by Linda Kage
I hope you don’t hate me forever for this. I really am sorry.
I don’t know what else to say but sorry. I wish I could be better. I wish I could be normal. I wish I could be worthy of you.
Sincerely,
Jackhole.
Tears poured down my face as I finished reading. My hands were shaking as I dug a pen and notebook from my school bag, but when I tried to think of what to say back to him, I couldn’t.
I didn’t have Beau’s talent with writing feelings down. I had to say them out loud as they came to me in the moment. But there was no way I could let this go unanswered. So I pushed the pen and paper off my lap and scooted from the bed. Two minutes later, I was calling through the house to my parents that I’d be at the Gambles’ for a while, and I hurried out the back door.
Chapter Five
Beau
I entered my room after coming home from football practice, exhausted and bone-weary from stressing all day, worrying how Bentley would respond to my note.
God, maybe I’d written too much.
Okay, I’d definitely written too much. I mean, I’d flat-out told her how to destroy me if she wanted to. Who did stupid shit like that?
Me, I guess, that’s who.
But I’d kind of been hoping it would get her to maybe, possibly like me more in return. Or at least understand me enough not to totally hate me. Except, now I was questioning whether my words would do the very opposite. What if I totally just freaked her out and she never wanted to see me again? Or worse. What if she felt sorry because I liked her, and she just didn’t like me back?
Damn, what had I done?!
Maybe, if my stars were aligned, she hadn’t even found the note.
Dropping my hefty gym bag on the floor by my dresser, I immediately began to kick off my shoes and reached for the top button of my shirt with the intent to shed it and find something more comfortable, all the while thinking I should write another letter to backtrack and somehow denounce everything I’d already told her.
It actually took me a moment to realize someone was sitting on my bed.
“What the—”
I nearly jumped out of my skin as Bentley pressed a finger to her own lips, shushing me.
“What’re you doing here?” I hissed in a whisper, re-buttoning what I’d just undone, while she rose from the bed and came toward me.
“I needed to talk to you.”
“And it couldn’t wait until...?”
Hell, any other time. Like when I had the courage to actually stomach hearing a rejection from her.
“No,” she said, and then did the unthinkable. She stepped closer, right into my personal space. “I need to get this out now.”
I gulped and edged an uneasy step back. “Okay.”
“Did you mean it?” she asked. “Everything you wrote in the letter?”
I couldn’t tell from her expression if she liked what I’d written or not. It was impossible to know if she was happy, upset, or anything. Which drove me batty.
“Why would I write something I didn’t mean?” I hedged evasively.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Because you were willing to say anything to get me to forgive you, maybe?”
I merely backed away again when she came at me some more. “I don’t care if you don’t forgive me. Do what you like. It’s your life.”
She paused and tipped her face curiously. “You don’t want me to forgive you, then?”
“I didn’t say that,” I muttered with a frown.
“Then you do want forgiveness?” she surmised.
Oh my God, I was getting a headache here. “I just…” I bit out scowling at her. “I don’t care if you—”
“But see…” She shook a finger in my face. “I think you do care. I think you care a lot.”
“What the hell,” I muttered, shaking my head in confusion. “What are you trying to get me to say here?”
“I’m trying to get you to answer the damn question I asked in my letter. Why! Why can’t you just tell me you like me already?”
“Because I don’t like you!” I roared back. “Jesus.” Gripping my head, I turned away from her and curled my shoulders in, fighting off the battle of fear and insecurity going on inside me.
In front of me, Bentley blinked as if I had just slapped her. “You don’t like me?”
I cracked off a harsh, bitter laugh. “How could I?” Eyes going moist, I added, “Like is a nice and polite, comfortable emotion. And what I feel for you is in no way nice or polite or comfortable. It’s like this violent, all-consuming thunderstorm I can’t control. An obsessive itch I can never alleviate. Sometimes, I think I hate you for making me want something like I want every smile, every glance, every scowl, and laugh, and shout, or whisper, or every freaking tear you have to give. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. And it’s terrible. And wonderful. And confusing. And scary as shit. Now tell me, how is there room for like in any of that?”
Blinking at me, Bentley sucked in a breath and then hissed out a sudden breath before shaking her head and whispering, “Beau.”
She stepped toward me, but I lifted my hand, warding her back, too tender to receive anything right then.
“Don’t,” I snarled, pulling away. “Don’t you dare give me any sympathy.”
“I wasn’t—”
“See.” I pointed at her. “This is exactly why I never wanted you to know. Because you’d just feel bad for me. You’d never be able to care about me the way I care about you, and your rejection would make you all sympathetic and miserable. Nothing would be worse than that, so I hid it and made you hate me so you’d never know, so you could never look at me like you’re looking at me right now. Oh God.”
Clutching my head, I spun away from her. “I thought that all the craving inside me might eventually go away if I was just cold, and impersonal, and cruel enough to you. But it won’t freaking go away. And I think I die every time I upset you. But I can’t seem to stop. I don’t know what else to do.” I hiccupped and squeezed my eyes shut, feeling my control splinter. Because she had all of it. She held the power. “Why won’t it just go away?” I rasped.
