Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1)

by Shana Vanterpool

  “Arg,” I groan in the morning. Rolling over is way too hard.

  “We really need to stop meeting like this,” I flirt, patting the toilet bowl a few minutes later. My stomach rolls and my sides scream in pain, effectively dismantling me. I sag against the toilet and take deep measured breaths, staring at the upturned bathroom rug like it’s got answers I wasn’t aware I wanted until Dylan left.

  As I crawl from the bathroom to the living room I pause in front of his room. I miss his square ass. “Get your shit together, Bach,” I pretend he says. I give him the finger and lift my body onto the couch.

  Just as I’m reaching for the remote someone pounds on the door. “Come in!” I call, since it’d probably take me a week to crawl over and open it.

  Jona and Justine come in. Jona doesn’t say anything, he just sits in the gaming chair with his bag of food. Justine pauses when our eyes meet and frowns. I don’t like that frown.

  “What?” I bark.

  “Nothing, Bach.” She sits on the edge of the couch and touches my face with her hand, rubbing her palm against my cheek. “You look so bad right now. What’d you do last night?”

  I knock her hand away. “That for me?” I eye the fast food bag in her hands.

  “Here.” She bitchily shoves it at my face. Then she slides down to sit on the floor instead of sitting next to me. “Dick.”

  I am a dick. She already knows that.

  I peel back the paper on my burger and take a huge bite, moaning in pleasure at the taste. I don’t normally eat like this. This shit won’t give me abs, but I don’t care right now. I don’t think I ate at all yesterday. As Jona flips through the channels and Justine stews, I down my meal. The burger and fries hit my stomach like bricks, giving it something to hold on to.

  I reach over Justine’s shoulder and grab some of her fries. “Forgive me,” I whisper, kissing her cheek. Then her neck. Her jaw. She gives in like I knew she would. “Thanks for bringing me lunch.”

  She turns her head to kiss me. The salt from my fingers smears on her face when I hold her. When she pulls back she smiles. “Guess what?”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  Jona guffaws, spitting burger all over my living room. “Could you imagine her being a mom?”

  Hurt fills Justine’s eyes. “Never mind,” she says, turning forward.

  “Jona? Apologize.”

  “What?” He looks at me weird. “Why should I?”

  “Because if you don’t I’m going to kick your ass. Tell Justine you’re sorry. Tell her it’s not her fault you’re mom dropped you on your head when you missed her tit. Now.”

  Jona shakes his head like I’ve lost it. I probably have. “Sorry, Jus.”

  She glares at him, sexy brown eyes burning.

  “What were you going to say?” I then ask her.

  “I’m going to sing tonight at Flutes. I thought you might want to come and watch me. You know, after our conversation the other day.”

  Was that the other day? It feels like ten years ago. Justine’s just a girl I hook up with. She knows it. Yet I feel guilty even considering telling her no for some reason. “I’d love to, Jus. What time?”

  “My slot’s at seven. You don’t have to go,” she says, shrugging. “I thought I’d ask.” But she gives me a hopeful look anyway.

  I reach over and wipe the salt off her face. “I’ll go.”

  “I’m not. I’m hosting a party for one of the frat houses.” He rubs his fingers together. “Good money, bro. You want in?”

  I think about the other thousand dollars I need for rent. “I can come after?”

  “Nope,” he says, being a dick. “Gotta do the whole thing. I need help setting up the stage and getting the band there. After’s not going to work.”

  Why do I have to care how Justine feels? I retain my sigh and give in. “Screw it. I’ll book my own party.”

  Right before I turn away, I catch Justine’s smile. What the hell? It’s been longer than twenty-four hours, my dick’s going through withdrawal. I tap her with my knee. When she looks at me, I motion toward my room. Without even thinking about it she gets up. I follow. Jona rolls his eyes. I grab my crotch and shove it in his face.

  “Get that thing away from me.”

  “Bring it here,” Justine purrs, grabbing my waistband on my jeans and pulling me down the hall and into my bedroom. She keeps the momentum going and I fall on top of her on my bed. “I want it.”

