He’s staring at me so intently that I get flustered and pretend to get engrossed in a book. I have no idea what it says. I feel his eyes singeing wherever they touch.
“Wh-where are you staying?” I stutter, determined to get my bearings back.
His voice is a silky rasp, like he’s covering me with velvet in every syllable. “I’m in a swanky place—the Chatwal, ever heard of it? I’m in a suite large enough for, oh … at least 6 people? You should come visit.”
“I’d like to see it,” I admit. I have a thing for hotels. I love them.
I’m so out of sorts with his steady gaze on me not going anywhere, that I move over to the next cart to gain some distance. And trip over seemingly nothing but my own feet. I stump my big toe, since I’m only wearing flip-flops and it hurts. “Dagnabbit!”
Ian is at my side in no time. “Are you okay?”
My toe is bloody and gross. “I’m fine,” I sigh. “I’m such a klutz.”
“Let’s go get that cleaned up. Doesn’t look good.”
“Oh, I do this sort of thing all the time, no big deal.”
“I think we’re close to my hotel—wanna catch a cab over there now? Watch a movie in my room or something?”
“That actually sounds really good.”
We’re in the cab and Ian says, “Um, Sparrow … did I really hear you say dagnabbit?”
I whip my head around to face him, my face red, eyes wide. My dorkiness has finally come out.
“Because it sounded like you did … say dagnabbit … and well, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard anyone under 70 actually say that word.” His shoulders are shaking now and his eyes are starting to get watery from him trying to hold his laughter in.
I flick his hand and look back out the window, trying to hide my smile.
“I have an issue with cussing.”
“Oh really? What is your issue?”
“Well, other than the fact that I can’t do it, I just can’t do it. It doesn’t sound right coming out of my mouth.”
“Try something. Say something naughty.”
“No!”
“Come on, Little Bird, let me hear you say something bad.” Now he is wiping his eyes. The jerk.
We pull up to the hotel just then and I breathe a sigh of relief. We get out and walk through the beautiful lobby and when we get inside the elevator, he says, “You’re not off the hook.”
“We have a strict clean word policy at my house,” I say primly.
“Okay, fair enough. But you’re not at your house right now.” His smile covers his face, mischief spilling out. “What would you say right now if you could?”
“That’s the thing. It’s like my mouth will physically not let me. I don’t mind it when other people do, it’s just I can’t. I have this weird thing about words. Even normal ones. For example, you will never hear me say M-O-I-S-T.”
We’re getting off the elevator now and Ian stops at his door. “MOIST?” he practically shouts. “What’s wrong with MOIST?”
I cringe with every M-word.
“PLEASE, don’t,” I beg. “You can say the F-word even, just please not the M-word.”
He is howling now. Oh please.
“I’m happy I can amuse you,” I snap.
“So you’re really okay if I say fuck but not moist?”
“ENOUGH WITH THE MOIST!” I gasp and cover my mouth.
His mouth drops and he points at me. “You said it!” he shouts, and then he laughs so hard, I think he’s going to burst a blood vessel. It’s catching, especially when he winds his arm around me and hugs me tight. “You are too cute,” he says, catching his breath. “So … what do you say when you’re really … angry?” He laughs at himself again, and I know he had another word on the tip of his tongue.
I smirk at him. “You think you’re so funny,” I say, jabbing him in the stomach. “Welllll, I will tell you how it goes. We don’t say, Crap, we say Crack. We don’t say, S-H-I-T, we say Shoot. We don’t say Effff, we say Fudge. And on and on.”
Ian tries desperately to get serious and nods. When I get to the Effff, he loses it again.
“What?”
“You can’t even SPELL fuck, can you?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I admit.
“Aw, baby. That might be the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s stupid is what it is.”
“No, it’s you. It is hilarious and I’m not sure I understand why you can say fudge when you really MEAN fuck, but I can’t question that brain of yours.” He smiles that ornery smile again and I know he’s trying to not lose it again.
