for the role.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re not just my girlfriend, Mallory.
You’re my mission. My purpose. The only thing in my life I
can’t afford to fail at, so forgive me if I don’t give a fuck
about what another man in my position would do because I
can guarantee you there isn’t a man in this world who….”
My throat aches. A pesky byproduct of holding back a
sob that will come out sounding horrible and ugly despite
being born of the purest kind of joy. No one has ever made
commitment and obligation sound as romantic as Chris has
in this moment. I’m sure of it. As sure as I am that the
words he’s just stopped himself from saying are going to
leave me with no choice but to set this hideous, terribly sad
sound free.
“Who what? There isn’t a man in this world who what?”
“Loves you.” He swallows. “There isn’t a man in this
world who loves you like I do.”
“You love me,” I say slowly. Incredulous.
He nods. A solemn, severe gaze burning through me. “I
love you, Mallory.”
“Really?” I ask, laughing. Crying.
Chris laughs too, and it’s a rough, humorous rumbling
sound from his chest that breaks all the tension in the
room. “Yes. Fuck, was that not clear when I risked my job
to make sure you could turn that paper in?”
Shock ripples through me. Him moving that deadline for
me happened before everything else. Before we established
our fake relationship, before it turned into something real. I
brush the happy tears leaking out of the corner of my eyes
away. “Even then?”
I can’t believe how genuine his tone is when he says,
“Always, princess.”
More tears fall, followed by that sob I’ve been dreading
hearing, and I cover my face. Speaking through my wet
fingers when I finally give him the three words I’ve held
inside of myself for so long. “I love you too.”
I hear him moving around and the faint sound of a
dresser drawer opening and closing before I feel him in
front of me. He’s kneeling on the ground, his fingers
wrapping around my wrists to pull my hands away from my
face. I let them fall because I want to see him.
“You do?” He’s not even trying to be funny. I can tell he
really wants the assurance.
“Yes.” I reach up and place a hand on his cheek. He
leans into my touch. “Was that not clear when I agreed to
be your fake girlfriend?”
“Oh, no, it was. I was just hoping to hear you say it
again.”
I shove his shoulder, which makes him laugh harder.
“You’re such an ass.”
“An ass that you love, right?”
“Yeah, an ass that I love.” We stare at each other, and
the happiness bubbling between us is tangible. A living,
breathing thing.
“Then now seems like a perfect time to give you this.”
He reaches over, picks up the slim box sitting on the bed
beside me, and sets it in my lap. I drop my hand from his
face and run my fingers over the black velvet with gold
lining. It’s a jewelry box, and judging by the shape and size
it’s either a necklace or bracelet inside.
“No one besides Mama has ever brought me jewelry
before.”
“I know,” Chris says, his expression soft, patient. “Open
it.”
 I lift the top and gasp when I see the gold herringbone
necklace nestled inside black tissue paper. It’s thin, one of
those classic chains that works with everything and will
still be stylish years from now. “It’s beautiful.”
“Turn it over.” His warm gaze follows the motion of my
hands as I flip the chain to the other side, revealing a small
inscription in slanted font I recognize as his handwriting.
There, etched in the shining metal, are our names and
words that make me laugh and cry for the second time
today: MAL AND CHRIS 4EVA.
I run a fingertip over each letter, and the tears won’t
stop. Chris brushes them away with his thumb then takes
the box from my hand. I watch him pluck the necklace out
of the box and move onto the bed behind me. The metal is
cool when it hits my skin, and I fiddle with the chain while
he fixes the clasp. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck,
just above the spot where the necklace lies.
“Do you like it, princess?”
I lean back, allowing myself to relax against him. He
wraps me in his arms, kissing my temple and down the line
of my jaw. I turn and steal a kiss, all of the worry about the
miles that will soon be between us and the doubt I felt
when he pulled away from me earlier fading away.
“I love it, and I love you.”

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 34

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

M allory’s ass jiggles beneath the light washed denim

of her jeans as she bounces on her toes, squealing
and pumping her fists in the air because the bowling
ball she just sent sailing down the aisle knocked over all
the pins. Eric and Nic both shake their heads. Their eyes on
the scoreboard, watching the points my princess just
scored put her in the lead.
“Sloane, you’re up,” Mallory says, sliding onto the seat
beside me. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes alive with
humor and mischief. She’s been bragging all day about
beating us at bowling, but I had no idea she would be such
an obnoxious winner. It’s as adorable as it is annoying.
“You don’t have to announce it every time, Mal. The
order has been the same since we started playing,” Sloane
mutters, rising from her seat beside Eric to pick up a ball.
Apparently, she’s just as competitive as Mallory is and isn’t
taking well to losing. A fact that has provided endless
entertainment to Nic, who’s been snickering into his soda
every time she rolls.
This was the last full week of classes for the semester
and exams start next Wednesday, so we all decided to use
this weekend to have some fun before our professors take
one last stab at crushing our spirits. Personally, I can’t
believe the semester is over. That my time as a student at
NHU is coming to an end. I wouldn’t have imagined
wrapping up my senior year like this: in love, with a future
I chose looming in the distance.
There are still some uncertainties. Some loose ends I
need to tie up before graduation, so I can give Mallory the
reassurance she needs about our relationship becoming
long distance. When she mentioned that my dad hadn’t
given me his blessing to attend MUSC, I told her I didn’t
need it, and I meant it. My spot in their upcoming cohort is
solidified, all the fees paid and an apartment near campus
rented with the money from my trust. But I would be lying
if I said I haven’t been hoping for my dad to acknowledge—
and maybe accept—that I chose MUSC over Harvard. That
what’s best for me is a future with Mallory instead of the
one he had planned for me and Giselle.
We haven’t talked about her in weeks. During all of our
catch ups, he’s been harping on the importance of me
finishing the semester strong and avoiding any and all
distractions. He even suggested Mallory and I stop hanging
out until the semester was done. That had raised some red
flags for me, but he let it go as soon as I told him it wasn’t
happening. Still, I can’t help but feel like I’m just waiting
for the other shoe to drop. Like he’s used his silence to lure
me into a false sense of security while he’s plotted his next
move.
I asked RJ about it, and he told me everything was fine.
He even mentioned that with all the time he’s been
spending with Giselle, there might be a possibility of him
being the son to make the Johnson-DuPont union
everyone’s been dreaming of for so long a reality. The idea
of the two of them together was, and still is, strange to me.
Not because I want Giselle, but because the excitement in
RJ’s voice when he told me made me realize his offer to
help was never about me. It was about him and what he
could get out of the deal.
 I did a shit job of explaining that to Mallory, though, and
she ended up asking me if I was jealous of my brother
spending time with my ex. I assured her that I wasn’t. I
could tell she didn’t believe me, but she dropped it and
hasn’t mentioned it since. I hate that I might have planted
that seed of doubt, though. That my mixed up emotions
might have made her think there’s another woman in this
world I want as much as I want her.
Because there isn’t.
There’s only her. And in this lifetime and every one after
it, that’s all there will ever be for me. Amber eyes that see
into my soul. Lush curves I’ve made my home. Smooth
mahogany skin that glitters like stardust. Long elegant
fingers that one day, when she’s ready and I’m braver than
I am right now, will be adorned with my rings.
A symbol of our love, of the forever I won’t give to
anyone but her.
“Babe, your phone is ringing.” Mallory taps my leg with
one hand and holds the phone in the other. We both glance
at the screen and when she sees Vanessa’s name, her
expression shifts. It becomes more urgent, more
demanding because after I told her about Margaret’s
diagnosis and the calls I’ve been avoiding from Vanessa,
she made me promise to pick up when they called again.
“You need to talk to her, Chris. You don’t want to miss your
chance to say goodbye.”
I know she’s right, so I take the phone from her hand
and push to my feet. By the time I make it into the lobby
where it’s quieter, the phone is no longer ringing. I
consider going back in and telling Mal I missed them again,
but something tells me she wouldn’t be satisfied with that
answer, so I do something I haven’t done in months: call
back. The phone rings twice before Vanessa picks up, and
the instant she starts speaking, I know something is really
wrong.
 “Chris,” she sniffles, her sadness almost palpable.
“When are you getting here? The funeral is tomorrow, I
thought you would have been here by now. We have to be at
the….”
Vanessa keeps talking, and I try my best to absorb what
she’s saying so the grief addled monologue doesn’t fall on
deaf ears, but it’s nearly impossible. Everything after the
word ‘funeral’ is drowned out by the sound of my heart
pounding in my ears. Vanessa’s voice is distorted. Her
words a slow, gurgling mess that makes it sound like she’s
drowning in molasses and tears.
Nothing makes sense.
The entire world has shifted beneath my feet, and
there’s nothing I can do to right it. I stumble back, colliding
with the brick wall behind me and sliding down until I’m as
low as I can go. Only I wish I could go lower. That I could
disappear from Earth altogether because the grief is so
heavy, the weight of the guilt so impossible, I don’t want to
exist anymore.
“She’s gone,” I whisper the words, more to myself than
Vanessa because it’s clear from the way she’s talking this is
not news to her. They’ve already planned a funeral, which
means Margaret has been gone for days. That my chance to
say goodbye to the only mother I’ve ever known has been
lost to me for longer than I could have imagined.
Vanessa stops talking. “You didn’t know?”
Hot, fat tears roll down my face, and I can’t even bring
myself to wipe them away. Margaret deserves these tears.
A public, outright display of my grief. Of my agony over
losing her. My chest feels tight. I can’t take a full breath,
can’t absorb the meaning of Vanessa’s confusion.
“No.” I shake my head even though she can’t see me.
“When?”
“Oh, Chris,” she murmurs, and I hear the mother we
shared in her voice. See her gentle face and soulful brown
eyes in a flash of a memory that flits through my mind. “It’ll
be a week tomorrow. I thought—” She sniffles again, but I
can hear her trying to pull herself together, trying to be
strong for me even though I left her alone to deal with all of
this.“—your dad told me he would tell you, and I’ve been so
caught up with funeral arrangements and packing up the
house, I didn’t realize he hadn’t told you at all. Why
wouldn’t he tell you?”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t. I have no idea why my dad
would keep this from me, and I don’t have time to think
about it. Right now, all I need is to get to Boston in time to
pay my respects to the woman who raised me. Who died
without knowing how much she meant to me. I scrub a
hand down my face, clearing my blurred vision. “Van, I’m
so sorry. I wasn’t there for you or her. I just….fuck.” A
painful sob shakes my body, rattling my bones. “She can’t
be gone, Van. I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
I take the phone away from my ear and bury my head in
my hands. Vanessa’s voice is a distant, faraway sound that
doesn’t reach me, can’t touch me through the storm of
emotion raging around me. The only thing that does reach
me is the sound of Mallory calling my name. The first time I
hear it, I think I’m imagining it, but the second time I know
that she must be close. My suspicion is confirmed when the
swirl of her jasmine and citrus scent pierce my nose and
her warmth is at my side. I drop my hands, shame clawing
at my chest as I meet her eyes.
“I was too late.”
“Oh, baby.” She reaches for me, curling her body around
mine. I twist around, wrapping my arms around her waist
and hanging on for dear life. She hugs me back, squeezing
me with all of her might and murmuring in my ear, telling
me she’s sorry. I know she means it. I can hear it in her
voice, the anguish and pain she feels because I feel it, and
she loves me. It makes me love her more.
I don’t know how long we sit like that, on the floor of the
bowling alley with my tears wetting Mallory’s skin and her
warm curves applying constant pressure to my wounded
heart, staunching the flow of blood until I’m well enough to
pull us both off the floor and pick up the phone to finish the
call with Vanessa. I assure her I’ll be at the funeral, and
while we talk, Mallory stays close, rubbing small circles on
my back while she texts Eric and tells him to wrap the
game up. I’m not sure I want everyone to see me like this,
but that choice is taken from me when the rest of the crew
shows up in the lobby less than a minute after the message
is sent with their sympathetic gazes trained on me.
They all take turns pulling me into their arms and giving
me words of comfort. Nic’s hug lasts the longest, and when
he lets me go, he gives me a hard clap on the back that
speaks of solidarity and understanding. After telling
Mallory about losing my mom, I opened up to the rest of
the group about it. Having lost his mom not too long ago,
Nic was especially sympathetic. He even understood how
important Margaret was to me, and I can see in his eyes
that he feels for me.
“I’m sorry, man,” he says, stepping back to complete the
circle of support they’ve formed around me. Eric shakes his
head, his fingers linked with Sloane’s. They both look like
they’re ready to cry. Just looking at each of them, seeing
the depth of their empathy, mends a piece of my broken
heart. I’ve always gone through life feeling alone. Solitary.
Carrying the pain of loss and the burden of expectation all
on my own. But right here, in this moment when the pain is
only mine, I feel the relief of support. Of shared hurt and
communal healing, and I’ve never been more thankful for
my friends than I am right now.
Eric nods. “Yeah, C, let us know what we can do.”
“And where we can send flowers,” Sloane chimes in.
Sometimes I forget that she’s a born and bred socialite. The
product of a well to do family that probably has its own
fucked up traditions and expectations. That small reminder
of our similar upbringing has my stomach twisting because
it’s just hitting me that I have to go back home.
“Thanks, you guys. Really.” I glance at my watch. It’s
almost ten o’clock, and I still need to get home, pack and
find a flight. “I need to go. Princess, can you ride home with
them?”
I turn to look at Mallory and stop short when I see the
frown tugging down her lips. “No, because I’m coming with
you.”
“Mal,” Eric says gently, looking between the two of us.
“He might want to deal with this on his own.”
“I’m sure you do.” She’s directing her reply to me even
though Eric is the one who turned my thoughts into words.
“But there’s no way I’m letting you fly to Boston all by
yourself. You’re still in shock, Chris, and I’m not going to
let you navigate this alone.”
“Princess—”
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “No. I’m going and
that’s it. I already texted Mama and told her what
happened, and she would kill me if she found out I let you
do this all on your own. Now, let’s go, so we can get packed
and find a flight.”
I look around and see that her no nonsense attitude has
shut everyone up, including Eric. He gives me a look that
says he has nothing more to say, and although the last
thing I want is Mallory in Boston around my dysfunctional
family, I cave because I need her.
“Okay.”
Relief smooths Mallory’s features, and I realize how
much it means to her to be able to be there for me. We hug
everyone, say our goodbyes and then we’re out the door.
While I drive back to my place, Mallory uses my phone to
book us on a red eye flight to Boston and a hotel close to
the church where Vanessa said the funeral will be held. As
soon as we’re inside the apartment, she pulls me in close
for a long hug and kisses me.
 “I love you,” she whispers, her face buried in my throat.
“And I’m so sorry.”
I run a hand down her back, letting the solidity of her
presence soothe me. “I love you too, princess. Thank you
for being here with me.”
“There’s no where else I would be.” She pulls back,
tears glistening in pools of amber as she blinks up at me.
“She knew how much you loved her, Chris, and I’m sure she
understood that you were scared of facing the fact that she
was going.”
My eyes fall shut, closing out her words and the peace
they’re trying to bring me. I push out a steadying breath,
willing the wave of despair trying to wash me away to
subside. When I open them again, Mallory is still staring at
me. “We need to pack.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but she
doesn’t. And I’m thankful for her silence and
understanding, but the second she pulls away from me,
heading into my bedroom, I miss the comfort of her touch. I
follow her into the room and head for the closet, and for
the next fifteen minutes we’re all frantic, but coordinated,
movements.
Mallory selects a black suit for me, and I promise her
we’ll have time to find her a dress before the service. We
pack toothbrushes and toiletries and double check
everything a million times before we finally head to the
airport.
The process of paying for parking and rushing through
the check-in is a blur. I spend the entire time in my head,
letting Mallory handle everything while images of
Margaret’s frail body wreak havoc on my heart and mind.
Images of her last days, days I wasn’t there to witness
because my fear and my father conspired to keep me away
from her, haunt me.
Make it impossible for me sleep or drink or talk for the
duration of the flight. My silence worries Mallory, but she
doesn’t say it. She just threads her fingers through mine
and squeezes tight, letting me know she’s there.
That even when I feel like I have no one, I have her.

