Guilty. I felt guilty. And I never felt guilty in my life.

“Bane,” Pam answered, hugging the door, her smile borderline arsenic. My face fell. At this point I was happy to fuck a goddamn tuna can before I laid a hand on her. The lights were dimmed behind her, and I wondered if Jesse was even there. Maybe I should have started my search at Mrs. Belfort’s.

“Is Jesse around?”

She cocked her head to the side, pouting. “Maybe.”

I parked my elbow on the doorframe. “I wouldn’t fuck with me, Pam.”

“But I would.” Her voice was lace and lust, and that damp thing between them that I had no interest touching.

I pushed my way into her house, bulldozing in like a hostile army, knowing she had little to no say about this shit. Darren had hired me. He would have my back if need be. “I want your daughter,” I told her, because a part of me no longer cared about hiding it.

“You’re kidding me.” She followed me across the landing of her house.

“Fucking wish I was. But I know better than to go after her, so don’t worry your little head. At the same time—I’m never going to dick you. Not in this lifetime, and probably not in the next one. So do us both a favor and pretend to be a decent mom.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she stood in front of me, probably waiting for an apology that never came. I turned around and climbed up the stairs to Jesse’s room, feeling the weight of my words on my shoulders.

I wanted Snowflake. I did. I wanted to feast on her pussy and fuck her tight little body senseless and kiss that tattoo on the back of her neck, telling her that I’d seen it before and liked it. That I saw her before and wanted her. That she wasn’t just a goddamn sob story for me.

I knocked on her door. No response.

Then did it again. Nothing.

Third time. “Go away,” she yawned from the other side of the door.

“Not happening. Open up.”

“Bane?” I liked that she was still naïve enough to be surprised.

“We need to talk.” I was pacing again. Why the fuck was I pacing again? Silence rang in my ears before her door slid open. I drank her face through the gap. She was so beautiful, it nearly hurt to see. I dated a lot of beautiful women. I fucked a ton of them, too. No one was pretty the way Snowflake was. Everything around her faded, like a poem with burned edges. She was the lyrics inside it, so focused and sharp. I pushed my shoulder against her door, moving into her room, and it nearly knocked the hell out of my breath.

Hanging from her ceiling was a chandelier made out of small memorabilia: old-school CD-ROMs, pens, remotes, postcards, letters, keychains of her favorite indie bands. It looked like her soul had exploded and poured down between us. The wall behind her queen-sized bed was covered with Polaroid pictures of people’s backs. I recognized her mom. A dark-haired man who was probably her dad. Darren and a bunch of cheerleaders and maybe even a bunch of strangers. Some push pins clung onto nothing. My guess was that they used to hold on to the pictures of the people from her previous life, before they’d fucked her over in every sense of the word. Though I did notice one picture curled under a pin. The back of a young man, his hair light brown and full. Emery, was my guess. His neck was stabbed a hundred times with the pin that was holding it up, until there was almost a pea-shaped hole in the middle.

A fairy lights Mason jar sat on her windowsill, making me wonder how many dreams she still had that were trapped inside. Smutty books scattered on the floor. She had black and white striped Beetlejuice linens and a rusty No trespassing, we’re tired of hiding the bodies sign hanging on her door. Her room had character. Personality. And lots of it.

“Who did all this?” I asked, acutely aware of how close our bodies were, and how her chest went up and down like she was feeling what I was feeling, even though I had no idea what the fuck that was.

“I did,” she said quietly. Her hair was still wet from the shower she must’ve taken after coming back home from the shift. She wore tiny pajama bottoms—again, orange—and a baggy Sleeping with Sirens black top. I didn’t know why, but it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

She was a person.

She was a teenager, on the verge of breaking twenty.

She was a fucking girl, a woman, an in-betweener, with tits and hormones and sass and that layer of ice was melting too fast, and I wanted to fucking drink every drop of it while it did.

My toes touched hers. The proximity made both of us sway a little. My eyes on hers. Green on blue. Tough on soft. A dirty liar on the purest, kindest girl I ever knew.

“How was your first day?” I asked.

“Uneventful. Where were you?” Her voice was small, but the meaning behind her words was colossal.

I couldn’t face you without breaking a six-million-dollar contract.

“Surfing.” I took a step back, popping my gum. “I’m training Beck for a competition at the end of the month. That’s why I looked for a new barista. He quit.” I was bending the truth so much it was about to snap.

