Craving Caden (Lost Boys Book 2)

by Jessica Lemmon

  He spun on me. “What!”

  Stunned, I blinked at him a few times. He spoke. One syllable—one very frustrated syllable—but Cade had parted those fantastic lips and spoke.

  He’d said a couple of words here or there when I first started coming around, but lately he’d clammed up. His patterns were back. If I poked him, then he growled like an angry bear. If I cheered him on, he’d shut down completely. That left me with only one option. I had to be bossy.

  “Sit.” I pointed at the black leather love seat in front of a TV resting on the floor, its wires lifeless around it. I was momentarily surprised he hadn’t hooked it up yet.

  Eyes the color of melted caramel locked on mine as he prowled over to me in three long-legged steps. The closer he came, the more erratic my heart beat. Then he bypassed me entirely, walked into the bathroom and shut the door. A moment later the water for the shower came on.

  Sighing, I plopped down onto the love seat and unzipped my backpack. At least I knew to bring my homework so I could accomplish something while I was here.

  You win this round, Wilson.

  Chapter Two

  Cade

  The space above the garage was meant to be an apartment for a renter. My dad had envisioned making extra income by renting the room before he’d been swept up in illegal gambling instead. In the years while I focused on becoming a lawyer, he’d lost interest in the idea of renting, or maybe he’d forgotten about it. He’d only ever used this space as storage.

  I hadn’t slept much lately, so on the nights I lay awake, I’d come up here and clear it out. Half the shit went into the garbage—stuff no one needed, like extra garden hoses and malfunctioning holiday lights—and the other half went onto shelves in the garage. Some of those boxes were filled with my mom’s stuff. I doubted she’d want it back, but I kept it anyway.

  Well. Joyce. She wasn’t technically my real mom.

  Now the only boxes up here were mine. I finished unpacking another, transferring my T-shirts and sweatshirts into a dresser drawer. I kicked the empty box off to one side. I’d carry it to my old bedroom and pack up my closet next. Moving from the house to here wasn’t my idea of living the high life, but my current job as a busser at Oak & Sage didn’t afford me the luxury of renting my own place. That would change, and soon, but in the meantime at least I had some privacy.

  I made the bed next, stretching a set of navy-blue sheets over the mattress while surreptitiously checking out the therapist on my couch.

  Tasha Montgomery.

  Blond-haired, blue-eyed, great body. She wasn’t easy to overlook. She was tallish, but not too tall, which I liked. A lot. I’d first noticed her on campus at Ridgeway University on the arm of Tony Fry. That jackhole walked all over his women—and yeah, he had more than one. I figured Tasha knew.

  My first interaction with her was memorable, but not in the way I wished it was. I’d approached her at a frat party before the accident. My intention was to flatten her with a grin, disarm her with my charm, and have her in my bed shortly thereafter. Tasha hadn’t been charmed or flattened. She’d been pissed. Snapping her head around to face me, she’d told me point-blank to leave her the hell alone.

  Granted, my offer for her to ride the “Cade train” wasn’t polite, no matter how sincere I’d been. I’d pegged her as a rich girl who would go for the grin no matter what I said. I’d bragged to my buddies as much before leaving them to approach her. I’d been showing off. I wasn’t proud of my behavior.

  I’d since learned I was right—Tasha was a rich girl—but also wrong. She never went for the grin. She’d believed she and Tony were going to ride off into the sunset like some rom-com movie couple when it’d been clear to me—and anyone else watching—that he was biding his time with her while biding his time with a few someone elses.

  Being cheated on sucked. I knew firsthand.

  Since my ex-girlfriend, Brooke, had left me behind, I’d been with a lot of girls, but never did I ever date more than one at a time. That didn’t make me a nice guy, but hey, at least I wasn’t a cheater. For a while I’d blamed being an asshole on heartache. Now, I blamed myself for chanting “YOLO” like a frat douchebag who didn’t know the future could change in the blink of one of Tasha’s blue, blue eyes.

