“Let me,” I say quietly. I step onto the running board and lean over her lap, my jean-clad thighs pressed to her slightly parted, bare legs. While working on the stubborn buckle, I glance down at the creamy skin between her legs, wanting her white jean shorts to be shorter. Or off.
Then my gaze drifts across her breasts, then to her throat—which might be bumping up and down as much as mine. Finally, I look into her eyes. Unyielding, though bursting with questions, they soften. I try to imitate that sentiment. But I fail.
She looks away; maybe I’ve scared her off. Inhaling to calm myself, I get a whiff of her. This isn’t going to help the twitch in my cock. Or the ache in my heart. She smells like memories of us, and maybe after a hurdle or three, she’ll smell like my next fifty years.
“You smell the same,” I tell her. I need to press my lips to hers and steal the kisses I’ve missed. Years of kisses.
“Is that good?” She bites her lip, inhaling a shaky, long breath when she tugs at her top, maybe realizing how much gorgeous cleavage is on display.
“It’s like yesterday’s smell. Familiar and sweet.”
She tries to hide her watery eyes. But I don’t miss one sign they’re sending. She’s back for me. She can call it what she wants. I’m calling what I see. Calling how it feels. Kind of right with some wrong. Yeah, maybe we’re going to figure this out, after all. Maybe.
I move strands of long blond hair from her eyes. Then I touch the tiny scar on her eyebrow that I gave her one day when we were roughhousing while fishing.
“You okay?” I ask, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck.
She huffs out a breath—something between a gasp and a sigh—a miniscule whimper of lust at its core.
My face is inches from hers, so close we could kiss with minimal effort. More striking than ever, Ruby is the kind of woman who makes a man feral. Makes him want to rip her shirt off with his teeth because his hands are busy elsewhere on her body. She makes my need turn inside out and boil to the surface. She’s the kind of woman you would promise everything to even if it meant she’d tear your heart to shreds, leave you in the dust, and forget about you while she sought…what? Fame and fortune?
Was the grass that much greener on the other side? Did the sacrifices she made to leave me and this town amount to much in her heart? What else was she seeking? And what pushed her to seek it? You don’t just up and leave like she did. There’s always something else buried inside the truth.
“I’m fine. This is going to make the move a little complicated.” She holds her arm up, shifting her gaze from her wrist to my eyes and then my lips.
I can’t stop swallowing; my mouth waters like a leaky hose in her presence.
“I’ll help. I’m the reason you broke this.” I trace a line across her wrist. Her baby-soft skin snags my memory bank. “I didn’t mean to scare you and make you fall. I…” I’m just so madly in love with you. Still. I missed you. Needed you.
“Everyone was looking.” She sucks her bottom lip through her teeth as her eyes rummage around my face. “You never liked that kind of attention.”
“I’m not like you, Ruby.”
She edges her face away as I move in. “Not like me,” she says softly. “Don’t like me. Don’t want to see me. What else me?”
Damn, she irks me. I thought we were going somewhere. “Nothing you.” I slam the door, stomp around to the driver’s side, and get in.
“You’ve made that clear,” she says.
As we pull out of the lot, Ruby reaches for the radio and pokes at the buttons on my disc player.
The second the music begins, I grind my jaw. She chuckles and skips the first song. Then the next, which is followed by another laugh. And then the one after that. Of course, I have her mix in. I dug it out of an old box of crap when I heard she bought that lake house and knew she’d be coming home.
“You still have it?”
All I hear when I stare at her is, You still want me? I take a right turn, glancing at her from the corner of my eye. She strokes her throat then follows her collarbone with one finger. One of my favorite sexy habits of hers. One of many.
“Looks like you something me.” She shoots me a smirk.
“It’s not about you,” I say.
She watches me for a few seconds. What does she see? A man she wants? Or a man she left forever?
“You’re a lying sack of shit, Rebel Field.”
“That makes two of us, Ruby Mae.”
