by Sierra Hill
“Thanks,” she mutters, cheeks glowing with warmth from his praise. “I’ll see you later, Miss Sutton.”
She turns and then runs off toward a group of girls, who embrace her with the kind of love and friendship she deserves, as I try to swim through the current of emotions I’m experiencing right now. Pride and happiness mixed with indignation over the way Miles is acting.
I open the swinging door with a bang of my palm and step in the darkened kitchen. A small window above the sink, adorned with a tattered ruffle valance, lets in a small amount of light, but dusk is settling in over the city, and it washes the room in a gray monotone color.
My feet stop in the middle of the room, a center island in front of me, and then spin around quickly to face him. What I don’t expect is to find him so close to me, his body hovering over mine. I back up, and my butt hits the counter behind me as he steps forward and invades my space.
His chest heaves, nostrils flare, and we’re locked in a staring match. This might be his fight, but I’m not backing down. I did nothing wrong.
“I can’t believe how rude you were in front of all those kids,” I huff, extending my hand to point toward the room we just exited. “What is it you think I did, Miles? Please, tell me. Enlighten me on how awful I am when all I’ve tried being is nice to you.”
Something flickers across his face—apology? Apathy? Disgust?
He crowds me in but leaves a few inches of breathing space between us. And then he lets loose a torrent of words and emotional baggage.
“Nice? How can you say you’ve been nice to me when all you’ve been doing is lying to my face this entire time? Button.”
My body jerks in response to his accusation and the heavy emphasis of my nickname. I suppose it should anger me and light me with ire, but it only heats me with something else, and my parted lips squeak out a “What?”
“Don’t play that innocent game with me. You know what I’m talking about. Button.”
He takes a step in, encroaching on what little space we have between us. The scent of his anger is spicy and masculine, with a hint of misery. All that entangles with my irritation and lust that explodes through me like starbursts burning through the sky.
“Stop calling me that,” I demand, trying to push him away with my palms on his chest. But he grabs my wrists and locks around me tight. “And I haven’t played games. Maybe initially, I didn’t say anything.”
He sniffs sarcastically. “See? You’ve known all along who I am. You’re the one playing games.”
“Miles—” I attempt to subdue him, but he cuts me off, his fingers gripping me tighter.
“No. You don’t get to explain. You’ve had your chance, Sutton. And I don’t know what you’re getting out of this, but it’s juvenile and calculating.”
I want to push back and defend myself. To stand my ground and not waiver under his erroneous assumptions. But it would only add fuel to the fire, and from what I’ve learned in my psychology courses, it’s that allowing silence will diffuse the situation faster.
Using that technique, I remain mute, sucking in a breath and exhaling it slowly while my eyelids close to block out my desire to call him out on his arrogance and the misunderstanding of his own doing.
When they reopen, I find Miles’s eyelids screwed tightly shut, his lips pinched purposefully as if willing himself to remain in control. He drops my hands and steps back.
When he speaks again, his volume is lower, softer, almost penitent. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Button, Mel’s best friend?”
I can’t help my actions. His question is so desperate and fraught with pain. My hands move on their own accord and cup his jaw with my palms.
His lids pop open to register surprise, looking at me through wet lashes.
“Miles, I told you. Last Saturday night. When I found you on the floor outside of your apartment. I told you who I was and why you thought I was so familiar. It’s because I grew up with your sister, right under your nose. But you never noticed me. I honestly think you just saw me as an extension of your little sister, and I was invisible to you.”
He shakes his head adamantly, refusing to believe my words, but I tip my head in disagreement.
“I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I was five years younger, and you were this idol every girl worshipped. And then you left for college, and soon after, my friendship with Mel slowly evaporated, and I disappeared from your lives.”
As if it triggers something inside him, Miles snaps his head back, and my hands fall to my sides.
“What you told the group just now. You made it sound like you left Mel when she needed you most.”
The festering wound purges open, his pointed words slicing through it like a knife and reopening the wound to bleed out hot and sticky over my soul. It hurts because it’s true.
I acknowledge this with a nod. “It’s easy to beat yourself up for things you coulda, woulda, shoulda done in the past. And believe me, I have. I’ve blamed myself for not doing enough at the time. But I was a fifteen-year-old girl when my friendship with Mel ended. I tried as best I could to reach her, but she wanted nothing to do with me. And by then, it was too late. I just thought she no longer wanted to be my friend. I had no idea she’d turned to drugs to disguise her pain.”
Miles stumbles back, blindly searching for something to hold him up. Finding the edge of a counter, he lays a hand down, his entire body bent and dejected.
“Fuuuck me,” he grunts, fisting his hand and banging it down hard into the granite like a gavel, hitting it several times before I rush over to stop him.
When he finally turns his head to look at me, his teary eyes have dried up and are masked with a very different emotion.
Blame and remorse.
“It’s not your fault, Sutton. It’s all mine. I’m the reason she’s dead.”
20
Miles
I pace back and forth in my apartment feeling like a caged lion, predatory and confined, needing to expel the energy and escape. Ready to pounce and tear something apart.
But I don’t have anywhere to go.
