by Carian Cole
“And you look sort of busy anyway,” I say, wondering who he’s texting with. Probably his fuckbuddy, wondering where he is. “So, maybe you should go and take care of whatever it is famous rock stars do. Like blondes with big boobs.”
He tilts his head at me and makes a face. “Really? You’re gonna go there?” he says. “Don’t say shit like that to me, okay? I just want to be me when I’m with you. This is why I didn’t want you to know what I do. I’m not a rock star. I’m just some asshole who plays the guitar.”
Touched a nerve, it seems. “Storm, you’re not an asshole. Not always, anyway. I just thought you’d have better things to do than hang around a sick person and play nurse.”
“If I did, that’s what I’d be doing.”
I put my hand up in defense. “Okay, okay. Calm down. And put a shirt on, please.”
Instead, he sits on the edge of the couch beside me, putting one hand on the pillow next to my head so he’s partially leaning over me. He takes my hand in his and presses my palm against his chest, holding it over his heart. I can feel it beating while my own is pounding harder in my chest. I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it there against him.
“Touch me,” he breathes. He’s not asking me to, he’s telling me to. He releases my hand, and I slowly run my fingers over his chest. He gently touches my cheek and leans down toward me. I think he’s going to kiss me and my mind starts to race. I look terrible. My breath must be awful. I’m full of germs. It’s cheating. My hand wanders up to grip his broad shoulder. So much muscle. I want to touch him everywhere and explore every beautiful part of him.
“You look scared.” His voice is soft and even. I nod a little. Yes, I’m scared. Scared he will kiss me, and scared he won’t. I’m lost in his gaze, trapped against the couch.
A faint smile touches his lips. “I like you scared. It makes me want to do things to you.” My stomach flips and my eyes widen. Things? What kind of things? And while I feel scared, it’s not the kind of scared like when you see someone creepy in a dark alley. No. This is a pulsing, electric fear that flips a switch deep inside me, making my heart beat even faster and sending shivers up and down my spine. I peek up at him to meet his eyes. They’re dark and smoky and honed right in on me.
“You have two hands,” he hints.
I raise my free hand to his arm, slowly moving it up toward his neck before I do the same with my other hand. His skin is so warm and smooth. I run my hands up and down his inked arms and chest. There is something really fascinating about touching someone who is covered in tattoos, like caressing artwork. He’s waiting, but for what I don’t know. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“I love the way you touch me, Evie. Everything you feel comes right through your fingers, and I don’t even think you realize it. I felt it when you were touching my hand in the truck. And I feel it now.”
I quickly pull my hands away. I should not be touching him or making him feel all the things I feel. His eyes open and stare down at me for a moment.
“I’m going to let you stop because you’re sick.” Let me? Let me?
“Storm . . .”
He leans down even closer to me, and I brace myself for his kiss, but he doesn’t kiss me. “You will touch me, Evie. I want to feel your hands all over me because it’s like a drug for me right now and I need it.” He leans his forehead against mine. “And I’m going to make you beg me to let you because I need that, too.” His lips meet mine so softly . . . so briefly . . . that when he pulls away and walks out of the room, I’m left wondering if it actually really happened.
What the. . . . ?
All this talk of touching and making me beg has my girly parts in a quivery, wet mess. What the hell just happened? He can’t just come into my home while I’m sick—breaking and entering, mind you—and tell me I’m going to be touching him and beg for it. Now I hear the shower running. Is he seriously taking a shower now after getting me all in a frenzy? He’s completely bat-shit crazy. I need to get him out of here before I lose my mind and do something stupid. Especially if he thinks he’s going to boss me around while I’m sick and not able to even think straight.
I text Michael.
Me: I feel like shit. Going to rest all day. Miss you.
Michael: K. In a meeting. Feel better. Call me later. MY2
I stare at my lie on the tiny screen. I don’t miss him. This fact sinks into me slowly and then spreads from my mind all the way down to my heart, finally plunging deeply into my stomach like a heavy rock.