“That’s the thing, I really do mean fudge. My brain doesn’t go to the other.”
“Wow. See? You are perfect.”
“More like conditioned…”
And then I notice our surroundings. He’s had me so distracted, I didn’t even appreciate the grandeur we’re standing in. “This room is amazing! Or apartment, I should say! I didn’t know they had such large hotel rooms in New York!”
“Apparently Jagged likes to live large.” He smiles. “Let’s clean up your foot and then I’ll show you my favorite part.”
After the blood is washed off my toe and it looks much better, Ian takes my hand and we step out onto the terrace. We’re up on the roof. The private deck is massive, larger than my entire apartment. We can see over 44th Street. There are plush chairs to enjoy the sunshine and view.
“I love it!”
“This is the “Producer Suite.” Ian winks. “I guess Serge, the bass player, will be staying in the other bedroom tomorrow night, but for tonight it’s all mine. I think he could be here now and we’d never know it.”
“So this is what it feels like to be a famous musician,” I tease. “I can see the allure.”
He shrugs. “I’ve also lived in a van before. Not that I don’t appreciate all this, I do. It’s much better than a van, that’s for sure. I just know it can all go away in an instant.”
The mood just shifted and he sounds serious.
I study his eyes that change colors in every setting and wonder where he goes when his eyes cloud like they are right now. I determine to find out. Maybe not now, but soon. I want to know everything about him.
He shifts suddenly and places his hand on my cheek. “Sparrow? I know I’ve really messed up with you. I saw you … that very first day when you were with … Dave.” He pauses and waits to see if I’ll react.
“Michael.”
“Oh yeah. Mike.”
“Michael.”
“Michael, Mike … Dave, whatever.” He gives me an ornery grin, but quickly turns serious again. “I—felt something that day that I haven’t felt, I don’t know, maybe ever. Maybe when I was a little boy and when things were good with my parents. Too long to remember, anyway. But seeing you, being near you, talking to you, hearing your laugh, watching your lips move, all of it. I felt awake. Alive. Crazed, almost. And I haven’t known what to do with it. Seeing you each time, it just intensifies, which never happens for me. With you, I just want more—instead of wanting to run, I want more. But you’re here, and I’m all over the place. You’re just getting started, really, and I’m already worn and … old.”
I have been hanging on his every word. His expression is so sincere. It seems too much, too soon still, for all our stops and starts, but when I look at him, I could almost swear I see the love. To diffuse the seriousness of the moment, I make a scoffing sound. Pfft.
“You’re not old.”
“That’s all you heard of what I just said?” His eyes crinkle and his lips quirk up as he leans down for a kiss.
Kissing him is like the sun breaking through a deep fog. I know exactly what he meant.
He leans away and smooths down my hair, tugging on the end of a curl. “I’m a pessimist,” he says.
“I’m an optimist.” I shrug nonchalantly.
He looks at me with a sweet expression. “You’re a complete idealist, is what you are.”
&
nbsp; “What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing.” He kisses my hair and my hand and my eyelids.
“I’m not sure you’re right about that. I think I see things how they really are.”
“I want to be who you think I am.”
“I want you to be who you are.” I grab his face and look at him, studying his eyes and trying to get inside his brain. I wish I could pop into his head and swirl around in there for days and days. There’s so much behind the surface, I know he’s trying to let me in, but it still feels as if layers and layers flap over a mound of thoughts and feelings. Ian Sterling is one deep puppy.
“This is me, baby. This is the most me I ever get.” He grins and comes in for another kiss. This one knocks me off my feet, truly, because the next thing I know, he’s picked me up and is carrying me back inside. I’ve had my first threshold moment.
