Falling into You [COMPLETED]✓

Ghosts; One Breath at a Time

NELL POV

Every single fiber of my being is screaming at me. I’m liquid in his arms. Fire burns in my veins. Guilt and peace rage in my brain, warring.  I told him. I told Colton my secret guilt. I cried. I sobbed for hours. Hours and hours. I don’t even know how long. And god, did that feel good. But the guilt remains. I know it’s ridiculous. I know, but goddammit, I can’t shake the guilt.  And now it’s all compounded a million times by Colton’s brawny arms around me. God, I still can’t fathom the raw, savage, masculine glory of the man. I hadn’t seen him in two years, and then I saw him on a bench—singing that song, of all things—and he’d bulked up in that time. Hardcore. He’d been a beast at the funeral, stretching the sleeves of his suit coat. Now? Holy hell. My mouth went dry as a desert when I saw him busking outside Central Park. Ink-black hair down around his eyes and curling above his collar, messy, shaggy, perfect. His eyes, those hadn’t changed, soul-spearing sapphires. But his body? Oh, god, oh, god…ohmigod.  The tattoos turn his torso into a living mural, poetry in script along his ribs, a dragon on his right shoulder breathing fire on Japanese characters, the flames spreading like wildfire down his back and fading into a golden sun on his spine, an archaic-looking thing, like a compass rose, almost. A pinup girl in silhouette on his left arm, more script lettering on his opposing ribs—Latin, it looks like. Music notes scattered over both forearms, stars, suns, skulls and crossbones, iron crosses mixing and merging and joining it all. He’s a masterpiece of skin art. A masterpiece of bulky male muscle, hard and heavy and huge.  He’s terrifying. A force of violent power, raw brutality. He destroyed Dan. Took a hard beating in the process and seemed completely unfazed by the broken nose, the blows to the ribs and chest, the cuts on his face. Dan was a monster, and Colton ripped him apart easily.  It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen; the scariest thing I’d ever seen. Colton’s fury was a primal thing, so thick and hot I could feel it in the air. His eyes were the eyes of a cold, calculating warrior, terrifying for the icy fury. I’m completely unable to resist him.  He wants me but won’t give in to it. Which I get, I really do.  He’s my dead boyfriend’s brother. It’s just…wrong.  How did you two meet? Oh, we met at his brother’s funeral. His baby brother, my first love. Awesome. But Colton is…I’m safe with him. He draws the truth out of me. He draws the pain out of me. Colton knows pain. He’s intimately familiar with it. Lives with it. Guilt, too. Colton has secrets, and I want to know them all.  I want his mouth on me. His hands on me. I need it. It makes me feel alive. Safe. Protected, treasured. Colton will, literally, kill anyone who might hurt me. He nearly did kill Dan. Might have, actually.  I don’t want to know. I want to know why Colton is alone in New York when his father is a congressman. Why he was forced into back-alley prize fights to survive. Why he ended up in a gang.  I want to know why Colton won’t keep kissing me. Why he always pulls back, why he thinks he’s no good. No good, when he’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met. So freaking talented. His deep, gravelly, raspy voice, insane guitar skills, his passion when he performs. That song he sang to me, a cappella? Most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. So jarringly sad. The loneliness, the longing in that song was wrenching. I don’t think it had a title, I don’t think anyone but me has ever heard him sing it. And now? Oh, now his arms are around me, holding me close. So close. I want to turn in his arms and burrow close, nestle in and let the warm strength of his body wash over me. Like this, spooning, his arm draped over my waist and not touching me too intimately, this is almost platonic. Almost. I want more. Dare I? I dare. I twist in place, and Colton stirs, loosens his grips, makes a low sound in his throat, sleepy. It makes me smile, that little moan. He’s on his side, doesn’t roll away when I burrow into him. I press my face to the hollow under his chin, slide my palm over his ribs to curl around his back. I breathe in his scent, let the heat of his body warm me. Oh, god. This might have been a mistake, because this feels entirely too perfect. I’ll never want to sleep any other way. My other arm is curled beneath the pillow under my head, and his body is a shelter, a fortress I can lose myself in. I can feel his pulse thumping in his throat against my nose, and I count the beats, wait for sleep. It comes, so sweetly. No dreams. No empty shoe, no red-slick mud, no blood froth. Just sleep, Colton’s hand on my hip. I may or may not have put his hand on my hip. Okay, I did. And I love it. I shouldn’t, but I do. I’m going to give in to this. Time heals all wounds, right? Well, maybe I’ve had enough time, and now I just need to move on, let go. Have something that makes me happy, after so long in misery. * * * I wake slowly, like drifting to the surface of a lake after diving deep. The first thing I’m aware of is the thumpthump…thumpthump of Colton’s heartbeat under my ear. God, I love that sound. Then I become aware of his body, hard yet soft beneath me. I’m basically on top of him, half of my torso on his chest and stomach, my leg over his, my foot between his. Then I become aware of my hand.  It’s on his belly. Okay…well actually, it’s not quite his belly. It’s a bit lower than that. A lot lower. And I’m cupping a part of his body that is most definitely awake. Very, very awake. And huge. Thick. My hand is on it. Holding it.  Oh, god. Oh, shit. Oh, god. His breathing is even, softly soughing in and out. He’s still asleep, then.  The major problem in this situation is that I don’t want to move my hand. I want to touch him. It’s been so long, and the thought of him, of what my hand is touching…I feel a clench down low in my core, a gush of damp desire.  