Wreck Me
Page 25

He’s going to kill me.
“Please,” I beg, loathing the pathetic sound of my tone. “God, please, please, please.”
“Oh now you want to talk nicely to me,” Conner growls as his grasp on my hair constricts. He heads out to the field beside our house, dragging me along with him like a ragdoll.
“I wasn’t talking mean to you,” I lie as I stumble through the dirt and the dry grass. “I swear. I was just trying to talk to you.”
“That’s bullshit!” he shouts as he throws me down on the ground, releasing my hair.
My back smacks against the dirt and the wind gets knocked out of me. I gasp for air, my lungs aching to give up, but my feet scream at me.
Move. Avery. Run for your life.
With every ounce of strength I have in me, I flip onto my stomach and stagger to my feet. I make it two steps before I’m knocked in the back of the head. I go down hard, groaning as I slowly turn over, grasping my head. Stars are everywhere and I hate them. Want to scream at them. Want to scream at myself. But I can’t find my voice.
Before I know it, Conner steps up to me and blocks the sky from my sight. “You have no respect for me,” he says as he flips open the blade.
I want to believe, as he stares down at me with such rage and hatred, that he’s high and it’s not him but the drugs that want to hurt me. Deep down, though, I know this could be him. That he’s hurt me before when he was sober. That I don’t know him. That I never knew him.
“Please, just let me go inside the house,” I whisper hoarsely, blinking through the pain radiating in my skull. “Mason could be awake.”
He ignores me, dropping to his knees. “You know, I never knew my father,” he tells me, studying my neck way too intently. “He left before I had any real memories of him, but my mother never told me he was a bad person. She just said that life was hard for him.”
“I don’t tell Mason that you’re a bad father…” I fight for air, but my lungs ache. Everything aches.
His sharp laugh echoes across the field. “Yeah, right. I’m betting that’s all you tell him”—he aims the tip of the knife to the base of my throat and slowly cuts my flesh—all the time.”
He’s going to kill me.
I don’t want to die.
Life snaps inside me. I bolt upright, swinging my arm at the knife and moving the blade away from my throat. Then I lift my knee and slam it between his legs. He lets out a groan as he hunches over and I seize the opportunity to run.
I don’t make it very far before he has me pinned to the ground, face down, so I’m inhaling dirt. I feel so weak beneath his weight. So small. So helpless. There’s nothing I can do and he knows it.
“God dammit, why did I ever go after you?!” he shouts in my ear. At first I think he means tonight, but then he adds, “That night at Zack’s, all I was ever looking for was an easy lay. But you f**king intrigued me and I f**ked up. My life is ruined because of you!”
Tears pour out of my eyes as he presses me against the ground, grabs a handful of my hair, and starts chopping the strands off. I let out a whimper as my nails dig into the damp earth, desperate to hold onto something, but the dirt keeps slipping through my fingers as he continues slicing away, bit by bit, until there’s almost nothing left. Only then does he seem satisfied, as if taking away my hair has evened out the fact that he thinks I’ve ruined his life.
When he’s finished, he pushes away off me and rises to his feet as my body trembles. “You deserved that,” he breathes with rage. Then he just stands there as if he’s waiting for me to react. Crack apart. Break. Give him the power he desperately seeks.
I remain motionless on my stomach with my cheek pressed against the dirt and tears dripping down my face. My heart is pounding inside my chest as I breathe in and out. In and out. In and out.
“What? You have nothing to say now?” He seems annoyed by my silence.
I don’t utter a word. Can’t.
“Whatever, Avery.”
I hear his footsteps retreating and I hold my breath, counting each one, until the sound stops. I exhale when I hear a car door open and shut. Then the engine turns on and the tires spin as he peels out of the driveway.
Once he’s definitely gone, I roll onto my back and stare up at the stars. “You said they’d have the answers! That they’d guide me to a better life!” I cry out in desperation. “You lied to me!”
I cry until my eyes are dry and my heart has settled down. Until I can’t feel anything. Until everything is numb.
Until my soul finally gives up.
Chapter 22 The only way is down.
Tristan
I have no idea what day it is or how much time has gone by since I moved out of my house, but it feels like forever ago. I don’t know what I look like. Haven’t spoken to my mother or father in months. Don’t know who I am. I can remember my name. Tristan.
But who is Tristan?
That’s the question I keep asking myself as I sit in my room, staring at the wall, as I try to forget what I just did for drugs. The wall has cracks in it, thin lines threatening to spread and take everything out with it. I wish it would break apart and swallow me whole.
“Dude, what are you on?” Quinton asks as he wanders into my bare room. “And where did your mattress go?”
“I have no idea,” I mutter perplexedly. “And I have no idea.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
He sits down beside me on the floor and crisscrosses his legs, but I can’t remove my eyes from the cracks. The cracks I’m almost certain are going grow and collapse the entire house. And the really twisted part is, I want it to happen. Want to crumble with it. Because the only way is down.
“You didn’t do a speedball, did you? Tristan, look at me.”
I shake my head without blinking. “I can’t.”
He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “What did you take?”
I glance down at the fresh track marks on my arms. My blood veins map my pale skin that cling to my bones. It’s been days since I ate or drank anything, days since I wanted to eat or drink anything.
Maybe I should eat and drink something.
Suddenly, I realize how quickly my heart is racing in my chest. So fast that I need to get up. Now.
I jump to my feet as a surge of energy blasts through me. “I need to get out of here,” I say, stumbling for the door. I can hear yelling from inside the house. It’s probably Delilah and Dylan going at it again. “Need to go somewhere.”
Quinton lunges in front of me, blocking my path out of the room. “We need to figure out how we’re going to pay back our debt for those drugs you stole from Trace. Otherwise he’s going to kill us. You know his reputation—he doesn’t back down.”
