“You’re fucking deaf, Wolfe,” a male voice says from behind me.

I spin around so fast that my pumps make a squeaking noise on the glossy floor. I pause for a moment, taking in Cal’s lanky but toned body and disheveled shoulder-length jet-black hair, before I launch myself into his arms. He’s initially surprised, but then he wraps me up in his arms as I bury my face into the front of his shirt.

“You do realize that I could’ve maced you, right?” I demand. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He pulls away from me, smirking, his dark eyes amused. “Flew in, so I can head out with McCrae tomorrow morning.”

Somehow, sleep and making sure my brother made it to Atlanta in one piece completely shoved that little detail out of my head. Wyatt and Cal are going on the road together...to play bar shows. “I’m sure that’ll be fun.”

Cal winks at me. “Fuck yeah, it will. Shitty food and grimy hotel rooms.” We both know that he and Wyatt are more than capable of paying for any hotel they want while they’re on the road, so it’s my turn to look skeptical. “And before I forget and you blast me, sorry about the Foursquare thing.”

“Yeah, about that...” I pull away from him and nod my head toward the elevators. He follows alongside me. “I’d actually forgotten, but thanks for reminding me that I need to kick your ass.”

“I had to tell him, Kylie. He loves—”

“Don’t,” I say, my voice suddenly deep and all sorts of screwed up. “Please don’t, okay?” I don’t need Cal telling me how much Wyatt loves me because it will only be an assumption.

Wyatt has not once actually said the words to me himself. The closest he’s ever come was almost four years ago after our millionth break from each other. We lasted approximately five weeks without having any contact. Finally, he showed up at my parents’ house in Atlanta while we were celebrating Lucas’s twenty-fifth birthday. Wyatt and I sat outside, alone together, on the front porch swing with a foot of space between us.

“I fucked up, huh?” he asks me, referring to the cause of our latest fallout.

This time, he confronted me again about cutting, something I haven’t done in years, and it wouldn’t have been so bad if he gave me a chance to speak during his rant. But he simply went on and on, reminding me of my ex, until the only thing I wanted was to get away from him and the pressure. So, rather than try to defend myself, I did just that.

I ran like a coward.

I ran like I would never have to face him again.

I take a deep breath, focusing my gaze on the bright orange and yellow tulips in my mom’s garden. “Yeah, you did. You screwed up, and I want to hate you for it, but I can’t.” I tremble violently while I sink my nails into my palms, hoping to control myself enough to finish speaking to him. “Just because I wear long sleeves or refuse to show you my wrists doesn’t mean I’m cutting, Wyatt. Because I’m not. I’m not saying that I don’t have moments when I feel like the world is crashing down on me, that I’m nothing but—”

As the words catch painfully in the back of my throat, he reaches out, raveling his long fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck.

“You’re everything. At least to me. You always have been, and that’s why I said what I did. I never want you to hurt, you got me, Kylie?”

His blue eyes are hard and honest, stripping me down to my soul, and I nod. He dips his gaze down to my shoulder, and since I know what’s coming next, I answer before he has a chance to ask.

“Twelve.” But I don’t tell him that the newest one is there because of me. I let myself down by being a coward and refusing to face him.

“Fuck,” he says between clenched teeth. “I’m sorry, Ky. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“I’m sorry Kylie.” Cal’s voice reaches into the vivid memory, dragging me away from it. “I hate to see you hurting,” he adds.

I nod stiffly. “It’s fine.”

Cal stops with me at the elevator door. He doesn’t come inside, but he gives my hand a tiny pump as I shuffle in. “I’m going to grab something to eat before the fucker comes back with the rental car. You coming?”

So, that’s where Wyatt went instead of keeping his word to me—to pick up a rental car, so he can go play a few shows with a band he doesn’t even know. God, I know I shouldn’t be bothered over learning that, but I am. I can’t help it. Stepping aside so that an over-glitzed woman on wobbly heels can come into the elevator, I shake my head, my movements stiff. “I’ve got to do laundry before Heidi and I pack up to go back to L.A., tomorrow night.”

Cal snorts. “You’re officially the lamest person I know.”

As the doors close, I flip him off. Laughing, he shakes his head and returns the gesture.

“Should’ve gone with him,” Glitzy says. She’s balancing herself in the corner, squeezing her knees together like she has to pee. Releasing a massive hiccup, she adds, “He was hot and looks like that guitarist from that one band.” She bites her lip and scrunches her face, seemingly trying to remember the name of the band.

Thankfully, the elevator shudders to a stop on the second floor before she can venture a guess.

“Thanks for the advice,” I say as I speed walk off into the hallway.

My room is an inferno when I step inside. My plan to sink myself into a scalding bath flies out the window, so I throw my license and credit cards inside the nightstand drawer and grab my iPod from its spot under my pillow. I drop my change purse inside my laundry bag and leave the room, and this time, I take the stairs to the dungeon-like basement where the laundry room is located.

I’m the only person in the laundry room, and it’s probably because everyone else in this city had the good sense to go out tonight. I slide in my earbuds, turn on a random playlist, and since I have access to all the machines, I sort my clothes into three piles—whites, darks, and my delicates—instead of the two loads I planned on.

While the washer runs, I wait patiently without looking at my phone, but as I load the dryers, I can’t help but finally check. Still nothing from Wyatt or Lucas. I have too much pride to contact Wyatt, so my brother is the lucky recipient of my text message.

12:43 a.m.: Call me about Sin tomorrow, okay? Love you, Lucas.

Since it’s 1:43 in Atlanta right now, I don’t expect him to reply. I lay my phone facedown on one of the machines and crank the volume on my iPod even higher.  As I insert quarters into the gleaming white Whirlpool dryers, I can’t resist singing along to Weezer. “...my love is a life taker.”

The next line of “Say It Ain’t So” is cut off because I notice a new scent in the small laundry room. It’s clean and masculine, and as I breathe it in, the only image that comes to mind is the top of Wyatt’s head visible between my legs.

“I didn’t Foursquare where I was this time,” I say softly.

When Wyatt presses his tall body up against my backside, my muscles weaken. He gently removes my earbuds, and his lip ring teases my skin as he growls into my ear, “I’ve never seen someone’s hips move like that to that song.” He’s always disliked that song because the lyrics are about addiction and heartbreak, and they hit a little too close to home, reminding him of his parents. He doesn’t mention this though as he places my iPod beside my phone. He brushes his fingertips down my chest, skimming over my breasts, until they finally stop at the closure on my jeans. “And no, you didn’t have to Foursquare yourself this time.”

No, I guess not when we have a mutual friend who’s bound and determined to see us together. Cal and I are going to have a serious heart-to-heart about his inability to keep his mouth shut.

“Did you get your car?” I breathe, turning to face him.