news of the outside world, where things were bigger, more dramatic, than what was happening at home. She could lose herself in bombings in foreign lands, political debates, crimes committed in places she’d never been. Anything that helped to distance herself from her life, herself. An old habit that brought comfort in some odd way. And when she hadn’t been able to turn on the television because her mother was too stirred up, too panicky and on edge, she’d escaped into books. There had always been some form of escape for her, in between handling her mother’s rages.
She saw like a movie montage in her head scenes from her childhood: her brother, maybe five years old, cringing under the fort he’d made of sofa cushions while their mother, Darcy, had one of her fits in the kitchen. The sounds of breaking glass, of sobbing and ranting. Dylan was only eight, herself, but she’d crawled under there with Quinn, holding his hand and tel ing him stories: fairy tales, bits of books, anything she could remember or make up, until it was over. And after, Darcy would be exhausted, regretful.
Crying and apologizing. And Dylan had comforted her, feeling angry and guilty al at the same time. Responsible for everyone’s wel -being: her mother’s, Quinn’s.
Her stomach clenched.
She took a few breaths, forced her mind to clear those old images that haunted her stil , whenever she was too tired to stop them.
Instead, she watched the images flit across the screen as the day grew lighter outside, but there wasn’t enough going on to distract her. From her past. From the fal out from her night with Alec.
Picking up the remote, she flipped through the channels. More news, reruns of old sitcoms that had never appealed to her. She final y settled on a movie, Sleepless in Seattle .
She had a secret love for romantic films, something she’d never admitted to anyone but Mischa. They were comforting, even though she felt they were completely unrealistic. Maybe that was why they were so soothing. It was easier to lose herself in something that was total fantasy.
Sipping her tea, she watched as Meg Ryan saw Tom Hanks for the first time from a distance. Saw the emotion on her face. And felt an answering twinge in her chest.
She quickly flipped the channel.
Maybe not so unrealistic after al .
She flicked the television off.
She was overtired. If she could just get some sleep she’d wake up with a clearer head. She’d know what to do.
She lay back on the pil ows and pul ed the blankets up to her chin. It was warm in bed, with her down quilt heavy on her body.
Not as warm as Alec’s skin.
Don’t think about it now. Don’t think at all.
About the heat of his skin. About his surprisingly soft palms on her flesh. His clever fingers. The lush sweetness of his mouth.
She groaned, her body buzzing with desire that was stil somehow unquenched. She knew with sudden, aching clarity that it would be until she saw him again. Until he touched her. Spanked her. Until she had him inside her body, the one thing that had been denied her so far.
Torture, to want something she knew she shouldn’t have.
Because if she al owed that to happen, there would be no turning back. She would be lost in some irrevocable way, the strength she’d built her entire life disintegrating in her ridiculous need for this man, and for what he offered her.
Alec.
What had he done to her already? And how much more could she—would she—al ow?
seven
It felt as though she’d fal en asleep only a few minutes before when her cel phone rang. She reached blindly for it, grabbed it from her nightstand and flipped it open.
“Hel o?”
“You left.”
“What? I . . . Alec.”
“Why, Dylan?”
She pushed her hair from her face, trying to get her brain to engage. Why had she left? She remembered the warmth of his big bed, his body beside her, the sheer comfort of his presence. She remembered her fright at how much she liked being there.
Needed to be there.
She saw like a movie montage in her head scenes from her childhood: her brother, maybe five years old, cringing under the fort he’d made of sofa cushions while their mother, Darcy, had one of her fits in the kitchen. The sounds of breaking glass, of sobbing and ranting. Dylan was only eight, herself, but she’d crawled under there with Quinn, holding his hand and tel ing him stories: fairy tales, bits of books, anything she could remember or make up, until it was over. And after, Darcy would be exhausted, regretful.
Crying and apologizing. And Dylan had comforted her, feeling angry and guilty al at the same time. Responsible for everyone’s wel -being: her mother’s, Quinn’s.
Her stomach clenched.
She took a few breaths, forced her mind to clear those old images that haunted her stil , whenever she was too tired to stop them.
Instead, she watched the images flit across the screen as the day grew lighter outside, but there wasn’t enough going on to distract her. From her past. From the fal out from her night with Alec.
Picking up the remote, she flipped through the channels. More news, reruns of old sitcoms that had never appealed to her. She final y settled on a movie, Sleepless in Seattle .
She had a secret love for romantic films, something she’d never admitted to anyone but Mischa. They were comforting, even though she felt they were completely unrealistic. Maybe that was why they were so soothing. It was easier to lose herself in something that was total fantasy.
Sipping her tea, she watched as Meg Ryan saw Tom Hanks for the first time from a distance. Saw the emotion on her face. And felt an answering twinge in her chest.
She quickly flipped the channel.
Maybe not so unrealistic after al .
She flicked the television off.
She was overtired. If she could just get some sleep she’d wake up with a clearer head. She’d know what to do.
She lay back on the pil ows and pul ed the blankets up to her chin. It was warm in bed, with her down quilt heavy on her body.
Not as warm as Alec’s skin.
Don’t think about it now. Don’t think at all.
About the heat of his skin. About his surprisingly soft palms on her flesh. His clever fingers. The lush sweetness of his mouth.
She groaned, her body buzzing with desire that was stil somehow unquenched. She knew with sudden, aching clarity that it would be until she saw him again. Until he touched her. Spanked her. Until she had him inside her body, the one thing that had been denied her so far.
Torture, to want something she knew she shouldn’t have.
Because if she al owed that to happen, there would be no turning back. She would be lost in some irrevocable way, the strength she’d built her entire life disintegrating in her ridiculous need for this man, and for what he offered her.
Alec.
What had he done to her already? And how much more could she—would she—al ow?
seven
It felt as though she’d fal en asleep only a few minutes before when her cel phone rang. She reached blindly for it, grabbed it from her nightstand and flipped it open.
“Hel o?”
“You left.”
“What? I . . . Alec.”
“Why, Dylan?”
She pushed her hair from her face, trying to get her brain to engage. Why had she left? She remembered the warmth of his big bed, his body beside her, the sheer comfort of his presence. She remembered her fright at how much she liked being there.
Needed to be there.
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