Tia shoves a chair out of the way and claims a spot on my left, right up close. I shift the one inch I’m allowed and don’t know what the hell to do with my hands. If I sit on them any longer, I’ll never play guitar again.
“I tried to get in to talk to your … to, um, Principal Sanderson,” Tia says quietly against my ear. Of course she did. “I wanted to find out what happened to you, but she wouldn’t see me.” Of course V for Vivian wouldn’t. “When you disappeared and didn’t answer any of my texts, I thought …I wasn’t sure if you’d come back.”
I was at work with a dead phone, sinking into the certainty that I’d lost her. The possibility of her quivering chin and worried eyes never occurred to me.
“Mommeee!” The screech starts somewhere upstairs. “Mommeee!” Propelled on small pounding feet, Tulip’s voice gains speed and volume. My fingernails bend backward against the floor.
“Mommeee! Mommeee!”
“Under here, sweet girl!”
The littlest West drapes over Mom from behind and peeks over her shoulder, showing off every pearly tooth as she tells me, “My daddy woke up yesterday!”
I see it now, a shine of hope on all their faces. They lean toward Mom, all of them overlapping in little ways, touching without thinking about it, breathing each other’s air.
I’ve teleported to an alien landscape where there’s too much of everything. Noise, people, pets and I am at max capacity. I need out. I need out. I can’t tolerate the thud of my own heartbeat or pump of my lungs. I shift left, then right, bumping into Tia. What are we still doing under here? I try to count backwards from fifty, fifty, fifty, fifty. I’m stuck.
Then Mom skewers me on the end of her stare and says, “Gibson, I’m told you’re out of school for the next four days.”
Yup. That’s how I operate. I fuck up and get kicked out of everywhere, by everyone, every time. I hear one of the Things whisper, “Punched him right in the face,” and realize that at least half the people gathered in this cage know what happened in the cafeteria. I watch them closely, expecting censorship at best and physical retribution at worst. When I can’t find anything beyond mild curiosity, I‘m clueless and worried.
“I’m bringing Tia, Mora, and Theo with me to visit with their dad tomorrow,” Mom tells me. I barely hear her. My brain’s buzzing so hard, New Dog quits gnawing on the brown lump to growl at me. I hiss back at him.
“Stop that!” I don’t know who said it. I don’t know if they’re talking to me, but I can’t stop. Tia sneaks a hand onto my back, and my mental seizure is so violent it's a miracle I don’t piss myself.
“The whole pack descending on the hospital is a bit too much at this point,” Mom goes on as if she can’t see me wigging out right in front of her. “Terek has volunteered to stay behind and take care of our little ones, but he’s going to need some help.”
“Translation,” mutters Baby Barbie. “Terek is refusing to go see my dad.”
“Hey, now. Terek works, and can’t get the time off. Gibson?” Mom tries for my attention. “Starting tomorrow, I need to borrow you for the next three or four days. I cleared it with your mother. You’ll stay here?”
CHAPTER 54
Tia:
I tippy toe up the stairs of Principle Sanderson’s garage, using my phone as a flashlight and my heart as a compass.
Taz got a bit antsy in our kitchen today. An understatement. With his body quivering, fingers tapping and eyes manic, he had the look of a cornered animal. My mom definitely offered up the babysitting gig as an excuse to give him a safe place to stay, expecting Terek to handle everything. I know better. Since I’m boarding a plane early in the morning and won’t be back until early Friday morning, I snuck out of the house to check up on Taz real quick.
It’s not like I could sleep tonight anyway, not when I’m finally seeing my dad tomorrow. My emotions are all over the place, and I could as easily burst into tears as hyperventilate. I’m looking for a distraction and know right where to find it.
I make it to the top of the stairs with a quiet creak of the floorboards. I’m relieved to feel the warm red glow from a space heater. I’m startled to see the pale blue glow of his hypnotic eyes, wide awake and watchful. Taz is lying on his mattress, arms behind his head, wearing nothing but black boxers and a gray T-shirt. His legs are miles long, crossed at the ankles, and I tell myself not to look, not to stare, stop eyeing his crotch already.
