Текст книги "Spark"
Автор книги: Erin Noelle
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Tonight fucking blows. I dodged one bullet with my honest, yet hesitant, answer to the question about who Hudson is to me, but based on the fiery look in Tasha’s eyes ever since, another battle is just getting started.
As if her usual boobs-in-my-face, seductively biting her lip act isn’t enough, she’s laying it on thick now—for Hudson’s benefit, I’m sure. She’s suddenly become the clumsiest damn cocktail waitress in the world. First, her pen magically rolls out of her fingers and over the bar, which means she needs to come search for it on the ground, on her hands and knees in front of me, of course. Then, she accidentally slips down at the register and asks me to help her up, rubbing her tits up the length of my body as she stands and teases that she may need an ass massage later.
It’s not like I can tell her no, or call her out in front of a crowd of customers and look like a complete dick. So I piss my girl off instead. ‘Cause, you know, that’s always fun.
Hudson isn’t helping matters either, with the daggers she keeps throwing my way. What the fuck? It’s not like I’m waving dollar bills at Tasha, encouraging her. I’m a bartender. I get drinks for waitresses. Yes, they’re half-dressed, and no, she didn’t know that, but still. I’m sure she thought she was being sweet by showing up unannounced, but between the heat from Tasha and the ice from Hudson, I just want them all to go away. Can’t they let me do my damn job in fucking peace?
And Tasha—she’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but she’s smart enough to know what her best assets are. I just wish she wasn’t trying to shove them down my throat tonight, and that she’d find someone else to set her sights on. I know I can’t be blatantly rude after what Rory told me about her influence around here, but I’m not sure how to get it through her oblivious head.
Lastly, I’m downright pissed off at that fucking asshat, Beckham, who’s hanging all over Hudson at their table, glancing over at me every chance he gets to make sure I’m looking. If I wasn’t working right now, I’d ask him with my fist which part of ‘Hudson is my girl’ he didn’t fucking comprehend. But, I really need this job, and although coldcocking a customer wasn’t one of Brody’s three rules, something tells me it would be frowned upon.
So, instead, I have to suck it all up, plaster a smile on my face, and make drinks for the next three hours, pretending everything is hunky-fucking-dory.
“Hey, man,” Rory nudges my elbow as I wait for the blender to mix a frozen margarita, “you okay? Can I help out with something?”
“Fuck no,” I grumble, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck. “My girl decided to show up and surprise me tonight, and it just so happens that her friend from school, who’s also here, is Tasha’s cousin. Everything is pretty fucking far from okay right about now.”
He’s quiet for a minute as he scans the bar, then cocks his head when he lands on Hudson’s table. “Which Hipster Barbie is yours?”
“She’s not a fucking Barbie, but the one with the long hair,” I retort as I pour the slushed mixture in a glass. “And the other one’s her sister.”
Snickering at my touchiness, he shakes his head. “My bad, man. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I was just teasing you. She’s fucking hot, and you could totally help a brother out with an introduction to her sister at some point, but you do realize Beck is macking all up on her, and Tasha is over there talking to them, right?”
I deliver the drink to the waiting customer, who I immediately label as a dumbass for ordering a frozen drink when there’s subzero temperatures outside, but I smile and wink at her all the same while collecting my tip.
“Yeah, I see it, but what am I supposed to do about it?” I steal a glance over at the group, cringing as I see Tasha engage Hudson in conversation. “And how do you know him?”
Rory shrugs his shoulder while getting out two shot glasses, rimming them each with salt and filling them with top-shelf tequila. “He’s a regular up here, though he hasn’t been around much lately. I’m not even sure he’s old enough to drink, but he and Tasha are really close, so Brody doesn’t say shit.” Handing me a lime wedge, he tips his head down at the freshly poured shots, the only motherfucker on my side tonight. “Drink up, buttercup. Tequila makes everything better...at least temporarily.”
Throwing back the first shot, and then the second, I welcome the potent, intoxicating liquid as it rolls down the back of my throat and warms my chest. I close my eyes momentarily and take several deep, fortifying breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and when I reopen them, all I see is the back of Hudson’s head walking out the front door.
