by Cathryn Fox
“Hey.” I lift the bowl. “Thanks.”
She smiles but then it falls from her face, and her eyes pinch tight. “What are you doing in my room?”
“Technically, I’m in the hall.”
“You can’t be in here.” She pushes from the bed and dressed in comfy pajama shorts and a T-shirt, she comes toward me, no doubt about to slam the door in my face. Honest to God, the girl is all contradictions. Nice to me one minute by making me dinner, the next looking at me with murder in her eyes.
“Did you paint all these?” I poke a ravioli and shove it into my mouth, and she hesitates. She goes still, and it’s easy to tell she’s debating her next words. “You’re very talented. You could sell those.”
Something comes over her pretty face. Gratitude? Pleasure? Pain? I’m not sure, but at least she isn’t introducing her foot to my balls and sending me packing for being out of bounds. She backs up a bit and stands before one of her paintings.
“What do you like about them?” she asks, so quietly I can barely hear her.
I take a small, tentative step inside, and count to ten, giving her time to shove me back out. When she doesn’t, I set my bag on the floor and my dinner on her dresser. I step up behind her, and don’t miss the shift in her breathing, the tightening of her shoulders. Is she still afraid of me, or is this reaction something altogether different?
Don’t go there, dude.
I take in the picture of the forest, and the clearing where there’s this lone cabin. It’s not a perfect cabin, and it doesn’t have perfect flowers in the window boxes, but everything about the scene she’s depicting is perfect. “This one feels like sanctuary,” I murmur quietly
She spins so fast, her eyes so big, I step backward at her strong reaction. She reaches out and puts her small hands on my arms. “Sorry,” she says.
“Was it something I said?” I ask, in no hurry to move. I like her hands on my body. Probably too much.
She frowns. “Would you mind…” Her voice trails off and her brow pinches as she continues with, “…telling me why it feels like sanctuary to you?”
I pause and take a breath. I’m not so sure I want to dredge up the past, take a painful walk down memory lane, but the pleading in her voice has me opening up. “I grew up in Chicago, pavement everywhere. You couldn’t really get away from it. I was out one day, found myself on the other side of the tracks, you know.” I pause and she nods as her arm falls, and I immediately miss her touch. “It was getting dark, and I probably should have been home.” I give a humorless snort. “Not that anyone would have known, but I knew better than to be out on the streets after dark. I was cutting through paths, and saw this big treehouse in someone’s backyard.” I spread my arms. “It was huge, like a fucking house.”
She laughs at that. “Exaggerate much.”
“Let’s just say it was big, and I was little.” She smirks and I angle my head. “What?”
“I don’t know. Just picturing you little. I bet you were cute.”
“What do you mean were? I still am,” I joke and straighten a bit, trying to pull a smile from her.
“Go on.” She waves her hand to give me the floor again and I glance at her painting.
“Safety wasn’t something I felt often, but I climbed into that treehouse, in some stranger’s backyard, and found comic books and games and blankets and pillows. I loved it. I stayed there all night. Small places, right? They have this weird sense of safety and security.” I glance at the blanket she’d been under. “Come morning, I got up bright and early and hightailed it home.”
She touches my arm. “Were you in trouble when you got there?”
I shrug. “Nah, no one even knew I was gone.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry, Rocco.”
“It’s okay. I’m not looking for pity—”
“I know you’re not, but I am sorry, and I love that you found comfort in that treehouse.”
“I went there a lot. When I found out social services were coming for me, I took off. I spent days in that treehouse.” I snicker. “I really gave them a run for their money.”
“Did they eventually find you?”
I rub my stomach. “No, I eventually ran out of food.”
She grins, and picks my bowl up and hands it to me. I assume she’s about to end our conversation and kick me out, but she says, “Eat,” and turns back to her painting. “I like that this painting brings out strong emotions in you.” She puts her hand over her heart. “That it gives you comfort.”
I fork a ravioli into my mouth as she picks the painting up. “Let’s hang this in your room for while you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, and gestures to the door. “Lead the way.”
I scoop up my bag, and eat as we walk down the hall, and she follows me into my room and sets the picture down. I glance at my bed, and turn to her.
“Hey, I thought you said you didn’t want to touch my junk.”
6
Reagan
“What?” I ask when he turns to me, the cutest grin on his face. Before I can help myself, my gaze drops to his…junk. Stop staring, Reagan. I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and points to the pile of neatly folded clothes on his bed.
I let loose a breath. “Oh, I had to throw a couple things in, so I tossed in yours, too. You said your room wasn’t off limits, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”
He sets his bowl on the small desk in the room. “You folded my boxers?” he asks incredulously, amusement all over his face as he steps a bit closer to me, overwhelming me with his close proximity.
“You don’t?” I ask, my nose crinkling as I set the painting on my feet and rest it against my legs.
