FIFTEEN
Layla
Donovan was a whisper in the back of her mind. That small, persistent voice that called to her every night since she’d walked out of his apartment.
Three weeks before.
She would not go back. It was too dangerous. He was the spark that would inflict the worst damage—the blazing tinder that could ignite her completely and Layla could not allow that to happen.
“Stay in bed with me. All day. You and me and this bed.”
Three sentences. A great temptation followed by the sweetest, slowest kiss Layla had ever been given. It would have been easy for her to accept. It would have been a mind numbing indulgence that allowed Layla to forget that she was not Donovan’s. There were no promises. There were no emotions. There were no commitments. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—pretend that there ever would be.
But he’d wanted her to stay. He’d wanted to stay bare, raw with her as he had been all night. He’d wanted her to be honest and open and real with him.
That was not what she’d signed up for. It went against their guidelines, those loosely agreed-to arrangements they’d made to protect themselves from each other.
She had to walk away.
“Layla, move your ass. Come on, Mollie’s got two minutes on you!”
She hated her best friend’s boyfriend. Vaughn Winchester, the psycho CrossFit Nazi that had her presently sweating so much she looked like she’d just stepped out of a hurricane. The entire studio smelled of sweat and defeat. People came here to have Vaughn mold them, stretch their muscles and strengthen their cores until the flab and pliable muscle became firm and brutish.
All around them were men and women running through their fast intervals; swinging from rings attached the high ceiling, jumping like idiots from boxes elevated in different heights. All insane. All intensely competitive and Layla felt like a fraud, a fake among those driven, obsessive athletes trying to out-exhaust each other.
Vaughn, lucky for Layla, decided he’d help her with her desire to forget the pressures that waited for her back in Cavanagh. She hated how he ran his studio like he was still in the Marines. She hated that Mollie didn’t join her in the quick rebuke of his orders. The big traitor followed Vaughn’s instruction with a damn smile on her face.
When he got in Layla’s face, coming so close to her that she could smell the faint scent of cologne and, oh God, Mollie’s perfume, Layla decided to scream right back at him. “Bite me, Winchester!”
“No flirting with my man.” Mollie seemed pleased with her small joke, smiling despite how red her cheeks had grown and the steady flow of sweat pouring down her temples. Layla wanted to kill them both.
“Layla, use your body weight. Come on, three more reps.” Vaughn looked determined, looked fucking evil, staring at them both, stopwatch in his hand as she and Mollie jumped up and down on that ridiculously high plyo box.
She swore she’d hear Vaughn’s grating, booming voice in her sleep that night. But she’d needed this. Three weeks and her muscles had turned to lead. Three weeks of exhausting herself to keep thoughts of Donovan’s body out of her head had worked, for the most part. After the first week of Vaughn’s torture, she could just manage to fall into her bed at night before she was out.
Three weeks in, though, she was getting slow, slipping and had nearly bypassed the turn toward her house for the long road that led to Donovan’s apartment.
“You’re off to… shit… today,” Mollie said, jumping higher and higher onto the plyo box two feet above them. “You okay?”
Layla couldn’t reply. She wasn’t ignoring her best friend. She just didn’t think there was enough oxygen left in her lungs to allow her speak. Instead she nodded, sucking in a deep pocket of air as she lowered and then jumped, almost missing the box completely before Vaughn blew his annoying whistle and she and Mollie turned toward the kettle bells.
This was good. Exertion, distraction, utter exhaustion. This would keep her mind off Donovan, off his touch, his skin, the messages he had left her, all the ones she hadn’t bothered to answer.
What happened? Was Donovan’s way of asking why she hadn’t come to him, why she’d stayed away, but Layla caught the meaning behind his veiled worry. He wanted to know what had changed. He wanted to know why she wouldn’t speak to him.
“Autumn wants a Potter marathon tonight.” Mollie gritted her teeth, swinging the bells, twisting her waist, her defined arms bunching tight as she breathed through her movements.
