And so we let our bodies take over. We let them guide us with his slow push and his muted groan as he pulls out. With him guiding my hand down between my thighs so he can watch me pleasure one part of myself while he takes care of the other.

  The ache turns to pleasure. The burn builds into bliss.

  We’re reduced to moans of rapture and long slides of skin. To hitched breaths and murmured praise. To his fingers gripping and my fingernails scoring.

  We make love without words, cementing emotions we’ve felt for what seems like forever. Emotions we’ve been scared of, we admit. Now that they’re in the light, we’ll never be able to hide them in the dark again.

  Just like the dust particles dancing around us.

  We love each other. With each push in. With every pull out. With our fingers laced on both sides of my head. With the slow grind of his hips. With the scrape of his teeth over my shoulder and the soft kisses to my neck.

  It’s a slow dance of skin and sensations and emotions. Of met eyes and soft smiles and lips parted in pleasure. Of lifted hips and arched backs and squeezed hands.

  We work together to reach our highs. My climax a slow build of pressure that detonates with a warning of its presence but not of its intensity.

  I fall under its haze of pleasure. The white-hot heat rolls through my body like a live wire snapping before slamming back into my core. My back arches and hips buck and fingers grip his.

  Only Vince can do this to me. Can evoke this from me. Only ever Vince.

  “You’re so gorgeous when you come,” Vince murmurs before meeting my lips with a bruising kiss. The heat of his tongue. The grind of his hips. The feel of his body against mine.

  Every damn thing overwhelms my senses so I do the only thing I can. I hold on to Vince. With arms and hands and legs. My own orgasm pulling him with me. He buries his face in the underside of my neck as he begins to piston his hips faster, harder. My body tenses around him as its not finished yet, and all I can do is hold on for the ride.

  His breath is warm against my skin. His stubble a tickle as he moves. My moans are soft compared to the harsh pants of his breath. The slap of his hips against mine is the underlying beat.

  He pushes my legs farther apart and begins to thrust harder, faster, relentlessly—my body his to use. Then his guttural groan rumbles through the room as he presses his forehead against my shoulder and claims his own orgasm.

  Our panted breaths fill the room as our bodies shudder from the rush of adrenaline slowly ebbing from our bodies.

  We lie here like this—with his body on mine, his face in the curve of my neck, and my hand idly running up and down his spine.

  We lie here like this—soaking up the moment and wondering with hope if this could be a reality we can make work.

  If the closeness we feel right now is a hint of what our everyday future could be.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Bristol

  My words sound panicked. Almost the same kind of panicked my heart felt when Vince walked downstairs a while ago with a packed suitcase in his hand.

  But I’m trying to rein it in. I’m trying to avoid Jagger seeing my fear.

  I’m trying to not imagine history repeating itself.

  “It’s just for a week,” he says. “Maybe a few days more.”

  But you haven’t mentioned it to me.

  “I’m going to be super busy though. Early meetings upon midday meetings upon late-night evenings. I’m not going to have much time to do anything other than work. I’ve been here for so long that I have like a month’s worth of work to catch up on.”

  A reason why we can’t talk. An excuse why he’s creating distance.

  “Yes?” His footsteps stop a few feet behind me. “Why aren’t you responding?”

  “Okay.” I speak for the first time as I wipe down the counters with a fervor only rivaled by Mr. Clean.

  “McMann. The head of Sony Music. The morning shows. The late shows. I’ve got to meet with them and . . . there are some other things I need to take care of.”

  He’s leaving—running—when he said he wasn’t going to run anymore.

  “I’m sorry this time here made you fall so behind.”

  “Don’t be. That wasn’t what I implied. I was—”

  “Don’t worry about us. I’ll make arrangements for Jagger and me to head back home. He’s missed too much in-person school as it is. I’ve put out some feeler applications for jobs. I need to get on that. I had one month’s rent saved, but—”

  “Rent’s paid. I sent money for your mom to take care of that a while back. You don’t need to worry about money—”

  He can’t say goodbye so he’s going to start with saying it’ll only be a week.

  “I don’t need your money, Vince.” I scrub harder. I scrub spots that don’t need scrubbing. “I told you, I don’t need or expect anything from you.”

  Then the week will turn into a month.

  “Bristol.”

  And the month will turn into excuses.

  “We’ll head back home and—and—we just need to get back home. Get our lives back.”

  Then the excuses will eventually stop.

  “If that’s what you want.” His voice is low, questioning. “I can get my driver to take you to the airport when the jet returns.” When I don’t respond, can’t, he continues. “If I’m honest though, I’m not comfortable with you going back to your place yet. I’d much rather you two stay here where I know you’re safe and—”

  And away from you.

  The thought comes out of nowhere but hits me like a ton of bricks.

  I don’t want his driver.

  I don’t want him telling me where to go.

  I don’t want him telling me what to do.

  My hands start trembling, so I squeeze the sponge with ferocity to control it. “I have to return to my life sometime.”

