After my episode at the hospital yesterday, we drove in silence, the confession weighing heavily between us. Mentally, I tried to take back my words and push the memory out of my head, but I could still hear the plastic shield locking into place, silencing my cries. One memory bled into another as I recalled the first time Rush ordered me to ride with him. At the time, I jumped at the chance to be anywhere other than behind closed doors, and taking a ride on a motorcycle seemed like the only freedom I’d ever be granted. Like Deuce, Rush handed me a helmet and told me to hop on. When I froze, when the memories slammed into me like a truck, Rush proceeded to put the helmet on me himself. It wasn’t a malicious act; he didn’t know the trauma I had experienced. He didn’t know I was scarred.

Once he did, once he watched me break down into a fit of tears and beg him to stop, Rush introduced me to the magic of drugs. It was then he gave me my first hit and familiarized me to the numbness. With a needle and viable vein, I forgot the torture. My own screams were silenced. The memories of having that helmet on my head and a stranger between my legs died. I faded.

Fading away became my bliss. That’s gone, no one is going to give me drugs and Methadone doesn’t make me forget. The memories are alive and the screams are louder than ever. All I can do is beg God to help me find something that turns everything off, something that silences all the noise inside my head.

Once we arrived at the motel, Deuce escorted me to my brother’s room. He made sure I was comfortable, showed me how to work the television and then he was gone, leaving me in Jagger’s room by myself with nothing but my head to keep me company.

As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep. Being in my brother’s space, seeing some of his things was eerily weird at first. Other than the picture on his nightstand of Celeste and Skylar, there weren’t many personal effects scattered around the room. Still curious, I began to snoop around. Trying to learn more about my twin, I sprayed his cologne on my hand, discovering the clean scent he favored. I opened his closet and sifted through the few clothes hung inside, deciding he was not a formal guy and had a weird obsession for black t-shirts. Judging by the ashtray full of butts, my brother was a smoker too. He didn’t keep anything other than a six pack of beer in his fridge and his bathroom held the bare necessities.

It dawned on me then, my brother wasn’t living much of a life either. Sure, he had his daughter and Celeste, but from what I understand that was all new too. It made me wonder what happened to him after I disappeared. As much as I wondered, I wasn’t sure I could cope with those details just yet so I pushed Jagger away from my head and tried to get some sleep.

When Deuce woke me this morning, he didn’t mention riding his motorcycle again and to my surprise he still had Wolf’s truck. He took me to the clinic and waited outside for me. After I was done, he stopped off at a convenience store and brought me back to my brother’s room with a bag full of magazines and a book of Sudoku puzzles—which are confusing as hell.

I haven’t seen him since but I can hear him through the paper-thin walls. Wondering what he’s doing in there, I itch to press my ear against the wall but instead I grab the remote from the nightstand and turn on the television. As I am about to change the channel a knock sounds from the adjoining door.

“Hey,” Deuce calls, toeing the door open. Sticking his head inside, his eyes dart toward me.

“Please tell me this isn’t all you do,” I say, motioning toward the television. “Because I’m not going to survive this.”

Pushing the door open all the way, he makes his way into the room and sits on the foot of the bed.

“Bored?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Fuck yes,” he mutters, dragging his fingers through his hair. Throwing the remote control onto the bed, I push down the covers and glance out the window.

“Wolf hasn’t come back for his truck yet. You want to get out of here for a little?” he suggests, biting the inside of his cheek as he stares at me. “The food sucks here and I’m pretty sure the vending machines haven’t been restocked since this shit hole opened for business.”

I haven’t thought much about food. The constant nausea has done a number on me making it almost impossible to keep anything down, but the moment Deuce mentions it my stomach growls, deciding it’s time to put something of substance inside of me.

“Hungry?” He smiles as his eyes dip down to my belly and a foreign feeling creeps over me.

“A little bit,” I reply with a shrug.

“What do you like to eat?”

I should know that, right? I’m twenty-six years old. I should have a favorite meal or at least a favorite snack. A favorite something. Realizing I don’t have a preference in anything is another harsh reality.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Lifting my head to meet his dark eyes, I sigh and shrug my shoulders.

“I don’t have a favorite anything,” I start, taking a moment to think more. “I mean…I used to. Like…before I was taken my favorite color was purple and my favorite food was pizza.” I shake my head as I draw my sleeves down over my hands. “Now I can’t stand either. In fact, just thinking about either of them makes me want to cringe.”

He doesn’t respond at first and the silence makes me wonder why I shared that piece of information. I told myself I didn’t want to talk about what happened to me. Maybe I said it because I wasn’t asked to. Maybe I told him because I wasn’t living in the past. I was living for the moment, realizing something about myself.

“So, pizza is out.”

“Pizza is out,” I confirm. “I don’t ever want to step inside another pizzeria as long as I live.”

“Because of what happened?”