I stand and go upstairs to wash up in my bathroom and put clean clothes on. I look a mess—red nose, watery eyes, clammy skin. Just great. I go back downstairs with Halo hot on my heels and fill his little dishes with food and fresh water.
“You should be resting. Get back on the couch.” I’m both relieved and disappointed he’s fully clothed now in jeans and a t-shirt.
“You have to go now,” I tell him. “Thank you for everything, but I’m okay.”
He leans against the kitchen counter and crosses his arms defiantly. “When is Michael coming back?”
“Sunday.”
“Then I’m staying until Saturday night.”
“No. You can’t do that.” I head back to the couch because I’m feeling dizzy again, but he follows me just like the cat.
“I’m not leaving you alone when you’re sick. It’s not cool.”
“Storm, I’m not a baby. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.” I lie on the couch and pull my blanket up over me.
“Then it’s time you give someone else a turn. Look, next month I go on tour and it’s going to be fucking chaotic. I like hanging out with you. We can watch movies and eat ice cream. We’ll take naps like we did in the truck. I want to veg like a normal person for a while before I go on tour.”
I swear, I think he wants to be back in his truck, trapped. Maybe in a way I do, too. As much as we annoyed each other, I liked our little bubble of us.
“Come on . . .” he begs, giving me his sad puppy eyes.
Truthfully, I really don’t want him to go. Partly because I hate being alone when I don’t feel well, and partly because I kind of like having him around. Plus, I’m not really ready to never see him again, or give up whatever it is we are.
I finally give in. “All right, but I have some rules. No more touching or inappropriate behavior. Okay? I have a boyfriend, and you need to respect that. I’m not a slut, and I don’t like you trying to turn me into one.”
He looks visibly insulted. “Evelyn, I would never, ever want you to be a slut. Unless you’re my slut.” He quirks his eyebrow up.
I suppress a giggle. “Good. I’m going to ignore that last part. And no more picking locks. That is seriously creepy, not to mention illegal.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Whatever. No more of that. You can’t just do whatever you want. There are certain boundaries, okay? I would like us to be friends. Real friends. I will not be some toy for you when you’re bored, though. So if that’s your plan, you can just leave.”
“I don’t get bored,” he deadpans. “And I have enough toys.”
“Good, then we shouldn’t have any issues.”
He lifts my feet off the couch, sits where they were, and then puts my feet on top of his legs.
“You can sit over there in the chair, ya know. Or on the loveseat.” I motion over to the other furniture in the room that is currently unoccupied by a sniveling person.
“I’m fine here.”
Unwrapping a cough drop, I shrug at him and pop it into my mouth.
“Why don’t you want me?” he blurts out, as if he can’t even fathom it. I laugh at the sheer audacity of his question, but he doesn’t laugh or smile at all. He’s completely serious as he waits for me to stop giggling, much like a parent waits for a child to stop acting like an idiot so they can continue being serious.
I force myself to stop laughing. “Excuse me?”
He says it slow
er this time, like maybe I didn’t understand it the first time. “Why. Don’t. You. Want. Me?”
“Storm, are you really this used to women just throwing themselves at you? Am I really the first woman who hasn’t come running to you, tongue wagging, legs spread?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
“Well, I’m sorry to hurt your amazingly large ego and obvious world record.”
“Evelyn, I’m serious. Just tell me why.” He’s still not laughing.
“I . . . okay, I’ll be serious.” I struggle to find the words to explain to him what I feel, but how can I do that when I don’t even understand it myself? “I hated you at first. I thought you were really strange and pretty much an asshole. But now, I like you. I want us to be friends. You make me laugh and you make me feel safe. I like the attention you give me, I guess. And yes, I’m attracted to you. I mean, look at you. But I have a boyfriend. I have never been a cheater. And you . . . like you said, you don’t do relationships. You have your fuckbuddies. I think you like that I’m a bit of a conquest for you. I just don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be some sort of fun challenge for you, so you can see how far you can push me and how much you can mess with my head and body before I give in and sleep with you, and then you move on, leaving me a huge mess.”
