Chloe looks so damn tired. It’s obvious that her hair must have been up all day; I can still see the impression of where a band was wrapped around her wavy brunette locks. She swallows thickly, and I swear I can hear the faint sound even from where I am feet away from her. Even with the clamoring from the Higgins kids yelling down the block. With a heavy breath she looks up at me, and I can see she’s biting her tongue in reaction to me telling her I came to chat. She’s done it for years. The questions shine in her doe eyes though. They stare back at me with the well of emotion that runs deep between us.

The bags under her pale blue eyes only make her look that much more beautiful. I don’t know how that’s possible.

Every time she comes to mind, I tell myself I’m picturing her differently than she is. That whatever it is that attracts me to her, plays tricks on my memory and makes me think she’s more gorgeous than she really is.

And every time I’m proven wrong when I see her.

“You going to let me in?” I ask her with a smirk on my lips. One that makes her eyes narrow.

“Seeing as how my door’s already open,” she starts off strong but has to take a heavy breath before she finishes, “why don’t you be my guest?” She gestures and the purse on her shoulder slips down her arm. Although she struggles to grab on to it, she doesn’t take her eyes off mine.

The tension between us is thick, but it’s always been that way. From the second I saw her in tenth grade, until this very moment, there’s something about her that draws me in like a moth to a flame. I know I get to her too, but only one of us can be the fire.

“After you.” I push open her door a little wider and wait for her to pass me. She takes the stairs slowly and then quickly walks by me as if she’s trying to get away from me as fast as she can. It’s not the first time she’s done that and the reaction it sparks in me is the same.

The desire to chase her.

The first time it happened, it didn’t come over me until the school year was almost over, and I knew I wouldn’t get my weekly dose of fantasizing about Chloe Rose from across the lunchroom anymore.

I gave in and went after her, and it only made the sweet, sad girl who stared back at me that much more desirable.

Kicking her front door shut and locking it, I keep my back to her until the light flicks on. I can hear her drop her purse and then continue walking to the back of the hall. She leaves me at the front door in silence, so I have to turn around and face her.

Her house is just like the rest in this area. All the townhouses here are original and were built by the same company that ran the steel mill. They were made for the workers employed by the mill.

Until it shut down, just like the coal mines did, leaving everyone in houses they couldn’t afford, with jobs they didn’t have anymore.

The slate floors have gouges in the corner; my guess is something heavy hit them, and then I remember what happened two years before. The tension I’m feeling evaporates and anger comes flooding back at the reminder. I take a quick look over my shoulder toward the door, but even through the somewhat recent coat of paint, I can see where the wood broke when it was kicked in. The main lock’s been replaced, and there’s an additional one above it.

I wonder if she thinks of that night every time she locks the door. I thought about telling her who did it. Marley was an addict who picked houses at random for items to fence to support his habit. Stealing anything and everything he could was his method. He got his last hit the night he stole from Chloe, leaving fear behind that didn’t stray from her eyes for months.

He got his high and then fell to the bottom of the river where I dumped him.

Everyone in this city knows I have my limits. They didn’t know Chloe was one of them until that night. I stayed away to keep the target off her back, but people don’t forget in this city.

I may be young, and I may work for a man who doesn’t venture into this territory, but I run these streets where she lives. No one owns Crescent Hills. If I wanted to take it though, there’s not a single prick here who’d stand in my way.

But I don’t want this city any more than it wanted me.

I want Chloe Rose. The thought catches me off guard. I’ve always known it’s true, but I don’t like to admit it. There’s something about her that begs me to be something more for her.

That’s the part that kills me though; there’s nothing more to me than what she sees, what everyone sees. A ruthless man who’s angry at life and makes his living by beating the piss out of pricks.

She’s not like me. She’s soft and kind and needs a gentler hand than I can give her. She deserves better.

“How’d you get in?” Chloe’s voice is soft, although the edge of defiance is still there. Bringing my gaze back to her, I take her in again. From her long legs and skinny waist to those wide hips that beg me to bend her over and give her a punishing fuck, the sight of her makes even the misery of why I’m here vanish for a moment.

