Hard Love

by Shana Vanterpool

  “Give me some of your nuts,” I demanded, snatching the soy spicy nuts from him. I tossed him the wasabi ones I’d been eating and then dumped the bag into my mouth.

  “Like my nuts, do ya?” He laughed hard at his own joke.

  And I supposed he had to. What with me not finding it funny. When I glared at him, he laughed even harder. “What kind of cop laughs at his own jokes?”

  He smirked, setting the wasabi nuts down to take a long swallow from his can. “I’m not a cop anymore. I quit.”

  I choked on his nuts, coughing them up while trying to glare at him at the same time. “What do you mean you quit?”

  “I hired a realtor to sell my house.”

  I gawked at him. “What are you talking about, Brando? You’re leaving your life behind? Portland was supposed to be temporary. For you to get better and figure things out.”

  “I’ll figure things out. Just not in Denver.” He gave me a resolved look, as though he’d thought about that long enough on his own to accept it.

  “What about your career?” I asked, feeling ridiculous with my fingers covered in orange and green powder.

  He shrugged with one shoulder and took another drink. “It’s over. I’ll start over.” He nodded determinedly. “I don’t have a choice. I can’t be a cop anymore, Cat,” he admitted in a painful rush of words. “Madison was my first and last case. And I’m okay with that. Because not all my cases were going to end with the victim coming home and falling in love. I can’t take the alternative.”

  I felt his past leave him. Like shedding a skin. The only thing was, how many times could he do that? Eventually, shedding his skin repeatedly would leave him with the truth. And if he wanted the truth, he wouldn’t be running so far away from himself. I knew, because I’d done that.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be there for you if you need it. You can always become an artist at Guns & Ink. Have you ever tatted, or drawn?”

  “Drawn.”

  “You should try tatting. With artwork as good as your tats, you’ll have a cult following.”

  He smiled into his can. “It might go to my head.”

  I had a feeling that nothing went to Brando’s head. If anything, he was a down soul. A wilted rose in a garden of ash. I’d been wilted once. Now I took great pride in showing off my soft red petals. And my fucking thorns. I rested my head on his shoulder. “You could always become a stripper. With an ass like that, you’ll make a killing.”

  He laughed, turning his cheek into my forehead and nuzzling me. He was a lot more relaxed drunk. I recalled that he was a horny drunk like me and couldn’t wait for his pants to drop. “Ditto.”

  I grinned, nuzzling him back. We probably looked like two black cats rubbing their bad luck together. “You’ve never seen my ass naked, though.”

  “True. Seems unfair if you think about it. Catch up, buttercup.”

  My eyebrow quirked. “You want to see my naked ass?”

  He didn’t answer with words. He sat back and smiled at the wall before taking a long drink. Hmm. Brando was a gentleman. Something about a man covered in tattoos still somehow being sweet made my pussy ache for him. I just knew he’d be incredible in bed. Rough and claiming, so consuming as he knocked every thought out of my brain.

  But at the same time, the idea of our relationship being only about sex saddened me. Typically, that’s the way I wanted it. To feel in the beginning, to give and take, and then when the magic fizzled, I was on to the next man. My demons roared, excited to get a chance to wreck my heart. But this time, I could not let my demons win.

  But that meant my heart lost too.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, reaching over to gently grasp my jaw. He turned me to him, getting a perfect shot of the pain in my eyes.

  “Honestly?” I whispered.

  He sobered, and I expected him to shake his head and release me. But so far, nothing I expected him to be or do had panned out the way I thought.

  “Honestly,” he assured, leaning close. The smell of cola and whiskey burned on our breath. There was so much intoxication between us, we were drunk even when we were sober.

  “I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone. But I don’t know how to make it last. I don’t know how not to turn you into a painful memory.”

  His eyes slid closed and his breathing deepened. “I want to be your painful memory.”

