With a deep sign and herculean effort to hold my shit together, I park my bike. Rex pulls up behind me, his neck cranked in the direction of the Harley. I throw my leg off the bike and pull off his helmet. He gets out of his truck and meets me in the street.
“I didn’t think he’d be here,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment and pissedoffedness out of my voice.
He glares at the Harley and then turns back to me. There’s something working behind his eyes, indecision maybe? I hope he’s not thinking about going in there.
“Look, we can go grab some food, or I don’t know, um . . .” Gosh, think of something, Gia. Anything.
“Whatever we do we better get gone before Tubby issues another girl-beating smackdown.” His words are growled, and his lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl.
“Yes, yeah, let’s do that. Um, where should we go?” I slide on the helmet, showing him I’m ready to take off at his word of where we’re headed.
His expression pinches for a moment before he wipes it to indifferent. “My place.”
Say what?
“Your place?”
He doesn’t answer, but turns to head back to his truck. “Let’s go. Leave your bike.”
I pull the helmet off and practically skip to the passenger side of the truck. Inside Rex’s place, surrounded by his personal things, I’ll learn so much about him. I wonder if he’s having the same concern that I had about dirty clothes? Probably not. Guys are notorious slobs and never seem apologetic about it.
My stomach flips, and the buzz of excitement torpedoes through me. This is twice he’s let me in today. My tumbling belly lands hard with understanding.
If only I could find the strength to do the same.
~*~
Rex
I’m capable of a lot more than I think.
Darren’s encouragement is playing on repeat in my head. I want to try to get better, and I’d planned on taking his advice and asking her over. I just didn’t think it’d be so soon.
I’m strong under pressure, and walking up the path to my condo with Mac trailing behind me is straight up compacting. I focus on my breathing and remind myself that exposure therapy has an eighty percent success rate. That’s close to 100 percent. Almost perfect. Fuck, not close enough.
My hand shakes when I slide my key into the door. I pull it away to avoid it rattling the keys and turn to Mac. “Hey, um . . . this may sound stupid, but”—I run my hand through my hair and drop my chin—“would you mind taking your shoes off?” I risk a glance and hope she’s not horrified by my question.
She tilts her head and smiles, as if she’s waiting for me to tell the punch line.
“I’m kinda germaphobic and uh . . .” Fuck, just tell her the truth. It can’t be worse than making her think you’re some kind of pansy-ass dude who’s afraid of a microbial. I sigh in defeat and tug at my lip ring.
“Rex?”
“Look, Mac, the thing is I—dammit.” I’m capable of more than I think. “I don’t have people over.”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part slightly before she slams them closed.
“That’s why I took you to Emma’s the other night, but she’s home now so . . . I wanted to invite you over to see how it feels to have someone in my place. I figured with tonight’s situation . . . seemed like the perfect opportunity.”
She’s still staring at me with what looks like even bigger eyes, if that’s possible.
“My life is chaotic, and having my place all to myself makes me feel grounded. It’s not healthy, and I’m working on that, but until—”
“No problem.” She reaches down and removes one boot before moving to the other. Holding her boots in one hand, she shifts her chin up and gives me a soft smile. “Anything else?”
That’s it? No problem? She doesn’t seem fazed by my confession, outside of her initial shock.
“No.” I lick my lips to avoid the grin that’s pushing its way to the surface. “That’s it.”
I turn back to open the door and slide my shoes off before stepping inside. I feel the heat of her body at my back, and it sets off my internal alarm. I’m not alone in my house. I breathe past the panic and move to the light switch. With a click, the entire living space lights up.
My head jerks toward the sound of Mac’s gasp. She’s standing inside the doorway, her head swiveling from one side of the room to the other, mouth agape, eyes wide.
So much for her not seeming fazed.
~*~
Mac
No walls. The interior of Rex’s condo is completely open. From his kitchen to his bedroom, all of it exposed. Nothing like his neighbor’s tiny place filled with personal items and photos, this feels more like a museum without the artifacts.
