by Paige North
“She was like that. I miss her so much.”
“She bought me underwear,” he said abruptly, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“What?” I barked a laugh.
“Yeah. Underwear, socks, plain white T-shirts, my own toothbrush. Even deodorant and razors. She put this whole whicker basket thing together so that any time I stayed over, I’d have everything I needed.”
It sounded so like my mom; I could already picture it. She probably wrote his name on everything. “How did I not ever know about this special basket?”
“It was in your brother’s closet. Top shelf, back in the corner. Matt never even asked me how it arrived. Hell, maybe it was his idea.”
I shook my head. “My brother would take a punch for you, but he’s not going to shop for socks and underwear.”
He laughed. “True. A part of me thought maybe you had something to do with it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t even make sense. But we’d started having all these… moments. I thought maybe you cared for me.”
I raised a brow.
“Like that night with the pickles.”
“The pick--” I stopped abruptly, a memory hitting me, my face heating up. “Oh my god, I remember that!”
I’d woken up at midnight, tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, and then gotten out of bed for a glass of water.
I’d found Landon in our kitchen, bathed in the yellow light of the fridge.
He’d glanced up to find me staring at him, but he hadn’t reacted. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to encounter him at midnight in my kitchen, looking for a snack.
And then he held out the still-open pickle jar, and said, “Fancy a pickle?”
In a faux British accent, though god knows why.
I’d laughed and shook my head, walking past him to grab a glass from the cupboard.
He’d said, “What, got something against pickles?”
I’d taken a swig of water, and then replied, “I just don’t like the mushy texture on the inside. My mom said I can’t have pickles anymore because I just like the flavor so I suck on them and spit them out.”
The words had barely left my mouth before my face started burning. Had I really just told him I liked to suck on pickles?
He’d tipped his head to the side, and without taking his eyes off of me, walked up, until we were toe to toe, the pickle jar between us. The fridge door had swung shut behind him, plunging us in to darkness. The only light came from the moon streaming in the window.
“She doesn’t have to know,” he’d said, holding out the jar.
And for one long moment, I’d pictured grabbing a pickle, and…but I’d chickened out.
“I can’t believe you remember that,” I said. I was so convinced I’d imagined it. “I woke up in the morning and thought maybe I’d dreamt it.”
He laughed. “Matt and I had gone to a party that night and came home buzzed. He was passed out in bed. I woke up and realized I’d basically told my buddy’s little sister to suck on a pickle in front of me.”
I laughed, my cheeks heating. “It sounds a little more twisted when you say it out loud.”
“I still kinda wish you’d done it.”
I punch him in the arm. “I almost did.”
His eyes widen, almost imperceptibly.
“I had such a crush on you. I was a half second from dipping my finger into that pickle jar, and then you laughed.”
“Damn,” he said. “I’ve always said I had no regrets, but that one…”
“Shut up,” I said, grinning.
He rested an elbow on the bar, leaning in closer, until his lips were against my ear. “I can’t regret it when I’ve seen you suck on the real thing.”
A bolt of heat spiraled through me, straight to my core, and suddenly I wanted it to just be us in that bar, so that I could show him once more exactly what that looked like in real life. My heart thundered to life in my chest, and I tried to remember whether the bathroom door had a lock on it.
Before I could come up with an answer, the door swung open, casting a swath of light across the floor.
I glanced over my shoulder, and it was all I could do not to groan at the site of the man walking through the door. It was the mill worker from the funeral, the one who had spoken up defending Landon’s father. The guy walked past us, oblivious to our presence as he headed to the other end of the bar.
“Should we head out?” I asked, turning to Landon so he’d be forced to meet my eyes, putting the man out of his peripheral vision. “Go to your place?”
“I thought we could work out way through the taps,” he said, gesturing. “We have three more to go. My PA can give us a ride home.”
“Why don’t we stop at the store and grab drinks for the house instead?” I asked. Over Landon’s shoulder, the guy had finally noticed us. He was staring us down, his eyes burning with words unspoken.
Shit.
Too late.
2
“Hey,” the man called out.
Landon was facing me, and ignored him, unaware the man was talking to him. I put a hand on his arm, hoping to pull him out before the guy said another word, but I was too slow.
“Hey, Son,” the guy said. Son sounded like an insult, like he thought of Landon as a kid.
Landon twisted around, glancing over his shoulder.
The moment he met the guy’s eyes, it was all over. He stiffened, his muscles going taut.
And then it got worse. Behind us, the door swung open again, and three more people walked in, finding seats with the millworker.
Landon didn’t move, his back to me as he stared down the men across the bar. So long had passed that I thought he may have forgotten that the man had spoken to him.
But then he finally replied. “What?”
“That was a real shitty thing you did,” the guy said.
“Excuse me?”
This man may not have known it, but Landon’s tone was dangerous. Taut and ready to snap. To explode, with the stranger as his target.
“Ruining your father’s good name like that? Talking shit once he’s dead and can’t defend himself? Real cowardly thing to do.”
