Five runaway teens, one epic love story.

Beautiful Survivors

Beautiful Survivors © C.M. Stunich 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.sarianroyal.com
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

this book is dedicated to the strength of the human spirit.
we are all beautiful; we are all survivors.
our power for good can be limitless.

Sign up for an exclusive first look at the hottest new releases, contests, and exclusives from bestselling author C.M. Stunich and get *three free* eBooks as a thank you!

The only way out of Hell is through the window above the kitchen sink. It's something the guys and I have known for years but rarely use because of the risks involved. The group home we live in is scary most days, worse if you get caught doing something you're not supposed to—like pushing the screen out and hopping into the mess of crooked gravestones that make up the backyard.

Yeah. Not only do we live in a shitty group home on the wrong side of the tracks, but the shambling old house backs up to a cemetery. Once, when I was thirteen, I found a human finger bone when I was playing in the dirt.

“I've got you,” Gunner says, putting his hands on my hips and helping me down from the window. My body slides along his, sending these fucked-up tingles through me that I try my best to ignore. Gunner Colvin is like an older brother to me. Dating him would be weird, right?

But I can't deny that his eyes are as clear and bright as green sea glass and his mouth, when he smiles, makes my chest feel tight.

“I've been mastering that jump for years,” I tell him, throwing up a haughty air to pretend that his lingering hands on my hips don't affect me at all. “I could've done it by myself.”

Gunner smiles and puts a finger against my lips, leaning in to whisper in my ear.

“Shh, you don't want to wake the Buzzard,” he says, his eyes lifting up to the dusty rose pink curtains on the second floor. That is the Buzzard's aka Tawna Freeman's room. Technically, she's only the home's night manager, but the house manager is never here so she's basically in charge of everything.

And the nickname Buzzard doesn't even begin to describe the awfulness of her personality.

I push Gunner away and stretch my arms above my head, surveying the yard and all its creeping shadows. The headstones are all old and chipped, weathered and mostly illegible. Most of them are crooked, sticking out of the overgrown lawn in a haphazard pattern that reminds me of dirty yellowing teeth in a rictus grin.

Shivering, I glance back and find Maddox hitting the ground in a crouch, a shaft of moonlight highlighting the strong lines of his face, that square jaw and the bit of stubble on it that says he's becoming a man. But at seventeen years old, he's stuck here just like the rest of us. Nash follows last, his red and white Converse stark against the muddy dirt under the window as he drops down and turns back to the house, pushing the glass closed and hooking the framed screen back in place.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” he whispers, taking my hand and pulling me through the shattered beams of silver that cross the yard like the bars of jail cell. It's just moonlight obviously, but the metaphor makes me cringe. This place is just that—a jailhouse. Only, it's worse because none of us committed any crimes, did any wrongdoings that we need to be punished for. No, instead we're punished just because. Just because we were born to the wrong people. Because no one wants to adopt teenagers. Because we have no family to take us in.

That's our crime: being unloved.

“We should run away,” I say as we pause in the meadow beyond the trees that border Hell's backyard. Hell—the Monterey Bay Home for Troubled Foster Youth is too much of a mouthful to say in casual conversation—is about half an hour from the beach on foot. Whenever we get a chance, we sneak out to see the ocean. With the Buzzard's keen eye for trouble and her sadistic interest in torture, that's not often. “Run away and get a place on the beach, somewhere that has a balcony and at least four bathrooms.”

Nash groans and drops his head back, his blue eyes focused on the stars above us as he imagines what it'd be like to have more than five allotted minutes in the restroom each morning.

“I'd be able to jack off without Clea Mooney walking in on me 'accidentally',” he says, dropping his head and flashing a shit-eating grin at me as he makes quotes around the word with his fingers. We all know Clea has a serious fucking crush on Nash; it makes me crazy. She writes him literal love letters and slips them under his door. When any of us find them before he does, we burn them with the lighter hidden under Gunner's bed and toss them into the bathroom sink until they're nothing but ash.

It's not that Maddox, Gunner, or I don't want Nash to get a girlfriend, but Clea is an unstable bitch and none of us likes her. Nash doesn't even seem to like her much either. As far as I know they've only made out once, but Clea went around telling everyone in Hell that they'd fucked which is totally bullshit because Nash wouldn't give up his virginity without telling me. That much I'm sure of.

“Can you imagine taking a twenty minute shower, letting the water run cold?” I ask as Maddox digs up the pack of cigarettes we all share and passes them out. I know I probably shouldn't smoke, but it's not like I get more than two a week at most, and life has few pleasures. I take them where I can get them.

“I'd take a bath,” Maddox says as he lights me up first and then moves onto Nash. Gunner doesn't smoke at all, but he doesn't lecture us either which is nice.

I study his black t-shirt, the name badge from his part-time job still pinned to the fabric. When he turned seventeen, Gunner got permission from the house manager to start working at a local health food store as a stock boy. I think he secretly hates his job, but being anyplace other than Hell is a blessing so he goes and he never complains.

“We should start walking,” he says as he stares up at the moon with those old soul eyes of his. For a seventeen year old, he's got a lot in there, more than any person rightfully should. Sometimes when I look at him, I think he's a good twenty or thirty years older.

“I'm gonna take off all my clothes and jump in the water tonight,” Nash says, grinning as he smokes, his long dark hair falling into his face. It's buzzed short in the back, but his bangs are like, past chin level at this point. He says it's his emo cut, but Nash is anything but emo so I can't figure out why he'd want to look like he is.

“You don't even want to swim,” I tell him as I hold my cigarette in one hand and punch Nash playfully in the shoulder with the other. “You just like the idea of having an audience for your dick.”

“I just want you to know what a real man looks like down there, so when you finally start dating—”

“I date,” I say as I flick cigarette ash at him and he laughs, grabbing me around the shoulders with his right arm and pressing a kiss to my temple. The feel of his hot mouth against my skin doesn't seem the same as it used to when we were kids. It's … more than just nice. Now, when Nash touches me, hugs me, pulls me into his lap, my entire body flushes with heat. God, if he had any idea how I felt, he'd probably never kiss me again. “I went to that dance last year with that one guy.”

“Do you hear this girl?” Nash asks, pointing at me with his cigarette. “That one guy that one time. Have you even been kissed yet?”

“You kiss me all the time,” I say at the exact moment Nash leans over and does just that, pressing his mouth to mine as I bat him away and pretend like I'm going to burn his precious thrift store found vintage jean jacket with my cigarette.

“I mean a real kiss with tongue and hands on your tits and all that.”

“Come on, Nash, leave her alone,” Gunner says which makes me smile.

We walk in silence for a while, finishing our smokes and flicking them into the bushes. I really wish I had a beer right now, but unless someone better connected than us throws a high school bash and invites everyone, we're pretty much screwed on that front.

The grassy hill we're tromping across curves up sharply and then flattens out, giving us a good view of the city and the boardwalk. It's still open, the ferris wheel's lights flashing and coloring the sand of the beach pink and blue and yellow. Last year, in the off-season, we went down there when the place was closed and broke into the funhouse. Now that was an awesome fifteenth birthday party. During my sixteenth, I was in foster care, living with some woman and her daughters near the university. She took my state issued clothing vouchers and used them to buy her bio kids new dresses and purses while I walked around with holes in my tennis shoes.

The only reason I have nice shoes now is because Gunner bought them for me with money from the store. I keep telling him he needs to start saving for his own place for when he turns eighteen, but he keeps insisting we need things: a new backpack for Nash, a winter jacket for Maddox, a PE uniform for me so I don't have to wear the BO drenched loaners.

Last Saturday, I yelled at Gunner and told him he wasn't our dad and he punched a hole in the living room wall. The Buzzard made him pay for supplies to patch it up and then forced him to spend the entire night and all of the next day painting the room, its moldings, and both archway casings.

“We could run away, couldn't we?” Maddox asks randomly, bringing our earlier conversation back up as we make our way down the hill. “Look at us now. We're out; we're free. Why the fuck should we go back to that place?”

“If Gunner's not in the system when he dings eighteen, he won't get any money, Mad.” I've said this a million times before—especially to myself—but God, I want to leave. I want to leave so bad that sometimes at night, I find my pillow wet before I realize I'm crying. Nash always used to get up and sneak into my room, climb into bed with me and hold me tight. He stopped doing that a few months ago, and I can't figure out why. It makes me so fucking sad though.

“Sure,” Maddox says, ruffling up his short wavy red-brown hair. I know, like, everybody says this but … he looks like a young James Dean to me. I've had a crush on him since I was six, but I'm too afraid of ruining our family to say anything. Because these guys and me, this is it for all of us. We don't have parents or siblings or aunts and uncles, not even distant family friends. The four of us have been in and out of foster care and group homes since we were kids. We've also been in and out of each other's lives as we've gotten shuffled, traded, and discarded by the system and the people in it.

But we never lost touch.

We hit the sidewalk and pass by the Santa Cruz Riverwalk, over the small walking bridge that spans the San Lorenzo River and then straight down Riverside Avenue toward the beach. There are people out, but there aren't any crowds. That's the strange part about living in a place like Santa Cruz, California. During warm summer weekends, this place is thick and buzzing with humanity, swollen to capacity with techie tourists from San Francisco and the surrounding Bay Area. But during the week, the off-season, or bad weather, it's like a small town.

“Do you guys want to see if Clea is working the Boardwalk tonight?” Nash asks absently, reaching up to adjust his black beanie and the hood of his dark blue sweatshirt that's sticking out the back of his jacket. “If she's at the hotdog stand again, I can probably get her to give us some free dogs.”

“I don't like you whoring yourself out for stupid greasy sausages,” I say as I adjust my white baseball cap and Nash snatches it off my head. “Hey!” I try to get it back from him, but he puts it on top of Gunner's head and there's no way I can reach all the fucking way up there. The man is like seven feet tall.

Gunner smiles at me as I fidget subconsciously with the short white-blonde strands of my hair. It used to be so long that for years, the guys called me Rapunzel as a joke. Three months ago, when I was still in that foster home with the voucher thief, I got in a fight with one of her daughters. Later that night, when I was sleeping, the girl cut it all off. I woke up in a sea of feathery strands and then did the same to her.

That's what got me sent back to Hell—retaliation.

“The hair looks good on you, Mer,” Gunner says, giving me one of his signature smiles, the ones that are so packed with emotion that I feel dizzy when he throws them my way. But he doesn't give the hat back. He reaches back and adjusts it, trying to fit it around that thick skull of his.

With a sigh, I stuff my hands into the front pocket of my blue hoodie and let the ocean breeze ruffle my newly short hair. God, I miss that liquid tumble of silk down my back, the way Maddox used to twist it around his hand and lift it to his face, smell my shampoo. Gunner sneaks this organic herbal shit from the health food store for me. It used to be my one indulgence in life, my hair. I miss it.

“I fucking needed this,” Maddox says, pausing at the bottom of the cement steps that lead down to the sand. He kicks his shoes off—these old, scuffed brown boots that he's had for years—and buries his toes in the sand.

Nash doesn't even check to see if there's anyone around—fortunately there's not—before he strips his jacket, sweater and shirt off.

“You're really going in nude?” I ask with a sigh and he flashes a dark smile at me.

“You used to, too, you know,” he says, even though it's been years. As soon as I started getting breasts, I stopped getting naked in the ocean. I mean, not that I have all that much to show for it anyway. I topped out at a B cup. “I just want to feel salt on my skin,” he tells me seriously when I cross my arms over my chest and don't respond.

Nash sits down in the sand, tears his shoes and socks off and then stands back up to shimmy out of his jeans. I watch until he gets down to his boxers and glance away.

“Jesus, Nash,” Gunner says with a sigh and I look up to see him sprinting starkers across the beach. He looks so free in that moment, like a bird or a butterfly or something. Why should I sit here caged because my girl body's turned into a woman's?

“Screw this,” I say, tearing my hoodie over my head and refusing to look back at Gunner and Maddox standing near the bottom of the steps. I know what Gunner will look like if I meet his eyes; I can't decide what Maddox's expression will be.

My shirt comes off next, then my shoes, socks, jeans, bra.

I decide to leave my panties on—I'm not that brave—and take off after Nash.

As soon as he sees me, he shrieks and grins as I dive into the water next to him. It's cold as hell, but it feels amazing when I glide through it, parting the navy darkness with my hands, bursting into the cool evening air with a sharp gasp.

I swipe strands of blonde from my forehead as Nash swims closer and studiously keeps his attention on my face.

“So you haven't quite lost that wild streak of yours?”

“Please,” I tell him, feeling warm tingles across my skin when he gets close, too close. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the water and it does all sorts of strange things to my insides. Nash's blue eyes are gentle, half-lidded when he looks at me. “You think I'd let you have all the fun?”

Nash reaches out and snaps the elastic waistband of my panties.

“Guess not?” he says, splashing water at me and taking back off into the inky blackness of the sea. The lights from the boardwalk color the water in brilliant shades of red and yellow and orange, making me smile.

I glance over my shoulder and find both Gunner and Maddox watching us, and toss them a wave. They both wave back, but it's too dark to see the expressions on their faces.

I turn back to the water, take a deep breath, and dive in.

Later, safely entrenched back in Hell, I sit in the common area on a couch with the guys, stuffed together like sardines. It's a habit from way back in the day, when we were little kids and the only love in the world we had was from each other. Our bodies might've changed, but our hearts and souls are the same. Our yearning need to be held and touched and cuddled.

“Hey Nash,” Clea says, popping in the front door dressed in her uniform. Mrs. Buzzard is there within seconds, blinking past eyes clouded with sleep and frowning.

“It's past curfew,” she tells us, pointing at a faded sign on the wall, one we've seen a thousand times in the last few years. Basically it gets pointed out to us every night. “Get your asses upstairs. Clea, you're late. Want to tell me where you've been?”

“The bus skipped right past me,” she says, but the Buzzard's already writing up an infraction slip. Three of those and we lose after school activity privileges, four and our curfew's moved up by an hour, five and we get banished to the single bedroom that's adjoined to the Buzzard's.

Gunner shuts off the TV with the duct taped remote while the rest of us stay as quiet as possible and try to keep Tawna a good six feet away from us so she won't smell the beach on our clothing. If we get caught sneaking out, there's a good chance either she or the house manager will send us to Purgatory. That's our nickname for the juvenile correction center that holds all the delinquent brats, kids who scare the ever living hell out of me.

We start up the stairs, but I notice Nash holds back to talk to Clea.

I refuse to be jealous and head up to the room I share with three other girls. There are two bunk beds, made of faded oak, burnished and scratched, covered in stickers and Sharpie. There's a desk in the middle, but nobody uses it. It just causes fights.

I slip inside and change into my pajamas, pausing in front of the faded old mirror to examine my face. I look better after my skinny dipping session, more alive, like my pale eyes have risen to the surface of my face, sparkling and shimmering like a winter sky.

The other girls—ages sixteen, fourteen, and twelve—sleep soundly as I crawl into the right bottom bunk and tug the threadbare blankets up around me, crossing my arms behind my head and staring up at the wood rungs above me.

A few minutes later, the door opens and I shut my eyes quick, assuming it's Mrs. Freeman popping in to check up on us. She does night checks so erratically, it's almost more effective than if she did it regularly.

“Merit?”

My eyes snap open and I sit up to find Nash squeezing in the door and pushing it closed with his back, leaning against it as he looks over at me.

“You awake?”

“Yeah,” I say and my heart starts to thunder as he makes his way over to me, lifting the covers and sliding his shirtless body in beside me. His dark hair is still slightly damp when he lays his head on my chest and I run my fingers through his hair, just like we used to. The way my heart soars, it's almost criminal. “What did Clea want?” I ask, my voice low enough that the other girls shouldn't wake. When you spend a good portion of your life in foster care and group homes, you learn to ignore the noise. There's always somebody up and doing something, snoring or murmuring in their sleep, tossing and turning.

“She …” Nash starts, putting his palm flat on my belly. “She wants us to sleep together.”

My chest gets tight; my throat goes dry.

“Oh?” I ask, trying to play the childhood friend, the bestie, one of the guys. “What did you say?”

“I'm not ready,” he tells me and then reaches into the pocket of his sweats, lifting out a string of condoms. “She gave me these and told me to think about it.”

“Do you … Are you tempted?” I whisper, my voice hoarse and faraway. I practice keeping my breathing slow and even, certain that Nash can hear the beating of my heart.

He sits up a little, propping himself on his forearm. The way the moon leaks through the curtains of the single window, it limns his face in silver and casts his eyes in dark shadows. I wish I could see them though, try to discern what he might be thinking.

“I think you don't like Clea very much,” Nash says cryptically. I reach up a hand and put it on his face, feel his lips twisting into a smile.

“Not really.”

Nash reaches up and pulls my hand away, curling his fingers through mine. He gives my hand a squeeze and then lets go, pulling the condoms from his pocket and laying them on my chest.

“Here,” he tells me, voice deadly serious. “You keep these for now.”

I grab the string of foil squares and jam them in my own pocket as Nash curls his body around me, tossing one leg over mine and burying his face against my neck, exactly the way we used to cuddle as kids.

It's horribly uncomfortable, but I don't move.

I don't want to move.

For the first time in a long time, Hell seems a little more like Heaven.

School is always a relief, a home away from home with walls that are covered in murals and old cracked floors and teachers that actually seem to give a shit about me. I like it there. Some of the other kids from the home aren't as into it, but it's mostly because they act like little shits and give lip. I won't take crap from anyone, but I do show respect where respect is due.

Unfortunately, if the teachers are saints at Monterey-Cruz High, then the students are devils.

“Want to skip fourth and do some blow?” Barrett Marshall asks me, and I lift my eyes from my locker to find him standing too close and grinning that cocky grin of his at me.

“First of all, there's no way you have blow,” I say, slamming the mossy green metal door of my locker closed and leaning my shoulder against it. “It's probably crack. And second, no. I'd rather not.”

“Come on, Merit,” he says, reaching out to touch a loose strand of hair. I smack his hand away and raise my eyebrows.

“You don't have a right to touch me whenever you feel like,” I say and he scowls, shaking his head and giving me a disapproving once-over, like he wasn't just trying to get me to sneak off campus so he could get in my pants.

“Why not? Don't you have, like, three boyfriends already?” he asks, his eyes as dark as mud and his hair the color of the old tile floors in the school restrooms, this light brown beige streaked through with blonde. “You're always all the hell over them. Clearly it can't be that hard to get in your fucking pants.”

