His entire demeanor intensifies, his body stiffening as a vein throbs in his forehead. He’s like a frighteningly beautiful monster. I should probably be terrified, but I guess I have a couple of screws loose. He might eat me alive at any moment, and lord knows I’d allow it.
I offer him a sweet smile in return, batting my eyelashes; us southern girls have the whole hateful words paired with a cool and composed tone thing down-pat. Call us the inventors of passive-aggressive comebacks.
“Don’t feel bad about someone finally taking your old title… Nowadays, the person who ends up holding the position will have a whole lot more roles to fill…if you catch my drift.” I wink at him, before adding, “I’ll let you know if he makes the cut.”
Patting his tense arm, I sidestep him and Sara—who’s still eyeing us with apt interest—and immediately begin dancing with Ransom.
I don’t know where the actual fuck all that came from, but props for me.
I’m somehow able to refrain from glancing over to the two of them after the little exchange, even though I swear I can feel Nash’s eyes on me. Probably wishful thinking but…No. I’m sure of it. Back in the day I became an expert of knowing when he was eyeing me seeing as how he came to the point of doing it quite frequently after we stopped talking.
I try to push away those thoughts, focusing on the rhythm of the music. Ransom’s hands are settled on my hips, and boy can he move—if it weren’t for Nash being in the same room, I know I’d already be plotting to leave with this delectable Bad Boy as soon as it was appropriate.
But even though one man’s hands are on me, all I can feel are the other one’s eyes. All I can focus on is Nash’s presence, despite the fact we’re in a room full of people, and he’s several feet away while I’m not even pretending to acknowledge him.
I’m giving Ransom my sexiest moves, but I’m not fooling myself. It’s not his praise or attention I’m seeking—this is all a show for Nash, and damn if he isn’t watching the entire thing. Sara’s back is to him. She’s dancing on him in a similar fashion, so she can’t see where he’s looking.
But I can.
He’s staring straight at me—every single time I chance a glance in his direction. As wrong and sinful as it feels, it spurs me on. I twist my hips seductively, running my hand through my hair in a sexy manner that I coverup as a need to push it out of my face. I dip a little lower than I usually would. Try a little harder than I normally would care to.
I probably look like a stripper, and for once, I have no shame in doing so.
After a night full of club-like songs, the DJ suddenly decides to switch over to a slow tune. I stop dead in my tracks, thrown for a momentary loop as soon as the slow melody begins to waft through the speakers. “Fade into You” by Mazzy Star filters through the air, causing half the people out on the floor to disperse.
“I fucking hate this song,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
On autopilot, I spin around, facing Ransom with a look of determination. I don’t want to look at the two of them anymore, not during a slow song, and especially not this particular one.
Ransom arches a brow at me.
“Didn’t peg you for being one who enjoys slow dancing. Are we having a moment here?” he trails off playfully.
“And I didn’t peg you for being one who’d be okay with participating—yet, here we are. You saw I wanted to keep dancing, and you’re still with me.” Now it’s my turn to pop a brow, making it obvious I’m mimicking him.
He smirks back, taking a step toward me.
And because I’m feeling particularly masochistic tonight, I end up chancing a glance over at Sara and Nash anyway. Big mistake. My chest squeezes when I find he’s pulling her close and whispering something in her ear. She giggles over-theatrically and I stiffen at the scene, but my decision to stay out on the dancefloor is further solidified.
Ransom chuckles, licking his lower lip. “Slow dancing is the best.” He pulls me flush against his body, my chest pressed against his upper abdomen, my eyes at shoulder-level. “It’s a good excuse to pull you closer to me…to test the waters in a way I can’t when we’re dancing to the club-like beats. If I do it then, I just look like an asshole trying to get handsy.”
“Mm. Makes sense.” I nod my head, appreciating his realness, although I’m barely listening now. From this new position, I’ve got a prime view for spying on Nash. It’s frustrating as hell that I even want to, but I find myself arching up on my toes as far as possible, craning my neck in a way I can only hope is surreptitious.
