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

by Gemini Jensen

  I hear Nash growl, but I don’t realize he’s slipped up on me yet again, until I turn around, and boom, he’s right there, blocking my way out of the section of the kitchen I’m currently cornered into.

  Before I can even move, blink, speak, or react in anyway, he drops a lingering peck to my lips. Ari is still cradled in his arms between us, which should be weird.

  It’s more endearing than anything.

  For a moment, I feel like an essential part of their family unit. I want this life, I think to myself. I have a soft spot for that little boy, and it goes without saying, I’ve always had one for his father.

  Which is why I need to take a step back, literally and figuratively speaking, before I’m hurt beyond repair. Just as soon as I have this obligatory date.

  I pull away, and he smiles down at me.

  “Night, Stars. I’ll be seeing you real soon.” He heads out the door, and I’m left with a puzzling clusterfuck of emotions I don’t want to be having.

  ~XoXo~

  I stare back at my latest painting, my chest compressing with frustration as I try to pinpoint what’s missing. Swirling the tip of my brush against the metallic gold hue, my hand floats in front of the canvas, creating tiny ribbons against the deep forest green layer that dried overnight.

  That’s the thing about painting—it teaches patience and discipline, requiring so much of your focus, it relaxes you. Which is exactly why I’m trying to put the finishing touches on this one when I should be getting ready for my date tonight; sitting in front of the canvas is a nice momentary distraction.

  Finally satisfied, I grab my brushes and cart them with me to the utility sink in my laundry room. I scrub away the paint from the bristles before focusing on my own hands. Typically, I couldn’t give a shit if any remnants of color are leftover on my skin, but since I’ll be wearing one of my nicer outfits, I’m a bit more thorough. I return the items back to my office, lingering at the door as I take one last glimpse of my painting.

  A vivid green eye stares back at me, the iris a celestial print that becomes more obvious the closer you get. However, from far away, the eye just looks like an intricate mixture of greens and golds working together to add depth.

  I have a knack for creating a multitude of tiny objects and symbols within the iris and disguising them unless you’re close enough to notice, kind of like those posters of Marilyn Monroe where all the tiny pictures of her make up a much larger one.

  I have paintings representing every person close to me that include different things I associate with them, hidden within the iris.

  Gray’s is brown, holding a miniature portrayal of a family, a buttercup to represent his nickname for my sister-in-law, a gun because he’d do anything to protect his loved ones, and a hammer because he’s a workaholic when it comes to maintaining our family’s rental properties.

  My other signature theme is the sky—space specifically—but I’ve never put the two elements together. The longer I stand here staring, the more obvious the fact this painting represents Nash becomes.

  It’s definitely his eye color and it’s space.

  How annoying!

  Even when my mind drifts into my creative space, it always goes back to him, which completely erases that sense of accomplishment and finality I was just feeling. If the artwork represents him, there’s more to be done.

  Heck, he’s the inspiration for my paintings in the first place. The reason all this started…

  ~XoXo~

  Lyra, Junior Year

  I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, trudging up the steps of the white activity bus. Today, Mr. Jackson’s American History class is heading over to Asheville to visit the NC Wildlife Center, and to stop by the food court of the local mall for lunch.

  The bus is alive with excited chatter, all the other Juniors eager to be pulled out of their other classes for the day in exchange for a little freedom.

  Not me. My chest has already begun to squeeze, my body tingling as if setting the stage for the upcoming Anxiety Attack Act that’s sure to come. I was so nervous about being out of my element—about not having a well-prepped plan for what corner I’ll run off and hide in to eat my lunch, what route I can walk to ensure I pass by the fewest students, and hence, have less of a chance of passing by The Bully Squad—that I almost skipped school altogether.

  My stupid freaking brother forced me to go though. Gray insisted it would be good for me, that it would be fun.

  Hm. Fun. Obviously, he doesn’t have the slightest clue what high-school is like for me. He was a freaking football player, and football players are akin to gods in the hallways of Central Valley High—or any small town, really.

