by A. J. Logan
Tracking him, I watch as he pulls a chair out for Belinda, making a complete show of it before sitting down next to her. I hate him. I resume my seat, struggling to swallow down my anger. Holding my arms across my chest, I seriously debate going over there and yanking the chair out from underneath him.
“We can go somewhere else,” Dalton says, making me feel even worse.
“No, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting my brother and his friends to show up, especially one in particular.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, totally.” Not. But I don’t want Elliot to destroy what’s left of my date. I’m trying to enjoy myself, and have every intention of doing so—I will not let Elliot Bass sabotage my plans. Again.
“So, he’s your brother’s friend. I was a little curious when I saw the mysterious sketchbook buyer at your house.”
“Yep. His mom is big into art,” I say, hoping he will think that was the reason Elliot went on a buying spree. “She’s the one who helps me with my art, but she hasn’t been around lately.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Hopefully, that’ll change soon.”
He gives me a sincere smile as he says, “I hope so.”
“Your table is ready.” The hostess signals for us to follow. Thankfully, there’s some distance between our table and the party of idiots, but that doesn’t suppress the loud whooping and laughter floating through the otherwise serene restaurant. My guess is if it were anyone but dumbass Bass, they would’ve been asked to leave already, but his grandpa has more clout than all of us other patrons combined.
Once we have a seat at the table, I keep my eyes forward, ignoring the ruckus across the room. Striving to enjoy noncomplicated conversation with Dalton, I discover there’s only one thing we have in common—art. We’ve finally made it through the main course of our meal when Dalton reaches over, casually resting his hand on mine. He’s telling me about the time he unsuccessfully painted a picture of a bird that ended up looking like a blob instead. I laugh, genuinely enjoying talking everything and anything art related with him.
“Isn’t that right, Victoria?” a loud voice booms across the restaurant. I jump, reflexively jerking my hand away before turning to glare at Elliot, who is more than pleased with himself for interrupting my pleasant conversation. Thankfully, the server walks up to remove the empty plates from the table and asks if we want dessert.
Looking to me, Dalton makes the best suggestion ever. “Would you like something from here? Or, we can go to this fabulous ice cream shop just a few blocks down?”
“Ice cream sounds wonderful.” And so does getting out of this suffocating room.
Asking for the check, Dalton insists on paying before we make our way outside. After waiting a few moments for the valet to retrieve the car, I gladly drop into the tranquility of the car, dropping my head against the seat as Dalton slides into the driver’s seat and heads straight to the quaint ice cream shop just down the street.
There’s an awkward silence between us as we step up to the counter and order two cups of ice cream. Grabbing them, we step back outside to sit at an open table. Dalton makes small talk—he must be used to it with his job—and we enjoy our dessert in peace before tossing the empty cups and making our way back to his car. The awkward silence returned on the drive to my house, and as he pulls to a stop, I’m grateful to step out of the car. But not before he’s booked it to the passenger side, opening my door just as he’s done all day. His hand lightly grasps my arm as we walk up the stairs to the oversize red door of my house.
“I had a really great time today.”
“Me too,” I reply, guilt weighing on me since I know we both could’ve had a better time had the evening not been hijacked by a lunatic.
“I have a full schedule the next few weeks with classes and helping out at the studio, but I’d love to take you out again.” He senses my hesitation and continues graciously, “If and when you’re ready for a second date, just let me know.” He reaches up, feathering his thumb over my cheek, the same one that Grant had slammed into the locker. Thankfully, it hadn’t bruised too badly and only needed a thin layer of makeup to cover, but it reminds me of why Dalton deserves better than my partial attention.
“I’d love to, I just need a little time.”
“Take all the time you need,” Dalton whispers, bending forward to place a tender kiss on my cheek. “Good night, Victoria.”
“Good night,” I reply, watching as he gives me a reassuring smile before walking down the stairs. Sliding into the house, I head straight to the solace of my bedroom. Unfortunately, misery is perched on the end of my bed, waiting.
“Get. Out.” I step aside, pointing to the hallway, but Elliot just gives me a shit-eating grin.
“Back early from your date with art boy.”
“Dalton. And you had no right to show up tonight.”