  Maybe that’s what he wants. For him to leave and for me to feel weird here so I go home on my own. Then he can return to an empty house and the strings can be cut with precision since we won’t be face-to-face. So he won’t have to see my face when he leaves this time.

  “Shug.”

  “I’m fine. This is fine,” I murmur, willing myself not to cry. Not to feel. Not to be anything other than the strong girl I was when I let him walk away the first time. Then the even stronger twenty-one-year-old, when I lied to his face and said I only wanted sex and just the one night. And finally, the woman from a few weeks ago who lied on her front porch when she told him she loved him, but it wasn’t enough.

  Vince closes his arms around me from behind. My body tenses at the feel of him against me, at the comfort I’ve come to find in it, when he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Talk to me.”

  This is how we are.

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  This is what we do.

  “Look at me.” He tries to turn me around, but I just grip the counter.

  But now there’s Jagger who will be heartbroken too.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Have a good trip.” My voice breaks despite the feigned nonchalance in it.

  “Dammit, Shug.” I can feel his jaw clench on my shoulder. “If this is going to work between us, you don’t get to shut down every time you get scared. I’m not allowed to, so neither are you.” This time when he tries to turn me, I let him. His eyes search mine with an honesty he’s been showing more and more and that I need to get used to accepting. “Talk to me. Why are you so upset?”

  “If your trip turns into longer than a week. Say a month. Say however long . . . just know it’s okay. I understand. We gave it a good run.”

  He uses his thumb to brush away the tear that slides down my cheek. “It won’t.”

  “But if it does, just know it’s okay. Just know I love you. Just know Jagger will be loved.” Every part of me aches in fear that when he walks out the door, he won’t come back.

  He’s done it before.

  “I know you have nothing to go off but the past, but I’m not going anywhere.” He brushes a kiss to my lips. “You want me to fight for us? Then I expect the same of you.”

  I nod but the tears keep coming. The fear still burns bright. “Sometimes it’s too hard to hope.”

  “Then don’t hope. Know. Trust in me. Trust in us.”

  He presses a searing kiss to my lips before leaning back. “The offer is there. You can go home and go back to your life like nothing has happened. Or you can trust in me and stay here. I’m leaving the ball one hundred percent in your court. If anyone’s going to walk away, it’s going to be you.”

  Our eyes hold before he gives me a brusque kiss and then walks outside to say goodbye to Jagger. I hate that once again, I’m looking at his back, watching him walk away. It feels like déjà vu, except this time, there’s so much more on the line.

  “You want me to fight for us? Then I expect the same of you. Trust in me. Trust in us.”

  Then he climbs in the waiting car.

  How do I trust in us when I’m not sure what us means?

  Then he is on his way to the airport.

  How do I trust in him when he’s never fought for us before?

  And I’m left wondering if I’ve just said goodbye to him for good again.

  How do I trust when I’ve barely survived every other goodbye?

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Vince

  Memories assault me.

  One after another just like his fists used to. Just like his words that left layer upon layer of scars still do.

  Nothing’s changed. The house still has the same oppressive feeling that it did when I walked out the door eleven years ago. The same heaviness to it from the man who reveled in controlling his son with fear.

  And everything’s changed. The couch color. The brown carpet that’s now vinyl wood planks. The box television that’s now a flatscreen on the wall.

  The man lying in the hospital bed in the center of the family room.

  He looks like hell. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheeks. A gray pallor. What’s left of his hair that was once dark is now white from the stress of the chemo.

  But his eyes—neither age nor sickness have dulled the spite in them.

  I’ve spent the last week being the Vince Jennings everyone knows. Surly. Cocky. Talented. Rebellious. I’ve gone to meeting after meeting. Done interview after interview. I’ve held my ground professionally and personally.

  The personal side has come at a fucking brutal cost. I left the house, I boarded the jet, I arrived in Los Angeles, all while telling myself that Bristol was being ridiculous for worrying about me coming back.

  So I challenged myself not to call her. Not to text her. To see if I can live without her this time around. To realize how goddamn miserable I am without them. To validate my reasons for everything I need to do. To keep her as far away from the man this moment with my dad might turn me into.

  If she’s nowhere near this, then I can’t hurt her or Jagger with what comes of it.

  The only thing that’s made this misery easier is being so goddamn tired every night I collapse into bed. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the fuck out of them. That I don’t pick up my phone, go to write a text, and then set it back down as a reminder of what life would be like without them.

  Because I’m still not the man they deserve.

  Not yet.

  But after today, after I stand here in a house that holds only terrible nightmares, I need to be a man I’ve never been before. The man I know I can be. The one I want to be the moment I leave this house, knowing I’ll never return again.

  “Vincent,” my dad murmurs.

  We stare at each other for a long span of time but don’t speak. I have so much to say, but walking into this house is like stepping back in time. My thoughts and words immediately tangle with the fear of fucking up. Of not making myself invisible enough to avoid what inevitably comes next.

  It’s incredible how three steps into this room and I’m reminded of how it made me feel. How he fucked with my head. How when I grew calloused to that, he then bruised me with his fists.

