Suddenly, he unlaces his fingers and pushes his chair back. The screech of the wheels and the squeak of the old chair cause me to part my lips and crane my neck as he comes to his feet.
Without taking his eyes off me, he rounds the desk with prowling steps.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I turn my body to keep him in sight.
Not that it’s hard.
He’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen. The tallest and the largest.
The most glorious and the most stunning too, and he’s walking toward me with a purpose.
He reaches me a second later and like at the bridge, he puts both his hands on the desk on either side of me, to come down to my level, his eyes all blue and serious.
But unlike at the bridge, he’s doing it all in his well-lit office where I can see every flick of his eyelashes, every twitch of his jaw, every little sun-burnt strand of his hair.
“Arrow,” I whisper, grabbing the desk with such ferocity that my knuckles are throbbing.
He still doesn’t answer me though.
At least, not with words.
Still looking at me, his hand reaches up and pulls at the string of my ribbon.
I look down as the clumsy butterfly knot that I’d made before coming to his office unravels and my curls spill everywhere, mostly on his large fingers, my ribbon, falling and pooling down on the floor.
Goosebumps break out on my skin and looking back at him, I whisper again, “What are you doing?”
His eyes are on my hair. “Untying your ribbon.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like it.”
My breath stutters. “B-but I thought you hated messy things.”
“I do.” He shifts his eyes away from my thick, scattered hair and focuses on me, my hastily breathing chest. “But strangely not on you. I like you messy.”
I so want to say something, do something. Let go of the edge of the desk and grab his naked shoulders, dig my nails into his honey-colored muscles.
But I refrain.
Although a second later, the choice is taken away from me because he puts his hands on me.
He grabs me by the waist, picks me up and sits me down on his desk, all in a matter of seconds, and I have to put my hands on him because I feel so unmoored in this moment, so in the dark about his intentions that I grab onto him, his flexing biceps, to make sense of the world.
And when he just leaves his hands there, around my waist, I’m compelled to whisper, “What’s happening? Why are you…” I lick my lip, my feet swaying, dangling off the desk. “Touching me like this.”
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he digs his thumbs into my belly button. “Why, you don’t like it?”
I do.
For some reason, I feel his words just behind my navel, where he’s touching me.
So much so that I drag my nails along his biceps and pant, “I-I don’t think you should.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because…” I swallow. “Because you’re my coach and…”
And my sister’s ex-boyfriend. And the secret love of my life and I’m so greedy…
“But I thought we were friends,” he rasps. “You wanted to be my friend. Didn’t you just say that?”
I shake my head. “I did. But we’re not. Not anymore. It’s better if we’re not.”
“Better for whom?”
I look at him with regret. “For you. I-I’m… dangerous.”
He stares at me for a second. “I think I’ll take my chances.”
I let out a breath, looking at his gorgeous lips that just said that and if I were a better person, I would push him away and fight him more.
I’d tell him everything in my witchy heart so he never touches me again.
But God, it feels so good. That he’s touching me. That he’s holding me with his strong hands, so only a weak protest comes out of my mouth. “I don’t think friends touch like this.”
His nostrils flare as he swipes his thumb over my belly. “Well, you’ve never been friends with me.” Before I can respond to that, his eyes drop to my lips as well and he asks, “So do you kiss all your friends, Salem?”
At the abrupt change of subject, I sort of jump.
Well, as much as I can with his hands on my waist, keeping me pinned to the desk. Blinking, I shake my head. “No.”
“So just me then.”
“I…” I duck my head, staring at the silver locket of his chain. “Yes.”
“Like the ride, was that your first kiss too?”
I clench my eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment washes over me.
Not only that, like my swaying legs, my body sways too and somehow I end up on his hard chest. My forehead presses into the arch of his pectoral and I jerk out a nod. “Yes.”
“Eighteen and never been kissed.” He hums and I feel it against my cheek. “I figured.”
I move away from him and look up. “How?”
He begins to massage my waist then. “You were so eager to take it. So eager for your first kiss. You had your pouty, dark lips all puckered up, eyes closed, tight body stretched up and neck tilted. Like some impatient little schoolgirl.” He pauses for a beat to study me before saying, “I bet you’re one of those.”
“One of those what?” I ask and instead of answering, he proceeds to adjust me first.
His body has been curled over me like a blanket, his hands on my waist, kneading the flesh through my t-shirt, his shoulders blocking the view of the room around me.
But at my question, he slides me down the desk and shifts.
And I realize that he’s in between my thighs as well. He’s covering me from top to bottom.
Not only that, in the past however many minutes, my thighs have hiked up and made a home around his sleek waist and my feet are now dangling at the small of his back, instead of from the desk.
I should probably already know things like that but his drugging proximity has rendered me senseless.
When I’m all settled according to him, he answers, “One of those girls who have this really infamous syndrome.”
