Chapter 45
Creed
Seattle didn’t fix anything... but Millie did.
When I left Noah’s room on Saturday evening shortly after Hyde, my first instinct was getting shitfaced and starting a brawl at Jed’s bar, but the promise of blowing off steam did nothing to fill the black hole growing in my chest and skull.
It felt pointless. Meaningless.
What good would breaking someone’s nose do? It wouldn’t fix whatever’s wrong with me. It wouldn’t exorcise the trauma, the rage, the emptiness. Nothing would change. I’d wake up in pain, my head pounding, and feel like shit all over again.
Still, I took the wheel, not entirely sure of my destination. Noah stepped out of the building just as I was about to peel out of the parking space. He yanked my door open, resting against it so I couldn’t drive off.
“Don’t do this again,” he said. “Stop repeating the fucking pattern, Creed. Why do you always end up here.”
“Move, Noah,” I snapped, my chest damn near caving in.
“No. You’re not driving off to get drunk and—”
“I’m not,” I cut in, settling on a destination. “I’m going home. I need time and space.”
Seattle sounded better than Jed’s bar, even if I knew I’d end up drunk either way. At least there was no one else back home and I wouldn’t end up at a hospital with another concussion.
My face had time to heal while I drank myself stupid for three days straight, sitting in my father’s leather chair. The same one he sat in every night, whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other, eyes on the flat-screen, never me.
It didn’t surprise me how well my shoulders settled into the backrest, or how my elbows matched the dents in the armrests.
It fits because I’m just like him.
That narrative kept me draining bottle after bottle.
That, and the fact that the more I drank, the blurrier Millie became inside my head.
I thought the same thoughts I’ve thought for years.
The same shit that kept me pulling back from her.
.. but the harder I tried to convince myself Seattle was exactly where I should be, the less I believed it.
And it collapsed into pieces when I woke from a dream about Millie this afternoon.
She sat cross-legged on the hood of my car, sun in her blonde hair, a summery dress riding up her thighs while she gestured wildly about something I can’t remember. She was smiling, her eyes bright and crinkling in the corners.
I stared at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom for twenty minutes, my head pounding, mouth drier than the Sahara, mind whirring through our moments together over these past weeks, and I couldn’t stop comparing them to that dream. She looked at ease in it. Happy and whole.
She looked like she felt safe... and I’ve seen that look before. So many fucking times since we first played chess in my father’s kitchen before everyone had woken up.
She was like that the morning outside the cafeteria after Jasper and Mateo and when she touched my face instead of saying hi at the gym. Whenever I pulled her closer. After every stolen kiss somewhere inappropriate on campus. Every time she’s seen me lately.
Safe, happy, calm.
I did that.
What kind of man makes a girl feel safe?
Not a monster. Monsters don’t wake up feeling gutted because they’ve hurt someone. My father didn’t know guilt.
I do. It’s been eating me alive for a year, growing more potent whenever I get scared and push Millie away. Whenever I make her work for something she should never work for... me.
There are so many moments when I get it right and make her smile. So many when she opens up to me a little more. Once is an accident, twice might be luck, but so many is neither.
It’s a pattern. A fucking habit.
She curls into my side now, naked and warm, body mellow from her orgasm and I can’t believe she’s actually mine.
The bed’s too small for two people. I’m pressed into the cold wall, and Millie’s lying half on me, half off, her small comforter draped over us. It’s fucking uncomfortable, but I don’t want to move yet. Preferably ever.
At some point tonight, I’ll have to face her brother and whatever the hell comes with that, but he can wait a little longer.
Millie keeps dragging her fingertips across my side, reminding me of something she promised me weeks ago.
“Have you started my tattoo yet?” I ask.
“I started, finished, and tore it to pieces.”
“Why? Were you not happy with it?”
“I wasn’t happy with you.” She lifts her head, smiling at me. “I took a picture of it, though. Do you want to see?”
“Not if it’s a pony.”
She chuckles, leaning out to grab her phone. “It’s not a pony. It’s... well, Hyde said all your tattoos represent something, or someone and...” She pinches her lips, then shows me the screen. “I drew something that represents you.”
It’s a chess king in front of a mirror, and in the reflection, there’s a pawn. My brow furrows, eyes moving over the design as if the meaning might change if I look at it differently.
Millie looks up, studying my face. “You don’t like it.”
“No, it’s... is this how you see me?”
“I see you as the king, but you see yourself as a pawn. Less than you really are.” Her fingers slide up my chest, tracing the line of my collarbone. “I thought this would remind you of your worth every time you start doubting it.”
My throat tightens. “How long have you seen me like this?”
“Since I met you.”
Jesus. I’ve spent so many years being treated like I’m less, that somewhere along the line, I stopped questioning it. I accepted it... and here comes Millie, flipping my world on its head.
