I have never been this girl. I have never had a reason to suffer the sharp spikes of jealousy, but here they are all the same. It’s unnerving. It makes me feel vulnerable. It’s not something I’m used to, and I scoot an inch away from him, needing to get back some of my independence. Because if there’s one thing I know about men, it’s not to let your heart rely on them. It’ll only hurt more when they choose someone else, or something else.
“Your parents coming back for the holidays?” Tucker asks nonchalantly. He’s watching the TV, but he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.
Part of me wants to tell him the truth. That my father is a criminal whose greed destroyed lives. That he chose his money over his family—over me—and my mother has taken his prison sentence as an excuse to act as if she doesn’t have a family at all. That she spends so many nights with her divorced, wino, pill-head girlfriends in Manhattan—the ones who think it’s not a drinking problem if it comes in the form of three-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, and that it’s not doing drugs if they were prescribed by a doctor. That those same snobby bitches are the ones she chooses to travel with, never caring that she’s missing my volleyball games or Billy’s entire childhood, or in this case, the holidays. Not that it stops her from texting critiques about my outfits or hair any time I post a photo on Instagram.
But even if I could get past the humiliation of admitting what my father did and where he is, I wouldn’t even know how to begin to tell Tucker I’ve been lying to him—and everyone else for that matter—for basically our entire lives. Why would he ever trust me again?
And the truth is I’m ashamed. I guess deep down, the fool that I am, I still hold an inkling of hope that Tucker could someday see me as something more than just a fuck-buddy, and I don’t want to give him a reason to think I’m not good enough. That I’m not worth it. Because why would Tucker give up his playboy ways for a girl whose own father loves her less than he loves fucking money? Why would any guy love that girl, when the man who’s supposed to love her the most clearly had no problem giving her up? What does that say about me? But it is Tucker, so while I keep my secrets, I do give him a hint of truth in my bitter tone. “Nope. They like their travel this time of year…Every time of year,” I add spitefully.
My head spins to Tucker, guilt warming my cheeks. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m so busy feeling sorry for myself that I didn’t even think of what he must be feeling. My shame is obvious, and an apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t know the right words to say I’m sorry for complaining about my absentee parents when his father is dead. Especially when he died right around Christmas, too.
“Tuck—”
“Don’t, Princess,” he whispers, his brow furrowed in sympathy. “It sucks not having them around. For whatever reason,” he adds.
I chew on my lip, subconsciously recovering the inch I took back just moments ago, and his hand slips tentatively onto my far shoulder and squeezes. It’s my undoing. My head drops onto his biceps and I fold my knees in front of me and sit sideways to face him, Jax Teller and SAMCRO forgotten on the TV.
“You must really miss him.” My voice comes out an uncharacteristic whisper. Tucker never talks about his father, and I hate that he has to hold it all in.
Pain flashes through army green, and also a smidgen of resentment. I suspect it’s for his mother. I know she doesn’t handle the holidays all that well, and surely it takes a toll on Tuck. He looks conflicted, and for a moment I don’t know if he’s going to change the subject back to me. I don’t think he knows either, but then he sighs. “Yeah,” is all he says, but it’s a concession. Something honest, something true, about something I know he never talks about.
My fingers find a loose thread in the hem of his white T-shirt, and I absently twirl it around my knuckle, staring at the stark, light-colored string against the dark blue of my freshly painted fingernail. That’s what Tucker is. He is light in darkness. The comic relief, quick to fill the role of the joker, eager to lighten any mood. But I want him to let go of that responsibility. I want him to feel, too. So maybe I can be his light.
“So what will you and Billy do?” Tucker asks. “For Christmas and New Year’s and whatever?”
I shrug. “I’ll decorate with him. Order a dinner. I try to make it normal, you know. I think he’ll probably be with his friends for New Year’s this year, though. He’s starting to be too cool for me. What about you and your mom?”