  I glanced over at her, unsurprised she’d followed me up here. Though her suggestion to “exercise” my tongue did surprise me. I liked our old routine. The one where I sat on a beanbag chair and played video games while she perched on my unmade bed, her homework spread out in front of her.

  I’d dragged the love seat upstairs with Devlin’s help, but I hadn’t bothered plugging in my game system yet. I’d been too busy packing, cleaning, and, lately, working on my new/old car.

  Tasha was doing a good job of ignoring me at the moment, which I thought I preferred. Our interactions were that of an old married couple, like we’d grown tired of each other and no longer spoke. Only in my case, I no longer spoke because rare was the occasion I benefited from it. In the past it had gone something like this: I stuttered. Tasha morphed into teacher mode. I clammed up.

  Nothing like being seen as needy and pitiful by a girl I liked way, way too much. Have I mentioned that I liked her liked her? There was no way to act on it, and having her near hadn’t cured me. I was hot for teacher.

  Most couples I knew didn’t exactly have it together. My dad, Paul, and the woman I thought was my mother, Joyce, had split up years after she’d accepted his affair and me as the by-product. She and I had been distant since the divorce a little over a year ago but were more distant now. She was humiliated that she’d lied to me for years and I was pissed that she’d lied to me for years. Her attempts to reach out after my accident were not met with enthusiasm on my part.

  In the kitchenette, I opened the lone cabinet over the sink to find it bare. I hadn’t bought snacks of my own yet. I’d have to raid Dad’s snack stash instead.

  Tasha, a pair of white cordless headphones nested in her ears, hummed in the back of her throat while scribbling in her notebook.

  I had been so wrong about her. She wasn’t shallow. She wasn’t snobby. And she cared. Legitimately cared. After the accident I cared about almost nothing. I still didn’t care. Although that couldn’t be true, could it? I was standing in my new “apartment” and had invited Tasha to join me.

  Wonder why?

  I stole another glance at her while I unpacked another box. She sat, legs folded beneath her, in a short skirt, low-cut red shirt, and flat shoes she didn’t bother kicking off. She pursed her lips in thought, pushed a few stray strands of blond hair behind her ear, her eyebrows closing in over her nose as she read the textbook on her knee.

  She was gorgeous.

  And she represented everything in life I thought I’d have by now. She lived the definition of “the good life.” She would graduate this year, probably with honors. She had just moved into her own apartment not over her father’s garage. When she’d shot me down at that party, I’d been at the top of my game. Now she wouldn’t leave me alone and I was at rock bottom. What was it about broken me she liked so damn much?

  She came here once a week and fulfilled her obligatory hour with me. She did it for my dad more than the money. He’d asked for her help when the other therapists quit, which hadn’t been well-received by me. I assumed she’d been put on suicide watch, since it felt like she was being paid to babysit me. I wasn’t suicidal but her treating me like a child was a surefire way to lead me to it.

  She bit the end of her pen, rolling the barrel over soft-looking pink lips and making me regret, not for the first time, that I’d never found out how they tasted.

  Thinking of college reminded me of Brooke, and thinking of Brooke reminded me I wasn’t worth holding onto. Like Brooke, Tasha had expensive clothes and jewelry, and her college was paid for by her father. Unlike Brooke, Tasha was sweet, cared enough about therapy to try and make me do it on occasion, and her perfume… Seriously. The girl smelled incredible.

&nb
sp; As if she sensed my silent fascination, she lifted her chin and caught me staring. My eyes went to her throat, to the delicate gold chain with the tiny turtle pendant. I wondered what it meant, if anything.

  “Is our time up?” She checked her watch, gold like her necklace with a big face and diamonds. Real ones, I guessed.

  “Yeah, work.” No stumbling. Nice. It was a rare treat when words came out like they were supposed to.

  “Oh, okay.” She shoved her book into her backpack and unfolded those delicious-looking legs. Then she stood and tugged her skirt down, though it had no prayer of coming close to her knees. I distracted myself by biting my cheek hard enough to make my eyes water.

  When she stood from the love seat, we were close. Too close for me to think of anything but kissing her.