I can’t really help it. I slide my palm down, then back up. He shifts, rolls his hips up, and then relaxes. I do it again, slowly, gently, guiltily. I watch in hungry fascination as his abs ripple, and tense as he rolls his hips again. He moans, a lupine growl deep in his chest. His breathing stutters, and then he takes in a deep breath. I look down. A sliver of pink shows at the top of his gym shorts. I lick my lips. I’m so awful. This is so wrong, so stupid, so slutty. But I don’t stop. His shorts are hiked up around his thighs, and yet tugged down low on his hips by the way he’s moving, shifting. So now the very tip of him is peeking out from beneath his shorts.  I glance up at his rugged face, lax and handsome and innocent in repose. He swallows, shifts his face to the side, lifts his lower half up slightly into my touch. I don’t know what I’m doing, why, where it’s going to go. He’s still deeply asleep, sucking in long, even breaths, letting them out on a slight and adorable snore.  His arm is around me, curling over my back and cupping me to him, his other hand on his chest. And now his hand slides down my back, falls limp and lands on my ass. Yes. I like that. I shift up a little so his palm and fingers are clutching my left ass cheek.  What am I doing? I’m such a fucked-up mess. He stopped kissing me while I was upset to avoid taking advantage of me, and here I am fondling him in his sleep, getting cheap thrills off his hand touching my butt while he snores innocently. It’s so wrong, but I tug his shorts a little lower, so more of him peeks out. Now I can see the thick pink mushroom head, the tiny hole at the tip, the groove around the bottom of the head. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to stop. It doesn’t work. I touch the pink flesh with my thumb, biting my lip. So soft, like velvet. I can’t help stroking his length again, and I swallow hard in appreciation. It takes me a ridiculously long time to stroke him from root to tip.  I bite my lip hard, just to make sure I’m not dreaming. The sharp twinge of pain tells me I’m awake. Awake, and clearly a slut with no morals. I mean, I haven’t touched anyone like this since Kyle. I’ve kissed a few guys in an attempt to force myself to move on, in an attempt to ease the ache of need that I’ve carried in my belly for so long. But none of the guys I kissed ever ignited any kind of spark in me. Just dead, nothing. Dan tried and tried, and I really did try to get into it. I never could. I can’t accurately say there’s a spark with Colton. No, it’s way, way beyond a spark.  Just looking at him lights a fire. Touching him, being touched, even innocent touches, even his hand in mine creates an inferno.  This? Touching him so intimately, so erotically? You could light a match from the waves of palpable heat radiating from me, flames of desire fanned hotter every second. I can’t stop stroking him. Up and back down, caressing his length, exploring his thickness through the swishy fabric of his shorts. He moves in time with me now, and he’s waking up. Moaning, writhing under my touch. I can’t stop now. I think he’s close. I press my thumb to his tip again and rub in circles, and I feel his body tense beneath mine. I glance up at his eyes, watch them flick open and waver in confusion, then stutter and blink as he comes. My gaze flits down to watch the white stream cover his belly.  “The fuck?” His voice is muzzy and and puzzled and slow. He’s awake, he’s released, but still thick. I slide my hand into his shorts and take him in my hand, and I bite my lip at the satiny hardness of him. His eyes meet mine, and I can tell he’s wondering if he’s awake, how he should feel, what to say. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I woke up touching you by accident. And then I couldn’t stop.” “Am I dreaming?” he asks, wary. I shake my head. “Nope.” He looks down at himself, at the mess on his belly. “So you just…” I nod. “Yeah.” “While I was sleeping?” I nod again, and I can’t meet his eyes anymore. “Yeah. I don’t know—I’m sorry. I—I couldn’t help it. I knew I shouldn’t, but I just…” I trail off, unable to make a complete sentence. I suck in a deep breath and try again. “You were so hard and big, and it had been so long, and I—” “Nell,” he cuts in. “Shut up.”  I shut up. “Look at me,” he orders. I force my eyes to his.  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I said shut up.”  I wrinkle my face at his harsh tone, but keep my mouth closed and wait for him to continue.  “I don’t even know what to say. I thought I was dreaming.” His eyes bore into me, blue and hot like a bunsen burner flame. “You want to know what I was dreaming about?” I nod. “Answer me. Out loud.”  This is a new Colton. Bossy, direct. I’m not sure if I should be pissed at the way he’s barking orders, or turned on by it. I settle for both.  “Yes, Colton. I want to know what you were dreaming about.” My tone is soft and submissive, but I know my eyes betray my ire. His face is impassive. “You. I was dreaming of you.” His eyes narrow. “I was dreaming of you doing what you apparently were actually doing.” “Was it a good dream?” I ask, daring. “Did you like that dream?” I trail my fingertip through the stickiness on his belly, eyeing him from beneath lowered lashes. He sucks in a sharp breath, watching my finger tracing patterns on his skin, and then his gaze flicks to me again. “It was a conflicted dream. I shouldn’t have wanted it to not be a dream. I shouldn’t have wanted it to be real. But I did.” I try to ignore the thunder of my pulse in my ears. “Why shouldn’t you?” He frowns. “Because…because of everything.” “Say it out loud. All of it.” I can be bossy, too. “Because you were in love with Kyle.” “He’s gone. It wouldn’t be cheating.” I swallow hard, because a part of me says that’s a very very valid reason why not. Because it would be. I would be cheating on him. “Your turn to say it all.” “Say what?” “What you’re thinking.” I begin tracing the kanji on his chest, the orange-yellow flames, the dragon’s eye. “I’m a liar. It would be cheating. It would be cheating on his memory. But…that’s bullshit.” His head sinks back, and he turns aside to stare at the wall. I watch his jaw clench and release, watch the fine black stubble on his tan skin shift. “How fucked up is that?” He says, barely audible.  