“Will you come up here with me?” Dexter says, pointing to a watch point, a brick platform with its own roof.
He surprises me. He won’t admit to romance—I’m sure he’s that type of guy—but I’ve never felt this breathless around a guy before and this isn’t even a date. He lets me go before him.
Still behind me, he says, “Is your dad okay?”
Weeks. Weeks I’ve been trying to type this to Rosa, but by the time I’m usually halfway done messaging, I think: I can’t type this out; I can’t say this; what do I say?
“No.” I shock myself saying that, the jolt shooting just under my skin making me shiver. “I mean—oh, wow, that was a bad thing to say.” I hang my head.
Something, I realize it can only be Dexter, nudges my shoulder.
“He says he’s hopeful but he’s doing all this talk.”
Dexter’s eyebrow perks up, just one of them. A surge of jealousy burns my face seeing this. In vain, I’d dedicated most of my third grade as an eight-year-old watching my reflection in the mirror try to do this. It’s so much hotter on him.
The hill’s incline increases and I’m almost lunging by the time we reach the watch point. “It’s like…” I finish off my sentence with a huff.
There’s a waist-high railing with a plaque inside, explaining the reservoir’s significance. Although it’s just a roof above us and a platform underneath, I’m aware of how close Dexter and I are. I could touch his forearm from here. Like me, he leans on the railing. He’s a head taller than I am, so he has to hunch over more to do it. The muscles in his forearms tense under his shirt, which is bunched up at his elbows, smeared with grease. Again, my mind wanders off into thoughts of those tattoos. Are they for that girl, Raych, he was with? Is he in love with someone else? Is he inked just to look good? (If so it absolutely works.)
Somehow, I feel it’s deeper than that because guys don’t go tattooing their arms with hearts, even if they’re stabbed with thorns. And they don’t go writing symbols or names on the skin for a crush. Maybe he’s a different sort of person than I’ll ever get to know.
“He’ll live though, right?”
Dexter’s voice catches me. Did it just quiver? I steal a glance but he’s squinting at the reservoir, leaning over in a carefree way, rocking back, then forth. Basically looking hotter than my imagination has ever served me.
I should say no, but I reply, “He’s trying to.”
In my peripheral vision, Dexter’s fingers wiggle along the rounded top of the railing. They were an inch farther from mine last time I looked.
“Isn’t that the most important part, though?” Dexter asks. Then he tears his face away, to me, but still clutching the railing so tightly his tendons are sinewy under his snug-fitting shirt. Moments from tears, I want to look in those eyes and collapse in them.
“Isn’t what matters that he’s willing to fight despite his chances, rather than sooking and being a pain in the butt?”
My self-control bursts into hysterical laughter. I sound like a witch, a dirty witch, is what I think, but I can’t stop these laughs. Not from where they rock my body, too deep to find how they started. It’s weird that Dexter uses “sook” like I do, weird that I’m looking for ways to associate him with me.
Dexter’s mouth turns up and he nudges my shoulder again. When our breathy cackles slow to gasps and then silence, it’s then that it registers his fingers are tangled with mine. Too much time has passed since we sparked the first touch, so now I’m caught between feeling like I should rip my hand away, and never wanting the wind to blow too hard or the rain to start or for time to pass so we don’t ever have to move an inch.
“Your accent’s weird,” I say. It’s the first and worst thing I think of, fumbling for any sort of words in any combination to come out of my mouth.
“I get that. Mom and Dad were born in Australia, though.”
That’s all Dexter says, and although it’s not a complicated answer, I find myself unable to look at him, instead tracing the contours of the water with my gaze, still so confused as to how something this breathtaking was here. All. This. Time.
“So you are, or were, American?”
“Once upon a time. I grew up in Chicago.” He pulls my hand tighter into his and I glance over at him. He looks at our tangled fingers, the first of us to acknowledge the heat swirling at where our skin meets. His eyes wander over my fingers, wrist, arm.
