by Lauren Layne
I toss the entire palmful of M&M’s into my mouth. “You’re impossible to talk to.”
“You started it,” she says, and I almost smile, having flashbacks to when we were kids, still figuring out how to talk to each other.
Lucy leans forward, flicking the radio back on. Country again, but I leave it.
Because listening to the guy warbling about his broken heart is a hell of a lot better than reminiscing about mine.
Chapter 14
LUCY, EIGHTEEN, REECE, NINETEEN
“If your brother catches me, he’s going to kill me,” Reece muttered as he hoisted himself through Lucy’s bedroom window.
“No he won’t,” she said, quickly putting her palm on the top of his head to keep him from banging it on the frame. “I can handle Craig.”
He stood before her, reached out, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “My little protector.”
Lucy reached up, looped her arms over his shoulders. “My parents though. They’ll kill you.”
He winced, started to pull back. Lucy immediately regretted her playful words. “Don’t go,” she whispered.
His expression was tortured. “I can’t be here, Lucy. This thing with us…it’s crazy. It’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t feel wrong,” she said, cupping his cheek. “It feels more right than anything I’ve ever experienced.”
His eyes closed as he let her fingers roam his face, her palm scraping at his stubble, fingertips light along his lips. “Why can’t I stay away from you?”
“I don’t want you to stay away,” she said, reaching up and bringing his mouth down to hers.
His kiss was hesitant at first, as though still trying to talk himself into leaving.
Lucy kissed him with every ounce of longing in her eighteen-year-old body, showing him with hands and lips what she wasn’t yet brave enough to tell him with words.
The greedy way his hands gripped her butt, the gentle way he palmed her breasts, his quiet groan when she tilted her hips to his told her everything she needed to know.
It told her he felt the same. Even if he didn’t know it yet.
Chapter 15
Lucy
“You’re fidgeting,” Reece says in an irritable voice.
He’s always irritable. Have you noticed?
“My skirt keeps riding up,” I mutter, shifting to tug it down.
“Maybe if you wore something bigger than a piece of masking tape wrapped around your ass…”
I smirk a little that he’s noticed. Not that I needed the verbal confirmation that Reece noticed my outfit today. Few moments in my life have been as gratifying as coming out of my Savannah motel room to find him leaning against the side of the car, looking bored.
Bored until he saw me in a flared coral miniskirt and a silky black halter top. The high-heeled sandals didn’t hurt.
He blinked and tensed, and for a second there I had to remind myself that I’d dressed for Oscar. Not Reece.
If I repeat it often enough, maybe it’ll become true.
Then Reece snapped at me about being late even after I was the one who insisted on leaving at the ass-crack of dawn…and just like that we’re back to normal.
I put my notebook away. I meant the journal to be more of a keepsake—a way of making sure I actually remember the journey instead of only focusing on the end result, which tends to be my MO.
But it’s been surprisingly…therapeutic.
After long hours in the car with Reece and all the freaking memories, it helps to have an outlet. A place to talk about my frustration and my pain and…
Crap. There I go thinking about Reece again.
I tell myself it’s because we’re closing in on Miami and I’m…nervous.
I’ve had seven hours to think about my excitement, to anticipate the exact moment I walk into Oscar’s restaurant. I’ve timed it so that we’ll get there around 3:30. The restaurant is a late-night hot spot, which means it doesn’t open until five, and I know Oscar usually gets there no later than three to oversee prep for the evening ahead.
But admittedly, there’s something I didn’t think through.
After the grand Surprise! moment, then what? Oscar still has a restaurant to run.
My whole reason for surprising him is because I don’t want him to do anything special for my arrival (the man is prone to grand, sometimes cheesy gestures), but by not giving him any warning, he also wouldn’t have planned to take the night off.
I know he’ll plan to take tomorrow off, when he thinks I’m getting in. And although I’m staying two nights in Miami (yeah, Reece is thrilled about that), it’s still going to be potentially awkward with me just like…hanging out at the restaurant all night? Like the little woman?
Ugh.
One thing I know about the hospitality business is that it can be a little unnerving for friends and family to see you in your place of work. Teachers, construction workers, receptionists, doctors…they don’t very often have their significant others watching them at work.
But in the restaurant business, you’re on display, your worlds colliding. And I know from experience that it can be annoying.
Too late to back out now, Hawkins.
Reece reaches out and turns down the annoying blaring rock music slightly (his turn to pick). “So, where we staying tonight?”
I go still. Uh-oh.
Another thing I haven’t thought out. Though I’ve painstakingly found the absolute cheapest lodging option in every stop, I haven’t done so for Miami. I figured I’d be staying with Oscar, and that’s still my plan.
I hadn’t counted on Reece being in the equation, also needing a place to stay.
“Um.” I dig my phone out of my purse. “Hold on, let me find something real quick.”
I see the moment it clicks, because his knuckles whiten just slightly on the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find something.”
“No, no, that was part of the deal,” I say, already scanning the results on my phone for cheap lodging. “I drag you along on this trip, at least I can find you a good deal on a place to stay. I’ll even pay for it.”
