This Love

by Emily Snow

  “Of a son-of-a-bitch,” he suggests through his teeth.

  “Cocky.” I slam the fridge, but he’s unfazed. “I was going to say cocky and that he doesn’t have it in him to hurt someone. Not intentionally.” Still, it isn’t Graham who’s kept me awake at night but his older, dimpled, beautifully frustrating brother instead.

  “They’re a family of users.”

  He’s said that before just never to me. The walls in our apartment are thin, so there were many nights I overheard his hushed conversations with Mom. He’d wanted her to quit working for the Delaneys years before she died, dating back to when I was still a little girl, because he believed Monica and Erik asked too much of her. She always said she couldn’t, that she loved the boys too much, “too hard.”

  I do, too. I love all three of them—Cain, Graham, and Bennett— just in different ways.

  I turn away from him, to finish prepping my food and so he won’t be able to study how my face changes, as I say, “They’d never use me. Besides, it was just a party.”

  And yet … my voice hitches.

  Dad doesn’t bring up the Delaneys again, so I make it a point not to talk about them—not Graham or Cain, who emails that he’ll be moving back to New York later this summer, and certainly not Bennett. We have a late, Sunday night dinner at the Thai restaurant around the corner where we discuss the book I’m reading—Dad fell asleep when he watched the movie with Mom years ago—and the Red Hot Chili Pepper's album that releases in a few days. That, he thinks he'll enjoy.

  By the next morning, he’s back to himself.

  He sings along softly with his oldies, playing finger percussion on the bathroom and kitchen counters while he shaves and drinks his morning coffee. It’s his off-key version of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine” that drags me out of bed. I don’t have to be at the music shop until eleven, but I decide to stay up, planning to stop by the used bookstore before going to Ellerby’s.

  I’m tying the laces on my tennis shoes, so I can head out when Dad does, when there’s a light tap on my door.

  “Hey, Charlize.” Only one person calls me that—she started after watching The Cider House Rules during our John Irving adaptation movie marathon earlier this year. She swears my resemblance to the actress is uncanny, but I just think I look like Mom did at my age. Right down to the white-blonde hair, Greek nose, and tall, willowy figure.

  “Good morning, Miss President.”

  Charlotte snorts at the nickname. “You’ve ignored my calls all weekend.”

  I glance up at her grinning face and laugh. “I called you back both times. It’s not my fault you didn’t pick up.”

  “I was probably working. Sorry about that.” She plops down on my bed and lays on her back, her thick brown hair sweeping the oval braided rug. For a moment, she listens to my dad sing. “Damn, I need to start dropping by your place every morning. My dad never sings—he just wakes me up every day with an academic pep talk.”

  “Every day?”

  “Close to it. If drive to get ahead and competitiveness came in pill form, he’d grind it up and sneak it into my cereal every day, too.” She lets the blood rush to her head a few seconds longer, then sits up, fisting her hair in her hand and tying it in a ponytail with the band she plucks off my nightstand.

  “Good thing I don’t have an incurable scalp disease.”

  “If you do then we really are joined for life. We'll become cat ladies together, where we spend our days rubbing our cats and scratching ourselves.” Her hazel eyes follow me as I go to the mirror to examine my appearance. She anxiously drums her fingertips on my blue floral bedspread until I finally arch an eyebrow at her reflection.

  “Are you waiting for something?”

  She grits her teeth. “Ahh! You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?”

  “For what?”

  “You and Street Racer, Charlize. I’m dying to know what’s going on.”

  I spin around to meet her direct state, crossing my legs at the ankle. Before I can ask her to elaborate, Dad raps on my door and yells that he’ll be home late this evening. “See you tonight. Love you,” I call back. Once the front door gives its tell-tale creak, I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, what about Bennett?”

  “What about him?” She blinks slowly. “Last night, Graham told me you two were together.”

  Together. Emphasized. I swallow to shake the tightness from my throat. “Graham is wrong. And you were talking to him last night? Are you together?”

