The music coming from the dark studio was familiar. The drumming heartbeat thumped slow, two quick beats, then a lengthened third, some sort of pop that beat gentler than a pulse and yet pounded deeper. As I walked through the glass doors, a few lines from the song resonated, lyrics sung through a rasp, the language I recognized as Portuguese.

Since we were kids Leann had forced Tristian and me to into learning dances whenever a new style caught her attention and this music reminded me of salsa, maybe a slow tango. Whatever the music, it didn’t match my mood or quiet the temper that had my neck hot and my pulse throbbing. That Aly woman had lied, on purpose I figured, just to get away from me.

“No, step on the one, skip the two.” That was Leann in instructor mode, teaching someone I couldn’t see on the other side of the open studio door. The lights were dim, the music loud and there was the distinct smell of floor wax and the ozone from the AC in the large room.

Once I stepped over the threshold, Leann spotted me, frowning as she walked around who I thought was a student. But the woman at her side didn’t look like anyone I’d ever remembered seeing. At least, I didn’t think so when my glance slipped over her long, muscular legs and those three inch black heels that made her strong calf muscles flex.

But then the woman looked away from the floor where she watched her feet caught in a step, practicing whatever dance Leann had been teaching, and I realized this wasn’t a stranger. Aly wasn’t sporting the drab, busted t-shirt and dance pants I’d only ever seen her in before. She wore tight black leggings that came just below her knees under gray biker shorts and the swell of her round ass shook when she swayed and rolled her hips to match the bassline pumping out of the speakers.

“Ransom? What’s wrong?” Leann met me in the middle of the room, barely looking at my leg as I favored my knee. Her voice edged toward a panic. “Is it Keira? Is everything okay?”

“No,” I said, looking over Leann to glare at Aly in the mirror. “She,” I jerked my head at Aly, “lied to me. She promised she’d call Mom about helping her out. She damn well didn’t.” Leann tried to block me as I walked around her, but I moved too quickly to let her be much of a buffer between us.

Aly’s expression transformed from quiet surprise, likely at my anger, right to obvious annoyance. She stepped toward me and lifted her chin as though she was used to being on the defensive. “I didn’t promise anything.” She didn’t back down, and quickly returned her attention to her feet as I stood in front of her, like I was a distraction she couldn’t be bothered with at the moment.

The anger I’d managed to keep below the surface threatened to seep out as I stared down at Aly, but it confused me, too. Plenty of people lied to me—girls who’d tell me whatever they thought I wanted to hear to get me to touch them, coaches who promised I wouldn’t be pushed beyond my limits, teammates who assured me that I’d have fun following them into debauchery. Hell, that wasn’t anything new to me. So why did this woman lying have me itching to slam my fist into Leann’s wall of mirrors?

“You said you’d call. Who does that? Who promises to do something and then just flakes out?”

“Everyone, jackass.” I had to give her credit, Aly didn’t cower away from me. Not when my temper flared and my voice got loud. Not when I stepped right in front of her, glaring at her with my top lip curling up. She just stood there, arms crossed, face tilted like no amount of warning would make her back down. “Besides, I said I’d give her a call. I just haven’t yet.”

“That was days ago. And she needs help now.” This woman was unbelievable. Didn’t she get how desperate we were? Didn’t she understand help meant now?

“She’s not my mother. Why don’t you help her?”

“You think I don’t want to?”

“Modi, I have no idea what you think. And I really don’t care.”

“You’re a selfish, greedy…”

“Hey, you grosoulye bata,” that cool attitude fractured just a little and when Aly’s bottom eyelid twitched and I saw a quick rush of anger, one that could probably match my own. She jabbed her finger in my chest and I let her, floored that she had to nerve to touch me. I didn’t quite get why I let it slide, why I didn’t brush her hand away. The anger in the room felt heavy and hot, like something you should avoid, but are too tempted to test how quickly you’ll be burned. Aly’s eyes were wide and the low light around us glinted against the gleam like glass. “You don’t know me. Don’t you dare start slinging insults at me.”

