“Sometimes though, I just don’t think I know people well enough to do it anymore. I’ve lost my knack for understanding motivations and secret feelings and all of that shit.”
“You think so? You seem pretty good at it to me.”
“I don’t see how you could know. You’ve got me more figured out than I’ve got you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, and that seemed to be the end of things. He fell silent. Her apartment building was right around the corner she’d pointed to. In a second, he would pull into the spot outside, and that would be it. Or so she thought.
But then he spoke again, once they were parked.
Abruptly, quietly, without looking at her.
“The forcefield you said I have. How thick would you say it is?”
“Probably the equivalent of three buses circling you at all times.”
“Pretty substantial then, huh. Nothing is getting through that sucker.”
“I’m fairly convinced I could stab you, and the knife would ping off.”
“So, if I had secret feelings, nobody should ever know any of them.”
“I don’t see how anybody could.”
“That’s what I thought.” He paused just long enough to kill the engine. Then when he spoke again, it was into that suddenly silent darkness. “Why do I read romance novels?”
“I don’t know. I thought you didn’t want to talk ab—”
“Yeah, and now I do. So, come on. Tell me.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to tell.”
He shook his head at that. “Oh, I know you know that’s not true.”
“It would just be a guess.”
“So let me hear it.”
She would have hesitated, if he hadn’t sounded so adamant.
But then, maybe he knew that. Maybe he knew he had to push, to stop her second guessing and doubting and all the other things she did now.
And he was right to.
“You crave in fantasy what you’re incapable of in reality,” she said, and the silence that followed told her all she needed to know. She was right. She was so right she didn’t dare look at him, and when she did the news was not good.
He looked grim as fuck. Like she’d just said you have three days to live.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did.”
“It was cruel to say.”
“Sure it was. Hurt like a motherfucker to hear it, I tell you what.”
“Then why did you want me to say it?” she asked, and hated the thin, high note to her own voice. She hated it, but couldn’t stop it coming. “Why did you push me to say it?”
“So you could see how goddamn good you are at knowing why people do what they do. I have three buses circling my body and knives apparently can’t kill me. But you knocked it all aside like it was nothing and came up with that shit like this.”
He snapped his fingers—a good hard snap that should have convinced her.
But it didn’t. And nor did his completely sure and confident expression. She just looked away and said, “It would have been obvious to anyone who saw those books.”
“The guy I had in here last week assumed they belonged to a sister I don’t have.”
“But if you had told him—if you had said—”
“I said they were mine, and he asked if I read them for the sex.”
“Most guys just think about the sex.”
“Though you knew I didn’t.”
She did stop, then. She had to—and not just because she’d run out of arguments. There was also the fact that he’d just done yet another incredibly kind thing for her, and here she was trying to throw it away.
“You let me say things that are painful to you just to prove I could do something.”
“I would do a lot of painful things for you, Lydia.”
“Why though? Why? Why?”
“Because nobody deserves it more.”
He shrugged one shoulder when he said it.
As if it was nothing. As if all of this was nothing.
He even added, after a second, “Go on. Go inside now.”
But he had to know that was impossible.
“I can’t. I have to…say something. Or do something.”
“Then do it. Do it now, while the forcefield is still fucked.”
“I think that will only make it more awful, to be honest.”
“Nothing you do could ever be awful.”
If he had said anything else, she knew she would have been able to resist doing it. Her insides were still in turmoil; her head was full of insane things she didn’t want to be thinking. It should have been easy to avoid, really. But then those words were there, and their eyes met, and he was so sincere—too sincere, really. Like a man so unused to feeling affection that it slips by him, before he can stop it. Like a woman who can’t believe what she’s feeling, until it’s already too late.
God, it was just way, way too late.
She threw her arms around him without even thinking about what it would mean to someone like him. How it would feel, to have someone embrace him like that. And by the time she pulled back, the damage was already done.
All the lights in his face were out.
He went to speak, but no sound came.
And when she got to the door of her building and turned back, he was still there. Sat frozen, in the shock of the thing she should never have done.
Chapter Seven
She fully expected him to not turn up. At the very least, she imagined the hug and the romance novel stuff would have had some kind of effect. After all, it had an effect on her. She blushed every time she thought about it—and not just for normal reasons like embarrassment. There were other things in there, too. Things she didn’t really want to think about, like the word flirting in green neon and the side of his face in the moonlight, and oh fuck, this was just the worst. It was the worst.
Until he turned up, looking just the same as always.
He didn’t seem bothered at all. His hands were not back in his pockets; his face wasn’t a tight mask. And he launched straight the self-defense class without a single qualm. In fact, he did it so seamlessly she could have almost believed nothing had happened between them. She hadn’t intruded on his privacy with all her romance novel talk. He hadn’t frozen in her arms like a deer in hug headlights. There was no cliff drop into clumsy flirting or inappropriate feelings she couldn’t figure out.