  Her cheeks light up. She chooses to ignore my question about her relationship with Graham, stating, “You slept in Bennett’s bed. And then he got into that fight with that knuckle-dragger his mom was all over.”

  I gape at her, a heavy weight thudding to the pit of my stomach. “What? When?”

  She grabs a pair of unworn socks off the bottom of my bed and rolls them between her small hands. “The other night.”

  “You saw all this?”

  “I left way before that happened. With Graham.” She blows out a noisy breath at the look I give her. “All we did was go for a walk and talk, but you were already in bed by time we got back. Bennett threatened to rip Graham’s head off if he bothered you, so I guess that’s why he assumed you were together, together.”

  “We’re not,” I say. She tosses the socks at the basket of clean laundry by my dresser but misses, so I bend to grab them. “Good thing you never tried out for the Birchwood Lady Badgers—you can’t shoot for shit.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Vero, because I assumed it, too. The guy is possessive over you.” She hugs her arms around herself and shivers for maximum effect. “Deliciously possessive and—”

  “He’s not,” I blurt out. Her eyes widen. Flustered, I slam the socks onto a pair of folded jeans and sift my hand through my hair, laying it over my right shoulder. “We’re … not. He was just letting me sleep off the tequila in his bed. Nothing more. I don’t even know if he slept beside me.”

  But that's not entirely honest. Because the more I think about it, the more I remember the anxious sounds of his breathing, the heat from his body against my spine. The rise and dip of the mattress every time he got up and the shuffling of his bare feet as he paced his weight room.

  Charlotte resumes drumming her fingers, brows drawn together in a thoughtful expression. Finally, the corner of her mouth slinks up. “Sure, nothing more.”

  I make it a point to avoid thinking about Charlotte’s visit, but I’m distracted from the time she leaves my apartment, and I take the M train from Queens to Brooklyn, to the second half of my shift at Ellerby’s.

  Initially, I was supposed to work at a book store this summer—just like Bennett surmised—but that fell through, so Dad suggested I apply at Ellerby’s. Before we moved to the apartment in Queens, he was one of the store’s best customers, so Adam Ellerby was quick to hire me. My boss was "thrilled" to have “Jon Silvestri’s girl on board.”

  Today, though, I’m so out of it, Mr. Ellerby has to regret that decision.

  My thoughts dwell on everything but music, on Bennett punching Judson. On words whispered in a moonlit bedroom. And, of course, almost everything around me is a reminder of last weekend. The songs streaming from the overhead speakers—Mr. Ellerby’s playing the Maroon 5 album since I gushed about it last week. I swap it for an oldie but goodie, The Cardigans’ First Band on the Moon.

  It helps for a little while, but then I’m right back where I started when some guy in an expensive business suit buys a novelty keychain that says, “Tequila and Music Fixes Everything.”

  And now, even the aroma of the store shoves my thoughts into last week.

  Ellerby’s typically has a combined odor of hotdogs from the cart around the corner; weed courtesy of the guy who comes in every day at two to check for new guitar sheet music, and the sandalwood incense Mr. Ellerby burns to mask it. As I call a customer to remind her of a preorder, though, Bennett’s simple, clean scent lashes my senses.

  Go
d, what’s wrong with me?

  Sighing heavily, I drum the tip of my pen on the unraveling spiral of my notepad. End the call after it goes to an answering machine. I start to leave the front of the store to finish stocking a shelf, but my boss—who’s handling a return on the opposite end of the counter—points behind me.

  “You still have a customer waiting.”

  The big smile I plaster on before I turn around fades. No wonder Bennett’s scent is everywhere. He’s staring right at me, appearing effortlessly sexy in dark wash jeans and a blue crew neck that intensifies the shade of his eyes.

  I shuffle forward a couple of steps, the muscles in my face and legs twitching. “Welcome to Ellerby’s.” I grip the front counter for support. “Is there anything I can help you find?”

