by Emery Rose
I released her and took a few steps back. “Let’s find our way back to being friends,” I said.
She bit down on her lower lip, considering it. Did I deserve another chance? Probably not. I was asking her to take a leap of faith. I knew why our relationship had broken down, and I knew what I needed to do to fix it. I dropped down on one knee and held my hands together as if in prayer. “You hold my beating heart in your hands. Don’t squeeze the life out of me.”
Ava rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
I chuckled and got to my feet. “I know. But that’s why you love me.”
She shook her head but didn’t bother denying it. Small victory. “Are you still offering empanadas?”
“All the empanadas you can eat.”
“Good. I’m starving.” She poked me in the chest. “And you’re buying.”
8
Connor
Ava ordered enough food to feed a small country. Like China. “I’ll have what she’s having,” I told the waitress.
When she left our booth, I fed coins into the table jukebox and flipped through the music, punching the buttons to make my selections. I loved this thing. It still took quarters and the music hadn’t been updated in decades, a lot like this old diner. A Formica-topped table separated me from Ava and silver duct tape patched the tear in my red vinyl seat, but the food made up for the shabby decor.
My first selection started playing—Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” and Ava groaned like it was truly painful.
“You’re really going for it, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Go big or go home, sweetcakes.”
She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Hand over the quarters, beefcake.”
I held up my empty hands. She shot me a look that sent me right up to the register for change. What a chump, I thought, as I came back to our booth with a handful of quarters for my little princess. She rewarded me with a smug smile, and I wondered if she’d choose the same songs she used to. There was always some Elvis, “California Dreaming,” the Beach Boys, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and a Tammy Wynette number, “Stand by Your Man.”
“The usual?” I asked when she leaned back in her seat, satisfied with her choices.
“I mixed it up. No Tammy.”
I gave her a little smile. “Maybe next time.”
“You’d need to earn that.”
“Tell me how.”
“We need to set some ground rules,” she said, all business now.
“Shoot.”
“No sex. If I get drunk and call you, don’t cave, even if I beg you to have sex with me. I won’t know what I’m talking about and I’ll regret it the next morning.”
I smirked as the waitress served our papaya juice.
When the waitress left, Ava said, “Wipe that smirk off your face. No sex. I mean it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.” The fact that she felt the need to bring up sex meant she was tempted. She should have known better than to set herself up like that. “Even if you beg me for sex when you’re stone-cold sober, I’ll say no. I’m not that kind of guy.” I pointed to myself and then her. “What we’ve got here is a friends-without-benefits arrangement. If you choose to honor that, then we’re good to go.” I puffed out my chest. “You can’t use me for my body. In fact, I’m offended that you would insinuate such a thing.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re adorable.” I stared at her plump pink lips, her delicate nose, and those wide gray eyes that could turn from icy to stormy in a heartbeat. God, I loved her face. I loved her everything.
She huffed out a breath. “At least we got that straight.”
“Absolutely. No sex. Not even if you beg me.” I leaned back in my seat and spread my arms along the top of the booth. “Anything else?”
“If you say you’re going to be somewhere, you need to be there. You’ll get a fifteen-minute grace period, but if you’re late, or if you haven’t called with a valid excuse, I won’t be hanging around waiting for you. I need to know I can rely on you.”
“Done.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “No lying. No empty promises.”
“I only made empty promises when I was using.” But I’m still a liar.
“I know.” She leaned in, resting her folded arms on the table. My gaze wandered down the column of her neck to the scoop of her black sports tank, exposing her creamy skin and a hint of cleavage. She snapped her fingers to draw my attention back to her face. “If I ever find out you’re doing drugs, I’ll never speak to you again. There won’t be any more chances. Not as friends or anything else. I just … I can’t go back there.”
I couldn’t go back there. I had too much at stake to lose the fight now. “I know. And I’d never expect you to.”
