by Stacey Kade
“She’d do anything for you, and you know it,” Chase says to me. “And her mother will do anything for cash and another credit for Callie’s filmography.” That, I assume, is directed to Amanda, since the rest of us know all too well what Lori is capable of.
Calista winces.
Amanda notices and frowns. “Chase, I think maybe you should just let them—”
But Chase, as predicted, is way too far into honorable-cowboy mode. He pushes his chair back, turning more fully toward Calisa. “Callie, you don’t understand. After the accident…” He shakes his head. “I screwed up. I know that. And I will be sorry for the rest of my life for whatever impulse drove me to pick up the keys that night.”
Calista stiffens. “Chase, it wasn’t like that. You were—”
“And I know you and Eric have been friends for a long time, but he’s not a good influence,” he says, barely even glancing in my direction, and Amanda makes an exasperated noise.
I snort, unable to stop myself, even as fury swells to a swirling mass in my chest. “So you’re the only one allowed to change? The only one allowed to make up for past mistakes? How convenient.”
Chase’s gaze snaps to me. “If I thought for a second that it was genuine, and you truly cared about what was best for someone else—”
“You know what? Fuck you, Henry. You don’t know me.” I shove my chair and stand up. “And I’m not perfect, but you sure as hell aren’t either.”
But next to me, Calista stays seated, and my heart falls. She’s going to stay. It’s Katie all over again.
I take a deep breath against the pain in my chest. Fine. Whatever. Guess that solves all of her problems. Chase can give her a ride back home, then, too. And she can start work on Monday with my fucking dad. I start to turn away.
But then she speaks. “Do you know why we came over here?” she asks Chase quietly. Beneath the softness of her words is a hot molten layer of anger, and I stop.
“Callie, I—” his words cut off in a grunt as Amanda’s elbow reaches his ribs.
“To apologize to you.”
He rocks back, startled. “What, why?”
“That night, in the car, you were talking about another party, but that’s not why we were in the car.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“We were in the car because I begged you to drive me home. I was drunk, and I didn’t know or care how drunk you were. All I cared about was getting out of there. We could have died because of my hurt feelings.”
Chase’s mouth tightens, and he looks over at me.
Calista exhales loudly. “Yeah, it was because Eric hurt my feelings, but so what? Running away, forcing my friend with a drinking problem to drive when he was always careful not to? That was my selfish choice, me putting myself above everyone else. Including you. Eric was trying to stop us. That’s why he was in the car.”
Amanda glances at me, and I give a short nod. I tried. I really did. Short of lunging into the front seat and yanking at the wheel, there was nothing more that I could have done that night. Other than not creating the situation in the first place, but that required a little more foresight—and a hell of a lot more maturity—than I had at the time.
“But he lied, then,” Chase says, after a moment, still processing what Calista is saying. “When I saw him in the hospital, he said it was my idea, that I was driving because I wanted to go to another party.”
Here we go.
“That is what you said that night. But the truth is you would never have been in the car that night if it weren’t for me … for us,” Calista says, folding her arms over her chest carefully, in deference to her damaged arm. I step closer, resting my hand lightly on the top of her good shoulder, letting her know I’m still here.
“He let me believe I was responsible,” Chase says slowly.
“Which was a chicken-shit thing to do,” Calista says without hesitation. “Because he knew you’d blame him—even though I’m as much at fault as he is. And he didn’t want to lose you as a friend. It was dumb—criminally stupid—to lie, but that’s why we are here. To apologize.”
“Are we ready to order?” The server, a tiny blond girl, steps up next to me, either unaware of the tension or not caring.
“He wants to apologize?” Chase rears back in his chair. “I haven’t heard so much as a fucking sorry from him.”
“I’ll come back,” the server squeaks, practically running in the opposite direction.
Swallowing a sigh, I turn my attention to my former friend, his face flushed with anger. The ridiculous stuff we used to get up to, back in those days when we didn’t worry about anything other than having fun. It all feels like a thousand years ago.
“I am sorry,” I say, the words coming out stiff, my jaw tight. This is pointless. Chase has, as I tried to tell Calista earlier, already made up his mind about me. But I’ll do it, lay the worst parts of myself bare, if that’s what she needs. And as much as it grates on me, Chase does deserve the explanation. “It was a shitty thing to do to you, to make you blame yourself, especially when we were all struggling. I was desperate and feeling shitty about myself, and I knew you’d be pissed if I told you the truth. I didn’t want to lose you and Calista both, so I tried to push it back on you. It was stupid. Cruel, even. And I am sorry.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “But I am trying to be different, to be better.”
Chase shakes his head with a sound of disgust. “Forget it. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Chase,” Amanda says in surprise. “If we’re talking about second chances…”
Calista pushes up and out of her chair. “You’re a hypocrite,” she says to Chase.
“Calista,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You were okay with apologizing and us forgiving you when you thought you were responsible, but when it’s us—”
“It’s not you,” he says. “It’s him. You’re not seeing this clearly.”
