Harley & Rose

by Carmen Jenner

  That makes two of us.

  The Hamiltons join us, and it’s just one big frosty reception as they shake hands with Dermot and Rochelle pulls me in for a hug. She holds on a beat too long, and it makes me wonder if she knows about what transpired between Harley and me. She couldn’t know though because then my mother would know, and that’s one thing she would not have waited around to talk to me about. She would have been up in my face demanding details before Rochelle had even finished that sentence.

  “Well, don’t let us keep you kids from dancing,” my mother says. Kids? Urgh! I cringe because, again, Dermot isn’t that much younger than she is. Which is a fact I’m finding more and more disturbing now that I’m confronted with it face to face.

  “I believe Rose was after a drink, anyway,” Dermot says, placing his hand at the small of my back. Every pair of eyes before us follows the movement.

  “A drink. What an excellent idea,” Mom says, and I could just die. My only solace comes when the event host announces that we should take our seats because the first course is about to be served. I exhale in relief, because surely my parents won’t be seated beside us, only when Mom heads for our table and asks one of the couples to switch seats with them so we might all sit together, I think the only way this night could possibly get worse is if Harley were to come strutting in and wedge his way between Dermot and me.

  As if he doesn’t already come between us enough.

  That isn’t what happens though. In a way, that might have even been preferable, but no, fate must really have it in for me, because when the final party joins our table it seems there’s a standoff between them and Dermot.

  The woman is tall and slender, and has glossy raven hair that falls down her back. Her eyes are just as dark, and her face looks as though it’s been Botoxed to within an inch of its life, but there’s no denying she’s beautiful. Beyond the lip filler and the smooth-as-alabaster skin—pulled unnaturally taut for what I assume is her age—she’s stunning.

  Dermot, ever the gentleman, nods his head and says, “Mireille,”

  This is Mireille? You have got to be kidding me. Not only does his ex-wife look like that, but her name sounds like poetry as it rolls off of his tongue?

  “Dermot,” she greets him with a French accent, stepping forward until they’re toe to toe and kisses him on this lips. He turns his head and takes a step back.

  “What are you doing here?” he says, curtly.

  “You know how I hate to miss a charity event,” she says, and then she glances at me over his shoulder. “And who is this? A student from your lab?”

  “This is Rose,” he says, and I think for the first time ever he sounds a little flustered. “My … girlfriend.”

  It’s no less awkward when he says it. It certainly isn’t the poetry of Mireille that rolled so beautifully off of his tongue.

  She laughs. “You Americans and your labels. Why can’t you just say this is Rose, my lover? Or this is Rose, the woman half my age who I’m fucking?”

  I glance at my father’s unimpressed face and desperately wish I could melt into the floor.

  “That’s enough,” Dermot snaps. Mireille smiles. It’s catty and yet still stunningly beautiful. I hate her. It’s illogical, seeing as he’s the one who filed for divorce, but it’s there all the same. Mireille turns, as if only just remembering her date and introduces him as her lover James, or as the French apparently say, “James, who also happens to be half your age, and who I’m fucking.”

  Dermot doesn’t wait until she’s even finished that sentence before he pulls my chair out for me. I promptly sit down, half afraid I might earn a spanking for not complying fast enough. Frenchie and her little lapdog take the chairs opposite us and all sets of eyes settle on me and Dermot.

  This is why I shouldn’t tempt fate, because no matter how bad you think things are, they can always, always get worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rose

  Dermot pulls to a stop in front of my apartment, and I stare out the windshield at the ever-present drizzle that dogs San Francisco at this time of year. He doesn’t speak; I know it’s my turn. I know I need to invite him in—but I don’t think I can. Every time I kiss this man, every time I feel his hands upon me, and every time I wonder about sleeping with him, I see Harley.

  Four weeks and not a single call, no texts, nothing. And that hurts like hell because I begged him not to break my heart again, and he did.

