Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1)

by Shana Vanterpool

  He slides his hands over my thighs, thumbs skimming the inner most part as he does so, scraping against the side of me. I jerk involuntarily. “These are sexy. You sure you want me to rip them?”

  I move lower so I’m right in front of his face. “I’m sure.”

  First, he traces the edge of them, the top, and then down the middle of my panties and right over the growing wet spot. He’s toying with me. He knows I want them gone and he isn’t going to do it until he wants to. He moves my thighs apart and settles between my legs. I watch in pure torturous need as his tongue moves toward me. I want to grab his head and shove it between my legs already. I want his tongue on me, my panties off, and him between my legs. These thoughts, so unlike me, fill me with lust.

  Right before his tongue connects over the wet spot a sound makes him stop. He looks at his door, as if he can see past the wall to my purse where my cell phone is ringing again. Then he looks back at me with pure fury in his eyes.

  “No,” I shout, trying to grab him before he can leave.

  He knocks my hand away and leaves me on his bed. Still in my damn panties. Still horny. Still unsatisfied. Still heartbroken.

  “Get back here, Bach!” I struggle off his bed. My legs feel like noodles again. I get to the living room just as his front door slams. His shirt is gone, so are his keys. Bach’s gone.

  I glare at my purse. I take my cell phone out and put it on silent, like I should’ve done the first time. As my brain unwraps itself from around Bach I start to feel guilty. I don’t know why. Dylan cheated on me. He left me here with Bach. Bach hasn’t lied to me once. It’s all Dylan ever did. And he tried so hard to tell me how much of a monster Bach was. Bach’s a wolf in wolves clothing. He doesn’t pretend to be anyone else. Dylan was a wolf disguised as a man. He lured me in with his promises of trust and love, made me think I finally found a man who could compete with my father. I blink, biting back tears. It feels like years since I’ve thought about my father, and yet it’s only been this morning. Being around Bach is like being in a hurricane. He’s all I can focus on. I don’t have time to think about anything or anyone else but surviving this storm.

  As I pace the living room I accidently step in his spilled scotch. I pick up the glass and find a towel in the hall closet to clean it up. It’s my fault he dropped it anyway. What about that man made me want to walk straight into the heart of the storm? His gravitational pull is ridiculous. No man should elicit that much want and desire in one look, let alone his whole body. The bad part was, I was almost positive he wasn’t trying to pull me in. He kept pushing me away, which made me want to fight back that much harder.

  I don’t know what to do. I know I should leave, but if I do, I’ll only go back to my apartment and crawl into bed. I’ll fall right down into the hole Dylan left behind, get caught up in picking apart our entire relationship, and drive myself crazy over a man who had lied his way into my heart. Was that kiss a lie? Was that look a trick? Were my feelings even true? Worse, I have new things to add to that concoction. Bach things. Sexy things that left me mewling and wanting. I shouldn’t feel guilty.

  Dylan should.

  I go in Bach’s room and grab his blanket off the floor. Then I curl up on the couch with it, waiting for him to come back home. I pick a movie to watch without him. One with all girls. The most chick-filled chick flick I can find. It isn’t enough to keep me preoccupied though. My mind replays our night. His lips, his touch, the way I lost myself and was completely satisfied not knowing who I was.

  At two in the morning I hear his key in the lock. I shake off my exhaustion but don’t get up. He trips into the room, catching himself on the back of the couch. As he passes by me I shrink at the look of hatred in his eyes. He pauses and glares down at me in revulsion.

  “What the fuck are you still doing here?”

  He’s smashed. He can’t even stand up. I can smell the scotch on him. Worse, I can see the beginnings of a hickey on his neck. I’m uncontrollably saddened by it. “Really, Bach?”

  He doesn’t say anything as he stumbles his way to the hall. I kick his blanket off and follow him into the bathroom. He reaches in and turns the shower on. I want to hit him again. I can smell her when he tosses his shirt away. Like flowers and nauseating sweetness. She stinks. He stinks. He’s supposed to smell like me. Not some fucking whore he met tonight. Or maybe he didn’t meet her tonight. Maybe they do this all the time.

