The Flawed Heart Series

by Wade, Ellie

  “I don’t know either. I thought maybe you’d know.” Her response comes out in a giggle, and she winks at me.

  “You’re such a dork, really.” I squint my eyes in mock disappointment when the doorbell chimes. I jump at the sound. Running my hands down my jeans, I say, “Here goes nothing. Bye, chica.”

  “Bye. Be careful. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she calls to me as I exit my bedroom.

  “I won’t, Mom!” I call back as I walk down the hall to the front door.

  “Love you! Be careful!” she yells from my bedroom.

  “Love you! Don’t wait up.”

  I hear Paige say, “Oh, I’m waiting up,” as I open the front door.

  I’m still laughing at my obnoxious best friend when the door swings wide, and I’m met with Loïc’s beautiful blues. The intensity in them is so pure, so focused, that I feel my stomach begin to churn, and I can’t remember for the life of me what I was laughing at a mere two seconds prior. The entire world around me has faded to black, and it’s just Loïc standing before me in his spotlight of godliness.

  I’m a goner.

  “London.” Loïc’s voice is deep and, if I’m hearing it correctly, nervous.

  “Loïc.”

  Our stuffy greetings feel out of place, but at the same time, it’s so…us. None of our exchanges have been typical or followed the usual script of how two normal young twenty-somethings get to know each other. Yet it doesn’t bother me. I think that’s why I was so drawn to him in the first place.

  None of the guys I’ve dated in the past compare to him. He is in his own category of intrigue. He belongs to his own club where he is the only member, and I desperately want to be the one who’s allowed access.

  Loïc runs his hands down his jeans and clears his throat.

  He’s really nervous. It’s just so…adorable. Bad-boy Army guy, who has probably killed someone with his bare hands—okay, I don’t know that; I’m just making assumptions—is scared out of his mind to go on a date with me. It’s written all over his face. The contradiction between his usual hard-ass demeanor and this obviously timid man standing before me is so endearing. I can’t put into words why I find him so fascinating, but, man, I do. He’s trying to put on a show of nonchalance, but in this moment, I can read him like a book, and he’s scared.

  I take a step toward him, closing the front door behind me. Our upper bodies are a breath away. One more step, and I’m sure I could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

  I grab on to his arms hanging at his sides. “Tell me the truth. How close were you to canceling our date?”

  His face breaks into an amused smile. “Pretty damn close.”

  “I thought so.” I grin up to him.

  I’ve never met anyone like Loïc before, but he’s still a guy, and I’m not ashamed to use the skills I’ve been given.

  “I want to tell you something.” Releasing his arms, I place my palms on his cheeks, cradling his face. I stand on my tiptoes and pull his face down to meet mine. Our mouths are close enough that I can feel Loïc’s warm breaths on my lips. “I’m glad you didn’t,” I whisper before I push my mouth onto his.

  Loïc’s body stiffens for a fraction of a second before it melds into mine. His hands wrap around my waist, sprawling across my back and pulling my body closer to his. A groan comes from deep within his throat as his initially tentative lips begin to move with increased fervor. His lips, so perfect in their execution, ignite my entire body with a hum of satisfaction.

  I have to hold back tears as our kiss continues. I feel like crying, which doesn’t make sense, but each feeling within me is on high alert. His lips, our connection, bring every last one to the surface. I’m inundated with dueling emotions—happiness because this is happening, but sadness because I don’t know if it will happen again. Desire pounds loudly through my veins, but along with it is fear. For all the highs I’m experiencing comes equally impactful lows because, though I barely know Loïc, I know he’s broken. It’s too soon, and I can’t explain how I know, but I simply feel it down to my bones that, if this doesn’t work out, if I don’t get to keep Loïc, I will be left broken, too.

  Eventually, Loïc pulls his lips away. He leans his forehead down and rests it against mine. Our chests expand against one another with each deep breath we take as we work to calm our bodies and settle our minds.

