Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  “Be careful, Stars. And for fuck’s sake, please don’t drive in your condition.”

  The line goes dead without so much as a goodbye.

  “Bye, Nash, and fuck you too,” I shout at the phone, getting emotional for no apparent reason. I don’t know what I was expecting to come from this drunk-dial, but it sure wasn’t that.

  I return my phone to the Bluetooth setting, cranking up the music once more as I attempt to clear my head. Running into my room to change into something more comfy, I pick out a barely-there pair of booty-shorts I typically sleep in, and the matching scoop-neck tank that completes the ensemble. The bottoms are spandex-type material that feels more like microfiber and the top has a juvenile moon and star print.

  I groan as I catch sight of the stars in my mirror, rolling my eyes because I can’t escape him. Since he’s returned to town, and I know his fiancée is out of the picture, I’ve not gotten him out of my head.

  “Get the fuck out of my head, Nash,” I growl at the mirror.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Be right there, V!” I yell as I head toward the front door. Gray and her live in walking distance and she shows up all the time, always needing to check on me since she’s all motherly now. Always concerned I’m lonely.

  I pull the door open, my eyes widening when they land on a familiar set of green ones. I shut the door in his face, spinning around and walking away.

  “I’m totally losing it,” I say out loud.

  Then, more knocking starts up, much more insistent in nature this time.

  I march back to the door, pulling it open again.

  This time, Nash or Imaginary Nash, I’m not too sure at this point, just lets himself on inside.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. It’s a valid question, whether aimed at real Nash or pretend Nash, so it doesn’t really matter which of the two I’m speaking to.

  His eyes narrow. “Making sure you don’t do stupid and careless shit.” He leans back against the counter, carelessly studying me like I’m a puzzle that’s missing some crucial pieces. I likely am.

  “I’m an adult. I can drink,” I argue.

  “Not if you do stupid shit like tell some weirdo you don’t even know where the hell you live.” He pushes off the counter angrily, stepping toward me as his voice rises. “What the hell, Lyra? He could be a fucking psycho serial murderer. Have you never heard of the Craigslist killer? You know, the dude who enticed women online to meet him, then he killed them?! You live out here by yourself,” he bellows. “He could chop you up in little bits and throw you in the stream out back.”

  I nod in agreement, giggling. “Swell point well made. Thanks.”

  He shakes his head angrily, stomping back to the door, opening it to grab a bag sitting outside.

  “What’s that?” Alcohol is swimming through my bloodstream and confusion is warping my brain right now.

  “That’s my shit I brought with me. No fucking way am I allowing you to stay by yourself if you gave some random dude directions here. No. Fucking. Way.”

  I scoff. “Puh-lease, Imaginary Nash. Be my damn guest.” I wave my arm out in welcome. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you just sleep in my bed with me. Make sure the big bad boogeyman doesn’t show up and stab me to death.”

  He glares, taking a deep and shaky breath. Shit. Imaginary Nash might not be real, but he’s certainly putting off some sexy-as-sin vibes. I look him up and down in appraisal. At the way his muscles are hard and defined. And why the fuck doesn’t he even have on a shirt? And how the hell did I miss it?

  I must have just willed it into my reality.

  I ask anyway. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

  He glances down at his ripped abs, his expansive chest, and back at me, finally seeming to realize I’m not wearing all that much myself.

  That’s what this is! I understand now…a fantasy-dream.

  “Gotta hand it to myself,” I muse aloud. “Maybe Valley’s right. If my imagination and fantasies are this vivid, I need to start writing books.”

  He stares at me for a long time, the intensity making me squirm.

  “You think you’re imagining this?” He smirks.

  “Obviously I am, I’m not an idiot. But as far as this serial killer part of this fantasy, I don’t think I’d mind so much, so long as he looked like you…” I wink suggestively, allowing my gaze to press against every inch of his torso again, suddenly searching to see if he’s got that V I’m so obsessed with. Yes, indeed. It’s there. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I try to keep from drooling.

  “I wonder if real Nash is this sexy?” I muse aloud, drumming my fingers on my chin as I allow my mind to drift for a mere moment before shrugging. “Who cares?”

