Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

over the… premonition, maybe? The sense of foreboding that there’d be pity and exasperation and judgement as they called in the docs to haul me away.

As if my guilt was written on my face in permanent marker, I kept it tipped down and focused on my feet as I made my way into the center.

Everything was going smoothly until I rammed into the back of someone.

“Shit, sorry,” I yelped, looking up.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Bodyguard guy was already grinning down at me. “I’d say we’ve got to stop running into each other like this, but that wouldn’t be as much fun.”

I lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I guess we’re even now.”

Shaking his head, he pointed out, “I don’t carry a purse for you to knock all over the ground, so I still owe you.”

“And throwing your wallet on the ground probably doesn’t have the same effect, huh?”

His grin grew. “Probably not.”

He started walking toward the elevator. Usually, I’d have hightailed it to the stairwell to avoid awkward small talk or equally awkward silence. But with the way I was feeling—vulnerable and exposed and paranoid—I decided being around someone was preferable to being alone.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I followed him into the elevator, pressing the button before he hit a different one. I didn’t even have time to feel pressured to speak when the doors opened at my floor.

I stepped off, trudging to my judgment day, when he called, “Hey.”

I turned back to see him holding the doors open with an outstretched arm. He ran his other hand through his dark hair—leaving it attractively disheveled—before shoving it in his pocket. He was the picture of casual and cool, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen someone so ridiculously good looking.

His attractiveness shot off the charts when he offered me another charming smile. “Maybe next time we run into each other, it can be planned ahead of time. And happen at a restaurant.”

It took me far too long to comprehend what he was saying.

A date?

The tall, insanely hot, and very normal bodyguard was asking me on a date?

And, even crazier, I wanted to say yes.

For all of two-point-five seconds.

Then reality crashed in.

“Good afternoon, Briar.”

I jumped at the voice close behind me. Proving I really was out of sorts, I hadn’t heard Derrick’s approach.

Who am I?

Derrick didn’t apologize for startling me, but pity was clear in his sad eyes. “How’re you today?”

“Good,” I lied, a hint of panic in my voice and manic in my smile.

“Great. Heading to group?” he asked, completely unaware he was interrupting something monumental.

It was as if bodyguard guy was so out of my league, it hadn’t occurred to him we’d be talking.

And he wasn’t wrong. We shouldn’t be talking.

That, along with the mention of group, was the slap in the face reminder I needed. I couldn’t date that hot guy. Or anyone, really. I came with an airport’s worth of baggage, including things I couldn’t hide and had zero interest explaining.

Especially since any explanation made it clear I was all sorts of fucked up.

Every fiber of my body screamed at me to turn and run. Since that would earn me a boatload of bullshit from Derrick, I acknowledged his question with a quick nod. But I did completely ignore the hot guy as I hurried away from him without another glance.

When I got to the therapy room, I gave a small exhale. Everyone was in attendance, and more people meant less focus on me. An even bigger exhale wheezed out, making my head swim with relief, when I saw no one was paying attention to me. There were no whispers or sidelong glances my way.

It was all in my head.

I can make it through the next hour and go home to…

I can go home.

Derrick followed me in and kicked things off. The usual story topping started from the get-go with the occasional legit issue in between.

I preferred to remain silent, but my paranoia demanded I talk to keep people off my case. The best defense was a good offense, right? Or was it the other way around?

Either way, I waited for a lull halfway through before asking, “Does anyone have a favorite store for home items? I want to make my apartment my own, but I’m not finding things I like.”

Mostly because I haven’t looked.

A couple people offered the typical suggestions of thrift stores and Target. Since I was one of the few who didn’t live at home or with a roommate, some asked how it was living on my own.

“I love it. It’s nice to have my own space,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.

For once.

“Do you have pictures?” Derrick asked.

“Oh, good idea.” Jenna held out her hand. “I can give you better suggestions if I can see.”

The idea of letting them into my space, even via picture, made me so uncomfortable, I thought I might be sick. I never had guests—not even my own sister.

If you won’t share pictures, they’ll ask why. And they’ll dig and dig until they find out everything.

Including the little secret skeletons in your closet.

My hands shook as I pulled my cell from my purse and unlocked it to bring up the pictures I’d sent Aria. Thankfully, they were taken before I’d moved my few pieces of furniture in, so it wasn’t as invasive as it could’ve been. I turned it so everyone could see.

“What a cute place,” Jenna said, grabbing the phone from my hand and pinching the screen to zoom in and out. “I love the kitchen island. You could put so many different things there to spruce it up. Like, holiday decorations or a pretty fruit bowl.”

“Or flowers,” Derrick said, remembering what I’d shared the week before.

Since those dead flowers were still on my floor—along with the shards of glass I couldn’t find the energy or desire to clean up—that ruled them out. The lobby ones had been cleared away by maintenance or someone who was sick of looking at them, so they were out, too.

Maybe I’ll