FOUR
Layla
Mollie was Layla’s best friend. They shared this unspoken, gesture-language when they were in situations where speaking wasn’t possible or appropriate. Layla loved Mollie like family and to her, she was just that. She’d do anything for her. Anything but admit the truth. Not even through that beloved gesture-language.
“What I’m saying, is that there are supposed to be no secrets between us.”
Layla nearly choked on her coffee as Mollie leaned against the pillows on her sofa. Secrets were Mollie’s bread and butter, and Layla realized her best friend had likely forgotten that. “Are you for real?”
Cooling coffee dribbled on Layla’s hand as she jerked out of the way to dodge the pillow Mollie threw at her. “Yes I’m for real, ass.”
“You mean secrets like, oh, I don’t know, Vaughn being the muscle your dad hired to keep you safe from a drug cartel? Because, yeah, that was you being totally honest with me.”
Mollie’s mouth dropped into a small “O” and Layla took some mild pleasure that her friend had conveniently forgotten all the lies and secrets she’d told everyone just a few months back. Still, that surprise did not linger and Mollie waved her hand, dismissing the small accusation Layla made. “It is not the same thing and you know it.”
Half an hour in and already Layla had grown tired of her friend’s interrogation. She didn’t want Mollie knowing about Donovan. She couldn’t say why for sure, but she figured, deep down, if she admitted aloud what she’d done with him, then it would become real. Then, she couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Besides, Mollie would give her so much shit for the whole situation.
“I don’t know what you’re bitching about.” Layla shot for a relaxed pose, pushing Mollie’s legs aside as she stretched out on the sofa, suddenly interested in the hangnail on her thumb. She could feel her best friend’s level, focused stare. “I’m not keeping anything significant from you.”
Mollie released a breath, and a frustrated little grunt as she flicked a teasing slap on Layla’s ankle, making her best friend to frown. “But there is something you’re not telling me?”
Mollie had beautiful eyes, Layla always thought so. There were round and large, and right then those big doe eyes of hers were squinted in suspicion, with the cool consideration as she gazed at Layla’s face. She was silent, not really digging, and Layla caught what she was doing. It was Biker Interrogation 101, something Layla knew Mollie had learned from her motorcycle club president father before he’d landed in prison. Normally, Layla could bypass the focused stare, make a joke, play up the vapid persona she used to get out of most awkward situations, but Mollie already knew all the stupid little tricks Layla used to save her own ass. She’d never buy it.
Layla wasn’t ready for Mollie’s judgment; a judgment she knew would come. For all her friends’ constant teasing that she and Donovan pranked each other, acted as though they couldn’t stand the sight of each other because they really wanted each other, Layla knew that if Mollie discovered what happened between them a few nights ago, the judgment would be quick. Mollie would want to tease Layla, to make her suffer, to make her laugh like all best friends do. Layla didn’t think she’d understand her being with Donovan. Certainly not her wanting to be with him again. Not without her also wanting something real with him. Not without admitting she liked him. Stupid mistakes with some random guy at a club were one thing. Stupid mistakes with one of your friends, or at least someone who always seemed to be around their friends, was something altogether different and just not cool.
When Mollie’s stare grew too hard, Layla tried for mock annoyance, rolling her eyes and sighing heavily. “It’s nothing. I’m just stressed. My, um, my dad is giving me shit about breaking up with Walter.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” That wasn’t a lie. Her father had questioned her incessantly about Walter being absent from their Sunday afternoon lunch. Layla hoped behind her closed eyes, her father’s niggling questioning would disappear and the hard glare she could feel still coming from her best friend would fade. Fingers smoothing over her eyelids, Layla shrugged her shoulder as though her father’s ridiculous cross-examination was a simple annoyance. “I think he was hoping that we’d get married so he could turn my room into a man cave.”
But the staring continued, growing into something awkward that had Layla pulling her knees to her chest and scratching the polish from her nails.
Finally, Mollie sat up, relaxed against the back of the sofa, but her gaze did not diminish. “Are you sure there’s nothing…”
“Jesus, Mollie, I’m fine.” She didn’t need the investigation. She didn’t need Mollie trying to get inside her head. Not now. Her head was already too full, too cluttered with guilt and shame for the things she’d done. For the things Layla wanted to do again. “I’m stressed and I really don’t need you adding to it.”
“Hey.” A gentle hand on her leg and Mollie inched closer. “What is this?”
Layla knew she was acting like a brat. All Mollie’s meddling, all the prying came from her worry for Layla. The blonde knew that, but she couldn’t shake the growing desire to put distance between herself and Mollie’s hard eyes glaring down at her. That look filled her with guilt, with a reality she still didn’t want to face. Ever.
It was too much. As she bolted from Mollie’s apartment, pausing just long enough to grab her bag, she caught the look of shock on her best friend’s face, but she couldn’t think of any other way to evade the question she knew Mollie was about to ask. She didn’t wait for it, didn’t even pause as Mollie called after her. Layla took two steps at a time down the stairs in front of Mollie’s apartment and fled the questions she couldn’t answer truthfully, running into the inky blackness of Cavanagh’s empty streets.
Layla’s father had loved to tell her stories when she was young. They were always of the first town settlers, all Irishmen fleeing their homeland for the freedom and opportunities America promised. He’d sit Layla on his knee and tell stories of Mickey Cavanagh, the first to settle the town and how he and his kin survived the depression, grew the streets and funded the parks with moonshine and whiskey they learned to make from the mountain folk in the area.
