Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1)

by Shana Vanterpool

  “You done?” his deep voice wonders.

  I peek up at him, hiding the heat in my cheeks with his chest. “Sorry, I was bored.” I take my hand from his body and tuck it between us.

  He stares at me for a long time. I stare at him too. His eyes won’t let mine go. “What are you doing here?”

  “You left your pizza money at my house.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “You came all the way over here for a hundred and fifty dollars?”

  I shrug against him. Not a good idea. He’s so hard and solid, but his skin is so soft and smooth. “Why else would I come?”

  He gives me the same look he gave me in my bedroom when he woke me up to tell me he was leaving. I felt like I did something wrong then, but I hadn’t paid much attention to it. Now without physically letting me go he lets me go, looking at the ceiling, his arm around me still as stone. This time I know I did something wrong. His heartbeat races again and his body is tense. His breaths feel like they’re strangled.

  When I lift off his body he lets me. My purse is on the floor where I dropped it. I reach in and dig out the baggie of money. “Here.” Asshole, I want to add, looking into his eyes so he knows I want to say it. I want to scream it. I just don’t know why.

  He swats it off his chest angrily. “Keep it.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  He grabs the wad, bunches it up, and throws it in the wastebasket near his bed. “There. You came over here for nothing. Don’t you feel like a moron now?”

  I came over here for nothing, or I didn’t come over here for him? Why would I come over here just to see him? As he glares at the ceiling he’s much more himself now. I almost wish the childish Bach would come back. The one that says please and looks at me like I have every right in the world to say no to him.

  “I do,” I admit, standing with my purse. “For one second I thought there was more to you. But there isn’t. You’re still an asshole.”

  “Get out of here, Harley. Go volunteer or something. Save a puppy. Hump a virgin. You’re so damn self-righteous it’s repulsive. No wonder Dylan’s cheating on you.”

  I pause halfway out of his room. Everything in me freezes. Cracks. Breaks. Stabs me. “What did you say?” He’s lying. Bach is lying.

  “Dylan is cheating on you! Did you understand me that time? I’m the disgusting one though, right? The one you curl your lip up at?”

  “You’re lying.”

  He laughs derisively. “Get out. Now. Or I’ll make you.”

  Anger I’ve never felt before rushes through me. I want to hurt Bach. I want to hurt Dylan. I want to hurt them both. “You’ll make me?” I drop my purse and walk onto his bed with my sandals on, standing in front of him. I lean down and put my face inches from his. “Try it.”

  Hatred drips out of his eyes like acid. “Don’t push me, Harley.”

  I want to slap him so hard his ears ring. But I don’t. I’m better than Bach. Plus I can see this small part of him that might want me to hit him. He wants me to hurt him the way he hurt me. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you have to be so nasty?”

  He closes his eyes. “Leave.”

  “Who is she?” I scream.

  He explodes off the bed, grabs my hand, and pulls me off too. I snap. I grind my heels in and wrench my arm out of his grasp. Then I do it, because I’ve never been so mad in my life. And once I start, I can’t stop. I’m not hitting Bach. I’m hitting Dylan. I’m hitting the men who planted the bomb that killed father and took him from me forever. And okay, I’m hitting Bach because he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. I didn’t do anything wrong to him and he insists on watching me fall. He pushes me over and over again, then he tells me I’m beautiful just so he can tell me I’m not.

  “Stop it!” He grabs my hands and pins them to my sides. “What the hell, Harley?”

  I yank my arms free and march out of the room. Dick. They’re all dicks.

  Before I can get to the door, Bach grabs me again. There’s a scratch under his eye and his bottom lip is puffy. I can’t look at him. My anger goes, leaving shame in its place. How could I let him get to me like that? I’m suddenly disgusted with myself. I hit him. I’ve never hit anyone in my life. I don’t lose control like that.

  Bach doesn’t say anything as he pulls me against him. I don’t realize I’m near tears until they burst out of me like a waterfall.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats over and over again. “I’m sorry, Harley.”

