by Everly Lucas
When she confronted me after class, she was fucking glorious. All that rage, directed at me. Her body shook so hard with it, I could feel the air between us tremble.
Twisted fuck that I am, knowing I affected her that much, that I got under her skin just by being near her, gave me a sick satisfaction. Part of me wanted to let her slap me. She’d find release in it. A perverse rush. I could see it in the way her green eyes darkened…in the way her lungs couldn’t suck in enough oxygen, her chest rising and falling with the effort, her nipples hardening into tight buds under her thin, white t-shirt.
If I’d let her angry palm make contact with my face, she would’ve found that release with me. If I’d let her slap me, who knows what would’ve happened next?
If I’d let her.
But I couldn’t. Because one taste of Erin Kenny—one hit of the only drug I’ve ever been hooked on—and I would’ve stopped at nothing to feed my addiction for the rest of our lives. She’d be enough for me. Everything to me. But what the hell could I give her in return? An ex-con with no prospects in sight. No way to give her the life she deserves. At least, not anytime soon.
Not that it’d matter, even if I could. She only sees me as the guy who nearly killed her brother.
“Oh, man. Is Greg that rough on you guys?” Henry’s question snaps me out of the depressing direction my thoughts were taking. No doubt, it was written all over my face.
I shake my head and force a grateful smile. “Nah, he’s cool. Thanks again, boss.”
“Don’t mention it.” With that, he heads back to his office, where he’ll probably camp out until after closing.
“What the hell was that about?” Tino’s gravelly voice grabs my attention just as my mind starts wandering back to Erin.
“Huh? Oh, he was just asking me for some help with—”
“Not that. What was with that look you got when he asked you about today? You see a ghost in that class of yours?”
With a single pained laugh, I grab a can of Coke from the fridge, signal to Ronnie that I’m taking my break, and drop down on the stool next to Tino. I pop the can and take a sip. “Danny’s sister was there.”
Tino’s eyes widen and fix on me. He’s silent, probably waiting for me to admit I’m fucking with him. When that doesn’t happen, he takes a long pull of his beer and slams the empty bottle on the bar. He waits until Ronnie brings him a fresh one before he speaks. “Well…shit.”
“Yeah. Shit.”
Tino is one of only two people in the world who know the whole story. We never talk about it, though. What would be the point?
He and his partner were the first officers on the scene that night. At the time, he was a week from retirement, so he was probably hoping for an easy shift. Instead, he responded to the report of an accident on Main Street—only a handful of blocks from the bartending school, come to think of it.
An alarm got tripped at the shop Danny and I crashed into. Literally into, with half the hood through the shattered storefront window. When the cops showed up, Danny was unconscious, slumped over on the passenger side of his truck, and I was a drunken mess, crouched at the curb, rocking back and forth, with the heels of my blood-spattered hands pressed to my eyes.
One thing I love about Tino is that, even after I owned up to driving drunk, to wrecking the store and hurting my best friend, he never treated me like a criminal. And ever since then, he’s gone to bat for me more times than I can count. He was the only visitor I had when I was inside, he volunteered to speak on my behalf at my parole hearing, and he set me up with this job so I could start working right away.
I don’t know why he’s so invested in me, but just like with Henry Carmichael, I’d rather die than give him a reason to regret it.
He shoots me a pitying glance. “What are you gonna do?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
“What do you want to do?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.
“Whatever it takes.”
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life doesn’t give a shit about what I want.
Six
On day two of class, I learn how to say “Curaçao." I mean, I learn other stuff, too, but that might be my favorite new piece of knowledge. I always thought the last syllable was pronounced “cow,” but nope. It’s “sow,” like a girl pig. Mind. Blown.
I also learn there are a shit-ton of Glen-something Scotch whiskeys out there. Mind not quite as blown.
Most importantly, I learn I can share space with Van Woods for eight hours without contemplating cold-blooded murder. I give myself a mental pat on the back for that as I wipe down my station at the end of the day.
