Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1)

by Shana Vanterpool

  “That’s a first,” I tell her, catching my breath. “Well get in, babe. I’m starving.”

  “How?” she asks, eyeing the best way.

  “Wait here.”

  I get a running start and then jump over the Jacuzzi into the front seat. It takes me numerous tries to back up without submerging my car and even longer to move it so Harley can get in. The hard part comes when I try to drive past the gates. How the hell did I fit in here? Even sober I almost take my mirror off.

  “I can’t believe you, Bach.”

  Yes she can. That’s the bad part. I pull onto the road. “So where are we going?”

  “There’s a diner by the university.”

  “I’ve lived in Crystal Gulf my entire life you know? And I’ve never really seen it.”

  She gazes at me from her seat. The way the sun shines into the car and hits her face makes me want to kiss her. Everything makes me want to kiss her. “I was with Dylan for a year and I never really saw him.” She shrugs. “It happens.”

  “What did you love so much about him?” I feel like a dick after the question leaves my mouth. My bitter tone gives me away.

  “What do you love about him?”

  “What Dylan and I have is different. I can hate him and love him in the same breath. Just like he does with me. We’ve seen each other at our worst, so sometimes we’re not going to like the other because of it.”

  She snorts. “So it’s okay for you to love him and not okay for me?”

  “I never said that.” I want to turn the radio up. “Just tell me why you love him.”

  “Because he made me smile, that’s why.”

  I make her smile all the time. Sure she’s laughing at me half the time, but a smile’s still a smile. “Were you not smiling?”

  “Not after what happened to my dad. I was just going through the motions. I woke up, went to class, and studied. I ate because I had to. Slept because it made it easier not to think. I didn’t even realize I was stuck in my depression until I met Dylan. I signed up to volunteer for one of my classes. He signed up because he wanted to do something good. We kind of got paired up. Or maybe we both wanted to be alone and ended up being alone together. I don’t even remember what he said. It doesn’t matter. All I know is he made me laugh so hard I fell down in the sand. When I was done, I realized it was the first time in a long time that I laughed. Slowly but surely Dylan made me laugh more and more, he made me happy, Bach. That’s why I love him. Even now after all of his lies I still do. I probably always will for what he did for me. But it also makes what he did worse. Every time I laughed feels like a lie now.”

  I try and hear what she said from a normal person’s ears, not mine. All my ears can hear is the fact that no matter what I do Dylan will always be her first choice. “What happened to your dad?”

  She looks down at her hands. “Roadside bomb.”

  I reach over and take her hand. “I’m sorry, Harley.”

  The fact that Dylan could leave her here knowing what she’s been through dumbfounds me. Dylan and I are done. Done.

  “Me too,” she whispers, gripping my fingers tightly.

  I bring our hands up to my lips and kiss hers softly, waiting until she looks at me to say it. “You make me smile.”

  Harley

  I grip Bach’s hand as he drives.

  I fear that if I let it go I’ll go with it. I’ll float away with the fog, never to be seen again except for when the conditions are right. A temporary existence that is unappreciated. I’m depressed again. Simply remembering the time before Dylan reminds me that it isn’t gone. It’s been here the entire time, waiting to drag me down once more. When he left I fell right back into it. If it weren’t for Bach I’d be under my covers right now, succumbing to the nothingness I fear is left. Although I’m not here with Bach because of a good reason. There are no good reasons when it comes to Bach. The reasons are intoxicating, damaging, and completely unforgettable. But they’re reasons, and sometimes that’s all you need.

  We settle into silence as he drives. My mind won’t stop reminding me our time together, as if it’s so overwhelmed it can’t fully process the last twenty-four hours. It interweaves images of him puking and convulsing on the ground with ones of him in my mouth and between my legs. The combination of fear and lust is making me light-headed.

