Dylan

Fear smells like antiseptic, and it has a way of crippling your mind as it forces you back into the past. As soon as I carry Ashton into the emergency room, I’m brought back to that night, my senses going into overdrive until I feel like I might blackout, too.

I hate fucking hospitals. I hate how clean they are when they see such dirty, fucked up things. I hate the smell of cleaner, the way everybody looks so defeated even before they lose a battle, and hearing everybody’s business like a fabric curtain can give anybody privacy.

With the way my knee bounces and eyes twitch as they study the room, there’s a solid chance anyone who passes by can see my discomfort. Shit, the nurses and doctors probably think I’m tweaked or crashing from a high because of the jerky movements, but I can’t get my thumping heart to calm the fuck down.

Despite wanting to jump out a window to get away from here, Ashton hasn’t woken up since she passed out. She didn’t even twitch when they put an IV in her arm. But I sure as hell did.

And shit, the press would have a field day if they knew that the great Dylan Hilton is afraid of needles. Letting them know my kryptonite would be the end of the reputation that I made for myself.

I scoff to myself over the thought. As if you’re good enough to be Superman.

The world can’t handle a guy like me being somebody as good-hearted as Superman. If anything, I’m Lex Luthor waiting to destroy everything that matters to humanity. I don’t spend all this time playing up the heartless asshole to let just anybody bring me down.

When you’re surrounded by cameras, you have to act. Most people opt to let the world love them, but love holds expectations that are too high to conquer. My part is bigger than that. I’m the man the world loves to hate.

It’s better to play up that role that let the world see me for somebody that I’m not. Or worse, somebody that I am.

It’s why I got the tattoo on my side despite wanting to piss myself anytime the needle came near me. And shit, the artist who did it almost wouldn’t let it happen since I had to console myself with nearly an entire bottle of bourbon before the appointment. But after paying him more than he’d see in a month, he opted to go along with it. Luckily, I’d picked out the image before getting drunk, or else I could have walked out of there with fucking Hello Kitty inked on my ass. And as much as I love pussy, that isn’t the kind I wanted marked on me.

A low mewl escapes Ashton as her body stretches and repositions itself on the stiff looking bed. Even though Ridgemont is the top hospital for celebrity care in LA, I highly doubt the beds are any less uncomfortable than any other hospitals in the country.

Her eyelids flutter open, the gem-like color greeting the world again. I’d known they were some shade of green, but when I looked down at her before she passed out, I noticed the crystalized blue specks in them that somehow matched her torn persona.

It’s like her two-toned eyes matched her complicated personality, merging two sides of herself that she tried to keep separate like a modern-day Jekyll and Hyde.

Who the fuck broke you, Boots?

Whoever showed up at her place when I called obviously did some damage, or else she wouldn’t have been so determined to outrun her demons. Clearly, she’s new at the whole thing, because only amateurs thought they could escape them. The pros can accept their demons as part of their souls, because it’s our demons that shape every aspect of our being. You can run from a lot of things, but never from yourself.

“You going to keep staring at me, pretty boy?” she hums, her voice drowned with exhaustion, probably from the pain meds they gave her a few minutes ago.

I press my fist against my thigh, trying to calm my sporadic movements so she doesn’t see my discomfort. My clenched hand is white-knuckle against my jean-clad thigh, face drained of emotion.

“Just replaying the memory of you face planting into the pavement,” I lie. My eyes can’t help but travel up the marks on her face. “Don’t worry, you’re still hot.”

She struggles to sit up, wincing as the needle in her arm shifts in her skin. I bolt over, helping her, adjusting the bed so it’s easier for her to accomplish.

Her brow quirks. “You’re helping me.”

Her confusion makes my jaw tick, and I have to fight back a surly reply. But how can I blame her? I’m not the type who helps people on any given day. If I see an old lady walk across the street, I look away and just hope she doesn’t fall and break a hip. Once, I told a Girl Scout to fuck off and slammed the door in her face. Granted, I was so hungover that her voice sounded like a thousand nails scraping against a chalkboard in my head and it seemed like a justified response.

“You carried me here,” she notes, her face scrunching up.

I cross my arms on my chest. “Don’t look so appalled. Promise none of my cooties got onto you. If anything, I should send you my dry-cleaning bill. Between the drool and blood, I’m not sure they can save my favorite shirt.”

Her eyes dart to my chest, heart-shaped lips parting as they search me. There’s nothing in her eyes but remorse, unlike the other times when I watched her check me out. I missed the way her lustful eyes captured every muscle like she wanted a piece.

She huffs, peering forward, focusing on anything but me. “There’s no blood on your shirt, jerk. You made me feel bad.”