“Where?”
“Her place and…”
“Numbers, Mollie…”
“Ugh, I’m counting, Semper Fi…” Mollie rolled her eyes at her boyfriend when his fussing became too loud. Her rep finished, she set the bells down and collapsed on the mat with Layla following her a minute later. Even with her eyes closed and her mouth open, sucking up the hot air in the studio, Layla could feel Mollie’s stare. That and the suspiciously Marine-scented breath fogging against the side of Layla’s arm. “If you’re worried Donovan will make an appearance, then don’t. Autumn said he’s out of town this weekend.”
“What?” Layla said, sitting up too quickly, acting too curious. Underneath her, Layla’s soaking yoga pants squeaked against the sweaty mat.
Mollie’s smirk was ridiculous and it gave Layla the impression that her best friend expected her to drill for details. But she didn’t, couldn’t actually as the heat, the quick lift of her body off the mat and exertion got the better of her and her heartbeat refused to slow. “Shit. I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“He’s a demon,” Mollie said, flipping her middle finger at her boyfriend as he passed by them. “God, you know what?” Mollie copied Layla, sitting up with her hands in her hair and elbows on her knees. “Me too. Ugh.”
And then the details of the night and the plans Donovan had made out of town were completely disregarded as Layla jogged after Mollie toward the bathroom and both girls hurled over the toilets.
A good two minutes of Layla trying to block out the stench and sound of her and her friend’s exercise-induced spewing, and she finally found her voice. “Mollie?”
“Yeah… ugh, oh God… what Layla?”
“I fucking hate your man.”
He waited for her outside of her Marketing class. Again. A quick glance down the hallway brought Donovan back to that day, months before, when he had taken her into an empty classroom to set her straight. That day, like only Layla could do, she had instead climbed right into his head, into his senses and he found himself tasting her, wanting to take her, right then.
But that was before she’d left. That was before Donovan had let things get complicated, before he’d throttled her ex for touching her. Before Donovan forgot about no emotions. God, what a jackass he’d been.
He leaned against the wall, surrounded by the damp heat from the furnaces in Marshall, the loud, thick crowd and the mingling reek of perfume and pine from the Christmas trees in the lobby. Donovan ignored the people that passed him. They were excited, anxious with Christmas break starting that afternoon, but he didn’t pay attention to the activity, to the quick smiles, the obvious winks he got. His eyes were on that door across the hall from him, on the activity behind it as he waited for Layla to walk through it.
He was damn tired of her ignoring him. Even more tired that her avoiding him had unsettled him. He thought he didn’t need anyone. He thought he didn’t need Layla or any woman, for that matter. But things had changed… for him at least, and pride—and passion—had him determined not to let her toss him aside without an explanation.
“Hi Donovan,” he heard, but didn’t acknowledge that soft, female voice with more than a dip of his chin. It could have been a Victoria’s Secret model who spoke to him, it could have been a troll, he didn’t care. His frustration led him here, right in front of Layla’s classroom intent on getting an explanation, whether the brat liked it or not.
And then, that door opened, the crowd grew heavier, and Donovan looked over the moving heads, ignored the loud chatter and the smell of rain on the damp clothes around him as students milled from the soaking weather outside into the hallway and past the classrooms.
When he saw her, Layla didn’t look like herself. She was still beautiful, she still made him ache at the sight of her light hair twisted in a messy bun on the back of her head. She walked from the room with her head down, her arms sliding through the sleeves of her black, waist length leather jacket. He followed her, weaving around the crowd, unable to keep his gaze from her ass and those worn jeans and knee-high black boots that she managed to make look classic and tempting.
“Layla,” he called, nearly running into her when she stopped in the middle of the hall.
One look at her face and Donovan could tell she’d lost weight. Her skin was still flawless, luminous, but her cheekbones seemed more pronounced and when someone brushed past her, knocking her knit black and white scarf to her shoulder, Donovan caught the slight protrusions of her collarbone underneath her black sweater.
