Filfthy (33 page)

D
emi

I
wake
to the sound of Brooks’s machines still breathing his every breath. Brenda’s passed out in a chair at his side. My hand flies to a shooting pain zinging up my neck.

Brooks’s eyes are shut. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t awoken.

His nurse steps lightly across the room when she sees I’m up.

“No change,” she whispers.

I nod and gather my things. I’m going to step out and update my family, and they don’t allow phones in here. Plus, I don’t want to wake Brenda.

I leave his room and find a quiet corner in the waiting area, firing off group texts and posting an update on the Facebook page someone created. There are twenty thousand followers on that damn page. That’s double the population of Rixton Falls. It’s insane how quickly word spreads.

As soon as I publish my post, the little red notification pops up. Two people liked it within seconds. Then six. Then fourteen. Five comments. Then eight. Then eleven. Thirty-six likes. Fifty-four. Twenty comments.

It doesn’t stop.

I close out of the app and slide my phone in my pocket. I can’t possibly respond to all of them.

“Demi?”

I glance across the room to see Afton, the reporter from The Herald, approaching me. She’s dressed down today. Skinny jeans and a white blouse. Her beige coat is unbuttoned, and her blonde hair is pulled into a low bun. Gold and amethyst earrings dangle from her ears.

Afton looking so put-together makes me hyper-aware of the fact that I look like I very much just rolled out of bed.

“Hi, Afton.” I try not to hide my disappointment in her timing. My hair’s a mess and my breath tastes funky, and I’m not exactly in the mood to answer her lame questions.

“Did Brenda tell you I was coming this morning?”

“Yeah. She didn’t say what time.”

Afton toys with the press pass hanging from a black lanyard around her neck. “I was in the area a little earlier than usual today.”

“Not from Rixton Falls?”

“Nope,” she says. “Brooks . . . he didn’t wake up, did he?”

Her eyes soften, and I spot hope in her stare. She doesn’t conduct herself like a respectable journalist. She speaks to me like we’re on the same level, a couple of old friends.

“Where are you from, Afton?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“You said you’re not from Rixton Falls.” I massage the back of my neck where it hurts. “Where are you from?”

Her pale cheeks turn a pretty shade of rose, and it’s not from her blush.

“A little town north of here,” she says. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Try me.”

“Glidden,” she says. Her gaze falls to my ring. “Ever heard of it?”

I feel color draining from my face as I stare into her eyes.

It could all be a coincidence.

A very big, huge, weird coincidence.

“I have. Why don’t I see if Brenda’s up?” I point toward the corridor. No part of me wants to stand around and imagine pretty Afton all over my ex-fiancé, because that’s exactly what I’ll do—whether or not she is the mystery woman. “I’m sure she’d love to give you some quotes for your article.”

Before she has a chance to protest, I turn on my heel and trek back to Brooks’s room.

Only I’m not prepared to walk in and see him sitting up.

Eyes open.

Awake.

Air is siphoned from my lungs, and my hands clutch at my neck.

“B-Brooks,” I say.

Brenda turns to face me, tears in her eyes. Her smile fades for a moment. She’s disappointed in me for missing the moment he opened his eyes for the first time in a week.

“I—I went out there to make some phone calls,” I say, taking a seat at his side like the dutiful fiancé Brenda believes me to be.

Brooks’s nurse scurries around the room in an excited frenzy. A page for his doctors blasts through the hospital intercom system. Outside the room, more nurses walk past, popping their heads in and smiling.

The whole floor is celebrating.

Brenda takes his hands, bringing them to her lips.

Brooks’s eyes shift to mine.

And I wonder if he remembers.

And if he remembers, I wonder if
he
knows
I
know.

I’m not sure how coherent he is, but if there’s any bit of the old him in there, he’s got to know that I’m not exactly myself right now.

I slip my hand into his and present a smile on my face.

Now is not the time.

“Brenda, that reporter from the Herald is in the waiting area,” I whisper across Brooks’s shifting body. “She’d like some quotes for her article.”

“Well, she’ll have to wait.” Brenda rubs her hand across her son’s knee. “I’ve got more important matters to tend to right now.”

Two doctors rush in, and I move aside, standing back against the windowed wall.

“Brooks, I’m Dr. Sanderson, and this is Dr. Mosley,” the white-haired doctor says. “Do you remember your name, Brooks? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

All eyes are on Brooks.

And then he blinks. Once.

“Excellent, excellent,” the doctor says. “Can you make a fist for me? Good, good. Can you give me a thumbs up? Nice. Now follow this light on the end of my pen with your eyes. I want to track your movement. Perfect.”

Brenda covers her mouth with her hands, smiling. Crying. Looking like she’s two seconds from bursting.

I envy her.

I want to be happy in this moment. I want to celebrate, and laugh and cry and kiss his hands and talk to him.

But my image of him is shattered. Broken beyond repair.

The doctors remove the tubes from his mouth, and the first word he says is, “Water.”

Everyone laughs, like it’s hilarious.