  “Have a good shift.” She shouldered her bag.

  My eyes returned to her lips. I shrugged, not trusting my voice. Not moving or breathing. She lifted her chin and shifted from foot to foot. Waiting. I didn’t trust myself enough to make a move.

  “Okay, well, bye.”

  I nodded but she’d already turned to leave.

  I lingered at the window, watching the driveway for her to appear. She did, her honey-blond hair bouncing against her shoulders. Then she climbed into her brand-new, white, gleaming-in-the-sunshine BMW Z4.

  Gorgeous girl. Gorgeous car.

  Damn.

  Bus tub on my hip, I swept through the dining room of Oak & Sage Restaurant. It was late, the only diners left a table of six taking their sweet-ass time. They were well into their third bottle of wine. A few servers milled around, one of them a tall blonde who sneered at everyone like she might take a bite out of them.

  I’d rather be home underneath my car, or even under Tasha’s scrutiny, than this she-wolf’s.

  In college, my buddies had labeled me a silver-tongued fox. I had an uncanny ability to convince anyone to give me anything I wanted. Tasha might have been the only exception. The nickname was more than a label—it was also true. I could be convincing. I could make anyone like me. I could also swindle thousands of dollars back when I street raced. My Audi, Blue, brought in more money than she’d cost—and ten times the money I’d made legally over a lifetime.

  Until she kissed a fire hydrant.

  I totaled Blue while simultaneously totaling myself. Busted up some ribs, sprained my wrist. Broke my foot. I favored it now. Anytime I worked a double shift it throbbed like a bitch by night’s end.

  Laughter sounded from the bar as I swiped crumbs from the table I bussed. I cast a glance to where my brother’s girlfriend, Rena, bartended. I liked her. She was nice, super cute with her long, dark hair and ability to spot bullshitters from a mile away. She was a great friend to Tasha and had a streak in her that was pure bad girl. No wonder Dev had fallen for her.

  She wiped the bar top with a towel, sending me a quick smile before turning back to the guys finishing their drinks in front of her. My returning smile faded when I took a closer look at those “guys” and realized I knew them.

  They were my friends. Former friends. After my accident, they’d reached out one by one but I hadn’t exactly been welcoming. We used to share a future, but now they represented dreams lost. Brian and Miller Dermont were brothers, Carey Grainger a trust-fund kid. The Law Offices of Dermont, Grainger, and Wilson was our destiny before I banged up my brain and retired the silver tongue that had been my calling card.

  Hard to deliver a compelling closing argument to a jury when you stutter your own name. Law school was in their future, but not mine. Not anymore.

  I ducked my head, carrying the bus tub to the kitchen. The man I could have been was laid to rest that icy night on Alley Road. He’d been buried alongside my beloved Blue, now flattened metal in a junkyard.

  My brother swung around the corner, eating up the space between us with his own signature confident swagger. Think of the devil, and Devlin appears.

  He was dressed in a dark suit, blue tie, button-down shirt. A lot like Lawyer Cade would have dressed. Except cooler. An idea bordering on laughable, since my current ensemble was a food-stained apron, work boots, and a black polo shirt with the words “Oak & Sage” embroidered over my heart.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  “Empty the trash in the kitchen and you’re good to go. I’ll have Larry run the bus tubs through the dishwasher.” He clapped my shoulder. “Not bad for your first week. You’ll be running this place in no time.”

  I flipped him off. He laughed.

  “Aspirations, Cade. Aspirations,” he said as he walked to the bar to flirt with Rena. He was almost cheery. Which was nauseating. A good woman changed you, I supposed.

  We hadn’t always been friends. Actually, I used to hate him. He’d lived with us as a teenager and had stolen my mom’s—er, Joyce’s—jewelry once. In recent history, he’d come to collect money for my dad’s gambling debts and we nearly beat the shit out of each other. That was the night we found out we were related.

  Talk about being thrown for a fucking loop.

  I strolled to the kitchen, handed the bus tub to Larry to sort, and palmed one of the three heaping garbage cans. I closed the first trash bag, holding my breath to avoid the stench of discarded food.