“Just drop your shoes at the door and come in.” His voice sounds strangled, as if he had to force out each word against his will.
My heart cramps violently at what he must be feeling. Those who don’t know his history might think he’s simply a germaphobe with impeccable cleaning skills, but not me. No, I know this is part of him. I’m standing at the threshold of a bi-product of his abuse.
I set my boots down neatly next to his black Chucks and step further into the room. My peripheral vision clocks him standing off to the side, watching me, so I force myself to smile past the wave of unease that comes with knowing why he never allows anyone in this space. He’s protecting himself.
“Rex, this is amazing.” I allow my eyes to settle on his for a split second, non-threatening and brief, and catch the glint of relief. I go back to studying the room and can’t help but feel something familiar in it.
What is it? The furniture is sleek and modern, streamlined leather couches and tables without anything on them. Not a knickknack or personal touch in the entire place.
To the right is a modern kitchen, all stainless steel from the appliances to the countertops. Even his bedroom is nothing more than a low bed and two end tables with nothing but a single and very simple lamp.
It’s industrial. All the walls are painted in the same pale shade of gray, and the treated concrete floor is also gray but a shade darker. My eyes are drawn to the one bold splash of color in the whole room.
Hanging above the block fireplace is a painting. It’s big, over two feet wide, probably four feet tall, and like everything else it’s simple. Orange, like the color of the fire that would burn in the space beneath it. The broad strokes cover the canvas in a diagonal pattern, not so much like the sharp flickers of a flame, but more like the soothing flow of waves. The color pops against the steely expanse of the room. I step closer, feeling drawn to its familiarity.
“I love this painting.”
He clears his throat. “Thanks, I did that when I first moved in.” His voice is still distant, detached, but not as nervous as it was before.
He did it?
My head whips in his direction. “You did it?”
He shrugs and a slight pink colors his cheeks. “Yeah. Thought the place needed a little something.”
A slow smile pulls at my lips at the thought of him painting. It makes sense. A guy who writes music would be creative in other areas. How did I not know this about him? “Do you have others?”
He takes a few steps toward me, looking up at his work. “Nah. Just the one.”
I follow his gaze and study the piece, and the more I look at it, the more I can see that the large orange waves are multi-faceted, comprised of many tiny strokes and over a dozen variations of orange. Remarkable. It almost looks like . . . hair.
Orange hair, gray . . .
Recognition slams my chest, robbing my breath. My stomach lurches into my throat and my legs go numb. Eyes fixed on the painting; it grows fuzzy as my vision blurs. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I’m overcome with the burning desire to run out of here, something I’d do if I could feel my damn legs.
It couldn’t be . . .
The room comes into focus in a flash, and I almost drop to my knees. Holy shit. Gray and o
range.
I’ve heard him sing of the colors and wondered if he was referring to me. There’s no way he wouldn’t remember the fiery locks I had as a child. So bright, the color of carrot, I stood out wherever I went. God, could his color choice in his home have something to do with me?
Suddenly dizzy, I move to a black club chair and drop onto its firm cushions.
“Mac?” He’s suddenly in front of me, kneeling down and looking at me with concern.
“Oh, God.” I rub my temples and try to clear the maelstrom of shit whirling through my thoughts. “Rex, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” He sits on the matching ottoman by my knees. “Go ahead.”
Bile bubbles in my throat. What will he say when he finds out who I am? In all my fantasies I pictured him wrapping me in his arms, welcoming me back into his life like a cherished friend. But now, I can’t help but wonder if my presence will only remind him of the life he despised. I finally have him here, opening up to me, sharing himself with me. Revealing who I am could rip him from my loose grip.
But he deserves the truth. And I deserve the consequences, no matter what they are.
I groan and lift my gaze to his. He’s watching me, waiting and . . . he looks terrified. “Rex, I . . .” Just say it, Gia. Spit it out.
