Still Not Over You_An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

  That's exactly what I'll do. The only scenario that doesn't end with me destroying her a second time.

  When I don’t answer, she forges on, her voice growing thick. I don’t have to look at her to know she’s close to crying. That’s the kind of asshole I am. Even my love hurts, damages, destroys.

  Melodramatic? It's fucking true. And the evidence is right in front of me, a gorgeous green-eyed girl who worked magic on my body, mind, and soul, coming apart because I didn't have the balls to come clean with Steve.

  “Landon...I’m not going to let you do this again. Not after the last two weeks. Go ahead, you asshole. Try it. You can turn right back into that hollow, numb shell of a man again, but I won’t believe it for a second. Won’t believe you’re a monster, even if you try to convince me. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not running from you. Not anymore.”

  I jerk the door to the Impala open. I let myself look at her one last time, standing silhouetted with her hair a wild mess of beautiful tangles and her face still lit with every bit of passion and fury welling inside her.

  She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s kind. She’s wonderful.

  And she’s not for me.

  No one who believes in someone else this much should ever have to deal with someone as fucked up as me.

  “The cats will appreciate the company,” I bite off. I know it’s cruel. I know it’s harsh. But I need her to let me go.

  Just like how I tell myself I have to let her go, when I shove myself into the car and only give her a second to skitter out of the way before I’m backing out, peeling down the drive, refusing to look at the hurt, angry look on her face in the rear-view mirror.

  But as I tear down the highway, fingers gouging lines in the steering wheel, I wonder.

  What the fuck is wrong with me, that the only way I can think of to save her is to hurt her – and to ruin myself?

  15

  Hate to Love You (Kenna)

  If life were a book I was hate-writing, this would be the point where the intrepid, bespectacled heroine realizes her hero is actually the villain, and suddenly realizes she'd be better off in a monastery.

  Yes, I do that sometimes. When I get frustrated with story dead ends, I have my characters hang it up and do the craziest things, before they come back to their senses.

  Seriously, I’m about to hang up my hat, become a nun, and give up on Landon Strauss, because I’d bet you the advance on my next book that the ascetic life would treat me nicer than that asshole hypocrite I've fallen far too deeply for.

  Too bad I'm not super religious.

  I sprawl on the patio alone, stretched out on a wicker sofa with Mews perched on the sofa's arm above me, tail flicking down over my nose. Velvet snuggles up against my thighs in the nook made by my bent legs. My notebook is closed, propped on my stomach after a morning of hate-writing some of the best conflict I’ve ever penned.

  Probably because it’s coming from a place of very real, very personal fury.

  I never thought Landon would end up being my muse in all the best and worst ways, but at least I’m getting this book done.

  I blow out heavily, making a rude sound with my lips and ruffling the fur of Mews’ tail. He makes a disgruntled noise, until I poke at his tail with the capped tip of my pen. Narrowing his eyes, he twists to bat at it, while I feint it in and out. Watching the cat play mighty hunter without ever uncurling from his perch is the first time I’ve smiled since Landon went storming away yesterday morning.

  “Why's your Daddy such an asshole, baby?” I ask, and gently boop Mews’ nose with the pen. His little eyes cross and I chuckle. “At least you're as nice as you look.”

  Yep. I’m gonna be a stereotype.

  The writer with ten cats, no boyfriend, but one hell of an active fantasy sex life in my books.

  If I’m honest, the cats are the only reason I’m still here – and not just because of that nasty parting shot Landon made.

  I can’t leave Velvet and Mews to fend for themselves, even if it aches to haunt this house where we spent two solid weeks making fire, making rain, making storms of the elements until we were thunder and earthquakes, wind and trembling flames, and the heartbeat of everything wild.

  I’ve exiled myself back to the guest bedroom, and tend to either stay there or out here on the patio.

  They’re the only two places we hadn’t fucked yet. The only places where I can’t remember the taste of him and feel his rough hands on my body. He made me feel special, for a little while. Made me feel loved.

