Desire (South Bay Soundtracks Book 1)

by Amelia Stone

  “It’s time to move on,” she added, her tone full of pity.

  Time to move on?

  God, I was so sick of people telling me to move on. I was tired of people telling me I still had my whole life ahead of me. I’d had e-fucking-nough of people who’d never in their lives suffered a loss like this telling me, hey, we get it. You’re sad. But that’s quite enough now, don’t you think?

  It made me want to scream. Because what they were really saying was that my grief was making them uncomfortable, that I was bringing them down. And that just would not do.

  If the hours and minutes since Daniel had died had taught me anything, it was that people didn’t actually care that you were sad. They just didn’t want you to make them sad, too.

  Angry tears filled my eyes, and I blinked them away, trying desperately to swallow the lump in my throat while I was at it. But before I could make what would undoubtedly be a witty, withering reply about the individualized nature of grief, the doorbell rang again. This time, I could almost swear I heard a note of impatience in its chime, and honestly, I couldn’t say I blamed it. Whoever it was had been intermittently ringing the bell for – I checked my watch – six minutes and fifty-four seconds.

  Taylor let out a sigh, giving me an apologetic smile. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I hate fighting with you.”

  I closed my eyes, mumbling an apology of my own. I hated fighting with her, too. She’d been my best friend – my only friend – almost our whole lives. I’d lost so much in the past year-plus. My husband, my happiness. My sanity. I didn’t want to add Taylor to the list.

  “It’s just, this is important to me, you know? I want to see you get back out there. I just...” Her blue eyes were huge in her face as she gave me a placating look. “I want you to be happy again, Lark. Like when we were kids. Like you were when Daniel was alive.”

  I looked away, not sure what to say to that. I had no idea if I even could be happy anymore. The concept of happiness seemed so alien to me, so abstract. I just wasn’t the same person I’d been all those years ago, not with Daniel gone. I wasn’t sure it was possible to get back there without him.

  I heard her sniff, then let out a shaky laugh. I looked back up to see her giving me a rueful smile.

  “And besides, I asked these guys to come all the way out here tonight. We can’t cancel on them now.”

  I raised my eyebrows. We both knew it was less than twenty minutes from the Southern State, over the causeway, and to my front door, even on a summer weekend. That was a blink of the eye compared to most drives around Long Island. You’d spend longer waiting for your food at All-American on a Friday night, for fuck’s sake.

  The fries were worth it, though.

  The doorbell rang yet again, and my magnanimity quickly turned back to irritation. I vowed to disconnect the damn thing tomorrow. Maybe even when we got home tonight. The doorbell was now public enemy number one.

  “Can you please just go get that?” Taylor asked as she grabbed a brush and swiped it across her not-at-all-shiny nose. “I’m almost done here.”

  I gave her a mutinous look, which she returned with her very best ‘pretty please with chocolate sprinkles on top’ face.

  “Fine,” I muttered, turning with a huff and trudging to the front door.

  “You’re the best friend and roommate ever!” Her reply floated down the hall after me, as sweet and melodious as her singing voice.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled as I approached the door.

  The doorbell rang again, and between Taylor’s well-meaning but still unwelcome set-up, the argument we’d just had, and the shrill chime echoing through my house, my nerves were stripped raw. Which, predictably, made my temper boil over.

  “Have some fucking patience, would ya?” I shouted. “I’m coming as fast as I ca-”

  The words died in my throat when I opened the door and got a good look at the person in front of me.

  “Oh.”

  I’m pretty sure if I could have seen myself in that instant, I would’ve looked ridiculous. My mouth was hanging open in shock, like I’d never seen a man before in my life.

  But really, had I? Not one like this, that was for sure. Not one who stretched to nearly six-and-a-half feet, who had hair the color of coffee, with natural caramel highlights that caught the glow of the street lights. Not one with eyes that weren’t emerald, or mint, or moss, but leaf green. Not one with full, pink lips curved in a smile and framed by a strong jaw, a jaw covered in more-than-stubble-but-not-quite-beard-yet. Not a man who was dressed sharply, in dark slacks, boots, a button-down, and a deep green sweater that brought out his eyes, all topped by a leather jacket to keep out the sharp wind.

