He relents and winks at me before driving off and I stay put on the sidewalk long after he leaves. Strategizing. Preparing. Prying my head from my ass and getting it back in the game. I move my hand to my eyes, shielding them from the sun as I stare up at my apartment, knowing without a doubt that I’m about to walk straight into a warzone.
But I’m ready to fight.
And I’m gonna look damn good doing it.
Twenty-four
Songs to listen to:
“I Can’t Go on Without You” by Kaleo
“Don’t Wanna Fight Anymore” by Alabama Shakes
“If I Didn’t Know Better” by Clare Bowen and Sam Palladio
“Fight For You” by John Paul White
Ben
I’m going to lose my damn mind. The last hour and a half has been effing torturous.
For the first time in a year, I wish I hadn’t given up weed because damn, I could really use a little something right about now. Anything to calm the blistering rage boiling inside me.
Blaine.
Douche of the motherfucking century.
Goddamn it!
The image of Cady grinding on his lap while he mauled her face in his car harasses my subconscious in a continuous loop of torment, taunting my short-circuiting nerves so intensely, I’m about a haggard breath away from smashing the new end table we bought into a broken heap of low-priced, Swedish kindling.
Somehow, I resist, settling for baking the shit out of something instead. Yep, when I’m pissed, nervous, upset, or sexually frustrated, I bake. And right now, I’m feeling all of those feels, so I’m about to go full-on Martha Stewart up in here.
That’s how Bug finds me—knee-deep in crème brulee and two-dozen vegan chocolate-chip and pretzel cookies. The vociferous slam of the front door and stomping of her Chucks leads me to believe our next conversation—read: fight—will not be a pleasant one. I open the oven door and slide in the pan of cookies, set the timer, and take a deep breath.
“You motherfucking asshole!”
Yep, unpleasant indeed.
I rise to my feet and meet a fuming Cady. She stands at the kitchen entrance, tossing her giant messenger bag down by her feet before placing her hands on her perfectly rounded hips. Her blue eyes are wild, slightly narrowed, and trained on me with intention, a guarantee of certain harm coming my way. Instinctively, I cover my balls—a move you learn pretty quickly when dealing with the women in our family. Her face has a light sheen coating it, a glow, if you will, along with flushed cheeks and chest, which has me wondering if that’s how she looks after a good fuck. But that thought reminds me of what I just witnessed not fifteen minutes ago—his hands, his dirty goddamned hands gripping what’s mine, what I’ve never gripped but ache to do so effing badly—I regret not breaking the damn table earlier.
“I’m the asshole?” I yell. “I’m not the one who ignored me for no goddamned reason all morning, and then practically fucked my dickhead boyfriend in front of me and every other effing Portlandian at IKEA, only to grace me with an effing encore in front of our damn apartment!”
Yes, I’m well aware a few PG kisses aren’t equivalent to sex, but mother-effer, that car incident has got me rattled like a snake and this is Cady, my Bug, my girl, and my favorite sparring partner—when we aren’t yearning for each other or ignoring each other, we’re arguing. It’s how it’s been since I pushed her away twelve years ago.
“What I do with my boyfriend is no concern of yours. We were nowhere near fucking, but if I wanted to venture into public indecency then I can very well do so, without your permission. So, you can take your bullshit, holier than thou bitch-baby attitude and accusations and shove them up your ass!” she screams, always giving as good as she gets.
Damn, I love the fire in her. She lost it for a few years, and I know I’m partially to blame for that. But I see it again, a rolling blaze, sparking full and wild, incinerating right through me. And as pissed as I am, I don’t think I’ve ever been more thankful to feel the sweltering burn of her gaze.
She’s coming back to me.
To herself.
Her chest is heaving, up and down, up and down, drawing my attention to her full, perky breasts. And yes, I admit, my eyes drift, but only for a second…or five. Maybe ten, but who’s counting? My heart is pounding through my ears, my breathing just as frenetic as hers. We stare each other down, barely blinking. Neither one of us says another word, waiting for the other to break. To freak the eff out again, or walk away.