He drops his chin and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re freaking out. I understand.”
Freaking out? “No. I mean, yes but—”
A humorless laugh rumbles in his chest. “Bet a guy never asked you to take your shoes off before you walked into his place, huh?” He stands up so quickly and with such force that it knocks the small ottoman a few feet back. “Shit. I knew this was a bad idea.” He moves to the kitchen like a caged animal, all coiled muscles and radiating tension.
“No, please.” I jump up and follow him. “That’s not what I meant.”
I’m no more than a couple feet behind him when he whirls on me and steps into my space. “You think I’m fucking stupid? You think I don’t know how crazy I must look to you right now?” He takes another step toward me and I back up at the war that’s raging behind his eyes. My back hits the kitchen counter, but he keeps advancing. Tendons flare in his neck, making the dragon tattooed there look poised and ready to attack. “Say it, Mac. I want to hear you say it. You think I’m crazy.”
I blink and shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
“Say it. I know you’re thinkin’ it, so out with it.” The heat of his body presses against mine; his arms confine me to one spot. His eyes move from my hair to my lips. “Fuck.”
I throw back an elbow to hold myself up as my upper body is bent back over the counter.
“Look at you. You’re scared of me.”
“No, not scared,” I whisper.
He rolls his lower lip into his mouth, biting down on it. I can’t help my hips reaction and grind into his thigh.
He releases his lip with a hiss of pleasure or pain, I can’t tell. Eyebrows dropped low, he studies my face. “You like crazy.”
“Mm-hm. I like you however you come.”
He’s slipping away. I can feel it. I won’t lose him again. I grasp for anything, a lucid thought, a plan, something that I can say that will get him back. “Paint me something?”
The tension in his arms relaxes, but he stays, locking me to the counter. “Not a painter.”
I tilt my head, motioning to the orange painting. “I think it’s pretty obvious that you are.”
His eyebrows pinch together, and his gaze doesn’t waver from my face. It feels as though he’s trying to read my expression, looking for the fear he thinks he sees or the panic he expects. But he’ll find neither. Locked together from thigh to chest, no better or happier place exists.
As much as I’d like to unload everything, I’m glad I didn’t. Letting me in has taken its toll on his nerves, and bringing up the past is bound to be upsetting. It’ll have to wait one more day.
Decision made, I smile and hope to see him return it. He doesn’t, but instead leans his forehead against mine and practically slumps against me with a deep sigh. Remembering how my aggression affected him in the truck earlier, I force back the desire to throw my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck, opting instead to place my hands on his hips. He doesn’t pull away.
Good. It’s a step.
I close my eyes, our foreheads still touching. “What’s it called?”
“Hm?” His hands slide from the counter to my waist. The heat of his palms separated by the thin fabric of my tank top sends goose bumps up my arms.
“The painting. Does it have a name?”
He shrugs then pushes back, only enough to look over my shoulder at the artwork. “I call it Gia.”
A feeling, like wind filling a billowing sail, fills my chest. I was right. He remembers. On some level, he remembers me. I drop forward so that my forehead rests on his chest.
“It’s beautiful.” Tears gather in my eyes. Hope that there’s a future for us after he learns the truth and relief that the connection we shared as kids wasn’t one-sided. He felt it too. Oh God, this is really happening.
“Look, I’m sorry about that, going off like I did.”
“I understand.” I sniff back my tears. “It’s okay.”
He tugs my chin up. “Hey, you’re crying?”
“No, I’m not crying.” I wipe the tiny bit of moisture that threatens to spill from my lower lid.
His hand moves to my back and strokes up and down in comforting strokes. “I’ll be damned. Didn’t think the girl was capable of tears.”
I snuggle deeper into his hold, and his other hand wraps around me to hold me closer. “The girl is not crying.”
“All right, baby. You just take a minute to suck that shit back, and when you’re ready, I’ll figure out something for us to eat.” His body shakes with what I think is silent laughter.
