ake

 

 

 

 

This is a mistake. I know it with every fiber of my being. But it feels inevitable, like something you can’t stop, even if you see it coming. A natural disaster. Hurricane. Tsunami. All you can do is sit back, batten the hatches, and watch it happen.

Of course, I’m full of shit. I could end this at any moment. Could be firm and take her home. But I see in her eyes she can’t go there right now, and I don’t blame her. She’d be as good as alone with her mom, and leaving her by herself right now would be a mistake. That desperate but sad, defeated but angry look makes it clear.

As I unlock the door to my apartment and let us in, the vivid memory of the only other time she’s been here invades my mind. How we could barely make it inside, we were kissing so hard. How desire flooded my brain, my body, and all I knew in those moments was her: wanting her, tasting her, having her. How intimately we got to know each other, every inch of skin touched, licked, caressed.

Fuck. That’s not what right now is about, and in retrospect I know it was wrong. But keeping desire at bay feels Herculean.

She sits awkwardly on the couch, sort of balancing on the edge, and looks up at me. Her face is puffy and tearstained, and her clothes, I now notice, are muddy.

“You hungry?” I hang my jacket up and take off my belt holster, setting it on the side table near the front door.

Melanie shrugs, her delicate shoulders barely moving. It’s almost like my heart actually breaks a little, like a small fissure cracks open to see her so defeated.

“Hang on.” In my bedroom—where I try to forget all the things we did on this very bed—I grab a pair of sweats and put them in the bathroom with a fresh towel.

Back in the living room she’s exactly where I left her. “Hey,” I say gently. “There’s clean clothes and a towel for you in the bathroom. Take a shower, OK? I’ll make something to eat. The bathroom’s there…” I gesture behind me, but of course she knows where the bathroom is. She’s been here before.

“You saying I stink?” The ghost of a smile forms on her lips.

“You’re covered in river mud. I don’t want to get close enough to see what you smell like,” I joke. “Seriously, though, you’ll feel better.”

“Nothing can make me feel better,” she mutters under her breath, but stands and walks toward me. As she passes she puts out her hand, running it along my side briefly as she continues on to the bathroom without a look at me. The door closes and I hear the click of the lock.

Jesus. I take a deep breath, my mind whirling at how quickly she went from bedraggled waif to sexy-as-fuck vixen. She’s a contradiction, which confuses me while turning me on more than it should. And it pisses me off that such a small touch can send my mind spiraling in the absolute fucking wrong direction.

I stand still for a few seconds grounding myself until I hear the water turn on, then I head to the kitchen.

The Save Lot, the only grocery store in town, isn’t known for variety. There’s a minuscule section of supposedly fresh fruit and vegetables, but half of it is already furry or brown, so your best bet is frozen or canned stuff. I settle on something easy and quick: pasta with jarred spaghetti sauce and a bagged salad, only slightly limp, which I pour into a serving bowl and sprinkle with parmesan cheese. I set the table for two and put out a bottle of salad dressing.

Without really thinking, I grab two beers from the fridge, then remember and stop myself. Melanie’s only eighteen years old. Not old enough to drink, though apparently she never got that message.

Cursing under my breath, I put the beers back and fill two glasses with some bottled water—the tap water in Bells Park is definitely not safe for human consumption.

While Melanie showers, I stay busy prepping everything for dinner. I need to keep my mind off her. In there. Water running down her body as her hands touch, wash, soothe. I growl, angry at myself, and drain the spaghetti, the hot steam rushing up into my face like a punishment. I toss it with some butter and olive oil, then serve it into two bowls, pouring sauce on top and setting them on the table.

Where the hell is Melanie? I’m about to go check on her, knock on the door and make sure she’s OK, when I hear the bathroom door open. Before I see her I smell the spicy scent of my shower gel as it wafts out on a cloud of steam. And then she walks into the kitchen.

Her face is clean, her cheeks pink from the heat of the water. That long black hair is wet and sleek, tucked behind her ears so I can see every detail of her face. The first time I saw her I was taken by her eyes—huge and hazel, the kind of eyes that take everything in, not missing a single thing. Now, too, I can’t look away, have to fight the desire to stare into her eyes, to try to figure her out, as though if I gazed long enough I could read her thoughts. Which is fucking ridiculous, but I feel hypnotized. Mesmerized.

Her lashes are so long they almost look fake. And those lips: full and red, even without any makeup. She’s the kind of gorgeous that intimidates guys and pisses off girls. And she’s not even fully aware of it.