  “I had a great time tonight,” I say, because it’s expected. I anticipate a chuckle, or a wry grin from him—we both know it’s a blatant lie—but neither of us are laughing. Dinner with my parents and his ex-wife does not equate to a great time. Not even close.

  Dermot slides his hand onto my thigh, pushing the fabric of my dress aside until my whole leg is exposed by the generous slit. I both want to pull away and shift closer. Clean, well-manicured fingers trace soft patterns on my flesh. I squirm, because despite the reservations my head has, my body likes Dermot a lot.

  Slowly, he edges his hand farther up my thigh. My eyelids fall closed and my lips part. His touch is sensual, and it’s not the first time I’ve thought that he’d make an excellent lover. “Rose, invite me inside.”

  “I can’t,” I breathe, and lie my head back against the deep tan, buttery-soft leather headrest. Dermot shifts, leaning in to kiss my cheek, but his exploration doesn’t end there. He trails his lips across my jaw, down my neck, and along my collarbone, stopping just above my cleavage. I let out a moan as he nibbles the tender flesh spilling out of my dress. His free hand grips the side of my neck as the one on my thigh climbs higher and traces the outside of my panties. I gasp, thrusting my hips forward, until that delicious warmth spreads out from the very core of me. He latches on to my earlobe and my whole body goes electric, and then I remember the last time I felt like this, and Harley’s face appears unbidden in my mind.

  I shove Dermot’s hand away abruptly. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Rose—”

  “I … oh god, I’m such a head case.” I bury my face in my hands, unable to believe my own stupidity. This man, this gorgeous, fucking incredible man wants me, and I want him, but I want my best friend more. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “You’re not ready,” Dermot says softly, as if in answer to my silent question.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine. This is my fault.” He pulls my hands away from my face, his thumb grazing my cheek. “You told me you wanted to take it slow. And feeling you up in the front seat of my car like a horny teenager isn’t taking it slow.”

  “Dermot, I …”

  He grasps my face with his hand and pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Shh … I can wait. Now go on inside before it starts to pour.”

  I nod. “Thanks for tonight. Parents and ex-wives aside, I like spending time with you, Mr. Carter.”

  “I like spending time with you too, Rose,” he says, and there’s no edge to his voice, there’s no anger or disappointment, which makes me wonder why? Why is he still here? It’s been weeks, and this little encounter is the closest he’s ever been to getting me naked beneath him.

  This isn’t fair. I can’t keep stringing Dermont along and torturing myself over a man who clearly doesn’t want me and doesn’t respect me enough to have a conversation about what happened to us.

  “I’ll wait until you’re inside,” Dermot says, pulling me from my thoughts.

  I need to tell him why I won’t ask him up. I need to explain that I’m afraid if I sleep with him, I won’t feel anything. I won’t be able to pretend that I can leave Harley and me in the past. I don’t tell him, because I’m weak. I’m a horrible person. I don’t tell him because I’m selfish and all the things I let go unsaid pile up around me, layered, stacked high, one horrible truth on top of the other, until they surround me like a fort.

  “Well, goodnight.” I lean across the car to kiss his cheek, and inhale the sweet masculine scent of his
cologne: amber, sandalwood and a hint of licorice. For a beat I contemplate climbing into his lap to finish what he started, but I don’t. Instead, I whisper, “Dermot, would you come inside for a drink, and nothing more?”

  He lets free a humorless laugh. “I wish I trusted myself to say yes, but as it turns out, my kryptonite is beautiful women who are in love with other men, so no; I think in order to save my own heart, I won’t come up tonight.”

  Tears prick my eyes, and I can’t look at him as I say, “Oh.”

  He collects a drop of saltwater that runs down my cheek. “And here I was hoping you’d correct me.”

  “I’m trying not to be … in love with him, I mean,” I say quietly, and for the first time in weeks I feel the smallest sense of relief. “I really am.”

  “And I’m trying to make you forget all about him, but it seems I’m a poor distraction.”

