Amongst many other things that don’t and will never belong to him.
This doesn’t bode well for Blake. Or Blaire or whatever the fuck his douchey Richie-Rich name is.
And suddenly, furniture shopping with Bug and her boyfriend sounded a whole lot more fun and definitely necessary. Knowing I would need my game to be on point, I brought out the big guns in the form of a frothy and fatty caffeinated concoction I liked to call Limitless coffee, which is really just butter coffee but it makes me feel like Bradley Cooper in the movie, or even better, Jake McDorman from that canceled far too soon show of the same name.
Seriously CBS, what the fuck?
I brought my mug to my lips, inhaling the intoxicating aroma before my signature half-smile turns as sinister as Steff McKee. If you don’t know who that is, you should be ashamed of yourselves and Google that shit.
Blithe better watch the fuck out.
You don’t mess with James Spader, or the guy who’s channeling his holy badassness.
He’s gonna learn today.
Twenty-two
Songs to listen to:
“Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers
“Thief” by Ansel Elgort
“Woman” by Harry Styles
Ben
Cady is quiet. She’s been quiet since she came out of her room an hour after I did in complete disarray, strands of curly dark brown hair slipping out of her loose braid. She was still wearing her I Heart John Hughes shirt, only this morning the wide collar was draped over her shoulder, exposing her slender neck and collarbone. I’ve never been much of a collarbone man but damn, I’m a fan now. Her olive skin looked so smooth, I had the sudden urge to drag my tongue over the expanse, just above the swell of her generous breasts. There weren’t any bra straps in sight, and after one quick glance down to her chest, sure enough, she wasn’t wearing a bra.
No.
Fucking.
Bra.
Yeah, that image went directly into the wank-bank.
She mumbled a “thanks” between sips of my super coffee, told me we were meeting Biff in an hour, called dibs on the shower, and left.
That was forty-five minutes ago. She hasn’t said a single word to me since. I offered to drive, excited to get behind the wheel again, and all she could muster was a shrug of her shoulders. Unlike last night, the silence is uncomfortable, deafening, and it’s like six months ago all over again. I knew this shit would happen. Knew last night was a fluke. Knew that minor freak-out during the movie would result in some form of backpedaling. But fuck, the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. I throw on some more Otis Redding, hoping it will help, or at the very least attain a wisp of her attention, but even his holy smoothness isn’t lifting her thick wall of stubborn quiet.
Another five minutes goes by without a single noise aside from the radio, and any semblance of restraint I had completely disintegrates, leaving nothing but a giant ball of frustration, expanding with each minute of silence that passes. My mouth opens and I just know whatever is going to spew out of there isn’t going to be pretty, and will most likely set me back even further than I already am on the whole “make Cady fall in love with me again and basically live inside her vagina for the rest of our days” plan.
“Fucking say something!” Yep, it’s happening. And even though I know it’s happening, I just keep on talking, saying way too much, laying out my cards and once again giving her the upper hand. Mother. Fucking. Idiot. “I can’t deal with the silent treatment again, Cady. I will gladly take your anger or disgust or even your indifference, just as long as you aren’t withholding your voice, all right? Scream, throw insults, plot revenge, sing a fucking Three Doors Down song, I don’t care, as long as you fucking say something! Anything. Anything but this…silence. I can’t do it. Not again.”
I’m barely holding on here. I need to rein this shit in but goddess, this woman makes me fucking crazy! I bring my eyes to hers and she looks speechless, which would make me laugh if I wasn’t seconds away from pulling over, tossing her in the back seat, and tickling her until she breaks. Cady hates being tickled, despises it—probably due to the fact that when tickled, she loses all control of her limbs…and bladder.
She opens her mouth to finally say something when her damn phone starts playing “Nothing Can Change This Love.” A quick glance to the device and I see it. His name. Blaine. Oh, hell to the no! He does not get Otis as a ringtone, and he most definitely doesn’t get this fucking song!
Fuck. That ish. In the ass.
Just like that, all of my annoyance directed at Cady vanishes and is irrationally placed on the asshole who has my ringtone. My ringtone! Mine, not his. I’m mentally adding ‘song stealing’ to the growing list of shit he’s taken from me.