He laughs. “You have to show me your dresser drawers, Reagan. I have to see if you fold your—”
“Junk,” I say, cutting him off because I know he’s going to say panties, and for some strange reason hearing him talk about my underwear does strange things to me. It’s private and weirdly intimate to be standing here talking about such things. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
As if realizing my sudden embarrassment, he goes serious. “Thank you. I really appreciate it, and I like the way you folded my shorts. I didn’t even know they could be folded.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You think there was a fight?”
I glance at him, having no idea what he’s talking about but he’s grinning. “A fight?” I consider my run in with Cochrane on the bleachers. He sure looked like he wanted to murder Rocco.
“My things, your things, battling it out in the washer. They probably didn’t like sharing the space...” His voice falls off and his gorgeous eyes are moving over my face.
“I did have one shirt complain. Something about cooties.”
He stands there for one second, then he bursts out laughing. He makes a fist and nudges my chin. “You’re hilarious.”
“I’ll be here all week,” I tease.
“And I’ll be here all month.” As my body quivers in the strangest way at that reminder, he glances at the painting, and stands back to admire it. “Next load of laundry is on me.”
“Okay.” I take down an old picture, and put mine up, making a mental note to keep my underthings in a different pile, so he’s not touching them.
“Perfect,” he whispers, and I turn back to find him looking at me. A second passes and then another.
“I’ll let you finish your dinner before it gets cold.”’
His voice stops me before I can leave. “What did Cochrane want today?” He picks his bowl up and starts eating again, but his eyes are trained on me. “If he said anything to upset you...”
“He wasn’t very happy with your demands.”
“Demands? Is that what we’re calling them?”
I take a fast breath, and I have no idea why my brain is racing, picturing myself on the bed that’s less than three feet away, Rocco dema
nding things of me, dirty things. God, I’m practically a virgin. Cochrane and I have done stuff, but we’ve not gone all the way. Even though it’s the twenty-first century, good girl that I am, I do what’s expected of me by my parents, and that means waiting until I’m married. I have to be a proper young lady. Cochrane has never pressured me, which I have always appreciated.
“He wasn’t happy.” I sigh and throw my arms up. “But he made his bed and now he has to lie in it.” My gaze goes to Rocco’s bed again.
“More like he made his bed and now you have to lie in it. You’re the one taking the punishment, Reagan.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Did he upset you?” He makes a fist like he’s preparing for a fight.
“He was upset, naturally, and he said he wasn’t going to stay away.”
Rocco cocks his head. “Are you planning on seeing him behind my back?”
“No,” I say quickly, and it’s incredibly weird that I’m not that upset. But it’s not just that, there’s this whole sense of…freedom. I’ve been with Cochrane since the end of high school. Our parents are friends, and we’ve known each other since we were little, and when Mom and Dad pushed the relationship before I went off to college, it was the sensible thing for me to do.
But is it what you wanted?
“Are you upset with me?” he asks.
“It’s like this. You’re right. I’m the one taking his punishment.” I don’t bother saying that it’s not so bad. “And when you said he has to be held accountable, you were right. Maybe Cochrane and I shouldn’t see each other for a month.”
“As long as he doesn’t take it out on you. If he wants someone to fight over this, you tell him to come find me.”
I nod, and ignore the stupid thrill going through me. Cochrane would never let anyone hurt me, but there is something about this tough as nails guy going all alpha to keep me safe.
He takes his last bite of ravioli, and sets the bowl back down. “Reagan,” he says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Why were you under the blanket?”
I laugh, but it’s tortured. “Old habits.”
“I don’t get it.”
I debate on saying anything, and before I can change my mind, I capture his hand and give a tug. He follows me to my room and before we go in, I ask, “You won’t tell?”
“Who am I going to tell? We don’t have the same friends.”
“You’re right. Come here.” I flop on my bed and pat it. He sits beside me and the mattress dips under his impressive weight. I lift the light blanket and shake it to get air. It falls over us, and I reach for my phone and turn on my flashlight app.
“What’s all this?” he asks, and picks up my sketches.
“My drawings. I’m secretly taking an art class.”
“Secretly? Why the hell is this such a big secret? You’ve got talent.” He picks up my sketch pad and starts flipping through it. His hand stills when he comes to the one of the football field. He points. “Is that me?”
I go to snatch it back, but he holds it out of my reach. “Is that me, Sunshine?” he asks and this time I don’t bother to correct him, don’t tell him that’s not my name.
Oh, and why is that, Reagan?
I like it.
“I was sketching the other day, it’s no one specific.”
He takes my flashlight and holds it over the drawing. “Was this when you were with Miranda today?”
“No.” He waits for me to explain, and I simply say, “It was a while ago. Something I needed for class.”
“Okay, but why a secret, Reagan?”
The seriousness in his tone catches me by surprise as he shifts to face me. His knees bump mine. My God, what the hell am I doing? Why would I show him these things, invite him under my blanket? Everything about the way we’re breathing the same air feels far too intimate, and I’m far too aware of his body, his freshly soaped skin. I breathe him in, filling my lungs for later. His big hand lands on my knee, and he quickly pulls it back.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you.”