  And then he thrust me out into the cold again, cutting me off and destroying everything between us once more.

  At least the bastard is consistent.

  Even if this time, he’s the one who ran away.

  I think I’m going to be gone, the day he’s scheduled to come back. Make sure the boys are fed and taken care of, then make myself scarce. I can’t stand to see Landon again. I feel numb, right now.

  Numb I can handle.

  I can’t handle the stab of pain that’s going to hit me when he walks in this house and looks right through me like he doesn’t even know my name.

  My eyes well sharply, flinching at the vision. Fuck.

  So much for numbness. I can’t do this. I've already messed up the new pages I'm writing, blurring ink with big wet splotches soaking through the paper.

  “You don’t look so good,” a voice interrupts, jolting my heart into a startled little leap.

  I scream.

  The cats bolt.

  Mr. Hoodie flashes in my head before I even look up.

  Velvet catches the back of my thigh with a hind paw as he launches off the sofa, raking a burning scratch down my skin. I yelp, clutching at my thigh, sit up sharply, and crash my forehead right into my brother’s.

  Pain hits me like I’m a ringing bell, my brain rattling inside my skull. I drop back down to the sofa, crashing against the cushions.

  Steve had been leaning over the back of the sofa, but now he reels backward, swearing, clutching at his reddened forehead. I’m not much better, hissing under my breath and rubbing at my brow.

  “Jesus, Kenna,” he mutters, squinting one eye open. “I know you’re mad, but that’s no reason for assault and battery.”

  “You startled me!” Wincing, I push myself up on one arm. “Why'd you sneak up on me like that?”

  He looks sheepish. “Guess I thought if you saw me coming, you’d lock yourself in the house and refuse to talk to me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You don’t remember how we fought after I broke your Etch-A-Sketch?” He tries a smile, though it’s tired and strained. “Mom made me apologize, but when I tried, you ran away. Locked yourself in your room and wouldn’t talk to me.”

  I scowl. “I was eight.”

  “I’m just saying, people have patterns. Sometimes set in stone.”

  “You’re not cute.” With a grimace, I shift to sit upright. My head is throbbing and my thigh burns, and I twist to peer at the underside, where Velvet left a deep, bleeding scratch from the back of my knee to the hem of my shorts from being startled. “Actually, every time you show up, I get hurt.”

  Steve’s silence says that stung hard, and drove deep. Low blow, maybe.

  I close my eyes, cursing at myself. I must be taking lessons from Landon: how to hurt the people you love in twelve easy words.

  Except I’m pretty sure Landon never loved me, and never will.

  I’m not hanging my star on him anymore. Or hoping for the impossible.

  Opening my eyes, I make myself look at Steve’s hurt, kicked-puppy face, sighing. “I didn’t mean that,” I say, pushing my feet into my sandals before standing and tossing my head toward the house. “Let me get some alcohol on this so it won’t get infected, and get us both some Advil. Then we’ll talk.”

  Right now, it feels weird for me to be the one leading the situation, with Steve.

  All our lives, he’s always been the first out of the g
ate with everything. Not exactly a natural leader type, more like he’s just so effusive he goes charging in with total enthusiasm and tends to take the lead in situations without even meaning to. Having him trailing in my wake, subdued and quiet, while I dig some alcohol out of the bathroom cabinet and wipe myself down before passing a bottle of Advil between us?

  It's weird, and makes me feel like I really did kick a puppy, and it’s afraid I’ll do it all over again.

  I know that’s the guilt talking.

  The sour realization I lied to my brother, that I made him feel so shut out and betrayed because I was so wrapped up in Landon. I wasn’t thinking about anything but us, and what I wanted.

  I think the term, when a heroine ignores everyone she cares about for a man, is dickmatized.

  God, writing my books is so much more fun than living them.

  * * *

  After I’m done patching us up, I settle us in the kitchen with tea.

