Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1)

by Shana Vanterpool

  “I’ve been thinking about you. I promise.” I can’t stand the way Bach’s looking at me. I mean really, how can he look at me like that and then tell me that I can’t have a taste?

  His small amused smile lights his eyes as he continues to eat his pie. His hair is messy, and I drift off, recalling how I ran my fingers through it … an inappropriate line of thinking when you’re talking to your mother. I clear my throat and force myself to focus.

  “Hmm,” she drawls again. I know she doesn’t believe me. I try really hard not to lie to her. One because I love her, and two because she can tell every single time. “Carolyn’s here.”

  I want to throw my phone. Why did I answer it? “For how long?”

  “A few weeks. She’s been asking about you. Her kids are here, too.”

  “All of them?” My cousin Carolyn doesn’t miss me. She misses the satisfaction of torturing me.

  For the first time I hear a smile in Mom’s voice. “All of them, Harley. They’re spending half the summer here and the other in Florida with Froy’s family.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I made sure to keep your bedroom empty.”

  I groan. “I can’t come home for the summer. We’ve talked about this. I can come visit, and if I do it can only be for a couple days.” Any longer and they’ll know something’s wrong. I’m keeping Dylan a secret for them, not for me.

  “I want a couple of days starting today. Gram is getting old, Harley.”

  Guilt swarms me the way she knows it will. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s O. I don’t know about the ’kay part. She’d be a lot better if you were here.”

  I hang my head. “I really am busy, Mom. Maybe I can come next week?”

  “You’re not busy,” Bach whispers, looking at me oddly. He almost looks childish again. “You should go see your family, Harley.”

  “Who’s that?” Mom asks, southern as a pair of muddy cowboy boots standing at the edge of the Mississippi river. “Dylan? Put him on, dear.”

  “It isn’t Dylan. Dylan’s … on vacation. It’s my friend.”

  “Why don’t you bring your friend here? Grams is getting so brittle, Harley.”

  A sharp guilty pain stings my stomach. “Fine. I’ll come. But only for a couple days.”

  “Oh good,” she says, smiling unabashedly through the phone. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Drive safely, sweetie.”

  I stare at the phone in awe as she hangs up. “That’s why I didn’t answer my phone. Before I did I had no plans. Now I have to pack and get to Houston before she calls back. Thanks, Bach.”

  He shrugs. He may as well not even answer. But of course, he does anyway. “I’ll drop you off at your apartment.”

  “Oh no,” I say, slapping down some cash. “You’re coming with me. That’s what you get for opening your big mouth. Mom invited you anyway. Come on.”

  He catches up to me outside the diner. “Are you sure you want me around your family?”

  “Dylan was around my family. Dylan lied. Have you lied?”

  He scratches his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “That isn’t what I mean.”

  “What did you mean then?”

  “Look at me, Harley. I’m not the kind of guy you go to dinner with, or breakfast. I don’t meet parents. I don’t do this shit,” he snaps, wrenching his car door open and slamming it shut once he’s inside.

  He’s going to run. It’s all over his face, in the way his shoulders tensed up, and how he looks around the car for an escape route that isn’t there. I quickly follow him inside before he leaves without me.

  “Bach, calm down. Look at me.” When he does I see something I’ve never seen before. He’s more than childish. He’s self-conscious. “What is it?”

  He looks out his window. “I’m a pussy. That’s what. I’ll drop you off. See your family for a couple days. We can hang out when you get back. I have something to do tomorrow night anyway.”

  Does Jona’s phone call have something to do with his plans? I can only imagine the dark mayhem he can succumb to by himself right now. “What if I want to do something tomorrow night too?”

  “How long of a drive is it to Houston?” he wonders icily.

  “Dylan was nervous too, you know? And he had a lot more to prove than you do. We were dating. We were supposed to be forever. You and I are just friends.”

