Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EBONY
You can barely see where Bobby’s hands had been on my skin after Megan worked her magic with creams and potions that cost more than my yearly tuition.
I’ve heard nothing from either of my cowboys, not for lack of trying.
Even with Caleb’s prickly exterior, I thought at least the tug of what we once had would be enough to break through his steely outer shell.
All the books are clear on how to win the affections of the brooding alpha-hole dreamboat, and it all starts with the woman getting herself into a situation where the guy feels protective enough to save her.
I have bruises on my shins and a reputation on campus for clumsiest student ever now, and still no hunking men to show for my efforts.
Who knew I’d willingly walk into danger just for the chance of seeing them again?
A part of me questions whether anything in that carpark even happened, convincing myself as I toss and turn in bed at night that the drink and drugs concocted the whole scenario just to fuck with me.
But then I lose myself in my reflection each morning as I stroke the lines of my now healed tattoo; it was the one tangible speck of proof that assured me Caleb and Cooper Knox had found their way back to me.
Yes, they’d branded me, claimed me even, but a desperate show of ownership was a far cry from the devotion I was hoping for.
Caleb was always the more hard-headed of the two brothers, the first to lay himself on the sword should he need to protect someone he loves.
I felt the glimmer of that protectiveness as he’d met my gaze when he’d dragged his blade through the tender flesh of Bobby’s throat, but it had disappeared before I could bask in its heat.
He wouldn’t admit it, but I knew a part of him did that in my honour.
They had plans for me, and whether I would see this semester through to the end with blood still flowing through my veins was yet to be decided.
Of all the things these two men are—easily forgiving isn’t one of them.
I knew only too well what happened to the people who threatened the Knox brothers.
I rub at the raised skin on my wrist, shifting the embedded shrapnel beneath it.
I’ve always refused to get it removed; it was a connection to that night, to them.
I wasn’t ready to move on to a healed existence that they weren’t a part of; maybe that’s why none of my therapy sessions has worked.
Maybe after everything, I’m exactly what my file says I am: broken.
“Meow.” The skeezy driver of our rideshare eradicates the entirety of his tip in 0.
4 seconds as we climb into the back seat.
Of all the things I wanted to do tonight, dressing up as a cat with fluffy ears, a tail, and painted on whiskers wasn’t it.
Each to their own on the kink scale—believe me, I’ve imagined plenty of scenarios this past week—but the furry life is not for me.
With the campus on party central lockdown, the students have had to get creative with their eccentricities this year, which is why we are on route to take over the circus; you heard me right.
Ebony Winters is about to enjoy an evening filled with fun, games, and merriment.
Even rereading the flyer in my hand doesn’t instil the wonder Megan assured me I would feel being a circus virgin.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as Megan relays the best route we need to take to our driver, who is going the right way to a black-eye if her keeps looking down her dress at her cleavage like that.
Our gazes meet in the rearview, and he clears his throat as he turns to enter the details into the GPS.
I will not go away. This is important for your healing process.
Fucking Joy and her mindfulness questionnaire.
I wanted to spend this evening sulking in my room and ignoring Joy’s messages, but Megan wouldn’t let up; she’s quite persuasive when she wants to be, and that is the excuse I will give to everyone this evening who questions why I’m dressed like a horny feline—Megan commits to a plan.
If I ever find the jock-strap-wearing neanderthal who posted that flyer through our door, I’ll be sure to give him a swift kick in the balls.
“You didn’t move all this way, leaving behind everything you’ve ever known, to sit back in the dorm room alone, did you?
” Megan titters as she engages the locks on the cab door, her warning stare assuring me an attempted escape is futile as we travel at speed down the back country lanes as the night swallows up the blue sky, painting it a deep navy with strokes of mauve as the sun makes its descent behind the hills.
The fact that she thinks launching myself from a moving vehicle and face-planting the asphalt would deter me, shows how little she really knows me.
