Before & After (6 page)

“Lindsay
is paralyzed. She won’t ever fucking walk again, Peyton. And she needs her best
friend. You don’t want me or Rike—ok. But she needs you.”

I
glance back at him, and I know he's telling the truth.

"I'm
sorry," I whisper. "I really am. But I need to figure out who I am
and what the hell I'm doing. I can't be strong for someone else if I can't even
figure out where I belong."

He
gives me a sad smile. "You belong with us, Peyton. You always have."

***

Tommy
is quiet the entire way home, after my appointments end. He gets me back to my hotel
room, and I curl up on the bed. The doctor had nothing helpful to say, and no
clue why I haven't remembered anything. She's ordered new scans of my brain,
but what the hell will that do?

I'm
so tired I can't even think, and Scott's words are still running in my head, an
endless loop that keeps mocking me.

"Why
are you walking away from them?" Tommy asks, pulling chocolate milk from
my mini fridge and pouring a cup. He’s watching me as he settles into his chair
and sips it thoughtfully. Waiting for an answer I don’t have.

I'm
quiet for a long time, thinking about it, and he finally stands. "Don't
push away people who care about you because they did something out of misguided
good intentions. My
Luce
did that once, a few years
after we married. It was right after we found we couldn’t have children. She
thought I should find someone who could give me children. Almost destroyed us.”
His dark, old eyes find mine, and I can see the sadness there still. “Don't
throw away a life you've built because you're scared and can't remember
building it. You come from good things and good places, and that guy, he cared
about you. Maybe it's okay to think about that. To care about it too."

"They
know who I am and they’re not telling me."

"But
maybe Rike has a reason for it. Maybe you should listen to his reason." He
hesitates. "What do you have to lose, Peyton?"

I
think about it for a long time, when he's gone. Until my eyes are drooping
closed.

Nothing.
I have nothing left to lose.

Chapter
9
:
Before

The
tattoo shop has become one of her favorite places. Which makes me irrationally
happy. She’s becoming a fixture in my life. Her flame red hair brightens my
view from the stage on Thursday and most Fridays, and she shows up at Keegan’s
unexpectedly—the old bastard even warms up to her when she stops by and chats
with him before she drifts to me and snuggles into my side.

But
for all that we’re together (for all intents and purposes), she’s keeping part
of herself wrapped in secrets and dodges my questions. There’s so much she
doesn’t say—questions she dodges and slides away from, a past that she doesn’t
want to share with me.

She’s
balancing cross-legged on a stool at the bar while Scotty and I finish the
setup and I glance at her, her eyes distant as she taps away on that damn
computer.

“What
is she working on?”

I
shrug.

“You
don’t know?” Scotty demands, his voice startled.

I
give him the flat warning glare that usually manages to shut him up, but he
just shakes his head, laughing. “Ask her.”

“Tried
that,” I grunt. He huffs, a quiet noise of displeasure, and I nod.

“Are
we playing the new song?" He asks.

I
hesitate. I don't usually sing. I prefer to be in the background, playing drums
while Scott plays rock god. It's where I'm comfortable--I've never wanted to be
a rock star. I just want to create shit.

But
occasionally, I'll write something that is too personal and he'll insist. I
glance at where she's perched at the bar in a gravity-defying contortion as she
works on something she won't share.

"Let's
play it by ear," I say simply and he grunts in acknowledgement. "Can
you finish this?" An eyebrow arches but he nods and I slap him on the back
before I jog across the bar to where she's sitting.

I
come up behind her, slipping my arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to
the curve of her neck. I inhale the scent of her and get a quick peek at the
computer screen, the words blurring as she closes it quickly and turns in my
arm, her lips lifting up and finding mine. I smile against her as her fingers dig
into my scalp and she shivers a little as I lick across her lips before pulling
back.

“What
do monkeys wear when they cook?”

Her
eyes brighten and one corner of her lips hooks up into a grin. “I don’t know.
What?”

“An
ape-
ron
.” I deadpan and she laughs.

I
lean in and steal another kiss, desperate for the taste of her laugh.