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 35

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

W hat kind of father keeps the death of a loved one

from their own son?
That question keeps playing through my mind as
I stare at Reese Johnson Sr, watching him move through
the great room inside the sprawling mansion the Johnsons
call a house. This is the home Chris grew up in. The place
where Margaret raised motherless children while mourning
her best friend. I hadn’t realized Celeste and Margaret had
been so close, but her niece, Vanessa, mentioned it several
times in her eulogy about her aunt who also acted as her
mother. Reese Sr. shifted uncomfortably in his seat when
Vanessa mentioned their friendship. That struck me as odd,
but that wasn’t even the oddest thing about him.
Chris had warned me that his dad could be
temperamental and abrupt, but when I met him outside the
church just before the service started, that wasn’t the vibe
he gave off at all. He was nice, charming even, which had
all of my alarm bells ringing. The ringing grew louder when
he didn’t apologize for not telling Chris about Margaret’s
death. Instead of addressing the lack of communication or
the fact we weren’t even supposed to be there, he hugged
Chris and said it was good to see him and nice to meet me.
Then he launched into a speech about paying for the entire
funeral and the repast, which he was hosting at the house
and told me I was more than welcome to sit with the family.
Anyone else would have been grateful for his welcoming
behavior, they might have even forgotten how fucked up it
was that he participated in the planning of the funeral he
hid from his son, but none of it sat right with me. And the
longer I stand here, in the corner he stashed me in before
proceeding to drag Chris around the room to talk to all the
people who knew Margaret was dead before he did, the
less comfortable I feel.
That discomfort, I tell myself, has nothing to do with
their tour around the room coming to a grinding halt
because the circle surrounding the DuPont family has
expanded to make space for them. I looked up pictures of
Giselle and her parents, but even if I hadn’t I would have
been able to identify them immediately. An air of
sophisticated grandeur swirls around the trio, creating an
impenetrable bubble that holds everyone around them at
bay. It expanded when Chris and Reese approached, the
long tendrils of old money and influence reaching out and
wrapping around their bodies, escorting them into an inner
circle that wreaks of exclusivity.
Oscar DuPont is a short man with light skin and neatly
arranged features that would read as handsome if it wasn’t
for his beady eyes and creepy smile. His slick hair is black,
too black to be his natural color, which suggests that he
dyes it regularly. His wife, Ramona, is tall and thin. She has
flawless ebony skin and the bone structure of a print model
that she passed on to her daughter who is her spitting
image save for her complexion, which she got from her
father.
Giselle is stunning.
A natural beauty with a bright smile and perfect white
teeth that are on full display while Chris greets her with a
hug. I watch their embrace with red blurring my vision and
vicious, white hot jealousy searing my insides. She looks at
home in his arms, and I can tell by the bliss taking over her
features when she rests her head on his shoulder that she
feels that way. I know I should look away, spare myself the
horror of watching him with the woman his father wanted
to be his wife, but I just can’t.
I stare at them, studying their movements, the easy way
their bodies curl around each other and stay close even
when the hug ends. Chris keeps his hand on the small of
her back, and she turns into him. Her pretty features
sinking into a practiced pout while they carry on a
conversation separate from the one their parents—who are
watching their reunion with huge smiles on their faces—are
having. I can’t read her lips, but I can tell she’s asking him
how he’s doing. A question I’ve been swallowing whole
every time the words crowd together on my tongue
because I somehow know he won’t answer it.
After I tried to comfort him in his apartment before we
packed, he’d shut me out. Saying next to nothing on the
flight or the cab ride to the hotel then staying up when I
went to bed. I tried not to read too much into it because I
know he’s processing this loss, but I’d be lying if I said it
didn’t hurt to be pushed away.
Especially when it seems like he’s so eager to pull
Giselle in. I watch his face as he answers her question, see
his mouth moving and his brows wrinkling like he’s
accessing emotions he doesn’t want me to know exist. She
listens intently, sympathy pouring off of her that he’s
soaking into himself.
“They look good together don’t they?” The smooth
baritone makes my skin crawl, but the sound itself isn’t as
bad as the hot breath skating across my neck that
accompanies it. I spin around, barely resisting the urge to
cringe as I come face to face with RJ. We met outside the
church, and I took an immediate dislike to him. Something
about the way he leered at me when Chris introduced us
set my teeth on edge. A large smile stretches across his
face as he rubs at his goat tee with one hand, his eyes
bouncing between my face and the couple we’re now
staring at together. “Makes it easy to see why my dad and
her parents are so adamant about them being together.”
My lips curl involuntarily, the disgust evident on my face
as I look at him. There’s a heinous smugness to his tone
that’s not reflected in his expression. In fact, he looks a lot
like I imagine I do right now: worried, jealous, anxious to
see Chris and Giselle go their separate ways. Seeing him
look that way reminds me RJ is just involved in this whole
situation as I am.
He’s the one who gave Chris the information that led to
us putting on our act in the first place. And he’s the one
who’s been spending time with Giselle, hoping his dad and
the DuPonts would see him as a viable option for Chris’
replacement. Since our first conversation about our fake
relationship, Chris has maintained that his brother wanted
to help him, to save him from having a future he didn’t
want forced upon him. I never trusted it though. I’ve
always wondered what exactly he was getting out of
helping his brother defy their father, and now I know.
“Sounds like you’re excited about the future your father
wants for Chris and Giselle as well.” I lift a brow, taking a
sip of the expensive champagne Reese has the caterers
serving because today is all about celebrating Margaret’s
life. “Only, that doesn’t make a lot of sense considering how
you want to be the Johnson in the Johnson-DuPont union.
Isn’t that why you’ve been spending so much time with
Giselle, so you can finally have your chance at one upping
your little brother?”
The smug smile falls off his face, and his eyes narrow.
“Is that what Chris told you? He loves to make me sound
like the jealous, overly competitive big brother. He’ll say
anything to hide the truth.”
Despite my best effort, I can’t keep his words from
slipping underneath my skin. They touch on the deepest,
most insecure part of me. The part that churns out a new
worry every second we stay in Boston. In this place where
Chris is quiet and distant and the differences in the worlds
we grew up in are massive, glaring things that make it hard
for me to see the future I just started taking steps towards
securing.
“Which is?”
My voice wavers when I ask the question, and I hate it
because RJ hears it for what it is. Weakness. Vulnerability.
The soft underbelly of the hard facade I’ve tried to
construct around myself. It’s open, exposed to him, and his
claws are out, ready to slice me in two. He smiles, and it’s
all sharp edges that press against my skin, threatening to
make me bleed.
He turns his body towards me, making it so I’m caged
between the wall and him, and my pulse shoots up. All of
my fight or flight instincts triggered in an instant. I’m not
afraid though, and it’s not because we’re standing in a
room full of people, but because I know that if he so much
as takes another step towards me I’ll be well within my
rights to knee him in the balls and haul ass out of here.
“That he’s just as competitive as I am. Maybe even more
so. When we were kids, he’d put down a toy and leave it for
hours without so much as thinking about it, but the second
I touched it, he lost his shit, crying and screaming to get it
back. He says he doesn’t want this life, doesn’t want
Giselle, but he does, Mallory. Because he doesn’t know how
to lose, especially not to me.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep my jaw
from dropping as RJ recites all of my worst fears like my
internal monologue is a playbook he’s memorized lines
from. This is exactly what I’ve been worried about since
Chris told me RJ and Giselle were growing closer. He was
so agitated that day, struggling to articulate his thoughts
when he’s usually so good at communicating. RJ watches
my face, a smug smile lining his lips as he continues.
 “I bet you he started losing his shit the day I told him
about me and Gi. He probably started thinking about the
history between them. How they’ve known each other for
their whole lives, and how perfect she is for him. And he’s
not wrong. She is perfect for him. She understands him.
She knows what it’s like to live in this world and put up
with all of this.” He swipes his hands through the air,
gesturing to indicate the house we’re standing in and the
people in it. Members of the elite with their gold soaked
souls and silver spoons. RJ looks at home among them, and
as much as it pains me to admit it, Chris does too. “This is
his world, Mallory, and while I’m sure you two have had a
lot of fun down there in New Haven, this is where he
belongs. And she,” —he shifts, giving me just enough space
to see Giselle smiling up at Chris who’s saying something
to her father— “is the kind of woman he belongs with.”
I toss back the rest of my champagne, needing every
ounce of strength from the bubbles and alcohol to finish
this conversation. “Was this you and your dad’s plan all
along? Separate us, orchestrate some scenario where I
watch him with Giselle and start to doubt everything I
know to be true about us? Let me guess, your whole ‘they
belong together’ speech was supposed to be the final nail in
the coffin, right? You were supposed to make me cry, storm
out of here, embarrass Chris and dishonor Margaret’s
memory while your dad kept his hands clean?”
RJ’s jaw clenches, and I laugh. “Wow. You guys really
don’t give a shit about him do you? First, you do everything
you can to keep him from this funeral. Then, you use it as
an opportunity to try and poison me against him. Why can’t
you just let him be happy?”
“Because his happiness doesn’t matter.”
“And apparently neither does yours! Otherwise you
wouldn’t be standing here trying to free your brother up so
he can marry the woman you love.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
 The air between us snaps with tension that doesn’t
break, doesn’t dissipate until Teresa waltzes over. Her long
legs, clad in high-waisted designer slacks that have a
creamy silk blouse tucked inside, carry her across the room
and deposit her between RJ and I before either of us realize
what’s happened.
She faces me, her dark eyes wide and kind while she
wraps her arm around my shoulders. I’m several years
older than her, but she’s taller than I am and more self-
assured than I probably ever will be. She’s also the nicest
member of the Boston based Johnson clan, which is why I
let her lead me away from RJ without a second thought. My
heels clack against the expensive stone floors as we leave
the great room and head down a hallway that, judging by
the number of tray carrying servers coming in and out of
the double doors, must be the kitchen.
We sweep in, and no one even bats an eye as she
deposits me at the large kitchen island and plops down
beside me. Almost instantly, two glasses of ice cold water
and a platter stacked with various meats, cheeses and
fruits appear in front of us, dropped off by a server who
moves so quick I don’t even see them. My mouth drops, and
it’s one of the first times I’ve let my true reaction to the
luxury surrounding me show. Teresa tosses her head back,
her long, wavy tresses nearly touching her butt as she
laughs.
“I know. It’s so obnoxious, right?”
I pluck a strawberry off the plate and take a bite,
covering my mouth as I chew. “It’s something, but I don’t
know if obnoxious is the right word.”
“Shit.” She frowns. “Now I sound obnoxious. Like how
rich do you have to be to complain about attentive kitchen
staff?”
“Pretty damn rich.” Another small snort escapes her as
she fixes me a small plate and then herself. “You’re not
obnoxious though. You actually might be my favorite person
here.”
“Besides Chris, you mean.”
I let out a weary sigh while my mind plays the images of
Chris and Giselle together on a loop with RJ’s words as the
soundtrack. “Yeah, besides Chris.”
Teresa cuts her eye at me. “Please don’t be mad at him
because of what RJ said. Him and Dad are weirdos, but
Chris isn’t like them at all. He doesn’t subscribe to the
patriarchal bullshit they do.”
That surprises a snort out of me, and she laughs. “I
know he doesn’t.”
“Then why do you look like you might actually believe
that he prefers all of this to what he has with you in New
Haven?”
Chris had told me Teresa was smart and perceptive. He
called her a spitfire, and he wasn’t wrong in the least. In a
matter of seconds, she’s seen right through the brave face I
thought I was putting on. I press my lips together,
attempting to come up with an answer that’s honest but not
too honest. I don’t want to talk to her about these things
before Chris and I have a chance to discuss them at length.
“It’s not that I think he prefers all of this to what we
have.” Not completely at least. “I just worry that
circumventing these long standing family traditions is
going to be a lot harder than he thinks. Chris has been
under the impression that your dad has accepted our
relationship and let go of the idea of him and Giselle being
together, but after talking with RJ, I’m pretty sure that’s not
the case.”
Teresa nods thoughtfully, and I’m impressed with how
invested she is in this conversation when any other
eighteen year old would be bored out of their minds. “To be
honest, I’ve never understood the fathers choose for their
sons thing. It’s weird and sexist as hell, but my grandpa,
dad and uncles swear it’s the only way to ensure the
continuation of the esteemed line of Johnson men.”
Her nose wrinkles, and sarcasm coats every word at the
end of her sentence. “For a second there, I thought Dad
was going to let it go. After I started telling him about you
and Chris, I mean. He wasn’t thrilled or anything, but it
seemed like he had accepted that he wasn’t ever going to
get Chris back under his thumb the way he wanted.”
My heart soars, hope bubbling in my chest despite the
fact that her words suggest that Reese no longer feels that
way. “Well, what happened?”
She shrugs. An apologetic look taking over her
expression. “I don’t know. And I wish I did because then RJ
wouldn’t be acting like an asshole, and you and Chris
wouldn’t be….”
The silence stretches between us, and I know exactly
how she was going to fill it. I shake my head. “Chris and I
are going to be fine. I mean it’s not like your dad can force
him to come back here and marry someone he doesn’t
love.”
Teresa takes a sip of her water, refusing to meet my
eyes. “Right. That would be ridiculous.”
As ridiculous as hiding the death of a beloved surrogate
mother while paying for the funeral and hosting the
reception.
As ridiculous as concocting a fake relationship to fool a
parent and fend off an ex.
“Right,” I mutter under my breath, heart sinking
because I know people do ridiculous things to get what
they want all the time. “Ridiculous.”