  Hauling it out of the can and muscling it to the back door, I sent a scowl to the asshole Hamilton who worked behind the line. He was a big, dumb type, and I could already tell he was trouble. His eyes narrowed on me, leading me to believe he was also the type dumb enough to bring trouble my way.

  He’d regret it.

  I might not be able to string a sentence together without faltering, but I could still beat his ass without breaking a sweat.

  I flipped the lid on the trash bin outside, tossing in the garbage and wishing I were anywhere but here.

  Chapter Three

  Tasha

  My father’s voice echoed across the wide marble foyer the moment I stepped into his house. Sounded like he was on the phone with a client. Like when I’d lived here, the house was cold, its size and materials doing a great job of keeping out heat. It was the perfect home for my father who was equally cool and hard.

  Since his office was at home, he was usually here. Except for when he was flying to a meeting at one end of the country or the other.

  He ended the call and stepped into the broad marble foyer with a small cardboard box in one hand. “Natasha.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Feels light for textbooks,” he said as he handed over the box. He was displeased with me. He was often displeased with me. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reason why.

  “They’re not textbooks.” We had a minor stare-down that ended with him blinking first.

  “Are you still conducting therapy sessions with Caden Wilson?”

  “The one and only.” I smiled.

  My father’s mouth compressed. “How is it going?”

  Unproductive.

  “We’re making progress,” I answered, wishing I were the kind of person who could lie and make it sound believable. I didn’t want to talk about Cade. I didn’t want to admit I had been failing him since I started.

  “Come with me.” My father turned and stepped into his office. The room was enormous, globes and models of ships sitting on the built-in bookshelves. There was a replica of an anchor hanging on one wall. He sat behind an oversized, highly polished mahogany desk and folded his hands over his suit jacket. He worked from home and rarely had visitors, but he dressed in a suit every day.

  I sat primly on a red leather guest chair across from the desk, resting my box at my feet. If I’d remembered to change my mailing address on Amazon when I moved out, I could have avoided this unfortunate run-in.

  “What’s going on between you two?” he barked.

  “Sorry?” I blinked, legitimately confused.

  “You’ve been going there for four months. I called Paul Wilson today and he told me Caden isn’t speaking.”

  “I’m not sur
e what you’re implying,” I lied, knowing exactly what he was implying.

  “Now try the truth.” My father’s eyes were a paler shade of blue than mine. They were ice cold and froze me where I sat.

  I wondered if he’d ever been lovable. Why my mother had tied herself to him at the age of eighteen. I’d chosen to stay with him instead of leaving with her when they divorced. I’d been in high school and hadn’t wanted to leave my friends. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “I’m not a speech therapist.” I cleared my throat and tried not to sound defensive. “I help people with torn ligaments. Rotator cuff issues. People who—”

  “It seems you and Cade aren’t doing any therapy at all. Care to tell me what you are doing during the hours spent in his bedroom?”

  “Excuse me?” My face flushed. Cade and I weren’t doing anything together. He hated me. Or, if he didn’t hate me, he only barely tolerated me.

  “No matter. You’re not to go over there again. Paul Wilson is a former gambler. Caden Wilson is a criminal. You are a young impressionable girl.”

  Rather than argue the “impressionable” or the “girl” part, I decided to stick with an argument I had a chance of winning. “Cade is not a criminal.”

  “Street racing is illegal.”

  He had me there. But there was no way I was letting him mandate what I did or didn’t do, who I saw or didn’t see. I was no longer under his roof, which made me immune to his rules.

  “Cade doesn’t race any longer,” I said calmly, “and Paul is your accountant. If you don’t trust him, then why would you let him crunch the company numbers?”

  His mouth turned down. He was unhappy I’d challenged him.

  “Let me explain something to you, Natasha.” Morton Montgomery narrowed his eyelids and I fidgeted. I never could relax under his sharp scrutiny. “Paul Wilson pulled us out of a tax issue two years ago.”

  “I know.” I should have let him finish his monologue, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.