Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Devon
There's a first time for everything.
The first time I kissed a girl, I was six. Don’t really remember her name, just that my kindergarten teacher thought it was cute and told my parents—grandparents—about it.
They didn’t think it was cute.
No, they thought it was a sin. They made me kneel on the dirt in their basement, palms pressed together while my grandfather prayed and said the devil was already in me, whispering filth.
Guess Satan never left, because after that came the first time I kissed a boy.
I was twelve, out on some summer camp task with another kid for scouts.
Unfortunately, I do remember his name, because when the camp counselor caught us behind a tree, he made sure we knew how wrong we were for just being curious kids by forcing us to make out in front of him.
Every summer only got worse. Eventually, the boy—Paul—stopped showing up, but that asshole counselor never forgot who I was—what I am. When I turned fifteen, the abuse began to change…
And all I could do was watch the fucking stars. Hoping, praying that the same God who apparently condemned me would kill that bastard for putting his hands on my body.
It never happened.
The supposed ”God” never stopped my grandparents from punishing me either when I started to rebel.
Sixteen held a lot of firsts for me—first piercing, first tattoo, first time getting high. I got my first job at eighteen, and into college at nineteen. At twenty, I learned that I’d been adopted, and that my brother was actually my dad, right after I bought my first motorcycle.
Fast-forward through ten years of debauchery. Now, at age thirty… it’s my first time in jail.
I’d love to say I’m surprised, but really? This feels about right. It was only a matter of time before the universe decided to cash in on all my bad decisions.
Leaning my head back against the cell wall, I close my eyes as nausea roils in my stomach. Cold concrete bites through the fabric of my jumpsuit, grounding me enough to remember why I’m here. No matter how hard I try to right my wrongs, it always bites me in the ass.
The police took my lighter, my wallet, and even the condoms in my pocket when they booked me for trying to sell dope… to an undercover cop.
I shouldn’t have called Logan, or anyone for that matter. But after the third hour, when the joneses started clawing under my skin and the walls felt like they were closing in, the words just… tumbled out.
“I need my phone call.”
What a fucking waste. No one's going to save me here. Not like anyone ever has. I'm on my own, as I've always been.
I drag a hand down my face, feeling the tremors in my fingers.
God, I hate this part. The crash after the high.
It’s like being haunted by your own pulse.
Soon, I'll be puking my guts out on the cell floor, and part of me can't help but hope the withdrawal kills me this time.
What reason is there to hang on anymore?
Somewhere down the corridor, a lock clanks open. Footsteps draw closer until they stop outside my cell. “Peterson, you've made bail.”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
The corrections officer grunts and jangles the keys. “Someone got you out. Time to go.”
He unlocks the door and for a second, I just sit there, frozen. Hope sparks in my chest. Could he… no. It's probably Arnie—just one more thing to add onto my long list of debts. My heart won't let me believe it's anyone else.
I push myself up and follow him down the hallway, pulse roaring in my ears.
Processing takes forever. They hand me a clipboard with paperwork I can barely understand through the fog in my head. Charges, bail amount, court date. I just sign where they tell me to.
“Change quickly,” someone says. “You’re free to go.”
They slide my belongings across the counter in a clear plastic tote, clothes and all. I dress in a daze, still not really believing that someone would actually come for me. I half-expect a camera crew to jump out and laugh in my face, to tell me I'm being pranked. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me.
“Through that door.” An officer jerks his chin toward the exit, which I walk to without answering. The door buzzes, and the autumn chill floods my lungs the moment I step outside, struggling to banish the haze in my head. Up above, the stars flicker in greeting.
For one whole moment, I actually believe that they heard my call for help this time… until I spot who came to save me.
Logan leans against his Range Rover, hands on the hood. Some familiar-looking twink eyes me curiously from the passenger seat.
And then there's Christian, standing next to Logan with his arms crossed and a pissed off expression on his face.
The sight of them knocks the wind out of me.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
If there’s one thing worse than being abandoned, it’s being rescued by the people you've hurt beyond repair.