“That’s enough. Stop it now.” Leann came between us, pushed me back a couple of steps. “You two are simmering. Too much energy.” Then that familiar slow grin pushed against Leann’s mouth and I knew she was going to ask me to do something that was sure to piss me off. She walked around me, gazing over my legs, my shoulders, judging me, like she hadn’t ever really seen me before. I felt like a horse being examined at auction. Aly’s back stiffened when Leann measured her up in the same way before she finally stood between us again, her grin transformed into something that reminded me of a super villain who was just moments away from monologuing his wicked, wicked plan. “You need to work out this frustration.”

“No. I twisted my knee at practice.” I knew Leann well enough to pick up on her in the middle of a scheme. That grin lowered when I shook my head. “Besides, I’m more concerned with finding someone to help my mother.”

“You’re barely limping and we’ll discuss Aly taking the job.” The small pat she brushed against my arm didn’t relax me, at all. “But for now, sit.”

“Leann, I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

“You make time, Ransom.” She stepped in front of me holding my arms so I wouldn’t just walk out of the room. “You promised to help me with the recital.”

“So?”

“So, Aly and I are thinking of adding a Kizomba number in the schedule.” She shrugged like that explanation was reason enough for me not to leave. “We need a male body and you know the basic steps. At least, you know the concept.” She pointed to the floor, nodding her head like she expected me to sit down.

“Did you not hear the part where I said ‘no’?”

Leann’s face was vacant, and she moved her eyebrows up, advertising that the little ‘I dare you to refuse again’ expression on her face was Leann at her fiercest. She was going to try a Guilt Card, one she must have thought I wouldn’t ignore. “A promise, Ransom. Remember that? Who promises to do something and then just flakes out?”

Ouch. Giving me back my own insult stung a little more than it should have and I deflated, ignoring my cousin when that stupid grin made another appearance. Told you. I can’t take disappointing women. I was such a punk.

“Sit down,” Leann said, pointing again at the spot just in front of the mirrored wall. “And watch us.”

Aly’s face was unreadable, but I caught the tension in her eyes when she glanced at me before Leann moved to stand next to her. Both women went over the hip movements as they watched themselves in the mirror. Leann was smaller than Aly, but the younger woman had more natural rhythm. They both swayed, rolled their hips to practice the woman’s steps, the style and movements she’d make while performing the Kizomba.

Then, they came together, Leann leading, their bodies maybe an inch apart. I watched Leann’s footwork, the slow, barely moving side to side steps of the male partner, each one matching the pulse of the music, understated, allowing the woman to subtly dazzle. It was mesmerizing, a controlled yet erotic seduction that shouldn’t have made me forget about Aly’s lie or the fact that my mother was virtually on her own with the little monster all day.

For some reason I didn’t understand or even fully realize, I got lost in the music, that hypnotic sway of limbs and feet and the near erotic push of Aly’s hips constantly gyrating in a twist that shouldn’t be technically possible. This was a dance that called for connection and, grudgingly, I understood why Leann wanted us performing it. There is a very thin line between anger and passion, love and lust. Sometimes the quick pull of rage can be mistaken for the thrill of physical touch. I’d never understood that completely, not until I walked into this room and screamed at Aly, when my mind warred between trying to get her to somehow submit—something I’d never have asked of anyone—and wanting to be touched, wanting to submit myself. Maybe that was why that rage had been so surprising. I hadn’t felt anything close to it for so long and had missed the flame of it bubbling warm and comfortable in my stomach.

Thin lines, thick lines, they sometimes got blurred and Leann knew that, probably bet on our anger to show itself in the dance.

Doubt though, was stronger than my anger or passion and that’s what bumped in my mind when Leann waved me over, directing me to take Aly’s hand in mine. Leann did the directing—hips here, my hand on Aly’s back, elbow extended—it felt very clinical and formulaic, but then Aly pressed against me, so close that my thigh rested right between her legs and her body softened, came to me in answer to a question I’d never ask.

“You need to lead, Ransom, that’s important and you and Aly need to be perfectly in synch. It’s a little bit of semba and a lot of seduction. All in the hips.” Leann guided and it only took me a moment for my body to remember rhythm, stance. I’d been the guinea pig so often that Leann’s instruction, her example, was easy to follow. I’d been doing that for years.

“Ransom, get closer. Aly, show him.”

