Forgiving Utah (State of Us #4)

Prologue

Devon

“I’m sorry.”

The phone screen starts to blur, edges of my vision beginning to darken. My thumb hovers for just a second, then I type out another message.

Please, hot shot. Talk to me. I’m fucking drowning.

Still nothing. No bubbles, no reply. Just the text thread of my own fuck-ups staring back at me as they’ve done for the last ten months.

If he saw me now, he’d hate me for this.

Hell, I hate me for this.

“Get on the bed,” the man behind me grunts.

I flinch even though I knew it was coming.

My motel room reeks of cigarettes and sweat.

The wallpaper’s peeling, a buzzing light above the sink, turning everything sickly yellow.

My phone goes black, and for a second, my reflection stares back—eyes bloodshot, pupils the size of dimes.

Not from desire, no, but from the pills swimming through my system.

Another few moments, and I’ll be blissfully unconscious.

I set my phone facedown on the nightstand and climb onto the bed mechanically. My client for the night counts out dollar bills, the sound of money hitting the dresser making me nauseous. Or maybe that’s the drugs. Either way, I want to puke.

“Just… don’t talk, okay?” I mumble, gazing up at the ceiling. Cheap plastic glow-in-the-dark stars shine down on me like a mockery.

I used to love the stars. Now they make me sick. Every time I look at those fuckers, I’m reminded of all the times they watched me fall apart.

The man doesn’t speak when he climbs onto the mattress, which is good. Words would ruin this illusion that I’m somewhere else. Someone else.

When he lifts my legs and positions his cock at my hole, I just focus on those stars. Pretend they’re not made of plastic and I’m not here. Pretend someone who cares might actually answer my calls for once.

But even the glow starts to fade, until it’s just me—and the feel of a stranger’s breath on my neck.

The sound of his groans, cologne thick enough to make me gag.

The invasion of my body. These pills are starting to kick in because I barely feel it when he wraps a hand around my throat to make me choke. I’m not even hard.

But I’m fucking flying.

I used to love the stars. Until their presence felt like hollow eyes designed to watch me burn.