I hate thieves, and as of this moment, I hate Blake I-don’t-know-his-last-name-but-could-care-less-cause-he’s-going-to-be-out-of-the-picture-within-the-month. For. Real.
I try to listen in on their conversation without her knowing I’m actively eavesdropping. But a minute in, I wish I had just drowned out the noise because then I wouldn’t have heard the lightness in her voice and the smile in each word that passes through her pillowy lips. She sounds…happy.
Fuck.
I wasn’t expecting that.
My chest is tight all of a sudden, heaving in uncertainty, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel in repressed irritation and annoyance, mostly at myself. I have to stop at a red light and I chance a glance at Cady, finding her eyes already on me. Her thick but sculpted eyebrows are knitted together, mouth downturned to a faint frown as her phone is pressed against her ear. She looks confused and worried, her good mood courtesy of whatever Blythe is droning on about long gone, thanks to my looming temper tantrum.
I turn back to the road as she ends the call with “see you in a few.” I can feel her eyes on me, studying, scrutinizing, but she still does not say a word. And I don’t give her anything, either.
This continues until I’m pulling into the large blue building holding a plethora of cheapish and trendy furniture from the Netherlands that is a pain in the ass to build and will break within a year and yet we keep on coming. It’s the IKEA effect.
Cady’s out of the car the second I turn off the engine, already halfway to the entrance by the time I shut my side door. I take in a deep breath before I jog after her, needing to say something before I have a front row seat to my worst fucking nightmare.
Bug. With a dude. Who isn’t me.
I reach for her forearm, turning her around to face me. She looks so apathetic, and I fucking hate it. I scrub my jaw with my hand and let out a groan that is way too loud, but it’s out there and there’s nothing I can do about it now. Plus, I’m kinda pissed out of my gourd right now so I really just don’t give a fuck for public decency or sparing Cady’s feelings.
“What the fuck happened to our truce, huh? I don’t know what the hell happened between last night and this morning but whatever it was, can you pull the branch out of your ass and table this shit until we get through this undoubtedly awkward as fuck IKEA excursion?”
Welp, if I was going for brutal, dick-face honesty, then I nailed it.
My suspicions are confirmed from the death glare Cady is dishing out behind her glasses.
I open my mouth to apologize when I’m cut off yet again. Only this time it isn’t by a stolen ringtone, nope, it’s from a tall (not as tall as me), pretty (not as pretty as me) douche-rocket coming out of nowhere, only to brush past me straight to Cady, wrapping her in his arms and then lifting her a few inches off the ground as she squeals and giggles into his shoulder.
The fuck?
Did she just giggle? Cady doesn’t giggle. She chuckles or guffaws. Loudly. And snorts. Then covers the snort with her hand, only to snort again while her thick-rimmed glasses slip down her nose in the most adorkable way that never ceases to make my heart swell in sheer fucking happiness and longing.
Need.
So much fucking need.
<
br /> But giggle? Nah. Not since we were kids. And yet, here she is, giggling like her six-year old self, throwing me completely off my game. If I wasn’t pissed off before, I’m fucking livid now. And guess who will be the unknowing recipient of said bourgeoning anger?
Yep, Bland.
Bleak?
Blame?
You know who I’m talking about.
“Hey man, I’m Blaine.” His left hand reaches out to shake mine. I ignore it, my eyes trained on his other arm that is currently wrapped around Cady’s waist, pulling her irritatingly close to his side. His outstretched hand falls lamely between us. “You must be Ben, Cady’s brother—”
Brother? Ha! Well that got my attention.
My mouth hitches in a vicious smirk. “Brother? Is that what Bug is calling me? Hmm, interesting.” My eyes drift over to Cady. I nearly wince at the venomous promise of retribution kindling in her eyes but hold my ground, portraying the definition of ease and nonchalance.
“Yeah, well, at any rate, it’s good to finally meet you.” Blaine’s voice tears my attention away from my girl. He sounds genuine and I almost, almost, feel bad for being a dick. But then my eyes flicker back to the grip he has on Cady’s hip, and my brief wavering shrivels immediately.
