by Amber Rides
“If you hadn’t been avoiding me, I would’ve explained that by now.”
“Don’t bother. The last few days have given me a chance to gain some perspective. You were right. We’re just too different. So please. Let go of my arm, Cutter.”
He released me, but as I moved to walk away, his words held me.
“So you’re a phony after all,” he said.
“I’m not a phony.”
“A liar, then.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you going to tell me exactly what it is I lied about, or just leave it hanging over my head?”
“You said we would talk.”
“To be accurate, I said maybe we could talk. And my maybe has become a no.”
I turned away again, determined to make a clean break, and not to be baited into further argument. As I took a step, though, the washroom door swung open, and my mother shouldered her way out. Her back was to us, but in seconds she’d turn around and see me and Cutter - in his hulking blue jumpsuit – standing together in the hallway. I couldn’t handle the thought of having to explain myself to her. I could barely explain myself to me.
In a spontaneous and desperate move, I flung open the door to what I assumed was the handicap stall, and dragged Cutter in.
“Melissa, what’re you doing?” he near-yelled.
“Shh!”
“What –“
I sighed irritably, and reached up to cover his mouth with my hand.
“Could you at least whisper?” I hissed.
He mumbled something against my palm. It was incomprehensible, but at least he said whatever it was in a hushed voice. I took my hand away slowly, just in case he decided to get loud again. When I was satisfied that he wasn’t going to holler, I tried to back away from him. Emphasis on the word tried. My rear end hit a shelf, and it was at that moment that I realized we weren’t in a restroom at all, but a tiny storage closet.
Shit.
There was barely enough room for the supplies, let alone them plus me, plus an oversized man like Cutter. But I didn’t dare open the door. I needed to give my mom time to get to the table, and for her to grab an explanation in regards to my whereabouts from Shelby. I wanted her to grow worried enough about how long I was taking that she popped out to the parking lot to look for me. That would give me enough time to sneak back to the table myself.
“At least two or three minutes,” I murmured.
“You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Cutter grumbled.
“That lady coming out of the bathroom was my mother.”
“Well. At least now I see where you get your perfect ass.”
“Shut up.”
“I admit that I’m probably somewhat more blue-collar than your average dates, but don’t you think shoving me into a closet is going a bit far?”
His voice lacked bite, and in the dark, without his ferocious eyes staring me down, it was easy to believe he was actually offended. I pushed down an urge to comfort him.
“This isn’t a date,” I said. “And for your information I shoved you in here for your own good.”
“Thanks for caring.”
“Listen,” I whispered irritably. “You think I’m uptight? I’ve got nothing on that woman out there. She never has to iron her clothes because they’re too scared to wrinkle.”
He chuckled, and the low sound somehow added intimacy to our already cramped situation.
“So,” Cutter said, still sounding amused. “Two minutes in the closet. Very high school. What would like to do with our two minutes, Melissa?”
My name on his lips, soft and suggestive, made me shiver. Stupid, treacherous body.
“Maybe now we could talk,” I suggested, trying to come across as snide and failing miserably.
“Maybe,” Cutter responded agreeably, and he took a tiny step closer.
As if the two feet between us wasn’t close enough already. I took a breath, trying to steady my heartbeat. What I got was a whiff of his already-familiar scent. Why did he have to smell so damned good?
Cutter’s hands closed on my waist, and even though it was the only part of his body that touched mine, everywhere else tingled, too.
“The girl,” Cutter said softly. “She’s my ex.”
“I don’t care,” I lied.
It actually was getting a little hard to care as his fingers spread out and stroked the swell of my hips.
“We don’t keep in touch,” he added.
“It’s none of my business.”
One of his hands slid up, then paused just to the side of my breast.
If I lean in, just a little…
But Cutter moved on quickly, and in just moment, his palm found my cheek. The other hand travelled around to my back, where it kneaded the tender spot just above my tailbone. Then both his hands were there, his fingers splayed out possessively, and the small amount of space between seemed downright miniscule.
“She left me for my best friend,” Cutter whispered.
Bitch.
My reflexive anger - and the violent feelings I immediately had toward the girl I didn’t know - surprised me.
“You don’t have to –“
He cut me off. “She wanted money from me. Always has, even back when we were together. And that’s why she was there the other day. Because now my best friend has left her, and she has no place to go, and no one else to help her.”
I tensed. “Did you give her the money?”
Cutter sighed. “Yes. I gave her everything I had in my wallet.”
His answer filled me with relief. Not because the girl deserved it, but because I really wanted Cutter to be the type of man who could be kind, even to people who weren’t nice to him. It mattered a lot to me, actually.
“Good,” I breathed fiercely.
“That doesn’t piss you off?”
“Oh, I’m still pissed off,” I said. “But not about you giving away your money to someone in need.”
Cutter leaned back a little, examining my face. Even in the dark, I could see the cocky little smile playing on his too-perfect lips.
“You’re jealous,” he announced.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I already told you – “
“You’ve got a boyfriend, I know. Who I’ve never seen. Convenient.”
