by Jo Raven
I reach her as she steps down to the soft earth, push her against the old porch rail, panting and furious at everything and everyone, except... except for this girl.
“What? You got something else to say?” Her eyes flash with greens and golds, her cheeks are flushed with roses. “About how you don’t give a fuck?”
“No, I...” I shake my head. “Fuck...”
“Thought so.”
A growl rises in my throat. “What the hell do you want from me, Luna?”
Those bright, angry eyes drop to my mouth, and oh fuck, she licks her lips, sending my dick from interested to rock-hard in the space of a split second. There’s something unbearably goddamn delicious about her, smell of flowers and body made of spun sugar, eyes like fire and a mouth soft like oblivion.
I kiss her. Couldn’t stop myself if an army of ghosts marched by. If the whole town waded in with raised pitchforks. She makes me stupid with want, with lust, and something else I don’t want to examine too closely because it fucking scares me.
She kisses me back, her mouth as angry as her eyes, small teeth biting at me, and the last thread of my fraying control snaps. My dick is drilling a hole through my pants, my balls feel heavy, my whole body is vibrating, strung so tightly with need it feels like it’ll shatter.
Pressing her against the rail, I trap her, cage her with my body, groaning at the feel of her, finally touching me again. I cradle the back of her head with one hand to keep her against me, use the other to hold her arm pressed to the rail. Need her softness to pillow my hard-on, her heat to thaw the frozen pieces inside of me, to turn the pain to pleasure, to a moment of pure fucking bliss, unburdened by guilt and regret.
One small fist thumps on my arm but then I suck on her lower lip and crush our bodies together, her tits molding to my chest, my hard-on trapped between us, and she gasps and opens her mouth to me so sweetly. Her tongue moves against mine, a light rasp and pressure that gets my dick so painfully hard that I’m lost, fucking lost in her. I’m pretty sure I’m leaking in my pants, five seconds from coming, and not able to stop moving if my life depended on it.
She tastes unlike anything, feels unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. She’s the opposite of my life until now—light, hot, supple, strong. Chocolate sweet, burning like Whiskey.
Good. Too damn good.
But she breaks away, turning her head, putting distance between us without moving an inch. “Stop.”
Just that one word, and inside I rally, I rage, I tell myself to ignore it.
I can’t. I’ve been a bully and an asshole but I’ve never forced myself on a girl and I’m not gonna start now. Last thing I want is to hurt her more.
So I release her, disentangling my fingers from her fine hair, from her soft flesh, and stagger back when she shoves at me.
“I said stop.”
I want to point out I stopped, but she hit me in the ribs, over the taped gauze, and the pain slams into me. Dizziness hits me worse than before, something about the pain and the fact that all the blood that’s left in my body has flowed south, between my legs, my dick a throbbing beat to match my racing heart.
“We can’t... can’t do this,” she says, “we can’t. I can’t.”
Her small face is a blur in my stinging eyes. I step back, pressing a hand to my side, keeping a hiss between my teeth, wondering if the cuts are infected, feeling like something’s breaking. That would explain the pain.
It can’t be my fucking heart. That part of me is dead and buried, remember?
“I have to go,” she’s saying now, and I wonder dimly why she’s hesitating, why she’s still here. “Are you okay?”
I almost laugh at that, at her kindness showing through even now. “Go home, Luna. Want a medal? ’Cause you know you’re making the right choice. Go the hell home.”
Any choice but me is better, and it’s good, I think fuzzily, good that she’s angry, that she’s still furious.
I’m a fuck-up. That’s what I do best, I fuck up things, and people’s lives. So I turn and walk blindly toward the river, letting her go.
I was an idiot to think I could keep her even for a second.
Chapter Thirteen
Luna
That’s it, you’re done, I tell myself sternly. Not going to worry about Ross anymore, about the fights he gets into, about him bleeding out. Though okay, I hope he won’t.