All this time, I kept telling myself I wasn’t worthy of her. Not worthy of the way she kept coming back no matter how many times I pushed her away. And the whole time she was looking straight through my bullshit.
I glance at the design again.
King. Her king. Fuck, that lands hard.
I angle my head until my neck aches and kiss her temple. “I love you, baby. Thank you.”
“Does that mean you like it?”
“I’ll call my artist tomorrow and book an appointment.”
She beams and moves in to kiss me, her tongue tangling with mine while her small hand slides down my abdomen and under the comforter.
“Round two?” she asks, biting my lip.
I catch her wrist before she grabs my cock. “Later. I need to go talk to your brother about us.”
She pulls back, pouting a little. “He won’t like the news.”
“I know.” Throwing a hand over my eyes, I exhale a long breath. “It’ll take time, but one day he’ll look past everything I’ve fucked up and realize I can be good for you.”
Millie shifts and sits up, comforter clutched to her chest. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it won’t be easy. Your brother’s seen me at my lowest. He knows I fuck up all the time.”
I run a hand down my face, hating the years I’ve wasted convinced there couldn’t be good inside me. I’ve never been a reliable person, but in Seattle, I realized that being worthy isn’t something you’re born with.
It’s something you choose.
I refuse to be defined by the violence of my upbringing. I won’t give Jeremiah the satisfaction.
“Maybe if Hyde sees how serious I am about you,” I continue, brushing my knuckles down her spine, “and that I can keep my shit together, he’ll approve.”
Her eyebrows hit her hairline, throwing me off.
“You idiots,” she scoffs, getting out of bed. “How is it that you two are the worst communicators on the planet, when I’m the one who stopped talking for a year?”
“What do you mean?” I sit up to watch her get dressed.
I was inside her ten minutes ago but my cock still juts at the sight of her naked body. It calms down once she pulls her panties on, then goes limp when she throws my clothes over.
“Don’t just sit there, get dressed.”
“Millie—”
“He doesn’t think you’re not good enough, Eli,” she clips, yanking her sweater over her head. “He thinks I’m stealing you. That he’s losing you.”
My stomach roils as something Millie said to him hits me.
You don’t get to act like I stole from you.
Then I remember our conversation by Millie’s hospital bed, and I swear under my breath when the puzzle pieces start falling into place. He’s got it fucking backward. Instead of worrying about his sister, he’s worried about me.
Again.
And it pisses me off. Hyde’s supposed to be smart, but he’s repeating his worst mistake. Has he learned nothing?
I grab my keys from my pocket and show Millie which one opens my room. Fuck knows how long it’ll be before I’m done with Hyde and no way am I sleeping alone tonight. And no way will I sleep here, sandwiched between Millie and the cold wall.
“Wait in my bed,” I say.
“What? I thought I was coming with you.”
No way in hell. I can’t let her see me hit her brother after I just fucking told her I can keep my shit together...
I’ll start tomorrow.
“This is between him and me, Millie. Go to my room.”
***
I didn’t hit Hyde.
Even though during our two hours of couples therapy—as Dash called it—I wanted to nail his face at least ten times.
Millie’s asleep when I enter my room, the bedside lamp on, her body curled under my sheets. She looks peaceful, and for a moment, I watch her breathe. It’ll take a while before the thought of her loving me fully sinks.
Probably as long as it’ll take Hyde to recover from what Noah said. We were running around in circles, arguing, then making promises, then arguing again as if we were dividing our estate in a divorce.
My head was pounding, a myriad of contradicting emotions and frustrations. Nothing I said worked. I couldn’t fucking get through to him that I wasn’t going anywhere, that loving his sister wasn’t bad for our friendship.
I gave up and called for backup.
Dash did jack shit, save for comic relief, but Noah... he really needs a new major because Hyde’s eyes were watering after three sentences. What I’d been trying to hammer into his head for over an hour suddenly sank with ease.
Yeah... Noah always knows what to say.
You’re friends now, Hyde, but next year, you’ll be doing post-grad while Creed’s done with college. Maybe you’ll stay in touch for years, maybe you’ll drift apart, but imagine how life will look five years from now if Creed’s with Millie. You won’t just be friends. You’ll be brothers.
And just like that, Hyde understood he’s not losing me...
He’s stuck with me.
I strip off my clothes and slide in beside Millie, maneuvering her until she’s sprawled over my chest.
Hyde and I are good.
Noah and I are good.
Millie and I are good.
Now we need to work on the siblings... and something tells me it won’t take two hours or two days. Probably not two weeks, either. They have years of damage, broken trust, and broken expectations to repair. It’ll take time.
Thankfully, we have nothing but.