He lays me back on the bed and kisses me slowly, taking his time as his fingers roam down my shoulder, along the sides of my arm, onto my stomach, up the middle of my chest, where they rest for a moment. My shirt is just low enough that his fingers touch exactly where the swell of my breasts begin and I’m afraid to breathe for fear he will move away. His fingers lightly tickle down my cleavage, but go no further. His lips trail down my neck and follow his fingers. He looks up at me then, looking like a mischievous angel. Keeping his eyes on mine, his tongue follows where his lips have been. Every touch is slow and deliberate and it’s making me crazy. He moves the material down my shoulder then, bringing my bra strap down with it and stops just at the top of my bra. He kisses all along the top of my chest, but it just feels like teases.
A sudden image of Asher pops in my head and I can see him throwing my bra across the room. I try to shake it off, but something must flit across my face because Ian sees it and stops.
“Little Bird?” His head comes up to mine and he leans over me, his nose touching mine as he looks at me. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done more than kiss you. Is this too much?”
I make a decision then. “Please don’t stop.” I want to do way more than kiss.
He kisses my cheeks and all over my face, stopping on my lips. His touch is sweet and light.
“You know what? How about we order some food? Watch that movie. You look distracted. Are you hungry?” He tweaks my nose and leans back.
I want to tell him I’m hungry for him because that’s the truth, even if it is cheesy. But he’s right. I really am distracted. I’m so mad at Asher for wrecking this moment for me. What happened that night? What did I do? What made him think I wanted him? I can tell Ian thinks I’m weighing over the option of making out with him for more virtuous reasons, but I really just want to call Asher and yell at him.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I tell him. “You know what? Food does sound good. Will you just pick out something? We’ve eaten together enough times, you know what I like.” I try to grin reassuringly as I pick up my purse and feel for my phone, but pull out my lip gloss instead. “I’ll be outside, catching my breath.” I rush out of the room, to the balcony and up to the roof. Ian’s going to think I’m a loon. I dial Asher’s number and fume as it rings.
“Sparrow! I’m so gla—”
“Just answer me something, Ash. What happened that night?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Tell me the truth. What made you think I wanted to have sex with you? Why did you do that?”
He lets all his breath out. “Sparrow. I had no idea you—.”
“That doesn’t matter right now. Why? Why did you do that?”
“I thought you wanted to … at first. You kept saying you were so hot. And you took off your dress … I thought…”
“I was so hot!” I snap. “I was drunk, and I should have never taken my dress off, but you knew I was drunk. And I passed out. I can’t believe you thought that was an open invitation—” my voice catches on the last word and I blink quickly. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Sparrow, I am so sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to. You just looked so beautiful and I was drunk too … really drunk…” he trails off. “Sparrow, please…” He sounds like he’s crying now. “There isn’t a second that I haven’t regretted what I did. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Now I’m crying. “And so that gave you the right to just take me when I was at my most vulnerable? I thought you were my friend, Asher.”
“I am your friend, Sparrow. I made a mistake. I knew it when I woke up and saw…”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare talk about that. You’re not … you don’t…” A sob comes out just as I hear footsteps. Ian wraps his arms around me, brushes my hair back and looks at me, concerned.
I hang up the phone with Asher still talking, and bury my head in Ian’s neck. The tears pour out of me and he just holds me as tight as he can. When I finally start to calm down, he pulls my head back and wipes my face. I try to wipe it too, knowing I look terrifying. I have never been able to cry in front of people. Ever. I’m horrified.
“Baby? Can you tell me what’s going on? I came out to tell you what I ordered, in case you wanted to change something, but … you were in the middle of it.”
“What did you hear?” I ask with dread.
“I heard you say Asher’s name,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I really wasn’t. Are you—uh, are you seeing Asher still? Do you wanna talk about it?”
I walk over to the lounger and plop down, head in hands. “No, I’m not. I thought he was my friend. He wanted more, but I … I’ve been too hung up on you.”
Ian sighs and sits down beside me. “I’ve been an idiot. But what has you so upset?”
And I don’t know how he does it, but I tell him everything. At least what I remember.