About him looking at me with those pale, intense eyes and about his mouth kissing me. The way he made me feel, wanted, desired.
The way his body felt, powerful, aroused. Beautiful.
Not even when over the next few days I don’t see him anywhere, not in the diner, not in town.
I’m not going to be concerned, not even if my last glimpse of him was of his white face as he stumbled away from me and into the woods.
“I discovered early that the more obnoxious I am, the less people expect of me. And that suits me just fine.”
I mean, is that his answer? No remorse, no regrets, just an arrogant “that’s who I am” and then he thinks he can kiss me again?
And boy, can he kiss...
But that’s beside the point. The point is... that the problem isn’t him. It’s me. I’m the one who agreed to help him. I’m the one who went to his house to bring him food and painkillers. I’m the one who, let’s be honest here, kissed him back.
Because I wanted him. Still do.
He’s the kind of sexy that makes intelligent girls go stupid, so maybe that’s normal to want him like that. With that body, the tats, that face with the arctic eyes and lush mouth, that square jaw, those big shoulders, I mean... His beauty is smack in your face, so potent, like a magic drought, a love potion meant to bring women to their knees.
But no, no way. That kiss, that was a moment of weakness. That’s all.
“What do you want from me?”
He asked me that. The question keeps replaying in my head as I battle Josh in videogames, as I help Dad clean up the kitchen, as I try to read in my bed at night, as I serve tables at the diner.
There was a desperation in his voice, as if he really wanted to know, as if he didn’t understand me.
How do I explain to him that what I want shouldn’t need to be explained? I want a decent person. One who understands their mistakes. Someone who will promise not to go there again, someone who’s not an asshole, who doesn’t think that being the way you are is final, terminal. That you can’t change.
Oh Luna. That’s what’s bothering you? Isn’t that exactly what you think? That people don’t change?
No, it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to get it. To grasp the concept of the problem, that hurting others isn’t okay. Maybe not everyone changes, but I’d hoped so badly that he had.
Who needs such things explained to them, anyway?
...someone who was never taught right from wrong, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind. Someone who grew up with an asshole, who taught him that to love is to hate, that to love is to hurt. That love is pain, and pain is the only language he was taught to speak. And now everyone expects him to speak something else entirely and he doesn’t know how.
You can teach him.
No, no. This is crazy.
But as more days pass and I still don’t see him, worry comes back to bite me in the backside, and I’m starting to get itchy.
“Hey...” I approach Dena who’s counting items in the diner pantry, nervously wiping my hands on my dress. “Have you seen Ross?”
She tosses me The look over her shoulder. “Ross? As in Ross Jones, the hot stud you were fussing over here in the diner kitchen the other day? The one you love and hate?”
“Dena.”
“Luna.” She mirrors my stance, hands on hips, and pouts.
“I don’t do that. I don’t make that face.”
“You think you don’t.”
Unable to hold back a snicker, I lean back against the bar, surveying the tables. “It doesn’t matter. I take it you haven’t seen
him.”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Oh?” I do my best not to look too eager—then again, I asked. Hard to pretend indifference now. “Where?”
“His dad’s garage. I’ll bet he’s tinkering with something in there. He spends more time there than at home.”
I think of the way he talked about his home. “Dad’s house,” he’d called it. I wondered about that, and about the fact that he didn’t seem inclined to go inside at all, despite the chilly night air.
Or maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe it meant nothing.
“Did he look okay to you?”
“Who, Ross? More than okay.” She runs her tongue over her lips and winks at me. “Hot.”
Yeah. Ha. Very funny. “I mean, did he look sick or anything?”
She narrows her dark eyes at me and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I dunno? He was too far to tell. Why? Did he give you cooties?”
“Shut up,” I say, disgusted when she giggles. “He just keeps getting the crap beaten out of him. Someone has to ask if he’s okay.”
“But you are the one asking, so...” She blows on her nails, then buffs them on her skirt. “What does that tell you?”
