Driving to my sister’s has never felt like a trip to hell before. She’s been sick for a while, but I held out hope—until now.

Now… I don’t know what to do. Visiting her at home or the hospital, babysitting the kids, doing her shopping or even cooking for her won’t cut it. She needs a miracle, and neither she nor I believe in those.

The landscape streaks by. I have a headache I can’t shake, and my body feels leaden. I don’t want to see her, face the inevitable, give up my last thread of hope. I don’t want to hear the verdict. I’m good at avoiding what I hate, but now, it seems, I don’t have a fucking choice.

Emma and her husband and kids live in Bolinbrook, but right now she’s at the Midwestern Cancer Treatment Center, in Zion. Driving time is around two hours, and I make it in one and a half. If I can’t hide, then I’ll face reality head-on, like a frontal crash you don’t see coming.

Christ, aren’t I a ray of sunshine? I’d better put my poker face on before Emma and her family see me. They don’t need my dark mood.

The hospital parking lot is packed. When I finally find an empty spot, I park, turn off the engine and sit in the quiet for a few minutes, trying to clear my head and steel my resolve. My shoulders ache, and I roll them, doing my best to calm myself.

Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, I get out and slam the door. I still don’t feel ready. I guess I never will.

I enter the hospital and glance around, getting my bearings. The maze of corridors always confounds me, but I’ve more or less learned the way by now. At least I know I’m heading in the right direction.

The center doesn’t specialize in cancer patients, but it has affiliated doctors from the area who visit.

Because that’s what Emma has. Cancer. Breast cancer. We thought she beat it, but it came back, worse than before, spreading in her body. It’s terminal. Which means she’s dying. And there’s nothing I can do to save her.

I head toward her room, and I see Matt coming my way. We bump fists and shake hands. He says nothing as he leads me away, and I can find no words to break the silence. Antiseptic and chlorine permeate the air, clogging my airways, and the beeping of machines echoes, like a thousand racing hearts.

I fucking hate this place. Dread this moment.

Matt opens a door, and my feet keep going, taking me inside, where I don’t wanna be. My eyes search for her, although I don’t wanna see. And despair fills me, even though I don’t wanna feel. I wish I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Emma looks tiny in the hospital bed, so pale she’s barely visible under the sheets. She smiles when she sees me, and it looks like a grimace on her gaunt face. It makes me want to howl and throw the furniture against the wall.

Instead, I sit in the chair by her side and force myself to smile. I take her bony little hand, the hand that held mine after everyone else had left me and pretend this stinking life is worth living.

* * *

I spend the weekend driving back and forth between Bolingbrook and Zion. I take over from the nanny and babysit the little ones, as I usually do when I’m there, to give Matt some breathing space. He looks like a ghost, thin and pale and devastated.

Emma sleeps a lot, and when she’s awake she doesn’t have much energy to talk. I don’t know what to talk about, either, but I try, telling her funny stories from the tattoo shop and the other guys.

At home, the kids are restless. They’re used to me, but they’re little—Mary is two, and Cole is not even a year old—and they want their mom, not a tattooed guy with a Mohawk and a temper. Reading picture books and changing diapers isn’t my forte on a good day, much less now.

Between taking shifts watching over the children and alternating with Matt, so we can both be with Emma for a few hours at a time, the weekend passes in fits and starts. By Sunday afternoon, when I say goodbye to Emma and climb into my truck, I feel like roadkill.

I sit behind the wheel and stare without seeing out into the dark. Emma’s face haunts me. She barely had the strength to squeeze my hand when I was leaving. She looked so small like that. I’m her adopted brother. I’m supposed to protect her. Give back some of what she gave to me.

A wail is building up in my throat. I knock my elbow into the window and smash my fist into the wheel. The pain feels good. Too good.

I need to drink, smoke and fuck, not necessarily in that order. Anything to blank out my mind.

Dakota’s image suddenly fills my head, and I want to punch it out of my memory. She deserves so much better than me. If I fuck her, I won’t keep her and… damn, I want to keep her.

Shit. I’m going fucking crazy.

