The Tortured Rebel. Alison Roberts

to go somewhere she had been denied access to for so long.

      ‘My real name?’

      ‘James Frederick Munroe.’

      ‘Ouch! How on earth did you remember my middle name?’

      Becca felt herself grin. ‘I remember lots of things.’

      What an understatement, a part of her brain chided. Did you really think you’d locked all that stuff away? It’s still there. Every detail. The way he could scowl so fiercely whenever anything remotely emotional was happening. The astonishing intensity of his dark eyes when he was interested in something. The way his hair looked when sleekly wet coming up from a dive into a swimming pool, or damp and tousled by a towel after a shower. The way he’d sat with a small child and played Snakes and Ladders when he could have been doing far more exciting teenage stuff like playing video games or raiding her parents’ well-stocked liquor cabinet. The dreams that had started a long, long time before any sexual content had crept in.

      Dreams that had only gained momentum the night of the party.

      The excitement of dressing up like an adult. Of finally being grown up enough to.

      To have no hesitation at all in grabbing that opportunity when she’d been alone in the kitchen with Jet when they’d both gone to find a drink at the same time. When they’d been side by side in the narrow space between the open fridge door and the wall.