by Diana Gardin
Mea works really hard to not roll her eyes; I can see that the struggle is real.
“So, if you’re living in Savannah, maybe I’ll see you around again.” Emily’s fake, planted smile somehow grows even bigger.
I decide it’s time to join in on this conversation. When I stand up beside Mea, the girl’s eyes shift to me and they go wide. Her smile gets even bigger, and she pushes her tits out overtly. I guess her date be damned.
“Hi, I’m Emily. Mea and I go way back. You are?”
Mea speaks up quickly. Her buttery skin flushes a deep scarlet while her eyes flash hot fire. “He’s…not for you, Emily. It was nice seeing you.”
Emily looks taken aback, and then her eyes narrow. “Yeah, maybe we should hook up on Facebook and catch up.”
Mea stands strong. Pride swells up in me as something inside my soul recognizes a deep attraction to the very identity of hers. “I’m not on Facebook.”
Emily tosses her one more fake smile. “Funny. I always thought the people who aren’t on Facebook must have something to hide. Anyway, good seeing you, doll!” She pulls her date behind her and they leave the restaurant.
Mea falls back into her seat with a huff, and Berkeley starts in.
“That bitch. I swear to God if Dare hadn’t been holding me down”—she gives Dare a dark look—“I would have punched her in her smug face. Also, I didn’t know you lived in Kentucky before you moved to Brunswick County.”
Mea’s sigh is weary. I’m also curious about her roots, because we’ve never had a conversation about her past. But I do know there’s something in it that she doesn’t want to dig up, and I can imagine seeing a face from her past has shaken her up. I place an arm around her shoulders, and sure enough, she’s trembling. I rub soothing circles down her arm, and she gives me a grateful glance.
“Can we just not talk about it right now?” she asks Berkeley tersely.
Berkeley, taken aback, just nods.
“Do you want to go back to the house?” I ask her, leaning in so she’s the only one who hears me.
She shakes her head. “No way. This won’t ruin our night. What’s next?” She addresses the last question to the table.
Berkeley brightens. “A night out in downtown Savannah!”
I look at Mea, and her face isn’t quite back to its usual sunniness. It’s a little shadowed, no doubt because of the incident she just endured. She meets my searching gaze for just a second before her expression shutters and she plasters on a smile. I know she’s doing it because she wants to be happy for her friends’ big weekend. But I’d be willing to bet the last thing she wants to do right now is party.
But Mea agrees. “Sounds like just what I need.”
I tuck her under my arm as we head down the street, moving at a leisurely pace. She fits there, which surprises the fuck out of me. I’m no small dude, and Mea is tiny. But having her pressed up against my side feels good. Feels more than good.
We decide, because of the way we’re dressed, to stick close by in the historic downtown area. Ending up at a chic bar known for their signature cocktails, we pull up barstools around a high-top table and soak in the atmosphere. It’s classic and contemporary, and even though the vibe is more upscale than the places I usually go back in Carolina, I dig the laid-back feel of the place. A male bartender comes around the bar to ask us if we’ve been to the place before and we tell him we’re just visiting. He’s flirty with the ladies and I get it, because they’re all sexy as hell and he’s gotta earn his tips. So I lean back on my stool and take it in with amusement as he schmoozes them, explaining the variety of southern cocktails they can order.
“Rule for the night,” announces Berkeley. She claps her hands together, all bossy. Dare shakes his head at her with amusement, and Greta and Mea pay attention.
Jeremy gasps, pretending to be shocked. “There’s rules? I thought this was a party weekend!”
Olive laughs.
Berkeley narrows her eyes at him. “That’s why there’s rules. This bar has tons of delicious-looking signature cocktails. No one is ordering beer tonight, got it?”
Ronin, who’s usually pretty quiet, groans. “Seriously?”
Dare chuckles, brushing a chunk of Berkeley’s light blond hair away from her forehead. “I’ll order one, babe. Get me what you’re having.”
