Instead, fire ignites in my chest and radiates through every molecule in my body. Fire from feeling his lips on me again. But also because he did it to use me as a pawn. And I am no one’s pawn. How can desire and anger be so in unison? I don’t have the answer, but they both flood my veins like the Nile. Fuel my indignation. And slowly steal every bit of happiness I had about having a night out with friends.
I stare up into his eyes, his face a look of victory. But I am ready to slap it right off his pretty little lips.
Pressing up on my toes and leaning toward his ear, I whisper-hiss, “If you ever try to use me like I’m some sort of prize again, you’ll wish you’d never returned here.”
I step back and set my expression to a level so frigid he shivers. We stare at each other a minute. His eyes never leave mine. They ask me a million questions regarding me and Jonas and him. But I hold my ground. Jonas is my friend and I made that abundantly clear to him when I invited him. If he can’t handle me having other men in my life, then this second chance at whatever will end faster than it began.
He nods and his lips move without sound, I’m sorry.
I give him a tight smile and return to my friends. Erin joined us sometime during that whole showdown. Sitting between Jonas and Erin, I watch as Shelly types names on the screen—giving each of us an alternate identity.
I have been dubbed “The Raven.” Shelly “The Queen.” Jonas landed “The Machine.” Erin bows at “The Peacekeeper.” Micah gets “The Asshole.” Because that is what happens when your sister picks your name. And Gavin receives “The Dreamer.”
Everyone except me questions their names and tells her to change them. The raven suits me on many levels, and the temporary nickname perks my lips. First and foremost, black is life. Second, intelligence. No doubt there are plenty more sufficient reasons, but I will just stick with those two.
Once everyone stops antagonizing Shelly about name changes, bowling balls are chosen and the game begins. Five minutes into the first game, the bright fluorescent bulbs go out and are replaced with black lights and flashing party lights. A DJ belts out of the speakers and prattles on about people coming to the booth for music requests.
The first of many remixed or electronic songs comes on and I start bopping in my seat. Erin currently rolls her ball down the lane, a sad puppy expression on her face when she turns after only knocking one pin down. My hand comes up in a rock on gesture and I smile at her in encouragement. Her next ball yields seven more pins and she walks away with a smile.
“That’s my girl,” I holler. Her beaming smile is the best response and I put my hand up for a high five.
Frames are played and pitchers of beer and greasy pizza get ordered as laughter and goofiness ensue. For the next two hours, everything goes well. No testosterone battles. No bitching. It almost feels like old times.
Until one minor touch.
I grab my ball from the return, shift into the approach area and line my feet where I typically set them. Lifting the ball, I hold it steady and study the pins in front of me. When ready, I take a left-right-left, followed by a swing back and release as I swing forward. Normally, the ball would glide off my fingers and spin down the lane, the marble pattern hypnotizing on its path to the pins.
But that is not what happens.
What actually occurs is left-right-left, swing back, a smack to the leg and a twist of the ankle as the ball flies backward. It hurts like a son of a bitch and I cry out as I crumple to the floor.
Within seconds, Jonas is at my side, asking if I am okay. When I let him know I will be fine and I just need to sit a minute, he offers to help me up. Up to this point, everything is okay and I realize this because Gavin and Micah had walked off to get more beer.
The moment I stand upright, Jonas steadies me with both his hands resting on my shoulders, his eyes scrutinizing my face. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. Thanks for helping me up.”
And that is when it happens. When the shit hits the fan.
Jonas brings his hand to my cheek, brushing his thumb along my cheekbone and down to my jaw. He tugs lightly on strands of my hair before swiping them behind my ear. The gesture is tender and sweet and is taken away the second Gavin is within eyeshot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Gavin rages, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“What’s your deal, man? She just hurt herself and I was helping,” Jonas charges back.
Gavin takes two steps closer. “I can see you helping. Keep your fucking hands to yourself, asshole.”
What the actual fuck?
“Gavin,” I soothe. “Jonas was helping me. I hit my leg with the ball and fell. He was making sure I was okay and helped me stand back up. You’d know that if you were here.” My voice transitions from soothing to bold to anger in a flash.
Who does he think he is? He has no hold over me. He has no right to step in and assume the role he is taking right now. That role was extinguished when he stopped calling and writing. That role was extinguished the day he abandoned me.
He steps up to me, looks me square in the eyes, ignoring the fact that Jonas is less than two feet away. His eyes bounce back and forth between mine as he searches my face for answers. Answers to questions he has been dying to ask me, but is scared to know the truth. If he wants the truth, he will need to man up and ask what he is so desperate to know.
“Please,” I beg then close my eyes. As much as I would like to continue staring into his mesmerizing eyes, I can’t focus when I do. I continue speaking with my vision shielded. My voice just above a whisper. “Please stop doing this. You can’t do this. You can’t come back after thirteen years and act as if nothing has changed. Everything has changed.”
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I pinch my eyes tighter a moment before opening them and refocusing on his face. His face is inches from mine, and it is both exhilarating and unnerving. In my periphery, I notice everyone has moved away from us. Even Jonas.
