Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  I actually feel the warmth of the smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Eyes full of wishes, lips full of promise, this girl is pure temptation and resisting is more impossible than breathing through water. “Yes Taz,” she says. “I’m yours. And you’re mine.”

  Other than my guitar, nothing’s ever been just mine. If I acted too attached to anything, my dad either got rid of it or used it against me. We had this dog once, Dad actually named him Leverage, and it got so awful I finally took the dog for a long walk and left him inside the fence at some random house.

  “OK?” she asks.

  Knowing how fucken bad it’s gonna tear when she gets taken away, worrying she’ll become Leverage, afraid to even think about all the nasty shit I’ve done, I hesitate right before I kiss her, really kiss her, giving her the apology I can’t say, the shame I can’t hide, the hunger I can’t deny. I don’t know what it does to her, but I barely remember who I am. Yet I notice her smallest details … the smell of sugar cookies on her warm skin, pale blonde strands spread across my pillow and single freckle along her collarbone.

  Hearing her anxious little whimper, knowing she’s right with me, I pull her leg back around my waist and press my hips into her, once again finding that perfect position to truly torture myself. The whole length of me is pressed to every curve of her, and nothing but her panties are in my way now. That little scrap of lace is no more than a whisper and yet it’s the most frustrating piece of clothing ever designed. I’d like to rip it away with my teeth. I am regressing into a caveman state.

  I tug her wrists above her head.

  I know she’s not real cool with it, but I’m hoping she’ll let me, just for a second, just so my other hand can sweep over the gentle slopes of her body, appreciate her with no distractions. Cuz there’s this line, this long graceful indentation running from her inner arm and along the outside curve of her breast, and it is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My whole body throbs with the need to touch. Lightly. Gently. And when her lips part and the melody of her sigh wraps around me, I tell myself, slow, slow, slow. Be patient. But there’s this other voice in my brain chanting MORE, MORE, MORE. That voice is loud.

  I go for the clasp of her bra, right there in front and take one second to check with a look in her eyes. She gives me a silent yes, thank you thank you, and the purple lacy cups spring apart like magic. Her nipples are small and pink and perfect, and I lower my mouth and sample first one and then the other. I could spend an hour tracing them with my tongue. The sound she makes is the sweetest music, and I’d gladly sacrifice the sun if this night could last forever.

  “Taz,” she whispers, eyes closed, hips lifting. I hope I understand the plea because my right hand is already answering, already in motion, fingers tingling with eagerness as they stroke over purple lace panties. Her heels dig into the mattress, into the rough, snot-colored blanket because I couldn’t bring myself to give in and use the new sheets.

  I can’t get the panties off without letting go of her wrists, so I push the lace to the side and find her hot, wet and ready. I slip one finger inside, fuse my lips to hers and her little whimpers vibrate against my tongue, spread through my veins and grab me by the balls.

  She feels like silk. She feels so fucken good. My hips rock against her thigh, her hips buck against my hand and my finger finds a deeper, faster rhythm. As my belly coils into a knot, I add a second finger and fall into heaven. She’s so goddamn tight and with just the tiniest bit of pressure, in just the right spot, she comes. For me. Christ Jesus, I might lose it just from touching her. That’s new, and I know it’s not just from what I’m doing but who I’m doing it with.

  “Oh my god.” She trembles with aftershocks and then goes limp. Spent. Breathless. Sexy. There’s a flush of pink and light sheen of sweat on her skin, and I want to lick.

  “I didn’t know that was possible,” she mumbles.

  Me neither.

  I squeeze her wrists once before letting go and cupping the perfect contour of her cheek in my palm while I kiss her. Her mouth opens for me and this is what sunlight tastes like. She brightens everything and everyone within a ten mile radius, fills me with warmth, and I will never be the same. No matter how much of her time, her heart, her body she gives me, I will always be left wanting.

  Tia West is so much more than I deserve. She is endless possibility. I am eternal disaster. And as my lips move over and sample every square inch I can reach, I just hope to give back a quarter of what she’s given me. I want to give her everything.