  “I’m out of here. Find your own way home!” Jona shouts, slamming my front door so hard my windows shake.

  I grab Justine’s hips and push her legs apart, sliding between them as she wraps her legs around my waist. I wiggle my jeans down and pull her shirt over her head. Without breaking our kiss, I reach into my drawer and grab a condom out of the box. I slip it on and toss the wrapper over my shoulder. Justine buries her face in my neck. I spit into my hand and slide it over me, using that same hand to guide myself inside of her. It’s exactly what I need. This intense sense of release knocks into me. I drop all of my weight onto her and thrust into her roughly. The feel of my body slamming into hers, the sound of us moaning, nails digging into skin, reminds me yet again that I don’t need anything else but this. She loves it. Begs for it.

  “Harder, Bach, I want to feel you.”

  If this is what I need, does Justine need it too? And if so, why? What is she running from?

  I stop suddenly and open my eyes.

  “Don’t stop,” she orders, urging me on. “Why are you stopping?” Her nails grind into my ass.

  What do I care if she needs it or not? All that matters is that I need it. So I push into her deeper, deeper, until we both fall over the edge.

  I don’t feel better when we’re done. Usually I do. I rip the condom off and make a perfect shot into the garbage can across the room.

  “That was stu-fucking-pendous,” she exhales, running her hand over my chest.

  No it wasn’t. Let’s just call it what it was: desperate. Nothing I do is enough lately. Every drink ends too fast. Every girl is over when I come. Each pill is gone once I swallow it. Doing all three isn’t even working anymore.

  “Bach?”

  “What, Jus?” I want her to get out of my bed. Go, I think. Leave.

  “I was thinking … ”

  I roll my eyes at the ceiling, feeling like I’m covered in slime. I can smell her perfume all over my body. “What perfume are you wearing?”

  “It’s called Entice. You like it?”

  No. It smells like sugar and cheap flowers. “Yeah,” I lie.

  “Good.” She kisses my lips. “So I was thinking?” she begins again. “You’re not seeing anyone, like seriously right now, are you?”

  I look at her suspiciously. “Why?”

  “We’ve been hooking up a lot lately. I know it was just sex at first, but … ”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Is she high? “It’s still just sex.”

  She tenses. “Bach.”

  This always happens. Can’t two people use each other and be okay with it? Why does there have to be more? I thought Justine understood this. “We can’t date.”

  “Why not?” she demands, sitting up.

  “Because I’ll cheat on you. Then I’ll lie about it. I’ll make you think you’re crazy. I’ll make you hate me so much even my name makes you want to puke. Ask my ex.”

  “Which one?” she grumbles. “Why would you do that?”

  I shrug. “It’s what I do.” It’s what I know. “Why do you do it?”

  She grabs her shirt and puts it back on. “I don’t know.”

  I do the same. I need a shower. This time the mark she left on me makes me avoid the mirror over my closet door. I don’t want to see our reflection reflected in it.

  Since when does Bach Bachmen avoid Bach Bachmen?

  “Just go, Jus.”

  Just go.

  “Good luck!” I call after her as she leaves. “Sing your heart out tonight!”

  After all
, twenty-four hours is a long ways away.

  Harley

  I can spot shapes in my ceiling now.

  There’s a bird in the corner by my window, I can see a kite on the other side by my door, and over my bed I notice a wave. I roll over and try to find more. Then I roll over again. My room is covered in shapes. They stare at me so I pull my blankets over my head.

  When my cell phone chirps I jerk and scramble to answer it. It’s the loudest thing I’ve heard in days. Dylan’s picture flashes across the screen.

  Everything in me wants to answer it. I want answers. And not the ones he already gave me. I want new ones that make perfect sense, but I know he isn’t going to give them to me. I ignore his call like I’ve done since he told me he was leaving.

  Silence returns.

  The rational part of me knows I should get out of bed. It’s summer break. I’m in college. I have every excuse in the world to relinquish my inhibitions and create memories that will make me cringe when I have kids. It’s my right. It’s not what I want. I want Dylan to come back, for him to fix what he broke. And if he can’t fix it, I want him to spend the rest of his life apologizing for shattering me after promising to put me back together.