Ava’s face crumpled. “I feel like I lost the boy I loved. There were so many times I was scared for your life. And I never ever want to feel like that again.”
I reached for her hands and clasped them in mine, my thumbs tracing lazy circles over the thin skin of her inner wrists. “I’m done with that life. It’s over. I worked too hard to get out to fall back into it. I never want to go through that again, and I never want the people I care about to suffer because of it.”
She looked down at our joined hands but didn’t try to pull hers away. “We’ll try this. As friends though … nothing more.”
I released her hands as the waitress transferred the plates of food from her tray to our table. “Thank you,” I told the waitress.
“Uh huh,” she said, tucking the tray under her arm. She was middle-aged with pasty skin and thinning brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her lips pressed in a flat line. I wondered when she’d last smiled or lit up with joy. As she walked away, I saw defeat in the slump of her shoulders, like life hadn’t gone easy on her. She looked as worn down and battered as this old diner, frayed around the edges, patched together with duct tape.
“I don’t think she’s found job satisfaction,” Ava said.
“When you have six kids and an unemployed husband to support, it can’t be easy,” I said, falling into one of our old storytelling games, wondering if Ava would play along like she used to.
Ava picked up an empanada and took an enormous bite. Chorizo juice dripped down her chin. I reached across the table and wiped it away with my thumb. She didn’t seem to notice or take offense. It probably felt familiar. “The man never leaves his La-Z-Boy,” Ava said, continuing our story. “Remote in one hand. Beer in the other.”
“He’s a champion bowler though. His team won the cup last year.”
In between shoveling food into our mouths, Ava and I filled in more details about our waitress and her fictional husband and kids.
I watched in amusement as Ava devoured her empanadas then dug into the rice and beans like she was still starving. For such a tiny girl, it had always amazed me that she could put away so much food. I loved her huge appetite. Not only for food but for life. Back when this girl was mine, she loved me with her whole heart and didn’t hold anything back. That was what I strived for now, to somehow get back to that magical place where she could love me like that again.
When we finished eating, she leaned back in her seat and rubbed her flat stomach, groaning like she always did after she ate enough food to feed a football team.
“You good?” I asked.
“I’m about to go into a food coma. Other than that, it’s all good.”
I chuckled.
“One more rule…”
I raised my brows. She looked at the jukebox in accusation as Elvis’s “Don’t Be Cruel” started playing. Another one of my choices.
“This thing is rigged. It didn’t even play my songs.”
I laughed and shook my head. “We can stay longer.” I settled back in my seat in no hurry to leave. Hell, I’d stay here all night if I could, just to hang out with her and keep talking about everything and nothing. No girl had ev
er intrigued me like Ava did. On any given day, she was a mixed bag. I liked it that she always kept me guessing.
“I have a rule, too,” I said. “No more kicking me in the balls.”
“That was a one-off.” She pointed her finger at me. “You provoked me.”
“You could have punched me in the nose.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Hindsight is twenty/twenty. Don’t try to convince me to watch a horror movie with you,” she said. “I’ll have creepy dreams for weeks, and I’ll be convinced that slashers and zombies lurk around every corner. Trust me, you don’t want to go there.”
I didn’t want to go there. I had to hear about it for weeks. “That’s funny … I seem to remember one Halloween when someone thought it would be a great idea to watch back-to-back slasher and zombie flicks. And who suggested that midnight visit to the cemetery afterward?”
“I think that was you.”
“That was all you. I was the poor schmuck who went along with it.”
“Poor schmuck? You grabbed me in the dark and scared the shit out of me.”
That was funny as hell. Until she nearly split my eardrums. “Your screams were loud enough to wake the dead.”
“I got them dancing on their graves.”
“It was the monster mash.”
“We’re such weirdos.” She gave me a big, happy smile she hadn’t shown me in a long time. She was remembering us at seventeen. But the smile faded all too quickly as if she’d caught herself doing something she shouldn’t.