He gets out of bed, takes a couple steps across the hall and into the bathroom. I watch him wet a washcloth and clean off his stomach. He comes back and slips back into bed next to me, on his side, facing me.  “That’s what I was thinking, too, though,” he says. “It’s bullshit, but I can’t shake the feeling. You and me would be…an affront to his memory. But that’s just bullshit, because he’s dead and he’d want both of us to be happy.” “Well that’s stupid, too. If he was alive, he’d want me.” “But he’s not.” “Is this an argument or a discussion?” I ask. He huffs a laugh. “I don’t even know.” He turns back to look at me. “What you just did? That changes shit.” “I know.” My words aren’t even a whisper. “Are you mad?” He bobbles his head back and forth. “Mad? No. Not mad. Confused. Not gonna lie, it was kinda shady. I couldn’t tell you I wanted it, or that I didn’t.” I choke. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I—I feel disgusted with myself.” “Don’t. Just don’t. I’m no better. You were asleep and I took your clothes off—” “You were making me comfortable,” I interrupt. He talks over me. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted to see your sweet, round ass. I touched your thigh.” “But you didn’t make me—you didn’t do what I did.”  He rubs his face with his free hand. “Is this a competition? Which one of us is more of an asshole?” I ask.  In my head, though, I’m stunned breathless by what he said. He wanted to see my “sweet, round ass.” I’ve always thought I had too much ass. It’s an insecurity. Common, I know, but unshakeable. I still run like a fiend, because it’s one of the few times I can be free of dreams and memories and nightmares and guilt. Then, when I’m drunk, and when I’m playing music. But no matter how I run, my ass is round and my breasts heavy.  “I’d win that competition, hands down. No question,” Colton says. “You had a moment of weakness, or something. I’m an asshole all the time.” “You’re wrong.” I shift up his body and meet his eyes from a couple inches away. Kissing distance. “It wasn’t a moment of weakness. It was a lot of moments of desire. And you’re not an asshole.” “What do you want, Nell?” “I already asked you that question, remember?” “So neither of us knows what we want?” His eyes search mine, and his hand inscribes circles on the small of my back.  “No. Yes. I know what I want, but I’m not sure if it’s right or wrong. I do know that how I went about getting it was wrong, though. So for that, I’m sorry.” “So you’re saying you should’ve done what you did, but while I’m awake?” His palm continues to circle, but moves lower.  I arch my back subtly, but enough. He notices, and his eyes widen, his nostrils flare, his lips thin, his breathing goes deep.  “Yes,” I say. I have to just own what I did, what I want. He was all too right when he said what I did changes things. I can’t go back now. I know how he feels in my hand. I know how his body feels beneath me, and I want more of it. I know how his hand feels on my ass. And I know he wants this as much as I do, and we’re both conflicted about it. I meet his eyes and hold his gaze as he explores downward. I bite my lip when he begins up the swell of my ass. When I got in bed, I’d stripped off my jeans, so all I was wearing was a tiny yellow thong. A triangle of silk over my core, strings over my hips, a string down my crack. I took off my bra, too, so I only had on a tiny T-shirt, a fitted thing, blue cotton with a pocket over the right breast, a glittery purple heart on the pocket.  He follows the line of the waistband of my thong around my hip, his eyes locked on mine, and he slowly and deliberately cups my left cheek. I search his eyes, and see my emotions reflected back at me: conflicted desire.  “I forgive you,” he says, an ever-so-subtle smirking tilt to the side of his mouth. “After all, it was a really awesome dream.” He explores the line of the string between my cheeks. I’m holding my breath, and I can’t seem to catch it. He slides his palm up the other side, then back down, caressing my thigh, then the other. God. Oh, god. Now up my spine, up my bare back, under the shirt. His fingers, his palm on my skin, tracing fire. His fingers go between my arm and my rib, seeking access frontward. I shift my arm, slide my palm up his chest, hesitate at his shoulder, then do as I’ve wanted to do for so long, it seems, and scratch over the stubble on his jaw. This action gives him access, and he moves his hand around my ribs to brush the outside curve of my breast smashed against his chest. “What are we doing here, Nell?” he asks, his voice a raspy whisper. I shake my head and lift one shoulder. “I have no idea. But I like it.” “Me, too.” He pulls me closer, higher. I go with him, shifting so I’m entirely on my side, head propped up on one hand, leg slung over his thighs, free hand on his breastbone. Now I’m exposed. My shirt is hiked up so the undersides of my breasts peek beneath the hem. I silently dare him, encourage him with my stillness, my steady gaze on his too-blue eyes.  Ohmigod. God. He takes the dare. Palm on my belly at first, I think he might go south, and I think he considers it, then moves up north to the hem of my shirt. I was already holding my breath, but my throat gets tighter, my lungs burn, my heart either stops beating or pounds wildly. I can’t decide which.  Then his rough and gentle and huge hand cradles my breast beneath the shirt. I haven’t taken a breath in at least thirty seconds. Oh, god, oh, god, ohmigod. His hand feels so amazing. Scratchy, hard. My breasts are fairly big, C-cups, almost a D, but he can palm one easily. His palm scrapes my nipple, and now my breath blasts in, rushing through me and making me dizzy.  “Colton…” I duck my head and bury my forehead on his shoulder.  “Look at me, Nell,” he commands, softly but firmly. I do. His eyes are hooded and serious. “Turning point, right here. You don’t want this, you have to tell me now. Get up and go. This’ll all be forgotten. I’ll be your friend. But say so now. ’Cause any further, we’re in it all the way.”  