My gray sweatshirt and pants are baggy on her, but there’s something about seeing her in them, about the way they’re so huge on her that makes my heart pound harder.

“Hey,” I say. I have to clear my throat, because my voice is suddenly stuck. “Hey,” I say louder. “Food’s ready.” I gesture at one of the chairs, and she gives me a small smile before slipping into the seat.

“Thanks,” she says quietly. “For, you know, the shower and clothes. And dinner. It looks really good.”

“It’s not much. Sauce is from a jar.” I shrug.

“At my house? My mom never cooks. And I don’t either. So I usually just have, like, a sandwich or granola bar or something for dinner.”

It suddenly occurs to me that though she has curves—ones I can’t get out of my mind no matter what—she’s not exactly voluptuous. In fact, she’s kind of skinny, and I suddenly get the feeling it’s not purposeful. There’s probably not enough food in her house, and she doesn’t have money for nutritious stuff, or doesn’t make it a priority. What high school senior uses extra cash for fruit and vegetables?

I feel sad again, but I don’t want her to think I’m feeling sorry for her. Sometimes she’s like a skittish stray; one wrong word will set her off and she’ll run.

“Go ahead. Eat.” I gesture at her still-untouched plate. “Here.” I push the salad dressing over to her.

She laughs. “Salad! We never have salad at my house.” But she serves some into her bowl and carefully pours some dressing on top.

She eats like she’s starving, and I suppose she is. When she finishes, I ask her if she wants more.

“No,” she says. “That was good, though.” One of her fingers runs across her plate, picking up sauce, and then she sticks it in her mouth and licks it off.

I look away. “I’m glad you liked it.”

There’s a knock on my door, and I sit up straight. I don’t have many visitors, and I don’t want anyone to find Melanie here in my apartment.

“Stay here,” I tell her as I head into the living room. “Yeah?” I ask loudly through the door.

“Jakey! What’s up, kid?” It’s my fucking uncle Mike. Whom I love. And who normally I’d enjoy inviting in for a beer. But he’d kill me if he found me here with an eighteen-year-old from my class.

I crack the door enough so I can stand in the opening and talk to him, but not enough for him to walk in and get comfortable.

His face is ruddy, his eyes kind but worried. “What happened with class tonight? Everything OK?”

My uncle’s been like a second father to me for most of my life, and since my dad died a year ago—was killed a year ago—even more so. He’s a cop like my dad was, both of them the reason I went into the profession as well. He’s taller than me and beefier, but it’s all muscle. When he isn’t working, he’s working out, and though I join him in the makeshift gym at the station a few times a week, he’s in there every single day.

“Yeah. I just, uh, wasn’t feeling well earlier.” I hate lying to him. I don’t think I’ve ever done it before, and I know he values honesty above all else. The truth isn’t something he’d want to hear, though.

“Aw, poor little Jakey.” He laughs, then gets serious. “You need anything, kid?”

“Naw, I…” My voice breaks off as the sound of the refrigerator interrupts me, the sucking noise as it opens combined with the jangle of jars in the door knocking together.

Mike tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Company? I thought you were sick.”

I look down, running my hand through my hair. “I am. I got a, you know, friend over. Kinda taking care of me.”

He nods and grins. “A little nursing action?”

I smile and hope with everything in my heart that Melanie doesn’t decide to come into the living room right now. “Yup.”

“Tell me who she is, I’ll tell you all the gossip,” he offers. “Small town.”

“Ha. It’s, you know, casual.”

He stares at me for a moment. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jakey.”

“Yeah. I’ll be in early. And I’m sorry about tonight. You know I wouldn’t…”

He interrupts me. “I know. I still owe you for being here at all. It’s been a big help having you around.”

“I think it’s helping me more than you. I really needed to get away…”

He interrupts, patting me on the shoulder. “I know you did. And you’re going to have to go back. But while you’re here, you’ve been a big help.”

There’s a longer conversation we need to have, but now’s not the time, so I’m grateful when he nods, then turns and heads down the stairs.

I close the door, then lock it, breathing out hard in relief. Way too fucking close.

In the kitchen, Melanie’s moved the chairs so she’s sitting on one and her feet are up on another, crossed at the ankle. And she’s drinking from a bottle of beer. She gestures at a second bottle, also open, on the table.