The music morphs to one song then another, and we stand in silence. His eyes hypnotize me more with each passing beat and I swear he is figuring out a way to imprint his soul onto mine. Little does he know, he already has.
And when his finger traces the line of my jaw, I stop breathing. My eyes close and I wish on every star I have ever seen in the night sky that he will kiss me. But he doesn’t.
He leans forward, his stubbled cheek lightly scrapes against mine, and whispers in my ear. “Not everything has changed. At least not for me.”
He doesn’t pull away from me. His warm, cotton-covered chest presses against mine and I feel the acceleration of his breathing—on my chest and at my ear. Calloused fingers traipse, with the slightest pressure, from my upper bicep down to my elbow and follow the lines of my forearm until he reaches the tips of my fingers. His fingers leave a trail of sparks everywhere he touches me and I can’t ignore the swirl of energy erupting in my body.
“Gavin…” Fuck, I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
His breath is hot on my ear. “I won’t come out and say it, but my feelings for you… if anything, they’ve only gotten stronger.”
No. No, no, no, no. He can’t do this. Not now. Not after all this time.
My brain jumbles into a fog of confusion. How can this be happening? It took me years to get over him. Years. To accept that he was never coming back. To accept I would never have the same connection with another person like I did him. Accept that I would exist among my friends and become some old cat lady.
And then he waltzes back into town—although it was his job that brought him and no other reason—and acts as if it is okay to resume his role beside me. It is not so simple.
It sounds strange, but I mourned his loss. Literally mourned him. Laid in my bed for weeks, aside from school, and cried until the tears would no longer fall. I lost sleep over him, far too many hours to track. This went on for months. So many months it was almost a year before I stopped crying for
him. But the crying wasn’t the end of it. It got replaced with well-disguised depression. Depression that still lingers to this day.
I won’t let myself be that girl again. He can’t do this. Make me fall in love with him again and then hop on a plane and fly back to the other coast. I won’t survive. Not again.
Coolness replaces the heat of his breath at my ear, but I know he hasn’t shifted far because his chest still rises and falls against mine. Not knowing what I will see, I take a chance and open my eyes and am met with the softest gaze. His grays spill into me. Plead with me. Implore me. Their silky silence calls to my heart and begs me to be something more. Begs me to be vulnerable for him again. And it hurts that I want to. So much.
“You can’t say that. Not to me.” The harsh scrape of my own words is an unfamiliar sound to my ears.
His eyes hold mine as he weaves his fingers between my own. “Why?”
“Because you can’t say things like that and then leave me,” I blurt, my body trembling. “The last time you left.” My voice breaks. “It took me a really long time to find myself again. And even after I did, there were still days I lapsed. If it happens again…”
His eyes darken as he studies me. If he moves two inches closer, his lips will be on mine. And as much as I long to know how it would feel again, I fear the consequences my heart will endure.
“I’m sorry how things happened last time. You know I had no control in that scenario. But now…” He takes my chin between his thumb and first finger. “You and I have all the control.”
“Do we?” I counter. “We live almost three thousand miles apart. How do we have control?”
The pad of his thumb brushes over my lower lip, causing me to close my eyes and suck in a breath. Blood whooshes loudly in my ear. My fingers tighten around his. Adrenaline parades throughout my body as flutters swarm beneath my sternum.
“What if we didn’t live so far apart?”
Red and yellow lights spin circles around us when my eyes bolt open. Hundreds of people hurl globes of plastic-resin along oil-slicked hardwood in the hopes of knocking over wooden pins. Music wails from speakers and I have zero clue as to what is playing. Our friends resumed bowling without us, presumably playing our turns when they came around.
“What?” I stumble. The question is twofold. One—did I hear him correctly? Two—is he suggesting what I think he is suggesting? That one of us moves?
“It’s something I’ve thought about for a while now. The only reason I moved away was because I had to. That’s not a sufficient enough reason for me to be there anymore.”
My mind dizzies with his confession. Part of me is ecstatic at the possibility of him moving back to Florida. Another part of me is wary. Wary things can never go back to how they were, regardless of how either of us feels.
“But how? Your job. Friends. Life,” I ramble.
His thumb strokes my lip again and he moves a breath closer. “I can do my job from anywhere. As it is, I’m almost never home. I fly somewhere new every week or two. But I’ve stockpiled and I can lessen how much I work. As well as be pickier about the shoots I do. The few friends I have there will understand. Believe me. And my life? It has never been in Cali. I may live there, but my life is here. Always has been.”
This is too much information all at once. My free hand comes up to his bicep and I brace myself against his weight. I can’t get my hopes up. Not again. Not after last time.
“I need to sit down,” I tell him.
He helps me to a seat and squats down in front of me. The look in his eyes says three words I haven’t said to another soul since he left. And right now, it is way too much.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he stammers.
I memorize his expression and then drop my head in my hands. “I’m thinking this is going to slay me in the end. That I’ll wither and crumble.”
His fingers play with the strands of my hair that cover my hands. It is a balm to the conflicting emotions that spiral around my heart. And I temporarily relish in the feel of such an intimate gesture.
“I won’t let that happen,” he promises.
