SACRED (The Kingwood Series Book 3)

by S. L. Scott

  That’s all gone though.

  Like us, he’s become brighter, full of energy, gained the weight he needed. He’s so smart. I rub my fingers through the curls at the back of his head because he really is adorable. “Hi,” I say with a smile.

  “Hi. A. C. B.”

  “You’re so smart.”

  “Bah. Bah. Boo!”

  “You want to play peek-a-boo?”

  “Bah. Bah. Boo!”

  I cover my eyes, but the car door opens and my mother gets in. The game ends before it begins. She immediately reaches across her body and presses the lock down.

  Habit.

  Habits are pesky like that.

  Vaughn asks, “Want me to drive?”

  “No,” she replies. “Now that this foolishness is over, how about some ice cream?”

  Toby claps in excitement. “I keem.” So smart.

  “I should go home,” I say. “I have a lesson plan to prepare for tomorrow.”

  She nods, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I was hoping we could all have dinner together. We can eat out or I can make something. I’d like you to join us, Claris—Clara.”

  Habit.

  I never get mad when she slips. We’re in this together, so I won’t hold little things against her like he used to do. “Okay. That would be nice.”

  While driving from the cemetery, she rubs Vaughn’s shoulder. “Where would you like to eat, honey?”

  “I don’t care,” he grumbles, staring out the window.

  My brother hasn’t found the same joy as my mother and me since my father’s death. He was beaten regularly, told to “take it like a man,” and fight back. Training for the real world is how my father always put it. He trained Vaughn all right, but not the way he wanted. Vaughn could never be bad like our father. He has too much good inside that remained long after that day one year ago. But he’s a teenager and he’s moody, sometimes bad manages to sneak in when we’re not paying attention. We try to give him space, but I worry that too much room to grow will leave him no choice but to let things fester inside instead. I want my sweet little brother back. I hope we haven’t lost him for good.

  To lighten things up, I suggest, “How about Luca’s Italian? We haven’t been there in forever. It was always your favorite, Vaughn.”

  He shrugs, never looking our way. “Whatever.”

  Knowing that’s the best we’re going to get, I sit back. My mom tries her hardest to sound perky, though I know it hurts her to see him distance himself. “Luca’s it is.”

  I’m glad the drive isn’t long. Toby is getting restless and his mood is turning. “I think he’s hungry,” I say just as we pull into the parking lot. “I’m starved.”

  Inside the restaurant, we’re seated in the far corner. Toby is stationed in a highchair at the head of our booth. We’ve ordered our food, but now he’s making a mess crumbling breadsticks. His eyes aren’t like ours, and I often think it’s because he didn’t have to suffer through years with the man whose death we celebrated today.

  His sweet baby blues temper my irritation and I start to clean the mess while Mom makes small talk like we don’t feel my father’s reach even from beyond the grave. “. . . and then she told me to reorganize the kindergarteners supplies. I was happy to do it, but I’m still not used to . . .”

  My mom has a job after years of being a stay-at-home wife. My father wouldn’t have it any other way. She wasn’t home for our needs, but his. I let my gaze slide outside through the large window that overlooks a row of houses converted into small businesses. This is a cute area of town. When she finishes her story, I ask, “Maybe we can go to the gift store and the bookstore after this for a little shopping?”

  “Sure,” my mom replies with an easy smile.

  Vaughn says, “I don’t want to shop. I’ll be down by the water.”

  He didn’t tell us to take him home. Maybe this is progress.

  Our food is delivered. For the most part, we eat in silence. We’re used to the quiet. It’s not that big a deal. Nobody’s feelings get hurt if we don’t talk. Toby finds noise comforting, and has become a chatterbox more recently. The sound of a child’s laughter should never be silenced. He still reverts to quiet play sometimes. A habit formed from how things used to be.

  But today, I feel the heat of a stare. When I look up, I catch a man’s hard glare on us, focused on Toby. Instinctually, I reach out and hold his wrist, and correct him. He still needs to learn manners and use them in public. “Inside voice, Tobs.”

