Chapter 54

AGE 21, AUGUST

Lightning flickersover the living room, playing with the candlelight coming from just about every surface. It's been over an hour now since the storm rolled in. A half hour since we lost power.

"Go fish," Phoebe says, just as thunder booms, shaking the foundation.

Shawn reaches for the pile of cards between us. The three of us sit around the coffee table, cards fanned out before our faces. On the recliner, Mom reads from her Kindle.

"Do you think Waylon's okay?" Phoebe asks after stealing a Jack from me.

I nod, eyeing my cards. "Yeah, he's probably just…" Drinking.

At the thought, I pause and spare a glance at Shawn, lips together in a hard line. His dark gaze darts my way, before he drops it to his cards.

"Well, I don't really know what he gets up to when we're not around," I finish.

Phoebe makes a face at that, one that pretty much says, Bullshit.

She's only fourteen, but she's perceptive as shit. Getting things past her is next to impossible.

I just shrug, making a point to focus on my cards, hoping she drops it. I don't want her to worry. I know I can't protect her forever.

"He was watching TV when we left."

At Shawn's much appreciated input, I nod. "Yeah, he's probably just bumming it on the couch."

I'd invited him to come with us. They're calling for brutal storms all evening—there's even a tornado watch. I didn't want to leave Mom and Phoebe out here all alone, especially in the event of a power outage. And this house always loses power when it storms.

Case in point.

But surprising no one, Waylon declined, and I didn't push it. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

"You actually think he still has power?" Phoebe says skeptically.

"The bar has a back-up generator." In theory. Who the hell knows if it will actually work? That thing's older than Phoebe, and as far as I know, has never been used. "Plus," I go on, "just because we lost power out here, doesn't mean anyone in town did. We always lose it out here."

"Truuueee," she says. "But you still should've dragged him here with you guys."

I snag a nine of spades from Shawn, and flick my sister a flat look. "Have you met Way? You try getting that guy to do something he doesn't want to."

Shawn grunts at that. "Aces?"

"Go fish," Phoebe chirps, before continuing as if never interrupted. "I just hate that he's alone." Her brow wrinkles, and she asks me, "Any queens?"

"No, go fish."

Shawn and I share a long look as Phoebe draws a card from the pile.

Our concern is nothing new at this point, but we're struggling to figure out what to do about it.

We live with the guy—work with him too—so it's impossible not to notice how…off Waylon's been lately.

He's moodier than usual. Getting shitfaced almost every night.

I can't even remember the last time I saw him sober without a hangover. He turned twenty-one back in May, a month after me, and it's only gone from bad to worse now that he can drink freely.

And then there's the coke too.

He doesn't do it often—I don't even know when it started—but it's obvious as fuck when he's flying.

And it's becoming more and more frequent, especially these last few weeks, ever since he found out his dad's up for parole and Will Foster, our friend from when we were kids, moved back and started working at the bar.

Hell, I thought we'd have to cut our set last week short, because he was all over the place, and radiating so much hostility, the entire bar seemed to be coated with it, making for a very tense night.

Fortunately, between Tank—a buddy from Gavin's Marine days—and Will, any would-be fights were quickly squashed.

As soon as we finished up our second encore, Waylon swept in for our shots traditions—mock-shots for Shawn and me—before disappearing, stumbling and slurring his way out of there with a bottle of whiskey taken from the bar in one hand, and a girl in the other.

On a good day, it doesn't bother me.

On a bad day…well, I kind of hate him for it.

He lives with two recovering addicts for fuck's sake. Not that I ever expect anyone to hold back or whatever—my problem is my problem—but sometimes, I swear it's like he's rubbing it in my face. Taunting me with it.

Or crying out for help…

At the thought, I frown.

"He'll be fine," Shawn says, assuring Phoebe when I say nothing.

"What if there's a tornado?" she asks, not for the first time.

"Then we'll go to the basement."

She shakes her head. "I meant Waylon."

"Then he'll go to the basement."

She hates storms—always has, ever since she was a kid. It's another reason why I insisted we spend the night here. Playing cards and board games to pass the time is the one thing that seems to alleviate her anxiety. Well, that and obsessively watching the weather.