My teeth grit together as I watch. They’re a comfortable and cozy pair. He’s holding her tightly to him, swaying back and forth. Her back is all the way to me, and he’s facing in this direction—a perfect mirror-image of mine and Ransom’s pair-off, although I’m too chicken to look at his face just yet. I’m scared I’ll find a heated expression in place as he glances down at one of my best friends.
Or worse, what if he’s given her a lovestruck, worshippy look of adoration?
I zero in on Nash’s large hands, fondly positioned at each side of her hips.
My stomach clenches painfully, and I try to convince myself of all the reasons I should tear my eyes away from the scene. But I can’t, and don’t.
Instead, my gaze lingers there for one long, singular moment before trailing upward, slowly, cautiously. One of her arms aligns perfectly with his—albeit facing oppositely—and her palm is splayed out, curling around his bicep.
My eyes narrow to the point of twitching as they continue their exploration, this time, taking the next step and sliding up toward his face. I can’t handle it. Is he attracted to Sara? What the fuck is going on with his fiancée? Where has she even been the past week? Is there trouble in paradise, or is that just wishful thinking?
Wishful thinking that you have no business thinking!
His chiseled jaw, speckled with the dawning of a five o’clock shadow, is the first thing I make note of. The angular set of it—almost like he’s gritting his teeth—could slice through anything. His bowed lips are a pushed flat, exhibiting more of an expressionless air than leaning toward the angry or amused side of things.
All the while, Mazzy Star is crooning on about heaven knows what, but I always get hung up on the chorus anyway. The same two lines repeating over and over.
Does he remember?
I keep skimming higher, my eyes scanning every millimeter of his face on the way up, cataloging as many details as I can take in. All the ways he’s changed over the years. The details that have stood the test of time—like the way the light glints on a silvery-white sliver of skin just below his bottom lip. It’s been there since he wrecked his dirt-bike, garnering a mean case of road-rash and a nice slice that gushed so much blood I was terrified he was going to bleed-out and die on me. Several stitches and he was even more appealing than before.
My lungs expand with a sharp intake of breath when I hone in on the windows of his soul. Our eyes lock—his lush greens clashing with my aquamarines. For a moment, I’m convinced it’s a coincidence—we’ve both just happened to glance in the same direction at the same time, accidentally catching the other’s eye.
But after a couple of seconds tick by of him holding steady, I’m wondering if he’s been watching me all along.
This is weird, awkward even. Still, I can’t bring myself to break the connection. I won’t be the first one to look away, I forcefully decide. If I do, it’ll seem like I’m a chicken, like I’m conceding.
And I don’t back down. I might have to remind myself day in and day out, but I will not show that same weakness from before. Never. Again.
A bemused expression settles onto his face, his brows dipping as he regards me thoughtfully. And I can’t help but wonder a million different things, but most of all, is he remembering the same treasured memory I am?
~XoXo~
Lyra
Winter Formal, Freshman Year
Applying a gob of plum tinted lip-gloss to my lips, I
smack them together in a vain attempt to even out the sticky liquid’s distribution. Satisfied my lips are as shiny and vibrant as they’re going to get, I close the lid and reach for my mom’s tear-drop earrings.
As a kid, I always admired them, partially because they held the ‘look but don’t touch’ appeal, but now that she’s not around to tell me no, wearing her things makes me feel closer to her.
Tears prick my eyes and I quickly yank a tissue out of the box I keep on my bathroom counter. I’m already running late and re-applying makeup will just cost me even more time I don’t have to spare.
As if I needed the reminder, the text-tone on my phone begins to blare. Picking it up immediately, I silence it.
Nash: Are you coming tonight?
Having made it my mission to shut him down every time he tried to verbally bring up the dance this past week, I stare at the message with surprise for a moment before snapping the flip-phone shut again. Screw him. He’ll just have to find out when he sees me there.