My chest is sort of heaving from his maneuvers and now that I know I’ve got Arrow between my thighs, I squeeze them rhythmically to feel his strength.
“What syndrome?” I whisper.
“Needy girl syndrome.”
“What?”
Amusement flickers in his eyes and around his mouth when he answers, “I bet you’re one of those girls who call all the time. Who send a thousand texts, celebrate all anniversaries. Who have overly sweet nicknames for their boyfriends. Who make birthday and Valentine’s Day cards. Show up unannounced to the guy’s apartment with homemade dinner and a chick flick. You are, aren’t you?”
I don’t know how he can say these things the way he’s saying them, all tender and velvet-like and still getting me to frown at him, still getting me to become all pliable and soft for him, all at the same time. “So what if I am?”
“And you make him watch that movie with you while you’re draped all over him,” he continues as his hands worry the flesh of my waist and caress it at the same time. “And he’s thinking about maybe sliding his hand under your t-shirt, copping a feel, but he can’t. Because you’re crying at every romantic scene. And you cry the hardest at the end when the hero gets to the airport, right on time, and says all the right words and gets down on his knees. You do, don’t you? Cry at a scene like that.”
I push him away then or try to. All I end up doing I think is stroking his biceps and rubbing my thighs against his hips.
“No,” I lie.
Which makes him chuckle somewhere low in his throat and loom over me like a shadow. “You’re the girl every guy runs away from. You’re every guy’s nightmare, Salem. Because you’re the girl with too much love inside you.”
At this, I have to push him away.
I have to.
Because oh my God, he’s such a gi
ant asshole.
But when I go to do that, push him away, he tightens his hold on my waist. In fact, he draws me in closer and fuses our lower bodies together.
Fuses the place between my legs with his hard pelvis.
And all amusement vanishes from his face as he whispers roughly, “So you were right about the fact that it was a mistake, you trying to kiss me. But not for the reasons you think. Not because I’m your coach or your sister’s ex-boyfriend. Or your friend.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m one of those guys too,” he whispers against my lips, his eyes dark and penetrating. “I’m the guy who’s a nightmare for a girl like you.”
My thighs squeeze around him again and my arms creep up and I wind them around his neck. “Why?”
“Because I’m empty,” he says with clenched teeth and punishing hands on my waist. “I’m hollow. Because whatever I had, I gave it to her. Whatever fucking love I had, she used it up and threw it away. She took it and flushed it down the toilet, understand?”
“Arrow…”
“And I don’t have anything left now. Nothing but this deep-seated anger and a need to destroy something. Hurt something.”
At this, his body shudders and I hold him tighter.
Tighter, tighter, tighter.
With my arms, with my legs.
And I decide that I should tell him.
I should tell him that he won’t be feeling this way for long. That it’s all coming to an end. All of this.
He just has to wait a few more days and then all of this will be over.
He’ll have what he wants, her, and all his anger, his hurt will be gone.
“Arrow, listen to me, okay? I –”
But he’s too far gone, his eyes dark and liquid, his body all heated up. “So if you think you’re dangerous, I’m a wrecking ball. I’m a loose cannon. A wildfire. I can burn houses down. I can burn cities down too. So don’t ever make the mistake of trying to kiss me again. Because I don’t want a needy girl clinging to me and you don’t want a guy giving you your first lesson in heartbreak.”
I blink my eyes furiously, trying to keep my tears at bay, when he says, “A word of advice though: all this love, it’s only going to bring you pain. It’s only going to make you miserable. So maybe you should do something about that.”
“Do what?”
“Find someone who can cure you. Someone who can fuck all the love out of you.”
He abruptly lets go of me then.
He lets go of my waist and detaches himself from my body, and I have no choice but to slide down the desk and come down to the floor.
Panting and trembling, I look at him and he tips his chin at something. “That’s for you.”
It’s a small rectangular box, a shoebox, the kind where I put my secret letters in, sitting on one of the chairs.
“It’s soccer cleats. You’re going to use them from now on. But only on the field. While I practice with you. Three times a week.”
Still in a fog, I say, “What?”
He clenches his jaw, somehow looking all put together and confident, arms folded across his chest. “Now you don’t have to watch old game tapes to learn.”
I look at him, speechless.
“One more thing.” He unfolds his arms and fishes something out of his pocket and sets it down on the shoebox.
I pick it up and unfold it; it’s a permission slip.
For outings.
There’s my name, the date and time along with his signature at the bottom.
“See you for dinner on Friday.”
***
He’s running late.
For the Friday dinner.
The dinner that Leah and I came up with.
Well, Leah came up with it when I went into her office and told her we needed to do something to get Sarah and Arrow back together. And that she had to be the one to do it because if it came from me, my sister would never follow through. She told me that she’d already arranged for it. And that Sarah was flying over this coming weekend.
