Start With Me: A Novel (Start Again Series Book 3)

by J. Saman

  “Me?” Kyle asks pointing to his own chest, his voice is anger tempered with restraint. “I’m no one. Just the guy you call in the middle of the night when you need to be bailed out.”

  Fuck. That hurts so bad there really isn’t a way to express it. He may have just suckered punched me in the gut. But he’s right. I used him. I treated him so unfairly and I used him last night.

  So, I play the last card I have.

  I spin around on my heels and snatch that goddamn bag of my clothes off the floor and storm off, ignoring my protesting body as I go. I hear both Luke and Ryan calling after me. But not Kyle. And for some reason, that’s the final nail in the coffin.

  But what did I expect from him, anyway? Even if I did put myself on the line, had the test done and found out the results, what then? If it was negative, which I doubt it is, could we have a real shot at things? Or has irreparable damage already been done?

  And why was I being a bitch to them just now? They were just trying to protect me and I threw it back in their faces. I don’t think I’ve ever been such a mess in my life and I hate it. I hate feeling and being this way.

  I toss the red bag onto the bed and dig through it quickly, dropping the bathrobe onto the floor. I don’t even look at what I pick out. I just throw some black leggings and a tee onto the bed, slip on some panties and just as I’m securing the clasp of my bra between my boobs, the door flies open.

  Probably should have locked that.

  Kyle bursts in, slamming the door behind him with such force that I hear the wood crack. For a brief moment, he’s too worked up to notice my attire, or lack thereof. That moment quickly fades and then all that anger morphs into barely concealed heat. I just stand there, staring at him in my bra and panties, daring him to continue his tirade.

  His eyes scan my body slowly, languidly, taking their time and their pleasure with each pass of my skin. I feel those eyes everywhere. Savor the sensation. Breathe in his lust and exhale it along with my own. In this moment, I realize just how close anger and desire are connected to each other. How easily they can do battle with one another.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” he says softly, as he swallows, blinks, and finally meets my eyes. “I can’t stomach the idea of you sleeping in that apartment. So, you’re staying here,” he commands, his voice gaining back some of the strength it lost.

  I can see his love for me and fuck all if that’s not heady as hell. Empowering. I want to walk up to him and own him. Possess him.

  But I’m still firmly rooted in place because there are too many things unknown.

  “I can’t move in here, Kyle.”

  The moment I say his name, I know it’s a mistake. Something about it does things to him and he takes a big step toward me. His breaths are ragged, still breathing heavily from his storming down the hall and into this room. His eyes feast on me. Again. He licks his lips, wetting them, and that small sheen of moisture has me licking mine.

  “You can,” he says and then he runs his hand through his hair and over his face, letting out a slew of curses that would make me smile if this moment wasn’t so intense. “I need you to.”

  God, the way he says that. It’s a desperate plea, and yet so domineering. I think my mind just went blank. Any argument I had dissipates into the thick sexual tension pulsating between us. The simple truth is, I don’t want to go home. I just don’t want to be told I can’t. I need some modicum of control.

  It’s really all I have left.

  And honestly, I’m far too stubborn for my own good sometimes.

  “Okay,” I say, trying for resolute, but coming up way short. “I’ll stay. For now,” I add, as if it’s all my decision and not his.

  “Good,” he says, taking an unconscious step in my direction, before he realizes what he’s doing and stops. “I’ll, uh . . .” he looks at me again. My lace-covered breasts. The tiny, sheer piece of material that I’m calling panties. A small groan passes his lips and I instantly feel moisture pooling into that scrap of fabric.

  “I’ll let you get dressed.”

  He doesn’t move. His eyes flicker up to mine for a beat and they lock, holding me captive.

  “Is that something I should do with you standing there?” I can’t help but laugh.

  “Yes,” he says, his lips quirking up into a smirk. “I need to make sure you don’t need help.” Then his eyes fixate on the bruise on the side of my body and they take on an entirely different form of heat. “I want to kill him,” he admits.

