His lips were soft and warm as he pressed them gently to my forehead. I swallowed, my heart racing in my chest. Christ, I carried enough baggage to sink the fucking Titanic. Could I handle all of Rory’s? Maybe we could be strong enough to keep each other afloat.
“I’ll always need you, Luka,” I whispered. My fear was losing him entirely. I never wanted to face that. I need him too goddamn much. Or maybe I was just that fucking selfish.
“I’ll always be here.”
“You know, you’re one of my only friends. . .”
“I do. I’m one of your two pegs.”
“You are.”
“So don’t give up on me.” There was a plea within my words.
“Not in a million years.”
Chapter 16
Max stood by the front door in his Mullet Mania T-shirt. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he looked bored. That was his typical appearance—boredom. He probably held the same expression during sex. Not that I wanted to ever think of him in that position.
“Can you at least guarantee me you’ll pull your ass out of bed in the morning and grace me with an appearance at the shop tomorrow? How are you ever going to pay me back if you never fucking work?”
I slipped a foot into my boot and laced it up, meeting his glare from across the room. He probably wondered on an hourly basis why the fuck he ever thought it a good idea to go into business with me. I’m a fuck up. I’m King Fuck Up of the Isle of Fuck Ups. When I pulled my head out, no one in town did custom paint like I did. Max had the mechanical edge, I had the artistic one. Only problem was, I had a bad habit of being a no show. My past ruled the present.
“I’ll be there, and you will get your money, Max,” I promised and he rolled his eyes. “Look, what do you want, a fucking blood oath?”
“If you put fifty percent of the effort you put into chasing pussy and the next high into your work, we’d be booked through summer.”
“I’m not ‘chasing pussy,’ Max.”
I stood from the edge of the couch and moved toward him, grabbing my coat from the rack. His gray eyes held an edge—they reminded me of polished steel—and his jaw was tight with anger.
“I’ll be there and I’ll be clean.” I could tell by the look on his face he didn’t believe a fucking word I said. He had every right not to. My word was shit.
“How much longer do you expect me to keep busting my fucking nuts so you can slowly kill yourself?”
I shoved him into the door and gripped the neck of his shirt. My body trembled with fury. Those words poked and prodded places I never wanted to see light.
“Don’t start this with me, Max,” I growled. “And don’t you ever use those fucking words with me. Ever.” I walked away from him, raking a hand through my hair. “It’s getting better.”
He grabbed the handle, pulling the door open, allowing a blast of cold air to come into the foyer.
“It’s not even close to better, brother. And until you open your fucking eyes and see that, until you admit that you need professional help, you’ll keep sinking.”
I followed him out, opening the door to the GTO. His voice penetrated the haze of my anger as he climbed into his truck.
“Do her a favor, O’Neill. Walk away before she has a chance to be shattered by your paralyzing disappointment.”
**
“I’d love to see some of your work.”
The faintest smile spread on Rory’s lips as he eyed me from the other side of the table. His fingers had played endlessly with the paper napkin wrapper that sat, discarded. The table shook nearly imperceptibly with his knee bobbing non-stop beneath the table. He looked more nervous than a sixteen-year-old boy attempting to slip on his first condom.
“I have been painting and drawing since I was a kid. It was something I did to help express myself. Although, I never realized then that was what I was doing.”
“How did you get into auto body work?” I asked, swirling my straw in my tea.
“A friend of mine, a mechanic, had a clever idea to have me do some work on a car he’d been repairing. It was quite a success,” he answered. He lifted his glass of whiskey on the rocks and sipped slow. “After that, he asked me to go into business with him.”
Rory continued to fidget, sweat beading on his forehead. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes moving rapidly around the restaurant. He looked uncomfortable and nervous and like he wished to be anywhere but where he sat.
“Are you okay? You seem really nervous.”
“I’m good,” he laughed. “Too much caffeine today, you know?” I nodded. “You want to get out of here?”
“We haven’t even ordered dinner yet,” I pointed out, my stomach growling angrily at the thought of leaving without grub.
“We can have a pizza delivered to the shop,” he replied, flagging the waiter down. “Can we get the check, please?”
“Shop?” I asked after the man walked away to get our bill.
“To show you my work,” Rory explained. “I gotta move, Bubbles. I’ve got so much energy buzzing inside, I feel like I could explode.”
Rory paid the check, and we walked out to his GTO that waited—sleek and black, like a stallion— in the parking lot. He’d closed the distance between us, lacing his fingers in mine, and I allowed it. Instead of feeling over-stimulated or as if he’d moved unwelcomely into my space, I savored it. His hand felt warm, rough, and strong as it gripped mine. I felt comforted.
He started the car and The Black Keys played loudly over the speakers. He moved quickly to turn it off, but I put a hand over his, stopping him.
“Leave it on,” I ordered. “I like them.”
He left in it on, loud, as we drove out of Knotted Vines, toward Cyprus in the neighboring county. The roads were covered in a light and soft snow, and the stars lit up the darkened sky. His scent filled the space being almost as big a presence as him. I stilled as I felt his hand tighten on my thigh, the warmth of it reaching me through my leggings.