I know where I’d like to go, but I’m sure she never wants to see me again considering my tirade this afternoon. Honestly, if I’d been in Sutton’s shoes, I would have flat out punched me in the balls.
Fuck, I was a complete and utter asshole to her.
And how did she respond to my bullying behavior?
Just like she does everything—with compassion and grace.
Now that I know who she is and how we’re connected, I want to know everything about her. I want to know what prompted her to end her relationship with Melodie. What was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back? Was there an incident I’m not aware of?
The sad truth is that I have no one else to talk to about it. Sutton is the only person on the planet who I can share this with.
Scrambling from my couch, I throw on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, grab the closest bottle of wine, and head out my door, unconcerned that it’s after ten p.m. The thought alone should have me turning around and returning to my apartment, but it only propels me forward until I’m rapping on her door with my knuckles.
I’ve woken the dog up, as evidenced by the high-pitched bark coming from the other side of the door. Lowering my head, I stare at the ground in front of me as I hear the padding of Sutton’s feet across the wood floor and the clicks and clacks of the unlatching of the locks.
“Miles, it’s late,” she says in greeting. But it’s a bit stilted instead of her usual chirpy, cheerful hello that I suddenly miss like a limb.
I hadn’t realized how much she’s affected me over the last few weeks of bumping into her at every turn. Or maybe it’s more than that—a powerful pull from our past, a subconscious spasm of my heartstrings—something I didn’t realize contributed to my need for Sutton.
I give her my most charming smile. The one I know has a way of gaining forgiveness from females and one I’ve shamelessly used vario
us times throughout my life, and the one that I hope grants me an invitation into Graham and Soraya’s apartment.
“I come bearing gifts, Button. A peace offering, if you will.” I dangle the bottle of wine in front of me through the crack she’s left in the doorway.
She plucks it from my hand, peruses the label, and then says, “Thanks,” and closes the door in my face.
“W-wait a minute!” I stammer breathlessly. “It’s for us to share.”
Sutton opens the door again, and this time, I notice her lips twisted in a wicked and playful smirk.
“You little tease.”
Her eyes dance with mischief, and she widens the door to invite me in. As I walk into the room, warmly lit with the scent of a candle burning, it fills the space with a sensual fragrant scent of coconut or vanilla. Or maybe that’s all Sutton.
She pads into the kitchen, reaching on tiptoes to pull two wine glasses down from the cupboard. Her shorts rise with the movement, giving me a peek of her ass.
Damn it. You did not come over tonight for that, I remind myself, taking a seat on the couch and leaving plenty of room for her to sit.
Sutton’s allure is tantalizingly innocent. She doesn’t know how tempting and sexy she is without even trying. There’s natural confidence infused in her beauty, a rare elegance, and depth that has me itching to peel back the many layers of perfection to find out how dirty she might just be underneath the angelic exterior.
I lean my elbows on my thighs, steepling my fingers in front of me to ensure I keep them to myself and not touch the alluring girl in the room.
When she returns, she sets down the glasses on the coffee table and hands me the wine opener.
“Do you mind opening it? I’m terrible at it. I can never get the entire cork out.”
I chuckle and accept the corkscrew, placing the bottle between my legs and going through the motions as I feel the watchful gaze of Sutton as she stands above me.
“There you go.” I hand the bottle back to her and set the cork and opener on the table, waiting while she pours the wine.
Handing me a glass, she lifts hers to her nose. “Mmm. It smells expensive.”
“I’d hope so. It cost me a pretty penny.”
Swirling the red wine around in the glass to let it breathe, I turn to see Sutton take a giant swig before licking her full lips in a seductive move that has my cock swelling to almost painful proportions. Now I’m imagining her wine-stained lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me deep just like she swallowed that first drink of her wine. As if it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
I clear my throat, sitting back against the couch cushion, and savoring the ambiance.
“You’ve changed, Miles.”
Her statement has my brows furrowing. “Changed?”
Sutton wiggles into the corner of the couch, a good three feet from me. When she twists to face me in a cross-legged posture, my eyes focus on her satiny bare legs. If I were here on a date or post-date nightcap, and if she were any other woman, I would plant my hand on her knee, slowly caress her inner thigh until my fingers nudge under the material of her panties and sink deep inside her wet folds.
But this isn’t a date. I don’t even know what this is. I’m honestly confused and torn by the pull I feel from her. My voice is rough-edged and throaty when I respond to her comment. “How do you figure?”
She tips her chin innocently, staring into the glass in her hand, as I gaze at the valley between her cleavage. The tank she wears leaves little to the imagination, and the way her taut nipples poke through the material has me wondering if this affects her as much as it does me.
She arches an eyebrow and peers at me over her glass.
“You’re just different.” She shakes her head and shrugs a shoulder. A shoulder on display that I’d love to sink my teeth into. “You’ve matured, but it’s more than that. You live in a fancy apartment, you dress in expensive suits, you drink pricey bottles of wine. I don’t know, you’re not the same guy I used to know. And honestly, you’ve been a jerk to me.”
Isn’t that the truth? That nice guy she’s talking about left the building a long time ago. Taking my heart and soul with him.
But I don’t say that.
