by Jo Raven
The brightness I’d seen before has gone out.
“Wait.”
He stops in the process of turning around. He shoots me a questioning glance.
I open my mouth and close it, suddenly unsure.
On the way here, I’d finally made up my mind to call and ask him what he meant.
Amber’s words ring inside my head. Your sixth sense is telling you he’s not a bad buy.
He believes he is, though, and I want to know why. I want… I don’t know what I want. How I feel.
“It’s okay, Kay. I get it,” he says, his voice hushed, and turns to go.
“Please, wait.” I reach for him, and manage a good grip on his sweaty T-shirt.
The smell of his sweat hits me, then, and I find myself sniffing him like a bitch in heat. Good God, how is it possible that a man’s sweat can smell like bacon dipped in syrup, with a side of spice?
My mouth waters.
He stills. I’m not sure he’s even breathing as I release his T-shirt and slip around him so that I can see his face.
It’s all written there. Uncertainty. Wariness. Regret. And behind it all, a faint echo of hope.
He looks so vulnerable, it’s a battle not to reach up and touch his mouth, stroke his cheek, stand on tiptoe and kiss him.
“I’m driving to Milwaukee later today,” I say instead, and the flicker in his expression tells me he’s surprised. “My sister lives there. I’m going to visit her.”
He nods, dark brows drawing together. Man, he really looks wrecked. How fast can someone lose weight? His cheeks look hollow, and he has dark circles under his eyes. The cut over his brow is surrounded by a yellowish bruise.
He’s not saying anything, so I clear my throat. God, I hope I’m not wrong about this.
“I know you don’t have a car right now.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “And that your mom is sick. You did say they live near Milwaukee. I could drive you there and pick you up on my way back.”
The red on his cheekbones spreads. His eyes go wide and dark.
Still saying nothing.
This habit has to stop.
“Just nod for yes, okay?” I see Ev and Amber staring at us from the door. Ev is making kissy faces at me. They set off toward us. “If you can leave work early.”
Still no reply.
That’s it, I think. It was a mistake. I should have let it be. I should have—
“Yes.” His hand lifts and cups my face, a warm, quick caress. His gaze collides with mine, and it’s like sinking in a stormy sea. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice rough like broken glass. He clears his throat. “Kay—”
He stops.
Ev and Amber are here, beside us, their faces kinda red.
Um.
Ev makes a face. “Sorry. We all have classes later, so we don’t have much time, or I’d have let you two talk. Hey, Ocean.”
He nods at her, his expression shuttering. “Hey. I’ll let you girls go.”
“Later,” I say, but he’s already turning away, his back stiff.
Guess I’ll never know what he was about to say.
Chapter Sixteen
Ocean
She’s taking me along. Despite what I told her about me the other day. Maybe she wants to be friends.
We can’t be friends. It’ll never be enough. But I’ll have to take it, if that’s all she can give me.
I was so fucking glad I wasn’t leaving town, and now I can’t be with her, because I fucked up—by telling her the truth.
I ask permission from Zane to leave work. I’m not much use at the shop anyway, since I can’t lift things because of my busted ribs, and we don’t have appointments today due to the preparations for the convention.
“Go home and get some rest,” he says, distractedly running his hands over the shaved sides of his head. His Mohawk is particularly fearsome today, a deep green with red at the front, as if it was dipped in blood. “That’s where you should be after the accident, fucker, not here. You should have stayed in bed and sipped soup. As a matter of fact, you should have let a doctor take a look at those ribs.”
“I’m okay,” I say, as always humbled by the concern of these people who took me in without knowing the first thing about me and have had my back since the beginning. “I just have something I need to do.”
Zane’s almost my height, so we’re eye to eye when he leans in. “You’d tell me if you needed help with anything, right, fucker? I’m not gonna be running after you, like with the other motherfuckers, to find out if something’s wrong, yeah?”
I shake my head. My mess is my mess. Nothing he can do to fix it.