The whole thing was nothing. Awkward, but nothing.
And then it got to the part of the class where he had to touch her.
It came about midway through the demonstration of her punching speed. She had hit the air around his face about two dozen times—all while he urged her on. Come on, faster, he said. Harder. But still she didn’t feel she was getting any closer. In fact, sometimes it seemed like she was getting further away. She had to grit her teeth against the frustration; sweat was starting to soak through her shirt.
And then he went to help and it just happened.
One hand went to her waist, and the other went to her arm, and instead of freezing up automatically a great flood of warmth went through her. Her cheeks heated, as if he’d tried to lead her into a dance or even draw her body close to his. And even after it was utterly clear that he hadn’t or wasn’t, things still took an insanely weird turn. He leaned in just a little, but the little somehow seemed like a huge amount.
For a second, she was actually certain that his cheek was going to brush hers.
Hell, it felt like it was brushing hers, despite the obvious space between them.
She could see the firm line of his jaw, out of the corner of her eye. That was the sound of his breathing, so slow and steady it almost seemed like he was forcing it to be that way. Like someone trying to pretend a set of stairs hadn’t winded them, she thought.
Then didn’t want to think about that at all.
In fact, it seemed better to just let her mind go blank. To shut off the sense of that large han
d on her waist and the heat that appeared to be pouring off him and oh no the smell of him. The smell of him was incredible. It was that leather and cinnamon thing again, only with an undercurrent of him. Of man, she thought, and knew she should have wanted to run.
But instead, found herself leaning in. She found herself turning towards him.
In the end, it was him who had to pull back, and as soon as he did, she knew she’d fucked up. He looked almost dazed—as if she had cracked him around the head with a two by four she didn’t have. And even after he’d gathered himself enough to ask her what she wanted to know next, she could see a lingering discomfort.
More than that, really.
He looked like he was in pain.
She was hurting him, with her random bouts of ridiculous affection.
And really there was only one way to deal with that:
Ask for something that could never encourage it.
“How about if you teach me how to escape being grabbed?” she asked, even though it kind of turned her stomach to do it. In fact, when he said:
“Pretty sure we already covered that.”
She almost agreed and just forgot the whole thing.
Then she remembered his pained face, and ploughed on.
“We did, but from behind.”
“So you want from the front.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Like if someone—”
“Got hold of you by the lapels of your jacket.”
“Exactly that. Exactly. Show me how to get out of that.”
“All right. All right,” he said, though he didn’t automatically go for it in that practical way she’d come to expect. Instead, he just stood there with his hands half raised to her, as if this was just as awkward as the hugging and the face touching, somehow.
It made him hesitate. And when he did finally start talking, it was without any contact to back it up. He didn’t illustrate. He just explained.
“So, ideally what you want to do is anticipate the grab before it even happens. Watch the shoulders, like we talked about.”
“But if I miss the shoulders? Then what?”
“Then you have to break the grip, same as before.”
“Makes sense. Though I’m guessing the technique is different.”
“Yeah it’s different. This way, you can’t lock them in or force them to bend. You’ve got to go for the hands, the thumbs. Make them let go of you. Understand?”
“I do. But maybe a demonstration is in order.”
It was weird, having to ask him for it. To actually ask someone to do something that she still had nightmares about. But even weirder when he grabbed hold of her top. She felt his knuckles press into her chest—and really, that should have been enough. Even though he did it lightly, even though he did it gingerly, it should have been enough. Her stomach was supposed to sink. All her feelings for him were meant to run right out of her body.
But instead, the opposite was somehow happening.
A great jolt of joy went through her, the moment he took hold. Like her body was saying see, this is how much you trust him. This is how much you like him. This is how gentle and caring he is—he can even do this, and nothing happens.
All of which was very good in one way.
But very bad in another.
Now, she was not only more inclined to do something extremely stupid, she was close enough to do it. His body was practically pressed against hers. His mouth was barely three inches away. All she had to do to kiss him was go up on tiptoe, and even worse: the urge to do it was much stronger than she’d anticipated.
His lips were parted; he was breathing hot and hard.
He wants you to, her mind whispered, like some snake in the grass.
And then she simply had to do something to kill it dead.
“Can you pick me up like this?” she asked.
But again, it was him who hesitated.
“I don’t think I should pick you up.”
“But you could. You could do it.”
“I’m strong enough to, yes.”
“So let me see then.”
She braced herself for it. Though even as she did, she knew she wasn’t going to need it. He was just too good. Her trust in him was too great. And most of all: he was way, way too reluctant about it. He actually closed his eyes briefly, as he lifted her. She saw his jaw clench, even though the effort it took seemed to be minimal.
