Ronan and I grab breakfast at a little restaurant not far from my house. I’m grateful Brax and Ky don’t text again. I’m dreading explaining this to Kylie. She’s my best friend, and she’ll support me. But she won’t bullshit me either, and she’s going to give me an earful for sleeping with Ronan. Especially when I tell her I fully intend to do it again. Often.
Because holy shit, whatever else is going on between Ronan and me, the sex was unbelievable. And that’s enough for now. Although I’m dreading facing the office on Monday.
Right as we’re leaving the restaurant, I get a call from the police. They want me to come in and give a statement. Ronan takes me, and insists on coming inside the police station with me. I speak with an officer; he asks me to describe what happened, taking notes with clinical efficiency. He tells me they searched the bar, but didn’t find anyone matching the description, and no one seemed to be missing one of their group. It’s likely whoever the jackass came with got him out of there before the cops showed up.
It’s disappointing, but not surprising. I give the officer what I can, answering his questions with an increasingly large pit in my stomach. Talking about it is uncomfortable, but I get through it. The officer assures me he’ll be in touch if there are any new developments. I figure I probably won’t hear from him again.
Outside the police station, we get back into Ronan’s car. I breathe out a long breath and rub my temples. Ronan puts a hand on my leg. His touch is so comforting.
“We should do something to get your mind off this,” he says. “What do you normally do when you’re stressed?”
“I don’t know. Drink with my brother and Kylie, mostly,” I say with a laugh.
He shrugs. “Well, it’s kind of early, but we could get started.”
“What do you do when you’re stressed?” I ask.
He turns toward me. “Jump from high places.”
“Right, the skydiving and all that,” I say. “You’re an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you?”
“I have been called that many times.”
“I don’t think your way would help,” I say. “I’ll stick with gin and maybe a cheesy rom-com.”
He looks at me, his gray eyes eager. “You know what else helps with stress?”
My lips turn up. “What?”
He leans in to kiss me. “How about we swing by my place so I can get some clean clothes, then we’ll go back to your house. I’ll bartend after I fuck the hell out of you again. I did not get enough of you this morning.”
His voice is like a lightning strike to my core. I’m not sure I want to wait to get back to my house. His hand slides up my thigh, and he kisses me again.
“You better start driving,” I say, “or we’re going to get into a lot of trouble out here in front of the police station.”
18: Selene
I take a deep breath as I step out of the elevator. It’s the same hallway I’ve been walking down for four years, but everything looks different this morning. The soft beige walls, the large photos of Puget Sound, the line of office doors—I know it’s all the same as it was last week. It’s me that’s different.
Despite being assaulted in the back of a bar—a reality that seems so surreal, it’s almost like it happened to someone else—my weekend was pretty fantastic. Ronan and I spent Saturday together at my house—watching TV, drinking gin and tonics (he is an excellent bartender), and fucking each other’s brains out. The man was insatiable—and I admit, so was I. It was like we were making up for the months we’ve spent denying ourselves. We went to bed exhausted late that night, tangled in the sheets together. I woke up Sunday to find he’d gone out and gotten me coffee and breakfast. He even put a little birthday candle in my cranberry scone.