Taste: Beautiful Series, Book 6

by Anderson, Lilliana

  Swallowing hard, I nod, feeling uneasy about the fact that I was just about to ask a thirteen-year-old out on a date. I feel like a complete arsehole. “Of course,” I tell him, setting my jaw while all the times I’ve flirted with her flit through my mind.

  Smiling, he slaps me on the back in a friendly manner. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”

  Nodding again, I excuse myself before walking back to Dakota and picking up my bag, mumbling something about being late for the bus.

  “Is everything alright?” she asks nervously, watching as I sling my bag over my shoulder.

  “Everything’s fine.” I keep my eyes down, feeling unable to look at her right now.

  “Do… do you still want to have lunch?”

  I work my jaw and shake my head, my mouth twisting in the anger I’m feeling right now. Then I finally look up at her. “My work isn’t the kind of place you can take kids.”

  “I…what?” Her cheeks flood with colour, and her eyes go wide.

  I feel sick.

  “Thirteen, Dakota. You’re thirteen. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  Her mouth moves but nothing comes out. I want to hear some sort of reason as to why she’d do this. I want to hear her say she told me and I didn’t listen–something to explain why I didn’t know. But there’s nothing, and I feel hurt, and I don’t want to look at her anymore. I shake my head and begin to walk away.

  She chases after me. “I didn’t think it mattered. It’s only three years.”

  I keep my eyes forward. “Three years that, if things went too far, could get me arrested, Dakota. It makes a difference.”

  “Brad, please.”

  I stop walking and glare at her. “Leave me alone. I need to go to work, something you’re not even old enough to do.”

  I spit my words at her, and she gets a look on her face that’s like I just punched her in the gut. Well, now she knows how I feel. Her age is important. She should have told me. Not saying anything is as bad as lying, and now I look like some sort of lecherous pig who’s into young girls.

  I keep walking away. She doesn’t follow me this time, and I don’t turn back. But I do hear her sobs. And it breaks my heart, even when I’m angry, I don’t want her to cry.

  * * *

  I sit on the bus on my way home from work and close my eyes, dropping my head against the back of the seat, landing it with a firm thud. My stomach twists and sours as I continue to replay the conversation over and over again in my head. It’s been stuck in my mind on repeat since this afternoon, and I feel like absolute shit.

  She’s only thirteen…she’s only thirteen.

  What the hell does that say about me?

  “How was work tonight?” Aunt Sara asks when I finally walk in the door. It’s just after midnight, and the last thing I want to do is speak right now.

  Without answering, I walk into the laundry and empty my gym bag into the washing machine before pulling off my uniform and dropping it in there as well. Then I set it up to start a wash and dry cycle in an hour’s time.

  My aunt appears in the doorway, her wavy grey hair, hanging loosely around her shoulders as she looks at me in question. Most people think she's my grandmother, but to me, she more like my mum. She’s my real mother’s great aunt, and she’s been taking care of me since I was ten. We have the same blue eyes, and she’s the nicest woman on the planet. I get sick of people asking me why I don’t live with my mum. I get sick of explaining how my mother didn't want me. To me, it’s of no consequence, Aunt Sara is the only family I need.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

  I'm standing in my boxer shorts, leaning against the washing machine. I clench my teeth and shake my head.

  “Did something happen at work?”

  I shake my head again.

  “At training?”

  I move past her and grab a towel from the linen press. “I really don't want to talk about it,” I snap, feeling instantly bad because she’s just trying to help. But, there isn’t much she can do without a time machine.

  After my shower, I go to bed and try to sleep, but every time I drift off, I start dreaming about Dakota. It's the same dream I've been having for the last couple of weeks, and I'm pissed that my subconscious doesn’t understand she's off limits now. I spend the night tossing and turning instead.

  Eventually, I quit trying to sleep, and I get up and make blueberry muffins for Aunt Sara to have for breakfast when she wakes up. Then I write her a note to say sorry for being a jerk, set the timer on the coffee pot, and get ready for training.

  Four

  Dakota

  “Can I talk to you?” I ask, the moment I see Brad getting his gear together the next morning.

  He keeps his back to me. “There’s nothing to say.” His voice is flat, and when he finally turns to look at me, his eyes are cold too.

  “I think there’s a lot to say,” I argue, wanting to clear the air so we can at least be friends.

  “Nothing that’s going to change anything.”

  He moves past me and goes to sit by Elliot and starts stretching. I sit down beside Stacey, and it’s hard not to notice that the squad are all looking between us.

  “Are you two having a lover’s tiff?” Elliot asks when he reaches forward to stretch his hamstring.

  I glance over at Brad, who keeps his eyes down, and I shake my head. “Everything is fine,” I lie.

  Brad laughs. “No it isn’t. Tell them all how old you are, Dakota.”

  I look around the group of expectant eyes trained on me. I don’t want to tell them. I never feel like I fit in anywhere, and finally, here’s a group of people who I get along with, a group that accepts me for me. And before yesterday, I felt like I was about to experience my first love. But, if everyone finds out about my age then I’ll be different. I’ll be a kid. Again.

