Chaos and Control(62)

“Wren?”

I freeze and raise my head to find Preston at the foot of the bed. His crossed arms and raised eyebrows display his amusement.

“Oh. Hi,” I say.

“Are you okay?” There is no genuine concern in his tone.

“Uh. Yeah. Fine.”

Preston nods, grabs some clothes from his dresser, and heads back into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, I slap my hand over my mouth to cover the giggle that erupts. I press cool fingers to the heated flesh of my face and smile up at his ceiling.

After his shower, Preston joins me in bed. He picks a movie on Netflix, then makes us grilled cheese sandwiches, which he insists we eat at the table. While I sit in his kitchen, watching him eat his sandwich with a fork and knife, I’m ecstatic at the surreal day we’ve had. Something has shifted between us, something big enough to let Preston be comfortable with me in his space. I take a bite of my sandwich and hide my grin behind what’s left of it.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say as we wash and dry the dishes together.

“Thanks for staying.”

Those three words mean so much. I can see it in his face, in the way his body leans into mine, in the way his fingers brush my bangs from my face.

I fall asleep tucked into his side while Preston writes in his moleskin notebook. There are no dreams or nightmares to greet me, only absolute contentment.





There is no known variable

No equation or principle

That compares to the feel

Of her hands on me

This is a baby’s first step Bigger than fame and fortune The discovery of masturbation This is everything

Every list disappears

Every worry wiped clean

Her taste

Still coats my lips and breath And I’m surprised

I want it there She is a land to be discovered Tracing road maps on her skin Winding highways and

Intersecting roads

X marks the spot

- Preston





Chapter Nineteen


The Lonesome Jubilee


Tuesday, I join Bennie and Preston at Vinyl. John Mellencamp plays through the speakers, and I nod to the familiar beat. As I approach the register, Preston gives me a wave from the front-window display and Bennie slides an envelope across the counter.

“This one is from Indianapolis.”

I groan, holding up the newest piece of mail. Dylan’s face shoots through my memories, and I am jarred from my place at the counter. I walk to the front window and stare out at the mostly empty street. I don’t know where he is or what he’s up to, but he knows exactly where to find me. A vision of his heavy fists coming toward me, and my fingers claw at my ribs. If he did those terrible things to me, someone he supposedly cared about, I have no doubt he’d hurt Bennie or Preston. He’d probably go after them just to spite me.

I rip the envelope open and, this time, the only thing inside is a five-dollar bill. I sigh and drop my head into my hands. Dylan loves to torture me, and this is only further proof. The last time we fought, he called me a five-dollar whore and threw the money at me. With bruised ribs and the taste of blood in my mouth, I hadn’t been able to argue.

“He’s getting closer,” Bennie says. I nod and make my way back to her. Worry lines appear as three horizontal creases on her forehead. “What does it mean? Do you think he’s just trying to scare you?”

“He’s definitely trying to scare me. Otherwise, he would have just shown up here. Guess you don’t need the element of surprise when you’re psychotic.”

“Another one?” Preston asks. He steps to the counter and stares down at the envelope. That pretty frown appears. The sight of him after our mutual orgasms and sleepover has me flustered.

“Call the police, Wren,” Bennie says.

“Crowley police? And tell them what? That I’m getting nonthreatening mail from my abusive ex who may or may not be looking for revenge because I drugged him and stole his money?”

“Do you think the deputies in this town have anything better to do?” Bennie asks. “At least tell Sawyer. I’m sure he could check in on this guy.”

“She’s right,” Preston says.

Preston wears a murderous expression, and while I appreciate his concern, that look does nothing to quell the constant, overwhelming desire I feel for him. I grab the envelope, crumple it up, and throw it in the trash.

“Preston, can I talk to you?” I ask.

Bennie shoots me a look, but I ignore it. He nods and follows me to the back of the store and into the storage closet. I hop up on the table and lean back against the brick wall. Only now, in the silence of our standoff, do I hear the sound of The Cure. Bennie must have changed the album. Robert Smith’s haunting voice permeates the air, providing lyrics to the beat of my pulse.

“What can we expect from your ex?” he asks, leaning against the wall opposite me.

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” I say with a dismissive wave.

“Well, I do.” The timbre of his voice holds my attention. “This guy isn’t done with you. I need to know what to be ready for.”

I blow out a breath toward the ceiling. “I don’t know. He’s nuts. He’s violent, possessive, controlling. He thinks he owns me.”

“People don’t own people.” The anger in his voice sends a chill racing up my spine. His large hands curl into fists at his sides and press into the cinderblock wall. Preston closes his eyes, taps his wristwatch four times, and refocuses his attention on me.