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A more intimate experience than any one I've ever had.
Maybe it's progress that I want that.
Or maybe it's another sign I'm fucked up beyond help.
Or both.
After I finish, I clean up, I dress, and I try to find a little sense. But there isn't any.
What the hell is Cassie doing here?
Chapter Three
Damon
I move down the stairs with steady steps. Find Cassie sitting on the couch, eyes closed, body swaying in time with the music. One of those singer-songwriters she adores, a wounded woman who pours her heart into her words.
The image is familiar. She spent most summers here with Daphne and me. We used to stay up late and talk about music.
Then I started drinking. I made one big mistake, and Cassie started looking at me like I was an asshole.
Instead of apologizing, I doubled down. I poked her every chance I got.
She bit back. Gently at first. Then hard enough to draw blood.
We knew each other well enough to cut deep. We acted like it was banter, and it was.
But it was brutal too.
I haven't seen her since I got sober.
She looks the same—the same messy hair, the same green eyes, the same long legs, and curvy hips, even the same dark jeans—but the air feels different. It's charged with the knowledge I started this shit. I hurt her first. I didn't give her a choice except to run away or fight back.
I should let go, forgive, take ownership, I know.
But she is pretentious and annoying.
And it's fun fucking with her.
Or do I have that wrong too?
She looks right on the cream couch, dissolving into the singer's voice, finding some footing in the words, some way to understand her pain.
She's not faking anything. She's truly lost in the words.
She's hurt and in desperate need of a little understanding.
The same as me.
I swallow hard and push the sympathetic thought aside. This is no time for empathy. This is war.
And, sure, Cassie looks like a nice girl—
Actually, scratch that. With the ever-present winged eyeliner, berry lips, trendy outfit, and massive headphones, Cassie looks like the type of person who'd rather scribble in her journal than launch an attack.
No doubt, she'd rather sit and listen to music all night than deal with my bullshit.
But if there's anything between Cassie and her music—
She'll kill for that shit. Without hesitation.
Cassie blinks her eyes open as the song fades into the next. When she catches me staring, she blushes and reaches for her cell. She still has the same case-free iPhone. The same as mine.
It doesn't fit her. She needs some decoration. She needs to use it to announce her obsession with music too.
But Cassie's desire to let the entire world know she is, in fact, a musician isn't my concern.
My sister is.
"Is Daphne here?" I ask.
"Why would she be here?" Cassie asks.
Why the fuck is Cassie here? That's a better question. "Is she okay?" Maybe that's it. Mom and Dad were in an accident. Or something happened to my sister. But then Daphne texted me this warning slash instruction.
"She's stressed about work, but yeah, she's okay." There it is. The annoying thing about Cassie. The tone of her voice that says I know your sister better than you do. I care more than you do.
It's not that she's wrong, exactly. In the last few years, she's been there for Daphne a lot more than I have.
But she's not family.
I am.
Fuck her for pointing it out.
I swallow my irritation. Cassie is Daphne's best friend. That's the situation. If I want to improve my relationship with my sister, I need to stay civil.
"I'm here to talk to you," she says.
Why? "You have a key?" Seriously, who bursts into someone else's house and walks all the way up the stairs to their room?
"Yeah." She brushes a stray lock behind her ear. "Since I was a kid."
Right. Her parents dropped her off here all the time.
As soon as she could drive herself, Dad insisted she have access to the place.
Dad loves Cassie. She's the songwriter I'm supposed to be. Smart, articulate, dedicated, and, most importantly, not an alcoholic.
Not that I resent her for it. Too much.
Cassie doesn't call me on the key thing. It is a family house. Family decided she has access. She has as much right to be here as I do. Which is also annoying.
As is the look of interest in her eyes. No. That's full-on frustrating.
She's staring at me like she knows I'm an asshole, and she wants to replay what happened upstairs anyway.
Why is her hatred so fucking hot?
It's wrong.
"Do you usually leave the door open?" Cassie presses her palms into her thighs. She speaks without flirtation or animosity. She's actually friendly. Well, by her standards. "I mean, you are alone, so why not, right?"
"Do you usually stop and watch?" It comes out harsher than I mean it, but that's for the best. I don't want her to think I want her watching. Even though I do. Even though the interest in her eyes was sexy as sin.
