by Jo Raven
But now, looking at her… I don’t think I’ll ever eat again without getting a hard-on.
I’m given the task of cutting up chicken fillets into cubes, and I apply myself with all I have, murdering the filets until they’re practically mincemeat.
Feeling marginally better, I turn to watch her as she stirs onions and peppers in the pot. The smell is heavenly, and it makes my stomach growl.
She laughs and shoots me a glance. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.” This is the kind of smell that never wafted from the kitchen of the trailer where I grew up. I sometimes used to stop outside random houses and inhale, let myself imagine I lived there.
I’m hungry and horny and goddamn hard. She looks good enough to eat in my kitchenette, and my thoughts stray from the food completely. I didn’t know a girl in my kitchen could be such a turn-on.
Or maybe it’s just her. The memory of her tits, her nipples in my mouth, how wet she was, how she moaned when I touched her.
Bet she looks hot whatever she does. Bet she’d look even hotter out of her skirt and blouse, only dressed in the red apron she found in my stuff.
Or without the apron. Without anything at all. Just miles of creamy skin and—
“Pass me the chicken?”
Swallowing a groan, I grab the wooden slab with the meat piled on top and step to her side. Glance into the bubbling pot where she threw more veggies while I was imagining her naked and writhing under my mouth and hands, producing those breathy moans and—
“Can you stir this while I get the potatoes?”
A wooden spoon I didn’t know I owned is thrust into my hand, and I move it around in the bubbling mass, my gaze trailing after her.
I had my fingers inside her, and my tongue in her mouth not fifteen minutes ago. Her taste… Fuck, man, that shit’s addictive. I can’t stop thinking about it.
Can’t stop thinking about stealing some more time with her to explore her body, to find out what makes her tick, what makes her toes curl, what makes her come so hard she passes out with the force of it.
Jesus, Ocean. Slow down.
“So you won’t tell Jesse?” Kayla asks. At my uncomprehending look, she explains, “About Jason being so sick. You said you’ll be away this weekend somewhere.”
“Yeah.”
She’s looking at me as if expecting something more. About where I’m going, I bet.
I turn back to the pot, give it a half-hearted stir. “I’ll give it until Friday. If by then he’s not better, I should probably not only tell Jesse, but take him to a doctor.”
“I’ll help. I could come by tomorrow evening, if you’d like me to.”
I blink. “To make more soup?”
“And tea. If he’s not better.”
Right. Make soup and tea. Be here. With me.
“Ocean…” She takes a step closer, I hear her shoes scrape on the floor. “What is it?”
My hand is shaking, rattling the wooden spoon inside the pot. I clench my fingers around it. Oh, come on. Why do my eyes feel so hot? Why do I feel like my strings are getting cut, one by one, leaving me to sink and drown?
There’s only Jason. And Kayla. It can’t be Jason. Letting him crash on my couch costs me nothing.
Though Jason reminds me of Raine.
Fuck, he reminds me of Raine, and Kayla is whispering my name, and it’s like water eating away at the stone walls I’ve built around myself.
“Hey… Everything okay?” She’s watching me, watching my face.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly, my mind spinning.
There’s concern written all over her pretty features, flickering in her big gray eyes, but she’s not giving me the once-over, or blushing, or doing anything to indicate she’s affected by what we did earlier on the table—what I did to her. She seemed to like it at the time—but what if she was just caught by surprise? I didn’t exactly ask before kissing her, before touching her, before letting my need for her take over.
Shit. Since when do I lose control like that? Since when do I think of myself first?
Fuck, better not answer this one. Since always, according to my old man, and above all according to Raine, and he’s probably right. It’s why he won’t talk to me.
Yet she’s still here, still offering to help. A good person. A good friend. Better than I deserve.
And these two things together—the memory of Raine and Kayla’s uncertain presence and kindness are for some reason threatening to shatter me to fucking pieces.
