In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(22)

I don’t know if those guys were telling the truth or not, but I’m sure she’s been in other situations like this. And I’m also sure there was no one there to stop it. Even now, though I know it’s wrong, I can’t help but look at her face, at her body, as chiseled and beautiful as it is.

Even with countless thin surgical white scars running along the right side of her body. From her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs, her waist, her hips, disappearing behind a flock of black ravens tattooed on her thigh. Ravens symbolize death; I know because my grandfather was highly superstitious and used to shake his fist at any raven that flew by.

There are one . . . two . . . three . . . four of them on her creamy pale skin. Four ravens for the four people in her life that died that night, maybe? No, wait . . . A black tip peeks out from where the top of her jeans sit on her right leg. I nudge them down with a finger.

A fifth raven.

Five ravens.

There were five in her car.

A chill runs down my back as I peer down at my fellow survivor. Maybe she didn’t truly make it out of that car alive either.

Her eyes flicker open and I suck in my breath. “Youuuuu,” she murmurs softly, and her lips fall back into an intoxicated smirk. A second of panic hits me, but then her eyes start rolling around. She can’t even focus on me. There’s no way she recognizes me.

How much did she drink? Enough to poison her bloodstream? Definitely enough that she may be puking within the hour. I don’t really want that to start here.

With shaky hands, I crouch down to slip the loose pant leg over her foot.

She pulls it away with a small moan. “Come on . . . what’s taking so long,” she says in garbled speech, her lips barely moving. I’m surprised I can even understand it. Her hands slide across her taut belly and pelvis.

And she begins pushing her black panties down.

“Jesus! No.” I dive for her hands to stop them from going any farther and shut my eyes, my heart nearly exploding in my chest. Wouldn’t this be a sight for anyone walking in, after the trouble I gave those two idiots!

She shakes her hands away from mine with surprising force, allowing me a chance to slide her panties back up. She doesn’t fight me anymore as I manage to get her leg back into her jeans and tug them up over her hips. Finding her shirt on the floor, I work it over her head and then reach for her hand to guide it into the sleeve.

She jerks it away. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

“I need to get your shirt on, Kacey,” I whisper, reaching for her hand once again.

“No!” It’s a bellow now, from deep within her. Her hand flies from mine once again. “No hands . . . No hands . . . No hands . . .” Over and over again, her distress rising.

“Okay! Okay. No hands,” I promise, frowning. What is that about?

It’s not easy, but I manage to get her shirt on. Slipping my arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders, I move to lift her up.

A slight giggle slips from her lips, and her eyes flicker open again. Freezing me. Even bloodshot and unfocused, they’re gorgeous and light and hypnotizing. I can’t peel myself away from them.

That’s probably why she manages to get her hand coiled around my head and my mouth against hers before I know what the hell is going on. Her tongue, surprisingly responsive for someone as wrecked as she is, tangles itself with mine, drawing me in with unspoken promises, sending blood rushing through my veins.

It’s all so unexpected, so fast, so fierce, that I can’t stop it from happening. And then, as she wiggles within my grip and pulls me into her thighs, as her hands slide up the back of my shirt, I find that I don’t want to stop it from happening. We could get lost here together, tumbling down this rabbit hole of blind emotion, in search of a desperate escape that we both want. And maybe that only the two of us can truly understand.

That’s the precise moment when I come to grips with how low I’ve sunk.

“I can’t . . .” I wrench myself away, a new kind of guilt growing inside. A disgusting, loathsome sickness in the pit of my stomach.

Adjusting my clothes and the hard-on that hasn’t withered yet, despite my consciousness, I scoop her up again. Whatever brief spurt of energy she tapped into has faded, leaving her limp in my arms, her eyes closed.

“Did you come here with anyone?” I whisper more to myself, moving quickly and quietly down the stairs and through the crowd. I have no f**king clue what I’ll say if anyone stops me.

But no one does.

Not one person—not one friend—stops me as I carry a semi-unconscious Kacey Cleary out of a party and into a cold winter’s night in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans.

Doesn’t she have anyone looking out for her?

She doesn’t say another word until I sit her in the passenger seat of my car. “No . . . car . . . hate . . . car,” she moans, making a feeble effort to roll out.

“Shhh . . . Kacey. I know.” I brush her hair off her face. It’s even softer than I imagined. “I get it. Just go to sleep.” I hesitate before leaning in to recline the seat for her, wondering if she’ll kiss me again.

Wondering if I’d let her.

Yes. I would. It’s so wrong, and yet I would. What the f**k is my problem?

“It’ll be okay,” I promise, slipping her seat belt over her. Two years ago, I would have laid her down across the backseat and said screw the seat belt. But that’s never happening again.