He stands in front of me, his lips near my ear as I feel his warm breath on my skin. “Perhaps, but I doubt Dickie stood a chance either way. Or perhaps, he does because there’s no intense, red-hot appeal there. One that makes you want to fall apart by only the touch of his hand, coming undone before you leave him high and dry.”
Clenching my teeth, I turn my head looking to him, feeling nothing but disdain and annoyance, everything about him clawing at my nerves. “His name is Dalton, and he stands a much better chance than you ever will.”
“Never said I wanted one,” he snickers, strolling out of my room.
“Then it shouldn’t be that hard to stay the hell away from me.” I know he hears me because his posture stiffens as he walks away. Dickhead. Slamming the door behind him, I lock it and head straight for the shower, locking that door too. I want to have as many barriers between us as possible because the jerk is driving me insane.
I hurry through my shower, quickly pulling on a cotton tank and a pair of sweatpants. Grabbing a sketchbook that had arrived in the mail, I head to the balcony with my charcoal pencil in hand and earbuds in place. Cranking up the volume to avoid any likelihood of hearing a knock on my door, I hope to drown out my thoughts in the process.
22
Elliot
Everything had been going fine. I’d stayed away from her all week. My mere existence had been enough to taunt her, so I’d backed off, fearing I wouldn’t be able to contain myself around her after the dreadful show to interrupt her date last weekend. Asher seemed to buy my story about how I suddenly found myself with a reservation at the same restaurant, but thanks to the showdown in the hallway today, he’s less than convinced that nothing is going on. His heated gaze is still fixated on me, waiting for answers I’m not sure I fully comprehend.
“What happened? I know it involved Quinn, but I want to know what was said that you made a scene over and had my sister running off in tears.”
“She was defending Quinn and Allison was being herself—a bitch.” Truth, but what I was still confused by was Victoria’s reaction to Allison saying someone else was screwing “my side piece,” no doubt referring to Victoria. I’m certain that nothing happened but normally, Victoria would retort with an equally snarky comeback, not lunge for Allison then break down in tears afterwards. And I kind of feel bad for holding her back since clearly something struck a raw nerve with her, because she doesn’t resort to fighting … like I do. It just doesn’t make sense for her to have such a heated reaction to Allison’s statement. I don’t want to believe there’s a reason behind it, but if there is, I want to know. From the way Grant had her pinned against the locker and the fear in her eyes, I worry there is something she isn’t telling me. What I can’t do is explain any of it to Asher because it’s all tied to the disastrous day I first kissed her.
“That’s it?”
“Yep. Allison was spewing lies to Quinn, trying to convince her that you were doing the nasty with her of all people, then Victoria and I called her out, so she was pissed at all of us.” I know throwing in the fact that Allison wanted Quinn to believe they were s
crewing should distract him and it does just enough that he stops questioning, but still doesn’t seem convinced that’s the full story. I can relate.
“Did Grant put her up to it?”
“Don’t think so.” The weasel has been scarce since our locker room run-in, but I wouldn’t put anything past him. “I think it was just Allison being herself, but I’m guessing she will back off of Quinn now that she knows she’s full of BS.” Much like myself.
He nods his head, stiffly walking out of the room. I don’t know where he’s going but I’m glad to be done answering questions. I have so many of my own that I don’t know which to ask first, so I do what I do best—grab a bottle of whiskey, turn it up, smother out coherent thoughts.
It’s working well, as I find myself at her door, looking in to find it empty. Heading downstairs, I search around but she’s nowhere to be found until I hear the shouts coming from outside.
Asher yells at Victoria, asking her what’s going on and something about lying to him.
Victoria stands firm, her face unwavering as she screams back, “Nothing is going on. Allison is a bitch. End of story.”
Looking unconvinced, Asher scurries off in a huff. Victoria retrieves her phone, clicking away on the screen, her mask of resilience slipping by the second. Once I spot her wiping her cheeks and the tears streaming down her face, I’m out the door, not caring who sees me. I have to check on her. Tell her everything is going to be fine because sometimes I’m not so sure myself.
Catching sight of me heading in her direction, she rushes past, but I reach out, clasping her forearm, pulling her to me as my body craves to touch every part of her, inside and out, even when she looks to me with pure hatred. “Let go of me. Now.”