  When I look back, the man is busy looking at his phone, holding it up at a suspicious angle. Is he taking photos of us? Is he going to report us to the manager for being disruptive?

  Toby’s sweet spaghetti sauce smile brings me back to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, the man stands and an image from the funeral comes back. Was he there? Was he a friend of my father? His glare hits me like an iceberg and I look down as quick as I can. I hear the bell of the door ring and look up when I think it’s safe.

  7

  Clara

  I’m surprised when I see a familiar face.

  “Clara?”

  The warm tones of Cruise’s voice cover me like a blanket. My eyes stay focused above Toby’s head to where Cruise stands nearby, seemingly unsure whether he should smile or something else undecipherable. “Um, hi,” I reply, glancing to my family. My mom and Vaughn stare at him, Vaughn with narrowed eyes.

  “I saw you over here and thought I’d say hi. Hi.”

  “Hi,” I repeat, glancing between him and my mom.

  When he turns to her, I can tell he’s about to introduce himself and that means an introduction in return. I bolt out of the booth. “Mom, Vaughn, this is Cruise. A friend of mine.” Before they can reply, I add, “I’ll speak to him in private if you don’t mind.”

  She laughs lightly. “We don’t mind. Maybe he can escort you to the shops. I can go down to the water with your brothers.”

  “Great idea.” I’m talking too fast to come off as anything but panicked. They’ve never seen me with anyone before. I’ve never brought a name up even in passing. The questions are forming in their eyes, so I slink my arm around Cruise’s and spin him toward the exit. “See you in a bit.”

  As we walk to the door, he says, “That’s impressive.”

  “What?”

  “You got me out of there in record time. Am I that embarrassing?”

  “Speaking of embarrassing, you’re lucky I’m even talking to you after the last time I saw you.”

  “You have nothing to be embarrassed by. I’m the one who fucked things up.” Grabbing my wrist, he stops us just as we walk down the steps of the restaurant. “I’m sorry, Clara. It truly was me, not you. I wanted you.”

  Looking around to make sure no one can hear us, when I turn back to him, I whisper, “Then you should have had me.”

  “It wasn’t right.”

  “It felt exactly right to me. I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel the same.”

  “Fuck.” He squeezes his eyes closed. With his hands in his hair, he reopens those pools of emotions, and says, “I’m fucking this up.”

  “At least you’re fucking something.” My knees lower and my hands come together, but I reclaim them with my strength in the moment, restraining myself from a bad habit.

  His gaze darts to the door as a couple walks out of the restaurant. “Come on.” He takes me by the hand and leads me across the parking lot. What is it with the handholding? He said he didn’t hold hands. It’s like he’s protecting me. From what, I have no idea. Maybe the world?

  Picking up my pace, I find myself tugging him with me. He asks, “Where are you taking me?”

  “The bookstore.”

  “Ah. I should have figured.”

  “Why should you have figured?”

  “Because girls love bookstores. Is it the musty scent or the endless ways to lose yourself for hours?”

  “The musty scent. It’s sexy like mothballs,” I deadpan.r />
  I’m yanked back by his sudden stop. Turning to him, he has a wide grin that makes his eyes even brighter. “I like when you make jokes.”

  Smiling, I feel pride that I made him laugh. “You think they’re funny?”

  “No. They’re not funny at all, but I like that you think they are.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Sure it does, Dove.”

  Dove . . . Damn him and that nickname. I have no idea if that is his norm, but I have to admit it feels so cute coming from a guy so . . . well . . . so Cruise. He’s tall and gorgeous and . . . This is terrifying falling for a guy so fast, but he calls me Dove. He has given me a nickname, and that makes me feel a lot of everything all at once for him.

  He adds, “I understand you better than you think I do.”

  We start walking again, slower this time. “What do you know about me, Cruise?”

  “You have moments where you let yourself say what you feel. In those moments, a spark hits your eyes like lightning and you come alive. Then you hide just as fast. A shield seems to go around your heart and the cold sneaks in.”

