And wait as the phone rings, and rings, and rings, until it goes to voice mail.

I disconnect without leaving a message.

Ash probably doesn’t want to talk to me tonight. And I can understand why. I’ll try again tomorrow.

***

That night I dream. The nightmare starts as usual. I’m in the car with Dad and we are driving down an empty street. It’s dark. A light drizzle falls. The windows of the car are fogged.

Dad is focused on driving, pushing his wire-framed glasses up his nose from time to time. His short, dark hair is swept to the side. He always has that distracted air about him, even when he’s concentrated. He has a smudge of ink on his cheek. All his work as an architect is done on a computer, but he loves doodling on paper.

And I stare at him, aware I’m lucky to be seeing him, and not knowing why.

“I missed you,” I say. “It’s been a while.”

“I live far away now,” he replies, his mouth twisting. “Takes me longer to come down here.”

I frown. I know he’s right but can’t remember why he lives so far from me now. “You can drive.”

“Cars don’t cross over,” he says, and again that makes sense somehow, though the details escape me.

“Glad you made it.” I settle back in my seat. Unease stirs in my stomach and the urge to throw the door open and run is too strong.

But I can’t leave him. Not when he’s come so far to see me.

I open my mouth to ask how he’s doing, when I realize he isn’t my dad. Not anymore. His dark hair is tousled, and the glasses are gone. I know those pale blue eyes.

Ash.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m the one who should be here.”

“This isn’t your place.”

“This has always been my place.” His expression is grim. “It’s what I deserve.”

I put my hand on the wheel. “No. You should get out while you still can.”

He shakes his head, his eyes focused ahead. “For me it’s too late.”

“No. Ash. Get out before—”

Then comes the crash, the noise, the pain. I struggle, I thrash, I try to escape. It never works.

But I jerk awake and sit up in bed, twisted in my sheets and covers. God. My chest aches and sourness rises in my throat. I swallowed convulsively.

I’m okay. It’s just a nightmare.

At least some of it. My fingers search for the scar on thigh where metal sliced into my flesh, then move up to my lower belly, where they operated to fix the bleeding in my liver and kidney.

You’re fine, I tell myself. It’s over. You survived. You’re alive.

But the pressure in my chest won’t let up and I struggle to breathe through it. I haven’t had a panic attack in quite some time.

My fingers curl against the biggest scar, the one on my leg. Why did I dream of Ash? And those things he said in the dream...

Dread sours my mouth again. I have such a bad feeling. I’m not one to put stock in premonitions, but suddenly I fear for Ash. I need to make sure he’s alive, that he’s fine.

Shit.

I fumble for my cell on my nightstand and hit call on his number.

Like before, it rings and rings. He never picks up.

I glance at the time. Three in the morning. Of course he doesn’t pick up. He’s asleep. He probably turned the sound off.

The dread persists, slicking my palms. It’s the nightmare, I tell myself. The memories. The attack on campus. Maybe also the things Tessa said earlier, about Ash blaming himself.

Well, all he has to do is pick up the frigging phone and I’m ready to pour my heart out, tell him I don’t blame him. That I really, really like him, even though I’ve been giving him other signals. That I’ve missed him more than I thought possible, and I want...

I clench my fingers around the cell. I’m not sure what I want. Right now, I just wish for the horrible fear to go away and leave me in peace.

I try calling Ash one more time. Same result.

Sighing, I lie back down and try to get some sleep.

***

Next day, I limp out of the building to find Tessa’s Jeep parked outside.

Predictably her first words as I climb into her car, before I even close the door, are, “Did you call him?”

I roll my eyes. “My ankle still hurts, thanks for asking, Tess.”

“Well, did you?”

“Yeah,” I grumble. “He didn’t pick up.”

Tessa frowns. “That’s odd.”

“Is it?” I belt myself in, stretch my throbbing leg. “We barely know each other.”

“But you used to.”

“That was too long ago. Besides, I think he heard you say I hate him. I can understand if he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“I don’t think he’d believe that.” Her frown deepens as she sets off toward the campus. “Would he?”

“You know him better than I do,” I say, my chest tight, because the admission hurts.

“Not sure about that. In any case, the Ash I know, as much as I do, wouldn’t avoid your phone calls.”

“Well, he has.”

Now she looks worried, as if she was hoping I’d say I was lying and now she realizes I’m not. “That’s really weird.” She sighs. “You picked a guy with quite a lot of baggage.”

“Picked? I didn’t pick him.” She doesn’t know about the kiss, or my feelings. And with Ash avoiding me, it’s better that way.

“But you’ve wanted him for so long. I often wished you’d fallen in love with a normal, happy boy.”

“I’m not in love with Ash.”

My words sound hollow in my ears. Because I know I am. Have been all along.

And now I’ve been rejected once again. I’m not sure I can take it.

The nightmare still haunts me, though, and Tessa seems so concerned about Ash... It’s all so confusing. He appeared like a knight in shining armor, saved me, kissed me—then he’s gone once more, without a word of explanation about the past, about the fact he tossed me aside and ignored me those years in high school.