The look he shoots me is murderous, even through his sunglasses. “I swear to God, Lucy, if I wasn’t driving right now, I’d strangle you.”
“I’m trying to be nice.”
“Yeah, well offering to pay for my motel room so you can shack up with your boyfriend for two days while I sit around and wait for you isn’t the way to do it.”
“Don’t get pissy. You knew this was the deal,” I say, pushing my glasses onto my head so he can feel the heat of my glare. “And it’s not like I’m leaving you to fend for yourself in a one-horse town; it’s freaking Miami Beach. I’m sure you can find a girl or twelve to hook up with by the time we roll out in a couple days.”
He gives an incredulous laugh. “Un-fucking-believable. Even on your way to surprise your boyfriend, you’re still preoccupied with my sex life.”
“I don’t give a crap about your sex life,” I mutter.
In what has to be the worst possible timing for a traffic jam, we come to a complete standstill on the crowded freeway, and Reece slowly turns toward me, shoving his own glasses on top of his head, his blue eyes hot and angry. He braces one hand against the back of my headrest as he studies me.
“What?” I snap.
His smile is slow and lethal. “Liar. You’re thinking all about my sex life. I think that’s what’s got you fussy. You’re thinking about me sleeping with other women a lot more than you’re thinking about you sleeping with Oscar.”
I start to roll my eyes and turn toward the window, but he snags one long finger under my chin, pulling my face around to his.
“Deny it,” he says, his voice low. “Deny that the outfit wasn’t for me. That you’re having a hard time remembering your boyfriend’s name when I’m around.”
“That’s crap,” I snap. “I haven’t thought about you like that in years. I hate you.”
H
e smiles as his finger strokes along my jawline. “Yeah. Yeah you do. But you want me.”
“I don’t.”
But the effect of his cool finger against my hot skin threatens to make a liar out of me, so I bat it away and jerk my chin toward the road. “Traffic’s moving. I think we’re close. I need to find you a place to stay so I can get to Oscar’s restaurant.”
His jaw tenses. “Give me the directions there. I’ll drop you off and get you out of my hair.”
“So that you can get into someone else’s pants?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Probably a good thing, since we seem to be going in circles. Snap, snap, scratch, bite.
It’s exhausting, and a little sad, honestly. Because I know if either of us let our guard down even a tiny bit, we’d find what’s always been there. A friendship for the ages—a connection I’ve never felt with anyone else.
But with that sort of intensity comes risk—one that didn’t pay off for us.
I’ve written down detailed directions to Oscar’s place, and I read them in a monotone voice as we make our way through crowded Miami.
And the closer we get to Flame, the more antsy I get, and I can’t figure out if it’s nerves or excitement or anger or regret or just some vague sense of uneasiness.
“There,” I say, pointing when I see the sign for his place, suddenly excited, even amid all the nervousness.
Reece says nothing as we approach the restaurant. Flame is in the heart of trendy South Beach, and I haven’t exactly thought through the whole parking/grabbing my stuff scenario, and I bite my lip.
“Go,” he says gruffly, pulling to the curb.
I give him a nervous look, but his expression is unreadable. “What about my stuff? I guess I could take my bag in with me….”
He snorts. “And ruin the effect of that short skirt? Even I don’t hate you that much. I’ll catch up with you later. After I’ve hooked up with, how many girls was it again? Twelve?”
I smile a little because his voice is more teasing than angry for once. “Might as well add one more. Baker’s dozen.”
He laughs, and my heart hurts at the flood of memories. Of how we used to talk so easily, how we used to laugh so much…
“Go get your guy. Surprise the shit out of him.”
He says it in an easy tone, but I wonder if this is hard for him. Watching me go to another guy.
God knows it’s hard for me to walk away from this guy for another.
Our gazes hold, and, not for the first time, I’m struck by just what a bad idea this road trip was, rousing up memories that should have been left behind. And I’m fast learning that the good memories hurt even more than the bad ones.
I open the car door before I can say something utterly dumb. “I’ll text you,” I say, climbing out carefully so as not to flash anyone. Even so, I can feel Reece’s gaze on my ass.
When I glance back, his look is defiant, daring me to call him out—daring me to acknowledge the tension between us.
Instead, I slam the door and turn on my heel, refusing to let him continue messing with my head.
The restaurant has an outdoor seating area, but it’s empty, and I quietly open the door, heart pounding with…something. Excitement, I tell myself. I am excited to see my boyfriend.
I resist the urge to see if Reece and Horny are still at the curb and let myself inside the restaurant.
It’s mostly quiet. A guy and a girl speak Spanish as they put out place settings on the tables, sparing me only a quick, dismissive look before going back to their conversation.
A bartender comes in from the back, liquor box in hand, and gives me a friendly look. “Lost?”
“I’m looking for Oscar.”
He gives me a once-over, then shrugs. “Back office, I think. Last door on the right, past the bathrooms.”
I smile in thanks, and this time when I make my way toward Oscar, I really am excited. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him and—
Déjà vu.
The absolute worst kind of déjà vu.
My boyfriend is in his office. But he’s not alone.
