Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  “My …” I stall. Lessons learned the hard way paralyze my vocal cords. Say the wrong word, invite the wrong kind of attention. Clenching my teeth, I curl forward and bang my forehead off the table. Again. Again. Maybe I can rattle some words loose.

  “Stop that,” she says. “Taz? Hey. If you only want to be friends, I can do that. You just need to tell me so I don’t look like an idiot.”

  I straighten and clear my throat, but my voice is full of metal shavings. “OK.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.” She rolls her eyes then pins me. “Are you and Sasha a thing?”

  I shake my head and thank fuck she’s willing to play girl scout and guide me through this conversation, because I’m as helpless as a blind old lady with a tennis ball missing from the bottom of my walker.

  “So you’re what? Screw buddies?”

  I swallow and manage to tell her, “We’re not buddies. Sasha and me. We’re not … I mean, we hook up but don’t hang out or anything.”

  “Oh that’s WAAAY better,” she drawls, not sounding like it’s way better. “Silly me for getting jealous.”

  Jealous? This girl would run out of a burning building and leave her heart behind. Her vulnerability is downright terrifying. I can’t be trusted with it. Oh holy crap. With a little ping in my brain I realize she expects the same from me and is asking me to split myself wide open.

  Just thinking about it has me sweating worse than a constipated orangutang. I’d rather chew off my own foot than talk about counselling sessions, my dad and the rest of my nasty shit. Attempting to buy her off, I tell her, “I didn’t … ah ... do anything with Sasha … tonight.”

  “You didn’t kiss her?”

  “I’ve never kissed her.”

  She blinks back at me, doubting me. It’s the truth. To be blunt, I fuck like an underdog, always coming from behind.

  “When was the last time you and she …” she does the head tilt and adds a wiggle, which I’m guessing is the family-friendly charades version of banging.

  “Before school started.”

  She takes this in, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

  “But you made me think you and Sasha … You purposely sabotaged yourself tonight,” she says, nailing it on the first try. “Why?”

  When I saw her standing in the crowd at the Crypt, the light hitting her blonde head, I can’t even explain the shock, the longing that grabbed hold of me, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Exposing my tender underbelly never leads to anything but excruciating pain. So I thought I should give her up, could give her up. Best for everyone and all that dumbass logic. I was wrong. So wrong. Story of my life, but I usually just suck it up, and I’ve got no practice undoing my mistakes.

  “My life is a mess,” I admit.

  “So is mine.”

  No. She’s standing on shaky ground, feeling overwhelmed and worried, but life isn’t attacking her with claws and teeth from every direction, hell-bent on not only picking her bones clean but sucking out the marrow.

  “V for … My mother wants to send me away.” I pare it down for her. She doesn’t need the details. I’ll pretend I’m sparing her and not myself. “If she gets the school counsellor to agree with her, I’m gone. And I can’t. I can’t go backward. I’d have to take off, disappear, so um … yeah.”

  Her big blue eyes are straight out of some fairytale, trying to make me believe anything is possible. “Can’t you do whatever it is you need to, so you can stay?”

  I look down at the table, at a scab of dried food and chew on my tongue. She has no idea what she’s asking. This isn’t a happily-ever-after kind of story. “No.”

  She stands up so fast, her chair scoots halfway across the kitchen. “C’mon.”

  Am I getting kicked out? I’m not going. No way. Not until I manage to scrape together a better apology. “No.”

  Pressing her hands to the top of her head, she stares at the ceiling and mutters, “Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath.”

  What does that even mean? How can I talk if I’m busy breathing, and why is she so aggravated when I’m the one trying to plead my case to a goddamn hummingbird?

  “Taz!”

  My eyes flick to hers.

  “I don’t want to wake up my brothers and sisters. And there’s a strong possibility of me shouting at you. So, I’m going down to the basement. Follow me if you want. If you don’t …” She shrugs but it’s a sharp jerk of her shoulders. “Let’s just say this cookie has crumbled.”

