Used

𝑁𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑎ℎ

I couldn't sleep.

I turned restlessly in the sheets that felt like they were suffocating me. The sheets weren't the worst part.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw him. His body looming over mine, his eyes staring into mine, monstrous. Greedy. As if he could take what he wanted from me without a fight back.

Which was essentially what had happened. I didn't fight back. And every time I closed my eyes I wish I had. If I had shoved him off, screamed...anything.

I would be able to enjoy this trip with Ezra. But if he hadn't done what he did, would I have even met him? Would our paths even have crossed?

I sat up and stared over at a sleeping Ezra. The moonlight peaked through the curtains, lighting up his face. His long lashes kissed his cheek and his mouth was slightly open.

Ezra had brought us to Fairmont, a little town right on the ocean shore. The beach was empty and beautiful in the moonlight.

I had visited Fairmont a few times as a kid, with my parents. The busy little town was like a dream. It had everything yet nothing compared to Westport. It was serene.

I slipped out of the bed and pulled on Ezra's hoodie. I smiled and inhaled his scent. I doubt I'd ever get rid of it. The masculine smell felt comforting.

Hatkora Wood by Ajmal.

It was expensive. Extremely expensive. It must be nice to be able to afford such things and not have to worry about being behind on rent.

Creeping past him I made my way to the balcony. The sliding door squeaked a little as I pulled it open.

"Shit." I turned my head to make sure I didn't wake him. Ezra sighed in his sleep and turned over. I hated that he had to sleep on something so uncomfortable, but he had been persistent that I get the bed.

I was right to wear his hoodie. The cold air bit my face like shards of glass. I pulled the hood over my head and walked down the beach. The sand wasn't cold but it wasn't hot either.

Pulling my phone out I called Toya. She had been texting me nonstop since the moment I left Westport. Interestingly enough, she didn't pick up. She must be asleep. As I should be.

The time read five thirteen. The sun was peaking shyly above the waves of the ocean. A few seagulls screeched as they searched for scraps left by careless tourists. I almost wished I had brought a few of the sugar rolls from last night's takeout. My stomach growled at the thought of food.

Settling into the warm sand, I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. Aside from the gentle waves and the screaming of nearby birds, the morning was quiet. It was nice, peaceful. Fairmont was so different from Westport. No sounds of early morning traffic, no yelling bypassers. No rushing back and forth to classes. And no Dorian.

Fairmont was someplace I could be someone else. I didn't have to shudder everytime I turned a corner, fearing I might run into a pair of threatening brown eyes. I had spent most of the four hour drive from Westport to Fairmont in silence, fuming. Anger had built up in my chest and I wanted to scream and cry. I hated that I was letting Dorian ruin this trip that was meant to take my mind off of him.

A tear rolled down my cheek, the cool wetness perked my senses and I rubbed my face with the sleeve of Ezra's hoodie. Sobs began wracking against my chest and my head pounded. Wiping my face did nothing to stop the tears from continuing. They spilled over my cheeks and dribbled down my chin, falling onto my chest.

A sound escaped my mouth, somewhere between a sob and a scream. I tried to muffle it with my fist but the sound continued.

I had cried, sure the night after it had happened, in Ezra's bathtub and into his sheets. But this was more of an angry cry. Angry at myself more than anything. I had refused to be the victim anymore. I know it might seem sad, but sexual assault wasn't something I was new to, each time I allowed myself about forty-eight hours of feeling sorry for myself. Self pity was a luxury I couldn't afford.

A slight shuffling sound next to me caught my attention. Peaking up from the hood of the hoodie I caught sight of a pair of long legs with a sun tattoo at the knee. Ezra.

Shit. This is embarassing.

How many times would he find me crying?

I didn't say anything and neither did he for a while. It was nice, the feel of his presence yet no pressure for conversation. We watched the sun rise in silence, the skyline changing from a pale light yellow to a deepening orange.

"I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching the sun rise." Ezra's voice finally broke the quiet.

I looked up and smiled. He was right. The sunrise wasn't something I could enjoy while cramming classes and work in Westport.

"It's so beautiful. It's like watching a live painting." I almost whispered, hoping he could hear me. He did.

Ezra was attentive, he seemed to cling onto every word I said. I smiled, feeling a blush creep onto my face.

"I wanted to be an artist growing up, I made my mother buy just about every art supply available at Micheal's." Ezra chuckled, a low soothing sound. It gave my butterflies somewhere, if not everywhere. I rested my chin on my arms and adjusted my body to face him. His deep brown eyes sparkled when we made eye contact. They were nothing like Dorian's harsh ones, they were warm and kind.

"I forced her to take a picture of every piece I ever created." He continued. "She called me her 'Mini Picasso' and showed everyone who ever stepped into our apartment." The light in his eyes seemed to fade and his lips formed a thin line.

"Do you still make art?" I asked quietly.

He shook his head. "No, not since-it's been a while since I've held a paintbrush." He didn't continue and I didn't pressure him to.

"I'd love to see them sometime." I murmured.

Ezra sighed. "I'm pretty sure my father threw them all out. He didn't think they were a good use of my time, time that could be spent fencing or sitting in in his meetings." His voice held a slight hint of anger, as if he resented his father but not enough to cut him off. His eyes were sad, like talking about his past was a painful and touchy subject.

"What about you?" He switched the conversation away from his parents.

"Gosh." I laughed running my hands down my legs, noticing how his eyes trailed after them. I was glad I didn't wear pants, I began to enjoy his attention.
"My mama was-is an artist. She's a photographer, mainly maternity and wedding shoots. My dad was a sax player from the Bronx, so I guess art has always been in my blood." I smiled, never realizing just how much I missed them. "I took a semester of art history, but after a call from my mother telling me how art isn't a major that will land me a job as soon as I graduate, I switched to teaching."

I glanced up at Ezra again. A smile tugged on the corner of his mouth before rolling back into his crooked smile.

"I think that's super cool, look we already have something in common." He waved his hand. "Burnt out artists whose dreams were crushed by parents who thought they knew what was best for them."

I laughed and he joined. The sound was comforting, easy. The air between us was nice, I found myself wishing we could spend every morning sitting on the beach, watching the sun rise, and laughing about how fucked up our parents were. It was something I could get used to.