Page 15 of The Catalyst

BETH

Iwake to the sensation of a warm chest under my face and, for a moment, I wonder if all of it was a dream—if I’ll open my eyes and see Shawn there, running his fingers through my hair like he did every time I fell asleep post-coitus. Then, I register the scent surrounding me, mixed with sex aroma.

Manly musk and hemp.

Nigel.

I take a calming breath, knowing confusing reality with wishful thinking could lead to a panic attack or a crying fit. Even after all this time, he still holds the power to break me.

“Are you okay?” Nigel asks as I open my eyes and look right into his icy blues, full of concern.

“What happened?” I deflect, trying to remember what is missing from my conscious memory.

“I fucked you until you passed out, then I fucked you again for added measure.”

Did he just openly admit that he had sex with me while I was incapacitated? This man is truly insane. That’s…that’s assault, and yet I’m not all that mad about it. To be honest, it’s kind of hot that he took my body while I was out of it. I should’ve guessed by how sore my cunt is.

Before that night at the bar, it had been ten months since I’d had sex. My toys became my best bed buddies, and I didn’t even use them often because they reminded me of Shawn.

And like that, my mood sours.

“Look at me,” Nigel demands as he grabs my chin and forces my gaze to his. “What are you thinking about?”

He doesn’t need to know. No one does. The only ones in Grove Hill that know are me and my mom, and I want it to stay that way.

I don’t want Shawn to follow me here.

“Nothing. I’m playing catch up,” I lie as I pull away and sit up, my eyes dancing up and down his exposed body. “You don’t have any tattoos,” I muse aloud.

“No, I do not.” He nods along as if he’s waiting for me to get to the point of my derailment.

“Why not?” I feel that even being barely eighteen wouldn’t stop him from getting one if it's what he wanted.

“I don’t see the point of meaningless tattoos. They’re an art form, and art means nothing if there’s no reason behind it. It lacks depth, and I haven’t had anything happen in my life worth inspiring something so permanent.” He shrugs nonchalantly, but it makes sense. All tattoos should have meaning behind them.

“Mmm.” I don’t know what to say to that.

“Who’s that?” he asks as he nods toward the small table next to my desk full of candles, pictures, Shawn’s necklace, and my dad’s watch.

“Which one?” I press, and he quirks a brow at me. There are two pictures. One is of me and my dad, and the other is of Shawn by himself, showing off his big smile.

I miss that smile. It was always so pure.

We both know which picture he’s talking about, though. It’s pretty obvious that my dad is exactly that: an authority figure who was near and dear to my heart.

“His name is Shawn. He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

As if by instantaneous reaction, he sits up, shocked. “Why the hell do you have a picture of your ex set up like that?” He’s pissed and obviously possessive with no reason to be. Nigel is not my boyfriend, and all we have is sex. Amazing sex, but just sex nonetheless.

“It’s my ofrenda,” I state matter-of-factly.

“Your what?”

“Ofrenda. It’s an altar used to honor those who have passed on Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead.” I may not be of Spanish heritage, but I fell in love with the idea, so I ran with it, making my own ofrenda. Plus, Shawn was half Mexican and it broke my heart to think he wouldn’t be on anyone’s ofrenda. I’m the only one left to honor his memory.

I had it back in Hempstead and just transferred everything when we moved.

“He’s…dead?”

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