She crosses her arms as if she doesn’t agree with what I’m thinking, but all that does is put a strain on the blouse she’s wearing and push those gorgeous tits of hers together. They may be small, but all I need is a mouthful. My dick stirs, and I have to look away, heading to the living room and glancing around at her place as I go.

“I picked the lock,” I tell her, although it’s not true. I have a set of keys, got them the day she ordered them from the hardware store. It kept her waiting longer than she should’ve been there, but I had to do what I had to do. And that meant sneaking in later that night to make sure she was sleeping. Which she never did, but Chloe has a habit of missing sleep.

As do I.

So, she laid there quietly in bed and stiffened at the sound of me moving about, but she never turned around, she never dared to check. She has a habit of that too. Of thinking if she ignores the monsters she conjures in her head, they’ll go away. The sad fact is sometimes those monsters in the dark aren’t imaginary, but damn does she like to convince herself they are.

She huffs out a laugh that’s flat and then brushes her hair back as she leans against the side table in the hall. “You making yourself at home?” she asks, daring me to keep walking and make my way to the living room. I don’t answer her, still taking everything in and noting that it’s all the same.

She hasn’t changed a thing. Not one thing in this place for two years. For some fucked up reason, it sends a ripple of pain through my chest, more than the broken door did. The walls of the hallway still have the same framed photos her uncle had put up after she moved in with him.

Her uncle was more of a parent to her than her own mother was. Him taking her in after her mother’s death was the best thing for her, but he was supposed to help her get out of this shit life, not have a heart attack and leave her here all alone.

“Come on over here and have a seat with me,” I tell her as I sink into the large sofa that takes up half the room. The edges of the armrest are worn, but it smells like her. Exactly how I remember Chlo. A soft peach scent and some kind of flower. Nothing but sweet.

My fingers dig into the cushion as she stalks slowly to the opposite side of the sofa and seems to consider sitting down as she stands in place. She smooths out the back of her skirt as she stares at the seat and then kicks off her heels, letting the silence pass.

All I can do is stare at her, even as she refuses to look back at me. It makes me think about different possibilities. If we lived in a different city. If our lives were different. If any of that were the case, I never would have let her think she was anything but mine. There’s something in my soul that recognizes her as belonging to me. She’s mine to protect, to take in my bed, to give the world.

Brushing the rough pad of my thumb along my lip, I have to remind myself that’s not the world we live in and she’s not mine. Life is better for both of us that way.

I’m a threat to those who have control of the neighboring territories. And that little fact never leaves me. Especially after what happened last week.

I’m no good for Chloe.

She needs someone to take her away from here, and away from me.

Finally, she sinks back into the sofa, sighing and taking a peek at me. “Just tell me what you want, Sebastian.”

Those eyes transfix me. It’s like she sees through the bullshit, but she always has.

What I want. That word sends a wave of warmth and desire through my body. I want her. But that’s not what I’m here for and she’s something I’ll never have.

“Have you been watching the news?” I lean forward as I ask her the question, resting my elbows on my knees. Her small body stiffens as she shakes her head. As if watching the news is a sin.

She’s a horrible liar. The worst liar I’ve ever fucking met. Maybe that’s why I feel so drawn to her. She can’t hide from me. But I can’t hide from her either. There’s something so freeing about that simple fact. Something that makes being in her presence addictive.

Even if it’s for a shit reason.

“Barry turned up yesterday, did you hear about that?” I ask her and immediately feel the waves of anxiety rolling off of her. Anything that triggers memories of her past causes her pain which is easily seen by anyone who would bother to look.

“I don’t give two shits about Barry.” Her voice turns harder as she pulls her knees into her chest. She stares straight ahead, and I follow her gaze to the peeling wallpaper.

“Do you know who did it?” At the question, her head whips in my direction with a bolt of anger flashing in her eyes.

