I didn’t have a choice though. I was being blackmailed, so I really can’t feel so ashamed when he literally made me do it.
Didn’t he?
I mean…as far as they are concerned, he did. No one needs to know that video call was the hottest moment of my life. How I haven’t come that hard in a long time or how I have to change my panties every time I think about it.
Hell, I almost let him have his way with me after class yesterday.
This has to stop. Blackmail or not, I have to put an end to it before it gets out of hand.
When I get to my office, I spend the morning grading papers, planning my next class, and thinking about Cullen. He’s in my mind, consuming every thought. His face is there in my memory between every sentence I read and every word I write. I hear his voice, smell the soap on his skin, taste him on my lips.
Maybe it’s gotten out of hand already.
I find myself checking my phone every few moments, wondering what he’s doing. Wondering if he’ll be coming over later. Wondering if he’s thinking about me.
Oh my god. Stop.
This is ridiculous.
To distract myself from thinking about him again, I open the drive, the one from his father’s case. I keep going back to it every time I get a moment. I don’t know why. Something about being with Cullen has me thinking about those missing person cases and I can’t shake the feeling there is unfinished business there.
I get the feeling that being with Cullen and the deep, unshakable shame I feel when I’m with him is about more than just the dirty things we do. It’s like he’s a walking reminder I started something I didn’t finish.
So, I fish out the files again, picking up on the research where I left off. Two nights ago, I created a spreadsheet, tracking where Ayers’ employees ended up, something I bet no one else has done since the case was last opened. There’s not much to go on. It’s mostly dead-ends.
For some reason I keep ending up on the nanny in the photos with the Ayers’ family about fifteen years ago. After digging through some old (and probably falsified) employee records, I can’t find a single record on her. There are just some pictures of her with the family, but only until Cullen was about five, when she suddenly disappeared. So, she was out of the picture long before I wrote the article, which explains why she wasn’t included in any of my other research.
I waste away the next hour or so scrolling through photos of missing person cases, looking for anyone who could match her photo. It’s depressing, seeing so many runaway teens, and I don’t even know why I’m so focused on this one girl. For all I know she could be nobody, deported somewhere or quit working for the Ayers’. She could be completely inconsequential.
Then, I notice the way she’s so affectionate with Cullen in photos.
And it dawns on me—this is someone who loved him. It’s obvious in the photos and the way she held him. This is what he needs, even if he was a small child when she saw him last. She’s the closest thing he can get to a mother now, so if I can find her…maybe it will make things right. Give him back what I took away. That’s a ridiculous notion—I know that, but it doesn’t change how bad I want to try and right my past wrongs.
The rest of my day crawls forward. I have an afternoon class before I finally get a text from Cullen. I’m packing up my things when I read his message, an unwelcome burst of excitement as I see his name on the screen.
Cullen: I have practice tonight.
Cullen: Pick me up at 7.
Cullen: I’m hungry for Chinese.
I stare at the three messages, trying to process how I feel about this. Doesn’t he have a life that doesn’t require me to drive him around and feed him? Is this still supposed to be a punishment when I find myself feeling actually excited about it.
Me: Can I watch you practice?
Cullen: You wanna be around Prescott?
My stomach falls. I forgot all about him. This will be Cullen’s first practice since the incident. I’ll admit I do sort of want to see his bruised up face from the way Cullen punched him twice, but I can’t bear the thought of feeling his eyes on me. I don’t know how I’ll react to that, and I hate that I’m curious.
Me: I have you to protect me.
I bite my lip as I wait for his response. God, Everly, get your head straight. He is not your boyfriend, and this is not a healthy relationship. But when his text comes in, warmth starts to pool at the base of my spine.
Cullen: Baby, I’m the one you need protecting from.
Cullen: Am I ruining you tonight or do I make you wait even longer?
I can’t help the groan that rumbles through my body. Sex should be a major non-negotiable here. I absolutely cannot have sex with my Cullen. But I’m not making rational decisions right now, so I’m actually considering his question. For one, I like the wait. The anticipation. But at the same time, I am consumed with this desire and dying to know what Cullen would be like with me. That rage-filled, hate sex he was talking about sounded like something only an idiot would pass up.
Me: Since when do I get a say?
Cullen: That’s right. You don’t.
After packing up my stuff, I finish a few things in my office before heading toward the rugby pitch across campus. A subtle shake tremors under my skin as I reach the stands. There are a set of bleachers on either side of the field. The guys are already on the field, and I hear Coach Prescott shouting orders as I cross the parking lot.
I spot Cullen as he starts to run toward the end of the field. Truth be told, I know nothing about rugby, but with all those guys in short shorts colliding against each other as they work up a sweat in the mud, I don’t think knowing the rules is really essential.
Climbing the bleachers, I take a seat on the third row up, just high enough to see the players without being inconspicuous. There are other people watching too, mostly girls, probably girlfriends. And for the most part, I look like a devoted team fan. But I pull out my notebook and phone to get a little work done while I’m here too, mostly more research on the open cases.
When I hear the coach stop his yelling, I glance up and our eyes lock. I find great pleasure in the purple, swollen appearance of his face. He has a bandage across his nose, and it looks like it might have been broken. I wonder what he told people, like his wife. I hope she was suspicious. He probably made up a bullshit story involving heroics of some sort. Or maybe he called it a bar fight since he was pretty sauced when he showed up at my fucking house.
He glares at me suspiciously for a moment before turning back to the team.
Behind him, I notice Cullen—frozen in place on the field, as if he had a special sense for the moment Eric and I looked at each other. The pinched shape of his brow shows his disapproval. He and the coach share a momentary glance before the team continues their drills.
I bite back my smile, feeling the protective glare of Cullen. Glancing up for a moment, we stare at each other and his features soften. The dark roots of his hair are growing out in stark contrast to his bleached white locks. With those dark brows and crystal blue eyes, Cullen Ayers is a fucking masterpiece. How are girls not climbing him like ants in search of honey? He’s gorgeous, shining like a diamond on that field. The piercings and tattoos crawling up his neck don’t hurt either.
He’s not my type, not at all. But it’s pretty clear at this point that my type sucks, and maybe I need to redefine it.