14. PAIGE
FOURTEEN
PAIGE
My path to self-destruction is paved and apparently, boundless. That much is clear as I pull off my old freeway exit.
Back to Venice.
After spending more money I don’t have to gas-up the Cabrio and make the drive out here again, I sigh as I pull off to the exit ramp.
Hopefully my Veranda gig tomorrow is as good of a payout as I’ve been led to believe, otherwise these shitty decisions are going to be a real bitch for future Paige.
I had to get out, I remind myself. Another day holed up in my apartment would have sent me sufficiently into madness. Deeper madness.
“ Welcome, the water’s fine! ” I hear Gram’s snicker, and I turn up the music in an attempt to drown it out. I can’t. Not right now.
She’s undoubtedly going to invade every part of my brain if I somehow manage to make it to our street this time, and I can’t be on the verge of a breakdown before I get there.
Because then I definitely won’t go.
A swell of irritation weighs heavily in my chest as I think about the three other times I’ve come out here this year. Driven past the canal, past Main Street.
Only to get to the unpaved road that would lead me to our house, only to then bang a U-turn right the hell out of there.
The music is just noise between my ears, so I turn it down. I can’t get fucking comfortable. Everything just feels . . . awake.
Everything. And not in a good way.
My hair feels itchy on my neck, but it felt like it was adding to my headache when it was pulled up. My wrists are sufficiently covered in case I get out of the car, but the lace fabric and bracelets feel more suffocating than usual.
I groan as I come to a red light. My palms cradle my face and my bracelets bump together, jingling, and I wince. I usually like the sound. It’s grounding. But right now it feels like it’s clashing my head between two orchestra cymbals.
Grabbing the steering wheel again, I hold my arms out straight and roll the tension stacking in my neck. Thankfully, the soreness from the club has pretty much passed because my anxiety is winding me up something fierce.
It’s pathetic, really. I always thought I’d be stronger. Braver.
More like her.
Darlene Hansen was a woman who lived. She survived the loss of her husband and her daughter. She was never rich, her life was never easy—but she still managed to be the most alive person I’ve ever met.
The stoplight turns green, and I press on the gas, driving past the intersection. Passing Main Street . . .
Keep going, I tell myself, but my pulse picks up.
I ease the pressure on the gas, going slower, but still moving.
Another moment passes, and I suddenly hear, “ Keep going, Pip, ” and my spine straightens. That voice sounded more like . . . him.
But I listen to it. I keep going, despite the sweat breaking at my hairline. My breath quickens as I reach the road, and I slam on the break.
Luckily, I wasn’t going very fast, and I quickly flick on my hazards before my shaking hands grip the steering wheel harder. My chin stays down.
Breathe.
After another moment passes, I peer up, looking at the opening to the road that used to take me to our house, and my vision blurs as my eyes fill.
I can’t. I can’t. I fucking can’t.
But just when I think the panic is about to take hold, something strange happens. Something stupid.
Maybe she’s actually back there . . .
Maybe he is too. Linc. Ellis. Everyone.
Maybe my old life still exists back there and I just don’t know it. Maybe this is life’s greatest trial.
It stripped me of everything, but maybe these past seven years without Linc—this last year without her—was just a test. One I failed, and if I can just make it back to the house, the universe will give them all back to me.
My hopeful bubble blows away as a car speeds past me. A small pathetic sound aches in my throat as my forehead falls to the back of my hands on the steering wheel. Waves of frosty blue strands curtain my face, and my eyes slam shut, my tears falling immediately.
Goddammit.
The delusion sounds so fucking good. And I want it. I want it so badly that my mind can’t help but keep playing it out.
I imagine driving down the road, to our cul-de-sac. Just a short drive. The sight of our pale yellow beach cottage would come into view. It would look the way it used to.
Homey, well-lived in. Warm. There’d be music filtering in as I walked up the stairs to the back porch. The smells from Gram’s garden would meet my nose and hurry my steps.
As I’d push through the door, Gram would be at the piano playing something familiar. A song from her Lemon Lady Mix, while Ellis sang and Linc stood by, capturing it all on film.