“I know, and I’m sorry about that. We all grow up and change, Button. It’s life. And for me, I’ve become…well, I guess hard-edged. But look at you. You’re barely recognizable from the younger Sutton I remember. You’re a gorgeous woman now on the cusp of her life.”
I raise my brows salaciously, giving her the barest hint of a smile, my gaze roaming over her chest and body, down to her legs and back up again. My scrutiny seems to have the intended outcome. Goosebumps line her arms, and I notice a flush rise across her neck and cheeks. I raise my wine glass to take another sip.
“You called me beautiful and sexy when you kissed me. Did you mean it, or was it just the liquor talking?”
My hand stops midway to my mouth, lips parted, and mind turning blank. Her question ricochets around in my head like a pinball, knocking it to the corners of my mind before bouncing back and stopping.
I forgot that I meant to ask her what had gone down between us last Saturday night. But I got busy, had to rush out of town, and then didn’t see her until today when it was the furthest thing from my mind.
I’m fairly certain we didn’t sleep together, but there has been a niggling and hazy memory clinging to the back of my mind. It refused to unveil itself to me, but it’s lingered there like a ghost of a touch.
“Sutton, I was not my best self that night. It was Mel’s birthday, and I drank so much, I blacked out. I promise that does not happen frequently, but I remember little of what happened. And sadly, it means I don’t recall kissing you,” I say, and set my wineglass down on the table.
Her face speaks of rejection, and it kills me to have wounded her in this way.
I reach out my hand, placing it on the bend of her knee, the nerve endings in my fingers hyperactive and sensitive to the heat of her skin. Skimming my thumb along the curve of her kneecap, I sweep long strokes over her soft flesh, hoping the touch will reassure her as to how I feel.
“Button, I may not remember the other night, but I can tell you one thing. . .” I stare at her lips for a beat and lick mine in hopeful preparation. “They say a drunken mind speaks a sober heart. And I think you’re so fucking beautiful it turns me inside out, whether drunk or sober. There is nothing I want more than to kiss you again.”
Leaning forward, I remove her wineglass from her hand and place it next to mine. Then I lift her downcast chin with my finger and peruse her face. I want her to hear and see my conviction.
“The next time I kiss you, Button, I promise it will remain etched in my memory forever.”
21
Sutton
When I was thirteen, I’d been walking home from Mel’s, passing by the Dairy Queen one hot summer day. I’d babysat the night before and had a couple bucks in my pocket and decided I would treat myself to an ice cream cone.
It had old-fashioned, walk-up “order” and “pick up” windows, so after placing my order, I moved to the pickup window to wait. When I did, some noises from around the corner of the building caught my attention. Being the little Nancy Drew teen investigator that I was, I put on my spy-persona and peered around the old brick facade to find Miles making out with Carli Pfeiffer, one of the DQ employees.
Although there was very little breathing room, Miles held a small vanilla cone between them, one arm perched above her head to prop him up and cage her in. With rapt attention, I watched them as he brought the cone to Carli’s mouth and she flicked her tongue out over the top of it, moaning like a dog during a belly rub when her tongue connected with the frosty treat.
I watched as Miles pressed his body flush with hers, flattening Carli against the building, before he swiped his tongue along the cone with hers, and then sealed his mouth against her lips.
My body reacted in a way that I’d learned from my cate
chism teacher was “lustful” and “ungodly,” which immediately filled me with shame. But I couldn’t stop the hot tingles that vibrated between my legs unbidden or the envy over Carli, who got that attention from Miles—my unrequited crush.
Apparently, that feeling hasn’t changed one bit, only now I’m on the receiving end of Miles’s attention. And now I can attest to what Carli must have felt that scorching summer day against the DQ wall.
Miles’s hand has stilled on my thigh, his thumb applying pressure as he slides closer to me and leans in to align his mouth to mine. There’s a breath of space between us, my chest rising and falling, the scent of spicy red wine and something all Miles lingering there.
“Tell me not to kiss you, Button,” Miles rasps, his fingers brushing gently over my cheek before tucking some errant stray hairs behind my ear. “Because once I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”
Holy smokes, is this the type of thing he said to all those girls before me? The ones I would’ve given anything to have changed places with back then?
And now here I am, my dream is finally coming true, and Miles is telling me not to let him kiss me? Is he crazy?
There’s not a chance in hell that will happen.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I tug him to me, a grunt of satisfaction escaping my throat, filled with the thrill that this time—this kiss—will be different. Because this time Miles knows who I am, knows his mind, and his actions aren’t being fueled by alcohol or inconsolable grief.
“Kiss me like you mean it, Miles.”
His mouth crushes mine, fusing our hearts and souls together in a swirling tempest of passion. I make a strangled noise as liquid heat floods between my legs, a riot of lust zigging and zagging like thrown confetti. Parting my lips with his tongue, he plunges inside, swiping past the seam and into my mouth, running long, languid strokes over my tongue.
We kiss hungrily, eagerly, sucking in each other’s moans and groans that rip free from our throats. A hard, dancing pulse flutters inside me, and I close my eyes to the emotion and rapture. I think to myself, this feels so freaking good.