  That was the crutch of our attraction. We didn’t trust it more than we trusted our ability to destroy it. Wanting what would ultimately decimate you was a smattering of insanity in an otherwise sane (-ish) brain. But that shred of insanity made the most sense.

  “What are we going to do about it?” I asked, a breath’s inch away from his lips. It would feel so good to give in to us for even a second.

  He exhaled against my lips and brushed his over mine delicately. “We can do one of two things. Either we do nothing and let it wreak havoc. Or we put rules in place so that doesn’t happen.”

  I kissed him back. “I hate rules.”

  He shook his head. “Rules are important. They keep the bad and good separate. Without that, we’d all be lost.”

  “Aren’t we already?” I kissed him again, in a bubble so fine even the slightest move would make it explode.

  “Good question,” he murmured, increasing the hold his hand had on my face. His fingers dug into my jaw and eased me back ever-so-slightly, his body following me. I didn’t like men on top of me, but I didn’t mind him.

  Men like Brando had been hurt far too deeply to ever hurt anyone. At least on purpose. None of this was on purpose.

  He kissed me softly, and my fingers made the mistake of reaching out to grab hold of something, anything. He hissed sharply and fell back, releasing me and grabbing for where his ribs were mending.

  That was us. It didn’t take a degree in love to estimate the velocity it would take to give in … and wreck. That was a one plus one equation and the answer was a mess of tattered hearts and missed opportunity.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, sitting up, a smudge of yellow and green dust smeared on his shirt.

  He sagged back and gave me a smile, but it was twisted on the edge and there was pain sweat on the edge of his brow. “I think I asked for it.”

  Me too, I thought miserably. Feeling our slumber party on the edge of being destroyed too, I grabbed for the whiskey and made us two fresh drinks. The alcohol had started to warm my bones and turn my heart to mush. Might as well turn it into dust while I was at it.

  “Thanks.” He took the drink and took a long swig, probably needing the liquid courage as much as I did.

  I did the only thing I could think to do with my heart on the line. “So, you want to see my ass now?”

  He spluttered, spitting up his drink all over the stained dark green carpet. Our legs were stretched out, our sock-clad feet in stark contrast to the dirty, worn carpet. We were so comfortable with each other at the same time we couldn’t find it in ourselves.

  “What?” He wiped his face off on the back of his hand.

  “I’m a fair person, Brando. I saw yours, you should see mine. How else are we going to settle this contest?”

  “What contest?”

  “The greatest ass contest we have going on.” I struggled to my feet at the same time I took a long drink, knowing that if I was going to stand on my own two feet around him, I’d need it.

  “Sounds like you already crowned yourself the victor.” He smiled up at me, so damn handsome my heart took a deep breath along with me.

  His cheeks were flushed deep from the alcohol, and his eyelids were lowered. His black hair was messy and floppy, and I knew with absolute certainty that I would run my fingers through that. Preferably with him inside of me. His dark green eyes looked even darker, two gleaming evergreen orbs. His long throat had already started to regrow his beard, and though his beard was a ten out of ten, his stubble was its own kind of beauty. Dark and gritty on his long throat, growing over his Adam’s apple and hiding the scar
under his left jaw. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to kiss that scar.

  Lick it.

  Love it.

  Because it was obvious that Brando didn’t love it.

  Lust was such a greedy monster. Never full. Always starving.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  He felt it too.

  Wanted it too.

  But fear was insatiable as well. It had rebuttals and what ifs.

  How could we have lust without fearing what we felt?

  My head spun, but I was okay with that. I felt … like I was living. Even in an outdated hotel room covered in cheese powder, there was meaning in my actions. There was purpose.

  A memory that would never go away.

  “You’re staring,” he said, but his eyes were roaming over me the entire time mine roamed him.

  “I like staring at beautiful things. Obviously,” I added, giving him a smile, “you do, too.”

  His lips quirked, and the heat in his eyes made my pussy clench. “You got me there.”

  Lust: one.

  Fear: zero.

  When it came to Brando, I kept score.

