Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

PARALLEL PARKING NEARLY KILLED ME, BUT I’D DIE FOR HER.

CAL

Izzy tucks her hair behind her ear, and I freeze.

It's such a small thing, something people do absentmindedly, but it sends a memory crashing through my head.

Of me doing that exact same thing last night.

Of brushing her hair back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers, tucking her in like she was mine to take care of.

Like she already belonged to me.

And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was what happened after. After she'd passed out.

After I was left alone, hard as fucking stone, aching for her. Knowing she was just on the other side of that wall. Knowing what she had done.

What I had made her do.

I had spent all night on her couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to every shift of her sheets, every tiny sound, every exhale.

Tortured.

Knowing she had just come for me, to my words, her body shaking, her moans pure fucking sin. Knowing she was naked under those covers, her skin still flushed, still sensitive from her release. I had to fist my own cock in the dark, gritting my teeth, swallowing down my own groans just to get through the night.

And now?

Now she's standing here, fresh-faced, pink-lipped, looking up at me like I'm the crazy one.

And all I want to do is tuck her hair back again. Trail my fingers down her cheek. Tilt her chin up, make her look at me the way I want her to. I shove the thought away before it roots itself too deep.

"You're not really going outside like that, right?" Izzy asks, eyeing me like I'm insane.

"Like what?"

"Like shirtless." She waves a hand at me. "It's March. In New Jersey."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "I'll be fine."

She huffs, the sound soft and exasperated. "At least let me try and find you something. I have hoodies, t-shirts, something to hold you over."

I raise a brow, amused. "Izzy, I don't think we're the same size."

She waves me off with a scoff. "I know, but I might have something oversized." Then, almost instinctively, she mutters, "I mean, I'm already big, so⁠—"

I frown. "Stop that."

She pauses, blinking up at me. "What?"

"That." I tilt my head. "You say shit like that way too often."

She shifts awkwardly, clearly caught off guard. "I—I didn't mean⁠—"

"I don't care how you meant it," I cut in. "Just stop doing that to yourself."

Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, but instead, she closes her mouth and hurries into her bedroom. The door clicks softly behind her.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. She really doesn't see herself the way she should. And that pisses me off more than it should. Something's happened to make her think of herself that way, and I have a pretty good idea who the culprit is.

A minute later, she comes back out, holding up a black t-shirt. The fabric looks soft from wear, but I can tell from here it'll be too small.

"Um," she says, looking hesitant. "You probably won't want to wear this after I tell you, but...it's Evan's. Might fit?"

I stare at her for a solid two seconds before I laugh.

Like, actually laugh.

She scoffs, glaring at me. "What?"

I shake my head. "I'm definitely not the same size as that guy."

She crosses her arms. "He works out."

I give her a look.

She sighs. "Okay, fine. What's the difference?"

I lean against the counter. The cool stone presses against my lower back. "Men like him lift weights to make their arms look big in a mirror. Men like me lift weights so we can carry a fully grown man over our shoulder while running uphill being shot at."

Izzy blinks, clearly caught off guard.

Then she snorts. "Okay, sure, super soldier. I'm sure you can just...carry people at will."

I tilt my head, watching her closely. I can see the doubt in her eyes and I’m going to fix that.

"Has Evan ever lifted you?"

She pauses mid-sip of her coffee. "What?"

I raise a brow. "You heard me."

She laughs, shaking her head. "No, obviously not."

"Why not?"

She shrugs, a shadow crossing her face. "Because I'm way too big for that."

I frown. Instantly annoyed. That's twice in five minutes she's referred to herself as "big" like it's some kind of defect.

"No, you're not."

She huffs, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I am, Cal. I'm too heavy."

I stare at her. "No, you're not."

"I am," she argues, and her voice shifts slightly, like she's repeating something she's heard many times. "Evan says⁠—"

I feel a spark of actual rage.

"Oh, well if Evan says it, it must be true," I say, voice flat.

She hesitates, her fingers unconsciously touching her side where her shirt clings. "I just—I've gained a lot of weight recently, okay? Like thirty pounds in the last three years. I'm heavier than I look."

Something in me snaps.

Enough.

Before she can say another word, I step forward, bend down, and grip her beautiful, juicy thighs.

She yelps, the sound echoing in the small kitchen.

And then, effortlessly, I hoist her up over my shoulder.

She lets out a full-blown shriek. "CALLAHAN⁠—"

I savor the way she feels in my arms. She’s all heat and give, her thighs molding easily to the grip of my hands. The curves that finance boy apparently finds so problematic? They're fucking perfect in my hands.

She's squirming, and it's making me hard.

I tighten my grip on her as she kicks her feet, laughing but also half-panicked. Her hands press against my back, fingers splaying over my muscles.

"Put me down!" she yells.