A pang of guilt finds its way into my conscience, because I’d only meant it as a joke.

Wait. “Did you just call me a jerk?”

She shrugs, arms slipping under the heated blanket I covered her with not long after we got here. Even though it was eighty outside, the hospital runs cooler and the room has a draft that her practically naked-body seemed to react to. It was either get a blanket to cover her pebbled nipples, or stare and fight a raging hard-on as she slept.

I opted to be a gentleman. Kind of.

“I’ve been called many things over the years, but can’t say a jerk is one of them,” I muse, thinking back to the last time I’d been called something so innocent. It was probably in middle school, when I pulled Tiffany Andrews’ hair to get her attention.

Hard to believe back then my biggest worry was if I’d pass my history exam or get a window seat on the bus.

“So what are you still doing here?” she asks, not making eye contact with me. “Surely you have better things to do?”

I have a feeling she’s silently hinting at people to do rather than coming out with it.

I drag the chair over to the bed, eyes ignoring the needle that’s right in front of me. “Well, I had plans to write a song with a feisty country artist, but she bailed on. Kind of left my calendar open for the day.”

To my surprise, she frowns. She sneaks a peek at me, and I see the guilt dulling her eyes. Once again, I made her feel bad, which makes me feel like an ass. Since when does making women feel bad make me feel off put?

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she admits quietly, lips twitching. “It was unprofessional. We have a contract, and—”

“I don’t give a fuck about the contract,” I inform her matter-of-factly. “And I don’t really care that you bailed on me. As shocking as this may seem, I’ve done plenty of bailing of my own.”

Her lips twitch upward, fighting a knowing smile at my witty sarcasm.

“Truthfully, I was coming over anyway.”

That makes her finally look at me. “Why?”

I grin. “Curiosity.” Worry. “You’re unloading a lot of firsts on me, Boots. You bail on our plans and then call me a jerk. Most women don’t do that.”

“Well don’t get used to it,” she mumbles.

I smirk, leaning forward so my arm grazes hers. “Don’t be so sure. I have a feeling you and I will discover a lot of firsts together.”

She gapes at me, eyes filling with calculation like she’s trying to figure me out.

I don’t ignore the heat creeping in her hues, but I don’t push it either. “Anyway, it made me wonder what came up. I tend to stick my nose in business it doesn’t belong in. It’s a hobby of mine, just ask the guys.”

Her nose scrunches. “You like sticking a lot of things where they don’t belong.”

I tip my head back and laugh, the feeling vibrating my entire chest. By the time I’m done, she’s staring at me like she doesn’t see the humor in such a true statement.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head. “I won’t deny it. Never led people to believe I was anything but an asshole who loved getting his dick wet.” I shrug casually, soaking in the attention she’s giving me.

Granted, her look isn’t exactly one of admiration. More like mild disgust. Still, I’d take those eyes raking over me any way I could.

She blows out a breath. “At least you’re an honest man-whore.”

Far from it, sweetheart.

“So tell me, Boots,” I bargain. “Why did I find you running like you were being chased by a pack of rabid bunnies?”

She deadpans. “Rabid bunnies?”

“Those fuckers can be scary.”

She stares at me in disbelief. “Bunnies?”

I shrug. “Well?” I press.

She shakes her head. “I like to run.”

I put my feet up on the end of her bed, crossing one ankle over the other, making myself comfortable. “Bullshit. You may like to run, but you weren’t going for a normal mile. I may not know you, but I’d say it’s safe to assume you didn’t back out of work just to exercise.”

Her lips press into a firm line, jaw ticking. I can see I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t give a damn. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.

“You’re right,” she finally says, eyes snapping to mine. “You don’t know me, so stop making assumptions.”

I put my hands up. “Hey, it’s your funeral. If you keep this up, you’ll be dead by the end of the month. If not physically, then emotionally. Nobody can run from the shit they don’t want anyone to see. You’ll never outrun them.”

She swallows. “Them?”

“The demons.”

She doesn’t reply, which gives me ample time to really study her. How her eyes are fixated on her lap. How her hands are tangled together and fingers are fiddling with anxiety. I bet if she looks at me, I’ll see the torment in her eyes, like somebody is poking the cage she’s trapped in.

“So who were you running from?”

“Nobody.”

“Keep lying. I’ll keep calling you out on it.”

She eyes me, her glare dark enough to suck what little soul I still have left through those narrow slits. “What about you, huh? If you think you know what demons look like, you must have plenty of your own.”

A dark chuckle escapes me, and I let me feet fall off the bed so I can lean into her. My lips come dangerously close to brushing her ear, but I keep enough distance so only my breath kisses her sultry skin.

