She turned and walked inside. A stir of interest came from my pants at the sight of her round ass in those shorts. I sent a gaze toward the open staircase, figuring it would be best if I turned around and left.
But my alternative was going home by myself. Playing video games or fucking around online. Unless Paul was awake and wanted to talk about everything or, worse, nothing. A heart-to-heart with my dad was not my idea of a fun night.
So I followed her inside.
Her place was freaking nice. When Dev had given me the address, courtesy of Rena, who recited it without argument, he’d never mentioned Tasha lived in a swanky apartment. Made my makeshift bungalow above my dad’s garage look like I’d carved two squares into the side of a box.
The living room and kitchen were both gray, with black flat-front cabinets in the kitchen and an island with a stainless steel sink in the center. I turned my head to take in her third-floor view, impressed by the spacious balcony and her furniture. There was no hand-me-down anything in here. Her L-shaped couch was deep charcoal, the pillows a soft pink color that reminded me of her skin tone.
I was out of place here. Especially in my uniform for Oak & Sage. I stepped up to the kitchen counter and tried to look more relaxed than I felt.
“Pizza in ten minutes. Interested?” She turned on the oven light and peeked in.
I was starving. I’d come straight from work. After bottling my anger rather than taking it out on Hamilton’s face, my mood had been thoroughly soured. As I watched Tasha sip wine, her breasts flirting with the cotton shirt, I considered my mood had now gone the same direction as my dick. Up.
Way up.
“Wine?” she offered.
I grimaced.
“No, I guess you aren’t a wine guy, are you?” she said to herself. She pulled open the fridge—a fancy stainless steel double-doored monster—and murmured, “Let’s see…What do former prelaw frat boys drink?”
I swallowed a smile, my first of the evening, and rested my hands on the kitchen island. This room was huge for an apartment. My entire living space would fit in the front room. Much as I wanted to dislike her for giving me hell about my college past, I sort of liked her ribbing me for it.
“Hmm,” she hummed, her head hidden behind the refrigerator door. “I don’t seem to have a keg in here. And I’m fresh out of Mad Dog.” She pulled her head out and shot over a smile that disarmed me…save the sword in my pants. That fucker was fully armed.
I adjusted myself when she turned around and tried to think of anything but my physical needs. Or that I was ridiculously attracted to Tasha Montgomery. It was much more convenient when I’d foolishly believed I could get her into my bed for one night. Now getting in her pants would require us seeing each other afterward.
I tried to make that sound bad in my head, but couldn’t.
“Fancy beer is all I have.” She came out with a bottle and handed it to me. “I don’t even drink it, but I thought if someone came over, it’d be polite to have options.” She shrugged, looking sad for a moment. My heart lurched. I didn’t like when Tasha looked sad. “Anyway. Hope you like IPAs.” One eyebrow tilted. “Extra bitter. Kind of like you.”
And she was back.
I felt another smile take my mouth, which shocked the hell out of me after the night—the last two nights—I’d had.
I reached for the corkscrew, flipped it around to the bottle opener on the end, and cracked the lid off the beer. I took a generous sip as Tasha watched me curiously. Maybe hopefully. Little did she know, I wasn’t all PBR all the time. I could drink a beverage not served out of a red Solo cup.
“You’re welcome.” She lifted her wineglass, then added, “You have a dimple.”
She’d noticed. Interesting.
She pointed at her own cheek and smiled. No dimples for her. “Yours made a rare appearance just now.”
That’s when the air charged between us. There was sexual tension hovering in the room, and it wasn’t only coming from me. It was in the way she darted her eyes from mine, in the soft pink hue that stole her cheeks.
No matter what, I was going to convince her to let me have a taste of that mouth before I left.
“So, what needs fixing?” she asked.
My shoulders deflated at the reminder of my shortcoming. I took another generous drink of my beer, then pointed at my mouth and made a few circular motions.
This. All of this.