"Not until you admit you're not heavy," I say, adjusting my grip, enjoying the way she feels in my arms, the way she molds against me. The way her hips fill my hands, the soft give of her thighs against my shoulder. Christ, she's perfect.

"Callahan!" she whines, kicking again. "Put me down, you psycho!"

"Admit it."

"I'm—this is ridiculous!"

"I'll hold you here all day," I say, grinning against the side of her hip. "In fact, if you don't admit it soon, I might just start doing some squats."

She scoffs. "You wouldn't."

I drop into a squat, her weight pressing against my shoulders—and then I power right back up. Her body is substantial in the best possible way, all soft curves and warmth, but nowhere near as heavy as she thinks.

She shrieks. "OH MY GOD, CALLAHAN⁠—"

I do it again.

And again.

And again.

She grabs onto my back, clinging to me for dear life, her nails digging in. The slight sting only adds to the satisfaction.

"STOP IT," she yells, laughing now.

"Not until you say it."

"I can't breathe!"

I chuckle, lifting her effortlessly once more. "Not my problem."

She groans dramatically. "I hate you."

"Admit it, Russo."

She squirms, flails, gives one last pathetic attempt at resisting⁠—

And then, finally, finally, she groans in defeat.

"FINE! I'm not heavy! You lifted me easily!"

I grin like a damn idiot.

"See?" I say, easing her back down, letting her slide against me the whole way. I make sure I feel every inch of her body against mine as I set her down. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She lands firmly on the ground, panting, her face flushed, eyes wide. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, her hair slightly disheveled from the ordeal.

I expect her to say something smart.

Instead, she just stares at me, lips slightly parted.

And I realize—I just messed her up.

Good.

She shoves at my chest. "You are so annoying."

I watch her struggle to regain her composure. Her cheeks are still pink, her eyes slightly dazed.

"You're not heavy," I say again, softer this time. "And you're definitely not too big. Not for me."

She bites her lip.

And I know—I just messed with her head in a way she wasn't expecting. Three years with a man telling her she's too much, too big, too heavy—and here I am, lifting her like she weighs nothing, like her body is exactly what I want. Because it is.

Her mouth opens slightly.

Then she snaps it shut.

And I definitely notice the way her eyes look down, just for a second, before she catches herself.

"So," she says, clearing her throat. "You really don't like him, huh?"

"It's not that I don't like him," I say, watching her closely.

She arches a brow. "Really?"

I shake my head. "It's not about him. It's about what he does to you."

That catches her off guard.

She looks at me, features carefully composed, but I can see the question forming before she even speaks.

"But why? Why does that even matter to you?"

Because you belong to me.

Because no one treats my woman like that.

Because if you were mine, you'd never doubt your worth for even a second.

Because I see the way you flinch when someone comments on your body, the way you hesitate before you eat, the way you try to make yourself smaller when you should be taking up all the space you want.

I swallow the words.

I'm pushing things too far, too fast.

Instead, I just shrug and say, "You deserve better. That's all."

Her eyes betray her disappointment, and I tuck that away for later.

"You're really not going to take a shirt?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"I've dealt with worse."

She groans. "You're such a guy."

I chuckle, pushing off the counter. "No. I'm a man. Let's go."

We step outside into the March air, and yeah, it's cold. The wind coming off the Hudson River cuts through me, but I refuse to show it. Not fucking unbearable, but enough that I feel her eyes on me.

Judging.

She crosses her arms, watching me with a knowing look. Her breath forms small puffs in the chilly air.

"Go ahead. Say it."

She shakes her head. "No, no. You're right. You're so tough. So manly. Not cold at all."

I laugh. "Exactly."

She huffs a sigh and unlocks her car. I get in the passenger seat, watching her as she starts the engine. Izzy's car is nice, but not insane. A Lexus RX, sleek and polished, comfortable, practical, and just luxurious enough to feel expensive without screaming I have way too much money and no personality.

She starts the engine, pulls out of the apartment complex, and within ten seconds, I realize something.

Izzy actually does have a flaw.

And that flaw is driving.

Holy shit.

I grip the handrail, trying to look unbothered, but internally I am questioning every single one of my life choices that led me to this moment.

She accelerates way too fast, and then—with absolutely no warning—she slams the brakes, sending me lurching forward like we just hit a landmine. The seatbelt locks, cutting into my bare chest.

Then, as if to really drive the point home, she cuts off a guy in a Toyota without so much as a glance. The other driver lays on his horn, the sound blaring through the morning traffic.

"Izzy."

"What?" she says, completely unfazed.

"You almost killed that guy."

She waves a hand. "He'll be fine."

She changes lanes.

No blinker.

I inhale sharply.

I have been in actual warzones that felt less dangerous than this.

A red light approaches, and I brace, preparing for impact. My muscles tense instinctively.

Sure enough—hard brake.

I grip the handrail even tighter.

