by Jo Raven
I tug on it half-heartedly, not really wanting to let go.
He tugs back, pulling me to him. I gasp in shock when our bodies collide, tilting me off balance. Before I fall, his other arm comes around my back, shoring me up. Keeping me pressed to his muscled thighs and chest, my breasts mashed against him.
Oh dear God.
He’s looking down at me, his gaze hot as flames, and his mouth is so close my own goes dry. I lick my lips, my free hand sliding up his chest to rest between his defined pecs, and his head bends lower. I feel his heart stutter under my palm.
In silence, he walks me backward until my back hits the wall. He lifts our entwined hands and shoves them against the fading wallpaper. His other arm is still around me, keeping our bodies flush, so that I feel every excited inch of him, the hard, thick rod of his erection digging into my stomach through our layers of clothes.
Another gasp escapes me, and I feel myself growing hot and wet between my legs. A throb starts low in my belly, and I try to lift myself on my toes, to press more of my body to his, my hand straining where it’s held to the wall in a grip of steel.
His lashes shadow his eyes, and a shudder rocks him. His lips part. His breath fans over my skin, a faint scent of mint and smoke.
“Megan…” he whispers.
I still, my hand on his muscled chest, the other clenching uselessly in his hold. Caught between the wall and his hard body, caught in his burning gaze, I don’t know what to do.
Oh God.
Reality returns with a thump. Oh no, what am I doing? We’re at the coffee shop. At work. We’re standing in plain view of everyone—the customers, the other waiters—and my boss isn’t too thrilled with me as it is.
Speaking of the devil… I see him heading toward me, a scowl on his reddened face.
Shit.
I push on Rafe, to no effect, the firm muscle under my hand like stone. His golden brows draw together when I push again. I jerk my other hand, trying to get free.
“Let me go,” I hiss when he doesn’t budge. “Rafe…”
“Goddammit.” He releases me and takes a step back, a grimace tightening his handsome features. “Sorry.”
His eyes wide and unfocused, he turns and walks away.
Whoa. What the hell just happened?
“Hey, wait, let me explain. Wait!” I start after him, reaching for him, but he doesn’t stop. I watch his broad back as he strides between tables and out of the coffee shop, letting in a gust of icy wind and snowflakes.
I head after him, but the boss intercepts me, hands on hips, jowls trembling with his anger, and it’s lecture time, about my place as an employee, I’ll bet, and my unsuitable behavior.
Sure way to deal a death blow to an evening already gone to hell.
***
On Sunday morning, I wake up right before my alarm beeps to a gray dawn. Raf the kitten is sitting on my arm, which I’ve flung to the side, and jerks away when I try to pull it free, giving me a shocked and wounded look.
“Sorry, kitty,” I mumble and rub my eyes. “Going for a run. I don’t supposed you want to join me?”
Raf is staring at me from the edge of the bed, tail held high like a periscope. When he realizes no food will magically appear as I speak, he loses interest and jumps off in a huff.
I snort to myself as I get up. “I bet you’ll spend the day catnapping while I run, do laundry, make lunch, work and then come home to crash. Why run when I have so much to do already? I’m a masochist, I know.”
In so many ways.
Plus, I’m talking to a cat—a cat who’s already left the room, I might add—like a crazy woman.
Sighing, I pad to the bathroom to get ready. Crazy, yeah…
Must be why I’m thinking of Rafe again. Trying to explain his strange behavior. Trying to convince myself I haven’t inherited my mom’s taste in men: selfish, arrogant and sadistic.
No, Rafe’s not like that… Crap. When will I finally stop thinking about him?
Pulling on my hoodie, jamming my headphones into my ears, I head out to start my run. I focus on my rhythm. Running is about me, about soothing my mind and keeping strong. About being able to run from bad things. About being able to fend for myself, and about being free.
Illusions, I guess. I know there’s not much you can do when cornered and scared out of your frigging mind, or faced with a gun, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sit back and take it.
Not like Mom did.
Thoughts of Mom always bring with them memories of violence and blood, and the face of her ex-boyfriend.