Peyton
always tastes sweet and light, almost addictive, but when she’s laughing, it’s
more than that—it’s like drinking down sunshine, and I can’t resist that. She
sighs a little and I swallow my groan as I pull away from her, licking my lips
to catch the last bit of her taste.

“Are
you staying for the whole set?” I ask huskily.

She
shrugs, her shoulders bare and delicate above a little tank top that makes me
itch to pull it off of her. “Depends on how adoring your fans get.”

I
bite down on the acidic response that wants to rise. I haven’t touched a
girl—haven’t even looked at one—since before that first night that I talked to
her. It’s been hell to listen to Scott fucking girls at the loft while I sat
with my hard-on and fantasies of her lips around me. But I hadn’t touched them
and I hadn’t pushed her for the more I knew she’d willingly give. Because there
were too many secrets between us still.

“What
are you working on?” I ask abruptly and her eye widen. Shutter. Block me out,
and even though I expect it, it still fucking hurts.

She
sees it and reaches for me. “Jokes.”

I
pull back and shake my head. “This won’t work if we refuse to trust each
other,” I say and her eyes flare with hurt and denial. I hate seeing that look
in her eyes. But I bite back the apology and step back, toward the stage.

I
want her to stop me. To explain. She doesn’t, and with a sigh, I return to
Scott. Slip behind my drum set and sprawl on the stool. “I need to get fucked,”
I grit out.

His
eyes widen, and I know what he’s thinking. That it’s a bad idea, that I’ll hate
myself for it later, that I’m self-sabotaging.

But
he doesn’t say any of those things. He just nods at me and kicks off the set,
and I follow him on the drums.

And
I know that a pretty girl who looks nothing like Peyton will fall asleep in my
bed tonight, after my best friend and I fuck her for hours.

If
I know him at all, he’s already picked her.

Chapter 10
:
After

I want to drown myself in you,

consume
your soul,

until
there is no
you.
no
me.

only
us.

(
Rike’s
poems to Peyton)

The
phone is sitting on the table in front of me, and I twitch, smoothing my pants
down. Again. I should have set this up for anywhere but here. It occurs to me now,
when it’s too late to do anything to fix it.

I
let out an unsteady breath and push my hair back. Stare at the phone. He hasn’t
called to cancel, so I have to assume he’s coming.

I
almost scream when the knock on the door comes, even though I’m expecting it.
Waiting on it. It still startles me. I shift and wheel my chair to the door and
pull it open.

Rike
is standing there, and for just a moment we stare at each other. His eyes are desperate
and alive with hunger, raking over me.

When
Rike looks at me, it’s not just seeing. He devours me with his gaze, claiming
every inch of me, a familiarity that hasn’t made sense. It does now, and I feel
the press of his gaze on my bare toes, up over my legs and still healing body,
lingering a moment on my breasts, and finally, coming to meet my own gaze. It’s
invasive, like a touch, and I want to be bothered by it more than I am. I want
to slap him into submission, want to remind him that I’m not his to look at
that way. But instead, I flush, and almost purr, blossoming under the scrutiny.

“Come
in,” I say, and he takes a step into the room. If I were standing, we’d be
pressed against each other. As it is, I’m left craning my head back to stare at
something other than his crotch. I scoot my wheelchair back, retreating to the
far bed, where I sleep.

He’s
quiet while I maneuver from the chair to the bed. “Do you want anything? I’ve
got some beer in the fridge.”

Rike’s
eyebrows climb and I shrug. “I don’t like it very much, but Tommy brings random
shit by.”

His
features cloud. “You love beer,” he says.

I
blink at him. I haven’t had a beer in years. Since high school. And I hated it.

“Who
is Tommy?” he asks.

“A
friend. He’s been helping me while I stay here—I’m not incredibly mobile with
that thing,” I say. He nods. I could add more—explain more—but frankly I don’t
think he deserves it.

“Scott
and Lindsay both say you know me.
They
know
me. And neither of them are telling me shit, because you won’t let them.”

“I
have my reasons, Peyton. I need you to trust them.”

“I
can’t,” I say. “I don’t know you.” He flinches and I point at him. “And see
that. Right there. That tells me I should and that you aren’t willing to tell
my how or why. You do realize how fucked up this is, don’t you?”

