Rafe

by Jo Raven

  That’s when I feel it again, that prickling sensation that makes my body tense and my stomach muscles clench in anticipation. Excitement, the kind you feel as the lights in a movie theater go out, or as you dive down on a rollercoaster, that moment of breathless joy, when anything, everything is possible—everything good and wonderful.

  She’s here. I know it before she even speaks, before I can focus enough to see her. She’s right here, in front of me—a blur in the darkness that transforms into her pretty face and sweet curves. Her glossy hair falls over one shoulder, glinting like gunmetal in the dim lights.

  Holy shit. My body reacts as if struck by lightning, jerking, tightening. The piercings on my cock pull as it hardens to the point of pain. I’m out of breath. It’s damn scary how much I want her. It’s as if I know that if I bury myself inside her, the pain and doubt will go away.

  “Rafe, are you all right?” The din of the bar is too loud, her voice low, and yet it’s all I can hear. Soft like velvet, brushing over me.

  “Better now,” I say, and reach for her hand before my brain can catch up and stop me. “Come here.”

  Chapter Three

  Megan

  I’m staring at Rafe’s hand. Big, strong, callused. A scar runs from his thumb to the index finger.

  He’s looking at me, waiting.

  So I lift my hand, place it in his. It fits on his palm, smaller, darker, thinner. He seems as entranced by the contrast as I am. His fingers curl, closing around mine. His lips part, but no sound comes from his mouth, and his gaze remains fixed on our entwined hands, pale lashes hiding the gold of his eyes.

  Now I’m the one caught, transfixed. His mouth looks soft, vulnerable, at odds with his strong, angular features and the broad set of his shoulders. The need to touch his face is overwhelming, and I step closer, so close I can sense his scent. Not a cologne, but the deep scent of his skin, like musk and warm metal. I can see the rise and fall of his chest underneath the black Deathmoth T-shirt he’s wearing under his open jacket, see the outline of his strong pecs.

  We’re standing so close our breaths mingle, and our bodies touch in places as we shift, feathery brushes that send fire across my skin, into my belly, making me ache. He places his hands on my waist and I grip his thick, sinewy forearms. My stomach drops as if I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, on the edge of a moment that can change everything.

  What’s happening? It’s as if in the hollow darkness, the barrier between us is crumbling, the wall he’s set between himself and the world is falling.

  His hands tighten on my hipbones and his lashes lift, his gaze moving to my mouth. His breathing is ragged. He tugs me against him, his fingertips digging painfully into my flesh, his arms flexing with barely controlled strength.

  His arousal presses into my stomach, hot and thick, caught sideways in his jeans.

  My mind fills up with static. Rafe wants me. There’s the solid proof of his desire. The heated gaze I’ve felt so often on me is translated into a physical reaction, and it makes me feel so hot I might burst into flames. He’s so handsome, I can’t help myself. I want to stroke his square jaw, drag my fingertips over the golden stubble on his cheeks, kiss those damnable dimples.

  I whimper, the sound coming from deep inside me, and he freezes, goes so still I’m not even sure he’s breathing.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s pulling away, his face closing off. “I’m—”

  “Please, don’t go.” I lift my hand to his face, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of his cheekbone. Warm. Satin soft.

  A pang goes through my chest, an ache that feels too much like sorrow, and I’m not sure if it’s mine or his.

  He jerks away, his eyes wide in his pale face. He reaches up, his hand hovering over the spot I touched.

  Then he whispers, “Oh fuck,” in a strangled voice, turns and rushes off into the crowd, his broad shoulders easily opening a path.

  A knot is gathering in my throat, in my chest, cutting off air. My hand is still hovering in midair. I don’t know for how long I stand there, staring at my splayed fingers, trying to figure out what happened.

  Or maybe trying to find another explanation for his reaction, desperate for him to be different from any other handsome, arrogant guy.

  Maybe I imagined the pain in his gaze—or maybe that pain is real, but it doesn’t make a difference. Traumatic past or not, he’s sorry he touched me, sorry he desired me.

  Big surprise. Why would he desire me, of all girls? There are so many vying for his attention. Girls who have witty, sexy things to say, and who don’t go stiff like cardboard when he touches them.