“Back the hell off, Barrett,” Maddox says, appearing behind me like he always does. I swear, he has a built-in radar for when I'm trouble. I can handle myself—I've had to learn how to over the years—but it always feels good to have back up.

“Damn,” Barrett says, shaking his head and slicking his hand over his smooth, shiny hair, “she must be killer in the sack if you're willing to share her with two other dudes.”

Maddox moves forward, but I turn and put my back to Barrett, placing my hands on his shoulders.

“One more incident and you're off to Purgatory,” I whisper, putting my cheek against his chest. “You can't leave us in Hell without you.”

That calms him down, even if he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. It's been getting harder and harder for Maddox over the years as his vision starts to fade. At this point, he's lost most of his peripheral vision. When he was four, he was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa; the doctors say he'll be legally blind by age forty.

“Who does that asshole think he is?” he asks, stepping back and blinking down at me. Knowing that deep brown gaze of his might lose the ability to see my face one day scares the shit out of me. I've been looking up cures for Maddox's disorder online, but without a phone, tablet, or computer of my own it isn't easy.

Internet access is a luxury for the denizens of Hell. We have one shitty old computer in the common room that everyone's always fighting for. Not sure why since it uses freaking dial-up and has the worst parental controls known to man. Once, I tried to Google something about chickens for a school report and ended up getting kicked off because the word 'cock' came up in the search.

I hate my life.

“Screw him,” I say, stepping back and letting my hands slip off of Maddox's shoulder. My fingertips trail down the front of his tight white t-shirt, sending a little sizzle down my arms, like I've just cast a spell and felt the magic wash over me. Abracadabra, right? “Barrett thinks he's a big shot because he drives a Mercedes and scores crack off some dude near the bus stop.”

Maddox stares at me for another few seconds, like he's trying to memorize my face. The expression bothers me so much that I end up shoving my fingers in my jeans and banishing the tingly feeling in my limbs.

“All of that shit he was saying about you, Mer,” Maddox starts, but I wave it off like it's nothing. Hell, it is nothing. Barrett doesn't know shit about me and the boys, doesn't know all the horrible, awful things we've suffered through together. He has a mom that loves him, that brings trays of freshly baked cookies to school bake sales, and a dad that shows up to as many games as he can. Of course, I've heard Barrett complaining about what an asshole his dad is because he doesn't come to every game, but fuck him.

Kid has no idea how good he's got it.

“It doesn't matter, Mad,” I tell him, looking up into his face and giving a tight smile. I have a twenty in my pocket that Gunner gave me on the bus this morning. I'm supposed to talk to this guy from my PE class about getting his cousin to buy us a bottle of vodka from the grocery store on the corner. Normally, we wouldn't be spending what little money we have on booze, but whatever. Not complaining over here. “Barrett can say whatever the hell he wants, doesn't matter. Without you guys … I'm nothing.”

“That's not true at all, Mer,” Maddox says, but I don't believe him. I step to the side where I know his peripheral vision is a little questionable and make a face. I'm glad he can't see it.

“Stay sharp, okay?” I say, tugging on the sleeve of his brown leather jacket and disappearing down the hall.

Without the guys, I think I'd be too broken to fix. With them around, I might have a few cracks but I'm in no way shattered.

After school, I give the twenty to that random guy I know from class and end up with a few cheap bottles of watermelon vodka.

“S'all they had,” is what he tells me, pocketing five bucks and disappearing around the back of the gym to make out with his new boyfriend, some emo kid that transferred here last month from the art school downtown.

The boys and I miss the bus—we're definitely getting fucking infraction slips—and walk as slow as we can back to Hell, taking turns chugging mouthfuls of the rancid alcohol.

“This tastes like nail polish remover,” Nash says, making this gagging motion that actually manages to turn my stomach, too. “I mean, could we just drink nail polish remover? It'd probably taste better than this crap. Hey, Barrett says he has some blow. Should we try it?”

“It's not blow, it's crack,” I say, tipping the glass bottle to my lips and trying to think of better places, happier things. Nash is right: this stuff is gross. But for an afternoon, it'll get us buzzed and that's all we can really ask for.

An escape. A moment. A chance to feel free.

Seems silly that we'd need to smoke or drink or swim naked to feel that way, right? But I swear, there must be something embedded in the walls of Hell that breeds despair. I've seen kids turn to dust in there, lose every good part of who they are, float away until they're nothing. They go to Purgatory and they never come back. That's what happens to kids who come in here alone.

“Hand that to me,” Gunner says, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig. I notice as he's drinking it that he's eyeing me, this little wrinkle in his brow that makes my hackles go up. He pretends like it's nothing, flicking his eyes away as we come up to the house—this imposing two story brick building with faded navy blue shutters, bars over the front windows (more to keep us in than keep people out), and a sagging gray porch.

We sneak around the side and Clea opens the side gate, making my lips purse.

“Hurry and get in here. The Buzzard still hasn't checked us in yet.”

Clea steps aside and bites her lower lip in Nash's direction, making my own curl in response.

“Hey,” she says as he moves into the yard, handing her the watermelon vodka and grinning as she takes a swig. The way her hot pink nails pick at the sleeve of his jacket seriously makes my vision go red.

But Nash gave me the condoms, right? He gave them to fucking me. If he were planning on screwing Clea, we wouldn't have had that conversation, would we? Ugh. There are so many days where I wake up wishing I'd been born either gay or straight with a penis so I could deal with the boys without all these … fucking feelings getting in the way.

“Have you thought about what I said?” she's asking as I storm past her and throw my book bag onto the grass, taking a cross-legged seat in front of one of the crooked gravestones. Hot sunshine slants across my face, but I ignore it, gesturing at Maddox to hand me his bottle.

He can't see me from where he's sitting on a cracked white marble slab, and that makes me sad. Really sad.

“Bottle, Mad,” I say as he glances over at the house and surreptitiously passes the drink to me. “So, Gunner,” I continue after another swig. Goose bumps prickle across my skin and then suddenly I'm just dying for a cigarette. “What're you freaking out about?”

“Who says I'm freaking out about anything?” he asks cryptically, his icy blonde hair, sea green eyes, and towering height making him look like a viking extra in a movie. I always thought he looked a little like a young Alexander Skarsgård.

“Um, because you splurged on liquor which you never do, and because you're holding all of your stress up here.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to ignore the interaction between Clea and Nash over by the orange tree on the other side of the yard. She's got her back to it and he's leaning in to talk to her.

The whole thing infuriates me.

I want to punch Clea in the tit. And Nash in the balls.

Gunner takes a spot on the stone bench against the house.

His cheeks are slightly pink from chugging half a bottle of vodka, but his expression … it's all serious.

“They're sending you back to the Kennedys,” he tells me, and I swear, I swallow the burning liquid down the wrong side of my throat. As I choke and sputter my way through it, I climb to my feet and feel a rush of fear and panic surge through me. Happens every fucking time we get the news that one of us is leaving, we're being sent away, that we might never see each other again.

Obviously, we're in our teens now and capable of making phone calls, writing letters, sneaking out. But back in the day, when we were kids, it felt like each time we left the home, we were being spirited away to another world. That, and the threat of abuse was so much more present, being small and helpless in a stranger's home.

But I'm sixteen now and I know the Kennedys; they're the voucher thieves.

“Why the hell would they want me back?” I ask, as soon as I can breathe again. Now it feels like cheap vodka is not only searing my throat and belly, but my lungs, too. At least the buzz is worth it. If I wasn't at least slightly under the influence right now, I'd probably be in the middle of a meltdown.

“I don't know. But this morning, I heard the Buzzard chatting with the house manager outside before we left for school. They're coming to pick you up on Friday after school.”

I bite my lower lip and close my eyes for a moment before I lift the drink to my mouth and slug some back.

Shit.

The Kennedys live almost an hour away in some three bedroom seventies ranch home with Pottery Barn furniture they bought using money from the state, money that's supposed to be used on me so I don't have to wear shoes with holes and a hand-me-down hoodie that all three of my boys wore before it got to me.

I don't want to go back there; I don't want to be separated from the only family I have.

“I'm not going,” I announce as I throw back yet another drink and feel it hit me hard, making my brain feel like it's sloshing around inside my skull. “Not fucking happening.”

“Merit,” Gunner starts as I glance over and notice Clea playing with the lapels on Nash's jean jacket. If I leave, he might … I can't even make myself think it. Nash is sixteen and he's had a hard life; I know he's more than capable of making his own decisions. Yet … the thought of him and Clea hooking up devastates me.

“Thanks for telling me right away,” I say sarcastically, finishing off the bottle of vodka and then taking a few steps back so I have a better angle to chuck it up onto the roof. There are a good three dozen bottles up there, some of them cracked with faded labels from years ago, some of them fresh.

I haul my arm back and add another to the pile.

As soon as it lands, the Buzzard is peeking her head out the upstairs bedroom window and glaring down at me. She narrows her eyes one me—I swear to God, there's no distinction between her pupils and her irises; it's all black as pitch—and then gestures with her head for me to come inside.

“Miss Burden, I'd like for you to meet me in the office.”

The window slams shut, flaking white paint peeling it strips down the sides of its frame. Withering away. Decaying.

Sort of like my heart.

The system is seriously going to kill me.

I take a deep breath, throw one last look at Maddox, Gunner, and Nash, and the head inside.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Nash is asking, pacing around the threadbare carpet in the living room with his favorite white tank draped over the lean muscles in his chest and abs. It's so old that there are holes in all the right places: over his left nipple, near his belly button, a series of tears and rips that show off the almost 'V' that he's been working on for a year.

I'm drunk enough that I don't really try to hide that I'm looking. Gunner notices, I know, but all he does is sigh. He has a crush on me, I think. Has for years. Maybe Maddox does, too? But if any one of us makes a move, what will happen to the other two? If I finally just broke down and told Nash how I feel, would I lose Maddox and Gunner?

I don't want to think so—we are family, after all, but romantic and sexual relationships would definitely muddle things around here. Life is already fucked up enough as it is.

“Keep your voice down, dude,” Maddox says, kicking Nash in the leg the next time he paces by, raking his fingers through his dark hair. Apparently after I left to talk to Mrs. Freeman, Nash and Clea parked themselves behind the half-crumbled mausoleum in the far corner of the yard to drink and make out.

I had to climb through the clusters of blackberries to get back there and grab him by the shirt. He just now found out about this whole thing with the Kennedys.

“Keep my voice down?” he asks, reaching out to finger the short white-blonde strands of my hair. “How am I supposed to keep my damn voice down? Do you remember what those people did to Merit? It was psychological torture. You should report Jen-whatever-her-name is.”

“Jenna-Marie,” I say, referencing the bitch mom of the two other bitches that live in the Kennedy household. “And I did. But you know how the Buzzard is: if they grease her palms enough, no complaint ever makes it past her door.”

“Then, like, email someone or something,” Nash says, sounding totally hysterical. He gets like that sometimes when he drinks, completely overemotional. “CPS or DHS or whatever.”

Nash pauses and looks down at me, sniffling and running his tongue over his lower lip. The movement shouldn't be so sexy and yet … I can't stop staring at his mouth.

I'm drunk, I think as I close my eyes and try to get my mind off of last night, off Nash's body curled up close to mine, off the string of condoms I stuffed into my pocket. I still have them, nestled in the front of this hoodie. It feels like if I keep them close, Nash won't be able to get them so he can fuck Clea. Illogical, sure, but I really am smashed. Smashed on watermelon effin' vodka from the grocery store.

“Gunner dings eighteen soon,” is my explanation. My words are a little slurred, but oh well. As long as I sit still here, tucked on the threadbare couch with my boys, elbow on the armrest and chin propped in my hand, the world stays straight. I know if I stand up, I'll probably start stumbling around like an idiot. “As soon as he does, I'll move in with him.”

“That's eight months from now,” Nash says with a long sigh, rubbing his palms down his face. “Eight months is a long ass time stuck in Hell without you.”

“Why don't you just hangout with Clea?” I snap, tugging one of the only two throw pillows in the living room into my lap. This particular one matches the holey chair in the corner and not the couch, but the couch pillows disappeared a long, long time ago. I think Clea might be squirreling one away in her room. Bitch.

Nash just stares at me for a really long moment, his blue eyes this warm sapphire color that makes me think home, home, home. Like, when I look into those eyes, I'm safe. There's somebody around that's on my side. And yet … how can he be so stupid? How can he look at me like that and have no idea how he makes me feel? I know he has a rough past—we all do—but should that make him so stupidly oblivious?

I stand up suddenly and stumble a little. Nash tries to catch me, but I end up just shoving the throw pillow in his direction as if it's a shield. I know I'm acting crazier than usual—cheap vodka will do that to ya—but I can't help it. My emotions are up in the air, and I feel like I have to juggle them all at the same time. If I drop one, it shatters.

I move into the backyard, letting the screen door slam shut behind me.

The yard is bathed in orange and gold from the sunset, the jagged graves like ruins in a shipwreck, trapped beneath the thick yellow waters of sunrays. Getting privacy around this place—especially with three overprotective dudes in my posse—is almost impossible. I decide to confront my own fears and duck behind the mausoleum, parking my butt in the flat patch of grass where Clea and Nash were sitting earlier.

I spot the second vodka bottle nestled in the grass nearby and grab it, pausing when I hear the screen door slam again, followed by footsteps. By the time I get the top unscrewed and put the bottle to my lips, Nash is climbing through the brambles, cursing and swatting at the thorns as they catch on his stupidly tight jeans.

“Can't I just catch a moment to myself?” I ask, but Nash is already lying down beside me, putting his head into my lap. Looking down at him, with his dark bangs feathered across his forehead, his sapphire eyes ringed in ebony lashes, it's hard to stay angry. As far as he knows, I think of him like a brother. I bet he's wondering why I'm acting like such a crazy person right now.

“You're leaving on Friday?” he asks softly, like saying the words too loudly might make them come true sooner, erase all the days in between.

“Guess so,” I say, feeling a sinking queasiness in my stomach. I take another sip of vodka, coughing on the rancid taste and handing it down to Nash.

“I don't want you to go,” he says, almost like he's whining. After a moment, he sits up to drink and my lap feels desperately empty. How do I shut these emotions off, make them go away? As far as I can tell, Nash doesn't feel anything but platonic love toward me. Screwing up what we've got would suck—especially since I'm pretty sure Maddox and Gunner actually return some of the awful feelings I've got toward them.

Sixteen and in love with three guys.

Why am I trying to make my hard life even harder?

“Nothing feels right when you're not here, Mer,” Nash says, finishing the vodka and then stuffing the bottle into a large hole on the back of the crumbly mausoleum. He manages to wedge it in about halfway before it gets stuck. “Gun and Mad shuffle around like zombies. Besides,” Nash turns to face me, getting too close to my mouth, “there's no one around to call me on my shit.”

“Why did you even come talk to me about Clea last night if you're just gonna fuck her anyway?” I ask, pulling the condoms from my pocket and throwing them at him. They fall in Nash's lap, right over a slight bulge in the denim. Just talking about the skinny brunette makes him hard? Fucking seriously? “Put it away, Nash,” I say, not at all embarrassed. Just pissed. Living in this close proximity to so many other people, seeing a guy's hard-on is not an usual thing. I see my boys' all the time. I can't even count how many times I've walked in on them in the bathroom on accident.

Unlike Clea Mooney, I don't generally do it on purpose.

Nash takes a deep breath and fingers the string of condoms.

“Mer,” he starts, making my heart thunder. I feel light-headed all of a sudden, looking into a face I've stared at thousands of time throughout my life. Sitting this close, I can even remember the first time we met, when Nash sat on the living room floor of his new foster home crying. A few weeks earlier, he'd been in a car accident with his dad and grandpa; they'd both passed away. With no other family left, he'd ended up one of the lost, lonely, and abandoned.

“What are you doing?” I ask when Nash leans in and puts his cheek against mine, making me sweat, making me want, making me wonder. What if I just grabbed him and kissed him right now? What would he do? How would he react?

I don't get a chance to find out because Nash … he kisses me.

Our mouths meet in a hot, messy tumble. My heart reacts instantly, speeding up, making my pulse pound so hard and fast that I get dizzy. I'm so stunned I keep my eyes wide open, staring into Nash's face and catching the violent white-hot flicker of emotion that passes over it.

What the …

We fall back into the yellow-brown grass, my blue baseball cap tumbling off as I curl my fingers in Nash's tank to pull him close. My left pinky accidentally slips through the hole in his shirt and brushes the hardened point of his nipple, making him moan.

What the fuck are you doing, Merit? I wonder, panic taking over me. It flutters across my skin like a flock of birds, dive bombing my chest. My heart skips a beat and then I'm pushing Nash away with a groan, practically throwing him off of me.

“What's the matter?” he asks, panting and throwing an arm over one knee. Nash's coy little mouth is parted with wild breaths and he's staring down at me with a look of bewilderment.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, sitting up and realizing that my own breaths are just as wild, just as frantic. My hands tremble, so I shove them in my hoodie pocket to keep them still, looking away before Nash's liquid blue gaze drowns me.

Instead of making a joke out of the situation like he'd normally do, Nash scoots closer and wraps his arms around me. His breath feathers warm against my ear, stirring my hair, and his heart is beating so rapidly that mine immediately tries to catch up, galloping away behind my ribs.

“Mer,” Nash says, pressing his mouth to my neck, flicking his tongue across the messy heartbeat of my pulse. I let him kiss me all over, closing my eyes and listening to the breeze chase through the dry grass around us. Any minute now, the screen door's going to open and Gunner and Maddox will come through it. They'll find us here and nothing will be the same ever again.

Still, when Nash drops his hands to my hips and starts to pull my hoodie over my head, I let him.

“Were you jealous, Mer?” he asks which is so goddamn unfair that I don't bother to answer. He knows; he's known for a long time. I mean, how could he miss the way I look at him? The way his playful kisses have started to feel real. There must've been some reason why he stopped coming in to lay with me, right? There's more in the air between us now, the dangerous whisper of sex, sex, sex.

I just want it to go away.

If I do this, will it?

Turning, I slide a hand up the side of Nash's face and kiss him again. At first, the touch of our lips is gentle, inquisitive, questing. The energy picks up quick, arcing between us, amplified by the alcohol and the pain. Always the pain. We've lived with it for so long that sometimes I forget it's more than just a shadow, permanently sewn to my feet, always chasing after me. It was a gift, bestowed by the universe and nurtured into a demon.

I know at least some of the wild, desperate need between us is being encouraged, coaxed, and coddled by the pain in both our hearts, but I don't care. I love Nash—whether that's in a romantic sort of way or not, I don't know. Doesn't matter. I can feel the emotion kindle like fire beneath my hands as I press my palms into his chest.