“Your drawings.” She’s pointing at the doodles I have taped to the kitchen door. I put them there on a day I decided to make the apartment feel more like a home, and they were the only thing that really felt like my own. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why do you draw only parts of people or objects?”
“Because.” Good question. I frown at the scraps of paper. “Because I don’t care about the whole thing?”
“You don’t care about the whole picture?”
I shrug. I’ve completed sketches and drawings, of course. Wouldn’t be a tattoo artist otherwise. But those are work. These are… for me. Like I’m trying to figure out something.
Figure out everything, when everything is broken. People. Relationships. Feelings. Thoughts.
“You’re such a puzzle,” she says.
“No, I’m not.”
Life is. Mine, anyway.
Silence stretches like an elastic band, about to snap and hurtle me into space.
“Look,” she says, her eyes not meeting mine. “What happened tonight... I don’t expect anything, okay? It means nothing. So don’t worry about it.”
“It means nothing?” I repeat in a whisper, feeling cold. “Kay…”
“Yes?”
I want to tell her tonight was important to me, like a door was thrown open and I glimpsed what could make me happy, but then I think of Jason in the next room, I think of my fucked up family, of my fucked up past, of my burden and my guilt and my hell, and shake my head.
“Nothing.” Letting the wooden spoon rest inside the pot and pulling my cell from my back pocket, I stride out of the kitchen, heading out of the apartment.
***
It means nothing.
Not to her, it doesn’t, and it shouldn’t mean anything to me, either. It shouldn’t, but for a moment there I thought it had, and it had felt damn good.
Should’ve known better than to allow myself to believe even for a second she’d felt it, too. Better this way. End it before it even starts.
Oh fuck me. What’s wrong with me? I should be relieved. I should be glad.
But my heart is racing with something like desperation, and I need… need to hear Raine’s voice, make sure he’s okay.
The number is saved under “Important contacts.” There are only two numbers in there—Raine’s and my parents’ occasionally functioning one.
I half-close the apartment door and lean against the wall on the dark landing as I call his number.
Please, Raine, pick up. Come on. Don’t make me call our aunt and beg her to put you on—if you are around, which isn’t a given—have to explain the emergency and hear again about what a loser I am.
Don’t fucking ignore me. Not now.
I kick my boot heel back into the wall and grit my teeth.
The phone rings and rings, and I’m ready to throw the goddamn thing down the stairs. Don’t even know why I’m still trying, not giving up. Raine told me many times I should. That he doesn’t care.
But I do.
The ringing of the damn phone is echoing inside my head, sending slivers of pain down my spine. Lack of sleep isn’t helping. I slept like shit even before Jason was thrust into my care a few days ago, what with Mom being unwell, and the push and pull of need.
The need to be by her side.
The need to be as far away from her and my dad as possible.
The need to take her away, take her to a doctor, see if there is a cure. To find forgiveness. Not that I deserve forgiveness. But I c
an’t help wanting it.
The need to go back to Kayla’s side, grab her and ask her to give me a chance.
He won’t answer. I should have known better than to try. Resigned, I pull the cell away from my ear and stare at the lit screen.
Call connected.
Is this fucking real?
It takes my brain two precious seconds to catch up, and then I slam the cell back to my ear.
“Raine?” Oh thank fuck, thank you. “R. Hey.”
“What the fuck do you want, Shun?” Every word clipped and heavy with fury and loathing. “Why do you keep calling me?”
I soak in his angry voice, and I can’t help smiling. He answered.
“How are you, R? How’s school?”
Raine’s almost eighteen now, but in my mind’s eye he’s still a kid, the kid I used to look after as we grew up.
“Fine.”
“Only you ran away again last week and skipped school, didn’t you?”
“Fuck you. That’s none of your business.”
“That’s bullshit.” I thump my head back against the wall, and for a moment a bright flash goes through my skull, erasing the worry and guilt and anger. “I care, and I wanna—”
“You gave up the right to be concerned when you shipped me away. You know what? I’m tired of rehashing this over and over. Go to hell.”
