“Do I look too demure in this dress to say something crude like ‘your eleven inch dick’?” I giggle into the yellow strap of my dress.

“Yes, you do,” he confirms, looking around like he is searching for someone. It’s early in the morning, hence why the shop is busy as hell. There are a lot of people sitting around on the sofas and barstools, sipping coffee and eating pastries. “Meet me in the restroom in two minutes.”

I don’t ask questions. I don’t even want to know how he is planning to neglect his station as the barista. What I do know is that the quickie we had this morning is not going to cut it. I need more of him, now.

“Now less talking, more showing me that fine ass as it walks its way to the restroom. Move it, Cockburn.”

So many names crammed into so little time.

Beat.

Nate.

Christopher Delaware.

Prescott.

Pea.

Country Club.

Silver Spoon.

Tanaka Cockburn.

And it all boils down to one thing at the end—us.

It took Prescott a while to get over Preston’s death, but I suspect that she always knew deep down that he hadn’t made it. Her family was torn apart, after tearing apart the Archers. She had no choice but to build something new, and I hope that someday, she’ll do it with me.

My argument for the past couple of months was simple and valid—I can’t be with a girl whose last name’s Cockburn. It’s embarrassing. For me, for her, for everyone involved. Tanaka said that Cockburn is a perfectly legitimate last name, and even pulled out some bullshit facts from the Internet, including a Wikipedia page for actress Olivia Wilde. Apparently, her original last name is Cockburn (can’t argue with that. She’s legit f*ckable).

Since my girlfriend refused to take the hint, I’ve decided to lay it out pretty f*cking simple and straightforward, Stockton style. No hearts and pink pony crap. When she arrived at the coffee shop we own together in her yellow dress, the one that reminds me that we still live under the same sun that makes the freckles on her shoulders pop out, I directed her to the restroom. She looks like gold in this dress. Pure. Cherished. Precious.

Daniel, our eighteen-year-old neighbor, who has been eyeing her in a way that makes me want to cut his tongue out and shove it down his throat, jogged from the corner of the street and I watched from the wide window as he entered Le Journal Rouge, just as she disappeared behind the wooden door to the restroom.

Now that he’s here, it’s show time. We’re always ready for show time, Tanaka and I.

“It won’t take long,” I growl as I slide under the counter and charge for the restroom.

She’s waiting for me the same way she did the first time we had sex. Her hands against the wall, her legs wide open. I love watching her fingerless hand. The wound has healed and now her outside matches her inside. Imperfect, broken and hurt, but so very beautiful. I flick her long dress up and unzip.

“No foreplay,” Beat whispers into her ear.

“No problem,” she says, just like she did then. I know this woman well. She’s always wet for me. Him. Us. Always.

I ride her from behind, just like I did the first time. Only this time, I’m not angry. A little anxious, yeah, but after the shit I’ve been through for her, she better say yes. I hold her waist with one hand and slip the other into my back pocket, producing the engagement ring I got for her last week. We have money, thanks to the late Camden Archer, but it’s nothing fancy. Just a silver hoop with a small yellow diamond that shines like her blonde hair. Linking my fingers with hers while f*cking her, I slide the ring onto her engagement finger.

No words necessary.

No love declarations.

No You’re mine.

Everything is said in the way we move together.

“Oh my God, Nate.” My old name slips between her pinks. I can’t see her face but I can feel her * clutching my cock tight, like she’s about to see stars. “Are you. . .?”

“I am,” I confirm. “And I will. Forever. Fucking. Take care of you. That is, if you’ll let me. Will you?”

“Yes,” she says breathlessly.

We come together hard, and I spin her to face me. Her hair is stuck to her temples, sweaty and beautiful. She’s every ambition I’ve ever had.

I love her like a slave, I kneel in front of her like a subject, I crawl back to her at night like a drunk and I worship her like a believer.

She’s my truth, my lie, my storm and my peace.

Prescott Burlington-Smyth turned Tanaka Cockburn soon-to-be Tanaka Delaware has created a dystopian chaos only she rules, but I’m happy to be her soldier.

Godfrey.

Sebastian.

The Aryan Brothers.

And Camden, who tragically died in a lethal car accident on the outskirts of London, on his way to a vacation in York three weeks after we left the UK.

I didn’t quail. Godfrey was right—I’m not a killer, I’m a murderer. But with her, I don’t have any hard limits. And I will take my own f*cking life to put a smile on those pinks. We’re going to be all right. We’re going to stick around in a place where no one knows us and no one cares. We’re going to make French babies together.

Wherever we’re going, we’re going there together.

“I love you,” she tells me, tears in her eyes. I kiss them away. She’s such a big f*cking softie.