I gulp. I nod. I bite my lip and look away. “God, fuck me. Don’t do that,” he says, his voice ragged. I’m puzzled. “Do what?” “Bite your lip. It drives me wild. Bite your lip, and it’s over. Your mouth is mine.” His voice is so rough now, so raw and raspy it vibrates against me and sizzles deep in my core. “Good to know,” I whisper. He moves his hand away. “Decide now, Nell. All in, you’re mine, or we pretend this never happened.” “I’m yours?” My voice is soft and tremulous. “You asking? Or telling?” “I—Colton, I couldn’t forget…but we—” I cut myself off, knowing I’m an incoherent mess.  Unconsciously, I bite my lip again, and Colton growls. “I fucking told you. Don’t…do…that. I can’t take it. My control is in shreds here, and you’re biting your lip again.” “Why does it make you so crazy?” I ask, playing for time. Time for what, I don’t know. I know what I want. But now…with Colton becoming the direct and commanding person again, I’m shy, unsure, insecure, afraid. I’m all over the damn place. Molesting him in his sleep, then unable to jump in when he makes it clear he wants me like I do him. I’m a lunatic, clearly. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just a thing. You bite your lip, and I want to take that lip into my mouth and suck on it like a Popsicle. I want to lick your lips and bite them and kiss you until you’re fucking lost and gasping and puddled on the floor.” Well…shit. I want that.  Nerves? Gone. I feel my heart doing this weird thing, swelling, hammering, stuttering, aching, and I know I’ve decided.  I bite my lip, and it’s over. “Fuck. You’re crazy, baby.” His voice is a feral snarl, spoken through clenched teeth.  I don’t even see him move. One second he’s over there, the next he’s slamming into me, lips crushing mine, and, true to his word, he takes my lower lip into his mouth and sucks on it, tongues it. I’m jarred and shocked by the sudden violence of his kiss, and then I melt as he sucks on my lip. And then I’m pure liquid beneath him, because he’s abruptly gentle, taking my face in his hands, gazing at me with our lips barely touching, and then he kisses me slowly and so thoroughly, so deeply, I’m just…lost. His mouth moves on mine, claims me, steals my heart with his lips, takes my body with his mouth.  We’d kissed before, and it was—every time—the best kiss I’d ever had. My heart clenches when I realize this includes, by a landslide, every kiss Kyle ever gave me. There’s just no comparison. That hurts, that does. It hurts so sweet, so deep, so strange, I just don’t know what to do with it. This kiss…I’m gone. Gone. I know, in that moment, that I belong to him. It’s what he said: I’m his. How it happened, I don’t know. I really wish I did.  “Last chance, Nelly-baby.” His voice is in my ear, not even a whisper, just breathed subvocalization that I feel on my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.” I push him up and I see the hurt in his eyes before I can correct him. He starts to get off, but I catch his bicep and still him in place. I curl my fingers under the hem of my shirt and peel it off. Colton’s eyes go wide and he licks his lips.  “I want this.” I say it as loud as I can, which is a breathless gasp at most. “I need this.” His eyes change then. They go feral.  Oh, boy, here we go. “Take off your thong and spread your legs.” “Say ‘please.’” I find strength in the game. My terror, my vulnerability abates, and I’m thankful. He just stares at me. I don’t move to comply. He shakes his head and half-blinks in disbelief. And then he tugs on my thong, and it comes apart. He didn’t jerk it, he didn’t expend any effort. He just put two fingers around the string at my hip, two fingers of the other hand inside the triangle over my core, and tugged. Rip. Gone. I’m naked. That easy.  “I liked that thong,” I protested. “Should’ve listened, then.” He slides his fingers down my belly, which clenches, and across my pudendum and down my tight-clamped thighs. “Now, spread your legs and feel free to scream. No one can hear.” “Wha—oh.” I don’t even have time to process my confusion before his tongue is doing something wicked to my clit.  I spread my legs. Wide. I tuck my heels against my buttocks and let my knees fall apart. I’m shameless.  “Yeah, Nelly. Just like that,” he breathes onto my folds. “God…damn. Sweet as sugar.” I blush at his words, and then I’ve got no headspace for anything but the screams ripping from my throat. Because god…I’ve never felt anything like this. Not ever. I writhe on the bed, arch up, buck in time to his tongue’s lapping. And then…oh, yeah, it gets better. He slides a finger inside me and curls it, and I just…lose it. I combust. I scream so loud it hurts my own ears, upon which I clamp my teeth together and groan past gritting jaws.  “Trust me?” His voice is a surprise, and I’m so lost in sensation I don’t even understand his words. “Wha—what?” “Do. You. Trust me.” His fingers haven’t stopped their curling and swirling and exploring.  “Your fingers are inside me, so yes.” “You might want to bite a pillow.” “Why…?” I start the question, but I never finish it. “Oh…shit!” He laughs, but it’s a pleased laugh. He’s got two fingers in my folds now, and a third is…oh, hell. I don’t even believe it, can’t even fathom or understand it, but it’s down there. Dirty and dark.  I bite a pillow. My entire existence is a vortex of raging ecstasy. I simply cannot contain it. I’m coming apart at the seams, and I’m not even coming yet. Or maybe I am.  Maybe this is what lies beyond the edge, and this is the first time I’ve ever really been here. I don’t know. I can’t keep it in. I scream into the pillow, and I sob, and I arch, and I buck. I find my fingers tangled in his hair, crushing him wantonly against me, even as I’m begging him.  Begging him to what, I don’t know.  “Colton…Colton…please…oh, god, ohgod, ohmigod…”  See? Am I asking him to stop? To never ever stop, not even to breathe? I don’t know.  It’s just a tiny intrusion, really, the very tip of his finger wiggling inside me in my forbidden place. But it’s earth-shattering.  “What…what are you doing to me?” I ask. “Making you come. Fingering your tight, virgin asshole.” He returns his mouth to my folds and sucks my turgid nub into his mouth, and I scream, arch into him. “I’m getting you ready.” “Ready for what?” I want to know. God, do I want to know. There’s more? “Come, and I’ll show you.” “I thought I was coming?”  