“Why do you make it all sound so bad? What’s wrong with setting your sights on something or someone who’s a bit out of reach?” His hand massages my foot absently as he talks.
“Nothing, if that’s what two people are into. What I’m trying to say, is I don’t want to be part of that. It’s not me. Yes, I’m attracted to you, if that makes you feel better. You seem to need to hear it. But, I really don’t believe you’re attracted to me. Look at me. I’m like five feet tall with hardly any boobs, pale skin, and I’ve been a mess since the day we met. I am not the supermodel you’re used to.”
He squeezes my foot. “Evelyn, I am attracted to you. I think you’re fucking adorable. I’m sick of girls like that—”
“See?” I interrupt. “You’re bored. You want something new.”
He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. “Why do you make things so hard? I don’t sit around and analyze my feelings. I just go after what I want. I think you’re miserable with Michael. He seems to treat you like fucking shit.”
“That doesn’t mean I should jump into bed with you!”
“I know that. Did you ever think you’re just wasting time with him?”
“No.”
“Do you really think if I just wanted to fuck you and leave you, I’d be here taking care of you?”
“No . . . at least, I hope not. And I appreciate that you’re taking care of me, but I’m not going to sleep with you in return.”
“That’s not what I want, Evie. I think you know that much. You can’t deny there’s something between us, right? Am I the only one who feels a connection here?”
I stare at the wall behind him. I don’t want to answer this.
“Right?” he pushes.
“Yes, there is something.”
“There is. I don’t know what it is, either. This is new for me, too, ya know. You think I do this shit?” He waves his hand at me and my glass of orange stuff. “I’m just following what I feel and seeing where it takes me. I think you should do the same. Stop putting walls up.”
“Really? And what about my boyfriend? Of twelve years? What about that wall?”
He pulls out his little e-cig from his pocket and starts puffing on it. “I don’t fucking know, Evelyn. But after twelve years, here you are sick and he doesn’t give a rat’s ass. I think I’d be taking a good, hard look at this.” He takes a long drag on his e-cig. “I like you. You’re different. I like how you make me feel. I love how shy but feisty you are. I want to fuck you stupid and watch you come undone and then fuck you back together again.”
My thighs start to burn. Yes. Do that. Whatever that is.
“Well, that’s romantic, Storm,” I say, rattled by his blatant statement. “And there is the reason why I would never be with someone like you. I don’t want to be with someone who just goes around randomly screwing girls with no regard to their commitment and values. That’s why God made sluts—so men like you can have something to keep their little one-track minds happy because they’re too shallow to have real relationships.”
Oops. He looks really pissed. He’s shaking his head at me in disbelief. “Wow, Evie. I thought you kind of knew me a little fucking bit, or at least could see that I treat you different, and I was hoping we could figure out the reason for that. Together. But fuck it.” He pushes my feet off and stands up. He points his finger from me to himself and back again. “This is why I don’t have relationships. This fucking bullshit right here.”
“I’m already in a relationship, Storm,” I remind him. My voice is strained from talking too much and coughing. Or maybe it’s because I’m about to cry, because seeing him mad and upset is slowly chipping away at my heart.
He grabs his leather jacket off the chair and pulls it on. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” He heads for the door and slams it behind him.
The minute he leaves, I burst into tears. He has my head so confused. I don’t even understand what just happened or what he was trying to say, or why I even care. My words came out so much worse than I wanted them to and made me seem like a total bitch. I just feel so sick and confused! I am in no position right now to be making decisions or thinking about where I stand with people. Can’t he see that?
My phone rings and I answer it quickly, hoping maybe he’s calling to say he’s coming back.
“Hello?”
“Wow, you sound even worse than yesterday.” Michael. Dammit.
“I know . . . I feel like crap. How are your meetings going?”
“Good, everything is good. You better get some rest. You can call me later if you want, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, I think so.” No. Everything I need just left because I insulted him. Again.