  Loïc’s gravelly deep voice breaks the melody of our entangled breaths. “I’m fucked. We’re both fucked. You know that, right?”

  Startled, I take a small step back. When our gazes connect, his eyes darken. A myriad of emotions flashes through them, but I know he won’t share them with me. It doesn’t matter because I see them anyway, and what I see is enough.

  I take a deep breath and grin. “Well, you know what they say. Better to have fucked and lost than never to have fucked at all.”

  His frown morphs into a devastatingly gorgeous smile that leaves my knees weak. “Who says that?”

  I shrug. “Not sure, but they sound very wise.”

  He chuckles. “It’s not too late to back out. You can go back inside and forget all about me.”

  I shake my head. “Not gonna happen.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He takes my hand in his, and we walk toward his truck that is parked on the street.

  I’m giddy that he’s holding my hand and of his own accord. I feel like the nerdy girl in school who is finally getting the quarterback’s attention. It’s a strange place for me to be. I’ve never been that girl. I’ve always been the hot cheerleader whom the quarterback would beg to date. But, with Loïc, I feel lucky that he’s chosen me. He’s a prize, and I won him—or at least, I’m on my way to victory, and there’s nothing else more important to me right now.

  “You know,” he says, “I’ve never met anyone like you, London Wright.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he says as he opens the passenger door.

  I hop up into the truck, and before he closes the door, I respond with, “It will be.”

  A small smile crosses his face as my door closes.

  As I watch him walk around the front of the truck, I can’t help but ponder how serious this is—the start of this relationship or whatever it is that I have with Loïc. This is only our fourth meeting, and each time has been so deep and intense. Maybe that’s part of the intrigue.

  But one thing’s for sure. I’ve never met anyone like Loïc Berkeley before either.

  We’re in the truck for about an hour before we reach our date destination—a drive-in movie theater.

  The drive consisted of a comfortable conversation. Okay, so it mainly consisted of me talking about myself. Loïc isn’t a huge sharer, but lucky for us, I am. I told him about my parents, Georgia, and of course, Paige—my sister from another mister. I informed him of all the places where I lived before college. I talked about my ambition to be a journalist.

  Now, we’re parked with the truck bed facing the giant movie screen. Loïc transformed the back of his truck into a comfortable lounging area. We’re seated on several fluffy blankets, and he brought a handful of pillows to lean against. He packed a cooler of food and drinks. It’s adorable. All he’s missing are the rose petals and candles, and it’d be perfection.

  I’m sitting, cross-legged, watching Loïc get out the food. We have over an hour until it gets dark, and the movie starts.

  He looks up from the cooler. “What are you smiling about?” he asks playfully.

  “You,” I answer simply.

  “What about me?” The corner of his mouth tilts up.

  “All this.” I motion to our surroundings. “It’s so sweet. I’ve actually never been to a drive-in movie before.”

  “Yeah, there aren’t too many left. I found this one on Google.” He puts our sandwiches on plates. “I remember going to one with my parents. I think we were living in South
Carolina at the time. We packed a picnic, similar to this one.” His smile falters. “It’s a good memory.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  He hands me a plate of food. “So, is sweet a good thing?” he questions with an effort to sound nonchalant.

  My heart hurts for him because, behind his tough-as-stone persona, I think he’s a pretty insecure person. I can’t wrap my mind around that because…well, he’s gorgeous.

  “Um, yes, sweet is an amazing thing.”

  I can see the relief on his face.

  “You wanna know a secret?” he asks.

  “Yes!” I answer a little too enthusiastically. I obviously want him to be a sharer, too—apparently, more than I knew. I crave to know everything there is to know about him.

  He chuckles. “This is the first date I’ve ever been on.”

  “What? No!” I practically shriek, which makes him smile.

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I argue.

  “It’s true.”

  I shake my head. “How is that even possible? I mean, look at you!” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.

  “You, London, are my first date.”