  I wished I could ask my dad for advice. He was gone a lot growing up in my later years after the war started, but before that he was always there when I needed him. “Har,” he’d say. “Don’t end up with anyone who makes you miss your father.” I missed my father. I missed him even with Dylan. If not more so, because I swore up and down Dad would’ve loved him. What would he say to me now?

  “Har,” I pretend to hear, closing my eyes as a tear slides down my cheek, “get your ass out of bed, Sweet Pea.”

  The Sweet Pea part kills me. No matter how old I got I was his sweet pea. His only daughter. His princess.

  Suddenly the bed is a trap. I know if I stay in it Dylan won’t be the only fallen solider I envision, so I dart out of bed.

  When I step into the living room Bach envelops me. It’s been a couple days since he was here and my living room’s still a mess. I sigh and start cleaning it up. I can’t believe we finished that entire bottle. I’m in a giving mood. We both know he finished it. I wonder what he’s doing as I shower. It’s a horrible place to do it but I can’t help it. He’s probably mounting someone. Drooling, licking, and kicking her. As I shave my legs I try for one second to picture Dylan as Bach. Horny, aggressive, and shaking when no one looks. I don’t like it. I don’t like picturing Dylan that way after meeting a different one.

  What I do find interesting is that I don’t mind picturing Bach doing those things.

  Bach doesn’t pretend to be anyone other than who he is. Girls can fool themselves and lie into thinking they’re going to get a different Bach, but really they’re the ones who are going to be disappointed.

  Dylan pretended. I’m disappointed.

  I take my towel with me to the living room. As I’m drying my hair I spot something poking out from under the couch. It’s Bach’s money. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he slept. If I had his number I’d call him to come get it. If he had mine he probably would’ve already asked for it. He didn’t stop by my place so he probably doesn’t need it that bad. Still, I decide to bring to him. What else is there to do? I have a feeling if I stay in my apartment I’ll start talking to myself. Or worse, I’ll start talking back.

  On the drive to Bach’s place I’m more observant than the last time. There are a cluster of beach houses a stone’s throw away from Crystal Beach. They’re high above the ground, their bodies propped up on stilts. Crystal Gulf is a college town. There’s no getting around it. I’ve seen the other side of the city, the one closer to Galveston, when I had to go pick up Dylan once. It’s like an entirely different world. The roads are made of dirt and the kids play in the street. Near the gulf, it’s full of college kids and loud music. The house next door is perfectly utilizing their recently acquired academic abilities by diving shirtless into an ice-bucket of beer.

  I park next to Bach’s silver Corvette. Taking the stairs, I ignore the hoots and hollers from down below and take a deep breath before knocking. It’s a useless breath. After two more knocks, he doesn’t answer. I try the handle, surprised when it gives away.

  I enter Bach’s place like I would a lion’s cage, making as little noise as possible, breathing only when my lungs need it, and keeping my eyes peeled for his sharp teeth.

  “Bach?” The whir from the fridge growls to life as I go down the hall toward his bedroom. Thankfully Dylan’s door is closed. I don’t want to see inside. “Bach?”

  I push his door open. He’s sleeping. Well, he’s asleep. I’m not sure I’d call what he’s doing sleeping. He’s only wearing a pair of tight briefs. His blankets are on the floor. Sweat saturates his skin. I can see it clinging to his chest and sliding over his abs. His fists grip the sheets and his head tosses to the left and the right. His legs contort around one another, almost like he’s running from something. I’m startled by how young he appears. When he’s awake his eyes exude this dark sexiness only a man can possess and use the way he uses it. Asleep, Bach’s much less intimidating.

  I sit on the edge of his bed and reach for his face. Slowly, I run my hand over his sweaty hair, moving it aside. “Bach? Wake up, honey. You’re dreaming.” I pat his chest.

  “Mmm,” he groans. “I didn’t mean to do it. Don’t,” he begs. “Please.”

  Hearing his voice sound so childish and vulnerable makes me look away. This is not the same man who strode into my living room the other night, sexy and confident. I know he wouldn’t want me to see him like this but if I don’t wake him up he’ll keep burning. He might also say who he’s running from. I’m not going to pry open his memories and peer inside when he can’t give me permission.