  Right on the heels of that thought, she says, “Will you take your shirt off for me Taz?”

  So much for giving her everything. Shit, shit, shit. I scratch around for a way to refuse, an excuse, something and finally come up with, “Ask for anything else.”

  She stares back at me, her eyes first narrowing in thought then widening with decision. There’s determination in the set of her mouth, in the slight head shake as she says, “That’s what I want and it’s only fair. I want to touch you.”

  I drop my forehead to rest against hers, my head so heavy with defeat I’d drown in two inches of water. Over a shirt. How pathetic am I willing to be? How many normal requests do I refuse before she stops asking?

  I fold my arm, snag my fingers in the fabric at the back of my neck and tear my shirt off. Halfway, I get hung up on an elbow and when she starts to help, I spaz and jerk and make a total ass of myself. Trying with everyting in me to calm the fuck down, I huff and puff and squeeze my eyes so tight that sparks burst behind my lids while she looks her fill.

  She gets a view of knobby ribs and a hairless chest and probably thinks I have yet to hit puberty. She sees me trembling and figures I’m shy or cold or just a complete pussy. Might as well stuff my guts in a blender on high speed cuz I’d be less of a mess.

  “C’mere,” she urges, and I open my eyes to arms reaching and fingers wiggling with eagerness. Her smile’s a little cautious but she’s a fan of pushing my limits. I’m a fan of making her happy, but this time, I’m going to grind her heart of gold into dust.

  Inching away from her, I let my feet drop to the floor and stand up. It’s suddenly way too crowded in here and there’s not enough air. With a whole army of memories invading my brain, my heart drops like a bomb and old wounds burn fresh.

  I turn slowly around.

  I’m expecting it, but her gasp still makes me flinch. I give her four seconds. There’s a lot to take in but that’s as long as I can tolerate it. This is the nitty-gritty of CPS reports and she’s finally understanding why I hid under a stairwell and ate peanut butter sandwiches with her in grade school. I couldn’t change into a gym uniform in front of the other boys.

  Swinging back around, I come face to face with her devastation. Watery blues, hand cupped over mouth, chest hitching with sobs she fights as best she can. That look right there is why she never needs to know my front tooth is chipped from Dear Old Dad shoving me face first into a wall.

  My eyes slide to a safe spot off to the right as her pity ignites a combination of shame and rage quicker than a brush fire. It spreads through me in an instant. Pulling my twitching digits into fists, I fight the urge to lash out and back her off. It’s all I know how to do but not right or even what I want.

  “Will you tell me ….” she starts.

  I shake my head and mumble, “Old history.” I am a liar. Even though my scars are from years ago, that shit still dirties everything I do.

  “Oh Taz.” Her tone is so soft and sad it kills me. “You break my heart.”

  I just keep shaking my head as a slow ragged breath cauterizes my throat. I should be quarantined before I cause more damage.

  “Come here.” She reaches toward me again, arms open and ready to welcome me. I hesitate and she says, “Please. I really need to hold you right now.”

  And I really need to run, hide, turn myself inside out like a stained shirt. I’m not sure I can do this. I’m buzzing with too much adrenaline, and there’s thi
s intense pressure behind my eyes. If I blink, they might leak.

  “Hey.” Her voice floats through me. “Look at me. Taz? Thank you for trusting me, for showing me, but I’m not seeing you any differently. Just with better understanding. We don’t have to talk about it just yet but I’m asking you, please … I need to wrap my arms around you. I need you to hold me.”

  I fidget for a second, rocking side to side, working my way up to it, and then I ease back up on the bed. I hold my body above hers, not really looking at her and trying to touch as little as possible. My skin is all of a sudden hypersensitive, already anticipating the crawl of her hands across my back. Calm down, calm down, get your shit together.

  The air in my lungs solidifies, and I’m starting to recoil when her legs wrap around my hips, both arms curl around my neck and her fingers dig into my hair. She’s quivering, cheeks wet, hanging onto me so tight the world must be falling out from under us. We’re in this together. That’s what she’s telling me. For a guy who’s always been on my own … I don’t know how to describe what this girl does for me.

