Page 94 of Whiskey Splash

“Des—?” I don’t even get his name out when his face crumples and he looks down at his knees, his emotion punching me right in the chest and dousing me in adrenaline. “You’re freaking me out.”

He pulls me forward, kisses me—fiercely, desperate—like there’s a hundred things he needs to tell me in this kiss, a hundred stolen moments that are spilling between his fingertips. But the most raw and important thing I feel from him is panic and sadness, like he doesn’t want this kiss to end, like something large and unstoppable has been put into motion and if he just keeps kissing me it won’t happen.

“Des!” I pull away from his mouth. I can tell how badly he doesn’t want me to know, but I can’t carry all this anxiety and weight from him without knowing why and how. But, when our eyes lock, a darkness and gravity sit in his gaze.

This isn’t about him.

This is about me.

My eyes flare and I step back, my hands falling from his face—that instinct to panic floods through me before I truly understand its existence. Desmond just destroyed my cell phone battery because he desperately didn’t want me to see what was on it.

“Desmond?” That fist is in my throat. “What the hell is on my phone?”

His eyes plead with me to ask him anything else.

“I’ll fix this, I promise!” he rasps out, my spine tingling.

“Fix what?” his hands cover mine—too strong, too insistent.

“I promise.”

“Fix what?!”

I peel back, tearing my hands away and standing up. My legs are wobbly and the terry cloth robe around my body reminds me of that night with the photographer, with me huddled on the bathroom floor.

“They’re taking the picture down from the internet. It’s illegal and it can’t be—”

All I hear are the wordspictureandinternet.

Everything in my vision turns red. My body becomes liquid.

I sit down—maybe.

His hands are on my face—maybe.

I can’t really register anything other than the worms slithering up every inch of my skin.

Picture.

Internet.

Am I even breathing?

“You smashed his camera,” I say—maybe, I think I’m speaking.

My face is hot, wet and puffy. His hands are brands on my cheeks. Desmond’s in front of me, but everything’s blurry.

“You said you destroyed it, every picture he took.”

“I did,” he assures me, his hands raking through my hair. Fingers clawing at my skull. “The picture isn’t from this room.”

My eyes snap to him. Clear. Only for a second. Clear enough to see his pleading face. To hear what he’s said.

“Where?” I rasp out. “There’s nowhere else!”

He kisses me on the forehead. “Esme, I’m so, so sorry. I promise, I’ll make this go away.”

“Show it to me!” I push him away, standing up and needing to breathe. “Show it to me!”

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