Once upon a time there was a girl from the city who had sand and seashells in her hair, sun-kissed cheeks, and a smile as wide as the sun . . .

Trey

I am a statue. Frozen on Sloan’s floor. Her door—15D—looms ominously at the end of the long hallway. I’ve been standing outside the elevator for five minutes, maybe ten. I don’t know anymore.

All the while, I’ve been remembering how she liked it. How she wanted me from behind, standing up, how she said she came easily like that. How she was a fiery one, wanting it hard, wanting it rough. Rocking back into me, moaning, groaning, shouting, screaming, her sounds erasing all the feelings inside me, taking me away to a land of nothing but pleasure. Fucking Sloan was like that perfect buzz. It erased all the images in my head, all the cruel, cold memories of last breaths, of death staining my arms.

I want to be buzzed again. I want to be drunk out of my mind. I want to shut off all the pathways to my heart.

But I can’t seem to move my feet. I can’t walk this hallway. And I can’t knock on that door. Because the pathway to my heart is blocked, by the girl I love. By the one person I can’t shut off. And I can’t fucking believe I took the elevator to Sloan’s floor, like some kind of junkie on autopilot.

I stare at my traitorous feet, and they shame me because they brought me here.

I am the alcoholic who walks into the bar, who asks for a beer, who brings it to his lips, then spits it out. Because that’s what I have to do now. Walk the fuck away. My limbs are quicksand, but somehow I turn around and stab the elevator button, hitting it over and over.

“Come on. Come on.”

I run my hands through my hair, ashamed, so ashamed of how close I came. I need my getaway car. I need to escape. I can’t have temptation writhing at my feet, trying to trip me.

I push the button one more time, rewarded by the chug of the elevator shooting up to save me.

The doors open and I fucking jump into it, bang hard on the lobby button and pray the doors close quickly, like chains on my wrists to save me from me.

The elevator begins moving, and I can’t even think about what I almost did. As soon as I make my way out of the lion’s den I call Harley. I have to see her, to wrap myself up in her, to hold her close, breathe her in, feel safe the only way I can.

With her.

“Where are you? I want to see you,” I tell her, grateful that we can talk in this shorthand.

“Leaving Joanne’s.”

“Meet me at my place?”

“Sure, I found more cards. I want to tell you about it.”

“Great. I want to hear everything,” I say, but that’s a lie.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to play detective. I need to numb these feelings, surround myself with her, her scent, her smell, her taste, so I can rid my brain of the onslaught of memories. Harley can do that for me. Right?

“Can you meet me at my apartment?”

“Sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she says.

“Me too.”

On the subway, I crank up the music and push in my earbuds, blasting some tunes to drown out the thoughts that I don’t want to let infect me. I don’t want to think about what’s next, what’s ahead, how to deal, how to be, how to love, how to handle.

When I reach my stop, I walk quickly to my building and she’s there, waiting outside, looking sexy as fuck in a tank top, skirt and combat boots. Her legs are bare, and already I’m picturing turning her around and hiking up that skirt.

“So, you’re never going to believe this,” she says when I’m a few feet away, rolling her eyes. “Actually, you will believe it.”

But I silence any more words with a hard, hot kiss, cupping the back of her neck in my hand, threading my fingers through her hair, needing contact, needing pleasure to mute the pain.

She’s startled at first, but only for a second because she’s used to my kisses, completely accustomed to how much I want to touch her, everywhere, anywhere, in public, in private. I can’t keep my hands off her, and that’s why she’ll never know where my mind is right now. She’s into it, parting her lips, welcoming my tongue sliding over hers, letting me crush my lips against her mouth. Her purse slips down her arm, dangles on her elbow as I kiss her so hard my head starts to turn cloudy.

Ah, perfect.

It’s like the first sip of a cold beer, and I want another drink. Besides, I can take endless drinks from the tap of Harley, and it’s not addiction, it’s not a problem, it’s not an issue what-so-fucking-ever because she’s the only one, she’s not married, she’s not someone else’s. She’s mine, so I am allowed to let her wash over me.

Make me forget.

Make me feel no pain.

“Let’s go inside,” I say, and a minute later we’re in my apartment and the door is shutting.

“So, how was your day? Did you see your parents?” she asks. She’s in a chatty mood again.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk. I just want you.” I fall into her again, the press of her body some kind of balm for my fearful heart. Because it’s working. It’s fucking working. The feel of her is an anesthetic. “I love you,” I murmur in her ear, as much to remind myself as to get her in the state I need her in. Because I want her blissed out, drunk from sex, too. We can get wasted together. “I love you so fucking much,” I say, and she moans softly from the words. I know her, I know this girl.She loves hearing it, she can’t get enough of it, and it turns her on to no end.

“I love you too,” she says, roping her arms around my neck, and her voice is so honest, so pure, that it nearly jolts me from the haze that’s coating my brain. But my body is taking over, and I want her, I want to fuck her, I want her to take me away from me. I want to escape in sex.

I pull apart, grab her hand and lead her to the tiny alcove of the kitchen. She raises an eyebrow. “Are we going to do it on the counter?”

I love the idea. I want to someday. But not today, because I’d have to look at her.

And I don’t want connection. I want contact.

“Against the counter. You against the counter,” I whisper roughly in her ear, then lick my way from her earlobe down to the hollow of her throat, kissing her there where it makes her gasp and arch her back even while she’s standing.

“Okay,” she says and she sounds the tiniest bit nervous.

We’ve had tons of sex, countless rounds, and we’ve tried many positions, but I’ve never fucked her from behind. That’s the only way I want her right now.

“I like looking at you though,” she says, and she’s so damn sweet, and so damn kind, and so fucking perfect, I can’t take it, because I don’t want it right now. I bend my head to her neck, lay a kiss in the spot that drives her wild.

“I know, but it will feel so good this way. Do you trust me?”

She nods. “You know I do.”

“Then let’s do it this way, okay?”

She nods. And hell, I like to look at her too. But I can’t right now. I turn her around.

“Put your hands on the counter,” I tell her, and she listens, pressing her palms down.

“Like this?” She asks, all sweet and willing to try.

“Yeah.”

I slide a hand between her legs, and her underwear is wet, and the feel of her heat makes me even harder. I peel off her underwear, letting it fall to her ankles. She starts to step out of them, to shimmy them over her boots, but I stop her. “Leave them on. You look hot like that.”

She wiggles her ass once, then turns to me, an eager look in her eyes as if she’s asking me if she did it right. God, it kills me. Because she does everything right. “Beautiful,” I say, as I hike up her skirt. I unzip my jeans, push my briefs down, and guide my hard-on to the Promised Land, rubbing my dick against her wetness, and I start to push in.

“Fuck,” I say, cursing myself. “I’ll grab a condom.”