21. Taylor

Taylor

T he cameras do not do Huckslee Davis justice because, holy shit .

Cranking the strap that secures my bike to the bed of my truck, I take a deep puff off my cigarette. If it weren't for the end conversation with Maisie and Aaron, I wouldn't have even needed one right now; seeing him again felt that good. Like I've been half alive for four years, and his presence just breathed new life into me.

The California weather turned his skin a glowing golden brown, sun bleached his curls, and the years of football filled out his form to the point where his sweater stretched around his biceps and chest. He's fucking beautiful.

And still hates me.

Not that I blame him. I still hate myself for what I did, too. I guess I'd just hoped...well, it's ridiculous, but I'd hoped that he had lived such a good life out there that he'd moved past what had happened between us. But that's just the coward in me talking. Nothing in my life has ever been easy; why would it start now?

Giving the strap one last good tug, I pinch the smoke between my lips and check my phone, seeing one missed call and text from Salem.

MySalGal: Fucking call me, asshole. NOW.

Oops. Time to face the music.

In hindsight, it really wasn't my place to out Salem and Logan like that, but, fuck, man. Two years is a long time to keep a relationship in the dark; honestly, Salem deserves better. Obviously, the friend group knows, but he refuses to tell his family and won't let her say anything to hers, either. It's bullshit if you ask me. Why be with someone you have to hide?

I'm about to hit the call button when the front door flies open.

"TAYLOR!"

My head whips up in time to see Huckslee approaching me from the house. And he's on a fucking warpath.

"You beat up my dad?!"

Oh, shit.

His hand is around my throat in an instant, banging my head off the truck window so hard my hat and phone go flying. I grab his wrist just as he starts to squeeze, and deja vu hits me from that night at the track after I broke his arm.

Why do we always seem to end up here?

"Don't you ever come near my dad again," he snarls, so close to my face that his saliva lands on my cheek, and all I can do is stare helplessly while he crushes my throat .

The last time he did this, I was barely eighteen and turned on.

This time? I don't recognize the Huck glaring down at me. His pupils are so dilated that his eyes are nearly black, the hatred in them searing my skin. And I know I deserve it.

Which is why I don't fight. I didn't last time, and I won't now. For everything I've ever done, I'd let Huck kill me right here if it brought him closure.

It doesn't matter that I hurt him time and again because I was a kid being abused, nor does it matter that I went after Aaron that night on the front lawn because I was shit-faced and my father had just died of an overdose.

It doesn't matter that I was also hurting or that I spent half a year in jail for violating probation afterward. It doesn't even matter that I'm two years sober because, in the process of dealing with my own pain, I brought it onto others. And it's taken me years in therapy to be able to come to terms with that.

Forgiving myself for it, though? Can't seem to do it.

Aaron's words echo in my mind from that as black spots fill my vision, my lungs spasming for air.

"You're trailer trash, just like your father was. Stay away from my family."

I hear Aaron's voice now, and I try to focus on the sight of him with his hand gripping Huck's shoulder. Panic in his eyes, he murmurs for his son to stop. Please, let go, Huck, LET HIM GO.

Tears freeze on my cheeks, eyes sliding shut, and despite the pressure crushing my windpipe, I find my thumb gently rubbing circles into Huck's wrist. Telling him that it's alright. It's okay, I understand. I've wanted to do this to myself, too.

But then the pressure is gone. Air shoots down my throat, burning from the chill, my knees hitting the frozen ground. A cough sputters out of me, and I look up through my wet lashes to see Aaron pulling Huckslee back toward the porch, both shocked as hell.

I remain kneeling well after they've disappeared into the house, catching my breath. I gather my phone and hat with shaking hands before slowly getting to my feet. Numbly climb into the truck and back out of the driveway. Try to focus on driving home.

But once I'm far enough away, I'm yanking the wheel to the side of the road, thumbing my now cracked screen to pull up my contacts. When I find the one I'm looking for, I press call while fresh, hot tears stream down my face.

She answers on the third ring.

"Taylor? What can I do for you?"

"I need to make an appointment, Doctor Hart. As soon as possible."