Just Me

by L. A. Fiore

  After I led the team into the stadium to the roar of the crowd, Brad touched my arm to get my attention. “Whenever you plan on seeking revenge, let me know.”

  “I might just take you up on that. Bastian deserves it.”

  Another grin curved his lips. “Thanks again.” His focus moved to something just behind me and I saw a twinkle in those eyes. He kissed my cheek, slipped on his helmet and ran toward the sidelines. I swear he was laughing. I wondered what that was all about until I turned and saw Bastian. Oh, Brad, you wicked boy. The look in Bastian's eyes had my heart beating wildly. It shouldn't bring me pleasure to see Bastian jealous, but it did all the same. As I made my way to the sideline and him, I noticed the cheerleaders, Mica in particular, looking in my direction. Actually Mica appeared to be looking at me, but instead of the censure I always got when my eyes found her blue ones, she looked upset. Maybe it was scared. A part of me wanted to ask her what was wrong, because seeing her vulnerable, when she had always been a mega-bitch all through our schooling, was unnatural and unnerving.

  Reaching Bastian, I pressed myself right up against him and kissed him senseless. Not too senseless because he pulled me even closer and kissed me back.

  It took me a minute to recover and when I did, I peered up at him through my lashes. “You were jealous.”

  He didn't even bother trying to deny it. “Hell, yes.”

  “Nothing to be jealous about.”

  He said nothing, but he looked at me with such possession. “I spotted Poppy and Shawn. Do you want to join them?”

  “Okay.” Was all my fuzzy brain could manage since I still basked in the glory of knowing that Bastian was jealous.

  I couldn’t make out Poppy and Shawn in the crowd until they both waved as we approached. “Nice job, Victory,” Shawn said.

  “I'm going to put the experience on my resume,” I said just before I heard Sophia calling me.

  “Oh, no.” I lowered my head and my shoulders slumped.

  “You have to go,” Poppy said.

  “I know.”

  “Go where?” Bastian asked.

  “The drum line has this little dance they do in the stands before the game starts.” Poppy said. “Lark was sitting with Sophia when they did it the first time. Since the team won, they do it for every game. It’s become sort of a good luck thing.”

  A big smile spread over Bastian's face. “Well go. I'm looking forward to seeing this.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him before I turned and started up the bleachers. I kind of liked the dance and that Sophia and the others didn't care what anyone thought as they shook their booties. Doing the dance in front of Bastian was a bit embarrassing, but I sucked it up and did the same and as usual had a hell of a good time.

  Later, Bastian drove me back to Poppy's, but he detoured to our spot near the river. He parked while I pondered the evening. The football team won and so my stint as Victory became surprisingly satisfying.

  I climbed off, removed my helmet and turned in time to see Bastian swing his leg over his bike. He said nothing as he moved right into me, but instead of feeling crowded and uncomfortable as I usually did when someone infringed on my personal space, I craved his nearness. Heat licked down my arms and legs. Pressed from chest to thigh, his mouth captured mine for a kiss that fried at least a thousand of my brain cells. It wasn't an exploratory kiss like our first one, it was all about conquering, possessing and owning but which of us was the aggressor was unclear as our mouths and tongues warred. There were so many emotions moving across his features when he looked at me.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “How it's possible to know someone for so short a time and be so completely addicted to them. And I am completely hooked on you.”

  I couldn't help feeling smug when I replied. “Enough to make you jealous?”

  “I wanted to rip Brad's head off and I like that guy.” His finger brushed along my jaw, before his thumb rubbed over my lower lip. “Tell me you feel it too.”

  “I do.”

  “I want to see you tomorrow night, but I have to work. Come to the garage with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Caden and Kale are working tomorrow night too. We can order a pizza or something. Say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  Clearly he liked my answer—his mouth captured mine and for a good long time we didn't say anything at all.