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 CHRIS

I t takes me ages to disentangle myself from Giselle. She

was too busy putting on a show for the small crowd of
people that formed around us the second Dad and I
joined her and her parents in front of the fire place to
notice my unease. Dad didn’t look too happy when I
excused myself, but I couldn’t have cared less. I had lost
sight of Mallory and missed out on several chances to talk
to Vanessa who kept giving me meaningful looks from
across the room every time our eyes caught.
Neither of them are any where to be found by the time
I’m free to move through the crowd on my own, and I feel
worry flare in my gut. I shouldn’t have left Mallory alone.
She doesn’t know anyone here but me, and all of my
instincts screamed for me to keep her close, but the second
my dad snapped his fingers, I caved. I told myself it was
just so I could spare her the awkwardness of standing there
feeling out of place while my dad and the DuPonts did their
nice-nasty routine, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s
because I’m hardwired to obey him. To give into his
commands despite knowing better or wanting different.
Before I wouldn’t have given it much thought, chalked it up
to keeping the peace and going with the flow, but giving in
to him this time just felt like it meant something different.
 Like I was acknowledging his power of my life, deferring
to him, letting him lead me to the very specific waters he
wanted me to drink from. Waters that smelt like plastic and
tasted like vanity and corruption. A scent that had leeched
into my skin, going deeper and deeper the longer I stood
next to Giselle.
The hallway is empty and quiet as I step into it, and I
look both ways, trying to determine where Mallory could
have gone. Normally the thought of hunting her down
would have me slightly turned on, but right now all I want
to do is find her and make sure she’s okay. Deciding she
wouldn’t have sought solace in the kitchen, I turn left,
heading towards the front door to see if she’s outside.
“There you are!” I turn around to see Vanessa peeping
her head out of the doorway of one of the first floor guest
rooms and immediately head towards her. She meets me
halfway, pulling me into a tight hug. We hold on to each
other, and the tears come, but they don’t break us open like
I thought they would. “I’m so glad to see you.”
Behind her glasses, her bright almond eyes shine with
fresh tears, and her lips tremble. She held it together at the
funeral, got through her entire speech without so much as
a wobble in her voice, but now she’s all raw emotion she’s
trying to reel in.
“I’m glad to see you too, Van.” I pull her into another
hug, this one shorter than the first. “God, I’m so fucking
sorry.”
“Chris, you don’t have to keep apologizing. Everybody
deals with this shit differently.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t deal at all. I just checked out, left you
to deal with everything on your own.”
She shakes her head, tucking one of her wavy locs back
behind her ear. “Everything was exactly how it was
supposed to be. She wouldn’t have wanted you to
remember her like that anyway. She didn’t want to be
another ghost living in your head.”
 I don’t feel like arguing, so I let Van win, let her think
her words—which are most likely Margaret’s—have
absolved me of the guilt I’ll carry for the rest of my life. It’s
the least I can do on a day like today.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“I am.” She smiles. “Do you have a minute? I have a few
things I need to give you.”
I give her a look that conveys my confusion but nod
anyway. “Yeah, I’ve got time.”
“Good, come with me.” I follow her back down the
hallway and feel even more confused when I see the state
of the bedroom we’ve just entered. It looks lived in. Framed
pictures of Margaret and Vanessa on the nightstand and
dressers. Clothes hanging in the walk-in closet, a neatly
made bed with more clothes strewn across it.
“I’ve been staying here,” Vanessa says as she walks over
to the desk in the corner of the room and picks up a bag.
“After it happened, I couldn’t stay in the house, so your dad
offered to let me stay here.”
“That’s….nice of him.” Too nice. Weirdly nice. I’ve never
known my father to open his home to anyone except
employees who needed to be on site to execute their duties.
She turns around, notes my confusion and smiles as she
sits down on the bed. “No, it’s not. I think he only asked me
to stay because he thought I would give him what I’m about
to give you.”
I watch her unzip the bag and pull out a handful of
small, leather bound notebooks. On top of the stack in her
hand is a folded piece of paper with what looks like my
name written on the front. “What are those?”
Vanessa pats the bed beside her, and I walk over and sit
down. She places the stack on top of the bag, which still
has notebooks inside of it, and looks at me. “Did you know
that your mom kept journals?”
The question shocks me. My mom is the last person I
expected to be talking about today, but I should have
known she would come up again. After all, Vanessa made a
point of placing emphasis on my mother and Margaret’s
friendship. I wish I could say with any kind of certainty that
I knew my mother kept journals, but the truth is I don’t
know anything about her.
Even her voice, the voice I hear screaming my name in
my nightmares, is a figment of my imagination. A sound my
brain put together to fill in the blank spaces of my memory.
The more I think about it now, the crazier it seems. The
reality of growing up with no knowledge of her, with no
pictures of her in the house and no videos of her singing to
us even though RJ once told me she did. He’s the only one
of us who remembers her.
Besides my dad, of course.
But he never talks about her. In all the years I’ve been
alive, I can only remember him speaking her name a
handful of times. Almost like the moment her body gave
out, everything she meant to him ceased to exist.
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t know that. Where did you
get these?”
“Margaret has had them for years, ever since your
mom….”
I don’t understand the silence. Vanessa and I have
known each other all of our lives, she’s never shied away
from hard conversations, not even when it was about death.
“Died,” I finish the sentence for her, giving her a weird
look. “Margaret kept these for eighteen years?”
Vanessa nods. “She kept them in a storage unit a few
towns over. A few weeks before she died, on one of her last
good days, she told me where to find them, and she made
me promise I would give them to you.”
I run a finger over the crisp edge of the folded paper.
“Why did she want me to have them?”
“She said you were the only one who still thought about
her as much as she did.”
My chest grows tight. “I think about her every day.”
 “She figured as much and thought you would appreciate
these more than anyone else.” I can’t say she’s wrong.
Teresa never met Mom, and RJ acts like she never existed.
I’m the one she haunts.
“Have you—” I clear my throat, trying to swallow past
the lump of emotion that grows larger with every passing
second. “Did you read any of them?”
“No, I didn’t even read the note from Margaret. All of
this is for you and only you. Margaret was very specific.
She told me not to give them to anyone but you, especially
not your dad.”
“Damn.” I laugh. “She really couldn’t stand him could
she?”
Van joins in, her shoulders bouncing as she shakes her
head. “She really couldn’t. I think he might have suspected
she had something of Celeste’s though. He’s been hinting
around about wanting to pay to get the house cleaned out
and all of Margaret’s affairs in order. He even had his
assistant call and ask me if she owned any other properties
they might need to send the cleaners to.”
A wrinkle forms between my brows as I try to reconcile
Vanessa’s description of my father’s actions of the past few
weeks with what I know to be true about him and his
attitude toward staff. He goes out of his way to remain
impersonal with them, preaches constantly about
maintaining professional boundaries and expectations.
Nothing I’ve ever heard him say or seen him do suggests he
would go to such lengths for someone who worked for him.
Hell, I don’t even think he’d go that far for one of his
own children.
“That’s weird as hell.”
“Right? I thought it was so strange, and she kept calling
until I finally told her I wouldn’t allow strangers to go
through my aunt’s personal effects. I felt kind of bad for
yelling at the poor girl, but I just wanted her to back off.”
 “I’m sure Lyla is fine, Van,” I say, eyeing the journals and
the letter with renewed interest. We don’t know if my dad
wanted them, but just the thought they could mean
something to him has my interest piqued. “She deals with
much worse on a daily basis.”
“You’re right.” Vanessa pushes to her feet, clearly aware
that the brain capacity I was dedicating to this
conversation has been directed somewhere else. “Well, I’m
going to go make the rounds and maybe get some food. You
can hang out in here and look through this stuff, I’ll cover
for you.”
“Thanks, Van.” I glance up at her. “If you see Mallory,
will you tell her where to find me?”
A huge grin spreads across her face as she heads for the
door. “Yeah, I guess I can do that for you. Congratulations,
by the way. I’ve been stalking your Instagram for months,
and you two look so happy.”
I smile back at her, allowing myself to think back to the
pictures littering my account. Most of them are from the
time when we were faking it, but we’ve added in a good bit
since then. Ones where the emotion in the photos matches
the things we say and feel. I want more of those moments
with her.
Actually, I want more of everything. The warm glow of
happiness. The heated passion. The sad and quiet and
everything in between. Whatever life looks like with
Mallory, is what I want, and when we get back to our room
tonight I’m going to make sure to tell her. To let my words
close the gap I allowed my silence to put between us. She
was so kind and understanding last night and today, but I
know me shutting down like that has to bother her. I don’t
want her to think I’m pushing her away, especially when all
I want to do is hold her close and never let go.
“We are,” I say finally, and she smiles another soft smile
before slipping out the door. Immediately, I turn my
attention to the items sitting on the bed beside me. Even
though I want to grab one of the journals first, I force
myself to pick up Margaret’s letter. Her apple and
cinnamon scent bounce off of the page as I unfold it,
revealing her flowing cursive.
Chris,
If you’re reading this, then I’m already gone. I won’t
waste precious space telling you how angry I am that I had
to leave before I got to see you become the man you
dreamed of being. I guess I’ll have to watch you flourish
from the clouds above. (Lord, I hope I’m in heaven because
me and the heat have never done well.)
Anyway, son, I want you to know I love you, and I have
always known how much you love me. No amount of time
or space could ever alter our bond, so you take it easy on
yourself. Don’t spend too much time regretting the
decisions you made when it came to handling my diagnosis.
We all do what we have to do, and I understand you felt like
you couldn’t survive seeing me like that.
To tell the truth, I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.
I feel like this disease has taken away everything that
made me, me. My hair. My breasts. My smile. The only
thing it hasn’t touched is my mind, and I’m afraid it’s next.
That’s why I sent Vanessa to the storage unit to get these
journals. They belonged to your mother. She wrote in them
every chance she got. It’s not much, but it’s all that’s left of
her in this world besides you and your siblings.
Especially now that I’m going.
I know it hurts to think about her, Chris, but I need you
to do it for me. I need you to read these and learn her.
Discover how she saw the world. Find out her hopes, fears,
and secrets. Carry them with you in your heart.
Because if you don’t, she’ll die with me.
Celeste was my best friend and the love of my life, but I
don’t want to take her memory with me. I don’t want to be
the last person on this Earth to utter her name, to be
moved by her words and changed by her heart. Your father
has tried to erase her since the day they met. Don’t let
today be the day he succeeds.
I love you, my sweet boy.
Margaret
A thousand thoughts move through my mind in the
space of a second as I fold the letter back up. Nothing
makes sense. Margaret held on to my mother’s journals for
almost two decades and then, while she was on her death
bed, left them to me so I could what? Keep my mother’s
memory alive? I mean that sounds simple enough. I always
wanted a way to get to know my mother that didn’t involve
going to biased sources like my grandfather or Dad, and
I’m happy to now have that option, but everything else
seems weird.
Especially the whole ‘love of my life’ thing. Was that
something people said about their best friends or was
Margaret suggesting her and Mom had a romantic
relationship? And what about the thing she said about Dad
trying to erase her? She couldn’t have meant that literally,
that sounded way too sinister, but figurative erasure is just
as bad.
And definitely something he could do. It’s basically what
he did after she died. Erected a cone of silence around her
existence no one around him ever questioned because they
assumed it was a coping mechanism brought on by extreme
grief.
Except Margaret has me thinking it could be more to it
than that, and now I’m standing on the edge of cliff asking
myself if I should jump or step away. I stare at the journals,
and my fingers start to itch, begging for leather and
answers.
“Fuck it.”
I swan dive off the cliff, reaching into the stack and
plucking up the first notebook my fingers land on. I flip it
open, turn to a random page, and start to scan through the
unfamiliar handwriting. My heart lurches when I see my
name.
Christopher will be an easy baby, of this I have no doubt.
Even his birth was easy, quick, painless. The kind of birth
you only hear about from those mom’s at the park who
make you want to pluck their eyes out because everything
sounds so fake and perfect. After Junior’s birth, which was
nothing short of horrific because Reese scared me out of
getting the epidural, I was certain they were all lying to
trick other women into procreating, but now I know they
weren’t. Now I know you don’t have to labor for hours on
end, wallowing in pain and your own filth while a baby with
a head the size of a watermelon tries to split you in half.
This time was so different. Maybe because Reese was a
few floors down operating, and I was finally able to get an
epidural. I almost missed my window because I was dilating
so fast, but the anesthesiologist got to me quickly. Perks of
having the same last name as the man who owns the
building. It gave me just enough time to rest and prepare
for delivery, which was so easy it makes me wonder why I
waited eight years to do it again.
Chris slid out into the world with a head full of jet black
curls and the cutest little scowl on his red face. And when
they placed him on my chest, his weight grounded me.
Anchored me to the world and helped me remember how
much I love my children, how much I love my family. How
much I love Reese. We aren’t perfect, but I believe that we
can be good together again.
We have to be, for our boys.
My fingers trace the page, and I try to imagine her
writing this. It would have been sometime after she left the
hospital, when she returned back home and was able to
have a moment of private time. Time to write in journals
she hid from her husband because she didn’t feel
comfortable saying the things she wrote in them to his face.
That must have been awful for her. Being married to
someone who didn’t see you, who didn’t listen to you, who
couldn’t truly love you because they refused to hold space
for you.
And to have kids with them, to be tied to them by name
and blood and soul. I can only imagine that it was
unbearable at times, that she dealt with things she could
have walked away from if it was just her. Or hell even if it
was just her and RJ. But then I came along and the anchor
grew heavier, tethering her to a man who was so different
from the one she met, she had to convince herself how
much she loved him. Feeling sick to my stomach, I drop the
notebook and pick up another, flipping towards the end
where the entries are shorter.
There’s no warmth in his eyes when he looks at me. I
wish he would let me go….
Her loneliness is evident in every word. And I don’t need
to finish reading the entry to know that this is why Dad was
adamant about going through Margaret’s stuff. He had to
have known Mom kept journals, had to have wondered
about where they went when she died. I’m sure it didn’t
take him long to suspect that Margaret took them. He
would have been desperate to get them back, to rid the
world of any evidence of his shortcomings. His failures as a
husband that led to his pregnant wife feeling trapped.
Heavy footfalls echo in the hallway and voices I can’t
quite make out start moving towards Vanessa’s room. In a
panic, I start to shove everything inside the bag and zip it
before turning an expectant gaze on the door. The voices
pass by, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If that had been Dad
or RJ, all of Margaret’s work to keep the journals a secrete
would have been undone in an instant.
Picking the bag up and slinging it over my shoulder, I
pull out my phone and call Mallory. She picks up on the
first ring, her soft, sultry voice doing wonders to soothe the
knots forming in my shoulders.
“Hello?”
 “Princess, where are you?”
“In the kitchen with Teresa. Where are you?”
Despite myself, I smile, happy she’s spending time with
Ter. “I’m on my way to you, stay where you are.”
“Okay.” There’s a hint of annoyance in her tone, but I
don’t get the chance to address it before she hangs up,
leaving me to skulk down the hallway without drawing any
attention to myself. When I enter the kitchen, she’s
standing next to the island, talking to Teresa and Vanessa.
They’re all laughing at something Teresa just said, but I can
tell that none of them are as happy as they’re trying to
appear. Vanessa has frown lines notched between her
brows. Ter’s shoulders are high and tense, and Mallory’s
eyes have a sadness to them that wasn’t there when I left
her earlier.
I walk up to her, putting an arm around her shoulder
and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She leans into
me, settling her weight against my body with a sigh that
suggests she needed the contact just as much as me.
“Ready to go?”
My fingers are gripping the strap on the bag so hard, it
feels like all the blood is leaving them. I’m so desperate to
get the journals out of this house I almost collapse with
relief when Mallory nods.
“Yeah, I’m ready if you are.”

