Tricked Steel: A Friends To Lovers Standalone Romance

by Fields, MJ

  “Yeah, well, you look like … you.”

  His perfect lips curve up a bit, and then he frowns as he presses his hand firmer on my forehead. “I think you have a fever.”

  I look up at his hand, still splayed across my forehead, and he pulls it back.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, enough time to make it awkward. He’s the first one to look away, and then he opens his door. “Let’s get you inside and dried off.”

  The door shuts before I have a chance to object, but seriously, what other choice do I have?

  My door opens while I’m unbuckling, and then he pulls the blanket off me. I’m soaked, and the cold air blowing against me nearly takes my breath away.

  “Come on, Savvy.” He holds the blanket up and spreads it wide. “One step from warmth, you can do it.”

  As I’m sliding out, he tells me to, “Turn around.”

  As soon as I do, he wraps the thick, soft, and slightly damp blanket around me.

  When I reach to shut the door, I see the rainwater covering his seat. “The seat,” I say.

  I feel him step closer to me and lean over my shoulder. “It’s leather; it’ll be fine.” He reaches over me and shuts the door. “Come on.”

  After he punches in the security code and pushes open the door, he steps aside. “After you.”

  I don’t even want to look at the place. It’s everything I’ve been taught was wrong with the world.

  “Savvy”—he steps around me—“let’s get you some dry clothes.”

  When I don’t follow him, he stops.

  “I swear to you, you’re safe with me.”

  “It’s not you; it’s this … house.”

  “House is safe, too. There’s a security system and no sign of spirits, angry or otherwise.”

  “My shoes are wet.”

  “Shit.” He chuckles. “Good call.”

  He toes off his sneakers, revealing glistening white socks, and I look down at my own shoes, one of my thrift store finds. Canvas sneakers that I hand-painted. At the time, I was so damn proud of them. Mud-stained and soaked against the sleek gray wood flooring, they look like they should be left outside.

  Patrick kneels down in front of me and starts to untie one. I start to step back, but he grabs my foot and finishes the job. He pulls it off my foot, and I stare down at my socks. They look as bad as the shoes. Then he unties the other shoe, grabs them both, and sets them upside down beside the door. His are placed on either side of mine.

  Standing, he nods his head toward the open space beyond the entry. “No one’s here, and I don’t bite … unless asked. Now, let’s go before I throw your ass over my shoulder and—”

  “Fine.”

  I follow him from a distance, now looking around and realizing how paled the memory of being overwhelmed when walking into Seashore and the dorms at MacArthur Hall have become in an instant.

  The open space that is the kitchen, dining room, and living room is bigger than the common room in the dorms.

  I watch as he stops in front of a huge fireplace, takes a remote off the stone mantel, and hits a couple buttons, bringing it to a roaring life.

  I hurry toward it, not caring at this moment that I’m in a mansion. My only care is that I’m cold, and there’s a fire.

  I love fireplaces, and yes, I know it’s not uncommon to have one inside a house, but I’ve never seen an actual working one.

  I let go of the blanket, clutched around me, and hold my hands out to warm them.

  “Pretty badass, huh? Our old place didn’t have one. Actually, our old place didn’t have shit compared to this one, and two could fit in here.”

  “It’s warm,” I say as I soak in the heat.

  “Yeah, you hang there and get warmed up. I’ll go see what I can find for you to wear.”

  “This is nice. You don’t need to—”

  “Savvy,” he says sternly, and I look up at him. “If I was freezing my ass off, soaked to the bone, I know damn well you’d offer the same. It’s not an imposition; it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t.” I shrug.

  He smiles that damn smile that makes every girl, even ones who know they like girls, melt. “There she is, showing up at the bottom of the ninth, ready to play with the big dogs.” Then he turns around, and I watch him cross a room the size of a restaurant with a carefree, confident way about him. He turns left at the top and looks down, catching me staring.

