I flick a switch to turn on the lights in the kitchen, and then the lamp in the living room. And that’s the apartment. Kitchen, living room, a bedroom. Tiny, but mine. Well, Dad’s. He’s been subsidizing me while I got started in FXFL, the experimental minor league football league. Except now…I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I didn’t tell him about the hit I took, or what it means. I’ve been avoiding it.
And fuck, my place is messy. Dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor in the doorway to my room, unmade bed, a pizza box on the counter.
I grimace and glance sheepishly at Cheyenne. “This place is kind of a mess. Sorry.”
She just grins. “You’re a bachelor. I’d be worried if it wasn’t.” She lifts the lid of the pizza box with a thumb and forefinger, glances in and closes it again quickly; it’s been there a while. “And you should see my place. It’s not much better.”
See her place. Huh. I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with the thoughts that inspires. I think of a cute little two bedroom house in the ’burbs somewhere, and then I think of a king-size bed, maybe a blue quilt, and a bra hanging on the bathroom doorknob. I feel my cheeks heat and turn away from her before she sees.
“I do have some pizza that’s only from yesterday,” I tell her, grabbing the box from the fridge. “And some Killians.”
Her eyes light up. “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
So that’s how I end up sitting on my couch, finishing off a large pepperoni pizza and a six-pack with my physical therapist, watching Die Hard 2.
More confusing, though, is our arrangement on the couch. I’m in the corner, feet propped up on the coffee table, and she’s sitting right up against my side, body twisted to face the end of the couch, legs curled up under her, watching the movie. And my arm…it’s along the back of the couch. Not around her, per se, but close. Very nearly. And my pulse thunders in my veins, my hand itches to go lower, to curl around her shoulders. I mean, that’s crazy talk, right there. But the desire is there.
And I can’t help but wondering what she’d do if I did let my arm slide down onto her shoulders. Maybe nothing, maybe she’d welcome it, maybe she’d get upset. But no, she’s not that kind of person. She’d find a way to let me down gently, and that’d be that.
Halfway through the movie, she gets up to visit the bathroom, and with my nerves jangling, I let my arm slide just a bit lower on the couch back. She comes back, her eyes flicking to me, to my arm. But she sits down anyway, and she settles in close once more. And now…my arm is around her. She sinks lower in the couch, and actually leans in closer to me.
My mouth is dry.
The exhaustion of the day catches up to me, and I find myself blinking to stay awake. Beside me, Cheyenne is fighting sleep as well, drifting closer and closer to me so that, by the time the movie is over, she’s fully propped up against me. For a woman who’s fit and taut and muscular, she’s also soft. My hand slides down as the credits roll, and it comes to rest against her waist, my fingertips brushing the upper swell of her hip.
I’m nearly asleep, but her proximity, the feel of her against me is heady.
But eventually I can’t fight it, and I drift off.
I start, blink, and realize I’ve fallen asleep. The TV has turned off on its own to conserve energy. I crane my neck and glance at the red numbers of the microwave: 2:23 am.
Shit. We slept for a long time. My therapy appointment was at seven, lasted for an hour and a half, and then the movie…
Cheyenne stirs against me, stretches, making a sound in the back of her throat that has my heart clenching for some odd reason, something to do with how cute it is, how intimate a sound it is.
“Time’s it?” she asks.
“Two-thirty.”
She jerks upright. “Shit. I’ve got a client at nine, I’ve gotta go.”
I lever myself to my feet, leaning on my cane. But I forget how weak my knee is and put too much weight on it and stumble. And she’s there, catching me. Close. So close. She’s looking up at me, hazel-green eyes full of things I don’t know how to interpret.
“Okay?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
And she hasn’t moved away, and somehow, for some reason, her arms are around my waist…or one is, the other resting on my chest. My breath comes slowly, deeply, because my arms are around her too, resting on her back and sliding lower, and she’s not doing a damned thing to stop me.
She blinks, and her tongue slides across her lips, and my eyes follow that movement.
I refuse to think, just let whatever is going to happen happen.
She smells like shampoo and faintly of sweat, and she’s small and soft in my arms, and her chest is pressed up against mine, breasts that even a sports bra can’t hide despite her svelte, athletic build.
Fuck me, I want to kiss her so bad. I’ve been so lonely, dealing with such wrenching heartbreak for so long, holding myself back from making a move too soon with Kylie, wanting the time to be right. I waited, and I waited too long. I don’t want to make that mistake again. I’m not going to let fear hold me back any longer.
So I lean in and I feel her breath on my lips, feel her fingers curling in my Under Armor shirt…and I feel her lips, soft, damp, warm, against mine…
But then she’s backing away slowly and carefully, but decisively. “Ben…god, I can’t. We can’t.” She waits until she’s sure of my balance, thinking of me even now.
Embarrassment, hurt, and disappointment all war within me. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She reaches toward me, but doesn’t touch me. “Don’t apologize, Ben. It was as much me as you. But I just… I can’t.” She lets out a long, shaky sigh. “I have a daughter your age, Ben. And I’m your therapist. You’re my client. I just can’t let this…I just can’t.”
I nod. “I get it.” I shutter my emotions, shove them down, force a casualness into my voice that I don’t feel. “You’re a great therapist, Cheyenne. For real. You’ve helped me a lot over the last month. I just hope…I hope this doesn’t affect our working relationship.”