“Yeah, but does it really matter?” I glance at the tattoos on his arm—Ryder, Lexi, No One. “We’re all going to die one day anyway, right?”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t die yet,” he says, placing his arm over the tattoo. “You know, you could just walk away from this. Let me handle it. Let me take… the fall.”
“Whatever, man. I’m not going anywhere.” I reach around him and for the doorknob. “I don’t care enough to walk away.”
“Tristan, you haven’t done anything irreversible yet,” he says, refusing to get out of my way. “You can still be… saved.”
I look over at the cracks in the wall and then back at him. “No. I can’t.” I yank open the door and he stumbles out of my way.
I walk out of the room and into the living room where Dylan is shouting at Delilah as she cowers in the corner. The room is littered with pipes, needles, a gun, and drugs.
This is my home. This is my life.
“Dude, you better not be f**king going anywhere.” Dylan reels away from Delilah and storms at me. “You owe me money.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” I say, rushing for the front door. “So back off.”
“Tristan, get your ass back here!” he shouts, tripping over a lamp as he scurries for his gun on the table. “You will not walk away from me.”
It seems like I should be scared. He’s holding a gun, all tweaked out, eyes wide, too much adrenaline pumping through him. But there’s too much pumping through me as well, and I can barely think straight. I should be afraid, right? I don’t have a death wish. I don’t have any wishes, just like I have no direction except to take another step, so I do.
“You’ll pay for this,” he snarls, gripping the gun in his hand.
“I’m sure I will,” I utter under my breath then turn away from him and jerk the door open, knowing that death could be waiting on the other side. But it really doesn’t matter.
Nothing does.
Present Day…
Chapter 23
If you really knew me then you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.
Avery
Some people might say I’m crazy. Some people might think I lost my damn mind in the fire. That the trauma affected me more than I’m letting on. I’m almost positive that the therapy group I used to go to would tell me to walk away. When I go to sleep the night after I make the rules with Tristan, I tell myself the same thing.
I tell myself it over and over again.
Every night for the next week.
Just like every night for the next week I dream about the fire.
Reminding me why I’m here.
And what I need to do to make up for getting a second chance, even after what I did.
The thing that makes it easier is that Tristan will leave my life when the home is finished. That leaves little time to get attached and makes it easier to remain friends.
After the incident with Conner, the days go by slower. The cops never found him because he bailed when they arrived and took off to who knows where. I try not to worry about it, but he’s always haunting the back of my mind. He’ll show up again eventually. Will there ever be a time when I don’t constantly stress about him?
As the days go by, I still keep moving forward. Work. School. Mason. Jax. Building a home.  Getting ready to turn twenty-three in just a few days. And then there’s Tristan. Just a small change but it feels so epically and horrifyingly gigantic. I’m not breaking my no guys rule or anything. I haven’t kissed him or thought about kissing him—okay, well, maybe once or twice. And we don’t spend time going out, having fun, and partying like most twenty-two year olds do. No, our time is limited to working on the house and lunch breaks. That’s it. And he’s been doing well on his part with the rules of our friendship. Well, except for the flirting part. Like he warned, he occasionally slips up with that. All I can do about it is attempt to keep our conversations as light as possible.
The air is extra muggy today. Even with my hair pulled up and a tank top and shorts on, I feel like I’m roasting. Holding true to his word, Tristan has his shirt on, but I can tell he’s nearly dying from the excruciating heat. Sweat beads his sunkissed skin and his blonde hair is damp.
“He shaved his back,” I announce as I stroll over to where Tristan is stacking plywood and scraps.
It’s almost noon and the sun is peaking in the cloudless sky. I’ve been helping Tristan all morning cutting boards and part of me is almost saddened that I have to leave for the bar soon.
“Huh… What are you talking about?” Tristan grabs a broom that’s propped against the wood pile and starts sweeping the sawdust off the table. He seems a little distracted, has all morning.
“Mister Asshole saved his back,” I tell him... “I just passed by him and yeah, he’s hairless.”
Tristan glances up at me, his lips quirking. “Are you being serious?”
I nod. “It’s so smooth and his skin reflects in the light now. I’m seriously wondering if he got it waxed.”
His nose crinkles as he chuckles, the sight and sound a rare beauty. “Dude, that’s so unmanly.”
I laugh with him. “And really, really amusing. He’s all sexist, but goes to get his body waxed like women get theirs done all the time.”
He chuckles again. “You’re really adorable when you’re being snarky.”
My heart skips a beat. It’s been a long time since a guy has called me adorable. Years even. My smile withers as I remember the last time a guy complimented me, over five years ago. Five very long and painful years ago.
Tristan must sense my unease because he picks up two boards and says, “Here, help me move these to the front of the house. It’ll take your mind off whatever just made you frown like that.”
I could kiss him right now if I wasn’t so concerned about how much meaning would be behind it. With each passing day we spend together, kissing becomes more and more dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
Nodding, I pick up one of the shorter boards, and tag along behind him toward the front of the house where a work crew is unloading wood from an oversized truck. It’s been two weeks since we started building the house and it now has a semblance of walls around the foundation, the skeleton of what will be a home for someone who really needs it.
“You know, if we were in Wyoming, we’d be wearing jackets,” Tristan says with a grunt as he adjusts the two boards in his arms. Sweat drips from his brow and his chest is damp, but in the most ridiculously sexy way ever.
“How is good old Wyoming anyway?” I ask and seconds later my phone vibrates from inside my pocket. “You said you went there recently, right?”
“It’s the same as it was when you left, I’m sure.” His arm muscles ripple as he heaves a board onto the top of a stack. Then he wipes the sweat from his brow before taking the board from my hand.