I put on a bright smile that encompasses my entire face—thus breaking rule number one on our list, although it’s not aimed at her so I think I’m in the clear of a violation but nonetheless I’m hoping it’s achieving the desired effect—melting Bug’s panties off as I speak. “Yeah, well, I’d say the same, but I’m not a liar.” I find Cady’s eyes once more, my faux smile dropping, replaced with a genuinely honest one that I hope she sees. Feels. “At least, not anymore.”
Cady’s eyes drop to her royal blue painted toes briefly, successfully evading my gaze as she chews on her lip nervously before inhaling deeply and turning toward Banal with a smile only for him. My hands instinctively clench into tight fists; the urge to rip her out of his arms is almost unbearable. “Excuse him, Ben’s always been an asshole, but apparently living in New York for a year has turned him into an ill-mannered dickhead.”
Her insult turns my disdainful scowl upside down, eliciting yet another lethal glare on Cady’s part. Blunder holds both of his hands up in armistice with an easy smile that really fucking grates on my already fried nerves.
“It’s cool, I get it. You’re doing the whole ‘protective big bro’ spiel. Dyl did the same thing a few months ago. No worries, babe.” He turns to Cady when he says that last part, placing a comforting kiss on her forehead. My body instinctively moves toward them, my fists hell-bent on breaking his face in more places than one, but then Cady pulls away just in time, slicing me with her eyes and shaking her head like she can predict my intentions.
Knowing her, and all of the women in our family, I’m ninety-seven percent sure she does.
Hell, those broads know all. And us dudes are wise not to forget it. Ever.
Cady draws in a deep breath, closing her eyes on the exhale, and then nods once in what I assume is resolution. Her eyes flicker open and she nods her head twice more for good measure. Goddamn, she’s adorable. Especially when she’s pissed.
“All right, let’s get this nightmare over with.”
I wink at her, and that earns me the finger, bringing a wicked smile to my face.
This might be fun after all.
Well, that was the thought I had before I watched in horror and festering rage as Blanch grabbed the same hand that told me to fuck off, twirled Cady around like they’re on fucking Dancing with the Stars before throwing down the gauntlet and kissing her hard and inappropriately on the mouth.
On. The fucking. Mouth.
Did I say ‘fun?’ I meant the worst fucking idea in the history of ideas.
Shit.
What the hell did I get myself into?
Twenty-three
Songs to listen to:
“Tell Me You Love Me” by Demi Lovato
“Make You Cry” by John Paul White
“Figures, a Reprise” by Jessie Reyez (feat. Daniel Caesar)
“Watch” by Billie Eilish
“Bellyache” (Marian Hill Remix) by Billie Eilish
Cady
What the hell did I get myself into?
Why, Cady? Why would you think that allowing the boy who owns—shit, used to own—your heart tag along with you and the new boy who currently owns…um, the possibility of your heart, was anywhere near a good idea?
Especially after giving Ben the brush-off all morning when it wasn’t even warranted, at least not because of his actions. Because up until now, he’s done nothing but try to get into my good graces. But after last night, and that moment…that stupid fucking moment when Keith and Watts kissed…I could feel Ben’s eyes on me, and it was like I had no control over my head because no matter how many silent curse words I threw at it, the damn thing turned toward him and goddess, the look he was giving me—the heat in his gaze, the intention, the want, the guarantee of a thorough, head-banging, toe-curling, screaming to the gods and stars with a few added expletives—fuck, it was like a torrential downpour in my panties. And before I knew what I was doing, I leaned, just a fraction, but it was a lean nonetheless and he saw it. I know he did because he leaned too, but thankfully his movement snapped me out of my dumbass moment of sheer insanity and slutty-virgin-vagina-weakness. Of course, that also meant I was forced to run away from Ben eye-fucker Catalano-Moretti yet again. I’m sure he has catalogued every inch of my backside by now, because that’s all he seems to be able to see.
I’m pretty sure that was the fastest I’ve bolted from him though, so I guess there’s that.
