Falling into You (Falling #1)(53)

I laugh past sobs. “You’re such an idiot,” I manage.

At which he tenses, frozen stiff.

“What? What did you call me?” His voice is deadly cold.

I twist to look at him, and I see that he’s livid, jaw hard and tensed, neck muscles corded. “Colton, I—I just meant that I wasn’t afraid, not of you. And I said you’re an idiot because you’re acting like you pushed me into this. You didn’t. I pushed you into this.” He’s shaking, he’s so mad, and I’m confused and terrified. “I’m sorry—I’m—I didn’t mean it…please…I—”

“Shut up for a second and let me calm down, ‘kay?” I nod and hold absolutely still. After a few minutes, he speaks in a much calmer voice. “I have an issue with that word. With being called an idiot, or stupid. Or anything like that. Retard, dumbass, shit like that…it’s a button for me. Don’t say it. Not ever, not even in joke. Got it?”

I nod. “Yeah. I got it. I’m sorry. You’re not an idiot. You’re amazing. You’re…so much. That’s my point. It’s—”

“No need to go overboard trying to make up for it,” Colton interrupts.

I can’t help snapping my gaze to his, searching him, wondering what happened to him to make that such an issue for him. Obviously, someone used to insult his intelligence regularly. For it to be such a huge problem for Colton, there’s only really one probable source. I just can’t see Mr. and Mrs. Calloway doing that. They were always so supportive of Kyle, so loving, so kind. Strict, at times, especially as it came to making sure any publicity was positive, but that’s understandable.

“I wasn’t,” I say quietly. “I was explaining why I suddenly started bawling like girl.”

“You are a girl,” he points out.

“Yeah,” I say. “But until you badgered me into talking about things, I hadn’t cried at all. I mean…at all.”

Colton shifts on the bed to look at me. “You never cried about what happened to Kyle?”

“No.”

“You never grieved?” He sounds almost incredulous.

“Grieved?” The idea seems foreign. He says it like it’s expected.

He lifts up his head to stare at me. “Yeah. Grieved. Went through the stages.” He flops back, rubbing between his eyes with his fingers. “Of course you didn’t. Probably why you’re so fucked up about it.”

I throw an arm over my face to hide my irritation and hurt and the onset of stinging eyes. “He died. I dealt with it.”

Colton snorts. “No. You didn’t deal with shit. You’re a cutter, Nell.”

“I haven’t done that in weeks.” I’m aware that I’m rubbing the scars with my thumb, but I can’t help it.

He takes my hands and forces them apart, traces the pattern of white lines with a finger tip. It’s a tender gesture that sears my heart, makes my jaw tremble. His eyes are mournful.

“Good,” he says. His eyes meet mine, and they turn firm, hard. “If you ever cut yourself again, I’ll be mad. Like, really really pissed. You don’t want to see that.”

No, I sure as hell don’t. I don’t answer him though. I can’t promise that. I’ve managed to not cut in a while, simply because I’ve had Colton on the brain, and that’s enough confusion to take my mind off the urge to bleed myself numb.

Colton isn’t fooled. He takes my chin in two strong fingers and turns my head to face him. “Promise me, Nell.” His eyes are cerulean intensity. “Fucking promise me. No more cutting. You feel the urge, you call me. You get me, we deal together, okay?”

I wish I could make that promise. I can’t. He doesn’t understand how deep the need is. I hate it, I really do. I always feel even more guilty after I’ve cut, which makes the problem even worse. It’s like this habit I can’t shake, but it’s not just a habit, like an addiction I’m ashamed of, smoking or pill popping or whatever. I know he gets the need to cut, but he doesn’t realize how embedded in me the urge is.

I haven’t answered. I’m staring at the ceiling, shaking. I want to promise him. I want to be healed, to never want to score lines of pain into my wrists, my forearms again.

Colton sits up, and he’s still naked, not hard anymore and I’m fascinated by his not-erect cock. It’s a distraction, and only momentary. Colton grabs me, lifts me, and I’m on his lap, in his arms, forced to meet his angry glare.

“Fucking promise, Nell.”

“No!” I wrench myself free, scramble away, off the bed, away from his hot skin and hard muscles and angry, piercing eyes. “No! You can’t say that to me, you can’t demand that of me. You don’t understand! You can’t just appear in my life and try to change it like this.”

“Yes I can.” His voice is calm but intense.

He’s still on the bed, watching me. I’m hunting the pile of clothes on the floor for mine, but I can’t find my shirt or my panties, so I settle for a T-shirt of Colton’s. It hangs to mid-thigh, and it’s soft and it smells like him, which is confusing and comforting and incredible.

“No. You can’t. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I went through. You don’t know how I feel.”