by J. A. Little
We keep talking, our conversation continuing past midnight. When Kayla yawns, I realize I’m running out of time. I have no idea how to approach the subject, so I just go for it.
“Did you know that when I was eighteen, I got married?”
Kayla stares at me, her eyes widening when she realizes what I’m saying.
“Her name was Stephanie,” I continue. “I met her in juvie when I was sixteen.” I quickly move on, hoping Kayla won’t ask why I was in juvie. I’m not ready to share that much tonight—if ever. “From the second I got there, she was on me, but I was greener than a fucking meadow in springtime. I had no idea.” I laugh, but there’s absolutely no humor behind it. “She was beautiful and charismatic. And she was older; only by nine months, but it seemed like so much more. I knew she was there on drug charges, but I didn’t care. She was clean when I met her, so I figured it was over and done with. It only took her a few weeks to seduce me. Probably would have been less, but I was terrified that if I turned out to be a two-pump chump I would be ridiculed by every motherfucker in there.”
“You were a virgin?” Kayla asks, surprised.
I nod. “I was kind of a late bloomer. She paid me a lot of attention. I thought I was special. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was also there on prostitution charges.”
“Oh, crap,” Kayla groans.
I shrug. “We were always safe, but it hurt like hell to find that shit out. I felt like a total asshole. We got into a huge fight about it and she laughed at me—called me naive. I couldn’t stay away for long, though. That place was horrible. The kids there were hardcore. I mean, I’m talking kids convicted of sexual assault and attempted murder. In the grand scheme of things, Steph’s charges weren’t that big of a deal. And she made being there better.”
I pause and take a sip of water. “Steph was released on her eighteenth birthday. She gave me a number and told me to come find her when I got out. I was devastated; I thought I was going to die without her. She was my sanity.” I take a deep breath. “The day I was let out, my parents picked me up and took me home, but I went straight back out to find her. I was so fucking pathetic.”
“Where was she?” Kayla asks curiously.
I grimace. “I found her hooking on a street corner downtown. She was strung out and so fucked up that she didn’t even know who I was at first. I couldn’t take her home like that—my parents would have called the cops. I rented a hotel room and practically held her down until she sobered up enough to figure out what was going on. At first she didn’t want to come with me, but I swore to her that I’d take care of her. My parents had some money put away for me for college, but I didn’t plan on going, so I told her we could use it to live. I got her cleaned up and took her back to meet my parents.” Kayla’s jaw drops and I laugh. “Yeah, you can imagine how that went over. They hated her. My whole fucking family hated her. Even Aiden hated her, and he’s the most nonjudgmental person I’ve ever known. We got into a knockdown, drag-out fight. They refused to let her move in, and I refused to come home if they didn’t. I walked out and didn’t look back.”
“Ever?”
I shake my head. “I never moved back, no. Of course, I didn’t even think about the fact that I didn’t have any of my own money. My parents put two thousand dollars into my savings account and then essentially locked me out. I had no access to anything else. I found out that they’d put a stipulation on my college fund—if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t have access to the money until I was twenty-one. We blew through everything I had in about three weeks. Steph offered to start hooking again, and I absolutely refused.”
“Three weeks?”
“She couldn’t let go of the meth. I had to choose my battles. At the time, it didn’t seem worth fighting over. We lived on the streets and in shelters for awhile…ate in soup kitchens, stole food. When I could get the odd job we stayed in motels. It wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to go home and prove that they were right.”
“Did you get hooked?”
“No,” I scoff. “Never even tried it. I hated all that shit. I smoked a little weed and drank, but nothing harder. If I got fucked up, who would look after Steph? My parents kept trying to get me to come home, but they wouldn’t let me bring her, so I told them to fuck off. And then she came up with her brilliant idea.”
“Which was?”
“Get married. I don’t actually think she wanted to marry me. I think she just wanted to prove to my parents that I loved her more than them—show them just how much power she had over me. I was a fucking fool.”
