B. Celeste

The hands gripping my waist are the wrong size. They’re too eager, too desperate as they trail around my back and cup my butt. I don’t like them. I even push them away. But they always come back, gripping, kneading, demanding.

He wouldn’t do this to me.

His hands are perfect.

But he’s not here anymore.

The music gets louder, but not enough to drown out the memories I have of him—the feel of soft kisses trailing down my naked back, or a hand brushing through my hair, or hushed murmurs promising me we’d be okay.

I can’t do this.

Placing my hands over the stranger’s, I try losing myself to the music. His groin to mine, our hips swaying. It’s not enough though.

I need something else. Something more.

Just one more shot.

Just one more pill.

We used to promise each other one more day, because we knew it was wrong. Neither of us could give each other up. We were addicted.

“Charlie …”

“Tomorrow.”

I woke them again.

Two wraps at the door, followed by the silent knob turning until the wood clicks open and reveals a familiar scruffy face. “Charlie?”

He sounds tired, his tone licked with worry. They’re getting worse, I think. The nightmares. Four this week. Three last. Maybe two the week before.

I lost track.

Mint eyes greet me even in the darkness, comforting me back into the reality I simply lull in since waking.

An apology is about to slip from my lips before I remember how much Everett hates hearing them from me.

Never be sorry for that, Charlie.

But I am sorry.

Everett and River Tucker adopted me not knowing the demons waiting until nightfall to come out and play. They hide in the shadows, under the bed, buried deep in my conscious until I’m trapped in my old bedroom.

That’s where the terrors always start.

Shivering, I pull the black comforter up until half my face is hidden. He opens the door wider and walks into the room, his hands in the