We laugh for the first time in years. I think the last laugh we shared was when we graduated and whipped our hats into the air post-ceremony. Those sharp, black angles cut the crisp blue sky like knives as they flew up then rained down on us. Fuck if it wasn’t a sign of something to come.
It doesn’t seem possible that we can hold so much love for someone we haven’t laughed with for that many years. Perhaps love doesn’t have a clock; maybe it can span time.
“I need a favor,” Ruby says.
“Another?” I chuckle because that one word did come out dick-like. I’m wearing asshole like a second skin today.
“What did I do to make you so hard?” she asks.
Is she kidding? How does she have the balls to pose a question like that?
“You haven’t made me hard in years. Moved on. Remember? You told me not to wait. Over you.” Up goes my wall of lies. It’s like I have no control over my defenses with her.
“I’m not sure I believe you.” She glances at my key chain, the gold rock, scissors, and paper charms she gave me in high school still dangling there like a Welcome Home sign flashing bright in a dark night.
She touches the charms. When she grazes my knee while moving her hand back to her lap, I snag her wrist.
“I’m dead serious. Over you.” No, I’m not. I’m dead afraid you’re going to leave again. A little dead inside. That you left in the first place. Dead serious? Okay, sure—that I’ve never wanted or needed you more. So this fight I’m putting up? Yeah, it’s me working hard to break you down so you let out everything you should have told me forever ago.
“Good for you.” Hate coats her voice and seeps through my veins like acid.
“What was the favor?” I dial the air conditioning to high and adjust the vents.
“I need to stop at the drugstore before I ruin your shirt.”
“Wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve ruined.” I smirk.
Her mouth drops open. “I’ll be sure to buy you a new one if the blood stains. I know the last thing you want is anything from my pussy since you’re so disgusted by my presence. I thought my period was over, so don’t worry, it’s unlikely I’ll ruin your precious shirt.”
“Keep the shirt. Don’t want it back.”
We pull into the drug store, my white-knuckle grip on the wheel working to calm me. “I’ll run in,” I tell her. “Tampons as I recall.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll run in. I need to use the restroom anyway.” Ruby pokes at her seat belt. She’d barely be able to get the buckle open if she had two good hands.
“Need help?” I inch my fingers toward her.
“I don’t need anything from you.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you back here in five. I’m going to run across the street and grab a dog. Want one? Or d’you get your fill with the Italian and French?”
“You really hate me.”
“Something fierce.” I grin, and wink, but there’s some truth in my words.
Yes, Ruby. I hate you for so many things. For leaving me when all I wanted was you. For giving yourself to other guys after I waited years for it while we dated. But, more than anything, I hate that I need you more than the next fragile beat of my broken-to-shit heart.
Chapter 6
Ruby
I really did a number on him, though he has no idea how hard it’s been for me. Or why I scrambled out of town feeling like I was being chased by a mob of murderous clowns. He doesn’t know what happened graduation night when I went for an early evening run on th
e stairs behind the football stadium with Opal before attending graduation parties. He doesn’t know why I never showed at the Klines’ party.
Every inch of sunshine bleeds a black edge. Rebel told me those exact words the last time we were together. It was the day I left town. The day I ran. He was right. It wasn’t a random observation; I knew he meant me.
I was forever sunshine at my core. Pure and silly. An uninhibited, sassy cuss. He’d called me that on more than one occasion. And my brash self-assurance made certain individuals want to disgrace me. I didn’t understand the hatred some people carried around for others. Didn’t understand it until I lived in a world of hate.
Back then, though, not understanding it but feeling the shame of it were two different things. It began with the girls at my new high school who secretly hated me because I was pretty, naturally athletic, and—worst of all—tall and thin. I stood my ground and wore my sunshine like a protective sheath when they snickered at me under their breath over a sweater I’d bought from the Goodwill store then readapted to fit the current trends.
“Tacky,” they said. “Who sews their own clothes from another person’s throwaways?”
I smiled and marched past them.