Tucker smiles sadly. “She’ll insist on me being home, that we’re going to have a family Christmas, just the two of us, and then she won’t get out of bed. Or she’ll plan for us to go to my aunt’s and be with their family, and then cancel at the last minute and claim an illness.” His words are riddled with resignation, but there’s no scorn, and I realize his resentment from earlier wasn’t aimed at his mother after all. He shrugs. “I’ll probably end up at Cap’s in the end, after she goes to bed.”
“That sucks, Tuck.” I don’t let go of the thread, but I do meet his gaze, looking up at him from under my lashes, my eyes saying more than my words ever could.
“Sure does, Princess,” he breathes.
I let his scent of aftershave and the faintest waft of cologne blanket me. It is pure comfort with a whisper of thrill, and I wish I could just melt into it—close my eyes and sleep in his perfect, male scent.
“Your dad on business or vacation?” Tucker asks.
I sigh. “Business.” I ignore the spark of guilt at yet another lie. But he is away because of how he chose to do business. And his plea deal was very much a business deal. “And before you say he’d be here with me if he could, he wouldn’t.”
“Carl—”
“No. He wouldn’t. He could be here, Tuck. He chose not to.” I give him this bit of truth, cursing the moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes. I never cry. What the hell is happening to me?
Tucker’s large palm cups my cheek, his thumb brushing under my lower lashes, saving me my dignity before the one rogue tear can escape, and I’m infinitely grateful. “I was going to say that that says something about him. Not you. Okay? Him choosing not to be around.”
I stare at my lap and nod vaguely. But it does say something about me. About me, and Billy, and my mother. It says that we weren’t enough for him. “At least your dad would be here if he could,” I murmur. I find his eyes again. “I’m sorry, Tuck. It’s so unfair. My dad could be with me and chooses not to, and your dad…I’m so sorry he got sick.” I choke out the words.
Tucker’s jaw clenches and he glares at me. Intensely. Unblinkingly.
Shit. Did I overstep? I do that sometimes. I just talk, blurt whatever I’m thinking. I just thought we were connecting and…shit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“He wouldn’t.” Tucker’s voice is so low and toneless that at first his words don’t even register, and I just frown up at him. “He wouldn’t,” he repeats. “Be here if he could.”
Huh? Tucker’s father died of cancer when we were in middle school. “What—”
Suddenly Tucker sits up, his back straightening and his energy changing like he’s preparing for something. He radiates intensity, and when he leans his face closer to mine I can feel the nervous current buzzing through him in the cells of my own body.
“You remember when my dad was sick?” he asks.
I nod. Of course I do.
“He was in the hospital for a few months,” Tucker says, but of course I already knew that.
“For chemo,” I offer, but Tucker just exhales harshly.
“We thought he was doing better. The doctors said…” He trails off. “He came home. And then right before Christmas…”
“I know, Tucker,” I whisper. I place my hand on his forearm meaning to soothe him, but his fervor is making me anxious, and my hold is almost desperate.
He shakes his head. “He wasn’t getting chemo.” His stare bores into me, willing me to understand something beyond my grasp.
“Carl, he was si
ck, but…he didn’t have cancer.” He watches me carefully. “He was depressed and…he tried to kill himself.”
Holy shit.
“He was admitted to an in-patient mental facility. He was in therapy and on anti-anxiety meds and antidepressants, and he came home.”
Oh, God.
“And then, a week before Christmas Eve, he took my mom and me to pick out a tree, helped us hang all the decorations, hung up the lights on the outside of the house. We were going to a movie but my dad said he was too tired. The meds had that side effect. So he said good night and then went upstairs, and my mom and I went to some stupid Christmas movie she wanted to see. She didn’t want to wake him when we got home so she just got quietly into bed, and when she woke the next morning, he was already cold.”
I gape at him, searching desperately for the right words, but I’m not sure they exist.
“He downed both bottles of his meds. While we were at the movies.”
