I crack open the door. Taron’s on the other side with his hands jammed inside the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders pulled inward. At his feet is a large box.
“What is that?” I keep the door cracked open. There are items inside my place I am not ready for him to see.
“Parts to build you a computer including two screens so you can really look at your calendar. I also thought we can write the papers together. A collaborative project.”
“I . . .” Speechless. I am completely speechless.
Dare’s given me gifts, but on special occasions like for my birthday or Valentine’s Day, to celebrate our friendship, but to give something just because, well, I cannot believe I’m doing this, but I open the door and wave Taron inside.
The box is huge, and I stoop down to help him but stop. Taron walked the distance from his truck to my front door carrying the huge box. It shouldn’t be a problem carrying it over the threshold. Anyway, he has a lot of pride. Taron also likes doing things for other people, especially for his mom. Whenever I went over, he would help her with the yardwork or getting dinner ready.
How did a nice guy get such a godawful temper? To the point he got into fights that left him bruised and one time, limping. Taron never went into the details, only offered a terse grumble that he deserved the whooping. What fourteen-year-old kid deserved to get whooped so hard he could hardly walk?
He sets the box in my small living room, straightens, and looks around. I see my place through his eyes. There is an old piano to my right, tucked into a corner. Across from it is a small couch.
When I have company over, I bring chairs in from the kitchen. There are four of them. Usually, though, when my friends and I get together, we head over to Riley’s place. She has this huge four-bedroom house. Where she got the money for it, no one knows, and she doesn’t offer the information either.
I suspect it has something to do with her past and the Sterling family. For some reason, Midnight hates that house and will not step foot inside it. The house was given to Riley sophomore year. I return my thoughts and attention to Taron. He is standing in front of the fireplace mantle, picking up one picture frame after another. There are three pictures total.
“You look good, Syn. Who’s the kid?”
“A special surprise. His name’s Gunner.”
“He has the same color eyes as you. Same hair color as Grady.”
He sets down the picture of me holding Gunner in my arms when he was just two years old and faces me. His jaw is locked, and his eyes are so dark with anger, I take a step back.
“He’s not Grady’s kid, Taron.”
“Then whose?”
“I can’t tell. I’m sorry.”
Beau and Lola are fighting over custody of Gunner. Lola doesn’t think Beau is a fit father, with his womanizing, drinking, and partying, her argument being that he is trying to relive life in his twenties again. Beau claims Lola’s modeling and jetting off at a moment’s notice isn’t a stable life for Gunner.
I am on the fence as to who has the more unstable life. What I’m not on the fence about is my love for my little brother, my growing love for Beau, and us keeping my identity a secret from Gunner and Lola.
To them, I am the hired help, the nanny with eyes similar to Beau and his kid. Had Lola thought long and hard, she could make the connection, but I hate to admit she doesn’t have too much in the smarts department. A mark against Beau. He likes them young and not too sharp.
“What bastard knocked you up, Syn?”
“I don’t know what you’re speaking of.” Only Hunter knows of my pregnancy. He was the father.
Taron takes a step and then another, crowding my space. I step back. My legs hit the couch. He advances and I am forced to sit. He sits too, holding his head in his hands with his elbows on his knees.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Help?”
“Do you need money, Syn? Does the kid miss you and would rather live in Dumas?”
Ah, so we’re back to what he heard at Bayside.
“He’s happy with his dad, Taron. We’re good with the arrangement. He and I FaceTime when we can. Bounce, um, Bounce gives me advance notice for times that work for all of us.”
“This Bounce—”
“Please don’t ask any more about them. Understand that eventually I’ll tell you all there is to know.”
“You and this Bounce guy are what exactly?”
“Friends. He encourages me to meet new people.”
“But would rather you stay away from jocks?”
“Specifically football players.”
“Because one did him wrong and that’s why he doesn’t want you getting with one?”
“He was one. Played ball all his life. Lumped them into the same category as him,” I say.
“And what is that exactly?”
“Womanizers. Partiers.”
“I’m different.”
“Not from what I saw on social media.”
“Then reform me, Pixie Dust.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that. If I knew, I wouldn’t be so fucked up, using women the way I did. Drinking myself into an oblivion to forget how empty I am on the inside. Losing any substance I had when you ghosted me, leaving me wondering what the fuck I did wrong to mess up what we had.”
Is that so? Anger swells up inside me. I heard the same sob story from Beau. He said losing the woman he loved to another man, her marrying the guy instead of Beau, was what was to blame for his womanizing and partying.
“You using what I did four years ago is nothing but an excuse to not take responsibility for your bad behavior. You have the power and the control to change for the better, Taron. You don’t need me for that.”
Surprise on his face, and then he laughs. “Giving it to me straight. I like that, Pixie Dust. Thanks for being a great friend.”
He shoulder bumps me. I set my hand on his knee, needing to touch him, to let him know despite him bashing himself for the drinking and womanizing, I believe him to be an overall good guy.
“What should we do first? Have you build our computer?” I ask, tipping my head at the big box in the middle of my small living room. “Or have me show you my hidden talent?” I slide my attention to the piano in the corner.
