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Itall comes back to me in a rush–his face when he promised me everything was going to be okay, then the sound of that gunshot that ripped my soul in half for a second.Ironically, one ofBeck’scrushing hugs is the only thing that can soothe away this much hurt.Icried a little last night with my hand over my mouth, listening to him beg to come in.ThenIfell asleep in a pile of dirty laundry because my body couldn’t drift off in bed without him.It’sall so fucked up.
Ifhe toldScoutthe truth, maybeIcould start to trust him again.ButIdon’t think he will.He’salready proven that maintaining the status quo is more important to him than our friendship.That’sthe part that hurts so fucking bad.
Islide my jeans further down my thighs and hiss softly at the chill of the alcohol wipe against my skin.Myhands won’t stop shaking from exhaustion and stress asItry to draw up the testosterone.Ittakes me four tries to get rid of the bubbles, andIhave to triple check what needleI’musing.Beckusually does this part so quickly and easily while he rambles about anything from how many caloriesJasonMomoaeats in a day to what he would name his pet hamster if he had one.
Grittingmy teeth,Ipinch a fold of skin and hover the needle over it. “Shit.”I’mpsyching myself out over nothing.Ishould know better.Butit’s not fair.Everyonewho helps me with my shots disappears from my life andIend up back here, struggling to be tough enough to do it myself.
Theknock on the door is quiet, butI’mso wound up thatIjump a foot and almost stab myself.ScoutandRomanwere fast asleep on the couch whenIgot in from my first shift atCopperCreek, which means this has to beBeck.Sureenough, the handle rattles softly as he tests it. “Dal,” he whispers through the thin wood. “Please.”
“Goaway,”Icall back, clenching my muscles to try and stop the syringe from shaking in my hand. “We’lltalk tomorrow.”
Hejerks the door harder. “It’sWednesday.”
“So?”Iknow exactly what he means, but the sting of thinkingI’dlost him forever is still too fresh.
“Ineed to do your shot.”
Witha snarl of frustration,Ithrow the syringe into the metal baking panIuse as a tray.Kickingmy jeans off,Istorm across the room and open the door an inch.Iblock it with my body weight to hold it shut and peer out at him. “Shutup and go to bed,”Ihiss. “I’vegot it under control.”
Inthe dim light spilling down the hall from his room, allIcan make out is the shadowy hint of his profile and the gleam of piercing, green-gold eyes like a big cat.Hisstrong fingers flex against the frame, slipping into the gap soIcan’t slam the door. “It’lltake you all night,” he murmurs in a low voice. “Comeon.”
“No, you know what?”Ipush at his fingers, butIcan’t dislodge them.Huffing,Iglare up at him. “Iam aman.Ican give myself a fucking shot,Beck.”
Hecoughs a quiet, dry laugh. “I’lltell you a secret,Dal.Menare pussies.”
Inthe moment whereI’mdistracted trying to figure out if he’s joking or serious, he slides a socked foot into the gap and gently pries the door open wide enough to slip inside.Hiseyes trail over my messy hair and bare legs as he leans his back against the door and locks it again.Evenbeyond his injuries he looks like shit, pale and hollow eyed with unshowered hair. “Howwas your first day of work?”
Thisman forgets everything useful and important, every reminderItry to give him, but when it comes to me and my life his memory is flawless. “Itwas fine,”Isay stiffly, hugging myself tight. “Hetaught me how the stockroom works.”
Whenhe realizesI’mnot going to elaborate, he straightens up. “Comesit down.”
Iperch on the edge of the mattress, pressing the soles of my feet into the dusty, uneven floorboards, and hand him the tray.Hechecks my work carefully whileIlook at anything and everything besides him, becauseIcan’t let him win me back.Iswore no one would ever hurt me again the way it hurt to lose my mom, and this man made a liar of me.
“Didyou get the seeds planted?” he asks in a subdued voice as he pinches the skin on my thigh.
“Thesoil’s shit on this property, andIwaited too late.Noneof them are going to grow.”
ThepainI’mbraced for never comes.BeforeIknow it, he’s capping the needle and unscrewing the empty syringe. “Maybethere’s a tough one.You’llfind a little sprout growing out of a crack in the rocks in a few months.”
“Thatwould be called a weed,Beckham.”
Hiseyes slide up to mine from where he’s kneeling between my legs, and he shrugs one shoulder. “Ilike weeds.”
He’snot even supposed to be here, and he’s definitely not allowed to stay.Buthe just shoves the injection supplies aside and climbs past me into my bed, pulling my orange comforter over him.Nowthat he’s here,Idon’t thinkIcould get him out with a bulldozer.
Icross the room and switch off the overhead bulb, then study his bulk in the moonlight from the window.Hisface is buried in my pillow so he can pretend not to hear me whenItell him to leave. “I’mso angry at you.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunts wearily, without moving.
“Idon’t know how to trust you anymore.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Youshould go back to your room.”
Heprops himself up on his elbows, but doesn’t look at me. “ItoldScouteverything this afternoon.”
“Ithink–Wait, really?”Atbest,Ithought it would take him weeks.
