Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Devon
I feel like a corpse.
Sweat plasters my shirt to my skin, even though I'm frozen solid.
Every beat of my heart skips like it just wants to give up, and I just wish it would.
I tuck my shaking fingers under my pits, hoping it'll trick my body into calming the hell down, but it only makes me aware of how hollow I feel inside.
God, I’m so fucking tired.
I promised Logan I'd stay on the couch when he went to bed last night, but I just want to fucking bolt right out the front door. I don’t even know why I make promises anymore when I know I can't keep them. Maybe a part of me hopes that, just once… I will.
So far, no dice.
Blinking up at the ceiling, I watch early-morning shadows dance across the wall as another set of shivers wracks my body.
Finally managed to doze off briefly, and when I woke up, someone had placed a bucket on the floor beside me in case I puke.
I don't know if it was Logan or his boyfriend, but either way, I won't need it. I haven’t thrown up since my last summer at camp, and that was the day I vowed that I never would again.
When the bedroom door creaks open, I quickly shut my eyes, hoping whoever it is will think I'm asleep. Or dead. Soft footsteps draw near. A hand gently touches my forehead, causing me to flinch back, and my eyes fly open to take in Logan standing above me with his brows pinched in concern.
“Go away,” I mumble, turning my head toward the couch cushions. Even that little movement sends a wave of nausea barreling through me. Fuck, I just want to snort a line right now and make it go away.
“You look like shit,” is all he says in response.
“Feel like shit.” Everything inside me recoils when he kneels down beside me, and I jerk away on instinct. “Don’t touch me,” I snap.
Logan presses the back of his hand to my forehead anyway. “You’re burning up. When’s the last time you had water? Or food? Or—”
“Why the fuck do you care? Go be with your wife. Or your boyfriend.”
He studies me for a long moment. “I've always cared, Dev. You ran from me, not the other way around.”
I try to scoff, but it comes out weak and pathetic. “You didn't want me, you wanted Salem.”
“I wanted you both.”
That sentence cleaves through everything left inside of me, piercing right to the bone. All I can do is stare at him and shiver so violently that my teeth chatter.
Both? He wanted to have his fucking cake and eat it too?
Bullshit. I was fighting for his attention the entire tour last year, and all he wanted was Salem—even when she wanted nothing to do with him.
Then the guy almost fucking dies, and who was the one there for him when he woke up? Sure as hell wasn't his so-called wife.
With a huff, he stands and disappears into the kitchen. Cupboards close, the sink turns on and off, then he comes back with a glass of ice water.
“Sit up,” he says gently, offering me the drink.
“I don’t want—” My stomach roils mid-sentence. I slap a hand over my mouth, breathing through the bile clawing up my throat. Fucking humiliating.
“You’re detoxing,” he scowls. “Dev, this isn’t safe.”
“No shit.” I let out a humorless laugh, snatching the glass before chugging it down. Sweat beads along my hairline. “Told you to leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving.” He kneels beside me again with a glare. “You need help.”
“I need a fucking line. Go play house with your perfect partners and let me die in peace.”
“You think any of this is perfect?” Logan’s lip curls over his teeth. “You think it was easy letting you go after the hundredth missed call? Wondering where the fuck you disappeared to? Mom and Dad have been worried sick about you, Dev.”
I roll my eyes to hide how much they sting, heart thrashing in my chest. “Should’ve been easy,” I mutter. “I made it easy.”
The words I spat at him last year before I ran away assault my memory.
“You know, it’s almost poetic. You spent your whole life pretending to be someone you’re not… and now you’re running after the person who only loved that fake version of you.”
“Yeah.” He exhales slowly, gaze still on my face. “You did. But I still wanted you.”
Wanted.
“Don’t say shit like that,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Don’t… fuck, Logan. Don’t.”
“Dev. Please.”
That word. Fuck that word. “Just leave.”
“No.”
It’s quiet and simple. He takes the glass and sets it on the coffee table before putting a hand on my shoulder. I close my eyes because if I look at him, I’ll break. My throat burns.
“Logan…” It’s barely a whisper. Barely anything at all. The tremor in it humiliates me.
“It’s okay,” he says, brushing damp hair off my forehead. “Let me help.”
Fuck, I hate him for being here right now. I hate myself for wanting him to stay, but I don’t have the strength to push him away again.
When I open my eyes, we stare at each other for a minute, heavy emotion flickering in his eyes—an apology, maybe, or just acceptance for what happened between us.
Where we are in life, all the vitriol I spewed last summer.
Maybe the fact that we almost died together, which I never really gave myself time to process.
He opens his mouth, no doubt about to say something that'll rip my chest open again…
When the front door slams open so hard it nearly cracks the drywall behind it.
Christian storms in, looking pissed, his hair loose and wild around his shoulders. He never came home after walking away last night.
His gaze darts from Logan’s hand on my shoulder to the sweat on my face, and something ugly flashes across his features. “Get up,” he barks, the smell of liquor heavy on his breath. “You’re going to work.”
I blink at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You owe me money, motherfucker, and I got you a job at The Prospector. So get up.”
Logan jumps to his feet just as Owen pokes his head out of their room. “Christian, he’s sick. Look at him.”
“I am lookin’,” Christian slurs. “And what I see is someone who owes me five thousand dollars.”
My stomach twists. The room goes quiet and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe around the shame crawling up my throat.
Or maybe that’s bile.
Logan clenches his jaw. “You're drunk, man. He can barely stand.”
“Then he can crawl.” Christian leans over the couch to get in my face. “He can sit in a chair and wash dishes, or clean the fucking fryers. I don’t care. Juanita agreed to hire him, and every check goes to me.”
Owen tries to speak. “Christian—”
“No. This selfish piece of shit is going to earn his keep. I don't give a fuck.”
My hands shake, whether from withdrawal or guilt, I don’t know. Maybe both. The room tilts, and I sit up, gripping the couch for support.
Christian doesn’t soften. Not even a little. In fact, he grips my hoodie and hauls me over the back of the couch despite both Logan and Owen trying to stop him.
The sudden movement jolts my stomach in a way I can’t fight. Nausea climbs up my throat, higher, higher. I try to hold it in with all my strength, swallowing down acid as my lashes dampen with tears. Not again. I will not let it happen again.
I almost manage to stop it.
Until I trip over my own two feet and hit the carpet hard.
My knees slam into the floor, pain ricocheting up my thighs. The impact knocks the air out of me, and with it, the last of my control. The first gag hits so hard my whole body jerks, and then it's summer all over again.
I’m fifteen years old, puking behind the cabins while the other kids point and laugh. They don't know why I'm sick. They don't know what he did to me.
“This is your fault, you know. If you weren't so evil, I wouldn't be tempted this way.”
The memory slams into me, crawling up my throat and splattering to the floor. Tears streak down my cheeks before I can stop them, arms shaking with the effort of holding me up.
“Ah, shit,” Christian shouts, dropping to his knees beside me. I bat him away weakly, humiliated.
“Don’t—” I choke, another dry heave ripping through me. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’ll get towels,” Owen says, but it barely registers. All I can hear is my own ragged breathing.
“Sorry.” I spit onto the floor, trying to clear the taste of shame from my mouth. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
My nails dig into the carpet. I wish I could sink straight through it and disappear. All I can think about is that fucking counselor hurting me—using me.
Back then, I promised myself I'd never let anyone see me like this again. And yet here I am, helpless and weak.
Seems I can't even keep a promise to myself.