Ugh. I felt so stupid and frustrated—two moods I mastered long ago when near Ben. So, I did what I always do: I sewed the shit out of something. A pillowcase, to be exact. I know, real innovative stuff. I have yet to sew an actual garment since, well, you know. But slowly, over the course of the last three months or so, I began to work my way through a plethora of pillows, and when I say plethora, I mean a shit-ton, and when I say a shit-ton, I mean that my family has since forbade me from making decorative puffy clouds as both houses are now filled to the brim. So, I switched to pillowcases, but those are quickly piling up as well. At the rate I’m going, everyone worth gifting will receive, at the very least, five cases for Christmas. At most, close to fifteen.
Maybe it’s time to experiment with some throws. Oh, or towels! One can never have too many towels!
Anyway, back to why I’m a stupid, stupid, girl. This morning, after only managing two hours of fitful sleep, I woke up to a text from Blaine reminding me of the impending doom that I brought upon myself. He ended the text with a sweet but tummy-twisting, throat-closing, sweat above the upper lip-inducing, ‘I love you.’
Yep, he said it. He’s been saying it for over a month now. And nope, I have yet to say it back. I know, Douchey McDoucherpussy. I want to say it back, I really do. Why wouldn’t I? Blaine is as close to perfect as humanly possible. He’s intelligent, respectful, athletic, sweet, and ridiculously sexy. Oh, and did I mention he can sing and dance? Yep, and I don’t mean line-dancing here, ladies. I’m talking Channing Tatum in his prime kind of dancing—abs of the six-pack variety rolling, chest and booty poppin’, and hips a-grinding. Expertly.
And yet, any time I get close to saying those three little words, they get stuck in my throat, slamming forcefully into a stubborn mouth-wall that does not want to lift, no matter how many times it salivates over Blaine and his holy hotness. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know why. Of course I do. I may make questionable decisions, but I’m not daft. I know all roads lead to Ben and there are three of them—roads, not Bens. One Ben Catalano-Moretti in this world is more than enough, bordering on too much. No one needs more of that.
Anyway, back to the roads. Road number one: the last time I said those words, the guy I said them to not only gave me the kiss I will forever compare all kisses to and then rejected me a minute later,
he had to take it one giant step further and fuck my best friend. Granted, that best friend was a vile whore-hag and my new best friend is of the penis-swinging variety, so I doubt Blaine would go for either. Plus, we’ve already established that he loves me, so this road and my fear of those words is just silly and irrational. But nonetheless, my track record for baring my feelings is embarrassingly grim, which doesn’t sit well with my head or my heart.
Road number two is the simplest of the three. I’m just not sure I love Blaine. There, I said it. I want to love him. My life would be so much easier, my heart safer, and yet I’m still holding out—not giving up on the possibility that one day I will love him. But in all of his awesomeness, he’s just not…I don’t know.
Fuck, no, I do know. I’m just not willing to admit that yet. Or ever.
Fine! Nosy Noserass. I’ll say it. I can totally say it. I’m going to say it.
Here it is. This is me saying it…
Ready?
I’m doing it.
Fuck.
He’s just not…he’s not… Shit. He’s not Ben! Okay? Happy?
I know. Pathetic. Stupid, stupid, girl.
Which brings us to road number three, also known as the road most complicated and fuckity-fucked up. A small, tiny, really miniscule, almost non-existent part of me, deep down, way down, like mole-people deep down, still nonsensically wants Ben, no matter what he does or says or doesn’t say. The want is still there. But see, if it was just that—a simple infatuation—then it could be somewhat manageable, and I could get over it. Probably. At the very least, ignore it. But it’s not just a little crush. It’s not that simple. It never has been when it came to Ben. Since we were kids, there’s always been this…thing, an invisible bond, binding us together whether I like it or not. And for a long time, I didn’t mind; in fact, I loved it—the resilient tie and the entwined promise of more. But now…now I know that was just a pipe dream. A strewn-out fantasy imagined by a naïve little girl who was blinded by the loving examples of her parents, who thought the boy-next-door who she’s known practically her whole life would be her forever. But a year ago I woke up, and yet still, my stupid heart is wrapped around his, chained and padlocked, and I don’t have the key.
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 22