By the time I pull up in front of Hudson’s house, it’s after three in the morning and I’m fucking steaming mad. At least her car is parked in the driveway. She’s ignored my texts since she left without saying goodbye—left with her sister and Beckham, I might add. Tasha smartly stayed out of my way after their sudden exit—an exit that conveniently followed her talking to Hudson—and the only good thing that happened all night, other than the four hundred I pocketed, was Rory offering to do most of the clean-up, knowing I needed to get the hell out of that place before I lost my shit.
Storming up to the window I know is hers, I accidentally tap louder than I mean to, and hope I don’t wake up anyone else in the house. I realize it’s only a few hours from when they all have to be up to get ready for work and school, and though I doubt Doug and Mel would get upset with me for showing up at this hour, I would really rather not test my theory.
At first, there’s no activity behind the blinds, but after the third time I rap my knuckles—a little more impatient each time—on the window, a light flicks on in the room, and seconds later, she’s standing in front of me with only a pane of glass separating us. Her hair still hangs down over her shoulders like earlier, hiding her tits from me, but her pale blue shirt is short enough to give me a peek at the front of her white lace panties. The sight of her is almost enough to make me forget about everything that happened in the last several hours, to rip that thin piece of fabric from between her legs and bury myself deep in her heat, reminding her who the fuck she belongs to.
Almost.
“Let me in,” I mouth, my quiet tone demanding.
She shakes her head obstinately and rolls her eyes. “Go home, Crew.”
“Hudson, please,” I warn. “Don’t do this. We need to talk.”
Penetrating me with her icy stare, she stands firm. “So talk.”
“It’s freezing out here, and I need to explain things. It’s not whatever you’re thinking. Please give me five minutes.” I’m not sure how this turned so quickly from me showing up ticked off to begging for her to let me talk, but there’s no denying the hurt look painted across her beautiful face, and it kills me to know I’m the reason for it.
Eventually, her face softens and she drops her arms to unlatch the window. Pushing it open, she backs up so I can crawl inside her bedroom, crossing her arms over her chest as she adds to the distance between us. I shed my jacket and go straight to her side, not giving her a chance to protest. Scooping her up in my arms, I sit down on her bed and place her in my lap, my arms wrapping tightly around her center.
She shivers from my cold fingers, but I need to touch her too much right now to let her go. Her body is made to fit mine, and as I exhale, most of my anger leaves with it.
“Why did you leave?” I murmur into her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume. “You didn’t say goodbye or anything. I just looked up and you were gone…with him.”
Shoving back away from me, her eyes grow wide. “With him? Are you kidding me? You realize that it’s because of you I never went out with Beckham again, right? That on the single date I had with him—my very first date ever—all I could do was think about some cocky ass guy from Texas, who had the most intriguing green eyes I’ve ever seen and hair that begged me to bury my fingers in it. Right?
“I don’t like bars. I don’t even drink,” she continues, pushing farther away from me. “I went there for you, because I so stupidly thought you may be missing me like I’ve been missing you over the past few days, and that you might actually be happy to see me. Instead, I walk in to a bar where you not only work with a bunch of half-dressed hoochies—which you’ve conveniently failed to mention—but one who openly informed me that she’s your favorite! Seriously, Crew, what the fuck am I supposed to think?!”
“Hudson…” I begin.
“No, let me finish. You wanted to talk, so this is me talking,” she whispers harshly. “I don’t do boyfriends and dating and all that crap, because I don’t have time for petty bullshit like this, but there was something different when I met you, a connection I thought you felt too. And I know we haven’t been together very long, or whatever you call this,” she motions her hand back and forth between the two of us, “and I’m not asking you to profess your love to me, or to report in, or anything else ridiculous like that, but some common courtesy would be nice. If I worked someplace where a bunch of sexy ass guys milled around, flaunting their goods, I’d give you a fucking heads-up before you showed up and felt like an idiot!”