"Jesus, Russo," I mutter under my breath.

She scoffs, oblivious to the absolute terror she's putting me through. "You're so dramatic."

I don't answer. I'm too busy trying to predict my own death.

"Take that right," I say, pointing toward a street ahead.

She misses the turn. The intersection fades behind us as she continues straight.

"Or...not," I murmur.

"Where am I even going?" she asks, glancing over at me instead of the road.

"To my apartment?"

"Yeah, I know that, genius, but which way?"

I rub my temples. "Left up here."

She speeds up. The engine revs as she accelerates, cutting through traffic.

"Izzy."

"I got it!" she says, annoyed.

She barely makes the turn, her wheels hugging the curb a little too closely for my comfort. The tires screech against the pavement.

"Okay, maybe a little less confidence," I say under my breath.

She huffs.

I breathe through the impending sense of doom. The Lincoln Tunnel looms ahead, the entrance taking us from New Jersey back into Manhattan. The underground passage feels like a fitting metaphor—we're literally descending into hell.

And yet, despite all of this, I decide this is something I can overlook.

Because one day, when she belongs to me, she'll be my passenger princess.

She won't have to white-knuckle the wheel or pretend she knows how to navigate Manhattan traffic.

No, she'll be right where she belongs.

Next to me.

Feet up on the dash, looking over at me with that smug little smirk, knowing I'll get us wherever we need to go.

One hand on the wheel, my other? On her.

Sliding up those thighs I was just holding earlier, fingers tracing over soft skin, feeling her relax under my touch. Running my palm over every curve that asshole made her feel self-conscious about, appreciating each dip and swell of her body in a way he never could.

I'll take care of her.

Keep her safe.

She won’t have to worry about blowing through red lights or cutting off innocent Toyota drivers ever again.

Because she'll be mine.

Until then?

I'll just have to survive.

Izzy finally pulls up in front of my building, jerking to a stop so suddenly I have to brace a hand against the dash. The tires squeal against the pavement.

I exhale slowly, willing my pulse to return to normal. The adrenaline fades gradually, leaving me slightly light-headed.

She turns to me, her features light, completely unaware of the near-death experience she's just put me through. Her eyes sparkle with accomplishment, like she actually thinks she did well.

"See? Got you here in one piece."

I glance at her, then at my still-white knuckles gripping my thigh.

"Yeah," I say dryly, unbuckling my seatbelt. "I'll grab a shirt and meet you at the store to go over the brief."

There’s a flash of disappointment across her face, the smile fading slightly from her lips.

Then, quickly, she schools her expression.

"Did you... want to come up or something?" I ask, raising a brow.

Her eyes widen.

"Oh! Uh, no. I mean, I didn't mean—I just—maybe that wouldn't be super appropriate?"

I enjoy this way too much.

"Inappropriate?" I tease. "I stayed over at your place. We're past inappropriate."

She groans, covering her face. "Oh my God, Callahan."

I chuckle, glancing ahead and see an open spot in front of my building.

"There," I nod. "Take that spot."

Izzy's fingers tighten on the wheel.

And then I realize.

Oh no.

She cannot parallel park.

She pulls up, fidgeting as she eyes the space.

"You're panicking," I say.

"No, I'm strategizing."

I watch as she starts to back in at the worst possible angle. The car edges toward the curb at a trajectory that makes no mathematical sense.

"Turn your wheel," I say.

She does nothing.

"Tighter. The other way."

Still nothing.

"Okay, stop. Go forward."

She goes backward.

"Oh my God."

Finally, with my guidance, she manages to wedge the car into the space, though it takes a lot of effort and one very aggressive honk from the guy waiting behind us.

Izzy laughs as she puts it in park. "Okay, fine, I'm terrible at this."

"You're a menace," I say.

"Last of four kids, my parents were too exhausted to actually teach me how to drive. They just handed me the keys and prayed."

I shake my head, relieved that at least she's self-aware. The car finally stills, the engine ticking as it cools.

"If you want, we can practice sometime outside the city," I offer.

"A driving lesson with you? Sounds like boot camp. Do I have to call you sir?"

A very inappropriate image flashes through my head.

I clear my throat. "Let's go."

As I reach for the door handle, she suddenly jolts like she's remembered something. "Wait! Before you go⁠—"

She turns in her seat, reaching over to the glove compartment, fumbling with it until it pops open. She rummages around, pushing aside papers, receipts, and what looks like several packs of ketchup. The contents rustle as she digs through them.

"Where is it, where is it..." she mutters, brow furrowed in concentration.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, watching as she gets increasingly frantic.

"Ah! Got it!" She pulls out something blue and dangling, clutched triumphantly in her hand. I recognize it immediately—the rosary she mentioned last night. The one from her Nonna.

"I remembered what I said," she says, a little sheepishly. "About the death machine."