He has one arm around the waist of a sultry brunette, the other splayed across her ass, and it takes him a full ten seconds to register my presence before he pulls his mouth away from hers.
Oscar stares at me in shock, then horror, and then somehow it gets worse, because the girl lets out a startled giggle and lifts a hand to wipe her coral lip gloss off my boyfriend’s mouth.
For some reason, that hurts the most. That casual, intimate gesture that tells me this isn’t a first kiss, not a drunken one-time mistake.
No actually, that’s not what hurts the most.
What hurts the most isn’t Oscar’s betrayal. It’s that it reminds me of a betrayal six years ago, one that hurt about a thousand times more than this one.
All of a sudden the pain of that memory comes crushing down on me, so heavy I feel my knees buckle.
I turn just as Oscar says my name, but this utterly shitty tableau isn’t done with me yet.
Blocking my escape is none other than Reece Sullivan.
My heart twists. I can’t. I just can’t right now.
Wordlessly he holds my cellphone out to me. “Fell out of your bag in the car.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, wanting to know how much he saw. He’s not looking at me.
His gaze is locked on Oscar. And from the murderous look on Reece’s face, he saw everything.
Chapter 16
Reece
I have a choice: chase after Lucy, or drive my fist into the face of the shithead who made her cry.
At first, I’m thinking the first—I care about Lucy a hell of a lot more than this asshole.
But then I see it. I see that instead of looking absolutely ravaged by just losing the best girl he’s ever had, Oscar turns to the other girl. The one he’s been making out with, wraps an arm around her shoulder, as though to protect her from the inconvenience of witnessing his brokenhearted girlfriend.
I want to kill him.
It’s been years since I communicated with my fists. I grew out of it sometime in high school when I realized most people just aren’t worth the trouble. This guy, though—he has it coming. Because Lucy’s worth it.
I don’t make a big production out of it. I take a few steps forward, wait until he pulls away from his new girl with a vaguely mocking What are you gonna do about it? expression.
The crack of my knuckles against his nose tells him exactly what I’m going to do about it. Always go for the nose. Sure, the right hook to the jaw makes for better action movies, but a broken nose leaves a nice reminder. And I want this dick remembering what he lost—who he lost—every time he looks at that crooked nose in the mirror.
The girl makes a squeaky noise, trying to pull Oscar’s hands away from his nose as he stares at me in pissed disbelief, but I’m done here.
I’ve illegally parked Horny a half block up on the curb, and I curse when I see that Lucy either didn’t see the car, or opted not to seek refuge there. I put my hands on my hips, trying to figure out where she could have run off to.
And if there’s a sick sense of déjà vu lurking in the back of my consciousness, I ignore it. I can’t afford to think about that now. Can’t afford to think of six years ago when the one she’d been running from was me.
That day, I’d let her go. A mistake. Not one I’m going to repeat today.
I scan the nearby businesses. Starbucks, shopping, a bunch of restaurants…
She wouldn’t go into any of those. Not while she was crying. She wouldn’t want to be seen all blotchy; she’d want space….
I immediately start heading toward the water, which thankfully isn’t hard to find in Miami.
I get to the beach, which luckily isn’t that crowded on an overcast weekday.
I see her, and my heart cracks. She hasn’t taken off those ridiculous shoes, the spike heels have sunk all the way into the sand, driving her weight backward, ev
en though her shoulders are rolled forward.
My girl looks broken, and I’m realizing that a crooked nose wasn’t nearly enough punishment for this Oscar guy.
I walk slowly toward her. My boots and jeans aren’t exactly beach friendly, but I ignore this. I ignore everything except Lucy. The gentle sound of the surf drowns out any sound of her crying, which somehow makes the tears running down her cheeks all the more like a punch in the gut.
I should have thought of something to say. Should have tried to figure out if she wants me to offer to beat up the guy, or tell her he’s not worth it, or that she’s a hundred—thousand—times more beautiful than the other girl…
None of that matters. There’s no talking, there’s not even thinking. There’s only doing, and I slowly reach out, my hand on her shoulder as I pull her around to me, my movements a little rough.
She comes easily, her face against my shoulder, her hot breath against my thin T-shirt with a shuddering sigh.
I wrap one arm around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head as I pull her close. She doesn’t wrap her arms around me, just clenches her fingers into my shirt as she buries her face against my chest.
I close my eyes and, for a minute, let myself be selfish. Let myself relish having her close once more, even though the circumstances are shit.
She doesn’t say a word as I hold her, and I wonder if she’s realized the same thing as me. That there’s nothing to say, not really. That that guy was never the one for her, that he’s not even worth talking about. He’s certainly not worth her tears, but then Lucy’s always been a bit of a crier. Not in the weepy, weak sense; it’s just how she shows her emotion. Happy, relieved, sad, excited…she cries.
She cries when she’s heartbroken too. I hope to God that isn’t what these tears are about.
My hand smooths over her back, the pads of my fingers warm against her head. Before I can register what I’m doing, my lips brush her hair. I tell myself it’s an accident, but that’s bullshit. It’s a kiss. A need for her, even now, as she’s hurting.