  She stomps down the stairs, and I can’t keep up. I don’t know where the fat-ass cat comes from, but it works my ankles like a stripper on the pole. I finally hop off the bottom step, catch Tia by the arm and wheel her around to face me. Her eyes go round, and I caution myself to slow down, be careful with her. Since I can’t figure out how to talk to her, I gotta show her and can’t wait another second or I’ll chicken out.

  Real quick, I scrub my palms against my jeans, hoping my hands aren’t clammy when I touch her, hoping I don’t reek like dirty feet and wishing for a time-out so I could go brush my teeth.

  No time, no time. Do it, do it.

  I wrap my fingers around her wrists, pull them behind her and use my left hand to bind them together. Pressing against the small of her back, I meet her hips with mine, so she’s ground tight, and there’s no hiding my want. Her lips part with a little pop of air and set off a vibration in my veins, like I’m plugged into an amp, the frequency buzzing in my blood.

  With my right hand, I dive into her hair, finally get a good hold of those pale strands to tilt her head just right and keep her still. She shimmies a bit, but I strengthen my grip. No way can I have her fingers running all over me like little mouse feet. The look she’s giving me is already scaring me spitless.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I slam my mouth to hers. It takes a second to find the right fit, but I fuse us together, sweep my tongue into her mouth, and god, the way she tastes. I’m starving. I want to eat her, fucken devour every inch of her. Her sweet smell is all over her, all over me, and with my brain chanting, yes, yes, yes, I give up her hair to get under her shirt. I start at the indent of her waist, just above the band of her skirt, and have never felt anything so smooth and soft and perfect in my whole life. My fingers tremble with pure joy as they slide up and over her ribs, learning her shape, thrilling to the shiver of her skin.

  Touching her is life changing. It’s the sensation of sinking into a piece of music, getting wrapped up by a string of notes, and I happily sacrifice reality to the fantasy of the moment. I become someone else, taken to a place of infinite possibility, and I’m greedy and needy. I want everything all at once. Dick throbbing, balls tightening, I grind harder into her, chasing relief as I cup my palm, squeeze her tit and scrub my thumb across her nipple. She jumps and her gasp spills into my mouth like ice water.

  Aw fuck.

  I tear my hands off her. Leap back. Turn away. Curl my shoulders, spear my fingers into my pockets and search for a crack to crawl into and die. I suck, I suck, I suck.

  “Taz?”

  The other girls I’ve been with, it was an effing contact sport. Scratching. Biting. Bruises. Pounding. Selfish on both sides. I’ve never done anything like this. I don’t know how, and now I’ve smeared my dirty handprints all over her. Fuck fuck fuck. I can’t look at her. I need to get out of here.

  “Oh no, no you don’t,” she chants, catching me by the chin. “Not this time. Not after that kiss. You’re staying right here and going to talk to me.”

  The heat of her is more dangerous than standing too close to the sun. My skin is on fire, my brain sizzling, and I can’t ever come back from this moment. So I close my eyes and want her so goddamn bad.

  “C’mon, Taz. Look at me.” Her fingers squeeze and give my chin a shake. “There you are. OK now talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. There is nothing and no one in this world I hate more than myself at this moment.

  “For what? Touchi
ng me?”

  “I shouldn’t …” I’m fumbling and shaking my head when she suddenly throws her arms around my neck, jumps, and wraps her legs around my waist. I stagger back, catching her by the ass and holding her up as I trip over the friggin cat, as Tia pulls my hair and kisses me so hard our teeth knock together.

  CHAPTER 50

  Tia:

  I’m not sure jumping on Taz was my best idea, but the boy needed a push.

  “Couch,” I mumble against his mouth, deliberately catching my teeth on his lower lip. He is magically delicious. Pour him in a bowl, don’t bother with milk, and I’ll have him for breakfast..

  He lays me gently down on the lumpy, musty-smelling couch and drops one knee into the space between my legs. Leaning over me with his pale eyes glowing, he watches me so intently, I don’t dare blink. I’m worried I’ll scare him off. His insecurities, hunger and hope are right on the surface, both obvious and irresistible.