Seeing as that's out though…

Her mouth thins and she nods.

"Has he said anything more about Seamus?" Mom asks from her spot across the room, worry tingeing her tone when bringing up Waylon's piece of shit sperm donor.

"Not since what he told me a couple weeks ago. He's up for parole soon. That's all I know." I shrug. "You know how Way gets when we try to talk to him about any of that."

"Yeah…" Her voice trails off.

Shawn, Phoebe, and I go around a few more times, taking our turns as the storm rages on outside. When we finish Go Fish—Phoebe won, because of course—she pulls out Monopoly from under the table, and I groan.

Smirking, she sets it up.

I'd just taken my first roll and set a house up on Vermont Avenue, when my phone starts vibrating against my thigh.

Digging it out of my pocket, I glance at the screen and frown.

Jeremy.

He never calls me. Hell, just getting a text back these days is always a gamble. The only other time he's called me out of the blue?—

"I've gotta take this," I utter quickly, scrambling to a stand. Behind me I hear the dice rattle and roll across the board.

Hitting Answer, I bring the phone up to my ear just as the dark hallway swallows me up.

"Hello?" I say, keeping my voice low.

Nothing.

I pull the phone away just as I reach the kitchen, and look to see if he hung up. He hasn't. And while service can be spotty out here sometimes, a glance at the corner shows I still have two bars.

Bringing it back to my ear, I say, "Jeremy?"

Lightning crackles, flickering over the walls, mingling with the glow coming from the three-wick candle on the kitchen table.

Thunder is quick to follow, and that's when I hear it—a noise, soft and breathy in my ear.

"Jeremy?"

My worry increases tenfold when I remember that the forecast was calling for storms all across the state. Pretty sure Allentown was also in the red.

Worry spikes, squeezing my throat.

"JJ. Are you?—"

A moan fills the ear, and I swear my heart just…stops. Everything stops. The storm disappears.

My fingers grow slack around the phone, but not enough to drop it. The world slants, and a sort of buzzing fills my ears, drowning out everything but the muffled gasps and groans filling my ear.

Holy shit.

My mouth opens, closes, gaping for something—anything—to say.

Would he even hear me?

"Fuckkkkk, baby," a deep voice groans, and there's a light smacking sound.

My eyes bulge.

That's not Jeremy.

But just as quickly as I start to feel…relieved that maybe someone else got his phone somehow, or I don't fucking know what…

There's a responding moan, deep and drawn out, and oozing of pleasure. It's as strange and foreign to me as it is familiar. And there's absolutely zero denying who it is, or what I'm listening to right now.

"Yesss, right there. Harder." His ragged groans and pleas splinters into a hiss. "Fuckkk."

I stare down at the counter, not really seeing anything, unable to do so much as breathe out of fear they'll hear me.

Hang up. Hang the fuck up now.

My hand trembles, and my mouth is drier than a desert, making my swallow go down painfully slow.

What the actual hell is happening right now?

"Mmm, p-please," he chatters, whimpering. "Just like that."

My eyes slam shut and my head drops. Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

"Yeah, baby, that's it. Ride my?—"

I yank my phone away and slam End so hard, the phone tumbles out of my hand, skidding across the floor.

What the fuck did I just hear?

I'm trembling head to toe, my heart thrashing against my chest. My knees quake, threatening to give, and there's no denying—no running away—from the fact my jeans suddenly feel a size too small.

Go away, go away.

Panting, I look around the kitchen—hidden mostly in shadow—and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm lunging forward with a roaring, "Fuck!", and swiping everything off the end of the counter. Papers go flying, fluttering in the air. Something hits the floor with a thud. Something else shatters—a mug.

And I just…I stand there, blinking down at the mess, unable to wrap my head around what I'm seeing, what I'm feeling, what I just fucking heard.

Unable to process why I suddenly feel like I'm crawling out of my skin.

Why?

Whywhywhywhy—

I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched to shit as I try to get my bearings.

Distantly, I'm aware of several sets of footsteps thudding down the hall, making their way toward me.

