by Mj Fields
“You wanna get them all in deep shit, keep it up!”
“I wanna go with them. They’re my people,” I sob out. “My new people, and I love them. I love them way more than you!”
“Great. Then sit the fuck back and shut the hell up so you don’t get them in deeper shit.”
As I cry into my hands, he slams on the gas and heads toward the woods.
“Where are you going?” I ask, head still dizzy, eyes yet to adjust, and body shaking in now silent sobs.
“Apparently, to take you to my place until Patrick can get to you and rid me of the burden!”
“I hate you.” I sniff.
When he doesn’t respond, I turn toward him. “Did you hear me?”
He doesn’t say anything, and so I say it again, and again, and again.
Chapter Twenty Two
Tobias
My fucking nerves are shot, my hands shaking, my chest aching, as I listen to her still, in her sleep, whispering, hate you, as she continues to sniff and shake with near silent sobs.
I hope she continues to say it a million times over so that the cold, cruel words extinguish the soul-scorching, drunken word vomit that is still burning into what I fear will forever haunt me.
I love them way more than you.
All week, as most every teenager in the United States does, I wished away five days to get to the weekend. A first for me. I never liked being alone, never loved being surrounded by people, but that was before I saw five-foot-nothing of a little spitfire back in November.
When the little red BMW rolled up in front of Frank’s shop to buy one of the rings that I needed to sell to pay some bills, I expected to see the type of girl that I see at school. A girl dressed in designer labels that cost more than most people make in a week. But she wasn’t. She was in workout clothes, wearing sneakers, and the laces weren’t even tied. She was cute as fuck. When she came in and didn’t just drop a black card and lift her nose in the air, and not only haggled over prices but knew she would likely be taken for a ride, I knew she valued a dollar. She piqued my interest immediately.
My balls didn’t burn, my dick didn’t stand at attention immediately. It wasn’t a need for a release, or an excuse to have a warm body in my bed for a couple hours just so I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t because I wanted to see if she was really all I thought she may be. I just fucking knew finally something good was coming.
The events that unfolded afterward fucked all that in the ass—no lube.
Finally at home, I park in the garage attached to the back of the house and pace back and forth, not wanting to wake her, because I don’t know what I would do or say to her. I’m fucking angry that she kissed him, angry that I reacted to it by breaking a promise. Angry, so fucking angry, that I couldn’t keep my emotions in check, possibly the only time that it mattered.
That loss of control from someone like me—a kid who has kept it together for so fucking long, since she died, since before her funeral—it truly feels like this is killing me.
I scrub my hand over my face and remind myself, Less than three months.
I finally dare a glance at her and see she’s looking at everything around the garage.
“Fuck,” I mumble as I walk over and open the door.
Angry that she has seen what she has, knowing it makes me look like a crazy fucking hoarder, I snap, “Let’s go.”
“I can just stay here,” she says then sniffs.
“I don’t want you in here,” I snap.
Her hand shakes as she tries to unlatch her seat belt.
“Move,” I say, trying not to sound like an asshole but knowing it’s necessary to keep her saying she hates me as I unlatch her belt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, fucking it all in the ass.
“Don’t be sorry. Keep telling me you hate me. I fucking love it.”
“I’m not sorry about that.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“That’s none of your business.”
She pushes me then slides out of the truck, swaying as she walks in the wrong direction.
I grab her elbow. “It’s this way.”
I open the door, and the cool ocean air blows against my face. I feel goose bumps spread across her skin.
She steps out, and then I shut the door behind her and lock it with my key.
“Come on,” I say as I walk around the house to the front porch, unlock the door, and open it.
“If he gets arrested, my parents are gonna find out, and I’m gonna get grounded.”
An angry laugh escapes me, as do words I should have kept inside. “I hope you do. It’ll make it harder for you and Reeves to fuck around.”
I look behind me to see she’s fucking pissed. Good. So am I, sweetheart, so am I.
“Maybe I’ll make it easier on myself and move out when I’m eighteen, find myself an old ass yoga teacher with the body of a twelve-year-old”—she shakes with another silent sob and wipes her sleeve under her nose—“with plastic doorknobs to fuck when I’m feeling like I need to get laid.”
“You do that, and I’ll punch him in the fucking head, too.”
She balls her hands into fists, and I see her getting ready to go off like a tiny toddler. “I—”
I scoop her ass up and kick the door shut behind me.
“Say it now!” I yell as I storm toward my room and toss her onto the bed.
One pillow at a time flies at me as she screams, “I. Hate. You!”
She starts to get up.
“You stay right there, don’t fucking move, and go to sleep until someone comes to get you the fuck out of here.”
She doesn’t listen, and I have no idea why that surprises me at all.
“I’m not staying in here where you fuck old ladies. I’m going to the couch!”
“Gonna have to be honest here and tell you there isn’t a surface here I haven’t fucked on, so good luck, sweetheart.”
I’m a fucking dick, and I deserve whatever she says, throws, or does next.
“I’m gonna rent this place and spread my legs for every guy who isn’t too much of a pussy to admit he wants me!”