  Maybe I’m just another whore.

  He takes his pants off then looks over his shoulder at me, his bloodshot eyes evil. “Out.”

  “If I leave I’m not coming back.”

  “Good. I don’t need you, Harley.”

  I grab his arm before he can get in the shower. “Why, Bach?”

  He pries my fingers off and flings my hand away. Then he tugs his boxers down and steps into the shower. His back’s to me. The water hits the back of his head as he leans against the shower wall. I don’t realize he’s crying until he pulls in a wet breath. I’m so stunned I don’t move. I stare, stuck, as Bach falls apart. Back breaking sobs spew from his lips as his fist hits the tiled wall.

  He turns to me, open and raw. “Come here. I need your good.” His wet hand drips on the floor when he reaches for me.

  Everything inside of me tells me not to. Don’t touch him. Leave while you still can. The lightning hasn’t hit you yet. You’re still intact. He doesn’t deserve to touch me. He went out and got drunk like he always does and hooked up with someone who smells as cheap as she probably is. She’s the same girl I told him about, the one who wants to hurt him and keep him this way.

  When I back away from him his face breaks. He slides down to the shower floor as the water pummels him. His eyes accuse me and understand at the same time.

  I leave him like that. I hurry and put my shorts on, grab my purse, and forget my sandals. I run barefoot down the stairs, past the party raging next door, and get in my car. I run away from Bach, so fast and hard I don’t even realize I’m at my apartment until I stop my car in my parking stall.

  Numbly I walk up my stairs, needing the railing more than the railing needs me. The first thing I do when I get inside is grab my cell phone. I punch in my code for my voicemail and press my phone to my ear.

  “Harley,” Dylan’s voice pleads.

  I break all over again.

  “You didn’t read my letter. I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t read it either. I want you to remember one thing, baby. No matter what you hear I loved you. I still do. When I get home I’ll explain everything to you. I promise. Don’t give up on me, Harley. I need you. This place … ” He pauses for a long time. I close my eyes as tears flow down my cheeks. “Bach’s right. It’s not a video game. Let’s just say that. But I’ll get through it. I won’t be able to call for a while. The reception in the mountains is nonexistent. Why didn’t you read the letter? I’ll try and call tomorrow, after that it’ll be a few weeks until we cross the mountains. Don’t give up, Harley. Please … ”

  I touch my lips, hating the taste of Bach on them. I drop my phone on the couch and go brush my teeth. It isn’t enough. I can smell him. His cologne is all over my body. I take my clothes off and get into the shower to wash him off of me. Off my mind. When I’m done I feel better. I lie.

  I crawl under my covers and lie myself to sleep.

  When I awake in the morning Dylan hasn’t called me. He’s already in the mountains. I’ve heard of them. Dad told me about them. Those mountains have taken many men.

  I’m mad at Dylan. All right, mad is too kind of a word. He wasn’t the man he said he was. But what was in that letter that would make what he did okay? I’m supposed to be okay with the fact that he cheated on me? Lied to me? Left me?

  Both Bach and Dylan can go screw themselves.

  The smartest thing I can do is to leave them both alone. Let Dylan have his whore and Bach can have the rest. Or what’s left. Bastard. Evil, sexy, mean, gorgeous bastard. The man is all kinds of messed up. But wasn’t Dylan
? What kind of pasts do they have to make their actions seem even remotely acceptable?

  My apartment is upsetting me. It’s lonely and empty. I miss Len. If she were here it would be alight with stalking vampires and horny werewolves. I call her before I can convince myself that she doesn’t want to talk to me.

  “You know what your name is in my phone?” she answers.

  The sound of her voice makes me feel more like me. “Wild guess. Harley?”

  “Harley Calls.”

  “Okay … ”

  She laughs. “Get it? Because you hardly call. It’s a joke. You don’t have to wet yourself. What’s up? You still in bed?”

  “How’s your summer going?”

  “Uh oh. Answering a question with a question. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Now you have to.”

  “I think I might like ice cream.”

  She inhales a shocked breath. “Harley Evans, you did not. Of course you did. I would. Wait, what about the ice cube?”

