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Dean: Take it how you want.
Chloe: It was a long time ago. I barely remember.
Bullshit.
It was her first time.
She remembers every second.
I know I do.
The nervous look in her dark eyes.
That long, black hair in my hands.
The way my name rolled off her lips.
It was the only time in three fucking years that she said it without disdain.
And, fuck, there is something wrong with me.
Because I'm not sure which I like better.
The ugh, Dean, you're the bane of my existence.
Or the fuck, Dean, you're the only thing I need.
Chapter Five
Chloe
There are a few facts of life in Los Angeles.
Seventy and sunny is a daily thing.
Strip malls are everywhere.
And traffic is a bitch.
The freeway is clogged. And nothing—not the blue skies, or the beige hills, or the grunge music flowing from my speakers—makes it bearable.
What is it about being stuck in a car that makes everything awful? I spend most nights sitting around, thinking, listening to music. But when I have to do it in my car, I start crawling out of my skin.
I find a spot. Jump out. Stretch on the sidewalk. I hate staying still. I did it for too long. I spent way too long thinking I'd never be able to move like this again.
Traffic is inevitable with the distance I'm driving, but I can temper it. Find a nearby gym. Leave early enough to zip along the freeway. Make up the time with bodyweight exercises and miles on the treadmill.
Strong body, strong mind.
Strong mind, strong body.
It's a cycle. And it works. At least, that's what I tell myself. My body and I aren't quite there yet. I haven't forgiven it for what happened. Or learned to trust it.
I stretch my legs on the five-block walk to the studio. This is a nice part of Venice Beach. Clean streets, fancy cars, palm trees lining the sidewalks.
They blow in the breeze, blue sky and ocean view behind them. Like a post card. Hello, from Paradise. Your nemesis is waiting.
He is.