I open my eyes and push away from the counter, quickly adjusting myself in my jeans. And in the nick of time at that.

"Mason?" Mom calls out worriedly, a second before she appears, hands spread, body tense. "What happened?" Her gaze darts to the floor, brows stitching together. "Who called? Did something happen? Is someone hurt?" she rushes out, taking a careful step into the kitchen.

Shawn carefully avoids brushing up against her as he bypasses her, making his way around the island, face downcast.

"Um, no. It was just a butt dial. I stepped on something. Something sharp," I manage to stutter out, my voice oddly gruff, even to my own ears.

Mom's gaze flies up to mine, and I quickly look away, jaw tensing.

"Sorry," I mutter, and go to drop down and start picking things up, when she races forward to catch my shoulder, stopping me, taking care to avoid the broken shards of ceramic .

"Don't worry about it. Are you okay?"

Nodding, I say, "Yeah. Just startled me, and I-I don't know what happened." My voice lowers to a whisper. "Sorry."

"You said that already." She gently nudges me back and out of the way, and crouches down to get the dustpan from out under the sink. "It's okay. Accidents happen."

Wetting my lips, I lift my gaze, feeling something stutter in my chest when a perfectly timed wave of lightning brightens the room, and I catch a flash of Shawn watching me from a few feet away, brows slashed low over his dark, penetrating gaze.

Phoebe hovers to the left of him, shifting from foot to foot as she chews her lip, watching me warily.

Shit.

I clear my throat and look around for my phone. I didn't see where it ended up when it slid from my gasp.

"It's over here," Shawn says in an unreadable voice, as he bends down to retrieve it.

Throat constricting, I rush over, rounding the island, all but ripping it from his hand. In doing so, our fingers brush, and he immediately flinches back.

My gaze snaps to his, and he grimaces, looking away.

Wincing, I mutter, "Sorry."

He shakes out his arms, followed by his head. "It's fine."

It's not, but hey, he didn't punch me in the face, so that's something. Learned that lesson the hard way not too long after he first came to live with us, when I forgot myself and slung an arm over his shoulder, not thinking.

I don't know who was more shocked when that happened, me with my cut lip, or him, eyes wide and visibly spooked. I was lucky he didn't rip my arm off.

He bolted to his room in the attic after that, and it was three days before I was finally able to corner him and assure him it was okay and on me for slipping up. That was when he opened up to me for the first time—willingly and freely, and not as a requirement of group therapy.

He didn't tell me much I didn't already know or figure out myself, but it was a big deal. And it helped me understand his aversion to touch a little more, and how nuanced it can be.

Or rather, his aversion to people touching him.

He can touch other people, but it has to be on his terms. No exceptions.

A crack of lightning explodes, rattling the glass doors on the hutch, making me flinch.

We both turn at the same time to find Phoebe hugging herself, eyes wide as thunder shakes the house.

"Go on," Mom says, nodding toward my sister. "Go finish your game. I've got this."

I hesitate, but she just waves me off with the dustpan before crouching down with the brush to gather up the mess.

Clearing my throat, I head for my sister with a murmured, "Come on." I stuff my phone in my pocket, and gently grip her shoulders, spinning her around, and steer her down the hall, back toward the living room.

Shawn sticks close, a quiet shadow trailing our steps.

"Who was it?" Phoebe asks when we get into the living room.

She plops back down on the floor, and Shawn reclaims his spot next to her. I sit on the edge of the couch, the coffee table between us.

"Who was what?" I say, eyeing the board. In my absence, they both put down houses. I take the dice, and give them a good shake, before rolling them across the board.

"Who butt dialed you?"

I suck on my lip ring, busying myself with moving my boot nine spaces, bypassing Phoebe's battleship and Shawn's race car, and landing on a Chance space. "Oh, um, Jeremy," I mumble, infusing as much nonchalance into my demeanor as I can.

I don't miss the look they share, but I make a point to ignore it, and pluck a card from the Chance pile.

Advance to Go. Collect 200.

"Sweet," I murmur, moving my marker back to where I started.

I lift my gaze to Phoebe, arching an expectant brow. "Money please, banker."

She sighs, and twists her body around, before slapping two beige $100 bills on my waiting palm.