“You think I’m a pussy because I haven’t said I wanna fuck you?” I laugh.
“If the old lady twat fits,” she sneers, “wear it.”
“She’s twenty-nine!” I yell at her.
“Oh, yeah? And how long has she been that age? Ten fucking years!”
“Jesus Christ, Truth.” I turn to hide the fact that I’m losing my shit so badly that I’m about to laugh. “Just go to sleep.”
I hear covers rumple and turn to see her tear them off, or at least attempt to. She’s so fucking wasted.
She turns around, scowling at me, and my fucking chest tightens at the thought that, someday, I’ll have a little one who looks at me like that when I tell her it’s time for bed.
“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me?” She sniffs, bottom lip now pouting fully out.
“You really think you deserve my help?”
With both hands, she covers her face, her shoulders slouched, and she sobs out quietly, “I’m so tired.” Then she walks to the corner, takes her hoodie off, revealing a tight as hell tank top, and curls up in the corner, using the hoodie as a pillow.
“Fine. Fucking fine.”
“And flip that stupid mattress, too,” she tells me.
“I’m gonna beat your ass,” I whisper to myself.
Wrong. Fucking. Thing. To say.
“Like you tried to my brother? Then you pussied out like a big … pussy?”
Through my teeth, I reply, “Something like that.”
“And about my ass …”
Oh, fuck, I think as she continues while I walk into the closet and grab fresh sheets in hopes of stopping her tantrum.
“My ass is phat, with a PH, and everyone at school voted for that. And you know whose ass that was, Tobias fucking Easton? Mine! My ass may be fat, but it’s okay, because it’s the
PH kind.” Then she whispers, “So there.”
I walk out with the sheets and set them on my dresser, and she starts up again.
“And you know what? Maybe your body type is not everyone’s cup of tea. Maybe some girls think, oh yuck, look at those big stupid muscles and those stupid”—she hiccups—“stupid tattoos. Did you ever think of that? Huh, did ya?” Hiccup.
I flip the mattress.
“And seriously, what is with your oh-so-cool-dude workout clothes and your matchy-matchy … ness? Do you think that your stupid”—hiccup—“stupid sneakers are too cool for a girl with a fat ass?”
“Not sure, Truth. Is it fat with a PH?”
She doesn’t say anything as I straighten the mattress.
“And you know what?”
“What?” I sigh out.
“I don’t even care if you hate me ’cause, right now, I don’t”—hiccup—“like me either.”
I make quick work of putting on fresh sheets, change pillowcases, and grab a fresh comforter, which is so fucked up because I haven’t fucked Dee since I saw Truth on my bedroom floor. I want to tell myself that it’s because I want her to shut the fuck up and go to sleep, but that would be bullshit. I want her to be comfortable. I need her to be fucking comfortable so she falls asleep, so she stops talking about herself like this, and so she stops revealing all the shit she thinks about me that makes the hardest thing in years even more difficult.
“Tobias Easton?” she whispers.
I look over at her, all curled up in the corner. “What?”
“I’m still not sleeping on your bed.” She closes her eyes and hiccups.
“Truth Steel, like hell you aren’t.”
She rolls over, her Phat ass, the one I’ve imagined bent over my bed, my hands kneading it, my body slamming into hers so fucking hard she’ll feel me for days, months, years, for fucking ever as I watch it bounce with each thrust, is staring me right in the face, and she’s wearing black leggings, which isn’t hiding shit.
“I’m not sleeping in a boy’s bed for the first time who doesn’t even like me.”
I stalk over, pick her up, and consider tossing her on it, but she opens those green eyes, the ones that plead with me, and I do something really fucking stupid. I pull her tight to me, pull back the comforter, and lay her in it, real nice and real gently.
When I go to step back, she clenches my shirt with both hands and asks, “Why do you try to make me hate you so much?”
I open my mouth to say something, but she puts a finger over my lips. “What’s my name?”
I pull her hand away and shake my head.
“It’s Truth, so don’t lie to me.”
My jaw ticks as I tighten it, hoping like hell I don’t drop a bomb and fighting the fact that not only do I want her to be comfortable in my bed, but I want to be the one to show her how she deserves to be treated in my—a bed.
“Please,” she pleads.
I exhale my held breath as I contemplate my words.
“The truth is you and I don’t have a chance.”
“Why?”
“If I can stay the hell out of trouble, I have a scholarship waiting for me and a chance to become a good man.”
“Except for that time you were an asshole”—hiccup—“those times you tried really hard to be an asshole”—hiccup—“and that one time I hated you because you broke a promise and punched my brother.” Hiccup. “I think you already are.”
I can’t help but smile, and her reaction is to return a smile, a beautiful punch to the gut, even though she’s sloppy drunk. A smile to make me regret it.
“That’s because you don’t know everything about me.”
She starts to say something, and I pull the same shit on her—covering her mouth with my finger.
“I have shit I don’t want to talk about, not with you, not with anyone.”
She takes my wrist gently in her tiny hand and slides it to her cheek. Then she rolls to her side and closes her eyes. “More,” she yawns out.
“More?” I ask, trying like hell to force myself to step the fuck away.
