Page 31 of First Time

The couch called to me, but I ignored the right choice. I stretched out on the bed beside Becky—above the blankets, and lay facing her. Call me creepy, but I couldn’t help but stare at her in what little light afforded me sight. She lay in shadow, beautiful and still. An angel deserving of love rather than the devil she’d attached herself to.

Somehow, some way, I would show her what freedom tasted like. What it meant to be cherished. Cared for rather than taken advantage of. Her sweet nature needed to be nurtured—not abused.

Closing my eyes, I focused on releasing tension from my body, one muscle at a time. Eventually, I drifted off.

Warmth cradled my side when I roused from sleep.

Darkness still coated the room.

I lay on my back, Becky pressed against my left, the blankets a tangled mess between our waists. Her hand splayed over my stomach and her face rested on my chest. While passed out, we’d become entwined, my arm beneath her shoulders, holding her tight.

Heaven—absolute fucking heaven.

I closed my eyes and soaked in the warmth of her, a sense of rightness welling inside me. I’d cuddled with dozens, hundreds of women in aftercare, but not a single one had gifted me radiating peace through my chest and mind.

Mine.

The word whispered in my head, and following on its heels, a determined desire to protect her settled over me. I’d never been a possessive man, but with Becky?

I released a slow exhale and pulled her in a little closer to me.

She stirred, rubbing her cheek against my chest, her fingers sliding over my right side to hold me tighter. “Master Cooney?” she murmured, her voice barely audible as though she’d spoken in her sleep.

“Daniel,” I whispered, caressing her arm and wishing I could hear my real name on her lips.

She sighed and snuggled into me.

Sleep once more came for me, and with it, dreams I had escaped for years.

* * *

“Danny—come on!” Mom hollered up the stairwell.

I glanced around my room, not wanting to leave my things, but Mom said we had to hurry. Throat tight, I scampered downstairs, a single backpack slung over my arm.

I didn’t know why she had made a sudden decision to leave, what had finally changed Mom’s mind about living with my asshole of a father, but I hadn’t disagreed when she’d told me to shove some clothes in a bag.

She didn’t lock up behind us, just hurried toward the car in the driveway with me cutting through the grass rather than using the walkway like her.

A recognizable rumble barreled down the road an hour earlier than usual.

Mom’s footsteps halted. Her face paled, shoulders wilting. She turned toward me, eyes wide. Panic swelled in my chest, and at her whisper for me to run, I told my feet to move.

They didn’t.

I stayed rooted like an oak, my stomach in knots.

Dad pulled in behind Mom’s car. He climbed from his truck, eyeing the bags in Mom’s hands. An ugly shade of red mottled his cheeks. His forehead.

I swallowed hard, having seen the near future too many times to count.

His first swing dropped Mom to her knees, but she knew better than to make a sound. Dad wrapped his hands in her red hair and dragged her toward the house. Her knees scraped on the cement walkway, leaving a trail of red behind her scrambling legs.

Tears welled in my eyes, and I swallowed back a sob, not wanting him to realize I stood in the middle of the yard.

Mom used to beg me to stay silent and tucked me away in a kitchen cabinet when Dad would come home from work angry.

But at thirteen, I’d finally grown too tall to hide.

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