Seemingly satisfied, he draws back. “Can’t blame a guy for worrying. You don’t draw much anymore. Don’t talk much. Don’t know if it’s a phase or a change, know what I mean?” When I nod, he goes on. “I hope you can make it to the convention tomorrow, but if you don’t feel up to it, just let me know. We clear?”
“Yeah. Thanks, man. I owe you.” I owe him everything, in fact, him and this brotherhood of tattooed, badass, loyal-as-hell guys. “And I’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Good.” Zane mock-punches my arm. “The others, they look at you for guidance, you know? The new ones—Seth, Shane and Jesse. Even Micah. You were my first apprentice, the first to ink here apart from me. Hell, forget about the others. I count on you, all right?”
No pressure. And yet I grin at him, because Zane Madden just told me he counts on me. “All right.”
“Tyler told me what you said about the tattoo.”
Ah fuck. “Look, Z-man—”
“I didn’t mean to force you into anything, okay, fucker? Let me know if and when you’re ready to be part of the Brotherhood.”
He walks away before I can think of an appropriate response. Jeez, I’d give my right arm to be part of the Brotherhood.
And yet I can’t say yes. Can’t involve the Brotherhood in any illegal shit, and I think I know where I can get more money for the tests and treatments, until—hopefully—Mom gets re-enrolled in the system. I hate myself for thinking it, but I can’t figure out any other solution.
I hate myself even more because I’m gonna set it in motion when Kayla drives me to the trailer park today.
If only she knew…
Would it matter? She already knows enough. I wonder if she’ll change her mind and call to say she won’t be going after all. Or some other excuse.
She’s sweet, but now she knows I’m bad news. I doubt I’ll see her much after that.
By now the strange tightening in my chest when I think about her is familiar. I ignore it as best I can and head home.
***
As I enter my apartment, I get a call from the doctor’s office with the costs of the tests, visits and medicine. I listen, gripping the phone until I can’t feel my fingers, as the doctor’s secretary lists the amounts, and then tells me the doctor will be there to examine Mom today, and that I can pay him in person, if I like. It’s unorthodox, but it’d save me going to the medical center to pay.
I thank her and disconnect, wondering if it’s too early in the day to get drunk.
Then I remember Kayla is picking me up in a few hours and groan. Yeah, showing up drunk isn’t such a good idea.
What do you have to lose? a little, snarky voice whispers at the back of my mind as I wander into the kitchen and wash down some codeine with a glass of water, then stagger into my bedroom to retrieve my wad of cash from its hiding place. She already knows. She already thinks you’re a loser and a dangerous one, at that. Might as well face her with some liquid courage.
No fucking way. I sink on my bed, counting the bills. If she comes, I don’t want her last impression of me to be of a goddamn drunkard. My pride was shredded as a kid begging from door to door, and later on the street, but it’s still very much alive. Like me.
I recount my money. It had seemed like a lot last week. After hearing how much I have to pay out, it seems like nothing.
I shove the b
ills into my wallet and grab my phone. I should try Raine again. Tell him about Mom. He hasn’t taken any of my calls and hasn’t replied to my texts. I only wrote Mom is sick, without mentioning what it is. I wanna tell him, preferably face-to-face, but again he doesn’t answer.
Fuck.
I try calling my aunt. We’re not really on speaking terms—she told me, when she came to pick Raine up years ago, never to call her—but she answers my calls occasionally, mainly to complain about Raine.
Like now.
“He’s gone again,” she gripes. “Ran off. God knows where he is. I’ve stopped notifying the police. Betcha the little punk is hanging around those buddies of his again, smoking pot in back alleys. Not that he’s little anymore. He’s eating like a horse and growing like nobody’s business. How can I stop him when he goes out? Next week he’s off my hands, you know.”
Next week. “What?” I can’t remember why she’d be saying this as if I know. “What’s next week?”
“Memory like a sieve, your whole family. His eighteenth birthday. He’ll be an adult. Free to go and do as he pleases.”
