Текст книги "Junk Miles"
Автор книги: Лиз Реинхардт
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
“I kind of do, too.” I flipped through the pages and skimmed words that were familiar and delicious. “I like the machines that give you the scented powder. And the crazy porn movies!”
“Yeah, Hamleton a bearskin rug.” He laughed through the cigarette smoke. “And I think it would be cool to see whole groups of identical people, dressed in their own certain color.”
“I always think that I would be an Alpha. Don’t you?” I held my hair up off of my neck and let the cool night air breeze over my over-warm skin, but as soon as the sweat dried, a sudden, sharp chill bit through me.
“Oh yeah.” He flicked ash out the window.“I think every person who has half a brain assumes they’d be an Alpha. You cold?”
“Yeah.” I held my jacket closed tight and folded my bare legs up under me.
I thought he’d close the window, but he jumped down and rummaged through his stuff, then tossed me a clean but smoky thermal top and sweatpants. I pulled the pants on under my dress, shed my coat, put the thermal over, and left the clingy fabric of the dress right where it was.
“I kind of thought I’d get a show.” He bumped his head back against the wall and blew smoke out the window.
“Tough. You didn’t.” I looked at him, so hot and muscled in the moonlight. “I never realized you had tattoos.”
“They’re recent. Maybe two months old.” He looked at them with obvious pride. “Five hours total. They’re not completely colored in yet. Then he pulled his shirt off by the back. I sucked my breath in at his caramel-skinned six pack and bulging shoulder muscles. He had two swooping birds on his pecs and when he turned so I could see his back, there were two mermaids with long, flowing hair swimming up his shoulder blades in addition to the dragons that I had seen partially snaking his shoulders.
“That’s a lot of ink.” I was proud when my voice didn’t wobble all over. “All pairs?”
“It just felt right to get two of each thing done.” He jumped back on the desk and hunched over, his back muscles bulging as he hung his head. The cherry of his cigarette glowed orange in the room. “You like them?”
“Yes.” They were very sexy. I wondered if Jake had ever contemplated tattoos, then put that thought out of my head. Jake wasn’t my boyfriend anymore, just like that. I had broken Jake’s trust, and I knew that Saxon was wrong about the possibility of me winning him back.
Jake once told me about how easy it was to slide into doing something that you didn’t really want to do, but I never believed him. I thought that he was weak or immature because he’d had so much sex. And maybe that was true. But I’d been throwing some big stones from the front door of a glass mansion. In one day I had broken so many of my hard and fast rules, it was daunting to think about it.
“You’re not even considering me as a boyfriend, are you?” Saxon asked suddenly, taking another long drag. His dark eyes glinted in the night.
“I don’t know.” I tried to make out his features in the dim room. “Jake won’t want to date me now.”
“I don’t want to be your damn rebound,” Saxon snarled. He ran his hands through his hair and left it standing up at crazy angles. “Jesus, Brenna. Just don’t date anyone if you don’t think you can get over it.”
“It’s notjust anyone.” I took a deep breath and pulled his thermal closer around me. “It was you, that first day. When I found out you were going out with Kelsie, I was a little crushed. There’s so much about you that I’m attracted to. But there’s also so much that freaks me out.”
He jumped off the desk again and came over to me, his figure lean and powerful in the dimness. I felt my blood thrum in my veins. He sat on the bed next to me, his skin smelling like soap and smoke and Saxon.
“I’m fucked up,” he admitted. “But I could be better than I am. With you, I know I could be. Give me half a chance,” he pleaded.
“I don’t know if you really want this.” My hands itched for his skin, but I was already scared. “Once it’s real, it’s not going to be exciting. It’s going to be so boring, I don’t think you’ll be happy with it.”
“You never bore me.” He took my face in his hands and kissed me, then leaned me back on the bed and kissed me more. And just when I thought I should stop things before they went too far, he pulled me into his arms and just held me. I was nervous that he’d fallen asleep when I heard his voice, low and quiet in the dark. “There are things I want, too. Things I want to change. I’m tired of only being there for a good time, Brenna. I’m tired of being a corrupter of the people I love. No one wants to be the perpetual fuck up.”
I relaxed against him, against the warm body of someone who screwed up a lot. I liked holding our mistakes up against each other, for comparison’s sake, even if it was completely awful of me. It made me come out looking better than I was. It made my own failures feel like they could be overcome. “I know how you feel. I get overwhelmed by it all too.”