  The thought of him touching other girls shouldn’t hurt quite as much as it does. And this is a bad sign.

  Very bad sign, Megan, I tell myself and lower my hand that touched him. I feel as if my fingertips are numb, burnt by the feel of his skin.

  I groan and rub at my face. This is crazy. I should stop thinking about him, keep away from him as I’d planned all along.

  Even if other boys don’t interest me anymore. Even if his face, his body, his voice—and now his scent—fill my mind from end to end. The pain in my chest lingers, as if my heart is cracking.

  This is stupid. Maybe I need a distraction. Maybe I should give my ex, Greg, another chance. God knows he’s been asking me for just that, and why not? Greg’s a good guy.

  But right now I can’t even recall what Greg looks like. Can’t recall his hair, the color of his eyes, his mouth.

  God, I’m so screwed. The only face I can see in my mind is Rafe’s.

  ***

  Cringing at the price of the ride, I pay the cabbie and hurry to the entrance of my building, where I proceed to fumble with my key, my fingers numbs from the cold and nerves. My skin crawls, as if eyes are watching me from the shadows. It’s a feeling I’ve been getting a lot lately, and I hate it.

  I’m supposed to be safe here. Carson Ames doesn’t know where I am, wouldn’t know where to find me even if he wasn’t behind bars.

  The stairwell is dark and smells of urine and alcohol. Could be the smells scaring me, reminding me too much of home, my neighborhood in Philly. That’s what I tell myself as I jog up the stairs to the apartment I share with Raylin.

  Shivering from more than just cold, I make it the fourth floor, unlock the door, hurry inside and lean back against it, releasing a pent-up breath.

  The apartment is small and cramped, barely enough space for two people, but Raylin’s rarely around. Tonight doesn’t seem to be an exception. No light under her bedroom door. Her kitten wanders toward me as I turn on the lamp in the tiny living room and kick off my shoes.

  The cat winds between my legs, tripping me up, and I curse.

  “Hey, Raf.” I bend down to rub his triangular head.

  I only feel slightly guilty for calling him that, when his name is actually Horatio. He’s a ginger, but more gold than orange, and he has those beautiful amber eyes… just like Rafe.

  I stop in front of Raylin’s door and knock. “Hey! Are you here?”

  No reply.

  Sighing, I lead the way to the tiny kitchen. If it wasn’t for me, poor kitty would’ve starved by now. I can’t even recall the last time I saw Raylin. Must have been a week ago, I guess. She’s kinda weird, but this is her apartment. I just answered the ad and moved in with her. She can’t have left like that, can she?

  It’s not a bad apartment, I muse as I open a can and dish out its smelly contents onto Raf’s plate. We’re renting it furnished, and although the furniture is old and quite horrible, it’s nice to have a bed and even a sofa to collapse onto after work.

  Raf is making content growly cat noises as he attacks his pile of food, and I check his water bowl before I drag my feet to my own bedroom.

  As I fish my cell out of my purse to set the alarm for tomorrow morning—there’s lots I want to do before I head off to another coffee shop where I have a temporary stint for some extra cash—I see a text from Greg, and my t
houghts about getting back with him rush back into my mind.

  I click on the text. It reads, ‘Hey, what’s ur plan for tomorrow? Have coffee with me?’

  Sweet, simple. Just like Greg.

  I chew on my lip, thinking, as I undress.

  Why not? A coffee. What’s the harm in that? It’s not a date, not really. Just testing the waters. Hey, so what if it didn’t work out last time with Greg? It might work out now. People change. I have changed.

  Settling for less, a voice whispers in my mind, for something other than what you really want.

  So what? I throw my clothes on the chair by the small window with a view of a brick wall and flop on top of my red comforter on my narrow bed, cell in hand. I stare up at the cracked ceiling, and think about it. About Greg. His safe accounting job. His soft blue eyes, his soft smile. All soft and pliant, bending over backward to please me.

  My face scrunches up. Why does it bother me that he’s so nice?

  Get your head on straight, Megan, I tell myself and reply to his text with an okay and a time and place. My finger pauses over the send button, and I suck in a breath.