Nash's tongue slides along the side of mine, slow and sensual but ferocious at the same time, like it would take the jaws of life to pry us apart. He kisses me and cups the back of my neck, holds me in a tender moment that burns hot, hot, hot. My eyes are half-lidded and a single bead of sweat drips down my spine, soaks into the denim waistband of my jeans.

Kissing Nash, I can taste every emotion he's feeling on the tip of his tongue, a whole rainbow of flavors that seem to mix with my own, until we're just this unbreakable twist of humanity.

My hands slide down Nash's chest, find the button on his jeans and fumble with it. I'm shaking again, trembling, but it doesn't matter now. Something miraculous is happening, and I just want to go with it.

You're drunk, you're drunk, you're drunk! I try to tell myself, but I'm not falling over and passing out drunk, just buzzed and loose enough that I want to try this. Nash is one of the guys, my best friends, my family. I've also been kind of in love with him since I was six. Where's the harm in it?

I also know that part of me is doing this because I know if I sleep with Nash, he won't sleep with Clea—or anyone else for that matter—while I'm gone. Is that fucked? That's kind of fucked, isn't it? In my heart, I know I could stop this right now, tell him how I feel, ask him not to act on anything while I'm gone. Our history's too deep for him not to respect that.

Only … I don't stop.

My hand sneaks inside Nash's jeans, sliding along the hot, hard bulge hidden inside his boxer briefs. Excitement streaks through me, bright and wild, teasing the hairs up on the back of my neck. I feel like I'm about to dive into something I can never get out of. I do this, and everything changes. Everything.

Nash slides his left palm under my shirt and up the bare skin of my side, teasing my body to life, making me feel everything twice as fervently as I was before. I lean into him, pushing my body against his. Nash lets me push him back into the grass, my knees on either side of him, my hand still working at that warm hardness inside his pants.

All of a sudden, there's this agonizing ache between my thighs, Nash's fingers dancing across the seam of my jeans. Even with the denim blocking his fingertips from my actual skin, it's too much. I gasp against his mouth and thrust my own hand inside his underwear, finding the smooth, bare length of him.

Nash flips us over and grabs my arms, pinning me to the yellow-brown bed of grass beneath us. His face is serious, eyes earnest, the pulse point in his throat dancing wildly.

“Are you sure about this, Mer?” he asks, pupils dilated. A single bead of sweat slides down the tip of Nash's nose and crashes into my forehead. It should be gross, maybe, but it's not.

I jerk my arms from his grip and grab the sides of his face, unable to answer that question with words. Am I sure? Of course I'm not fucking sure. There are so many ways this could go wrong, so many things I could be screwing up with this one, simple act. Besides, shouldn't we both be completely sober before we make this kind of decision?

Screw it.

I'm a person, not an ad for a PSA. I'm allowed to make mistakes.

Nash unbuttons my jeans, and I relax my arms enough to let him scoot back and tug my tennis shoes off first, then my pants, then … I wiggle out my underwear—borrowed gray briefs I stole from the new package in Gunner's room—and lie there with my naked butt in the grassy dirt.

When he goes for my shirt, I push him away.

“Not enough time,” I say as he sits up and bites his lower lip for a moment. For a second there, I think he might just throw up his hands and walk away. After all, this whole thing's a little out of left field. “Nash.”

The solid syllable of his name draws his attention back to me, and then he's shoving his jeans down his hips, flashing me the long, hard length of his cock. It's straight as an arrow, pointing right at me. I mean, it's not like I haven't seen it before just … not in this context.

I suck in a sharp breath and tap my palm on the ground, searching for the condoms without taking my eyes off of Nash. Instead of the goofy asshole he pretends to be, I can see the wicked depths of seriousness in his face.

Whatever this is that's happening between us, it means something. I just need to figure out what exactly that something is.

I hand the string of foil wrapped packages his way and wait as he tears one off, opens it, and slips it on. The latex slides slowly down his shaft, slick and shiny in the late afternoon sunshine. As we've been sitting here, the orange orb's been sinking slowly behind the horizon. In just a few minutes it'll be dark, and Mad and Gun will be out looking for us, trying to corral us in the house before we get hit with a curfew violation.

Nash climbs above me and I cup his face again, kissing him with all the excitement of a new experience, a hot mouth, the warm buzz of alcohol in my veins. When he cradles his body between my hips, I kiss harder, drawing blood. If it hurts him, Nash doesn't let on. He adjusts his body so that he's pressed up tight against me, nudging my opening. Knowing him, he'll think his way out of this if I let him.

Lifting my hips up, I encourage him with a sensual slide of my tongue against his. I guess then instinct takes over or something because he's thrusting forward and filling me up, sliding his body inside of mine with a single motion.

My hands curl into claws against his back, bunching his shirt up. For several minutes there, I think we both forget to breathe.

“Hey, Merit,” he starts, but I have no idea why Nash would try to talk in that moment. I wiggle my body against his and his breath comes out in a rush, his hips start to move. Nash works against me as I struggle to keep kissing his lips, torn between giving up to the pleasure and praying it would stop. It's so goddamn intense that I feel like I'm breaking into little pieces. All those cracks of pain and shame and loneliness I've felt throughout my life light up like they've been filled by lava, all that molten heat from the explosion taking place within me.

When I crack my eyes open, I see Nash staring at me with the sapphire glaze of his eyes, all those long dark lashes feathering against his forehead and cheeks as he blinks. There's a shimmer there that I don't understand, that I can't place. Right now, I don't want to—just in case it's something I don't want to know.

The white-hot pain between my legs is gone within a few minutes, easing into pleasure as Nash grinds his pelvis to mine. I imagine years of using my fingers to pleasure myself helped a little on that front, but the sensation is still strange. It's not me pleasuring me. No, this is Nash, the boy I've known since he was six and I was seven. It's so weird, and yet it feels so fucking good.

Obliterate me, break me, shatter me into pieces. That's what I want, to feel like I'm being dismantled. Maybe then I'll be able to see the darkness hiding underneath, all the shadows sewn to my skin? If I can find them, maybe I can flood them with light and drown them, banish them forever?

Nash doesn't make me feel like I'm breaking though. Instead, he pulls me together, uses the power of my feelings toward him to get inside all those cracks, fuse me into a single piece. It should feel good, all that healing and coming together. Only … I'm not ready for that. I need to clean out the infection before I let my scars heal over. If I don't, all of that pain will be trapped inside forever.

My hands curl around the back of Nash's neck, pull him close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear. I don't want to look at him anymore, even if the rough, hot push of his body sends bursts of lightning scattering inside me. There's a storm there, complete with thunder and gray clouds and bursts of cool rain. It's charged, and beautiful, but it's also got the capacity to damage irreparably.

Nash fucks me until I'm soaked in sweat, he's soaked in sweat, and we're bleeding all over each other. There's hot, molten wetness between my thighs drenching us, a little blood dancing on my lower lip.

The slick slide of his body inside of mine pushes me to an almost uncomfortable crescendo, one that I fight with every molecule in my body. Instead of letting myself succumb to the physical pleasure, I squeeze Nash tight and wish I never had to leave him again. Wish that he had everything we both need to fix ourselves, to get better, to survive. Because that's what we've doing our whole lives, surviving. I know I need to find a way to live, but I'd rather be a beautiful survivor than an ugly ignorant.

The orgasm hits Nash like a bag full of bricks, tightening his muscles, drawing this long, unfamiliar groan from his throat. A few more thrusts and it's all over. He's rolling off of me into the grass and panting, and I'm sitting desperately trying to find my underwear.

“Merit,” he starts yet again, but I'm not in the mood to fucking talk right now.

As I pull my panties up over my hips, I hear the screen door and Gunner's strong voice calling out to us. Turning, my bare feet scrape across the dusty ground, and I look down at Nash, still lying half-naked on his back with a used condom clutched in one hand.

“Coming!” I shout out, hoping that Gun and Mad stay inside and wait for us. I'd rather they didn't walk around the side of the crumbling mausoleum and see this. “Don't tell them about this,” I threaten as I lean down and grab my blue baseball cap, jamming it on my head and yanking my jeans on.

Nash doesn't say a word to me the rest of the night.

There's nothing gentle about the way the cop manhandles me into the back of his squad car, practically tossing me into the back seat. I can't do shit about it because I'm cuffed, but I do kick the door when he slams it closed, using both booted feet so I can make a show of it.

Let these guys think they caught me in the act when the act was already fucking done.

My lips curve into a sharp smile as I struggle to sit up, leaning my head back against the seat behind me. I should probably stop grinning like an asshole, but I can't help it. I did it—and I got away with it.

The officers climb into their car and radio into the station, but I'm not listening. Instead, I stare out the window and fantasize about all the wild shit I'm going to do when I get out of Purgatory.

After a few minutes, I close my eyes and when I open them back up, we're pulling up to the curb in front of a two story shithole made of bricks with a droopy gray porch.

“The hell is this?” I ask, feeling a small shiver of panic race through me. I hid my shit well, but if I can't get to it then that's a problem. Although … this place might have bars on the windows, but it looks like a fucking daycare center compared to Purgatory.

“The juvenile detention center's full,” the lady cop in the passenger seat says, opening her door up. “Looks like this is your lucky day, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Must be if I get to settle into this shithole tonight,” I say as I climb out and flash a naughty grin at her. The cop doesn't so much as smile at me. Huh. Too bad for her. Guess even my charms aren't enough to break through all of that stuffy police procedural bullshit. “Do I, uh, at least get the cuffs off?” I ask, lifting up my zip tied hands and examining the dilapidated old house in front of me.

Breaking out of this nightmare, piece of frigging cake.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to deal with this goddamn ankle bracelet.

“Try to be on your best behavior,” the lady cop's telling me as she snips my hands free and watches as I shake them out and crack my knuckles, my eyes never straying from the old building. Already, I'm scheming, making plans, running through scenarios. What can I say? I'm a thief; it's what I do. “Clearly you weren't listening to the judge, but this is it for you, last chance. You screw this place up and you're not going back to juvie.”

I glance over at the woman and let another slow burning grin stretch across my features.

“Gotcha. Next time I'm off to the big house, huh? Guess I'll have to be extra careful then, won't I?”

I head up the steps, following behind the manhandling dude cop, and pause just as the front door opens ahead of us.

“Hitch Finnegan?” the old broad in the muumuu says, examining her clipboard. Like, Jesus, who the hell uses a fucking clipboard nowadays? Get a goddamn iPad for shit's sake. “I can take him from here, thank you,” she tells the officers with a small sniff, turning and heading inside without waiting to see if I'll follow. Pretty ballsy, huh?

“You heard the woman,” I say, shouldering past the disgruntled male cop and then slamming the door in his face. What's he going to do about it? It's not a crime to be an asshole.

I follow the old lady through a dusty, dilapidated foyer and past a shabby living room and dining room area, heading for a set of stairs that looks like it belongs in the Addam's Family household. I mean, seriously? This place looks like it was designed for the Crypt Keeper or something.

Oh well.

You won't find me complaining.

This dump … it's gonna have low-key security at worst. None at best. I could break out of this place in my sleep.

Now all I gotta do is figure out where exactly I am and how to get back to my buried treasure.

Because once I get my hands on that, for the first time in my life … I'll be fucking free.

Scratch what I said about low-key security. I swear, the old broad in charge of this place must have eyes in the back of her damn head. I've already been busted three times trying to have a goddamn cigarette. At least in Purgatory, I could always find someplace to grab a smoke.

With a sigh, I lean back in my new bunk and close my eyes, listening to the sound of the front door opening and closing, a cluster of voices making their way inside the house.

Looks like my fellow inmates are back from school.

Keeping my eyes closed, I let my mouth curl into a mischievous little smile and wait. Best let them come to me. It's always good to set boundaries right off the bat.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, and I crack my lids to see a kid in a jean jacket storm into the room and slam the door behind him. He looks like he's about three seconds away from having a panic attack.

“Everything okay down there?” I ask, and I swear to Christ, he jumps high enough to hit his head on the sagging tiles of the drop ceiling. Since most of them are stained with what's probably some sort of infectious black mold or whatever, I feel sorry for the guy.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks me, voice slightly shaky, hands curled into fists by his side. The way he's staring at me, I can see there are about a thousand other things going on his life that he'd rather worry about. I don't factor very high. Part of me wants to put this kid in his place, show him that I really am somebody to worry about. But eh, I won't be hanging around here very long anyway.

“Your worst nightmare,” I tell him with all due seriousness. And then I just laugh because, come on, look at the expression on the guy's face. “Name's Hitch. I'm not here to make friends, so feel free to ignore me to your heart's content.”

The guy looks at me with eyes like lightning, like he wishes he could strike me down with a single dead-eyed glare. Too bad I'm made of much tougher stuff.

“Maybe I'll just have to take you up on that offer?” he retorts, sweeping dark hair from his face and reaching for the handle of the door. As soon as he opens it … I lose all the fucking breath in my lungs.

Who. The. Hell. Is that?

I sit up suddenly and slam my head on the drooping ceiling, cursing under my breath as I blink at the girl standing in the doorway. The way she slouches against the doorjamb, her white blonde hair shoved up underneath an old baseball cap, gives the distinct impression of I don't give a fuck. And I give a serious amount of fucks for girls without any.

The blonde with the ice blue eyes looks like she could kick ass and take names with her arms tied behind her back. But her face? Shit. Her eyes are huge and blue and goddamn beautiful, and her mouth is full and ripe and shiny. The second I see her, I know I'm going to introduce myself without all the snark and sarcasm. This is somebody I actually might want to know.

“What the hell is your problem?” the girl asks Jean Jacket Guy, putting her hands on her hips, the ones draped with slouchy faded jeans that hang low enough that I can see the top band of a pair of men's boxer briefs.

Oh yes.

A pretty girl who wears boys' underwear. I am so in.

“Problem?” the guy retorts and then pauses, glancing over his shoulder like he's just realized I'm still sitting there. The girl doesn't bother to follow the direction of his gaze, keeping her attention locked on the guy's face. “What do you think my problem is, Merit?” he whispers, and then he's stepping forward and closing the door behind him, blocking my view of the girl.

Merit.

Now why the hell does that name sound so familiar?

“There's a new guy bunking in our room,” Nash says a few hours after our hushed argument in the hallway outside his bedroom door. Guess that explains why he didn't want to continue our conversation in his room. “Seems like a complete and total asshole to me,” he adds, sitting on the rock that serves as our marker for the buried cigarettes. We smoked the last of the pack last time we were out here, but Gunner got his coworker to grab us some more.

Thank god because I could really use a smoke right about now.

“What's his name?” I ask as Maddox lights me up and I try not to make eye contact with him. I feel like the moment I do, he'll know. Even if he can't see as well as he used to, he'll sense it. He's gotten more perceptive like that recently, as if his sixth sense is making up for the loss of his eyesight.

“Dunno,” Nash says, still refusing to look me in the eyes. It's been two days since we fucked behind the mausoleum and he won't even meet my gaze. Instead, he's been flitting around like a shadow, quiet and sullen. I guess my asking him to keep quiet about the whole thing was a waste; surely Gunner and Maddox will figure us out eventually. I mean, if Nash is going to keep acting like a weirdo, the whole fucking world is going to find out. “I don't think he gave it to me.”

“Sure he did,” a voice says from the brush behind us.

I whip around just in time to see a boy with dual colored hair pop out of the bushes.

As soon as I see him, I know he's gonna be trouble.

“Did you fucking follow us out here?” I snap, immediately going on the defensive. Part of my cranky mood has to do with Nash and the rest … I've got goose bumps just looking at this guy and I don't like it.

I whip the cigarette out of my mouth with two fingers and frown as the guy meanders toward us, flicking his tongue across his lower lip. It's pierced, his tongue. Somehow, that only makes me feel more uncomfortable around this guy.

“Hitch Finnegan,” he says casually, mussing up his blonde and black hair and pausing far too close to me for comfort. His smile is like an electric fence, warning me to stay away for fear of getting shocked. He's all slick and put together, this guy.

I hate him instantly.

“Well, Hitch,” I say sharply, taking over as leader of the group the way I've done since we were kids, “what the hell do you want?”

“Could I maybe bum a cigarette?” he asks, slouching down to a nearby rock and lounging on it like it was made for him. The whole scene just pisses me off. This kid in the white hoodie is sitting there smiling like we're old friends. And that really bothers me because in this place, friendship is earned. It's better than fucking family. Family is a genetic lotto, a blood related tree that doesn't mind shedding its limbs when one becomes inconvenient. But friends? Those are the family members that you choose.

I've chosen mine. And this kid? He's not one of them.

“I found a few hidden around the house,” he continues, gesturing back at Hell with a loose, lazy hand. I notice that on the back of it, there's a tattoo. How the hell did he find someone willing to ink an underage kid? I wonder, grudgingly admitting that the design—a crescent moon bound by clouds and stars—is pretty goddamn good. It doesn't look anything like the scratcher tats some of the kids around here have—the ones done with ballpoint pens and needles, like prison tats or something. “Tried to smoke 'em, but that old lady is boss at what she does. She confiscated all three.”

Hitch leans back on the rock and yawns, stretching his arms above his head and flashing a line of tight, flat belly beneath his baggy white hoodie. Although I'm positive I've never seen this guy around before, there's something about him that feels familiar.

“So you thought you'd just stalk us and blackmail a smoke while you're out here?” Maddox snarls, taking up a position behind me. I cross my arms over my chest and hope like hell we look intimidating. It's always the newbies that try to start shit when they show up in Hell for the first time.

“I'm not blackmailing anybody,” Hitch says, putting his palms flat on the rock behind him and leaning back, his gold-brown eyes catching the dying afternoon light. They're the same color as the chewy caramels that Gunner brings home from the grocery store, the ones wrapped in wax paper and sealed with a tiny gold sticker. I hate that I can make that connection, between something so familiar and safe and someone so foreign. “I just want to smoke a cigarette. Come on, take some pity on the new guy? I had court today.”

Hitch lifts the leg of his black jeans and flashes us a black band on his leg, a red light blinking slowly through the darkness. It's an ankle monitor. I glance back at Maddox who's squinting through the shadows to try and see what we're all gaping at.

“Ankle bracelet,” I whisper and his beautiful brown eyes narrow.

“What the hell did you do?” he asks as I smoke my cigarette and keep my attention on Hitch. The longer I stare at him, the more certain I am that I know him from somewhere.