I grow warmer under the blanket, and perspiration breaks out on my skin. “It’s okay…I don’t mind.”
“I guess what I’m wondering is why you hide all this?”
I groan and consider my next words. How can I possibly say them without offending him, or making him look at me like I’m a princess throwing a temper tantrum because I was forced into doing something I didn’t want to do? “I don’t want to complain about my parents, and I don’t want to complain about my upbringing…you know.”
“Because mine was shit?”
My body tightens at the way he tosses it out there so casually, so flippant like it was nothing, but I get it’s not nothing. He had it hard, and yet here I am going to complain because Mommy and Daddy want me to be in politics, like them. God, I am so pathetic. This time I put my hand on his knee. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Listen, I know what my upbringing was like. We don’t have to dance around that, but I think what you’re trying to say is this. Just because you grew up with things I didn’t have, doesn’t mean your life was perfect. Rich or poor, we all have problems. We just have different problems.”
“That makes me sound horrible, though. I was given so much.”
“It’s not horrible. I don’t hate rich people, Reagan.”
“You hate Cochrane. You never did tell me why.”
“I know.”
I sit there for a second to see if he’s going to finally open up about that. He doesn’t, and I can’t even ask Cochrane. I’m not supposed to be around him for the next month.
“Are you changing the subject on purpose? If you don’t want to talk about this, we don’t have to.” He lifts his arm like he’s going to push the blankets off, and I stop him. It’s odd, I don’t want him to go just yet. I like being under my blankets with him like this.
“Painting is my passion, but my parents told me early on that I’d never be able to make a career at it, and I should focus on business.”
“Fuck them.” My head rears back. “I’m sorry. They’re your parents. No trash talking.” He gives an almost bashful grin. “I’m better with my hands than my words.” He picks up the sketch pad again. “But seriously, these are so good.”
“Not good enough to sell or anything.”
“How do you know that? Have you tried?”
“Well, no.”
“I’ll take two.”
“Stop it.” I laugh and whack him on the arm. He captures my hand, and brings it to his mouth. It hovers close to his lips and his warm breath trickles over my flesh. “I hide under the blanket, because it’s habit. It’s what I used to do when I was young. I actually find it quite comfortable. Small places,” I say, and he grins, knowing I’m talking about him and his treehouse.
“Yeah, I do kind of like it in here. Mind if I lay down?”
“I guess not.”
He stretches out and I keep the blanket up as I remain sitting. “It’s tough, Reagan.”
“Tough?”
He turns to his side, and crooks his elbow and braces his head on his hand.
“Not being able to have what you want.”
The way he’s looking at me steals the breath from my lungs. He can’t be talking about me. While I know that in my head, my stupid body warms all over. But I don’t want that. I don’t want Rocco Gianni wanting me. We’re very different people, and I have a boyfriend out there…sort of.
“Do you not have everything you want?”
“I don’t want for much, really. I’m happy with the little things, like my football, my bike…”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I flop back onto my pillow and exhale slowly. “Your bike looks pretty old.”
He grins. “That old girl. She’s going to run forever.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah?”
I turn to face him. “What if she breaks down?”
�
�These hands.” He holds out his big palm, a grin on his face. “I just told you I was good with them. If you don’t believe me, ask your washing machine.”
I laugh at that. “Do all the guys on the team have an ego as big as yours or are you just special?”
“I’m not special, Reagan.” My throat dries at the pain buried in those words and I go quiet, even though I think he’s wrong. But I didn’t live his childhood, one where he was neglected, forgotten and had to find comfort in a stranger’s tree house. Without thinking too much about it, I put my hand over his, give a small, supporting squeeze. He’s breathing quietly, but his chest expands and collapses like he’s just finished running a marathon and is struggling for air. His mood shifts so quickly, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have whiplash.
He pushes the blanket off us, and while I welcome the rush of fresh air, I instantly miss the warmth and coziness in our little fort. “Come on, grab a jacket and let’s get out of here.”
7
Rocco
“I don’t know about this,” Reagan says, her hands on her hips as she looks at my bike.
I take my spare helmet and ease it onto her head, and my fingers brush her soft skin as I tighten the straps and latch it. I ignore the shiver sliding down my spine.
“What is it you don’t know?” I ask.
She crinkles her nose, and puts her arms around herself in a protective manner. Then again, she could be cold. She always seems to be cold. “Is it safe?”
I arch a brow. “You’ve never been on a bike?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, a virgin,” I tease. Her eyes go wide, and once again I get the feeling that, while she’s had a long-term boyfriend, she’s inexperienced and innocent in many things. “A bike virgin,” I clarify.
She relaxes slightly. “I suppose you could say that.”
I kind of like the idea of doing a ‘first’ with her. I let my hands linger on her straps. “Do you trust me with your bike virginity, Reagan? Will you give me the honor of popping your cherry, so to speak?”