Her father was proud of his heritage, of the long lines of work and struggle that pumped into his blood, into Layla’s. Cavanagh was small, the tiny cluster of homes and brownstones stretching out into the university campus. It was a place where no one could hide, where even if you made an effort to avoid someone, they had a way of showing up.
But Layla didn’t think of avoiding anyone as she walked through the town, her town, that night. She was too caught by the slow, cool breeze chilling her skin, moving her long hair around her face. She watched the headlights of cars heading toward the historic district, then further out away from the town proper, the faint outline of the mountains in the distance. They looked like blinking Christmas lights to Layla and she lost herself in that flickering movement.
The sidewalks were empty as she headed toward campus, trying to reach her car just a few blocks from where she had parked earlier, when she and Mollie had run around campus and then up the jogging path in front of Mollie’s apartment. This town, her home, was more a part of her than the freckles on her cheeks or the small bump on her nose that matched her father’s perfectly. The banners of Cavanagh red flapping from light poles, rugby balls and shamrocks that decorated rosettes on buildings and inlays against wooden park benches, all echoed a heritage that her father taught her to be proud of. The designer in her noticed the beautiful bright reds and greens falling from the trees, seeing those same colors as textiles, fabrics that would make the eye pop, that would complement olive skin and deep green eyes.
Cavanagh was in her blood. It defined her as much as her name and blue eyes. So why did she feel so out of place? Why did the oaks around campus have Layla feeling guarded, trapped, as though every step she took was noted and judged?
It wasn’t the first time she’d felt that way. That confining feeling, the way her skin felt too tight, made her head swim with worry, had been something she’d talked with her mother about months before.
“Sometimes,” her mother had said when Layla related the pressure of the semester, of being a Mullens and all the expectation that came with their name, “we put too much pressure on ourselves.” She’d said our as though the worry was familiar to her as well, and Layla loved her for it. “But, sweetie, your dad and I only want you and Ethan to be happy. We only want you two to enjoy the life our family has worked hard to provide.” Then her mother held her, kissed her forehead like she used to when Layla was a kid. “You have to be true to yourself, follow your own path. Don’t worry about what others think. Be the person you want to be, honey, and believe that we will always give you a soft place to fall.”
That conversation had helped. Her mother always had a way of settling Layla, explaining things and reassuring her until her worry fled and she was able to remember what she wanted for herself. Besides, Cavanagh had never really felt like a small town to her. It had never confined her. But as Layla inched closer toward the rugby pitch, she felt her throat tighten, her chest pinch with an ache that shouldn’t have been there.
The thick, green field loomed wide and expansive, a giant highlighted against the auditorium lights that small insects floated around, mesmerized by its warmth. It was a beautiful pitch, a place where her father spent too many late nights, too many early mornings, grooming his squad, guiding his players until they moved like a brigade—soldiers ready to do battle whenever needed.
Cavanagh being small and the pitch being open, Layla was unsurprised to see someone else on the field, running drills alone. She stopped short, telling herself she should have expected to see Donovan. He worked harder than almost anyone on the squad to improve. Her father had mentioned that often. But she didn’t listen to the small, weak voice that told her to ignore his movements, to not pay attention to the strength of his body.
Donovan ran a final lap and stopped just near the uprights, bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He wore simple practice shorts, red, of course, with a thin white t-shirt that read “Do you even Haka?” and that simple, pedestrian outfit looked gorgeous on him. Layla loved the way his long, thick muscles stretched under his skin. She loved the reach of his shoulders and the subtle curves that dipped down his back. Watching him catch his breath, Layla forgot, just for a moment, what it was like to hate him, to find him repulsive. She could protest to her friends, to herself all she wanted, but the truth was, Donovan was beautiful. He was arrogant and a pig most of the time, but he was still very beautiful.
His touch was another matter altogether. It was not beautiful. It was not gentle and Layla brought forth the memory from just days before, the way he held her, tasted her, his mouth had left her temporarily amnesic to what a bully he’d always been. That kiss, those touches, had dampened the angry fire of her hatred for him and she admitted, to herself at least, that she loved his mouth on her. She loved the sounds he made when she touched him back.
Donovan pulled her from the memory of them together when he stood up straight, jerked his eyes to her as though he’d sensed her watching him. His body was tense, seemed prepared for a fight, but that rigid stance relaxed when he caught sight of her.
And then, there was a moment when the pitch disappeared as their eyes sought out each other’s face. Donovan took a step, but only one and watched as Layla stared back at him, his eyebrows relaxing from their pent up wrinkle. His mouth moved, and Layla hoped it would be a smile, maybe just the soft whisper of her name as Donovan called to her across that field. She knew she’d go if he called to her. She knew she wouldn’t walk away from him again.
Then Karlie Fitzgerald, the somewhat flirtatious team trainer, ran onto the pitch, a towel in one hand and an unopened bottle of water in the other. Donovan let the silly brunette distract him. He let her cling to his sweaty neck as he gratefully took the bottle of water from her.
The real him, she reminded herself. Donovan the Demon. How could she let herself forget? Donovan who’d put a shaving cream bomb in her locker when they were fifteen. Donovan who’d called her Skeeter, short for Mosquito Bites, at fourteen because she had yet to develop. Donovan who her parents forced on her every holiday, every vacation until she was seventeen. She hated that their fathers had been best friends. She hated that her down time away from school had usually been spent being tormented by him. He would never be any different, would never be more than the boy he was now.
She’d forgotten, the stupid drugging recent memory of his mouth deflecting the truth she had known all along. Numbing her to the reality of their real relationship, of what it had always been. Of what she needed to remind him it would always be.