by S. E. Hall
“You’re also delusional,” I grouch against his finger.
“Nope, don’t think I am,” he chuckles. “But I do think it’s late, been a long night. Let’s get you inside, asleep in your own bed, just like you wanted.”
He moves to open his door and I snag his arm, causing him to look back at me. “Let’s? Inside? Sutton, when I said I’m open to having sex with you, I didn’t mean tonight. Kinda not in the mood... considering.”
He belts out a full-fledge laugh, the always beautiful green of his eyes turned a mesmerizing emerald. “Why me, she asks. Because, Presley Beckett, you are indeed something special. Couple things,” he tames the last of his lingering laughter, shaking his head, “you may never hear me say this again, chances are real good, but I’m not in the mood either. I’m coming inside to make sure you’re able to get a relaxed, much needed night of sleep. No tossin’ and turnin’, good, hard sleep, knowing you’re safe… ‘cause I’m there.”
My head jerks wildly as I protest. “No, not happening, hard pass. Bad idea. I’ll be fine. Alone. Thanks though.”
“Ah, Sugar, it wasn’t a question, offer, or open for debate. I’ll sleep on the floor beside your bed, in the chair in your room, in the hall right outside your bedroom door, or in the goddamn bathtub, I don’t care, take your pick, but I am sleeping somewhere in your apartment tonight.”
“You don’t get to tell me who is or isn’t sleeping in my home, Sutton Patrick Ellis! Now, I appreciate you caring, I really do, but I won’t be strong-armed on this. Or anything, for that matter. The answer is no.” I throw open my door and jump out, hauling ass toward my apartment, his gaining footsteps pounding behind me.
And just like that, he’s caught up, hot breath on my neck, brick wall of a body pressed to my back as I fumble with getting the key in the damn lock. “Sutton,” I seethe, “don’t make me-”
“What?” His laugh is low and virile. “You go right on ahead and can call the cops, and or every man you know. In fact, if you’re gonna call ‘em, you need to call ‘em all, ‘cause I guarandamntee it’ll take every fucking one of them to stop me.” He sweeps my hair off my neck, dipping his head so those full lips I’m too fond of brush my ear and whispers, “you don’t have to admit it’ll make you feel better, safe. We don’t have to say another word about it, tonight or ever. You keep pretending you’re pissed and I’ll keep pretending I believe it. Now open the door, Sugar.”
I take a deep, fortifying breath and tell myself it’s because of tonight’s scare — the paralyzing panic and now, utter exhaustion — that I give a curt nod of my head... and open the door.
Chapter 18
Sutton
Would it be a helluva lot easier if I think her stubborn little scowl is adorable? Yep, the odds are good. If I didn’t find it precious how she ensures that I hear her huffs and catch every dramatic roll of her eyes as she stomps around to get me a blanket and pillow, yes, my life would run a lot smoother. And if the few side-glances she tries to hide, a begrudged ‘thank you’ buried deep therein weren’t encouraging… sure, it might be in the realm of possibility to consider giving up on an us. But where’s the fun, the challenge, the fought for and earned victory, to whom goes the spoils, in taking the easy route?
Not that I have a single option or say in anything, because I do, I so fuckin’ do, think everything about Presley Alexandra Beckett — from her stunning beauty, sharp, clever wit and effortlessly sexy side to her snarky, vulnerably defensive other side — is positively hypnotic. No fighting it; it just is.
In spite of one’s plans, ideals or, perhaps shortsightedness, sometimes, if they’re damn lucky, that certain someone is placed directly in their path… and things just… click. A someone who calls to them, in an instinctive voice, unique and undeniable. So color me one very lucky bastard, because that’s Presley — my click — on a molecular level.
“Sutton, hello? I know you’re not sleeping standing up, your eyes are open. Ignoring me isn’t your style either, so, where ya at?” she asks, and since her hands are full, kicks me in the damn shin to get my attention.
It works, snapping me out of my thoughtful haze with a laugh… because again, only Presley can manage to make kickin’ the shit outta ya cute. “Allow me, Beckham.” I take the heap from her arms and set it in the chair. “Where ya want me to sleep?”
“At your own place.” She doesn’t hesitate a lick to quip back, flashing me her sassiest grin.