I could watch it later—see everything I missed.
Everyone would be laughing. They’d be waiting for me.
Linc would find me first—the way he always did. Like there was a radar in his mind that was fully synced to me. His hazel eyes would light and he’d look at me . . .
Like before. How he looked at me before what happened to us.
There wouldn’t be any disgust or revulsion—no shame to his handsome face.
The experience would be forgotten, and he’d sweep me up in his arms and hold me tight. So tight, that nothing could ever take us away from each other again.
We’d turn to stone in that house, locked together in the kitchen as the sound of Gram’s piano solidified our embrace.
An eternity in his arms.
I blink rapidly, gasping when I see . . .
The pale yellow beach cottage.
I . . .
My chin twists from the left to the right, seeing I’m parked in the driveway, and my heart rate blasts off.
What the fuck?! I fucking drove here?
My breathing becomes rapid, my lungs feel like they’re the size of fucking golf balls. I can’t breathe. But I can’t drive. I shouldn’t have driven here.
I pop the door open, letting the air from outside fill the car. I take a deep breath, and my chest heaves against the seatbelt. My hand fumbles to hit the release button, but I get it off, and immediately push myself from the car.
Fuck me, I can’t believe I drove here. I don’t even remember . . .
I take another breath. I can’t think about that right now. The time lapse is only going to spiral my panic. I close the car door quickly and stumble my way toward the fence.
The tiny pebbles of asphalt shift under my worn yellow Chucks just as I reach the fence. A stuttered inhale tuts through my nose as I fumble the latch to open the door, then close it and screw my eyes shut, falling to the ground just inside the fence. My body shakes, still struggling to breathe.
The wetness on my cheeks registers, and I realize I’m also crying. My fingers sink into the dirt at my sides, like maybe I’ll find the air buried down there.
I struggle through multiple failed attempts, but after several painful seconds, my lungs finally find a small bit of air, and I get a hint of citrus.
I take another breath, my lips shaking, but the smell becomes a little bit stronger, and my lungs start to expand.
Keeping my body still, I stay seated on the ground with my back against the fence. Eyes closed.
I’m in our backyard.
Not in my dreams or thoughts. I’m sitting on the ground. And the realization . . . doesn’t make me flee immediately.
The only thought that finds me is . . . I wish I’d brought Gram’s cardigan. It’s a temperate September day, and I don’t need it. But suddenly the smell is making me wish I’d shared it with her sweater. Like maybe it would have helped keep the smell longer . . .
“A lemon tree can live to be a hundred years old with proper care. I always thought that was kinda neat,” Gram had said to me, admiring her garden while I sat on her lap in the yard on a blanket. “This one could maybe make it to see your granddaughter.”
We were having a picnic in the backyard. It was our thing.
I giggled to myself, then asked, “Can we make lemonade?”
“That’s why I planted a lemon tree, silly. So we could always make lemonade.” She snuggled into my cheek, tickling my sides while I sat on her lap.
She stopped the tickling quickly, then pushed one of my honey-colored braids behind my back and said, “Why the sudden interest in lemonade?”
My cheeks felt warm, but I didn’t know why. “My new friend likes it.”
“Oh, you made a new friend? Well, that’s nice, Paigey. What’s your new friend’s name?”
My mouth tilted. “Linc-on, except when he’s sleeping,” I giggled.
My eyes snap open, with the breeze that sweeps through, carrying the laughter —the memory— and I look out at the dry, overgrown yard.
A yard I’ve done nothing to take care of.
Though, to be fair, I had let the gardening slip far before Gram was gone. My priority was taking care of her, and keeping my own small will to live, everything else just . . . had to wait.
Wait for what? I wonder silently, as my eyes drag along the yard. The lemon tree stands tall and somehow fruitful in the back corner, and a small smile pulls up my cheek. It matured years ago, and didn’t need much upkeep. And it was still in good shape when I left a year ago, but . . . you never know.
My shaky legs push to stand, and I step slowly, cautiously, toward it, following the sight like a lighthouse. As I get closer, though, my heart stops.