"Thank you."

Shawn goes next, and gets himself a railroad. Fucker.

Phoebe grabs the dice, and shakes them between her clasped hands. They roll across the board just as I feel a jolt of vibration in my pocket.

Leaning to my side, I dig my phone out, and glance at the screen.

Oh shit.

JEREMY THE WICKED ??

Did I call you?

And the first thought that crosses my mind?—

Jesus, did he even get a chance to put clothes on before checking his phone?

Three dots appear a second before another message appears.

Nvm. That was a stupid question.

"Mason?"

I peek up through my lashes to find Phoebe watching me expectantly.

"It's your turn."

My phone buzzes again. As if it has a direct line to my chest, my heart gives a little jolt.

I roll my lip ring between my teeth. "You guys keep playing," I murmur, voice raspy. "I gotta…" I wave my phone in place of using words, and climb to a stand.

If Phoebe or Shawn say anything, I don't hear it—it's lost to the whooshing filling my ears.

This time, I head upstairs, and close myself in my room.

My fingers tremble as I turn my phone over and unlock the screen to find another message waiting for me.

Seeing as it says the call went on for 12 seconds, I take it you answered…

My brows spike.

Well, this is… unexpected.

I was certain that if he noticed he butt dialed me—later. Much, much later—he'd just ignore it. Bury his head in the sand. Pretend it never even happened.

It's what I planned to do after all.

The idea of bringing it up didn't even cross my mind.

Why? It's just sex. He's your friend. Way talks about his hookups all the time. If this was him, you'd be giving him shit, laughing about it…

Putting a halt to that line of thinking, I go to type out a response. Only to freeze when I realize I don't even know what to say.

What do you say after overhearing the guy you've known your whole life, moaning and pleading for some guy to fuck him harder?

Three dots appear, and I bite out a curse, hitting Call before I can chicken out. If we're not going to ignore what happened, then we're going to talk about it. Not text.

The phone rings and rings, and I roll my eyes, pacing the length of my room as I lower the phone from my ear, and thumb out a quick text.

Pls answer

The ringing cuts out, but only because it's gone to voicemail. I hit End, before trying again immediately.

"Come on," I mutter under my breath, fisting at my hair.

He answers on the second ring.

"Forget I said anything," he rushes out in greeting.

I halt mid-step, hand dropping to my side.

My mouth opens, closes, as I struggle with what to say.

Jeremy mumbles something I can't make out. It's muffled, as if he's talking away from the phone. Perhaps talking to?—

"Is he still there with you?" I all but growl.

The line goes deathly quiet. So quiet, I could almost believe he hung up, if it weren't for the roar of wind telling me he's outside.

My words echo—my tone lingering.

"No." A beat passes, and it doesn't escape me how stilted, tense his voice is. "No, he's not. I'm walking home."

Nostrils flaring, I shake my head. "What? Why?—"

"We were at the bar," he answers. "I?—"

Now I'm the one interrupting him. "You had sex in a bar?"

He exhales sharply. "No… I was at the bar with some friends earlier, and then I went back to his place."

"And he just let you walk home by yourself?" My blood boils, fingers twitching with the urge to hit something. Hit someone. Hit the fucker who dared to use him. "What the?—"

"It's not even a mile."

Thunder rumbles, as if reminding me—prompting me.

"Wait, isn't it storming there?"

"Nope, went around us. It's just some light rain. What about yo?—"

"Fucker at least could've called you a cab before kicking you to the curb."

He coughs. "Wow. Okay. First of all, he didn't kick me to the curb. It was my choice to leave. I don't do sleepovers. But glad to see you still see me as some pathetic loser who gets taken advantage of. And second, what is this, Sex and the City? Call me a cab, really?" He scoffs. "Plus, I can take care of myself, thanks. See, there's this little app thing called Uber, and?—"

"Then why didn't you?" I cut in.

"Because I like walking?" He says it like a question.

"It's the middle of the night."

"It's not even eleven."

"There are tornado watches all over the state. It?—"

"And would you look at that, there's my building. Home sweet home, before any twisters can have their way with me, and drop a house on my head."