  Great, just great, I think, waiting for that smug grin to cross his lips. Instead, he surprises me by asking, “You have a favorite color?”

  “Green.”

  He grips the handrail and leans over, his eyes narrowing. “Favorite shade?”

  I answer, “All of them.”

  Just like the specks in your eyes, I think as I force my focus from him to the fire, blaming it for the warmth now consuming me.

  On one side of the mantel, there’s a family picture, the whole extended family, all stunning, not one of them looks like … me. In the middle is Patrick and his parents. Having seen his dad, I know what to expect, but his mother has deep red hair, hanging in perfect beach waves, and gorgeous green eyes, and skin paler than the men in the portrait that was taken somewhere high on a hill overlooking crystal blue water, nearly a perfect match to his father’s eyes. I expected his father to have married someone like Chloe—blonde and heavily made up. I guess an assumption because he has visible tattoos. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but it is what it is.

  Where his father’s energy practically jumps from the portrait, his mother seems very calm. The phrase “opposites attract” pops into mind when you look at them.

  On the other end of the huge fireplace mantel is a framed, handwritten note, and notes like that seem too personal to share with strangers, yet it’s displayed, so I step closer to read it.

  Forever Four,

  I want to find the damn kid who was picked on because he wasn’t cool enough to hang. The one who, instead of banging the cheer captain, went home and finger-fucked his guitar or banged his drums like he wanted to bang the football captain’s girl.

  I want the kid who went to bed every goddamn night with headphones on, listening to his favorite songs to escape the reality of an abusive or absent father.

  I want the girl who wasn’t good enough to hang with the “it” crowd, who dove into the piano, letting her fingers tickle the ivory while she created perfection, because she is fucking good enough.

  I want the guy dressed in all black to have his voice and the notes he belts out to be his ultimate orgasm.

  I want the people who were told they couldn’t be shit to live and breathe something other than a twisted-up blunt. I want their high to be the notes, the melodies, the beats, the songs that live inside them. I want them to be who they are and be seen. Not who some stuffy-ass production company suit told them they were.

  I want to be the one to help them find who they are before they walk onto a stage where someone tells them they can’t.

  I wanna show them they can.

  X

  … and so we did,

  Irish

  “He’s passionate.”

  I startle when I hear Patrick’s voice coming from upstairs. Then I look up and nod.

  He gestures for me to come up then disappears down the hallway upstairs without giving me a chance to say no.

  I shrug off the blanket, no longer freezing but still chilled, and look for a place to set it down. I don’t want to ruin the wood, or the leather furniture, so I decide on the granite countertop that divides the living room area and the kitchen that seriously looks like it came out of one of those magazines that Mom used to flip through.

  A kitchen that I would love to learn to cook in.

  I physically step back, as if to separate from the thought, feeling a tinge of guilt, because I wasn’t raised to want material things. But now that all seems like a lie.

  Upstairs, I follow the sound of music. I hear tambourine m
ixed in and smile sadly at a memory of my last life. I follow the sound as the chorus begins. “Ophelia.”

  Inside a massive room, with whites and grays, and another fireplace, with another huge TV hung over it, I almost feel like I’m intruding even more so than I am … until I see trophies on floating shelves on one wall and guitars, so many guitars, hanging on another.

  “You play an instrument?”

  Again, he startles me, which is absolutely ridiculous since I know he’s in here.

  I shake my head as I walk over to the trophies—baseball and talent contests.

  “Are you going to play baseball?” I ask, looking at the team picture beside each baseball trophy, easily picking him out. He’s a head taller, slightly broader, and smiling.

  “Nah, Amias and Justice are. Max wants to join the surf team, so I’m gonna do that with him.”

  “Join band?” I ask, eliciting a chuckle.

  I look back at him, and he shrugs, rolls his eyes, and fights not to give off an arrogant smirk.

  He finally says, “Nah, I’m good. You on any teams or in any clubs?”