  The wind that was slapping me in the face, dragging me back to my senses. And not a moment too soon. I was making a damn fool of myself, standing in my open doorway and gaping like a fish.

  I cleared my throat. “Hi. Harry?” I asked, my voice laced with nerves and more than a little hope.

  Because please universe, let this man be my date, a voice in the back of my mind whispered – a voice I hadn’t heard in a long, long time. My plan of convincing this man to turn around and head right back home was instantly forgotten.

  Because I really needed him to be my date. Not Taylor’s date. Not some random person off the street whose car just broke down and whose phone died and who was now knocking on my front door to see if I was one of those Luddites who still has a land line. And not just because I’d disconnected my landline ages ago, when I couldn’t take one more phone call asking how I was “holding up.”

  No, I needed him to be my date because I needed a win. I needed one so badly.

  Please, if there is anything right and good and fair in this Godforsaken universe, just let him be my date.

  But of course, the universe decided to give me yet another middle finger. The man in front of me shook his head slowly, his eyes widening as his smile faded. He looked taken aback, in fact. Like he was feeling as thrown as I was. Probably because I was acting like a mouth-breathing, man-ogling weirdo.

  “Um, no,” he said in a ridiculously deep, rumbly voice. “I’m Graham. Graham Morris. I’m here for Taylor.”

  Graham Morris. That was a nice name. A really nice name. It was masculine, but not in a stupid way. It wasn’t a name from some insipid rom-com that would make you roll your eyes whenever our heroine sighed dreamily, extolling our hero’s manly virtues.

  No, Graham was a name you would whisper in the dark, right before his lips found yours. Right before his hands roamed all over your naked skin, igniting your senses and driving you wild. Right before he slid deep inside you.

  I blinked. What. The. Fuck? Where was this coming from? I hadn’t so much as looked at another man in forever. To be precise, for sixteen months, twenty-three days, seven hours, and – I checked my watch – thirty-seven minutes.

  Well, and for almost eight years before that, too. (Seven years, nine months, fourteen days, twenty-one hours, and forty-seven minutes, to be precise. Because of course I counted.) Ever since the day Daniel sat next to me in Physics class, I’d been a one-man woman. He’d reached over, tugged a lock of my hair, and asked me to be his study partner and his date to the movies that Friday, all in the same breath.

  Unable to speak, I’d simply nodded my head, dazed by his beauty and the situation. No other boy had even so much as looked at me before that fateful science lab. I was a loner with unusual features and a perpetual fuck-off attitude. Taylor was the only person who ever socialized with me, and only because we’d been attached at the hip since kindergarten, when she’d decided I was her best friend.

  But Daniel didn’t care about any of that. He’d locked on to me like a heat-seeking missile, not giving a fuck that he was the most popular boy in school and I was less than nobody. He’d simply flashed me that sparkling smile that made all the girls turn into simpering morons, his warm brown eyes almost daring me to fall in love with him.

  And I did it. I fell hard for
him, and I never looked back. For nearly eight years, I’d felt safe, and loved, and happy, because I had him.

  Until sixteen months, twenty-three days, seven hours, and – I checked my watch – thirty-eight minutes ago, when a police officer knocked on my door, gave me a pitying look, and I knew that my life was over.

  And no perfectly symmetrical face or leaf-green eyes could change that.

  The man standing on my front porch cleared his throat, and I blinked up at him.

  “Um, I’m here for Taylor?” he repeated. He looked confused, and he sounded almost like he was trying to convince himself.

  “You sure about that?” I challenged, though I could hardly say why I did it, or which answer I wanted to hear. Call it a long-dormant part of myself making a reappearance, if you will. The part that suffered no fools and called everyone out on their bullshit.