He snorted. “Overwhelmed,” he mocked. “That’s one way to look at it.”
I sat up from him. “You don’t think I have similar experiences to you?”
“I think you think you do,” he said carefully. “I like you because we’re the same, Blix. But I want you because we’re different.”
“What does that even mean?” My gut already hated whatever it was he was about to say.
“It’s the virgin/whore thing.” He shrugged. “Don’t get all offended when I explain what I’m talking about,” he warned.
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” Of course I was offended. I couldn’t fathom any other way to feel considering the crap that just oozed out of his mouth. “Do you really think I don’t know about the whole virgin/whore idea? And how exactly I am supposed to keep from being offended by it?”
“You represent the best possible kind of girl.” Saxon ran a hand down my arm, and I batted it away. “C’mon, Bren, don’t be a prude about this.”
I stood up, hating that I was wearing his clothes. “I’m not being a prude. Maybe it’s just a little freaky that this isn’t really about me at all. It’s about what I represent.”
“It’s about what you think versus how you are.” He turned me by the shoulder, but I shook his hand off again. “You have the ability to see it all, to think it all, but you haven’t done it all. That’s what I like. You and I thinkalike, but you haven’t donethe things I have.”
My face burned hot. It made no sense to be ashamed that I had less experience whoring and drugging, but I felt like Saxon held it over my head that I wasn’t as knowledgeable as he was, or something like that.
I scooted back on the bed, out of his immediate reach, and leaned my head back on the wall. “So you like me because I can think like a rebel, but I act like a good girl?”
“Pretty much,” he agreed. “Of course, when you say it that way, it makes me sound like a dick.”
“Maybe you sound like a dick because you’re a dick,” I suggested.
“Don’t get all high and mighty with me.” He moved off the bed, went to his window, and lit another cigarette. “It’s the same reason you get all hot for Jake, just in reverse.”
“That’s notwhy I like Jake,” I insisted fiercely.
“Yes it is.” Saxon pointed his cigarette at me. “And it’s because you feel bad about it that you’re here, in my room right now.”
“What do you mean?” My words were cold, but I was curious. Like it or not, Saxon said what other people didn’t. That didn’t mean he was right or true. Just worth listening to.
“Jake did all the bad, and in his head, he’s good. Kind of worked the devil out physically, so he can be an angel in his head.” He laughed and took a drag. “That’s why you two never made sense. He did all the bad you’ve only imagined, and you know he thinks he can protect you from doing any bad yourself.”
“But you think bad and do bad.” The crazy logic of it all made my head spin. “If I do what Jake is warning me against, I’ll be just like you. Based on your stupid theory.”
“Yep.” He took another long drag.
“Then your fascination with me will probably go away.” As much as I felt a twinge of regret at that thought, I felt relief too, and that made me feel a little more sane.
“I doubt it.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Then I’ll just feel less guilty being with you. I won’t be the dirty older pervert who ruined you.” He blew a long stream of smoke out. “We’ll be partners in crime.”
I shook my head, which had just started to pound. “Yeah, we’ll be just like Bonnie and Clyde,” I said sarcastically. “It won’t work, anyway. In order to do the bad things, I’d have to do them with you, so you’d be like my rebel mentor. And since you’d have the upper hand, we couldn’t be partners.”
“That’s where you’re thinking too much like Jake’s girlfriend.” Saxon gave a careless, one-shouldered shrug. “I’m willing to keep our relationship open.”
“What does that mean?” I didn’t bother to point out that we weren’t in a relationship, because Saxon would just laugh at that. I was deep enough in this to know that he wasn’t going to get tripped up with technicalities.
“It means if you need to do some experimenting without me, I’m not going to preach you a sermon about it.” There was no light except for the moon coming through the window. It highlighted the planes of his face and glinted off of his eyes, making him look like a ghost. “I’m not saying I won’t beat the crap out of a few guys to work out my jealousy. I’m just saying that I’m not going to expect you to be on some leash.”
“Like a pet,” I snapped.
He didn’t seem upset at all. He seemed amused, and that only made me more upset. “No, not like a pet. A pet is something you keep on a leash, Bren. Or in a cage. Or right by your side. You would be free. With me. No checking in, no rules.”