I give him a little wave and roll my lips between my teeth. I’m the sweaty kind of nervous, which is just so awesome, and it would be really great if he’d say something. Hi, welcome, please ride me like a pony, great weather we’re having, can you believe Stanley Tucci has never won an Oscar, anything.
“Is it OK I’m here?” I whisper.
He nods at me and fails to set me at ease. My heart’s thumping so fast there’s no space between beats. I’m tempted to take off my shoe and throw it at him. Instead, I stand awkwardly and crave his voice. The total silence of the garage is intimidating and begs to be filled with something worth my risk to be here. Can Taz feel it? Does he understand this moment is as fragile as Cinderella’s slipper, and if he rejects me now, I’ll shatter into pieces so fine, he’ll get slivers in his feet if he dares to walk barefoot.
I wait. Seconds shift slowly and land hard. They nearly bury me before he finally pats the mattress with his hand. Thank you, thank you.
I ease forward, and with each step, my every nerve ending prickles. Taking a deep breath, I toe off my sneakers, sit on the edge of the mattress and pull my feet into a position where I’m sort of leaning but have no backrest. It hurts my neck, but I’m determined to seem at ease, even if it paralyzes me.
I look at everything but him and notice scattered guitar picks and empty wrappers that trick me into thinking about condoms when they’re actually for guitar strings. There’s also three shopping bags and a stack of brand new sheets, pillows and some comfy looking blankets shoved against the wall. Why’s he sticking with the scratchy green blanket? Does he not know how to make up a bed?
With a rustle of movement and dip of the mattress, his long, calloused fingers curve ever so gently around my upper arms and tug me backward. I let him guide me and end up lying stretched out beside him, facing him. I like this spot. Looking at him is my new favorite hobby.
Up close, I take in the curve of his cheek, straight nose, soft lips, the face he’d have without the scars. Yes, those angry pinkish lines are a permanent part of him, the first thing everyone notices and uses as his descriptor, but I see the boy underneath. He is beautiful, and I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.
“You shouldn’t be here.” There it is. The voice. Each syllable drags over me, an emory board to the heart, his words stinging even while his eyes say something far different.
“Why not?” My question is too tough for him. He’d need to share his mistaken truths about himself. For a handful of seconds, I watch him cannibalize himself with doubt. Because this boy will never reach for anything, I need to hand it to him.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.” I smile. “And you were hoping I’d show up. Admit it.”
“You’re right.” Two words instead of a nod is progress and nearly as thrilling as the fingertips toying with the back of my hand. I tingle with fresh recognition of the length and proximity of his body, the heat and smell of his skin, how the weight of him might feel pressing down on me.
“So what happens now?” I ask.
“I can’t take you to the dance.” He’s obviously been chewing on that thought for awhile. He spits the words at me, daring me to get mad, his jaw all tight and stubborn, and here is the Taz I first met. I don’t want this prickly version that makes me work so hard.
“No dance. Got it. I can live with that.” I shrug, making it no big deal, even while I remember and feel guilty about how I pushed him in the cafeteria. “It’s OK.”
He kind of shakes, kind of tosses his head and withdraws his touch. My determination t
o be a more patient person wavers, and I consider just grabbing him and kissing him into submission.
Then he mutters something and all I catch is the word, “Unforgivable.”
“What?”
“Me,” he snarls. Somebody’s a piss-cat. Oh this boy.
“You? You’re unforgivable? Is that what you’re telling me?” I rise up on my elbow because I need a better angle. “I don’t believe that. No. You’re not allowed to say that. I don’t want to hear it.”
He shifts and I get a scowl and the eyes. I will never get used to or get enough of those eyes. They push and pull and don’t let go and right now I see something way down deep that I can’t quite reach. It just makes me all the more desperate for it.