I lift my hand and gently press my finger against her lips, trying to calm her down. Her cheeks glow an angry pink as her pulse thumps frantically underneath the pale skin of her neck, and I’ve got to admit…my dick’s getting hard watching her get all worked up. I’ve never seen mad Hudson before, and she’s fucking hot.
“Hudson, listen to me,” I implore in a soft yet urgent tone, my hand sliding over to cup her jaw. “I never meant for you to feel like an idiot. I didn’t tell you about the girls at the bar, because they’re nothing to me. I don’t even give them a second thought. Especially not Tasha. She’s just one of those chicks who think they’re God’s gift, and if someone doesn’t show interest, she sees it as a challenge. I don’t show interest. I’m nice to her, because we work together, but that. Is. It.”
“So you don’t hang out with her and ‘all of the employees’ after work at her apartment?”
Impatiently dragging my fingers through my hair, I sigh. “No, I’ve never been to her apartment, I’ve never hung out with her or any of the other waitresses outside of work, and I’ve never done anything that would come even fucking close to being inappropriate behind your back. Look at me,” I command as I grab her waist and haul her ass back into my lap, tilting her face up to mine. “When I go to work, I’m a bartender. I smile and I make drinks. Innocent flirting is a part of it if I want to make money, both from the customers who tip me directly and the waitresses who give us a portion of their money for tip-share.
“But regardless of all that, it’s you who’s flipped my world upside down.” I lower my mouth to less than an inch away from hers. “You who I never stop thinking about.” Our lips touch. “You who fucking owns me. The first girl who has ever owned me.”
Words aren’t necessary after that as we quickly become a tangled mess of naked body parts, melding together in a desperate and feverish act of forgiveness and understanding. I’m hers. She’s mine. And stupid fucks like Tasha and Beckham aren’t taking that from us.
Three hours later, I leave Hudson’s house in a much better mood than when I arrived. After a couple rounds of make up sex, which made our first argument well worth every minute of it, she walks me out to my car on her way to her morning greenhouse duties. A small part of me feels a little guilty about keeping her up all night, knowing she has to work and then go to class while I get to go home and crash in my bed, but she promises me with one last kiss before I climb in my car that she’ll be fine and she’ll join me in my bed this afternoon.
Struggling to stay awake on the drive home, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, drumming out the beat to the latest Sunset Sons’ song, Medicine, blaring through the speakers. Finally, I pull up in front of the apartment and kill the engine, noticing first thing that my mom’s car isn’t here. Worried, I pull my phone out of my pocket to find a missed text from her a little over an hour ago, sent to both mine and Caleb’s phone.
Mom: Sorry! I fell asleep over at Luke’s watching a movie and just woke up. I’ll be home in the morning to shower and change for work. Love you guys.
I smile to myself as I hurry up to the front door, happy my mom seems to be thriving with making friends and adjusting to our new life here. Ever since my dad bailed on us, she’s done nothing but take care of us kids, and it’s about time for her to live her life too, especially with Caleb’s health improving so rapidly. And it’s not like I can really say anything about her spending the night with someone, seeing as how I basically just did the same thing. My mom’s a sharp lady and a good judge of character, so I trust she’ll be smart about who she gets involved with, even if it is her boss.
Quietly, I let myself in, not wanting to wake Caleb in the process. Removing my outer layer of clothing, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and toe down the hallway, stopping to check on him on my way to my bed.
The second I step foot into his room, I freeze at the sight of Caleb’s pale body on the ground next to his bed, his head engulfed in a never-ending pool of deep red blood, greeting me in the most devastating way possible. Time splinters, and I can only catch fragments. The plastic bottle falls from my hand, dropping to the floor, water mixing with blood. I struggle to breathe as a pungent metallic odor fills my nostrils and mouth. Choking back vomit, my knees buckle in pure disbelief. His eyes are open. His chest is still.
His chest is still.
His chest is still.
I crawl over to my little brother, suffocating with him, and pull him into my arms. He’s cold. Stiff. I pick him up awkwardly, holding and rocking him against my chest as his dead eyes stare up at me. Silently asking me where I was.