  Chapter Seven

  Bastian's garage wasn't what I was expecting. It wasn't just a place to work. It was like a family and their boss, Calvin Carter, was the reason. A nicer and more down to earth person I didn't think I'd ever met. His genuine friendliness immediately put you at ease and yet he was no pushover, you could see that in the set of his shoulders and the intellect shining out of his warm hazel eyes. Eyes that found mine as soon as we entered.

  A smile curved his lips. “Bastian mentioned he was bringing his girlfriend tonight. I'm Cal.”

  “Lark. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. There are jumpers in the back room if you want to get under the hood.”

  I wouldn't know a carburetor from a brake line. “I think I'll just watch.”

  “Don't let them eat all the pizza.” He leaned closer and added, “I usually take three slices and hide them because Caden has a bottomless pit for a stomach.”

  “Good to know, thanks.”

  “Aren't you staying?” Bastian asked.

  “No, I've got to get home,” said Cal. “It's lasagna night.”

  “No fair.” Hearing that whine from Caden made me grin.

  “Next time, boys.” He started away from us but added, “If you want to punch out before eight, that's cool with me. Nice to meet you, Lark.”

  “You too.”

  Kale and Caden were already working. Their open blue jumpsuits exposed the tanks they had on underneath. They both called a hello to me before they got back to work. I had no idea what they were doing under the hoods of those cars, but clearly they were very comfortable doing it.

  Bastian wore a similar jumpsuit, but he had the arms tied around his waist. His black tank beautifully showcased his inked arms. He kept his hair from his eyes by pulling it back with a bandana skullcap.

  He walked me to the bay with the Impala where I settled on a stool near the worktable.

  “There's soda in the fridge. Diet Coke, since I know you like it.”

  He stocked my favorite soda in his work's refrigerator. “I think you like me,” I said teasingly.

  “There's no think about it.”

  He made no move to leave me, so I smiled and waved my hand at him. “Go. Do whatever it is you do; I'll be fine.”

  He glided his lips across mine. “I'm really glad you came tonight.”

  I had intended to work on my homework, but one look at him bent over the car looking so confident and sexy and I had to sketch him. I grabbed my sketchpad and pencils and lost myself in the drawing.

  It felt oddly intimate to smooth out the line of his shoulder and blend it into the curve of his back. His profile set in firm lines while he worked. I took a moment to perfect the curve of his forehead, the line of his nose, the angles of his cheekbones and jaw, but it was the mouth that took me some time to perfect, especially in a face as sharp as his. I wanted to capture the sensual fullness of those lips, and when I ran my finger over the charcoal lines, I couldn't help my smile.

  Once I was comfortable I had the overall image complete, I focused on his tattoos. His left arm had a depiction of the mythical creature the siren—half-beautiful woman and half-bird. Her wings matched the long flowing black of her hair. She sat on a cliff of green so bright it reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Ireland. Surrounding her, vibrant and cheerfully-hued flowers contrasted with angry, dark sapphire surf, which churned and crashed against the rocks. Her hands were extended in a delicate, almost ballerina-like, gesture as she lured the small sailboat toward her and certain death against the jagged shore.

  His oth
er arm depicted the Three Fates. Their hands all touched one long piece of string as Clotho spun the thread of life, Lachesis measured out how long a life it was to be and Atropos cut the thread in death. They weren't depicted as young and beautiful women, but as hooded figures working their thread in front of an old oak tree which I could only assume was the Tree of Life. Most of the work on his right arm was done in black with only accents of color like a green oak leaf, a golden pair of shears, and the thread of life itself which was a deep royal purple.

  I’d stopped working and just watched Bastian, reading his ink. The others had gone into the back to eat dinner, so we had a bit of privacy. I placed my sketch down and walked over to him. His head lifted to me when I stopped just in front of him.

  A smile spread over his face. “Hey, beautiful.”

  I ran a finger over his arm. I watched my movement a moment before I raised my eyes to his. “This represents how you don't want to be put into a mold. The siren represents your parents or anyone in your life trying to make you conform. To be lured in by them and to follow their will and not your own would be death for you—not of the body, but of the soul.”

