And did to it what I wanted to do to Vicious.

I finished that motherfucker.

I POPPED THE TRUNK OF the waiting taxi when we got out of the airport and swung both our suitcases inside. By that time, I was fairly sober. And by “fairly sober,” I mean I could distinguish faces, colors, and large shapes. Good enough for my parents, so Rosie had to make do with that shit, too.

Twisting my head to check on her for the first time since I’d boarded the plane, I drank her in. I was out of it most of the flight. Not that it mattered. Baby LeBlanc wouldn’t have talked to me if I were the last person capable of speaking on planet Earth.

But that was then and this was now, and now she looked like she had a lot to say to me.

I slammed the trunk, leaned against it—the fuckwit taxi driver was inside talking to his wife on the phone in decibels more fitted for a Broadway show—and folded my arms, waiting for her to pour her sweet wrath on me.

“Should I pay a visit to Mommy Cole? Tell her that her son has a drinking problem?” She frowned, peppering the question with a little cough. It was adorable. Baby LeBlanc didn’t even know my mother, let alone have the power or authority to talk to her. I tugged at her ponytail as I bypassed her, opening the door to the backseat and tilting my chin for her to hop in. She did. I rounded the vehicle and got into the seat next to her.

“My drinking isn’t a problem. It’s when I’m not drinking that things start to get fucked up.” I pressed my knees into the driver’s seat on purpose. I was too tall and too big for this car, and the fucker deserved it anyway. He hadn’t shut up since we got in, barely taking a breath to ask where we were heading.

She pulled out a lip moisturizer and dabbed her finger into it, patting her lips. The sweet scent of cotton candy filled the backseat. I wanted to lick the shiny gloss off her finger, then shove it into her skinny jeans, watch her finger herself with my saliva all over it. She was talking to me now. Fuck if I had any idea what she was saying. I blinked, trying to refocus.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Dean, but I’m worried about you.”

“Funny shit, because I’m worried about you.” I ran my fingers through my hair, knowing damn well it made her thighs press together. “Worried you can’t resist me for much longer.”

“You live too hard.” She disregarded my comeback, which I loved about her. She never took the bait. But she was going to. Eventually, she was going to succumb to the pressure I was putting on her ever since she broke up with Dr. Dickface. Because giving up was not in my dictionary. When I wanted something, I took it. And I fucking wanted her. A lot.

“You don’t live at all,” I retorted. “That cruise-control shit that you put your life on? Sleep, work, volunteer, repeat? I’m putting an end to it soon.”

She turned her head to look at me and swallowed. I pretended to look ahead, giving her the time to remember she liked what she saw. Luring her into a web. Waiting for her to get tangled before I devoured my prey.

Easing into my seat—we had a forty-minute journey to Todos Santos—I declared my intentions. Only fair to keep her posted on the plan.

“Just so you know, Baby LeBlanc, I am going to fuck you sometime soon,” I said flatly, not giving a damn that her eyes bulged out and her mouth dropped, nor giving a fuck that the driver had stopped talking loudly and now glared at us through the rearview mirror with intent interest. “It may not be this week—it may not even be this month, but it will happen. And once it does, you’ll have to face your fears and tell your saint sister that we are together, or I will. Because once I fuck you, no one else will be enough for you. Ever. Again. So I’m just going to tell you right here and now, you’re welcome to my dick anytime you want, any hour of the day. I see us as a long-term thing, so it’s important to me to keep you happy.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Delusional.”

“Glad we got that all sorted, Miss Soon-to-be-in-My-Bed.”

What makes you feel alive?

Familiar scent. Of my bed sheets, perfume, and first breaths in the morning. Of the faint sweat when the first sun rays graze my flesh. The scent of home.

He always made me feel played.

It wasn’t the fact that he wanted to sleep with me. I was the queen of throwaway, short-term relationships. Knowing you can’t have anything more would do that to you. I didn’t do relationships, just like Dean.