She’s silent for a long moment, during which I start to wonder if he’s convinced her and panic takes hold in me. “It’s not, though,” she says finally. “It’s both of us. He’s the one who told me not to come over here, that you wouldn’t understand or be able to forgive us. But I was sure—sure—that you would because we were family once.”
Chase flinches.
“He was right, I guess,” Calista says, but then her smile goes tight. “But then again, so was I. Because only family treats family this badly.”
Calista pushes past me to march away, her head held high, and I follow, stunned.
She took my side. She did it.
“We’ve elected to eat elsewhere,” she says as we pass the server, who is hovering, watching greedily. This is definitely going to make it onto the gossip sites somewhere. “The company sucks here.”
Calista is shaking her head and muttering to herself as she stalks through the restaurant to the sidewalk outside. Then she pauses and turns to me. “I am so sorry, Eric,” she says. “I should never have tried to—”
I catch her chin in my fingers and tilt her mouth up to meet mine, cutting off her words with a fervent kiss, using my mouth and tongue to convey what I can’t seem to say.
Her hands slide up to catch at my waist, pulling me closer. I back us up until we are against the wall of the café and far too close for public decency. There’s a driving ache in me to feel her skin against mine, to bury myself inside her and just be.
“What was that for?” she asks breathlessly, when I finally pull away, my heart full to overflowing. It’s a warm feeling I’m not used to.
“Thank you,” I say. “For trying. For believing. In me.”
She touches my cheek, running her thumb lightly over my mouth. “Of course,” she says, her eyes shining with unshed tears again. But it’s not pity this time, it’s love. I can see the difference now.
Smiling at me mischievously, she slides to the side, out from under me. “So how strongly do you feel about food right now?” she asks, tugging on
my hand to get me to follow her. As if I wouldn’t. “Because I could definitely be convinced to order in.” She winks at me.
As she turns to lead the way back to my car, the words that have been churning beneath the surface inside me finally break through. “I love you.”
Granted, I’m saying them to her back, but I’m saying them.
She stops dead, her hand clutching tight around mine, and then slowly turns to face me, her expression uncertain, as if she’s misheard me.
“I love you,” I repeat, nodding in confirmation. It’s easier to say it the second time, even with her facing me.
Calista closes the distance between us and locks her arms around my neck. “Let’s go home.”
25
CALISTA
The short drive home takes forever, but I do my best to entertain myself, my hand on Eric’s knee and then traveling higher, stroking him through his jeans until the muscle at the back of his jaw is jumping.
He grabs my hand and puts it back on his knee firmly, with his hand on top to keep it in place.
“I would prefer that we not die before I can get us home and fuck you senseless,” he says, his voice rough with strain.
His words send a shiver of anticipation through me, so I’m mostly good the rest of the way. Though honestly, can you truly expect me to keep my hands to myself at a red light? Especially when the heat in his gaze is enough to set me aflame. And if I can’t touch him, all I want is to feel his hand stroking between my legs.
But no.
Once we’re at his building, he pulls me through the lobby without a word, past the doorman—who greets us—and into the elevator. In the elevator, he locks his arm at the elbow, forcing us to keep our distance for that fifteen-second interval.
When the door pulls back, he charges down the hall so quickly, I’m practically tripping to keep up with his long legs.
Once the door to his place is open, I’m expecting him to yank me inside, slam the door shut and start tearing off my clothes. Eagerness makes my heart beat faster. That would not be a bad ending to an unexpected morning.
But instead, he closes the door after me and leans closer, bracing his hands on the door on either side of me.
The brush of his mouth is sweet and soft over mine, and the touch of his lips, so light it’s barely detectable, only heightens the sensation, sending electric shocks zipping through my veins.
I moan.
He dips his head to kiss along my jaw, more of those whisper-soft kisses that make me feel small and delicate and valued.
Which is nice, but …
I clutch at his T-shirt, trying to pull him closer, but he won’t move.
His mouth moves, warm and open, down my neck to my collarbone, and I scoot closer to him, trying to wrap my leg around his waist, but it’s impossible without the door behind me or his help.
I make a sound of frustration.
“Callie,” he says against my skin. “Just let me, okay?”
With a shudder, I lower my leg and take a step back against the door.
I’m rewarded for my acquiescence a moment later. His big, warm hand skates beneath the hem of my shirt—his shirt—and rests lightly on my stomach before curving to my side and sliding up to cup my breast through my bra. His thumb skims over my nipple, and I buck against him—or I would if he weren’t keeping that distance between us.
Shaking with need, I’m not above begging. “Please. I just … want.” I don’t know how else to describe this feeling. It’s more than lust or desire, both of which I’ve felt before. This is more like needing air. Something I must have. Immediately.
Before he can stop me, I’m tugging my shirt over my head, and he groans, closing his eyes.
I take advantage of the moment, reaching beneath his shirt to slide my hands over the smooth plane of his abdomen and then moving them higher, peeling him out of his shirt—which he allows, temporarily removing his hands from the door behind me before returning them.
