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Emily awoke feeling as if she had swallowed a handful of nails. Her throat was burning raw as reckless images of the night before played throughout her mind. The thoughts, scattering around like marbles, only made her temples blossom into a full-blown headache. Guilt for what she had done to Dillon and their relationship burned almost as hot as her insatiable arousal for Gavin.

With thin and shaky breathing, she lifted her head and peered around the room. Dillon wasn’t in the bed. She let out a sigh of relief when her eyes glanced over to the nightstand. Along with a note explaining that he would be back soon, he also left two aspirin and a glass of water that she couldn’t consume quickly enough. The cool liquid and the magic little pills slid down into her stomach, eventually offering up some relief, but not nearly as much as she needed.

Groaning, she stared miserably at the drab light filtering in through the window shades. She whipped the blankets back over her head. She wanted the image of Gavin on top of her, kissing, touching, and tasting her to blur, melt, and recede away banished to a place she could never find again.

Nice try…

However, the more she rehashed the undeniable pleasure he produced in their all-too-short exchange, the more she craved him. His dominate yet soft kiss, his hard but gentle caresses, the way his fingers—oh God, the way his fingers tunneled deep inside her—had merely teased her senses with the sweet taste of what he was truly capable of. Not even the worst of hangovers could keep her body from yearning for more. The smell of his cologne still tangled in her hair did nothing to help ebb any of the thoughts that had her loins nearly teetering on the edge of orgasm right there alone in the bed.

Despite all of this, her head was under attack, barraged with her mother’s voice.

“Dillon’s a good man, Emily. Make sure you hold onto him and never let go.”

Clear visualizations played out of all the times Dillon had helped while her mother was ill. Emily had all but fallen to her knees before she died. Frozen with fear and unable to aid in her last few days, it wasn’t her that kept watch over her mother—it wasn’t even her sister, Lisa, because she had been in a near fatal accident a few days before—it was Dillon. There was no limit to the amount of times he helped her mother. He held her hair for her as she retched in a bedpan while Emily sat sedated in a chair across the room in utter shock at what was unfolding around her. Forget about him paying for hospital bills and taking care of the funeral expenses on his own, he even went so far as allowing Emily and Lisa to keep what little the life insurance policy provided.

And this is how I repay him?

The thoughts forced out hot, helpless tears as she slid from her bed and grudgingly padded into the bathroom. Lingering liquor sloshed around in her empty belly with every step. It was then that she realized she was still draped in last night’s clothing. She cringed as she tore them from her body, wanting to burn them in a blazing fire, along with the memory of what’d happened.

Ridding her flesh of caked-on makeup and the scent of Gavin from her lips, she splashed warm, soapy water onto her face, once again finding her stomach wretched with guilt. She looked at herself in the mirror with disgust, anger, and hate—but, in that moment, she decided she wouldn’t wallow under her own scrutiny of what she did. She was drunk; that was her story, and she was sticking to it. If sober, surely, none of it would have ever happened. Her body might want Gavin, but in no way, shape, or form did her mind. In all his pleasure, he was simply a serpent companion to the sexual demon hidden beneath the surface of her skin.

At least that’s what she tried to convince her short-circuited brain of on this particular Sunday morning.

Hovering over the sink to allow more water to flow into her cupped hands, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a soft touch against her shoulder.

“Jesus, Dillon, you scared me,” she said, her voice timid and riddled with an acute underlying panic she was trying desperately to suppress.

Can he tell? Do I look different? Oh God, do I still smell like him?

He gave a soft smile, his tone low, calming even. “You’re shaking, babe,” he said, brushing the matted hair away from her face. “Let’s get in the shower, okay?”

Swallowing back the acid steadily building in her throat, she nodded as he slid her panties down to the ground, her body quivering in the process. She stepped out from them and unhooked her bra, her eyes never leaving his gaze. Grabbing her by the hand, he led her to the shower and turned it on. He gestured for her to get in. With unsteady breathing from mounting nerves, she watched as he undressed. Grabbing for the soap, she hastily ran it across her body in an attempt to get rid of Gavin’s lingering saliva from her pores. Stepping into the shower, Dillon pressed her back against his chest as he began to massage her shoulders. Drawing in the deepest of breaths, she let her head fall back, trying to savor the heat from the water.

“Is Olivia awake yet?” she asked, attempting to stir up any conversation.

“I don’t think so. Her bedroom door’s still closed.” He continued to massage her shoulders. “She must’ve gotten up from the couch because that’s where she was passed out when I came in last night.”

“What time are we meeting your parents?” she reluctantly asked.

“We need to start getting ready as soon as we’re done in here.”

Emily nodded.

“So you were pretty hammered last night.”

She reached down for the shampoo and bit her lip. “Yeah, I was.”

“What did you do last night, Emily?” His voice hardened just enough to send a shiver up her spine.

Attempting to catch her breath, she turned to face him. “Wha…what do you mean?”

With his eyes intent on hers, he slowly lifted a hand and brushed his thumb across her chin. “You lied to me,” he finally stated softly.

Heart ricocheting in her chest, Emily shook her head, appearing to struggle against her tears. “I…I didn’t lie to you about anything.”

He took the shampoo from her, poured some into his hands, and lathered it up. Eyes still locked on hers, he gathered her hair and started washing it. “I ran into Gavin last night when I walked in.”

Trying to hide the panic she knew crossed her features and wanting to drown, choke, gasp, or maybe even die right there in that shower, Emily stared back at him, unable to form a sentence. A knot formed in her throat, threatening to cut off all oxygen.

“He told me you girls didn’t go to Pink.”

Swallowing down said knot, oxygen silently whooshed back into her lungs. “Oh,” she said breathlessly. “Umm, yeah, we decided to go to a party at someone’s house that Fallon knows.”

