Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (22 page)

It’s one of the things I admire most about him. Well, that and the way he’s trying so hard with his brother. And the fact that, despite all his objections, despite all the reasons he had to cancel, he came on this trip because he couldn’t stand to disappoint Timmy.

Okay, maybe I have more than a teeny, tiny crush on him. Maybe I have a huge crush on him. But that’s okay. It’s still manageable. Still controllable. And as long as I don’t throw myself at him again—and make him literally rip my hand off his cock in an effort to get away from me—surely things will be okay. Surely I won’t have to toss myself into a volcano. Right?

Right?

Oh, God, what I wouldn’t give to have my bitch boots back. I could totally face Ash without flinching if I was wearing those. Then again, I’d give anything to be the kind of girl who actually wears clothes like that on a regular basis. Who feels comfortable in them. Who owns them, and the attitude that comes with them.

I loved that look, but to be honest, I didn’t feel any more comfortable in ripped jeans and leather than I do in hipster clothes and flower crowns. In fact, nothing I’ve tried so far feels right. Nothing feels like me, or like I think I should feel.

Rolling over, I bury my face in my pillow and scream my confusion and frustration straight into it. It’s a trick my mom taught me years ago when the pain of chemo got too bad, or when the unfairness of having to stay inside and rest got to me when all the other kids in the neighborhood were riding bikes and skateboards in the sunshine.

It didn’t work then—not really—and it doesn’t work now. How can it, when the problem isn’t just facing Ash, isn’t just looking him in the eye when all I really want to do is lick him all over? I mean, another girl would either try to make him like her or just move on to another guy that
does
like her. But I can’t do that. I mean, how can I expect Ash—or anyone, really—to like me, when I don’t like myself? When I don’t know myself? Because I don’t. I really don’t. I’ve spent so much of my life fighting to keep my life that I never learned how to live it. Not really. Not beyond the basics.

I don’t have a favorite style or a favorite subject, don’t have a favorite color or even a favorite food (I’m still just grateful that most of the time what I eat stays down instead of coming back up these days). I mean, I guess I like red and purple more than the other colors, but it always seemed silly to worry about something like that when my white blood cell count was so much more important. Plus, when I was sick, if I mentioned liking something—a dress, a color, a hairstyle—I could see my mom cataloguing it away, so that just in case I died, she could bury me in it. Because that’s what I want to spend eternity in: a purple coffin and a zebra striped dress.
And a Mohawk. Definitely a Mohawk.

Who doesn’t?

I’m trying to fix that now, to find out who I am. To figure out what I like and how I like it. I like Ash, but that’s not enough. Obviously. Not when the guy so obviously doesn’t feel the same way about me. I mean, it takes a lot of dislike, or disgust, for a twenty-one-year-old guy to walk away from a guaranteed orgasm. Or at least, I’ve always heard it does.

I guess I should be grateful he
is
such a good guy. I mean, today could have gone so much worse if he hadn’t been so nice. So normal. I spent most of the night worrying about seeing him today, worrying about how awkward everything would be after what happened last night—him going down on me, giving me my first real orgasm with another human being, and then rejecting me when I tried to reciprocate—but it turns out it wasn’t so bad. At least not as long as I didn’t let myself think about it. About how easily, how completely amazing he made me feel when his tongue was on me. About how easily, how completely he rejected me when I tried to make him feel as good as he’d made me feel.

Ugh. Just the thought makes my cheeks burn and my brain threaten to explode. For what feels like the millionth time.

My phone beeps with a new text message, and I almost ignore it. It’s probably Luc or Cam inviting me down to the bar to have drinks with everyone. I should go—after all, it’s my job to make sure everyone has a good time and that things go smoothly on this trip—but the idea of going down there, of spending another three hours around Ash pretending that I’m totally fine, so doesn’t appeal to me.

I have to do it tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. I know that, am prepared for it. But I just don’t think I can face him again tonight. I just can’t.

