“You give any more thought about moving in with me?”
She turns back to the TV. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” What is she talking about? That’s the best idea I’ve had since waking up. “Think about it, okay? I had a guy come over yesterday afternoon with a shovel on his back. A shovel Harley. What does he need a shovel for?”
She titters. “He probably wants to dig up the hundreds of panties you buried in the sand.”
“He’ll need more than one shovel then. You ready? I’m ready. Come on, babe. We’re going to dinner.” I run and jump onto the couch. “No promise of sex or booze. It’s like going to the dentist. It’s probably what’s best, but damn it, all I get is a toothbrush.”
She watches me, amused. “You have no idea what you’re doing do you?”
“No,” I admit, jumping down. I give her my hand and pull her up. “Do I at least get dessert?”
“I don’t know. You’re paying.” She smiles sweetly and walks around me.
I watch her hips sway as she walks. Her jean shorts could be tighter, I’d prefer them tighter, but they’re tight enough to show off her apple shaped ass. I love apples. They’re tart yet still sweet. I want a bite.
Stepping outside makes me nervous. There’s a group of girls painting shirts on the lawn I share with my neighbor. At least one of them has breathed in my atmosphere. She lived to talk about it so I guess everything’s fine. I pound down the stairs after Harley, hoping to get by without her noticing.
“Bach?”
I stop, almost running into Harley’s back. “What’s up?” I have to admit she’s cute in the sunshine. The last time I saw her she was sweaty and her lipstick was smeared all over her lips. I remember because she has this mole above her top lip that’s sexy as hell. “Debbie, right?”
“Yeah,” she says with a surprised lilt to her voice, as shocked as I am that I remembered her name.
I’m proud of myself.
Beside me, Harley makes a sound in the back of her throat.
Debbie looks at her fleetingly, a look of boredom crossing her features. I wonder why. She’s wrong. I’m more into Harley these past two weeks than I ever would be into Debbie again. Her lipstick was smeared for a reason. I smeared that shit.
“We’re having a black light party tonight. Want me to make you a shirt?”
“That depends. Are you going to take it off later? You promise to take it off and I’ll want it.”
“I took it off last time didn’t I?” Her eyes heat up, shooting me her memory.
All I can remember is her mouth. I open mine to tell her a joke about taking things off and how easier it is the second time, sure to make her laugh, but Harley stomps away. Her apple shaped ass stomps too. Stomping’s all right with me. “Gotta go,” I tell her, already forgetting her name. She’ll make me a shirt anyway. They always do.
I walk casually over to Harley, reach around her glaring eyes, and unlock her car door. She’s jealous. Why is she jealous? She doesn’t even really want me. I recall her disgust the morning I woke her up. Not to mention earlier. She only came over to give me my money. I haven’t seen her for days and all she wants is to give me my dope money? I’m pissed all over again. We’re both pissed. She crawls into my car and I do the same.
“What’s that smell?” She scrunches up her nose.
It’s piss. I hate piss. “I left my car at a bar overnight and left the window down. I think some cats got in or something.”
She looks in the back. “Are you sure you and Black Light didn’t roll around back there?”
“Pretty sure. She blew me on the beach. I don’t even think she saw my car.”
She reaches over and punches my arm. “Sometimes I think you can’t possibly get any worse. And then you do. Every time.”
I run my tongue over the cut on my lip as I pull away. The fact that I love it so much should really send some red flags. It doesn’t. Watching Harley take her anger out on me and seeing it still on my face was better than Black Light. It was better than having her sit on my lap and grinding against me. I almost wanted her to reach over and slap the shit out of me. Tie me up and punish me. What can I say? I’ve been breathing in my own atmosphere for too long.
I peek at her with a grin, choosing to overlook her comment. We both know I’m going to get worse. Every time. “Anything special you want to eat? I’m really in the mood for apple pie.”
She can tell I’m thinking something, she just doesn’t know what. She puts her seatbelt on and shrugs. “Dylan liked going to that taco spot by the pier.”
Her reminder of Dylan makes me toss my grin out the window. I’m supposed to be watching her for him. Not for myself. “I don’t like tacos. I like apple pie. What do you like?”
“Tacos.”
Square. “Apple pie it is.”
“He called me today.”
For some reason that really sets me off. I can see him whispering to her, telling her he’s doing this for her, when really he’s doing it for some chick who isn’t even good. She isn’t Harley. I reach over and turn the radio on. I don’t want to hear her anymore.
“I didn’t answer it.”
Good. I turn the radio up.
I drive to downtown Crystal Gulf, allowing the radio to make up for the angry space in the car as I do so. I never come down here. It’s where the good and the bad merge. There’s coffee shops and liquor stores. Beer and wine. Country and Pop. I personally find no comfort in the in-between. That’s why I stick to the coast. It’s too far from Forty-something and too close to Pink Heels. Just where I like it.
I drive down Port Street ten times before I find a spot. Is this what people do when they don’t want to get high? Drive around looking for a parking spot?
“Italian?” She smiles at me. “I could totally go for some pasta.”
