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What was I to do now?
This time years would be decades. I was sure of it. This time there would be no pleasure to be had between faceless thighs. I was sure of that, too. I’d get hard, of course. I’d come. I’d experience that carnal flash. But I knew that it would be like a drop of water in an empty vase. Worst of all was the fact that this time I would know where Rachel was. I had her number, she had mine. Nothing would be keeping us apart this time.
Except for us.
This would destroy me. That I could not heal from.
I was hunched over on the edge of the couch, feet tapping madly, fingers digging into my skull, when the door opened. The little bell rang and I looked up. It was like seeing Rachel at the bottom of my stairs all over again. I was shocked. I was scared. I was flooded with hope, drowned with lust, choked with anger, paralysed by terror. I couldn’t believe she was there, actually there.
I must have looked like a madman. Eyes bloodshot and wide. Whiskey on my breath. Crumpled clothes torn at like a shifting werewolf under a full moon. But then again, Rachel looked like a madwoman, there in the open doorway.
Her hair clung to her paled skin like river weeds. She dripped onto the floor, breathing heavily. She didn’t seem to care at all that the door was open or that gusts of wind were sending in rainwater around her trembling form.
“Look,” she said as I stared at her, “if we’re going to make this work we need to talk. Really talk.”
I barely comprehended her words. “Make this work.” Make what work? What was she talking about? Why wasn’t she closing the door? Wasn’t she cold? Wasn’t she freezing? Wasn’t she chilled to the bone? Why weren’t my arms around her?
Rachel sucked in a trembling breath, her chest still heaving.
“Mason,” she said as the rain roared behind her, “we need to talk about what happened in Vegas.”