  “You think I’m cold?”

  “I think you’re warm, and sexy, and have more to give than you allow yourself, but you’re protecting something.”

  “My heart.” What? Why did I say that?

  “You were offering me your body with no strings attached. Don’t you know the damage I’ll do? With your body, I’ll weasel my way into your heart, and eventually you know what will happen?”

  “What?” My chest rises and falls, heavy as I watch his mouth and hear the promises he’s making.

  “I’ll claim your soul as mine and keep it forever.”

  “You sound like the devil.”

  “I never claimed to be an angel.” We stop at the bottom of the bookstore’s front porch. “I may not make claims, but I still try to be good. I stopped because I didn’t want to fuck you and leave. I wanted to take it slow and stay.”

  “And you claim to be a bad guy.”

  “I have my moments in the sun.”

  My voice is so low I barely register the sound. “You could have.”

  “Could have what?”

  “Taken it slow with me and stayed. I would have let you.”

  He’s shaking his head. “No, I couldn’t have. Trust me on that.”

  Two sighs are released and float together into the breeze as we walk up the steps. I stop at the top and look back—eye level with him. “I do trust you, Cruise. That’s why I invited you into my house.”

  “You should be more careful with devils in disguise.”

  “I may have asked you home because I knew you were trouble, but I also knew you weren’t all bad.”

  Tucking some hair behind my ear, he says, “I don’t know what to think about you, but I know I can’t stop.”

  “Can’t stop?”

  Fingers with pads that have managed a hard day’s work scrape across my skin, fading scars seen as his hand runs from my elbow to my fingertips and back up. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Dove.”

  I feel the same.

  “You say that as if you’re free to do so.” I step out of his reach because his touch feels too good to think clearly. “You said you left me because you couldn’t be gentle. That you couldn’t go slow. I’m not breakable. Trust me when I say that. If I were, I would have broken a long time ago.” I try my best to not let my thoughts fall into that memory mind trap, but I lose.

  The pain of being held down against my will, the pressure on my chest with a hand at my throat, the scars on my wrists when he started to tie me to the rails of my bed frame to keep me from fighting back.

  He didn’t break me.

  . . . Rubbing my temples, I take a deep breath and look into worried eyes. I don’t want his questions, or his concern. I want answers. “I wanted to have fun. I wanted to . . .” I don’t finish that because he won’t understand. I’m wise enough to know that much, even if I’m not wise when it comes to how normal relationships work. “I don’t know you, so maybe you’re lying. Maybe you’re seeing someone. I’ll ask once and then I’m going to trust you. Are you free, Cruise?”

  Dressed in all black, he’s a dark angel on a cloudy day devouring my words as if they’re spirits. The brown of his eyes are darker at sunset, an intensity filling them as he studies me. “Free?” he repeats the word quietly as if to himself. “Running into you is not a coincidence.”

  “Are you following me?”

  “No.” He looks at the door as it opens and people walk out of the bookstore. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “So you think we were brought together for a reason?”

  “Do you?”

  “The way you avoid topics that make you uncomfortable is a honed skill.” I walk to the railing and lean against it. As much as I long to go inside, the golden glow of the little store to warm me, Cruise and I have unfinished business. My heart is still stinging from last week, but now it bleeds begging for more time with him. Why? Why does he feel so right? What continues to bring me closer when I should be walking away? An invisible thread is pulling us together. I hope it’s not pain that binds us. “Why would you have to hone that skill?” Peeking at him, he stands so still, barely blinking.

  “Have I?”

  My hands fist, my nails pressing into the pad of my palm, but not breaking the skin. “I hate that.”

  “What?”

  “Questions answered with questions.”

  “What else do you hate?” he asks, his interest seeming genuine as he shifts around me so I can’t turn away from him. I think he knows I won’t, but I don’t like being in the spotlight of his heated stare. “I hate how much you look at me. Like you can read my mind and see things I don’t want anyone to see.”

  “I can’t. I wish I could, but I only have what you give me. Why do you not want me looking at you?”

