Next Stop Love, #1

by Rachel Stockbridge

  The rest of the reprimand flew out of his head as Greyson climbed out of the car. His lip was twisted in disgust, his eyes sharp with rage. Julian hadn’t seen that look since the fight in Laguna Beach, shortly before his life went to shit the first time.

  Greyson grabbed him by the front of his coat. Julian’s shoulders and head hit the brick wall, sending a spike of pain through his skull. His dinner fell from his hand and burst open on the sidewalk.

  “What the hell did you say to her?” Greyson snarled, his nose mere inches from Julian’s. His knuckles dug into Julian’s collarbone as though Greyson meant to crush him into the bricks.

  Julian shrugged off the blind panic that had his heart in his throat and snapped into fight mode. He found his feet and threw Greyson off him, putting a few yards between them as Greyson struggled to regain his footing.

  Julian could outrun Greyson, but he didn’t see the point in trying. He’d be surprised if Greyson didn’t know where he lived. If he was going to have it out with Greyson, he’d rather do it on the street, in front of businesses, where someone might think to call the police if things escalated.

  And then, belatedly, Julian registered what Greyson had just spat in his face. “Say to who?” he asked, even though he had a pretty good idea.

  Greyson came at Julian with a wild swing. Three years ago, it might have landed. But Julian had been in more than his share of fights since then. He threw an arm up and blocked it, adrenaline spiking, then jabbed Greyson hard in the jaw before falling back. He didn’t want to turn this into a real fight, but he wasn’t going to let Greyson pummel him, either.

  “Son of a bitch,” Greyson swore, staggering away and clutching his jaw. He wouldn’t make that kind of mistake again. As shitty a human being as Greyson might be, he wasn’t stupid. “You’re more pigheaded than you used to be,” he said, circling Julian in a slow prowl.

  “Are you going to tell me what your problem is, or do I have to guess?” Julian asked, careful to keep Greyson squarely in his sights. He wasn’t going to get backed into a corner he couldn’t get out of.

  Greyson growled and came at Julian, fast and controlled. Julian pivoted, slapping Greyson’s fist out of the way at the last second. But it put him off balance. Greyson grabbed the hood of Julian’s sweatshirt and rammed a fist into his stomach.

  Julian doubled over, coughing. Greyson pressed his advantage, seizing Julian by the sweatshirt again and shoving him onto the hood of his car.

  “What did you tell her?” he demanded, flecks of spittle hitting Julian’s face in his rage. “What did you tell her, you little shit?”

  “Nothing,” Julian said through gritted teeth, struggling to get enough purchase against the car to leverage Greyson off him. “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “I know you said something to turn her against me,” Greyson said, redoubling his grip and pulling Julian close. “What was it? Did you feed her that bullshit about how it’s my fault you got your hand broken? Paint yourself as the tragic hero?”

  “That’s more your move, isn’t it?” Not his most elegant deflection—or his smartest—but it seemed better than grasping for a lie. “Or are you just so full of shit you’ve started believing your own lies now?”

  Greyson made a primal sound between his teeth and seized Julian’s throat, cutting off his air.

  Shit—

  Julian grabbed Greyson’s wrist with both hands, but he couldn’t pry free. Panic buzzed in his ears as his lungs worked fruitlessly to pull more air through his closed throat.

  “You always wanted my things,” Greyson said. “Even when you were a kid. You wanted my house, my dad, my money. You didn’t get any of that, and you’re not getting her, either.”

  Julian couldn’t speak. The edges of his vision were doing dim. He threw a wild punch at Greyson’s face—

  Greyson swore and lurched back, dropping Julian in favor of nursing his eye.

  Julian rolled off the hood, gasping for air and stumbling a safe distance away. “Fuck you,” he rasped. “She isn’t one of your things. You don’t own her.”

  “Fuck you,” Greyson shot back, wrenching his car door open. “You might have her fooled now, but you’ve never been anything but a worthless piece of shit. You’re not going to win, so just stay the fuck away before I have to make you.”

