Pocketful of You : Book Three

by Chloe Walsh

  I felt his cheek rest on my hair and then his breath fanned my ear. "I love you."

  "I love you, too," I whispered back without an ounce of hesitation.

  A shiver rolled through him that ricocheted right through me.

  Resting my head on his chest, I closed my eyes and listened to every single word of the song playing around us. I counted every one of his thundering heart beats, inhaling him deeply, and wishing the song would play forever.

  "You're the only one who ever loved me the way I needed," I breathed, tightening my hold on his rock-hard waist.

  "You're the only one who ever loved me at all," he replied, so sincerely that something inside of me cracked.

  My face contorted in pain and a sob escaped me.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Why couldn’t he just want me the way he used to?

  Why did it have to be this way?

  Why did I feel like I was losing myself?

  Wrangling in my feelings, I forced myself to ignore the emotional war raging inside of me and slapped on a smile.

  Enjoy this, Romi.

  Enjoy him.

  Be in this moment with him.

  "One more dance," he urged, keeping ahold of my body when the song ended and another began to play.

  Even though we both knew it was over between us, we continued to pretend, recklessly rubbing and grinding our bodies together to the sensual lyrics of Maroon 5's Lips on You.

  Swallowing down a moan, I fisted the hem of his shirt in my hands and pressed my chest flush against his.

  My breath was coming hard and fast, nerves and lust threatening to overtake me, and when Sketch fingered one of my curls before raising it to his nose, inhaling my scent, I felt faint again.

  Reckless and still buzzed from the punch, I slowly untucked his shirt.

  Pulling back enough so that I could watch his reaction, I discreetly slid my hand under the fabric to trace the T-shaped birthmark on his hip.

  His eyes rolled shut and his hips thrust against me of their own accord. One of his hands slid from my hip to grip my ass. Hard. "Fuck."

  Still swaying against each other to the music, I leaned close and pressed a lingering kiss to the part of his shirt that covered his heart, branding the crisp, white fabric with a red-lipstick stain.

  Tightening his hold on my ass, Sketch yanked me closer, grinding his hips against mine, and letting me feel just how much he was enjoying this dance.

  I knew we were playing a very dangerous game, right out in the open, with Chris mere feet away, but when his lips landed on my neck, I forgot to care.

  But then the song ended.

  My breath came out in short, achy puffs.

  The people around us stopped dancing.

  This was it.

  This was it and I wasn’t ready for it to be over.

  I wasn’t ready for him to release me.

  "If it isn’t my buddy," Cage Hernandez, one of Sketch's teammates, cheered, throwing his arms around us both and somehow managing to pull us apart at the same time. "Dude," he hissed in a much quieter tone. "Chris is right over there."

  "I'm…" Sketch's words trailed off and he loosened the bowtie caging him in. Pulling it apart, he let it drape on either side of his neck as he watched me with a storm-ridden expression.

  "Come on, dude," his pal said, steering Sketch off the dancefloor. "You need a drink – and a goddamn reality check."

  Swinging back, Cage stalked right back to me and hissed, "Don’t you think you screwed that poor bastard up enough already?"

  "Wh-what?"

  "Go back to his brother, slut," Cage sneered before racing after Sketch. "Yo, Sketch, buddy, wait up!"

  Thoroughly humiliated, I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there.

  Stopping by our table on my way, I slapped on an extra bright, extra fake smile, snatched up my purse and shawl, and made some mundane excuse about needing some air before rushing for the exit.

  Hurrying out of the school gym, I rushed down the hallway and slipped into one of the empty locker rooms.

  However, the moment I closed the door behind me, it flew back open, slamming against the wall.

  "I should've fucked you when I had the chance." Looking wholly enraged, Sketch stalked towards me, causing my heart to race and my legs to shake. "I should fill you up with my seed right fucking now," he growled, backing me up against the nearest wall. "See what he'd do then." Snaking a hand in my hair, he tugged my neck back, forcing me to look up at him. "Fuck, I'd kill to see the look on that smug prick's face when you're full of my cum."

  My breath hitched in my throat as fear, lust, and confusion all slammed into me. "Wh-what?"