  I set my can on the nightstand by the bed. With my cheese and wasabi dusted fingers, I turned around and unclasped the button on my jeans. I pulled my zipper down; my next move would be what led to the last move. But I did it anyway. Because mistakes and love went together like rubble and decay.

  What was one without the other?

  I eased my jeans down an inch and then shimmied my hips to get them over the globes of my ass. Thankfully, I was wearing a black thong, the material nestled in my ass enough for him to see. I pulled my jeans down mid-thigh and then looked over my shoulder to find him in heaven.

  His mouth was slack and his eyes were fire.

  He reached out almost unthinkingly. I stepped back and gave him what he wanted. His large hand settled on my right cheek. His palm was hot, but it made me shiver. To be hot and be cold was a heady sensation I had never felt before, like playing with ice and fire.

  “All caught up?” I checked, biting my bottom lip to keep from taking my panties off too.

  “Yeah, we’re even,” he said, the timber in his voice having dropped a few octaves. It was dark, deep, beauty.

  It was the first spark of life I’d seen in him ever.

  I pulled my jeans back on and then licked my fingers clean, settling back down beside him after grabbing my can.

  “You’re a fucking tease,” he stated, and it made me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. “A grade A fucking tease.”

  I shrugged, my laugh fading to a smile. “What are you?”

  “Your victim,” he answered, before bringing his drink to his lips and pulling a long mouthful from it.

  “You okay being my victim?”

  “Too okay probably.” His eyes flashed to mine. “I want to beg you to go easy on me, but at the same time, I want you to fucking ruin me, Catherine. Ruin me,” he begged.

  My heart couldn’t believe the torment trapped in his gaze. I knew that torment. I lived with that torment. What happened to you, Brando? Asking would give me answers, and who’s to say I’d ruin him after that? Without that ruin, the fear would win.

  I’d fought fear. I’d succumbed. Fear could not win again.

  I brought my knees to my chest and turned my gaze on to the bland beach painting on the wall. We were in Idaho near Boise off of Highway 84. So far from the beach that painting was a joke. They’d have better luck putting a potato on the wall. That made more sense.

  “I’m sorry. It’s probably the pain meds mixing with the alcohol.” He cleared his throat and reached for a bag of jerky. “Ignore me, Cat.”

  Not likely. Being alone with him felt dangerous. I wanted to comfort him, pull one of those rare self-deprecating laughs from him, like he couldn’t help but laugh at me. “Let’s play a game,” I offered. “Pass the time.”

  He nodded me along, shoving his mouth full of jerky.

  Guy ate like crap. “You always eat this way?”

  “No,” he sighed. “I’m usually lean protein, complex carbs. But that was before … when how I looked mattered. Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  He was depressed. Unlike me, I drank and chased boys when I was depressed. Brando ate and had nightmares.

  “Okay, so you have to guess what I’m looking at by what I’m describing.”

  “Sounds simple enough.” He reached for a bag of sour gummies and shoved a handful into his mouth.

  “Warmed pink sand probably feels so good on your toes.”

  He gave me a small smile like that’s all you got? “It’s the painting. There’s green-colored sand in Hawaii.”

  “No way.”

  “Mahana Beach. Maybe that’s where we’ll honeymoon,” he teased, bringing up my Hawaii comment from in the car.

  The fact that he’d remembered that’s where I wanted to get married made me ache. My panties were wet, and my heart was desperately in need. To be Mrs. Hawkins for real this time. And not the product of a harmless mistake.

  “Why Hawaii, Cat?”

  I smiled sadly. “The first chick I ever inked was from there. She went on and on about it. I lacked a lot of magic back then. I had like, none, and to hear her speak so highly of it, it made me want to go there. To feel magic that real. I never forgot that,” I admitted. “Even after all these years, I never forgot what it felt like to be devoid of … good.”