  Though somehow, I didn’t think this was what Taylor meant when she said she wanted the old Larkin back.

  Graham’s eyes met mine, and he looked almost spooked. “Yes,” he replied, sounding not at all sure. He stared at me for a long moment, almost like he was trying to figure something out. Figure me out, maybe.

  But then he shook his head and cleared his throat, straightening his broad shoulders and rocking back on his heels. I could practically see the decision settle upon him like armor as he nodded. “Yes. I’m her date.”

  I frowned as I opened the door wider. “Figures,” I muttered, feeling dejected.

  Because I might not be ready to date this man, or any man, for that matter. I didn’t think I’d ever be ready. But Graham Morris was the first person in a long time to make me feel something. Just the first stirrings of what might, way down the road, turn out to be desire. And I was not at all equipped to deal with that desire, or any other feeling, for that matter. But still, it was something.

  And he was Taylor’s date.

  I sighed. Seemed I wasn’t going to get that win tonight. Or, most likely, any other night. Ever again.

  “I play along with the charade

  There doesn’t seem to be a reason to change.”

  - Rick Springfield, “Jessie’s Girl”

  “Sorry, did you say something?” Graham ‘Not My Date’ Morris asked as he walked past me and into the house. When he turned to face me again, I could see a glimmer of amusement in his green eyes, a smile curling his lips once more.

  Shit. He must have heard me muttering to myself like a crazy person just now.

  I could feel my cheeks heat, so I pivoted, hiding my face from him. Which was a mistake, because that meant I was facing the mantel.

  I took a deep, steadying breath. No need to let the waterworks start again. That would only reinforce the idea that I was cuckoo bananas.

  Plus, I was tired of crying.

  “Never mind,” I grunted. “Make yourself comfortable.” I gestured to the couch. “Taylor’s almost ready.”

  “Taylor,” he echoed, his voice sounding much too close. I turned again, jumping slightly when I realized he was right behind me. “Right.”

  I looked up – way up – until my eyes locked with his. I found myself completely unable to look away from them, in fact. They really were the perfect shade of leaf green, with a darker rim around the irises. He was standing close enough for me to see the little speckles of amber in them. He was close enough for me to smell his clean, woodsy scent and feel the heat coming off him.

  I cleared my throat and took a step back, reminding myself that he was Taylor’s date. Their third date, an almost unprecedented occurrence. Which meant she must really like this one. Which meant back the fuck off, Larkin, because nothing ever would or ever should happen here.

  “Would you like something to drink while you wait?” I asked in my politest tone, though it felt stiff and rusty from disuse.

  “Water, please, uh…” he trailed off, looking at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Taylor told me your name once. I think.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’m bad with names.”

  Hunh. So the perfect man was not actually perfect. And fuck if that didn’t make him kind of… likeable.

  No. Not likeable. I did not like him, because he was not my damn date.

  But he was blinking at me expectantly, waiting for me to give him my name.

  “Larkin,” I told him. “Larkin Michaels.”

  “Pretty name. One I will definitely remember.” He gave me a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Larkin Michaels.”

  I couldn’t answer, couldn’t even say thanks. I was too busy staring again. I noticed that the corners of his eyes were crinkled, telling me he must smile a lot.

  He cleared his throat, a subtle reminder to me to stop being a creeper. His gaze flicked down, and I followed it to see that he was holding his hand out to shake.

  Oh, right. Politeness.

  I took his hand in mine, and the contact of his skin against mine sent a little jolt of energy through my limbs, making me shiver. I quickly withdrew my hand, frowning up at him.

  What the fuck was that?

  “Sorry, my hand is probably cold,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  It wasn’t. It was warm and dry, but I couldn’t find my voice to tell him that. His eyes were boring into mine, and it was starting to unnerve me.

  “It’s chilly tonight,” he added, as though that would explain it. He looked out the window, where the birch tree in my front yard was quivering, silhouetted in the moonlight. “And windy.”