Dr. Sanderson turns to Brenda and gives her a thumbs-up. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile all week. I’m guessing moments like these are the ones he lives for, at least professionally.

The rest of this morning won’t be about tearful reunions and catching Brooks up to speed. We won’t be hanging out and chit-chatting. The rest of his day will be for the doctors. For tests and procedures. For examinations and assessments.

They edge me out, all of them swarmed and huddled around his bed. More people file in, rushing around the room. Clipboards. Pens. Laughter. Questions. With each new face, I move closer to the door.

I don’t dare interrupt them. What they’re doing is important. I wave down Brenda, and she bats me away and turns back to her son. I take the hint and leave.

By the time I hit the waiting area, Afton glances up from a magazine and uncrosses her legs. Her brows lift.

I stop, take a deep breath, and tell her, “He woke up.”

Her hands clasp together. Maybe she’s excited about a new development in her story. Maybe she’s one of the thousands of people in the area following his story because it affects her on a much deeper level. Or maybe she’s excited because the man she loves didn’t die after all.

I don’t know.

And I’m not sticking around to find out.

I burst through the automatic doors and welcome the gush of cool wind on my skin as I shuffle to the parking lot. I’ll be back later, when the excitement has died down. I’ll do my part, and I’ll be there for him despite the fact that he’s royally fucked me over.

But for now, I can’t be here.

I don’t want to go home either. And I don’t want to see Delilah or my parents.

I’m not exactly sure what I want right now.

Climbing in my car, I start up the radio. A song comes on, one that takes me back to high school dances and bonfire nights and Royal.

I take it as a sign.

R
oyal

“
H
ey
, Royal, some chick’s here to see you.”

I’m crouched down, working on the underbody of a vintage Mustang, when I spot Daryl’s worn sneakers at my side.

I yank the mask off my face. “Some chick?”

“Yeah. Never seen her before.”

I place the sprayer to the side and step out into the lobby. From my angle, I watch Pandora yank a string of bubble gum from between her front teeth, wrap it around her finger, then peel it off as she shoots daggers toward someone sitting in one of the guest chairs.

“Demi.” I see her as soon as I come around the corner. “What are you doing here?”

Pandora rolls her eyes.

“I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.” She stands, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “I was in the area.”

“You were in South Fork?” I laugh. Nobody comes to South Fork by choice.

Demi shrugs and fights away a half-grin. “You have a minute? When’s your lunch break?”

“Not for another couple of hours, but I can see about taking it now.”

She swats her palm. “It’s okay.”

“No, no. You came here. Hang on.” I slip into Rod’s office and get the okay, grab my keys from my pocket, and lead her out the side door.

Pretty sure Pandora hissed at me when we passed by the front desk, but I ignore her.

“Everything okay?” I ask when we climb into my car. This is the first time she’s been in this thing, and it feels wrong for a second—if only because of all the things I’ve done in the backseat with other women over the years.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I don’t believe her, but I won’t pry. I’m just grateful that out of all the places she could’ve gone today, she came to me. That’s got to mean something.

“I want to see your apartment.” She cracks the window, rolling it down two cranks. Enough cool air blows through that I catch whiffs of Demi’s shampoo, and it instantly makes me want to run my fingers through her hair.

“My apartment’s in Glidden,” I say. “Half hour there, half hour back.”

“Oh.” She stares into her lap at folded hands.

“I guess if we hurry.” I don’t like seeing her disappointed. “I can always stay a little later tonight and make up for it. My boss won’t mind.”

I don’t know that. I’m taking a gamble. But she’s fucking worth it.

Demi turns to me and nods. “Okay, cool. Show me your place.”

* * *

“
S
o this is it
.” I kick open the door to my studio.

Demi takes five steps in and already she’s in the middle. If my bed were down, she’d be standing on it.

“Smells good in here,” she says.

“Thanks.” Not like I can take the credit for that.

“It’s cozy.” Demi goes to the window and stares down at the Main Street traffic below. “And warm.”

“Home sweet home.” I plop down on a love seat against the wall. When my bed’s down, there’s barely enough room to pass between the two. Sometimes I like to pretend like this is really my living room and that my bedroom is in another part of the place. It’s silly, but it makes me feel like I’m not living in a shoebox sometimes. “Why’d you want to see this place anyway?”

Demi paces the small patch of carpet in front of me and shrugs.

“I don’t know. Just wanted to go somewhere I’ve never been before, I guess.” She gathers a handful of dark hair and twists it around her finger before letting it fall against her shoulder. She looks up at me, and our stares hold for a moment. “And it makes me feel like I’m filling in the gaps.”

“The gaps?”

“Yeah.” She moves closer, gingerly, and then takes the second square on the loveseat next to me. Bringing her legs in and tucking them beneath, she sits cross-legged within arm’s reach of me.

It’s hard not to touch her when she’s so close. My fingers twitch when I think about tracing the perfect cupid’s bow of her upper lip or running them through her silky hair.

“I want to know what you did these last seven years. Where you lived. Where you worked. What life was like for you,” she says. “Maybe it’s ridiculous and crazy, but I feel like it might help me to understand you better.”

