Page 133 of Burn

“It’s okay,” I cry against his shoulder.

Thrusting inside me, I can understand what he’s trying to do, in part. He cares for me, but he’s not in a place in his life where he can offer me what I want, though I haven’t told him what I want.

Threading my fingers through his hair, I try to give him what I can. My understanding.

His tongue slides across my collarbone, my legs lifting to wrap around his waist.

At my touch, Caleb shudders, kissing down my neck as he rocks into me with slow, languid movements that set my nerves a blaze.

Drawing back, he swallows, his chest heaving with a breath, the muscles in his throat working as the tears still flow. I don’t think he can stop them now and it breaks my heart that he can’t.

“Mila,” he whispers, his lips close to my ear. It’s two more thrusts inside me before his body shakes, his mouth returning against my lips as we share his whiskey breaths. His hands, his lips, the ones that have touched me so intensely over the last month, hold me in place as he comes inside of me.

Breathing heavily against my ear, he holds himself still, gripping my hips so hard they begin to hurt.

I let my hand drift up to the side of his face, running my fingertips along the edge of his cheek. For a spilt second, his eyes open to me. I want to see warmth and connection reach his eyes, and when I don’t see it, a hint of fear pricks at my skin because all there is sadness. His lids fall shut again as he kisses me harder, pouring emotions he says he doesn’t have into them. Under the sadness, there’s vulnerability he doesn’t want.

When he’s finished, he pulls out and a sudden loss washes over me. He shifts above me, severing our connection.

And then he pukes. On me.

AN HOUR LATER, Caleb’s a mess and on the bathroom floor puking his guts out. Poor guy. He looks worse by the hour, and I don’t know whether to rub his back, call 911, rock myself and cry, or sit with him. Instead, I sit on the floor in the hallway.

His phone keeps ringing and dinging and I’m curious who keeps calling him.

I don’t know whether I should look.

Maybe I can just peek and make sure everything’s okay. That’s not an invasion of privacy. It’s just me making sure there’s no emergency.

At least this is what I tell myself when I reach for his phone in his jeans on the floor.

With my stealthy phone-snatching skills, I grab it and hold it up as the screen lights.

There are fifteen missed calls and a number of text messages. Most are from Jacey, but there’re a couple from Owen, the chief, and Gavin.

Jacey’s been the one texting him the most so I click on her name.

Jacey: Are you ok? Text me back, asshole!

Jacey: Seriously, CALEB! Are you dead? If you’re dead, I hate you for leaving me alone in all this.

I should let her know he’s okay. He’s clearly not okay, but at least he’s breathing still, so we have that going for us.

Dropping the phone slightly, I stare at Caleb for a moment. He’s in the same position on the floor, his left arm sprawled out, the right over his head. I watch his stomach, making sure he is in fact breathing.

It rises and falls rapidly.

Good.

Holding the phone up again, I click on the last message Jacey sent and hit Reply.

Me: Jacey, it’s Mila. Caleb’s passed out on my bathroom floor. He’s fine.

And then I wait. It’s like three in the morning, but those tiny blue message dots pop up immediately and dance around indicating she’s typing. And then they stop. They stop and start a few times before she replies.

Jacey: Thank God! Fuck, I was so worried about him. Don’t let him drink and drive.

Me: I won’t. He’s in no condition to even move from the floor.

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