Leah drove me home from school and Sarah got in a couple of hours ago. And now we’re all waiting for him at the dining table, sitting at the edges of our seats, silent and tense. It’s the same table at which I’ve sat for years. At which I’ve always kept my head down while at the same time, I’ve tried to catch a glimpse of him.
The guy I’m in love with.
Just then the door opens.
It makes a little noise, and suddenly the tension in the air spikes up. Suddenly, I’m flushed and squirmy and both anticipatory and fearful to see him.
Footsteps echo in the silent house and I clench my thighs, my eyes lowered at the table, my hands wringing in my lap.
And then, he’s here. At the threshold.
I haven’t seen him but I can smell him. I can feel his heat. I can feel my body starting to sweat.
A second later I have to look up because there’s the screech of a chair against the hardwood floor.
My sister’s chair.
She’s standing up.
Just like that, I’m thrown back in time as I watch them together. As I watch them looking at each other.
As I watch him looking at her.
Like always, he looks at her like no one else exists. His features arrange themselves to be the most stunning they can be. His eyes become the most gorgeous that they can be as well.
And I fall in love with him again.
I fall in love with Arrow again while he’s staring at my sister.
I think dinner was a bad idea.
Well, I knew he’d be shocked. I knew that.
But I thought that when he saw Sarah, he’d get over that shock or that initial burst of anger.
But none of that happened.
In fact, I think he got even angrier as the dinner progressed.
Not that he showed it.
He wasn’t being rude or impolite or assholish to anyone like he gets these days.
He ate his food. In fact, he ate every bite and he was the only one. No one at that table finished everything. Not even Leah and Sarah.
But Arrow did and when he was done, he took a sip of his water and set down the glass gently. He even had dessert, and when dinner was officially done, he helped clear the plates.
He was every inch the Arrow that I’d known from before. And I didn’t like it one bit.
I didn’t like that he was keeping his anger in check. Even though I might’ve had a hand in bringing it out.
Now they’re talking, Arrow and Sarah.
Or at least they’re supposed to be talking, because right after dinner Leah asked me to go to my room and while I was leaving I overheard her saying that they needed to talk. That Arrow needed to act like a responsible adult and have a conversation and sort this thing out.
That was about fifteen minutes ago.
Since then, I’ve been pacing and pacing, listening to my own footsteps digging a hole in the floor and the loud beats of my witchy heart.
Until now.
Until I hear voices. Just under my window.
I rush to it then and drop down on the floor. Grabbing the edge of the windowsill, I peek my head out and see him.
My Arrow.
I see the top of his dirty blond hair and the broad line of his shoulders, propped against the wall.
The last time I saw him here, just under my window, was when he visited for Christmas with Sarah. I was so jacked up, so excited and shaky at seeing him in the flesh after months that I couldn’t sleep. I was about to go out on my bike when I saw smoke rising past my window.
I did the exact same thing that I’ve done tonight.
I rushed to the window and peeked my head out. I opened my mouth and drank in the smoke he was letting out, filling my lungs with his cancer while loving him with all my heart.
However tonight there’s no smoke.
He’s simply standing there,
casualness dripping from his body like river. But I know better. I know he’s tense, I can tell by the rigid slope of his shoulders and how messy his hair looks. I bet some strands have come down to brush against his forehead.
I wish I could go to him and swipe them away. But I can’t.
Because he’s not alone and it’s not my right, is it?
It’s my sister’s right and she’s standing in front of him, matching him in every way. His looks, his confidence, his height. The way she’s dressed in casual professional wear or whatever it’s called: a pleated skirt and a silk blouse with her hair done up in a French twist. Or at least that’s what she called it when Leah asked.
She only has to crane her neck a little when she says, “You didn’t have to walk out like that.”
“No, I had to,” he says flippantly.
“I was talking.”
“I know.”
“So what, this is better? Standing out here. In this dark spot.”
“It’s my favorite spot, actually. I usually come out here when I want to escape. Like for example, when people are talking and I have no interest in what they’re saying. But for some reason, they can’t take the hint and shut the fuck up.”
“You…” My sister exhales sharply. “That’s so rude, A.”
“Rude.” He chuckles slightly. “Yeah, I’m that. Although, I believe the correct term is asshole.”
“What?” It’s kind of dark and they’re both more or less silhouettes so I can’t really know for sure but I know my sister is probably wrinkling her nose right now.
“Yeah, it’s strangely satisfying,” Arrow drawls. “It does get you slapped in the face sometimes. But I guess that comes with the territory.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s worth it though.”
My nails dig into the wood and I bite my lip, feeling a rush of electricity go through me.
It was me; I slapped him. And I call him asshole.
I call him that all the time.
And I’m filled with such need to go to him right now but I grind my knees on the floor.
Because I can’t.
You can’t, Salem. You absolutely cannot go to him now.
Once they get back together and the wedding is back on, I’m going to have to find a way to run and leave them alone.
My Darling Arrow Page 16