  I start to head to my bedroom, seriously hoping this fantasy continues in there.

  “Lyra,” his voice grows stern, and my feet lodge in place, stopping my retreat even though I don’t want to follow his demands if they don’t lead to shedding clothes and continuing this show in my bed. Fuck, I’m too horny.

  So, I tell him so.

  He rolls his eyes, finally walking right up to me and grabbing my hands. I eye him warily, because he feels warm, flesh and blood like so much more than an invention of my mind. He’s very much my reality right now. He takes my palms, pressing them to his chest. His muscles jump at my touch when he pushes them from his pecs and down, taking his time. My touch slides over each divot of his washboard abs, and I count them by twos. Two. Four. Six. He pauses the fluid movement when I’m just at the hem of his silky looking boxers.

  His eyebrow arches smugly. “Feel real enough for you?”

  I jerk my hands back, eyes widening and face beginning to burn. There’s no way my fantasy Nash would be as cocky as the real one.

  He chuckles at the reaction, taking a step back as his gaze travels down my body again, landing on my booty-shorts.

  “Go get some clothes on,” he orders gruffly, opening my fridge like he’s done it a thousand times before and this is just as much his domain as it is mine.

  “I have clothes on. This is what I sleep in,” I pause for thought. “Well, when I actually wear something to sleep in…It’s late and I just got off work. I’m not putting a bunch of un-comfy clothes back on.” My hand slides up to my hip as I narrow my eyes at him. This dude—he comes to my house in the evening, and tries to order me around, right down to what the hell I can wear. He drives me insane with all the mixed signals he gives…he toys with me at the bar last week, confusing the hell out of me until I saw he was with the Bully Squad. Then he shows up acting like he cares about me tonight. It’s enough to give a girl whiplash so hard she has brain damage.

  He stares back at me, face pinched, as his gaze slides slowly down my body again. It almost seems like they linger on my breasts and legs, but that’s probably my imagination.

  “Put some clothes on,” he forcefully repeats.

  “Or what?” I pop out the hip my hand is currently resting on.

  He steps up to me, dropping his chin so that he can stare down at me, his height easily towering over mine. I’m not sure what he’s trying to do—exert some authority, or make me want to jump his bones. Currently, I’m leaning toward the latter, and we all know how that one pans out. Crash and burn, baby.

  “Sweetheart,” he drawls out slowly, his voice raspy and thick. “I just went from fucking multiple times a day, to the sudden conversion of using my hand. Trust me when I say, catching my eye when I’m in my current predicament, would end badly for you. I’d fuck you so hard and rough-like, it’d probably scare you.”

  I gulp. Oh-kay then. I back away slowly, like he might pounce at any given moment. I’m more scared I’d like it.

  A look of satisfaction crosses his face and he nods. “Good girl. Now, I’m going to make you some food. Sober you up.”

  He can’t give me an out fast enough…I run to my room, peel off the revealing bottoms and pull some leggings on instead.

&n
bsp; Jeez. How do I always humiliate myself with him?

  Eyeing the cardboard box on my floor that I just brought from my dad’s house yesterday evening, I kick the shit out of it, hoping to expel some of my frustration. It tips over, and everything scatters all over. Including a familiar shoebox, that’s lid has also gotten dislodged in the process. Folded-up blue slips of paper spill into a puddle, and I groan, dropping to my knees to scoop them back inside. I clamp the lid back in place and I begin to stand, when another stray piece peeks out at me from the corner of my rug.

  I pluck it out, my eyes lingering on the words.

  Reason # Forty-One…You can keep a secret. Even when you have every reason not to. Even when someone has done you wrong and you could get them back just by sharing it… I admire your nobleness.

  I sigh, tossing it on my vanity before dropping back onto the bed.

  I sit here, staring at the closed door for what seems like hours. Desperate to avoid owning up to my stupidity. He always lures me into making a fool of myself. Coaxing me into acting all desperate and needy for him; it’s as if he enjoys shutting me down. That fucker toys with me for his own satisfaction.