“Breaking and entering,” he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I was supposed to go back to Purgatory, but I guess they're all full up on fuck-ups and delinquents at the moment.” He flashes a wolfish grin my direction, one that's so full of shit I almost choke on my next inhale. “So, can I have a smoke or what?”

I yank the pack from my pocket and toss it his direction.

“Ever been to Hell before?” I ask, nodding my chin in the direction of the house.

“Not that I can recall,” Hitch says, withdrawing a cigarette from the pack and rising to his feet. Without even asking, he slips it between his lips, steps close and presses the end of his smoke to the burning orange embers of mine.

We're so close we could kiss.

“Thanks for the monkey fuck,” Hitch says with a slow, exaggerated wink, stepping back and slipping the smoke from his lips. His exhale is just as much of a show, a careful breath of smoke that teases across the fullness of his lips.

“You got your cigarette, now screw off,” Nash says from behind me, his voice this tumultuous roil of emotion. I refuse to acknowledge it at the moment. I just … can't right now. I've been sore for two days, each movement a reminder of what happened behind the mausoleum. When I close my eyes, I can feel Nash's body on top of mine, his cock sheathed between my thighs, his hands pinning my wrists to the dirt.

Somehow, I feel like fucking him was both a blessing and a curse.

I got what I wanted out of the experience—it felt good, Nash is obsessed, he's definitely not paying attention to Clea anymore. But I also figured out that sex with him is not the be-all, end-all to our problems.

I glance to my left, into the fading shadows of evening and smoke my cigarette.

“Come on, you haven't even introduced yourselves to me. Don't I deserve names at the very least?”

“Deserve?” Nash asks, and I whip my head around to find him rising to his feet. But Gunner's already got it, putting a hand on his chest and keeping him from started something stupid with the new kid. “You don't deserve shit. Leave us the hell alone, okay?”

“Nash,” I start, and for the first time since he was inside of me, our eyes meet.

My heart thunders in my chest and I find it suddenly hard to breathe.

“Nash Golden,” I continue, clearing my throat and gesturing in his direction. It feels easier to introduce him to the new guy than think about the fact that we just screwed, that neither of us is a virgin anymore, that things have been so weird since that I wish we'd never done it. “This is Gunner Colvin, Maddox Bright, and me,” I take a drag on my cigarette, “I'm Merit Burden.”

“Merit Burden,” Hitch says, leaning back and looking up at the stars with a slick, smooth smile on his face. “Now that's a name just rife with meaning.”

“I've heard all the jokes already,” I say with a raised brow, thinking back on years of stupid shit, taunts like Burden's a burden! and all that. They didn't affect me then, and I'll be damned if I let this guy, Hitch, affect me now. “You can save 'em for a different audience.”

“Merit,” he continues, glancing sidelong at me. In his gaze, I can read a clear and obvious invitation. He's interested in me. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I tug my baseball cap lower on my head and leave my lips in a frown.

“I feel like I've heard that name before,” Hitch continues, blowing smoke rings up at the sky. Impressive. Only, I don't give a shit. I have enough to worry about with me and the boys, with Jenna-Marie, with the sex I never should have had.

“Doubtful,” I tell him, watching as he pushes up the sleeves to his sweater. As he does, I catch a circular scar near his elbow and feel a jolt of recognition whisper through me. No way. No fucking way.

My cigarette tumbles from my lips and I take a sudden step back, slamming into Maddox.

“Are you okay?” he asks, but I can't seem to take my eyes off the scar on Hitch's arm. As soon as he sees me looking, he shoves his sleeves back down, some of that slick, careful coolness melting away in an instant.

“Where did you get that?” I ask, emotions twisting and tangling together inside of me until I feel like I might just trip on them. They're laying everywhere, these messy knots of heartache and memory and uncertainty.

“Does it matter?” Hitch asks, raising both his dark brows and trying to smile his way through this. But I saw it. I remember. I know.

“A gas stovetop,” I say, tracing the spiral shape in the air between us. “When you were trying to make a little girl some hot chocolate.” I swallow hard and twist my baseball cap around so that it's pointing backward. “Are you … Oh my god, you're fucking Finny?!” I whisper, and watch as all the color in Hitch's face drains away.

“Merry?” he asks, rising to his feet and looking at me like he's seen a ghost.

Holy. Shit.

The boy I've been looking for for years … is standing right in front of me.

And I have no goddamn clue what I'm supposed to do about that.

“There's no way that guy's Finny,” Nash says, slumping into the faded green recliner next to the boarded up fireplace. For years, that was one of my spots, sitting on his lap and cuddling up to him. Now, I'm scared to get within ten feet of the guy.

First, I was lamenting because puberty had kicked in and our once easy companionship was starting to get weird. Then, I screw the guy and now I'm scared to get close to him?

I just stare at Nash for a moment before marching over and parking myself right on his lap. I'm done with this. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow, and I refuse to do it with all this weirdness stuffed between us. Besides, if we don't sort this out soon, Gunner and Maddox are going to figure it out and then the whole thing will just go to hell. I'd rather die than lose these guys—I'm dead serious about that.

“That's Finny,” I say firmly, even though I'm not sure how to feel about this new development. I haven't seen the kid since we were eight years old and I was adopted for the last time. By the time my new family gave up on me—to be fair, I didn't make things easy for them—I came back to the home to find one of my foster brothers was missing. Nash, Maddox, and Gunner were all there but the kid we'd lived with for almost three years was nowhere to be seen.

I cried myself to sleep every night for six months missing him.

And now … here he is, all grown up, a complete and utter asshole with an ankle monitor strapped to his leg.

“It's him,” I repeat with a sigh, leaning back and feeling Nash put his arms around me. The warmth of him … it's almost too much. Carnal memories rear to the surface, and I feel my nipples pebble into hard points. If I wiggle a little, I can feel the firm bulge of Nash's erection beneath my ass. “We've finally found Finny, and I'm being sent away again. This fucking blows.”

“I don't know if Finny is the same person you remember, Mer,” Gunner says, leaning back on the sofa, looking even taller stretched out like that than he does standing up. He's all dressed in his work clothes, ready for his late night shift stocking shelves. He had to get special permission from the Buzzard to be out so late, but in the end, having an almost-eighteen like Gunner with a job is a blessing in the system's eyes. At least then, they can kick him out of the home on his birthday without feeling too bad about it.

“Maybe not, but at one time, he was one of us.” I give Gunner a look and then switch my attention over to Maddox, hoping the living room's bright enough that he can see my whole face right now. I want him to keep looking at me, to memorize me. Just in case. Just in case I go missing like Finny did. “Promise me you guys'll give him a chance when I'm gone?”

“Stop talking like that,” Nash says from behind me, squeezing me too tight, making my lungs burn and my ribs hurt. But I don't move, don't say a word. Even with the weirdness between us, this feels good, to be held like this.

“Stop talking like what, Nash? I'm leaving on Friday,” I say, closing my eyes and trying to breathe past the panic. Being separated from the only people in the world that care about me … that's basically my worst nightmare. But I have to go. I have to, or Gunner might blow his eighteen money for me. It's not a lot, but he'll get grants for college, enough to keep his head above water so that he can actually go to school.

I won't mess that opportunity up.

“Hey.”

Hitch—the boy I used to know as Finny—pauses in the archway between the dining room and the common area, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression contemplative.

“Mind if I join you?”

Nash makes a small sound behind me, but I ignore him, shrugging my shoulders in a noncommittal sort of a way. Hitch takes the gesture as an invitation and drapes himself into an empty armchair next to the one Nash and I are sitting in.

When he looks over at me, he's grinning a shark's grin and looking like he's out for blood. If it weren't for that distinctive scar on his elbow, I would never believe this guy was Finny. Finny was … he was sweet and earnest and loving. My best memories include him leading the four of us away to hide in the treehouse so he could tell us stories. They were always fantastical, always hopeful, rich with imagined details of places better, of places far, far away from the hell we were living in.

This guy in front of me … he's clearly been through some shit.

“What's with all the melancholy?” he asks, his attention focused almost entirely on me. “Not all that excited to see me?”

“I'm going back into foster care on Friday,” I tell him, meeting his eyes so I can gauge his reaction. There's a quick flicker of disappointment there, but it fades fast, replaced with apathy and disinterest.

I don't buy it for a second.

As soon as he called me by my old nickname—Merry—I saw a flicker in Hitch's eyes, a certain level of interest and desperation that can't be faked. Whatever he wants to pretend he is now, some master thief badass or cocky bad boy without a care in the world, Hitch Finnegan is lonely. I can sense that emotion like it's on a radar in my head. I think loneliness is the worst feeling in all the world, this empty gaping pain that makes the whole world feel like it's against you.

“Oh? Bummer,” he says with a slight shrug, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms together above his head. His gaze reminds me of the tiger's eye necklace I used to have, the one I got from a Christmas gift toy drive a few years back. Pretty sure one of Jenna-Marie's daughters stole that, too. “New place or one you've been to before?”

“Repeat offender,” I say with a sigh, Nash's arms loosening around me. When I glance back at him, his sapphire gaze is thick and heavy. We definitely need to talk this out. I want his goofy, stupid personality back. He may not know it, but he sets the mood for our little group. When Nash is happy, we're all happy. If he's not … well, we're all just flies trapped in the webs of contention. “They cut my hair off and stole my clothing vouchers. I've been in worse places though.”

“Same here,” Hitch says, and his voice is as dark as pitch. I can see demons warring in that gold-brown gaze, fighting to crack through the carefully crafted facade he's built around himself, this easygoing, take-no-shit slacker with a record and a sharp smile. Bullshit, all of it. I can smell it from here.

Hitch stares at me for a long moment before switching his attention to Gunner and Maddox.

“Gun and Mad, right? I should've recognized the names right away.” He lets the pain fade to black and smiles at my boys. “And Nash … we used to call you Nashed Potatoes and Gravy, right?”

“Fucking seriously?” Nash asks, but he doesn't sound quite as combative as he did earlier. When I glance over my shoulder at him, he's smiling slightly. “I can't believe you remember that shit. I've been fighting that nickname for years.”

“After I landed back in foster care and you were gone …” I start, wondering if Hitch might tell me what happened to him in the interim, “we started calling him NPG for short.”

“It was either that or Taters,” Maddox adds, squinting in Hitch's direction. I reach up to turn on the lamp nearby and Mad tosses me a relieved half-smile.

“Taters,” Hitch says with a wicked smirk, leaning back in his chair again. “I like it. Please tell me I can keep calling you that.”

“Go for it, Finny,” Nash says with a smirk of his own, putting his hands on my hips and sending goose bumps up along my arms. Hitch looks at me like he can sense it, studying me and Nash with a practiced eye. I'm so freaked out by the prospect of Gunner and Maddox finding out that I stand up. “So where have you been all this time? I heard you got adopted?”

Hitch shrugs, and I see that dark glaze take over his eyes again.

“Eh, for a while,” he says, but he doesn't elaborate, staring at the floor until the front door opens and Clea Mooney walks in. At first, she's stomping like she's pissed off—I'm hoping something happened with Nash—but then she sees Hitch and her entire demeanor changes.

“Hey,” she says in that sly, coquettish voice of hers.

Hitch lifts his gaze up and blinks at her in surprise.

“Clea, right?” he asks, and flashes another grin. He stares at her for a moment, clicking his tongue ring against his teeth. Try as I might, I can't help but feel a surge of frustration. He remembered her at first sight but not me? It shouldn't matter, but for some reason, it does. Maybe I just don't like Clea? I don't have problems with any other girl in the home except for her—and she's not the only one that flirts with my boys. “We were in Purgatory together last year, right?”

“Right,” she says, slipping into the room and dropping her book bag on the floor. She's still dressed in that stupid red and white striped uniform and red booty shorts she wears to work the hotdog stand, but now that she's off, the top's been tied to show off her slender midsection and the waistband on her shorts has been rolled up three times, basically turning them into panties.

Me, I'm standing there in a loose navy hoodie with holes in it and a baseball cap, dirty sneakers on my feet, jeans sagging around my slender hips. Maybe it's not that I hate Clea so much than it is that I'm jealous of her? She looks like a woman; she makes me feel like a boy. Or hell, maybe I'm just an angry person? To be fair, I've had a lot in my life to be pissed off about.

“We did that summer camp thing together,” she adds, flashing a triumphant look in Nash's direction. He ignores her completely, raking his fingers through his dark hair and looking over at me instead. Our gazes meet and I suck in a deep breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hitch says as Clea moves over to him and takes a seat on the arm of his chair. “I remember that—we did a lot of skinny-dipping that summer,” he continues, and I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I can't decide if that's because I recently went skinny-dipping with Nash, or because I just imagined what Hitch aka Finny would look like naked.

“Hell yeah we did,” Clea says with a giggle, tossing her hair and throwing one leg over Hitch's. He doesn't look all that disappointed to have her there, and I decide then that I'm done. Reconnecting with Finny … Gunner's right. He's not the same kid he was before. He used to be one of my boys, but he isn't now, is he? I should just let him go.

“Gun, you should probably get going,” Nash says, nodding his chin at the clock on the wall above the TV. There are rules posted next to it that stretch from the ceiling all the way to the floor.

All programs must be approved by the house manager. No profanity, violence, or sexual activity allowed—either on the TV or in the common area. TV slots are fifteen minutes per person; sign-up forms are on the clipboard in the kitchen. You may sign up for ten slots per week, but no more than four consecutive slots per person, and no more than four total slots per day.

The list goes on and on and on.

“I guess I should,” he says with a sigh, unfolding himself from the couch and rising to his full six foot four height. He puts a hand on my head and twists the bill of my cap back around to the front. “I'll be back late, okay? Don't wait up.”

“I always do,” I tell him defiantly, and he smiles, stepping away and adjusting the name tag on the front of his shirt. Last week, during his usual walk to the store, it fell off and he got a 'point' from his a-hole manager. Ten of those in a year period and he's fired. “Good to see you again, Finny,” he says on his way out.

Hitch lifts a hand in acknowledgement, but he doesn't pause his conversation with Clea to respond. At this point, she's fully sitting in his lap. As I stare at him, Hitch looks over her shoulder and meets my eyes, the corner of his lip twitching in a slight smile.

I meet his gaze, refusing to look away first. After about thirty seconds, the front door closes behind Gunner, and Hitch shifts his attention back to Clea.

“Guess I'll go shower,” Maddox says, squinting at the clock. “I signed up for a bathroom slot tonight and I don't want to lose it.”

“Better hurry,” I tell him, hating how carefully he has to move around the dim living room. If I could, I'd give him one of my eyes so he could see better. If only … “You're about two minutes late.”

Maddox hits the stairs and takes them two at a time, using sheer instinct to guide his way. As soon he gets to the top, I grab Nash's hand and tug him away from the living room, refusing to look back and see what Hitch and Clea are getting up to. Frankly, I don't want to know.

“Are you jealous?” I ask, as soon as I get Nash into the boys' bedroom. The four bunks in here belong to Maddox, Gunner, Nash … and now Hitch. Hopefully he doesn't get any ideas about bringing Clea up here; there are no locks on the doors in Hell.

“About what?” Nash asks as I kick off my sneakers and fall onto his bed, leaning back into the pillows before I tug my cap off and chuck it. “You and Hitch?”

I lift up slightly on my elbows to look at him, shrugging out of his jean jacket and hanging it on a hook near the door.

“Me and Hitch?” I echo with a few confused blinks. “I just met the guy. Well, re-met the guy I guess.”

“Yeah, but you two used to be so close,” Nash says, sitting on the edge of the bunk and glancing over at me, his expression just this side of unsure. I've never seen him like this. Not once in all the years we've known each other. I bite my lip and glance away. “You guys slept in each other's beds for like, years.”

“We did the same thing,” I tell him and he shrugs.

“Only after you came back and Finny was gone.”

I kick Nash in the leg and try to change the subject. There's no point in going there right now. Hitch might technically be Finny, but from what I can tell, the person I used to know is gone. Hell, the person I used to be is gone, too. Stripped away, broken down, shredded. Life has not been find to the five of us, that's for sure. Why should it be? The world owes nothing to the lonely and forgotten.

“I meant, are you jealous about Clea and Hitch? Clearly there's something going on between them.”

Nash purses his lips and closes his eyes, rubbing at his left eye with the heel of his hand smearing black liner all over the place.

“Seriously, Merit? You're smarter than that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to be mean?” I snap, but the words come out softer than I meant them to. I know I'm being a bitch right now, but I can't help it. Responding with anger, with vitriol, with snark, that's the only thing that's kept me—kept all of us—safe. Showing weakness, softness, kindness, that only gets someone like me into trouble.

“I was only playing around with Clea because I was trying not to let … this shit between us escalate.” Nash turns to me and then slides into the bunk on his side next to me, the way we've laid a thousand times in the past. I hate that it feels different now. “Specifically because I was fucking terrified that this,” he gestures between us, “would happen.”

I don't look at him. I can't look at him. What am I supposed to say? That I love him, but that I'm confused? That I'm so afraid of being hurt I'd rather run away? That I'd give up everything to keep our little family together?

“Nothing's happening, Taters,” I tell him, and at least I get a small smile out of that.

“Nothing except you spent all day yesterday and today avoiding even looking at me.”

“Guess I'm still getting used to the idea that we …” I pause and there's a long moment of awkward silence. “That I have to live in Los Gatos for eight months,” I say instead.

“We've been through worse,” Nash says, reaching up to play with a few loose white-blonde strands that are stuck to my forehead. “But I'll still miss you like crazy while you're gone; I always do.”

We lie there in silence for a while before Nash reaches down and grabs the extra blanket off the end of his bed, pulling it up and over us. We curl together like lost children, snuggling for warmth and love and companionship, the way we've always done.

It's only when Nash drops his hand to the button on my jeans that things feel different. I close my eyes and let him undo my zipper, slipping his fingers underneath the denim and stroking a long, languid line up the front of my underwear. My lids flutter closed and I relax into it, enjoying the bursts of pleasure that arc through me with each pass of his fingertip.

When he finally slips one inside, I'm hot and ready, curling my right hand into his t-shirt and pulling him close. Our kissing this time is a hell of a lot more frantic than it was before, full of fear and desperation. It might not seem like a big deal, being carted off to some rich asshole's house forty minutes away, but when life is this fragile, this tumultuous, even something as small as distance can feel like a thorn to the heart.

Nash kisses and strokes me until my body melts in his arms, digging up that orgasm I fought so hard against the other day. It sneaks up on me all of a sudden, this violent rush of energy and hormones that metaphorically knocks me on my ass. Without meaning to, I bite Nash's neck hard, stifling my scream as the first big O I've ever had wracks me through and through, like a storm rolling in from the mountains, flooding the valley, darkening the sky.