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 MALLORY

A fter we say goodbye to Teresa and Vanessa, Chris and

I drive back to the hotel in silence. It’s not tense or
awkward, it’s just silence. The kind you get when
there are only two people in a car and they’re both too
deep in their own thoughts to say anything to the other
person. It isn’t broken until we step into the bedroom
portion of the suite, and he drops the bag on the bed. He
starts pacing, which catches my attention immediately.
I glance at it and then at him. “Where did the bag come
from?”
He pauses, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Vanessa
gave it to me.”
“Okayyyy,” I say slowly. “Do you want to tell me what’s
in it?”
“Journals.”
My brows wrinkle. “Vanessa gave you journals? Are they
hers or….?”
“They’re my mom’s.”
Nothing about that sentence makes sense. Even when I
repeat it in my head over and over again, it still remains
scrambled. Confused. Since I just came out of Mindfuck
Mansion, I decide to give myself some grace and ask for
clarification. “I’m sorry, what? How did Vanessa even get a
hold of your mom’s journals?”
A half-crazed laugh falls from Chris’ lips as he starts
pacing again. “Margaret had them. She kept them for
eighteen years. Had Vanessa dig them up out of a secret
storage unit a few weeks ago so she could give them to
me.”
Interest piqued, I gaze at the bag and try to school my
features into an expression that doesn’t make it look like I
think Vanessa just handed him a ticking time bomb. What
good could possibly come from him having his dead
mother’s journals?
“Have you read them?”
Chris walks over to the chair in the corner and plops
down. He looks worn out and his suit is wrinkled, but he’s
still as handsome as he was this morning. I want to kiss him
and tell him everything will be okay then slap him for
leaving me to fend for myself all afternoon.
“I skimmed over a few passages,” he admits softly, eyes
on me. “She wrote about me. About the day I was born and
how happy I made her.”
My heart aches for him, for the way none of this seems
to be bringing him joy. Only more pain. I get up off of the
bed and stride over to him. As soon as I’m within reach, he
yanks me down onto his lap, wrapping both of his arms
around my body and pulling me in. I allow myself to relish
in the feel of him, in the way his leather and earth scent
mixes with mine to make a fragrance that is uniquely us.
Chris buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling
deeply.
I reach around and cradle the back of his head with my
hand, rubbing my fingers into his scalp while he hums his
approval. “What was it like to read that?”
“Heartbreaking. She wasn’t happy with him. I’m the
reason she stayed, why she decided to try harder instead of
leaving.”
 “Where would she have gone?” Chris shared with me
before that his mom was a foster kid. A poor girl with a big
brain who fell in love with a rich boy who folded her into
his world. His friends became her friends. His family, her
family. Leaving wouldn’t have been an easy choice,
especially for a single woman with a kid.
“I don’t know. Maybe she would have ran away with
Margaret.”
“What?” There’s no hiding the shock in my voice. When
Chris pulls back to look at me, his expression matches
mine. “Were your mom and Margaret in love?”
“I think so. Margaret wrote me a letter and in it she
referred to my mom as the love of her life.” One of his
hands is moving down my back, taking the zipper of my
dress with it. “Doesn’t sound particularly platonic does it?”
“No,” I whisper, breath getting caught in my lungs when
I feel his fingers against my skin, blazing a trail from my
spine to my ass. “What are you doing, Chris?”
“I just need to touch you, princess, to make sure you’re
real because nothing in my life feels real right now. Is that
okay?”
“Yes.” He leans forward and kisses my jaw, nuzzling into
me while I keep rubbing his head. There’s a quiet energy
thrumming between us. We both feel it, know it could turn
into something else, but neither of us do a thing to move it
further. “I’m sorry you had to find all of this out today and
on top of losing Margaret. That seems like information
overload.”
“It is, but I can deal.”
“I know you can, but that doesn’t mean you have to. And
you certainly don’t have to do it alone.”
“I know, princess.”
I want to lose myself in the circles he’s rubbing along
my back and the sporadic kisses he’s planting along my
face and neck, but I can’t. Not when I have the chance to
make sure he knows I’m here for him. “Do you? Because
you haven’t been acting like it.”
Chris lets out a long sigh, and I expect him to argue with
me but instead he nods his agreement. “You’re right, and
I’m sorry for shutting down like that. You were trying to
comfort me, and I just couldn’t accept it. You were right
though, about her not being angry with me. She said as
much in her letter, told me not to waste time beating myself
up about not being there because I was doing the best I
could.”
He doesn’t sound like he believes it yet, but I have faith
he’ll come around. One day he’ll remember my words and
reread Margaret’s and forgive himself. “Margaret sounded
like an incredible woman.”
“She was.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and I hold the woman
who raised the man I love in my thoughts. Thanking her for
all she did to make sure he was okay, that he survived what
must have been a catastrophic loss for her as well.
“I’m scared of what else I might find in those journals.
My mom makes it sound like my dad was some kind of
monster.”
“Maybe he is.” I press my lips together, wishing I could
take those words back. “I didn’t mean that.”
Chris snorts then leans back to look at my face. “Yes,
you did, princess. You don’t say anything you don’t mean.”
I love that he knows that. Love that he says it like it’s
one of his favorite things about me. “Okay, fine, I meant it,
but I don’t think it’s a fair statement. I haven’t spent
enough time with your dad to call him a monster.”
“Mallory, be for real. You haven’t liked him since you
found out he was planning on forcing me into marriage.
There’s not much he could do to redeem himself in your
eyes.”
I bite my lip. “I guess that’s true. And this situation
definitely hasn’t helped, but the straw that broke the
camel’s back was him dragging you over to Giselle and her
family, so RJ could ambush me.”
The hand on my back goes still. “What do you mean?”
“While you were getting groped by your ex, I was in a
corner being harassed by your brother.” As he listens to me
recounting the conversation with RJ, Chris’ expression goes
from anger to straight up rage, and when I add in the little
bit of information I gleaned from Teresa about how his dad
changed his mind about us, he looks ready to break
something.
“Why can’t he just let this shit go? If RJ and Giselle want
to be together, then letting them ride off into the sunset
together seems like the best solution.”
An image of Giselle’s face when she hugged Chris
flashes through my mind. “I think you’ve only got half of
that equation right, baby. I don’t think Giselle wants to be
with RJ, or at the very least she isn’t ready to choose him
when you’re still an option.”
His head snaps back. “But I’m not an option.”
“We know that, but judging by the look on her face today
when you hugged her, she doesn’t think that’s the case at
all. And I’m sure your father’s plotting isn’t helping.”
The unfair truth tastes bitter on my tongue. This
shouldn’t be happening. After all this time, we should be in
a better place as far as his dad is concerned. Giselle and
this forced marriage should be a distant memory.
Something we laugh about when we think about how we
fell in love and where the life we built together started.
Right now it just feels so hopeless, like we’re right back at
square one with no options. No idea how to move forward.
Only the desire to do so.
Chris’ hand starts moving again, and I know it’s his way
of pulling me out of my head and back to him. But it’s hard
to unstick myself, to shake off the negative, despairing
thoughts trying to take over.
 “Hey.” He blinks at me, chestnut eyes urging me to be
here with him. “I love you, princess, and I’m not giving you
up. I don’t care what that costs me. My trust fund. My
name. None of it matters more than you do.”
I want to find comfort in his words, but I can’t. Not yet.
“Is that what happens when you break the family tradition?
You get disowned and cut off?”
There’s more hope in the question than necessary, but I
can’t help it. We never talked about what would happen if
his dad believed that our relationship was real but just
didn’t care. If cutting Chris off is the worst Reese could do
then maybe there is hope for us after all. I mean, Sloane’s
mom threatens to disown her every single day, and she’s
fine.
“No one has ever truly gone against it. I mean
technically Dad did, but he still doubled back and got
approval from his father. Everyone else has just fallen in
line. I don’t know what would happen if I refused, but I
guess we’re going to find out.”
“You’d really do that for me? Give it all up?”
“Princess,” he says, using a tone that admonishes me for
even asking him that kind of question. “You’re the only
thing I have that’s worth keeping.”
Then he’s surging forward with his mouth crashing into
mine. I react instantly, moaning into his mouth helplessly
while the sparks of electricity between us turn into a
powerful, rushing current that’s alive with desire and
passion. Chris slips one of his arms under my legs and the
other around my waist then pushes to his feet. He walks us
over to the bed and lowers us down without breaking the
kiss. I’m aware of the way he’s hovering over me, holding
his body to one side of mine while his busy hands grasp the
cuffed sleeves of my dress and tug them down my arms.
The fabric pools at my waist, and I expect him to pull it
all the way down, but he doesn’t. Instead he lifts up, eyes
on fire as they skate over my body. Taking in the lace of my
bra. I spread my legs, reaching down to yank the dress up
and show him the matching panties. He saw them this
morning when we got dressed, but it doesn’t stop the sharp
intake of breath or dull the glow in his eyes when his gaze
reaches mine.
He prowls around the bed, stopping at the side that puts
him closest to my head and lets him look down the length
of my body. “I love when you spread your legs for me,
princess.”
“What about when I play with my pussy for you? Do you
love when I do that?” I shift my panties to the side, run a
shaky finger up and down my slit while he climbs on to the
bed and urges me to sit up.
“I love everything you do.” Once he’s settled, I let my
back rest against his chest. He runs his hands down my
chest, pulling down the cups of my bra and pinching both
of my nipples. I cry out, letting my eyes fall shut. “Open
your eyes, baby. Look how fucking sexy you are.”
I do as he says, realizing only then that he’s positioned
us across from the full length mirror mounted on the wall.
We’re a ruffled, tangled, sexy, mess. Chris is still wearing
his suit, his legs under mine, and I’m half naked. My
breasts bared, nipples tightened into hardened peaks Chris
keeps taking between his deft fingers. Pinching and teasing
them while my hips writhe, rocking to the rhythm I’m
creating with my own hand.
The sight of us makes me even more needy, and I spread
my legs further. Chris sucks in another harsh breath as my
berry brown folds part, revealing glistening lips and an
engorged clit that’s getting all of my attention.
Chris kisses my temple. A gentle press of his lips that
doesn’t match the rough way he’s handling my breasts. I
love the juxtaposition. The duality of being kissed like I’m
the most precious thing in the world and touched with
reckless abandon that speaks of unbridled passion and
desire. My core clenches, reminding me of just how empty I
am, how desperate I am to have him filling me up.
“I love you,” he whispers in my ear, capturing the lobe
between his teeth while he holds my gaze in the mirror. His
words set another warm gush of liquid arousal free, coating
my fingertips. I abandon my clit, running my fingers
through my slippery folds until they’re sticky and perfectly
lubricated, ready to ease the pressure building low in my
belly.
Chris knows exactly what I’m about to do, so he lifts his
legs and bends his knees. The subtle change in his position
pushes my legs up, bringing my knees closer to my chest
and tilting my hips upwards so I can reach my opening
more easily. He grunts in my ear, both of our eyes on the
mirror as my middle finger disappears inside my pussy.
He growls, reaching down to stroke my breasts and then
my stomach with reverent fingers. “I can hear how fucking
wet you are, Mallory. It’s driving me crazy.”
I moan, desperate to tell him I’m being driven crazy too.
Not by the sound of my finger moving in and out of my sex,
but by him. By the things he’s saying, and the sinful growls
leaving his throat at regular intervals. They start deep in
his chest, and I feel them moving through him, forcing their
way out while he touches me like he can’t ever imagine a
world where he doesn’t get to.
My head lolls on his shoulder, while I keep hazy, half-
lidded eyes on our reflection. Chris is staring at me, his
gaze moving between my churning hips and my face.
Usually when we’re together, I have my eyes screwed shut,
lost to the things he makes me feel, so seeing us like this,
getting to watch his reaction to me, has all of my senses
heightened. Every touch, kiss, lick to my neck and nibble
along my jaw is amplified. Every stroke of my fingers inside
of my rippling walls is another drop in a bucket that’s
already threatening to overflow.
 So when Chris moves his hand down further, capable
and sure fingers working around my arm to find my swollen
clit, I know I’m done for. He uses the pad of his middle
finger to apply pressure, pressing down firmly and then
rubbing in slow, perfect circles, setting a rhythm I follow
with my hips while I add another finger to my
ministrations. I raise my legs off of the bed, bending my
knees further, so I can get deeper, and Chris uses his free
hand to grip the back of one of my thighs for support.
Every one of my breaths is a moan. An audible
representation of the pleasure rolling down my spine. The
pressure building in my core, begging to be released. The
clenching of my walls that increases as I start to massage
my g-spot.
“Oh my God.” I arch up off of Chris, the sound of me
panting my way to my release drowning out everything
else.
“There it is.” He smiles against the side of my neck,
each word a brush of his lips that sends me sailing towards
the finish line. “You’re going to make a fucking mess of this
bed aren’t you, princess?” As he talks, he increases the
movement of his hand and adds two more fingers so with
every rotation of his wrist the most sensitive part of me is
being caressed three times instead of one.
“Chris, please don’t stop.”
“I’m not going to stop, baby.” I watch his expression in
the mirror, the torrent of pleasure etched into his features
emphasizing his words. “Not until you’ve ruined this bed
like you’ve ruined me.”
That’s all it takes. The madness of his words, the dark
timbre of his voice as he makes the most erotic promise,
that’s all it takes to send floods of heated pleasure through
every inch of my body. My cries fill the room, echoing off of
the walls while my orgasm spills out of me. Coating my
fingers and the inside of my thighs on it’s way to soak into
the expensive comforter and sheets beneath us. True to his
word, Chris doesn’t stop until the bed is past saving and
I’m a boneless mess.
With a satisfied smirk on his lips and an erection tenting
the pants of his suit, he untangles himself from me and
heads to the bathroom. I expect him to come back
immediately with a warm rag for me and a towel for the
bed, but instead I hear the sound of water running, filling
the large soaker tub in the middle of the bathroom. I want
to get up. The muscles in my legs and thighs ache to be
submerged in hot water and bubbles, but I can’t move yet.
When Chris returns, he’s shed his suit and is wearing
nothing but a white tank top and black briefs that hug his
ass. He’s still hard. The imprint of his dick evident through
the cotton, and I have to avert my gaze to keep from
dropping on my knees and begging him for more. Ever
since our argument about having sex a few weeks ago, he’s
been so careful with me. Avoiding certain positions, making
sure I come multiple times while refusing to let me do
anything to please him. I get that he’s afraid of losing
control when we’re together, but I wish he would hear me
when I say I’m not scared of him or the things he wants.
He hauls me up off the bed and takes me by the hand,
pulling me close and pressing kiss to the tip of my nose
before he leads me into the bathroom. The lights are
dimmed, and white bubbles float on top of the water. Chris
stands behind me, making quick work of freeing me from
my bundled up dress and helping me into the tub. I sigh
happily as I settle into the warm water. Chris kneels beside
the tub with a wash cloth in one hand and my body wash in
the other.
I arch a brow at him. “What exactly are you planning to
do with those?”
“You know what I’m planning to do with these, princess.
The only question is are you going to let me?” I have no
qualms about him washing me. In fact, I welcome any act
that involves his hands on my body, but the imploring look
in his eye, the genuine desire to do this simple, caring task
for me, makes me even more eager to say yes.
“I guess I’ll allow it.”
Chris shakes his head as he dips the wash cloth into the
water behind me and brings it back up, letting the stream
of warm liquid trail down my back. He repeats the same
process over each of my shoulders and arms. I relax into
his touch, enjoying being cared for. “Thank you again, not
just for being here but for being with me and putting up
with all of the shit that comes along with it.”
“We’ve both got our shit, babe. You’ve seen all of mine
and loved me anyway. I’m just returning the favor.” He
opens his mouth like he wants to disagree with what I’ve
said, but then he thinks better of it and closes it back. Our
situations, the things that brought us together, are
drastically different, but there’s no denying that we’ve both
dealt with monsters. That we were able to sort through all
the bullshit and find each other is a miracle. A gift. A bright
strip of sunlight in an otherwise cloudy sky.
We both deserve the happiness we’ve found. If we don’t
cherish it, don’t spend every day feeling grateful for it, then
people like Trent and his dad win.
And they don’t deserve to win.
The thought has me feeling brave, a surge of
hopefulness pushing words to the tip of my tongue that I
wanted to keep to myself for just a little bit longer. “I need
to tell you something.”
Both of his brows pull together, as his gaze moves from
the drops of water skating down my breasts to my face.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing bad,” I blurt out, laughing nervously. “I
mean, I don’t think it’s bad, but I don’t know how you’re
going to feel about it. I guess you could see it as a bad
thing, but you’d have to have all the details before you
decide that it is….”
 “Princess.” A small smile plays on his lips, and I can tell
he’s trying to hold it in because I hate how he laughs when
I start rambling. “Just tell me what it is.”
I take a deep breath, praying that he’s going to see this
as a good thing. “Well, you know that I only have one more
semester left at NHU.”
“Yeah, and I’ll be in the front row screaming at the top
of my lungs when you walk across that stage.”
The image of him, Eric, Nic, Mama and Sloane
screaming down the walls when they hand me my degree
makes me smile. “I know you will, but I haven’t really
thinking about graduation so much as what comes after.”
“You said you wanted to get your MBA, has that
changed?”
“No.” I shake my head, my heart starting to smack
against my rib cage. “Not at all. I still want to get my MBA,
but I don’t think I want to do it at NHU anymore. I’ve been
talking to Dr. Brennan about exploring different options
since she came back to finish out Richardson’s class, and
she told me there’s a great program at the College of
Charleston.”
I study his face, watching for any indication that my
words have freaked him out, and see nothing but
understanding tinged with happiness. He drops the wash
cloth, and it brushes my leg as it sinks to the bottom of the
tub, but I don’t care because now he’s gripping my face
and kissing me.
Water sloshes around, spilling over the edges as I move
to my knees to hug him. His tank top is soaked in a matter
of seconds, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s just smiling
down at me like I’ve made him the happiest man in the
world just because I want to go to graduate school near
him.
“How could you think I would take that badly? I’ve been
dreading moving for months. I would love to have you in
Charleston with me, princess.”
 His quick acceptance and clear excitement turn my
heart into a warm pile of mush. Happy tears spring in my
eyes as I try to tamper down my own excitement. “I haven’t
even applied yet. I might not get in.”
“You will,” he says, undeterred faith in me, bleeding into
his response. I soak it in, let it become a part of me, allow it
to wash away the seeds out doubt that his brother and
father tried to plant before they can take root.
I know they’re not done coming for us. They’re not ready
to let him go, not done trying to force him to accept a
crown he doesn’t want, but in this moment I feel sure we
can weather any storm they throw our way because the
future we’ve committed ourselves to protecting depends on
it.

OceanofPDF.com
 38

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

T he text comes moments after Mallory falls asleep in

my arms, and it physically pains me to leave her,
nestled among the fresh set of bedding housekeeping
put on the bed when we went out to dinner after her bath
and my shower.
Our evening was so peaceful, filled with plans for a
future I could see written in her eyes. Inscribed in amber
like the letters of our name were etched into gold. We
talked about being long distance next semester, about her
visiting me on the weekends and the things she’d do to fill
her days during the semester before her graduate classes
started.
We talked for hours at dinner and then we came back to
the room and talked some more, and I didn’t think about
my fucked up family or the grief trying to cave my chest in
at all. I was all set to go to sleep and then my phone lit up
the room, vibrating on the nightstand one time and
displaying a text from my dad.
Dad: Downstairs. We need to talk.
I don’t even ask how he knew where we were staying or
why he thought I would want to see him at almost eleven
o’clock at night. I just slip out of bed, pull on a pair of
sweats and a hoodie, grab my key and leave the room.
When I get to the hotel lobby, he’s sitting at the bar sipping
from a tumbler with dark liquid in it. He looks up just as I
take the seat beside him, and I’m immediately reminded of
the last entry I read in Mom’s journal. The one about there
being no warmth in his eyes when he looked at her.
There’s none in them now, just a reptile like coolness
that sends a chill down my spine as he stares at me like
he’s waiting for me to open up the conversation.
I look at him blankly, refusing to start talking for fear of
backing myself into a corner I can’t get out of. He could be
here to talk about any number of things—the funeral,
Giselle, the journals I inherited mere hours ago he’s
probably desperate to get his hands on.
When it becomes clear I’m not going to say anything, he
scoffs. “First, you slink out of my house without so much as
a goodbye, then you refuse to greet me after I drive all the
way over here to see you before your flight leaves in the
morning.”
It doesn’t surprise me that he knows Mallory and I are
flying out in the morning. After all, I told RJ, which means I
might as well had said it to him. “I didn’t ask you to come
out here.”
“And you didn’t leave me with much of a choice when
you left without saying goodbye to anyone.” The bartender
stops in front of me, and I shake my head before she has a
chance to ask if I want a drink. I don’t want anything that’s
going to prolong this conversation.
“I said goodbye to Teresa and Vanessa.”
His jaw clenches, and his nostrils flare. “That’s not the
point, Christopher.”
“Then what is the point, Dad?” I fight to keep my tone
even. “And please get to it quickly, because I know you
didn’t come all the way down here to talk about the way I
left a funeral you didn’t even want me to attend.”
“Is that what you’re sulking about?” He takes a sip of his
drink, a condescending laugh bouncing off the rim of the
glass. “Not getting an invite to a funeral?”
The fingers on both of my hands ball into fists. “It wasn’t
just any funeral. It was Margaret’s, and no matter how
much you try to downplay it, you have to know how fucked
up it is that she died and you didn’t tell me. You were going
to bury her without me being there even though you knew
how much she meant to me.”
“She wasn’t your mother, Chris, and you clearly didn’t
think that much of her or else you would have made time to
answer her phone calls.” A triumphant gleam takes over his
eyes, finally adding some semblance of warmth to them. “At
any rate, I was planning on breaking the news to you after
the semester ended. She was already gone, there was no
use in distracting you when there was nothing you could
have done. I wanted to tell you when you were back home.
Here with your family and friends. Not hours away, with no
one to help you through your grief but strangers.”
Anger and frustration claw their way through my chest,
begging for an out. Desperate for a chance to explode and
destroy everything in this lobby including the man in front
of me. There are so many things wrong with his statement I
can’t even address them all, so I just focus on the last part.
My mind wandering to the circle of support my friends and
Mallory formed around me when I learned about the loss
he hid from me for his own selfish reasons.
“The people you’re talking about are my friends, not
strangers. They are my family. They’ve been my family for
nearly two years.”
“Two years?” He laughs, and the air from his mouth
smells like the expensive Scotch he’s drinking. “You say it
like that’s such a long time. You’ve been a Johnson for over
twenty years. You’ve been my son, the heir to the throne,
for ten times longer than you’ve known any of them,
including that girl you brought into my house today.”
Red starts to tint my vision. “Her name is Mallory, and if
you’re even considering saying something disrespectful
about her, then I suggest you think again.”
For a second, he looks impressed by the vehemence in
my tone, and it reminds me of the way he looked when I
first told him about Mallory. But then it fades away, leaving
nothing but annoyance in its wake. “It’s always been funny
to me how self assured a man becomes when he starts
getting pussy on the regular.” His vulgar choice of words
sends shock coursing through me, making it impossible to
respond. “So I’m supposed to believe you’re a man now
huh, son? You got a pretty little thing on your arm, sitting
on your lap and looking at you with those big eyes that
make you feel like you hung the fucking moon and now I’m
supposed to believe you don’t need me behind you?”
“I don’t.” I grind out, the vein jumping in my temple the
only physical sign of my outrage. I’ve always known my
father could be ruthless, but I’ve never actually been on the
receiving end of it. It’s disconcerting, and it makes me
think, once again, about how my mother said she felt
around him towards the end of her life. “I’ve gotten by just
fine without you for the last four years.”
Another snort, this one loud and derisive, escapes him.
“While you were driving a car I pay for. Living in an
apartment I pay for. Wearing clothes, attending a school,
eating food that I pay for. You haven’t done anything for
yourself over the last four years. I’ve paid for your entire
life, Christopher, including your little excursion to New
Haven.”
“Because that’s your fucking job.” I slam my fists on the
bar, hitting it so hard his empty glass shakes and the
bartender turns to look at us. “And you know what? It’s the
least you can do. Literally. Do you expect me to thank you
for doing the bare minimum? For throwing money at every
problem and sacrificing the happiness and well being of
your children for the sake of a legacy they don’t even want
to be a part of? Well, thank you, Dad. Thank you for being
the shittiest fucking parent to ever live.”
 “I’m the only fucking parent you have, Christopher.” He
turns in his seat and leans in close, so we’re face to face.
“No matter how many times you wake up from your
nightmares, crying for your mommy, you can’t change that
I’m here and she’s not. Call me a shit father if you want,
but I’ve done more for you than that woman has over the
course of her entire miserable existence.”
“Mom died, Dad. She died giving you another slave to
Johnson empire. Your fucked up parenting choices, and the
way I feel about them, don’t have anything to do with her.”
Just a second ago he was seething, practically foaming
at the mouth, but as soon as he processes my response the
screw that must have come loose in his mind, clicks back
into place. He pushes out a harsh breath and blinks rapidly,
sitting back in his seat. He runs his hand over his face, and
I can tell he’s trying to regroup. To get some control over
himself and the conversation that’s gone so far off topic.
“This isn’t about your mother or whatever you think you
know about our marriage. She’s the past. You are the
future of this family, and I won’t let you throw it away for
some girl.”
I want to punch something. More specifically, I want to
punch him for looping this frustrating discussion back
around to Mallory. The future we were planning just hours
ago flashes before my eyes as fear fills my gut. My dad has
a history of taking the things I love, the things that make
me happy, away, and despite what I believed to be true
before, he seems determined to see history repeat itself.
And I just can’t let that happen.
“She isn’t just some girl, Dad. I love her, and I never said
it was about her.”
“You think I don’t recognize a man destined for
greatness being distracted from his true purpose by a nice
ass? I’ve been there, son. I’ve made the mistake you’re
about to make, and I’m going to do for you what my father
should have done for me, cut the problem out by the root.”
 The way he talks about my mother makes it easy to
realize why he has gone so long without speaking of her at
all. There’s nothing loving or tender in his depictions of her
and their marriage. In fact, it sounds like he spent more
time hating her than he did loving her.
Now it makes sense why he wasn’t moved by my attempt
to recreate the circumstances that allowed him to
circumvent tradition: he regrets the choice he made.
I just don’t understand why.
And I don’t have time to figure it out, right now I just
need to focus on making him realize that me and Mallory
are not him and Mom. “Mal isn’t some problem for you to
solve, Dad. She’s my future.”
“We’ll see about that.” I feel conflicted as I watch him
rise from his seat. I don’t really want to keep talking to
him, but I hate that the conversation is ending when I’m
trying to make sure he understands that I’m not letting
Mallory go.
He throws a twenty on the bar and starts to move
towards the exit. Just when I think he’s about to walk out
without acknowledging what I said, he stops behind my
seat and claps me on the shoulder.
“Go back to New Haven, son. Ace those finals. Fuck that
girl out of your system and enjoy it because once you walk
across that stage you’re coming back home to honor your
commitments.”
I shrug his hand off then hop out of my seat to look him
dead in the eye. “Those are not my commitments, they’re
yours, and I won’t walk away from the one good thing in my
life to honor them for you. We’ve spent months going back
and forth about this, which is dumb because I should have
just told you I’m not doing it. Any of it. I’m not moving back
to Boston. I’m not going to Harvard or studying
cardiothorasics, and I’m damn sure not marrying Giselle
DuPont, so you can take all of your talk about commitments
and legacy and shove it up your ass.”
 Saying those words out loud is the greatest relief. I feel
like a thousand pound weight as been lifted from my chest,
and I wonder why I waited so long to do this. To speak my
intentions clearly and stand behind them fully. To show my
father, once and for all, the days of him calling the shots for
my future are long gone.
I get less than a half of a second to bask in that feeling,
in the shimmery glow of independence and self-actualized
control. Because that’s how long it takes my dad to curl his
lips into a menacing smile and transform his gaze into a
daunting dare that sticks with me long after he walks out of
the lobby without saying another word.
I see it as I make my way back up to the room.
Hallucinate that it’s reflected back at me through the black
screen of the TV in the living room as I settle on the couch
and start thumbing through more of Mom’s journals,
looking for more instances of her being frightened by the
monster I just went toe to toe with.
And when I finally fall asleep, with my mother’s journals
scattered on the couch around me and her words swirling
in my head, that ominous smile appears in my dreams.
Stretched across his face as his fingers wrap around a
woman’s arm, dragging her away from me while she kicks
and screams and fights to break free.
At first it’s my mother, her face frozen in agony and her
stomach sliced open. The gaping wound gushing blood that
runs down her legs. It leaves a smeared trail of red, and I
follow it, disturbed but also not surprised to see her in such
a state.
But then the woman changes. Her frame fills out. Her
curves are familiar, ones I know by heart. And instead of an
open stomach wound, there’s blood on her thighs and her
tattered clothes.
My father stares down at her in disgust, barely touching
her as he drags her out of my reach.
OceanofPDF.com
 39