Damn, he's on a roll tonight.

My lips press into a hard line, and for a long moment I just stand there, frozen.

Through the phone, I hear rustling, and the slam of a door. Keys jingle, and there's heavy footfalls and loud breathing.

A door creaks open moments later, closes, and then it's silent.

One second passes.

Two.

Then—

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough."

"Great."

Lightning flickers through my window, filtering my room with jagged white shapes, before it's dark once more. From the sounds of it, the rain and wind have yet to let off.

I clear my throat. "So, um, when?—"

"When what?"

Try as I might, the words won't come.

He huffs a short laugh that is anything but amused. "Ah. You mean when did I stop being meek, virginal JJ who could barely hold a conversation with anyone who wasn't you or my family?"

I fumble for words. "Wh-what? Jer… that-that's not?—"

He mutters a curse. "Sorry. I don't know where that came from." He says something else, something too quiet for me to make out, but I'm pretty sure I catch the words "tequila" and "sober."

A frown tugs at my face. "Are you drunk?"

A beat, then, "Little bit."

Heart racing, I say, "Was he your boyfriend?"

"No," he says quickly. Too quickly.

Is he lying?

But then I recall what he said earlier about no sleepovers, and I realize in an instant what's actually going on here.

"Oh." Oh is fucking right. "Okay… were you… I mean, you're being safe, right? I know you can handle yoursel?—"

The sound that leaves him is sharp and ugly, filled with a level of bitterness I'm not expecting. "Except you don't. You don't know that. Clearly. Otherwise, you wouldn't be asking such stupid questions. Obviously I'm being safe."

Numb, I nod into my empty room, even though he can't see me. My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. "Okay. Sorry. I just?—"

More grumbling. More cursing.

"I never should've said anything," he mutters. "Can we just, like, rewind, and pretend this conversation didn't happen? That you didn't hear… whatever you heard."

I frown. "If… if that's what you want." Shaking my head, I add, "But… you know it's not, like, a big deal, right, Jer? You're having sex. That's… that's good. It's… good."

There's a very pregnant pause.

"Good?"

I cringe. "Yep."

"Well, I'm so glad you approve. Your blessing is everything I've been waiting for."

I pinch the corners of my eyes. "That's not what I?—"

"Just forget it," he says thickly, and in my head, a clear image materializes—one of him that I've seen a million times. Furrowed brow. Hunched shoulders and a downturned face. Fingers worrying at the ends of his hair.

"I'm sorry, okay?" I tell him.

"Why are you apologizing? You're not the one who called me while someone's cock was up your?—"

I cough, and immediately choke on my spit like the absolute idiot I am.

A long-winded groan fills my ear as I pound my fist against my chest, trying to remember how to breathe.

"I'm gonna hang up now," he says.

"Wait. Don't," I rasp. Coughing one more time, I say in a cracked voice, "Just…you caught me off-guard."

"Uh huh."

Clearing my throat, I rub my palm over my mouth, debating what to say.

"I apologized because I don't know what to say," I finally manage.

"There's nothing to say."

"I feel like I'm handling this all wrong."

"There's nothing to handle," he says in a hard tone. "Don't fucking do that."

I frown. "Do what?"

"You know what."

I look around my room at a loss. "I just…I care about you. I worry."

Again, he says something too low for me to make out, before saying, "Well, don't."

"Jeremy—"

"I don't see how this is any of your business."

I flinch.

Wow. Okay then.

"Ow," I murmur.

Jeremy says nothing.

I find my way over to my bed and sit down. Tension grips my muscles, holding me rigid. I white-knuckle my knee with my free hand, blinking down at the ground.

"I thought we were friends," I whisper, a weird buzzing filling my ears.

There's a pause, like he's hesitating, and fuck if it doesn't hurt. "We are."

Brow wrinkling, I shake my head. "Then why…"

"Because friends don't get all pissy and growly when they find out the other's having sex."

I go utterly still.

Pissy?

Growly?

My heart pounds, hands growing clammy.

There's a heavy, weighted moment, then— "Just 'cause she's not here, doesn't mean you have the right to go all crazy over-protective sibling on me. Okay?"

