Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2)

by L. B. Simmons

  “We can talk about it later,” I gesture to Dalton, “when he’s not here.”

  With that statement, I’m pretty much guaranteeing that we will never talk about it, because I have a feeling Dalton will become a permanent fixture in this apartment. I grin knowingly at Spencer, who just frowns.

  I lose the smile and lift my stare to Dalton, dipping my head, silently reiterating my earlier demand. He does the same in understanding and before I can cry, or beat the shit out of some poor inanimate object, I hightail it out of there.

  As soon as I hit my room, I close the door behind me, the whirlwind of emotion taking its toll. I fall onto my bed, inhaling deeply as I roll onto my back, taking my pillow with me and hugging it to my chest as I stare at the ceiling.

  Out of everything that has happened, my thoughts keep circling back to the peace in Dalton’s expression. He’s not the angry kid I remember. The palatable fury felt with his presence no longer remains. With his acceptance of whatever really happened during his childhood, serenity seems to surround him now.

  And all I can think is, if Dalton Greer can achieve that inner sense of calm, then maybe I can too.

  Past—Seventeen Years Old

  A KNOCK AT MY window wakes me. Half-dazed, I pull myself out from under my covers and stumble toward the sound. With each groggy step taken, I empathize with Spencer all those nights she had to let me in through her window. A habit I thankfully broke a little over a year ago.

  A barely there smile tips my lips upward as I unlock the window and slide it open. A cool breeze accompanies his entry, jet-black curls moving in the wind as he climbs over the ledge and into my room. His long arms hit the floor, knocking over a pile of books.

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  I cover my mouth to mute my laughter just as my eyes catch the glisten of the gold Italian horn around his neck. It dangles in the air until he gets his feet underneath him and rises, landing itself against the white T-shirt covering his muscled chest.

  Anthony “Rat” Marchione standing in my room is a sight I’ll never tire of seeing.

  About a month ago, Rat carried me into this room when I passed out in Dalton’s car after a very unfortunate night of clubbing with Spencer. We began the evening with two guys who ended up being fucking douche-canoes, and concluded the night with Rat and Dalton kicking their asses and then bringing us home. It was eventful to say the least.

  Since then, Rat has been stopping by pretty much every night after my parents go to bed. He sits in my chair, booted feet propped on my bed, while I remain under the covers as we chat. It’s a very unexpected friendship, but one I’ve quickly come to truly appreciate. I treasure it so much, I even asked him to prom. We’re just going as friends, but I’m hoping maybe one day we’ll be more.

  I tiptoe to where he stands, and his hazel brown eyes smile in apology.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “You know by now my parents sleep like the dead.”

  Hooking my thumbs in my shorts, I pull them lower on my waist, then tug my grey tank over their top. Damn. Maybe Dalton has a point about the length. Not that I would ever tell him that.

  “Like the shirt,” Rat says on a laugh.

  My eyes flit downward to see exactly what shirt I’m wearing. I really hope it’s not the one that says in big bold letters I SWALLOW with tiny script underneath it my bubblegum. Mom hates it, so I make it a point to wear it all the time. Not that I can even recall the last time I cared what she thinks.

  Instead my eyes read, Karma is like 69: You get what you give.

  I grin. Another one of my parents’ favorites.

  Rat’s eyes dance with laughter before he turns, snagging the chair at my desk while I climb back under my sheets. The light from my closet remains on, illuminating his form as he takes his customary seat by the edge of my bed. His boots land right by the side of my legs and he leans, putting his weight on the back two legs of the chair, assuming his usual position.

  “Where were you last night? I waited up for you,” I inquire after a long yawn.

  He offers me a rueful grin with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sorry. Couldn’t get out of it.”

  I accept his apology with a nod of my head. “It’s okay. With Dalton?”

  He gestures with a jerk of his chin. “Yeah.”

  Rolling my body to face him, I tuck my hands under my cheek and inquire, “You guys have been friends for a while, yeah?”

