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I jam my finger against the button and beg silently for the doors to open. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away.
“No comment, huh?” All of a sudden, he’s practically on top of me with one forearm against the wall over my head. The weight of his body almost pins me to the wall. “Don’t be modest. I’m trying to compliment you.”
I can’t breathe. I need to run. I have to get away. I can’t let him hurt me. Nobody will hurt me so long as Quinton is here. He doesn’t need to be with me in the physical sense for his protection to save me. That knowledge is the only thing that keeps me from either running blindly down the hall or collapsing in a shaking, teary heap thanks to all the foggy, painful memories rushing back when Nash gets too close to me.
That won’t happen. Not this time. I’m safe.
It gives me the courage to press a hand against his chest and shove with all my might. He falls back a step, more likely out of surprise than thanks to my nonexistent physical strength. “Leave me alone,” I warn, coming as close to a snarl as I ever have. I almost sound like Quinton.
For the first time, Nash offers a genuine smile. His eyes light up like he’s excited. “And what will happen if I don’t?”
“Do you really want to find out?”
The ping of the elevator couldn’t have come at a better time. What’s even better is the fact that a handful of students file out, talking and laughing, providing cover for me to slip inside and frantically press the button leading to my level. Thankfully, Nash is smart enough not to follow me inside the elevator. Instead, he stares at me with a hateful glare until the door shuts.
Once I’m alone, I lean against the wall, gasping for air. It seems strange how I start shaking now that there’s no danger when I managed to hold it together before now.
Earlier today, all I wanted was for people not to be afraid of me because of Quinton.
Now, I wish they would. Nash, in particular.
What’s his sudden interest all about?
And why do I get the feeling he’s not done with me yet?
18
QUINTON
There was a time when I couldn’t understand the concept of addiction. I knew it existed. I knew it ruined lives and shattered families. You don’t grow up in my world without hearing stories like that. Wealthy families whose kids had nothing better to do with their time and money than ingest or inject it.
And I admit to wondering how they could ever let things get that out of hand. I asked myself why they couldn’t simply walk away from whatever had taken a stranglehold on them. Why couldn’t they will themselves back to health?
Now, I understand. Only it isn’t drugs or alcohol my system craves.
How am I supposed to exist at this school, knowing Aspen is so close yet so far? How am I supposed to function when all I seem to do lately is work out in a vain attempt to exorcise my demons and pace my room like a caged tiger?
I haven’t seen her since the night of the attack. I’ve watched her, yes, observed her going about her routine. I know she’s safe. I know she’s as well as can be, all things considered. Physically, she’s healed from her experience.
Emotionally? That’s another story. I can offer her safety and protection, but I can’t erase what happened. My craving for her body, her smell, and her taste is just as overwhelming as the need to comfort her. To be with her when she’s hurting and provide an ear if she needs to vent.
Here I am, Quinton Rossi, and I would happily listen to a girl vent about her feelings. What has she done to me?
Fuck. I need to hear her voice if I can’t see or touch her. And I know I can’t because it would be too dangerous. If I told myself otherwise, I would be no better than the addict who tells himself just one more time.
Sometimes, one more time is all it takes for everything to come crashing down.
The number to her new phone is programmed into mine, and I call it, still pacing, my body a mass of knotted muscles. “Pick up,” I mutter when it rings three, four, five times. “Why won’t you pick up?”
Suddenly, I realize she won’t pick up because she doesn’t know I’m the person calling. She wouldn’t have my number saved to her contacts. I shake my head at my stupidity while texting her.
Me: It’s Q. Pick up.
This time when I call, she answers. Still, she doesn’t say anything at first. “Are you there?” I ask.
She exhales, and the sound strikes me as something similar to a sigh of relief. “It is you.”