  Joy expands in my chest at being the first anything for Loïc, but I still don’t understand it. “Wow. I never would have guessed…” My thoughts trail off to the how and why of this scenario. “I can’t believe you’ve never been with a woman. It’s just—”

  Loïc laughs in his deep timbre. “I didn’t say I’ve never been with a woman. I said I’ve never gone on a date.”

  I wrinkle my brow. “So, you’re not a virgin?”

  He throws his head back, his wide chest vibrating with laughter. “Hell no. Why would you think that?”

  “Because you’ve never been on a date!” I feel the need to defend myself.

  “One does not have to date someone to screw ’em, London.”

  My heart rate accelerates as those words fall from his lips—whether from jealous or lust, I can’t tell.

  “Yes, I realize that happens, but you never took any of the girls you slept with out on a date?”

  “Never.”

  “And they were okay with that?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I never asked any of them.”

  “Out of curiosity, how did you avoid that conversation? Because I know girls, and most girls wouldn’t be cool with that.”

  “Well, after we fuck, I usually don’t run into them again, and if I did, it wouldn’t be a big deal anyway because they knew the deal.”

  Realization dawns. “Oh, so you’re like a one-night-stand slut.”

  “What classifies a slut, London?”

  I throw a slice of cucumber from my plate at him. “Oh my God, you’re a man-whore!”

  “And you’re Mother Teresa?” He chuckles.

  “Well…no…” I stutter. “But I usually get to know the guy between my legs—at least a little bit.”

  Loïc’s eyes darken before he closes them and leans his head back. Eventually, he opens them, and his stare finds me. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

  I giggle. “What? The part about having a guy between my legs?”

  “Yes, that part,” he growls.

  “Why? You don’t like to hear about other guys doing things to—”

  He cuts me off before I can finish, “Damn it, London! Eat your food.”

  I’m sporting a giant smile as I take a bite of my sandwich. I swallow and then ask, “So, are we done with the slut conversation?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “One more question,” I plead.

  His blues hold me, and my heart twists a little.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Why haven’t you ever dated anyone before? There has to be a reason.”

  “I haven’t found anyone who’s worth it.” His gaze pins me with something serious.

  I want to ask, Worth what? I want to ask if he thinks I’m worth it, but I don’t.

  Loïc has shared a lot in this conversation. I have been gifted with one more piece to the puzzle that is Loïc Berkeley, and if I play my cards right, I’m hoping to gain another piece very soon.

  Loïc

  “Fate is a fucking lie, and destiny is its bitch-ass cousin.”

  —Loïc Berkeley

  The conversation moves away from our sex lives, and for that, I am thankful. I barely know London, yet I have the incredible urge to pummel the face of every man she’s ever been with. A rabid beast has awoken in me, and I just want to hurt anyone who has ever touched her. I’ve never been possessive over a woman.

  Why now? Why her?

  I’m not sure of the exact answer. One thing’s for sure. London is different. From the first time I saw her face and heard her voice, I’ve felt something real for her. Maybe it’s an extreme version of lust. If I’m honest, it freaks me the hell out.

  I’m in uncharted waters, and I want out. I don’t do well without control, and where this girl is concerned, I have very little. But I can’t stay away. I tried to cancel today’s date—she was right about that—but I didn’t have the courage to do it. I had to see her one more time.

  I bag up the food we didn’t eat and put it back in the cooler. “Do you want more wine?”

  “Sure,” London replies, handing me the cheap plastic wine glass.

  It’s incredibly cheesy—the picnic, the plastic dishes, the bed of my truck made into some sort of chic country lounge—but she seems to appreciate it.

  I pour her another glass of wine and grab a bottle of water for myself. We position ourselves against the pillows in the center of the truck bed.

  “I’m surprised you’re not drinking. You could use your tipsy state to cop a feel and then blame it on the liquor.” She grins.

  “And that move works?” I counter, raising an eyebrow.

  “Depends on who’s using it, I guess.” She takes a sip of her wine.

