Still Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  “I don’t have a few days!” she flares, flinging a shirt with renewed force. “Don’t you get it, Gabe? This is wasted time, every second he gets away with Joannie. I can’t let him get more lead time on me. I can’t.”

  “And what if this is a dead end?” I try to keep my voice calm, soothing. “What if whoever took Joannie's just buying time, sending you chasing Harmon to no good use?”

  “It’s not,” she says tightly. “This is Harmon pulling shit to throw us off the trail. He stashed Joannie with a friend, and I’m going to find him before it’s too late.”

  “And if that friend doesn’t exist?”

  “He does.”

  “Sky...” I sigh. “I’m just not sure. My intuition says this ain’t right. It's too clean, hoping to find anything up there.”

  “Fuck your intuition.” It’s low, seething, and when she looks up at me, that ice is back in her eyes.

  I haven’t seen it in what feels like forever, especially directed at me, and it’s like an icicle stabbed right in my heart to see this clear, chill blue looking through me like she doesn’t even know me.

  “Sky,” I say, but the second I take a step forward, she takes three more back.

  “No. You aren’t Joannie’s family. I am. I can feel her, Gabe. Feel her getting farther away from me!” Her voice chokes, and she turns her face away, like she can’t even stand to show emotion in front of me now. “I don’t need your approval to go look for her. I don’t need you. I never asked for you to come, and I don’t care if you think it’s a bad idea. I don’t care what you think, period. I need you out of my life. I never invited you into it in the first place, and you just keep getting in the damn way. You just keep...” She swallows roughly, hiding the last word. “I can’t think straight around you. Maybe it's not your fault, but I can't carry on like this. I can't lose her because I got myself wrapped up in something I should've been smart enough to sidestep all along. So...I'm not trying to hurt you. But you can stop being my bodyguard, stop playing at this boyfriend shit, and stop getting in the way of what I need to do.”

  I can’t move. I can’t speak.

  It’s like I’m an anvil, and she’s just hit me with a massive fucking hammer of hurt, and the reverberations echo through me. Playing.

  Playing?

  She thinks all this time I’ve spent with her, every touch, every kiss, is just playing? And now I’m just an unwanted asshole chaperone who gets in the way?

  I feel like a goddamn dumpster. Trash she just wadded up and threw away like it was nothing.

  I can’t help my first instinct to shut down. Not show anything.

  You don’t show the wounds, they can’t fucking grind their knuckles into them and make you bleed even more. Dunno if that’s a military thing or if I've just been this way my whole life, ‘cause I always was way too damn soft. If I didn’t learn to close it off, harden up, wall off, I’d have been a human punching bag my whole life.

  And I close it off now behind mile-thick concrete walls as I look at Sky, steeling my voice. I don’t sound like me, when I speak again. I almost sound like her, cold and emotionless.

  “I’m doing my job,” I tell her. “That’s it. I’m being paid to protect you, Sky, and you're right. I can’t stop you from making your own mistakes no matter what I’m being paid.”

  “You already cashed the check, right?” she fires back bitterly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned your keep. If you’re waiting for me to leave a tip on the nightstand for being a good fuck, it’s not going to happen. So, you can get the hell out. Leave me alone.”

  Fuck.

  I pinch my jaw so tight I think my teeth might crack. She knows how to hit me where it hurts. I brought that one on myself, though. Bringing up the money. Reminding her exactly what our entire relationship has been.

  A transaction, one way or another.

  Guess we’re both in it only for what we get out of it, yeah. Except, now I know I’ll never get what I really want out of this tangled, frustrating, maddening, wonderful mess with this woman.

  I’ll never get to know what it feels like to have her love me.

  And I can’t stay here for this. She doesn’t need to ask me to leave twice.

  I turn and walk out, letting the door slam shut behind me.

  * * *

  For a long time, I sit in my truck, just staring at her house.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t make my fucking lungs work, my head is roaring, and I don’t trust my hands to stay steady on the wheel.

  I gotta get this out of me.

