“Yeah? What about it?”
“You have a fireplace. Let’s have a picnic.”
“Seriously, Royal?”
“Fine. Forget I said anything. It was a lame attempt to get your mind off all this other shit.” I stare at the scattered statements around our feet.
“You’re trying to be romantic.”
Was I?
Maybe.
“For the record, I still haven’t forgiven you,” she says. “Just because you’re here, bringing me food, doing nice things for me . . . it doesn’t change anything.”
“I know. Just happy for another chance.”
“Who said anything about another chance?”
“I mean, like another chance to get to be in your life. Another chance for me to prove I’m not a total scumbag, and I didn’t walk out on you—on us. Not the way you think. At least, not on purpose.”
Our stares lock. Her stomach growls with empty echoes.
“Come on.” She gathers the food in her arms and hauls it to her impeccable living room. I yank a throw blanket from the back of a sofa and spread it in front of the fireplace as she hits the switch with a free elbow.
The fire roars to life and settles into a comfortable glow.
Sitting cross-legged across from one another, we eat in silence. The food’s cold, but it goes down just the same.
“I like your hair like that,” I say.
She runs a hand through a tangled mess of waves, brows lifting. “I look like shit. You don’t have to lie.”
“Nah, I mean the curls. You took time to do your hair today.”
She chews a small bite of cheeseburger and swallows.
“Brenda keeps springing these interviews on me,” she says. “She said something about a photographer coming to chronicle Brooks’s ordeal, but we don’t know when. He’s flying in from somewhere. Los Angeles maybe? It’s ridiculous, but that’s Brenda.”
“Not a very private woman.”
“Not. At. All.”
“She nice though?”
“Extremely.” Demi places a hand across her heart. “I love that woman. She would’ve been the best thing about marrying Brooks. The woman treats me like gold, like the daughter she never had. Can’t tell you how many shopping sprees she’s taken me on. My entire wardrobe has been paid for by Brenda and hand-chosen by a personal shopper at Saks.”
“Rough life.” I smirk.
“I never wanted those things. She insisted.” Demi places a half-finished sandwich aside and wipes her hands on a napkin. “I don’t think it’s right for anyone to carry around a bag worth more than a used car.”
Her gaze lands on mine, her shoulders slumping forward.
“I need a drink,” she says. “You want a drink?”
Before I have a chance to answer, she’s gone. Clinking and clamoring comes from the kitchen, and when she returns with two glasses filled clear to the top with white wine, it’s too late to refuse it.
I’m not much of a drinker. The conditions of my parole clearly stated I was not to conduct myself in any kind of altered state via drugs or alcohol. I snuck a random case of beer into my apartment here or there during some particularly low points in my life, but for the most part, I didn’t need to drink.
Never been a fan of feeling out of control.
I spent my entire life being out of control of most of the shit that’s happened to me. Feeling drunk, knowing I can’t leave if I have to, knowing my inhibitions are shot to shit—and the words that come out of my mouth may or may not be well-delivered—doesn’t exactly appeal to me.
I take a small sip because I don’t want her to drink alone. Shit tastes expensive.
“I feel fancy,” I tease. She smiles. I almost tease her about rich people drowning their troubles in overpriced bottles of wine, but I stop. She’s six-figures deep in that asshole’s debt, and she’s a fucking schoolteacher.
“Never used to like wine.” Demi takes a generous sip, and then her pink tongue grazes the corners of her mouth. “Started drinking it to impress Brooks. He told me common cocktails were trashy. Abbotts drink fine wines and bourbons and Scotch. Anything imported and worth more than a small country’s gross domestic product is an acceptable drink.”
“That asshole was grooming you six ways from Sunday, wasn’t he? Making you into his perfect little Stepford wife-to-be.”
She takes a drink and sets her glass on a nearby side table, rising to her feet. An assortment of family photos lines the mantle, and she grabs the ones of the two of them, gathering them into her arms.
“I can’t look at these anymore.” She carries them to the kitchen, and I heard the electronic whir of the automatic trash can, followed by metallic plinking and shattering glass as she drops them in. Demi returns, brushing her palms together as if they’re filthy. “Much better.”
She takes a seat across from me, her knees against her chest, and reaches for her wine glass.
“So what do you do?” she asks. “Where do you work? Did you go to college?” Her hand flies out before I have a chance to speak. “Not that I care. Not that we’re friends. I just feel like I need to know these little things. There are so many blanks I need to fill in. So many missing pieces.”
“I’m an auto body mechanic at Patterson Auto Body in South Fork,” I say. “Didn’t go to a four-year. Went to a trade school.”
“You dating anyone?”
Her question catches me off guard. Her brows lift as she takes another sip of her fancy wine.
“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t dated anyone since you, Demi.”
She hides a pleased smile with her glass and cocks her head. “I don’t believe that for one second.”
“You don’t have to believe it,” I say. “But it’s true.”
Her legs fall, stretching straight out, and her hand slicks against her left thigh. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she sat down again, and judging by her relaxed posture, she’s feeling comfortable around me.