Stuck in a web of weeds and vines in the tattered old hammock—the one that looks haunted—was a forest green mug with a simple mountain peak design.
Linc’s mug.
What the fuck?
My body twists, looking for . . . What? I don’t know. But . . . how did this get out here?
I literally abandoned ship when I left a year ago—only taking the bare essentials and leaving the rest behind.
There’s no way . . .
Linc left. He’s gone. Chicago, last I heard. Though, that was second-hand information from Maisie Morrow six years ago—before Bruce swept them away too.
I stupidly followed the tip, though. I spent a shit ton of money to spend two weeks shelter-hopping around the Windy City only to come back feeling even more hopeless than when I left.
But it wasn’t until I came home, no closer to finding him that it really sank in . . .
Linc doesn’t want me to find him.
You disgust him.
I swat the intrusive thought away by swiping the mug out of the garden of weeds, looking down at it like it can somehow tell me how it got here.
How did you get here?
It tells me nothing, obviously, and I don’t know if it’s just because it’s Linc’s mug, or that I know for a fact I didn’t randomly leave it out here, but I suddenly feel like I’m being watched.
My eyes peek around again, looking for anyone —anything— but there’s not even random critter noises.
My grip tightens around the mug I’m still holding, and I look back down at it. I remember now, I left it on the table.
I thought about bringing it with me, but then didn’t. My eyes float up to the back door, remembering . . .
I never locked it.
An unease suddenly tightens through my limbs, and my heart begins to pick up momentum again. In an instant, I race back toward the fence. To the driveway, toward my car.
Coward, a voice I can’t decipher mutters through my mind. It sounds like me. Kind of. But I try to shake it off as I tear open the car door and toss the mug onto the passenger seat.
Starting the car, I pull out of the driveway.
Drive away, I command inwardly.
I try to calm myself down from the stampede of adrenaline that just found me, taking breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.
In all likelihood, I just freaked myself out. It happens all the time. My imagination can be a bit . . . much.
“ Never too much, ” I hear Linc say, his voice lingering in my mind, and I look down at the mug.
I have a split second where I genuinely wonder if Linc is the mug, before I remind myself —I think I’m having some sort of breakdown.
I groan, smacking my forehead and then yelping. “Damn,” I mutter, rubbing the skin, trying to refocus.
Watch the road. Think about something else .
I made it to the street this time, I praise myself. The yard. The tree. That’s progress.
For today, it’s enough.
I stir, barely awake, but I feel an arm slide under the small of my back, wedging between me and the mattress, just as a rough, familiar palm anchors my hips, and I gasp.
With my lower half encased by strong arms, the smell of ocean and pine invades the sheets beneath me, hitting my nose like a wave, and my heavy limbs sink further into the mattress.
There’s no question who it is.
I sigh, but sleepy excitement wades low in my belly as soft lips trail the skin of my inner thigh, followed by his nose dragging, breathing with a deep rumble. My core tightens and I inhale sharply.
But I keep my eyes closed—something tells me he wants me to.
His low, muffled groan makes me squirm and his grip around me tightens just as I feel a small bite at the crest of my inner thigh and pelvis—waking me up—or maybe he’s making sure I’m awake—and I whimper my awareness.
Christ, keep going.
When he finally reaches my apex, my hot beating core is already begging for his mouth. The urge to dig my hands through the thick terrain of his hair is strong, but my arms feel too heavy.
He kisses me there, sweetly, then adds his tongue, kissing my pussy like he kisses my mouth. He flicks my clit and my moan mixes with his hungry groan. My eyes finally open as the sound vibrates into me.
I make a noise—a breathless needy thing—as my gaze travels down between my legs, and my heart erupts at the sight of his wicked hazel eyes, gleaming. “Oh good,” he rasps, pressing another kiss to my pulsing center, followed by a gentle lick. “You’re awake.”
My mind can’t conjure a response, and he doesn’t wait for one. His nose toys with my slit, his hooded eyes stay locked with mine. I whimper again, a desperate, “Please . . .” wheezing past my lips.