“Okay.”

“But is it really okay?”

“No. It was my first day working. The first day I faced the world again. I thought you were going to check on me.” Her voice shook. I’d betrayed her, and she was pissed. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend.”

“Friends care.”

“I care.” And that was becoming a fucking problem. Case in point, the next thing to come out of my mouth made me want to punch myself.

“Have dinner with me.” What the fuck was I saying? Asking?

She nearly leaned on me—nearly—and I smelled her everywhere. Even the musky sweet scent of her pussy. And it killed me that I couldn’t help her with what she really needed to see. That she could enjoy sex again. With me.

My reckless moments were piling up quickly. The next thing I did was stupid, too. I clasped her chin between my thumb and my index finger to guide her face up, so that our lips were aligned. The door was still half ajar, and I knew how much I was putting on the line. But I needed to do this with eye contact. Because my mom was right. I couldn’t fuck it up.

“You need to say no. I’m a bastard,” I whispered.

Kick me out of here. Before I’ll be the one who won’t be able to let you go.

She looked up and shook her head. “Yes.”

“No, Snowflake, you don’t understand. I am literally a bastard. My sperm donor was married, but not to my mom. Of course, it wasn’t her choice. She was brutally raped by him. And I’m the constant fucking reminder of that. I have his hair. His eyes. His lips. I have his height and his build. I’ve never met him, but I’ve a feeling that if I ever did, I would tear my fucking limbs apart just to make sure I’d never be capable of doing what he did to her. That’s why the tattoos. And the beard. That’s why I’m hiding. I don’t want to be him, understand?”

I’d never told that to anyone before, and whoever said the truth will set you free needed to have their head examined. The truth felt like a five-ton chain around my neck. The truth was, the beard was my armor. I’d started growing it when I started getting paid for sex. Less of my face to look at in the mirror.

And for my next trick, ladies and gents, I will become the whore my father pegged my mother to be. Only worse. She didn’t ask for it. For the right price—I will.

Jesse’s eyes widened at my confession, and I hated what I saw there. Pity swam in her pupils. I wanted her to blink and give me anything else instead. Lust. Anger. Confusion. Hate. I’d take anything, really, other than fucking pity.

“That’s why you said my story was personal to you. That’s why you said she couldn’t be saved.”

I didn’t nod—wasn’t really capable of doing anything other than shrugging—but she continued. “That’s why you don’t want to sleep with me.” Her fingertips fluttered across her lips.

“Among other reasons. Look, you’re not a tragedy to me, okay? You’re a person. An adorable, talented, funny—hotter than fire—person. But that’s the thing. I can’t touch you. I won’t touch you. As long as we keep this shit platonic, we’ll be gold. I just can’t have this on my conscience.” It was already soaked with deceit. I owed Darren more than I’d ever have in my bank account. Even if I wanted to break the contract, I’d already spent a quarter of the money.

She took a step forward. There was no more space between us, so her inner thigh pressed against my outer thigh through my surf shorts. My eyes dropped to her milky flesh. She pressed harder. I looked up, my pulse thrumming on my eyelids.

“I don’t care what your father did. He is the bastard. Not you. And you’re the only man I’m not afraid of. You make me feel brave. Powerful. You make staring at myself in the mirror without flinching slightly easier. And I want to, Bane. I want those things I read about in the books.” She licked her lips fast, shifting her gaze so I wouldn’t see all of her through her eyes. “So, by all means, kiss me.”

I wanted so badly to twist the collar of her shirt, pull her into me, crash my lips on hers, and fuck her against the wall. More than that—I knew that it was what she probably needed.

“Snowflake,” I warned, my voice a soft growl. She squeezed both her thighs together against my leg, riding it, her eyes cool and daring, her movements so subtle I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it or not. I swallowed hard as she found a hesitant, slow rhythm. I couldn’t push her away. Other than the very simple fact I didn’t want to, she was also a rape victim. Shutting her down would be the kiss of death to our relationship. The choice was mine to make. Six million bucks or her pussy. It sounded like an easy choice, though it was anything but.

“Bane,” she breathed, so close to my mouth, and my dick twitched between us, slapping her stomach. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I pulled my face away, but just to show her she was not alone in this attraction, I pressed my thigh against her pussy, pushing my knee north, putting pressure on her clit. I felt her slit open through her jammies. Her eyes rolled inside their sockets and pre-cum glued my hard-on to my briefs.