Page 91 of Trailer Trash

Shit.

Me: That would make sense

Asher: Or shes asexual and doesn’t care about sex

My stomach knots.

Me: That would make sense too

Asher: Ask her.

Asher: don’t forget to tell River about u and nina

When was the last time I hung out with Asher? I don’t remember telling him that. I could’ve been too coked-up to remember.

Me: I’ll tell him soon. Thx

I exhale, annoyed. I don’t want Asher fucking up my Harlow high with River bullshit.

Harlow.

The tension eases in my shoulders.

Asher’s right. I need to ask her. I guess I will. Maybe.

24

Harlow

The first four weeks with Killian post-incredible sex are uncomfortable. Things are still weird between us, but he doesn’t mention it. He’s mostly in another world. He’s on his phone a lot, texting, or writing in a notebook. He keeps us busy before bed whenever he has the energy. He’ll take me places — oddly in his car — to do stuff like play beach volleyball. Once, we sang karaoke at a bar while he drank soda and complained about it. Sometimes, we just walk on the beach as the sun disappears from the horizon.

I can’t figure him out, though. Yesterday, I felt him behind me, and I swear he sniffed my hair. He likes to touch the small of my back instead of asking me to move or point.

Otherwise, he is finally being a perfect patient. His drug tests are clean, he mostly keeps conversations appropriate, and he hasn’t invaded my boundaries like looking through my phone or showing up outside of work.

It’s what I wanted... before.

The evening breeze cools my skin as I lounge beside the mansion’s Olympic-size pool. It stretches across the backyard like a sheet of blue glass. Pale stone surrounds it, bordered by white loungers, manicured palms, and flowering bushes. The mansion’s reflection shivers across the water, beautiful. Killian swims laps while I read.

Water patters against the concrete as he climbs out and comes my way. He sits onto the wide lounger beside me, our hips touching. His swim trunks soak through my scrub bottoms, but I don’t move away. I don’t fight contact with him when it isn’t sexual.

“I wish you’d swim with me,” he murmurs.

I glance up from my book. “I’m a sober aid, not an aquatic therapist.”

I leave out: Last time I was in a pool with you, bad things happened.

The book is plucked from my hands. My heart jumps.

“Hey!”

He reads a random page. “Ragar kisses my navel, then his lips trail down, reaching my mossy cleft.” His eyes widen. “What in the fuck is this?”

I reach for the book, frantic. “It’s a romance novel. Give it back!”

“There’s something wrong with this girl if she’s got moss down there.”

My face is on fire. “She is a forest nymph. They have moss instead of hair.”