He chuckles. “Oh, no.” He reaches up with his free hand, and suddenly he’s everywhere. Pinching my nipple and rolling it, and fingering me, curling and thrusting, licking, sucking… “Come. Now.” It’s a command, and I have no choice to obey. I explode into pieces, liquid and fire and screams and sobs. Actual sobs. Like, with tears.  And then…then he crawls up my body like the predator he is. The stubble around his mouth is wet. From me. I blush, hard.  Holy god, ohmigod, oh, shit. He’s so huge. All muscle and broad lines and hard edges, so big above me. His presence blocks out the world. All I see is tattoos and skin and sapphire eyes and sable hair. And then I glance down, and see his…his him. His cock.  I like that word. I never use it. I started swearing openly after Kyle died. I just didn’t care anymore. But sex? Gone. No part of my life after that. I swore, I cursed,  I drank, but I couldn’t fathom sex. I buried myself in classes at a community college and worked for Daddy in his office and saw no one, did nothing, was no one. I worked. I studied. I played music. I was the living dead, a guilt-ravaged shell. Now…I’m alive. So alive. And I like dirty words. I’m shameless. And I like it. Partially because the guilt of what we’re doing is a new kind of pain, and pain centers me. Back to his cock. It’s…glorious. I just…oh, god. I felt it, before. But seeing it all, every thick inch coming for me…I forget to breathe and bite my lip. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” His voice is so, so tender. He thought I was afraid, I think. And suddenly, with that realization, I am. I’m terrified. Scared shitless. Another realization washes over me, and it brings wave after wave of pain, guilt, shame, and tears.  “Nell? What is it? Why are you crying?” He falls to the side of me and nuzzles my face with his nose. “Shit. Shit. I did this. Too much. God…damn it.” He presses his palm to his forehead. “No…” I choke the word out past gut-racking sobs. “No. Not you…” “Then what?” “Well, yeah.” I breathe deep and claw my nails down my forearm. The pain does its job and calms me. “It’s you, but not…not what you’re thinking.” “Make sense, damn it,” he growls. “Sorry. Sorry.” I gulp air and tug at my hair, pulling until it hurts. “You’re just so much. So much. So much more than…anyone. So much more than—than Kyle.” And with that last word I’m sobbing again. “Fuck.” He’s over me, on an elbow and gazing down at me, but I can barely see him through the blurry burn of salt in my eyes. “Nell, I’m just me. I know I said last chance, but…it’s done. Okay? Don’t…don’t be afraid. Don’t…god. I’m such a fucking dick. Look, this is about you, okay? I’m sorry I pushed you into this.” I laugh past sobs. “You’re such an idiot,” I manage. At which he tenses, frozen stiff.  “What? What did you call me?” His voice is deadly cold. I twist to look at him, and I see that he’s livid, jaw hard and tensed, neck muscles corded. “Colton, I—I just meant that I wasn’t afraid, not of you. And I said you’re an idiot because you’re acting like you pushed me into this. You didn’t. I pushed you into this.” He’s shaking, he’s so mad, and I’m confused and terrified. “I’m sorry—I’m—I didn’t mean it…please…I—” “Shut up for a second and let me calm down, ’kay?”  I nod and hold absolutely still.  After a few minutes, he speaks in a much calmer voice. “I have an issue with that word. With being called an idiot, or stupid. Or anything like that. Retard, dumbass, shit like that…it’s a button for me. Don’t say it. Not ever, not even in a joke. Got it?” I nod. “Yeah. I got it. I’m sorry. You’re not an idiot. You’re amazing. You’re…so much. That’s my point. It’s—” “No need to go overboard trying to make up for it,” Colton interrupts.  I can’t help snapping my gaze to his, searching him, wondering what happened to him to make that such an issue for him. Obviously, someone used to insult his intelligence regularly. For it to be such a huge problem for Colton, there’s only really one probable source. I just can’t see Mr. and Mrs. Calloway doing that. They were always so supportive of Kyle, so loving, so kind. Strict, at times, especially as it came to making sure any publicity was positive, but that’s understandable. “I wasn’t,” I say quietly. “I was explaining why I suddenly started bawling like girl.” “You are a girl,” he points out. “Yeah,” I say. “But until you badgered me into talking about things, I hadn’t cried at all. I mean…at all.” Colton shifts on the bed to look at me. “You never cried about what happened to Kyle?” “No.” “You never grieved?” He sounds almost incredulous. “Grieved?” The idea seems foreign. He says it like it’s expected. He lifts up his head to stare at me. “Yeah. Grieved. Went through the stages.” He flops back, rubbing between his eyes with his fingers. “Of course you didn’t. Probably why you’re so fucked up about it.” I throw an arm over my face to hide my irritation and hurt and the onset of stinging eyes. “He died. I dealt with it.” Colton snorts. “No. You didn’t deal with shit. You’re a cutter, Nell.” “I haven’t done that in weeks.” I’m aware that I’m rubbing the scars with my thumb, but I can’t help it. He takes my hands and forces them apart, traces the pattern of white lines with a fingertip. It’s a tender gesture that sears my heart, makes my jaw tremble. His eyes are mournful.  “Good,” he says. His eyes meet mine, and they turn firm, hard. “If you ever cut yourself again, I’ll be mad. Like, really really pissed. You don’t want to see that.”  No, I sure as hell don’t. I don’t answer him, though. I can’t promise that. I’ve managed to not cut in a while, simply because I’ve had Colton on the brain, and that’s enough confusion to take my mind off the urge to bleed myself numb. Colton isn’t fooled. He takes my chin in two strong fingers and turns my head to face him. “Promise me, Nell.” His eyes are cerulean intensity. “Fucking promise me. No more cutting. You feel the urge, you call me. You get me, we deal together, okay?” I wish I could make that promise. I can’t. He doesn’t understand how deep the need is. I hate it, I really do. I always feel even more guilty after I’ve cut, which makes the problem even worse. It’s like this habit I can’t shake, but it’s not just a habit, like an addiction I’m ashamed of, smoking or pill popping or whatever. I know he gets the need to cut, but he doesn’t realize how embedded in me the urge is.  