“Sweetheart, I don’t have demons sitting on my shoulder. I have the fucking devil himself.”

I draw back slowly, examining her reaction. We lock eyes, not looking away. We absorb each other’s presence despite telling ourselves we don’t want it.

That’s the thing about being broken. You’re drawn to other people’s misery, picking up their pieces like they can be molded to fit your own emptiness. But it’ll never work, because their pieces may not be as sharp as yours, or as big as yours, even though they can cut you just as deep.

“So no,” I tell her so quietly it’s like we’re sharing a secret that the world isn’t ready to hear. “I don’t know you, or your pain, or even the reason you’re trying to run. But when the devil whispers to your soul, you don’t fight it, because the devil will always be more powerful than you. He’ll find a way to suffocate every good thing you know so you only feel the bad.”

She blinks in silence.

I shrug. “We all have demons, Boots. But the moment you realize they’re not worth fighting, the quicker you’re able to breathe again.”

“And are you? Breathing, I mean.”

I contemplate the answer. To lie or be honest for once. With Ashton the latter seems easier, because she’s frozen behind the same layer of ice I am, but we’re buried under different levels.

She’s not as broken as me, and if I tell her the truth she’ll only sink deeper until nobody can save her.

“Like an eighty year old who’s smoked his whole life,” I retort, shoving my hands in my jeans pockets.

She doesn’t seem impressed with the wisecrack.

“You going to tell me?” I press. “Or do I get to guess? I’ve always been good at the guessing game, you know.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Okay,” I prompt. “Well let’s see. You thought I was some chick named Teagan, and I’m going to assume you had a fight. Now, I’d really like to know what it was about considering you mentioned anal bleaching over the phone. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that conversation …”

Her cheeks turn bright red.

I sigh dramatically. “However, I don’t think that’s who got you upset. Especially because it sounded like she wasn’t there when somebody showed up. Plus, you said it was a dude. And based on the tone in your voice, you weren’t fond of whoever it was. Which, if you were me, could be an array of people. Family. Old friends. Posers. Fans.” I shake my head, eyes piercing hers. “But no, because little ol’ Ashton King seems to be well received. Or, that’s what Tom tells me. Yep, the only person who could push you over the edge is somebody that you used to trust. Maybe even love.”

Her heart monitor picks up as her eyes flare with understanding. She knows I know.

“Rhys Alden.”

She doesn’t need to tell me I’m right, because the way the machine is beeping, it’s all I need to hear.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers.

“Don’t let him ruin you, Boots.” Don’t let anyone ruin you. “Whatever that douchebag said isn’t worth your time or thoughts. It’s over. Next time he shows up, kick his ass out.”

“It’s not that simple,” she barks at me. “Have you ever been in love, Dylan? Do you know what that feels like?”

Averting my eyes, I shake my head.

“Well let me tell you,” she stresses, pain echoing in her tone. “Love feels overpowering. Like there’s nothing in the world that can get between you and that person. Not a bad day. Not rumors. Not even yourself, because you’re consumed in them. You feel tingles, and warmth, and comfort. You feel safe when they hold you, and at ease when they kiss you. Love is my favorite feeling in the world.

“And when that’s gone? Can you guess what that’s like? All the tingles and warmth turn into prickles and chills. The flutters you have in your stomach go eerily still, like all the butterflies died. Everything that made you feel safe with them turns into a question of why you ever spent your life consumed in theirs. You don’t just stop trusting them because they broke you. You stop trusting yourself because you’re not sure you’re able to figure out what love feels like with another person. So, no, Dylan. It’s not as simple as telling the man I was going to marry to just leave. Even when there’s nothing warm left in him.”

We sit in complete silence for a long moment, listening to her breathing even back out after that rant.

You stop trusting yourself.

I look around the room, spotting a pad of paper sitting on the counter by the sink. Why it’s in here since everything is computerized is beyond me, but I take full advantage of it.

Ripping off the top sheet, I hold it up.

“Do you see this piece of paper?”

She skeptically studies the pristine sheet in my hand, confusion dulling eyes that should never look as stormy as they do now.

She blinks when I crumple it up without another word, wadding it into a ball and displaying the aftermath in the palm of my hand.

“Trust is like a piece of paper. Once it’s crumpled, it’ll never be perfect again.”

She stares hard at the paper, her eyes glazing over like I just blew open the floodgates. When I see a single tear fall down her cheek, it takes everything in me not to reach down and swipe it away.

“Doesn’t mean you should stop trusting completely though,” I conclude quietly, dropping the piece of paper onto the bed next to her still hand.