“Right, you lied.”

“I didn’t lie, Dillon,” she whispered, rinsing the shampoo from her hair, knowing she was harboring a far greater lie. “It was a last minute change in plans. That’s all.”

Pulling her body against his, he ghosted his mouth down the curve of her jaw. “Okay, last minute change of plans that I wasn’t made aware of.” He circled his arms around her waist. “What if I’d gone to Pink, Emily? I would’ve been left thinking something happened to you.”

“You’re right,” she conceded. It was the least she could do, considering…well, considering everything. She knew he could’ve easily made a quick phone call to check on her, but she wasn’t about to push her luck. “I should’ve called you. I had too much to drink, and honestly, I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry; next time I’ll call.”

Appearing satisfied with her answer, he handed her the soap and turned around, placing his hands on the tile. “Can you wash my back?” Lathering up the soap, she did as he asked. “I’m not sure there will be a next time—you hanging out with that freak again.”

“But, Dillon, she…”

“Look, I’m not in the mood to argue with you, Emily. I’ve never seen you so out of it before. I tried to wake you up, but you wouldn’t budge.” He tilted his neck from side to side and rolled his shoulders. “There was a point I honestly thought you had alcohol poisoning until you finally mumbled something. It leads me to believe that she’s obviously not a good influence on you. End of story. You’re not hanging out with her again.”

At a loss for words, she stilled her hands from washing him.

Turning around, Dillon gently pulled her head back by her hair and branded his lips against hers. He couldn’t see them, but silent tears trickled down her cheeks amid the water that flowed over her face. Today—in these moments and seconds—she wouldn’t protest his ridiculous words. She couldn’t. It wasn’t in her. She barely had any fight left—not after the self-destructive stunt she pulled less than twelve hours ago with his friend. When Dillon began to make love to her, it wasn’t just his hands that were present on her flesh. The guilt slid over her skin, manifesting itself inside her like a disease. Now she would use the last remaining fight she had left to avoid the overwhelming sense of shame threatening to swallow her whole.

Sitting in an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, Emily picked up her silverware and regarded Joan Parker, Dillon’s mother, from across the table. “Yes, I actually start next week.”

“That’s fantastic,” Joan went on, lacing her fingers together. “I’m just happy that my Dillon got you the job in Greenwich Village. The schools there are wonderful.” Suddenly, Joan’s face morphed with displeasure. “But, I have to say, it horrifies me to think that you were actually considering a job in Bushwick of all places. It’s filth, just absolute filth.”

Although it didn’t shock her, Emily inwardly cringed at her statement, biting back a crude reply. Joan had been known to strictly surround herself with people that sported cars that cost a small fortune. With her overly priced dyed blonde hair, her monthly Botox injections, and her fake acrylic nails, Emily wasn’t sure if there was one original body part on the woman—even her breasts were questionable. The only thing about the “mannequin” that Emily knew to be real was that she was a certified uppity, gold-digging snob.

“Now, Joan, I’m sure Emily had no knowledge of the city’s demographics when she submitted her resume,” Dillon’s father, Henry, replied. Slicking a hand through his brown hair, he leaned back in his seat and gave her a warm smile. “Am I correct or what?”

Emily nodded. “You’re correct, Mr. Parker. I just visited New York State’s Department of Education website and applied to anything that was available.”

Grabbing for Emily’s hand, Dillon shot his mother a searing look. “I take full responsibility for not warning her about certain areas. She had no idea where to look.”

Emily smiled in his direction, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“Oh, Dillon, honey, it’s just like you to defend her obvious lack of doing the proper research before moving to a new state.” She sweetly patted her son’s back right about the same time Emily’s smile fell. “That’s all it would’ve taken, just a little bit of research on her part to avoid—”

Cutting in, Emily schooled her voice carefully, trying to keep the edge of hostility to a minimum. “In case you’ve forgotten, I had a lot going on. It must’ve slipped my mind in the middle of—I don’t know—the death of my mother.” Emily topped the reply off with a cute, little kink of her neck.

“Well, of course, I didn’t forget that,” she quickly twittered, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “I was just simply saying—”

“
Mother
,” Dillon said with heavy emphasis. “Drop it.” He put his silverware down and rested his elbows on the table, the look in his eyes firmly stating for her to zip-a-lip.

With a gasp, Joan shifted in her seat and adjusted the collar of her tweed Chanel suit, which Emily guessed probably cost two months of her and Olivia’s rent.

Sliding his arm around the back of her chair, Henry looked over to his wife. “Yes, let’s drop it for now, shall we?”

Joan gave a curt nod and reached for her glass of red wine. “Fine.”

Over the next half hour, Emily sat mute, trying to stir up some plan to get out of there. Sudden blindness, acute respiratory distress, hell, even cardiac arrest topped her mental list of ailments to claim as an excuse to leave. The tension in the air was as thick as hot maple syrup. The actual mind-numbing, hangover-induced migraine forging its way through her skull only intensified her need to leave. She was grateful when Dillon’s father broke the silence, buffering out one of his infamous jokes involving a hooker and a chicken.

Dillon looked at Emily after the waiter cleared their plates. “Babe, you’re having dessert, right?”

She shook her head to decline.

On second thought, stuffing another piece of food into her mouth had her seriously thinking she might get out of this nightmare by upheaving all over the table. The idea held a certain amount of appeal to it.

“Actually, I will,” Emily replied.

While waiting for her tiramisu, Emily glanced over to Dillon and noticed he was starting to sweat, nearly all color draining from his face. If she wasn’t mistaken, he looked as bad as she felt.

And that was bad.

Placing her hand on his cheek, she asked, “Are you alright?”