  It’s like there’s a demon in my chest, getting larger and larger, till it’s gonna claw out through my rib cage. I fumble my book out, flick the cap off the pen, and lash at the blank white pages.

  She’s so goddamn perfect for me.

  Even the parts that hurt.

  She’s also damned near impossible to have.

  Sky's a roller coaster. A hurricane. The most fucked up miracle and the holiest hell I ever had.

  I want her even when she's spitting mad, cursing me out of her life. I want her even when my pride tells me to flip this shitshow the finger and just drive on up the coast, leaving it all behind.

  I want her worse than the air I'm not getting in these bones because I'm too furious, too confused, too lost. I don’t know what to do.

  No. That last part's a lie. I know what to do. I know what I have to do.

  I look up. She’s standing in her window, just a silhouette, but I know she’s watching me.

  I can feel the anger and charged, bristling emotion stretching between us. It leashes me to her, and I know damn well that even if she’s done with me, I can’t be done with her.

  Not in this lifetime.

  Not till I help her do what she’s gotta do. Not till I help her find Joannie, and bring that little girl home. Because I’m not gonna lose her like I lost my Dad.

  I can’t.

  No matter what I have to do.

  15

  Don't Say I'm Not Enough (Skylar)

  I should’ve known I'd chase him off.

  Hell, I wanted him to run. I did. I ran him out. He left because I wanted him to, because he’s a freaking Southern gentleman and the kind of man who, when a lady says go, he goes instead of forcing himself on her or disrespecting her wishes.

  Gabe's noble and good like that, respectful and kind, gentle and warm.

  And I’m so mad at him for it, because when I said go I really meant fight me to stay.

  How screwed up is that? I can’t even tell a man I need him to believe me, need him to support me, need him to stick to this lost cause with me and tilt at every windmill I want to go charging at no matter how useless it is.

  Because I need someone to hold me up so I won’t fall down. Instead, I just have to keep pushing and pushing and pushing him away, hoping he’ll figure out that I need him to fight past the thorns no matter how much I make him bleed to just...

  Stay.

  I catch one glimpse of his face through the windshield of his truck, a long, grim, determined look before the headlights of his Dodge flick on, whiting out the early evening darkness and eclipsing any sight of him. The last I see is the Dodge backing out, reversing, then heading up the lane. Then he’s gone, and I want to scream, to fill the silence with something.

  It's my own fault, really. I’ve got no earthly right to be mad at him when I’m the one who told him to leave.

  I don’t have time for this. Don’t have time to be locked up inside my own head, stewing over Gabe, when I’ve got business in Redding.

  It’s time to get out of here, and chase Harmon and his minions all the way to Hell.

  I finish packing my things, check for my gun, then load up my car and hit the road. I’ve got to stop by Grandma’s to let her and Monika know I’ll be gone for a few days. Otherwise, they’ll panic when they show up at my place and I’m not around.

  It'd be just my luck to wind up laying low somewhere where I won’t be able t
o answer the frantic texts or phone calls without getting shot. Then I’ll end up coming home to a missing person's report and a police welcome.

  I love my family, but with the way things are right now? It’s way too easy to convince them I’ve been abducted by the Hillside Strangler. And he’s been dead for fifteen years, if you go by certain police reports.

  I’ve almost got my story worked out when I pull up to the house.

  Even if Gabe and I are quits, I can still use him. That wine country thing wasn’t a half-bad alibi.

  I could say he drove up ahead to get a little bungalow ready, and I’m heading out to meet him. That a few days away are what I need to clear my head, I’m so sorry, I don’t feel right taking a vacation when Joannie’s still missing, but I just need to shake out the cobwebs and walk away from it for a bit so I can come back with fresh eyes and turn up a lead.

  It’s so convincing I almost want it to be true, and I hate myself for the doubts that gnaw at me with every mile of blacktop under my wheels.

  The lights are on in Grandma Eva’s kitchen. I park my beat-up old car and lock up, even if this isn’t the kind of neighborhood where you need it and my car isn’t the kind you’d vandalize. It’s habit. And paranoia.

