Wreck Me (Nova #4) Read online

  “Are you calling me an asshole?” I ask as I sit up, yawning and stretching.

  She suddenly looks worried. “Sorry, but you kind of were last night.”

  Quinton nods in agreement as he sips his coffee. “Yes, you were.”

  I stretch my arms out. “Yeah, sorry about that. It wasn’t you two. It was just… stuff.”

  They give me a look, the one they get when they’re concerned that I’m about to go do a line or shoot up. The look is probably justified, but it still annoys me.

  “I’m going for a run.” I toss the blankets off, grab some clean clothes from my duffel bag, and change in the bathroom. Then I head outside to take my morning jog, something I’ve been doing for the last three months in a desperate attempt to replace my drug addiction with sweat and exhaustion.

  I let my legs carry me as I sprint down the side of the road. And sprint. And sprint. My feet try to outrun my past and thoughts of drugs, but my sins nip at my heels. By the time I return, I’m dripping in sweat, my shirt is drenched, my limbs ache, yet I still feel my thoughts drifting to drugs.

  “Jesus, you look like you went for a swim,” Nova says when I trudge inside, panting and a little dizzy. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Before either of them can say anything else, I lock myself in the bathroom.

  I really wish they’d stop looking at me like that. It doesn’t help me stay clean, nor does it erase the last couple months of living back at home in Star Grove. I only visited because my mother begged me to be present for when Ryder’s new tombstone got put on her grave. There was already one on it, but my mother decided Ryder needed a larger stone with a more elaborate inscription. As much as I needed to visit Ryder’s grave, I wish I’d never gone back. Because it wasn’t just about going home. It was about returning to the past.

  The past is never good, and the visit left me more ruined than I already was, clawing at the edge of the cliff, ready to fall again. I’m really starting to question if I can be one of those people who stay clean for the rest of their lives. I’ve had to go through detox twice already and the idea of snorting a line still makes my mouth salivate. I crave the numbness. Crave the desolation from my mother’s final look before I left. The one that silently said: Why couldn’t it have been you that night in the car with Quinton.

  But I haven’t broken yet.

  I want to, though.

  Even if it means severe consequences.

  Consequences I’m too familiar with.

  Like the Hepatitis that took six months of treatment to get cured of. Then there was the day I almost overdosed. Part of me wishes I’d never come back, but the other part of me knows I begged for a second chance, begged for someone to help me find my way back. Not sure if anyone heard me, but I’m alive. As for the finding my way back part...

  I feel so lost all the time.

  All are reasons to just say no.

  But I want to say yes.

  It’s always there, an echo in my mind, calling out to me.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  Telling me that I don’t have a reason to stop.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I’m a lonely bastard.

  Sighing, I put on my work jeans and then tug an old T-shirt over my head. Then I force myself to be as happy as possible as I return to Nova and Quinton, but it’s not easy.

  By the time we’re walking to the site where the home is being built, just a little over a mile away, I’m wishing I never came back to North Carolina in the first place. It’s not like I’ve ever been into building houses or devoting my life to a good cause. Habitat for Humanity is Nova and Quinton’s thing, and I’m just the tag along, but I didn’t have anything else to do. I’m taking a few online courses and that’s about it. That’s my life.

  I haven’t even had sex in over four months, but that’s because I haven’t been in any crackhouses, which is where I’ve always done hookups. That’s the thing with me. When I’m sober, my life just sort of stands still and when I’m high, I become someone else who doesn’t feel like such an invisible fuck up. Even if that someone is a cracked-out asshole falling into an empty abyss, it sometimes feels better to be someone that exists enough to fall into an abyss.

  “You know what we should do?” Nova asks, ripping me from my thoughts.

  My boots scuff against the gravel on the side of the road as I glance up to Nova. She's in front of me, holding hands with Quinton, and looking over her shoulder at me.

  “What’s with the staring?” I ask.

  Her smile is as bright as the sun. Always is. “I was thinking that after we go find jobs tonight, we should go see Avery.”

  “Who’s Avery?” I play dumb, not wanting Nova to notice my lack of enthusiasm about getting a job or my excitement at the mention of Avery. I don’t even want to notice my excitement over Avery. Don’t want to acknowledge that during our brief encounter three months ago, Avery managed to get under my skin more than Nova used to do.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’d admit I haven’t stopped thinking about Avery since the first and only time we hung out. She’s one of the most fascinating people I’ve crossed paths with, and the fact that I was able to talk to her without being under the influence says a lot about her.

  At first I’d thought Avery seemed super happy, then I got a glimpse of something that could only be described as ugly when Conner, her ex-husband, showed up and yelled at her. I intervened and to this day I still don’t know why.