  I take this moment and turn around, my ass on full display since I’m only wearing a thong. I can only imagine the nightmares Ryan will have after digging through my underwear drawer. Mercifully I keep my vibrator in my nightstand and not in there. Kyle groans again, and instantly his hand are on my hips, his thumbs gliding up and down the warmth of my flesh.

  “God, Claire,” his voice catches. “You’re not even being fair.”

  “Hey.” I elbow him back, but it has no bite or effort behind it. “You stormed in on me. I was simply getting dressed. And you already saw all of me last night in the shower.” And before that, I don’t add.

  “I want to go beat the shit out of my brother and thank him simultaneously for picking those out for you.”

  I laugh, bending forward to slip on my leggings, my ass making full contact with the delicious bulge in his pants. I get a moan this time. “I don’t think he did much digging. I imagine him closing his eyes and grabbing whatever was on top.”

  “Uh huh.”

  His hands glide up and down my sides, freezing before they get too low or too high. His restraint really is astounding. If it were up to me, I’d be on my knees in front of him right now. His warm lips find the bony prominence of my spine, leaving me a sweet wet kiss.

  “I’m going to go, because if I don’t this very second, I’ll tear off these panties and . . . so, yeah . . .” I feel cool air behind me as he leaves me alone, smiling like I just won something.

  Chapter 31

  Claire

  It’s amazing the sort of power information has. The manipulation it can wield. Kyle fed the DA information about my friend, Mr. Arizona, which is obviously not his real name. I mean, come on, Mr. Arizona? It’s not even clever or original. It’s the name of a goddamn state.

  Anyway, his real name is Jeffery Monroe and he’s a Canadian citizen.

  The police had nothing. No prints in their database. No info on him. He had no job. No known associates or real address. The only credit card he had was in the name of Max Arizona, and it was one of those pay-as-you-go types. So was his cell, which made them untraceable. He was a floater. A drifter, heading back to Canada. His other IDs were nowhere to be found.

  But Luke and Ryan found that shit out and apparently the d-bag has a Canadian passport. Bingo. Once the DA heard that small piece of information, she let the judge know and boom. Remand. No bail. He’s also wanted for questioning under his real name in the state of Montana, related to a missing girl.

  Luke and Ryan did some serious hacking for that info.

  So, this missing girl . . .

  Missing as in no one has found her body.

  I cannot tell you about the chills of nausea that piece of knowledge set free.

  Kyle went to his arraignment and said everything went smoothly. The pre-trial hearing or whatever it’s called is set for next month. Yippee. Yeah, that’s sarcasm. I’m not looking forward to any of that.

  I didn’t go to work the Monday or Tuesday after the attack. First of all, Ryan told me he and Luke would unceremoniously escort me out of the building if I even tried to come. Second of all, my face was still a hot mess and no amount of makeup was going to cover that up. So, I played hooky. It’s not like I don’t have a million vacation days anyway.

  And a million things to do.

  I went back to the lab. Again. But this time . . . I went in. And I did it. I had the blood test. Oddly enough, I’ve felt lighter since, even if I don’t know the results yet. It was fr
eeing. Like a giant weight was removed from my chest.

  I’m also still staying at Kyle’s.

  It’s been more than a week since the attack. In fact, it’s been ten days. I’ve been home to pick up more stuff and get my mail, but really, I don’t have much of a desire to sleep there. I can’t even figure out why. I wasn’t afraid when I walked in. I didn’t break down into a fit of crying and PTSD.

  I just looked around and it no longer felt like home.

  I’m looking for a new apartment. Well, when I say looking, I’m really just trolling online. I haven’t actually been to see any. That’s mainly Kyle’s doing. He says he likes having me as a roommate and that my piano was lonely without me.

  Roommate. That was the word he used.

  And in truth, that’s exactly what we’ve become.