I tilt my head back to see his face. No more scowl, soft eyes, and yes, he’s laughing. “Stop laughing!”
He coughs up a weak attempt to hide another rumble of laughter.
The easy smile is contagious, and I can’t help but giggle right along with him. Crisis over, tension diverted, deep breaths in and out. We’re back to where we started when we got here, or maybe better?
I gaze up at his beautiful smile. Yeah, definitely better.
Twelve
Can’t help what I feel
Can’t tell if it’s real
There’s no way to know
If this pain will heal
--Ataxia
Rex
Self-fulfilling prophecy. I’d heard of it but never experienced it until tonight. I was so afraid that Mac would take one step into my condo and make a million different judgments about me that I ended up acting like the fool I didn’t want her to think I was. Things weren’t awkward until I made them awkward.
Way to screw it up, asshole.
Since my bug-out in the kitchen, things have gotten better. Mac’s sitting comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked up and to the side, fingers absently running through her dark hair. She’s engaged in whatever sports stats John Anderson is announcing on Sportscenter. Warmth blooms in my chest.
Her eyes are fixed to the television, and I wonder if she even likes sports. I didn’t even think to ask her what she wanted to watch, just turned it on and walked away. If my inexperience with houseguests wasn’t glaringly obvious before, it sure as fuck is now.
“Would you rather watch something else?” I say to her from my spot in the kitchen.
Her eyes snap to mine, and she blinks almost as if I woke her. “No, this is great.”
A hint of unease pricks against my skin, but I can’t place the trigger. I drop the oven door and slide out the pizza stone with the frozen meat lover’s pie I threw in thirty minutes ago. The bubbling cheese and pooling grease from the sausage and pepperoni tempt my taste buds. I’m so sick of this damn diet. As soon as the fight this weekend is over, I’m eating my weight in carne
asada burritos.
“You hungry?”
Her eyes jerk from the TV screen to me in the kitchen. “I wasn’t until I smelled that.” Pushing up from the couch, she moves toward the island barstools.
“Hope you’re not a vegetarian.” I run the pizza cutter through the doughy cheesy concoction then plop a slice onto a plate.
“Nuh-uh, I eat meat.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “I mean not like that.” A heavy blush floods her cheeks. “That sounded bad.”
I laugh and put the plate in front of her along with a bottle of water. “Sounds like you’ve been hanging out with your roommate for too long.” Grabbing a protein shake I made earlier, I take the seat next to Mac at the island.
“Surprisingly, no, it’s been less than a year.” She bites into the pizza, and a soft moan slides from her lips.
I ignore the stirring in my gut at hearing the pleasure-laden sound. “How long have you been in Vegas?”
She freezes mid chew but starts up again and swallows. “Nine months. Give or take.”
“How did you end up with a girl like Trix for a roomie?” It seems like an odd pairing. Trix has been around, trolling the bars Ataxia plays at for as long as we’ve been playing. Trolling doesn’t seem like Mac’s style.
“When I moved here, I got a job as a bartender at Zeus’s.” She picks a string of cheese from her pizza and pops it in her mouth, and my eyes get stuck on how her full lips wrap around her fingertips.
I suppress a groan and give a non-committal “Mm-hm” for her to go on.
“I came to Vegas looking for something. Thought I’d find it at Zeus’s, but I was too late.” She shrugs and takes a bite, casual for someone who just dropped the kind of verbal mindbender she did.
“What were you looking for?” I have to know. I mean this girl doesn’t seem like the type with exotic-dancing wishes and showgirl dreams.
Swiveling in her barstool, she faces me head on. “You.”
My stomach hums with a flash of adrenaline. “Excuse me?”
Her body crumbles in on itself, and the light ringing sound of her laughter fills the air. What the hell? She puts her hand on her chest and blows a long breath from her lips, her eyes still dancing with humor. “I’m sorry. You should’ve seen your face.” Shaking her head, she turns back to her pizza.
Fighting to Forget Page 13