My hand releases her, but her heated gaze remains intent on me.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You’ve done more than enough to make sure I’m miserable so do not pretend to care about me being okay now.” She stomps away as I watch her disappear into the house.
“But I do,” I whisper, aching to follow her. If I do, I’ll probably make it worse; but if I don’t, I’m just like him.
Dashing through the house, I catch up to her as she steps into her bedroom. My hand slams against the solid door, obstructing it from closing as she glares at me. “Go away.”
“Are you okay?”
“You’re unbelievable!” Her arms fly up into the air as the door opens, she quickly spins facing away from me. Her voice is strained and her shoulders shake with a quiet sob that rips clear through my soul. “Please, Elliot. If you care anything about me, just leave me alone.”
I should leave her alone. But I can’t.
“He never asked if she was okay.” The words spill from my mouth, feeling like they belong to someone else.
“What?” she asks impatiently, spinning around with an exasperated expression.
Stepping to her, I cup her cheek against my palm as my thumb wipes her tear-stained skin. “My dad. He’d see my mom crying, sobbing uncontrollably, and he’d just walk away. He wouldn’t ask her if she was okay … and sometimes I wouldn’t either. I knew the next morning she would wake up and be back to her normal self, smiling and cheerful. I didn’t know it was a mask. I thought she was okay.”
Her eyes close as she leans into my palm, taking a deep breath. “It wasn’t your fault, Elliot.”
“I should’ve asked. I shouldn’t have walked away from her.”
“Stop. Stop blaming yourself. There’s no way you could’ve known.” Her eyes slowly open, a tear streaming down her cheek. “I was with her just as much and I didn’t see it.”
My thumb brushes across her cheek, wiping the fallen tear from her skin. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Searching her eyes, I see sympathy, remorse looking back. That’s not what I wanted. My hand drops from her face as I turn to walk away.
“Are you okay, Elliot?”
“Yep,” I respond, not looking back.
“Elliot, wait.” Her words stop me, but I still can’t turn to see that look on her face. And I don’t have to because she steps around me, the expression I’d been avoiding manifested in front of me, blocking the path to the door.
“I’m fine. Save your pity for someone who needs it.”
“It’s not pity.”
“Sure it’s not.” Reaching around her, I pull the door open, and she finally moves to the side.
I’m fine. I’m good. I just wanted to make sure she was okay, but she turned it around on me, twisted it to a pity party. I resume my roll, bottle in hand, as I plaster a smile on my face. I’m anything but okay, I still don’t understand my mom’s decision, and I’m not sure I want to because I might be part of what pushed her to it. Tilting the bottle back, I escape the only way I know how but quickly decide it’s my last drink for the night. If I get too far gone, I’ll have a harder time resisting what I’m already longing to do—return to her. When Asher huffs back into the room, giving me a blank stare, I smile the smile everyone believes is real as I hold the bottle up in the air. He sits next to me, snatching it out of my hand without a word. And I’m grateful. The faux-happy smile I can do. The words to back it up are out of the question.
23
Victoria
Stepping out of the shower, the conversation with Elliot is still front and center in my mind; his words on repeat since he walked away. He blames himself for what happened to his mom. It took everything I had not to tell him to go see her, talk to her, ask her the questions—she might not have answers for them, but he needs to speak them aloud because it’s obvious they are troubling him deeper than he’s willing to admit. Is he really okay, or is he wearing a mask too?
It’s the question that plagues me as I pull on a T-shirt and pair of cotton pajama shorts. I doubt I’ll get a straight answer even if I ask. He’d shut off as soon as he thought I was pitying him. I just don’t know what to say to him because words won’t help. Climbing into bed, I lie there for a while, considering if I should go find him, but figure it’d be pointless. Once his mind is made up, that’s it. When Elliot wants something, it’s his way or no way, and he will accomplish his goal by any means necessary even if it’s something as simple as wanting to have a conversation. When morning comes, I’ll do the same. My stomach churns as I make the decision to confess about visiting his mom, and I can’t help but think it would be worthwhile for him to do so as well, at least I hope so.
I’ve finally dozed off but am awoken by the bed shifting next to me. My eyes dart open as I pull the comforter up and scoot back in the bed as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Elliot. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, his face in his hands.
