by T. E. Black
"Nice to meet you Mac. Thanks for coming to help out."
He doesn't let go of my hand quickly like Evan did. Instead, he leans in a little closer, letting me get a good look at his bright green eyes. Those eyes will be the death of me. I know it already. No one has eyes like that, not without having the game to match them. He speaks in a very deep, masculine voice that causes me to shiver. The goosebumps pebble over my skin, adorning it with small kisses, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up straight in attention. Did I just shiver from someone's voice? I need to get a grip on the twinge between my legs which has a mind of its own right now.
"You're welcome sweetheart. It's no problem. I really came just to meet the beautiful woman Sierra wouldn't shut up about the past two weeks." He flashes me a panty dissolving grin.
Ah. He’s not only incredibly sexy, but he also has charm. I knew he had it hidden somewhere. The minute he spoke, I felt the heat creep up my body, making its way to my face where a tell-all blush reddens my cheeks. I decide to not let him know he affects me. So, I give him a playful smile instead, pulling my hand from his grip.
"Well, I can only imagine how much your ear has been talked off. Sierra seems to have a knack for that. Did her description rival meeting the real thing?" I cock my brow at him figuring there's nothing wrong with a little innocent flirting. I will have be around this guy since he's friends with Sierra and Evan. So, I might as well make light of the mood now or I'm going to get myself in trouble.
He lets out a small chuckle, looking me up and down suggestively. I feel every inch of myself as his eyes take me in. His gaze lingers a little too long on my hips, and I assume he's imagining what it would be like to have them wrapped around him.
His tongue licks at his lips. "Her description didn't do you justice, sweetheart."
I feel my cheeks redden a little more. Sierra lets out a knowing laugh, breaking the intensity between Mac and I. Sierra gestures toward the house, bidding for us to get out of the driveway. As much as I want to thank her, I'm a little pissed she stopped our introduction. I guess it is pretty rude to leave us all standing in my driveway after all.
"Are you going to invite us in or what, Cal? I need to pee, and the guys probably want food. I wouldn't let them stop to get dunkies even though they complained how much they wanted it for that last three hours straight." She shoots them both a wicked glare, to which they hold their hands up in surrender. They’re smart men. A pissed off Sierra is a force to be reckoned with.
I laugh and invite everyone inside. Sierra bolts to use the bathroom at the end of the hall off of the living room. The guys stand awkwardly, trying to not break any of the expensive shit that is littered everywhere.
My parents are very rich and the house stinks of their wealth. Everything in here is expensive and placed to impress anyone who comes inside. Who needs a China glazed statue of a cat when you've never had an animal in your life? My dad owns a chiropractic business while my mom…well, she doesn't work. Anymore.
She used to be a contributor to the household but now, with my father making the big salary, my mom just basks in the wealth. She used to have a passion for things beyond diamonds and expensive handbags. She used to have a garden and she adored it like it was another child to her. I loved the garden, too. I grew up watching a tiny seed grow into a beautiful flower year after year. The garden was my safe haven. My one place where everything stopped. I didn't think about my mom and dad constantly bickering over money. I didn't think about the other girls at school making fun of baby fat that just wouldn't leave me.
The older I got, the more I loved it. During my years, pre-Derrick, instead of going out with the kids from school, I lived with the flowers. My mom showed me every trick in the book. She used to tell me, "Callie Rose, one day you'll find somewhere where you can grow as wild and beautiful as you are. Wild and beautiful as you will become."
This was when she was an actual parent. When she was a mother and I was the daughter. Not like now where I’m nothing more than a guest occupying her home while my father whisks her away on over the top and lavish vacations every other weekend.
When Derrick came along, I traded my peaceful oasis for the things I swore I'd never want: house parties, school dances, football games, drinking, and stupidity. Looking back on it all, I realize that’s what it all was. Risks I took every day. Risks which could kill, and that's what they did. They killed Derrick, and they took a piece of my heart along with them.
