Complicated Parts: Book Two

by Jade, Ashley

  I miss being their daughter. I miss my family. I miss being loved by my family. The people with the intrinsic biological need to love me and never leave me.

  Only they did. And even though it’s not their fault...it makes me so angry.

  But I can’t tell anyone those things. Because even though people say they understand…they never really do. And even though people say they’re there if you ever need them or want to talk about it…they never really are.

  They’re moving on with their lives. They’re falling in love, graduating college, starting careers, getting married, having kids.

  And you’re still stuck in the past…wanting nothing more than to go back in time to when your world was right again.

  When you’re a member of the dead parents’ club…you don’t get the luxury of moving on. There’s no such thing for us.

  Because you can’t have any of those great accomplishments without the constant reminder of how the two people who should be there during the best and most important times of your life…aren’t.

  God, sometimes the grief is so strong, so profound I think maybe it would be best to join them.

  And other times, the need to be loved is so paralyzing I can’t breathe without the crushing weight of it suffocating me.

  The only time it’s bearable is when I’m with him.

  Preston’s cold front hurts like hell…but his warmth? The way he touches my face or wraps me in his arms and consoles me without me even having to ask him to? It comforts me in a way I can’t explain. Almost like he knows what I need before I do.

  I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose him or our friendship that’s not a friendship. I don’t want our bond to break.

  I don’t think I’ll survive it a second time.

  “Preston.” My voice cracks and for a second, I think he doesn’t hear me and I’ll lose this moment. Lose him.

  But when he turns around, takes one look at my face, and opens his arms…I don’t hesitate.

  Like a boomerang returning to its owner, I launch myself at him. And he’s ready for me. Preston wraps me up so tight it almost hurts. Almost like he needs this as much as I do.

  “I don’t want anything to change,” I whisper, because I don’t know how else to explain it. “There are so many things about you that bother me, but this isn’t one of them.”

  I need this.

  He snorts and holds me tighter. “You drive me crazy, angry girl.”

  I wrap my legs around his waist. “You drive me crazier.” Please don’t leave me.

  He sighs, but not in annoyance, in defeat. “Think we’ll ever figure this shit out?”

  I lift my head off his shoulder and look at him. “Nope.”

  I’m not trying to be cute or coy either. I truly don’t think our weird relationship can ever be figured out. It’s just one of those things that exist in the universe and can change with the wind.

  Only, unlike the weather, the foundation of our relationship is permanent and secure. Whenever I’m with him, it’s like coming home after a long vacation.

  On the one hand—it’s annoying because you have no food in the house. And if you forgot to take the clothes out of the washing machine or take out the garbage before you left…boy does it really suck.

  But on the other hand—nothing beats the comfort of sleeping in your own bed. Or the familiar and safe feeling that immediately puts you at ease when you walk through those doors.

  Not even when your belly growls and you realize it’s too late to order takeout. The faint stink of garbage is still lingering after you brought it out to the curb. Or you realize the god-awful mildew smell in your clothes isn’t going away after one wash.

  You’ll take the good with the bad, because the good is so fucking good. The good is everything you need. It’s home.

  “You’re my stinky garbage, Preston. And I don’t want to waste my time analyzing us or wishing you didn’t exist.”

  His brows furrow. “I’m not even going to pretend I know what that means.”

  “Don’t. It’s not important. Just know that despite how much you annoy me, you’re better than a vacation. I accept our weird.”

  He fastens his hold on me and starts walking. “Yeah, that doesn’t make it any clearer, but considering the plane is going to take off any minute, I’ll let it slide.”

  My heart thuds against my ribs as his statement from earlier reverberates throughout my head. “Wait, stop.”

  He halts his steps. “What’s wrong?”

  “If I ask you to do something, can you swear you won’t make a big deal, pretend like it never happened, and promise to never talk about it again?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  I lick my lips nervously. “No. I…uh. I think you should kiss me. Not with tongue or anything, just a little peck. What you said before made sense. Couples kiss and if I vomit on your shoes…my nanna’s going to know something is wrong. If we do it now, maybe it won’t be so bad when we’re there. Doing it now might desensitize me and help me get through it.”

  His jaw sets. “Are you asking me to kiss you or pop your arm out of your socket?”

  I let out a huff. If we don’t get this over with soon, I’ll chicken out. “Considering my arms are fine, a simple kiss will do.”

  “Hold on to me, Bishop.”

  When I do, one of his hands cups my cheek while the other drops to the small of my back, stroking the length of my spine. The space between us surges with tension as we lock gazes, causing goose bumps to erupt over my skin.

  I’m grateful he asked me to hold on now because I feel like I’m walking across a high-voltage wire that’s suspended ten thousand feet above the ground.

  If I’m not careful—I’ll either plummet to my death…or be electrocuted.

  A wave of dizziness washes over me when the hand on my cheek slides to the back of my neck and the fingers skimming my vertebra twitch, like he wants to go lower, but he’s trying to be a gentleman.

  When he leans in, my stomach buzzes right before it bottoms out entirely.