  “Don’t say that.” I clutch his hand at my face and kiss it. My tears soak his skin.

  “Don’t feel bad, Rose.” He smiles solemnly. “It’s my lot in life to fall for women who can’t love me back.”

  I want to tell him that it’s not true, that I’m the one who’s ruined. I’m the one at fault, but all that comes out is, “I just … I need time.”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  I give him a sad smile, take a deep breath, and open my door. I don’t glance down the street towards Harley’s apartment, and I don’t look back at the car as I dash from the passenger’s side to my shopfront and fiddle with the keys in the lock. I open it, walk inside, and lean against the door as Dermot’s car roars down the empty street. And then the rain starts, fat heavy drops hitting the windows of my shop. My tears swell with it, and so does my anger and my sadness.

  I slept with my best friend. I gave in, though I knew it would hurt me. I screwed up royally, but I thought we meant more to him. I thought I meant more than this silent treatment he’s giving me. I want to know why, and I think I deserve a fucking explanation.

  In that second, I decide I’m done with avoidance. I’m done with waiting. Wiping my eyes dry, I yank open my door, and stalk out into the night without even bothering to close it behind me.

  Rain beats down on my head, quickly drenching my clothing, forcing my mascara to run into my eyes and soaking me to the bone, but I just keep stalking towards his apartment. When I’m out on the pavement below his window, I screech into the night, “Harley! I know you’re home, you jackass. Your lights are on; you never leave the lights on when you go out. You know how I know this? Because I know you. I know you’d rather conserve energy because that’s just who you are. And you know me. Why didn’t you answer my calls? Why did you ruin it?”

  There’s nothing from the window. Who knows? Maybe I’m being drowned out by the rain, and he can’t hear a damn thing. “You ruined me. You’re still ruining me, even though you promised you wouldn’t.” I lean against the brick façade of the building. “I wish it had never happened. I wish I’d never met you.” I’m sobbing openly now. All my bravado is gone, washed away by the rain that beats down relentlessly on my trembling body. “I’m dating someone. I almost slept with him … no, that’s not true. I didn’t even get close, because do you want to know what happened when he touched me tonight? I thought of you. That’s all I ever do, think about you, and I can’t … I like him a lot. He’s a good man, a better man than you, because he would never hurt me the way you have. You broke my damn heart.”

  I lean against the wall, feeling as if my chest will cave in, feeling as if I have no heart because he stole it from me. He smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces, and I’m the fool who let him.

  “I’m going to sleep with him. I’m going to move on because there is nothing for me here. You broke me, Harley. Maybe he’ll be the one to put me back together again.”

  I walk away, back up the street to the open shopfront. I’m trembling when I climb the stairs, and I’m sure it’s more to do with the shock than the rain. After all this time, I’d still expected him to say he was sorry, to rush out and throw his arms around me and tell me that he’d screwed up, to beg my forgiveness, but of course fantasy and reality are two very different things.

  I don’t bother to run the shower and get warm. I don’t bother to take off my makeup or dry my hair or even remove my drenched gown. I just shuck off my ruined heels and climb into my bed, wrapping myself up in the duvet where I cry for so long that all the hemorrhoid cream in the world won’t be able to reduce my puffy eyes in the morning.

  Tomorrow will be a new day. I’ll climb out of bed, I’ll put on a brave face, and I’ll forget Harley Hamilton was anything more than a boy I knew from my childhood. I’ll forget him the way Peter Pan so often forgot Wendy. After all, we all have to grow up sometime.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rose

  Age eighteen

  The roar as the Tigers run onto the field is deafening. I thought I’d seen football fanatics—what with my Dad and Harley’s, the game is religion in our households—but this is another thing entirely. They take their football pretty seriously down here in the south, and the thrill of watching my man run onto that field had been intoxicating, but it quickly turns brutal in the first quarter. The team have their asses handed to them after their middle linebacker takes a hit to the head and has to be carried off the field. And things get worse from there. The rivalry between the Tigers and Ole Miss is an old one and tonight it is as if both sides are playing dirty.

