But no, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’d never forgive myself if I did.
I wanted her—but not like this.
“I’m going to bed,” I concluded, pissed at the world.
“What?” Her eyes narrowed. Her chest rose and fell as if a whole lot of anger was suddenly building inside of her too.
Hell hath no fury, like Raven scorn. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know this was going to piss her off like a motherfucker. “It’s late. I’m tired. You’ve been drinking and clearly aren’t thinking straight. Let’s just call it a night.”
She straighten the sweatshirt down over her ass and pushed away from the counter. In a huff, saying nothing else to me, she left the kitchen. She flipped off the light as she went—leaving me standing there alone in the dark.
Well, that was going to make tomorrow morning awkward.
Maybe it would have been easier to just fuck her.
CHAPTER 7:
RAVEN
Mortified. No other word could better explain how I felt after Mickey’s rejection last night.
As I woke up the next day, I sat up in bed and buried my face in my hands. There weren't any curtains in this guest room of Mickey's and the sunlight shining in blinded me. Not that I cared though because there was a knot the size of Texas already squeezing my stomach, and the worse sense of dread had settled in.
God, how would I ever face him again?
Really, though, this was all his stupid fault.
I mean, he just had to walk through the door with his hair ruffled, a few days’ worth of stubble coating his perfect jawline, and a tiredness in his eyes that I think I mistook for vulnerability. There was no denying he was a handsome man, and when he came through that damn door, while I was on my third glass of wine, something unexplainable came over me.
I wanted him.
I’d spent the last couple days thinking he was dead—crashed in a ditch somewhere in the middle of the woods. And, to be honest, when I saw him I was relieved he wasn't dead.
But rejection hurt like a bitch, and now I was angry.
I just didn't understand why he'd been interested in that Jill girl for a random hookup and not interested in me whatsoever.
Whatever.
It didn't matter now. It was a mistake I wouldn't dare make again.
I groaned, flopping back on the bed, waiting for Samantha to come barging in. She usually woke up with the sun and never wasted much time before she'd come crashing into my room, loud as ever.
While Mickey had been away, we'd picked out our rooms in his house. She'd chosen the attic room, and I'd chosen the room closest to the attic stairs. That way I could listen for her if I needed to.
But I wasn't hearing anything. And I got the sense now that it was much later in the day than I'd originally thought. My cellphone had been dead since Wednesday, so I couldn't check the time. Instead I pulled away the covers and stepped out into the chilly air.
When Mickey had shown up and told me to pack a bag, I'd packed like I was going on a vacation in the tropics. Seriously, I packed two bikinis and zero jackets. What the hell had I'd been thinking? Oh yeah, that's right, I'd been drinking while packing. Big mistake. Now I had nothing warmer than a tank top.
Thus the reason I'd snuck into Mickey's room and taken one of his sweatshirts. He sure had enough of them. Even though I was pissed at his rejection, warmth trumped anger, and still wearing his damn sweatshirt, I crept out of my room and up the attic stairs.
“Samantha,” I called out softly. But there was no answer.
Sunlight caught the dust as it streamed in through all the many windows illuminating an empty room. The bed…was surprisingly made. Wow, maybe I’m a better mother than I ever give myself credit for. But, on a more serious note, where the heck was she? Maybe the kitchen? It wasn’t like her to get up without coming to find me first.
I was about to turn back around for the stairs when something extremely alarming caught my eye. My jaw dropped open. Outside. Through the window. In the backyard. Mickey and Samantha. What the hell! I hurried to the glass for a between look and to investigate further.
They were playing catch—like with real live gloves and a baseball. It was a scene straight out of 1970’s family sitcom. Samantha had never shown any interest in sports a day in her life. And Mickey fit the profile of a playboy, not a coach/daddy figure. It looked harmless enough, at least on the surface level, but I’d known enough creeps in my life to know that things always appear harmless until they weren’t.
I rushed down two flights of stairs, through Mickey’s open entryway, and straight for the front door. I could have taken the backdoor and reached them faster, but I had other plans.
With my bare feet freezing in the wet grass, I snuck around the edges of Mickey’s house. He had plenty of overgrown bushes and trees, which helped conceal me. I silently moved closer until I could hear each pop of the ball as it hit each of their gloves in turn. From sound alone, as I crouched behind the tallest pine tree, I learned that Samantha was playing surprising well. She was catching more than she was dropping.
“There you go,” Mickey said to her. “You’ve got it now. You’re doing great. I can’t believe you’ve never thrown with your mom before.”
I can’t believe you’ve never thrown with your mom before, I mocked under my breath. Puh-lease. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him outside, practicing baseball, back when he lived across from me. Baseball must have been something his ‘rich’ parents taught him.
“Sometimes we play in P.E. at school,” she told him. “The teacher says I’m pretty good—for a girl.”
“You’re pretty good for anyone your age.”
Samantha was not that good. He was being nice. A hell of a lot nicer to her than he’d been to me so far.
“I have a game tonight,” he told her as the ball hit his glove again. “I’m starting pitcher. I can get you and your mom tickets, if your mom says that’s okay.” What? Fat chance in hell after last night. “My parents always go to my games. They’d take you, I’m sure, if your mom doesn’t want to go.”