He’s
quiet, staring at me.

I
want to sketch that look. Because it’s stealing my breath and breaking my
heart.

“I’m
trying, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I need you to work with me.”

“I
want to,” I confess, and his gaze darts to mine. “This is terrifying. Not
knowing anything—I want to know. I want to trust that you do and you’re doing
this for a reason. But I don’t know you. And I need a reason to trust you. You
want me to work with you. But you’re holding all the cards, and I need you to
give just a little.”

He
exhales heavily and shifts. I tense and he goes still. “Can I hold you? For
just a minute?”

“Why?”

“Because
I miss holding you. Because seeing you and not being able to touch you is
killing me. Because I don’t want to say this.”

I
nod and relief brightens his features as he pushes off the wall and comes to
sit next to me. Not content, he reclines against the bed, and pulls me down
next to him, arranging me to fit against him. One arm props under my head, and
the other wraps around my waist, his fingers playing on the skin exposed under
my tank top.

I
can feel him, pressed against me at all points, his scent washing over me, and
his lips on my hair.

And
it feels so fucking right. Tears sting my eyes.

“I
met you three years ago,” he says. “You were in my bar, and I was playing the
drums. And I think I loved you before we ever spoke.”

""We
were in love?" I ask.

He
laughs, but the noise sounds broken. Almost sick. "Yeah, baby. We were.
You were my whole world."

"And
Scott and Lindsay?"

"My
best friend, and you were rooming with Lindsay when we met. She actually
brought you to the bar that first time, and you stayed."

My
nose wrinkles and I twitch my shoulders. "Why? I hate bars."

"You
liked to write there, while we played. Said it was inspiration."

I
roll that over in my mind, playing with it. I don't know what to think of this.
Of him. I can't deny that I'm drawn to him, that everything about him sets me
at ease, but there is the simple truth: Rike, with his rough hands and too long
beard, and tattoos tracing over his arms and neck—Rike isn't the kind of guy
I've ever been attracted to.

"Talk
to me,
Pey
," he says softly, his grip on me
tightening just a little.

I
shrug. "I don't know what to say. This is so—it's a lot, Rike. A lot to
swallow and understand."

"I
know that."

"Why
didn't you tell me when I woke up?"

"Because
who you are doesn't hinge on who loves you," he answers.

I
twist to look at him, searching his face. "What if I choose that the
person I am doesn't love you?"

I
feel the flinch move through him, shaking him as he pulls me closer. His grip
is so tight now, so desperate that it hurts. But I don't complain. I just
burrow closer. Because if I walk away from him, I will not have this again, and
I can't deny that the thought of that is enough to make tears swim in my eyes.

"If
you need to be someone who isn't with me, I'll let you go, Peyton. I'll fucking
hate it. But I've never wanted to keep you caged, and I won't be that guy now.
I love you, and I want you in my life. Scott and Lindsay want you in our life.
She needs you. But I want you to be happy, with or without us. And I'll watch
you walk away, if that is what you need for your happiness."

"I'm
scared," I whisper. "I want to hide in you and let you take care of
me. This—" I meet his gaze"—feels right."

Tension
fills him. "But?"

"But...if
I do, I'll never figure out who I was. What I loved or why. Who I was outside
of the girl who loved you. And I need to know that, Rike."

Pain
tightens his expression for a moment, and he blinks it away. "I can't help
you?"

I
hesitate, the offer so fucking tempting. And his gaze, so hopeful.
"Rike," I whisper, and his gaze flares.

"Peyton,
don't hate me," he murmurs, and then he's kissing me.

His
lips are gentle, and the scruff of his beard is sharply abrasive as it brushes
against my skin. His teeth nip at my lower lip, and I whimper. He groans and
shifts, pulling me with him as he lays back. A big hand comes up to lace into
my hair, holding me still as he kisses me, his tongue tangling with mine,
retreating and thrusting back. His other hand is on my hip, cradling it and
pulling me closer.

I
groan, breaking the kiss as his erection nestles between my thighs, and I grind
down against him.

Rike
curses, and his lips are against my throat, warm wet kisses and soft, dirty
words. I flush. What the hell. I don't do this.

