“Like what?”
“Like I hung the goddamn moon.”
“It feels like you did, Jake, because I love you.”
Jake swallows and his eyes shift somewhere over my right shoulder. “You might think you do, but you don’t.”
I pull back, hurt welling in my chest at the rejection. “You’re going to tell me how I feel now?”
I roll off him, scoot my way from the bed, and reach for my clothes.
“Stop being so prickly.”
“Oh my god!” I yell, spinning around as I yank on my underwear. “Would you just stop telling me what to do!”
Jake sits up in bed, the sheet pooling at his waist. Frustration lines his forehead. My body gives a jolt of longing. It would be easier to be mad at him if he didn’t look so good.
“Damn you,” I hiss. “Don’t you have school like Rowan whomever said anyway? Go do that. And who is he anyway, lead singer of what? The Muppets?”
“He sings in my band.”
Half-dressed, I pause. “Your band?”
“The band I’m in,” Jake corrects.
“You are in a band? Since when?”
“Since a year ago,” he tells me, moving off the bed and getting to his feet, naked. He yawns and stretches. Meanwhile my gaze lowers until it reaches what my hands itch to wrap their fingers around.
It begins a slow rise as though saying hello.
“That’s quite the greeting,” I manage to get out, utterly fascinated and impressed all at the same time.
“It’s because you’re staring at it.”
My gaze flies up. “You got hard because I looked at your dick?”
“Um, yeah?” he says, his tone sardonic as if it’s something I should already know. “Feel free to touch it.”
Jake mustn’t have been expecting me to actually do it … because when I wrap a warm, slender palm around it and squeeze, it gives an almighty jerk. Jake groans and tips his head back, his eyes closing.
“What do you play?”
“Play?” he hisses when I give a firm stroke.
“In your so-called band, The Muppets.”
“We’re not The…” His breath catches when I stroke again. I like his body’s response. “The Muppets.”
“Well …?”
“The drums,” Jake manages to say through his heavy breathing. “I’m the drummer.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“The best. You should come watch us one night.”
My hand keeps up its ministrations. I love how much Jake enjoys my touch. “When do you play next?”
“The ahhh … the weekend.”
Jake takes my hand and peels it off. Then he turns me around, and I’m pushed down on the bed in just a few fast beats of my heart. He bends and touches his lips to my chest, his touch lighter than a feather. They trail down, lower and lower, until he’s peeling the panties down my thighs, his face now hovering between my legs.
I can feel his breath puffing against my skin and fight the urge to squirm. When his tongue snakes out and touches me there, I almost jolt straight off the bed. Oh my god, is this even real?
“It might mean me staying more than one night,” I gasp, which is a bonus for me because I’ve decided that Jake’s head now has to live between my legs.
He moans and licks me again as though the taste of me is better than ice cream. “Okay.”
JAKE
“Mum?”
Mac’s voice is a low whisper as we lie in bed. It’s early, the sun barely breaking across the horizon, and it’s been three days since her arrival. A war has raged inside of me each of those days. One side fights for her to stay, the other for her to leave. I’m at a stalemate. Mac can’t be here. Even though our house is reasonably safe—we don’t invite the King Street Boys for dinner—we’re still a part of their world. A gang of undesirables, criminals, and murderers. It makes me sick to the stomach to be included in that. To know I’m not good enough. She deserves better. But I’m selfish. Mac is mine. My family.
Right now she’s calling Jenna. Believing I was asleep, Mac took my phone from the bedside table and began pressing buttons. I wasn’t, but knowing she was voluntarily calling her family, I played possum. Let her think she has the privacy she’s seeking. I’ve been badgering her to call them. They need to know where she is. That I’m with her and looking out for her. Most importantly, they need to know why she left.