She nodded, no judgment in her expression. “Okay.” She wasn’t surprised. “You’re finally ready to work?”
Even without makeup, she was gorgeous. No jewelry. Hell, practically no clothes. I couldn’t get over how relaxed and open she looked. It was nice to see her not fretting over her appearance.
“Lucky for you,” she said with a sigh as she dug hot pads from a drawer, “I read a few books on speech therapy over the last week.” She canceled the timer that was ten seconds from beeping, opened the oven door, and jolted when I sidled up next to her and put my palm on her hip.
I loved hearing her surprised gasp, mostly because it made me wonder if that intake of breath was only out of surprise, or if she would sound that way if I kissed her neck. What sound would she make if I licked a trail from her neck to her earlobe, then suckled?
I slid my hand from her hip to her arm and took the hot pads from her.
She backed away and I pulled out the pizza stone, holding a giant pizza, cheese browned and bubbled to perfection. The spicy scent of sausage, onions, and green peppers hit my nostrils and my stomach growled.
I slid the pizza onto the stovetop as Tasha retrieved a round slicer from one of two million drawers in the kitchen. I didn’t know how the hell she found anything in here. As she went to work gliding the cutter over the pizza in even triangles, she asked, “When did you want to start? After dinner?”
“N-no.” My eyelids sank closed in frustration. I was exhausted as it was. And being forced to communicate when it was already taxing was futile. The pizza and beer and hanging with Tasha sounded better than tripping over my tongue for the next hour.
The thought made me think of her tongue. Hers was a tongue I’d like to trip over, repeatedly. Earn a few more of those gasps or a moan or two. I wondered what she liked and if I could deliver. That was a challenge I was up for.
She didn’t acknowledge my stutter or press me about what had happened at the restaurant tonight. I was glad. A moment later she handed me a plate and a cloth napkin and offered a fork that I waved off.
I thought of my own kitchenette, my elf-sized sink and the one cabinet, and my fridge that looked like a mini-me of hers. I didn’t think I had more than one fork, and that one I’d stolen out of the main kitchen.
Tasha corralled me in the living room. We ate and drank and didn’t talk. She flipped through a magazine while chatting about the test she thought she’d failed, as the music on her iPod alternated between slow rock and bouncy pop.
I finished my pizza and went back for a third slice, listening and liking the sound of her voice.
The anger saturating me on the way here evaporated by the time I uncapped my second beer. I knew it wasn’t courtesy of the alcohol that I had come down about seventy notches.
It was Tasha.
Chapter 6
Tasha
I climbed in my Beamer and pointed it toward the Wilson residence, Nurse Tunstill’s words echoing in my head. Moira couldn’t have been less enthusiastic if I’d asked her to eat a bowl of live earthworms.
I’d gone to her home, address courtesy of Veronica, to ask her for her insight on Cade. Or what little she’d gleaned before she’d stormed out of the Wilson house and left me to take over.
Moira Tunstill was a large German woman whose scowl appeared permanently etched on her aging brow. I wasn’t surprised that Cade hadn’t liked her—she was probably like looking into a mirror for him.
What I didn’t fully comprehend was how he’d scared her off. The woman was thoroughly unshakable. I mentioned Cade and “fi
xing him,” and to my surprise, Moira listened. Much like her former patient, her words were few. Finally she let me in on this gem: “Mental,” she’d said in her thick accent. “Wilson’s problems, mental.”
I thanked her and scuttled out of her house, teeth still aching from the hard-as-a-rock cookies she’d served. The word “mental” had been clattering around in my head as I drove on autopilot.
What if she was right? What if Cade’s being tongue-tied was in his head? An emotional state rather than a physical one?
The doctors at the hospital had been quick to point out a brain injury, and while I was far from a doctor, I hadn’t seen Cade have any motor skill issues. He’d physically recovered at warp speed, and given the progress he’d made on the car and his video game prowess in the previous months, I hazarded a guess his hand-eye coordination wasn’t lacking. The only issue existing now was the gap between the words he wanted to say and the words he attempted to say.