  Her body creates a cocoon of tenderness, a haven of humanity, and I sink into her, my nose pressing into the fragrant curve where neck meets shoulder, my lips resting against the heat of her skin. We cling for seconds, minutes, an eternity. I feel the gentle push of her heart against my chest, leading mine into a slower, more peaceful rhythm. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.

  When her hands never offer to sneak onto my back, I finally relax. I brush my mouth across her collar bone, let my tongue sample her skin and want her more than my next breath.

  “Talk to me. Please.” I don’t mean to say it, to beg, but I need her voice. It convinces me of possibilities I never knew existed.

  She starts soft, her words catching on the broken edges my existence causes her. “I couldn’t stay away. Not just tonight, but right from the first day of school. No matter what, I’ll keep coming back. And whatever you’re not telling me, it won’t make a difference. Not with the way I feel about you.”

  She’s the child who leaves milk and cookies out for Santa, and I’m the guy who eats them because he’s starving.

  “Kiss me, Taz,” she breathes against my ear. “Make us both feel good.”

  I taste tears on her lips. I learn that nothing more than the deepening of a kiss can bring me right to the brink of control. That craving her this badly chases away every other thought and turns downright painful in the very best way.

  CHAPTER 56

  Tia:

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, how long it’s been since my mom, Mora and Theo went in to see my dad, came back out and drifted off to the hospital cafeteria. I need to lace up my big girl boots, get up off the most uncomfortable chair ever designed and push open the door to my dad’s room, which will not smell like his aftershave, but of antiseptic and sickness.

  Voices come and go, traveling down corridors of beige walls and tan floors. The occasional squeak of a shoe breaks the monotony of fluorescent lights humming overhead. My hands clench the phone in my lap as my leg bounces. I can’t make myself move.

  My family realizes I need to do this my way, in my own time. They are patient and leave me be. I may grow moss and still be here fifty years from now. It’s a process. A slow one. I am pulling myself together an itty bitty bit at a time, grasping at pieces of fear and weakness and trying to fit them into a suit of armor.

  He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake. I repeat this over and over. Take a deep breath. And another. This is good news. Progress. Hope. But still so far from certain. Mom warned us. He looks different, is different, might never be the same. She told us to be prepared. How can I be prepared? This isn’t like keeping a chapstick and pantyliner in my purse. He’s my daddy.

  He carried me on his shoulders, pushed me on the swings, taught me to ride a bike, let me bring home one stray dog after another and sat through the Swan Princess so many times, he knows all the words to all the songs. What if he doesn’t remember them? Things are missing. That’s what mom said. There are gaps in his memory. What if I’ve gotten lost in a gap?

  I curl forward until my forehead rests on my knees. A steady ache pushes against my temples as if my brain is swelling by the minute. When I finally crawled into my own bed last night, I spent my last few available hours crying into my pillow. Now I’m clammy with exhaustion and overripe with way too many emotions. This apple cart has been tipped.

  I tap my phone. I’ve been checking it like I’m getting paid by the incoming messages, sacrificing my dwindling battery life. Frannie, Trish, Renee, Lana and even Shae have all sent me happy thoughts. No one else has contacted me. I now text Taz and ask him if he’s OK. For the sixth time.

  I message Terek next and get nothing but radio silence. Who knows what’s going on at home? How did I let my mom talk me into this? Someone get me a brown bag to breathe into. My thoughts are a car wreck. Hands at ten and two, white-knuckled on the wheel, I’m all tangled up in disaster and screaming where no can hear me. I need to get back. Right now. I can’t do this.

  I jump up right as my mom sits down next to me. She pats the seat of the chair, and I drop back down.

  “I called an uber for Mora and Theo. Sent them back to the apartment,” she tells me. “They’re going to shower, sleep a couple of hours and come back.”

  My mom has an apartment here because staying at a cheap motel became too expensive, and there’s no apparent end to this situation. She officially lives here, a million miles from home, taking care of the man who always took care of us. It’s the reverse of what’s supposed to happen, sort of like her and my dad went off to live in the dorms while Terek and I took over as the parents.