“Yes,” I admit, leaving out the fact I nearly had a panic attack when we were driving earlier. On the way back from the clinic, I stared out the window and the streets I once knew became familiar again. I feared we would possibly pass the pizzeria I used to work at and that made my skin crawl.

“You got anything against sushi?”

“Other than it being raw?”

“Have you tried it?”

“No.”

Admitting I haven’t tried Sushi makes me realize there are plenty of things I missed out on experiencing. That’s not saying I would have necessarily wanted to try different things or even liked them once I had, but I never got the chance to make those choices or decisions.

Aside from different foods, I missed out on a bunch of firsts too.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head to the side as he stares at me. “If you don’t want Sushi we get something else…”

I shake my head.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I just realized I’m twenty-six years old and not only are there so many things I probably haven’t tried but there are things I never got the chance to experience. Things I pushed out of my head because I told myself there was no point in dwelling on it. Now that I’m free, it feels wrong, if that makes any sense. I mean I know I lost twelve years and everyone keeps saying I’ve got a second chance to make a life for myself, but all those things I missed…I can’t get that back. I can’t replace all the miserable moments with what should’ve been. I guess what I’m trying to say is…I can’t trade my painful firsts for the firsts I dreamed I’d have.”

“Says who?”

My brows knit in confusion and I blink as he turns fully, propping his leg on my bed.

“Name one first you wish you could change.”

“Why? You can’t change them.”

“Maybe not all of them,” he says with a shrug. “But if we can manage to change a few that should count for something.”

Biting down on my lip, I think about his suggestion.

“My first kiss is something I wish I could change,” I say honestly, lifting my head to meet his expressionless face. “Papa,” I mutter, cringing as I say the name. “That’s what he made me call him,” I explain, watching Deuce’s jaw go rigid.

“Rush?”

I shake my head.

“Yankovich,” he growls.

For as long as he kept me, I never knew his real name. Hearing it now sends chills down my spine as I recall the first time I was kissed and how Yankovich’s lips felt against mine.

“It was rough and not in a good way,” I confess. “It wasn’t done in a way to make me feel desired but in a way where I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t oblige. So, I kissed him back and hated myself afterward.”

Muttering a curse, Deuce runs his fingers roughly through his hair before turning back to me.

“Close your eyes,” he directs.

“What for?”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, evading my question. A foreign feeling erupts inside of me, one I can’t quite place and I find myself closing my eyes, not because he ordered me to but because I trust he won’t hurt me.

Seconds tick by before I hear Deuce’s exasperated breath. Then I feel the mattress dip and as I continue to keep my eyes closed I subconsciously lean forward. His hands lift to my cheeks and the next breath he releases brushes gently over my lips.

Then it happens.

Deuce lays his mouth over mine.

For a moment neither of us move as our lips stay locked on one another. Slowly, he then moves his mouth, taking my lower lip between his and giving it a gentle tug. Sucking softly, he parts my lips and a small gasp spills from my mouth into his.

My heart pounds against my chest as he applies more pressure, making our kiss rougher in all the right ways. I’m not scared or trying to drift away. I’m right there with him, flying high on sensation and adrenaline. His tongue touches my lips, prying them open. Following his lead, I part my lips. He pushes his tongue into my waiting mouth and glides it over mine, tasting me—teaching me that some firsts can be rewritten.

Pulling back slightly he pecks my lips once more and I open my eyes. Keeping his eyes fixed to mine, he licks his lips and drops his hands from my face.

“There you go,” he rasps, as if what just happened didn’t shake the ground beneath us. Unsure what to say, I lift my fingers to my lips and watch as he leans his elbows on his knees. Silently, he stares into space before he slowly turns to me. His eyes immediately dart toward my mouth but quickly lift to my eyes and I wonder if he liked it as much as I did.

“You still got those matches I gave you?” he asks suddenly.

Biting my lip, I stare at him for a moment then lift my hips and reach into my pocket. Pulling out the book of matches my cheeks flush and I turn my palm over to display them. His lips quirk slightly as he slaps his hands against his thighs and rises to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he says, reaching for the hoodie I draped across the back of a chair. “Is this all you took from Reina?” he asks, tossing it onto the bed and crossing his arms as he leans against the wall.

I didn’t know I wasn’t going back there,” I reply, taking the hoodie from the bed. “Wait, where are we going?”

“To get food.”

“Raw food?” I question, slipping my arms through the hoodie before getting up from the bed. “No way.”

“Won’t know if you like it unless you try it,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow “Gotta strike the match, girl,” he adds, tipping his chin toward the book of matches I’m still holding.

“Are you daring me?”

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “You accepting?”

Licking my lips, I shove the matches back into my pocket and take a deep breath. If trying Sushi is anything like my new first kiss, then joining the land of the living might not be so bad. It might be scary but it’s a leap I’ve got to take.

“Under one condition,” I say, stepping closer to him. Continuing to lean against the wall, he raises an eyebrow as amusement flickers in his eye.

