Apparently roommates share everything. That’s what Travis told me the other day. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get the fucking memo. In the group homes where I lived, we didn’t own anything, and we had to fight tooth and nail even for those few things allocated to us.

But that’s over. Over and done with. Not going back there.

Jesus.

It still takes me a moment to move, to grab what’s left, take the ham and slap a sandwich together. The anger remains, though it’s not aimed at my roomies anymore. It takes me a minute to realize it’s aimed at myself—for panicking, for falling back into the past.

And where else would I fall back to, if not the past? It’s what’s behind me, what made me who I am. How can I escape it?

“Dude.” A rusty voice from the kitchen door startles me so badly I almost drop the sandwich. “Whatcha doing up so early? The sun isn’t up yet.”

“Gage.”

His hulking presence fills the kitchen, and I force myself not to retreat. Hell, I’m almost six foot tall, and I train at the gym with the guys whenever I can. Every morning I do sit-ups and push-ups in my room before I head out. I can take him if needed.

Which shouldn’t matter, because this is my roommate who’s currently ignoring me in favor of rummaging in the fridge for breakfast—but on the heels of a night of nightmares liberally mixed with memories, his height and physical mass has me feeling cornered. It doesn’t help that he’s blocking my way out of the kitchen.

“I heard you across the hallway,” he says as he straightens with a box of juice. He lifts the box and drinks straight from it, eyeing me all the while.

“Heard what?” I try to think if I jerked off last night, but I’m pretty sure I dropped like a rock.

“You were shouting something.” He finishes the juice and throws it into the trash. “Couldn’t make out what it was. Nightmare?”

“None of your business,” I mutter between clenched teeth. If he doesn’t move out of the way, I’ll damn well kick him in the nuts, and we’ll see who will be shouting this time. “Move, Gage.”

“Why are you so prickly, man?” He actually folds those massive arms over his chest and plants his feet apart. “I wanna help.”

“With what? I don’t need your help. What I want is to head back to my room, and you’re in the fucking way.”

“Hey now.” He takes a step toward me, and I let go of my plate to better defend myself, bending my knees and raising my fists.

He makes a wild grab at my plate and rescues it, along with the food.

“Damn.” He huffs and shakes his head, staring at the dish and then me with eyes round as saucers. “Fuck, dude. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

A whole lot is wrong with me. Where to start? “Fuck off.”

He places the dish on the counter and steps away, hands raised. “Okay. Fine. If you wanna talk, you know where to find me.”

My pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely hear him, and my chest is so tight I can’t breathe. I grab my plate, put an arm around it protectively, even though consciously I know Gage won’t try to take it from me—but you never know, right?—and walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs.

Appetite gone, I carry my sandwich into my room, close and lock the door and lean back against it.

Fucking hell. I need… something. Probably painkillers, a mug of extra-strong coffee and a run around the block—but that’s not it.

Embers. That’s who I need.

No, dammit. I thump my fist back against the door. I don’t need a person. Not that. I’m okay on my own.

The images from the nightmare rush back as the stench of my sour sweat clinging to my sheets hits me. They stink of fear, just like my skin.

Staggering to my bed, I sink on the mattress, plonk the plate down by my side and struggle to push down the fucked up mess that’s inside my head—the ugly jagged tangle of emotions, the sharp sting of memories I’d hoped I buried, the ever-present restlessness and tension.

Who is the guy in my dream? My uncle, a faint memory insists, but I don’t trust it. Can’t remember living with an uncle. Can’t remember much from my childhood.

The past can’t touch me. I’m fine. I don’t need anyone.

But even as I force myself to eat, as I pull on my sweats and go out for a jog, as I pound the sidewalk with my running shoes and see the run rise, all I can see is her face, and all I feel is the desperate urge to touch her. Smell her. Hear her voice. I don’t know how to battle against this need.

I don’t know if I can.

Chapter Seven

Amber

It’s early morning. No idea what woke me other than another string of dreams that turned up the heat until I had to throw the covers off me.

Morning porn, brought to you by a certain sexy hunk called Jesse Lee. Stay tuned for the next episode.

Good God. 

After I woke up to find my hand between my legs for the third time in a row, a pulse deep inside my belly and a pair of green-blue eyes haunting me, I decided enough was enough.

I’m not in lust with Jesse. No way. The boy’s trouble. For chrissakes, he’s a manwhore who has no problem flaunting it. No regrets there, obviously, and no thoughts of ever stopping.

And that shouldn’t be my problem, in any case. With his tattoos and attitude, he’s exactly the kind of guy who smoked pot and bullied kids at school. In other words, exactly the kind of guy I should be running away from.

A shudder goes through me.

The apartment is quiet as I pad into the kitchen and start the coffee maker going. Kayla is probably still snoring in her bed¸ as any sensible person would do on a summer morning. She’s a college student, and college students are like vampires when on vacation. They are dead in the early morning hours, and their curtains are drawn shut to stop the sun from disturbing them, while they spend their nights partying and dancing.

Not that it’s any different the rest of the year. I should know. Jeez, I’m a college student, too. I tend to forget that.

Only now I don’t know what to do with my life. Which way to choose. What future I want.

Maybe coffee will help with the brain waves. Has to.

I’m pouring myself a steaming mug when the doorbell rings. A glance at the clock mounted on the wall lets me know it’s seven thirty. Who on earth can that be?

A thought hits me as I cross the living room, but that’s crazy. Nah. Can’t be. I mean, why would he come? Lured by my dreams of him?

Get a grip, Amber.

Then I look through the peephole, and it’s déjà vu all over again. Reality lurches as my dreams merge with the image of the tall, muscled guy waiting outside, bright eyes shifting between the door and the world beyond. He’s dressed in jogging gear, in a washed-out black hoodie and stretchy jogging pants that mold to the thick muscles of his thighs and calves.

My whole body flushes, my nipples harden and the ache between my legs returns.

God. If looking at him through the peephole does this to me, what would it be like to touch his strong chest, his face, kiss those lush lips, taste his smoky, masculine flavor?

And there I go again, wanting a guy I shouldn’t. I may not be a good judge of people, but this case is clear-cut: Jesse isn’t who I need.

For a moment I consider pretending I’m not here. I could walk away quietly. No harm, no foul.

Before I step away, though, he turns his gaze to me, as if he’s looking straight at me. As if he knows I’m there. His gaze is sad, his pretty mouth downturned. He seems so miserable I don’t have the heart to go through with my plan.

Cursing myself six ways to Sunday for being an idiot, I open the door and face him.

“Good morning,” I say, repeating to myself that I should avoid pet names and anything ambiguous he could use to tease me. “Is everything okay?”