“Hey,” she said softly, stepping in front of me and gently grasping my hands to remove them from my head.
I started to breathe erratically, knowing this was the moment. She’d truly, honestly reject me now.
Before I could stop them, my eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.” Leaning in, I pressed my face forward until our brows touched. “I did everything wrong, didn’t I?”
Bentley laughed out a small, tender chuckle as she wiped at my damp cheeks, making me whimper and close my eyes, bracing for impact as she said, “Yeah, you pretty much did. But so far, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Fixed?
Okay, I was not expecting that word. Eyes flying open, I gaped at her as hope filled my chest. “What?”
This time, when she stroked my cheek, it wasn’t to mop up tears; I think she just wanted to touch me.
“How do I fix it?” I asked.
“Well, for starters,” she said, catching a piece of my hair between her fingers and playing with it. “You could try being nice to me every once in a while.”
I huffed out a strange laugh. “I don’t know. If I did that, I’d probably go overboard and turn all clingy, and pathetic, and lovesick. You really want me invading your space all the time, worshiping the ground you walk on? Never leaving you alone because I can’t get enough of you?”
She flushed and shrugged as if she might not mind the idea, but then she said, “Don’t worry; I’ll let you know if you go too far with it.”
“But—”
“Beau.” Placing a finger against my lips, she smiled. “I’m pretty sure I would like clingy and pathetic and lovesick from you.” Her eyes squinted as she nodded. “So just give it a try, okay?”
I exhaled a sudden breath, realizing what was happening here. I mean, I think I understood.
I
n return, Bentley shuddered before dropping her finger from my mouth and cradling it to her chest as if feeling my breath on her had thrilled her into nervousness.
I shook my head, dazed. “Does this mean—” I started to ask, only to grow shy. “Are we—?”
She bit the corner of her lip and blushed. “Do you want us to?”
“Yes.” I released another breath and burrowed my face in her hair. “You have no idea how much I want to be with you.”
She swallowed, letting me know she was as nervous and unsure as I was. Then she blurted, “I wrote back. A response to your letter. While I was waiting for you to get home from football practice. Do you want to read it?”
She looked so hopeful and beautiful, that I said, “Yes.”
“Okay,” she answered, then grinned at me and fetched a new note she’d left on my bed.
I blew out a long breath, then met her steady, bright blue gaze before dropping my attention to unfolding the note and reading what it had to say.
Dear Beau,
You too are worthy. Because I say you are.
Love, Bentley.
Love. I looked up at her, realizing this was the word I’d always felt and never understood whenever I was around her. I loved this girl.
Dropping the note, I grinned at her and stepped forward, meeting my mouth with hers as she leaped at me to kiss me back.
The End
Insta-Family
And finally, one last peek into the life of Lucy Olivia
Happens during and after
Secrets That We Keep
Chapter One
Lucy Olivia
FIRST IMPRESSION
The first time I met Vaughn Merrill, he was a total asshole.
I mean, there I was, trying to make the walk of shame as silently and inconspicuously as possible. But when I opened the door to the guy’s bedroom I was sneaking from, boom, this massive wall of chest covered in a maroon Henley blocked my path.
It startled the ever-loving crap out of me. So, of course, I screamed.
In return, the man lurched back, dropping the raised hand he had fisted as if he’d been about to knock, and he blinked at me once before booming, “What the hell?”
“Huh?” another voice grumbled from the bed behind me, making me cringe because great. This was just great. We’d awoken the one-night stand.
Now I’d have to talk to him and tell him good morning and goodbye and all that awkward shit I didn’t want to do because I’d never actually had a one-night stand before, so I wasn’t too clear on the proper protocol for what happened next, ergo I had decided to just, you know, forego the whole morning-after step and bolt while the bolting was good.
But thanks to the looming man in front of me, my beautiful, ingenious plan had been botched completely.
Curse you, loomy man. Now this moment was going to suck even worse than it already did.
Did I say that aloud to him, though? No. I was actually an adult and kept my cool. Unlike him.
“Oh God, sorry,” I gasped, still clutching my chest. All a nice, polite, human-sounding apology. “I did not expect someone to be standing right there when I opened the door.”
I hadn’t even been aware Duke had a roommate.
Now ask if the roommate pardoned me for screaming in his face or even offered up his own apology for scaring me in the first place?
Yeah, that would be a big, glaring no.
Narrowing his eyes as if my very existence offended him, he pointed past me into the room and demanded, “Did you just spend the night with him?”
“Uh…”
Okay, one: was the answer truly not obvious enough that he just had to ask and make it so spoken and public and out there? I was carrying my shoes in my hands, for God’s sake. Talk about embarrassing.
But two: what was with the attitude? I hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Duke and I were consenting adults with no relationship ties to anyone else. Just because I was currently calling myself ten kinds of stupid right now for giving in to him, didn’t mean Mr. Loom here could too. So yeah…
How dare he judge?
