by Frankie Rose
“No, it’s fine.” I hold up one hand, stopping him. “The waitress won’t be long. Besides. Friends don’t get friends coffee.”
His eyebrows hike up, almost hitting his hairline. “They don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Wow. I’ve been doing this friend thing all wrong, then. I’ve been buying my buddies drinks left, right and center. I should probably send out some invoices, recoup my losses.”
I want to stick my tongue out at him, but that feels too playful. Too familiar. He’s right, though. I’m being ridiculous. Folks buy each other a cup of coffee all the time without there being any hidden meaning behind the action. I’m apparently being hyper sensitive, but I can’t help it.
Noah gives me a knowing look, as though he can read the thoughts running through my mind as they happen. “You don’t need to worry, Ave. I’m not gonna hit on you or anything. I know what this is.”
“And what’s that?”
“A second chance,” he says softly. “A second chance I don’t deserve. I know you don’t trust me. That this is hard for you. I get it, I really do. I know we’re not going to be together. I know how lucky I am you’re even here right now. I just want to be in your life. I won’t mess this up, I swear.”
I should respond to him, tell him that I hope he’s telling the truth, but a waitress rushes up to the table, flustered, tennis shoes squeaking against the tiled floor, pen poised over her notepad, eyes wide in question, and I’m relieved of that particular obligation. “What can I get for you, hun?” she asks.
“A latte, please. And a chocolate chip muffin, if you have them?” Pancakes take too long. If this gets weird, I can cram a muffin down my throat and bail pretty damn quickly.
“Sure do.” She doesn’t bother writing the order down after all. She hurries off, dodging behind the counter, shouting through the small hatchway for someone to warm up a muffin. Noah grins at me, tapping his fingers against the side of his coffee mug.
“Well, this is awkward,” he says.
“Only a little.”
“How about you ask me your questions?”
“I have questions?”
“Sure you do. I kind of sprung a four-year-old on you in the street the other night.”
“You want to talk about Neve?”
“Not particularly right now. But I know you probably do.”
I shake my head. “We don’t have to.” There has to be a highly complicated story there, but I won’t push. It’s none of my business, plus he looks like he’s about to squirm out of his chair right now.
“Cool.” A bolt of pain flashes across Noah’s face. “Then…maybe we could start off by talking about Tate?” The name surprises me. Bad though it may be, I haven’t thought about Tate in a while now. And I keep forgetting that he and Tate were good friends.
“Sure. If that’s what you want.”
Noah purses his lips, nodding slowly, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “When we met last year, it wasn’t my first trip to New York. I’d already studied out here for a semester in my last year of high school, too. Tate and I were part of an exchange program. He went to stay in London, and I came through here. I stayed with him and his family for the summer first, though. We grew pretty tight by the time he left for the UK.”
“You knew Tate a few years ago? Why didn't you mention that?”
He looks incredibly uncomfortable. “I guess it’s down to Neve. She was a product of that first stint over here. I don’t know why I wanted to keep it quiet. It was dumb in hindsight, but there you go. I guess it just seemed…easy. To be childless. Free from responsibility, as far as anyone else was concerned. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been anything but there for my daughter. When I could be, anyway.”
“You should have told me,” I tell him.
He looks straight at me, his eyes boring into me, and I immediately know what he’s going to say. “Like you told me about your Da?”
Touché.
I tear my gaze away, staring down at my hands. “Yeah. I guess some things just aren’t easy to talk about. Sorry.”
“We were both stupid, Avery. But that’s in the past. Neither of us can go back and change what happened before Christmas. Don’t think that I didn’t wish I could every fucking day, for a long time, though, okay?”
