Bad Habit (Bad Love 1)

And then when I really wanted out, he got pissed that I wasn’t doing his dirty work anymore. He and his lowlife friends took turns beating the shit out of me, not even stopping when I vomited from the pain. When they were finally done, I was unable to move, unable to open my eyes. I’m pretty sure he thought I was dead. He left me for dead.

I lay there, bleeding in the dirt, in a pile of my own puke, until the sun set and rose again. Once I could walk, I hobbled back to David’s house when I knew he’d be gone and stole his chunk of cash. Booked a cheap hotel room for a few nights until I could move without being in pain and then took a cab to the bus station. When the lady asked for my destination, I told her I didn’t care. I just needed the first bus out of there. I met Dare on the bus, and the rest is history.

But I don’t say all that. No one knows those fucked-up details but me.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” my dad admits, bringing me back to our conversation.

I wipe the blood off my mouth with the back of my hand before I realize that it’s pointless. My hands are just as bad as my face. I should’ve hurt him more. I should’ve made him pay. Instead, I let him fucking walk away.

“Why’d you come back?” John asks, looking like he’s on the verge of falling asleep.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Had a feeling.”

He opens one eye and assesses me. “Well,” he says after a long beat, “I’m glad you did.”

My jaw aches—either from taking the hit or clenching it so hard the entire drive home, I’m not sure—as I haul ass down the dimly lit streets of the neighborhood. I glance at the dash, and the time isn’t much more than a blur of neon blue, thanks to the swelling in my right eye. Two oh eight A.M.

I swing into the driveway with one, single thought. Briar. But I slam my bloody fist into my steering wheel when I notice that Adrian’s car is here, too, which means Dash is still awake.

My body is moving faster than my brain can catch up, and then I’m sneaking around the side of the house and wedging Br

iar’s window up with the heels of my palms. My head swims as I hoist myself up and through the window, but I ignore it. My boots hit the hardwood floor, and Briar gasps, sitting up in her bed.

“It’s me,” I say quickly.

“Ash? What happened?” Her voice is a whisper, and though the dark works to my advantage, I know she can sense that something is wrong.

This scene is all too familiar. Me wounded and belligerent. Her unwavering concern for me.

I stand there unmoving, unspeaking. I know what I want, but I don’t want to ask for it. Don’t know how to ask for it. But Briar knows, because she lifts her blanket in invitation.

Right now, I don’t care about our pasts. I don’t care about the bad decision she made back then, or the numerous bad ones I’ve made since. All I care about is crawling into her bed and leeching off her quiet and calm.

Wordlessly, I kick my boots off, then unbutton my jeans, dropping them to the floor along with my keys. Briar says nothing. She’s completely still as she watches me. Her messy blonde hair is everywhere, and the moonlight shining through her window allows me to see the outline of her nipples beneath her thin, white tank top.

We lock eyes, and she sucks her bottom lip in a nervous gesture. I reach behind my neck, pulling my black T-shirt over my head, letting it fall to join the rest of my shit. Closing the distance between us, I slip in beside her.

Briar lies on her side, facing me, and her fingers reach out to touch my face. I intercept her, directing her hand away from my wounds, and instead, she curls her fingers into the short hair at the nape of my neck.

“Turn around, Bry,” I rasp, lowering my head to hide my face. She massages the back of my head, and fuck, it’s probably the most affectionate gesture I’ve ever received.

“Talk to me,” she murmurs pleadingly. “You’re drunk.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and pry her hand from me, holding it away in a tight grip.

“Please.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, and then her nose grazes mine. I don’t pull back, so she does it again, but this time, our lips brush, too. Briar hooks a bare leg over mine, her lips touching mine with every move, every breath, but we don’t kiss.

I’m still holding on to her wrist between us, and she twists her arm to bring my hand to the curve of her hip. Her shirt has ridden up, and I feel the warmth of her skin against my calloused hands. I shouldn’t be able to touch anything this pure, I think to myself. I’ll only taint it.

Despite the fucked-up events of tonight, I’m hard as a rock. I want nothing more than to bend her over, shove inside, and forget all the bullshit. But she’s not Whitley. She’s not any of those girls. This is Briar, and she is fucking everything, even if she is a little liar.

“Turn around, Briar,” I say, firmer this time, as I physically turn her over, then lock my arms around her waist. Her firm ass settles right on my cock, and I fight the urge to grind against her. If I were a little less exhausted and a lot less fucked up, things would go very differently.

Her fingers trace mine, and I know that she feels the gashes and tacky half-dried blood, but she doesn’t speak. I wait for her breathing to even out before I dip my head forward, inhaling her scent and pressing my lips to the back of her neck. It isn’t long before I start to drift off, too content to care about the consequences that tonight might bring.

Briar