Micah
The darkness is broken by a flickering bulb, illuminating patches of black mold on the walls. The air reeks of old, sour sweat and the heavy breaths of too many kids stuffed in a tiny room. Some are snoring, curled together on the three narrow beds and the worn carpet. Others are sitting with their backs to the wall.
I walk among them, moving forward but going nowhere. I’m trapped. There’s no oxygen. No future.
The room tilts and shifts, leaving me disoriented. I’m on a long staircase, going up. I have no other choice. The darkness has changed, filled with hateful eyes, and they’re waiting for me.
Footsteps follow me, and I try to climb faster, but I can’t. Time slows to compensate for my efforts, pulling on my limbs like hardening glue, so that I struggle and pant and rage. I try to shout for help, but I can’t breathe, can’t speak. Others are waiting for me at the top of the stairs, and the footsteps behind me grow louder. Closer.
My foot slips on the step, and I go down. I tumble into the darkness, right into the hands of my pursuers, and they grab me by the hair and drag me down. Kicks knock the breath out of me, and then their fists find me, punching all sense out of me. My body is a raw nerve, flayed bloody. Fire runs in my veins, scorching my flesh. A scream dies in my throat, never making it out, as I arch and twist and struggle to escape the pain.
“Micah.” A sweet woman’s voice, calling my name, and I reach for it like a ray of light in the dark. “Micah!”
The darkness dissipates. Brightness stings my eyes, and I groan, trying to turn my head away when I realize I’m lying on the sofa on my back, an arm flung over my head, and a girl is sitting next to me.
A naked girl. A very pretty naked girl, with her hand on my bare chest.
“Ev,” I croak as it all comes back to me—the knock on my door, her appearance, the kiss, the almost-sex... The nightmare. A cough rattles in my chest, and I turn my head and smother it on my arm.
Her hazel eyes are wide, her face pale.
Goddammit, I scared her. Of course I did. Nobody should see me as I claw my way out of this nightmare, this mishmash of memories from the last two group homes I lived in. It was a fucking hell, and I ran away many times, ending up on the streets. Being on the streets was safer, although the cold and hunger always won out, sending me back into the system.
“Micah?”
I realize she’s watching me, warily, as if not sure whether I might bite.
Truth is, I don’t know either. I need a few moments to get my head straight, get my shit together. To talk myself out of falling back into the memory and howling like a wounded animal. Images crowd the edges of my vision, fragments of nightmare and memories, leering faces, taunting voices.
I have to get out.
But she’s leaning over me, her small face concerned, her hand on my chest, over my pounding heart.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice low, soothing.
I can’t reply, can’t move. I can barely breathe, because I need to punch something or someone, and she’s too close, right in the danger zone. My fists clench at my sides as I try to keep from bolting upright, as I try to control every twitching muscle. A tremor goes through me.
The living room is cast in pale light and shadow. It’s still day-time outside. Later afternoon. Looks like I didn’t sleep for very long.
She bends over me, her eyes filling my world. She’s so sweet—just like the night she saved my life, and I need to tell her that. Let her know who I really am, before we do more than get each other off.
But not now, not when my mind is still spinning and a dark hole of depression is waiting to swallow me. Dammit. I sit up and swing my legs off the sofa. She grips my arm, but I shrug it off and rise unsteadily to my feet. I stagger across the living room, bumping into the coffee table, and make my way to the bathroom.
The door bangs shut behind me, and I kick at it. Turning, I slam my fist into the tiled wall. The tile cracks.
Fuck. I brace my hands on the sink and bow my head, letting out a shaky breath. And another. I’m okay. It’s okay. I repeat the words to myself until my breathing slows.
But it’s not enough. So I step into the shower and turn on the hot water. Turning my face into the spray, I let it wash away the dream and the remembered fear. I run my hands through my hair, tugging, the tiny pinpricks of pain grounding me to the present.
And goddammit, it’s still not enough. I want to smash my fist into things, break something, hear the crash and feel the damage.
The muscles in my back and legs are coiled tight like springs. Bracing myself against the shower wall with one hand, I reach up and rub the back of my neck.
I jerk when hands slip around my hips. I raise my head just as a body molds to me—soft, slender, feminine.
“Ev?”
“Shh.” She strokes her hands down my thighs, shifts against me. I can feel her nipples brush my back, and a hot flare of arousal goes through me like a blade.