“Ladies first.”
17
Taron
No wonder Dare is hooked. No wonder he begged with his damn eyes for her to spend all of Sunday with him. Shit, watching Syn play the piano with her eyes closed and this serene expression on her beautiful face, I am falling fast for her, my thoughts of getting closure not high on my priority list.
“Do you like?”
“Hell yeah, I like. Very much.”
I shake my head, in awe of how she was able to keep this talent of hers a secret from me. She smiles. Bites down on her bottom lip. Runs the tip of her tongue over her lip ring. I groan. Stare at my hands. I am on the couch watching her do things to that piano I long for her to do to my cock.
“Any special requests?”
“You choose,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Your funeral.”
Throwing my words back at me? I chuckle.
She starts to move her fingers over the keys, then stops and pats the spot on the bench next to her. I head on over and plop my ass where I belong, close to my girl.
“Do you mind if I sing?”
“Why would I, Pixie Dust?”
She shrugs. “Dare doesn’t like my voice drowning out the vibrations he feels in his fingertips.”
Dare is a head case.
“I’m not Dare.”
“I see that.”
“Want to feel too?” I dance my fingers up and down her bare thigh.
She is wearing short shorts and a heather-gray tank top that brings out the, you guessed it, slate blue in her eyes.
“Taron.”
“Well, baby, yes or no?” I reach
around and cup her hip, squeezing lightly.
Her answer is a breathless, “Yes.”
I edge closer. My thigh rubs against hers. My hip presses along hers. She closes her eyes. Moves her fingers on the keys. Sings. Her voice is perfection. The heavens open. I am also in my personal hell. The words coming from her speaks to me. Something to the effect of healing the pain, of being good to yourself.
Regret, hurt, and hope swell and crash over me. She fades out of the song, hums, and then stops playing, eyeing me for my reaction.
I angle my body to hers, grasp her chin, and bring her close. Her gaze dips to my mouth before coming back to my eyes. I cup her face. Strum my thumb over the arch of her cheek. The need to slam my mouth on hers is strong, but my honor wins out for a change. I rein in my desire and give it to her straight.
“I want us to get reacquainted again, Syn. I want to know the new you. Get you adjusted to the somewhat new me too. Does that work for you?”
I let my hand fall from her face.
Syn isn’t with me for an easy meal ticket. She is not after my money or looking to associate her name with mine, upping her social status from that of an unknown to that of the girlfriend of a future pro athlete.
Dumas has everything she would want. There are her friends. They make her happy. Her job at Shades also brings a shine to her blue-gray eyes. What more could she want in life other than to settle down with her right guy and have them lots and lots of babies?
Jesus, that thought eats at me. But I am not good at committing. Have a high chance of trekking down the same path as my dad. He can’t keep his junk in his pants. Doesn’t stick with his promise of changing his ways and staying faithful.
The final straw came when my mom walked in on my dad banging his secretary. What a cliché.
After that, my mom had enough. She is tying up loose ends in the Bay Area, where my parents moved to as soon as I was accepted into Stanford. In a few weeks, she plans on visiting Dumas.
“I’d like that.”
Syn’s blue-gray eyes are bright. Her smile is big. I smile back, hoping I don’t fuck this up. Not every girl is tail to chase, and I am done chasing tail anyway. Syn is who I want. She likes me for me rather than what I can offer her—my body, wealth, and status.
“Hey, can I still put in a request? By the way, what was that song? Loved it.”
“‘Heal the Pain’ by George Michael and Wham. What’s your request?”
“Do you play up-and-coming music or just the older songs?”
“Hmm, try me and I’ll let you know if I can play it.”
“‘Silence’ by Khalid.”
“And Marshmello, right?”
I nod.
She nudges my feet with hers. We are in our socks, deciding our two-hour trip to the big city of Alexandria can wait. Check in isn’t until four, and the club we’re going to won’t be getting much action until well after ten.
“I love that song. Ready?”
“Yeah, baby.” My hand firmly on her hip, I kiss the top of her head.
Here with her, I’m at peace. I’m not out to impress anyone with my throws. Or have the need to hear the crowd shouting and chanting my name. Or wonder if my mom is happy and my dad, faithful.
But the thing is, all good things come to an end. That’s what my parents’ separation taught me. What Syn ghosting me showed me.
Something else my dad taught me?
Don’t promise the world to the first girl who snags your heart.
Or commit to the first girl you knock up.
My mom fell into both categories.
I’ll learn from my father’s mistake.
I won’t promise the world to the first girl who snagged my heart.
I won’t commit to the first girl I knock up.
I’ll do one better than Dad.
I’ll fall in love with the girl who will someday be the mother of my future children.
18
Taron
It took me two hours to build her computer. She found the perfect spot for it too. Her bedroom. Afterward, we made the drive to Alexandria.
“I can’t believe there isn’t anything left except a room with a single bed.”
We didn’t count on a huge fundraising gala happening in downtown Alexandria. All the rich families from the outer towns are expected to show and bid on exotic vacation packages, priceless art, and limited edition sportscars.