“That this conversation is over,” I say firmly, “and I’m not asking you anything ever again.”
“Oh come on... Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? Oh, look! Customers. Go, shoo.”
“You have a crush on Ross Jones,” she wags her finger at me even as she walks away, “and one day you’ll accept it.”
“When hell freezes over,” I mutter and turn to grab my notepad, hating the way my heart pounds at the sound of his name, the memory of his voice, his mouth, his hold on me, the fact I can’t stop myself from feeling this way about him, and that Dena is right.
***
Watching out for Ross day after day and not seeing him, wondering if he’s okay, I almost get a heart attack when I finally spot him inside the grocer’s store. I’m climbing the steps, because Buddy is sitting there, and a familiar shape looms inside the store, a certain tall, broad-shouldered blond guy, his pale spiky hair catching the light of the overhead lamps.
Ross.
“Look, man,” he says, sounding at the end of his rope, “I just wanna pay for this stuff and go, all right? I don’t want no fight.”
“Don’t you, now?”
“Take my money, Conrad.”
“Your money ain’t no good here. Get out, or I’ll sic the sheriff on your ass.”
“Goddammit. Where’s Stacy?”
“She ain’t here, is she, to coddle your ass? Do you see her anywhere? Now get out.”
“You can’t do this. Come on. Yours is the only drugstore in town, goddammit.”
“Hurts, doesn’t it, Jones? Not to get your way like you used to. Did you know, you and your pals teased my youngest until he started having panic attacks—panic attacks, at his age—and had to stay away from school until you graduated. You thought your actions had no repercussions? Think again. So get outta here. As long as I sit behind the counter, you’re not getting shit.”
“Fuck.” Ross turns to go, a bleakness in his pretty blue eyes, a slump in his strong shoulders, and then he spots me. I know it from the way said eyes narrow and go flat with anger. “Watcha looking at?” he growls at me, the bite in his voice sending me a step back. “Fuck off.”
“Ross...”
It’s not fair what’s happening here. Not legal. Not ethical, no matter who Ross is, or was. He’s right, this is the only grocer’s in town. And not selling your products to someone without a reason is discrimination.
Look at me, defending Ross Jones’s rights.
But then he pushes past me, face locked down in a dark scowl, muttering, “Quit your goddamn staring. Got nothing better to do?”
Holy crap, he sure isn’t acting like a changed man now. The way he looks at me, like I’m dirt under his boots, sends me right back into time, three years back before I escaped from this town and his taunting.
I swore I wouldn’t let him do this to me ever again. I watch him go, Buddy loping after him, barking joyfully.
I swore, but can’t help feeling the anger is a thin layer over fear and frustration. I should be mad at him for biting my head off, but somehow I’m just sad.
***
The days roll by, and I’ve almost convinced myself that this is it, that Ross hasn’t changed one bit and I’m done with him for good.
But I prove myself a liar the moment I notice a blond head set on wide shoulders entering the diner.
I’m out from behind the bar, clutching a pot of freshly brewed coffee, before he has even taken a seat, before Dena has even looked up at the chime of the diner door.
It’s infuriating how I can’t help myself, can’t stop myself from running to him, especially after leaving him last time with the declaration that I can’t do this, only to worry myself sick that he hasn’t shown his face in a week.
Even more infuriating is that my first thought is whether my hair looks okay, and whether my cleavage is too low, and would he notice? That I want to look good. That I’m smiling too widely, my heart thumping hard.
God.
As I skid to a stop at his table, though, I freeze. That’s definitely not Ross. How did I imagine it was?
Probably because I wanted it to be him so badly.
“Jenner,” I breathe, awkward as my smile slips.
This is the guy I’m supposed to be crushing on, not Ross, I remind myself. A good guy, a normal guy. Not a bully. Not a man who’s been in and out of jail for the past few years, if rumors are to be trusted.