I don’t smile back. Dylan called her. She didn’t call me. She brought my dope money. Remembered that Dylan likes tacos. Didn’t even think I might have really wanted some apple pie. But then again I can’t have apple pie. It’s not mine to have. It’s Dylan’s.
This is supposed to be a gig. Look out for Harley over the summer. That’s it. I understood this, even accepted because it was true. Now why the hell does the sight of her long legs getting out of my Corvette make me lick my bottom lip?
“You are so moody,” she whispers when I open the door to the restaurant.
I inhale the scent of her as she ducks under my arm. Her shampoo wafts over me, a light clean smell that’s entirely feminine and painfully intoxicating. In line with what little better judgment I have I don’t grab her hand. I don’t hold hands. Dylan does. I expel the smell of her from my lungs and follow her to the hostess stand. She’s wearing a tight black dress with these sexy stockings. Her olive skin and black eyes would normally mark her. Instead I can feel Harley’s eyes on me, daring me to do it. If she were any other girl I would. I would flash the hostess my smile and her panties would end up on my bedroom floor just like the rest of them.
“Table for two?” the hostess asks me.
I look at Harley. When I do I don’t even realize what I just gave her until it’s gone. A smug grin lifts her heart-shaped lips. “Yes,” she says.
The hostess smiles tightly at Harley and grabs two menus. “This way.”
I look down at my dick to check if it’s still there before I follow Harley closely, making sure she knows that what I just gave her requires much more in return. She reaches behind her as the hostess leads us to our table. Her hand grabs a fistful of my shirt, pulling me along like I’m her pet.
I should pull free. Women don’t lead me anywhere. I don’t even lead them, because there’s no one I want by my side regardless of whether they’ll even want to come. But I don’t pull free. I let Harley lead me to the table.
“Can I start your meal off with some wine?”
As I slide in the booth across from Harley our eyes lock. She knows what I just did and she loves
it. “White, please. Something sweet,” she answers.
“Right away. Take your time,” the hostess assures us, setting our menus down.
Normally this stare down would be a game I not only won but destroyed. But I have to look away first. It’s safer for her and better for me.
I need a drink.
Dinner? I don’t do dinner. I don’t let girls answer for me, either. What I want never goes through them.
“Have you been here before?”
I look away from my menu. I haven’t read a single word. “No. Have you?”
“Dylan took me here for our second date.” She smiles fondly at the memory, and then seems to remember the memory is a lie. Her smile leaves. I hate that I’m glad. “He spilled his soda all over himself.”
“Mhm.”
“He kissed me goodbye that night.”
“Mhm.” The clams in white wine sound good. So does the handmade ravioli.
“I remember being worried I wasn’t a good enough kisser.”
I raise my eyebrows at my menu. “Mhm.”
“Ironic, huh? Since he found someone who was.”
I almost wish this was a date so I’d have an excuse to scream at her. I want to scream at her. “Mhm.”
Thankfully our waiter brings over our wine then. I’m only thankful for a second. I watch him pour the wine into each glass and as he does he watches her. The prick even licks his lips. She doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t. She smiles pleasantly, eager for her wine. The sweet expression on her face eases some of the burning in my brain. I won’t smash his face in. I won’t.
“Would you like to order some appetizers?”
“Umm … the Caprese salad sounds good. What about you, Bach?”
“You have any apple pie?”
He stares at me like I’m a sixteen-year-old in a bar asking for a beer. “This is an Italian restaurant, sir. No. We do not have apple pie.”
She’ll never want you, I think bitterly. You can look all you want. “The salad’s fine then.”
“I’m done,” she says when the waiter leaves. When I look up she smiles like a vixen. “You can look at me now.”
“Where’d he kiss you?” I’m not done.
“In his jeep.”
I lick my bottom lip. Hard. “You hook up with him that night too?”
She shakes her head.
“When?” I want to know.
“Probably when you were with Black Light.” She sits back, watching me, urging me on.
Turning me on. “When?”
“My love making with Dylan is none of your business.”
Love making? It’s something I don’t consider. Apparently it’s different. Loving someone you have sex with probably is different. How does it work? How does saying I love you make sex different? Knowing Dylan got to find out before me seriously pisses me off. Why does he get that? He’s just as much me as I am him.
“What’s that like? Making … love?” I try not to cringe when I ask it.
“What’s it like having your panties ripped off?”
We both know what we’re asking. We also both know we’re not going to answer.
We shrug at the same time.
“Dinner sucks,” I mumble.
She laughs so hard she has to cover her hand with her mouth. “Fine. Let’s talk about normal things.” She takes a deep breath to calm herself. “How was your day, Bach?”
I force the memory of my nightmare away. “It’s better now.” I grab my wine glass and take a sip. I want scotch. “How was your day, Harley?”
“Very productive. I finally got out of bed. Showered. Oh, and I shaved. How’s your wine?”
I wonder what exactly she shaved. Normal, I think. “Expensive.”
She smirks. “Are you saying I’m not worth it?”
That wasn’t normal. “You’re worth it.” That was.
Her eyes twinkle. “Are you from Crystal Gulf?”