“Okay, hon. I hope you feel better soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I’m not sure what Storm has done to me, but he’s got himself so embedded into me right now, I hate it. My life was normal before he crashed into it. I was happy and content, going through my day-to-day routine. I thought Michael and I were happy. I didn’t know I was missing out on so much feeling. I don’t even know how else to describe it. How can everything I feel and want change in just a week?
I debate calling Amy so she can talk me down, but my throat is hurting so much I don’t even think I can handle talking that much right now. I wish I could call my mom. Being trapped in the truck, not eating or drinking enough, worrying about my job, getting sick, Michael being gone, Storm confusing the hell out of me . . . It’s all just too much. My life is usually so incredibly boring. Nothing new or exciting ever happens. Now I have a rock star telling me he wants to fuck me silly. I don’t even know what that means.
I stare at my cell phone, thinking maybe I should send Storm a text and say I’m sorry. I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for, though. No. I’m not going to give in to his crazy. It’s better he’s gone. I have never been one of those girls who psycho-calls and texts men, and I’m not about to start now.
The front door opening and closing causes me to jump. “You should really lock your door,” he scolds.
I try to suppress the smile that immediately takes over my face because I don’t want him to see how glad I am that he came back. “What’s the point? You’ll just come in anyway.”
He grins at me and hands me a latte. “I got you your favorite stupid coffee. I thought maybe it would calm your shit down.”
Every part of me wants to squee over the man who brought my cat a toy and me a latte. I can’t wrap my head around him at all. How can he be so thoughtful, but not be into relationships? Does he treat his chicks like this? I have to know.
&n
bsp; I sip the latte and thank him while he settles in the chair across the room.
“Storm, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you treat the women you’re in those non-relationships with like this?”
“Like this how?”
“You know . . . lattes, breakfast smoothies, cat toys . . . that sort of thing?”
“No. I haven’t done shit like this in a long time.” A sadness veils his eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking of his wife. I wish I had never read that article on the Internet.
“I do appreciate it, Storm. I’m really just not used to it, and as you can see, I don’t know how to react to it.” I take another sip of the coffee.
“I know.” He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the couch against my legs again. “Let me ask you something now.” He takes the cup from my hand and puts it on the coffee table.
“Okay . . .”
“Can you give me twenty seconds of you not thinking, not analyzing, not worrying, not pushing me away? Not saying mean things trying to hide your feelings? Will you do that for me?”
“I’ll try.”
He grins at me. “Not try. I want you to do it.”
“Okay.” I smile up at him. “But only because you got me a white mocha.”
“Shhh . . .”
Before I have a chance to think, his lips are on mine, soft and lingering. Touching, then not touching. Oh, God. Don’t think. He pulls away slightly, but I lean up to meet his lips again and that’s all he needs to kiss me deeper, his tongue slowly sweeping over mine. A small gasp escapes me. Don’t think. I become breathless, drowning in his kisses. My hands go up to his neck under his long, soft hair, holding him to me. I need so much more of this, so much more of him. He grabs my hands in his, pins them down on the pillow over my head and starts to kiss me wildly, devouring my mouth with his. Holy shit. I wish I didn’t feel sick. Pulling away slightly, he stares down at me, breathing heavy. He keeps my hands in his grasp.
“I’m going to stop now,” he says between breaths. “But I want you to do one more thing for me.” He kisses me softly again and then pulls back. “I want you to think about the idea of us. But not until I leave. I’m going to stay here until Saturday night with you, and we’re not going to talk about any of this, and I’m not going to kiss or touch you.” He lowers his lips to kiss my neck, his teeth grazing my flesh. My clit quivers in response. “I want you to come to my show next month, and I don’t give a fuck if you bring Michael and Amy or not. I want you there.” He drags his lips up my neck to my mouth. “Then I’m going to be gone for a few months, and you’re going to have a lot of time to think, Evie. When I get back, I want you to tell me what you want.” His green eyes stare down into mine. “Okay?”