  I nodded absently, finally breaking his gaze and looking down at my hand. I’d never felt something like that. The energy from our brief touch still ghosted down my spine. I shivered again and wrapped my arms around myself, wondering what could have caused that shock.

  This Graham dude must be one of those people who emit static electricity randomly. Or he’d spent all day shuffling his huge feet across industrial carpet, more likely. I knew he and Taylor worked together, and her office was your typical corporate cubicle wasteland. The little zap I’d gotten from this very tall, very not-my-date man was surely nothing more than a sudden discharge of pent-up energy.

  Because it was definitely not one of those cliché romance novel moments when you meet the man of your dreams and all of a sudden the Earth moves because the chemistry between you is just like, so electric. Because hello, that crap is pure make-believe, a dangerous fantasy that only ever causes misery when all the deluded people who bought into it finally realize it isn’t true.

  Plus, the man of my dreams was dead. So there was that.

  “So, do you guys do this kind of thing often? Double dates, I mean?” he asked, completely oblivious to my internal crazy.

  I shook my head sharply, trying to snap myself out of it. “Not in a while,” I hedged.

  Not since Daniel, I added silently.

  And then, of course, my brain took the opportunity to torture me, filling my head with memories of all the times my husband and I had joined Taylor and the latest Mr. Friday Night for an evening of fun. It didn’t really matter what we did. Bowling, movies, bonfires on the beach, trips into the city to see a show or hit up a museum. The guys were usually duds, but we always had a good time together, my husband, my best friend, and me.

  I closed my eyes, willing away the tears that were threatening to surface again. After a long, hairy moment, I rallied, and decided to continue with the whole polite thing, since I was (mostly) succeeding at it so far.

  “So, how long have you known Taylor?”

  He smiled again, his lips settling into the expression with ease. Yeah, he definitely smiled a lot. Not that I was complaining. It was a gorgeous smile.

  “Not very long,” he replied. “I met her at work a few months ago.”

  I nodded, not really sure what to say after that. He was staring at me again. I couldn’t think straight when those eyes were focused on me.

  “Do you know your date well?” he asked after a minute that seemed to stretch on forever.

  I shook my head again. “No, he wo
rks with Taylor, too, I guess. It’s a blind date.” I shrugged. The prospect of my own date had become way less interesting in the last few minutes.

  Since I’d opened the front door and seen Graham Morris on the other side of it, in fact.

  “Oh. That sounds… fun,” he said, sounding unconvinced. But he smiled that eye-crinkling smile again, like we were sharing a joke about the hilarity of blind dates.

  Before I could make what would probably have been another stilted, awkward reply, Taylor made her entrance. As usual, she whirled into the room like sunshine on a summer day, her long, perfectly-styled blond hair bouncing luxuriously, her perfectly white, even teeth on full display in a dazzling smile. My best friend since kindergarten, ladies and gentlemen. Taylor Kusmierski was a force of nature. Or a walking shampoo commercial. I could never decide which.

  Graham’s eyes were immediately drawn to Taylor, just like every human being who has ever been in her presence. She flashed him her most alluring smile, accentuated by four coats of lip gloss. I frowned when Graham’s smile widened.

  “Graham!” she crooned.

  “Hey, Taylor,” he replied, giving her the same smile that he’d given me a moment ago.

  Not that it bothered me. Because he was not my fucking date.

  “You’re early!” she added cheerfully, as though that were the best thing to ever happen to her. Taylor had a way of making you feel like everything you did was the best thing ever. She believed that it was important to make people feel valued, and she avidly practiced what she preached.

  After a catwalk across the room, she raised herself on tiptoes and air kissed the man who was not my date, careful not to smudge her makeup.

  “I’m so excited for tonight!” she continued.

  “Me too,” he replied, smiling down at her.

  It was a mark of how tall he was that he had to actually look down at her, since Taylor was five-eight when barefoot, and currently wearing four-inch stilettos. It was tough for her to find a man who was taller than her in heels. Suddenly, the fact that Graham had made it to date number three made a whole lot more sense.