I always played the nice card. It felt better inside. But they hated me even more because I was pleasant. It was easier to join the bitch-n-moan club. It was cooler to be dark and mean. Plus, the cloak they could hide behind was bear-fur thick. Happy people annoyed them.
The cheerleaders ruled that club in my high school. They bitched and moaned about everything. Mostly in the bathroom, where the boys wouldn’t hear them. I could have hated them because they received pricey sports cars on their sixteenth birthdays or had credit cards with no limits to buy the perfect prom dress, which cost thousands, while I had to sew my own. I didn’t criticize when they ate half a pizza then washed it down with Diet Coke and diet pills. But, when I walked down the hall with my textbooks and a Vogue magazine—which I had splurged on—tucked under one arm and a milkshake Rebel Field had bought me each day on lunch break to spoil me, they pitched hissy fits with tails on them.
Worse yet, they were even meaner to my little sister, Opal, who attended the annex school next door with her twin, Echo. Both of them were intellectually disabled, which is why Echo still lives with Mom. Opal was adorable. Short, curvy, and soft everywhere. She was perfect in every way, especially since she had no idea how beautiful she was—mirrors scared her. She was also physically the opposite of me, so you would think they’d be okay with her. Instead, her disfigured face and perfect doughy curves became their personal dartboard when she’d meet me behind the track to work out on the backside bleacher stairs every night.
Why did looks and status matter so much? Why couldn’t we all be okay with being different in lots of ways?
But their immaturity knew no bounds. Opal and I would run the stairs, and the wicked peanut gallery would lob criticism and never-ending hate. There was no winning with them or their nastiness. Even the boys they dated joined in. They had their own club of affluence and antipathy. They could afford to hate the less-thans because they would always have more.
Money was power in our small town. And they had it by the bagload. The Kline boys were kings of that club. The Preston girls were the queens. Both sides had their minions.
Then there was me and Rebel. We danced across our sunshine, avoiding the black edges. But, on graduation night, the edges curled and closed in and everything changed.
Sweat buckets from my pores. Why the hell didn’t I let him help me? Now, I’m stuck like a dog whose owner forgot about her in the car on a one-hundred-degree day. Frustration needles my nerves as neither my left nor right hand can jiggle the buckle open. I close my eyes and inhale Rebel’s scent, which hangs in his truck like a provoking potion.
I wasn’t prepared for his pure Rebel-ness. I was going to ease my way in. A phone call first. An easy hello. Hey. I’m back. Miss me? I planned on asking him if he wanted to go out for a beer or maybe dinner, though I kind of figured that might be pushing things.
A knock on the window startles me. Rebel’s dad. But not in man form. Holy shit. Rocket really did go for it. Etta?
Her coifed curls soften the hard edges of her heavily made-up face. Shades of pinks and plums accent her cheekbones, her eyes, and her lips. Her fitted dress opens low at her abundant cleavage. My leer must be apparent on the Ds, because she places a hand there to shield them.
She gestures for me to roll the window down.
“I can’t!” I yell and hold my right arm up. “Broke my wrist. Can you open the door?”
She nods. A heavy whiff of oriental perfume wafts up to my nose as she pulls the door open.
“Hey, Mr. Field.”
“Etta.” She smiles, leans in, and pecks me on the cheek.
“Mrs. Field,” I say.
“Etta, sweetheart.” She rubs the spot where she kissed me then stares at the bright stain of color on her thumb. “Mrs. Field is Posey. She doesn’t like people calling me Mrs. Field.” Her powdery, pastel skin squishes into perfect miniature accordion folds when she smiles. “I heard you were back. It’s nice to see you,” she says, looking me over.
I don’t want to be obvious, but I love the sight of her too. She’s so strangely beautiful. Even her voice has changed from all male to caramel-drizzled sweet and womanly.
“Your son isn’t so pleased I’m back. He even shoved me off the roof of my car and I broke my wrist.”
“He what?” She cringes then gasps. “Ruby, that’s awful.”