  “Yeah.” I turn toward him. “Team Bean.”

  He scrubs his hand over his face, and I assume he thinks he’s hiding the grin.

  “You do know a bean is not a part of a woman’s—”

  “I’m aware.” He nods behind him. “There are clothes in there, and a bath, if you want to warm up. Just be careful; the water may be too hot.”

  “I’ve been bathing alone since I was four, I think I understand how to control the temperature.”

  He pushes off the wall and grins as he walks toward the door. “Good. Get warmed up, and then you and I are going to destroy some struffoli and maybe bust out the mostacciolo.”

  “Stru what?” I ask.

  He calls over her shoulder, “Trust me, Savannah; it’s good shit.”

  I wait for him to close the door behind him then hurry to the bathroom. Covering my gasp, I look around the bathroom that looks more like a luxury spa and is bigger than my dorm room. But what nearly takes my breath away is that he’s run the bath and beside it is a towel and a robe. On the countertop, between the two sinks, is a pile of clothes. On top of the pile is a green and blue flannel that looks incredibly thick and thick cabin socks. But what warms my heart and makes me feel … special are the candles that smell like winter.

  I quickly strip down, eager to take a bath in a tub, not a shower, for the first time in years. A tub big enough for … well, Patrick.

  When I dip my toe into the water, it’s hot, and that’s the way I like it.

  As I sit in the tub, water up to my nose, he knocks on the door.

  “Hey, Savvy, I forgot to put some of Mom’s girly stuff in there. I’ll leave it out here.”

  “Thank you, Patrick,” I call back as I grab his body soap and hold it under my nose. It smells sort of like him. A slight hint of the forest and soap, but the fresh rain is missing. Knowing that scents smell different on people due to their hormones, I wonder if using his soap will make me smell as good as him.

  I hope so.

  Chapter 13

  “Compassion and tolerance are

  not a sign of weakness,

  but a sign of strength.”

  ~Dalai Lama

  Patrick

  When she comes down the stairs, dressed in my clothes, the green flannel I was going to toss, the ball shorts I found from freshman year or some shit, and socks pulled all the way up to her knees, I swear my heart expands. When she sees me watching her, I swear I see something telling me hers did, too.

  Wishful thinking? I sure hope not.

  I push the plate across the thirty-by-four-foot counter that’s great for all the cooking and baking Mom, Dad, and I have been doing. We’ve busted out Momma Joe’s recipes for the past few evenings. Good times, but that was so yesterday.

  Savvy.

  My clothes.

  Hot.

  So, yeah, this counter would also be good for fucking on, but Savvy … well, whatever.

  I’m not going to beat myself about wanting her. I went through a Miley phase, too. Had everything to do with her riding on that wrecking ball and acting batshit crazy, and I knew I didn’t have a chance in hell of banging her. Didn’t make a difference. Jerked off to the thought sometimes three times a day.

  So, what’s the damn difference in doing the same thing with Savvy?

  Answer? There isn’t one.

  “Looks good,” she says, gripping the cuffs of the shirt nervously.

  “Sit and eat. If you don’t like it, we have tons of shit. If you’d like something else, we have lasagna, chicken parm, ste—”

  “I want you to know I do appreciate every”—she stops and yawns—“thing. I know you sent the soup. And I promise”—she looks down, rocking on her heels, and lifts a shoulder—“I promise, as your friend, that I’ll do the same for you if you ever need me to.”

  I feel my lips curl up in a slight smile as I nod and push the plate forward. “I know. But what I don’t know is which one you like better—the struffoli or the mostacciolo. Put me out of my misery, Savannah. The wait is killing me.”

  * * *

  She liked the mostacciolo more than the struffoli but said both were really good, and she did it with a smile.

  I fired off question after question to get to know her better.