  But I’m the opposite of popularity. You’d think someone with the word “Knight” in their name would be of nobility or something, or at the very least, respected.

  Psssht. Not here.

  Here, my last name equals the scorned local scum everyone longs to be rid of.

  Gray just wouldn’t take no for an answer and he didn’t seem to be buying the ‘I’ve suddenly come down with a virus’ lie I tried to sell him this morning. Instead, he drove me to school himself. And I’m fairly certain I saw his jeep parked in the lot to the right of the bus parking area, likely spying to make sure I didn’t back out. I don’t understand why he thinks a stupid field trip to see a bunch of animals—most of which are probably in our backyard woods to begin with—is such a necessity.

  Oh. Fucking. Well.

  I pull my messenger bag closer to my side, attempting to make myself as small as possible as I shuffle past the rows of seats, my eyes scanning the bus for an empty one.

  Lucky me. There isn’t one.

  Unenthusiastically, I search for an alternative solution, finding a few seats with only one occupant. This is just another one of those scenarios I fret over, having to share an hour-long ride with someone who looks at me like I’m nothing more than dogshit on the bottom of their newest pair of shoes. I feel my resolve sinking further and further as I push myself onward…

  Only to find myself suddenly face-planting on the nasty aisle of the bus.

  My cheeks begin to heat, my eyes watering from the way my nose hit the ground. Laughter ricochets through the bus, spreading like wildfire and no one offers to help me up.

  “Aw, did Space Girl fall down again?” Some asshole taunts, using the nickname all the bullies call me.

  I freeze, unable to bounce back but forcing myself to peel my eyes open as I fight the burn in my chest.

  In my eyes.

  In my heart.

  I grimace when my sight finally adjusts, making note of the old gob of gum right by my face. I shouldn’t be surprised. This isn’t the first, second or probably even the tenth time I’ve been tripped. I ought to know to watch out for it by now, and they ought to come up with something a little more original.

  A deep breath drags into my lungs, and I slowly release it. Finally pushing myself up off the ground and dusting off my clothes, I tuck my chin down, hoping no one will see the tears welling in my eyes as I rush toward the back and drop down in a seat at the back of the bus.

  “Um, no way. Let me up,” a bitchy voice to my left pipes up the moment I sit down, tapping my shoulder two harsh times to get my attention. I shift my legs into the aisle, and Lara—a girl who ironically sits next to me in class per our assigned seating chart—brushes past me, plopping down in the seat of the hunky Miles Huntley a few rows up.

  At least I’m alone now.

  Retrieving my sun glasses from my bag, I slide them in place over my stormy eyes. Popularity isn’t something high on my list of priorities or aspirations, but the scorn of my peers still hurts. I might not want to be loved by all, but I at least want to be accepted by some.

  Everyone craves their own tribe, the people who have your back no matter what and who are there for you a hundred percent of the time unfailingly.

  I have no one.

  As luck would have it, it’s also ti
me for my monthly visit from Aunt Flo.

  Needless to say, the dam is about to burst in three, two, one…

  I sniff as the first tear slides down my cheek, followed by more than a few others. Wrenching my phone from my bag, I plug in the earbuds and shove them in my ears, cranking up some music and half-expecting it to drown out the world.

  “Stop Crying Your Heart Out” by Oasis begins to play, and I allow my eyes to drift toward the front of the bus—near the area I wiped out—partially torturing myself as I start forming theories about who might have tripped me.

  There are definitely a few possible culprits—Marsha Cabe, a snobby chick who’s part of Amy Swanson’s crew; Marshall Cabe, her twin brother and one of the jocks from the football team; and I wouldn’t want to count out Kelly Mitchell, Amy’s BFF and sidekick bitch supreme.