  I watch in awe as her cherry lips press against the glass, taking in the liquid. Gah, what the hell is wrong with me? I shake my head to get the vision of London’s throat swallowing out of my mind.

  “I don’t need an excuse to touch you, London. If I touch you, it will be because you want me to.”

  Her eyes go wide at that statement. The corner of my mouth tilts up into a smile. London is such a strong woman, and she goes after what she wants. It’s one of the aspects of her personality that I find so appealing. Yet I love when I say something that stops her in her tracks even if it’s only for a moment. It’s oddly invigorating.

  The movie starts, and we set our drinks on the wheel well, so we can lean back against the pillows. The night air carries a bite, and I cover us with a light blanket. The theater plays back-to-back movies. Both of tonight’s selections are action flicks, which I thought sounded good for a first date.

  I’m on a motherfucking first date. London has another one of my firsts.

  We both wiggle around to get comfortable, repositioning the blankets and pillows beneath us. Finally, I lay my inner arm out, and London falls back onto it, arranging her body tightly against mine.

  Time passes, and I realize that I haven’t followed a second of the movie. Who gives a damn about the movie?

  Instead, I find myself listening to London’s breaths while relishing the way her body feels against mine and the warmth it brings. It’s a relatively still night, but the air that does move around us bears her scent. Her hair smells like vanilla paired with fruity sweetness. She’s also wearing some sort of perfume that’s as intoxicating as it is alluring.

  Everything about this woman fascinates me. No amount of denial or refusal could prevent it. Most confusing to me is, the attributes I find appalling on other women, I find captivating on London.

  I’m losing my mind. That’s all there is to it.

  I take in her facial features. It’s dark, but with the light from the movie screen, I can see her profile. I scan from her chin to her full li
ps and move past her small nose to the long lashes that I know frame the most mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen.

  She must feel the weight of my stare because she turns on her side so that we are facing each other. “Don’t like the movie?” Her voice is a low purr.

  “Something like that.”

  A storm of lust rises inside me. I position myself on my side so that my hands have access to her. I thread my fingers through her scalp. I pull her face toward me, and I meet her halfway before crashing my mouth onto hers.

  The sexy whimper that comes from her fuels my desire, and I deepen the kiss. Our lips nip and pull. Our tongues twirl and taste. Our mouths devour, taking what they want. The kiss is desperate and sensual, loving and rough. It mirrors the short relationship that I’ve had with London—so back and forth at every step, full of equal parts want and fear. Most of all, the kiss is saturated with undeniable need, a need that only London has ever given me.

  Beneath the blanket, our hands roam above our clothes. I feel the feminine curves of her body, and I draw it all in, committing every last detail to memory. I want to know everything about London. I want to remember every inch of her body—each dip, each curve, each beautiful piece. To me, she is perfect, and perhaps that’s why I can’t stop myself when I know I should, why I can’t stop myself when I know I’ll eventually hurt her.

  In my life that has been full of disappointment, I’ve earned the right to be selfish, haven’t I?

  Yet, even as these thoughts fill my mind, I know that makes me as bad as all the rest of the people that I’ve encountered that put their cruel needs above the happiness of others. It makes me a monster. I’m no different. I’m taking what I want when I know I’ll hurt her. What does that say about me?

  I’ve strived so hard to be someone that my parents could have been proud of, someone different than the evil people I grew up with, I’m risking losing it all, losing myself, over a girl.

  But she’s not just any girl, is she?

  And then there’s the voice, the tiny whisper, that is barely audible. It tells me it could be different, I could be different, for her.

  That small voice reminds me of the coincidental meetings, how the universe kept throwing her in my path. Words are heaved into my head—fate and destiny. I loathe those words because, if they were real, if they existed, then that means I was meant for the life I was given. I was meant to experience such sorrow and pain. And that doesn’t sit well with me. No child should go through a fraction of what I did. Fate is a fucking lie, and destiny is its bitch-ass cousin. They hold no place in my world because, if they did, if I were destined for such loss, I probably would have given up a long time ago.