“You can’t have this both ways, Saxon.” The feeling that went through me was mostly sadness. “You can’t have us united and let me do what I want while you do what you want.”
“Why not?” he demanded. Now he seemed a little irritated.
“Because you have to give things up to be in a relationship.” I spoke with all the wisdom of someone who had dated one guy for four months. It wasn’t much, but it was more experience than Saxon had. I finally had the ability to trump him in something!
“I disagree.” He got up and put his hands on my waist. “I think you can be yourself completely and let the person you’‘re with do the same thing,” he said lowly, his voice falling as he bent his head. “And I think you can enjoy each other without all of the complications of being monogamous.” He put his lips on mine, and there was the burn I had felt before, the excitement, but it was dampened.
This wasn’t what I’d wanted. Even given my low expectations as far as a relationship with him went, this was not at all what I had expected.
I pulled my lips from his. “You want me all to yourself sometimes, but sometimes you’re happy to think about me with other guys? It makes no sense. You make no sense.”
“No one makes any sense. That’s my point.” He kissed my neck slowly, flicking his tongue on my skin. “I’m just honest. Sometimes I want you alone, sometimes I’m willing to acknowledge I can’t do it all for you. Not that I’m happy about that one, by the way.” His kissed all along the underside of my jaw, and it felt so incredibly good I could almost forget the idiot things he was blabbering about. “I just feel like we would both like being flexible together.” He laughed at his own dirty pun.
I pulled away. “I’m going to bed.” My neck was painted with the cooling moisture of his tongue, my mouth still puffy from our hard kissing.
“Coward,” he said affectionately.
“Take a look at yourself,” I said, so bone tired, I could only think about my bed.
I made my way down the hall, still in Saxon’s clothes, the acrid smell of smoke so overwhelming I considered a shower, but decided I was too exhausted. I stopped outside of Mom’s door. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed with her, not to tell her any of this crap I had managed to wade deep into, but just to be near her. But I knew she’d be preoccupied with the smell of smoke on me. Mom worried a lot about that kind of thing. Good thing she didn’t know the other less than desirable activities I’d been participating in lately. Things that would make a few cigarettes look like nothing.
Chapter Eight
Once I got to my room, I expected to pass out from weariness, but even though my body was heavy and beaten, my mind raced a hundred miles an hour. I tossed and turned, something that was completely out of my norm, then pulled out my laptop and logged on to Facebook.
Jake was still my friend. My heart leapt a little when I saw that the picture of the two of us was still the one he had up.
I wondered why this had happened in the first place. Now, groggy, miserable, and disillusioned by Saxon’s cowardly hard-ass approach to dating, I wondered why I hadn’t grabbed on to Jake and never let go. I wondered why I had ever let my mind wander to anyone else or to anything else.
I clicked his picture section. The album had been renamed. Now it just said “Gone.” I opened it, though I knew that wasn’t the best idea considering how much I already had crammed and crashing in my head. There were four new pictures.
The first one was actually two pictures next to one another. One side was a color picture of me, smiling in the diner, a forkful of waffle held out to the camera. The other side was a black and white close up of a waffle, cut up with two butter knives stuck in it and a cigarette smashed in the center. My breath caught in my throat. It was such a weirdly ugly, jarring image. And very similar to the one of the apple with the knife through it that I had taken earlier.
Each picture after was done in the same format. On the left side was a color picture of me, on the right a black and white of whatever had been in the picture with me, but undone. There was a picture of me in front of the school, then a close-up of the school mascot, toilet papered and graffitied. There was the picture of the overlook where we had skipped school, me smiling brightly, then a black and white of the same backdrop, deserted, a dusky light making it look ominous. And the last was me sitting on Jake’s bed, grinning like an idiot. The black and white on the other side showed his blankets rumpled and thrown, and a wrapper on the sheets.
A condom wrapper?
I felt my throat tighten. I wasn’t sure. I’d never had a reason to use a condom, but Jake had some. I had found them deep in his closet when I was spying. He told me he had bought them while he was still living crazily.
I swallowed hard. Was I being melodramatic? But Jake was a precise artist. He was methodical. If there was a wrapper in the middle of that picture, it was there to send me a message. He knew I’d check it. He knew it would make me crazy.
I realized then how dangerous it was to get so close to someone. Only Jake could know exactly how to punish me so perfectly.