It takes me a while to get my shit together after that, calm my breathing, stop my hands from trembling. I have just enough time to lie back and look innocent with Maddox comes back in after his shower.

“I have some TV slots saved up, and it looks like the common room's free. You guys want to watch a movie?”

“Sure,” I say, feeling shaky and off-kilter but … also kind of fucking awesome.

For the first and only time in my life, I'm almost relieved that Maddox can't read the expression on my face.

Hitch is at school the next day, hanging out in the quad with Clea and Barrett, leaning against Barrett's Mercedes G-Class SUV like he owns it. Barrett doesn't look too happy about that, but Hitch also doesn't look like he gives a shit.

“Wow. Didn't take him long to wedge his way into the Toilet,” Nash says with a sigh, hefting his backpack up on his shoulder and pausing at the edge of the quad with me, Maddox, and Gunner.

The crowd that Hitch is hanging out with, we call the Toilet. Mostly because Tara Crawford, the JV volleyball captain, started telling anyone that would listen that her group of friends—the richest, meanest, most fucked-up kids in MC High—were the 'popular crowd', and that we should all start referring to them as P-Crew. Maddox told her they were all assholes, that nobody actually liked them, and that her bragging all sounded like a bunch of bullshit. Between P, shit, and assholes, we got Toilet. Not very inventive, but it works.

“Color me impressed,” Maddox says with a sigh and an eye roll. “Maybe it's a blessing we lost touch with him after all? If he wants to hang out in the toilet, good fucking riddance.”

The boys move ahead of me, but I just stand there for a moment watching Hitch, examining the easy, casual way he plays with a strand of Clea's hair, laughs at one of Barrett's jokes, hops up to sit on the SUV's hood.

As if he can sense me watching him, he turns his head slightly, his blonde and black hair catching the breeze. That orange-brown gaze clashes with mine, sending a thrill down my spine that I just can't explain. I have absolutely zero interest in anyone that wants to hang out in the Toilet, but … for whatever reason, it feels almost impossible to tear my gaze from his.

Hitch waves and both Clea and Barrett glance my direction.

I don't bother to wave back.

Today's my last day here and I refuse to waste it on bullshit.

Instead, I flip Hitch off and finding myself frowning when all he does is grin back at me.

Asshole.

I head inside to find the boys waiting for me, just like always.

Is it stupid to wish that Finny was still one of them?

At lunch, I hit the bathroom on the first floor, the one near the principal's office that nobody likes to use because it's too easy to get busted for having a phone on campus, smoking weed, or whatever the hell else the idiots at this school like to do in their spare time. I prefer it because it means that for once, I can actually piss in peace. It's a hell of a lot less crowded than the bathroom in Hell, that's for sure.

As soon as I step inside though, I can tell something's wrong.

The stall at the end is closed and I can hear a jumbled mess of moaning echoing around the blue and white tiled room. Both voices sound familiar, but it's the girl's I recognize first.

Clea fucking Mooney.

My first thought is that it's Nash, and I go completely and utterly ballistic for a moment, lifting my leg up and kicking the door as hard as I can. The lock snaps off and the yellow-brown stall door slams into the wall with enough force to crack a tile.

Clea glances over her shoulder at me, eyes wide and gapes like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing several times before she manages to get any words out.

“Get the fuck out of here!” she snaps, straddling the lap of the boy sitting on the toilet. Her skirt's all bunched up around her hips, her lipstick smeared, but I can't tell if the two of them are actually fucking or just dry humping.

Either way, I feel a rush of bile in my throat.

The guy she's straddling … is none other than Hitch Finnegan.

I expect to feel a rush of relief that it's not Nash sitting there necking with Clea, but instead, all I feel is disgust.

“Wow, you've decided to take the whole Toilet thing to a new level, haven't you?” I ask, which sounds all witty and shit to me but probably makes zero sense to either of the lovebirds draped over the porcelain throne.

Before either of them can get another word out, I'm turning and fleeing the bathroom, my heart pounding and my stomach all twisted into knots. I can't unsee Clea's bare legs, the shape of her ass, the way her mouth was swollen and her makeup smeared. I can't unsee the kid I used to call Finny with his hands all over her, his breath coming in panting gasps, probably with his dick inside of her. At least I didn't have to actually see that part.

“Hey, Merry!”

I glance over my shoulder and find Hitch chasing after me.

I ignore him and walk as fast as I can, heading toward the back door of the main building and outside. The boys and I usually eat in the school's garden area. It's this little slice of heaven in all the chaos of MC High, run by the gardening club and filled with orange and lemon trees, beds of vegetables, and paths surrounded by wildflowers.

I really don't want Hitch to follow me there, so I stop at the gated entrance and spin around to look at him, trying my best to keep my expression neutral.

“What?” I snap as he comes to a panting halt, running his tongue over his lower lip and flashing me that stupid piercing again. I refuse to admit that I find it sexy as hell. Not after what I just saw. I'm too grossed out.

“Are you okay? You look like you'd seen a ghost back there.”

“A ghost?” The laugh that escapes my throat is just this side of bitter. “Nope. Just a couple of whores doing what whores do best.”

Hitch frowns at me and puts his hands on his hips, catching his breath and then pausing to reach a sleeve up and wipe away the remainder of Clea's lipstick.

“Awfully judge-y, aren't we?” he asks with a heavy dose of snark, the sienna glaze of his eye sharp and burning, angry and awful. Fuck, I was right to hate this guy right off the bat. I softened up when I realized he was the Finny I used to know, but in all reality, he's just another delinquent prick passing through Hell's doors.

“Look, I don't care what you and Clea do. Just don't stink up my favorite bathroom when you do it.”

I turn to walk away and Hitch grabs my arms, his fingers curling tight around my bicep. Even with the thick fabric of my hoodie between us, it feels like his touch could burn. Scald. Melt me into nothing.

I try to tear my arm away, but Hitch just holds tighter, spinning me until my back's to the gate. He grabs hold of my other arm and pins there against the black metal bars and the hand-painted wooden sign.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous,” he purrs, putting his mouth to my ear and breathing hot against it. “Is that it? Did you miss me, Merry?”

Hitch leans in and puts his lips against the side of my throat, right over that jumping pulse that gives away all my emotions. This close up, he smells like sage and rosewood, masculine but sweet, too. For just an instant there, I forget what I just saw and feel this sharp, vibrant flicker of memory pass through me, of Hitch's small hands squeezing my own, of our foreheads pressed together as we listened to a thunderstorm pass by outside. Being that close to him, I felt safe.

I'm not sure that he's safe anymore.

The sound of a nearby door slamming closed wakes me up from the memory, and I lift my knee up, hitting Hitch as hard as I can between the legs. He's hard—whether from me or from Clea, I'm not sure—but as soon as I make contact, I know he's going to hurt like hell.

Hitch's fingers relax their grip and he stumbles back with a groan, clutching his crotch with his tattooed hand and taking low, shallow breaths to get through the pain.

“Don't ever touch me without my permission again,” I snarl, and I don't care how much I've hurt the bastard, I leave him to fall on his knees on the sidewalk outside the garden. The wind ruffles the top layer of blonde hair, revealing the darkness underneath.

I feel like that's what he's just done, showed me the shadows underneath the smiles.

Hitch growls something like, “fuck you, Merit,” but I'm not listening anymore. I turn and unlock the garden gate, slipping inside before Clea or Barrett or whoever the hell else might be looking for Hitch shows up.

After lunch, I check that same spot but Hitch is long gone.

Maddox was right—good fucking riddance.

Jenna-Marie is pretty in that So Cal fake tan, fake blonde, fake lips sort of a way. So are her daughters. Comparing me to them (which they often do), I'm referred to as the ice princess. My hair is white-white-blonde, my eyes like a glassy lake filled with snowmelt runoff, and my skin is pink tinged Nordic white.

I'm pretty sure that all three of them hate me, so why the fuck do they want me back?

“I can't do this,” I say as I stand next to an unpacked suitcase and stare down at the sidewalk where Jenna-Marie's beat-up old Mustang is waiting. “I just fucking can't.”

“You've got this,” Gunner says, pulling me into his arms and crushing me to that massive chest of his. Being this close to him, I get lightheaded and tingly, my fingers curling into his pale green t-shirt, my nostrils flaring at that clean, smooth scent of his, like a fresh ocean breeze. It sweeps over me and does a hell of a job at trying to calm my nerves. “We'll take the bus and come see you on the weekends.”

“Save your money,” I mumble into his shirt, but I know he won't. As nice as he is, Gunner is stubborn as hell, too. “You only have eight months to save up for an apartment, remember?”

“Don't worry about that,” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss against the top of my scalp. He knows I will anyway, but oh well. I can't really complain about the boys coming to visit me, now can I?

“Alright, time to share the love,” Maddox says as I slide out of Gunner's grip and turn to face him, putting a palm on either side of his face and leaning in close enough that I know he can see me. Maddox smells completely different from Gunner, like dark chocolate and musk, sensual but warm and homey at the same time. “Give 'em as much shit as you can without getting sent to juvie,” he tells me, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead that doesn't come across quite as chaste as I think he meant it to. “If you piss 'em off enough, maybe they'll send you back here?”

“I'm on it,” I promise, stepping back and glancing over at Nash. He watches me for a long moment and then steps forward, throwing an arm around my neck and kissing me on the lips the way he's done since forever. It feels completely different now, igniting this hot flame between my thighs, fanning this pulsing ache.

“See you next Saturday?” he asks, and I nod, my throat too tight to say anything else.

Before I lose my nerve and make a run for it out the back window, I toss what little shit I own into the suitcase, close it up, and head downstairs to meet Jenna-Marie.

The Buzzard's already got her seated at our ratty dining table with a cup of untouched tea, chatting away, too busy to notice the bourgeois bitch is staring at the chipped cup with unbridled disgust.

Before I can toss some snarky bullshit their way, I notice Hitch standing in the foyer, glaring at me.

“How's your dick?” I ask as I step up to him and drop the suitcase by his feet.

To my surprise, he just lets those full lips of his twist into a sly smile.

“Bruised, but he'll survive,” he tells me, tilting his head to the side, still draped in that baggy white hoodie of his. With his arms crossed over his chest and his fingers curled around the arms of his sweatshirt, I can actually make out the tattoos on his knuckles in the bright sunshine streaming through the foyer window. LOST SOUL is spelled out, one letter per finger across both hands, minus the thumbs.

“Really? Damn. Next time I'll kick harder.” I smile tightly, turning and leaning against the warmth of the window next to the front door. The boys should all be upstairs still, waiting to watch me drive away in Jenna-Marie's Mustang. It's just easier on all of us if they don't come down until after I'm gone.

Unfortunately, I now get to deal with Hitch, the childhood friend that's gone rotten over the years. He's like a banana with a bright yellow peel and a rotten inside, all cheerful and fascinating on the surface but ugly underneath.

“You know,” he says, licking his lower lip again. It must be a habit or something because he can't seem to stop doing it. “I never forgot Merry. Through all the abuse and the horror and the bullshit I've been through, I held onto those memories we made together.”

“Really? Because as far as I can tell, the kid that held me through thunderstorms and shared his desserts, he's dead. He never would've assaulted me outside the school's garden gate.”

“Maybe you're right?” Hitch says, lifting his eyes to mine and holding my gaze. “Maybe he is? And I'm sorry for that. Guess I learned a long time ago that the bad guys always win.” He pauses and that smile of his, it gets darker. Fuck, it's almost scary. “Life is just so much easier when you're one of them.”

Hitch pushes off the door and moves past me, making me shiver as his arm brushes against mine. I glance over my shoulder after him, but I'm not sure what to say—or if I should say anything at all.

I'm not quite sure I know what to feel either.

Do I mourn the lost little boy that Finny used to be? Or do I fear the man Hitch is becoming?

Maybe it's not really my problem either way?

Somehow, though, it feels like it should be.

Life at the Kennedys' is just as awful as I thought it was going to be.

That is to say, even worse than it was last time. The girls—Maddie and Brandy—are spoiled rotten nightmares, their mom is a bitch, and to add insult to injury, their pervy stepfather is back from some extended business trip thing. Fortunately, I didn't have to meet him last time I was here. Unfortunately, now that he is back, he seems to have absolutely zero desire to leave the house.

Basically, I've spent the entire week in my room, counting down the days until Saturday, missing the boys, missing my school. Hell, I even miss the shitty old bunk beds in Hell. At least when I'm there, nobody acts like I should be grateful for my crappy lot in life. I can just exist and that's enough. Here, I'm expected to say thank you for being treated like shit.

And the high school?

Fuck, it sucks.

And I love school. I love it. It's my sanctuary, my escape, my chance at a better future. But here? Where the teachers treat me like I'm dirt and the students are twice as bad as the ones at MC High? I feel like that opportunity is being ripped from my fingers. Plus, I have literally zero backup in this place. It's just me, myself, and I, and I fucking hate it.

I hate being lonely.

At night, I lie in my bed with the door locked and listen to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Twice now, somebody's tried the handle, found it locked and left. But that night Brandy cut off all my hair? My door was locked; she picked it. Who's to say what might happen next time?

So not only am I lonely, but I'm also exhausted.

After school the following Friday, I lock myself in my room as usual and lie back on the bed, closing my eyes and letting myself dream of tomorrow, of ice cream in the sun with my family, with familiar faces, and warm smiles. I think about Nash and his hand dancing inside of me, teasing my most intimate parts with smooth easy flicks of his fingers. I think of Maddox, defending me both at home and at school, even if he can't see what the hell he's defending me against. And I think of Gunner, always willing to shoulder the burden for the rest of us, trying too hard, fighting for every ounce of happiness.

I even think of Hitch, despite my best efforts.

'Guess I learned a long time ago that the bad guys always win. Life is just so much easier when you're one of them.'

My eyes snap open and I exhale, a long, slow breath that does nothing at all to calm my nerves. I might only be twenty-three miles away from the guys, but it feels like millions.

Rolling onto my side, I pillow my hands under my head and try to get to sleep. Maybe if I doze a little now, I'll have an easier time staying awake tonight? I peek out the curtains and see Jenna-Marie's husband—whatever the fuck his name is—mowing the lawn. It seems to be about the only chore he's capable of. Everything else—the cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping—is apparently supposed to fall to me. Only, I've been refusing to do it. Let's see how long that lasts. Maybe once they realize that I'm not worth the easy government paycheck, they'll send me back?

I close the curtains, climb under the covers, and try to grab some sleep.

I wake to a nightmare.

Maybe once upon a time, we were all friends with Hitch Finnegan.

Not anymore.

Friday after school, I come into the living room to find him, Clea, Barrett, and Tara sitting huddled on the sofa together. Barrett is laying out lines of white powder on the coffee table's surface while the others watch.

When Hitch sees me, he leans back and grins, crossing his arms together behind his head.

“Hey there, Taters, care to join us?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, closing the door behind me. Maddox and Gunner are both stuck back at the school in some college readiness class, so I'm here by myself. This is kind of the last thing I want to deal with. “If the Buzzard catches you with this shit, there's no infraction slip—it's straight to frigging Purgatory.”

Clea and Tara both giggle; Hitch ratchets his grin up another notch.

“That so?” he asks, staring at me like he gives absolutely zero fucks about what I have to say.

“Clea,” I start instead, switching my attention to her. Not that she talks to me anymore. To be fair, I put some distance between us after what happened with Merit, but that doesn't mean I give zero fucks. “You said you'd rather die than get sent back to Purgatory. I mean, I'm not opposed to having some fun, but take that shit outside or whatever. If Mrs. Freeman catches you—”

“Come on, Nashed Potatoes, loosen up a little,” Hitch says as he sits up and drops his hands to his lap, taking a rolled up twenty dollar bill from Barrett. As I stand there gaping, he snorts two of the lines in quick succession.

At about the same moment, I hear the Buzzard's door open upstairs.

“It's not fun if it's not a little dangerous, too, right?” Hitch says, passing over the green tube and sniffling as he watches the others scramble to finish their own lines. I swear, Clea's still choking on the high and swiping white residue off the table when Mrs. Freeman appears in the entrance to the living room.

“Excuse me,” she says, gesturing at Barrett and Tara, “but guests need to be registered at least a day in advance. I haven't approved any visitors.” The Buzzard pulls her infraction slip pad out of her pocket, but Hitch is already smiling and Clea is giggling like crazy into her palm. “The two of you will need to leave.”

“Whatever. I'm done with this fucking dump anyway,” Barrett says with a smirk, pulling Tara up off the couch after him. Hitch stands up, too, and the boys slap palms. “Pick you up on Monday?”

“See ya then,” Hitch says, tucking his fingers into his pockets and tossing a smirk in the Buzzard's direction. “Go ahead and write me up. I invited them into this funeral home.”

He glances my way next and winks, putting an arm around Clea's shoulders and escorting her toward the back door. Just before the two of them disappear outside, he sticks his tongue out at me and flashes the silver piercing in it.

“Catch you later, NPG,” Hitch says, letting the screen door slam closed behind him.

I don't even realize I've curled my hands into fists until a drop of blood drips down my finger and clings hot and wet to my knuckles. I've cut my palms with my own nails.

“See that you don't caught up with that boy. He's nothing but trouble,” the Buzzard says, turning away and heading into the kitchen to make some tea. “I know a future felon when I see one!” she calls out as I sigh and lean my back against the wall.

I know I shouldn't get involved—we get plenty of fucked-up kids around this place—but for the first time in forever, I'm actually scared of one of them.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

After dinner, I fill Mad and Gun in on what I saw in the living room earlier.

What I definitely don't fill them in on is what happened with me and Merit.

Jesus, am I the world's biggest piece of shit? I wonder as I stare at my two best friends and wonder if they know, if they could see it written all the hell over our faces that day. For a second there, I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath. I seriously can't stop thinking about the feel of her body beneath mine, the taste of her mouth, the warmth of her skin.

“Nash?” Gunner asks, and I crack my eyes to look up at him. How can he not see it in my gaze when he looks at me like that? I'm messed all the hell up right now. Like, how do I move on from this? Do I move on? Are Mer and I going to be a thing? Could we ever be a thing? Our group dynamic is … it's what I fucking live for.

“What?” I ask, pushing dark hair back from my forehead. I've always jokingly called this my emo cut which was funny, you know, because I've always been an upbeat sort of person. I don't feel so upbeat right now. Looks like the mood finally matches the hair.