And just like that, I felt the warmth of Aly’s center on my thigh and the push of her hips, that slow, slow movement of her grazing my dick. “What the fu…”

“Take it easy, I’m not flirting.” She looked up at me, eyebrow cocked in a challenge. I noticed that shy, awkward way Aly had been around me in Leann’s office had disappeared, replaced by a professional, one that didn’t back down from me as I charged in the studio pissed off. “Can you do this?” She looked down at my sore knee.

“I can lead.”

“Wanna prove it?”

I took the challenge from her eagerly, wanted to push that smug expression off her face, wanted, for some reason I couldn’t explain to myself, for her to know I could lead. I’d fucking lead and she’d follow willingly.

Aly moved her hips, a slow, minuscule grind brushing against me, and then a subtle moving away, a seduction, a sensual game between woman and man. It was a sway I was supposed to follow, something that went deep and as I watched her, felt the tightness of her grip in my hand and the shake of her hips, the music came into me, that drumbeat thumping into my ears, demanding I follow. So, I did, not realizing that my temper had calmed until I felt the rhythm of my heart slowing.

“Step on the one,” Aly said, nodding when I caught on. Still, she wouldn’t smile, as though she was only business, and when I turned, using my arms, the balls of my feet to guide her, I spotted how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut in the mirror behind us.

“Closer,” I heard Leann say, then she pushed on our backs, bringing our middles together so that I could feel Aly’s ribs against my stomach as she breathed. “That’s it. Good, guys. It’s got to be slow, slower than a Tango.” Leann danced behind me, her hands on my waist guiding my movements. “That’s good, Ransom. Now, follow my lead. Aly will show you.”

Leann slowed me with her hands and Aly inched back, holding onto my hand until we danced side by side, hip to hip, and just as quickly as she moved, Leann brushed my leg back with her foot, and Aly followed, curled around that extended leg with the back of her thigh, rubbing against the back of my leg as she arched into me. Her full breasts teased against my chest, nipples hardening and the only thought I had then was that she smelled good. Really good.

Blinking, I told myself it was the music, the press of a firm body, the cooling of the anger that had stirred my blood. I didn’t want Aly, no matter how soft she felt or how easily she fit against me. Then Leann directed again, had me moving back, and Aly followed, her movements faster than mine, her body a dichotomy of curve and strength, a perfect complement to me.

In my head I counted…one, two and three, two, two and three and let that be all that my mind could hold.

“And the saida, Aly, show him.”

And she did, a full five step movement, me walking back, her following again, all the while her hips moved like an invitation, a sweet call that my body heard. But I couldn’t be into this, not this woman, she wasn’t my type. She was defensive, cold. She never, ever smiled, not at me, I hadn’t seen that once. She had always been so rigid— from the way she walked and the distant attitude to the severe bun at the back of her head.

But this Aly moved against me like a wave on the sand, bending into my hips, a brush of our bodies touching, working together like they were made to be and I couldn’t help but give in to the sensations that surrounded me. The music beating heavy, lulling like a drug, the tight press of her sinuous body, how easily she followed my movements, the smell of her hair, the warm moisture of her breath moving my collar. It was too much—so sudden, so unexpected and I blinked, realizing that the dancer from Summerland’s wasn’t the only who could get my body to pay attention. How was this happening…again? Grunting, I moved my hips away, then jerked my gaze to Aly’s face when her soft gasp registered that she, too, had noticed my body’s reaction.

Unbelievable, I thought. Nothing for over a year and inside of a week and a half my dick started misbehaving.

Closing my eyes, I exhaled, bent closer so only she could hear me when I spoke. “It’s not on purpose, but please don’t tell Leann. I’d never hear the end of it.”

I felt her nod, that small gesture against my chest and then Aly looked up, only her eyes moving. They were hazel with the smallest hint of green around the edges.

“Apologize,” she said, voice quiet but determined. My only response came from the lift of my eyebrows. “What?” she said, mouth still held in a line. “You were grosoulye...um, rude.”

“And you are a liar.”

When she slowed her movements, I pulled her in even closer. “If you stop, she’ll make us start all over again. I know you don’t want that and I sure as hell don’t want my cousin to know this dance gets me hard.”

