I catch up to her quickly. “Then why do you work here?”
“God, you’re like a flea that just won’t go away.” She gives a quick glance in both directions before she hops off the curb and walks across the street. There are a few students roaming, but it’s a Friday night. How secluded is it on a Tuesday? The idea of her out here, walking by herself, bothers me more than it should. “Are you intentionally being this obtuse? Why do people usually work? So I can pay for things.”
“I get that. But why there?”
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye before moving her attention once again in front of her. There’s a weighted silence between us, almost as if she’s deciding how much to reveal to me. Finally she says, “Because a partial scholarship only goes so far, and this pays the best for what’s available with my schedule. Unless I go down to Roxy’s.”
My jaw locks, hands clenched at the idea of her working at a fucking strip club. If I thought a guy grabbing her ass got me pissed, it has nothing on someone staring at her while she struts naked on a stage.
Not seeing my reaction, or ignoring it entirely, she continues, “I’m not quite that desperate yet.”
Thank fuck for that.
“What about your parents? Why don’t they help you?”
“I have a better question: Why are you still here?”
“I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m not such a jackass that I’d knowingly let you walk to the bus stop by yourself after midnight. You do this every night?”
“Careful, stalker, you’re starting to sound creepy.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Seriously, though. I can . . . I could come by tomorrow and give you a ride home, if you want.”
She stops suddenly and stares at me, her mouth parted. “Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”
I grimace, running my hand over my hair. None of this is coming out how I wanted it to. “No . . . Yes. Maybe.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Okay, now I know you’re just being obtuse. What part of my fuck-off body language isn’t coming across? It’s obviously something I need to work on.” She turns and continues walking, speeding up slightly.
I take a deep breath, hands shoved in my pockets as I follow her, because sometime over the last few days, I’ve apparently turned into a masochist. “Look, I wanted to say I was sorry. I just . . . I read your signals wrong, I guess. I thought I saw you stiffen when he grabbed you, and I can’t . . . I’m not the kind of guy who can sit back and watch something like that happen, okay? I couldn’t do nothing.”
She doesn’t say anything, and we’ve arrived at the bus stop already. We’re the only ones there, and the bus is nowhere in sight. I know I’ve got a couple more minutes, and I intend to use every one until this crazy, beautiful girl accepts my apology.
She leans against the metal pole of the bus stop sign, her arms crossed as she considers me. “You’re really sorry?” At my nod, she continues, “And you won’t do it again?”
I force myself to shake my head, even though I’m not sure it’s a promise I can actually keep.
“Fine. Apology accepted.” She turns her back on me, facing the street, clearly done with our conversation. With me.
Jesus, this girl is making me work for it. I step off the curb and move to stand in front of her. “I’m Cade, by the way.”
She doesn’t even look at me, her head turned to the side, eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder.
“I didn’t catch your name . . .”
“That’s because I didn’t give it.”
I blow out a breath. “No, I mean before . . . the other day. Your name tag? I didn’t see what it said.”
“Probably because you were too busy throwing your Neanderthal bullshit around and scaring off my customers.”
“I said I was sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? How do you plan on doing that?”
“I, ah, I could make you dinner . . .”
Her abrupt laugh surprises me, throaty and deep. From the look in her eyes, the sound is more disbelief than anything. “You’re hitting on me again.”
I chuckle, rubbing at the back of my head as I stare down at the ground. “Yeah, I guess I am.” The rumble of the bus grows louder as it rolls down the street toward us. “So what do you say?”
She looks at me, stares straight into my eyes until the bus stops in front of us, its doors sliding open. Only then does she look away, climbing the first step, and I almost think she’s going to leave without even answering. But before the doors close, she looks at me over her shoulder. “Same thing I said before. Go find someone else, Prince Charming.”
And then she climbs the rest of the steps, the bus hisses and pulls away, and she’s gone.
And I still don’t know her name.
FIVE
cade
“Where are you going?”
I freeze, my hand on the handle to the back door. The whole house is dark and silent, but with the hours Tessa keeps, I’m amazed it’s taken me this long to get caught sneaking out. And how fucking pathetic am I that I’m sneaking out? I’m twenty-three years old, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t know why I haven’t told Tess any of this, why she doesn’t know about the girl from the pub. The girl with the fire in her eyes. The girl whose name I still don’t know. I’m embarrassed at the improbability of it. That, somehow, after four years of rock-solid routines, I’ve let a girl I’ve known less than a week throw a wrench in it.
But there is something about this girl. Her ballsy, fuck everything attitude. Her vulnerability clashing with the pride she has. The secrets she keeps hidden in her eyes. Even after only a week, I want to uncover them all.
Clearing my throat, I turn around and face my sister. “I just have to give someone a ride.”
She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms against her chest. “Jason get stranded at some girl’s house again? Serves him right. If he’d finally stop doing the fuck and duck and grow up already, he wouldn’t have to worry about shit like this.” She doesn’t wait for my answer, and I don’t correct her. After making a quick stop in the kitchen and grabbing some of the crostini I made earlier, she holds one up at me as she walks past. “Be home before curfew.”