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

I wake up to the sound of whimpering. Desperate,

guttural exhalations that pierce the darkness of the
bedroom and pull me out of my sleep. I roll over,
reaching for Chris and finding nothing but empty sheets
that are cool to the touch. Confused, by the sounds filling
my ears and his absence, I slide out of bed and head into
the living room where I find a sight that breaks my heart.
Chris is curled up on the sofa. A stack of his mother’s
journals on the coffee table in front of him. One of them is
open, lying face down like he just sat it there. Except I
know that’s not right because he’s asleep, his handsome
face twisted into a mask of agony while the sounds that
woke me fall from his lips.
I stop dead in my tracks, and my heart splits open
because I know those sounds. I mean I haven’t actually
ever heard them come from him, but I know what they
mean. Everyone’s nightmares are different, made of
different haunting images, inspired by different monsters,
but they all sound the same.
A soundtrack of despair that’s recognizable to any
person who’s ever been unlucky enough to have their
brains turn against them when they’re at their most
vulnerable.
 Chris frowns and shifts around on the couch. His long
legs are restless, like he’s walking or running, but I don’t
know if he’s moving towards something or away from it.
Slowly, I pad across the room and lower myself to the floor
in front of him. This close, I can see the way rapid rise and
fall of his chest and the notches in between his brows. My
hand shakes as I lift it up and run a tentative finger over his
jaw.
“Chris,” I whisper, my heart rate rising when he stirs.
“Wake up, baby. You’re having a bad dream.” I repeat the
words over and over again, keeping my voice gentle and
even until he finally blinks his way back into consciousness.
As soon as he sees me, he reaches for me, pulling me
into him while he sits up on the couch. I move with him,
climbing onto his lap, my bare thighs bracketing his hips as
he squeezes me tight.
“You’re okay.” His voice is thick, clogged with sleep and
grief I don’t understand.
I lean back to get a look at his face. “You were dreaming
about me?”
“I thought he took you from me.”
“Who?” My question is lost in the gasp leaving my lips
when his hands come up to cradle my face, pulling me
down to meet his mouth. The kiss is fraught with fevered
urgency, and everything else falls away. The nightmare, the
nameless, faceless man he thought took me from him. All of
it stops mattering.
His lips and tongue overpower mine, leading the carnal
rhythm that trickles through my body and inspires the
swirling of my hips. I can feel Chris growing hard beneath
me. All the sexual tension that’s been stored in his body for
weeks now rushing to his dick in an instant, creating a
massive erection that feels like a rod of heated steel
between my thighs.
I grind down on it, seeking friction that will lead to
pleasure for us both. Chris’ hands leave my face, trailing
down my neck and over my breasts before coming to rest at
my waist. His touch is just as urgent as his kiss. I can even
feel the blunt edges of his nails through the thin cotton of
my t-shirt.
They dig into my skin while Chris urges me to move
faster, to press down harder because he’s arching up to
meet me. My mind is spinning, excitement swelling in my
chest as my body responds to him and the silent message
he’s sending, telling me he wants this.
That he needs it as much as I do.
I reach down and grab his wrist, taking his hand off of
my waist and guiding it to my core. He groans into my
mouth when he feels that the moisture seeping out of me
has coated the sliver of fabric making up the front of my
thong. And then his fingers are curling around it, his
knuckles brushing my clit as he gives one hard pull and
shreds my underwear with minimal effort.
The thong gives easily, but the sound of it tearing
shatters the spell we’re under. Chris breaks the kiss,
sending me plummeting head first out of the cloud of desire
we just created. I groan when he looks down at the ruined
thong and lets go of me to run an agitated hand over his
head. I watch as the man that was just devouring me
disappears, making way for the calm and considerate man I
love but want no parts of right now.
He shakes his head, trying to regain his composure, to
calm down enough to talk us out of something we both
clearly want to do.
“Princess, I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” I cut him off, taking my hands off his shoulders to
grab his face and force him to look at me. The glassiness
that was in his eyes when he first woke is gone, but the
shadows of his nightmares remain, lingering beneath the
surface of conflicted pools of chestnut. “You can say
anything to me right now. You can give me any reason why
you don’t want to go further tonight, and I promise I’ll
accept it. I can understand if you’re not in the right head
space. If you’re not in the mood. But don’t you dare make
this about fear because I’m not afraid of you, Chris.”
A vein in his temple jumps, activated by the tight clench
of his jaw. “You should be.”
“Why? Because you ripped my thong? Because you like
to bite my neck and grip my waist so hard you might leave
your fingerprints in my skin?” Even though he looks
horrified by my words, his dick throbs. “Why should any of
that scare me?”
“Because you deserve so much better than that,
princess. You deserve gentle hands and loving kisses, and I
can’t give you that right now. I’m not going to take you
while I’m like this. I’m not going to fuck you like some kind
of….”
The fingers in the one hand still on my hip flex as he
swallows the word that my mind fills in on its own.
Animal.
All at once, pieces of a conversation I overheard my
former suite mate having with one of her upperclassmen
friends comes back to me. They were in our shared
bathroom that connected our rooms, gossiping about guys
they’d slept with while they got ready for a party. Despite
being in a relationship with some guy named Ash, Jasmine
was matching the girl she was talking to hook up for hook
up. Somewhere along the way Chris’ name came up. I tried
not to listen, but they were so loud. Laughing and cackling
while Jasmine’s friend dropped words like rough and wild
as she described a late night encounter with him.
Frustration winds its way through my body, unfurling in
slow coils that make a home next to the ball of jealousy
living in my stomach. I know Chris has slept with other
women. He’s never tried to keep his past a secret, but right
now the thought of him with someone else makes me sick.
Countless women have had this part of him, have been
given the gift of his feral thrusts and untamed touch. All
things I want from him but he refuses to give to me
because he can’t get over what Trent did.
“Do I even get a choice in the matter?” I grip his jaw
harder, the pressure I’m applying making his pupils dilate.
“Of course you get a choice, princess.”
I lick my lips. “Then ask me what I want, Chris.”
He shakes his head, already aware of the answer to the
question he hasn’t asked. “Mallory.”
“Ask me what I want.” He swallows, and I make a mental
note to trace his Adam’s apple with my tongue. “Ask me,
baby. Don’t be scared.”
“What do you want, princess?”
I lean in and drop a kiss on his lips, every word of my
answer a brush of skin that paints my desire on the canvas
of his mouth. “I want you to fuck me like you know I won’t
break. I want it hard and rough and perfect. I want to be
sore when I wake up in the morning, and then I want you to
spread my legs and fuck me again. I want your teeth in my
skin and your hands in my hair. I want us—our desires, our
moods, our needs—to be the only thing determining how
we do this. Not my past. Not your fears about hurting me
or your thoughts about what I deserve. Because what I
deserve is a partner who trusts me to decide what I want
and how I want it.”
“I do trust you.”
“And you want me?” I have to ask, have to make sure I’m
not reading this wrong, that I’m not stomping all over his
boundaries. Chris nods, a humorless puff of air passing
through his flared nostrils.
“I want you too much, Mallory.”
“Good, because I want you too, Chris.” I’m whining, and
I don’t even care. “I want you. However you are. Whatever
you need to give me, where ever you want to take me.
That’s where I want to go.”
Pulling back, I let go of his jaw and grip the hem of my
shirt. Chris’ hands turn to fists at my hip as I pull it up and
over my head, tossing it onto the floor. My chest heaves,
nipples tightening in anticipation as his hungry gaze
sweeps over them. He sweep his tongue over his teeth. A
predator considering it’s prey and just barely resisting the
urge to pounce.
I run my hands over my belly and palm my breasts,
moaning when my thumbs brush against the hardened
buds.
“I don’t have a condom, Mallory.”
His voice is tight, words coated with tension as he
makes a last ditch effort to talk me out of this. “You know
that I take my birth control religiously.”
A growl—low and feral with the promise of devastation—
fills the air, and it’s the only warning I get before he
launches himself at me, flipping us over so I’m on the couch
and he’s kneeling in front of me. He gazes up the length of
my body, serious eyes holding mine while he spreads my
thighs.
“If it gets to be too much, princess, tap out.”
I nod, lust clogging my throat. “I will. I promise.”
I half expect him to say something else, to reiterate his
point about signaling my overwhelm or ask me if I’m sure
one more time, but he doesn’t. As soon as I make my
promise, he breaks the single thread holding up my ruined
thong and tosses the scrap to the side. Then he’s pushing
my legs up, setting my heels on the edge of the couch so
my pussy is on full display.
He dives for it, burying his head in my folds, his tongue
lashing wildly while the most obscene sounds come from
some place deep in his chest. They move up his throat,
echoing along my aching slit, adding to the pleasure he’s
working into my body with his mouth.
My hands go to his hair, fingertips gliding through curls
that have grown longer in the time we’ve been together,
nails digging into his scalp with enough force to illicit a
snarl from him. He turns his head, warm lips grazing the
inside of my thigh before he bares his teeth and sinks them
into the soft flesh. I arch up off of the couch, a moan stuck
in my throat as he returns his attention to my pussy, this
time focusing on my clit while the rough pads of his
fingertips find my entrance.
I open my mouth, prepared to beg him to put them
inside me, but he beats me to the punch. Slipping in his
index finger first, curling it so it touches all the right
places, and then adding in another. When he gives me a
third one, the pressure is almost too much. I feel my body
resisting him, fighting against the intrusion even as the
pleasure of being so full sends tremors of ecstasy down my
spine.
“Breathe,” Chris orders roughly as he scissors them in
and out of me. Stretching me. Preparing me. Not just for
his dick but for the reality of being fucked by something
with more girth than my fingers, with more presence than
my vibrator. I push out a breath, and a moan follows as the
burning sensation subsides and the pleasure takes its
place. “That’s it. You’re doing so well, princess.”
I’m rocking into him, meeting each thrust of his fingers
with a grind of my hips that pulls him deeper into me. With
my hands still on his head, I guide his mouth back to my
cunt, the slick skin slipping easily over his as I fuck his
face. The combination of his fingers and tongue coaxes my
release to the surface at a rate I didn’t even realize was
possible. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes,
accompanying the warm liquid that gushes from me in
forceful, repeated streams that would be embarrassing if I
had the capacity to care.
As it stands, the only thing I do care about right now is
the way Chris’ hums of approval vibrate against my clit as
he laps up every drop, fingers still plunging in and out of
my rippling walls. When he finally pulls back, his chin and
neck are shiny, dripping with my essence, and his eyes are
wild with lust.
 “Next time I’m going to make you do that in a cup, so I
can make sure I drink every drop.”
I blush, feeling shy even though there’s nothing but
reverence in his tone. “I’ve never…that’s never happened
before.”
He extracts his fingers and places both of his palms on
the insides of my thighs. So close that his thumbs are
resting on the outside of my pussy lips. I feel them flex,
pressing into my skin as his eyes fall shut on a tortured
groan.
“Don’t tell me that, Mallory. I’m barely holding it
together as it is.” When he opens his eyes, he looks even
more feral, and I smile, thoroughly turned on by the sight
of him.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to try to hold it
together.”
He lets go of me and pushes to his feet. I watch in awe
as he starts to strip off his clothes, yanking off his shirt,
pushing down his sweatpants and underwear at the same
time to reveal his stunningly hard dick. He grips the base of
his shaft in a tight fist and runs it from the veined root to
the smooth tip that’s dripping precum.
I gasp, and he blesses me with a devious grin I feel right
in my trembling core. “We agreed that I’d give you what we
both want. In order for me to do that and make it good for
you, I need some self control, baby. If only to keep me from
blowing my load the second I get inside you.”
“Oh.”
He lifts his brows, humor sparkling in his eyes. “Yeah.
Now stand up, princess.”
I do as he says, and he walks a slow circle around me.
Biting his lip and pumping his dick with a rough fist while
he examines me. A fresh wave of arousal washes over me,
and the tingles of awareness skittering across my skin feel
familiar. They’re similar to the way I felt when he was
following me at the skating rink and when he chased me at
his house. Only this time, I’m not moving. I’m not running.
I’m caught. Trapped in his gaze. Held hostage by desire
that I welcomed. That I chose. My heart swells with love for
him, and I stand still, refusing to move even when he’s out
of my line of sight because I know he won’t do anything to
scare me.
“Turn around.” The command comes from behind me,
uttered in a low, decadent tone. I do as he says and find
myself inches from his handsome face. The scent of my
release wafting in the air between us. Chris takes a step
back, eyes still on me as he sits down on the sofa, taking
the seat that’s wet because of me.
He spreads his arms out along the back of the couch, the
golden inches of his skin made even more beautiful by the
brown leather. I stare at his dick, the proud length
protruding from between his hard thighs, and lick my lips,
already imagining what he’ll taste like on my tongue. Chris
shakes his head.
“You can taste it later, princess. Right now I want you to
sit on it.”
Riding dick isn’t exactly a part of my skill set, but I don’t
let my lack of knowledge stop me from walking over to him
with a sultry sway. And it damn sure doesn’t stop me from
straddling him, my thighs framing his powerful hips as I
hover above the flared crown of his tip.
Chris’ hands go to my waist, but his eyes are on my face.
I don’t know what he sees there, but I hope it’s not the
panic flaring in my chest or the quiet fear trickling down
my spine as my brain screams at me that I can’t do this.
That letting him fuck me with his fingers and his tongue
are a far cry from this.
“Princess—” I can hear the acceptance in his voice, the
understanding wrapped up in that one little word, and I
don’t want it. I don’t want reassurance or pity. I don’t want
anything but him. So before he can finish his sentence, I lift
my hips up and slam them back down. Thankful for the
lingering juices from my orgasm that ease the way and
allow me to seat him to the hilt with the single motion.
“Jesus!” Chris shouts, holding me so tightly I couldn’t
move if I wanted to. And I’m not sure I want to. My mind is
spinning, disoriented, struggling to make sense of the pain
and pleasure of being filled this way. Stretched past my
limits with every inch of his thickness kissing the deepest,
most sensitive parts of me. I squeeze my eyes shut, will
myself to breathe, to remember that this is what I wanted.
That it’s still what I want.
“Look at me.” His words are strained, and they match
the tension in his body perfectly. He’s trying not to move,
resisting the urge to thrust into me. “Mallory, look at me.”
My eyes pop open, and the faintest hint of relief winds it’s
way through my chest when I see his calm features. “There
you are. Do you want to stop?”
“No, please. I can do this.”
“I know you can do this, but that’s not what I asked.”
“No.” I’m relieved to realize it’s not a lie. “No. I don’t
want to stop.”
“Then keep your eyes open, baby.” He leans forward and
kisses me, moving from my mouth down my jaw and then to
the side of my neck where he licks and bites me. “Stay
right here with me.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him, keeping
his earthy scent at the forefront of my mind as I start to
move. Using his broad shoulders as support while I lift my
hips and drop them back down. Once. Twice. Three times
before I find a rhythm that works for me and allow myself
to get lost in the scent of our lust filling the air, lighting up
every nerve ending in my body until my soul is on fire with
love and purpose.
Purpose that makes me think the only thing I was ever
meant to do was sit on the throne that is his lap. His
princess. His queen. Impaled on a scepter, stripped bare by
the sheer power of his sword, ruling from the most primal,
most possessive part of me.
Chris grunts as I clamp down on him, my body desperate
to claim him as my birthright, to memorize every ridge and
vein of the length that was made for me. I feel rather than
hear the noise because it gets lost in the hollow space at
the base of my neck, swallowed by the sound of his tongue
lapping up the sweat gathering there.
His teeth knock against my collar bone, daring the skin
to break so he can inject his need directly into my blood
stream, and then, when that’s not enough, because it can
never be enough, right into the marrow of my bones.
“Fuck, Chris,” I moan into his ear, making sure he hears
me over the sound of my ass slapping against his thighs.
“It’s so good.”
“That’s right, princess.” His praise has bolts of
lightening exploding inside my chest and trickling into all
of my limbs. “Say my name. Don’t ever forget that it’s me
inside of you. That it’s my dick filling your pussy up.”
My walls convulse around him, and I feel myself growing
slicker as his words reverberate through me. The reminder
that I’m safe, that I’m in control, isn’t lost on me, and I
loosen my hold on his neck, so I can dive for his mouth. My
appreciation and love for him evident with each stroke of
my tongue over his.
With his newfound freedom, Chris buries one hand at
the nape of my neck, twisting his fingers through the braids
flowing down my back and pulling hard while the other
finds a home at my waist.
His grip is tight, commanding as he helps me keep the
tempo I’ve set, and I relish in the feel of his flesh pressing
into mine. Marvel at the pleasure being stoked into my
body every time his dick slides in and out of me. I never
imagined it could be this way, that I could feel this safe,
this loved, in anyone’s arms. Chris is an anomaly. A
departure from all the meager expectations I had for my
life. He made me want more. More goodness. More
adventure. More passion and fearlessness.
More love.
“I love you.” I slide my arms back around his neck, allow
my fingers to sink into his sweat-dampened roots and grip
the curls there. I slow down, changing the rhythm to a slow
grind that crushes my clit against his abs and creates the
most lascivious squelching sound that makes us both moan
loudly.
Chris’ eyes lock on mine, and I know he sees it. What he
means to me. What this moment means to me. He starts
rocking up, deep, slow thrusts that are punctuated by his
response. “I love you more, princess.”
I don’t get to tell him there’s no way he loves me more
because before I can respond he wraps his arms around my
middle and tilts me back until I’m laying on the coffee
table. He’s half-kneeling, half-standing between my legs,
still buried deep inside me. The rough way he grips my
waist and yanks me down to the edge surprises a delighted
yelp out of me, and he chuckles darkly.
“You like that, princess?”
“I love it.”
His head dips down, lips, teeth and tongue taking turns
abusing and spoiling the lush curve of my belly and the
undersides of my breasts. All the while his hips are
pistoning in and out of me, dragging the head of his dick
over my g-spot and tormenting my clit with the near
constant collision of his pelvic bone until his movements
grow jerky and my body is clutching at him, pounding out
the cadence of my release.
“Come, princess,” he says hoarsely. “Come all over this
dick because it’s yours. It fucking belongs to you.”
I place my hands on his forearms, scoring my nails into
his skin while my body gives in to the orgasm curling my
toes and forcing a long, strangled cry from my lips.
 Chris pulls up to look at me, his face a mask of
concentrated pleasure that shatters like glass when his
release finds him. He roars my name as he floods me with
hot ropes of white cum that scorch me. Branding me as his
and promising that he will always be mine.
If only that were true.