Leaning forward, I bury my nose against his skin, taking in the scent of him, the soap we used together in the shower, the smell that is just him. I use my lips and my tongue to make my way across his chest, then I start to slide down his body.
And his hands come off the door to clutch at me, pulling me up against him.
“Callie, damnit, I’m trying to … make love to you.” His cheeks flush adorably as he says it. I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment or frustration. Or both.
“So do that,” I say, panting. “But it doesn’t have to be ceremonial. You love me, and I love you, so … fuck me senseless?”
He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “Yeah.”
Tugging at my hand, he leads me to the bedroom. On the way, we shed the rest of our clothing, wrestling ourselves out of it. In following him and not watching where I’m going, I trip over one of his discarded shoes, and he catches me, scooping me up in his arms, bride-style. He grins at me, but it’s this fierce, possessive expression—like a declaration of “mine”—and I love it.
In the bedroom, he sets me on the edge of the bed. Bitsy, on her pillow, regards me with suspicion before Eric picks her up, pillow and all, and carries her out of the room. I watch him go, the view of the muscles working in his backside more than enough to keep my attention.
After shutting Bitsy in his office, he returns to the bedroom, closing that door as well.
“She is going to be pissed about that later,” he warns as he crawls up the bed to lie next to me.
“Too bad. My turn to have you to myself,” I say.
He strokes my hair away from my heated face. “Hey, Callie.”
“Hey.”
I turn my head toward him, kissing him, enjoying the feel of his tongue moving over mine with us lying skin to skin and the anticipation slowly building.
The stubble on his jaw is slightly rough against my face, but the sensation just ties me even more tightly to the moment. His hand skims over my body from my collarbone, down my injured arm, to my hip. It feels light and worshipful, like he wants me to know he’s here and appreciative but not demanding.
It is the easiest and most natural thing in the world to tug at his shoulder and let my legs fall open. He moves on top of me in answer, supporting his weight on his elbows.
The warmth of his body against mine takes my breath away. It’s like curling up under a sun-drenched towel after getting out of the ocean on a windy day. But his erection pressed against the center of me—not pushing inside, not yet—is even hotter. I rock my hips against him, and his eyes close for a second as we slide together.
“Calista,” he says, his jaw tight.
Then he opens his eyes, and the heat in his expression makes my chest ache. No one has ever looked at me like that before.
He lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses across my chest and down my breasts, suckling one nipple and then the other until I’m writhing under him, trying to press even closer.
As he slides down past my ribs to my stomach, I smooth my hands over his hair, his neck and shoulders, desperately touching wherever I can reach, enjoying the feeling of his muscles moving beneath his skin but always wanting more.
He continues to work his way down my body, and when his mouth closes over me, I gasp, my legs clutching together.
He looks up at me with a wicked grin and then scoots down farther to settle in, his shoulders nudging beneath my legs and his hands gripping the inside of my thighs to keep them apart, to make room for him.
His tongue flicks lightly against my clit in a series of teasing touches, and my fingers tangle in his curls. I’m trying hard not to tug at him or press him down, just to make him hold still where I need him to be, and … oh, God.
My hips lurch up toward him, and he gives a soft, distinctly smug-sounding laugh against me. But the vibrations from the noise spiral through me, and I’m lost for a second.
“Eric.”
“Hmmm?” he asks, just before he delves down, his tongue just barely penetrating my
entrance.
Swallowing a gasp, I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from losing focus, my grasp on the words I want to say. “Not like this. Please. I want you inside me.”
“I am.”
I can feel the first clutches of an orgasm looming. I’m close. And impatience for what I want makes me a little more grabby. This time, I do lock my fingers into his smooth curls and pull—probably not as gently as I should—until he looks up at me.
“I want you to come inside me,” I say, paraphrasing the words he used yesterday, the ones that sent heat coursing through me.
That catches his attention, and then, suddenly, he’s moving back up my body.
His hands brace on either side of my head, and he rubs against me, his cock hard and ready, and I lock my legs around his waist.
Groaning, he reaches between us to position himself, and the tip of him fits snugly against my opening. I arch my hips in welcome.
His gaze flicks to mine, in question, and I nod. I’m sure.
“So wet for me,” he says with a groan as he pushes in. “And warm. I think … know why the rest of you is always so cold.”
My laugh emerges rather strangled-sounding.
He bites his lower lip in concentration as he thrusts and withdraws, carefully working his way inside me, until I prop myself up to kiss him, taking his lower lip between my teeth gently instead.
Something about that action makes him lose a little control, and he’s pushing in harder now, his gaze fierce on mine. He pauses once he’s fully inside me, bare, with nothing between us, and lifts a hand to caress my cheek.
“I love you,” he says, sounding a little amazed.
“I love you, too.” The words are barely out of my mouth before he’s thrusting into me, fast and hard.
Yes.
I push back against him in counterpoint, just as fast, trying to keep up with the escalation, but I’m tipping over the edge before I can stop myself. The spasms bubble up and around him, clutching at him.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, grounding myself against that sensation of falling, and a moment later, his whole body shudders, and I can feel him pulsing inside me.