  “I like the ice cube and the ice cream. But the ice cube is a lying, cheating bastard and the ice cream makes me want to lick it off the sidewalk. He’s that dirty, Len.” I sit there for over an hour telling her all about Bach. When I’m done I realize I called her just so I could talk about him. I’m breathless, horny, and depressed all over again.

  “Why do you expect so much from him? Just ride him and move on. He clearly wants you. Why does it have to mean anything?”

  “I want it to mean something.”

  “Sex doesn’t always have to mean something. Sometimes it’s fun because it doesn’t. Tell me the truth. You want to get back at Dylan, don’t you?” She chortles. “Want to trade places? I wouldn’t mind taking my aggression out on Bach. You think he’d mind being tied up? Or spanked? You should spank him for me.”

  Seriously? “I think I’m done with him. But you can spank him. I’m sure he’d go for it.” But the idea of Len anywhere near Bach makes me want to mount her with my fist.

  “Shame. Maybe it’s for the best. He sounds like a mental patient. Maybe he is? Have you checked his body for any microchips? Don’t they microchip them?” She laughs.

  I don’t. Mental illness isn’t funny. My dad suffered from severe PTSD whenever he came home and he had his share of psychosis. Thinking of his nightmares reminds me of Bach’s. The things my father probably saw were undoubtedly dark. My father woke up many nights screaming the same way Bach did. What darkness did Bach have inside of him? I shake my concern off, even if my heart feels for him. I can’t make him my problem anymore. It’s over.

  “You know, if you want I can hook you up with a guy. You remember Bobby? The guy I helped study for his exams?”

  “No thanks, Len.”

  “Why?” she demands, outraged. “He was cute and he couldn’t keep his tongue in his mouth whenever you were in the room with him. Why do you think I made him start meeting me at the library?”

  Len tutors people for money. She’s a brainiac when it comes to mathematics. It always unnerves me how someone so smart can willingly choose to be so open sexually. Isn’t it hard to relax when you probably know the equation for an orgasm? Bobby is one of her students. He’s cute, I guess. In a surfer, my hair matches my tan, kind of way. “He liked me?”

  “He had a hard on under the table.”

  “Come on, Len.” I laugh in disbelief. “I don’t know … ” Trading one guy for another and then another for the other sounds very … Pink Heels-ish.

  “Tip? Don’t wear yellow. You’ll match his hair.”

  “And his tan,” I add, laughing right along with her. “Fine. Give me his number.”

  After another hour of aimless conversation, raunchy sex jokes, and a relay of her summer in Cape Cod we hang up with promises I’ll call her with details. I don’t mention he hasn’t said yes yet. I haven’t even said yes yet. I toss my phone on the couch and consider my options. If I call Bobby and he agrees then I have to start all over again. Get to know him and distrust everything out of his mouth. I know I will. Dylan looked like the truth when I met him. I believed every word out of his mouth. What if Bobby’s the same way?

  What if all men are lying, cheating, panty-ripping, beautiful bastards?

  “Ugh.” I need to get out of this house. Out of this city.

  Houston isn’t that long of a drive. I need my mom and Grams. They all love Dylan. I brought him home for Christmas and he was immediately accepted. Mom told me with one look Dylan was the one. How can she be wrong? Revealing Dylan’s betrayal is out of the question. I’m stuck here.

  I wonder what Mom would think if I came home with Bach. He doesn’t have any tattoos or piercings like Dylan. Dylan hides them, but they’re still there, a reminder of his past. Bach is his very own reminder. He doesn’t need a tattoo to say what his eyes can. The possibilities make me laugh so hard my sides ache. I wipe a tear from my eye and get up. Bach would give my poor Grams a fit. And my grandpa … well, he has rifles on the wall.

  Not as funny.

  Neither is the rest of my week. I try to keep myself busy, but it’s hard. Cleaning keeps my hands busy, it doesn’t stop my brain from torturing me. I laboriously and painstakingly decide which classes I will take next year and put a bid in now. If I wait I’ll be left with classes that will only mess with my goals. I need those goals. Without them being in Crystal Gulf is pointless.

  I don’t do well with pointless.

