Bane

“Great. Thank you. Did you surf today?”

“Did you breathe today?” I challenged.

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Yeah, I surfed today.” I grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from behind the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a swig. “You should learn how to surf. You’ll love it. It’s a lonely sport. A lot of shutting up involved.”

The thought occurred to me out of nowhere. It meant more time with Jesse, and even more importantly—more time with her while she was wearing either a bikini or a wetsuit. A huge win for my libido, a terrible loss for my balls. It only took one look at her to know that plan had flushed down the drain. She looked like I’d offered her a threesome with Shadow.

“No, thanks.”

“’Cause?” I snapped my gum in faked boredom.

She looked down at her shoes, clutched her stomach through the yellow fabric of her shirt, and then shook her head. “It really doesn’t matter, Bane.”

“Call me Roman.”

“Why?”

Because no one else does, and I need something about us to feel different.

Of course, I didn’t actually entertain myself with the idea of saying something quite so Kate Hudson film-ish. I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just sounds weird coming from your mouth. You didn’t know me in high school.”

Bull, meet shit.

I stuck around for the remainder of her shift. I tried to tell myself that I needed to supervise my own coffee shop, but the truth of the matter was, I didn’t want any more Hales to show up and hit on her ass. I didn’t actually think for a second that she was going to go out with him. But Hale, like his hair, was a red flag. Another guy would come, soon. He would look wholesome, and she would take a chance. Why wouldn’t she?

I sat in the corner for a while and pretended to work on some numbers. I hated numbers, though I was good with them. Every time I looked up, Jesse was busy. Finally—fucking finally—at one in the afternoon, she loitered by the coffee machine, flipping songs in our playlist. I moved my ass in her direction, watching her back, her neck, that tattoo that peeked back at me, now that her hair was gathered into a messy bun on top of her head.

“No one touches the playlist,” I said coolly. “That shit is cherry-picked by a Swedish indie music producer. No one wants to hear your Taylor Swift songs.”

I was an asshole. She didn’t like Taylor Swift, and I knew it.

“Jesus H, dude!” She turned around, jumping by the sudden intrusion. She’d said dude. She never said dude. Hell, I sometimes forgot Jesse was a twenty-year-old. Actually, not really. Her birthday was next week, and I was hyperaware of that. Because of the deal and everything, of course.

“Come with me.” I motioned with my head to the storage room. I wasn’t going to risk another public meltdown. Jesse was good at handing me my own ass in public. And I wanted to talk to her about something sensitive. Namely—how we couldn’t be rubbing each other’s privates anymore.

She followed me silently. I felt her steps a foot from mine. Darren was going to shish-kebab my head Game of Thrones-style if I touched her. Besides, there was a bigger plan.

A bigger end game.

The door behind us closed, and because my dick didn’t get the memo that I was not sixteen anymore, I had some serious wood to take care of. My cock was so hard the slit stared directly at my face, only Jesse couldn’t see it, because I still wore surf shorts. But it was just shorts, and I was morally opposed to any kind of underwear on men or women, so she could make out my hard-on if she simply looked.

Which she didn’t.

Thank fuck.

She hopped on top of a crate of orange juice gallons and folded her arms over her chest, dangling her legs. The light was murky and shitty, and she looked even more beautiful, now that I could clearly see her imperfections under the harsh yellow bulb. Her eyes were tired and red. Her mouth was curved in sad dissatisfaction with life. And the freckle under her left eye stained her otherwise pristine skin.

I needed to stop fixating and start fixing. I took her hand in mine. Wasn’t that supposed to be the thing you did when you wanted to be sympathetic? Hold someone’s hand? I’d never been in this position before. I mean, I’d broken plenty of bad news, but I never felt bad about breaking it, if that made sense.

Okay, now I was definitely stalling.

“Repeat after me, Snowflake: the queen is more powerful than the king.”

Her eyes were on mine, and the passion in them surprised me. It was like she knew what I was talking about. Maybe she was good at chess, too.

“The queen is more powerful than the king.”

I took her face in my hands, knowing the natural thing to do was to crash my lips against hers and see my plans and dreams rising in flames.

We can’t touch each other anymore. Not even a peck on the cheek.

Only I didn’t say that. I didn’t even think that all the way. Instead, I asked, “What’s the story with the surfing? You won’t do it?”

