Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

She makes a scoffing sound. "You can stay here as long as you want, you know. Hang out. We'll write songs. Drink buckets of wine. Eat cookies. My couch is yours for as long as you need it."

Her apartment in Culver City is small, about the size of Noah's place. Only hers isn't a studio, but a one-bedroom. Which means her room is tiny and the living room is tiny.

Right now, I'm in the tiny living room on a tiny couch while Celia sits in front of me on her tiny coffee table.

It feels a lot like we're camping out inside a dollhouse.

"I appreciate the offer," I say. "But honestly, I just want to get home."

She nods slowly. "Because you have such an intense work schedule planned out? I thought as of yesterday you were contractless."

"Do I have to be going home for work? Maybe I want to see my place. Or maybe I want to get with Maia and put together some new proposals. Strike while the iron is hot. Or maybe I want to drive up to Dallas and do a couple of shows with Seven Percent before we get churning on Pink Chameleon."

"Really?" Her brows lift. "Do you?" She stands, then moves into her surprisingly roomy kitchen, keeping an eye on me as she walks.

I lift a shoulder, feeling trapped. "Maybe."

She pulls a corkscrew out of a drawer and waves it at me before violently attacking a bottle of Chardonnay. "You're a piece of work," she says. "You know that, right?"

I pull my knees up and tug the blanket tighter around me. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't. Come on, Keeks, I know how you are. You don't look at the future through rose-colored glasses. To you, it's all baby shit brown."

"Ew. And again, ew."

She's unrepentant as she brings me a glass of wine. "Maybe, but accurate."

"No, it's not. I'm pragmatic, that's all."

"Really? Because going to Dallas and joining Seven Percent makes so much sense when Noah's going to be back."

I look down into my wine. I don't want to do this; I just want to sleep and wake up and have the world be back the way I want it.

"Dammit, Keeks. Things are not crap right now." She leaves her wine on the coffee table and sits down on the couch beside me, then takes my hand. "I mean, come on. For one thing, Pink Chameleon is about to rock the music world, right? We have Matthew Holt interested, our sound is amazing. And you know that. You know it's going to happen, you just don't want to admit it."

"It should happen," I agree. "But not everything turns out the way it should. Most things don't." I think of Noah right beside me just yesterday, talking about rings and futures. And then everything shifted, and suddenly it was ten years ago all over again.

"Noah loves you," she says, reading my mind as only a best friend can. "You're just scared."

"I'm terrified," I admit. What I don't say out loud is that I'm also angry. He was mine again--for a few, wonderful days, he was really and truly mine. And then she came in and stole him away a second time. And I can't even hate her. Not after what's happened to her. Not after everything she's lost.

Celia squeezes my hand. "Do you really want to be someone who lives their life anticipating the worst?"

"No." The word comes out hoarse because of the unexpected tears that suddenly clog my throat. "No," I repeat, my voice stronger. "But this is what happens. The world doesn't care what I think, and the people in it make decisions without me. My world changes, and I don't get a say in it."

"But you do," she says firmly.

I just tilt my head and start to count on my fingers. "Really? My dad. My stepfather. My mom. They all just left. They just walked. And then Noah and Darla. He didn't even ask what I thought. Didn't ask if I understood. And after she was kidnapped, he didn't come find me. He said he didn't want to burden me with his guilt. His suffering. He made the goddamn decision for me."

"Because you didn't fight." She pushes up off the couch and starts to pace. "You didn't fight, and I don't get it. Because you're the strongest fighter I know. You built Crown Consulting out of nothing. You practically forced your way back to your music even when you didn't have to. You didn't have any illusions about reforming PC when you started writing again. You were just fighting to get back something you love."

She's right. I know she is, even though it's hard to think about how I've sat back and allowed things to happen to me without trying to battle them back.

And no, I couldn't have fought for my dad and stepdad and mom. I was too young. They left, I had no way of fighting, and that impotence scarred me.

But I could have fought for Noah. When Darla told him she was pregnant, I should have jumped into the ring. Instead, I lingered on the sideline until Noah told me that he was marrying her. Even then, I didn't fight. Not really. I numbly accepted his decision, even though it was so damn wrong for both of us.

And Owen--I'd done the opposite of fight. He'd started talking about moving out of state, and I began to suspect that he was seeing Abby behind my back. And rather than fight, I just pulled the plug.