For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (10 page)

After a long beat of silence, I look up into the kind eyes of a judge. He looks sorry for me. Everyone is sorry for me. They just can’t help me. Isn’t that what Blue told me? That they don’t understand what it’s like in the system. They shove us around like dolls in cardboard houses.

I grasp the wood handles of the chair, already slick from my palms. “What will happen to him?”

The judge looks tired. “That depends on a lot of factors.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t want to tell me. I can see that much. “It depends on if there’s a trial or not.”

This isn’t a trial. It’s just a hearing to figure out if I should be left at the house or removed. Blue probably has a hearing just like this one. Of course Matthew won’t have one, because he’s not a foster kid. He’s one of the actual kids who live at that house.

“There won’t be a trial.” I don’t say it like a question. I may be young, but I know that much. I’m just a stupid little girl from the wrong side of the tracks. A girl whose daddy ended up in jail. A girl whose mother took too many pills and never woke up.

Girls like us, we don’t get trials.

The judge looks down at his papers. He shuffles them around. He doesn’t want to tell me the truth, but he doesn’t want to lie. I appreciate that, at least.

His voice is severe when he repeats, “Hannah, we need to know who hurt you.”

“It was Blue,” I whisper. “Eugene Blue.”

If I say it was Matthew, they’ll remove me from the home. And Blue too. But they won’t be able to prosecute Matthew. He won’t go to jail. He won’t be punished in any way—except by Blue.

He’ll go back and finish the job. It took two of the older boys at the home plus Matthew’s drunk-ass dad to pull Blue off him. And I’m grateful. They’re the only reason Blue isn’t standing trial for murder.

It doesn’t matter that he’s a minor. There’s no way they’d let him off a second time. And if they let us out, Blue will finish the job. He’ll get himself in prison. I know it.

If I say it was Blue, if I say he hurt me, he won’t go to prison—not as a minor, not for getting a little rough with a girl like me. Oh, but they’ll definitely send him away from this house, away from Matthew. Far away, exactly where he wanted to go.

He won’t be able to come back.

He won’t want to come back, once he hears what I’ve done.

*     *     *

“Nothing’s going to
happen to him,” Lucy says. “I mean, that kid last year was caught
on tape
and they still didn’t prosecute.”

I don’t answer. Of course they aren’t going to prosecute, not because some girl got hurt. We’re just bulldogs fighting in a cage. Like Blue said, that’s almost the whole point.

They’ll definitely send Blue away, and that’s definitely the whole point.

He’s safe, and I should be happy about that. Even though I’m still here with Matthew and Lucy. It’s not the bliss that I felt with him, but it’s enough. I just wish he didn’t hate me.

He
must
hate me.

That’s the part that hurts the most. Not even that I’ll never see him again. It makes me ache to know that wherever he is in the world, he hates me.

My first boyfriend, if you could call him that. My first real kiss.

My first heartbreak.

Another girl comes in and gives us a nod, so Lucy grabs her clothes and heads for the shower. The entire upstairs is wrapped in plastic, so we’re crammed three to a room. At least until the state can move some of us to other houses.

I kneel by my knapsack to get a nightgown. We were all allowed upstairs for a few hours yesterday so we could grab any clothes that weren’t ruined by the fire—or the water that drenched everything. I make a face at the smell of smoke that blasts me when I open the canvas flap.

It smells almost like…leather?

I reach inside. My hand grabs a familiar leather jacket. My eyes widen, and I pull it out. I know this wasn’t in my room when I went up there to grab my stuff. When could he have put this here? I spread open the jacket and search the pockets. There’s a piece of paper folded inside one, a rough scrawl inside.

Thanks for the memories,
it says, and I can feel his fury and betrayal lacing every word.

Until next time.

*     *     *

I hope you enjoyed this special look into the first love and heartbreak of Blue and Hannah. Find out what happens when they meet again in
Better When It Hurts
, a dark and sexy second chance romance. It’s payback time.