What was more important?
I don’t let go of him when Mom shows up. I can’t stop apologizing to him. The paramedics rip his body out of my arms, leaving me cold and numb.
And time stops. Forever.
I don’t let go of him when Mom shows up.
I can’t stop apologizing to him.
The paramedics rip his body out of my arms, leaving me cold and numb.
Cold, like the Colorado snow outside.
Frozen from feeling anyore.
I've never known anyone who died. Not one single person.
To me, death has always been something I've seen on TV or read about online, never a part of my real life. A surreal concept I can't quite wrap my head around.
Finality.
Gone.
Not ever seeing someone again.
A permanent goodbye.
Never…until now.
Wedged in-between a sniffling Brighton and a distant, detached Crew at Caleb's funeral, I realize there isn't a word in the English language that exists to fully express the depth of my sorrow. Sad. Heartbroken. Grief-stricken. Devastated. None of them seem to do this feeling justice, this feeling that's imbedded itself in every fiber of my being.
I twist my neck slightly, glancing over at Crew, and then Mary on the other side of him, and I can no longer ward off the onslaught of tears I've been desperately trying to hold back. A flood of warm, salty drops splash down my cheeks, some trickling into my mouth, while others roll under the collar of my black sweater-dress, as I witness a woman I've grown very fond of over the past month say goodbye to her baby boy.
I may not know much about death, but I know there's something intrinsically wrong about a parent burying their child. It should never happen. Especially not to people I care about.
More gut-wrenching than I ever imagined a funeral could be, the service is thankfully short. The chapel, though plenty large enough for the couple dozen people in attendance, feels as if the walls grow closer together with each passing minute, the air of false hopefulness evaporating rapidly. After reading scripture about God's promise of everlasting life in Heaven, the officiant encourages us all to rejoice over Caleb's life, rather than to mourn his death, and ends his message with a closing prayer.
Through it all, Crew sits silently, stonily staring straight ahead. His eyes stay dry and I’m not sure he’s heard a word that’s been said. I can’t tell if he’s trying to be strong for his mom, or if he’s still in shock. Maybe he’s still mentally on the bedroom floor with his brother, holding him tight. Mary told me the emergency personnel had to pry his arms away from Caleb, that he refused to let go.
Silently, we file out of the sanctuary into the brisk early-December afternoon. The picturesque, cloudless sky is the perfect contrast to our bleak, dreary moods, and as we drive away from the funeral—Crew and me in the backseat of Mary's SUV—I silently curse the bright afternoon sun that cheerfully shines down on the snow-covered mountains, mocking me through the window. Fuck being happy.
Once we're all back at the lodge, where Mel and Doug insisted everyone come, we share a somber dinner, despite Mary and her family's attempts to share funny and heartwarming Caleb stories. I smile politely and laugh softly where I'm supposed to, as does everyone else, but it's all an act. An act to hide the pain, confusion, and anger every last one of us feels.
Crew keeps a death grip on my hand the entire time, refusing to engage in conversation with anyone, not his aunts, uncles, cousins, or his grandparents...not my parents or siblings...not his mom or her boyfriend...not even me. Actually, I'm not sure I've heard him say more than four or five words since I arrived at their apartment four days ago, that dreadful Monday morning I received the heartbreaking phone call from Mary while on my way to school.
He's completely closed himself off to everyone—denial and isolation my mom calls it—and though it hurts when he cringes under my consoling touch, or turns away from me when I try to talk to him, I don't begrudge him. Everyone copes in their own way, and right now, his defense mechanism is to put up a stone-clad wall. If all he can handle right now is holding my hand, I'll take it.
Pushing the food around on my plate, I pretend to eat, though my appetite is non-existent. All I really want right now is to curl up in my bed with a joint and Crew, and hopefully wake up from a long nap to find out this is all a terrible nightmare.
"Need to get outta here," he grumbles lowly in my ear, echoing my exact thoughts as he tugs my arm in the direction of the exit.
