Remembering that Gray carried my birthday necklace from Uncle Jameson out of the bathroom last night, I begin searching everywhere. It’s not on the surface of the dresser or the nightstands, so I begin sliding open drawers and trifling through them desperately.
I open the drawer below the photos, and discover something I don’t expect at all. Leather bound, thick, and worn, and holding all the secrets of someone who I both admire and desire. It shames me to admit it, but for a brief moment, I’m conscious of the conversation we had the previous day, and how I told him I hated people who tried to invade my privacy.
I linger for about two seconds on the thought, and then open the cover of the journal anyway. If I just look at his drawings, and avoid reading any words, it’s not technically an invasion of his privacy, right? Words and art are two different things. Art is made for the world to behold and enjoy, words can be private or public depending on their creator’s purpose. But as I flip through the drawings, I begin to realize that they can be even more personal than words.
Each page contributes to a larger story. A sketch of his mom in a hospital bed. Two hands barely connected, barely holding on as if each person is slipping away from the other, and then a whole slew of other drawings that are dark, moody, and depressing in nature.
I skip over the pages with writing, guiltily realizing I don’t have much time. And when, I get to more drawings it’s… Me. Definitely me. Same heart-shaped face, pouty lips, overly large eyes, all the way down to a light dusting of freckles and a beauty mark. Either it’s me he’s drawn in about seven photos, or I have a twin somewhere.
In one, I’m lying on the ground, hair splayed out amidst flowers and grass, the shadow of a tire swing stretched across the ground to my right. Another, it literally looks like a ray of light, or an aura, surrounds me. And then, comes one that’s a cartoon me, like Jessica Rabbit or something. Somewhat befitting, but only from the red hair. My pulse is pitter-pattering, my palms clammy, as I turn the pages. It’s not until Gray’s boots come trudging up the top steps, that I hurriedly snap the journal shut, and return it to its proper place.
Shit. I was so zoned-out, or zoned-in rather, that it didn’t even register that the door had closed downstairs.
When he opens the door to his room, he finds me sitting on the bed, appraising my gorgeous crystalline gift with a nonchalant air as if I didn’t hear him come in.
Calling for my attention, Gray clears his throat and I turn to find he’s discarded his shirt at some point, wearing only a pair of blue jeans that hang low on his hips, allowing for me to appreciate the delicious “V” that forms there.
“Found my gift,” I say stupidly, holding up the note and the jewel. Even though I was just with him in the most intimate of ways last night, his presence still makes me both giddy and nervous at the same time.
“I see that,” he states. Regaining my composure, I tread quietly across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop so closely in front of him that my breasts graze his abdomen with each rise and fall of my chest. I lift up on my toes, and press a light kiss on his lips, hoping like hell he doesn’t pull away.
What if he’s finished with me now that he’s had me?
His arms wrap around me as his hands land on my ass, giving a gentle squeeze as he pulls me fully against him and kisses me back.
Damn right. Sweet relief.
“You know you shouldn’t have done that, it’s too much. It was expensive, and you got me everything else yesterday, the dog… The dog!” I exclaim.
“Eaaasy. I already checked on her and fed her,” he reassures me.
“You should have woke me up to help you. Aren’t we participating in joint-custody or something?”
“I can handle it, Sloane. Besides, you needed your beauty rest. I think I was a little too rough with you, especially that last time.” The soreness between my legs intensifies from the reminder and I wince. “Thought so…” he says mostly to himself before holding out a bottle ibuprofen to me and fetching a Gatorade from his minifridge.
“Thanks,” I graciously reply. He nods.
“I took the liberty upon myself of bringing up your bag,” he informs me. “Thought you might need it.”
“Thank God. I was about to go get it.” I grab the thing, and haul it into his bathroom, quickly brushing my teeth, washing my face, and then pulling my hair out of the way. “Gah, that hair is like a ratted-up creature,” I mutter to myself. Going to bed with un-brushed, freshly fucked, wet hair is like asking for the bad-hair-day of a lifetime. I smile to myself thinking back on everything that happened in the past 24 hours. And then comes the sudden rush of guilt over the fact I just perused his journal unbeknownst to him.