Leaving the guys standing in the hall, I make my way into the kitchen and pull out some menus from local restaurants around town.
"What are you guys in the mood for? My parents are buying so make sure it's really expensive," I shout to Mac and Evan, hoping to lighten my now sour mood.
Evan is the only one who answers me whereas Mac stands rigid, hands in his pockets checking out the house still.
"Anything is fine, I'm starving. You choose. Your parents are buying," he laughs, grabbing a seat on the white couch which isn't meant to be sat on, and I smile closed-mouthed at his carefree attitude. He leans back, letting the couch engulf his body while his limbs sag in comfort.
Pizza it is.
Twenty-five minutes later, we all sit at the dining set on the back deck stuffing our faces with pizza and beer. Sierra checks the time and cleans up plates and beer bottles. Evan stands and places his hand on the small of Sierra's back while Mac stubs out his smoke in the ashtray.
"Well, we're gonna get going. We gotta check into the hotel by nine, otherwise I'll be sleeping in the car with these two fools. As great as it might sound, it's definitely not. Evan snores like a hippo and Mac, well, that would just be weird." She nods to Evan and Mac, cracking a playful smile toward them.
I stop her, glaring. "You're not staying in a hotel. There's plenty of room here and you know my parents are out of town for the next two days."
My parents conveniently left for a work convention knowing I’m about to leave for college. From what I understand, Dad had some urgent business there that needed to be attended to. Too bad I saw right through their lies.
Assholes.
Sierra shoots a grin to Evan, smacking her gum. "See Evan, I told you she wouldn't make us stay in a hotel!"
I laugh at her. She has always had an attitude of always being right. I love it. She wouldn't be my best friend without it.
"He said he didn't want to impose. Whatever the hell that means! I tried to tell him your casa es su casa, but he told me to stop being a brat and consider other people. Like that will ever happen," Sierra says.
Mac laughs deeply and sits. "They're a match made in heaven. What I wouldn't kill to have all that."
I shake my head at him, still laughing.
I gather the rest of the dishes from the table and I motion for everyone to follow me. I take Sierra and Evan to the guest house so they can have their privacy, which I don't mind. I mean I love them and all, but I don't feel like having to clean every surface of my parents house after they get done screwing all over it.
I show Mac to one of the guest bedrooms downstairs adjacent to my room. I feel him behind me even though he doesn't speak. There's some kind of gravity that happens when I'm near him. It's surreal. I've never experienced something so intense in my life. It's as if he has some strange hold on me.
I open the guest room door, flip on the light, and turn to face him. I shouldn’t have even looked his way. In the dim lighting of the room, the features of his face shine more than in the daylight. His chiseled jaw is dominant on his face, yet accents the rest of his features. His deep set eyes, green like the forest, catch the lighting and twinkle. They're beautiful. He's beautiful. He's like your dream car—the perfect color, the perfect model, and the perfect features which cause you to get all giddy when you take it for a test drive. The perfect thing you know is unattainable, but you still take the test drive just for the high you get for those couple of minutes.
Yeah, that's what I'm feeling right now. Desire. Lust. Hope. Al
l of the things I know are bad for me.
"It's all yours. There's a bathroom connected to it if you wanna take a shower or anything," I manage to squeak out. It is getting harder to push away my thoughts so I can be a true hostess.
Stop it right now, Callie, I scold myself. He runs his hand through the longer part of his hair and leans against the door frame casually. His muscles flex with every movement. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Looks comfortable." He nods toward the king size bed.
I know it's comfortable because my parents bought the same one for my room. Is it odd I feel like if I pretend hard enough, it will be like we're sleeping on the same one? Probably. I have to scold myself again, plastering on a smile I've become so good at.
"You're welcome. If you need anything, I'm only across the hall, but sometimes I sit outside on the deck. So, if you need me, check there first," I blurt out, hightailing it the hell out of there before I willingly throw myself at this man's feet. I'm assuming he hears me because he makes a noise which kind of sounds like an okay, but I can’t really tell.