Without saying goodbye or telling anyone where we're going, we find our escape through the oversized wooden door, both of us sucking in deep breaths of the crisp, fresh air once we’re outside.
"Where do you want to go?" I ask timidly, feeling as if anything I say or do will cause him to retreat again.
"You got smoke in your room? I just want to be numb and forget everything. I'm not sure if Mom's staying here tonight," he tips his head toward the cabin he and Mary have stayed in the last couple of nights, "or at Luke's."
Nodding, I squeeze his hand supportively, pleased to have some sort of communication going with him. "Yeah, I’ve always got smoke. Come on."
Neither of us says another word as our boots eat up the frozen ground between the lodge and my house, nor do we speak when we strip out of our cold clothes behind my locked bedroom door, leaving me in my bra and panties and Crew in his boxers. Seeking something to mask the deafening silence, I connect my iPod to the speakers on my desk and choose full random shuffle before climbing onto my bed. I grab my cigarette case and lighter from inside the top drawer of my nightstand, then lean back against the headboard and exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
“What’s that?” he asks as he joins me atop the mattress, staring curiously at the decorative, stainless steel, rectangular case resting on my leg. “And what kind of flower is that on it?”
My gaze follows his down to one of my most treasured possessions, and I can’t help but smile a little bit when looking at it. “This is a cigarette case. It was my grandfather’s…one of the few personal belongings they sent home to Grams after he was killed in Vietnam,” I explain as I pick it up and open it for him, revealing the assortment of pre-rolled joints. “The flower is a sweet pea. It was his nickname for her when they were young, and it was a little keepsake he always took with him when he traveled overseas. She gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, along with his zippo.” Pausing in the story, I lift up the lighter adorned with a voluptuous 1950’s pinup girl. “And according to Grams, she used to look just like this.” I chuckle softly.
“Wow, that’s cool as shit. Grams seems like she used to be a pretty badass lady,” he remarks while taking the lighter from my hands and examining it. There’s a genuine quality to his tone that relaxes some of the tension from my shoulders.
“Used to be?” I scoff teasingly. “You better not let her hear you say that.”
He laughs but doesn’t add anything else, so I use the lull in conversation to pull out one of the doobies and light it up. Then, as if someone cued up the music perfectly, the opening chords for The Weeknd’s High For This fill the room, the seductive notes swirling around the hazy smoke and serenading my ears. Perfect fucking song.
We sit shoulder-to-shoulder, our backs propped up with a multitude of pillows, and stare at the ceiling while smoking, both lost in our own thoughts. The joint gradually disappears between our fingers, and after I drop the smoldering roach into the ashtray, I’m anxious about what comes next. I want more than anything to reach out and touch him, to kiss him, to reassure him that I’m here for whatever he needs, but I’m hesitant he’ll deny me any of that. And on top of the hurt I’m already feeling over losing Caleb, I’m not sure how much rejection I can take right now.
“Hudson,” he whispers, the agony evident in his voice, “I need to lose myself in your body tonight…just raw physical distraction. It’s the only way I think I can stop my brain from these never-ending nightmares.” Taking my hand in his, he lifts it to his mouth and kisses my palm, my insides melting at his touch. “You’re the only thing that can save me from me right now.”
Rocking up to my knees, I crawl onto his lap and straddle his hips, my eyes locking directly onto his. I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, freeing my breasts as I toss aside the silky fabric.
“Take what you need. I’m all yours.”
Rolling out of bed the next morning, I wince at the soreness between my legs. My poor vagina must think we’re training for the sex Olympics or something, and I’m pretty sure my pelvic bone is bruised. I know my nipples are.
When I told Crew to take what he needed, he didn’t waste a single second in flipping me over, face-down on the sheets, and plunging deep inside my core. Unlike our previous times together, there weren’t a lot of kisses or sweet, heartfelt moments, with the only exception of him mumbling something about his snow angel before I passed out on his chest from sheer exhaustion.
No, it was pure fucking, plain and simple. But if that’s what makes him feel better, or not feel at all, I’m happy to help. And I’ll do it again for as long as he needs me. That’s what you do for someone you lo—care a lot about.