Seems they were right — I do have a “condition” — ‘cause sure enough, a rumble starts building from deep in my chest as I prepare to unleash my redirect, but she stops me short of the loud, non-negotiable, alpha-speech I had ready with a soft, beautifully distracting snicker and swat to my chest. “I know, I know, not an option. Just givin’ ya shit, tuck your growly back in. And I guess take the couch, if you can fit on it. If not...” She shrugs. “Dunno what to tell ya there, Tiny.”
“Tiny,” I scoff, “will figure it out. You beddin’ down now, relaxed enough? If not, we could talk, or watch some TV if you’re still amped up.”
Her teeth toy with her bottom lip and there’s a single, slight and quick, shift from one foot to the other before she responds. “I’m good. Going to bed. Night.” She spins and starts toward her room even faster than she just gushed out that poorly-veiled lie.
“Hey, Hot Shot?”
“Yeah?” She stops walking but keeps her back to me.
“Now that I thought about it, realize I’m still a lil’ keyed up. You mind chattin’ me down? I can’t go from twelve to asleep on a dime.”
“Fine,” she huffs and pivots, making ever-sure to top-off the performance with one of her signature eye-rolls. “Damn, you’re high maintenance. Alright, Sutton, get tucked in, all nice and cozy, and I’ll tell you a bedtime story,” she ribs in a babyish coo.
“‘Preciate it.” I hide my knowing grin as I make up a bed on the sofa, then… stand there, debating. Can’t say as I’ve been to a whole lotta sex-free sleepovers, but I’m guessing I probably shouldn’t strip down, so I drag-ass taking off my shoes and socks, hoping she gives me some guidance. And as always, she doesn’t disappoint.
“Sutton, you don’t have to sleep in your clothes. You’re already gonna try to somehow fit on that couch,” she snickers. “No sense adding more discomfort.”
“You sure?”
She grins and bobs her head. “Seen it all before, Stud, and I’m not feelin’ real jump your bonesish, so you’re safe.”
“Jump your bonesish?” I repeat on a laugh, yanking my shirt over my head.
“Yep, it’s a thing.” Her tone’s changed, to a feathery whisper, and her eyes… they’re deadlocked on my bare chest, filled with conflict — desire fighting uncertainty, impulse battling willpower — forcing me to make the decision for both of us. I stop unbuttoning my fly… sleeping in my jeans.
“I’ll be good like this,” I speak abruptly, lying down on the couch even faster, contorting my way through a useless attempt at getting comfortable. “Hey,” I reach for her hand, giving it a gentle shake, “not gonna watch you stand. Here,” I drop one leg to the floor, “have a seat.”
She feigns annoyance — I often wonder if it’s become habit or if she still has to consciously remind herself to do so — but betrays her own act with how quickly she crawls into the space I’ve created. Once she’s situated, I pull my leg back up, and wrap them both around her. “There ya go, snug as a bug.”
“Snug as a bug?” It’s her turn to parrot me. “What man even knows that phrase? And analyzes song lyrics? Sutton, if you weren’t a big-ass mountain of muscle, with a Harley, truck, and sexy tats, whose dick I know first-hand is fully functional, I might be forced to tease you about your sensitive side.”
“Tease away, Hot Shot. I’m pretty secure in my man-stance.”
“Guess I would be too if I were you. Secure in my man-stance,” she laughs.
“Yep, it’s a thing.” I grin, but not because of my catchy comeback. No, my ha
ppiness is due solely to the fact that although unaware, she’s relaxed against me, burrowing herself in snugly. “By the way, thanks for the ‘fully functional’ shout-out.”
“Ahh, does someone need his ego stroked?”
“You’re snuggled in between my legs, all sleepy and sexy, talkin’ ‘bout my dick. Don’t need a damn thing stroked, but… maybe don’t use that word again, Sugar. Only so much a man can take.”
And just like that, I pushed too far. Her lazy lids fly open and she jolts upright, catapulting herself over my leg and off the couch as if the damn thing’s on fire. “You got your chat, I’m going to bed now. For real this time. Night.”
“Night,” I mumble in regret, to myself… since she’s already gone.