Sure, there was some seething involved. Maybe a grumble or five. And I swear I can taste copper on my tongue from biting it hard enough to draw blood. But I’m not being led from the building in handcuffs, so at least there’s that.
After thoroughly cleaning my station, I mess with the colored-water-filled liquor bottles in front of me, lining them up evenly, labels facing out. I’m not a perfectionist, I just…I don’t want to leave first this time. For some reason, that would feel like losing. Losing what? No clue. But whatever this game is, Van’s not allowed to win it.
Problem is, he lingers, too, doing absolutely nothing except taking up space and smelling like oranges and cloves. The scent combo reminds me of Christmas, which reminds me of being nine years old and drawing him a handmade card on construction paper. The turtle doves looked more like two amoebas in a lip-lock, and the holly leaves were black because I couldn’t find a green crayon, but Van had grinned and insisted it was the best card ever.
That’s the worst part of this forced proximity to him. He played as big a role in my life as my parents and brother did, and he’s tied to as many memories as they are. Worse than that, all those memories of him—especially the ones after I realized I was in love with him—stand out from the rest. More vivid, like my brain gives them priority. And with him always in my peripheral vision, his scent drugging me and his deep voice seducing my ears, those top-priority memories are having a field day.
Ugh. Can he just leave already?
Apparently not. He slips his cell from his back pocket, drawing my attention to the way that pocket hugs his round, perfect ass. The boy always knew how to rock a pair of jeans, but nothing can compare to how he looked in football pants.
As far as the rest of our high school knew, I attended every game to support my quarterback boyfriend. In reality, I spent all four quarters ogling Van’s ass.
“Who’s up for happy hour?”
At the sound of Jazmyn’s voice, I rip my gaze from Van’s pocket. When I notice him watching me with a smug smirk, my face heats.
Whatever. It’s his fault for having such an ogle-worthy ass. I’d have to be dead not to appreciate it.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrow my eyes at him before shifting my focus to Jazmyn. “I can’t stay long, but I’m in.”
On the other side of the bar, she perches on a stool and leans in. With her elbows resting on the edge, her upper arms squeeze her tits together and push them out. Her cleavage could win awards, inspire epic poetry, and cause men to drool like hounds. Meanwhile, my boobs barely warrant the B-cup bra I’m wearing.
“Awesome,” she says with a smile. “We’re meeting up at Gator’s.”
Even better. That pub is only a few blocks from here and closer to where I managed to park this morning.
Jazmyn tilts her head in Van’s direction and bats her thick lashes at him. “What about you, big guy?”
With the speed and agility of a mountain lion, I leap over the bar and pounce on her, my fingers locking on to her silver hoop earrings and tearing them from her lobes. Clawing at her dumb whore face, I leave deep, angry grooves in her perfect skin before slamming her body into the tile floor and kneeing her repeatedly in her crotch. She screams, her pretty twists flying across the room as I rip them from her scalp.
Okay, n
o, I don’t do any of that. Instead, I fight my basest territorial instincts to permanently disfigure this gorgeous girl who clearly wants my man.
Holy shit. Did I seriously just think of Van as mine? Unacceptable. He’s not mine, and I don’t want him to be. At all. Jazmyn and every other chick can have at him. Sure, I have to swallow a mouthful of bile at the thought of any hands on his body that aren’t mine, but that means nothing. Nothing.
Van shoves his phone back in his pocket and shakes his head. “No, thanks.”
I nudge his arm with my elbow, my skin tingling where it touches his. “Oh, come on. What, you got something better to do?”
His face turns a sickly shade of grey, his eyes flitting between mine and Jazmyn’s.
I tell myself this is why I’m pushing him to go—his obvious discomfort. It can’t be because the thought of not being near him causes the same emotional and physical ache as having him so close.
“No, really, I—”
“No excuses, Woods. It wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun. We might even get you to crack a smile.” I poke one of his cheeks with my index finger.