  Let’s do this.

  I hit send, drop the cell on the bedside table, and slip under the covers. Pulling the quilt up to my chin, I sigh.

  Gregory Brown. Such a good, respectable, normal name. How could you go wrong with that?

  Compared to it, Rafaele Vestri… sounds all sorts of dangerous. Exciting. Sexy. Then again, no need to know his name to realize that. Just a glimpse of his handsome face and powerful body is enough.

  This is bad.

  As I drift into sleep, Rafe’s image flashes in my mind, with his intense eyes and golden hair, his ripped body and hidden strength. It’s inevitable. He’s all that’s been on my mind lately. His gaze, his scent, his sheer presence.

  A guy haunted by the demons of his murdered family. A guy training every day for God knows what. A guy who keeps himself at a distance, even from his friends.

  This is who I’m crushing on: a handsome, distant ghost.

  ***

  Something is tickling my nose. I turn my head on the pillow, and find myself face to face with Raf, the cat.

  I blink, take stock of my surroundings. Gray light spills through the window. Dawn is breaking.

  Raf bats at my nose with a soft paw, and I jerk back with a snort.

  “Stop it,” I tell him, and he meows, watching me with bright yellow eyes. He licks his chops, and sits up on my pillow.

  My alarm beeps. No idea why or how, I always wake up a few seconds before it goes off, no matter what time I set it. I press the dismiss button, and lie back down with a groan.

  Five to six on a frigging Sunday morning. Sun is barely up. Why the hell did I want to get up so early and go running?

  Good question.

  Normally I sleep in, because I work late on Saturday nights, but last night I came back relatively early, and truth is, I could use a chance to burn off some of this restless energy that’s been churning in my veins since Rafe held me—and then let me go as if burned.

  Raf jumps out of the bed as I swing my legs off and yawn widely. Bleary-eyed, I stand up and almost step on him. Kitty’s obviously hungry and hopes food will miraculously appear if he sticks around me.

  “Kitchen,” I tell him as I pull on thick socks and shuffle into the bathroom. “Kitchen is where the food is, not the bedroom.”

  God, it’s ice-cold this early. Teeth chattering, I pee and wash my face, then rush back into my room to throw on my black running tights, black running shoes and my favorite blue hoodie. I pull my long hair back in a ponytail, grab my MP3 player and clip it to my sleeve, and hit play. Lady Gaga, Black Eye Peas, Beyoncé… Dance rhythms to keep me moving.

  Okay, let’s do this. Self-torture, here I come.

  Jogging lightly into the kitchen, I find Raf licking his leg, obviously having given up on breakfast. He perks up when I approach his dish and fill it up with dry cat food. I leave him crunching his cat treats and rap on Raylin’s door.

  “Your cat misses you!” I yell, but of course I get no reply. Either she’s in deep sleep, or simply spent the night elsewhere. Won’t be the first time.

  I rap again, then shrug and head out. Taking the steps two at a time, I hum along to the music. Raylin can do whatever she likes, as long as she pays the rent, which is due soon, and buys Raf more cat food, which is just about to run out.

  Worry tightens my stomach—I hope Raylin’s okay, why haven’t I seen her in a week and why isn’t she answering my messages or returning my calls?—but I squash it. Too many things and people vying for my worry.

  Will I be able to keep my job at the coffee shop? The boss wasn’t happy at all I asked for yesterday night off… Is Mom okay? Is her motherfucker of a boyfriend still behind bars? Am I safe?

  What about Rafe?

  His face flashes through my mind again and again as I rush out of the building and start my run. “Come here,” he’d said and pulled me to him. He was excited to be pressed to me, and held me so tightly as if he didn’t want to let me go.

  Then why did he? Why did he turn away?

  And why would he say he was sorry? Maybe from up close I’m not as he imagined me to be? Not up to his standards? Not pretty enough?

  Damn.

  Well, I’m not sorry. Not sorry I touched him, or that I now know how he smells, how tall and strong he is, and how his hands feel on me—large, heavy and callused.

  Stop thinking about him.

