Текст книги "Just Me"

Автор книги: L.A. Fiore

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Three

We reached Bastian’s bike and he lifted a helmet to place on my head before reaching for a leather jacket and holding it up to me.

“You should wear this.”

His scent surrounded me as soon as I slipped my arms into it. My knees went weak, again. If I continued to hang with Bastian, I was going to need knee replacement surgery.

He pulled an elastic from his pocket and tied his hair back into a ponytail before settling on his bike to hold it steady for me. I climbed on, wrapped my arms around his hard, flat stomach and felt the shudder that went through him in response. The bike roared to life. “Hold on, Lark.” The reality of riding with Bastian was so much better than I imagined.

We drove around for a while before we parked behind an auto body garage. I hadn't even gotten the chance to pull my helmet off, when he stepped up in front of me and did it for me. His finger lingered on my cheek a moment, but the tender look in his eyes as he did so had me feeling all gooey inside. He hung the helmet on his bike's handlebars then directed me toward the entrance.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“I work here.” He unlocked the door and waited for me to precede him before he hit the switch which immediately flooded the space with light. There were four car bays, two of which contained cars. The cement floors were stained with oil and other auto fluids. Large red tool chests lined the front wall of the garage and the wires and hoses, for the various compressors and lifts, that hung from the ceiling formed an intricate web-like maze. My eyes landed on an old black muscle car in the bay closest to us. The lines were beautiful.

“What a great car,” I said.

“A ‘67 Chevy Impala.”

“Nice.”

My attention shifted from the car to him; there was a devilish look on his face, “What were you laughing about that first day in English?”

“Oh, no, you first. Why did you switch schools?”

He feigned frustration, but I didn't miss the humor in his eyes. “I used to go to a private prep school, but switched to public. My parents are large contributors to the school I was attending and they used their influence to control my teachers and to try to control me. Needless to say, they weren't happy when I upped and moved schools, but because I'm eighteen, they couldn't stop me. To them, it's just one more bad choice, in a long line of bad choices, that I've made.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, it is what it is.”

“I'm guessing by bad choices you mean your tattoos?”

“Yes, they hate them.”

My gaze moved to his arms and the swirls of colors and images that covered them. “I love them.”

He touched my chin with his finger and lifted my face to his. “So, what were you laughing about that first day in English?”

“I was laughing at what you would think if you knew what I was thinking.”

A slight smile touched his lips, “And what were you thinking?”

I couldn’t say it; it was too embarrassing. “I can’t.”

“We had a deal.”

“It’s too embarrassing, but I will say part of it was related to you being...beautiful.”

Those teal eyes turned darker and an expression that caused my blood pressure to soar, washed over his features. “I suppose I’ll take that as an answer for now.”

Considering my body flipped out whenever Bastian was near, I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to him. It was comfortable, as if we'd been friends for years. That meant something, I was sure of it, but I moved past that and asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

“It’s quiet so we can talk.” He gestured to the workbench and offered me the stool. He headed for the small refrigerator, asking from over his shoulder, “So you’re staying at your friend’s tonight?”

“I’m staying there for the next week.”

He looked surprised when he turned back to me. “Why?”

“My aunt and family went to Disney World.”

He reached for two Cokes. “And you didn’t want to go.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

It was because he was now standing right in front of me that I saw the clenching of his jaw. “They didn’t invite you to join them?”

“It was more than that. My aunt told me flat out that I wasn't welcome.”

“Bitch.”

“Yes, she is.”

He handed me my Coke. “So, I guess your home life is about as good as mine.”

“Yeah, your parents are disappointed in you and my aunt is disinterested and cruel.”

He hesitated before he asked, “Your mom and dad?”

“Mom died when I was eight, never knew my dad.”

Tenderness crept into his expression as well as the understanding that I really wanted to change the subject. He asked, “Any idea about what you want to do next year?”

“I'm hoping to go Columbia. What about you?”

“Honestly, I'm not sure, but my parents want me to go to Yale like my dad and his dad. That isn’t what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to be allowed to find who I am and not be forced into a cookie cutter version of my dad.”

It would seem that Bastian was a believer of tit for tat; I offered an intimate glimpse into me so he countered with one of his own. My gaze found his arms and a smile touched my lips. “It looks to me like you're well on your way to finding yourself.”

His expression in response was wicked. “Good.”

He grew thoughtful for a moment. “Was it always like that at home—you being excluded?”

“Yeah, but there was a day when I first arrived that was the closest to a perfect day I've ever had. I felt like a kid for the first time in my life.”

Bastian watched me steadily as I spoke. “What changed?” He asked.

