Selene is quiet on the drive back to Seattle, looking out the window with her fingers resting against her lips. I almost can’t look at her. The quick glances I take out of the corner of my eye make me feel like I’m going to lose control and panic again.
Logically, I know Selene was okay the entire time. A reserve deployment isn’t uncommon, although it’s unusual in a beginner jump. I’m still livid that they gave her that chute. An experienced jumper can handle a reserve deployment. It happens to anyone if you jump often enough. I’ve had five, but I’ve jumped hundreds of times. But she never should have had to face that.
But logic doesn’t fucking matter. I saw her. She was free-falling well past the right altitude. If she hadn’t been able to get her reserve chute to deploy, if anything else had gone wrong, she would have crashed to the ground, breaking every bone in her body. The image of her lying on the ground, bloody and broken, won’t leave my mind.
I can see it all: The blood marring her face. The limbs at odd angles. Her blond hair matted.
No. Selene doesn’t have blond hair. That was Chelsea.
Fuck, I’m losing my mind. I haven’t let myself think about that in years. Now the vision of Chelsea mingles with the nightmare of Selene hitting the ground. I can’t separate them. I turn, forcing myself to look at Selene. She’s not dead. She’s not hurt. She landed perfectly. But I blink, and the image is there. Pain. Blood. Death.
I can’t get it out of my head.
25: Ronan
Bourbon isn’t helping.
I took Selene home after the skydiving incident yesterday and made an excuse about not feeling well. I went home and tried to bury myself in the bottom of a bottle, but I woke up this morning both hungover and still panicked. My attempts at distraction did me no good, and I couldn’t bring myself to send Selene a text asking her how she’s doing, let alone see her.
I lean my head back against the couch cushion and close my eyes. The weight of her trust sits heavily on my chest. It’s not just that she trusted me enough to jump out of an airplane with me. Maybe if this had happened earlier, before I realized how vulnerable I’d become with her, it wouldn’t be hitting me so hard. She’s trusted me with everything. Her career. Her body. Her heart. Her life. Her entire fucking life. There’s nothing she has that I don’t permeate, now that I’ve broken in.
Because break in is exactly what I did. She put up a wall between us when I first came back to Seattle. Brick by brick, I pulled it down, never taking no for an answer. Fuck, she was dating some other guy, and I still pursued her. I got her to agree to stay single. I maneuvered to have lunches and dinners with her as often as I could, pushing against the boundaries she tried to set between us. I wormed my way in, sure that she would be glad when I did. When I conquered her.
When I won.
And once she let me in, I took everything. I’d like to think I earned her trust, and remained worthy of it, but looking back, I don’t know. I tempted her, teased her, convinced her to do things she might not otherwise have done. I tied her up and had my fucking way with her, and I loved every second of it. But she let me. She gave me that power. She handed it to me willingly.
Just like she followed me onto that airplane.
The responsibility is too much. I hold her life in my hands and if I fuck this up, in any one of a million ways, I could destroy her. I could ruin her career. Maybe I already have. Did her coworkers lose all respect for her because they know I fucked her on top of my desk? I could break her heart. I’ve never been a man who could commit. I’ve always lived for the chase, the thrill of a challenge. What do I do now that the pursuit is over? Now that I have her, what is left? I don’t know how to be that guy. I’ve never done it before.
I could have killed her.
She’s made me afraid, something I haven’t felt since I was a stupid kid. I used to feed off the fear, but since it left me, I’ve thrived. I’ve taken risks no one else will take, and many of them have paid off. They’ve paid off big, and I can’t afford to be weak now.
I swallow the last of the bourbon, my head swimming. I can’t be responsible for someone else’s career, their life, their happiness. It’s too damn much. I know how easily it can be taken. It can all be gone in a second. One fucking second and everything changes.
One second, and everything is gone.
26: Selene
Ronan’s office door is closed, and Sarah isn’t at her desk. It’s early, so she’s probably not here yet. I stand outside his door, wondering if I should knock. Or just go in. I haven’t heard from him since he dropped me off after skydiving on Saturday. No calls. No texts. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a big deal. But he also wouldn’t look at me when he took me home, just mumbled a goodbye, and said he wasn’t feeling well. Since then, silence.