Page 6 of End Of Never

Each time we played this game of cat and mouse, there was always a chance of getting caught, yet we danced with the thrill of temptation getting harder to ignore with each encounter.

I run into the bathroom to get away from the music blaring too loud, the drinks flowing too good, and the intensity of his stare now has me dripping. Quickly, I try to shut myself in to regain control that he has now taken. Turning to close the door, a black boot slides in the door jam, creating a gap just large enough for the cat himself to slide through. “Get out.” Jace shuts the door behind him, with a coy smile rising on his reddened cheeks.

“Are you running from me?” His voice is deep, laced with craving, one my body was begging me to fill. Somehow, in his deep, forbidden stare of temptation, he took my ability to speak. Instead, my eyes roamed his body, feet planted on the checkered tiled floor. I watch him swallow down his desire, drinking in the sound that slipped when his toes touched mine. “Cat got your tongue?” His hand comes up; slowly, his fingertips trace my jawline, creating a trail of vibrating need as his finger runs down the side of my neck, stopping at my collarbone.

“Jace. What are you doing?” I swallow down my want to know, but need to keep the answers unheard. I don’t want to know what his plan is, I don’t want to be his secret desire, and yet it felt too damn good to stop him.

“Making sure Jake didn’t follow you in here.” The force of his body pressing against mine has my feet walking back, until the sink halts all movement.

“You shouldn’t care, I’m not yours.”

Jace cocks his head to the side with a smile that eats my words, placing each hand on the sides of me, and he grabs the sink. Leaning in, pressing his hard length into me, “Our bodies say otherwise.” His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in, pressing his lips to my lower ear, “Don’t lie, Lil. I can feel how hot you are for me.” I suck in a breath as his lips graze my neck, my pulse pelts the side of my neck, as his lips brush along my sensitive flesh. Just as I go to speak, there’s a knock at the door.

“Lilla, come on, let’s goooooo bitch!” Haley’s voice barrels into me, reminding me who I am and who Jace Evans is.

Pushing Jace’s chest, I move forward, “No matter how ‘hot’ we are, you are still with Ava. Don’t be a douchebag. She’s a grade A bitch, but don’t cheat, and for fuck sakes, don’t do it with me.” The haze in his eyes gloss over his gray orbs, making them almost like glass.

Jace warps his arms around my waist, slamming me into him once more, “You are the only girl I crave in every possible way. You’ve become an addiction, a curiosity, and I can’t stop. I can’t physically stop this…this fascination.” The seriousness in his voice has me believing him, but his relationship status says otherwise.

“I’m sure.” I roll my eyes, “Go find Ava, I’m sure she’s waiting.” I open the door without giving him time to respond, and find Haley leaning against the wall, holding on for dear life, as gravity pulls her down, and the alcohol yanks her eyelids closed.

Every party that summer, he threw mixed signals like it was his job. Avoiding me when the sun showed who we were. Ava and her posse always surrounded him, but when the lights were dark, and the music drowned out his words, the chase began.

I was his temptation in the shadows, and I liked it.

Chapter 7

Lilla

Present

I’m used to quiet, but I’m not used to stillness—the still air, free from cleaner, and my Mom’s perfume. I’m not used to the lack of her morning coffee filling the quiet house. It’s still. There is no movement other than my own. She always comes home. Even when she stays away overnight, she eventually comes home.

I can do quiet, but the stillness is loud; it reminds me how alone I truly am.

This time, she isn’t coming home.

The worst part is that my dad doesn’t know that while he’s away, she stays out and comes home with smudged mascara and an Old Spice smell. He doesn’t hear the moaning that comes from her room, and now he’s taken her on a lavish journey, leaving me, the good one, behind.

Does it pay to be bad? Is that what people want? All my life, I’ve tried to be good. A good student. A good daughter. A good friend. And for what? Here I sit in an empty house meant for a family.

Instead of spiraling into the black hole of sadness, where I've sulked all day. I decide I need an outlet, so I’ll run. I’ll run from all my problems, hoping like hell I can outrun them and the way they make me feel. Throwing on my running shoes, I grab my sweatshirt, throw up the hood, and start running as soon as my feet meet the concrete that used to house the ‘Happy Home’ rug.

Rock music floods from my earbuds, pulling me into the only safe place I’ve known, where the yelling is in passion down a microphone. Where the words make me feel powerful, loved, hopeful— everything my parents never made me feel.

With each hit of my foot, I accept the absence my parents brought; I accept the fate of being alone, and the cold truth, I am unlovable. I run for my safety, for release, but what happens when running is no longer enough? When it no longer feeds the emptiness, unraveling the pain and lacing it with a more substantial hit of adrenaline?

The more I run, the harder I push, begging for it to always be enough.

I’ve seen what unfulfilment does; it teases you with desire, with promises of more, until it destroys everything good in your life. Like an infomercial, ‘you think you have it all, just wait, the brand new state-of-the-art life you should be living.’ It makes you believe your perfection is imperfect, your achievements mediocre, and your satisfaction with the life you have dwindles until you destroy everything in it.

Unfulfilment, the disillusion that wrecks you.

My feet dig into the ground, stopping my sprint on the bridge overlooking the river. The night creeps over the town before me, blanketing it with darkness. Leaning over the bridge, my breath burns like a fire in my chest, my lungs begging for oxygen. Taking out my earbuds, I listen to the water rushing beneath, sweeping away branches, leaves, and sticks. I watch as it takes away the fallen, and wonder how it would feel to drift away into the unknown so effortlessly.

I run this bridge every day, and every day I think about it, floating.

Looking down at the water, I picture myself amongst the branches, being swept away into the unknown, entirely out of my control. I think about the leaves, and how dirty they must have been, and now, are cleansed from the earth they came from. I want that, to be absolved of the harsh words of my parents, for the hole in my chest that should fill with love to flood with water. Floating effortlessly looks appealing with each pass over this bridge. I fear one day running won’t be enough to suppress the ache inside my chest. One day, I will falter, and instead of sinking with my emotions, I’ll float.