I tap my front tooth, alerting her to a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. She licks it off like a pro. How long has he…she…been a woman? And, for the love of God, how did Rebel Field, Mr. Rough-And-Tumble, deal with his dad becoming his…Etta?
“I’m kidding. I fell after making an ass of myself and embarrassing him. Don’t tell him I said that. He wants nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t let him fool you.” She pats my hand as I stare at her hairless arm.
“He’s not fooling me. He’s made it clear how much he hates me and how displeased he is that I’m in town. His town.”
“It’s your town too.” She shakes her head then makes a squishy mama-loves-you face she must have worked really hard to perfect. It’s not anything Rocket would have done.
“I’m proud of you, Mr.…” I clear my throat three times. Then add one. “Etta.”
“Thank you. I needed to be honest with myself. I hid from the truth for too long.” She pats droplets of sweat off her upper lip. “I was afraid of what others would think of me. What does it matter what others think?”
Hid from the truth, yes. It’s like she’s reading my mind.
I take a second longer than seems comfortable to gather my thoughts. I’ve wanted to tell someone about that night, anyone. But I couldn’t. My parents’ tiny home had been in foreclosure until Mr. Kline gave them a loan from his bank when my father approached him. He was your classic cock-sucker-banker type to everyone, but they had gone to high school together and used to be hunting buddies, so that helped. I wonder if Dick made him beg.
My family had more to lose than I did. No one could find out. I couldn’t go up against the KIines. I thought karma would get them at some point. Though I didn’t think it would be the week I left town. What happened that day in their basement? I wish I knew what words they spoke before they were shot and killed.
Funny thing is, apparently, there were few signs of a struggle. Just two dead boys along with their hunting rifles placed at their sides like it had been staged by God. It made no sense. But it was all printed in the paper. A nice tied-up story with no room for holes. And that was gospel in this town. It was murder-suicide per the sheriff. Two boys who had full-ride football scholarships to Northwestern University? Seemed crazy to me.
Etta taps me on the shoulder. “Did your brother tell you he’s in the scrapbooking class I teach at the community center?”
“He didn’t ment
ion that. But Echo doesn’t say much unless it’s pulled out of him. Or unless he’s talking with Mom. They babble at each other like two squirrels bickering over nuts. Now that they’ll be living on the lake, he can’t walk to town. I’ll bring him by for the next class.”
“He and I get along well.”
“That’s nice to hear. He needs stimulation outside of Mom.”
“I made a housewarming gift for Monday. I’ll have Rebel bring it to her.”
“You should bring it over and see the house.”
Etta’s face brightens into a crimson blush. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Your mother thinks I’m gay and doesn’t seem keen on the gays. Isn’t that what she calls them?”
“Yes.” I nibble on my thumbnail, so many questions I want to ask. “But you’re not gay.”
“No,” she says in a soft tone, a twinge of irritation lining it. “I’m all woman.”
“I’ll have a talk with her and explain.”
“Keep it simple. People get very confused about the truth.”
Boy, do they ever. “Of course.”
“What really happened to your arm?”
“A little accident, I swear. I’m fine. Probably a break, but no biggie.”
“Most people wouldn’t say a break is no biggie. But you’ve been through more than—” She gasps.
I almost miss it. Then she smacks her mouth with the back of her hand, faces away from me, and utters something I can’t hear.
“Etta?”
When she turns toward me, her face is wet with perspiration, her lips trembling. “I was just going to say how you’ve seen the world and… Oh, never mind me. I’ve got things to get to. Stop by the farm sometime. We’re out at the old Finch place.” She fidgets with her dainty, gold ladies’ watch that seems oddly placed before her wrist bone.
“I don’t think Rebel would appreciate that.”
“I wasn’t talking about Rebel. You and I can visit and catch up on your life.”
“And yours! I’ll do that, and thanks.” Not a chance would he want me stepping foot on his farm.
Sunshine Bleeds A Black Edge (The Wild Things (standalone) Book 3) Page 3