  Savvy’s favorite way to spend a day off from school and work is hiking. Her favorite music is mostly 70’s. She prefers vinyl over digital, the lake over the ocean. Her favorite meal is breakfast. She eats the crust on bread because “otherwise it’s wasteful.” If she could pick one person to be stranded with on an island with, she just shrugged. Her prized possession is nothing; “things come and go.” What brings her peace is looking at the water after a long hike. Her favorite ice-cream flavor is chocolate and peanut butter. Her favorite day, she says they’re all the same. She has no allergies that she knows of, and that question garnered an eyebrow arch.

  After every answered question, she would ask me the same.

  “What’s the first thing you ever wanted to be when you grew up?”

  She shakes her head. “You ask the weirdest questions.”

  “Just answer,” I say with a smile as I take her plate that has been sitting with just half the struffoli still on it. I dump the remains in the sink, rinse the plate, and put it in the dishwasher.

  “A farmer,” she says with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “Like have cows and—”

  “Organic crops,” she cuts me off with a quickness. “Have a little farm stand, sell what I could, give the extras to those who needed it most.”

  “And now? Same thing?”

  “No fair. You have to answer,” she says as I grab some milk out of the fridge to heat up and make some hot cocoa.

  I laugh. “Musician.”

  “I can see you as a lead guitarist in a boy band.”

  I look over my shoulder and catch a grin, and that damn dimple pops.

  “Guitarist? Pfft. I wanted to sing and play guitar, own the stage like Memphis Black from STD, the first band my parents put together.”

  She crinkles up her nose. “That’s a disgusting name.”

  I nod and can’t help but laugh. “A last-minute decision after Mom and Dad got them their first opening act on a major stage. It was local and someone pulled out. Dad went hard after that spot, because he believed in the four-man band that had talent out the ass, but no direction and no idea how to make it big. Dad didn’t really either, but he and Mom decided they wanted to show people they could make their dreams come true.”

  She points over her shoulder. “And so they did.”

  “Yeah.” I shake my head and smile at the framed words that Dad apparently spewed to Mom. A company mission statement, of sorts. “Yeah, they did.” I get lost for a moment thinking about how damn good life can be, and how much I want that someday. Then I look back at her and see she’s looking at me with contemplati
on. I don’t want her to see too deep.

  I turn and walk over to grab some mugs as I continue the story. “The band they opened for was huge. Well, back then, they were hitting number one all over the world. The Burning Souls band. The lead singer is a shrink now. Fucked-up beginnings, statistically speaking. He should never have made it to where he is, so he’s a fucking legend in my mind, an inspiration to all those who don’t even dare to dream.

  “Anyway.” I pour the milk from the tea kettle into the mugs and continue, “So, the story goes that they wanted to make an impact, use the opportunity that fell at their feet, given to them by fate.” I pause, remembering she didn’t believe in it but decide not to retract the use of the word, because it’s something I believe in one hundred percent. “They needed to look like they had their shit together, with merch, signs, banners, you know; make their brand visible, memorable, and everything. The band didn’t have a solid name. Steel-something. And Mom, Dad, and Nick D. kind of felt it was overused in this family.

  “Two of the guys weren’t cool with that. They wanted to pay respect to my parents, an homage of some sort. And Memphis and River, the drummer, are … well, were rebels in any way they could be, so they came up with the name change last minute. They all voted on it, and it passed. They quickly became known as STD, which obviously pissed off everyone except Memphis and River. But the brand, the talent, and the sex appeal, it all sells music. They hit charts with every release.” I shake my head, laughing to myself as I scoop out the cocoa mix then dump it in the mugs.

  I look away from the cup I’m stirring to see she’s looking down, saying not a damn thing.

  “Don’t hold back on me now, Savvy. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m attempting to be a gracious guest.”

  I laugh as I stir the other mug. “Fuck that. Say what you’re thinking. We’re friends; we don’t dilute. Give it to me one hundred proof.” I set the spoon down and walk to the fridge for some whipped cream.