Jeremy shakes his head slowly “Dude, you are so whipped.”
Berkeley snuggles into Dare’s side. “Actually, Jeremy, we both like a little bit of whipping.”
When Jeremy’s eyes grow huge, Dare snorts out a laugh, which turns into a cough.
Mea bursts into laughter. “Whips and chains do have their place, gentlemen.”
My cock twitches at her comment, and it doesn’t help a bit when she lays a hand on my thigh under the table and squeezes. She’s full of surprises, this one. And I just want to label her.
Mine, mine, mine.
Now Ronin turns on her, and I spy the hungry glance in his eyes. Predatory.
That shit ain’t happening. I pull her barstool as close to mine as it can get and shoot him a glare. My look roars hands off. I can see from his knowing expression that he gets it.
With a round of cocktails ordered, we settle in for the night. Drinks, conversation, and laughter. It’s a good start to the weekend.
But I can’t keep my attention from the woman sitting next to me. She’s funny, she’s dynamic, she’s a whole handful that I’m not sure I can keep up with, but I’m realizing that I damn sure want to try.
After we’ve had our fill, the stroll back to our rented historical house is easy and relaxed. I lag behind with Mea, because, well, I want her to myself. At this point, I don’t even think it’s a secret anymore. Dare and Grisham have given me a few pointed glances during the night, but I can’t care less what they think. Whatever is happening here is happening between me and her, and no one else.
The thing that’s really eating away at me from the inside out is the fact that she’s struggling with something on the inside. Seeing that girl from her past in the restaurant tonight has awakened some demons in her, and I don’t think it’s the first time they’ve been roused. If her nightmares are any indication, she’s wrestling with something. Something big.
And something inside of me, something brand-new that I’ve never dealt with before, wants to show her that I’m strong enough to beat them back for her. I can be strong for her. She doesn’t have to handle any of it by herself.
Whatever “it” is.
As we’re walking, I take her hand. She stares down at it, almost as if she’s in shock.
When she glances back up at me, I smirk. “What? A guy’s never held your hand before?”
Her face is completely perplexed, and with a sinking in my gut I realize the answer to my flippant question is yes. A guy has literally never held her hand before. Is it because all the men she’s dated before me have been that dense, that fucking blockheaded, or is it because she never lets men get close enough to grab her hand?
Either way, a river of sadness runs through me, the current fast and strong. It seems like every time I’m with Mea, I’m drowning in some sort of intense emotion. The desire to protect her. The wanting…the sheer lust she creates whenever she touches me or whenever I look at her. The fury that eats me alive when I realize she’s been hurt—really hurt—by someone in her past that she trusted.
The tumult of emotions makes me remember the feelings I used to have about my mom…so goddamn many of them. And it makes me crave a drink.
“Get used to it.” I say it with simple clarity, so she knows there’s no game with me. I like her. A lot. And she intrigues me.
I can’t remember the last time a woman did that.
Oh, yes I can. The one who ran away from me after giving me the most mind-blowing sex of my life.
Her small hand squeezes mine. The movement is so feminine, so gentle and sweet, that I quickly look at her. It’s rare that Mea is gentle and sweet. My little tornado is calmi
ng, and the fact that I’m here to witness it, maybe even being the cause of it, makes me one lucky bastard.
As soon as we walk inside the house, the others are lounging around in the great room. The girls have kicked off their shoes, legs tucked up underneath them on the couch. Mea heads for a seat next to Berkeley when her ringtone goes off.
She checks the caller ID, and then immediately veers for the hallway. I stand at the entrance to the great room, keeping one eye on her and one on the activity of our friends.
“What?” she asks. Her tone grabs my full attention.
“No,” she says, sounding like she’s in disbelief. “That’s not right. We’re supposed to have two weeks.”
She listens again, and then nods. Her voice makes my throat catch when she speaks again. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine, Mikah. Don’t worry about me. Good night.”