Landon stood so fast his stool clattered to the ground, and then he was blocking my view of the men across the room. “The only reason my father had a good name was because he was a lying bastard. You don’t know what the hell you’re taking about.”
I stood, stepping over his stool and moving away from the bar so that Landon was no longer between me and the men.
The guy was rolling up the sleeves on his dark blue flannel, the closest thing to mourning wear he must own. The move was meant to look casual, but I could see the rigid set of his shoulders, knew the move was meant to prepare him to fight.
“Knew the man for twenty years, I’d say I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah? Well then I guess you’re the one full of shit.”
By the time the guy stood, my heart had already thundered to life. The bartender was nowhere in sight, leaving me with two very angry men.
Then his three buddies stood, flanking him, and I knew we were screwed. Even when faced by the group of them, Landon didn’t back down. He wasn’t the type to back down from a fight—and in this case, I knew that could be a life-threatening trait.
Fear snaked up my spine.
“My father was an asshole who beat his wife and son,” Landon spit. “Whatever he told you, it wasn’t the truth.
“Oh, he told me a lot alright. He told me all about you,” The guy said, as Landon stalked across the room, every step bringing him closer to an inevitable explosion. I hung back, darting a look around the room, desperate for someone to stop this before he got hurt. “How you got expelled for fighting at school, how you would attack him when he got home from work.”
They were inching closer to one another now, Landon’s shoulders stiff and his fists clenched. “Yeah? And who the hell do you think taugh
t me to fight?”
“I don’t think you can fight for shit unless you sucker punch someone,” the man growled. “Your old man told me what a fucking pussy you are.”
“What were you, his girlfriend?” Landon mocked. “I never heard a man talk so much shit in my life.”
And then the guy swung. Landon stepped back and dodged, throwing his own punch and landing it squarely on the man’s jaw. I jumped back as the scuffle moved toward me, and one of the guy’s buddies—a huge guy with red hair—leapt forward, punching Landon in the gut too fast for him to avoid.
Landon groaned and dodged the second fist, landing a hit of his own. The third guy came in fast, swinging at Landon’s face. His knuckles just barely missed, skimming along the bridge of Landon’s nose. Now Landon was surrounded on three sides, ducking and dodging and throwing punches, but it couldn’t last forever. He was fighting them four on one.
I screamed, shocked by the violence and speed of the brutality I was witnessing. They were all big and strong and there was no way for me to try and break them apart, the way they were fighting.
Landon nailed the third guy on the cheek, sending him sprawling to the floor.
The follow-through has turned Landon’s body, twisting him to the left and leaving him open to a flying punch from the first man. It hit him squarely in the jaw, the smack loud enough to make me gasp.
Landon whirled, throwing punch after punch on the guy, oblivious to the two friends who had regrouped. One of them punched him in the side, and Landon’s breath whooshed out.
He was holding his own, but outnumbered. With every punch he landed, three pairs of fists flew toward him.
“STOP,” I said, still afraid to jump in. Afraid to put myself in the middle. I glanced over my shoulder, relieved when I saw the bartender and brawny, dark-haired guy rushing out from behind the bar.
Landon threw another punch, hitting the first guy square in the nose, just as the two men arrived. The bartender jumped in front of him, shoving Landon off balance.
He had the element of surprise, and as Landon reeled back, I grabbed his arm.
“Stop, stop,” I said again and again, as Landon regained his footing.
He started to yank his arm away, but then it was like my voice registered. He turned to see me beside him, and it was hard not to flinch away from the venom in his expression. The thin control he’d held onto all day had snapped, and I had the feeling he’d fight these men for another hour, until he was spent, and his anger was gone.
His eye raked over me, and I knew he couldn’t miss how my hands shook, or the ghost-white complexion I must’ve had.
The bartender’s friend was standing in front of the group of four, his hands up. “Chill out our get the fuck out,” he said, his voice more of a growl.
“Let’s just go,” I say, leaning into his ear. “Please. I want to go back to your place.”
His chest heaved, his shoulders rising and falling with every angry breath.
He didn’t say another word, just turned away and left the bar, shoving the door hard on his way out. It bounced back so fast it nearly hit me, but then his hand was there, stopping it just in time.
I thought maybe the millworker or one of his buddies would have shouted out an insult, said something nasty as we departed.
But no—there was just muttering and groaning as the men seemed to be feeling their bumps and bruises. And maybe, I realized—Landon had in fact earned a measure of respect.
Sad that brawling was perhaps the only kind of way to earn respect from those men…and that was the world Landon came from. That was who his father had been. Fitting in some way, I realized, that the whole debacle had ended in violence.
It was his father’s truest legacy.
We were in Landon’s car and speeding away in moments, his hands gripping the wheel too hard. His knuckles were red and bleeding, and his cheek was an angry, blotchy red where someone had landed a fist. He took the corners so quickly I had to brace myself, hanging onto the door handle. Landon handled the car like he was born to do it, the tires chirping as he shifted. We were back at his house in only a few minutes, pulling into the garage.
