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Logan jumps to his feet just as Owen pokes his head out of their room. “Christian, he’s sick. Look at him.”

“I am lookin’,” Christian slurs. “And what I see is someone who owes me five thousand dollars.”

My stomach twists. The room goes quiet and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe around the shame crawling up my throat.

Or maybe that’s bile.

Logan clenches his jaw. “You're drunk, man. He can barely stand.”

“Then he can crawl.” Christian leans over the couch to get in my face. “He can sit in a chair and wash dishes, or clean the fucking fryers. I don’t care. Juanita agreed to hire him, and every check goes to me.”

Owen tries to speak. “Christian⁠—”

“No. This selfish piece of shit is going to earn his keep. I don't give a fuck.”

My hands shake, whether from withdrawal or guilt, I don’t know. Maybe both. The room tilts, and I sit up, gripping the couch for support.

Christian doesn’t soften. Not even a little. In fact, he grips my hoodie and hauls me over the back of the couch despite both Logan and Owen trying to stop him.

The sudden movement jolts my stomach in a way I can’t fight. Nausea climbs up my throat, higher, higher. I try to hold it in with all my strength, swallowing down acid as my lashes dampen with tears. Not again. I will not let it happen again.

I almost manage to stop it.

Until I trip over my own two feet and hit the carpet hard.

My knees slam into the floor, pain ricocheting up my thighs. The impact knocks the air out of me, and with it, the last of my control. The first gag hits so hard my whole body jerks, and then it's summer all over again.

I’m fifteen years old, puking behind the cabins while the other kids point and laugh. They don't know why I'm sick. They don't know what he did to me.

“This is your fault, you know. If you weren't so evil, I wouldn't be tempted this way.”

The memory slams into me, crawling up my throat and splattering to the floor. Tears streak down my cheeks before I can stop them, arms shaking with the effort of holding me up.

“Ah, shit,” Christian shouts, dropping to his knees beside me. I bat him away weakly, humiliated.

“Don’t—” I choke, another dry heave ripping through me. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’ll get towels,” Owen says, but it barely registers. All I can hear is my own ragged breathing.

“Sorry.” I spit onto the floor, trying to clear the taste of shame from my mouth. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

My nails dig into the carpet. I wish I could sink straight through it and disappear. All I can think about is that fucking counselor hurting me—using me.

Back then, I promised myself I'd never let anyone see me like this again. And yet here I am, helpless and weak.

Seems I can't even keep a promise to myself.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Devon

It takes me three days to recover.

I sleep in broken, restless stints, waking up drenched and shaking every time. Either Logan or his boyfriend check on me, feeding me more than I want them to. Christian doesn’t check on me at all.

I just stay on the couch because I’m too exhausted to move—and too ashamed to go anywhere else. Not that I have anywhere else to go. Every time I close my eyes, I see myself in those woods as a kid, heaving all over again.

Fucking embarrassing.