Page 90 of Before You Fell

So I did.

I wanted to lose myself in him.

We ended up in a bathroom. Memphis kissed me against the counter, hard enough to knock the breath out of me and slow enough to make sure I felt every second of it. His hands were warm on my hips, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of my dress, pulling me closer until the hard press of his cock made it very fucking clear what he wanted from me.

Good. I wanted him to want it.

I wanted his mouth. His hands. His body. The dirty, simple heat of being wanted by a man who did not come with a decade of emotional damage stitched into my skin.

His mouth moved down my neck, teeth scraping, tongue following, and my body answered because it was a traitorous little bitch with a pulse and no loyalty to the heart that was trying to crawl out of my chest.

For a moment, I thought I could do it.

Let him push my dress up and spread my thighs. Let him make me come so hard I stopped remembering the exact sound Phoenix made when he lost control inside me. As soon as he pushed my panties to the side, the whole room shifted under me.

His fingers swiped through my wetness, his mouth hot on my neck. I should have been able to let it happen. But my body went cold and I shoved Memphis back, hard.

“I can’t.”

He blinked at me, his mouth swollen from mine. “Willow?”

“I can’t.”

I yanked my dress down with trembling hands.

His hands came up, palms out, no wounded male ego. No ugly little comment to punish me for changing my mind. “Okay.”

“I said I can’t.”

“I heard you.”

My phone buzzes again.

Sienna: Private party tonight. Come be bad with me.

A second message lands before I can pretend I’m not interested.

Sienna: Memphis will be there. He asked about you.

I stare at the screen. My body feels off from the inside out, jittery and hollow, as if every nerve has teeth and is chewing.

I should stay home, drink water, and eat something. Call my mother and let her hear my voice before she starts imagining the worst.

Instead, I reach for the bag of pills I left on the coffee table the night before.

The thought of not being able to make it through a few hours without one to take the edge off should scare the shit out of me. It does. But I take two anyway and swallow them down before that scared little voice inside me gets loud enough to stop me.

Then I pick up my phone and type a reply.

Willow: Send the address.

By eight, I look hot.

The red dress is tight enough to seem intentional and short enough to invite bad decisions. My smoky eyes are dark, my mouth painted red, and my hair is down my back in loose waves, messy enough to seem effortless, not as if I spent forty minutes trying to style it perfectly. The mirror shows a woman who looks as if she knows exactly what she is doing.

But the mirror is a lying asshole.

I’ve been popping pills most of the day. By the time I step into the party, I am already high, but no one notices because everyone in this room is either high, getting high, or pretending their glassy eyes are from the lighting.