“R, wait.” I rub my fist over my eyes. My head aches. “It’s about Mom.”
“Screw her, too.” But his voice loses some of its heat. “I don’t give a damn about her, and it figures you’d care more for her than me.”
I blink in the darkness, the words a blow to my chest. “What the fuck? I don’t—”
“Like I said, Shun, go to hell and leave me alone. You’re good at that, at least.”
He disconnects, and I’m left staring into the blackness, his words twisting in my chest like rusty blades.
These past years, he never once let down his guard, his anger, his hatred for me. Never let me explain my reasons for anything I did, and never gave any indication of any chance at forgiveness. And now…
Now the pain in my chest is turning into an open wound, because yeah, he’s blaming me, he’s hurt, but for a completely different reason. He doesn’t get that I did what was best for him.
Dammit, I did what was best for him. He knows how hard things were. He knows staying there was a trap.
But that was before the accident, of course, and he can’t see past that, not with our folks telling him day in and day out how it was all my fault.
Nobody ever can.
Chapter Seven
Kayla
Ocean is acting weird. As in, weirder than he has in these past weeks, and that was already something.
I mean, okay, we kissed and stuff. He touched me, and… Holy crap, that was so good that heat seeps back into my face just thinking about it.
But I told him not to think about it. Heck, that’s what I’m trying to do, too, though it’s difficult. Knowing he was proving a point doesn’t help with the heat seeping into my belly at the memory. I lick my lips.
He made his point damn well.
If he says something… if he mentions what we did, if he gives me a sign it meant more… Please, dear God. Let him say something to show it wasn’t a random hook-up.
But I’m not holding my breath. And it’s okay. I never set out for anything more. I wanted a taste of the eye-candy that’s Ocean Storm, and I got it. Not every girl is so lucky.
I finish the soup, lowering the heat, letting it simmer. Yeah, all is good.
But he’s taking an awful long time to make his phone call. I wonder what the big deal was.
Jason coughs from the living room, and I’m torn between making sure the soup doesn’t burn—it’s a thick broth—and checking on him.
No wonder Ocean looks so worn out. If he’s as worried and protective as he seems to be, I bet he’s up all night checking on his sick guest.
Least I can do is finish this soup so they can both eat and rest. It smells great already, and although I wasn’t able to find any spices and herbs in the cupboards—which in retrospect I should have expected—I think it’ll be good.
Lifting the spoon, I try the brown liquid, burning my tongue in the process. Hm. Maybe another pinch of salt…
The apartment door is thrown open, slamming against the wall. Heavy steps follow, but don’t head toward the kitchenette.
Frowning, I turn off the stove and cover the pot.
The apron straps get tangled in my hair as I pull it off and fold it, placing it on the counter. One last look at the stove to make sure it’s off, and I walk out of the kitchenette and into the small living room.
Ocean isn’t there. The apartment door is shut, and Jason seems to be asleep, curled under the cover, only his bleached hair showing on top.
A crash reverberates. Jason mumbles something and shifts uneasily.
There’s only one room I haven’t seen yet. One door I haven’t been through.
The bedroom.
I wait, unsure of what to do. Maybe this is my cue to leave. It’s getting late, and I’m more confused than ever, when I think I hear a muffled shout.
Jesus. What’s going on?
Oh, to hell with it. Taking a deep breath, I head to the bedroom and fingers crossed I’m not overstepping any boundaries.
***
The door is shut, but when I lean my hand on it, it slides open. It’s dark inside, but the light from the living room cuts a yellow rectangle on the floor and the bed.
He’s sitting there, hands buried in his hair. He turns to squint at me, his face a pale shape, his eyes glinting. “What?”
I flinch. “The soup is ready. Come and eat.”
“Not now, Kay.”
It’s obvious he shut his door on purpose. Maybe I should backtrack and leave him in peace. But his voice is hoarse, and it twists something inside me.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he whispers.