Jenner sits back and gives me a really long once-over, head tilting back, fingers tapping on the table top as I stand there silently, absorbing the fact of his identity and lack of Ross-ness. His nails are too clean, I think randomly. His hair too perfectly styled. The blond streaks in it doesn’t look natural. The spikes are a bit too long.
It hits me that he looks like a badly-put together clone of Ross, and a shiver crawls down my back. What in the world? What’s up with that? Is it a coincidence? Or is it me?
Didn’t I already berate myself for going for another blond? Does it go deeper than that?
Didn’t Ross admonish me to go for the original, not the copycats?
Jesus. After the way he behaved last time I saw him, why do I even care about what he said?
“Coffee?” I ask brightly, to cover up my confused thoughts, and pour him a cup before he opens his mouth to reply. “What can I get you?”
“You’re Luna,” he says, not seeming to be paying any attention to what I’m doing, or even his coffee spilling over, creating a black puddle on the table. “Luna Spinelli.”
“You know my name?” Maybe it shouldn’t surprise me so much. After all, Dena seems to know the name of every single person in town, but I barely remember him from school.
“Yeah, well. Ross was always so fascinated with you, you were hard to miss.”
“Really.” Hard to miss? What does that mean? Uneasy at the turn of this conversation, I place the coffee pot on the table and pull out my notepad. “Did you want to order something?”
“A helping of you would do it.” He leers at me, and before I stab him with my pen, he laughs. “Sorry, just kidding. Couldn’t help it. A burger and fries, extra bacon, extra cheese.”
My hand shakes as I take the order. He’s still staring at me. I don’t know what to make of him.
“Burger and fries coming right up,” I mutter, stashing the notepad away. “That’d be all?”
“Yeah.” He flashes me his pearly whites, taps his fingers again on the table. “I can see why Ross wanted you. You’re a pretty thing.”
Ugh. Is this... normal flirting? Am I so unaccustomed to it that it seems weird?
“Why are you talking about Ross? What’s he to you?”
“Nothing. Nobody.”
Yeah, somehow I find that hard to believe. Turning on
my heel, I head back to the kitchen, slowing down just enough to grab Dena by the elbow and drag her along. I don’t stop until the kitchen door closes behind us.
Ignoring the cook’s narrow look, I point back toward the tables. “Jenner.”
“What about him?”
“He’s creepy.”
“Seriously. By that I assume you mean that he’s finally hitting on you?”
“It’s not that, Dena. Or it’s more than that. It’s just...” I sigh. “He said he now knows why Ross wanted me.”
“Whoa, now. He said that?”
“Isn’t it creepy?”
“It’s... interesting. Maybe he was only making conversation, though.”
“About Ross?”
“Okay, point, but some people are awkward. He could be shy and doesn’t know what to say to you.”
Subdued, I think this over. “You think it’s that?”
“Positive. The guy likes you. He always watches you when he’s here.”
He does, huh?
If anyone knows how hard it is to strike up a conversation with someone you barely know, or worse, someone you like, it’s me. I’m the queen of awkwardness, so... am I being too hard on Jenner?
And, wait... does that mean Jenner likes me?
Oh boy. How can a person like me, who’s never really known what flirting is like, figure out how this game is played?
***
“So... Jenner is coming on to you, in his own unconventional way,” Dena says, chewing gum and trying her best to be a waitress stereotype. She’s doing all right. Right now, she looks like she’s in cosplay, not the real world. “And Ross has vanished. That a good summary of events?”
“Is unconventional a nice word for creepy?” I mutter, still unconvinced.
And trying to ignore the second fact.
That Ross is avoiding me.
And my inexplicable worry about a bully I should’ve kept away from in the first place.
“Whatcha gonna do?” Dena is gazing out at the mostly empty tables. Following her line of sight, I find Jenner, who’s still working on his burger and fries.
I wince. “About?”
“Both of them.”