A cold shiver wracks me. He’s in prison, I remind myself. Where I put him. And he has no clue where I am.
That only makes me feel marginally better.
My hood falls back, my ponytail bouncing on my back with every thudding step. Thud thud thud, like my heart. The music fills my ears. I run faster to rip the memories out of my head—the blood, the bruises, the screams.
I’m not like Mom. I have surrounded myself with good people. I’ll be fine. Fine, fine, fine. Just fine.
The word reverberates inside my skull, echoing, filling my senses as I run alongside tall fences and colonnaded facades. I’ll call Greg, go out with him. I’ll save up to go to college. I’ll be just—
A jolt, a growled curse, and hands grab me by the shoulders as I stumble to a stop. Someone is blocking the frail sunlight, face shadowed by a hood.
“Let go,” I gasp, twisting to get away. “Let me go!”
“Hey.” Scent of smoke and mint wrapping around me like a rope; a glint of golden lashes as the man tilts his head to the side. “You almost plowed into me. Are you okay?”
I know him. I know the shape of his body, recognize the strength in his hands.
“Rafe.” I rip the headphones from my ears. Heat seeps through my arms where his hands rest, steadying me. I want to see his face, but I don’t dare push his hood back for him. “Isn’t this where we met last time?”
“I live just around the corner. You run this way often?”
“Sundays.”
“Sundays.” One side of his mouth curves into a crooked smile. It takes my breath away.
“Early.”
“I noticed.” He finally pulls his hood back, and his eyes shine like gems. The other side of his mouth tips up, the dimples make their appearance, and his full smile almost knocks me off my feet, it’s so beautiful.
“Fancy neighborhood,” I mumble, scrambling for something to say. “Didn’t know you lived here. And hey, you run early too.”
I wince. Jesus, Megan. Can you be any lamer than that?
But he just nods. “I’m up early.”
“Can’t sleep?” The words are out of my mouth before I think—thinking isn’t easy around him at the best of times, certainly not so early in the morning—and his smile falls.
No, no, no! I want his smile back. I want his hands on me.
I don’t know what I want. Crap.
“Run with me?” he asks, his voice rough.
The question thrills me, and yet I don’t move. “Can we talk?”
“I don’t wanna talk.”
“Why not?”
“What do you want from me?” he mutters and takes a step toward me, his strong chest rising and falling with a deep breath.
Reflexively, I take a step back.
He cocks his head to the side, and a blond brow goes up. A storm brews in his eyes. “Do I fucking scare you?”
“No,” I whisper, but that’s a lie. The way he makes me feel, makes me need, is scaring me to death.
“But you are scared.” His eyes narrow. “Something frightens you. What is it?”
“It’s a long story.” And we’ve never really talked before, so why do we have to start with my own sordid past?
“I have time.” He closes the distance between us and reaches up, touches my cheek with the rough pads of his fingers. Somehow that small touch shatters my resistance, and I can’t think of one good reason not to tell him.
It’s not like it’s a big secret.
“I ran away from my home in Philly. Mom’s ex-boyfriend, Carson, used to beat her up, and one day he went too far, and I...” My breath hitches, and his hand smooths over my cheekbone, soothing. “I drove Mom to the hospital, and I reported him to the police. I told the cops everything. He went to prison.”
Darkness seeps into his cat-like eyes like ink, dimming their light. A vein ticks in his neck. “He hurt you.”
My breath gusts out. “He punched me. Doesn’t matter now.”
“Of course it fucking matters.”
It makes me feel warm, the way he gets mad on my behalf. “He’s behind bars now. But I’m afraid...”
“Of his friends?” he guesses.
I nod. “I’m afraid he might find out where I am and send them after me.” I shake my head. “Violence scares me. Violent men. Fighting, brutal force, blood.”
He pales, and his hand falls away.
“Then you should stay away from me,” he says. “I’m exactly what you fear.”
“Not true,” I whisper. “You’re not a violent man.”
His beautiful mouth tightens. “You don’t know me,” he whispers as he brushes past me and jogs away.
