I drive home and the whole way I'm replaying the feel of his hand on my jaw, his breath on my lips, his forehead against mine.
We were sharing air, sharing space, and it was the most intimate thing I've felt in years.
And he walked away from it.
Walked away from me.
I get to my flat and I'm still angry, still turned on, still wanting him so badly I can't think straight.
I take a cold shower but it doesn't help. I can still feel where he touched me, can still taste his breath.
This is bad.
This is exactly what I knew would happen.
I let myself want him and now I'm paying for it.
But I meant what I said. I'm done chasing.
If Rush wants me, he's going to have to come get me because I'm not putting myself out there again just for him to run.
I'm worth more than that.
And if he can't see it, that's his problem, not mine.
7
RUSH
I don't sleep Friday night.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Everly—the way she looked at me outside the clubhouse, the anger in her voice when she called me a coward.
She's right and I hate it.
I am a coward—too scared to take what I want, too afraid of what'll happen if I let myself have something good.
Around three in the morning, I give up and get out of bed. I make coffee and sit at my kitchen table staring at nothing.
My hands are wrapped around the mug but I can't feel the heat, can't feel anything except the hollow ache in my chest.
My mind keeps circling back to the same place, the same memory I've spent years trying to bury.
Ms. Michaels.
Octavia.
The woman I shot when I was thirteen.
I set down the mug and press the heels of my hands against my eyes, but it doesn't stop the memory from coming.
It never does.
I don't want to do this.
The gun shakes in my hands, but I can't lower it. My fingers feel frozen, like they’re not even part of me. My palms are wet. My heart keeps slamming against my chest, like it's trying to get out.
Everything is wrong.