  “Since we were kids,” he affirms. “He’s seen me through some tough shit. And me, him. He’s the brother I never had. Would lay my life down for him.”

  My lips curl into themselves, thinking how I feel the same way about Spencer.

  Rat chuckles to himself, then continues. “But seriously, the guy needs to learn to lighten up. I get he’s angry at life, but shit. He needs to let it go or that type of rage is going to fucking eat him alive.”

  “Well,” I offer, “maybe Spencer can help with that.”

  “That’s a definite possibility,” he agrees.

  We share sly grins. He removes his feet from my bed, setting the chair on all fours and slants his body in my direction. “You know, I make up stupid-ass words just to fuck with him.” He laughs outright. “Nothing pisses him off more than misuse of the English language. An art form I’ve perfected, by the way.”

  Laughter bubbles through my nose as he continues to speak. “I mean, it fits though. I guess we kinda picked our roles early on in the friendship. He’s the genius and I’m the goofy sidekick.” He shakes his head. “But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It works. Opposites tend to balance each other. We make a good team.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, thinking about my friendship with Spencer. I understand what he’s saying completely. I’m the promiscuous to her virginal. I’m the crude to her innocent. I’m the dark to her light. (Both literally and figuratively.)

  But no matter how unlikely, it works.

  His hazel eyes dip to my shirt, and his smile lessens. His expression is trance-like as he falls into deep thought, almost as though he’s speaking to himself. “Sucks though. I mean, I could be more than the goofy sidekick. Sometimes life just has a way of knocking you on your ass though, doesn’t it?”

  I nod sympathetically, stunned by my own reflection in those words. He lifts his face.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “Where’s fucking karma when you need it?” he asks. “I mean, you trust people and they force you into impossible, unforgivable positions. They take advantage, make you resent who you are because of choices they make . . . it’s like you have no—”

  “Control,” I finish for him in a whisper.

  “Yeah,” he concludes, his voice just as soft.

  His eyes hold mine, and in this moment, I feel the bond strengthen between us. It tightens, binding us together as mutual understanding is shared in our silence. I know in my heart Rat understands what it’s like to be manipulated into keeping someone else’s secrets. How after they’re divulged, after they’re forced upon you, it alters who you are, who you were meant to be.

  And as the bond intensifies, pulling us together, it draws the admission of my past right along with it. I want to share it with him, because I know he won’t judge me. He won’t pity me. He will accept me. He will understand me, because in a way, he is me.

  No one will ever understand you.

  No one could possibly care enough to try.

  Frustrated with their presence, hope fuels my strength and I shove the voices out of my head, because maybe, just maybe I’ve finally found someone who can and will.

  Relief gathers at the tip of my tongue. If I can just say it, I won’t be alone anymore.

  I don’t want to be alone anymore.

  I don’t want to be alone forever.

  Resolute, I inhale deeply and gather my courage. Slowly, I open my mouth, and—

  Rat’s phone vibrates, breaking our shared moment. He disengages his stare from mine, lowering his eyes as he pulls his cell out of his
pocket. His mouth tightens into a thin line and his eyes glare at the device in his hand. “Fuck. I gotta go.”

  I nod and swallow the tears of hope clawing my throat, driving the relief previously felt back down with them.

  You see, little girl? We told you.

  No one will ever want you.

  You will always be broken.

  Always alone.

  He stands, leaning over me and ruffling my hair like he always does, same warm smile on his face. I swat his hand away like I do every time he does it, and he laughs before bending and placing his lips against the crown of my head.

  “See you tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Tomorrow,” I respond, still barely able to speak.

  I watch with saddened eyes as his frame moves gracefully across my room, placing the chair back under my desk before opening the window and climbing outside. He shuts it behind him, and I remain alone in my bed.

  But tomorrow?

  Tomorrow I will be open with him.

  I need to tell him.

  He . . . knows me. Understands me. I feel it in my heart.

  I don’t want to be alone anymore.

  I’ll tell him tomorrow.