Ian has paced for twenty minutes and is still pacing when the food comes. He’s ordered a feast and can’t stop pacing long enough to enjoy it. Anger is boiling out of him, pouring over the pan and running down the stove. His gray, green, blue eyes are practically glowing yellow at this point, and I’ve had to keep him from crashing his fist into a wall. I would die of shame if I caused him to damage his hand. I’m in somewhat of a stupor from sharing. I’ve always been able to keep things in, even from Tessa sometimes, when I don’t want to upset her or it’s just too much, but Ian kept probing and asking the key questions that pulled it all out. We’ve moved all over and I’ve ended up on the couch inside with my arms hugging my knees. Just watching him pace, wishing I could help him now. I, surprisingly enough, feel better. I don’t feel the need to shower once. I think not remembering made me downplay it, but I guess I still needed to talk about it. Knowing how angry Ian is with Asher makes me feel justified in my feelings. Maybe I can stop second-guessing myself now.
- 14 -
Ian and I stay up all night talking. For hours it’s all heaviness, about Asher, about the anger I feel toward him, even the sadness that my virginity is gone and I didn’t even get to enjoy it. I talk Ian down from wanting to go beat Asher to a pulp. To be honest, I still don’t trust that he won’t. The thought makes me nervous, although, I wouldn’t mind Asher getting a little pop on the jaw. I just would rather be the one to do it.
Later, we talk about some of Ian’s anger issues because it’s obvious now that he has some. I find out more about his dad and what happened to his mom as a result. Ian had to be shuttled between an aunt who didn’t want him and elderly grandparents that couldn’t really take care of him, while his mom recovered in a mental facility for a year.
Ian says it all as if he’s talking about a stranger. “Right before she was sent away, he beat her so badly, I had to call an ambulance. I walked in from school and he was using her as a punching bag. I went after him … hitting, kicking, biting. Every shred of hatred I’d carried toward him, I put right here.” He holds up his fists and his eyes look so sad.
“He hit me back—”
The words hang in the air...
“When we
finally stopped fighting, I realized the shape my mom was in. She was in the hospital for a couple of weeks with a broken nose and ribs and internal bleeding that wouldn’t stop. From there they sent her away, and that was the last time I talked to my father. I was eleven.”
“Is that when you went to your aunt’s house?” I ask, unable to stop touching him. We haven’t let go of each other the entire time we’ve talked. He built a fire and turned up the air conditioning, so we wouldn’t be too hot. We’re sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing each other. It’s about two in the morning.
“Yeah, I was there for four months, but my aunt had two kids and didn’t need an eleven-year-old with a temper. My grandparents took me and gave me free rein. When my mom came back, I pretty much had free rein too. She stayed isolated for a long time. I got into a lot of trouble during that time. Not all of it was bad, though.” His eyes sparkle in the firelight and I groan.
“Girls?”
“Yep.”
“You started out young, didn’t you.”
“Thirteen.”
“No!” I can’t help it, I’m appalled.
He laughs. “My girlfriend was four years older … I was tall for my age,” he says by way of explanation.
“That’s just … gross.” I crinkle my nose. “That’s way too young. And if it were the other way around and you were the one deflowering her,” I say with obnoxious air quotes, “there would have been hell to pay.”
He nods and uncrosses his legs and stretches out, elbows up and his head resting on his hand. “Not something I’m necessarily proud of … now. Back then, it was sort of a—wait a minute, did you just say ‘hell’?” He grabs me by the arm and waist and pulls me down to him, tickling me everywhere he can reach with no signs of letting up. I’m snorting and wheezing and sputtering, and yelling when I can catch a breath. I am SO ticklish. This just encourages him. “You said, ‘hell’, you said, ‘hell!’” He’s relentless. Pretty soon, though, he’s laughing so hard at me that he loses his grip for a second and I slip out of his arms. I jump off the bed and he chases me, but I’m just one beat faster. I run around the suite and end up in the other bedroom. I grab a pillow and hold it up for protection when I realize it wasn’t the smartest idea to come into this smaller room.
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