  His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles tense ominously. He turns the radio on, driving out of the parking lot with a loud screech of his tires. It’s difficult to talk to him when he’s like this. It’s like crawling to the top of a building with a piece of metal and asking to be struck by lightning. But he’s so full of crap sometimes. He acts like he cares about nothing, but that can’t be true. Last night he cared about me. He came to my apartment, fell apart on my floor, and whispered my name. Bach was bullshitting himself, because he couldn’t bullshit me.

  I talk louder than the radio. “What are you so afraid of? You walk around like you’re invincible. You’re not afraid of anyone or anything. What’s so scary about my mom and grandparents?”

  “Aww man. We’re here. I guess this conversation’s over. Get out, Harley.”

  “Dylan did it. Why can’t you?”

  “Because!” he snaps. “I’m not good enough for you. Imagine if we had a kid and she came home with a guy like me? I’d kill him.” His eyes darken. “I’d rip his balls off and hang them over my mantle. I’d have a fucking mantle too just so I could hang them there. Why would you want to do that anyway? Why can’t you see that I’m heading right for a fucking wall? I’m going to explode and you’re going with me!” As if he can’t believe he said that out loud, he says more to make it worse. “I want you to explode with me. Exploding doesn’t seem so scary knowing you’re there with me.”

  I know if I respond he’ll know for sure he said that out loud. His expression is in denial. He doesn’t think he did. He’s probably thought it so many times that his thoughts finally gained control of his lips. I want to know why Bach is struggling about being good enough for me if he keeps trying to run away. How can a person want something while they do everything to not have it?

  “Could you imagine if you had a daughter?” I can’t help it. “That would serve your ass right.”

  He reaches over and pushes my door open. “I’ll call you in a couple days.”

  I grab his hand before he can pull it away. “I’ll miss you, Bach.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut. “Go, Harley.”

  “Won’t you miss me?”

  “Please, Harley. Go.”

  He’s going to run the second I get out of the car. I can almost feel a dark ominous cloud chasing him, waiting to shower him in his own storm. I can’t let that happen. I take his hand and put it over my cheek. “How can you call me? You don’t even have my number?”

  “Then I’ll stop by.” His fingers curl around my neck, gently brush the space below my ear.

  “Ask me for my number, Bach.”

  “I shouldn’t have your number.”

  “Dylan has my number,” I remind him.

  His head hits the steering wheel. With his arm still outstretched and his hand on my cheek, he looks like he passed out in the middle of driving. I imagine it. Him face down, his car decimated. Bach gone. Like Dad. “Bach,” I plead quietly, “please come with me. I want you there. I need you there. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Tell me why.” He takes his hand back and sits up, staring at me intently. “Why do you want me there?”

  “For the first time going home doesn’t terrify me, that’s why. I’m not thinking about seeing Dad’s pictures or knowing he isn’t going to greet me in the driveway. All I can think about is the idea of my Gram’s eyes when she sees you. She has a thing for good looking men, you know?”

  “You don’t play fair.” He grips the steering wheel. “Shit. Shit. Fine, Harley. I’ll go. But I have to be back before tomorrow night. We should take separate cars.”

  �
�But I like your car better.”

  “Did Dylan have to put up with this shit?” He laughs in humorless disbelief.

  “No. I was much less argumentative. Now that I think about it, this is a lot more fun. What else can we argue about? Are you Republican or a Democrat? Come on. My Grandpa will get his rifle out if you answer incorrectly.”

  “There’s a correct answer? It’s a matter of opinion,” he reminds me. “There is no right or wrong answer.”

  “Wrong. You’re wrong.”

  “What was Dylan’s answer?”

  I laugh before I can stop myself. “Dylan said he wasn’t into politics. Said we didn’t have a say anyway. Which is really ironic now. That liar. Grandpa asked him what he thought of hunting game during the off season. Then he took him out back to show him his cooler of game meat.”

  Bach smirks, slowly letting go of the tension tightening his body. “Your Grandpa sounds cool.”

  “He is. He and Dad are just alike. Except Dad was a bit more modern, if you know what I mean. Grandpa still thinks iPhones are tiny robots who will eat him in his sleep.”