“We should go,” she said, zipping up her hoodie.
I flagged down our waitress and asked for the check. She fished it out of the pocket of her apron and set it on the table. “Can I borrow your pen?” I asked.
She set it on top of the check and walked away. I flipped the check over and drew a peacock, then threw down enough money to cover the bill and a generous tip. Ava gave me a soft smile as we slid out of the booth, the first notes of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” coming out of the jukebox. Ava’s choice.
“That’s harsh,” I said, rubbing my chest.
She arched her brows. “I should have known better than to play with fire.”
“You were the arsonist, baby. You set my world on fire.”
“You left me with the ashes,” she said, her voice low but loud enough for me to hear it.
I wanted to tell her that she was the phoenix that rose from the ashes, but I didn’t know if it was true or not. Ava could be tough, but she said I made her vulnerable and fragile. Five years ago, we went to Brooklyn Glass to watch the glass-blowers. Such a cool thing to watch. On the way home, Ava told me her heart was made of glass, that someday I’d shatter it in my hands and she wouldn’t know how to pick up all the pieces. She wanted to protect her heart, but she gave it to me anyway and trusted me to keep it safe. I didn’t.
I held the door open for her and followed her out of the diner. Tonight, those summerlike days felt like a thing of the past. The air was cool and damp, the kind of weather that settled in your bones. Ava hugged herself for warmth, and I wanted to warm her up with my body heat. Instead, I took off my hoodie and handed it to her.
“Won’t you need it?”
I shook my head.
She thanked me and threaded her arms through the sleeves, zipping it up. “I look ridiculous,” she said, rolling up the sleeves. She was drowning in my hoodie, but she didn’t look ridiculous. I smiled to myself when she burrowed her nose in the collar, closing her eyes as she inhaled my scent.
“Your tattoo…” she said when I handed over her helmet. “Is that the only way you remember me? Crying?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. My right arm was a tapestry of my life over the past few years, a reminder of where I’d been and the journey I’d taken to reach this point. Drug-free. Hanging on to life by the skin of my teeth. Choked by the vines but still surviving. My skull buried in the tree. Ava’s tears. Hope. Despair. The death of my old life and a rebirth. I’d sketched the designs during late nights when sleep wouldn’t come, and over the past year, Jared had inked it on my skin piece-by-piece until I had a full sleeve.
When you hit rock bottom, you’re led to believe there’s nowhere to go but up. What nobody tells you is how long it takes or how hard it is to dig and crawl your way out of that hellhole.
“No,” I said. “That’s not the only way I remember you. It’s more like a reminder … I’m trying to bring good things into my life now. And you … are the very best thing. I won’t ruin us. Not again.”
“Can you make that kind of promise?”
I wasn’t sure. “I can promise that I’ll try my best.”
She studied my face, and I felt like she could see straight into my soul and read all the things I wasn’t saying. “That’s a good start.”
“Am I redeemable, Ava?” I teased.
“Time will tell, Connor.” Her gaze dipped to the vintage silver Harley skull and crossbones belt buckle she’d given me for my nineteenth birthday. “That’s a jazzy belt buckle. The person who gave it to you has good taste.”
I swung a leg over my bike and kicked up the stand. “Watch yourself, girl. You shouldn’t be looking at my belt buckle. And don’t even think of what’s below it.”
“I wasn’t. It never crossed my mind,” she said primly.
“I know it’s hard not to think about something so big but put it out of your mind.”
Ava groaned. “Oh God, you haven’t changed a bit.”
I grinned. “Some things haven’t changed.” I grabbed my crotch, and her gaze lingered there. It was too much fun not to push for more of a reaction. I stroked myself through the fabric of my jeans. I was still tender, but as if by magic, my dick hardened under my touch. “Barbells aren’t just for lifting in the gym,” I said, reminding her of the piercing she used to love. I’d gotten the apadravya for her when we were eighteen, having accepted her dare.