It’s then that I realize my grip on Tucker’s forearm is so tight it’s leaving marks on his skin, and I retract my hand immediately.
“God, Tucker,” I breathe.
“He was planning it. The whole time we were picking out the tree, decorating—all of it. And we had no idea. But then, looking back…He kept saying things about how it had to be the best tree we’ve ever had. He insisted on buying my mom a bunch of fancy new ornaments even though we were having money problems. I mean, he hadn’t worked in months and he was buying her this ridiculously expensive crystal tree topper we didn’t need.”
Tucker shakes his head, still incredulous after all these years. “He just sent us off to the movies, knowing it would be the last time we saw him and—” His voice breaks and he slams his mouth shut, swallowing down his grief.
But I don’t want him to swallow it down.
After all, I know something about spinning stories and hiding shame. I know the toll it takes. And all this time, Tucker was hiding this. Living with this.
I don’t think. I just climb into his lap and wrap my arms around his waist, tucking my head under his chin. Because nothing I say will help, but this, hopefully this can offer him some consolation.
He doesn’t hesitate. He just envelops me in his arms, holding me so tightly it almost cuts off my breath, and buries his face in my hair.
“Princess,” he breathes, and I pull back to look at him.
I know the right thing to say is I’m sorry, but I’ve never been good at saying the right thing. “He was sick, Tuck. He—”
“I know, Carl,” he says gruffly. “I know he was sick, that he wasn’t in his right mind, that he was chemically imbalanced. I know all of it. But whatever the reason, he still chose to do it. He could have stuck it out and fought. But—”
“Tuck—”
“I know.” And this time his voice is just despondent, like he’s given up.
I can’t bear it. I press my lips to his, hard. His hands cup my face, his fingers thrust roughly into my hair, and he holds my mouth to his. His lips are firm and desperate, molding mine, stealing my breath, and for once I just let him lead. I let him take from me whatever he needs.
But he doesn’t deepen the kiss. We’re just lips and breaths, breaths and lips. It’s more reverent than passionate, and when he ends it, he holds his forehead to mine until our breathing calms.
Tucker strokes my hair, and subtly I feel the tension in his corded muscles dissipate. I lay my head on his shoulder and his grip around me loosens as he repositions me more comfortably on his lap.
“Thank you for telling me,” I whisper into his neck.
“Only Cap knows.”
I nod. He doesn’t have to say anything else. He doesn’t have to ask me not to repeat what he’s confided, and I don’t have to assure him I never would. It goes without saying. And for the first time I wish I had the courage to confide in him in return. To confide in anyone. He said Cap knew about his father. Even Tina doesn’t know about mine.
I am a coward.
But then, what my father did is far more shameful. He destroyed families—lives. Tuck’s dad was ill. Mine was just plain greedy.
Without another word, we go back to watching motorcycles and gunfights, and it isn’t long before the rise and fall of Tucker’s breathing lulls me to sleep.
The next thing I know, the TV is silent and I’m being carried up the stairs, half conscious. He lays me gently onto my bed and tugs my comforter up to my chin. It’s when I hear his descending footsteps that I manage to speak.
“Tuck…”
His footfalls grow heavier as he comes back to the bed. “Yeah, Princess?” he whispers in the dark.
“Stay.”
There’s a moment of hesitant silence, then a soft sigh and the rustling of clothing, and then Tucker is climbing into bed behind me in only his boxer briefs, and I drift off to sleep in his arms.
I wake the next morning alone, but the way his scent clings to my pillow proves his visit wasn’t a dream. I turn my face into it and inhale deeply.
My phone buzzes and I reach for it blindly on my nightstand. The screen announces texts from Tucker, the first of which are from about thirty minutes ago.
Had to go meet Cap for gym. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. 8:15 am
And also I knew it was the only way I would ever get the last word in ;) 8:17 am
And then, almost ten minutes later:
Tucker: And the last kiss…8:26 am
And then there’s a photo. A selfie of just the bottom half of his face pressing a soft kiss to my sleeping forehead.