I played with the condensation on my can of Coke, because after all these years, remembering the look on Aunt Kim's face that night still shattered me. The realization for the little girl I had been, that my hope of finally being a part of a happy family wasn't going to happen was heartbreaking. “That night my aunt walked in on my uncle and me talking about my mom. Just like that, she changed.”

He said nothing for a minute as he seemed to consider my words. “Sounds like your aunt's jealous. She's a douche, taking her shit out on a kid.” His finger trailed down my cheek. “You okay?”

Surprise was my reaction to that simple question—that he asked and more that he seemed genuinely concerned. “I'm fine. It was a long time ago.”

He had a thought on that, I could see it burning in his eyes, but he kept it to himself and instead asked, “Do you have a free period on Monday?”

“Yeah, seventh.”

“Maybe I could meet you in the art room and you could show me some of your work.”

“I'd like that. Can I ask you something, Bastian?”

He smiled and settled on the floor: resting his back against the workbench. “Sure.”

“Why do you talk to Kira? She doesn't really seem your speed.”

“She's a friend of the family. I've known her since we were six.”

“Oh.” Well, that sucked.

He must have realized where my thoughts were taking me when he added rather softly, “She's always been self-absorbed and shallow, but it's the connection to her family my parents encourage.”

“Do they know the kind of person she is?”

“Yes.”

“Then why wish her on their child?”

“Because her parents are affluent and well-connected, and that's all that matters.” Bitterness rang in his tone.

“None of that matters. The golden rule is a life lesson people usually learn in childhood. How can they be blind to it?”

“I've no idea.” He stood. “I better get you home.”

Slipping my hand into his, I allowed him to pull me to my feet. He was so close I could feel the heat rolling off his body in waves, feel the soft tickle of his breath over my skin and could smell him: his unique masculine scent. I wanted those arms around me. I wanted him to kiss me. His fingers traced my chin and along my jaw before entangling in my hair as if to kiss me.

I couldn't say what he was thinking as he studied me so intently before he released his hold on my hair and led me from the garage. We didn't speak as we walked to his bike and as we settled onto it, he spoke only to ask for Poppy's address. When it roared to life, talking became impossible.

Like Sophia, I was falling hard, despite the fact that I didn't know Bastian. The ride seemed too short to pull up at Poppy’s house as fast as we did. When I climbed off, I expected him to drive away. He didn’t, though. He shut down his bike and climbed off after me, taking my hand again as we walked to the front door where I immediately busied myself unlocking it because I was nervous: worrying over whether or not he was going to kiss me. Inhaling deeper, I turned and met his unwavering stare. “I really had fun tonight.”

Touching my hair, taking a few strands in between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “I did too.”

Realizing I still wore his jacket, I started to take it off. Before I could, he stopped me when he whispered, “Keep it. It looks good on you.”

His fingers entwined with my own. He lifted our hands and placed a kiss in my palm. It took me a moment to realize the tightening in my chest and the chills that lit over my nerve endings in response to that intimate gesture was the result of profound pleasure, an emotion I was unaccustomed to feeling. He started back down the drive, glancing at me from over his shoulder, while I curled the hand he kissed into a fist hoping to hold the kiss there. Climbing on his bike, he started it up and looked one last time at me before he pulled away. I watched until his taillights disappeared.

Poppy waited for me at the top of the stairs. “Nice jacket.” Her eyes widened slightly when she got a good look at me, “I want all the details.”

“Just as soon as I come down from cloud nine.”

***

On Monday morning I sat in homeroom feeling a bit uncomfortable—Poppy had cut my hair on Sunday. She took four inches from the length, making it fall just past my shoulders, and she did something with the front so it fell in soft layers around my face. She also insisted I wear some of her clothes. I’d also worn Bastian's jacket, but had to leave it in my locker. As strange as it was to say, I missed having that piece of him with me—the smell of him had wrapped around me like a hug.

The staring started as I made my way down the hall to English. People generally didn't notice me—amazing what a makeover could do. Bastian was leaning up against the lockers when I turned the corner, but as soon as he saw me, he started in my direction. The look on his face, one of total male appreciation, made my toes curl. He didn't hide the very thorough perusal he gave me. “Morning.”

Such a simple word and yet there was nothing simple about how my body reacted to it: butterflies took off in my stomach and my body grew unaccountably warm. His hand came to rest on my lower back. “Shall we?”

I preceded him into class and we made our way to the back where I usually sat. Bastian took the seat next to me, but pushed it closer so we were only inches apart. The movement was not lost on the class as people turned around and gossiped as they did. Whether that was because he was sitting next to me or because of the makeover, I had no idea. He seemed completely oblivious. “How was your weekend?”

“Poppy had me watching a marathon of cooking shows. How about you?”