I close his door behind me and make my way back into the kitchen. I grab a few beers from the fridge for myself and head to the deck where I can enjoy the silence which I love so much. It's peaceful, a place where I can gather my thoughts.
My parents' house is in a rural area of Pennsylvania. Woods stretch around the house for miles. It's peaceful and beautiful all at the same time. The woods are almost as comforting for me as the garden once was. It's the best I can do right now.
When my dad hit the big time, he insisted we move to a larger, newer, upscale home. I remember being thirteen years old and crying so hard I thought my chest would collapse. My mother scolded me for being immature about it. I remember begging him not to make me go. I even offered to live alone and take care of the flowers until I was old enough to get my own house so I could take them with me. I didn't want to leave my childhood home. It was a home. This house I live in now is not and never was a home. It's a house where a housekeeper comes twice a week to make it spotless and impressive.
In my opinion, she cleans away all of the things which are supposed to be cozy and warm. After all, cobwebs and dust bunnies are a part of life. In real life, people don't have time to sweep them away. They don't have time to organize their kitchen drawers. They don't have time to clean the bathroom counter every morning before they leave for work. In real life, homes get messy—and sometimes they get used and abused—but that's where their character comes from—the memories attached to every stain on the carpet, or even dirty handprints on the walls. It's the way it should be.
I make myself comfortable in one of the brown wicker chairs, pulling out my phone and opening my sticky note app on it. Tapping the icon, I type my daily entry. “Freedom.” I press save, setting my phone down on the arm of the chair.
The words I type are something the second shrink suggested before her medications turned me into a whack job, even though my attempt at killing myself wasn't at all her fault. I think there was somewhere deep inside me which knew exactly what I was doing, although I told no one this because I realized it was a mistake as soon as I swallowed the last of the bottle. There was a moment where I wondered what it felt like to die. Was it peaceful? Was it painful? Was it relieving? Would it help me rid myself of the guilt that hung in my mind on a daily basis? All of these questions ran through my head as I attempted to do it. I guess that something or someone greater than us all decided it wasn't my time. Whatever was holding my life in its hands at that point sent Sierra sneaking through my bedroom window at the perfect time, saving my life.
I remember the shrink told me with the type of depression I was battling, it was hard to remember all the good in my life. All of the things which didn't include watching my high school sweetheart die horribly in front of my eyes. She suggested making a journal of some sort, but instead of long meaningless entries she knew I would never write, she simplified it.
"Write one or two things you are grateful for every day. Even if it's as simple as the color of the sky, or a stranger waving at you. Write it down anywhere you can save it. If you're feeling down, look back at all of those things to remind yourself of all the good things that are a part of your life."
I thought she was bat-shit crazy at first. I really did. I even laughed at her when she suggested it, but she assured me if I gave it a shot I would enjoy it, and I did. It was kind of nice to flip back through the entries and remember all the good things I had going for me. Each day that went by, I thought about what I could write.
I stuck with it for a while, filling notebooks upon notebooks. It got to the point where I couldn't keep carrying a bag of tablets everywhere I went. It got awkward, and not to mention it caused me get some odd stares from strangers. So, I opted for my little yellow notepad app on my phone. It was much easier, and nobody gave me strange looks anymore.
Through the volume of my thoughts, I hear a creak. I come back to reality, looking over to where the noise came from. Just as I think it might have been the wind, I see Mac watching me from the patio door. His arms are crossed across his chest again, but this time he wears a hooded sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants which make my mouth crave any type of liquid I can get. He looks like trouble with his neck tattoos peeking out from under the sweatshirt and a devilish smirk that has been on his lips since he arrived. I think I want to get in trouble and it would be a hell of a lot better if he was the one to start…and finish it.
"Mind if I join ya?" he asks, staring at me.
