The night of the first anniversary of her rape, I found her in the bathroom, arm sliced open from wrist to elbow, bleeding out on my bathroom floor. Cocaine was scattered all over the bathroom counters. I had no idea how much she’d consumed, but I had a feeling it was a lot more than anyone should take, no matter their tolerance. Especially someone her size.
I made yet another hard as hell phone call that night. It seemed like the only time I called Zane or Jax was to tell them something awful.
When I left the hospital the next day, I went to the bathroom to clean it up. Her blood was everywhere, and as hard as I tried not to, I broke. I couldn’t stop the tears, the all-consuming guilt, and the pain of knowing if I’d done something different,it wouldn’t have happened.
For the third time, because of me, Zoey nearly died. And that was my undoing.
I’d already started drinking again after finding her in the alley that night. Seeing her face so beaten and bloody and watching her scream and panic every time the paramedics tried to touch her was more than I could take. I needed something to help. And in my warped brain, I thought I was addicted to drugs, not alcohol.
Alcohol wasn’t going to cut it though, so I raked the remnants into piles and did them all, waiting for it to take me to oblivion.
“You loved her.” Quinn’s eyes meet mine in the bathroom mirror.
“Love, Quinn. I love her. I will always love her.”
I almost expect to see a flash of jealousy, maybe even anger, at my admission. Instead,I am met with understanding. More than I deserve. Such sincerity and warmth blows me away.
I turn around to face her. “Where did you come from, canary?”
“Springfield,” she quips with a shrug. “And just so you don’t get any ideas, I have no intentions of being shared with anyone. I’m a one at a time kind of girl.”
I grin to hide the fact that the idea of sharing her with anyone pisses me the fuck off.
It’s definitely a strange fucking feeling. I’ve never had a problem sharing with anyone before. I have always liked multiple people during sex. But the thought of anyone else touching her, even Ryder, is making me very angry.
“No sharing,cher,” I pretend like I agree with her when it’s actually a fucking decree. Something I never thought twice about with anyone else. Hell, I shared Zoey, the girl I believed was the love of my life. Yet, here I am mentally declaring no one else will ever touch her again. Not with me or without me. For as long as she’s mine.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Maddox. Give yourself a break once in a while. Let some of that burden fall off your shoulders. The only person you’re responsible for is you.” She reaches up, cupping my face. When it feels like those beautiful eyes are staring straight into my soul, I fight the urge to run.
This woman has power over me as no other has ever held. She makes me want to make promises I can’t keep. It’s only a matter of time before I blow all of this up, but I want to keep her.
Even when I know I can’t.
Express all the feelings
Present day
I wake up from the vivid as hell daydream with pen and paper in my hand. It felt like I was right there with her, reliving the fight with Jax, my damn panic attack, her singing, telling her Zoey’s and my story. Realizing I’d fallen in love with the girl in such adamn shortamount of time. Yeah. It felt so real.
I look at the pages in front of me with shock. Lyrics upon lyrics fill so many of the pages. Lyrics I don’t remember writing. Pages of songs pour from me, and I swear I can hear the melody of each one. I don’t even need my guitar. Don’t need to find the notes. Every note and chord are as clear as if I were playing it.
Turning the pages, I begin to write out the notes and the chords and note the arrangement. I can hear the tap of the drums, the beat of the bass. I see each string on the guitars and the keys on the piano. I imagine each instrument’s part as if I’m surrounded by an orchestra. Each bar is intricate. Delicate and beautiful in places. Angry and roaring in others.
I write until I have a few completely composed songs with the best lyrics I’ve ever written before me. I sit back,looking at what I’ve done with amazement. Months without a single new arrangement or word, and in a couple of days, I’ve managed to write many complete songs.
“Holy shit,” I run my fingers through my hair as I sit back in my chair.
Formonths,not a word or a note. Foryearsthey were few and far between. An album’s worth sure, but my part only contributed to about half on the last one. Ryder and Angel were the other half. At one time, I could whip out a song in an hour. Have it fine-tuned and performance-ready in a week or two, but never anything like this. In hours, I had no less than six full compositions.
Maybe all I’ve needed was just to get the fuck away from everyone.
“Here, asshole,” Bryan walks in after being gone for more than a day. He tosses the guitar—my guitar—on the bed.One I haven’t seen in years because it’s been at my dad’s house.
“How did you get that?” I ask him, my brows pinched in suspicion and confusion.
“Because I’m you, idiot.” He pulls out a chair, sitting next to me, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Thought having it might help get us out of here faster.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out two envelopes. “This too, since you seem to be using the stuff like it’s going to disappear if you wait too long.”
“You didn’t answer my question. How did you get the guitar?”