  Julian flipped Greyson off as he slammed into his car.

  Bracing one hand on the wall, Julian tried to catch his breath as Greyson revved his engine and swerved into traffic and took a sharp right turn toward the highway. It had all happened so fast Julian couldn’t quite believe it had happened at all. The one thing he did understand was that Greyson was livid over something that had evidently happened between him and Beatrice.

  If Greyson had hurt her—

  Julian forgot all about his dinner, and his plans to finish his portfolio, and Greyson’s threats. He took off running.

  Twenty

  When Beatrice ventured out of her room again, her eyes puffy and tender, she found only Nath in the living room. Apparently her mom had already gone to bed. Nath, finished with the dishes, was playing a video game on the TV.

  “You okay?” Nath asked, pausing the game as Beatrice padded around the coffee table, Sunny in her wake.

  “Could be worse.” Her voice was rough from crying. She fell into the couch cushions, pulling her fuzzy sock-encased feet up under her. She’d changed into her favorite bright pink pajama pants and an old firetruck-red sweatshirt with sleeves that went past her fingers. The visual dissonance felt like wrapping a soft, comforting blanket around her shoulders.

  Sunny jumped up next to her the moment she was settled, and curled in a warm, fluffy ball at her hip, purring lazily. Beatrice wiped a lingering tear from her cheek and scratched Sunny’s ears, pretending not to notice another anxious sideways glance from Nath.

  “I’m sick of losing this level,” Nath said, cutting back to the console’s home screen. “Wanna play something with me? Your pick.”

  It was more or less exactly what Beatrice needed. The two of them smashing digital furniture and solving low-key puzzles while alternately goading and encouraging each other. Nath singing his weird video game songs to make her laugh. Sunny stayed nearby, where Beatrice could easily reach down and pet him during cut scenes. The last of the tension in her shoulders started to ease, and the knot in her stomach loosened . . .

  A sharp rap on the door made her fumble the controller as every muscle in her body seized. Sunny’s head whipped up. Nath paused the game, his expression clouding.

  “Think he came back?” Nath asked softly.

  Beatrice shook her head, the blood draining from her face. She felt like an idiot, believing she would be safe from Greyson’s anger, at least for the rest of the night. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll check.” Nath threw his controller on the table and went to look through the peephole, grabbing the baseball bat they kept by the door as he went. He stashed it again after a second of frowning out the peephole and unlatched the chain on the door. “The hell?”

  Beatrice sat up straight, reaching for her phone. “Don’t open it.”

  Nath ignored her and threw the door open. “Julian?”

  Beatrice’s heart stopped. Julian? Why would Julian be at her house this late? He was supposed to be angry at her. He’d told her he didn’t want to see her anymore.

  “Is Beatrice here?” Julian asked. She could just see Julian’s shoulder from her perch on the couch, and the flash of his hand as he braced it against the doorjamb. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Nath said, looking confused. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Beatrice vaulted off the couch and shouldered Nath out of the way. Julian winced and looked away when he saw her, passing a hand over his mouth, but not before Beatrice had noticed that his lip was split, and his knuckles all scraped up.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rough. H
e met her eyes briefly, with an aching, desperate concern that squeezed her heart.

  “Me?” He was disheveled and out of breath and bleeding. The only injury she had was a week-old bruise on her arm, which he couldn’t know about since it was well hidden under her sleeve. “I’m fine. But what—”

  “Greyson didn’t hurt you?”

  “No,” she said automatically, her heart sinking as the truth of what must have happened washed over her. “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered, backing away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was—Sorry.”

  “Julian,” Beatrice called after him, but he was already walking toward the staircase, shoulders hunched against the gusty wind. She hung out the doorway. “Julian! Good grief . . .”

  “What’s going on?” Nath asked Beatrice.

  Beatrice ignored him. She grabbed the nearest pair of shoes—her polka-dot rain boots—and yanked them on, nearly losing her balance in her haste.