The bathroom door opens up a sliver and Gray pokes his head in, asking if he can talk to me a moment.
“Of course,” I reply.
“I just wanted to ask you something,” he begins, giving the impression he’s treading carefully and choosing his words as he rubs his hands down his face.
“Okay…”
“You had another bad dream when you fell asleep, while I was holding you…”
This is not good. Shit. Double Shit.
He continues, “some of the stuff you said in your dream. I’m guessing it has to do with your past, and well, I just wanted to know if there’s anything you want to talk about? It might help to get it off your chest. Might even help you sleep better at night,” he suggests.
God, do I want to tell him more than anything right now. I’d love to be able to be completely open, for him to be that person for me, the one I tell everything to and make love with.
Scratch the making love part. Correction: have sex with.
Those thought patterns are how you confuse companionship with love.
Not in love, Valley. Not in love.
Maybe if I keep chanting it in my head, I won’t ever confuse it.
“Gray,” I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, “yeah, there’s some stuff from my past. I just don’t want you to treat me differently. You’ll distinguish me as someone who needs to be coddled and handled with care. I don’t want that,” I reply. I might be deflecting the most important aspect of the matter, but what I just said is still true.
“I know you’re hiding something, and that’s okay. You’re entitled to your secrets. None of that matters because I see you, Sloane. I see you, and there’s nothing you can say to me or do that’s going to make me want you any less than I do in this moment.” Resting his forehead on mine, he whispers against my skin, “you tell me when you’re ready.” After pressing his lips to the top of my head, he steps back into his room.
One of the things I appreciate about Gray: He knows when to give a girl some space, and that’s a valuable quality to have.
Sudden banging on the door of the bedroom brings me back to reality.
Oh, shit.
“Gray, have you seen Sloane. I can’t find her anywhere,” Lyra’s muffled voice carries through the walls. I quietly step out of the bathroom, my eyes seeking Gray’s in panic. Surprisingly, he looks the opposite of what I’m feeling. Calm. Placid. Controlled.
“Did you check outside?” he questions, sounding bored.
“Well, no…”
“Maybe try checking out there. And, maybe try calming the hell down. I’m trying to sleep in here.”
“Whatever, you never sleep this late and I heard you get up and go outside to feed the animals earlier,” she argues.
“And now I’m trying to go back to bed!” he raises his voice. Receding footsteps cause the wooden stairs to creak, as she groans in anger and frustration at her older brother. I stare at Gray helplessly, scared to utter a word in the off chance that Lyra might still be in earshot.
“She never gets up this early,” I whisper-shout at him.
“Ain’t that some shit,” he replies, humor returning to his voice as he strides over to me. “I’ll watch from the window and let you know when she steps off the porch. When she does, hurry downstairs
and act like you were outside looking for her and ya’ll just missed each other,” he orders.
I nod my head as I follow along.
When I reach around him for the door handle, he lays his hand over top to stop me. His lips crush to mine, like he’s claiming me as his own in a lip-lock of desperation. Just as soon as it begins, it ends. He smirks down at me in a way that makes my knees nearly buckle.
The backdoor slams.
“Guess I don’t have to watch for her after all.” He opens the door for me, handing me my bag as I rush out. Bounding down the stairs, I throw him a backward glance at the halfway mark, watching his eyes slide up my body in an appreciative way. I flash him a fleeting smile just as I step out of sight.
After I deposit my belongings on the couch, I head toward the front door where I meet Lyra head-on. Her face is awash with relief.
“There you are. I was so worried about you. Where were you?!” she exclaims urgently. She was worried about me, and I just spent the night shacked up in her brother’s room, right down the hallway from her. Not to mention she was sick yesterday.
I’m such a shit friend.