  "Couldn’t do shit if I knocked you up," he growled moments before hitching my dress up. "No. You'd be all mine."

  "Sketch, stop –" Breathing hard and fast, I reached up and cupped his face in my hands. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  His brows furrowed, like he too was confused by the question. "Fuck!" he finally roared and it was a deep, guttural sound. "I don’t even know what's happening," he slurred, as he dropped his head on my shoulder. "Can't fucking think straight anymore."

  "You're drunk," I agreed, trembling.

  "I'm in pain," he slurred, nuzzling his face in my neck.

  "Me too," I breathed, eyes rolling back in my head.

  "Then let's make it stop." His hands moved to my thighs.

  With my body crushed against the wall, I hooked my leg around his waist. "Are you saying that you wanna fuck away the pain, Sketch?"

  Crushing his mouth against mine, he bit down on my lip so hard I was sure I could taste my own blood. "I'm saying I wanna fuck you out of my head." His tongue swiped out, lapping and suckling my cut. A pained snarl escaped him when he hoisted me up and confessed, "I wanna fuck you until these feelings fade."

  "You can fuck me, but you can't shake me off." Aroused and awakened, I wrapped my legs around his hips, hooked my ankles together, and whispered, "I'm ingrained in you just as deeply you're ingrained in me."

  Suddenly, the atmosphere around us changed. The anger dissipated from his limbs and the tension faded from his shoulders. "I still remember just the way you taste," he confessed against my lips. "How you feel when you sleep on my chest every night."

  "Oh god –"

  "It kills me," he confessed, thumb tracing my cheek. "Every day." A pained groan escaped his parted lips. "Seeing you with him makes me want to die."

  "Sketch…" Exhaling shakily, I reached up to brush his hair off his face.

  A deep hum came from his chest, like a lion purring in contentment. He leaned into my touch, lips moving to my wrist. "Mine." Nuzzling the inside of my wrist with his nose, he pressed his lips to the skin covering my erratic pulse and kept them there. "I'm so fucking in –"

  "So, this is what needing fresh air looks like, huh?"

  My eyes widened in horror and I tore my lips away from Sketch. "Presley!"

  Sketch jerked away from me like he had been scalded and scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, no, no, no." Head bowed, he gripped the back of his neck with his hands and roared, "FUCK!"

  "What are you doing in here, Pres?" I strangled out.

  "You ran out of the dance so fast that Chris was worried about you," he replied coolly. "He's outside looking now. I told him I'd check in here." He arched a disapproving brow. "Good thing I did."

  My heart seized with dread. "I’m so sorry."

  "Presley," Sketch said, looking truly distraught. "I know what it looks like, man, but I had a lot to drink tonight and I didn’t…fuck! Please don’t –"

  "Tell your brother that you were two seconds away from fucking his girl?" he offered in a tone laced with disgust. "Don’t worry, Sketch. Your secret's safe with me. I don’t have any intention on being the one to break my best friend's heart." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "But you should know that Chris deserves so much better than either one of you."

  With that, he turned on his heels
and quietly left.

  "Fuck..." Sounding thoroughly defeated, Sketch dropped down on a nearby bench. Elbows resting on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands and just rocked back and forth quietly.

  "Did you mean it?" I forced myself to ask. "All that you said?"

  "I can't do this right now," he muttered, head still bent in shame. "If he finds out, he'll send – I can't do this."

  "Did you mean it, Sketch?" I demanded, hurrying to his side. "Because I'll do it. Tell me that you meant what you said and I'll go out there and finish it with him."

  "You can't," he groaned, twisting around like he was in physical pain.

  "Why not?" I cried out. "I want to be with you. I love you –"

  "Well I can't be with you," he roared back, jerking to his feet. "So just quit it, Romi. Just quit fucking talking. Please!"

  "Why not?" I screamed, shoving my hands against his chest. "Why can't we be together?"

  "Because I can't, okay!" he roared, snatching my hands up and stepping around me. "Because I don’t want you like that anymore."

