Page 67 of Pink and Country

I wrote Desmond a quick text message.

Hey, it’s me. When do you think you’ll be able to fix the lock?

But then I pounded the backspace button many times with my finger. What am I doing?

Did I really want April to go back there? No. I wanted her in my cabin. With me.

Shit . I had no clue what to do. Spots appeared in my vision. I knew the signs. Seconds later, I was hyperventilating, moving my head back and forth, my fingertips massaging my temples to calm my mind. A cloud of darkness blanketed me. My blood turned to ice. My body craved to move, but I was frozen. Breathe in. Breathe out. My throat tightened. I choked, my eyes filling with tears.

After gathering my thoughts, I stumbled out of the SUV and changed into the workout clothes I kept in the trunk. The back of my eyes blazed with unshed tears as I hit the treadmills. My feet stomped on the running belt with a soft thump. I ran away from my life. And away from my fears. And I ran again. Until all my muscles burned. And twitched from exhaustion. My legs weakened by the twelfth mile. My chest heaved. My breathing scorched my lungs. Drained out, I steadied myself against the wall to stretch my calves, quads, and hamstrings. Bent over at the knees, afraid I’d hurl even on an empty stomach, I inhaled slowly. The gears in my head sprinted. What’s going on with me? Once the storm in me lessened, I chugged a purple sports drink from the kitchen. The drenched fabric of my shirt stuck to my skin, and I resisted the urge to rip it off. Every inch of my flesh itched. With shaky hands, I peeled my shirt off as if it was on fire.

My vision blurred.

My stomach grumbled, begging to be fed.

I mixed a protein shake. My stomach churned when I gulped the cold beverage. I paced the main floor, trying to do those stupid breathing exercises that were supposed to help me calm the fuck down. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Repeat. Doing my best Clayton Kershaw impression, I threw my half-drunk shake into the kitchen sink. The thick, dark green liquid splattered the wall behind the sink. I shrugged, turned around, and reached the two-car garage. My house-cleaning obsession just went out the window. My episode was worse than I first thought. The darkness thickened around me. It made me a prisoner of my own mind. Of my inner demons. I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. The giant ball of knots filling my stomach made my breaths shorter. This was a fucking nightmare.

“Let go, Carter,” I screamed at no one. “Women don’t love you. They never do.” I kicked the door to the garage open. I wrapped my hands—not risking any hand-related injuries—and slid them into the black, worn-out boxing gloves I kept on a shelf. My muscles were still warm from the running, so without losing a second, I assaulted the heavily taped red punching bag hanging in the garage. I punched the motherfucker like I wanted to end its life. Like it wronged me.

“Fuck you, Savannah Prince. For trying to ruin me.” I punched the bag with a succession of uppercuts. “Take this, Mom. Take this, Dad,” I said as I punched harder. “You abandoned me when I needed you the most.” I dried off my tears, hot as flames, with my upper arm.

My chest and back dripped sweat. My body trembled from exhaustion.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

It did nothing to keep my mind from wandering back to Bubble Gum. To erase my mixed feelings toward her.

An hour later, on the back deck, I stripped down and welcomed the cold air on my body. The icy breeze tingled my skin. I buried myself, bare ass, in the hot tub and closed my eyes, stretching my arms on either side.

In the past, I drank my weight in whiskey whenever I needed to evade my mind. Now, except fucking random chicks—which hadn’t happened since I-don’t-fucking-know-when—and exercising like a person on the edge of a mental breakdown, I didn’t know what else to do.

I pictured April in my head. I always fucking pictured her. Awake. Asleep. Laughing. Smiling. She occupied every corner of my mind.

All the memories of her resurfaced.

My tongue tasting her flesh.

Her lips locked on mine.

The sultry dress she wore.

Her swaying hips when she listened to music.

Her tits bouncing when she jumped into my arms.

Her ass in those skinny jeans she loved so much.

The memory of her, panting in my arms that morning in her cabin after we met, her body clenched around my fingers, haunted me even after all this time.

My cock sprung hard, and I pumped it in fast strokes, trying to get rid of the discomfort crippling me.

Yet, jerking off thinking about her was never enough. I tried. Countless times.

My entire body ached whenever I pictured April in my head.

I should’ve fucked her out of my system in Nashville when she wanted me to. Perhaps that would’ve helped to keep her off my mind. To heal me from craving her. April had crept under my skin the day we met in the woods and became much more than an itch to scratch.

April had become the center of my world. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.