  By the end of the week, I’m afraid pointless is going to be my date. When I called Bobby he didn’t sound very excited, but he agreed, and if I have to spend another night watching Len’s TV shows on TIVO I’m going to go insane. Although I can totally see why she wants the werewolf alpha now. He’s self-destructive and hot as hell. He doesn’t remind me of anyone. No one at all. Not even when he grins and his eyes leak dirty desire. Nope. Not even then.

  I’m just putting on my heels I purchased online during a really pathetic hour of boredom when the doorbell rings.

  Bobby smiles nervously when I open the door. “Hi.”

  I smile back. “Hi.”

  He looks at me, at my tight pink shirt and skinny jeans. My pumps are black and glossy, and my hair frames my face in soft, loose curls that took me a maddening hour to create. I even put makeup on. Len’s right. He likes me.

  “You want to come in? You never did tell me where we were going?” I step back and as he walks near me he gulps.

  “We’re going to Flutes. It’s a club near the university. Open mic and stuff like that. On the phone you said you like music. I figured it would work great. We can go somewhere else if you want. It’s okay with me. There’s—”

  I reach over and cover his mouth with my hand. “Flutes is fine.”

  He steps out from behind my hand and struggles to meet my eyes. “You sure?”

  “Positive. Relax,” I tell him, laughing lightly. “I’m not going to bite.” I want to mess with him so I wink, making sure my gaze says the opposite. I would bite him and he would love it. Or run away. Whichever he chose.

  His eyes widen and a bead of sweat dots his upper lip which he quickly wipes away. “Relax. Right.”

  “You want anything to drink?”

  “A soda,” he squeaks. “Thanks,” he adds.

  I feel like I should go put on a jacket or something. He’s looking at me like I’m causing him physical pain, or he wants me to. I grab two cold lemon lime sodas I bought during a recent trip to the grocery store and then sit down on the couch.

  “Sit,” I tell him when he continues to stand there awkwardly, as if he’s awaiting my order. When he does I hand him one of the sodas. “So, Bobby. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four. I’m graduating next year,” he adds, as if he’s used to defending his age. “I switched majors and need another year.”

  “What is your major?”

  “Music.”

  “What was it first?”

  “Science.” He smiles when I frown.
“I know, completely different. I want to be a composer. Like those guys who do those huge movie soundtracks.”

  “Why was Len tutoring you then?”

  “She wasn’t.” He looks at me funny. “I was tutoring her.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Len is a liar too.

  “She’s probably self-conscious about it. She’s really smart and when really smart people need help they tend to feel inadequate. That’s why she wanted us to do it at the library so you wouldn’t overhear us.”

  “Oh.” Little liar.

  Does he even really like me? He seems to, but dogs seem to like you too until they bite you. I examine him more closely, suddenly suspicious. Len has a messed up sense of humor and her lies feel like jokes all of a sudden. His stringy blond hair and mossy green eyes look okay. He’s even sort of cute. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Harley?” he says instead, looking around my apartment expectantly. “This is only two bedrooms? You and Len have your own room?”

  “Yeah … Why?”

  “No reason,” he answers, frowning. Then he smiles as if he’s still optimistic about something. “Yeah. We can go.”

  What is Len up to? I grab a coat on my way out, slipping my arms through the holes as Bobby waits near my door. The drive over to Flutes is interesting. I drive because if it ends badly I refuse to be the one stranded. Bobby doesn’t say but a few words the entire drive over and that’s only to give directions. I’ve never been to Flutes. I’ve seen flyers on the bulletin board at school advertising the open mic contest it holds, but haven’t had a reason to go until now. The social scene at Crystal Gulf University passed me by while I’ve waved it on. It’s only times like this week, when I am completely alone, that I wish I could join.

  I ignore the Italian restaurant on the corner and drive past the next street until I find a parking spot. I’ve been lying all week and doing a damn fine job too. That restaurant isn’t going to make me tell the truth now. To cement my lies, I wrap my arm around Bobby’s and smile sweetly at him. He smiles back, except when he does he looks at my hands. I swear, if this is one of Len’s jokes I’m going to kick her ass when she gets home.