  I haven’t slept in his bed since that first night. I stay mostly on my side of the massive penthouse and he stays on his. He buys the groceries and I cook us dinner. I even clean the place, because Kyle doesn’t do much of that. He’s not a slob or anything. I mean, he doesn’t exactly have enough stuff to be considered a slob, but he’s not going around and cleaning the bathrooms either. So, I do that, especially since he’s refusing my money for anything.

  We’ve fallen into a pattern. One I don’t know how to break. One I don’t know if I want to break, mostly because I’m afraid to rock the boat. We’re back to being best friends. We’re back to keeping everything else that we both know the other feels, under the covers.

  Kyle has been staying late at the office all week. I don’t ask why, and frankly, I enjoy the brief eclipse of time that I have in between when I get home from work and when he gets home. Home. Ironic, huh?

  “Alexa?” I yell over the sound of sautéing onions and peppers. “Play Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

  “Playing Red Hot Chili Peppers,” she responds in that robotic, disembodied voice.

  Californication comes blasting through the speaker of the house since Kyle has his Echo set up to the built-in Bluetooth. I’m rocking my head, singing along and dancing around while I chop up carrots and broccoli. I was in the mood for a stir-fry tonight so that’s what Kyle is getting.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel hands on my waist. I roll my head around my shoulder with a smile as Kyle holds my hips and dances along with me. The song picks up to the chorus and he lets go, dancing and singing the words at the top of his lungs—hideously off key. I’m laughing hysterically and singing along just as loudly.

  Kyle winks at me as he reaches out and takes my hand, spinning me around and twirling me across the floor. I reach over and turn off the stove so our food doesn’t burn, and then let him lead me. We dance. And sing. And laugh. And smile. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.

  When the song ends, we’re both grinning stupidly at each other, slightly out of breath and still laughing. Without warning, Kyle pulls me into his chest, holding me tightly against his firm, hard muscles. Our eyes lock. Our breaths mingle. His head dips towards mine, seconds before he bends my body over backwards into a low dip.

  I can’t stop my girlish giggle, but just as quickly he rights me, pulling me into his chest.

  “Alexa,” he yells out, “play The Beatles.”

  “The Beatles, eh?”

  He nods, a smile turning up the corners of his lips and making his hazel eyes sparkle. “Oh yeah, baby.”

  The guitar strings to In My Life come on and that only seems to make him smile wider. He pulls me tighter into his chest and then we’re moving across the kitchen into the large space between the kitchen and the great room. His hand is firmly affixed to the crest above my ass, his cheek kissing mine.

  “But of all these friends and lovers,” he sings softly against me. “There is no one compares with you. And these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new.” The song goes on, but he stops singing after that. We just sway and move and dance, as Kyle holds me tight in his perfect embrace.

  The song ends and another comes on, but we both stop dancing. Instead, we stand there in the middle of the empty space looking at each other like we both get it. Like words are no longer needed, even if there are so many words we have yet to say. So many words I have yet to say.

  And I want to.

  I want to give him all my words. All my truths. All my moments of dancing, and laughing, and singing. All my moments. I want them to be his. I’m tired of drowning in half-truths with him.

  His head dips to mine, my chin raises to his, our eyes lock . . .

  Then a cell phone rings.

  Kyle’s eyes slam shut and after a beat, he reluctantly lets me go.

  So close, yet nowhere near.

  “Hello?” he says, picking up the black phone off the marble island. I walk off. I suddenly can’t look at him. I need a moment before I can return to our new normal.

  I splash cold water on my heated cheeks, hating the way my pale skin shows my blush.

  When I find the strength to leave the bathroom and walk back out into the kitchen, I pause, watching the way Kyle is staring blankly at the phone in his hand.

  “Kyle?”

  His eyes slowly glide up to mine. “Dr. Krauss from neurology called. She has your test results, and would like you to call her. Said it was important.”

  Fuck.

  “I’m sorry,” he continues, staring down at the floor, his fists balled up. “I didn’t realize that was your phone. We have the same ringer.”