“More truths,” she whispers.
“That’s it—I don’t want to hurt you.”
“So you hurt me anyway? Makes no sense.” Hiccup. “Real.”
“Real?”
“Real truths,” she says, rubbing her face against my hand.
“I don’t want to hurt me either,” I whisper.
She opens her eyes and slowly turns, looking at me with concern evident. “My truth?”
I shake my head.
She shakes hers in response. “I’d never hurt you.”
“That’s bullshit. You already have.”
She cocks her head to the side.
“The fight. And don’t tell me you didn’t kiss him to hurt me. You were staring right at me.”
She slowly starts to sit up, but I can’t shut up.
“I lost my shit and broke a promise, and I haven’t got much but my word.”
I’m expecting a fight, but she doesn’t say anything.
“And you know she kissed me the first time, because you were watching it. Then you snuggled up with that fucker and kissed him to spite me. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She shakes her head. “Brisa said kiss him, and I did. And tonight, when he sat behind me, I let him kiss my neck.” She reaches over, grabs my hand, lays it on her tight-ass abs, and starts moving it up slowly. I know I should pull away, but if this is all I can ever get, and it is, I’ll allow it. “When I moved his hand up my body, I did it with my eyes closed, wishing he was you.” She leans forward and brushes her lips against mine as she keeps moving my hand slowly up her belly.
When I feel my knuckles against the swell of her breast, I start to pull it away.
“Please don’t.”
“Truth?” My voice is thick and deep.
She nods slowly.
“I want you more than I’ve wanted anything ever. But if I did what I wanted to do with you, knowing who you are, I’d never forgive myself.”
“But if you don’t, maybe I’ll never forgive you.”
She starts to look down, and I reach up, lifting her chin and rubbing my thumb across her lips.
“You’ve been drinking, and you’re seventeen.”
For some reason, that makes her smile, and it’s soft and it’s sweet.
“I’ll give you the whole drunk thing, toss in that I’m high, too, but the age of consent is seventeen.”
“Fuck,” falls from my lips, and when she blushes and looks down, I know it’s because she thinks this is going to happen. And I want to tell her that’s not the truth, but she lies down and looks happy, on my bed. I can’t do that. Not tonight, because another fight with her would ruin us both. Another fight with her would end with us both getting what we want, but there would be no happily ever after.
Not for Tobias Easton and Truth Steel.
“Lay with me?”
“Until you fall asleep, yeah.”
I lie on top of the comforter and her underneath. I pull her close and hate the fact that we fit fucking perfectly together.
But, for just a few hours, we can both pretend.
Chapter Twenty Three
Tobias
I never sleep well. A couple hours is all I ever get at a stretch, so the fact I slept for four straight hours is amazing.
Four hours with her, and I am now standing here, feeling like a fucking hurricane is coming, and it’s not even hurricane season. I force down my protein shake and try to get my shit together.
Some fucked-up feeling pulls me to my front porch with a cup of coffee, thinking maybe it’s just instinctual to want to piss all over the porch when you have a woman you actually give a fuck about in your bed. But when a big black Denali rolls down my street, parks in front of my place, and the father of the soon-to-be wrongfully accused steps out, I know it wasn’t a hurricane I was feeling. It was Cyrus Steel. The man, the myth, the legend.
“My girl
here?”
I nod. “She’s sleeping, she’s safe, and I didn’t touch her.”
“Now, why the fuck would you think I would even have that thought in my head? Do you think I’d truly believe my girl would give it up to a guy who pisses his pants?”
I sigh and sit down. “I wouldn’t think you’d be too happy about it, but I wanted to spare you the worry.”
“Worrying stopped after we picked Patrick up from the police station, wondering where my daughter was for five fucking minutes,” he spits. “That five minutes was like a fucking lifetime, kid.”
“I can understand.”
Through his teeth, he sneers, “The fuck you can.”
I nod, knowing there’s no way in hell to argue it. I’m not a father. And there’s no way in fuck I’m going to tell him I never will be because, in the past few months, I’ve mourned the loss of the girl I knew immediately would one day be my wife and the children we will never have.
“The other night, after our little ride, I looked into you.” He takes off his sunglasses, pulls a chair up close enough that we’re almost knee to knee, sits down, and pops his pecs. “You know the loss of a parent, and I can look you straight in the eyes and say I get that. Lost my father due to the fact he was the kind of man who would follow his son to save someone’s life, and he ended up dead because of me. So, I get that you get loss. But when, for even five minutes, you think your girl can be in the woods dead, lost, being hurt, you don’t get to tell me you know or understand that feeling. You don’t get to tell me you know or understand what it would be like to tell the woman who made you forgive yourself for an accident you couldn’t have foreseen that her baby was missing or worse.”
I nod. “I did what was asked of me for a girl I’ve been falling for but will never be able to have. A girl who has fallen for me, and I have to push away because we can never be together. So, I may not get exactly how twisted your guts might have been for those five minutes, but you will never know what it’s like to have to do what I’ve been doing either.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he’s borderline raging when he asks, “You talking about my little bird?”