I snort and turn to leave, slipping into the car this time, hoping maybe it’s my motorcycle that’s been giving the girl at the pub pause. Except I know it’s not. She’s been nothing but fire and hostility since last week, but like a masochist, I keep going back. Every night, I’m there for more. There is something about her that keeps pulling me back. The looks she lets slip past her armor, the tiny flashes of the real her. That’s why I keep going back, hoping for another glimpse.
My days are all packed, and the evenings I don’t have my bistro class for credit, I’m at the restaurant serving, bringing in a paycheck, however meager it is. I’ve figured out a way I can juggle everything, giving me an hour gap of time from midnight to one when I can be by her, but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep this up. It’s easy now, with the spring quarter having just started, but when we get further into the year, closer to graduation and the mounting projects expected of us, I’m not sure I’ll be able to continue.
The thing that keeps me going back, that forces me to stand against that back wall night after night, is the thought that hopefully, by then, I’ll at least have her name.
winter
“You certainly are persistent, I’ll give you that.”
Before the words have even left my lips, he pushes away from the wall he’s been standing against every night for the last week. “Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy me walking with you,” he says as he falls into step next to me.
My rebuttal dies on my lips, because the truth is, he’s absolutely right. He’s worked his way into my life with this weird, unconventional routine, and I’d like to say it pisses me off. That I’m affronted he follows me the block and a half to the bus stop, that he offers me
a ride every single night, and every single night I refuse, but . . . I’ve sort of grown used to it. To him.
Every night when I’m working, it’s the same. I spend my entire shift thinking about whether or not he’s going to be there waiting, then I hate myself a little for even contemplating it. Make a silent promise that I won’t let him walk with me, that I’ll tell him to stop, that I don’t want him there. And then I see him waiting for me—for me—and all my objections fall by the wayside.
I’ve had guys interested . . . in my body and the kind of physical connection I can offer them, but I’ve never had someone so interested in me, even when I’m completely covered up in sweatshirts and jeans, my hair pulled back, makeup wiped from my face. Just me. The feeling is addictive, this sense of being wanted. I know it could be the chase for him—it probably is—but I can’t turn off the part of me that craves this attention. After a lifetime of rejection, I soak up every bit of it he tosses my way.
“Besides,” he says, interrupting my thoughts, “one of these nights, you’ll say yes.” His tone is so confident, so sure, and this is all part of the volley that happens between us every night.
I play my part, responding, “Don’t count on it.”
“Well, if nothing else, maybe you’ll at least tell me your name.”
I shake my head, looking at the ground before up at him. “I don’t know why you don’t just go into The Brewery and ask. Or come in early enough to catch a glimpse of my name tag instead of lurking out here in the shadows like a creep.”
“Where’s the fun in that? Plus, when you finally tell me, I’ll know I’ve cracked your shell just a little.”
The smile he shoots me is crooked and imperfect and a little bit harsh and so him, it’s unnerving. Though I don’t want to, I’ve had days to memorize every inch of him through the light of the moon and the sporadic flood of streetlights, and I have. So much so that I can see the sharp curve of his jaw, the shadow of his close-cropped hair, the arch of his lips even when I close my eyes at night.
He’s tall. Ridiculously so—nearly a foot taller than I am. And he’s built like a football player or a heavyweight boxer—broad shoulders, huge, defined arms, and this . . . presence. His hair is shaved close to his head, close but long enough that if I ran my hand over it, I’m sure it’d have that soft tickling resistance like the rough side of velvet. His eyes are gray or green or hazel—I’m not sure because it’s dark every time I’ve been close enough to see—and so expressive, I feel like I could get lost in them sometimes.
When we pass under a light, the barbell through his eyebrow glints at me, and when he wears certain shirts, I can see black ink peeking out of his collar or the cuffs of his hoodie. I wonder how much of him is covered in tattoos. If he has full sleeves on both arms, or just one, or if they’re random designs—some here, some there—if he has any marking on his back or legs, on his chest, and I hate myself for letting something so innocuous consume my thoughts. For imagining what he must look like under the layers he gets to wear.
I tell myself it’s only because of the injustice of it all—that he’s seen so much of me I want to level the playing field. I hate feeling so naked around him, even when I’m not.
“Maybe tonight will be my lucky night. Maybe I’ll blow your mind with something completely random, and you’ll think, ‘Yeah, I need to go out with that guy.’”
I laugh. “Oh, we’ve upgraded from an I’m sorry dinner to a date, huh? Then the answer is definitely no.”
“Why?”
“I don’t do dates.”
“I’ll wear you down soon enough.”
“So, what, you’re just going to keep walking with me until I say yes? Some might say that’s harassment, you know.”
Looking to me, he raises an eyebrow. “Good thing none of those people are around.”
The bus stop is just ahead, and it seems like it comes upon us faster every night. When I walked this same block and a half by myself, I could get here in less than five minutes. Since he’s started walking with me, it’s stretched to ten . . . fifteen minutes, our feet nearly dragging along the pavement.