“You have to get me ice cream too.”

“You like ice cream?”

“We’re going to find out,” I tell him as I brush past him and walk into his room.

Grabbing the keys off the table, he follows me toward the door and reaches around me to open it.

“With manners like that it’s a wonder your room is a mess,” I tease as I walk outside.

“My room isn’t a mess…it’s lived in,” he argues, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I don’t have to wonder if you wear boxers or briefs,” I call over my shoulder as we head toward Wolf’s truck. “However, I’m not going to lie, I’m a little disappointed.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

Pulling open the door, I climb inside and turn to him.

“I took you for a commando type of guy,” I tell him before shutting the door. Standing in front of the car, he braces one hand on the hood and peers at me through the windshield with a dumbfound expression on his face.

Something amazing happens then.

Something genuine and natural.

Something so unfamiliar to me but common to others.

I smile.

Then he smiles too and I decide Deuce has a great smile, one that if you stare at it long enough it can become an addiction. Isn’t that funny? I never knew a person could crave something so simple like someone else’s smile. I wonder if too much of someone’s smile can be bad for another person. I’d like to think not but what do I know—I’m the girl who never thought she’d smile again.

“Looks good on you,” he comments as he slides into the truck.

“What does?”

“A smile.”

“Yours isn’t so bad either,” I point out, realizing I’m still smiling. His lips quirk again as he pulls out of the lot and I find myself staring at him while he drives. The first time I saw Deuce, I didn’t think much about him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or something else, but at the time he was just another person. When you’ve spent most of your life surrounded by animals, you don’t take notice of people. They all look the same. They all act the same. You’ll expect them to hurt you and take from you. You give up hope that there are still people worth knowing. You give up on the good folks and lump everyone into one category.

In the days since I was rescued I’ve been noticing things. I’ve been noticing people, and right now I’m noticing Deuce. I’m noticing there is a twang hidden underneath that raspy voice and every now and then it becomes more prominent.

“Where are you from?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Caught that, huh?”

“Were you trying to hide it because you’re not very good at it,” I reply.

“Texas.”

Not expecting that response, my eyes widen at the admission but I quickly recover.

“Is it true everything is bigger in Texas?”

Another quirk of the lips.

Yeah, I was addicted.

“I’m not touching that one,” he quips.

Realizing the innuendo, I slap his arm and attempt to call him a jerk but I get distracted by the size of it.

Things are huge in Texas.

Under my touch his bicep flexes and I notice the thickness of his arms, the cords of his muscles and all the ink. It was strange since I didn’t pay much attention to them when they were wrapped around me the night before. Now I wish I remembered what they felt like.

Quickly, I drop my hand and turn my attention toward the window. Stopped at a light, I watch a young girl, maybe twelve years old, cross the street. She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Why should she? She doesn’t know what hell is, and if she’s lucky, she never will.

Another person crosses.

A man.

Dressed in a suit, staring down at his phone he bumps into the girl. My breath catches as the two people collide on the street. It’s a normal occurrence, something I’m sure happens every day to thousands of people, but still, I can’t help but wonder how we can tell the difference in people. How do you spot a monster when they blend in with the crowd? He apologizes to the girl and they part ways. She reaches one side of the busy avenue and he reaches the other.

“Cat got your tongue?” Deuce asks.

“What?”

“You got quiet all of a sudden,” he points out as the light changes and he drives off. Fearing I’ll lose his smile, I don’t tell him that my mind wandered and got the best of me. However, without me saying the words he somehow already knows and I watch his grip tighten around the steering wheel.

“I’m not a mind reader, Ally,” he hisses.

He could’ve fooled me.

Pulling into a spot, he cuts the engine of the truck and turns to me.

“Despite Jack’s faith in me to help you, I don’t have a fucking clue as to what it is you need. If I say or do something that triggers a bad memory you gotta let me know,” he stresses as he swipes his hands over his face.

Spotting the tattoos on his fingers, I inch forward to take a closer look. Each finger has another letter inked to his skin spelling out the words overcome. Tattoos aren’t strange to me. I know enough to know there is usually a meaning behind each one. I think most people use their body as a canvas to tell the stories they’re sometimes too ashamed to share or too afraid to forget.

“Can I ask you something?” I whisper.

Blowing out a breath, he drops his hands from his face and nods.

“Have you ever had to strike a match?”

“Too many times,” he confesses.

“What happens when you run out of matches?”

“You create fire and hope it burns bright enough to see you through.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Hanging onto fire?”

He shakes his head and leans forward as he reaches behind him and pulls out a book of matches. Flipping it open, he lifts the book to display a single match.

“I still got one left.”

“One more chance to start over?”

“No, one last chance to make fire.”

Not sure how to respond, I remain silent. When a person gives up on people, they forget that each one has a story. Deuce’s story might be nothing like mine, but something told me he wasn’t harboring a fairy tale.

His canvas was full of regret and matches that had burned out.