That doesn’t happen.
I don’t know how much time goes by but at some point, there’s a shift. The anger and frustration are still there, alive and well. My heart is still hammering erratically inside my chest, but now it’s beating for an entirely different reason. Something else is bubbling to the surface and it’s so damn powerful, heady and magnetic, I don’t think I can stand my ground much longer.
My restraint is slipping through my clenched fingers with each second that ticks by.
Cady’s keyed-up panting has morphed into these tiny little breathy sighs that I feel all the way from my head down to my fucking toes. Her eyes, those fucking big, bright, baby blue eyes still refuse to leave mine, only now there’s a certain haze clouding them, the very same haze that has assailed my own. Our lids have grown slightly heavy and I’m finding it hard to breathe as the air surrounding us becomes dense and impermeable.
Lust.
I feel it. The hold. Tightening my chest like a damn vise that won’t give any slack.
Fuck, I want her.
“Bug,” I whisper. At least, I think I whisper. Honestly, I’m not sure of anything right now. Just that I want to close the painful distance between us, grab her insanely perfect body and even better heart, and claim both. Brand her with my kiss. Ruin her with my hands. Make damn sure no else could ever compare, could ever measure up. Erase anything her prick-dick boyfriend ever managed to do to her.
Make her mine.
Finally.
Forever and fucking always.
Yeah, I said it. I meant it, too. In case you were wondering.
Her eyes close briefly and when she opens them, I suck in a breath. The veil has dropped.
Fuck it.
I’m in front of her in three strides. Her breath catches in her throat and I think I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I cup her cheek, my thumb drawing circles on her plump lips, releasing a shudder from both of us.
“Today fucking sucked. Seeing you…kissing him. I never wanna see that shit again. It wasn’t right.”
And just like that, the rein holding us in place is severed. She pulls back, my hand on her skin dropping to my side, her eyes now crystal clear and narrowed in disbelief.
Fuck, Ben. You fucking idiot.
“You just had to open your big mouth, didn’t you?”
She turns away, shaking her head in what looks a lot like disappointment, but I’m not sure who she’s more disappointed in at this point—me or herself. Yeah, I’m right there with you, sweetheart. Her eyes fasten back to mine and sure enough, that goddamned wall is up and if possible, even stronger. Note to self: shut the fuck up, dude.
“I don’t give a shit how you feel about me kissing my boyfriend. Jesus, Ben! You have no right! This is all on you! I wouldn’t even be kissing him if … ”
“If?” I ask. My eyes pleading with hers to finish that damn sentence, knowing damn well she won’t.
“It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.” I take a step toward her but she holds her hand up, stopping me from advancing on her again. “Don’t.” Her voice cracks on that one word, and that’s when I notice the sheen in her eyes.
I go to take another step, hell-bent on ignoring her plea and wrapping her in my arms, never fucking letting her go, when I’m momentarily distracted by the oven timer going off, blaring loudly in the tight space of the kitchen.
I turn toward the offending noise for no longer than a few seconds, but it’s enough to allow Cady to make
a mad dash in the direction of her room. I cry out her name, but it bounces right off her retreating back. The harsh slam of her door pairs nicely with the shrill sound of the alarm that seems insistent on beeping me to death.
I walk over to the oven—a feat that seems unnecessarily tiresome—turn off the timer and pull out the baking sheets, setting them on the stovetop to cool down for a few minutes before I move them to the wire racks. I grab a warm cookie from the pan and breathe out a sigh of relief as the chewy golden-brown morsels from heaven touch my tongue, a mixture of sweet and savory assailing my mouth in the best damn way.
Perfect.
Well, at least I can still cook. I still have that.
Talking, however, and well, basically just being an all-around fuck up, may need a little work.
Ya think, dipshit?
Yeah, I definitely think.
***
One week.
It’s been one long-ass week since Cady ran away from me, closing herself behind a door yet again. I’m beginning to think it’s a running theme.
Doors.
Walls.
Boyfriends.