She stands there, staring at her phone. The magnet that pulls me toward her is so strong right now I can’t stay rooted to my spot. I drift toward her, but when she looks at me her eyes are stricken, and I freeze.
“Mea?”
She raises a hand, shakes her head, and flees up the stairs.
I’m left in the hallway, wondering what to do. With everything inside of me I want to go to her. Whatever she heard on the other end of the phone undid her.
Tied her up in knots. Pushed her over the edge.
But what could it have been? I know that Mikah is her brother. What did he tell her?
Enough thinking.
I take the steps two at a time until I reach the closed door of her lavender room. Knocking softly, I wait. I want to barge in, so much so that my hands are fisted in front of me against the door.
“I’m okay.” Her voice is choked on the other side, and another piece of my heart breaks.
“No, you’re not. Let me in, sweetheart.”
There’s a pause, and I can hear the rustling of the sheets on her bed. I think I hear a sob, but it’s so muffled I can’t be sure.
“Mea.” My voice is pained.
Tortured. Tortured. Tortured.
“Go away, Drake.”
I curse, pounding a fist on the door once before I turn away. She needs to be alone.
Translation: I’m not what she needs.
Heading back downstairs, I head straight for the bar and pour myself a whiskey. The liquor burns as it blazes down my throat, and I feel a false sense of relief as it goes down. Finishing that first drink more quickly than I should, I pour another.
And another.
14
Mea
They moved it up, Mea. Aunt T just called me. His parole hearing is tomorrow.”
I replay Mikah’s statement in my head over and over again, all while lying facedown on my gorgeous, temporary, lavender bed. It even smells like lavender.
This can’t be happening. After what my father did to me, there’s no way they’d just let him go, right? But he’s been in prison for ten years already. Of a fifteen-year sentence. Maybe they’ll decide he’s served his time.
When I know the truth: there’ll never be enough time in prison for him. Not even a lifetime would do.
I’m filled with a perverted sense of relief, because I don’t have to go and say anything at all. The parole board can make their decision without me having to go through the turmoil of seeing my father again and speaking about him to a roomful of strangers.
I think about my mother. Not the vacant one who eventually succumbed to her desire to leave. But the one before. The vibrant one I can just barely remember. The one I hold on to so desperately in my heart. What would she do?
She’d say there’s no point agonizing over something you can’t change. And if there’s a possible outcome that worries you, you don’t have to handle it alone.
I’m tired of handling everything alone. I shield most of what I went through emotionally from Mikah, because he’s my little brother. It was always my job to protect him. I never told my best friends, because how do you tell someone that your father repeatedly assaulted you? It doesn’t come up in casual conversation. It really doesn’t even come up in deep conversations.
I never told a man I loved, because I never allowed myself to love one.
The one man I ever loved hurt me.
I roll over onto my back and then sit up. Staring around the gorgeous room, I make a decision. This is not something I can handle alone. Whether my father is released or not, I don’t want the burden of him on my shoulders alone anymore. I want to tell someone.
Taking a minute, I close my eyes and just breathe. In yoga, the deep breathing of the Shavasana calms you, relaxes you. I give myself about two minutes of the deep cleansing breaths.
And then I know who I want to tell first.
Glancing at the time, I’m shocked that it’s past midnight. I change out of my dress and into comfy yoga pants and a soft tank top. Leaving my feet bare, I tiptoe out of my room and into the hallway. Downstairs is quiet. Everyone must have turned in for the night.
There’s a night-light on the wall in the hallway. I follow the soft glow to Drake’s bedroom door. I don’t bother to knock.
Shutting the door softly behind me, I find him sprawled across his bed. I suck in a sharp breath, because there’s a soft lamp on the bedside table, and I’m able to take in the fact that he’s wearing nothing but charcoal boxer-briefs. His ass is absolutely perfect. I get distracted following the hard, cut lines of his muscular back to his tattoo-sleeved arms. I drink him in with my eyes, because my God he’s beautiful.
