I direct her around another uneven break in the concrete, using any excuse to drag her closer and keep my hands on the warmth of her skin.
"If I didn't work for my family?"
I watch two guys jog down the street in matching lime green spandex outfits. A group of college girls in flowery skirts with big sunglasses and shiny hair walks by and giggles. The breeze whips through again and flags clang on their flagpoles. I'm trying to answer these questions like I'm playing a game of chess, but my head is buzzing with the crowd of all these other things I see and hear.
I wind up just answering, giving this random answer that may not be totally accurate, but it's definitely totally true.
"I don't know. I like to work with my hands. Maybe stonework?"
Evan tilts her head and swishes all her hair over one shoulder, leaving the long, perfect line of her neck exposed.
"Stonework?"
She has the tiniest bit of an overbite, and it's more noticeable when she's trying not to laugh.
"You making fun of my dreams?"
I rub my thumb over the ridges of her knuckles, still being careful, but optimistic. This girl likes me. I can do this.
She squeezes my hand. "Nope. It just sounds really..."
She trails off and chews on her bottom lip, this time I'm sure to keep from laughing.
"What?" I bump my shoulder to hers gently. "Come on. I know you're laughing at me. My feelings are already hurt. You might as well tell me the joke."
"Stone work is, like, a really stereotypical mafia job." She tenses and relaxes her hand in mine, because we've come to another tipping point.
"Well, since I'm not in the mafia, I guess that little detail never occurred to me."
I drop her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders instead, loving the way she fits nestled against my body like she was custom designed for me.
"Are you going to tell me why?"
She leads me off the curb without even checking for traffic, and we run to the nearest square, where she flops on a bench and I follow, collecting her against my side again.
"Why stonework?" I clarify.
She nods and I pull her tight to me, gather her legs over my lap and glare at the old couple who click their tongues at us as they dodder by. I lay my hands on the skin right above her knee, where they started this morning, in her grandparents' damn foyer. This time I keep them put and explain what I've never uttered out loud to anyone in my life.
"The job I do now? For my family?" She sits a little straighter, out of my hold, but I fold her back near me. She looks down at the glossy blue polish on her nails and waits. "The job I do is keeping the peace. It's lots of talking, arguing, finessing. I talk all day. I talk until I'm sick to death of the sound of my own voice. And I talk so much bullshit, I hardly ever go to bed without a couple aspirin and a shot of Jack."
She tips her dark, cat eye-sunglasses down and purses her lips. "That doesn't sound good."
I can see like an x-ray that she's biting her tongue in her mouth, not saying more about it, even though she really wants to. Instead she tumbles to the next question.
"What's the worst thing you've done?"
I take a breath so deep, it feels like it starts at the soles of my feet and just works its way up to my addled brain. My fingers drum on her tanned skin.
"Can I ask you a question about your question?"
She wiggles her toes in her sandals. "Sure." Her knees rock back and forth slowly, a totally opposite rhythm from my rapidly tapping fingers.
"Do you want to know the worst thing I've ever done from a legal standpoint? Like the worst thing I've done if all the stick-up-their-ass do-gooders had a vote? Or the thing I think is the worst, according to my conscience?"
I watch her eyes stretch wide and her mouth work into a perfect o-shape.
"Both." Her answer is greedy, but her face looks nervous, like she knows she's going to regret having asked once I tell her.
The sun is high up, but the only light hitting us is the speckled, diffused stuff breaking through the dense, dark greenery of the trees in the park. Even in the shade, the heat sticks to us, making our clothes damp with sweat. I want to ask her to leave, but there's nowhere to go right now.
The apartment I rented for myself got co-opted by some second cousin who just moved over from Hungary with a heavily pregnant wife, two little kids, no money, and less skills. He needed it more than I did, so I went back to my old set of rooms at my parents' house, and they're out of the question for me and Evan.
"Worst thing from society's viewpoint," I begin, and her attention is rapt. She even leans forward a little. "I broke a guy's femur."