OceanofPDF.com
 40

OceanofPDF.com
 MALLORY

A fter we return to New Haven, Chris barely lets me out

of his sight. The only time we’ve been apart in the last
week and a half is when one, or both, of us has to sit
for an exam, or I go to bed and leave him up on the couch
thumbing through one of his mom’s journals.
I’ve enjoyed all the time we’ve gotten together—
especially with graduation a few days away and his fall
move-in date growing closer with every passing minute—
but I’m also grateful for some rare one on one time with
Sloane while Chris picks up his graduation tickets and
takes his textbook rentals back to the on campus
bookstore.
We’ve been in her room all day, relaxing instead of
packing, and she’s listened intently to every detail I wanted
to share about the trip to Boston, which was pretty much
everything except what I learned about Chris’ nightmares.
He told me about them after we made love and I pressed
him for answers about the dream I woke him up from,
specifically who he thought was taking me away from him.
My heart broke when he said his mind had twisted his
recurring nightmare about the last day of his mother’s life
into images of his father dragging me away while he ran to
catch up to us.
 It didn’t take much to decipher the meaning of the
nightmare, especially after he told me about their
conversation at the hotel bar. He’s afraid to lose me, and
his dad is determined to take me away from him. Only I
don’t know how he plans to do it. Realistically, he can’t
force us apart. He can’t lock Chris away in that big house
in Boston or make him disappear off the face of the Earth,
and that’s exactly what he’d have to do.
He’d have to destroy every fiber of the connection
between us, decimate every atom of our bond, and Reese
Johnson might be a powerful man, but he can’t do that. No
one has the power to do that except for us. I know Chris
won’t do that, and I certainly won’t.
“If you move to Charleston, how are we going to be
roomies until Eric and I get married?” Sloane pouts, and I
roll my eyes, forgetting that the last thing I said was about
the possibility of me moving after I graduated.
Her words tug on my heartstrings, already making me
miss the things I’ll leave behind when I take this next step.
Her, Eric, Mama, and Nic. The familiarity of New Haven—
the place that’s always been my home. I had all these plans
for how my life was going to look once I finished
undergrad, a million little dots connected together by
string I was desperate to keep tacked to the board because
holding it in place gave me some semblance of control.
I’m still a planner, still dependent on the dopamine hit
that comes from knowing exactly how to solve a problem
and what to do to avoid it next time, but the need for
control has died down. Turned into a quiet hum instead of a
raging storm of sound that was alive beneath my skin,
drowning out everything else.
A lot of that change has to do with Chris, but more of it
has to do with me. With who I allowed myself to become,
the parts of my long lost self that I gave permission to
flourish and thrive under his careful touch. I’m not the girl
I was before Trent, and part of me hates that I’ll never be
her again, but I like this new version of me. She’s a nice
mix of the girl who was hurt and the one who saved her,
and I can’t wait to see how she continues to grow and
change.
“You and Eric could just move in together. That’s what
Chris and I are going to do.” He already showed me the
apartment he leased, told me all about his plan to turn the
guest bedroom into an office where we can study.
Sloane rolls her eyes and bumps me with her shoulder.
We’re laying side by side on her bed, and she’s scrolling
through her phone while I flip through a magazine. “You’ll
be two hundred miles away, which means you can do
whatever you want. If Eric and I move in together right
under Mama’s nose, we’ll have to hear about how
disappointed she is in us for shacking up every Sunday.”
“Well, sounds like you two better have a shotgun
wedding.”
“Shotgun weddings are for pregnant girls with drunk
daddies who have more guns than sense. I don’t think that
applies to us.”
“You’re right. I bet Mark doesn’t even own a gun.”
“He doesn’t…..wait, Mal, have you seen this?” She slides
her phone over to me, the screen open to an article on
some online news site. The headline says something about
a local New Haven man confessing to multiple rape
allegations after several women came forward and
compelling information was found in his home.
I’m about to ask Sloane why she thinks I’d be interested
in this real life version of a Law and Order SVU episode
when I scroll down and see Trent’s face staring back at me.
His eyes are hollow, sunken into blotchy skin that makes it
look like he’s been crying.
“Where did you find this?”
“Eric sent it to me. He said this is your friend Tasha’s
brother?”
 “Yeah.” I try to force some kind of emotion into my
answer, but it’s hard when I don’t feel anything. Well, that’s
not exactly true. I feel a lot of things. Happy Trent is finally
getting what’s coming to him. Relieved I didn’t have to
reveal what he did to me in order for that to happen. And a
little sad I kept my secret and made it possible for him to
hurt more women. It’s a lot to process all at one time.
“She’s not my friend anymore though.”
“Good. I would hate for you to be associated with the
likes of him.” She scrunches her nose up, taking the phone
from me and closing the article. “God, what a gross fucking
human.”
Even though her outrage isn’t for me, it still feels good
to hear it. To have someone else see the monster behind
Trent’s charming facade and name it. It makes me want to
hug her, so I do, and she laughs as I squeeze her tight then
let her go. She gives me a puzzled look as I roll off her bed
and head to her door, giving in to the sudden urge to see
the one person I can talk candidly with about this new
development.
“I gotta go. I’ll see you later, okay?”
The door shuts behind me, drowning out her response,
but I don’t care because the further I move away from her,
the deeper the news sets in.
Trent confessed.
He admitted to being the scum of the fucking Earth, and
he’s going to pay for what he did to those girls. For what he
did to me. Out of all the emotions moving through me as I
drive to Chris’ apartment, I choose to focus on the happy,
on the peace settling deep in my bones yet somehow makes
me feel lighter as I use my key to unlock his door and walk
into his apartment.
I kick off my shoes by the door and head down the
hallway. When I enter the living room, all thoughts of
Trent’s arrest fall by the wayside, washed away by the sight
of Reese Johnson Sr. standing in the middle of the floor. His
eyes, which are so similar to Chris’ it’s eerie, narrow as
they land on me.
“Hello, Mallory.”
A shiver rolls down my spine, inspired by the malicious
smile lining his lips. I don’t let it stop me from moving
further into the living room, though. I’m not scared of him,
and I want him to know it. “Dr. Johnson, what a pleasure to
see you again. I didn’t know you were in town.”
He watches me cross over to the kitchen island with
flared nostrils, obviously annoyed at how comfortable in his
son’s space. “Yes, well, I wasn’t going to miss the chance to
see my son walk across the stage and get his degree.”
From the university you’ve disparaged for four years? I
swallow the question, lifting my brows in faux
understanding. “Chris is an extremely hard worker, and
he’ll make a hell of a doctor. You must be very proud he’s
chosen to honor your wife with his life’s work.”
A vein in his temple jumps, and I wonder if he’s about to
give me a speech about all the ways Chris is disrespecting
the Johnson legacy with his choices. “I have never had any
doubts about my son’s capabilities as a physician, but thank
you for giving me your opinion on the matter.”
The way he says it, with sarcasm dripping from every
word, makes it clear he places no value on my thoughts
about his son. He flicks his gaze to the hallway that leads to
Chris’ bedroom, impatience clear in the purse of his lips.
“Would you like me to go see what’s keeping him?”
I’m not trying to antagonize him, but I can tell by the
way he scoffs that I have. “No, if I need to know what’s
keeping my son, I’ll go see for myself.”
I throw up both my hands. “Okay. Well, excuse me for
trying to be helpful.”
He gives a long suffering sigh, eyes going to the hallway
again, and this time I’m looking with him. I want to know
where Chris is and what’s taking him so long. For all I
know, he could be in his room freaking out about his dad’s
sudden appearance.
They haven’t talked since we left Boston. He didn’t even
think he was coming to graduation, and now he’s here,
standing in the middle of the living room being rude and
impatient.
“Why are you here, Mallory?”
“I’m sorry?” Surely, I didn’t hear him correctly. He didn’t
just make it seem like I’m unwelcome in a place I’ve
practically been living in for months now. “I could ask you
the same thing. It’s not like you and Chris have talked since
the funeral.”
“There you go again, speaking on things you know
absolutely nothing about.” He folds his arms behind his
back, and the motion pulls the expensive fabric of his jacket
taut. “You think our lack of communication means
something? He’s still my son, the heir to a throne I’ve
dedicated my life to preparing for him.”
“A throne he doesn’t want.”
“Of course he wants it.” He sounds so sure. Every word
ringing with the same certainty that RJ’s did when he
cornered me at the repast. I try not to be shaken by it, but
even I can’t deny their knowledge of Chris runs deeper
than mine.
They are they people that shaped him, molded him into a
man with a love and dedication to medicine that rivals their
own. A long time ago, Chris told me that his family chose
medicine for him, and his desire to practice it, to save lives,
grew to match their expectations. If they were right about
that, they could be right about this too, about him
eventually growing into the life they have planned for him.
“I know my son, Mallory. He’s acting out now because
four years of being in this town has made him lose sight of
his purpose, but I’ll bring him back into the fold and keep
him from throwing away his future on the likes of you.”
 I open my mouth to respond and am interrupted by the
sound of Chris coming down the hallway. Both Reese and I
turn, but I’m the only one who sucks in a sharp breath
when I see him appear in a khaki blazer with a black shirt,
that hugs his abs, tucked inside matching black pants. He
looks good—walking trust fund, good—and even though
I’ve seen him in dress clothes before, there’s something
heartbreaking about the sight of him in them now.
And though I’m hesitant to admit it to myself, deep down
I know. I know that this version of him, so close to the one I
witnessed in Boston, is a living, breathing representation of
the Chris that doesn’t belong to me. My Chris smiles and
jokes and laughs. He makes me see light in the world. He
made me believe in the magic of wishes again.
This man is different. Serious in all the ways I used to
think I wanted him to be. Power in every commanding
stride of his long legs. Darkness cast over his handsome
features. A reminder of the side of him I glimpsed during
our very first kiss. I walked away from that moment
thinking Chris would be my greatest mistake, another
tragedy sealed with a kiss.
So far, I’ve been wrong, and I can only hope it’ll stay
that way.
He’s fixing the button on the cuff of one of his sleeves,
but as soon as he hears the hiss of air kissing my teeth, his
head snaps up and he looks straight at me. A bright smile
stretches across his face as he moves over and pulls me
into a hug.
“Princess, I was just about to text you.”
I feel Reese’s eyes on us, watching as his son plants a
kiss on my lips and shines his warm adoration on me. “You
should have. I would have stayed at Sloane’s until after you
got back from dinner with your father.”
“Why’d you come over early? Is everything okay?”
My mind immediately goes to Trent and the news I
wanted to share with him, but I push it away. The last thing
I want to do is discuss my deepest, darkest secret with his
father in the room. “Yeah, everything is fine, we just got
done early.”
“Do you want to come to dinner with us?” He stretches
his eyes, imploring me to say yes. Initially, I couldn’t get a
read on him to gauge how he was feeling about his dad
being in New Haven, but now that he’s staring at me, the
silent plea stretching between us, I get it.
He’s even less happy to see him than I am.
Reese steps forward, glancing at the watch on his wrist.
“That won’t be possible tonight, Chris. We have
reservations, and we can’t wait for Mallory to find an outfit
that would be suitable for the restaurant.”
Chris glares at him. “Seriously, Dad? Mallory has clothes
here, she can be ready—”
“Chris.” I cup his face, gently turning his attention back
to me. “It’s fine. I’m a little tired anyways, so I’ll probably
just lay down and see you when you get back.”
“See, son. She’ll be fine,” Reese says, stepping forward
to put his hand on Chris’ shoulder and start leading him
towards the door.
Chris gives me a disbelieving look, but after a few
backward steps, he turns around and falls into step beside
his father. I watch them go, their strides matched, and try
to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut.
The one that tells me no good will come from Reese
Johnson being in New Haven.