Curiosity must have edged her because Aly tilted her head, eyes sharp as she watched me and then pressed in with another hip roll that would have been a too damn familiar if we’d been naked. She didn’t smile, but I caught the small hint of a dimple on her left cheek when I kept pace with her.

“Fine. But remember your form and remember, you have to feel it.” When I laughed, glanced down at my lap, Aly sighed like I was an idiot. “This dance is push and pull, Ransom. It’s a joining.” She slid her fingers over my heart, right across Emily’s face, and I shuddered when her fingernails grazed my nipple.

I had limited interaction with Aly, but noticed that in the studio, in her element, there was no place for shyness or awkwardness. She instructed me, just as she did her students. I was supposed to listen, to learn and as Aly exhaled, as her voice came out demanding and sharp, I realized the woman was another person—fiercer, professional—when it came to dancing. “You have feel it here,” she said before she moved her hand to my hip, pulling me into a thrust I didn’t control, “and here. Like…like really good…”

“Sex?” I asked, grinning when Aly looked away from me.

“Modi,” she cursed. “Well, I suppose it is.” When she looked back up at me I swore I saw her light eyes deepen to a color that reminded me of whiskey. It was the first time I’d gotten close enough to really look in her eyes and see all the soft features her attitude and distance obscured.

“Sex that is wet and warm,” she continued. I turned her, into another saida and we moved further away from Leann as we danced; thank God my cousin was concentrating on something on her phone and wasn’t watching us all that closely. Aly’s words pulled me back. “Sex that slips into her skin.” Aly closed her eyes, moved her fingers to my neck like she was remembering something too personal, too damn erotic to share with a stranger. For some reason, I didn’t pull away from her, too caught by the vivid image she was describing. “It gets so deep, feels so tight, that it hurts, just a little and you crave that pain.” She blinked and slowed her movements, pushing back as she arched into me. “That’s the best kind of sex, isn’t it? The kind that you can’t stop thinking about, you can’t stop feeling for days afterward.”

My throat worked all on its own, like the dryness in my mouth would never be quenched. Aly’s features seemed to soften and for a moment there was only the roll of her hips and the low, tantalizing rhythm of the music and our heartbeats. My bottom lip felt thick when I bit it, and I nearly groaned, overcome by her description and the raw feel of her body when Aly took a breath that bunched her chest closer to me.

Yeah, I had vague recollections about that kind of sex, but it wasn’t with my Emily I thought about when Aly painted that picture. It wasn’t even the dancer, though my vivid imagination cast her as my co-star in every dick-pulling fantasy I’d had over the past week. As she spoke, images heavy with sensation, it was Aly I imagined. This grumpy, rigid, remote woman. But just for a few seconds, with her body sliding against mine and her hips pretending to offer something I’d never be able to take, she became someone else. Something else.

We stared at each other, quiet, breathes mingling together and I noticed she had a small freckle near her left eyebrow. Her smooth, soft skin reminded me of honey and cream mixing together, just as sweet, just as bad for me. Her nose was straight and sharp and those cheekbones were arched like they had been formed by the careful work and talent of an artist. She had the kind of features that reflected so many of the complex heritages of New Orleans: Spanish, Black, Creole, she could have come from any number of exotic, mysterious backgrounds. For the first time I realized, despite how cold she’d always seemed to me, that Aly was beautiful. Understated and guarded behind that aloof manner, but for the first time, I realized Aly was very, very beautiful.

The slight rasp in her voice hinted that she wasn’t everything she wanted the world to believe her to be. She actually was more, much, much more, and the part of me who was a curious asshole with zero conscience wanted to find out what that might entail.

But before I could say anything to her, even just for a second, Leann cleared her throat, then clicked the music off. Aly backed away from me as though she’d forgotten who I was or where she was, and that maybe she shouldn’t be enjoying our dance so much. Leann’s voice had definitely broken the moment—my dick deflated and my skin cooled—but it didn’t keep my eyes from following Aly as she walked away from me across that hardwood floor.

