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“Over and over,” he continues, returning the dwindling cigarette to me and massaging my foot, “I was cast out. But dark angels weren’t alone. They had each other. That’s how it was when we were POWs and when we were erased. But after I was shot and Ivy went through her trial, when the guys and I helped Wells nurse her through her grief and PTSD, I felt it stronger than ever. The four of them would stick by me through anything—whether I fucked up, whether or not it was convenient. My blackened soul, my gray morals, my raging demons—none of it sends them packing. They own my shit, and I own theirs.”
Belonging.
I snuff out the barely there cherry in the tiny ashtray on the sill, understanding Liam, Ivy, and this whole weird found family of hers a lot better. “You’ve all been through a lot, but having each other is a gift.”
Rooted in brokenness.
He dumps the ashtray into the trash, spritzes his mouth and mine with breath spray, and lights a diffuser to eradicate the scent of smoke. “In spite of all the fucked-up shit we’ve endured, we found each other—a tighter family than most people ever have. Ivy’s better than the rest of us, purer, but we all wrestle some dark demons, so a fallen angel seemed fitting.”
“It is,” I agree, but guilt over his meltdown at the stables plagues me. “I didn’t know about the foster care. That’s why—”
“I know you didn’t, Ace.” He holds out his hand to me. “C’mon. A bath. We can’t let that smell linger on us with Felicity coming home tomorrow.”
It takes several minutes to fill the tub, so Liam saunters off and returns with water, wine, beer, fruit, cheese, crackers, and my shower products. He rests the tray on the back of the tub, hydrating me and feeding me some berries and a few pieces of sharp cheddar before he peels off my shirt and his shorts, and guides me into the warm water.
“I love the way you smell,” he says, squeezing my honeysuckle shampoo into his palm and lathering me up. “As much as I’d love to cover you in my scent, I’d miss yours.”
I’m not sure where my words have gone. The intimacy of this night is seeping into my blood, rushing through me, swishing in my ears, so that all I can concentrate on is how no one has ever cared for me like this. Who knew something so tranquil could be so exhilarating?
A conversation with my brother a few months before he died washes over me.
I’m lying on Ben’s couch while he finishes a late-night brief. I love staying at his apartment even if he spends the time working. He also takes me to his races—something my parents would never approve of because they say the whole scene is dangerous.
“Ben, why do you still race? You’re already a hotshot lawyer. On your way to becoming a judge or senator someday—what you’ve always wanted. Why risk it?”
He glances up from his laptop. “President,” he insists. “I’m going to be president someday.”
“Fine.” I laugh. “Doesn’t mean you should be evading questions already, Mr. President.”
That stirs a smile on his face. “A life without risk is flatlining, squirt. Don’t let ambitions or the allure of luxury and prestige rob you of the thrill a single moment can deliver. That’s all life really is—a string of moments. Make ’em good.”
I prop my head up on my bent elbow to see him better. “Being swayed by ambitions isn’t my issue. I want nothing to do with the political prestige you so aspire to.”
He shoves his computer aside, really taking me in. “Then, do you. Keep taking pictures, Cee. You’ve got a great eye. Live thrilling moments and capture others.”
“Maybe,” I concede, thankful he’s paved the way for me to forge my own.
“Seriously.” He chuckles, returning to his work. “Is there anything I’m not good at? This is life coaching at its finest.” Ben morphs arrogance into charm like nobody can.
Rolling onto my back, I let my gaze drift to the spinning ceiling fan. “I wish I knew what would deliver a thrill for me.”
“Easy,” he says, half distracted. “It’s usually the very thing you’re told not to do.” His eyes narrow at me. “But forget I said that for about ten more years.”
“Tell me about your brother’s best friend.” Liam’s demand knocks me out of my daze with a start.
“What’s to tell?”
His fingers trickle down my arms with the cascading bubbles as he rinses my hair. “What does he have to do with your innocence, Carver?”
Irritation courses through me, not wanting to journey into this. “Sounds like you have your answer.”
His body tenses behind me, tenor icy. “Tell me I’m fucking wrong. Tell me that guy, who looked to be in his mid-twenties in that picture, wasn’t your first. How old were you?”
I scooch myself away from him, plucking the glass of wine and a purple grape from the tray and turning to face him head-on. “I don’t need your judgment.”
“I’m not judging you at all, baby.” His eyes close like the idea pains him.
I’ve envisioned Ben’s reaction to be a thousand times worse than that, so I shouldn’t overreact.