OceanofPDF.com
 41

OceanofPDF.com
 CHRIS

M allory once accused my father of orchestrating

ambushes, and as I look around the dimly lit
restaurant inside the hotel where he’s staying,
making note of every familiar face at the dinner table, I
can’t help but think about how right she was.
Dad showed up at my door unannounced, acting like the
fight we had after Margaret’s funeral, and the cavern of
silence that’s been between us since, never happened. He
asked me to come to dinner, so we could talk through
things and come to a solution that would work for both of
us.
Never once did he mention that Giselle and her parents
would be joining us.
I should have turned around and walked out as soon as I
saw Oscar and Ramona seated on one side of the table
across from their daughter. But instead of doing that, I took
a seat in the chair beside Giselle while my dad took a seat
at the head of the table and prayed that whatever solution
he was offering would be worth suffering through dinner
with the DuPonts.
Small talk carried us through the first two courses of the
meal with Dad and Oscar leading the charge. They talked
about business and colleagues while Ramona chugged
vodka martinis like a fish, and Giselle and I pretended to be
interested. Every so often, she would give a conspiratorial
roll of her eyes, which made me laugh but do nothing to
ease the tension in my neck caused by her and her parents’
presence.
“I never got the chance to thank you for this,” she says
as the third course comes out, brushing her hand over the
diamonds set inside the thin, white gold bracelet I bought
her for the debutante ball. “When it arrived before the ball,
I was so touched. I’ve worn it ever since.”
“She has.” Ramona adds in, smiling at me from across
the table. “You picked out a wonderful piece, Christopher.
It’s classic, timeless.”
Her words remind me of Mallory’s description of the
necklace I gave her the night I told her I loved her. Hours
after I put it on her, I caught her in the mirror admiring
herself and listened intently as she told me that her favorite
thing about it was that it would never go out of style. The
smile on my face isn’t for them, but Giselle and her mother
still light up when they see it, so I force myself to dial it
back.
“Thank you, Ramona.” I turn back to her daughter. “And
I’m glad you like it, Giselle, but I can’t take all the credit.
Dad is the one who encouraged me to send something.”
Her face falls, and I feel a twinge of regret go through
me. I don’t want to hurt her, but I do want to make it clear
my father is the only reason I sent her that gift and every
other one she’s received from me over the last four years.
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Her eyes are glassy as she
averts her gaze to my father, who’s just started paying
attention to the conversation. “Thank you, Reese.”
Dad waves his hand, a friendly smile on his lips that
doesn’t match the rage in his eyes at all. “It’s no problem,
sweetheart. You deserve all the best things. Christopher
just needs a little reminder every now and again to give
them to you.”
 I take a sip of water and place my glass back on the
table with a little too much force. “I think you’ve got me
confused with RJ.”
“Now, son—” Oscar starts, but he’s interrupted by the
sound of Giselle’s chair sliding across the floor as she
pushes back from the table. We all turn to look, watching
her move between the other tables on her way to the exit.
Ramona starts to stand but begins to sway almost instantly.
Oscar places a steadying hand on her waist to make sure
she doesn’t fall as she lowers herself back into her chair.
Dad glares at me, his eyes commanding me to go after
Giselle.
With a frustrated sigh, I push back from the table and
head in the direction that I saw her go. As I search for her, I
have to work hard to shut down the part of my brain that
notices chasing Giselle holds none of the same power or
allure as chasing Mallory.
I finally find her pacing outside the women’s bathroom.
Her long legs making her heels glide smoothly over the
carpet, the hem of her dress swishing around her knees,
her features scrunched together tightly in a mix of
frustration and embarrassment I don’t understand.
When she sees me approaching, her shoulders sink in
defeat and tears well in her eyes. “Reese told me you
wouldn’t find out about me and RJ. I swear nothing
happened, Chris. I was just lonely and he was there.”
My eyebrows knit together. I don’t know why she thinks
I would care if something happened with her and my
brother. I mean, at first I did care, but that was about me
and RJ not about me and her.
“Gi, it’s fine. You know I’m in a relationship right? You
saw Mallory at Margaret’s funeral? What you do with RJ is
none of my business.”
She stops pacing. “But your dad said that you and
Mallory were done.”
 “He said what?” Rage turns my vision red, and I have to
force myself to calm down even though none of this makes
sense. Less than an hour ago, Dad was standing in the
middle of my living room talking to Mallory. He knows
we’re not done, so why would he tell Giselle we are? “When
did he say that to you?”
“A while ago. That’s why I was surprised when you
brought her to the funeral.”
I shake my head, an incredulous laugh leaving my lips.
“Unbelievable.”
Giselle walks over to me and grabs my hands. “Chris, he
just wants what’s best for you.”
I pull away, taking a few steps back to put some distance
between me and the wild, desperate look in her eyes.
“Mallory is what’s best for me.”
“Is she though?” She tilts her head to the side.
Staying calm is becoming one of those impossible
things. As hard to do as licking your own elbow or touching
your nose with your tongue. Giselle didn’t even speak to
Mallory at the funeral, so her questioning whether or not
she’s good for me is laughable. Infuriating.
“Yes, she is. Why do I even have to explain this to you?
You’ll be just as trapped as I am if our parents actually get
what they want. You should be working just as hard, if not
harder, for your right to make your own choices.”
She stares at me, an icy kind of determination hardening
her eyes. “I made my choice a long time ago, Chris, and I
thought you’d made yours too. We were supposed to go to
college together, have the fairy tale romance you’re
supposedly having with Mallory. Everything you’re giving
her is what you were supposed to give me.”
I feel like I’ve stepped into The Twilight Zone. Giselle
and I haven’t been together in four years, and I never
promised her anything. I mean, we both thought we were in
love. We even said the words, uttered them to each other
when I took her virginity on prom night, but what we had
isn’t anything like what I have with Mallory. I don’t see how
she could think it is, how she could still be holding on to
feelings from a lifetime ago.
“You can’t be serious right now.” I run a hand over my
head, fighting the urge to walk away from her and this
entire evening to go back to Mallory. “It’s been four years,
Giselle. I’m with someone else. You’re with someone else.”
“I’m not with him!” Up until now, she’s spoken calmly,
using that sweet, pleasant voice that reminds me why my
dad wants me to be with her. I’m surprised me bringing up
RJ could make her break form even for a second. She clears
her throat, smoothing her palms over the fabric of her
dress. “Look, Chris, I don’t want this to keep coming up
because whether you like it or not, our futures are
intertwined. RJ and I spent time together, yes, but it was no
more serious than whatever you have going on with
Mallory. I’m willing to look past it, so we can build a life
together. You loved me once, I know you can love me
again.”
I run a hand over my head, wondering where the hell all
of this is coming from even though I already know the
answer: my father. While I’ve been in New Haven trying to
carve out a life for myself, he’s been in Boston cultivating a
reality everyone around him, including Giselle, has bought
into.
“Giselle, I need you to listen to me, okay? I love Mallory.
I’m in love with her, and I don’t think there will ever be a
day in my life that I don’t love her, so you and me?” I
gesture between us, hoping that the intensity of her gaze
on me means she’s following along. “We’re not happening.
Ever. I’m sorry I broke things off so suddenly, maybe you
didn’t get the closure you needed in order to move on, and
that’s my fault. But you have got to understand, no matter
what my dad says, I’m not marrying you.”
“Christopher.” I turn to see the puppet master himself
walking up behind me. He’s furious, his booming voice
echoing through the hall. “You’re out of line. Apologize to
Giselle immediately.”
I spin on him, years of anger and frustration layered into
the movement. “I’m out of line? What about you, Dad? You
said you wanted to come to some sort of resolution that
worked for the both of us, but here you are doing the same
old thing. Lying and scheming to get your way. I already
told you I’m done, but you just won’t stop. What the fuck is
wrong with you?”
He isn’t the least bit phased, looking past me to Giselle.
I guess the emotional compartmentalization skills he’s
honed over the course of his career as a surgeon has finally
found a place in his personal life.
Or maybe it’s always been there.
That’s probably why it was so easy for him to treat Mom
the way he did throughout their marriage. I’ve been
reading her journals every night since the funeral and
found multiple passages where she called him cold and
distant. She also talked about how his emotional neglect
led to the affair with Margaret, which started after I was
born, and how he pushed her to get pregnant with me after
she started talking about going back to school.
My mother wanted to be a doctor, and judging by the
way Grandpa Joe talked about her academic performance,
she would have been a great one. Maybe even better than
Dad. She wanted to have a life outside of the gilded cage
he’d built for her, and when she tried, he shut it all down.
Forced her to have another baby when she only ever
wanted one.
RJ was supposed to be an only child. That fact had
thrown me at first, but when I sat down to think about the
eight year gap between us it made sense.
She wanted more. A big, beautiful life where she was
more than a mother, than a vessel for the next generation
of Johnsons to pass through. He punished her for that, and
in the end—with a final pregnancy that wasn’t planned or
wanted after a series of miscarriages—it killed her.
He killed her.
I didn’t want to believe it. I hadn’t even talked to
Mallory about it, but it was the truth. An ugly, tragic fate
that I don’t want to be tied to. And no matter how hard she
fights for it, I won’t rope Giselle into it either.
“Giselle, sweetheart.” Dad places his hand on her
shoulder, giving her a comforting pat. “Why don’t you go
find your parents? I’ve already taken care of the bill and
ordered a car to take you all back to the hotel.”
“Okay.” She smiles weakly at him and glances at me as
she walks by. “Goodnight, Chris.”
“Goodbye, Giselle.”
Dad waits until she’s gone to turn to me. “Have you lost
your damn mind, son?”
“No, it seems I’m the only person around here who’s
using their brain. I can’t believe I wasted my entire evening
on this bullshit dinner. I’m going home.”
I start to move past him, but he stops me with a firm
hand on my shoulder that I shrug off immediately. “You’re
not going anywhere until we talk.”
“We’ve had all night to talk, Dad. You haven’t said a
single thing I’m interested in hearing.”
“That’s because the things I have to say to you can’t be
discussed in mixed company.”
I roll my eyes at his ominous tone, but when he starts to
make his way towards the bank of elevators at the end of
the hall, I follow him. I want to know what exactly he has to
say, so we can be done once and for all.
We ride in silence all the way up to the presidential
suite, and when we get inside I take a seat while he heads
over to the bar to pour a drink.
“You know, Chris, I’ve always thought you were the most
like me. You’re smart, driven, incredibly protective of the
things that matter to you.”
 Ice cubes clink inside the crystal tumbler in his hand,
swirling around in amber liquid the color of Mallory’s eyes,
but my eyes are on the laptop in his other hand with a
small, blue box balanced on top of it. He sees me staring, a
silent question in my gaze that he doesn’t answer as he
settles in the chair across from me.
“You’re right, Dad. I am protective of the things that
matter to me, and Mallory matters to me more than
anything in this world. I thought you understood that. I
thought you’d accepted it.”
There’s a thread of desperation weaving through my
words, and it takes me back to the day when he told me I
couldn’t play with Jonah anymore. I sit up straighter and
roll my shoulders back, so he knows I’m not a little kid
begging for his approval. Maybe if he believes it, I will too.
“Giselle said you told her weeks ago that Mallory and I
broke up. Why would you say that if you had just found out
about us, if you had just told me you wanted what’s best for
me?”
If you knew my happiness is tied up in her.
He takes a sip of his drink, tongue kissing his teeth on a
slick laugh. “I do want what’s best for you son, and for a
while there you had me thinking that she was it. I was
prepared to let it ride, especially with Giselle and RJ
getting close. He wasn’t the son I envisioned bringing the
two families together, but I was going to make due. Let you
keep this life you’re so desperate to have.”
Every time he speaks in the past tense, my heart beats a
little harder. Each thump cracks my ribs, knocking another
shard loose until they’re hanging precariously over the
most important part of my anatomy. Hearing that Mallory
and I’s plan worked, that we had successfully convinced
him to release the reigns, sends me floating up into the
clouds. My ascent is marked with joy and love for the
incredible woman who is more mine now than she was
when Dad bought the act.
 But I know, based on his expression and his tone, that
the feeling will be short lived. That whatever he says next
will send me plummeting into the pits of hell, his words hot
on my heels, ready to plunge the knife into my heart.
“What made you change your mind?”
His brows lift and an undeniably giddy expression takes
over his face as he sets his drink down and finally reaches
for the computer. My mind spins as I watch him work to
pull up whatever it is he wants to show me. In the span of a
second, I consider a million different things he could have
on that computer, and yet, I’m not at all prepared when he
spins it around and sets it on the table between us with the
video already starting.
I lean forward, eyes squinting as I try to make sense of
the fuzzy details in front of me. It looks like a college dorm,
but not one I’ve seen before. There are clothes scattered all
over the floor, food wrappers and what looks like a box of
condoms on a desk that’s being used as a wardrobe.
Confused, I look up at him. “What is this?”
He sits back, the same malicious smile that’s been
haunting my dreams since Boston stretching his lips. “Keep
watching.”
The video keeps going, and my confusion remains until
the door to the dorm opens and a couple stumbles inside.
They’re kissing, just outside the frame, which makes it hard
to make out any of their features. Then she steps back,
walks over to the bed and sits down, and I know her.
I recognize the features of the woman I love in the
young girl sitting on the bed, looking uncertain and scared
as she gazes up at the man standing before her.
Trent Davis.
A paralyzing, sickening chill creeps down my spine. It
makes it impossible for me to move a single muscle, to even
take my eyes off of the screen as he starts to remove her
clothes.
“Turn it off.”
 I can’t watch this. I can’t violate Mallory this way, can’t
watch her be hurt by that fucking monster who recorded
what he did to her. There’s no way she knows about the
video. She would have mentioned it to me if she did, and I
would have destroyed it. I would have wiped it and Trent
from the face of the fucking planet.
My father doesn’t move. He just sits there with a sick
smile on his face as he breathes in my agony. Then the
room is filled with the sound of Mallory’s moans because
the video is now at the only part of the night she consented
to.
He lifts his brows, feigning intrigue. “Sounds like she’s
having a good time.”
I snap, picking the laptop up by the screen and flipping
it over to snap it over my knee. The back doesn’t
disconnect from the front completely, but the video stops
playing and that’s all I care about. The only thing I register
before I launch myself across the table and haul my own
father up to his feet by his collar, shoving him into the wall
behind him.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
Shock, and a healthy amount of fear which he tries to
hide, takes over his features for a second, but he recovers
quickly. I watch him push up from the wall, let him get his
bearings and then swing on him. A full blown punch that
connects with his jaw and makes his head snap to the other
side. He’s stumbles, and I follow him. Throwing one more
blow and then another until he’s on the ground, laughing
like a madman with blood trickling down his lip.
He doesn’t deserve mercy, from me or anyone, but I still
stop because I have no interest in going to jail for beating
him to death. Though the thought does sound appealing. I
take a step back, giving him a wide berth while he picks
himself up off the floor.
“You’re sick, you know that?” I lace my fingers together
and plant them on top of my head just to keep me from
hitting him again. “Why would you show that to me? How
did you even get it?”
Triumph blooms in his eyes as he wipes his lip with the
handkerchief in his jacket pocket. “You told me where to
look. You’ve always been good at that, telling me where all
the bodies are.”
I’m nauseous, keeping down what little food I ate at
dinner feeling like a challenge I’m not going to be able to
complete. “What are you talking about?”
He walks back to his chair and plops down in it like I
won’t yank him out of it again. “You called and asked me to
look into that young man on the tape. I had one of the
private investigators I keep on staff look into him. He’s
good. One of the best investigators I know, and every time I
have him investigate someone, I give him a blank check. Do
you know why, Chris?”
“Get on with the story. I’m not playing Q and A with you
today.” But I will be playing it with the New Haven police
department if I don’t get out of here soon because the
longer I look at him, holding the expensive crystal tumbler
to his busted lip, the more murderous I feel.
“I give him a blank check because I don’t want him
wasting precious time calling me to get permission to
utilize his various skill sets, most of which are not above
board.”
“Color me surprised.” I deadpan. “A man who finds and
distributes a tape of woman being raped clearly isn’t
operating within the parameters of the law.”
“If you wanted to be concerned with legality, you would
have went to the police. Not me.”
There go those shards.
Splintering away from my ribs and free falling from the
sky right into my heart. Even though I hate him right now—
and I do hate him, more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my
life—I can’t deny that he’s right. I brought Trent to his
attention knowing there was a chance he could discover his
connection to Mallory. I didn’t think it would turn out like
this though, with my attempt to protect her exposing her
truths to people who would exploit them to hurt me.
To ruin us.
I scrub my hand down my face, thankful none of my
knuckles are bruised. “So what now, Reese?” He flinches
when I call him by his given name, and I take an
infinitesimal amount of joy in that. “Is this the part where
you tell me what happened on that tape is proof she’s not
worthy of me? That she doesn’t deserve to be a part of this
fucked up family you’re so hell bent on continuing? You
think that what happened on that recording says something
about who she is, but you keeping it and sharing it with me
as a way to finally break us up says more about you than it
ever will about her.”
There’s nothing remotely human about him as he listens
to me speak. No emotion. No indication that he knows or
cares what I’m saying, which is fine because I’m about to
be done talking. I’m about to be done with everything that
has to do with him and this wretched family.
“I’m done, Reese. Do you hear me? Don’t you ever
contact me again. Don’t you ever show your face in this
city. Don’t you ever come near the woman I love, because if
you do I swear to God, there won’t be enough doctors in all
of the hospitals you own to save you.”
Saying it in Boston had felt good, but it was a little
bittersweet because there was a part of me that still loved
him. That still cherished him as the man who raised me, but
that part of me is dead now. Poisoned by the knowledge
that that man never actually existed.
He was always a monster masquerading as a human,
and that’s all he’ll ever be.
I feel the intense heat of his gaze boring into my back as
I turn to head towards the door, to finally put him behind
me. I don’t need his approval or permission to live how I
want to live, to love who I want to love.
 “Is that what her family and friends will think?”
The words stop me dead in my tracks. My guts turn to
ice that spreads out to my limbs. Still, I manage to turn
around and look at him, to make sure I heard him right.
That I read the intent behind his words correctly.
The deathly serious stare that greets me tells me that I
have.
“When they see the video, I mean. Do you think Eric,
Annette, Dominic and Sloane will ever look at her the
same? Or will they wonder the same things I did? Why
didn’t she say no? If it was rape, why didn’t she go to the
police? Why did she lay there in his arms for hours if she
didn’t want it?”
I shake my head. My heart, my very soul, shattering into
fragmented pieces as his words reflect the same doubts
Mallory voiced to me. The same reasons she never came
forward, the same reasons she blamed herself for what
Trent did.
“They wouldn’t ask any of those questions.” I know her
family. Our family. They love her, and they’d sooner die than
turn one of the most traumatic things she’s ever gone
through into an interrogation.
“You can’t be sure though, can you? If this recording
happens to find its way onto the internet with her name and
address in the caption, you wouldn’t be able to guarantee
that it wouldn’t have detrimental effects on her health and
well being.”
I’m drowning without water, gasping for air my lungs
continue to reject. I don’t know what would happen if that
video found it’s way online, but I know that I won’t risk
finding out. “You would really release a tape like that? You
would leak footage of a minor being raped just to…”
I can’t even say it, can’t even fathom a world where this
is my reality. Where my love for a person is being twisted,
turned against me for the sole purpose of forcing me to
make a choice between two impossible options.
 Stay and let Mallory be destroyed by the video.
Leave her, and destroy myself in the process.
“I wouldn’t what, Christopher? Go to extraordinary
lengths to protect my son? Do everything in my power to
keep him from making the biggest mistake of his life? I
think we both know, I would. I think the only question to
answer now is: are you going to make me?”
My answer is immediate and painful, like the onset of a
migraine you could have avoided if only you’d heeded the
warning signs.
“No.”
“Good choice, son.” He slides to the edge of his seat and
smiles as he picks up the small, blue box he brought over
with the laptop. I watch him crack it open and place it on
the table again, turning it around, so I can see what’s
inside. “Now, sit down, so we can finally talk about the
future of our family.”