  He’s sorry? I hit him and he’s the one that’s sorry? I can’t believe I hit him and that he’s bleeding because of me.

  “Let me go.” I push against him.

  He wraps his arms around my waist, locking them so I can’t move. “Look at me.”

  “No.” I look at his chest, my hands, anything but him.

  “Please?” he begs, childish again.

  I look up into his pale green eyes. “Bach … ”

  “It’s okay, babe. It’s not that big of a deal. I was asking for it. Trust me. I deserve worse than what you did. Girls have done way worse to me.”

  That only makes me cry harder. “You’re bleeding.”

  He licks his bloody lip. I want to lick it too. I want to take his blood in me so I can’t see it anymore.

  “Come sit down. Don’t leave like this.” He leads me over to the couch. I don’t want to sit down and look at him anymore and see what I did. “Sit,” he orders crossly when I try to pull free of him.

  Damn it. Just hearing him order me makes that flash of anger return. I glare at him as I fall onto the couch. His handsome face glares back. “I can’t stand you.”

  He nods. “I know.”

  “Does that make you feel better?”

  “Nothing makes me feel better, Harley.” He touches his lip and winces. “I’m sorry I told you that. It wasn’t my place.”

  “How long have you known he was cheating on me? How long have you lied?”

  His eyes flash. “I didn’t lie to you. I haven’t known that long. He told me before he left. Sort of. He never really admitted to it, but we both know you don’t juggle a girl on the side for fun.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” The astonishment in my voice makes me livid. “He was using me the entire time. Was it for fun?” I demand, wanting Bach to answer Dylan’s questions. “Did he run back to his disgusting friends and laugh at me for falling for his bullshit?”

  “Oh, babe,” Bach shakes his head at me, “what he did had nothing to do with a joke. Trust me. I know why he did it.”

  “Tell me. Tell me why this feels like I’m the butt of his joke?”

  He sighs and settles into the couch, barely looking at me. “Dylan and I didn’t grow up with much good around in our lives. In fact there wasn’t any, at least not unless we created it ourselves. You’re so good, Harley. There’s something about you that makes me want to put you in a display case and look at you whenever my brain tells me that people like you don’t exist.”

  What he said is so wrong my fists ball and my heart twists. “So Dylan hurt me because I’m good? You’re both hurting me because I’m good? How messed up is that? You’re both sick. How didn’t I ever see it in him before? I saw it in you the first time I met you. I knew when I looked into those beautiful sea green eyes that you were nothing but trouble.”

  He looks at me desperately and grabs for my hands but I sit on them. “Harley,” he whispers.

  “You know, it almost makes me want to show him how much he ruined me. Dylan used me and you want to put me in a display case. It’s like I’m not good enough for one and too fragile and good for the other.” Hatred pours from my lips and eyes. “I’m good. But I can be just as bad.”

  His eyes fill with fearful understanding. “Don’t do that. We’re not worth it. I promise you, we’re not.” He looks so tired. His face is drawn and when he blinks he has to squint as if the light from the open window is too bright. “I feel like shit.”

  “That makes two of us.”

 
“I need a drink. A pill. Some ass.” He laughs without humor. “And guess what? When I’m done with them they won’t have been enough.”

  “Like that’s going to stop you,” I grumble. “Who is she, Bach? I want to know.”

  “Just some girl. I don’t even really know her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Harley.”

  “Tell me. Please. I want to know who was better than me.”

  Sadness fills his eyes. “She’s not better than you.”

  “Pink Heels is better than me. You don’t want to put her in a display case because she’s not stupid enough to fall for your bullshit. She’s not good. You want her. Dylan wants her too.”

  “Stop it right now!” he growls. He reaches over and grabs my leg, pulling me to him. Without even blinking, he puts me on his lap. My thighs straddle his legs and my mouth is open in shock. “Listen to me.” He grabs my face between his hands and looks directly into my eyes. “Forget everything I’ve ever said to you. I’m a prick. I just wanted to hurt you. That’s what I do. I hurt things. People. Myself. I don’t mean any of it. You’re a beautiful, sexy, good, woman. You don’t want to be that girl. You want to be better. You are better. Don’t let people like me and Dylan change who you are.”