  I grip his hand tighter, trying and failing to shake the intoxicating fearful images of this man. He truly terrified me last night. He broke down as he convulsed, his tears trailing down his face along with his puke. No matter what I did now, no matter what happened, I would try to prevent that from happening again. And though he terrified me he also drove me wild. I squeeze my thighs together at the reminder of his tongue tasting me. There was seriously something wrong with me.

  When we get to the diner, Bach navigates his car into a spot with one hand. Then he kisses my fingers once more before letting me go. I wait near him as he rummages around in his trunk. He pulls out a wrinkled gray shirt, slipping it on over his bare chest. He tries to knock the wrinkles out but he’s failing.

  “Need help?” I don’t wait for him to agree or disagree. Any chance to touch his body is a chance I’m willing to take. I’m a fiend, sliding my hands over his shirt, over his chest and abs, to help dispel the wrinkles. He watches me like he wants to pin me against the car and take me, then blame me for the pleasure I brought him. I don’t mind if he blames me. When his shirt is semi-smooth I wrap my arms around his waist, looking into his heavy-lidded sea green eyes. “Kiss me.”

  If I don’t ask he won’t do it. He wants to. I know it and so does he. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.

  He touches my chin, tilts my face to the side, and then presses his breath-dried lips against mine. His lips kiss mine gently, parting them just enough to touch our tongues together. He tastes like the peppermint chews he popped as he drove, so sweet and tempting. When he pulls away, he chuckles quietly and lets me go. It doesn’t seem like the kind of laugh that needs an answer. It could be anything. And as long as I don’t ask it can only be good. As good as our kiss.

  He holds the diner door open for me. I slide my hand over his arm as we enter. He touches my lower back. We can’t keep our hands off each other. A waitress grabs two menus and waves us over to a booth, too busy for introductions. Bach slides in first. I slide in across from him. The diner’s bustling. Forks clink on plates and hungover college kids shovel pancakes and coffee into their faces.

  “Coffee?” our waitress asks, eyeing Bach.

  I’m getting used to it. Bach’s gorgeous. Even last night can’t take away the dark sexiness that clings to him. He still takes my breath away, even after watching him convulsing and puking. I didn’t know he did until he told me I looked beautiful. I always look beautiful. Bach takes my breath away and I don’t want it back. Even if he forgets to put me first, goes for her, I don’t want it back. It’s his now. What do I need to breathe around him for, when every breath I have knows it can be taken at any moment?

  “Coffee,” Bach grumbles, making faces. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’ll take an orange juice.” The waitress looks at me like what I want doesn’t matter. “And ice water,” I add, just to be a bitch.

  “Be right back with that.” She strides away, making her ass shake in her uniform for him.

  He opens his menu, not appearing to notice. “I like apples more.”

  I open my menu as well, eying the options. What do apples have to do with anything?

  “I want whatever he’s having,” someone whispers.

  Bach looks up at the people behind me. He raises his eyebrows and smiles a little, then resumes staring at his menu. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear that. I want to turn around and smack the person behind me. Right before I do Bach’s foot touches mine under the table.

  “What are you having?” he asks, not looking up.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t know why it pisses me off so much. Maybe because if he wanted Bach cou
ld have them in a second and they’d let him. He doesn’t want them right now. What if he wants them later?

  My sigh fans across my menu. “I don’t know.”

  When our waitress returns with our drinks she pulls out her order pad and pen. “What’re you having, gorgeous?”

  “How’s the pancakes?” he asks.

  “Fluffy.”

  “Fluffy,” he repeats around a smile. “I want a short stack then. Bacon, fried potatoes, two sunny-side up eggs, and a slice of apple pie.”

  “Healthy appetite.” She laughs, though I don’t see what’s funny about it. She doesn’t even say anything to me. She just looks at me.

  “I want the crab omelet with toast and a side of fruit.”

  As soon as she strides away Bach’s cell phone rings. “Yo, Jona?” he answers, leaning back in his seat. He scratches his stubble as his eyes lock on mine. “I’m busy right now. None of your business. I’m busy tonight. None of your business. Tomorrow night?” He looks away. On purpose. “Hmm. Big pot. Yeah I know. All right. I’m in. Meet you there.”