I rev up the truck and hightail it out of the hospital, out of Zion, racing for the open highway. I’m tempted to stop at a bar on the way, but I find myself driving past town after town and not stopping.

When I realize why, I groan out loud. I want to see Dakota. My heart beats faster at the thought, and my dick hardens.

Down, Dick. She’s not interested in a quick grope and fuck. Nice girls like her want more—deserve more—and I can’t deliver.

I crank up the music, some punk rock shit Rafe gave me, and punch the wheel to the rhythm. Caught up in the beat, it takes me a while to realize it’s music from their group, Deathmoth, and that the powerful voice blasting out of the speakers is Dakota’s.

I turn off the stereo and grip the wheel so hard it creaks. I need to get drunk off my ass. Need to get so wasted I stop thinking of Dakota.

Problem is, even if I drink enough to forget my own name, I don’t think I’ll manage to forget her.

* * *

“Gimme another.”

Without batting an eye, Joe, the bartender of Bent, pours me another whiskey. It must be my fourth. Or fifth? Maybe sixth. I really have no fucking clue. I’ve been here for a while, and I’m still working on forgetting—Dakota, Emma, who I am and what I’m supposed to do.

Maybe I should get the bottle of whiskey and get out of here. A few girls have wandered over to chat me up, but I couldn’t bother. Not interesting. Not pretty. Not… Not Dakota, dammit.

Get your head out of your ass and pick one.

It’s just sex. Pick a chick, choose a quiet corner and just fuck the pain out of your system. Say goodbye, finish your drink and go home.

It’s worked for many years. It will work again.

I scan the thickening crowd. Music is blasting from the speakers, old rock, and voices rise over the din. It makes my already aching head feel like a time bomb about to explode. At the back of the room, I can see couples getting down and dirty against the wall, not concerned about being seen.

Perfect.

Grab a chick, bang her, then go home to finish getting wasted. That’s the plan.

My cell beeps. A message from Ash, asking where the hell I am, and if I want to go out for a beer. I already have text messages and missed calls from him, Tyler, Dylan, Erin, Audrey and Rafe with variations in the theme. They want to know if I returned safely. If I’m okay.

Fuck no, I’m not okay. I shove the cell back into my pocket and focus on the plan.

A blonde with an impressive rack smiles at me. I check her out. Good ass. Nice hips. She has the bold curves I usually go for, but…

Slight curves, wild dark hair, large blue eyes…

No, dammit! Why do I keep seeing Dakota in front of me?

I push off my stool, stumble a little and nod at the blonde. Her smile grows wider, and she sidles up to me. She’s wearing a micro skirt that shows off her long legs, made longer by dangerously high heels.

Yeah, she’ll do nicely. I grab her hand and drag her through the crowd. She squeals, then laughs, and I grit my teeth. Too high-pitched. Fake. No chimes and bells.

Oh, fuck’s sake, Zane.

I pull the blonde into the twilight zone behind the last tables and into the dimness. That’s my territory, my domain: the dark. I slow down to let her catch up and then swing her around, pushing her back to the wall. She yelps, teetering on those ridiculous heels.

“I have some rules,” I tell her. “Non-negotiable.”

She nods, her eyes wide.

“You don’t touch me. Only I touch you. You don’t put your arms around me, don’t even fucking think about touching my back, and no kissing.”

“Okay, babe. Whatever gets you off.”

For some reason, her eager submissiveness—and the pet name—pisses me off. Which is sick, since submissiveness is what I want from her.

“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Linda.”

I don’t reply. Not interested in her name, or in conversation of any kind. I grab her wrist with my other hand and slap it into the wall. She yelps again, giving me a wounded puppy look.

“You like it rough, huh?” She licks her red lips. “I don’t mind.”

“Shut up.” I brace one hand on the wall and look down at her cleavage. Familiar motions. Only problem is, my body isn’t acting very interested, and I don’t feel like touching her breasts, or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.

Dammit. This isn’t working. I release her and start to pull back.

“What’s your hurry?” She slips her arms around my neck, pressing up to me.