  I feel like that’s all I am, lately, this bundle of twitchy, razor-sharp nerves. But I feel a little more like a human being when Grandma throws the door open before I’m even up the walk, her smile broad and her arms wide, just waiting to pull me into a hug.

  When she holds me close and I smell the soft cream and honey scents of her shampoo and that strange warm parchment-scent older women always seem to have, I feel like a human being again.

  A daughter. A granddaughter. A sister. An aunt.

  Anything but a hardened soldier with an increasingly hopeless mission.

  I feel like a lover, even if I’ve just thrown my lover away like so much trash and told him he didn’t mean anything at all, then walked away from the pain brimming in those hazel sunrise eyes.

  For a second, I can hide in my grandmother, and let it hurt. My throat is tight, and I bury my face in her shoulder and swallow it back, telling myself I won’t cry.

  I might have told Gabe it wasn’t real, but he wasn’t the only one I lied to.

  When I pull back, Grandma Eva cups my cheek and searches my face with her far too discerning eyes. “What is it, dearest? I haven’t seen you look this crushed since that Daryl boy rubbed dirt on your face in the playground.”

  I manage a weak, watery smile. “Nothing, Grandma. I’m just tired. And I think you forgot I kicked nine-year-old Daryl Peterson’s ass up one side of the playground and down the other for breaking my heart.”

  “That’s always the kind of girl you’ve been. Tough.” She pats my cheek with a bright smile. “Come on, come inside. I’ve just made supper.”

  “Oh, well, I just wanted to drop by. I can't –”

  “You can, even if only for a few minutes. Humor me. I feel like I don’t see enough of you lately.” She nearly drags me inside, with a conspiratorial look over her shoulder. “Busy with that boyfriend of yours, hmm?”

  I wince. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  But here’s my window, so I’ve got to trot out the lie and make it believable. If I’m telling the truth, I suck at lying, especially to Grandma. “That’s actually where I’m going now. Gabe... he thought it'd be a good idea to get away. You know, you get tunnel vision staring at the same problem, until you start to miss the important stuff. So he’s dragging me off to Napa for a few days. I just need to think about this from a different angle in a different environment. I know there’s one thing I’m missing that'll lead me to Joannie.”

  The crack in my voice on that last line isn’t feigned. It’s a hard knot in my throat, a pain welling in my chest. Because even if I’m not going to Napa with Gabe, it’s true that there’s something that keeps slipping through my fingers like sand.

  But that’s why I’m going to Redding. I know what I'm after.

  I’ll find that missing clue without Gabe and his meddling.

  Grandma ushers me to a seat at the dining room table. “Gabe won’t mind if you’re fifteen minutes late for a little food, will he? He seems like such a patient boy.”

  “He is.” I take a shaky breath and try to steady my voice. “But we were going to do dinner when I got there.”

  “Then you can take dinner to him,” she says firmly, already pulling out the Saran wrap and a Tupperware container. There’s a pot of goulash on the stove, its thick, savory scent floating over the kitchen.

  Ugh. If I weren’t so sick to my stomach, my mouth would be watering, but even with my mind and heart a mess I want to laugh. My Grandma is incorrigible, irrepressible, and when she wants you to eat, you don’t really get to say no.

  Before I know it I’ve got a Little Red Riding Hood basket draped over my arm, with a Tupperware container heavy with goulash, cushioned in by little wrapped pastries and other baked goods. There’s even a red-checkered cloth covering it.

  Fitting, when I’m off to chase down the big bad wolf. All I need is the red hood.

  I finally pull myself away, but not before snagging a couple of apple pastries from the stack on the counter and tucking them in my basket. I’ll need something sweet-tart but low sugar to fortify me for a long drive, and Grandma Eva always makes her apple pastries sour for something with a little crisp refreshing bite.

