Is he flirting with me? I bite down on my lip and blush. I have no idea what to say next.
“A word of caution,” I warn, needing something to say, “my mom only cooks on Christmas. Why she does this to herself every year is beyond me, but she loves it so we let her. She thinks she becomes Julia Child or something, but she's not. Not even close. That being said, about half the food on that plate's not that good. But I made the pie. Pumpkin pie is my ultimate favorite dessert, and at nine years old I taught myself how to make it. I've gotten pretty good. I don't even need a recipe anymore.” I take in a gulp of air from not breathing during my mini-ramble.
“Okay, well, thanks,” his intense eyes stare at me a moment longer and then he shuts the door.
How did I manage to look like a fool the two times I've been here? And whats worse – why do I care?
I head home, determined to get strangely-frightening-yet-oddly-enticing-guy out of my head. For reasons I can't explain, I want to know him better.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, December 31
9:13pm
“You ready to have some fun tonight?!” My best friend Stevie shouts throwing open my bedroom door, looking dynamite in a tight aqua dress and gray peep-toe pumps. “I brought some bubbly to get us started.” She sits on my bed and uncorks the champagne, taking a drink straight from the bottle.
“Classy,” Naomi, my other best friend, says as she joins us on the bed and rests back on her elbows. She's dressed in her typical motorcycle-loving attire of zipped up black leather biker jacket, skin-tight jeans, and her Harley Davidson black leather riding boots. Her tightly curled, blond hair is untamed and wild.
“That's what I'm all about...class,” Stevie grins, taking another swig, her bottom lip piercing clinking against the glass.
The three of us have been best friends since the sixth grade. One day, Stevie showed up in the same clothes she'd worn the day before (her dad's a gambling drunk and Stevie had had to take care of herself from the time she could walk. Sometimes her dad would gamble away everything, leaving no money for her to go to a laundromat.) and a group of kids started teasing and shoving her, making fun of her size-too-small ratty clothes. Naomi stepped in and clocked the boy who had pushed Stevie down, daring anyone else to fight her. I watched the whole thing from the swings, stomach in knots for Stevie because I knew it was wrong, but I'd always been tiny and I was afraid to do anything. I was in awe of Naomi – still am – she has never been afraid to step in when help is needed, no matter how scary the situation. She doesn't let people push her around and can be very bossy at times. We are each others' polar opposites, but it works for us. After the crowd disbursed I jumped down and ran over to Naomi and Stevie, offering Stevie my brownie in my lunch pail (even at a young age I knew the healing power of chocolate). The three of us sat on the grass, sharing the brownie before recess was over, and we've been best friends ever since. From then on Naomi and I made sure Stevie was never without clean, fitting clothes, and Stevie was practically raised by Naomi's biker parents, who look rough and tough but are the coolest, most down to earth people you will ever meet (as long as you don't get on their bad side). If she wasn't at Naomi's house she stayed with me. She only returned home every Thursday to drop food off for her dad and make sure he hadn't drunk himself to death and was rotting in their trailer.
I take a strand of Stevie's beautifully long, wavy hair and admire the new plum purple she'd dyed it, “This is my favorite color so far.”
She's always changing her hair color to unconventional shades. Over the summer it was a pink-gray, and that was stunning on her too. She has the kind of skin tone that can pull off any color.
“Thanks! The men at the shop really dig it. Who knew my hair color would bring in more business?” She works as a tattoo artist and is greatly respected for her detailed work. As you would assume, a fair amount of her skin is covered in tats.
“That and your ta-tas,” Naomi points to The Girls.
Stevie takes hold of her fake, size D breasts and gives them an affectionate squeeze, “I love The Girls, they never let me down. Best investment I've ever made.”
I pry the bottle from Stevie's clutches and have a turn.
Naomi beams at me, making her adorable dimples show, “It's good to have you home. We'll get to see more of each other instead of every few months.”