She pulls her hands back and curls them into each other.
"On purpose," I add. Then I take it a step further, "And I wish...I really wish I'd broken his other femur while I was at it."
Her hands fly up to her mouth, and she gasps the question from behind her fingers. "What did he do?"
"Distributed child porn." The horror in her eyes settles my conscience, not that even Evan's disapproval would make me feel bad about what I’d done. "I found out because I do sweeps of the company computers for security breech stuff. My father brought him in for some, uh, accounting things."
Since I was mid-story about breaking a guy's fucking femur, it occurred to me that adding in the detail that my family hired the guy to cook the books probably wouldn't matter. Still.
"He was damn good at his job. Damn smart with computers. It took months before anything came up. Then I saw a bunch of it, and I swear to God right now, Evan, that asshole is lucky all I broke was his femur, because I have never felt more justified about beating the shit out of anyone before."
She takes one hand down from her mouth and puts it back in mine. "Okay. That actually makes perfect sense to me. What is your personal worst?"
I squeeze her knee and avoid her eyes for a minute, because here's another story buried in the Shut the Fuck Up, Winchester Vault.
"I shot a horse."
"You shot a horse?" The tone of voice she uses is more confused than accusatory, which makes it easier to go ahead and get it out.
"I had to hang out with these assholes my father was doing business with, and they were always out in the wild, hunting and fishing. One day we were tracking deer. I didn't love being around a bunch of jackholes I barely knew anyway, and every one of them was armed to the teeth with every weapon you could imagine. Anyway, they wanted me to bag a deer, and I was scared shitless. Just wanted the day to be over with. I saw this brown shape running, and, I swear to you, I was trying to miss. I'm not really into the whole hunter thing. But I guess I was a better shot than I thought. Or worse. Anyway, I hit it. But it wasn't a deer."
She grips the back of the bench so hard little flecks of old paint cake off.
"You killed a horse?"
The memory of it is a bitter bite at the back of my throat.
"Everybody thought it was hilarious. The guy who owned the horse said something about meaning to put it down for a while anyway cause it was old and crazy. I had to laugh along, because that's my job. That's who I am. But I killed a fucking horse, and, I don't know, I wanted to feel shitty about it."
She bites her lower lip and something in her eyes drives my next point home.
"I realized how sick I was of hanging out with people who didn't think it was fucked up that this horse got killed and that we should maybe, I don't know. Maybe..."
"Be sad. Just be sad that something running and alive the minute before was suddenly gone." Evan stops peeling chipping paint and puts her hand on my cheek, her fingers so damn soft on my face. "That's sad. To always have to put on a show. To always have to pretend. Don't you get really sick of it? Like sick enough to just want out?"
"Yeah. I do. But everyone gets sick of what they have to do sometimes. That's life, right?"
I close my eyes and just focus on the feel her hand, let its realness be all I focus on for a minute. I feel good. I feel happy.
I feel like I don't have to put on a show with her.
The sun is intensely hot. I unbutton the top button of my shirt and think about the beach. I haven't gone to the beach with a couple beers and the whole day spread in front of me in so long, I can't even remember the last time.
And then I think about Evan in a bikini. She's always got these cute ass outfits on, so I'm willing to bet her bikini is tiny and hot as hell.
"You wanna go to the beach today?" I ask, and Evan's whole face brightens to the point where it would be easy to forget about the sun, no matter how hot it blazes.
"Do you have a bathing suit with you?"
She reaches up and unbuttons the next button on my shirt, then one more.
"I don't even know if I still own one." I slide a finger along the golden-tan of her shoulder and down to the point of her elbow. "I bet you have a couple."
"Of course." She bats those sexy long eyelashes. "All of them itsy bitsy."
"So." I don't want to ruin where this is going, but we've been flipping and flopping since this morning and I want to know which direction we're taking now. "You were pissed about what I do and my family, and I get that. But, is it just that you seriously love the beach, or are you going on this date because you and me make sense somehow?"
