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Chapter 1
Willow
“Fuck, that feels so good—”
“Shhh.”
His hot, wet breath huffs against my palm as I pick up the pace. Arching my back, I thrust my hips forward to try a different angle, but it’s no use.
I’m too numb to feel anything.
We’ve been in this position for four minutes, and even with the extended pleasure condom, this guy is on the verge of blowing his load.
I wouldn’t call this fun, but I’m not ready for it to end. Because the moment it does, reality settles in and threatens to suffocate me.
A loud grunt fills the musty cab as Chad—or is it Brad?—drives himself upward, pausing at the top. His expression twists into an unflattering “O” face before he slumps on the seat.
I guess we’re done here.
I climb off and settle beside him, shoving his legs out of the way. Empty beer bottles and used gym socks litter the floorboards among old food wrappers, along with my panties.
On second thought, I don’t want them back. I smooth my T-shirt dress down over my lower half before a stray crumb can find its way into my ass crack.
Brad sits up on his elbows with a lazy grin. “Goddamn, that was good. I needed that.”
I reach down for my sandals, which rest atop the debris.
“Hey, I know you’re not looking for strings,” he says, “but if you wanna hook up again, hit me up.”
Ugh, here we go.
“Look, Brad, I’m sure you’re great—”
“Actually, it’s Chad.”
“Sorry. I’m sure you’re great, but this is a one-time thing. I’m moving away tomorrow.”
He sits up a little straighter, with disappointment etched on his all-American face. “Wait, you’re moving? Where?”
“To Andarusia.”
“Oh, cool.” He nods his head, although the blank expression on his face tells me he has no idea where Andarusia is. “Isn’t your dad an ambassador there or something?”
“Yeah.”
Since I’m still seventeen, custody goes to my dad who lives on the other side of the world in a small, eastern European country no one’s ever heard of. He and my mom divorced when I was four, and I only see him when he comes home for Christmas.
At least I got a card stuffed with cash every year for my birthday.
The look settles over Chad’s face—the one people plaster on when they’re uncomfortable with grief.
“I, uh, heard about your mom. Sorry for your loss.”
“Spare me.” I’m sick of cliché condolences and pity parties.
That familiar lump forms in my throat again, the rock now permanently lodged in my esophagus. I haven’t been able to take a full breath in weeks.
But I’ve learned how to distract myself from grief. The guidance counselor told me I have unhealthy coping mechanisms, but she ran out of pamphlets about using risky behaviors to avoid problems.