“And the fact that this is the first time since the three of us have been legally able to drink and we're all single!” Stevie chimes in, “Will was such a downer about you going anywhere without him.”
Naomi’s happy smile shifts to a pitying frown, “Speaking of Will, how are you holding up?” She places a sympathetic hand on my knee.
“I wish everyone would quit asking me that,” I sigh before taking too much champagne into my mouth and causing the bubbles to feel like rocks goings down. “I'm fine.”
Naomi's pale blue eyes lock with Stevie's emerald green (she continually changes their color too, with contacts) and they exchange unspoken words.
“We just want to make sure you're okay.”
All anybody wants to talk about is what happened. I decide to change the subject, “What bar are we going to?”
“Do you even need to ask?”
I laugh because Stevie's right. There is only one bar worth going to in our town: The Recovery Room. The rest of them are sports bars or clubs that think they’re cool because they have cover charges and offer fancy places to sit while you drink their overpriced cocktails.
“When was the last time the three of us went out?” Naomi wonders.
“I think it was when you guys came up to visit me for that weekend in June.”
“I don't count that,” Stevie informs me, “Will made you come home at eleven, even though he was glued to your side the entire time and he wouldn't let you drink for some bullshit reason.”
“We had to wake up early the next day. He didn't want me tired and hungover.” Why am I still defending that asshole?
Naomi grunts, “That should have been your decision, not his.”
“Whatever,” I stand up and head for my door. I don't want to ruin our evening by talking about him, “Lets get going.”
“Wait,” Stevie stops me from leaving, “Don't you need to get ready first?”
I look down at my twill military shirt and fitted boyfriend jeans. When I moved back home a few weeks ago I hadn't brought any of my clothes with me. The wardrobe I'd left behind symbolized the mess I had let my life become. The jeans, skirts, concert tees, flirty tops – the usual young adult attire – that it was once filled with had been replaced with a-line pencil skirts, cashmere cardigans, and full coverage blouses. All were hand picked by my boyfriend of course, who convinced me when I graduated that I needed to start acting like a grown-up and not a college student. I listened, I agreed, I conformed to what he wanted me to be. Now that I'm home my only clothes left are from high school, and since I quit my job the day I left him (I was his father's secretary) I have no money to purchase anything new.
“I don't exactly have choices,” it comes out more hostile than I intend, mainly because I don't want them knowing I chose this outfit specifically because it revealed no skin and I still had Will's voice ringing in my head to stop dressing like a slut. Now looking back I realize how absurd that was. I was never modest in my attire, but it was far from slutty.
“At least let me add a little more makeup,” Stevie leads me to the bathroom and takes out my cosmetics bag.
Naomi stands in the doorway and watches while she adds eyeliner, blush, and lip gloss. They both see right through my reason for wearing my outfit. They had been trying to get me to stop dressing like his perfect Stepford girlfriend for over a year now. I know the only reason Stevie is adding more makeup is because I haven't been able to wear any since I left Will. I did my hair and makeup the way he liked it for so long that now it's the only way I know how. I don't want to be his puppet anymore so I opt for only concealer and mascara when I do decide
to wear any.
“There,” Stevie puts down the lip gloss to fix my hair, making my ponytail more messy and stylish, “much better. With every passing day you look more like the loving, kindhearted Lily we love, and not the meek, docile girl who possessed you for the past two years.”
“Like I said earlier,” Naomi pulls me into a hug, “it's good to have you home in more ways than one.”
10:11pm
“We are never going to get in,” Naomi complains as we approach the long line to The Recovery Room.
“Man, this sucks. We should have realized everyone in town would be out tonight,” Stevie starts scanning the line, looking for anyone we might know who will let us join them.
A sharp whistle rings out and we snap our heads to the front door where it came from.
An odd tingle tickles my skin when I see my neighbor guarding the entryway. It's the same one I got the other day when I was getting into the passengers side of my dad's car to go out to dinner and I saw my neighbor getting into his truck. He had stopped when he noticed me watching him and we both stood, unmoving, taking the other in. After a beat or two he flipped his black shades down from the top of his head and got in his truck.
