Fucking trigger. I got a few of those. Like touching my back. Holding me down. Plunging me into cold water.
‘Who tried to drown you?’
Shit. I scrub my hand over my face, trying to push away the memory. It’s not very clear. It must be quite old, and I don’t like poking at it in case it becomes clearer. I have a few like that, that mess with my head. I don’t have a therapist, but I know one thing about triggers: you should avoid them.
Hell, all of us in the Brotherhood have triggers. Show Tyler a knife, and he’ll break out in cold sweat. Touch Asher without warning, and you’ll find a fist in your face. Dylan has a thing about smells I never quite understood, and Rafe… Well, let’s just say he probably has more triggers than me. That guy is seriously screwed up.
Like I’m not. Heh. I uncap the bottle and take a swig. The whiskey burns as it goes down, warming me up. I lean back and look around my living room. My drawings on the walls, my beaten-up second-hand furniture. My apartment.
Too quiet. Too empty.
Christ, Zane. I take a long gulp of alcohol and close my eyes. What I should do is change and go out, hit the bars and find a willing chick to fuck and blank out my mind.
So that’s the plan, but I don’t wanna move just yet. My lids grow heavy, and I’m caught in a twilight zone between waking and sleeping. I think I see more people in the room. They’re watching me, waiting to catch me off-guard. Their eyes glitter like mirrors.
Water is splashing. A bathtub, full to the brim. They’ll catch me and throw me into the water. They’ve done it before, many times. They’ll crouch around the tub, keeping me under as I thrash and scream.
They laugh, and it’s a singsong sound that chills me. I need to get up and leave. Why can’t I get up? And why won’t they stop?
I blink, and the paralysis leaves me. I sit up on the couch and manage to catch the bottle right before it crashes to the floor.
Not laughter. It’s the doorbell. Just the fucking doorbell.
I’m on my feet, weaving slightly, already half-way to the door, before I remember I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe Ash decided I’m acting too weird and came back to check on me? That’s not like Ash. He lets me have my space.
Ignore. Don’t open.
I hesitate. Glance around the empty apartment again. The faces and voices from my dream haven’t completely faded yet. A shiver wracks me.
This ain’t good.
Reaching the door, I glance through the peephole and make out a slight figure, dark hair with pink streaks. Dakota?
I frown. What is she doing here?
The question is moot. She’s here. As I open the door, and the faces and voices from the dream finally fade,
something inside me unclenches.
This girl is big trouble…
***
Dakota steps into my apartment, her black leather bag swinging from her shoulder. She’s dressed in a yellow summer dress—the girl likes yellow, and the information goes straight into my Dakota file—and her dark hair is caught at the back, shiny strands framing her face and making those blue eyes look huge.
“Hey,” she says, and her low, musical voice does strange things to me. I get this sudden urge to grab her and crush her to my chest.
I take a step back, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“You left suddenly from the park,” she says, and I wait for the usual blather—how are you, Zane? Are you all right? Have you gone completely round the bend yet, or are you still thinking about it?
But she doesn’t say any of those things. She just smiles, turns and closes the door.
Oh shit.
“Have you eaten?” She sidesteps me and glances into the dimness of the room. The light is fading. How long was I asleep?
I shake my head and suck on the barbell in my tongue. Why is she making me so nervous? It’s as if she can see inside my head, and I can’t have that. Not now.