The intensity in his deep-brown irises as they blacken under hooded eyelids makes my gut react. No, not my gut. Something several inches lower and far more disastrous. When his tongue darts out to glide over his full lips, I suffer what feels like the aftershock of an orgasm, only without the actual orgasm, which leaves me feeling cheated.
I fully realize I’m playing with fire, here, but backing down is no longer an option.
“Jazmyn wants you there, don’t you, Jaz?” Oh, hell. Now I’m just pissing my own self off.
Her hungry gaze inspects every inch of him. He has a lot of inches, and she takes her time with them. “Absolutely. Tell me what I have to do to get you to come.”
Double entendre much? She might as well have asked, “What can I do with my body to make you jizz?”
Van squinches his eyes shut and smoothes his palms over the sides of his head, locking his fingers behind his neck. With his arms raised, his t-shirt rides up, flashing a few inches of hard muscle under dark, lickable skin. The sight could send any female into heat. In me, it sparks a primal possessiveness. If we didn’t have an audience—and if I didn’t loathe him, of course—I’d carve my name into his flesh with my teeth.
When his eyes reopen, they find mine. Ignoring Jazmyn, he asks, “You sure you want me there?”
I force my eyebrows up in a faux show of ignorance. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He sighs and hangs his head in defeat.
Oh, how I love winning. Except now I have to spend the next hour cock-blocking Jazmyn while doing my best to ignore Van.
What have I gotten myself into?
Half our class ends up at Gator’s Pub, lining the bar and chatting in groups of twos and threes. My group used to be three—me, Van, and Jazmyn—but the third wheel fell off after a few unsuccessful attempts to snag Van’s attention.
I should feel bad, because I actually like that girl. We had a great time at lunch yesterday, bonding over our shared love of Swedish Fish water ice and our hatred of chokers, lemon-flavored baked goods, and catty bitches. But that doesn’t mean I want to watch her flirt with Van…because I don’t want him enjoying himself with a sweet and sexy girl like her.
Right. That sounds good. I’ll go with that.
So now Van and I are alone-ish. No teacher to focus on. No classmates to chat with. Just the two of us, sitting in silence.
He ordered a glass of water when we first arrived, and I’d asked the bartender for a Coke. When she spies our empty glasses, she makes her way back to us. “You guys want refills?”
Van tips his head at my drink. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
The bartender comes back with our orders, and I study Van as he takes a sip from his. “If you’re trying to impress me with your non-alcoholic beverages, don’t bother.”
“What I drink has nothing to do with you.” His tone isn’t harsh, but his words still sting.
Yet another example of how little I affect his life anymore. Meanwhile, my entire world revolves around him—who he was to me growing up, the ways he changed my life for the worse, how I blame him for every hardship my family has faced over the past four years…and the fact that I couldn’t walk away from him right now if I tried.
I want to know if he’s changed, if he feels bad about what he did, or if he’s really as detached as he seems.
“Drink whatever you want,” I say. “As long as you don’t go putting any more innocent people in danger, I don’t really give a shit.”
“Is that right?” He rests his forearm along the edge of the bar and leans in to me. If I hadn’t seen it not-move, I would swear his stool scooted a few inches closer than it was a second ago. “You can’t lie to me, Erin. I know you too well.”
“The fuck you do.”
He smirks. “Name one person who knows you better than I do.”
I stare at the chipped, lilac polish on my nails and try to come up with an answer. Only…I can’t.
Van chuckles at my too-long pause. “That’s what I thought.”
No way is he allowed to be right about this. “Other people have been around all the years you weren’t. I’ve grown up since then. Changed a lot. You wouldn’t know about any of that.”
“Fine. You’re not a kid anymore. You’ve experienced some shit I know nothing about. And maybe that shit changed the way you see things, the choices you make. That’s what growing up is all about. But this”—he presses a fingertip to my chest, right over my heart, and my breathing turns ragged—“is the same as it’s ever been.”