“What happened to her? I mean you’re obviously not married now. Are you?”
I shake my head. “We went to a party one night. Just a group of kids like us; people with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Loud music, alcohol. I knew there were drugs there and she’d probably get high. We couldn’t afford to buy the shit much, so parties were where she usually got her fix. But that time, I didn’t realize she’d actually scored more. On the way home, I got stopped by the cops for speeding.”
“Your arrest?”
I nod. “They found a bag of crystal meth in my coat pocket. I guess she slipped it in there.” Kayla narrows her eyes. “I didn’t know why she did it, but I kept my mouth shut. I called my dad. I thought he would help post bail so I could ask my wife why she sold me out, but he just left me there. Told me I’d fucked up again and that it was time for me to realize I was an adult and that I couldn’t go running around like an ungrateful brat anymore. When I finally got to talk to Steph, she told me she was pregnant.” Kayla sucks in a large amount of air. “She begged me…told me she couldn’t have our baby in prison. Said Social Services would take it away from us. Promised me she’d get clean and wait for me.”
“So you took the fall.”
I swallow dryly. “I thought I loved her.”
“You did love her.”
“I needed her. I’d spent so much time feeling empty,” I pause. “She made me feel alive again.”
Kayla nods and frowns. “She didn’t wait?”
“She sent me an ultrasound photo, I guess to prove she wasn’t lying. She visited me every month with her clean urine tests. I watched her belly grow.” Kayla’s face pales considerably as I speak. “When the baby was born, she sent me a picture of our little girl—Abigail—but she refused to bring her to the jail. I lived for the day when I would get out and get back to my wife and my baby. But when I got out, it was pretty obvious she wasn’t mine. She had beautiful brown skin and her mother’s bright-blue eyes.” Kayla opens her mouth, and then stops and purses her lips back together. “Steph told me that when I couldn’t find work, she had to do what she had to do. She did a couple randoms and that was it. I wanted to believe her, but I didn’t. I followed her around and found out that the baby’s daddy was her pimp—the same one she left when I got out of juvie.”
“Oh, Dean.”
“I moved in with some friends who offered to help me out. I couldn’t face going back to my parents’ house. My buddy helped me figure out how to file for divorce, fronted me the cash, and helped me get a job. I was making something like six bucks an hour.” I laugh. “She asked for money, but my dad’s a smart man. When I got arrested, he reworked the terms of my fund. He made it untouchable until I turned twenty-five. I’m sure that if Steph had the money for a good attorney, she probably could have gotten around it, but she didn’t. She got nothing.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. I try not to think about it.” Kayla nods. “There, uh, aren’t a whole lot of people who know these details, Kayla. My family, a couple of close friends. It’s not something I talk about.”
“Yeah—I mean, no. I wouldn’t ever say anything.” She smiles at me and her hand settles on my knee. “Thank you for telling me.”
I shrug. I’m not sure if she’s going to ask what I did to get into juvie, so I brace myself. But she doesn’t. She slides her hand back and forth on my leg. I watch
the movement and then eventually place my hand on top of hers. She looks up at me. We stare at each other. And then she stifles a yawn.
“You’re tired.” I let go of her hand. She picks up her phone.
“Oh, God. I didn’t realize how late it was. I should probably go home.”
“Stay here,” I offer, except it’s not really an offer. I have no intention of letting her leave at this time of night.
“I can’t.”
“You can. I’ll give you some clothes to sleep in. You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” She’s shaking her head, but I can see her eyes drooping. “It’s too late to leave now. I’ll take you to get your car first thing in the morning. What time do you have to be in?”
“I… Dean…” I raise my eyebrows at her, and she sighs. “Fine. I’m too tired to argue with you anyway.”
I smirk at her. The ten-year-old boy in me wants to taunt her with “I win, I win,” but luckily the twenty-nine-year-old that I am ignores him.
