And then he’s gone. Vanished into our hotel to share the news with the others that I don’t give a rat’s ass about the band.
I rub a hand over my aching chest, but the hurt won’t go away because it’s everywhere now.
Birds continue to circle above me. Suddenly, I want to scream at them. I want my voice to carry over the mountains. I want the world tohearme.
Truth is, no one’s listening. Learned that hard truth when a drunk driver took my mom from me years ago.
Knocking my head back against the chair, I try to rid the memory from my brain. All this accomplishes is making my head hurt worse.
What the fuck do I do now?
It’d be awkward to stay in Vancouver with the people who no longer want me. But the thought of returning to my quiet, gated property in Phoenix has me searching for another option.
One that will give me temporary relief from everything weighing me down.
five
Stasi
Come over whenever.
My heart skips when I see Liam’s text appear on my phone as I’m rolling up my yoga mat.
Would showing up this early scream desperation? I suppose I can hide under the guise of helping him get ready for the party this evening.
A hand touches my arm. I look up to see Ryan, one of my regulars since I started teaching this class on Saturday mornings to ward off my loneliness. He has perfectly highlighted beachy hair and the whitest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Awesome workout today, Stasi.”
“Oh, thanks.” I flush with heat. “I wasn’t sure if the scorpions were too much...”
“Girl, are you kidding me? My arms were barking.”
With a laugh, I walk away to shove my mat into my oversized bag. Leave it to me to be awkward. I don’t really know how normal conversations are supposed to go between adults. I lost the friendships I had when I changed majors in college and threw all of my time into studying. And sure, those relationships were built off alcohol and sex, but at least I had company when I needed it.
Ryan lingers, engaging in animated conversation with another person packing up their things. I never know if he’s just beingpolite or if he actually wants to be friends. Social interactions are so confusing in your thirties.
Slipping out the door with a quick wave, I rush to my apartment for a shower before pulling up to Liam’s place with a load of groceries in my trunk.
Not gonna lie, I pictured Liam in an old Victorian manor to match his gothic vibe, somewhere outside city limits on acres of private land. Not holed up in a line of identical black and white modern townhouses.
But a lot of Liam’s recent decisions have shaken both me and Hail. Like the fact that he begrudgingly agreed to host an unofficial album release party for Atonement when we’d never received an invite to any of the places he’s lived before.
Liam has always clung to his secrets. I assume that’s due to leftover trauma from his upbringing, having witnessed the touch of evil on his body the first night we met.
I’d asked him about the marks again the next time he showed up at our house in the middle of the night, but he’d shut me down. Told me no one else could know, or he’d be taken away from us, and that was the last thing he wanted.
So I was forced to watch him put on muscle like his life depended on it. Because it did.
Reflecting back on it now, I wish I would have known to speak up. Not that my parents would have listened. They weren’t fans of Liam. Teachers didn’t seem to care much for him, either.
I nudge his doorbell with my elbow, one arm draped in grocery bags and my other hand clutching a tiny plant with dark green and purple leaves—a late housewarming gift. It seemed like a good idea in the store, but now I’m convinced he’s going to hate it.
The door swings open to reveal Liam in all his devastating glory, waves of silky black hair tied up in a high bun. He’s dressed down in a t-shirt that clings to every defined muscle in his chest and a pair of basketball shorts that show off his inked thighs and muscular calves. I blink at them a few times, not sure I’ve ever seen them before.
It’s a crime, really.
“Stasi,” Liam greets in a low voice that brings warm tingles to my body.