Wrapping my fingers around the audacious one poking at me, I bend it backward enough to cause a normal human to beg for mercy. But Van is apparently no longer normal. Or human. Maybe both.
While I consider snapping his finger in half, he just laughs. “What? You touched me earlier. I thought it was only fair.”
“A mistake on my part. Count on it to never happen again.” I sit back, putting space between us before I slip up and make all kinds of mistakes. A change of topic would also be nice. Our conversation somehow dove into the deep end, and I’d prefer to keep it shallow. Well, shallower. “Tell me, if you’re so anti-alcohol, what are you doing working in a bar?”
His gaze shifts away from me, his fingers bending and twisting a little black straw. “Like I said yesterday, finding a job isn’t easy when you have a record. Finding a good job is even harder.” Reaching over the bar, he grabs two cherries from the garnish tray, dropping one in his drink and holding up the other, silently asking if I want it. I shake my head, and he shrugs, popping the juicy, red fruit in his mouth.
God, I want to chase after it with my tongue.
Wait. No, I don’t.
Seriously, I don’t.
“Besides,” he says, breaking into my disturbing thoughts, “I never claimed to have a problem with alcohol.”
“Do you drink?”
I don’t know why this question is important to me. It just is. He could lie and say no, guessing the answer I want to hear and giving it to me. The old Van would never lie to me. This new version…I don’t know anything about him.
Yes, you do, my heart insists.
The heart has to be the dumbest organ in the body and should learn to keep its trap shut.
“No,” he says, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief, one of the tight knots in the innermost part of me loosening…until he tacks on, “Not since the accident.”
At that last word, the knots constrict, strangling the air out of my lungs and leaving nothing but a searing pain. “‘Accident’? You have the nerve to call it an accident?” My chair scrapes the floor as I push off it, my voice shooting up a whole octave and at least a dozen decibel levels. I’m causing a scene, for sure, but screw it. Screw him. “There was nothing accidental about it.”
Van stands, too, his left hand reaching out, like he plans to grab my arm. He’d better fucking not.
“Erin, you don’t—”
“No. You chose to get wasted. You chose to get behind the wheel of Danny’s truck. Everything that’s happened is a result of those choices. The property damage, the hospital bills, Danny’s…his…” I can’t say the words. I don’t want Van to know how low we’ve all sunk—my brother, especially. Tears flood my eyes, and no amount of blinking will hold them back.
The muscles in Van’s jaw tense and release, again and again. His right hand moves to his chest, his fingers clutching at something under his shirt. “I wish I could just—” He swallows hard, his hand dropping to the bar and gripping the edge. “You have no idea how much…”
He’s making zero sense, and I’m done listening, anyway. “Save it.” Whatever it was supposed to be.
This time, when he reaches for my arm, he follows through and grabs it, preventing my dramatic exit.
My pent-up fury detonates. My hate-bomb explodes. When my flattened hand swings at his face, he doesn’t stop me. He visibly braces himself, waiting for the impact, closing his eyes and breathing deep…as if he wants to feel the sting, almost as much as I want him to feel it.
The sharp sound of skin striking skin echoes through the room, as do several gasps and a “holy shit.”
My palm burns. Then that burn fades into a pins-and-needles sensation, like when feeling returns to a limb that’d gone numb. The sensation is so familiar, and I don’t even have to think about why—I already know. I feel it in every inch of me, prickling just under my skin, because I’d gone numb. The past four years slowly drained the life out of me, sucked me completely dry.
But I’m awake, now. I’m pins and needles. And Van Woods is to blame.
Seven
My dinner sits untouched on the coffee table in front of me as my left thumb rubs at my sore right palm. Not only can I not stomach bun-less hot dogs and off-brand macaroni and cheese for the third night in a row, but my fight with Van murdered my appetite. Surges of adrenaline always have that effect on me.