“A guy like you? Handsome. Charming. Rugged.” Her blue gaze falls on my mouth, lingering. “I’m sure women are all over you.”
My hands sail behind my head, and I interlock my fingers and flash a shit-eating grin. Yeah, women are all over me. But I never let them get close. People talk. Word travels. The less people know about me, the better. The last thing I wanted was for information to get back to Demi before I had a chance to tell her, so I kept everyone at arm’s length. A handful of fuck buddies and a steady stream of one-night stands has been my modus operandi in recent years.
“Why are you grinning?” she asks.
“You called me handsome.”
Demi’s eyes flutter to the back of her head.
“Still cocky as ever. Glad to see that hasn’t changed.”
It’s a sad day when a twenty-six-year-old man realizes his glory days are long gone, forever memorialized in a high school yearbook. Crazy to think that some nobody foster child can show up in this cliquey small town and make a name for himself. I had more than enough friends, plenty of pussy on call, and a social life that’d make a New York playboy jealous, all at the tender age of eighteen.
But all that mattered back then was Demi.
Talking to any girl in school was a non-issue for me. I could walk up to any of ‘em and walk away with a Friday night date.
But not her.
Had to work my ass off. Drop hints. Bother her. Tease her. Watch her squirm every time I’d kick her under the dinner table at the Rosewoods.
But it was all worth it.
For eighteen months, she was mine. Completely mine.
Funny how an eighteen-month chunk of your life can feel like the only part that ever mattered.
“So you haven’t dated anyone. In seven years.” Her angled brow arches high. “Not one person.”
I pull in a quick sip from my glass, which is still mostly full, and shake my head.
“Don’t you get lonely?” she asks.
For a sec, I think about rambling on a
bout how I never met a girl who could give me half the butterflies she gave me. But I don’t want to sound fucking lame, so I keep that shit to myself.
“Define lonely.” I’ve been alone my whole life. Mostly. Growing up in foster homes, you learn not to get too attached to anyone. The Rosewoods were the only constant in my life, but they were never really mine. I’m pretty sure Bliss just felt sorry for me, and I’m pretty sure Robert appreciated that I mostly kept Derek out of trouble.
“Now you’re dodging the question.” She stares into her empty wine glass.
“Finish mine.” I hand her my glass, and she hesitates. “Not much of a drinker.”
“Answer my question,” she demands. “Don’t you get lonely?”
I contemplate my response and regret giving away my drink, because for once, I just might need it.
“You want the truth?” I exhale. Flickering flames cast shadows on her face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones and hiding the telltale circles under her eyes. “Fine. Since you asked. Yeah. I get lonely. But not the kind of lonely you’re probably thinking of. It’s more of a bitter kind of lonely.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Like how?”
“The kind of loneliness you feel when you watch someone else live the life you were supposed to live. When you see the only person you’ve ever given a damn about smiling and laughing and fawning over some goddamn shallow jackass who doesn’t deserve her and sure as hell won’t take his marriage vows seriously.”
I leave out all the moments I watched from afar, all those times I flipped through hundreds of images on her Facebook page. Their first year of dating was chronicled with dozens of sickeningly adorable selfies, and as the months passed, I watched them grow serious about each other, take little trips, and explore the boundaries outside the great state of New York together. From behind a computer screen, I watched as Brooks Abbott integrated into the Rosewood family with a disturbingly natural fit. I was there when he popped the question, and the day she updated her relationship status to ‘engaged,’ my heart sank hard.
Loneliness is watching the only girl you’ve ever loved find happiness in the arms of another man.
“How often did you watch us?” she asks.
“You’re making it creepier than it is,” I say. “Wasn’t like that. Your really need to lock up those social media pages. Your entire life is out there for anyone to see.”
Demi clears her throat, her gaze falling to the blanket beneath us before rising.
“Maybe that was the whole point.” Her words are stiff, low. The heat from the fireplace is distractingly hot, but I don’t feel it. I’m focusing on Demi, watching her fidget and tuck her hair behind her ear and chew her bottom lip. “Maybe all these years, I was hoping you were watching. I thought maybe if you could see how happy I was, you’d miss me as much as I was missing you.”
Her knees draw up to her chest, and she buries her face against them.
“God, that sounds so juvenile.” Her voice is muffled. She pulls herself into a standing position, fanning her face. “It’s really hot. Are you hot?”
She hits the switch on the wall, and the flames die a sudden death.
“So all those moments.” I rise. “All those pictures and all those things you were doing with Brooks . . . that was all for me?”
Her right hand hooks her left elbow, and her feet cross at the ankles. She looks away.
“It sounds ridiculous and absurd when I say it out loud,” she says.
“I thought you were happy. I assumed you’d moved on.” My jaw sets. “It’s why I stayed away for so long. I never would’ve stayed away if I knew . . .”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says. “Brooks and I . . .we were mostly happy. We had some good times. When I told him I loved him, I meant it. It just wasn’t the same kind of love. It . . .it didn’t feel the same as when I said it to you. But I loved him enough.”
“You loved him . . . enough?”