  He straightened from his position, but his focus never wavered from me. “Go on.”

  “The Fates. I'm guessing they signify that when you're born, how long you live and your death are certain, but everything in between is unwritten and the providence of free will and not Fate.” I held his intense gaze and asked, “How did I do?”

  “Like you were right beside me when I had them done. How did you know?”

  “I know you, so it was easy to figure out.”

  In the next breath, his lips molded to mine in the sweetest of kisses: a kiss that was about more than desire. It was about connecting, like a key sliding into a lock. He held my gaze for the longest time before he said, “I am so fucking addicted to you.” Still reeling from that pronouncement, he went for the jugular. “I'm falling in love with you.”

  There weren't words that could accurately express how I felt hearing that from this boy. I replied with the simple truth. “I've already fallen.”

  The stark honesty of his expression in response would stay with me always.

  ***

  The long-dreaded Saturday night had arrived: the night of Bastian's birthday dinner. I sat at Poppy's dressing table and watched as she attempted to twist my hair into some kind of elegant up-do. Sophia was behind us rummaging through Poppy's closet.

  “This isn't me,” I said.

  “You don't know what is ‘you.’ Just let me have my way and if you don't like it, I'll take it down.”

  “Fine.”

  A half an hour later, when she told me I could look, I was speechless. She had somehow braided part of my hair, then pulled those braids back into a messy knot that she secured at the nape of my neck. It was so utterly elegant and yet so me. I beamed with approval.

  Sophia came to stand next to us, a smile spreading over her face. “You're good, Poppy.”

  “She is. You are a genius. I will never, ever doubt you again,” I said.

  “Good. Now let's work on the clothes.”

  Poppy let me borrow one of her cocktail dresses, a simple black crepe fitted sheath with long sheer chiffon sleeves accented at the shoulders with black bead work. The hem fell to mid-thigh. To top off the beautiful ensemble, Poppy's mom let me borrow her Christian Louboutin black platform pumps. I felt like Cinderella on the way to the ball. I could only hope that my evening fared better than her ill-fated one.

  “You look nervous. Are you nervous?” Sophia asked.

  My laugh sounded strained even to me. “I am. I'm worried about his parents.”

  Poppy's face pinched with temper. “Bastian won't let his parents do anything. Just try to relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Easier said than done. My nerves intensified at the sound of the doorbell but it wasn't thoughts of meeting Bastian's parents causing it now but excitement at the thought of seeing Bastian all dressed up. Poppy and Sophia would not let me wait downstairs and said I needed to make a grand entrance. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I waited until I was given the signal before I made my way down the stairs. I saw him before he could see me and I felt my breath still in my lungs at the sight of him. He stood next to Mr. Wright dressed in a beautiful black suit that was clearly tailored just for him, and a pale green shirt and silk tie. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, so nothing hindered the beauty of his face. He looked mouthwatering.

  Our gazes locked and tenderness looked back at me. He didn't say anything with words but then he didn't need to.

  “Have fun tonight,” Dr. Wright said just as Mr. Wright held the door for us. Poppy and Sophia threw me a thumbs-up when Bastian turned toward the door.

  How my legs held me up as we walked toward the black Range Rover in the driveway, I didn't know. “Whose ride is this?” I asked when we reached it.

  “My brother's.”

  “Is he coming tonight? Maybe with a pregnant fiancée that the parents know nothing about?”

  Bastian grinned and held the door open for me. “Sorry, beautiful, he's coming, but no such luck with the pregnant fiancée.”

  “A girl can dream.” I muttered before I climbed into the spacious interior and relaxed against the black leather seat. A minute later Bastian climbed into the car. As soon as he closed the door, his hand snaked around the back of my neck, pulling my mouth to his. He whispered against my lips, “Please don't let my parents intimidate you tonight. They're a lot to take—you are who I want, okay?”