He always says that. I take a tentative step inside.
Maybe it’s a mistake, but I want to comfort him. Besides, friends do that all the time, right? Break the rules and worry about each other. Though I’m not sure about the kissing and making out part.
“You can talk to me,” I say. “Maybe I can help. I’d like that.”
“Help?” The word is sharp like a blade, and it stops me in my tracks. “How? By making more soup?”
My God. It was a mistake all right. Stung, I curl my hands into fists. “Maybe if you ate some, you’d be in a better mood.”
“A better mood?” He gives an incredulous bark of laughter. “Think you can fix what is wrong? Fix me? That what you thought?”
“Whatever I thought was obviously wrong,” I mutter, bitterness welling inside me. “I thought we were friends, and that you’d trust me to tell me what is bothering you.”
“Yeah, you were wrong,” he says, and his quiet voice somehow makes it worse.
Turning on my heel, I march out of his room. I barely have the presence of mind to grab my purse and coat from the back of a chair in his living room before I walk out of his apartment and into the night.
I’m so angry I’m shaking.
Was I just another girl on his trophy list? Was he relieved to scratch my name off? Was the soup a lame pretext to get me into his kitchen and feel me up?
Screw you, Ocean Storm. The cards were lying. You don’t need my help. It’s obvious you don’t need anybody but yourself.
***
“You don’t hate him,” Amber says, clicking thoughtfully through a series of pictures of my latest clothes line. She’s added my clothes to her already successful jewelry website, helping me sell enough to give up my previous jobs and focus on what I like doing best. “You’re just upset.”
“I want to wring his neck.” I’m holding my latest creation, a red skirt, putting the finishing touches—or attempting to put them, at least. I’m curled up on our couch,
and I can’t help remembering Jason on Ocean’s sofa and wondering if he’s better today. “Slowly.”
It’s toasty warm inside our apartment, though not as warm as inside Ocean’s. He likes it warm, he said. As if it’s a luxury for him and he can’t help himself.
And here I am, reading things into what he says. Again. You’d think by now I’d have learned my lesson, but no.
“You don’t mean that. I thought I hated JJ at first, but now I realize I was only scared. Scared of falling for him. Of not being what he wanted.”
“I’m not scared. Drink your tea,” I say, a bit more sharply than I intended. “Otherwise I can’t read the leaves.”
Amber snickers quietly, unfazed. Damn. She knows me far too well. “You read my tea leaves an hour ago. I don’t think my fate has changed so much already.”
“You never know.” I scowl fiercely at the fabric in my lap and the needle threaded with crimson thread. “Better be prepared.”
“Kay… You can’t be prepared for life. I should know. I always hid and where did that leave me?”
“Here with me? And Jesse Lee?” I venture, but my composure is slipping. “Look, I don’t hate hate Ocean, okay? But he acted like a major a-hole, and that’s…” Breaking my heart? Not possible. Not breaking it. But definitely wounding it. “That’s a douchy thing to do.”
“Because he kissed you?”
“He didn’t just kiss me, he…” He put his mouth on my boobs, and his fingers inside me, and made me come so hard I saw stars, and then… “He basically said nothing about it, and then told me off.”
“I can’t believe that. Not Ocean. What exactly did he say?”
“Well, believe it. He was sarcastic. Asked if I intended to fix him with my soup. Can you imagine that? The soup he asked me to make. And when I said I thought we were friends, he said I was wrong. Which was like saying I never gave a damn about you, Kay, and now get out of my apartment.”
“Oh, come on.” Amber leans back, balancing the laptop on her knees, and gives me a long, dark look. “He never said any of that. That’s you putting words in his mouth.”
“You weren’t there,” I say stubbornly, because that sarcasm had burned like acid. You’d think after fighting off my family’s criticism and negativity for so long I’d have really thick skin, but for some reason, where he’s concerned, all my defenses fail. “He was mean. He used me, Amber. And it’s weird.”
