I promised my therapist I’d stop using my birthday as an excuse to cut myself open just so I can be sure I still bleed.
Later. I’ll do all the right things later.
Tonight, though? At midnight, my twenty-fifth birthday begins. The nine-year anniversary of my becoming an orphan. No one can tell me those aren’t auspicious numbers. I plan to make it one for the record books. A birthday to put all my others to shame. One to finally get whatever closure I can.
I’m an adult, after all. I have been for a long time.
I don’t need Devan playing the part of my savior anymore. I don’t want it.
What I do want is forbidden. Nine different kinds of wrong for the nine years I’ve been an orphan. The nine years he’s been my distant guardian.
I want Devan. Only for a single night. What better way is there to put the past behind me once and for all? Surely I’m not the only one who’s felt the tension snapping between us during our rare moments together? Surely I’m not the only one who’s harbored breathtakingly hot fantasies about what we’d do if his control ever slipped?
Tonight, I mean to find out.
Chapter 2
I smooth a hand down my gown. I’ve chosen the location of this birthday carefully. This is no rave, no wild club, no particularly intense house party like when I turned twenty. Compared to all my former birthdays, this place is ridiculously respectful.
This hotel bar is already full despite the relatively early hour, populated by people whose bank accounts make my trust fund look like pocket change. If Devan tries to manhandle me out of here, it will do more than raise eyebrows.
If he comes at all.
I twist on my barstool and pick up my glass of scotch. It’s expensive and peaty and oh so pretty as I swirl it in my glass. I don’t drink scotch often. It’s filled with too many memories and even the good ones are a sharp knife; a breathless moment of release, followed by shockingly intense pain. Even now.
This might all be for naught. Devan has the uncanny ability to sense when I’m about to tip over the edge. I feel that way right now, but it’s entirely different than my birthdays since my parents died. I ignore the doubt that arises at that thought. It is different. This is closure that I desperately need. A period at the end of so much grief.
Before, I was flinging myself headlong into a bonfire just to feel something.
Tonight, I’m leaping out of a plane and praying my parachute isn’t about to malfunction.
I take a sip of the scotch, letting it play over my tongue. It tastes like bittersweet memories, and my throat gets a little tight in response.
“You’re too pretty to be drinking that, darling.”
I bite back a sigh of impatience. The trio of men sitting at the table in the corner have been watching me from the moment I walked in. They’re all about ten years older than me, and all sporting wedding rings. This foolish soul clumsily slipped off his before he worked up the courage to approach me.
I don’t have many standards, especially when I get to feeling too tight for my skin. But there are lines even I won’t cross. Hurting myself with my actions is one thing; hurting someone else is something else altogether. I refuse to do it.
“Are you about to tell me that only old men drink scotch?” I hold this stranger’s gaze as I lift the glass to my lips and take a long swallow. “Guess I’m not your type.”
He stares, alcohol obviously dulling his senses and making it take time for my words to penetrate. Slowly, understanding dawns. His already red face flushes a red so dark, it’s nearly purple. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“Most people do.”
His eyes snag on my lips, painted a crimson to match the gown that hugs my body like a second skin. “Bet you know what to do with it.”
I’m already tired of this conversation, already bored with this man who thinks a dull pick-up line and a short temper are the least bit attractive. “You’ll never know.”
I turn back to the bar, but I can’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye. If he reacted strongly enough to a simple comment about my obvious lack of interest, I doubt he’s going to take a clear rejection now. The bartender is occupied with a pair of pretty women on the other side of the room. There will be no help from him. Not that I need help, but getting into a confrontation will ruin my chances of this night playing out how I’ve planned. I don’t know if and when Devan will show up, and the last thing I need is him riding in to save me when I don’t need to be saved.
Not this year.
The man draws himself up, and this time I can’t stifle my sigh. Confrontation, it is. If I take care of this quickly, hopefully it won’t derail the rest of the night. “Look, you seem like a nice guy—”
“Do you know who I am? You can’t talk to me like that.” He leans forward, getting in my space.
I stare at the bottles populating the wall across from me. They’re all top shelf and expensive, even though the presentation is a bit dull. Kind of like this guy. I shrug. “It’s a free country. I didn’t ask you to come over here. I can talk to you however I damn well please.”
“You little bitch. You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” His voice goes high and angry. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch.”
The air in the bar shifts. I shiver, the small hairs lifting on the back of my neck. Oh no. I thought I could
