Edge of Recovery (Love on the Edge) by Molly Lee Page B

so used to seeing her fully covered in a variety tight leggings—not that I was complaining—but now that she was bare, I couldn’t help but notice thin white scars that lined her upper thighs.
    Following her, I turned the key in my ski and revved the engine. She took off a few seconds before me, a mess of lake water spraying me from behind. I relished the feel of the machine beneath me, the roar of the water from the speed, the height of the jump when I caught a break from the waves she created in front of me.
    I chased her, circled her, and rode by her side. She laughed, her hair flying in all different directions as she pushed her ski faster, harder. The challenge was there, and I met it speed for speed, jump for jump, loving every second of it.
    On the water, with no sound but the splash and groan of the engine, or her laugh, I didn’t think about the past or the future. Didn’t think about where I was or why. I simply was me . Who currently was just a guy, trying to impress a girl, by catching air and taking the machine to full capacity. Every smile, every gasp, every laugh, fueled me in a way nothing had in such a long time. I drank it in like I would have a bottle or two of vodka a few months ago. The craving was still there, the desire to return to the numb, disconnected feeling the drink offered me, but it wasn’t as powerful. I knew I’d never truly be free of the want but right now, in the moment with Charlie so near, I was okay. And I knew it was due to a combination of things—the doc, this place, being sober—but mostly it was her.
    After an hour we returned the skis and vests, and sat on the dock overlooking the water, our chests heaving from the exhilaration of the ride.
    “Yeah?” She asked, nudging me with her elbow.
    “So much better than knitting,” I said, nudging her back.
    She chuckled, tossing her blue hair out of her face. “I love anything with speed. Motorcycles, boats, jets. It’s a free rush. No consequences.”
    “Not unless you eat the pavement or something.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Well, if you want to be a pessimist about it. At least it’s legal.”
    I huffed. “True,” I said, stretching out my legs and leaning back against the wooden railing with my elbows propped on it. The angle gave me a perfect view of her legs, and she sat so close to me I could easily reach out and touch the thin scars that were almost iridescent against her skin.
    “Cutter,” she said, catching my gaze.
    Heat flooded my face. “I wasn’t going to ask.”
    “If I was ashamed of it I’d never wear shorts.” She shrugged. “It was my first affliction. First sign to my parents that I wasn’t the emotionally stable teenager they thought I was.”
    And no fucking wonder. With the stories she’d told me about the family member taking advantage of her, I wouldn’t blame her for any action she took to numb the pain, erase the memories that suffocated her.
    “What was yours?” She asked casually but had those green eyes pinned on mine.
    I arched my head back, inhaling the scent of lake and dirt and pine. “I was sixteen. Just got into partying, wrong crowd. My guardians—my aunt and uncle—they kicked me out that year. Said I’d abused their generosity when they took me in after my mother abandoned me when I little…for a drug addiction, no less.” I chuckled darkly. “Go figure, right?”
    “Assholes,” she snapped, and it made me laugh harder.
    I tilted my head back and forth. “Maybe. Maybe I got what I deserved. She’s trying to make amends, though. Bought my ticket out of prison and into this place.”
    “Okay, now I feel bad about the asshole thing.”
    “Don’t. They were simply preemptive. I would’ve ruined their lives. It’s what I do.”
    “Why do you say that?” she sighed.
    I crossed my arms over my chest and shrugged.
    “Justin,” she urged. Her eyes were full of acceptance and openness and no hint of judgment anywhere. If there was anyone I could ever spill