  “They aren't going to like me, are they?”

  He turned more fully in his seat and his hand palmed my cheek. “My parents don't like anyone who doesn't come with her own portfolio. I don't give a shit about what they want, because I know what I want.”

  “Okay.”

  ***

  The club. What could I say about the club? I hated it. From the moment we pulled into the gated drive and saw the lush, rolling hills of golf-green; the perfectly tended garden beds planted with gold, rust and burgundy mums in precise symmetry, and the sprawling Greek revival clubhouse with its huge white columns and fancy pediments, I hated it. The parking attendants probably made more money than my uncle.

  As we pulled around the circular drive for the valet, I wondered if Bastian's parents ever considered a quiet, family dinner in their own home as opposed to one in so stuffy and conceited a place. My attention shifted to him to see he was clenching his jaw and knew he felt the same way about the club as I did.

  “Did they even ask you if you wanted to come here for your dinner or did they decree it?”

  His eyes met mine and I saw the answer.

  “How would you have liked to spend your birthday?”

  “With you.”

  “That's a given, but how?”

  “I would have liked hanging out with pizza, soda and a cake: a big chocolate cake.”

  “You won't even get cake tonight, will you?”

  “Not real cake. Maybe some sponge thing drenched in liquor and topped with shit I can't even pronounce.”

  I grew up invisible and Bastian grew up inconsequential. I hadn't even met his parents and already I didn't like them.

  We parked before Bastian climbed from the car and came around to my side to help me out. He reached for my hand and held it tightly in his as we made our way inside.

  His parents were already there and so was his brother. We made our way through the dining area and I took the opportunity to study the people who had given Bastian life.

  His father had perfectly cut black hair, laced—almost highlighted, it was so perfect—with gray. His eyes were more gray than blue, but I could see Bastian in his features. From the way he eyed his fellow diners, he was more interested in everyone else in the room than his own family, specifically his son whose birthday he was here to celebrate.

  His mother did look beautiful with sable brown hair and indigo blue eyes. Dressed in a sapphire-blue silk she
ath that hugged her perfect figure, she didn't seem old enough to have two grown sons. Unlike her husband, her attention was fixed on her son, but I didn't see love in her expression, only censure as if she was checking him over for flaws.

  His brother, Dominic, looked so much like Bastian it was a bit scary. He wasn't as tall or solidly built as Bastian, but love and humor shone from his greenish-blue eyes. At least Bastian had that.

  We reached the table as Dominic and the father stood; Bastian made the introductions. “Mom, Dad, Dom, this is my girlfriend, Larkspur. Lark, my mom and dad, Jennifer and Sinclair Ross, and my brother, Dom.”

  “Hello, Larkspur, we are so glad you could join us this evening. Please sit,” Jennifer said as she gestured to my chair.

  Bastian helped me to my seat before taking the seat next to me.

  “Thank you, I’m really happy to be here,” I said just as the waiter handed us our menus. The tension in the air was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I had never felt so uncomfortable. The conversation remained forced and very impersonal and then quite suddenly the focus turned to me.

  “Larkspur, tell us about your family,” his dad asked.

  “My mom died when I was eight, so I live with my uncle and aunt. He's an attorney and my aunt stays home with the kids.” I saw the disgust in Sinclair's expression and assumed that was due to my aunt staying home with the kids instead of having a nanny doing so. I couldn't help but think that was strike one.

  “Are they members here?” He asked.

  “No.” Strike two.

  “What about your dad?” He pressed.

  “I never knew him.”

  Strike three.

  “Do you have any idea what you want to do next year?” I had already struck out with the man, who clearly found me lacking, so I held his stare and replied, “I'm going to Columbia to study art.”

  “An artist. What's your medium?” Jennifer asked.

  “Charcoal and oils mostly.”

  “You see, Sebastian, even your girlfriend knows what she wants to do next year. You need to stop dragging your feet. It's time for you to come into the office and learn the ropes,” Sinclair chided.