I haven’t answered. I’m staring at the ceiling, shaking. I want to promise him. I want to be healed, to never want to score lines of pain into my wrists, my forearms again. Colton sits up, and he’s still naked, not hard anymore, and I’m fascinated by his not-erect cock. It’s a distraction, and only momentary. Colton grabs me, lifts me, and I’m on his lap, in his arms, forced to meet his angry glare. “Fucking promise, Nell.” “No!” I wrench myself free, scramble away, off the bed, away from his hot skin and hard muscles and angry, piercing eyes. “No! You can’t say that to me, you can’t demand that of me. You don’t understand! You can’t just appear in my life and try to change it like this.” “Yes, I can.” His voice is calm but intense.  He’s still on the bed, watching me. I’m hunting the pile of clothes on the floor for mine, but I can’t find my shirt or my panties, so I settle for a T-shirt of Colton’s. It hangs to mid-thigh, and it’s soft and it smells like him, which is confusing and comforting and incredible. “No. You can’t. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I went through. You don’t know how I feel.” “You’re right. But I’m trying to.” “Why?” “Because you should never have been left alone to deal. You should never have been allowed to bury it all and let it fester. Kyle’s death is an open wound inside you. It’s never healed, never scabbed over. It’s all fucking nasty and gangrenous, Nell. It’s rotting. You need to let someone in. You need to let me in.” “I can’t…I can’t…” I’m running, now. Out of his room, into the kitchen.  It’s drink or cut. He’s bringing it all up, forcing all the shit I’ve buried to the surface. He knows it, and he’s doing it on purpose.  I’ve kept it all down for so long, and whenever it threatened to come up, come out, I’d drink until it settled back down, or I’d cut and bleed it out rather than feel it, rather than cry or scream or be angry.  I know he has whiskey somewhere, but I can’t find it. It’s not in the fridge, and I can’t reach high enough to look in the cupboard above the fridge where I know it must be. I climb on the counter, reach for it, and lose my balance. I fall, slamming hard into the floor, and the breath is knocked out of me.  It’s coming up. It came up when he forced me into tears, when he made me admit I killed Kyle. The guilt came up and out, and that hurt, like knives shredding my heart.  This? This is the grief. The loss. The knowledge that Kyle is gone. Of course he’s gone, I’ve known that. But this is the grief. The hurt. The loneliness. It’s worse than the guilt. I always knew the guilt was wrong and misplaced. The guilt I can’t justify away, can’t shift or explain or bury any longer.  I’m fighting sobs, fighting the clenching in my stomach and heart.  No. No. I won’t let it out.  He forced out the guilt. He can’t force out the grief. I don’t want it. It’s too much. It’ll shred me.  A drawer slams open, silverware rattles. I’m not aware of moving, but it’s me digging in the drawer for a knife. Let him be mad. I don’t care. I hear his feet stomping now. He’d been giving me space to calm down, I guess, but now he knows what I’m doing. He’s too late. The pain is a blessed relief. I watch in guilty satisfaction as a thin line of red wells up on my forearm. The knife wasn’t very sharp, so I had to press. It’s a deep cut.  “What the fuck?” Colton, wearing shorts, rushing at me, angry, scared. “Nell…what the fuck?” I don’t bother answering. I’m dizzy. Bleeding. I look down and see the spreading red, and it’s too much. I cut deep. Too deep. Good. The grief slides away and slicks across the scratched laminate floor. I’m in his arms, and there’s pressure around my arm. A white towel, turning pink-to-crimson. He’s squeezing my arm so hard it hurts past the cut-pain. The towel is wrapped around my arm, and then a belt cinched tight.  I’m between his knees, my back to his front. I feel his hard chest and his frantic, panting breath, his arms around my shoulders. He’s holding the belt in one hand, my wrist in the other. His face is pressed to the top of my head. His breath huffs loud in my ear, on my hair. “Goddamn it, Nell. Why?”  I find my voice. The hurt in his words is palpable, as if I’d cut him rather than myself, and I want to soothe it. Odd. I want to soothe his pain, the hurt over my cut.  “I can’t take it,” I whisper, because a whisper is all I can manage. “It’s too much. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. My fault or not…he’s gone. He’s dead. He’s bones in a wood box, a fading memory. Nothing stops that pain. Not even time.” “I know.” “You don’t.” The last word is growled, rabid. “You weren’t there. You’re not in my head. You don’t know.” “He was my baby brother, Nell.” His voice sounds almost as broken as mine. “But…you left when we were eleven. You never even came back to visit.” That was something that Kyle and I never talked about, but I knew it confused him, hurt him. His parents wouldn’t talk about Colton. “Yeah, well…I didn’t have much choice. I was barely surviving. I missed him every single day. I wrote a thousand letters to him in my head while I tried to fall asleep on park benches and in boxes in alleys, covered in newspapers. A thousand letters I’d never be able to write, couldn’t write. I couldn’t afford food or shelter, much less a bus ticket back to Detroit.” Something in what he said strikes me as odd, but I’m dizzy and weak and foggy and can’t place what.  He lets go the pressure of the makeshift tourniquet, gingerly lifts the towel away. Blood seeps out slowly, but sluggishly. I’m lifted and carried, and I let my head flop against his broad chest. He sets me on the bed, vanishes, comes back with a roll of gauze, medical tape, and a tube of Neosporin.  “You probably should have stitches,” he says, folding a bandage and placing it over the cut and rolling gauze tightly around my arm. “But I know you won’t get them. So this’ll have to work.” “How do you know I won’t?” I ask. “Will you?” “Hell, no. But how’d you know?” I watch as he tapes the edges down. “I wouldn’t have, if it were me. There’d be questions and social services and psychologists and the psych ward. Worst of all, they’d call your parents.” He puts two fingers beneath my chin, a thumb along my jaw. “Which is what you’ll get if this shit happens again. I’ll rush you to the fucking ER and I’ll call your goddamn parents myself, like I should this time, but won’t.” “Why not?” I whisper. “Because they’d get it all wrong. It’s not a cry for attention or any of that psychobabble bullshit.” He tips his forehead to touch mine. “Because I can help you, if you’ll let me. We can get you through this.” ‘We’? Shit. Shit. My eyes still and my lip trembles and my chest heaves. My instinct is to cause pain to stop the tears. Colton knows this by now, gathers me close and holds me against his chest. He’s determined to do this, to be all supportive and loving. Which is exactly what I’ve always been terrified of admitting I want so so badly. Except he’s tenacious about not letting me hide or lie or retreat or pretend, and he knows all my tricks. “Let…it…go,” he whispers, his voice a fierce, harsh sound in my hair. “No. No!” The last word is screamed. “You have to. You can’t bleed it out. You can’t keep pretending, drinking it down.” A shudder, a tremble, my teeth clamping down on my lower lip. My fingers claw into the hard slab of muscle that is his pectoral. I’m not sobbing. I’m not.  Goddamnit, yes, I am.  “It hurts so fucking bad, Colton…” The words are nearly lost in a sea of choking sobs and shuddering, body-wracking gasps for breath. “I want him back! I don’t want to watch him die anymore.”  I sob and sob, and he just holds me. Eventually I pull myself together and let words pour out of me. “Over and over I see it. Every time I close my eyes, I see him die. I know it’s not my fault, I always did. I convinced myself it was my fault because that was better than the pain of him being gone.” “He’s gone. You have to accept it.”  “I know. It just hurts.” Now comes the hardest admission of all. “I find myself forgetting him. I see him dying over and over, but I can’t remember what he smelled like. What his arms felt like holding me. What sex with him felt like. What kissing him felt like. I can’t remember him. And I wonder sometimes if I ever really loved him. If it was just teenage infatuation. Thinking I loved him because he was my first. Because we’d fucked. I don’t know. I don’t remember. And now there’s you, and you’re…better than he was. Stronger. You turn me on in a way I don’t remember with him. You make me feel things he never did. The way you kiss me, it’s better than I remember his kisses being. When you made me come, I realized I’d never felt anything like it, ever. Ever. Not in all the times I was with Kyle in the two years we were together.” A scream of raw impotent pain and self-loathing and anger and grief tears out my throat; Colton clutches me tighter and lets me scream. Doesn’t shush me or quiet me or whisper anything or tell me it’s okay.  “I’ve forgotten him, Colton! I never even loved him, and he’s gone! And I’ll never get him back, and I’ll never be okay!” “Forgetting is the mind’s way of helping you heal. Helping you move on. You did love him, Nell. He was your first. Your best friend before that. I know that much about you two. You were inseparable from birth. You did love him. Yeah, he’s gone, and it fucking sucks more than anything. He was taken from you too soon, from all of us. I can’t make that okay. But you have to be okay. You have to let yourself heal and move on. You’re stuck in the moment of his death, right now. Locked into a cycle with no way out. You have to break the cycle.” “I don’t know how.” “Feel. Grieve. Let yourself feel all the anger at the fact that he was taken from you. Feel the loss of him. Feel the sadness and the missing him. Don’t block it out, don’t cut so it stops, don’t drink yourself numb. Just sit and let it all rip you apart. And then get up and keep breathing. One breath at a time. One day at a time. Wake up, and be shredded. Cry for a while. Then stop crying and go about your day. You’re not okay, but you’re alive, and you will be okay, someday.” “You make it sound easy.” “Fuck no, it’s not easy. It’s the hardest thing ever. But it’s the only way. What you’re doing is gonna kill you.” I hear the personal knowledge of this in his voice. “You’ve done this.” He sighs. “Yeah. More than once.” “Kyle?” “Him, too.” “Who else?” He breathes out again, a long frustrated breath. “Friends. Brothers. A girl I…someone I loved.” “Tell me.” “Fuck. Really? You want to hear this now?” I nod, and he growls in his chest. “Fine. The first one was one of my best buddies, Split’s and mine. T-Shawn. Split grew up next to him. T-Shawn and Split started the Five-One Bishops together. There was a rumble on a basketball court, a turf thing. Fists mainly, a few chains, one asshole had a bat. Then it escalated. One of the other guys pulled a knife. Stabbed T in the fucking throat. I watched—watched him bleed out all over my hands, my arms. I watched T die, held him in my fucking arms as he bled out…and then I killed the motherfucker. Crushed his goddamn head against the court until I saw brains. Couldn’t stop myself. T was a good guy. A good friend. A gentle guy, really. But he had the bad luck to be born in the ghetto. Ain’t much you can do but what you gotta do to keep breathing. It ain’t even really a choice, for most. It’s just life. Life in the hood. How shit works. T was smart, man. Could have gone to college, written some smart shit, been someone, if he’d have had the opportunity. Didn’t. Now he’s dead.”  “I’m sorry.” “Then another brother got shot. Lil Shady. We weren’t friends at first. His girl had a thing for me, which he didn’t like. I never did nothing with her, but…he didn’t like me for it. Eventually we got past that shit, and had each other’s backs when things got ugly. Shady took a slug to the head. Didn’t see that shit, thank god. But he was gone, and it sucked. Just…gone. I’d smoked a blunt with him an hour before he died, you know? And then Split and Mo were banging in my door, carrying Shady, yelling about some other gang doing a drive-by.” He’s gone, his eyes vacant, seeing the past. “Couple others through the years, same shit, different day. None as close as Shady and T, though.” He trails off, and I realize he’s lost in the memory.  I tangle my fingers with his. “You said a girl, too? Someone you loved?” “That was the worst day of my life. The reason I decided to quit the gang and live straight, buy the shop and try to get away from all that shit.” He ducks his head, buries his face into my hair, takes a deep breath. “Her name was India. So fucking beautiful. Her mom was black, her dad was Korean. Almond-shaped eyes, long straight black hair down to her waist, body like—well, a damn fine one. Such a sweet girl. Too sweet to be living in the ghetto, to be caught up in the shit she was caught up in. She was friends with Split’s girlfriend. She was around a lot, and I’d noticed her. Seen her, liked her. Seen her looking at me. We finally ended up the last two awake after a party one night, hung out on the fire escape talking till dawn. She wanted to go to beauty school, or maybe be a model, she wasn’t sure which. Coulda been great at either.” A long pause then. Too long. I can’t fill it, though. I wait for him.  “We dated for a year. Dated isn’t really the right word, ’cause it wasn’t like I was taking her to Broadway and Little Italy or some shit, you know? We were together for a year, is what I meant. Fuck. I can’t talk about this.” His voice cracks, he takes a deep breath, lets it out, and continues. “Had some shit go down with a rival gang, a couple rumbles, whatever. Routine shit. It went bad. Got separated from Split and them, chased on foot for fucking miles by more guys than I could take alone. Didn’t mean to, but I led them to India. She was hanging with her girlfriends, couple of their guys. Sees me coming down the street, knew I was in trouble. Called the guys out to help. So the guys and I take care of things and I got hit in the shoulder, but whatever, wasn’t too bad. Last one was talking shit, but I could see he was ready to run. We let him. Fucking…he ran off, then stopped about a hundred feet away and blasted a shot, like a last ‘fuck you.’ India was on the porch, took it straight between the fucking eyes. Total freak accident. I could see the guy’s face. He was like ‘oh shit,’ because everybody knew India. Didn’t matter who you belonged to, you knew India, you had to love her, respect her ass. She was that sweet. He got capped the next day, not me, but it happened. Didn’t matter, though. She was gone. All that beauty, all that sweetness, all that love for everyone, no matter who you were…just gone.” I feel wetness in my hair, hear tears in his voice. I shift, swivel, pull him to me. I hold his face to my chest and finally understand what he meant by letting yourself just be shredded. Colton is a hard-ass, tough and strong and stoic. But he’s just…broken by the memories. And this is years later.  “She was the first girl I ever loved. I mean, I had girlfriends before that, you know? I even thought I was in love with a couple of ‘em, but it wasn’t love. It was like love, almost love. But when you feel that kind of all-consuming need for someone, a person you’d do fucking anything for, no matter what? They’re in your fucking skin, in your soul, like the essence of who they are is imprinted on you so completely that the very air you breathe and each molecule of who you are is tangled together. That’s love. I loved her like that.” Colton’s voice is…shattered. “And she’s gone. That’s why I have this shit on my chest, the scars. I couldn’t deal. I couldn’t accept that she was dead for the longest time. It hurt so bad, so deep that I just had to stop it somehow, I had to feel something besides the emotional agony. It was Split who saved me. Made me face what happened and how I felt, and let it go.” He laughs, a rough bark. “You don’t ever really let go, though. You don’t stop. You don’t stop hurting, you don’t stop loving. It doesn’t go away—you just keep living, and eventually shit gets pushed into the background of your life so it’s not consuming you every day. And then one day, you know you’re okay. It still hurts, you still miss that person. And yeah, you forget the details. The way she smelled, the way her mouth tasted, how her skin felt, the sound of her voice. It’s almost like a different life, a different person who loved her, was with her. But on a day-to-day level, you know you’re okay. Sort of.” “And you learn to love someone else?” I ask, because I have to know. He sits up, and now we’re facing each other, cross-legged. “I don’t know about that.” His eyes are vulnerable, letting me in. “I’m working on it, though. I’ll let you know.” He means me. “How do you compete with a ghost, Colton?” I whisper the question into a long silence. He shrugs. “I don’t know. You don’t. You just understand that there’s a part of you that you can’t give away, because it belongs to a dead person. I don’t know.”  “Can we do this? You and me? You with your ghost of India, me with mine of Kyle?” He takes my hands, rubs my knuckles with his thumbs. “All we can do is try, do our best. Give as much as we have to give, one day at a time. One breath at a time.” “I don’t know how to do this. I’m scared.” I’m unable to look at him, unable to meet his eyes.  He does the thing with his fingers on my chin, tilting my face to his. Except this time he does it and leans in, and his lips brush mine. “I don’t, either, and so am I. But if we want to live, to not be half-ghosts ourselves, stuck loving the memory of someone who’s gone, then we have to try.” He kisses me again. “We understand each other, Nelly. We’ve both lost someone we love. We both have scars and regrets and anger. We can do this together.” I breathe through the fear, the trembling, the desire to escape. “I like it when you call me Nelly. No one has ever called me that before.” He just smiles and holds me closer.