What I had eventually wanted back.
It’s funny how our minds execute many purposes, the two main contenders of our psyches conflicting beyond confliction. One side teaches us that it’s our grand escape, while the other preps us to play the role it never wanted: our worst enemy.
It wasn’t until I was placed in the caring arms of my most recent foster parents, Cathy and Mark, that I experienced any sense of feeling wanted or loved. Any sense of feeling . . . human.
But their safety net came too late, unable to save me from my ancient habits. I continue to disconnect, self-destructing one man at a time, using sex as a brain detox. Sex is and will always be where I find control, a hidden shelter keeping me benign from the cancer that will forever disease the dark, frayed edges of my thoughts. Starting at the age of fourteen, I’ve abused, loved, craved, and hated sex in ways most people can’t fathom. It’d rock their skulls. I’ve given it away without feeling a morsel of anything for the person on the receiving end and, many times, accepted it from those I knew couldn’t stomach me.
With the fear of possibly experiencing something real, true, and healthy eating through my bones, I head out of the library, fully aware that the only world I’ve ever known may become disrupted by the beautiful chaos of a boy who promised me more in two seconds than anyone ever has.
Such a bittersweet, twisted paradox . . .
CHAPTER 4
Amber
WITH MY FINGERS curled around the fence surrounding the football field, the sounds of helmets crushing against helmets, deep guttural grunts, and what could honestly pass as bones snapping in two cut through my ears. Feeling bad for the guy at the bottom of the pile, I squint my eyes and watch a herd of sweaty athletes peel off each other.
To my surprise, the guy on the bottom of the pile is the one and only Twizzler-giving captain: Brock Cunningham.
As if unaffected by the elephant’s worth of weight that just crawled off him, and with the football secured between his thick forearm and broad chest, Brock stands. Pulling off his helmet and wearing a proper fuck you smirk aimed in the direction of the herd, he tosses the ball to the quarterback and drags a hand through his hair. Dripping with sweat, its usual dirty-blond color is now grizzly bear brown.
I bite my lip, my fingers aching to touch, grip, and tug on it. Preferably during wild sex.
“Fuck off, Cunningham,” a beefy-looking lineman growls. “I’m coming for you, pussy.”
“That’s if your fat ass can catch me,” Brock notes, shoving his helmet back onto his head.
Beefman snarls some shit, flips Brock off, and—in true caveman style—beats on his chest. I roll my eyes, praying to Buddha, Allah, Jehovah, hell, every God in existence, that Brock makes the dude look like a dick.
“Come at me, fucker,” Brock taunts as they get back into position. “Hey, I have an idea. Imagine your mother’s lips are wrapped around my cock while you’re trying to catch up to me. Maybe that’ll help ya some.”
The whole team, except for Brock’s target, rocks with laughter. After another growl from Beefman and a series of numbers yelled out by the quarterback, Brock’s off and running, zigzagging down the field as he dodges Beefman and his pack.
With serious NFL precision, the quarterback Hail-Marys the ball down the field. I stop breathing, watching as gravity carries the spinning bullet through the sticky air. Brock stops, whirls around, and the ball nails him in the chest. With little to no effort, he catches it. A split second before a duo of amped-up whatchamacallits reach him—neither of whom are Beefman—Brock turns and takes off again, howling his way into the end zone for an in your face, fucker touchdown.
The air rips with excited squeals from cheerleaders who are also in the midst of practice. Unable to contain my own enthusiasm, I follow suit, squealing in a less gag-worthy way than the team’s little groupies. I’m behind the fence where Brock scored his in your face, fucker touchdown, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my ridiculous squeal catches his attention. But it does, my heart screeching to a stop as he jogs his fine ass toward me. He pulls off his helmet, the mother ship of sexy grins landing on his lips.
“Ah, she came,” he says triumphantly. He drops his helmet and threads his fingers through the fence separating the bleachers from the field, resting them over mine. “So?”
“So?” I stare into his smiling eyes as I mentally tell my fingers to chill out despite his touch.
“So what’d ya think?”
“I think it’s hot as hell.”
“I already know you think I’m hot as hell,” he points out, smacking his lips together.
I shake my head, my need to kiss those lips increasing with each uneven breath I take.
Inching his face closer to the fence, his grin broadens. “Get your mind off my pecs and try to concentrate on the play that just took place. I know it’s difficult, but I know you got it in ya.”
“It’s actually closer to impossible, but I’ll make an honest-to-God attempt.” I let out a pseudo-dreamy sigh.
Brock chuckles, his face showing his amusement.
“In all seriousness, it was great,” I continue. “Between you and the quarterback, it was a kick-ass play.”
“Thank you, Twizzler girl.” He taps my nose. “Me and Ryder are good like that.”
“Ryder’s the quarterback?” I hear the shock in my voice as my attention shoots to the sideline.
Though he’s surrounded by a flock of please pay attention to me and I’ll be the next to suck you off cheerleaders, Ryder still manages to catch my gaze from across the field. I look away, unnerved yet enthralled by everything about him. I’m not sure why I react that way around him. Maybe it’s because he reminds me too much of myself.