She smiles, but it’s strained and slightly closed, now. “It’ll be fine.” She lets out another breath, and then rubs her eyes. “I have to go. It’s late and I live on the other side of town.”
And now that I’m paying attention to anything other than how I feel, I see how tired she is. There are dark circles under her eyes. She seems to sag for a moment, and then gathers her strength and straightens.
“Cheyenne, maybe you should…” I hesitate to offer, considering what just happened. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
She smiles and shrugs. “Oh, sure. I was an ER nurse for a long time. I’m used to it.”
I gesture at the couch. “You can stay here, you know.”
She shakes her head and moves toward the door. “No, I should go. But thank you.”
I follow her to the front door, leaning on my cane. She pauses with the door open, and I wasn’t expecting it, intending to follow her through and watch her go from the front step. So when she stops and turns back, I’m right there, and she bumps into me. And now my arms are around her again, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking, but I’m milliseconds away from trying to kiss her again.
She stumbles away from me, less carefully this time. Her eyes seem pained, haunted, as if pulling away is difficult for her. “Ben, stop. Please don’t.”
I back away. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Cheyenne. I’m sorry.”
She stays in place, hands over her face. She suddenly seems so tired, so small. “You don’t know how I wish I could…it’s been so long, and—” She shakes her head. “But I can’t. Not with you, not now. I just can’t. I’m sorry, I really am.”
She walks away then, and her feet drag. Her shoulders are bowed, as if feeling the pressure of refusing the kiss, twice, of walking away.
“Cheyenne?” I call. She stops with one foot in the cab, holding on to the roof. “Are
you sure you’re okay to drive? You seem really tired.”
She smiles faintly. “I’m fine, Ben. I didn’t sleep well last night is all. But thank you.”
She climbs into the truck, closes the door, and starts the engine. Backs out. I stand in the doorway, the warm San Antonio night wrapped around me like a blanket. I watch her as she turns onto the main road, and I watch as she waits to make a left turn. There is no traffic and the streets are quiet. I’m about to go back inside when the light turns green and she steps on the gas.
And then I see it. I see the oncoming older model red Mustang run the light.
She doesn’t see him. She’s too tired to check the opposite direction, probably, focused on the light ahead of her.
Her white truck is halfway through the intersection when the Mustang slams into her driver’s side door, going forty or fifty miles per hour.
“CHEYENNE!” I shout and hobble forward.
Her truck rocks with the impact and jolts to the side, topples, and then momentum and weight take over and the vehicle rolls over to the roof. I watch the cab crumple. Smoke rises from the hood.
I can see her driver’s door is smashed in, crumpled.
“CHEYENNE!” I’m trying to run, but I can’t. I can barely walk, but I somehow make it out into the street, knee throbbing and protesting.
The Mustang is a few feet away, the hood accordioned, smoking.
I get to her overturned truck, just now remembering my cell phone is in my pocket. I dial 911, heart hammering, fear ramming my pulse into overdrive.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“A car…it ran the light and slammed into her.” I don’t know how to make sense. “The truck…I think she’s hurt…”
“Sir, can you tell me your location?” Her voice is calm, smooth, emotionless.
I glance at the street names and relay them, and then I’m awkwardly, painfully lowering myself to one knee at the driver’s side window, which is smashed out.
There’s blood on the road.
She’s not moving. Her head hangs; her braid is dangling over her shoulder.
“Cheyenne. Talk to me. Hey. Come on. You’re okay. Talk to me.” I reach in and tap her shoulder hesitantly. She doesn’t respond. “No. No. Cheyenne? Come on. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Sir?” I’d forgotten the 911 operator. “Sir, are you there?”
“She’s not moving, she’s not—she’s not—”
“Help is on the way, sir. We have your location and paramedics are en route. Just stay calm and don’t try to move her…”
But it’s no good. I can tell.
They won’t be able to help.
And when they show up and check her pulse and vital signs I know from the minute shake of a head…
She’s gone.
My gaze falls upon the lock screen of my phone: 2:36 AM.
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PLAYLIST
So, Trashed is another book that does not feature music directly. But, I know you know I love my music, especially when I’m writing, so I’ve listed for you a few of the artists that I listened to a lot during the creation of Des and Adam’s story. Enjoy!
Safetysuit
Green River Ordinance
Matt Nathanson
Chris Thomas King
Niyaz
Mandolin Orange
Beats Antique
Rodrigo y Gabriela
Philip Wesley
Elenowen
The Black Keys
Stevie Ray Vaughn
The White Stripes
Jasinda Wilder
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The Preacher's Son:
Unbound
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Biker Billionaire:
Wild Ride
Delilah's Diary:
A Sexy Journey
La Vita Sexy
A Sexy Surrender
Big Girls Do It:
Boxed Set
Married
On Christmas
Pregnant
Rock Stars Do It:
Harder
Dirty
Forever
Omnibus
The Falling Trilogy:
Falling Into You
Falling Into Us
Falling Under
The Ever Trilogy:
Forever & Always
After Forever
Saving Forever
Alpha
Beta
Wounded
Captured
Stripped
Trashed
Jack Wilder Titles:
The Missionary
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Trashed (Stripped #2) Page 30
