Guys talk.
Not the way girls do.
Dean’s not about to pour his heart out.
But maybe he’ll spill some detail I need.
I can’t leave yet.
I can’t be home.
I can’t face tomorrow.
Dean’s blue eyes fix on mine.
"You gonna be okay until then, sunshine?"
Not a chance in hell. But I smile a yes anyway.
Aikido fails to wipe tomorrow from my mind.
It's late enough traffic is clear. But I can't be home yet. I can't sit across from Dad as he asks if I'm ready for tomorrow. I can't listen to that edge in his voice. The one he's trying to hide. The one that screams I'll fall apart if you aren't okay.
I pull out my cell. Tap a text message to Gia. But then it's the same with her. If she knows I'm scared, she'll be scared. Then I'll be pissed at her for being scared. For putting her inability to deal with my mortality on me.
This is a routine test. It's probably okay.
She can tell me that.
But if it's not…?
I leave my backpack in my car, slide my cell into my pocket, and find my way to the bar down the street from Inked Hearts.
It's a dozen blocks from the aikido studio, but the walk feels good. Crisp, clear air, big silver moon, salty ocean breeze.
The pounding house music of the bar. It's packed for a weeknight.
"Vodka and orange juice, please." I slide onto a black stool. Take in the utilitarian decorations. It's like someone crossed a dive bar with an industrial music club. It's weird.
The bartender, a busty woman with long hair, nods. "Well or call?"
"Well." Tonight is a cheap vodka kind of night.
She scoops ice into a glass. Adds a heaping serving of vodka and plenty of orange juice and hands it over. "Close it out or keep it open?"
I hand her a twenty. "Make it two."
Her expression gets knowing. It's not quite understanding, but it's not judgmental either.
It's weird.
I ignore her. Take a long sip of my cocktail. It's not good booze. It burns my throat. Warms my chest. Sends my thoughts swimming.
I finish the thing in three long gulps.
Pound the glass on the bar.
It lands with a thud. It feels good. Purposeful.
Someone nods hello. A guy sitting on the other end of the bar. He's tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Business casual outfit. The kind of guy who likes tattooed bad girls.
He probably thinks I'm some kinky alt model.
I nod back anyway. Gia would tell me I'm jumping to conclusions. Maybe the guy likes my eyes. Or my smile. Or my haircut.
Maybe it has nothing to do with my combat boots and tattoos. Maybe he's as desperate for a distraction as I am.
He slides into the seat next to mine. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Right on cue, the bartender drops off my second orange juice and vodka.
I look up at the guy. He's cute. If things were different, if I was a normal girl with a body that responded to cute guys, I'd flirt back. Kiss him. Invite myself to his place.
The glass is cold against my fingers. Then against my lips. I take a long sip. Let the vodka warm me everywhere. "Sure." My face and chest flush. From the drink, not the attraction. But isn't this close enough?
He's here. He wants me. He's not my boss. He doesn't drive me out of my mind. He doesn't grab my heart and refuse to let go.
There's no risk in sleeping with him.
I can get in, come, get out. Dean style. No feelings. No strings. No attachment.
"Give me one second." I set my drink on the bar. Slide out of my stool. Slip between tables full of friends and lovers to make my way to the electronic jukebox.
A dollar per song. It's a crime. But right now, I'm willing to pay to set the mood.
I trade a five for a set. Pick my songs carefully.
Alive by Pearl Jam pours from the speakers as I make my way back to the bar.
But I'm not even thinking about the angsty themes of the song.
I'm imagining Dean chuckling as he tells me that Pearl Jam is a euphemism for semen. Back in eleventh grade, he reveled in my embarrassment at that fun fact.
But now…
It's kind of hilarious.
The guy smiles at me. I'm sure he has a name, but I can't say I care. I guess I'll call him Anti-Dean. With Anti-Dean, my head is screaming yes but my body is apathetic.
This might be our last chance to kiss and make up and the damn thing still refuses to obey my wishes.
It's willing to kill me.
I guess attraction to a guy who isn't off limits is too much to ask.
My fingers curl around my drink. I bring it to my lips. Finish it in two gulps.
The guy looks at me curiously. Like I'm an amusement or an easy lay? I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
He fails to interest me.
"I haven't seen you in here," he says.
"Don't usually go to bars." I hail the bartender, but he's already on it.
He smiles at her. "Another round."
This time, the look she shoots me is judgmental. Like there's something wrong with going to a bar to drink your thoughts into oblivion. Where does she think her business comes from?
"What brings you in today?" he asks.
"Looking for a distraction." I press my lips into my best smile. Will my body to get in gear.
The bartender drops off our drinks.
My body remains apathetic.
Anti-Dean presses his palm into my lower back. Leans in to whisper. "Let's talk somewhere more private."
"Sure."
I rest my head on his shoulder.
Close my eyes.
Block out the world.
But that only sends my thoughts straight to Dean.
To his cocky smile and his bright eyes and his soft touch.