“You're spacing out again,” Gunner says, getting that dark look on his face, the one that says he's slightly disappointed in me. He can tell I'm hiding something. I get that. I mean, I am. But it's scary to think he might be able to get it out of me before I'm ready. When he glares at me like that, I feel like I'm seconds away from spilling the truth. He just has that look. Maybe it's because he's a hundred feet tall? Maybe it's because he looks like a Viking warrior? Or maybe it's because he once took a blow from an angry foster father for me?

His nose never did heal quite right after that.

“I know, I know,” I say as steeple my hands and put them to my lips. “I just … I don't trust this guy like, at fucking all. He's going to drag Clea down with him.”

Maddox makes a sound from the window, sitting half inside and half out, smoking a cigarette and blowing gray-white wisps into the wind.

“I thought you and Clea were done? What do you care what she does?” he asks, pausing and listening for that distinct squeaking floorboard, the one that says somebody's coming down the hall toward us. A second later, we all hear it and Mad chucks his smoke into the darkness, closing the window and slipping into the chair next to the desk.

When the door opens, it's not the Buzzard—it's Hitch.

“Hello boys,” he says, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not particularly,” Gunner says, his voice smooth and low. Dangerous. He takes care of us, but he's not a pushover. I wonder if it bothers him that the boy we used to hang out with has become such a rancid prick?

“Good, good,” Hitch says, hauling himself up onto the bunk above my own. “I wouldn't want to bother you all if you were discussing something important.” He kicks off his shoes—these black high tops with a purple and blue galaxy print—and lets them fall to the floor in the center of the small room. From where I'm sitting, I have a perfect view of his ankle monitor.

“Nah, we were just talking about you doing crack in the living room.”

“Wasn't crack—that was definitely cocaine.” Hitch pulls his feet up onto the bed and then leans over to stare at me upside down, his blonde and black hair hanging like a mohawk. “Next time, if you want some, just ask.”

Hitch lifts himself back up onto the bed, the mattress dipping above me as he settles in.

So much for private conversations in our own bedroom.

Maddox, Gunner, and I exchange a look.

“I'm taking a shower,” Gun says with a small sigh, glancing back at Hitch before he grabs his shampoo and leaves the room, the floorboard creaking as he passes over it. Maddox doesn't say anything at all, flicking off the lamp and climbing into bed without a word. A few seconds later, I hear his old CD player whirring. I bet he's listening to Metallica again. I mean, he's only got about ten CDs so it's kind of an easy guess.

“Do they know you and Merit are fucking?” Hitch asks after a moment, making my skin go cold. I peer through the darkness at Maddox, but the only movement from his side of the room is the slight tapping of his foot against one of the bunk bed's posts.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, standing up and turning to look at Hitch, all sprawled out and comfortable on his mattress, arms crossed behind his head. I can see his mouth etched in sickly orange light from the streetlamp outside. I expect him to be smiling, smirking, laughing at me. Instead, he's just frowning with his eyes closed.

“I walked in on you two last week. If you don't want your friends to know, you should be more careful.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I snap, reaching out and taking a handful of Hitch's shirt, jerking him forward with a tight fist. He snatches my wrist and sits up to look at me, but still, he doesn't smile or grin, doesn't make a sound. He just stares at me for a long moment.

“I'm not threatening you,” he tells me, carefully removing my hand from his shirt. I let him do it and take a step back, using long, deep breaths to try and get a handle on my anger. If I start fighting Hitch, Mad and Gun will want to know why. I'm not ready to explain yet. “It's just an observation.”

“Sure it is,” I say, reaching back to grab a handful of my shirt. I yank it over my head and drape it over one of the rungs on the bunk bed's ladder that nobody ever uses. The beds are so short, it's easier to use the bottom bunk to just hop right up.

“Oh, come on, Taters, relax a little. We used to be buddies, right? I'm just trying to help you out a little.”

“Fuck off,” I snap, throwing my covers back and climbing into bed. I try not to think about Merit lying in here with me, my hand inside her jeans, inside her. My fingers curl in my hair as I suck in a deep breath and tilt my head back into the pillows, trying to get my emotions under control.

Shit.

So not only do my best friends not know, but the guy I hate has it all figured out.

This should be a fun eight months, shouldn't it?

A hand curls in my hair and drags me from the bed, throwing me to my knees on the floor.

I hit the ground hard, pain spiraling from my legs and up into my spine as the shadowy figure above me jerks me forward with his grip on my scalp, dragging me across the wood floor towards the door.

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” I scream, thrashing around and shredding the wrist of the man above me, drawing blood with my nails.

“You think this is a fucking hotel?!” he screams as he releases me, kicking me as hard as he can in the side. I'm so disoriented that I don't think to try and block it or roll aside. Instead, I just curl forward with a grunt and desperately try to suck in more breath to scream.

I was sleeping. It was early afternoon. But now it's dark? I slept too long.

Blinking through the haze of sleep, I look up just in time to see Jenna-Marie's husband looming above me in the shadows, his face a messy red blob, his eyes unfocused, his hands curled into fists.

“You lounge around all day while I work my ass off,” he slurs, running his hand through his dark hair and swaying from side to side. “Not in my goddamn house. I won't have some fucking orphan leeching off of me. Get your fucking ass in the kitchen and finish those dishes.”

“Eat a load of shit,” I whisper, scrambling out of the way as the man takes another swing at me, missing by a mile in his drunken rage. Down the hall, I see Maddie's cracked door close suddenly.

That explains a lot.

Is this why Jenna-Marie wanted me back? To take the place of her and her daughters as her husband's punching bag? It wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me.

Finding my feet, I head down the hallway toward the front door. Unfortunately, I'm not familiar enough with the house to know there's a decorative fucking rug on the linoleum floor in the foyer.

The fabric slides right out from under me, sending me to my back on the floor with a cry of pain. But that's nothing compared to the sudden curl of fingers in my hair, the force that the man hauls me backward with. There's so much rage there, so fucking much.

“You think you can run from me, you little bitch?” he asks, straddling me and throwing a hard punch to my face. White stars scatter across my vision, and the hot, metallic tang of blood fills my mouth. When I try to scream, I choke on the scalding liquid, gasping and sputtering as Jenna-Marie's husband grabs me by the front of my shirt and slams me into the floor. “I asked you a goddamn question!” he shouts in my face, spittle flecking my cheeks, the rancid reek of alcohol all over his breath.

I throw a punch of my own at him—I've been defending myself from grown men all my life—but he's in too much of a state to even register the pain. Instead, all that does is make him angrier, and his hands wrap around my throat, squeezing hard and choking the life out of me.

I kick my legs underneath him, but god, he must weigh about a million fucking pounds. I swear, it feels like I'm sitting under a block of cement.

Thoughts of the boys fill my head as I struggle for my life in the dark hallway, my hands clawing at the man's face, fingers going for the dark sockets where his eyes should be. I dig my thumbs into those pits with as much force as I can muster, my lungs screaming for breath, my ribs crying out at the massive amount of weight crushing me to the floor.

The man's grip on my throat loosens and I manage to scramble away, skidding across the floor as I try to find my feet again. My head is spinning and blood is pouring down my face, but I don't stop, going straight for the back door and throwing it wide.

That's where he catches up to me, snatching me by the back of the shirt and throwing me into the kitchen table. I hit it so hard that I end up mostly lying on top of it, my hand scrambling around for something to use as a weapon.

At this point, all I've managed to do is make the pissed off psycho even angrier. Now he's just coming at me in a white-hot rage. He probably has no idea who I am, doesn't even care. He just wants to hurt me—maybe even kill me.

My hand wraps around a fork, and I spin, just in time for the man to grab me by the ankle. Without hesitation, I thrust the metal utensil into his right eye.

The scream he lets out then is deafening.

Sliding off the table, I head back down the hall to my room and slam the door, locking it behind me. Since I never bothered to unpack, it only takes me a second to shove my shit into the suitcase and snap it closed. Before I let myself think too hard about what I'm doing, I climb out the window and into a sudden rainstorm.

Seems fate isn't exactly on my side tonight.

The light flickers on overhead, blinding me.

“What the fuck?” I hear Hitch mumble from the bunk across from mine. We're both on the top, inches away from the massive round light in the center of the ceiling. Getting flashed with that in a dead sleep is not my idea of pleasant.

I sit up and bang my head on the ceiling with a curse, rubbing at my eyes, expecting to see one of the younger kids standing in the doorway, someone with a nightmare that just needs a gentle smile or a pair of strong arms.

Instead, I find myself looking right at the Buzzard in her lavender robe, curly orange-brown hair twisted into a messy bun on the back of her head.

“Is she here?” she asks, and immediately, I know something's happened to Merit.

“What's going on?” I ask as the Buzzard moves into the room and checks the small closet, under both beds, under the desk. “Mrs. Freeman?”

“There's been an incident,” is what she says, but hell if I'm going to be satisfied with that. “Go back to bed, but let me know immediately if Miss Burden shows up here.”

“Why would she show up here?” I ask, heart racing, throwing my legs over the side of the bed so I can drop to the floor.

“Mr. Colvin, get back in bed or that's an infraction slip for you.”

“I'll take the infraction slip,” I tell her, lifting my palms up in surrender. “But I need to know what's happened with Merit.”

“It's not your concern, Mr. Colvin,” she sniffs with her beaklike nose. “The police are handling it. Just remember—failing to report a runaway isn't just an infraction slip, it's a guaranteed spot in the juvenile detention center.”

The Buzzard turns off the light and slams the door. I wait just long enough to hear the floorboards creak before I move over to wake Maddox and Nash. Mad always sleeps with music playing, and Nash just plain sleeps like the dead so neither of them is awake when I approach their beds.

“What the hell?” Maddox groans as I yank off his headphones and shake him awake before moving over to Nash.

“Something's happened with Merit,” I say, and that gets them both off their asses.

“What do you mean?” Nash asks, scrambling out of bed, shirtless and panting. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” I tell them, grabbing a shirt and jacket from the end of my bunk. “But nobody seems to know where she is.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nash whispers, scrambling around for a shirt and shoes. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mer.”

I help Maddox find his clothes in the dark, so he can get dressed. I know he could really use the light to see, but we can't risk drawing attention right now. What we need to do is get the hell out of here.

“Are you three bailing?” Hitch asks incredulously, looking at us with disbelief. “You can't do that.”

“Sure we can,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head. I give him a cold look that brooks no bullshit. “You did crack in the living room, didn't you?”

“First off, it was cocaine, and second, you can't goddamn leave.”

“Try and stop me,” I tell him, my voice getting eerily low and quiet.

I shrug my jacket onto my shoulders and head over to the window, lifting it up on quiet hinges. I bought a small can of WD-40 from the store across the street from my work, just so I could keep this particular window from creaking.

Looks like that investment's paying off.

I climb out first and Maddox follows, using me as a guide to find his footing.

“I can't see shit, Gun,” he whispers, and my jaw clenches tight.

“I've got you,” I tell him, helping him over to the front corner of the roof. Nash is right behind us … and Hitch is behind him.

“What the fuck do you want?” Nash snarls as the boy we used to call Finny pauses on the edge of the windowsill … and snips his ankle monitor off with a pair of garden shears.

Goddamn it.

“What the hell did you do that for?!” Nash spits as Hitch pulls himself outside and onto the roof. “The cops are gonna be all over this place.”

“No shit,” Hitch tells him, throwing an arrogant look over his shoulder. “But if you guys are getting the fuck out of Dodge tonight, then making my escape later will be ten times more difficult. I wasn't exactly ready to leave right now, but it is what it is.” He pauses and puts his hands on his hips. “Now, how the hell do we get down from this roof?”

“Gunner,” Nash pleads, staring at me with his hands out, but what the fuck can I do about a delinquent piece of shit like Hitch Finnegan? I have more important things to worry about.

“Screw him. Let's go,” I say, climbing down from the edge of the roof onto the rusty surface of the van that belongs to the home. The Buzzard uses it as her own personal vehicle even though it's supposed to be available for anyone with a valid license that lives in the home. Sure would be nice if I could drive the four miles to the grocery store at night instead of having to walk. “Help Mad down,” I tell Nash, and even though he's still scowling and glaring at Hitch, he guides our friend to the edge of the roof and helps me get him down safely.

It's basically a fucking miracle considering how wet everything is. Even as we're standing there, the skies open back up and drop a deluge of rainwater down on our heads.

Nash follows after, and the three of us hop down to the driveway just in time to hear sirens in the distance.

“Shit. We better hurry,” I say, throwing up my hood and starting off down the sidewalk. The crash that follows stops me dead in my tracks, and I whirl around to find Hitch lying on the sidewalk clutching his ankle.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” he's cursing, clutching at his foot and leaning his head back against the side of the van. To his credit, he doesn't scream, just closes his eyes tight and purses his lips, his breathing coming in rapid, shallow pants.

“Wow. Talk about karma,” Nash says, looking unsympathetically in Hitch's direction. With a shrug of shoulders, he turns away, taking Maddox with him. I follow after.

“Wait!” Hitch shouts as the sirens draw closer and the rain starts to fall harder, crashing down on my hood and muffling the sound of my own frantic thoughts. Where are you, Mer? Please be okay. Please, please, please be o-fucking-kay. “You can't leave me here, alright? They'll send me to jail this time.”

I ignore him and start after Mad and Nash, waiting for me at the end of the block.

“I have money!” Hitch calls out as I move away. “Lots of it. It's buried somewhere in Monterey. If you take me with you, I'll give you half!”

That gives me pause.

I have no idea what's happened to Merit, but if she's a runaway, she'll need money. We will need money. We'll need a place to stay, food, clothes. I purse my lips tight and spin back around to kneel down next to Hitch.

Pushing my hood back, I give him my darkest look, the one that reveals every scar I've ever received right there in my eyes. Hitch stares right back at me, defiant and haughty, even with his swollen ankle clutched tight in his hands.

“If you're bullshitting me, you'll regret it,” I warn him and he nods. “Fuck.”

I swipe rainwater from my eyes and put my back to Hitch, grabbing one of his legs with either arm. He snarls with pain, but manages to thread his arms around my neck, both of us grunting with the effort as I struggle to stand up with all that extra weight clinging to my back and shoulders.

This is definitely the most difficult piggyback ride I've ever given.

I hope like hell that Hitch's idea of 'lots' of money is the same as mine. If I find out this is all a bunch of crap, I'm going to seriously wreck his face.

I jog through the rain with ragged panting breaths and find Nash pacing anxiously, Maddox standing stone-still by his side. The rainwater near our feet is bathed in a wash of red and blue from the oncoming cop cars.

“This a-hole just fucked us and you're bringing him along?” Nash asks, but I don't have time to explain. I give him a stern look that says I know what the hell I'm doing and just keep running. We turn the corner, Nash's hand tucked in Maddox's to keep him from getting lost, and let ourselves into the backyard of an elderly neighbor. She has a long, double lot with a back gate that lets us out on San Lorenzo Boulevard, near the walking bridge.

Cutting across that, we book it down to the boardwalk.

Since it's a Friday night, the place is packed, the rain driving most of the crowd inside the arcade and restaurant area at the end of the park. I drop Hitch onto the bench of a picnic table near the bathrooms and collapse on the opposite side, struggling to catch my breath.

“Why'd you bring this piece of shit with us?” Nash asks, gesturing angrily at Hitch as he rolls up his pant leg to inspect his ankle. It's about twice the size it should be and rapidly turning purple. “He almost got us caught. And then what would happen to Mer?”

“He says he has money he'll split with us,” I say, rubbing at my temple as the sound of pinging balls, clanging bells, and faux machine guns echoes throughout the arcade. The whole place smells like grease and ketchup, and the air is thick and hot with the humidity from such a large crowd.

It's the perfect place to catch our breath.

“Where the hell would he have gotten money from? He's just a throwaway like the rest of us.”

“Maybe,” Hitch says as Maddox hands him a cup of ice he grabbed from a nearby soda fountain. He takes a few cubes and wraps them in a wad of napkins from the silver dispenser on the table, pressing them to his ankle with a hiss of pain. “But I'm a throwaway who knows how useful being invisible can be. Shit.” He leans his head back against the wall behind him and takes several shaky breaths. “This really fucking hurts, you know that?”

“Wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed put,” Nash says, coming around the table to sit next to me. Maddox stays standing at the head of it, arms crossed over his chest, his brown leather jacket slung over his shoulders and speckled with glistening drops of rainwater.

“How much money and where did you get it?” Maddox demands, his brown eyes hard and focused on Hitch's face. In the bright lights of the arcade, at least I know he's not having any trouble seeing.

“I stole it, obviously,” Hitch says, closing his amber eyes and leaning heavily against the wall. “I'm not sure how much—never got the chance to count it—but there's got to be at least twenty thousand, easy.”

“Where is it?” Maddox asks as I sit up and push my hood back, droplets of cool water sliding down my nose and catching on my lips.

Hitch shrugs.

“Buried it in Monterey somewhere. If you take me back there, I can find it, but we should probably chill out for a little while. I got arrested for breaking and entering on the piece of property where I hid it—after I hid it, of course.” Hitch flashes this stupid grin that only lasts for a second before he's grimacing in pain again. I doubt he'll be wandering around searching for buried treasure anytime soon. “So. You guys have a contingency plan in place or something? Otherwise I don't see how you plan on finding Merry.”

“We have a designated meeting place,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “The pier at Seacliff State Beach—although it's closed now after the storm.” I drum my fingers on the table. If Merit is in Los Gatos, then she's going to have to find her way all the back here. It might take some time. Part of me wants to hop on a bus and head up there, search for her myself, but I know that's a next to impossible task.

If Merit doesn't want to be found, I won't find her—and neither will the cops.

“We'll head there now and wait her out.”

“Seriously?” Nash asks, planting his hands on his hips and dropping his chin. “Not only did you just tell this son of a bitch about our spot, but you want to sit around and wait? That sounds like a real shitty plan to me.”

“With his ankle all fucked-up like that, Hitch is hardly a threat,” I say, giving him a look that says be better not be. He blinks his amber eyes at me and then moves the wad of wet napkins. The paper splits and half-melted cubes fall to the floor beneath the table. His ankle … I'm starting to wonder if it might be broken. It's the size of a grapefruit already. “And besides, what else do you think we should do? Visit the Kennedys? If Merit's missing, she's clearly not there. And you know her just as well as I do—if she took off, there's good reason for it. We're not going to find her running around Los Gatos like headless chickens.”

“We should at least try,” Nash says, lifting his head up to look at me. Maybe he thinks I'm stupid, but I can see guilt swimming dark and deadly inside his blue irises. Whatever it is he's hiding from me, I hope he lets it out before it circles around and bites him in the ass.