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just Preston. Home doesn’t make you jittery. Home doesn’t make your belly clench or your mouth go dry. Home doesn’t make you so lightheaded you feel like you could pass out any second.

  And home most certainly doesn’t give you a look that makes your heart skip not one, not two, but three beats…and then tumble over itself.

  Fuck a duck. Maybe I have an arrhythmia and instead of kissing Preston I should be running to a doctor. Oh God, I feel sick. This is too much. This was such a horrible idea. The worst idea I’ve ever had in my life.

  “Prest—”

  Gently, his lips brush mine, a whisper of a caress. Silk over satin. And that’s how we stay for a bit—lip to lip, inhaling and exhaling the same breath.

  Until I can’t take it.

  “Kiss me.” I barely recognize my own voice it’s so shredded. So raw.

  There’s a deep rumble in the back of his throat, a cross between a grunt and a hiss. It’s a sound that resonates through my bones.

  The air around us sizzles as he ever so slowly parts his lips. When I follow suit, he bunches my sweater in his hand like it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to take it to the next level.

  Take what he really wants.

  He goes to pull away, but my tongue darts out and I lick the seam of his lips, seeking more.

  I’m playing with fire, I know this, but I’m so curious about the flames.

  I place a hand to his chest where his heart is pounding like a jackhammer. I find it fascinating that I elicit such a reaction out of him, so I up the ante by slipping my tongue past his lips and flicking the roof of his mouth. Craving a small sample.

  I should have known better.

  The tightrope I was balancing on snaps and my spine hits the wall so hard I gasp. That only provokes Preston further and tension coils low in my belly when he grips a fist full of my hair and groans my n
ame before he starts feeding me his tongue in teasing thrusts, coaxing me…making me work for it.

  I take the bait, nibbling on his bottom lip, gunning for those dark and gruff sounds of pleasure he makes. I don’t think I’ve ever turned someone on the way I turn him on, and that…

  A weird snapping sound jolts us mid-kiss. Like something is decompressing.

  Preston appears just as confused as I am. “What is that?”

  “I’m not sure…” I slap his arm when I realize. “It’s the jet bridge. I’m pretty sure it’s about to disconnect.”

  In an instant, I’m tossed over his shoulder and he starts sprinting. “Christ, don’t they check these things before departure?”

  “You would think so,” I answer, my voice bouncing like a skipped record due to his fast running.

  We manage to make it just in the nick of time.

  We’re both panting as we stumble onto the plane. Well, Preston is, I’m too busy trying not to faint due to all the blood rushing to my head.

  A flight attendant starts lecturing us about safety and the importance of being on time for a scheduled flight, but Preston cuts her off with a quick, “We’re newlyweds.” And her demeanor changes entirely.

  A few people clap as we shuffle to our assigned seats.

  “Aisle or window?”

  I’m uneasy for a whole different reason now. “Window.”

  He dumps me in my seat and takes the one next to me.

  Terror has my chest growing tight and I clutch the armrest for dear life. Ignoring the blanket and pillow Preston offers me.

  As strange as it sounds, I don’t mind flying. I’ve never been particularly religious, but I find the thought of being close to the heavens comforting and I use the opportunity to talk to them. Catch them up on my life. Let them know how much I miss them.

  However, I hate takeoffs. Given the fact that my parents died shortly after theirs…it both petrifies and torments me.

  It’s like finding out they died all over again. Only it’s more morbid…because I can’t help but think about things I shouldn’t.

  My biggest fear was that they survived the crash only to drown in the river later, but after bugging my nanna, she finally let me see the autopsy reports when I turned sixteen.

  Good news? They didn’t drown. Bad news? There wasn’t a whole lot left of their remains.

  Acid works up my throat and I close my eyes, trying to get a handle on my emotions as we circle the runway. But I can’t.

  Because thoughts that nightmares are made of keep barreling into me.

  Were they in pain? Did they hold hands? Did they have enough time to tell the other they loved them? Did they think about me?

  Instinctively, I run my fingers through the ends of my hair.

  Did they get one last chance to look at the pink sunset? The one that lit up the sky the last time I saw them alive. The very last time I hugged them before they got in their car and headed for the airport.

  Dread rushes through me as the engines get louder and louder and we start moving faster and faster. I’m regretting not taking my medication like I usually do before flights, but I was distracted and preoccupied. And now it’s too late.

  I try to breathe, try to tell myself that it will be okay, but neither my fear nor my grief is listening.

  Just when I think I’m about to lose it and disturb the plane full of people trying to sleep and get myself kicked off the flight, a warm hand finds mine.

  Preston’s lips hover over my ear. “There’s a better chance of getting into a car crash on the way to your grandmother’s than there is of this plane crashing.” He squeezes my hand harder. “But if it did…there’s no way we would feel it because the sensation of pain wouldn’t reach our brains in time. The impact would be too quick and too severe. It would be instantaneous. Best way to go if you ask me.”

  Something in my chest shifts and I take a breath. I can’t think of a single person who would tell a girl who lost both of her parents in a plane crash something like that during takeoff.

  Except for Preston.