  Nothing will ever be able to erase that. Not his sickness. Not an apology. Not his death.

  His nurse stands abruptly from where she sits in the corner. She eyes me with distrust. It’s a valid thing for her to feel considering I’m staring at my father with disgust. She glances around the room as if to make sure there aren’t any weapons I can hurt him with. Only after she seems confident there aren’t, does she excuse herself from the room.

  She neglected to realize bare hands are weapons too. Just ask my father. He was the master of using them.

  I stay where I am. Back leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over my chest, stare unyielding.

  “It’s me you have to thank for your success, you know.”

  Fucking classic Deegan Jennings if ever I’ve heard him. Narcissistic asshole. It’s always about him, even when it isn’t.

  “If that’s what you think.”

  “It’s what I know. I gave you the foundation you needed to be who you are.”

  Foundation? Jesus. Does he really believe the shit he’s spewing?

  “I fed you. I clothed you. I put a roof over your head.”

  I let him talk. I welcome the words. I hear the bullshit in them. I recognize the things I feared for far too long. The things I believed.

  “And you beat me to a pulp for simply breathing.” My laugh holds anything but amusement as I clap dramatically. “Award for Father of the Year most definitely goes to you.”

  “You always were an unappreciative fuck, you know that?”

  “Appreciative? How about I appreciate you showing me everything I never want to be as a human. As a man. As a father.”

  He angles his head to the side and purses his sallow lips before they turn up in a taunting grin. “How’s that boy of yours, anyway?”

  “My son is none of your fucking business,” I grit out.

  “I’m pretty sure he is being family and all.”

  I clench my jaw so hard it hurts, determined to resist letting him push the buttons he’s mastered.

  “Did you take pleasure in it, Dad? To get paid to hurt me? To try and fuck me over? To sell your son out one last time so you could feel like you were still in charge?”

  His chuckle says it did.

  “And for what? Because you’ve resented me my whole life because Mom left you, and God forbid you had to take care of your son?” I shake my head. So much hurt and fear from the years slowly ebbing so I can see the truths I was too blinded to see before. The bullshit I dealt with was about him. About his shortcomings. About his failures. Not about me.

  “I was doing you a favor.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a selfish son of a bitch who was only thinking about getting one last dig in at his son before he died. One last fuck you to revive your black heart.”

  His smile is half-assed. His wince in pain has me holding my breath momentarily and selfishly wanting him not to die so I can finish what I came here to do. “Or maybe I was trying to teach you a lesson.”

  “A lesson? That’s some fucked-up logic coming from a man who doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  He pauses and meets my eyes with a smugness I’ve seen more times than I care to count. “My blood’s running through him too, sonny-boy. Don’t you forget that.”

  I’m at his bedside in a flash. My anger rioting. The urge to grab his sweatshirt and yank him to his feet so we can be eye to eye owns me. So he can feel the fear I used to have every time he used to do the same to me.

  But I don’t. I grip the bed rail till my knuckles turn white as he sits there and gloats. He got what he wanted. A reaction to know he hit the nail on the head.

  That he got his final dig in.

  Even in death, my dad wants me to know he’ll still be there. He’ll still be around. That I should still fear if what’s in him is in my blood. Is in my son’s blood.

  I don’t want to ruin his perfect.

  I refuse to take his bait.

  I refuse to let him leave this world thinking that he was successful in planting that thought in my head.

  Instead, I take a few seconds to look at a man who used to strike fear in me. Now all I can feel is pity.

  He’s just a man. Just flesh and bones.

  He is not me. I am not him. I’ll never be him.

  How could I ever think otherwise?

  I shake my head and lean down close to his face. “You know what? I came here thinking maybe the fact you’re knocking down death’s door might have made you want to say things, make amends, right some of your wrongs . . . fuck if I know. But it’s clear you don’t. It’s clear you’d rather die alone with your anger than with a clear conscience.”

  “Vin—”

  I can see the fight in his eyes. The spite, and I cut him off before he can spew it. “I look at you and feel sorry for you. Nothing more. Nothing less. You wasted your life being bitter and brutal, only feeling good about yourself when you were tearing me down. Well, guess what. It didn’t work. Not your abuse—look who I became. Not your deception—look what I now get to love. Not the groundwork you laid for me—because I’ll never be like you.”

  His stare is hard. His jaw is set. Even in death the fucker won’t bend.

  Well, neither will I. Over the years, I’ve bent enough for him. Bent so much I thought I was fucking broken.

  Not anymore.

  Never again.

  “Goodbye, Dad. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been different. I’m sorry you couldn’t find it in yourself to love. Just know that when you take your last breath, I made it. I’m everything you said I could never be. I’m everything I ever wanted to be. And I’ll never be like you.”

  I walk to the door without another word.

  Tears well in my eyes. Not for the man he was, but for the man he could have been to me. For the man I needed him to be but never had.

  I’m not angry at him. The past is the past. A phrase I’ve been saying a lot lately. But I resent him for the opportunities he robbed me of.