Fuck. My heart jolts in my chest, and I jerk. I shove her off, slam her to the wall. “I said, rule number one: don’t fucking touch my back!”

“But I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

And so did I.

I thought life would continue as before. Same places, same actions, same results. But nothing is the same anymore. This world I’ve built around me is made of glass, and it’s already cracking.

* * *

It’s morning. Late morning, perhaps. Something stupid is playing on TV, a talk show, people dressed in fancy clothes. I’ve turned off the sound.

I’ve also turned off my cell phone, but there’s pounding on my door. It comes and goes. I let it. It’s a counterpoint to the pounding in my head.

Sheets of paper are strewn around me, covered in my drawings. I thought it’d help me relax, but I guess it wasn’t enough. My eyes feel dry and gritty. Spent all night trying to get the anger on the paper, and it wasn’t fucking enough.

My glass is empty again. I give it a disgusted look, before I reach for the bottle. Problem is, it’s on the coffee table. Too far. Can’t remember why I put it there.

I slide off the couch and land on my ass on the carpet. The room spins, and I blink, trying to clear my vision. The bottle seems to sway on the table, and when I reach for it, it’s splintering, refracting into a prism of dancing colors.

Whoa.

I reach through them and wrap my fingers around the solid, cool bottle. Somewhere along the way down to the floor I’ve lost the glass, but who needs one? I unscrew the lid and take a swig. I’ve been drinking since last night. Dimly, I’m aware I should stop. Someone should stop me. But the pounding on the door has ceased, and it’s easier to just drink some more and work on forgetting. Not that I’m having any success, but I’m not known for giving up so easily.

I work hard on my self-destruction.

This strikes me as funny, and I start laughing, then realize it ain’t funny at all, and I choke down some more whiskey. No idea why my eyes burn like this.

A chime sounds, and I look up, confused.

Then it sounds again.

The doorbell.

I frown. After all the pounding on my door, who would just ring the bell? Not a guy, I think randomly. Ash, Dylan or Rafe would keep pounding on the door until it crashes. Which is why I’m not letting them in or answering the phone. Because then I’ll have to talk, and explain, and I… I can’t fucking do this right now.

The bell rings again.

“Go away!” I yell, and fucking ow, my head. It’s about to split apart. “Just go.”

Someone yells from the other side of the door, “Zane, open up! Open this door.” A woman’s voice. “Please.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m not leaving. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

I stare at the door. The only thing that comes to my mind is, this isn’t Erin. Is it Tessa? There’s something in that voice…

My body is reacting to it, even though my brain is having trouble. I put the bottle down. “Dammit.” I struggle to my feet. My stomach roils as I stumble to the door. “What the hell…”

Looks like I locked my door last night when I came home, and now the damn lock is stuck. I curse it and jiggle the lock until it turns. The door opens.

Okay, I’m drunker than I thought. There’s no reason for her to be at my door on a Monday morning, looking pissed, cute and damn sexy in her ripped jeans and tight black top.

“Dakota?” My voice slurs, and I wipe a hand over my mouth, hoping I’m not drooling.

She stalks inside, her eyes unreadable, and I grimace, waiting for the tirade I can see coming. Why the hell did I let her in? Where does my good sense go whenever she’s around?

I close the door and turn to face her, bracing.

But she doesn’t speak. She steps close and gazes up at me with those big blue eyes. I can’t help noticing they seem a bit too bright. Then she shakes her head, opens her arms and wraps them around me.

I flinch. I can’t help it, but she holds on tight, and slowly I relax. It’s just a hug, I remind myself. I can do friendly hugs. Erin and Megan hug me often. As long as there’s nothing sexual about it, I’m okay.

Besides, unlike in some of my darkest nightmares, I can see her face, and I know it’s all right. It’s her, Dakota, and nothing bad will happen.

Her light honeyed scent calms me. I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to do or say, except put my arms around her too and close my eyes for a moment. The tension that’s been keeping me rigid for days melts away, and weirdly, as I sag heavily against her, I feel like I’m floating.