And once her feet were off the ground, he couldn’t look at her.
Not even when he asked, “Is this all right?”
Though, probably that was for the best.
If he’d been facing her, she would have kissed him.
She knew she would have. She almost did it anyway, even though his mouth was out of reach. The side of his face was just that tempting—all iron filing stubble, and incredible cheekbones, and that jaw, god, that jaw, oh, she had to take her mind off that jaw. Now, before she did something incredibly stupid.
Like licking him.
“Yes. Yeah. But do it harder,” she said.
Only this time, he decided to play the fool.
“I don’t know what you mean by harder.”
“Hold me harder. Harder and closer to you.”
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“So I can see if I can still break your grip,” she said, though she knew that wasn’t why she wanted him to do it at all. She was barely sure what it was about anymore—yet somehow, she couldn’t stop. It was taking on a life of his own, now.
And she suspected he knew it.
His tone was wary when he said, “I haven’t even shown you how to do that yet.”
“Then show me. Tell me how to get out of this.”
“You have to put your hands over mine.”
“I see. I get it. Like this, you mean?”
She didn’t mean to relish the contact.
But she knew she did. She knew it looked like she did. His gaze whipped to hers the moment she curled her fingers around his fists. And it stayed there, as he demanded she do it less gently. “You have to almost hurt me,” he said, in a voice that didn’t seem like his own anymore. It was rough and pleading and kind of lost.
Though, she understood completely.
She had become a different person too.
Somehow, she had become the girl she’d been before any of this happened. The one who enjoyed teasing and loved flirting and would have relished his hands in hers. She did relish his hands in hers. They were warm and big under her palms, and the skin there was so much smoother than she’d imagined.
Plus, he was looking at her.
He was looking at her in this searching, uncertain way, as if it was him who didn’t know how to deal with any of this. He was the troubled one. He was the one who struggled with being so close and holding her in his fists. Not her, not her, oh god, it meant something else entirely to her, to the point where she could say, “I want you to throw me onto the mat.”
And feel nothing but a goddamn fucking thrill.
No pain, no flashbacks, no nothing.
In fact, the only objection was his.
“Oh god, Lydia, I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can, you can.”
“I can, but I don’t want to.”
“Because you think I’m so fragile?
“It has nothing to do with fragility.”
“Then do it. Do it. Come on, do it to me—”
He broke before she’d finished her sentence, hard enough that it almost hurt. But even almost hurting wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough, with him. He was over her, hands still tight in her top and body so close she could feel him breathing, and all she wanted to do was laugh. It bubbled up through her, so full of relief and joy that she couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t want to stop herself. It was like breathing again after months of holding it in. All that mattered in that moment was feeling it.
But feeling it was what made her cross the line.
She didn’t think, she didn’t
consider consequences.
Suddenly, her hand was on his face, his lovely face.
And the second it was, that was it. He jumped away as if she’d stabbed him. He practically flung himself off her, fast enough that she didn’t even get chance to sit up.
By the time she did, he was already out the door.
Chapter Eight
Some part of her hoped it would be like last time. That he would show up in spite of everything, and just act like none of it had bothered him at all. He was fine with her demanding he throw her around. He didn’t care if she got all weirdly happy about it. And what did it matter if she caressed his face like some moony idiot?
It was all just water off his forcefield.
Or so she told herself.
Then she got to the studio, and that whole house of cards crumbled. He wasn’t there, waiting for her to walk through the door. And he didn’t turn up ten minutes later, with his hands casually slung in his pockets and his face as carefully neutral as ever. He was gone—and probably not just in terms of this one meet up. Other people cut out on her, and she could just call them. Explain, rearrange, ask for forgiveness.
But that couldn’t happen with him.
She didn’t have his number. She’d never dared to ask, and he’d never offered. Of course he hadn’t. It had taken him fuck knew how long just to tell her his name—never mind his contact details. Chances were, he didn’t even have contact details to give. She couldn’t imagine him with an iPhone, texting shit at friends and taking grinning selfies to post on Instagram.
He seemed more the type to find the only pay phone left on planet earth.
If she heard from him again, the sound of deposited quarters would be in the background.
And even then, he’d only be calling to tell her goodbye.
I can’t deal with this weirdness, she imagined him saying, and suddenly her eyes were stinging. She had to look up at the ceiling just to stop herself from doing something dumb—like crying over a guy she barely knew. He hadn’t even told her where he worked or what his favorite color was or how he liked his eggs cooked. The only reason she knew for sure that he was possibly Latino was down to his last name.
So really what was she upset about?
Never Better: A Dark Obsession Novel Page 7