Page 9 of Sinful Sharing

I force myself to sit upright, dragging both hands through my damp hair. My pulse refuses to settle. It’s over, Jude. It happened years ago, not now. Deep down, I know that, but my body doesn’t get the memo.

My clothes have never been this soaked. Getting out of bed, I peel them off and toss them onto the floor, but it still feels as if the walls are closing in on me. Warm, golden light fills the room as I flick on the bedside lamp. Better. Well, not much. I catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall, and for a moment, I breathe through my nose, taking myself in. I’m not that skinny sixteen-year-old anymore. My body is strong enough to handle just about anything. Screw the past. I refuse to allow those painful moments to define who I am anymore.

Almost like clockwork, a voice goes off in my head. It’s soft, feminine, patient. A decade later, and it still grates on my nerves. ‘You still have plenty of work to do, Jude. You’re trying to reclaim control through sex. It gives you temporary relief because you’re choosing it.’

Dr. Morrison had leaned forward in that office, notebook balanced across her lap. ‘But using intimacy to outrun trauma won’t provide the healing you need.’

Healing.

God, therapists love that word.

She’d warned that eventually the nightmares would catch up, and maybe she was right about that. However, she will never change my opinion about sex. It’s the perfect anesthesia. Sex puts me in control, and now I choose who touches me. I decide how far things go and stop whenever I want. No one corners me and steals my voice anymore.

During those blissful moments, I forget. Memories fade. Fear takes a backseat. The noise in my head finally goes quiet. Granted, it rarely lasts, but it’s worth it.

The clock reads 2:19 am. It’s too early to start the day, and too late to pretend I’ll fall back asleep like this. I’ve tried before. All that happened was that I lay there waiting for the nightmare’s sequel. Yeah, no fucking thank you.

Because I’ve long accepted that my remedy doesn’t involve journaling or talking about feelings, I drag on my boots. I turn off the bedroom light, then step into the dimly lit hallway. Roman’s room is farther down the corridor, and Taylor’s is up ahead. Everyone is still asleep, it seems. Good. I quietly walk down the staircase, past the darkened living room, and unlock the front door as gently as I can.

Outside, the cold mountain air hits my bare skin like a slap. I inhale deeply, absorbing my surroundings. Countless stars stretch across the Montana sky. The moon hangs low and paints a silver hue across the driveway. Around me, there’s no sign of movement, nobody to watch or judge me.

I step onto the driveway and roll my shoulders before breaking into a jog. The familiar rhythm comes almost immediately. My breathing soon settles. And although my heart is still pounding, it’s for a different reason. Three laps later, my muscles are burning, my skin is tingling, and my lungs feel as if they are about to explode. But the nightmare is a distant memory.

Success.

This always works. A few laps around the property, and by the time I climb back into bed, exhaustion will drag me under before the memories catch me again.

6

Roman

Silence permeates the kitchen. The only sounds are the scrape of cutlery against ceramic and the hum of the refrigerator. Jude sits across from me, scrolling on his phone while nursing a mug of coffee. I shovel eggs into my mouth more out of habit than hunger, my attention fixed on the plate in front of me. Overhead, the floor suddenly creaks. Slow footsteps soon descend the back staircase. Lifting my head, I watch as Taylor approaches.

He looks like hell.

His eyes are red, with dark circles beneath them. His shoulders are rounded inward, as though something heavy settled on them overnight and never left. Whatever fight he’d carried into this house yesterday has disappeared. The only thing left is pure defeat. For a split second, I hear those sobs again. I see myself standing outside his bedroom door, my hand hovering over the knob like some damn idiot. The muffled sounds made me suspect he was trying to keep it quiet, but I heard every broken breath. It triggered something inside me.

Pity.

Even now, it twists my stomach. I stab a piece of egg with my fork, forcing my attention back to breakfast. Fuck pity. It doesn’t pay any goddamn bills around here. The only thing I want to feel for Taylor is nonchalance.

From the corner of my eye, he pulls back the chair closest to me and slumps into it. “Morning.”

I shove eggs inside my mouth, not bothering to reply.

Jude shoots me a look of disapproval. I ignore it. He knows damn well I’m not a ‘good morning’ person. “Rough first night?” he asks Taylor.

Taylor lets out a humorless breath. “I guess you could say that.”

Jude leans back in his chair. “Missing your friends, huh?”

Flashbacks of last night’s dinner come back to me, and I expect Taylor to clam up as he did back then. He surprises me by saying, “To miss my friends, they would have to exist.”

Then why the hell was he crying? Fuck it, I don’t care. I shovel another forkful of eggs into my mouth.

“Well, I know exactly how to cure whatever is bothering you,” Jude says, and I glare at him. He pretends not to notice. “Helping out around here would be the perfect distraction.”

Taylor rolls his eyes. “It’s not as if there’s anything else to do. Would’ve been lovely if someone had told me the resort was closed.”