Samantha didn’t miss a beat answering. “Okay! I’d love to go!”
Dammit, Mickey! I could hear the excitement in Samantha’s voice. She’d never been to a professional sporting event before. If I told her no now it would not only break her heart but turn me into the bad guy. I’d have to tell him off for this later. He couldn’t just invite Samantha to random things before consulting me. She was my daughter. Not his! But, in the meantime, I needed to sneak back inside. My feet were frozen, my legs covered in goosebumps, and my nipples so hard they probably were showing through the sweatshirt. Mickey did not need to see me shivering like this, nor did he need to catch me spying. Plus I was hardly ready to face him after last night.
So I deemed his behavior with Samantha okay (enough) and appropriate (enough), and I started to inch backward from my hiding spot. All was fine and well until some old man walking a dog shouted at me from the sidewalk. “Well, hello there, Sandra. How are you? I like the new hair!”
Letting out a small squeak, I tripped over my own feet and landed on my ass.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sandra,” the man shouted. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The name Sandra was familiar. I’d seen it written on a few boxes in Mickey’s walk-in closet when I’d gone searching for the sweatshirt. Sandra’s clothes and shit, the boxes had specifically said. I guess she was his ex. I guess she used to live with him. I guess it must have been quite serious if the old man neighbor knew her too.
“I’m fine,” I called out to the man. “Good to see you, too.” His dog was larger than him and, thankfully, pulling him down the sidewalk. I didn’t feel the need to correct the guy. It didn’t matter who he thought I was.
But the commotion had alerted Mickey and Samantha to my presence, and they came around the bushes. Fan-freaking-tastic.
“Bye, Mr. Wilson,” Mickey shouted, waving. His eyes connected with mine, and I fe
lt the blood rush to my cheeks. And then he did the most surprising thing, Mickey offered me his hand to help me to my feet.
Naturally, I swatted it away. I could stand up on my own, thank you very much. Which was what I did—as gracefully as possible—pulling the extra-large sweatshirt back down into place over my ass.
Samantha noticed nothing odd and only had an ear-to-ear smile on her face. “Mom, guess what? Mickey said he could get us tickets to his baseball game tonight. He’s the pitcher! The tickets are free because he’s the pitcher!”
I sighed. She was acting like Mickey was some sort of celebrity. He only played minor league. I wasn’t impressed. “Yeah,” I said, “I heard.”
“Can we go? Please. Pretty please.”
I glared at Mickey.
He had a smug, asshole smile on his lips as he stared back at me.
“I hate baseball,” I commented. Up until this very moment I’d always been neutral on the sport, but because Mickey surely loved the game I now surely hated it.
Samantha’s little face fell as I said those words.
“But,” I added, unable to hurt my daughter like that, “if Mickey’s parents want to take you, and they come over first so I can meet them and see if they’re nice people, then you can go with them this evening. I don’t mind.”
Reanimated with excitement, Samantha wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “Thank you, Mommy!”
After she finished hugging me, Mickey handed her both his glove and the ball. “Why don’t you go put everything back in the garage with the rest of my baseball stuff? Then meet your mom and me back inside the house. Okay?”
Way too willingly, she agreed. “Okay.” And then ran off—abandoning me with the enemy.
I swallowed hard, shifting on my uncomfortably cold feet. “What are you trying to pull with my daughter?” I accused.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing.”
“You’re suddenly best buds? What’s that about?”
“Calm down, please. We were just playing catch.”
“Seems kind of weird to me.”
“Listen,” he said, stepping into my personal space. He had way too much height on me, and my chest rose and fell as I stared up into his suddenly very serious face. “I’m not trying to pull anything with your daughter. She was up. I was up. I made her breakfast. And then I did what any normal adult would do when babysitting—I tried to entertain her. All of this, mind you, while you slept off your hangover. So you can wipe the accusation off your face.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“Whatever, Raven. I didn’t mind watching her. But I do mind what you’re insinuating.” The tension on his face eased a bit and he sighed. “I would never hurt or touch your daughter. I’ve already told you this. Stop thinking the worst of me.”
“I think the worst of everyone,” I whispered, surprised at my sudden and blunt honesty.
“Well, you can trust me.”
“Can I? Really?” I shivered. Could I? And were we having a moment?
“Yes,” he said softly. “I’m not perfect, but I have your best interests at heart. And Samantha’s too. I promise.”
A tear betrayed me by slipping down my cheek. My heart squeezed because some desperate part inside me really wanted to trust him. But I knew better... “You made me plenty of promises when we were kids. None of which you were able to keep.”
“I’m not a kid anymore. So I’m making you one more, this time as a man—I won’t hurt you or let anything ever hurt you.”
Shit. A whole bunch of tears betrayed me now. You know, it was almost like he knew, and maybe I was giving myself away, that plenty in this world had already hurt me. I dipped my head down, wiping my eyes with the edge of my sleeve. Getting emotional wasn’t my thing, and I took a few breaths in order to regain my control.
