I don't understand why Arrow's torturing himself by listening, but I can't handle another minute of their pseudo-empathy and exploitive speculation. I walk around to the front of the couch, grab the remote from Arrow's hands, and turn off the television.
His head snaps up and his eyes narrow. "What do you think you're doing?"
I swallow and shrug. "You don't need to hear that."
The corner of his mouth twitches with a smirk. "So, you're not only playing nanny to my little sister, you're playing nanny to me, too? Planning to tell me what I can watch on TV and when to go to bed?" He grabs the remote from my hand. "Thanks, but I'll pass."
"Arrow . . ." I search for the words as his grip tightens on the remote, his knuckles whitening, but the television remains silent and dark.
"I heard you were at the Pretty Kitty tonight." He doesn't look at me. He keeps those dark eyes focused on his hands. "My dad not paying you enough? You need another income stream?"
I lift my chin, my aching heart pounding, but I refuse to answer. It's not my job to make Arrow like me again. It's my job to take care of his home and his baby sister. "Can I get you anything before I go to bed?"
His head snaps back, and he glares at me. "You're not my fucking servant, Mia. If you don't want to piss me off while you're working here, don't try to wait on me."
Nodding, I turn on my heel and head toward the stairs. I don't know this man, this angry and hateful version of the boy who once held me while we watched the sunrise. I feel his gaze on me and desperately want to know if there's any regret in it, but I don't turn around.
It shouldn't physically hurt to watch her walk away from me-God knows she's done it enough-but it's a punch in the solar plexus every time.
I grab my phone off the end table and power it back on. There's a text from Chris, but this one's just to me, not the group.
Chris: Keegan's a fucking idiot. You okay?
I stare at the screen, trying to think of a casual response and coming up empty. I'm not okay. I'm so fucking tired, I just want to close my eyes and be done with this shit. But I don't have the courage for sleep. There are too many demons lurking there. Too many questions and never any answers.
"Fuck it," I mutter, tossing the phone down. Chris will live without a response.
I go to the kitchen to find my doctor-prescribed sleeping pills. They took away the illegal shit I was buying from the hipster from my dorm but were happy to pump me up with all sorts of shit they prescribed themselves-sleeping pills, anxiety meds, antidepressants.
I open the bottle, tap a sleeping pill into my hand, and stare at it. On good nights, I take it and everything goes black until morning. I crawl into bed and am out like the dead, and if I have dreams, I don't remember them.
On bad nights, I slip into the same familiar nightmares, and sleep pins me down, holding me in my own personal hell until the meds wear off. The dreams are variations on a theme. I'm yelling at Brogan, shoving him against the wall, telling him he's a fuck-up, threatening to tell Mia the truth. Then I'm at Coach Wright's house, and he's sitting in front of the TV with blood on his hands and tears in his eyes. Sometimes, I try to talk to him but I can't open my mouth. It's as if my lips are super-glued together. Other times, I open my mouth to scream, and the Sahara desert pours out onto his living room floor and Coach is drowning in it, fighting his way to the top for air. I reach for him, shovel sand away, but everything I do to help pushes him deeper.
Sometimes, it's the deer that haunts me. Its big, glassy eyes watch as I scrub the garage floor with bleach rags. Then I'm scrubbing at Mia's tears-a flood of bloodstained water surging up to drown me as I hear the message she left on my voicemail. "Brogan. My br-br-br- We're at the hospital. So sorry. So, so sorry."
I glance toward the stairs and put the pill back into the bottle. Not taking meds means I'm guaranteed nightmares, but at least if I'm not medicated, I can escape them.
I wake to a thump and sit up in bed. It's three in the morning and my room is dark, but there's more thumping. Someone's kicking the wall between my room and Arrow's.
My heart clenches as I picture him on the other side having wild sex with some girl. Maybe some old fuck buddy came over after I went to bed. Hell, for all I know it's Gwen visiting her stepson's bed.
I dismiss the idea as quickly as it comes. Arrow can't tolerate Gwen, and he may have changed, but he's never been one to fuck girls he can't tolerate.
There's another thump, then I hear Arrow's voice. "No. Don't." Rough, choked words. And more thrashing. "Why?"
I throw off the covers and run to his room, opening the door without a thought.
I don't know what I expected to find. Arrow is sleeping alone, tangled in his covers.
Frozen, I stare at him. Moonlight spills in through the open curtains and casts shadows across his face. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and his face twists in a grimace.
I step closer. I could touch him, but I shouldn't. "Arrow?"
He kicks. His arm flies out and hits the wall.
"Arrow," I repeat, louder this time.
He grabs my hand at the wrist and flies upright in bed as his eyes pop open. He's breathing hard, and anguish is all over his face. For a minute, I feel like I can see inside him-all the terrified, vulnerable parts he hides from the world. I can see inside him and I know exactly what I'm looking at, because my dreams make me feel the same way.
"What are you doing here?" he asks in a low whisper. The anger from earlier is gone from his voice.
"You were having a nightmare."
His eyes rake over me-greedy, hungry, desperate. "What? No red lace nightie? Or do you save that for my dad? Like mother, like daughter?"
I gasp before I can stop myself. Why doesn't he just punch me? His fist to my face would hurt less than those words.
I yank my hand away, spin on my heel, and walk toward the hall. As I reach for the knob, he's behind me. He slams his palm against the door, and it closes with a violent thunk. "I'm sorry," he whispers behind me, his breath on my neck. "I'm sorry I said that."
I keep my gaze on his hand. Arrow has the best hands. Big, strong, beautiful. And the first time they touched me . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut at the unwelcome memory, and shrug. "I need this job," I say slowly. "Your stepmother has made it clear that she'll fire me if we can't get along, and we both know your dad will fire me if you ask him to. But please don't. Please don't screw it up for me."
"Mia," he says softly, and I feel him step closer, the heat of his body against my back. The rough pads of his fingertips brush the hair from my neck, then his breath, hot and sweet, tickles against that tender skin.
I'm frozen, divided between the wish for his kiss and the fear of it. "I'm sorry," I whisper. Hot tears roll down my cheeks, and I don't know what I'm apologizing for. For taking this job? For going with Brogan that night when Arrow asked me not to? For entering his life to begin with?
Yes. All of that. More. "I'm so sorry."
He drops one hand from the door and the other from my neck. My body grows cool as he steps away.
"Stop apologizing," he says.
I turn the knob and head to my room. I don't look back.
I go down to the kitchen to grab breakfast. Dad and Gwen are sitting at the breakfast table having coffee. Gwen's dressed in heels and a pink strapless dress, looking more like a girl ready for a night on the town than a young mother preparing for a day with her family. She sweeps her sleek blond hair over one shoulder as she looks through interior design catalogues. On the opposite side of the table, my father is dressed in jeans and a polo shirt-what I've come to know as his weekend golfing attire-and is reading the Blackhawk Valley Times. Now more salt than pepper, his thick hair has always made him look younger than he is, no matter how much it grays. Even so, a stranger walking in the room might guess them to be father and daughter.
"Coach is going to send over a workout schedule for you," Dad says, not bothering to put down the paper and look at me. "I expect you to train just as hard as you would if you were in the weight room with your teammates."
Train for what exactly?
I want to ask, but I don't. I'd work out anyway-I feel like shit when I don't-so I might as well use Coach's program. "Yes, sir," I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
Mia comes down with the baby, and I stop the mug halfway to my lips. She's wearing a yellow sundress with her hair tied back at the base of her neck. Her backpack is slung over one shoulder, and the baby's cradled in her arms. She looks so natural with my little sister. It's weird to see her more a part of my family in that way than even I am.