My head jerks up. “How can you be certain? How can you make such a colossal vow?”
His eyes lock on mine, assurance backing his words. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve wanted since I was forced to leave you. Cora…” he says as he strokes a hand down the side of my face. “You are everything to me. You are the reason I breathe.”
I drop my head back into my hands, hiding my face from the world and convincing myself not to cry. After a few minutes, I inhale deeply and force myself upright. When I check the time, I realize an hour has passed and guilt washes over me at how I have abandoned my friends.
“We need to continue this conversation, but not now. Right now, I need to drink more and throw a ten-pound ball. I need to hang out with my friends. Okay?”
He nods and stands up in front of me. “Okay,” he whispers as he kisses the top of my head.
We turn back to the group and talk with everyone. The night has morphed into an awkward ball of tension. No one is sure how they should act or what to say. But I do my best to ignore the weirdness and continue bowling and drinking.
But when the night ends, everyone is quick to leave. Too quick. And, unfortunate for me, I am too inebriated to drive and Gavin is the only person standing beside me.
Fuck. My. Life.
Chapter Fourteen
Gavin
Since I took an Uber to the bowling alley, I assumed I would leave with Micah. Assumed he and I would hang after. But that is not how things happened. Instead, Micah changed his shoes and headed out without a word. When I shot him a text to check on him, his response was lackluster.
Micah: We’ll catch up another time bro.
Lame. But after the whole debacle in the bowling alley, I don’t blame him. And I am a shitty friend for ignoring him most of the night. Something I need to correct. But not now.
Because now I am driving Cora’s car and following her slurred directions. Toward her house. Just me and her. Alone. And my nerves zap like live wires.
Not so sure this is the best idea. But there was no way in hell I would let her get behind the wheel when she consumed close to a pitcher of beer after our talk. Erin or Shelly could have driven her home, but then she would have had to worry about her car tomorrow.
It is easier for me to drop her home and catch an Uber back to the hotel. To make sure she gets home safely. To make sure she gets inside and locks the door. At least that is what I keep telling myself.
She slurs from the passenger seat as she points like a madwoman at the exit sign. “Take exit Drew. Snot so much traffic,” she snorts. “I said snot.”
I shake my head and laugh at her. The last time I saw her, we were too young to drink. Not that age stops people from drinking alcohol, but we didn’t back then. Seeing her like this, I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.
Is this a normal thing for her? Going out with her friends and getting hammered. Does she drink heavily and drive after? Does she get wasted with that Jonas prick around? My blood boils at the idea. Has he tried to make a move on her while she was tipsy or drunk?
Fuck.
Just the thought of her with another guy pisses me off. Not like I expected her to not move on or see other people after everything. Hell, I did my best to soothe my crippled heart. Had meaningless sex with countless women. Tried to date. None of it stuck, though.
But seeing another man near Cora—his interest in her far beyond friendship—was a smack in the face. My blood turned molten and I was pumped and ready to kick his ass. If she hadn’t been there to stop me, I probably would have and regretted it later.
What intrigues me most is how Cora thinks this Jonas prick only wants to be friends with her. Is she blind to the way he looks at her? Or how eager he is to touch her? Their hug earlier… the way he stroked her cheek and hair after she fell… Fuck. Either she is oblivious or doesn’t want to believe.
I can’t let these thoughts fester inside me. I need to know what sort of relationship exists between Cora and this Jonas guy. She doesn’t owe me anything, and I would be shocked if she answers me, but I have to ask.
“Hey,” I start, and she looks over at me. “What’s up with you and this Jonas guy?”
She tilts her head to the side and remains silent in the passenger seat. After a minute, she starts laughing. At first, it is her typical laugh, but then it morphs into hysterics and snort-laughing. And then she laughs at her own snort-laughing. It’s kind of cute.
This goes on for another minute until she tells me to turn left at the next light. We take a left and another left a couple blocks later. Less than a quarter mile later and we are parked in her driveway.
She still hasn’t answered my question and I wonder if she even remembers I asked it. We sit in silence after I cut the engine and neither of us moves to get out.
“He’s just a friend,” she whispers into the quiet, her voice somber. “I know he wants to be more than friends, and it’s crossed my mind on occasion, but we’ve been friends too long to ruin it. At least that’s my opinion.”
She sounds more sober than she did fifteen minutes ago and I wonder if it is the topic at hand or if she wasn’t that drunk to begin with. I don’t plan on asking her. But if she will keep talking, I will probe for more.
“If he asked you,” I hesitate, unsure if I want to know her truth. I search her eyes, wondering if she can read me in the darkness of the car. Her eyes used to read me like a book. She knew all my answers before I did. Knew all my tells. “If he asked you, would you guys be together?”
Her silhouette is all I see in the car as a light on the back of her house casts an aura around her. I am unable to see what she thinks, but I feel her eyes scan over every part of my face. Look into the windows of my soul. Wonder what would provoke me to ask her. Memorize the curves along my cheekbones in search for a twitch or indication of doubt. She studies the line of my jaw and waits for me to speak more. I may not be able to see her face, but with the angle of the light I know she sees mine.
Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) Page 9