Oh shit. “Right.”
“You should be grateful I raised the brat all these years without complaints. He’s on his own from now on. I’m done.”
She disconnects before I think up a response. Aunt Martha likes her dramatic exits.
Funny how she sometimes told me Raine was happy with her and thank God he was with her so he can grow up a responsible young man and other times, like now, decides she was forced into it. I asked her many times if I should take Raine off her hands.
She told me she’d never let me take him from her.
Not that Raine would have agreed to coming to live with me, anyway. Although last time we spoke, one of the few, he’d sounded… off. Kinda bitter. Like I’d abandoned him, when he’s hated even talking to me on the phone, for chrissakes.
Shit, I’m beat. I should eat something, rest. Lying down sounds great. I ease down on the pillows I’ve stacked and breathe shallowly, waiting for the pain to pass. To take my mind off it, I grab my phone again and log online.
First I’m not sure what I’m looking for, browsing through random searches about race cars, and tattoos, and art supplies.
Then I type in Kayla’s name, and it clicks. Yeah, that’s what I want. To know more about her. I’ve wanted it for a while, then thought it too stalkerish—but what’s the harm in it now? She hates me already.
And it shouldn’t feel like a kick to the gut every time I think about it.
Ten minutes later I’m trying not to laugh, because ow, my ribs ache like a motherfucker, but she’s a funny girl. The pics she posts, the videos, the posts… Too damn funny.
Also, she’s obsessed with cat pics. And aliens.
She’s apparently studying fashion design, has a brother and a sister who enjoy making faces at the camera just as much as she is, has a crush on Tom Hiddleston as Loki, and stands for women’s rights. There’s no mention of fortunetelling cards, or palmistry, or any of that shit. There is a mention, though, of not believing in love.
I like all that.
Well, except for her not believing in love, and liking Loki, or any other guy for that matter.
Shit. I sit back, rubbing a hand over my face. What the hell am I doing? Who cares what she likes, or who, and if she has a crazy cat as her profile picture? Who cares if she doesn’t believe in love?
Do I?
She’s not with me. Nor will she ever be.
Which reminds me. She’s coming to pick me up, and the time is passing. I should change. In fact… I sniff my armpit, because, girls. They’re weird about sweat.
Yeah, I’m kinda ripe, just from moving small things around the shop—and sweating out the booze I drank last night, alone, in my apartment.
Okay, shower. Change clothes. Get ready.
Move it.
Getting up is a challenge when your ribs burn like fire. An arm around my ribs, I manage to get to my feet and shuffle to the bathroom. Taking off my sweater and T-shirt is another challenge.
Wish she were here. Naked, standing in front of me, smiling. Touching me.
I’m hard before I even enter the shower stall. It’s too narrow. We’d have to stand pressed together to fit.
Like there could be any other fucking way we’d shower. I’d push her up against the wall, kiss her senseless. Then I’d wrap her legs around my hips, lift her up to suck on her tits. And I’d fuck her, hard and fast, feel her clench and pulse around me.
I slam my hand against the wall and turn on the water. The first splash is ice cold, jolting a curse out of me, and then it runs warm, sluicing down my bruised back. I barely notice the pain, my hard-on urgent, demanding my attention.
I hiss when I close my hand around my dick. It’s throbbing, hard and heavy, my balls hot and aching and tight.
Maybe it’s from seeing all those damn photos of her online. From remembering her body, her voice, her startled laughter. The teasing gleam in her eyes.
Oh shit, I’m so close already. I work my hand up and down my junk, fisting the tip, sliding back down to the base and squeezing. I remember her mouth around my dick, the concentrated expression on her delicate face as she took me in, those soft, pink lips stretched around my girth, and I groan, almost coming.
Not yet.
Fuck, it’s as if I haven’t come in years, not days. I puff out a breath as I bow my head, beating my meat faster, feeling the pressure build.