Right then, I could’ve pulled out my engagement ring and shoved it on his face. But I hesitated a second too long, and Cutter used that second to reach out and pull me between his legs. His eyes were inches from mine, and his hands gripped my hips tightly.
“And you’re here,” he said. “In this closet with me.”
“Hiding you from my mother,” I reminded him, and tried to wriggle away.
“Admit that you’re jealous, and I’ll let you go,” he offered.
“I’m not jealous,” I repeated in a carefully measured voice.
“Hmm.” His hand slid up on my waist. “You wanna know why I think you’re lying?”
“Why?” I mentally cursed the breathy sound of my response.
“Because I’m jealous. Of that boyfriend of yours, who may or may not be fictional. You wanna know why that is?”
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
“I’m going to tell you anyway.” Cutter’s hands crept up slowly as he spoke, low and sultry. “Because he gets to put his maybe-real mouth on your mouth. He gets to take you home to his maybe-real bed. And he can take his maybe-real hands and touch you. Here.”
He cupped my breasts, then slipped around to the buttons on my blouse. Swiftly, he undid the top three and pulled the shirt open, exposing the lace of my bra. Without breaking eye contact, he ran his thumbs across the fabric covering my nipples. They immediately hardened under the attention. A sound that threatened to become a moan escaped from my throat.
“Tell me you don’t want me, Melissa. Make me believe it.”
“I don’t want you.”
“It sure as fuck feels like you do.” He l
eaned in, trailing kisses along my collarbone and up my throat. “I said make me believe it.”
But, holy fuck. He was right. I did want him. I wanted his hands on me, and his lips, too. I wanted to feel him inside me, to let him possess me, and to possess every inch of him. If I didn’t stop, right that second, he was going to break me, physically and emotionally. I knew it from the tips of my toes to the deepest recesses of my soul.
Suddenly, I was really, truly scared.
I felt as though I was teetering on a precipice overlooking the consequences of giving in to want, and ignoring should. I could let Cutter take me for a day. For a week. Maybe even for a month. But down the road, one of us would realize how poorly we fit together, and be forced to say goodbye.
Danny…He was safe.
Vanilla.
I made my decision rationally. Coolly. Selfishly. Safely.
“I. Don’t. Want. You.” I bit off the words, fighting to keep the heat of desire from my voice. “I have a life. A good one. With no room for a truck-driving maniac who’s so high on himself that he doesn’t notice when a girl is saying no.”
Cutter ripped himself away. Several emotions played across his face. Horror. Anger. Maybe even hurt. Finally, he settled on a disgusted sneer.
“I have never needed to make a woman do anything, and I’m not about to start,” he growled. “Enjoy your good life.”
He shoved past me, flung the door open, and didn’t look back. When I was sure he was gone, I allowed myself to take a shaky breath.
I did what I had to do.
I stood on shaky legs, and prepared to return to my lunch. My hand got as far as the doorknob before my mother’s voice carried through the door.
“Melissa, you might as well come out.”
Reluctantly, I clicked the handle, cracked the door, slid outside, and shut it behind me. My mother eyed me up and down.
“At least you’re still clothed,” she said.
“Of course I’m –“
“Save it,” she snapped. “I’ve been through this with your sister, but I’m many years older, and two decades wiser. I’d never pegged you for a slut, Missy.”
My face reddened.
“Is he still in there?” There was enough cold contempt in her voice to freeze a lake.
“No,” I whispered. “He’s gone.”
She narrowed her eyes, but nodded. “Good. We’re going back to the table now. You’re going to concentrate on doing everything in your power to hold on to the life you’re building with Danny. He called me himself last week, worried about how strange you’ve been acting. So help me God, you’re going to forget about the questionable young man who was behind that door. If I catch you so much as glancing backward, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
When she turned to leave, she didn’t even bother to check if I’d followed her. She didn’t have to. I didn’t look back as I scurried after her.
CUTTER
For crying out fucking loud.
I didn’t have the words to express what I felt.
I knew Melissa was trying to drive me away on purpose, and that she had no idea how close to home her comment hit. She didn’t know about my past. She didn’t know about my little sister, or what she’d been through or what I had done as a result.
I wasn’t ready to tell her about it. I was barely ready to let myself think about it.
“Fuck!” I yelled it into the alleyway.
Some things were better left unsaid.
Like admitting that Brandy wanted money, but not admitting that she’d been a snivelling wreck, begging me to take her back. Or that I’d sent her packing before she could show me what was under her raincoat again.
Or like acknowledging that in spite of Brandy’s obvious assets and willingness to jump into my bed, working to be in Melissa’s life instead seemed so much more worthwhile.
I was not the kind of guy who sought a challenge.
I grabbed a can of paint remover, and set to scrubbing away furiously at the graffiti on the brick building, avoiding thought altogether.
I don’t know how long I beat at the wall for, but by the time I paused to rest, I realized I was halfway through the removal process. My mind was numb, my muscles ached, and my throat burned. As I reached for my water bottle without looking, a cool hand closed on my wrist.