When we come upon it, we each take up our standard positions. Me up on the curb, leaning against the metal sign post, him standing in front of me on the street. It brings him closer to eye level, though even with this difference, he’s still taller than me. The streetlight pours over us harshly, highlighting the angles of his face, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks, the cut of his jaw. He looks ridiculously intimidating, and if I was walking by myself and saw him standing here for the first time, I’m not sure I wouldn’t turn around and run in the other direction. The inconsistencies between his tough, brash exterior and his insouciant personality are staggering. And intriguing.
“So what do you say?”
“What do I say about what?”
“Are you going to let me make you dinner?”
I laugh, looking down the street to where I hear the rumble of the bus coming up the hill. “No.” I say it automatically, before anything else can come out instead. Because I know if I look into his eyes, if I take even thirty seconds to really look, I’ll see the sincerity there, and I’ll say yes.
“I knew you were gonna say that.”
“Did you? You’re a smart one.”
He smiles and leans toward me, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans as he props one foot up on the curb. “I don’t know about that. Coming here every night, expecting a different outcome each time, makes me seem a little dense, I think.”
I hum, trying to act unaffected by his nearness. “Yeah, that does seem a little dumb.”
“It’s a wonder my self-esteem is still intact after all this, really. You should probably tell me your name to help lessen the sting . . .”
I shake my head, sending the smile that curves my lips straight to the pavement so he can’t steal it away. Before I can say anything, the bus squeals to a stop in front of us. Cade backs up as I move around him and grip the railing inside the bus. With one foot on the step, I turn. He’s watching me, hands in his back pockets, the same hopeful look on his face he’s worn every day for the past week, and before I can stop myself, I say, “It’s Winter.”
I don’t stare at him long enough to see his response, but I hear it. His rich voice repeating my name, but still I don’t turn around. The doors close behind me with a hiss, and I take my seat. As we pull away, I chance a glance out the window and find him standing there, the smile on his lips cutting straight through me.
And I know I won’t say no the next time he asks me.
SIX
cade
“Uncle Cade, will you watch me at dance class tonight?”
Haley’s standing in front of me, looking like a bright pink piece of bubble gum with her stretchy tank thing and her skirt and her tights. How am I supposed to say no to her? She’s only three. She has no idea I’ve been a dumb shit all week and I’m paying for it now.
All because I had to see her. Winter.
A brief smile sweeps over my mouth as I remember the expression on her face as she watched me through the grimy bus windows after she told me her name. She looked nervous. Nervous and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a little excited.
Which is a pretty fucking apt description of what I’m feeling.
Every night when I left the house at midnight, cutting right into the small amount of study time I have, I thought I was okay. I thought I had enough time to get everything done, that taking that hour every night wouldn’t affect my classes or my schedule or my life. I didn’t think about the domino effect it could have, just that I wanted to see her. I wanted those fifteen minutes of talking.
And it’s not like we were talking about monumental things. Our conversations were always about absolutely nothing. Hell, I don’t even know something as basic as her major. Don’t know if she has siblings or where she lives or what she does in her free time. Every second of the time we spent together was like a volleyball match—hitting the ball o
ver to her just to see if she’d sail it over the net to me or spike it down in front of my face. At first, it was more of the latter. By the third night, I could tell I was wearing her down. She didn’t know I saw her look for me as soon as she walked out the door of The Brewery. The first night she did that, I knew. I was in. Her walls were crumbling. Slowly, but crumbling nonetheless. I was patient. I could wait.
It was only a matter of time before she told me her name. And hopefully not long before she said yes.
And as of last night, I had one of the two.
Getting the other is going to be a problem. Yeah, I know her name, but I want more. I want to take her on a date—to apologize again, but it’s more than that. Because I want to get to know this girl.
I’m combing over my schedule, trying to figure out when I can sneak in more study time so I can meet her there again tonight. No matter how I shuffle things, though, I’m still an hour short. I have three entrées I need to test before next week’s classes, a handful of recipes to write out and memorize, and a ten-page paper focusing on the development and modernization of Cajun and Creole cooking that I haven’t even started yet. And I can’t push any of it back, procrastinate it to a later date, because I have four shifts serving at the restaurant in the upcoming week. I’m already barely getting by on four hours of sleep—five if I’m lucky. There’s no fucking way I can budge there. With my luck, I’ll slice my finger open the next time I have to julienne something. I’ve already messed up twice in class, and my instructors weren’t happy.
And now my sister and my niece need me. And above all else, they’re my reason for . . . everything.
I grab Haley by the waist, toss her into the air, and let the sounds of her squeals wash over me. When she’s settled in my lap, I say, “Of course, short stuff. You know I love watching you.”
Tessa calls from down the hall. “We leave in twenty, so do whatever you have to do.”
What I have to do.
And that’s the bottom line. I’d like to do what I want to do. I have been. Winter made me forget about the responsibilities in my life, about the things I have to take care of, being the only one around to do so. As much as I’d like to, I can’t go see her tonight. Can’t walk her to the bus stop, which means she’ll be walking there alone.
Caged in Winter Page 4