Anything sturdy and safe to put between us.
Our apartment is small. Like really effing small. Two bedrooms. Shared bathroom. Living room and kitchen. That’s it. And yet somehow, Bug has managed to go undetected, with the exception of miscellaneous sounds and a flash of her dark brown curls as she whizzed through the apartment and out the front door yesterday morning.
She never came back home.
I know this because I may have accidently walked into her room, thinking it was mine.
Ugh, fine, that’s bullshit. And yes, I know, it’s also a huge violation of privacy, but come on. What do you expect? She’s so damn close to me, her fucking smell lingers around the house long after she’s gone. And yet, I’ve never felt so far away from her. It’s like New York all over again, only this time, she’s right in front of my face. I can see her, hear her, but I can’t reach her.
If it weren’t for Dylan reassuring me that she isn’t shacked up with Richie Dick, just splitting her time between Miles’s house and our parents instead, I’d have lost my mind.
Well, more than I already have because yeah, that shit is gone. I’m one Cady-less day away from kidnapping the girl, tying her up (why does that sound epically hot? Damn, I really do need to stop reading those books, for real this time, well, after the newest Jo Raven release because she’s just fucking awesome), and forcing her to listen to every goddamned thing I have to say. Which really isn’t a whole lot. Mostly along the lines of: ‘You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met, even worse than Mom, but fucking hell, I love you so damn much despite it.’ Or something along those lines.
It needs a little refinement, but you get the gist.
As much as that thought pleases me (in more ways than one), I’m pretty sure it would actually end with me howling on the floor, curled up in the fetal position, looking for my balls that were just kneed right the eff off me.
Thankfully, I catch a break. Goddess bless meddling mothers who love an excuse for a dinner party. Most likely because she can bust out the good wine without feeling guilty about it. Tonight, is my official “welcome home” party. Even though I’ve already seen everyone worth seeing since moving back home, the fam insisted, and who am I to turn down a feast of dope-ass Italian food and the wild and unpredictable mess that is my family? It’s all in my honor, after all.
I may be an asshole, but I’m not an inconsiderate asshole.
Not anymore, at least.
Pretty sure there’s a certain curvy, curly-haired vixen who would argue otherwise.
Yeah, well, she doesn’t know me anymore. Not the ‘me’ I am now. Okay, so maybe I had a few dickish hiccups last week, but I’m trying to make up for that. If she’d stop fucking running, she’d see. I just need to get her alone and defenseless, and yes, I am aware of how fucking creepy that sounds, but you know what I mean.
I need that wall dropped. Or lowered, at least. Just a damn inch is all I’m asking for. And then I can explain. As long as my mouth doesn’t betray me again. Damn thing is a liability. Now I remember why I barely talked before the Moreno-Adams clan high-jacked me, my uncle, and our vows of solitude and silence.
I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. We weren’t really living until we found them. Just drifting through life with no direction, no destination in sight. They saved us.
But damn, I need to re-learn when to keep my mouth shut.
I pull into the driveway of my parents’ house. Familiar cars litter the concrete, old turquoise Adirondack chairs that match the front door sit on the porch with trendy pillows and a small round table between them, and a printed wood sign hangs on the dark grey siding that reads:
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Adams-Moretti family est. 2015
The cheesy thing never fails to make me smile. I’m a fucking sap.
I open the door and my ears are immediately bombarded with noise. No surprise there. Loud music flows through the hallway from the kitchen—classic Beyoncé from the sounds of it, while some new EDM shit pounds upstairs, most likely from Zig’s room. A shout from Mom is heard over the music, indicating that whoever keeps leaving the back door open will pay by way of cash money or loss of cake privileges. If you’ve had Mom’s cake before—her extra special Chocolate-chocolate-chip cake—that there’s only option: fork over those dollar bills, ya’ll. The TV is blaring in the living room, and I peek my head around the corner to find Cole, Dylan, and Stella watching a Mariners game, pacing the floor, and screaming at the pitcher, about one ball away from punching a hole in the screen. This scene is also not a surprise.