  The intervening wasn’t where Avery really left the deep, unforgettable mark on my memory, though. That came at the end of the night when she’d found the bag of crystal I’d been carrying and had accidentally dropped it. Instead of ignoring it or being disgusted by my behavior, she’d given me a choice.

  Take it.

  Or not.

  I’d chosen the ‘or not’ and am still choosing it for reasons that are unclear. Part of me wanted to explore the whole Avery infatuation I was starting to develop because it had to mean something, especially if she could think of me as someone other than the fucked-up, ex-druggie. And she kissed me that night… without wanting drugs or sex in return, nor was I asking her for drugs. That had never happened to me before.

  I went looking for her the next day to ask her questions about that night, questions I still think about all the time.

  Is she okay?

  How did she end up with a guy like Conner?

  Who is Avery?

  Why did she have the no guy rule?

  Why did she look at me with no judgment?

  And I mean really look at me?

  I think about it every day and every night.

  I wonder all the time what she’s doing.

  Wonder if she ever thinks about me.

  If she still sees me.

  I never did find her, though, and I’ve painfully learned that sometimes things aren’t better left unsaid.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Tristan.” Nova gives me a hard stare. “I know you remember who Avery is.”

  I tap my finger on my lip, still feigning stupidity. “Nope, not ringing a bell, but then again, a lot of chicks have been through my life. Sometimes it’s hard to keep them straight.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You know I know you’re a lot of talk, right? That you’re really a nice guy underneath that asshole demeanor.” She turns around and shuffles backwards to face me. “And I have moments that prove it—moments where you were a super nice guy.”

  Quinton’s looking straight ahead at the desolate road and squinting against the sunlight, his shoulders vibrating, probably from laughing his ass off while attempting to do it in silence.

  I pretend to be more irate than I am. “Okay, so what if I know who you’re talking about? It doesn’t mean I’m going to go see her again. We hung out for one night.” Just one. “I barely know her.” True. “You can’t have feelings for someone you don’t even know.” You just
can’t.

  “Who said anything about having feelings for her?” Nova asks and Quinton, who no longer able to hold it in, busts up laughing.

  “Oh, shut up.” I gently shove him and he trips over his shoelaces, continuing to laugh.

  “And so what if you hardly know her? You two seemed to hit it off really well and sometimes that says a lot.” She glances at Quinton when she says it, which I don’t get because the two of them didn’t hit it off right away. It took them forever and it was a messy, ugly, and brutal journey that I kind of drifted through with them.

  “Just because I hit it off with someone, doesn’t mean I want to do anything about it.” The sun peaks in the sky and starts to beam down on us so I pull my sunglasses over my eyes. “People go in and out of my life all the time.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes people come into your life and stay there,” she presses, probably referring to how I’ve managed to stay in her life for a few years. Then she threads her fingers through Quinton’s. In response, he grips onto her hand tightly. “And I don’t care what you want to do. I’m going to see Avery.” Her grin expands and then she spins on her heels, leaving me to drift back to my thoughts.

  Regardless of what Nova thinks, I won’t ever have what her and Quinton have, no matter how much I secretly wish I could. It just isn’t in the cards for me. After years and years of being alone, rejected, and used, I’ve come to the realization that I’m just not that kind of person—the kind someone wants long term. I’ve come to terms with that and am fine with it.

  That’s what I have to remind myself when we walk up to the worksite ten minutes later and Avery is standing in front of the foundation, talking to Wilson, the foreman. I barely get a glimpse of her and it’s only a side view, but it’s still enough for me to recollect how attractive she is, way more attractive than the women I’m used to hooking up with.

  Her brown hair with a purple streak in the front is pulled up into a ponytail, and the diamond above her full lips reflects in the sunlight. Tight jeans hug her legs and that ass… that ass is hot. Her skin is covered with ink, on the back of her thigh, her arm, her neck. Even now I find myself wishing to see every detail of her tattoos. Her lips are ridiculously soft too, which I know from the one kiss we shared. One amazing kiss that marked my lips, like the scar, the good kind, connected to a good memory.

  Avery saw me that night.

  But it can never be more.

  Can it?

  The fact that I ask myself the last question means I should keep my distance from Avery. No guy rule. She has a no guy rule. And you already got too attached. Do you want to relive the whole Nova thing again?

  Instead of walking over to Avery and saying hi like I desperately want to, I duck around to the back area of the foundation.

  Out of sight. Out of mind.

  If only that were true.

  Chapter 5

  Burnt eggs equal a bad sign for the day.

  Avery

  The lyrics to one of my favorite rock songs wake me from my deep slumber. As I come out of dreamland, for a brief instant, I swear I’m going to wake up in my old bedroom, surrounded by patched walls and a leaky ceiling. But the memory fades as I blink the sleepiness from my eyes and reach for my phone that’s on my nightstand.