And finally, three: how was it any of his business what I did, even if any of the above was true? This was my mistake I’d made with someone else; not him.
Pretty sure no one would believe me if I lied and answered no, no, I hadn’t just spent the entire night with Duke, I blinked at Loom, wondering why he seemed so freaking mad, and I decided to just go honest by cringing apologetically—because he was really glaring at me as if I should apologize for something.
“Er, yes?”
Not sure why I posed my reply as if it were a question, but it was morning, I hadn’t had my coffee yet, I’d just woken up after a night full of really regrettable decision-making, and now I merely wanted to go home and sulk in a hot bath with wine, but this dude was blocking my way, preventing me from my noble goals with all his accusative questions. It scrambled my brain. And thus, out came a very uncertain yes.
“How could you?” he hissed, hovering over me like pure rage personified. “Do you not realize what condition he’s in? How fragile his immune system is? Jesus God, having relations with a woman at this point could kill him.”
“I…” Well, damn.
At first—and I can’t believe I’m admitting this because it’s simply awful of me, but—I wanted to laugh and snort over the word relations. Seriously though, who used relations to describe sex? So strange.
But then the rest of his accusation soaked into the old brain cells, and this blooming mass of guilt just kind of killed all traces of humor. Had it honestly been so dangerous for Duke to be with me, though?
Great. Now I was a murderer.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Well, to catch you up to speed,” the ever-sunny Mr. Loom snarled, “Duke has stage four lymphoma, he’s already on hospice, and most pressing of all, he’s about to be late for a vital doctor’s appointment this morning, thanks to you.”
“Oh, shit,” I mumbled, wincing. “I had no idea. About the appointment, I mean. I knew the rest; I was at his goodbye party last night at work, and—”
“Then you should’ve known better!”
I blinked. “Well, he didn’t say anything about how dangerous it would be to—”
“And you didn’t think to ask?” Loom sniffed incredulously and gaped at me as if I were stupid.
“Well, I—I guess not,” I snapped back, finally losing my cool. “Being that he’s a grown-ass man, and I figured he could decide for himself if he’s capable of having sex or not, why would I question his competence?” I sniffed and rolled my eyes. “That’s not the number one way to give a guy performance issues or anything. And I was trying to make him feel better, not worse.”
“Did the whole cancer part not give you any kind of pause?”
“The cancer part was the only freaking reason I didn’t turn him down flat in the first place,” I yelled.
“And for your information,” he went on, ignoring my response. “He’s not a grown-ass man; he’s a damn overgrown child.”
I opened my mouth to argue back because I really wanted to argue with this jerk and put him in his place, but he made a very valid point. Duke was definitely the epitome of an overgrown child.
But still…
“Look. Do you really think that irresponsible, immature, inappropriate playboy in there is actually my type? Uh-uh. I mean, he’s a sweet enough goofball, but I would’ve told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine if he hadn’t thrown the whole I’m-dying spiel in my face to begin with. Give me one last hurrah before I go, he begged. I mean, really, how do you say no to that?”
The man in front of me blinked. His expression had changed from disdain to surprise to maybe a little bit of sympathy—but now I’m pretty sure I just imagined all those emotions—because he was definitely tossing haughty contempt at me now.
Stepping close, he leaned his face down toward me, and he spoke quietly but succinctly. �
��You just say no.”
I gulped, feeling my skin chill to a horrible dread. Glaring petulantly into his dark, nearly black eyes, I ignored the panic and fear over how much worse I’d made things for Duke by being with him, and I growled, “Well then, I guess I just fucked up, huh?”
Now if he could kindly step aside so I could go home and bawl over just how terrible I was, I’d really appreciate it.
From behind me, I heard bare feet shuffle forward.
Oh damn.
Then I flinched into the face of the man glaring at me as my one-night stand sleepily rumbled, “What in the Sam Hill is all this arguing about out here?”
“Did I just give you a death sentence by not saying no last night?” I demanded, whirling around to arch my eyebrows pointedly at him for putting me in this awkward situation. But as soon as I faced him, I shrieked, “Oh my God,” and lifted my hand to block my view of him. “Where are your clothes?”
Duke snickered. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like you didn’t see everything last night.”
I closed my eyes and groaned, wondering how my life had descended into this. Probably because I was a bleeding heart who couldn't say no. Oh, you’re dying? From cancer? And probably won’t ever get the chance to experience pleasure with a woman ever again? Well, okay. You can borrow my body for a minute. It’s alright. There, there now. And, sure, I’ll stay all night and cuddle, just because you need to feel whole again.
God, I was stupid. And what was worse; I didn’t know which man to believe: the one claiming I’d made everything worse or the one acting like everything was absolutely fine and normal. Because Duke did not look or act as bad off as everyone was saying he was.
When he yawned big and began to scratch his balls, I made a distressed, aggravated sound in the back of my throat and pressed both hands over my eyes. “If I had known being with me would make things worse for you,” I started, but his snort cut me off.