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NEWSLETTER

Sarah Castille

I
pull my
pink satin bathrobe snugly around me and knot the belt tight. So much for another birthday. Except for a card from my youngest son, Justin, and a kiss from my oldest, Peter, the day has been largely uneventful. And that’s the way I like it. Nothing can stop the slow creep of age, so why the big reminder?

Still, it would have been nice if Dan had at least remembered my birthday. Although why should this year be different from any other?

“You coming to bed, babe?” Dan calls out. “Don’t forget to turn off the lights. And make sure that faucet isn’t dripping again.”

I look up into the mirror and catch a glimpse of Dan climbing into our king-size bed. He’s wearing the skull print PJ bottoms I bought him for Christmas and the AC/DC T-shirt from the last concert we saw together, just before Peter was born. Except for a faint greying of his hair, and slightly less definition in his broad, muscular chest, he looks just as handsome as he did when he swept me off my feet at the restaurant where I celebrated my twentieth birthday.

Me on the other hand . . . same shoulder-length auburn hair, same green eyes, but my curves are curvier, and I’ve added an extra plus to my usual plus size.

After checking the tap and turning off the light, I join Dan in bed, carefully leaving a pillow-size space between us. I always leave my robe on until Dan has turned out the bedside light. After fifteen years of marriage, we seldom touch anymore. We sleep on opposite sides of the bed, rarely have sex, and only hold hands for family photos.

“Good night.” I fiddle with the belt on my robe, waiting for Dan to roll onto his side and plunge the room into blissful darkness.

“I have a birthday present for you,” he says. “It’s under your pillow.”

“You remembered my birthday?” I push the pillow aside and snatch up the pink envelope beneath, making no effort to hide my excitement. I can’t remember the last time Dan bought me a birthday present. I stopped reminding him about it five years ago because it hurt more to see the guilt on his face than it did to just pretend it was any other day.

“I always remember, Kylie. I just . . . never know what to do anymore. I don’t know what you like.”

“You’ve lived with me for fifteen years.” I tear open the pretty pink envelope—was it chance or did he remember my favorite color? “How can you not know what I like?”

“You’ve changed,” he says. “I’ve changed. We’re like strangers sharing a bed.”

His words send a chill through my veins and I freeze mid-tear. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying open the envelope.”

With much less enthusiasm, I pull out the white card and stare at the gold
Happy Birthday
written in script across the front. No age, although I suspect they don’t make cards for thirty-five-year-olds. No
wife
or
lover
or even
friend
below. No pictures of flowers or balloons. As far as cards go, it’s about as generic as they get.

“Thank you.” I muster a smile and fall back on the good manners my mother taught me when I was young and naïve and full of dreams about love lasting a lifetime.

“Open it.”

“Maybe I’ll save some of the fun for tomorrow.” I place the card carefully on the faded brown duvet beside me. If he’s just scrawled his name inside, I might burst out crying, and Dan has never handled strong emotion very well.

“Please,” he says. “Just look inside.”

Dan isn’t the begging type. Or the asking type. At least he wasn’t when we first met. He was dominant and possessive—the epitome of an alpha male—but adventurous and loving and he totally rocked my world. Now, he’s a good provider, a good father, but as emotionally closed off as he used to be open. Still, his plea moves me to reconsider.

“Okay.” I open the card and plaster a smile on my face that should, hopefully, see me through whatever I find inside. “It was very thoughtful . . .” My words trail off as I read the coupon taped inside the card.

THIS LOVE COUPON ENTITLES THE BEARER TO ONE MÉNAGE

My heart stutters in my chest and my stomach sinks. Would he be this cruel? Who would want to have a ménage with me? “Is this a joke?”

“No joke.” He shakes his head, frowns. “Although it’s just for one night.”

“Does this say . . . ménage? As in ménage à trois? As in three people in a bed? Together?”

Dan shifts in the bed, turning toward me. “You said you wanted to spice things up in the bedroom.”

“By ‘spice things up,’ I meant actually having sex or taking off our clothes with the lights on or kissing before bed.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I wasn’t really thinking of inviting someone else to join us.”