This past week I tried pushing him to the back of my thoughts, which was hard to do because he consumed a good portion of them. I wanted to slap the stupid out of myself every time I considered going back over to talk to him more. I'm not usually one who goes looking for trouble, but I'm intrigued.
“Was he whistling at us?” Naomi asks, confused, moving her head to see who else it could be.
He's staring at us...or at least I think he is; it's hard to tell with his black shades on. He must have noticed our confusion because he lifts his shades and my friends gasp, as well as the people standing in the front of the line.
“Fucking creepy,” Stevie mutters under her breath.
“He's staring at us,” Naomi says, not looking pleased.
His eyes lock with mine and the strange tingling sensation returns.
“That's my neighbor.”
“Wow, he looks like someone who'd live above a bar, not the suburbs,” Stevie responds.
He gives a slight nod for us to come over, then puts his shades back down. It frightens me how willing my body is to comply.
“Lily, what are you doing?!” Naomi whisper-shouts behind me as I make my way to him.
When I reach the front he steps aside for us to enter.
“Damn, that guy is a gladiator meets spartan beast!” Stevie exclaims so loudly I'm sure anyone close by heard.
My neighbor smirks.
“Are you the bouncer?” I stupidly ask.
“Well of course he is, dummy,” Stevie steps in front of me to eye him better. She's five-nine and her head still has to look up to see his face. “Look at him, who would mess with that?” She waves a finger at his raw, hard muscles to emphasize her point.
Mysterious neighbor guy chuckles, “I like your friend. She's smart.” His voice is just as inviting as I remember: masculine, rich, warm, and deep.
“Does this mean you're letting us in?” Stevie asks hopefully, batting her enviously thick lashes.
“Yeah, I owe my neighbor here for the pie she brought me.”
Both my friends gape at me and I nudge them inside.
“Thanks,” I smile at him.
“For every pie you bring me, I'll let you and whoever you're with straight in.”
“You liked it?”
“Best fucking thing I ever put in my mouth.” He gives me a slight half smile before resuming his hard expression and turning back to face the crowd. Never in my life has my heart beat this fast from a compliment; I feel it in my ribcage, my throat, my veins, everywhere. Shit, I'm in trouble.
I easily find my friends at the crowded bar trying to order drinks. Naomi hands me my usual: vodka gimlet on the rocks.
“You made him a pie?” Naomi seems disturbed, and the all too familiar look of concern takes over, “Is this because of Will? Because that scary ass gladiator-killer isn't going to help you move on.”
I'm so sick of everything I do relating back to Will. “It has nothing to do with Will. My mom,” I state clearly, “asked me to bring him a plate on Christmas because he was all alone. That's it. I guess this was his way of thanking me.”
“I'd do him,” Stevie chimes in, taking a sip of her beer.
Naomi rolls her eyes, “That's only because you like it twisted and kinky.” She has never approved of Stevie's sexual lifestyle. Anything goes with her, and I mean anything: boys, girls, groups, bondage – you name it, she'll try it. She's not a slut though, she’s quite selective in who she chooses. She just likes it “nasty” as Naomi would say.
“That I do,” she purrs in response to Naomi's comment, grazing the broad muscular back of my neighbor. “I bet he likes it rough and hard.”
“You're sick. He's scary looking, and to quote your first impression of him, 'fucking creepy',” Naomi points out.
“He is,” Stevie shrugs, “but damn, that body.” She hungrily licks her lips, letting her tongue ring scrape along the outer edges as her eyes travel down to his ass. “There's something about him. He's one hot, lick-able, sexy-ass man. And those eyes, what's up with those?”
“They're fascinating,” I breathe in agreement, not meaning to reply but the words just fall out.