  A number I don’t recognize flashes across the screen as the ringtone continues to play. I’d guess it has something to do with my mother, since we’ve been waiting around to hear a phone call that the police found her dead or alive, but the area code is unrecognizable. I hesitate before answering.

  “Hello?” I ask tiredly as I sit up in my bed and stretch my free arm above my head.

  The sound of breathing fills the line and a cold shiver slithers through my body. Conner. I remember the threat the guy made last night. It has to be Conner. I have no idea where he’s calling from. Nor do I care as long as it’s far, far away from here.

  “Conner if that’s you, you’re not supposed to be calling me,” I say edgily. “The restraining order says so.”

  The caller catches their breath and then the line goes dead.

  Sighing with the weight of the world on my shoulders, I end the call and set my phone down. I knew this was probably coming since he got out of jail recently—the harassing phone calls and then eventually he’ll start trying to meet up with me in person. That’s what he does, refusing to let me go even though he hated when he had me.

  Frustrated, I haul my butt out of bed and wander into the kitchen to cook breakfast. Cracking eggs and mixing pancake batter busies me enough that I don’t obsess too much about the phone call. Eventually Mason, my five-year-old son, comes wandering in, dressed for school, courtesy of Jax’s help I’m sure. I help him get seated with crayons and a coloring book while I finish cooking. But my cooking skills have never been stellar.

  “Fucking shit that hurts!” I jerk my hand away from the scalding pan and it slams to the floor. Eggs splatter across the tile floor and smoke fills the air as the fire alarms sirens off. For a moment, I just stare at the mess, wondering if it’s a sign of how bad this day is going to go.

  “Mommy said fucking shit!” Mason cries out as he scribbles in his coloring book.

  I don’t have time to scold him as the pain from the burn hits my finger. I turn off the oven, dash to the kitchen sink, and flip the cold water on. Then I shove my finger under and breathe in relief as the cold water soothes my soon-to-be blistered skin.

  “Mason, you shouldn’t say those words,” Jax shouts over the sirens of the fire detectors as he enters the kitchen. He takes one look at the smoke in the air, the burnt eggs and pan on the floor, and his eyes widen. “What the hel… heck were you trying to do exactly?”

  I shut the water off, open a window to let the smoke out, then coddle my finger in my other hand. “I was cooking breakfast.” I grit my teeth as the fire alarms still go off. I can’t stand the sound of them, just like I can’t stand the stench of the smoke in the air. It reminds me too much of that day. The day that I don’t like to think about, but can never allow myself to stop thinking about it.

  “I thought we made an agreement after the burger fiasco of last summer that you wouldn’t cook anymore,” Jax says, ruffling Mason’s hair as he glances down at the coloring book. “Good job, buddy. You’re really staying in the lines.”

  I frown at the eggs spilled around my bare feet and attempt to ignore the throbbing headache I’m getting. “I was trying to do something nice for you for your first day of school.”

  He grabs a box of Pop Tarts from the pantry. “Avery, I’m going to college, not kindergarten.”

  “Well, Mason’s in kindergarten.” I get the broom and dustpan from the washroom. “And the eggs were for him too.” While I start to clean up my mess, the smoke detectors finally silence. I settle down as the smoke clears too.

  Jax hands Mason a Pop Tart then takes one himself. “Well, from now on let’s just leave the cooking to me. And let me clean up the rest of the mess,” he says, glancing at the disaster I’ve made in the kitchen; spilt milk, cracked egg shells, and yolk on the counter.

  “You already do too much.” I empty the dust pan into the garbage then put the broom away.

  He chews on the Pop Tart. “I could have said that to you while we were growing up, so go get your ass ready and let me do this.”

  I huff in frustration, but it’s directed more toward myself than Jax. Then I cross the kitchen and give Mason a quick kiss on the forehead. “No more swearing,” I say, before I hurry down the hallway to my bedroom to change, moving quickly because my day is going to be hectic. I have to drop off Mason at school then Jax at the college before heading over to the next town to start building a home. I have exactly four hours of contribution time before I have to drive back to town, leave the Jeep at the college so Jax has transportation to pick up Mason from school while I take the bus to and from work. Then when I get home, I’ll spend time online taking my finals.

  It’s going to be a long day.

 
I decide on a pair of frayed shorts and a black tank top long enough to cover all of the scars from that night, ones I never want anyone to see. The one on my throat I can’t do anything about but it’s faded enough that hardly anyone seems to notice.

  After I finished getting dressed, I quickly run a brush through my long brown hair. Despite my grungy clothes and bags under my eyes, I still have signs of youth in me. That is, if I don’t look too hard. A purple streak at the front of my brown hair that runs all the way down my back because I refuse to cut it—ever—and I have a piercing above my top lip along with the fresh collection of tattoos. It’s part of the reason why I ink and pierce my skin and dye my hair—to feel as young as my driver’s license assures me I am.