Second(3)

I narrow my hazel eyes on him. “Why are you here, Dean?”

He looks away for a moment, then says, “He was my family too, Sabina.”

All the anger instantly fades away. I’m not the only one mourning Ben, and I shouldn’t act like I am. The whole world doesn’t revolve around me. Ben had lots of people in his life who cared about him. I sit up and take the bowl of soup in my hands, lifting the spoon and scooping a mouthful. He watches me intently, staying silent the whole time as I eat. When I get halfway and can’t possibly have any more, I put the bowl down. He nods, as if satisfied.

“Aren’t you meant to be on tour?” I ask him, knowing that his music is his life.

“Family comes first,” is his reply as he stands, walks to the windows, and opens the curtains. I wince as the bright sun hits me harder than the overhead light did. “It’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Good for everyone else,” I mumble, pulling my sheet up further. “Where is Tara?”

“She had to go to work,” Dean explains, sitting down on the corner of my bed. “Are you going to get up?”

“No,” I say, looking out the window. “I have two months off work, so I don’t see why I have to. I just want to stay in bed.”

“And what? Listen to depressing music and feel sorry for yourself?”

“Is that so bad?” I fire back, running my hands through my tangled hair. I must look like total crap, while he stands there in jeans and a black t-shirt, his hair falling over his forehead like he just came here from a photo shoot. Hell, maybe he did. “How long are you going to stay for?”

“A couple of days,” he says, green eyes darting around my room. “And no, it’s not so bad, but your month of feeling sorry for yourself ends now.” His eyes lock with mine. “You have every right to feel what you’re feeling, but life goes on. You need to push through. The pain might not leave you, ever, but I can promise you that it will fade in time.”

I purse my lips. “Are you going to write a song about this now?”

Maybe he should. His lyrics are always amazing. I’m sure he can express what I’m feeling way better than I can. He’ll turn it into art.

His lip twitches, and his head shakes. “What am I going to write about? A pretty girl who hasn’t showered in days?”

“Hey,” I say, lifting my arm up and smelling myself. “I smell just fine.”

He lifts a brow in an “are you kidding me” kind of way, which makes me want to throw a pillow at him. “Under the circumstances, I get a fucking pass.”

“A shower pass?” he asks, amusement flashing in his eyes. “No one gets a hygiene pass, Sabina, no matter what happens. Now get your ass in the shower. I’m going to burn those sheets while you’re in there.” When I don’t move, he adds, “Don’t make me carry you in there, because I’ll do it.”

I get out of bed and walk into my bathroom, slamming the door behind me for effect.

I turn on the hot water, undress, and then step into the shower.

It feels amazing.

Not that I’d admit that.





Chapter Two

“It’s only been a month,” I growl, storming through the kitchen, cleaning up as I go. “Can you get off my arse?”

He’s been here just a few hours, and I already want to murder him. I didn’t realise how messy my house had gotten, although I don’t know how considering I haven’t even left my room. Actually, I do. Tara’s the only other person who has been here, and she’s a little on the messy side, and that’s putting it politely. Cursing her under my breath, I wipe down the countertop while Dean watches, beer in hand, from the dining table. Even though I’m not in the best of moods, I get the feeling that he’s happy I’m out of bed and doing things. It’s like I can actually feel his silent approval. He doesn’t offer to help, just watches my movements as I try and sort my life out after a month of being out of it.

“Nope,” he replies, lifting the bottle to his lips. “I’ve already made progress with you, and if I have to be up your arse to do so, then so be it.”

I still. I never said “up” my arse, but okay. “After I clean up I’m going back to bed.”

“No, you’re not. We’re going grocery shopping. Your cupboards are practically empty,” he says, giving me a once-over. “You need to eat.”

Does he think I’m too skinny? I look down at my stomach, which sure, is flatter than it usually is, but grieving will do that to you. I don’t even feel hungry. Food is usually always on my mind, but right now I feel no need to consume anything. Except maybe some alcohol. Maybe a food stop is a good idea, because I can stop at the bottle shop and get some vodka or something.