He’s asleep, snoring softly. He’s so big, his bare feet hang diagonally off the bed. I creep up and crawl into bed beside him, circling myself into a ball at his side.
Immediately, he tucks one arm around me and groans sleepily. He doesn’t turn his head to face me, but his hand is soft and warm against my ribs.
“Mea.” His voice is rough sandpaper against a wooden surface, and it sends a shiver creeping across my skin.
“How did you know it was me?” I whisper.
He sighs gently before rolling his big body over and pulling me into his chest. He cradles me with both of his strong arms, and I’m so relieved to be here I could almost cry. The lump in my throat is proof of that.
“Because I feel you, baby.”
His breath whispers across my face, and I wrinkle my nose. “You smell like a brewery, Drake.”
“Had a few before I crashed.”
I stiffen. “It smells like more than a few.”
He shifts, and when I look up at him, his eyes are half-closed. He’s barely having this conversation with me right now. Unease courses through my system.
“You were upset. Made me upset.”
I sigh. “Oh, Drake. I told you I was okay. I just needed a little time.”
Shrugging, he tugs me closer. It only takes another minute before his breathing slows and evens out.
He’s asleep.
Half angry with him that I was all geared up, finally ready to tell him my deepest, darkest secret, but he’s too drunk to listen, and half relieved just to be in his arms, I stay. It takes me awhile, but eventually, sleep finds me, too.
I’m standing beside the window in a Warrior pose when Drake’s waking groan draws my attention. Sitting up in bed, he searches the room until he finds me. I pad over to the bed and climb in. He places a soft kiss on my head.
“You weren’t a dream, sweetheart?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I don’t look up. “Nope. And neither was the fact that you were too wasted to talk to me when I came in here last night.”
He sucks in a sharp breath; his chest moves with the effort. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Mea.”
I’m not quite sure if sorry is going to cut it.
“It’s just…before these last couple of months…I don’t remember ever seeing you drunk. And now…” I let the sentence hang.
With a sigh, Drake sits up, pulling me up with him. We lean against the headboard together, both lost in our own thoughts.
> “Did you have something important to tell me last night?” His tone is so soft, so gentle. It’s amazing he can talk to me like that, considering his size and toughness. I trace the inky lines on his forearm. There’s a big, Gothic-looking cross there, with lots of tribal lines working around it to make a beautiful mural.
He cups my chin with one hand, tilting it up so that I can see his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, shadowy underneath. It makes me sad.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He mutters a curse. “I fucked up. So, so sorry, baby. I want to be here for you. I do.”
But now, he’s going to have to prove that. So I just tilt my lips in a small smile.
I pull away from him and climb out of bed. “I’m going to go take a shower and see what Berkeley wants to do today.”
As I walk out of the room, I take one last look back at him. He’s sitting in the same spot, his hands covering his face.
If he wants to do this with me, if he wants to be the guy I turn to when I need someone, then he’s going to have to get his shit together. I’m enough of a mess for two people.
“Seriously, Berkeley?” My voice is grumbly as I pull the black leather strap tight on my helmet. “I’m pretty sure this was supposed to be a spa day.”
I glance around me, miles of Georgia’s deciduous greenery reflecting the radiance of the morning sun. I can already picture the miles of dirt trails and exploratory freedom just waiting for us to rip it up. When I turn back to Berkeley, she’s eyeing the acres around us with apprehension.
Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, her voice is much breathier than usual. “This is a couples Before the Wedding weekend, Mea. Remember? That means we actually have to spend time with the guys. Dare’s pick today was riding ATVs in the jungle.”
She shudders slightly, and a barely suppressed giggle finds its way out of my throat. “Oh my God, Berkeley. Why didn’t you just tell him you were scared to death to do this?”
Berkeley has a lot of talents. I mean, a lot. She’s a gifted artist, and she hangs something of her own making on the wall of every interior design job she takes on. But when it comes to organized sports or basically anything that requires her to be physically active, she’s the very definition of the phrase “hot mess.”