Fight For Me (Until You’re Mine Duet #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sailor

It’s been over a month, and I still think about him every day. Multiple times a day.

It’s an obsession.

When is it going to stop?

Never, it seems. No matter what I do, there he is. Waiting for me.

In my dreams, all I see is Jaxon. When I close my eyes. When I open them. He’s everywhere, and no matter what I do, I can’t get him to leave me alone.

Like a ghost, he haunts me. It’s never going to stop.

I can’t get past this, I can’t get over it, I just can’t let him go.

But I have to. I have to try because I can’t live like this.

I can’t be involved with someone like him, who is twisted up in this dark world where death is not only normal but some sort of requirement.

You mess up? You’re done. There are no slaps on the wrist or calls to the police station.

Your life is ended… just like that. As simple as a shove off a cliff or a bullet through your brain.

How do people live like that?

When I first met Jaxon, I was scared of what I felt for him. My thoughts didn’t make sense, the way I was drawn to him and his darkness, but then he tricked me into not just accepting it, but liking it—into thinking it was okay to give into those dark thoughts… and look where that got me.

A witness—no, potentially an accessory!—to murder.

I worry every day that someone is going to knock on the door That when I open it, police will be on the other side waiting with handcuffs and furious looks of disgust knowing what I did, what I was a part of…

what I let happen. And I wouldn’t blame them for it because I’m disgusted with myself too.

I allowed someone to die. I allowed a life to end.

Jaxon said it was necessary, that they wouldn’t stop if he didn’t kill them, but there are other options.

We have other options for a reason! He didn’t even have to be involved; I could have gone to the cops on my own.

Made up a story about getting myself free…

we could have chosen another road, but he didn’t allow me to help in the planning process.

He’d already made up his mind before he found me.

He knew what he was going to do well before he did it.

I check news articles every day, wondering if my face will be on a wanted page.

There’s nothing yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.

They won’t have suspects until they have a body, or until they know someone is missing.

There’s been nothing about Mindy missing in the first place.

I assume if someone knew she was missing, they’d post it on the school website or in the newsletter—definitely on the news.

But it’s almost like… she didn’t exist. Like there’s no one out there to miss her, and that’s really sad.

Pulling the blankets over my head to hide from the world, I unlock my phone and open Instagram. I tap on the search bar and then the name at the top—my most recent search.

Her page pops up, and the first few rows of pictures are of just her.

Selfies she took—in the mirror, in her car, lying in her bed.

She’s flawless in each picture. Beautifully toned skin with not a single blemish.

Thick eye lashes, perfectly shaped eyebrows.

Full lips. High cheek bones. A straight nose.

Shiny hair that I bet never looks greasy or frizzy.

I scroll further down, and then I see him. I see them. Together.

But that isn’t the version of him I know. That’s not my Jaxon.

What am I even saying? There is no my Jaxon. If there was, I wouldn’t be here. We’d be together, back at my house, like we were before. We’d be—it doesn’t matter.

I keep scrolling, looking through the photos of them. Mindy and Jaxon. He isn’t smiling in a single one of them, just standing there like a statue while Mindy poses around him like he’s her prop. They look good together despite Jaxon’s obvious foul mood.

Did she ever see him smile?

I did. Heard him laugh too.

Why does that matter?

It doesn’t.

Nothing about him matters. It can’t. Because we’re done. We’re over. And I never want to see him again. I can’t get mixed up in all of that mess… in the mess that is Jaxon—I don’t even know his last name. How sad is that?

I block the profile, then close out of the app and put my phone to sleep. Rolling onto my stomach, I bury my face in the pillow and breathe in the warm air.

A soft knock on the door has my eyes popping open and a sigh escaping me.

Staying here forever isn’t an option. I need to go home, but… can I do that safely?

Since I’ve been here, my mind hasn’t stopped. No wonder I’m a nervous-wreck who doesn’t want to leave the house.