“Allow me.”
My head snapped around.
The woman’s voice was all too familiar, and it froze me to my spot. Her face – it could’ve been anyone’s. There was nothing to make it stand out in a sea of others.
That fucking voice though. No one could match its icy disdain. It brought back some of the worst days of my life. I’d been in rough fucking shape. Twenty, and full of pain. I’d been spent, too, and my rage had faded to regret, or something close to it.
Joan Stover.
That was her name. The goddamned judge at my goddamned trial who had shown not a single shred of mercy toward me.
Until we’d walked into the courtroom and spotted Stover on the bench, my attorney – bought with my dad’s perfectly good money – had been sure I’d walk away with a slap on the wrist. When he saw her, though, he’d confessed humorlessly that the woman had bigger balls than he did. Then he added that she had a serious hard-on for guys like me.
True to the lawyer’s prediction, Stover came after me with a vengeance. She sought to have the prosecutor elevate my case from a misdemeanor to a felony, and she would’ve been content to let me rot in jail for twenty years. When that failed, she pushed to have more charges added – criminal mischief, destruction of property, and aggravated assault.
The biggest break I could ever have caught was when she retired right before my first probationary hearing. If she hadn’t, and a more sympathetic judge hadn’t taken her place, I’d probably still be behind bars. Still, the three hundred and eighty-two days I spent locked up were entirely thanks to that woman.
She opened my water and handed it to me.
I took a cautious sip. It was sealed, so I was pretty sure she hadn’t poisoned it.
“You can relax, Mr. Lane. It is Lane, now, right? If I remember correctly, you took your mother’s name after Judge Klein released you.”
I gave her a curt nod. “Yep.”
“Well. Sometimes it’s better not to share a particular parent’s name,” she added, and raised an eyebrow as though her words should mean something to me.
“Sometimes,” I agreed, and waited.
“I see you’ve found gainful employment.” Stover nodded toward my supplies. “Nice that you’re fixing property rather than destroying it.”
I didn’t need to tell her this particular job was court-required.
“And it’s nice of you to follow my progress,” I said instead.
“I always keep an eye on my favorites.”
“Hate to see what you do for the ones you don’t like,” I replied.
“Clever,” she said. “You were clever in court, as well. Too bad that didn’t translate into life choices.”
“I’m content with what I’ve got.”
“Are you?”
“More so than I would be if I was behind bars.”
Stover’s eyes darkened, betraying her annoyance, then cleared again. I tried not to shy away from the former judge and her too-bright gaze, but it was nearly impossible. She was looking at me like I was a fucking insect.
Or like the criminal you are, I thought bitterly.
When I relented and took a step away, a tight-lipped smile threatened to crack the bitch’s made-up face.
“I’m guessing this isn’t a social call,” I stated.
I wanted her to get on with whatever it was she was after, but I knew also, that it was risky to push her. She was a dangerous woman. She wouldn’t have walked away from all of her contacts in the justice system, and I still had a fair amount to lose.
“No,” she replied. “I’m actually here to ask you a question.”
“Go for it.”
“Have you fucked her?”
I choked on my water, coughing and spluttering. When I recovered, I met Joan Stover’s impassive gaze, thinking I must’ve heard wrong.
“Pardon me?”
“Do you want me to repeat my question?”
“God, no.”
“No, you don’t want me to repeat it, or no you haven’t fucked my daughter?”
It took a full minute for me to connect the dots. When I did, it seemed impossible. But somehow fitting.
Impossibly fucking fitting.
She was Melissa’s mother. That was why her face had seemed vaguely familiar in the online photos at the library, and why she’s made the comment about children not sharing a parent’s name.
“Well?” Stover prodded.
I shook my head. “No. To both.”
I ran my hands through my hair angrily.
Even if I somehow got over Melissa’s words in the storage closet, confronted her about them, talked to her truthfully…It – we - were never fucking happening. Not now. Not ever.
If I needed some kind of cherry to put on top my list of reasons for us not to be together…Well, I’d sure as shit found it.
How would it come out?
Oh, by the way, Melissa, I’m on house arrest for lighting an apartment fire. No big deal. Your mom made it happen. Did I mention that? No. Well. There you go. Wanna come back to my place for that quickie?
“She’s impetuous,” Stover said. “And easily influenced. I’d prefer it if she didn’t extend her poor judgment your way.”
I stared at the judge, feeling more disgusted at her than I did at myself. She stared back impassively, like we were talking about the weather rather than her own flesh and blood.
Amazingly, it wasn’t purely about my ego anymore. I thought it would be a hell of a lot harder for Melissa to find out that her mother had sent me to prison than it would be for her to find out I’d been there in the first place.
There’s nothing about this woman that reminds me of Melissa, I realized.
Judge Stover was cold, calculating, and lacking in spontaneity. I’d bet my left testicle that she never made a move without planning it three days in advance.
Melissa was like a banked fire, ready to come to life at the slightest breath of oxygen. Even when she tried to hide it, I could see it burning in her eyes, feel it in her touch, and hear it in her voice.