  Tears fill my eyes until I can barely see him. Blinking them away, I press my forehead to his. “Why did you cover my leg?”

  It takes him a second before he understands. When he does he smiles sadly. “You don’t want me to see your leg. I’ll break it. You have phenomenal legs. So long and sexy. You really want me to break them?”

  His warm breath brushes against my lips. His body heat, his eyes, the way he’s looking at me like I’m better than any other woman he’s ever had makes me want to kiss him. Dylan never looked at me like that. He looked at me like I was everyone else’s instead of his. Dylan left. He lied. He cheated.

  Dylan’s gone.

  “Yes.”

  Bach’s hands slide down my face, my shoulders, and settle on my waist. “You don’t mean that. You’re vulnerable right now because you’re hurting. You don’t really want me. You want someone to take your sadness out on. You can take it out on me, just not this way.”

  When I lean in to kiss him he moves his face so my lips land on his cheek. I kiss it, sliding my lips over his stubble. He smells so different than Dylan. Like sweat and sadness and desire. It’s musky and intoxicating. If desire had a smell it would smell like Bach. Wanting something you know you shouldn’t want. And wanting it more because you know deep down that want is going to break you apart. The desire is new and overwhelming, rushing over me like a wildfire. I am swept up in it.

  “Harley.”

  The sound of his voice makes heat erupt between my legs. I urge closer to him. “Please, Bach.”

  He groans. His hands tighten around my waist and his eyes fill with something dark and bad. He wants me too. But then again this is Bach. His cut off age is ninety. He doesn’t want to touch me. The want I see could be wishful thinking. He wants to put me in a display case. I’m really the only one who wants anything right now.

  I brace my hands on either side of his head and kiss his cheek again, rubbing them over his strong jaw. “Break them.”

  “For the first time I don’t want to break something.” He gently pushes me away from him. “But we can break other things. Like Dylan’s fish tank. He loves that thing. Or his jeep. It’s parked under the house. We can smash that.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I admit. My head’s been screwed up ever since Dylan texted me.

  I move off his lap, sitting in the middle of the couch. The rush of emotions disappear as fast as they came, leaving me empty and confused.

  “Me either,” he mumbles, reaching for the remote like I didn’t just throw myself at him and he didn’t want me at all. I can’t believe I threw myself at him. He props his feet up on the table and sighs. “It’s Dylan’s fault though, I can tell you that. Before he left I was fine. I was great.”

  He wasn’t either. When Dylan left he forced Bach to be alone with himself. He left him with his nightmares and shaking hands. And when he left me, he left me alone with Bach. My hands aren’t shaking yet, but I have this uneasy feeling they’re going to.

  “Were you going to do anything tonight?”

  “With who?” My tone is unapologetically petulant. “My boyfriend? No. He’s a lying sack of shit. With his best friend? No. His best friend doesn’t want anything to do with me. Does with every other girl, just not me. Len? Nope. My roommate has an intact family who can’t wait for her to come home for college in the summer. Oh, and I’m stuck in this drunk orgy college town because I refuse to lose my apartment and live in the dorms next year for school. Does that answer your question?”

  He smiles at the TV. “Perfectly.”

  “Were you?”

  “After that nightmare? Harley, I’m going to drink a swimming pool of scotch tonight.”

  That image bothers me. He doesn’t look good right now as it is. After yet another night of drinking how is he going to look? “I want to come.”

  “No Squares allowed.”

  “I don’t need you to go out and drink,” I remind him.

  He looks at me harshly. “You are not going out alone.”

  “Why not? You do?”

  “I’m a man, need I remind you? It’s not safe for anyone, but especially not for girls. Not for you. Go home, read a book, and watch the Food Network. Learn how to make a soufflé or whatever shit they cook.”

  How dare he? “If I didn’t already kick your ass I would so do it right now.” I get up to leave. I’m not a fragile doll. Pink Heels isn’t. I won’t be either. “Have fun.”