“If that's what you want to do, you're welcome to it. Just remember when you're done that the rest of us—Merit included—will be waiting at Seacliff for you.”

“Screw you, Gunner,” Nash says, sweeping dark bangs off his forehead. But I can see in the set of his shoulders and the clench of his fists that he'll come with us. At least he has the sense to know that I'm right about this.

“The question is: how do we get over there?” Maddox asks after a moment, squinting up at the clock on the wall. It's almost ten-thirty at night, about a half hour before the boardwalk closes. “The Metro? I know they run buses from here to Aptos until around midnight.”

“The Metro Center's only about a mile from here,” I say, my back aching at the thought of carrying Hitch all the way over there in the pouring rain. But what else can I do now? Maybe I should've left him behind? I guess if he is telling the truth about that money, then it'll be worth it—even the risk is worth it.

“We should get going then,” Maddox says, slicking his fingers through the wavy red-brown strands of his hair. “We don't know how long Merit's been missing. For all we know, she could be there already.”

I hope like hell that Mad's right about that one.

I don't want to imagine the consequences if he's not.

With blood streaming down my face, I bolt into the liquid navy California night and start running, my suitcase slapping against my leg as I sprint as fast as I can down sidewalks turned rivers. Lukewarm water soaks into the denim of my jeans as I put as much distance between the Kennedy household and myself as possible.

The rational part of me says I should find a police station or a pay phone (if they even have those anymore) and report the attack. After all, I was just defending myself. There's nothing for me to answer for here. And yet … I know how the system works. I know how fucked-up and skewed it is. Does it even matter that I wasn't in the wrong here? Somehow I imagine that I'll suffer for it anyway—I could be sent to Purgatory, sent back to the Kennedys, or even charged with a crime.

I've seen it before, the system coming down on the weak it was supposed to protect, the lost and abandoned turned to dust beneath a mighty fist.

I won't let that happen to me.

Ducking under the awning of a closed shop, I snap open my suitcase and pull out my navy blue hoodie with all the holes in it, yanking it over my head. My baseball cap comes out next, pressing my wet hair against my scalp. At least I'm wearing the new sneakers Gunner bought me, the ones without a single fucking hole in them. If I'd been wearing my old pair, the ones with the soles that are peeling off, my feet would be just as soaked as the rest of me. Hell, I'd have probably tripped and broken my ankle by now.

I dig out some of the money that Gunner insisted I take with me and close the suitcase.

I need to find my way to a bus station and get to Aptos, to the Seacliff State Beach. Even if the boys don't know what's happened yet, they'll find out, and they'll come for me. I know they will.

Standing up, I start down the sidewalk again at a more reasonable pace, trying not to draw any unwanted attention—from either side of the law.

My whole body hurts, from toes to scalp, and I can still taste blood, hot and fresh inside my suddenly dry mouth. My throat feels bruised and each breath of oxygen I manage to suck in tastes like candy.

I almost fucking died back there, I think as I walk a little quicker, checking over my shoulder every few feet to see if I'm being followed. I think he was going to kill me.

This won't have been the first time I was attacked by a foster parent, but it's definitely the first time one of them took it that far that fast. Usually, once they see I'm willing to fight back, they decide it's not worth it and decide to pick on an easier target. Apparently, Jenna-Marie's husband is not only a very angry drunk but also a psychopath.

I swipe a hand over my face and notice in the glow of a streetlight that the rainwater's tinged pink from all the blood. Even now, with water pouring over me in a deluge, I'm still bleeding. That fucker definitely knows how to throw a punch; I feel like I've been trampled by Godzilla.

Two blocks later, I find a bus stop and pause to check the schedule.

“Fuck,” I snarl, slamming my palm against one of the metal poles. Of course all the routes are local, just jaunty trips around various shopping centers. Los Gatos is a stupidly wealthy suburb with a bunch of rich assholes that don't need buses to get around. If I want to get to my boys, I'll have to take a bus to the light rail station, head up to San Jose and then back down to Santa Cruz.

Fantastic.

I'm definitely not going to make it tonight.

The next bus to Winchester Station doesn't arrive until six in the morning. It's either wait for that or walk the ten miles to the light rail.

I flop down on the bench, using the small amount of cover provided by the bus station to take a break from the rain. Leaning forward, I put my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. What I want to do right then is break down, start crying, ask why, why, why. No, no, I want to scream that, demand the universe give me answers. After all the shit it's put me through, doesn't it owe me at least that, an explanation as to why my life's been so goddamn hard? I mean, I've put up with a lot since entering foster care at age three—a lot.

But I also know that no matter how bad things get, I'm not entitled to anything at all—not even a simple explanation. Nobody is. I just think that's a lesson some people are fortunate enough to never have to learn. The world doesn't owe us shit.

Lifting my head up, I stare across the street through the pouring rain at a clock in the park, resting atop a black metal pole, its face smiling with a faint glow that lights up the gloomy night.

Just about seven hours until that bus shows up.

If the light rail ran all night, I'd just give in and walk the ten miles to the station, but I know it, too, stops around midnight.

So I have two choices: sleep here on this bench out in the open or find somewhere to hide.

Figuring I'll stand out like a sore thumb if the cops decide to canvass the neighborhood looking for me, I stand up and take my suitcase with me, heading into the park and hoping like hell that wherever I decide to squat for the night, that I'm alone.

Normally, that's the last thing I'd ever want to be.

In the dark, vulnerable and bleeding, it's the only thing I'm praying for.

Around four in the morning, I give up on trying to find any rest in the bushes of the local park and head back to the bus station. I'm too smart to sleep out in the open like that, and too wired to relax enough to make it worth it. Besides, my body hurts all over and lying in the dirt like that, muscles tense and ready to defend myself, is basically agony.

I'd rather park my ass on the metal bench and take my chances with the cops.

There are far more dangerous predators lurking in the shadows of night, that much I do know. For a pretty blonde girl tossed in the tempest seas of the foster care system, I know that I'm lucky. The boys have protected me; I've protected myself. But I won't ever let my guard down. Last night just proves it: evil is everywhere.

I lean my shoulder against the wall of the bus stop and wait, watching the sun rise above the trees, listening to the sound of shops opening, deliveries being made, early morning joggers pounding the pavement. The city comes to life around me, but it doesn't see me sitting there, bleeding and bruised and alone. It doesn't care. Nobody does—nobody except the boys.

That's why we have to stick together. The world might be callous and cruel, might have forgotten us and left us in the dust, but I can feel with every beat of my heart that they're waiting for me, that they do care. Even if nobody else gives a shit, we take care of each other.

I sigh and close my eyes, thinking of Nash and Maddox and Gunner.

I don't let myself think about Hitch; I don't have the energy right now.

Instead, I crack my tired, bruised lids and watch the people that pass by on the opposite side of the street, trying to imagine what their lives are like, what they're up to so early in the morning, if they're happy or sad or lost or broken.

At exactly six-fourteen in the morning, the bus pulls up to the curb and obscures my people-watching. I climb on, pay the two dollars, and head to the Winchester Station in Campbell and then over to Diridon Station in San Jose. After that, it's straight into the Santa Cruz Metro Center and over to Aptos.

Two and a half hours later, I climb off and start walking the two miles toward the beach.

At this point, my suitcase feels like it's stuffed with lead and my heart is beating somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. The thought of seeing the boys makes my already achy eyes burn, but I fight the tears back, forcing myself to walk faster, harder, close the distance between us.

When I reach the edge of the cliff and the set of wooden stairs that descends to the beach, I start down them two at a time, refusing to look up and out toward the pier, try to find the tiny pinpricks of human life at the bottom.

I don't need to look to know they're here.

As soon as I reach the sand, I start running, dropping my suitcase just a few feet from the edge of the pier and the boy leaning against the rusted white metal fence that runs across the entrance. He must be dozing off because he doesn't see or hear me until I'm throwing myself at him.

Maddox grunts when I drop into his lap, but he doesn't waste a second before putting his arms around me and squeezing me tight, enveloping me in that warm, homey scent of his, caressing the back of my head with his hand and holding me close.

“I was about to grab a bus to the Kennedys to see if I could beat some information out of them,” he whispers, and I know he's telling the truth. He really would do that for me. “Jesus, Mer, what happened to you?” Maddox pushes me back a few inches and squints in the bright sunlight as he examines me. I hold still, so he doesn't have to work so hard to see me, letting him take in every bruise, every smear of blood. There's no point in hiding any of it from him. “Who did this?” he asks as I sag in his arms and lay my head against his chest.

“Jenna-Marie's husband,” I whisper, burying my face in the old wrinkled brown leather of Maddox's jacket. It's the only thing he has left of his dad; I've seen him punch a kid out for touching it. And yet … he lets me bury my face in it and cry ugly, pink stained tears.

“Merit,” he says, his voice full of tender fear, lifting my chin up so he can look into my eyes. This close, I know without a doubt that he can see all of me, every square inch straight down into my soul. Hell, knowing Maddox he could probably see me even if were blind. He'd just reach out and touch me like he's doing now, hold me and listen to the cadence of my breathing, the trembling of my hands, the beating of my heart. No, I don't think Maddox really needs eyes to see me at all.

“It's okay,” I tell him, realizing in that instant how fucking close our mouths are, how easy it would be to kiss him. If I did, would he let me? Would he fall into me the way Nash did and let us get swept away? Or would he fight the way I seem to be doing, working against my own attractions for the sake of the group?

There's only one way to find out.

“Beyond what you can see, he didn't hurt me,” I promise, and then I close the distance between us, putting my lips against his.

Kissing Maddox is … like coming home.

His hands drop to my shoulders and squeeze hard, sliding down to my back and pulling me close. Now that the rain's stopped, sunshine is pouring over us, mixing with the salty scent of the sea, mingling with the crash of waves. I can hear seagulls cawing in the air above us as the wind tries to claw my baseball cap off and toss it into the sea.

Mad clamps a hand over my head and keeps my favorite hat from making a run for it, taking my mouth with hard, slick swipes of his tongue against mine. As much as his jacket means to him, he knows this cap means everything to me.

My fingertips lift up and brush against the stubbled sides of his face, teasing along the edge of his strong jaw and digging into the waviness of his hair. I could lie here all day and kiss him like this and I'd never get bored. Hell, I'd probably never want for anything ever again.

Except, you know, maybe Gunner and Nash.

“Where are they?” I whisper when my lips feel tender and swollen, and my body's starting to forget I almost died last night. Instead, that aching pulse between my thighs takes over, my nipples pebbling with desire, my body arching into Maddox's in a way that's probably a little suggestive for a public beach.

“Sleeping,” he says dreamily, almost like he's coming out of a daze, rubbing one hand over his James Dean haircut and looking at me like he's never seen me before. “Are you sure you're okay?”

I sit back so that I'm straddling his lap and those loose, slouchy jeans he wears like a movie star from the 1950s.

“I'm fine,” I tell him, breathing hard, feeling my cheeks heat.

I've always wanted to kiss Maddox and now I've done it. I guess it only takes the threat of death to get me to make a move. But what about Nash? What's he going to think about this? Hell, what's Maddox going to think when he finds out I slept with Nash first?

“Do you have any cigarettes?” I ask, breathing a sigh of relief when he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack. Now I have something to do with my hands that doesn't involve touching Mad's face or groping his chest.

“Are you gonna tell me what exactly happened last night?” he asks as he lights me up and watches me take a few glorious puffs on the cigarette. White curls of smoke dance in the wind as I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the warmth of the sun settle across my skin. My clothes are still wet from the rain last night, damp and clinging to my body. I decide to yank my hoodie off first, tossing it aside in a heap and noticing that Mad's eyes have drifted down toward my chest.

As soon as he realizes he's doing it, he glances away and scoots out from underneath me, gently pushing me aside so that I'm sitting next to him rather than on his lap. Right now, I'm wearing a wet t-shirt with no bra, but I don't care. In this moment, it's just me and Maddox and a pack of cigarettes.

I need that, that simplicity for just a few minutes longer.

“Why did you kiss me, Mer?”

“Because I wanted to,” I say, even though that's a stupid answer that really doesn't say anything at all. But how do I tell Maddox that I love him and Gunner and Nash in the same way, in a way that begs for kisses and careful touches, for warm bodies and mouths and hands. I don't love them like brothers, even if I should. “Didn't you want me to?”

“I've wanted to kiss you for years,” he admits, glancing over at me and then shrugging out of his jacket. Now we're both wearing white t-shirts with no bra. I feel a grin tease my lips as I study the pebbled points of Maddox's nipples through the thin fabric of his tee. He doesn't smile back at me, but maybe that's because my face is a swollen mess and I know for a fact that he was tasting blood when I kissed him. “But I don't want anything to change.”

“I know,” I say, and then we both go quiet for several minutes. “I thought I might die last night, Mad,” I tell him, and feel a small ripple of pleasure when he reaches over and takes my hand in his. “That man … I don't even know his name … he came at me in a drunken rage and when I fought back, it just pissed him off more. He tried to choke me.”

I look up at the towering cliffs, dressed in shrubbery and dancing in the wind. It's beautiful here, peaceful. I wish I could just sit in this spot forever, smoking a cigarette and holding Maddox's hand, knowing the other boys are safely asleep in the warm sand.

“A man I didn't even know tried to kill me for no reason at all.” I ash my cigarette onto the old wood of the pier and sigh. “I'm tired of it, Mad. I'm tired of being scared to go to sleep, of wondering if I'm going to be sent away, if one of you is going to get shipped off to Purgatory.” My eyes water, but I blink back the tears and smoke my cigarette instead. “I stabbed him in the eye with a fork, you know.”

“A fork?” Mad asks, and then he chuckles a little, pulling his cigarette from the lush fullness of his lips with two fingers. I smile at him, but I know that even with his limited vision he can see that it doesn't quite reach my eyes. “Is that why you ran away?”

“You know I'll get blamed for this—even if I was defending myself, I might be charged with assault.”

“We won't go back then,” a voice says from behind me, startling me so badly that I drop my cigarette. When I turn around, I see Gunner standing at the edge of the ramp, smiling softly at me. “I'm glad you're safe, Mer,” he tells me as I scramble to my feet and throw my arms around my neck. Good thing I'm standing on the ramp because it helps make up for the height difference between us. For once in my life, it feels like I might actually be on eye level with Gunner Colvin.

“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, wondering if he saw the kiss between me and Mad.

The way he holds me, it's hard to say.

With Gunner, I feel like he's holding back at all times, shielding part of himself from me because he's afraid of getting hurt. At the same time, when he touches me, it's like there's this electrical current between us, carrying the emotional storm inside of him into my chest. I can feel it crashing and breaking, raging and pouring. Just like the tumultuous deluge from last night, it soaks me and leaves me dripping.

“Just long enough to realize you weren't a mirage,” he says as I step back and look into the pale sea green of his eyes. Because he's so tall and so competent, because he takes care of the rest of us, I forget sometimes that Gunner's barely a year older than me. Right now, staring into his face, I can see how young he really is and it's a little scary. He's not the caretaker of our little group; he's just another misfit trying to survive.

I glance over at Nash's sleeping form, a hoodie curled up under his head, and realize that he's not alone.

There's a boy sitting next to him, one with blonde and black hair, his head tilted back, eyes focused on the gray-white clouds above us, the ones that promise that even though it's sunny today, we're not finished with the rain just yet.

“What the hell is Finny doing here?” I ask, flicking my attention back to Gunner. Maddox moves over to stand beside us, tucking his fingers into his jeans pockets. I can still taste his kiss, lingering heavy and ripe on my lips. It's so distracting that I steal another cigarette and have Mad light it for me, taking a slow drag while I wait for the boys to answer.

“He cut off his ankle bracelet and tried to follow us,” Gunner says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. At age seventeen, he really shouldn't be so muscular, right? I make myself look at the sand. Staring at my boys lately only seems to be getting me into trouble. “Then he fell off the roof and fucked up his ankle pretty badly. I don't think he can walk.”

“So you, what, carried him?” I ask, flicking my attention back to Gunner.

“He bribed me, Mer,” he says with a long sigh, sliding his fingers through his hair. “Supposedly the asshole has buried treasure somewhere.”

I cock a brow and tilt my hip, smoking my cigarette and noticing that Gunner acts like my hard nipples and see-through shirt don't exist at all. Instead, he focuses on the bruises at my throat, lifting up one of those big hands of his to cup the side of my face.

“Holy shit, Merit,” he whispers as he finally takes a moment to really look at me, take it all in with a sweeping glance. I wave him off, but he doesn't listen, pulling my baseball cap from my head so that the sunlight highlights every injury on my face and neck. “Has this been going on all week?”

“It all happened last night,” I say, noticing that Hitch is looking at me over his shoulder, studying me with a carefully neutral expression. I ignore him. “Tell me about the buried treasure instead. You actually bought that crap?”

“Merit,” Gunner says with a long sigh, clearly not satisfied with me dancing around the truth. I'll tell him everything; I just don't want to do it right now.

“He says he stole some cash and buried it,” Maddox says, still working on his own cigarette. With it parked between his lips like that, he has that classic bad boy Americana look going on. A warm flush rushes over me and we exchange a glance.

Maddox isn't going to forget that I kissed him anytime soon.

“If we're not going back to Hell, we'll need money to get started,” Gunner says, drawing my attention over to him. What he just said finally hits me. 'We won't go back then.'

“You have to go back,” I say, feeling a small flutter of panic inside my chest. As much as I hate the system and everything it's done to me, I don't know what to do without it. That scares me. I might've been beaten and abused and shuffled between homes, but at least I had somewhere to lay my head, something to eat, a routine to follow.

Gunner's suggesting we simply … float out to sea?

“You don't have a lot of time left in the system, Gun,” I tell him, pursing my lips and trying to pretend like he's not a good nine inches taller than me. “And you have a job. If you leave, you'll be listed as a runaway and the second you go into work, they'll just drag you back to Hell.”

“I won't go back to work then,” Gunner says matter-of-factly, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. “We'll use what money we've got saved up until we can figure something else out. Whether that's Hitch's buried treasure or whatever else, we'll make it work.”

“You should go back, Gun,” I repeat, but he just frowns at me.

“Are you going back?”

“Obviously not—I stabbed a man in the eye with a fork.”

“If you're not going back, then neither am I. Merit, we're a family,” Gunner says, dropping his arms to his sides and tucking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. They're the same threadbare navy blue pair that matches my hoodie; he's been wearing them as pj's for years. Clearly, he didn't take the time to change before ditching Hell to come find me. “We're in this together.”