  The idea of him around Jona makes me nervous. “How long have you known Jona?”

  “I met him after high school. He threw a party in his parent’s basement. Crazy party,” he says, grinning from ear to ear as he draws out the word party. “Legendary. We’ve been friends ever since.”

  “I’ve never been to a party with that many y’s.”

  He stares at me. “Really? Am I supposed to be shocked, Square? Have you ever even been to a party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your birthday parties don’t count, babe.”

  I glare at him. “We kind of had a party earlier. Does that count?”

  He smiles privately. “Yeah. That counts.”

  “What was high school like?”

  “I graduated,” he answers. “But all of my teachers were cougars, so I don’t think that has anything to do with my profound intelligence.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He grins naughtily. “My Sex Ed teacher taught me a lot.”

  I hang my head, trying not to laugh. It isn’t funny. “I had a crush on my math teacher. I used to fantasize about him teaching me algebra naked.”

  He pours sugar into his coffee, eyes evil. “Did he?”

  “Nope. He gave me a C.”

  “Trig teacher, football field. She gave me an A.” He dares me to top him, knowing I can’t.

  “You took trig?” I ask, surprised.

  “I’m not stupid, Harley. I actually liked seeing how many A’s I could get. It pissed my teachers off. I was the loser, the letdown, but I got better grades than their star pupils. I had a better GPA than the prom queen. In fact,” he says, and I cover my ears, “I voted for her in the locker room.” He chuckles throatily. “Man, I’m a slut.”

  I shake my head. That was what reminded him of that? I could think of a hundred things that announced his promiscuity, and that was only since meeting him. “I was a virgin in high school.”

  “You’re still a virgin. You’re a virgin until you sleep with me.”

  My vagina’s listening intently suddenly, very interested in our conversation. “What am I after that?”

  He shrugs, taking a drink of his coffee. “A proud member of Bach Bachmen and Company. You’ll get a lifelong memory and an unrivaled orgasm.”

  I cover my mouth and laugh, sinking lower in my seat as the guys next to us look over curiously. “You are so ridiculous.”

  “See? I can make you laugh too.” He smiles proudly.

  The fact that Bach wants to be the one who makes me laugh makes it extremely difficult to simply “have fun” with him. There’s no point in trying to be anything more, despite how uneasy that makes me feel. He doesn’t want more and we couldn’t even if we both somehow did. The part that I can’t stand, the one thing making me resent the lightning, is I would take this. I want whatever he could give me. I have little to give him right now anyway, what with Dylan still heavily on my mind and Bach’s nightmares on his. I have a feeling Bach could only give a part of himself to me anyway. Someone or something took the rest long time ago.

  “You can make me do a lot of things.” I reach over and take his hand that isn’t gripping his coffee cup. I want to know that I can at least have some part of him right now.

  He turns my hand over and entangles his fingers with mine. “I don’t hold hands,” he says quietly.

  His large hand tightens around mine, proving something to himself. I watch him prove it.

  Two waiters come to our table. One holds half of Bach’s food, the other holds the rest. Bach lets me go and sits back, picking up his fork and knife like a sword and shield. His many spoils are placed in front of him. My meager rations are also set down, but not nearly with as much of a flourish as his. After all, I’m a peasant in the presence of a king.

  He’s quiet as he eats. I watch in amusement as he shovels food into his mouth. I imagine him being that willing to take me inside and reveal his nightmares and the reason why he whispered my name and no one else’s on my living room floor. I really need to get out more … Maybe if I met someone else Bach wouldn’t be so damn infatuating. Or then again, maybe he’d be even more so.

  “Is that good?” His mouth is full of hash browns and pancakes.

  “The crab is.”

  “Can I have some? I’m starving.” Without waiting for my approval, he reaches over and cuts into my omelet. “I haven’t eaten in days.”