“I don’t know shit,” she bites out and her defensiveness is exactly what the police will latch on to. “I’m going through a lot right now,” she adds, but her voice wavers. Her gaze falls as she visibly swallows and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear before peeking back up to the wallpaper. “I don’t want to think about any of it.” Her voice lowers to a murmur as she says, “Sure as shit, not Barry.”

As time slowly passes, her anger diminishes, and I watch as she returns to her typical quiet state. She’s nestled in the sofa with the sad smile she always carries gracing her lips. Picking at the hem of her skirt, she glances at me thoughtfully. “Is that really what you wanted to know?”

“How are the nightmares?” I ask her, feeling my chest get tight as the smile vanishes and her eyes shift to a hollow expression I hate and know all too well. She’s good at hiding. Hiding her pain behind a smile. Hiding her reality behind the thought that one day she’ll get out of here. Well, she used to, anyway. She used to be good at all of that.

Time changes a lot of things.

She starts to answer me, but she can’t hide the emotion in her voice. Before she can lie and tell me she’s fine, her voice hitches and she turns her gaze toward the empty hallway.

“Why do you care?” Her words cut deep. Chloe’s pain is clear, but does she really think I don’t care about her?

She’s smarter than this. It’s the second time tonight I’ve had that thought. “You know I care,” is all I give her. But for the first time since I stepped foot on her porch, I feel the mask slip from me, letting her see what’s inside without putting up a wall for her to break through.

She can see it all anyway. If I stop trying to hide, maybe she will too.

She still hasn’t answered my question though.

“So how are you handling them? The nightmares?”

“They’re back. I’ve had them every night since Saturday,” she tells me. Saturday. The day they caught her mother’s killer. She’s back to fidgeting with the hem of her skirt as her gaze flickers between me and the floor.

“How did you know?” she asks, peeking up at me and I almost allow myself to get lost in the pain reflected in her baby blues. I’d rather be lost in hers than mine.

“You look tired,” I answer her honestly. She drops her gaze though, sighing deeply and pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes.

“Well if you wanted to know if I knew who killed Barry, I don’t. So, you can go now, and I can get some sleep.” She stands up and hugs her chest, although her posture is more aggressive than defensive.

For nearly a year, I could feel her watching me whenever I was near her. The pull to be at her side was stronger than anything else. Nothing could compete with her, but I resisted. I couldn’t let her get caught up in this shit.

Now she’s the one pushing me away. Fair enough, I suppose. It doesn’t change the fact that this is a small world, and I know she still feels that draw, just like I do.

“I have something that can help you,” I tell her as I stand with no intention of walking out just yet. She can pretend that she has the ability to tell me what to do. We both know that’s not the case, but I respect her too much to rub it in her face. Besides, I can’t let her push me away when I have something she needs.

“What is it?” She’s wary but curious. That’s the Chloe I know.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the vial I prepared before coming here and roll it between my fingers. “It’s something to make you sleep.”

“Drugs?” she scoffs and shakes her head at me, letting out a sarcastic laugh like I’ve gone mad.

“It’s something you could get at any pharmacy,” I offer her, letting a smile slip onto my lips.

That’s not completely true. A friend gave it to me to see if there’d be any interest for it on the streets, but people in this city want harder drugs. Drugs to help them forget, to escape, even if just for a short time. I thought it could help Chloe though.

She’s a good girl, but she needs this. The sweets will knock her out and give her the rest she so desperately needs. I would know.

“You’re a bad liar,” she says, and the irony doesn’t escape me.

“I’ll put a few drops in your tea,” I tell her as I walk past her, brushing my arm against hers and feeling that familiar combination of heat and want seep into my blood. Her quick intake of air is all I need to keep moving forward, walking to her kitchen before I hear her take even a single step.

I go right to where I know she keeps her mugs and tea as I hear her walking toward the kitchen.

“I don’t drink tea at night,” she tells me, and I know she’s lying again. Glancing at the box in my hands, I show her the label then pull out what I know is her favorite mug. She picked it up at a used bookstore last year. If she’s not working or home, she’s always at that bookstore.

“Decaffeinated tea then?” She only crosses her arms aggressively again and leans against the small table in the kitchen. “I’m getting tired of you lying to me tonight,” I add with my back to her as I fill the mug with water and put it into the microwave.