I close my eyes, and I’m deep inside of her, filling up that sweet, tight pussy, pounding into her, forcing those little mewling sounds from her throat.
Not enough. I want to hear her scream with pleasure. I wish… Too late, though. Too fucking late, and I’m so close, my body tightening, muscles clenching.
I think about her tits, so perfect, spilling over my palms, so soft and her nipples so hard, and I imagine the tips in my mouth as she comes, pulling me deep into her.
Blue, she whispers in my mind as I spill against the wall, shaking and grunting. Blue.
Kay loves Blue.
But that will never fucking happen.
PART III
Chapter Seventeen
Kayla
He’s waiting outside his building when I go to pick him up around five, a tall figure in a black jacket and long, jeans-clad legs, his hair messed up from the wind.
In fact, come to think of it, I can’t remember a time I saw his hair combed or gelled. It’s always a cute, sexy mess.
Stop thinking about his hair, Kay.
Then he slides into my tiny car, his shoulders wider than the seat, and I stop thinking about his hair because I’m only too aware of his face, and his body, and his male musk filling my senses.
Why did I think I could put my feelings on pause even for an hour-and-a-half drive, with him beside me? God only knows.
“Thank you for this,” he says quietly as I pull off, his voice barely audible over the Thirty Seconds to Mars album I have playing.
Music is a good buffer, so I leave the volume up.
“It’s on my way anyway.” I bite my lip as I slow down and stop at a traffic light. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it. “I hope your mom will be okay.”
“Me too.”
I hope he’ll say more, but he is quiet as we drive out of town and get on the interstate, fiddling with his phone.
I let him be for a while, catching glimpses of his handsome profile as I drive. His jaw is clenched like he’s pissed off, or in pain, and I want to tell him I’m sorry, and that he has to explain what he meant, and that this is stupid, and we have to talk.
But my courage fails me.
Then he says it for me. “I’m sorry, Kay. For disappointing you.”
And my courage returns in a flare of heat. “You haven’t disappointed me.”
He turns my way, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “Sure I did. I should’ve told you what a fuck-up I am from the start instead of wasting your time.”
>
I lower the music. “You’re not a fuck-up. And I wouldn’t say sex with you was a waste of time.”
Oh God. Mouth on autopilot. Again.
But his lips curl up in a faint smile. “It was good, huh?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
And my girly parts totally agree with me. It was phenomenal sex. But that’s not the discussion we should be having right now.
“You were saying you were sorry,” I remind him, hoping he will finally tell me more, but he’s grinning now with a hint of canine and a sparkle in his eyes.
Ow, my ovaries. He’s too sexy for my car. God, if his sadness breaks my heart, that boyish cocksureness will be my downfall.
And I should focus on talking about this matter that’s tearing us into different directions, when all I want is to meet him in the middle.
For more sex, hopefully. And maybe something more?
Focus, Kay.
“You told me you caused a kid to die. What really happened, Ocean?” I chew on my lip. If I don’t stop, it’ll be a bloody mess. “I should have said something that night, after you told me about yourself. But you didn’t explain. You start talking about yourself and then stop, every time. You drop puzzles on me and then leave me to solve them. Only I can’t, not without clues. I want to know you. I want to know what you meant. Who died, and why? How is that your fault? Why does your brother hate you? What’s wrong with your mom? Why can’t you just tell me?”
He’s doing that wide-eyed thing again. Okay, maybe I shocked him a little with my mouth-diarrhea.
“Why do you want to know me?” He swallows hard, his throat clicking.
“Because I like you. Because I believe you’re a nice guy. And because you’re driving me crazy with your refusal to talk!”
He looks away, his mouth tightening. “I checked you out on Facebook,” he says. “Just wanted to know more about you.”
I glance at him quickly. “You did?”
He nods.
Aw shucks. Why does this make me happy?
“And?”
“You’re funny.”
“Didn’t you know that?” I’m ridiculous. This is ridiculous. Who cares if he stalked me on my social media? “Did you also check my Twitter?”