Knowing he hasn’t slept much in the last few days, and the fact the sun hasn’t even made an appearance yet, I leave him asleep in my bed while I throw on some sweatpants and a hoodie for my morning responsibilities. Grams is coming out of the bathroom as I make my way down the hall, and the understanding smile she offers after glancing back and forth between my closed bedroom door and me—in which I’m sure I look stellar after last night’s activities—says everything.
She knows.
God, I hope she, or anyone else for that matter, hadn’t heard us. I’d turned the music up and tried to be quiet, and I know they probably assumed what was going on, but still…I’d be mortified if they listened.
Shaking her head, she pats my shoulder, silently assuring me everything is okay, then shuffles her feet back to her room. In the bathroom, I go through my regular routine of brushing my teeth, putting my hair up, and washing my face on autopilot, my mind still preoccupied with thoughts of Crew, Mary, my family, and where we all go from here.
The marijuana greenhouse is a much-needed escape from my overactive brain, allowing me an hour reprieve to focus on work that needs to be done. Watering and fertilizing, light adjusting and pruning, drying and curing, the steps have become second nature to me, and the meticulous, methodical nature of growing weed brings me almost as much enjoyment as smoking it does.
Once I’ve finished logging in my progress on all of my established plants, I move to the back corner of the grow room to examine my latest special project…a project I began working on a few weeks ago. A few tears trickle down my face as I take measurements and thoroughly inspect the leaves, sadness overwhelming me when I realize the person who inspired this endeavor will never be able to take advantage of it. The plant is a hybrid created by crossing two of my other favorite strains, specifically designed for people who suffer from migraines, nausea, and seizures. More specifically, people with epilepsy.
Breakfast drags on for what seems like forever. All I can think of is getting back to my room to make sure Crew is doing all right. I’m in the middle of cooking my last omelet before I shut the lodge kitchen down, when I’m interrupted by a knock on the wall. Turning around, I’m half expecting to see Crew himself, but instead, I find Mary leaning in the doorway, her eyes looking even more tired than they did yesterday.
“Hey, Mary.” I fake a smile, my voice overly chirpy. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
She pats her belly with an equally forced grin. “You know I don’t miss one of your breakfasts, Hudson,” she replies sincerely as she crosses the linoleum floor toward me. “It’s my son I’m worried about not eating. I’m not sure he’s had a proper meal or bout of sleep since everything happened.”
“He did sleep last night; at least, he was out when I woke up this morning, but I’m not sure about food. I was planning on taking him some breakfast once I was finished up here.” I stop talking as I plate the ham, cheese, and egg concoction then return my gaze to her. “Have you talked to him this morning?”
She shakes her head sharply and looks down at the ground. “No, he’s refusing to talk to me right now. The only thing he’s said to me since the morning he found him was ‘I hope it was a damn good movie.’”
“Mary—” I reach out to touch her, to comfort her, but she holds her hands up in front of her.
“It’s okay. I understand he’s angry, and I don’t want to push him,” she asserts, though the emotions on her face don’t match the words coming out of her mouth. “This isn’t easy on any of us, you and your family included. I just wanted to let you know I talked to Mel and Doug this morning and thanked them for offering us the cabin the last few days. I know neither of us wants to go back to that apartment anytime soon—I’m not sure I’ll ever be—but we can’t stay here forever either. So, for now, I’m gonna stay at Luke’s apartment until I figure out what happens next, and Crew is gonna stay with you. If that’s okay?”
A little shocked, I nod my head and inhale a deep breath. “Yeah, of course, but are you sure?”
“Hudson, I realize you and Crew have only known each other for a little while, but I say this with the certainty only a mother can have about their child.” She places her hands on my shoulders and smiles a sad smile. “If there’s anyone who can save him from the hell he’s about to go through, it’s gonna be you. From the very beginning, the two of you have shared something special, something intangible…indescribable, and all I ask is that you try to hold on to that during the rocky times ahead. Please don’t give up on him.”