  I struggle to stare into his eyes when he offers up so much so easily, every emotion he feels visible in his irises.

  “I can’t tell if you’re fascinated, infatuated, or disgusted.”

  “Never disgusted. Definitely fascinated tipping into infatuated. I want to know you, Clara.”

  “Why didn’t you call or knock on my door if you want to know me so badly?”

  “I did, but you weren’t home. So I left the flowers. I also knew you were mad. But here we are with another chance to make things right. And to answer your question, it’s not just your beauty that attracts me.”

  “What is it?” I ask, my voice fighting for sound with so much sweetness corrupting the pain. Some of the fight leaves my body. Although he still hasn’t answered the question if he is free.

  He reaches over and lays his hand flat on my upper chest. “I’ve experienced things I don’t want to talk about.”

  “I understand.” My heart rate picks up and I know he can feel it beating against his hand. I want to be embarrassed, but I’m not, not with him. Not in this moment we’re sharing.

  “You understand because you’ve experienced things you don’t want to talk about either.” He doesn’t sound like himself. Agony coats his words, but he steadies himself. “I see the pain you try to hide with games.”

  “I don’t play games.” He sees through me. I never intentionally meant to toy with him, but I thought that’s what girls do to get a man’s attention. And I can admit, I wanted his attention. My cheeks heat and I back away. Opening the door to the bookstore, I walk inside letting the smell comfort me. Books were my salvation. I could travel wherever I wanted in a story, live out a fantasy between the pages, and trade this world for another inside a book. When no one was there to save me, the words freed my mind temporarily from the hell I was living.

  Before we reach the self-help section, I stop and turn around. Cruise stops a few feet behind me. I never heard him follow me inside, but he’s here and my heart leaps from the sight of him. “I’m sorry about not telling you my name. That was a game th
at I took too far. I’m not used to people actually wanting to get to know me.”

  “I was hitting on you. You had every right not to share personal details with a guy who had nothing but bad intentions.”

  “You came with me to the bookstore. What are your intentions?”

  “To get to know you so the next time I’m in bed with you and we’re about to make love, I know what your favorite food is, what day of the week you do laundry, what book has made you cry, and if you like going out on a Saturday night to party or staying in to watch movies.”

  My breath catches as I listen to this handsome man win me over with his words and sincerity. I drag my sweating hands over my hips, and summon some of my drunken bravado, though I’ve not had a drop of alcohol today, to ask, “You’re fairly confident that we’ll end up in bed together, aren’t you?”

  “Not fairly.” He moves in, closer, so close that his peppermint breath warms my cheeks. Or maybe that’s me blushing under his soulful eyes. “I want that second chance to do things right, but I have a confession.” This time his voice returns to normal, lush like a rainforest—secrets and mystery embedded deep into the dulcet tone.

  Standing at the edge of the paranormal section, I become nervous that I’ve pushed him too hard, so hard that he walks away despite wanting to learn all of those things about me. “What is it?” I don’t even sound like myself around him. My voice is pitchy, my throat closing making it hard to swallow.

  He leans his hands on the end of the bookcases on either side of me. Lowering his head and his voice, he says, “You captivate me. I never know what you’re going to say and I can’t tell what you’re thinking. It’s fucking frustrating, and such a turn-on.”

  I can’t feel my body, his proximity turning my bones to jelly. Wanting to say everything and not able to say anything, I stare into his eyes.

  Standing upright, he tilts his head to the side while studying me. “You seem surprised.”

  “I’ve never had anyone say anything like that to me before.”

  “You must have had a million guys dying to date you.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  My answer confuses him and his gaze drops to my lips before returning up to my eyes. “Then I’ll move to the front of the line. I don’t want someone predictable unless we’re being predictable together. I like your twisted thoughts and your requests for kisses and your odd obsession with all things French.” He sighs, looking at me like he has no idea what to do with me. “Regarding your other question, I’m free to see whoever I want, when I want, and I want to see more of you, Dove.”