“I opened one for you too.” She looks up at me from under her thick eyelashes, half apologetic and half flirting. She’s definitely morphed all the way into sexy from the sad, crying girl I brought here earlier.

The argument dies on my lips before I can even utter a word. Instead I stare at her, hoping I’m projecting anger, not lust.

“It’s just one beer,” she argues, tipping back her bottle and drinking. “It’s not like I’ve never drank before. Or been drunk.”

“We’re not getting drunk.” I sit down and pick up my beer, taking a long pull.

“OK.” She shrugs lightly, her eyes on mine the whole time. “Whatever you say.” Now she’s definitely flirting, her tone lilting but just heavy enough to let me know what she really means by whatever.

“One beer. And then I take you home.”

Her face freezes.

I sigh. “Look, Melanie. Do you want to talk about what happened? About the scholarship?”

“Yeah. That’d be great. And while we’re at it, do you want to ask me about my dad? He’s in prison, you know. And my mom? She drinks wine all day and makes these, like, photo videos with cheesy music, and she posts them to YouTube. Can we talk about her too? Or about how now I’ll be stuck in this shitty town forever? Cause that’s going to be a really fun conversation.” She downs her beer and sets the bottle on the table hard.

I put up my hands in defense. “I just wanted to see if you needed to talk. I know you’re disappointed right now, but this is just one setback. You’ll still get to college. You’ll get out of this town. But you can’t give up at the first challenge. Life is full of challenges, and if you let a single one stop you, you’ll never go anywhere.”

Her eyes fill with fury as she stares at me, but then she takes a deep breath. “You’re right. OK? You’re right. But it still sucks. What am I supposed to do? Shrug and pretend that it’s fine? Because it’s not.”

“No. It isn’t.”

When she continues, her voice is small, almost a whisper. “I’m scared, Jake. I’m terrified I’ll never, I don’t know, make it. That I’ll end up like my mom or the cashier at Save Lot.”

“Melanie.” I want to take her hands in mine. I want to cup her face and look into her eyes and tell her she’s amazing and smart, that I’ve never met anyone with a soul like hers. That someday she’s going to do spectacular things. But I can’t. It’s wrong. “You’re smart. You know that. Tell me about college. What are you going to study?”

“Social work.” She doesn’t hesitate.

“You sound pretty sure. A lot of college freshman have no idea what they want to go into.”

“I just… I… It’s stupid.” She looks down at her lap.

“Tell me.”

“Fine.” She takes a deep breath. “When I was a kid and my dad was in and out of prison all the time, as opposed to now where he’s mostly just in, I saw some social workers at school. And I remember thinking that they were always talking down to me. That they never thought I was smart or understood much at all. And then later, there’s been some people, like Principal Evans, who are really great. I mean, I see through her, you know? When she pretends she accidentally bought an extra sandwich or something and gives one to me?” Melanie laughs softly. “But I can tell she really likes me. And cares. And wants me to do well. I want to do that someday for kids who are going through a lot.”

I want to reach across the table and touch her cheek or take her hand, hold it in mine, and let her know I think she’s incredible. Instead I clear my throat. “I think you’ll be amazing in that field, because you know firsthand how important it is for kids to have support outside the home sometimes. My mom recently became a foster parent, and she has a kid living with her now. As a cop, I’ve seen a lot of situations where children were being abused or neglected, and it breaks my heart every single time.” I look at her intently.

“Why did you decide to become a cop?” She tilts her head and licks her lips, not trying to be sexy, but she is all the same.

“My dad was a cop. And my uncle. He’s the chief of police here in Bells Park. I’m here helping him out for a while.”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here. I knew there had to be some reason, because nobody would willingly choose to move here.” She rolls her eyes and grins.

“Yeah, it’s not the nicest place I’ve been.” I laugh. “I’m pretty sure there are more boarded-up buildings on Main Street than open businesses.”

“Right? It’s just… dead. It feels stagnant and depressing and lonely, like God forgot about it and so did everyone else.” She says it ironically, but her eyes are sad and her voice carries more than a hint of sadness. Then she sits up straight and grins, looking straight into my eyes. “Can I have another beer?”

Gazing right at each other sends a spark straight to my groin. “I shouldn’t have let you drink the first one.”

She darts out an arm and grabs my bottle, swigging, and setting it back down with a now what? look in her eyes. This is definitely not a game I should play. But it’s hard to resist the challenge I see when I look at her, red lips holding back a grin as she stares hard, unblinking.