Baseball was never my thing. I played because Dylan loved it and I loved him. Figured it only made sense that I would love baseball, too. Yeah, nope. I was a decent player, but my heart just wasn’t in it. And don’t even get me started on watching…fuck me, three and a half hours of my life I will never get back.
“Who’s up?” I ask the room, who were completely oblivious to my presence until now.
Stella screams my name, jumps off the couch, and runs into my arms, almost knocking me over. Damn, girl’s getting strong. She’s only eight and she’s taller than Evie, although Mom is short as fuck at 5’3”, but still. I have a feeling she’s gonna take after her dad, Cole, height-wise. Her looks are all Angel—skin only a shade lighter than her mom’s cocoa complexion, piercing honey eyes, and the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. Note to self: make sure no boy ever goes near her. I press a kiss onto her baseball-capped head and squeeze her one more time before the Mariners finally get the out and she squeals in relief, extracting her body from mine.
“Five-four, M’s are down, bottom of the eighth,” Cole grunts out, but there’s the faintest of smiles behind his newly-trimmed beard. “Hey, kid.”
“Digging the beard. The grey hair isn’t nearly as prominent now. I mean, it’s still there, obviously, but it’s definitely less noticeable.” I smirk, and he flips me off behind Stella’s back. Aw, he loves me.
I swing my eyes to Dylan and his are staring in the direction of the kitchen, his pearly white teeth worrying his lip. Once he looks my way, I know immediately something’s up. My body tenses. He curses. Stares at the screen. Then curses again before rising off the couch and grabbing my arm, pulling me back into the hallway.
“What? What is it?” I ask immediately, having no clue why he’s rattled and needing to know the reason right the eff now. He sighs. I raise my eyebrows at him.
“He’s here,” he says cryptically.
“Who’s here?” And then I hear it. The faint sound of douchebaggery kissing ass in the kitchen. Oh, hell no!
“She brought Blaine? To family dinner? To my goddamned party? How did you let that happen?” Dylan winces at each question I throw at him.
“She just showed up here with him, and you know Mom. She wasn’t going to turn him away, dude.”
“F
ucking traitors. All of you.”
“You and Cady, always with the dramatics. Look, I just wanted to warn you before you walk in there and go all Hulk-smash on the dude.”
“That’s all you. If I were to do anything, I would go all Gal Gadot-Wonder Woman on his rich ass. So much doper than the Hulk, who’s just a giant man-toddler who can’t control his emotions.”
“It certainly sounds like you.”
“Fuck off.” I play punch him in the arm, instantly wincing after contact. “Holy hell, bro, you’re like made of steel. How have you not broken Miles yet?” I ask him, shaking out my wimpy hand. Dyl tenses slightly when I mention Miles, and I tilt my head curiously.
“Can’t break something you haven’t touched in months,” he replies almost bitterly. Well, I’ll be. Looks like I’m not the only sexually frustrated one around here.
“Months?”
“Two.” Dylan shakes his head, then throws it back and sighs heavily. Unfamiliar laughter rings out in the kitchen, drawing his attention away from me. His hand comes to his chest, rubbing an invisible spot over his heart. Shit, there’s more to it than sex.
“Fuck, you love him!” I whisper-yell with wide eyes. In an instant, his baseball mitt of a hand covers my mouth as he vehemently shushes me. I say it again, the words muffled and indiscernible, but he knows what I’m saying as his booted foot comes down on mine. Shit, that hurt!
“Shut your big-ass mouth and mind your damn business. You’ve got your own shitty love life to handle. You don’t need to take on mine, too, you got me? And you’re wrong, by the way.” I lick the hand covering my mouth and he extracts it instantaneously with a curse. “Dude, what are you, ten?”
“You started it. And you’re a fucking liar if you think you don’t love that dude,” I whisper this so he keeps his damn bear paws off me.
“Hey pot, meet kettle.”
“Touché, little brother. But seriously, I know a thing or two about unrequited love, in case you want to talk.”
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 24