“Aly, that was excellent. You think Tommy can help us out? He’s doing that internship in New York still, but won’t he be back from New York next month?” Aly’s glance at me did not go unnoticed. “No,” Leann said, answering Aly’s silent question, “Ransom’s very good, but this should be a professional performance. Besides, he’s got football and classes.”

“Okay, but I want to work on the saida and add some dips. Who can I practice with until Tommy gets back?”

Leann wasn’t remotely subtle with the look she gave me. I suddenly had an idea.

“Look at me like that all you want, Leann. I still have my own shit. Unless, of course, Aly here,” I saw the woman shake her head when I nodded at her, “is willing to help out my mom. Then I can squeeze her into my schedule.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take the job, orto. I’ve just been…”

“Will you do it?” Leann asked Aly, interrupting her.

The twin expressions between me and my cousin—hers on the edge of begging, mine, I’m sure, smug and condescending—had Aly waffling. She fidgeted, likely battling the reality that Leann wanted Aly to learn the dance and I wanted my mom to rest and my little brother taken care of. Her frown dwindled, like someone who knew she had was facing defeat, and had to try to make the best bargain she could without holding any chips. My smile grew broad when she finally waved her hand in my general direction in an attempt at a ‘whatever’ attitude.

“Fine, but it can only be every other day. I still have classes to teach and I work Tuesdays and Thursdays, plus every Saturday.” She stood with her back straight, barely glancing at me or my growing smirk.

“Excellent,” I said unable to keep from looking happy and far too pleased with myself.

Aly didn’t bother waving goodbye or saying anything more than an “I’ll call tomorrow” as she left the studio.

“You really are a brat sometimes, you know that, right?” Leann said as picked up her bag and turned the lights off in the studio.

“Why?” I pulled my cousin toward me with an arm over her shoulder. “Because I got a sitter for Koa?”

“No,” she stopped, elbowing me so I kept the door opened for her. “Because you used that thing to get it.”

“What thing? Charm? Cunning?”

“I believe Keira always referred to it as Hale Demon Magic.”

“Well, shit Leann, I can’t deny that one.”

Robert Burns compared his love to a red, red rose. The meaning behind the giving of those flowers was universal. Florists made a killing off the sentiment of their meaning, and poets have talked about their symbolism for centuries.

For me, roses reminded me of loss. They are the calling card of misery, the steady reminder of how badly I had fucked up. I know that’s what they are. I know I can expect them on Emily’s birthday and again on the day that I destroyed everything.

Today was one of those days.

It hadn’t registered that my door was ajar when I returned from practice. My head was still too consumed by the opposing thoughts of sin and satisfaction, of who I wanted, why I wanted her, and what it meant that my body was firing on its own engines, making me forget that I could never get hard. Well, except for that dancer. And for that one dance Leann had forced upon me.

With Aly.

The drills practice that day had been brutal. My father made me make up for the distraction that was still so stupidly and obviously filling up my head. He made me run longer, pushed me further than any of my teammates because he knew I expected it. Because he knew I needed it.

When I shuffled up the stairs and kicked open my door, I didn’t noticed the petals at first. Not until I crashed onto my bed with my kit and my backpack and my worn body all falling like a mass of drained weight. It was only until I exhaled, drew in another exhausted breath and inhaled their scent, then felt the petals on my bed, the sharp stems of the roses prickling against my bare arms, that I realized what this sick gift meant.

Our anniversary, she mocked. There was more bitterness, that angry contempt for me, for what I’d done, around the edges of her tone.

I didn’t bother answering her. It wasn’t our anniversary I insisted to myself. Not the one I chose to remember. The one that marked the night that I’d somehow convinced that beautiful girl to keep from letting Eddie Parker take her to his father’s camp out on False River.

I’d followed her for two weeks straight outside the downtown library like a creeper. It had been months since her father had forbidden her from speaking to me. Since the stupid naked text messages we thought would be a good idea to send one another.

But I’d grown tired of waiting. I’d missed her. Only a few months had passed since she’d followed her cousin to the lake house to meet me and already I’d been consumed by her.

We’d gotten hot and heavy real quick like, hormones taking over, curiosity egging us toward the stupid and then, those damn naked texts. Her father had stomped his foot down and ended anything I’d wanted with her.

Or so he’d thought.