“I was counting the minutes.” What a thing to say. But before I could reply, a shadow fell over me.

“Sebastian, why are you sitting back here?”

His answer gave me chills. “You're blocking my view, one I happen to really like.” Kira turned and stared at me. I'm guessing by the look on her face that she didn't recognize me at first.

“Larkspur, what happened?”

It was a haircut and a change of clothes. What did she mean ‘what happened?’

“I was abducted by aliens over the weekend and they gave me a makeover.”

An odd look crossed over her face, “Is there something going on between you two?”

Bastian’s shoulders tensed and his voice turned oddly hard, in drastic contrast to what he actually said. “I hope so.”

Without conscious thought, I reached for Bastian's hand and pressed my lips to his palm. Our eyes were locked, but I could still sense the indignation pouring off of Kira—she was about to explode. He never took his eyes off of me as he curled his fingers around the kiss in his palm, mirroring my action from Friday night. Kira stomped off to her seat, but she could have been invisible with how much attention we paid her. During roll call, Mrs. MacIntosh made Bastian put his desk back, but that didn't stop us from spending the rest of the class staring at each other. I missed the entire lecture and I so didn't care.

At lunch I walked into the cafeteria to see Bastian waiting. To know he waited for me, had me feeling a lightness in my chest I never felt before. The difference a day made, or in this case a weekend. He went from avoiding me at school to seeking me out. It was a change that I could wholeheartedly get behind. As soon as he saw me, he walked over and reached for my hand. It was a simple gesture, reaching for my hand, and yet I craved the physical link to him. Loved that he seemed to crave it too. We got our food and settled at a table across the cafeteria from where Poppy and the others were sitting.

“Sorry, I should have asked if you wanted to eat at your friends' table.”

I could only stare in reaction because what guy would even think to ask that? He really was just about perfect. “I'd like to have lunch here with you.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.” He eyed my lunch and grinned, which I could only assume was because we got almost the same thing.

“I'm not the kind of girl to get a salad and pick at it. I like food, and since I walk to school every day, I let myself eat food, even pizza.”

“You live nearby?”

“Yeah, about three miles away.”

He was in the process of bringing his pizza to his mouth when he stopped. “Why don't you take the bus?”

“It doesn't come into my neighborhood.”

He put his pizza down and just stared at me, but I could see the temper burning behind his eyes. “And your aunt and uncle are okay with you walking every morning?”

“My uncle is up and out of the house before I even wake up. The girls don't need to leave for school until an hour after I've already left the house, so my aunt doesn't feel the need to get up until then. I don't mind the walk and when it gets colder, Shawn and Poppy come for me. I don't ask for a ride during the warmer months since mornings are theirs and I'm not a fan of being the third wheel.”

His voice was a barely audible rumble, “Son of a bitch.”

I wasn't sure what it was about this boy, because I didn't know him, and yet my need to offer him comfort was instinctual. I reached across the table and linked our fingers.

He shook his head, like he was trying to shake his bad mood away. “Would you mind if I picked you up in the mornings?”

His mouth was moving, but I couldn't be hearing his words correctly. He wanted to pick me up in the mornings. Giddiness hit me at the idea of riding with him every morning, followed quickly with apprehension since my luck just wasn't that good. “You don't have to.”

He squeezed my hand. “I would really like to pick you up.”

This was, hands down, the best day of my life—sitting across from Bastian Ross as we discussed his wish to drive me to school every morning. The day could not get any better. “I would really like that.”

“I'll come for you at Poppy's at quarter after seven tomorrow morning.”

Pulling out a piece of paper and pen from my backpack, I jotted down my aunt's address since he already knew where Poppy lived, but eventually I'd be returning to my aunt's house. The fact that my writing was legible with how badly my hands shook was a miracle. He studied the note I slid across the table to him for a moment, then folded it up and slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans.

“My friend Caden, the dude with the shaved head and earrings from the pizzeria, he's in a band. They're playing on Friday at Reservoir. Would you like to go with me?”

Maybe I was dreaming—not only was Bastian interested in seeing me at school, he wanted to see me outside of school. I unconsciously gripped my seat with my free hand. With the way I felt, I was in serious danger of floating away. “Yes.”

“It starts at eight, so I'll come for you around half-past six and we can get something to eat before it starts.”

“Sounds great.” How I managed an even, almost cool, tone when my body was going haywire surprised me. He looked so good sitting across from me, good enough to eat. Suddenly my pizza lost all of its appeal. What would he do if I leaned over the table and pulled his lower lip into my mouth? It was a striking lip, slightly fuller than its companion with the smallest of dents that creased it at the center. I could already taste him on my tongue, like that special chocolate Poppy hordes: not too sweet with just a hint of spicy heat. My mouth started to water, so I changed the subject before I threw caution to the wind. “Tell me about your weekend.” I asked.

