by J. Lynn
“This isn’t the first time I’ve used these hands for good.” He picked up the other packet of hardware and ripped the little bag open.
I flushed hotly.
“Get your mind out of the gutter.” He laughed. “I was thinking about the time I taught you how to pick a lock.”
Since he was focusing on the bookshelf, I grinned freely. “Yeah, you did do that. When I was twelve. A total useful skill for a child.”
He laughed. “You never know when you’d need that. Besides, putting these shelves together is the least I could do for you.”
Bending over, I picked up the board marked A. “How so?”
Brock was still for a moment and then he looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor. “After I was injured, I was a fucking—”
“Mess?” I supplied helpfully.
His grin was small as he nodded. “I thought my career had ended. My head was in a really bad place.”
It had been in a really bad, dark place.
“But you were there for me the whole time. When no one else could stand to be around me, you were there,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I lost count of how many times you showed up in the middle of the day or even at night and helped get me to bed when I was passed out on the floor. Cleaned up after me when I had too much to drink.” Disgust filled his voice. “Or when you’d bring me food and make sure I actually ate it. You stayed even when I was piss drunk and was getting on my own damn nerves. So, yeah, putting together some bookcases is the least I could do.”
I lowered my gaze as I sucked my lower lip between my teeth. Was that why he was here? Why he . . . he wanted me? To atone for the past? That seemed silly, though. “Brock . . .”
“You know, there’s something I need to say—something we need to talk about. Okay?” He waited until I met his gaze. “That night you were hurt, the night you almost died, I wasn’t there for you. It happened to you because of me.”
“Stop.” My heart twisted something painful in my chest as I scooted closer to him, still holding the board. “You didn’t—”
“I didn’t try to rob you? I didn’t pull that trigger?”
Chapter 23
Hearing those words spoken, words I barely allowed myself to think about, caused me to flinch as those memories came roaring back. It was like a plug pulled from a water-filled sink. There was no stopping the deluge.
I didn’t remember walking across the packed parking lot.
All I knew was that I was standing in front of my car with my hands slapped over my eyes. Oh God, he totally bailed on me. Brock had me drive all the way up here to spend time with him, with just him and me, and he was inside of Mona’s with everyone else—with those girls. That totally just happened. Brock had seriously bailed on me.
My shoulders shook as a sob rose in my throat. Brock didn’t even see anything wrong with ditching me. I saw that in his face. Not for a single moment did he think there was anything wrong, and I was so, so stupid.
So fucking stupid in my dumb dress and dumb makeup. No wonder he’d looked at me like he had when he first saw me. It hadn’t been because he finally saw me as something other than his Jillybean. It was because I looked ridiculous. Compared to the girls in there—to Kristen—who were wearing skintight denim skirts or jeans, I looked like I was playing dress up.
Tears streamed down my face as I lowered my hands and slipped my purse off my shoulder. Katie had been right. Brock would get laid tonight. He wasn’t going home alone while I was—
“Excuse me?”
Sucking back tears, I turned around. A man stood there—close, too close. I took a step back, bumping into the side of my car. There wasn’t enough light in the parking lot for him to see my tear-stained face, thank God. But I also couldn’t see much of this man. What I could see wasn’t good. His cheekbones appeared gaunt. His eyes were shadowy, and when I breathed in deeply, I smelled the pungent scent of sweat and greasy food. His hands were shoved into the pockets of what appeared to be dark work pants.
Unease blossomed in the pit of my belly. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” He turned his head slightly to the side and barked out a dry cough. “Do you have a dollar?”
I don’t know why I answered the way I did. I had a dollar, but my head was shaking no. “I’m sorry. I don’t,” I said, turning back to my car.
The man moved fast.
One hand shot out and his fingers caught in my hair. I let out a startled shriek as my head was jerked back. I acted out of instinct, and I started to swing my bag at him, but I froze—stopped moving, stopped breathing. For a split second, I didn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t even process it, but it was real and it was right there.