I throw my arms around her, drawing her into a hug causing her to laugh.
“What’s that for?”
“I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” I tell her a half-truth. She launches herself into questioning me all about the festival, and how my birthday went. Appearing satisfied with all my answers, she grows serious.
“Today’s the day,” she remarks, voice etched in conspiracy. Um?
“Come again?” I whisper, as we both tilt closer in confidence.
“I’m throwing the birthday dinner I promised you, and I’ve already invited Miss Laurent, who has already accepted my invite,” she informs me. And just like that, my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. Not wanting her to distinguish the way her words have chafed me, I try to plaster on a fake smile in agreement. It sits more like a grimace on my face than anything.
Chapter Twenty-One
A car door slams outside, and I instantly tense up, thoroughly aware that our dinner guest has arrived. This is going to be the worst Birthday dinner in the history of all Birthday dinners. I mean, getting to watch another woman flirt with the guy you care about, one who has a shared history with him at that… It’s every girl’s worst nightmare.
When someone knocks on the front door, Gray finally makes an appearance from his upstairs office, where he’s been locked away all day, likely avoiding me.
“Lyra, are we expecting someone?” he yells out, making his way down the stairs. Lyra catches my eye, grinning as her plan unfolds perfectly.
“Yeah bro-sky. It’s someone who’s come to Sloane’s birthday dinner. Could you get the door for us, puh-lease?” she asks sweetly. He grunts in annoyance, stomping down the final few stairs.
“Who the hell is it? You didn’t say anything about having guests. I hope you didn’t invite any punks from your school,” he growls.
I can’t take it anymore. I sneak to the kitchen entrance so I can watch the events unfold firsthand. My guess is that he’s expecting to find Miles on the other side, and I watch his back go completely rigid when her finds Grace Laurent instead.
“Gracie?” he gasps in surprise. His face is out of my line of sight, so I can’t read his expression but I can clearly see Miss Laurent. Her hair is down and styled in loose waves Her floral-print, spaghetti-strap, fit-and-flare dress, accents her petite and feminine curves perfectly. It’s the appropriate blend of sweet and sexy. Her face is awash with adoration. More than that, she’s in love with him. It’s blatantly obvious.
When she throws her arms around his neck, and pulls him in for a hug. I’ve never been one for the self-infliction of pain, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
Then, her eyes meet mine over his shoulder, and if she doesn’t spot my horrified expression, she’d have to be blind.
“Sloane, Happy Birthday,” she remarks, her voice muffled into his chest as he returns her embrace. My heart twists and I recover myself, backing into the kitchen as I reply “Thanks.”
Of course, as my life usually goes, I collide with Lyra, nearly knocking her to the ground. I try to laugh it off, but it sounds hollow. Luckily, she laughs along with me and points out how clumsy we both are before asking me to help set the table. Sure that I’ve lost Gray for good, I throw a final reluctant look in their direction, my eyes slamming into his as he steps out of her grasp. His blank expression is unreadable.
In the dining room, Lyra doesn’t miss the fact that my hands are shaking nervously, silverware clattering against each other as I attempt to place them neatly beside the plates.
“Sloane,” she calls my attention to her, and I glance up into her concerned aqua eyes. I nod my head but avoid her gaze my keeping my head down as extreme lethargy settles in. “If you’re worried about him figuring out our motives, and getting mad, don’t be. He’s a guy, he’s not that smart… even if he was, it’ll be me taking the brunt of his wrath. And Grace is totally down for all this,” she teases.
In that moment, they both choose to walk into the dining room, carried away in a deep conversation that suddenly ceases as if they’d rather keep it to themselves. My mind starts going crazy. An evening of flirtation between the two quickly escalates to Gray taking her back to his room and making love to her the same way he did me. Only, she’s much more experienced, so he keeps inviting her back night after night. Soon, he’s forgotten all about me, and the two of them are dating on the regular. Christmas of next year, he pops the big question. That whole story plays out in my head in mere seconds.