I thought she was going to tell me she didn’t like displaying her body after what had happened—which was fair enough—but I never expected her to silently lift her shirt and show me that.

That being her scars.

Purple and deep and taunting.

Slut

I felt my throat bobbing but couldn’t feel the swallow. Her top was bunched up around her tits. I wanted to yank her into me and hug her. I wanted to kiss that damn scar better. I wanted to lick it and bite it and show her that she was still sexy, with or without it. Actually, especially with it. What’s sexier than a goddamn survivor?

But I couldn’t touch her, not like that, so I just rubbed her cheek with my thumb and said through my locked jaw, “I’m going to kill those bastards.”

As I said that, the realization that I could and should crashed into me. I knew their names. Who they were. Getting their addresses would be embarrassingly easy. The only thing stopping me was my conscience, and that fucker was flaky to begin with, which didn’t bode well for them.

She dragged her shirt back down, her eyes searching mine, looking for disgust and disapproval. When she didn’t find any, she rubbed her forehead tiredly. “So that’s why I don’t want to go. I don’t want anyone to see this.”

“I understand.” There were suits that would cover it completely, but even I wasn’t emotionally dumb enough to realize the general sentiment. Her whole body repulsed her.

Jesse released a disbelieving laugh, rolling her eyes so I wouldn’t see the tears hanging on her lower eyelashes, “It’s disgusting, huh? I know.”

“Don’t,” I said, wanting to elaborate but not wanting to admit aloud what I was already beginning to come to terms with—she was gorgeous in the way a lot of girls were, but the demons inside her made her beautiful in a unique, once-in-a-lifetime way.

“But it’s the truth.” She bit her inner cheek, wiping her eyes quickly. The boom of the bass outside hammered against the door. “My Own Summer” by the Deftones. “That’s why I’m not really mad about you not wanting me. I get it, Ba…Roman. I get why you wouldn’t want messy and scarred.”

What the fuck was she talking about?

“Who said I…”

“Did you enjoy whoever you were with last night? And the night before? You must like the variety.” She sniffed, jerking her chin up. I’d actually bailed on yesterday’s client in favor of getting high with Beck and watching porn. But, of course, I couldn’t admit it, because then she’d ask why, and then I’d have to answer, and the answer was very fucking clear, even to a liar like me.

She was still sitting on that crate when I turned around, walking toward a tall table where the boxes of coffee capsules stood.

“You want the truth?” I asked, bracing my hands on the surface. Now I needed a goddamn shield to talk to her without fucking her. Great. Things were going just great.

A sound that was closer to a yelp but supposed to be a groan left her mouth. “I’m definitely getting tired of the lies.”

“I want your ass. Happy? Want it with the scars. With the fucked-up, tragic story. With every fiber of my body. I want to fuck you, and own you, and bruise you, and save you. But I can’t do any of those things. Why? Because you’d hate me afterwards, and that’s a fact, not a speculation. Mark my words. For reasons I can’t tell you right now, fucking you will break you and ruin me. And I may be a bastard, but I’m not the fucking villain.”

That was the closest to the truth I was willing to offer her. “So, here’s the truth, Snowflake—whatever this is, we’re going to have to fight it.”

I was so tempted to say fuck this shit.

So what if I didn’t build the surf park? Mikayla, my cousin, never got a unicorn for her birthday. She’d survived. So would I. Thing was, it was too late for me to back out, because I had been busy spending a shit-ton of that money on the hotel and fixing stuff at Café Diem, and now I was in debt to Darren. And I really was in no position to be in debt to anyone. I was already drowning in businesses and endeavors, trying to prove God-knows-what to Lord-knows-who.

I stared at her face, waiting for her to tell me that she got it. That she understood. She slid down from the crate and shimmied out of her leggings, sliding them all the way to her ankles then kicking them off, along with her shoes. Her black cotton underwear was next in line. She stood in front of me, her pussy shaved and slick and mouthwateringly delicious, on full display. Then, Jesse sauntered to the door flippantly, her round ass swaying from side to side, turned the lock, made the same casual walk to the crate, hopped back on it, and spread her legs, flashing a pink slit of heaven.

“You don’t have to touch me to ruin me,” she croaked, her tongue sweeping her lower lip.

Let the record show that I tried to resist. Sort of.

I responded with the only way I saw fit.

“Oh, shit.”

Over and out.

OH, SHIT SOUNDED ABOUT RIGHT.