I had a feeling there was more going on in his head than the one- to three-word responses he managed.
When he showed up at my house the other night he’d said the word “fix” with a hesitant F. We ate pizza and listened to music, and I talked about school. He slid me a smile every once in a while, or interjected with the occasional “yeah” of agreement. It’d been a while since I spent time with a guy doing anything nonsexual. My ex wasn’t much for conversation. Maybe that was why when I saw Cade out, walking him to the front door, my eyes had zoomed to his lips.
Vixen that I was, my mind on the almost kiss at the restaurant, my hand had curled around the doorknob, wishing he’d lean close again, because this time, there would be no interruption. Instead, he’d spoken three words: “See you, Tasha,” and each syllable was as plain as day.
No kiss. No more conversation. He’d left after that.
I turned onto his street and parked in the driveway. Cade and I had decided to do our usual session today, but on the drive over I’d been admiring the sunshine and warm breeze, and decided to experiment with environment.
Yes, our session would happen outside of his room today. Maybe the disconnect was his house. Was living at home holding him back?
Only one way to find out.
Cade
Tasha entered the main kitchen, her smile bright, a big, dark pair of sunglasses hiding her eyes. “I wondered where you were when I didn’t find you in your new room.”
Because there was no food in my new room, I’d wandered in here. I cocked an eyebrow.
“I don’t think you’ll need a jacket,” she said.
What is she talking about?
She flipped her keys into her palm and continued grinning. She might not have dimples, but she was damn cute when she grinned.
I’d just climbed out of the shower and was wearing my typical wardrobe of sweats and a sleeveless tee. She’d caught me eating a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies I’d found in the freezer. Sorry, Dad. Finders, keepers.
Her eyes went to my sock-covered feet. “But you will need shoes.”
Before I could ask where we were going, or wait for an answer, she snatched the cookie out of my hand and ate it in one bite. With her cheeks filled to chipmunk capacity, she pointed to the front door.
I fought a smile and lost.
Tasha tipped her head, sending her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. Then she followed that head tip behind her to the garage, leaving me alone and so curious I couldn’t stand it.
Sleeve of cookies in hand, I blinked at the now-empty space on the other side of the counter where she’d stood a second ago. I woke up in a shitty mood today, regretting my stammered request of “Fix me” from last night. I was hoping she’d forget I said that and we could go back to our former routine of her doing homework and me watching her.
I could likely get away with never speaking again. I mean, who cared if I did? There wasn’t much talking required in the field of “head busboy” or car mechanic, so I figured I’d be good.
No such luck, apparently.
I polished off the last cookie, crumpled the plastic wrapper, and dropped it into the trash can. I exited into the garage and spotted Tasha at the steering wheel of her shiny silver Z4. Waiting for me. I liked that as much as I liked her gleaming car. I wondered if I played her little game whether she’d let me take it for a spin today.
I watched her head bob to music I couldn’t hear, just knowing it was some stupid pop bubblegum crap. In spite of myself, the corner of my mouth curved. She was cute when she was rocking out to pop bubblegum crap.
Last night I’d chuckled at her for listening to a One Direction song. Good thing I couldn’t talk, or else she would have been curious about how I knew it was One Direction. See? Not speaking wasn’t so bad.
Except when I had questions about her life. School. What turned her on—and not sexually, though, yeah, also sexually—but I wanted to know what she was into. What made her eyes go bright and her smile beam? There was a huge communication gap between us. Between me and everyone I knew, actually, but the one between Tasha and me bothered me most.
The sun was out, the spring day beckoning. Even guys like me were beckoned on occasion. Not so much by chirping birds as the shine glinting off that Beamer. Damn, but she drove a nice-ass car.
A minute and a half later, I had pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and slipped my feet into running shoes. I shut the garage door and climbed into the Z4’s passenger seat, adjusting it since my knees were currently under my chin. A soft giggle came from my driver. Tasha smiled prettily, her pink glossed lips parting ever so slightly.
