Never let it be said that my parents didn’t teach me anything.
And now I know how slippery that slope is. I thought I was stronger than Mom and Dad. I thought I was in control when I was using. But our first two weeks here were hell and there are two full days I lost completely with the withdrawal. I never would have made it through without Destiny.
“Stay the fuck out of my head, Silo,” I tell the ceiling.
Because, unlike my parents, I learn from my mistakes.
Chapter 3
Bran
I lay with my fingers laced behind my head, staring at the whirring ceiling fan. I haven’t even moved to pull the condom off my flaccid dick because I wanted Destiny to fall asleep. Judging by the twitching and the little squeaking noises she’s making, I finally got my wish.
Painstakingly, I peel each of her fingers off my chest, then lift her arm slowly before carefully extricating my legs from hers. Sort of like diffusing a landmine. One false move and kapow! When I’m free, I slowly sit on the edge of the bed and peel the condom off. I go to the bathroom and clean up, then tug on some boxers. On the way to the living room, I scoop my phone off the dresser.
I’ll never admit to my ex-roommate Marcus that I miss his sorry ass, but since he couch jumped to his sister’s place in Oakland to be closer to his girlfriend, this place is too quiet. If he were still sleeping on my couch, I’d grab a couple of brews from the fridge, crack him over the head with one to wake him up, then we’d sit and stare at whatever stupid Chevy Chase flick was playing on late night TV until sunrise.
What can I say? It’s a guy thing.
But he’s not here, so instead, I start the coffeemaker perking, then move to the dark window and stare up at the stars.
What the fuck I am doing?
I’ve fucked dozens of girls. Hell, probably hundreds. The college just up the hill supplies a steady stream of fresh *. Maybe it makes me a dick, but I don’t even know most of their names. As long as we’re all in it for a good time, I’ve never come away feeling wrong about it. But from the minute Destiny showed up at the bar before closing tonight, I’ve felt this prickly, itchy feeling, like ants under my skin. And the whole time I was on top of her, all I could picture was her fucking sister.
Or really, fucking her sister, if I’m honest.
I’ve known Lilah for thirty seconds and she’s totally under my skin. No one’s ever gotten under my skin.
When the coffeemaker starts sputtering, I go to the kitchen and pour a deep mug, then drop onto the couch. I down half the cup in one long swallow, shove my earbuds in, and flip my phone to the clips I recorded earlier at the bar. Lilah playing some pop song. But it doesn’t sound pop the way she does it. It sounds…unique. Better.
It’s not the kind of thing I usually listen to. My playlists are full of pounding bass and angry rhythms. Disturbed’s Indestructible was my anthem during both tours in Afghanistan. I’d be out sweeping for mines and it would be cycling through my head on repeat. It kept me sane. Kept me focused. Kept me from thinking about how many guys with my job end up going home in body bags…how many of my friends had already gone home that way.
Which is the real reason for all the girls since I’ve been back. Sleep is dangerous. Defenses drop. You’re vulnerable to attack.
And not just from the outside.
Because it’s those internal demons that will destroy you if you let your guard down for even a second. They’re much more lethal than anything in the outside world.
Which explains why I haven’t actually slept in six years. If I can keep the adrenaline going, I can stay at least partly awake, and fucking some poor girl senseless is my preferred mode of nocturnal adrenaline delivery.
But it’s getting old. Which means the rush is mostly gone. Each new face just runs into the river of old ones and it all becomes a meaningless blur. Nothing new. Nothing exciting. At this point, it’s more habit than therapy anymore.
I shake my head at myself and blow out a disgusted laugh. How pathetically predictable am I? I’m a walking cliché.
I loll my head back and start on the Gettysburg Address. If I knew it this well in high school, I probably wouldn’t have barely squeaked through U.S. history. As boring as it might sound, trying to get through the entire thing without making a mistake keeps my mind from going anywhere darker. But Mr. Lincoln can’t keep my interest tonight, because on my phone is the sexiest fucking voice I’ve ever heard, like smoke over gravel, rough with a purr on the kick, singing about the hell she’s going to rain down on her man.