Chapter 3
chapter
three
“Rock bottom isn’t the end—it’s the place you finally push off from.” - Haven
HAVEN
I don’t open my eyes. I don’t move. I just breathe.
Because if I move, he’ll know I’m awake. And right now, Cyrus Vale, my living nightmare, my tormentor, the boy I swear I hate…is holding me. I can still feel the touch of his lips. My body aches, and yet, if given the choice to refuse…I would do it all over again.
His arm is heavy across my waist, holding me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
His chest rises and falls against my back, steady now after hours of chaos.
And his fingers…God, his fingers. They trace lazy lines up and down my stomach.
It’s a featherlight touch, the softest I’ve ever experienced from anyone, let alone him.
It feels like heaven.
I haven’t felt whole in a while. Not since Mom died.
Not since Dad remarried and shoved Anita and Cyrus into my life like they could replace what I lost. Not since I lost my best friend, Patrick, twice.
Once to Cy and then again in a terrible accident.
But in this stolen moment, wrapped in Cy’s heat, my chest doesn’t ache.
My soul doesn’t feel displaced from my body.
And the cruelest truth of all? I’ve loved him for years.
Three years of hiding it, three years of swallowing it down while he calls me names and shoves me away.
Cyrus turns my insecurities into weapons and carves me up with every smirk as he waltzes girl after girl into his bed.
Three years of pretending his voice doesn’t ignite something dangerous in me.
I let him take everything last night. My virginity, my reason, my silence. Because no matter how toxic, no matter how doomed, part of me wanted my first time to be with him. Needed it to be him.
The boy I hate is the only one I’ve ever wanted.
His breath brushes my hair, warm, steady. For one impossible heartbeat, I pretend this is real, that he wants me too. That I’m not just an amusing plaything.
Then his phone buzzes.
Cyrus curses under his breath as he rolls away. My skin goes cold, missing his warmth. The mattress dips, then rises, and I hear the bathroom door click shut across the hall.
I shouldn’t move. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
Is it one of the many girls he sneaks in and out of his room?
Is it the guys he hangs out with when he gets high, wanting to know where he is?
Is it the band looking for him to practice?
There are a million possibilities, and the fact that I can’t trust him screams in my ear.
Listening to the doubts or maybe it’s my gut instinct, I slip from the sheets, bare feet silent on the floor, and tiptoe toward the door. I press my ear to the wood as his low voice carries from the bathroom.
“I’m fine, man. Just tired.” A pause. Then his deep and cocky laugh.
“Yeah, some random chick begged me to fuck her. You know the type. Unfortunately, she’s still here.
The lingerer that wants you to cuddle and shit.
Fuck I hate that. Yeah, I’ll kick her out soon, but I may as well fuck her again first.” He laughs.
My stomach drops.
“I don’t care if she heard or not. Let Haven hear me fucking someone else, she’s the one stupid enough to think I could ever like her. Don’t even go there, I fucking hate her, and that is never going to change.”
My breath catches, choking me.
He laughs again. “I know you’re jealous that I get all the pussy, but seriously, I needed that release.
I’m feeling much better, and this bitch begged for it, bro.
Begged. Didn’t even know what she was doing.
All hands and sloppy kissing. Fucking virgins are the worst. They never know what to do, and you have to be so careful with their fragile little hearts, blah, blah, just fuck me already and then go away. ”
He laughs harder this time, and it feels like he’s dragging my heart across broken glass.
“Hell no. I’m not hitting it again after today, so no, you won’t meet her.
I have no interest in her turning all doe-eyed and thinking I’m her boyfriend or some shit, especially with the tour coming up.
I want to tap a new girl every night, not the same boring girl who’s hoping I’ll settle down. Lame.”
Tears flood my eyes and spill hot down my cheeks. Each word is a blade, carving out the fragile thing I gave him last night.
I stumble back from the door, pressing a hand over my mouth so he won’t hear the sob clawing its way up my throat. My chest aches like it might split.
He doesn’t care, not even a little. He never did. I was a way to relax and get through the withdrawal pains. Now I am being thrown away like a used tissue.
To him, I’m a joke. A pathetic girl with wide eyes and misplaced hope.
I run to my room and lock the door before collapsing. Sobs wrack my body as a cold fury takes over. I hate him. I hate this house. I hate my life. I hate myself for believing for even one second that Cyrus could be anything but a venomous snake.
Fine. Fuck him. Fuck this place. Fuck all of it.
Grabbing my suitcase from the closet, I throw it onto the bed.
Clothes, books, whatever I can shove inside.
It all goes in. My acceptance letter to one of the most prestigious schools in New York has been sitting on my desk for weeks.
Now it’s on top of the pile. Am I strong enough to do this? Until this moment, I haven’t been sure.
Now I am.
Cyrus has given me the push I need to take my life into my own hands.
Before I zip the suitcase, I walk over to my nightstand. My fingers hover above the photo frame. Me and Mom. Her smile, my arm around her waist, everything warm and safe in that one frozen moment. I pick it up with shaking hands.
Kissing my fingertips, I press them to the glass and whisper, “I’ll make you proud.” Then I slide it into my suitcase and zip it closed.
I turn to leave, but stop when I notice the photo of me, Patrick, and Cyrus stuck to my mirror. Patrick had invited me to a beach party. One of the last great memories I have. I yank it down and stare at it, my eyes tracing our three faces.
Cyrus is actually sorta smiling for the camera. His icy-blue eyes are bright in the flash and the surrounding darkness. His dark brown hair with the frosted highlights, which I normally hate, looks amazing on him. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his tattoos stand out against his skin.
My hands shake. This picture holds power. It feels like I’m about to rip a moment in time out of my past. A moment I’ll never get back. Taking a deep breath, I remove Cyrus and drop his image in the garbage before slipping the rest of the photo into my backpack.
Heart pounding out of control, I look around my bedroom. My chest still burns, but my resolve is set.
No one, not even Cyrus, can talk me into staying now. I head toward the ensuite and turn on the shower taps, whatever it takes to wash him off me. Wash the memory of us off my skin. If only it were so easy to do the same to my mind.
When I walk out of this room, I’m gone. Gone from Cyrus. Gone from this house. Gone from being the pathetic girl. No more. Despite my father wanting me to stay and intern at his company, this is what I need.
Cyrus will think he broke me, but really, he set me free. There’s strength in hate, the kind that burns hotter than grief and sharper than hope.
Goodbye, California. Hello, New York.