Mac had explained Fleur Dreyer Halvorsen, and I’m still gobsmacked. Don’t they know their own daughter? Yes, her spirit is wild. She’s argumentative and troublesome. But is it any wonder? Her parents control her every move. Her brothers do the same. For her, it’s a daily battle to be heard and a constant fight to take back her own life. As an outsider to the Valentine clan, it’s easy for me to see. As a consequence of their behaviour, Mac has a need to be in control of any situation … with anyone, and it’s consuming her life.
“I’m okay,” she says into the phone.
There’s a pause. Jenna is talking on the other end but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
“I’m not in any trouble. I’m fine, I promise,” she answers.
Another pause.
“I’m not coming home. I can’t go to that stupid school, Mum. I’ll wither away and die.”
Mac shifts closer. Curling into my side, she rests the side of her face on my chest, the phone pressed to her ear. It brings the conversation closer and Jenna’s voice becomes audible to my ears. “Don’t be dramatic, Mackenzie. We’ve talked about this. About how good this school will be for you. They’re still holding your place.”
“Well tell them to un-hold it.”
“I can’t do that. We paid a fortune.”
“Then you should get a refund. I’m not going. Not ever.”
“I don’t want to argue about this, honey.”
“So don’t. I only rang to let you know that I was okay. I didn’t call so you could spend the time convincing me about how much I need this finishing college. Why are you trying to change me?”
The hurt in Mac’s voice is so sharp it stabs me right in the chest. I can’t play possum any longer. My arm curls around her back squeezing her closer. She shifts her head upward, eyes finding mine. “I love you,” I mouth.
My announcement is terrible timing, but she needs to hear it. Her eyes close and her lips press flat in response as they fight a tremble. My chest expands. Yep. She needed it.
“Oh, honey. We’re not trying to change you. We just want you to be the best version of you that you can be.”
“Oh my god.” Mac jolts upright, hurt evolving to fury. “You’re giving me the brochure spiel?”
“I’m not! I … Oh hell, I didn’t realise. Mac …”
There’s a long beat of silence between the two. Sitting up, I splay my palm on Mac’s naked back and begin a long, slow rub. I hope it’s soothing. I don’t know what else to do.
A sob breaks free on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry.” I realise then that Jenna’s been faking her strength and can no longer pull it off. “Forget the school. Just come home.”
Mac exhales deeply, her back rising and falling beneath my palm. “I can’t. It’s too late, Mum.” Her voice cracks. “It’s too late.”
“Please, honey. Tell me where you are.”
Mac’s voice is firm. “No.”
“Why, Mackenzie? Why are you doing this? We’ve given you everything. We love you. And you turn your back on all of it and run away? I don’t get it, honey.”
Mac lowers her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I never wanted anything.” She turns her head to the open window, her green eyes lost as a single tear tracks down her cheek. I shift closer and swipe my thumb across the soft skin, wiping it away. Mac looks to me as she speaks into the phone. “I just want to be free to be myself. I just want to be free.”
A sniff comes through the phone. “Oh, honey, your brothers, your father, I know they’re a little stifling. They’re just trying to protect you.”
Her tone rises. Bitterness gives it a sharp edge. “I can protect myself.”
“You can’t. You’re a sweet, young girl who doesn’t need to worry about such things.”
“I can! You don’t believe in me. None of you do. And you never listen. Not even now. This whole entire conversation is pointless.”
“Mac—”
“I have to go. I’ll call you again. I promise.”
Mac hangs up the phone and leans over to rest it on the bedside table. She hasn’t told her mother where she is, but she hasn’t thought about them tracing the call. I don’t mention it for the simple fact they can’t. It’s a burner phone. With the life I lead, I can’t be traceable. Even the payments made toward my father’s care facility are from an anonymous account. From the moment I left the De Luca foster home, I ceased to exist. I left no trail behind. I got new identification and changed schools. It’s better this way, and yet here Mac is having stumbled her way back into my life through sheer, dumb luck. Why does fate keep throwing us together?