  When there’s a knock at my bedroom, I don’t answer, but the knob twists anyway. Still-shirtless-but-very-much-reality Nash pokes his head in, holding a plate in his hand. The tasty scent of alfredo hits my nose in an instant. When our eyes meet, he lifts his chin as if to ordering me to come out in the kitchen, dangling the goodies—that is, the food he cooked me—out in front of me as bait.

  Being in the tipsy state I am, I take it.

  I drop down at the tiny dining-room table, making a show of crossing my arms angrily, but he offers a simple smirk, sitting the plate directly in front of me. The silverware was already set—if I was thinking, I would have sat somewhere else just to spite him.

  From the first bite, I’m hooked, shoveling food down as quick as I can get it. In two minutes flat, the big plate of alfredo that was just sitting in front of me, is no more.

  “I take it you liked it then?” His gaze lands on the empty dish.

  I shrug. “It was alright.”

  He lets out a huff of laughter. “Well, Hell. If it was just alright, and you put it down that fast, I’d hate to take you out somewhere you really enjoy. I’d have to learn the Heimlich maneuver so you don’t choke to death.”

  I dab at my mouth, my eyes narrowing on him. “Don’t worry, Ponyboy. My gag-reflex is made of steel.” I reach out to pat him on the arm in reassurance.

  A heated look fills his eyes, but it lasts only a moment before his face scrunches up and he booms with laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” I snip.

  “Nothing, just,” he swipes at his eyes. “Nothing.”

  I glare until he finally composes himself. “Where’d Ponyboy come from?” He asks, still slightly amused although I have a feeling the nickname wasn’t what brought on the rumbling laughter.

  I grin, losing a little of the irritation. “Gee, I don’t know…maybe due to the fact, ever since you got that blowjob at the movie theater from Amy Swanson,”—I can’t help but to sneer at her name—“you suddenly claimed to be packing, any and every time you got the chance.”

  He leans forward in his seat at the jibe, his face growing serious. “Babe,” he tsks. “What makes you think I ain’t?” There’s challenge written all over his face, so much so, that I’m suddenly real curious as to whether or not it’s the truth, or just his version of an imagination.

  “Not sure. A guy your height and build, I’d say…no more than six inches.” It’s far from the truth; if that were the case he’d be goliath-sized. Nash is easily six foot three inches, and man is he built. I’m not sure why I’m egging him on, but Hell if it isn’t fun.

  “Stars,” he levels me with a look telling me he knows I’m full of shit, allowing a cocky smirk to play at his lips. “I’m six-four.”

  “Yep.” I nod in agreement. “But very built. Like ripped. You use steroids? Cuz that shit shrinks up the sword and shrivels the balls,” I continue with the digs.

  Suddenly, he stands—his hands going straight for the button of his jeans. He pops it open, and my eyes grow wide. “You challenging me—baiting me into showing you my cock? All you had to do was ask…” The zipper rasps as it lowers.

  Oh. My. God. My lip settles between my teeth again, but I somehow fight off the urge to do what’s wrong and my hand does the proper thing by covering my eyes, even though I’d like nothing more than to enjoy these front-row seats to my own personal Chippendale show.

  “Okay, okay. No need to whip it out,” I concede.

  He chuckles darkly. “Put that shit away,” I demand, even though my thoughts are cheering him on. Unleash the Kracken.

  “Nah, I don’t think I will. I think that one side of you really wants to see it…you know, that dirty little birdy who sits on your shoulder whispering all the bad stuff, and how you should just go with it.”

  I scoff, pretending to be offended when he’s not that far off. There is a side to me like that, but then again, there’s a side like that in all of us. It shouldn’t be anything to be ashamed of.

  “Lyra, you can uncover your eyes now.” I shake my head, not really caring if I see his package, but more so afraid of how I’d react. “Lyra, come on. You really think I’m gonna do that? I was just messing around. You don’t do that shit to a lady, especially at her kitchen table,” he coaxes.

  I drop my hand, finding he’s sitting back in the seat beside me with a funny expression as he stares at me.

  “What?” I ask defensively.