“Okay, so Dex. If you call me that ridiculous ‘Charz’ name, then I get to call you Dex,” I say, surprising myself at shortening his name. Is that the terms we’re on? It feels too intimate.
“Great!” He throws up a hand. “Great, my name is a joke.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I actually think it’s—” Do not say that word! “—easy. That’s all. A slightly weird but—”
“I was joking—or at least trying to.” Softer, he mumbles, “It was beyond lame.”
In my embarrassment at having him explain his joke—this should never, ever be done—I manage to simply nod.
“I’m sorry if I’m short,” he says.
“It’s okay.”
How did he step into my space just like that? My heart picks up, and I’m too stunned to think of something witty, sexy, or remotely cool to say. All I’m thinking of is the proximity.
“Can we not talk about me?”
“Oh…‘kay?”
He breezes his fingers at the ends of my hair hanging over my shoulder. Either it’s me or he’s using my hair to tug me closer. Maybe it’s me. Thoughts of my knees giving out fill my mind. Thoughts of him tightening his fist in my hair and tipping my chin to the sky while he trails a flutter of kisses down my neck.
It sounds unhealthy when it would be better if we kept our contact limited. So unhealthy I can’t help but feel flustered at those thoughts.
“You shouldn’t have to hear about me,” he says, head drooped.
“Hey.” I wait for him to meet my gaze. “I know.”
“I swear.”
“No, Dex.”
“I didn’t. I swear. Oh, shit,” he continues.
“Dex.” I let go of his fingers and steady him by putting my hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes flare with surprise, but in a good way because his gaze seems to caress my face. That, and I can feel something through his shirt, in his skin, thumping away. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”
I am surprised as much as he is considering it wasn’t long ago I thought the opposite. But there’s no way I can sense a hint of a criminal in this guy.
He tears away from me, stomping one, two, three steps, then halting and spinning to face me again. “Don’t.” He points a finger at my face, his expression full of sheer rage. “Don’t you dare forgive me. I was there. I was controlling the lift—”
I shake my head and step forward. He stays put.
“I should have asked for an extra safety check. Those children. Those parents. Your parents.”
Another step.
“What’s wrong with you? I operated that ski lift, Charz. It was my job to make sure those two dozen people had the time of their lives and they had a time of their lives that’ll forever be fucked up. Get it yet? Me. Me, me, me. Your mom, your dad, all those other strangers hurt and their holidays ruined. All because of me. Please stop acting like this, all ‘forgiving’ because it fucking hurts.”
He’s rigid by the time I’m close enough to wrap my arms around him. The moment I catch him in my embrace he stops, but his shoulders are still heaving with exertion. With my ear to his chest, I can hear how loud the rage is in his lungs as he inhales and exhales. His breath, rapid and hot, touches the edges of my ear and heat flushes down my body in response.
What Dexter didn’t say, but what his tone pierced my heart with, was hurt, resolution. Dexter didn’t do it. I think deep down I’ve known all along. But through his words and his voice and his rigid body, there’s a helpless defensiveness there that I picked up on since we came here. It’s the consumin
g guilt that draws me to him. Maybe we aren’t so different.
It’s only for a moment, but he clutches my waist with one hand and presses my head tightly to his chest, holding me under him with his chin on my head.
“Charz.”
My name on his lips. I’m on his lips.
I’ve heard rumors about him, too, about him with girls, and not just with Raych. That had been the only thing holding me back if he ever were to want me. Could Dexter hurt me too? Maybe I wouldn’t be just another girl. But that’s probably wishful thinking. Dex isn’t known for committing.
He pries me from his chest and drops his hand from the back of my head, tracing my ear, along my jawline. He snatches his fingers a moment before they press into my lip.
“Please, Charz. Don’t make this hard.”
Hard? He’s worried about me complicating his situation with Raych? Oh. Oh. Of course. I pull away from his hands altogether feeling cold and small with no one holding me. I can’t be that girl who breaks up his relationship.