I melt into a puddle on my bed, a grin stinging my cheeks as I laugh down at my phone. It’s funny how context is everything. If it were any other guy, that photo would be the creepiest thing in the world. But because it’s him, because it’s us, it’s just completely and utterly perfect.
I twist the phone behind me and snap a photo of my shorts-covered ass.
Kiss this 8:52 am
Twenty minutes later he responds.
I know you’re trying to be a smartass, but I’m pretty sure any time you send me a photo of any part of your body, I win. Especially that one. 9:15 am
And for the record, I would happily kiss it. 9:16 am.
Chapter Ten
Tucker
Present Day
Halloween is the one holiday I don’t loathe. The one holiday that has nothing to do with family. That is instead about dressing up and getting fucked up and pretending to be someone else for a night. I am definitely down with that.
Of course we’re hosting tonight’s party. The theme is favorite characters from TV, movies, and books. Pretty broad. And still, the guys just had to choose costumes for us that remind me of Carl. But then, I liked Sons of Anarchy before I ever watched it with her, and fuck it, I’m taking it back.
We’ve all applied our fake tattoos, including the giant one on our backs of a grim reaper holding an M-16 with a scythe blade in one hand and a crystal ball in the other—pointless since we’re wearing shirts, but whatever. I pull on jeans and a white T-shirt, then slip on my faux leather cut. They actually look pretty authentic, considering. My dirty blond hair has gotten a little long, and when Ben announced our costume a few weeks ago, I decided I’d put off cutting it.
I go out with a couple of the guys to pick up the kegs and some liquor, and by the time I get back, people are already showing up. An hour later the house is completely packed. I’m already on my fourth beer when Carl walks in with her friend Devin, and my traitorous dick instantly swells in my jeans. My brain tries to remind it that we don’t want her anymore. That she’s a liar. That she sat back and listened to me confide every last heart-wrenching family secret while hiding her own behind smiles and sex. But my dick doesn’t care any more now than it did a few weeks ago, when I apparently lost my damned mind and shamelessly dragged her into my bedroom. That particular memory doesn’t help the situation in my jeans. Neither does the fact that she’s dressed like a wet fucking dream.
She’s dressed like Daenerys Targaryen from Game of Thrones—Khaleesi—and from the first season, too, in a badass nomadic getup with her flat midriff peeking out for all to see.
Motherfucker.
Her golden hair is already longer than she used to wear it, and she’s added something to it—like extensions or something.
I head back to the keg before she sees me, and refill my cup, deciding that tonight would be a good opportunity to get completely shit-faced.
“Hi, Tuck.”
I turn to find Courtney, the redhead Ben tried to hook me up with at our first party, smirking at me.
“Or should I say Jax?”
I offer her a forced laugh, as if I haven’t heard that one five times already tonight. She hands me her cup and I fill it for her. She’s dressed in tight black leggings and a matching tank top with a Pink Ladies jacket from Grease draped over her shoulders. She matches about five other of her friends I’ve seen traipsing around the party.
Original.
“You just get here?” I ask her. I notice a couple of the guys checking her out, and I push myself to do the same. She is a cute girl. Physically, anyway. Hot in all of the typical ways—small waist, big tits, lean hips. Problem is, I’ve spent what feels like a lifetime developing a very specific taste for very particular proportions, and it’s hard not to think this Courtney chick’s tits are just a tad too big for her frame, and that I prefer a slightly plumper ass.
And blond hair and green eyes.
Fuck.
“So tell me, do you have your member tattoo?” she asks, lashes batting like a demented pair of dragonfly wings.
“Sure do,” I reply, and she follows me as I start walking through the kitchen.
“Can I see it?”
I laugh. “I’m not taking off my shirt in the middle of a party. Go find Ricky. I’m sure he’d be happy to accommodate you.” I’ve already seen him stripping his cut and shirt off to show three other girls.
In Ruins Page 11