She threw the car into gear, and as she backed down the driveway said, “You smell good.”
So did she. The whole car, actually. New-car smell intermingled with Tasha’s strawberries-and-flowers scent. The seats were buttery leather, the dash smooth wood dotted with black buttons with orange lights. I fiddled with the radio while she hung a left, then a right, before navigating onto the highway.
It was frustrating not knowing where we were headed. More frustrating watching her underutilize the fine automobile she drove. I mean, seriously. A hundred questions entered my head about everything from the alloy wheels to the suspension. Whether or not this baby had turbo. My skin itched from how badly I wanted to know.
Another pro of speaking, I thought as I chalked up an invisible hash mark.
“Yours?” I managed after she switched lanes. I knew the Z4 was new, but I had no idea if it was hers or if her father let her borrow it.
“The car?” she asked.
I pressed a button and an interior light came on. I clicked it off.
“My father bought it for me a month ago. I was scared to drive it at first, but I’m getting the hang of it.”
No she wasn’t. I winced as she ground a gear.
I shook my head and popped open the glove compartment. In it I found a brochure describing the seat color as “champagne.” There was also a steering wheel warmer. I leaned forward and flipped it on, then off. I saw a button for voice command on the wheel, but that was more of a hindrance than a feature for me.
“Help yourself,” she said as I poked more buttons.
I continued familiarizing myself with her unbelievably expensive vehicle while she drove.
“I don’t know everything this car does yet. But I did preset my radio stations.”
Of course she had.
I put the brochure away and slid my eyes to the speedometer. She was going sixty miles per hour. It was criminal to drive this car below eighty-five.
I licked my lips, preparing to speak. Moved my tongue around my palate once, twice.
“Wuh-where are we going?” Damn.
“I’m so glad you asked,” she said without looking over. She changed lanes, not as smoothly as I would’ve, and as a result the car jerked and wobbled. My heart thrummed. I couldn’t picture the accident exactly, but some part of my physiology remembered it. The wiggle of her car’s wheels on the road was enough to make my teeth hurt from a phan
tom impact. Made me want to ask her pull over and let me drive instead. Sitting in the driver’s seat would make me feel better, more in control.
“I’m super excited to try a few new things today with your therapy,” she said over the music. She smiled over at me and I rolled my eyes.
Yippee.
“Outdoor therapy,” she said.
Therapy. I hated that word. Made the vision of the bird with a broken wing persist. It had been bad enough when I was literally broken, but my bones had healed. To have her see me as mentally deficient was emasculating and frustrating to no end.
I huffed and glared out the window.
“I’m so glad you agree.” She’d handily ignored my grunt of dissatisfaction.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Ridgeway Art Museum a few minutes later and unbuckled her seatbelt. I followed suit.
“How’s your hand?” she asked.
I flexed my fingers. Shrugged. I wasn’t interested in talking more today. My heart was pounding extra hard against my ribs. Sounded like a damn drum in my ears.
She grasped my hand, her slender fingers cool. I flicked my eyes to her face. To her blond hair, which looked as if it’d absorbed the sun, to her fair brows pinched over her nose. Then to the bow of her lips, pursed in thought.
I had a full-blown crush on my therapist.
“Today I’m going to do as you asked last night. We’re going to work on fixing you,” she announced cheerfully.
Fixing me.
Her soothing tone, the sympathy in her eyes, and my own creeping anxiety sent me out of the car like it had caught fire. A shake rattled my arms as I imagined her asking me to try to speak and my failing miserably. Suddenly I didn’t want to be here.
I didn’t want to try, and fail, at doing whatever “therapy” she had in mind. I liked it better when we were having pizza. When there was music in the background. When she wasn’t looking at me like a project. Or a science experiment.
Shut Up and Kiss Me: A Lost Boys Novel Page 6