He held a gun an inch from my face.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, mouth drying.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered. “Just give me your purse and you aren’t going to get hurt.”
I immediately lifted my purse, fully prepared to give him every cent I had on me, right along with the credit cards. Pain flashed across my scalp as he shoved my head forward. Thrown off-balance, I stumbled to the side and. too panicked to catch myself, I fell to the ground.
My knees scraped off the rough pavement, tearing open a scream. A harsh grunt of air exploded out of my lungs as the panic erupted like a bomb inside me.
“God dammit!” the man spat. “I told you not to move.”
“I-I didn’t mean to.” I reached for my purse and in my hurry, the contents fell out, scattering across the ground. I reached for my wallet. “Here! Take it. You can take it.”
Clenching the gun in one hand, he ripped the wallet out of my hand. I stayed where I was, not daring to move. Bile rose swiftly into my throat. I was going to be sick. I was going—
“Only sixty dollars? That’s all, bitch?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I-I’m sorry. That’s all I have. That’s—”
“Give me your car keys.” The end of the barrel grazed my cheek, and I nearly vomited. “Now.”
Falling forward, I dragged my hand across the pavement, skimming over the tiny, plastic bottle of perfume and the beaded coin purse my vovó gave me for Christmas a couple of years back, before she passed away. My fingers brushed over the thin chain of the necklace I’d stashed in my purse—the gift I hadn’t given Brock. I found the keys, snatching them off the ground. With a shaky hand and my heart pounding against my ribs, I lifted them up to the man. “H-Here.”
He ripped the keys out of my hand and started to back up rapidly, the gun still pointed in my direction. I didn’t dare move. I held my breath, praying that he’d leave, that I would walk away—
Several things happened next.
The door to the bar opened and music poured out into the balmy night air. The man cursed. A car horn blew and there was a deafening pop. Red hot pain flashed through my entire body, lasting a second—only a second.
Then there was nothing.
Brock’s tortured gaze held mine now, and I knew . . . I knew he was reliving the same night. “You shouldn’t have even been there, Jillian. You think I don’t remember the events of that entire weekend? I was supposed to take you out to celebrate my big comeback.” He barked out a harsh, biting laugh. “I was planning to. I really was, but I got there . . . and I have no real good excuse, and trust me, I’ve searched for one. Over and over, I tried to explain why I chose to stay there and let you walk out, why I didn’t follow you. No reason I had is good enough—will ever be good enough.”
Brock laid the board down and thrust his hand through his hair. The soft ends flopped forward. “I know I never said these things to you afterward. I should’ve. You didn’t want me saying anything to your parents about why you were there, and I honored that, but I got to tell you that shit ate at me. I was out there, fighting matches, winning money, and seeing your dad, after everything he’d done for me, was still doing for me, and you were lying in that hospital bed, because I was a fucking jackass. I let you down and th
“Don’t say that,” I pleaded, realizing I couldn’t bear to hear him say he couldn’t ever forgive himself for it. “Yes. You ditched me. That hurt—that really hurt, but you’re not responsible for what happened to me. I don’t blame you for it.”
“How can you not?” he asked, voice as sharp as ice.
There was a point in my life I had. That point hadn’t lasted long. I didn’t blame him. He hadn’t been the guy hooked on heroin, desperate for money and tweaking like crazy. I couldn’t hold him responsible for that and I didn’t care if some people thought I should. But I hadn’t let go of all the hurt from that night, and obviously neither had he.
Then it hit me with the force of a speeding semi-truck.
How were we still living like this?
I was afraid of getting hurt again. He was carrying the guilt for not returning my feelings when I was a teenager, and feeling responsible for me . . . for me getting shot, something he hadn’t done? Neither of us was really living.
What in the actual fuck had we been doing?