“What about Hitch?” I ask with a tilt of my head.

“We take care of him until he can walk again, help him find the money, and take our half. I couldn't care less what he does after that,” Gunner says, casting a look in Hitch's direction.

The asshole's not watching us anymore, instead choosing to lounge on his back in the sunshine. Next to him, Nash fidgets in his sleep but he doesn't wake up. I should go get him and tell him I'm okay.

“You really want to do this?” I ask, glancing over at Maddox. I know I should put up more of a fight, but I don't want to do this alone. And I can't go back. It's not just because of the fork incident either; it's everything. Just fucking everything. It's the uncertainty and the fear, the abuse and the threats. What would it be like to wake up everyday and not have to wonder if that's the last night I'll ever sleep in that particular bed? If the next place I go will even let me sleep? If I'll have to lie awake in fear of someone breaking into my room so they can choke me?

Escaping all of that … sounds too good to be true.

I should've known then that it wouldn't be quite so easy. When has anything in our lives ever been easy?

But a desperate, hopeful heart can get a girl to do all sorts of things, can't it?

“We should've left when the Buzzard first said you were going back to the Kennedys,” Maddox says, lifting his chin up and looking me square in the eye. “If we had, none of this would've happened.” He looks at me and pulls his cigarette out from between his lips, ashing it into the wind. “And Merit, as bad as this is, you got lucky last night.”

“I know,” I say, feeling that anxious tickle settle a little. He's right. I could've been raped or killed—or both. As scary as whatever we're about to go through might be, it can't be worse than last night, can it? “So what do we do now?”

“First,” Gunner says, glancing down the length of the pier at what's left of the cement ship known as the S.S. Palo Alto. It used to be kind of a tourist attraction around here, but the recent storms quite literally tore the stern off the old sunken ship and tossed it in the water like a child's toy. “We get a hotel for the night, so we can shower and relax and figure this all out.”

“We can't afford a hotel, Gun,” I say softly, but the idea of sleeping in a real bed sounds so appealing that I don't put up much of a fight. “Besides, don't most hotels require credit cards?”

“One of my buddies from the store works at the Best Western on Ocean. I bet I can get him to rent us a room for the night. We'll still pay; we just won't have a credit card.”

“You think he'll do that?”

“He might give us the room for free,” Gunner suggests, dropping my baseball cap back on my head. “Considering I caught him getting a blow job in the storeroom last week.”

“Who was giving it to him?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood and pretend like my head doesn't feel like it's about to explode, like I'm not at all scared about the prospect of living on the street. Nope, not this girl right here.

“The night shift manager.”

“Is she married?” I ask and Gunner smiles slyly.

“He is married, yes—to a woman.”

“And he was sucking some young employee's cock while on duty? Sounds like pretty good blackmail to me.” I take a deep breath and adjust my hat, tucking loose strands of white-blonde hair underneath it so they don't whip around my face in the breeze. “Okay then.” I look Gunner in the eye, and then Maddox. “Let's do it.”

The hotel room we check into is about a thousand times nicer than anyplace I've ever stayed—before or after I was put into the foster care system. Thank fucking god Gunner's blow job connection came through because I know for a fact we couldn't afford it otherwise—even if Hitch is telling the truth about his buried pirate treasure.

“Your ankle looks like shit,” I tell him as Nash and Merit lay curled up together in one of the two beds. I try not to be jealous, but there's this dark little part inside of me that wants her for myself. I mean, I'd give up a limb to keep the family we've created together but … she's always been so close with Nash, cuddling up to him, sitting in his lap, sleeping next to him.

I want all of those things, too, just in a different way.

My body reacts to the memory of her warmth pressed up against me, our lips tangled, my hands on her back. And that t-shirt she was wearing under the hoodie? That almost killed me. I love that girl with everything I have, but I also want her. Beneath me, above me, surrounding me. Is that wrong? Somehow it feels like I'm betraying her just by thinking that.

“Think it's broken, doc?” Hitch asks sarcastically, cringing as I drop a bag of ice onto the swollen purple flesh of his ankle. He tucks it close and then accepts the handful of pain pills I offer him. As soon as they saw his ankle, one of the desk clerks up front offered us a massive supply of complimentary ibuprofen and acetaminophen pills, all tucked away in these little pouches of two with the hotel's logo on the front.

“If it is, you do realize you'll have to seek actual medical treatment, right?”

“That so?” Hitch asks, leaning back into the pillows with this smug look on his face that almost convinces me right then and there that it's time to put in his place. I might still have some fond memories of the kid called Finny, but I won't hesitate to punch out the dickhead he's grown into. “No, it's not broken.”

“And you know that how?” I ask, settling into a chair near the window. Gunner's already asleep on the couch, taking a nap that I've promised to wake him up from in twenty minutes. I'm giving him two hours. He works too goddamn hard.

“Because I've had several broken bones over the years, and this doesn't feel like those did. It actually hurts more,” he says, adjusting his propped up ankle with a sigh and a grimace. “Fuck.”

“Why don't you just tell me where the money's buried and I'll dump your half right here so we can be on our way?” I ask with a slight smile. Hitch returns the favor, smirking at me and crossing his arms together behind his head.

“If only chivalry weren't dead,” he says with a sigh, almost like he really means that.

“Is that why you were so gung-ho on getting out of hell? To grab that money?”

“I was actually planning on taking my time before making the great escape.” Hitch cracks his orange-brown eyes and glances over at me. “But if three other kids go missing from the home first? Makes it a hell of a lot harder to get out of there undetected. You guys gave me no choice.”

“Well, boo-fucking-hoo,” I say, curling my fingers around the chair arms. “Sorry that Merit got the shit beat out of her last night. We'll make sure to plan that stuff more carefully in the future.”

“I'm not judging you,” Hitch says with a slight shrug. “I'm just saying you messed up my plans is all. So now I'm here and we're stuck with each other, so we should probably make the best of it, huh? Honestly, I think you're getting a way better deal out of this than I am.”

“You know, I really don't fucking like you,” I say, focusing on his face and trying to ignore the fact that on either side of Hitch, there's just this blurry darkness, like I'm staring down a tunnel. It's been getting worse and worse lately, my peripheral vision. It's at the point where I feel like I'm looking down the length of a straw, like my whole world's narrowed to this small pinprick of light.

I won't ever admit this to anyone, but it scars the shit out of me.

How can I protect myself if I can't see? How can I protect Gunner and Nash? How can I protect fucking Merit if I'm blind?

And god, I love my sight. I love the color of the sky and the sea, the trees, the spring wildflowers, the white-blonde of Mer's hair and the ice cold depths of her eyes. I can't even imagine what it'd feel like to never be able to see those things again, to know that the rest of my life will be spent in empty blackness.

I exhale and close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, the blurriness on either side is slightly diminished. That makes me feel better. Maybe I'm just fucking tired as hell right now?

“Mad?”

When I crack my lids, I see Merit sitting up in the bed and watching me.

“You okay?”

“Just fine,” I tell her, standing up and digging some change from my pocket. “I'm gonna hit the vending machine real quick. Do you want anything?”

“I'm coming with you,” she says, throwing the blankets aside and standing up.

If I were Gunner, I'd probably tell her to stay here and get some rest. Instead, I hold open the door so she can pad into the hallway barefoot. As I'm closing it behind me, I notice Hitch watching her from his position on the bed, his eyes locked onto her svelte form with unbridled interest.

Goddamn it.

I really am going to have to punch that guy in the face.

“I really don't like that guy,” I tell her as she takes my hand out of habit and leads me down the hall. I can see just fine in here, but I like the feel of her fingers wrapped in mine too much to protest.

“Neither do I,” she says, pausing at a door marked Ice and Vending and holding her palm out for the hotel key card. I pass it over and she taps it on the lock, waiting for the green light to blink before she opens it and lets us both in. “He's dark, Maddox. And not just in the way that we can all be sometimes, wrapped up in spirits and shadows.” Merit sighs. “I mean, he's really dark. I think he even scares me a little bit.”

“You could kick his ass if you wanted to,” I say, squinting at the vending machine and tracing my fingers down the braille on the sides. I can't read that shit yet, but one day I might have to. One day I might have to give up color and smiles and the gentle movement of the ocean against the beach for raised dots beneath my fingertips.

I exhale sharply and start feeding the machine.

“I know,” she says, and the sound of her voice encourages me to turn all the way around to look at her. If I stare straight ahead, everything's as clear to me as it always was. I'm not asking to be superhuman here; I just want to keep whatever it is I've got left. “He acted like a dick at school last week, so I kneed him in the balls.”

“What'd he do?” I ask, going stiff as Merit reaches down and grabs the soda from the vending machine for me. When she tries to hand it over, I tuck my fingers in my jeans and lean back, giving her a sharp look. “What'd he do, Mer?”

“Doesn't matter,” she says, setting the soda on the ice machine. “I took care of it, Mad. Look, you don't have to worry about me so much.” She points to the bruises on her face, the swollen eyelids, the slit lip that I was kissing just a few short hours ago. “I'm pretty goddamn good at taking care of myself.”

“Doesn't stop me from wanting to protect you,” I tell her, shivering as she lays her palms on my chest. The warmth from her skin seeps straight through, burning me, scalding me, marking me in a way that I know will ruin me for any other woman.

“You're still thinking about it,” she says. It's not a question.

We both know what she's talking about.

There's a long moment of silence before Merit speaks again.

“Maddox,” she says, heart pounding in her throat. I can see it from here. I lift one of my hands up and brush my thumb lightly across her bruised neck, teasing the beating thump of her pulse with my fingertip. “Last week, after I found out I was being sent to the Kennedys …” Merit takes a deep breath, pauses, exhales. She wants to tell me something, but it's not coming out.

For whatever reason, I find myself terrified to find out what it is, slipping my other hand up to her face and teasing along the length of her jaw with my thumbs. Before she can force herself to say the words, I lean in and press my mouth to hers, tasting her lips with slow, careful flicks of my tongue.

I can't even fucking believe that I'm doing it either.

After wanting her all this time, of telling myself it could never work, that I'd destroy the family, that she wasn't interested, that she deserves better than a man who'll be blind by age forty … I'm kissing Merit Burden the way I've always dreamed of.

Her hands slide down the front of my shirt and fumble with the button on my jeans, shocking the hell out of me.

“Merit,” I whisper, but I don't stop her. I should, but I'm too weak to make that move, to deny myself something I've wanted since I was fifteen. Her hand slips inside my jeans and finds the hardened ridge of my cock, fingers stroking along the length, gripping me hard at the base.

I grit my teeth as she works me, our mouths pressed tight together, tongues twirling. My right hand drops to grip her breast through the thin white fabric of the t-shirt, kneading the soft flesh and feeling the hardness of her pebbled nipple against my palm.

“Here,” she says after a moment, pressing something against my chest. When I reach down to grab it, at first I think it's one of those stupid little pill packages from the front desk. Only … it's not.

It's a condom.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, a thousand emotions flickering through me all at once. I'm excited, but I'm also nervous as hell. Where did she get this? Was she planning this all along? Or is this a spur of the moment thing because of what happened last night?

“You know,” she says, breathing hard, looking up at me with dilated pupils and lips swollen from kissing. The bruises on her face don't make her any less beautiful. In fact, they highlight her strength, prove that this girl, she's a fucking fighter. “It goes on your dick, Mad.”

“I know where it goes,” I tell her as I finger the package and meet her gaze. “But are you sure about this?”

“Positive,” she tells me, and there's something about the strength in that one word that convinces me.

I'm so going to regret this later, aren't I? I think, but that doesn't stop me from tearing the package open and sliding the lubricated latex down the length of my shaft.

Merit's already pushing down the loose pajama pants she switched into when we got to the hotel, and even though I've seen her naked more times than I can count … this time I really let myself enjoy it.

Lifting her up by the hips, I set her on the edge of the ice machine and say a silent thank you to whoever loaded it up with the Out of Service sign. Now at least I don't have to feel so guilty about getting it dirty.

I settle between Merit's thighs and kiss my way down the side of her neck, digging my fingers into the silky blonde strands of her hair and breathing in the sweet herbal scent of her shampoo. She gets so upset about her hair now, how short it is. But fuck, for me, it's just as nice. I can't get enough of it—touching it, smelling it, seeing it.

“One more time,” I whisper against her ear, pulling her closer to me with my left hand on her hip. “Tell me one more time that you're ready and we can do this.”

“I'm ready,” she says, and then I'm sliding inside of her, inch by inch, nice and slow. The expression on her face is one that I commit to memory, burn into the recesses of my brain. If one day I do go blind, I know that this is a moment I'll be able to look back on and see with sharpened clarity.

I keep one hand on the back of Merit's head, kissing her as I bury my body deep into her warmth, my pelvis cradled in her hips. Everywhere she touches me, her skin fucking burns. That sensation, like flames licking against my skin, it encourages me to move faster, harder. I'm worried about hurting her—as far as I know, Merit's still a virgin—but she seems to like it, encouraging me by arcing her hips forward, kissing me harder, deeper, faster.

The ice machine rocks a little, but we both ignore it, moving our bodies together in this wild dance that makes me feel like maybe I'm not so crazy for thinking of her the way I do, like she's the woman I was meant to be with.

When I'm with Merit, I feel like a man instead of a lost little boy with nobody and nothing. She makes me feel fucking whole inside.

“Harder, faster,” she pants, and then we're both groaning and moving together, taking our bodies to that breaking point and letting them crash together with frantic lips and scrambling hands, warm heat and shudders. I feel Merit come around me, her body tightening on mine, squeezing me, drawing out a release of my own.

Afterward, we just stand there for a long time, trying to catch our breath. It's only when we hear footsteps in the hallway outside that we scramble apart and try to put ourselves back together.

I drop the used condom in the trash can about three seconds before a woman walks in to use the vending machine, and the two of us slip out.

“Merit,” I say as she starts down the hallway, fixing her hair and glancing over at me. I can't read the expression on her face and that scares the crap out of me. “Are you okay?”

“Maddox,” she says, a slight warning in her voice. “You're doing it again, trying to protect me. I promise you: I'm fine.” Looking at her right now, after what we just did together, she looks like a completely different person, like her eyes are shining and her lips are fuller, like there's something sitting on her lips that she wants to say but can't. Or won't. “Why don't you put on those boxers I stole from Gunner last year and wear them like swim trunks. We can head down to the pool. I figure if we're here, we might as well use it. Then … we can talk.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say as she starts walking again … and then stops suddenly, staring at something through the glass windows that lead into the fitness center. It takes me a moment to figure out what she's looking at. The windows are tinted and the angle of the TV makes it really hard for me to focus … “Maddox,” Merit whispers, taking a step back and slamming into me.

I grab her and hold her close as I squint to read the words next to a picture of a smiling man in a business suit, his arm around a tall blonde with tan skin and a smile as fake as her press on nails.

I recognize her right away: that's Jenna-Marie Kennedy.

And the words on the ticker …

“You can hold me now, Maddox,” Merit whispers, her voice trembling as she leans back against me. “You can protect me now, okay?”

But looking at this … I have no fucking clue how I'm going to keep her safe this time.

The words flash by three, four, five times before I really register what they're saying.

Man Slain by Foster Daughter in his Los Gatos Home Last Night: Police Continue the Search for the Seventeen Year Old Fugitive.

“He's dead, Mad,” Merit whispers as my heart thunders in my chest and I tighten the band of my arms around her. At this point, it's all that I can do. But I will figure this out. There's no way in hell I'm going to lose her. No fucking way—I'd rather die. “He's dead … and I killed him.”

Forbidden love shouldn't feel so good.

Sometimes, the only way to go forward, is to take a few, careful steps back..

Angsty Second Chance Football Romance.

.
"Can one of these five rockstars fill the hole in my heart? Or will I stay broken forever?"

KEEP UP WITH ALL THE FUN … AND EARN SOME FREE BOOKS!

JOIN THE C.M. STUNICH NEWSLETTER – Get three free books just for signing up http://eepurl.com/DEsEf
TWEET ME ON TWITTER, BABE – Come sing the social media song with me https://twitter.com/CMStunich
LOVE YA SOME SNAPCHAT? – Let's send some exclusive and killer Snaps such as video from book signings and sneak peeks at new books, search cmstunich or visit https://www.snapchat.com/add/cmstunich
LISTEN TO MY BOOK PLAYLISTS – Share your fave music with me and I'll give you my playlists (I'm super active on here!) https://open.spotify.com/user/CMStunich
FRIEND ME ON FACEBOOK – Okay, I'm actually at the 5,000 friend limit, but if you click the "follow" button on my profile page, you'll see way more of my killer posts https://facebook.com/cmstunich
LIKE ME ON FACEBOOK – Stop on by, click like, and don't forget to drop me a message https://facebook.com/cmstunichauthor or https://facebook.com/violetblazeauthor
CHECK OUT THE NEW SITE – TBA (under construction) but it looks kick-a$$ so far, right? You'll be able to order signed books here very soon http://www.cmstunich.com
READ VIOLET BLAZE – Read the books from my hot as hellfire pen name, Violet Blaze http://www.violetblazebooks.com
SUBSCRIBE TO MY RSS FEED – Press that little orange button in the corner and copy that RSS feed so you can get all the latest updates http://www.cmstunich.com/blog
AMAZON, BABY – If you click the follow button here, you'll get an email each time I put out a new book. Pretty sweet, huh? http://amazon.com/author/cmstunich & http://amazon.com/author/violetblaze
PINTEREST – Lots of hot half-naked men. Oh, and half-naked men. Plus, tattooed guys holding babies (who are half-naked) http://pinterest.com/cmstunich
INSTAGRAM – Cute cat pictures. And half-naked guys. Yep, that again. http://instagram.com/cmstunich
GRAB A SMOKIN' HOT READ – Check out my books, grab one or two or five. Fall in love over and over again. Satisfaction guaranteed, baby. ;)

P.S. I heart the f*ck out of you! Thanks for reading! I love your faces.
<3 C.M. Stunich aka Violet Blaze

Find your next five star read in C.M. Stunich's (aka Violet Blaze's) collection and discover more kick-ass heroines, smoking hot heroes, and stories filled with wit, humor, and heart.

About the Author

C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over fifty novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

Oh, and Caitlin loves to chat (incessantly), so feel free to e-mail her, send her a Facebook message, or put up smoke signals. She's already looking forward to it.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Front Matter

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Signup for my Newsletter

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Back Matter

Stepbrother Inked Cover

Tasting Never Cover

Kicked Cover

Groupie Cover

Keep Up With The Fun

More Books By C.M. Stunich

About the Author