  “Bee, what’s going on?”

  “Stay here,” she ordered Nath, and ran out the door after Julian.

  She caught up with him halfway down to the next landing and touched his sleeve. “Julian, wait.”

  He spun around so suddenly that Beatrice nearly collided with him and sent them both tumbling down the stairs. His hand circled her elbow to steady her, his eyes searching hers with a desperation she hadn’t seen before.

  Her fingers brushed the zipper of his open coat. She just wanted his arms around her, assuring her everything was okay, even if it wasn’t. That they were okay. That she could still fix this.

  “You’re really not hurt?” he breathed.

  “I’m not the one with a split lip and a busted hand,” Beatrice said, her hand drifting towards his face to better inspect the damage.

  He flinched back, dropping her elbow and retreating down a step before she could make contact. “It’s nothing,” he snapped, glaring at the parking lot below. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Beatrice rubbed her forehead with her rejected fingers, trying to smooth out the headache settling there from all the worrying she’d already done. She didn’t know what to say to keep him from leaving. Her heart ached with how much she’d missed him and how much she hoped that—maybe if he was here, he hadn’t really meant everything he’d said before. Maybe she hadn’t ruined everything as much as she’d feared.

  But she couldn’t read him at all. He looked like he wanted to run, but he’d planted himself three steps below her, his hands clenching and unclenching sporadically. She didn’t know what any of it meant, and he seemed determined not to explain himself.

  “Can you—can you just talk to me?” Beatrice pleaded. “Was it Greyson? Did he go after you?”

  Julian opened his mouth and got half a syllable out before he cut himself off and started down the stairs again.

  “I’m sorry,” Beatrice said, hurrying after him. Her throat contracted, but she told herself sternly that she wasn’t allowed to cry. She had done quite enough of that today. “I didn’t realize he’d go after you. I thought—”

  “I don’t care about that,” Julian said, stopping at the landing and turning toward her. Though he wouldn’t look at her. His gaze traveled over the railing. “I can handle him. I just—You need to be more careful with him. One of these days, he’ll stop blaming me for this whole . . . mess, and he’ll try to hurt you, instead. And if he—If something happened to . . . I . . . Shit.” He pushed his hair back, pacing to the far end of the landing.

  Beatrice stared, afraid to move. Those weren’t sentence fragments people threw at you if they hated your guts. It sounded almost like—

  She cut that idea short, before hope could set her up for disappointment. Her heart was already pounding, a weird, heady warmth making her feel light and not entirely real.

  “But—” she stammered, struggling to stay rational. “But I just—”

  “No, I mean it,” he insisted, pivoting toward her. He still wouldn’t look her in the eye. His gaze lighted on her shoulder before it landed on her stupid polka dot rain boots. “You don’t want to get on his bad side. Trust me. I know that you . . . I know . . .” He growled wordlessly, fisting his hands at his sides. “I know you . . . care about him, but if he—”

  “The hell I do.”

  Julian started to say something, then his eyes snapped up to meet hers. “What?”

  “I don’t care about him,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. She clutched the banister, feeling like she might float right up into the sky if she didn’t keep herself grounded. “I broke up with him.”

  Julian let out a puff of air. An expression Beatrice couldn’t read flickered over his face before being replaced with an angry scowl. He climbed up a step, presumably so he could glare at her more effectively. “Are you insane?” he demanded. “What would you go and do that for?”

  Beatrice bristled, scowling right back at him. She didn’t expect him to jump for joy, but she would have at least hoped the news wouldn’t make him yell at her. “Look, I’m sorry he went after you—”

  “Better me than you,” Julian snapped. “He’s dangerous, Bee.”

  “I know.” She pressed a fist to her chest. “I know. But what do you want me to do? I’m not going to apologize for breaking up with a guy who scares me, and walks all over me, and hurts people I—I care about.”

  Julian drew back, passing a hand over his mouth again. “He scares you?”