  “Well, I’m sure they have an app for it. Go pack a bag. I’ll wait here.”

  I quickly reach over and take his keys out of the ignition. Before I get out I kiss his cheek, hovering there to whisper in his ear. “If you weren’t good enough for me I wouldn’t be fantasizing about having you inside of me. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Save it for me.”

  He gawks at me as I slam his car door. I dangle his keys in my hand, knowing he’ll be thinking about that too hard to run. I dash upstairs and grab my overnight bag out of my closet, throwing random things inside, then right before I leave I open the top drawer next to my bed. I grab the condom box and shake the rest out. I try not to think about the last time Dylan and I used them. I had no idea the morning he left that the sex we had wasn’t passionate, it was goodbye. I think about Bach instead. He chases Dylan away like he’s been doing since he showed up at my apartment. I make sure to lock everything and then I run back downstairs and hop into Bach’s car. He spends even less time in his beach house. He comes back down carrying a black backpack.

  “It’s a war zone in there,” he huffs, tossing his backpack in the backseat. It doesn’t look very full. I picture it full of panties and little orange pills. “I salvaged what I could.”

  The waves in the gulf seem to crash against us as we pull away with the way they crest high and dissipate before they get to the water. I imagine them catching up to us and pulling us back to Crystal Gulf, saving me from Dylan’s choice.

  “You know,” I say casually, although there’s nothing really casual about it, “you spent your life using sex the same way you use alcohol and drugs. Now it’s something bad. Sex is bad for you, Bach.”

  “Is that the kind of things you think about when you’re quiet? Damn, Harley. I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

  “I do.” I sit up and cross my legs in the passenger seat of his Corvette. “I want to have sex with you, Bach, and you can’t. Won’t. Isn’t that messed up? You can have sex with someone who doesn’t want you, but not with someone who does.”

  “Harley … ”

  “Sex isn’t bad for me. I want to show you it can be good for you too.”

  Half of his face is slack, uncaring of what I say. The other half is listening to every word. “How?”

  “Sex is about emotion for me. It’s passion, lust, and sharing those emotions with someone else. I want to share those with you. Don’t you want to share that with me?”

  “You don’t want me, Harley. I’m someone you can mess around with until Dylan gets back. We both know that’s what this is. The second he comes back home you’ll run right into his douchebag arms and forget Bach Bachmen ever existed.” As he talks his speed increases, so that by the time he’s done we’re flying down the highway. “I don’t even know why I’m here right now.”

  “What part of Dylan and I are done don’t you understand?”

  “He’s not done with you.”

  “Too bad. I’m done with him.” But even as I say it I feel this overwhelming sense of loss. I feel torn, and I don’t feel like being ripped apart right now. Dylan ripped enough from me.

  Bach sees it too. His speed increases. “He cheated on you.”

  I glare at the side of his beautiful aggravating face. “You cheat on me every day.”

  His mouth opens so wide I can see the back of his tonsils. “Are you kidding? We’re not even together. We go days without talking and then all of a sudden we’re dating? How can I cheat on you?”

  “You know what I mean.” Bach rarely makes sense. Since when do I have to?

  “Let’s talk about other things please. Like how I’m going to keep your grandma off me. How old is she?”

  “Don’t worry. She’s under your cut off age.”

  He sags in mock relief. “Phew.” His speed decreases.

  “Even if Dylan came home tomorrow we wouldn’t be together. I’m done with him. I still love him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be with him after what he did to me.”

  Sixty-five … seventy-five … eighty-five … ninety-five. His speed says what he won’t. What neither of us will.

  “If you weren’t here I’d keep going,” he says darkly.

  “If I weren’t here you wouldn’t want to keep going.” I reach up and buckle my seatbelt.

  Go ahead, Bach. Destroy me, I think just as darkly. That’s what he wants to do anyway.

  He glances at me, sitting calmly, waiting for him to answer my question, to take his ruin without argument. Instead of increasing his anger it seems to make him sad. His eyes fill with it and his mouth turns down. “Harley, if you weren’t here I would have kept going a long time ago.”