“Hey,” she said, pulling her bag further up her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
She wore red lipstick and Donovan had to curl his arms over his chest to keep from touching her mouth. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
He didn’t understand her hesitation, why she looked around him, nodded to a few girls who smiled at her, adjusted the white button up she wore under her sweater and coat, kept her gaze and attention on anything but him. “You can give me a second, right? I think I need an explanation.”
“Why?”
Tired of being bumped by the crowd, Donovan twisted his head to his left, to the empty classroom just three doors down from the first one he’d bullied her into all those months ago. Surprisingly, she didn’t argue, didn’t give him some stupid excuse why she couldn’t spare a minute for him. Layla simply walked into the room without waiting for him, as though she’d expected this conversation to happen and had been waiting for him to start it.
The room was empty of anything other than one row of metal desks, at least twenty years old, and a small wooden table—worn, with chipping green paint—in front of the white board. It was that table that Layla leaned against, slinging her bag at her feet as she waited for Donovan to stand in front of her.
“So? Talk.”
“What’s going on with you?” He wanted to say “What the hell, Layla?” and “Why are you ignoring me? Why won’t you be with me?” but all those things sounded simple and desperate and Donovan was trying to get answers, not beg her to keep him company at night again.
“Nothing. I’ve just been busy.” She still wouldn’t look at him for very long, keeping her attention on the window to her right and the storm that flooded around the campus and coated the glass with fog and water.
“Too busy to return my messages?”
“Yeah,” she finally said, staring back at him. “Sorry. My dad is pushing me to apply for graduate school. I’ve been trying to work on my design portfolio and a few designs and get some references.”
“That takes all day and night?”
“No.” Layla’s skin didn’t flush and Donovan noticed there was little fire in her voice. He missed it; that spark that had never ceased to unnerve him, have him wanting to scream right back at her. But it was gone. He wanted to know why.
“Then what’s going on?” Her back straightened and he caught how she held herself, defensive, suspicious, when he pulled her chin up so she couldn’t avoid is eyes. “Really?” He didn’t hold back then, not happy that she was being dismissive, wasn’t bothering to hide how awkward she felt or how much she didn’t want to be alone with him. “I piss you off?”
“No.” She moved her chin out of his reach and scooted back on the table. “Not really.”
“’Not really?’ What is that supposed to mean?” She shrugged. “Layla, that’s a non-answer. If I pissed you off, you need to speak up.”
There was a hesitation, the brief pause she took to stare a bit longer out of the window before she finally moved her gaze back to him. “That last time, after the fight. What… what was that exactly?”
Donovan knew what she wanted to hear. She’d left that night not smiling. She hadn’t tried to kiss him goodbye, something she did because she knew it only annoyed him. The moment she left, Donovan’s room had grown cold, empty and he dismissed it as nothing—the weather, him not cranking up the heat. But deep down he’d known why she’d left quiet, without making attempts at irritating him. He’d known, he knew even now as he looked down at her and that intense gleam in her eyes. He’d been sweet, easy and it must have thrown her. It must have scared her. He couldn’t have stopped himself. It was a small thing, him loving her, him giving and not taking and he knew it had scared her. But Donovan was finding out how hard it was to reign in his emotions. He had touched her because that’s what he needed—just a small part of her that Layla would never give him freely.
But he couldn’t admit anything to her. Not if he didn’t want her disappearing completely. “What do you mean? It… um… was same as always.”
“You think so, huh?” When Donovan nodded, Layla stared down at her fingers, fiddling with the band on her silver watch. “I thought it was different.”
“Why? Because I went easy with you?” She gave off clues, small signs that told Donovan that she itched to reject him. Sighs, the stiff way she leaned away from him, how she avoided his touch. He’d scared her the last time, he caught that easily enough and so Donovan wouldn’t let her think that things had changed. He needed her to lead him. He needed her to promise that whatever happened, she wouldn’t walk away from him. He just couldn’t bear that.