“Definitely. They appear blackhearted and threatening, but for a split second when he looked at Lily they softened. I think he likes you.” Stevie's remark brings on a small wave of butterflies and I take another drink, trying to hide my face behind the glass. My friends know me too well and I'm sure my feelings are obvious to them.
“You both are crazy. Lily’s suffering from a broken heart, so she’s not thinking clearly, but you have no excuse,” Naomi points a finger at Stevie, wiggling it, daring her to defend herself.
“I'm not interested in him,” I quickly blurt out, “I was only agreeing that his eyes are unique.”
Naomi lets out a “humph” from the back of her throat, “Evil's a more accurate description.”
“Can we please talk about something besides my neighbor?”
“Are your Dad and Jill back from their cruise yet?” Naomi asks.
Cody is Jill's son. My dad married Jill when Cody was five, raising him as his own. His biological father skipped out on them when he was only a year old. I don't even think my dad remembers Cody's not technically his. He loves and cares for Cody exactly as he does for Seth and I.
“They got home last Friday. He asked about you two and was hoping we could plan a day to have you guys over for dinner.”
Stevie lights up, “Yes, please! Your dad's food is orgasmic! Name a time and I'm there.”
“Ditto!” Naomi exclaims, with the same level of fervor.
“Okay, I'll set it up.”
Stevie downs a shot of whiskey, “Are you going to go back to switching houses every week?”
My brothers have switched houses every other week since the day Dad married Jill. I remember when I was younger thinking it was weird that Jill didn't care if her son stayed with another mom so often, but now that I'm older I realize she probably liked it. It gave her and my dad alone time in the beginning of their relationship, when they were hot and heavy for each other. I switched too until I left for college.
“Naw, I prefer to stay with my mom. It's nice to have a break from my brothers and their friends. Plus, I can go see him whenever I want to.” When my parents divorced, my dad bought a house a few blocks down from ours so he could be easily accessible to us. Lucky for Seth and me, Jill loved the house and wanted to stay living there when they got married.
Stevie takes another shot of whiskey, “Is it weird living at home again? I'd rather saw off my own arm than have to live with my dad again.”
“It's not so bad. I love not having to use laundromats, there's always an abundance of food, and consistently hot water. Three things my life has been lacking since I went away to colleg
e. The part that sucks is having someone needing to know where I am at all times again.”
Stevie lets out one hard laugh, “Will was no different. He had to know what you were doing every second of the day, and if he didn't he would text you every minute until you called him.”
“True, but it's different when your boyfriend does it than your mom.”
“I disagree. Your mom does it because she loves and worries about you. Will did it because he needed to control you and had some weird sense of ownership crap with you. He was fucking obsessed.”
“That's being a bit dramatic. He wasn't that bad. He just needs order and structure. He can't stand not being in control of all aspects of his life.”
“Did he get violent any other time?” Naomi casually asks, but I can tell she as been brewing on this, “I mean, he always seemed to have a temper with you.”
“Are you asking if we had an abusive relationship?” My stomach starts churning and my chest feels heavier, making it hard to breathe.
An unspoken conversation transpires between Naomi and Stevie. They've obviously been talking about me behind my back.
“Kind of. We just always worried that he might one day. After the St. Patrick’s Day party, we've been a little afraid.” Naomi speaks cautiously, as if this was a damn intervention. We are already broken up!
“No, it was the first time,” I sneer, grinding my teeth. “What does it matter now anyway? We're over.”
Both eyes flicker to the bouncer, my neighbor, and I feel my blood start to boil.
“You both think I'm attracted to him because abuse is all I know!” I keep my voice low, but the menace behind my words is not lost.
There is another secretive, knowing glance between them. Now I'm getting pissed.
Stevie sighs, “It's not that, we're just worried about you. You don't want to talk about it and keep pretending like it's no big deal.”
My breathing is becoming erratic as I try to calm the rage I feel building up. I didn't even realize I had been chewing on my lip until the distinct taste of blood hits my tongue.
Marked. Part I: The missing Link Page 2