I laugh, leaning back against the loveseat cushions and refusing to take her out of my sight. I could never tire of this—her—sitting in my apartment next to me.

“The only thing you need to know about my life the last seven years,” I say, “is that it’s been awful. It’s been terrible. And none of it mattered, because I didn’t have you.”

I hear her suck in a breath and hold it, and her eyes dance between mine. Without thinking, I slip my hands around her wrists and guide her into my lap. I’m a man with limited opportunities, so I’ll be damned if I squander this one.

My hands fall to her hips, resting on the curves as her hair curtains her pretty face.

“What are you doing, Royal?” Her voice is a mere whisper and half-broken.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

She sweeps the hair from her face and tucks it back. “Playing with fire.”

“Don’t act like you’re the innocent one in all this.”

My hands cup her face, bringing her lips to mine, and I steal a kiss. And another. She exhales, and her arms slip around my shoulders. Her body melts against me, and her hips rub against my pants just enough to send a quick throb to my cock.

I should be watching the clock, but fuck that shit.

My hands snake beneath her shirt, trailing up bare skin until I reach the cups of her bra. I guide my palms under, taking a handful of her perfect tits and biting her bottom lip between my teeth. She moans when I drag my fingertips around her pert nipples.

Pulling the fabric of her shirt above her head, I lift her bra until she’s exposed. She lifts on her knees until her pink buds are near my mouth. The raking of her fingertips against my scalp as my tongue circles her erect nipples is almost too much. My cock aches, throbs, grows.

Her hips circle and rock, and her fingers dig deeper. She takes fistfuls of my hair, pulling and releasing. When she lowers her hips, her mouth finds mine. Our tongues dance and flick.

I don’t want to go back to work.

I want to stay here, with Demi, making up for lost time.

But I need my job.

Fuck.

“We don’t have much time.” I hate—
hate
—that I have to put a pin in this.

The gyrating of her hips halts completely and her half-open, bedroom eyes widen.

“How much time do we have?” she asks.

I check my watch.

“Can you be quick?” She slides off my lap and falls to her knees. Her palms slide up my thighs and make a beeline for my zipper. In seconds, her tongue swirls the tip of my cock as her hands pump my shaft.

I’m enveloped in warmth and wetness, my fingers in her hair, her tongue lapping every inch of my cock.

“God, Demi . . .” I groan minutes later, wishing I could fight it off and knowing I can’t. She sucks me harder, pumps me faster, and coaxes me to the edge. When I’m done, she swallows me with a reserved half-smirk and rises to her feet.

I want to kiss her, but . . .

“Should we go?” She slings her purse around her shoulder and acts like nothing just happened.

“Yeah, give me a sec.” I clean up in the bathroom. When I come out, I find her leaning against the kitchen counter. My heart stops cold.

My discharge papers.

The letter from the board of parole.

I left them on the counter the other night.

“Ready?” She turns and gives a tepid smile, and I release a held breath.

She didn’t see them.

Thank God.

When we’re in my car a few minutes later, Demi messes with the radio. If it were anyone else I’d say something, but I like this. Feels like old times. She settles on an obnoxious pop station as I pull onto the highway back to South Fork.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask when we pull into the Patterson Auto Body parking lot. I’m undeniably late, but she was so fucking worth it.

Demi turns my way, her palms sliding down her thighs, and she blows a hard breath through her perfect lips.

“Brooks woke up this morning.”

Her words make me swallow wrong, and I spend a solid minute choking on my spit.

“Demi.” I cough. “What? He woke up? Why did you come here? Why did you—”

“I don’t know, Royal.” She buries her pretty face in shaking hands. “I don’t know.”

Glancing into the shop, I spot Pandora watching us from her perch behind the front desk. It’s more of a glare than a watch, really. The second I step in, I’m going to get the what-for, but Pandora needs to understand that she was never mine to begin with. And I was never hers.

I was always Demi’s.

Reaching for her left hand, I move it away from her face. She turns to me, but she’s not crying. Her face is winced, her eyes pained and glassy. I imagine some kind of war is being waged inside her, and she’s definitely not prepared for battle.

“Don’t feel bad about today, okay?” I keep my voice low, inching as close to her as my car allows. “You’re going through some shit. Fuck anyone who judges you.”

She stares ahead at the Dodge insignia on my glove compartment, unblinking.

“I’m glad you came by,” I add. Yeah.
Really
glad. “I need to go inside, but I’ll stop over tonight on my way home from work. We can talk more.”

The last week, I’ve been staying late, timing my work schedule with the hospital visiting hours so I don’t miss Demi when she comes home.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Before I can protest, she climbs out of my car, shuts the door gently, and ambles to her Subaru. Demi feels guilty. It’s that Rosewood kicking in. But she shouldn’t. Brooks Abbott is the douchiest son of a bitch I’ve ever come across, and I’ve spent time behind bars. He trumps them all. He’s selfish and narcissistic. He didn’t deserve her in the first place, and I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t get to keep her after all he’s done.