Jealousy is a rotten bitch.
She can give him what he needs. What he deserves. She’s that type, my polar opposite in every way. Grace is able to cultivate emotions I’m incapable of. What guy doesn’t adore a girl that looks at him all starry-eyed, like he owns the world? What guy doesn’t need a girl that worships him and exists only for him? The answer is pretty simple: Every guy wants that. It’s in their egotistical nature, the claiming someone and owning their complete devotion.
An overexcited Lyra bounces over to Miss Laurent, squeezing her in a hug which causes Miss Laurent to laugh. It’s a tinkling, musical sound. I look over at Gray, imploring him silently to look at me, but he’s watching the exchange with apt concentration, almost like he’s trying to figure something out.
“I’ve missed you! I’m so glad you could come… so glad you’re back in this house like old times,” Lyra puts on record, and in my opinion, she sounds too eager.
But that might just be jealousy and irritation influencing my thoughts. Lyra and Miss Laurent, or Grace, whatever we’re calling her here, go off on some long interchanging of stories. I quickly drown them out once my body hums with awareness of Gray’s attention, I feel it before I even look his way. With a penetrating caress, his eyes burn over my skin, blistering it and making it impossible to evade his attention any longer. I cut my eyes at him, and sure enough, he’s studying me with a brooding and burning intensity, as if he’s attempting to pull all the thoughts from my head and insert them into his own.
Panicked, I gulp, and quickly glance away, my guilty conscience beginning to eat at me. After all, I helped set this up. I didn’t warn him. I created the setting for my own psychological demise, and that’s what it truly feels like… Like I’m about to go insane with jealousy.
“Sloane,” Lyra says my name, making me jump.
I glance up just in time to witness her angle her head to the side quickly. A subtle attempt to remind me of our prescribed seating arrangement. I sit practically fall into the chair, feeling weary now, and Lyra follows. The only chairs that remain, leave Gray sitting side by side with Miss Laurent. A strategic move on Lyra’s part.
“I hope y’all like Lasagna,” Lyra sing-songs as she removes the aluminum-foil from the top of the pan. I can tell that she’s nervous due to her actions that follow… she starts lumping out food onto her plate, and we haven’t even sa
id the blessing yet! Saying the blessing is staple to dinnertime in the Knightley household. If I’ve caught her misstep, I know Gray has.
“Rules,” he admonishes, raising his voice an octave higher to exert his authority. He gives her a hateful look that has Lyra scrambling to correct herself. Eyes widened, she drops the spatula and quickly lowers her head. I follow suite. Gray begins the blessing, the same way he always does, but I swear I can feel his eyes on me, causing me to look up. Sure enough, Lyra and Grace have their eyes shut, heads bowed, but Gray is looking right at me as he recites the words. The fact that we’re doing so right now, at the dinner table amidst others, is like the naughtiest stare-down ever.
“Thank you for blessing the world with Sloane, and thank you for all the beauty and sunshine she brings to our lives…” he says, never breaking eye contact, as he continues listing everything out. I don’t know if they realize it, but he’s going above and beyond, taking his time to give thanks for things I’ve never witnessed from him before. I already knew from last night that he could multi-task like no other, but the fact that he recites everything without a hiccup to his words, leaving everyone else unaware of his questioning eyes in my direction is… hot? Is it wrong to think that?
I can practically read his mind, as he glances over to his sister and back to me. Silently questioning what we’re up to. He bows his head again, concluding his prayer.
“Amen,” he voices, then orders “dig in.”
He doesn’t look at me anymore, and Grace manages to captivate his attention most of the meal. I’m stuck, glued to my seat as I endure the trip down memory lane, and the saccharine way Miss Laurent keeps trying to pet his ego, making me want to vomit. ‘Oh, Gray, you were my hero.’ And ‘Oh, Gray, I’ve never had a friend better than you.’ And ‘Remember when we did this Gray…’
Love on the Run Page 23