My hand slackens, and I snap back to life just in time to catch my phone and keep it from falling.

Shaking my head, I say, "That's not?—"

"You're not like this with Way. Only me."

"I-I—" Try as I might to argue, I can't. He's not wrong. I've never once given a shit who Waylon's hooking up with. Sure, I hope he's using a condom and not being a dumbass…but it's different. He's?—

He's hooking up with girls.

"I'm not that weak, scared little kid anymore, in need of a big, tough hero, fighting his battles."

Sniffing, I murmur, "I know."

Except…I don't think I did.

Not until this moment.

Either Jeremy doesn't hear me, or he ignores me, because he goes on to say, without missing a beat, "And I sure as hell don't need you protecting me from hot guys who wanna fuck my brains out."

My brows fly up, my spiraling thoughts momentarily forgotten.

"Don't treat me like I'm some damsel in distress, just because I had a hard time of it growing up. I've had enough people infantilize and emasculate me my whole fucking life." There's a pause, before he adds as if an afterthought. "And women can handle themselves too, for the record. The whole straight, cis savior act is so last century."

I wince. Fair.

Eyes burning, I have to swallow a couple times before I can find my voice. "I'm sorry. You're right. I just don't want you to get hurt." My word pitch low, threaded with some emotion I don't want to examine too closely.

Whatever it is has him exhaling into the phone, his voice turning almost gentle when he says, "I know."

Throat thick, I suck in my cheeks.

"But I'm a big boy now. You have to trust that I can handle myself."

I huff a small laugh at that. It's a sad, broken thing, even to my own ears.

"On the bright side," he says after his moment, his voice noticeably lighter in a way it hasn't been since he answered the phone, "at least it was you I butt dialed, and not my mom."

Grimacing, I nod. "Yeah, good thing."

He chuckles weakly. "Fuck my life." He sighs. "Anyway, seeing as eventually I'll have to face you again…"

Warmth slips over my neck and cheeks.

"Let's please just box this up and bury it."

A rueful grin twists at my lips as I think of another, similar moment I've boxed and buried. One he is blessedly ignorant to, and will be, likely for the rest of forever.

And here I thought I'd never have to revisit that hidden room again.

"Aye aye, King Jeremy. Your wish is my command," I say after a moment.

I can practically hear his eye roll through the phone.

"Funny. I mean it though."

Cocking my head, I say with mock-confusion, "Why are we on the phone again? You never answer my calls."

Chuckling, he says, "Beats me." The relief and gratitude is palpable, bringing a small smile to my face.

"Goodnight, Mase Face," he says softly after a moment.

My throat constricts around my words, making it impossible to speak above a faint whisper when I murmur back, "Night, JJ."

We hang up, and I let the phone fall to the mattress.

Burying my face in my hands, I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw. So hard, I see stars, and a faint roar fills my ears. Mingling with echoes of everything he said as they play on a loop.

"I don't see how this is any of your business."

"You're not like this with Way. Only me."

"Just 'cause she's not here, doesn't mean you have the right to go all crazy over-protective sibling on me."

Lowering my hands, I stare blankly across the room, not really seeing anything.

There's something…there.

Something that wants to be acknowledged.

Just like that morning in Jeremy's room last summer, when things got all awkward and weird and he freaked out about his eyes before bolting. I somehow missed him grabbing his keys off his dresser when making a break for it, and he'd gotten in his car and left. Just…left.

And then a few weeks later, he left Shiloh too. Moved into an apartment in Allentown.

We never talked about it.

Why not, you might ask.

Well, that's a loaded question if there ever was one.

"They're her eyes."

A sound, not quite a growl, works its way up from my chest, getting trapped behind my teeth. Pushing to a stand, I pace across the room, hands clasped behind my head.

Images assault my mind, clashing with his words, with what I overheard earlier.

Bury it. It's what he wants.

My heart races, and there's a familiar itch slowly, but surely making its way to the surface, until I know I'll have no choice but to confront it. Deal with it.

"Just push it away, just push it away," I chant under my breath, willing my mind to quiet.