*****
What can only be a few hours later, sounds of the shower and soft music wake me from my uncomfortable-as-fuck attempt at sleep. My neck’s stiff and my feet are numb from hanging over the end of this miniature version of a couch, but I wouldn’t have “slept” anywhere else… except beside her in bed.
I groan as I start to rouse; not of pain, but disappointment — that she’s already awake, well-short of the rest she needed, and most definitely because of the song she’s got playing — just a bit shy of “chipper.” I don’t know it offhand; doesn’t matter, I do know a gloomy ballad when I hear one. Which is why I grab my phone and google the few repetitive lyrics I’m able to pick out; to see what the hell it is singer dude’s droning about. Presley can give me shit all she wants, but we both know she pays just as much credence to lyrics as I do. She confirmed that with her reaction to “Infinity Street.” So, whatever song this is, she’s picked it for a reason. I finally find it — “Sign of the Times” by Harry Styles. Whoever the hell that is. I scan through the words… Jesus, depressing much? I read them one more time, and I’m still confused. Is he dying, saying goodbye to someone else who’s dying, or is this a mass-death anthem? Again, doesn’t fucking matter; any/all of the options suck. It’s intervention time.
I stand and try shifting my morning wood to an unobvious-as-possible position, which doesn’t work, then head for her room. The door to it opens, but the bathroom one’s locked, so I knock, loud enough to be heard over the music, but hopefully not too loud, as in “scare the shit outta her” volume. “Everything okay in there?”
She yelps, so much for not scaring her, and after a few seconds the music’s gone. “What?”
“Just checkin’ if you’re alright?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Oh, I don’t know… maybe because you’ve had next-to-no sleep, after a horrible night, and just so happen to have chosen a suicidal serenade to start your day?
What I say though, is, “no reason, just makin’ sure. You hungry? I could whip something up.”
“No, you couldn’t,” she laughs. “My fridge is a barren wasteland, not sure why I even have one.”
Damn, don’t wanna leave her, but can’t not offer if… “are ya hungry?”
“I could eat, but I’m not starving. Don’t worry about it, really.”
She’s hungry. Gotta feed her, so, gotta leave her; not for long though.
“How ‘bout I run out and grab us something?”
“Sounds good. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, babe. You got anywhere particular in mind?”
“Nope, whatever works. I’m easy.”
I call bullshit with a chuckle under my breath. If Presley’s “easy,” I never wanna meet up with hard. “Alright, I’ll be right back.” Still chuckling to myself, I turn to go… and see it. Just sitting there, out in the open, tempting me like Eden’s apple. How, I haven’t a clue, but I know instantly what it is, and that I have no right to even think about taking a closer look, but I do so anyway. It makes me a terrible person, and now, actually undeserving of the trust I so badly want her to give, and yet, I just can’t seem to summon up the strength to stop myself, let the potential of what could be pass me by. Any insight into Presley, the woman who refuses to give me any, lest a flitting, accidental peek… it’s too hopeful, promising, to resist. Within reach, a key… to a door I can’t kick down. No “magic password” to gain entry. Suppose you were granted the power to see someone else’s thoughts… would you take it? That’s what it comes down to; what I must ask myself. Am I willing to forego everything I consider “the right thing to do” to truly enter her world? Understand her? Unlock the labyrinth that keeps her from true happiness?
Yes. If it helps her, then the answer’s simple. Yes, I am.
So, having justified in my head, my heart not buying a word of it and already aching, I plop my deceitful ass down on her bed, my shame strong, but being overpowered by possibility… and start reading her journal.
Thinking I’ve left, she cranks the music back up, this time a song I recognize — “Iris” — no less concerning than the one before and the more I read of raw, unfiltered Presley, poured onto the page, the more I understand her song choices. All her choices. Why she insists on the indestructible fortress she lives behind. Why she never even considers investing in a long-term relationship, avoiding any real emotion. With each and every word the pieces start falling in place to form a startling, enraging portrait of my mystery girl.
I read faster, flipping pages like a madman, which I now may be, until I no longer see words — I see red. Not metaphorically. My vision is literally fogged by a thick, dark crimson, the hue of a savage rage the likes of which I wouldn’t have thought myself capable. The color of blood, that will be shed by cause of my hands if given the chance.