“Tell me,” I insist. Has he not learned yet? I am a bulldozer with no reverse. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, just tell me, tell me, tell me already.”
“You’re trying to fix me,” He sounds more defeated than angry now.
“No.” I roll to my stomach, lying half on top of him with my body angled so my chest presses against his, so I can cradle his cheeks in my two hands. “You aren’t some broken toy. This isn’t about fixing. I’m just trying to … trying to … I guess that’s it. That’s all. I’m trying.”
One corner of his mouth ticks up. “You don’t want to screw me back together?”
Taz made a joke. He's flirting with me. My smile tests the limits of my face.
He smiles back, just a little, but I’ll take it.
“How did you chip your tooth?”
He touches the missing corner with his tongue then says, “Tried opening a beer bottle with my teeth.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugs, keeping more secrets and pushing me to the verge of a frustrated scream.
I open my mouth, but he places his index finger against my lips and says, “No more tough questions tonight.”
I bite his finger. His whole body nearly levitates. So I flick him with my tongue, just to see what he does next. His muscles ripple and readjust, pupils dilating into the readiness of a predator, and I swear I hear his pulse. It’s heavy and quick and drags my own along with it.
“Tia.” In that sandpaper voice of his, my name is a warning. Or maybe a promise. Either way, it encourages me to be daring, to slide my fingers through the long, loose strands of his hair, from root to tips. His lashes fall to his cheeks and he tilts toward my touch. Such pretty hair for such a difficult boy.
I scrape my nails lightly over his scalp and watch his chest rise and fall. Goosebumps decorate his arms, and every time he shifts, the material of his T-shirt stretches in a new way, detailing his chest, biceps and abdomen. I am fascinated. And totally unprepared when he suddenly pounces. I squeak and land on my back, staring up at him. He braces his weight on his arms and his hips settle between my thighs. Through my thin leggings I feel exactly what he’s thinking. My belly fills with fireworks, colors ricocheting, sizzling and lighting me up. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath.
“Relax,” he says.
He touches his nose briefly to mine, and his breath tickles my lips. I inhale his exhale as his one hand moves over me, warm and wonderful as a summer breeze. Under my shirt his fingers slip, moving over my belly and ribs to find the lacy purple bra I happened to throw on, which just happens to match my panties, and I straightened my hair and put on makeup. Not that I planned for anything to happen tonight, and should I keep the lies coming? I can’t. I’m incoherent when his mouth settles on mine, so gentle at first.
The tip of his tongue traces the seam of my lips and I let him in. He angles his head, presses and demands more. This is the taste I’ve been craving, his mouth so sweet and hot, and I can’t get enough. I will devour this boy if he’ll let me.
I love that we kiss and kiss, barely surfacing for air, getting lost in each other. I love the drag of his long fingers over my bare skin and the shape of his shoulders beneath my hands. My mind’s already spinning when he flexes his hips, creating the perfect friction. There’s this incredible surge, calling me to push back, and it feels so good, I do it again. He hums in his throat, but he’s not satisfied. He lifts my leg, maneuvering it around his waist, giving him access to drive against me at a new angle, a better angle, an amazing angle. Oh My God. I am nothing but sparkles, nothing but the trail left behind by a magic wand.
Wait.
I don’t say that out loud. I barely think it. The voice of reason is no match for his little bites at my neck or his hands helping themselves. They slide up, taking my shirt with them, all the way over my head and up my arms. He tugs it off, tosses it aside. And he’s not done. He’s shifted into a new gear. The boy who always needs to be pushed and prodded is suddenly racing at warp speed toward the finish line, and before I blink, react, catch up, he’s peeled my yoga pants down to my ankles, untangled them from my feet, and they’re gone.
Panties and bra. That’s what I’m left with. And the heat of his eyes. They are all over me and glowing with dangerous thoughts. While I tell myself to tell him no, to slow this down, the change in his breathing, tip of his tongue wetting his bottom lip has me shivering with anticipation.