The moment doesn’t last. She pulls away. “You should call Asher and Rafe,” she whispers, and this time she doesn’t look me in the eye. “They’re worried sick about you. The only reason Asher hasn’t called the police is that your light has been on, and he heard you yell at him to fuck off.”

Crap. I’ve worried everyone. And what if Matt called about Emma and found my cell phone off? Smart, Zane. Very smart.

Breaking through my thoughts, she moves away, and I reach after her, not sure what I’m trying to do. Not sure what happened, why I let her hold me. I let very few people inside my guard, and they know not to surprise me.

But I’m slow and dizzy, and I don’t catch her. She walks to the sofa and picks up one of my drawings, then another. When she turns to look at me, her eyes are wide, and she looks pale.

“Zane…”

“What?” I draw skulls and skeletons, monsters and roaring lions, more thorns than roses. More death than life. That’s how my mind works. Then again, I’m so drunk I might have drawn just about anything. “What is it now?”

“Nothing. Just…” She looks again at the drawings, then places them on the coffee table.

“Just what?” I take a step in her direction, and shit, everything is spinning. “Fuck.”

She’s at my side immediately, pulling me toward the sofa. “You need to drink lots of water and eat something. I’ll make you some breakfast. Something greasy is good.”

“Why?” I sink against the cushions and rub my hands over my face.

“To absorb the alcohol. It really helps.”

“Dammit, not that. Why are you here, making me breakfast and all this shit?”

“Because I want to make sure you’re okay?” She shrugs, then grins. “And because I’m going to prove to you that I’m a roommate worth having. Where can you find better than me, huh?”

She winks and saunters to the kitchen.

I shake my head a little, wondering if I’m hallucinating or dreaming. But her sweet scent lingers, and my head hurts too fucking bad for it not to be real. Even weirder, a smile is tugging at my lips. Here I am, feeling as if I’m sinking in quicksand, as if I’m dying, and my face hurts from smiling like an idiot.

“Coffee?” she calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah.” I sit up straighter. “Coffee sounds good.”

That’s when I catch sight of the drawing sitting on top of the pile Dakota has gathered from the couch. My smile slips. I lift the drawing, gripping it so hard the edge of the thick paper is dented.

I’ve never done anything like this before. This is worse than skulls and death. There’s none of the harsh lines and rough cross-hatching I usually use for shadowing.

Soft curves, bare lines.

Shit. I let the paper drop back on the table and groan out loud.

It’s a portrait of Dakota.

* * *

“Breakfast’s ready!”

I start. Emma, I think blearily. I’m at her house now. I’ll be late for school.

Then my surroundings sink in—the living room, the drawings on the table, the pictures on the walls. My apartment.

Fuck, I dozed off on my sofa. It still takes me a moment to remember whose voice that is and why she’s making me breakfast.

Large blue eyes, a teasing grin. ‘Where can you find better than me, huh?’

Hell. I snort. It shouldn’t amuse me so much, but I guess I’m relieved she jokes about it. Probably means she’s not serious about moving in with me, like she’s not serious about the dragon tattoo. She’s a happy person with no need of saving.

No need of me to save her.

And that’s good, that’s fucking awesome, and it lifts a weight off my chest. So it’s odd that, as I stand up with a groan and stagger around the sofa, aiming for the kitchen, I feel a pang in my chest.

She has no fucking need of me at all.

Suck it up, Zane. That’s good. Good for her.

Then I enter the kitchen and lose my train of thought. I just stare. The table is laid with fried eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and coffee.

“Shit. You brought all this with you?” I glance back at her handbag lying on the armchair. “In that?”

She giggles and covers her mouth with her hand. “They were in your fridge. Don’t you even know what food you have in your house?”

Obviously not. “Erin must have left it.” The smell of the food brings bile to my throat. The kitchen spins slowly, and I grab the back of a chair not to fall.

“But surely you’ve opened the fridge since then… Didn’t you?” She frowns. “Damn, Zane, when was the last time you ate?”

Good question. “You brought me a chicken salad sandwich the other day.”