Too normal. If I can keep the conversation along those lines this won’t go where I don’t want it to. “Yes. You’re from Houston, right?” I remember Dylan mentioning Houston when he asked me to take of his girl. I took another drink of wine, swallowing that thought down with it.
“No. We settled here when I was in high school. We moved around a lot because my dad was in the army. He’s originally from Houston so we came back here when he went back for his second term to be closer to my grandparents.”
Two things occur to me. One: Dylan and I are done. Two: She said was. I can’t tell if it’s normal to ask. “Why Crystal Gulf?”
“The university has a great program for social work.”
“You want to be a social worker?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course she wants to help people.
“I do.” Her smile is sad and hopeful. “Ever since I watched one of the social workers at school help this kid that was getting bullied. The look on his face knowing there was someone out there fighting for him always stuck with me. I want to help people. Imagine being that one person, that one ray of hope that gives someone the strength to keep going. Think of all of those kids who don’t have the support I was lucky to have growing up? I can’t give it to them, but I can show them how to give it to themselves. I know it sounds altruistic. I just always felt like it was important. Is that silly?”
I once woke up in the middle of a hurricane. My arm was in a sling that Dylan’s grandma made out of old shoestrings and my face hurt like hell. Dad kicked my ass for dislocating my shoulder jumping out of Mr. Greer’s almond tree. The weather outside was making me shake. It was scary. No one cared that I was scared but Dylan, but Dylan couldn’t come out to play because he was in trouble for jumping with me. The old creaky house shook and the windows rattled. I just wanted it to stop. I crawled under the table in the kitchen, kneeling on top of old cigarette butts and beer stains and I prayed for it to stop. Over and over again, whispering it until my lips chapped. And just like that it did. I opened my eyes and looked out of the kitchen window. The sun was peeking through the clouds. The clouds were still gray, but I could see it. The most beautiful colors shone down. Orange, pink, yellow, and gold; it was shining right on my house. I got up and pressed my little face to the dirty window in awe. I knew right then and there that I would probably never see anything that beautiful ever again.
Until Harley.
I don’t deserve to sit across from her. To share a bottle of wine with her. To see her smile nervously after saying something like that to me.
“It isn’t silly,” I promise her, my voice gruff. “It’s, you’re, it’s … Do it. I really hope you do it. I wish I had someone like you around when I was kid.”
She has no idea how much I want her good right now. She smiles as if we’re talking about grocery shopping. Not like she just took my favorite memory and shattered it.
“What did you want to be?” she wonders just as the waiter sets down two brightly colored salads.
“Did you want to order?” he asks.
“I want the spaghetti with marinara and chicken parmesan,” Harley says, licking her lips excitedly.
I want to eat off her plate. When it’s my turn I fumble with my menu. Since when do I fumble? “The clams. I’ll take the clams.”
“Excellent choice,” he congratulates before he leaves. I get the feeling he isn’t talking about the food, in which case I agree.
I watch her slice the tomato with her fork, pair it with a bite of fresh mozzarella and a basil leaf, and then dunk it into her balsamic dressing. “Mmm,” she moans, closing her eyes in bliss. “This is so good.”
Why did Dylan leave her with me? Me!
“Did you hear me? What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
Safe. “Thor.”
She cracks up. “That’s either really cute, or really indicative.”
“Indicative of what?” I take a bite. I want to taste what she tastes.
She points her fork at me and waves it around. “All of this.”
�
��Oh. You mean all of this sexy panty ripping fantastic-ness?” I smile crookedly. We both know we both think that.
“Have you really ripped panties apart?”
I smile at my salad. “In two.”
“Hmm. They’re just in the way anyway, aren’t they?”
“Blocking the best parts,” I agree.
“This conversation isn’t normal.”
My smile widens. “So you’re going to change lives. What else do you want to do?” I’m suddenly highly interested in her future. I won’t get to see it happen but I want to know what she’s dreaming about so when she’s gone, I can dream about it too.
“I don’t know. Changing lives is pretty hard work. Somewhere in the middle of that I’ll probably fall in love. Again,” she emphasizes harshly, stabbing her tomato. “And have kids. Build a life that I had, but better. Like we’re not moving.” She looks me in the eye, as if I’m her husband and I don’t agree with her wishes. If I were her husband, which is as unlikely as her being my wife, her wishes would probably be my command. She wouldn’t have to look at me like that. She could have whatever she wanted. “I want to raise my kids in one place forever. I want them to have the same friends until they’re old. The same memories. I don’t want them to be like me. I can live anywhere, but I also know there’s no point in meeting anyone because the second I do I’ll have to leave. I’m too comfortable being with myself.”
Dylan made it sound as if she stayed by herself out of naivety. I suspected that was somewhat true. Crystal Gulf wasn’t the kind of place I think she preferred. The occupants were like me and less like her. But really Harley is just afraid to get close to someone. I don’t know much about growing up with a family member in the army, but I can imagine the difficulties that come with moving over and over again, never growing up with people the way I grew up with Dylan.
And I’m being a pussy again.
I reach over and grab my wine glass, taking a long much needed drink. It doesn’t taste bad with the salad. “If it makes you feel any better this is who you are when you’re not comfortable with yourself.” I wink, teasing.
Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1) Page 9