  “I just wanted you to know. Dylan has no bearing on the choices I make after him. Keep that in mind. It’s just sex. We don’t have to get married.” But that feels like a lie too. We don’t have to get married, of course not, but Bach’s not acting like someone who’s aware of right now. He’s too busy trying to prove himself right.

  “I heard you,” he responds, his voice low as his speed comes back down. “And it isn’t just sex. Not with you. I want you to know that I’m trying, Harley. I’m trying,” he repeats desperately. “I can’t be good enough for dinner, breakfast, and be who you deserve overnight. I might never be.”

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and start crawling over the center console.

  “What’re you doing?” he demands.

  “I want to sit with you.” I try to slip under his arms to straddle him in the front seat, but the interior of his car is tinier than I anticipated. His arms continue to grip the steering wheel, struggling to keep us on the road.

  “There’s no room. Go sit down. We can talk about this later.”

  I remain in my awkward position, straddling the center console. I fear Bach wouldn’t stick around for later. “Pull over, Bachmen.”

  “Harley.”

  “Please? I have to say this to you. And in order to get my point across I want on your lap. Don’t act like you don’t like me there.” I rest my hand on his thigh, trailing my fingers on the inner trail of the seam on his jeans.

  He groans low in his throat, eyes flashing to meet mine hesitantly while still keeping the car on the road. “I want you there,” he breathes in defeat.

  He slows the car, looks over his shoulder, and then pulls over onto the side of the highway. Dust surrounds the car, almost protecting it from the rest of the world. When he puts the car in park and looks at me I take it as an invitation. He opens his arms and I settle down on his lap, straddling him.

  I wrap my arms around his waist and hold his gaze. “The fact that you want to be good enough is all I need, Bach.”

  “No it isn’t. You don’t deserve a guy like me or Dylan. You deserve someone like you.”

  “What am I like?”

  “You’re so good. You’re so damn beautiful it kills me. You hold my hand,
even when it’s covered in my puke. You take my clothes off when I can’t stand. You throw my bullshit right back at me. You let me in when I’ve fucked up over and over again. You’ve seen me at my worse and can’t wait to see me at my best. You think there is a best. That’s what you’re like. At least that’s what I like about you. You expect so much from people. I don’t. How can that be good enough for you?”

  I want to kiss him. I want to take his mouth right here and just let whatever follows happen. But if I do that then he’ll stop talking. I kiss his neck instead, grasping his face. “If you asked right now I would say yes.”

  He sighs so heavily I feel his warm breath go down my back. “I won’t ask. I can’t.”

  “If you asked me right now I would call Dylan and tell him.”

  His hand settles on my lower back. He rubs me from my spine to my shoulders and then back down. He dips under my shirt, burning my skin with his touch. “Tell him what?”

  “That he never should have left me here with you.” I find his mouth and cover it with mine. He growls low in his throat, this deeply satisfied, desirous moan. I feel it in every part of my body. I imagine the sounds he’ll make when he’s inside of me, his body weight on mine, and his hot breath steaming my neck as he loses himself. It makes me clench in anticipation. I want him so badly I don’t even care that he’s leading this destruction. “Please, Bach.”

  He groans again, except this one sounds like he’s in pain. “If you don’t get off me right now and go sit back down you won’t have to beg anymore. And I won’t even rip them. I don’t have time for that. I’m going to slide your panties to the side and feel your pussy stretch as I sink inside of you. If I do that it’s ruined, Harley. Can’t you see that? I don’t want to ruin this for you. For myself. You’re not about release.”

  I sag in defeat against him. How can I argue with that? “I see it.”

  “We can still do other things.” He tries to kiss me but I quickly duck under his arm and return to my seat. “Or not.”

  “Just drive, Bach. I’m sorry. I’m usually not this … ”

  “Horny?” he supplies, chuckling as he starts the car and makes sure it’s safe before returning to the road. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I understand the walking talking orgasm that I am. It’s a wonder you’re able to control yourself at all.”