I swear I have a Mac radar going on here. I can feel every spot his eyes touch me, even in the darkness. I feel the heat travel throughout my body, begging for me to give it what it wants. I wet my lips, taking a sip from my beer bottle.
"Sure, want a beer?" I hold it up in the air for him to see. I raise my brows suggestively, hoping he'll accept my offer.
He takes a seat across from me. His eyes stay locked with mine. "Depends what you're drinking, sweetheart." He sounds out the last word, sweetheart, rolling it off the tip of his tongue smoothly as if he's said it a thousand times.
His voice does serious things to me. Things that shouldn’t be happening. My mind fills with dirty thoughts about the man who sits across from me. I try to suppress them, almost embarrassed about what I would let him do. While my heart pounds in my chest, he just sits there, waiting for me to show him some sort of response. I can't. I'm hypnotized by him. How is it even possible for a man to be this cocky and sexy at the same time? I mean, he can’t have his cake and eat it, too. My mom taught me that when I was young. I assume maybe he didn't get the cake-titled memo in his childhood years.
Leaning forward to grab a bottle from the ground, he inspects it and twists off the cap. He takes a long pull and I watch him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing vigorously. Warmth spreads over my body. Suddenly, my hoodie feels ridiculous.
I smile at him, letting out a small laugh. "I guess it meets your standards?"
He lowers the bottle, nodding his head. I watch the beads of liquid enjoy their time spent on his lips.
"Yeah. I expected a shitty chick beer, but you seem to have good taste."
I shake my head. “Do the girls you usually sit on decks with have shitty taste in beer?” I ask.
His lips turn upright into a sly, seductive grin. “I usually don't give a fuck what kind of beer they like to drink, Callie. I like to focus on more important things.”
I become intrigued by his statement, wanting to know more. “What do you consider to be the more important things, Mac?”
I use his name like he uses mine, for the added effect of emphasizing how serious our tones are. His grin turns wicked. His eyes hood with a darkness that causes my toes to curl in my pink sneakers.
"Do you want honesty, or do ya want me to sugar coat it?"
I swallow down a lump that forms in my throat before I answer him in almost a whisper. "The truth would be nice."
"I like to fuck women, Callie. So, the only thing that matt
ers is how much they want it. How much they want me. That's the only thing which really matters at all. Not what type of beer they prefer, but I guess you're the exception somehow. "
I'm going to pass out right here on this wicker chair. I expected something to come out his mouth when I asked for honesty, but I didn't expect the sex that just spilled from his lips. This man is a walking, talking, oiled up, sexy ass machine, and even though I want to act on the dirty thoughts which fill my mind, I know it would be a mistake. He could ruin everything for me. My fresh start, my happy mood. He could ruin it all. I have to play it safe with him, and I know just the way to do it. I’m friend-zoning his ass right the hell now.
His eyes roam over me and a heavy silence fills the air. I try to come up with words, but fall short. I fidget with my bottle, nervously picking at the label with my nails. I steer the subject into more of a friendly conversation, since it seems to be my best option at this point.
"Can't sleep?" I question, feeling stupid as hell the minute I ask it.
I have to squeeze my thighs together just to keep from soaking my panties. He’s entirely too good looking, and those tattoos…don’t even get me started. An amused expression lights up the features of his face.
"I don't sleep much. Never could. Sleep is for the dead. I enjoy the nighttime. It's when everything comes alive," he clarifies.
"Huh." is all I come up with, which is sad. My brain is almost mush at this point. He's just so damn good looking and seems to have some kind of weird interest in me which I'm not used to. I mean he came out here to find me, or did he come out for a smoke? Either way, I'm gonna root for team he-wants-you-Callie.
"I guess you don't sleep much either?"
It's more of a statement than a question. I can already tell he knows me well by the way he looks at me. Why can't he be ugly? I keep repeating the question in my head, but I fall short of an answer.
"Well, I used to. The medications I was taking took care of that for me but now that I'm sober, I don't quite grasp the concept of it I guess."