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 42

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 MALLORY

T he necklace Chris gave me is nowhere to be found. I

guess somewhere in between packing up my dorm,
taking some of my larger things back home to Mama’s
and putting together a quick bag to spend the night at his
place, it must have gotten lost. Not knowing where it is
makes me unreasonably emotional, exacerbating the strong
sense of foreboding that’s been with me since Reese
showed up a few days ago.
I feel like I’ve barely seen Chris since his dad’s been in
New Haven, and when I do see him, he’s not himself. He’s
always in his head, worrying about things he won’t talk to
me about. I can’t help but think the distance between us is
about Trent. I told him about his arrest and the charges as
soon as he came back from dinner that night. That’s when I
noticed the shift in his mood, but no matter how hard I
push, he won’t open up.
I’ve tried to put it out of my head. To chalk up his odd
behavior to the stress of having his father in town. I know I
wouldn’t be acting like myself if my shitty father invaded
the city that’s been my safe place for the last four years.
And I’d be even more bent out of shape if he brought along
my ex-girlfriend and her parents and left my siblings at
home, preventing them from sharing in the day he says is
meant to be spent with family.
That was the line he spun to Chris in order to get him to
agree to spend the hours following his graduation with him
and the DuPonts instead of with me. I wasn’t hurt about
being excluded by his father. The last thing I wanted was to
spend time with that horrible man, but it did kind of sting
that Chris went along with it so easily.
When I talked to Sloane about it, she said that he might
have just been trying to spare me the headache of being
around those people for an extended amount of time.
Apparently, she does the same thing with Eric when it
comes to her mother. I let her words comfort me even
though deep down I feel like there’s more to it.
Behind me, I hear the snap of a phone’s camera. I turn
around to see where the sound came from and find Chris
leaning against the door jamb with his phone in his hand
and shadows in his eyes.
“Hey,” I say, breathless. Not because he caught me off
guard, but because that’s what the sight of him does to me.
I hope looking at him always takes my breath away. “What
are you doing?”
“Taking a picture of you.”
“I figured as much.” I walk over to him with a small
smile on my face. He’s been doing that a lot over the last
few days, snapping random photos of me when he thinks
I’m not looking. “Can I see?”
He hesitates for just a moment before placing the phone
in my outstretched palm. I can feel his eyes on me as I look
at the screen, his gaze a hot and heavy weight I can feel in
my bones, sparking a longing inside of me. We haven’t had
sex since the morning before his dad showed up, and I’m
desperate for him. For the physical connection we share to
reinforce the emotional bond I feel slipping between my
fingers.
 The picture he just took is beautiful. Early evening
sunlight streams through the windows behind me, bathing
the side of my body in warm golden hues that highlight my
curves. My face is calm—serene, even—not showing a hint
of the turmoil happening inside of me. But all thoughts of it
fade into the background when I see the title of the album
he moved the picture to.
“Just for me?” I look up at him then back down at the
phone, scrolling through what has to be a hundred or so
photos. Random, candid photos of me studying, reading,
sleeping, some that go as far back as March when nothing
about us was real except for our feelings. “What is this?”
He plucks the phone from my hand and stashes it in his
pocket. “It’s you.”
I laugh, but even as the sound of my amusement fills the
air, tension begins to line Chris’ shoulders. I close the
space between us with one step and wrap my arms around
his neck.
“I mean, I know that. Some of these are from before
Disney though, back when our agreement was to post all
the pictures we took of each other. There were so many
good ones in there of me.”
A vein in his temple jumps, but his eyes are soft when
they meet mine. “I know, that’s why I kept them for myself.
All of my favorite photos of you are in that album.” He
places his hands on my waist. “The first picture that went
in there is one I took of you in the cafeteria. You were
laughing with Sloane about something, and the joy on your
face stopped me dead in my tracks. We weren’t even a
thing then, but I knew I had to capture that moment.
Freeze it in time. And I’m glad I did because now I can
always remember you like that. ”
“Remember me?” My brows fall together. “Baby, I’m
right here, and I’m not going anywhere. You can see me
smile whenever you like.”
 He stares at me for a moment, several different
emotions flitting across his face before he gives my waist a
squeeze and pulls back. “Right.”
“Chris—”
I don’t know what I’m going to say, but I don’t get the
chance to figure it out because his phone starts to ring. He
pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and sighs
as he brings it up to his ear.
“I’ve gotta take this.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me to finish getting dressed
with a ball of dread weighing me down. It stays there,
lodged inside my gut like a bullet, for the rest of the day.
It’s the only companion I have as I watch Chris walk across
the stage and receive his degree, surrounded by strangers
because sitting alone was preferable to sitting with Reese
and the DuPonts.
I would have thought the ball would have loosened once
Chris and I got in his car and made the drive over to
Mama’s, but it doesn’t. In fact, it felt like it was growing.
Feeding off of the tense quiet in the car and the unfounded
panic blooming in my chest.
By the time Chris parks on the road in front of my house,
it’s dark out and I’m ready to burst. I want to know what’s
going on with him, with us, and if it has anything to do with
Trent. I don’t even want to consider that, but it wouldn’t be
the first time Chris got in his head and let what happened
come between us. I’m not exactly sure why the arrest
would spook him, especially since my name was never
mentioned and the charges are in another state, but I just
have to be sure.
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on with
you?” I bite my lip to fight back the anxious tears that want
to be set free now that the question is out there. We’ve
been tiptoeing around this for days, but it’s just now hitting
me how much of a toll the wall he’s erected between us
with his silence has taken on me.
 “Nothing is going on with me.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, just say that, but
don’t lie to my face.”
“Princess.” He shifts in his seat and starts to reach for
me but changes his mind at the last second. My heart free
falls into my stomach, making a home beside the ball of
dread. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, okay?”
“Is it Trent?” I ask, unable to look at him. “Did the arrest
make what he did to me more real?”
Of course, I still have the emotional scars. I’ll always
carry them with me, but they don’t define me anymore. He
knows that better than anyone else.
“What? No.” This time he does touch me, and I’m filled
with the most dizzying sense of relief as the tips of his
fingers slip under my chin and tilt it up, so I’m looking at
him. And when he speaks, there’s an earnestness to his
expression and an urgency to his words that has been
painfully absent the last few days. “That’s not it at all,
princess. I’m glad that fucker is finally getting what’s
coming to him. People are about to find out exactly what
kind of monster he is, and all the shit that’s about to come
down, is going to land on his head. Not yours. Not the other
women he hurt. His. Don’t you ever forget that.”
I lean into his touch, wrapping my hand around his wrist
to make sure he doesn’t pull back. It feels desperate and
maybe if it were anyone else, it would be borderline
embarrassing, but it’s not anyone. It’s Chris. It’s the man I
love. The man I’ve trusted with every part of me, including
the broken ones. I still don’t know what’s going on with him
right now, but I’m willing to give him the time he needs to
figure it out.
“Okay.” I turn my head and plant a kiss on the inside of
his palm. “I just thought…”
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry there was a single second
where you felt that way. But nothing could ever change the
way I feel about you, Mallory. You’ll always be it for me.”
 All of my words get stuck in my throat, so I just nod to
let him know I heard him. That I understand. He leans in
close and gives me a soft, tender kiss on my forehead
before letting me go. Then he reaches in the backseat and
grabs my overnight bag, handing it to me silently. I take it
from him and set it on my lap.
“Do you want to come in?” I shouldn’t ask. I know he has
to be somewhere, but I’m not ready to let him go just yet.
“I’m sure Mama would like to congratulate you in person.”
He grips the steering wheel tighter, looking out the
window instead of at me. “I would love to, but I have to get
going.”
“Right.” I force a smile and open my door. “Well, I’ll see
you later.”
“Okay, princess.”
It’s not until two hours later, when I’m laying on my bed
staring at the ceiling, that I realize neither of us said ‘I love
you.’ Unbidden tears turn the glow in the dark stickers
Mama stuck up there when I was seven into a blurry mess,
and I close my eyes against the surge of emotion. Fighting
to quiet my instincts that keep screaming at me, telling me
that something is wrong.
Mama has always told me to trust my instincts, to lean
into those ripples of awareness and explore those thoughts
lingering just under the surface of my consciousness. There
have only been a handful of times when I haven’t listened
to her instructions, and every single one turned out
disastrously.
Except for the kiss. I remind myself, sitting up and
swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. A dangerous
idea propelling me towards my closet where I search for a
dress that will be suitable for the restaurant I heard Reese
mention to Giselle’s dad when we were standing outside
the gym waiting for Chris to emerge from the sea of happy
graduates.
 I never heard of the place, but I can only assume that
it’s nice. The kind of place where the wrong clothes will get
you turned away at the door. I’m almost ready to give up
when, right at the back of my closet, I find the black
cocktail dress Sloane got for me when she wanted me to
come to a charity event with her and her mom. I toss it on
the bed along with a pair of heels and then turn to the
dresser to figure out what to do with my hair.
Mama’s eyes stretch wide when I stride down the
hallway, tucking my phone into the small black clutch I
forgot I had. “Where are you going?”
“To Chris’ graduation dinner. Can I drive your car?”
“Of course, baby, but are you sure you want to do that?”
I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything except that
something is wrong, and I need to know what. “Yes, Mama.
Where are your keys?”
“They’re hanging on the key ring by the door.”
“Thank you.”
I blow her a kiss and head out the door before I have the
chance to change my mind. The drive to the restaurant is a
quick one. Not because it’s close, but because I sped the
whole way. When I pull into the parking lot, I’m questioning
all of my decisions, but the doubt doesn’t stop me from
walking in like I own the place. It doesn’t stop me from
saying yes to the hostess at the front door when she asks if
I’m a part of the private party. Or from walking through the
double doors that lead to the room Reese must have rented
out for this special occasion.
I walk in like I belong there, expecting one or more of
the people to turn and look at me. To ask why I’m there
when I’m not family. But as the doors start to close behind
me, no one looks at me.
Because they’re all staring at Chris.
Watching his slow transition from standing to kneeling.
Kneeling. On one knee with an open ring box in his
hands and his eyes on Giselle.
 All the air in my lungs leaves me in a sudden, painful
woosh. I can’t make sense of the image in front of me. Of
the smile on Giselle’s face as she places her hand in Chris’,
her slim fingers trembling as he slides the ring on. Even
from this distance, I can see it fits perfectly.
That it belongs on her just like RJ said she belongs with
him.
The surprisingly large crowd of people in the room erupt
into applause as Chris rises, a proud smile on his face as he
hugs Giselle. She leans into him, the peaceful look I saw on
her face when she hugged him after the funeral
reappearing. When the hug ends, she rushes over to her
mother and father and they make a show of marveling at a
ring I’m sure they’ve already seen.
Reese moves over to Chris and slaps him on his
shoulder, the same proud smile stretching his lips. He’s
saying something to him, probably telling him how happy
he is that he finally decided to come back into the fold.
But Chris isn’t listening, because he’s looking at me. He
mouths my name and something that looks like stop when
he sees me backing away. I don’t listen. I can’t stay here,
can’t see him or talk to him after he’s just undone
everything we worked for. Broken every promise he made
me. Unsealed every wound he helped heal.
In mere seconds, I’m back where I started, standing
outside the restaurant where everything is untouched, but I
am completely undone. Unraveled by the same hands that
claimed to want to put me back together.
“Mallory, wait!” I keep moving, half-walking, half-
running to Mama’s car. If I can just get there, if I can make
it to the safety of the car then I won’t have to face him. I
won’t have to face this. “Please.”
I don’t owe him anything, but the plea in his voice turns
my feet into cement blocks. Chris’ pants fill my ears as he
rounds me, placing himself between me and the only way I
have out of this storm he’s created. He leaves a small bit of
space between us, and those few feet feel like they say
everything about the difference a few hours has made in
our relationship, in my life. I can’t stand it, can’t stand him
giving me distance I don’t want, distance he doesn’t
deserve to have from the pain he’s caused me, so I close it.
His scent hits me first. The familiar notes of leather and
earth now tainted with her perfume, with the scent of a
future that he’ll have without me. I shove him in the chest
with both of my hands. He barely budges, so I do it again.
And again.
“You asked her to marry you?” Tears stream down my
face as I scream at him and beat at his chest, trying to
create a hole beneath his sternum that matches the crater
under mine. “Why would you do that? Why would you do
that to us? To me?”
My voice cracks, all of my emotions spilling out of the
split syllables, and Chris is calm. Stoic, even. The way he
said I was when we had our first kiss. The thought sets a
fresh wave of tears free, and I step away from him because
touching him—even in the most violent sense of the word—
hurts.
“Breathe, Mallory.” He adjusts his shirt, smoothing out
the wrinkles I caused while his eyes bounce between the
restaurant and me. He’s probably anxious to wrap up this
little scene, to get back to his fiancé.
“Don’t tell me to breathe. Answer my fucking question!
Explain to me how this is happening right now when just
hours ago you were telling me that I was it for you.”
“You weren’t supposed to be here.” Finally, there’s some
flicker of emotion. It’s brief, a small rearrangement of the
muscles in his face that lasts for half a second. “You
weren’t supposed to find out like that. I was going to
explain—”
“That you’re marrying her.” The words leap off of my
tongue. “That everything we did, everything that brought
us together, was a waste of time, and even when you said it
was real, it wasn’t. Is that what you were going to explain
to me? Well, you can keep your explanation because I don’t
want it.”
The same tension I’ve been watching knot his muscles
for days lines his shoulders as he shakes his head at me.
“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have any idea what
it’s like to have the future of an entire family dependent on
you.”
I want to scream, to throw something, to hit him again.
Instead, I cross my arms over my chest, let my fingernails
dig into the flesh, and glare at him. “Don’t do that. Don’t
make this about some Johnson legacy bullshit. Your father
has another son who’s more than capable of getting
married and fathering a new generation of Johnsons. Hell,
he could probably do that with your new fiancé.” A twinge
of sadness goes through me when I say that word, but I
push through it. “My point is, it doesn’t have to be you,
Chris. You spent the last couple of months telling me you
didn’t want it to be you.”
His jaw clenches at the mention of his brother, and his
nostrils flare with anger and something else I can’t name as
he lets out a humorless laugh. “RJ doesn’t even know how
to be a good brother. No one is going to trust him to be the
head of this family when my dad is gone.”
My jaw drops as I listen to him disparage his brother for
the first time, and suddenly I know exactly what that
unnamed expression was. The defiant way he lifts his chin
confirms it. Ruthless ambition. I’ve never seen it on him
before, but somehow it fits him better than everything else.
Better than his goofy smile.
Better than his soft and serious eyes.
Better than his heated gaze and earnest tone when he
said he loved me.
The realization trickles through me, and I force myself
to accept it. To take note of his designer suit, rigid posture,
and the air of sophistication swirling around him and let
them serve as confirmation of a truth I’d hope would be
impossible.
His brother and his father were right about him. They
tried to tell me, to warn me that he was a product of their
world and would come back to it. That nothing, but
especially not me, would be enough to keep him from
giving in to his urge to win. I don’t know what flipped the
switch, what made him go from denouncing the entire
family to literally bending the knee, but I guess now it
doesn’t matter.
“So that’s what this is about? You beating your brother?”
Chris shakes his head, disagreeing with my assessment,
but every other part of his body screams yes. “You wouldn’t
understand, Mallory.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand. I will never
understand you making me fall in love with you, making me
trust you, only for you to change your mind the second it
looked like your brother might outrank you on the family
hierarchy.” I move around him to the driver’s side door,
intent on getting the hell out of here as soon as I finish
saying what I need to say.
“I must have been fucking blind because not until this
very moment did I realize this entire thing has been about
being better than RJ. You just couldn’t let him win. Even
when you had me and a clear path to the life you claim to
want for yourself, you just couldn’t resist a chance to best
him. To punish him for daring to pick up the toy you left on
the shelf for four years while you were here faking defiance
and playing at being human.”
Chris is silent. His hands now tucked into his pockets as
he watches me open the door. I never thought it would end
this way for us. That he would be silent, emotionless as he
watched me walk out of his life.
But then again, I never thought I would be walking out
of his life.
 I drop down into the driver seat, and my hands shake as
I start the engine. Chris finally moves. The sound of his
footsteps echoing on the pavement as he walks over to the
car and places his hand on the door. I glance up at him,
hoping, praying, wishing he’ll do or say something to
change this.
“I’m sorry.”
I turn away from him. My neck moving so suddenly it
feels like I’ve been slapped. In a way, I guess I have. He
waits, listening as I take unsteady breaths to hold in the
sob dragging itself up my throat. Finally, when I can speak
without my voice breaking, I turn back to him.
“You don’t love her.”
One tear escapes, turning me into a rain cloud, heavy
and burdened with unspent grief. Chris watches it fall,
whispering his reply.
“No. I only love you.”
It should be comforting, but it makes it worse. It makes
it so much worse because what he’s saying is that our love
doesn’t matter. That it’s not enough to keep him here, to
make him give up the life he was born to have.
I start to reach for the door, to close him out, but he
shuts it for me. We stare at each other through the glass,
and I count the seconds in my head. I make it to ten before
he taps the roof of the car and turns to walk away.
Ten seconds. That’s how long he gives me before he
moves on with his life, walking back to his future while I
remain firmly in his past.
Once upon a time I said the worst decisions I’ve ever
made were sealed with a kiss, but I was wrong, it was
sealed with a handshake. With a warm palm pressed
against a clammy one. With words we pretended meant
nothing when they meant everything. With an agreement
entered into under false pretenses and with half truths.
I think I loved Chris then, even though I didn’t know it
or was too scared to admit it. But I’m admitting it now, to
myself, when it’s too late because the curtains have closed
on this show. The lights are going down, and it’s my last
moment of playing this role. This version of me. It’ll be
written in the history books, etched into the stone of the
grave marker above my heart, as my best role.
And only now, as I’m watching the curtains close around
my lover while he takes his last bow, do I realize it’s
because I was never acting in the first place. It was all real
for me. Every second of it. But for him it was all just a
show.
An act.
And he’s left me to pick up the pieces, to scoop the roses
off the stage and snuff out the hope stored in their velvet
petals with the heavy pages of the book that contains the
story of us.
A tragedy.
Masquerading as a romance.

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OceanofPDF.com
 PART TWO: THE RETURN

The day he decided to kill me, I already knew what it was

like to die. I had already experienced it once. Having the
life leeched from my body, blood stolen from my veins,
oxygen pulled from my lungs.

When he decided to walk back into my life, I was in the

middle of my third resurrection, healing from the loss of my
brother when I was still raw from losing him. It wasn’t
going well.

I guess the human heart can only stop so many times, can
only take so much damage before it questions whether it’s
worth it to be revived.

Mal and Chris’ story continues

November 2022

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 THE NEW HAVEN SERIES

Book 1: Restore Me: Sloane and Dominic’s story.

Book 2: Revive Me: Mallory and Chris’ story.
Book 3: Release Me: TBA

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J.L. Seegars is a dedicated smut peddler and lifelong nerd who’s always had a
love of words, storytelling and drama. When she isn’t writing messy and
emotionally complex characters like the ones she grew up around, she’s
watching reality TV, supporting her fellow authors by devouring their work or
spending time with her husband and son.

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 ALSO BY J.L. SEEGARS

Restore Me: The New Haven Series (Book #1)

Again: A Marriage Redemption Novella

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