He finally asked Amy to go with him yesterday—giving her only one day to prepare, despite the fact I’ve heard she was anticipating going with him anyway and already had a dress. Since Nash apparently ran off all my prospects via nasty threats and dirty looks, I get to go alone. And while I know I shouldn’t feel angry that he ended up asking Amy seeing as how I turned him down more than once, it doesn’t change the fact that the resentment is still there.
I take a final glance in the mirror, biting my lip as excitement begins to stir. I chose to follow the winter-whites trend I saw several celebrities sporting in a fashion feature of InStyle magazine. My long dark brown hair is styled in a loose, messy up-do with tendrils hanging everywhere.
The white satin gown slinks off my shoulders—the neckline skimming my collarbone before dipping in a slight V-shape between the tops of my breasts. The silhouette is of a mermaid style that hugs my curves in all the right places, billowing out just below the knees.
An all-white, faux-fur wrap sits around my shoulders, meeting together in the front with a vintage-inspired rhinestone brooch.
Simply put, I feel like royalty.
Obviously put, I look like the Christmas Bride.
Sliding on my shoes, I gallop down the stairs in search of Dad, fully excited to find out what he thinks of my appearance. Ever since Mom died, our relationship is out of whack. Most days I’m more of the parent than he is, cooking dinner and cleaning up the best I can with all my homework from Honor’s classes. He still has his moments, though; promising that he’ll take me to my Winter Formal and insisting he’s given the chance to take a few pictures.
Hearing him say all of those things was an instant pick-me-up that I didn’t even realize I needed. Every little girl just wants her Daddy’s approval, and even now, knowing he’s going down the wrong road and not being the stand-up man I’ve always known him to be, I still want mine.
“Daddy,” I call out, walking down the hallway and into the kitchen, which is the last place I saw him before skipping off to get ready for the night. When I find there’s not a soul in sight, I glance out the sliding glass doors leading to our screened-in porch, calling out again.
Still nothing.
I loop back through the dining room and into the den, my eyes finally landing on him right about the time soft snores reach my ears. He’s laid out on the couch, his head inclined on the armrest, one hand wrapped around a throw pillow, and the other cradling a mostly empty bottle of George Dickel.
The smile on my face instantly drops off and falls away. All my carefully laid plans have been in vain. I can either accept the fact Dad shouldn’t be driving in this state, or I can steal his truck and take myself—worrying about the consequences afterward.
For the second time this evening, my eyes well with tears and I miss my mother. It’s crazy how things change. Two years ago, I was convinced I was completely independent and didn’t need anything from anyone.
Life was so much easier before she left us. Now I need her for everything—setting Dad in his place, bringing Gray back home, giving me advice about Nash—and she’s not around.
With a sigh and a heavy heart, I reach for Dad’s Atlanta Baseball blanket that’s hanging over the couch, draping it over him snugly, and pulling off his boots so that he doesn’t mess up the furniture. He’s so soused, he doesn’t even stir.
My heart sinks inside my chest even more.
Trudging back into the kitchen, I slide onto a barstool, pulling out my phone and issuing Nash a response since I won’t be able to give him one in person.
Me: Not anymore. I got ready and everything, but Dad isn’t feeling well and can’t take me…
He’ll know I’m full of shit the second he reads the message, but it’s not something I can just be straight up about. I’ve gotten used to making excuses for my dad over the past year, and even though it makes me feel guilty having to lie so often, I can’t see any other way. Admitting Dad has a problem would be just as humiliating for me as it would be for him.
Nana Rose is finally beginning to realize something’s going on, but she hasn’t broached the subject other than to hint around and ask a few questions. I always choose the ‘shrug your shoulders and walk away’ method of answering.
I refuse to out my Dad, even to his own mother.