“I don’t mean to…” I step away. “Please don’t tell her. I’m sorry.”
“What?” His face is pure shock. His eyes pop too wide, his lower lip slack. Then something registers and he takes my chin. Just like my dad does. I feel safe like this, despite Dex’s conflicting actions.
“Charz,” he says. “I mean, Charlee? I’m not sure if I’m giving you the wrong signal, but there is no ‘you and me’. There can’t be. There’s stuff you don’t know.” He mumbles something I’m sure is a cuss and runs his hand through his hair, looking so vulnerable, I want to try to forget how raw and stinging my heart is. “Just keep an eye on your dad.”
My dad? What does my dad have to do with a future between Dex and I? That’s when any competition with Raych is squashed into nonexistence.
And when my heart plummets.
Dex is still looking at me when I realize this. His words are inflected with so much more than he’s simply stated, and like the gory details of Dad’s demise, I cannot hear any more if something is going on. Since forever I’ve stayed out of mess and gossip.
I give him a curt nod and tell him he should get back to work.
10. Sensuality and Sizzling Secrets
Dexter
I didn’t expect Charz to be at KFC but she’s here ordering some fries.
“No chicken?” I ask, tapping her shoulder.
WTF, Dexter? Wasn’t I not talking to her unless necessary and/or required? One whiff of that sweet candy scent and that shampoo and my dick stirred. I have to stop thinking with that fucker.
She whirls around. Some of her hair sticks to her lips, but she stands half-turned first with surprise, and then with the biggest damn smile I’ve ever seen. I step forward and gently pull her hair from the gloss on her lips.
She blushes after I pull my finger back, tucks her hair behind her ear, which makes her look so her it’s hard to just stand here and not take her in my arms. “Um, thank you. You’re eating here?”
I drop my eyes and search the floor. For what? I’m not sure. It occurs to me she must feel as awkward as I do because why else would I be waiting in line to order food at KFC? Of course it’s to eat food. I take another moment to settle the pounding in my chest but my nerves remain afire anyway.
The girl behind the register hands Charz her bag and she waits by my side while I order.
“I was picking up some fries for dinner but I’d like to ask you something if you’ve got time.”
I manage to nod though it feels as if everything—including my head—is cemented in place. What if she doesn’t want to see me again? I know what I need and what I want, but they’re two different things.
I wait for my chicken burger. Normally I wait forever because this joint has crap service but I have my burger too soon and all too quickly I’m holding out my hand for Charz to slide into the booth before me. I slip in next to her and clutch the burger wrapping with both hands so the shaking will be less obvious.
This time the shaking has nothing to do with my diabetes, though. It’s fear snaking in my blood.
“Can I ask you a personal question, Dex?”
My heart shudders twice. Once at “personal question” and again at my name. Her tone sounds like the only thing she could say is bad news. It makes me want to sprint out of here.
“Sure.”
“Do you like me?”
The bit of the chicken burger I’ve shoved in my mouth almost flies out over the table but I get my palm clamped on top of my mouth in time, hold up my finger in a ‘hang on a sec’ gesture, and swallow.
Charz’s eyes drop. She shakes her head. She whispers something that sounds like “don’t worry” as she looks away, her face hidden behind her long hair. Then it hits me. She thinks I hate her or that she’s ugly. Instead of tapping her shoulder, touching her hand or saying something crappy again, I slip my foot from my canvas shoe and stroke the underside of her foot. It happens automatically. Probably spurred by me imagining her feet snuggled with mine.
Feeling me, she starts, but takes a moment to tuck away her hair and drag her eyes back to the table. She pushes her foot forward, an invite for me.
I use my toe to brush the top of her foot this time, and continue up her calf. I can feel her shudder, which sends a wave of passion burning between my legs.
Looking up, she tilts her head, her eyes studying me. Neither of us speaks; it seems natural. I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing. Whether I’m hurting her by being a dick or embarrassing myself, I never manage to do anything normal around her. She messes with my head in every way. I couldn’t imagine I’d mean anything to her, but maybe she’s awkward because of me. Maybe words will ruin this moment.