I simultaneously realized that I deserved every second of agony. I thought about him smiling his slow, slightly crooked smile at someone else. I imagined him laying her down and taking his time, being gentle. Or had he gone back to the way he was before? Drunk and uncaring?
How had it happened so fast? It was winter break. All of the lowlifes in the Sussex County area would be throwing parties, getting plastered and humping each other with jolly abandon. If Jake wanted, he could pick up a different girl, or even two, every night of the week, and it could happen in no time at all. In just one day, with just a few stupid decisions, he and I had probably smashed everything good and real we spent the last few months building together. And I started the whole ball rolling.
I wished I had never opened my laptop, but I also embraced the awful feelings that made me want to sob. I deserved to be hurt. I had hurt him so badly. I deserved to feel awful.
I laid on my bed and every crazy, terrible, wonderful thing that had happened in the last week swirled though my head, dizzying, and, finally, sleep inducing.
I slept a sleep so miserable, it felt like a complete waste of my time and woke up feeling drained and weary. I knew what I needed. It was still so early, nearly dawn, but I forced myself out of bed and took a hot, weak-watered shower, scrubbing off the caked-on makeup from the night before and the clinging smell of Saxon. I hurried to my room and tore through my suitcase, taking out my one crazy, luxury item.
I had learned to pack sensibly from my mother, and I knew every inch counted. But something pressed me to add my running shoes, a gift from Thorsten. They were fancy, made to cushion and support, and just be generally great. And they were super cute. I put on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and tied my shoes tight, just the way I liked them. I left a note for Mom taped to her door, and left the dorms.
The air was cold and biting, exactly the way I loved it. I started to run on the almost empty sidewalks. I ran past an old couple walking their dog, past a baker filling up her display case with hot pastries. I ran past buildings that were dove gray and so lovely, they looked almost feminine. I ran past empty parks with empty black benches and noisily splashing fountains. I passed a young couple bickering in a language that didn’t sound French while they put fruit out in their stand. I ran past newspaper stands, movie advertisement posters, beggars, surprised looking men in suits and women in smart trenches that flapped open when they walked. I was in Paris, France. There was more to life than the two boys from Sussex County who had turned my world upside down. I double clutched, two breaths in and one out, two in and one out.
Thoughts in my head bounced like so many ping pong balls, ricocheting all around. I didn’t push Jake’s pictures out of my head. I let them bob there, right with all of the other images, and tried to accept that they were part of the whole collage of my romantic life. I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower, and wondered if Mom and I would go to the top. I knew we would if I asked. Mom. I loved Mom. I didn’t want to keep lying and moping.
I was breathing hard and my lungs felt a little torn, but also like they were stretching to accommodate all of the new air I drew in. I liked the feeling. Just like I felt my heart shrivel and harden on the museum roof after kissing Saxon, my lungs seemed to expand as I ran on the pavement.
Less room to feel, more to breathe. I would make do with that.
Soon the sun came up bright and warm, and my stomach growled and turned on itself. I looped back to the dorms, following the line of cheese stores, grocers, and bakers I had committed to memory like a breadcrumb trail. When I got to my hall, Mom stuck her head out her door and hugged me.
“Did you have fun last night, sweetie?” She pulled off the towel that she had wrapped around her damp hair, and it fell in light, wet waves around her shoulders.
I nodded, my body feeling incredibly hot now that I wasn’t racing the cutting air outside. “Yes. It was good to dance. I’m getting soft.” I gasped for breath.
She rubbed my back with one soft hand. “You look so cold. Go get dressed. We’re going to the Louvre today!”
I hugged her hard because I was really excited. Jake and Saxon were going to be where they were, and we would be or we wouldn’t. In the meantime, I would go and see the Louvre with my mother, and I would sincerely, adamantly love it. I had to give my slightly shriveled heart something to expand around, and boys were just too treacherous right now.
Mom and I met for breakfast.
“So how was the dance? Details, please.” She sipped coffee so hot it steamed continuously.
“It was okay.” I buttered a roll, paying a lot of attention to the process. She had already asked me in a cursory way, but she obviously wanted more information, and if I didn’t give it to her, she would keep digging. “The music was all French, but everyone danced. I danced until my feet ached.”
“I’m glad you went and danced.” Mom ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “I was always self-conscious about that kind of thing when I was young.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so stupid to be that way. The only one who knows if you danced or not is you.”