  I don’t want to tell him that I can tell. His body is still lean and muscled, but I can spot the differences in his waist and chest. He’s losing weight, drinking too much and not eating enough. “Here.” I push my plate to him. “I’m done.” If I can see the signs does he? I don’t know if those signs matter if he’s ignoring them.

  “Thanks.” When he’s all done with his breakfast he pushes his plates to the end of the table and replaces them with his apple pie. Before he cuts into it he looks into my eyes. Then he cuts a big piece off, his fork sliding into the soft apples and flakey crust slowly. “I’ve wanted a slice of apple pie for a long time, Harley.” His eyes close in bliss the second the bite touches his tongue.

  “Does it taste good?”

  He nods slowly, licking his sexy full lips. “So damn good.”

  “I want a taste.”

  “Have a bite.”

  “No,” I respond, looking at his mouth. “I want to taste you.”

  He doesn’t even pause or look at the people around us. He leans over the table and grabs my chin, tilting it to the perfect angle, and then presses his lips to mine. His tongue slips into my mouth. I was supposed to be the one tasting him, but he’s the one tasting me. The cinnamon on his tongue and the apples on his breath taste me until I’m starving all over again. I grip the tops of his arms. If I don’t I’ll rip his shirt over his head and sweep the dishes off the table. He lets me go just in time and sits back down.

  He cuts another bite of his pie and swallows it down. “Good, huh?”

  I cross my legs to relieve the ache he created between them. “I want more.”

  His nods, playing along like he created this game and wins every time. “If you’re a good girl I might. If you’re bad I might too. Hell, I just might.”

  When our waitress drops off the check and refills Bach’s coffee I remember we’re not alone.

  “No rush,” she tells us. Well, she tells Bach. As far as she’s concerned I’m his little snot-nosed sister, not the girl who made his eyes roll in the back of his head earlier. Even the reminder of him in my mouth has me reaching into my purse for my wallet. I have other places I want him in.

  “Ready?”

  He stares at the rest of his pie. “No.”

  “You ate enough. I want more than a taste,” I hint.

  He sits back in his seat, eyeing me disapprovingly. “No, Harley.”

  His quick response makes me laugh. “You want to know the funny thing? If I was anyone else you wouldn’t have even hesi
tated.”

  “There’s a lot things I do with you that I won’t do with anyone else. It’s a tradeoff. If you want to come first you’re going to have to come last sometimes.” He raises his eyebrow, daring me to throw something in his face that I don’t even understand.

  “Eat your pie.” I tap my fingers against the table, watching his satisfied smile. As I do my cell phone rings. Bach cringes, already blaming me. I’m not worried. Even if it was Dylan I wouldn’t be worried. If I don’t come first all the time neither does Bach. “It’s my mom. Chill.”

  He does.

  I’ve been avoiding her calls since Dylan left, Gram’s calls as well. I don’t want them to know about Dylan. For my family he didn’t simply make a decision, he threw our consequences in our face. He took something that devastated us and made it something that was supposed to make him better. Maybe it’d unfair of me, unfair of a lot of people, but my reaction remains strong. Sometimes being unfair is your only option if you want to have one.

  “Answer it.”

  “Dylan,” I whisper, staring at Mom’s face on the screen. “They don’t know about him.”

  “Then don’t tell them yet.”

  I sigh, answering it before I can chicken out. It’s like pulling off a bloody, sticky band-aid. I just have to do it. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Harley Evans, I’ve been worried sick about you. I’ve called so many times I lost count. Where have you been?”

  “It’s summer.” I sink low in my chair. No matter how old I get I will always be her baby. I can come in naked, pregnant, with a wedding ring on and she will still ask if I ate dinner, washed my hands, and whether I felt warm. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy to call me? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine, Mom. How are you? How’s Gram? Did she get that scarf I sent her?”

  “Hmm,” she drawls, still southern after all these years. “I’m doing. Gram’s doing, too. She likes her scarf. Wants to know how she’s going to wear it when it’s hotter than an oven in Houston, but sometimes it’s the thought that counts.” Her tone drips acid.