HE WANTED ME TO OPEN for him again, and he had a way of making me. But didn’t he understand that it made everything harder? I sighed heavily. “The best way I know how to deal with it is to forget, David.”
“The best way or the only way?”
I smirked at him. He grabbed the seat of my chair and pulled me to him in one quick jerk. With a firm hand under my jaw, he thumbed my cheek and then kissed the corner of my lips.
“Even when you smirk, you have the prettiest mouth I’ve ever seen.” His breath was hot on my skin as he said, “I think about it all the time.”
My heart stopped, and I was sure I’d blown a circuit. “All the time?” I exhaled.
“All the time. To see your mouth wrapped around my cock earlier is something I will never forget.”
My nipples tingled and tightened. I swallowed. His mouth brushed over my skin, and he pressed a lingering kiss on my temple. When he drew back, he maintained contact with a hand over my hair.
“You’re safe with me,” he said quietly, and I scrambled after his mood shift. After a beat, and without removing his hand, he said, “Forget about the scar. Tell me about growing up in Dallas.”
“What?” I breathed.
“I don’t get much time with you, indulge me.”
I waited for my heart to calm while he stroked my hair. “I was a happy kid,” I said. He nodded encouragingly, so after I dipped a buffalo wing in blue cheese dressing and took a bite, I continued. “That’s how I remember it anyway. We lived in a nice home, which actually had a white fence.” I smiled. “Gretchen and her brother John were my best friends. They lived around the corner.”
“What were you like as a little girl?”
I dropped my eyes. Why was I telling him this? What was the point in learning about each other? It could only lead to more pain.
“Hey,” he whispered, and I looked up again. “What were you like?”
I closed my eyes and the memory began to seep in – the memory of the girl I was before the divorce. It was a place I rarely let myself go. “I was alive.”
There was a hint of concern on his face when I opened my eyes again. “Alive?” he asked.
“I was always doing something. John would tease me about being a chatterbox, and when I wasn’t talking, I was making up stories or games. I wrote everything in journals. I always had a pad of paper with me.”
David’s forehead creased with a deep ‘V’. “I thought you didn’t like writing.”
I searched my brain, trying to remember when I had said that. “I used to. A lot. A teacher told my parents that I had a knack for creative writing and grammar skills above average for my age. My mom wrote for our local paper and had published a few books before I was born. Sometimes she had two or three novels in the works, and as soon as I was old enough, she would have me sit and edit them. When I told her I liked writing and not editing, she would make this face and tell me that I didn’t have what it took to be an author. Editing was what I should focus on.
“Anyway, regardless, Gretchen and I started an unofficial school newspaper. I would write short little articles, sometimes about our classmates, sometimes fiction, and she would illustrate it.” I blinked a few times and took a sip of water. “My dad would photocopy it, and we’d pass it out every couple weeks or so. John called us nerds, but he always stole a copy.”
“Did you ever think, as you got older, about writing your own book?”
“Only when I was a kid. That’s my mom’s thing.”
He dropped his hand and sat back in his chair. “And you don’t want to be like her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My mom was, and continues to be, difficult. She . . .” I studied the table as I thought. “She could be distant. And mean. She was very jealous and sometimes, when my dad went on business trips or stayed out late, she would drink. It made things worse. My dad stopped allowing alcohol in the house, but when she got in a mood, it didn’t stop her.”
I paused, and he placed his large hand over my lower ribs, consuming the small scar. “Is that how this happened?”
His hand was incredibly warm and comforting, and I covered it with one of mine. “That night . . .” I paused and closed my eyes. I inhaled deeply and deflated against the chair with a long exhale. The last fifteen years passed behind my lids. “That night was hard, but everything that came after was worse.”
“Why?”
“Thirteen isn’t the best time to have your life flipped upside down. I was still figuring out who I was, and it was easy to shut down. I stopped playing, stopped writing, and I just . . . was different afterward. I had to grow up fast. Suddenly everyone expected me to be an adult about the whole situation, but I was just a kid. And after, I wanted to take care of my dad the way my mom had. Better, actually. So I had to grow up. I had to take control.”
“You like to be in control.”
“If I’m not, I feel . . . helpless.” I picked at something on the table with my free hand, while the other one still sat atop his.
“Is that why you don’t like people touching you?”
My eyes darted up to his. “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you flinch. Not with me, I mean. But for instance, that jerk-off earlier.”
“Steve?”
“Don’t say that name to me again, all right? Yes, him, or the bartender from Lucy’s engagement party.”
This way he had of figuring me out, I didn’t know if it bothered me. It was as if I had no secrets from him, and there was nobody in my life that I let get away with that. “I just don’t like when strangers touch me. That’s not unusual.”
“Well, might it have something to do with wanting to be in control all the time? Or even what happened that night?”
“I don’t think I want to talk about this,” I said, trying my best to sound indignant.
He looked disappointed but nodded. “Do you ever read what you wrote as a kid?”
“She destroyed everything.”
“Your mom?” His expression was horrified.
I shrugged. “After we left. It was childish stuff anyway.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“But it’s true.” I smiled warmly. “I bet you were a perfect kid.”
He took a moment to respond. “I was.”
I laughed, and he shook his head. “I was pretty good, but I had my moments.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I would sometimes get overly excited about the things or the people I loved.”
“You’re being vague.”