She straightens up and takes a deep breath, squints her eyes at me, wrinkles her nose, and shakes her head, slowly, side to side.
"You..." She pulls her shoulders up and squeezes her eyes closed. "You make me crazy, okay? And I think what we're doing might be stupid. Correction: what we're doing is stupid. I don't want to get in a relationship with someone who's going to break my heart. But I can't stay away from you, Winch. I want you. So much."
I lean my forehead on hers and curl my hands around her shoulders, resisting the urge to jump up and scream to every random person walking by, "Hey! This girl is mine! This girl wants to be with me!"
I hug her tight and smell her shiny hair, sweet with the scent of wildflowers.
"I will never break your heart. I will never hurt you. I might fuck up, I might not be perfect, but I'll never hurt you, Evan. You have my word."
No man in my family gives his word lightly, so, whether or not Evan trusts what I just said, I've made a vow as a Youngblood, and that's not something I can just go back on.
"So, we can just be a normal couple on a date going to the beach today?" Evan asks.
I nod and kiss her neck, lick the salty warm place where her pulse is beating hard.
"Yeah." I say, running my hands up and down her back.
"And you'll be in half a suit, and I'll be in a tiny bikini?"
She rubs her nose on mine, some cute little Eskimo-kiss thing so adorable, I never would have expected it from someone as sexy as Evan.
"Yeah." This time it's hard for me to get the word out.
She hops off the bench and grabs my hand, pulling me up and dancing a quick little jig like the one she did just for me in her room. We head back through the park, across the street, into my car, and get back to her house. She runs inside while I wait, my hands gripped on the steering wheel, and my heart pounds like I'm about to have an attack.
Or I think my heart is racing heart-attack fast.
Then I see her rush back down the stairs, and the only hint I get about what that bikini looks like is the two tiny red strings that go over her collarbones and tie behind all that shiny dark hair.
And as if my heart isn't already pounding out of my chest, my brain fast-forwards to the beach and slow motions through Evan peeling off that tiny black coverup, running down the sand, jumping in the water, tanned skin wet and shiny, tiny bikini barely covering her curves, and my mouth dries out.
I get out and open the passenger side door for her, catching her against my body just before she slips in. "You're torturing me, you know that?"
"The beach is not torture." She leans up on her toes and presses her lips to the side of my mouth. "It's fun."
"Sand whipping everywhere. No escape from the sun. Sharks. Sounds like torture to me." I smile as her lips move across my jaw and to my ear.
"All that terrible stuff. Then me. In a bikini." Her words are a whisper right against my ear.
"More torture." I pick her up by the waist and my fingers pluck at the knot holding her bikini top on. "But I'm a glutton for punishment."
She presses her body to mine, and I'm enveloped by everything that's her, ready to free fall into whatever we're about to do, however we're about to do it, excited about a freedom I never imagined.
Until the noose that's always around my neck gets tugged.
My phone rings.
Evan startles and pulls back, her face relieved. "It's okay, right? It isn't 'House of the Rising Sun.'"
I pull the phone out of my pocket and stare, willing the call to go the fuck away even when I know it won't. Evan’s fingers suddenly half-cover the screen. When I look up, her brow is furrowed.
"Winch? It’s okay, right? You can ignore it? We can go to the beach?"
"It's not 'House of the Rising Sun,'" I agree, but I tug the phone away from her hand. "It's my...it's someone I used to know."
The call goes to voicemail, and I make the decision to finally put it all on the backburner when a text beeps through.
I open it and stifle a groan. Yr brother and 2 Murrays on 4th and Little. Jimlo is taking bets.
I have a serious urge to hurl this fucking phone onto the street and run it over a few dozen times.
I told her I wouldn't break her heart, and I won't. But I have to break our date and leave her, and that feels like the first step on the long road that will eventually lead to Evan's broken heart.