“That was days ago. Zane…”

“I ate more stuff.” I sink in the chair and wave a hand back and forth. “Too fucking drunk to think right now, okay?”

I remember eating a ham sandwich the day after, and during the weekend… Did I eat anything? Driving between the house and the hospital, sitting by Emma’s bed, taking care of the kids… I must have. I just can’t remember.

In fact, I don’t remember much from the weekend, and it’s not because of the whiskey. The memories are already fuzzy, covered in haze. My mind tends to erase stressful times. Hell, I’m missing substantial chunks of my childhood. There’s a reason I avoid therapists. I guess I just don’t wanna fucking know what I’ve forgotten.

“Zane?” She’s staring at me with those wide blue eyes.

Crap, I’ve spaced out. I draw the plate of eggs toward me, grab a fork and dig in. “This is good.”

Her cheeks color again. “Does that mean I’ve passed my first test?”

“Test?”

She rolls her eyes. “To be your roommate, of course.”

Of course. I snort and wash down the eggs with orange juice. “You think it’s that easy?”

“What else do you want?”

Fuck, is that a trick question? I look across the table at her. She sucks her bottom lip between her small, white teeth, and I forget to chew for a second. Breakfast is great, but what I really want is to get down-and-dirty with her, rip her already ripped jeans, shred her T-shirt, lick her everywhere, taste her pussy.

“Nothing,” I lie. I scrub my hands over my face. My head is killing me. “I’m good.”

“So can I move in with you?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll change your mind.” She grins and takes a sip of her coffee. “I want another chance.”

I look down at my plate and drag the bacon closer. She’s teasing me, joking about, and still not a word about the state she found me in, or the fact I didn’t answer Ash’s, Rafe’s or Erin’s calls and texts.

“I was at my sister’s,” I hear myself say and clench my fingers around the fork. “I visit almost every weekend.”

Why the hell am I telling her this?

“Emma is my only family.” The words spill out without my permission. “She took me in. Looked after me. Now she’s sick, and I can’t help her. I try, but in the end, there’s fucking nothing I can do.”

Dakota pales. “I understand—”

“The hell you do. This is all fucked up. I’m fucked up.” I bang my hand on the table, and the fork smashes into the plate. I get up and stumble away.

“Zane, wait.”

I stagger into my bedroom. It’s dark, the curtains drawn over the small window. The air smells stale.

Dakota stands at the door, a hand on the frame. “What’s wrong?”

Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. If she doesn’t walk away, I’ll throw her on my bed and fuck her senseless. If she does walk away, I’ll trash my room and punch the wall until my fingers break.

Nothing’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong.

I need…something. I need her. Her warmth. Her closeness.

Two strides and I’m in front of her. She takes a step back, but she isn’t fast enough. I press my body to hers, slide my fingers into her hair and inhale her scent.

She gulps. “Zane, I just want...”

“If it’s my ink you want, if this is all a damn game to you, forget it.” She’s here. I’m hard for her, and we’re arguing about the damn tattoo. This is familiar territory, and I relax. “I’m not drawing a dragon on you, and that’s final.”

“I want the dragon, you know that,” she whispers, and her hands slide up my chest. “But this isn’t a game, and it’s not all I’m here for. Give me a chance, Zane. Everyone deserves a chance.”

My thoughts are all screwed up. Is she talking about the tattoo, about being my roommate or something else entirely?

“Dammit, girl.” I tug on her hair, pulling her head back, exposing the pale line of her neck. She’s panting, pressing her body to mine, and it’s driving me crazy. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Draw something on me,” she breathes. “Anything.”

I shake my head, confused. What is she playing at? She says it’s no game, but this sure feels like one.

Draw on her again. I should tell her no. That I don’t normally draw on people. That I don’t let them come over unannounced and cook me breakfast, screw with my head. That all I wanna do is fuck her.

My dick twitches, agreeing.

But I can’t. Because if we fuck, she’ll know just how messed up I am. She’ll run, and I’ll take any damn excuse to make her stay a little bit longer.