  My eyes finally land on the devil herself, and while she might not be sitting at the aisle, it’s easy to conclude she’s the one who orchestrated the attack VIA one of her cronies—no need to get her own hands dirty, she has her minions to handle that for her. Every single one of them throws their head back in perfectly choreographed laughter, and while it annoys me, I realize something…

  I’m back here obsessing over the incident and still mildly embarrassed to have fallen in front of everyone, but all those assholes have already moved on. It’s only a few minutes later, and they’ve already forgotten.

  I should let it go too.

  With a sigh, I relax back into my seat, allowing my head to loll to the side slightly, which is what causes me to catch sight of someone in my periphery—a rather large form taking up quite a bit of space—sprawled out in the seat across the aisle from me. Without tilting my chin anymore so that I don’t give myself away, I cut my eyes to the side and peek at them through the privacy of my sunglasses.

  Under the cover of my shades, I allow my gaze to hover over the boy’s broad chest, which is surprisingly prominent even through the long-sleeved gray sweater—the way he’s draping one arm over the top of one seat and propping his elbow on the top of the other, only making the fabric stretch that much more tautly over his muscles.

  Holy shit. My gaze slides downward, not because I want to check out his package, but because I’m impressed by his impeccable outfit, his gray wash jeans fitting snugly on his thighs and being the perfect match to his shirt.

  One leg is stretched out carelessly in the aisle, his suede black boot complete with matchy-matchy gray strings, grazing my seat every time the bus hits a pot hole. This guy has swag—a little label girls my age like to throw around in regard to a man who carries himself with a certain air most others lack. And from the clothes and don’t-give-a-fuck demeanor, all the way down to his carefree posture, I’d say it’s a well-deserved label for this guy, whoever he might be.

  Which makes me almost afraid to look at him—at his face—knowing it’ll only put a disappointing end to this fantasy I’ve allowed myself a moment to become submersed in. Discovering his true identity will be a cold bucket of ice once I realize he’s an asshole just like the rest of them…

  My eyes slide up to his sharpened jawline, showing the faintest bits of stubble and then linger on his lips, a zing of familiarity suddenly hitting me. I freeze as my gaze travels the last few inches, drawing in a ragged breath when I find the eyes of ex-best friend trained right on my face.

  Blush blooms across my cheeks all over again at the thought he’s aware I’m checking him out, like he might be able to see straight through my charade-shades, and knows it’s all just a ploy to get a good look at him.

  Please, dear god, let my face be turned just enough to seem like I’m still looking somewhere toward the front.

  Panicking, I choose the most likely approach for someone sitting by themselves and listening to music—dropping my eyelids and pretending to be fighting sleep. I even give my most believable fake yawn, laying my head back and kicking my shoes off before tucking my legs up in the seat.

  But pretending to be asleep is an impossible challenge, especially when his image is burned to the back of my eyelids and singed in my memory. Even with my eyes closed, all I see is the carved-from-stone, emerald-eyed, All-American hunk staring straight at me for the first time in two years. He’s still the same boy I once adored. Even if he doesn’t look like a boy at all. To say I’m not affected by him would be a lie of the highest caliber.

  Barely cracking my eyes, I peek at him again now that a few minutes have passed, surprised as hell that he’s still staring at me. For a brief moment, his expression hurdles through a range of emotions, starting with disgust and settling into bemusement before his perfect mask of impassivity reappears.

  Without thinking, I bite down on my lip in confusion. Why the sudden fascination with staring? Does he not miss me the tiniest little bit? Is there something wrong with how I look today?

  Irritation whirls through me, and I’ve had enough, effectively putting an end to my pretend nap session.

  “What?” I snap. It’s one word, but it breaks the ice in a seven hundred and some odd days abstention in communication.

  Nash’s eyes widen ever so slightly before his brows snap together, his lips settling into a flat line. Yet, even though he doesn’t answer me, it doesn’t stop him from studying me like it’s his right to do so.

  I slide my shades off my nose and prop them on top of my head, glaring at him.

  “What the hell are you looking at me for?” I seethe.