Wow. More awkward. Noah must notice me bristling—hardly a fêat acomplis, since both my hands curl into fists between us. He clears his throat, and I sense that he’s not looking at me anymore. Sure enough, when I look up, he’s staring blankly out of the window, his face in profile. “Not because I wanted you, Avery,” he whispers. He laughs, his shoulders moving up and down briefly. “Though, of course I did. But because of everything that happened afterwards. You…you went back to Breakwater with Luke. You got shot. Nearly died. I don’t know. I guess I figured at the time that if I’d gone back there with you as your moral support, maybe somehow the timeline would have been different. You wouldn’t have gone back to that house. Something. Something might have changed and you wouldn’t have had to go through that hell.”
I can feel bile burning at the back of my throat. It feels like my cheeks are on fire. Perhaps he’s right. If I had gone back to Break with Noah instead of Luke, we’d have stayed at Brandon’s place. We wouldn’t have fought. I’d never have been separated and alone, and Chloe Mathers would never have had the opportunity to do what she did.
And then I realize how untrue that thought is. “I would still have been attacked, regardless of who I was with, Noah,” I say softly. “The woman that shot me…Chloe…she’s insane. She would have found a way to get to me no matter what. She implicated Brandon in those murders just so she could get me back to Breakwater. She felt robbed that she didn’t get to kill me back when I was a kid. I was unfinished business to her. She would have found a way.”
I don’t say the rest of it—the other outcome that might have happened if I had gone with Noah back to Break instead of Luke: Chloe might have cornered me when I was alone, and Noah wouldn’t have known where I’d gone. He wouldn’t have been able to react quickly and defensively like Luke did. He might not have been able to keep my heart pumping while he slowly bled out and almost died himself. Things could have been much, much worse.
When Noah finally turns to face me again, I can see the hollow look in his eyes. “I barely knew you, Ave, but I really fucking let you down. And I’m really fucking sorry.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“All the same.”
In the next split second that follows, I decide to forgive Noah. Forgive him properly, and not just say that I have. I don’t do it for him. Not for him. I do it for me, because carrying around this anger toward him is pointless. It’s exhausting and unnecessary, and it serves no purpose at all. I can see how sorry he is. I know it. And having him as a friend right now might be just what I need in my life. I smile sadly, tipping my head to one side.
He gives me a quizzical look. “Uh-oh. In my experience, that facial expression’s never meant anything great.”
I laugh, and for the first time I don’t feel uncomfortable, like I’m waiting with baited breath for something terrible to happen. “Do you have anywhere you need to be right now?” I ask.
“No. Why?”
“Well. We could look up that Chili Con Carne recipe like we’re meant to. And maybe I could cancel my muffin and grab some pancakes instead. I’m absolutely starving.”
******
I can’t sleep. I’ve been aimlessly wondering around my apartment in a t-shirt and shorts, sweating in the abnormally warm temperatures, trying to calm the hell down. Nothing’s been working.
My afternoon with Noah at the café was actually really quite fun. We checked out some recipes online and drank way too much coffee, and when it was time to leave he punched me playfully in the shoulder and told me he’d see me later. Then he turned around and walked away, presumably to find his way home, wherever that is right now, and I drove back to Williamsburg with
a small smile on my face.
As soon as I walked through the apartment door, all that changed, of course. A huge surge of guilt washed over me, and I haven’t been able to shake it ever since.
I pace for what feels like hours.
Sometime after two in the morning, I’m trying to talk myself out of feeling like I’ve done something wrong when a knock on the door interrupts the otherwise silent apartment.
What the fuck?
Morgan? It can only be Morgan. I told Noah about my new place, but it wasn’t like I handed out the address. I don’t know anyone else who would turn up unannounced. Must be Morgan. I half walk, half run to the door and jerk it open, readying myself to ream her out for showing up so damn late. My heart stops dead in my chest when I see who’s standing there on the other side of the door.
Luke Reid.