“I was keyed up after that fight and I was tired. But being inside you, wanting to stay inside you the whole next day?” It all sounded stupid, harsh and Donovan dismissed the faint lines that dented with her frown. “That was just me wanting to be a little greedy.” He stepped closer and she let him, she at looked up at him, but she didn’t smile, didn’t seem to think his lame attempt at a joke was funny. “Did you think it meant something else? Did you think I was too easy? Too soft? Did you think I wanted to stay in bed with you because I like your company? You know better than that, princess.” He was deflecting, he knew it, but he couldn’t give her the truth. Not then. Maybe not ever.
“I should be used to your mouth by now.” He didn’t think she said that for him. Donovan got the feeling, in fact, that Layla was reminding herself of who he was to her, who he’d always be.
“Yeah, you really should be,” he said, moving to her side on the table. She slid over, kept her distance from him and he grinned, seeing a small flicker of that stubborn spark that always lit her up. “You still didn’t answer me.”
“Donovan, I told you, I’ve been busy. I’m trying to do whatever I can to get my shit together before graduation in the spring. Parsons is competitive.”
“Parsons? As in New York Parsons?” He cleared his throat, trying to wave off how tight his voice sounded.
“Yeah.” Those great big eyes shifted toward his face and Donovan noticed the small dip of her mouth, how her eyebrows pulled together as though she wondered why his voice had sounded a little anxious. “My dad wants me to be doing something productive if I’m in New York instead of living in a closet trying to break into the fashion industry. I have a good shot at it.”
He didn’t like her being gone, being so far up north, unprotected and then it hit him; just then, right then, Donovan understood how much he would miss her. Shit, how had that happened? What would happen when he couldn’t see her for months at a time? When she was somewhere else and he was stuck in Cavanagh?
“Well, um… cool.” Now he was the one not overly eager to look into her eyes. Donovan ran the heel of his Chucks along the floor, smudging the gray tile while he tried to get his thoughts in order. He didn’t want to worry about Layla. He didn’t want to care enough to worry, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Still, she didn’t need to know that. “Just answer me this. You done with me?” Finally he looked at her, expecting something vicious, something that would deflate him, to leave her mouth. It was something she always did, something he’d learned to almost like. “You want to stop coming to me?”
“I might.”
Donovan nodded, clenching his jaw to keep from glaring at her. “You find someone else?”
He didn’t breathe for a minute, not just then. Not when she stared at him like she was thinking of the best insult to level at him, but when she spoke, the only venom Donovan found in that room came from his own impatience.
“No. I haven’t.”
“Then why stop?”
“Things were different last time. I didn’t like it. It got a little intense.”
“Layla, it was just sex.” He wanted to kick his own ass for that lie. It tasted rotten, bitter on his tongue.
She paused again, opened her mouth as though she wanted badly to say something, but she didn’t and then Donovan saw that spark completely burn out. She breathed low, shoulders falling just a bit and he tried not to let that expression, the sadness she tried so hard to keep off her face give him any hope. She stood then, pulled her bag onto her shoulder but didn’t leave. “Nothing was different? It didn’t mean anything?”
He debated what he should say. Something shifted in her eyes, a small flicker of the spark he’d just see leaving her. And Donovan wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to admit to her that things had changed. But she was a Mullens and he was a Donley. He was broken, still, by the heartache of betrayal. She was light and funny and full of something that he was starting to feel he was too dirty to touch. She had plans away from him and he couldn’t face the rejection he knew she’d leave behind.
Finally, with the shift of emotion working over her features, Donovan shook his head, tried to keep his tone light. “Of course not,” he said, hating the words before he spoke them. “It was what it always is, brat.”
“Yeah,” she said, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”
Then Layla slipped through the door and left Donovan alone, wondering what he’d done, wondering how he could remedy this. Wondering how he’d gotten to this point, but also knowing that it was vitally important that he did.