“Oh, God, that’s better,” I groan, slamming into her again, letting the tension that’s been building morph slowly to hunger. Her hips rock back and my fingers curls into the skin of her thighs, holding her in place. “Stay still,” I say as sternly as I can muster while biting back the groan that wants to escape. My legs feel like they’re about to buckle under the effort it’s taking for me not to come already.
“Fuck, Cole, I need to move…it feels so good.”
I hiss, pulling her back into me as I thrust forward and slam hard against her.
“O-oh, that’s it, Cole. God, yeah,” she moans, and it makes me feel ten feet tall.
“That’s it, baby, call my name.”
I need the affirmation that I’m desired, more than I realize, and Chantal isn’t disappointing. I increase the tempo and strength of my thrusts, barely holding on, but the sound of her moaning and screaming my name is like a drug and I need a bigger hit. Every noise I pull from her strokes my self-esteem and rebuilds the shattered pieces of my ego. I lean forward cupping one of her breasts in my hand, the other holding firmly onto her hip as I rock inside of her, gathering more and more momentum.
“Tell me how much I make you want to come,” I demand. I don’t normally talk during sex, but the constant confirmation that she’s completely into this is turning me on beyond comprehension.
“Shit, Cole, you’re going to make me lose it. P-please don’t stop, I’m so close.” Her words are rushed between pantings, and I drop my hand from her breast back to her hip so I can pull her back against me roughly.
“I’m, I’m—oh, God!” Her breath hitches, and she doesn’t finish her sentence. The feel of her clamping down around me is the only language I want to communicate in right now. I thrust vigorously a few more times before I fall over the edge with her, coming hard. My body shudders as I let the surge of pleasure shower over me in red-hot waves, holding on tightly to her with my jaw clenched and my muscles burning from the exertion.
The effects of the alcohol mixed with fatigue and relief hit me hard as I collapse beside Chantal in a languid heap, overheated and spent.
“You okay?” I murmur, cracking one eye and looking over to where she’s buckled and lying on her front. Her silky hair is a tangled blond storm, fanned wildly over my sheets.
“The next time we have sex,” she says, lifting her head ever so slightly from the mattress. “That’s how we do it.”
A chuckle escapes my throat before I agree and let my eyes fall closed. Angry sex feels amazing when you’re in the throes of it, but I’m not too drunk to know that I’m going to feel like shit again tomorrow.
Maybe I should ask her to stay, so I can work off my frustrations as soon as I wake. She can help me make sense of this colossal mess.
THERE’S A SAYING I used to believe along the lines of Once you’ve hit rock bottom, smile because you can only go up from there. But what happens if the earth keeps shifting beneath your feet, and every time you think you couldn’t possibly find yourself any lower, life kicks you down farther? When do you know that you’ve hit the actual bottom? I thought I was there when Danny left, then Mr. Carter paid me a visit, and I was sure I’d hit it, face first and with a mouth full of dirt to prove it.
But this right here is lower still, I’m sure of it. The two people that have been my solace and my saviors now hate me, and what’s worse, they hate each other. It’s entirely my fault, and I have no clue as to how to fix it. To repair something you must have an understanding of how it broke in the first place. And while I know the obvious, why they’re not on good terms, I don’t know how we got here. Ill fate, bad timing, and unfortunate circumstances all feel like feeble excuses; the fact of the matter is, I’ve always had choices. It was up to me to forge my path, but instead I let myself be carried. I let myself get swept away with thinking if I kept my worlds separate, things would be easier. It would only have taken one conversation with Cole about where I worked, or one correction from me when Callum referred to Cole as Mr. Bigshot. This whole mess could have been avoided if I’d chosen to open up more.
Hindsight’s a bitch. I didn’t choose wisely and because of that, I’m where I am now. I’ve hurt the only two people that have provided any comfort to me since this nightmare began. I’m a horrible, self-absorbed person.
My feet ache and my muscles are burning, but I don’t stop dancing. Instead, I take comfort in the pain. It feels justified that I should hurt. I’ve caused enough discomfort, and this is almost cathartic—it’s my sacrament. I’ve been rehearsing for the last three hours. Dance has always been my escape, but today I’m treating it as penance in a bid to appease the remorse I feel. I have the routine down pat, but I carry on, adding more grueling maneuvers that punish my tired body. It’s a game of endurance, and I’m suspended in a state of obsessive compulsion. I can’t let myself stop until I’m physically unable to go on because the thought of walking into Callum’s apartment and having him ignore me the way he did last night hurts. And the pain of his disregard far outweighs this arduous workout; I don’t think I could bear it.
Sweat runs into my eyes as I finally relent and lay down on the cold stage floor. I rub them with the heel of my palm, but it only irritates them more, and they begin to water, stinging and blurring my vision. My heart is pounding against my ribs, and I feel like the weight of the last few weeks is finally about to crush me. I let the stinging of my sore eyes continue, and cry out my frustrations, letting my sorrow merge into the flood of tears already streaming down the sides of my face and wetting my hair.
I’m not even sure why I’m crying at this point; it could be one of so many things: the debts, betrayal, fear, learning that Callum and Cole are brothers. The compounding effects of my worries have worn me down so low that I’m reduced to huge wailing sobs. I probably sound like I’m being attacked, and in some peculiar way it feels as though I am. Bad things shouldn’t happen to good people, but they do and it feels so unjust that I want to sit up and scream. My cell begins to ring beside my towel on the table next to the stage. I take a deep breath and stand, attempting to stop my shuddering as I warily go to answer it.
The number is withheld, and an air of unease settles around me. I hate the trepidation that’s become so prevalent in my life lately. I shake off the thought of this being anything sinister. It’s more than likely a cold call from some call center telling me I’m entitled to a claim against my recent accident, except there hasn’t been one, of course. I don’t know how these people get a hold of my number, but I’m bombarded with nuisance calls regularly.
“H-hello?”
There’s a sigh on the other end that makes my breathing halt.
“Hello, who is this?” I ask quietly.
“Robyn?”
My heart falls from my chest on a rapid descent to the floor and my legs begin to buckle. I slip into a seat, using my elbow to rest against the table and steady myself.
“What do you want?” I try to inflict as much annoyance and hatred into my tone as humanly possible, but it registers as barely a whisper, reminding him and me of just how weak I am.
He sighs again, and I want to throw my phone on the floor and stomp on it.
“I need to see you. Where are you?”
My bitter laugh surprises me. “Are you kidding me, Daniel?”
“Robyn, I know you must hate me right now but I need to see you. We need to talk, and I don’t want to do this over the phone, baby. Please come home, it’s important.” His voice is soft, melodic even. It’s one of the things I used to love most about him—I could listen to it all day and never tire of it. It’s strange how quickly something you once love can twist into something loathsome in such a short space of time.