Shifting back on the bed, Mac straddles my hips. Such is her strength, all trace of sadness is gone from her face. What remains is a fierceness that sets my blood on fire. “Promise me something, Jake.”
“Anything.”
“Love me just the way I am. Don’t try to change me.”
“I don’t want to change you.”
“And I want you to believe in me.”
This isn’t just important to her. It’s everything. “I do.”
“Always believe in me.”
How can I not? What Mac doesn’t see is that I’m her greatest protector of all. “I’ll always believe in you.”
Her lips curve slightly. She’s satisfied with my response and lies down beside me, curling into my side. I hug her close and press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Tell me about your life, Jake. I want to know everything.”
Mac can’t know everything. Ever. The type of man I’ve become is not the man she needs, so I give her the edited version. “I was born Jacob Rhys Romero on May tenth, at Westmead Hospital.”
“You’re a Taurus.”
My brows rise. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t pick you as someone that’s into that kind of thing.”
“The easiest way to read someone is to work out their sign. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh?” A smirk plays upon on my lips. “Read me, then.”
Shifting to her side, Mac rises on her elbow and rests her head in her hand. “You’re a bull. That makes you a stubborn, hard-headed dick,” she says, returning my smirk. “You’re also strong, romantic, and possessive, and you like pretty things. You’re quick and clever, but underneath it all hides true talent and hard work.”
“You think I’m all that?”
A grin curves her lips, and she shrugs her shoulders. “Mostly just the stubborn part.”
Grabbing the pillow beside me, I use it to whack her on the head. She shrieks, laughing. I use the diversion to my advantage and roll on top of her, pinning her arms to the bed.
“And strong,” she gasps.
I shift a little, taking some of my weight from her body.
“Tell me more,” Mac says. “All the facts I have are that you were born and your father had a brain aneurysm.”
My stomach sinks. I hate to talk about my father. It’s a reminder that the man he used to be is not the man he is today. Scooting off the bed, I reach for a pair of shorts from the floor. “What more could you possibly need to know?”
I stand and slide the shorts up my legs as I scan the floor for a shirt. I’m a messy bastard, I know. I need to work on that.
Mac’s voice hardens. She’s getting annoyed. “Don’t be evasive.”
I find a crumpled shirt half hanging from the drawer of my dresser. I grab it and turn to face Mac. She’s sitting up in bed, long hair tousled and bed sheet pulled to her chest with one arm holding it in place.
She’s utterly enthralling, like a butterfly come to rest on my hand. I want to stand here all day and absorb her beauty, even though she’ll soon fly away. That will be my next tattoo—a butterfly on my hand, complete with wings of absolute fire.
“What?” she asks.
I’ve been staring. “What do you mean what?”
“You’re staring at me.”
The shirt is bunched in my hands. I shake it out and tug it on. Then I walk over and dip down, pressing my lips to hers. Pulling back a fraction, I give her a grin. “I was just thinking of how beautiful you are.”
“Oh …” Pink warms her cheekbones. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
“Accept the compliment, Princess.”
Her green eyes sparkle and she concedes. “Thank you, Jake. Now stop being evasive.”
With a deep sigh, I turn and sit on the edge of the bed. “You know my mother died, so it was just me and my father. We lived in a normal house. I went to school, came home, watched TV, played computer games. It was all completely ordinary and boring.”
Mac shifts until she’s sitting beside me. “What did your father do before he got sick? And where is he now?”
“He is … was a music professor. He taught music history, composition, and performance at the Academy of Music and Performing Arts in Sydney.” I swallow bitterness. “Now he’s in an aged care facility.”
Her slender palm reaches for mine. She takes it and gives me a comforting squeeze. “He must have been an incredible musician.”
“Not so much. He knew everything about music but when it came to instruments, he was a jack-of-all-trades and master of none. He loved the violin best. When played right, he said the sound was clearer than glass and purer than snow.”
“And you end up playing the drums.”