But I would like to know him, if he’d let me.
***
Raylin is back.
Or was back and left again, apparently. For a moment, the shock erases all thoughts of Rafe and his ominous words.
The apartment is empty. I know because I checked, the only sign she was ever here the message stuck to the fridge.
Be back soon. Feed Horatio, will you? Love, R.
Soon? When is soon? When will she be back? Where did she go? Oh God, the rent is due in a week.
Raf—screw Horatio, this cat’s definitely a Raf—winds himself between my legs, meowing pitifully.
“Shh.” I lean down, pat him absently. I have a bad feeling about this, about Raylin going away. When I wander to her bedroom door, the unease intensifies.
I back away and try to think. Do I have enough money for the rent? Can I pull through this month until she’s back?
If she’s back.
Raf is between my legs again as I do my calculations, a furry obstacle, tripping me up. I stumble and lose my balance.
A moment of weightlessness, like flying, then I land hard on my hands and knees as Raf shoots away, hissing.
Ow. Owie. Shit.
I stay on all fours for a long moment, dizzy. It’s nothing serious, I tell myself over and over, and although I know it’s true, it feels as if my kneecaps are shattered and my wrists are on fire.
My eyes burn with unshed tears. I won’t cry, not for this. This is nothing. It’s just that… I’m lonely here without Raylin, I worry about the rent, I worry about Mom who isn’t returning my calls, and as for Rafe…
Dammit, this is pathetic. I’m not going to cry over Raylin, my Mom, or Rafe. With a groan, I sit back on my heels and turn my aching hands palms up.
See? I tell myself. Reddened, but not even bleeding. Just a bit of a rug burn.
With Rafe it’s the same. Rug burn. You’ll be over him in a heartbeat. God knows you’ve had worse. Not getting a guy you fancy isn’t the end of the world.
Though it might feel like it. Because I don’t just fancy him. It runs deeper than that, and…
Crap, this is stupid. We haven’t even kissed or anything.
Not that I didn’t want it.
Shit. I shove up to my feet, wincing at the pain lancing through my knees. My jogging pants are torn over the right knee. A tiny bit of blood is seeping through the gray flannel from a small cut.
Gritting my teeth, I hobble to the bathroom in search of Band-Aids. Raf watches me from the corridor, his fur on end.
“You’re a traitor,” I tell him as I dab disinfectant on the cut and grimace. “You R a traitor. Raf, Rafe, Raylin…” It strikes me then that my mom’s name is Rachel, all these names starting with an R, and suddenly I’m laughing so hard I double over. “All of you R traitors.”
Raf skitters away and vanishes into the kitchen.
Clever kitty. Knows I’ve gone round the bend. I mean, I lasted long enough—leaving home, running as far away as possible, always fearing that Mom’s asshole boyfriend will come after me for denouncing him, always fearing my own shadow.
Maybe I’ve held on to sanity too hard. Something was bound to snap, sooner or later.
Panting, I limp out of the bathroom and into the bedroom in search of a new pair of pants. This one’s out for the count. I grab my jeans and pull them on, smooth down my sweater, and then stare blankly at my hand.
My hand in Rafe’s. His long, strong fingers tangled with mine. Holding me against the wall of the coffee shop, his eyes smoldering. Steadying me on the sidewalk where I almost collided with him.
“Something frightens you. What is it?”
Why is he doing this? How is he doing this—making me want him, care for him without any effort on his part, just by frigging existing—and then tell me I should keep away?
He’s not a violent guy. I should know. I’ve met plenty of those. If he’s just looking for excuses to keep away from me, then screw him.
I’m not laughing anymore. This isn’t funny. I’m getting him out of my mind, whatever it takes. This kind of stupid heartache is the last thing I need. My life is finally on track to something better. I won’t wallow in self-pity and ice-cream binging—okay, last night totally doesn’t count—for him.
No way.
So I get ready, quickly dish out some cat food for Raf, and rush to work, determined this day will look up.