His
hand on my hip slips lower, over my ass, and I startle, going stiff in his
arms.

And
just that quickly, the moment is over. He sits up, and shoves his long hair
back as I shift off of him. Sit awkwardly a few inches away.

Too
fucking aware of his still-hard dick and how amazing it felt between my legs.

I'm
so wet I'm almost squirming in my seat, and he's watching me with hooded, dark
eyes. A smirk tugs his lips.

"I
won't touch you without you asking, Peyton. But I want you to remember
something. When I leave and you sink your fingers into that creamy wet pussy—I
know. I know what you taste like. I know how you feel, and how you look so
fucking gorgeous when you come. I know what you sound like when you scream. And
I'll get off tonight, thinking about you here."

I
stare at him, and I can feel the hot flush in my cheeks, and he smiles. Leans
down and kisses me.
 

And
then he stands, adjusts his dick, and leaves me alone.

***

I
don’t sleep well that night, or the next two nights. I’m horny and I want to
get myself off—but after that first night, when I did come against my fingers, with
his words playing through my head, the orgasm left me reeling, my head spinning
and body shuddering. It was hot and sexy and dirty.

In
the morning, a text had been on my phone.

Rike
: Did you wait until you were in bed
before you got yourself off, or did you do it as soon as I left?

I
stared at it for a long time, and almost cursed when the second one popped up,
the phone vibrating in my hand.

Rike
: I got off before I left the parking
lot. And again in the shower, picturing you on your knees and my dick in your
pretty mouth.
 

I
turn the phone off before I get another message, and spend the day reading a
book and trying to ignore how horny I am.

The
problem is, I’m not getting anywhere. And I know that there is a nearby source
of information.

Tommy
has been coming by, like clockwork, and he nudges my barefoot with his while I
eat dinner two nights later. “When you
gonna
see Rike
again?”

I
shrug. “I don’t know. I have an appointment tomorrow for my cast to come off. I
was thinking I should probably see Lindsay while I’m there.”

“She’s
still in the hospital?” he asks, his eyebrows hitching upward.

I
nod. “I can't take you to the hospital tomorrow," he says, and I tense. I
knew better than to assume he would. But I did it anyway. Tommy has been as reliable
as the sunrise, but I've been here now for almost two weeks and he has to be
getting tired of babysitting me.

"I'll
figure it out," I say.

He
taps the phone sitting on my side table. "Call him. He'll take you."

"You
really are in his corner, aren't you?"

"I'm
in the corner that gets you healthy and whole, Peyton. And he's part of that,
even if you don't want to admit it yet."

"He's
not my type."

"He
is. Maybe he's not the type you think should be your type, but he's who you
chose. And you hated that life anyway. Don't cling to your preconceived notions
of who you think you should be because it's all you know. Be the girl you want
to be for the rest of your life."

I
consider that for a long time after Tommy leaves me alone, and eventually I
turn on the phone.

The
damn thing lights up with text messages and I flush, imagining how dirty and
provocative they'll be.

I'm
under no delusions that Rike has decided to leave me alone because I'm being
quiet.

I
ignore the messages, and pull up his number, dialing before I can chicken out.

"Peyton?"
he says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice.

"Hi.
Sorry. I don't mean to bother you, but—"

"You
aren't. You will never be a bother. I thought we'd already gone over
that."

I
flush. "Um. Do you think you could give me a ride to the hospital
tomorrow? My cast is coming off and Tommy can't take me. I think he got in
trouble last week. But if you can't, I totally get it; I can get a cab to pick
me up."

"What
time?"

"Eleven.
My appointment shouldn't take long, but I wanted to stop in and see Lindsay. If
you have the time?"

"Of
course," he says immediately. A tiny weight slides off my chest and I can
breathe easier.

"Do
you want to grab lunch, after?"

And
just like that it's back.

"I
don't know if that's a good idea," I say softly.

"I
was your friend, long before you realized we were together, before. Let me be
your friend, Peyton. You could use a friend."

"I
need a friend who doesn't send me dirty texts," I say tartly.

He
laughs, completely unrepentant.