He groans, licking, nibbling—fuck, he sniffs me, but he’s just teasing my entrance. Teasing me. “God, Pip. You’re so wet. Were you dreaming about me?”
Always, I think in my head, but the word doesn’t surface. Something about this doesn’t feel real, but I don’t care.
Any rational thought falls away. The only thing that registers is his smug smirk nearly twinkling up at me. But in an instant, he fully buries his face into my damp heat, his hot tongue plunging into me as he uses his shoulders to spread me farther.
His untamed hunger as he devours me sends a buzz through my body, despite my heavy limbs. I can’t seem to move at all, but my hips grind into him. His tongue fucks me slowly, meticulously, reverently, and I can’t move. Can’t do anything but surrender to the pleasure.
“You feel like heaven, Pip,” he says, his voice wrecked as he barely comes up for air.
I whimper, but my eyebrows flinch.
Feel?
The thought dislodges from my mind in an instant, though, as he flips me onto my stomach. My arms cross at my wrists as he shoves my ass into the air, but he relentlessly continues to eat me from behind. “Fuck,” I gasp. “Wh—”
My words cut off as the sensation builds, tickling and knotting in the deepest part of my stomach with each delicious noise he’s making from behind me. My cheeks heat, knowing my asshole is also on display.
But fuck it feels good. Carnal. So . . . dirty.
The word tumbles through my mind, quite literally shifting the air in the room.
Cold, damp, musky.
The warmth to my lower half shifts like a drift in the wind pattern—a sailboat off course—and the sound of chains clanking against steel blows through my mind like the fucking Kraken.
The pillows I was shoving my face into, the soft sheets below me become rougher.
Stale. Couch cushions.
Hard, unforgiving, heavy metal weighs down my wrists. Blood trickles down my forearm like an icy path, and my blood runs cold.
The sight, the feeling, the smell. It all hits with a stark, terrifying awareness.
No. Please, no.
A large hand bites into the back of my scalp, pushing my face into the cushion, and I fight against it, but it’s half hearted.
“Stay down,” the deep, rough voice behind me grunts.
It sounds like him, but different. Like if a sound you loved was put through a wood chipper.
Uneven, sharp, broken.
“That’s it,” a different voice—not his—slithers its way through, slinking like a toxic fog through an already horrific scene. The same voice says something else, but I can’t hear it. And I can feel now that the intrusion behind me is no longer soft, warm, worshiping lips, but slow, deep thrusts.
I whimper, shoving my face into the cushions—he told me to stay down. The chains around my wrists make it difficult to move, and one of the hands holding me down closes over my own hand.
The gentleness of his thumb’s movements along the soft skin between my thumb and my forefinger are crescent moon strokes of comfort—a contrast to everything else happening.
Muffled sounds of the other voice—somewhere next to us—distract me, saying something else, but I tune it out—living in the fluid strokes of the thumb tracing hope into my hand.
His body tenses for a moment behind me, just before the broken sound of his voice pulls through. “Take it, you filthy fucking tease.” My eyebrows flinch as a strong hand connects with the bare skin of my ass, a resounding smack forces my mouth open on a silent gasp into the cushion.
“Lift her up,” the voice off to the side says, and I cringe. It’s a deep voice—masculine—and my eyes screw tighter shut when he adds. “Make sure her face catches the light.”
I wake up with a gasp, my body clammy and cold.
Only a second passes before I’m stumbling out of the bed. I bump into the nightstand, nearly knocking over my haunted mug. I barely make it to the toilet before I immediately puke.
I haven’t eaten much today, so it’s a lot of retching, my body violently contracting as the memory, the smell, the pain spews out of me.
Get it out, I think.
And still, the desire the dream began with still sits heavily in my gut, adding to the sickness. A whine breaks free as I continue to heave, but I’ve got less than nothing left. My body slumps to the linoleum floor. It isn’t as cold as tile, but I can’t get up yet.
I’m so drained that blinking feels like an effort, but another jagged whine pushes past my lips as I realize . . . I really can’t seem to get off the fucking floor.