  I reach to tuck his hair behind his ears, tingling with anticipation but don’t get the chance. He circles my wrists with his long fingers, once again cuffs them together and pulls my hands above my head. Even though I tug a little, he won’t let go, which drives me slightly insane. I want to play too.

  Instead, I’m forced to hold still while he lightly traces the shape of my face with calloused fingertips. He strokes my cheek the same way he plays guitar, with complete concentration and reverence. It’s sweet and amazing and excruciating. I need him to kiss me so badly, I finally say, “Please.”

  Taz hesitates. I think maybe I’ll die from waiting before he tilts his head and presses soft, warm lips to mine. I open for him, welcome the almost shy sweep of his tongue and nearly cry when he pulls back. He shifts to kiss the corner of my mouth, my jaw and finds the sensitive spot just behind my ear. This cautious boy is determined to torture me.

  He’s holding back, being careful because I got over excited when he grabbed my boob and moaned. I spooked him. Now, he’s downshifted into reverse, and I’m frustrated. Even though I’ve got no idea how far I should or will let this go, I’m hoping to feel at least a little ashamed of myself before morning.

  I clear my throat and announce, “I wanna be on top.”

  He blinks back at me, totally confused. I’m guessing Sasha Taber lets him move her around like a wheeled suitcase, never getting truly intimate with him. While I’m thankful for that, he and I are going to be something way different.

  “Um …” I try again. “Would you, maybe, lay down and let me touch you?”

  He’s less than thrilled by my suggestion. I’m pretty sure Brandon would pull a muscle in his rush to flop onto his back. Taz would rather donate a kidney. I allow him a second to panic, a moment to finger-twitch, then say, “Trust me, OK?”

  He searches my face for clues.

  I push him just a little. “Trade places with me. Please?”

  Taz lets go of my hands and eases off. I’m forcing him to walk the plank, sending him to his doom, throwing him into shark-infested waters, and he’s moving as slowly as possible. When he finally lays down on his back, left leg stretched straight on the couch and right foot on the floor, he won’t look at me. I can almost hear his body humming with nerves. Great. I’m tormenting him.

  I kneel between his legs, watch his expression flirt with panic, and wonder what’s going on in his head. His teeth hold on to his top lip, and his breaths are shallow and fast, like a frightened child. Does he think I’m going to hurt him?

  “Taz?”

  His eyes lift up to mine. Their pale color is downright hypnotic.

  “Is this OK?” I ask.

  His nod is a lie. He’s not OK. But he wants to be.

  I kiss his face. I start at his forehead and work my way to the tip of his nose, his cheeks, and eyelids squeezed so tight they’re crinkled. I familiarize myself with the prickly bit of stubble on his chin and slightly rough texture of his scars. They are so much deeper than I first realized. They mark his soul, impact every second of his life. When I rest my lips against his, his fingers dig against the couch.

  “I’m not sure if you’re afraid of hurting me ... or of me hurting you,” I say and kiss him again, just a light brush of my lips. “Relax Taz. Just let me. Just feel. I won’t hurt you. You won’t hurt me.”

  Bracing my weight on one hand, I gently, gently ease the other under the edge of his shirt, sliding and spreading my fingers over his long torso, the sharp jut of his ribs and hard planes of his chest. I watch a shudder run through him, actually ripple under his skin and wonder if he’s dying a little more every second or finally starting to live.

  He’s trembling. But so am I. I’m sweaty, and his skin is a thousand degrees. Stretching out so my body lies flush with his, I melt all over him. And feel hard, reassuring evidence trapped between us.

  “Touch me, Taz,” I whisper and dip my tongue into the heat of his mouth. His hips flex, a quick jerk beyond his control, and he makes a sound, a good sound, a low rumble of want and pleasure as one hand cups the back of my head and the other wraps around my waist, pulling me into a desperate kiss.

  Desperate. Yes, we are desperate to get closer, to get more, to feel more. More, more, more. My hands, his hands, both moving, mouths seeking, tongues tangling, we are now in this together. I swear the thrill curls my toes. My heart picks up speed, my breath can’t keep up, and even though this is all new to me, I am bold. Reckless. It’s wonderful.