Mickey hadn’t stepped out of my personal space. I could feel the warmth radiating off him. I could smell his clean scent. I could almost imagine what his lips might feel like against mine. Combine that with the fact that this whole conversation had me feeling a little raw and exposed, and suddenly I had a repeat moment like last night’s. Where want and desire coursed through me.
But I learned my lesson about this yesterday. So even though my skin was now tingling, and an electricity swirling inside me, I took a step backward.
It royally pissed me off that my body was feeling something it shouldn’t for him—for a second time, no less! “I’ll try. I’ll try my best to trust you. I mean, trust that you’re not going to murder me or Samantha in our sleep or something like that.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright then.” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Just this once I’m going to touch you then. And I’m going to owe you more than a dollar for it—let’s say ten dollars. We’ll tack it onto my bill. I think I’m at eleven now.”
What?
Before I even had time to think or ask him what the hell he was even talking about, Mickey scooped me up into his arms. I squealed as my feet left solid ground. He carried me—one arm under my knees, one arm holding my back—across his yard and toward the backdoor.
He stared straight ahead as he walked. “You looked cold,” he commented.
I was cold.
He set me down only once we were inside. Then saying nothing else, he disappeared upstairs.
* * *
Thirty minutes. Then Mickey’s parents were supposed to show up. They were picking up Samantha to take her to the Sea Dogs game. I had no idea how I was supposed to feel about any of this. Mickey had left on his own long ago. And I didn’t have his parents’ number to call and cancel.
On top of that—I had nothing to wear! I was currently wearing my favorite skinny jeans, heals, and a low-cut halter top. But none of that was good enough for meeting people I wanted to impress. Maybe in Pecan it might have been fine, but it didn’t feel fine here.
Shit.
I paced by the front door with sweat started to bead on my forehead. Meanwhile, there was Sandra’s box of clothes up in Mickey’s closet—just sitting up there. Untouched. Neglected. In my mind it kept calling out my name. Raven. Raven. You want to look inside me. Raven, just a tiny peak. My clothes are probably too small for you. But maybe not. Raven, maybe they’re perfect for you. No one will ever know if you just come look.
“I’m going to go change,” I called out to Samantha in the other room, giving in to the devil on my shoulder. Because, let’s be real, it wasn’t the angel telling me to dig through another woman’s clothes.
A few long seconds later Samantha responded. “Again?” She hardly cared what I did. She’d found Mickey’s Xbox a half hour ago and had barely looked away from it since.
“Yes, again. I’ll be right back.”
I took off racing down the hall and up the stairs. I hurried through the house and straight into Mickey’s room. It was spacious, dark colors, nice furniture, and smelled a little like him. If I didn’t already know that Sandra’s boxes were in his closet, I never would have guessed a woman used to live here with him. There were absolutely no traces of her left anywhere else around the house. Just this one little corner behind a closed door.
In some attempt to ease my guilty conscious, I told myself I was just going to take a quick look at her clothes. No biggie. Just one little look.
Yeah…except, that wasn’t what happened at all.
The next thing I knew I was knee deep in this random woman’s clothing. We were nearly the same size. And all of it was designer. And beautiful. And soft. And clean. And perfect. Well, the colors were a little drab. Sandra only owned clothes in the colors white, beige, olive, grey, tan, and some black. But her clothes were otherwise flawless.
Like a teenage on her first trip to the mall—I picked out a pair of slacks, paired them with a white blouse and black pumps, and tried everything on.
It fit. So I hurried to check out my creation in Mickey’s mirror.
Sensible. Smart. Crisp. Clean. Perfect.
I tied my hair back into some kind of twist.
Oh, sexy teacher.
Just then the doorbell rang.
Shit. They were early. I ran back into Mickey’s closet, scooped all Sandra’s clothes up in one giant arm full, and shoved everything into the box. Then I raced downstairs for the door.
I felt like I might vomit. These clothes were pretty nondescript, but if his parents recognized that they were his former girlfriend’s then I really would be returning my last meal right here on Mickey’s polished wood floors.
“Hi,” I said loudly as I swung open the front door. “Come on in.”
There were three people here. Nick—in his random knit hat that he liked to wear. The dad—who technically I’d already met before, fifteen years ago when he destroyed my entire ten year-old life. And the stepmom—a large, pretty woman with a big hair and an even bigger smile on her face. They stepped into the foyer.
“I’m Raven,” I started to say.
“Oh, honey,” the mom interrupted. “We all know who you are. Mick cried for you almost every single day for at least three months when he first came to live with us. You were a topic of conversation for years. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for the universe to throw you two kids back together.”
My heart pinched. “Mickey cried for me?”
His mom shrugged as if this shouldn’t have been a surprise. “He was a ten year old kid. His whole world had been uprooted. Of course he cried. So, where’s this daughter of yours? I’d love to meet her.”
“She’s in here.” I led Mickey’s family toward the living room. My head was now swimming. I couldn’t recall ever seeing Mickey cry in my time together with him. You didn’t survive Pecan if you weren’t tough, and Mickey was the toughest kid around.
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