  “Why don’t we go? You and me?” He looked so excited, so eager to give me my magic back.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I gave up. Admitted I had feelings for him. Admitted that my war had barely started. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be better because of him. I was terrified because I may not get the chance. Because, because, because—reasons mattered here, just as much as they didn’t.

  “You want to take me to Hawaii, Brando?” My voice was uncharacteristically soft. The tension between us was held together by threads.

  “I want you to feel that way all the time. I’ve never met anyone more deserving of magic than you.”

  I felt something close to magic then. It was dark, but it was consuming, and not all magic blindingly shimmered. “What about you? I think you deserve some magic too.”

  “I’m not sure I deserve anything anymore.” His entire countenance changed. It went from open and heavy-lidded eyes, to closed-off and stiff. “I’m kind of tired,” he mumbled. “You mind if we go to bed?” He struggled to his feet as I watched silently, his face pinched in pain. He didn’t ask for help, and though I wanted to give it to him, I sensed he didn’t want it.

  “Yeah, okay.” I gathered the snacks and put them back into the gas station bag. I chugged my drink and then sifted through my bag for my toothbrush and a change of clothes. I slipped into the bathroom and got ready for bed.

  In the mirror, I faced my reflection; toothpaste foam seeped between my lips, making me look rabid. With my flushed cheeks and finger tousled hair, I looked every part the horny tortured soul. It took me a long time to meet my own eyes. From seventeen and many years later, it was hard to love myself. Hard to want myself. I felt broken and diseased, and it wasn’t until I hit rock bottom did I start to rebuild myself.

  I still had my moments; I could tell that I’d been away from therapy too long. I was slipping back into my old mind frame, of picking apart my insides, doubting the hurt pieces.

  Doubt and shame were a victim’s nightmare. Because they never went away.

  I changed into a tank top and a pair of leggings, and then I put my hair up into a bun and snapped off the bathroom light. The room was dark when I stepped out, lightened only by the single window in the room. The street lights slanted across the far wall, sending long stretches of faint light over the bed. I saw the top of his head and the bottom of his throat, but his eyes were shielded by the dark in the room.

  After putting my clothes back in the bag, I crawled under the covers, trying and failing not to think about how many men had ejaculated
on these sheets.

  “How often do they change these things?” I kicked the duvet off and just used the sheets.

  “I worked a sting when I was on patrol for prostitution. Cheap hotel like this. The maid told me that they only washed the actual duvet’s twice a year. Sheets were eyeballed. And they picked brightly colored duvets, like this one, so they can hide the dirt.”

  I gawked at his face in the dark. “Thank you for that enlightening trivia.” My skin crawled. I hated semen. I felt it all over me. In the sheets, on the blanket—it was every-fucking-where.

  I tried to relax, breathing through my nose. But it was too easy to go back there. Waking up with semen and blood smeared between my legs. With the terror and hurt decimating my heart. My face hurt from being punched out cold. My vagina hurt for a year after that attack, even though sometimes it felt like it was in my head. Like a phantom pain that never went away. It started to hurt me, aching where he’d forced himself into me.

  I hated seeing his face.

  I hated that I’d fallen right into a monster’s trap.

  I hated that I would never, ever, be free of these memories.

  “Hey,” Brando whispered. “Cat? What’s wrong, baby?”

  I was breathing hard. “Memories,” I huffed, trying to pull in a breath that didn’t ache. “No matter what I do, I’ll never forget, that’s all. Memories come back to me sometimes. I have to push them down.” I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to get rid of them.

  But they grew stronger. There were smells, feelings—memories were as brutal as love.

  “Come here,” he pled, his hands fumbling for me in the dark.

  Before he could hurt himself coming to me, I scurried across the middle of the bed and folded myself against his side. My ear sought his chest, seeking out the beat of his heart. The moment I heard the steady pounding in my brain, my memories simmered and I hid my face in his shirt, inhaling the delicious scent of him into my lungs.

  “Shh,” he soothed, his lips on my forehead. His warm breath fanned across my face and I inhaled that too. “You’re okay. You know how I know?”