It has to be hours later, but I’m unsure, only knowing it’s still dark outside. Sitting up, I watch as he remains motionless.
“Elliot,” I whisper. Hands dropping, he turns to look at me with tired eyes, like he’d been sleeping or that he really needs to. And my guess is he’d already tried to get some rest because he’s shirtless, wearing only pajama pants, and his familiar freshly showered, comforting scent lingers in the air. Though he looks anything but refreshed. “What’s wrong?”
“I just want to sleep. Just one night without reliving it.” Exhaustion is evident as he rubs his hand across his face, cussing under his breath.
“I’m sor—”
“No. Don’t say it.” Turning, he moves into the bed, sliding under the comforter next to me. Wrapping his arms around me, he buries his face in my hair, letting out a depleted breath as he whispers, “Just stay with me. Please.”
I don’t say anything, instead I snake my arms around him until he finally relaxes. His breath warm against my neck, he squeezes me closer. His hand caresses down my side, stopping on my thigh as his fingers grasp my bare skin before moving back up, gripping my hip. Shifting back, he looks to me with a desperate need. I know it all too well and recognize the unspoken question in his eyes. I want it just as much as he does, an
d it has nothing to do with pity. Leaning forward, my mouth meets his as he gently kisses me. Slightly pulling back, he whispers against my lips, "Tell me to stop.”
Deepening the kiss, my mouth crashes against his, and I make it clear that I have no intention of stopping. I need him to touch me, feel me, show me that he desires me as much as I do him.
His hand slips beneath the soft cotton fabric of my shorts as his palm cups my ass. I shift on top of him, straddling him as he reaches for the hem of my T-shirt. Tugging it over my head, it’s tossed aside as he leans forward to return his lips to mine before trailing down my neck. His hand cups my breast, his tongue licks a path down to tease my nipple, sucking it into his mouth as I rock against him, my head falling back. He shouldn’t feel this right, this good, and the thought that he’s just getting started is both frightening and thrilling as I relish in every blissful second of his mouth on my body.
Wrapping his arm around my back, he rotates, shifting to lay me back on the bed. For a split second, I worry he’s pulling away but the hungry look in his eye confirms that neither of us can resist the force drawing us together. And I’m not sure I’d want to stop even if I could. My legs instantly clasp around his hips, his mouth on mine as he rocks forward. My palms glide down his back, sliding into the waistband of his pajamas, shoving the material down as he shifts, kicking them off until they fall to the floor. Reaching down, I grip his hard cock, stroking as he groans, unraveling beneath my touch. I enjoy every second of him losing control, giving in to what we’ve both fought relentlessly to resist.
Hooking his finger on the waistband of my shorts, he tugs them down, along with my panties, in one brisk move. Discarding them to the floor, his eyes darken, taking in my exposed body. Shifting back, a fierce yearning is plain in his eyes as he lowers his mouth, trailing over my stomach, his tongue tasting my skin as he continues down. Groaning with anticipation as he teases, Elliot strokes the soft skin of my inner thigh with his tongue before shifting up with a seductive chuckle. He knows exactly what he’s doing, driving me insane with anticipation that I’ve already waited forever to feel. Finally, he delivers—covering my slit with his mouth, he licks, sucking and teasing while his fingers slide inside me. Beyond control, my back arches off the bed. Having imagined how it would feel to have his mouth on my body cannot compare to how it actually feels, and I don’t want it to end. Ever. I clutch his hair, holding his head in place against my sex as I rock against his mouth. On a groan, his tongue mercilessly continues, expertly bringing me to a blinding orgasm. Riding the powerful, fulfilling wave, I’m certain only he could elicit such a response from my body. His fingers slow before sliding out altogether as he softly licks a path around my pussy before shifting, moving up, kissing along the way as I lie there, still recovering. He hovers over me, our bodies not touching and I hate feeling the absence of his warm skin against mine. Clutching his sides, I shift beneath him, pulling him to me. His body molds to mine, his powerful arms cage me in, making me feel safe. Comfortable under him, my desire stirs. I long to feel him inside me, and it’s something that I never thought would happen, yet I know it should only happen with him.