  “Want to talk it out?” she asks.

  I press my lips together. I’m not ready for this conversation, so I shake my head and hope she lets it go. Nope.

  “Even if you hide from the truth, it’s still there. And if you don’t take a chance and face it, you might imagine something much worse.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  She tilts her head and gives me a knowing look. I consider pretending I need to pee, just so I can escape into a stall for a little while.

  “I’m worried about Ten and Hem and Tully,” I defend myself. “And the dogs. Not so much the cat. I bet it’s chaos. The laundry and rides and meals. No way Terek and Taz can handle it. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “So the house is a mess?” She shrugs. “That’s not new.”

  I want to argue but can’t come up with anything. My mom is just too good at it. She is an oasis of calm no matter how big or bad the storm.

  Tipping her head back against the wall behind us, she closes her eyes and lets out a breath that sags her shoulders. My mom’s always been slender, but she’s recently sacrificed weight she couldn’t afford to lose. Looking at her now, it’s like she’s wearing someone else’s face. A lookalike, but not quite right.

  Without shifting position, she murmurs, “You will never reflect back on this moment in time, ten years from now and remember or care if the laundry was folded.”

  She shoots, she scores. One point for mom.

  Rather than waste my efforts on another swing and a miss, I stare at the television bolted in the corner. There’s no sound, but some guy is cutting all sorts of stuff in half with a knife. He slices through a can of corn like it’s butter. Other than a coroner or a serial killer, who needs a knife that sharp? I wait for the price. I kind of want it. I’ll pay anything for a distraction.

  “You snuck out last night,” Mom says matter-of-fact. How does she always know? Is there a secret chip embedded in my ear? “You were gone for hours, and I’ve got a real good guess where you were.”

  I sincerely hope she has no idea what I was doing. I feel a blush spread across my skin faster than a drop of ink hitting water.

  So far, I’ve managed a plane ride, taxi ride and this waiting room without spilling my guts to my mother. Un
til my dad’s accident, I never kept things from my parents. But as much as I’d like some advice, I can’t share Taz’s secrets. And no way can I explain how I happened to see what I saw.

  It started with him taking off his shirt, with my shy boy letting me talk him into showing me the perfect shape of his shoulders, flat squares of his pecs, detailed muscles of his tummy and those delicious hip bones. My mouth went dry as my hands turned greedy. He trembled a little, and I thought that was sweet, that maybe he was nervous. Then his skin blossomed a blotchy red, his fingers went ballistic and he turned around.

  Pyrography is an artform. I learned that from Google after I got home last night. It’s when a soldering iron is used to create burn marks on wood or other materials. Like a leather belt. Or a wallet. Or the canvas of a young boy’s back from shoulder to shoulder, neck to waist. There are words, big and small, precise and sloppy, most of them illegible and running into and over each other in an endless repetition of a phrase, branded into Gibson Tazmerek’s skin. Practice Makes Perfect. He has been permanently scribbled on by a cruel and careless hand.

  This new knowledge adds a crippling weight to my soul, and I’m not sure I can carry it. Over these last twelve hours, hairline cracks have grown steadily into fault lines, and I’m crumbling. I can’t erase what was done to Taz or reconcile the willingness of one human being to inflict harm on an animal, let alone a child, their very own child.

  Every few minutes, a swell of emotion rises up to waterboard my heart, and now I bite my lip hard enough to hurt. I’m paralyzed with helplessness and have no defense but to cling to my silence. The alternative is an explosion of hiccups and snot and sobs. I’ll save that for my pillow. My mom doesn’t need another burden.

  She and I sit and stare at the television, and I bet she has less of an idea of what’s on the screen than I do. Careful not to draw attention, I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes and take two deep breaths, trying to pull optimism back into my lungs and nearly choking on it. I sniff and clear my throat and force thoughts of Taz to the back of my mental closet. He won’t stay there but I can only face so much at a time.