It was one of her tried and true sayings. “It was really fun.”
“Those are real travel moments.” Mom dipped a piece of croissant in her cup and took a bite. “More important than museums and tours are the things you do with the regular French people.”
Another of Mom’s favorite topics. She thought our time in Denmark was my most valuable experience because it was so normal; going to the post office, going to the bank, seeing a movie, watching television, taking walks. It was just everyday stuff, but she thought that made you take a country in best.
“I’m glad I went.” I wished I could work up more excitement, but it was difficult to push the time in Saxon’s room away from my memory.
There was a long silence, then Mom looked up, her blue eyes more gray, probably because she had a great gray cardigan on with her Swiss dot blouse.
“Did you have fun with Saxon?”
I realized that Mom was nervous, and I realized that she saw more than I thought, than I wanted.
“He’s a good dancer.” It was the most neutral thing I could think to say about him.
“He’s taken an interest in you,” Mom said pointedly. “Is that something you want?”
I wanted to tell her everything, starting with the first day of school. I had my mouth open to do it, but something in her eyes stopped me. I knew it would feel good in the moment, but I would wind up regretting it. Mom’s love for me was so strong, it would override respect for my privacy or my need to work things through on my own. Asking for her help by listening meant that I was inviting her to comment and take action.
And as messed up as things were, they were my own brand of controlled chaos.
“Saxon takes an interest in lots of girls,” I said lightly and shrugged. “He’s fun to go to a dance with. He’s just a friend.”
“Good.” Mom took a tiny sip of coffee and made a purposefully bright face. “So how’s Jake?”
My heart fell. “He’s great.” I forced enthusiasm on my words. “He delivered some apple tarts to Thorsten.”
“He really is a sweet guy,” she said reluctantly.
I felt my heart pounding so loud, I could hear the blood sloshing in my ears.
“Yeah,” I said, as evenly as I could. “He really is.”
If I was unusually quiet for the rest of the morning, Mom didn’t seem to notice. She was busy gushing admiration and love for art like blood from a ripped open artery. I was able to fairly effectively turn off my brain of all things boy related and soak the beauty of the art in. I walked the wide, marble floors and listened to Mom chat with animation about how certain paintings had changed this or that movement or started a riot or been commissioned for royalty. I looked at dark faces that I would never know and dramatic landscapes that didn’t exist anymore and wondered about the people who had painted them, wanted them, looked at them every day in homes and churches and offices for hundreds of years before they landed in this museum to end all museums.
I had snapped discreet pictures all morning. I wasn’t insane enough to think I could take any definitive pictures of such great art. But I did want to catch some of what Paris was really like. I got one of a man and woman kissing on the steps outside the museum. I snapped one of two young kids running through the museum halls, unchaperoned. A display box full of pens with a sliding Mona Lisa in the liquid-filled interior. A man tying his shoe next to a group of melting, molding Rodin statues. I clicked whenever I saw a ‘real’ moment. Jake might never want to see them, but I took a lot of them with him in mind, imagining how we could look at them and invent stories behind the pictures.
It had been one of our favorite things to do; watch people and make up stories about why they were where they were, what they were planning, thinking, doing. Jake always had a good knack for making the stories completely wild and making me laugh. I felt a whole new pang over losing him.
Then we were moving down a long, wide corridor with Leonardos on both sides, moving closer and closer to the group of ogling tourists snapping pictures at the end.
“That’s the Mona Lisa?” I looked down at the biggest group of people in the whole, wide museum full of amazing sights.
“Yes,” Mom said, her brow wrinkled. “You’d think they would give a second of attention to the other paintings. I know she’s famous, but come on.”
It was strange, how everyone gravitated to this one painting, agreeing that it was something special, something worth all of the hysteria even if they had no idea why. It was in that gallery that we saw Lylee and Saxon. When Lylee saw my mother, she walked to her with purpose.
“Suzanne, where were you? I thought we were coming here together?” She sounded annoyed.
Mom gave her an incredibly intimidating stare-down. Even Lylee backed off. “My daughter was up early, and I decided to take her with me before the rest of the group. You shouldn’t count on me to always be right there, Lylee. I’m really here for Brenna.”