“Cold?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly and squirm a little as he crawls back up on the bed. I’m sort of afraid. Not of him but of myself. I can’t be trusted around him. I am reckless in my need for more. When I should back away, I rush forward. When I’ve only scratched his surface, I’m letting him all the way in.
He settles next to me, on his side, and his fingers flutter just above me. Mouth against my ear, he murmurs, “so pretty,” and his voice settles nicely into the softest layer of my heart, like a seed waiting only for his touch to sprout into a neverending tangle of vines. I wait, breathless, and finally those talented fingertips land and entice. They are followed by his lips, dropping against my eyelids, cheeks, collar bone, the swell of my breasts, and I reach for him.
My hands land at his waist, grab hold and discover a little sliver of bare skin between boxers and T-shirt. The feel of him has me impatient, and I clutch fabric, mumbling, “Shirt off, shirt off, shirt off.” I tug but get derailed by his hands cuffing my wrists and drawing them over my head. No! Not this again. I want, need, am so desperate to touch him, this could turn into a wrestling match. I might get charged with assault by the time we’ve established who’s in charge.
His mouth takes ownership of mine, creating some sort of spell over me, making me forget everything else. Lips, tongue and teeth turn me soft and pliant as he shifts his hips into the space between mine and his fingers trail from my knee, up my inner thigh and slide right under the fabric of my panties.
I know what happens next. I want, I want, I want, but … “Wait.” I pant against this mouth. There. I actually said it this time, even if I don’t really mean it. “Wait, wait.”
His fingers still but hover right there, right on the edge of crossing a very important and no take-back line.
“What’re we doing here?” I ask him.
His eyes sparkle back at me, his lips a little swollen from our kisses. He’s more tempting than a cube of cheddar cheese on a cracker. “Whatever you’ll let me do.”
Well that’s honest.
I blurt, “No.”
CHAPTER 55
TAZ:
“No,” she says.
Two little letters but they knock the wind right out of me. I’m an idiot.
I gotta put some distance between us real quick, cuz my dick’s not getting the memo, but when I try to pull away, she crosses her ankles around my hips. Holding me hostage, she repeats, “No, no.”
What the hell? She really oughta come with tech support.
“I’ve never done this before,” she tells me.
I go still and stare down at her sweet face. My mind is officially blown. How did someone who looks like her manage to get this far without some dickwaffle all over her? How did my filthy mitts end up on anything this innocent?
“Say somethin
g,” she prompts.
I am sure of one thing. I don’t deserve to be her first anything.
“Taz? Please.”
“I’ve never played around like this,” I admit, my meaning very different from hers.
“Played around?” I get the head tilt. No idea what she’s thinking.
“Like this,” I add and hope she catches on. I want her to know she’s different. Special, but would rather not explain that unzipping a chick’s jeans and strapping on a condom are about the total of my foreplay experience.
“So that’s what we’re doing? Just playing around?”
She makes it sound like a bad thing, and since I seem to be getting in deep, I keep quiet.
“Am I your girlfriend, Taz?”
Whoa. Didn’t expect that, and it’s obvious my slow response is pissing her off. Maybe hurting her. She’s got it all wrong. I’m just fucken clueless here. Boyfriend? I don’t know all the criteria for the job but no way I’m qualified.
Looking me straight in the eyes, she tells me, “I want a label. A commitment. I like playing around. Like this. But being my boyfriend means you only play with me. I only play with you. I’m not sharing. Those are the rules. You promise Taz, or we call it quits and go back to strictly friends, right now.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really,” she snaps back. She’s wearing her fierce face. I’ll need to go back through this conversation later, figure it out. For right now, I’ll settle for some bullet points.
“You’re mine?” I clarify. She has no idea what she’s asking of me. Keeping any kind of promise to her is stamping my ticket back to juvie. This would be the right time to let this girl go, spare us both a world of hurt, but I hear myself say, “Just mine?”
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 27
