Page 50 of Twisted Needs

I toss my phone onto the bed, fresh tears stinging behind my eyes. Not that the migraine cares…

My pulse keeps racing. I curl forward and bury my face in my hands. The words in my mind betray me, making me feel absolutely pathetic. I want him. I need him. I can’t get through this without him. I want him rubbing my back and pretending everything is fine until I start believing it too. But right now, I’m just fucking alone, because apparently I’ve gotten too fucking comfortable. The words make my stomach twist.

A small thread of anger travels through me and I grab onto it like it’s my lifeline, like anger is better than despair all of a sudden. I reach for the journal sitting on my nightstand—sometimes if I can get the thoughts out of my head, the panic loosens its grip. My hand trembles as I flip to a blank page. For a long moment, I stare at it.

Then I write two words:

TOO MUCH.

I look at them and something inside me snaps. With a frustrated noise, I hurl the journal across the room. It slams into the wall hard enough to send loose pages splaying open across the floor. The room falls silent again, except for my staggered breathing and my throbbing migraine.

And then the awful realization creeps through me that the one person who could’ve made this better is the one person I can’t have.

CHAPTER 13

A VERY THIN LINE

ANDERS

Four Months Back

Let the record state that I am not talking to Parker Morozov. Not after he kidnapped me, begged me not to fuck Seth, fucking kissed me…and then told me to finish my fucking sandwich. Holy shit. There is something wrong with him. But…like I said…not talking to him.

I don’t care if I’m stuck sitting next to him at the dinner table tonight, sitting so close we keep accidentally brushing elbows…I don’t care. And I especially don’t care that he keeps checking his phone like he’s expecting someone to text him. The man is surrounded by all four of his friends…and I know Bish is off doing fuck all right now, so who the hell is blowing up his phone?

I stab at chicken caesar with tenacity because I am determined to make it everyone’s business that I am not giving Parker Morozov the time of day. I get dragged to Lake Tahoe every fucking summer, and every fucking summer, they enslave me and force me into free, unpaid childcare against my will.

I’m just glad I’m too old for Luca to take my phone away to encourage me to enjoy the “great outdoors.” I’m twenty fucking years old and my main social circle are these two miserable weeks out of the year that consists of my preteen nieces and a herd of gross, slimy toddlers who think I’m their own personal jungle gym.

I’m halfway through my silent protest when Emelie draws me from my stewing thoughts.

“I zoned out,” I mutter. “Sorry.”

“Did you want me to grab you a beer?” She asks. “You look miserable, mon lutin. If you keep scowling you’ll get forehead wrinkles and it’s not a good look for you.”

My mouth pulls into a very slight smile. Just because it’s Emelie and she hasn’t wronged me like Parker has.

Right as I open my mouth to accept her bare-minimum offer, Mr. Sandwich Boss makes a grand gesture. He slides his half-full beer to me and, in a dignified voice, tells me to “go ahead, sweetheart. You can finish it off for me.”

“Je peux avoir ma propre bière?” I fire off to Emelie, sliding the beer back and ignoring him. “The germs,” I explain in English. “Va savoir où il a traîné sa bouche…”

Emelie laughs, nodding. “Good point.”

A few beats later, Parker leans in close and whispers in my ear. “Tu sais, beaucoup de joueurs de hockey parlent français…”

Shiver me fucking timbers…

“Alors surveille ce que tu dis.”

“Or what?” I ask pointedly, whispering low enough in his ear that no one else can hear. I swear to God, this is what happens. He gets me worked up because he fucking gets off on it. I’m almost certain.

“You need to stop,” he warns.

I look him up and down before diverting my gaze.

He doesn’t say anything else to me for the rest of dinner, but when it’s time to clear the table, he brushes past me, dragging his hand around the small of my back. And it fucking paralyzes me. That easy. All he has to do is touch me and I turn to fucking putty.

Fine. Whatever. If he thinks he can just…do that…then he’s fucking wrong.