Mom’s words were icy, and I was so proud, I could have crowed. I felt embarrassed that I had ever been charmed by Lylee, and thought it was weird how completely my opinion of her had changed. Now every time I was around her, she gave off a vain, shallow vibe that just didn’t sit well with me. But I didn’t tell my mother, because I didn’t like to discourage Mom from having friends.
Lylee looked suitably chastised, but there was even something about that look I didn’t trust one hundred per cent.
“How nice that the two of you had time together.” She smiled as indulgently as if she had been the one to give us permission. “Should we stroll over and see what all the fuss is about?”
Mom put her arm around my shoulders, and we all headed down to the painting. We had to wait in the middle of a big, jostling crowd. It was definitely the most densely populated couple of feet in the museum. Maybe it got some competition from the gift shop and the cafeteria, at least at lunch, but otherwise this was where you could find most of the museum patrons.
Mom and Lylee struck up a pseudo-friendly conversation, and Saxon came to stand behind me.
“Morning, pal,” he said softly.
“Hey, Saxon,” I answered, not taking my eyes off of the painting. It was hard to see, since it was behind a scratched, slightly blurry piece of plexiglass.
“Do you want to talk a minute?” He was wearing a faded Quiet Riot t-shirt and a pair of brown suit pants. He looked shower damp and so handsome, it made my throat tighten.
“Mom, Saxon and I are going to look at Nike. She’s over here right?” I pointed out into the next foyer.
Mom tossed me an absent smile and nodded, then went back to what was quickly turning into a heated debate with her ‘friend’ about the relevance of pop culture in art. I knew it could be a while.
Saxon and I walked into the open, cool foyer where Nike stood, right at the center of two huge staircases that met in the middle. We both stared at the enormous, headless, winged goddess.
“I wanted to say that I’m sorry about some of the stuff I said last night.” Saxon’s voice sounded the opposite of sorry.
“Like you’re sorry because you were wrong, or you’re sorry because you don’t want me to be pissed?” I sat down on the first step of the left staircase, and the statue shadowed us.
“I guess it makes a difference to you?” He sat too close to me.
“Yes, Saxon. It makes a difference whether your apology is sincere or bullshit.” He took my hand, and even though it felt good, I knew I was mostly just putting up with it.
“Have you talked to Jake?” His voice brushed softly against my ears.
“Not in words.” I felt twitchy when I thought about the photos.
“Smoke signals?” he teased.
“Pictures. On Facebook.” And I briefed Saxon on our photo project, and on the first pictures, then on the second set, and by the time I was done, my head was on his shoulder and he rubbed a hand over my hair roughly.
“He sounds pissed,” Saxon observed.
“He should be,” I returned, and my voice quavered embarrassingly.
“He’s an understanding guy,” Saxon assured me. “You don’t have any reason to be nervous.”
I pressed my face to his shirt to temper back the tears that threatened to pour out. “You’re so full of crap, it’s hard to believe one word that comes out of your mouth.”
“I can tell you what I’m sorry about from last night.” Saxon kissed my head. I closed my eyes and leaned into him. “I’m sorry for pretending I would be cool with you being corrupted, because all of that really was crap. I just think it would be the only way for me to go after you without feeling like you were getting a totally raw deal.”
“I figured that. What about the virgin/whore thing?”
“That stands,” he said firmly. “Sorry. I know it bucks your whole feminist view of yourself, but it’s what makes guys fall all over you.”
I sighed. “I don’t want anyone falling over me.”
He shook his head. “Did you just steal my bullshit crown? You’re so full of it, it’s sickening. Something in you takes sick pleasure in seeing guys on their knees for you.” He pulled away and faced me. “Admit it.”
“It’s not true,” I said, though there was, as always, an uncomfortable ring of truth in everything he said, even when he claimed it was mostly crap. And then I kissed him, because he was being so understanding. Because he was so handsome it made my eyes ache to look at him. Because I wanted to. Because Jake’s pictures made me lonely and miserable, and I didn’t really enjoy feeling punished, even if that’s exactly what I deserved.
I wrapped my arms around Saxon’s neck and kissed without holding back. He put his hands on my hips and held me to him, kissing back. The goddess of victory towered over us and the cool, damp museum smell surrounded us. I could hear the silky chatter of French museum goers and the tread of their feet as they passed by us. I pressed harder, and Saxon was the only thing I thought about.
Saxon.
Complicated, understanding, infuriating Saxon.
When I finally pulled away, he smiled and his face looked happy.