And Parker had moved in fast, banking on my exit from New Orleans when the world caught wind of Kona and Keira tying the knot. I’d left for Hawaii for my parents’ wedding, but came back to New Orleans determined to win the trust of Emily’s old man.

The bastard wouldn’t let me past the front door, waved a nine millimeter handgun at me when I approached his porch, and Emily, being the obedient Catholic girl that she was, wouldn’t risk her father’s wrath to see me. And while I had been gone, Eddie Parker had made himself comfortable on the golf course with her old man while he courted her with flowers–I’d seen it myself when I got back–twice in one week.

Slick fucker.

Still, none of that was going to stop me. I stalked Emily in the library, slinking into the stack’s shadows, watching her work her way through her reading list, but that day she’d had enough of my attention.

“I know you’re there, Ransom,” she’d whispered, leaning back in her chair with her arms across that small chest.

Just the way she’d said my name—that slight roll of her tongue, the “M” sound on the end that was accented heavy with an Uptown hilt—did things to me that I’d never felt before. That twang had me willing to do just about anything for her. She knew it. I knew it.

“You gonna hide in the stacks or are you gonna come sit with me?”

I didn’t wait for another invitation and when Emily tilted her head, that beautiful ginger eyebrow arching up like she’d give me a minute when I knew I wanted five (or a lifetime), for a second I forgot I wasn’t supposed to just sit there gawking at her. “Well?”

“Eddie Parker is an asshole,” I blurted out.

Zero pride, zero tact. I had way too much of my father in me. My mom always said as much, but that day sort of proved it.

“Eddie is nice, Ransom.” She’d sounded like she was talking about a priest, not some guy who wanted into her panties.

“Eddie is a kiss-ass and you’d be bored an hour into your first date.” I didn’t buy it when she’d rolled her eyes as though she thought I was being as stupid as I sounded.

“What do you know about it?”

“I know you haven’t kissed him.”

“Oh? So sure of yourself.”

“Yeah. I am.” I’d taken her hand then, pulling her closer to me and she didn’t fight it. “I know the first time I kissed you, you kept your eyes closed way longer than I did.”

“And?” Her tone had been soft, but the timber was off, seemed too quick and I knew she was battling herself for not telling me to piss off.

“And,” I’d said, moving from the chair across from her to kneel in front of her. “And…when you kiss someone, Em, you do it with everything inside you. You feel it all over and you wear that same smile for days after.”

“That’s not…Ransom, don’t.” But she really hadn’t been trying to push me off her. She hadn’t made great efforts to stop me when I stood up and pulled her down a row of books, Philosophy to Phonetics. No one was there.

“That’s not what? You think I’m full of shit?”

“I think you’re trouble.”

“Yeah, Em. That’s me.” And then I’d showed Emily what messing around with trouble meant. I’d showed her with my tongue against her bottom lip, my hands gripping her until there wasn’t any space between us. Until she’d given up the ghost and kissed me right back.

“You tell Eddie Parker you can’t go anywhere with him. Not the movies, not to dinner and not to his daddy’s damn bonfire on the river.” When she shook her head, looked like there might be another excuse, some bullshit reason to tell me no, I kissed her again. Hale Demon Magic always worked like a charm. “What will you tell him?” I’d asked when I needed to breathe again.

“I’ll tell him no, Ransom.”

That smile had reappeared on her face, the one she claimed she never wore. “And you’ll tell him no because…”

“Because…because I’m your girl.”

And she’d been my girl every day since then. Even when it became impossible. Even when I’d taken that beautiful, sweet girl, the same girl who’d given me her heart that day in the library and then her body months later, and ripped apart everything she’d been, anything she’d wanted to be.

“That was our anniversary,” I said to myself, resting my palm against my tattoo. “That day in the library, when you became mine.”

Later, when I walked her home—not all the way, because her father still couldn’t stand me—I bought my Emily one single, perfect red rose from a little hole in the wall market along the way. The flower couldn’t come close to her beauty, but I wanted to give her something that reminded her of what she did to me, how full and free she made me feel. A rose was a pathetic second, but it had made her smile. I didn’t care that one of the thorns slit my finger, drawing blood. She gently wrapped my finger in a tissue she had been carrying in her purse, and I thought I was the luckiest man on the planet, to have such a girl care for me.

