Over the Edge

Epilogue-One Year Later

Rhys

“Mike Packer was sentence to life in prison without parole today . . .”

“Rhys? I can’t find that stupid dress we got at the mall the other day! Did you put it somewhere?”

I sighed, turning away from the television and jogging up the stairs, to where my extremely distressed girlfriend had littered her room with the contents of her dresser and closet.

She was standing amidst it, hands planted on her hips, tapping foot no doubt wearing a hole through the floor.

“What happened? Did you set off dynamite or something?”

She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Rhys, could you just pretend you understand my feminine problems? Just once?”

“Nope, the thought makes me kind of sick, actually.” I started wading to her through the clothes. And in all honesty, with her standing there in nothing more than a sheer slip, I had better things to focus on.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” she murmured, biting her lip.

I swept her into my arms, finding solace in the way she leaned back against me. “Everything will be just fine,” I murmured, nuzzling my face into her neck. “You’re just freaking out.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, pulling away. “You’re all happy and high and mighty at that cushiony art institute.”

I sighed, but I did feel a swell of pride. My painting had won. I still couldn’t quite believe it. The whole country, and they had chosen mine.

I reeled Emma back in by the wrist, noticing she didn’t put up too much of a fight to get away.

“Because of you,” I reminded her. “You were my inspiration.”

“True.” She glanced around at her walls, most of which were covered in my paintings. I had requested the original one I had done of her that night she slept over be sent back, and I had given it to her for her nineteenth birthday. It hung right over her bed. “I guess you really need me, huh?”

Her words were mocking and teasing but it was scary how true they were. I remembered a time I would have scoffed at relying so much on someone else, but I couldn’t deny the fact that Emmalyn Hall was worth it.

“Isn’t that it right there?” I questioned, pointing to the corner of her closet where a flash of dark red material was visible. She followed my finger and cried out happily, bolting from my arms. She wrenched it out of the closet and hugged it gratefully.

“Thank goodness,” she breathed, and as an afterthought checked the clock on her nightstand. “Shit! We’re already running five minutes late!”

I shook my head, staring amusedly at her. She whipped off the slip and shimmied into the dress. I tried not to laugh as she bounced and wriggled around, futilely trying to reach the zipper at the back. I couldn’t hold the laughter in when she turned to me and gave me the damndest puppy dog look.

“Come here,” I chuckled softly. She walked over to me, spinning around. I grabbed the zipper, purposefully brushing my knuckles over the smooth skin of her back, feeling her spine arch beneath the touch. It was a powerful feeling, knowing every little thing that made this girl tick.

I eased it slowly up her back, clearing away strands of hair so they didn’t get caught up in it. “He was sentenced today,” her soft voice spoke out.

No name. But we had agreed on that.

From now on it was just him or he, or if you were me, that bastard. It relieved him of identity, of personality. It seemed to help Emma.