  He simply motions toward my shoulder, his eyes dropping there momentarily before sliding back up to meet mine. A shiver rolls over me, just from the attention.

  “You’ve got gum in your hair,” he states simply, but his voice comes out gruff and raw, like it pains him to even be speaking to me at all.

  Of course it does. After the accident we’ve not spoken once, and he can’t bear the sight of me.

  I glance down, and sure enough, a big ol’ gob of Big Red is hanging there like a Christmas ornament for all the world to see. I grimace in frustration as I reach up and attempt to pick it out, saying a prayer to the heavens it’s old and didn’t really get a chance to become a tangled mess.

  I toss the tacky substance out the cracked window behind me, pulling my book out of my bag so that I can ignore the world.

  Here I was thinking he might be reminiscing—maybe even missing me—when he looked at me. Nope. He was just observing the handiwork of his minions, probably plotting up some more original ways to terrorize me now that the whole tripping thing has gotten old.

  Nash doesn’t hide the face he’s just as dazed and confused as I am about our sudden interaction. When the bus arrives to the destination, he’s on his feet and gone before anyone else has a chance to even stand. I, on the other hand, strategically wait until the coast is clear before even getting out of my seat.

  I stick to the back of the crowd as we make our way through the maze of animal habitats on display, taking note that Nash has now rejoined the Bully Squad.

  Surprisingly, they don’t so much as glance my way during the field trip, and when we finally reach the Food Court of the local mall, I get to enjoy the Double-Doozie Cookie Sandwich I choose for my lunch, sans interruption.

  It’s the best day I’ve had in a while, just in being left alone; being given the gift to just be.

  Aside from one hitch.

  Every now and then, I’m hit with a moment of intuition. An odd sensation zips down my spine, the hairs rising on the back of my neck to alert me of one thing…I’m on someone’s radar.

  And it’s those same bewitchingly intense emerald eyes burning a hole right through me every time I glance his way.

  It’s unnerving.

  It’s thrilling.

  And most of all, it’s hazardous to my health.

  ~XoXo~

  I can count the times we spoke after that day on one hand. Hell, I can count them on one finger. The staring became a constant fixation with him, his eyes always searching me out, always watching my every
move; but it would be another year before we spoke again. Even then, it was just to ask if I was good on beer at a party we were both attending, and that was it.

  Those interactions were as close to mending our friendship as we ever got. On the one hand, it was better than him acting like I didn’t exist. On the other, it made things even harder.

  Every day of our Junior and Senior years, Nash Hudson stared at me. Sometimes it was with a look full of scorn, informing me of his hatred for me and causing me to fear for my own safety.

  Other days, he confused the hell out of me, affection and misery swirling in his emerald depths and causing me to question my own sanity. But his eyes always told a different story, cueing me into his mood…

  The hateful days, he was full of gloom and misery.

  On the days he confused me, tricking me into believing he might still care, I figure he was feeling some small inkling of hope in life itself.

  Then, there were times I couldn’t get a read on him at all, when his irises were embedded with mysteries and I couldn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

  And that’s where my obsession with painting the eye was born—when my imagination ran rampant and I was left guessing.

  I glance at the clock, stifling the urge to go back to the easel once I realize I’m now marked for time.

  One hour. That’s all I have.

  “Why did I agree to this?” I grumble to Midas, my golden koi, when I stop on my way past to sprinkle a few pellets into his tank. He swishes back and forth, I swear staring back at me with pity, before breaking to the surface in search of his food.

  With a sigh, I trudge along to my bedroom.

  What do I wear?

  I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I don’t even have a clue as to where we’re headed, other than the fact it’s to dinner.

  Will we just be having dinner, or will we end up going somewhere for a drink afterwards?

  Isn’t there like, an app for this shit or something? That sudden aha! moment hits me, and I pull up my Pinterest board for outfits on my phone. After scrolling through and getting some ideas, I start grabbing several tops, several jeans, and a few dresses and tossing them onto my bed.