Now, roses only meant blood to me.

They covered my bed in bunches, petals ripped from the buds, buds torn from the stems. The stems were like knives, dozens of them all over my mattress, on the floor, littered on my desk, my bedside table. Red and green everywhere. And there, right among the dark red petals and broken stems, next to my alarm clock and cell charger, was the note. It was the same as the first one I’d gotten in the mail weeks after I left the hospital.

You are heartache, it read.

The card was a heavy stock, black, lined with a deep burgundy around the edges and those three words were written in silver.

Red isn’t for love. Red is blood.

I bled for you, she told me. My virginity, my heart, all ran red for you, Ransom.

Then, just then with her taunting me in a voice harsher than she’d ever used before, pushing in that pain, that overwhelming needle of dread, I jumped from my bed, not caring that my body was so damn tired. I threw open the door and stumbled out of my room.

All around me, in the hallways, on the stairs, out in the backyard around the deck, there were people my age, my peers, laughing and drinking and loving this time in their lives. They were free and happy and teetering near lives that seemed endless, limitless.

I didn’t understand any of them. I couldn’t smile with them as though I was as carefree and young as they were. I never would be again. But I was full of need, and while I couldn’t care less about the laughter and the drinking, I was glad of the opportunity to prowl.

I moved around the party like a voyeur, looking for someone to help. Someone who looked like they needed it more than I did. Like they’d gone to this party to forget. Just like I tried to do every day.

I found her sitting in the corner of the living room, nursing a red Solo cub, pretending to drink whatever it was that Ronnie Blanchard had offered her. I’d never seen her before, not that I generally paid attention to anyone around me.

She didn’t look like Emily, and she didn’t remind me remotely of the dancer or of Aly. She was tiny, probably no more than five foot and she wore her hair in a blunt pixie cut with platinum blonde highlighting her heart-shaped face.

“Ransom,” Ronnie called, slapping my shoulder when I stood in front of the pixie. But I didn’t answer him, didn’t bother to acknowledge him at all, my eyes focused on the girl. That hand on my shoulder fell away and in my peripheral, I noticed him cursing under his breath. “Another one bites the dust.”

I didn’t know if he meant me or Pixie Cut, because I could only stare down at her, watching those small, bright eyes of her, so light blue they looked gray, widen. I figured that she knew me, or at least knew of me. I got that she’d probably heard everything about me. CPU was a small campus, private, unlike our secrets. Very little was ever allowed to stay hidden.

“I…” she stared and I thought maybe she’d protest, but then I knelt in front of her, moving my head to watch her, see if she’d tell me to leave her alone.

She didn’t say a word.

“You alone?” I wasn’t asking about a boyfriend. Didn’t care if she was there on a date. She knew what I meant. She had to.

“Yeah,” she finally said, holding my hand when I offered it. “All alone.”

One nod and I gave her a second more to consider what she was doing, giving her the yellow light I always wanted them to take. Then, when she gave no indication of stopping me, I slammed into drive. “I can make you feel good.”

She wanted me to. Followed behind me through the crowd, not saying a word, up the stairs to my room. I didn’t explain the roses, knocked the note off my bedside table before she could ask about it. And then, with that tiny, tiny body stretched naked across my bed, I set out to serve my punishment.

This was not like being with the dancer. There was no seduction. I paid Pixie Cut no compliments because my head was too clouded by guilt, that sick, constant enemy that had taken root inside me and refused to leave.

It was routine, usual, habit. I knew what to do, how to touch her so that she became no single woman. There was nothing personal in it at all. Nothing real. She was them and as I took her with my mouth, not caring that she yanked on my hair, that her moans and chants of “yes” became louder than the music rattling the windows, I served like I was meant to, doing whatever the hell I could to give something other than heartache, no matter how empty it was.

I didn’t ask her name, just like I hadn’t with any of the others. How could I? How could I let them become real to me, become more than a simple penance? What would I be if I forgot my sins? If I did that then she would be truly gone and even the memory of her, my sweet Emily, would be lost forever.

Happy anniversary, Ransom.

“You too, baby.”