“So, do you prefer to stop in Vegas for a shotgun wedding?”

I jolt at the question, tearing my eyes off the book I’m pretending to read.

“Seriously, Weston?” I growl at him. “What kind of question is that?”

I feign annoyance. But in truth, I should be apologizing for being so distant. I just can’t help it. And I know that he hates when I disappear into my mind or when I go into complete silence.

Wes hates when I’m quiet and brooding.

He says that it reminds him of the time when I first arrived at the Aherns. He feels like I’m hurt and pushing him away along with everyone else around me. I bet right now he assumes that I’m scared. I’ll deny it, even when he’s right.

Just empty your mind and don’t think about anyone else but Wes, I order myself

“The kind of question I ask when you’re not paying attention,” he answers with his signature half smirk and half scowl that scares many but makes me laugh.

Well, not only laugh. It sucks the air out of my lungs because in a way, it looks really sexy. That’s Wes. A sexy guy in a Henry Cavill kind-of-way. Except Wes doesn’t have a hot British accent.

“What’s going on, Abby girl?”

I stare at him. His midnight blue eyes stare at me. He’s studying me, trying to guess what the hell is wrong with Abigail this time. So much for treating me like a normal person. So many things. I’m so wrapped up in what happened earlier today that I wasn’t paying attention to Wes.

Sterling forgot about our call. He was busy according to his text. For three hours I couldn’t stop thinking about Corbin and Shaun. I was tempted to google them, but afraid of what I would find, I resisted. Then I went to the coffee house … I should stop visiting it on my own.

Since then, my mind has been on automatic. Packing wasn’t hard since I don’t bring much to Tahoe. My little piece of heaven has a closet full of clothes for all seasons.

“It’s the turbulence,” I say grabbing onto my seat. “Feels like we’re gliding and not flying.”

Wes sighs and adjusts himself before setting one foot on top of his opposite knee, his fingers tapping his knee.

“You have to be a little more convincing. Your acting is terrible,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s not what’s going on with you.”

I raise a challenging brow. “If you know what’s going on with me, why are you asking?”

He shrugs and rakes his dark hair with both hands. “That’s not what I meant. Something happened to you after breakfast. Was it the conversation we had?”

No, that’s not what’s bothering me. I purse my lips, staring at him. Wait, what conversation? My dear mother’s dead, right. Ugh, I think I need a few drinks. An entire pitcher of daiquiris—blueberry mint or mango pineapple ...

“See, there you go again, retreating into your own mind.”

“Maybe just a little,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.”

The pilot announces that we’re free to move around the cabin. Unlike Wes, who unbuckles his seat belt and gets up off the seat, I remain in place. I swear, using commercial airplanes is safer than these little jets. I don’t feel the turbulence as much when we’re traveling in big planes. But then I have to deal with the people around me. At least here, I can freak out and the incident will be forgotten.

Wes goes to the mini-fridge, taking two bottles of water and two Kaisers, his favorite beer, out of it. It’s like the man can read my mind. Well, not exactly since there’s a huge difference in taste between my favorite fruity-frozen drinks and his sour beer, but I’ll take anything that will help calm my nerves.

My current anxiety has nothing to do with the unfortunate death of my mother. Maybe Wes thinks that I’m still mourning the bitch. The only part I mourn is that when she left, I realized that I’d been living in heaven compared to what happened after her loss.

“We should have finished our conversation during breakfast,” he says.

“I assure you, there’s nothing much to say about her.”

“We don’t have to have that conversation, but if you want to talk more …” he shrugs and drinks from his beer. “Did anyone help you with the grief?”

Grief? I don’t think that word is applicable when one loses someone who abuses them. After she got sick, I needed help, but not because of her … I close my eyes, but the only thing I see is him. Just like I did earlier, when I ran downstairs for one of those delicious cupcakes that they sell next door. One moment he was there, sitting in the corner booth watching me, serving me with that creepy smirk I hated.

I can’t breathe. There’s a pain on the center of my chest. It’s sharp and jabbing, like a knife lodged in my lungs. He’s here. His gaze pinning me, my arms tied. He can’t hurt me.

I gasp for air, unbuckling my seat belt.

My hands fly to my neck. I touch it. My throat is so tight, and I can’t scream or ask for help. Don’t speak. If I do, Corbin’s going to kick me in the head. The only place no one notices the bruises.

I need to get out of here.

The mind-blowing panic paralyzes me. I draw in a deep breath trying to swallow my fear to show him that I’m not afraid.

“Abby, breathe for me.” The calm, soothing voice breaks through my thoughts.

I look at my arms. I’m not tied up.

“Are you okay?”

My heart rate is out of control, just like my shaky body. Wes lifts my chin. “Look at me, Abby. Where are you?”

I look around. “Not home, but with you,” I whisper.

“Hey, if you’re not feeling well, I can order the pilot to turn around.”

“Please, don’t do that. I need a break from Denver.”

It hasn’t been long since I arrived, but I already want to get the fuck out of that place. Away from the monsters.

I squeeze my eyes shut harder, trying to calm myself. It’s impossible. He’s back, and I swear he’s watching me. But who is he? Corbin or Shaun. Maybe both. Or is it just my imagination? No, I swear I’ve been seeing them. I’m almost sure that Shaun was at the café earlier today. He’s much older, but that gaze. I would recognize it anywhere. There was a guy leaning against the wall of the coffee shop. He was there one second and the next, he was gone. My legs wobble as I remember the way I’ve been feeling all week.

Someone is watching me.

Am I going crazy?

“Abby, look at me. You have to go to a therapist,” he pleads. The desperation in his eyes makes me reach for his face. “This … whatever it is you have, it’s getting worse.”

Is it getting worse?

I break eye contact. He’s right. Everything that’s happening to me is just inside my head. Nothing is real. I’m feeling like people are following me, and I’m losing my fucking mind because I haven’t dealt with the past. How do I start? I close my eyes and look at the girl lying on the floor, crying, broken after another night of torture. She’s trying to forget. Why is it that she can’t just leave everything behind and start anew?