I take a deep breath, hoping to keep my wits, and shake my head. “Get your stuff. I’m taking you home.”

With a scowl, she gets up and heads to the bathroom. A few seconds later she goes into the living room, still dressed in my sweats, her clothes in hand.

I grab a plastic grocery bag from the cabinet and bring it to her. “You can put your clothes in here. Keep the sweats.”

“I couldn’t.” Her voice is lower than usual. Throaty. She’s up to something as she holds my gaze with those hazel eyes, grinning at me.

“It’s not a problem.”

“I should really return them now.” She grasps the bottom hem of the sweatshirt and lifts it up, slowly. Slow enough, in fact, for me to stop her, but I’m frozen.

I can’t take my eyes off the silky expanse of stomach she reveals, slim and tight. I suck in a breath when I see she’s not wearing a bra. In one final movement she pulls the shirt up and over her head, tossing it at me.

“Think fast,” she says.

I barely catch it, and still I’m too stunned to move as she stands before me in only my baggy sweatpants. I’ve seen her naked before, but it’s as exciting now as the first time to see her topless, her perfect round breasts tipped with hard, pink nipples. I close my eyes briefly, imagining my tongue on them. Remembering my tongue on them.

“Melanie.” There’s warning in my voice, but desire too. I can’t hide it. I clutch the sweatshirt as I watch, transfixed, while Melanie’s hands move to the waistband of the pants.

Her hair is almost dry now, and it falls across her chest, partially obscuring her tits. How I want to push it aside, stroke her neck, take her nipple between my fingers.

I need to stop her. Stop this. But I’m unable to move as she slowly—achingly slowly—pushes the sweatpants down. And, fuck me, she’s not wearing panties. Her eyes meet mine, unblinking, as she pushes them all the way to floor and steps out of them.

She bends and picks them up, then makes her way to where I stand, hard as fuck, watching her.

“Here.” She holds them out to me.

“You need to get dressed,” I murmur.

But her breasts are pressed up against my chest, and through my jeans I swear I can feel the warmth from between her legs. So when she whispers, “Just one kiss,” I cave and drop the clothes I’m holding.

I want to devour her. I want to taste every single inch of her. She’s so beautiful and clean and ready. Her lips are smoother than I remember, her tongue more demanding, and when I clutch her naked ass, drawing her closer to me, I know I’m fucking lost.

Her hand runs through my hair, clutches a handful, pulling just enough to hurt, spurring me farther, faster. I kiss her harder and she bends one knee, sliding her leg up and wrapping it around me.

Jesus.

Breaking off the kiss, she looks up into my face, her eyes big, hungry. “So, can I stay?” There’s confidence in her tone. Teasing too, as if she knows there’s no chance I’ll say no.

But then I see it. Desperation, or maybe fear, or maybe both. And I recognize the look, the same one she had that first night I met her. Like deep down inside there might be more than just lust driving her tonight. I ignored it that first time, but I can’t ignore it now.

Nothing in my life has ever been as difficult as it is to step back from her and look away. My entire body wants nothing more than to undo my jeans, push them down and grab her, wrap her legs around me, and fuck her right here in the living room, my belt jangling with each thrust.

But my fucking morality or ethics or whatever it is stops me cold. I pick up the sweats and toss them back at her, trying not to look at her face. “Put these on. I’m taking you home.”

“Fuck you.” Her words, though a whisper, cut right through me. She unfurls her dirty stack of clothes and begins to pull them on.

I can’t look at her. She’s hurt, but sleeping with her wouldn’t help. It would only make things worse. I can see that now, knowing what I know. I’m not the right guy for her. I’m not the right anything for her. I don’t know what exactly she needs. But it’s sure as hell not me.

When she’s done getting dressed she’s out the door before I can say anything.

“Wait,” I call after her, grabbing my keys. “I’ll give you a ride. It’s not safe…”

But there’s no way she’s getting in my car. At a brisk pace she starts down the sidewalk.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. Should I follow her? I start after her on foot, then change tactic and get into my car, driving at a few miles an hour, just behind her. If I let her run off as angry as she is, she might not even go home. She’d go somewhere else and do something stupid, like she almost did with me.

In my car’s headlights she stops suddenly, illuminated, and flips me off, then leaves the sidewalk, darting between two abandoned buildings and disappearing into the night.

Cursing, I drive past the dark space where she went but can’t see anything. Instead, I head to her house, where I wait till she shows up and slips inside, without even a look in my direction.