Evan 9
This morning has been like every other tangled, crazy, hot time Winch and I collide. It's strange how it's possible for me to go from thinking he's the only guy I'll ever want to be with, to considering slicing him out of my life completely and possibly punching him in the nuts as a sendoff.
But there's something about him that keeps me right in the eye of the storm, no matter how nasty it gets.
And it's just gotten rip-off-the-roof, flood-that-will-float-your-car-away nasty.
I snuggle in his arms, enjoying the clover and spice tang of his skin, my tiny bikini burning to have his eyes all over it (and his hands all under it) when his damn phone plays "She's Like the Wind."
My first thought is, Who the hell would he use that ringtone for?
My second thought, tripping right on the heels of my first thought, is, It's not "House of the Rising Sun”!
My second thought is so overwhelmingly ecstatic, it blots out my first entirely, and I don't even have the urge to vomit over that cheese-tastic ringtone or grill him about who would have inspired it.
Until his mouth opens and he starts to say words I'm not ready to hear.
"It's Remy, Evan. I'm so sorry--"
"No, no, no, no, no," I interrupt, pressing my fingers against his mouth urgently "No! I've got a bikini on. A scandalous bikini! I picked it up in Paris. No one in America has a bikini this sexy." I push close to him, the phone locked in his hand between our bodies. "Winch, you promised me, ten minutes ago, you promised me things would be different. You promised--"
Winch closes his eyes and groans. "Oh, baby. Please. Hear me out."
It's the first time he's called me 'baby.' A pleasant tingle thrills through me, up my arms and down my spine, in direct contrast with the molten anger that's volcanoing through my blood
"Explain, then," I demand.
His eyes fly open, and I take two big steps back before I cross my arms in the international girl-sign that unequivocally communicates 'watch what you're going to say very closely.'
He clears his throat, runs a hand over his hair, double checks the message on his phone, moves toward me, groans when I move back, and finally opens his mouth to talk.
"Remy's about to fight."
He stops. I glare.
"Really? Behind the baseball dugout at three sharp? Wha
t is he, in middle school? If your brother wants to fight, let him fight."
Winch grips the roof of the car and grimaces.
"Okay, listen. You're gonna hate this, but listen. My family...where I come from, a fight is more than a fight, okay? When the families fight, there's a lot at stake, and Remy just picked a really, really powerful family to throw down with. Pissing them off isn't a good idea, and it will mean a lot of bad for all of us if he loses. Basically he can't lose. So I gotta go. It will take half an hour, an hour tops, then I come back, get you, and you let me see that sexy-ass bathing suit that's already making me crazy."
He holds his fists out in front of his body hopefully and gives me his best, charming, begging smile.
"You know that saying, 'A picture's worth a thousand words'?" I ask. Winch nods with slow uncertainty. "Well, a live fight is probably worth twenty-thousand questions. So I'm in."
I pull on the passenger door handle and attempt to swing the door open, but Winch already has his hand on the frame and is shutting it before I can slide in.
"Out of the question." He takes me by the shoulders and moves me two steps over, back toward my grandparents' house. "A fight is no place for you. It's dangerous. I'll be out there in the mix. I won't be able to help you if anyone messes with you, and--" He pulls back and lets this long, low whistle escape his mouth. "You're gonna get messed with. Look at you." He shakes his head. "Anything else you want, you got it. Anything. Just not this."
Every internal alarm bell is sounding off like crazy, and I decide to give Winch a final trial by fire.
"What if I asked to be invited to dinner at your family's place? And to go to mass with you? Next week?"
The color leaks out of his face and leaves it looking drawn and ashen. His mouth pulls tight and his eyes blink fast. Then he looks at me levelly and nods.
"Okay. Done."
"Really? You'd do that for me?" My heart does this little slide, shuffle, slide before it leaps up and kicks its heels together.
He delivers the sweetest half-smile, all sexy curve of the lip and gorgeously half-lidded eyes.
Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) Page 15