“Sailor?” Sam calls my name softly, the squeak of the door telling me he’s opened it without asking. I pretend to sleep, not wanting to deal with him right now—or most days, if I’m honest.

He’s been so nice and thoughtful, and I am grateful that he’s allowed me to stay here, but the more time I spend with him, the more I realize that Sam is not it for me. He’s everything I should want, but nothing I crave.

Not the way I crave Jaxon.

I could text him. It would be so easy…

But then I think about all the times he’s texted me.

Zero.

Not a single one.

It hurts more than it should. I mean, even if he did text me, I wouldn’t answer him back, but to know I was so easily thrown away? To know that he doesn’t even care that I left? It stings.

It’s also terrifying because that means I’m as expendable as Mindy was—that if I piss him off next, maybe he’ll throw me over the bluffs too.

If he cared, even a little, he’d call or text or do something to show me he does—do something to get me back.

All he’s shown me is how much I mean to him—nothing.

“Hey,” Sam says, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his hand on my back. I instinctively flinch, which gives away that I’m not asleep. Damnit.

I wish he wouldn’t do this, but he always does…

always gets in my space when I want to be left alone.

I know what he’s doing. I know he’s trying to pull me out of this funk—as a good friend would do—but it won’t work; it’s not that simple.

And it’s more annoying than anything because I tell him to leave me alone…

and he just doesn’t. He doesn’t know how to listen, and he certainly doesn’t respect my boundaries.

He thinks he knows me better than I know myself, trying to give me advice and tell me he knows what I’m going through.

I think the only person who really knows me is Jaxon, but I can’t be that person anymore.

It’s not normal, and it’s certainly not safe.

People hide who they truly are all the time.

Why should I be any different? Why did I think I could be different?

Because Jaxon allowed me to be… He gave me a safe space for that.

But there is more to life, and to this world, than Jaxon. I can’t only be myself with him and forget about the rest of the world. It doesn’t work that way because I don’t, and can’t, live in a bubble.

Being the girl Jaxon wants is a bad idea.

Being the girl Sam wants is safe. It’s comfortable. It’s… terrible. Boring. Monotonous. Everything that I don’t want.

Still, I throw the blankets back and smile up at Sam as if I’m happy he’s here… in my space. If I pretend enough, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe we could make this work, the way it did before, when I thought I was happy with him—when I pretended to be.

“There’s my girl.” He tucks some hair behind my ear, smiling down at me. His skin against mine turns my stomach, but I do nothing to show him that. “What are you going to do today?”

I shrug. “Look for a job, maybe.”

“You know you don’t have to work.”

“I want to. I need to do something.”

“You could take a few more classes?”

I’ve already told him I don’t want to busy myself with more school.

It’s stressing me out enough to keep up with all this stuff online because my brain has been so foggy lately.

All but one of my teachers had sent apology emails, saying they weren’t prepared for an online student and are still getting the hang of making it work, which just screwed me up too because I’ve never done online schooling like this.

It’s so different from what I did before.

Why the hell did they approve me doing this online if it isn’t a typical thing? It doesn’t make sense. Why make an exception for me? I didn’t ask, because if it’s working out in my favor, I should accept it. Be grateful that I don’t have one more thing added to my shit mountain.

“No, Sam, I don’t want to do that,” I say as nicely as I can.

“It’s just a suggestion.” He gets to his feet. “There is breakfast for you in the oven. I have classes, then work, so I’ll be home late.”

“Okay.” I smile again, but it physically hurts.

He leans down to kiss me—my cheek maybe, or my forehead—but I shift so he misses. He stays there for just a moment, then sighs and leaves the room. Stopping in the doorway, he looks back in, smiling pitifully. “Have a good day, Sailor.”

I lie in bed until the front door closes and the lock snaps shut. That’s when I get up to get on with my day.

My shower is quick because my anxiety is at an all-time high being in such a vulnerable state while alone.

If someone broke in, I wouldn’t be able to fight them off while I’m all soapy and naked.

I’d try like hell, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how it ends.