  In the end, they scrape in a win in the last quarter with the Tigers digging deep and a score of 23–20. Once the game is done and the players shake hands, the Tigers are swarmed with cheerleaders, and Harley is no exception. In fact, one of them even goes so far as to pull him down to her and press a hard kiss to his lips. I see red. On the inside, of course, because I am trying really hard not to dampen his win, but it hurts like a bitch. Harley’s eyes seek mine in the crowd. He finds me, and the responding grimace tells me he knows I am pissed.

  An hour later, I sit on the bleachers, enjoying the quiet of the empty stadium and the tepid night. It’s hard to believe it’s fall here; there’s barely even a chill in the air. If this were SF I’d be covered in a cloud of fog.

  Footsteps sound on the stadium bleachers behind me and I turn, half expecting some random guy to come kick me out, but it’s Harley. He sits down on the seat and bumps his shoulder against mine. “Hey.”

  “Congratulations.”

  He smiles wide, looking out on his home field. “Thanks.”

  “I’d kiss you, but apparently someone beat me to it,” I say.

  Harley’s smile fades. “Cheyanne was just excited.”

  “Well, at least she wasn’t getting her tits out this time.”

  “Here we go,” he says, letting out a puff of air. “I knew we weren’t done with this conversation.”

  “No, you’re damn right we’re not.” I glare at him. “What happened that night?”

  Harley shakes his head. His lips form a tight line and he won’t look at me. “Why don’t you just come out and say what we both know you’re thinking, Rose?”

  “Why don’t you try being honest for a change?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he says, exasperated. “All I’ve ever done is be honest with you, but you’re still determined to throw shade on this, so I got to ask—when did you stop trusting me?”

  I reel back as if his words were a slap in the face. “Right around the time you told me I wasn’t good enough.”

  “Did you smoke something back at the house? When have I ever told you that you weren’t good enough?”

  “You left me,” I accuse, and my words ring out across the empty stadium, echoing back to us.

  “Yeah, to give us a better life.”

  “No, you left for you. And this distance is killing us, Harley,” I snap. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t. It’s too hard. I can’t breathe without you and I’m turning into something I don’t want to be. Someone I didn’
t think it was possible for me to be. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “I know it’s hard right now, but it won’t always be that way. You could finish up the year and move out here.”

  “I don’t want to live anywhere else. SF is my home. Don’t you get it? You changed the playbook, not me,” I shout, getting to my feet. “We had plans, and you changed them, and I’m happy for you, I really am. Watching you tonight? I was so damn proud, but we’re running defense for different teams.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I wanna go home. Please, just take me to the airport.”

  “No! I’m not taking you anywhere.” He stands up, towering over me. “You’re leaving over some bullshit kiss with a cheerleader that I didn’t even instigate? I’m not taking you to the airport. I’m taking you home.”

  I move to push past him, but I should have known he’d never let that fly. He grabs my shoulders tightly and studies my face. “You’re gonna sit and talk to me until this shit in your pretty little head is sorted out.”

  “You’re hurting me,” I cry. Harley winces, as if the thought causes him physical pain, and he loosens his hold. “This whole thing is hurting me. It killed me to watch you walk away, but I let you go because I knew that was what you wanted. Now it’s time you do the same for me.”

  “This is bullshit,” he sneers. “You don’t want your freedom any more than I want to give it to you. I’m not taking you to the airport.”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  “Rose, no. I have you for another three days.” He tucks my hair behind my ears, holds my face between his big hands, and kisses my forehead. His voice is choked with emotion when he says, “Don’t take that from me. Stay. Please?”

  “Why? So we can continue to hurt one another even more when it comes time to leave?” I say around the lump in my throat. “A few days changes nothing, Harley. By Wednesday it will just be worse because we’ll have to go through this all over again.”