I don't want to be here.
I want to be there.
Anti-Dean's hand brushes my hip as he slides into the booth. I take the spot opposite his. Finish my drink as he introduces himself properly and tells me about his job.
I give myself one more round to let reason overwhelm my senses.
To let my body find a way to find Anti-Dean appealing.
I don't.
It doesn't.
The jukebox belts out a peppy pop song. Two college girls squeal as they lock hands and dance. They're wearing matching designer dresses. One is hot pink. The other is red.
They're the kind of women Dean usually takes home.
Only he doesn't.
He hasn't.
He wants me.
Maybe it's the booze talking, but this is seeming like a better and better idea.
I say goodbye to Anti-Dean. Leave a five for the bartender. Slide my second-hand leather jacket over my shoulders.
His address is still in my cell. It's ten blocks away. Far enough for the cool air to temper the heat racing through me. Too close for logic to find a way into my brain.
There.
I walk the concrete path.
Knock.
"One minute." His voice booms from behind the door.
I shift my weight between my heels. I can't wait. I can't give myself any time to think up excuses.
This is my chance.
One night before everything goes to shit.
One night to soak up every ounce of bliss.
Carpe fucking diem.
Footsteps move closer.
The handle turns.
And there's Dean, standing in front of the door in nothing but a towel, completely nonplussed by me crashing his place.
"Wasn't expecting you, sunshine." He motions for me to come in.
I shut the door behind me.
He stares back at me.
All tall and broad and lickable.
I tell my brain to fuck off.
I wrap my arms around his waist.
I rise to my tiptoes.
&nb
sp; And I kiss him like the ship is going down.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chloe
For a split second, he kisses back.
For a split second, everything in the universe is where it belongs.
Then his hands are on my shoulders.
He's pushing me backward.
Against the door.
It's not take your clothes off, spread your legs, and wrap your arms around me.
He's pushing me away.
My eyes blink open. Focus on his.
They're not heavy with desire or excitement or need.
He's pissed.
"Never mind." I go to turn the knob, but his fingers curl around my fist. He grabs me hard.
He stares down at me.
I stare up at him.
What the fuck?
He's been flirting with me for a month straight. He's been teasing me, touching me, straight up telling me he wants me.
And now he's glaring at me because I had the balls to do something about our mutual attraction.
Fuck Dean.
My teeth clench. "Let me go."
"No."
"It wasn't a request."
"Yeah, it was." His eyes bore into mine. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
"You're drunk, Chloe. You're going to regret this tomorrow."
No. I'm going to celebrate this tomorrow.
Fuck him for telling me what I want.
He has no fucking clue what I want.
This is exactly what I want.
My fingers brush the edge of the towel wrapped around his hips. "You think that little of yourself?"
His eyelids flutter closed.
A groan falls off his lips.
He wants this too.
His fingers wrap around my wrist. "Let's say you tear this towel off, drop to your knees, and suck me off."
My sex clenches. Let's not say anything. Let's do that. Let's do everything.
"What happens tomorrow?"
The awful test happens tomorrow. "The sun rises."
His brow furrows. "You think you can fuck me and everything can stay the same?"
"You managed okay."
"I didn't. And if you don't believe that, then you should go right now."
I bite my lip.
"I'm sorry I hurt you. I am. But that was seven years ago. I was a stupid kid. I know better now. I know there's no way I can fuck you and leave again."
"I don't want you to leave."
"This will change everything."
"So?" I push off the door. Move closer. Everything changes tomorrow whether I fuck him or not. He doesn't get it, but then, how could he? He doesn't know. "What if everything is supposed to change?"
He releases my wrist. "What if it's not?" His foot sinks into the carpet as he takes a step backward. "I wasn't the kind of guy you needed seven years ago. And I'm not now."
"You don't know what I need."
"Then tell me."
"I did." I stare up at him. "I need you to fuck me."
He moves into the main room. "I'm gonna get dressed."
"Don't."
"The towel isn't gonna help your case," he says.
"What will? What do you want to hear, Dean? That I like you. That I can't stop thinking about you. That you were the best I ever had. I do. You were. That's why I'm here."
"Which part of it?"
"All of it." I take two steps toward him. I'm begging him to fuck me. It's pathetic. But I don't care. I need to think about something else. I need to turn off my brain. To take this last chance to seize the fucking day. Night. Whatever.
His brow furrows. "You felt like this yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"But it took God knows how much vodka to get you here, telling me, today."
"I'm not here because I'm drunk."
"Then why?"
"I want you. It's that simple."
"Bullshit."
I reach for some way to explain it without telling him. Find nothing. "I've been fucking myself to you for the last three weeks straight." My hands go to the bottom of my tank top. "Why does it have to be complicated?"
"Stay there." He moves around the corner. His footsteps pad the hallway as he moves into the bedroom.
The towel hits the floor.
A drawer opens. He changes into something. Moves into the main room in jeans, no shirt, black boxers poking out from the waist band.