  “How old are you?” Stacey asks.

  “I’m thirteen,” I mumble, dropping my eyes to my feet in embarrassment.

  “Thirteen!” I don’t know who yells it, but there’s this sudden cackling. Some of the other boys begin to mock Brad for being a ‘cradle snatcher’. Stacey places her hand on my back in comfort, and when I glance at Brad, he’s fuming and Elliot is saying something to him quietly. Everyone seems to find it so hilarious that the guy who could ‘do no wrong’ was about to date a ‘little girl’.

  Their mockery stings, and heated tears burst from my eyes. I cover my face with my hands to hide it then get up and run into the girl’s bathroom. I don’t want to sit there while they all laugh at me. Stacey follows me in, and together we listen as Brad yells at them all.

  “Yeah. That’s right, she’s thirteen. And because she’s thirteen, I don’t want to hear a word from any of you fuckers about how she looks, or any of those shit comments you guys like to make about the girls. You don’t talk about her that way—ever. And if I see one of you touch her, try anything on her, or even look at her the wrong way, you’re going to have my fists to deal with. Understand?”

  There’s a collective murmur saying they all understand. Stacey looks at me and raises her brow. “I hope you weren’t planning on dating anyone.”

  I wipe at my tears and sniff. “Didn’t you hear? I’m too young to date anyone.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “I know. It was just a joke that wasn’t really funny.”

  I shake my head. “Even if I was old enough, the only person I want to date now hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just angry that you didn’t tell him how young you are. Give him time, he’ll calm down.”

  “Maybe in three years when I’m sixteen.”

  “I think you’ll find he’ll calm down before then. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s only interested in sex. I think you’ll find that you’ll be friends again in no time.”

  “Friends is all we can be,” I mutter.

  She shrugs. “It could be worse.”

  * * *

  “What’s wrong
with you? You’ve barely touched your food,” mum says as we eat dinner together in the office that night. I just spent an awkward day trying to stay out of Brad’s way. Although, being in the same training squad that was really hard to do.

  After he’d warned all the boys away from me, they didn’t play around with me the same way they normally do. When we played touch footy after lunch, only the girls chased me down. It meant that I was great at scoring goals, but it took all of the fun out of the game. I ended up pretending I had a cramp and pulled out early.

  “Dad told one of the guys I’m only thirteen, and now everyone knows.”

  “Why is that a bad thing?”

  I poke at my food with my fork. “I didn’t want it to matter. I didn’t want them looking at me like I’m a little kid.”

  “From what I understand, the boy your dad spoke to seemed a bit keen on you.”

  “So?”

  “Well, he’s a sixteen-year-old boy, and really, you’re still a girl. He needed to know, Cody. It wasn’t fair for you not to tell him.”

  “But if we like each other, why does it matter?”

  “Because you’re only thirteen and he’s sixteen.”

  “Why is that the only answer? So, just because it’s illegal for us to have sex, we shouldn’t have any sort of a relationship at all?”

  She presses her lips together and touches her forehead like she’s getting a headache. “You can be friends, and there’s no real law against you dating. But believe me when I say, if there’s one thing you’re not allowed to do, it’ll be the only thing that matters, and eventually you’d do it anyway and not only are you too young for that, but he could end up with a record because of it.”

  “I’m mature enough to say no, mum.”

  She gently touches my chin, her eyes soft and understanding. “I’m sure you are. But the real mature thing here, is taking a step back and being happy with a friendship.”

  “I don’t want to be happy with a friendship.”

  “Then you’re just proving that what your father did was right. Because, if you can’t see why we don’t want you dating an older boy, and you can’t see why Brad is upset with you for hiding your age from him. Then, you’re not as mature as we all thought you were. Think about that.”

  Five

  Brad

  Maybe I’m taking this protection thing a little too far. We’re out at the Sydney International Regatta Centre, or SIRC for short, and Dakota is sitting quietly off to the side, listening to music and staring out at the course. It’s been three months since our altercation, and I’ve done little more than be cordial to her at training. The others seem to have followed my lead, and they aren’t talking to her either. Although, maybe the fact that I threatened to punch them in the face if they looked at her the wrong way has something to do with it too.

  A sudden wave of guilt washes over me as I watch her. She doesn't deserve this. I'm being a jerk.

  “What time is your race?” I stand right in front of her.

  She pulls out an ear bud and looks up at me with surprise in her eyes. “I'm sorry?”

  “I asked what time your race was.” I know exactly when her race is. I'm just trying to mend fences. I shouldn't have treated her as badly as I did. I didn't ask her age, and she didn't tell me. So really, we’re both at fault. I shouldn’t have assumed.

  “It's at twelve-fifteen,” she replies cautiously, and I nod.

  “I’ll cheer for you from the side.”

  “Won’t your girlfriend get a bit pissed about that? Or won’t she care since I’m just a kid?” She’s not letting me off easily.