“Yeah.” A laugh escapes me. “It was always my favourite. Dad liked to joke that my first word was rhythm. I could find it in anything—banging pots, slapping tables, cardboard boxes. When I was seven, I discovered I could use different parts of my hand to get different sounds.” Letting go of Mac’s hand, I hold mine up and point to the base of my palm. “This part gives you a low beat.” I point to the middle of my hand. “This gives you a higher pitch. And here…” I point to my fingers “…gives you fast rolls and pops.”
“Why do you like it so much?”
I give Mac a grin. “Because you get to hit things. And they don’t hit back.”
She laughs. It’s a light sound and I like it. I lean in and rub my nose against hers. Mac is close enough for me to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “They’re also fun,” I say. “And when I play them I feel happy.”
“Did you have a drum kit when you were young?”
“Dad bought me one when I was ten.”
“Is that the one you use now?”
“No.” I draw back and stand, scanning the floor for some shoes. We’ve barely left my room since Mac got here and it’s time to get outside and enjoy some fresh air. “We should go do something.”
Mac doesn’t budge. “Not yet. I want to know more.”
She’s a dog with a bone. Heaving a deep breath, I turn to face her and fold my arms. “It was sold when he got sick. His insurance only covered so much, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Mac tells me. “About what happened. I wish I wasn’t such a bitch to you that first night.”
“You didn’t know.” My jaw ticks, fighting back the ache. It throbs like a fresh wound in my skin. When does the pain get easier to bear? “I barely felt a thing that night anyway, but now …”
“Now?” she prompts.
My throat feels raw and I swallow. “Now I don’t know how to feel. It’s like he died, Mac, but he’s still here.”
Mac stands. The sheet falls away, revealing her naked body. She’s confident in her skin and doesn’t care. It’s beautiful. She walks toward me and slides her arms around my waist, pulling me tight against her.
“It hurts,” I admit, returning the hug. It hurts like holy fucking hell, but Mac is here in my a
rms and it feels so good I don’t know how I’ll ever let go.
JAKE
“I want out.”
Leander, Luke, and I are sitting at the round breakfast table in the nook by the kitchen. Mac is in the shower, and I’m tapping my fingers against the pale timber, anxious to have this conversation before she gets out. I’ve been thinking on it for weeks. About how I’m not good for Mac. But maybe I can be.
If I got out, we could have a future together. I have a load of cash saved. Enough to get me through university and still pay for my father’s care. After that, I could get a job. A real one.
Luke’s brow pulls together in puzzled lines. “Out?”
Leander isn’t confused. His expression is one of resignation. “You can never get out.”
“Oh Jesus,” Luke mutters when he realises what I’m talking about. His head tips back and his eyes close as if I’m dead already.
“Goddammit!” I tug fingers through my hair. “I’ll just leave. They don’t know my real name. They’ll never be able to find me.”
Leander shakes his head. “You aren’t a ghost, Romero. They’ll find you.”
With a low roar that rumbles through my chest, I jerk to my feet. My chair skids backwards on the tiles. “Then fix it.” I jab a finger at Leander. “You got me into this. You get me out!”
The accusation isn’t fair, but I can’t think straight. I can’t be tied to the King Street Boys for life. I can’t.
The night I shot that man, I left that house and wandered for hours. When I eventually came back here, my steps were heavy as I walked the stairs to my room. Luke had been sitting on my bed, waiting.
“What are you doing in my room?” I growled.
He was paler than the crisp white sheets he sat on. “Lee told me what happened. Holy fucking shit, Romero. I didn’t know. I swear to god. The gun wasn’t loaded when you left here. It wasn’t fucking loaded.”
My teeth ground together, stopping me from throwing up a second time. “I killed someone.”
“I know.”
I kicked the bag on my floor clear across the room. The force sent it crashing into a lamp. It smashed to the floor, the bulb shattering. “I fucking killed someone!” I yelled at him.
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