I get Kayla a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She changes in the bathroom while I clean up my bedroom for her. I can’t remember the last time I changed my sheets. When she comes out, she looks comical. The T-shirt is almost down to her knees and she’s gripping the sweatpants with both hands.
“You gonna lose ‘em?” I laugh.
“I need a belt.”
“I don’t think they make belts for sweatpants, sweetheart. I changed the sheets, but I didn’t have any clean pillowcases. I swear I don’t drool or anything.”
She smiles almost shyly. As she walks toward me, I know what she’s going to do before she does it. And I let her.
Soft, warm lips meet mine. I want to tell her to stop. This is opening doors I’m not sure she wants open. I’m no good for her. I’ll fuck up her life. But it feels so good and I want to tell her to keep going. I want… I want…
“Good night,” she whispers, pulling away. She disappears into my bedroom still holding onto the waist of her sweatpants—my sweatpants.
As usual when it comes to Kayla, I’m left gaping and speechless. What the fuck just happened?
Chapter 23
Kayla
Ugh.
I feel like shit. My eyes are heavy. I’m groggy and disoriented. Something feels off, but I can’t figure out what it is. I slide my hand under the pillow and breathe in deeply.
The scent that fills my senses takes me off guard. My eyes shoot open. There’s a dim light coming from a bathroom on the other side of the room, and I stare at the unfamiliar surroundings. Off-white walls, dark-blue curtains, a light-wood nightstand. The digital clock perched on top reads 5:59 a.m.—too early to be awake.
It takes me a minute to figure out exactly where I am, but when I do, the whole night comes rushing back in a horrible, overwhelming way. Dropping Claire off at Mom and Richard’s, the check, the mistaken phone call to Dean. Oh, shit, Dean. He came and got me. Picked my sorry ass up, let me cry. Why did I cry? I hate crying, especially in front of other people.
And his story. How in God’s name did he let a girl like that take over his life? No wonder he’s so guarded. I wouldn’t want to let anyone in after that, either.
I shouldn’t have kissed him, but I wanted to comfort him and show him that no matter what he tells me, he can trust me—I won’t run away. I wasn’t thinking about what would happen afterward. Getting involved with Dean could be disastrous. He’s complicated and frustrating. I’m probably the most stubborn person on the face of the planet. The fights we could potentially have would be epic. And what would happen if we dated and then broke up? Logan and Matty would be caught in the middle.
But I don’t have to worry about it—he didn’t kiss me back. We can just be friends—assuming I didn’t totally screw that up, too.
I push down the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat and take another deep breath. The scent clinging to the freshly laundered linens isn’t strong, but it’s his. I slide my hand back and forth, relishing how soft the sheets are. They are insanely comfortable. I really don’t want to leave this bed.
I hear the faint sound of running water from the other room, which means Dean must be awake. I wonder if he slept at all. I feel bad because I’m in his bed and he slept on the couch. This isn’t exactly how I’d imagined being in his bed—alone and unsatisfied. The more I think about it, the more it sucks.
I don’t know if I should just walk out to the living room or wait. But wait for what? Until he knocks on the door? I laugh at the thought. I saw the look on his face when I kissed him—he looked completely freaked out. No way is he going to step foot in this room while I’m still in his bed.
I reluctantly slip from the sheets. At some point while I was sleeping, I must have kicked off the sweats, because my legs are bare. I find them at the bottom of the bed and put them back on, but they really are ridiculously huge. I pull them back off and fold them up. It may be a little awkward to walk around in just his T-shirt, but I’ve worn shorter dresses before. It’s far less embarrassing than having to hold on to the waist the whole time so that they don’t fall off.
Cracking the door open, I quietly tiptoe toward the kitchen and living room area. Now that I think about it, I have no idea if Dean’s awake. He lives in an apartment building—it could have been the neighbor’s water I heard. If he’s asleep, I don’t want to wake him up; or worse, scare the shit out of him. I know he’s jumpy.