“Things haven’t been good between us for a long time.” He rubs his palms together, a telltale sign that he’s agitated. Although right now, he’s got nothing on me.

“I couldn’t possibly let a stranger see me naked.” I close the birthday card and try to tuck it back into the destroyed envelope. Maybe he had too many drinks after work. Maybe one of the other attorneys in his office put him up to this, or maybe there’s a hidden camera in the closet and the joke is on me.

“Not a stranger.” He takes the card from my hand and carefully removes the coupon. “Aidan Steadman.”

“Aidan Steadman?” My voice rises to a shriek, and not just because I know Aidan but because he is about the hottest thing to hit our town in forever, and the least likely person I could ever imagine with a thirty-five-year-old, married mother of two like me. “The kids’ new dentist? He’s coming to our house to have a ménage? Are you crazy?” I put my hand on Dan’s forehead. “You are a little warm. Maybe you have a fever. Peter had that terrible cold last week . . .”

“I’m not crazy.” He gently moves my hand away. “I’ve already talked to him about it, and he’s really excited.”

“I’ll bet he is,” I mutter. “How old is he? Twenty-five? Thirty? And he has nothing better to do with his time than hang out in bed with us?”

“Kylie.” His voice takes on an admonishing tone. “Don’t be so negative.”

“And just how did that conversation go?” I take a stab at mocking Dan’s deep voice. “Hey, Aidan. Thanks for doing that emergency filling for Peter. Do you want to come over on Saturday for dinner and a ménage with my wife?”

“No dinner,” Dan says. “He’s got plans.”

“Plans for another ménage? He’s a dentist, Dan. Dentists aren’t kinky.”

Dan’s lips quiver in a smile. “Apparently he is. That’s why he got divorced back in Ohio. His wife wasn’t into that stuff.”

“And we are?” I push myself off the bed and tighten the belt on my robe. “Come on, Dan. What’s gotten into you? Last year, when I wanted to buy a vibrator, you told me they were unnatural. You can’t deal with toys in bed, but you can deal with another man?”

“Aidan.” He follows me across the bed and sits on the edge, his gaze on me.

“Aidan,” I repeat. “The ménage king of our lovely Tolmie, Indiana.”

“He likes you, babe.” Dan tugs on my belt and draws me over to him. “He thinks you have nice teeth.”

“Well, thank God for that. It might ruin the mood if I had cavities.” I stop between his spread legs, and a thrill of arousal shoots through me. Before our sex life succumbed to the rigors of babies, work, and exhaustion, Dan was always in control in the bedroom. I hadn’t slept with many men before him, but his dominance aroused me, and although our play never went beyond soft restraints and the occasional slap on the ass, he opened me up to possibilities I would have been more than happy to pursue if I hadn’t gotten pregnant so damn fast and he shut it all down.

Over the years, the playtimes became fewer and sex became mechanical, with the sole purpose of getting us both off as quickly as possible so we didn’t lose any precious sleep. By the time the boys hit their teens, we had drifted apart so far I figured there was no going back. And why rock the boat? We were comfortable together. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

“Kylie.” He tugs on my belt, and my robe falls open to reveal the cheap, pink satin nightgown that does little to hide the evidence of my post-baby spread. “I feel like I’m losing you, and I don’t know what else to do. I picked up one of your romance books last month and saw the three people on the cover . . . We talked about having someone else join us when we first got together . . . You said it was one of your fantasies . . . I figured if you were still interested enough to read about it . . .”

“It’s not real.” I snatch the ends of my belt from his hands and tie my robe tight. Fifteen years ago, I loved my curves, but now I wonder if my curves have driven Dan away. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive anymore and he needs to go to this kind of extreme to get off.

“Neither are we.”

“It was a nice thought,” I say. “But it’s just not going to happen. I know you—”

“Saturday night, after I get back from Denver.” His low, commanding tone startles me, and I shiver, remembering the days when I thought I could come just from the sound of his voice. “The boys are having a sleepover at the Richardsons’ house. Aidan will be here at eight. Make sure you have something nice to wear.” His lips quiver at the corners. “Or not.”