When I turn to her, the hum of the microwave filling the room along with the tension between us, she meets my gaze with a hardened expression.

“How many years will go by this time? You know, before you barge into my life, then pretend I don’t exist the next day?” She sounds bitter, but I know it’s fake.

I cluck my tongue, keeping my eyes on her face instead of her chest. But with her arms crossed like that, she’s not helping me. “Would you really want me to make this a habit?” I ask her, not realizing how much I actually care what her answer is until silence is all I’m given.

I already know the answer; I shouldn’t have asked the question.

“What do you want from me, Sebastian? It wasn’t to ask if I’d heard about some asshole getting mugged.”

“It was.” I wouldn’t have come to see her if I didn’t think I really had to be here. I don’t like what she does to me. How she takes over every sense of reason and consumes my thoughts long after we’ve parted ways.

“The cops are going to question you about his death. I need you to tell them you don’t want to talk about it. Because otherwise, you’ll look guilty.” The microwave goes off and I go back to making her tea when she starts to answer me.

“I didn’t do it. I--”

“I know you didn’t. But you look like you’re lying when anyone brings up anything that has to do with your mother. Which is why it could be pinned on you.”

With the bag of tea steeping, I stiffen at my own words. A sick feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach. I know what it’s like when someone brings up shit you don’t want to hear. How all of a sudden, you feel a coldness and pain all over like it’s taken over everything inside of you.

I reach for the sugar on the counter and stir some into her tea. She doesn’t object or ask how I knew she would want it. The spoon clinks gently against the ceramic and Chloe still hasn’t responded, but when I turn to her, her eyes are glossy with unshed tears. I feel like a prick.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with that,” she says, although she barely gets out the words.

“That’s not what the police think. Two bodies were found right after they caught the guy who killed your mom. You don’t need to watch the news to know what the cops are thinking.”

She starts to object, but I stop her and say, “Just tell me you won’t talk to them.” Grabbing the vial, I put three drops in her tea, making sure she’s watching me, then set it next to the sugar.

“What could I possibly tell them?” Her tone is as tired as she looks, and she doesn’t hide the pain that lingers beneath her words. “I don’t know anything.”

“They’re looking for someone to blame. I don’t want you to give them a reason to think that someone could be you.” I know they tossed her name around as a possible suspect. She has motive, and emotions are raw for her. They want the case closed, and she’s an easy target.

My throat feels tight although the words come out steady as I tell her, “If they come around, I need you to tell them you don’t know anything, and you don’t want to talk to them. That’s it.”

I hand her the mug I’ve prepared for her, my palm hot as I rotate it so she can grab it by the handle. “It doesn’t matter how they’ll push you for more or what they say. They want you to talk, and you’re not going to. All you’re going to tell them is that you don’t know anything, and you don’t have anything to say, right?” I ask her, and she nods obediently and with an understanding that supplants the sadness. The cops here are crooked and covering for whoever lines their pockets. Anyone can take the fall, and they’d be perfectly all right with that.

She takes the mug with both hands, letting her fingers brush against mine. The small bit of contact sends electric waves up my arms and shoulders, igniting every nerve ending and putting me on edge. So much so, that my body begs me to either step away or grab her wrist. But I do what I’ve always done. I resist. I let myself feel the discomfort of not having her but being so close that I could easily have her if I just gave in.

She’s closer now, taking a half step toward me, her head at my chest and her gaze on the floor as she blows across the top of the hot cup of tea.

“I understand,” she tells me, her lips close to the edge of the mug, but she doesn’t drink it yet.

I reach over, one hand on either side of her head, and brush back her hair. She stares up at me with a longing I remember so well. A longing I’ve dreamed of for so many nights. The air is pulled from my lungs as I stare into her eyes. “Drink your tea and go to bed, Chloe.” My words are rough, and it’s hard to swallow. The moment her baby blues close with her nod, I get the fuck out of there before I do anything stupid. Anything that would put her in even more danger.