  "Bullshit," I snarled, trembling violently. "If you don’t want me like that, then what the hell just happened between us in here?"

  "I was horny and you were there," he sneered, moving for the door. "That's it."

  "Sketch! Don’t you dare walk away from me again –"

  "Listen, I'm sorry if I led you on, Romi, but that's all there is to it."

  "You're a fucking liar!" I screamed after him. "Wait – don’t go…"

  "I'm sorry. I swear it won't happen again," he said before walking out of the locker room, leaving me alone to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

  Yep, it was official.

  Sketch Capaldi was the boy who murdered love.

  14

  Presley

  Elle King's rendition of My Neck, My Back blasted from the car stereo, making it difficult for me not to throw up a little in my mouth. "What's with the song?"

  Noah, whose turn it was to babysit, well, me, shrugged. "My wife made this playlist for me."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "She's been doing it since we were teenagers," he explained, as he maneuvered his swanky Lexus through the mountain roads. "Dropping hints in songs. Letting me know what she wants with a mixtape. Playing out her feelings in a playlist." He shrugged and rested one arm against the car door. "It's her thing."

  "Okaaay."

  Awkward.

  I drummed my fingers on my knees, unable to stop myself from blurting, "Well, no guesses needed for what your wife is trying to tell you with this particular hint."

  "I knocked that woman up five times, kid," Noah replied with a smirk. "Trust me, I eat daily."

  "TMI, mister," I groaned, stomach turning. "And I thought you said you have four kids?" I specifically remembered two boys and two girls. "Finn, Taylor, Jace, and Erin, right?"

  "Einín was stillborn," was all he replied and I felt like a huge douche. "She was our first child."

  "Shit, I'm sorry," I muttered, mentally slapping myself in the face. "I didn’t mean to pry."

  "It was a long time ago," he replied, jaw ticking.

  "Still hurts though, huh?"

  He nodded stiffly. "Every day."

  For once, I managed to keep my mouth shut, letting the poor bastard brood in his thoughts. It wasn't easy for me, but I managed to restrain myself and give him a few minutes to linger in the past.

  "So…how do you know Lucky?" I asked, finally breaking the tension.

  "His wife is my niece."

  "I beg your pardon?" My eyes bulged in my head. "Just how old is his wife?"

  "Older than me, actually," Noah replied, smirking.

  "Jesus, I've changed my mind," I muttered, rubbing my jaw. "I don’t want to know a damn thing about ya'll."

  Noah chuckled. "We shared a cell way back in the day."

  "Oh. Synchronized jail sentences. How…delightful." I rolled my eyes, repressing the urge to run for my freaking life. "So, when do you think he'll be back from his little excursion with the creepy biker with the hauntingly bad B.O?" I asked when we pulled into the quarry that was aptly named the Ring of Fire.

  Lucky had ducked out of town with G four days ago, on so-called business, letting me know that he would have the information I needed when he returned.

  As much as I was enjoying this temporary reprieve from Pocketful, bouncing between the Messina's suede couch and the Casarazzi's leather one, I had friends that needed me back home.

  Besides, this place gave me the major creeps. It was clear that some seriously shady and unscrupulous dealings occurred right here in the mountains, miles away from human intelligence – aka: the cops.

  "Now," Noah replied, dragging me from my thoughts.

  "Huh?"

  "You asked when Luck would be back," he explained, pointing to the man on a motorcycle tearing down the dirt road ahead of a van with tinted out windows. "And I said now."

  Climbing off his bike, Lucky kicked out the foot stand, acknowledged our presence with a quick tilt of his chin, and then moved straight for the van, sparking up a cigarette on his way.

  "What the hell is happening?" I whisper-hissed, watching, wide-eyed, as the back door of the van flew open and several men piled out.

  "You asked for his help," Noah replied with a sigh, removing his Ray-Bans. "If you play with the big boys, you get big results."

  "What does…oh my Pistol Annies and hell on heels, is that –" My words broke off when my eyes landed on… "Mr. Capaldi!"

  Chris and Sketch's father was blindfolded and being carted into the warehouse by a couple of shady looking bikers.

  "Guess Lucky found what you needed, kid."