"If you're trying to tell me you don't want to fuck me, it isn't working." I brush past him as I move into the main room. Take a seat on the powder blue couch. My eyes find his. They beg for kindness, affection, mercy.
He offers none. "You gonna tell me why you're really here?"
I swallow hard.
"That's what I thought."
"Are you going to tell me why you were so afraid of getting hurt seven years ago? Why you still can't do relationships?"
"All right." He looks down at me. "Truth for truth."
"Only if you go first." I pull my feet onto the cushion. Sit cross legged.
He nods fair. "It's not easy to explain."
"You can try."
"All right." His footsteps sink into the carpet as he moves into the kitchen. "But I'm too sober for this conversation."
"I want you sober."
He reaches for a high shelf. Wraps his hand around a bottle of whiskey. "Right back at you, sunshine." He fills a glass and slams half in one gulp.
"Fine, but I—"
"You can have water." He grabs another glass. Fills it with water. Brings it, and the bottle, to the coffee table.
His fingers brush mine as he hands the glass over.
He sits on the couch next to me. His knee against mine. His shoulder touching mine.
I take a greedy sip. Wet my parched throat. Devour the drink in three sips. I'm still thirsty, but I don't want more water. I want him.
His knee rubs mine as he turns to face me. "Who starts?"
"You."
"All right." He drops the glass on the coffee table. He pours a shot's worth of whiskey. "Fuck. I'm too old for this." He wraps his fingers around the glass, brings it to his lips, slams it.
My gaze stays fixed on those soft lips.
His tongue slides over them.
His cheeks and chest flush. "Guess it's pretty simple." He turns to face me. "I don't trust women. Not when it comes to love."
"Why not?"
"It started a long time ago. At one of my parents' parties. I left the kid's room—I was tired of Ryan's music and I was really fucking tired of hearing him talk about Penny. That was before they started dating. When he was sure she wanted nothing to do with him. Our parents are family friends. But I guess that's irrelevant to my point." He runs his hand through his wet hair. "Fuck. Why'd you give me those shots?"
My lips curl into a half smile. "Take some personal responsibility."
"I'd rather blame you."
"What happened at the party?"
He presses his palms into his quads. "Mom's door was open. She was in there. With another guy. A family friend. They were kissing. Groping. I didn't see his dick or anything, but I saw enough."
"Oh."
"She realized I caught her. Freaked. Explained that we needed to keep this a secret. 'Cause telling Dad would only hurt him. I was fourteen. I got what was happening. Started keeping tabs on her. Even then, I knew it was fucked-up spying on my mom, but I didn't care. I had to know what the fuck it was."
"And?"
"She was in love with him. Wanted to leave my dad for him. But he got cold feet. Made up with his wife. For a while, she was miserable. Then things got better. Seemed like she and Dad were happy."
"Does Ryan know?"
"Maybe. I don't know. We never talked about it."
"You held onto all that?"
"Yeah."
Damn. That's a big secret to carry. Especially at fourteen. Especially as a younger sibling. "That was after he got sick?"
He n
ods. "I guess the stress pushed them apart."
That happens. But, still. There's no excuse. "Did you hate her for that?"
"Yeah."
"I would too." My hand goes to his thigh.
He looks down at it like he's not sure what he wants to do with it.
Then his eyes are on mine. "What are you doing, Chloe?"
"Why do you keep asking that?"
"You don't want this."
"Yes, I do. I want you."
"As?"
"As everything."
"I don't want to hurt you again."
"What does that mean?"
He sinks into his seat. "You haven't answered my question. Why is it you're here tonight?"
"What happened with your parents?"
"They made up. Lived happily ever after, I guess."
"You never told your dad?"
He shakes his head. "She was right. It would have hurt him. He still loves her more than anything. Why take that away?"
"It's a lie."
"Is it a lie if you believe it?"
"That's kind of deep."
He chuckles. "I guess it is."
"So… ever since that, intimacy issues?"
"You're making light of my trauma?"
"No… well, I'm not trying to. I'm sorry if it feels like that."
"I know."
"You… uh… I'd never do that."
"I know."
"If you know—"
"I know, but I don't feel it. I can't."
"I don't trust guys either. Not after the way Alex left things. But I… God, I don't know how it happened, but I do trust you. I don't think you'd abandon me again." I drag my fingers up his thigh.
His eyelids press together.
His lips part with a sigh.
He wants me.
But he holds strong. "Your turn."
"We could not talk." I press my palm against his stomach. Soft skin. Hard muscles. He's still warm and wet from the shower.
His hands go to my hips.
He pulls me into his lap so I'm straddling him.
We're nearly eye to eye like this. I'm just barely looking down at him.
And we're so close.
"Dean…" My fingers curl into his hair. "Please." My eyelids press together. "Please."
"Your turn."
He wants to hear this.
I…
I want to tell him.
But, God, I can't deal with anyone else's grief or fear or concern.
Hating You, Loving You Page 17