Suddenly, there's a dull knocking on my door, and I snap my head up. I lower my arms to my sides and stand to my full height. "Come in."

The knob twists, and a second later Shawn appears, brows furrowed as he sweeps his gaze over me, and then the room, before finally settling on my face.

"You good?"

I give him a short nod.

How long has he been standing out there?

What did he overhear?

It's then that it occurs to me that the storm's let up some. It's still raining, and there's still some flashes of light here and there, but I can't remember when it last thundered.

His eyes crease as they scan my face. "You've been gone a while."

In other words—"Just checkin' to make sure you're not up here doing drugs."

"Yeah, sorry,"—I wave a hand—"lost track of time."

"Jeremy?"

I nod, unsure what to even say.

His mouth thins, and I get the impression he wants to say something. But faster than I can say, "Just spit it out," he changes the subject.

"Feel like hitting the bag?"

I swivel my head, peering longingly out the dark, rain-speckled window in the direction of where the barn-turned-garage is.

We still have no power, so the fact Shawn brought it up says a lot. I swear the guy's got a built-in radar for when I'm jonesing for a fix. Between him and my sister, I can't mask a damn thing.

Speaking of…

"Is Phoebe okay?"

"Yeah," he says as I go to my closet and slip on my old Vans. "She kicked my ass in Monopoly, and now she's got your mom playing Pictionary."

I snort softly at that, and grab my hoodie, shoving it over my head, before following Shawn downstairs. We let Mom know where we're headed, and she just nods and waves us off with a simple, "Be careful." The fact that she doesn't put up a fuss about it, not to mention how suspiciously quiet Phoebe's being, speaks volumes.

Am I really that obvious?

Gritting my teeth, I burrow deeper in my hoodie as I make a run for it through the rain and toward the barn doors.

Once inside, on autopilot, I head straight for the corner where Mom's old boyfriend left his heavy bag swinging from the rafters.

"Here."

I glance over to find Shawn extending me boxing gloves, and I shake my head.

"There's no tape here. Let's not bust your hands, yeah?"

Grousing to myself, I rip them from his hands, and shove them on. Shawn flips on his phone flashlight, propping it up on a shelf, providing just enough light to illuminate the bag.

Not wasting a minute more, I get in position, just like he taught me back when we got out of rehab. Hands raised by my face. Knees bent. Limbs loose.

I bounce around a bit, jaw working furiously as I summon forth that hungry beast inside me, seducing him to the surface.

The one starved for release.

Relief.

Problem is, in order to do so, I have to open my mind to all the things I typically hide from.

The grief over Izzy that I hide away.

The confusion still swirling from earlier, combined with truths I've avoided for years.

All the messy, ugly guilt that comes with them.

They don't make a full break for it—I won't let them. I can't. I let just enough slip through to taunt addiction's greedy paws, because I know if I don't, it'll just bite me in the ass later when I least expect it.

Like this, I wield the control.

I'm vaguely aware of Shawn drawing near enough to intervene if needed, but otherwise he gives me a wide berth.

When I throw the first uppercut, a roar wrenches from my throat.

And that thing inside me—that bloodthirsty, impulsive, ravenous beast inside me who's been in some way, shape, or form a part of me since I was a kid; calling on my biggest fears and weaknesses…

It purrs. Yessssss.

And then it's all blind sensation and reflex as I throw one punch after another. Pummeling the bag like it's the face of my worst enemy.

"Of course you would. They're her eyes."

"Just 'cause she's not here…"

It's all leather colliding with leather, clanging chains and primal grunts—a storm of my own making, one that echoes the one still clinging to Shiloh like it's afraid to move on.

And all the while, I'm lost to a torrent of images flashing through my mind—itches and cravings, and fragments of moans, pleas, and bitter words that fire off with seemingly no rhyme or reason.

Thwap.

Thwap.

Thwap.

I don't know how long this goes on for, but when I finally collapse in a heap of sweaty limbs on the gritty floorboards, blinking blankly up at the rafters…

My mind is finally, at long last, blessedly quiet.

And all the things I refuse to give thought to in the light of day…

They're once more buried safely in their respective rooms, steel doors reinforced and locked.