She holds it out to me, the blue beads catching the sunlight. They're worn in places, well-loved. The silver crucifix at the end is small but gleams like it's been polished regularly.

"Izzy..." I start, genuinely surprised she remembers that conversation, let alone followed through on it.

"I know it's silly," she says quickly, shrugging like it's no big deal. "But Nonna swears by it. She's convinced it kept me alive through my teenage driving years, and honestly, that might be a miracle in itself."

I look down at her fingers clutching it, at the way she's offering it to me so casually, like she's not handing over something obviously precious.

"I can't take this," I say, shaking my head.

She pushes it toward me more insistently. "Sure you can. Just take it."

I look pointedly at the dashboard she nearly sent me through minutes ago, then back at her. "After witnessing your driving firsthand? I think you need divine protection more than I do."

She gasps in mock outrage. "My driving is... creative!"

"Is that what we're calling it?” I tease. “Pretty sure 'death-defying' is more accurate."

She laughs, but still holds out the rosary. "Come on, Cal. Your motorcycle is way more dangerous than my driving."

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm a trained professional. You drive like you're playing Grand Theft Auto."

She swats at my arm with her free hand. "I do not!"

"You do. You even hit the curb coming around that last corner."

"It was in my way!"

I can't help but laugh, and she joins in, the rosary still dangling from her hand. After a moment, I reach out, but instead of taking it, I gently close her fingers back around it. Her skin is warm beneath mine.

"Keep it," I say, my tone lighter but firm. "I'll take my chances on the 'death machine.' You, on the other hand, need all the help you can get."

She shoots me a look, all mock annoyance, but gently tucks the rosary back into the glove compartment. "Fine. But if you die in some spectacular motorcycle accident, I'm telling everyone at your funeral that I tried to save you."

"And I'll haunt you for it," I promise.

We make our way to the building lobby, and immediately, I get looks.

Half the people in here are either staring outright or giving me quick, awkward glances before pretending not to. A woman with a stroller nearly walks into a potted plant because she's too busy gawking.

Which, fair.

It's March in New York, and I'm walking around shirtless like it's a goddamn heatwave.

Izzy, of course, notices.

She bites her lip, eyes glinting with amusement. "I mean, you really commit to a bit."

I wink at her. "Told you I'd be fine."

She gives me a look, amused despite herself. We step into the elevator, and the doors close behind us with a soft ding.

And suddenly, it's just us.

Alone.

She leans back against the railing, scrolling absently through her phone, and I catch myself staring.

Her throat, bare and delicate.

Her lips, still a little pink from all the biting she does.

I shift slightly, flexing my fingers. The metal railing is cool against my palm.

Because fuck, I want to touch her.

I imagine crowding her into the corner, gripping her hips, tilting her head back.

I imagine pinning her here, against the cold elevator wall, the sharp inhale she’d make as I dragged my lips down the side of her neck. Running my hands over her curves, showing her exactly how perfectly she fits against me, how much I want every inch of her.

I exhale slowly.

Not the time, Callahan.

The elevator dings, and we step out. The hallway stretches before us, quiet and deserted.

I unlock my door, push it open, and nod her inside.

And now, Izzy Russo is in my apartment.

And that?

That's a problem.

She looks around like she's trying to take in everything at once. It's simple. Minimal furniture. A basic couch, a single bookshelf, a kitchen table I never use.

I don't care about appearances. My place is functional. That's all that matters. Still, I notice the way she lingers in the center of the room, taking it all in.

"This is really cozy," she says.

I huff a laugh, grabbing a fresh t-shirt from my closet. The fabric slides over my skin, finally providing a barrier between me and the cold that I've been pretending not to feel.

Then she turns and sees the bed against the far wall. Her brow furrows. "Do you...really fit on that?"

I glance at my bed—a twin that barely accommodates my frame.

I chuckle. "Not really. But I haven't been able to sleep on anything that doesn't feel like an army cot since I got out."

She nods, but stays quiet. Like she doesn't know what to say to that. Like she's thinking too hard about it. And I don't like the way that makes my chest tighten.

"Come on," I say, grabbing my keys. The metal is cool in my palm. "We can walk to the store. Pick up your car on the way back."

She shrugs. "Why don't we just go over the brief here?"

I pause.

Because immediately, yes.

Having Izzy in my apartment?

Yes.

Her scent lingering on my furniture, her voice filling up my space?

Yes.

But also no.

Because having her alone with me in here for any length of time will make me want to do things I shouldn't.

She's waiting on my answer, watching me. Her eyes are expectant, slightly curious.

I force a casual shrug.

"Yeah," I say, voice even. "That's fine. We can go over it here."

She nods, then walks over to my bed⁠—

And sits down.

Fuck.

She's right there.

On my bed.

In my space.

I swallow hard.

This?

This really is going to be a problem.