  Grandma practically hugs my leg all the way into the car. I can’t quite understand why she’s being like this, when she’s normally so no-nonsense even if she’s loving, until I remember she believes I’m going to Napa Valley to be with Gabe.

  The guilt burns in the pit of my belly.

  My face flames red too as I settle behind the wheel. She’s really getting her hopes up, isn’t she? Probably already has grandbaby names picked out.

  If she starts knitting baby booties, though, I’m calling an exorcist.

  I hate this lie. It’ll make it that much harder to let her down easy when this is all over.

  But I push the thought aside and focus my attention straight ahead on the drive to Redding. There’s a kind of timeless place I slip into when I drive, following hours of highway and the rolling scrub of California roadside.

  It started on deployment – the days when I’d ship out on a new tour. I’d have to blank out what I was leaving behind so it wouldn’t hurt so much to walk away from home and family, but also keep my focus on what was ahead narrowed down to pinprick focus so I could think only about the mission, and not the fear of never coming home to Grandma Eva’s goulash ever again.

  Back then it was long flights in the back of military cargo planes. Or bouncing over undulating waves on Navy-issue surface boats, heading out to a refueling station or top secret naval installation.

  I'll never forget the submarines. Listening to the particular quiet of the deep, dark sea closing in around you, locking you in another world. All while this strange little fragile capsule of air and machinery and breakable human flesh braves crushing tons of ocean water pressure.

  The inside of a submarine can make you and your fellow sailors feel like you’re the only people left in the world, and time itself has stopped.

  There’s only the endless drift, and your little pod of quiet cut off from the rest of the world.

  That’s my car, right now.

  A timeless pod of silence, cruising through the ocean of night.

  It’s eerily calming. I don’t even feel the hours on the drive, and by the time I check into the hotel I’d booked on Expedia, it’s past midnight and my head feels clearer than it has in weeks. I really did need to get away, but it’s not relaxation I need.

  It’s solitude and focus, without distractions like hard-cut bodies and deep Southern drawls.

  My room is small and somehow garishly bland, all beige and sand, but it’s clean and private and that’s all I need. I deposit my basket from Grandma on the table, dump my bag on the bed, and drop myself after
it, stretching out muscles sore from hours in the saddle and wiggling my stiff, cramped fingers.

  My phone bites into my rear, reminding me I’ve been sitting on it for ages, so long I’ve probably got the Samsung logo stamped on my butt. When I retrieve it, I’ve got four new text messages waiting.

  Lovely. I hadn’t even felt the buzz. I always mute my phone when driving. My car’s too old to handle a Bluetooth speaker setup, and I don’t want to tempt myself to answer when I’m in heavy traffic.

  I’m a safety first kind of girl, don’tcha know.

  The messages are all Monika, and God I hate myself.

  She’s so excited, when she hasn’t had anything to be excited about for months.

  Hey, girl. How’s your Not-Boyfriend? I mean, Napa Valley sounds awful boyfriend-y. But what do I know about boyfriends?

  That bit almost sounds like Grandma Eva, but Nika’s always been like that. When she was little our family would tease her about being four going on forty, then nine going on ninety – you get the idea.

  Somehow, though, I ended up being the overly grown-up, too-serious one, even though she’s got two years on me. Sis just got the mannerisms of a cute little grandma in a twenty-something woman’s body.

  I’m the one who’s old before her time.

  When did I get to be like this? Or was I always this way, born to be cold and angry and distant with everyone but the two people I love most in the world?

  Some people are born to be protectors, I suppose. It’s in our genes, wired with different instincts that make us hyper-vigilant, always focused on potential dangers.

  We're the ones who alerted our primitive tribes to predators in the grass, who sensed the changes in the air long before others when a storm was coming or the earth was ready to shake apart beneath our feet. We can’t ever switch it off, even when there’s no danger in sight.

  We make people uncomfortable, protectors like me.

  Because we’re always on, so on they can’t shut us off. It makes them shy away from us. Maybe that’s why there are so few of us. We’re natural loners, so we don’t always pass on those genes that make us who we are.