Demi glances down at her nails, picking at them and huffing. “You know what’s funny about all this?”
“What’s that?”
“We’re more or less perfect strangers, and I’m being more honest with you right here, right now, than I’ve been with myself in years.”
“I’d hardly call us strangers.” I move toward her, cupping her cheek.
Our eyes meet.
“We have a history,” I say, “that no one can take from us. No matter what happened in the past, no matter what happens from here, it can’t take away from the good thing we had. You were my first love, Demi. You only get one.”
“And you threw me away.”
She blinks away tears, turning her face as if she’s ashamed of crying in front of me.
If she only knew how wrong she was.
“Sometimes I feel so stupid,” she says. “Like we were just kids, Royal. We didn’t know anything about love. We didn’t know what we were doing and saying. Teenagers have no business making promises to each other, you know? And here I am, a grown woman who spent the first half of her twenties fantasizing about the day you’d come back to me and knowing damn well it was never going to happen.”
Her hand rests on mine as my thumb traces her bottom lip.
“And then you showed up. At my door.” She sniffs. “And part of me wants to pick up where we left off. Part of me wants to jump in your arms and kiss you and smell you and feel you and lose myself in everything about you. And the other part of me hates you. Because you’ve ruined love for me, Royal. I’m never going to love anyone the way I loved you, and I want to. So. Much. I want to feel the way I felt with you . . . with anyone but you. And I’ve tried. And I can’t. And I hate you for that.”
Her chin wrinkles, and a thick tear slides down her cheek. Without hesitating, I bring her into my arms, sliding my hands through her hair and pressing her against my beating chest.
I’ve waited years to hold her like this.
“I’m sorry, Demi.”
She cries against my chest, a neat cry, not a sloppy, half-drunk bawl. I give her as much time as she needs, and the space around us grows quiet save for our breathing. We don’t move. We stand perfectly in place as I hold her in my arms. The scent of her rosemary mint shampoo—the same one she used in high school—wafts from the top of her head, and it takes me right back to those carefree summer days before our lives took a turn.
Her face pulls away, but her arms are locked firmly around my sides.
“I still love you, Demi.” I feel the need to tell her now, because I’m not sure I’ll ever get the chance, and it’s not the kind of thing you can just blurt out any time you want without looking like a crazy person. “I never stopped. And all those things you said? I feel the same. Except I don’t hate you. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was all me. And I hate myself for it.”
Demi’s eyes close, like my words are sinking into every open wound. Her tongue rakes across her bottom lip, and I feel her breathe me in. It’s just like old times, only better. Recharged. Renewed. I could stand here forever like this, never letting her go.
Her body pressed against mine eats away at my self-control. She’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and her perfect, heart-shaped lips are inches from mine.
Fuck it.
Those lips belong to me.
They always have.
They always will.
Chapter 17
Demi
His lips are warm.
For a second, I’m convinced that this is a dream.
This kiss. His mouth on mine. I’m imagining it.
A shiver runs down my spine, and my lips part, accepting his tongue as it invades my mouth. His fingers dig into my scalp, sending pinpricks down my neck and back, and I melt into him.
Each second that passes breathes new life into me.
My chest squeezes tight. It’s so full, I think it might burst.
This is real.
This is really, really, really real.
His lips are soft, and
an earthy, metallic scent fills my lungs. Mossy cologne on top of paint thinner on top of grease.
And I love it.
He fists my hair, tugging it down and finding the perfect angle of which to crush my lips once more. His kiss hasn’t changed in seven years. It still has the power to make me weightless and effervescent, to drown out my thoughts and replace them with light, and to make the outside world fade into nothingness.
His free hand drags down my side, hooking against the small of my back as we stumble to the couch. Our mouths uncouple.
He falls.
I fall.
My thighs straddle his hips as his hands search beneath my shirt, and as he cups my breasts, my straps fall down my bare shoulders.
The outline of his hard bulge rubs against me, exciting my core. Every graze of his fingers against my skin is electric.
Royal pulls my shirt over my head and goes straight for the hooks of my bra. My lips are glued to his. He kisses me over and over, and I die a little each time, but in a good way. I’m floating high above it all, watching from below.
I’m shirtless, bare, and my fingers tug the hem of his t-shirt until his chiseled chest is exposed in my dark living room. His greasy work pants against my white sofa are a silent “fuck you” to Brooks and this bullshit life he created for us.
I never wanted all the white.
It was all Brooks, and he didn’t care because he wasn’t the one stuck cleaning everything all the time.
I hope we stain the hell out of this sofa.
Royal palms my breasts and presses his mouth against my collarbone. My nipples wake, and my hips buck and circle. I can’t take it anymore. I want more. I need more.
This.
This is not enough.
I didn’t wait seven years for high school-grade heavy petting.
Sliding from his lap, I fall to my knees at his feet and tug at the zipper of his pants until my hand grazes his hardness. My mouth waters at the thought of taking him in my mouth, and I find myself holding my breath as I release him from the confines of his navy boxers.
FILTHY - a Football Romance Page 30