***
Rafe’s here, at the coffee shop where I work, sitting at a small table in a corner. Despite his words, his proclamation that I shouldn’t be with him. What is he doing here?
Of course he hasn’t spoken to me. Then again, I haven’t given him an opening. I stay clear. Keep away. Just watch.
His fisted hands rest on the table. Even from here I can see the bandages. Has he been punching walls again?
My chest clenches, and I turn away. Nothing to do with me. What he does to himself is none of my business.
That’s what I repeat to myself when I ask Ruby to take his order, pretending to be too busy with mine. She glances in Rafe’s direction, and her brows lift. A blush seeps into her cheeks.
“Are you sure, girl?” Her breathing hitches. “That’s one hot boy. Why wouldn’t you want to take his order?”
“I’m really, really busy.” I huff and take off in the direction of the kitchen, trying to ignore the stab of jealousy at the thought of her flirting with him, getting to look into those golden eyes as she talks to him.
I’m so screwed. All my resolutions come to nothing when he’s around. I can’t approach him. Getting nearer than this will melt all my remaining brain cells and I’ll do something stupid like press myself to him and try to kiss him.
Nope. Not going to happen.
But some time later, as I pass by to serve another table, I can’t help but glance at him, and that’s a mistake. First because he’s more gorgeous than my memory gives him credit for—and second because he looks really tired. Pale. Haggard.
Shocked, I stop in my tracks, tray in hand. He hasn’t seen me, his attention on his cell. Not that he’s texting, or playing, or doing anything with it. Just staring at it. From where I stand, the screen looks dark and blank.
Suddenly he lifts his head and looks right at me. I freeze, my mouth opening but my mind providing no words to say.
Brilliant. “Hey,” I manage.
He says nothing. His eyes flash, chips of bright, electric amber, then lower again.
A slow burn starts in my neck, climbing to my cheeks. He’s doing it again. Ignoring me, like he did all these past months. I’m so humiliated, so angry I don’t know what to do with myself.
God. I’ve spent my life being ignored, taken for granted. I won’t accept being treated like that by a man, no matter h
ow handsome he is. Arrogant son of a bitch. And here I was, just a few days ago, wishing I could help him.
If he ever comes near me again, I’ll tell him where to shove it. I wish I could tell him not to come here again, but I can’t. If anyone finds out, I’ll be fired. This isn’t my apartment, this is my workplace. A public place.
But I’ll make sure he knows I don’t want him around—if he hasn’t noticed it already.
***
This Sunday when I go out jogging early in the morning, I take my usual route, through town. I avoid the pretty, rich neighborhood where I met Rafe a week ago, just to be on the safe side.
Then I return home and check Raylin’s room, hoping against hope she’s back.
She’s not. I try to call her, but get no reply. I text her for the millionth time, asking her what’s going on and when she’ll return.
I put my cell down and sigh.
Raf is whining, wanting more from me than just food. He wants to be petted and scratched, and although I’m pissed at Raylin for leaving him in my care without asking first, I indulge him. He purrs so loudly that I worry something’s wrong with him. He sounds like a car engine.
“If only,” I tell him, rubbing behind his ears, “Rafe was as nice and cuddly as you are.”
Raf purrs in response.
“I bet he won’t come to the coffee shop again,” I tell the kitten as I get up. “I wonder why he kept coming this week. It’s not as if he wanted to talk to me. I mean, he would have if he wanted to, right?”
Raf starts licking his leg.
Right.
My cell vibrates with a text. I check the screen, and see it’s Greg.
Now there’s a man who hasn’t given up on me, and that makes me feel a bit better. He wants to meet me for a drink after work, and I sigh.
Why not? It’s not like there’s anything between Rafe and me—or that there ever will be. This time when I reply, I say yes, and hit send before I change my mind again.
It’s done.
I redo my ponytail, pull on my boots and rush off to the coffee shop where I work Sundays. I haven’t even bothered with makeup, or checked what I’m wearing.
A tiny alarm goes off inside my head. Something isn’t right. If a guy interests you, you at least check your face in case you have a big fat pimple on your nose, right?