  He smiles. All dimples and charm. This—this is why I’ve not been able to get him off my mind. The man is beautiful, and I’m envious of girls like Liz and whoever he shares his bed with at Duke.

  “I think I found it.” He lowers a CD to the counter, pushing it toward me.

  “Anything good?” I peek down at what he’s picked out, and my pulse quickens. Tightening my grip on the counter so that the edges cut into my palms, I lean away and manage to twist my lips in a skeptical smirk. “I could’ve sworn you called them a boy band.”

  His eyes twinkle with amusement. “But you said they weren’t.”

  Gathering my bearings, I release my hold on the counter. Thin indentations run across both my hands. “They aren’t.” I punch the register buttons. “That will be $16.98.” He hands me a twenty, and as I key it in, I casually ask, “How’s Judson’s face?”

  “Hopefully fucked up.”

  My stare pings up just as the cash drawer swings open. “So, it’s true, huh? That drunken fall was you hitting your best friend. Why didn’t you just tell me that when I asked?”

  “Because you would have given me hell for doing it. In my defense, it was a drunken fall where his face just so happened to be in the way.” His grin is so feral, it tangles my insides, undoes the knots, then decides to wreak havoc on my body by doing it all over again. “By the way, I don’t have best friends, V, just acquaintances.”

  The conversation with my father grates the back of my mind. Users. He called them all users. “Good to know how disposable your loyal subjects are.”

  “You know that’s not how I meant it,” he says roughly, narrowing his eyes at my half-shrug. “For what it's worth, Judson is anything but loyal.”

  I count out his change and hand it to him, a rush of adrenaline pummeling me at the brush of our hands. The pads of his fingers are calloused from lifting weights, a rough contrast against my soft skin. “So, was it the car or your mother—or both?”

  My question gives him a brief pause. Tensing his shoulders, he strays his eyes over my face, as if he’s recording every feature—from the oval shape and the gray eyes to my quivering lips. He slips his wallet into his pocket and scratches his jaw. Then he chuckles.

  “You really don’t see it, do you?” I offer him a shallow shake of my head, and a coarse rush of air explodes from his mouth. “Do you think I care enough about a piece of shit Mustang, or who my mother’s screwing, to punch some motherfucker? I hit him because of you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  BENNETT

  Veronica snaps her head back. She blinks up at me, like I’ve just rambled off life’s biggest secret, but I don’t see why. My feelings for her are fucking obvious. No matter how hard I’ve tried to hide them.

  I’ve never wanted anyone, anything, as much as Veronica.

  For three years, I buried my desire for her like a champ. When she showed too much tit at the beach a couple summers ago, I had enough self-control to rip my gaze away. Even though they seemed to be begging me to test their weight. To taste. To stroke her nipples until they went stiff between my fingers. She hadn’t noticed my stare, but her mom sure had.

  Mrs. P had pulled me aside, concern written all over her face as she admitted how terrified she was that I’d “Delaney” Veronica. Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. I promised that I saw V as an honorary sister only, and that seemed to be good enough for her.

  To get her out of my system, I dated Liz most of my junior and senior year at Birchwood. It was a move Graham and Cain rode me about for months. We all knew the type of person Liz was: One dick was never good enough for her, but I never gave a shit about who she was cheating on me with. She was convenient. My father liked her, Mom tolerated her, which is always a miracle. Liz was my way out because that’s what we do when there’s something we can’t or shouldn’t have—we find a distraction and make it work.

  But then there was my graduation from Birchwood last year.

  Veronica had launched herself into my arms. Congratulating me, melting against me to whisper how excited she was. She’s slimly built, but those curves are in all the right places. My cock reacted to her in a matter of seconds, and I'd prayed all the way home I wouldn't show up to my own graduation party with a hard dick that couldn't be fixed without her. Somehow, I pulled my shit together. I pretended it hadn’t happened because I didn’t want to go back on my word to the only woman who'd ever given me motherly attention.