  When I touch his face again it’s as if I punched him. He flinches away from me almost clear out of bed. Right before he falls over his hand shoots out and catches himself. “Please,” he begs, blocking his face with his other arm. “Not again.”

  “It’s me. Harley,” I quickly tell him.

  The second I say my name he lowers his arm and narrows his eyes at me, trying to see me better. “Harley?” His voice still sounds childish and afraid. It’s thick with something that makes my chest hurt. “Shit.” He sinks back down into bed, fingers trembling when he rubs his hand down his face. “Fuck.”

  I sit awkwardly on the end of his bed as he attempts to calm himself. I don’t think he’s succeeding, that’s only what I’m pretending he’s doing. I don’t like the way he’s breathing. Too hard and too fast with something blocking his throat. I examine his room as I wait instead of looking at him. There’s a heavy silver curtain over his window, the only light coming from the small cracks the sun peeks through, and his closet is open. He has more clothes than me. Jeans on top of jeans spill out of their slots. Button up shirts rest on hangers, waiting to be worn the way Bach wears them. Boots and sneakers line the floor. Next to his brown high tops is a pair of pink thong panties.

  I eye them interestingly. Did Pink Heels wear them? Did he bring her back here and rip them off in a fit of passion, forgetting about them as soon as he took them off? Dylan never ripped my panties off. He took them off slowly as he made me watch, which I will admit drove me crazy. He has a thing for eye contact. When he disappeared between my legs, he liked to know I was watching every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers.

  “They’re just panties, Harley.”

  I look at Bach who’s sitting upright in bed watching me. His cheeks are flushed and his hands keep bunching the sheets. His dark brown hair looks almost black right now, twisted all over his head. I won’t admit it kind of makes him look adorable, because Bach is not adorable. Adorable men don’t have strange girl’s panties on their bedroom floor.

  “Whose panties are those?”

  He shrugs, still childish. Why isn’t he hiding? Why isn’t he glaring, smirking, saying something that will make me unc
omfortable?

  “You’re so beautiful, Harley.”

  Did he just say … ? “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re beautiful. Come here. I need some of your good.” He sinks down into bed. When his hand reaches for me, his fingers tremble. “Please?” he whispers. “Just for a little while. I’ll barely touch you. Barely,” he promises.

  He wants me to lay with him? Girls don’t lay with Bach. But this isn’t a normal situation for him. I’m sure he isn’t shaking, covered in sweat, with fear in his eyes when other girls lay with him.

  I can’t stand to see him begging. Bach doesn’t beg. I hesitantly put my hand in his and he gently pulls me until I’m lying against his side. I don’t know where to put my head. It’s either on his arm or his chest, and since his arm just went around my back I don’t have a choice. I lay it on his chest, listening to his heartbeat pounding. His sweat dampens my cheek. I can feel it soaking into my shirt. Where his legs touch mine they are slick.

  “Here,” he says quietly. Reaching down with his hand, he slides it down my thigh and then grabs the back of my knee in his strong grip. He slowly brings my leg over so it drapes across his waist. “That’s better.”

  While I panic and struggle to breathe, Bach falls back to sleep. I don’t understand how I ended up in his bed. I came here to bring him his money. Not hold him during a nightmare. Although I can’t leave now. Not with that soft, breakable look in his pale green eyes. People hard like Bach shouldn’t have to beg. They break things. Not ask their pieces to be held.

  Eventually his heartbeat slows. Mine does not. I trace the shape of his pecs, back and forth for something to do. I curl around his nipple, making sure not to touch it. If I touch it I have to start over. I start over a lot. I trace down his stomach, going over every hard bump in his six-pack until I can remember which parts of his abs feel like rocks and which parts feel like silk. I didn’t know abs could be silky and still hard as diamonds. When I get to the V’s cut into his abs, probably with a chiseling knife I’m sure, I want to keep going. It’s out of sheer curiosity. That’s all. I try to imagine what the rest of him looks like. Feels like …