There are a few defining moments for every relationship. Shit where, afterwards, you know things have changed. Finger banging Peyton on a stage in a bar was one of those points.

When I was with her, I could forget for a few minutes that everything we were doing was stupid and doomed to fall apart. Because she was in my arms or holding my hand. But there was something that needed to happen that couldn't wait—a big fucking defining moment.

"I want to take you out," I say, softly. She's sitting next to me, her fingers flicking lazily through the stacks of records, and her gaze comes up to mine when I murmur those words. Curiosity is bright in her eyes and I swallow hard. This girl fucking undoes me. I don't know how or why, but she can unravel me completely with just a single smile, all sweet innocence and dirty promises.

"Where are we going?"

I let out a breath. "Scotty wants to get some new ink. You wanna come with us?"

She wrinkles her nose, an expression that I love on her pretty face. "You want me to go out with you and Scotty?"

I nod, and my breath stills.

She shrugs. "Ok."

That's it? Her gaze goes back to the stack of records, and some of the tension eases in my shoulders, relaxing some even as I frown at her. "You aren't going to argue with me?"

"Do you want me to?" she asks.

"Of course not," I say, annoyed for some reason. Her gaze snaps up, just a little bit warning, and I breathe out, trying to keep from snapping.

"Look, he's your best friend. I get it. There's something about him that's important to you. We've been seeing each other for almost a month. I'd be more concerned if you didn't want me to hang out with him." She shoves the records at me and stands, and I get a quick peek of pink lace panties as she straightens her rumpled skirt. "But if either of you think you’re going to share me, you can get that shit out of your head. I get that you have in the past, but I'm not into him, and I'm not going to fuck him to keep you happy."

Without thinking, I catch her hand and drag her back down to the couch. Catch her lips with mine and swallow her startled little noise of surprise as my hands smooth down her luscious curves.

She comes to life under my hand, arching into my caress and almost purring as I lick into her mouth. Her teeth close over my lower lip, and I swallow my groan as she pulls away, pain flickering through me, chasing the high of kissing her.

"I won't fucking share you. Scotty gets a lot, but the most he'll get to participate is listening to you scream when I fuck you at our place. Because I know that when I strip you down, you'll be a screamer. Won't you, Pey?"

"If that's what you want," she whispers as my hand trails up her leg, and she shifts, her legs spreading a little in obvious invitation. "But you have to actually fuck me to find out."

"You want that. You want me to fuck you until you scream." I lick the shell of her ear and catch it with my teeth. "Does it turn you on that he'll listen to you, that he'll get off listening to me fuck you?" She whimpers and reaches for my hand and I twist, dumping her from my lap unceremoniously.

“Come on,” I say, rising and adjusting my hard-on. She glares at me, shoving her hair out of her eyes and I grin.

“No one likes a tease,” she says and I smirk, leaning down to brush her lips lightly.

“Maybe not. But you, sweet girl, like me.”

She growls lightly and I slap her ass before steering her toward the door.

“We’re going now?”

“You ok with that?”

She shrugs, nibbling at her lip nervously Something I didn’t expect from her. “Hey,” I say softly. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

I hesitate. I could tell her that it wouldn’t matter, but this girl knows me well enough to know better. She’s picked up too quickly just how important Scotty is. She won’t buy my bullshit and maybe that’s what I adore about her.

She’s so fucking different from every girl I’ve ever met.

“Why don’t—” I say, catching her by the hand and lacing our fingers, drawing her into me “—we figure that out if it becomes a problem? And until then, we agree that neither of us will worry about it. Ok?”

She bites her lip, and my dick, still hard, twitches in my jean. I nod at the door, and nudge her slightly. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

Chapter 8 : After

Easy doesn't make the lonely

easier to bear, and less

Suffocating.

It simply is.

I've tried them both.

And I would rather,

Fight and laugh and puzzle

Through the riddles,

And all the not easy.

If it means being with you.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

I’m leaving the hospital.

That’s what they keep telling me. That I’m leaving, and I’ll be going—where?

Rike keeps trying to come back, and I keep refusing to see him. He’s not offering me anything and he’s holding all the cards. The fucking bastard is holding my memory hostage. It’s psychological warfare and I don’t care how he might make me smile, how sweetly he treats me—nothing can excuse that. It’s indefensible.

But there’s nothing more that the hospital can do for me. I have money—plenty, according to the ATM I use with the debit cards I find in the purse the EMTs brought in with me. So I make a plan.

And when my doctor discharges me, two weeks after I wake up with no memories and a shattered leg, I wheel myself out of the hospital. Alone. I think, very briefly, about going to see Lindsay before I leave, but the truth is I’m not sure what the point would be. She’s got her own set of problems, recovering from the internal organ damage and the broken bones. They’ve moved her from ICU, but no one is even starting to talk about her going home. It’s completely quiet on that front, and I’ve asked.

I think something is going on with her that no one wants to let me in on. Because I’m so fucking fragile. I huff a breath at the thought.

I hate being weak.

It takes the better part of two hours to get myself to a hotel, and settled in. It’s not terribly nice. As much as I have in my bank account, eventually it’ll dry up, and I’m pretty sure that whatever job I might have had is long gone. So this little nest egg will have to last until I can find a new one or remember who the hell I am.

The hotel doesn't have a bellhop, but there is  a big black man from maintenance sitting behind the counter, and he offers to help me carry my stuff up to my room. There isn't much—three bags from the hospital with meds and clothes, a bloody purse that came in from the accident, and the stuff that Rike brought to me. Which I should get rid of. I've tried to, a few times. I almost left the bag of his gifts on the bed when I left, but at the last second, I chickened out. I'm furious and I don't think I'll ever forgive him, but I also can't seem to bring myself to break ties completely.

I'm clearly an idiot.

"You shouldn't be here alone, ma'am," the guy rumbles at me as we take the elevator up to the third floor. I glance at him, and he's staring at his feet. The man is a giant, but he's got a shy gentleness about him that sets me at ease.

"Why?"

"Dangerous. And you're a lady," he adds, flushing a darker shade of brown.

I glance away to hide my smile, and shrug. "Beggars and choosers. You know the drill," I say.

“What happened?” he asks, nudging the wheelchair.

“Car accident. It left me a scrambled memory—I’m trying to put the pieces back together.”