I suck in a breath. “Jake told you?”
He nods, curling fingers into a fist on the counter.
“He visits you?” I ask.
Another nod. “Conor, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Sorry for which part?”
“For Dad. If I’d known—”
“You’re sorry for Dalton?” I tilt my head, swallowing against the sharp pain in my throat. “What about for ignoring me? For not calling? For not taking time out of your busy schedule to ask how I’m doing?”
“I couldn’t, Conor.” He averts his eyes and twists a finger around the phone cord. “I can’t keep in touch with you because it reminds me that I’m in here and you’re out there and I can’t protect you. I can’t hear the sadness in your voice and maintain the air of confidence I need in here to survive.”
He’s talking with his tongue out of his shoe. He’s always been a terrible liar, and I know all his tells—the looking away, the fidgeting, the rambling on with too many words.
“You want me to leave,” I say quietly. “You don’t want me here.”
“You’re right. I want you to leave Oklahoma. Start over. Go to school in Illinois where you qualify for in-state tuition and—”
I lower the phone from my ear, and a hollow thump echoes in my chest.
He knows Oklahoma State University has always been my dream. Why does it matter to him where I go?
Because he doesn’t want me near him.
With numb fingers, I move to put the phone away.
“Wait,” he mouths, surging from the chair.
He presses a hand against the glass then holds it up, extending his pointer finger. One second. His eyes widen with urgent demand.
I return the phone to my ear and meet his gaze.
“Chicago Mercy Hospital contacted me last week.” His palm flattens against the glass, his tone dropping to a cautious hush. “Dad’s landlord found him.”
“Found him?” Something cold and hard forms in my stomach.
“Dad’s dead, Conor.” His throat bobs. “There was so much alcohol in his system it shut down brain function and other things, like his gag reflex. He vomited…”
“He choked to death.” I stare at the floor.
“Yeah.” Silence whispers between us. Then his voice crackles through the phone. “Say something. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I feel nothing.”
Returning the phone to the cradle, I walk away.
ONE YEAR LATER…
I push through the days and nights in a blur of sleepless dedication. With twice as many credit hours as the average student, my life revolves around schoolwork. I throw myself into studying, maintaining a perfect GPA, and proving my self-worth.
Being rejected by every person I ever loved started a vicious cycle of self-hatred. Until I realized the best revenge is to put all my efforts into me instead of dwelling on them.
Dalton Cassidy’s funeral came and went. I didn’t attend. There’s an inheritance, but I left it up to Lorne to handle the legalities from prison. Maybe someday, I can use the money and my future salary to buy the entire ranch. Right now, I just need to focus on succeeding.
I’m running full speed toward my future.
The all-work-no-play mindset works great for expediting my college career, but it’s detrimental to other aspects of my life.
Like new relationships. Or lack thereof.
I’ve had no contact with Jake or Jarret. No visits with Lorne. No friendships or boyfriends or lovers. I live in a college dorm and share a room with a quiet girl I never talk to. When guys approach me, I morph into a stiff, voiceless idiot. I’ve retreated so deeply into my work I don’t know how to interact with people.
Yet here I am, at the biggest field party in four states, subjecting my lungs to the smoke, beer, and hormonal stench of hundreds of college kids.
The secluded field on the outskirts of town is where OSU students go to watch boobs bounce on a dirt dance floor, drink more than their stomachs can hold, stumble around in the dark, pick fights with cowboys, and puke on other people’s boots.
But that’s not why I’ve been coming to this field party every Saturday night for the past six months.
I’m driven by an unshakable, deeply-rooted, screwed-up fascination with sex.
Three years ago, my body was used in unthinkable ways, but that wasn’t sex. It was brutality. I’ve never had real sex. Not the kind that involves mutual participation and trust. Not the skin-heating, orgasm-inducing, elusive kind I hungered for with Jake Holsten.
Jake.
That’s where I’m stuck.
Sex is so heavily knotted around my memories of him it’s become a trigger-happy panic attack waiting to happen. My conflicted feelings for him, his betrayal, the ravine… I keep that shit locked down. Until someone grips my wrist, crowds my back, or simply catches me unprepared. Then it all heaves from my hyperventilating lungs.
I can tackle the day-to-day monotony of schoolwork without feeling anything. But the moment I’m with a guy, my body turns into a field of land mines. One wrong touch, and boom.