Page 3 of Save Me

My hands itch to touch her. And that hasn't ever happened. I don't touch people.Ever.Haven't since I was a little kid and still trusted that there was good in this world. I stopped believing that a long damn time ago. But that's beside the point. The point is, whenever someone touches me, a whole goddamn parade ofbad memories crash down on me, and I feel like I can't fucking breathe.

But I want this girl's hands on me. Actually, scratch that. I want mine on her.

And that is not fucking happening.

"My assistant said you were demanding to see me," I say, motioning for her to come in.

Her pouty lips pull down into a frown, her gaze darting toward the door. "The hulking giant in a cowboy hat is your assistant?"

"So he keeps claiming."

"Claiming?"

"I keep firing him. He keeps showing up anyway."

She cracks a smile. "I think that means he likes you, Mr. Hill. I heard cowboys can't quit you when they like you."

"Jesus Christ." I stare at her. "Did you just quoteBrokeback Mountainat me?"

She bites her lip and then nods, her cheeks stained pink. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist." She wrinkles her nose. "And for the record, I didn't demand to see you. I asked politely, but I'm guessing that's not in his vocabulary."

"Probably not." I tip my head to the side, studying her. "What can I do for you, Miss Sterling?"

"You know who I am?" Her teeth sink into her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to bite it my damn self, and then she shakes her head. "What am I saying? Of course you know who I am. He probably told you."

"Didn't need your name, sweetheart. You look just like Bella."

Her nose wrinkles again. "She looks like me. I'm older."

"Right." I grin, genuinely amused for the first time since my world imploded. She's fucking cute when she's anxious…and she's clearly anxious right now. Because of me? Because she's here? I'm not sure. But I'm suddenly curious as hell to know whythis sweet little thing decided to come here. "What can I do for you, Miss Sterling?"

"Isla."

"What can I do for you, Isla?"

"I…" She fidgets from foot to foot and then huffs out a breath. "I don't know," she finally whispers. "I'm not entirely sure why I'm here, Mr. Hill."

"Brantley."

"What?"

"My father was Mr. Hill. I'm just Brantley."

"Right." She swallows hard, staring at me. Really staring. She isn't looking like most people do—like she's seeing the same shit they do. It's like she's looking past that, trying to figure out who I am underneath all the bullshit she's heard and read.

Aside from the handful of people I'm closest to in this world, I've never cared to let anyone else in. Never cared what they thought or what they saw. But something about this girl makes me want to let her peel back the bullshit and see the truth. I can't remember the last time I wanted that.

Actually, that's not true. I've never wanted it. Because letting people in means letting them see all the fucked-up pieces—the scars and the nightmares and the fact that, even all these years later, I still can't walk into a fucking closet because of the prick who called himself my father.

"I guess I just…I wanted to meet you," she says slowly.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah, you do." I cross my arms, cocking my head to the side. "You wanted to know if I was really the monster they're making me out to be, right? The druggie son who got his legendary father killed?"

"What?" Her eyes fly open wide, shock painting her pretty face. "No, of course not."

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