Twenty minutes after we left the restaurant, we pulled up in front of Rory’s shop. The windows were dark, but the neon lit sign was shining brightly atop the building. Mad Max O’Neill’s Auto it said, bright and bold.
“Mad Max?”
“My buddy,” he explained, cutting the engine and climbing out. I followed and stood behind him as he unlocked the door. The unmistakable scent of motor oil and paint clung in the air as we walked in, Rory flipping switches as we passed.
I stood in a waiting room accented from top to bottom with chrome and black and white designs. Red chairs lined the window facing a die-cast metal desk front. Behind the desk was another wall of windows and a glass door cut out in the middle leading out into the work area. Beyond the glass, I could make out a row of cars—a mix of classics and newer cars, beaters and luxury rides.
Rory grabbed my hand again, his fingers fitting neatly in between mine as he led me through the glass door. Beyond where he worked, there were three garage style doors that he explained opened into an alley behind the shop. It was eerily quiet in the space; the only sound was that of our footsteps and the hum of fluorescent lights.
“This one,” he said, stopping in front of a freshly painted hood, nodding. “This is mine.”
I ran my fingers along the black flames that licked the red paint. My dad would have drooled over a car like that.
“’67 Chevy Impala,” I exhaled. “Beautiful.”
“I didn’t take you for a car lover.”
“My dad was,” I replied, moving to peer into the windows. “He took me to auto shows all the time.”
“The truck—”
“Was his,” I admitted, meeting Rory’s icy gaze over the hood of the car. “It was a project we had worked on almost every weekend up until he became too sick to do it. We lost him almost two years ago.”
“He didn’t raise you to be a princess?”
“I was the baby, and my only brother had been long gone. I think he enjoyed the prospect of sha
ring his hobbies with someone,” I answered with a grin. We’d had the truck, the winery, and hockey to name a few.
“I’m sorry I fucked up the back end.” I shook off his apology. It had been fun spending the time with Geno doing the repairs. It was time we hadn’t had in too long.
“It wasn’t like I loathed the experience of repairing it.”
“Want to see another?” he asked.
I gave him my best Do you even have to ask? look and followed as he took me to the far corner of the shop. A black 1970 Chevelle sat parked under a spotlight of its own with a flaming skull burning brightly on its hood. Red/orange flames twisted and curved out from around it, snaking down the side. He was one lucky guy to get to touch these beautiful girls all day, every day. I nearly let out a whimper thinking of the rush it must be to have that kind of power.
“You do all that free hand?” I asked, tracing the empty eye sockets with a shaking finger.
“I do. That’s about the only thing I’ve ever good at.”
I turned to him, noted the vulnerable look on his face. Rory was a complex man. Every small nugget of himself he showed me, behind the curtain, I could see there was a mountain more he withheld. I wanted to see those mountains. . .climb to their highest peaks. I wanted to bask in the sunlight at the top.
“You’re good at stalking,” I laughed.
He closed the space between us and wrapped an arm around my waist. He stood above me—not an easy feat with my long legs—his chest was firm and warm, rising and falling in time where it rested against mine. Using his free hand to push a few stray waves from my face and tuck them behind my ear, he lowered himself and hovered above my lips.
“Are you ready to stop playing now, Bubbles?” His breath was warm with a hint of whiskey as it washed over my lips.
“Stop playing what?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“You know what,” he replied, pressing his lips to mine.
I did know what.
And I wasn’t sure if I was ready. . .but I wanted to find out.
“Give me just a little bit of you, that’s all I need,” he murmured. “Just a little bit. . .to fix me. . .”
Rory kissed me hard. He didn’t steal my breath; he stole a tiny piece of my soul. It went to be with the piece he’d taken the night we slept together. I knew that if we continued, he’d keep stealing piece by piece. And as long as he shared some of his own, I was willing to let him keep taking mine. We were two tattered souls finding a way to blend together. Maybe together we could forge something not so broken and frayed. Instead of being two shattered and incomplete souls, we could be one jagged—but whole—one.
He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, as he pressed my back into the hood of the ’70 Chevelle. He sucked my bottom lip into his mouth, held it between his teeth, his eyes searching for something within mine. Acceptance, maybe? His weight settled, his body molded to mine, and when I least expected it, he plunged his tongue deep into my mouth, while I fought to pull him closer.
“Don’t break me, O’Neill,” I whispered, my eyes closed tightly. Anxiety assaulted every fiber of my body as I took that first step. I was terrified.
“Ditto.”
**
My body ignited into a bright, fast burning ball of flames the moment I felt Frankie give. It wasn’t much, it wasn’t a guarantee, and it wasn’t even a real yes. But it was close enough. It was her way of accepting that I wouldn’t stop—not until I had her in every way possible.
My fingers trembled, fighting with the band of her leggings, until I finally gave and grabbed with both hands. I pulled as hard as I could, listening to the light fabric tear, the sound mixing with Frankie’s startled whimper. The tattered leggings hung, the cuffs still buried in her boots. I grabbed her ass and pulled her down the hood, bringing her closer to my body. And then I kissed her again.
She tastes like lime, sunshine, and hope.
“I want you now, Bubbles,” I confessed.