Another text message comes in, though, followed by a third one and a fourth one and I can’t resist picking up the phone and at least looking. At this point, if it is Luc or Cam, it’d be rude not to answer. I’ll just tell them I have a headache or something. And if something is wrong, I need to know about it, too.

Except, when I look, it isn’t Luc or Cam trying to get my attention. And it isn’t Timmy’s parents telling me he’s taken a turn for the worse. It’s my sister, Anna.

I can’t help smiling as I type a response. Then again, Anna always makes me smile. Even
at the worst times.

I don’t answer right away, because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say here. I mean, Ash
did
feel me up. He also did a lot more than that. He just didn’t let me reciprocate. Or make any move today like he wanted me to reciprocate. Ever.

That’s a lot of radio silence. Squeee! What happened? I WANT DEETS! Tell me everything!

I debate for several more seconds, trying to decide just how badly I want to humiliate myself here. Then I decide, screw it. Anna’s had a ton more experience with guys than I have. Maybe she can help. I type my response fast, then hit send before I can think better of it.

Of course she does. Anna is beautiful and funny and sweet and so much more experienced at this than I am. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Especially when she’s not even giving me any tips here.

Porn? My sister expects me to watch porn to figure this out? Is she serious? I wouldn’t even know where to start! There’s no way I’m going to do that. No way. I can’t believe I even told her. I expected real help. Not porn.

Oh. My. God.

I flop back down on the bed, pull the pillow over my face. And try very hard to ignore the fact that my obviously insane younger sister might actually have a point.

Not that I’m going to listen to her, because … 
Eeew
. Porn. In a hotel room. Could I be a bigger cliché?

Except … how else am I going to learn? I could ask Luc, I guess. He’d probably be willing to teach me. Except … except, no. I think I’d actually rather throw myself into a volcano.

And Ash is obviously off-limits for so many reasons.

I could find some other guy—some hot Latin guy, like Anna keeps talking about—to show me, but that seems pretty ick, too.

Maybe the porn isn’t such a terrible idea, after all.

What am I thinking? It’s an awful idea. A horrible idea. An unbelievably bad idea. Except … how else am I going to learn?

Besides, I am completely alone in a hotel room.

No one would ever know.

And maybe I could, possibly, actually learn something? I mean, presumably, these people are professionals. They know what they’re doing, right? Not that I think Ash will ever touch me again, but someone else might. Someday. And I don’t want to scare him away, too.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this.

I’m not thinking about.

But I am. I totally am.

No, I’m not.

I stay where I am for another five minutes or so, going back and forth in my head, trying to decide what to do. I want to go to sleep, or to at least forget Anna ever suggested it. But I can’t forget it. It’s right there, in the front of my mind, taunting me with the possibility. Making me wonder. Making me—

Screw it. I throw the pillow across the room, then pick up my tablet off the nightstand. I don’t have to do anything. I can just check my email, see if Anna sent any links. She probably didn’t. She was probably just messing with me.

But if she did, maybe I could try one out, just to see what it’s like. And if she didn’t … well,
if she didn’t, then I’m sure I can find something else to do with my time. Something that does not involve naked strangers.

Except, when I log on and open my email account, the first thing I see is an email from Anna with the subject line:
69 Things You Need to Know
. Jesus. My sister really does have the sense of humor of a fifteen-year-old boy.

There are a bunch of links—sixty-nine to be exact (and can I just ask where my sister finds the time to watch this much porn?????)—to sites with names like comegetthebigdick.com and tapthatass.net. I mean, seriously? Do people actually Google this shit? I don’t even know what to say.

I stare at the list for long seconds, trying to figure out where to start. But each site looks worse than the next, so finally I end up closing my eyes and just clicking.

I end up at comeandgetme.com and my eyes nearly bug out of my head at the pictures on the home page. Naked women on their hands and knees, with—

Okay, nope. Need a new site.

I randomly click again, and this time I end up at a site with a bunch of naked men on the home page—all with enormous dicks. God, is it even possible for them to be that—