This past week, I’ve toyed with the idea of telling Megan the real reason why I didn’t walk but ran away from my hometown as fast as my legs could carry me—but sharing isn’t in my nature, and allowing someone to get so close, albeit someone as lovely as her, is a recipe for disaster.
Even with my therapist’s voice in my head telling me to open up, let down my guard, and trust the world, it still doesn’t come naturally to me.
Of all the things I miss from my old life, and there aren’t many to note, my mandatory therapy sessions falls in the never-again category.
Pouring out my heart and soul to a stranger as she analyses every facet of my trauma is a torture unlike any other, and I’ve known torture you only hear about in those true-crime coffee table reads.
My phone vibrates again, and I toy with the idea of lowering the window and chucking it out into the dense forest that lines the road either side of us. Realising it won’t get rid of her, I swipe open my screen to the latest email, the greeting the same every time.
Live life,love life, laugh with life.
Fucking shoot me.
I’ve decided Joy either needs dick or drugs in her life because this is unbearable.
“Whatcha doing?” Megan falls back in her seat after berating our driver for missing a turn, her eyes already glassy as she sucks on a lollipop that I suspect is laced with something other than sugar.
“Checking in with my therapist. The dip in my grades has caused some concern. Teacher feedback has been less than desirable. That’s therapist-speak for I’m shitting the bed.”
“Christ, at least they know you exist; my intro to pottery teacher still calls me Maria.”
“Help me please,” I beg with my hands pressed into the prayer position, my lashes fluttering for effect.
“Hit me, baby. Can’t be any harder than my philosophy class.”
“You failed philosophy.”
“Exactly—keep up.”
“Okay, number one: Megan, would you say I’m good at navigating difficult situations?”
“Sorry, from here on out, I’ll be responding to ‘Maria the great and powerful vase maker,’ and I’ll accept nothing less,” she states in a thick Italian accent, and I groan my frustrations which makes her laugh harder.
“Apologies, Maria, vase whisperer, same question.”
“I would say you got attacked and nearly fileted last week, but for the purposes of this questionnaire let’s go with….” She mulls over the fabricated portion of her answer, and it takes everything in me not to hit her. “You approach situations with caution and prepare for every outcome.”
“Ooh, I like it.” My faith in Maria vase lady is restored, and I type in her answer on to my phone. “Question two: would you say I surround myself with intelligent stable people?” I choke out the question.
“No understand any English.” She laughs and earns that slap I’ve been holding back. “No need for violence, buttercup,”
“I need to get this finished, or we are turning this car around, and I’m finishing it at home,” I whine, and it only serves to make Megan laugh harder.
“This isn’t a joke. She’s threatening an intervention, and the last thing I need is my therapist turning up to Mr Crane’s class tomorrow to realign my chakras. ”
“Give me a bottle of tequila, a spliff, and a chicken pasta tray bake, and I’ll align your chakras for free—no government intervention needed.”
“While appreciated, can we just get through these?”
“Say you aim to fill your circle with kind and passionate people.”
“You are good at this.”
“I know, I’m still questioning why they threw me out of the course; to be honest, I could philosophize with the best of them.
” I’m not touching that remark with a barge pole.
From what she has told me this week, her exit from philosophy was less about her ability to do the work and more about her willingness to sleep with the tutor last summer while his wife was vacationing in the Lake District.
“And finally, the biggie. How do you think you have handled the stress of joining the student body at Hells Haven this term?” I really hate how this interrogation of my mental health is worded like a friendly get-to-know-you assessment.
“How about this? You will endeavour to overcome your shortfalls and strive to be the best student you can be while addressing past issues that have led to a decline in your previous state of mind.”
I don’t respond with words; that wouldn’t be enough. Instead, I clap slowly. Bending in prayer in the back seat of the car as I silently vow to give her anything she wants if she agrees to complete all these tests with me. “I’m in awe, quite frankly. Who knew you had it in you?”
“There should be an extras section where you have to provide photo proof of your current state—filling this out dressed as a sexy cat in thigh-high stockings would get you sectioned fast enough to make your head spin.”