  We do have the same ringer. And our phones are nearly identical.

  I don’t know what to say to him. I would never even have had the test if it weren’t for him, and now I don’t even have the balls to call that damn doctor back to get the results. I’m far too terrified to find out. My heart is racing to a completely unfamiliar rhythm. Amazing how things can change so quickly. One minute you’re dancing without a care in the world, and the next you’re about to find out if you’re dying.

  “Why do you have a neurologist?” he asks softly, his gaze slowly raising to mine.

  “I can’t do this with you. Not now,” I tell him, taking a step back without conscious thought.

  “Why not? Why won’t you talk to me?”

  I just shake my head, unable to speak. The look he’s giving me has my heart in my throat.

  “Are you sick?” he asks, his voice a combination of fear and agitation.

  I shrug. That only seems to enrage him further.

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  I rub my hands over my face and let out a tremulous breath. “It means I don’t know. It means probably.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I scream at him, losing my last ounce of patience. “I don’t fucking know, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay.” Kyle rushes toward me, grabbing on to my shoulders. My body is still sore, especially my ribs, but I ignore the sting. “Why is a goddamn neurologist calling you with test results? What aren’t you telling me?”

  I blink, begging my body to hold the stupid tears I feel threatening down.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Stop keeping secrets from me, Claire. Your life is my life, no matter how many times you try and push me away.” He blinks like something is finally catching up to him. “Whatever this is that you’re not telling me,” he starts, his voice calm now, “is it the reason you won’t be with me?”

  I shrug again, and now he’s getting good and pissed and I can’t exactly blame him. Kyle doesn’t like evasive under the best of circumstances, and he’s scared that I might be sick and hiding it from him. Well, I’m scared too. Way more scared than he could ever be. In fact, I don’t think a word has even been invented for my level of terrified.

  “I love you,” he yells, taking a step back and running his fingers through his hair, pulling on the ends like he doesn’t know what else to do. “I love you. Goddamn it, I do. I can’t help it. You’re impossible not to love. I need you and I need t
o know if you’re sick. I’ve been there, Claire. I get that shit. Better than anyone, probably. Let me help you. Let me take care of you.”

  God, this is not the way someone wants to hear that. In fact, every time he’s said those words to me, they’ve been out of desperation.

  “No,” I say with perfect clarity that there can be no question as to my meaning.

  Yet he manages it. “No?”

  “No. I don’t want your help or your pity, or for you to stick around because you feel bad for me and don’t want me to be sad or alone or whatever. I don’t want that shit.” I wave my arm, slashing the air between us.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know what any of that means. My loving you doesn’t have conditions or limitations. I can’t pick or choose when to want to be with you. When to want to take care of you. It’s just part of the whole package.”

  My hands grasp onto my hips as my chin hits my chest, my eyes staring unseeing at the floor. “That’s the thing,” I say, raising my head slowly and locking eyes with him. “I don’t want you to take care of me.”

  Pain instantly spreads across his face and I hate myself. I fucking hate myself. Because everything I just said to him is a lie.

  But the reality is, I’m hurting him now so I don’t do worse later.

  I grab my bag and my phone and I walk out. He’s so much better off without me. Doctors don’t call you on a Friday evening with test results and tell you it’s important, if it’s good news. I should never have had that test.

  “Shit,” I scream, slamming my fist into the side of the elevator over and over until pain no longer registers.

  I hit the frozen city streets, oddly marveling at the overabundance of Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations marring the stores. I hate Thanksgiving. I hate any family holiday.

  I could go back into Kyle’s building and get in my car, but I don’t want to drive and I don’t want to call that doctor back. I just want to walk. I need to clear my head.

  Damn it. Kyle said he loves me. Again.

  And fucking motherfucking shit, I love him too. Still.

  Doesn’t he know that I’m saving him? He deserves a life. A family. I can’t offer him that.