“Doesn’t take much to bring the rich to their knees at the chance of spotting the reclusive Blaise Lexington. I hear her bodyguards are direct descendants of knights.”
“I asked her once at this party Dare and I went to. She admitted to spreading the rumors.”
“What?” I spin around and face Syn so fast, I tweak my lower back. “Fuck.”
“Are you okay?” She hurries over to me from where she’s hanging her clothes in the closet across from the bathroom.
Hunched over, I shake my head, my palm pressed on the spot with the sharp pains.
“Can you get to the bed?” Her beautiful face is so close to mine, I see the speckles of gray in her blue eyes.
“Maybe,” I grind out from between my clenched jaw.
Shit, if I weren’t in so much pain, I’d cross that damn friend zone and score me a touchdown, kissing Syn until she melts against me.
“Here, I’ll help you.”
She loops her arm through mine and guides me out of the huge bathroom and to the bed. I glance over my shoulder. The bathroom has one of those showers with double shower heads. It’s a guy’s wet dream come true.
I can picture it now, needing a distraction from the pain in a bad way. Syn is naked with her head tipped back. Beads of water slide down her sexy body. The drops cling to her tits, giving me an excuse to lick the little buds and suck and suck until she moans my name.
After I am done licking off the drops of water, I would get down on my knees, part her legs and eat her out. She would guide me over her heated core with her fingers trenched in my hair. I would taste her and only come up for air when she begs me to fill her with my hard-as-steel rod.
I would take her first from the front. She’d ride me, her tits bouncing and her back up against the wall. Once she comes, I would pull out of her, demand she put her palms on the wall with legs spread wide apart, and I’d pound into her tight wet pussy as I stroke her clit. We would come together, then wash each other off.
We’d get so horny again, I’d towel us off faster than I can dodge a sack, and take her on the bathroom counter with her ass hanging off as I languidly slide in and out of her, my finger circling that slippery tight ball of nerves. She would come again, her inner walls milking my cock.
After I come, I would pull her to me, rest my forehead on hers, and ask if I made it good for her. ’Cause that is the most important thing, that Syn likes sex. If she wants to take it there. What is her reason for not liking sex?
“Almost there.”
Her encouragement pulls me out of my hot need. With her guiding me, her patience with my slow progress a trait I admire—I’m an impatient bastard—I amble to the bed. As soon as my back is to the mattress, I fall backward and land with a soft bounce that surprisingly eases the pain.
“Take off your shirt.”
“Come again?” I raise my head. Syn is rummaging in her luggage.
“It’s my fault for surprising you like that from left field. Let me rub out the pain.” She holds a small bottle in her hand. “Are you allergic to lavender or eucalyptus?”
“Nah.”
“Good. The oil is from Gwen. Her family makes lavender soaps, teas, shampoos, potpourri. Anything and everything lavender.”
Her high-spirited energy gets a chuckle from me, as well as a plan.
“You two should marry lavender and caramel together. Come up with candies, coffees, soaps, teas, shampoo, potpourri.” I take off my shirt.
Her big smile is my just reward for thinking on the fly.
“Taron Vaughn, that is a great idea
. I’d like to own a gift shop someday. Dare and I started looking at property in McMillan. That’s where Gwen’s lavender farm is. Dare loves it there. Says McMillan is quaint like Cambridge, the farm town he and his family grew up in when they moved there from Dumas. Cambridge is only half an hour from McMillan. We should go. You’ll love it there.”
The green-eyed monster rears its ugly head. Syn shouldn’t like any place more than our old home of Mossy Rock, where I plan on moving to after graduation.
I was offered a coaching job at our high school if I don’t get picked up in the draft. Dad demanded I declare, but football isn’t what will get me far. A college degree in education will.
Since the stuff that has come out about hard hits, concussions, and the long-term effects, I’m not certain I want to risk my future health for short-term gain.
Money isn’t an issue. I have piles of it in the bank and in stocks. Women aren’t, either. They readily offer me their numbers and a banging good time whenever and wherever I want it.
Realizing my jealousy is wasted energy and I should take the high road, I rein it in and agree to visiting these “quaint” places with her.
“That’s a plan, Pixie Dust. I’d love to visit these properties you’re looking at.” What can be more quaint than Mossy Rock?
“Even though you won’t be sticking around after graduation, right?”
She’s onto me. Knows me well. Could she have predicted I would crash and burn, too, without her in my life, using women like I did, giving them a good time between the sheets and nothing else? No commitment. No call backs. No returned text messages.
“Have you thought of going home again?” I ask.
We had good times there. Solid memories that get me hot and bothered in seconds flat.
“Mossy Rock isn’t home. Here is.”
“It’s cliché, but home is where the heart is, Syn.” Shit, do I actually believe that stupid saying?
“Could I someday be ‘home’ to you?”
Her voice is soft, the hope and confusion in it hitting me like an opponent’s fast plow into my chest with his hard helmet.
“Home is where I have the best chance of succeeding, Pixie Dust.” My answer is cryptic as all get out. Goddammit, why didn’t I give it to her straight? It’s either a yes or a no.
Give You Up (Dumas University Book 1) Page 10