“We need to let it go,” I whispered, and that moment, the very second I said those words, they rang true with a kind of clarity that was earth-shattering.
Brock needed to move on from that night, and God’s honest truth, so did I, because I hadn’t. For six years, I really hadn’t let any of it go. And how could I move on, be truly happy and gain my life back, if I didn’t?
How could it really work between Brock and me if we both didn’t?
I sucked in a soft breath.
In a daze, I lifted my hands to my face, pressing one finger against the deep indent in my cheek. You’d have no idea that a bullet had entered my left cheek and then went straight through to the other side of my mouth, somehow not touching my tongue, the roof or the floor of my mouth, before blowing through my right jaw, practically exploding it to smithereens, and in the process, taking out some of the necessary parts needed for hearing in my right ear as it exited.
God knows I was so damn lucky.
Besides not being severely disfigured, I’d actually survived. I barely remembered being conscious after being shot. There were flickers of memories—of panic and not being able to breathe, of the metallic taste of blood as it was pouring down my throat, out of my mouth and nose as I heard yelling—screaming. That was all I remembered until I woke up in the hospital with a tracheostomy tube, unable to talk at the time or hear out of my right ear.
It had been a long recovery from that point.
I remained under observation for nine weeks, reentering the hospital multiple times for the reconstruction parts. It had taken a year for me to leave home and come back to Shepherdstown.
And it had taken six years to fully acknowledge that we both were still standing in Mona’s, stuck in that moment of me walking away and him not following. It was a moment that had lasted too long.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Wordlessly, I stared at him, realizing we were on the cusp of something I had never believed possible. It was like walking up to the cliff’s edge and staring down. Could I take that leap again? I wanted to try, because I was tired of denying how I felt when I looked at him. I was tired of fighting it. I wanted . . .”I want . . .”
His gaze was bright and endless as he stared up at me. “You want what?”
Air constricted in my throat. “I want to let it all go. I do. And this is still scary as hell for me, but I want to start really living. I want to take risks and I . . . I want you.”
Saying it out loud was like slipping off a too-heavy blanket, one that was rough and itchy. Like opening your eyes and seeing how blue the deepest part of the ocean could be and how bright the sun was when the ground was covered in snow and ice.
Tears blurred my eyes as I whispered the words that made me feel incredibly vulnerable. “I want you, Brock.”
He moved incredibly quickly, snatching the board out of my hand and letting it hit the floor. Grabbing my hands, he hauled me down onto his lap as he sat on the floor. My knees slid on either side of his hips, and when he kissed me, it was like the goodbye kiss from the night before.
Senses spinning all over and mind reeling. I trembled and shook in his arms as he nipped at the corner of my lip and then flicked his tongue over the little bite, soothing it. He coaxed my lips open, keeping the kiss, tasting me—claiming me, but I’d already been claimed by him.
I’d always been his.
The kiss deepened as he drank me in, and there was a brief second where fear sprouted in my stomach. Brock had the power to hurt me again, but the threat was lost in the primitive rumble that rose up from his chest. He broke off the kiss, and my lips felt swollen in the most delicious way.
“I want to know something,” he said, smoothing the hair back from my face. “Something I’ve been wondering about longer than you realize—longer than I should’ve been.”
“What?” I asked, trying to calm my breathing.
Those hands slid down my body, coming to rest on my hips, and when he spoke, his lips moved against mine. “I want to know how you taste.”
Taste?
I knew what he meant by that. Goodness, did I ever. The request sort of shocked me. I mean, we hadn’t even been on a date and we’d just kissed, for the first time, last night. And he wanted to do that already?
And I wanted him to do that. My body really wanted him to do that, like it was one hundred and ten percent on board, but it had been a really, really long time since I’d even been kissed.
Suddenly, I felt incredibly naïve and wholly out of my element. With my hands on his shoulders, I leaned back, putting some space between us. “Brock, I . . .”