His black hair is long. Longer than I've ever seen it. It falls across his forehead, throwing his features into shadow. I can still see those eyes of his, though. He’s never been able to hide what he’s thinking. I’ve always been able to look him in the eye and know exactly what’s going on in his head—what he’s feeling, or needing. And right now, when I look into his dark brown eyes, I can see that he needs me. That blatant lust is something I've seen so many times before, and yet right now with him standing two feet away from me on his own doorstep, it feels like the first time. It's been too long. He's wearing a tight black t-shirt and low rider jeans, his ink peeking out of the sleeves of his shirt as his muscles contract. He’s holding himself back. I can tell from the way his whole body seems to be vibrating.
He reaches out slowly and pushes the door open wider. He takes a step forward so he’s inside the apartment now. A foot closer to me. He moves to the side so he can swing the door closed behind him, and all the while he never takes his eyes off me.
I want to scream at him.
I want to lash out at him.
I want to kick him and smash my fists into his chest.
I want to hurt him deeply and irreparably, the same way he’s hurt me.
I can’t, though. I’m incapable. I fall into him at the very same moment he rushes me, wrapping his arms around my body, fiercely crushing me against his body. His tight grip is a good thing; without it, my legs would give out from underneath me and I’d be in a pile of tangled limbs on the floor.
“I hate you,” I whimper.
He pushes me back against the wall, using it to pin me up so he can cup my face in both his hands. His eyes are so intense, knowing, filled with sadness.
“I know. You should,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. So sorry, Avery.” He leans into me even further, aligning his body against mine, and carefully places a light kiss against my forehead. The heat from his mouth is searing hot, burning into me, setting me alight.
I choke out a sob, barely able to draw breath into my lungs. Having him pressed up against me like this is so painful. It physically hurts. Not because he’s being too rough, or too aggressive. No, if anything he’s holding himself back. It hurts because I’ve wanted this for so long, and now that I have it, I’m so angry I could die. And I want so much more.
I lean into him, inviting him to take what he wants. His breath catches in his throat, making a strangled, pained sound as he groans softly. When his kiss deepens, his tongue parting my lips, sliding through my teeth to taste me, I can barely hold myself back. I lift my leg and hook it around his hip; I want to feel the press of him between my legs so badly it’s like an undeniable ache.
He grabs the back of my thigh and rolls his hips, his hard cock grinding against my pelvis and my stomach, his height making it impossible to hit the spot where I need him most right now. I suck on his tongue carefully, and he groans. God, the sound of his groans are almost enough to drive me to madness. I bite down, my teeth digging into his tongue, and he sucks in a sharp, ragged breath. “Oh, god. Oh fuck, Avery,” he gasps. Jerking me upwards in one swift, fluid movement, he takes hold of me and wraps my legs around his waist.
My arms hold tight to his neck, my fingers yanking at the back of his t-shirt as he breaks the kiss. “Off,” I moan. “Please…take it off.”
“Yeah,” he groans against my mouth, licking and kissing at my lips and chin. I tug the shirt up as he moves us to the kitchen, setting me on the counter. He pulls the black material the rest of the way off and throws it toward the stove. Then his hands are on my clothes, gripping the bottom of my tee and pulling it over my head, his mouth finding the nipple of my right breast before I realize what's going on. I slide my fingers into his silky hair and reach with my other hand to undo his belt. I need him inside me. I need him inside me fucking now.
He can sense it. Shifting back for a second, he works himself out of his jeans, swiftly followed by his black, tight boxer shorts. I slip from the counter top and move to touch him, my fingers tingling as I make contact with his hot skin. Fuck, he feels amazing. I have missed this so much. Luke closes his eyes and lets his head drop back, his hands gripping the counter behind him as he thrusts against my tight grip.
“God. God damn it,” Luke repeats over and over again. His voice is full of emotion—sadness, pain and lust all combined together. He hasn't looked at me, but I can hear how badly he’s struggling to keep his shit together. How much pain he’s in right now, despite the pleasure I’m bringing to him. I drop to my knees in front of him and replace my hand with my mouth. I can feel him harden instantly. “What—god, Avery, this—this is too much. I can’t—I don’t—I don’t deserve this.”