“Then take me, Mr. O’Neill,” she replied breathlessly. She grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pulled my face down close to hers. “Now.”
“I don’t have—”
“I’m on the pill, Rory. And clean.”
That was all the encouragement I needed. I pulled myself free of my clothing, positioned above her, met her intense and heated gaze, and dove into her.
“Francesca,” I groaned through clenched teeth, my head falling back. “Fuck, I’ve missed this.”
I lost myself in the sea of lust, pleasure, and fierce hope as I moved at a fevered pace. Frankie continued to grip tightly to my jacket, her lips parted beautifully.
I’ll have to repaint the entire hood, I thought briefly, smiling to myself. It’s fucking worth it. . .
Maybe I’ll paint it with this image.
Chapter 17
I woke in Rory’s bed. He lay next to me, his eyes wide as he watched me.
“Morning,” I greeted with a smile.
“Morning.”
“How long have you been up?”
“Not long. I couldn’t look away when I opened my eyes. You looked so relaxed, so peaceful,” he replied, running a thumb across my bottom lip. “I was going to wake you, but I couldn’t. Not when you looked like that.”
He was full of charm and flattery.
“You’re full of it. . .”
“I still cannot believe you are here, that the past couple of weeks haven’t been an elaborate dream,” he confessed softly.
Rory propped himself up on his elbow, watching me as he began pulling the sheet down. Slowly, he uncovered my body, starting with my breasts. The cool air washed over me, and I fought the instinct to cover myself. His fingers moved light, like feathers, over the sparrow just beneath my left breast—flying toward my ribs. They continued on, following the trail of the sheet, landing on the skull and roses covering the outside of my left thigh.
“Don’t think I’ve not memorized the one on the other side.”
“Which one?” I asked with a smile.
“‘The struggle is part of the story,’” he quoted. “What is your struggle, Francesca? Fuck, what is your story?”
“It’s far too long and complicated for me to spill it all here, Rory.”
“Isn’t it that way for us all?”
“I would imagine. . .to a degree,” I replied. “Something tells me you know a thing or two about struggles.”
“What are these?” he asked, his fingers tracing over the thin, pale scars that marked my thighs.
I cried. My stomach was a knot of nerves and anxiety. Fear and overbearing sadness weighed me down. I knew what could make it better, what could give me that release I desperately searched for. My hands trembled as I held the razor above my skin, lowering it slowly, applying just a little bit of pressure. Eyes widened as I watched the crimson blood well up and felt some of the anxiety leak out with it. Relief—I felt relief. I poised my hand, readying for another cut when the door handle started to shake. I quickly realized I never locked the door and began to panic, scrambling as the razor dropped to the floor while the door opened. Sixteen-year-old Lukas stared at me—frightened.
“Please, Luka,” I pleaded, moving to cover the line of crimson on my thigh. “Please, you can’t tell anyone.”
“Francesca?” Rory called, pulling me from my memories. “What are they?”
“Reminders of a past life,” I replied cryptically.
“Let me guess, a past I’m not entitled to?”
“Not yet.”
“Spend the day here, in bed with me, Francesca,” he demanded, pinning my arms above my head.
“I would love to, but I have a hundred and one things that I have to do at the winery. And I have lunch planned with my mom today,” I replied, returning the kiss he pressed to my lips. “Besides, don’t you have work?”
“Fuck work,” he growled, putting a knee between my legs, pushing them open.
“I don’t think I’d be fucking Mad Max,” I countered, si
ghing as he pressed into my tender folds.
“Shh,” he replied, moving slowly—in and out. “I don’t want to talk about fucking Max. I don’t want to talk at all.”
I agreed and closed my eyes, moving my hips up to meet each of Rory’s thrusts. I lost myself in him, in the warmth of his body as it smothered mine. His fingertips moved softly, faintly, leaving my hands above my head as they moved down my arms and sides. His palm moved over my breast as he rolled a pierced nipple between his fingers. I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers across his skin, bury them in his hair. I felt too much and not enough all at once.
He wrapped my thighs tightly around his waist and rolled us as one across the bed. I straddled him, moving my hips slowly at first, my hair tumbling over my shoulders falling in my face. Rory gripped my hips, his fingers digging in, bruising the flesh beneath. My head fell back, a moan escaping as my movement became faster and more desperate; the building of my climax began low in my stomach, and I raced toward it.
Rory stretched up, grabbing a handful of hair, pulling my head back. He sat forward, his free hand continuing to guide me as I moved atop him. He buried his face in my neck, pressing long and languid kisses to the heated skin. My body shuddered from the mixture of sensations—the sting of him pulling at my hair, the rush of his lips and tongue on my bare skin, the pressure he applied while deep inside of me. As his mouth moved, his teeth gripping onto the soft flesh of my shoulder, I cried out in climax.
“Don’t stop, Francesca,” he mumbled against my skin. I loved it when he said my name.
I continued to move, a second orgasm close on the horizon, as Rory pulled my hair a little tighter, and held my hip a little stronger. As I reached the edge, stared over the precipice, his body tensed and shuddered beneath me, the sensation of his release giving me the push into a final release of my own.
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