  Rat was shot and killed later that very night.

  IT’S SUNDAY, AND I am in an absolute funk.

  Sunday, by the way, is the worst day for me to be in a funk. I have no appointments, so I’ve been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, with memories of Rat churning in my mind. It’s clogged with my last image of his smiling eyes, full to the brim with the painful reminder that I could have done something. That I should have done something. Maybe convinced him to stay longer, talked him out of going, anything.

  Instead, I lay there like a fucking moron, watching him leave on his way to being mercilessly executed, neither of us none the wiser.

  Fuck.

  Three times I’ve gotten up, ready to stalk over to Spencer’s room and demand Dalton’s gun to hunt that motherfucker down myself. And three times I’ve lain back down, knowing that’s a sure-fire way of getting myself killed.

  On my fourth time rising, my cell rings on my nightstand, aborting my mission. For now.

  I cast an angry glance at the phone, then reach to grab it.

  “Yeah,” I sigh irritably in greeting, not even bothering to see who’s on the receiving end of my funk.

  A familiar chuckle sounds, and my brows furrow as I pull the phone away from my face to look at the screen.

  Pressing it back to my ear, I add, “Grady.”

  “Wow, someone’s in a funk today.” The crease in my forehead deepens. I dart my eyes quickly, making sure Grady hasn’t performed some masterful police reconnaissance mission and is standing somewhere in my room.

  “You could say that,” I confirm.

  “Pissed?” he probes.

  I fight a growl. “Yeah.”

  “At me?”

  “No. At life.”

  “Hmm.”

  Just as I begin to crawl back under my covers, Grady proclaims in an annoyingly energetic voice, “Get your ass up and get dressed. Something comfortable. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  He disconnects the call, and I sit up, clearing the hair from my face before scanning the room. Then I look at the phone, frustrated because I don’t want to go anywhere.

  But judging from Grady’s tone, he’s not going to take no for an answer, so I haul my ass up as requested. My feet drag the entire way to the dresser, seemingly as happy as I am about this recent development.

  By the time there’s a knock at my door, I’m dressed in yoga pants and a hot-pink tank that reads, Bitch, please. I found it fitting for my mood. My hair is in a haphazard ponytail, because again, I don’t give a fuck. And just to emphasize my lack of caring, I’m not wearing a lick of makeup.

  If Spencer saw me now, she’d probably have me committed.

  I trudge my way over to the door and fling it open. Grady stands in front of me wearing another mutilated T-shirt, long gym shorts, and royal-blue Nikes. The grin on his face is pompous, breathtakingly beautiful, but still pompous as his eyes graze over my appearance.

  I frown at his amused expression, my lips pinching tightly. “I really don’t want to go anywhere. I’m just going to throw that out there.”

  His smile beams, and he laughs under his breath. “Well, that’s the best time to get going.”

  I don’t even bother to grab my purse, just a square of bubblegum and my keys as I exit the apartment. I set the alarm and lock the door, shooting Dalton a pointed stare through the brick wall separating us, before joining Grady as we walk to the parking lot.

  “My car or yours?” I ask, gesturing toward my cherry-red Jeep as we pass it.

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if you drove, now would it?”

  My eyes roll upward in defeat as I admit, “No, I suppose not.”

  Grady grins then reaches, linking his index finger with my pinky. The simple gesture creates a tiny spark of liveliness, and my tired body starts coming to life. In thanks, I offer him a small smile, which earns me Grady’s narrowed stare in return. My mouth falls, too exhausted to pretend.

  He pulls me with him to his car, and as we approach the door, he unlocks it, leaning over me to jerk the handle open. I move reluctantly to take my seat, but he tugs my arm, urging me to remain standing. His sapphire eyes taper at the corners, crinkles forming at the sides as he watches me. Then he nods to himself as though a decision has been made.

  “I know exactly what you need.”

  His tone is low and sultry, and an uncontrolled zing of desire whips right through me as it hits my ears. I maintain a neutral expression, but Grady must have noticed the sudden flush of my cheeks, because he grins before releasing me.