  But every time Veronica smiled, every time she shifted her big gray eyes in my direction, my head went caveman. I wanted to drag her to some dark corner, pin her against a wall, and pound into her until she milked every drop. I figured putting several states between us would help, but everything came rushing back the moment I saw her last week.

  My cock, everything inside me, is ravenous for Veronica Palmero, and a man starved gives very few fucks. It hadn’t helped she flat out told me she wanted me—before blaming it all on the tequila the next morning.

  Her hands shake violently as she grabs a plastic bag from beneath the cash register. I can’t get enough of the sight of her. Of being close enough to suck in her scent. No other woman smells like her—cherries and almonds. “Say something, Veronica.”

  “Why?” she whispers, dropping my CD into the bag. She drags both hands through her hair, then plants them on her hips. “Why would you hit him because of me?”

  “For just that. Because you’re … you.”

  When it comes to her, no other explanation is needed though I could say plenty about last week.

  The whole night got out of hand. First with my mom and Judson, and then with Liz coming at me at every turn like a goddamn vampire that sucks dicks instead of blood. She cornered me on the roof, promising me anything, anywhere, any way. I was already in a shit mood, so when I noticed Judson’s grimy fingers on Veronica’s thigh, I saw red.

  I never planned to touch him. That’s something Cain would do since he’s got such shit restraint that Mrs. P enrolled him in boxing classes when we were kids. But then Judson made a comment about fucking Vero. He snidely told me about all the guys from Birchwood she screwed while I was away at Duke. That’s when I decided I wanted him to see red in the form of it running down the front of his starched polo.

  So, I hit him. Two or three times. Not caring that he taunted me about hooking up with Liz, too. It wasn’t Liz that infuriated me, it was always Veronica.

  All I could picture was her ending up at his place. Gray eyes trusting, giving him permission to peel away my shirt she wore so he could put his hands on her body. Her burying her face in his nasty fucking sheets. Arching her back when he spread her thighs.

  Now, Veronica’s silent and her boss has stopped what he’s doing to curiously observe us. I bend my face close to hers. “Do you have a break coming up?”

  Shaking her head, she looks away from me. My hand itches to touch the hair that falls over her eye. She does it for me, puffing it out of the way with a sweet-scented breath. “I’m off at six, though,” she whispers.

  I check my watch. Three hours. I can last three more hours. I take the bag she holds out to me. “Good, I’ll pick you up then.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever been to my
apartment,” she says while she unlocks her door a few hours later. “It’s … not what you’re used to.” Her breathy whisper is a brutal jolt to my gut.

  I hate that she thinks so little of me. She gave me that warning a few times on the drive from Brooklyn, before I redirected her attention to the album she loves so much. It was playing on the state-of-the-art sound system in Judson’s Mustang. I’ve decided to make it my daily driver since I’m a bastard that wants to rub his dick face in his loss.

  Before he ran his mouth, I was planning on giving his title, and car, back the next morning.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” I say.

  She opens the door and shows a timid flash of teeth before she sashays inside, hips swaying from side to side. I’ve always had this thing for women in heels—the higher the heel, the harder my dick—but the way Veronica moves in a pair of scuffed tennis shoes is sexier than any runway walk I’ve ever seen. She’s got this regal air about her. There’s power in the way she moves, but I don’t think she’s realized that yet.

  When she does, if she does, I’m fucked.

  “Welcome to my humble abode.” She spins in a circle and holds her arms out wide as I close the door. Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, she rolls her shoulders toward her ears and wrinkles her nose. Jesus, she's cute when she does that. “It’s a shoebox compared to your place.”

  It is small. There’s a little living room that segues into an even smaller kitchen, and a narrow hallway beyond that. But it’s tidy. There are touches of Mrs. P everywhere, starting with the multi-color, knitted blanket hanging over the back of the tan suede couch. A chess set sits on one of the end tables, and I find my own face, along with my brothers’, mixed in with the photos on the wall.

  An uncomfortable emotion swells my throat. “You meant my parents’ place,” I eventually correct.