I hear shuffling and clinking, indicating that someone is indeed awake and moving about in the kitchen. This is worse than those mornings in college when I tried to do the walk of shame without being seen or heard. There’s no way I’m doing that with Dean, though. Besides, I don’t have a car.
Telling myself to be confident, I take a deep breath, step around the corner, and nearly choke. Dean is standing in the kitchen, his back facing me. His naked back. His shoulders are broad and muscular. The skin is scarred, damaged and discolored across his back from his right shoulder to his left. His left shoulder is covered in a tattoo. It’s an intricately designed band that ends mid-bicep. He shifts his arm a little and I can see that the scarring from his back continues down his side. I gasp unintentionally and then cover my mouth with my hand.
Dean whips around, his posture stiff. He relaxes momentarily when he realizes it’s me and then tenses again.
“Shit. I didn’t expect you to be up so early,” he mutters.
My eyes glide over his bare torso, drinking in the lines of his well-defined muscles. There’s more ink across his chest. A pair of black-and-maroon flannel pajamas hang low on his hips, emphasizing the chiseled abs and deep V. There’s scarring there, too, but it doesn’t take away from how beautiful he is.
I walk forward and nervously rest my hand on the back of the couch. I don’t think he meant for me to see him this way.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologize.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean replies, shaking his head. “I just… You were exhausted. I figured you’d sleep longer.”
“I am,” I admit. “I don’t know what woke me up.”
Dean scratches the back of his neck and then walks across the room toward where I’m standing. I fight back the urge to meet him halfway because he’s not making eye contact with me. He stops in front of me and pulls a T-shirt from the end of the couch.
I want to stop him from putting it on for several reasons. First, because he’s hot. I mean really, really hot. Second, this is his place. He should be able to walk around half naked if he wants to. Most of all, though, I want to see what he’s been hiding from me. I know it’s none of my business. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me, but my curiosity outweighs my manners, and I reach out to touch his wrist.
“Hey, you don’t have to… I mean, if I make you uncomfortable…”
“You don’t,” he corrects, fiddling with the fabric in his hands. “I can’t sleep with it on. I don’t usually have people over so I…I probably should have worn it.”
We’re in an
awkward sort of standoff, staring at each other less than two feet apart, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. I’ve never felt so unsure about where I stand with a guy. I glance down.
“I’ve wanted to see these,” I admit, reaching my other hand forward. Now that he’s turned toward me, I notice his sleeve. On the top, from shoulder to elbow, is an angel. She’s kneeling in what appears to be a graveyard next to a cracked and crumbling gravestone, her hands together in prayer. Dark branches from a dead tree hang over her head. Her body is clothed in loose fabric, wings hanging limply behind her. Her eyes are downcast. The feeling it evokes makes my chest ache. My fingertips dance over the detail in awe. It’s stunning. I’ve never seen such artwork on flesh. It looks like a painting.
I freeze when I feel the distorted skin just above his elbow. This must be why he stopped me from looking before. I slip my thumb over the damage, following it halfway up the underside of his arm. I can see his Adam’s apple bob out of the corner of my eye. He hasn’t otherwise moved since I put my hands on him.
“Dean,” I whisper. “This is just… Wow. They’re amazing.”
He doesn’t respond, but I can feel his gaze on my face. I lower my exploration to his forearm. I’ve seen this one before, but wasn’t able to figure out what it was. Now that my full attention is on it, I can see.
“Is that a sacred heart?” I ask, turning my head to see his guarded expression. He nods slowly. “I didn’t know you were religious.”
He nods. “I didn’t used to be” is all he says.
A dove is perched above the heart, its wings spread wide. There’s writing across the heart in a banner: Wilde. I want to know what it means, but I’m afraid he’ll pull away, so I don’t ask.
I reach down, threading my fingers through his left hand before releasing his right arm. His tongue darts out, licking his lips as he watches me. I continue to hold his hand as my focus shifts across his chest. It says Psalm 51:2-3. I try to burn it into my memory so that I can look it up later and then move on to the band at his left bicep.