  It’s tense, quiet. I’m upset with him. He’s upset with me.

  Suddenly, that innate sibling understanding we've always had is a curse rather than a blessing. It’s so easy for us to read all the simmering emotions between us – easy enough to know neither of us wants to touch them and possibly kick off an explosion.

  But finally, I exhale into my tea, blowing a cloud of steam, and mutter, “You first.”

  He cracks a smile. “I was gonna wait you out.”

  “I don’t like meaningful silences, or soggy middles.”

  “Sis, I'm never going to completely get your weird literary references.” He groans, propping his elbows on the kitchen island, looking at me frankly. “So. Landon.”

  I shrug tightly. “No Landon anymore.”

  A wince wrinkles his brow. “That bad?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You sure?” Steve shakes his head. “Look, I don’t think you should be here if he’s hurting you, Kenna.”

  “He’s not –” I break off. I can’t get the lie out.

  Because Landon did hurt me, but it wasn’t hard to see that under his vicious counterattack, he was hurting, too. Lashing out.

  Damn it, why am I defending him when he broke my heart again?

  I divert, pressing my lips together. “Is that what you came here to tell me? That I should leave?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t understand. Landon’s your best friend.”

  “And I’ve been around him a lot more than you have over the past few years. I’ve seen things you haven’t, Kenna.” Steve reaches across the island, offering his hand. “Just hear me out, sis. You owe me that much.”

  I wince.

  I owe him an apology for lying, but I’m not ready to get it out past my pride just yet when part of me still blames him for bursting the idyllic bubble Landon and I were living in. It’s not wholly Steve’s fault, of course. Something would've stepped between us sooner or later, and brought out just how wrong we were.

  Wrong for each other.

  I have to tell myself that until I believe it, or I’ll never tape the pieces of my heart back together.

  But Steve is still waiting with that outstretched hand, and after a moment, I sag and slip my fingers into his. Even if I’m this tangle of anger and guilt inside, I can never quite turn him down when he’s offering the comfort of a large, warm, steady hand wrapped around mine.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m listening. Go.”

  He hesitates, then starts, “Don’t get me wrong. I love Landon like a brother. Never thought that'd be so close to almost literal, but it's true.” He squeezes my hand, stroking his thumb reassuringly over my knuckles, but it’s hard to take comfort when he continues, “There’s something different in him now. Something dangerous. It’s like this dark seed was planted when his old man died, and it’s been growing and spreading its roots through him for years ever since. I thought he'd come back. Kept hoping he'd find his way free from it...but it feels like it’s the only thing holding him together now. And while I want to believe that the man I love like my brother is in there, that darkness will always come first. You have to know that, sis. And I'll be damned if I want to see you get hurt while Landon’s busy destroying himself.”

  I swallow thickly, my throat tight. There's too much truth in his words. So much I try to deny, to deflect. “That’s a cruel thing to say about someone you care about.”

  “But I care about you, too. I can care about both of you enough to see you'll only destroy each other. For Landon, you’re too tangled up in that darkness riding him.” He sighs. “I just don’t want to see you hurt. Him, either. And I don’t want you to get dragged down with him.”

  I yank my hand back. I don’t know why this is upsetting me. Maybe because he’s right, but I don’t want to believe it. I can’t.

  “I know him,” I say. “I do. Maybe better than you, if all you can see is this ‘dark seed’ and not who he really is. He's more than his demons, Steve.” I wrap my arms around myself, squeezing tight. “I know he’s dealing with things poorly. You're right. But I know why, too. And I think if we give him a chance, he’ll fight his way through. I have faith in him, even if you don’t.”

  The look Steve gives me is almost pitying. “Enough faith to stay? Even when he doesn’t want you to?”

  I feel like a balloon that’s been punctured, sagging. I press my trembling lips together. “We had a fight. We’ll talk it out when he gets back. If I run...”

  If I run, then what?

  I’ll be proving Steve right.

  Even worse, I’ll be proving Landon right.