  “Only sometimes.” She pulled at the collar of her sweatshirt, wishing she hadn’t let that slip. “It’s fine.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw as he clenched his teeth, but his expression softened. He climbed up another step, his fingers resting on the banister just centimeters from her own, his eyes pinning her in place. “Bee,” he said, in a rough whisper, “what did he do?”

  “Nothing,” she said, echoing his own words back at him. His eyes were almost black in the weak yellow light of the sconce overhead. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Bee.” His fingers touched hers on the banister. It might have been an accident, but he didn’t pull them away.

  “He just . . .” She slid her gaze away from his, searching for something to look at that wasn’t Julian. “He just got a little loud. I don’t handle conflict that well and I just . . . I overreacted. He barely even touched me.”

  Julian shut his eyes with a soft curse, pinching the bridge of his nose, the picture of exasperation.

  “It really wasn’t that bad,” Beatrice said quickly. “He didn’t hit me or anything.”

  “‘Not that bad?’” he repeated. “The best thing you can say is that he didn’t actually hit you and that’s supposed to be ‘not that bad?’”

  “I’m sorry,” she said automatically.

  It only seemed to make him more frustrated. “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. “Whatever it is you’re angry at me about. Whatever made you want to cut me off. I don’t understand what I did wrong. I thought—I thought we were—”

  “I’m not—Christ, Bee, I’m not angry at you,” Julian said, his frown sharpening. “I was never angry at you. I sure as hell don’t want to cut you off. I hate taking the damn train without you. I hate that I can’t tell you about weird shit that happens at work. I hate not seeing you every day. Not talking to you is killing me. It’s like—like trying to function with this gaping hole in my chest. I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair, the frustration going out of him in a puff of air. “I thought I was protecting you.”

  “Protecting me?” Beatrice repeated, her voice cracking.

  “I thought if he was only pissed at me, and I took myself out of the picture, he wouldn’t . . .” He tore his eyes from hers, turning instead to their hands on the banister. “I thought you’d be safe.” His thumb brushed the edge of her hand in a long, feather-light stroke.

  Her breath hitched as warmth washed over her. She released the rail from her death grip and s
lid her fingers in his without thinking. “Julian—”

  “I didn’t want you getting hurt because I was too selfish to let you go,” he said, tucking her hand against his chest and covering it with both of his.

  His coat was cool and rough under her fingers. His eyes were dark and so sad. So lonely. Beatrice reached up and touched his face with her free hand. “But I don’t want you to let me go.”

  “Beatrice . . .” Her name was barely more than a whisper on his tongue. He pressed his forehead to hers. “God help me.”

  She shut her eyes, breathing him in. That scent of crayons and citrus he carried with him after work had faded to almost nothing, but he still smelled like him. Soap, and something peppery, and Julian. Her chest ached. She hadn’t realized you could miss the smell of someone before.

  “Don’t go.” She pushed her fingers up through the short hairs on the back of his head. He was too important to lose again. His kindness, his laughter, his understanding . . . She loved him. She didn’t know when it started, or why she hadn’t noticed. But now that she realized, she wasn’t going to let him slip away. Not again. “Stay here,” she whispered. Pleaded. “Stay with me.”

  Julian groaned, his hands going to her waist, a gentle, hesitant pressure. “This is a really bad idea,” he breathed against her mouth.

  “I don’t care,” she said, tipping her face up.

  His mouth slanted over hers, drawing kisses from her slowly, carefully, with an edge of desperation underneath. Like he was afraid he was going too fast, or that she didn’t want this as much as he did.

  She dug her fingers in his coat, catching his upper lip in her mouth. He made a noise in the back of his throat, and she remembered his lip was split and thought maybe she’d hurt him. But before she could even start to draw back, his restraint fell away. His hands slid up her back, warm and solid, as he pressed her mouth open.

  Beatrice felt something loosen in her chest as their tongues met. Like she’d been struggling to breathe despite a heavy weight crushing her lungs, and finally the weight had lifted.