  So I shift to straddle him, fitting my hips to his so perfectly I might detonate from the delicious friction. Then I peel my shirt off and toss it aside. Thank goodness I’m wearing my pretty pink lace bra. His eyes, his dilated pupils tell me I made the right choice. His fingers lift, reach, twitch and float in the air like timid butterflies. Taking hold, I place his palms where I want them. Immediately, his warm hands conform and squeeze just enough to set off a whole flurry of sensations, and I’m barely coherent as his eyes roll back.

  Falling forward, I take advantage of his mouth again. I kiss him like the survival of the species depends on it, like he’s the last thing I’ll ever get to taste. My fingers drag rough and wild through his hair, and my hips instinctively push against him. Hissing through his teeth, Taz pulls back to look at me, breathing hard, lips a little swollen. He is a sexy mess.

  Right here and now, I want to plant my flag, declare him mine, because I will never get my fill of this boy.

  “We gotta slow down,” he pants. “I can’t take it.”

  “That’s good right?”

  He smiles. A whole one. Both corners of his mouth. The slow spread and curve of his lips is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I did it. I made Gibson Tazmerek smile. And just wow.

  CHAPTER 51

  TAZ:

  It’s nearly eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m beat. I went straight from the Crypt to Tia’s, and we messed around until my balls swelled and my dick could’ve hit a homerun in the World Series. Then I held her while she slept. I watched her the whole time, feeling creepy but figuring nobody’d know, and I couldn’t stop myself anyway. She is so full of light, my chest aches when I look at her.

  I tried making sense of it the whole walk home and still can’t. How did I end up with the deed to one of the natural wonders of the world? Tia West is rare. Or odd. Both. Her heart’s just so goddamn big. I think that makes it even more fragile, and I worry about the damage I could cause without even meaning to. Just by being me. Because the only thing I know about kindness and caring is that it’s never applied to me.

  I jog up the garage stairs, shifting my thoughts to jacking off and catching a nap, but find Step Douche the Super Tool sitting on my bed like he owns the place. Yeah, I know. He actually does own the place, but goddamnit, now I gotta wade through this muddy puddle of shit, let him piss all over me and pretend it’s raining. My good mood is corrupted by the sudden urge to tear out his throat with my teeth.

  He glances from his watch to me. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  No way
I could’ve figured that out for myself.

  After an exhale loud enough to raise the hair on my arms, he twirls his wedding band around his finger. “I spoke with your mother. She’s shared some of what she went through with your father, but not all of it. I wasn’t aware of how bad, how dangerous the situation was, or the depth of the guilt she carries from leaving you behind. Her way of dealing with it has resulted in a very skewed way of thinking. She’s convinced you blame her, that your presence will draw your father here, and she’s scared.”

  She’s right and smart to be afraid.

  “After what I heard on the porch the other day, your mother and I discussed the reality of your circumstances at length and …” Now he finally looks at me in a way I don’t understand, a fresh set of grooves denting his forehead. “I was under the impression you were refusing to stay in the house, eat dinner with us or meet your brother. I believed it was your preference, just you being combative.”

  This is worse than getting pecked to death by chickens.

  “I was wrong, wasn’t I? You weren’t given a choice. You were never made to feel welcome.”

  V for Vivian skipped the party hats. So?

  “Why didn’t you speak up?” He gives me a second and then says, “If you don’t ask for anything or make anyone aware of your wants and needs, you can’t expect anything.”

  Right. Silence avoids the slaps, hits, repercussion of drawing attention. It’s as close to safe as I can manage, and everyone is relieved when I keep my mouth shut. So what the hell is his problem?

  He rubs at his eyes with his fingertips then settles his palms on his knees. “I understand your father is up for parole.”

  Here we go. This is where I get drop-kicked to the curb.

  “You don’t need to worry about it. Gib? Are you hearing me? That man will not come near you or your mother. You won’t need to see him. I will protect this family, my family.”