  That he’s beyond redemption. Not worth someone willing to wait for him, fight with him, fight for him, believe in him.

  No, I can’t save Landon from himself.

  But I can be loyal enough to be there for him while he finds his way to the light.

  I can remind him who he really is, and what he isn't. That he's not a man who would murder someone in cold blood.

  But I can’t tell Steve that. I can’t tell him what I read in Landon’s journal that day, or what Landon confessed to me.

  He’d go into full-on protective mode, from Labrador to Rottweiler, and try to drag me away from the cold-blooded murderer. Maybe he’d be right to, but I can’t believe that. I can't give up on Landon just yet.

  “I can't run,” I finish. “Steve, I know you’re upset with me. I’m sorry we lied. We were seriously just riding on this high of a new thing and not thinking. It wasn’t that we didn’t trust you, we were just drunk on ourselves. Being young and stupid and wrapped up in each other. I know you're looking out for me. I know what Landon is, and how hard it is dealing with him. But you’ve got to let me decide this for myself.”

  Steve just watches me in silence, his brows knit together, his eyes dark with worry. I feel like he’s still seeing the girl I used to be, awkward and nerdy and always hiding behind his status as that popular football player everyone loved for his easy nature. He’s always been my buffer, deflecting so much of the cruelty people hurled my way.

  But I can’t hide behind him anymore.

  I need to handle Landon Strauss myself.

  And it’s then I realize I can’t be gone when he comes home.

  No matter how much I want to run away. I told him he couldn’t chase me off, and I’d meant that as a promise. Now, I have to fulfill it.

  I won't be yet another person who lets Landon down, when so many have before.

  Especially when he feels like he’s let himself down plenty.

  Steve watches me with his eyes dark and haunted and sorrowful, a low sigh escaping his lungs. “Damn. Guess I can’t change your mind, then?”

  I shake my head. “No. I...” I bite my lip. “Maybe you should go. I've said enough. Agree to disagree, and I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m sorry we lied, but you had no right to come barging in like that, either. We’re adults. What happens between us is between us, you know.”

  I know it’s col
d. But I need to shut this conversation down or I’m going to break and lose my resolve.

  And if I break in front of Steve, he’ll never let up. He'll try to convince me to leave with him, get out, while the going is good.

  He just stares at me, his gaze oddly flat, though it’s not hard to see he’s still hurt. It’s not hard to see that he can tell, too, that I hurt him on purpose to push him back to the other side of the invisible boundary of thorns around me.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Maybe Landon and I really are right for each other.

  Sometimes, I’m more like him than I want to admit.

  Steve shrugs, slipping off the barstool, moving slowly, like he’s nursing an injury. “Whatever,” he says, voice quiet and empty. “I’ll go, sis. It's your life. If that’s how you want to be about it, fine. But be careful, Kenna. You can’t trust Landon.”

  “You can’t trust Landon. Maybe I can.” I shake my head. “I don’t understand how you can have so little faith in him. How would you feel if it was our father killed?”

  “Look, I loved the hell out of Micah Strauss like a second dad myself. You don’t see me acting like Landon.”

  “You have no freaking reason to beat yourself up!” I flare. “Landon does. He’s been carrying that inside him for so long. I saw Micah right before he was killed. So did Landon. When those men rushed him and his crew into their cars and –”

  “What?” Steve stills, his blank expression turning bewildered. “What're you talking about, Kenna? Micah was alone when he died. It was in all the papers. Police report confirmed it, I remember.”

  I blink. “But I remember. All those black cars. It was his whole team, a bunch of men in suits. They went rushing out. I watched them through the window as they pulled out of the driveway, and I remember seeing Landon standing in the door of their house. And then...and then no one saw Micah again. Not until they found his body.”

  Steve blinks. “You're sure you aren’t mixing that up with one of your stories?”

  “That’s cold, Steve.” My ears burn; my jaw sets tight. “Screw you. I know what I saw.”