At my question, his expression changed. He looked down at his plate. “It sucked. We usually have a family dinner at the club on Sunday where I am given the usual lecture on how I'm not living up to the Ross name.”

Didn't live up to...what the hell? More than his words, it was his body language that caused the spark of anger to light through me: the slightly slumped shoulders, the way his fingers tightened on the pizza he held, the hardening of his jaw. Growing up neglected, I recognized it easily in others. “Meaning?” Anger laced through that word.

His head lifted and his eyes met mine. “Well, for one my appearance is apparently like that of a homeless person. My tattoos are an embarrassment and my hair is ridiculous. I dress disgracefully and my general attitude is piss-poor. My dad wants me to be a clone of him—perfectly tailored. Blend into the mainstream, but achieve great things. His idea of great things is to make lots of money ideally while working for him: this way it will line his pockets, too.” He looked down and added, “I don't think I would mind their disappointment in me so much if it was fueled by genuine concern for me, but it's not. They ignored me as a child and now they are only worried about how my behavior reflects on them. My dad wouldn't give a shit if I was a male whore, but being so looks badly on him.”

“Yet even knowing this, you still do as you please,” I said.

His gaze returned to mine. “Yeah, I'm eighteen. It's my life, right?”

“Good for you. Not many in your shoes would stand up for themselves.”

“I get the sense you're one who would.”

“Yes, but I don't have the pressure of a family trying to force their will on me. I'd like to believe if someone ever tried that I would stand firm. Life would be miserable if I lived someone else's idea of it. For the record, I think your hair is beautiful and your tattoos are sexy as hell. And for a homeless person, you smell really good.”

Belatedly, I realized I had actually said that last part out loud, when the sexiest grin curved up his lips into a beautiful smile. Shifting my eyes from him, I wished for the power of invisibility. He leaned over the table and lifted my chin with his finger. “Thank you.”

His thumb brushed my lower lip. “We still on for seventh period?”

“Yeah.”

The heat in his eyes settled very comfortably in my chest, “I can't wait.”

***

I was ready to call it a day by seventh period. Clearly the rumor mill was working overtime about Bastian and me. I didn't mind my name being paired with his, but after spending the past three years nearly invisible, it was a bit overwhelming to be in the spotlight. Breathing became easier when I stepped into the safe and familiar space that was the art room.

Ms. Whitney was just leaving when I entered. She lived like a throwback to the seventies: brightly-colored flowing skirts, auburn hair parted in the middle that hung lose and curly around her shoulders and a lithe and graceful way of moving that made it seem like she floated when she walked. “Hey, Lark. I need to run this down to the office. I won't be long.”

She was gone before I could reply. Only a minute or two later, Bastian entered.

“Hi, Lark.”

“Hey. Give me a minute to collect the paintings. Why don't you sit over there by those easels?”

“Okay.” His long, strong legs carried him across the floor. Suddenly I was feeling rather warm in my sweater.

I pulled my gaze from the masterpiece currently straddling a stool and retrieved some of my work. My pulse pounded in my veins as I sorted through my paintings because I was nervous. Outside of my friends, the Wrights and Ms. Whitney, no one I knew had ever really shown an interest in my art. Even my uncle, who claimed interest, felt more like he was fulfilling an obligation when he viewed my pieces. This boy, whom I'd known for barely a week, was interested, had even requested a viewing.

One of the pieces I selected was an oil painting of a covered bridge with turbulent water churned up from a thunderstorm. Another was a sketch of an old man and a little girl playing chess in the park. I chose another painting—a particular favorite—because based on our discussion at lunch, it seemed appropriate. It depicted a field of wildflowers, but not when they were vibrant and vital, but when they had lost their luster and were just hanging on.

Placing my art on the easels for Bastian to view, I stood to the side and watched him but I couldn't read his expression. He studied them, really studied them, for a while before his gaze shifted to me. “You're incredible.”

Such simple words and so easily given and yet, for me, it was the finest compliment I had ever received.

He pointed to the field of wildflowers. “What do you call that one?”

“Mainstream.”

He reached me in two long strides. I felt my heart doing somersaults when his hands wrapped around my face. He lowered his head so that our lips were almost touching. Tracing my lower lip with the pad of his thumb, he didn't need to speak what was on his mind since I saw it burning in his eyes. Anticipation lit through me as I waited impatiently to feel his lips against mine, but a noise just outside the door pulled us apart. Ms. Whitney was back. Disappointment so profound washed over me and when I happened a glance at Bastian, he looked exactly like how I felt.

“Rain check?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”