  “Sit back down.”

  “Stop telling me what to do, Bach. You are not my boss.”

  “I’m not?”

  “I’m out of here.” He lets me get to the door before he calls me back.

  “Harley?” His voice is soft and childlike.

  “What?”

  “You want to hang out tonight? Just us two. We can … ” He frowns, thinking about how to word it. “What do people do together when they’re not naked?”

  The messed up part is I don’t think he’s kidding. His gaze isn’t ridiculing and his words taper off slightly, as if he himself has never done this and has nothing to pull from. I take pity on him. “They go out to dinner? The movies? Dancing? I don’t know, Bach.”

  He snaps his fingers together and sits up. “Dinner. That’s right. Friends go to dinner.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yeah, Harley. We’re friends now. I have to keep you close anyway. You saw me during a nightmare. You have information.” He tries to tease but we both know he isn’t being funny. He drops the act and looks at me honestly. “Will you go to dinner with me?”

  He looks like he’s asking what the quadratic formula is and if it can be used to solve his panty problem. He’s so completely out of touch with normalness it makes me smile. “I’d love to, Bach.” Pink Heels didn’t get dinner.

  “Cool. I’ll go get dressed. Sit here. And don’t move. That’s not an order,” he says, hopping over the back of the couch. “I know how much you hate those. It’s just a request.”

  Did I really throw myself at Bach Bachmen? And had I really wanted him? A rush of heat travels over me at the memory of the feel of my soft lips on his hard jaw, answering my question.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Chapter Five

  Bach

  What do you wear to dinner?

  I stare into my closet wearing only my towel. I kick the panties out of the way, remembering the way Harley stared at them. It makes me laugh. She probably doesn’t even own a thong. Although imagining her in one makes me really want to know what she’d look like. With her hair and eyes I think yellow would be perfect on her. I get as far as imagining ripping those fuckers off before I realize how wrong that is of me.

  And I know wrong. My wrong
ness is normal. I breathe it, eat it, and sleep it. Harley wouldn’t survive in my atmosphere. The poor thing would suffocate. She’s barely breathing because of Dylan. If I even thought of ripping her panties off, never mind doing it, she’d be ruined forever. The worst part is I’d love every second of it. Destroying Harley is my fantasy.

  I drop my towel and grab a pair of tan jeans, ripping the tags off as I hop into them. They’re loose around my waist. I’ve dropped some more weight. I’m not surprised. An all scotch meal plan has that affect. I choose a white shirt and pop back into the bathroom to do my hair.

  “It’s just dinner, Bach,” she hollers. “We’re not going to meet the President.”

  I frown at my reflection in the mirror, running gel through my hair. “Why would I want to meet the President?”

  “You might,” she answers. “He seems open to the underbelly of society.”

  Smartass. After putting some cologne on, I examine myself in the mirror. The scratch under my eye looks better after my shower. My lip is puffy, and it’s turning me on. Even with the one-sided catfight I don’t look half bad. I can’t even tell I killed an entire bottle of scotch last night, or that the girl I brought home left in the middle of the night with my stash. I should probably shave, but I can hear Harley grumbling in the living room. I don’t look too long at my smile. It’s short-lived. Harley’s only here because of Dylan. She’ll get over him. Girls like Harley have futures that don’t involve guys like us. My future involves girls like Justine and Pink Heels. I don’t get more and I don’t expect it.

  I ignore the negative feeling that truth produces and turn off the light.

  When I emerge she looks at me. I love the way her scotch-colored eyes slide over my body and it pisses me off that I like it. Who am I? Dylan? Some douchebag that cares what women think about him? I snatch my wallet and keys off the kitchen counter and I can see the top of the scotch bottle poking over the lip as I do. My nightmares beg me for release. They’re getting worse for some reason. I can’t even pretend anymore. They eat me alive every time I fall asleep. The only thing that kept me from plummeting this time was waking up and seeing Harley in my room. If I could somehow proposition her to wake me up every time I had a nightmare I’d be good forever.