Her tongue swept over her bottom lip. Jesus. I wanted that tongue where my hand was. We used to be daring. Ava had a thing for having sex and giving blow jobs in places where we might get caught. I stifled a groan. God, that was fantastic.
I stopped touching myself. If I kept going, I’d explode in my jeans.
I winked at her. “Get on the back of my bike, baby. I’ll take you for a ride you’ll never forget.”
“Cocky asshole,” she muttered. I chuckled under my breath as she pulled on her helmet and climbed on, her arms circling my waist without my having to prompt her. She once told me that she loved having the power of the Harley between her legs. It always got her wet. I tried not to think about that as I drove her home, knowing damn well she wouldn’t invite me up to her apartment.
9
Ava
It was just Sunday brunch. Nothing to get worked up about, I thought, as I stepped outside my apartment building into a cloudy, gray October day. Connor was leaning against the pillar of my red brick pre-war apartment building, watching the world go by on Bedford Avenue. He was one of those guys who was born to lean. Like a James Dean character. A rebel without a cause. The bad boy girls wanted to fix.
Connor’s gaze swept over me, taking in every detail from the top of my head to the baggy gray sweater, tartan pleated mini skirt, thigh-high ribbed socks and Doc Marten boots. Harajuku girl meets bag lady. My eyes skimmed over his fitted black Henley under a black leather motorcycle jacket and back to his face. I was tempted to run my fingers over the stubble on his chiseled jaw. Drag my hand down his hard chest and feel the warmth of his skin under the fabric of his shirt. Lick the hollow at the base of his neck. Instead, I pressed my lips together and clasped my hands behind my back.
“Your mom got hold of you,” he guessed, looking at my hair.
I shrugged. “It was time for a change.”
After my mom’s constant nagging and non-stop texts, I’d gone to her salon yesterday. It had been a mistake, not because of my hair color, but because of the conversation.
Connor wrapped a l
ock of my white-blonde hair around his fingers, his gaze fixated on my mouth. “I love those cherry-red lips.” My tongue darted out, and I swept it across my lower lip, watching his eyes darken. “You look like someone I used to know.”
“Was she raw and gritty and dirty?”
“Sometimes. But in the very best way,” he said, his gaze lingering on my mouth.
My cheeks flushed with heat. I glanced over my shoulder at the front door, entertaining the notion of returning to the safety of my apartment. He grabbed my hand and guided me to his parked Harley, my stomach doing somersaults.
Helmet on, I climbed onto the back of the bike behind Connor. Closing my eyes, I let out a breath as I wrapped my arms around his waist. It felt good, just like it had three nights ago. And dangerous. And familiar. I could feel his muscles flexing against my arms, the tautness of his stomach. As he took off down the street, the power surged between my legs, and I felt wild and free.
Part of me wanted him to head out of Brooklyn, onto the open road and just keep driving, up the road hugging the Hudson River or to the end of the world. That was what we used to call Montauk, the easternmost tip of the Hamptons. The other part of me was scared he would take me away and I’d lose my bearings. Conflicted, as always, when it came to us.
Yesterday, while my mom was performing her magic on my hair, I’d gotten a text from Connor. She saw it. My mom didn’t miss a trick.
“Ava Christensen, don’t you dare let that boy back into your life. You’re well and truly rid of him.”
I tossed my phone in my bag, safe from her prying eyes. “We’re just friends.”
“You can’t be friends with someone like him.”
“What do you mean … someone like him?” I asked, my hackles rising. How weird that I fought him, yet I defended him to my mother. I always had.
“No mother wants to see their daughter with a drug addict,” she hissed, keeping her voice low so the other customers and stylists wouldn’t overhear those dirty words coming out of her mouth. Drug addict. “I warned him to stay away from you. He promised me he would. Broke up with you and everything … but I should have known better than to trust that boy. He just can’t leave well enough alone, can he?”