I often wondered how he turned from being my best friend into a violent, aggressive boy I wasn’t sure I knew.

And now things certainly aren’t any clearer in my mind.

Christ. I really should distance myself from Ash, and this time for good. The Devlin family has only brought me heartache, and I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.

Chapter Six

Asher

Again I find myself on the streets. Only this time it’s real bad. And it’s f**king cold. Thank god I thought to grab my jacket as I left the house, at least.

The world spins in circles. My head’s f**ked up, my balance shot. As I stagger around, I have to stop from time to time to puke my guts out. I’ve no idea where I’m going.

Concussion, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers. I know the symptoms. I’ve had one before. I dimly know it can be dangerous. But I can’t force myself to think about it or decide which direction to take—and go where? To Zane’s?

Yeah, sure.

Even in my half-conscious state I know I won’t. Erin will have a fit, and Zane—what can he do for me anyway? What can anyone do?

It’s all my fault. For being a loser, for being so worthless my dad has turned to drinking again.

I’m not worth anyone’s concern.

I find myself outside a building, leaning against the wall, staring at people going in and out. The Bulldog. An underground fight club—run by the Chicago mafia. I fought there once. Down in the basement, in the huge cages. Marty works there, and I ask for him.

He lets me in and frowns at me. “Why’re you here, Asher? You can’t fight like this.”

What does he know about it?

That’s when I finally take stock. My right eye is swollen shut. My jaw is inflated like a balloon and hurts like hell. My ribs ache. My back hurts like a motherfucker.

Christ.

“Don’t you have a place to go?” he asks and I shake my head.

Marty rolls his eyes and mutters something about stupid people and exposure. He says we’re expecting snowfall in the night Then he shoves me into a storage room with a long bunk. Tells me to sleep there but be gone by morning.

I don’t need much convincing. Exhaustion drags me down. At some point Marty wakes me up and shoves a bottle of water into my hand, saying something about dehydration, and I drink, then fall back into sleep.

I don’t surface until Marty shakes me awake, telling me I’ve been there long enough, and throws me back out onto the street.

By the way, Marty’s right. It’s damn cold. Snow blankets every surface. Looks like it’s afternoon. Or is it morning? How long did I sleep?

I wander the town, trying to keep warm, but the nausea and dizziness linger. Finding a place to sit becomes my number one priority.

My feet take me to a familiar place. State Street. The homeless there know me. The Family, they call themselves, and I’m an adopted son. Not many are there now in winter, most of them staying in the shelters.

I curl on a bench, shivering. My face hurts, and my stomach is trying to push its way up my throat. I swallow hard, blinking. So damn cold. People pass, throwing me curious looks. I curl up tighter.

A cover falls on me, waking me up from a fitful sleep. It’s a heavy-duty sleeping bag that stinks of old sweat and humidity.

“Come, boy. Get up.”

The shrill voice belongs to an old woman with a nest of curly white hair. I can’t remember her from before. She keeps tugging on my arm and telling me to get up. And go where?

“You lost?” she asks. “Where do you wanna go?”

I close my eyes. A safe place. A place where I can see the lake, watch the water move and shimmer. “The lake. The park.”

I like looking at the calm water; always have. Makes me feel good. Though by now the lake must be freezing over—like me—white meshing with the blue. Utterly still. Asleep.

Just like me.

She tugs on my arm again, not giving up until I gather the dirty sleeping bag close and follow her unsteadily down the pedestrian street. “Where are we going?”

Snow flakes drift down from the sky, landing on my face, as she drags me to a shop entrance. Warm air blows from a ventilation duct and I huddle over it, drawing the sleeping bag around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already hurrying away.

Evening is falling. Protected from the icy wind and the snow, I settle for the coming night as best I can. I’m damn exhausted, and my head is killing me. People rush by, not looking at me. I huddle under the sleeping bag, frozen to the bone. It’s slowly sinking in that I’m not going back home.

Home. The word irks me. I have no home. Never did. Just a house where I’m in danger of dying every time Dad starts drinking. How stupid to think I could change him.

And still the feeling of guilt lingers. Is it my fault? Is it because of me that he’s so angry? Because I’m never good enough?

My vision is beginning to clear, but my lower back is still agony and I have a headache from hell. If I don’t die from an internal injury, the concussion, or the cold, I’ll just probably starve to death, since I left my wallet at Dad’s.

Do I care? Not really. I’m drifting away and it feels peaceful.

That is, until hands begin shaking me so hard my teeth rattle. My back screams at me, as does my head, and I groan.

“Fucking hell, Ash, what happened to you?”

Zane. I shouldn’t be surprised. Who else would come looking for me?

In the flickering light of the shop sign, I see his face. The rings through his brow glint. I can tell by the curl of his lip that he’s pissed and I raise my fists reflexively to protect my sore head from any blow.

I’m that f**ked.