It wasn’t until the door rolled shut behind us, dimming the daylight, that he spoke.
“I didn’t meant to scare you back there,” he said, without looking at me. He twisted the keys and stared straight ahead.
I wanted him to look at me. I reached out, touching his arm. “You didn’t--”
“I’ll be in the den,” he said, interrupting me. “Best that you give me some time.”
And then he climbed out, and I was sitting in the passenger seat, watching him enter the house.
I shifted in my seat, wondering if I should follow him. He wanted time to cool off. I’d seen the expression in his eyes when he took in my shaking hands. He hadn’t meant to scare me, but I’d never seen a fight like that.
Sure, he’d frightened me. But mostly, I was scared for him. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he looked, surrounded by four men but holding his own, somehow. Throwing punches with near lethal-strength, the muscles in his shoulders and back rippling as he danced back and threw his fists.
Like he’d done it a million times, like he belonged in a boxing ring.
I sighed, trying to push away the images of him as a teen, of his father being his opponent. But it was impossible to block from my mind. There was a reason he knew how to fight. A reason he’d had too much practice, that his knuckles landed exactly where he wanted them to, over and over and over. That he never seemed to even feel the pain inflicted on him, perhaps because he was so used to it after so many years.
The same reason those men had left with bleeding lips and noses and black eyes.
I went to his kitchen, found a bottle of beer in the fridge, and popped the top. Then I stepped out onto the deck, dropped into a chair, and put my feet up.
I would give him time to cool off. And then we would talk.
An hour later I found him in the den, just as he’d promised. He was sitting in a leather easy chair, his feet up on a footstool, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. I studied him from across the room, taking in his bloodied knuckles and the angry welt on his face.
I walked to the wet bar along one wall, opening the top door on the small fridge/freezer. I could sense his eyes on me, but I said nothing as I twisted the ice tray, then bundled a half-dozen ice cubes into a wash cloth.
I walked to him, sitting on the edge of the chair arm, holding the ice to his cheek.
He winced, but didn’t speak.
“I think you escaped a full-blown black eye,” I said. “But your knuckles look a little worse for the wear.”
He said nothing, just raised the glass to his slips and took a big swallow.
“What would you have done to him?” I asked.
“Done to whom?”
“To that guy. If you’d fought him one on one?”
“Let’s just say he’s very lucky he had backup,” he said, gripping the glass harder as I shifted the ice lower, to where an angry red welt had swelled along his jaw.
I held the ice to his skin, studying him. Waiting. The raw anger had given away to a quiet fury, dwelling beneath the surface. “I thought so,” I said quietly.
“I haven’t been in a fight in almost three years,” he finally said. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
“I know.”
“That’s not supposed to be me anymore,” he said. “I have more restraint. At least I thought I did.”
“Everyone’s human.” I shifted the ice, pressing it into the puffiest spot on his jaw.
“I wanted to kill him,” he said, the quietness of his voice doing nothing to mask the vehemence in his tone. “Everything I’d ever pictured doing to my Dad, I wanted to do to him.” He took another swig of alcohol, draining the glass. “You should probably go. I’m not good company today.”
I took the empty glass from his hand, setting it on the table beside his chair.
Then I twisted, sliding down, so that I was straddling his lap. “There are other ways to forget your troubles, you know.”
He met my gaze, his eyes darkly intense. I watched the moment his thoughts shifted from those men in the bar to other pursuits, watched the lust grow heavy in his gaze.
“Taryn..” he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“I can make you forget,” I insisted. I curled an arm around his shoulder. “Where do you want me?” I whispered into this ear.
“Everywhere,” he said, his voice husky and dark.
I grinned, sitting back to take in his expression. I played with the hair at the back of his head. “You can’t fuck me everywhere at once,” I said, desire spiraling through me as I stood, tugging him to his feet. I walked to the sink, dropping the ice in, leaving my back to him as I raked in a deep breath. My mouth was dry already, my heart pounding at the idea of him fucking me while in such a dark, angry mood.
“Not at once,” he replied. “One after another. Against the wall, on the floor, on my desk, in my bed,” he advanced on me, promise in his words. “From behind, from on top, from below you, watching your tits bounce up and down while you ride me.”
I twisted round, leaning back against the counter as he stood close to me, towering over me as he looked down at me, lust burning in his eyes. “The question, Taryn, is where you want me to take you first.”
I was painfully aroused, liquid heat rushing between my thighs. Moments stretched between us, until I thought his restraint would snap like a rubber band. Yet he didn’t reach out and grab me, didn’t press his mouth to mine, he just waited for an answer.
“On the floor,” I found myself saying, “From behind.”
I could hardly believe I said the words with such confidence, but he didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, his lips finding mind. There was little tenderness to the kiss—this was a claim, a rough taking of what he wanted. His tongue plunged into my mouth, his hands finding my lower back, slipping beneath my clothes and yanking me up against him.
He was hard already, the thick ridge of his cock pressing into my stomach. He twisted his hand in my hair, pulling me back in a way that forced my mouth open, allowed him to deepen the kiss.