  Does it ease my anxiety? Not exactly…but there’s something to be said for being the one to drag your monsters out from under your bed instead of the other way around. It gives me a sense of control.

  It gives me a safe illusion.

  He lets go of my hand and undoes his seatbelt, disregarding the flashing sign. “Get some sleep.” He pulls me into his arms and I burrow into his chest. “I’ve got you.”

  For once, I don’t argue. I close my eyes and drift off.

  Because I know he does.

  Chapter 8

  When I was fourteen, Sara Little shoved me in a closet and told me I couldn’t come out until I let Matt Molloy get to second base.

  Of course, I didn’t want to, but it was my first year of high school and rumors were starting to circulate that because I wasn’t boy crazy like other girls…something was wrong with me. And combined with the fact that my nanna finally agreed I was normal enough to attend regular school again …there was no way I could back down.

  So, I did it. I played my hesitation off as nerves and let him slip his tongue in my mouth and his clammy hands up my shirt.

  If I ever had a glimmer of doubt that I was gay before then? I didn’t after that experience.

  It wasn’t so much his unskilled sloppy kissing technique, or how he treated my breasts like they were a radio in need of tuning that I didn’t like—it was how wrong it all felt. How unnatural.

  Like I was a mermaid washed up on shore and forced to walk on land.

  Only I couldn’t…because I had a big fin instead of legs like everyone else.

  I didn’t belong in their world, but I had no choice but to disguise my fin and act like I did.

  I wasn’t very good at pretending, though, and my nanna knew something was fishy. Later that year I found out she paid Sara five hundred dollars to force me into that closet with Matt.

  The irony. I wanted nothing more than to come out of the closet and swim in the ocean, and she was not only shoving me in one but insisting they chop my fin off.

  She’d rather me not be free at all than be a lesbian.

  There was a short period of time where I thought she might be right. After all, society didn’t like mermaids…not unless we suited their agenda and they needed a token mermaid to prove to others they were tolerant and accepted all ocean life. But I didn’t want to be people’s token mermaid.

  I didn’t want the responsibility of explaining my world to others when I wasn’t even sure myself. It was easier to pretend to be whatever it was I was supposed to be than what I was still struggling to understand.

  So even though Matt didn’t feel right…I made believe he did.

  It wasn’t until ten months later when I made it past second base with Jackie Lawrence in my grandmother’s pool house…that everything changed.

  Unlike with Matt, I was excited about hooking up with her. Not only because Jackie was pretty, popular, and had a fantastic rack—but because of how right it all felt.

  Until my nanna walked in on us.

  She screamed, kicked Jackie out, and had forbidden her from ever coming over again…and cried for the second time in her life.

  She told me I needed to get over this disgusting phase and that people would never accept me or my perversions.

  But, to my surprise, I stood up to her. I told her I didn’t need her or anyone else to accept me, because I had finally accepted me. For the first time since my parents’ death—something in my life made sense again.

  I made a promise to myself right then and there that no matter how many guys she forced me to go on dates with, how many Saras she paid to shove me in a closet, or how many Jackies she sent away—I was done pretending to be anyone other than me.

  I was a goddamn mermaid. And even if you cut off my fin…I’d still find a way to swim.

  I never once wavered or questioned my sexuality after that day. Never had a reason to.


  Until now.

  Until Preston Holden.

  On instinct, I touch my mouth. My lips burn, almost like he tattooed his kiss there.

  Or maybe it’s because he’s an evil warlock…and it’s my warning to make sure it never happens again.

  “Green means go,” Preston grumps from the passenger seat of my car, bringing me out of my thoughts.

  “Huh?” I start to look up, but an obnoxious horn blaring has me stepping on the gas so hard I burn rubber.

  “Pull over.”

  “I’m fine.” I turn up the music.

  Now, I don’t have to listen to him. Or think about how he kissed me like he was running out of oxygen and I was his only source of air.

  And I…liked it.

  My stomach sours. I’m such a dirty, rotten liar. I more than liked it—I craved it.

  “Learn how to drive!” some man shouts when I veer into his lane.

  I promptly give him the finger.

  I’m a lesbian, dammit. One stupid kiss with my husband doesn’t change that.

  Preston turns the radio down. “Bishop.”

  Paying him no mind, I go to turn it up again but end up swerving due to the distraction. “You don’t control me.”

  He grabs the handle on the door. “I’m not trying to control you, I’m trying not to die today, Driving Miss Crazy. Now pull the fuck over.”

  When I do, he swiftly jumps out and walks over to my side. I’m tempted to peel off and leave him stranded.

  Maybe then everything will go back to normal.

  He motions for me to get out but I don’t budge. “I was driving fine.”

  He gives me a dubious look. “Sure, if you were a blind woman living in England where driving on the opposite side of the road is standard.”

  I push my door open and slam it shut. “It’s not the opposite side of the road for them, jackass. But of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you?”

  Because he’s not different. He drives on the same side of the road as the rest of the country. But me? I’m England. Something he’ll never understand.

  Kissing me doesn’t give him an identity crisis. It doesn’t let her and every bigot like her win.