When five minutes have passed, I realize Nash isn’t going to return a text anytime soon, so I slide off the stool. Striding with purpose, I head back toward the staircase leading to my room. If I can’t wear the dress Nana Rose and I spent over two-hundred bucks on plus an entire day in Asheville searching for, I want it out of my sight. The wintery-white fabric swishes with each step I take as I stomp my way up to the first landing nearest the bottom.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Someone’s fist connects with my front door, and my heart slams forward in shock. I stop so abruptly, I nearly trip and fall forward.
I’d know that knock anywhere—I’ve heard it several times a week for the past couple of years—but do I want to suffer the humiliation of my deteriorating family life to face him? Nash isn’t stupid. He knows what’s going on, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to admit it. There’s no way in Hell I want to see the anger or pity that I’m certain will be ignited.
I turn away, continuing back up to my room, and sitting stiffly at the end of my bed as I ignore the steady knocking that goes on for another couple of minutes. When it finally subsides, it’s not relief that I’m feeling—but guilt and remorse.
Just like I always do when I’m resenting the fact I can’t be one hundred percent honest with him, my eyes seek the photo sitting on my bedside table. It was snapped a few weeks before Mom died. Nash’s mother, Becky, took her boys on a day trip to a planetarium downstate and brought me along for the festivities. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure Becky and Mom conspired behind my back as a way to get me out of the house. Both our mother’s mutual love of planets and stars resulted in the bonds of friendship being formed not long after Nash and I became friends in Kindergarten, so Becky is like a second Mom to me.
The photo was snapped just outside the planetarium, in front of some decorative shrubs. It’s a candid photo of Nash trying to rough house me—his arm locked around my neck with my hair a horrid mess, the result of his ruffing it up—but the way he’s smiling down at me is enough to sooth me into calmness, at the same time it makes me yearn for more.
What if he was serious this week?
What if I screwed everything up by my reluctance to believe him?
What if he’s finally seeing me in a different light, the same way I’ve seen him for years?
I sigh, falling back onto the bed. My best friend just showed up at my house when I needed him, basically came to save the day, but I ignored him completely. I guess I’m just like my father in that department, always turning away from the ones I love just because I don’t know how to deal with stress and sorrow.
My eyelids slam shut, and my hands come up to cover them as if it’ll somehow block the waves
of bad thoughts that have begun to terrorize me. With the way I’m squeezing, you’d think I’d be able to hold all my emotions inside while defending myself from the onslaught of self-doubt. This isn’t the case, however, and tears begin to push through my defenses and slide down my cheeks, little natural springs finally bubbling up and bursting through the surface.
And wouldn’t you just know, right when I’m at my most vulnerable, the screeching of my window being lifted fills the room. I jerk upright, swiping at my face before he’s given the opportunity to notice my tears.
“Stars.” The way he says my name, with so much resolve and care, only releases the waterworks even more. I turn away from him, hoping that my learned ability to silent-cry keeps him oblivious to my current disposition. Within seconds his arms are around me, holding me close at the same time he pulls me up to my feet.
“Come on. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m taking you to the dance,” he assures me. “You’re still going to get to go, and you can worry about whatever else might be bothering you later. Tonight, though, you’re going to have fun.”
I sniff, refusing to meet his eye because my face is surely a mess right now, and I’m scared of what I’d find if our eyes were to connect. Maybe he’ll give up and go away. No such luck.
“Okay?” He prompts insistently.
“NO-kay,” I clip back. “I’m a freaking disaster right now…can’t you see how terrible I look?”
I chance a glance at the mirror, noting the two puddles of mascara just below my eyes. Grabbing my make-up remover, I blot furiously at the area in hopes I don’t screw up the rest of it.
“Terrible?” he scoffs. “No. Fucking beautiful? Yes. You look gorgeous, even when you’re a total mess…And the mascara running down your cheeks just gives me dirty thoughts…” He trails off, and our eyes finally catch in the mirror for a moment, before he pulls his away to scan me from head to toe. I watch with satisfaction as he swallows, his gaze lingering a little too long for ‘just friends’ on my backside. He just admitted to having dirty thoughts about me too.
Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series Page 12