  Watching on emotionlessly were both Lucky and G, who were smoking and conversing like old freaking friends at a high school reunion.

  "Did I make a mistake?" I asked, jaw slack. "Asking him for help?"

  Noah shrugged. "Hell if I know, kid. I'm just a humble ex-con."

  Oh Christ. "Well, is he going to kill Chris's dad?"

  Noah tilted his head, considering my question. "Depends if he's offered enough cash to do it."

  "Oh dear," I muttered, pushing my glasses up my nose, while I plotted my next move.

  "Hold the fuck up!" Springing forward, I pressed my face to the window, eyes glued to the makeshift stretcher being carried out of the van. A wave of familiarity swept through me when my eyes landed on the lifeless frame being carried into the warehouse.

  Oh no.

  Please god no.

  "Sketch!" Shoving the car door open, I fell onto the gravel, legs likes noodles, as my eyes trailed the stretcher containing my friend. "Jesus Christ, Sketch!" I yelled, breaking into a clumsy run. "Sketch! I'm coming, buddy. Hold on, I'm coming –"

  "Whoa there, cowboy," Lucky said, blocking my way with his arm. "It's all good."

  "What did you do to him?" I snarled, roughly shaking his hand off me. "I promised to keep him safe. Do you get that? I promised Chris I would protect his brother!" Tears filled my eyes and I did the most reckless thing I could in that moment. I slapped the hitman. Across the face. "You asshole!"

  "Okay, first off, ouch," Lucky replied, rubbing his cheek. "Second, I didn’t shoot your friend. His girlfriend's daddy shot him. And third, if you ever hit me again, close your damn fist to do it."

  "Sketch was shot?" Sweet Jesus, I felt faint. "By Cal? When?"

  "At the motel, the night you heard that big bang." Smirking, he gestured with gun fingers. "Looks like you were dead on the money, cowboy."

  "My friend was shot and you think it's funny?" I demanded. "Holy fuck, that was almost three weeks ago."

  "Aye, the boy was shot right in the chest," G interjected with a whistle. "I have not seen too many come back from a wound like that."

  Lucky winked at him before turning his attention back to me. "According to his substitute daddy in there, it was touch and go for a while, but the kid's gonna pull through."

  "Substitute daddy?
" I gaped in confusion. "Actually," I held up a finger, "Let's rewind. I'll deal with the daddy issues later. Why isn’t he in a hospital?"

  "He was," Lucky replied.

  "We took him," G added.

  "You took him?" I spluttered. "So, you just what, ransacked a hospital and stole a patient?"

  G nodded unashamedly. "Amongst other things."

  I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess; sachets of sugar from the nurses' station?"

  "Drugs, kid."

  I shook my head. "I can't believe you actually just confessed that to me."

  "Listen, cowboy, you wanted answers and your friends back." Lucky shrugged, like that explained everything. "I got your answers and I got the broody jock and I even threw in a sweetener by bringing the dad." Scratching the back of his head, he added, "I'm still working on the cheerleader."

  "And while I am most grateful for your generous and impeccable abilities in defying odds in the criminal underworld, I must stress the fact that not two minutes ago, you told me that my friend, 'the one you got'," I paused to make rabbit ear quotations with my fingers, "was shot. In the chest. As in, the area that homes the heart. He needs to be in a hospital, not some grimy, criminal cesspool of slime and body odor and degenerate – " G cocked a brow and I let my words trail off into a nervous chuckle. "I'm sorry, mister gangster man. Please don’t let my friend die. Or me…"

  "Relax, kid, he's not going anywhere," Lucky said, completely unfazed by what was happening around us. Completely unfazed by everything, if I was being honest. Jesus, the man was made of ice and steel. "I've arranged for the best surgeon in Boulder to come take a look at him."

  My eyes widened. "You have?"

  At that exact moment in time, a sleek looking Mercedes rolled into the quarry.

  "I could lose my license for this, Casarazzi," an attractive, dark-haired man in his early thirties announced. Climbing out of his car, he grabbed a bag from the backseat and walked towards us. "This is the last fucking time."