“What, babe?” His hand fisted my hair, gathering it against my neck. He kissed the corner of my mouth.
I shuddered as my hands slipped to his chest. “It’s been . . .” Cheeks heating, I tried again. “It’s been a really long time since I’ve done this.”
The hand on my thigh stilled and Brock drew back so he could look me in the eye. “How long?”
“A really, really long time,” I repeated, squirming slightly. “It’s been years since I . . . since I’ve even been kissed, let alone anything more than that.”
Those dark brown eyes nearly turned black.
“I feel like I’m practically a born-again virgin,” I said, forcing out a laugh.
“Fuck,” he growled. “That just makes me want to do it so much more. You have no idea.”
My hands spasmed against his chest, clutching his thermal as my heart worked overtime.
“Let me do this for you.” Brock’s dark eyes glinted with bright desire. “Let me make you come, Jillian. Please, let me help you start really living.”
I lost my breath as I shuddered again. How could I refuse that? For real. I was aching for him in a way I had never felt before. My body wanted him. My heart and soul did. There was no reason to refuse this. Nothing but shadowy doubt and deeply rooted insecurities.
Living is all about taking risks.
Yes. Living was taking risks. Living was putting yourself out there, sometimes jumping without looking, but I had a safety net. Brock would catch me. I didn’t doubt that.
“Okay,” I whispered, feeling like I’d agreed to go skydiving.
He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Thank fucking God.”
I giggled. He was really excited about going down on me. The humor slowly evaporated, because his mouth claimed mine once more, and it was hot and deep. His tongue slipped over mine and flicked the roof of my mouth. He kissed me until my head was spinning and I was melting in his arms. Then he moved, his lips coasting over my chin and over the side of my jaw that had literally been pieced back together. I started to stiffen, but I felt the tip of his tongue trace the line.
My fingers were going to rip right through his shirt as his mouth traveled down the side of my neck, blazing a trail of hot kisses. He nipped and licked as the hand on my thigh moved to my breast. The tips hardened, and I wanted more, wanted to be bare, but then he was moving again.
His hands dropped to my hips and he lifted me up, startling me with his strength. I was no small chick by any means, but he moved me around like I weighed nothing.
My back was on the floor before I knew it, wedged between the bed and surrounded by half built bookcases. He caged me in and I stared up at him with wide eyes, my pulse racing.
“I’ve wanted to do this for . . .” His hands dragged down my stomach, over the thin sweater I wore. He pushed up the material, exposing my lower stomach. “Hell . . .”
Emboldened by his stare, I wet my dry lips and asked, “How long have you wanted this?”
“Long enough that when I woke up last Friday and you were rubbing all over me, I wanted to get my mouth between these legs,” Brock muttered, hooking his fingers under the band of my leggings and tugging them down a few inches. He groaned. “No panties?”
My face flushed, but I lifted my rear when he tugged again and watched him rock back as he drew the pants down my leg. I had this horrible habit of not wearing undies when I was home and in leggings or yoga pants.
They ended up somewhere behind him.
And then he was staring at me, staring at the most intimate and private part of me. The look of stark hunger on his face stole my breath. Any thought of stopping him had dive-bombed out the nearby window.
“You’re beautiful,” he said in a rough voice, and the way he said it made me believe he truly meant it. “So fucking beautiful.”
My heart slammed in my chest as his hands ran up the outside of my calves and then crossed over at my knees, slipping along the insides of my thighs. He stopped just before the crease between my hip and thigh, gently easing my legs apart. Cool air brushed over me, and my breath caught. Instinct demanded that I close my legs, but his heated gaze locked onto mine.
“I need to do this.” His voice rumbled through me. “It’s all I need right now.”
Drawing in a shallow, stuttered breath, I relaxed.
The promise in his gaze said I wouldn’t regret the decision. His head dipped as he kissed the space below my navel, and then he dropped lower, settling his broad shoulders between my legs, spreading me wider.
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