  I press my lips together and look to the spectator stands where my current girlfriend—a waitress at the restaurant I’m apprenticing at—is waiting with some of her friends to watch me race. I probably shouldn’t have brought her, but dating someone my own age makes me feel better about being attracted to Dakota in the first place. Although, it doesn’t help alleviate the pain in my chest every time I look at her…

  “She’ll cheer for you too.”

  Dakota rolls her eyes. “Don’t do me any favours.”

  She replaces her ear bud and looks back over to the course, showing me that it's going to take a lot more than a gesture to show her I’m sorry.

  * * *

  For the next couple of years, my friendship with Dakota is somewhat stilted. I try to get over my attraction to her, but most of the time it seems impossible. It makes me feel guilty and wrong, and I hate that about myself. I go through numerous girlfriends to distract myself from the discomfort I feel with Dakota in my daily life, and I’m ashamed to say that my protectiveness over her doesn’t lessen. If anything, it gets worse. I can’t stand it when another guy shows any interest in her, and as a result, I’m quite the jerk.

  “What is your problem!” she shrieks at me one day, jabbing me in the chest while I’m washing and polishing my recently purchased racing kayak. She’s fifteen now, and I’m eighteen. She’s more beautiful than ever. And I’m still looking at something I shouldn’t be looking at, at all.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I throw the sponge I was soaping the hull with in the bucket, acting nonchalant as I reach down for the hose.

  She beats me to it.

  “Don’t ignore me.” She holds the hose behind her back and glares at me.

  “I’m not ignoring you. I’m simply washing my boat.”

  She continues to keep a hold of the hose. “Explain to me why I just got dumped? Explain to me why he said some tattooed thug told him he’d castrate him if he touched me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat, holding my hand out for the hose.

  “You’re denying it was you?”

  I shrug my shoulders and keep my hand out steady. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “The wrong guy? You don’t have a Day of the Dead tattoo all up your right arm, and a lip, and an eyebrow piercing?”

  I pull my piercing into my mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I reach out for the hose, and this look crosses her face that speaks of sheer frustration. She actually stomps her foot.

  “Well, maybe this will help you remember!” She pulls the trigger on the hose and douses me with ice-cold water.

  I let out a yelp. It hits me in the chest and I hold my hands up to unsuccessfully block the blast. I grab the handle, trying to wrestle it from her hands. The water sprays up between us, and she squeals as it drenches her as well. For a moment, we fight over it, and our yelps turn into laughter. Then all of a sudden we stop. She releases the trigger, and we’re staring into each other’s eyes. My arm is around her waist, and hers is pressed up against my chest. We’re both still holding the hose.

  Something passes in the air between us, we’re both breathing quickly. I’m stupidly thinking about crossing the line that was the whole reason for our problems in the first place. Why does she have to be so…so…

  I close my eyes and clear my throat, releasing her and removing the hose easily from her hand. “He wasn’t right for you,” I state, before turning away and hosing the suds off my kayak. In my periphery, I see her standing there for a while before she turns away and walks off without another word.

  I throw the hose on the ground and run a hand through my wet hair. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Six

  Dakota

  I quit trying to date boys from school. Not only did Brad warn them away from me, but they were only interested in one thing, and it was one thing I wasn’t willing to give—at least not to them. I feel ready. I mean, I’m sixteen now, so I’m old enough to go all the way if I want to. And I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. Many of the girls at school have already given up their V-cards and they seem happy about it. They seem more grown up too, like having that carnal knowledge is some sort of key to adulthood. But I guess I’m not like them. I don’t want to be with just anyone. I want my first time to be with one person in particular. But,
I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen. I’m not sure if he still sees me that way, or if he’s just super protective of me because he still sees me as a kid. Or worse, a sister.

  It’s probably the latter, because he’s always got some girl following him around. He’s finished his apprenticeship now, and his work has become more demanding so he isn’t at training as much as he used to be. But, when he is, I catch him looking at me, and I wonder if maybe those feelings are still there for him like they are for me. But they can’t be or we’d be together, right?

  For me, they never went away. How is it possible to feel so in love with someone you hardly talk to? I don’t know why. I just feel it so strong in my chest every time I look at him, and every time he meets my eyes, my stomach flips, and my heart pounds. I know I’m probably too young to really know what love is, but that feeling hasn’t lessened a bit in three years. In fact, it’s grown more intense. That has to mean something, surely…

  It takes a lot of talking to myself in the mirror to convince myself not to confront him. But, when Brad’s Aunt Sara dies, I can’t stay away. I want to comfort him and let him know I’m here for him. His Aunt Sara was the only real family he had. He must be devastated.

  Arriving at his house, I pause in front of the door, taking a deep breath before I smooth my hands down the front of my dress and lift my hand up to knock. I’m praying that some blonde bimbo doesn’t answer the door in her underwear. I’d die if that happened.

  “Cody.” Brad frowns when he answers the door. Alone. I’m flooded with relief. Then my eyes travel down his bare chest to the V-shaped muscle that seems to point below the waist of his pants. I’m drooling inappropriately. “What are you doing here?”