  “You feeling a little more sobered up now?”

  “Yeah, surprisingly I am.”

  “You realize the last time I saw you that tipsy was when you got shitfaced after those goons tried to pick you up.”

  Thanks, Nash. Now I’m instantly sobered. That sensation that settled into my gut that night—a nice mixture of fear and rejection—twists uncomfortably.

  “How could I ever forget that night?” I ask sarcastically, instantly angered he’d actually bring it up right now.

  “It’s natural to be fearful sometimes, Lyra. In fact, from what you said on the phone earlier, I’d say it might even do you some good.” I don’t bother to tell the truth, don’t correct him and don’t deny. There was never a Nate who I hit up and gave directions to, but he doesn’t have to know that. It got him here didn’t it? I might not be too pleased about the fact, but I can’t say I want him to leave now that he’s here. Even though, the closer I get with him, the closer I get to being hurt again.

  Call me a risk-taker. Maybe I just like dancing with danger, even if it’s only my heart on the line.

  “Oh, I felt fear alright on that night. But not as much I felt the rejection.” My gaze turns icy as the admission comes barreling out.

  His eyes widen by some small fraction, nearly imperceivably, but I still catch it..

  “Didn’t think you would remember that,” he eyes me warily.

  “Hm. How could I forget?” I try for angry, but the hurt seeps out instead.

  “I thought you were so drunk you’d forget it by the morning…”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t.” I shrug, scooting my chair back and standing. “You made it perfectly clear all that sexual attraction I thought was going on between us, the flirting, the lingering glances and want—all of that, was just a figment of my imagination. And it was damn embarrassing.”

  I spin on my heel, marching to my bedroom door and shoving it behind me after I pass through. I never hear it catch, but the smack of the knob against my wall is unmistakable, as is the angry stomping that accompanies just after.

  “Don’t get pissy at me,” Nash glares down at me, all up in my space…all up in my room. My eyes slide over to the bed, and back again. His thumb hooks under my chin, pulling my gaze back to him. But he doesn’t let go, his finger digs into my skin just short of being harsh when his eyes bore down into my own. His voice softens considerably
.

  “If I embarrassed you that night, when you came to me all distraught and upset, if I hurt you by turning you down when you came on to me…It wasn’t my intention.”

  “Yet it still hurt just the same,” I throw back at him.

  His eyes flick between mine, losing their edge and growing soft as if I’m some needy chick and he’s the guy who broke her heart. Who the hell cares if it’s the truth? You’ll never hear me admit it.

  “Let’s go for a walk…IF you’re feeling up to it?”

  I blink at him defiantly. Hell no I’m not feeling up to it.

  But when he bends down, sliding my flops on my feet all sweet-like, then stands and threads his fingers through mine, I find it’s much more difficult to refuse him.

  He grabs my throw blanket off the couch as we walk past, taking the time to wrap it around my shoulders. When we pass through the kitchen, he pulls a hoodie from the top of his overnight bag and slides it on. Recapturing my hand, we’re out the door.

  He leads me around my house, back toward the creek and I immediately know where we’re headed. Hand-in-hand, mostly by instinct, we wander through the dark, seeking out the big oak tree that towers over the edge of the creekbank. We’re silent for a few minutes, and my mind keeps circling around a single thought.

  Nash left me in a time I needed him the most. Sure, he was confused and hurt, and couldn’t bear to look at me, but we could have been each other’s pillar of strength. Now, I’m not just apprehensive—the idea of being close to him again, especially when I don’t even understand why he’s here with me, scares me to death.

  Hard feelings aside, I called him tonight, somehow worrying him that I was making a mistake and putting myself in danger. He’d dropped what he was doing, apparently ran out of the house shirtless, and got here as quick as he could, just to ensure my safety. He’s the same guy from my youth, the nurturing and caring one, but it’s intensified—likely due to fatherhood.

  But is he selfless now? Does he consider others before he makes decisions that will change the course of his life and those around him? Because that’s what he did in high-school…he just shut me out, avoiding the pain I was sure to cause him just from being near, but ensuring I felt that same pain doubled over.