  Fifteen minutes later, all desire is lost as my eyes land on our destination.

  Crow’s Gym.

  “Seriously?”

  Incredible.

  Grady, clearly finding some sort of sick humor in the situation, just laughs as he drives to the front of the building, parks the car, and kills the ignition. He says nothing as he opens his door. He remains silent when he escorts me from my seat to the front door. Only when he puts the key in the lock does he speak. “Fuck or fight.”

  I practically choke on my wad of gum and jut my head in his direction. “I’m sorry. What?”

  Clearly amused, he laughs to himself before explaining, “You’re angry. Two sure-fire ways to rid yourself of anger is to either fuck or fight. Since fucking has temporarily been taken out of the equation,” he shrugs, “fighting it is.”

  “What?” I screech, now bordering on my own laughter because Grady Bennett might just need to be committed right along with me. “I’m not going to fight you.”

  “No, you’re right. But you’re sure as hell gonna try.”

  He pulls the heavy door open with ease, then lifts his eyebrows, waiting for me to enter.

  I just stand there.

  His lips curl upward and the muscle lining his jaw clenches as he tries to suppress his laughter. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, his brows rise even higher, challenging me.

  Mine lift in stark defiance.

  He mocks a yawn, covering his mouth with a closed fist.

  In turn, I release a pronounced growl, declaring my irritation, before finally relenting and stomping into the building. The door shuts behind me, and I lose him in darkness. Seconds later, I hear shuffling, then the lights flicker on.

  Once our eyes have adjusted, Grady points toward the red mats lining the floor. “Stretch.”

  Reluctantly, I do as I’m told but make sure to pucker my lips and pout like a petulant child. Grady takes a seat beside me, and together we work through some stretches and various warm-up exercises.

  After a round of cross-body punches, I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead just as Grady asks, “You’ve taken classes before?”

  I nod, changing it up and slicing an uppercut through the air.

  Grady performs the same movem
ent, adding, “I could tell in class the other night. You’ve had decent enough instruction.”

  My body freezes mid right cross, and I stare at him, willing myself not to smile. “Decent?”

  He shrugs. “Could use a little improvement.”

  “Huh,” I state, then lower my body in a fighting stance.

  He mirrors my position, grinning widely. He then proceeds to try to intimidate me by cracking his neck, and I force back laughter. This whole situation is beyond ridiculous. His eyes land on my fixed mouth, then he lifts his arms and taps his chest with the tips of his fingers.

  “Hit me.”

  Beyond ridiculous, but for reasons unknown, I do it anyway.

  My leg lunges forward, bending softly at the knee as I power a jab toward his chest. Unfortunately, it doesn’t strike. My fist smacks against Grady’s palm, and his fingers curl over the top before he squeezes it lightly. He narrows his eyes then heaves my hand toward the ground, unimpressed, and his easy dismissal stokes my anger.

  He steps back, cocking his head and observing my tightened expression. “Gotta be faster than that, sweetheart.”

  Grady gestures toward his chest.

  I dip my head, step closer, and whirl around, attempting a roundhouse kick.

  My ankle is trapped immediately between his hands, and as though annoyed, he drops my leg to the mat and shakes his head. My molars clamp together, harshly grinding against each other as I watch him. Rage begins to boil, elevating my heart rate. Memories and past recollections burn as they flow, searing my mind with their travel. They whirl madly, seeking exit, and my floodgates bow, allowing angry tears to well.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I haven’t cried in longer than I can remember, and all of a sudden I’m an emotional basket case around this guy.

  Frustration mixes with my fury, creating more tears.

  Grady’s expression is no longer amused but concentrated as he gauges my reaction. “Feel that burn, that anger? You need to let it out, Cass. Trust me on this.”

  He pounds his chest. “Again.”

  His raised voice snaps something in me. I launch myself at him, throwing every punch I can. And each one is deflected, followed by instruction.