Though, when Sam is here, I also worry he will come in and try to join me.

So either way I’m not winning. What I wouldn’t give to take a safe shower.

I pull out the plate of food from the oven—an omelet stuffed with cheese, tomatoes, and something green. I pour myself a cup of coffee, making it the way I like, before taking it and the plate to the table.

I feel guilty eating the food he makes me.

I shouldn’t take all these things from him when I’m giving him nothing in return—though, to be fair, I have offered to give him money and he refuses.

I’ve been clear about what I want, but Sam has too much hope.

He acts like we’re more than friends, making this dangerous.

I’m trying my best not to lead him on, and I don’t think I’ve done anything to make him think that I want more, but he hasn’t stopped trying so maybe I need to try harder?

I just don’t know how to be more clear with him.

It feels like the only option is to leave, but I can’t do that.

I don’t have anyone else. So this is a small price to pay for a small peace of mind.

When he touches me, it’s awkward. When he tries to kiss me, I move away.

When he goes in for a hug, it’s quick and then I put distance between us.

And I’ve verbally told him that I don’t want this, that all the physical stuff makes me uncomfortable.

But I so badly need a friend right now, and Sam was always such a good friend.

I just want that back. I want him back as my safe space, and maybe that’s greedy of me to want or to ask for, knowing he has more-than-just-friend feelings for me…

Why does this all have to be so difficult?

The apartment isn’t very big, which doesn’t help this situation—an open-concept kitchen, dining room, and living room. One tiny bedroom and a bathroom big enough to turn around in.

When I first came here, Sam said we could sleep in his bed together.

I told him that was a bad idea. I offered to sleep on the couch, but he came out in the middle of the night and said I could have the bed and he would take the couch.

So that’s how we’ve been ever since, which only makes my guilt worsen.

I’ve taken the place over with nothing to give in return—at least, nothing he wants, because I won’t give him me.

It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I did that.

As badly as I want to sometimes, it’s not fair and it will only make things messier in the future.

I’ve considered seeing what would happen if we moved forward with a relationship—or if I had sex with him. But I can’t do it. It feels too… final. Like it’s a line crossed that I can never come back from.

The clanking of the mail person opening the mailbox startles me.

It’s one of those large square mailboxes that are built into the building with small slots to slip the main into.

There’s shuffling and some thunks as they shove letters into each box.

When the squeak tells me it’s closed and there’s a moment of silence, I open the door and grab the mailbox key from the key rack on the wall.

I pause before stepping out into the hallway, take a deep breath, and look both ways down the hall to make sure it’s empty before I keep going. It feels like spiders are crawling along my skin as I hurry toward the front door to the building.

It’s heavy and opens in a way that I can hold it with my hip and get to the mailbox, which eases my anxiety just a little.

The door locks automatically, and the easier it is to run back inside, the better.

I don’t feel completely safe inside, but I do feel safer than being on the street.

There is a small stack of mail in our box, so I take it out and hurry back inside, the building door thumping closed.

When Sam told me he was in apartment 7, I assumed that meant he would be on a higher floor, which made me feel better.

No one is breaking into an apartment on higher floors—at least, it’s less common.

But that isn’t true for this building. The top apartment is number 1, because it’s the fanciest apartment in the building.

Sam jokes and calls it the penthouse because it’s the only one up there.

The bottom floor that we’re on has six small apartments—7-12, and 2-6 are above us on the second.

There is an elevator, but it’s only for apartment 1, going directly to that floor so you need a special keycard for it.

Everyone else has to use the stairs. I’ve never seen the guy who lives up in the penthouse, but Sam says he’s mysterious and doesn’t talk to anyone.

I’ve run into a few neighbors while coming and going.

They’re friendly and welcoming, asking just enough questions to not be creepy or overbearing.

The neighborhood is nice, quiet, and with minimal crime.

It’s ideal. But I can’t stay here forever, even if things could work out with Sam.

I have a home that I need to get back to, and a life that I need to keep living.