I see her swallow as her eyes slowly travel up to mine.

Before she says anything, the white-haired doctor that was in here when we first arrived walks through the curtain.

“I’m glad to see you’re up,” he chirps happily, his smile making the wrinkles around his eyes more evident. He walks over to the computer and scans his badge to log in, typing away before looking at her.

“I’d like to go over a few things. Ask you some questions.” His light eyes trail to me, brow arched, as if to say, In private.

I stand up, shoving my hands in my pockets.

“I’ll be outside,” I tell them both, walking toward the hall. I stop in my tracks. “Before I forget, here.” I take her cell phone out of my back pocket and hand to her.

She snatches it away, wide-eyed. “Did you go through my phone?”

I snort as she clutches it to her chest. “I didn’t know who to call, so I used it to get in touch with Teagan. Last I heard she was on her way but got stuck in traffic.”

The accusing glare melts in an instant, and something unfamiliar replaces the gaze. Appreciation? Who knows, but it makes me squirm where I stand. Shuffling my weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, I jab my thumb behind me.

“Well, I’ll be … somewhere.”

I don’t wait for either of them to say something before closing the curtain behind me to give them some privacy.

When I turn around, a frantic brunette is busting through the ER doors and looking around in a frenzy. She’s the same girl that Ashton had with her at the club, and the same chick in the contact photo for Teagan.

When she spots me, she comes barreling over, hair flying in the breeze and purse nearly knocking over a resident. I try my best not to look at the curves that are showcased in the tight tank top and skinny jeans she’s wearing, or how her breasts are bouncing as she jogs to me, but I’m a dude and I can’t help but admire what’s right in front of me.

I’m taken off guard when she tackles me in a hug, boobs firmly pressed against my chest and arms squeezing me so tight I actually start gasping.

This chick obviously works out, because the bear grip isn’t from Pilates like half these LA people do during expensive sessions with personal trainers. Most likely because, a majority of them spend more time screwing their trainer than doing the proper workouts.

She pulls back, chuckling at the discomfort scrawled on my face. “You look like you want to puke,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Listen, I just want to thank you for letting me know she’s here. I’m really the only one she’s got left.”

My lips twitch down. “What about her family?”

Her eyes dull. “She has an aunt out in Vermont, but they’re estranged. Other than that the rest have passed. It’s just been her for a while now. And her friends of course.”

She smiles and punches my arm, like it’s some indication that I’m one of the people she’s talking about.

I clear my throat. “Well the doc is talking to her in there,” I gesture toward the curtain, “and they’ll probably let her go so long as everything checks out. Since you’re here, I’ll leave.”

She grabs my bicep, causing me to wince again. Seeing my reaction, she eyes me but let’s go. “Okay, so you don’t like to be touched.” She nods, brushing the fact off. “For a jackass, you’re pretty decent. I saw the video of her taking the tumble, and you were the only one who helped.”

I still have a problem with that, and wouldn’t mind taking out my frustration on one or more of those assholes’ faces. Seriously, who let’s a bleeding girl just lay helplessly on the sidewalk?

“I just know what it’s like,” I tell her distantly. “But I have to go. If she needs anything she has my number.”

She smirks at me, eyes studying my face. I

can’t tell what she sees, or thinks she sees. But whatever it is, it’s making her face light up.

“Will do, hot stuff.”

My brow quirks, but I don’t question the nickname. It’s better than ‘pretty boy’ like Ashton calls me, yet hearing her say anything other than my name is welcoming.

Fists tightening at the thought, I walk away. I don’t have time for pestering thoughts like that to cross my mind and distract me. Trying to understand that will take too much time.

My phone goes off with a notification from a popular gossip website. When I click the link, my jaw locks tight.

It’s a video of Ashton falling, and a crowd gathering around her. Skimming the ridiculous article, I determine that whoever wrote it is desperate for a story that isn’t there. Claiming Ashton was drunk and disoriented to cope with her breakup.

My eyes narrow in on one of the faces in the crowd, recognition making my anger bubble to a higher level.

A text message comes through, distracting me from the garbage I’m reading.

Bash: Yo, fuckwad, where are you?

I roll my eyes but send him a reply back.

Dylan: Heading back to the hotel. Staying in for

the night. But want to meet up for drinks

tomorrow?

Bash: Guess so. Nothing better to do.

Dylan: Make sure your phone is charged.

He doesn’t question it, and I don’t elaborate. Instead, I shove my phone in my pocket, and head out the back entrance of the hospital where I parked my car. Blasting the stereo, rolling down the windows, and slipping on my sunglasses, I look back at the hospital in the rearview before forgetting about the entire day.