He doesn't, but I want to taste him, to memorize the wicked thickness of his cock. I’ve missed him so much, it’s torn me inside out. I want to memorize every inch of him just now in case he ups and vanishes into thin air again.
It’s apparently all too much for him. Luke takes me by the elbow and guides me up. His eyes are shining and bright when I look up at him. He has no right to be upset. He left me. He abandoned me and left me here, alone, in his world, amongst his things, suffering. I should be the one hurting right now, not him.
I slap him. I slap him hard. Anger flashes across his face, darkening his beautiful features. “I guess I did deserve that,” he growls. Fire races through my veins as he picks me up and hurries down the hallway toward my bedroom, where he takes three giant strides and dumps me onto my new bed.
He crawls on top of me and takes my hands, extending them high above my head as he kisses my neck. His body leans into mine, the hardness of his erection rubbing up and down against my pussy through my shorts.
“Don’t—” I exhale. I’m so dizzy. I feel like I’m about to tumble down a steep cliff. “Don’t tease me. I can’t take it.”
“Not until you tell me you still love me, Ave.”
A pained groan escapes me. “You can’t be serious? I don’t—how the hell am I supposed to feel right now, Luke?” I grind my teeth together and jerk one of my hands free, but he’s ready for me, his hand already reaching for my wrist. I gain the upper hand and press my foot against the bed, rolling us over.
He’s had all the control for too long now. It’s time I took some for myself. My t-shirt is long gone, but my shorts are still annoyingly present. I shimmy the soft material over my hips and roll off him so I can get rid of them. I’m naked, then. Completely naked, lying next to him, my chest heaving, breasts rising and falling quickly, and Luke’s eyes are all over me.
“You know I can’t unless you tell me,” he whispers. “And I really, really want to. I love you, Avery. I know you love me, too. Just say it.” He reaches up and palms my breasts, his face beautiful as moonlight floods through the window. My eyes feel like they’re on fire. I’m so close to breaking down, but a part of me won’t let it happen. It’s taken me so long to build up these walls while he’s been gone. It won’t take much for them to come crashing down, and then what? Where will I be once I’m ripped open and raw in front of him.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly.
“Do what?”
“Hate me on the inside and not let it out. You’ve got to. If you hate me and let it all go, you’ll be able to love me again. I know it.”
“All right. Okay, I hate you. I’m so mad at you, Luke.” I start to cry. I can’t hold it back, after all. He slides a hand underneath me, encircling me in his arms, and draws me close to his chest. He smells wonderful, just like he always did.
“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay, I get it. I earned this.”
“You left me. I can’t believe you left me,” I sob.
“Shhh.” He kisses my temple, the crown of my head, the shell of my ear. “Don’t worry, baby. You can forgive me now. Like you forgave Noah, right?”
“What?” I stop sobbing. Suddenly none of this feels right. I lean back in his arms, fighting back the confusion crowding in on me, and I see blue eyes instead of brown. Noah’s instead of Luke’s.
Jesus fucking wept.
No.
Noah smiles at me, brushing hair back out of my face. “It’s okay now. Everything’s as it was meant to be, A stór. Just you wait and see.”
I wake up with tears streaming down my face and the sound of someone hammering on the front door. My hand is down my shorts, between my legs, my fingers slick with my excitement from the first half of the dream. Shame washes over me, quickly followed by the most intense stab of utter dejection I’ve ever felt. I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t. Just another cruel trick of my mind. My subconscious was trying to somehow give me what I’ve been craving so desperately, and it failed to such an epic degree that I almost think I’m going to throw up.
More hammering sounds ring out through the empty apartment. My heart feels like it’s shattered into a million pieces, but somehow I manage to drag myself out of bed and to the front door.
Uncle Brandon is standing on the other side, smiling broadly. His smile slips when he sees the look on my face. “Well I know you don’t particularly like surprises and everything, but I wasn’t exactly banking on this kind of reaction,” he says.