Countless questions whirl my mind in a chaotic racket, along with ideas on how to inflict the most pain possible, and loudest of all… ways to help her. Somehow, thank God, I’m aware enough to notice when the music and shower both turn off, hustling to put the journal back right where I found it before sprinting down the hall to grab my shit and bolt out the door. Halting in my tracks just as quickly, I double-check that I locked it behind me — always, amidst anything, Presley’s safety my utmost priority. Now, impossibly more so than ever.
But one thing at a time. Right now, I need to pull myself together, go get food, and fake my way through sanity until I figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do with, about, my new stolen knowledge. I want to go on a rampage, search out answers, crack fuckin’ skulls, beat someone ‘til I feel the worthless, undeserved life leave their body. More than anything though, I want to know why, how, my precious girl was left to hurt alone when she has such a large, “hands on” family. The most perceptive damn “clan” I’ve ever known, aware of shit another clan-member’s thinking or feeling before they themselves are. How the hell did this, of all balls, get dropped? Especially by Sawyer Beckett? And Dane Kendrick? Two sinisterly scary motherfuckers… who both missed it. Doesn’t add up.
I’m not about to call either one of them, but I’m also not about to just drive around in wonder, so I call the person closest to Presley… the punk I thought was a close friend of mine too.
“Hey,” JT answers, as if everything’s fine and he harbors no guilt over lying to me for months. “How’s P? She make it through the night okay?”
“Hey yourself. She made it fine, and she’s… well she’s as good as she can be, considering,” I seethe, unable to contain my anger. “Got a question for ya. I’ve asked it before, more than once, but I’m gonna try One. Last. Time. Be very careful how you answer me, brother.”
“Okayyyy,” he drawls in worried curiosity. He’s wise to be worried.
“Why is Presley… the way she is? You know what I mean, no friends other than family, never goes out without one of you, repulsed by the thought of real dating, hates crowds, the thing last night. All of it. Why?”
“Why are you asking? Is P okay or not? What the hell’s going on?”
“I already told you, she’s fine. I’m out grabbin’ us something to eat while she takes a shower. Don’t change the subject. Tell. Me. Why.” Don’t you dare lie to me again, man.
; “I honestly don’t know, I swear. Don’t you think if I did, I’d do something about it?”
“Bullshit!” I roar, tempted to steer this fucking truck north and go kick his ass. “Your family tells each other everything. No way in hell it’s gone unnoticed, or unaddressed, that there’s something severely off with Presley. I know you’re all about ‘our private business’ and shit, but not today. Not ever again. Not about this, her. I mean it, J, quit fuckin’ lying to me, or I swear to God…” I inhale until my lungs burn for release, trying to remind myself that bees are best caught with honey, not boisterous, threatening vinegar, and slowly exhale. “Just,” my voice’s a bit calmer, “tell me the truth. I’m not kidding, last chance.”
“You need to step way the fuck back, dude.” He dishes out some vinegar of his own. “I don’t know what’s got you all wound up, thinking you can come at me like this, but I’m gonna give you about five damn seconds to reel it in before I tell ya to go fuck yourself. Listen good, Sutton. I. Don’t. Know. I’ve begged her to tell me more times than I can count. She never has, not a single word. None of us know. I love Presley. I’d die for her. So, if I had the slightest clue how to help her, I would. Bank on that shit. Sounds to me like you might actually know more than I do. And, learned nothing your first go-round, getting all attached again. Maybe worse this time.”
He’s not wrong; I’m beyond redemption or detachment — unconcerned with the fact that self-inflicted wounds always hurt the worst. He’s also telling the truth — he really is clueless. Unbelievable. I woulda bet an internal organ on their family having no secrets. Every interaction I’ve had with the loving group of lunatics would suggest that nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, is too inappropriate or humiliating to share with the whole class. Apparently, I was wrong. And now, not only do I need to apologize to JT, but I have to throw him off scent. This will be a solo hunt.
“I lose ya, asshole?”
“Nah,” my laugh’s a dry effort. “I was just thinking. Listen, I’m sorry, man. Shouldn’t have jumped ya like that. Rough night, not enough sleep, frustrated as fuck I can’t reach her. There’s no excuse, which is what all those were,” I chuckle lightly, “but yeah, my bad. Sorry.”
