Quality over quantity, I remember my mother telling me. Damn how right she was. My thoughts drift back over Dean and the way he’d looked last night—all cleaned up. Shit, he’s every bit the heartthrob he was back in high school, only now, most of the nerd seems to be hidden beneath pounds of muscle he hadn’t possessed back then.
The knock at my door has me wincing, the force of the knuckles against wood thundering through my aching skull. “What the hell do you want?” I snap. Whoever the hell it is can move the fuck on.
“You decent?”
I roll my eyes at my brother’s question. “Yes, Judson.”
My door opens with a creak, and he steps into my room, a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water in his hands.
“You just redeemed yourself for that loud-ass knock,” I say, reaching for them as he makes his way across my room. I toss four pills in my mouth, washing them down with cold water. Judson sits beside me on my mattress, and it dips with his added weight.
“You okay?”
I nod, and my eye catches a dent in the side of my otherwise unmarred dresser. A memory slams into me, sending my heart rate spiking.
“Get the fuck off of her!” Judson roars, exploding into the room with the force of a battering ram. I’m tossed back, my head slamming into the side of my dresser. Stars explode in my vision, and I sink to the ground as Judson lands on top of my attacker.
“Fine,” I say, forcing my gaze away. They redid my entire room. Taking painstaking care to ensure it looked like before because according to the therapist they sent me to—that would help me cope. No one bothered to consider that I would need a change. Something different to cling to.
“You sure about that?” He points to the empty bottle.
“Totally fine,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Good.” He gets to his feet and walks to the window, glancing out before turning back to me.
“Will you come sit down,” I say, reaching for him. I know it’s silly, that the chances of him going through the glass on his own are slim, but I still get nervous every time he’s near a window.
Nodding in understanding, he takes a seat in my floral-printed armchair beside the window. “How are you handling being back here?”
“I’m managing,” I reply honestly. “Being trashed last night helped.”
“You can’t spend your entire life drunk, Kleo.”
“I know. Especially if I’m going to convince Dad to let me take over the camp.” A muscle in Judson’s jaw twitches, and I stare at him. It’s his tell, how I’ve always known when he’s hiding something from me. “What is it?” I demand.
“You do know who’s running the camp, right?”
I shake my head. “I never asked who took over for me, and they never told me.”
“Well, this is going to be super awkward,” Judson says with a short laugh as he gets to his feet.
“Who? Stop being an ass and tell me!”
“Your buddy.”
“What?” I stare up at him, confused. My buddy? I don’t have any—“You have got to be kidding me.” It clicks. The sarcasm in Judson’s tone, the way Dean stood outside, talking to my father after bringing me home—yeah, I watched out the window. “Dean?”
Judson nods. “Has been for the last two years, and as far as I know, Dad has no intention of letting go of him.”
“He told me I had to prove myself.”
“Then I suggest you stop doing shit like this,” he says, lifting the bottle. “And start acting like you want the camp.”
“Where’s Dad now?”
“Downstairs, having lunch with Dean.”
I jump to my feet, my head still aching with the force of a thousand snare drums. But that doesn’t matter right now. The camp has always been my dream, yes, but it just became about something more, too.
It became about taking it from Dean and proving to everyone that I can do it.
“Where the hell are my shoes?” I ask, kneeling and rooting around my floor.
Judson chuckles. “You might want to change out of last night’s clothes first,” he says before shutting the door behind him.
I sit up, verify that I’m alone, and pull my dress over my head before unzipping my suitcase and throwing the clothes to the floor until I find something fitting for a semi-casual business lunch with my father and my rival. Basically, I put on jeans and a clean shirt.
After making sure to clean off the smeared portion of last night’s makeup, I turn on the faucet. Water rushes from the bronze spout, falling into the raised bowl of my sink. After spreading toothpaste on my brush, I work to remove what I imagine is an unpleasant stench. Two minutes down, I cup water in my hand and rinse my mouth out, reveling in the cleansing feeling after last night’s drinkapade. I know I need to stop—it’s the curse of the morning after. Partying night after night—it leaves me feeling disgusting, exhausted, and angry.
But when I’m in the moment, half a bottle in and enjoying life, I feel free.
Free of the nightmares.
Free of the memories.
A soft knock raps on my door, and I grab my hand towel, dabbing the soft cotton against my face. “Come in!” I call, and my mom steps in, a knowing smile on her face. The look of pity is something I’ve grown used to over the years. Ever since my attack, she’s looked at me like I’m a victim, a poor little girl who discovered there really are monsters beneath the bed.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Morning, sweetie. How are you feeling?” Pursing her pink lips, she eyes the empty bottle on my dresser.
“Fine. What’s up?” Taking a seat on the edge of my bed, I pull on a pair of black slip-on shoes. My mom sucks in a breath, and I know she’s seen the scar on my lower back from the knife pressed against it two years ago. Self-consciously, I reach up and tug my shirt back down over it.
Clearing her throat, she says, “Lunch is ready.”
“I was just coming down to join you guys,” I say sweetly.
“You were?” She looks almost surprised.
“I am.” After grabbing the bottle, I move past her and head down the stairs. Honestly, she’s one of the reasons I hate being home. Out of everyone, she’s the main one who hasn’t figured out that I’m no longer a little girl. It’s gotten worse since that night and only serves as a reminder that I was vulnerable. Still, I remind her every chance I get that I’m twenty-six and have been living on my own since I was twenty and leaving for college. I would have left earlier,
but my mother insisted I stick around for two years and give her lifestyle a try.
That I could find a sweet young man to make a wife out of me. No fucking thank you. I don’t need a husband to make me anything.
The heels of her shoes click on the wooden stairs behind me as she follows me down. Reaching the bottom, I turn to the left to head for the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks. Dean stands before me, tight T-shirt showcasing muscled arms that lifted me with complete ease yesterday afternoon.
I hate that he’s so damned attractive. Why are the douchebags always the best looking? His hazel eyes meet mine, and I purse my lips as I try not to let my gaze wander over his sharp jaw or the stretched fabric of his shirt.