I’m feeling Charlee May’s foot and up her leg, which blows my mind. All these years and finally…
I gulp and force away thoughts that would otherwise cause an embarrassing moment if I had to stand up. I don’t want to ruin it, so I meet her eyes and can’t help but smile just a little bit and continue up to the sensitive skin behind her knee and then all the way back down. She shudders again, and I have to squeeze my thighs together.
Face glowing, her jaw drops and I’m buzzing. I feel like maybe the huge gulf between us might be shrinking a little.
But she doesn’t say anything. Her look disappears a second before I feel the hot breath in my ear and a voice yell, “Fucking murderer!”
I jump back and clamp a hand to the side of my head, sliding my shoe back on. My ear’s ringing.
“Robby.”
His nose is screwed up and he hikes up a snort, sounding like he’s trying to act pissed and tough.
“How does it feel? You and that Dexter on TV aren’t so different after all.”
Not taking the bait, Robby, I think, glancing at Ben, my other “friend” who’s standing there, too.
“Come on,” Robby says. His tone full of rage, he spits out, “Come on, what do you have to say?”
“Not enough blood on your hands? You have to get the daughter too, huh?” Ben adds. He peers over my shoulder. “Sweetheart, you don—” but I launch my fist into his jaw and he falls flat as do the words I make sure Charz doesn’t hear.
I turn my eyes briefly to her. She’s still and pale and wordless.
Bringing my attention back to Robby, I push his chest with the heels of my palms but the dickhead keeps coming. I grab him by the collar and launch him backward as Robby stands, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He licks it up like an insane bad guy from an action movie.
Before I have to knock him down again, some teenager in a KFC uniform and an older man drag the two back. Another attempts to hold me down, but I flick off his hand, give him a look that tells him touch me again and say, “We were just leaving.”
Every pair of eyes are on us as I pick up Charz’s bag of fries and lead us out of the restaurant’s side exit, my burger abandoned on the table.
As I open the door I glance back. Robby is still restrained, his eyes l
ocked on me, and draws a line across his neck with his finger. Charz is dazed, only moving forward because my hand is guiding her.
We stop a short distance away, behind a brick wall. There’s a garbage bin at the end of the alley, and a climbing jasmine tree along the fence. Other than that it’s deserted.
“Charz,” I say, my hand still at the small of her back as if I can’t let go of her yet, in case Robby or Ben suddenly appear. “That’s why I act like I do with us,” I add. “You have no idea what some people want to do to me.”
It’s everything I want to keep away from her. It’s my fault her mom is dead and her dad is balancing between life and death. The last thing she needs is to be reminded of this and have the fact I did that to them rubbed in her face.
She stares, doesn’t reply right away. All I understand from her silence is she doesn’t agree. With what—how I’m treated, how I act—I don’t know.
She throws her hands up in surrender. “I shouldn’t have asked about the ‘liking’ thing. How silly of me.” She turns to walk away.
“Hey,” I call.
She stops and stares at me.
“Your dinner.”
It’s much easier to say that than what’s really on my mind. I hold out her bag. I can’t feel heat from it anymore so I’ve left her with a horrible image of me murdering her parents and soggy KFC fries for dinner. That’s a new low, even for me.
“Oh.”
She trudges up to me to take the bag I’m holding out. As she grabs the bag, our fingers brush. She blinks and bites her lip, looking at me through batting eyelashes and it messes up my insides because I want to hold her and protect her and fuck her all at the same time.
I hold my breath, leaving my finger on hers a moment too long because I’m selfish and I need her all over me, then shove my hands in my pockets.
“This is for you, Charz,” I say, motioning in the direction of the KFC joint, referring to what happened. “It’s all to protect you from getting involved in that stuff with me.”
She holds my gaze and replies, “You’re way too late to uninvolve me from you, Dex.”
Drowning in You Page 7