He narrowed his eyes at me playfully. “I was good. I got straight A’s, and I didn’t party too much because I played sports. But I can be a little hotheaded, and it was harder for me to control as a kid.”
“You don’t say,” I responded without thinking.
He looked at me a second and then raised his brows. “You might not believe me, but I’m usually pretty level-headed. I hate bullshit, and I don’t let it get to me. Certain things just set me off, especially when I feel . . . protective or possessive of something.”
“Something?”
“Or someone.”
“Did it ever get you into trouble?”
“I got into a couple fights, yeah. One almost landed me in juvie.”
“Over what?”
“That particular one happened at school when this guy called Jessa a bitch. I got lucky though; his parents were pretty fair and dropped the charges. I think they were secretly happy that I laid him out, because he was an asshole.”
I giggled softly.
“I almost killed Alvarez that night,” he said seriously. “If I’d known what he said to you,” he swallowed, “I would have.”
I believed him. Mark had pinned me against a wall, hissing in my ear how he would show me a good time when David found us. I remembered the anger that had radiated from his body that night as he pushed a gun into Mark’s neck.
“Does that scare you?” he asked.
We searched each other’s faces in the late hour, as the city slept around us. “I don’t know. No. You don’t scare me.”
“Even though I can be a little . . . intense?”
I twisted my lips and considered this. Nothing about him frightened me, so I shook my head.
“Good.” He exhaled, looked down at my plate and grinned. “You ate.”
My answering smile turned into a yawn.
“I guess I should get you home.”
I nodded. “It’s been a while since I stayed up all night.”
He leaned in and kissed me. With his face an inch from mine, he said, “Know that you would be spending the night in my arms if things were different. I would not let you leave.” He delivered the last line in a firm, almost angry manner. Before I could respond, he said, “I’m parked in the garage. We can take the elevator straight down so there’s no chance of running into anyone.”
“Thanks for taking care of me.”
His lips pursed, and he turned away. I followed him from the kitchen to reluctantly change back into my jumpsuit. While I waited for him, I checked my phone, bracing myself for Gretchen’s reaction, but there was only one text from Greg.
Sep 5, 2012 11:17 PM
Heard from Gretch?
I shrugged it off and when I looked up, David was watching me. He walked over slowly and cupped the side of my hair. “Ready?” he asked. I nodded into his palm.
“Why’s it so cold?” I grumbled on the way to the car.
“Didn’t you bring a jacket or anything?”
“Did you see me in a jacket?”
“I think I might have something.” He stopped at the Mercedes, popped the trunk and rifled around until he produced a pink hoodie. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“A sweater.”
“Whose is it?”
“Who cares? You’re cold, I have a sweater, put it on.”
“No.” I handed it back to him.
“Olivia, put it on,” he ordered with finality and closed the trunk. He opened the passenger door and raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged into it before climbing in sulkily. Flowery perfume assaulted my nostrils, and I sneezed. I hated the pink sweater.
“Whose is it?” I asked again once we were driving.
“It’s Dani’s.” He glanced over at me. “Isn’t she a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you making that face?”
I sighed. “Because she’s a friend. I’ve known her for a long time. And it’s weird . . . .”
“Maybe you could return it to her for me.”
I glared across the car at him and then narrowed my eyes when his shoulders pulsed with a suppressed laugh. “It’s not funny,” I said. “The idea of you two together makes me sick.” I dropped my head between my knees, and he was silent. I knew I was being unfair, but I didn’t care; when it came to David, none of my reactions seemed to be in my control.
“I’m sorry,” he said graciously, grasping the back of my neck. “Nothing’s happened though.”
“Have you broken things off?”
“No, but – ”
“Then it still I could,” I cut him off.
He sighed heavily. Why isn’t he reassuring me that it won’t? I ran my hands over my face and decided not to let it ruin one of the best nights of my life. I took a soothing breath and looked over at him. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.”
His gaze remained fixed out the windshield when he said, “It could be.”
I reached out and put my hand on his thigh, and he rubbed my forearm.
“So what now?” I asked. Outside, the sky was gradually lightening to pink with the rising sun.
“I don’t know. I’m going back to New York though, I need to spend some time on that project.”
“For how long?”
“A week or so.”
“Oh.” A week suddenly felt like a lifetime.
“I’ll e-mail you when I return. At work?”
I sighed and looked out the window. Even without my veil of lust, why couldn’t I just say no? And why did it feel like not saying no was almost worse than anything I’d done up that point?
Even when he sat across from me, I yearned for him. I felt myself being pulled in opposing directions, crumbling under the pressure of two men. Bill, who I loved and who had been there for me whenever I needed him. And David, who drew me in so completely that I didn’t see anything but him. But it wasn’t just the way he physically consumed me, it was an emotional, intense, overwhelming consumption of my body, mind and heart.
“Here we are, Miss Olivia.”
I squeezed his thigh and looked back at him. “Thanks for driving me.”
“Wait.”
“Oops, almost forgot,” I said, zipping out of the hoodie. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to return it to her.”
“Not that. Come here.” He reached out a long arm and pulled my jaw to him. A palpable silence settled around us when he gave me a hard peck that softened into an open-mouth kiss. When he pulled back, he wore a goofy grin.
“I’ll miss you,” I blurted.
His smile faltered, and he swallowed hard. With a nod, he said, “I’ll miss you too.”