Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(4)

I try to ignore the cacophony from the damn yacht, the “oh shits” and “fuuuucks”.

I rise to one knee, my muscles on fire.

Wanting to scream.

But I look up. Charlie touches the wound on his cheek, his whole body as badly beaten as mine, and he inhales a strong, sharp breath.

“Don’t do this, Charlie,” I say, voice muffled with my bloodied nose. I don’t want us to be distant. I don’t want to return to what we were when we were younger.

Charlie sways, but he catches his balance, then steps closer. Towering. “You want the cold-hearted truth?” His voice is a deep, pained whisper, so only I hear. “I’d be better off if you never even existed.”

My eyes burn. A hurt I’ve never felt before plunges through me like twenty knives to my lungs. Worse than any punch or kick.

Charlie turns and leaves for the marina’s restaurant.

Blood seeps through the cracks of my fingers, dripping down my bare chest. My pulse is lodged in my throat. But I try to distract myself by focusing on the blood. Not Charlie, who disappears out of sight.

I try to staunch my nose with my bicep, and then a wadded up black shirt suddenly lands by my knee. I glance at the yacht, looking for the person who threw it at me.

The audience already starts dispersing. Faces too hard to recognize from down here. I gratefully ball the shirt and press the fabric to my nose. And I rise to my feet.

Back on the yacht, I manage to bypass most people. I make my way to the empty bow, darkened since all but one torch is snuffed. Beige cushions form a sunbathing pad, but I don’t sit.

I squat, slightly wincing, and rifle through a blue cooler. Ice all melted, cans of beer and soda float in lukewarm water.

I stare faraway. Charlie’s words ring in my ears. I’d be better off if you never even existed.

You can do anything by yourself and then some.

Have you ever felt like you need something or someone? Just for one moment.

Just one damn second.

I’m rarely alone, but I’m not talking about Jane or my parents or any of my siblings or family. Have you ever felt like you’re missing something? Like a void exists, and you’re not sure how to fill that space?

Maybe it’s not supposed to be filled. Maybe this is it, and I have to be satisfied with this carved out chunk, this hollowness.

I’d be better off if you never even existed.

Yeah.

“Move, wolf scout.”

My head swerves abruptly towards the only guy who calls me that. The concierge doctor’s twenty-four-year-old son.

Farrow Redford Keene.

Black swim trunks hang low on his muscular waist. I almost drink in his body. He’s lean-cut and sculpted, but instead of a swimmer’s build like mine, his stature screams MMA fighter.

What’s more, his bleach-white hair is pushed back, nose pierced, and the sexiest tattoos crawl up his fucking neck and down his chest. Inked pirates, skulls, ships, daggers, sparrows and swallows.

I’m trying my hardest not to give Farrow an obvious once-over. But he hovers close. Like actually right beside me while I’m frozen in a squat.

How long has he been there?

Farrow raises his dark brows at me. Like I’m not catching on fast enough, but he chews a piece of gum with a sense of unhurriedness. Then he rolls his eyes and just squats beside me.

I watch him rummage through the cooler.

Fuck, he wanted me to move out of the damn way.

I rake a hand through my hair, waking up out of a dark stupor. “What do you need?” I ask, licking my lip a few times, tasting iron from blood. I keep the black shirt wadded in my hand.

“Don’t worry about it.” Farrow grabs a couple of beers and then glances at me for a short beat. “You look like shit.” He stands.

I stand. “Thank you,” I say, sarcasm thick. “For a second there, I thought blood was an attractive accessory. You know, like a hat, a scarf, a goddamn lightsaber.”

His lips upturn. “You would find lightsabers attractive.”

I almost groan, trying not to crack a smile. He’s irritating four-fifths of the time. The one-fifth makes me almost break into a weird grin. I give him a look. “Did I say that lightsabers were attractive?”

“In so many words.” Farrow stacks his beer cans in one hand, like he’s about to leave. But he hones in on my bloodied chest from my nosebleed.

I lick my lips again, inhaling a deeper breath. Something powerful surging into me. Stay.

“Farrow!” a guy calls from inside the galley. Farrow keeps his gaze on me.

I keep mine on him.

Then he walks backwards to the yacht door, towards that voice. “Need anything, wolf scout?”

Yeah.

I shake my head. “No.”

His gaze drops to the black shirt in my hand, and his smile stretches wide. “Keep it.”

“What?”

“My shirt. I don’t need it back.”

Holy…shit. I have no time to protest or offer to return the shirt—he already exits into the galley.

You’ll never believe this, but I’m smiling. I laugh to myself, my chest swelling with a better, lighter feeling. I glance back at the shut door, then the dark horizon. Ocean ripples below, calling me, to free me.

Fuck it.

I run. Onto the sunbathing cushions, and I leap and dive off the bow. Water cocoons me like a hug and a welcome home.