  Cranking up the music, I run faster, head lowered against the rush of cold wind. The city is asleep, snow glittering in the hollows along the fences. My breath fogs the air. My heart thumps against my ribs—a steady, comforting rhythm. My ponytail whips my back, and strands escaping the hairband stick to my sweaty face.

  I run alongside buildings and houses, the sound of my shoes hitting the concrete merging with the music beat coming through my earbuds. All my focus is on keeping up the rhythm, on keeping up the speed for a while longer.

  This is good. The worries and doubts are gone, my mind empty, a sparkling blank.

  Tall trees line the street. The fences are high, and through the gates I see expensive two-story houses, their white facades done in the colonial style. Never been this way before during my runs. I normally head toward the center, pass by my favorite bakery and buy breakfast, but this... This is a pretty place.

  The sun is rising over the buildings, a pale disk, half-hidden behind clouds. Time to turn back, eat something, do laundry, clean up… get ready for work.

  Another exciting Sunday.

  I slow down to a walk, then stop, panting, and do some stretches. I ran longer than I’m used to, but it was good. My head is clear for the first time in ages.

  Bracing my hands on my thighs, I take deep breaths. My ponytail slips over my shoulder, hitting me in the face, and I blow at it half-heartedly. My heartbeat rings in my ears, deafening, but through it, I think I hear footfalls.

  Then a shadow falls over me, and I straighten, alarmed. The pale sunlight is in my face, blurring the shape of the man standing in front of me. His face is half-covered by a hood. Those broad shoulders look familiar, though, and I relax a fraction.

  “Megan?” he whispers, and I recognize that rough, deep voice.

  Rafe. I swallow hard, my mouth dry.

  “I didn’t know you ran.” He shifts his weight, pushes back his hood, and I just stare, because the light catches on his bright hair, and gilds his handsome features. As he looks down at me, his long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones.

  My voice is hiding somewhere deep inside me, refusing to come out. My lungs aren’t working. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Standing near him is like traveling too close to the sun, engulfed in flames and not caring one bit, too caught up in his beauty.

  Which is why I don’t move, don’t even blink when he steps closer, lifts a hand and drags his knuckles over my cheek.

  Something else registers, though, as he d
oes it again: his knuckles are bandaged. The gauze grates lightly over my skin, and I put my hand over his, stopping the movement.

  His hands weren’t bandaged yesterday night, I’m sure about that. I turn his hand over. Blood spots the bandage. It jolts me out of my trance.

  “What happened? How did you hurt yourself?”

  He gives a slow blink, as if he were sleepwalking and he’s just waking up. He snatches his hand away, and clenches it into a fist. “I hit something.”

  “What did you hit?”

  “A wall,” he mutters.

  “What? Like, you punched a wall?” My first urge is to laugh, until I realize what this means and horror washes through me. Dear God. “Why?”

  He takes a step back. His hoodie is molded to his strong chest. I look up, into his eyes, and fall into molten gold.

  “Gotta go,” he rasps and pulls his hood back on, hiding his striking face.

  “Wait…” I want to ask him why he’d harm himself, if I can check his hand, change the bandage, but he’s already moving away.

  He doesn’t want my help, my touch. But then why does he keep touching me? Why is he teasing me? That’s cruel, and he doesn’t seem like a cruel man.

  I watch his tall form as he jogs, the powerful way he moves, and shake my head. Cold, hot, distant, vulnerable, strong, gentle… Beautiful. Intriguing. Tempting. Tantalizing.

  So full of contradictions. He scares me.

  No, I scare me. My feelings for him are spinning out of control, growing way too fast—growing on nothing.

  How can I stop thinking about him? How can I even pretend to want someone else? Resigned, I pull my cell out of my pocket and text Greg, canceling our meeting, and head back home.

  Chapter Four

  Rafe

  It’s been a rough couple of days. Rougher than usual, that is. Can’t fucking sleep. Which means I don’t wanna talk. Don’t wanna think. Don’t wanna eat. Can barely function.

  Skipped college, skipped training at the gym. I can’t focus, much less try to appear sociable. I’m even seriously considering talking about it to Zane who’s been hounding me. Problem is, I’m afraid of what will come out of my mouth and how much I’ll regret it afterward.